Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle

by Kirsten Beyer

  The future beckoned.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved,” Chakotay finally said.

  “Then you’re in luck,” Kathryn said, rising and moving toward the table.

  Chakotay bit back the response that came immediately to mind. Luck probably wasn’t the right word when it came to Kathryn’s cooking. He would never refuse an invitation, simply for the company. Coffee was the only consumable item Kathryn ever did justice to without a replicator’s help, and even then the results were sometimes iffy at best.

  He looked up in time to see the admiral glaring at him mischievously. Clearly she’d been reading his mind.

  “I was talking with Mother earlier this afternoon—she sends her regards, by the way—and when I told her you were coming for dinner and that I was making her stew, she insisted on preparing it herself and transporting it over. She still doesn’t trust me with the replicator at home, let alone anything made from scratch.”

  Chakotay tried not to let his relief show. “That was very kind of her,” he said diplomatically. “Please pass along my thanks.”

  “Shut up,” Kathryn said curtly.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Julia and Owen Paris sat in their living room trying to ignore the muted shouting that had been coming from Tom and B’Elanna’s upstairs room for the last hour.

  Miral was snoring softly in Julia’s arms. When Julia had received word that both B’Elanna and Miral were safe and would be returning to Earth with Tom, she had doubted her ears. She had given up her husband for lost on more than one occasion, and spent four long years in limbo, wondering if she would ever learn of her son’s fate, only to have him restored to her. Cheating death once again had seemed like too much to ask of fate.

  But somehow, her son had performed a miracle and her beloved granddaughter was sleeping peacefully while her parents were turning what should have been a time of grateful celebration into further strife.

  Julia shook her head in frustration. Didn’t they realize how precious life was? Didn’t they understand that every moment they were given to spend together was a blessing? Whatever they were disagreeing about amounted to nothing in the face of the alternative.

  Perhaps this was a truth one learned only with time. But if youth was wasted on the young, the wisdom of age didn’t have to be.

  Julia turned to Owen. She saw that his thoughts mirrored hers and wondered at the fact that they didn’t need to say a word for her to know this. Their hearts were safe in one another’s keeping, and their deepest fears, dreams, and desires were so entwined it was impossible to know where one’s began and the other’s ended.

  Julia moved to gently transfer Miral to her husband’s arms, but he stayed her, placing a soft hand on her knee. He stared into her eyes, offering love and reassurance, kissed her lightly on the cheek, then rose and turned toward the staircase.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Tom said wearily.

  “That’s because you’re not listening to me,” B’Elanna insisted.

  “Just tell me what you want to do,” Tom replied, sitting dejectedly on the end of their bed.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  It could be, Tom thought.

  Tom couldn’t believe that after surviving one of the most brutal series of events imaginable, they had emerged unscathed but were now at more deeply entrenched cross-purposes than they had been when Miral was still a prisoner of the qawHaq’hoch.

  “I can’t go back to Voyager with you,” B’Elanna said.

  “I think we’ve established that,” Tom shot back.

  He knew Chakotay would be thrilled to have her in engineering, even just in a part-time, advisory capacity, and since Miral was still an infant, they had at least a couple of years together before her education would become a serious concern. It seemed like the perfect and obvious solution, until he had suggested it to his wife as a fait accompli.

  “And I can’t possibly stay here,” B’Elanna added unnecessarily.

  Tom’s parents would have jumped at the chance to have B’Elanna and Miral stay with them, until they’d found other, more permanent lodgings. This was the only suggestion that seemed more unpalatable to B’Elanna than returning to active duty.

  “Again, I agree. What do you want to do?” Tom said.

  He was exhausted. They’d been trampling over this ground for days and seemed no closer to a compromise. At this point, if she’d said she wanted to join a circus he would have seriously considered the idea.

  Anything but this never-ending argument.

  They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Both turned at the sound, guilt and grief clear on their faces. B’Elanna recovered first and threw Tom a look that said Get rid of them. Before Tom could even rise to greet whichever of his parents was on the other side, the door opened and Owen stepped into the room.

  “Hi, Dad,” Tom said, resigned.

  “Is Miral all right?” B’Elanna asked softly.

  “She’s fine,” Owen replied. “It’s you two I’m worried about.”

  “We’ll be all right, Dad,” Tom said, rising to face his father. “We’ve just got a few things to work out.”

  Owen stared hard at his son, then turned an equally disappointed face to B’Elanna.

  “You have no idea how lucky you both are,” Owen said softly. “You have your health, your family, and your whole lives in front of you. I understand that reasonable people can disagree from time to time, and you’ve had more than your fair share of challenges to overcome, but this is not the way two people who love and respect one another behave.”

  “Owen—” B’Elanna began, but he silenced her with a glance.

  “You have just been given a second chance at a life together. The threat of losing your daughter should have brought you closer to one another. Instead, it seems to be tearing you apart, and for the life of me I can’t understand why you don’t see that you’re both throwing away happiness with both hands.

