Star Trek Voyager: Full Circle

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For W. Fred Beyer

“Destiny…is a fickle bitch.” —BENJAMIN LINUS

PART ONE

WHAT FATES IMPOSE

JUNE 2380

PROLOGUE

Venice was everything Chakotay imagined it would be; perhaps more.
Though the simulated version created by Tom Paris on Voyager’s holodeck
many years earlier had its charms, it bore the same relation to the real
thing as replicated eggplant Parmesan did to…well, food.

If one could be struck by serenity, such was the cumulative effect of
the water of the Grand Canal lapping gently beneath the Ponte degli
Scalzi, the faintly pungent yet sweet taste of the air, the dim
luminescence of the crescent moon hanging above, complimented by its
dimmer counterparts in the small votive candles sitting atop the café’s
scattered outdoor tables, and the light blanket of damp warmth that
nature had tossed over the city on this summer night.

La Zucca, the fifteenth restaurant to bear the name on the site since
its establishment in the mid-nineteenth century, was close enough to the
most heavily trafficked of Santa Croce’s streets that it should have
been buzzing with life on a night such as this. The closest public
transporter station was two blocks away, having long ago replaced the
ancient Santa Lucia railway station. The “bridge of bare feet” arched
over the canal less than a hundred meters in the distance. And by all
reports, the food was authentic Northern Italian, and absolutely
delicious. Still, the café was all but deserted.

And Chakotay honestly wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It stood to
reason that only days after an attack by a monstrous Borg cube,
residents might still be skittish about returning to their normal lives
or venturing too far from home. But having faced the Borg down more than
once, Chakotay could not share their pessimism. At least La Zucca had
been open, unlike many other local businesses.

If Kathryn didn’t arrive soon, he might have to go ahead and at least
sample the cuisine without her. He’d already opened the first of what he
hoped would be at least a couple of bottles of red wine. There would be
no synthehol on the menu this evening. He didn’t think she’d mind if he
started them off with a small antipasto appetizer from the menu he’d
already had time to memorize. With luck, if he ordered it now, it would
arrive at the same time as the admiral.

Admiral Janeway.

Chakotay had to smile to himself. It wasn’t that Kathryn didn’t deserve
to be a vice admiral. She’d been a Starfleet captain for years before
taking command of Voyager and bringing her safely through the Delta
quadrant. Her record was unassailable. What Chakotay still found hard to
believe, even two and a half years since Voyager’s return from its
seven-year journey, was that Kathryn had so readily accepted the
promotion upon their return to Earth.

Of course, it would have been bad form to turn down the offer from
Starfleet Command. And if the history of this timeline bore any
resemblance to that of the “Admi ral Janeway” who had assisted her
younger counterpart in bringing Voyager home, it did suggest that
Kathryn would continue to climb steadily through the ranks.

But she had been his captain when they met, and for the first seven
years of their life together. Though technically also a captain in his
own right, Chakotay had chosen to accept the position of her first
officer when his Maquis vessel was sacrificed to save Voyager in their
first battle with the Kazon. He still vividly remembered the sight of
Kathryn, standing on Voyager’s bridge with her chin held high but her
heart clearly torn as she struggled briefly with her decision to destroy
the array that had brought them to the Delta quadrant and was their best
chance for a timely return home. When she had finally given the order to
Ensign Kim to fire tricobalt payloads at the array, B’Elanna Torres had
demanded furiously to know what gave her the right to make that decision
for all of them. Even Chakotay had been surprised at the time by how
quickly a response had formed on his lips.

“She’s the captain,” he had said, settling the matter once and for all.

Even now it was hard not to see Kathryn in the light of her most
compelling and inspiring role: the center seat of a Starfleet vessel. As
his captain she had earned his respect and loyalty. Harder to pinpoint
was the exact moment along the way when she had also won his heart.

Still, the damage was done. In nearly ten years of discovery and
exploration, success and bitter loss on the field of battle, and
ultimately, the tedious demands of duty, he had never wavered in his
commitment to her. Finally the time had come to make that commitment
more real and permanent than fate had allowed until this night.

In the past, he might have felt a certain amount of anxiety at the
prospect. But now, the idea that he and Kathryn would move side by side
into their future brought only a sense of peace and relief. It was
simple. It was right. It felt like destiny.

The only thing troubling him even slightly was the fact that Kathryn was
now over a full hour late. Most likely, Chakotay assured himself, she
and the rest of the admiralty were still working long hours in the
aftermath of the attack. He hadn’t spoken to her, as he’d hoped to, when
Voyager was finally allowed to enter the Sol system, following their
deep-space mission to the Yaris Nebula. The area had been restricted
after the appearance of what, by the brief reports he’d heard, had been
a massive cube, and traffic in and around Earth was only now returning
to normal.

They had agreed to meet for this dinner almost a year earlier. Only
three weeks ago Kathryn had reminded him of their date, as if he needed
a reminder, and half-teasingly described the cruel fate that would
befall him should he stand her up. He knew that in the interim she had
undertaken a classified mission, but surely she was back by now.
Chakotay refused to doubt that wherever she was at this moment, it was
here, with him, that she wanted to be, and would be as soon as possible.

Opposite him at her empty place was a gift he had long wished to return
to her. He had first given it to her almost five years earlier, on the
occasion of a slightly mortifying misunderstanding that had nonetheless
been the catalyst for them finally to openly discuss their deep feelings
for one another, and the duty that made those feelings irrelevant until
Voyager was safely back in the Alpha quadrant. Somehow, Chakotay had
managed to set his feelings aside and even halfheartedly pursue other
romantic relationships, but he had survived on the hope that one day he
would find himself exactly where he was now, in Venice, ready to give
back the gift she could not accept when it was first presented to her.

It was a circular mirror, edged with polished stones collected from
planets Voyager had visited in the Delta quadrant. On the back Chakotay
had inscribed the words When in doubt, look here.

Struggling with his growing impatience, Chakotay adjusted the mirror
ever so slightly in its place, then toyed briefly with the silver ribbon
he had tied around its center. He’d seen no need to wrap it completely.
Kathryn would remember. In his fidget, he managed to pull the bow off
center, so he was forced to grab the mirror and begin to readjust the
perfect presentation he had just ruined.

Of course, it was at this moment that he heard soft footfalls behind
him. Arriving from the transport station, Kathryn would have come from
the south. Chakotay had suspected this would be the case and had chosen
a table from the many that were free which would both highlight the
dramatic view of the canal and the bridge, but also make it easy for her
to spot him.

An unanticipated shot of nervous adrenaline coursed through him and he
fumbled the bow again. Finally he decided to toss it aside altogether
and simply rose and turned to greet her, now holding the precious gift
in his hand.

Somewhere in the back of his consciousness he registered that the
footsteps slowed and came to a stop as he turned. He didn’t know why
this made his heart beat just a bit faster. Perhaps he was spoiling her
entrance, but, mid-turn, it was too late to change course.

Only when he had come fully around did he realize that what faint light
the moon was casting fell behind the individual now standing before him,
a figure he realized immediately, even in the obscuring shadows, was not
Kathryn.

“Good evening, Captain,” a deep male voice said softly.

Fear, like ice, shot through Chakotay.

The man stepped closer, just enough for the soft illumination of one of
the café’s exterior lights to match the face to the voice Chakotay
already recognized.

“Hello, Mark,” Chakotay managed through an ever-tightening throat.

“I’m sorry to…” Mark began, but failed to find words to continue.

He didn’t need to say a thing. His eyes bore the weary, haunted
expression of a man whose darkest demon has just stopped by for a good,
long visit.

“Kathryn told me weeks ago she was meeting you here tonight,” Mark
finally offered, as if in apology. “I tried to reach you the moment
Voyager returned, but things have been…well, I’m sure you know. I
promised Gretchen I would…”

Chakotay raised a shaking hand to silence him. Years ago, Mark Johnson
and Kathryn Janeway had been engaged. He had married someone else after
Voyager was lost in the Delta quadrant and its crew pronounced dead.
When word had finally reached Earth that Voyager’s crew was in fact
alive and still on course for home, Mark had told Kathryn honestly what
had happened and the friendship that had been theirs long before their
courtship had reasserted itself. Even now, Kathryn often enjoyed
off-duty time with Mark, his wife, Carla, and their young son, Kevin.

Chakotay needed to ask why Mark was standing here now in Kathryn’s place.

He needed to. But he couldn’t.

Mark was having just as hard a time saying anything more.

Finally, in a barely audible whisper Chakotay found the strength to say,
“She’s not coming, is she?”

For a moment, Mark stood frozen before him as if knowing that to move
into the next second would make the awful truth he carried with him
suddenly real.

But it was already real.

Though Chakotay had allowed himself to be distracted by the beauty of
the setting and the anticipation of her arrival, as the minutes had
passed and she had failed to appear, a gnawing doubt had begun to
fester. It had only taken a glance at Mark’s face for that doubt to
become something more closely resembling dread.

The truth Chakotay’s heart had known but stubbornly refused to
acknowledge even now was that there was only one thing that would have
kept Kathryn from meeting him on time this night.

Finally, Mark shook his head ever so slightly and fresh tears glinted in
his eyes.

Somewhere deep in the center of Chakotay’s being a distant roar began to
build. But it was still possible to keep it at bay, connected as it was
to a reality that Chakotay’s heart would not accept.

“Just tell me she’s not dead,” Chakotay said flatly. It wasn’t much,
this faint possible hope, but it was enough to keep the worst from
descending upon him in its full, final force.

Mark inhaled sharply, then composed himself.

“She is,” he replied in a grim attempt at stoicism.

The next sound Chakotay heard was that of breaking glass as the mirror
he held in his hand fell to the cobbled street, shattering.

SEPTEMBER 2378

CHAPTER ONE

You and the Kuvah’magh are in danger.

For weeks, B’Elanna Torres had been able to think of little else.

The warning had come to her anonymously, a scrawled hard-copy message
shoved under the heavy wooden door that separated her private living
space from the rest of the monastery on Boreth. Here she had spent the
past eight months studying ancient Klingon scrolls in an effort to learn
all she could of what fate might have in store for her beloved daughter,
Miral.

She had come to Boreth to find her mother. Though their reunion had been
brief, it had helped B’Elanna come to grips with the Klingon part of her
heritage, which she had vigorously tried to ignore for most of her life.
Once that was done, it had been her husband, Tom’s, suggestion that they
look deeper into her Klingon past in order to banish once and for all
the disturbing notion that their daughter might be the Kuvah’magh, or
Klingon savior.

B’Elanna had initially decided to humor Tom. As he had yet to find a
posting on a Starfleet vessel that suited him, it had seemed a harmless
enough diversion. Of course, the chance to spend countless hours in only
his company and that of their infant daughter had been even more
compelling. As much as they both thrived in the world of Starfleet
service, after seven years spent facing the very real possibility that
each day in the Delta quadrant might be their last, the quiet,
contemplative hours spent sheltered on Boreth had brought both of them
much-needed space in which to deepen the bonds between them.

Too soon, duty had called. Admiral Janeway had requested Tom’s
assistance on a diplomatic mission, and within weeks his spectacular
service had earned him the only job in Starfleet that Tom Paris couldn’t
possibly turn down, first officer aboard Voyager.

Being separated from Tom was difficult. But it would have been much
easier to bear had B’Elanna not begun to seriously believe, shortly
after he had left, that there might be more to connect the prophecies
about the Kuvah’magh and their daughter than either of them had believed
they would find.

It had been easy enough to dismiss the many parallels between Miral and
this fated “savior” when the notion first reared its ugly head back in
the Delta quadrant. Voyager had encountered an old Klingon vessel filled
with hundreds of warriors whose parents and grandparents had long ago
left Qo’noS, in search of the Kuvah’magh. Some believed that Miral,
though unborn, was the end of their search. And when Miral’s hybrid
blood cells had managed to cure those same Klingons of a fatal virus,
nehret, that they had contracted on their journey, it was hard to argue
the point, at least in this case, that Miral had been their “savior.”

The scrolls that had led Kohlar’s people to the Delta quadrant were only
the tip of the prophetic Klingon iceberg. Those had been written a
thousand years ago by a warrior named Amar. On Boreth, B’Elanna had
discovered the scrolls of a Klingon ascetic, a man named Ghargh, whose
writings preceded the founding of the Klingon Empire by another eight
centuries. Ghargh was the one who had said that the Kuvah’magh would be
a “voyager.” His words had sent an unpleasant chill coursing down
B’Elanna’s spine when she’d first read them. Further, he had
inexplicably gone on to say that the true purpose of the Kuvah’magh was
to restore the Klingon gods—a patently ridiculous notion—even if
B’Elanna were a believer—as the Klingons supposedly had slain their gods
ages ago for being more trouble than they were worth.

Despite the smatterings of coincidence that could be found in the
writings of both Amar and Ghargh, B’Elanna was a long way from accepting
that any of this was real, much less relevant to her daughter. Clearly
others, however, weren’t having as hard a time as she making that leap
of faith, and she had no idea to what lengths they might go to see their
beliefs made real.

Miral slept peacefully in her arms, her breath slow and deep. Though Tom
had helped B’Elanna construct a makeshift crib from straw and animal
skins, the only items the monastery seemed to have in plentiful supply,
B’Elanna was finding it harder and harder to let Miral out of her arms,
never mind her sight. This had forced B’Elanna to rig a private comm
station for her quarters. The only other station that provided access to
the outside universe was located in a secluded room deep in the bowels
of the monastery, and Boreth’s residents were granted access to it only
sparingly.

Any moment now, Tom’s face would appear before her on the small screen.
Despite the distance between them, they had managed to speak at least
once a week since his departure, but even this, the event that should
have been the high point of B’Elanna’s day, was now tinged with discomfort.

For weeks now, B’Elanna had struggled with the fear that whoever had
warned her that her life and Miral’s were in danger might not have been
exaggerating. And for weeks, B’Elanna had beaten that fear into brief
submission so as not to reveal even the faintest hint of alarm when she
spoke with Tom. B’Elanna didn’t want to leave Boreth until she was
confident she knew everything there was to know about these cursed
prophecies. But she wasn’t a fool either. If Tom knew about the warning,
he would take immediate leave and drag both B’Elanna and Miral from the
monastery, kicking and screaming if necessary, to keep them safe.

B’Elanna had lied to Tom repeatedly. She hated doing it. But for now, it
seemed necessary. Her final justification had been the brilliant
rationalization that she could not be certain how secure her “private”
comm transmission was. Were she to reveal her fears to Tom, she might
simultaneously be revealing them to those who wished her harm. And that
might be all they would need to set whatever plans they had in motion.
It was simply too great a risk to take.

Just one more week. Maybe two.

Surely in that time she would be able to find the flaw in the logic
suggesting that Miral might be the Kuvah’magh. As soon as she did, they
would return to Earth, perhaps even to Voyager, and Tom would never need
to know what she was hiding from him.

It sounded good in theory.

And then the face of the man she adored, the sandy blond hair cut
regulation-short, the piercing blue eyes, and the smile that promised
such wonderful mischief appeared before her, and B’Elanna’s heart leapt
even as the practiced mask of utter calm descended on her features.

“And how’s my little Kuvah’magh this evening?” Tom cooed.

B’Elanna couldn’t help but smile. When Tom used his favorite endearment,
her fears seemed almost laughable.

“She’s trying something new tonight,” B’Elanna replied warmly.

“What’s that?” Tom asked.

“Sleeping.”

“Ah.” Tom nodded sagely. “I wondered when she would figure that one out.”

“A couple of nights ago she managed almost six hours straight,” B’Elanna
went on. Talking to Tom these days was much easier when they stayed in
innocuous territory.

“That’s got to be a record, right?”

“Mmm-hmm.” B’Elanna nodded. “I’m hoping she sets a new one tonight.”

“Has she been wearing you out?” Tom asked, a hint of concern creeping
into his voice. B’Elanna knew he would never willingly imply that there
was anything in the universe his wife couldn’t conquer. Even with a
half-Klingon wife it was such a fine and dangerous line between
supportive and condescending.

“She has been more active. I swear she’ll be walking any minute now, and
then we’re both doomed,” B’Elanna said.

“How’s Kularg doing?”

“I honestly never thought I would use the words Klingon and doting in
the same sentence, but the truth is, he adores her. I don’t know what
he’ll do with himself when our stay on Boreth ends.”

This was mostly true, though B’Elanna had refused to leave Miral with
Kularg even once since she’d received the cryptic message. Daily,
however, Kularg managed to find an almost reasonable excuse to stop by
B’Elanna’s chamber and ask after Miral. The grizzled old man was
positively smitten. The fact that he had no grandchildren of his own was
a crime against nature.

“Funny you should bring that up,” Tom segued.

“What?” B’Elanna asked.

“Leaving Boreth,” Tom replied in an attempt at nonchalance.

B’Elanna’s heart fluttered, but she managed to keep her game face in place.

“Has something happened?” B’Elanna asked, not really sure if she wanted
the answer to be “yes” or “no.”

“No, no.” Tom shook his head immediately, then sighed with feigned
weariness. “It’s my mom.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s terrific. In fact, she just completed the arrangements for a
party at the family ranch three weeks from now that’ll make your average
annual Federation Day celebration look like a small, intimate gathering.”

“What are we celebrating?” B’Elanna chuckled.

Tom couldn’t hide his embarrassment.

“My promotion to first officer,” he replied.

“You were promoted two months ago,” B’Elanna pointed out.

“You’ve met my mom, right?” Tom asked. “Petite, blonde, and fiercer than
a breeding Horta when it comes to anything at all to do with her son?”

B’Elanna remembered all too well. Julia Paris had been something of a
revelation. Her slight figure belied an in tensity that was truly
something to behold. B’Elanna had always believed that meeting Tom’s
father, the famous Admiral Owen Paris, would be the more daunting
introduction to her new in-laws, but she’d been pleasantly surprised to
learn that Tom’s single-minded, stubborn persistence had been a gift
from his mother.

“Besides, it takes at least eight weeks to schedule an event when you’re
inviting half the quadrant. Busy schedules and all that,” Tom added,
clearly mortified at the thought.

“Sounds like it should be awful.” B’Elanna couldn’t help grinning at his
discomfort.

“Right,” Tom nodded, “and of course she’s adamant that the whole affair
will be a disaster if her daughter-in-law and granddaughter aren’t there
to be shown off to all of her friends.”

Yeah, that hadn’t been hard to see coming.

“Tom…” B’Elanna sighed.

“There’s still plenty of time for you and Miral to hop a quick
transport. And I promise, as soon as it’s done, I’ll escort you both
back to Boreth myself, if that’s what you want.”

In a way, it was exactly what B’Elanna wanted.

And maybe there really isn’t anything more for me to learn here.

“Is this going to be a ‘resistance is futile’ kind of thing?” B’Elanna
quipped.

“Now that you mention it, it’s actually kind of terrifying to imagine
what the Borg might become if my mother’s ‘distinctiveness’ were ever
added to theirs,” Tom mused.

Unexpected relief warred with concern within B’Elanna. Her gut told her
that whatever forces were allying against her and her daughter, they
weren’t going to be dissuaded by a party. And she couldn’t be certain
that by leaving Boreth, she wouldn’t be playing directly into their
hands. Still, strong as she was alone, that strength was increased by an
order of magnitude when she was with Tom. She missed him. But more than
that, she needed him.

“Then I guess we can’t disappoint her, can we?” B’Elanna replied.

The utter love and gratitude that beamed from Tom’s eyes in response
made further words irrelevant.

“What did she say?”

Tom was glad his back was to his father so Admiral Owen Paris couldn’t
see the reflexive eye-rolling that occurred the moment Tom realized his
father had been lurking in the doorway while he spoke with B’Elanna.

Tom couldn’t blame his father. One of the nice things about being both
older and married since he’d last spent any considerable amount of time
with his dad was that actions that would have once driven Tom to heated,
angry distraction were now eminently understandable and easy to forgive.

Owen didn’t mean to pry. But as Tom now knew all too well, if Owen
returned to Julia’s presence without being able to tell her that her
daughter-in-law and granddaughter were now en route to Earth, there
would be ten kinds of hell to pay, and Tom wouldn’t have wished that on
an enemy, let alone the father he had come to respect and love since
Voyager had returned home.

“Why are you even asking?” Tom asked good-naturedly as he switched off
the comm station and turned to face his father’s delighted face. “You
were listening the whole time, weren’t you?”

“I wanted to…well…er…” Owen fumbled for a moment.

Though Tom sort of liked seeing his father stammer about for an
acceptable excuse—he couldn’t even count the number of times this
particular scenario had been reversed between them—he didn’t like to see
his father in unnecessary distress. Tom had been responsible for more
than his fair share of that over the years.

Thankfully, those years were behind them.

“It’s all right, Dad.” Tom finally smiled. “They’re coming. Now go tell
Mom so she can alert the Federation News Service.”

Owen nodded swiftly in relief, but made no immediate move to hasten to
share the good news.

Tom gave his father a few moments before asking, “Something else on your
mind?”

Owen took a few steps into the room and answered as innocently as
possible, “Did they mention how long they might be staying?”

To be fair, Owen Paris wasn’t the only person who really wanted an
answer to that question. Tom knew that pushing B’Elanna was fruitless.
Progress with his wife on any issue came only in slow fits and starts
and was almost always on B’Elanna’s schedule. He counted it a major
victory that she had agreed to leave Boreth at all. The “how long do you
plan to stay” question would come only once she was safely home and
hopefully enjoying herself immensely.

“We really didn’t have a chance to discuss it,” Tom finally replied, and
watched as the wheels in his father’s head instantly shifted to a higher
gear.

Owen nodded and took himself for a short walk, a few paces back and
forth, then stopped, pulling himself up to his full height, in
preparation to begin “the speech.” Whenever there was anything
particularly serious on Owen’s mind, he usually completed this little
ritual before beginning his orations. Tom could always see “the speech”
coming from miles away.

“The thing is, son,” Owen began. “And please tell me if I’m overstepping
my bounds here…,” he offered.

Tom nodded graciously for him to continue and tried unsuccessfully to
hide the smirk that was forming on his lips. He sometimes couldn’t
believe how well he now felt he knew his father.

“Both your mother and I were so relieved to learn that you were alive
long after we thought, well, the worst. And when you came back to us,
you and B’Elanna and Miral, it was almost too good to be true. Of
course, you’re both young and still anxious to serve Starfleet, and
that’s wonderful. But if there’s anything I regret in my own life, it’s
the time I didn’t make for my family, especially when you and your
sisters were young.”

There were moments in the past when Tom would have made his father
suffer greatly for making such a statement. But the young, injured,
insecure Tom Paris who had run as far from his family as possible in an
attempt to escape his own failings was now a man at peace. Where once he
would have accused his father of worse than the negligence Owen was
admitting, now Tom only wanted to offer what comfort he could.

“I understand, Dad,” Tom quickly interjected, “now more than ever. It’s
hard to balance a career and a family. There’s no way to get it right
all the time.”

Owen nodded, wordlessly accepting his son’s implied forgiveness.

“I never want you to feel the regrets I’ve felt,” Owen finally went on.
“I know B’Elanna needs to understand her heritage, and of course it’s
your job to support her. But don’t you think it would be possible for
her to continue her studies or research or whatever the hell she’s doing
on that Klingon rock a little closer to home? Before you know it, Miral
will be walking and then speaking, and…” Owen trailed off, at a loss to
put into words the various miracles that accompanied the raising of a
child, or being a grandfather for the first time. Finally he settled
for, “I just don’t want you to miss it, son.”

Tom rose from his seat and crossed to face his father. “I have no
intention of missing any of it, Dad,” he assured him.

Owen smiled faintly, his eyes alight with some of the mischief Tom had
managed to turn into an art form.

“Then you agree that when B’Elanna and Miral return, we should find a
way to make their stay more permanent?” Owen asked.

Tom extended his right hand to his father. Owen took it and shook it
firmly.

“Absolutely,” Tom replied.

“Good man,” Owen said, clapping his son on the shoulder amiably.

Owen was clearly now armed with all he needed to face his wife, and he
was halfway out the door when Tom suddenly remembered a question he’d
been meaning to ask Owen since he reported back to Earth a few hours
earlier for his leave from Voyager.

“Dad, do you know a Captain Eden?”

Owen seemed to search his memory. “She’s part of Project Full Circle,
isn’t she?”

Tom nodded. “She’s requested a meeting with me. I was just wondering if
you had any idea what it might be about.”

Both Owen and Tom were aware that Project Full Circle was the task force
designated by Starfleet Command to analyze Voyager one relay and circuit
at a time when it had returned from the Delta quadrant. Nine months
later, however, and with Voyager now fully refitted and back on active
duty, it seemed odd that the project was still going and that Eden was
still in search of new information.

“I honestly don’t,” Owen replied. “Eden does have a reputation for being
pretty thorough in her research and reports. She can bury a man in
analysis quicker than most. She’s probably just trying to tie up a few
loose ends,” Owen finally decided.

“I’m sure that’s it.” Tom nodded.

“When do you report to her?”

“Tomorrow morning, bright and early.”

“Will you still be home for dinner tomorrow night?” Owen asked.

This time Tom failed to hide the rolling of the eyes.

“Yes, Dad,” he replied, feigning impatience.

“Don’t you ‘Yes, Dad’ me, Commander,” Owen snapped.

For a split second, Tom jumped to attention.

Then both of them shared a hearty laugh as they made their way to the
kitchen to let Julia Paris know that all would soon be right with their
world.

CHAPTER TWO

Captain Afsarah Eden was a morning person. Her ex-husband, Admiral
Willem Batiste, had accused her more than once of being an incurable
midnight-oil junkie, but the truth was she simply didn’t seem to need as
much sleep as most people she knew. She often worked late into the
night, wrestling with whatever problem was currently caught in her teeth
before catching three to four hours of rest and rising early to attack
the next problem on her list.

For the past nine months, that problem had been the U.S.S. Voyager—the
ship, its crew, and the countless details of their seven years spent in
the Delta quadrant.

Initially she had been tasked with a minute analysis of the
“modifications” that had been made to Voyager’s many systems while the
ship was out of range of any Starfleet repair facility. The most
interesting were the ablative hull armor and transphasic torpedoes; they
had been gifts—or contaminants, according to the Department of Temporal
Affairs—from a future Admiral Janeway for use in Voyager’s final
confrontation with the Borg before the ship had returned home, and had
been stripped from Voyager immediately. Despite their effectiveness and
the potential tactical advantages they provided, they had to be balanced
against Starfleet’s necessary caution toward such advanced technology as
well as the repercussions to the timestream.

Some of the other modifications, the shipboard dilithium refining unit
designed by Chief Engineer B’Elanna Torres and the regenerative circuits
and relays provided by Seven of Nine—a former Borg that Captain Janeway
had somehow managed to repatriate into individuality—merited closer
consideration. These modifications had been truly inspired, though
brought about by necessity. The Intrepid-class explorers had never been
designed with such long-range excursions in mind; however, many other
starships were, and Eden felt strongly that many of Voyager’s
innovations should be safely adopted fleet-wide.

She’d already spent months arguing this point with Admiral Kenneth
Montgomery, Project Full Circle’s ranking officer. Though the decision
had been made to restore Voyager to Intrepid-class standard prior to its
return to active duty, Eden remained hopeful that she was making headway
with Montgomery and that soon, many of the modifications she’d proposed
would find their way back onto Voyager, as well as other Starfleet vessels.

It had been a whiplash-inducing change of pace a few weeks ago when
Montgomery had advised Eden that she was now considered “off” the study
of Voyager’s technological alterations and assigned instead to spearhead
a thorough analysis of all discoveries, both scientific and cultural,
made by Voyager while in the Delta quadrant. Eden couldn’t be sure if
this change in her orders was meant to be a compliment. Secretly she
suspected that Montgomery might have grown weary of her constant
pressure and had simply been looking for a new subject to keep her busy
until Starfleet was ready to formally respond to her proposals.

However, once Eden had begun to dig into the existing reports on her new
subject, including personnel logs and transcripts of the initial
debriefing sessions of all of Voyager’s crew, she realized that Project
Full Circle’s work in this area had, thus far, been cursory at best.

Captain Kathryn Janeway’s session—a meeting which Eden would
optimistically have scheduled to cover at least a week—had only been
half an hour. The rest of the senior officers hadn’t fared any better.
The fifteen minutes granted to Seven of Nine, surely one of the most
extraordinary and potentially invaluable sentient beings currently
alive, had bordered on criminally negligent, at least in Eden’s estimation.

The “official” rationale—welcoming home a heroic vessel—meant
sacrificing thoroughness on the altar of necessity. Hostilities with the
Dominion were still fresh in everyone’s mind when Voyager had made its
unexpected return to Earth. Starfleet’s focus had been on recovering
from the losses it had suffered. It was almost as if the brass believed
a complete restoration of Starfleet’s numbers to levels prior to the war
was the only thing that could assure everyone, Federation citizen or
not, that the cost of victory over the shape-shifters bent on galactic
domination had been well calculated and had done no permanent harm.
Voyager added to their tally.

Eden understood the value of quantity, especially when you were showing
the enemy your teeth. Personally, however, she was also a fan of
quality. To her thinking, Voyager had just spent seven years collecting
data that, if analyzed and implemented properly, might give the
Federation tactical advantages to make the next inevitable conflict with
one of those species who had just never learned to work and play well
with others much easier to conclude quickly and relatively painlessly.

The Dominion conflict had been one of attrition. Starfleet had managed
time and again to keep most of the Dominion’s resources on the Gamma
quadrant side of their territories, while working to overcome their
formidable but fragmented constituency in the Alpha quadrant.
Starfleet’s losses in this conflict had been the largest in memory. Eden
understood why Command had made their choice; she just didn’t happen to
agree with it, as there was little chance that the only solution to
another such conflict was simply more ships.

Eden already knew that there wasn’t a superweapon buried anywhere in
Voyager’s logs. But there were other remarkable discoveries: a
civilization that used space-time folding technology to cover distances
so vast that they made warp drive look like a baby’s first steps in
comparison, quantum slipstream drives, transwarp drives, never mind
their discovery of entire new dimensions like fluidic space. The
intelligence Voyager’s crew had collected about the Borg alone could
fill much-needed volumes.

Establishing Project Full Circle had been a step in the right direction,
though it was terribly understaffed. Still, Eden was determined not to
waste the opportunity presented by Voyager’s unique experiences.

Her first step had been to request permission to conduct new debriefing
sessions with as many of Voyager’s former crew as she deemed necessary.
That request had been granted. The only caveat was that her sessions
could not interfere with the crew’s other scheduled assignments. Admiral
Montgomery had promised Eden privately to try and keep the ship and its
crew relatively close to Earth to help facilitate her work, and thus
far, he’d been as good as his word.

She was anxiously anticipating the arrival of her first “victim,”
Lieutenant Commander Thomas Eugene Paris.

Tom managed to arrive at Eden’s office a few minutes early despite his
mother’s insistence that he finish the obscenely large breakfast she’d
placed in front of him before she would consent to his leaving the
house. He knew she was just making up for lost time. But he’d also
managed to put on a few extra pounds in his last couple of years in the
Delta quadrant, and had determined to get his body back into “fighting
shape” now that the stress of being stranded in the Delta quadrant, a
new husband, and an expectant father were behind him. He’d made great
strides on Boreth. Though, to his surprise, he’d developed a taste for
live gagh, the rest of Klingon cuisine was nowhere near as appetizing,
and he’d managed to drop back down to his Academy weight before
returning to active duty. Much as he loved his mother, he wasn’t about
to let her undo all the good he’d done.

Captain Eden’s aide was a petite Deltan ensign. Tom hadn’t seriously
looked twice at another woman since well before he’d finally married
B’Elanna, but he soon decided that the effect of a Deltan’s pheromones
had not been exaggerated and was relieved when he was ushered into
Eden’s office only a few minutes after his arrival.

“Good morning, Mister Paris,” Captain Eden said warmly, extending her
hand to Tom as he entered. She was a tall woman, ebony skinned, with
large, pitch-black eyes and dark, tightly curled hair trimmed almost to
the scalp. She looked to be in her early thirties. Tom had reviewed what
he could of her service record before their meeting, however, and knew
that regardless of her appearance, she was probably closer to fifty.

“Have a seat and make yourself comfortable.” Eden smiled, gesturing to a
small conference table with a spectacular view of San Francisco Bay.

“Thank you, sir.” Tom nodded.

“Please.” She raised a hand gently. “Call me captain.”

“Yes, Captain,” Tom replied dutifully, wondering how many female
officers shared Admiral Janeway’s distaste for formal modes of address.
He blithely considered throwing a “ma’am” into their conversation, just
for fun, but quickly decided that though she seemed congenial enough, he
didn’t want to press his luck.

Eden situated herself, padd in hand, in a single low chair across the
table, while he struggled to find a position of attention on a couch
that seemed designed to suck its occupants into deep relaxation.

“I know you’re pressed for time, so we’ll just get started,” Eden said,
transitioning to a more businesslike mode.

“Thank you, Captain,” Tom replied, wondering if she was aware that he
still had five full days of leave at his disposal before reporting back
to Voyager. The quicker he got this meeting over with, the quicker his
mother could continue driving him crazy with party preparations. Or
maybe he could just take a brief, unscheduled jaunt to Marseilles, if
time allowed.

After a moment of silence Tom felt it was his obligation to fill, he
said, “The truth is, Captain, I’m not really sure what you wanted to
discuss.”

Eden looked up from her padd sharply. “I’m sorry. I thought that was
made clear in the request you received.”

“Not really.” Tom shrugged.

“I apologize again,” Eden said. “My aide, Tamarras, is new.”

“It’s not a problem, Captain,” Tom assured her. “What can I help you with?”

“Well,” Eden said, clearing her throat, “it will probably be best if we
simply start at the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?” Tom asked.

“Your time in the Delta quadrant,” Eden replied. “Your initial
debriefing session by Starfleet Command on this subject was a little…”
Eden paused before settling for “…sparse. It’s time to remedy that.”

“Okay,” Tom replied dubiously.

“The ship’s log indicated that you suffered mild concussive injuries in
transit and came to consciousness on the bridge to find it in disarray.
What were your first thoughts when you realized that you had been
brought to the Delta quadrant?”

That we were monumentally screwed, Tom managed to refrain from saying.

“Well,” Tom began, pausing to clear his throat. “It’s been a while,” he
said, struggling to find a clear and more appropriate answer to her
question.

“Take your time,” she insisted.

Tom sighed deeply. Both his mother and Marseilles were apparently out of
luck, because this was obviously going to be a very long conversation.

B’Elanna couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

She had come to the emperor’s audience chamber determined to make her
case quickly. No matter how loudly she had protested, she was forbidden
to bring Miral with her to this meeting with Kahless. Kularg had been
only too happy to take Miral for what B’Elanna had promised would be
only a few minutes, but B’Elanna’s gut tensed with nausea every second
that passed with Miral out of her sight.

B’Elanna had hurried from the nursery, up the winding staircase that
separated the living quarters from the Great Hall, and straight to the
anteroom located just behind the emperor’s throne. She had been
surprised to find not Kahless, but one of his personal guards, Commander
Logt, waiting to receive her.

Logt was the woman who had invited B’Elanna to Boreth in the first
place. Though she was no taller than your average Klingon female, she
still managed to do “imposing” like very few people B’Elanna had ever
known. She had a capacity for utter stillness that many warriors lacked.
Most were tightly coiled springs ready to snap at a moment’s notice.
Logt, however, carried within her a deep, slow power. B’Elanna had never
doubted the woman’s strength. Her position as a member of the emperor’s
personal guard testified to her abilities and accomplishments on the
field of battle. In fact, the only cause for confusion Logt had ever
given B’Elanna was over the nature of their relationship. From time to
time it seemed clear that Logt truly wished to help B’Elanna in her
quest. More often, however, Logt remained cool and aloof, her features
as inscrutable as her motives.

This was one of those inscrutable times.

B’Elanna had quickly made her request, that she and Miral be allowed to
leave Boreth for a short time due to a family requirement and return in
a few weeks. Logt had heard her out in silence.

The part B’Elanna couldn’t believe was Logt’s ultimate answer to her
request.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” B’Elanna stammered.

“You may leave, B’Elanna Torres,” Logt said slowly enough to sprinkle
many layers of condescension into her tone, “and you may take Miral with
you. But if you do so now, you will not be allowed to return.”

“Why not?” B’Elanna demanded.

“Only those whose motives are pure are granted sanctuary on Boreth,”
Logt replied evenly.

“And what makes you think mine aren’t?” B’Elanna asked, appalled.

“A family requirement?” Logt said with unmistakable irony.

Had B’Elanna not been ready to crawl out of her own skin, she would have
had to admit that Logt had her there.

She opted for as close to rational as she could under the circumstances.

“Miral and I have been separated from our family for months,” B’Elanna
said. “Their request that we join them to celebrate my husband’s
promotion is a requirement, whether you believe it to be so or not.”

“I do not question your devotion, B’Elanna,” Logt said a little less
imperiously. “Only your motives.”

“My motives?” B’Elanna bellowed.

Logt’s mouth twitched with what looked like amusement.

“You were granted access to our monastery only because of the emperor’s
interest in your mother. Your stay has been extended because your
intention to immerse yourself in your Klingon heritage is honorable. But
this is not a recreational facility. Pilgrims to Boreth do not come and
go as they please. You are here at the emperor’s pleasure, and your
request to leave simply because your mother-in-law is throwing a feast
hardly rises to the level of requirement.”

B’Elanna knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Logt. She opted to
switch tactics.

“Where is the emperor now?” she asked.

“That is not your concern.”

“Has he been apprised of my request?”

Logt’s voice dropped menacingly.

“He will be,” she replied, “but I do not doubt his answer, nor should
you question my ability to speak now with his authority.”

B’Elanna’s fists were clenched so tightly at her sides that the nails of
her fingers were now drawing blood in small half-moon indentations on
the heels of her palms.

In another lifetime, the only release she would have found in such a
moment would be to hit something very hard. But Kathryn Janeway’s
patient mentoring had tempered the steel at the center of B’Elanna’s
being. Violence had its place. Here and now, it would accomplish nothing.

B’Elanna took a deep, ragged breath.

Maybe it was for the best. She wanted the option to return to Boreth.
But she and Miral would be leaving in the morning, with or without
Logt’s permission.

B’Elanna dropped her head in defeat. Almost just as quickly, it snapped
back up when the unmistakable clang of metal on metal reached her ears.

Logt’s eyes met hers briefly. B’Elanna saw in their momentary widening
the same fear that now clawed at her chest.

Without another word, both women rushed from the chamber.

As they ran down the interminable winding staircase, the sounds of
battle grew louder, joined by the lusty wails of Miral.

The nursery!

B’Elanna broke off her full-out sprint just long enough to duck into her
private chamber and retrieve the bat’leth she had brought with her to
Boreth. It had been a gift from Kohlar, an ancient weapon patterned
after the original Sword of Kahless. B’Elanna hadn’t practiced as much
with it as she would have liked. But at this moment, that hardly mattered.

Logt stood at the entrance to the nursery, her mek’leth already drawn.
Had she not stepped to her right, presumably to join the fight, B’Elanna
would have run headlong into the woman when she reached the open doorway.

It took B’Elanna only a few seconds to assess the situation. Kularg lay
nearest her, a qutluch buried in his chest. His blood pooled on the
floor and from the look of it, he was already in Sto-Vo-Kor. Logt and
three male warriors were battling five females, all of whom wielded
bat’leths. A sixth woman stood behind them, holding Miral. B’Elanna was
about to join Logt when she realized that one of the men struggling to
reach Miral was Emperor Kahless himself.

Another loud cry from Miral reminded B’Elanna that there would be time
for explanations later. Now, all that mattered was saving her daughter.

B’Elanna knew well enough the bloodlust that overtook a Klingon in
battle. She had never known, however, that the rage could be so focused
when that lust was paired with a mother’s instinctive need to protect
her child.

B’Elanna glided forward, ducking to avoid a wide sweep of Logt’s blade.
The warrior fighting Logt managed to parry, but she was not prepared for
the undercut from B’Elanna’s bat’leth, which buried itself in her
abdomen. With a grunt B’Elanna quickly freed her weapon from the woman,
who was now bleeding to death, and turned to face her next assailant.
Miral would have been close enough to touch, were it not for the woman
and the blade now blocking B’Elanna’s path.

This warrior, B’Elanna would fight alone. The sides were now evenly
matched. As she brought her bat’leth up to block her foe’s first strike,
B’Elanna realized that whoever this warrior was, she possessed strength
and balance that were truly alarming. She was not much larger than
B’Elanna, but she fought with fluid grace, as if she were meditating
while wielding her lethal blade.

Blow for blow, she easily blocked each of B’Elanna’s thrusts. B’Elanna
was soon gasping with the exertion, but she gave no thought to herself.
Miral was so close, B’Elanna could taste the victory.

Suddenly, B’Elanna was aware of a new sound. As the line of fierce women
protected her, the warrior holding Miral had drawn a disruptor from her
belt and turned to ward the back wall of the nursery where she was
cornered. In a matter of a few blasts, she had managed to create a small
opening in the wall. A couple more and she would have opened an escape
route for herself and Miral.

Oh, hell, no! B’Elanna thought.

Her first move was to take her bat’leth in both hands, raising it above
her head to defend against a downward swipe. She then twisted the blade
to the right, taking some of her opponent’s momentum with her and
pulling the warrior slightly off balance. With a painful, crunching turn
of her wrist, B’Elanna then jerked her bat’leth free, forcing the woman
over to her left. Before she could recover, B’Elanna continued the turn
she had begun, bringing her blade low and level as she spun around. The
warrior had almost righted herself when B’Elanna’s sword sliced through
first one leg, then its mate, just below the knee.

To her credit, the warrior did not cry out despite the agony she must
now be suffering as she fell to the floor. B’Elanna didn’t take time to
wonder, however, as she had just created the only breach in the line
separating herself from her daughter.

But by the time she had cleared her fallen foe, Miral’s captor had
clambered through the hole in the wall and disappeared.

B’Elanna stepped through the opening to find herself in a dark, empty
hallway. Miral’s cries bounced off the walls around her, and for a
disorienting moment, B’Elanna could not find the direction to follow.
Within seconds, however, someone else was pushing her way through the
wall behind her. It was Logt. The commander paused for a split second,
gestured for B’Elanna to go to the left, and took off running full speed
down the hallway to the right.

Blade still in hand, B’Elanna ran as if her life depended on it. After
about two hundred twisting meters, she realized that she had been sent
down the wrong hall. She doubled back, her legs flying beneath her.

The hallway ended in an open door that led to the exterior of the
monastery, where the current temperature was well below freezing.
Another hundred paces, and she found herself wading through a deep
snowbank. Just ahead of her, Kahless, Logt, and their two companions
stood motionless in the snow.

B’Elanna reached them, panting so hard it was almost impossible to speak.

“Where?” she gasped helplessly.

Kahless exchanged a look with Logt, who drew the others aside as the
emperor moved to B’Elanna, grasping her firmly by the shoulders.

“They are gone,” he said simply, willing her to accept the unacceptable.
“They must have had a ship in orbit. We saw them transport away.”

B’Elanna felt her knees jerk beneath her and finally give way. At the
same moment, a feral cry rose from her belly and soon her frustrated
rage was bounding off the snowy landscape, assaulting the ears of men
and beasts for miles around.

When she was spent, there was nothing left but tears. They choked their
way up her windpipe and scalded her eyes.

It was Kahless who finally pulled her to her feet, shaking her fiercely.

“B’Elanna Torres, daughter of Miral!” he shouted.

She stared briefly into his face, her vision distorted by tears that
continued to fall.

B’Elanna had honestly never given much thought to the emperor. Kahless
was a legendary figure, almost a creature of myth. But now, standing in
the presence of the clone grown from Kahless’s blood and imprinted with
every tale and teaching attributed to the long-dead original, she
instinctively understood some of the power of that legend. She
understood it, because in some way, he was sharing it with her now, when
without it, she would not have been able to stand.

A few deep breaths and the tears stopped. She stood before him and
managed a faint nod.

“Better,” Kahless said, his long white hair whipping in the wind that
danced around them.

“Come,” he finally said.

“Where?” B’Elanna found voice to ask.

“To find your daughter,” he replied.

CHAPTER THREE

Admiral Janeway was running late. These days, that was not unusual.
Thankfully, her new aide, a stern, fair-skinned young Vulcan ensign
named Decan, had no trouble at all maintaining his sublimely composed
countenance, especially when Kathryn’s was fraying. Decan would never
replace her dear friend Tuvok, but she found his mere presence a
comforting reminder that finding the calm in the center of a storm was
preferable to being tossed about on the winds.

“You have another incoming transmission from Admiral Paris,” Decan
advised her evenly as Kathryn searched through a stack of padds, in
desperate need of the one that contained her schedule for tomorrow.

“Please inform the admiral that I’ll be transporting over in less than
five minutes,” she replied.

“But that would be a lie,” Decan said without a hint of accusation in
his voice. “Given the state of your desk and the number of items we have
left to discuss, I would estimate you will be unable to leave this
office in less than seven point five minutes.”

Kathryn favored him with a smirk. Odds were he was right.

“Then tell him it is my intention to transport over in the next ten
minutes.”

“Very well.” Decan nodded before stepping back to his desk outside her
office as she turned her attention to a new stack.

No, no, not this one either—but I need to remember to forward that to
Admiral Upton, Kathryn said to herself, hoping the mental note would
find a place to stick as she tossed aside another set of padds. “Oh,
Decan,” she called out, still searching her desk vainly.

Within seconds the ensign appeared, almost startling her. The young man
had catlike reflexes, but that hardly explained how he often seemed to
simply materialize right in front of her when she needed him most. It
was certainly the hallmark of an excellent aide. But it was also the
littlest bit creepy. Kathryn found herself wondering whether or not he
might have some kind of personal transporter embedded beneath his skin
that helped him to create this illusion.

“Contact Reg Barclay and let him know that I’ve reviewed his syllabus
for next quarter’s Borg seminar, but I want Seven to take a look before
I approve it. I’ll be seeing her tonight, so he’ll probably have her
notes before midnight.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Decan replied, reaching for a padd buried beneath the
stack she had just created and handing it to her.

Of course, it was the one she had been seeking.

“Thank you, Ensign,” she sighed with relief.

“Do you want me to reschedule your appearance on Illuminating the City
of Light?” he asked tactfully.

Janeway realized that the interview, which had been on her agenda for
weeks now, conflicted with two other briefings set for the following
afternoon.

She nodded. “With my deepest apologies.”

Despite the fact that she could spend another hour working and still not
clear her desk, she was more than ready to put this day behind her.

“Which only leaves the request from Captain Eden,” Decan said.

Almost ready.

“What does she want again?”

“Captain Eden has requested a minimum of four hours at your earliest
possible convenience. You have rescheduled your appointment with her six
times in the last three weeks. She asked me to advise you that at this
time, yours is the only interview she still requires in order to
complete her report.”

“Right,” Janeway remembered. It wasn’t that she was avoiding the
captain, or Project Full Circle. But being an admiral was about
prioritizing. And right now her life was only slightly more hectic than
running Voyager’s bridge had been the day they had first entered the
Delta quadrant.

“See if Captain Eden would be available to meet at 0600 tomorrow. If so,
I can give her two hours.”

“I will transmit your proposal and forward her response to you this
evening,” Decan replied.

“And the rest will simply have to wait,” she decided. “For the next few
hours I don’t wish to be disturbed over anything less than the arrival
of a Borg armada in Earth orbit.”

“If you’d like, I could contact the Borg directly and ask that they
postpone any imminent actions so as not to spoil your evening,” Decan
said deadpan.

Janeway paused for a moment as his words sunk in. Finally, her face
broke into a wide grin.

“Humor, Ensign?”

The Vulcan acknowledged the question with a slight nod. “Often it
provides a welcome release of tension.”

“That it does.” She smiled. “Well done.”

“Enjoy your evening, Admiral,” Decan said.

“I intend to,” she replied. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Admiral.”

Tom didn’t usually think of himself as a worrier. But right now, he
couldn’t help it. B’Elanna and Miral should have transported in over an
hour ago. He had already put three calls in to Earth Orbital Control and
all they could tell him was that B’Elanna’s shuttle had yet to arrive.

The friends who had assembled at the Paris ranch to greet his wife and
child for a small “family” reunion prior to the next day’s festivities
were all doing their best to keep his spirits up by trying to pretend
that nothing was really wrong. Captain Chakotay and Lieutenant Harry Kim
were listening amiably to Voyager’s former EMH as he recounted his most
recent clash with one of the Federation Research Institute’s
geneticists, a Tellarite named Deegle. Seven of Nine and Tuvok stood
nearby, pretending to give the Doctor their full attention but clearly
not terribly interested. Poor Seven, who worked with the Doctor at the
institute on a daily basis, had probably already heard this particular
rant at least a dozen times before.

Tom’s father was in his office, no doubt making someone at Orbital
Control’s ears bleed. When Tom hadn’t gotten far in determining just
where B’Elanna might be, his father had placed a gentle hand on his arm
and told his son, in a voice that could have frozen magma, “Leave this
to me,” before disappearing into his private sanctuary.

His mother flitted in and out of the room, checking everyone’s beverages
and reminding her guests that a variety of appetizers had been
positioned strategically about the living room. A four-course dinner was
drying out in the kitchen, but Julia Paris, ever the optimist, smiled
warmly at her son each time she caught his eye as if to assure him that
any minute now, everything would be fine.

“At which point I tried to tell Deegle that the Oaxacatian genome, while
undoubtedly more complex than the Nekrestian, had several shared markers
which were worth further study,” the Doctor said plaintively to his
captive audience. “And can you imagine what he replied?”

“I can,” Seven of Nine deadpanned.

Both Harry and Chakotay had a hard time biting back their laughter.

“Of course you can, Seven. You were there,” the Doctor replied imperiously.

But before he could continue, Tom’s heart leapt at the sound of the
front door chiming.

Tom hurried past his friends, but he was no match for his mother, who,
to Tom’s disappointment, was ushering Admiral Janeway into the room,
rather than B’Elanna and Miral.

“My apologies, friends,” Janeway said warmly to all before greeting each
of those present individually.

Moments later, Owen returned, his face failing miserably to mask his
concern.

Tom hurried to his side.

“Well?”

“This is intolerable.” Owen shook his head.

Janeway, ever alert to a sea change in any room’s temperature, turned
immediately to her former mentor the moment he entered. She had served
with Admiral Paris back when he was a captain and she was a junior
science officer.

“Admiral Paris,” Janeway said with a nod as she interrupted.

Owen’s face broke into a rare grin as he opened his arms to Janeway and
she shared a brief embrace with him.

“I didn’t think you’d ever get here,” he said warmly.

“I was unavoidably detained.” She smiled in return, then turned more
serious as she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Tom and Owen exchanged a look before Owen said, “B’Elanna hasn’t
arrived. And now no one can even confirm that her shuttle left Boreth.”

Janeway’s jaw tensed as her mind began to whir.

“You’ve already spoken to the station?” she asked Owen.

He nodded. “Time was, you asked a simple question and you received a
simple answer. Honestly, sometimes I wonder what’s happening at
Starfleet Academy if these are the cadets they’re graduating. B’Elanna’s
shuttle should have departed four days ago, but Earth Orbital Control
has no record of the departure or flight plan. They assure me they’ve
tried repeatedly to contact Boreth, but have yet to receive a response.”

“So we don’t even know if B’Elanna ever left Boreth?” Janeway asked.

Owen nodded grimly.

“Why somebody didn’t think to contact me…” Tom began.

“You mean, why didn’t B’Elanna contact you?” Janeway asked gently.

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Tom shook his head in frustration.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do,” Janeway said, patting Tom gently
on the back.

“What’s that?” Owen asked.

“We need to contact the ambassador.”

“Which ambassador?” Tom asked.

“Worf, the Federation ambassador to the Klingon Empire,” Janeway
replied. “He’ll get to the bottom of this quicker than anyone.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of that,” Owen mused as he directed
Janeway toward his office.

“Because we’re talking about your daughter and granddaughter, Admiral,”
Janeway replied knowingly as she followed him out.

Turning back to the others, Tom noted that Chakotay was now missing as
well.

“Where’s the captain?” he asked Harry, who was absent-mindedly moving
some cheese and crackers around on his cocktail plate.

“He stepped out. Call from Admiral Montgomery. He’ll be right back,”
Harry assured him.

Tom could tell that something was troubling his best friend, probably
something more than B’Elanna’s tardiness, but at the moment he was
simply too distracted to press further. Knowing Harry, Tom would be the
first person he’d confide in when he was ready.

“That is unfair.” Seven’s voice rose above the other murmured
conversations.

“It is not,” the Doctor replied.

“To conclude that all Tellarites are ‘pig-headed’ when your interactions
with the species have been limited to Doctor Deegle is to prejudge them.
It is not worthy of you or them,” Seven insisted.

“Their physical characteristics notwithstanding,” Tuvok added softly.

“Why you insist on defending the man—” the Doctor began, but was
interrupted by Chakotay, who strode briskly into the room and made his
way straight to Tom.

“What is it, Captain?” Harry asked before Chakotay could speak.

“We’ve received new orders,” Chakotay replied, obviously disconcerted.

“What happened?” Tom demanded, his gut churning with worry that this
might be news about his wife and daughter.

“It’s the Changeling,” Chakotay said, defusing one worry while
simultaneously creating a new one.

Neither Harry nor Tom needed to ask which Changeling Chakotay was
referring to. A few months earlier, Chakotay had been kidnapped and
impersonated by a Founder who, in concert with the Cardassian scientist
Crell Moset, had almost managed to kill Chakotay and his sister. Moset
and the Changeling had been experimenting on a group of colonists on
Loran II in hopes of finding a cure for the disease that limited the
Changeling’s shape-shifting abilities, and they would have succeeded
without Voyager’s intervention.

Before Chakotay could continue, Janeway and Owen returned to the room,
trailed by Julia. Everyone gathered around as Janeway announced that she
and Admiral Paris had just made contact with Ambassador Worf, who had
promised to find out what had happened to B’Elanna’s shuttle and report
back to her as soon as possible.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” she added kindly. “There’s really nothing more we can
do right now.”

“Perhaps we should all sit down to dinner, then?” Julia said, trying to
make this sound like a pleasant suggestion.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Paris,” Chakotay replied, “but I’m afraid that Tom,
Harry, and I will have to disappoint you.” When everyone in the room had
given him their full attention, he quickly briefed his listeners about
their new problem. “Apparently, after he escaped from Loran II, the
Changeling made straight for Kerovi. He had been impersonating a
Kerovian aide for some time, but when he arrived, he murdered the
diplomat affiliated with that aide and assumed her identity.”

“I thought he could only impersonate male humanoids,” Harry interrupted.

“We all did.” Chakotay nodded.

“Who was the Kerovian diplomat?” Janeway asked softly.

“Merin Kol,” Chakotay replied.

In response, Janeway raised a hand to massage her forehead and temples.

“Merin Kol is dead?” she asked, her voice heavy.

“I’m sorry, Admiral, she is,” Chakotay replied, briefly placing a gentle
hand on her shoulder. Chakotay was well aware that for several months
prior to their misadventures on Loran II, Janeway had been in serious
diplomatic negotiations with Kol. Kerovi was debating leaving the
Federation. In fact, they had ultimately decided to se cede altogether
shortly after the Changeling had escaped. Janeway had felt this failure
keenly, and to learn that it might have been instigated by this
Changeling was even more disturbing.

“The good news is the Kerovians discovered the deception and were able
to capture the Changeling. He is in custody now, and they are putting
him on trial for the murder of Merin Kol and her aide.”

“What are your orders?” Janeway asked.

“Voyager is to report to Kerovi as soon as possible. Though they’re no
longer members of the Federation, the Kerovians understand that the
Changeling compromised our security as well as theirs and are willing to
allow us to interrogate him before the trial. They’ve postponed the
trial for two weeks to allow us time to get there and debrief him, but
in order to maximize our time with him, we need to depart immediately.”

Tom’s heart sank. His duty was clear. He would report to Voyager
immediately and begin preparations for their departure. How he would do
that while worrying about B’Elanna and Miral was another matter, one he
was not at all sure he had the ability to manage.

“Tom, Harry,” Chakotay said intently, “I need both of you back on the
ship as soon as you’re packed.”

“Aye, sir,” Harry said automatically as Tom nodded mutely.

Chakotay then turned to Tom’s mother. “Julia, I can’t tell you how sorry
I am to take Tom away from you tonight. I know the celebration you have
planned would have been lovely.”

Julia smiled faintly. “It’s no problem, Captain,” she assured him. “I’ve
been a Starfleet wife for over forty years. You get used to sudden
changes of plan.”

Owen straightened a little at that, clearly proud of his wife, and put
an arm around her tiny waist.

“We’ll still go ahead with the party,” he assured her softly.

She smiled, patting him gently on the chest, then said, “Well, if you
gentlemen can’t stay to eat, can I at least send you off with some of
tonight’s dinner?”

“I would really appreciate that.” Chakotay nodded.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry added with forced cheerfulness.

As everyone hustled about saying quick farewells, Kathryn took a moment
to assure Tom that she would keep him apprised of any news from
Ambassador Worf, which did a little to calm him. She then pulled
Chakotay aside.

“I’d like to ask a favor, Captain,” she said softly.

“Name it,” he replied automatically.

“Merin Kol was more than an associate. I considered her a friend,”
Kathryn said tensely.

Chakotay nodded. “I understand.”

“I’m going to contact Admiral Montgomery immediately,” she continued.
“The favor is this: please don’t depart McKinley Station until you’ve
heard from me.”

“Done,” Chakotay assured her. “Do you mind if I ask what you have planned?”

Kathryn raised her determined face to his.

“I’m going with you,” she replied, her voice stone cold.

Harry Kim had been dreading this night for weeks—not this night,
exactly, but the last night of his leave. And it had just been cut
unceremoniously short, almost making what was to come easier. At least
the waiting was done.

After several weeks of indecision, Harry had finally come to a
realization. Now, he simply had to share it with the other person whom
that revelation affected. No matter how many times he had rehearsed the
conversation in his head, it never seemed to end well—hence, the dread.

He was half packed when the doorbell of his small apartment in San
Francisco chimed.

“Come in,” he called, stuffing an extra pair of boots into his
Starfleet-issue duffel bag before zipping it closed.

The door slid open and Libby Webber entered.

As usual, she took his breath away. Most of her dark, curled hair had
been swept up, leaving only a few tendrils draping down the back of her
neck and perfectly framing her face. Her lightly tanned skin was set off
beautifully by the deep green tunic she wore over what she always
referred to as her “comfy” black pants.

Libby crossed to him immediately and Harry automatically took her in his
arms, hugging her close.

She pulled back just enough to say with hopeful eyes, “You said it was
urgent.”

Harry’s eyes remained glued on hers as he took a deep breath.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

Libby smiled warmly.

“It was you or rehearsing for next week’s Ktarian Festival. Not really a
hard choice,” she assured him.

Harry nodded as he gently took her arms, which were still draped over
his shoulders, and released himself from her embrace.

Concern flashed briefly over Libby’s face, and for a moment her gaze
shifted over the room until it came to rest on Harry’s duffel bag.

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” she asked patiently.

“I am,” he replied, taking a few steps back. “I have to report to
Voyager immediately.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“At least a month,” he sighed.

Harry saw her fleeting disappointment and how quickly she conquered it.

“Well, it could be worse.” She smiled gamely.

“Actually, Libby, it kind of is.”

Now the concern came to stay on Libby’s face. She sat down on the edge
of the bed, next to Harry’s bag.

Libby had been the one true love of Harry’s life for more than ten
years. Despite the fact that seven of those years had been spent apart,
they had resumed their relationship almost immediately upon Voyager’s
return to the Alpha quadrant. For Harry, it had been a romantic fantasy
come true, until a couple of months ago when he had finally proposed to
her and Libby had done the unthinkable: she had turned him down.

She insisted then that she simply needed more time. What Harry had
discovered when he thought about it, which was much too often for his
liking, was that whatever the problem was, more time wasn’t going to
solve it.

Harry wanted to sit beside her. But he also knew that if he was going to
get this out, he’d better stay on his feet.

Libby looked up at him warily, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts.

She knows what’s coming.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Libby,” Harry began as kindly as he
could. “I love you. I always have, and part of me probably always will.”

“I love you too,” she said softly.

“I know. Just not enough to marry me.”

“Harry—” she began.

“Hang on,” he said, raising a hand to stop her. “I know you said you
weren’t ready; that the timing was the problem. The thing is, timing is
probably never going to be our strong suit. I’m a Starfleet officer. I’m
always at the mercy of the next mission. Your performance schedule only
makes that more complicated.” Harry paused and sighed deeply. “I just
think we both need to face reality. Marriage isn’t something you have to
think about, not at this stage in a relationship. If you’re not sure
now, you’re never going to be. I think we both need to accept that, and
move on.”

Libby was fighting back tears. Whether they were of disappointment or
anger, Harry couldn’t tell. She rose and crossed to face him. For a
moment she struggled, unable to find words. Finally, she nodded.

“You’re sure this is what you want?”

Of course it’s not what I want, part of Harry insisted.

“I think it’s what’s best,” he said instead.

Libby sighed, then raised her right hand and briefly caressed Harry’s
cheek.

“I wish this wasn’t one of those times when I knew there was nothing I
could say to change your mind,” she said sadly.

“I appreciate that,” Harry replied.

“Okay,” she said, dropping her hand. After one last look and a shake of
her head, she turned to go. When she reached the door, she turned back,
silhouetted in the bright hall light streaming in through the open door.

“Promise me something?” she asked.

“If I can,” Harry replied.

“Take care of yourself,” Libby said. “And let me know when you get back.
I understand things can’t be the way they were,” she went on, her voice
shaking, “but I can’t imagine a universe in which you and I aren’t at
least friends.”

“Neither can I,” Harry lied.

Libby nodded, and was gone.

The moment the door slid shut behind her, Harry released a huge sigh and
sat for a moment on the bed where just moments before she’d been. The
smell of her perfume lingered. It was a light floral scent, never cloying.

Harry would miss it.

But he also knew that there were worse things than missing someone.
Overstaying your welcome was one of them, second only to beating your
head against a brick wall.

Seven years in the Delta quadrant had taught Harry a lot. And they had
changed him. As he snapped his suitcase shut, the vastness of those
changes began to sink in.

Libby was his past, and the past was over. He would try to be hopeful
about the future.

In time, he knew he’d get there. The journey would begin the moment he
stepped out his front door.

CHAPTER FOUR

B’Elanna didn’t know how long they’d been walking. Had she been able to
think straight, she could probably have hazarded a reasonable guess
based on their distance from the monastery or the coldness of her
extremities. But there was only one thought she could hold in her mind
long enough to make any kind of lasting impression.

She’s gone.

At first it had been a deep wound, gnawing its way outward from the
center of her being. Now it was something else: a truth that would
strike like a harsh blow, setting her heart racing, and then immediately
recede into the distance of her mind. Just when it seemed far enough
away that it might be nothing more than a nightmare, it would assault
her again. In the brief space that separated the end of this disturbing
cycle from its renewal, B’Elanna found neither the strength nor the
ability to focus on anything else.

Her steps ceased, along with her companion’s, when they at last reached
a clearing at the edge of the forest, which B’Elanna knew began a few
kilometers south of the monastery’s walls.

Wordlessly B’Elanna watched as the two warriors who had fought at
Kahless’s side in the nursery began to gather wood to build a fire. Only
now did she recognize them.

Grapk and D’Kang.

Several weeks earlier, her studies in the library had been interrupted
by these two new arrivals. They usually kept to themselves, though they
seemed to be interested in the same ancient scrolls B’Elanna was
translating. She had always had the uneasy feeling that they were
watching her. It was little comfort now to know that they must have
been, but with the best of intentions.

“Rise!” Kahless’s voice demanded.

B’Elanna tore her gaze from Grapk and D’Kang to see Commander Logt lying
prostrate in the snow before the emperor.

Logt’s initial reply was too muted for B’Elanna to hear. Curiosity more
than anything carried her toward the pair. Finally she caught a few words.

“…beg only for a quick death, though I do not deserve it.”

“I said, rise!” the emperor repeated more ferociously, and Logt obliged
him by pulling herself to her knees.

“It is not me you have failed,” Kahless said harshly.

“I and the other guardians swore to protect the life of Miral Paris with
our own,” Logt said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have failed. My life is
forfeit.”

“Miral Paris is not dead,” Kahless replied.

Something new sliced through B’Elanna’s gut. It might have been hope.

“But, Emperor…” Logt stammered.

“How do you know that?” B’Elanna demanded, stepping between them.

Kahless held one hand up to silence her as he removed his d’k tahg from
his belt. For a moment the edge of the blade pointed toward Logt’s
throat. Then the emperor tossed it into the air, catching the blade in
his hand and presenting the hilt to Logt.

“Should the day ever come that we find Miral dead, I will indeed send
you to Gre’thor. Until then, your life belongs to B’Elanna Torres.”

Something close to hatred flashed briefly in Logt’s eyes. B’Elanna
easily understood. To go from serving as the emperor’s personal guard to
the service of a half-Klingon commoner would have been a hard choice for
any warrior. Most would rightly have preferred death.

But Logt’s anger quickly passed. With a sigh she accepted the blade and
drew it lengthwise along the flesh of her left palm. As fresh blood
dripped onto the snow at her knees, she offered the blade to B’Elanna,
saying, “I hereby swear to serve you faithfully until we have found your
daughter, Miral. Should I fail in this task, my life is yours to claim.”

B’Elanna didn’t understand why this was so important. But if Kahless
wished it, she felt she should play along. Mere practicality suggested
that at this point, she could use all the help she could get.

She accepted the blade and used it to cut her own palm. Allowing the
blade to fall, she watched as her blood mingled with Logt’s.

“I accept your oath,” B’Elanna said softly, “and will release you from
it when my daughter is once again safely in my arms.”

“Now that that is settled,” Kahless said approvingly, “let us move
closer to the fire. There is much to discuss, and little time.”

B’Elanna turned to see a cheerless blaze roaring in the center of the
clearing. Grapk and D’Kang were standing before it, warming their hands.

Kahless took his place opposite them and motioned for B’Elanna to sit
beside him. Logt rose and began to slowly walk the perimeter. Soon,
Grapk and D’Kang stomped toward her and after brief, muted discussion,
took up positions on either side of their “camp.”

B’Elanna found this protection somewhat comforting. Kahless seemed to
accept it as a matter of course.

“How do you know that Miral is still alive?” she asked again.

“Because I know who took her,” Kahless replied, “and why.”

“Who?” B’Elanna demanded.

“Are you aware that on your mother’s side, you are descended from a
Klingon warrior named Amar?” Kahless asked.

B’Elanna was in no mood for a history lesson, but given the fact that
the scrolls that had started this nightmare had been written by someone
named Amar, she bit back her impatience and simply shook her head.

“Amar lived fifteen hundred years ago and was a companion of the
original Kahless. He fought at Kahless’s side against Molor when the
empire was founded. Amar died driving our enemies from our lands. But
his sacrifice was not in vain. His death and that of his brother
warriors secured the fledgling Klingon Empire.”

“Is he the same Amar who wrote the scrolls of prophecy that sent Kohlar
and his people on their quest to find the Kuvah’magh?” B’Elanna asked.

“He was.” Kahless nodded. “But prophecy is a rare gift. Visionary
Klingons have been few and far between in our history.”

“What did he see?” B’Elanna asked.

“You have read the scrolls. You know as much as I do,” Kahless replied.

“The prophecies of Amar were vague,” B’Elanna argued. “They could have
referred to any child.”

“Any child descended from a noble house, whose mother was not raised on
Qo’noS? Any child found after two warring houses had made peace? Any
child who was recognized as the Kuvah’magh before she was born?” Kahless
asked kindly.

“Okay,” B’Elanna allowed, “but what about the scrolls of Ghargh? They’re
filled with the nonsense about the Kuvah’magh being destined to bring
back the Klingon gods. And don’t they predate Amar’s by almost another
thousand years?”

“Your scholarship does you credit,” Kahless replied.

At this, B’Elanna had to forcibly restrain herself from shouting. This
wasn’t an assignment at the Academy. She wasn’t looking for a passing
grade. This was the life of her daughter.

“All I want to know,” B’Elanna said through clenched teeth, “is what any
of this has to do with Miral.”

“I, too, was once a skeptic,” Kahless went on, as if oblivious to her
tone. “Though Amar was a fierce and beloved companion, he was long dead.
And Ghargh’s words seemed to mean nothing to a race which had long ago
abandoned faith in any omnipotent beings in favor of the warrior ethic
which now binds us all.”

“What changed your mind?” B’Elanna asked.

“I met your mother,” Kahless said, smiling faintly. “She came to Boreth,
determined to undertake the Challenge of the Spirit. She told me of her
vision of you and she on the Barge of the Dead—a vision which I have
come to learn that you shared with her.”

B’Elanna nodded for him to continue.

“I traced her lineage and learned that she was descended from Amar. I
began to wonder if she had inherited more than his warrior’s strength;
if she had also been granted the gift of prophecy. That is why I was so
pleased when you followed her here, and gratified to see that you now
seem determined to embrace your heritage.”

“I did what I did for my mother and my daughter,” B’Elanna said.

“And your actions have brought honor to both of them.”

“Did my mother have further visions?” B’Elanna asked, wondering if in
the brief time they had spent together reunited on Boreth, Miral had
forgotten to mention something so significant to her daughter.

“She did not,” Kahless replied. “But her words were enough to send me
searching our past through deeper mysteries which might now be unfolding
before us all.”

“I don’t understand,” B’Elanna interrupted.

“I do not believe that Amar was ever familiar with the prophecies of
Ghargh. But you and I have now studied them both. What do you see when
you look at them?”

“Ghargh’s writings are filled with speculation about gods, and Amar
doesn’t mention them at all,” B’Elanna replied. “They seem to contradict
one another.”

“Not as much as you might think. Both are products of the men who wrote
them and the times in which those men lived. Ghargh’s preoccupation with
the Klingon gods is simply a reflection of the reality that when he was
alive, there were still many Klingons who believed in gods and prayed to
them for various boons. Amar did not share those beliefs, but he still
understood the role of the Kuvah’magh as that of a savior to the Klingon
people.”

“What is Miral supposed to save us from?” B’Elanna asked.

“Then, you did not complete your study of Ghargh’s writings?”

“I intended to,” B’Elanna replied a little defensively. But then my
mother-in-law decided to throw a party.

“According to Ghargh, the Kuvah’magh is destined to save the Klingon
people from the joH’a mu’qaD,” Kahless replied.

B’Elanna struggled to translate. “The Curse of the Gods?” she attempted.

Kahless nodded.

“I do not pretend to know the nature of this curse. All I can tell you
is that there are Klingons still living today who believe that it is
real and that it will signal the end of the Klingon Empire.”

“Are they the ones who have taken Miral?”

“I believe so,” Kahless went on. “They are called the qawHaq’hoch—those
who ‘remember all that they know.’ They were founded during the First
Dynasty to gather and keep the most accurate records of the lineages of
various Klingon families. They continue to do so to this day, though
they were driven underground at the end of the Second Dynasty.”

“Why?” B’Elanna was now truly curious.

“Their leader at the time was a master bladesmith named Hal’korin. She
served in the court of the Emperor Reclaw. When K’Trelan slaughtered the
imperial family, Hal’korin disappeared, taking the qawHaq’hoch with her.
Legend says that she constructed a sanctuary for them, and that only
those who join the order are privy to the location of this sanctuary.”

“Hal’korin was a woman?” B’Elanna asked, unable to hide her surprise.

Kahless nodded. “A remarkable one. She learned sword-craft from her
father, and unless I’m much mistaken, she had a hand in forging the
bat’leth you now wield.”

B’Elanna knew the weapon Kohlar had given her was ancient, but she
hadn’t realized until that moment just how old it really was.

“To this day the qawHaq’hoch believe that the Curse of the Gods is real.
They have watched for the coming of the Kuvah’magh, knowing that it is
the only way to avert this apocalypse. But there is another sign of
impending doom, one that predates the birth of the Kuvah’magh.”

This was news to B’Elanna.

“The scrolls of Ghargh say that before the Kuvah’magh returns, Fek’lhr
will be reborn.”

Just as the notion that the savior would bring back the Klingon gods,
this idea struck B’Elanna as somewhat absurd.

“I thought Fek’lhr was a mythological creature, the one that guards the
gates of Gre’thor.”

“He is,” Kahless replied. “But I am now certain that our adversaries
believe this first sign has already come to pass, and that this is the
reason that the qawHaq’hoch have chosen to act now. If they have taken
her, it is to protect her until she can play the role which fate has
decreed for her. She is alive, B’Elanna, because they would never harm
her. Their only interest would be in keeping her safe.”

While this was somewhat comforting, it was equally infuriating. B’Elanna
couldn’t believe she was now made to suffer for the backward beliefs of
fringe religious lunatics.

“How do we find them?” was B’Elanna’s next question.

Kahless paused briefly before continuing. “The qawHaq’hoch are not the
only Klingons still alive who believe that the prophecies of the
Kuvah’magh are real. When Hal’korin escaped K’Trelan’s wrath, the new
emperor sent several of his most faithful warriors to find and kill
Hal’korin and the qawHaq’hoch. The descendants of those warriors are
still trying to complete this task. They are called the Warriors of
Gre’thor.”

Great. More fanatics.

“They have been searching for the qawHaq’hoch for hundreds of years and
still haven’t found them all?” B’Elanna had to ask.

Kahless nodded. “I have already contacted them, and they should be in
orbit within the hour. They will lead us to the qawHaq’hoch and to Miral.”

Suddenly B’Elanna was aware of Logt standing beside her. Her eyes blazed
with barely repressed fury.

“Pardon, Emperor, but I cannot believe you would entrust your safety and
hers to those mongrels.”

Kahless rose. The tingle of restrained energy tickled B’Elanna’s skin as
he faced his former personal guardian.

“I would never lead a warrior into battle unaware,” he reproached her.

Standing to face Kahless, B’Elanna asked, “What is she talking about?”

With a final icy glance at Logt, Kahless returned his attention to
B’Elanna.

“The Warriors of Gre’thor believe in the prophecies of the Kuvah’magh.
Where the qawHaq’hoch would protect Miral with their last breath, the
Warriors would prevent the coming apocalypse by simply killing the
Kuvah’magh on sight,” he replied.

B’Elanna took a second to make sure she had this right in all of its
appalling implications.

“So you’ve contacted the Warriors of Gre’thor to help us find the
qawHaq’hoch who have taken Miral, and when we find her, the Warriors are
going to kill her?”

Kahless placed a huge hand on B’Elanna’s shoulder. “We fight one battle
at a time,” he replied.

It was all B’Elanna could do to keep from screaming.

“Lieutenant Campbell to the captain.”

Seated in his ready room aboard Voyager, Chakotay replied, “Go ahead,
Lieutenant.”

“I am transmitting our updated operations report to you now.”

“Very good.”

“Once all personnel are accounted for, we will have clearance to launch.”

“Keep me advised, Lyssa.”

“Aye, sir. Campbell out.”

Chakotay had always thought that the amount of “paperwork” required of a
Starfleet vessel’s first officer was cumbersome. He had thought that
right up until he had assumed command of Voyager. It still amazed and
slightly galled him that Kathryn had always managed to make this part
look so easy.

As he signed off on the most recent engineering report, he found himself
missing B’Elanna more than usual. Though she lacked Vorik’s affinity for
detail, her reports had always been colorful and more interesting to
read. He said a quick silent prayer that word of her safety would arrive
soon.

A chiming at his door interrupted his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called.

He looked up to see Tom Paris ushering in an officer Chakotay had never
met.

“Captain Chakotay,” Tom said formally, “allow me to introduce you to our
new counselor, Lieutenant Cambridge.” Tom then placed a padd,
undoubtedly containing Cambridge’s orders, on Chakotay’s desk.

The man in question said nothing, but stood at a vague approximation of
attention before his desk. In a glance Chakotay took his measure. He was
human, probably in his mid-fifties, which was interesting only in that
by that age, most Starfleet personnel had achieved ranks well above
lieutenant unless they were “problematic” or had chosen to start their
career with Starfleet late. He wore a short full beard that was a medium
brown streaked generously with white, as was his slightly too-long curly
hair. His uniform, though regulation black and blue, hung loosely on him
and was in serious need of pressing or recycling. His boots looked
comfortable, and hadn’t been polished in some time.

Chakotay knew it was inappropriate for him to dislike Cambridge at first
sight. But at the moment, he was having a hard time helping himself. The
man’s initial impression suggested a propensity for insubordination.

Chakotay dismissed Tom with a nod and rose, moving around his desk to
extend a hand to Cambridge.

“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” Chakotay said briskly as Tom exited the
room perhaps a little too hastily.

Faint surprise and amusement flickered across Cambridge’s face as he
took Chakotay’s hand.

“Thank you.”

Chakotay had never really stood on ceremony, but he was pretty sure
there should have been a “sir” at the end of that sentence.

Opting to keep things congenial for now, Chakotay went on, “I wasn’t
aware that Commander Paris had already managed to secure a replacement
for Counselor Astall.” Much to Chakotay’s regret, his first counselor
had advised him shortly after their return from Loran II that a family
emergency had arisen and she required an indefinite leave of absence.
Chakotay had approved her request, and delegated to Tom the task of
submitting the request for a new counselor to Starfleet Command.

Cambridge said nothing, but instead of staring straight ahead as
protocol would have dictated, he met Chakotay’s eyes with polite
disinterest.

Sensing that it was time to take control of the situation, Chakotay
gestured to a long, low sofa that ran along the far wall. “Please, take
a seat, Lieutenant.”

With a slight shrug that suggested he’d rather not, Cambridge ambled up
the steps dividing the room’s two distinct areas and sat down, crossing
his long legs and placing his hands in his lap. To all intents and
purposes, he looked as if he owned the room.

Chakotay sat opposite him, across the small table, trying and failing to
match Cambridge for relaxation.

Finally Chakotay said, “I’m sure I’ll be able to learn a lot about you
from your service record there, but probably not as much as you can tell
me.”

“How much time do you have, Captain?” Cambridge replied drolly.

“Enough,” Chakotay said firmly. “What was your last posting?”

Cambridge heaved a weary sigh and said, “The last starship I served on
was the Melbourne.”

Chakotay paused to think. The ship didn’t sound familiar.

In answer to his unspoken question Cambridge went on, “Which was
destroyed at Wolf 359.”

Chakotay knew the battle well, just as he knew that there had been very
few survivors. Though Starfleet’s first major confrontation with the
Borg had taken place years ago, it could easily have scarred a sensitive
soul deeply, and most counselors were known for their sensitivity.

“I’m sorry,” Chakotay said sincerely. “How did you manage to survive?”

“The first thing I always do when I report to a new starship is make
damn sure I know where the escape pods are.”

“Why is that?” Chakotay asked, his voice hardening.

“Practicality and experience,” Cambridge said breezily. “Though
Starfleet purports to exist under the auspices of peaceful exploration,
every vessel I’ve ever served on has done more than its fair share of
fighting.”

Doing the math in his head, Chakotay realized it had been eleven years
since Cambridge had served on a ship.

“May I ask what you’ve been doing since then?”

“You may,” Cambridge replied. “After the Melbourne was destroyed, I
requested a transfer to Starfleet Medical.”

This was a relief of sorts. If Cambridge had been working at Starfleet
Medical all these years, he had to be at least competent in his job.

“And why did you decide to return to duty aboard a starship?” Chakotay
asked.

“I didn’t,” Cambridge answered.

“Then what are you doing here?” Chakotay asked, at something of a loss.

“I honestly don’t know.” Cambridge shrugged. “But I would have to guess
that either someone up there thinks highly of you, or they don’t think
highly enough of me.”

Chakotay had heard more than enough. He rose to indicate that the
conversation was at an end, and after a long pause Cambridge finally
uncrossed his legs and got to his feet. It was unfortunate that there
wasn’t time to get the counselor off his ship before they departed for
Kerovi, but Chakotay had already decided that this would be his first
order of business the moment Voyager returned to Earth.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Chakotay said coolly.

“Thank you.” Cambridge nodded and turned to go.

“Thank you, sir,” Chakotay corrected him.

Cambridge paused and turned, opening his hands in apology. “Thank you,
sir,” he repeated.

Chakotay crossed the room in two steps and met Cambridge’s mocking eyes
with his most stern look.

“Despite what you may believe, Lieutenant Cambridge, Voyager is a unique
ship with an exemplary crew. We give a hundred and fifty percent to our
jobs on a slow day. I won’t settle for anything less from you. And the
next time I see you, I expect your personal grooming to be regulation,
your uniform to be pressed, and I’ll be looking for my reflection in
your boots.”

“Really?” Cambridge asked in genuine surprise.

“Really, sir,” Chakotay corrected him again.

“Yes, sir,” Cambridge obliged him, this time with a little more respect.

They stared at each other just long enough for Chakotay to realize that
his initial dislike had, in a few short minutes, become something closer
to contempt. The look in Cambridge’s eyes suggested that he wasn’t alone
in his antipathy. Finally the lieutenant nodded slightly and moved away.

When he’d almost reached the door, he turned and said, “Would it be
possible for one of your ensigns to direct me toward whatever walk-in
closet I’ll be calling home for the foreseeable future?”

“There are ship directories in every main hall,” Chakotay barked. “Learn
how to use them.”

“Excellent,” Cambridge replied, then just managed to add, “sir.”

When the door had finally slid shut behind him, Chakotay took a few
deep, measured breaths. It had been a long time since he’d met anyone as
adept as Cambridge at bringing out his inner hard-ass. The only rival
that came immediately to mind was the young Tom Paris.

