“We can’t risk freeing them, even if it means they all die,” Eden said softly.
“Agreed,” Chakotay offered, amazed that she would even consider it.
“Thank you, Ensign.” She nodded to Lasren. “Continue your efforts, but don’t exhaust yourself.”
“Aye,” Lasren said.
“I will stay with him,” Doctor Sharak offered.
“Keep me advised,” Eden replied.
Turning to Chakotay, she said, “Achilles and Galen should be here in the next five hours. Once they arrive, we will leave orbit and begin our search for the Children’s mother.”
“Captain, if Lasren can’t reach them, we might not have the luxury of taking that much time.”
“Then we have to hope he does,” Eden said firmly.
She exited the bay without another word.
U.S.S. VOYAGER
B’Elanna was well and truly spent when she finally entered her cabin. The lights in the living area had been dimmed and the remnants of Miral’s dinner still lay on the table.
She tiptoed toward the bedroom and crooked her neck around the doorway to peak inside. Her heart was immediately suffused with a pleasant, warm tingling at the sight of Miral cuddled in her father’s arms. Their mouths were open, and Tom snored softly. Timmy and the Targ lay open on Miral’s lap, obviously unfinished for the night.
No other sight could have filled B’Elanna with more certainty that she was one of the luckiest women alive. To share her life with a man she loved and a daughter who brought the amazement and simple joy of discovery to each day was a gift. B’Elanna vowed to remember to be grateful that the universe had granted her this much.
As she began a silent retreat from the doorway, Tom stirred and opened his eyes wide. Seeing B’Elanna, he relaxed and gently extricated himself from Miral’s arms, laying her delicately on her back and creeping softly from the room to join his wife.
“Good bedtime?” B’Elanna asked when they were well clear of the door.
Tom replied by taking her in his arms and kissing her tenderly. “The best,” he whispered in her ear.
B’Elanna pulled back to caress Tom’s cheek with the back of her hand and lose herself for a few moments in his deep blue eyes.
“I love you so,” she said softly.
“Glad to hear it,” Tom teased. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” B’Elanna admitted. She couldn’t remember eating since breakfast, but at the moment she really didn’t care.
Reading her thoughts, Tom pulled her toward the sofa. The need to avoid waking their daughter had brought a new tenderness to their intimacy. Though part of B’Elanna longed for the careless, more tempestuous passions of earlier years, what she and Tom now shared was every bit as satisfying for all of its restraint.
An hour later, the spell woven between them remained powerful as they sat over the remnants of their dinner, laughing and chatting quietly by candlelight.
Soon enough it was time to go to bed, but Tom clearly sensed B’Elanna’s reluctance.
“What is it?” he asked as she played her fork over the last few bites of pasta on her plate.
“Nothing,” she said softly and unconvincingly.
Tom gathered the plates and recycled them as B’Elanna tried unsuccessfully to let go of her concerns about the coming day. He returned from the replicator with a small parfait dish containing banana pudding topped with whipped cream.
“This would have really come in handy an hour ago,” B’Elanna mused with a wistful smile.
“Hey, I’m game for anything that includes you, me, and chilled dessert toppings,” Tom teased.
B’Elanna smiled appreciatively, but didn’t even pick up her spoon.
“Sweetheart,” Tom began, “whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?”
“Of course,” she replied sincerely. “I just hate how quickly my mind goes from total happiness back to work.”
Tom shrugged. “Right now you have one of the hardest jobs in the fleet. I’d be surprised if it didn’t weigh pretty heavy on those gorgeous shoulders.”
“I’m just not looking forward to tomorrow,” B’Elanna finally admitted.
“Why not?”
“Achilles will be here by then.”
“Ah,” Tom remembered. “Commander Drafar?”
“What were you going to tell me before about Lendrins?” B’Elanna asked.
Tom leaned back in his chair, wrapping his hands around the back of his neck. “Sadly, male Lendrins are denied what I have discovered to be one of the great pleasures of life.”
“What’s that?”
“Raising their young.”
B’Elanna was both surprised and intrigued.
“You mean the men don’t help at all?” she asked.
“They can’t,” Tom clarified. “It’s biology, not sociology. When Lendrin children are born, they live the first year in a small pouch attached to the mother’s abdomen. No one but the mother can have any physical contact with the infants or they die. For the next few years after that, the mothers also have to continue to nourish the child from their bodies. Their culture has evolved in such a way that the women tend to join together in small groups when they’ve borne children close in age, and these female clans provide all necessary care until the children are old enough to begin school. Most couples aren’t even reunited until that happens.”
B’Elanna was truly shocked. While it made biological sense, it also sounded like the sheer demands on a Lendrin woman would overwhelm most other females.
“That does explain Drafar’s behavior,” B’Elanna was forced to admit.
“It actually makes me kind of sad for him,” Tom added.
With this, too, B’Elanna had to agree. She remembered vividly the years she and Tom had spent apart by necessity. Having now enjoyed, even for a few weeks, the sight of Tom and Miral bonding and Tom’s complete devotion to her, she realized how much joy all three of them had sacrificed on the long road to their present happiness.
