When he arrived, Tom discovered she’d gone out, which surprised him considering that the last time he’d seen her—ten minutes ago—she’d been sound asleep. On his way to toss the gagh pie into the recycler, he noticed the message light on the console flashing red.
“Computer, play message.”
“Tom—sorry I missed you. Maybe we can do dinner? I decided I needed some exercise, so I took off for the holodeck. It was great…being with you last night. I really missed you.”
Tom sat down on the edge of the bed. Something was up with B’Elanna. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was like she was there only half the time. The other half? She went somewhere else. Except when they made love last night. She’d been there. But even that was different, because she was the one who wanted to play rough. When she got hurt, broke her arm in two places totally by accident, she hadn’t even wanted to fix it at first. It was only after Tom threatened to emergency transport her to sickbay—in the nude—that she agreed to let him repair the bone. And now she was in the holodeck. Again. She’d gone there straight after the Doctor released her from sickbay, claiming she needed to unwind while Tom and Harry were debriefed….
When she returned, he’d ply her with some pepperoni pizza and a merlot he’d been saving for a special occasion and see if he could get her to open up. He loved her, though he probably didn’t tell her that enough, and her happiness meant everything to him. Whatever it took, they’d get through this, and the next thing and whatever came after that. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He slid into the chair by B’Elanna’s workstation. “Computer, open file Paris Proton One.”
“Paris Proton One is now open.”
Pulling up the character specs, he examined them with an eye to which one would be a good fit for B’Elanna. That Arachnia…now, she’s a hot one. B’Elanna in high heels? A smile plastered on his face, Tom went to work.
The Doctor finished the last of Crewman Chell’s diagnostics and sent the Bolian on his way. A series of culinary catastrophes had led Chell to believe that he suffered from a neurological ailment that made him clumsy. The Doctor had the unfortunate task of informing Chell that eye-hand coordination wasn’t the problem: inadequate cooking skills were. He admonished the Bolian to take a few holo-courses in basic cooking technique before he again attempted to cross-train with Neelix.
A quick review of the computer queue revealed that there were no more diagnostics or tests pending. Lieutenant Torres would return at the beginning of alpha shift for a checkup, but if her surliness at their last meeting was an indication, her health was markedly improved. Oh—that’s interesting. Lieutenant Nakano wants to start Starfleet’s pre-med courses, the Doctor thought. Pleasant enough girl. Would be nice to have someone other than Mr. Paris around.
The chuff-chuff-chuff of the air circulating through sickbay, disturbed by the occasional bleep or burble from the computers, was not companionable.
He drummed his fingers against the console, considering what self-improvement project he could tackle next. Not in the mood for learning another opera libretto, he considered sculpture, horticulture…All of it seemed like much ado about nothing. He hadn’t glanced at Shakespeare lately, though he had enjoyed playing Bendick last round and Beatrice—
Kes had been Beatrice. And she had done a lovely job. Stumbled a bit over the iambic pentameter but who didn’t the first time. By the end, she’d really gotten the hang of it.
The Doctor didn’t want to add another skill to his formidable list: he wanted companionship, and not just the programmable kind he could find in one of Mr. Paris’s holodeck scenarios.
He missed Kes. Opening her eyes to knowledge and experience, the way he now did for Naomi Wildman, and sharing her excitement as she learned something new. He missed her stories, her kind, thoughtful ways with the patients. Filling his time with self-improvement regimens (he was already an expert at everything) didn’t satisfy him the way it once had. If it meant he could be with Kes again, the Doctor would consider returning to Ocampa and inhabiting Ced’s body again with all its creaking joints, aching muscles, and decidedly limited processing speed.
Or maybe not. He liked being a hologram.
But Kes…there was no question in his mind that missing her was what ailed him. Sighing deeply (and missing the satisfactory feeling of release that accompanied the exhalation of air out of the lungs), he tipped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Counting the plates didn’t help alleviate his mopeyness, because his visual sensors calculated the total as soon as the thought crossed his mind. He was even an expert at being bored.
The Doctor sat in his chair for a long time, contemplating. Wallowing was not a suitable option. Pushing off the desk, he stood up, clasped his hands, and looked around sickbay, searching for a way to be useful. Mr. Neelix had been pilfering equipment again. Replicating and organizing should take him awhile, especially since Mr. Paris had begged off working a sickbay shift until B’Elanna was “back on her feet.” Teamwork tended to make laborious chores go faster, a truism he had learned with Kes.
As he cleared partly used and empty ointment tubes, he whistled. He must have heard the song before though he couldn’t recall where. The strangely atonal melody—hardly pleasing to the ear—wasn’t typical of his taste, but he found it familiar, comforting. It came back to him: he whistled the song of the strings.