Chakotay moved to his desk and picked up Cambridge’s orders. They had
been signed by Admiral Montgomery. Chakotay took a moment to review
Cambridge’s attached service record. He had been born in Bristol,
England, and studied at Oxford before gaining admission to Starfleet
Academy thirty years earlier. Surprisingly, there were absolutely
glowing reports attached to each and every one of his postings,
including that of his superior at Starfleet Medical. In addition, he had
published dozens of articles in psychological and anthropological journals.

It was easy for Chakotay to see why anyone with Cambridge’s
qualifications would be singled out for service aboard Voyager. Had
Chakotay never met him, he would have no doubt approved the transfer
without a second thought. But somewhere between the deeds and the man
was a chasm Chakotay believed he had no interest in crossing.

It was a shame. Glancing at the most recent of Cambridge’s scholarly
articles, a piece comparing the mythological beliefs of four species
Chakotay had never even heard of and their psychological relevance, he
realized that in any other context, he would have found the man
fascinating.

His musings were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

Looking up, Chakotay saw Admiral Janeway standing in the doorway. Her
face fell a bit when she saw the concern clouding his.

“I’m sorry, should I have knocked?”

“Not at all, Admiral,” Chakotay said, looking in vain for his smile. “I
gather Starfleet Command granted your request?”

Janeway crossed to him and nodded. “They’ve authorized me to evaluate
the situation on Kerovi once we arrive to determine whether or not there
might be room for dip lomatic rapprochement. After everything Merin Kol
and I went through, I sincerely hope there will be.”

“You shouldn’t doubt your abilities, Kathryn,” Chakotay said with
genuine warmth. “Heaven knows I never do.”

She smiled in thanks as Tom Paris’s voice came over the comm system.

“Bridge to the captain.”

“Go ahead,” Chakotay replied, noting that Kathryn had to bite her lip
not to answer for him out of sheer habit.

“We’ve just received clearance to depart.”

“I’m on my way,” Chakotay said. As Chakotay moved toward the door that
led directly to the bridge, he asked, “Would you care to join me?”

“No, thanks.” Janeway smiled. “I’ll just catch the turbolift and go
right to my cabin. I’ve got a lot of material to review before we get to
Kerovi. And I’m hoping to hear from Ambassador Worf sooner rather than
later.”

“Nothing yet?”

“No.” Janeway shook her head, obviously disappointed.

Chakotay nodded, sharing the sentiment.

“Dinner, my cabin, nineteen-hundred hours?” he asked.

“Is that an order, Captain?” she teased.

“Yes,” he replied, well aware that as she still outranked him he didn’t
actually have the ability to do any such thing.

“Then I’ll be there.”

Only after Chakotay had made his way onto the bridge and settled in to
watch as Tom guided the pilot, Lieutenant Tare, through their departure
did he allow himself to realize how glad he was to have Kathryn aboard
again, if only for a short time. He loved leading Voyager and her crew.
The ship felt more like home than any place he had ever known. He knew
that despite its frustrations and tedium, Kathryn truly enjoyed her work
as an admiral. But part of him believed that both of them had been at
their best when they had served together. For the next few weeks, it
would be nice to revisit that.

I’ve missed her, he realized, acknowledging a simple fact he rarely
allowed to surface. Chakotay’s next thought was to wonder whether or not
she ever felt the same.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kahless had first contacted Captain T’Krek several weeks earlier, right
around the time he had made a connection between a meeting he’d had
years ago and Ghargh’s contention that the rebirth of Fek’lhr would
signal the fated apocalypse. He had always made it a point to keep an
eye on the Warriors of Gre’thor and their captain. Renegade Klingons
both fascinated and troubled him. More often than not, they did more
harm than good.

The emperor did not believe T’Krek was aware of the reports of Fek’lhr’s
rebirth. Given that this knowledge had come to Kahless in a completely
unrelated matter, he doubted that anyone, at least up to this point, had
made the connection. But the qawHaq’hoch had demonstrated this night
that they knew and were several moves ahead of everyone else currently
playing this particular round in the komerex zha. T’Krek’s ignorance,
however, would undoubtedly serve Kahless and B’Elanna well when they
ultimately found themselves at cross purposes with the Warriors of
Gre’thor, which the emperor did not doubt they eventually would be.

For the time being, T’Krek and his men remained Miral’s best hope.

When the transporter effect finally cleared, Kahless found himself
facing not only T’Krek but also a dozen of the fiercest warriors he had
ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on. Their outdated uniforms
harkened back to a much earlier era, and punctuated their status as
privateers.

“My emperor,” T’Krek said with obvious respect as he made a low bow.
Those behind him likewise bowed. “Welcome aboard the Kortar. You honor
us with your presence. The Warriors of Gre’thor are at your service.”

Pretty words, Kahless thought. But they are only words. The second our
interests diverge, T’Krek will remember that he serves no one but
himself and a millennium-old grudge.

Once this little formality was complete, T’Krek turned his attention to
Grapk and D’Kang, who stepped down off the transport platform and were
each embraced by T’Krek as if they were family members long ago given up
for dead.

“Welcome home, brothers,” T’Krek said heartily. “You have done well.”
Grapk and D’Kang then moved to embrace the other assembled warriors in a
similar fashion.

He glanced briefly at B’Elanna, who was watching the proceedings like a
patrolling sabre bear. Doubt flickered furtively across her face when
Grapk and D’Kang’s allegiance was revealed. Kahless had known that
T’Krek had sent these two to Boreth, undoubtedly to watch B’Elanna and
Miral. They had both fought with honor at his side, and he trusted them
as far as he trusted any of T’Krek’s men.

Just as he was about to step aside to introduce B’Elanna, she whispered
in his ear, “Remind me to ask you something later.”

Kahless nodded, then turned again to T’Krek, who was now staring at
B’Elanna with disdain.

“Captain T’Krek,” Kahless said, “this is my companion, B’Elanna Torres,
daughter of Miral.”

“She is the one you spoke of, the thing’s mother?” T’Krek said, not
bothering to hide his contempt.

B’Elanna tensed at Kahless’s side. To her credit, she took a deep breath
and refused to rise to T’Krek’s bait. Unfortunately, he didn’t take this
for the gift it truly was.

“You are a mongrel,” he spat at B’Elanna.

“I’m half human and half Klingon,” B’Elanna replied with dignity worthy
of the Lady Lukara.

T’Krek moved to stand directly across from B’Elanna. Only the extra
height she gained by remaining on the transporter pad allowed them to
see eye to eye.

“The emperor may ask of me what he wishes. By what right do you dare
board my vessel and seek my assistance?” T’Krek growled.

In a flash, Logt, who had been behind Kahless the entire time, moved
between B’Elanna and T’Krek and punched him squarely in the jaw.

“Hold your tongue, old man,” she shouted, “and take care before you
again address the mother of the Kuvah’magh.”

T’Krek recovered from the blow, laughing heartily. His men joined him,
clearly itching for a fight. T’Krek then drew his bat’leth from a
leather strap wound across his back as Logt simultaneously drew her
mek’leth.

“Logt!” B’Elanna shouted.

As every eye in the room turned to her, B’Elanna drew her own bat’leth
and stepped forward.

“I’m the one he’s challenging,” B’Elanna said clearly to Logt.

“Anyone who challenges you must first get through me,” Logt replied, not
taking her eyes from T’Krek.

“Not today,” B’Elanna replied.

It clearly took every ounce of self-restraint Logt possessed for her to
nod and move aside.

T’Krek stepped away from the pad toward the center of the room as the
others quickly formed a circle around him and B’Elanna, grunting and
growling in approval.

B’Elanna was the first to strike. T’Krek, who had a head and a half on
her in height, blocked it easily, but was clearly surprised a little by
the strength behind the blow. Kahless wondered if T’Krek had any idea
how dangerous a foe he currently faced. B’Elanna had too much to lose at
the moment.

B’Elanna then raised her weapon again in a series of blows that T’Krek
had a harder time dodging and parrying. She moved quickly, almost
frantically, as if all of the frustrations of the last few hours had
finally been given the release they needed. Still, there was little
tactical skill in B’Elanna’s maneuvers, and Kahless worried that nerve
and adrenaline were going to get her only so far.

The room, which had until now been filled with shouts of encouragement
for T’Krek, grew suddenly silent. With B’Elanna’s last charge she had
managed to graze T’Krek’s forearm with her blade, drawing blood.

The emperor didn’t understand this mistake. It should have been an easy
enough blow for T’Krek to block, but his attention seemed somehow divided.

As B’Elanna backed off to regroup, T’Krek surprised everyone by raising
one hand to signal his forfeit and dropping his own bat’leth to the floor.

“I concede the victory to B’Elanna Torres, on one condition,” T’Krek
said sternly.

B’Elanna looked as if she wouldn’t be satisfied by anything less than
T’Krek’s head on the end of her bat’leth, but her breath was now coming
in great heaves, and she only nodded in assent, even as she continued to
shoot d’k tahgs at him with her eyes.

“May I see that bat’leth?” T’Krek asked.

B’Elanna held it up where she stood, its sharp side leveled at T’Krek’s
neck. It was a petulant gesture, but T’Krek deserved it.

T’Krek approached her fearlessly and examined its surface area as she
held it aloft. Suddenly he gasped and focused intently on an
indentation, a decorative trefoil in the center of the blade. Then a
wide grin of triumph spread across his face.

“My brothers,” T’Krek declared to all, “behold the end of our search.”

To Kahless’s amazement, T’Krek and all of his men knelt down and bowed
their heads before B’Elanna.

B’Elanna shot a worried glance at the emperor, who simply nodded to
suggest she just go with it.

After a somber moment, T’Krek rose.

“You are most welcome among us, B’Elanna Torres, daughter of Miral,” he
said as reverently as he had first greeted the emperor.

“Fine,” B’Elanna replied warily. “You want to explain to me why?”

“The bat’leth you are holding,” T’Krek said, “where did it come from?”

B’Elanna seemed disconcerted by the ease with which T’Krek had moved
from foe to friend, but she was wise enough to prefer talking to fighting.

“A warrior named Kohlar, whose people traveled tens of thousands of
light-years from Qo’noS, gave it to me when I encountered him in the
Delta quadrant.”

“Are you aware of its history?” T’Krek asked.

“It was his father’s,” B’Elanna replied, “and his grandfather’s before
that.”

“May I?” T’Krek asked.

Despite her obvious misgivings, B’Elanna handed the blade to T’Krek. He
then pointed to the trefoil.

“Do you see this?”

“I have eyes,” B’Elanna replied harshly.

“But do you know what you are seeing?”

From the look on her face, she clearly had to concede that she did not.

“This is the mark of Hal’korin,” T’Krek said patiently. “And this
bat’leth is the final piece to a puzzle the Warriors of Gre’thor have
been trying to solve for a thousand years.”

At that, a raucous cheer was raised by the others. As B’Elanna turned to
face Kahless, he could see in her eyes that she now shared his thoughts.

Neither of them was sure that this was a good thing.

“Of course I told Admiral Montgomery that if the Borg ever do make
another assault on the Alpha quadrant, transphasic torpedoes are going
to be our best defense, Temporal Investigations be damned.”

“Uh-huh.” Chakotay nodded politely.

Kathryn knew he wasn’t really listening. By her estimation, he hadn’t
heard a word she’d said for at least five minutes.

“And I know Admiral Nechayev agrees,” Janeway went on, “though frankly I
was incredibly shocked when she arrived at our meeting stark naked.”

“Right.”

“Admiral Montgomery didn’t seem to notice,” she went on. “I guess things
at Starfleet Command have changed quite a bit since we left…”

“Mm-hmm,” Chakotay murmured, then paused as her words finally pierced
his internal musings. “What?”

Kathryn smiled.

“Not a pretty mental picture, is it?”

“Sorry. My mind was wandering,” Chakotay admitted.

“That much I gathered.”

They had already recycled their dinner plates but lingered at the table
in Chakotay’s quarters, he nursing a glass of Antarean cider and she
working on a cup of cappuccino.

“You want to tell me what’s bothering you?” Kathryn offered. “Or maybe
just what’s bothering you the most right now?”

Janeway had always known that Chakotay would make an excellent captain,
and she had lobbied for him to be assigned to Voyager. But she also knew
just how lonely command could be. She had looked to him or to Tuvok when
she needed counsel. He had Tom, and if memory served, Voyager had been
provided with a full-time ship’s counselor since Chakotay had assumed
command. But Janeway knew all too well that Chakotay was a deeply
private person. The admiral couldn’t imagine how bad things would have
to get before he chose to open up to either of those two options.

“I’m wondering if we’re really the best people for this particular
mission,” Chakotay said.

“The mission to Kerovi?”

Chakotay nodded. “Yes, we’ve already interacted with the Changeling, and
our experience should serve us well. But we were also his victims, and
that’s going to be pretty hard to compartmentalize when we’re
face-to-face again.”

“We’ve talked about this before, Chakotay,” Kathryn said, her voice full
of sympathy. “I know what you suffered, not just for yourself and Doctor
Kaz, but for Sekaya.”

“Watching my sister die, or almost die, was certainly the worst of it.”

“I understand you’ve been assigned a new ship’s counselor,” Janeway
said. “I think you should make sure he’s fully briefed on your
experiences at Loran II and insist that he accompany your team when it
comes time to interrogate the Changeling. He should be able to provide
you with a healthy perspective.”

“And I would, if I weren’t planning to have him transferred the moment
we return to Earth.”

Kathryn was taken aback. “He’s that bad?”

Chakotay nodded. “Remember the complaints we got when the Doctor was
first activated about his bedside manner?”

Kathryn smiled wistfully. The ship’s former Emergency Medical Hologram
had grown into such a supportive and compassionate physician during
their time in the Delta quadrant that it was hard to reconcile what he
was now with what he had been in those early months.

“Counselor Cambridge has only completed one full duty shift today and
three of the five crewmen he met with have already written complaints.”

“Really?” Kathryn grimaced.

“The best reports found him mildly dismissive and a little hostile.”

“Have you had a chance to speak with him?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And what did you think?”

“I think dismissive and hostile are a little generous.”

“Well, I can hardly wait to meet him.”

“Indeed.” Chakotay nodded. “You’d just better hope you don’t end up
needing his services on this trip. What I can’t understand is why
everyone at Starfleet Medical is so taken with him. His record is filled
with glowing recommendations.”

“What species is he?” Kathryn asked.

“British,” Chakotay replied.

Kathryn chuckled lightly in response before adding, “Maybe he takes some
time to get to know.”

“I hope you’re right,” Chakotay said skeptically.

“Ops to Admiral Janeway,” Lyssa Campbell’s voice rang out over the comm
system.

“Janeway here.”

“You have a priority transmission from Starfleet Command.”

“Route it to the captain’s quarters,” Janeway replied, rising to cross
to Chakotay’s comm station at his desk and activating the interface.

A few seconds later, Decan’s ever-composed face appeared before her.

“Good evening, Admiral,” he greeted her. “I have Ambassador Worf for you.”

“Put him through,” Kathryn said briskly as Chakotay rose to stand
opposite her while she received Worf’s report.

“Before I do so, Admiral, I wanted to let you know that Captain Eden has
requested you contact her from Voyager as soon as your schedule allows.”

Kathryn sighed.

“Did I cancel that appointment this morning?” she asked, knowing full
well she had forgotten to do so before boarding Voyager.

“No, Admiral,” Decan said evenly. “I took the liberty of contacting
Captain Eden first thing when I arrived, but by then you were already
several hours overdue for your meeting with her.”

“I’m sorry, Decan.”

“I did pass your apologies along to her.”

Kathryn looked up to see Chakotay doing his best to hide a smile at her
embarrassment.

“Tell Eden I’ll be in touch as soon as possible,” Kathryn replied. “Now
let’s not keep the ambassador waiting any longer.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

After a brief interlude in which Decan’s face was replaced by the blue
and white seal of the Federation, Ambassador Worf’s face suddenly
glowered before her.

Janeway knew Worf by reputation and a few brief conversations. She also
knew that most Klingons wore a semipermanent scowl that often belied a
well-hidden but slightly warmer spirit. Worf’s expression now gave no
hint of that warmth, only cold frustration.

“Good evening, Mister Ambassador,” Kathryn said sternly. “You have news?”

“I do, Admiral,” Worf replied, “and I wish it were better.”

Kathryn’s gut tensed, but she nodded for him to continue.

“Five days ago, there was an attack on the monastery at Boreth.”

“What kind of attack?” Janeway demanded.

“Three warriors were found dead in the monastery’s nursery. The child,
Miral Paris, is missing, as is her mother, Emperor Kahless, and a member
of his personal guard, Commander Logt,” Worf reported.

“Do you have any idea who was responsible for the attack?” Kathryn
asked, doing her best to keep her fears tightly reined.

“Not at this time,” Worf replied. “As Lieutenant Commander Torres was a
guest of the empire during her stay on Boreth, this is still considered
an internal Klingon matter. Unfortunately, the Federation cannot
interfere with the ongoing investigation by the Klingon authorities
unless we are formally asked to do so.”

“But they are investigating?”

“Of course,” Worf replied. “Chancellor Martok has taken a personal
interest in these developments and has demanded hourly updates on the
progress of the investigation. He is, however, unwilling to entertain
any action at this time by the Federation, though I have offered it
repeatedly.”

“The chancellor is worried because Kahless is missing,” Kathryn
surmised. She could see in Worf’s subtle nod that she had guessed right.
“But there is no way to know at this time whether or not B’Elanna and
Miral are with him.”

“That is correct.”

“That is unacceptable, Ambassador.”

“I concur, Admiral,” Worf said. “Which is why I have made the
Federation’s position regarding the safety of its citizens in Klingon
space abundantly clear to the chancellor. He has assured me he takes
this matter very seriously, but for now, there is nothing more that you
or I can do. I will update you the moment I have further news.”

It took all of Janeway’s diplomatic training to make the “Thank you,
Mister Ambassador” with which she signed off sound moderately congenial.

Once the connection was terminated, she looked immediately to Chakotay.
His hand was at his brow, slowly massaging the deep worry lines formed
along his tattooed forehead.

“What do you think?” she asked.

A heavy sigh escaped Chakotay’s lips as he began to pace the room.

“I think we have to hope that Martok gets to the bottom of this before
both of us lose our minds worrying about B’Elanna and Miral,” he replied.

“And in the interim?”

Chakotay looked at her, questioning. Finally he answered, “In the
interim we continue on our current mission.”

Kathryn had expected that this would be his response. Despite his Maquis
background, of the two of them, he had always tended to play things much
safer than she.

“Without your first officer?” Kathryn asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the moment you tell Tom Paris that his wife and child are
missing from Boreth, the only way to keep him on this ship will be to
put him in stasis,” Kathryn replied.

Come to think of it, even that might not do the trick. Kathryn recalled
vividly that Tom had a particular aversion to stasis chambers and an
uncanny ability to escape them, even when supposedly sedated.

Chakotay stopped pacing and drew himself up to his full height, hands
clasped behind his back. “I think you underestimate him,” he replied.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Kathryn challenged.

A few minutes later, Tom arrived in Chakotay’s quarters and received a
full briefing on what limited information was currently at the captain’s
disposal. He took the news relatively well. The moment Chakotay had
finished speaking, he said, “Thank you, Captain. Of course, I’d like to
request an immediate leave.”

Chakotay blinked back his surprise.

“To do what?”

“The Delta Flyer was brought back aboard just before we departed
McKinley Station. With your permission I’ll take it and begin my search
at Boreth,” Tom replied evenly.

“Request denied,” Chakotay said softly. Before Tom could protest, he
continued, “Ambassador Worf made it very clear that no Federation
intervention was required nor would be welcomed at this time.”

“That’s supposed to stop me?” Tom asked in amazement.

“No,” Chakotay answered. “Your duty to this ship is supposed to do that.”

Tom stared briefly at Chakotay in wonder, then raised his right hand to
the collar of his uniform, tugging firmly at one of the three pips that
were pinned there.

“Gentlemen,” Kathryn interrupted, sensing where this was going, “let’s
think about this.”

“There’s nothing to think about!” Tom shouted. “We’re talking about my
wife and my daughter.”

“I know that,” Chakotay replied angrily. Tom might arguably have loved
B’Elanna more than Chakotay did, but the captain had loved her longer.
And Miral was as dear to him as his own child.

Kathryn stepped between them. “I realize the situation is delicate, but
there has to be another option.”

“What would you suggest, Admiral?” Chakotay asked, barely concealing his
distaste for being second-guessed at this moment.

“Were it up to me, I’d alter course right now for Boreth,” she replied
calmly.

“We have our orders,” Chakotay insisted.

“To hell with our orders,” Tom interjected.

“Commander,” Chakotay said harshly, reminding Tom in one word that this
was not the time or the place to push too far. He then looked back to
Janeway, who stood with her arms crossed at her chest.

“If you’re worried about the fallout from Starfleet Command, I could
pull rank and take the heat for you,” Kathryn suggested.

Chakotay shook his head warily. “You wouldn’t.”

Kathryn gave it a few seconds’ thought, then dropped her arms to her
sides in defeat.

“No, I wouldn’t,” she replied, “and I apologize for even suggesting it.
This is your ship. I’m a guest here. And I would never do anything to
imply that you don’t have my full faith and confidence.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But I still think we need a better option,” she added.

Chakotay looked to Tom, then back at Janeway. She knew all too well the
many pressures that were being weighed and measured: his duty to
Starfleet, his love for B’Elanna and Miral, his concern for Tom, and his
cer tainty that to intercede at this point could well set off an
interstellar incident.

Command is a wonderful challenge, except when it isn’t, she thought
bitterly.

Finally Chakotay tapped his combadge.

“Captain to the bridge.”

“Go ahead, Captain,” Harry Kim’s voice replied.

“Alter course and proceed at maximum warp to Qo’noS.”

After a brief pause of surprise, Kim replied, “Aye, Captain.”

Tom looked at Chakotay with gratitude. Kathryn knew that her face
betrayed that as well, mingled with respect.

Now why didn’t I think of that?

“We have two weeks to reach Kerovi,” Chakotay said in a tone that
brooked no discussion. “A detour to Qo’noS will only take a few days.
We’ll contact Martok directly and ask to be allowed to assist with his
investigation. If he approves our request, we’ll notify Starfleet
Command. If not, we’ll resume course for Kerovi.”

Tom’s gratitude faded somewhat. It wasn’t everything he wanted, but it
was a start.

“Thank you, Captain,” Tom said.

“Is there anything you can tell us about what B’Elanna was doing on
Boreth since you left, or who might wish Miral any harm?” Chakotay asked
Tom.

Tom eased a frustrated sigh. “Not really,” he replied. “We were
translating and studying ancient texts, looking for more information
about the Kuvah’magh. B’Elanna wanted to learn more about her Klingon
heritage, for Miral’s sake, and it seemed as interesting a place as any
to start.”

“Did she find anything to add to what you already learned about these
prophecies from our encounter with Kohlar?” Kathryn asked.

“Not while I was there.” Tom shook his head. “But…”

“But what?” Chakotay asked.

“I don’t know,” Tom replied. “I’ve talked to B’Elanna every week since
we’ve been apart, but lately, I hate to say this, something’s felt a
little off.”

“What do you suspect?” Kathryn asked as kindly as she could.

“I think she’s hiding something from me,” Tom finally admitted. “I
wanted to ask, but then when she agreed to come home…”

Chakotay placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”

Tom nodded, though his agreement didn’t betray much hope.

“But by the time we get to Qo’noS, we need to know more than we do now
about anyone who might have done this,” Chakotay added.

“What are you going to do?” Kathryn asked.

“I think it’s time we asked the smartest people we know for a little
help,” Chakotay replied.

Kathryn smiled for the first time since she’d heard from Worf.

I should have thought of that too.

CHAPTER SIX

Captain Eden had read and reread the paragraph in question three times
before she realized that Tamarras was standing at her desk.

As she looked up, her aide said, “Please pardon the interruption,
Captain, but Admiral Batiste asked me to advise you that he is
transporting over.”

“Let me know when he arrives,” Eden replied, dismissing her.

It was nice that she could look forward to her ex-husband’s arrival with
only mild annoyance. Clearly this indicated a healthy level of personal
growth on her part. Eighteen months ago, just after the separation,
which she had briefly allowed herself to believe would only be
temporary, being in Willem’s presence for either personal or
professional reasons had been significantly more troubling. Devastating
was probably closer to the truth.

Eden didn’t know how it worked for other people, but she was
constitutionally incapable of shifting emotional gears with Willem’s
seeming ease and grace. It was not okay with her that one moment they
had been partners, lovers, and, most important, friends who had built a
life together and the next they were no longer any of those things. It
had not been okay for months. It had remained not okay until her good
friend Ken Montgomery had gently suggested she might avail herself of
the services of a counselor.

Luckily, she had seen the wisdom in Ken’s suggestion. She had reported
to Starfleet Medical and been assigned to Doctor Hugh Cambridge. They
had met regularly since then for very productive sessions, and over time
she had come to see that what she had called a marriage had been nothing
of the kind. Strangers who regularly found themselves seated together on
a morning transport might have found that they had more in common than
she and Willem. They would certainly have been more polite to one
another. In reasonably short order, rather than grieving over the loss
of a relationship that she had once believed was all she could have
hoped for, she had realized that what she and Willem had once shared had
been born of need rather than love and both of them were definitely
better off alone than they had ever been together.

Things had further improved when she had been transferred to Project
Full Circle. Though the project fell under Willem’s authority, he rarely
interfered with the team’s nominal leader, Admiral Montgomery. Come to
think of it, Eden had to wonder why Willem wanted to see her today. It
had been over a month since they had last spoken.

She returned her attention to the report she was writing, resolved to
continue working rather than waste time speculating. Soon enough she’d
know why Willem was darkening her door. …inhabited by a loosely
affiliated group known as the Mikhal Travelers, encountered on Stardate
50396. Reports indicate that the planet in question had been settled
more than ten thousand years earlier. Artifacts of this ancient
civilization were discovered by the Mikhal and revered as objects of
beauty. There is no indication that the Mikhal were aware of any deeper
meaning to the artifacts. References to the artifacts also found briefly
in the personal logs of Crewman Kes. Further analysis recommended based
upon… But this was where it got tricky.

Further analysis and study of these artifacts was actually critical as
far as Eden was concerned. But her knowledge of that fact could not be
supported by anything in Voyager’s logs; it could only be supported by
evidence buried in Eden’s subconscious mind. At least she assumed it was
her subconscious. Nothing in her conscious mind suggested there was
anything of interest or value in the artifacts discovered on this remote
planet almost seventy thousand light-years from Earth. Until she had
seen a holo-image of one of the carvings—taken by Kes, an Ocampan female
who had accompanied Voyager on her journey for only three years—Eden had
read nothing terribly interesting about the artifacts and certainly
would not have referenced them in her analysis.

After Eden had seen the image, it had stirred something within
her—something that felt strangely like a memory.

She needed to know more. Her gut told her that this was important, but
until she could prove it, her instinct would never be taken seriously.

Afsarah Eden despised not being taken seriously.

She had learned that from her time with Willem.

As a result, Eden tended to overcompensate. Since she was aware of this
proclivity, she chose to think of it as a personality quirk rather than
an annoying fault. She was not sure that her superior officers,
particularly Admiral Montgomery, agreed with this assessment, but that
was not her problem at the moment.

Right now she simply needed to decide how important it was to include
this paragraph and its implied recommendation in her initial report.

A chime sounded, and after she called out, “Come in,” the door of her
office hissed open.

Willem Batiste noted that when he entered Afsarah’s office, she didn’t
bother to look up from her computer. She would keep him waiting as long
as it suited her. As he was technically her superior officer, this might
be construed as insubordination. But he had also broken her heart, and
this meant that rank or no, there would always be a fair number of
delicate eggshells strewn between them and he would do well to tread
lightly. Their relationship had become decidedly amicable in the last
year, and it served his interests to keep it that way.

He could wait. A little passive aggression never killed anyone.

“What can I do for you, Admiral?” she finally asked, still refusing to
tear her eyes away from whatever she was working on.

“Good afternoon to you too, Afsarah.”

This earned him a glance of interest from her dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said lightly. “Was I being rude?”

“I prefer to think of you as highly motivated and commendably focused,”
he replied cordially.

This was enough for her to stop working altogether and turn to face him
with her full attention.

“Now I know I’m in trouble,” she said flatly.

“Why would you say that?”

“You’re being nice.”

“I’ve always been nice,” he said with mock defensiveness.

“It’s your story. You can tell it any way you like.”

“You’re looking well, Afsarah,” he went on, ignoring the barb.

“Thank you, Willem,” she said appreciatively. “You look exactly the same.”

He didn’t ask her to clarify. What she thought of how he looked was
really of no concern to him one way or the other.

“Would you like something to drink?” she offered. “Iced tea with mint,
perhaps?”

“I would.” He smiled. She had always been so eager to please him, and
usually succeeded, knowing exactly what he would prefer to drink on this
unseasonably warm afternoon. That constant comforting attention had been
hardest to lose when they separated. Fortunately, this small reminder of
that loss barely stung anymore.

It stung even less when she tossed her head toward her office’s
replicator and said, “Feel free to help yourself.”

Willem crossed dutifully to the replicator and ordered two iced teas.
Once they had materialized before him, he returned to her desk, taking
the seat opposite her and placing her glass well within her reach.

“How is your report coming?” he asked casually.

“It would be coming much better if I could nail Kathryn Janeway down for
more than a few minutes at a time,” Eden replied.

“Then you’re not finished?”

She paused, giving him a hard stare. Eden wasn’t a telepath, but when
she looked at him like that he always felt underdressed, if not
completely exposed.

“What’s your interest, if I may ask?” she finally countered.

“For the moment, that’s none of your concern,” he answered, hoping to
imply professional necessity without being too cagey.

The right side of her mouth curled upward. She seemed equally amused and
intrigued.

“Admiral Montgomery indicated that I should take all the time I needed
to complete this analysis,” she said. “Admiral Janeway has been
unavailable for the last several weeks, though I’m assured she’ll remedy
that when she returns from her current mission. The only other senior
member of Voyager’s crew that I’ve been unable to interview is their
chief engineer, B’Elanna Torres. Admiral Janeway informed me this
morning that her current whereabouts are unknown. Assuming she’s not
dead, I’ll interview her the moment she returns to Earth. Until then,
I’m afraid you and Admiral Montgomery are just going to have to wait.”

Willem nodded politely. He had expected as much. Ken had been copying
him on all of Eden’s status reports, so he already knew that her final
analysis would probably not be complete for several more weeks.

He just wasn’t sure he could wait that long. Though Eden was unaware of
this fact, he had been the one to suggest that she be transferred from
technical analysis to her current assignment. Batiste had never met a
more tenacious individual, and her kind of research was exactly what he
needed if he was going to get enough evidence to support his proposal in
a timely manner.

He wasn’t sure if taking her into his confidence at this point would
help to grease the wheels. If Eden disagreed with him, Vulcans would
dance naked in the streets before she would aid his cause.

But if she could be made to see reason…

There was no one in the universe he would rather have at his right hand
in a fight.

Batiste rose and returned his glass to the replicator to be recycled. He
remembered all too well that cleaning up after him had been a pet peeve.

“I would appreciate it if you would keep me apprised of your progress,”
he said simply. “In the meantime, I’d like a copy of whatever you have
completed up to this point.”

Eden’s eyes betrayed her deep desire to understand why, but to her
credit, she only nodded in the affirmative.

He was almost at the door before she said, “You’re really not going to
tell me why you’re so interested all of a sudden?”

His interest wasn’t sudden. It was exactly nine months old at this point.

“I really can’t,” he replied, as if it pained him more than her.

“Have a good evening, Admiral,” she acquiesced, returning her attention
to her computer. “I’ll forward you a draft file before I leave tonight.”

He nodded and left her alone with her curiosity.

The admiral hated playing these games. But soon enough, they would no
longer be necessary.

Once he was gone, Eden allowed herself only a few moments of
consideration before deleting the questionable paragraph. Now that she
knew her analysis would be scrutinized by Willem, rather than just Ken
Montgomery, she absolutely couldn’t risk including it.

At least not until he tells me exactly what he’s planning, she decided.

If her history with Willem was any guide, she might very well be the
last to know.

The scene that met B’Elanna’s eyes was disorienting. She knew she was
deep in the bowels of the Kortar, an old but well-maintained warship of
a class she didn’t recognize. She assumed that the space where she now
stood with Kahless, Logt, T’Krek, and dozens of his brethren had
originally been a cargo hold. But she could have sworn she was standing
outside on Qo’noS at night. Only the deep, musky odor she associated
with too many Klingons in too close quarters and the absence of a breeze
seriously distorted the illusion.

The moment they had entered the vast space, Kahless had smiled in
recognition. On Qo’noS, this place was called Qa’Hov. B’Elanna had
distant memories of touring it as a child. She had long ago banished the
memories of her first visit to her mother’s homeworld because her most
vivid recollections of those times were of the many Klingons who stared
at her with contempt. Now that she understood that most Klingons stared
at any stranger the same way, she took it less personally, but at the
time it had only reinforced her desire to be anything but half Klingon.

The shrine reproduced here was part of a public sector of the Kartad
Forest. The monument at the shrine’s center, a stone obelisk less than
six meters tall and roughly a meter square at its base, hadn’t been
terribly impressive when she was a child. Had she fully comprehended
when she was a little girl that the obelisk was twelve hundred years
old, she might have mustered a little awe. Staring at the perfect
re-creation of the monument that the Warriors had constructed aboard
their ship, she discovered some of the wonder she had been unable to
summon in her younger days. B’Elanna didn’t understand why it was
necessary to keep it in a cargo hold when a holodeck would have done
just as well, but everything about the Warriors she had observed up to
this point, especially their antiquated uniforms, suggested that they
didn’t do anything the easy way, or the modern way.

The deck was split-level; a deep circular trench surrounded the obelisk,
approximately four meters in diameter. But the sky above, an exact
replica of the stars orbiting Qo’noS, was the most breathtaking part of
the illusion, and the piece that necessitated a vast volume of space
within the ship.

B’Elanna remembered the shrine as one of many on Qo’noS dedicated to
Kahless. She couldn’t recall what particular deed worthy of epic song he
might have performed at this site, and she felt a little bad about that.
The wide gaping holes in her knowledge of Klingon history had been
perturbing enough while she wandered among the other pilgrims on Boreth.
Standing in the emperor’s presence, it was downright embarrassing. She
felt certain that in the actual shrine there were at least a few plaques
that would have filled in the missing pieces for her. T’Krek had
apparently not felt it necessary to add these details for this re-creation.

The assembled warriors began to arrange themselves in a circle around
the trench. Only when she reached the lip of the indentation did
B’Elanna notice the glints of light reflecting off metal below. The
trench was filled with bat’leths, lying end to end in a perfect but
incomplete circle. Now that she was a little closer to the obelisk, she
also noticed for the first time that it was not simply smooth, polished
stone. It was actually quite rough, and was pitted throughout with long
gouges that scarred its surface.

Finally, her curiosity exceeded her humiliation and she turned to Kahless.

“What is this place?” she asked softly.

“It used to be called the ‘home of the stars of the gods,’” Kahless
whispered. “Now, of course, they are the stars of Kahless,” he added,
“but that was never the intention of its builder.”

“Who built it?” B’Elanna asked, uncomfortably aware that no one else was
speaking.

“I do not know,” Kahless replied, and B’Elanna instantly felt a little
less ignorant.

T’Krek stood at the base of the obelisk. He turned his attention to
B’Elanna and approached before the emperor could say anything further.

“Twelve centuries ago, the pe’taQ Hal’korin designed this shrine as a
gathering place for the qawHaq’hoch. The order was divided into twelve
corps, each led by the fierc est warrior among them. The leaders of the
twelve could only be identified to one another by the weapons they
carried. Hal’korin, may she writhe in agony in Gre’thor, forged twelve
bat’leths and marked them as her own. Only when the twelve were
assembled could the secrets of her cursed order be revealed.”

From a purely tactical point of view, B’Elanna could see the wisdom in
this; passwords, codes, handsigns, and the like were all time-honored
traditions among those for whom subterfuge was a way of life. At the
same time, the machinations of this ancient society also reinforced her
certainty that all of these people, qawHaq’hoch and Warriors of Gre’thor
alike, were barking lunatics.

“What secret do you seek?” Kahless asked. B’Elanna had the sense that he
asked the question for her benefit and was silently grateful.

“When brought together in this place, the twelve bat’leths will reveal
to us the location of the qawHaq’hoch sanctuary. We know that the
sanctuary was created by Hal’korin, to hide these heretics and their
dark work should they ever fall from favor, as they ultimately did.”

“The Warriors of Gre’thor have, to date, found and slaughtered eleven of
the twelve leaders, and the descendants who claimed their place,” T’Krek
went on, his chest swelling at the fond memory. “Their weapons now rest
here.

“The blade you carry, B’Elanna Torres, is the twelfth sword of
Hal’korin.” T’Krek held his hand out to B’Elanna. “With your permission.”

Kahless nodded, and B’Elanna passed her bat’leth to T’Krek. He then
knelt before her and placed the sword in the trench, its ends clanging
softly as they were locked into place between the two on either side.
The bat’leths now formed a perfect, unbroken circle.

B’Elanna wasn’t sure what she expected to happen. At first she decided
that the unimaginable stress of the past several hours might finally be
taking its toll when she felt her gorge rising and her stomach began to
churn. She took a few halting steps to ward off the dizziness as the
stars above her head began to spin. She was suddenly aware of two strong
hands on each of her arms, holding her firmly, those of Kahless and
Logt. With a heavy, metallic clank, the sensation passed and B’Elanna
realized that it hadn’t been her head that was swimming. Whatever
mechanism controlled the projections of the stars above her had actually
moved, reorienting itself to a new alignment, probably of a particular
time and date necessary for the ritual she was now unwillingly sharing.

She enjoyed a momentary sense of calm, until the ground at her feet
began to glow. Soon enough she realized that the bat’leths in the trench
were actually floating on a substance that was now the consistency of
molten lava. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that the
original shrine had been constructed at the base of a long-dormant
volcano, common enough on Qo’noS.

Those around her knelt at the sight. At first B’Elanna assumed it was
more quasi-religious nonsense, until she realized that the now luminous
bat’leths had begun to cast laserlike points of light toward the
obelisk. The tallest of the Warriors standing right at the lip of the
magma-well blocked some of the spectacle by their position. Without
reverence, B’Elanna, Kahless, and Logt likewise knelt and watched as
T’Krek moved about the obelisk, studying and measuring the points on the
monument illuminated by the refracted light of the weapons. He then
turned his attention to the sky above, comparing the patterns in the
stone to those fixed overhead.

Finally T’Krek grunted, “Bridge.”

“What are your orders, Captain?” a disembodied voice growled.

“Set a new course,” T’Krek said haughtily. “The sanctuary is located on
Davlos.”

“At once, Captain,” the voice replied.

As those around her rose and began to congratulate themselves with
hearty cries and pounding of chests and shoulders, B’Elanna’s eyes
remained glued to the obelisk. She promised herself that later she would
return and examine every atom of the monument with a scanning device
more sensitive than her eyes. She gazed at the bat’leths floating in the
trench. A thought gnawed at the back of her mind.

For all of its elegance, Hal’korin’s crude mapping system is ripe with
potential for minute variations that would undoubtedly alter the
location indicated by the obelisk. T’Krek seems certain that he’s found
what he was seeking, but without further analysis, I’m not ready to bet
my life or Miral’s on his calculations.

It was a journey of at least four days to Davlos, even at maximum warp.
For now, B’Elanna had nothing but time, and she was determined to use it
well.

She was suddenly aware of Kahless, helping her to her feet. When she
rose and looked up at him, he said softly, “There was something you
wanted to ask me earlier.”

With so many thoughts racing through her mind, B’Elanna had to search
for a moment to recall her question. Finally it came back to her.

“On Boreth, did you try to warn me of the danger we now face?”

He shook his head.

“Perhaps I should have,” he admitted sadly. “I was confident in my
ability to protect you, and I apologize for not sharing my concerns with
you sooner.”

B’Elanna felt her ire rising. Part of her wondered if all of this might
have been avoided had Kahless chosen long ago to bring her into his
confidence. She bit back the first response that came to her as, despite
her oath, Logt would probably snap her neck for even the slightest
display of impudence toward the emperor.

“I see,” B’Elanna managed to reply. Of course, if Kahless hadn’t written
her the cryptic message, that begged the question: Who had?

B’Elanna was suddenly conscious of her extreme fatigue. Every bone in
her body was racked with the pain of either stress or injury. Her
stomach began to growl, though the thought of food was sickening. A low,
tingling buzz washing over her suggested she’d do well to find a bed soon.

It was almost a pleasant thought. To curl up beneath the animal skins
she’d grown accustomed to on Boreth, Miral tucked into one arm, and…oh,
dear gods…

Tom, she thought, her heart splintering anew in her breast.

She hadn’t given him a moment of consideration since she had stood
before Logt in the audience chamber, making her request. In real time it
had been less than twelve hours earlier, but those hours had been so
full of fighting and fleeing and desperate worry. Since Tom had left her
on Boreth and returned to active duty, she had grown too accustomed to
thinking of her problems as only hers, and taking solitary measures to
solve them. But now, when the weight of her loneliness was palpable and
the ache to feel his arms around her so pressing, B’Elanna saw how well
she had deceived herself.

Her need for her husband was not an idea. Nor was it something she could
turn on and off at will. Like the life of her daughter, it breathed
within her. For too long she had only been able to glimpse that soft
tender place in her dreams, when in flashes she could smell the sweet
tang of his flesh, or feel his imagined hands caress her gently. These
dreams had done little to comfort her in the harsh light of day, and so
she had buried them, as if she could will them to dissipate and with
them, the bond that was so inconvenient when they were separated.

Tom would never have done the same; of that much she was certain. Now
she had days ahead to wonder if, when she shared this horrible lapse
with him, he would ever forgive her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Chancellor Martok asked.

His question was directed at Chakotay. Though Janeway was the ranking
officer, this was, as she had reminded Chakotay when they entered the
Great Hall and were ushered into Martok’s private chamber, “His idea
and, therefore, his hoverball match.”

The admiral and Paris stood just behind Chakotay, waiting with palpable
impatience. It was only due to the influence of Ambassador Worf that
Martok had agreed to the audience at all. Worf stood ominously behind
their group near the ornately carved doors of the suite.

Starfleet captains weren’t in the habit of requesting audiences with the
chancellor of the Klingon Empire. Chakotay seriously doubted that his
request would even have been considered were it not for their personal
connection to B’Elanna and the fact that she had gone missing at the
same time as Kahless.

In the brief exchange they had shared with Ambassador Worf—who doled out
words with the same care that a Ferengi took when parting with
latinum—they had been told that Martok had agreed to the meeting as a
courtesy to the ambassador, but insisted that it take place “quietly,”
so as not to raise questions among the rest of the High Council, now in
session. Martok had apparently chosen not to alert the council to the
emperor’s disappearance until he could provide them with Kahless’s new
whereabouts, which still remained a stubborn mystery.

Chakotay knew Martok by reputation only. His renown as a leader of men
in battle preceded him. Martok had come to power during the Dominion
War. The very day he arrived on Qo’noS, his position as chancellor had
been challenged by a usurper who had managed to lay waste to the Great
Hall and much of the monastery on Boreth before that coup had come to
its violent and bloody end. Martok bore livid scars, each one a
testament to the battles he had fought. He had no need for pretense or a
need to show his power. He wore it as easily as the massive cloak
denoting his office.

Several years earlier, he had lost his left eye at the hands of the
Jem’Hadar, but his remaining one rested unnervingly on Chakotay. The
captain returned the hard stare with assurance. He knew Martok had no
patience for weakness, or politics.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Chancellor,” Chakotay began
politely. “You do us a great honor.”

Martok nodded, as if that much was obvious. Chakotay decided that there
was no way to wade comfortably into these waters; best just to dive in
and get it over with.

“I’ve come to offer my assistance, and that of my crew, in the search
for B’Elanna Torres, her child, and the Emperor Kahless. As I am sure
you are aware, B’Elanna is the wife of my first officer, Lieutenant
Commander Tom Paris, and Miral is his daughter. B’Elanna served
honorably aboard Voyager during our years in the Delta quadrant. She is
family.”

“Your concern is appropriate, Captain, and does you credit,” Martok
replied sternly, “but surely Ambassador Worf has already advised you
that our investigation of their disappearance is already under way. We
do not require your assistance at this time.”

Chakotay knew a dismissal when he heard one. He had come too far,
however, to accept it quite so quickly.

“But perhaps the more resources we are able to apply to the problem, the
more quickly we might expect to arrive at a solution,” Chakotay offered.

“I assure you, Captain,” Martok glowered, “it is not a question of
resources. I have assigned the finest warriors at my disposal to this
task. I know you do not mean to suggest that the Klingon Empire requires
the interference of Starfleet in this matter.”

“Of course not,” Chakotay responded immediately. “I wish only to make
you aware that should you decide that our assistance might be of use to
you, we stand ready to provide it.”

Insulting the leader of the Klingon Empire had not been at the top of
Chakotay’s list of things to do that morning, though from the decidedly
chilly reception he was receiving, he felt he might have.

“Then you may consider me so advised,” Martok said, waving his hand to
one of the two guards who flanked Worf by the door.

“I appreciate your—”

But Chakotay never had a chance to finish that statement.

In a flash of movement, Chakotay barely glimpsed Paris out of the corner
of his eye moving toward the wall on his left. A heartbeat later, Tom
was holding a huge bat’leth that had been resting in ceremonial elegance
on the wall, displayed nobly along with several others that decorated
the room. With a cry, Tom rushed toward Martok, raising the sword
overhead, but before Chakotay could move to restrain him, that mission
was deftly accomplished by the two Yan-Isleth whose job it was to
protect Martok’s life with their own.

Paris put up quite a fight, but the behemoths on either side of him made
that struggle fruitless. One guard wrenched the bat’leth from him,
almost tearing his right arm out of its socket in the process, while the
other forced Tom to the floor.

It ended as quickly as it had begun, with Paris lying at Martok’s feet,
pinned down by both of the guards. Worf had moved instantly to Martok’s
side and now stood there, seething with fury. The only two people in the
room with a modicum of composure left were Janeway, who stood by
Chakotay’s side stoically, and Martok, who hadn’t moved a muscle during
the attack or its aftermath.

“I must tell you, Commander Paris,” Martok said with a smirk, “your
diplomatic skills leave something to be desired.”

Chakotay decided that the fact that Martok hadn’t ordered Paris to be
dismembered on the spot was probably a good sign, though Worf looked
ready to do just that at the chancellor’s request.

Tom was still struggling beneath his captors’ feet as Chakotay quickly
ordered, “Stand down, Commander!”

“I…will…not,” Paris managed, continuing to grapple helplessly against
the two behemoths, whom he could not have hoped to better on his best day.

With something like amusement playing across his face, Martok said, “Let
him speak.”

Though it clearly went against their wishes, the two guards
unceremoniously lifted Tom to his feet, while continuing to hold him
relatively steady in their viselike hands.

“I don’t have time for this!” Tom bellowed, now that he once again had
full access to his lungs. “Conversation, diplomacy—we’re wasting time!
My wife and my daughter are missing, and I won’t stand here and play
games while you gamble with the life of my family out of pride!”

Chakotay understood that this was partly his fault. By reining Paris in,
even for the short time it had taken them to reach Qo’noS, he had only
given him a chance to stoke the fires of his rage. Though he had matured
greatly in the last several years, Tom was still a wild and headstrong
creature, never more dangerous than when threatened. The captain
probably shouldn’t have allowed him to be on the away team.

“I couldn’t agree more, Chancellor,” Janeway added, putting Chakotay in
an unenviable spot.

The captain didn’t know whether Martok was driven by necessity or ego.
At any rate, an unbroken front was usually strongest, so Chakotay said
with all the restraint he could muster, “I apologize for Commander
Paris’s rashness. But not Tom Paris’s actions. She is his mate. We are
offering our ship. Iteb Qob qaD jup ’e’ chaw’be SuvwI’.”

Martok glanced at Worf, who met his inscrutable gaze. Chakotay knew that
this little scene was not going to be received well by Command. But when
negotiating with any culture, it was usually beneficial to find common
ground. The Klingons were a people of few words, preferring to allow
their actions to speak for them. Tom had done no more than communicate
his wishes in a language that Martok would understand.

Martok nodded slightly to Worf and then returned his gaze to Tom. With
grudging respect he said simply, “Very well, boy, let’s see what we can
do together to find your family.”

“But you must agree that this attack is much more likely to be the work
of the Warriors of Gre’thor,” Doctor Harees said for the fifth time in
the last ten minutes.

“I do not,” Seven replied as patiently as she could. She didn’t know if
it was Harees’s stubbornness she found most annoying at the moment or
the fact that to accommodate the Elaysian’s physiology she and the
Doctor had agreed to have this meeting with the Institute’s resident
Klingon expert in her zero-g office. No matter what Seven did to focus
on a stationary point or simply remember to take slow, regular breaths,
floating freely about the room was a nauseating sensation. Naturally
this unsettling requirement didn’t bother the Doctor at all. He had no
actual stomach to upset, and was able to stabilize his mobile
holographic emitter to keep him still in a position several meters above
the floor. As a result, he could chat for hours with Harees in complete
comfort. To further emphasize the fact, he was actually floating now
with his hands in the pockets of the loose dark trousers he “wore,”
paired with a vividly patterned shirt whose design she felt certain he
must have gotten from Neelix’s old replicator files. His garish attire
and self-composure only irked Seven further because she was currently
sweltering in one of her light gray bodysuits, which rarely felt so
restrictive.

“But, Miss Seven…” Harees began again in a high-pitched nasal whine, an
attempt at politeness that only succeeded in hitting Seven’s last
available nerve. Even the Doctor was no match for Harees in the
condescension department.

“Simply repeating a false assumption does not make it any less false,
nor does it strengthen a weak argument,” Seven interjected petulantly.

The first few months Seven had spent in the company of the most adept
and facile minds in the quadrant had been a fascinating change of pace
from her life aboard Voyager. She and the Doctor had been welcomed
warmly and immediately made to feel that their contributions were both
unique and valued. Over time, Seven had begun to realize that these
wonderful minds were unfortunately housed in the bodies of individuals
who usually possessed the emotional intelligence of the average
five-year-old human. As a result, they tended to defend their positions
with vehemence, which Seven found inappropriate on a good day and
downright annoying on most others.

The Doctor had explained patiently that often individuals such as these,
whose mental gifts so far outpaced their contemporaries, tended to lack
the social graces commensurate with their other accomplishments. Seven
secretly enjoyed the fact that the Doctor’s tolerance had finally met
its limits when the Tellarite Deegle had joined the group a month earlier.

The moment Seven had received Chakotay’s message, she had alerted the
others to what little they knew of the events on Boreth, and everyone
had agreed that Harees was the best resource the group possessed when it
came to all things Klingon. Harees had obliged them with a lengthy
recitation on the legends of the Kuvah’magh and the various prophecies
relating to that mythical figure. Ha rees possessed an eidetic memory
and had already shared with them several passages contained in dozens of
ancient manuscripts, many of which suggested that Miral Paris’s unique
circumstances had much in common with the promised savior.

Things got muddier when it came to the issue of what exactly the
Kuvah’magh was supposed to save the Klingon people from. The so-called
“Curse of the Gods” was a troublingly vague designation for an
apocalypse, particularly since it had been over a thousand years since
Klingon gods had been substantively referenced by any notable scholars.
Still, the signs of the pending apocalypse seemed clear enough; the
birth of Fek’lhr and the subsequent birth of the Kuvah’magh.

Harees had gone on to present the short list of known believers in these
prophecies, and as the only group who was known to still exist were the
Warriors of Gre’thor, she had settled on them—much too quickly, in
Seven’s estimation—as the most likely to have committed the attack on
Boreth.

“I do not accept your premise,” Harees responded.

“Of course you don’t,” Seven shot back. “If you did, your argument would
collapse under the weight of its—”

“Seven, please,” the Doctor said briskly, obviously hoping to temper
Seven’s frustration.

“The Warriors of Gre’thor are the only viable candidates for this
attack,” Harees insisted again. “Their antipathy for the Kuvah’magh is
well documented, as are numerous reports of their activities over the
last millennium.”

“The Warriors of Gre’thor were formed to destroy the qawHaq’hoch, were
they not?” Seven asked.

“Yes, but—”

“They exist only to stamp out every last vestige of these ancient
heretics.”

“As you say, but—”

“Then if they are still active, it is logical to assume that the
qawHaq’hoch are also still in existence,” Seven went on.

“There is no evidence to suggest—” Harees began.

“Seven’s right,” the Doctor interjected. “The fact that the Warriors of
Gre’thor have not yet abandoned their quest must mean that to the best
of their knowledge, their work remains unfinished.”

Seven was the tiniest bit relieved that he had been the one to finish
her argument for her. Compartmentalizing came as naturally to her as
breathing. But from the moment Chakotay had apprised them of B’Elanna’s
disappearance, she had been unable to separate her fears for B’Elanna
and Miral from her need to take constructive action. Debating the
obvious with an Elaysian who had serious superiority issues wasn’t
constructive. The truth was, she needed to be right about this, because
if she was wrong, B’Elanna and Miral were probably already dead.

Seven found that thought completely unacceptable. During the four years
she spent aboard Voyager, prior to its return to the Alpha quadrant,
Seven and B’Elanna had clashed regularly on almost every topic. In
truth, the two women had never really warmed to one another, though they
had developed a healthy mutual respect. Captain Janeway had always
insisted that Voyager’s crew was a family, one in whose company Seven
would find solace that far outweighed the experience of being a drone in
the Borg collective. The sad truth was that Seven hadn’t fully begun to
accept this notion until that family had parted ways upon their return
to Earth.

Seven had immediately become reacquainted with her only living
biological family on Earth, her father’s sister, Irene Hansen. Aunt
Irene was a steady, comforting presence. Silently she communicated her
utter devotion to her niece, but also refused to smother her in it.
Seven was encouraged to pursue any professional or personal activity
that interested her, but always found herself looking forward to Sunday
mornings, when she would transport to her aunt’s home in the Midwest for
brunch and lazy afternoon walks. There Irene had proved most adept at a
skill that often eluded Seven’s former shipmates; her aunt was an
excellent listener.

Irene was a gift Seven was extremely grateful for. Once she realized
there was no way for her to interact daily with her first real
family—Admiral Janeway, Captain Chakotay, Tom and B’Elanna, Harry Kim,
Commander Tuvok, Icheb, and Naomi Wildman—Seven had found their absence
unsettling. True, she remained close to the Doctor; they worked together
every day. And events seemed to conspire to bring her together with her
former crew at least from time to time. Admiral Janeway made excuses to
check in with her regularly, and Seven kept a watchful eye on Icheb’s
progress at the Academy.

But the absence, which had begun as a dull ache, had, over time,
transmuted itself into a more constant discomfort. The Doctor suggested
that she needed to try harder to make new friends. The idea of doing so
among the members of the Institute was unappealing at best, and he
hadn’t blamed her for that.

Finally she had come to accept that the discomfort existed because she
truly felt something for the Voyager crew. Feelings, once an object of
study, had unwittingly become part of Seven’s internal makeup. This
realization and her aunt’s gentle insistence that it was a normal part
of her humanity had caused the pain, along with the corresponding
loneliness. But that pain had reared a new and very ugly head when Seven
was asked to confront the possibility that B’Elanna was dead, and that
hurt was magnified when she considered the anguish it would also cause
Tom Paris. She had read it clearly on his face the night she had spent
at his parents’ home waiting in vain for B’Elanna to arrive with their
daughter.

As death was an unacceptable outcome, Seven felt it was her duty to find
another, more palatable one. But Doctor Harees, it seemed, had other
ideas, and Seven was quickly losing what little patience she possessed.

“Further,” the Doctor added, “if the Warriors of Gre’thor were
responsible for the attack, it is much more likely that the bodies of
B’Elanna and Miral would have been found at the monastery.”

“Also true,” Seven finished for him. “Historically, the Warriors make no
secret of their victories and usually display the bodies of their
victims as a warning to those who continue to stand against them.”

“Be that as it may—” Harees said, but was interrupted by the sight of
Deegle, rising to join their ranks.

“I have discovered something which I believe may be pertinent to your
discussion,” Deegle announced.

The Doctor rolled his eyes.

“By all means,” he said too gallantly to be taken seriously.

The Tellarite went on, unperturbed. “While in the process of committing
our files to memory I found that several years ago, this group was asked
to verify the findings of an anonymous petitioner regarding a peculiar
genetic anomaly. A Klingon anomaly. I have the results here,” he said,
presenting a padd to the Doctor with a flourish.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just recite them for us?” the Doctor
asked peevishly.

“If you’d prefer…”

The Doctor snapped the padd from Deegle’s hand. Seven guessed that even
had the padd now in his hand contained the precise coordinates where
B’Elanna and Miral could be found, the Doctor would probably debate it
for several hours with Deegle just to save face. The only thing he
seemed to dislike more than Deegle was admitting Deegle was right.

“As I was saying,” Harees continued, anxious to return to the argument
at hand, “I believe that to purport that the qawHaq’hoch could have
committed such an attack in the absence of any other verification of
their continued existence is to grasp at the most flimsy of straws.
Perhaps B’Elanna and her daughter were, in fact, the final members of
the qawHaq’hoch…”

But Seven wasn’t listening to Harees anymore. Instead, she watched as
the Doctor’s expression moved from exasperation to curiosity to genuine
concern.

“What is it?” Seven demanded.

“It may be nothing,” Deegle began.

“Nothing but the first sign of the Klingon apocalypse,” the Doctor
finished, tossing the padd to Seven.

Unfortunately this caused Seven a frustrated moment of gracelessness as
she struggled to catch it. After taking only a few minutes more to
absorb Deegle’s discovery, she and the Doctor nodded to one another,
their thoughts obviously running along the same disquieting path. The
only comforting certainty Seven could find in Deegle’s revelation was
that the time for theoretical discussions had ended.

B’Elanna would have sold her soul for a Starfleet-issue tricorder. The
Klingon version Logt had managed to procure for her was both slower and
less precise than the counterpart B’Elanna was used to relying upon.
Still, it was the best she could hope for under the circumstances.

She had managed a few hours of fitful sleep after the ceremony at the
obelisk. When B’Elanna had finally given up on further efforts, despite
the fact that her arms and legs felt as if she’d spent the previous day
scaling a rock face, she has risen weary but determined to begin her
studies of the monument.

Kahless had yet to materialize. B’Elanna assumed he was either resting
or making nice with T’Krek. Either was preferable to having him stand
over her shoulder while she worked. Logt was already fulfilling that
duty admirably. B’Elanna had half heartedly suggested to the woman that
she should try and get some rest as well. Logt had been hovering over
her at full attention when B’Elanna had awakened in the dank quarters
T’Krek had provided them. B’Elanna seriously doubted that Logt had
closed her eyes since they left Boreth. Klingons were well known for
their resilience, and Logt could probably go at least another day before
fatigue would become an obstacle. Still, Logt had dismissed B’Elanna’s
suggestion with a scoff and only suggested that B’Elanna cease to worry
about her physical needs and instead concentrate on her own.

B’Elanna needed something to occupy her mind. Without it, she would go
mad before they reached Davlos. Natural curiosity had guided her back to
the monument, and she had begun by analyzing the obelisk itself. It had
taken hours for her to precisely coordinate the markings rendered in the
stone with their stellar counterparts. Once the pattern had become
clear, however, it was almost childish in its simplicity. Thousands of
stars were actually referenced on the monument’s surface. A thorough
search of every system would have been impossible even for the vaunted
Warriors of Gre’thor, irregardless of the years. Without the coded
bat’leths, the map inscribed on the obelisk was useless.

Next she next turned her attention to the swords. B’Elanna had always
believed that hers was impressive, if a little ornate for pure
practicality. Unlike most bat’leths, which had two sharpened edges that
came to points at either end of the weapon, the blade Kohlar had given
her—modeled on the original sword of Kahless, as were all of the
bat’leths resting in the trench—contained a third pointed edge in the
center of the blade. This third edge was also carved with the intricate
Imperial trefoil design in which was embedded the mark of Hal’korin.

The metallurgic analysis was equally fascinating. Most bat’leths were
forged from baakonite. The swords Hal’korin had created were largely
comprised of this metal, but also contained trace elements of another
substance, which the tricorder could not identify. In all likelihood it
was some rare metal that Hal’korin had worked into her weapons but that,
a thousand years later, might be much harder to come by. B’Elanna knew
nothing of the craft of sword-making. But a cursory comparison of her
blade with the more modern bat’leth that Logt had obtained for her
showed clearly that the ancient bat’leths were significantly more robust
than those in common use today. The analysis suggested that the ancient
blades had been formed by a folding technique that reduced impurities,
thereby strengthening the swords and allowing them to maintain their
sharpness long past the time when most others would dull.

B’Elanna circled the trench, conducting a painstaking scan of every
blade. She then darkened the room to study the ways in which the swords
cast light upon the monument. Her initial analysis showed that T’Krek
had been correct in calculating that the bat’leths pointed to Davlos as
the location of the sanctuary. What was most interesting was the fact
that it was the impurities within the blades that allowed this effect to
be created. The blades should have blocked all light, casting nothing
but shadows upon the monument. Miraculously, however, light did
penetrate the bat’leths, but only in points where the tricorder
indicated were heavy with specific concentrations of baakonite and the
other trace metal.

Backtracking, B’Elanna compared the metallurgic variations within each
blade. She could not imagine the patience or mastery of forging that
would have been required to produce impure variances so specifically.
Likely as not the bat’leths were forged and then the monument was
constructed based upon the respective impurities, but even if that was
the case, the precision was still staggering. In every instance,
B’Elanna found a variance of less than .00027.

The tricorder emitted a shrill bleat as it completed its latest set of
calculations. She glanced at them, already certain of the result.
B’Elanna stared at it for a long moment, then actually rubbed her eyes
to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.

Every instance but one.

B’Elanna paused.

There was no question that she had reached her mental and physical
limits. Hope and desperation might account for the error she now saw
before her. She checked her findings again, then rechecked them two more
times just to be certain.

Only then did the knot in her stomach loosen just a bit.

“Logt,” she called softly as she set her tricorder at the lip of the
trench and gently removed the bat’leth in question from its place. It
sat three places away from hers in the circle.

“What is it?” Logt asked as she approached.

Without taking her eyes from the weapon, B’Elanna said, “How hard would
it be to find out exactly where the Warriors of Gre’thor acquired each
of these bat’leths?”

Logt considered the question, then replied, “I do not know how thorough
their records are. Most likely they retain their history in songs and
stories.”

Oh, let’s hope not.

“I need to find Kahless,” B’Elanna said, replacing the sword in the
trench and rising to face Logt.

“I shall accompany you.”

“No,” B’Elanna replied briskly. “You are going to break into their
database and see if there is any written record of these lunatics’
exploits. Download whatever you find into this tricorder.”

The woman looked at B’Elanna as if she had finally abandoned what few
senses Logt had ever given her credit for possessing.

“Where you go, I go,” Logt replied evenly.

“We’re not going to argue about this,” B’Elanna said fiercely. “In a
matter of days, this ship is going to reach Davlos. It will take them
less than twenty-four more hours to thoroughly scan the planet.”

Logt’s right eyebrow twitched. She was either tired or impressed.

“By the time they do that, we need to be gone,” B’Elanna continued. “And
if we haven’t figured out where that bat’leth came from and made a
discreet escape, we’ll never find Miral before they do.”

“And what will you be doing while I conduct this research?” Logt asked.

“After I speak to Kahless about stealing a shuttle, I’m going to spend
some quality time with the replicator nearest our quarters.”

Logt favored her with a hard stare. B’Elanna knew that she had not
provided the warrior with sufficient details of the plan that was
forming in her mind, but perhaps B’Elanna’s certainty was all Logt
needed for now.

“As you wish,” she said with a slight nod.

B’Elanna hurried from the chamber. It would have been exaggeration to
say that she was hopeful, but she was suddenly infused with a heady
sense of cautious optimism. For the first time since this nightmare had
begun, B’Elanna believed she knew how to find Miral on her own, and she
had the beginnings of a plan. Its success hinged on too many variables
for her to stomach at the moment, but it was enough to keep her feet
hurrying along as she made her way through the Kortar.

All she needed was one very important piece of information, and a little
luck. With that, they could be off this cursed ship and reunited with
those she actually trusted to get this job done—most important, Tom.

The only remaining question was how long it would take the Warriors of
Gre’thor to realize their error, and B’Elanna’s subterfuge.

B’Elanna didn’t believe in signs, especially now that she was surrounded
by people who consciously chose to live and die by them. But if fate had
a hand in any of this, it had finally given her a slim advantage over
the Warriors of Gre’thor, and, as she knew all too well, the smallest
advantage often meant the difference between life and death.

One thought spurred her onward.

They’re heading for the wrong planet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Admiral Kenneth Montgomery was playing golf.

He hated golf.

Willem Batiste had introduced him to the game almost five years earlier,
and in all that time, Montgomery’s game had yet to improve. Batiste’s,
on the other hand, was coming along quite nicely. When they’d begun
their regularly scheduled monthly “meetings” in Desert Springs, they’d
both agreed to abandon the game within a year if neither of their
handicaps improved. Over time, however, the tranquillity, the dry
warmth, and the way in which the activity forced them out of their
routine became more of a draw than their respective skills.

Very few humans or aliens were really taken with the game these days.
Like baseball, for many it seemed to be a quaint anachronism. For
Batiste, that had quickly become part of the appeal. He considered it a
rare opportunity to “get back to nature.” An avid camper, Montgomery
wondered if Batiste truly understood how ridiculous he sounded when he
said things like that. He also wondered why so few aspects of the game,
particularly the clubs or the balls, had continued to be adapted with
modern technology in the last few thousand years, apart from a few
cosmetic alterations to the shape of the putter and wedges. Of course,
such adaptations would have made the game easier, but that was
apparently not the point.

Further, Montgomery had become convinced over the last few years that
Batiste must be cheating. That bastard’s practicing in his off hours, he
thought bitterly as Willem executed a perfect three-hundred-meter drive
that landed just off the green of the sixteenth hole. The hole was a par
three, but Montgomery doubted he’d reach the green in four strokes,
especially the way he was chopping up the course today.

The admiral stepped up to the tee and did his best to quiet his mind.
Unlike most of his regular duties, multitasking was not a skill that was
helpful when applied to golf. Instead, the game required a balance of
focus and calm, an ability to get out of one’s own way and simply allow
the body to execute a single, swift graceful motion in which the club
was responsible for the majority of the work.

“Looks like that slice is coming along beautifully,” Batiste joked as
Montgomery’s shot flew dramatically toward the tree line banking the
right side of the fairway.

Montgomery replaced his driver in his bag and hefted it onto his
shoulder in preparation for the death march to retrieve his ball.
Another of Batiste’s little quirks was that he insisted they walk the
course rather than use hovercarts. This usually added at least an hour
or two to their game, but as these “meetings” were meant to be part
recreation, part work, Montgomery rarely found reason to dispute this
request until right around the eleventh hole, when he found himself
wishing that his combadge would sound, alerting both of them to an
interstellar disaster that would make finishing the game impossible.

“See you on the green,” Montgomery said optimistically as he began his
weary trek.

“I’ll walk with you,” Batiste replied amiably. “There’s actually
something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

“What’s that?”

It took most of the few minutes required for them to reach the tree line
and actually find Montgomery’s ball, wedged between the gnarled roots of
a jacaranda, for Batiste to outline the proposal he was preparing to
make to Starfleet Command regarding Voyager.

Montgomery almost tripped at about the same time Batiste relayed the
mission’s most startling feature.

“You want them to what?” Montgomery demanded, worried that the heat, the
frustration, and the exhaustion might finally be getting to him.

“You heard me,” Batiste replied placidly.

Montgomery stepped back gingerly to avoid touching the ball and adding
yet another stroke to the game as he considered his friend.

He looks serious, Montgomery had to allow. And he sure sounds serious.

This could mean only one thing.

“Have you lost your mind?” Montgomery asked.

Batiste chuckled, stepping aside to allow him as unobstructed a path to
the fairway as his dismal shot would permit.

“I have not.” Batiste smiled.

“And have you, by any chance, run this absurd notion by Admiral Janeway
yet?” was Montgomery’s next question.

“You’re the first person I’ve told,” Batiste said casually. “I was
hoping to get your input, as well as Eden’s final report, before I
discuss it with the rest of the admiralty.”

“A Ferengi would have an easier time selling hot water in hell than
you’ll have getting this past Kathryn,” Montgomery replied. Most
starship captains developed a sense of proprietary regard for their
crews, even their former ones, but Kathryn Janeway had taken that
propensity to entirely new dimensions when she had been promoted to vice
admiral. True, the circumstances of her ship and crew had been unique,
and that alone granted her a certain amount of latitude among her peers.
But Kathryn’s crew was dearer to her than colleagues or friends. To her,
they were family. And she watched over them with the keen eye of a
mother hen, even from the distance her new position required.

“Setting that aside for the moment, what are your thoughts, Ken?”
Batiste asked patiently.

Montgomery shook his head, realizing that he’d just pulled his sand
wedge from his bag rather than his pitching wedge.

At this point, what the hell difference does it make? he thought, lining
up his shot with his back braced uncomfortably against the tree.

He was half considering his response and halfway into his backswing when
his combadge chirped. Amid the desert stillness it sounded like the
firing of a phaser, and he brought the club down sharply, digging into
the hard soil and barely tapping the ball over the tree root before it
dribbled a few feet farther, coming to rest several meters short of the
fairway but at least in the relative clear.

“If you’d like to try that again?” Batiste offered graciously.

Montgomery waved him off, equal parts disgusted and relieved, and
stepped a few paces farther into the trees before he opened his side of
the comlink.

“What is it?” he barked in frustration.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Admiral, but I have a priority communication
for you from Captain Chakotay.”

“Put it throught,” Montgomery ordered.

After a brief pause, Chakotay’s voice greeted him. “I hope this isn’t a
bad time, Admiral.”

“Oh, it’s an excellent time,” Montgomery assured him, grateful at least
that whatever Chakotay wanted to discuss with him had brought him a few
moments’ reprieve from the dismal game.

Of course, when Chakotay had finished relaying his message, Montgomery
was less inclined toward gratitude. Emerging from the tree line, he
found Batiste standing beside his bag, sipping from his water bottle.
The hovercart he had called after closing the communication with
Chakotay could be heard buzzing toward them from the direction of the
clubhouse.

“Sorry to cut this short, Willem, but I have to get back to San
Francisco right away. Captain Chakotay is testing out his
improvisational skills, and we’ll probably be at war with the Klingons
before the day is out.”

“I thought Voyager was on its way to Kerovi.”

“They were,” Montgomery shot back bitterly.

Batiste nodded. “Understood. I think I’ll play through.”

“Good idea.” Montgomery nodded. “Give you some time to reconsider.”

“Then you don’t approve of my idea?” Batiste asked.

“I don’t,” Montgomery replied honestly. “Of course, I can see the value
in what you’re proposing, from a purely exploratory point of view. But I
also believe that sometimes you can ask too much of a person. Voyager’s
time in the Delta quadrant wasn’t your average deep-space mis sion.
Those people went through hell. I’m not saying they wouldn’t be up to
it. Voyager’s crew is one of the best Starfleet has ever produced. But I
would never ask it of them, and neither should you, my friend.”

Batiste nodded. Montgomery didn’t honestly know if he was agreeing with
him or simply mustering a new argument.

Either way, Kathryn will set him straight.

And that would be a conversation worth watching, Montgomery decided, if
only to see Batiste struggle as futilely as he had all afternoon.

Paris barely noticed Chakotay return to the embassy conference suite
Ambassador Worf had provided them for their work. Spread before him on a
table lay the fruits of the Klingons’ investigation to date, and they
were a sparse meal at best.

One of the Klingons discovered dead on Boreth had been Kularg. Tom found
that one image of the man kept playing over and over in his mind, once
he had wiped away the vision of Kularg lying on the nursery floor, his
blood pouring forth from the dagger driven into his heart.

Often when Miral had refused to stop fussing, particularly around nap
time, Kularg would say, “The time has come for blood pie.” The first
time he’d heard this, Tom had worried that his daughter had finally
become too infuriating for Kularg to handle and had just been relegated
to the dinner menu. But before Tom could step in, Kularg had deposited
the crying child on her back on a pile of tanned targ skins and softly
started to assemble the imaginary blood pie on Miral’s tummy. He would
announce each ingredient, then pantomime placing it on her stomach. Of
course, the stirring motion that accompanied each addition was the part
that usually calmed Miral the most. This gentle massage, combined with
the fascination that would often overtake Miral as she diligently
watched the movement of his hands, usually meant that well before the
“pie” was done, Miral was either laughing from the tickles or fighting
to keep her eyes open as sleep overtook her.

Tom had never known a Klingon like Kularg, and believed he probably
never would again. Klingon society still had rigid ideas about the roles
of men and women. Kularg’s nurturing instincts might have been construed
by some as a form of weakness. Tom saw only honor and strength in the
old warrior and someone he would miss.

The only other bodies discovered at the scene were those of two females
who had yet to be identified. They were not of a noble house, nor were
they commoners. As best anyone could tell, they had never before set
foot on Boreth, nor on any other Klingon colony. Until they had been
found dead, it seemed they had never existed.

For the time being, the Klingons investigating the matter seemed to
believe that the attack had been directed against Kahless. The
concurrent disappearance of Commander Logt, one of his personal
guardians, only reinforced this notion. It was no secret that there were
still many Klingons who had difficulty accepting Kahless as their
emperor, symbolic though that title was. Clone or not, the man had
already provided such valuable service to the empire that Tom saw this
point as completely moot. But Paris worried that Martok’s only interest
in the events on Boreth was to make certain that this was not the
prelude to another attack on his position as chancellor.

Usually, Tom didn’t suffer from delusions of grandeur or the belief that
the universe revolved around him or his small cares. But he firmly
believed that the attack had been directed at Miral. The problem was he
couldn’t prove it, and until he could, he wasn’t going to change the
focus of the investigation.

He wished Tuvok was here now. The Vulcan who had once been Voyager’s
tactical officer was now teaching at Starfleet Academy. But during their
time in the Delta quadrant, Tuvok had demonstrated on numerous occasions
that he possessed a keen investigative sense, beginning with an
encounter with two warring cultures during which Tom had been falsely
accused and convicted of murder. Tuvok’s tenacity had saved his life.
Paris couldn’t help but think that if Tuvok and his tenacity could be
brought to bear, it would aid his efforts immeasurably. Depending upon
how things developed in the next few hours, Tom decided he should make
this recommendation to Chakotay and Janeway to see if there might be any
strings that could be pulled.

One of Worf’s aides, an efficient human named Giancarlo Wu who had gone
out of his way to be helpful, entered the conference room carrying a
rather large box. He placed it before Tom and said gently, “Commander,
these just arrived. They are all of the personal items that were left in
your family’s quarters on Boreth.”

Paris thanked him with a nod, then steadied himself to begin going
through them.

“Have they been thoroughly analyzed by the investigative team?”

The young man cleared his throat and replied, “If by analyzed you mean
tossed carelessly in a box and labeled for storage, then yes.”

Paris had to swallow hard before he could reply, “Thank you,” his voice
thick with emotion.

At the far end of the table, Chakotay was conferring with Admiral
Janeway. Tom caught bits and pieces, including Chakotay’s remark that
Admiral Montgomery had been apprised of their situation and would
provide them with new orders shortly. As long as those orders didn’t
include continuing on their former course to Kerovi, Paris couldn’t have
cared less. In the meantime, he knew that both of them were studying
recent starship traffic around Boreth along with the lists of all those
who had been in residence at the monastery at the time of the attack.

Forcing himself to keep in mind that the items in the box before him
were simply objects and not the last pieces of the wife and child he
would never hold again, Tom began to sort through them. The first thing
he discovered was the civilian clothes B’Elanna had worn when she first
came to Boreth, as well as a number of robes and hide cloaks she had
accumulated. Several soft pieces of cloth, the Klingon analog of
diapers, were also present, and though Paris knew well that they had
been scoured by rough Klingon hands after each use, he still believed he
could smell Miral, or at least the scent he had last associated with
her, on every one of them.

It was more than he could bear.

Tom’s heart heaved within his chest as the hot tears he had forbidden to
fall rose to his eyes.

Setting the cloths aside, he struggled to focus. He recognized all of
the box’s contents thus far, but noted that a few important things were
missing; among them, Miral’s favorite blanket and B’Elanna’s bat’leth.

The only two things B’Elanna wouldn’t leave behind if she’d been forced
to leave Boreth in a hurry.

This thought was at least almost comforting.

At the bottom of the box was a light cloak B’Elanna usually wore at
bedtime. Tom knew that it would be covered with her scent and for a
moment felt his legs shudder beneath him. He gathered the folds of
fabric in his hands, kneading them gently for a moment, trying to find
the strength not to wallow, when a faint crackling sound met his ears.

Paris played the fabric over again in his hands and discovered the
source of the sound: a small piece of parchment crumpled in one of the
pockets.

He removed it and laid it carefully on the table, assuming it would be a
scrap of text B’Elanna might have made note of in her studies. Much as
he dreaded the thought of another visceral reminder of her absence, the
sight of her handwriting, Tom forced himself to open it carefully so as
not to damage the delicate page.

It was written in Klingon. And it was not written by B’Elanna’s hand.
The only word he could make sense of at first almost dropped him to his
chair.

Kuvah’magh.

He knew that with some effort he could translate the rest. He just
wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Like as not, this was part of B’Elanna’s
research, nothing more, part of his mind insisted.

Tom studied the other words. The next one he recognized made his heart
beat even faster.

Danger.

Finally Tom abandoned his attempt and simply scanned the words into his
tricorder. A moment later, the horrific translation glowed out from the
tiny screen.

You and the Kuvah’magh are in danger.

The pain that had been strangling his heart only moments before was
immediately replaced by rage.

She knew.

Where or when B’Elanna might have received this message was unclear. But
suddenly the faint misgivings he’d had every time they spoke for the
last several weeks became both crystal clear and horrifying.

You and the Kuvah’magh are in danger.

B’Elanna had lied to him.

True, it was a lie of omission, but he wasn’t ready to grant her anything.

She knew. She knew and she didn’t tell me.

Had he been able to think more clearly, he might have found some solace
in the fact that here at last was tangible proof that his gut had not
been mistaken. Finally he could present the Klingons with evidence that
they were sniffing the wrong dung heap.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath from the other
side of the table.

He looked up to see Admiral Janeway rising to her feet as a relieved
smile spread across her face.

Turning, he found the reason.

Standing at the door to the conference room were B’Elanna, Logt, and the
Emperor Kahless.

All three of them looked like hell.

Hovering behind them was Ambassador Worf. He nodded briefly to Tom, then
backed from the doorway to allow them privacy.

Kahless and Logt moved toward the far side of the room. Though they had
never met Chakotay or the admiral, they, too seemed painfully aware that
Tom and B’Elanna both needed a moment before whatever else was to come
could begin.

B’Elanna’s face held its fierce determination for the first few moments
her eyes locked with Tom’s. But soon it started to crumple as pain and
fear met the desperate need she seemed to be trying to communicate.

Tom’s heart answered hers with a brief mutual longing and relief. But it
was replaced almost instantly with the knowledge of her betrayal and how
much that betrayal might have cost them both.

Tom wanted to go to her.

She wasn’t rushing to him though, and he thought ungenerously that her
guilt must be holding her back.

Finally, however, he realized that there would be time for arguments and
recriminations later. For now at least, she was here, and that was
something.

Tom started forward on trembling legs and crossed the small space
separating him from his wife.

He just didn’t know if the first thing he should do was to kiss her or
kill her.

The Kortar had been in orbit above Davlos for seventeen hours. Ten hours
ago, their initial scans had revealed no indication that the sanctuary
might be found there. But T’Krek was too keen a hunter to be dismayed by
such a setback. The qawHaq’hoch had mastered the ability to hide
themselves. Obviously some sort of energy field or natural anomaly was
interfering with the ship’s sensors.

The only solution, therefore, was to look closer.

Twenty teams had been dispatched to the planet in shuttles to facilitate
the search. Thus far, none had reported any anomalous findings that
might point to their quarry’s hiding place.

But T’Krek had learned patience.

As an added precaution, he had decided to keep their honored “guests”
secured within quarters until their search was complete. He knew that
once they found the infernal child and ended her life, B’Elanna would
either kill him or, much more likely, die trying. He had tried
repeatedly while en route to Davlos to make the emperor see that this
was the only way. The qawHaq’hoch had survived this long only because
they had a clear purpose, a destiny. From what Grapk and D’Kang had
learned on Boreth, T’Krek no longer doubted that Miral Paris was the
Kuvah’magh. Had they completed their appointed task, T’Krek would have
been able to kill the child himself on Boreth. But at least his brother
Warriors had done part of their job right. This meant that each man had
lost only an arm by T’Krek’s hand when they had made their final report
to him and offered him their lives for their failure.

But the emperor had refused to acknowledge T’Krek’s reasoning. This had
been troubling, but not altogether unexpected. The emperor would say
only that his interests were those of the empire. How the birth of a
child who would call only destruction down upon them was meant to serve
the empire, T’Krek could not understand, but Kahless had only looked at
him with a benign sense of superiority when he made this point.

Perhaps T’Krek should try again.

Though he was unwilling to abandon the idea that they would eventually
find the Kuvah’magh on Davlos, their victory would be that much sweeter
should the emperor stand beside him when he cut the child’s throat.

