As Tom and Libby looked after her, Libby said, “You didn’t want to tell her the lounge is the other way?”
“She’s trying to make an exit,” Tom replied. “She wouldn’t want me to mess that up for her. It’s too important that you and I believe she is just fine.”
“Amazing,” Libby said.
“That she is.”
“I don’t know how I’d survive what she’s…”
There was an uncomfortable pause in which neither of them seemed to know how best to continue. Finally Tom said, “You know, it’s really nice, you being here and all. I know it means a lot to Harry’s folks. But if Harry wakes up and sees you, he’s just going to think—”
“I know,” Libby cut him off. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave before he knows I was ever here. And Mr. and Mrs. Kim have promised not to tell him either.”
“But why did you come in the first place?”
“How could I not?” Libby asked.
“Pretty easily, I’d say.”
Libby had always known how close Tom and Harry were. The rule of best friends required that Tom hate Libby now even more than Harry did, as she had been the one to refuse Harry’s proposal. True, Harry had actually ended their relationship, but Libby didn’t think that would matter much to Tom. She had broken what was between them. Harry had just finally decided to stop trying to glue it back together.
A lot of time had passed since then, and Libby truly hoped it had lessened the sting. In case it hadn’t, she said, “It’s okay to still be angry at me, Tom, for Harry’s sake. I don’t expect these past few days to change anything.”
“Good,” Tom replied. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture and all. I just don’t want you opening old wounds.”
“Harry was my first love,” Libby said sincerely. “There will always be a place in my heart with his name on it. I regret that things didn’t work out, but the moment I learned that he might die, I had to come. I had to tell him—” She caught herself before finishing the thought.
“Had to tell him what?”
Libby took a moment to choose her words carefully.
“That it wasn’t his fault.”
“What wasn’t?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Libby replied. “He’s going to be fine. That’s all that’s important now.”
Tom studied her face, as if he could force the answer to his question from it. With practiced ease she kept her countenance maddeningly neutral.
Finally Tom said, “Would you mind if I spend a few minutes with him? I’m going to have to check in with Voyager soon, and Harry’s parents are due back in an hour.”
“Please, take as much time as you want,” Libby replied.
Tom nodded and moved past her to enter Harry’s room. Once he was inside and the door closed behind him, she bowed her head and exhaled slowly, allowing the tension that had flared between them to dissipate.
Placing her hand on the closed door, she chided herself for her little lapse. What she hadn’t been able to tell Harry before they separated, she wasn’t about to tell Tom. He would undoubtedly tell Harry, and Libby couldn’t bear the thought of Harry hearing the truth from anyone but her. When she had accepted Aidan’s proposal, she had resigned her commission with Starfleet Intelligence. She could marry Aidan or she could work for him. She could never do both. So now the secret that had kept her from marrying Harry no longer needed to be kept.
She had come here half hoping that she could finally share this with Harry. Libby knew that what she had withheld had damned their relationship. But as she had sat by Harry’s side, day after day, allowing her music to offer the only solace she could provide, she’d come to the conclusion that after so long, the truth might not do Harry any good at all. Harry had moved on, just as she had. Though unburdening herself to Harry would have relieved her regrets, it would probably only add to his. At a time when Harry needed all of his strength to get better, she refused to add to his physical and mental pain just so she could assuage her guilty conscience.
She hadn’t been willing to sacrifice her work as a covert operative for Harry. When Harry had proposed, she honestly believed she had been doing good work with SI. As much as her musical abilities, that work had begun to define her. To marry Harry would have been to resign both of them to half a life and a marriage built on a foundation of ever-shifting sands. She could never share herself with Harry completely. But with Aidan, this would never be an issue. That had been the first reason she had finally agreed to marry him.
The second was that even before Aidan proposed, just after the Borg attack at Acamar, Libby had been overwhelmed by the futility of her choice to be an operative. She and hundreds of bright, capable, and dedicated officers just like her had spent the vast majority of their waking hours trying to detect and prevent attacks upon the Federation. What the Borg had done in a week proved beyond a doubt that either the Federation was wasting their resources, or the term military intelligence truly was an oxymoron.
Now she only wanted Harry healthy and one day as happy as he had made her when both of their lives had been much less complicated. And she wanted to find her own peace, far from the realm of secrets and subterfuge.
In the meantime, she knew Tom would continue to look after Harry, and that brought her a modicum of happiness. More importantly, Harry would also still be around to look after Tom.
“Take good care, both of you,” she said softly, before squaring her shoulders and walking away—an exit of which she felt even Julia Paris might have approved.
APRIL 2381
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Doctor emerged from Irene’s bedroom to find Seven sitting on the floor in the hall outside the door. Her back was straight, and both of her arms hugged her knees into her chest. Her eyes held a wistful, faraway expression. There was something both childlike and dejected in the pose.
“Seven,” he said softly, “are you all right?”
Instantly pushing herself up off the floor and once again towering over him, she replied, “My well-being is not the issue. Were you able to help her?”
