Homecoming

by Christie Golden

  One is about to embark on a journey that will test one’s mettle, wits, courage, and faith in the dark places. It is a trial of the highest sort, and if one fails, then Black Jaguar will exact Her punishment. And if one succeeds, great good will come about, for the journeyer and the world.

  Chakotay stared at Her, his heart cold in his chest. She met his gaze evenly, then flopped back on Her warm rock. Now do you see why you ought to fully live the moment, Chakotay? With so much ahead of you, you’d better take your sun-moments where you can.

  “Chakotay.” He stirred. “Chakotay, wake up. You were talking in your sleep.”

  He opened his eyes to see Sekaya’s concerned face peering down at him. Bolting upright, he looked around frantically. There was, of course, no sign of Black Jaguar. She lived in the Spirit World, not here.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “just the remnants of a dream.” He turned to her and grinned, doing his utmost to fully and truly embrace Black Jaguar’s last words. He knew that it was time to return to the world he had temporarily left behind.

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m hungry. Let’s go find some pineapple.”

  * * *

  Chakotay figured he probably shouldn’t do this.

  In fact, he was certain that he shouldn’t. But the words, if one could call them that, of Black Jaguar echoed in his mind. He needed to live, not brood and ponder and hide and think. So after saying farewell to his tranquil mother and his lively, vibrant sister, Chakotay returned to San Francisco. There was always a friend or two he could look up, and maybe Kathryn might want to get together for dinner as they once did. While having coffee with his old friend Sveta, he asked if he could use the computer. She arched an eyebrow and he had to laugh. Sveta knew, of course, whom he wanted to talk to.

  “Sure that’s such a good idea? Sounded like she didn’t want to hear from you, from what I saw at the banquet.”

  “No, I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” replied Chakotay. “But it’s what I want to do. She needs to know that just because we’re not involved or interacting on a daily basis doesn’t mean I don’t want to continue being her friend. I liked and respected her before we became. . . before. I still do.”

  “You are the only man I know of who can really say that and mean it,” said Sveta admiringly. “I hope she accepts the olive branch. Your friendship is something to be cherished, Chakotay.”

  He extended a hand and she clasped it; then she left him alone and went to brew another pot of coffee. He sat down at her desk and took a deep breath, then gave the computer the proper instructions.

  Irene Hansen’s cheerful, wrinkled face appeared on the screen. Before he could introduce himself, she chuckled.

  “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, Commander Chakotay, but I knew I’d know that tattoo when I saw it. How are you, young man?”

  Any anxiety he had been feeling abated in front of that comfortable smile. “Very well, Ms. Hansen. And how are you?”

  “Glorious!” she enthused. “The weather’s lovely and I’m making strawberry shortcake. Maybe you can stop over and have a bite. Got some real cream to whip too.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Perhaps I’ll take you up on that; it sounds delicious. May I speak to Seven?”

  “Just a minute.” Irene disappeared from the viewscreen. “Annika, honey, that nice Chakotay wants to talk to you.”

  Chakotay couldn’t help himself. He started laughing. He was still laughing when Seven’s beautiful face appeared on the screen. Her eyes were bright and her lips were parted in a smile.

  “I apologize for my aunt,” she said, and even as she spoke he saw the cool mask slip down over the face of the laughing girl.

  Anxious to recapture the moment, Chakotay said, “Don’t. She is, as they used to say, quite a card. I like her.”

  Seven smiled, fleetingly, shyly. “I do as well. How are you faring?”

  “I’m all right. I wanted to see how you were adjusting.”

  She seemed to ponder the question. “I am well. Aunt Irene has been . . . .” She hesitated, groping for the word.

  “Fun?”

  She smiled. “Yes. She has been fun. I have been acquiring new skills, such as preparing foodstuffs and repairing defective items.”

  “You mean, learning how to cook and fix things around the house.”

  “I believe I said precisely that.”