T’Krek opened a comm channel.

“T’Krek to Emperor Kahless.”

There was no answer.

“Emperor Kahless, respond,” T’Krek ordered.

Again, silence.

T’Krek turned to the warrior manning operations.

“Ligerh, locate the emperor.”

Ligerh nodded and performed a quick scan.

“The emperor is in his quarters.”

“Is he alone?”

“No, Captain. B’Elanna Paris and Commander Logt are with him.”

T’Krek wasn’t going to grovel. Kahless might be the emperor, but this
was his ship.

“Bring him to me,” T’Krek ordered.

Two minutes later a frantic voice came over the comm channel.

“Captain, this is M’Rent.”

“Report,” T’Krek said calmly.

“The emperor’s quarters are empty. A tricorder was adapted to display
false life signs.”

T’Krek’s tone made the price of subsequent failure on M’Rent’s part
painfully clear.

“Find them!”

CHAPTER NINE

B’Elanna’s first request, once she and Tom had shared an awkward embrace
that promised a much longer conversation later, had been that the group
adjourn to Voyager before discussing anything in detail.

She and Kahless had spent twenty minutes with Ambassador Worf before
being escorted to the embassy conference room, briefly recounting the
events of the last week. Logt had been busy at the time overseeing the
transfer of the shuttle they had stolen from the Kortar to the custody
of the Defense Force officer on duty at the orbital docking station
above Qo’noS.

Both Janeway and Chakotay had greeted B’Elanna more warmly than Tom, and
both had agreed immediately to her request. As Chakotay and Wu were
finalizing the details, Worf reentered the conference room and headed
straight for Kahless.

“The chancellor has asked me to advise you that you will have the full
support of the Klingon Defense Force at your disposal in your continuing
efforts to recover Miral Paris,” Worf announced.

Before Kahless could respond, B’Elanna cut him off. “Thank you, Mister
Ambassador, but this is a family matter and I would prefer to handle it
with Voyager’s help.”

Worf turned his grim visage to B’Elanna. “I apologize, Commander, but I
was under the impression that Voyager would be returning to its previous
mission. Of course, I can contact Starfleet Command and request other
Federation support if you would prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Chakotay intervened. “I’ve kept Starfleet
apprised of our situation.”

Worf nodded.

“But you should know this, Mister Ambassador,” B’Elanna went on. “The
Warriors of Gre’thor intend to find and murder my child. Should I cross
paths with them again, I won’t hesitate to kill every last one of them
to prevent that.”

To her surprise, Worf almost cracked a smile.

“Then you will need to act quickly if you intend to beat Martok to it,”
he replied dryly.

The shock on B’Elanna’s face was apparently all the encouragement he
needed to continue. “Until this afternoon, the chancellor was not aware
that the Warriors of Gre’thor were still active. They have, from time to
time, provided admirable service to the empire in the past, but only, it
seems, when the mood strikes them. The chancellor intends to bring them
to heel. They will fall in line, or they will be disbanded.”

Good luck with that, B’Elanna thought, catching Kahless’s eye and noting
the subtle shake of his head, suggesting he also believed this would
prove a difficult nut for the chancellor to crack.

Fifteen minutes later, Logt had rejoined them in Voyager’s main
conference room. Also in attendance was the ship’s senior staff,
including Harry Kim, who had almost wept with relief when he first laid
eyes on B’Elanna, Operations Officer Lyssa Campbell, and the new ship’s
doctor, a Trill named Jarem Kaz.

B’Elanna had heard a great deal about Kaz from Tom. Apparently his
symbiont had shared a troubled personal history with the Changeling they
had confronted at Loran II, and Kaz had almost died in their efforts to
stop him.

He had also been of great service when Voyager had first returned to
Earth and become embroiled in a covert plot by a deranged admiral to
form a new Borg collective. This, it seemed, had been the impetus for
Chakotay to request his assignment to Voyager on a permanent basis.

Both Tom and Chakotay thought highly of Doctor Kaz, though frankly
B’Elanna wondered how he could ever replace the only doctor she had ever
truly felt comfortable with, the ship’s former EMH.

The only other officer in the room whom B’Elanna had never met was the
ship’s new counselor, Lieutenant Hugh Cambridge. He barely nodded to her
when they were introduced and studiously kept his own counsel as
B’Elanna and Kahless in turns brought everyone in the room up to speed
regarding the events on Boreth and what they had discovered aboard the
Kortar. Only when Kahless shared his belief that the qawHaq’hoch were
responsible for Miral’s kidnapping did a faint “Interesting” escape
Cambridge’s lips involuntarily. A sharp glance from Chakotay was met
with a withering nod, and Cambridge retreated into silence.

Kahless glossed over their escape from the Kortar, as if it had been a
mere inconvenience. B’Elanna’s recollection of barely managing to rig
her tricorder to fool the ship’s sensors and the subsequent hours she,
Kahless, and Logt had spent crawling through the ship’s maintenance
tubes to reach the shuttlebay undetected was more colorful than
Kahless’s version, but she was happy to banish it, along with Logt’s
quick dispatch of the guards who had been assigned to the cloak-equipped
shuttle they ultimately stole, to the realm of bad memories.

Tom seethed quietly by her side. The only two people in the room who
seemed to be even cognizant of the tension flaring between them were
B’Elanna and Cambridge, who glanced at Tom several times with a bemused
expression. He appeared to be attempting to calculate just how long it
would take before Tom’s patience with the proceedings came to an end.
When it finally did, Cambridge actually checked his chronometer and
nodded to himself, suggesting that his estimate had been accurate.

“So if the sanctuary isn’t on Davlos, then where the hell is it?” Tom
said, once Kahless had finished describing their escape from T’Krek’s
vessel.

“And how long before the Warriors of Gre’thor realize they’re looking in
the wrong place?” Harry added, clearly trying to assess the dangers
Voyager might face now that they had become part of the equation.

“While we were on the Kortar, I was able to do a thorough analysis of
the Hal’korin bat’leths,” B’Elanna said, picking up her part of the story.

“And one of them was a forgery,” Cambridge interjected.

“That’s right,” B’Elanna said, unable to hide her surprise.

“How did you know that?” Chakotay asked sharply.

“There have been numerous accounts over the years of weapons designed by
Hal’korin that later turned out to be fogeries,” Cambridge replied.
“Unless I’m much mistaken, Hal’korin’s weapons still fetch considerable
sums in any illegal weapons market. Her swords, in particular, are
highly prized, hence the the proliferation of fakes. Bat’leths like the
ones she’s describing would be considered museum pieces today, and
definitely priceless.”

“So how does that help us find Miral?” Tom said pointedly to B’Elanna.

“Since the impurities in the swords provide the key to decoding the
markings on the monument, only the true bat’leths can give you the right
answer,” B’Elanna replied evenly. “T’Krek’s calculations could be off by
hundreds of light-years. The forged bat’leth was acquired only thirty
years ago from a man named Kopek.”

“Do we know where he is?” Tom demanded.

“He is now a member of the Klingon High Council,” Kahless replied, “and
as soon as we are done here I will contact him to discuss his dealings
with the Warriors of Gre’thor.” There was no mistaking the ominous tone
in Kahless’s voice.

As B’Elanna briefly considered how glad she was not to be Kopek right
now, a voice sounded over the comm system.

“Bridge to Captain Chakotay.”

“Go ahead.”

“We are being hailed by the Klingon Ambassador to the Federation. His
personal ship had just entered orbit and he had two representatives from
the Federation Research Institute on board who are requesting immediate
transport to Voyager.”

Chakotay and Janeway immediately exchanged a knowing smile. Janeway rose
from her place and said, “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll meet
them in the transporter room and bring them up to speed.”

B’Elanna was briefly puzzled until she remembered that Seven and the
Doctor had joined the institute several months earlier. Though part of
her felt she should wait for their arrival before continuing, the
expectant faces of the others convinced her to continue.

“I brought the eleven true bat’leths with me,” B’Elanna said, “leaving
T’Krek with replicated fakes. All we have to do is find the final sword
of Hal’korin and take them all to the actual sanctuary on Qo’noS.”

“That is, of course…” Cambridge began, then with a deferential glance at
Chakotay, asked, “May I?” Chakotay nodded, and Cambride went on,
“Assuming that the qawHaq’hoch are in fact responsible for Miral’s
abduction.”

“They are,” B’Elanna shot back automatically.

“That remains to be seen,” Cambridge replied.

“What makes you think they aren’t?” Tom asked harshly.

B’Elanna reached for his hand, and he just as quickly pulled it away.

Cambridge shot an appraising glance at Kahless before continuing,
“Forgive me, Emperor, but the last tangible proof that the qawHaq’hoch
even exist is over eight hundred years old. There was a dispute over the
rightful inheritance in two ancient Houses, and the qawHaq’hoch were
contacted to mediate because at the time, it was common knowledge that
their records of all Klingon lineages were the most accurate in the
empire, and the least tainted by any political intrigues. Their data
files of the Houses were produced and the dispute was settled, but not
before there was an attack, undoubtedly by the Warriors of Gre’thor, and
all representatives of the order present at the mediation were killed.
Since that time, no verifiable record acknowledging any activity by the
qawHaq’hoch has been discovered.”

“Is this true?” B’Elanna asked Kahless.

“It is,” he replied. “However, they remain, in my estimation, the most
likely to have committed this crime.”

“Your estimation?” Tom asked with evident frustration.

“The emperor is right about one thing,” Cambridge said in a more
conciliatory tone. “Of all the various sects known throughout Klingon
history to have taken the prophecies about the Kuvah’magh seriously, the
qawHaq’hoch were the most adamant in their faith. It’s difficult to
imagine that they could have existed, undetected all these years, but
not impossible. The hypothesis would be more sustainable if we also
possessed evidence that the first sign of the joH’a mu’qaD had come to
pass. I find it hard to believe that anything else might have caused the
qawHaq’hoch to act so precipitously and thereby risk revealing
themselves after all this time.”

“The first sign has come to pass,” Kahless assured Cambridge.

“Really, sir?” he asked, clearly intrigued. “Can you prove this?”

“What is he talking about?” Tom interjected.

“I’ll explain later,” B’Elanna said.

“Or I could explain now,” an imperious voice from the doorway said.

B’Elanna turned.

“Don’t you mean we could explain?” the Doctor cor rected Seven of Nine,
who stood beside him in the entryway. Admiral Janeway ushered them into
the room as the Doctor went on, “The Klingon ambassador was kind enough
to give us a lift when he was apprised of our mission and its sensitive
nature,” the Doctor added.

“We were reluctant to transmit our findings to you, even over encrypted
channels,” Seven went on, “as we could not be certain that they would
not be intercepted. The ambassador’s was the first and quickest
transport we were able to obtain.”

“Yes, Ambassador Lantar was quite accommodating,” the Doctor replied too
ironically to be taken seriously.

“If you hadn’t insisted upon trying to bend his ear every five minutes
of our journey,” Seven began to chide him.

“Thank you both,” Chakotay interrupted, ending further discussion of
this unhelpful topic. “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say
welcome aboard and thank you for coming. Any information you can provide
will certainly be most helpful.”

As the Doctor took a moment to greet his old comarades and to introduce
himself to Cambridge and the emperor, Seven addressed herself to B’Elanna.

“I am pleased to find you unharmed,” she said with compassion, which
almost startled B’Elanna.

“Thank you, Seven.”

“I can assure you that I have no intention of regenerating until we are
able to locate Miral.”

B’Elanna was so moved by this sentiment that she was unable to find
words. She nodded gratefully, after which Seven moved to the room’s
display monitor, where she quickly downloaded a data padd.

Once everyone present had quieted, Seven began, “Several years ago the
institute where the Doctor and I are currently working was asked to
analyze the genomes of three Klingon children who were born with a birth
defect which until that point had never before been seen.”

Images of the childen appeared on the screen behind her. The collective
intake of breath from most of those around the table assured her that
she had everyone’s complete attention.

“As you can see, these children appear to be severely deformed. Their
cranial ridges are overdeveloped, distorting the facial structure, and
the teeth, particularly these paired incisors which protrude through the
upper and lower jaws, are overly elongated and pronounced.”

Doctor Kaz rose quietly from the table and moved closer to the screen to
study the display more carefully.

“Of course, the more serious defects are not obvious,” the Doctor said,
crossing to stand beside Seven. “Malformations in the brain and hormonal
imbalances resulted in the absence of all higher reasoning functions,
while elevating their natural aggression. Had these children survived,
they would have developed into creatures driven purely by instinct—quite
ferocious and extremely dangerous.”

“What happened to them?” Doctor Kaz asked.

“The individual who requested our group’s assistance did so
anonymously,” Seven replied. “But we were advised that all three of the
children died prior to the inquiry.”

B’Elanna had been unable to tear her eyes from the screen from the
moment Seven had brought up the image of the children. Though she had
never been one to take Klingon mythology too seriously, particularly
before their encounter with Kohlar in the Delta quadrant, she had to
admit that had she seen this image in any other context, only one
thought would have entered her mind.

“Fek’lhr,” she said softly.

Paris rose from the table, unable to contain himself any longer.

“Would someone for the love of all that’s holy please tell me what this
has to do with my daughter?”

“Tom, please,” B’Elanna said, turning her fear-filled eyes to his.

“It’s quite simple, Mister Paris,” Cambridge said. “Klingon apocrypha
say that the empire will only be destroyed by the joH’a mu’qaD, or
‘Curse of the Gods.’ Two signs precede this curse: the rebirth of
Fek’lhr, a creature well known in Klingon mythology as the beast that
guards the gates of Gre’thor, followed by the birth of the Kuvah’magh.
The only Klingons known who still take these prophecies seriously are
the qawHaq’hoch and their historic enemies, the Warriors of Gre’thor.
Given the fact that both signs have arguably now come to pass, it seems
only likely that both groups would believe that the pending apocalypse
will follow briskly on their heels.” Turning to Kahless, he went on,
“Your reasoning about the identity of Miral’s kidnappers is indeed most
sound, sir. Only one question remains.”

“What is that?” Kahless asked.

“Who betrayed the identity of B’Elanna’s child to the qawHaq’hoch?”
Cambridge asked.

“I don’t understand,” B’Elanna said.

“Who, besides you, your husband, the emperor, and your former crewmates,
had any idea that your child might be the Kuvah’magh?”

Paris and B’Elanna both turned to each other, searching for the same
answer.

“No one,” Tom said, at a loss.

“Then I suggest you look for the culprit here,” Cambridge tossed back.

“That’s enough,” Chakotay barked, silencing Cambridge. “Sir, I believe
you have a meeting on Qo’noS,” he said.

Kahless nodded. “I will make contact as soon as I have further news.” As
he strode from the room, he paused to grasp B’Elanna and Tom firmly by
the shoulders. “Your daughter needs you now more than ever,” he said
intently. “See that you do not fail her.”

B’Elanna nodded as she saw the blood rushing to Tom’s cheeks. Finally,
he grasped her hand. It was a small gesture, but it almost brought tears
of relief to B’Elanna’s eyes.

“We will remain in orbit until we receive word from the emperor,”
Chakotay advised the room. “In the meantime, Lieutenant Kim, you should
begin preparations for a potential attack by the Warriors of Gre’thor.
Once they discover B’Elanna’s ruse, they probably won’t have a hard time
figuring out where she would have gone next.”

“Captain,” Doctor Kaz interjected, “I’d like to spend some time
reviewing Seven and the Doctor’s analysis.”

“We would be happy to assist any way we can,” the Doctor assured him.

“Keep me apprised of any new developments.” Chakotay nodded. “Dismissed.”

He then rose and crossed to Paris and B’Elanna, who were sitting in
loaded silence as the rest of those assembled moved from the room, the
only exception being Admiral Janeway, who followed closely behind Chakotay.

“I know this isn’t the reunion you were both hoping for,” Chakotay said
gently, “but I’m sure you could both use a little time alone.”

Paris started to contradict him, but Chakotay raised a hand to silence
him. “You’re off duty until further notice, Commander.” Then he added,
“Get some rest. You’re both going to need it.”

Janeway stepped closer to take B’Elanna’s free hand and to place another
on Tom’s shoulder. “I don’t want either of you to worry,” she said in
her most determined voice. “We’re going to find Miral, even if we have
to rain down fire on the entire Klingon Empire to do it.”

B’Elanna managed a mute nod as Tom replied, “Thank you, Admiral.”

As everyone made their exits, Chakotay caught Cambridge’s eye and with a
nod directed him to join him in the hallway.

Once Cambridge had obliged him and the others were well out of earshot,
Chakotay said, “That was an impressive display, Lieutenant. I had no
idea your knowledge of Klingon mythology was so sound, or so deep.”

“Then I can only presume you gave my service record the most cursory of
glances before contacting Starfleet personnel to request my immediate
transfer,” Cambridge replied.

“I beg your pardon?” Chakotay snapped back.

“As well you should, sir,” Cambridge said. “For what it’s worth, I have
no objection to serving aboard Voyager for as long as you’re willing to
have me. To be honest, I’ve never seen a group of people so thoroughly
in need of my services.”

Chakotay had only a few seconds to stand in shock before his combadge
chirped.

“Ops to the captain.”

“We’ll continue this discussion later, Counselor,” he said coolly.

With a soft “Of course, sir,” Cambridge executed a slight bow and
stalked off toward the turbolift.

Chakotay took a deep breath before tapping his combadge.

“Go ahead.”

“You have a priority transmission from Starfleet Command.”

“Route it to my ready room,” Chakotay replied.

A few minutes later he was seated at his desk, and the face of Admiral
Montgomery appeared on the screen before him.

“What is your current status, Captain?” Montgomery inquired.

“The emperor, his personal guard, and B’Elanna are all alive and well
and have rendezvoused with Voyager,” Chakotay replied.

“That’s good to hear,” Montgomery said with genuine relief. “Then I
presume you have resumed course for Kerovi?”

Chakotay took a deep breath. “No, sir. Miral Paris is still missing, but
we believe we have a solid lead and will discover her whereabouts
shortly. I’ve been assured that Chancellor Martok has been advised of
our activities and is in constant communication with the emperor, who is
still assisting us with the search. Until Miral has been found, we must
continue in our efforts.”

Montgomery stared back at Chakotay appraisingly.

“I’m sorry, Chakotay, but I can’t allow that. As it stands now, you will
barely have time to reach Kerovi before the trial begins.”

“Would it be possible to contact the Kerovians?” Chakotay asked.
“Perhaps if we explained the nature of the problem…”

Montgomery shook his head. “We’re barely on speaking terms with the
Kerovians as it is. They want to know why we failed to capture or kill
the Changeling at Loran II. The two weeks’ grace period they allowed
before beginning the trial was all the courtesy they can be expected to
extend us.”

“Why can’t we simply interrogate the Changeling once the trial is over?”
Chakotay asked.

“Prior to joining the Federation, the Kerovian justice system offered
only one penalty for a convicted murderer: execution,” Montgomery said
sternly.

“Their membership status only changed a few months ago,” Chakotay said.
“Have they completely overhauled their legal system in that short time?”

“Not yet,” Montgomery replied, “but the public is exerting considerable
pressure on the government to reinstate capital punishment, especially
given the nature of the Changeling’s transgressions. The Kerovi were our
allies when we fought the Dominion. They know how to kill a Changeling,
and I wouldn’t be surprised if they found that it was a tidier way to
deal with this problem and the public outcry than figuring out how to
keep him locked up for the rest of his very long life.”

“When did abandoning moral principles become tidy, sir?” Chakotay asked.

“You missed the war, Captain,” Montgomery replied gravely. “It was,
without a doubt, one of the darkest periods in Federation history. Our
principles took a beating, and the losses sustained, combined with the
potential devastation of our way of life, forced everyone involved to
make difficult decisions. I’m not convinced that the Kerovian government
will cave to the pressure, but I’m also not certain that’s a risk we
should take right now.”

Chakotay paused to give the admiral’s words the consideration they
deserved.

“Then perhaps you should dispatch another ship to Kerovi as soon as
possible,” Chakotay finally replied.

“Are you refusing a direct order, Captain?”

“I’m sorry, Admiral, but at no point in this conversation do I recall
hearing you order me to resume course for Kerovi.”

Montgomery faced Chakotay in steely silence.

“Now that I have been fully briefed on the events on Boreth and the
forces involved, I believe that without our assistance the odds of
safely recovering Miral will be slim to none.”

“The needs of the many, Captain,” Montgomery began.

“Are being considered,” Chakotay finished for him. “More is at stake
here than Miral’s life. We’ve already discovered evidence to suggest
that this is simply the prelude to a more serious crisis for the Klingon
Empire. This issue is not many or one, Admiral. The issue is which
‘many’ are we most concerned about right now. I honestly believe that it
is right here that Voyager and her crew can do the most good.”

Montgomery could clearly see he wasn’t getting anywhere. Finally he
replied, “I’ll see if we have any other ships that could be dispatched
in time for Kerovi. In the mean time, I want hourly updates on your
status, and at the first opportunity, I expect you to resume your former
course.”

“Understood, Admiral.” Chakotay nodded. “Thank you.”

Montgomery closed the channel.

Chakotay did not doubt that his instincts in this matter were correct,
though he paused to wonder if his personal misgivings about the mission
to Kerovi might be clouding his judgment. He agreed that it was vital
for Starfleet to interrogate the Changeling, sooner rather than later.
But that was one demon he was in no particular hurry to face. And he
couldn’t imagine what it would do to his crew’s morale were he to inform
them that the search for Miral was being abandoned. As Kathryn had
suggested, the best person to discuss this with was probably his ship’s
counselor.

Of course, that thought was only slightly more unappealing than
confronting the Changeling. It was small comfort to realize that there
was one person on board who would certainly relate to his dilemma, and
whose counsel he would welcome.

“Chakotay to Doctor Kaz.”

“Kaz here, Captain.”

“Please report to my ready room.”

“Actually, Captain, would you consider joining us in sickbay? We’ve just
stumbled upon something you should probably see right away.”

“I’m on my way,” Chakotay replied, making a mental note to stop by
engineering first. It seemed likely that Seven and the Doctor would be
staying awhile, and though the Doctor didn’t actually require a living
area, Chakotay would do him the courtesy of providing one, if only to
give Doctor Kaz a break from time to time. Seven’s needs were more
challenging. The regeneration alcove she’d used in the cargo bay when
she lived on Voyager had been dismantled months ago, but the specs were
still in Voyager’s database. Vorik would need to assign a team to
construct one as soon as possible.

From the sound of Jarem’s voice, Chakotay seriously doubted that
whatever he, Seven, and the Doctor had found was going to be good news.

CHAPTER TEN

Kahless watched as Councillor Kopek entered his private office in the
Great Hall and immediately called for increased illumination. The varHuS
candle wall sconces were probably a nice touch when he was tossing one
of his all too eager bedmates across the hand-carved ledka wood desk for
a quick dalliance between council sessions. But they would be hell to
read by.

Kahless had been waiting in the office for only a few minutes, having
dispatched Kopek’s aide with orders to bring the councillor to him
immediately. Those minutes had been sufficient to further damn the man
in the emperor’s eyes. For a warrior to surround himself with objects of
honor and victory was one thing. For him to revel so garishly in
decadence and luxury was a clear sign that the man had completely lost
his way, if the true way was ever shown to him, Kahless thought, quietly
simmering.

No, he answered his own question. The true path of a warrior was the
birthright of every Klingon, whether base or noble born. This petaQ had
turned his back on the ideals that made a Klingon worthy of honor; of
that much, Kahless was certain.

Kopek seemed surprised to see the emperor standing in the center of the
room. Perhaps he believed that his aide would never have allowed the
emperor into his private office alone, as if the sniveling yIntagh had a
choice, Kahless thought with satisfaction. Whether Kopek and his men
truly believed in the restored emperor, they would never cross him
openly in the Great Hall without exposing themselves to Martok’s wrath.

“Emperor Kahless,” Kopek greeted him with a scowl. “You honor me with
your presence.”

“Just as you dishonor me with yours,” Kahless replied.

Any pretense of cordiality dropped from Kopek’s mien.

“What do you want?” Kopek demanded.

Kahless wanted to make him suffer more, but time was his fiercest enemy
at the moment.

“Thirty years ago, you conducted a transaction with the Warriors of
Gre’thor,” Kahless said simply. “You provided them with a forged
bat’leth, supposedly created by Hal’korin. Where is the real one?”

“Thirty years is a long time, Emperor,” Kopek said warily. “I cannot
honestly say I remember the exchange you refer to.”

Kahless’s blood cried out for an appropriate response to this insolence.
He did not doubt he could best Kopek in combat. But victory over a man
with no honor tasted bitter as sour warnog.

“Kneel, Kopek,” Kahless said softly.

Kahless was demanding no more than he deserved, and much more than Kopek
would ever willingly pay. But the man hadn’t survived through so many
years of political subterfuge by not knowing which battles to fight.
With forced humility, Kopek grudgingly knelt.

Kahless closed the distance between them in two steps and placed his d’k
tahg at Kopek’s throat.

“Has your memory improved?” Kahless asked.

Kopek remained motionless, but his hateful expression betrayed the
violent action he clearly wanted to take.

In truth, the knife Kahless held was the dullest weapon at his disposal.
He was almost pleased that Kopek hadn’t forced him to use it by rising
to the bait.

“I will never understand why Gowron agreed to make you emperor,” Kopek
snarled.

“I expect nothing less of you,” Kahless replied, sheathing his blade.
Kopek started to rise, but with a glance, Kahless kept him on his knees.
“Some years ago, a common woman came to me, as hundreds have since, to
lay her cares at my feet and beg for guidance.”

“What has this to do with me?” Kopek demanded.

“This woman had been seduced by a great warrior, or so she thought. She
had borne him a child out of wedlock—the warrior’s first-born son.”

Grim recognition flickered across Kopek’s face.

“She had feared for the life of the child. She looked on it only with a
mother’s love, but even she could see that the child had been born
cursed. Still, she presented him proudly to his father, and he repaid
her trust by taking the child to the top of Mount Vor and dashing its
brains out with a rock.”

Kopek met the emperor’s unflinching gaze.

“The woman sought only wisdom, to understand how she had failed. Had the
child’s birth been a sign that taking the warrior to her bed had been
wrong? He was already promised to another in marriage. And had the
warrior done right in destroying the evidence of their affair?”

After a long pause, Kahless went on. “I told her that the only error she
had made was to trust you, Kopek.”

“You cannot prove any of this,” Kopek hissed.

“But I can,” Kahless replied. “Once you had murdered your child, you set
fire to its body. But the woman could not bear to watch it burn. When
you departed, leaving her to her misery, she doused the flames and
buried the child’s remains in an unmarked grave in her parents’ field.
She still visits it, once a year, to remind herself of her youthful
folly and rededicate herself to the path of honor. Analysis of the
remains, coupled with her testimony, would surely provide all the
evidence the chancellor would need to make your shame a matter of public
record, to dishonor you before the council and strip your House of its
name and considerable wealth.”

“You did not see the child!” Kopek raged. “It was a deformed monster.”

“Then he took after his father,” Kahless replied.

Finally, Kopek bowed his head.

“The bat’leth you spoke of earlier,” Kopek said, “is no longer among the
holdings of my House.”

“Where is it?” Kahless demanded.

“It was sold to a private collector on Naliah IV.”

“A name, Kopek.”

“Fistrebril,” Kopek replied. “But I warn you, she will never part with
it willingly.”

“That is not your concern,” Kahless assured him as he strode past Kopek
toward the doors.

Kopek rose and called to Kahless. “Am I to assume our business is
concluded?”

Kahless turned. “Do you honestly believe that the Klingon emperor would
trade in shame and dishonor?” he bellowed. Kopek involuntarily took a
step back in response. “Your guilt is yours to bear. It will remain
yours for as long as the woman who came to me lives. Should I ever learn
that she has died anywhere but peacefully in her bed many years from
now, I will reveal your dishonor to all. Her life is all that I have
risked in coming to you now, and all that I demand for my silence.”

Kopek had the temerity to look relieved.

“But fear not,” Kahless went on. “I doubt that your many sins since that
day on Mount Vor will be as easy to expiate. You will fall, Kopek,
because you live only to hold on to your power and to accumulate more.
Martok works daily to restore the empire to the path of honor, and there
is no place for you on that path. You will learn the true way, or you
will reap the seeds of self-destruction you have so carefully sown.”

With that, Kahless left Kopek to his thoughts. Though it was most likely
a futile gesture, Kahless had knowingly chosen to give Kopek an
opportunity to reclaim his honor. He doubted the petQ would take it.
Once a road was as well worn as the one Kopek currently walked, it was
no mean feat for any man to willingly choose another. But Kahless
believed that no Klingon was beyond saving. Even Kopek.

Paris’s new quarters on Voyager were those that had once belonged to
Chakotay. One of his promotion’s perks, the suite was much larger than
either Tom’s or B’Elanna’s previous one and easily accommodated both of
them.

They had retreated in tense silence following the briefing. The moment
they entered, B’Elanna went immediately to the suite’s ’fresher. She
knew that the sonic shower would effectively eliminate the many
unpleasant smells that had been her constant companion since departing
Boreth. But what she really needed was the longest, hottest bath ever.

While she showered, Tom had been thoughtful enough to provide her with a
replicated tank top and pants. This could only mean that before they
slept, which both preferred to do without clothing, they were going to
talk, B’Elanna thought ruefully.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, Tom was seated in the
suite’s dining area. He had replicated several servings of snack foods,
none of which tempted B’Elanna in the least.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Not really,” she replied honestly.

The only thing that might accomplish that would be for him to take her
in his arms and hold her. But he seemed in no hurry to do that.

“Tom, I—” she began.

He turned on her, his eyes alight with brittle anger. “How could you?”
he demanded.

“How could I what?” she asked, genuinely at a loss. She knew he must be
devastated by Miral’s absence, but whatever was devouring him from the
inside out was more than that.

In response, he tossed a crumpled piece of parchment onto the floor
between them.

B’Elanna recognized it at once, and was a little relieved to at least be
able to name the monster now sharing the room with them.

“I wanted to tell you,” B’Elanna said softly.

“But it slipped your mind?” Tom asked, rising from his seat.

“No, I…it just…”

“You decided to put your life and Miral’s at risk without even so much
as mentioning it to me?” Tom shouted.

Finally, B’Elanna found her own rage.

“And what were you going to do about it?” she demanded hotly.

“Made damn sure you both left Boreth, for starters,” Tom shot back.

“Your life was here, Tom. And from here, there was nothing you could
have done to help us,” B’Elanna insisted.

“My life?” Tom said, aghast. “You’re my life, B’Elanna. Miral is my
life. None of this means anything without you.”

B’Elanna was struck more by the force of his words than the substance.

Before she could summon a response, he spat, “And if you didn’t want me
to return to active duty, you should have just said so.”

“That’s not fair,” B’Elanna cried. “You were miserable on Boreth, and we
both knew it. You were practically climbing the walls. And the first
chance you had to leave, you did it so fast I’m surprised you didn’t
leave a warp trail.”

Tom closed the space between them. His breath was coming in quick spasms
and his face was flushed. In better days this might have been all the
impetus B’Elanna would have required to forcibly throw him to the floor
before ripping his uniform off him.

“This isn’t my fault, B’Elanna,” he warned. “It’s yours. And we might
not even be here right now if you had decided to tell me what was going
on. But you didn’t. You lied to me. Several times. And now we might
never see Miral again, thanks to your stupid pride.”

The soft, brutalized center of B’Elanna’s being began to wail. This was
the place that she had guarded from everyone she had ever known, until
Tom. This was the part of her he had promised to cherish and protect
when he made her his wife. B’Elanna could have gladly closed her eyes
and willed herself to die, so devastating was the thought that he would
ever intentionally hurt her like this.

Especially now.

“You’re right,” she said coldly. “This is all my fault. I should have
come running to you at the first sign of trouble. I should have
remembered that I am nothing but a woman, a delicate flower to be
admired but not respected. I apologize for forgetting my place in this
marriage. Do you feel better now?”

This wasn’t going at all as B’Elanna had anticipated. She knew he would
be angry with her for not contacting him the moment Miral was taken. And
she honestly believed he had a right to that anger. Further, she did
believe that the lion’s share of responsibility for this tragedy should
reside permanently on her shoulders. But she didn’t think a little
compassion from her husband would have been out of line either. Tom
couldn’t think for a second that his suffering at this moment could
possibly eclipse hers.

The truth was, she could only fight alone against so many fronts, and
she had neither the patience nor the strength for this one.

Tom had the good sense to at least appear to be abashed by her words.
But B’Elanna’s rage, once kindled, was never so easily slaked.

“I came back to Voyager because I believed you would help me, Tom. But
this isn’t helping. And if you can’t find it in yourself to stand beside
me right now, then I suggest you get the hell out of my way.”

B’Elanna turned on her heel and started toward the door. She didn’t know
where she was running to, only that she could no longer bear to be in
the same room with Tom.

“B’Elanna, get back here,” he shouted after her.

But the moment she reached the door and activated its sensor, she found
herself facing Counselor Cambridge.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked.

“Actually, it is,” Tom said.

“Excellent,” Cambridge said, stepping inside.

Before the door slid shut, B’Elanna noted the face of Commander Logt,
standing stoically outside their quarters, obviously still “on duty.”

Tom seemed to sense that his anger might have just found a more
appropriate target. Stepping toward Cambridge, he said, “What I meant
was, you shouldn’t be here right now. If my wife or I require your
assistance, we’ll make an appointment.”

“Everyone on this deck knows that you both require my assistance,
Commander,” Cambridge said sharply. “None of them are getting any sleep
right now, that’s certain.”

B’Elanna found herself staring open-mouthed at the counselor. Very few
people, even professional therapists, would so easily wander into a
kos’karii pit.

“Sit down, both of you,” Cambridge ordered.

Some deeply embedded Pavlovian response to authority kicked in. Or maybe
they both simply recognized a stone wall when they saw one. Regardless,
both of them perched side by side on the long end of the desk nearest
the door.

“Now apologize to each other.”

Tom’s mouth joined B’Elanna’s in the open and shocked position.

“Time is precious,” Cambridge added, encouraging them to get on with it.
“I won’t even insist that you mean it for now.”

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are, Lieutenant,” Tom said, “but
this is completely out of line.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Cambridge said evenly. “Both of you are
behaving like children.”

“I don’t think—” Tom began.

“Do either of you give a damn about your daughter?” Cambridge
interjected. “Because if you don’t, you’d be sparing the rest of us a
great deal of hazard if you’d just acknowledge that fact right now.”

B’Elanna felt a rush of fresh, hot tears rising to her eyes. She turned
to Tom, and saw that he too was struggling to hold back an onslaught.

Cambridge studied them in silence before continuing.

“I see. Then might I suggest that rather than setting aflame the few
tattered shreds of accord that are holding your marriage together, you
focus only on Miral right now. These other quibbles, who did or did not
do what to whom and when, should definitely be discussed at some length
when this crisis has passed, but for now they’re a waste of precious
energy and will only serve to further divide you. How you’ve managed to
remain a couple this long without learning to disagree constructively
will surely top our future sessions. But allow me to redirect your
attention to the ball on which the eyes of both of you should be glued.
The life of your daughter and, most likely, the fate of the Klingon
Empire is now hanging in the balance, and keener wits and calmer heads
than these are going to be required if all this is to have the slightest
chance of ending well. Those who have taken your child are not going to
part with her willingly. Save your strength for them. And in the
meantime, get some bloody rest.”

The counselor’s diatribe effectively drained the heat and tension from
both of them.

“He’s right,” B’Elanna said, turning to face Tom.

Tom nodded, mutely.

“I’m sorry,” B’Elanna offered.

This time, Tom did reach for her, and for the first time since she’d
seen the anonymous warning, she remembered what it was to feel safe as
his arms pulled her close. The sensation was fleeting, but it grounded
B’Elanna long enough for her to realize that there was truly nothing she
could not forgive Tom, especially careless words spoken in anger.

“Let’s get some sleep,” Tom murmured softly into her neck.

“I don’t know if I can,” she nuzzled back.

“Ahem,” Cambridge cleared his throat. “I’m sure sickbay has something
that might help with that.”

Tom kept a firm hand around B’Elanna’s waist as they followed Cambridge
out of their quarters and made their way to sickbay. B’Elanna would have
wrapped him around her like a blanket if she could have, so desperate
was she to never again feel such a palpable distance between them as she
had until this moment.

Logt automatically fell in step behind them.

As they walked, B’Elanna said softly to Tom, “Why do I like him?”

“I can’t imagine,” Logt replied tonelessly.

Admiral Janeway intentionally took the longest route possible from the
mess hall back to her quarters. Immediately following the meeting she’d
stopped by Neelix’s old kitchen, driven there by nostalgia as much as
the need for a quick snack. Though the food preparation area—at one time
the captain’s personal dining area before Voyager had been flung across
the galaxy—had been replaced by several new replicators, she could
easily imagine the Talaxian who had become dear to her as any member of
her crew, humming softly as he bustled about in the small space,
struggling to make the dining room as close to home as possible for the
crew. Though she and Neelix still kept in touch, the time between
communications was now calculated in months, a fact she genuinely
regretted.

As it happened, nothing the replicator could produce really tempted her,
so she settled for a fresh cup of hot coffee before turning her steps
back toward her cabin.

Prior to this mission, she had boarded Voyager only once since its
return from the Delta quadrant, and at the time, the ship had been in
pieces and she had been leading an assault team whose primary mission
was to return Seven of Nine to the cargo bay and give her adequate time
to regenerate.

As she walked, Janeway realized she was unconsciously heading toward
sickbay. She knew Seven and the Doctor would be busy with Doctor Kaz,
digging deeper into the genetic defect they had discovered, but
privately she hoped she might steal a few moments alone with Seven. They
hadn’t had a long chat in a while, and Janeway wanted to make sure that
Seven was all right. She’d sensed more than a little tension between
Seven and the Doctor in their recent briefing and could tell that Seven
was straining a bit under the pressure they were all experiencing. No
doubt Seven was determined to solve this problem for all of them, but
Janeway didn’t want to see her taking too much on herself.

She passed a few new faces along the way, as well as plenty of old ones.
Most seemed genuinely pleased to see her and stopped briefly to chat. It
was gratifying to see that so many who had served with her in the Delta
quadrant had remained on board when the ship returned to active duty.
She doubted that anyone who had requested reassignment would have been
denied. But it seemed that the bonds they had forged over those
tumultuous seven years remained strong, and their presence was a
testament to that, as well as to their faith in Captain Chakotay.

Janeway didn’t regret her choice to accept promotion. But she would have
been lying if she’d said that a part of her didn’t miss walking these
halls and knowing that she belonged to them.

She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Harry Kim dispatching a
security team throughout the deck for what was probably a drill. She
remembered how mercilessly Tuvok had ridden his security staff when he
had held Harry’s position. She had rarely, if ever, found cause to
question Tuvok’s mastery of combat tactics and knew that Harry’s ability
to move seamlessly from operations to head of security was in no small
part due to the vast experience he had gained while serving with the
Vulcan. On paper it might have looked like an abrupt duty change, and a
challenge that Kim was ill prepared to meet. But Harry was as bright,
dedicated, and well rounded a young officer as she had ever met. He
thrived on a challenge, and for someone who was certainly destined to
assume command of his own ship one day, he would benefit immeasurably by
spending as much time at tactical as Starfleet would permit before
assigning him to his next logical post, as some very lucky captain’s
first officer.

Once Harry had dismissed his team, he looked up to see Janeway standing
nearby. His face broke into a wide, boyish grin, and Janeway couldn’t
help but remember the way he’d stood in her ready room so alert she
worried he might strain himself, when he had first reported to duty
aboard Voyager.

It can’t be eight years ago. It feels like yesterday.

“Admiral,” Harry greeted her cheerfully.

“Carry on, Lieutenant.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’re very busy right now.”

Kim’s smile dissipated.

“Has the emperor made contact yet?”

“No, but I’m sure Chakotay will inform you when he does.”

Harry nodded before adding, “It’s good to have you here, Admiral.”

“It’s good to be here,” she replied, “though I wish it was under happier
circumstances.”

“Of course.”

“How are your parents?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re wonderful,” he replied. “I spent a few days with them just
last week. At the rate they’re going, they’ll probably outlive us all.”

Janeway smiled. In a softer, more conspiratorial tone she added, “And
what about that charming young woman, Ms. Webber, isn’t it?”

Harry’s face fell. “She’s fine, but she and I, well…”

Janeway’s heart broke for him as he went on.

“We’ve decided to part company. I think it’s for the best.”

“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s all right. It happens.”

“That it does,” Janeway said, nodding. It was an unfortunate reality
that often relationships between Starfleet officers and civilians were
difficult to maintain. For a long time, hers and Mark’s had been a
pleasant exception to that rule. She would have thought that if anyone
was capable of making it work, Harry would have found a way, but she
didn’t know Ms. Webber all that well and trusted that if he thought this
was the best course for them, it probably was.

“Be sure and give my best to your parents the next time you speak to
them,” Janeway said warmly.

“I will, Ma’am,” Harry said automatically before correcting himself, “I
mean, Admiral.”

“It’s all right, Harry.” Janeway smiled. “This certainly feels like
crunch time to me.”

Over Harry’s shoulder, Janeway saw Counselor Cambridge, Tom, B’Elanna,
and Commander Logt walking hastily through the hall. They seemed intent
on their destination, and Janeway hesitated to derail them. At least it
seemed that Tom and B’Elanna had resolved some of their differences. You
could have cut the tension between them in the conference room with a
laser scalpel, but now they walked arm in arm.

Janeway stepped aside to allow them to pass when B’Elanna’s borrowed
combadge chirped.

“Bridge to Commander Torres,” Lyssa Campbell’s voice called.

“Go ahead,” B’Elanna said.

“Incoming transmission for you from Qo’noS.”

B’Elanna looked to Tom before replying, “Route it to sickbay. I’ll be
there in just a minute.”

Kim joined the group immediately as they continued down the hall.
Janeway debated only a few moments. She knew that in her quarters,
dozens of communiqués were awaiting her attention. Decan had advised her
just after she had returned from the embassy that the list of messages
waiting for her review was growing longer by the second.

But none of that could vie with any credibility for the top spot on her
list of concerns right now. Whatever Kahless had discovered could hold a
vital clue to Miral’s location, and though her presence wasn’t
necessarily required, Janeway couldn’t bear the thought of rustling
through red tape while everyone else worked on this problem without her.

It had always been the most difficult part of her nature with which to
contend. She was a capable leader, but she was also never more at peace
than when her sleeves were rolled up and she was actually working on a
tangible problem. Unfortunately, the days when Janeway could simply join
B’Elanna in engineering for hours at a stretch realigning magnetic
constrictors or tinkering with the dilithium matrix were long gone.

For whatever reason, fate had placed her here and now, and the only
clear course she could see ahead ended with Miral safely back in her
parents’ arms.

The rest would simply have to wait.

Janeway chose to leave the communiqués unread for now and redirected her
steps to join the others going to sickbay.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chakotay had already received Jarem’s report, peppered with
interruptions from Seven and the Doctor. To his credit, Doctor Kaz was
unruffled by their constant “clarifications.” He might have been
relatively new to Voyager, but Kaz had quickly become a presence
Chakotay felt he could trust and lean upon, and he’d more than proven
his worth. His grace in dealing with Seven’s imperious presence and the
Doctor’s tendency toward condescension, which it seemed had been
nurtured during the Doctor’s time at the Institute, only enhanced
Chakotay’s regard for Kaz.

The captain was surprised when the doors whisked open and Cambridge
entered, followed quickly by Tom, B’Elanna, Harry, Kathryn, and
Commander Logt.

“Kahless has found something,” B’Elanna said immediately. “Doctor, may I
use your office?” she asked.

“Of course,” Kaz replied.

Paris and B’Elanna hurried into the small office, separated from the
rest of sickbay by a transparent wall.

“The rest of you should hear this,” Chakotay said, inviting the others
to crowd around the display station near biobed one. “Doctor Kaz, Seven,
and the Doctor have made significant progress in their analysis of the
aberrant Klingon genome.”

“It appears that the mutation which resulted in the birth of these
children is not, as we first suspected, a random anomaly,” Kaz advised
the group.

“Fascinating,” Cambridge intoned, staring at the findings on the display.

“As you can see,” Seven continued, “the mutation is the result of an
expression of this recessive base pair combination.”

“Starfleet’s classified database contains a significantly larger control
group of Klingon genomes available for comparison than those at the
disposal of the Institute, so we were able to compare our findings
against a much larger population,” the Doctor added, not to be outdone.

“The bottom line is,” Kaz went on, “this isn’t a mutation at all.”

“It’s evolution,” Cambridge said softly.

“What does that mean?” Harry chimed in.

“It suggests that over time, significantly larger numbers of Klingons
will be born expressing these characteristics,” Kaz said. “What we’re
seeing might actually be the next step in the development of the Klingon
species.”

“But don’t populations typically evolve traits that are beneficial to
the species?” Kim asked. “This looks more like some kind of devolution.”

“While we have no idea how successful,” Kaz said, “or what the longevity
of these Klingons would be, it is clear enough that they will possess
strength and ferocity that far outstrip their present-day counterparts.
All we can say for sure is that more Klingons like these will be born,
and if their birth rate ever surpasses those of the Klingons living today…”

“The Curse of the Gods, indeed,” Cambridge finished.

“Is it some sort of programmed DNA molecule?” Harry asked.

“It’s possible,” Kaz replied. “Otherwise, it’s difficult to understand
why it has remained dormant for so long.”

“It’s also possible, as the sequence is recessive, that random—” the
Doctor began.

Their musings were interrupted, however, by B’Elanna and Paris, emerging
from Kaz’s office.

“Kahless knows where the twelfth bat’leth is. He wants me to join him on
Qo’noS. He can have a ship ready to depart within the hour,” B’Elanna
reported.

Chakotay didn’t doubt for a moment that while B’Elanna might see this as
the most useful course she could take right now, it wasn’t the smartest.

“I’ll go,” Tom said, as if reading Chakotay’s mind.

“Captain, with your permission, I’d like to join Commander Paris,” Harry
added.

“A moment, please,” Janeway interrupted. “B’Elanna, where is the bat’leth?”

“Naliah IV,” she replied.

“In that case, I have an alternate suggestion,” Janeway said.

“Admiral?” Chakotay asked.

“Naliah IV is less than a day from Earth. And it’s at least two days by
shuttle from here,” she said. “I’ll contact Tuvok. I’m sure he’d be
willing to take a few days’ leave to retrieve it for us. He could
rendezvous with Voyager more quickly than any of you could get there and
back.”

No one seemed inclined to question her.

“You think he’d do it?” B’Elanna asked.

“Of course he would,” Janeway assured her.

“I agree,” Chakotay said, effectively ending further discussion.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Janeway said, hurrying from the room.

Tom gently guided B’Elanna toward Doctor Kaz. “Was there something
else?” he asked pleasantly.

B’Elanna sighed, resigned. “I was actually hoping you might have
something to help me sleep.”

Kaz nodded. “This way,” he said, and directed her toward a biobed.

“I’ll contact Kahless and inform him of the change in plans,” Tom said
softly to B’Elanna, moving back to Kaz’s inner sanctum.

“Harry?” Chakotay asked.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Would you check with Lyssa and make sure she’s arranged for quarters
for our guests. And check with Lieutenant Vorik to see how the temporary
regeneration alcove I requested is coming along.”

“Right away, sir.”

These would normally have been duties for his first officer to perform,
but Chakotay was determined to keep such things off Tom’s plate for the
next few days. B’Elanna needed her husband more than Voyager did right now.

“Doctor Kaz, I’d be willing to stay and continue our research,” the
Doctor said hopefully.

“Doctor Kaz was due to end his duty shift several hours ago,” Seven said
pointedly.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Kaz said, loading a hypospray for B’Elanna.

“Get some rest, Jarem,” Chakotay ordered Kaz. “You are, of course,
welcome to continue working, Doctor,” he assured the EMH.

“Perhaps our time would be better spent preparing our report to the
Klingon High Council,” Seven suggested to the Doctor.

“Why don’t we see how Vorik’s work is coming along first,” Harry offered
diplomatically.

“Very well,” the Doctor sighed. “I should definitely take a look at any
temporary regenerative device he constructs for Seven to make sure it is
compatible with her needs.”

The captain had to suppress a grin at the look of disdain on Seven’s face.

How have these two managed to work together day in and day out? Chakotay
wondered. They had been an incredibly efficient and helpful pair while
serving on Voyager, and he knew that their mutual affection and regard
for one another were well entrenched. But familiarity had a way of
breeding discontent at times, and Chakotay secretly worried that both of
them might need to broaden their social horizons to avoid putting too
much strain on their friendship. He had noted in the few times they’d
met over the last several months that the pair seemed to spar more
forcefully than he could remember.

Seven and the Doctor dutifully followed Harry from sickbay, while Kaz
conferred quietly with B’Elanna before administering a portion of the
hypospray and providing her instructions for further use, should she
require it.

Chakotay was about to depart when he noted Counselor Cambridge staring
fixedly at Commander Logt, who was hovering as near to B’Elanna as
decorum would allow while she spoke with Kaz.

What happened next took everyone left in the room, Chakotay most of all,
by total surprise. With a grace and dexterity Chakotay would never have
suspected, Cambridge passed by Commander Logt nonchalantly, as if he
were merely heading for the exit, and as soon as he had passed her line
of peripheral vision, turned quickly and kicked the woman’s legs out
from under her.

“Counselor Cambridge!” Chakotay shouted as Logt attempted to recover,
but before she could, Cambridge struck her repeatedly in the gut and
face, momentarily subduing her. He then grabbed both of her arms and
pinned them behind her back, locking her into a kneeling position.

“A moment, Captain,” Cambridge gasped as he tightened his grip to ensure
that Logt was truly under his control.

“Explain yourself, Counselor,” Chakotay demanded, as B’Elanna and Kaz
moved cautiously toward the pair.

“What the hell are you doing?” B’Elanna asked, already a little groggy.

“If you want to know where the qawHaq’hoch have taken your daughter,
Commander,” Cambridge replied, “you can either wait for your friend to
retrieve the final bat’leth, or you can simply ask this woman. I’m sure
she can tell you. She’s one of them.”

B’Elanna seemed as stunned by this as Chakotay.

“Can you prove this, Counselor?” the captain asked sharply.

“Absolutely,” Cambridge insisted, “with a little help.”

Logt seethed and hissed as she struggled in his grasp.

Chakotay stepped forward. He didn’t trust Cambridge, but then, Logt
wasn’t shouting out any denials either, which he certainly would have
been doing in her position.

“This is absurd,” B’Elanna stammered. “Release her.”

“Gladly,” Cambridge replied cheerfully, “just as soon as someone pulls
back her baldric and tunic so that her thoracic spine can be clearly
seen. There you will find a brand, the mark of Hal’korin, which all
members of the order sear into their flesh when they are initiated.”

Chakotay threw a questioning glance at B’Elanna and could see that she
was every bit as confused as he.

“That’s not possible,” B’Elanna said, doubt creeping into her voice.

“Bloody hell, just do it,” Cambridge retorted.

“I’ll do it,” Chakotay said, moving closer. As quickly as possible he
pulled down the back of Logt’s tunic and there, just as Cambridge said,
was a scarred mound of flesh in a shape too precise to have been a
simple birthmark or battle wound.

“He’s right,” Chakotay said in disbelief.

“What’s going on?” Paris asked, emerging from the Doctor’s office.

Before anyone could reply, Chakotay heard a loud cartilaginous snap as
Logt threw her body forward, lifting Cambridge from the ground and
rolling him over the back of her head. Whatever damage she might have
done to her shoulders in the process didn’t seem to be a problem as she
quickly climbed over the counselor, thrusting a hard elbow into his
upper back, rendering him unconscious.

Chakotay immediately dove for Logt but missed, landing instead atop the
inert Cambridge while Kaz had the good sense to call for a security team.

Righting himself, Chakotay saw Paris moving to confront Logt, who
quickly drew a small blade from her belt and sent it whirring into Tom’s
leg.

Paris crumpled to the floor as B’Elanna cried out his name and Chakotay
struggled to find a piece of floor to stand on.

Kaz was the next to take a run at Logt, but she dispatched him quickly,
turning the only weapon at his disposal—the half-empty hypo of the
sedative he’d given B’Elanna—against him, and he, too, stumbled back as
soon as the medicine hit his system.

B’Elanna was struggling to remain alert as she threw herself at Logt. In
her weakened state, Logt quickly subdued her and by the time Chakotay
was on his feet Logt was standing with her back to the biobed,
B’Elanna’s body held in front, a larger Klingon blade held precariously
at B’Elanna’s throat.

“Let her go,” Chakotay said, hoping against hope that the woman could be
reasoned with.

“I cannot,” Logt replied, as if this saddened her almost as much as
Chakotay.

She then shouted a command to the computer, and she and B’Elanna
disappeared in the glistening beam of a transporter.

The doors to sickbay slid open and a half-dozen security officers poured
in.

Chakotay didn’t have to think too hard to imagine where Logt would have
taken B’Elanna.

“Red Alert!” he called out. “Computer, lock down the shuttlebay
immediately!”

Two of the officers were lifting Tom to the nearest biobed as another
tried to revive Doctor Kaz, while the rest of the group hurried out of
the room.

“Chakotay to the Doctor, medical emergency.”

Within seconds the Doctor materialized before him and after a quick,
“What happened?” followed Chakotay’s abrupt gesture toward Tom. The
Doctor cleared a path through the remaining security team and activated
the biobed’s surgical arch.

The captain then rushed for the door but was halted as the deck jerked
beneath him, almost sending him sprawling.

“Kim to Chakotay,” Harry’s voice called.

“Go ahead,” Chakotay replied, stumbling into the corridor.

“The Delta Flyer has just blown its way out of the shuttlebay,” Harry
advised.

“Tractor them!” Chakotay ordered, “And transport me immediately to the
bridge.”

Seconds later, Chakotay materialized next to the tactical station where
Kim was struggling to get a lock on the hijacked shuttle.

Chakotay watched as Logt executed a dive roll to evade the blue beam
meant to tether her irrevocably to Voyager. Soft bluish wisps began to
stream from the shuttle nacelles and Chakotay smiled, sensing they’d
just caught a break. From the look of it, the Delta Flyer’s warp engines
might be malfunctioning.

“Stay with her,” Chakotay ordered Lieutenant Tare at the helm.

Tare did her best to turn the ship’s bulk even as Logt reversed the
course of the Delta Flyer and flew straight toward Voyager. For a
breathless moment, Chakotay feared collision, but as the Flyer filled
the main viewscreen, Logt finally succeeded in bringing the shuttle’s
warp engines online. In a blinding flash, the small craft disappeared.

“Follow them!” Chakotay ordered.

“Acquiring warp trail,” Campbell called from ops.

After a few frustrating seconds of silence, Chakotay barked, “Where are
they headed, Lieutenant?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know,” Campbell replied.

Kim crossed the few feet separating tactical controls from ops and
studied her readouts.

“She ghosted the trail,” Harry finally announced, slamming his fist down
hard on the console.

“She what?” Lieutenant Tare asked.

“Just before she went to warp she dumped enough warp plasma into the
area to fool the ship’s sensors. We can’t acquire her heading, Captain.
She’s gone,” Harry said, shaking his head in frustration.

The captain took a few deep breaths, until the adrenaline that had been
coursing through him for the last several minutes dispelled and his
heart slowed to match the pulse of the blinking red lights illuminating
the otherwise darkened bridge.

“Stand down Red Alert,” he ordered. “Chakotay to sickbay.”

“I’m a little busy at the moment, Captain,” the Doctor’s voice replied.

“Is Counselor Cambridge recovered?” Chakotay asked.

After a short pause the Doctor said, “He’s conscious, if that’s what
you’re asking.”

“Have him report to my ready room,” Chakotay said menacingly. “Carry him
if you have to.”

The events in sickbay were a blur to B’Elanna. One moment she’d felt the
pleasant wash of relaxation as Doctor Kaz’s sedative entered her system,
and in the next, all hell was breaking loose. Logt had been on her
knees. Then she’d thrown a dagger at Tom. Someone had screamed.

Was that me?

The next thing B’Elanna remembered, she’d been dumped into a soft
leather chair. As she struggled to remain conscious, she’d seen Logt,
powering up a shuttle control panel.

What am I doing on the Delta Flyer?

Then an explosion, and B’Elanna had been forced to dig her hands into
the seat to avoid being tossed out of it.

When the rocking and bucking had finally stopped, B’Elanna found herself
wanting either to vomit or to sleep. A face appeared before her, much
too close, and a cold, rough hand was probing her neck.

B’Elanna forced words through her parched throat, a side effect, no
doubt, of the sedative. “Tom…”

“Will survive,” Logt assured her. “I intended only to disable him, and
my aim was true.”

“You swore to protect me…” B’Elanna barely managed.

“That is exactly what I am trying to do,” Logt said calmly as B’Elanna
fell into a chasm of darkness.

Janeway strode briskly into Chakotay’s ready room to find him pacing
like a caged tiger before his desk.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Commander Logt is a member of the qawHaq’hoch. She’s taken B’Elanna and
the Delta Flyer, and I haven’t a clue where they’ve gone. Oh, and she
almost killed Paris in the process.”

“Almost?”

“The Doctor is performing surgery right now. The blade missed his
femoral artery by a hair. The Doctor says he’ll make a complete recovery.”

“At least that’s good news,” Janeway said. “Isn’t it likely that
wherever Logt’s gone, it’s probably the same place they took Miral?” she
added.

Chakotay shook his head.

“Maybe. That’s assuming Miral is still alive.”

“She has to be,” Janeway said, as if willing it to be so.

“Kathryn, she’s been missing for over a week,” Chakotay replied. “And I
don’t think anyone knows what the qawHaq’hoch’s agenda is, or the
lengths to which they’ll go. We didn’t even know one of them was among
us. Logt knows what we’re planning, and who’s to say they won’t kill
Miral just to keep her from us, especially if we’re on the right track.”

“So we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t?” Janeway asked.
“Where’s your optimism, Captain?”

“I suppose it’s taken a beating over the last few days.”

“That’s understandable, but the law of large numbers says we have to
catch a break soon, right?” Janeway moved to halt Chakotay in his steps
and stared into his troubled eyes. “You’ve done everything possible to
fix this, Chakotay. You’ve bucked Command, risked insulting the
chancellor of the Klingon Empire, helped to uncover evidence of a more
serious threat now facing the Klingon people.”

“Not bad for a week’s work,” he said wryly.

Janeway smiled. “Did I ever, in the seven years we served together, do
anything that led you to believe that being captain was easy?”

He shook his head. “No. You just made it look that way…most days.”

Janeway nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “I spoke with Tuvok. He’ll
be on his way to Naliah IV within the hour.”

“Then with any luck we’ll be on our way in a couple of days.” With a
shake of his head Chakotay added, “Ken Montgomery will probably have me
demoted to crewman and scrubbing plasma conduits by that time, right?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she replied firmly.

They were interrupted by a chiming at the door.

“Come in,” Chakotay called.

Counselor Cambridge entered, looking more than a little the worse for wear.

“You wished to see me, Captain?” he asked.

Chakotay turned to face him, his weary misgivings replaced by righteous
anger.

“What were you thinking?” he asked harshly.

Cambridge stood his ground.

“It occurred to me that the sooner Commander Logt was revealed for the
traitor she is, the sooner we might find Miral Paris,” he said evenly.

“And it never crossed your mind that it wasn’t your call to make?”

Cambridge paused for a moment to consider this.

“You mean, why didn’t I come to you first to express my concern?” he asked.

“Exactly.”

“I was taking the initiative?” Cambridge suggested.

Chakotay looked ready to strangle the counselor.

“If you’ll recall, at our last staff meeting, I did advise you and
everyone present of the likelihood that someone close had betrayed
B’Elanna on Boreth,” Cambridge added.

“It’s a pretty big leap to go from there to attacking the woman in
sickbay.”

“Not really,” Cambridge replied. “I’d observed the commander throughout
the meeting and for some time after. Her body language alone was
practically screaming that she was hiding something. In addition, she
never let B’Elanna out of her sight except to argue with her husband. I
admit it was a good, though not terribly difficult, leap of logic.”

“The next time you decide to take a leap,” Chakotay said, his jaw
clenched, “you will run it by me first. Your precipitous actions
resulted in the capture of B’Elanna and almost killed Tom Paris.”

“Not to mention a nasty bump on the head,” Cambridge offered.

“Had you told me what you were thinking,” Chakotay went on, “we could
have had a security team present when we confronted her. Your instincts
were right, but every other choice you made was absolutely wrong.”

Janeway wondered if she was going to have to physically restrain
Chakotay. The results were unfortunate, but she honestly believed that
had Chakotay been the one to discover Logt’s subterfuge, he would have
probably acted on it as recklessly as Cambridge had.

I wonder if he realizes how much he and Cambridge have in common, or if,
given that, these two will ever get along?

Cambridge had the good grace to look humbled.

“I apologize, Captain,” he said seriously.

“Dismissed,” Chakotay hissed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Given how little intelligence he had for this mission, Tuvok believed he
was making excellent progress. Naturally, he took no joy in this. He was
Vulcan. But he allowed himself to feel satisfied by his work.

He had reached Naliah IV and entered orbit in just twelve-point-five
hours after leaving Earth. At Admiral Janeway’s request, Starfleet
Command had provided him with a Type-9 shuttlecraft, which he was most
comfortable piloting, as these small, sleek vessels had been part of
Voyager’s standard complement. Tom Paris and B’Elanna Torres had done no
end of tinkering with the Type-9’s over the years, and Tuvok had learned
from them how to tweak the dilithium matrix and push the warp engines,
rated for warp 4 and below, to almost warp 6 without compromising the
ship’s integrity. He had been forced to override several of the safety
systems. Given the constraints of time, Tuvok felt the choice was both
logical and appropriate to the situation at hand.

Naliah IV was sparsely populated, a backwater planet favored by those
who wished to unobtrusively carry on activities of dubious legality, or
to simply disappear. There was nothing in the Starfleet Intelligence
files relating to anyone named Fistrebril. Tuvok’s sensor sweeps of the
planet had revealed only two compounds likely to be hiding the artifact
he sought—the two that appeared the most innocuous to his initial scans.

The first was registered as the home of a Ferengi merchant. Tuvok did
not doubt that the interior would be the height of gauche, but the
exterior of the structure was actually quite shabby. A well-concealed
sensor net ringed the property, and the majority of its discernible
defenses appeared to be automated.

The second was an architectural masterpiece, a dwelling embedded within
a cliff overlooking one of the planet’s four largest bodies of water.
Its opulence would have been more appropriate to Risa; everything about
it, from the lushly landscaped gardens and sculpted fountains to the
graceful lines of the stone façade and bays of ten-meter-high windows
that no doubt offered staggering views of the ocean, suggested a
luxurious retreat.

What caught the Vulcan’s attention was not the two armed guards who
patrolled the mansion’s front entrance, but the sixteen others who were
equipped with sensor-resistant armor that made them nearly invisible to
Tuvok’s orbital scans.

Either the occupants of the mansion had made far too many enemies in
their lifetime, or they were intent on protecting something with deadly
force. This site also had dozens of sensor dead zones, which had
initially read as natural formations beneath the dwelling but upon
closer examination were clearly shrouded to fool scanners.

Logic suggested that the occupants of this palatial home were most
likely either to possess the item he was seeking or to know enough about
the planet’s other residents to best direct his efforts.

Tuvok transported into a ravine a half kilometer from the property’s
perimeter. After a brief hike through the dense brush that covered the
hillside, he found a natural rock outcropping to reconnoiter the compound.

Visual survey of the armored guards suggested that they were incredibly
diligent and precise. They paced their assigned perimeters with a steady
gait, leaving no expanse wide enough for an intruder to compromise their
patrol for more than two seconds at a time. Tuvok’s tricorder also
detected several power sources buried at regular intervals in the rocks
a hundred meters beneath his feet, which were probably evidence of an
energy field of some kind that would activate in the event of a breach.

If he’d had a security team at his disposal, it might have been possible
to quietly disable enough of both the field generators and the guards
before the occupants of the residence could retaliate. As Tuvok was
alone, he decided that a solo stealth approach, no matter how well
executed, was probably little more than a suicide attempt.

That left only one decidedly unpalatable option.

Rising from the rocks, he evaluated the security of the compound. Tuvok
dusted off his uniform and keyed his tricorder to interlink directly
with his shuttle’s transport system. Seconds later, he engaged the
transporter and appeared, just as he had calculated, at the front door
of the mansion, where the two armed guards positioned there, obviously
startled by his abrupt appearance, immediately trained their weapons on
him.

“Good afternoon,” Tuvok greeted them cordially.

“What do you want?” one of them growled.

“I wish to speak to the owner of this residence,” he replied.

“The owner isn’t here,” the other grunted.

Tuvok took a fraction of a second to center himself before quickly
grabbing the business ends of both weapons and jerking them from the
guards before they had a chance to fire. He then dropped low, digging
the butt of one of them into the first guard’s abdomen before swinging
wide with the second, smashing it into the second guard’s head. A few
blows later, both guards were sitting in an unconscious heap beside the
door, and both of their weapons had been disabled.

Tuvok then proceeded to tidy his jacket and pants from the scuffle. He
stepped over the guards and knocked upon the heavy wooden door.

A few moments later, he heard a muted series of clicks and the door
swung open, revealing a petite woman of indeterminate age, with fine
golden hair falling just past the waist of a midnight blue beaded gown,
the cut of which perfectly accentuated her well-toned and equally
well-proportioned figure. The woman’s obsidian eyes, set beneath
precisely arched brows, met Tuvok’s without flinching. With a graceful
gesture she swept the tresses framing her right cheek behind a delicate
ear, revealing that the pinna contained two openings to the auditory
canal, one in the center, and a smaller one near the upper edge. The
flesh at her temple was raised by several delicate involutions. He was
instantly intrigued. He had never met a Ullian before.

“How rude,” were her first dismissive words.

“I apologize for any inconvenience my arrival may have caused,” Tuvok
said, “but it is imperative that I speak with the owner of this
residence as soon as possible.”

“You might have simply asked,” the woman replied, gazing at her
unconscious guards.

“In fairness, I did.”

The woman’s face cracked around the edges of her mouth in a hint of a
smile. “Come in,” she said.

The Vulcan followed her through a high atrium that was filled with
dozens of varieties of fragrant flowering plants. Among them Tuvok noted
a few species of rare orchids. A wide arch opened at the end of the
hall, leading to a sunken living area with exquisitely carved furniture
and a bay of high windows. Centered on the room’s main wall was a
painting Tuvok could not immediately place, but it appeared to be in the
impressionistic style favored on Betazed during the Cultural Renewal
five centuries ago. A few tasteful sculptures, writhing nudes in a rare
crystalline stone that suggested they had originated on Deneva, were
strategically placed. However, the item that stopped Tuvok in his tracks
was a small lamp encrusted with amber gemstones set on a pedestal behind
an opaque force field.

Tuvok stepped closer to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. The
low flame emanating from the lamp was said to be eternal. Its color was
the rarest blue-green, and it could only have originated in one place.

“May I ask how you acquired the Light of Amonak?” Tuvok asked. Legend
reported it had been stolen from a Vulcan temple two thousand years
earlier.

“You may ask,” the woman replied, approaching Tuvok with a clear glass
of greenish liquid and offering it to him as she sipped from her own,
“if you will tell me what brings a Starfleet instructor to Naliah,
Commander Tuvok.”

Tuvok considered his response. Clearly in the few moments it had taken
him to disable her men, she had managed to learn more about him than he
would have thought possible.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Tuvok said, accepting the glass but
forbearing to drink from it.

“You have no idea,” she replied.

“I have come seeking someone named Fistrebril,” Tuvok said, opting for
honesty. At the moment it seemed the best defense.

Again, her face cracked into a subtle, wistful smile. “I haven’t heard
that name in years.”

“But you have heard it?” Tuvok asked.

“Why are you here, Tuvok?” she asked a little more insistently.

Tuvok felt his senses tingle uncomfortably. It was nothing more than a
faint dizziness, but he was instantly aware that she was somehow
attempting to probe his mind.

A thief, and a highly adept telepath, Tuvok thought calmly. He was aware
that many Ullians possessed a unique type of telepathy. Their special
gift was the ability to probe and bring forth long-forgotten memories in
others. Centuries ago, this skill had been used toward destructive and
violent ends. To the best of his knowledge, most Ullians currently
working within the Federation focused their abilities on retrieving
memories which would allow them to create a vast repository of
historical data.

Instantly the violating sensation passed.

“I seem to be getting a little rusty,” she replied, clearly more
embarrassed by her failure to hide her actions rather than the fact that
she had tried in the first place.

Interesting as this woman was, Tuvok was ever mindful of time’s
inexorable forward motion.

“I was led to believe that a trader named Fistrebril acquired an ancient
bat’leth crafted by the Klingon master Hal’korin approximately thirty
years ago from a warrior named Kopek,” Tuvok advised her, “and that
Fistrebril now resides on Naliah IV.”

“Not much of a warrior,” she said with what seemed like bemused regret.

“Then you know the object of which I speak?” Tuvok inquired.

The woman paused, her eyes boring into Tuvok’s, before she answered with
a slight nod.

“I am prepared to offer any consideration you might request in return
for borrowing the sword for a short time,” Tuvok said.

“The sword is priceless,” the woman replied. “But then, you know that,
don’t you?”

“It is without any measurable market price,” Tuvok acknowledged. “But as
with most things, I am certain that we might agree to a remuneration you
would find acceptable.”

“Why did you not attempt to take it by force?” the woman asked.

“It seemed a futile gesture,” Tuvok replied, “as this compound is
eminently well defended.”

“Halk and Vrenton’s efforts suggest otherwise,” she said, visibly
chagrined.

“They were taken by surprise,” Tuvok assured her.

“I am sorry, Tuvok,” the woman said, “but there is nothing you could
offer me which would convince me to part with the bat’leth. It was most
challenging to acquire, and though you seem honest enough, I seriously
doubt that if I allowed you to depart with it I would ever see you again.”

“On the contrary, madam, I give you my word that I only require its use
for a brief period of time, after which I will personally see that it is
restored to you.”

“Your logic is flawed, Tuvok,” she said evenly.

“Which part?”

“Your assumption that you will be leaving here at all,” she replied.

Tuvok tensed, setting the untasted beverage on a near table.

“And why is that?”

“I receive so few visitors anymore,” she said almost playfully. “And I
have no intention of parting with the most intriguing one to cross my
path in some time.”

Instantly, a force field snapped into existence, blocking the room’s
only exit. The only consolation Tuvok could immediately find was that
for the moment, she was trapped behind it along with him.

Tuvok did not doubt that she believed she had the power to hold him
indefinitely. But he also realized that she had just revealed what might
very well be her only weakness.

“You require companionship,” he stated flatly.

“That’s one word for it.”

Tuvok actually recoiled at the thought of physical contact with the
woman. Her obvious beauty aside, it would be akin to caressing a live
grenade.

Before he could formulate a response, he saw himself clearly standing in
a cavern lit by the dancing flames of a welcoming fire. He had visited
this place many times, both in life and in his thoughts. It was the
temple his fa ther had sent him to as a young man to learn to overcome
an inappropriate emotional attachment he had developed for one of his
classmates. Though he usually reflected with gratitude upon this memory
there was no comfort in it now. He stood as he had the day he’d arrived,
filled with righteous anger at his father and trembling with rage at the
thought of being separated from Jara.

She released him from this memory and Tuvok found himself gasping for
breath. The respite, however, was too brief.

She began to hunt like a scavenger through his mind. Images he had long
repressed were forced to the surface.

He sat opposite Kes in his quarters on Voyager. She was attempting to
visualize the subatomic structure of a cup of tea. As she mentally
excited the particles, she lost control and Tuvok’s mind began to burn
with the heat intended for the tea. He briefly tasted the blood pouring
from his nose.

He stood in a detention cell, his mind locked in a meld with Lon Suder.
Violence he had only imagined coursed through him. He touched upon an
unknown desire to find pleasure in the infliction of pain, even as he
watched Suder raise his hand to crush the skull of Crewman Darwin.

Then, the memories rushed forward in a torrent he was unable to still. A
Hirogen hunter struck him in the face. He gasped for air as a cargo bay
was filled with blinding smoke. The last shreds of his identity trickled
through his fingers as the Borg Queen made her horrifying presence
known, welcoming him into the Collective.

In the distance, someone was shouting.

He returned to the present moment to find himself lying on the floor,
choking on his screams.

She stood over him, her face alight with something close to joy.

“My goodness,” she said. “I didn’t realize how lucky it is that you’ve
come. We should be able to enjoy ourselves like this for days.”

Tuvok felt no fear as she said this. He did, however, realize that if he
did not find a way to defend himself against her assault, he would
probably not last the afternoon, let alone as long as she intended.

He forced himself to look beyond her at the Light of Amonak. The flame
danced before him. It took every last ounce of control he still
possessed to close his mind to all but the movement of the fire.

He felt her again in his mind, but now, she stood behind a wall which
rose higher and higher as his meditation on the light restored the
tranquillity he associated with his normal conscious state.

“What have you done?” she demanded, her voice instantly dropping its
flirtatious tone.

Tuvok pulled himself up gently, and sat upon the nearest ottoman as he
replied, “Perhaps if you told me exactly what you seek, I might be able
to accommodate you.”

Her incredulousness was apparent. “You would offer yourself to me freely?”

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

“If you will agree to allow me to borrow the sword,” he replied.

“It seems I have underestimated you, Tuvok,” she whispered.

You have no idea.

She knelt before him in a pose which suggested sub mission. The air
practically crackled with the tension of anticipation.

“Show me,” she said.

“Show you what?”

“Your pain.”

Placing his fingers over her brows and cheekbones, he gazed directly
into her eyes and said softly, “My mind to your mind.”

She gasped with what Tuvok sensed was pleasure, as he slowly entered the
cavernous depths of her consciousness. The mental barriers he had
constructed over the years to protect his psyche from telepathic
intrusion had been fortified by the Light of Amonak. He worked with
surgical precision, offering her the images he knew she sought, but
finally, he controlled what she saw.

She sipped greedily at each violent confrontation he fed her. She saw
him fight the Kazon, the Vidiians, the Ilarians, the Mari, and the Borg.
She witnessed the havoc he wrought upon his quarters in the dark days
following his meld with Suder. She lingered lovingly over the anguish he
had known in bidding farewell to Noss.

Even as he occupied her with these images, he probed her mind for the
information he required.

He quickly discovered that beneath her enigmatic façade was a mind
almost drowning in a vast and tumultuous sea of deception. Her raw
strength was palpable, but it paled in comparison to the depths of her
need.

He passed over dozens of identities she had assumed over the years of
acquiring her massive wealth. Even he could not determine at this point
who she truly was or once might have been. He glimpsed multiple attacks
upon innocent minds; minds she had ravaged in the name of her
unquenchable thirst.

More importantly, Tuvok saw the precise location of the bat’leth he was
seeking, along with the codes required to deactivate her security grid.

He felt her buck beneath him, attempting to reassert her control over
the meld. For all of its intensity, her mind was a crude weapon.

It could never hope to compete with the hundred-plus years he had spent
honing his mind to a finely disciplined beam of pure white light.

Though she had not earned his compassion, he felt obligated to offer it,
nonetheless.

You suffer needlessly, Tuvok assured her.

It is not my suffering that is of interest, she replied. It is yours.

Only then did he truly accept the reality that for her, no amount of
mental discipline he might be able to briefly impose upon her could ever
heal the wounds that separated her from sanity.

Tuvok knew what he must do. He felt her tremble beneath his hands. The
intimacy she so desperately desired was the weakness that would allow
him to breach the last of her defenses.

Though Vulcans did not experience pain in the ways that most humanoids
did, it was a part of them. Tuvok brought this buried force to bear, the
true depth of agony he had experienced in his life, and gave her every
bit of it, everything she thought she wanted from him and had already
determined to torturously drag from his mind, the moment he had knocked
upon her door.

Yes, the part of her mind which was still intact cried out.

Then Tuvok gave her more.

He felt her utterly abandon what little control she still maintained,
even as she realized fleetingly what this abandonment would likely cost
her.

A few minutes later, he terminated the meld. She crumpled to the floor,
her beautiful shell now housing a mind which had been forced to retreat
in the wake of the fury he had unleashed upon it.

He carried her gently to a chaise that faced the Light of Amonak. He
positioned her so that its flame would be the first thing she would see
when she eventually regained consciousness. Its calming force would do
much to ease her troubled psyche when she awoke.

He had no difficulty deactivating the room’s force field or locating the
bat’leth. It was housed in one of several storage rooms carved into the
cliff beneath the house. Only once he was safely returned to his shuttle
and had set his course to rendezvous with Voyager at Qo’noS did he allow
himself to reflect on his actions.

Though he could never condone the wanton destruction of sentient life,
he could rest in the certainty that what he had done to her had been
merciful in comparison to what her mind had revealed that she intended
to do to him.

His only regret was that at no point in the meld had he actually been
able to discover her true name.

The last few hours had been the hardest for Tom. The Doctor had done his
typical, exemplary job repairing the damage done by Logt’s knife. The
knowledge that he had once again lost his wife was a wound that
continued to fester, and was beyond the ministrations of anyone. He was
teetering on the edge of a place he hadn’t visited within himself in a
long time: despair.

Assembled in the transporter room were Chakotay, Admiral Janeway, Seven,
the Doctor, Harry Kim, Counselor Cambridge, and the Emperor Kahless.

Tuvok’s shuttle had just entered the bay, and he was at this moment en
route to the transporter room.

As the group stood in tense silence, Tom overheard Kahless say something
in a low voice to the Doctor.

“It is an amazing piece of technology,” the Doctor replied to the
emperor’s query.

“And it allows you to travel anywhere you wish?”

“It does.” The Doctor nodded proudly. “I will admit that when I was
first activated and was confined to either sickbay or the holodeck, it
was hard to imagine what I was missing. Now, I simply could not fathom
my existence without this mobile emitter.”

At last the doors to the transporter room slid open and Tuvok entered
carrying the bat’leth, which Tom would have sworn was B’Elanna’s had he
not known otherwise.

“I hope we haven’t put you to too much trouble, Tuvok,” Chakotay said
amiably.

“None that bears discussing at the moment,” Tuvok replied. Turning to
Paris, Tuvok said, “Admiral Janeway has advised me of the developments
here. Any assistance I may provide in locating both B’Elanna and Miral,
I am at your disposal.”

“It’s good to see you too, Tuvok,” Paris replied, warmed by the sentiment.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, shall we?” Janeway asked of the room.

As those assembled arranged themselves on the transporter platform, Kim,
Seven, Tuvok, and Chakotay dividing the twelve bat’leths between them
for their journey to the planet, Chakotay turned to Janeway, saying,
“Should we advise Chancellor Martok of our impending arrival and request
his permission to access the monument?”

“Why?” Kahless interjected. “It’s my shrine.”

No one, least of all Paris, seemed inclined to argue with that.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

B’Elanna stirred from the deepest sleep she had enjoyed in a long time.

The baby.

Miral was crying. She needs me.

B’Elanna had become most adept at navigating through Miral’s first
several months of life. Despite her semiconscious state, she rolled over
onto her side, reaching out for her daughter.

Her fingers met cold, hard stone.

B’Elanna forced her eyes to open and found herself lying on a smooth
stone shelf in a small cell, hewn from solid rock. The faint buzz of a
force field met her ears. Lifting her sluggish body, she turned and saw
that the cell’s only entrance was blocked by an energy barrier.

The memories returned. Logt had captured her and taken her from Voyager.
B’Elanna had no idea where she was or how long she’d been unconscious.
She had set out to rescue Miral and instead become Logt’s prisoner.

Impotent fury washed over her as B’Elanna was forced to accept the fact
that she had, once again, failed her daughter.

Then Miral cried out again.

B’Elanna’s heart began to run a thready race. She practically flew
toward the doorway of her cell, only hesitating to touch the wall of
deadly energy that was the last barrier separating her from her child.

Her mind worked the problem. The field’s generator had to be buried
beneath the rock walls. If she could find a sharp enough edge, she could
dig. B’Elanna turned, scanning the room for anything that could be
useful. If nothing else, her hands might have to do.

A shadow fell over her from behind as Miral’s screams intensified.

Wheeling around, B’Elanna saw Commander Logt standing on the other side
of the barrier.

She was holding a very unhappy Miral in her arms.

“Miral!” B’Elanna shouted in mingled joy and frustration. Her arms
physically ached to assume Logt’s burden.

She started toward the doorway but Logt stopped her with a brisk, “Stand
back.”

Logt then nodded to someone B’Elanna could not see and within seconds,
the force field dropped.

It took every ounce of self-control B’Elanna possessed not to charge
forward as Logt calmly entered the cell. Only once the field had blinked
back into existence did Logt extend her arms and allow B’Elanna to take
her child, who was literally clawing her way out of Logt’s embrace to
her mother.

The moment her arms were once again wrapped securely around her
daughter, B’Elanna sank to the floor, cradling Miral, alternately
hugging and kissing her. Though Miral welcomed this at first, soon
enough it was clear B’Elanna was practically smothering her, and Miral
again began to struggle and cry out.

B’Elanna released her gently, and Miral pushed herself onto the floor.
Once she was solidly on her hands and knees, she did something that
threatened to tear B’Elanna’s still pounding heart from her chest. With
only moments of unsteadiness, Miral pushed herself up onto her tiny legs
and began to teeter forward and away from her mother.

After only a few seconds, her unsteady gait toppled her forward, but
even finding herself again on the floor, Miral only cried out lustily,
not in pain, but in frustration with herself.