“I have increased her dosage of peridaxon, and I’m also ordering daily doses of xanatopropoline. It’s a new formulation; it should allow her to rest more comfortably. I’m truly sorry that there isn’t more I can do for her right now.”
“Her condition seemed to have stabilized,” Seven said. “I did not expect the delusions to begin so soon.”
“Irumodic syndrome attacks every brain differently. Clearly hers is an aggressive form. At the very least, I can assure you that her suffering from this point on will not be extended, and she will, from time to time, continue to enjoy periods of lucidity.”
Seven looked briefly as if he had struck her across the face. The Doctor instantly regretted the bluntness of his approach. Usually with Seven he was dealing with an individual whose clinical temperament made his look positively warm. Seeing her now, for the first time freed completely of the Borg technology that had once sustained her, she appeared more fragile than ever. In a way, it was to be expected. She had lost her first mother figure only ten months earlier, and had never, as far as the Doctor could tell, truly grieved Admiral Janeway’s death. Of course she had been upset. But the process of actually beginning to come to terms with the emotional devastation of such deep loss was the work of time, and Seven hadn’t had enough, between her rigorous schedule at the Academy, her aunt’s deterioration, and the imminent destruction of the Federation.
Now, he had just told her that she was soon to add to the list of those lost the second woman Seven had ever looked to for strength and emotional support and her only blood relative on Earth. He was briefly overwhelmed with a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. But she remained, as ever, completely untouchable.
“Why don’t we go downstairs and sit for a while?” he suggested.
“You must return to your duties at Jupiter Station,” Seven replied.
“They’ll still be there when
ever I get back,” he countered, heading toward the stairs and hoping she would follow him down.
When they had served together, the Doctor had made a point of taking Seven under his wing and offering her instruction as to how best to begin to integrate herself socially with the crew. He was well aware that many of the senior officers felt this was a little like the blind leading the deaf, but over time he had been terribly pleased with Seven’s progress. She had not shared with him or anyone, as far as he knew, exactly what had happened to her when the Caeliar had transformed the Borg. He had hoped that this transition might bring her that much closer to the humanity that she had studied but rarely fully embraced. Watching her perch herself gingerly on the edge of Irene’s favorite and very worn sofa, and looking much paler than usual, he began to worry that whatever had happened to her had actually somehow managed to force her in the opposite direction.
“How are your classes going?” he asked, choosing the most innocuous ground he could think of to begin to bridge the palpable distance between them.
“My students wish to speak of nothing but the Caeliar,” Seven replied coldly. “And since, for the moment, what little intelligence Starfleet has gathered about them remains classified, I find it most tiresome to deflect their questions.”
“And how are you dealing with the experience?” the Doctor asked cautiously.
She refused to meet his eyes.
“I will adapt.”
“Of course you will, but how?” the Doctor tried again.
“I do not know,” she faltered.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No,” she replied firmly. Changing the subject too abruptly, she asked, “What is the status of your work with Doctor Zimmerman and Lieutenant Barclay?”
Normally this would have been his cue to launch into a lengthy discourse on their progress, which was actually quite thrilling at the moment. As it was, it seemed too much like willful deflection.
“Seven, we don’t have to talk about me right now,” he assured her.
“Social lesson number four,” Seven countered. “Collegial Conversation. When interacting with your peers, put them at ease by inquiring about their work. You taught me that.”
“I did.” The Doctor smiled. “It seems so long ago, I can’t believe you actually remember.”
“Of course I remember,” she said tonelessly. “I am…” but she halted again before finishing the phrase with the standard “Borg.” Instead, correcting herself, she muttered more softly, “I was Borg.”
“Very well,” the Doctor decided to oblige her. “Since you were kind enough to ask, the Emergency Medical Vessel has been approved for a test mission.”
“You must be pleased.”
“I am.” The Doctor nodded, unable to suppress a wide grin. “I don’t yet know the mission’s specs, but I am sure it will be fascinating. I’ve requested to join the crew in the capacity of both Emergency Medical and Emergency Command Hologram. A hearing will be convened at Starfleet Command to discuss this request in a few weeks. I was actually hoping you might be available to attend it with me. I am understandably quite filled with trepidation at the prospect.”
“Why would Command convene a hearing to discuss a routine crew assignment?” Seven asked with actual interest.
Sensing that he was finally engaging her, he went on, “Actually, I was the one to demand the hearing. Starfleet declined my initial request, stating that I was much too valuable in my work at Jupiter Station to be spared for the mission.”
“And you do not agree?”
“Seven, we designed this ship so that a wide variety of holograms like myself would be able to play an active role in service to Starfleet. Who better to lead such a group?”
“Do you need to be reminded again, Doctor, that there are very few other holograms like you?” Seven asked, almost warmly.
He accepted the compliment before continuing, “In any event, I want very much to participate in this mission. I’ve thought for some time that much as I enjoy research and development, part of me truly misses the action of starship duty. Do you ever feel the same?”
She considered the question briefly.
