Homecoming

by Christie Golden

  Torres took a deep breath. “Computer,” she said, “put me through to Commander Logt.”

  In a heartbeat, Logt’s strong, attractive visage appeared. “B’Elanna Torres,” she said. “You received my message, then.”

  “I did,” Torres replied, “but I’m still confused. You said that we needed to talk about my mother, and that it is a matter of some urgency. What happened to her?”

  “First,” Logt said, “how much do you know about your mother’s recent activities?”

  Tired, nerves strained to the breaking point, B’Elanna snapped, “How the hell should I know anything? I’ve been lost in the Delta Quadrant for seven years!”

  Logt’s eyes flashed; then she opened a mouth full of sharp, jagged teeth and laughed. “So you are a Klingon after all! I was beginning to have my doubts. And you are right. I should have realized you would know nothing.”

  Although the commander had conceded that Torres’s point was valid, somehow B’Elanna felt as though she’d just been insulted. Tom’s hand gently squeezed her shoulder and she bit back the angry retort. She took a deep breath and said, “I have only just returned. Please. Tell me about my mother.”

  “She came here to Boreth about a year after your ship had been deemed lost,” said Logt.

  “Boreth?” Torres was confused. “It’s a spiritual community, not a military outpost. What is a commander doing there?”

  Logt sat up straighter, and for the first time Torres noticed the baldric that draped from her right shoulder to the left side of the waist. It was red and gold. This was one of the emperor’s personal guards.

  “His Excellency Kahless wished a small military presence here,” Logt said. “It is a high honor indeed.”

  Torres was certain it was, but she was also equally certain that it annoyed a military officer no end to be stationed in such a peaceful place. She hoped Logt wasn’t chafing under the “honor.” Even though she had distanced herself from all things Klingon, B’Elanna remembered well the commotion that Kahless’s return had caused. The clone created by the priests of Boreth was not the mighty warrior returned from the dead, that much was true. But apparently he had Kahless’s wisdom and dignity, and would hold the seat of emperor until the real Kahless returned to claim it. Of course he’d have an honor guard stationed at the most holy site in his empire.

  “I should have recognized your position,” Torres said. “Please continue.”

  Logt nodded, accepting the compliment graciously. “Miral wished to immerse herself in honoring Kahless, to petition him to bring her daughter safely home. She was a supplicant, as all are supplicants, but at one point she fell into a deep dream state. She awoke having had a vision of you, B’Elanna. She did not share the details, but she was determined to honor Kahless for the vision and went on the Challenge of Spirit.”

  A little ashamed of her ignorance, Torres said, “I’m not familiar with that.”

  “You chose a human life,” said Logt, clearly trying not to sound contemptuous but largely failing. “You might be more familiar with the human term ‘vision quest.’”

  Torres nodded. “I do know that term,” she said. “One goes out into the wilderness and scorns food and water, seeking an altered state in order to receive a vision.”

  “It is a bit more with us,” Logt said. “One pushes oneself to the limit of physical endurance. One uses ancient techniques to make weapons to slay one’s food and fend off attacks, to make clothing and find shelter. It is a true test of the Klingon spirit. To endure so for a few months bestows great honor. To last a full year in the wild, with only one’s wits and courage, is worthy of a great ceremony.”

  A sinking feeling came over B’Elanna. “My mother. . . she never returned, did she?”

  The harsh visage softened. “No,” Logt said, quietly. “She did not.”

  Torres swallowed hard. She remembered every moment of her own vision of the Barge of the Dead. She hadn’t been sure what to call it—a dream, a hallucination, an active imagination working overtime. Now she felt the first tremblings of true belief. Her mother had had a vision of connecting with her at about the same time as B’Elanna’s own experience. She knew what Chakotay would say: Mother and daughter had shared a vision. Could it be possible? Was this more than a coincidence? Torres had never thought of herself as mystical and had in fact had to bite her tongue whenever Chakotay waxed eloquent about his personal spirituality. The one time she’d attempted to enter his world, she had tried to kill her animal guide. No, the ethereal realms of mystery and magic were not anywhere B’Elanna Torres had been inclined to travel.