“Oh, my sweet darling,” B’Elanna cooed as she crawled toward Miral.
“You’re walking!”

With a determined scowl, Miral again pushed herself up, and this time,
she giggled at herself before clapping her tiny hands together and
reaching out for B’Elanna.

“Your daddy will be so proud!” B’Elanna congratulated her. In reply,
Miral barked out a loud “Da!”

There were many sins B’Elanna intended to make Logt answer for at a more
appropriate time. Denying her the opportunity to witness her daughter’s
first steps, and from the sound of it, Miral’s first halting attempt at
a word, were at the top of that list.

“As you can see, your daughter is unharmed,” Logt said evenly.

In a flash, B’Elanna closed the space between them and drove her fist
into Logt’s gut.

As expected, Logt recovered quickly, throwing B’Elanna to the ground. To
B’Elanna’s delight, she clutched her abdomen and demanded, “What was
that for?”

“Tom,” B’Elanna said fiercely.

Logt replied with a weary nod of respectful acknowledgment and said,
“You must be starving.”

B’Elanna was, but her pride reasserted itself.

“What are you going to do with us?” she demanded.

Logt took a deep breath, considering the question.

“If you will refrain from acting rashly, I have much to show you. I can
assure you, any attempt at escape is futile. There is nowhere to run.”

I’ll be the judge of that, B’Elanna thought.

“Lead the way,” B’Elanna said haughtily, scooping Miral up from the floor.

Logt started walking, and B’Elanna followed her out into a dimly lit
hallway. It was like stepping into the bowels of an ancient dungeon.
Apart from the occasional energy barrier, suggesting the existence of
more cells like B’Elanna’s, this was as dank and forlorn a place as she
had ever seen. She had believed from day one that the qawHaq’hoch were
fanatics, blinded by religious obsession. Their prison only solidified
her belief that this accursed order was a remnant of the past. B’Elanna
tightened her grip on her daughter, swearing she would bury it once and
for all.

Miral squirmed in her arms as Logt led them up a short staircase carved
into the rock. B’Elanna shushed her, as they emerged into a vast cavern.
Like the chamber below, it had been excavated from rough stone, and it
reached over a hundred meters above and in all directions. The stone
edges protruding from the walls were the only remnant of the room’s
original nature.

The cavern was a warren of high-tech chambers, from what B’Elanna could
see, devoted primarily to scientific research. Embedded in almost every
wall of the parti tioned space were touch-activated displays. Peeking
where she could, B’Elanna glimpsed surgical bays, massive scanners and
diagnostic interfaces, and a variety of devices, the purpose of which
she could only guess. It reminded her vividly of a Starfleet facility.
Every surface was clean, the air had a tinny, recycled quality, and
light poured into the chamber courtesy of a ring embedded into the rock
over ten meters above her head.

There were Klingons everywhere she looked. None of them were dressed as
warriors, but they wore woven tunics in varying colors, which suggested
some division of labor.

“Not what you were expecting?” Logt asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Not exactly,” B’Elanna had to admit.

Logt continued on, past this hive of activity. Occasionally someone
would look up as they walked and grace B’Elanna and Miral with a
reverent nod or slight bow.

B’Elanna found it mildly distasteful, but managed to respond as
graciously as possible with a nod of her own.

Finally, they emerged into a larger partitioned space. It was filled
with tables, not unlike those in Boreth’s library, and the walls were
lined with shelves housing scrolls, many of which rested behind energy
barriers, no doubt to protect them from the ravages of oxygen exposure.
Above these shelves, larger automated drawers had been set into the
rock. They stretched all around her and so high into the wall above that
B’Elanna could not see where they terminated.

Groups of workers were collected at a few of the tables, poring over
manuscripts, making notes on standard padds. Logt led her away from
them, toward an empty table that offered a semblance of privacy.

“This is our hall of records,” Logt began, once B’Elanna was seated with
Miral in her lap. The child seemed exhausted by her earlier exertions
and was slowly drifting toward what B’Elanna felt certain would be only
a short nap.

“The qawHaq’hoch were founded over fifteen centuries ago. Our initial
purpose was to keep records of all Klingon births, deaths, and
marriages. As the great and noble Houses of the empire began to grow and
prosper, our work became more valuable. Very few Klingons of so-called
noble birth were anxious to see their bloodlines diluted by mixing with
commoners. Emperors rose and fell on our watch, and as their interests
often diverged of necessity from truth, we were both a blessing and a
curse, depending upon who was in power at any given time.”

“And when did you go from being custodians of history to religious
fanatics?” B’Elanna demanded.

“The faith of our people is part of our history,” Logt chided her. “Very
few Klingons still hold that faith in any regard, but it has sustained
us for thousands of years. When the prophet Amar was slain at Kahless’s
side, his mate joined our order. She brought to us the original scrolls
of Amar, and reaffirmed our belief, as expressed by Ghargh, that in time
the will of the gods would be made known to us.”

B’Elanna nodded for her to continue.

“As you already know, the day came when we were forced to continue our
work in secret. Hal’korin, one of our most illustrious members, created
this sanctuary for us and provided us with the means to exist undetected
for all time.

“Throughout the centuries, we have kept abreast of all technological
advances and put them to good use. We now possess the most accurate
records of the genetic history of the Klingon species ever compiled.”

“How thrilling for you,” B’Elanna observed dryly.

“You should take care, B’Elanna,” Logt said coldly. “Right now we are
all that stands between the Klingon Empire and its downfall.”

“Because of this curse?” B’Elanna asked disdainfully.

“Our faith has long foretold the two signs of the Curse of the Gods.
Understand that when we say ‘gods’ we are not referring to some
noncorporeal entity to be prayed to in times of need or feared in times
of peril. It is our belief that long ago, the first Klingons had an
interaction with what we presume to be an alien species. These aliens
would have been sufficiently advanced at the time of this encounter to
appear godlike to our forebears. It is also likely that these aliens
were driven out by those they thought to control or abuse. The Klingon
heart is now as it has always been, fierce and unbending.”

“And so the Klingons killed their gods because they were more trouble
than they were worth,” B’Elanna said.

“Our research shows, however, that there was some early corruption of
the original Klingon genome, possibly as a result of experimentation or
interspecies relations with these aliens. It is slight, and it did
result in the adaptation of several favorable traits, our redundant
organs, for example. We have long suspected that the Curse of the Gods
would be an inevitable expression of this taint. As the Federation
Research Institute verified at our request, and as your own friends
confirmed, this corruption will result in a struggle between two kinds
of Klingons which will tear the Empire apart. Only the Kuvah’magh can
save us now.”

B’Elanna interrupted her harshly. “The scrolls say that the Kuvah’magh
will bring the Klingon gods back and by doing so will avert this curse.
Miral is an infant. How is she supposed to fulfill that destiny, living
in this cave in the middle of nowhere?”

“Miral cannot escape her fate, and the curse, seemingly fulfilled, will
take time to come to fruition. Within thirty generations the Klingon
species as it exists now will cease to be. Fek’lhr births will gradually
outnumber those of normal Klingons, and our destruction will follow.
Miral has more than enough time to fulfill the prophecy. But it is of
the utmost importance that she be protected until she is old enough to
do this.

“It was never our intention to deprive you of your child,” Logt assured
her. “But we have always been cognizant of the threat posed by the
Warriors of Gre’thor—”

“Would the Warriors of Gre’thor have even known about Miral if you
hadn’t kidnapped her and forced Kahless to contact them?” B’Elanna shot
back, her frustration mounting.

“The moment Grapk and D’Kang arrived on Boreth, I knew their brethren
would not be far behind,” Logt replied.

Realization struck B’Elanna.

You and the Kuvah’magh are in danger.

“You were the one who sent me the warning?”

“Of course.”

“Then why didn’t you just let me take Miral and leave Boreth?” B’Elanna
asked.

“You fail to consider the peril you would put her in should you ever
return to Starfleet, especially as un informed as you were at the time,”
Logt insisted. “Had you applied yourself more diligently to your
studies, perhaps—”

“I get it,” B’Elanna snapped, unwilling to be lectured like a schoolgirl.

“We are the only ones who can keep Miral safe. And we will die to the
last initiate before we will fail in our duty to see that she fulfills
the role fate has prescribed for her,” Logt said more patiently,
diffusing some of B’Elanna’s hostility.

B’Elanna sighed deeply. Religious fanaticism was one thing, and quite
easy for her to dismiss. But the beliefs of the qawHaq’hoch,
substantiated as they apparently were by the science, were a little
harder to fault. B’Elanna pulled Miral closer, briefly disturbing the
child’s sleep. At the very least, she could relate to the order’s desire
to sacrifice themselves, if need be, for Miral’s sake. There was nothing
B’Elanna would not do from this point forward, to try and spare Miral
this fate, even if it meant finding these mysterious gods herself and
dragging them back to Qo’noS.

“I understand,” B’Elanna grudgingly admitted. “But I’ll never leave
Miral with you. She’s my daughter. She deserves a normal life, no matter
what fate might have in store for her.”

“I have a suggestion I would ask you to consider,” Logt said.

“What?”

“Join us.”

B’Elanna took the suggestion like a slap across her face. She had the
good sense to realize that Logt seemed to believe she was bestowing a
great honor upon her. Pity was, there was no way B’Elanna would ever be
able to accept. If Tom had been like a caged targ on Boreth, she
couldn’t imagine what it would do to their marriage to take up residence
here.

When B’Elanna didn’t answer immediately, Logt rose from the table and
said, “Perhaps you should take some time to consider it.”

“I will,” B’Elanna agreed.

As they made their way back toward the far end of the cavern, B’Elanna
was struck by something she hadn’t noted at first, so overwhelmed had
she been by the many surprising details of the sanctuary.

Before she could ask Logt about it, the overhead lighting dimmed and a
soft alarm began to sound.

Logt quickened her pace, B’Elanna rushing behind, until they had cleared
the work stations. To the right was the staircase leading down to the
holding cells. To the left was a small archway, leading to another
tunnel. At the entrance was what looked like a small decorative
sculpture, a circular base with a small stone monument extending up from
its center. The stone was now pulsing with a bright white light at
regular intervals that matched the sound of the alarm.

“What’s happening?” B’Elanna asked.

“Something has triggered the planet’s orbital security perimeter,” Logt
replied as shouts and orders erupted around them. Workers poured out of
their research spaces and hurried into the tunnel past the miniature
version of Hal’korin’s obelisk, and from the distant sound of clanging
metal, they were arming themselves for battle.

Voyager, B’Elanna thought, hope giving her a new rush of adrenaline.

Logt hurried B’Elanna back to her cell and pushed her inside. There
B’Elanna found a plate of fresh bread and dried meat waiting for her
beside a large pitcher of water. B’Elanna gingerly set the sleeping
Miral down on the stone bench where she had awakened, thinking Logt
gone, but just as she had done so, Logt grabbed the child with one hand
and leveled a disruptor at B’Elanna with the other.

“What are you doing?” B’Elanna shouted, waking Miral.

Logt backed from the room, and the force field sparkled into place.

“Consider my offer, B’Elanna,” Logt said grimly before disappearing from
view.

B’Elanna could have wept with rage. Instead, she settled for slapping
the force field, and received a healthy shock and singed flesh for her
trouble.

She paced back toward the bench and in her anger, tossed the plate of
food to the ground. Logt had lulled her into trust and once again
betrayed her.

At least she’s consistent, the voice of reason managed to pierce the
dissonance of B’Elanna’s mind. It sounded eerily like the voice of
Counselor Cambridge.

B’Elanna stopped to collect herself. Howling at the fates or berating
herself for her stupidity was of no use to Miral. If Voyager had found
them, or worse, if the Warriors of Gre’thor were at the door, B’Elanna
would do well to prepare for battle.

She dropped to the floor and collected the food she had discarded. She
forced it quickly down her gullet, devouring every last morsel and
washing it down with the water.

As she ate she considered her options. Wherever they had taken Miral, it
was undoubtedly the most secure loca tion within the compound. Much as
she hated to admit it, B’Elanna should at least try and join the fight
if the Warriors of Gre’thor were at hand.

As she imagined the battle and saw Logt leading her forces, she
remembered the question she had wanted to ask Logt before the perimeter
alarms had sounded.

Every face she had seen when they toured the sanctuary was female. She
had been trying to imagine Tom there with her and realized how lonely
and out of place he would surely feel.

Where are all the men?

“Another big tree…some more pretty flowers…” Kim said, cataloguing the
results of his visual scan of a sector of Cygnet IV.

“Are we boring you, Lieutenant?” Seven asked.

Seven, Harry, Kahless, and Cambridge were standing in Voyager’s
astrometrics lab, scrutinizing every square millimeter of the planet
Hal’korin’s obelisk had told them was the location of the hidden
qawHaq’hoch sanctuary. Everyone present had expressed both awe and
relief when the bat’leths B’Elanna had provided them had worked exactly
as she described, once they were placed at the monument.

The ship’s initial sensor sweeps of the surface had revealed nothing to
suggest that any humanoid life-forms were present on the planet, but as
Harry had mentioned—perhaps one too many times for Seven’s patience, he
decided silently—this verdant, lush world sure was pretty.

Seven, what am I looking at?” Harry asked, staring at a geothermal scan
the sensors had just spat forth in a three- dimensional holographic
representation at one of the adjacent terminals.

Seven moved from Kim’s side to examine the findings. “I recalibrated the
sensors to look for geothermal anomalies. If anyone is operating from a
hidden location, it is likely to be buried either within a natural rock
formation or perhaps beneath the surface of one of the planet’s oceans.
As there are no obvious power sources present, I concluded that they are
most likely tapping into the planet’s core for sustainable resources,”
Seven advised him.

“Or they’ve got one hell of a cloaking system,” Harry added.

Seven ignored him, studying the display for a moment as Cambridge took
the opportunity to better study her lithe and obscenely
well-proportioned frame, which was quite gloriously accentuated by her
deep red one-piece body suit. For reasons Harry wasn’t tempted to
analyze too deeply, the counselor’s harmless appraisal and obvious
appreciation of what he saw sent a tinge of jealousy shooting up from
the depths of Harry’s psyche.

It’s none of your business, Harry’s better angels advised him as his
cheeks began to redden. It was true that any man with a pulse—and
probably some women, come to think of it—couldn’t help but admire
Seven’s physical attributes. Harry had barely been able to speak in
complete sentences in her presence for the first several weeks she’d
been aboard Voyager. But his initial attraction had become brotherly
affection over the years. She might look like every man’s fantasy, but
once you got to know her, Seven was much too complex to simply relegate
to the realm of eye candy. In many ways, she was as innocent as a child.
She was still learning what it was to be human. This brought out Harry’s
protective side, and that seemed to be kicking in with a vengeance as he
observed Cambridge.

“Anything worth taking a closer look at, Seven?” Kim asked in a brisk
tone, which had the immediate effect of redirecting Cambridge’s
attention from Seven to him.

“Perhaps,” Seven said, altering the display to zoom in on a particular
sector. “Bring up the surface scan of sector 347,” she said imperiously,
moving back to the main screen.

With an inward smile Harry noted that she hadn’t even observed
Cambridge’s interest. Of course, Seven was like that when she was
working. She could focus with an intensity unknown to most humans.

Harry then turned his attention to sector 347.

“Pretty rocks and a mountain,” he said.

Seven obliged him with a sidelong smirk.

“The thermal scans of this area show anomalous readings. These spikes
are higher than other comparable rock formations on the surface,” she
said, watching carefully as the display panned over the area.

“What exactly are you hoping to see?” Cambridge asked, clearly not
wanting to be left out of the conversation.

“I’m not sure,” Seven replied.

“Go back,” Kahless’s voice interrupted.

Harry jumped at the urgency in the emperor’s tone. The entire time
they’d been standing in this room, he had seemed content to merely
observe their progress. Kim didn’t think that Kahless had moved a muscle
in the last hour; Harry had actually forgotten he was there.

Seven reversed the scan to retread the ground it had just covered.

“There,” Kahless said softly, stepping closer and pointing to an
outcropping of rocks near the base of the area’s highest mountain.

“I don’t see anything,” Seven said, pausing the display.

“Magnify that section,” Kahless commanded.

Harry studied the rocks for anything that might explain the emperor’s
sudden interest.

This is a waste of time, he thought, frustrated.

“There it is,” Cambridge said almost reverently, moving to Kahless’s side.

“There what is?” Seven asked pointedly.

Harry was relieved to know that he wasn’t the only one in the room who
couldn’t see whatever had caught the emperor’s attention.

“Computer, overlay this grid with an image found in my personal archive:
file Cambridge, Klingon mythological studies, qawHaq’hoch, mark of
Hal’korin,” the counselor ordered.

The computer complied and a sloping vertical line, intersected by twelve
smaller lines, appeared over the rocks.

“Scale to size and look for comparable pattern in the rock face.”

A few moments later the computer completed the operation, and the mark
of Hal’korin was shown to match perfectly with what looked like a
natural scarring of the rocks.

“Wow,” Harry said, impressed.

“Computer,” Seven requested, “calculate the likelihood that this pattern
occurred naturally. Cross-reference all planetary scans.”

The computer’s cold feminine voice responded, “Prob ability that the
pattern is naturally occurring are forty-six million seven hundred
thirty-nine thousand to one.”

“We’ve found them,” Kahless said assuredly.

Turning to Kim, he said, “Collect a security team, Lieutenant, and have
them ready to transport to the surface immediately. Make sure your team
is comprised of your finest warriors.”

Despite the fact that Harry didn’t actually report to the emperor, he
found himself starting directly for the door when Cambridge interrupted,
“Pardon me, Emperor, but that would be an incredibly bad idea.”

“Why?” Kahless demanded, clearly shocked at the insolence.

“Is it your intention to overwhelm the hundreds of warriors in the
sanctuary below with the force of a handful of Voyager’s finest, or did
you have a more subtle attack in mind?”

Kahless simply stared at Cambridge in wonder.

“As we do not possess sufficient numbers to overwhelm them, at some
point we must consider entering into negotiations. And for that to
succeed, we might not want to offend them right off the bat,” Cambridge
went on.

“Offend them how?” Seven asked.

“How does it go?” Cambridge mused. After a moment he quoted, “‘Beyond
the gate she joins in noble stead, the path where only men must fear to
tread.’”

Kahless glared hard at the counselor until his lips broke into a wide,
ferocious smile.

“Your studies do you credit, human,” Kahless nodded approvingly, “though
it is a dubious translation of Brach’Tun’s letter.”

“I’ll admit the Klingon text doesn’t rhyme, but the meaning is
unaltered. And Brach’Tun was, arguably, the last Klingon to actually
speak directly with a member of the qawHaq’hoch, and live to tell the
tale,” Cambridge replied. “His daughter, wasn’t it?”

“Excuse me,” Harry interrupted. “What’s the problem?”

Kahless answered his question with one of his own.

“Who among your crew are the fiercest women warriors?” the emperor asked.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lyssa Campbell had barely closed her eyes when Kim’s voice came blaring
over the comm system, ordering her to the transporter room. She’d
completed two full duty shifts on the bridge before turning over ops to
Ensign Lasren, a Betazoid who was far too young and eager to please for
Lyssa’s tastes.

Unfortunately, as soon as he had assumed his station, Lasren had
discovered a strange energy reading, a subtle gravimetric displacement,
which Lyssa had first noted some nine hours earlier and quickly
relegated to the realm of “odd things often encountered while scanning
space.” Lasren had insisted on running a full spectral analysis, which
had, as Lyssa anticipated, yielded no new information. But given the
fact that the anomaly had first appeared on her watch, she’d felt duty
bound to see the quest through to its end. After advising Lasren not to
take the disappointing results of his snipe hunt too hard, and grabbing
a quick dinner in the mess, she’d hurried to her quarters more than
ready for the three hours of sleep she now desperately needed before
alpha shift began.

She’d arrived in the transporter room to find Admiral Janeway already
briefing Lieutenants Samantha Maplethorpe and Vanessa Waters. Seven of
Nine was conferring with the transporter operator on duty, a
soft-spoken, burly man, Ensign Donner, suggesting that she was already
apprised of the mission’s specs.

Lyssa was quick to grasp the broad strokes. They had located what they
believed was the entry to the qawHaq’hoch sanctuary, and theirs was the
first team being sent to breach the perimeter.

Only after they had beamed down to the surface and begun the short hike
to the plateau that they believed concealed the entrance did it dawn on
Lyssa that she was surrounded by only female officers.

Sure, it happened from time to time. But it was a little odd, especially
considering the fact that Commander Paris should have been leading the
charge to recover his wife and child.

“Is it me, or are we a little estrogen heavy this trip?” Lyssa quietly
remarked to Waters.

“Weren’t you listening?” Waters asked a little petulantly. The trim,
white-haired security officer seemed to be having a little more trouble
with the climb than Lyssa, who was a passionate and frequent hiker.

“I’m running on about fifteen minutes of sleep, Waters. Want to cut me a
little slack?”

“The qawHaq’hoch are supposedly all female,” Waters advised her between
heavy breaths. “Kahless says if we send men to the sanctuary, it adds
insult to injury. Any man who enters is killed on sight. Women, they
might at least talk to. It’s like a rule or something.”

“Sounds like a dumb rule to me,” Lyssa replied. “I mean, how do they…or
what do they do when…I mean…that’s just no fun at all.”

Before Waters could reply, Admiral Janeway had reached the crest of the
plateau and signaled for the team to halt. After a quick scan and a
brief conference with Seven, the message was relayed down the short line
for everyone to stay put while Janeway and Seven approached the entrance
alone.

Lyssa’s phaser was already in her hand, and for good measure she scouted
the terrain. At first blush, it looked like an excellent spot for an
ambush. And given the fact that sunrise on this part of the planet was
about a half hour away, the dim twilight only enhanced her sense that
they were being watched by one or many, who had them at a considerable
disadvantage. Still, Voyager’s sensors were no doubt trained on the away
team, and should be able to alert them to any imminent threat.

At the entrance, which appeared to be nothing but a wall of solid rock,
Janeway and Seven were arguing. It wasn’t the first time Lyssa had seen
these two butt heads over the years, and depending on the circumstances,
they could be entertaining to watch. Back in the Delta quadrant, Seven
of Nine had always been the person on Voyager who didn’t seem the least
bit awed by their formidable leader. Right now, between her exhaustion
and the uncomfortable squatting on the side of a mountain, Lyssa just
wished they’d get on with it.

They seemed to reach a consensus, and Janeway tapped her combadge
quickly and spoke into it so low that Lyssa couldn’t make out the words.
Lyssa then heard the hum of a transporter beam, and a bat’leth appeared
on the ground at Janeway’s feet.

The admiral claimed it and attempted to wedge it into the rock face. As
Lyssa found herself wondering if the admiral hadn’t gone round the bend,
the solid wall actually vanished, revealing a small opening.

I’ll be damned, Lyssa thought, remembering that Starfleet didn’t just
give those extra pips away.

Janeway signaled for the rest of the team to join them.

“All right,” she said, once they were gathered. “I’m going to take
point. Seven, you’ll bring up the rear, weapons at the ready. Our
tricorders can’t penetrate this rock. There’s either a natural or
technological barrier scattering our signals, so we really don’t know
what we’re going to find in there.”

A lot of really frustrated Klingon women, Lyssa surmised, but refrained
from saying it aloud. Actually, the thought was more than a little
disconcerting. Klingons, male or female, could be formidable
adversaries, and none of them could afford to forget that.

Lyssa fell into line directly behind Janeway as they entered the tunnel.
Almost immediately her nostrils were assaulted by a gust of rank air.
Janeway switched on her palm beacon. They cleared the tunnel, which led
the team into a much larger space.

Maplethorpe had already exited the tunnel and Waters was huffing behind
her. Seven was probably irritated no end, Lyssa thought with a grin.

As Lyssa took a few steps farther into the cavern, she was searching for
the switch to her own beacon. She realized that the sound of heavy
breathing she’d first thought was Waters, was actually coming from the
wrong direction.

As a whip of adrenaline rushed up Lyssa’s spine, she turned to Janeway,
who was playing her light slowly over the cavern in the direction of the
disconcerting sound, which was now mingled with a metallic clank Lyssa
couldn’t place.

Finally, Lyssa found her beacon’s switch, though she almost dropped her
phaser in the process. Her beam of light momentarily transected with
Janeway’s, then moved farther to the left, illuminating a face that
Lyssa’s worst nightmares couldn’t have coughed up on their best day.

A sharp intake of breath from Janeway alerted Lyssa to the fact that the
admiral might be paralyzed with fright. It certainly seemed like a
viable option.

The creature, or at least what she could see of it, was covered in
grayish white fur streaked with what Lyssa could only assume was blood.
The shape of its massive face was reminiscent of a polar bear’s, but
where that animal had always had a benign and regal appearance to Lyssa,
this creature’s gaping maw was filled with rows of jagged teeth, and its
fierce orange eyes were tainted with feral desperation. Around its neck
was a heavy iron chain. Lyssa followed the chain and found its end
embedded in the wall of the cliff. The leash was clearly meant to limit
the creature’s movement.

The creature let out a deafening roar that should have brought the
cavern down on top of them.

Without further thought, Lyssa thumbed her phaser to maximum stun, took
two quick steps to place herself in front of Janeway, and fired.

Her beam struck the creature’s right shoulder, and Lyssa watched in
horror as the energy discharge was dispersed over the animal’s fur,
doing no damage whatsoever. Then she understood: the creature’s oily
coating, undoubtedly applied by its keepers, somehow acted as a
scattering field diffusing her phaser fire.

The next ear-splitting roar first caused Lyssa to take an immediate step
back, even as she thought she heard Janeway shouting for her to hold
fire. Then, the creature fixed her solidly with a cockeyed grin and
shook its head rapidly. Lyssa realized with growing alarm that she had
unintentionally just become the most interesting thing in the room.

Suddenly, she felt the wind knocked out of her as something very large
and sharp came swiping into her midsection from the right. The next
thing she knew, the foulest stench she’d ever smelled was upon her, as
she found herself staring at nothing but crusted, yellow teeth.

Hold your fire!” Janeway commanded as she hurried Lieutenant Maplethorpe
back toward the tunnel. The others had just emerged and were quickly
moving toward the right of the cavern, as far from the terrifying noise
as the space would allow.

Janeway’s first instinct had been to rush to Campbell and try to pull
her clear of the creature’s range of motion, but the razor-tipped claw
that had felled her, then dragged her to the mouth of the creature, had
made that choice impossible. Before Janeway could move, the creature had
ripped Campbell’s head from her body. The several crunches that followed
suggested that Lyssa’s misery was over, while simultaneously causing
Janeway’s gorge to rise.

Once the creature seemed satisfied that it had dealt with the threat, it
roared again and loped forward, but was quickly straining against its
leash. The rest of the team had at least ten meters of space in which to
maneuver, but the only real option left to them was to retreat the way
they had come.

As long as that chain holds, Janeway thought grimly.

“What the hell is that?” Waters whispered frantically.

“A targot,” Seven replied calmly.

“Geez, Seven, I didn’t really want to know,” Waters said.

“It is a bearlike predator, native to—” Seven began.

“We’ll put it in the report, Seven,” Janeway hissed to silence her.

The targot continued to eye them hungrily.

“So, back the way we came then?” Maplethorpe urged.

“Not yet,” Janeway said. “Seven, focus your light just past the
creature’s head.”

Seven did as she was told and quickly illuminated what Janeway was sure
she’d already seen: another tunnel leading farther into the mountain.

The only way to get there was to somehow get past the targot.

Janeway knew they only had a few minutes at the most to make a decision.
She considered the notion that their four remaining phasers might
succeed where Lyssa’s solitary one had failed, but it didn’t seem
likely. Clearly the qawHaq’hoch had tools up their sleeves that were
completely unknown to Federation science.

While it was possible that there were several other entrances to the
cavern, given the fact that one of Hal’korin’s bat’leths had opened the
door, it seemed likely that this was meant to be the road to the
sanctuary. This also meant that there had to be a way to get past the
targot.

But how?

Perhaps the beast had been trained to recognize members of the order.

Or maybe something simpler.

If brute force wasn’t going to get the job done, what were the other
options?

An idea flickered briefly into Janeway’s mind, courtesy of a Doberman
pinscher who had once taken a liking to Molly, her Irish setter.

As the only other choice was retreat, and Janeway hadn’t come this far
to be defeated by fear, she turned to the others.

“I’m going to try something. If it doesn’t work out, you’re to return to
Voyager immediately,” she said quickly.

“What are you going to try?” Seven asked.

“What do you mean ‘work out’?” Waters demanded frantically.

The admiral faced both of them with her sternest gaze. They both clearly
recognized from her expression that she was impervious to argument, and
nodded without further questions.

Janeway then turned and squared her shoulders. She took a few halting
steps into the darkness toward the targot.

Nice bear, she thought grimly.

The creature rocked its head in her direction. The cavern was now
faintly illuminated by the others’ wrist beacons, but there wasn’t
enough direct light on the animal’s face for Janeway to get a sense of
its intentions.

She stepped forward again, and the beast raised itself up and lumbered
toward her.

Well aware that this might be the worst choice she’d made in a long list
of questionable calls over her lifetime, Janeway took another step
forward and extended her right hand, palm up. From this distance the
beast could easily take off her arm, probably up to the shoulder.

The creature emitted a quick huff of air and growled menacingly.

Janeway stood her ground, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was
looking for a way out of her chest, whether the rest of her body
intended to come along or not.

A heavy, wet, noxious tongue landed on Janeway’s palm. Grimacing, she
forced herself to remain still.

Once the creature had had a good taste of her sweat, it lost interest in
Janeway and retreated back to its corner. It left just enough space for
her to move past it toward the far tunnel, which she could clearly see
sloped downward.

When she was several meters down the tunnel, Janeway turned back to see
the wide-eyed faces of the away team. She nodded, encouragingly, and
Seven was the next to step up, mimicking Janeway’s movements precisely.

Waters and Maplethorpe were harder to sell, but to their credit,
followed Janeway’s lead and a few moments later, all four were moving
cautiously down the tunnel.

“That was a foolhardy choice, Admiral,” Seven admonished her softly.

“Are you arguing with the results?” Janeway asked.

“No,” she said, “though I don’t understand why the creature allowed us
to pass.”

“We need to get you a pet, Seven,” Janeway replied.

“Admiral?”

“If the qawHaq’hoch have to use this entrance…There had to be a way past
the creature that didn’t include killing it, much as I would have liked
to for Lyssa’s sake,” Janeway said wearily. “It’s used to the company of
those who interact with it regularly, which means the qawHaq’hoch are
also probably comfortable around it. You had to be willing to set aside
your fear and let it get to know you a little. Many animals, no matter
how ferocious they may appear, can be quite gentle and accommodating to
their masters. By standing up to it in a nonthreatening way, you let it
know that you are part of its pack.”

“While I find your reasoning sound, it was still a huge risk to take,”
Seven said.

“Not when you consider what we stand to lose if we fail,” Janeway replied.

Voyager’s bridge was shrouded in tense silence. At Chakotay’s left, Tom
Paris sat with concentrated intensity. He had raged privately to
Chakotay when he learned of Logt’s treachery, and Chakotay had allowed
him to blow off steam. He still didn’t know if Tom was angrier with
himself or with B’Elanna for their current predicament. Since then, he
had alternated between barely repressed fury and a darker despondence.
If they didn’t succeed in finding and safely returning B’Elanna and
Miral to him, Chakotay worried that his old friend and trusted first
officer might never recover.

Come to think of it, that wasn’t a scenario Chakotay had any interest in
exploring either.

“Status, Ensign Lasren,” Chakotay said.

“Sensors show no sign of the away team, Captain. We lost them the moment
they entered the mountain,” Lasren replied.

It wasn’t surprising, and actually gave credence to Kah less’s belief
that the qawHaq’hoch were hiding within, though Chakotay couldn’t
imagine what technology they were using to flummox the ship’s sensors.

A brisk sigh escaped Paris’s lips. Chakotay knew that if he didn’t
provide Tom with an outlet for his aggression soon, the waiting would
drive him over the edge. Problem was, there was simply nothing any of
them could do until the admiral reported in, or missed her first
scheduled check.

Kim suddenly called out, “Captain, I’m picking up a vessel decloaking to
starboard.”

“On screen,” Chakotay ordered, rising to his feet. “Who the hell is
that?” he asked as the ungainly ship came into view.

“It’s the Kortar, sir,” Lasren’s voice replied.

Chakotay had feared for days that T’Krek’s vessel wouldn’t be far behind
his. Had Chakotay been in his place, he would have begun tracking
B’Elanna and Kahless as soon as they’d escaped. As it stood now,
Chakotay had no idea how long the Kortar had had Voyager in its sights.

“Red Alert,” Chakotay ordered. “Harry?”

“Shields are at maximum, Captain,” Harry replied. “Arming phasers.”

“Hail them, Lasren,” Chakotay said.

After a brief pause Lasren replied, “No response, sir.”

Chakotay watched as the Kortar moved at low impulse past Voyager and
assumed a slightly lower orbit of the planet. Within a few moments,
bright bursts of orange phaser fire erupted from it and began bombarding
the planet below.

“What are they targeting?” Chakotay asked, more for confirmation,
because he already knew the answer.

“Sector 347,” Harry replied. “They’re bombarding the area surrounding
the mountain presumed to be hiding the sanctuary.”

“They’re trying to flush them out,” Paris said sternly.

“Or, from this distance, they can’t be more accurate,” Chakotay suggested.

“Captain, I’m detecting transporter activity,” Lasren interrupted.

“How many?” Chakotay asked.

“A hundred Klingon life signs are now on the surface, moving toward the
entrance our team discovered.”

“Open a channel,” Chakotay called.

“They can hear you, sir,” Lasren replied.

“This is Captain Chakotay of the Federation Starship Voyager. We are on
a rescue mission, and your actions are putting our people at risk.”

“You think they don’t know that?” Tom asked softly.

“Cease fire and transport immediately or we will take action,” Chakotay
finished. Personally, he didn’t feel that T’Krek deserved the warning,
but protocol demanded it.

“They’ve completed another transport,” Lasren advised. In the time
Chakotay had given them, the strength of their forces on the surface had
just doubled.

“Harry, target their weapons systems and fire,” Chakotay ordered.

T’Krek clearly anticipated the move. Voyager’s phasers barely grazed the
target as the Kortar’s helmsman began evasive maneuvers.

The turbolift doors slid open, and Kahless and Tuvok stepped onto the
bridge as Harry called out, “They are returning fire.”

Voyager shuddered under the impact.

“Shields are holding,” Harry advised.

“Attack pattern omega pi,” Chakotay ordered in response.

“Captain,” Kahless called, as Tare and Harry executed the maneuver,
positioning Voyager between the Kortar and the planet, “I will lead a
team to the surface to engage the Warriors of Gre’thor.”

“Do it.” Chakotay nodded as the ship took another hit.

“Permission to join the away team?” Paris asked immediately.

Chakotay stared hard at Tom, but it wasn’t really a tough decision.

“Bring them back to us,” Chakotay said firmly.

“I will, Captain,” Tom replied.

As Tom followed Kahless to the turbolift, Harry said, “Six teams are
assembling in the transporter rooms, but we’ll still be outnumbered
three to one, assuming the Kortar doesn’t send more troops.”

Chakotay didn’t like the math, but given the size of his crew, there
wasn’t much he could do about it.

“Captain, I’d like to join the away team. As their commanding officer—”
Harry asked.

Chakotay cut him off. “I need you on the bridge right now, Lieutenant.”

“I will assume Lieutenant Kim’s post, Captain,” Tuvok offered.

“Very well.” Chakotay nodded.

Chakotay appreciated Harry’s request. The Kortar was engaging
defensively. Their true goal seemed to be to keep Voyager busy while
their men attacked the sanctuary. T’Krek wasn’t doing any serious damage
to Chakotay’s ship, and probably wouldn’t until the captain forced his
hand.

“Tare, we need a little distance so we can drop shields and transport
our teams down.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Within moments she had maneuvered the ship at one quarter impulse just
clear of the Kortar’s weapons.

Chakotay followed her actions from the command console embedded in the
arm of his chair.

The captain ordered Lasren to drop shields and authorize the transports.

They barely had time to restore their shields before the Kortar moved
into position behind them.

Almost seventy of Chakotay’s crew were now on the planet, about to
engage the Warriors of Gre’thor in battle. Chakotay didn’t honestly know
if it was a battle they could win; the odds were definitely against
them. But he knew for certain that defeat wasn’t on their minds as they
rushed headlong to the aid of their companions.

“Voyager’s personnel have engaged the Warriors on the surface,” Tuvok
called out from tactical.

Gods of my fathers, give them strength, Chakotay silently prayed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Seven of Nine had never had a bat’leth held at her throat. There was,
unfortunately, nothing she could do about it for the time being. The
away team had been ambushed in the tunnels by a dozen Klingon warriors
armed to the teeth, and Janeway had given them unequivocal orders to
surrender. Seven agreed with the admiral’s choice, but she remained
unhappy with the immediate results.

Seven had been agitated from the moment they entered the targot’s
cavern. Her pent-up worry for B’Elanna and Miral aside, watching the
creature dismember Lieutenant Campbell had been a horrific and wasteful
spectacle. She had maintained her composure, yet an unfamiliar voice had
stirred, demanding action. The qawHaq’hoch had caused considerable pain
and disruption in the lives of those she cared about, and it had to end.

Sacrificing her life in a futile gesture against the superior force that
had captured them, Seven realized, would not bring her any nearer her goal.

The qawHaq’hoch led the away team through a series of winding,
downward-sloping tunnels. The shaft they chose had been invisible to her
tricorder until they entered it. It was clearly a shortcut known only to
the order.

The route Janeway’s team had followed after confronting the targot had
been significantly more hazardous. The first obstacle they had
encountered had been a series of swinging bridges suspended over a long
chasm. Constructed of brittle wooden slats, the bridges had creaked
ominously under their weight, and the team had been forced to cross them
one uneasy member at a time. Waters had been the one to discover that
crouching low while walking, a difficult balancing act that was most
painful to the thighs, kept the bridges steady and allowed for quicker
passage.

Next they had encountered a junction where thirteen shafts led in
varying directions. Their tricorders were useless at aiding them in a
choice, and checking each one individually was definitely a worst-case
scenario. Maplethorpe had noticed that above each shaft was an engraved
marking. The tricorder had successfully translated them as Klingon
pictographs, precursors of the written Klingon language, with very
simple meanings, like birth, honor, glory, battle, and death. Initially
this hadn’t made their selection process any easier, until Janeway had
observed that the orientation of the symbols suggested the path of one’s
life. Beginning with birth, one moved through battle to honor, glory,
and ultimately death. Beyond death was a symbol the tricorder translated
as memory or history. Seven had intuited that given the qawHaq’hoch
obsession with the past, this might be the right road. Because the
qawHaq’hoch were Klingon, Maplethorpe had urged them toward battle,
while Waters thought honor more appropriate. Finally, Janeway had
pointed out that there was only one pictogram that represented a part of
life that was solely the purview of women.

A few hundred meters into the tunnel marked birth, they found themselves
surrounded by the warriors who had taken them captive.

They had reached a terminus, and each had been silently assigned two
women to guard them while the leaders of the warriors had inserted a
bat’leth into the wall and triggered an entrance into a larger chamber.
In the brief glimpse she’d had before the door had slid shut, Seven had
noted a flurry of activity in the vast space beyond. She surmised the
activity was connected to the distant but regular blare of what sounded
like an alarm, and wondered if their presence had activated the warning
system.

After a few moments, the door slid open again and Commander Logt moved
quickly toward them. Before she reached them, the ground shook and
particles of loose dust filled the air.

“What was that?” Janeway demanded.

“Undoubtedly your people are losing patience with your efforts,
Admiral,” Logt said briskly.

“That’s not Voyager,” Janeway corrected her. “We’re not due to check in
for a few more minutes, but even if we missed that contact, they would
never fire directly on this place without ascertaining that we were
already dead.”

“We should oblige them,” the warrior holding Seven suggested unhelpfully.

Another warrior rushed to Logt’s side and whispered something in her
ear. The only word Seven could make out of the hasty communication was
“Gre’thor.”

“Take them to the holding cells,” Logt ordered, and immediately the
guard behind Seven dug the blunt end of her weapon into Seven’s back to
urge her forward.

“We would prefer to fight at your side,” Janeway said calmly.

Logt looked back, clearly surprised by the admiral’s offer.

“The Warriors of Gre’thor have arrived,” Janeway said evenly. “They have
come to kill Miral Paris, and no one here will sit idly by while that
happens.”

“We have betrayed you and those you hold most dear,” Logt countered.
“You cannot be trusted.”

Janeway abruptly grabbed the blade of the weapon leveled at her throat,
drawing blood from her palm. She then raised her dripping hand to Logt
and said, “I swear to you now that we will stand with you against those
who have come to kill us all. Once they are defeated, we can discuss the
fate of Miral Paris.”

Logt favored Janeway with a hard stare, then drew a short sword from her
belt and unflinchingly opened a gash into her left hand. Raising it, she
clasped Janeway’s and said, “I accept your oath.”

Janeway nodded grimly, and Logt turned, saying, “Follow me.”

Kim thought he had been well prepared for conflict. He and his security
staff had drilled repeatedly on the holodeck in various combat
scenarios. As Klingons made some of the most challenging opponents, they
were often chosen as opponents in training simulations—exclusively,
since Harry had learned of the threat posed by the Warriors of Gre’thor.

Unfortunately, the reality of this situation bore little resemblance to
any of the simulations.

The Warriors of Gre’thor were vicious. They seemed to take pleasure in
the gory chaos surrounding them. Their weapons of choice were variations
on Klingon bat’leths, mek’leths, and shorter blades they sent whizzing
through the air with alarming accuracy—though they were also armed with
disruptors.

It also didn’t help that they were engaging them on a hillside, and for
now, the warriors held the higher ground.

There was little usable cover. The hillside was dotted with scrub brush,
and the loose soil made keeping one’s feet and balance almost impossible.

Harry had led his team to a rocky outcrop that offered a semblance of
protection. From there, they fanned out through the brush on their
bellies, looking for clear shots in an attempt to pick off as many of
their foes as possible with their phaser rifles.

It seemed that no matter how many they felled, there were always more.
The Warriors had successfully formed an impenetrable line along the
ridge that led to the sanctuary’s entrance.

The other two Voyager teams, one led by Kahless and the other by Tom,
were spread out along the hillside. Their cover was equally sparse, and
for every shot they managed to get off, four came answering back from
the Warriors’ disruptors.

In the first few minutes of battle Harry had lost Peterson and
Pallizolo, and he could see the bodies of at least five more security
personnel lying dead on the hillside.

What they needed was a way to breach the line. Settled behind a rock,
and stinging from dozens of small burrs that had punctured his uniform
as he crawled through the brush, Kim signaled for Ensign Ward to lay
down cover fire. Ward rose and fired his volley and Harry turned
quickly, stabilized his elbows on the rock, and fired five clean shots,
successfully picking off one of the Warriors above.

“This is getting us nowhere fast,” Ward said grimly as he crouched,
narrowly avoiding a disruptor blast that pinged off the rocks above and
started a small downpour of loose grit onto Harry’s head.

“Harry, can you hear me?” Tom’s voice shouted through Harry’s combadge.

“We’re pinned down about twenty meters from your position,” Harry replied.

“Kahless is going to swing his men wide to the left and charge that
flank. Prepare to lay down cover fire.”

“Understood,” Harry said, motioning to his team to collect themselves
and hurriedly advising them of their new target.

Moments later, they rose and sent a barrage of fire toward the Warriors
collected at the farthest left edge of the ridge as Kahless cried out,
leading twelve of Harry’s best men and women up the hill. Reager and
Uzan fell instantly, but the others managed to reach the line, where
they immediately engaged the Warriors in hand-to-hand combat.

In the subsequent chaos an opening appeared in the center of the line as
the Warriors nearest the fray turned to aid their comrades. Kim ordered
his team to concentrate their fire to the right of the breach, hoping to
widen it while avoiding firing too close to the Starfleet officers who
had charged the line.

Paris’s team clearly had the same idea, and within minutes the line had
been successfully divided.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Tom called over the combadge.

It was time for his team to assault the line. Given their position,
Tom’s team would have to go first, but Harry would be on his heels.

“We’re right behind you,” Harry replied.

Kim motioned to his team to lay down cover fire. Tom’s team had barely
begun their ascent, when a fresh group of Warriors poured through the
breach in their line and charged down the hillside directly toward Tom’s
position.

“Oh, hell,” Ward said in disbelief.

Harry didn’t have to order his men to do the obvious. They immediately
turned their rifles toward the onslaught, taking down as many Warriors
as possible before they reached Tom’s officers.

And still, more were coming.

Janeway stood between Seven and Waters. The dozens of women waiting at
the main entrance to the sanctuary chamber had been arranged in columns,
preparing to meet the Warriors of Gre’thor, should they find their way
through the maze of caverns above. An eerie calm had descended upon
them. Overhead, the cry of a Warrior or the clash of metal would reach
their ears, but few among the ranks even flinched at the ominous sounds.

With a nod, Logt, who stood at the head of the line next to B’Elanna,
dispatched twenty warriors, who went rushing into the tunnels above.
Janeway hadn’t been allowed to greet B’Elanna when she had been brought
to join the ranks. But she had caught sight of Janeway and Seven, and
clearly her spirits had been buoyed by their presence. Janeway was
pleased that Logt had accepted her suggestion to allow B’Elanna to join
their fight.

Soon, the pings of disruptor blasts came echoing down, along with what
sounded like a distant steady march.

It’s only a matter of time, now, Janeway thought, steeling her nerves
with a deep breath.

Stay with them!” Chakotay shouted to Tare. “Tuvok, keep targeting those
disruptors.”

Bursts of angry energy flew from Voyager’s phaser array as Tare
maneuvered into position off the Kortar’s aft bow to give Tuvok a clear
shot.

Unfortunately, whoever was piloting T’Krek’s ship just as quickly
compensated, effectively evading, once again, the potentially disabling
shot.

For what had seemed like hours, but in reality had only been a little
over ten minutes, Voyager and the Kortar had done this hostile dance,
each unable to inflict any serious damage on the other.

The only good news, apart from the fact that their shields were holding,
was that Voyager had eliminated T’Krek’s ability to send further
reinforcements to the planet’s surface.

Chakotay held tight to his chair as Tare dropped Voyager’s nose in a
short dive, while Tuvok unleashed another barrage of phaser fire.

This time, one of the Kortar’s many aft-mounted cannons erupted in a
ball of orange flame.

“Good shot,” Chakotay congratulated Tuvok. “Tare, bring us around—”

“Captain, another vessel is approaching at full impulse,” Lasren called
out, interrupting him.

“Can you identify it?”

But before Lasren could reply, another Klingon warship, bigger and
meaner than the Kortar, appeared on the viewscreen and immediately
opened fire upon the Kortar.

“It is the Chancellor Martok’s flagship, the Sword of Kahless,” Tuvok’s
maddeningly placid voice advised Chakotay.

Before Chakotay could smile in relief, Tare had adjusted their course,
and Voyager joined the flagship in another barrage, which did serious
damage to the Kortar’s port weapons array.

“The Kortar’s shields are failing,” Tuvok called out.

Clearly outgunned, the Kortar quickly turned tail and began to maneuver
out of orbit.

The Sword of Kahless let loose another volley, but before it could reach
the Kortar, the renegade ship had jumped to warp.

“Analyze their warp trail,” Chakotay ordered. “Helm, prepare to lay in a
pursuit course.”

“Aye, sir,” Tare replied.

“Captain, we are being hailed,” Lasren called.

“Onscreen.”

The face of Martok appeared before Chakotay, grinning broadly.

“Greetings, Captain Chakotay,” Martok said.

“A pleasure, as always, Chancellor,” Chakotay replied.

“While I appreciate your assistance up to this point in subduing the
Kortar,” Martok said pointedly, “it is no longer required.”

“Understood.” Chakotay nodded.

“It appears you have dispatched ground forces as well,” Martok said.

“We have.”

“At the moment they appear to be outnumbered. We should remedy that.”

“By all means.”

“Once my troops have been deployed,” Martok said, “I will pursue the
Kortar.”

Much as Chakotay would have liked to be the one to bring the Warriors of
Gre’thor to their end, he knew better than to deny the chancellor his
prize.

“Good hunting, Chancellor,” Chakotay nodded, “and thank you.”

“Qapla’,” Martok replied, signing off.

Seconds after Tuvok confirmed transport of a hundred soldiers to the
battlefield below, the Sword of Kahless jumped to warp, in pursuit of
its quarry.

Knowing Martok, it would be to the ends of the known universe.

Fall back!” Paris shouted.

Every meter of ground he gave up was one more meter Paris knew he would
eventually have to conquer if he was ever going to see his family alive
again, but it would be pointless to die standing his ground.

Disruptor blasts pounded into the ground and pulverized the solid rocks
dotting the hillside. Tom threw his right hand over his shoulder and
wildly fired his hand phaser to discourage pursuit. The lusty cries
coming from behind him had Tom doubting it was making any difference.

Suddenly his right foot sank into a deep crevice, and Tom went flying
facedown into the dust. Despite the angry, hot pain now gripping his
leg, Paris forced himself to curl onto his side to keep from skidding on
his stomach down the rest of the incline. His head, barely protected by
his hands, hit something hard, and he came to rest in a shallow gully.
Temporarily blinded by the sun, Tom automatically raised his phaser and
fired wildly.

The warrior who had been pursuing him dodged these aimless shots and
suddenly blocked the sun, stepping into Tom’s line of sight with a
bat’leth raised above his head, ready to strike.

Tom took better aim and fired again, but the phaser had exhausted its
power supply.

With a ferocious grin the warrior began his downward stroke, and Tom
pushed off the ground to his left, hoping to avoid the worst of what was
coming.

But the strike never came.

Instead, Tom heard another loud cry, and the grisly thump of metal
meeting flesh that was not his.

Paris quickly scrambled to his hands and knees and looked up.

The warrior who should have killed him was now teetering toward his
left, as if suddenly half of his body had become too heavy for the rest
to bear. A long gash ran from his right shoulder to the middle of his
belly, and blood was pouring over the long blade embedded in his gut.

Behind this grim spectacle stood another Klingon, who proceeded to pull
his blade—a mek’leth, now that Tom could see it more clearly—from his
victim. The slain warrior fell to his side, mere inches from Tom’s head.

With a curt nod to Tom, the victor then turned and hurried back up the
hill toward a pair of Starfleet officers who were fighting hand to hand
against a single Klingon attacker.

What’s happening? Tom wondered dizzily. Either he’d hit his head harder
than he realized or something had changed.

Tom tried to rise, but his right ankle wouldn’t hold his weight. A sharp
pain in his right leg also suggested that his recent surgery might need
another look when all was said and done.

He steadied himself on the boulder that rested at the lip of the gully
and looked out over the hillside. He could easily pick out the few
Starfleet officers still standing in the melee, but now Klingons were
also fighting Klingons.

Has there been a mutiny in the last few minutes? Tom wondered. Not that
he minded. Any port in this storm would do just fine.

Then he realized that most of the Klingons now rampaging over the hill
were wearing the distinctive black and silver of the Klingon Defense
Force as opposed to the antiquated uniforms of the Warriors of Gre’thor.

Suddenly, Harry was rushing to his side. He was cradling his right arm
in his left, and his uniform was torn in several places, many of which
seeped fresh blood, but otherwise his injuries appeared to be superficial.

“Who are these guys?” Harry asked breathlessly when he reached Tom.
“They transported in just behind the ridgeline, and I figured we were
done for.”

“That would be the cavalry, Harry,” Paris said with a smile.

Tom had always enjoyed John Ford’s movies.

The first two Warriors to reach the entrance of the sanctuary were
quickly dispatched by the women on the front line. One was beheaded by a
single swipe of a bat’leth, and the second struggled valiantly for a few
moments before being surrounded by four qawHaq’hoch with equally lethal
agendas.

As the ranks around her began to disperse, Janeway wondered why they
weren’t using the disruptors on their belts. Killing was killing, and it
didn’t seem to be less or more honorable whether done by blade or blast.
But watching the qawHaq’hoch engage hand to hand, she realized that they
had been well trained for hundreds of years in ancient battle
techniques. As the next wave of unfortunate Warriors poured into the
entrance, braying like wild animals, the women met their force with
serene composure, moving fiercely, decidedly, and with great effect.

The admiral clutched her phaser rifle tightly, prepared to fire at the
first open shot. Soon enough disruptor blasts began to fly throughout
the cavern, and the ranks broke as everyone moved either to engage or to
seek cover.

Janeway planted herself behind an overturned desk that had been pulled
from a nearby work area and took aim at the sanctuary entrance. Firing
well above the heads of the women battling there, she managed to take
down one warrior who was rushing into the fray.

She aimed again, only to have her shot spoiled by an insistent tugging
on her arm. Turning, she saw Seven, her rifle tossed over her shoulder,
gesturing toward an opening in the cavern to her far right. Janeway
barely had time to glimpse B’Elanna disappearing into it, alone.

The battle raged around them. To their credit, the qawHaq’hoch had
things well in hand. Janeway could clearly see Maplethorpe and Waters in
the middle of the fracas, teaming up on one disarmed warrior with their
fists.

“B’Elanna might need our assistance,” Seven said urgently.

Janeway nodded and, following Seven, ducked and dodged her way through
the chaos toward the tunnel B’Elanna had disappeared down.

Over the din of battle raging above, B’Elanna strained to hear any sound
that might reveal Miral’s whereabouts. She doubted seriously that the
qawHaq’hoch had left her daughter unattended. Gripping the bat’leth Logt
had armed her with, B’Elanna refused to give her worries full rein.

B’Elanna hurried past the cell she had been held in and followed the
darkened hall to a dead end.

Doubling back, she heard footsteps approaching and ducked into the
shadows, raising her weapon to strike. She paused when an urgent whisper
met her ears.

“B’Elanna?”

It was Admiral Janeway.

B’Elanna quickly stepped into the path of Janeway and Seven of Nine.

“I’m here.”

B’Elanna greeted Janeway with a quick hug so intense it might have
cracked a rib. “Thank you for coming.” She looked at Seven. “Both of you.”

“How did you convince Logt to allow you to join the fight?” B’Elanna asked.

“It’s a long story,” Janeway replied hastily, “but suffice it to say
that while it might be a good day to die, I’d much prefer we all get out
of here in one piece.”

“We have to find Miral,” B’Elanna said quickly.

“Do you have any idea where she’s being held?” Janeway asked.

B’Elanna shook her head in frustration. “She has to be down here, but
the rest of these cells are empty.”

Seven had already pulled out her tricorder and was scanning the walls
diligently.

“Anything?” Janeway asked.

“These rocks, just as those above, are quite efficient at blocking our
scans,” Seven replied.

“I know she’s here,” B’Elanna insisted.

“Admiral,” Seven said, pausing at a section of the wall opposite the
cell that had been B’Elanna’s.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Seven replied, raising her hand and running it gingerly
over what looked like solid rock. “There are faint energy readings
emanating from this wall. This might be the power source for those force
fields.”

B’Elanna hurried to her side and mimicked her movements.

When B’Elanna touched the wall, an interface panel that had been
shrouded suddenly appeared.

“It must be set to activate only by a Klingon,” Seven surmised.

B’Elanna was frantically searching the display for any indication of
Miral’s whereabouts. Finally, in frustration, she raised her bat’leth
and drove it into the panel, which immediately spouted forth a hail of
sparks.

Seconds later, the solid wall at the end of the cavern vanished to
reveal twelve qawHaq’hoch warriors standing in an unbroken circle around
one warrior who clutched a struggling Miral in her arms.

“Crude, but effective,” Seven noted as she and Janeway leveled their
rifles at the warriors.

“Give me my daughter!” B’Elanna bellowed.

The women stood in tense, defiant silence.

“She’s not going to ask nicely again,” Janeway warned.

“B’Elanna Torres!” another voice shouted from the corridor.

Wheeling around, B’Elanna saw Commander Logt rushing toward them.

“Don’t make me kill these people,” B’Elanna said furiously. “I’m taking
my daughter back, and I really don’t care anymore who is standing in my
way.”

Janeway and Seven moved to stand beside B’Elanna, while still keeping
their weapons trained on Miral’s guardians.

“The Warriors of Gre’thor who discovered the sanctuary are all but
defeated,” Logt said, “but more will come. We must all leave this place
at once.”

“If we can reach the surface safely, Voyager will be able to transport
us out,” Janeway suggested.

Logt turned her most intimidating glare upon the admiral.

“You swore to stand with us in battle,” Logt cautioned Janeway. “Your
life is forfeit if you break that oath.”

“Well, you’re welcome to try and take it from me,” Janeway replied, “but
as far as I’m concerned, we’ve fulfilled that oath. The only issue now
is what will become of Miral.”

“And what of the oath you swore to me on Boreth?” B’Elanna demanded of
Logt.

“I swore only to serve you faithfully until your daughter was found,”
Logt replied. “That, too, has been done.” She stepped toward B’Elanna,
clearly hoping to make her see reason. “B’Elanna, you must listen to me.
The scrolls say that only the qawHaq’hoch will be able to protect the
Kuvah’magh. Join us, and there will never again be a need to keep you
from Miral.”

B’Elanna shook her head in disbelief. Determination was one thing, but
it was a fine line between that and the lunacy of Logt’s suggestion.

“If you are referring to the scrolls of Ghargh, they say nothing of the
kind,” Seven interrupted, correcting Logt.

Logt turned fiercely on Seven. “Do not presume to teach me the truths of
the faith to which I have dedicated my life!”

“Seven is right,” B’Elanna said, her eyes suddenly blazing with relief.
“The scrolls never mention the qawHaq’hoch at all.”

“They refer numerous times to ‘those who remember,’” Logt insisted.

“But who is to say that they meant you?” B’Elanna replied. “Your order
wasn’t founded until almost a thousand years after Ghargh wrote those
words, and the founders of the order may have chosen the name
qawHaq’hoch simply because they intended to fulfill the prophecy.”

“In my experience, fate doesn’t give a damn about our intentions,”
Janeway added.

“I can’t join you, Logt,” B’Elanna went on, “but I understand now what
awaits Miral when she is grown, and I’ll prepare her for it. There is
nothing I will not sacrifice to see that she lives long enough to avert
this curse, should it come to that.”

“It is also possible that by bringing the genetic defect to light,
Klingon scientists may discover another solution,” Seven suggested.
“Perhaps the true purpose of your work has been to reveal this threat
long before it might otherwise have been discovered. You may already
have protected the Kuvah’magh, not from those who wish to kill her, but
from the destiny that was foretold.”

“Seven has a point,” Janeway added. “If you were to share your findings
with the Klingon Empire and other Federation scientists, they would
certainly be willing to devote whatever resources are necessary to
reversing this genetic defect.”

“Listen to them, Logt,” B’Elanna pleaded. “Didn’t Amar say that the only
thing more dangerous than a secret was those who keep it?”

“No,” Logt replied. “Amar said that a secret’s only danger was in the
keeping of it.”

“I don’t see the difference,” B’Elanna said, shaking her head.

Logt paused, clearly torn by B’Elanna’s words.

“Nor do I,” she finally agreed somberly. “In all the months you studied
on Boreth, B’Elanna, I never believed you had learned a thing,” she went
on. “Perhaps I was mistaken.”

Paris stood in the transporter room, shaking with a combination of
fatigue and relief.

Harry and the emperor were by his side. Kahless had already
congratulated them heartily on a battle well fought, but Tom knew that
had it not been for the timely appearance of Martok’s men, they would
all have been torn to shreds on that hillside. He could see from Harry’s
haunted expression that visions of the battle would probably populate
his nightmares for many days to come.

Finally, the familiar whine of the transporter sounded, and the forms of
Janeway, Seven, Waters, and Maplethorpe appeared before them. Tom’s
heart sank as the group hustled to clear the transporter pad until,
moments later, a second transport brought B’Elanna, Miral, and Logt to
Voyager.

Tom could barely see through the tears that now poured freely from his
eyes the heart-rending vision of his daughter, clinging tightly to
B’Elanna.

B’Elanna rushed to his arms and Tom quickly embraced them both. Only
Miral’s cry of discomfort forced him to loosen his hold. Miral began to
wail in earnest, and it was the most beautiful sound Tom had ever heard.

“Hello, baby,” Tom said softly, gently caressing Miral’s head as he kept
his other arm wrapped firmly around B’Elanna’s waist.

Miral’s eyes fixed on his face, and she paused briefly as her cries
turned to dismayed hiccups.

“Did you miss your daddy?” Tom asked lovingly.

“We both did,” B’Elanna said softly.

Tom turned to B’Elanna and kissed her hungrily.

“Let’s never do this again,” he whispered the second his lips were free.

B’Elanna was about to reply when Miral demanded their full attention by
shouting at the top of her little lungs, “Da!”

Tom focused on her instantly, unable to believe what he had just heard.

“Da! Da!” Miral said again, opening her arms wide and reaching out to
her father.

OCTOBER 2378

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How did it go?” Kathryn demanded the moment she opened the door of her
San Francisco apartment to Chakotay.

“I could use a drink,” Chakotay replied.

“That bad?”

Given the less than optimal series of events of the past two weeks,
following directly on the heels of the battle at Cygnet IV, Chakotay
thought his hearing with Admirals Montgomery, Upton, and Batiste had
gone reasonably well. But the worry lines creasing Kathryn’s brow
clearly indicated that she had feared the worst.

“All things considered,” Chakotay said as she gestured toward the small
dining table, which had been set for two, “I think the panel was very
understanding.”

Kathryn stared in disbelief as she accepted a glass of merlot Chakotay
offered before pouring his own.

“Define understanding,” she requested as she sat on the sofa and
fortified herself with a generous sip.

Taking this as a cue that the dinner she had replicated for them would
go down better over less serious conversation, Chakotay followed
Kathryn’s lead and took a seat beside her.

“They were, of course, seriously displeased with my failure to complete
the mission to Kerovi.”

“You did try,” Kathryn said defensively.

“I did,” Chakotay nodded, “but apparently I don’t get any points for
trying.”

In fact, the moment his crew had been safely returned to Voyager,
Chakotay had immediately set course for Kerovi in hope that they would
arrive before the Changeling’s trial had concluded. There were far too
many Klingon Defense Force warriors remaining on the planet for Voyager
to accommodate, so Kahless had offered to remain on Cygnet IV with them.
A brisk communication with the Klingon authorities had assured the
captain that a a ship would be dispatched immediately to collect
Martok’s soldiers. To Chakotay’s amazement, Kahless had also agreed to
accept Commander Logt back into his service as his personal guard. She
had remained on the planet, no doubt doing what she could to assess the
damages sustained by the qawHaq’hoch at the hands of the Warriors of
Gre’thor.

Last Chakotay had heard, the Kortar had continued to elude Martok,
though several ships in the Klingon fleet had joined the hunt. This
loose end troubled Chakotay considerably, because he knew it would cause
B’Elanna and Tom no end of worry.

As soon as Voyager had entered Kerovian space, they had been met by an
armed fleet of vessels and ordered to turn back. Chakotay was advised
that the Changeling they had come to interrogate was dead, and their
presence was no longer required or welcomed.

Based on his last conversation with Montgomery, Chakotay had feared that
the Kerovian government had caved to public pressure and executed their
prisoner. Janeway had used some of her back-channel contacts to learn
that the Changeling had actually attempted to escape custody just before
the trial began, and had been killed.

“Given the fact that you helped uncover a serious threat to the health
and well-being of the Klingon Empire, I would have hoped that the panel
would at least understand your decision to delay the mission to Kerovi.
It’s not as if you could have known that the Changeling would be killed
before you arrived,” Kathryn argued.

“They rightly pointed out that I made my choice to alter course based on
my personal relationship with B’Elanna and Miral. I didn’t know that by
pursuing that course, I would be providing assistance to our allies, so
even though the mission was an unqualified success, they’re still
concerned about my judgment,” Chakotay replied.

“That’s ridiculous,” Janeway said, as if she were the one whose judgment
was being called into question. As she had backed Chakotay every step of
the way between Earth and Cygnet IV, in a manner of speaking, it was.

“I actually believe I was spared a harsher punishment because Martok
sent an official commendation to Starfleet for my meritorious service to
the empire, expressing his gratitude for our ‘assistance’ and noting Tom
Paris’s diplomatic skills.”

Kathryn actually chuckled at this. “How thoughtful of him.”

“And I’m also willing to bet that you’re in more trouble over this mess
than I am.”

The admiral rose from the couch and moved to gaze out the window.
Finally she replied, “You let me worry about my troubles, all right?”

Chakotay set his wineglass on the table and sat up, studying her face.
She was smiling faintly, but there was a glint of steel in her eyes that
was usually reserved for battle. “I did advise the admirals that I take
full responsibility for the mission, its accomplishments and its
failures,” he said seriously.

“That’s very kind of you, but we both know that’s not how it works,” she
said with a sigh. “I was the ranking officer. I think they expected me
to drag you to Kerovi, kicking and screaming, if that’s what it took.
Failing that, I should have assumed command and followed their orders
over your protests.”

“It’s too bad they don’t know you better than that.”

“And it’s comforting that you do.”

After a pause Kathryn was obviously ready to change the subject.

“I understand the Doctor, Seven, and Doctor Kaz presented a joint report
to the High Council outlining their findings, and their analysis will be
studied further. The Doctor in particular is quite optimistic that with
further research, they will be able to find a cure for this so-called
Curse of the Gods.”

“Are Seven and the Doctor back at the Institute then?” Chakotay asked.

Kathryn nodded. “Though I’m not sure how long that will last.”

“You noticed the tension between them too?”

“Hard to miss it. The Institute is lucky to have them, but I think it
would be best, in the long term, for both of them to broaden their
horizons,” she said. “At any rate, I’m not sure that pure theoretical
research is the best use of either of their considerable abilities.”

“Did you have something else specific in mind?” Chakotay asked.

“Not really.” She shook her head ponderously.

Chakotay sensed a weariness in her that was usually reserved for her
more introspective moments.

“I owe you my thanks, Kathryn,” he said gently, “and not just for
backing me up with Command.”

“By my count we’re a long way from even,” she responded enigmatically.

At first Chakotay didn’t know how to take this, but she clarified when
she saw his puzzled expression.

“You had my back every single day we spent in the Delta quadrant, even
when you didn’t agree with me,” she said thoughtfully.

“That was my job.”

Kathryn paused.

“It was more than that.”

Chakotay allowed her statement to hang unanswered in the air between
them. Beyond this point lay dragons, and both of them knew it. Much as
he wanted to open his heart, experience had taught him caution,
especially when it came to Kathryn.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head ruefully. “I’ve spent the last
four days with Captain Eden, reliving in gory detail every single thing
I could remember, and a lot of things I wanted to forget, about the
Delta quadrant.”

Chakotay finally understood what had triggered her mood. His sessions
with Eden had been equally arduous, but more than a month had passed
since then, and he’d been too busy in the interim to dwell on the tangle
of emotions those interviews had forced to the surface of his mind. Now
more than ever, he was content to leave those things in the past. What
mattered was the future.

“Do you have any idea why Starfleet is digging into all of this now?” he
asked. “It’s been almost a year, and it seems like an abrupt policy
change, especially when you consider how cursory their review was when
we first got home.” It was the first question that had come to mind when
he’d met with Eden, and one that she had consistently evaded answering.

Kathryn’s eyes met his, and he was immediately concerned by the hint of
fear that flickered there.

“I don’t know anything for certain,” she said, choosing her words
carefully. “Let’s just say I’ve heard some decidedly unpleasant rumors.”

Chakotay knew better than to ask more, though he was positively dying to
do so.

“Have you received new orders yet?” she asked.

“Actually, yes,” he replied. “Our next illustrious mission is a
diplomatic transport to Cestus III. It’s not even an ambassador. We’re
ferrying key staff members. I’m trying not to take it personally.” He
went on, “After that hearing today, I can’t help but feel they’re trying
to keep me on a short leash until they’re certain they didn’t make a
mistake by giving me command of Voyager. I wouldn’t be surprised if our
next several missions are equally inspiring.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Kathryn tossed back.

Again Chakotay had the sense that there was something really troubling
her that she could not or would not share right now.

“How about you?” he asked, knowing full well she would continue to
deflect his interest until she was good and ready.

“After acknowledging my more serious lapses, my fellow admirals gave me
a slap on the wrist for failing to read communiqués in a timely manner
and for ordering Tuvok to steal that bat’leth. I’m pretty sure I’ll be
chained to my desk for the foreseeable future.”

“They’ll have to make those chains out of tritanium if they expect to
hold you there,” Chakotay teased.

“Don’t count on it,” Kathryn replied seriously. “In fact, I think we’d
both do well to lay low and toe the line, at least for a while.
Starfleet Command can be patient, but not infinitely so.”

Chakotay nodded, before doing his best to bring some levity to the moment.

“Didn’t Tuvok return the bat’leth to its rightful owner on his way back
to Earth?” he asked. “You didn’t order him to steal it, so much as
borrow it, right?”

Kathryn smiled. “He did. He told me he’d given his word, and you know
how Tuvok is about promises.”

Chakotay knew all too well. Duty and honor weren’t just words to Tuvok.
They defined the man.

“Did he ever fully brief you on his mission to retrieve the bat’leth?”
Chakotay wondered aloud.

“No,” she replied. “He seemed almost…I guess embarrassed isn’t the right
word, but I believe there’s more to the story there than either of us
will ever know.”

“Has summer session begun at the Academy?”

“In a few days.” Janeway smiled. “I’m sure Tuvok is back to doing his
usual exceptional job, even if his students don’t see it that way right
now.”

“It was fun having him at tactical again,” Chakotay mused.

“I bet it was,” Kathryn said nostalgically.

There was a brief lull as Chakotay was struck by the realization that
only a few weeks ago, those nearest and dearest to him had once again
been united in facing a common foe. It was hard to accept the idea that
it was probably the last time that would ever be true again.

The future beckoned.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starved,” Chakotay finally said.

“Then you’re in luck,” Kathryn said, rising and moving toward the table.

Chakotay bit back the response that came immediately to mind. Luck
probably wasn’t the right word when it came to Kathryn’s cooking. He
would never refuse an invitation, simply for the company. Coffee was the
only consumable item Kathryn ever did justice to without a replicator’s
help, and even then the results were sometimes iffy at best.

He looked up in time to see the admiral glaring at him mischievously.
Clearly she’d been reading his mind.

“I was talking with Mother earlier this afternoon—she sends her regards,
by the way—and when I told her you were coming for dinner and that I was
making her stew, she insisted on preparing it herself and transporting
it over. She still doesn’t trust me with the replicator at home, let
alone anything made from scratch.”

Chakotay tried not to let his relief show. “That was very kind of her,”
he said diplomatically. “Please pass along my thanks.”

“Shut up,” Kathryn said curtly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Julia and Owen Paris sat in their living room trying to ignore the muted
shouting that had been coming from Tom and B’Elanna’s upstairs room for
the last hour.

Miral was snoring softly in Julia’s arms. When Julia had received word
that both B’Elanna and Miral were safe and would be returning to Earth
with Tom, she had doubted her ears. She had given up her husband for
lost on more than one occasion, and spent four long years in limbo,
wondering if she would ever learn of her son’s fate, only to have him
restored to her. Cheating death once again had seemed like too much to
ask of fate.

But somehow, her son had performed a miracle and her beloved
granddaughter was sleeping peacefully while her parents were turning
what should have been a time of grateful celebration into further strife.

Julia shook her head in frustration. Didn’t they realize how precious
life was? Didn’t they understand that every moment they were given to
spend together was a blessing? Whatever they were disagreeing about
amounted to nothing in the face of the alternative.

Perhaps this was a truth one learned only with time. But if youth was
wasted on the young, the wisdom of age didn’t have to be.

Julia turned to Owen. She saw that his thoughts mirrored hers and
wondered at the fact that they didn’t need to say a word for her to know
this. Their hearts were safe in one another’s keeping, and their deepest
fears, dreams, and desires were so entwined it was impossible to know
where one’s began and the other’s ended.

Julia moved to gently transfer Miral to her husband’s arms, but he
stayed her, placing a soft hand on her knee. He stared into her eyes,
offering love and reassurance, kissed her lightly on the cheek, then
rose and turned toward the staircase.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Tom said wearily.

“That’s because you’re not listening to me,” B’Elanna insisted.

“Just tell me what you want to do,” Tom replied, sitting dejectedly on
the end of their bed.

“It’s not that simple.”

It could be, Tom thought.

Tom couldn’t believe that after surviving one of the most brutal series
of events imaginable, they had emerged unscathed but were now at more
deeply entrenched cross-purposes than they had been when Miral was still
a prisoner of the qawHaq’hoch.

“I can’t go back to Voyager with you,” B’Elanna said.

“I think we’ve established that,” Tom shot back.

He knew Chakotay would be thrilled to have her in engineering, even just
in a part-time, advisory capacity, and since Miral was still an infant,
they had at least a couple of years together before her education would
become a serious concern. It seemed like the perfect and obvious
solution, until he had suggested it to his wife as a fait accompli.

“And I can’t possibly stay here,” B’Elanna added unnecessarily.

Tom’s parents would have jumped at the chance to have B’Elanna and Miral
stay with them, until they’d found other, more permanent lodgings. This
was the only sug gestion that seemed more unpalatable to B’Elanna than
returning to active duty.

“Again, I agree. What do you want to do?” Tom said.

He was exhausted. They’d been trampling over this ground for days and
seemed no closer to a compromise. At this point, if she’d said she
wanted to join a circus he would have seriously considered the idea.

Anything but this never-ending argument.

They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Both turned at the
sound, guilt and grief clear on their faces. B’Elanna recovered first
and threw Tom a look that said Get rid of them. Before Tom could even
rise to greet whichever of his parents was on the other side, the door
opened and Owen stepped into the room.

“Hi, Dad,” Tom said, resigned.

“Is Miral all right?” B’Elanna asked softly.

“She’s fine,” Owen replied. “It’s you two I’m worried about.”

“We’ll be all right, Dad,” Tom said, rising to face his father. “We’ve
just got a few things to work out.”

Owen stared hard at his son, then turned an equally disappointed face to
B’Elanna.

“You have no idea how lucky you both are,” Owen said softly. “You have
your health, your family, and your whole lives in front of you. I
understand that reasonable people can disagree from time to time, and
you’ve had more than your fair share of challenges to overcome, but this
is not the way two people who love and respect one another behave.”

“Owen—” B’Elanna began, but he silenced her with a glance.

“You have just been given a second chance at a life together. The threat
of losing your daughter should have brought you closer to one another.
Instead, it seems to be tearing you apart, and for the life of me I
can’t understand why you don’t see that you’re both throwing away
happiness with both hands.

“Every single thing I have ever achieved with my life, my work, and my
family would feel meaningless without my wife by my side. Powers rise
and fall. Leaders come and go. History makes a mockery of our best-laid
plans. In the end, you are left with only those things you have shared
with one another. The bond you created when you decided to marry is
sacred and not to be taken lightly. If you nurture it, it will sustain
you through the darkness. But if you treat it carelessly, if you allow
the safe haven of your life together to become a battlefield, it will
never survive. For the sake of the child you created, and for the sake
of the love that brought you together in the first place, you must learn
to disagree with one another patiently. There is a solution to whatever
obstacle you are facing right now. And I guarantee you it will be easier
to find if you work together.”

Owen paused to let his words sink in.

“Good night,” he said softly, and left the room without a backward glance.

Tom watched him go, then moved toward B’Elanna and took her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“So am I.”

They held one another long enough for their hearts to find the same calm
rhythm.

“Let’s sleep on it,” Tom suggested. “Maybe in the morning—”

B’Elanna silenced him with a gentle kiss.

Three hours later, as Tom slept deeply, B’Elanna rose from their bed and
slipped quietly from the room. Miral was sleeping in a crib in Owen and
Julia’s room. They had suggested this when Tom and B’Elanna had come to
stay a week earlier, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, though
B’Elanna still slept fitfully when Miral was not nestled beside her.
Tom’s parents rightly believed that their son and daughter-in-law needed
at least a few nights of uninterrupted rest. B’Elanna had agreed at
first, but had quickly become impatient, unable to put into words the
panic that still choked her when she awakened abruptly in the darkness
and Miral was not there.

After pausing briefly at Owen and Julia’s bedroom door and peeking her
head into the small opening to see Miral sleeping, B’Elanna crept
downstairs to Owen’s private office and quickly worked the companel.

After a few moments, the face of Kahless appeared on the screen on
Owen’s desk. When they had parted, he had provided her with a secured
frequency on which he assured her he could always be reached. They had
spoken almost daily since then.

“Is there any word yet from Martok?” was always B’Elanna’s first question.

“No,” Kahless replied. “The chancellor can search from now until the end
of days, but he will not find the Kortar. Even if he does, as long as
one Warrior of Gre’thor still lives, the d’k’tahg resting at your throat
will remain.”

“I keep trying to explain that to Tom, but he thinks I’m being irrational.”

“Do not fault him, B’Elanna,” Kahless chided her. “He is not Klingon. He
does not understand tenacity the way we do. He is a brave man and a
valiant warrior, but he is only human.”

B’Elanna’s deepest wish since the day she’d realized that she was half
Klingon and half human had been to be only human. Tonight she would have
sacrificed anything to make it so.

“Then you still believe they will come after Miral again.”

“The Warriors of Gre’thor have spent a thousand years with a single
purpose. They will work daily to fulfill that purpose until the last of
the qawHaq’hoch and the Kuvah’magh are dead.”

B’Elanna’s heart rose to her throat. Angry tears threatened to pour forth.

“Wherever I go, I am placing the lives of those I love at risk,”
B’Elanna said, finally putting into simple words the truth she had been
trying to make Tom see for days.

“Then we must find a way to make them believe that your child is dead,”
Kahless said simply.

His words stung like a sharp slap.

“How are we going to do that?”

“It will take time and planning, but it must be done,” Kahless assured her.

B’Elanna could not imagine what might be necessary to pull off such a
deception, but she had been floating in a dark sea of indecision for so
many days, with fear her only constant companion. The emperor’s plan,
any plan, was a lifesaving rope tossed to her only seconds before drowning.

“What do I have to do first?” she asked.

She could not have been more surprised by the emperor’s response.

“I want you to tell me everything you know of the mobile emitter that
your holographic friend uses to travel independently,” Kahless replied.

The explanation would take hours, but it would be more productive than
tossing and turning beside her sleeping husband.

With the refreshing reality of a simple question before her to which she
knew the answer, B’Elanna began to speak.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The first message the Doctor received upon his return to the Federation
Research Institute was a hundred-thousand-word opus from Doctor Deegle.
It listed the many faults he had found with the presentation he, Seven,
and Doctor Kaz had made to the Klingon High Council. While debating
simply trashing Deegle’s thesis out of spite, the Doctor noticed a
message marked urgent from Lieutenant Barclay. In a matter of seconds he
had digested the text and hurriedly contacted the Institute’s personnel
liaison to advise her that though he had just returned from Qo’noS, he
would once again be leaving immediately for Jupiter Station.

En route, he had fretted that the cellular degradation that had
threatened his creator, Doctor Lewis Zimmerman, and that the Doctor had
successfully treated over a year and a half earlier, might have
returned, and he spent most of the trip reviewing his research on the
condition along with relevant new journal articles. The Doctor had
written frequent updates to Zimmerman since their first real meeting,
but he had always intended to reconnect personally with his cantankerous
creator and even held out hopes that the tenuous connection they had
made might be nurtured and over time grow into a more collegial
relationship. But between his work at the Institute and the occasional
emergent crisis with his former crew, he had yet to make good on that
intention and now worried that he might never have the chance. Reg’s
message had been typically vague: “You are urgently needed at Jupiter
Station. Dr. Z requires you immediately.”

It was something of a shock when he entered the lab to find Haley, the
Doctor’s petite blonde holographic assistant of many years, sharing a
laugh with Lieutenant Barclay over an adjustment Reg had made to
Zimmerman’s holograph pet iguana, Leonard, which had caused the creature
to begin singing Klingon opera at random intervals.

“What’s happened?” the Doctor interrupted to ask.

“Oh, Doctor,” Reg said warmly. “You got my message.”

“I did. What’s wrong with Doctor Zimmerman?”

Haley and Reg shared a look of confusion.

“Nothing,” Haley replied, “but it’s awfully nice to see you again. How
have you been?”

Before the Doctor could respond, the door to Zimmerman’s lab swished
open and the man emerged without looking up, saying, “I hope you’re not
planning to get any sleep over the next few days, Lieutenant Barclay,
because Leonard has been permanently transferred to your quarters and
will remain there until his vocal subroutines have been…”

The Doctor found himself involuntarily straightening up and squaring his
shoulders at the sight of his designer, a man who was the spitting image
of the Doctor, with the exception of the deep worry lines that betrayed
the years that had passed since he first introduced the EMH Mark I. The
Doctor noted that Zimmerman’s hair—unruly and grayer than the last time
they’d met—had been restored to its pre-illness dark brown sheen.

Somewhere in the Doctor’s subroutines was buried a file that demanded
that he always present himself in the best possible light when in
Zimmerman’s presence, though that file was certainly not part of his
original programming. It had undoubtedly evolved, along with many other
similar proclivities, as he had grown in his sense of self and his
commitment to exceed his and Zimmerman’s expectations.

“Hello, Doctor Zimmerman,” he said pleasantly.

Zimmerman stopped mid-sentence to glare at the EMH.

“Oh, God,” he said, “am I dying again?”

“I certainly hope not,” the Doctor replied, “but if you are, you have
summoned the right hologram.”