As soon as this realization hit her, so did an idea so elegant in its simplicity, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it earlier.
Tom sat back and considered her carefully.
“Why are you smiling like that?” he asked.
“Was I smiling?”
“Yes. Reminds me of the time you and Seska decided to break in Chakotay’s new pilot by rigging the helm to only make port turns.”
At this B’Elanna’s smile widened. “That was a lifetime ago. I can’t believe you remember it.”
Tom’s face fell a bit, as if a darker memory had suddenly intruded.
“We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?” B’Elanna gently prodded.
Tom nodded slightly, but remained silent.
“You ready for bed?”
Tom reached for B’Elanna’s hand and grasped it lightly.
“Something else has been bothering you the last few days,” he finally said. “I’m wondering when you’ll be ready to tell me what it is.”
Damn it.
B’Elanna knew she couldn’t keep anything from Tom for long, but she’d never actually been in a position where duty forbade her from doing so.
“Not yet,” she said seriously. “But it has nothing to do with you or Miral, and I promise, as soon as I can, I will share it with you.”
Tom squeezed her hand and offered a faint smile.
“Okay,” he said. “Then let’s go to bed.”
When the door to Counselor Cambridge’s quarters slid open, Chakotay wondered if an ion storm had moved through the ship without anyone bothering to mention it to him. Stepping gingerly over two large carved stone blocks and around a stack of astrometrics charts, he found the counselor seated in the only empty chair in the room: the one he usually reserved for his patients.
Hugh sat deep in thought, though he did give a slight nod of acknowledgment when Chakotay stepped into his line of sight. Waving a hand listlessly, he said, “Neatness is th
e hobgoblin of little minds.”
“I thought that was consistency,” Chakotay replied, gathering up a few padds from what was normally the counselor’s chair and placing them on the floor among the rest of the collective mess.
Hugh brought his hand to his chin before he replied, “Maybe it was accuracy.”
Chakotay smiled in relief. Though clearly Hugh was in the throes of something deeply troubling, he obviously wasn’t completely lost.
“I’d offer you a drink, but I haven’t seen my replicator in days.” Cambridge smirked.
“I’m fine,” Chakotay said. “Do you want to tell me what all this is about?”
“No.”
A little taken aback, Chakotay continued, “Seven said you canceled your counseling sessions.”
“The first was postponed by necessity,” Hugh corrected him. “She canceled the rest.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“If she feels our work is at an end, who am I to argue? You know counseling is only useful when the patient is a willing participant.”
“That’s not exactly how I remember our first sessions,” Chakotay half joked.
“Well, you were particularly stubborn,” Hugh replied.
“I think Seven is concerned about you,” Chakotay said, deciding to pry a bit.
“No, she’s angry with me,” Hugh countered. “She’ll get over it. She’s hardly the first woman I’ve disappointed.” After a moment, he added, “But you are concerned about me, and you needn’t be. I’m in the middle of a project that has become a little consuming, but I assure you, I will emerge victorious shortly.”
“If this is victory, I’d hate to see defeat,” Chakotay mused.
Finally Hugh smiled wryly. “Why don’t we talk about whatever’s bothering you?”
Now that he had the counselor’s full attention, Chakotay saw little use in dissembling.
“I’m concerned about Captain Eden.”
Hugh’s head cocked to one side as he considered this.
“How so?” he asked.
“She’s wasting time looking for a creature the odds are long at best we’ll find, and in the meantime, Demeter has been lost for weeks.”
“So you disagree with her orders?”
“I think she’s afraid to face the possibility that we’ve lost two ships on this mission. But on the small chance Demeter is still intact, we’re wasting time they probably don’t have.”
“So you want to throw caution to the wind and just charge in after them, phasers blazing?”
Chakotay shrugged. “It sounds less like a plan and more ridiculous when you put it like that.”
“That’s because it is ridiculous.”
Glancing around the cluttered disaster that was currently Hugh’s quarters, Chakotay wondered a little at the confidence in that last statement.
“Hugh—” he began, but the counselor briskly cut him off.
“I’m not kidding. This isn’t the Maquis. It isn’t even Voyager lost and alone in the Delta Quadrant. Afsarah isn’t treading lightly because she’s wedded to the Starfleet procedural manual or because she’s afraid to face loss head-on. She’s guided by a healthy sense of self-preservation, coupled with her acceptance of the fact that she is responsible for eight ships right now, not one.”
“So we sacrifice Demeter as well as Planck?” Chakotay felt his ire rising. “On a mission Starfleet was foolhardy to contemplate, let alone send a group of ill-prepared ships to face?”
“I’ll grant you the second part,” Hugh admitted. “I could have lived the rest of my life in peace without knowing what makes the Children of the Storm tick. But we’re talking about a species that single-handedly trounced the Borg when we lost billions to them in their last attack.”
“The Borg are gone.”
“Seven certainly believes that they are, and thus far we’ve seen little to convince me otherwise,” Hugh acknowledged.
