Homecoming Page 8

  “With B’Elanna right behind you,” said Janeway. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. I’d hate to have to visit you in prison for the rest of your life.”

  He looked at her and smiled, a little. There was no hint that there had been a base here. All equipment had been salvaged long ago; all the dead, identified and buried. All that remained was this standing stone and the plaque.

  “Will we ever move beyond this?” Janeway suddenly said, the words bursting from her. “We claim to be so advanced, to value peace and good relationships with all species. And yet, I stand here, and I see this, and I wonder.”

  “I wonder too,” said Chakotay. “Peace is precious. But there is such a thing as too high a price for peace.”

  She reached out and slipped a comforting arm around his waist. His arm came up and draped across her shoulders. They stood like that, side by side, wordlessly thinking about peace, and prices, and other destinies.

  “If I hadn’t been hiding in the Badlands,” said Chakotay, “I’d have been operating from this base. It’s more than likely that my name would be there, too.”

  Janeway shuddered at the thought. “Do you feel guilty that you didn’t die with them?” she asked, softly.

  He didn’t answer at once. Finally, he said, “No. I was where destiny placed me. I shirked nothing. But I desperately wish that Starfleet had seen what we had seen earlier, that the Cardassians were not to be trusted. Then maybe all these good people would still be alive.”

  Slowly, they turned and walked back to the small ship. As they lifted off, Janeway turned to Chakotay and said, “I’m glad our destinies coincided, Chakotay. It was a privilege to have you at my side these past seven years.”

  He smiled. “And it was a privilege to serve with you, Captain. Or I suppose I should say Admiral now.”

  She laughed and held up a hand in protest. “Kathryn. I’m not your captain anymore.”

  “Ah,” he joked, “you’ll always be Captain to me.”

  Suddenly serious, she looked into his dark eyes. “I hope not,” she said.

  * * *

  For Tom and B’Elanna, the five-day trip to Boreth, deep in the heart of the Klingon empire, seemed to take four years. B’Elanna was only reluctantly acknowledged by the captain, who had apparently been pulled off a more important assignment to “ferry” her to Boreth, and Tom and Miral were regarded with outright contempt. There was a bad moment right at the beginning when it looked as though the two of them would be refused passage, but B’Elanna had managed to talk some sense into the captain. Well, yell some sense into him, anyway. They stayed in their cramped cabin, out of the way, until on the fifth day the captain asked Torres to report to the bridge.

  “This is it,” said B’Elanna. Tom gathered her into his arms and kissed her deeply.

  “Don’t worry about us,” he said, as he gave her their child to kiss. “Old Captain Grumpyguts will leave us alone until you come back. I hope—I hope it’s not too hard on you, whatever happens.”

  She gave him as reassuring a smile as she could manage, then went to the Klingon vessel’s bridge.

  “I summoned you to the bridge to see this before we transported down,” said the captain of the Klingon ship to Torres. She stepped slowly down into the main area of the bridge, her eyes glued on the screen.

  The Spires of Boreth. She vaguely recalled Miral waxing eloquent about their beauty. Of course, B’Elanna had ignored her mother. Surely nothing Klingon could be graceful and lovely. But B’Elanna was wrong, and as she stared at the spires catching the first morning light, turning shades of gold and rose, she understood why this place was so revered.

  “Isn’t there some kind of poem?” she asked. “About the spires? Something about spears to the stars.”

  The elderly Klingon captain nodded and quoted:

  “Standing like spears to the stars

  The Spires of Boreth pierce the heavens

  A glorious army of spirit

  To be wielded at Kahless’s return.”

  “It’s more lyrical in the original Klingon,” Torres said. She took one more look at the spires, their gracefulness all the more startling in their contrast to the rough wilderness that comprised the rest of the planet, and went to the transporter room.