The memory of standing before the orchestra pit, leading hundreds of string instruments was not an unpleasant one, especially now that he knew how the story ended. As he imagined himself conducting the music, guiding the instruments in the song of the strings, he heard a husky alto voice singing the counterpoint to the strings’ melody. The strands of music wove together, creating a harmony so lush that he wanted to weep for the beauty of it. How long he stood before the cabinet, lost in the daydream of Exosia.
The rhythmic click of boot heels against the deck plating alerted him to a visitor. Holding up a hand, he said, “A moment.” He closed his eyes, allowing the harmonies to decrescendo into silence.
The Doctor quickly assumed his finest clinical posture. “What may I do for you today—” he said, turning. “Ah. Seven. Need an implant tweak. Human physiology competing with your Borg physiology?”
“Not at this time.” She tipped her head thoughtfully. “Commander Chakotay asked me to deliver the complete casualty report during the time of your absence. He said something about ‘not entrusting it to the main database’ and requested that once you’ve retrieved the information, that you clear this padd’s memory.”
“Oh,” the Doctor said, and scrolled through the data. “I’ll let Commander Chakotay know that you did as he asked.” The data became part of his matrix within seconds, as always.
She continued to stand beside him, implacable as ever.
“Is there anything else, Seven?”
“I perceive”—she wrinkled her forehead—“a degree of irritability in your matrix. Perhaps it was damaged when you were away from the ship?”
His first inclination was to tell her she was misinformed, but then he thought differently. “You might have a point there. I’d appreciate it if you’d help me run a diagnostic.”
“Preserving efficiency is paramount,” Seven said. “I shall return tomorrow after you have had time to finish your assessment of sickbay.”
She’d made it three steps before the Doctor stopped her. He wouldn’t stoop so low.
“My matrix is fine, Seven. I just wanted”—he loathed admitting this—“company.”
“You wanted me to keep you company? To make—small talk.”
“Yes, isn’t that what I just said?!” the Doctor snapped. Asking Seven to socialize would be like attempting to make meaningful conversation with the replicator: a bad idea on all fronts. Worse, however, was the humiliation of having to grovel. He wished she’d leave. Take her cat-suited self and vamoose!
Seven paused, clearly contemplating a response. “At present, I have no pressing duties. I
can remain here.”
Taken aback, the Doctor did a double take. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I don’t need your sympathy.”
“And I have none to give. I’ve learned in recent weeks that my social skills are lacking and if I am to make a meaningful contribution to this crew, I need to master some of these niceties that are alien to Borg experience.”
“I concur, Seven. It shows how much progress you’ve made that you are capable of recognizing your own shortcomings.” He indicated that Seven should be seated at a nearby workstation.
Linking her hands in her lap, she looked at him expectantly.
“Well…” the Doctor began.
“Yes?”
The Doctor blinked, considered what to say next, and drew a blank.
Seven shifted a few times, adjusting her position in her chair, and sighed.
Uncomfortable silence filled the space between them.
It shouldn’t have to be this difficult! the Doctor thought, resisting the impulse to shoo Seven out of sickbay. What form of delusion—or desperation—had overtaken him that would make him believe that this hyperrational former drone could be a friend? And to take Kes’s place? A faint faraway refrain beckoned. Oh, how he wanted to recapture that feeling of being connected to something greater than himself, to become part of the music once again…
Seven arched her eyebrows, took a deep, but quiet breath, and said, “Is there a topic you would like to discuss? I haven’t prepared anything, and I doubt my dilithium efficiency research is of much interest to you.”
The Doctor bit back his initial, decidedly sarcastic response, and glanced over at Seven. Her wide blue eyes watched him intently. She was trying. Which is more than I can say for myself, he thought, stinging from the realization. Her clumsy attempt at conversation came from a place of childlike trust, and he had nearly verbally bludgeoned her for not being facile or fascinating enough. I don’t deserve a friend. I should surrender due to my own incompet—He paused. Perhaps it was the tilt of her head or the way the light glinted off her blond hair, but he was reminded, if only for a moment…
“I must confess that dilithium efficiency has little bearing on the workings of sickbay,” the Doctor said, smiling kindly at Seven, lest she feel foolish for suggesting the topic. “I have thought, however, that you might benefit from knowing more about Voyager’s recent history. For example…How much do you know about Kes?”
The music began anew.
Epilogue
Three years later
When she had lived on this world, she knew only two sides of its personality: sunlight and darkness. The landscape never changed, for without water or seasons only the wind was left to gnaw away at the rocks and stir the sands. The land had died a thousand years ago, the complex web of interconnected life-forms shattered. Her people would have become extinct along with the animals and plants that once flourished in this sterile place had the consciences of their destroyers not been stirred.
Standing on the sandstone plateau, looking out past the red rock canyons to the horizon, she watched pale pink be washed away by pale blue. Sprigs of stars glittered to life. Since leaving this place, she had come to know those stars, their lives, and deaths: they had names that she knew and called them by. She had become so much more than the child who fought her way to the surface. She had fulfilled nearly every dream she had ever had. How many among the billions of lives in the universe could say the same? And yet, for all she had seen and done, she longed to return to the beginning, to the people she loved.