“You’re not dying, Doctor Z,” Reg assured him. “Don’t you remember I
told you I was going to contact the Doctor about our new project?”

“Reg, we’ve been working together for years now,” Zimmerman replied.
“How is it you haven’t yet noticed that I rarely listen to anything you
tell me?”

“What new project?” the EMH asked.

Zimmerman heaved a weary sigh, then began to walk in a tight circle
around the hologram, studying him carefully.

The Doctor had the immediate and uncomfortable thought that he had
somehow lost his clothing between here and the door.

“Why are you out of uniform?” Zimmerman demanded. “Did they run you out
of Starfleet after that holographic rights nonsense a few months ago?”

The Doctor bristled under Zimmerman’s scrutiny.

“No one has run me out of anything,” the Doctor replied officiously. “I
was invited to work with the Federation Research Institute and have been
there in a civilian capacity for the last several months, among the
other great minds of this generation.”

“I see you haven’t lost your sense of self-importance.” Zimmerman
scowled. “Never forget that I could change that with a few well-placed
tweaks to your subroutines.”

The Doctor noticed Reg and Haley easing their way out of the room toward
the small recreation area. With a nod he encouraged them to keep moving
before turning to face his maker.

“Doctor Zimmerman, I came here at Reg’s request and was concerned that
you might not be well. As there is nothing I can do to improve your
sense of etiquette or decorum, and you are clearly in excellent health,
I will be happy to leave you in peace and return to my other
obligations, which I assure you are most pressing.”

Zimmerman chuckled faintly.

“It’s good to see you too.”

The Doctor paused to accept what passed for warmth from Zimmerman.

“Get in here,” Zimmerman ordered, turning toward his holographic
research lab.

The Doctor followed him into the inner sanctum, amazed at the number of
memory algorithms that immediately began to run, recounting the weeks he
had spent struggling desperately to save the life of a man who hadn’t
respected him, much less believed him capable of such a miracle.

“Why the hell did you allow yourself to get caught up with that idiotic
Oliver Baines?” Zimmerman demanded once the doors had hissed shut.

The EMH was about to respond when he realized that for Zimmerman to know
about Oliver Baines, he must at least have been reading the Doctor’s
updates, if not responding to them. The thought brought a smirk to the
Doctor’s lips.

“While I cannot condone Baines’s methods, I do not consider the rights
of holograms to be idiotic,” he replied evenly.

“Holograms aren’t sentient, Mark I,” Zimmerman shot back.

“Present company excluded,” the Doctor insisted.

Zimmerman rolled his eyes, an unnerving sight as the Doctor hadn’t
realized until that moment how annoying that gesture must be when he
made it himself.

“You’re a special case,” Zimmerman conceded. “I can count on a couple of
fingers the number of times any hologram I have created or read about
has demonstrated characteristics which suggest sentience, and until that
changes, the thought of you lending your support to a nonissue strikes
me as a waste of good programming.”

“I am living proof that holograms have the capacity—” the Doctor began
to argue.

“The potential capacity,” Zimmerman corrected him. “And you’re not here
to debate the issue with the preeminent authority on the subject.”

The Doctor found himself smiling again.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, Reg clearly hadn’t been
acting alone when he summoned the EMH to Jupiter Station, though he knew
full well Zimmerman would argue himself hoarse before he would admit it.

“Then why am I here?” the Doctor asked.

“You’re here because if left to your own devices you will run completely
amok.”

“I beg your pardon,” the Doctor retorted.

“You disagree? All right, let’s take a little stroll through your memory
buffers. For seven years your program was forced to evolve and adapt
beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. And the minute you get home,
instead of charting a course which would continue to challenge your
limits, you settled for babysitting.”

“I was helping a friend,” the Doctor interjected hastily. “Interpersonal
relationships—”

“Are important, I agree,” Zimmerman went on. “But I must admit, after
the alterations you made to your physical parameters in the Delta
quadrant, I didn’t expect you to content yourself with mere platonic
friendships. They are not the only arena in which you must continue to
expand, especially if you don’t want it to shrivel up and fall off.”

As the Doctor considered the impossibility of this disturbing image,
Zimmerman continued.

“Then, you run off and join the egghead brigade—”

“The Institute contains some of the finest minds—”

“I’ve met most of them,” Zimmerman countered, “and a bigger pack of
blowhards I never hope to meet again.”

As the EMH agreed, at least in principle, he found it difficult to come
up with an instantaneous retort.

“They’re about theory,” Zimmerman continued. “They’ll think a thing to
death and then suck on its bones. What they do isn’t living, and if
you’re going to continue to advance, you need to start living again.”

The Doctor found himself silenced by the admonishment, primarily because
it had not occurred to him that he had not been living until this
moment. What had occurred to him, numerous times in the last several
months, was the fact that he wasn’t nearly as happy as he used to be.
The Doctor associated this sense with the loss of daily interaction with
his friends aboard Voyager, and realized that he had actually felt at
his best and most useful when he was working by their sides to aid
B’Elanna and Miral.

When he used to imagine his life in the Alpha quadrant, should Voyager
ever make it that far, his dreams had been varied, but had included
every aspect of his personality he had begun to develop while on
Voyager: continuing his medical work, to be sure, but also the
occasional musical recital, completing an exhibit of his holovid record
of Voyager’s journey, and certainly, the hope that at some point he
might meet someone with whom he could continue to explore a deep
interpersonal relationship.

It shocked him to realize that he had done none of these things, and
though he might have more time than organic life-forms, it was still too
precious a commodity to squander.

“You’re right,” the Doctor said dolefully.

“Of course I’m right,” Zimmerman replied. “Now what are you going to do
about it?”

The Doctor didn’t have a ready answer.

“While your subroutines are twisting themselves into cascade failure, do
you mind if I make a suggestion?” Zimmerman asked.

The Doctor nodded. “Please.”

By the end of the afternoon the Doctor had submitted a letter to the
Federation Research Institute indicating that for the foreseeable
future, he would be working in a full-time capacity with Doctor
Zimmerman. He would, of course, continue to make himself available to
the Institute on a project-by-project basis, should the need arise. When
this was done, the Doctor went to work composing a lengthy letter to the
only person who he expected to be even a little dismayed by his choice:
Seven. Once he had heard the broad strokes of Zimmerman’s new research
and considered the practical applications, his imagination and
enthusiasm had been fired in a way he could never remember experiencing.
The Doctor had already suggested to Zimmerman that Seven would be an
invaluable addition to their team, and though his creator hadn’t argued
the fact, he had encouraged the Doctor not to get his hopes up when it
came to Seven of Nine.

Experience had already taught the Doctor that lesson all too well. He
extended the invitation nonetheless, but wasn’t surprised a few days
later when he received her brisk refusal.

As Captain Eden had expected, she had been among the very last to learn
of Willem’s plans.

After finally spending the better part of a week interviewing Admiral
Janeway, an experience that left Eden with a profound respect for the
challenges Janeway had endured and in awe of her devotion to duty, the
captain had finally completed her analysis and forwarded it to Admiral
Montgomery. She had expected to hear from Wil lem within a few hours of
transmitting it, but instead there was frustrating silence.

Determined to put it out of her mind, Eden had decided to spend the
weekend in Paris, where the Louvre was featuring a spectacular new
exhibit of several newly discovered paintings by D’Mack of Vulcan. While
staring at the most impressive rendering of a sandstorm she’d ever seen,
she’d run into Admiral Upton, who was touring the museum with his wife
and young daughter. He’d been gracious enough to compliment Eden on her
work and her report, though he admitted he hadn’t had a chance to study
it as deeply as he intended. He’d then proceeded to inquire as to how
Batiste was taking Command’s denial of his proposal regarding Voyager.
She’d been forced to admit that she had no idea, and was further
humiliated when she’d had to remind Upton that she and Willem were no
longer married.

The admiral had seemed appropriately mortified by his gaffe and
apologized profusely. She’d met Upton only a handful of times and wasn’t
terribly surprised that he wasn’t current on the state of her personal
life.

As Willem had apparently used her analysis in support of his argument,
Upton had assumed that Eden was fully briefed on the proposal. He
suggested that if she and Batiste were serious about making better use
of Voyager’s unique resources, they might start by looking a little
closer to home. By silently pretending to know much more than she did,
Eden had managed to get the gist of Willem’s plan out of Upton before
excusing herself politely and hurrying from the exhibit. Propriety
suggested it was a good idea not to allow one’s head to explode in front
of a superior officer in a public place.

Eden had returned to San Francisco determined to confront Willem at
once. He lived only three kilometers from her apartment, and she debated
walking the brief distance in the cool moonlit air to clear her head and
take the edge off the heat her anger was generating. Finally, she
decided that Willem had earned that anger honestly and should be spared
none of it.

She rang his door chime three times before the doors slid open and she
heard a muffled, “Come in,” from the direction of Willem’s bedroom.

This was the apartment they had shared when they’d been married. Willem
had offered to allow her to continue living there when they’d separated,
but Eden had found the notion unimaginable. Entering the living room and
noting that the honeymoon picture of the two of them sunbathing on one
of Delgara’s most exclusive private beaches no longer hung over the
mantel was enough to stir up dozens of less pleasant memories of their
last weeks together.

“Give me just a minute,” Willem called from behind the closed bedroom door.

Eden assumed he knew it was her. She couldn’t imagine that he opened his
front door willingly to strangers.

Then again, he always has been a cocky son of a bitch.

Briefly she wondered if he was alone. Ultimately it didn’t matter. She
was here on business and she honestly didn’t care who heard what she had
to say to him.

Eden planted herself, arms crossed, before the large screen that had
replaced their honeymoon photo. A quick scan of the rest of the visible
living spaces told her that Willem’s housekeeping had gone to seed since
they’d separated. Unruly stacks of padds littered the coffee table amid
several tall glasses, some still half filled with tea. The bookshelf on
the far wall was overflowing with dozens of old tomes. Willem was one of
the few people she knew who actually liked to read for pleasure from
bound manuscripts rather than padds. Isolinear chips were scattered
haphazardly about.

The dining table was filled with more used dishes. It looked as if he’d
just finished throwing a party, but Eden knew he had not. She could
count on one hand the times he had grudgingly agreed to entertain their
friends while they’d been married.

A pile of dirty rags and a pungent metallic odor suggested he’d recently
cleaned the golf clubs that had been placed in a corner of the dining
area; they were arranged fastidiously in their bag. The things he chose
to care about never ceased to amaze her.

Not that any of this is my concern any longer, she reminded herself. If
Willem wanted to live like a wildebeest, that was his business.

He finally emerged from the bedroom wearing a tattered old robe she’d
offered to replace numerous times but to no avail. Like a child’s
favorite blanket, Willem had insisted on keeping it. It was his attire
of choice for sitting around the house.

She almost gasped in alarm when he stepped far enough into the room’s
dim lighting for her to see the haggard, drawn expression he wore.

“You look like hell,” she said involuntarily, and with more compassion
than she’d intended.

He offered her a wan smile before setting himself down gingerly on the
sofa.

“And you look angrier than one of hell’s demons,” he replied wearily.

If Afsarah had truly hated him, this might have been all the impetus she
would have needed to launch her attack. But she didn’t hate him. Eden no
longer missed or needed him, but she could never hate him. Even loathing
might not have been enough to counter the concern she found welling
inside her at the sight of his feverish face and lethargic limbs.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, seating herself on the arm of the chair
angled to the far side of the sofa.

“Nothing a few days’ rest won’t cure,” he replied dismissively.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“I have.” He nodded.

“And?”

“And he has seen me.”

“Willem!”

“And he said I’m going to be fine if I take it easy for a few days,” he
replied a bit testily.

Eden didn’t believe him. But she also knew she could sit here and grow
old before he’d tell her more. Willem avoided doctors as though he was
allergic to them. If he had gone to Starfleet Medical, it could only
mean that whatever ailed him was too frightening or painful to ignore.

“Now why don’t you tell me what made you storm over here at this hour,”
he said.

Eden tried to summon some of her frustration, along with the choice
words she’d planned to express it with, but found instead only a
resigned sigh.

“Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning to propose to Command?”
she asked.

“Would it have made a difference in the contents of your report, or the
speed with which you completed it?”

Eden considered the question. Finally she uttered her disquieting but
honest response.

“It might have.”

A sad smile traipsed across Willem’s lips.

“I guess I wanted the proposal to be considered on its merits. I felt
that the potential for discovery, bolstered by your objective analysis,
would be sufficient to win the day,” Batiste said.

Eden shook her head. “You didn’t make admiral with that much of your
naïveté still intact.”

“All right,” he admitted. “I didn’t count on the strenuousness of
Admiral Janeway’s objections.”

“You want to send her former crew back to the Delta quadrant,” Eden said
in exasperation. “She risked everything to bring them home safely. She
overcame impossible odds and ridiculous obstacles for seven years
straight. More times than I care to count, any sane person would have
turned back, found a nice little planet to settle down on, and cut their
losses, and every single time she was faced with that choice she
flat-out refused. She successfully negotiated safe passage from the
Borg, for crying out loud. And you didn’t think she’d mind?”

“This is different,” Willem countered abruptly.

“How?”

“With our recent advances in slipstream technology, there’s almost no
risk that a new exploratory mission would be stranded again.”

“Slipstream is untested.”

“For now. Six months from now that won’t be true, and it will take at
least that long to assemble the fleet we’ll need.”

“Don’t say ‘we,’” she corrected him. “This is your pipe dream, not mine.”

“I thought you agreed with me.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Twenty-nine times in your analysis you recommended that key discoveries
made by Voyager warranted follow-up.”

“From the Alpha quadrant,” Eden replied.

“You know that won’t happen,” he shot back. “And you also know that
Voyager only scratched the surface of what’s there to be discovered. The
previously unknown life-forms alone, never mind the weaknesses they
discovered and were able to use to their advantage against the Borg—”

“Were largely due to the presence of Seven of Nine,” she finished for
him. “Just because she’s home now, that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten
anything about the Collective. She can tell us everything we might need
to know.”

“The Borg adapt, Afsarah. The next time we meet them, they won’t be the
same Collective she left behind, and we both know that.”

“You’re worried about a Borg attack?” Eden asked. “That’s why you’re so
fired up about this?”

“I’m worried about a lot of things.”

Eden studied his inscrutable face. Much as she wanted to tell him to let
this go, to gracefully accept Starfleet’s denial and move on, his
obvious disappointment, coupled with her personal curiosity, silenced
her. She would never in a million years have concocted Willem’s
proposal, nor would she have had the gall to submit it to Starfleet, but
she had to admit that in some ways, Willem was right.

No one knew the current status of the Borg, or their transwarp network,
which obviously had at some point extended to the Alpha quadrant.
Voyager had destroyed one hub before they had returned home, but clearly
the Borg possessed the technology to re-create it. It might take a
while, but all the Borg needed was a reason, and who was to say that
they might not set their sights on the Federation, or the ship that had
bested them time and again.

Come to think of it, the Borg don’t even need a reason.

All they needed was time.

The thought made Eden’s blood run cold.

She had been prepared to read him the riot act for using her work to
support an argument she would never have made. A few minutes later, she
was left wondering why she hadn’t seen all along that as difficult and
dangerous as this mission might be, the Federation’s continued existence
could depend upon it.

“Why does it have to be Voyager?” she asked.

“Who would you send—a crew that’s actually been there or one that has
read about it in somebody else’s logs?”

“Janeway will never approve the mission.”

“It’s not entirely her call to make. Obviously Command is going to weigh
her recommendations heavily, and for now they agree that there is no
‘pressing need’ for the mission. But I for one don’t want to be sitting
around here with my pants down when that ‘pressing need’ shows up
looking to assimilate me.”

Suddenly Willem caught his breath. He strained for a moment in obvious
pain before shuddering into a more relaxed posture.

Eden rose.

“You should get some rest,” she said softly, turning to go.

“Afsarah,” he called after her.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you my intentions.”

She didn’t turn back. “Damn straight you should have.”

Instead of transporting home, she entered her office a little after
midnight and began to revise her analysis, focusing considerable
attention on those things Voyager had discovered about the Borg, but
more importantly, on the many remaining unanswered questions about the
Collective.

JUNE 2379

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Janeway sat in the shuttle’s aft compartment alone, waiting for Decan to
inform her that they had received clearance to depart from Proxima Station.

Her evening with Chakotay had gone longer than she’d planned, but it had
been well worth the trip to meet with him while Voyager was undergoing
some routine repairs so near to Earth. She found herself smiling
frequently since she’d left Chakotay’s quarters and a little unnerved by
a newfound lightness in her step and the pleasant warmth that washed
through her when she cast her thoughts back to the previous night. Giddy
as a schoolgirl.

All evidence to the contrary.

The admiral was, however, anxious to depart. Her mission successfully
accomplished, she only worried that it might have cost her one last
chance to connect with someone most dear to her.

“Admiral Janeway?” Decan called from the cockpit.

“Are we on our way?”

“Just a few more minutes.”

“If we don’t make it back to Earth by noon tomorrow, I’m going to find a
new aide, Decan.”

“I will bear that in mind, Admiral.”

It was a sign of how much she’d come to depend upon him that neither of
them ever took her threat seriously, no matter how many times she’d made
it.

As there was nothing more to do, Janeway considered settling in for a
nap during the return trip. Heaven knew she could use the rest, as there
was no end of work waiting for her back in San Francisco. Instead, she
found herself pulling out the small travel case she’d packed for the
trip and always had on hand in case of an emergency. Beneath the
personal padds, clean uniform, and toiletries, she found the item she
was looking for. It lay in a small compartment, next to a beautiful
silver watch.

She retrieved it and placed it in the palm of her hand, smiling at the
remembrances it brought back. The item was a small wooden box with
intricate symbols carved on its face and sides.

Looks like I’m going to have to find those original designs, she mused.

“Admiral?” Decan’s voice interrupted her reverie.

“What is it?”

“Incoming transmission from Commander Tuvok.”

“Damn it,” Janeway muttered. “Put it through.”

Seconds later, Tuvok’s face appeared on the viewscreen before her.

“Good evening, Admiral,” he greeted her.

“When are you leaving Earth?” she asked immediately.

“Within the hour,” he replied.

“Damn it,” she said again. “I’m so sorry, Tuvok. I really wanted to see
you before you left.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Admiral, but there is no need. Although
seeing you once again in person would have been gratifying, I can as
easily bid you farewell in this manner.”

Janeway didn’t bother trying to explain her completely irrational sense
that she should meet with Tuvok before he departed for Vulcan. His
family was reuniting there for an extended vacation, an event it had
taken months to schedule, despite the fact that three of Tuvok’s four
children, Sek, Varith, and Asil, still made their home there. Tuvok had
mentioned that his third son was not coming. Elieth had relocated to
Deneva after Voyager was lost and married a woman, Ione, whom Tuvok had
yet to meet. While she knew he was hurt, her Vulcan friend would deny
it. It was going to be a long summer without him.

“Promise me you’ll pass along my regards to T’Pel and the rest of your
family,” she requested.

“Of course, Admiral.”

“Did you speak to Seven?”

“I did. She is quite amenable to the idea of joining the faculty at the
Academy for the summer session. If all goes well, I believe she may
choose to stay on.”

“She’s not happy at the Institute any longer, is she?” Janeway asked.

“She did not advise me of any particular dissatisfaction. However, since
the Doctor altered his schedule with the group last year, and given the
enthusiasm with which she responded to my inquiry, logic suggests that
she no longer found her work at the Institute as satisfying as in the
past.”

“She was enthusiastic?”

“She said yes.”

Janeway shrugged. For Seven, that probably was as close to enthusiasm as
one could hope for.

“And did you advise the Academy of your future plans?” she asked.

“I intend to discuss the matter further with my family before I make a
final decision.”

The decision Tuvok was wrestling with, a return to active duty with
Starfleet Intelligence, set Janeway’s nerves on edge, but she did her
best to hide her qualms. It wasn’t that she doubted his abilities, but
the potential dangers of such an assignment gave her pause. It seemed
that her need to continue to watch over those she had commanded wasn’t
fading with time.

“Did you speak with Captain Chakotay about Starfleet’s plans for
Voyager?” Tuvok asked. As this had been the reason for her hurried
departure from Earth, it was a reasonable question.

“It turns out I didn’t have to,” she replied. “While we were en route I
received word that Command, in their infinite wisdom, has once again
chosen to deny Admiral Batiste’s request to send Voyager back to the
Delta quadrant. I have to say,” she went on, “I was more surprised than
anyone that he had the nerve to bring it up again, after the reception
he received last year.”

“You had indicated that he made a most compelling case,” Tuvok
acknowledged.

“He did,” Janeway agreed. “Just saying the word Borg elicits a
predictable defensive response in most people. And I have to admit that
part of me understands Starfleet’s perceived need to learn as much as we
can about them.”

“Then your position on the subject has softened?” Tuvok inquired.

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Voyager will only return to the Delta
quadrant over my dead body.”

“I am sure it will not come to that, Admiral,” Tuvok said.

“Let’s hope not.”

Janeway couldn’t help but smile sadly, certain that Tuvok had others he
would wish to speak with before he departed.

“Safe travels, Tuvok.”

Tuvok nodded. “Live long and prosper, Admiral.”

“You too, old friend,” she managed before he terminated the communication.

Forcing aside the unease that nagged at her when she thought of Tuvok’s
new path, she looked again at the box. The symbol on its lid stood for
hope in an ancient Native American language.

Despite her many concerns and well-grounded fears for the future, she
was actually filled with that emotion for the first time in a long while.

JUNE 2380

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Phoebe Janeway knew grief.

She knew that one moment, life was a manageable routine of work and
play, things scheduled and things forgotten, appointments to be kept,
goals to be strived for, brief flashes of insight followed by days,
weeks, and years of groping in the darkness toward another chunk of
truth that might make a little more sense of the universe. And always
the certainty that what one didn’t achieve today might be done tomorrow.
Most of the time, tomorrow felt like it had promised you something, and
if you just waited a little longer, that promise would be made real.

Then death would arrive. The world would tilt on its axis in a shocking
roar and in an instant every single thing you thought you knew was
ripped away from you. Suddenly you were alone and there were huge pieces
of flesh and bone missing from the center of your being. Your thoughts
refused to run in an orderly fashion. Time passed and you crawled
through it in a somnambulant stupor. The living reached out with warm
hands to offer what comfort they could, but the noise of one’s own mind
made it difficult to hear, let alone respond to their kindness.

Thoughts for the dead would burst through the miasma like weeds. Where
are you now? What was it like? Did you know it was coming? If only you’d
turned left instead of right…

But those thoughts, however interesting to follow idly until they
trickled into the vast unknown, were nothing compared to their insistent
companions: the thoughts for oneself.

Death might have been hard on those who died, but at its worst it
couldn’t possibly be as hard as what remained for the living.

Inevitably, one day you awoke from the shock of sudden death to find one
impossible truth staring you coldly in the face. From this day forward,
you must relearn living. You must create for yourself a new life in
which the person who has died is no longer present.

You must make peace with the unthinkable.

You must accept loss.

That was the beginning of grief.

Phoebe already knew that for many days to come, grief would dog her
waking hours and transform her dreams into terrors. The nightmares her
mind would conjure, monsters who would chase her up never-ending
staircases, horrific creatures who would use her body for target
practice, and all the while she would cry out for the dead to come and
save her.

The reality was, grief felt altogether too much like fear.

Phoebe wanted nothing to do with it.

The first person Starfleet had taken from her had been her father.
Always on the anniversary of his death, she found herself wondering how
she had lived another year without him. Though he and Kathryn had shared
many interests, he had been the first and really only person who made
Phoebe feel known. All things were possible as long as he lived, because
whenever the questions were too hard or the darkness too impenetrable,
he was there to shed a little light.

The only consolation his death had ever offered was the new closeness it
created with her sister. Kathryn could never replace him, nor had she
tried to. But for the first time, Phoebe had seen her sister, not as the
dominant force of nature who pursued her dreams with a fury, but as a
person, every bit as fragile as Phoebe herself. She had learned to look
past the face Kathryn showed the world. She had seen her broken by the
only enemy that could never be conquered, and then watched in awe as
Kathryn had risen from the ashes and reclaimed what life was left to
her. She had found new dreams, new purposes, and through sheer
determination, a new life in which their father’s memory became a beacon
to guide them, even in his absence.

Phoebe had been among the handful of people who had never truly given
Kathryn or Voyager up for dead. There had been a seismic shift in her
body at the moment of her father’s death, though he had died on a remote
moon thousands of light-years away from her. For a moment it had felt as
if there wasn’t enough air to breathe, as if her limbs had been leeched
of their strength and as if her feet had been transformed into lead
weights. Several days later she learned that this feeling had coincided
precisely with the moment her father’s shuttle had hit the icy sea on
that distant moon.

When Voyager was first lost, and in the years of fruitless wondering
that followed, Phoebe had searched herself for a similar sensation. This
and only this would convince her that Kathryn was dead.

Her faith had been rewarded four years after her sister had disappeared,
and their reunion on Earth only three years after that had solidified
Phoebe’s belief that there was simply nothing Kathryn could not accomplish.

And then, just a few weeks ago, while sitting at her easel working on
her latest commission, she had suddenly found herself unable to breathe.

An anguished cry, no, no, no, no, no, had risen unbidden to her lips.

Staring up now at the gleaming white pillar topped with an eternal
flame, which Starfleet had erected in honor of her sister’s memory,
Phoebe could find only two coherent thoughts. The first was that the
pillar itself seemed a little phallic to commemorate one of Starfleet’s
most venerated female officers. It looked like a damned torpedo. The
second was that Kathryn would have hated all this fuss.

Hundreds had gathered at Federation Park for the memorial service, and
though summer had only just begun, it was already much too hot. To
Phoebe’s annoyance, none of the uniformed personnel in attendance were
even sweating. Phoebe didn’t think there was a regulation on the books
that ordered them not to perspire at a time like this, but then again,
it was Starfleet, so one never knew.

Admirals had followed ambassadors in a seemingly never-ending train of
speakers, all droning on and on about Kathryn’s most generic virtues:
her sense of duty, her willingness to sacrifice herself in service to
the Federation, and how honored they had been to know her and to work
beside her.

As Phoebe glanced about her and studied the crowd, she felt certain that
if there was a heaven and Kathryn was there now looking down on them,
she would have been hard pressed not to order these windbags to shut up
and get this crowd a little shade and something cold to drink. This
thought brought a conspiratorial smile to Phoebe’s lips.

Finally the moment came for Phoebe to rise and take her place at the
podium. As the family’s representative at the service, she had been
given the honor of speaking last. She had tried in vain to prepare some
brief remarks, but had settled on nothing. As she mounted the steps to
the platform, she felt a brief surge of anger at Kathryn for putting her
in this situation. Kathryn was the public speaker. Kathryn would have
known what to say.

But she wasn’t here.

And for all the pretty words about her legacy living on in the lives of
those she’d touched, the only truth Phoebe could find in this moment was
the most bitter to swallow.

I will never see my sister again.

She was momentarily awed by the sight of the crowd, now that she was
finally facing them. She had always secretly suspected that there were
very few people in the Federation that her sister didn’t know. Obviously
she had underestimated.

Her mother, Gretchen, sat in the front row, trying valiantly to hold
back her tears. Their old family friends, Mark and Carla Johnson with
their young son, Kevin, were beside her, their faces masks of shock.

Members of Starfleet stood behind the first row of chairs at attention,
or parade rest, or whatever stupid thing they called it.

Captain Chakotay looked like a broken stone. He stared at some fixed
point near the base of the pillar, oblivious of his surroundings. The
always breathtaking figure of Seven of Nine was beside him, and despite
the fact that he was a bit taller, Seven appeared to be the only thing
preventing him from falling in a heap to the ground.

Next to them were Tom Paris and Harry Kim. These four, along with the
holographic Doctor and Commander Tuvok, had been Kathryn’s most frequent
visitors after everyone had assumed new roles and assignments following
the ship’s return to the Alpha quadrant. Phoebe had met them only a
handful of times, but knew that Kathryn had thought of them as family,
and that the ties that bound them surpassed those of blood. She felt
Tuvok’s absence from the ceremony today most keenly.

The Doctor stood next to three other men: one who could have been his
twin in about ten years, a Trill Phoebe knew she’d met but couldn’t
place dressed in the blue and black of a Starfleet physician, and the
man Phoebe would always credit with returning Kathryn to her long before
Voyager had arrived on Earth, Reg Barclay.

Staring out at the throngs of patient listeners, Phoebe finally knew
what she wanted to say to them. Taking a deep breath, she began to speak.

“Kathryn Janeway was my sister. In some ways, you had more of her than I
did. You shared her working days and nights and grand adventures in
distant parts of the galaxy. You know, as I do, that Kathryn dedicated
her life to service, and that she would not have minded, in the least,
dying in the course of that service.”

Phoebe paused to clear her throat before continuing.

“But I mind very much.

“Kathryn would have accepted death. She would have thought it was her
duty. At best, I can only see her death as a necessary evil. She died so
that the rest of us can go on living. But let us not mistake that
necessary evil for good.

“I can stand here and celebrate her life. But I cannot celebrate her
death. It should not have happened—not this way. We have known for years
that we have made an enemy of the Borg. Kathryn fought and conquered
them many times. Today, they seem to triumph over us. They have taken
her from us.

“You are the soldiers of the Federation. It is your duty to make certain
that her death was not in vain, nor was it the final chapter in this
story. Only you can avenge her, and because she can no longer stand here
before us and cry out for justice, I will do it for her.

“For the love I bear her, and for the love each of you still carry with
you, I call upon you not to rest until those who are responsible for my
sister’s death are made to answer for what they have done. If you truly
honor what she lived for, if you truly wish to memorialize the
contributions she made to this Federation, do not forget how she lived,
or how she died. Do not seek to heal this wound. Keep it open. And let
it give you the strength you need to find and destroy the monsters who
took her from us.

“Do not take ‘no’ for an answer.

“She wouldn’t have.”

Phoebe’s words took Naomi Wildman by surprise. After so many speeches
praising Admiral Janeway, reaffirming her contributions to Starfleet and
admiring the nobility of her sacrifice, the admiral’s sister’s words
seemed out of place. Obviously, Miss Janeway was angry, but as Naomi
searched her heart, she could not find a kindred feeling. She was only
terribly saddened by the thought that she would never again be near the
captain she had idolized for as long as she could remember.

Naomi wanted to speak with Seven of Nine. Seven usually contacted her at
least once a week, and occasionally dropped by for a game of kadis-kot,
which Naomi had long ago outgrown but would never acknowledge to Seven.
They hadn’t spoken since her mother had greeted her at breakfast one
morning a few weeks earlier with puffy, red eyes and told her of
Janeway’s death.

More than anything, Naomi wanted to make sure that Seven was okay. Seven
wasn’t really good at feeling things. She was smarter than anyone Naomi
knew, even the father she had come to love so much in the past three
years. But Naomi could never remember seeing Seven cry. And tears were
part of healing. At least that’s what her mother had always told her.

Naomi had brought along a small wreath of white mums for her to leave at
the memorial. As soon as the service ended, she had quietly excused her
way through the throngs of people standing near it and only managed to
come within three meters of the base, as it was already piled with
similar offerings.

Apart from the flowers, there was only one thing Naomi wished to say to
Admiral Janeway. Maybe since she was dead, she already knew, but Naomi
wanted to say it anyway.

Kneeling before the monument and carving out a small space to set the
flowers, Naomi whispered softly, “I’m sure Neelix would send his love.
Mom has promised to tell him what happened. It may take a while to reach
him, but she’ll do it. Don’t worry. I’ll remind her.”

Julia held Owen’s hand as he spoke softly to Admiral Montgomery. But
even as she smiled and nodded and inserted the occasional appropriate
comment, she found it nearly impossible to tear her eyes away from her son.

Tom stood with Harry, speaking with an Academy cadet Julia thought might
be one of the other Borg Voyager had rescued. His name escaped her at
the moment.

Tom had wept openly throughout the service, and Julia had longed to go
to him. Only Owen’s stiff, cold arm linked in hers had restrained her.

For the thousandth time in the last few months Julia thought, This is
ridiculous.

If anything, she had hoped that their shared grief at Kathryn’s untimely
passing might have brought father and son close enough to begin to
bridge the distance that had grown between them. She had lived in the
wasteland of this bitterness before and honestly believed they were long
past it. It was both a blessing and a curse that one could never see too
far down the road ahead. Had she known they would find themselves here
again, Julia would have done everything in her power to prevent it.

The saddest truth of all was that no power she possessed would have been
sufficient.

Montgomery stepped away and in the brief interim, Julia whispered to her
husband, “Why don’t we go and say hello to our son?”

Owen turned his weary face to hers and replied softly, “If our son
wishes to speak to me, he knows where I am.”

Julia’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears, not for Kathryn, who was now
beyond them, but for Tom, whose pain was all too fresh.

The moment the ceremony had ended, Eden hurried through the crowd toward
the park’s western gate. For weeks she had been torn between shock and
rage at the news of Janeway’s death. The shock was easy to understand.
Eden had never truly believed that Janeway could not survive another
encounter with the Borg.

The rage was more difficult. She wasn’t sure who she blamed more for
this horrific turn of events: herself, or Willem. As he hadn’t bothered
to attend the ceremony, at the moment she was more inclined to weigh his
guilt a bit heavier than hers.

A small group of familiar faces was gathering around Seven and Chakotay.
Tom, Harry, the Doctor, Jarem, Reg, Vorik, and Icheb had already
exchanged many hugs and polite comments about the beauty of the service.

For her part, Seven couldn’t really see the beauty. It had been an
uncomfortable several hours in which nothing remarkable had been
said—nothing that gave any deeper meaning or shed any light of
understanding upon Kathryn’s death.

In a way, Seven still did not understand why she had been spared the
same fate. She had been ready to meet it, as there seemed to be no
alternative. But she had been granted a reprieve, and in the countless
difficult hours since then had begun to make some sense of the chaos
that churned inside her.

She alone truly understood that Kathryn’s death had been far preferable
to the alternative, a life among the Borg. She alone had shared
Kathryn’s brief victory and the resultant destruction of the cube that
had enslaved her. The Doctor had suggested gently that this should
comfort Seven.

It did not.

But frightened as she was for herself, she believed that ultimately she
would adapt. Staring at the lost faces around her, particularly
Chakotay’s, she was not certain that her friends possessed sufficient
resilience and wondered what she might do to aid them. Had Kathryn been
among them, this task would have fallen to her. As she was not, Seven
decided that she must summon the strength to help them begin.

Icheb moved from her side to make way for Naomi and Samantha Wildman to
join their small circle.

“Hello, Seven,” Naomi said almost shyly.

“Naomi Wildman, you are looking well,” Seven replied politely.

Concern flashed across the child’s horned forehead.

“I am not well, Seven. How could I be?”

“Naomi,” her mother admonished her softly.

Seven stepped toward Naomi, surprised by how much she seemed to have
grown in the few months which had passed since the last time they laid
eyes upon each other. Too soon, Naomi would be as tall as Seven. Though
she was only nine years old, the top of her head already reached Seven’s
shoulder.

“I am certain you are experiencing feelings of distress, Naomi,” Seven
said. “But we must all do our best to be brave. Admiral Janeway would
expect nothing less of us.”

“I guess.” Naomi shrugged. “I just don’t know how.”

“None of us do,” Tom said gently, tugging at Naomi’s long braid.

Naomi turned to Tom and asked, “Where are B’Elanna and Miral? I was
looking forward to seeing them. I bet Miral doesn’t even remember me.”

Seven caught the loaded glance between Tom and Harry that followed this
innocent remark. Inside she wished to chide Lieutenant Wildman for not
telling Naomi in advance that B’Elanna and Miral would not be in
attendance. Then again, she rationalized that Naomi should not be
burdened with adult concerns.

“I’m sure she does,” Harry assured Naomi kindly. “Tom and B’Elanna tell
her about you all the time. How well you’re doing in school. All of it.”
He then turned to the group and said, “I don’t know about the rest of
you, but I think the last thing Admiral Janeway would have wanted would
be for us to stand around with these long faces. We should find
somewhere to go, and raise a glass to her memory.”

Everyone seemed to concur. Seven had no immediate objections, but
turning to Chakotay, she doubted he had even heard Harry’s words.

Seven moved to face him and said softly, “Lieutenant Kim is right. We
should adjourn to a more private place.”

Chakotay briefly raised his eyes to hers. He looked at her as if she had
just spoken to him in a language the universal translator was unable to
parse.

The others immediately seemed to sense the tension and began to shuffle
away in twos and threes.

“Chakotay?” Seven demanded.

“What?”

“Our friends are waiting.”

“Let them wait.”

Wordlessly Chakotay lifted her hand from his arm and began to walk
toward the white pillar. The few guests who remained near the base
drifted off to allow him a moment of solitude.

After a brief internal debate, Seven followed. She understood the depth
of Chakotay’s pain. She shared it. But she did not recognize the anger
that flared from him unprovoked so often since Kathryn’s passing, any
more than she had understood Phoebe Janeway’s absurd call for vengeance.

Vengeance was irrelevant.

Chakotay waded carefully into the sea of flowers adorning the base of
the pillar. When he was close enough, he raised his hands and placed
them at the sides of the pillar, almost caressing the monument’s cold
white surface.

For the first time, Seven realized that something had been engraved
there. Searching her eidetic memory, she discovered the quote’s source,
an American poet. It read: When a great person dies, for years the light
they leave behind them lies on the paths of men. Beneath these words
were carved Kathryn’s name, rank, and dates of birth and death.

Chakotay stared at the words, but Seven did not believe he was
processing their meaning, which she found appropriate. Finally she said,
“Kathryn died a valiant death, Chakotay. She saved us all from the
scourge of the evolved Borg cube, and when she died, she was herself,
and free of the Collective.”

“There is nothing valiant about it,” Chakotay replied harshly. “She
should never have gone out to investigate that cube with only a science
vessel for backup. Starfleet shouldn’t have allowed it. You shouldn’t
have allowed it. I shouldn’t have allowed it.”

Seven wanted to argue that it had been none of these parties’ choice to
make, least of all his. Instead, stung by his tone, she turned on her
heel and walked away.

Chakotay had never experienced anything like the emptiness that now
consumed him. He had lost family and dear friends before. But this was
different.

There had been times in the past when he had come close to losing
Kathryn. But never in these brushes with death had he felt this crushing
weight. And never had he imagined that rage could burn so deeply or
constantly.

He knew why this was different. For the first time he had honestly
believed that he and Kathryn were about to build a future together, and
he had welcomed that possibility the way a man walking in the desert
welcomes water. Instead of an oasis, he had found a mirage.

He couldn’t blame Kathryn. She had taken more foolhardy risks in the past.

But there was plenty of blame to go elsewhere.

A soft hand grazed his arm. Startled, he looked up to see a pair of
clear blue eyes so like those he had loved in silence for too long.

Phoebe Janeway stood beside him.

“Captain,” she greeted him softly.

Chakotay had heard little of the speeches made during the service. In
fact, he remembered nothing until Kath ryn’s sister had begun to speak
and had given voice to his own dark thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her with an icy calm. “I will see that the
Borg pay for what they’ve done to us.”

UNREGISTERED VESSEL 47658: BETA QUADRANT: JULY 2380

B’Elanna stared at the message on the viewscreen in the cockpit of her
shuttle, waiting for the words to rearrange themselves into something
possible, something vaguely resembling a reality that she could accept.

She waited until her mind finally sensed that there was now an abyss
where her heart had been beating only moments before.

Her heart was human.

It was weak.

It wanted to cry bitter tears.

But tears were useless in the face of death.

And Kathryn Janeway had died as she had lived.

She had died fighting an honorable battle.

B’Elanna would have given anything to have died at her side, or better,
in her place. B’Elanna had become more than she ever dreamed imaginable
under Janeway’s watchful eyes, and this was a debt she could now never
repay.

All she could do was cry out with fury that shook the shuttle’s frame.

B’Elanna fell to her knees and began to wail.

She raged at the silent heavens surrounding her so that the living and
the dead would hear her call.

A warrior was on her way to Sto-Vo-Kor.

After only a few moments, Miral’s frightened cries were added to those
of her mother.

U.S.S. TITAN: BETA QUADRANT: AUGUST 2380

No matter how many times Counselor Deanna Troi had performed this
particular duty, it never got easier. There was nothing for it. The
harder work would begin only once it was done.

Steeling herself, she tapped the chime at Tuvok’s door. When it hissed
open, his stately wife, T’Pel, stood before her.

“Good evening, Counselor,” she said in a voice much warmer than Deanna
usually found among Vulcans.

“Good evening, T’Pel. Is Tuvok available?”

“My husband is meditating, as is his custom before retiring for the night.”

“May I speak with him?”

“Is it urgent?”

“I’m afraid so,” Deanna replied.

T’Pel stepped aside with a nod and gestured toward the small room in
their quarters which Tuvok regularly used as an office during his
off-duty hours.

Deanna moved briskly toward the room and soon caught sight of Tuvok,
dressed in a long blue robe, kneeling before a lamp lit by a single
flickering flame.

“Tuvok,” Deanna said softly. She knew intimately how traumatic it could
be to rouse anyone from deep meditation abruptly.

After a moment, Tuvok rose from his serene pose and turned to face her.

“How may I help you, Counselor?” he asked evenly.

Deanna took a deep breath.

“We’ve just received our latest communication from Starfleet Command,”
she began. “Several months ago, a Borg cube entered Federation space.
Captain Picard was able to eliminate the immediate threat. The cube,
which showed no further signs of life, was quarantined. Admiral Janeway
went with a team of scientists to investigate the cube and to ensure
that it posed no further danger to the Alpha quadrant. Once on board,
she was assimilated. The cube was ultimately destroyed. However, Admiral
Janeway was not recovered. I’m so sorry, Tuvok, but Kathryn Janeway has
died.”

Tuvok did not even blink. After a brief pause during which she presumed
he waited to learn if there was anything more she had to say on the
subject, he replied, “Thank you for informing me, Counselor. If you will
excuse me, I will return to my meditation.”

Part of Deanna bristled. If someone had come to her to say that Captain
Picard had suffered Janeway’s fate, she would have been inconsolable.
She knew it was irrational, but part of her had honestly believed that
news of this magnitude must elicit some kind of obvious response, even
from Tuvok. He and Janeway had served together for more than twenty years.

“Would you like to discuss it, Tuvok?” she asked.

“I would prefer to be left alone,” he replied calmly.

Deanna turned and started toward the door to his quarters. Her first
thought was that she must now compose a note of condolence to Reg. She
knew too well of his special relationship to Voyager’s crew and presumed
he had been terribly upset by this event.

Troi had almost reached the door frame when a rush of agony rolled
through her. She paused, wondering whose turmoil she was sensing, and,
after a moment, realized that it was Tuvok’s.

More than once since they had begun to serve together aboard Titan, she
had shared telepathic connections with the Vulcan. She knew that beneath
his carefully tended walls there were vulnerable wells of deep emotion
where he buried the feelings his mental disciplines would not allow him
to express. She was caught off guard, not only by what had to be an
unintentional lapse on Tuvok’s part, but also the intensity of the pain
she had tasted.

Almost as quickly as it had come, the feeling passed, leaving Deanna a
little dizzy. She refused to prod, even with her empathic abilities,
into her crewmate’s private discomfort. She did turn back, however, to
see Tuvok still standing where she had left him, his face revealing
nothing of what they had just shared.

“If you wish to speak with me further, I will be available to you at any
time,” she assured him.

Once the counselor had left, Tuvok turned again to his meditation lamp.
He knelt, joined his hands at his heart and made a steeple of his
forefingers in preparation to resume his deep and cleansing ritual.
Clearly he had not engaged in this practice as often or as rigorously as
was required. He, too, had felt the brief connection to Counselor Troi,
and was appropriately disconcerted by the event.

It would not happen again.

Tuvok closed his eyes and took several long, slow breaths. He then
opened them and focused on the flame. It danced and darted above the
wooden vessel that housed its fuel. It was a focal point that provided
the doorway to the calm place at his core where he would begin to
integrate the knowledge of Kathryn’s passing and reinforce the
discipline that sustained his mind and body through such trials.

Tuvok stared at the flame.

He kneeled silently for several minutes, awaiting the inevitable descent
into the serenity it promised.

Death was a part of life. It was inevitable. It was not to be feared.
Kathryn would remain alive in his thoughts until his eventual passing.
She would never truly be lost to him.

Tuvok again closed his eyes.

The flame still danced in his mind, but he could go no deeper.

Finally, he reached his hand out and held it just above the flame. Its
heat was intense and would soon cause damage to his palm if he
maintained the position.

In a brief motion, he dropped his hand over the flame and extinguished it.

He remained kneeling in the darkness for several hours, searching for a
peace he was unable to find.

PART TWO

WHAT MEN ABIDE

MAY 2381

CHAPTER TWENTY

Admiral Montgomery found it hard to believe that the man standing before
him now had once been, in his estimation and that of many others, an
exceptional Starfleet captain.

Though Chakotay stood at attention and his uniform and grooming were
well within regulations, the man inside the uniform was a shadow of his
former self. He had always been in excellent physical condition. Now he
was a good twenty kilos underweight. Visible cheekbones set beneath his
strong brow gave him an almost gaunt appearance. He looked years older
than the fifty-one Montgomery knew he’d lived.

Most shocking of all, however, were his eyes. The deep shadows beneath
them could have been credited to loss of sleep if Montgomery hadn’t
personally granted him a leave of absence over two months earlier.

But his eyes.

Once they had been lively, alert with frequent displays of good-natured
mischief, and sometimes given to deep, reflective pause that testified
to the balance he had long ago achieved between his spiritual heritage
and passionate scientific curiosity about the universe and its many
mysteries.

Now, the black stones that were fixed unsettlingly at a point on the
wall behind Montgomery’s head bespoke nothing of the man’s soul—only its
absence. They looked as if death had arrived long ago, without bothering
to notify the rest of his body.

In a way, of course, it had.

For all of us.

From the moment the Borg had reared their monstrous heads in the Alpha
quadrant almost a year earlier, when the Enterprise had engaged what
Montgomery had prayed was a lone renegade cube, many of those tasked
with protecting the Federation and her citizens had worn a similar
haunted expression. As the body count had risen exponentially in the
Borg’s final assault, most could calculate in double digits the number
of friends they’d buried, or more often, been denied the closure of
burying. Sixty-three billion had been lost in a matter of days.

After the Federation’s protracted war with the Dominion, Montgomery had
honestly believed that he had seen the worst the universe had to offer.

He had learned in the most brutal way possible that worst could be a
frighteningly relative term.

But against the longest odds imaginable, the Federation had survived.
No, it had done better than that; it had actually clutched victory from
the gaping maw of annihilation. Grief would linger, but all around him
people were starting to move past the horrors they had witnessed and,
one day at a time, begin the painstaking process of rebuilding.

Montgomery was not indifferent to the particular tragedies Chakotay had
suffered, but he did not believe that they were greater than anyone
else’s. Nor did he think it would be helpful for anyone if he was
allowed to continue to wallow in them.

The saddest truth of all was that Montgomery needed Chakotay’s
experience and expertise, now more than ever. Starfleet needed them. It
seemed that they might have been buried, along with his heart, beneath a
white pillar at Federation Park eleven months earlier.

“Thank you for responding to my request so promptly, Captain Chakotay,”
Montgomery said kindly.

“Yes, sir,” Chakotay murmured.

Montgomery wanted to inquire about his leave. He had to believe that
after two months spent glorying in the beauty of the San Juan Islands,
Chakotay would have found some of his old enthusiasm, or at the very
least, a little perspective. It seemed clear enough that any such
expectation had been foolish.

“Are you aware that Starfleet has issued new orders for Voyager?”

Chakotay’s gaze remained distantly fixed as he replied, “Commander Paris
mentioned it.”

“I wanted to extend your leave as long as possible, Captain, but duty
often requires us to make compromises.”

When Chakotay did not respond, Montgomery went on, “However, before we
allow you to resume your former command, Starfleet is requesting that
you undergo a psychological evaluation.”

Montgomery had been dreading this disclosure. He had yet to meet anyone
who didn’t find the prospect of such an evaluation offensive. Chakotay,
however, betrayed nothing beyond a hint of resignation as he replied,
“I’m sure I can handle whatever milk run Command has in mind for my crew.”

“Damn it, Chakotay, I’m not talking about a routine assignment,”
Montgomery fired back, surprising himself with the vehemence of his tone.

Chakotay had the good sense to at least appear curious. Meeting
Montgomery’s eyes, he said, “Then what are you talking about, Admiral?”

Montgomery was actually surprised Chakotay didn’t know. He assumed at
the very least that Commander Paris would have let something slip to his
old friend and captain, despite the fact that he had been ordered to
keep the mission’s specs classified. It was strange to think that of the
two of them, Tom Paris was living up to his Starfleet oath while
Chakotay seemed ready to toss his out the nearest airlock.

I would never have seen that one coming, Montgomery thought ruefully.

“Once you have completed what I am hoping will be the formality of your
evaluation, I will brief you in detail on your new mission,” Montgomery
finally responded.

“Can you at least tell me why I’ve been singled out for the
distinguished honor of this evaluation?” Chakotay asked without a trace
of mirth.

“In reviewing your record, a number of incidents in the past year have
called your judgment into question,” Montgomery replied as
dispassionately as possible. “I’m certain that after walking our
evaluator through your thought process, it will be clear that your
actions were warranted or, at the very least, defensible.”

Dark fire began to burn behind Chakotay’s eyes. It was almost a relief
to see that something could still touch the man, even if it was only anger.

“Once you’re done, I’m sure you’ll be cleared for duty,” Montgomery
added, attempting to convey his strenuous hope that this would, in fact,
be the case.

“And if I refuse?” Chakotay asked.

“You will be reassigned.”

Montgomery didn’t know what he would have been thinking or feeling in
Chakotay’s place, but he didn’t think it would include the serious
consideration of refusing a Starfleet directive…which was exactly what
Chakotay appeared to be doing.

Does he even care if he loses his ship?

Finally the embers lost the fierceness of their glow, and Chakotay
lifted his eyes from Montgomery’s and fixed them once again on the
distance beyond him.

“Then let’s get this over with, sir,” he said coldly.

Annika.

Seven of Nine refused to answer. Usually, if she ignored the voice, it
would eventually subside.

You are Annika.

Of course Seven knew this. Prior to her assimilation by the Borg at the
age of eight, she had been the human girl Annika Hansen. Beyond
acknowledging this simple fact, she did not yet understand what the
voice required of her. She found its unfamiliar presence disturbing, but
refused to yield to her fear that if she did not find a way to satisfy
the voice, it might never go away.

The voice had been the first thing she’d been aware of once the painful
and terrifying process of what she could only think of as
“transformation” had occurred. One moment she had been a human woman,
sustained by the existence of several Borg implants, who still thought
of herself more often than not as Borg. The next, she had felt fire
consuming her body. Her mind, which had been a comforting, solitary
place for years, had once again been momentarily linked with billions of
others, many of whom, like her, were crying out in anguish, confusion,
and horror, followed swiftly by an overwhelming, cleansing joy that
bordered on ecstasy.

When the transformation was complete, Seven had once again found herself
alone in her mind. The Borg implants that had kept her body’s systems
functioning properly since her severing from the Collective had quite
literally dissolved and been replaced by something else, something
utterly indistinguishable from flesh and bone, yet she was miraculously
still alive.

And the maddening, patient, gentle, totally unnerving voice had begun
its constant mantra: You are Annika Hansen.

The Enterprise, Titan, and Aventine had witnessed the liberation of the
Borg by the Caeliar. But Seven knew long before their reports had begun
to trickle into the Palais de la Concorde, the office of the Federation
President, that the Borg and the multiple threats they had posed to the
Federation were absolutely and irrevocably gone. The Caeliar, an
incredibly advanced and xenophobic species, had unwittingly spawned the
Borg and in an extraordinary act of compassion had welcomed their
aberrant children home, folding them into the Caeliar gestalt where each
individual retained their unique identity while still being part of the
Caeliar collective.

In many ways, it was the perfection that the Borg had relentlessly
sought. The Caeliar had long ago mastered the omega molecule and
harnessed its power. Their technological prowess far outstripped any
other sentient species the Borg or the Federation had encountered, short
of the Q. For the briefest moment, Seven had sensed—no, she had actually
been one with—the new gestalt, and had glimpsed perfection, along with
the combined relief of billions of minds freed from the oppression and
insatiable hunger of the Borg.

Had Seven possessed a spiritual context in which to frame the
experience, she might have considered it sacred, perhaps even holy.

As it was, she could only describe the moment as intensely powerful,
transcendent, and mysterious. The moment had been fleeting for her, and
once the transformation was complete, Seven had been left outside the
bounds of this glorious new existence. Having tasted perfection and
known briefly the answers to the questions that had driven her as a
drone, and having it all ripped away, was now a source of constant and
unutterable pain.

Most days, the only thing separating her from complete despair was the
pressing needs of those around her. Despite their salvation at the hands
of the Caeliar, the Borg had practically destroyed the Federation. All
able hands had been immediately called to constant duty, and once
Starfleet Medical had determined that Seven had survived the
transformation relatively unscathed, she was no exception. Her days were
divided now between lengthy meetings and debriefings, her course work as
an instructor at the Academy, and her responsibility to her aunt, Irene
Hansen.

“Annika.”

Seven tore her gaze from the view of the San Francisco Bay afforded from
the hillside of Federation Park to see her aunt gesturing her forward
imperiously.

Irene had called her Annika from the moment they had been reunited on
Earth three years earlier. This had become cause for confusion only in
the last several weeks.

Her aunt stood at the base of the white pillar that had been erected to
honor Kathryn Janeway. Seven walked dutifully forward, forbearing to let
her eyes linger for long on the gleaming monument. Apart from her many
duties, the only other sustaining force in her life was a sense of
self-righteous anger, and this feeling was only intensified when she
looked at Kathryn’s memorial.

When Seven reached her side, Irene grasped her hand, which still felt
naked without the implants that had once surrounded it. Irene’s grip was
unnecessarily tight, but Seven had become accustomed to it.

“Who the hell is Kathryn Janeway?” Irene demanded.

Seven bowed her head for a few seconds to compose herself before
replying as patiently as possible, “Kathryn Janeway was a Federation
officer, the Starship Voyager’s captain, and the individual responsible
for freeing me from the Borg collective.”

“The what collective?” Irene asked.

“The Borg,” Seven answered.

It had been like this for eighteen months.

Seven had never heard of Irumodic Syndrome, an incurable neurological
disorder that caused irreversible deterioration of multiple synaptic
pathways in the human brain, until her aunt had been diagnosed with it.
The disorder’s most prevalent symptoms were temporary loss of memory,
confusion, disorientation, and as it progressed, delusions. Ultimately
it would prove fatal, but the Federation’s best medical minds were
unable to give her any real sense of when her aunt would succumb to its
ravages. In the interim, regular injections of peridaxon, which Seven
administered, usually calmed the worst of the symptoms, leaving Irene in
relative comfort and usually remembering who her niece was and how it
was that she had come to share a townhouse with her in San Francisco.
Shortly after her diagnosis, Seven had been forced to relocate her aunt
to her residence near the Academy in order to provide better care for
her only living blood relative.

From time to time, the Doctor would come from his current project at
Jupiter Station to check in on Seven and her aunt. These visits were
usually brief. The Doctor always assured her that their old friends at
the Institute continued to work diligently on her behalf to develop a
cure for the syndrome. Despite their brilliance, Seven doubted they
would find a cure in time to save Irene. She tried not to resent the
fact that her staunchest companion, the Doctor, was also engaged in his
own pursuits and therefore unavailable to focus his efforts entirely on
relieving her of at least this much of her current agony. He offered his
sympathy, but often as not such sentiments seemed irrelevant and did
little to ease her suffering or Irene’s.

Irene had good days and bad days. She had been enjoying a string of good
ones when it had occurred to her that she had never formally paid her
respects to Seven’s beloved friend Kathryn Janeway. Irene had been
hospitalized briefly at the time of Kathryn’s memorial and hadn’t
remembered for days after returning home that Seven had just lost one of
those dearest to her. She had insisted this morning on venturing out to
Federation Park, and Seven had chosen to oblige her. It seemed clear
that now her recent lucidity had been cut mercilessly short.

“We should return home for lunch,” Seven suggested to Irene.

“I am hungry,” Irene conceded.

Seven tugged gently at her aunt’s hand to pull her away from the
monument toward the park’s exit. Irene turned her head back briefly to
the base of the pillar, then, opening her eyes in alarm, said, “Kathryn
Janeway died?”

“Yes,” Seven replied.

“Annika, I’m so sorry,” Irene said, her voice filling with concern.
“What happened?”

Seven had told this story so many times in the last year that she simply
couldn’t bear to do it again.

“She was killed in the line of duty, Aunt Irene. It is common for those
who serve in Starfleet.”

“Yes, but she was such a good woman, and she loved you so,” Irene went
on. “You must miss her terribly.”

Until the days following the Borg transformation, this had been the
simple truth. Seven had missed Kathryn—her company, her insight, even
her tendency to mother Seven when she least desired it. Their
relationship had always been complicated, but once Kathryn had died,
Seven found it harder and harder to think about those traits that
sometimes smothered and irritated her. Instead, she had found herself
focusing on Kathryn’s simpler, kinder gestures—the way she had allowed
young Naomi Wildman to become her “captain’s assistant” on Voyager, the
way she had encouraged Seven to bond with and nurture the drone One, the
faith she had placed in Seven time and again when her abilities were
doubted by others or her motives called into question; and most often,
the handful of times the Borg had been determined to recapture Seven and
Kathryn had risked her life and the lives of everyone aboard Voyager to
deny them.

However, since the transformation even these comforting and affirming
memories had become a minefield. The first time she had gazed upon the
tall white pillar, Seven had felt a mixture of shock and pain.
Paralyzing bouts of sadness would come later, followed by a hollow
numbness. Now as she looked again at the symbol of Kathryn’s life, she
felt only anger.

Janeway could not be faulted for her inability to know the future. In
severing Seven from the Collective, she had done what she always did,
what she thought best under the circumstances, and she had never
abandoned Seven during the tumultuous years that followed as Seven
struggled to adapt to her new existence.

But Seven could not dismiss the feeling that had Janeway not interfered,
the pain and confusion that were now a part of Seven’s life would never
have troubled her. She would either have died or would now be a part of
the Caeliar. She would now know perfection, a state she was confident
that, as a human, she would never approach.

But most of all, she would not be plagued constantly by the voice, and
the knowledge of what might have been. Nor would she have to wonder why
she had been left behind.

The day Seven had awakened in Voyager’s medical bay and learned that
Janeway had severed her from the Borg, Seven would have killed the
captain with her bare hands. Several days of painful debate had followed
as Janeway had insisted that she knew better than Seven how much she
would come to treasure and be defined by the indi viduality that had
been her birthright and that was now restored to her. Seven wondered
what Janeway, if she were still alive, would make of Seven’s current
predicament. Seven would have liked to rage at her again, as she had in
those early days. That alone might have dispelled some of the anger that
now gripped her.

Seven had lost too much in too short a time. Those that she might have
turned to for help were all so mired in their own struggles that none of
them even questioned how she was coping. Seven did not blame them, but
she did miss them.

But for better and worse, Janeway’s loss was cruelest of all.

“Annika?” Irene asked.

“Yes?”

“Does Chakotay know what happened to Kathryn? Is he all right?”

Seven swallowed yet another bitter truth.

“He knows, but I cannot tell you how he is coping with the loss. He and
I have not spoken for several months.”

“I’m so sorry, Annika.”

You are Annika.

“Do not trouble yourself,” Seven replied. “I will adapt.”

“Can we go home now?” Irene asked wearily.

“This way.” Seven nodded, gesturing toward the treelined path that led
to the park’s western gate.

You are Annika.

I was Annika. I am now Seven of Nine, she insisted.

Seven would placate her aunt for as long as necessary. But she refused
to accept the will of the voice, which seemed determined to take from
her the only thing she could still call her own: the strength and the
wisdom and the vast knowledge she had attained as a Borg drone. Even
Janeway had known better than to insist that Seven’s abilities were
irrelevant because they had been gifts of a force for great evil.

The harm Janeway had done to Seven now seemed to far outweigh the good;
at least Seven could grant her this much and draw a modicum of
resilience from it.

I will never be Annika again, not for you or anyone.

Seven only wished desperately to know whom she was trying to convince.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The room in which Montgomery instructed Chakotay to wait was a monotony
of white walls, a white paneled ceiling, and a white floor broken only
by a small silver table and two identical metal chairs.

It’s like a damned interrogation chamber.

Which in one sense, Chakotay supposed, it was. In another, it was almost
comforting. Starfleet counselors were trained to put their patients at
ease. Usually their offices were inviting spaces in terms of design,
colored in soft earthtones. The furnishings tended to be softer than
Chakotay preferred, designed to force one to relax. Had he found himself
in such a room at this moment, he would have been hard pressed not to
vomit. The captain could no longer abide pretty lies. At least
Montgomery had done him the courtesy of not pretending that this
evaluation was routine. Chakotay’s career with Starfleet and his command
of Voyager were hanging in the balance.

All that remained was for Chakotay to determine whether or not he cared,
and he definitely preferred the prospect of confronting that decision in
a cold, hard room.

Right up to the moment when the room’s only door swished open and
Counselor Hugh Cambridge entered.

Chakotay was on his feet before it dawned on him that, for the moment,
he still outranked the counselor.

“Good morning, Captain,” Cambridge said neutrally.

“Counselor.” Chakotay nodded.

Despite the thready rhythm his heart had begun to disseminate throughout
his body, Chakotay tensed his legs, forcing stillness upon them. There
was simply no way that Starfleet had assigned his counselor to evaluate
his command abilities. The only explanation for Cambridge’s presence had
to be that he was sent in advance to prepare Chakotay, or perhaps
provide a familiar face to put him at ease.

Even in that regard, Cambridge was the poorest choice imaginable.
Chakotay had disliked the man from the moment they had met, and though
Cambridge’s abilities had earned him a certain amount of respect,
Chakotay had never warmed to him. He had learned to tolerate and
occasionally make use of him, nothing more. What had always amazed him
was that Cambridge never seemed bothered by his captain’s feelings. He
had never requested transfer from Voyager, and Chakotay had been hard
pressed to make the case that beyond his personal feelings, Cambridge
was in any way unfit for his duties.

Clearly unruffled by Chakotay’s stern gaze, Cambridge moved to take a
seat across the table. He had a way of sitting, his long legs crossed at
the knees, his back resting comfortably and his hands clasped in his
lap, which always gave the impression that he was relaxed and in
complete control.

At least he didn’t have a padd in his hand, or any other recording
device. Chakotay decided to take this as a good sign as he sat down and
attempted to mimic Cambridge’s comfortable poise.

“It’s my understanding that you’ve already spoken with Admiral
Montgomery,” Cambridge began.

“I have.”

“Do you need anything before we begin?”

Chakotay felt acid rising up his esophagus.

“You are performing my evaluation?” he asked slowly.

“I am.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Is it?” Cambridge asked with the barest hint of a smile.

“Do you consider yourself to be a disinterested party in this?” Chakotay
asked.

“Not at all,” Cambridge replied. “But I’m also not nearly as interested
as you might imagine.” Before Chakotay could register further complaint,
Cambridge went on, “Has it slipped your memory, Captain, that nine weeks
ago several billion people, many of them Starfleet personnel, died at
the hands of the Borg?”

“Of course not,” Chakotay replied through clenched teeth.

“The final Borg attacks made the Dominion War look like a skirmish,”
Cambridge continued. “Starfleet is currently short of capable officers
on all fronts, and for the time being, must make do with what it has.
I’m sorry if you don’t feel that I’m the best man for the job, but I’m
afraid that falls into the category of hard cheese for both of us.”

“Have you been transferred off Voyager while I’ve been on leave?”
Chakotay continued evenly, refusing to be baited by Cambridge’s
typically blunt approach.

“No,” Cambridge said.

“And yet you still believe you can impartially evaluate events that
occurred while you were under my command? Events that, if memory serves,
you counseled against and protested in your formal logs?”

Cambridge didn’t even bother to ponder the question.

“Unlike most people, I’m highly skilled at separating my personal
feelings from my professional ones.” Cambridge shrugged. “I’ve been
asked to evaluate your current psychological status, Captain—a job for
which I’m uniquely qualified, since I’ve observed you in a wide variety
of on-and off-duty situations for almost three years. I already know
what your mental state was. I’m here today to determine whether or not
you’ve made sufficient personal progress since the last time we met to
warrant once again placing the lives of a hundred and fifty dedicated
members of Starfleet in your hands. If you are ready to resume command,
fantastic. If not, other arrangements will have to be made.”

“But you have a personal stake in the outcome.”

“And I guarantee you that if those who have requested this evaluation
find so much as a whiff of bias in my report, I’ll be the one sitting
out Voyager’s next mission instead of you,” Cambridge replied. “Would it
help if I assured you that I’ve come here today hoping that this goes
well for you?”

“Not even a little.”

“Be that as it may, we have lots of ground to cover, Captain, and time
is very much of the essence.”

Chakotay saw himself rising, overturning the table that sat between
them, and pummeling Cambridge with his fists. The mental image calmed
him somewhat. It also made him realize that, like it or not, as long as
he sat in this room, he didn’t have the power. If he wanted his command
back, he was going to have to play nice. For the first time since he had
arrived, the thought occurred to him that he did want to return to
Voyager, if only to wipe the smugness off Cambridge’s face in a slightly
more dignified manner than in his fantasy.

Chakotay briefly considered the notion that this evaluation was a mere
formality and that Montgomery had already decided he was unfit for duty.
Perhaps assigning Cambridge as his evaluator was simply pouring salt
into the wound.

The captain couldn’t bring himself to go down that road. Montgomery had
always been a reasonable and, at times, compassionate man. Chakotay
couldn’t shake the sense that somewhere, Montgomery was actually rooting
for him. While he could never give Cambridge that much credit, the
counselor had never lied to him nor to any of his crew. And despite his
abrasiveness, he was an excellent counselor, once his patients got used
to his style. Though Chakotay had never sought Cambridge’s advice when
they had served together, it might be interesting to see exactly how
Cambridge saw him, and the “incidents” he had no doubt been brought here
to discuss.

“Very well,” Chakotay finally conceded. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Excellent,” Cambridge said, nodding.

There was a brief pause, during which Chakotay wondered if he was
expected to speak. He tried to think back over the most likely ground
they would be covering and assumed they would begin with the business of
that Orion vessel some ten months prior. He was taken completely off
guard by Cambridge’s first question.

“When was the last time you met with Kathryn Janeway?”

Chakotay found himself involuntarily digging his fingers into his palms.

“I thought we were here to discuss my performance over the past year,”
he replied.

“We’ll get there,” Cambridge assured him. “But as any man with eyes and
a reasonable intellect could easily see, your actions of the past year
did not spring from the vacuum of space. Let’s not waste time dancing
around the issue, Captain. We’re considering both cause and effect
today. You have not performed at your peak since the day Kathryn Janeway
died. That event is sitting in our ‘cause’ column. I’d like to explore
it further for the moment. When was the last time you met with Kathryn
Janeway?”

“June of 2379,” Chakotay answered as agreeably as possible.

Cambridge actually raised his eyebrows in surprise, a gesture Chakotay
enjoyed immensely.

“That was almost a year before she died?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Cambridge said, shaking his head, “I just assumed that for
two people as close as you and Admiral Janeway, you would have been in
touch more often.”

“We were,” Chakotay replied.

“I don’t understand,” Cambridge admitted, and Chakotay’s pleasure
intensified exponentially. He could never remember hearing Cambridge
utter those words in all the years that they’d known one another.

“You asked about the last time we met,” Chakotay replied, “not the last
time we spoke.”

Cambridge replied with a weary shake of his head.

“It’s a little early in the day to be splitting such fine hairs, don’t
you think, Captain?” he asked.

“You asked a question, Counselor, and I answered it,” Chakotay replied
tonelessly.

“And what was the reason for your meeting?” Cambridge asked.

“Voyager was docked in Proxima’s maintenance facilities to undergo
routine repairs prior to our departure for the Yaris Nebula. The admiral
chose to stop by for a visit. It was purely a social call.”

“That would have been almost a year after Voyager’s mission to Kerovi
and all of that unpleasantness with the Klingons?”

Chakotay nodded.

“What did you and Kathryn discuss during your social call?”

Chakotay bristled internally at Cambridge’s use of her name rather than
rank, but chose to let it pass. Cambridge wasn’t going to get under his
skin that easily, though Chakotay knew full well he had never been close
enough to Kathryn to call her anything but Admiral.

“There wasn’t much news on my end,” Chakotay replied. “You might
remember that as the year of minor missions. After our time in the Delta
quadrant I suppose it’s unfair to draw comparisons, but the few
diplomatic transfers and colony resettlements we were tasked with
overseeing at that time were fairly mundane.”

“And how was Kathryn?”

“She was in the eighth circle of hell,” Chakotay replied, actually
smiling briefly at the recollection.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The one reserved for diplomats,” Chakotay explained.

“My remembrance of Dante is that the eighth circle contained the
fraudulent,” Cambridge said.

Chakotay had actually said the same thing to Kathryn when she’d made the
reference. It pained him slightly to be reminded here and now that he
had been the only person to whom Kathryn had ever loaned her personal
copy of Inferno, the copy given to her by Mark Johnson as an engagement
gift.

“At the time, she was having some difficulty seeing the distinction,”
Chakotay finally replied.

Cambridge nodded.

“And apart from the witty repartee, was there anything significant about
this meeting?” he asked.

Chakotay felt his face hardening.

There was, but he would be damned if he would share it with Cambridge.
The memory of that night had been his most constant companion every day
that had followed. At times it was a soothing balm, but more often it
was the sword’s tip that goaded him. Often Chakotay found himself
wishing Kathryn had never come to Proxima. It would have made what was
to come so much easier to bear. But she had. And because she had,
reality was now unbearable.

“Why do you ask?” Chakotay inquired. He had never shared the details of
that night with anyone, even his closest friends. Before, he worried
that such a revelation might actually jinx the future it promised. And
once Kathryn had died, it no longer mattered.

“Because it’s my job, Chakotay,” Cambridge replied.

He knows, Chakotay realized—perhaps not the substance of that evening,
but enough to hazard a reasonable guess. Cambridge had always possessed
uncanny observational skills, and Chakotay had to allow that for months
following his night with Kathryn on Proxima, his spirits had been high.
Voyager’s mission to survey a stellar nursery could not account for them.

Chakotay wanted desperately to avoid such personal territory with
Cambridge, but he also knew that even the appearance of withholding at
this point would damn him.

As objectively as possible, Chakotay returned to that night.

STARDATE 56494: JUNE 2379

And what was the ambassador’s response?” Chakotay asked.

“That if the Federation Council was serious about establishing trade
with the Syngtara, they would have sent a telepath,” Kathryn replied,
smiling broadly. “I must admit, he had me there,” she added with a chuckle.

Throughout dinner they had covered similar territory. It seemed that
both of them were languishing under assignments that, while certainly
vital to the Federation, left a great deal to be desired in terms of
excitement. Neither was anxious to return to the days when every moment
might bring the threat of destruction to their ship and crew, but
somewhere in the universe there had to be a happy medium. Chakotay
couldn’t shake the sense that both of them were being tested for their
tolerance for boredom. Both were rising admirably to the challenge, but
it was unsettling.

However, Chakotay also knew that Kathryn hadn’t come all the way to
Proxima to discuss the Syngtara, or the Peeth, or the Children of
Fawlwath. When they’d arranged for dinner, Chakotay had felt sure that
Kathryn was troubled about something, most likely to do with Voyager. He
had first sensed it when they had returned from Kerovi. Every time they
had spoken in the last year it seemed she ended their conversations
buoyed but definitely not relieved of her burdens. These few subtle
hints had turned that sense into a disquieting certainty. He had been
surprised when she arrived in good spirits, and forced his concerns to
the back of his mind, the better to enjoy the few hours they’d managed
to steal in one another’s company.

“Whatever happened with Captain Leona?” she asked, clearly directing the
conversation toward more personal matters as she poured herself another
glass of wine.

“Nothing,” Chakotay replied. Voyager had briefly rendezvoused with the
U.S.S. Osiris while it was under Leona’s command, and he had mentioned
in passing to Kathryn how intriguing he found the Betazoid captain.
Normally she wasn’t the jealous type, but immediately after they’d
completed the supply transport to the first of Boreal’s six colonies,
the Osiris had received an abrupt order to return to Earth, and Chakotay
had always secretly wondered if Kathryn had a hand in it. Of course,
that would have meant admitting that Kathryn might be concerned by a
potential romantic entanglement on his part, and he never let himself
really believe that was possible.

“What about you and Admiral Harlow?” he teased good-naturedly.

Kathryn heaved a weary sigh. “Let’s just say I think there’s a good
reason he’s been divorced twice. He didn’t strike me as one who did well
in captivity.”

Chakotay nodded, refusing to pay too much attention to the relief he
felt when he heard this. Both of them had tried, unsuccessfully, to find
a romantic interest worth pursuing, and both, it seemed, might be
destined to remain single.

“Any new prospects on the horizon?” Chakotay asked.

“Not really,” she acknowledged somewhat wistfully.

“Good,” he replied before realizing that the word had escaped his lips.

Kathryn paused, staring at Chakotay intently. It had been an innocent
enough remark, but still it sent a tangible charge through the air
between them.

“Why good?” she asked lightly.

A familiar tension caused his heart to accelerate, though he kept his
expression neutral.

It would have been a simple matter to shrug the comment off. Chakotay
had danced this particular dance with Kathryn for years, and there was
no reason tonight should be any different.

But she held his eyes with a soft, lustrous gaze. There was something
challenging shining forth from the tumultuous depths, something both
curious and guarded at the same time.

Chakotay found himself suddenly wondering whether or not he had misread
the substance of her unspoken concerns for so long.

Part of him wanted to answer her honestly. It was good because the
thought of Kathryn giving herself completely to another man had always
felt wrong to Chakotay.

He had long ago accepted the reality that he loved her. Over the years
that love had become a safe, predictable place, the quiet companionship
of two people who have shared unique experiences and could sense without
words the other’s moods, needs, and fears.

Duty that had once made anything else between them impossible was not an
issue anymore. Since their return to the Alpha quadrant, they had both
continued to sit in seeming contentedness by the side of the pool,
occasionally dipping a flirtatious toe, but steering well clear of
anything resembling a swim.

As to what Kathryn was thinking, he couldn’t say. But for his part,
Chakotay had always worried that to push her toward anything else would
be to lose her forever, and that he could not abide. Since they were no
longer stranded together on the far side of the galaxy, the potential
was always there that they might simply drift apart. He would always
want more, but could certainly live with what he had of her.

When Chakotay didn’t answer her directly, she dropped her eyes and
studiously began to rearrange the remnants of her dinner. The plate was
pushed toward the center of the table, the napkin in her lap folded
neatly atop it, and the wineglass to its right nudged a few millimeters
closer to the plate.

Chakotay was seized with a sudden urge to put her at ease. He leaned
forward and reached for the hand that was still fretting about the stem
of the glass.

The moment their fingers met, a familiar electric charge coursed through
him.

It was a simple, friendly gesture, he told himself, until she looked up
at him again, squeezing his hand in return, ever so gently.

She took a shallow breath and said softly, “You know, there’s something
I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“What’s that?” he asked as his throat ran suddenly dry.

Kathryn paused, seeming to consider her words carefully.

“We’ve been home for over a year and a half, and never once in that time
have you offered to take me to Venice.”

A tense pit formed instantly in Chakotay’s stomach.

Of course he’d wanted to ask. As Voyager’s routine assignments of the
last several months had become increasingly mundane, he often found
himself thinking back to their years together in the Delta quadrant and
their brief reunion to recover B’Elanna and Miral. The longer they were
apart, the more he missed her. But he’d been burned once, and wasn’t
going to willingly tempt the flames again without some indication from
her that she shared his feelings. Seeing the cautious hope suffusing her
face, he actually wanted to kick himself for missing the signs that in
retrospect had been fairly obvious to one who supposedly knew her so well.

Instead, he dropped his eyes to focus on their hands. His thumb began to
play softly over her fingers. Without looking up he replied, “I didn’t
think you wanted me to, Kathryn.”

Stealing a quick glance, he noted that her eyes were also firmly set on
their conjoined hands.

Her voice deepening a bit, she said, “I thought I made myself perfectly
clear back in the Delta quadrant; I never said never.”

Chakotay nodded. “That’s true. But then again, you’re still keeping
everyone, me included, at a safe distance. To be honest, I always hoped
my feelings would change. I tried to make them change.”

“And have you succeeded?” she asked calmly.

“Of course not,” he replied. “Have you?”

She shook her head slowly.

“Then why didn’t you say something?” he demanded.

Shrugging slightly, she answered, “I don’t know. I guess I always
thought there would be some perfect time, some moment where the truth
would become so obvious to both of us that we wouldn’t need words. But
the more I think about it, the more it seems clear that I might live the
rest of my life alone, wondering just how much I’ve sacrificed on the
altar of duty.”

“All you ever had to do was say the word, Kathryn,” he replied.

“I thought I just did.”

Chakotay allowed the moment to breathe and settle.

He had always expected that if Kathryn were ever to actually open this
door, he would rush headlong through it. Maybe it was the years of
experience, or his knowledge of her mercurial nature, that made him
hesitate now. Or maybe it was the reality that once this bridge was
crossed, there would never be any going back. Kathryn wasn’t suggesting
a fling. She wasn’t looking for a way to pass the time. As a rule, she
threw herself into her choices with her entire being, and would accept
nothing less from him.

He looked up to study her face. He saw trepidation there, but also a
hint of relief coupled with a compelling tinge of mischief.

Searching his heart, he realized that nothing in the universe would make
him feel as complete as walking into the future with her by his side. It
was a simple truth, arrived at with little fanfare. Chakotay only wished
they had reached it sooner.

“Then how do you, I mean…” Chakotay found himself fumbling for words as
the choice he had just made sank in, flushing his cheeks and sending a
pleasant anticipatory rush through his body.

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said with a smile.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re going to be slogging through the Yaris Nebula for the next ten
months, and I don’t imagine you’ll be encountering many fascinating
women while you’re there.”

“Many?”

“All right, any,” she corrected herself. “But then again, one never
knows what fate has in store.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I have yet to meet anyone in the Alpha quadrant I really enjoy
having lunch with, much less anything else,” she admitted. “When you get
back, assuming nothing has changed for either of us,” she said softly,
“we’ll meet in Venice.”

Chakotay considered the proposal. It was sensible and practical.

Rising from the table, he moved to stand beside her, still holding her
hand. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then stood to face him.

Dropping any pretense, he allowed himself to fall freely into her eyes.
He was a patient man, but knowing what he did now, waiting for another
ten months was completely out of the question.

In the last few years, she’d begun to allow her fine auburn hair to grow
long and had fallen once again into the habit of pulling it up into an
efficient bun while on duty. Gently he reached up and removed the comb
that held it neatly in place and watched with pleasure as she shook her
head softly, freeing herself in a gesture from the symbol of her years
of self-imposed confinement.

“I let you go once, Kathryn,” he said, his voice low. “Please don’t ask
me to do it again.”

“Come to think of it…” she whispered.

He silenced her with a kiss.

Their lips met, tentatively at first. Soon enough, however, they moved
beyond timid exploration and succumbed to the promise that had always
lived between them.

The next few hours were the most satisfying of Chakotay’s life. They
parted with the assurance that as soon as Voyager returned, a new
chapter would begin for them, duty be damned.

They would meet again in Venice, and Chakotay no longer doubted what the
future would hold beyond that.

When Chakotay finished describing the evening for Cambridge, the
counselor was good enough to reply with a compassionate nod.

Chakotay stared hard, searching for any trace of his typical
nonchalance, but found none.

Finally Cambridge said, “You said that was the last time you met. Why
didn’t she join you in Venice?”

Chakotay felt certain that at any moment, the anguish which had
accompanied every previous visitation of this memory would resurface,
but to his surprise, under Cambridge’s unflinching stare he felt only
cold and terribly alone.

“She was detained,” Chakotay replied, “by her death.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Eden looked up abruptly as Willem entered her office without
announcement, followed quickly by her clearly flustered aide, Tamarras.

“Captain, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Admiral Batiste wishes to see
you,” Tamarras said unnecessarily.

“So I see,” Eden replied.

“Get out,” Willem barked at Tamarras.

The frightened aide threw a pleading glance at Eden, who simply nodded
apologetically, saying, “Thank you, Tamarras, that will be all.”

Willem stalked to and fro before her desk, clearly agitated. Torn
between anger—at both his gall and his rough handling of her aide—and
curiosity as to what had riled him so, she rose and rounded her desk,
halting his steps by standing before him and crossing her arms indignantly.

“The day you signed our divorce decree, you forfeited the right to
behave like an ass in my presence,” she said. “Whatever’s troubling you,
we’re on duty, and I expect you to remember that when dealing with me
and my staff.”

Willem dismissed her complaint with a huff and replied, “Damn it,
Afsarah, he’s not going to pass.”

Eden was well aware that Captain Chakotay’s evaluation had been
scheduled for this morning, but found it hard to believe it had been
completed in less than an hour.

Which could only mean…

“Willem, are you actually monitoring the captain’s session?” she asked
incredulously.

“Of course,” he replied. “The fleet launches in a week. The mission
briefing for all department heads takes place tomorrow morning. Until a
few minutes ago, I assumed Captain Chakotay would be standing beside me
during that meeting, but I’m no longer confident that’s going to be the
case.”

