Tom’s heart sank. His duty was clear. He would report to Voyager immediately and begin preparations for their departure. How he would do that while worrying about B’Elanna and Miral was another matter, one he was not at all sure he had the ability to manage.
“Tom, Harry,” Chakotay said intently, “I need both of you back on the ship as soon as you’re packed.”
“Aye, sir,” Harry said automatically as Tom nodded mutely.
Chakotay then turned to Tom’s mother. “Julia, I can’t tell you how sorry I am to take Tom away from you tonight. I know the celebration you have planned would have been lovely.”
Julia smiled faintly. “It’s no problem, Captain,” she assured him. “I’ve been a Starfleet wife for over forty years. You get used to sudden changes of plan.”
Owen straightened a little at that, clearly proud of his wife, and put an arm around her tiny waist.
“We’ll still go ahead with the party,” he assured her softly.
She smiled, patting him gently on the chest, then said, “Well, if you gentlemen can’t stay to eat, can I at least send you off with some of tonight’s dinner?”
“I would really appreciate that.” Chakotay nodded.
“Yes, ma’am,” Harry added with forced cheerfulness.
As everyone hustled about saying quick farewells, Kathryn took a moment to assure Tom that she would keep him apprised of any news from Ambassador Worf, which did a little to calm him. She then pulled Chakotay aside.
“I’d like to ask a favor, Captain,” she said softly.
“Name it,” he replied automatically.
“Merin Kol was more than an associate. I considered her a friend,” Kathryn said tensely.
Chakotay nodded. “I understand.”
“I’m going to contact Admiral Montgomery immediately,” she continued. “The favor is this: please don’t depart McKinley Station until you’ve heard from me.”
“Done,” Chakotay assured her. “Do you mind if I ask what you have planned?”
Kathryn raised her determined face to his.
“I’m going with you,” she replied, her voice stone cold.
Harry Kim had been dreading this night for weeks—not this night, exactly, but the last night of his leave. And it had just been cut unceremoniously short, almost making what was to come easier. At least the waiting was done.
After several weeks of indecision, Harry had finally come to a realization. Now, he simply had to share it with the other person whom that revelation affected. No matter how many times he had rehearsed the conversation in his head, it never seemed to end well—hence, the dread.
He was half packed when the doorbell of his small apartment in San Francisco chimed.
“Come in,” he called, stuffing an extra pair of boots into his Starfleet-issue duffel bag before zipping it closed.
The door slid open and Libby Webber entered.
As usual, she took his breath away. Most of her dark, curled hair had been swept up, leaving only a few tendrils draping down the back of her neck and perfectly framing her face. Her lightly tanned skin was set off beautifully by the deep green tunic she wore over what she always referred to as her “comfy” black pants.
Libby crossed to him immediately and Harry automatically took her in his arms, hugging her close.
She pulled back just enough to say with hopeful eyes, “You said it was urgent.”
Harry’s eyes remained glued on hers as he took a deep breath.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
Libby smiled warmly.
“It was you or rehearsing for next week’s Ktarian Festival. Not really a hard choice,” she assured him.
Harry nodded as he gently took her arms, which were still draped over his shoulders, and released himself from her embrace.
Concern flashed briefly over Libby’s face, and for a moment her gaze shifted over the room until it came to rest on Harry’s duffel bag.
“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” she asked patiently.
“I am,” he replied, taking a few steps back. “I have to report to Voyager immediately.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“At least a month,” he sighed.
Harry saw her fleeting disappointment and how quickly she conquered it.
“Well, it could be worse.” She smiled gamely.
“Actually, Libby, it kind of is.”
Now the concern came to stay on Libby’s face. She sat down on the edge of the bed, next to Harry’s bag.
Libby had been the one true love of Harry’s life for more than ten years. Despite the fact that seven of those years had been spent apart, they had resumed their relationship almost immediately upon Voyager’s return to the Alpha quadrant. For Harry, it had been a romantic fantasy come true, until a couple of months ago when he had finally proposed to her and Libby had done the unthinkable: she had turned him down.
She insisted then that she simply needed more time. What Harry had discovered when he thought about it, which was much too often for his liking, was that whatever the problem was, more time wasn’t going to solve it.
Harry wanted to sit beside her. But he also knew that if he was going to get this out, he’d better stay on his feet.
Libby looked up at him warily, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts.
She knows what’s coming.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought, Libby,” Harry began as kindly as he could. “I love you. I always have, and part of me probably always will.”
“I love you too,” she said softly.
“I know. Just not enough to marry me.”
“Harry—” she began.
“Hang on,” he said, raising a hand to stop her. “I know you said you weren’t ready; that the timing was the problem. The thing is, timing is probably never going to be our strong suit. I’m a Starfleet officer. I’m always at the mercy of the next mission. Your performance schedule only makes that more complicated.” Harry paused and sighed deeply. “I just think we both need to face reality. Marriage isn’t something you have to think about, not at this stage in a relationship. If you’re not sure now, you’re never going to be. I think we both need to accept that, and move on.”