  He looked at her and saw a twinkle in her eye and realized with surprise that she was teasing him. He was delighted. It seemed as though this genial aunt was a profoundly humanizing influence. Perhaps she’d been right, after all. Perhaps she needed to learn from others, strike out on her own, to develop her human personality. Who was Seven of Nine when she was on Earth? They both needed to know that, and the only way to discover it was for her to do exactly what she was doing.

  “You were starting to become a pretty good chef yourself back on Voyager,” he reminded her. “I’m sure you have some recipes to share with your aunt.”

  “She excels at baking, a skill I have yet to acquire. But you are correct. We have been learning from one another.”

  “It’s good to see you,” he said honestly. “I’m so pleased to hear you’re doing so well.”

  Her smile faltered.

  “Not so well?”

  She hesitated, then said, “I am glad to be able to talk to you. There is something happening that puzzles me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Recently I have been experiencing a sensation of—”

  In the distance, Chakotay heard noises. He caught a few words uttered in a deep male voice: “Starfleet order. . . don’t interfere. . . please, ma’am. . . ” and Irene’s responses: “proper authorization. . . wait, you can’t go in there . . . .”

  Seven’s blond head whipped around and he saw her stiffen, saw her almost physically don the armor that had helped her to “adapt” to life among humans. “Who’s there?”

  “Seven, what’s going on?” Chakotay asked, hearing his own voice deepen and adopt the timbre of command.

  She rose, not responding, and he could see only her long, slim torso as she turned to face whoever had entered the room. “This is a private home,” she stated. “What is your authorization to enter?”

  “Please don’t resist,” came a voice. “We just want you to come in for questioning.”

  “Questioning? About what?” Seven’s voice was haughty.

  “This is Commander Chakotay. What’s going on?”

  A face appeared in front of the screen. For a moment, Chakotay stared into the green eyes of a grim-faced man dressed in Starfleet mustard, gray, and black. Then the screen went dark.

  Chakotay swore, something he did not often do, and immediately put in a call to Kathryn. Her face, when it appeared on the screen, was as angry as he had ever seen it.

  “So you know,” he said without preamble.

  “I do,” she replied grimly. “They can’t hold him for long, though. At least I hope not. I’m trying—”

  “Him?” Chakotay exclaimed. “Starfleet just barged into Irene Hansen’s house and arrested Seven of Nine.”

  Now it was her turn to stare. “Seven? What the—For the last two days I’ve been pulling every string I can think of to get the Doctor released. He’s been taken in for questioning about this hologram strike. Surely they don’t think Seven was connected with this?”

  “I don’t know what they think. I only know they’ve taken her.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Where can I contact you?”

  “Give me two minutes and I’ll be right there with you—if that’s all right.”

  “Better than all right,” she replied promptly. Her face was set in a defiant expression that was quite familiar to him. “I feel sorry for anyone having to deal with the two of us when we’ve got our dander up.”

  Despite the direness of the situation, he grinned. The smile faded as her image did, and his thoughts turned to his vision
of Black Jaguar.

  Her appearance betokened a journey into darkness, a trial both powerful and frightening. Disaster awaited failure, but great good would come about with success.

  He wished he’d had another day or two of lying on a sun-warmed rock.

  * * *

  When Sam, Tim, and Andre fell into step beside Icheb, he smiled happily.

  “Hey guys, how’s it going?” He was pleased with himself for remembering the casual phrase so often used as a greeting among the cadets. It was one of many things he’d had to learn as part of his adaptation to life as a Starfleet Academy student.

  The four of them and Eshe had become almost inseparable. Over the last month they ate out together, studied together, and would have roomed together if they’d been able to. Icheb had never really had any friends to speak of. Naomi came close, but although she was highly intelligent for her age, she was still emotionally much younger than he. Seven was a friend of a sort, but more of a big sister. These were his compatriots and confidants. Finally, he belonged.

  With Eshe, the relationship was starting to become more than friendship. Only the day before yesterday, when they said good night after an evening of studying, she had reached up to him, stroked his pale cheek with her dark hand, and brought her lips to his. The sensation was new but quite pleasant. She pulled away and smiled up at him, and then it was his turn to reach for her.