Upon her arrival home, she had observed her people from a distance and had discovered that they had made tentative steps toward self-sufficiency. This pleased her. The Caretaker’s gift of energy had been consumed, but her people had risen to the occasion and had found a way to ensure ongoing survival, however meager. Soon, they would break through to the surface and find a new world that she would help her child create. One final task awaited her before she could give herself fully to her people’s cause. She needed to become whole as well as free another.
She had taken only a few steps toward the cave entrance when he walked forward and greeted her with a deep bow.
“I knew my work would someday be your work,” her child said. “Your wanderings have brought you home. Welcome.”
When she’d seen him last, he had opened the gateway and invited his father’s kindred to pass into a new life. By so doing, he’d fulfilled the first of two purposes he’d been created for. He’d matured in appearance since then, his features etched with wisdom and compassion. Seeing him now, on this world where he was born, she couldn’t help but remember the baby she had carried with the help of another. She also remembered his father. How like him he was!
“She has waited for you too,” he said. “So she could rest at last.” From out of the shadows, he guided the frail, broken body that had carried the child, a body that still contained a part of her life force, her other self. Because of the connection between them, she knew that experience had not been kind to this missing part of her.
She knew that the other self, feeling only fury, had recently directed it against Voyager. She had wrought havoc, caused sorrow. Janeway, in the end, had shown mercy and asked Kes’s other self to remain with the crew. Perhaps sensing her incomplete journey, her other self had chosen to return home.
Just as I have, she thought. What is it about home that continually pulls us back? Gathering her other self into her arms, she promised: We will become whole again.
Gazing upon the child she had helped create, she understood, in part, why she needed to return. She wanted to bear witness to his fulfilling his other purpose, the promise made to renew this world.
“I have a gift for you, Mother.”
Kes smiled.
“Look at the sky.”
She lifted her head, felt the chill in the air, a breath of wind and—
Rain fell on Ocampa.
THE END
Acknowledgments
There are two people who made sure this book was written.
First, and most importantly, Kirsten Beyer, who did everything short of cowriting the book, was there from the outline’s beginnings through the last frantic week of rewrites. I survived the detours and disasters along the way because Kirsten kept a cool head and clear perspective. She is one of my dearest friends, and I look forward to the day when we can be old ladies hanging out in Palm Springs. She has been a fabulous writing partner since the beginning of this Star Trek journey.
Second, my sister Laurie who, by not being there, saved the day. Laurie and her husband offered their home for me to use while they were on vacation. Were it not for the hours spent sitting at her kitchen counter or in my brother-in-law’s den with my laptop, this book would have “written by Kirsten Beyer” on the cover. The presence of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition nearby was a definite plus, since it kept my daughters entertained for hours on end.
There are many others who deserve mention: Jeff Lang for leading off the trilogy in brilliant fashion as well as bringing the funny; Mikaela Dufur for bringing the ice cream and the Café Rio pulled-pork salads; Susannah and Bethany for the Comic Con swag and friendship. My editor, Marco Palmieri, was a good sport along the way and deserves big thanks for his continuing faith in me.
Writing this book was a rough outing for my family. We learned that summer deadlines don’t work very well for us. In spite of this, all the girls were good sports about the long days, the heat, and their mother’s generally crabby mood. My husband, as usual, was the backbone of my life.
In no particular order, the following deserve thanks or acknowledgments for their role in providing either inspiration or sanity: Jane Austen, Coldplay, Veronica Mars, J. K. Rowling and Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Toyota, Battlestar Galactica on Sci Fi, In-and-Out Burger, podcasts, and Gilmore Girls on DVD.
And finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the creative forces behind Star Trek: Voyager, especially Jeri Taylor and t
he stellar cast, who gave us a fun sandbox to play in. Tremendous kudos need to go to the Voyager fans who have stuck by these characters through the years, in spite of perpetually, in the paraphrased words of a famous comedian, “getting no respect.” I spent many years in Voyager fandom in the company of such great folks as Jim “Reviewboy” Wright, M. C. Moose, Jamelia, D’Alaire, Katie Redshoes, Marianne “Lil’ Cheese,” and Dangermom Patti Heyes. They always encouraged me to pursue my writing and supported me through all my early endeavors. They deserve a huge thank-you for the gift of their inspiration and their friendship.
About the Author
Heather Jarman lives in Portland, Oregon, where she supplements her day job as a tired mommy with her writing career. Her most recent contributions to the Star Trek fiction include “The Officers’ Club,” the Kira Nerys story in Tales from the Captain’s Table, and Paradigm, the Andor novel in Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Volume One.
By night Heather flies to distant lands on black ops missions for the government, where she frequently breaks open industrial-strength cans of whupass on evildoers.
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