“Willem.” Eden shook her head, truly at a loss to prioritize the vast
number of things wrong with that statement.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “In the first place, who authorized
you to watch a confidential counseling session?”

“He didn’t come to us asking for help, Afsarah,” Willem retorted
sharply. “He’s been ordered to undergo this evaluation, and its results
don’t fall under the purview of doctor/ patient privilege.”

“Its results,” Eden said with emphasis, “but the actual contents of the
session?” she asked in disbelief.

“Time is a luxury none of us has right now,” Willem replied.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said. “I’ve been supervising six
hundred officers and crewmen working around the clock for the last ten
weeks to get this mission launched. Right now nobody can say for sure
that all traces of the Borg are gone, or the Caeliar for that matter,
and no one is more anxious than I to start getting some answers to those
questions. But there are lines we don’t cross, Willem.”

Willem paused, his jaw tensing. “If Captain Chakotay isn’t up to sitting
in Voyager’s center seat—”

“We’ll find a suitable replacement,” Eden finished for him. “It may take
a few more weeks—”

“We don’t have a few more weeks.”

Eden shook her head. “Command isn’t going to scrap the mission, Willem.
I know it was a long road getting here, but there is simply no longer an
argument to be made that this proposal isn’t vital to the ongoing
security of the Federation.”

“There never was,” he interjected, “but that didn’t stop them in the past.”

“Of course there was,” she corrected him. “This is a massive
reallocation of resources which has been approved at a time when a lot
of Federation citizens aren’t sure where their next meal is coming from.
Sixty-three billion people just died, and still, Command and Operations
have thrown everything they have at these nine ships to get them ready
in one-quarter the time such an undertaking should warrant. This, even
after we learned about the damn Typhon Pact! Our old adversaries have
banded together when we’re at our most vulnerable, and still, still,
Starfleet is going forward with this mission. No one could have foreseen
these cataclysms, and you can’t fault Command for treading lightly in
the past.”

“It was never Command,” Willem retorted sharply. “It was only that
damned Kathryn Janeway.”

At this, Eden was forced to turn away. She crossed to the windows behind
her desk, unable to revel in the glori ous late spring morning she
beheld, the sun glistening off the bay as the city of San Francisco
buzzed with life. Such a stark contrast with the devastated reality of
so many other Federation worlds brought a lump to her throat.

While she, too, had been frustrated by Janeway’s resistance to Willem’s
proposal, she had never resented the woman as Willem had. Unlike Willem,
she had actually gotten to know Admiral Janeway, at first through her
logs and reports, and ultimately through the lengthy debriefing session
they had shared once Voyager had returned from its aborted mission to
Kerovi. Eden had found the admiral to be unflinching in her honesty and
ability to look objectively at her work over the seven years Voyager had
spent in the Delta quadrant. She hadn’t needed to meet Janeway to know
that her devotion to duty was a sacred thing. The logs of her senior
officers and crew testified to her resolve to adhere to Starfleet
principles throughout their journey, even when it was most inconvenient
to do so.

All Eden had to do was consider the fate of the Equinox, the first known
Federation vessel pulled into the Delta quadrant by the Caretaker, to
fully grasp the reality that not every Starfleet officer would have been
capable of Janeway’s accomplishments. Nor had she been overly surprised
by the depths of the admiral’s disappointment in Captain Ransom and his
crew, and the lengths to which she had gone to bring them to justice.

When they had reached that point in Voyager’s narrative, Janeway had
stated clearly that this was the incident during her command that she
felt the least pride and satisfaction in. The admiral knew she had
crossed a personal and professional line in her determination to right
the abhorrent wrongs of the Equinox’s crew, and felt that her actions
had tarnished her reputation both personally and in the eyes of her
crew. She had been most grateful that during those dark days, the
constant if unheeded voice of Commanders Chakotay and Tuvok had helped
her to maintain her perspective.

Janeway had been much harder on herself throughout the course of their
meetings than Eden would ever have been on her or anyone faced with
Voyager’s unique circumstances. When they were done, Eden had been left
in awe of the admiral.

Eden had not been present the first time Batiste had proposed to
Starfleet that Voyager should return to the Delta quadrant. She had,
however, been so disconcerted by Willem’s fears about the potential for
another Borg attack that she had completely revised her analysis, giving
her full-throated support to the Delta quadrant mission. They would
never know how many lives might have been saved had Willem’s proposal to
send a fleet of exploratory vessels back to the Delta quadrant in June
2379 been approved.

In light of Janeway’s ultimate fate, Eden found it impossible to
consider this with any objectivity. Secretly, she always believed that
Willem had felt vindicated by her assimilation and death. He had been
arguing for years that a return to the Delta quadrant was needed, and
Janeway had shouted him down at every opportunity. Her death at the
hands of the Borg, no doubt, seemed like poetic justice to him.

But Eden was among only a handful of people who knew that Janeway hadn’t
gone to investigate the cube that killed her simply because her
curiosity got the better of her. The moment Captain Picard had
successfully rendered the cube inert, Batiste had brought his proposal
to Command for a third time. Given recent events, they were hard pressed
to ignore the Borg threat and were clearly ready to approve his
proposal. Admiral Janeway had stepped up and volunteered to investigate
the cube herself, and Command had agreed to table discussion of
Voyager’s pending return to the Delta quadrant until her analysis was
complete.

Eden had never been able to shake the sense that she and Willem had sent
a great woman to her death. She knew that everyone had been doing what
they thought best at the time. She had actually been moved by the
lengths Janeway was willing to go to protect the lives of her former
crew. And no one could say for certain whether or not sending Voyager
back to the Delta quadrant would have made a difference.

But Afsarah couldn’t help but hate Willem a little every time he spoke
of Janeway with such disdain. All Eden knew for sure was that she
deserved better.

Willem pulled her from these thoughts with a question. “Did you know
they were intimately involved?”

Eden’s stomach fell as she turned to face Willem.

“Admiral Janeway and Captain Chakotay?”

Willem rolled his eyes and nodded.

Cold and trembling, Eden sought out the edge of her desk and took a seat.

“Since when?”

“Just before Voyager’s mission to the Yaris Nebula,” he replied.

Eden struggled through the math to place the timing in some kind of
context. Just before that mission, Willem had approached Command for the
second time to propose the Delta quadrant mission. Janeway had made an
impassioned speech, calling for Starfleet to focus their efforts on
defensive rather than offensive action when it came to the Borg.
Starfleet had again come down on her side, and Voyager had been spared.
Now Eden was forced to wonder if this knowledge on Janeway’s part had in
any way impacted her decision to enter into a deeper relationship with
her former first officer, to risk happiness by reaching out for a more
fulfilling personal life.

Nothing in their logs had even hinted that such a relationship had ever
been present. But Eden had rarely met two officers who had served
together as long as Janeway and Chakotay had and spoke in such glowing
terms about the other. She knew that Janeway had been engaged to be
married and that her intended had married another when she was
pronounced dead. To the best of her knowledge, neither Janeway nor
Chakotay had ever been romantically linked with anyone else, either
during or after their return from the Delta quadrant, though Eden rarely
paid attention to gossip about her co-workers’ personal lives, as she
knew all too well what it was to be on the receiving end of such
speculations.

Eden found her heart pounding. They had loved one another, probably for
years, and once they chose to consummate their relationship, they had
been torn apart forever by the Borg.

“Dear gods,” she murmured.

“My sentiments exactly,” Willem said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, certain he wasn’t sharing the same
regrets now tormenting her.

“I mean, Captain Chakotay’s problem has less to do with posttraumatic
stress following the debacle at the Azure Nebula and more to do with a
broken heart than either of us suspected up to this point. He’s not
grieving the loss of a dear friend and comrade. His behavior since her
death makes a lot more sense now, and I’m guessing won’t improve a whit
if we put him back on active duty. Of course, Montgomery will make the
final call, but I’ve been watching the man talk for the last hour, and
believe me when I tell you, he’s not ready.”

Eden found it harder to care about that right now. Her many regrets over
Janeway’s death had just been increased by an order of magnitude.

“I’ll start making a list of potential replacements,” she said dutifully.

In the long pause that followed, Eden actually believed Willem had left
the room without bidding her farewell, but a minute later looked up to
find him still standing where she’d left him, staring at her.

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” he said with a look of surprise.

To Eden’s consternation, he seemed positively relieved.

“Then if you wouldn’t mind, Admiral,” she said, “you’ve just added
another huge task to a list that’s already too long.”

“Of course,” he replied thoughtfully, then turned and exited looking
considerably better than he had when he’d entered.

As Eden could guess that whatever new idea he was chewing on would
become clear eventually, she dismissed any further reflections.

Turning to her computer interface, she called up a list of active-duty
captains who might be free for reassignment, but after a few moments,
found her eyes glazing over.

“Computer,” she called, “display transcript of closed session, Starfleet
Command stardate 56467.3.”

In response, the visual record of the meeting in June 2379 during which
Admiral Janeway had taken the floor to refute Batiste’s proposal for the
second time appeared on the screen. Eden hadn’t been in attendance at
that meeting either, but had been granted access to its transcript by
Willem when he had once again been bettered by Admiral Janeway. Eden had
watched it for the first time after learning of Janeway’s death.

Settling in, she forwarded the visual record to the frame that contained
an image of the admiral rising to address her colleagues and began the
playback.

“I would never attempt to minimize the threat posed to the Federation by
the Borg,” Janeway had begun. “They are driven by the purest of
instincts and a biological and sociological imperative to achieve what
they perceive as perfection. But thanks in large part to the efforts of
my former crew, we now have a vast repository of information about the
Borg and their weaknesses, as well as the knowledge of a former Borg
drone, Seven of Nine, which we can and must use to continue to bolster
our defenses.

“I understand that Admiral Batiste is not proposing to send Voyager back
to the Delta quadrant under the same circumstances which prevailed
during our first unexpected mission there. He has spoken eloquently
about the vast strides made in our quantum slipstream technology over
the past year and its ability to send an entire fleet of vessels to the
far reaches of the galaxy without cutting them off from the support and
resources of the Federation.

“However, neither he, nor anyone here, can assure us that this
technology is ready for such ambitious deployment. We tested slipstream
technology. We worked for months to integrate it into our systems, and
believe me when I tell you that no one was more committed than my crew
to making it work. It would have ended our exile in a matter of days. I
cannot tell you how disappointed we were when we ultimately concluded
that it was not safe.

“What I can tell you is that no crew should be forced to face that
disappointment again. Until such time as slipstream technology has been
thoroughly tested, the mission Admiral Batiste is proposing remains
untenable.

“Further, to return to the Delta quadrant solely for the purpose of
gathering more intelligence about the Borg will most likely only
antagonize them. We’re not talking about a show of force, which might
convince the Borg to respect our borders. As Voyager’s logs indicate,
their territory in the Delta quadrant is vast, and they have ships and
resources at their disposal we cannot hope to match. To seek out a
confrontation with them again, even with the purpose of ‘investigating’
their capabilities, might only hasten the eventuality that we are all
seeking to avert.

“Could the Borg be convinced to coexist peacefully with the rest of the
galaxy, we would not be having this discussion. But they cannot. As far
as they are concerned, there will be no reason to rest until the
entirety of the Milky Way has been assimilated. Our only reasonable
course of action is to stop them before they have the opportunity to
achieve their stated goals.

“The most unfortunate reality, however, is that genocide, even of a
species like the Borg, runs counter to every principle upon which our
Federation is founded. We’re not talking about sending a fleet of ships
with the capability to face and defeat the Borg. We’re not going to
attack them. That’s not what we do.

“So what are our options?

“As Admiral Batiste has suggested, we will likely one day find ourselves
facing the Borg again in the Alpha quadrant, when they have mustered
sufficient numbers and resources to mount an invasion and discovered
another route from their space to ours. We must begin to prepare for
that day. But I believe he is wrong to suggest that we do not already
possess the knowledge and the determination to face that threat.

“We know more about the Borg today than we have ever known. We have
detailed schematics of their vessels and armaments, and several
encounters under our belts which will enable us to predict their
tactics. We possess weapons, both offensive and defensive, which we know
to be effective, and we must dedicate every available resource to
enhancing them and building upon them.

“I do not doubt that any Starfleet crew assigned to a mission in the
Delta quadrant would accept the challenge. We are trained to seek out
such adventures. But I remain unconvinced that such a mission would most
effectively utilize our current resources, and might only lull us
further into a sense of complacency. What are we doing right now to
avert catastrophe at the hands of the Borg? We’re investigating them
further, we might say to ourselves.

“And while we investigate, they are building ships and weapons and,
quite possibly, looking for another way to send them to the Alpha quadrant.

“We know the Borg are a serious threat. But we should consider
realistically the best way to counter that threat, and sending one or a
handful of vessels with untested and unreliable technology on what might
be a one-way suicide mission hardly qualifies in my mind as rising to
the level of serious action. We must begin here at home, preparing for
an even tuality which may be inevitable, but hopefully is still many
years in the future.”

When Eden ended the playback, she found herself brushing tears from her
eyes. She had continued to believe in the rightness of their cause, even
after Starfleet’s second refusal, Eden had to admit that Janeway had
made a compelling case. If Willem was to be believed, she had left that
session and rendezvoused shortly after with Chakotay, where their
relationship had changed forever. Eden did not believe that Janeway’s
intentions toward Chakotay had clouded her judgment on the issue or even
factored into the equation. No one who hadn’t lived those seven years in
the Delta quadrant could possibly speak to the hardships her crew had
endured, and Janeway’s unwillingness to send them back on what must have
seemed like a dangerous whim was perfectly understandable.

Eden had always believed that if one wanted to make the gods laugh, all
one had to do was make a plan. But rarely, even in the aftermath of
recent events, had she considered the gods cruel. Nor had she ever been
so cognizant that the road to the hell in which she now found herself
had been paved with such good intentions.

Chakotay sat unflinching under Cambridge’s stern gaze. To his credit,
the counselor hadn’t even attempted a witty retort to Chakotay’s last
statement.

Instead, he sighed, uncrossed his legs, and moved forward to place his
elbows on the table between them, bringing his face to rest in his hands.

“All right,” he said simply, “let’s move on for now.”

Chakotay only nodded in reply.

“Let’s go to stardate 57585,” Cambridge offered.

“The Orion ship?” Chakotay asked by way of confirmation.

“In fairness, I’ll advise you that for several weeks prior to this
incident, your crew was already expressing concerns about your mental
and emotional state,” Cambridge said.

“In fairness, at the time, I shared their concerns,” Chakotay replied.

“Let’s talk about that day,” Cambridge suggested, “and then we’ll
continue on with the series of events that culminated in your request
nine weeks ago for an extended leave.”

“I’m sure you remember it all as well as I do,” Chakotay countered. “You
were there and serving under my command at the time.”

“Still, I’d like to hear the story from your point of view.”

“Fine.” Chakotay nodded. “Stardate 57585…”

AUGUST 2380

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Chakotay rounded the corner to find the entrance to the turbolift
blocked by Lieutenant Harry Kim and one of Vorik’s new engineers,
Ensign…Ensign…

Damn it. What is her name?

His head was still throbbing dully, and despite the fact that his tongue
felt like a huge lump of sandpaper and his stomach was rumbling, the
thought of actually ingesting anything made his gorge rise. While
updating his personal log the night before, he had polished off a full
decanter of spiced Bolian ale—a mistake he didn’t plan on making again
any time soon. He needed to ease off for a few days at least, but
synthehol never managed to help him find sleep the way the real thing did.

Maybe it’s time to crack that case of Château St. Michelle I’ve been
saving, he thought briefly.

Still, it troubled him that he couldn’t put a name to the face of the
petite blonde woman Harry had backed against the wall. She didn’t seem
to mind. Propping himself up with one hand resting on the wall just to
the right of her head, Harry was leaning in and whispering something
that made her simultaneously blush and giggle.

Chakotay refused to admit that the ire stoked by this little scene had
as much to do with his hangover as its impropriety.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on the bridge, Lieutenant?” he said sharply.

Both Kim and the ensign jumped to attention at the sound of his voice.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry stammered, abashed. “We were just waiting for
the turbolift.”

The captain stepped past them, and the moment he came within range of
the proximity sensors, the doors whisked open.

Her face a bright shade of red, the ensign hurried away as Kim stepped
in behind his captain.

They rode for a few moments in silence until Harry asked, “Any word this
morning on the Orion ship?”

“If you were at your post where you were supposed to be, you wouldn’t
need to ask that question, Lieutenant,” Chakotay replied.

Harry said nothing further, and allowed Chakotay to step onto the bridge
before hurrying to relieve Cappiello, the gamma shift officer, at tactical.

Tom Paris rose to greet Chakotay with a “Good morning, Captain.”

“That remains to be seen,” Chakotay replied as he settled himself into
his chair and began to review the prior shift’s reports.

All around him, his officers were all studiously engaged in their
duties. A tense hush had descended upon the bridge the moment he
entered, broken only by the occasional beep or blurt of a console.

“Captain, long-range scanners have detected a vessel,” Lasren called out
from ops.

“Is it them?” Chakotay asked.

“A moment, sir,” Lasren requested.

The initial scan results were already being rerouted to Paris’s
interface, and after a moment he said, “The power signatures and hull
configuration are a match. I think we’ve got them, Captain.”

“Red Alert,” Chakotay ordered. “Adjust course and speed to intercept.”

After only a few blares Kim muted the klaxon, for which Chakotay was
silently grateful, but the bridge was bathed in pulsing crimson light.

“There’s no way to mask our approach, Captain,” Tom advised him.

“So we go in hard and fast,” Chakotay replied.

Within moments their quarry had detected the danger and had moved into
attack position.

“They can’t possibly believe they outgun us,” Paris noted. The ship’s
primary function was transport, though a few nasty-looking disruptor
cannons had been cobbled onto the hull. And given that they were members
of the Orion Syndicate, it was fair to assume they had a handful of
other destructive aces in the hole.

“Their port engine is offline, and I’m detecting a coolant leak in their
starboard engine,” Lasren added.

“Looks like they’re done running. Scan their cargo hold,” Chakotay ordered.

“They’re still carrying the half kiloton of kemocite they stole from
Deep Space 5, sir.”

“Hail them, Ensign.”

After a few seconds Lasren replied, “No response, Captain.”

“Open the channel.”

“They can hear you, sir.”

“Orion vessel, this is Captain Chakotay of the Federation Starship
Voyager. Power down your weapons, drop shields, and prepare to be boarded.”

“They’re still not responding, sir,” Lasren advised.

“Life signs?” Chakotay asked.

“Six confirmed,” Lasren replied.

“Orion vessel,” Chakotay called out again, “we have scanned your ship
and confirmed that you are illegally in possession of kemocite ore.
Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

In response, the Orion ship fired several quick disruptor bursts and
began evasive maneuvers.

Voyager shuddered slightly under the barrage.

“Shields are holding,” Kim reported from tactical. “Attack pattern, sir?”

“At your discretion,” Chakotay replied.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, then added, “Helm, prepare to execute
attack pattern delta six.”

Under Tare’s confident hands the ship rolled to starboard, easily
evading another volley, simultaneously firing a steady stream of phasers
from their ventral array.

“They just lost twenty-eight percent of their shields,” Kim reported,
clearly pleased.

“Bring us around,” Chakotay ordered.

A few minutes later, the Orion vessel had been completely stripped of
its cannons and most of its shields, and was running on maneuvering
thrusters only.

“Are they ready to talk yet, Ensign Lasren?” Chakotay inquired.

“No response to repeated hails,” Lasren replied.

“Harry, is your security team ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tractor them into the shuttlebay, and let’s make sure we give them a
nice, warm welcome.”

A pale blue beam struck the Orion vessel and began drawing it toward
Voyager.

Suddenly, a massive jolt shook the bowels of the ship, and the beam
blinked out of existence.

“What the hell was that?” Chakotay demanded.

Paris was the first to assess the situation. “It’s an optronic pulse.
They modified their remaining disruptor bank to emit it.”

“Our tractor beam is disabled. We can’t bring them in or tow them,”
Harry advised.

“Then we board them,” Chakotay resolved. “Assemble a security team for
transport. And if they so much as twitch again, open fire.”

“Captain,” Paris said, clearly dismayed.

“Problem, Commander?”

“That pulse was the bottom of their bag of tricks. Their shields are
failing and they’re not going anywhere. If we fire on them now, they’ll
be destroyed.”

“They’re transporting kemocite ore they stole from a Federation
starbase, killing fifteen people that we know of in the process. That
was their first mistake. Their second was firing on this ship. They’ve
been warned, and they understand the consequences of their actions,
Commander,” Chakotay replied coldly. “This isn’t a game.”

“The boarding party is ready for transport,” Kim reported.

“Captain,” Lasren interrupted, “I’m detecting a plasma leak in their
warp core.”

“Is their core about to breach?” Tom asked.

“Can’t tell. All of their systems have sustained heavy damage. It could
just be a malfunction.”

“Tare, let’s put some distance between us,” Tom ordered, rising to stand
behind the helm station.

“Arm photon torpedoes,” Chakotay added.

“Sir?” Paris asked, turning abruptly to face Chakotay.

Chakotay stood and squared off with his first officer.

“It’s not a malfunction. When the warp plasma hits that kemocite it will
create a temporal disruption. They’re still trying to evade capture,
Commander, and that’s not going to happen today.”

“Torpedoes armed,” Kim said.

“Lasren, is that channel still open?” Paris asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Orion vessel, we are detecting a leak in your warp core. Do you require
assistance?” Paris said.

An unintelligible burst of static blared over the comm system.

“Can you clean that up, Ensign?” Tom asked.

“There’s too much interference on their end,” Lasren replied.

“Harry, take out the last of their shields and have the transporter
rooms lock onto the crew and beam them aboard,” Paris said.

“Belay that,” Chakotay said immediately.

“What?” Paris asked, incredulous.

“There’s no time. Lieutenant Kim, fire photon torpedoes,” Chakotay
ordered, his eyes fixed defiantly on his first officer’s.

“Belay that!” Paris ordered.

“Commander Paris, you are relieved,” Chakotay barked. “Mr. Kim, destroy
that ship.”

There was a moment of stunned silence in which no one on the bridge
seemed willing or able to move.

“Harry—” Tom began.

“Lieutenant Kim, follow my orders or stand aside,” Chakotay said,
turning to face Harry.

Kim hesitated for only another second, and then fired the torpedoes.

Simultaneously, Lasren called out to Chakotay from ops, but his words
were drowned out by the obliteration of the Orion ship.

“Get off my bridge,” Chakotay growled at Tom. “Stand down from Red Alert.”

“Captain—” Lasren began.

“What?” Chakotay snapped.

Only after Paris had reached the turbolift did Lasren continue, his
voice shaken, “Just before the torpedoes hit, they managed to lock down
the warp plasma leak. I think they were trying to comply, sir.”

Paris turned to look at Chakotay. The captain met his eyes without
flinching.

“They brought it on themselves,” Chakotay answered. “Lieutenant Kim, you
have the bridge. I’ll be in my ready room.”

He could feel the eyes of everyone upon him as he turned away from his
crew and retreated into his private sanctuary.

Only when he was safely ensconced did he begin to shake. Chakotay kept
telling himself it had all happened too fast for him to make another
choice. The ship they had just destroyed had been responsible for the
deaths of four Starfleet officers and eleven civilians when it had blown
its way out of Deep Space 5. It was carrying the dangerous ore that,
when refined, was a key component in weapons of mass destruction.

They didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, he assured himself, and no
one was going to mourn their passing.

The captain stepped toward the replicator, debating whether he should
order the water his body desperately needed or something a little more
bracing, when a chime sounded at his door.

“Come in,” Chakotay called.

Counselor Cambridge entered.

“What do you need, Counselor?” Chakotay asked.

“I just had a very interesting conversation with Commander Paris,”
Cambridge said evenly. “Would you like to give me your version, or shall
I wait for your report?”

“I’ve already relieved one of my senior officers from duty, and it’s not
even time for lunch yet,” Chakotay replied. “If your services are
required, I’ll let you know. Until then…” Chakotay gestured toward the
door.

Cambridge considered him for a moment before saying, “Then may I at
least make a suggestion, sir?”

“If you must.”

“Unless you want to end up alone on that bridge, you might try directing
your obvious anger at the person for whom it is meant rather than your
crew.”

“And who might that be?” Chakotay asked.

“Kathryn Janeway, sir,” Cambridge replied, then exited the room before
Chakotay could order him out.

Several hours later, Harry entered holodeck three to find Tom waiting
for him in the cold gray room.

“He didn’t confine you to quarters?” Harry asked.

“He’s giving me a few days to think about my behavior,” Tom replied,
“and a few extra duty shifts in waste reclamation.”

Harry nodded. “Then we’d better get started. A little time with Chaotica
should cheer both of us up.”

Tom nodded and moved toward the holodeck control panel, but before
activating the program he turned to Harry and asked softly, “Are you as
worried about him as I am?”

“You have to ask?”

“What are we going to do?” Tom said.

“What can we do?” Harry asked. “He’s the captain.”

“I talked to Doctor Kaz this afternoon,” Tom said. “He’s going to review
Chakotay’s report of the incident, but given the circumstances, he
doesn’t think he can relieve him of duty based on this alone. There’s a
case to be made that they intended to allow the warp plasma to hit the
ore. The captain could have been right.”

“But he wasn’t,” Harry replied grimly. “And he never used to err on the
side of violence.”

“Why did you fire?” Tom wanted to know.

“They were the enemy, Tom. And it wasn’t an illegal order, just a
merciless one.”

“I just don’t understand,” Tom went on. “What happened?”

“She died,” Harry replied.

“So he’s the only one who misses her or who’s having trouble dealing
with her death? I mean, we all loved her. If anything, I expected that
he’d be the one helping us to move on,” Tom said.

“Me too,” Harry agreed.

“I swear there was a moment this morning when I thought he was going to
take a swing at me,” Tom admitted.

“Maybe we should try to talk to him. You, me, Doctor Kaz. Hell, we could
contact Jupiter Station and get the Doc in on it,” Harry suggested. “I’m
pretty sure Seven is back at the Academy by now. She might be able to
take a short leave. He’s still stuck in the anger stage of his grief. It
actually reminds me of that time B’Elanna…” Harry trailed off.

Tom turned away, and Harry quickly added, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Tom shrugged. “And you’re probably right. B’Elanna might be
the only person left who could get through to him.”

“Is that an option?”

“No.” Tom shook his head.

Harry stood, dejected, staring at the holodeck grid. “It’ll pass,” he
finally said, clearly trying to convince himself more than anyone. “He’s
hurting now. It hasn’t even been six weeks. But sooner or later he’s
going to bounce back, and until then, we just have to support him the
best way we can. We owe him that much.”

“So we should just stay out of his way and pretend he isn’t becoming
more erratic every day?” Tom asked.

“We’ll think of something,” Harry assured him.

Tom turned again to the holodeck controls, and again hesitated to
activate them.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m just not up for Captain Proton right now,” he
finally admitted.

“How about some velocity?” Harry suggested.

Tom thought about it before replying, “I think I’d better save myself
for those waste processors.”

Harry nodded, resigned.

“If she was still here, what do you think she would do?” Harry asked.

“Admiral Janeway?”

“Yeah.”

“If she could see him like this,” Tom said sadly, “she’d be kicking his
former Maquis ass.”

FEBRUARY 2381

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Jarem Kaz found his captain alone in astrometrics in the small hours of
the morning. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. The puffiness
under his eyes had recently resolved itself into deep circles the color
of a bruise. His shoulders were stooped and his hands trembled slightly
as he worked the control interface. In some ways this was better than
the alternative of the last several months. The shakes were symptomatic
of the detoxification process his body was undergoing. Chakotay had
stopped drinking the day word had arrived of the Borg attacks on Acamar
and Barolia. The doctor had discreetly offered him a drug therapy that
would make the process easier on his body, but accepting treatment would
have meant acknowledging he had a problem, and Chakotay would never do
that. His mood hadn’t improved dramatically, but at least Kaz was
comforted by the knowledge that he had to be more clearheaded now that
he was no longer intent on numbing his obvious pain.

Instead, he had become focused with laserlike intensity upon one idea:
destroying the Borg. No other topic had been up for discussion among the
senior staff for weeks, and though several innovative strategies had
been proposed, they had yet to locate even one cube on which Chakotay
could vent his too-long-pent-up rage. Kaz believed it was only a matter
of time. He was actually surprised to find that Chakotay was the only
occupant of the astrometrics lab, even at this hour, as it was the most
efficient tool at their disposal for detecting Borg activity. Likely as
not, Chakotay had grown impatient with the officer on duty and simply
dismissed him so as to better do the job himself.

“Captain?” Kaz asked deferentially.

Chakotay jumped, startled by the interruption.

“What is it, Doctor?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kaz admitted.

“Join the club,” Chakotay muttered.

“Actually, I’ve had a thought I wanted to run by you.”

Chakotay paused to rub his eyes vigorously and squeeze his head between
his hands to forcibly remove the grogginess that held him.

“I’m listening.”

“In the past, we’ve always focused our efforts on developing
nanotech-based weapons targeting the Collective’s interlink, to render
the Borg incapable of taking action, hostile or otherwise.”

“You’re talking about the various neurolytic pathogens we’ve used before?”

“Yes. Doctor Beverly Crusher has been working closely with Seven of Nine
and several others to modify the latest effective pathogens, since we
know the Borg have already adapted to and will be able to counter
everything we’ve thrown at them so far.”

“Right.”

“And as for conventional weapons, we know that ran domly rotating shield
and phaser frequencies is effective only up to a point.”

“True.”

“And you’re sure we can’t get clearance to allow Vorik to try his hand
at re-creating those transphasic torpedoes?”

“I’ve asked Admiral Montgomery about it daily, and he keeps telling me
Command is saving them as a weapon of last resort.”

“Saving them for when?” Kaz demanded.

“I wish I knew,” Chakotay replied bitterly. “Vorik is working on
duplicating the shield and phaser frequencies first used in the Delta
quadrant by the advanced drone, One, and with some serious power
rerouting I think we’re going to have that up and running soon.”

“But sheer firepower isn’t going to get the job done, is it?”

“I doubt it.”

“So we need something else.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Kaz took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts.

“The first time the Federation battled the Borg, the Enterprise subdued
them by giving the drones a very simple command: sleep.”

“But that was only effective because Captain Picard was still linked to
the hive mind and his crew were able to give the command through him,”
said Chakotay. “The Borg aren’t assimilating anymore. They are simply
destroying anything and everything in their path. Even if we could
develop a new pathogen to disrupt their functions, there’s no easy way
to get it assimilated into the Collective.”

“Setting the delivery system issue aside for the moment, rather than
trying to develop a new and complicated pathogen to sever their link,
what if we were able to design a program which when assimilated would
simply make the Borg believe that all affected technology had been
catastrophically damaged—a ‘critical failure’ message, if you will.”

Chakotay paused.

“But all they’d have to do is look around to know that they weren’t
damaged. How does that help us?”

“The Borg believe what their nanoprobes tell them to believe. They don’t
seek secondary confirmation for orders or assessments. They don’t think
outside the Collective. And somewhere in Seven’s voluminous files on the
subject she reported that when Borg systems are critically damaged, they
automatically self-destruct to avoid the possibility of capture.”

Chakotay’s face brightened. “You think we can fool them into blowing up
their own vessel?”

“I think if we can get properly modified nanoprobes into the central
plexus of a Borg ship so that the signal will be carried beyond one
cube, we can fool them into blowing up all of their vessels.”

“Any questions?” Chakotay asked.

Standing at the head of the conference table, his hands resting on the
back of the tall chair in which he was much too restless to sit,
Voyager’s captain met each of his senior officers’ eyes with what he
hoped was reassurance.

Harry Kim was the first to look nervously around the table before
clearing his throat.

“It’s a pretty ambitious plan, sir,” he said quietly.

“Is that a problem, Lieutenant?” Chakotay shot back.

“No, sir,” Kim replied immediately.

“Five drones will be hard to neutralize, assuming we’re able to capture
them,” Jarem Kaz piped up.

“I believe five is the most we can hope to subdue and infect,” Chakotay
replied. “And since it’s essential that at least one of them reach the
central plexus to disseminate the modified nanoprobes, I want us playing
with the best hand we can possibly build.”

“Playing, sir?” Cambridge asked.

Chakotay had never had much patience for his counselor’s semantic games.

“If you have an objection, Counselor, out with it,” Chakotay replied.
“Once we leave this room, the subject will be closed to debate.”

“Fine,” Cambridge said, checking his fellow officers’ faces before
continuing. “Every single time Starfleet has confronted the possibility
of infecting the Borg with a software virus or pathogen capable of
destroying them, we have hit the same ethical wall. We will protect
ourselves, with deadly force if necessary, but we will not use tactics
that are tantamount to genocide. Previous pathogens that have proved
effective were designed to disrupt the Borg’s ability to function
collectively. While it is clear that in some instances the results were
more destructive, that was not necessarily the weapon’s intent. The
possibility always existed that the Borg would lose their ability to
attack us, without suffering complete annihilation.”

“It’s highly unlikely that the modified nanoprobes Doctor Kaz has
developed will do more than destroy one cube at a time,” Chakotay
replied. “And we’ll be lucky if they don’t adapt after our first attack.
But if they don’t, and we’re lucky enough to infect all of the cubes
that have infiltrated the Alpha quadrant, then I won’t lose any sleep
over it.”

“That’s precisely my objection, Captain,” Cambridge said evenly.

Chakotay took a moment to see if anyone else seemed inclined to share
the counselor’s point of view. All eyes but his were studying the table.

“In the past few weeks, the Borg have made their intentions toward the
Federation crystal clear,” Chakotay said simply. “Command has authorized
every Federation and allied vessel to use any and all means necessary to
destroy the Borg. If we don’t end them, they’re going to end us. This is
war, Counselor. Billions have already died. We’re now fighting for our
right to exist. And we might not be in this position if at some point in
the past someone had realized that principles are nice until you’re
facing an enemy who doesn’t have any. If we must sink to their level in
order to beat them, so be it.”

“It’s a compelling argument, Captain,” Cambridge conceded. “There’s only
one problem.”

“Only one?” Chakotay almost laughed.

“We may succeed, but if we lose what is best in us in the process, what
have we won? Does a Federation willing to forgo the beliefs upon which
it was founded in order to defeat its enemies deserve to exist?”

“Of course it does,” Jarem Kaz replied.

“Doctor Kaz—”

But Kaz continued on, rolling right over Cambridge’s interruption. “The
Federation doesn’t engage in inhumane practices because they are
historically ineffective. We don’t torture sentient beings for
information and we don’t execute them, even for the worst offenses. We
don’t do these things, not because of their effect on our enemies, but
because of their effect upon us. It’s wrong for a state to turn its
people into monsters, even to secure ourselves, because we draw the line
at becoming what we behold. But the Borg are different.”

“So was the Dominion, if I recall correctly,” Cambridge argued.

“Counselor, your objection is noted,” Chakotay said. “For the record, I
agree with Doctor Kaz. We find ourselves in extraordinary circumstances.
The principles that we all swore to uphold will die with us if the Borg
have their way, and I’ll die before I allow that to happen.”

After a brief pause during which no one else seemed inclined to speak,
Chakotay continued. “Lieutenant Vorik, how much longer will it take to
implement the shield and phaser modifications we’ve discussed?”

“At least two days,” the Vulcan replied.

“You have thirty hours, no more,” Chakotay said. “Tom, adjust the duty
shifts to twelve-hour rotations until further notice. Harry, begin
drilling your teams to subdue our anticipated guests. Patel, get busy
constructing those interlink nodes, and Doctor Kaz, get to work on the
modified nanoprobes. Ensign Lasren, continue to monitor the tactical
scout and be ready to intercept.”

Nods all around the table confirmed that his orders would be followed.

“Dismissed.”

Twenty-eight hours later, Voyager set a course for the small tactical
vessel their sensors had detected four days earlier.

As the ship grew larger on the main viewscreen, Kim hoped that their
preparations would be sufficient. He would have been reassured immensely
by the presence of Seven of Nine, but she was serving as a special
adviser to Federation President Bacco during the crisis. Voyager still
retained data from every Borg encounter they had experienced while in
the Delta quadrant, and that data was about to be put to a brutal test.

“Helm, what’s our distance?” Chakotay asked.

“Five hundred thousand kilometers,” Tare replied.

“Commander Paris, your shuttles are clear to launch,” Chakotay called
over the comm.

Within moments Harry watched as the Delta Flyer with Tom at the helm and
four of Voyager’s Type-9 shuttles streaked out of the bay and entered
formation ahead of Voyager.

“They’ll be in weapons range in ten seconds, Captain,” Harry advised,
careful to keep his voice calm and steady.

“All weapons, target their shields. Doctor Kaz, is your team ready in
cargo bay two?”

“Affirmative, Captain.”

Kim watched his chronometer count down, and when it reached zero called
out, “The Borg vessel is now in range.”

“All ships, open fire,” Chakotay ordered.

At his command, the shuttles broke formation and commenced hammering the
tactical vessel’s shield generators with a barrage of augmented phaser
fire, each ship cycling through different frequencies at any given
instant. Every time the Borg ship compensated for one of them, it became
vulnerable to another, and its shield generators fell like dominoes.

The Borg returned fire, but the Starfleet ships’ redesigned shields were
proving as effective as their enhanced phasers. The power required to
sustain these modifications was massive and would blow out the power
relays in minutes, but Harry was confident that this battle was not
going to last that long.

“Prepare to drop shields,” Chakotay ordered. “Transporter room one, get
a lock on five of the Borg and beam them directly to the cargo bay. Tom,
bring our shuttles home.”

“We’re on our way, Captain,” Tom’s voice replied.

A few tense seconds later, Kaz called over the comm, “Cargo bay two to
the captain. The drones have been captured and subdued.”

“Good work, Doctor. Transfer them to sickbay at once.”

“Captain, the Borg vessel’s shields are beginning to regenerate,” Lasren
advised.

“Harry, launch quantum torpedo barrage while there’s still time,”
Chakotay said.

Seconds later, a bright burst of green and orange filled the viewscreen,
and Harry, along with everyone else on the bridge, breathed an audible
sigh of relief.

Chakotay rose from his chair, smiling for the first time Kim could
remember in a long time.

“Take us down to Yellow Alert. All hands, this is the captain. Job well
done. We are now moving into phase two.”

Turning to Ensign Lasren, he said, “Begin continuous long-range scans.
Find us a Borg cube.”

Fourteen hours later, Chakotay entered sickbay to find Kaz and his staff
monitoring the five drones they had captured from the Borg vessel, each
of whom lay unconscious on a biobed behind a level-ten force field.

“Report,” he said crisply.

“The procedure was a success, Captain,” Kaz informed him. “The drones
now all carry the modified nanoprobes.”

“Which version of the code did you finally settle on?” Chakotay asked.

“The crudest but also the most effective. The nanoprobes will propagate
an alert indicating catastrophic damage. Once that message reaches
enough of the cube’s systems, the ship will automatically initiate its
self-destruct protocol. There’s always a chance that the queen, wherever
she is, might step in and stop it, but the time delay is set just long
enough to allow for maximum dispersal before they emit the
‘catastrophic’ message. Heck, the queen might just destroy the ships
herself before she realizes there wasn’t anything wrong with them.”

“From your mouth to her ears,” Chakotay replied. “And how about the
interlink nodes?”

“Thanks to your former EMH’s extensive work in the area, it was easy
enough to sever these drones from the hive mind, but it was a little
trickier to establish a stable link between them. Two of them almost
died in the process. But the link appears to be active. You are now the
proud owner of your own little collective, Captain. Their orders are
simple. ‘Go immediately to the central plexus and inject the nanoprobes.’”

“What are the chances the other drones will attack them when they
realize that the ones we’re returning aren’t connected to the rest of
the Collective anymore?”

“Excellent,” Kaz replied bitterly. “But by transporting them to five
separate locations, we’re doing all we can to maximize their potential
for success.”

“It’s the best we can do for now, isn’t it?” Chakotay mused.

“I wasn’t sure we’d get this far,” Kaz admitted. “I’d say it’s better
than we could have hoped for.”

“Once we’ve detected a cube, we’ll need to be ready to deploy the drones
at a moment’s notice.”

“Just give the word, Captain.” Kaz nodded. “We’ll be ready.”

Paris had broken into a cold sweat the instant a cube had showed up on
long-range sensors and altered course to intercept them. The tense
silence on the bridge suggested that everyone around him shared his
fear, but as expected, they were doing an admirable job of focusing on
the task at hand. Only Chakotay, seated next to him, appeared both
confident and somewhat relaxed.

“Two minutes to intercept,” Kim called from tactical.

“Distance from the Rattlesnake Flats?” Chakotay asked.

“Point zero one light-years,” Lasren reported.

“Helm, maintain course and speed,” Chakotay ordered.

“Aye, sir,” Tare replied.

“What if they don’t follow us?” Paris asked.

“One problem at a time, Commander,” Chakotay said.

Seconds later, Harry reported, “One minute to intercept.”

“Hold us steady, Tare,” Chakotay said.

The face of Tom’s father rose unbidden to his mind. His countenance was
calm and collected, seemingly at peace. Tom found himself thinking of
all the things he suddenly knew he needed to tell him.

“They’re charging weapons,” Lasren’s voice cut through the image,
bringing Paris back to the present moment.

“Attack pattern gamma nine,” Chakotay called.

A bright green beam blossomed from the cube, and seconds later, the
bridge shuddered under the impact.

“Return fire!” Chakotay ordered.

A few volleys were exchanged in which neither ship suffered serious damage.

“I think we have their attention,” Chakotay said. “Helm, bring us about.
Heading one four one mark eight.”

Tom actually envied the grace with which Tare swiftly executed the
maneuver. He and Chakotay had briefly discussed the option of Tom taking
her place for the mission, but both had agreed she was up to the
challenge, and she was calmly proving them right.

“New heading entered,” Tare reported.

“Take us to warp nine-point-five,” Chakotay said.

“Warp nine-point-five confirmed,” Tare replied.

“They are pursuing,” Harry added.

“At our present course we will enter the Rattlesnake Flats in less than
three minutes,” Paris said.

“Steady as she goes,” Chakotay said. “Transporter room one, what’s your
status?”

“The Voyager collective is ready for transport on your order, sir,” the
officer replied.

“Stand by.”

“Acknowledged.”

Minutes later, bright pink and orange flares began to sprout in the
distance. There was nothing flat about the Rattlesnake Flats, a
designation given by a stellar cartogra pher for a stretch of plasma
storms and gravimetric eddies not unlike the Badlands, and just as
hazardous. Tom could only guess that the shape and swiftness of attack
of the whirling strings of plasma had inspired the designation. Warning
buoys alerted travelers to avoid the area, but Voyager was now headed
straight for it.

Several thousand kilometers before reaching the edge of the Flats, Tare
dropped out of warp and went to impulse. Voyager entered the Flats, and
soon it was hard to tell whether the forces pushing the limits of the
ship’s inertial dampers and artificial gravity were coming from the
plasma flares or the Borg.

Tare managed to clear the most destructive flares before guiding the
ship into a region near the center of the storms that Patel had mapped
earlier. This area contained fewer eruptions, but those that did develop
here were of greater intensity. Vorik and Patel had adjusted the ship’s
sensors to search for trace particle densities, which spiked just before
an eruption, in this zone.

“What do you see, Tom?” Chakotay asked.

Studying his armrest display, Paris called to Tare, “Adjust course to
heading one three six mark eight. Harry, prepare to drop the pulse mine.”

Both officers acknowledged their orders, and though the aft section was
struck hard by a volley from the cube, Tare firmly guided the ship into
the path of the eruption.

“Release the mine,” Tom shouted. “Helm, adjust course to heading one one
seven mark two and get us clear.”

“Reroute all available power to shields and brace for impact,” Chakotay
added.

The Borg cube detected the mine the instant it was dropped and moved to
avoid it. As it did so, the mine exploded simultaneously in the path of
a major plasma flare.

Voyager was far enough from the blast to avoid destruction, but was
still battered about by the explosion and failed to avoid a smaller
plasma burst directly in front of them. Overloaded relays sent sparks
flying throughout the bridge and threw Kim, Lasren, and Oden to the deck.

“Report!” Chakotay called as those who had fallen picked themselves up.

“Hull breach on decks ten and eleven. Emergency force fields are
holding,” Harry replied. “Shields are down to twenty-eight percent.
Power to deck two sections five through nine is offline.”

“Evacuate those sections,” Paris ordered.

“What about the cube?” Chakotay demanded.

“Their shields are down,” Lasren confirmed.

“Chakotay to transporter room one. Send our collective home.”

After a few seconds the transport officer’s voice came over the comm,
“Transport complete.”

“Tare, get us out of here,” Chakotay ordered.

Tare brought the ship around and maneuvered deftly past the cube and
headed for open space.

“The cube is still pursuing,” Harry said, as a confirming bone-rattling
charge shook the bridge. “Our shields are at fifteen percent.”

“Reroute power from all nonessential systems,” Tom ordered, certain that
Lasren was already in the process of doing so.

Another blast struck Voyager, harder than any of its predecessors.
“Damage to decks three and four,” Harry reported. Moments later, “Direct
hit to our port nacelle. We’re venting plasma.”

“What’s happening on the cube?” Chakotay asked.

“Their shields have almost regenerated,” Lasren said.

“Chakotay to Doctor Kaz. Where are our drones?”

“Three, Four, and Five of Five have almost reached the central plexus.
They are encountering resistance. One is no longer active, and Two
injected the modified nanoprobes into the main regeneration sequencer.”

“We are clear of the Flats,” Tare announced.

“Evasive maneuvers,” Chakotay said. “Continuous fire, phasers and
torpedoes.”

Voyager began its final steps in the deadly dance with the cube. After
only a few minutes, her shields were at less than ten percent and her
phasers were offline.

The cube was having difficulty maneuvering, testament to the damage
Voyager had already inflicted, but was not yet down for the count.

“Doctor Kaz, report!” Chakotay ordered.

“Five was the only one to reach the central plexus, but scanners cannot
confirm whether or not the nanoprobes were injected.”

“Should it have worked by now?” Chakotay asked.

“Give it a few more seconds.”

All on the bridge held their breath, waiting for the explosive spectacle
they had worked so hard to create. Ten seconds later, the cube was still
intact and in pursuit.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kaz reported. “It looks like the Voyager collective
failed.”

Paris turned to Chakotay, whose face was set in a determined scowl. He
didn’t have to guess what the captain’s next order would be.

“Helm, bring us about. Set collision course,” he said.

To her credit, Tare didn’t hesitate to carry out the order.

“All hands, this is the captain. We’ve done what we can, and now we are
going to do what we must. It has been my honor to serve with each and
every one of you.”

Tom returned his gaze to the viewscreen, where the Borg cube was growing
larger by the second. He didn’t really wonder at Chakotay’s order. Other
ships had made suicide runs in the last few weeks in similar
confrontations, and Voyager would not shrink in her duty. He did wonder
if Chakotay would have been as quick to give that order a year ago, but
it didn’t matter. Voyager’s first captain had given her life to stop the
Borg, and surely the crew she had led could do no less.

As the view of the cube began to dominate the screen, all he could think
of were B’Elanna and Miral. He knew they would understand, but that
wasn’t going to make it any easier to accept. Turning back, he glanced
at Harry, whose eyes were lowered to his interface.

“Captain!” Harry called out suddenly. “I think it—”

But he didn’t need to say more. Bright orange plumes were billowing up
from multiple locations within the cube.

“Veer off!” Chakotay shouted. “Veer—”

Voyager groaned in protest as Tare reversed thrusters, and before Tom
was thrown from his seat he had a brief but spectacular view of the
death of the Borg cube.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jarem Kaz entered the charred remnants of Voyager’s conference room to
find Tom Paris standing before the room’s expansive windows, staring out
at the barren star field.

What remained of the oblong table sat at an odd angle to the floor.
Fragments of a few chairs peeked out from beneath it. An armrest was now
a permanent part of the bulkhead near the door, and every surface
remained coated in detritus and dust, the result of an explosion that
had ripped through the deck a week earlier during their bloody encounter
with the Borg.

Kaz had been up to his elbows in wounded since then, and though all of
his patients were now stable, he remained agitated. The minute he had
them patched up, it seemed, there were more to fill sickbay’s biobeds
and the temporary recovery ward they had created in cargo bay three. He
hadn’t slept for more than an hour in the past six days, but he honestly
believed that his inability to relax was less a result of what had
recently transpired than of his well-grounded fears that something worse
was just around the next corner.

“Am I early or late, Commander?” Kaz asked as kindly as possible.

Paris turned toward him slowly, his face bearing the flat aspect common
to victims of shock. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought the captain had called all senior officers to the conference
room,” Kaz said.

There was a long pause during which Kaz had to wonder whether or not
Paris had heard him or was simply struggling to remember the definitions
of the words he had just spoken.

“Commander…” Kaz began.

“He did,” Paris finally answered.

Kaz crossed to face the first officer and was hard-pressed not to
unholster his medical tricorder. He had known Paris for almost three
years now, but he had never seen the man look so lost.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” he asked gently. Though whatever was troubling
Paris might be more appropriate to Counselor Cambridge’s specialty, Kaz
couldn’t bear to see the officer who had become the most stable and
reasonable command presence Voyager had these days beginning to unravel
without lending whatever help he could.

“My father’s dead,” Paris said softly.

Kaz winced, shaking his head in mute acknowledgment of Paris’s terrible
loss.

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“When the invasion started, he was assigned to Starbase 234. The Borg
destroyed it.”

The eyes Tom lifted to Kaz’s were damn near vacant. Kaz realized in an
instant that the most damaged thing in the room wasn’t the furniture. He
had been hoping that their recent success against the cube would have
reinvigorated everyone. Now it seemed likely that the universe had
decided to make the last moments of life he and his friends might have
left as excruciatingly painful as possible before granting them the
release of oblivion.

Gradak—the former host of the Kaz symbiont—was a Maquis. He had
witnessed repeatedly the ravages of war. It had taken Jarem a long time
to come to terms with that past. But he had never expected to witness
anything approaching the devastation that had almost driven Gradak
insane. Now he wondered if integrating those experiences into himself
could actually help him navigate through their current crisis. There was
really only one way to find out.

Kaz raised his right hand and slapped Paris hard across the face. When
Tom recovered, he looked at Kaz with more anger than confusion.

That’s a little better.

“Grieve later, Commander,” Kaz said. “I imagine when all this is done,
if we are still around to count and mourn the dead, the list is going to
get substantially longer. But if you don’t pull yourself together now,
Voyager and her crew will most certainly be on it.”

Paris took a few quick, revitalizing breaths.

“You’re right,” he replied more firmly.

“How is the captain?” Kaz asked.

“He’s riding everybody pretty hard,” Paris answered, “but nowhere near
as hard as he’s pushing himself. I can’t say for sure, but I haven’t
seen him eat a thing in the last two days.”

Kaz nodded. He hadn’t expected their victory to slake Chakotay’s
appetite for revenge for long. But that victory had come at a price the
ship couldn’t long continue to pay.

“So what is this meeting about?” Kaz asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Paris replied.

A breathless Harry Kim was the next to push his way through the room’s
permanently half-open doors, followed quickly by Counselor Cambridge,
Lieutenants Tare and Vorik, and Ensign Lasren. Once he was inside,
Cambridge looked desperately for a place to sit and, finding none,
perched himself on the edge of the faltering table while he struggled to
catch his breath.

“What kept you?” Paris asked.

Kaz was relieved to see that Paris was maintaining his poise and once
again doing what he could to keep the mood light. This proclivity of
their first officer had done more than anything else of late to keep the
crew’s morale as high as possible.

“We were in engineering,” Harry said between breaths. “Turbolifts are
down.”

“Say no more.” Paris nodded.

Everyone turned as the captain stepped in behind Harry, slapping him on
the back good-naturedly. It would have been a comforting sight, the sort
of friendly gesture Chakotay would have made in years past, had Kaz not
clearly seen its manic origins.

“The good news is, Starfleet has finally managed to construct a cohesive
strategy for confronting the Borg,” Chakotay said as he moved to the
center of the group. “Based on intelligence collected by the Starships
Enterprise and Aventine, Command believes they have found the Borg’s
gateway to the Alpha quadrant. All available ships have been ordered to
regroup at the Azure Nebula, where we will end this invasion once and
for all. Voyager has been given the honor of leading this fleet.”

These last words were spoken with such confidence, Kaz suspected that
Chakotay was surprised when every one in the room didn’t break into
applause when he finished his announcement.

Instead, wary, troubled eyes focused en masse on the captain.

“Why isn’t the Enterprise leading the fleet, sir?” Kim asked dubiously.

“The nebula contains multiple subspace apertures, one or more of which,
it is believed, leads to the Delta quadrant and has been compromised by
the Borg. The Enterprise and the Aventine will be investigating those
apertures, and if possible closing them down. Voyager will remain in the
Alpha quadrant to hold the line should they fail.”

When this was met with somber trepidation, Chakotay asked, “What’s our
current status, Lieutenant Vorik?”

“Warp drive has been restored, though I do not believe it would be wise
to push the engines beyond warp 6 for now. The antimatter injectors are
running at borderline efficiency. Repairs to decks eight and nine are
proceeding, but it is likely sections ten through fifteen will not be
restored to normal operational capacity for at least another twenty hours.”

“All personnel have been relocated from those sections and reassigned
quarters,” Paris added.

“Structural integrity and power distribution remain our primary focus
and should be operating at maximum within the next three hours, assuming
we are not attacked again between now and then,” Vorik concluded.

“Just get us there at best possible speed.” Chakotay nodded. “What about
weapons, Harry?” Chakotay asked.

“The enhanced phasers have been restored, but we’re down to five quantum
torpedoes.”

“Priority one when we rendezvous with the fleet will be to resupply
those stocks, Lieutenant,” Chakotay advised.

With a nod, Harry continued, “The shields should be functioning again
within the hour, but we’re still getting some intermittent energy spikes
whenever we attempt to initiate the enhancement protocols.”

“I have a team working on that now,” Vorik advised Harry.

“Keep up the good work,” Chakotay said heartily. “Doctor Kaz?”

“Eighteen crew members remain in critical condition. Four have been
returned to duty, and six more should be in the next twenty-four hours.
I’d like to suggest we allocate cargo bay two as an additional overflow
facility for wounded, as bay three is almost at maximum capacity.”

“Do it.” Chakotay nodded before adding, “I don’t have to tell you that
the fate of the Federation may well now lie in our hands. We know how to
beat the Borg. We’ve done it time and time again. We’re not going to let
the billions of people who are counting on us down. This is one of those
times when all of us have to look deep inside for the strength and the
will to beat the odds. But that is one thing at which this crew has
always excelled. Make me proud.”

Everyone but Cambridge appeared visibly heartened by Chakotay’s words.

With a crisp nod, Chakotay dismissed his officers, and Kaz watched with
a heavy heart as Paris followed his captain to the bridge.

“We few, we happy few,” Cambridge said softly to Kaz.

“I beg your pardon, Counselor?”

“Several hundred years ago, King Henry V of England led a small but
determined band of soldiers against a French army that greatly
outnumbered his, and through the sheer force of his will conquered that
army and won the field at Agincourt.”

“Then you think we will succeed?” Kaz asked.

“Oh, no.” Cambridge shook his head. “I think we’re buggered eight ways
to Sunday.”

“But…” Kaz began.

“This is the battle Chakotay has been seeking for months,” Cambridge
said. “His ship is being held together right now with spit and a prayer,
but he’s managed to convince Starfleet Command that he and his crew are
ready to lead a fleet. He’s encouraging people again, trying to rally
the troops. It’s just a pity he doesn’t understand that he can kill
every Borg in the galaxy and that still won’t solve his problem.”

“No, it won’t,” Kaz agreed. “But it would solve the Federation’s.”

“For now, perhaps,” Cambridge said.

“You think that somewhere out there, there is something worse than the
Borg?”

“Don’t you?”

Kaz considered Cambridge carefully. “How do you sleep at night,
Counselor?” he asked.

Cambridge actually chuckled.

“Lately, I just try to remind myself that it’s probably better to die a
man than to live a drone.”

“Probably?”

“Civilizations rise and fall, Doctor Kaz. History has taught us well
that this is the way of things.”

“The Borg are not a civilization. They’re a pestilence…a force of nature.”

“Precisely,” Cambridge replied. “And nature always gets the last word.”

Three days later, Chakotay sat expectantly in his command chair waiting
for aperture twenty-six alpha of the Azure Nebula to open so that he
could unleash hell upon what he knew in his gut would emerge from it. He
had a promise to keep, and he’d never been more certain that destiny was
about to grant him redemption.

The aperture began to glow faintly, vivid sparks dotting the nebula’s
bluish swarm of gases like blinking distant stars. Then, as if that
multitude of stars had simultaneously gone supernova, the aperture
erupted in a blaze of white.

A singe Borg cube blotted out the brightness of the spectacle.

Followed by a second.

And a third.

Tom Paris had already ordered the fleet to open fire when Chakotay lost
count of the number of cubes tearing through the brilliance before him
and time slowed to a crawl.

Over three hundred and forty Federation and Allied vessels were arrayed
in battle formation inside the nebula. The first cube to emerge opened
fire upon Voyager while the second and third targeted the two ships
closest to them, the Romulan Warbird Loviatar and the Imperial Klingon
vessel Ya’Vang. As the bridge rattled thunderously under the initial
impact of the barrage, the cube held its course. Its compatriots hurled
themselves directly at the flanking ships, and what the Borg’s directed
energy weap ons failed to pulverize, the cubes themselves completely
eradicated, charging headlong toward them through the ships that had all
too briefly stood in their way.

Chakotay found his eyes moving to the conn, where his helmsman, Akolo
Tare, immediately corrected course to avoid the oncoming cube. The
wailing of overstressed tritanium echoed briefly through the bridge as
Tom’s voice called out, “Brace for impact!” And then there was silence
as Chakotay’s eardrums were shredded by the concussive force of
Voyager’s port nacelle being sheared from the ship. Tare had managed to
avoid the collision, for the most part.

In a violent lurch Chakotay was thrown by a force several times that of
normal gravity against the console between his chair and Tom’s. With a
sharp crack, his left arm snapped and a blinding rush of pain shot
through his body. Simultaneously his nose briefly burned, then numbed,
and he tasted the tang of blood pouring over his lips.

Voyager’s inertial dampers were miraculous things, but clearly even they
had their limits.

Shrapnel hit the back of Chakotay’s neck, but it was little more than a
stinging nuisance. Turning to assess the damage, he saw the tactical
station in flames. Seconds later, the blaze grew brighter and hotter,
indicating that the fire suppression systems were offline.

The shadow of Tom Paris flashed briefly through his peripheral vision,
moving toward the conn. Another explosion sent Tare flying from her seat
before she fell in a tangled heap to the deck.

The now rudderless ship rolled precariously to the right. Chakotay felt
the beginnings of the sensation of free fall, a lurching in his gut as
his body anticipated descent.

A final explosion caught the left side of Chakotay’s face, but he barely
registered the pain as dark pinpoints began to squeeze his head.

Through streaks of static the viewscreen registered the fate of the rest
of Chakotay’s fleet. There were no vessels in sight, only charred hulls
and chunks of twisted metal glowing and flaming to their deaths.

And still, more cubes were coming.

All of this the Borg had wrought in less than thirty seconds.

For the first time, Chakotay glimpsed in all its horror the truth
Kathryn might have known in the seconds before she was lost to the Borg.
Two words pummeled Chakotay’s mind but failed to reach his lips before
the blackness swallowed him.

I’m sorry.

Tom Paris was certain he had been upright the last time he checked. Now,
he was lying flat on his back beneath a heavy piece of bulkhead. His
eyes stung as fine particulate matter cascaded into them from above.
Without a free hand to dislodge it, he was forced to blink through the
tears attempting to do that job for him. Apart from a dull ringing in
his ears, the bridge was shrouded in silence. Tom gingerly rolled to his
right, shifting the bulkhead debris and freeing his left arm, but came
to an abrupt stop when he found himself staring into the lifeless eyes
of Akolo Tare. Death had clearly taken her by surprise.

The bulkhead still weighing down upon him, Tom began to crawl from
beneath it, using his elbows for lever age. Inhaling deeply, he tasted
the bitter stench of burning plasma.

A million miles away, from the sound of it, Chakotay’s voice was
murmuring, “Smashed the whole fleet…”

Tom finally reached his hands and knees and dragged himself over the
helm console, which was now a couple of feet closer to the floor than it
used to be, to briefly see the grainy image of Captain Jean-Luc Picard
staring grimly at what was left of Voyager’s bridge before blinking out
of frame.

The first thought that came to Tom’s mind was that if, after what he had
just witnessed, Captain Picard and Captain Chakotay were somehow still
alive, there might yet be hope for the Federation. Tom turned back over
his left shoulder and received a jolt of pain shooting up his spine for
his trouble. Chakotay was slumped over in his chair. The left side of
his face was blackened and the front of his uniform was covered in fresh
blood, which, as best Tom could tell, had originated from his clearly
broken nose.

But the sight that caused Tom’s heart to momentarily still was his
captain’s eyes.

Paris managed to pull himself upright with effort and after a quick
check determined that, amazingly, aside from a few tender spots and more
complaints from his lower back, he was relatively unscathed. Crossing to
Chakotay, Tom brought his face level to his.

“Chakotay?”

A low gurgling suggested that the captain might be trying to answer, but
might just as easily mean that he had sustained internal injuries that
included the entrance of fluid into his lungs.

Tom looked about him for the emergency medical kit standard to the
bridge, but amid the wreckage surrounding him was quickly disabused of
the notion that he had that kind of time. Instead, he turned back to
Chakotay and began to gently palpate the captain’s chest and abdomen.
When this crude examination failed to elicit a visible pain response,
Tom decided that Chakotay’s injuries, while serious, were not going to
result in immediate death.

Chakotay’s eyes remained open, their gaze fixed on the viewscreen. Tom
took a moment to wave his hand back and forth before Chakotay’s eyes and
registered no response.

He’s gone. Not dead, but definitely in shock, Tom realized in an
instant. The grief Chakotay had carried for so long, coupled with his
anger and fear, had just culminated in a moment so scarring to the soul
that finally the captain’s spirit had buckled under the weight. Tom
couldn’t really blame Chakotay, though given the fact that Tom had his
own demons to battle right now, he spared a moment to accept that while
Chakotay’s condition might also have been one possible end for Tom, he
wasn’t going to embrace that option right now. There was nothing more
Tom could do for Chakotay at this instant, but there might be others he
could help.

Paris moved to the ops console, where Ensign Lasren sat upright on the
floor.

“Lasren, are you all right?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know,” Lasren replied. “Where am I?”

Hell, Tom almost replied, but caught the word before it could escape his
lips.

“If you can stand your post, I could really use a report right now,” Tom
said.

Lasren nodded slightly, then with Tom’s help pulled himself toward his
console, which had taken less damage than the rest of the bridge.

Rather than wait for him to get his bearings, Tom moved to the rear
bridge stations, where wisps of smoke flickered up from what once had
been the tactical station.

“Harry!” Tom called, suddenly fearful.

A tangle of conduit had fallen from the ceiling and Tom maneuvered
carefully through it, worried that he might hit the end of a severed
wire that still had power running through it. It wasn’t all that likely,
but at this moment it would be Tom’s luck.

“Harry!” Tom called out again, when he failed to locate him immediately
on the other side.

“We’ve lost primary power and are running on forty-two percent of
backups,” Lasren called out from ops.

“Can you raise engineering?” Tom asked. Harry, where are you?

“Negative. Communications are down through the ship.”

“What about navigation?”

“Are we going somewhere?” Lasren asked.

Tom almost smiled at the gallows humor.

“Emergency force fields are in place on decks eight through fifteen, but
they’re taking a lot of power,” Lasren said. “Shall I reroute—” he
began, but Tom cut him off.

“Take whatever you need from everywhere but life support,” Tom said as
his foot impacted something soft but unflinching.

Kneeling, Tom finally found Harry rolled on his right side, practically
hidden under what remained of his former station.

Paris gently rolled him onto his back and had to swallow deeply to keep
his churning stomach acids where they belonged.

Harry’s face and torso were covered in plasma burns.

Tom checked immediately for a pulse, and though what he found was
neither strong nor constant, it was at least there.

Tom knew it wouldn’t be for long unless Harry received medical care
immediately.

“Is the Enterprise still out there?” Tom asked.

“No, sir,” Lasren replied, “but it looks like they sent emergency
personnel over before they left.”

“Where are they?” Tom asked.

“Engineering and sickbay,” Lasren replied.

“I don’t suppose we’ve got transporters?” Tom asked.

“No, sir.”

Tom’s mind began to race around the dozens of brick walls that were
separating him from his only priority at the moment: saving Harry’s life.

“How much damage did the shuttlebay take?” Tom asked.

“All shuttles are undamaged,” Lasren replied after a moment, clearly
surprised.

“Can you tap into the Delta Flyer’s transporter system?” Tom asked.

“I think so,” Lasren said almost enthusiastically.

“Do it,” Tom said, “and transport me and Harry to sickbay immediately.”

While he waited for Lasren to execute his request, Tom grasped Harry’s
hand.

Hang in there, Tom thought. That’s an order.

A few moments later, Tom felt the tingle of the trans porter effect.
When his vision cleared, he found himself in the corridor outside
sickbay among dead and dying crew who were being evaluated by two
harried-looking medical officers Tom had never seen.

“I’ve got an emergency here!” Tom shouted.

One of the medics glanced his way but failed to move toward him.

Sensing that no amount of screaming and yelling was going to get him
what he needed right now, Tom began to tread carefully through the
ship’s new triage area toward the doors of sickbay.

As soon as he reached them one of the medics barked, “You can’t go in
there, sir. The damage was too heavy.”

Tom had no interest in arguing the point. As long as the damage wasn’t
complete, there might still be something behind those doors that could
save Harry’s life.

Grabbing a loose wedge of metal, Tom hurriedly set about prying the
doors, which were uncomfortably warm to the touch, open.

With a heavy groan, Tom managed to wedge the doors wide enough to slip
through. What he found was a black space, filled with smoke and littered
with debris and carnage.

Taking a deep breath of cleaner air from the hall, Tom entered. The
first body he stepped over was that of Jarem Kaz. His once gentle face
was now a mask of shock. Deep, black, smoking burns covered much of his
body. Tom knew he was past help but couldn’t stop himself from pausing
over yet another friend lost in a matter of moments. Steeling himself,
Tom realized that two lives had been taken in Jarem Kaz. The burns left
no doubt that both host and symbiont were dead.

Refusing to give in to the shock and accompanying wave of dizziness, Tom
moved on to search what was left of Voyager’s sickbay. He managed to
find a few intact hypos and one shelf of medication that had tumbled
onto the floor without shattering.

Gathering these few precious discoveries along with a working medical
tricorder, a laser scalpel, and a dermal regenerator, Tom hurried back
out into the hall and returned to Harry’s side.

Scanning him, he detected numerous internal injuries to accompany his
external ones. Still, the vibrant young man’s heart refused to stop.

That’s right, Paris thought. Stay with me.

Hurriedly Tom searched through his small cache of drugs and found both
tri-ox and kelotane. It wasn’t much, but it was a start and should be
enough to keep Harry alive until the full extent of his injuries could
be evaluated.

Tom injected Harry with the medications and sat back on his heels. He
knew he needed to get up and move on.

Soon, he promised himself, he would.

After a few selfish seconds of dull immobility, Paris picked himself up
and moved to the next nearest injured member of his crew.

MARCH 2381

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Two weeks after the slaughter at the Azure Nebula, as Tom Paris had
privately taken to calling it, he was sitting a weary vigil outside
Harry’s room at Starfleet Medical on Earth. The Enterprise medics had
succeeded in stabilizing Harry. The surgeries he required had been
postponed until Harry had been shipped out with the rest of the
grievously injured to Earth thirty-six hours later.

It had taken Paris another week to get back home. With Chakotay confined
to quarters under the care of Counselor Cambridge, the task of
supervising Voyager’s recovery efforts had fallen to him. Cambridge had
suggested more than once that they abandon ship, but Tom had found that
unacceptable. Instead, he, Vorik, and Voyager’s eighty-nine other
survivors had focused on beginning repairs that would at least make the
ship space-worthy again. Using their shuttles, they and a handful of
other vessels that avoided complete destruction had managed to scavenge
parts from the ship graveyard that rung the Azure Nebula, supplementing
their supplies with what the Enterprise had been able to spare when they
had returned for the final confrontation against the Borg. Miraculously,
that confrontation had ended both quickly and in the Alpha quadrant’s
favor. To this day Tom still found it hard to be lieve that anyone had
survived. But to his credit, and that of the crew, Voyager had been
spared the indignity of being towed back to Earth, though more than one
vessel, heartened by Voyager’s survival and determination, had assured
Tom they would consider it an honor to do so. Vorik had managed to get
their warp drive working, and Paris had never been so proud in his life
than he was the moment he had sat in the stripped-down bridge’s command
chair and ordered Ensign T.J. Sydney, a gamma-shift conn officer, to set
a course for home.

The latest reports Tom had received from Harry’s doctors indicated that
he would make a complete recovery—eventually. For the moment, he was
lying in a medically induced coma to minimize the strain on his body as
it continued to heal.

For the last several hours, strains of delicate music had been wafting
gently from Harry’s room. It was the most melancholy sound Tom had ever
heard and made him physically ache for B’Elanna and Miral.

He knew they were safe for now, if completely beyond his reach. Painful
as it was to remember, he found himself thinking back to the last time
they had been together and there had still been hope in his heart.

STARDATE 57312: APRIL 24, 2380

At B’Elanna’s insistence, Tom had first contacted his old Academy buddy,
Dil Moore, just before Voyager had shipped out following the rescue of
B’Elanna and Miral and liberty on Earth. After weeks of arguing,
B’Elanna had awakened one morning more at peace than Tom could remember
in some time. Unfortunately, she had also awakened with a plan, and Tom
had been unable to talk her out of it.

Dil had completed the Academy specializing in the most esoteric of
engineering theories, but had resigned his commission after the required
years of active service following graduation. He had established a
civilian research facility in the wilds of Montana and happily spent his
days theorizing technology Tom could rarely pronounce, let alone
understand the applications for.

B’Elanna had insisted that he find a place for her with appropriate
facilities for herself and Miral that did not fall under Starfleet’s
purview, so Dil’s had been at the top of a very short list.

Eighteen months later Tom had received an urgent message from B’Elanna.
He’d requested permission to return to Earth several weeks before
Voyager had completed their exhaustive analysis of the Yaris Nebula.
Even before Tom had finished making the request, Chakotay had given him
his blessing and an extended leave to take the Delta Flyer to Earth. Tom
didn’t think he’d succeed in talking some sense into B’Elanna, but
buoyed by Chakotay’s encouragement, he had set off, determined to do
what he could.

Dil was the first to greet him when he arrived in the warehouse that had
become his family’s home.

“Can’t wait to see her, huh?” Dil said, slapping Tom on the back
cheerfully.

“You’ve got that right.” Tom smiled.

“It’s a shame, really,” Dil said.

“What is?” Tom asked, dismayed.

“She’s much too beautiful a ship to go under the name Unregistered
Vessel 47658.”

“You think?” Tom asked, realizing that of course Dil was more interested
in the fantastic new toy B’Elanna had built than the woman herself. As
Dil’s tastes ran toward more exotic and classically buxom women, and
even in his darkest hours Tom had never questioned B’Elanna’s love for
or devotion to him, Tom hadn’t lost a night’s sleep worrying that in
spending so much time together, B’Elanna and Dil would have done
anything that would have forced Tom to murder his old friend.
Unfortunately, he’d had plenty of other fears to keep him up at night.

“I have to admit, I never thought B would be able to re-create that
crazy slipstream drive from scratch without Starfleet, the tech being
classified and all, but damn if she didn’t. Guess the work she did with
it in the DQ really sank in.”

“She solved the phase variance problem?” Tom asked, his heart sinking.
Frankly, he’d been hoping that this, the most difficult part of
slipstream technology, might never be overcome and would force B’Elanna
to reconsider.

“She found a way around. A couple of algorithms I’ve never seen. She
says they’re Borg inspired, which scares the crap out of me, but they
sure seem to do the trick for the little UV. I don’t think they’d be as
effective at compensating on a larger scale, but then again…”

“Did she finish the defensive systems?”

“Hell, yes. I wouldn’t want to meet B’Elanna in a dark corner of space
if she was pissed at me with the phasers and torpedoes she’s loaded the
ship with. Do you have any idea where she came up with the idea for a
transphasic torpedo?”

“Nope,” Tom lied.

“They’re a hell of a thing, at least what little I under stand of the
theory of them. Of course, she’d eat the schematics before she’d let me
look at ’em.”

With good reason, Tom mused, as Starfleet had classified that device the
moment Voyager had returned to the Alpha quadrant, right after B’Elanna
had personally handed the schematics and the remaining ordnance to
Starfleet.

“But just wait until you see the holodeck,” Dil went on. “My
girlfriend’s closet is bigger, but it’ll do the trick for little Miral.”

Tears rose unbidden to Tom’s eyes at the casual ease with which Dil
referred to his daughter. Oblivious, Dil continued, “I swear if there
was an amount of latinum or Risan bath salts that would keep B’Elanna
here, I’d gladly pay it. I’ve never in my life seen anyone as resourceful.”

“If latinum was all it would take, my friend, I’d have stolen it long
ago,” Tom replied.

They navigated several rows of shelving loaded down with unknown
containers before they entered into the open space at the end of the
warehouse containing one of the most beautiful ships Tom had ever seen.
Of necessity, she was a little larger than the Delta Flyer, but her
lines were every bit as graceful and sleek.

Part of Tom wanted to take a turn at the helm.

The rest of him wanted to drop a photon torpedo on it.

The aft hatch was open, and, bidding Dil farewell, Tom slid quietly inside.

“B is for banana,” Tom heard B’Elanna’s voice say. “Banana. You love
bananas. Can you say banana?”

Tom hesitated to enter the forward compartment, as he was suddenly dying
to know if Miral could.

“Guh,” Miral’s halting voice stammered.

“Banana,” B’Elanna repeated patiently.

“Gunana,” Miral tried.

“Almost. Try again. Banana,” B’Elanna said, enunciating each syllable.
“Ba-na-na.”

“Buh-ganana,” Miral finally said jubilantly.

Tom stepped forward.

“Buganana—that’s close enough,” he said, his heart torn to shreds at the
sight of his wife seated on the floor of the cockpit with Miral in her
lap sharing a banana.

The instant she saw him B’Elanna’s face was filled with joy as she set
down Miral and pulled Tom into a fierce hug. Several passionate kisses
later she said, “I was terrified you weren’t going to get back here in
time.”

“In time for what?” Tom demanded. “You weren’t going to leave, were you?”

“We’re ready, Tom,” she said, her eyes alight. “A few more tweaks and we
can launch—before the week is out, I’m sure of it.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Tom replied.

“Isn’t it?” she asked, her face clouding over. “The sooner we get out
there the sooner—”

“I know,” Tom cut her off. “I just…”

Miral had lost all interest in the banana and had teetered over to her
parents, but instead of jumping into her father’s arms, as her mother
had, she firmly grabbed B’Elanna’s right leg and held on, staring up at
Tom warily.

She doesn’t remember me anymore, Tom thought, alarmed.

Of course, given how little he’d seen of her in the last eighteen
months, that was almost to be expected. Still, it rent his heart anew.

Kneeling down to her level, Tom said softly, “Hi, beau tiful. I’ve
missed you so much. Do you have a hug for Daddy?”

“Miral, go to your daddy,” B’Elanna encouraged her.

Instead, Miral stayed put and managed to bury her face in B’Elanna’s leg.

“Miral,” Tom gently coaxed again.

A single eye poked out, toying with Tom.

“Daddy?” she asked.

“Come here, baby,” Tom said, reaching out for her.

She didn’t unglue herself easily, but finally allowed Tom to pick her
up. She continued to stare at him uncertainly, but at least she wasn’t
pitching the fit Tom had feared. When it came to tempers, Tom didn’t
think Miral would consider herself blessed to inherit either her
mother’s or her father’s.

“Do you want some more buganana?” Tom asked, nuzzling her forehead.

“Don’t encourage her,” B’Elanna chided him.

“Buganana,” Miral repeated, reaching toward the deck where the uneaten
portion remained.

Tom retrieved it for her, replying, “You parent your way, I’ll parent
mine.”

B’Elanna sighed deeply but let it pass.

“How’s everyone?” she asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

“On Voyager?”

“Yes.”

“According to Harry, we’ve gone from the Ship of Death to the Ship of
the Bored to Death. He sends his love, by the way. And he picked up a
couple of Taborian Puzzlemanias for Miral. I have them in my bag.”

“I’m sure she’ll love them,” B’Elanna replied. “Last I heard, though,
Starfleet found a Borg cube in the Alpha quadrant.”

Tom didn’t really want to know how B’Elanna knew that. He’d heard about
the cube the moment he’d arrived on Earth, about the Enterprise’s recent
encounter with a vessel that had somehow gotten separated from the rest
of the Collective and ended up in Federation space.

“Chakotay says Admiral Janeway wanted to send Seven to investigate, but
Captain Picard managed to solve the problem before she could get there.”

“Why didn’t they send Voyager?” B’Elanna asked, as if that would have
been the obvious thing for Starfleet to do.

“We were in the middle of a mission at the Yaris Nebula, where I’m sure
we were much more useful counting baby stars and scanning uninhabited
systems,” Tom replied with disdain. When B’Elanna said nothing more, Tom
went on, “So if you’re worried about Voyager’s duties becoming too
hazardous for you to return, you really can put those fears to rest.”

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about,” B’Elanna said a little
more forcefully. “Kahless says the Warriors of Gre’thor are just biding
their time, waiting for the right moment.”

“The Warriors of Gre’thor don’t have the slightest idea where you are
right now. And even if they found you one day on Voyager, we’d take
them. You know that. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, when exactly
did Kahless’s wishes become more important than your husband’s?”

“Please, Tom, let’s not do this again.”

“You’re getting ready to leave the quadrant, and you’re taking our
daughter with you. I’d say we have at least one more discussion in us
before that happens.”

“It’s not forever, Tom,” B’Elanna fired back. “If I could return to
Voyager without putting the lives of those I love most in terrible
danger, don’t you think I’d do it?”

“We’re all in danger every day we serve in Starfleet,” Tom countered.
“Hell, I’d take the Warriors of Gre’thor over Species 8472 or the Swarm
or the Voth any day.”

“That was different. We didn’t have a choice when we were in the Delta
quadrant. We do now.”

“I’m pretty sure at several points in our lives together you’ve reminded
me that running away from my problems was nothing but a temporary
solution.”

“I’m not running away,” B’Elanna insisted. “I’m going out there for a
reason. And once I’ve done what I need to do, you and I and Miral will
be a real family again and we won’t have to run from anyone. You agreed
to stick to the plan. It’s the only way.”

Tom knew a B’Elanna wall when he saw one.

“Swear it,” he said softly.

“I’ll do better than that,” she replied.

After a bit of private time back in B’Elanna’s quarters, with Dil
happily watching over Miral, they returned to the warehouse and Tom
found himself going over his wife’s launch preparations with a
fine-tooth comb. He had to admit, she’d thought of everything, right
down to a holographic nanny, a Klingon who bore an uncanny resemblance
to Kularg.

At the end of that day, just when Miral had finally warmed up to him,
Tom bid them both farewell. He went first to San Francisco to tell his
parents a necessary, painful lie: that he and B’Elanna had decided to
separate. This had also been at B’Elanna’s insistence. If the Warriors
of Gre’thor were going to accept the big lie, which was still several
carefully plotted months away, they had to believe first that B’Elanna
and Miral were on their own, separated from anyone who might come to
their aid. Tom’s parents were the first, but eventually, Tom would have
to make this known more publicly for it to reach T’Krek’s ears.

In doing so, Tom had shattered irrevocably the peace he had established
with his father. Owen had harangued his son mercilessly for failing in
his duty as a husband and a father, and Tom had been so stung by his
remarks that he had responded in kind.

Tom had then returned to Voyager, and literally begun to count the days
until the heart he had left behind in a warehouse in Montana would once
again be returned to him.

Julia hadn’t thought her son could look worse than the night he had come
home and told her and Owen that his marriage was over. Seated in the
hospital corridor, hunched over in a terribly uncomfortable chair, his
head resting in his hands, she could actually see the weight of the
universe dragging Tom down. He looked smaller than she could ever remember.

She had been moving through a fog of grief and shock for the last two
weeks. As she approached Tom, part of her worried that if she got too
close, he might evaporate before her eyes.

She was grateful when he looked up to see her standing a few meters away
and immediately rose to take her in his arms.

Julia had promised herself that she was done with crying. She had always
believed the day would come when a couple of clean-cut ensigns would
arrive at her door to tell her that her husband had been killed in the
line of duty. It hadn’t happened exactly that way. There had been too
much chaos on high for such niceties at the peak of the Borg invasion.
She had been alone, watching the Federation News Service, when she
learned of the destruction of Starbase 234, and she had been forced to
wade through hours of uncertainty before confirmation finally arrived
that Owen was dead.

Her first thought had been to try and reach Tom. That had proved
impossible until the threat had passed days later. This was the first
time they had laid eyes on each other, let alone spoken, since Owen’s
death. In what had felt like the endless interim, she had survived on
his swiftly worded communiqués updating her on Voyager’s progress and
expected return to Earth.

The moment she felt Tom’s strong arms around her, the tears began to
pour forth again. He allowed her to sob until she had exhausted herself,
then gently drew her toward the chair where he had been sitting.

She was suddenly aware of the most strange and ethereal music and
actually wondered if she might not be imagining it.