  The first word that occurred to her as she materialized in the Great Hall of the temple was medieval. Seen from the ship, the spires reminded her of ancient Earth towns, and the ornate yet antiquated structure and decorations of the Great Hall further enforced that perception. Animal skins covered much of the gray stone flooring. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, and even the hanging lights were candles. A row of statues in various poses stretched along the right side of this massive corridor. She couldn’t quite identify each particular one, but she assumed that they depicted scenes from the life of the great hero to whom this temple was dedicated. Paintings, too, covered the walls, paintings done in hues of angry red and shadow black.

  From somewhere came a faint monotone sound, deep and rich. She assumed it was chanting. The whole place was overwhelming, intimidating. She could only guess at the power the lava caves exerted over impressionable pilgrims. The exotic atmosphere, the rituals involving fasting and steam and heat, the nearly toxic gases the lava emitted, well, it was no wonder to her that Klingons had visions with astonishing frequency here.

  Her probably blasphemous thoughts were interrupted by a female’s voice. “You enjoy cutting it close, B’Elanna Torres. Another hour and your mother’s possessions would be leaping flame and black smoke.”

  Torres turned to greet Commander Logt. She was even more impressive in person than on the viewscreen. Tall, powerfully built, her dark eyes snapping with pride and confidence, she stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips. The baldric that marked her enviable position cut a vibrant swath across her body.

  “It was not a question of enjoyment, but necessity,” said Torres. “I got here as soon as I could.”

  “Come,” said Logt. Without another word, she turned and strode down the hall at a brisk pace. Torres had to struggle to keep up. They went down a long, tight circular staircase for what seemed like an eternity; then it opened into another small corridor with several rooms. At the third room, Logt paused. She took a torch from a sconce and wordlessly shoved it at Torres, who took it. Logt removed a key that was as large as her hand and inserted it in the rusting metal lock.

  “Why is everything so. . . ” Torres struggled to find a word that would not be interpreted as offensive.

  “Out of date?” said Logt, saving Torres the trouble. “All is as it was when it was first built. If anything is damaged beyond repair, Klingon artisans craft an identical replacement. Nothing here is replicated. Even the food is gathered by ritual hunting parties. It is a powerful reminder of the ancient nature of our tradition. We have one small chamber for communications with the outside universe, but that’s all.”

  The key turned. Logt pushed, and the door groaned as it opened. The room inside was larger than Torres had expected. It was lined with row after row of shelves, from the floor to the ceiling, which was high indeed. The only light came from several small windows at the very top. Torres understood the need for the torch.

  The shelves were filled with clothing, amulets, armor, weapons—all the intimate, personal belongings of those who had gone out on the Challenge of Spirit and who had never returned. There was so much, all of it deeply private. B’Elanna felt like a voyeur.

  “How many are on this quest?” B’Elanna asked.

  “Right now, over two thousand.”

  “And how many make it back?”

  Logt perused her for a moment. “Fewer than a third. Boreth’s wilderness is a dangerous place. Otherwise, there would be no purpose to the Challenge.”

  Logt unhooked a ladder from behind the door and propped it up. She climbed nimbly up several shelves, searched quickly, found what she was looking for, and swiftly descended. Without a word, she handed a neatly tied bundle to B’E
lanna.

  “May I. . . is there . . . .”

  “Outside there is a chair. You may sit in private and examine the belongings. Keep what you wish. The rest you may leave in a pile by the door and it will be ceremonially burned.”

  In a pile by the door. Her mother’s things. It seemed so heartless, but B’Elanna recalled how Klingons viewed a dead body. It meant nothing to them, after they had uttered the loud, piercing scream to alert those in Sto-Vo-Kor that a warrior was on the way to join them. Clothing and other items certainly would have no value once she who owned them had died.

  “Take your time. When you are done, come back the way you came. A priest will be waiting for you and will contact your ship.”

  Torres nodded. “Thank you. I would have hated to have been too late.”

  Logt’s harsh mien gentled somewhat, and she nodded once. Then, briskly, she strode down the stone corridor, the sound of her boots echoing in the stillness. B’Elanna heard her quick steps ascend, then fade into silence.

