“Certainly,” agreed Fortier. “But before I begin, let me say that I’ve done my reading about you as well. I am grateful that we are in the hands of someone who personally understands our situation.”
Chakotay inclined his head. “Our histories have many similarities, but your situation is unique to you. That’s what I’m interested in hearing about.”
Fortier’s full lips curved in a tentative smile. Chakotay felt himself warming to the man. He seemed so eager for someone to understand him and his people.
“Very well, then. Before the war, we were happily ensconced on Loran II,” he began. “The colony was entering its fifteenth year. Many children knew it as their only home. It was a bountiful planet and we had all we needed. We maintained contact with the Federation, of course, and from time to time Starfleet vessels would come to repair damaged equipment or replenish certain supplies.”
“How was your relationship with these people?”
“Good enough. We never thought of ourselves as escaping from the Federation and its tenets, merely as expanding them. It was always good to see new faces, and we were happy to provide them with a pleasant place for shore leave.” His eyes grew sad. “One hates to romanticize the past, but I must tell you, Captain, I don’t exaggerate when I tell you it was an idyllic life.”
Chakotay thought back to his recent visit to Dorvan V, when he and his sister Sekaya rediscovered their youth and swam and sunned on rocks. He thought of the feasts, of the celebrations and rituals, of the deeply contented looks on his parents’ faces for most of their lives. He had been the contrary, the one who had been driven to look elsewhere for his destiny, but he knew that for most of the people on Dorvan V, their existence had been idyllic too.
“I understand,” he said, which was not the same thing as agreeing.
Fortier continued.
“The only trouble we had known came in the form of the Federation-Cardassian treaty of 2370. Our world, like yours, was one of those ceded to the Cardassians as part of the price of keeping the peace. Many of us, myself included, did not want to go back to Earth. We had grown to think of Loran II as our home. Most of us were persuaded to evacuate, but not all. Almost a quarter of the colonist families chose to remain behind. While it more than met our rather simple needs, Loran II is not a particularly rich planet, not in the way the rest of the galaxy reckons richness, and we felt certain that the Cardassians had more important things to think about than our little world.”
The colonists on Dorvan V had taken that same gamble. They had trusted that their “little world” held no pressing interest for the Cardassians, and they had been lucky in that their guess had been accurate.
Such had at first seemed to be the case with Loran II as well, Chakotay knew. Since the end of the war until just recently, those who had elected to remain behind had been in fairly regular contact with those who had chosen to evacuate.
“According to my report,” said Chakotay, “shortly before you began to move toward resuming residence on Loran II, you lost contact with those colonists who had elected to stay.”
Fortier nodded, sighed, and sipped his cooling tea. “True. We have no idea why. It could be anything, from simple equipment damage—that is, of course, our hope—to a swift, devastating illness to an attack.”
“Nothing we’ve heard indicates the latter,” Chakotay said quickly.
“Of course, but until we can get there and see for ourselves, we will not know conclusively.” His voice trembled ever so slightly. “I left a brother behind, Captain. You must know I am hoping for the best.”
“As am I—and everyone in the Federation,” Chakotay said earnestly. This was the one of the first real efforts toward regaining normalcy that had happened since the war. It would be good for morale if the only problem was a damaged communication device.
Besides, there was that stubborn Federation trait of wanting all its members to be peaceful, happy, and prosperous.
“Thank you, Captain. Is there anything else you wish to ask of me?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Chakotay hesitated, then said, “I trust my first officer took good care of you when you came on board?”
“Yes, but he is very formal.”
“He takes this mission seriously,” said Chakotay, assuming that this was true.
Fortier’s dark eyes flashed. “There is no one on this ship who takes this mission more seriously than I,” Fortier said. “But we are casual men and women, Captain. We are a free people. We do not take kindly to being told to stay in our quarters like animals in a pen.”
“Of course not,” said Chakotay. “I assure you, Commander Ellis was only following proper protocol. This is this ship’s first mission with this new crew—and new captain,” he added. “You might experience some of our…growing pains. Please know that all your people will have the run of the ship once we’re under way.”
“Thank you,” said Fortier, relaxing visibly.
“You may want to visit our counselor,” said Chakotay. “We’re fortunate in that we were assigned a Huanni. We want you to feel free to express any concerns you might have about returning to Loran II.”
“You must understand there are no so-called concerns,” Fortier said. “We are going home. We are worried about those who were left behind, but that is all.”
Chakotay knew he was pushing. Fortier was clearly an independent man, and he didn’t want to risk alienating him further.
“As you see fit, of course. If any of your people do decide to visit her, anything they share with her will remain confidential.”
“I understand.” Fortier hesitated. “We had another request, Captain. Was it possible for it to be granted?”
“Oh, yes, you asked for a spiritual adviser. We’ll be picking one up on Deep Space 6 very soon.”
“Ah, good, good.”
Chakotay hesitated. “I don’t mean to pry, but…Astall is a very competent counselor.”
“And you are wondering, why do we need another person to talk to? I am certain your Astall is brilliant. But, Captain, I can tell a counselor, ‘I am worried about my brother’s safety,’ and she can help me handle my anxiety. But if I say, ‘I am worried about my brother’s soul,’ what is she to say to that?”