“At times. Although to hear our former comrades talk, the vast majority of their missions over the last few years have been routine in the extreme. I do not believe such an assignment would be nearly as satisfying as my current work at the Academy.”
“Not to mention serving as the official Borg expert to the president of the Federation. I must say, I find President Bacco to be a most intriguing woman. I can’t think of anyone better suited to lead us through this difficult time.”
“Nor can I,” Seven agreed before asking, “Is there further word on Lieutenant Kim’s recovery?”
“He will return to active duty next week. I looked in on him several times during his recuperation at Starfleet Medical and consulted constantly with his attending physicians. His survival is nothing short of miraculous.”
“If memory serves, Lieutenant Kim has something of a history of defying imminent death,” Seven said.
“For which I am most grateful,” the Doctor added. “Oh, and I heard Naomi Wildman has been accepted into the Academy for next year’s class.”
Seven smiled with pride. “She performed quite well on her entrance exams. And I have already asked Icheb to monitor her progress when she arrives.”
“She’ll love that,” the Doctor retorted sarcastically.
“You object?”
“Icheb is as close to an older brother as she could have, so I don’t doubt that he would keep a close eye on her whether you asked him to or not. But she’s a young girl on the verge of becoming a young woman. She’s going to want to test her limits and find herself. I hope he gives her the space to do that.”
“I will advise Icheb accordingly,” Seven agreed with obvious reluctance.
“I saw Commander Paris a few times at the hospital,” the Doctor went on. “He seems to be holding up, but I must confess I still can’t believe he and B’Elanna have separated.”
“Nor can I,” Seven offered. “I did not sense that either of them took their marriage vows lightly.”
“I’m sure they didn’t. And I, for one, still hope that one day they might reconcile.”
“As neither B’Elanna nor Miral has been heard from for several months, I seriously doubt your wish will be fulfilled,” Seven said.
The Doctor hesitated to ask after Chakotay. He knew that the captain and Seven had remained quite close until Admiral Janeway’s death. At the memorial service, the tension between them had been obvious, and the conversation was going so well, he didn’t want to remind her of such a potentially painful topic.
After a pause, Seven surprised him by bringing it up.
“Have you heard any word of Captain Chakotay?” Her hands, which had been comfortably clasped throughout, suddenly began to fret about the edge of the sofa, almost of their own accord.
“Commander Paris indicated that he had requested and been granted an extended leave after their return from the Azure Nebula. I do not believe he has been in contact with anyone since then,” the Doctor replied, watching carefully for her reception of this information.
“I see,” she said, clearly agitated.
“Seven—”
“If you’ll excuse me, Doctor, I really should check on my aunt,” she said, rising briskly.
“Of course.” The Doctor nodded as he came to his feet.
She was up the stairs and out of sight before the Doctor realized that he had just been dismissed as surely as if someone had instructed Voyager’s old computer to deactivate his program.
The Doctor left the house more concerned than he had been when he arrived. He had already resolved to send Seven a message as soon as he returned to Jupiter Station, reminding her of his upcoming hearing at Starfleet Command. He had wanted her there initially for purely selfish reasons. But the last half hour had convinced him that she was quite desperately in
need of help for which no preceding social lesson would have prepared her to ask.
It had rained day and night for the first six weeks Chakotay lived on Orcas Island. As it was still technically winter when he arrived and only now spring, on the fifty-seven-square-mile retreat located in the Pacific Northwest, that was to be expected. Unexpected was the ease with which Chakotay found himself adapting to the bitter morning and evening cold, the inability to ever get completely warm or dry, and the scarcity of daily comforts to which he had become accustomed on a starship.
His ancestors had thrived in the wilds of their native lands, though admittedly in more temperate climates. Chakotay had chosen to find refuge in a terrain that would provide a heartier challenge to his survival skills or, failing that, would kill him more quickly.
Orcas, and the chain’s other large islands, San Juan and Lopez, had once been tourist attractions for boating enthusiasts. Famed for dramatic resorts like Rosario and quaint towns like Friday Harbor, they offered relative comfort in one of nature’s most spectacularly beautiful settings. The three-hundred-sixty-degree view of glistening blue water dotted with lush green oases from the peak of Mount Constitution, which Chakotay had climbed during the third and fourth weeks of his self-imposed solitude, had been truly awe-inspiring.
Now that April had finally begun, the madrone trees lining the island’s lower elevations were once again in bloom, their delicate, bell-shaped flowers bursting forth in a riotous annual ritual celebrating the renewal of life. But the trees had proved more than picturesque. The delicate, almost paper-thin, reddish orange bark that peeled easily from the trunks made excellent kindling when dried, and the smooth, almost satiny wood beneath burned long and hot once it had been chopped.
In the early days, Chakotay had managed to survive by scrounging in the cold, wet dirt for a few remaining berries the trees had dropped in autumn. Bitterly astringent, they had barely satisfied his stomach, but he found that chewing them throughout the day at least eased the hunger pangs until he had managed to hunt and kill his first deer.
Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle Page 34