  “Every single thing I have ever achieved with my life, my work, and my family would feel meaningless without my wife by my side. Powers rise and fall. Leaders come and go. History makes a mockery of our best-laid plans. In the end, you are left with only those things you have shared with one another. The bond you created when you decided to marry is sacred and not to be taken lightly. If you nurture it, it will sustain you through the darkness. But if you treat it carelessly, if you allow the safe haven of your life together to become a battlefield, it will never survive. For the sake of the child you created, and for the sake of the love that brought you together in the first place, you must learn to disagree with one another patiently. There is a solution to whatever obstacle you are facing right now. And I guarantee you it will be easier to find if you work together.”

  Owen paused to let his words sink in.

  “Good night,” he said softly, and left the room without a backward glance.

  Tom watched him go, then moved toward B’Elanna and took her in his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “So am I.”

  They held one another long enough for their hearts to find the same calm rhythm.

  “Let’s sleep on it,” Tom suggested. “Maybe in the morning—”

  B’Elanna silenced him with a gentle kiss.

  Three hours later, as Tom slept deeply, B’Elanna rose from their bed and slipped quietly from the room. Miral was sleeping in a crib in Owen and Julia’s room. They had suggested this when Tom and B’Elanna had come to stay a week earlier, and it seemed like a good idea at the time, though B’Elanna still slept fitfully when Miral was not nestled beside her. Tom’s parents rightly believed that their son and daughter-in-law needed at least a few nights of uninterrupted rest. B’Elanna had agreed at first, but had quickly become impatient, unable to put into words the panic that still choked her when she awakened abruptly in the darkness and Miral was not there.

  After pausing briefly at Owen and Julia’s bedroom door and peeki
ng her head into the small opening to see Miral sleeping, B’Elanna crept downstairs to Owen’s private office and quickly worked the companel.

  After a few moments, the face of Kahless appeared on the screen on Owen’s desk. When they had parted, he had provided her with a secured frequency on which he assured her he could always be reached. They had spoken almost daily since then.

  “Is there any word yet from Martok?” was always B’Elanna’s first question.

  “No,” Kahless replied. “The chancellor can search from now until the end of days, but he will not find the Kortar. Even if he does, as long as one Warrior of Gre’thor still lives, the d’k’tahg resting at your throat will remain.”

  “I keep trying to explain that to Tom, but he thinks I’m being irrational.”

  “Do not fault him, B’Elanna,” Kahless chided her. “He is not Klingon. He does not understand tenacity the way we do. He is a brave man and a valiant warrior, but he is only human.”

  B’Elanna’s deepest wish since the day she’d realized that she was half Klingon and half human had been to be only human. Tonight she would have sacrificed anything to make it so.

  “Then you still believe they will come after Miral again.”

  “The Warriors of Gre’thor have spent a thousand years with a single purpose. They will work daily to fulfill that purpose until the last of the qawHaq’hoch and the Kuvah’magh are dead.”

  B’Elanna’s heart rose to her throat. Angry tears threatened to pour forth.

  “Wherever I go, I am placing the lives of those I love at risk,” B’Elanna said, finally putting into simple words the truth she had been trying to make Tom see for days.

  “Then we must find a way to make them believe that your child is dead,” Kahless said simply.

  His words stung like a sharp slap.

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “It will take time and planning, but it must be done,” Kahless assured her.

  B’Elanna could not imagine what might be necessary to pull off such a deception, but she had been floating in a dark sea of indecision for so many days, with fear her only constant companion. The emperor’s plan, any plan, was a lifesaving rope tossed to her only seconds before drowning.

  “What do I have to do first?” she asked.

  She could not have been more surprised by the emperor’s response.

  “I want you to tell me everything you know of the mobile emitter that your holographic friend uses to travel independently,” Kahless replied.

  The explanation would take hours, but it would be more productive than tossing and turning beside her sleeping husband.

  With the refreshing reality of a simple question before her to which she knew the answer, B’Elanna began to speak.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The first message the Doctor received upon his return to the Federation Research Institute was a hundred-thousand-word opus from Doctor Deegle. It listed the many faults he had found with the presentation he, Seven, and Doctor Kaz had made to the Klingon High Council. While debating simply trashing Deegle’s thesis out of spite, the Doctor noticed a message marked urgent from Lieutenant Barclay. In a matter of seconds he had digested the text and hurriedly contacted the Institute’s personnel liaison to advise her that though he had just returned from Qo’noS, he would once again be leaving immediately for Jupiter Station.

  En route, he had fretted that the cellular degradation that had threatened his creator, Doctor Lewis Zimmerman, and that the Doctor had successfully treated over a year and a half earlier, might have returned, and he spent most of the trip reviewing his research on the condition along with relevant new journal articles. The Doctor had written frequent updates to Zimmerman since their first real meeting, but he had always intended to reconnect personally with his cantankerous creator and even held out hopes that the tenuous connection they had made might be nurtured and over time grow into a more collegial relationship. But between his work at the Institute and the occasional emergent crisis with his former crew, he had yet to make good on that intention and now worried that he might never have the chance. Reg’s message had been typically vague: “You are urgently needed at Jupiter Station. Dr. Z requires you immediately.”