The man had an excellent point. “My father would have liked you and your people very much.”
Fortier smiled a little. “I hope his son does too. Is that all, Captain?”
“I think so, for now.” Both men rose and shook hands. The door hissed as Fortier exited. Chakotay exhaled. He had a completely fresh appreciation for his friend Kathryn Janeway. But he had a certain problem that she hadn’t had—Priggy for a first officer.
It was time they had The Talk.
Chapter
4
TORCHLIGHT FLICKERED on the steam rising from the fissures in the stone, illuminating it as it curled upward to caress rapt faces with its sinuous tendrils. The lava below bathed everything in a red, eerie glow. The heat scoured, purified; it burned away everything that was not clean, not focused, not its raw, true self. The low drone of chanting created a rhythm that hummed along the very bones, throbbed with each heartbeat, a rhythm that both soothed and inspired. The assembled figures clustered together, opened mind and body to the steam and the heat and the visions that would come, staring at the pulsing molten rock.
Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris wanted to wipe at the sweat that greased his brow before it dripped into his eyes, but knew better than to make the gesture. It would be a sign of discomfort, and discomfort was viewed as weakness. His nasal passages burned from the steam, and the heavy Klingon clothing he was forced to wear was unbearably hot. He swallowed, a difficult trick to perform with a thick, parched tongue. He thought he might pass out from the heat and lack of water. While normally fainting, too, would be a sign of weakness, here it would shout to the assembled Klingons that the human Tom Paris had been chosen for a vision.
Well, he thought, a man can hope.
He
had actually thought he might eventually get used to all this, physically if not emotionally, but he’d had no such luck. Even B’Elanna, half-human as she was, had a tougher time with it than the other Klingons who had come on pilgrimage to the sacred planet of Boreth in search of visions of Kahless.
Paris had always felt that B’Elanna needed to better integrate her Klingon self with her human self, but he worried about the toll this particular form of integration was taking on her. Still, when they had finished their required prayer sessions and meetings and meditations, and they were alone in their quarters with their incredibly gorgeous six-month-old daughter Miral, there was an aura of peace surrounding his wife that touched his heart.
He just hoped that she would get what she needed from Boreth sooner rather than later.
Paris found he missed being on a ship. More to the point, he missed his friends and having something useful to do with his time. He was well aware that he was here under special dispensation until such time as Starfleet needed him or B’Elanna chose to leave. And it wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the privilege. For a while there, Tom respected Klingon tradition more than his wife did. But he didn’t want to be on Boreth as “B’Elanna Torres’s husband” any more than she would want to be on a ship only as “Tom Paris’s wife.”
When the sound of a massive gong shuddered along Paris’s bones, it was all he could do not to shout, “Hooray!” Unsteadily he got to his feet and helped B’Elanna to hers. It was time for the next round of supplicants to enter the lava caves and experience heat- and chemical-induced delusions. He wished them many happy visions.
They said no word as they made their way from the lava pits up the winding stairs to the room that served as Boreth’s nursery. They were not the only parents who felt the call to go on pilgrimage, and Tom was surprised and pleased to discover that the Klingons had no problems accommodating young children. There were eight of them in residence now. Most of the children were old enough to amuse themselves, but there were a few who were still very young and needed looking after. At six months, Miral was the youngest “pilgrim.”
Tom had to smother a smile as he nodded to Kularg, the gruff, grizzled warrior who minded the children. The Klingons so often surprised him. Just when you thought you had them stereotyped as proud, honorable, sometimes overly zealous warriors, they’d play the “family is important” card and make babysitting nearly as honorable as beheading someone who insulted you.
Tom and B’Elanna bowed slightly. Kularg accepted the honor with fierce eyes.
“I honor you for your commitment to the future generations,” B’Elanna said formally.
“The honor is mine, to shape the future,” Kularg replied in his deep rumble.
They gathered up their daughter and went to their quarters. The minute the heavy wooden door was closed behind them Tom expelled a great breath.
“By Kahless’s beard,” he said, inventing an oath, “I’m thirsty. You?”
He poured mugs of water for them both. B’Elanna grabbed hers and gulped down half of it in answer. He drank his own greedily and poured himself a second mug. Try as he might to wash them clean, the cups always seemed to have the faintest hint of bloodwine about them. Probably because if any proper Klingon saw them drinking water instead of that popular beverage they’d insult their parents.
My dad can take whatever insult a Klingon can dish out, he thought. I’m drinking the damn water.
Their room, like much of the monastery, was comparatively new. It had been painstakingly reconstructed after the monastery had been razed in the coup attempt against Martok. B’Elanna had told him that while everything belowground had escaped relatively undamaged—including an apparently impressive library—the ancient monastery had been leveled. Tom was surprised that so much had been achieved in such a short time. Some parts of the monastery were still under construction, but much had already been restored. Even more astonishing, the building had been done by hand, as it would have been done in the ancient days. Artisans and architects from throughout the Empire had been summoned to rebuild this sacred place stone by stone. Many who had ancient artifacts in private collections donated the priceless pieces. Tom had wondered why—surely, it would have been faster and easier to just replicate what was needed. But according to the rather imposing Commander Logt, one of Emperor Kahless’s personal guards and the only one stationed here on Boreth, the gifts were to honor the spirits of those who had first constructed the monasteries.