“Do you hear that?” Julia asked her son.

“The music?”

Julia nodded.

Tom knelt before his mother, taking both her hands in his, and replied,
“Do you remember Harry’s former fiancée, Libby Webber?”

Lately Julia was hard-pressed to remember what she’d had for breakfast,
but the name almost rang a bell.

“She’s a concert musician, specializing in a Ktarian stringed instrument
called the lal-shak. She’s actually kind of famous. Anyway, I don’t know
how she found out about Harry, but his parents told me that ever since
he arrived, she’s been here. She rarely leaves his side, and most of the
time she plays for him. He’s in a coma, but the doctor still thinks it
might be comforting. Mr. and Mrs. Kim were adamant that she be allowed
to stay. I don’t think she’s left his side for a week.”

“That’s lovely,” Julia said.

“I guess.” Tom shrugged. “She broke his heart, a couple of times now.
And she told me the other day she’s actually getting married in a couple
of weeks.”

“To whom?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I think she said his name was Aidan…Fletcher maybe.”

“Darling, he’s a director of Starfleet Intelligence, isn’t he?”

Tom paused, clearly taking this in.

“Hmm,” he finally murmured.

“What?”

“Maybe that’s why she turned poor Harry down,” Tom said ungenerously.
“Guess she thought she could do better.”

Julia considered this for a moment before realizing that it was nowhere
near as important as what she had meant to say to her son the moment she
saw him.

“Tom, your father never meant what he said to you that night.”

“I know—” Tom began, but she went on, as the words she’d been holding
back for Owen’s sake finally came pouring forth.

“He loved you and B’Elanna and Miral so. He was terribly disappointed,
of course. But he shouldn’t have blamed you. He knew there was more to
it than that. He just—”

“Mom,” Tom cut her off. “I know.”

Julia was bewildered. Even at Admiral Janeway’s funeral her husband and
son, united in their grief, hadn’t been able to find a civil word to say
to one another.

“How?” she asked.

“He told me,” Tom said, clutching her hands tighter. “He sent a message,
just before…” Tom swallowed hard. “He said he was sorry. He
said…everything I needed to hear.”

Tom trailed off before his own grief reasserted its stranglehold upon him.

Julia, whose gratitude to her husband for this final gesture was now
beyond words, gently pulled Tom’s head toward her heart and held him
there as she had so often when he was a boy. Back then there was no
problem so big that her arms and a few comforting words couldn’t solve.
These days it seemed woefully inadequate, but was truly all she had to
offer.

Finally, Tom pulled away and rose.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

Julia smiled faintly. “The universe all but came to an end a few days
ago. But we’re still here. I don’t understand why we were spared.”

“It has to be enough that we were,” Tom replied. “We’re never going to
know the reasons why. But as long as we are still here, we owe it to
ourselves and to those who didn’t survive to make the best of it.”

Julia gazed up at Tom, fierce pride welling inside her. Rising, she
placed her hands on either side of his face and replied, “You’re so like
him, do you know that?”

“Like Dad?” Tom asked, almost incredulously.

Julia nodded firmly.

“He would have been so proud of what you’ve done, leading your crew
through this savagery. It’s what he would have done.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Tom replied softly.

A soft hiss of the door behind them sounded, and Julia ended their
embrace and attempted to collect herself. A lovely young woman emerged,
her long black hair caught up in a disheveled ponytail and her face
betraying deep-set lines of worry.

“Don’t mind me,” she said quickly, and started down the hall.

“Wait,” Tom insisted. “Libby, this is my mother, Julia Paris.”

Libby extended her hand, and Julia took it graciously, saying, “What a
tremendous gift you have. Your music is enchanting.”

Libby blushed under the compliment. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet
you, ma’am. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Julia nodded and replied, “Thank you. But my son tells me
congratulations are in order for you. You are engaged to be married?”

Libby looked lost for only a moment, then said, “Oh, yes. I guess I am.”

“In the shadow of these dark days, any ray of hope is welcome, my dear.
Embrace the happiness that is before you, for it is upon such simple
joys that the rest of us will have to begin to rebuild.”

“Thank you,” Libby replied, her voice thick. “I will.”

“Are you going home?” Tom asked.

“No,” Libby replied. “They’re not going to wake him up until tomorrow
morning. I just needed to get some coffee.”

“Allow me, dear,” Julia said. “I could use some myself.”

“Mom…”

“I’ll be right back,” Julia insisted, and strode away, her head held high.

As Tom and Libby looked after her, Libby said, “You didn’t want to tell
her the lounge is the other way?”

“She’s trying to make an exit,” Tom replied. “She wouldn’t want me to
mess that up for her. It’s too important that you and I believe she is
just fine.”

“Amazing,” Libby said.

“That she is.”

“I don’t know how I’d survive what she’s…”

There was an uncomfortable pause in which neither of them seemed to know
how best to continue. Finally Tom said, “You know, it’s really nice, you
being here and all. I know it means a lot to Harry’s folks. But if Harry
wakes up and sees you, he’s just going to think—”

“I know,” Libby cut him off. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave before he knows I
was ever here. And Mr. and Mrs. Kim have promised not to tell him either.”

“But why did you come in the first place?”

“How could I not?” Libby asked.

“Pretty easily, I’d say.”

Libby had always known how close Tom and Harry were. The rule of best
friends required that Tom hate Libby now even more than Harry did, as
she had been the one to refuse Harry’s proposal. True, Harry had
actually ended their relationship, but Libby didn’t think that would
matter much to Tom. She had broken what was between them. Harry had just
finally decided to stop trying to glue it back together.

A lot of time had passed since then, and Libby truly hoped it had
lessened the sting. In case it hadn’t, she said, “It’s okay to still be
angry at me, Tom, for Harry’s sake. I don’t expect these past few days
to change anything.”

“Good,” Tom replied. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture and
all. I just don’t want you opening old wounds.”

“Harry was my first love,” Libby said sincerely. “There will always be a
place in my heart with his name on it. I regret that things didn’t work
out, but the moment I learned that he might die, I had to come. I had to
tell him—” She caught herself before finishing the thought.

“Had to tell him what?”

Libby took a moment to choose her words carefully.

“That it wasn’t his fault.”

“What wasn’t?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Libby replied. “He’s going to be fine. That’s all
that’s important now.”

Tom studied her face, as if he could force the answer to his question
from it. With practiced ease she kept her countenance maddeningly neutral.

Finally Tom said, “Would you mind if I spend a few minutes with him? I’m
going to have to check in with Voyager soon, and Harry’s parents are due
back in an hour.”

“Please, take as much time as you want,” Libby replied.

Tom nodded and moved past her to enter Harry’s room. Once he was inside
and the door closed behind him, she bowed her head and exhaled slowly,
allowing the tension that had flared between them to dissipate.

Placing her hand on the closed door, she chided herself for her little
lapse. What she hadn’t been able to tell Harry before they separated,
she wasn’t about to tell Tom. He would undoubtedly tell Harry, and Libby
couldn’t bear the thought of Harry hearing the truth from anyone but
her. When she had accepted Aidan’s proposal, she had resigned her
commission with Starfleet Intelligence. She could marry Aidan or she
could work for him. She could never do both. So now the secret that had
kept her from marrying Harry no longer needed to be kept.

She had come here half hoping that she could finally share this with
Harry. Libby knew that what she had withheld had damned their
relationship. But as she had sat by Harry’s side, day after day,
allowing her music to offer the only solace she could provide, she’d
come to the conclusion that after so long, the truth might not do Harry
any good at all. Harry had moved on, just as she had. Though unburdening
herself to Harry would have relieved her regrets, it would probably only
add to his. At a time when Harry needed all of his strength to get
better, she refused to add to his physical and mental pain just so she
could assuage her guilty conscience.

She hadn’t been willing to sacrifice her work as a covert operative for
Harry. When Harry had proposed, she honestly believed she had been doing
good work with SI. As much as her musical abilities, that work had begun
to define her. To marry Harry would have been to resign both of them to
half a life and a marriage built on a foundation of ever-shifting sands.
She could never share herself with Harry completely. But with Aidan,
this would never be an issue. That had been the first reason she had
finally agreed to marry him.

The second was that even before Aidan proposed, just after the Borg
attack at Acamar, Libby had been overwhelmed by the futility of her
choice to be an operative. She and hundreds of bright, capable, and
dedicated officers just like her had spent the vast majority of their
waking hours trying to detect and prevent attacks upon the Federation.
What the Borg had done in a week proved beyond a doubt that either the
Federation was wasting their resources, or the term military
intelligence truly was an oxymoron.

Now she only wanted Harry healthy and one day as happy as he had made
her when both of their lives had been much less complicated. And she
wanted to find her own peace, far from the realm of secrets and subterfuge.

In the meantime, she knew Tom would continue to look after Harry, and
that brought her a modicum of happiness. More importantly, Harry would
also still be around to look after Tom.

“Take good care, both of you,” she said softly, before squaring her
shoulders and walking away—an exit of which she felt even Julia Paris
might have approved.

APRIL 2381

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Doctor emerged from Irene’s bedroom to find Seven sitting on the
floor in the hall outside the door. Her back was straight, and both of
her arms hugged her knees into her chest. Her eyes held a wistful,
faraway expression. There was something both childlike and dejected in
the pose.

“Seven,” he said softly, “are you all right?”

Instantly pushing herself up off the floor and once again towering over
him, she replied, “My well-being is not the issue. Were you able to help
her?”

“I have increased her dosage of peridaxon, and I’m also ordering daily
doses of xanatopropoline. It’s a new formulation; it should allow her to
rest more comfortably. I’m truly sorry that there isn’t more I can do
for her right now.”

“Her condition seemed to have stabilized,” Seven said. “I did not expect
the delusions to begin so soon.”

“Irumodic syndrome attacks every brain differently. Clearly hers is an
aggressive form. At the very least, I can assure you that her suffering
from this point on will not be extended, and she will, from time to
time, continue to enjoy periods of lucidity.”

Seven looked briefly as if he had struck her across the face. The Doctor
instantly regretted the bluntness of his approach. Usually with Seven he
was dealing with an individual whose clinical temperament made his look
positively warm. Seeing her now, for the first time freed completely of
the Borg technology that had once sustained her, she appeared more
fragile than ever. In a way, it was to be expected. She had lost her
first mother figure only ten months earlier, and had never, as far as
the Doctor could tell, truly grieved Admiral Janeway’s death. Of course
she had been upset. But the process of actually beginning to come to
terms with the emotional devastation of such deep loss was the work of
time, and Seven hadn’t had enough, between her rigorous schedule at the
Academy, her aunt’s deterioration, and the imminent destruction of the
Federation.

Now, he had just told her that she was soon to add to the list of those
lost the second woman Seven had ever looked to for strength and
emotional support and her only blood relative on Earth. He was briefly
overwhelmed with a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. But
she remained, as ever, completely untouchable.

“Why don’t we go downstairs and sit for a while?” he suggested.

“You must return to your duties at Jupiter Station,” Seven replied.

“They’ll still be there whenever I get back,” he countered, heading
toward the stairs and hoping she would follow him down.

When they had served together, the Doctor had made a point of taking
Seven under his wing and offering her instruction as to how best to
begin to integrate herself socially with the crew. He was well aware
that many of the senior officers felt this was a little like the blind
leading the deaf, but over time he had been terribly pleased with
Seven’s progress. She had not shared with him or anyone, as far as he
knew, exactly what had happened to her when the Caeliar had transformed
the Borg. He had hoped that this transition might bring her that much
closer to the humanity that she had studied but rarely fully embraced.
Watching her perch herself gingerly on the edge of Irene’s favorite and
very worn sofa, and looking much paler than usual, he began to worry
that whatever had happened to her had actually somehow managed to force
her in the opposite direction.

“How are your classes going?” he asked, choosing the most innocuous
ground he could think of to begin to bridge the palpable distance
between them.

“My students wish to speak of nothing but the Caeliar,” Seven replied
coldly. “And since, for the moment, what little intelligence Starfleet
has gathered about them remains classified, I find it most tiresome to
deflect their questions.”

“And how are you dealing with the experience?” the Doctor asked cautiously.

She refused to meet his eyes.

“I will adapt.”

“Of course you will, but how?” the Doctor tried again.

“I do not know,” she faltered.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” she replied firmly. Changing the subject too abruptly, she asked,
“What is the status of your work with Doctor Zimmerman and Lieutenant
Barclay?”

Normally this would have been his cue to launch into a lengthy discourse
on their progress, which was actually quite thrilling at the moment. As
it was, it seemed too much like willful deflection.

“Seven, we don’t have to talk about me right now,” he assured her.

“Social lesson number four,” Seven countered. “Collegial Conversation.
When interacting with your peers, put them at ease by inquiring about
their work. You taught me that.”

“I did.” The Doctor smiled. “It seems so long ago, I can’t believe you
actually remember.”

“Of course I remember,” she said tonelessly. “I am…” but she halted
again before finishing the phrase with the standard “Borg.” Instead,
correcting herself, she muttered more softly, “I was Borg.”

“Very well,” the Doctor decided to oblige her. “Since you were kind
enough to ask, the Emergency Medical Vessel has been approved for a test
mission.”

“You must be pleased.”

“I am.” The Doctor nodded, unable to suppress a wide grin. “I don’t yet
know the mission’s specs, but I am sure it will be fascinating. I’ve
requested to join the crew in the capacity of both Emergency Medical and
Emergency Command Hologram. A hearing will be convened at Starfleet
Command to discuss this request in a few weeks. I was actually hoping
you might be available to attend it with me. I am understandably quite
filled with trepidation at the prospect.”

“Why would Command convene a hearing to discuss a routine crew
assignment?” Seven asked with actual interest.

Sensing that he was finally engaging her, he went on, “Actually, I was
the one to demand the hearing. Starfleet declined my initial request,
stating that I was much too valuable in my work at Jupiter Station to be
spared for the mission.”

“And you do not agree?”

“Seven, we designed this ship so that a wide variety of holograms like
myself would be able to play an active role in service to Starfleet. Who
better to lead such a group?”

“Do you need to be reminded again, Doctor, that there are very few other
holograms like you?” Seven asked, almost warmly.

He accepted the compliment before continuing, “In any event, I want very
much to participate in this mission. I’ve thought for some time that
much as I enjoy research and development, part of me truly misses the
action of starship duty. Do you ever feel the same?”

She considered the question briefly.

“At times. Although to hear our former comrades talk, the vast majority
of their missions over the last few years have been routine in the
extreme. I do not believe such an assignment would be nearly as
satisfying as my current work at the Academy.”

“Not to mention serving as the official Borg expert to the president of
the Federation. I must say, I find President Bacco to be a most
intriguing woman. I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead us
through this difficult time.”

“Nor can I,” Seven agreed before asking, “Is there further word on
Lieutenant Kim’s recovery?”

“He will return to active duty next week. I looked in on him several
times during his recuperation at Starfleet Medical and consulted
constantly with his attending physicians. His survival is nothing short
of miraculous.”

“If memory serves, Lieutenant Kim has something of a history of defying
imminent death,” Seven said.

“For which I am most grateful,” the Doctor added. “Oh, and I heard Naomi
Wildman has been accepted into the Academy for next year’s class.”

Seven smiled with pride. “She performed quite well on her entrance
exams. And I have already asked Icheb to monitor her progress when she
arrives.”

“She’ll love that,” the Doctor retorted sarcastically.

“You object?”

“Icheb is as close to an older brother as she could have, so I don’t
doubt that he would keep a close eye on her whether you asked him to or
not. But she’s a young girl on the verge of becoming a young woman.
She’s going to want to test her limits and find herself. I hope he gives
her the space to do that.”

“I will advise Icheb accordingly,” Seven agreed with obvious reluctance.

“I saw Commander Paris a few times at the hospital,” the Doctor went on.
“He seems to be holding up, but I must confess I still can’t believe he
and B’Elanna have separated.”

“Nor can I,” Seven offered. “I did not sense that either of them took
their marriage vows lightly.”

“I’m sure they didn’t. And I, for one, still hope that one day they
might reconcile.”

“As neither B’Elanna nor Miral has been heard from for several months, I
seriously doubt your wish will be fulfilled,” Seven said.

The Doctor hesitated to ask after Chakotay. He knew that the captain and
Seven had remained quite close until Admiral Janeway’s death. At the
memorial service, the ten sion between them had been obvious, and the
conversation was going so well, he didn’t want to remind her of such a
potentially painful topic.

After a pause, Seven surprised him by bringing it up.

“Have you heard any word of Captain Chakotay?” Her hands, which had been
comfortably clasped throughout, suddenly began to fret about the edge of
the sofa, almost of their own accord.

“Commander Paris indicated that he had requested and been granted an
extended leave after their return from the Azure Nebula. I do not
believe he has been in contact with anyone since then,” the Doctor
replied, watching carefully for her reception of this information.

“I see,” she said, clearly agitated.

“Seven—”

“If you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I really should check on my aunt,” she
said, rising briskly.

“Of course.” The Doctor nodded as he came to his feet.

She was up the stairs and out of sight before the Doctor realized that
he had just been dismissed as surely as if someone had instructed
Voyager’s old computer to deactivate his program.

The Doctor left the house more concerned than he had been when he
arrived. He had already resolved to send Seven a message as soon as he
returned to Jupiter Station, reminding her of his upcoming hearing at
Starfleet Command. He had wanted her there initially for purely selfish
reasons. But the last half hour had convinced him that she was quite
desperately in need of help for which no preceding social lesson would
have prepared her to ask.

It had rained day and night for the first six weeks Chakotay lived on
Orcas Island. As it was still technically winter when he arrived and
only now spring, on the fifty-seven-square-mile retreat located in the
Pacific Northwest, that was to be expected. Unexpected was the ease with
which Chakotay found himself adapting to the bitter morning and evening
cold, the inability to ever get completely warm or dry, and the scarcity
of daily comforts to which he had become accustomed on a starship.

His ancestors had thrived in the wilds of their native lands, though
admittedly in more temperate climates. Chakotay had chosen to find
refuge in a terrain that would provide a heartier challenge to his
survival skills or, failing that, would kill him more quickly.

Orcas, and the chain’s other large islands, San Juan and Lopez, had once
been tourist attractions for boating enthusiasts. Famed for dramatic
resorts like Rosario and quaint towns like Friday Harbor, they offered
relative comfort in one of nature’s most spectacularly beautiful
settings. The three-hundred-sixty-degree view of glistening blue water
dotted with lush green oases from the peak of Mount Constitution, which
Chakotay had climbed during the third and fourth weeks of his
self-imposed solitude, had been truly awe-inspiring.

Now that April had finally begun, the madrone trees lining the island’s
lower elevations were once again in bloom, their delicate, bell-shaped
flowers bursting forth in a riotous annual ritual celebrating the
renewal of life. But the trees had proved more than picturesque. The
delicate, almost paper-thin, reddish orange bark that peeled easily from
the trunks made excellent kindling when dried, and the smooth, almost
satiny wood beneath burned long and hot once it had been chopped.

In the early days, Chakotay had managed to survive by scrounging in the
cold, wet dirt for a few remaining berries the trees had dropped in
autumn. Bitterly astringent, they had barely satisfied his stomach, but
he found that chewing them throughout the day at least eased the hunger
pangs until he had managed to hunt and kill his first deer.

For most of his life, Chakotay had observed a strict vegetarian diet.
He’d learned only after he arrived that the island provided little
beyond the madrone berries in the way of edible plants. His instinct to
survive had finally asserted itself over his personal preferences, and
he had chosen to take what the Earth did provide without complaint. He
took great care when killing any animal to thank it for its sacrifice
and to put every bit of its flesh and bone to good use.

Once, the deer of Orcas Island had been all but domesticated by the
tourists who flocked to the islands in summer. As the islands had
returned to their more natural, wild state in the absence of human
habitation in the early part of the twenty-second century, those deer
who had forgotten what it was to forage for the necessities had died
off, replaced by a sturdier and much craftier strain.

Chakotay had been pleased by the ease with which his body had adjusted
to the rigors he now demanded of it. He remembered little of the week
following the attack at the Azure Nebula beyond Cambridge’s constant
presence. Distant visions of tossing and turning on sweat-soaked sheets
between nightmares still plagued him.

Once that had passed, he had emerged from the painful fugue and awakened
feeling more himself than he had for some time, though terribly empty.
With a heretofore unknown clarity, Chakotay realized that he barely
recognized the man he had become. His grief was destroying him. But even
this knowledge did nothing immediately to relieve the anger he still
felt every time he thought of Kathryn’s death.

He had requested an open-ended leave, which after Voyager’s performance,
no one in Starfleet would have dared deny. His only coherent thought at
the time was that he must put as much distance as possible between
himself and the man who had become Voyager’s captain in the last nine
months. That man, the one who had been so devastated by Kathryn’s death,
was not who he wanted to be. He walked beside Chakotay now, magnifying
every twinge in his stomach and every ache of muscle tissue grown soft
through disuse.

Usually, Chakotay managed to ignore him. Today, as the morning cloud
cover had given way to a sun-streaked afternoon sky and light drizzle,
that man had fallen sullen and silent. Chakotay almost found himself
smiling at the man’s inability to find at least a little joy in the
simple beauties in which he was now immersed.

Chakotay’s mind had lost track of the days; his body had awakened to a
more natural rhythm, rising with first light and resting in its retreat.
His senses had been reinvigorated by the plethora of fragrance, visual
splendor, and faint rustlings of the natural world. His mind, which had
been a whirl of tormented duty for months, was once again a clear and
calm space in which he could begin to examine his past and search for
the various forks in the road that had led him into darkness.

Despite this—as often as he had tried to walk the path he had begun—the
anger would not leave him be. As the demands of his body were both
constant and great, Chakotay had found it easier to focus upon them and
had done so with vigor, even as his spirit continued to languish untended.

As he gathered wood for his evening fire, breathing easier now with the
exertion of hiking over a kilometer from his most recent campsite in a
thicket of evergreens, he was startled into stillness by a sharp crack.

Instinct drove him to bend low and slowly drop the few branches he
carried while reaching for the short spear he’d lashed to his back. He
had carved dozens of sharp heads for it from wood and bone, and
depending upon the size of whatever was tracking him, it should prove
effective for defensive purposes. Part of him hoped the buck he had been
stalking for days might be foraging nearby. Though he still had a week’s
worth of dried venison, his stomach rumbled appreciatively at the
thought of fresh meat.

The next sound that met his ears simultaneously shattered that hope and
his peace. It was more shocking than his dips into the waters off the
beach at Massacre Bay every few days.

“Chakotay!”

He recognized the voice at once.

Tom.

Torn between the appropriateness of moving toward the sound and a more
subtle desire to evade it, Chakotay remained still. A few moments later,
the cry was repeated, closer, and Chakotay could clearly make out Tom’s
form traipsing through the woods, followed by a smaller figure with
white hair.

Sveta?

At the sight of his old Maquis comrade, Chakotay’s heart began to pound.
She was one of his oldest and dearest friends, and wouldn’t have dared
disturb his solitude without good cause.

Accepting the inevitable—if Sveta was there, he was as good as found
already—Chakotay rose and began to walk toward those who had sought him
out.

“His life signs are strong,” Tom was saying.

“Probably because I’m right here,” Chakotay replied, stepping through a
pair of young trees.

Tom’s face was instantly alight with relief. Sveta merely eyed him
evenly, as was her wont.

“Thank God,” Tom said, dropping his hands to his knees to catch his
breath as Sveta stepped past him to offer Chakotay an embrace.

“You look like shit,” were the first words she spoke when they had
separated.

“Nice to see you too,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

“Freezing our asses off,” Tom replied. Though in uniform under a heavy
field jacket, his lips were a little blue and the hand he extended to
Chakotay was hard and cold as ice.

Chakotay was quite comfortable in the light cotton pants and the layers
of shirts beneath a makeshift jacket he had wrought from his first
deerskin.

“You should have checked the weather before you transported in,”
Chakotay said, suddenly quite cognizant of the graveled edge to his
voice. As he hadn’t used it often in the last several weeks, it was a
little strange to hear.

“We transported to Obstruction Pass Park,” Tom corrected him. “That’s
how many kilometers from here?” he demanded of Sveta.

“Seven, maybe eight,” she said, smirking.

Something in Chakotay liked the fact that she hadn’t made this little
trip easy for Tom. Noting the combadge Tom wore, a piece of technology
Chakotay had left behind in San Francisco, he said, “Well, transporting
out from here shouldn’t be a problem. Just make the call.”

Tom’s face hardened.

“Come on, Chakotay,” he goaded, “haven’t you missed me just a little?”

Chakotay kept his face as neutral as possible. The truth was he hadn’t
missed Tom, or any other part of his past life, at all, and this
intrusion into the only peace he had felt for what seemed like forever
was most unwelcome.

“What do you need, Commander?”

Tom paused, obviously stung.

Finally he replied, “Sveta was good enough to help me track you, since
you didn’t happen to tell anyone where you were going. We’ve been at it
for almost a week.”

“Then Sveta is obviously getting rusty. Usually she’s much better at
finding people who don’t want to be found,” Chakotay deadpanned.

Tom shook his head, obviously frustrated.

“Okay, fine. That’s the way you want to play this, great. I just thought
you should know that Starfleet has new orders for Voyager. I don’t have
the details yet, but based on the intensity of the preparations and the
number of people involved, they’re big. I’d hoped that all this time
doing your rubber tree thing might help you find a little clarity, but
even if it hasn’t, you need to put whatever demons are driving you
someplace dark and quiet and get back to your ship while it’s still yours.”

Chakotay took a moment to shudder under the impact of Tom’s words. More
than their subject, the thought of once again being bound by duty and
ordered around by an admiralty with the barest shred of a clue chafed.

“Does that complete your report, Commander?” Chakotay asked stonily.

“Yes, sir,” Tom replied coldly.

“I’m sorry, but for now, I can’t accommodate you. My demons and I still
have a few things to work out. My presence should not be a factor in
determining your level of participation in whatever mission is on the
drawing board.”

Given the damage Voyager had sustained and what had to be the seriously
depleted reserves of Starfleet’s materials and personnel, he doubted
that whatever mission they were contemplating would become a reality for
at least another couple of months.

Tom raised his hand to tap his combadge as Sveta stepped toward
Chakotay, causing Tom to pause.

“Who are you?” she demanded fiercely.

“Sveta…”

“Don’t even try,” she warned. “I thought you came here to bury your
past, not wallow in it. The ancient Lumni people have a spot just over
that hill for the sanctified dead. As long as you’re not interested in
living anymore, it would be easy enough to lie down and join them.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t have to. I only have to know who you were to see that who you
are now does no justice to him, or those who once loved him. You’re not
even worthy of my pity anymore.”

With that, she turned abruptly and hurried past Tom into the dense
woodlands. Chakotay watched a moment of panic flicker across Tom’s face,
followed by acceptance that even alone, she was better equipped to
handle their surroundings than he would ever be.

“Will you at least do one thing for me?” Tom asked.

“What?”

Tom reached into a pocket in his jacket and pulled out a combadge.
“Catch,” he said, tossing it toward Chakotay, who caught it instantly.

“I left mine at home for a reason,” Chakotay said.

“I don’t care,” Tom replied. “The time may come when you feel
differently, and I don’t have another week to spend hunting you down.”

Chakotay nodded slightly and placed the badge in the small leather pack
he carried around his waist. As Tom turned to follow Sveta, Chakotay
called after him.

“I’m sorry, Tom.”

Tom stopped but did not turn around.

“I’m just not ready yet,” Chakotay said to Tom’s back.

“Then I suggest you hurry up and get ready,” Tom replied. Without a
backward glance, he disappeared into the forest.

As soon as he had lost sight of them, Chakotay returned to gathering his
firewood. A lazy creek trickled through the brush a few meters away and
Chakotay directed his steps toward it, pausing to run his hands through
the icy current before leaning over to splash a little into his mouth.

He was taken aback by his reflection. He’d already grown accustomed to
the rough beard that covered his jawline but hadn’t realized how, in
combination with his unruly mane, it gave him the appearance of what his
mother would have called a shantlor.

Wild man.

The other version of himself seemed to have awakened from his stupor and
now sat beside Chakotay, his face clean shaven and his proud tattoo
unsullied by days of dirt and grime.

They don’t understand, the other assured him.

No, Chakotay agreed. They don’t.

The rage again began to bubble up inside, turning his stomach to a mass
of writhing snakes. For an instant, another face appeared before him,
blotting out his own.

Her hair was pulled back, but a few loose wisps betrayed her tension and
stress. Her eyes were grimly set, though she did her best to hide her
obvious fears.

“Can’t you at least tell me where you’re going?” Chakotay found himself
thinking.

“It’s classified. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to it, but it’s
something I have to do. More important lives than mine are at stake. Do
you understand?” she pleaded.

“You know it scares the hell out of me when you talk that way, Kathryn.”

“The only thing you should fear right now is my wrath if you don’t show
up in Venice in three weeks.”

Chakotay sat back on his heels, willing her face to disappear. He could
feel the cold and gleeful joy of the man beside him and could sense the
strength he continued to draw from Chakotay’s pain.

It was no longer just Kathryn’s death on which he fed. Spectral shadows
closed in upon him: Tare, Kaz, Beekman, Hillhurst, T’Reni, Curtis,
Campbell…

The list of those who had died on his watch grew longer every day he
served with Starfleet.

He had spent more than six weeks convincing himself that he was, no
matter what Sveta thought, learning to live again in the world,
rediscovering who he was and what he was meant to do.

The other man began to laugh, and Chakotay felt the flesh at the back of
his neck begin to tingle and rise.

Suddenly he knew that whatever this was, it wasn’t life. The thought
made him tremble with fear.

Paris stormed into his temporary quarters in San Francisco and threw
himself down onto the low sofa in the apartment’s small living room.
He’d left Chakotay over an hour ago and still had no feeling in his
hands or feet.

Frankly, he preferred it to the parts of his body he could still feel,
as they were a riot of frustration.

“Computer, increase room temperature by five degrees,” he ordered.

With a sonorous chirp the computer complied.

I should have told him.

This thought had been torturing Tom since he’d felt the transporter free
him from Chakotay’s icy domain.

“Damn it all, I should have told him,” Tom said aloud to the empty room.

Tom hadn’t actually spent much time in the apartment since he’d been
called to a meeting at Project Full Circle six weeks ago with Admirals
Montgomery and Batiste, Captain Eden, and a handful of other officers he
now knew much better than he cared to. The quarters were similar to the
temporary housing Starfleet had provided to all of Voyager’s crew when
they first returned to Earth. Tom refused to allow himself to remember
the hours he’d spent in that first suite imagining the life he and
B’Elanna were going to build there with Miral. This time around, he
hadn’t made the mistake of beginning to personalize any of the space,
apart from a few pictures of his wife and child that sat on the small
dresser by his bed.

That meeting had been enough to make Tom seriously question how soon he
would be ending his career. Voyager and a fleet of eight other vessels
were being fitted with slipstream drives and sent back to the Delta
quadrant. Only after the mission’s objectives had been clearly
enunciated by the admirals had Tom actually seen the wisdom in
Starfleet’s plan and how nicely the objectives would dovetail with his
and B’Elanna’s. And much as he hated to see so many of his old friends
tossed back into the wilds of the galaxy, part of him understood that
Voyager’s crew was being given a mission of the caliber and importance
they deserved, and were best qualified to fulfill.

And at least this time we know it’s not a one-way trip.

Captain Eden had assured Paris privately that Chakotay was still
Voyager’s commanding officer under fleet commander Admiral Batiste.
Every officer in the room had been advised that until the crew briefing,
still several weeks away, the mission specifics were considered
classified and no one was at liberty to speak of them with anyone
outside the room.

Tom hadn’t counted on Chakotay’s hostile reception. Part of him had
honestly believed that after all this time he would find his commanding
officer restored to health and sanity. Had that been the case, Tom would
have shared the whole truth about the mission with Chakotay. The man
whose wisdom and compassion he had come to respect and rely upon so
thoroughly in the Delta quad rant and in the years that followed would
have never revealed to anyone that Tom had broken his oath with the
admirals.

But Chakotay hadn’t been kidding when he said he wasn’t ready. Tom had
sensed that the moment he’d first laid eyes on him. Even Sveta, who had
known and loved Chakotay longer than any of Voyager’s crew, had confided
to Tom that Chakotay might never be ready to resume his former life.

“What happened?” Tom demanded of the silence around him.

He and Harry had dissected Chakotay’s behavior for months, and neither
of them had ever come to a satisfactory conclusion as to what exactly
had pushed their captain so far over the edge.

Clearly it was connected to Admiral Janeway. But all of them had lost
friends and loved ones before, during and after the Delta quadrant. No
one but Chakotay had allowed such losses to cripple him so thoroughly.

Tom knew that the only thing that might have pushed him that far would
have been the death of B’Elanna or Miral. He had flirted with that fate
two years earlier and in the darkest of those days knew he had almost
lost himself completely.

But Chakotay and the admiral were just fellow officers. They were close,
but they weren’t…

A memory brushed past Tom’s mind so quickly he actually had to stop
breathing to coax it into returning. When it finally did, Tom felt a
heaviness descending upon his chest even as a shot of adrenaline burst
through his stomach.

But that was years ago…

Over five years earlier, Chakotay had spent a few days wound tighter
than a Vulcan logic thread, and Tom had finally confronted him about his
odd behavior. Chakotay had reluctantly admitted that it had to do with a
woman. At the time Tom couldn’t imagine who he was talking about. He had
accidentally learned the truth when he’d loaned Chakotay some of his
holodeck time and seen him entering his Venice simulation with Admiral
Janeway.

Nothing had come of it, as best Tom could tell, and compassion for his
friend had forced him to file it away in the least traveled portions of
his mind along with a promise he had made to Chakotay that their
conversation would remain between the two of them.

But Chakotay and Janeway had been in regular contact and met frequently
in the years since Voyager’s return, and who was to say that at some point…

Oh, no. Please tell me you didn’t.

Like a puzzle piece you thought you’d lost and suddenly discovered under
a sofa, Tom saw the action and its consequences and for the first time,
a complete and perfectly horrible picture.

It was the only thing that could account for Chakotay’s behavior.

“Why didn’t you say something, you idiot!” Tom shouted, rising to throw
off his heavy coat, which was, at long last, now stifling in the
tropical heat he had ordered for his quarters.

Tom didn’t know what he or anyone else might have been able to provide
Chakotay to make her loss easier to bear, but they could have taken a shot.

Instead, Chakotay’s grief had festered until it had actually transformed
him into the worst possible version of himself. And if this afternoon
was any indication, that version might be here to stay.

He wanted to contact Harry, who would probably accuse him of having an
overactive imagination. To this day Harry was so uncomfortable with
subterfuge that he would find the scenario impossible to believe of two
people he thought he had known as well as Chakotay and Admiral Janeway.

Tom knew he was right.

And he also knew that being right made absolutely no difference now.

But it might, in the very near future. At some point Chakotay was going
to return to Voyager, and then they were going to have a very long
captain/first officer conversation. After all they’d been through
together, Chakotay would have to acknowledge the truth, and that alone
might be a good start.

Suddenly abashed, Tom realized that for months, he too had been guilty
of some serious withholding. Many people, Chakotay among them, had been
devastated when he told them that he and B’Elanna had separated. Because
Tom always believed that he would have a chance to make it up to them
and that when they learned the whole truth, they would forgive him, he
had refused to delve too deeply into the temporary pain he was causing
them.

His father would never know the truth. But even after his death Tom
hadn’t hurried to lighten the burden of his mother or other friends.

That was largely because the time had finally come to put the final
phase of B’Elanna’s plan into effect. Tom had known it as surely as his
name the moment he had been briefed on Voyager’s new mission.

Earlier that week, Eden had provided him with the fleet’s final launch
schedule. Calculating out a few weeks from there, Tom had arrived at a
date.

All that remained was for him to send a simple message.

Tom hurried out of his apartment to the nearest public communications
terminal and, using a draconian series of encryptions, sent the
transmission that had been agreed upon months before.

“Now” was the only pertinent word in the message.

Tom knew that Kahless would understand.

MAY 2381

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Seven had been surprised, upon entering the small conference room, to
see the room filled beyond capacity. She recognized no one present apart
from the Doctor, though clearly she was not moving among the room
anonymously. The moment she entered, Seven was conscious of whispers and
murmurs even as the crowd was good enough to clear a space for her to
walk to the table where the EMH was seated.

“Seven, you made it,” he said with obvious pleasure, rising to greet her.

“You did indicate that it was important to you,” she replied simply.

“We should be getting started any minute,” the Doctor went on, clearly
anxious. “I’ve saved a seat for you.”

Seven would have preferred to stand. She was not in attendance in any
official capacity and did not want to presume upon, or interfere with,
the deliberations at hand. However, having been denied the restorative
powers of regeneration in favor of the far less efficient restorative
powers of sleep, she was physically more tired than usual these days and
accepted the chair with silent gratitude. Dealing with the constant
voice added to her burden, but Seven had grown accustomed to its presence.

A trio of officers entered and were momentarily taken aback by the size
of the crowd.

The captain in charge, a Bolian female, addressed them briefly.

“While I understand that these proceedings may have a broader interest
than a simple personnel assignment would warrant, this is a closed
session. Anyone not here in an official capacity, please avail the exits
in an orderly fashion.”

A few grumbles were met with a fierce and unbending stare by the
captain, and the crowd began to disperse. Seven imagined that the
Doctor’s physical parameters visibly shrunk as what had surely been his
“supporters” filed out. Seven started to rise, but a firm hand was
placed over hers by the Doctor, and she kept her seat.

As the captain and her aides took their own places opposite the Doctor,
the captain turned a dismayed eye on Seven.

“Professor Hansen, isn’t it?” she asked.

“I prefer to be called Seven of Nine, or Seven,” she replied.

“Very well, Seven. If you’d be so kind as to—”

“I invited Seven to this meeting, Captain,” the Doctor interjected, “and
would consider it a personal favor if you would allow her to remain.”

The aides exchanged a nervous glance, but the captain merely sighed.
“Fine. But I will advise you on the record, Miss Seven, that this
meeting is confidential, and your discretion will be appreciated.”

“Of course.” Seven nodded.

“Then let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Please,” the Doctor said, smiling expectantly.

“I have reviewed your written objection to our previous finding as well
as the letters you provided on your behalf from Doctor Louis Zimmerman,
Lieutenant Reginald Barclay, Commander Thomas Paris, and Doctor Bruce
Maddox. To my mind, they only confirm our initial conclusion that your
work on advanced holographic design is far more important to the
Federation at this time—”

Before the captain could finish her thought, the room’s main door
swished open.

“I thought I made it clear—” she began, but stopped mid-sentence when
Captain Eden hurried into the room.

“I’m sorry,” Eden said, clearly flustered. “I’m late, aren’t I?”

“Captain Eden,” the Bolian said, rising.

“Captain Ferchew,” Eden responded, shaking her hand. “I’m sorry to
interrupt, but I have just received the final approval for the Emergency
Medical Vessel’s inclusion in the fleet that is being assembled under
Admiral Batiste in conjunction with Project Full Circle.”

“I wasn’t aware—” Ferchew bristled.

“And for that I apologize. We’re all working long days and nights to
prepare the fleet, and I was not certain until this morning of its final
complement.”

“Understandable. However, our offices have already assigned all relevant
personnel to the vessel. Are you here to request changes?”

“I am.” Eden nodded, slipping into a vacant chair at the head of the
table and bridging the distance between the Doctor and Ferchew. “As you
know, I am the officer in charge of operations and logistics for the
fleet, and wish to state unequivocally that it is my belief that the
fleet’s upcoming mission will be aided tremendously by the presence of
the EMH Mark 1 we’ve come to call the Doctor.”

Seven noted that Eden hadn’t so much as glanced at her or the Doctor
since she entered the room. At her announcement, the Doctor sat up a
little straighter.

“Upon what do you base this assertion?” Ferchew asked.

Eden continued authoritatively, “I am not at liberty to discuss the
specifics of the fleet’s upcoming mission in the presence of anyone but
yourself, Captain. In general, however, we believe that the Doctor’s
past experience will prove invaluable to the fleet’s work. I have
personally interviewed the Doctor a number of times in my work with
Project Full Circle, and even outside the auspices of the fleet’s
mission I believe that he has proven himself to be a unique asset in his
previous starship assignment.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, Captain,” Ferchew interrupted, “but
he’s a hologram, and all of the fleet vessels, particularly the
Emergency Medical Vessel, are being equipped with our most recent and
most advanced versions of his original program. Aren’t we up to the Mark
11 now?”

Eden actually sat back and considered Ferchew with what Seven sensed was
disdain.

“He’s a sentient hologram, Captain,” she replied.

“We’re not here to debate that prickly issue,” Ferchew said wearily.

“Good,” Eden replied, “as I don’t think anyone who actually knows the
Doctor or has served with him would question it.”

Ferchew withered slightly under Eden’s reproof.

“If I may, in support of my position, I would like to read to you from
the final letter then Captain Kathryn Janeway placed in the Doctor’s
permanent record upon Voyager’s return to the Alpha quadrant. As you are
undoubtedly aware, she placed similar letters and commendations in the
files of all of her crewmen.”

“We are aware of Admiral Janeway’s recommendations, and they have always
been taken into account when considering assignments for her former crew.”

“If that’s the case, I don’t understand why your office would have
denied the Doctor’s request to return to active duty.”

“Captain, the EMH Mark 1 is a unique creation and was a valuable asset
to Voyager while they were lost in the Delta quadrant. Beyond that, I’m
not sure what one might find of relevance in Admiral Janeway’s
recommendation.”

Clearing her throat, Eden began to read aloud from a padd she held
before her.

“‘Initially, like most of my crew, I was inclined to dismiss the EMH as
nothing more than a very useful tool provided to us by Starfleet
engineers. However, over time, and thanks in large part to the insights
of the crew members serving consistently with him, including the
Ocampan, Kes, and Lieutenant Thomas Paris, I began to see the
shortsightedness of my own prejudices. As the Doctor’s program was
forced to run almost continuously over the seven years he served aboard
Voyager, it became clear that over time and primarily through his own
efforts, he far exceeded even the most optimistic expectations of his
designers. He learned to adjust his behavioral subroutines to offer a
more compassionate presence to his patients. He engaged regularly in
activities for which he was never programmed in order to better
understand the crew under his care. He developed deep and intense
personal relationships with the crew and a number of aliens we
encountered. And in an incident that forever banished any question I
might have had about his sentience, he struggled valiantly through an
imminent cascade failure when his ethical subroutines encountered a
situation which, as a commanding officer, I have often faced: the choice
between saving the life of one crew member with whom he had interacted
regularly over another whom he did not know well. As a human, I am
forced to accept my limitations and grieve for the reality that often is
situational ethics. To the best of my knowledge, no advanced computer
programming could possibly resolve that crisis for him, but he managed
to overcome it through patience, reasoned debate, and most importantly,
the comfort he was offered and accepted from his friends aboard Voyager.

“‘Unique individuals like the Doctor are often misunderstood, especially
by their creators. Time and again he demonstrated the capacity to learn
and to grow, and it is my belief that he would continue to do so most
effectively if he were allowed the opportunity to continue to serve
actively aboard a starship. I realize that several new generations of
Emergency Medical Holograms have been designed and implemented while
Voyager was away. I would never trade the Doctor for any of them, as
none of them have demonstrated the humanity I came to treasure in our
chief medical officer. In closing, I doubt seriously that my ship or
crew would have survived our long journey without him.’”

As Eden finished reading, Seven found her eyes welling up. Hearing
Janeway’s words was an unpleasant reminder of the loss and her own
current internal battle as to what had been best and worst in the
admiral. Much of her anger had begun to subside, but Seven was struck
again by an intense desire to discuss the challenges she was now facing
with her former captain and friend. She was equally curious to know if
Janeway had placed a similar letter in her file, and if so, the nature
of its contents.

Glancing toward the Doctor, she could see that he had been both moved
and uplifted by Kathryn’s words.

Eden’s final remark on the subject was brief. “I can’t say it better
myself, Captain, and given what the fleet’s crew is about to face, I can
only recommend that we provide them with those among us with the most
experience and ability to meet the challenges ahead. I don’t know about
you, but Kathryn Janeway’s recommendation is good enough for me.”

Ferchew took a moment to stare at the Doctor, who returned her gaze
firmly. Finally she made a note on her own padd and said, “Your request
to add the EMH Mark 1, also known as the Doctor, to the crew complement
of the Emergency Medical Vessel is hereby approved. His program will be
added to those already installed aboard the vessel, and he will serve in
the capacity of chief medical officer. If there is nothing else, we are
adjourned.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Eden said graciously.

Ferchew responded with a brisk nod and left quickly, followed by her staff.

The Doctor turned immediately to Seven and enveloped her in a tight,
joyful hug. As Eden rose, he hurried to her to shake her hand and
profess his undying gratitude.

“I’m just doing my job, Doctor,” Eden assured him. “I know it isn’t
everything you wanted, but I fully expect that your command abilities
will also be enhanced in your upcoming assignment, and I look forward to
reading your new commander’s reports.”

“What can you tell me about our mission, Captain?” the Doctor asked.

“Unfortunately, nothing more at the moment. You’ll be briefed along with
the rest of the crew in a few weeks. Until then, keep up the good work.”

“Thank you, Captain. I will.”

Turning to Seven, Eden said, “I’m surprised to see you here today.”

“The Doctor was in need of moral support,” Seven replied.

“Do you have a moment to speak with me in private?” Eden asked.

Somewhat discomfited, Seven nodded and with the Doctor’s blessing
allowed Eden to usher her from the room.

Eden led Seven out of the building into a lushly landscaped courtyard.
Several other tall white edifices comprised the complex; the parklike
setting was clearly designed to provide a convenient location for
lunches or peaceful reflection outside the confines of their cubicles.

A few officers walked the manicured paths, and atop a small knoll a
group of several administrative personnel were enjoying a makeshift
picnic lunch.

Eden had been naturally drawn here. She hadn’t breathed enough
nonrecycled air for months.

Seven’s long strides easily matched her own. Stealing a glance at her,
Eden was struck again by her fine, strong features. There was definitely
something softer about her now that Borg implants no longer marred her
face. But there was also something sadder about her. The captain could
only imagine the toll the last ten months had taken on Seven; Eden had
been called upon time and again during each escalating crisis to provide
counsel to those in command.

And here I am, about to do it again, Eden thought ruefully.

“Have you ever been offered an official position within Starfleet?” Eden
asked.

“I am a professor at the Academy, as you undoubtedly are aware,” Seven
replied in a tone that suggested her inability to suffer fools.

“But you aren’t an officer?”

“No,” Seven said.

“Any reason why not?”

“I have never been offered a commission, nor would I accept one were it
to be offered,” Seven replied. “My current obligations are sufficiently
strenuous.”

“And yet the Federation hasn’t failed to add to those obligations on a
regular basis by asking you to consult on a variety of matters relating
to the Borg?”

“No.” Seven shook her head. “They have not.”

Eden paused her steps and turned to face Seven. “I find myself in the
unenviable position of trespassing upon your generosity once again on
behalf of the Federation.”

Seven’s head cocked to the right. “Explain,” she requested.

“Before I do, I must advise you that you are not at liberty to discuss
this conversation with anyone.”

Eden thought Seven was about to roll her eyes, but she settled for a
deep sigh.

“I believe I possess sufficient discretion to rise to the challenge,
Captain,” she replied icily.

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Eden hurried to add. “I just needed to
make sure you were aware of the sensitivity of what I am about to reveal
to you.”

“Explain,” Seven said.

“Starfleet is currently preparing to send nine ships, including Voyager,
back to the Delta quadrant.”

Seven did her the credit of at least appearing shocked to hear this.

“May I ask why?” she demanded.

“The fleet’s primary mission is exploratory and diplomatic. Voyager’s
circumstances permitted it to chart only what lay in the path it took to
get home. Even then, tens of thousands of light-years were skipped as it
found shortcuts along the way. On the diplomatic side…well, let’s just
say there are a few fences we’d like to mend, if we can. More
importantly, however, Starfleet is seeking confirmation that the Borg
are truly gone and also investigating the possibility that the Caeliar
might still be out there.”

Seven’s face flushed slightly.

“I believe I have indicated on a number of occasions my position on that
question,” she said.

“And I don’t doubt you have expressed those beliefs honestly,” Eden
agreed. “But we can’t just take the word of a handful of people as proof
positive that the Borg have miraculously vanished and that the Caeliar
now pose no further threat to us.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Eden found herself faltering. “Because we can’t,” she finally
insisted. “And even if the Caeliar and the Borg really are gone, it’s
going to leave a dispro portionately large power vacuum, particularly in
the Delta quadrant.”

“Does the Federation intend to fill that vacuum?” Seven asked warily.

“No,” Eden replied. “But we need to understand what’s out there now and
what, if any, impact it might have on the Federation in the long term.”

“Might I suggest that for the foreseeable future, the Federation busy
itself with tending to its own territories?” Seven said, clearly irked.

“You may. But Starfleet is still going, and I think you would be an
invaluable asset to the fleet.”

Seven shook her head in obvious frustration.

“Are you ordering me to accompany the fleet?”

Eden corrected her. “None of us, least of all me, are in any position to
do that. I’m asking you to once again lend your expertise and vast
knowledge to a very challenging undertaking. Many of your old crewmates
have been assigned to the fleet, and I do not doubt they would be very
pleased to have you among them once again.”

“Voyager and the Emergency Medical Vessel,” Seven said softly as the
weight of all she was about to lose settled upon her.

“The EMV was actually designed for just such a mission, to provide
medical support to numerous vessels in situations when there might be a
high risk of casualties in deep space, where there are no Federation
starbases, and where advanced medical facilities are few and far between.”

“The Doctor, Chakotay, Commander Paris, Lieutenant Kim…” Seven began to
list.

Eden nodded. “Are all going. And the fleet is being equipped with
slipstream drives so there is no risk of once again becoming stranded
far from home.” Taking a deep breath, Eden asked, “May I tell them you
will join them?”

Seven didn’t even pause to consider it.

“You may not,” she replied.

“Do you mind if I ask why?”

Seven struggled briefly to formulate an appropriate response. “I believe
it is too soon to mount such an expedition,” she began. “I believe
Starfleet would be better served by focusing all of its efforts on
rebuilding its forces and considering what role it is meant to play in
the Alpha quadrant, particularly in light of the recent emergence of the
Typhon Pact. Further, I am needed here, both at the Academy and to look
after my aunt, who is gravely ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your aunt,” she said sincerely. “And I
understand your other reservations. I can assure you that this decision
has not been reached quickly nor made lightly. The mission the fleet is
about to undertake has been on the drawing board for almost three years.
If this is your final word on the subject, I understand, but I will tell
you that should you change your mind, the door will be open up until the
moment the fleet launches.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Seven replied dismissively, “but I suggest you not
hold your breath.”

Eden nodded, accepting this as graciously as possible.

“Thank you for your time, Seven,” she said, and walked quickly away.

Eden knew it had been a long shot, but she had felt compelled to ask.
There were still a few weeks remaining until the fleet was to launch.
The optimist in her hoped that Seven might give the matter a little more
thought. The realist believed she had already heard Seven’s final word
on the subject.

As Captain Eden hurried off, Seven found herself trembling. It had never
entered her mind that Starfleet would mount an expedition to the Delta
quadrant any time in the near future. The fact that they were asking
many of Voyager’s former crew to lead this mission only added insult to
injury. Despite the promise of slipstream technology to make the journey
practical, any such relatively untested system was fraught with
potential problems. These might be mitigated by the fleet’s large number
of ships, but still, it seemed a huge risk.

Further, Seven could not help but feel it was an insult to the memory of
Kathryn Janeway. She had risked everything to bring her crew home, and
Seven could only imagine the ferocity with which the admiral, were she
still alive, would have battled anyone who dared propose such a mission.

In every respect but one, it seemed a waste of resources. That
one—determining if anything, Borg or Caeliar, still existed in the vast
region of space once dominated by the Collective. Such a possibility
gave Seven pause.

The question that had plagued her for months and brought her conflict
with the voice to its sharpest pitch was why she had not been asked to
join the Caeliar gestalt at the moment of the Borg’s transformation. Her
memory of that process had grown vaguer with each passing day, but at no
time since she had first awakened could she recall actually having been
given a choice in the matter. The report of Captain Picard was that the
Caeliar had left the galaxy. Seven would have been inclined to accept
this completely were it not for the presence of the voice and her
unsubstantiated certainty that it actually came from the Caeliar. If any
yet remained, the Delta quadrant would logically be the first place she
would look for them. And if she could find them, they might be able to
help her resolve her current dilemma.

Intriguing as the possibility was, she could not weigh it above her
obligation to her aunt. To leave Irene in a Starfleet Medical facility
while she went off to pursue what might very well be a fruitless quest,
would be the height of inhumanity, and unworthy of the love and
generosity Irene had shown Seven since the day she returned to Earth.
The Caeliar had already judged her as such, and she would do nothing now
to prove them right.

More troubling, however, was the thought that in a matter of weeks, all
of those she thought of as friends would be beyond her reach. Seven had
believed she had come to fully understand the concept of the word alone
when she was first severed from the Collective. As she contemplated her
near future, she realized that there were nuances to the concept she had
never anticipated and did not relish exploring.

Her attention was abruptly drawn to the sight of the Doctor hurrying up
the path toward her, accompanied by Lieutenant Kim. Seven had stopped in
to see Harry during his recuperation, but had not enjoyed the pleasure
of his company since he had been fully restored to health. His grim and
troubled countenance suggested that though his body might have healed,
his mind might still have some distance to go.

“What’s wrong?” Seven asked without preamble the moment they reached her
side.

Kim shared a questioning glance with the Doctor before speaking, which
ratcheted up Seven’s discontent another notch.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to tell you this,” Harry began. “I still
can’t believe it myself.”

Seven looked to the Doctor, who was usually better at delivering bad
news, to see that he too was stunned into silence.

“Every morning, first thing, I review casualty reports from the
Federation.”

“A grim hobby, Lieutenant,” Seven offered.

“It’s part of my job,” Harry replied. “Almost two months later we still
haven’t been able to confirm all of those killed during the invasion.”
Harry paused to take a deep, steadying breath.

“This morning, there was a report of shuttle debris found in sector
22093, an unregistered shuttle.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I still do not understand the relevance,”
Seven said as calmly as possible.

“It’s B’Elanna and Miral. It was their shuttle. That sector saw heavy
fighting, and they must have gotten caught in the cross fire.”

Seven’s heart turned to cold and heavy ice.

“B’Elanna and Miral are dead?” she said softly.

Harry nodded.

“And you’re sure it’s them?” the Doctor asked. “Someone might have made
a mistake.”

“Their names are on the list,” Harry confirmed. “That means someone
identified whatever was left…” he trailed off.

Silence hung heavy between them as the vivid natural hues of the
courtyard turned suddenly bleak.

“I have to…” Harry began, his breath coming quicker. “I have to tell
Tom. Will you both come with me? I don’t know where Chakotay is right
now, and there isn’t anyone else.”

“Of course,” the Doctor said, placing a comforting arm around Harry’s
shoulders.

Seven followed them numbly to the nearest transporter station, adding a
new item to the list of the Caeliar’s sins against her. Several years
earlier she had asked the Doctor to disengage the fail-safe Borg system
within her which prevented her from experiencing human emotions at too
high a level of sensitivity, and she believed she had adapted well to
the new extremes that were the result of this choice. If she had still
possessed her Borg implants, Seven would have requested that the Doctor
reverse the procedure. Right now, she would have given anything to avoid
the pain she knew would follow too quickly on the heels of the
disorienting shock she was now experiencing.

Unfortunately, the Caeliar had not even left her this option.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Eden’s first order of business after attending the EMH’s hearing was to
report to Voyager for her daily briefing on the fleet’s status. These
meetings consisted of the commanding officers of each vessel or, in
Voyager’s case, the acting commander, Tom Paris, and the few engineering
specialists who had been, of necessity, included in the outlining of the
fleet’s mission at the beginning of March.

Eden materialized in the transporter room to find Tom waiting for her,
as usual. In the short time they had worked closely together, Eden had
come to rely upon and, more important, truly like Voyager’s first
officer. The irreverent young man who had found a new life in the Delta
quadrant had been replaced by a more temperate version of his former
self. Like his father, he now possessed a shell of tritanium around him
and did his work efficiently and with professional enthusiasm. For those
who were close to him—and much of the ship’s current staff fell into
that category—he always had a ready smile or good-natured barb, and many
of the new faces seemed already to sense that in him they would find a
firm hand, but also a patient mentor.

Paris always greeted Eden respectfully, and always maintained a
professional distance in their dealings. He had never confided in her
any misgivings he might have about the upcoming mission, though Eden
believed he must have reservations. Still, if the rest of the crew
accepted their new mission with Tom Paris’s equanimity, Eden believed
that the fleet would find great success in facing the challenges ahead.

“Good morning, Captain,” Tom greeted her.

Eden forced her disappointment at failing to secure Seven’s services for
the fleet to the back of her mind.

“The ship commanders are assembled in the mess hall this morning,” he
informed her. “The new table is being installed in the conference room.
I took the liberty of assuming you would prefer not to be briefed while
battling the noise of the engineers.”

“Thank you, Commander,” she replied sincerely.

When she did not immediately move to lead him from the room as usual,
Tom asked, “Are we waiting for someone?”

“Actually, yes,” Eden replied. “An old friend I haven’t seen in a while
is coming aboard this morning.”

“Will they be joining the meeting?”

“No.”

“Shall I wait for you in the mess hall?”

“This won’t take a minute,” Eden replied as Counselor Cambridge
shimmered into existence on the transporter pad.

The moment their eyes met, Cambridge shook his head in disdain.

“Are you here to gloat, Captain?” Cambridge asked as he stepped down to
give her a brief hug.

“Not at all, Hugh,” she replied with a wide smile. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve managed to retain that lovely office in San Francisco while I’ve
been banished to these dreary halls for almost three years. Should I
have divorced an admiral too?”

Eden accepted his ribbing as par for the course. She knew that despite
his protestations, Cambridge must be enjoying his work on Voyager a
great deal or he would have demanded transfer long ago.

“This crew has performed exceedingly well, despite your presence, Hugh,”
she teased, “and since the rest of us can barely tolerate you, I’d
suggest you make the best of it.”

Cambridge nodded sagely. “Charming, as ever.”

“I have a meeting, but I wanted to make sure you received those files I
sent over,” Eden said.

Cambridge’s face lit up appreciatively. “I did. And you were right.
They’re quite lovely. Though I’m not quite sure…”

“Just put them in the back of that terribly large brain of yours and let
me know if you find any interesting comparative images,” Eden requested.

“Glad to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to meet with our new chief
medical officer. Why a Tamarian would bother to learn Federation
Standard, let alone join Starfleet, is a mystery to me, but I’m
intrigued nonetheless. I’ve always wanted to know more about Shaka and
those bloody walls.”

Eden dismissed him with a nod and turned back to Tom, who was trying
hard to hide his surprise.

“Question, Commander?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I just didn’t realize you were acquainted with
Counselor Cambridge.”

“We’ve known one another for years,” she assured him. “Have you enjoyed
having him aboard?”

Tom paused, obviously choosing his words carefully. “He’s an excellent
counselor, by which I mean he is usually dead-on in his assessments, but
he does take some getting used to,” he finally said.

“He thinks highly of you too, Commander,” Eden replied, then asked, “Is
there any chance we’re going to finish this meeting before lunch?”

“Only if we’d started an hour ago, ma’am,” Tom replied.

“Then let’s get to it.”

Three hours later Paris emerged from Voyager’s mess hall to find Harry,
Seven, and the Doctor waiting for him. All three had worn similar,
gloomy expressions before they had noted his presence, and all three
tried much too hard to mask them the moment they saw him.

“Hi, guys,” Tom said with forced cheer. “What’s going on?”

Harry, who had apparently been elected the trio’s leader for the moment,
stepped forward and said softly, “We need to go to your quarters.”

“Do I need to bring a phaser with me?” Tom joked.

“No,” Harry replied as he turned his steps toward the turbolift and
refused to meet Tom’s eyes.

A few minutes later all of them entered Tom’s darkened quarters. They
had recently been refurnished and had a fabricated, “new” smell, which
reminded Tom, much to his regret, of the Delta Flyer; both times he’d
helped build it.

Tom activated the cabin’s lights on arrival and turned to see his
friends staring at him with great concern.

“Okay, somebody needs to tell me what’s happening,” he said as lightly
as possible under their heavy gazes. The room felt uncomfortably warm,
though Tom knew full well that the climate controls were one of the few
things on Voyager that were functioning perfectly at the moment.

“Tom, I…” Harry began.

“Lieutenant Kim, if you’d prefer…” the Doctor said.

“No.” Harry shook his head, collecting himself.

Suddenly, the room was not only too hot; it also seemed to lack
sufficient oxygen for Tom’s needs.

“Maybe we should sit down,” Seven offered.

“Damn it, somebody say something,” Tom demanded.

Finally Harry took a deep breath and blurted out, “B’Elanna and Miral
are dead.”

“What?” Tom heard himself asking, even as most of his mind untethered
itself from the rest of his body and the room began to tip on its axis.

Immediately his friends were around him, their firm hands guiding him to
the sofa. Soon he was seated between Harry and Seven, with the Doctor
kneeling before him. All three of them were still holding on to him, but
their presence, though immediate, was somehow disconnected from the rest
of him.

Harry continued, soft and controlled. “We received the latest casualty
reports this morning, and debris from B’Elanna’s shuttle was discovered.
Both of their names were on the list. Tom, I’m so very sorry.”

In a flash of comprehension, Tom was off the sofa and on the far side of
the room. It was almost as if putting space between them would somehow
make the message they carried equally distant.

Hang on, part of him thought.

“Tom?” Harry said, approaching him with the care one would give a
terrified and wounded animal.

“It’s not…I mean…that’s it, right?” Tom asked.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said.

“He’s in shock,” the Doctor added unnecessarily.

“No. What I’m saying is,” Tom went on, “that’s the only proof you have?
Their names on a list?”

“I contacted the duty officer in charge, and he confirmed the remnants
of the shuttle and positively identified it as B’Elanna’s.”

“It was unregistered,” Tom argued.

“Every single ship in the combat zones during the invasion, Starfleet or
civilian, was forced to identify itself and its occupants. I’m sorry,
Tom, but it’s not a mistake.”

“Tom, please tell us if there is anything at all we can do,” the Doctor
said gently.

“Perhaps we could contact your mother?” Seven suggested.

“No,” Tom replied softly, shaking his head. “No.”

“I’ll try and find Captain Chakotay,” Harry assured them.

“Don’t bother,” Tom said coldly.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Get out, all of you,” Tom replied.

“Tom,” Harry pleaded.

“Just get out!” Tom shouted.

Seven and the Doctor moved toward the door, but Harry stood his ground.

“I’m not leaving you alone right now,” he insisted kindly but firmly.

“Harry, I love you like a brother. You know that. But right now, I need
a few minutes by myself.”

Harry eyed Tom warily.

“A few minutes,” Harry finally conceded. “But I’m standing outside that
door and I’m counting.”

Tom nodded, and all three moved out the door.

The moment they were gone, Tom rushed to his comm station and pulled up
a list of his most recent messages. Among them was an official,
unencrypted notice from Emperor Kahless. It read simply, “Commander
Paris, please accept the condolences of the Klingon Empire on your
recent loss. B’Elanna and Miral brought honor to us all, and they will
be missed.”

Tom read and reread the message, counted the words, then read them one
final time.

Though he had guessed the moment he had seen Harry’s face what news he
carried with him, he had been unprepared for the visceral response to
Harry’s words. In his immediate shock he had actually feared that
somehow something had gone terribly wrong.

Kahless’s message, however, put those fears completely to rest. Tears
welled in Tom’s eyes, but they were not tears of grief. After more than
two years he was finally almost free to live the life he had always wanted.

Tom sighed through his tears with complete relief.

In the days following Tom and Sveta’s brief visit, the traces of peace
Chakotay had achieved prior to their arrival had dissipated completely.
Now, he found himself wondering if that brief respite had been as
illusory as his angry companion.

Instead, the fear Chakotay had first felt when his counterpart had begun
to laugh at him had coiled itself around his heart and stubbornly
refused to be dislodged. In place of his daily hikes to take in the
grandeur of the island and cleanse his mind and body, he had taken to
spending long hours staring into his small campfire. His body was still,
but his mind raced with furious determination.

He had studiously avoided the thoughts that were now tormenting him:
Kathryn, the many fine officers and crew he had lost while in command,
the dreams of the life they would have shared after Venice, and most
painfully, the persistent certainty that his life was now over.

The only piece of technology he had brought with him was wrapped inside
the medicine bundle he hadn’t opened since Kathryn’s death. The akoonah
had been created by his people to facilitate the spiritual exploration
of a vision quest, replacing the hallucinogenic plants used by his
ancestors. He had sought the comfort of his spirit guide regularly
throughout his life, but after Venice had felt no desire whatsoever to
seek its counsel. He was as angry with the spirits as he was with the
Borg, and frankly didn’t want to hear whatever they might have to say.

In his long hours of quiet contemplation, however, the thought had
finally occurred to him that even when one didn’t want the spirits, they
never truly left you. Some would say that in the darkest times, the
spirits existed to carry you through them. Chakotay didn’t really know
what he was seeking in contacting them. He only knew that he had tried
every other means at his disposal to make sense of his confusion and
fear, and thus far found nothing.

Chakotay unwrapped the medicine bundle and laid it out before him.
Embracing his fear, he placed his fin gers on the akoonah, closed his
eyes, and said aloud, “Akoochimoya. Gods of my fathers, I am far from
the lands of my home. I walk in darkness, alone and frightened. I ask
you to find me in the darkness. I ask you to explain yourselves.”

Chakotay’s mind began to hum. It was a common effect of the akoonah, the
last physical sensation experienced before entering the spirit world.

As he opened his eyes, the hum receded, and he found himself staring at
the fire he had built that afternoon. Though it seemed to have grown
lower with the passage of time, he had no memory of having walked with
his spirit guide.

Chakotay closed his eyes again, determined to force a connection.

Blackness surrounded him.

He floated in it, frightened and alone.

What have I done, he cried out to the darkness, that even you have
abandoned me?

With a disarming jolt, Chakotay found himself trembling with cold.

The fire had died.

He was as alone in the forest as he had been in the emptiness of his
vision. Hours had clearly passed, but had brought him no closer to the
clarity he sought.

Chakotay had never wished so desperately to speak with the spirits. And
they had never before failed to heed his call.

A word rose unbidden to his lips.

“Why?” he asked aloud.

Why what? the familiar needling voice of his usurper asked.

“Why did she go out there alone?” Chakotay asked.

What does it matter? She was never really yours. Perhaps she never meant
to meet you in Venice at all. Perhaps she was afraid she had made a
mistake.

“I don’t believe that.”

No. But you fear it. Who are you, Chakotay? At what point did you stop
charting the course of your own life and hand it to others? To her? To
Starfleet? Was that the life you wanted, or was it the life you lived
with because you couldn’t think of anything better to do?

“I made my choices.”

Did you? Or did you run from choice? Did you want to remain in the Delta
quadrant? Did you want to join Voyager’s crew? Did you want to become a
captain? Or did you abide the whims of destiny, the cruelest of all
mistresses?

“I don’t know anymore.”

Who does?

“Leave me alone!” Chakotay shouted, warmed by familiar anger.

You are alone. You’ve been alone for longer than you care to believe.
You abandoned yourself, Chakotay. You hid behind pretty words like duty,
honor, and love, and then you cloaked yourself in ugly ones: pain,
anger, regret. But they mean nothing. They do not define you. Only you
can do that. Only you can claim your own life. Why do you hesitate? Why
do you fear?

“I knew what I wanted and it was taken from me.”

Then it was never yours.

“Why?”

With that word hanging unanswered in the cold night air, Chakotay heard
a distant chirp.

Startled, he looked about for its source and found it in the pouch he
carried at his waist. The combadge Tom had left him was demanding an
answer.

Hands shaking, Chakotay activated it.

“This is Chakotay.”

“Captain, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

Chakotay immediately recognized the voice and answered automatically.

“It’s no trouble, Admiral Montgomery. What do you need?”

“I need you to report to Command in two days.”

Chakotay paused briefly.

“May I ask why?”

“I’ll explain when I see you. Good travels, Captain. Montgomery out.”

The communication terminated, Chakotay replaced the badge in his pouch
and listened to the stillness around him. Finally, he rose and began to
clear his campsite.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Cambridge rose from his chair when Chakotay’s retelling of the events of
August 2380 to the present had concluded. He did so not because his work
with the captain was at an end, but because his lower back was shooting
spasms up and down his spine after sitting in one position for over four
hours.

Chakotay abruptly mimicked his action and began to pace the small room,
shaking his legs alternately with every few steps.

“What do they usually use this room for?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Cambridge shrugged as he stretched his arms overhead in
an effort to give the disks of his lumbar spine some desperately needed
breathing room. “But I’d sell my soul right now for a really good
massage therapist. Or failing that, a mediocre dabo girl might suffice.”

Chakotay cracked a perplexed smile.

“So what now, Counselor?” he asked.

Cambridge returned to the table, but rather than take his seat, perched
himself on its edge.

“The obvious question, I suppose,” he replied. “How do you feel now?”

“About what?”

“About resuming your command?”

Chakotay came to a halt and turned to face Cambridge, almost at attention.

“I serve at the pleasure of my commanding officers,” he said a little
too ironically.

“That’s true,” Cambridge acknowledged, “but it’s not an answer.”

“What do you want me to say, Counselor?” Chakotay asked with a little
more heat.

“Do I regret destroying the Orion ship? No. Was my pursuit of the Borg
during their invasion of our sovereign space too aggressive? I think
not. Do I recognize that since Admiral Janeway’s death many of those
closest to me have been concerned about my behavior? I’m not an idiot,
Counselor. We all face these things as best we can, and that’s what I
did at the time and that’s what I will continue to do when Voyager ships
out again.”

“The last time we spoke, Captain, you were just beginning to recover
from sinking into a deep state of shock brought about by acute trauma
and further complicated by untreated chronic depression characterized by
personality changes, self-medication through the inappropriate use of
alcohol, manic outbursts, denial, and barely controlled aggression.
You’ve had over two months to begin to heal. How’s it coming?”

Chakotay paused to consider his analysis.

“I’m all better now?”

“Your sense of humor is returning, and that’s a step in the right
direction,” Cambridge replied.

“But is it enough?” Chakotay asked.

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to get you and Admiral Montgomery off my back?” Chakotay bristled.

“I think you’ve missed the point,” Cambridge replied.

“Then please, explain it to me,” Chakotay countered. “And be sure and
use lots of small words,” he added icily.

“Why do you think Command requested this evaluation?” Cambridge asked.

“Because calling my judgment into question has become a habit around here.”

“Really? Why would that be?”

“Why?” Chakotay paused, as if struck by the word. “Why?” he said again.

Instinct drove Cambridge to straighten his posture. For the first time
since their conversation had begun, he felt Chakotay was close to
discovering something that had been eluding him.

“I’m here because from the day Voyager returned from the Delta quadrant,
no one in the upper echelons of Command has really trusted me or the
rest of my crew.”

Cambridge’s eyebrows shot up at this revelation.

“I left Starfleet years ago to join the Maquis. I betrayed them. And
even though the Dominion war might have opened some eyes to the
rightness of our cause against the Cardassians, my fellow Maquis and I
weren’t welcomed back into the fold because Starfleet understood or had
forgiven us. We were accepted back because we had done our penance, seen
the error of our ways, and demonstrated that we could toe the Starfleet
line for seven years. After the war Starfleet needed all the able hands
it could get, so at Admiral Janeway’s insistence they decided to give me
a shot, but they never really trusted that they were doing the right
thing. They never really trusted any of us.”

“Upon what do you base that assumption?” Cambridge asked.

“Right after we got home, a new Borg threat emerged: a virus conceived
by a warped woman at the heart of Starfleet Intelligence. At that point
we were the best qualified officers around to investigate and conquer
that threat, but we were all pushed to the sidelines, suspected of
actually causing the problem. Three of my people were actually put in
prison. We only succeeded in stopping Covington because we did what had
to be done over Command’s protests instead of with their blessing.

“Of course, we were right. We solved the problem. And the next one at
Loran II. And because it would have been bad form for Starfleet to do
any different, they finally decided to give me the first officer I
deserved, another officer they have serious ‘trust’ issues with,
Commander Tom Paris. But I don’t imagine they were happy about it.

“A few months later, after saving the lives of B’Elanna and Miral Paris
and revealing a serious threat to the health and welfare of the Klingon
species in the bargain, I was once again called on the carpet to explain
my behavior. Yes, the mission to Kerovi had failed, but I have a hard
time mourning the loss of our ability to interrogate a Changeling who
was going to lie to us with his last breath when we were able to save
countless others by our efforts.

“The chancellor of the Klingon Empire saw fit to honor me and my crew
with commendations, but Starfleet decided to reward us for taking the
initiative by giving us for the next two years the most mundane
assignments imaginable. Frankly, I’m surprised they didn’t throw all of
us into the bowels of a warehouse to count self-sealing stem bolts, for
all the use we were ferrying around diplomats and escorting supply
vessels.”

“You think you were being punished?” Cambridge asked.

“I think no one here really understands me or my crew. I think because
we didn’t serve in the Dominion war, we have always been considered
somehow ‘less’ than those who did. I think they use us when it seems
convenient, but no one has ever really given proper weight to the
service we did in the Delta quadrant, not just by surviving it, but by
gathering enough data to keep every one of your analysts busy until the
end of time, had anyone bothered to actually look at it before they
classified it or filed it away.

“And I think that the disrespect we have suffered is nothing compared to
the unconscionable decision to send Admiral Janeway out to investigate a
Borg cube with only a science vessel for backup. They sent her out
alone. She died alone.

“No, I don’t think we were being punished. I think we have been and
continue to be the victims of negligence on the part of our commanding
officers that some might define as criminal.

“Despite that, my crew and I have done everything Starfleet has ever
asked of us. We have routinely gone above and beyond the call of duty,
right up to leading that doomed task force to the Azure Nebula, and
because we had the unmitigated gall to survive it, we must once again
account for our actions.”

Cambridge actually flinched as Chakotay crossed to stare directly into
his eyes.

“You know what? I’m sick of it. I’m sick of having my every action
questioned by those who are only alive because we continually throw
ourselves between them and danger. Who the hell are you to ask me to
justify myself? My actions speak for me, and if they aren’t enough to
con vince you that I belong in Voyager’s center seat, then I have
nothing more to say.”

After a long pause, Cambridge replied with a deep sigh, “I see.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Chakotay’s question hung in the air unanswered.

“Turn it off,” Batiste said. “We’ve heard enough.”

Montgomery had been struck not only by Chakotay’s words, but by the
intensity behind them. And for the moment, he was inclined to agree with
Batiste. His heart heavy, he switched off the monitor they had used to
oversee the evaluation, rose to his feet, and ambled over to examine the
view from his large office window.

Montgomery understood Chakotay’s frustration. Command had been occupied
by so many pressing matters when Voyager had made its unexpected return,
and at the time it had been hard to determine how best to put the ship
and its crew to use. His instinct had been to keep as many of the crew
members who still wished to serve together. Naturally, those who
requested transfer or extended leave were obliged. Among many there was
a sense that Janeway’s crew had done more than enough already and at the
very least deserved some well-earned rest.

As the admiral in charge of Voyager’s deployment, Montgomery had
conscientiously searched for assignments that would challenge the crew’s
abilities. Between Kerovi and the Borg invasion, he could admit that he
hadn’t done much to make Voyager’s crew feel useful. Of course, for much
of that time he’d had Admiral Janeway to contend with at every turn. She
had always respectfully deferred to his choices, but she also never
hesitated to express her feelings about the assignments Voyager
received, and she usually erred on the side of caution. Perhaps
subconsciously she hadn’t been willing to see her people thrown into the
deep end after all they had endured. Montgomery didn’t think he’d given
Voyager any special treatment, but perhaps he hadn’t pushed them enough.

And if he was going to be completely honest, Montgomery had wondered
whether or not Chakotay was up to his assignment. All he had to base
that decision upon was Janeway’s word and Chakotay’s record in the Delta
quadrant. That record had been sterling, but it had also been the
product of a unique set of circumstances. Montgomery had chosen to
reserve judgment initially but had worried that once removed from the
limited scope afforded them in the Delta quadrant, Chakotay and many of
his crew might find it difficult to adjust to more routine assignments.
The “initiative” Chakotay had taken during the Kerovi mission would have
been understandable in a more seasoned officer. In a new captain, it
walked right up to the line of refusing a direct order, something
Montgomery would not tolerate in a Starfleet captain.

He understood Chakotay’s anger, especially in the wake of his personal
tragedy. He sympathized. But all of that had to be set aside when
answering the only question on the table at the moment.

“We can’t send him back to the Delta quadrant right now,” Batiste said,
giving voice to Montgomery’s unspoken thoughts.

“No, we can’t,” Montgomery agreed.

“Someday, maybe. But right now—”

“I know, Willem,” Montgomery cut him off. “At the very least he has
anger issues. We may have needed a few loose cannons when the Borg
attacked, but we can’t send someone who is not in complete control into
the dicey diplomatic waters of the Delta quadrant.”

“And I’m not going out there as admiral of the fleet to spend all of my
time debating command decisions with a hothead who’s got a grudge a mile
long.”

“So whom do we send?” Montgomery asked, not really expecting an
immediate answer. The truth was, he had wanted Chakotay to be ready to
take on this new assignment that he hadn’t seriously considered any
alternatives.

“I have a suggestion,” Willem replied.

“Who?”

Batiste’s choice took Montgomery by surprise.

“You don’t think that’s just trading one set of problems for another?”
Montgomery asked.

“At least it’s a set of problems I’m comfortable with,” Batiste replied.
“And nobody else I can think of knows as much about the ship, the
people, or the Delta quadrant. We won’t lose any time.”

“True,” Montgomery conceded. “I guess we should wait for Cambridge’s
final report before making the formal assignment,” he added.

“Do you really think we need to? You know what he’ll say.”

Montgomery nodded. “I do.”

“Then I’d suggest we get on with it.”

Chakotay studied Cambridge’s face. The righteous indignation that had
sustained his tirade had evaporated as quickly as it had come, and a
weary calm settled over him.

“And, Counselor?” he asked again.

He was utterly shocked by Cambridge’s response.

“And I couldn’t possibly agree more,” the counselor said.

Chakotay found himself struggling to remember the number of times prior
to this when Cambridge had so readily agreed with him.

None came to mind.

“You couldn’t?”

“Absolutely.” Cambridge nodded. “I just can’t believe it’s taken you
this long to come out and say it.”

Chakotay thought about it.

“Neither can I,” he replied with a faint smile.

“Captain, I meant it when I said that I hoped this session would go
well. Most of the time I’ve known you, I’ve found you to be thoughtful,
compassionate, balanced, and wise. Even after our first conversation, I
never made the time to locate Voyager’s escape pods, because you are the
only starship captain I’ve ever served under who didn’t make me worry
constantly that I’d need to use one. And that didn’t change when Kathryn
Janeway died. Grief humbles the best of us. And while you walked
terribly close to the line, you never really crossed it. At times I may
have disagreed with your choices or wanted to make certain you were
considering all of their implications, but I never lost respect for you
or your position. I watched you battle your demons into submission until
they struck with such crippling force that any sane man in your
situation would have needed to find an island and spend some time
regrouping.

“My only concern then, and now, is that the healing process is not
complete. And for reasons that elude me, you continue to stubbornly
refuse help from those around you who are most anxious to offer it. It’s
not serving you to try and do this alone. It’s not like you.”

“No,” Chakotay replied honestly. “It’s more like her.”

“Admiral Janeway?”

“I can’t tell you the number of times we had that discussion during
those seven years,” Chakotay went on. “I never understood it until the
job was mine. I always thought it was one of her only weaknesses.”

“So you think this is learned behavior?”

“I think the job forces a certain amount of distance. And I think my
particular circumstances fooled me into believing that the rest of the
distance was necessary.”

“You weren’t ready to confront your pain.”

“I’ve done nothing but confront it every day since she died. I can’t get
away from it.”

“But you can’t make peace with it either. What’s stopping you?”
Cambridge asked kindly.

Chakotay pulled out the chair closest to him and straddled it, resting
his arms on its back.

“Not knowing why.”

“Why? Why what? Why she died? Why our best laid plans are the playthings
of the gods?”

“No. Why she went out there in the first place. Why she would risk so
much, my happiness and hers, for the sake of curiosity.”

Cambridge pushed himself off the table and stood before Chakotay, his
arms crossed.

“Is that what you really believe, Captain?”

“I don’t know what else to think. She told me more important things were
at stake than her life, and in a way, hindsight proved her right. But it
still seems the dumbest way possible to assess a potential threat.”

“Captain, are you aware of Voyager’s new orders?” Cambridge asked.

Chakotay was startled by what seemed like an abrupt course change in the
conversation, but replied, “No. Admiral Montgomery wouldn’t tell me
until this evaluation was complete. Are you?”

“Voyager is about to lead a fleet of nine vessels on a long-term
assignment to the Delta quadrant.”

Chakotay felt certain that someone had just sucker punched him in the gut.

“What?”

“The mission was only finally approved in light of recent events. But
Starfleet has been considering it ever since you returned. For almost
three years, Admiral Janeway was the plan’s most vocal opponent.”

A rush of images bombarded Chakotay’s mind. Kathryn’s admonishment to be
careful how much excitement he wished for, her silent preoccupations,
his certainty time and again that she was worried about something she
could not or would not share with him. And finally, the look on her face
the last time he had spoken with her via subspace, her headstrong
determination trumping her fear.