  She stared at the bundle, then sat and cradled it in her lap. Taking a deep breath, she untied the complex knot and the bundle fell open.

  A wooden hairbrush, its bristles thick and coarse to manage tough Klingon hair. A few strands were still entwined in them. A head covering of gold and red material shot through with black. B’Elanna supposed it was for some of the more elaborate rituals. One probably had to cover one’s face or something. A robe that B’Elanna remembered from her childhood. She ran her fingers over the thick folds, recalling tugging impatiently on her mother’s sleeves for something or other. A pair of slippers—odd for Klingons, who almost always wore boots. Again, probably demanded for some ritual.

  And that was it. It was difficult to believe that the ferocity and passion of Miral had been reduced to a handful of clothing. Impulsively, B’Elanna decided to try on the robe. She slipped it over her head and to her surprise it fit, although a bit loosely. It was even a little short on her. Her mother had always seemed so big, so imposing. Now B’Elanna fit easily into her clothes.

  She moved, and something crinkled. Puzzled, B’Elanna reached into one of the pockets and pulled forth a small, folded piece of paper.

  It was a note from Miral, reaching across the distance, the years, even from death into life. B’Elanna began to shake as she read, and by the time she was done, tears had filled her eyes. She wriggled out of the robe and folded it carelessly, trying to gather up the rest of the items quickly and dropping them as fast as she picked them up. Her fingers were nerveless, her body taut as the ancient bowstring. Finally, uttering a very Klingon grunt of annoyance, she scooped everything up into a chaotic bundle and raced for the stairs.

  It was a long and demanding ascent, and by the time Torres reached the top she was gasping for breath, her heart pounding from more than simple exertion. The priest who stood by the stairs frowned terribly, but B’Elanna didn’t care if she gave offense with her haste. She had a more pressing issue on her mind.

  “I want to perform the Challenge of Spirit,” she demanded.

  AGE NINE

  The girl has no friends. Her teachers are worried and send home notes expressing their concern. Her mother and the owner of the Hand attend meetings, at which they make appropriate comments and nod as if concerned. But behind the closed doors of their home, nothing changes.

  The girl bears no physical signs of the damage that is wrought upon her daily. The tool she knows as a dermal regenerator closes up the lacerations, fades the bruises. The broken bones are harder to disguise. Lies flow thickly: She’s so clumsy, she tripped on a toy and fell down the stairs. She’s such a tomboy, always playing in the trees.

  The girl keeps herself to herself. She does not raise her hand to answer questions, but frantically studies the information given and consistently makes the highest grades in the classroom. No one wants to play with her, and she does not invite such pastimes. No one wants to study with her. No one wants to be around her in any way, shape, or form. They do not know what they sense, these nine-year-old children, but it is as strong and as wrong as the stench of decay, and they avoid the girl completely.

  She scribbles in a journal, deleting each entry once it is written lest it be discovered by the owner of the Hand. She has fantasies of coming to her instructors, of telling what the Hand does to her, to her mother, but does not dare act.

  She reads the assignment dutifully, and writes her report as if her life depends upon it.

  Chapter

  8

  “WHAT?”

  Tom Paris seldom bellowed. He hadn’t liked it when his dad had bellowed when he was younger and disliked the sound of it even more coming through his own throat. But he was bellowing now, and he knew it, and frankly he didn’t give a damn.

  “I know how you must feel,” said B’Elanna as they stood together in their quarters on the Klingon ship. “But—”

  “No,” bellowed Tom, “no, you don’t know how I feel. Damn it, B’Elanna, we’ve only just gotten back! Our baby is exactly two weeks old today, and you want to go on some vision quest that claims the life of one out of every three pure-blooded Klingons who attempt it?”

  She bristled. “Are you saying because I’m only half-Klingon that I won’t be able to make it?”