  But now . . . .

  She had clung to the final words spoken by her mother: In Sto-Vo-Kor. . . or maybe. . . when you get home. She blinked back quick tears. It would seem that Sto-Vo-Kor, after all, would be the only place she would see her mother again.

  She felt Tom’s hand still warm on her shoulder. She was so grateful for him, for little Miral. Torres cleared her throat.

  “I am thankful that you felt telling me my mother’s fate so important,” she said. “But I am confused. I don’t see how it’s urgent.”

  “Our tradition dictates that if a seeker is deemed lost on the Challenge of Spirit, her earthly possessions are to be destroyed within a certain time after the seeker is declared lost to Sto-Vo-Kor. That time is rapidly approaching. I thought perhaps you would wish to claim what she left with us before it is hurled into the ritual fire of cleansing.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Torres. She didn’t care what it was, clothing, toiletries, even the most mundane items would have meaning for her. “Yes, I would.”

  “Then you need to be here in five days at the most,” said Logt.

  “Five days—I can’t possibly—”

  “B’Elanna,” said Tom, speaking quietly into her ear, “my father can pull some strings if he needs to.”

  “And His Excellency has offered to see to it that you reach Boreth in time,” said Logt, startling both Tom and B’Elanna.

  “Kahless cares about what happens to my mother’s stuff?”

  “He does. Miral sought an audience with him before she left on her Challenge, to share her vision with him. Apparently, he was quite impressed. A vessel is standing by at this moment to take you to Boreth.”

  “Give me a half hour,” said Torres.

  “I will meet you at the holy site upon your arrival,” said Logt. She pressed a button and the transmission ended.

  “Wow,” said Tom. “That doesn’t give us very long to get ready.”

  B’Elanna turned in her chair to look up at her husband and daughter. She extended a finger and ran it gently along the protruding ridges along Miral’s oh-so-Klingon forehead. She was so glad now that the Doctor had prevented her from changing a single thing. Her daughter was beautiful, perfect. A fierce tide of love swept through her, both for the infant and the man who had sired her.

  “Thank you for coming with me,” she said. “I would have hated to have to leave you so soon.”

  “Hey,” said Tom, gently, “you don’t get rid of this cute little bundle of responsibility that easily, you know. Or Miral either,” he added, jokingly.

  She smiled, then sobered. “It could take a while,” she said. “Who knows what kind of ritual they’ll make me do. They may not even let non-Klingons on the planet.”

  “I’ve got nothing but free time until I’m reassigned, and all Miral has to do is grow and be healthy and loved. You just make sure we’ve got nice quarters on that ship and we’ll be fine.” He touched her cheek. “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere.”

  She knew he knew how much his words meant to her, and she felt a lump in her throat as she reached one hand out to her husband, the other to her sleeping child.

  Chapter

  6

  JANEWAY STOOD LOOKING around at her austere, clean apartment. She was partly amused, partly despairing. This new place was waiting for her in San Francisco, courtesy of Starfleet Command. All the
senior staff had been offered that option. Some had declined, others accepted. For the moment, Janeway had said yes, and was now doing her best to decorate it with the furniture and knickknacks her mother had recovered when she had been given up for lost. They had stayed in the attic in the house in Indiana, and now they looked rumpled and pitiful in the gleaming Starfleet-provided apartment. Janeway sighed. The banquet had run late—no one had wanted to leave, to really say good-bye—and she knew she ought to be getting to bed.

  The door chimed. “Come,” she said, surprised—who knew she was here, and who would call at this hour?—and turned to greet her first visitor.

  The door hissed open, and Mark Johnson stood there.

  For a moment, she didn’t breathe. “Hello, Kathryn,” he said gently. “I hope it was all right for me to come. I spoke with your mother and she seemed to think so.”