  His friends remained silent. Icheb recalled a pastime that was popular among cadets and introduced the subject. “Does anyone wish to consume pizza this—”

  He paused in midsentence, looking at the expressions on the faces around him, his certainty as to the appropriateness of his comments faltering. That had been one of the hardest things for him to learn. As a Borg, there had been no need to communicate through facial expressions or tone of voice. All was known, all was shared. He had had to learn that upturned lips on nearly every humanoid species meant pleasure, that water coming from the eyes meant distress, that drawn-together eyebrows meant anger. Now he looked from one of his friends to the other, trying to decipher their emotions.

  They had come to a halt beside a small copse of trees on the ground. Eshe now stepped out from behind one. Icheb looked at her curiously. Her eyes were red and her face was more serious than he had ever seen it.

  “Icheb,” she said, her voice flat, “you have to answer some questions.”

  “I do not understand,” he said. “What is it you wish to know?”

  Tim snorted. His face was flushed and his breathing was heavy. It distressed Icheb when those he cared about were troubled. Tim was the weakest student among them; perhaps he was not doing well in a class.

  “Like you don’t know,” he snarled.

  “Truly, Tim, I do not.”

  Eshe sighed. “Maybe he really doesn’t, Tim.”

  Tim looked away. “Of course he does. He’s got to. My dad got a message today.” His voice was as flat as Eshe’s. “I wasn’t supposed to know about it. No one is, but he can’t keep something like this quiet forever. So I heard all about it. Borg.”

  The way he said the last word unsettled Icheb. “That is an incorrect term, Tim. You know I am no longer a member of the collective.”

  “Icheb,” said Eshe, “listen. We’ve—we’ve heard something. We want to know what you have to do with it.”

  “With what?” Icheb asked. He stumbled forward suddenly. Andre had shoved him! Icheb whirled, staring at his friend’s face. “Andre, why did you do that?”

  “My aunt was killed at Wolf 359, you bastard!” Andre cried. His voice was thick and Icheb realized his friend was crying. He was so surprised at the unprovoked attack and so focused on Andre’s lean, tear-streaked face that he didn’t see Sam’s fist coming. The blow to his head took him completely off-guard, and he fell forward onto the walkway, his padds clattering as they tumbled out of his pack.

  “What are you doing?” came Eshe’s voice. “We were just going to question him!”

  Tim reached down and grabbed onto Icheb’s shirt, but by now Icheb was aware of what was happening, although he didn’t understand why and it pained him deeply. He had spoken truly; he was no longer a member of the collective, but the implants that remained in his body made him stronger and swifter than any of his three colleagues, and his senses were heightened.

  With shocking speed he struck at Tim’s arm, knocking his grip loose. Icheb ducked Sam’s blow and dealt one of his own. Andre grabbed him from behind and before Icheb could extricate himself, Tim had landed a good punch to his midsection.

  Icheb gasped in pain. Another blow crashed down on his face and he tasted blood. He dropped to his knees, reaching behind him and seizing Andre in the same movement. With effort, for he was winded and hurt, he flung Andre over his head. Andre hit the pavement hard and went limp.

  Concern for his friend made Icheb hesitate. Sam rushed over to Andre.

  “Okay,” said Sam, breathing heavily. “Okay, this is enough. Andre needs some help.” Sam looked over at Icheb. “Icheb, we—”

  Tim fell upon Icheb, raining blows. He felt something hard strike him and realized that Tim had grabbed ahold of some of the rocks that artfully dotted the landscape and was using these as well. Instinctively, Icheb covered his head.

  What was going on? Why were they attacking him so? Had there been a Borg attack? Surely everyone would have heard about it. He would have been contacted by Seven, by Starfleet. He could have helped them fight the dreadful foe that all of them despised.

  Blows rained down upon him, and he felt a kick to his midsection. Eshe cried, “Stop it, you’re killing him!” and Icheb was vaguely aware that Sam was trying to pull an enraged Tim off him. Everyone was yelling, and for some reason, Icheb wasn’t feeling the pain of the blows as much. It was as if he were floating away. Tim landed a kick to his groin, and after the exquisite flash of white-hot agony, the world around Icheb started to go gray.