  Tom sighed, his anger ebbing. Fear and frustration rushed instead to fill the void. “That’s not the point and you know it.”

  B’Elanna made an annoyed sound and fished around in the collar of her uniform. Removing a crumpled piece of parchment, she shoved it at him.

  “Read this,” she snapped. Curious, he read with dawning comprehension, and nodded when he had finished. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

  “I wish you’d said this at the beginning,” he said, handing the note back to her. “I hate it when we argue.”

  “So you understand.” She was visibly relieved.

  “Of course I do. It’ll also help me explain to Mom and Dad—”

  “No. I didn’t even want to tell you. You can’t tell anyone about the note.”

  Tom stared. “Why do we have to keep this secret?”

  She sighed. “You’re not supposed to have any but the purest motives when you accept the Challenge of Spirit.”

  “I’d say your goal is pretty pure.”

  “So would I, but I don’t think the priests would see it that way, and I don’t want to risk not getting permission to go.”

  “Hell, sweetheart, you’d go anyway.”

  She smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “Yeah, but it’d be a lot harder, and it’d cause a diplomatic incident.”

  “I’ll try to think of something to tell the folks. Maybe it’s some kind of rite of passage to honor your mother’s death or something.”

  “That sounds believable,” said Torres.

  “Please, please take care of yourself,” Tom said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he reached out and wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t know what Miral and I would do if anything happened to you.”

  He thought he saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “I will. I want to do this and come home and be a family. God, I’m going to miss you both so much.”

  Tom felt his throat getting tight. He swallowed past the lump. “I’m sure if you encounter any targs, they’ll think they’ve gotten the worst end of the bargain.”

  He bent and kissed her, tenderly but passionately. She was the one to break the kiss, stepping back and putting her hand on his chest.

  “I have to get back. Please take care of yourselves.”

  “Come home to us,” he whispered.

  “I will. I swear I will.”

  * * *

  “I simply cannot believe,” the Doctor said, for the umpteenth time, “that there are no crowds. Not even a groupie or two. No one from the press at all. I had my speeches all prepared, and—”

  “And even a list of sample questions for your interviews, I know,” said Barclay, a touch snappishly. “Doctor, as I’ve told you, I find it difficult to believe myself.
But there it is. Now will you please let me return to my work!”

  When the Doctor had first hinted that, now that Voyager was in dry dock, he no longer had a proper home, Reginald Barclay had leaped at the chance to host the Doctor. Of course, he still had his holographic emitter, and it was a matter of a few hours for Barclay to rig up a few emitters in his home. With his deep fascination with all things holographic, Barclay had thought himself the luckiest person alive when the Doctor had agreed to come live with him nearly a month ago. He didn’t understand the meaning of the glances that had been exchanged between various crew members when the Doctor had made the announcement, but now he did.

  He was a great man—well, he wasn’t exactly a man, of course, but he was great, nonetheless—and a towering intellect. Barclay had loved every minute of Photons Be Free and had run the simulation at least half a dozen times. But the Doctor was, well, on twenty-four hours a day. He didn’t sleep, and with no sickbay, he had nothing to occupy himself with. He was bored and a bit hurt by the perplexing lack of adulation he had been greeted with upon his return. Barclay had suffered agonies on the Doctor’s behalf, feeling his pain and frustration, but all his assurances that no one aboard Voyager was receiving the accolades they deserved fell on deaf ears. The Doctor felt slighted, and everyone was going to hear about it.

  “The only one who’s received any attention at all is Seven of Nine,” the Doctor went on, “and ironically, she despises it.” He sighed heavily. “Genius is never appreciated in its own time. Fortunately, I am eternal. I can afford to wait for the universe to recognize me.”

  “Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” said Barclay, turning around in his seat. “Why don’t you start another holonovel?”

  To his relief, the Doctor brightened visibly. “A sequel to Photons Be Free? Hmm. . . intriguing. But I think perhaps a sequel would weaken the impact.”