  “Mark,” she said, recovering. “Yes, of course. It’s so good to see you.”

  He held out his arms and she went to him. Even as she laid her head on his chest, she saw the light wink against the simple gold band on his left finger. She knew he’d gotten married, and oddly, she felt no pain at the thought. Only pleasure that he had found someone, again, to love. He was a good and gentle man, and deserved it.

  “I’m so glad you’re home,” he said, his breath on her hair. They pulled apart, and Janeway saw that his eyes, too, were filled with tears.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, stepping away. “Can I make you some coffee?” she asked, and then had a brief moment of distress when she realized that she didn’t know where the replicator was in this new place.

  “No, thanks. Hang on—I’ve got something of yours I need to return to you.”

  While he was gone, Janeway took the opportunity to recover. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him. More correctly, she hadn’t let herself realize how much she had missed him. But now, seeing him after all this time, feeling him warm and strong against her—

  “Stop it, Kathryn,” she told herself in a low voice. “No sense wasting energy on could-have-beens.” And yet, it was difficult.

  A dog’s bark shattered her thoughts and she turned. Sitting beside Mark in the front room, a little heavier than she remembered and graying around the muzzle, was Molly.

  “Oh, Molly!” she called, kneeling and opening her arms to the animal. Molly looked up uncertainly at Mark, then back at Janeway. The Irish setter tilted her head quizzically.

  Janeway forced a smile through the pain. Of course Molly wouldn’t remember her. It had been seven years. She straightened and laughed uncomfortably.

  “That was a little foolish, I suppose,” she said. “You’ve been her master for most of her life.”

  Mark smiled his easy, comfortable smile. “Hey, I’ve only been dog-sitting. She’s always been yours. I can tell you who took the puppies, if you’d like to know. Everyone was so excited about your return. They feel like they own a celebrity dog. They’d be honored if you’d visit.”

  “Maybe I will,” she said, though in truth, she thought she probably wouldn’t. She didn’t know those dogs, those people. So much had changed. “Keep her, Mark. You’ve loved her and taken care of her for seven years. She’s your dog, now.”

  He seemed about to argue, then took a long look at her and nodded. That, at least, hadn’t changed. He knew her so well. He always had been able to see through her bravado. It was that quality that had made her fall in love with him in the first place.

  She sat on the couch that clashed horribly with the surroundings and indicated that he do likewise. Molly, relaxed and calm, began to sniff Janeway’s still-packed things.

  They sat, stiffly. There were only a few inches of distance between them, but it might as well have been kilometers. Neither spoke for a while.

  Finally, Mark broke the uncomfortable silence. “Kathryn, this is awkward. For both of us. You know that if I believed you were alive and coming home, I’d have waited.”

  “Of course I do,” she said swiftly. “You did nothing wrong, Mark. I’d have done the same thing.”

  He looked haunted. “Would you? I wonder. It’s just—Kathryn, we were friends long before we were anything else. I have always admired and respected you, and that hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s grown. You’re. . . amazing to me. I think about you every day. Carla understands how important a person you were in my life. I’d like for you to continue to be in my life as it is now, with Carla and Kevin.”

  “Kevin?”

  “Our son.” He laughed. “He’s a petty tyrant, but we love him. I’d like for him to get to know his Aunt Kathryn.” His eyes were somber. “Will he?”

  There was no question in her mind, only happiness. She extended her left hand. He took it, squeezed it. “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t miss being a part of that for the universe, Mark.”

  And for the first time since he’d walked back into her life, the ghost and shadows around his eyes lifted, and he smiled from his heart.

  * * *

  She had dinner with the Johnsons the following night, and after a few strained minutes, Janeway found herself feeling right at home. The toddler Kevin was indeed a petty tyrant, but all was forgiven when he smiled. Not even Naomi Wildman had been so cute at that tender age.

  Mark’s wife Carla was a lovely woman. She was a little younger than Janeway or Mark, with a sharp brain, a cheerful grin, and an easy manner that Janeway responded to immediately. Molly was obviously well loved and looked after, and as the evening progressed she seemed to remember Janeway a little bit more. It felt good.