“And it’s doubtful a race as xenophobic as the Children of the Storm would have come looking for us sixty-thousand-odd light-years from their territory,” Chakotay added.
“Possibly,” Hugh agreed, “but you’re missing the point.”
Chakotay found himself hating the fact that Hugh was generally right about his blind spots.
“And what would that be?”
“This is who we are,” Hugh replied simply. “This is what we do. Zefram Cochrane may have strapped a modified nuclear warhead to his ship out of boredom or a more fundamental desire to see if it could be done, but he’s hardly the first human being who was willing to risk his life in the name of discovery. Our race is defined by our bone-headed curiosity. Thousands of years ago, when we were still thanking the sun god for showing up each morning, we were also looking just beyond the next ridge and wondering, ‘What’s over there?’”
“But surely we’ve evolved past the point where every single whim of our curiosity must be satisfied,” Chakotay argued, “especially when the risks so far outweigh any potential reward.”
“You don’t know yet what reward may lie at the end of this road. And even if it’s nothing beyond the deaths of a hundred of our fellows, I don’t think either of us really wants to live in a universe where we keep only to the safe corners of our existence.”
“If that is so, why not go back to my original plan?” Chakotay asked. “You’ve just said there’s no point in playing it safe.”
Hugh shook his head. “Because your plan, while satisfying in the short term, would likely only add to the death toll, while Afsarah’s may not.”
“That doesn’t sound much like a vote of confidence in our fleet commander.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Hugh replied. “What I find curious is the fact that four years ago, you and I would never have been having this conversation.”
“We didn’t know each other four years ago.”
“No, but if you were still serving under Kathryn Janeway, and she was the one ready to charge in where anyone else might tread more carefully, I guarantee that you’d be the one trying to slow her thrusters.”
Chakotay sighed. “The thought had occurred to me.”
“It’s not a bad instinct, the desire to act now and decisively,” Hugh advised. “It’s an important position to consider. But if it were the only voice heard in the conversation, Voyager would never have made it home the first time. Afsarah honestly hasn’t faced loss on the scale you’ve lived through only recently. But I’m not sure she’s the one who’s afraid of it now.”
Chakotay paused as this sank in. “You think I am?”
Hugh shrugged. “I think if there is the slightest doubt in your mind, you’d do well to focus on your job, and let the fleet commander do hers.”
Chakotay considered his point. Finally he said, “It’s going to be a long three years, isn’t it?”
“I sure hope so,” Cambridge replied.
Chapter Twenty
TEN DAYS EARLIER
U.S.S. DEMETER
Forty hours after the briefing had ended, Fife stood on the bridge next to O’Donnell, who was seated in the center chair. The planter drone had been programmed and stocked with seeds and nutrients destined for the system’s fourth planet, as well as a small group of buds designed to convey the importance and benign intention of the drone to the Children of the Storm. Naturally, Fife couldn’t have given a damn whether or not the Children accepted the drone or its mission. As far as he was concerned, it was useful only as a tactical distraction.
Falto and Url had worked diligently, studying the field strength readings both from the launch of the distress buoy and throughout the growth cycles aboard Demeter, and had carefully plotted the small window during which they believed the field might weaken enough to grant Falto helm control. The slipstream drive had been brought on line, and if all went well, within the next five minutes Demeter should be on her way back to the rendezvous point of the rest of the fleet a little earlier than their mission parameters had intended.
<
br /> The only niggling doubt in the back of Fife’s brain was O’Donnell. Although the captain had agreed in principle to prioritize the escape attempt above the success of his drone, Fife wondered if he would lose heart at the last minute. When the critical moment came, it would be O’Donnell’s place to give the appropriate order, and if he hesitated even a few seconds, all might be lost. Fife could only hope that Falto and Url would execute their orders as they already understood them.
O’Donnell was uncharacteristically silent as one section of the viewscreen monitored the loading of the drone into the tube that would eject it into space. The rest of the screen was divided between a display of the field surrounding the ship and a view of the aliens, still spinning and weaving gracefully in and out among each other. To think of them as happy, even now, soured Fife’s stomach. He felt it should have fired the same anger in everyone aboard Demeter to see the enemy glorying in their triumph.
Thankfully, they’ll have less to celebrate shortly, Fife thought grimly.
“The drone is prepared for launch, Captain,” Url reported.
“Hold launch until the growth cycle peaks,” O’Donnell replied flatly. “Falto, confirm slipstream jump plotted and ready to initiate.”
“Confirmed,” Falto replied.
“Growth cycle peak in thirty seconds,” Vincent advised.
Fife’s eyes were glued to the schematic of the field intensity. As predicted, the resonance frequencies had begun to diminish ever so slightly.
“Twenty seconds,” Vincent said.
“Prepare to launch drone on my mark,” O’Donnell ordered.
Though Fife’s gut tensed, he was certain this was going to work.
“Ten seconds,” Vincent said.
“Prepare to initiate slipstream corridor,” O’Donnell ordered.
Star Trek: Voyager: Children of the Storm Page 25