  It was something of a shock when he entered the lab to find Haley, the Doctor’s petite blonde holographic assistant of many years, sharing a laugh with Lieutenant Barclay over an adjustment Reg had made to Zimmerman’s holograph pet iguana, Leonard, which had caused the creature to begin singing Klingon opera at random intervals.

  “What’s happened?” the Doctor interrupted to ask.

  “Oh, Doctor,” Reg said warmly. “You got my message.”

  “I did. What’s wrong with Doctor Zimmerman?”

  Haley and Reg shared a look of confusion.

  “Nothing,” Haley replied, “but it’s awfully nice to see you again. How have you been?”

  Before the Doctor could respond, the door to Zimmerman’s lab swished open and the man emerged without looking up, saying, “I hope you’re not planning to get any sleep over the next few days, Lieutenant Barclay, because Leonard has been permanently transferred to your quarters and will remain there until his vocal subroutines have been…”

  The Doctor found himself involuntarily straightening up and squaring his shoulders at the sight of his designer, a man who was the spitting image of the Doctor, with the exception of the deep worry lines that betrayed the years that had passed since he first introduced the EMH Mark I. The Doctor noted that Zimmerman’s hair—unruly and grayer than the last time they’d met—had been restored to its pre-illness dark brown sheen.

  Somewhere in the Doctor’s subroutines was buried a file that demanded that he always present himself in the best possible light when in Zimmerman’s presence, though that file was certainly not part of his original programming. It had undoubtedly evolved, along with many other similar proclivities, as he had grown in his sense of self and his commitment to exceed his and Zimmerman’s expectations.

  “Hello, Doctor Zimmerman,” he said pleasantly.

  Zimmerman stopped mid-sentence to glare at the EMH.

  “Oh, God,” he said, “am I dying again?”

  “I certainly hope not,” the Doctor replied, “but if you are, you have summoned the right hologram.”

  “You’re not dying, Doctor Z,” Reg assured him. “Don’t you remember I told you I was going to contact the Doctor about our new project?”

  “Reg, we’ve been working together for years now,” Zimmerman replied. “How is it you haven’t yet noticed that I rarely listen to anything you tell me?”

  “What new project?” the EMH asked.

  Zimmerman heaved a weary sigh, then began to walk in a tight circle around the hologram, studying him carefully.

  The Doctor had the immediate and uncomfortable thought that he had somehow lost his clothing between here and the door.

  “Why are you out of uniform?” Zimmerman demanded. “Did they run you out of Starfleet after that holographic rights nonsense a few months ago?”

  The Doctor bristled under Zimmerman’s scrutiny.

  “No one has run me out of anything,” the Doctor replied officiously. “I was invited to work with the Federation Research Institute and have been there in a civilian capacity for the last several months, among the other great minds of this generation.”

  “I see you haven’t lost your sense of self-importance.” Zimmerman scowled. “Never forget that I could change that with a few well-placed tweaks to your subroutines.”

  The Doctor noticed Reg and Haley easing their way out of the room toward the small recreation area. With a nod he encouraged them to keep moving before turning to face his maker.

  “Doctor Zimmerman, I came here at Reg’s request and was concerned that you might not be well. As there is nothing I can do to improve your sense of etiquette or decorum, and you are clearly in excellent health, I will be happy to leave you in peace and return to my other obligations, which I assur
e you are most pressing.”

  Zimmerman chuckled faintly.

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  The Doctor paused to accept what passed for warmth from Zimmerman.

  “Get in here,” Zimmerman ordered, turning toward his holographic research lab.

  The Doctor followed him into the inner sanctum, amazed at the number of memory algorithms that immediately began to run, recounting the weeks he had spent struggling desperately to save the life of a man who hadn’t respected him, much less believed him capable of such a miracle.

  “Why the hell did you allow yourself to get caught up with that idiotic Oliver Baines?” Zimmerman demanded once the doors had hissed shut.

  The EMH was about to respond when he realized that for Zimmerman to know about Oliver Baines, he must at least have been reading the Doctor’s updates, if not responding to them. The thought brought a smirk to the Doctor’s lips.

  “While I cannot condone Baines’s methods, I do not consider the rights of holograms to be idiotic,” he replied evenly.

  “Holograms aren’t sentient, Mark I,” Zimmerman shot back.

  “Present company excluded,” the Doctor insisted.

  Zimmerman rolled his eyes, an unnerving sight as the Doctor hadn’t realized until that moment how annoying that gesture must be when he made it himself.

  “You’re a special case,” Zimmerman conceded. “I can count on a couple of fingers the number of times any hologram I have created or read about has demonstrated characteristics which suggest sentience, and until that changes, the thought of you lending your support to a nonissue strikes me as a waste of good programming.”

  “I am living proof that holograms have the capacity—” the Doctor began to argue.

  “The potential capacity,” Zimmerman corrected him. “And you’re not here to debate the issue with the preeminent authority on the subject.”