  Although physically he was ceasing to feel the beating, intellectually he knew that Tim wasn’t letting up even though he felt himself start to go limp. He wasn’t fighting back anymore, was offering no resistance. A phrase flickered through his brain, and even at this awful moment he found it humorously ironic: Resistance is futile.

  It was at that moment that he understood that unless Eshe and Sam succeeded in pulling Tim off him, Tim would continue striking him after he lost consciousness, after he was no longer a physical threat, and that it was entirely possible that Tim would continue to beat him until Icheb was dead. The knowledge hurt worse than the physical attack.

  Abruptly, the shower of blows stopped. Icheb’s face was so swollen he could barely open his eyes. He struggled to do so, and when he did, he saw blue sky and clouds. Then a face appeared in his vision—a dark face, with brown eyes and pointed ears.

  Tuvok lifted him easily, and Icheb knew no more.

  Chapter

  16

  SEVEN WENT ALONG QUIETLY, though anger and confusion smoldered inside her. She feared for her aunt’s safety if she failed to comply and knew that it would not take long for Admiral Janeway to hear about the incident. Seven had done absolutely nothing wrong, and despite repeated queries, none of the guards would tell her what she was charged with. She had stayed at Irene Hansen’s house from the moment she arrived home. Whatever she was accused of, it was false, and surely she would be released soon.

  She held her fair head high as they marched her down a corridor to a holding cell. She paid no attention to the other prisoners, but heard a gasp and a cry of “Seven!” Turning, she was startled to see the Doctor imprisoned in a cell across the corridor.

  “You two know each other?” one of the guards said. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to chat.” He keyed in a code and the forcefield dropped. Seven stepped inside. There was a hum as the field was reactivated. The two guards left.

  “Seven, what’s happened?” the Doctor cried. “Why are you in prison?”

  “I do not know. They will not tell me what I am a
ccused of. What are the charges you face?”

  “I’m not sure what exactly, but they think I’m somehow connected with the holographic uprising.”

  Seven arched a blond eyebrow. “Are you?”

  “Of course not!” he huffed. He glanced away from her, though, as he added, “I did speak to the ringleader, I admitted as much. And I was working on a holonovel based on a holographic revolution, but it was purely a work of fiction. I am beginning to think that Starfleet and the Federation have changed a great deal from the institutions with which we are familiar.”

  “I am utterly unfamiliar with them, and had I known what awaited me I believe I might have left Voyager before it returned to Federation space.”

  “A sentiment I’m beginning to share,” said the Doctor. “I’ve spoken with Admiral Janeway. I’m sure she’s doing everything she can to—”

  Seven followed his shocked gaze and realized why he had stopped in midsentence.

  When she saw Icheb shuffling slowly toward her prison cell, two armed guards poking him in the back, Seven couldn’t completely stifle a cry of alarm. He ran to her and she hugged him, then stepped back to stare at his swollen face. Fury raged in her and she whirled on the guards.

  “He is only an adolescent boy,” she cried. “Was it necessary to enact such violence upon him?”

  The guards bridled and started to speak, but Icheb spoke first. “Seven, they didn’t hurt me.”

  “Then who did?”

  He looked away, unable to meet her fierce, protective gaze. “Some cadets at the Academy. They said something about me being Borg.”

  “The boy requires medical assistance,” the Doctor snapped. “You should have attended to his injuries first.”

  “There was nothing life-threatening,” said one of the guards. “Don’t worry, you’ll both be seeing the doctor here soon.” Without further comment, they stepped outside and the forcefield crackled as it snapped back into place.

  “What happened, Icheb?” asked Seven. “Please explain.”

  Slowly, haltingly, Icheb recounted the incident. Seven and the Doctor listened without interrupting. She pressed him on the Borg comments, but Icheb could recall nothing of substance. Seven latched on to the one thing that might provide enlightenment.