“She knew,” Chakotay said, as the pieces fell into place. “She knew and
she wouldn’t tell me because she never intended to let it happen. Did
she go out to investigate that cube so that we wouldn’t have to?”

“She went out to investigate that cube in hopes of con vincing Starfleet
Command that there was no need for you or your ship to return to the
Delta quadrant.”

Chakotay took this in, his heart breaking anew at the only weakness
Kathryn possessed that had been greater than her capacity for
self-reliance: her capacity for self-sacrifice.

“How do you know all this?” Chakotay finally asked. “If Kathryn couldn’t
tell me, why are you free to do so?”

“For the moment you’re my patient, and to deny you this information
would be cruel. Doctor-patient confidentiality prevents me from telling
you how I know this, but suffice it to say, I know that what I am
saying, while common knowledge to only a few in the uppermost echelons
of Command, is true. You have labored too long under a serious
misconception. And that misconception has colored every action you have
taken since her death. You assumed Kathryn made a foolish choice. You
assumed it because you had seen her make similar choices in the past but
had always been there to put a stop to them. You haven’t been blaming
her, as you should have. You haven’t even been blaming the Borg, though
they became the target of your rage. You’ve been blaming yourself. You
weren’t there for her when she needed you most. And so she died alone.
Had she died in any other way, you would have come to accept it long
before now. And you would have been spared the need to transfer your
anger. You’ve been beating the hell out of yourself for months and in
the process beating the hell out of everyone around you who wanted to
see you stop your own foolishness. It’s created a crisis you have been
unable to resolve because your pain has been in charge instead of your
mind.”

Chakotay nodded. Usually he hated it when Cambridge was right.

Usually, but not today.

“You tried to tell me this a long time ago,” Chakotay acknowledged
wearily. “That she was the one I was really angry with.”

“You weren’t ready to hear it. But it’s right for you to be angry with
her. She made a choice, without consulting you, which shattered your
hopes for the future. But it’s also right, and absolutely necessary,
that you forgive her for that choice. Understanding why she did it
should make that possible in time. She did it not because you meant too
little to her. She did it because you and all of those she led through
the Delta quadrant meant infinitely more to her than her own life.”

Chakotay pushed himself up off the chair and began to wander a bit
aimlessly around the room.

“We’re really going back to the Delta quadrant,” he mused, finding the
concept difficult to accept.

“With slipstream drives,” Cambridge added. “It’s not like anyone intends
for the fleet to become stranded out there.”

“It actually makes sense,” Chakotay conceded, “now, more than ever.”

“So I must ask you again the question I asked a few minutes ago. Are you
ready to lead that mission, Captain? Are you ready to go back to the
Delta quadrant?”

“What do you think?”

“What I think isn’t nearly as important as what you think,” Cambridge
countered. “You’ve obviously found the path, but you’re still going to
have to walk it, and I don’t believe it will be easy. But I do believe
it will be easier in the presence of the men and women you have come to
think of as family. If you don’t want to do this, you shouldn’t.”

“She’d never forgive me if I didn’t,” Chakotay said.

“That’s not a good enough reason to accept the mission. You’re going to
have to get used to not doing things for her. You cannot continue to
define yourself by her expectations. I think that’s why you found
yourself floating in the darkness when you attempted that vision quest.
You’ve lived so long in the shadows of her accomplishments, hopes, and
dreams that you’ve lost the ability to decide anything outside of that
context. It’s one of the ways you’ve kept her close to you. But it’s
time to let her go.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to do that,” Chakotay admitted.

“Fair enough. But every day you don’t is one more day you’re wasting.”

Chakotay stopped pacing and turned to look at Cambridge for what felt
like the first time. They had begun, years ago, on the wrong foot, and
Chakotay had never really given the man a fair chance after that. Taking
a deep breath and pulling himself up straight, he crossed to the
counselor and extended his hand.

“Hello, Hugh,” he said simply. “I’m Chakotay. It’s nice to finally meet
you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Chakotay.”

“With your permission, I think I’d like to return to my ship now.”

“Permission is not mine to grant,” Cambridge replied. “But I can give
you my recommendation.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, Captain.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Eden wasn’t surprised when Tamarras ushered Willem into her office a few
hours after his visit that morning. But she rose automatically to her
feet at the sight of Admiral Montgomery trailing behind him.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she said respectfully.

“As you were, Captain,” Montgomery replied, gesturing for her to resume
her seat as he and Willem took the two vacant ones opposite her desk.

“I’m pleased to report that Utopia Planitia’s engineers have confirmed
that all of the new slipstream drives are now ready for their test runs.
We’re still waiting on personnel for final assignments to the Demeter
and the Achilles, but we should have them by the end of the day. All
senior staff have received notice of tomorrow morning’s briefing.”

“Excellent work, as usual, Afsarah,” Montgomery replied.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m afraid, however, that there is going to be one last change to our
senior crew assignments for the fleet.”

Eden stole a glance at Willem, who was at his most inscrutable, folding
her hands on the desk before her and replying, “What change is that,
Admiral?”

“Captain Chakotay will not be resuming command of Voyager for this
mission.”

Eden nodded, grateful in a way that Willem’s earlier visit had left her
prepared for this unfortunate eventuality.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Admiral.”

“Not as sorry as I am to say it,” Montgomery countered.

“If you’d like to review a list of alternatives—” she began, but
Montgomery cut her off.

“That won’t be necessary. Willem and I have already conferred on the
matter, and we have made our selection.”

“Oh,” Eden said, truly surprised. “Very well. Who is the lucky captain?”

“You are,” Montgomery replied.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Eden said automatically, certain she hadn’t
heard him correctly.

“Apart from Voyager’s old crew, no one here knows more about their past
or the new fleet than you, Captain,” Montgomery said calmly. “I realize
it’s been a few years since you served on a starship, but your record in
that capacity as well as in your more recent assignments is exemplary.
In addition, you have spent the last several months establishing a
rapport with the fleet’s officers and crew. Neither of us believes there
is a better candidate for the post. Congratulations, Afsarah.”

With that Admiral Montgomery rose and extended his hand to Eden.

Eden stood and shook it firmly, even as her heart tried to pound its way
out of her chest.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with forced restraint.

“You’re to report to Voyager first thing in the morning for the senior
staff briefing and continue your preparations for launch from there. I
realize this is sudden, and hope it will not be too much of a personal
inconvenience to you.”

“Not at all, Admiral,” Eden replied.

“Then we’ll leave you to it,” Montgomery said with a nod as Willem rose
to follow him out.

“Admiral Batiste, a word?” Eden requested.

“Of course.” He smiled.

Montgomery did them both the courtesy of continuing on his way without
comment.

Once the door had slid shut, Eden practically launched herself around
her desk to confront Willem.

“Are you out of your mind?” she demanded.

“May I remind you, Captain, that you are addressing a superior officer,
and your new fleet commander?” he said without a trace of amusement.

Eden stopped short, shaking with impotent shock. Their mutual tendency
to casually disregard their respective positions had just come to an
abrupt end, but it was going to take some getting used to.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” she asked with a look that dared him
to deny her.

“Granted,” he said congenially.

“While I am honored by the confidence you and Admiral Montgomery are
willing to place in me, I have reservations about accepting this position.”

“Such as?”

Eden spent a moment mentally prioritizing her objections, but the
greatest wasn’t hard to enunciate.

“You and I don’t do well in the same room together most of the time. We
haven’t worked closely since our di vorce, and sometimes I believe the
only reason we’re both still alive is because we’ve steered clear of
each other as much as possible since then. I was willing to go out on a
limb with you to get this mission approved because I truly believe in
it, but if you’ve got concerns about Captain Chakotay’s baggage I’d love
to see how they stack up next to ours.”

“You underestimate both of us, Afsarah,” Willem said gently.

“Please don’t do that,” she replied forcefully.

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t pretend that this is easy for you. And if it really is, don’t
insult me by making it so obvious.”

“I’m dead serious,” Willem said. “I can’t believe the idea didn’t occur
to me sooner than this morning. You have immersed yourself in Project
Full Circle since its inception and have dispassionately analyzed every
facet of Voyager’s time in the Delta quadrant. You are an outstanding
commanding officer. You are professional, discreet, courageous, and
adventurous. You can’t tell me that the part of you that isn’t pissed at
me right now isn’t thrilled by the opportunity.”

Eden shook her head. “Part of me…maybe…” she admitted, “but the rest of
me isn’t going to like serving under you one bit.”

“All I ask is that you give me a little time to prove you wrong,” Willem
said. “I have unwavering faith in your ability and mine to set aside our
personal issues. It is our duty, and nothing is more important to either
of us than that. And frankly, there’s no one I would trust more to stand
beside me when things get tough. You want me to say it? Fine. I need you
on this mission, Afsarah. The fleet needs you. You’re not serving me.
You’re serving the Federation. And if, in time, we both realize that
this was a colossal mistake, other arrangements can be made.”

Eden considered Willem cautiously. He was saying all of the right
things. And while it was asking a lot, it was nothing compared to what
many Federation citizens and Starfleet officers were grappling with at
the moment.

She was suddenly conscious of a new thought. Kathryn Janeway had faced
death to protect many on board Voyager who were once again being sent
into the belly of the beast. She had set aside personal and professional
concerns to do her duty and had always placed the needs of her people
above her own. Eden’s sense of guilt and remorse could never persuade
her to accept this challenge, but her heart stirred at the thought that
dedicating herself to Janeway’s cause might, in time, grant her absolution.

She didn’t really trust Willem anymore. She hadn’t since the day he had
asked her to leave their home. But she had learned to trust herself
again. And she could not refuse to do for Voyager, or the rest of the
fleet, less than she was asking of them.

“Very well, Admiral,” she finally said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Willem replied.

Counselor Cambridge had been waiting for several minutes in Admiral
Montgomery’s office for him to return. His session with Chakotay had
been intense and exhausting, but its successful resolution had filled
Cambridge with new purpose. Voyager and the fleet were about to face a
daunting task, but he no longer believed that Chakotay’s presence would
make that task more difficult. Voyager would once again soon be in the
hands of its most capable leader.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Counselor,” Montgomery said briskly as he
entered his office.

“Not at all, Admiral,” Cambridge said as he stood to make his report. “I
have completed my evaluation as ordered and wish to present my findings.”

“Aren’t they going to be presented in writing?”

“Eventually, but don’t you want to hear the short version?” Cambridge
asked.

“Actually, that won’t be necessary, Counselor,” Montgomery said, taking
a seat at his office’s small conference table.

Cambridge joined him, asking, “Why not?”

“I witnessed your session with the captain and am certain that we have
already come to the same conclusion. We’ve selected a replacement for
Captain Chakotay, and for now he will remain on leave, pending future
reassignment.”

Cambridge blinked several times as he stared open-mouthed at the
admiral. “I’m sorry, you witnessed my session?” he asked.

“Time is of the essence in this matter, Counselor.”

Cambridge was annoyed but not surprised by Montgomery’s actions. He
chose to let the breach of his patient’s confidentiality pass. Instead
he asked, “Did you witness all of it?”

“I saw enough.”

“I rather doubt that.”

“Counselor?”

“It is my professional opinion that Captain Chakotay is not only ready
to resume his post, he is absolutely critical to the mission’s success.”

“I don’t agree,” Montgomery replied, unruffled. “My impressions of
Captain Chakotay were that he was argumentative, hostile, and in no way
fit for command at the present time. We need a diplomat out there, not a
warrior with a short fuse and unresolved personal issues.”

Cambridge rose and circled the table, determined to choose his next
words carefully.

“And that’s your professional opinion?” Cambridge asked.

“What else would it be?”

“Well, I’m a trained physician and counselor. Which is why, I’m
assuming, I was asked to perform the evaluation.”

“And I’m a Starfleet admiral with over forty years of experience. I know
a problem when I see one.”

“Apparently not,” Cambridge replied coolly.

“You’ll want to watch your tone, Counselor,” Montgomery said, rising to
face him.

“You didn’t expect him to succeed, did you?” Cambridge asked.

“No, but I hoped he would.”

“Then I don’t understand,” Cambridge said softly.

“That will be all, Counselor,” Montgomery replied. “If you will advise
Captain Chakotay that I am ready to see him, I’ll take it from here.”

Cambridge strode toward the door. He had observed more than his fair
share of absurdity in his professional life, but rarely was it so
blatant. He paused and turned back to the admiral.

“May I make a request, sir?” he asked.

“Go ahead.”

“The next time you concoct an exercise in futility, I’d appreciate it if
you would use another officer. I don’t appreciate having my time wasted
so egregiously.”

Montgomery returned his frigid gaze.

“Dismissed,” he replied ominously.

Chakotay sat at ease in the white room. Remembering his misgivings of
only a few hours before, he was relieved that they had come to naught.
He was further amazed that it had taken him so long to finally accept
the help he had needed for too long. He knew that the road before him
was still long and arduous, but he no longer feared it. Kathryn had once
suggested to him that he and Cambridge were very much alike. On the
surface the suggestion had seemed absurd. But now he wished it hadn’t
taken so long for him to see that she had been right. He found himself
looking forward to returning to Voyager, almost more so than when he had
first assumed command. There were so many things to be done differently
and so many people he had missed and longed to see again.

His enthused spirits held until Cambridge reentered the room. He’d seen
bitter disappointment on the counselor’s face too many times in the past
to misread it. A flood of heat rushed to his head as he realized that
the counselor had not returned bearing good news.

“A word to the wise, Counselor,” Chakotay said, rising to meet Cambridge
halfway to the table. “Poker is never going to be your game.”

“A fact I am all too well acquainted with,” Cambridge replied. After a
long pause, he said simply, “I’m so sorry, Captain.”

Chakotay was too, but to his surprise, he didn’t find any anger to
accompany that regret.

“I understand.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Given the past eight months, it was always going to be a long shot,”
Chakotay conceded. “I don’t blame you—or me, for that matter. I take
full responsibility for my actions.”

“You deserve this mission, Captain. And I did make that clear.”

“I believe you. But maybe it was never meant to be mine.”

Cambridge replied quizzically, “You give your higher powers a lot more
credit than I ever could.”

Chakotay nodded with a wistful smile. “That’s only because I believe
that they see, as we do not, the whole story. I brought myself to this
place. There were lessons to be learned. As long as I live, there will
be more to learn, and it is my job now to seek them out. We never really
lose the path, Counselor, even when we are floundering in the darkness.
We are always exactly where we are supposed to be at any given time and
possess every resource that we need. I’d forgotten that by living in the
past and fearing the future. From now on, I must live fully in the
present. Thank you for reminding me of that today.”

Cambridge nodded.

“Watch over our people,” Chakotay requested. “They will push you and
they will disappoint you and they will surprise you daily with their
capacity for greatness.”

“I will,” Cambridge agreed.

“And promise me that whoever Command has chosen to replace me, you serve
them as faithfully as you have served me.”

“Of course.”

“Dismissed,” Chakotay said calmly.

“Yes, sir,” Cambridge replied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Harry hardly recognized Voyager’s former mess hall. In lieu of smaller
tables and chairs that provided a casual dining environment, a single
podium had been set up in the center of the far wall, and dozens of
chairs rested in neat formation facing it. Near the podium, Tom was
conferring with Captain Eden, a woman Harry knew only by reputation. He
understood from Tom that she had coordinated operations and logistics
for Voyager over the past several weeks, and to hear Tom tell it, she
was demanding and a stickler for details. Counselor Cambridge soon
entered and pulled Captain Eden away from Tom. What Harry could see of
their exchange appeared to be heated, at least on Cambridge’s part.

Kim recognized a few familiar faces scattered about the room. Vorik
stood in a corner near the windows, listening attentively to a slight,
gray-haired Vulcan. Lasren and Patel were already seated next to a
petite human woman bearing lieutenant’s pips whose long brunette hair
had been swept up into a neat ponytail. As Lasren and Patel studied the
same padd, she looked about, as if she might soon be asked to take a
test, evaluating all those present. The Doctor stood between a stout
alien male who appeared to be Tamarian and a lithe human female with
long, straight, strawberry blonde hair. The Tamarian wore a sciences
uniform, which Harry found interesting. He was not aware that any member
of this species served actively with Starfleet, given what he believed
was an unbridgeable communications gap between them and most of the
Federation.

As several more people, most of whom Harry could not place, entered the
mess and either took seats among the gallery or moved to the front to
greet Captain Eden, Harry took a moment to study Tom’s face. He was now
exchanging pleasantries with a very young woman whose short, spiked blue
hair testified to either a mixed heritage or a need to stand out in a
crowd.

Both Tom and Harry had been too busy over the last few weeks to speak in
depth about B’Elanna and Miral, but Tom seemed to be holding up well.
All Tom had almost grudgingly shared with Harry was the fact that there
would be no public memorial service for his family. John Torres and
Julia Paris had both agreed with Tom to keep the proceedings within the
immediate family. To Harry, this indicated that his best friend was
holed up behind a thick wall of denial. He knew that B’Elanna and Tom
had been formally separated for months and hadn’t spent much time
together in two years, but he never believed that Tom had truly gotten
over her. The loss of Miral should have devastated him. To Harry’s
amazement, Tom hadn’t even requested a day off since hearing the news.
Harry had considered contacting B’Elanna’s father. He knew they’d had a
strained relationship but also believed he had tried to reconnect with
his daughter when Voyager had returned. Harry’s duties had been so
pressing, however, that he hadn’t yet found time to track down John Torres.

The only person not yet present was Chakotay.

A robust officer in his mid-fifties with short, full dark hair strode
into the room and immediately Captain Eden called out, “Admiral on deck.”

All present were instantly on their feet and facing the podium, where he
quickly took his place.

“Please take your seats,” the admiral said officiously, and everyone
hurried to comply. Captain Eden, along with the older Vulcan, the woman
the Doctor had been speaking with, and six other officers Harry did not
know arranged themselves facing the crowd on either side of the podium,
as Tom and Vorik took seats in the front row. Harry quickly grabbed a
seat next to the Doctor and found the chair next to him filled by
Lieutenant Reg Barclay. Harry was pleased to see the garrulous engineer
but knew he’d have to wait until the briefing ended to express that
sentiment.

“Good morning,” the admiral began. “For those of you who may not know, I
am Admiral Willem Batiste, and I will be commanding the fleet’s upcoming
mission. I know that all of you have been working long hours over the
past several months to prepare for this mission and I would like to
thank you now for your efforts and to advise you that I don’t expect
your jobs will get any easier in the days and months to come.

“You have all been selected from among Starfleet’s finest to take part
in an unprecedented exploratory effort. The U.S.S. Voyager, a ship which
has served with distinction for almost ten years, has now been tasked
with leading the most advanced fleet Starfleet has ever assembled on a
vital expedition to the far reaches of known space. In three days’ time,
this fleet will launch and begin a journey to the Delta quadrant.”

This news was met with absolute silence, as expected of senior officers,
but Harry had to swallow hard to hold down his instinctive response to
the announcement.

Are you kidding me?

Harry wished desperately at that moment that he could see Tom’s face,
but he was suddenly certain that he had known for some time what
Starfleet was planning.

“As the fleet’s respective engineering staffs are aware, all of our
vessels have been fitted with Starfleet’s next-generation FTL propulsion
breakthrough, the quantum slipstream drive,” Admiral Batiste went on.
Harry noticed that the blue-haired woman seated behind Tom seemed to sit
up a little straighter in her chair at this. “Each vessel will have the
ability to use these drives independently as needed, but we will spend
our first several days in open space coordinating flight patterns so
that for our longest journeys, all fleet vessels will travel in a single
slipstream corridor. It will be an exciting challenge for our pilots and
one I’m sure they are all looking forward to mastering.

“Once that task is complete, we will set our course for the demarcation
of the terminus between the Beta and Delta quadrants. At that point,
three of our ships will be tasked with dropping and testing advanced
communications relays which will enable the fleet to remain in
time-delayed contact with the Command for the duration of our mission.

“That mission has several priorities; the most important will be to
assess political and geographical changes to the quadrant in the absence
of the Borg. As some of you may know, the Borg are believed to have been
completely transformed by the Caeliar, an incredibly advanced species
that has also apparently left our galaxy for parts unknown. We are going
to make sure that this is the case, and we are also going to make our
best efforts to establish new and lasting diplomatic relations with the
Delta quadrant’s warp-capable species.

“The experience and expertise of those of you who have already visited
the Delta quadrant will be invaluable to our efforts. We go in peace,
but we are prepared to face those who might be hostile to our presence.
The Federation has no intention of expanding beyond the worlds we
already encompass. We will, of course, extend the hand of friendship to
any who wish to form alliances with us. Most importantly, we go to chart
the unexplored and to seek out new life and civilizations. We do not
expect to encounter or antagonize another race as opposed to the
principles of the Federation as the Borg, but if they are out there, and
if they pose a potential threat to the Federation, our efforts will
enable Starfleet to prepare and meet any such threat.

“We will remain in regular contact with the Command and from time to
time will be able to refresh personnel with replacements. You should
expect your part in this mission to take no less than three years.

“These are the officers who will be commanding each of the fleet’s
vessels. We will adjourn so that each of you can meet directly with your
senior staffs.

“Voyager will be accompanied by two of our newest vessels: the
Vesta-class Esquiline—under Captain Parimon Dasht—and the Quirinal—under
Captain Regina Farkas. These three ships have been assigned a dedicated
science vessel: the Hawking, under Captain Bal Itak; the Planck, under
Captain Hosc T’Mar; and the Curie, under Captain Xin Chan. Rounding out
the fleet are three vessels with unique specialties. The Galen, under
Commander Clar issa Glenn, which will be staffed by advanced holograms
and which will serve as our primary medical resource. The Achilles,
under Commander Tillum Drafar, which will carry vital backup components
for our technology along with industrial replicators. And the Demeter,
under Commander Liam O’Donnell, which will house a vast airponics bay to
provide homegrown produce to supplement our replicators, as well as
storage facilities for biological resources we may find along our way.”

Kim’s head was spinning as each captain Batiste introduced stepped
forward briefly when their name was mentioned. In time he assumed he
would get to know all of them better, but what struck Harry was the
conspicuous absence of his captain.

“Voyager will be led by Captain Afsarah Eden, and as the fleet’s
flagship, it will also be my home for the duration,” the admiral finally
announced, ending Harry’s confusion but adding to his consternation.

“If you will all now regroup under your respective commanding officers,
they will provide you with detailed reports of remaining tasks prior to
our launch. But before you go, let me to say this: I look forward to
working with each and every one of you. I realize that this mission may
appear to be daunting, but I assure you it is vital to the Federation.
Let us move into the unknown confident in our abilities to preserve the
Federation’s highest principles and determined to do credit as
ambassadors to the Delta quadrant.”

The admiral’s concluding remarks were met with polite applause. He
stepped down with a nod and quickly left the mess, as Harry rose on
leaden feet to approach his new captain. Tom was already at her side,
along with Counselor Cambridge. Lasren and Patel filed in behind him,
along with the Tamarian doctor, the blue-haired pilot, Harry assumed,
and the bright-eyed brunette he had noticed earlier. As they mingled
through the crowd the brunette tapped his shoulder and said, “Lieutenant
Kim?”

“Yes?” he replied.

“I’m Nancy Conlon, formerly of the da Vinci.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” Harry said absently.

“I know you’re our security chief, but Vorik tells me you’re also quite
the engineer,” she said cheerfully.

“I guess.” Harry nodded.

“It’s good to hear. I’m taking over Voyager’s engine room for this trip,
and…”

“You’re our chief engineer?” Harry interrupted, less kindly than he’d
intended.

“That’s right,” she said with a little more reserve.

“What about Vorik?”

“He asked to be transferred to the Hawking. I think he and Captain Itak
are old friends,” Conlon replied.

Harry looked past her to see Vorik standing beside his new captain and
wished suddenly he had a little Vulcan equanimity.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly. “It’s just a lot to take in all at once.”

“This is Starfleet,” Conlon replied. “When isn’t that the case?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Captain Eden said over the din filling the room.
“If you’ll follow me, we will move to Voyager’s main conference room to
continue the briefing.”

Harry began filing out behind the others even as his heart protested
loudly that he really didn’t want to follow her anywhere. He knew it was
unfair, but he couldn’t shake the sentiment. He had faced the Delta
quadrant once, but under the steady hand of a captain he would have gone
to the ends of the universe to please. Serving under Chakotay had felt
like a natural transition. He knew Chakotay hadn’t been at his best for
a while, but still could not believe that anyone who hadn’t been to the
Delta quadrant before had any business leading Voyager. With a deep
sigh, he struggled to banish these thoughts.

Unfortunately, over the next few hours he found that increasingly
difficult to do.

Chakotay had been knocking at Seven’s door repeatedly for several
minutes before faint footfalls could be heard approaching from the other
side. When she finally opened the door, Chakotay was taken aback by her
appearance. Sweat had plastered tendrils of long blonde hair to the
sides of her flushed face. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she
struggled to compose her breathing, and her eyes skittered over his face
and beyond until she seemed to register who was standing before her.

Once she did, she seemed every bit as disturbed by the sight of him as
he had been by her.

“Seven, are you all right?” Chakotay asked immediately. He had actually
tried to prepare a few words in advance of his arrival that might break
the ice that had no doubt frozen between them in the last several
months. The moment he saw her, his concern for her mental and physical
health became priority number one.

“What are you doing here?” Seven demanded as her breathing began to
mercifully slow.

“Right this second I’m worried about you,” Chakotay replied honestly.
When she remained rooted to the ground rather than asking him to enter,
he added, “May I come in?”

Seven turned her head swiftly, as if responding to a sound that Chakotay
had not heard. After a moment she looked back at him warily, and with a
barely perceptible nod stepped aside.

He entered a dim hall. There was still plenty of late afternoon sun
hitting the townhouse’s west-facing front windows, but heavy curtains
had been drawn to block the light, and his eyes took a few minutes to
adjust to the disarray of the living room to his right.

Embroidered pillows, which Irene Hansen had lovingly stitched by hand
and which normally cushioned the sofa and love seat, were strewn about
the floor. The small cocktail table was littered with padds and
half-filled glasses of rank nutritional supplements. A potted fern,
which had once been the table’s centerpiece, was now tipped on its side
on the floor beside the table, loose soil littering the rug. It looked
and smelled more like an Academy student’s dorm room at the end of term
than the gracious, comforting, and welcoming space Chakotay had visited
since Seven had relocated Irene to San Francisco.

Seven remained standing in the small atrium, watching Chakotay’s quick
survey of the room, her eyes defying him to remark upon what he saw.
Chakotay stared at her for a moment. In place of the aloof, guarded
presence he was accustomed to, he saw raw pain coupled with fright.

She seemed equally prepared to fight or flee at whatever move he might
make. Remaining still, he said softly, “Please tell me what’s wrong,
Seven.”

“Don’t pretend you care,” Seven shot back.

Chakotay lowered his head slightly, allowing her to retain the illusion
of dominance, and replied, “Of course you are angry with me. I haven’t
been much of a friend to you or anyone for a very long time. I came here
to apologize to you and to ask your forgiveness.”

Confusion wrinkled Seven’s brow. For the first time Chakotay realized
that the implants that had circled her left eye were no longer present.
He had always found her beauty intimidating, but now there was a gentle
quality to her features, marred only by her evident hostility.

“Take my forgiveness, then,” Seven said coldly, “and get out.”

“How is Irene?” Chakotay asked, ignoring her request. Wild dogs couldn’t
have driven him from the house.

“She is dying,” Seven replied almost clinically.

“I’m sorry,” Chakotay said. “I had no idea her condition had grown so bad.”

“Only because you have not cared to inquire as to her condition for far
too long,” Seven replied, then twisted the knife by adding, “She
continues to ask about you often.”

Chakotay was appropriately shamed by this remark.

“May I see her?”

“She is resting right now,” Seven replied more softly. “The Doctor has
provided medication to alleviate her suffering. It has proven somewhat
effective, but she is unconscious now for long periods of time.”

“Does the Doctor have any idea how long she can survive like this?”
Chakotay asked kindly.

“Days, perhaps weeks,” Seven replied.

Chakotay stepped gingerly toward her. Every instinct in his body cried
out for him to offer her the comfort of an embrace, but she moved back
toward the foot of the staircase.

“Seven, I am truly sorry,” Chakotay said, lifting his hands before him
to dispel any concern she might have that he would dare breach her
personal space without her consent. “This must be awful for you. Do you
at least have help in dealing with her?”

“I do not require help,” Seven retorted sharply. “I am…I am…I am Seven
of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix…I am Seven of Nine…I am Seven…”

Chakotay witnessed her strength failing her. Before she could fall to
the floor, he caught her and gently lowered her until they were sitting
on the lowest steps. Seven fought against him for a few seconds, but
finally released herself to the strength and comfort of his embrace. Her
body began to choke with sobs, and Chakotay wrapped her in a protective
hug, gently caressing her soft, golden hair and murmuring soothing words
until the worst of the tremors passed.

Finally Seven pulled herself away to look up at him, her face wet with
tears.

“Don’t help me,” she pleaded.

“Try and stop me.” He smiled.

“No.” She shook her head, attempting to pull away from him. “Your
presence is temporary. You cannot be relied upon.”

Chakotay held her firmly by her upper arms. “Listen to me,” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere. We can sit here like this for minutes or
days—however long it takes for you to tell me what the hell is happening
to you.”

Seven’s eyes registered surprise. With childlike gracelessness she wiped
her nose on the sleeve of her arm and inhaled quickly with a loud snuffle.

“But you have to return to Voyager.”

“Not right now I don’t,” he assured her.

“You are leaving,” she insisted almost petulantly. “You, the Doctor,
Commander Paris, Lieutenant Kim, you are all leaving me. Soon my aunt
will be gone too and I will be alone. I must adapt.”

“Hang on,” Chakotay said. “Voyager is leaving, but I’m not going with
them. Starfleet has assigned another captain to the ship. I’m still on
leave. I promise you, you aren’t alone, and you’re never going to be
alone again.”

Seven considered his words and replied, “Starfleet has made an error.
You should lead the mission to the Delta quadrant.”

“No,” Chakotay corrected her. “I am more certain now than ever that this
is exactly where I am supposed to be.”

Seven winced with pain and momentarily lifted her left hand to massage
the side of her forehead.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It will pass,” she assured him.

Chakotay raised his hand and gently caressed the crescent from the
center of her forehead to just beneath her left eye. He then delicately
placed her left hand flat on his palm and searched it for traces of the
technology that had once sustained her.

“When did you have the last of your implants removed?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” she replied. “The Caeliar did this to me.”

“When they transformed the Borg,” Chakotay realized.

Of course.

“Was it painful?” he asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “And no. It was…it is difficult to describe.”

“Did you have any idea it was coming? Were you able to prepare yourself?”

“No.”

Chakotay sighed compassionately.

“It’s no wonder you’re frightened,” he said.

“You do not understand,” Seven insisted.

“Then explain it to me.”

Seven’s wide eyes studied his fearfully. Finally she answered, “There
was a moment, during the transformation, when I was part of the Caeliar.”

“The way you were once part of the Borg?”

“No. The gestalt was more than the Collective. There was no unifying
force or will, but there was still perfect harmony. Countless
individuals were joined together, but they retained their unique identity.”

“Are you still part of the Caeliar?” Chakotay asked, his own dubiousness
at the prospect quite clear in his tone.

“No,” Seven replied. “They severed my link to the whole. They abandoned
me.”

Chakotay nodded.

“So you glimpsed paradise, only to have it ripped away,” he said kindly.

Seven nodded mutely.

“And now you feel more alone than ever?”

“If only,” Seven said ruefully.

“What do you mean?”

“Something remains,” she admitted. “A voice.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It insists over and over that I am Annika Hansen. That I am no longer
Borg.”

“But you are Annika,” Chakotay said.

“Annika Hansen was assimilated as a child. Her identity disappeared into
the Borg collective. All that I am now, I learned as a Borg. All that is
best in me was their gift.”

“What about your individuality?” Chakotay asked. “You didn’t reclaim
that until you were severed from the Collective.”

“My individuality is irrelevant without my identity, and I refuse to
deny the part of that identity that was once Borg,” Seven said, her
voice rising.

“Okay,” Chakotay said soothingly. “I understand. Seven, have you seen a
doctor since this transformation?”

Seven’s chin jutted out defiantly. “I was examined by several
physicians,” she replied. “All agreed that I am now in perfect health.”

“Did you tell them about the voice?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The Federation is desperate to learn all they can about the Caeliar. If
they knew of my condition, they would restrain me. They would study me.
I would become more of a curiosity to them than I already am. I will not
allow it.”

Chakotay had to admit that there was a certain amount of sense in what
she was saying. But he still wasn’t sure that going it alone was a wise
choice either.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Chakotay asked.

“At first it was very difficult to separate my own thoughts from the
intentions of the voice. But I thought I had learned to adapt.”

“When did that change?”

“I recently learned that my aunt’s condition will never improve. Before
I could begin to accept it I was told that the rest of my family is
about to return to the Delta quadrant.”

“Seven, your family is bigger than Tom and Harry and the Doctor.”

“Who else is there?” Seven demanded. “Tuvok is on a deep-space
assignment. You haven’t been available for months. Icheb and Naomi are
only children. B’Elanna and Miral…” she choked out.

“What about B’Elanna and Miral?” he asked.

Seven paused. “You don’t know?” she replied in wonder.

Fear gripped Chakotay’s chest.

“What about B’Elanna and Miral?” he asked again.

“They were killed during the Borg invasion,” Seven replied through fresh
tears.

Chakotay focused on his breath, which was now heaving in his chest.

“No…no…” he gasped, unable to find another word.

Seven took Chakotay in her arms. For the moment, she sustained them both
as grief once again bared its ugly face in the center of Chakotay’s being.

They held one another for what felt like hours. Once the worst had
passed, Seven told Chakotay what little she knew of the specifics of
their deaths. Chakotay listened patiently, waiting for his constant
rage-filled companion to return to shatter the short-lived peace he had
only begun to taste. But as time continued to pass in the darkened room,
Chakotay felt only empty and inexpressibly sad. Seven shared his pain,
and between the two of them, the burden became a bit lighter. As much as
Chakotay knew he would need to nurse his own sorrow, he found himself
much more concerned with Seven’s all-consuming pain.

It was well past midnight when he finally left her home. He would return
early the next morning, and the morning after that. They would work
together, Chakotay assured her, to find a way to make sense of their
recent losses and those which dimmed on the horizon.

At least now he was certain he would not again make the same mistake he
had made when he lost Kathryn. Shining through his broken heart were
rays of determination and strength.

He returned to his temporary quarters, seated himself on his living room
floor, and began to meditate. Even without his medicine bundle he was
soon sitting in a lush and verdant forest, staring into the eyes of his
animal guide.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Harry stood on a rocky precipice, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean as it
violently assaulted the small cove below. He’d transported to this spot
over twenty minutes ago and still hadn’t worked up the nerve to approach
the small cabin nestled beneath a dense canopy of white pines.

He still didn’t know exactly why he’d come. He only knew that he had
precious few days left in the Alpha quadrant and he needed to see more
than the inside of Voyager during those days or he would lose his mind.
When he thought of pristine beauty and bracing air, only one spot had
come to mind. He no longer had a claim to it, but he had to see it, just
one more time.

Actually, he had to see her. But he wasn’t ready to admit that, even to
himself.

Harry had dutifully pushed Libby from his heart and mind years earlier.
He’d made new friends, pursued new relationships, and come to believe
that she was forever banished to his past.

Ever since he had awakened in Starfleet Medical months earlier, he’d
been thinking of her—dreaming of her. Everywhere he went in his dreams,
no matter how realistic or bizarre, she was there, always in the next
room, just out of sight, and always playing her lal-shak for him. And
every time he reached for his clarinet, he found himself playing the
tunes they had once shared as duets.

You’re being stupid, he chided himself. She’s married. You haven’t
spoken to her in years. She doesn’t want to see you.

Still, he had come and now stood only meters from her door, with no idea
at all what he wanted to say or hear.

“Indigo!” her familiar voice called out. Turning toward her front door,
he saw her emerge from it, searching the twilight for one of her beloved
cats.

“Indigo!” she called again. “Where did you run off to?”

Taking a deep breath, Harry took a halting step forward and she turned,
instantly on her guard.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

Given the remoteness of her home, her sense of alarm was understandable.
The isolation of the little cabin had been one of the things both of
them had loved most about this quiet piece of North America.

“It’s me,” Harry said, hoping to put her at ease.

Libby stepped forward, squinting into the gloom.

“Harry?”

“Yeah,” he replied, continuing forward.

“Oh my God,” she said once she was certain her eyes weren’t playing
tricks on her.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he began, but was quickly silenced by a
hug so firm it bordered on violence.

“Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you,” Libby said. Releasing him and
stepping back to get a better view, she added, “You look perfect.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he found himself joking.

“I would,” she countered. “What are you doing here?”

Harry didn’t really know how to begin, so he opted for honesty.

“I don’t know.”

Libby suddenly grew quite still. The joy her face had proclaimed in
seeing him transmuted itself into a more complicated emotion Harry could
not place. After what seemed like an endless silence, she said, “You
want to take a walk?”

“That would be great.”

Libby took the lead and began directing their steps down a small rocky
path that led to the shoreline. They had hiked this little trail many
times in the last six months of their relationship. It led to a favorite
large rock from which a truly spectacular view of the ocean could be
enjoyed, especially now, so near sunset.

They reached the rock in comfortable silence, and Libby climbed onto its
scarred surface, settling in a nook that allowed her to rest her back
against the high cliff wall behind them. Harry took his own familiar
spot nearer the rock’s edge, with his feet hanging over the side.

After a few moments, Harry said, “I really don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“I’m not complaining,” Libby replied. “It really is wonderful just to
see you.”

“You too,” Harry said. “You’ve been on my mind a lot more than usual.
It’s weird. I can’t seem to make sense of anything right now. But part
of me kept thinking that I should come here.”

“It’s okay. I’ll help you any way I can. You know that, or you wouldn’t
be here.”

“I guess I should congratulate you,” he continued. “I heard you got
married.”

Libby nodded a little shyly. “Last month.”

“And he makes you happy?”

“He does.”

“Good,” Harry said, not terribly convincingly.

“You understand, Harry, that just because, I mean, I know I…” she
stammered. Finally she exhaled sharply in frustration. “Why is this so
hard?”

“Everything’s hard right now,” Harry replied.

“It is, isn’t it?” She frowned. “Everything has changed. Whatever
illusions we used to have about our happy, peaceful little part of the
galaxy are just gone. It feels like no place is ever going to be safe
again.”

“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “Nothing has turned out the way it was supposed
to.”

Libby looked up at him sharply.

“Harry,” she began warily.

“I don’t mean us,” Harry added quickly. “I mean everything else.” He
paused briefly to collect his thoughts and went on. “The whole time we
were lost in the Delta quadrant, I would imagine what it would be like
if we ever got home. There were days when my idea of that future was the
only thing that kept me going. I just knew that whatever happened, as
long as we all made it home in one piece, everything would work out. If
we could take the Delta quadrant, we could take anything, you know?”

Libby nodded patiently, allowing him to continue.

“The people I shared that journey with, we became a family. And now,
three years later, that family has been scattered to the winds. Admiral
Janeway beat the Borg I don’t know how many times on their turf, and
then they show up here and kill her. Tom and B’Elanna loved each other
more than anyone I’ve ever known, and even they couldn’t make it work.
Right now they should be raising that beautiful little girl and instead,
B’Elanna and Miral are dead and Tom is pushing all of us away. I don’t
know where Chakotay is. Seven’s torn between taking calls from the
president of the Federation and looking after her poor aunt. It’s not
right. And no matter how I try to look at it, it’s never going to be
right again. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like I had this life, and
then I somehow wandered down the wrong path and ended up in some
alternate reality.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Libby teased gently.

“I guess not.” Harry smiled faintly. “But this time I have a feeling
that there isn’t going to be a helpful alien with a vast knowledge of
subspace anomalies, or a duplicate version of Voyager for me to find my
way back to.”

“You’re probably right about that,” she agreed.

“And get this,” Harry added. “After all we did to get home, Starfleet
has decided to send us back to the Delta quadrant.”

“I know,” Libby said softly.

Harry turned on her, stung. “I didn’t even know until this morning. How
the hell could you possibly…?”

“Harry, I’m married to a director of Starfleet Intelligence,” Libby said
gently. “I’m not saying he tells me everything, but he’s pretty good at
keeping me up to date if it has anything at all to do with Voyager.”

“Oh,” Harry replied. “I guess that makes sense. But why would you care?”

She shrugged. “Old habits die hard.”

Harry didn’t know why, but he liked the idea that she was still keeping
tabs on him.

“Are you worried about going back?” she asked.

“Not really,” Harry admitted. “It was a bit of a shock, but the mission
actually makes sense. We need to know what’s out there now that the Borg
are gone. And they’re giving us all the newest technological toys, so I
don’t really see us getting stranded again.”

“I guess that’s comforting.”

Harry picked up a handful of loose rocks and began to toss them one at a
time into the ocean below. It was too dark now to see where they might
have hit, and the sound of crashing waves made listening for them
fruitless, but just the activity was relaxing.

“I guess I just feel like somewhere along the line, I made a mistake. I
turned right when I should have turned left. I did something wrong and
maybe if I hadn’t, things would be better now,” Harry said, punctuating
it with a hard throw.

Libby tried not to smile. “Harry, I know your parents raised you to
believe otherwise, but the universe actually doesn’t revolve around you.”

Harry felt his cheeks begin to burn.

“I know that,” he replied weakly.

“You couldn’t control or change anything that’s happened. None of us
could. We just do the best we can at any given time, make the best
choices possible, and then learn to live with the rest.”

“I can accept that,” Harry said, “but what about the things I could
control?”

“Like what?”

“Like us.”

Libby looked away for a long moment, obviously struggling with herself.
Finally she turned back and said simply, “Harry, what happened between
you and me was not your fault.”

“I was there,” he countered. “I have to take some responsibility for it.”

“No, you really don’t,” she replied. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

Her words released something in him, something that had been wound too
tight for too long. But part of him didn’t really believe it.

“I don’t blame you, Libby,” he said.

“You should.”

“Come on. You asked me for more time, and I didn’t think I could give it
to you. What if I had? Wouldn’t things be different?”

“No.”

Libby rose from where she had rested and stepped gingerly toward him. He
held out a hand to help her keep her balance. She looked up at him, her
eyes misting, and said, “I should have told you this a long time ago.
But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

“Told me what?” he asked, suddenly a little nervous.

“When you asked me to marry you, I couldn’t, not because I didn’t love
you, but because I hadn’t been completely honest with you. I couldn’t
tell you who I really was, what I had become, because it was classified.
Five months ago, I formally resigned from Starfleet Intelligence. I’d
been serving as a covert agent there for almost ten years.”

Harry felt certain she had suddenly begun to speak an alien language.

“Now that I’m no longer an operative, I’m not compromising anything by
telling you. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t broadcast it, but it’s
finally no longer a matter of Starfleet security.”

Harry struggled to wrap his brain around the timing. “Ten years?”

“I joined up six months after your ship disappeared. I needed to know
what really happened to you. I thought Starfleet Intelligence might know
the answer, even if they weren’t going to share it with the public. They
took me on because my touring schedule created a perfect cover for my
work. And it turned out I was pretty good at it. More importantly, I
liked it. You always used to talk so much about being of service. I
didn’t think I had that in me, but it turned out I did. Somehow,
following in your footsteps even in a different branch of Starfleet made
me feel a little closer to you.”

Harry’s mind was reeling, but he refrained from saying anything that
might stop her from speaking.

“When you got back, I promised myself I would leave you be. I knew I
couldn’t tell you who I was, and I justified it to myself by assuming
you’d forgotten about me long ago. But you became my new assignment. I
tried to keep it professional, but I couldn’t. I fell in love with you
all over again, or maybe I just realized that I’d never really stopped.
But that didn’t change the fact that you and I just couldn’t work
anymore. I was lying to you every time I saw you, and I’d have to
continue lying to you every day we were married. It wasn’t right.”

Harry began to shake as the magnitude of her betrayal sank in.

“So why didn’t you just resign then?”

Libby stepped back and turned away. “You’ll think it’s stupid,” she said
softly.

“I have no idea what to think right now,” Harry replied.

“As an agent, I was actually in a position to help keep you safe.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

Libby smiled faintly. “Do you remember Peregrine?”

Harry felt as if she had physically struck him. Peregrine had been the
code name for someone he had never identified, someone who consistently
fed him and his crew vital information at critical moments during the
Borg virus crisis and their mission to Loran II.

“That was you?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yep. I needed to know you were safe, and I couldn’t do that as your
wife and a concert musician. But from the inside, I had options. I
couldn’t walk away from that.”

“So, what changed? Why did you finally resign?”

“The last year has been really tough on those in my line of work. It’s
your job to fight the Federation’s battles, but it was mine to try and
make sure those battles never had to be fought. Then the Borg showed up
and billions of people died. It broke something in me. I needed
something to hold on to. And to be honest, I’ve loved Aiden for a long
time. He put me back together when I thought I’d lost you forever, and
he’s been the one constant in my life since then. He already knew all of
my deep, dark secrets. I’d never been forced to lie to him. But I also
couldn’t continue to work for him. I thought about just requesting a
transfer, but at the end of the day, after everything the Federation has
been through, I just needed a clean break, a new beginning, and maybe
some peace.”

“I understand that,” Harry said.

“I wasn’t ever going to tell you, Harry. You were right to end our
relationship when you did because I’d never have had the strength to. I
could never think less of you for that choice, and I’ve always been
afraid that if you knew, you would think less of me.”

Harry stood silently for several moments. The strangest thing was,
difficult as it was to accept, knowing at least this much of the truth
did help.

“You’re not at all who I thought you were,” he finally said.

“No.”

“And you’re right. It never would have worked under those conditions.”

“No.”

“And if you’d told me when I proposed to you, I would have…”

“Hated me?”

“No. But I would have felt betrayed. I don’t think I would have taken it
well.”

Harry felt something of the weight he’d been carrying for too long begin
to lift from his shoulders.

“And now?”

Harry sighed.

“Now, it’s the past, and it’s not so hard to understand. It makes sense.
I can let it go,” he said with a smile of relief. “I’m glad you told me.
It helps.”

“Good.”

Harry stepped back to put some distance between them and inhaled deeply.
His mind felt suddenly clearer than it had in weeks.

“You were a secret agent?”

“I was.”

“That’s actually kind of hot.”

Libby laughed, and soon Harry joined her.

“I can’t remember the last time I heard you do that,” she said.

“Me either,” he replied. “Don’t tell your husband I said that, though.
He could probably have me assassinated, right?”

“Officially, no,” Libby said. “Unofficially…”

“Right.” Harry nodded.

“So what now?”

Harry turned to stare out into the darkness.

“Once again into the great unknown, I suppose.”

“You’re going to be fine, Harry,” Libby said gently. “Just worry about
the things you can do something about. The rest will take care of itself.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t know if he really believed her, but that thought
was more comforting than any of those he’d brought with him when he
arrived.

“I will.” After a moment he said, “Just promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I will if you will. I meant what I said to you the night we broke up. I
can’t imagine a world in which you and I won’t always be friends.”

“Neither can I,” Harry said.

Only this time, he meant it.

Chakotay stared at his comm panel. Though it was the middle of the night
in San Francisco, it was early morning at Utopia Planitia, where Voyager
was docked. Much of his time over the past few days had been spent with
Seven, but he’d promised himself he would make this call before Voyager
launched. In a way he dreaded the prospect, but then no one ever said
that making amends was easy. Whatever response he received, it would be
no less than he deserved.

Finally resolved, he activated the terminal and waited for the
connection to establish itself. Soon enough, Tom’s harried face appeared
before him.

“Captain?” he said, at something of a loss.

“Hello, Tom,” Chakotay replied.

“I don’t really…I mean things are…” Tom began.

“You’re getting ready to launch,” Chakotay interjected. “You’ve had
dozens of last-minute requests for accommodation changes and half the
crew hasn’t reported in for their medical evaluations and your final
cargo shipments haven’t been cleared for transport.”

“How did you know?” Tom asked.

“I used to do your job, remember?” Chakotay smiled. “The last thing you
have time for right now is a conversation.”

“That pretty much covers it,” Tom agreed.

“So I’ll keep this brief,” Chakotay said.

Tom tightened his jaw but nodded for Chakotay to continue.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about the last several months, and a
couple of things have become very clear to me. I’m not proud of my
behavior, especially toward you, but no matter how bad things got, you
never failed to support me. I want you to know how much I appreciate that.”

Tom’s face softened, but he remained silent.

“And I also want you to know that I heard about B’Elanna and Miral. I’m
so sorry, Tom. I know there’s nothing I can do to make it better. It’s
going to hurt like hell for a long time. I miss them terribly. They were
extraordinary women, your wife and daughter. Irreplaceable. But if you
let it, time will help you heal. And if there is anything you need from
me, please ask.”

Tom swallowed hard before replying, “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re a fine officer, Tom. You’ve always made me proud, and I don’t
expect that to change. I know that Voyager is in good hands, and I wish
you a safe journey.”

Tom nodded. After a moment he said, “I’m sorry you’re not going with us.”

“Everything happens for a reason, Tom,” Chakotay replied. “You don’t
need to worry about me. Just do your job. Take care of your captain and
your crew. I’ll still be around when you get back, and I expect you to
return with lots of good stories to tell.”

“I will.”

“Now get back to work, Commander.”

“Aye, Captain,” Tom said, his voice thick.

Chakotay replied with a tight smile. As he reached toward the panel to
terminate the call, Tom said, “You look better than you have in a while.”

“That might be because I am better.”

“You were in love with her, weren’t you?” Tom asked.

To hear this simple truth expressed with such compassion by an old
friend touched Chakotay’s heart deeply.

“I was,” he finally acknowledged.

“You could have told me,” Tom said.

“I know,” Chakotay replied. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I should have
remembered that you are one of only a handful of friends I absolutely
trust.”

Tom appeared stricken by this comment Chakotay had meant to be a
compliment.

“Are you sure that under the circumstances you really want to take this
trip, Tom?” Chakotay asked.

“At this point, I don’t have much of a choice,” Tom answered quickly.

“We always have choices,” Chakotay reminded him. “Some are just harder
to make than others.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Tom insisted.

“That’s all I’ll ever need to hear from you,” Chakotay replied.

“I have to get going,” Tom said.

“I understand. Keep your friends close right now. They won’t let you
down. And if you get a chance, have a talk with Counselor Cambridge. I
know he can help, if you’re willing to let him.”

Tom nodded with a faint smile and terminated the connection. Only once
Tom’s face had vanished did Chakotay realize how much of his heart was
going with Voyager.

They’ll be fine, he assured himself.

Rising from the station, he went to his replicator and ordered a cup of
hot tea. He only had a few hours of sleep to look forward to and he
needed every one of them.

He reached the doorway to his bedroom before it dawned on him that his
work for this day was not yet done.

There was one more call he needed to make.

Captain Eden was still having trouble adjusting to the idea that
Voyager’s ready room was now hers. She’d spent many hours in the
inviting space and personally supervised its reconstruction, along with
the rest of the ship, but never in all that time had she felt connected
to it so personally.

Though her stomach turned with a fair share of prelaunch jitters, Eden
had already checked and rechecked every item on her list several hours
earlier, and until Voy ager received clearance to depart, there really
wasn’t much else for her to do. Paris had the last-minute matters well
in hand, and her crew seemed to be performing already like a well-oiled
machine.

Willem had yet to make an appearance this morning. He’d spent most of
the last few days in his quarters and had received her hourly updates
with a minimum of conversation. When she’d signed off around two that
morning to attempt to get a few hours of sleep, he’d looked a little
pale. Doctor Sharak, her new CMO, had advised her more than once that
the admiral was among only a small contingent of crewmen who had failed
to report for their standard medical evaluation, and she had promised to
drag Willem down there herself if need be. He had every right to be as
exhausted as the rest of them, but even the fleet’s commander was
required to submit to regulations, a fact she would remind him of none
too gently as soon as they spoke this morning. If he was coming down
with something, he’d be less inclined to humor her, but she’d at least
make the attempt.

The captain considered taking her station on the bridge. She expected
that some of her officers—Paris, Kim, Lasren, and Patel, in
particular—would have a little difficulty seeing her in the center seat,
and the sooner they became accustomed to her presence, the better. They
were all well suited for their respective positions, and she truly felt
grateful to be serving with them. Their expectations of her would
undoubtedly be high, considering the shoes she was filling, but Eden did
not doubt her ability to exceed them.

In time.

Her misgivings, however, were ultimately overwhelmed by her excitement.
She had studied Voyager’s logs so thor oughly, there were times it
almost felt like she’d already been there. She’d marveled at their
discoveries even as she understood that they had barely scratched the
surface of what was out there. This time, with peaceful exploration at
the top of their agenda, Eden was thrilled with the prospect of digging
deeper into those mysteries, old and new.

Now that the command was hers, she had every intention of giving it
everything she had to offer.

And maybe…just maybe…

Her thoughts were interrupted by an incoming transmission. Turning to
her companel, she opened the communication and saw Captain Chakotay’s
face before her.

“Good morning, Captain,” she said automatically.

“Hello,” he said with more warmth than she’d imagined she could have
mustered had their positions been reversed.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to intrude, Captain,” he said most cordially. “I know how
busy you must be.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“Congratulations on your new assignment,” Chakotay said sincerely. His
tone and demeanor were so composed that Eden found herself wondering
exactly what the admirals had seen to convince them that he was not
ready to resume his command.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“You’ve been given the finest vessel in all of Starfleet, Captain.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“If I may, I would like to ask one favor of you.”

“Please.” Eden nodded.

“I know there are a lot of new faces on board, but part of me will
always think of Voyager’s crew as mine.”

Eden felt her face settling into harder lines.

Chakotay went on, unruffled. “You are about to depart on what will
certainly be a wondrous but equally dangerous new mission. When that
mission is over, I’d only ask one thing of you.”

“What’s that, Captain?”

“Bring them home.”

Eden felt the brief tension that had shrouded her fall away. With an
understanding nod, she said, “You have my word.”

“Thank you,” Chakotay replied.

Once his face had disappeared, Eden bowed her head as the weight and
heft of the responsibility she had accepted landed squarely upon her
shoulders. Until this moment the true nature of the challenge before her
had been an idea.

Suddenly, it was real.

She took a few shallow breaths, then called out, “Computer, bring up
personal file Eden Delta Mikhal.”

The moment the first image of the ancient carving that had been
discovered by Voyager on a remote planet in the Delta quadrant appeared
before her, its deep colored lines dotted with bright specks of
reflected moonlight, her heart jumped, just as it had the first time she
had seen the image.

What no one had realized, not the Mikhal who admired the carvings, or
Kes, who had been intrigued by them, was that they were not just art
left by an ancient civilization.

They were a map.

Or part of a map, at any rate.

How Eden knew this, she couldn’t say because much of her own past was
shrouded in mystery. She knew she was not a native of the Alpha
quadrant. The brothers who had raised her, an eclectic pair of
scientists and explorers who had never been a part of Starfleet, had
told her comforting lies about her past: how they had found her on an
uninhabited planet as a young girl and nursed her back to health. She
had no memory of her life before that time, or most of her early years
with her “uncles.”

All she knew for certain was that her true history, whatever it was,
wasn’t nearly as simple as they would have had her believe. Once she had
reached adolescence, and she had learned all they had to teach her, they
had agreed that theirs was no life for anyone with Afsarah’s potential.
They had brought her to Earth, and she had been accepted by an elite
preparatory school before gaining entrance to Starfleet Academy. She
corresponded with them regularly throughout her years of study, but once
she began her active duties as an ensign, their communications had
become sporadic at best. Twenty-three years ago, they had been lost in a
doomed attempt to try and reach the Gamma quadrant.

Eden had mourned their loss and gradually come to accept it. Her life in
Starfleet was everything they had promised it would be when she had
expressed childish misgivings about leaving them to attend school.
Ultimately, she had resigned herself to the fact that she would probably
never really know who she was or where she had come from. And given all
that her life had become, she wasn’t sure she cared.

And then Eden had seen a single image in Voyager’s logs and read it as
plainly as if it had been written in Federation Standard.

She had decided then and there that someday she would be forced to leave
her comfortable and predictable life behind to seek out the people who
had made the carvings thousands of years earlier and learn more about them.

Of this much, she was certain: whoever they were, they were her people.
And if she was still alive, odds were, other descendants of theirs had
probably survived as well.

When Willem had first suggested assigning Voyager to the Delta quadrant,
Eden had been thrilled with the notion that Hugh Cambridge could be
relied upon to examine the carvings firsthand on her behalf. His passion
for an archeological mystery had been piqued when she had transmitted
them to him, just as she had expected, even without understanding the
full extent of her personal interest in them.

Tantalizing as this mystery was, it alone would never have compelled her
to support Willem’s plan, especially over Kathryn Janeway’s strenuous
and repeated objections. The specter of the Borg had been more than
enough fuel for that fire. But it had been all she had needed to
overcome her many concerns about serving so closely with Willem and to
accept the position as Voyager’s captain for this mission.

She would keep her promise to Chakotay. She would see to it that when
their work was done, Voyager’s crew, along with the rest of the fleet,
was returned safely to Earth.

They were all leaving their home for a time.

But maybe, just maybe…

Afsarah Eden was on her way back to hers.

“Bridge to the captain.”

“Go ahead, Mister Paris.”

“We have clearance to launch.”

“I’m on my way.”

Eden closed her private database, rose from her desk, and walked with
her head held high onto the bridge.

One of the few aesthetic changes to the bridge for this mission had been
the addition of a third seat to the two command chairs originally
designed for Voyager. Admiral Batiste was already seated in the one to
the right of center, though it would usually be reserved for Counselor
Cambridge from this point forward. Paris rose from the one to the left
as she entered, calling out, “Captain on the bridge.”

Eden took a moment as she strode purposefully to her place to
acknowledge the faces of her crew. Lasren, Kim, and Patel nodded with
brisk determination. Aytar Gwyn, her short cerulean hair freshly spiked
for the occasion, sat at the conn with the pent-up energy of a
Thoroughbred racehorse champing at its bit. Tom Paris stood with the
reserve of a seasoned veteran, clearly hoping for the best but ready for
the worst. And Willem actually looked happier than she could remember at
any time since their honeymoon, though he did his best to hide it behind
a mask of condescending composure.

“Alert the fleet to stand by,” Eden said as she took her place in the
center seat.

“Aye, Captain,” Lasren replied.

“Helm?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Let’s not keep the Delta quadrant waiting.”

“No, sir,” Gwyn said with anticipation.

“Take us out.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

B’Elanna sat in the cockpit of the ship she had privately christened the
Home Free. Miral had spent the last hour and a half fighting her
mid-morning nap but finally worked herself into a frenzied exhaustion
and curled up on her bunk in the rear compartment.

It was hard to believe that after the years of fear, planning, building
the most advanced shuttle ever imagined, and worst of all, the torture
of being separated daily from Tom, it was nearly over. Her life since
the moment Miral had first been taken from her on Boreth had become
purgatory. Her work and the joys, large and small, Miral brought daily
to her had made it bearable. But B’Elanna had never lost sight of the
real prize: a life with Tom and Miral in some distant part of the galaxy
where the Warriors of Gre’thor would never find her.

Once her shuttle had launched, she had spent months perfecting the use
of her slipstream drive, charting a random course through largely
unexplored areas of the Beta quadrant. In all that time she had not laid
eyes on her husband and had received precious few but vital reports from
Kahless. She had managed to keep abreast of the happenings in the Alpha
quadrant, most importantly the Borg invasion, but easily avoided the
strategic centers that had been targeted. Once the worst was past and
she was assured that Tom had survived, B’Elanna had realized that the
devastation inflicted upon the Federation might provide the precise
circumstances she required to end her private nightmare. She was tired
of hiding and tired of running and more than ready to use whatever might
be at hand to bring this part of her life to a close.

Tom would have to see this opportunity as well, and given his
circumstances, the destruction of so many Starfleet ships, the chaos the
Federation had to be experiencing in the aftermath, and the death of his
father, she wasn’t actually expecting to hear from him as soon as she had.

Several weeks earlier the day had finally arrived. Kahless had sent an
encoded message indicating that she should dump her cargo—the fragmented
remains of a decoy shuttle that matched hers precisely, coated with DNA
samples from her and Miral—in a sector that had suffered heavy damage.
Carefully maneuvering through the charred hulls and debris of a battle
so massive she couldn’t bear to think of the casualties, B’Elanna sowed
her cargo and then set her course for a distant nebula, where she would
await her final communiqué from Tom. That message would provide the
rendezvous coordinates where she would finally be reunited with Tom, and
from there, the rest of their lives could begin.

The only thing she knew for sure at this point was that the reunion
would not take place in the Alpha quadrant. B’Elanna wondered how Tom
had managed to secure leave and the transportation that would make this
possible, but trusted that she would learn these details soon enough.
She also wondered how Tom would feel about leaving his home and, most
important, his mother behind for the rest of his life. But she could
only assume that he had made peace with this necessity and that given
the alternative of placing his mother’s life or his daughter’s at
greater risk, Tom would stay true to the course they had laid out together.

For her, there was little to regret leaving behind in the Alpha
quadrant. Before departing she had slipped away from her base in Montana
for a brief reunion with her father. He had fussed over little Miral
with the same affection Owen and Julia had always displayed. But he had
also understood her choice, once she had explained her intentions to him
in strokes broad enough to ensure his safety, should he be questioned,
but detailed enough to put his mind at ease. She knew that when the time
came, Tom would do the same for Julia and would simultaneously pass
along B’Elanna’s apologies, respect, and love for the woman who had
given her the greatest gift she had ever received, her son. Leaving
behind these two people, and the love they would shower upon her and
Miral, was her greatest regret. But there had simply been no other way
to protect them and the life of her daughter and ultimately provide
Miral with something resembling normalcy.

A quiet chime from her operations panel alerted B’Elanna to the time. It
was midday by her ship’s chronometer and, by Klingon custom, time to
honor the dead.

For most of her life, B’Elanna had failed to observe these rituals. But
once she had found herself alone and adrift in unfamiliar space, she had
drawn comfort and strength from this daily practice. The list of those
to honor had grown unacceptably long in the past few years, but this
simple remembrance brought with it an unexpected measure of peace. She
often thought back to the many hours she had spent with Tuvok on
Voyager, attempting to rein in her aggression through the use of Vulcan
meditation techniques he had patiently explained and demonstrated. She
still wondered to this day that it had taken her so long to come to
understand that running from her heritage, particularly her Klingon
nature, would never provide her the serenity she desperately sought. The
time she had spent on Boreth, searching for her mother, and then seeking
the truth about her daughter, had been a mixed blessing, but it had
taught her that there was more wisdom in her Klingon blood than she had
ever credited.

Dimming the cabin’s interior lights, B’Elanna took a moment to release
all thought of the past and future and bring herself fully into the
present. Once she had achieved a pleasantly empty tranquillity, she
began to speak softly.

“Kahless, we implore you to remember those warriors who have fallen in
your name. Lift them out of the cavern of despair and reveal yourself to
them in all your glory. Remember those who fought valiantly to secure
the empire and those who died to protect their allies within the
Federation; remember Kularg, son of Grav, remember L’Naan, daughter of
Krelik; remember Miral, daughter of L’Naan; remember Owen, son of
Michael; remember Kathryn, daughter of Gretchen…”

With each name, a vivid image would form in B’Elanna’s mind. Usually
they were moments in time she hadn’t realized she would cherish until
she had begun to honor the dead in this way: Kularg bending his forehead
to touch Miral’s as she reached up to tug his beard; her grandmother
teaching B’Elanna to sing her first Klingon songs; her mother’s face
glowing by firelight when B’Elanna had told her that she had named her
daughter in her honor; Owen laughing unrestrained while sharing a story
of Tom’s misspent youth the night they had first shared a meal as a
family; and Admiral Janeway, the last time B’Elanna had ever seen her
alive…

STARDATE 56265: APRIL 7, 2379

Spring had barely begun, and the nights still remembered winter’s chill
in the mountains of Montana. B’Elanna had been living at Dil’s facility
for six months and had made a habit of taking Miral away from the grime
and dust and steady work of shuttle construction for more quality and
uninterrupted time on the weekends. A small river tumbled through a
canyon only a few miles from the warehouse. Saturday morning would begin
with a hike into the canyon’s rugged heart. Miral would invariably
insist on walking beside her mother, but after the first hour would
consent to being carried the rest of the way on B’Elanna’s back.

As they walked they would discover anew the natural beauty around them.
Everything was green and fresh. Miral would pluck wildflowers with her
pudgy fingers and glow with delight when she remembered their names from
one week to the next: buttercups (buttewrcus), starworts (stawts), and
blue-eyed Marys (boo-wy mays). Once they had made camp near the river,
they would busy themselves collecting firewood and chasing lizards, a
pastime of which Miral never wearied until she actually caught one.
After an early dinner, as the sun began to fall below the ridgeline,
B’Elanna would entertain Miral with her favorite stories. Invariably
they were of Tom, exploring an ocean world, losing a shuttle race in
order to propose to her, or wrapping Miral in animal pelts and holding
her for hours through the long winter nights on Boreth.

B’Elanna treasured these outings and was unpleasantly surprised when she
heard a rustling to the south of their camp one night. Someone was
noisily following the river toward them, and her first act had been to
reach for the phaser that was always close at hand.

In the fading light B’Elanna had soon made out a slight and feminine
form. She had already begun to lower her phaser when Janeway’s familiar
voice had beseeched, “Don’t shoot. I come in peace.”

B’Elanna had not hesitated to rise and hurry to meet the admiral, who
immediately enveloped her in a firm hug.

“It’s so good to see you, B’Elanna,” she had said, her eyes alight.

“And you,” B’Elanna replied, surprised by the knot that caught in her
throat at the unexpected sight of one so dear.

“Where is she?” Janeway teased, peeking around B’Elanna to spy Miral,
who had looked up from the ant races she was monitoring the moment her
mother had left her side. Once Miral had caught her eye, she had ducked
for cover behind the log that was their campfire seat, but Janeway had
eventually coaxed her out by approaching the log gingerly and coming to
rest several feet from the child before bending to the ground and
“discovering” a group of burrowing earthworms, which instantly
captivated Miral.

By the time B’Elanna had seated herself again by the fire and offered
Janeway some water, which she gratefully accepted, Miral had climbed
into the admiral’s lap and begun to wipe her filthy hands all over
Janeway’s otherwise pristine uniform.

“It’s beautiful here,” Janeway said, then added, “I hope you don’t mind
a little company?”

“Not when the company is good,” B’Elanna replied honestly.

“Tom told me where to find you. Voyager is still en route back to Earth
from Cestus III or I’m sure he’d have led me here himself.”

“We’ll see him in a few days,” B’Elanna replied, wondering why a note of
defensiveness had suddenly crept into her voice.

“Unfortunately, I’m here on business,” Janeway admitted.

“Really?” B’Elanna said, truly puzzled.

“The strangest thing has happened.” Janeway nodded. “A lunatic attempted
to take over the Federation Embassy on Qo’noS and during the brief
period in which he held it, he demanded that the High Council reveal
that the Federation had actually replaced the Emperor Kahless with a
hologram.”

B’Elanna swallowed hard but managed to keep her face neutral.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Of course, at first we all assumed this was nothing more than
further evidence of his insanity. The strange thing was, when the
emperor finally appeared, he was, in fact, a hologram.”

“Huh.” B’Elanna attempted to display surprise.

“And not just any hologram,” Janeway went on. “He was actually using a
version of a holo-emitter frighteningly similar to the one used by our
very own Doctor.”

At this B’Elanna couldn’t even find a sound to make.

“The good news is, Ambassador Worf was able to retake the embassy, and
for now, the fact that the emperor has gone absent without leave and
replaced himself with a hologram is still a closely guarded secret,
which I trust you will not repeat.”

“Of course not.”

“Starfleet is helping in the search for the flesh-and-blood emperor, and
I’m hopeful that when he is found he will clear up this little mystery.
Meantime it has fallen to me to try and make a little sense of it. The
bottom line is, there aren’t that many people we know of who could have
created a holo-emitter so similar to the Doctor’s. I’ve already spoken
with him and with Seven, and both of them are every bit as unnerved as I
am.”

“I see.” B’Elanna nodded.

“I realize, of course, that for the last many months you and Miral have
been living here and probably have less than no interest in such
political matters, but I have to ask, B’Elanna. Do you have any idea who
else might have done such a thing?”

B’Elanna forced herself to return Janeway’s even gaze.

“I’m sorry, Admiral, I don’t,” she said.

Janeway continued to stare into B’Elanna’s eyes, and B’Elanna told
herself she wasn’t seeing disappointment reflected back at her.

Soon enough, Janeway turned to study the fire and said softly, “I see.”

Miral had finally relaxed into Janeway’s arms and was beginning to fall
into a well-earned sleep.

“I’ll take her if you like,” B’Elanna offered, reaching out.

“It’s all right,” Janeway replied wistfully. “I don’t get to see nearly
enough of either of you anymore. I’ll hold her a little longer if that’s
okay.”

“Of course.”

After a brief and uncomfortable silence Janeway said, “She looks so like
you, B’Elanna.”

“You can’t see them now, but she has her father’s eyes,” B’Elanna
replied. “And his funny crooked smile, especially when she’s doing
something she knows she’s not supposed to.”

“Well, that’s your job right now, isn’t it, little one?” Janeway cooed.

“When it comes to mischief, her future is bright,” B’Elanna acknowledged
with a grin.

Janeway turned back to face B’Elanna. “Are you well?” she asked. “Are
you happy?”

“Most of the time,” B’Elanna replied, treading carefully.

“May I ask why you haven’t returned to Starfleet?”

“I just can’t right now.”

“But someday?” Janeway asked. “You’re so good at what you do, B’Elanna.
And I know that Chakotay would have you back in a second aboard Voyager.”

“Yes, he’s made that more than clear,” B’Elanna admitted, “but I know
Vorik is doing a wonderful job.”

“He is. But Chakotay is worried about Tom. He’s clearly missing
something and my guess is it’s you and this beautiful little girl. He
doesn’t complain, mind you. He’d never do that. But it’s hard to
understand why you’ve chosen to remain apart when both of you clearly
need and love one another so very much.”

B’Elanna picked up a small stick and began to poke the fire with it,
adjusting a log and sending orange and blue sparks flitting upward.

“We didn’t make this decision lightly, Admiral,” she finally said. “And
we both agree that for now, we are where we have to be.”

“If that’s the case, then I understand,” Janeway replied. “I wish it
were different, but I will take you at your word, as always.”

“Thank you.”

“This isn’t forever, though, is it?”

“I can only fight one battle at a time, and right now, I’m fighting the
one in front of me,” B’Elanna replied.

Janeway nodded thoughtfully.

“Okay. But remember, if you ever need an ally in that battle, you know
where to find me.”

B’Elanna choked back the tears that were welling in her throat.

“I do.”

After settling Miral on her pallet for the night and giving B’Elanna
another fierce hug, Janeway had transported out, and B’Elanna had spent
the next several hours staring at the fire, her bitter tears falling
freely.

Janeway had once again put her utter faith and trust in B’Elanna, and
this time, she had let her down. She didn’t know if Janeway believed her
when she had lied about the holo-emitter, but she had at least refrained
from pushing B’Elanna.

A year earlier Kahless had first asked about the Doctor’s miraculous
emitter, and when B’Elanna had come to understand that the emperor
intended to sacrifice his work on Qo’noS to assure the safety of herself
and Miral, she agreed to build the device that would make that pos
sible. Technically it was advanced Starfleet technology and certainly
not something Command would approve of sharing, even with an ally,
without wading through miles of red tape and political nonsense.
B’Elanna had cut to the chase and provided him with a crude copy of the
emitter, in addition to programming his holographic replacement. Kahless
had then returned to Cygnet IV to watch for the Warriors of Gre’thor and
to set up the communications network he would require to serve as a
go-between for B’Elanna and Tom.

B’Elanna wanted to believe that if she had known that this would be the
last time she would ever see Janeway alive, she might have done
something differently. But as she saw Janeway’s face again in her mind,
her eyes filled with love, respect, and pride, she knew in her heart
that there was nothing Janeway wouldn’t have forgiven her for.

Perhaps one day, B’Elanna would once again meet the woman whose
encouragement and support had brought B’Elanna safely through her own
doubts and helped to forge the woman she had become. Janeway’s presence
and influence at such a critical time in her life had done more than
anyone else’s to define the qualities B’Elanna now held most dear and
would work daily to impart to her own daughter. Most surprising of all
was B’Elanna’s fervent hope that should they meet again, it would not be
in some human version of the afterlife, but instead, in Sto-Vo-Kor.

As B’Elanna allowed her mingled regrets and sadness to dissipate in a
vision of the glorious place Kathryn Janeway now held among the honored
dead, her communications panel chirped, alerting her to the presence of
an incoming message.

Tom, her heart gasped as she quickly traced the transmission’s origin.

She decrypted it quickly, but found herself running the algorithms
through a dozen diagnostics before she could accept that the coordinates
for their rendezvous could be accurate.

Just to be certain, she then double-checked the transmission’s point of
origin. Within moments all of her systems verified that the message had
come from Voyager.

Her hands shaking, B’Elanna began the lengthy process of charting her
slipstream corridor and compensating for the predictable subspace
variances common to slipstream travel.

The coordinates Tom had sent were well within her vessel’s range, but
they were also in the last place B’Elanna would have expected them to be.

It seemed that Voyager was returning to the Delta quadrant.

In a matter of days, B’Elanna and Miral would join them.

JUNE 2381

EPILOGUE

“I’m pretty sure it’s the right thing to do,” Chakotay said softly.
“We’re wading into deep and uncharted waters here, but if Seven is right
and the Caeliar are still out there somewhere, what other choice is
there? I’m not willing to watch her fall into madness. We both know how
strong she is, but I’ve never seen her so frightened. She wasn’t this
vulnerable in her first few days aboard Voyager.”

After a brief pause, he added, “What do you think?”

The tall white pillar had no answer.

Not that he had expected one.

He’d long ago lost track of the time he’d spent seated at the base of
Kathryn’s memorial. In the dark days following her passing he had not
allowed himself to indulge in the normal and fairly common practice of
speaking aloud to the dead. Before he could permit this, he would first
have to acknowledge in every fiber of his being that she was truly gone.
Once that bridge had been crossed, many months too late, he had realized
how much he still needed to say.

The lengthy, one-sided conversation had actually freed something in
Chakotay’s psyche he hadn’t realized had been caged. He had begun by
telling her frankly how angry he was at her for choosing to risk her own
life rather than his. Didn’t she understand how many would willingly
have taken her place? Or spent the rest of their lives in the Delta
quadrant rather than see her sacrifice herself to the Borg?

The moment he’d said the words, however, he had seen her face again in
his mind’s eye: the grimly set eyes, the faintly lifted chin, the
absolute unwillingness to accept the notion that the universe would not
accommodate itself to her wishes.

“You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, Kathryn,” he’d said. “And
I’d give anything to be able to watch you stand here and deny it.”

I miss you.

With that thought, the tears he had believed he was past crying had
begun to fall. But living in the center of his pain were also the
memories that made living without her possible.

Only then had he understood that by denying his grief he had also cut
himself off from the happiness she had brought to his life.

Suddenly he saw vividly her delighted and disbelieving smile when he had
led her into the woods near their temporary home on New Earth and shown
her the wooden tub he had built for her; the soft glow of her face lit
by candles in Leonardo’s workroom the night they had promised one
another never to allow their differences to tear them apart again; the
chagrin with which she had announced to him for the tenth time that her
replicator had once again burned their pot roast dinner; the drowsy
contentment and peace of her face in repose, the one and only night she
had belonged body and soul to him alone.

Laughter had burst freely through his tears, and Chakotay had allowed
his mind to wander buoyantly through their life together.

“Remember the first time you tasted a leola root? The look on Neelix’s
face when he thought he’d poisoned his captain? The first time you
hustled Tom Paris in a game of pool at Sandrine’s? The day Naomi brought
you her very first captain’s assistant report? The day we walked into
the cargo bay wondering which of our crew would stay behind with the
37’s and their descendants and found it empty?”

It had taken hours to journey through the past—the good and the bad. But
as each memory fell from his lips, it had lessened the weight in his
stomach even as featherlight strands of recollection had embedded
themselves permanently upon his heart where they would never again be
lost to him.

Only once this was done had he brought her up to date with the
challenges of his present. Chakotay had been raised to believe in a
spirit world that inhabited the same universe as his own, but his brief
time in that world had left him little doubt that the dead did not
concern themselves overmuch with the affairs of the living. They could
be a resource and a source of wisdom, but the journey after death was
one’s own, and there was little use in clinging desperately to your old
existence when a new and glorious one beckoned.

He did not believe that Kathryn was watching over his every move, any
more than his father or grandfather had dogged his daily path. It was
only polite then, when a spirit was invoked, to provide a proper context
for any question you might pose.

He had no one else with whom to share his concerns for Seven. He
believed even before he’d asked that she would probably already have
taken the actions he was currently contemplating. Still, he made his
case aloud, then listened, hoping against hope that he might sense
something tangible that would assure him that she agreed.

The moon had been his only companion in the stillness of Federation
Park. It had risen behind the gleaming pillar, bathing it in an almost
eerie light and for hours making it the only clear object he could
discern. But as it had begun to dip before him, the monument had fallen
into shadow and ultimately pale darkness.

Suddenly conscious of the stiffness in his back and legs, Chakotay
pushed himself up from the ground and brushed off the light droplets of
condensation that had gathered on his uniform during his long vigil. He
reached out for the pillar he could barely see, its cold, damp surface
convincing him that it would stand as long as the Federation that had
constructed it.

“What do you think, Kathryn?” Chakotay said again.

A single ray of light struck the pillar’s base, and a long shadow grew
from there, stretching over the grassy hillside toward the water of the
bay. Chakotay turned to see the dawn breaking, and his heart quickened
its pace to greet it.

Within minutes the light began to crawl upward, bathing the white stone
in a brilliance whose glare was almost painful.

Chakotay watched its progress until it reached the level of his face and
for a split second glimpsed briefly his reflection.

At that moment, five simple words echoed in his mind.

When in doubt, look here.

Without further ado, Chakotay raised steady hands to his collar and, one
by one, removed the pips pinned there. He then removed his combadge and
kneeled at the base of the monument.

He dug briefly in the soft earth, just enough to create a small
indentation, laid the symbols of his service in the hole, and covered
them with dirt, packing it down to hide any trace of his final gift to
Kathryn.

Rising, he brushed off his hands and turned to leave the park,
absolutely confident that he had made the right choice.

Within hours he would advise Admiral Montgomery of his decision.

His career in Starfleet had come to an end.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My friends and family are my first line of support. Their patience with
me as I lock myself away for months at a time to do this work is a gift
I can never truly repay.

Marco Palmieri gave me my first shot at professional writing. I consider
it an honor that he has yet again demonstrated his confidence in me by
entrusting me with the continuation of this story.

Maura Teitelbaum has done more to ensure my ongoing sanity than any
agent ought to be required to do.

A number of my fellow authors have given their very valuable time and
expertise to this project. Heather Jarman is always the first to offer
hers. I am ever humbled by her insight and grace. David Mack,
Christopher Bennett, William Leisner, and the marvel of Trek minutiae
that is Keith DeCandido have made this story better, both by vetting the
manuscript and by setting the bar to which I aspire in their own
brilliant work. Christie Golden started the relaunch rolling and gave me
many wonderful stories upon which to build.

My older brother, Matt, has come rather late to the party, but I’m so
excited to be able to introduce him to the world of Trek literature in
the same way he brought me to the original series. See? I told you there
was still good Star Trek to be had.

My younger brother, Paul, remains a constant source of inspiration and
also has my eternal gratitude.

As the only member of my immediate family apart from my mother who never
fails to read my works the moment they are published, Ollie Jane Baker
is due a special note of thanks.

And finally, Lynne, who literally makes my life as it is now possible.

I could never have written this story had I not absorbed the life
lessons offered to me by my mother, Patricia, my mother-in-law, Vivian,
and my father, Fred. I dedicated this work to him because even as our
heroes struggle to accept an unacceptable loss, I have worked daily for
years to come to terms with his. He remains an example of all that one
dedicated person can do. More important, I think he would have liked
this book. It is a testament to the many truths he has taught me in life
and death.

At the end of the day, however, the greatest sacrifice made in the
creation of this work was by my dear husband, David. He not only waits
patiently while I sit alone for hours writing, he then listens raptly to
every word and offers his wise counsel and unfailing support. He is my
life, my heart, and my love.

Too many thanks, to one and all.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

In addition to Full Circle, Kirsten is the author of the last Buffy book
ever, One Thing or Your Mother, Star Trek: Voyager—String Theory:
Fusion, and the Alias APO novel Once Lost, and contributed the short
story “Isabo’s Shirt” to the Distant Shores anthology. Her next addition
to the Star Trek: Voyager universe will be released at the end of 2009.

Kirsten appeared in Los Angeles productions of Johnson over Jordan, This
Old Planet, and Harold Pinter’s The Hothouse, which the L.A. Times
called “unmissable.” She also appeared in the Geffen Playhouse’s world
premiere of Quills and has been seen on General Hospital and Passions,
among others.

Kirsten has undergraduate degrees in English literature and theater
arts, and a master of fine arts from UCLA. She is currently working on a
feature film screenplay and is within spitting distance of completing
her first original novel.

She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, David, and their very fat
cat, Owen.