Libby was fighting back tears. Whether they were of disappointment or anger, Harry couldn’t tell. She rose and crossed to face him. For a moment she struggled, unable to find words. Finally, she nodded.
“You’re sure this is what you want?”
Of course it’s not what I want, part of Harry insisted.
“I think it’s what’s best,” he said instead.
Libby sighed, then raised her right hand and briefly caressed Harry’s cheek.
“I wish this wasn’t one of those times when I knew there was nothing I could say to change your mind,” she said sadly.
“I appreciate that,” Harry replied.
“Okay,” she said, dropping her hand. After one last look and a shake of her head, she turned to go. When she reached the door, she turned back, silhouetted in the bright hall light streaming in through the open door.
“Promise me something?” she asked.
“If I can,” Harry replied.
“Take care of yourself,” Libby said. “And let me know when you get back. I understand things can’t be the way they were,” she went on, her voice shaking, “but I can’t imagine a universe in which you and I aren’t at least friends.”
“Neither can I,” Harry lied.
Libby nodded, and was gone.
The moment the door slid shut behind her, Harry released a huge sigh and sat for a moment on the bed where just moments before she’d been. The smell of her perfume lingered. It was a light floral scent, never cloying.
Harry would miss it.
But he also knew that there were worse things than missing someone. Overstaying your welcome was one of them, second only to beating your head against a brick wall.
Seven years in the Delta quadrant had taught Harry a lot
. And they had changed him. As he snapped his suitcase shut, the vastness of those changes began to sink in.
Libby was his past, and the past was over. He would try to be hopeful about the future.
In time, he knew he’d get there. The journey would begin the moment he stepped out his front door.
CHAPTER FOUR
B’Elanna didn’t know how long they’d been walking. Had she been able to think straight, she could probably have hazarded a reasonable guess based on their distance from the monastery or the coldness of her extremities. But there was only one thought she could hold in her mind long enough to make any kind of lasting impression.
She’s gone.
At first it had been a deep wound, gnawing its way outward from the center of her being. Now it was something else: a truth that would strike like a harsh blow, setting her heart racing, and then immediately recede into the distance of her mind. Just when it seemed far enough away that it might be nothing more than a nightmare, it would assault her again. In the brief space that separated the end of this disturbing cycle from its renewal, B’Elanna found neither the strength nor the ability to focus on anything else.
Her steps ceased, along with her companion’s, when they at last reached a clearing at the edge of the forest, which B’Elanna knew began a few kilometers south of the monastery’s walls.
Wordlessly B’Elanna watched as the two warriors who had fought at Kahless’s side in the nursery began to gather wood to build a fire. Only now did she recognize them.
Grapk and D’Kang.
Several weeks earlier, her studies in the library had been interrupted by these two new arrivals. They usually kept to themselves, though they seemed to be interested in the same ancient scrolls B’Elanna was translating. She had always had the uneasy feeling that they were watching her. It was little comfort now to know that they must have been, but with the best of intentions.
“Rise!” Kahless’s voice demanded.
B’Elanna tore her gaze from Grapk and D’Kang to see Commander Logt lying prostrate in the snow before the emperor.
Logt’s initial reply was too muted for B’Elanna to hear. Curiosity more than anything carried her toward the pair. Finally she caught a few words.
“…beg only for a quick death, though I do not deserve it.”
“I said, rise!” the emperor repeated more ferociously, and Logt obliged him by pulling herself to her knees.
“It is not me you have failed,” Kahless said harshly.
“I and the other guardians swore to protect the life of Miral Paris with our own,” Logt said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have failed. My life is forfeit.”
“Miral Paris is not dead,” Kahless replied.
Something new sliced through B’Elanna’s gut. It might have been hope.
“But, Emperor…” Logt stammered.
“How do you know that?” B’Elanna demanded, stepping between them.
Kahless held one hand up to silence her as he removed his d’k tahg from his belt. For a moment the edge of the blade pointed toward Logt’s throat. Then the emperor tossed it into the air, catching the blade in his hand and presenting the hilt to Logt.
“Should the day ever come that we find Miral dead, I will indeed send you to Gre’thor. Until then, your life belongs to B’Elanna Torres.”
Something close to hatred flashed briefly in Logt’s eyes. B’Elanna easily understood. To go from serving as the emperor’s personal guard to the service of a half-Klingon commoner would have been a hard choice for any warrior. Most would rightly have preferred death.
But Logt’s anger quickly passed. With a sigh she accepted the blade and drew it lengthwise along the flesh of her left palm. As fresh blood dripped onto the snow at her knees, she offered the blade to B’Elanna, saying, “I hereby swear to serve you faithfully until we have found your daughter, Miral. Should I fail in this task, my life is yours to claim.”
B’Elanna didn’t understand why this was so important. But if Kahless wished it, she felt she should play along. Mere practicality suggested that at this point, she could use all the help she could get.
She accepted the blade and used it to cut her own palm. Allowing the blade to fall, she watched as her blood mingled with Logt’s.
“I accept your oath,” B’Elanna said softly, “and will release you from it when my daughter is once again safely in my arms.”