The only light was provided by candles, torches, fires, and, of course, the lava pits themselves. Rooms were sparsely furnished, and only with the rudest of chairs, benches and tables. There were no beds, only mats on the floor covered with animal hides. Bathing was limited to whatever one could manage with a basin of water. Meals were served twice a day and consisted entirely of traditional Klingon food. Tom had actually learned to like gagh, and to his eternal surprise, found that he agreed with the Klingon assertion that the worms were, indeed, best when eaten live.
B’Elanna handed Miral to him, who wriggled and kicked in his arms. Whatever annoyance and resentment Tom felt at being on Boreth always melted whenever he held his daughter. He knew he was fortunate to be able to spend so much time with her. He smiled down at the infant.
“Who’s a good little Kuvah’Magh then?” he cooed, bouncing her a little. She blew a spit bubble. He thought it adorable and amazingly clever.
B’Elanna had shrugged out of her tunic and now reached for the baby, bringing the hungry infant to her breast. She settled down on the thick animal skin on the stone floor. Tom felt deeply content as he watched them.
“Madonna and child,” he said.
She glowered at him, utterly destroying the image. “You keep bringing that up.”
“Well,” he said, changing out of his own sweat-encrusted clothes into something resembling clean ones, “and why not? It was really meeting Kohlar and his ship of the faithful that rekindled your interest in your Klingon heritage. And that led us here.”
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
He sat down beside her on the skin that served as their bed and stroked her bare shoulder. What he didn’t say was that encountering the Klingons who believed that their child was a savior had changed him as well. Tom knew that B’Elanna pooh-poohed the whole thing, but he wasn’t so sure.
“Have you thought about my suggestion?” he ventured carefully.
“Clubbing Kularg, snatching Miral, and…what was your phrase, ‘blowing this joint’?”
Tom laughed and kissed her shoulder. “No, the other, less potentially painful suggestion.”
“Yes, I’ve thought about it. I don’t know, Tom. It might not be less potentially painful in the long run.”
“They really need to know, hon,” he said, more seriously. “I know the Doc shared all his medical knowledge with Starfleet and the Empire, but the Klingons really ought to know the whole Kuvah’Magh story.”
“The Empire knows.”
“They know a dry, impersonal log. They don’t know how closely Miral fits the prophecies. And besides, you can’t tell me you aren’t just a little bit curious to see what else is out there that talks about our daughter.”
“Coincidences happen all the time, Tom,” Torres said, exasperation creeping into her voice. “It’s only in stories that they mean anything.”
“Still, it’s a nice chunk of Klingon history, and whether or not she is the Savior, I would like to know if there are any other scrolls about her.”
“About her? Who, Miral or the Savior?”
He ducked the question in a rather devilish fashion. He got behind her on the bed and began massaging her neck. She closed her eyes and said softly, “Mmmmm…that feels good.”
“And that?”
“Mmm…yes, right there.”
“And…that….”
“Very…um…very nice….”
“Talk to them tomorrow about getting permission to visit the scroll room?”
; “You cunning little…oh. Oh. Come here.”
Libby Webber, renowned musician and Starfleet Intelligence operative, had decided that she was not going to cry when she said good-bye to Harry Kim.
She had had brave words for Captain Chakotay about the mission, and in her good moments she believed them. But she remembered kissing Harry good-bye nearly eight years before, when he had left to go to Deep Space 9 and join Voyager as the wet-behind-the-ears ops officer. He was different, and she was very different—more than she could let him know—but there were eerie similarities between the two farewells despite her laughter and feigned nonchalance.
So she was very pleased with herself when she didn’t cry, not even when he kissed her tenderly and said, “See you in a few weeks.” And then, further challenging her determination to shed no tears, “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind?”
A month ago, he had proposed. She had been stunned and stammered out a refusal her heart hadn’t wanted to make. She couldn’t tell him about her real day job, and she wasn’t prepared to try to make a life with someone she had to lie to. At least, not yet. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready. So she had had to watch his open, honest face fall. The last few weeks had been strained. She hoped that time apart would help them both accept the way things had to be for now.
She transported back to her cabin in Maine feeling heavy and unhappy, and realizing that she had several messages waiting for her didn’t cheer her up in the slightest. She ignored them for a few moments while she cuddled on the floor with Binky, her rabbit, then sighed and, like Harry, went on duty.
“How did the launch go?” asked her boss, Director of Covert Operations Aidan Fletcher. Both of them had snagged promotions six months ago after they had assisted in stopping Fletcher’s predecessor from succeeding in a brutal and clever plot against Earth and the Federation itself. Despite the fact that before Harry had returned, Libby and the elegant, slender Aidan had been romantically involved, Libby was now comfortable working for him again. Aidan knew how she felt about Harry, and in fact he himself had been the one to end his relationship with Libby. Now Aidan was on a very short list of people she completely trusted.
Spirit Walk, Book One Page 4