  A brief crisis came when Carla, who had tried to actually bake a soufflé, yelped in the kitchen. She stuck her head out. “Mark, Kathryn. . . I’m so sorry. The dessert is a total disaster. I should have replicated it. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “Carla, it’s all right. I’m so full from your delicious dinner that I probably wouldn’t have done it justice anyway,” Janeway said. It was no lie; her stomach was straining.

  Carla seemed unduly distressed by the fallen soufflé. Janeway sensed it was more than just a failed dessert. Mark suggested that they take coffee outside. It was a balmy summer evening, and the Johnsons lived in the country. Janeway eased back in her chair and inhaled the redolent scents of roses and grass. Mark had gone in to get them each a second cup of coffee, and Carla took the opportunity to be blunt.

  “I was quite jealous, you know,” she said, cutting to the chase.

  Janeway looked over at the younger woman. “Really?”

  She nodded her head earnestly. “Really. It was always Kathryn this, Kathryn that. He had such a great relationship with you that it was like you were always present, even when it was just the two of us.”

  Janeway put her elbows on the table and regarded the young woman intently. “I’m no threat to you, Carla.”

  “Oh!” Carla’s eyes flew wide. “Oh, Kathryn, no, that’s not what I meant! I meant that you seemed like such a wonderful person that I was jealous of Mark for having been so close to you. I wished I’d known you, too. I wished I’d had a Kathryn Janeway to go to with all my problems. And now—well, look at you! You’re a hero, and my house is a mess and my soufflé fell!”

  No wonder Mark had fallen in love with this beautiful woman. What a generous spirit she had. On impulse, Janeway rose and embraced her. Carla enthusiastically returned the hug. Mark returned with two steaming mugs of coffee and grinned at the sight.

  “You’re a lucky man, Mark Johnson,” said Janeway, pulling apart a little way from Carla. The younger woman’s eyes shone with pleasure.

  “Yes,” he said, looking from one of them to the other. “Yes, I certainly am.”

  * * *

  She hadn’t wanted to leave, and it was clear that Mark and Carla didn’t want her to, either. They even offered her the guest bedroom as the night grew late and threw in a tempting offer of homemade waffles for breakfast, but she declined. When she transported out, to rematerialize in the strange,
unfamiliar apartment, Janeway wished she had accepted their generous invitation. Tonight, with Mark and her new, wonderful friend Carla, was the first time she felt really “at home.”

  As she puttered about, delaying getting into the strange bed, she realized what it was that made her so reluctant to claim this space as her own. She missed Voyager. She missed the sounds of the vessel, the feel of the chairs and the bed, the wide starfield that she would often gaze at for a long time before finally drifting off into a restless sleep.

  It was late, almost two in the morning. Yet, she sat down and tapped the small viewscreen on the table. The sound would be soft, she knew. If he didn’t want to answer, he wouldn’t have to. No insistent combadges, not anymore.

  His face appeared on the screen. Like her, he was fully dressed and seemed wide awake. “Hi,” he said, smiling.

  “Hi,” she said feeling her own lips stretch into a grin.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” asked Chakotay.

  “Nope.”

  “Funny, me neither.”

  “Too quiet. No Borg attacks at all.”

  “Know what you mean. And no starfields to go to sleep by.”

  She shook her head.

  “Want to come over for some coffee?” he asked.

  “The real stuff?”

  “But of course. That’s half the reason we came home, isn’t it?” His smile faded slightly.

  “What is it?” Janeway asked. Over the last seven years, she had learn to recognize every expression that flitted over that dark, handsome face.

  “I’m planning on taking a trip shortly,” he said. “A very important one. I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me.”

  * * *

  Seven felt awkward sitting doing nothing in the shuttle. She was more used to piloting them than being a passenger in them, and the nervousness the young ensign displayed only added to her discomfort.