“Now that that is settled,” Kahless said approvingly, “let us move closer to the fire. There is much to discuss, and little time.”
B’Elanna turned to see a cheerless blaze roaring in the center of the clearing. Grapk and D’Kang were standing before it, warming their hands.
Kahless took his place opposite them and motioned for B’Elanna to sit beside him. Logt rose and began to slowly walk the perimeter. Soon, Grapk and D’Kang stomped toward her and after brief, muted discussion, took up positions on either side of their “camp.”
B’Elanna found this protection somewhat comforting. Kahless seemed to accept it as a matter of course.
“How do you know that Miral is still alive?” she asked again.
“Because I know who took her,” Kahless replied, “and why.”
“Who?” B’Elanna demanded.
“Are you aware that on your mother’s side, you are descended from a Klingon warrior named Amar?” Kahless asked.
B’Elanna was in no mood for a history lesson, but given the fact that the scrolls that had started this nightmare had been written by someone named Amar, she bit back her impatience and simply shook her head.
“Amar lived fifteen hundred years ago and was a companion of the original Kahless. He fought at Kahless’s side against Molor when the empire was founded. Amar died driving our enemies from our lands. But his sacrifice was not in vain. His death and that of his brother warriors secured the fledgling Klingon Empire.”
“Is he the same Amar who wrote the scrolls of prophecy that sent Kohlar and his people on their quest to find the Kuvah’magh?” B’Elanna asked.
“He was.” Kahless nodded. “But prophecy is a rare gift. Visionary Klingons have been few and far between in our history.”
“What did he see?” B’Elanna asked.
“You have read the scrolls. You know as much as I do,” Kahless replied.
“The prophecies of Amar were vague,” B’Elanna argued. “They could have referred to any child.”
“Any child descended from a noble house, whose mother was not raised on Qo’noS? Any child found after two warring houses had made peace? Any child who was recognized as the Kuvah’magh before she was born?” Kahless asked kindly.
“Okay,” B’Elanna allowed, “but what about the scrolls of Ghargh? They’re filled with the nonsense about the Kuvah’magh being destined to bring back the Klingon gods. And don’t they predate Amar’s by almost another thousand years?”
“Your scholarship does you credit,” Kahless replied.
At this, B’Elanna had to forcibly restrain herself from shouting. This wasn’t an assignment at the Academy. She wasn’t looking for a passing grade. This was the life of her daughter.
“All I want to know,” B’Elanna said through clenched teeth, “is what any of this has to do with Miral.”
“I, too, was once a skeptic,” Kahless went on, as if oblivious to her tone. “Though Amar was a fierce and beloved companion, he was long dead. And Ghargh’s words seemed to mean nothing to a race which had long ago abandoned faith in any omnipotent beings in favor of the warrior ethic which now binds us all.”
“What changed your mind?” B’Elanna asked.
“I met your mother,” Kahless said, smiling faintly. “She came to Boreth, determined to undertake the Challenge of the Spirit. She told me of her vision of you and she on the Barge of the Dead—a vision which I have come to learn that you shared with her.”
B’Elanna nodded for him to continue.
“I traced her lineage and learned that she was descended from Amar. I began to wonder if she
had inherited more than his warrior’s strength; if she had also been granted the gift of prophecy. That is why I was so pleased when you followed her here, and gratified to see that you now seem determined to embrace your heritage.”
“I did what I did for my mother and my daughter,” B’Elanna said.
“And your actions have brought honor to both of them.”
“Did my mother have further visions?” B’Elanna asked, wondering if in the brief time they had spent together reunited on Boreth, Miral had forgotten to mention something so significant to her daughter.
“She did not,” Kahless replied. “But her words were enough to send me searching our past through deeper mysteries which might now be unfolding before us all.”
“I don’t understand,” B’Elanna interrupted.
“I do not believe that Amar was ever familiar with the prophecies of Ghargh. But you and I have now studied them both. What do you see when you look at them?”
“Ghargh’s writings are filled with speculation about gods, and Amar doesn’t mention them at all,” B’Elanna replied. “They seem to contradict one another.”
“Not as much as you might think. Both are products of the men who wrote them and the times in which those men lived. Ghargh’s preoccupation with the Klingon gods is simply a reflection of the reality that when he was alive, there were still many Klingons who believed in gods and prayed to them for various boons. Amar did not share those beliefs, but he still understood the role of the Kuvah’magh as that of a savior to the Klingon people.”
“What is Miral supposed to save us from?” B’Elanna asked.
“Then, you did not complete your study of Ghargh’s writings?”
“I intended to,” B’Elanna replied a little defensively. But then my mother-in-law decided to throw a party.
“According to Ghargh, the Kuvah’magh is destined to save the Klingon people from the joH’a mu’qaD,” Kahless replied.
B’Elanna struggled to translate. “The Curse of the Gods?” she attempted.
Kahless nodded.
“I do not pretend to know the nature of this curse. All I can tell you is that there are Klingons still living today who believe that it is real and that it will signal the end of the Klingon Empire.”
Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle Page 5