She screamed the entire time, hurling Klingon curses, and used her body weight to push the spear deep into the grikshak’s stomach. The spear went in almost a full meter before it stopped. As B’Elanna got to her feet and ran to assist her mother, Miral turned and gave her daughter a fierce, sharp-toothed smile.
“Q’ap—” she began.
The grikshak’s sweeping forepaw caught Miral squarely across the midsection. Its claws raked deep, and the force of the blow sent Miral flying through the air. B’Elanna heard her crash down several yards away.
Heedless of her own safety, B’Elanna ran toward where her mother had fallen. The grikshak bellowed and shrieked, but Miral’s blow had been a fatal one. It couldn’t rise, and even as B’Elanna went past it at a full run, her feet slipped in the torrent of blood flowing from the wound.
“Mother!” B’Elanna cried. “Mother!”
She almost stepped on the broken, bloody form in the darkness. Torres dropped to her knees. She needed no fire or sun to see the three enormous claw marks—slices, really—that laid open Miral’s torso. They were three centimeters wide and three times as long. Organs were starting to shyly peep through the gaping holes.
“Oh, God,” Torres breathed. She reached and tried to hold the lips of the wounds closed. She was up to her wrists in blood and everything was slippery, so slippery—
Miral hissed as her daughter touched her. “She was avenged,” Miral said.
“Don’t talk,” B’Elanna said. “Maybe I can stitch these up somehow—”
Miral laughed, then winced at the pain. Blood trickled from her mouth. “These are past any doctor’s healing, child. Even your EMH could do nothing now.”
B’Elanna’s vision blurred and she blinked the tears away. “Mother,” she said, brokenly. “You have to try to fight it. Klingons are tough, we—”
“We?” her mother said, interrupting her. “It is good to hear you include yourself, my daughter.” She grimaced, then continued. “A human would be dead. I may indeed last for a time. How long, I do not know. Perhaps hours, perhaps even a day.”
“You’ll be all right,” Torres said, wanting fiercely to believe the lie. “You’ve got a son-in-law to meet, and little Miral…I want her to know her grandmother.”
“I would…have liked that, too,” Miral said. It was clearly getting harder for her to speak. “But eventually I will pass. B’Elanna…I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything,” Torres sobbed. Her heart was breaking.
“You must perform the Hegh’bat.”
For a moment, Torres couldn’t remember what it was. There were so many Klingon rituals. When it came to her, she shrank back in horror.
“No, Mother! I can’t possibly—”
Miral reached out a hand and gripped B’Elanna’s wrist with more strength than B’Elanna had thought she yet had.
“You will do this for me,” she hissed between clenched teeth. “Don’t you see? I was…” She coughed, and blood spattered B’Elanna. “I was supposed to have died when I had the vision of you on the Barge of the Dead. I was so sick…. No one expected me to recover. But I did.”
She labored for breath for a moment, her grip never loosening, and continued. “I lived because it was not enough for you to save me in a vision. You must save me in this reality as well. Do this for me. Send me to Sto-Vo-Kor with this loving blow. Give me honor, my daughter. You have already given me pride.”
She smiled, and the sight was both grotesque and beautiful to B’Elanna. “Mother, please…please fight it.”
“I am, child. I am fighting to live long enough for you to…”
And then B’Elanna understood. Her mother was clinging to life so that she didn’t die before her daughter gave her honor by killing her. Two thoughts filled her head simultaneously: This is perverse and wrong and she’s not a victim, she’s deciding her own destiny.
“Hurry, ’Lanna,” her mother said. “I can almost see it….”
Somehow, B’Elanna got to her feet and stumbled away from the anguish unfolding before her. She found the primitive “knife” her mother had made and hurried back to Miral’s side, fearful that it was too late, fearful that it wasn’t.
“I h-have the knife,” she said, biting her lip so hard she feared she would sever a chunk of it.
Miral opened her eyes. “Good,” she said, her voice a whisper. “This is good. This is…is how it was meant to unfold.”
B’Elanna couldn’t believe that. Couldn’t. She wanted to grab Miral and shake some sense into her, wanted to tap her comm badge and beam her up to Voyager for some damn proper medical care. Instead, she grasped the knife with hands that were wet with the lifeblood of two mothers—her own, and the mother of the young grikshak she had slain.
Guilt commingled with grief. She realized that she was responsible for the mother grikshak finding Miral’s encampment. Torres had killed its cub and made a cloak out of the young female’s skin. The scent of her child had led the adult directly to them. Miral had known it before she had, and somehow found the whole bizarre thing fitting. “She was avenged,” Miral had said of the beast that had killed her. A mother had slain a mother, the price for the life of a daughter.
But what of the daughter who survived?
“Take the dagger,” Miral said, her lips barely moving. Torres had to lean close to hear. “Make it swift. One blow. Then when you are done, wipe the blood on your clothing and issue the cry. Let them know to expect me.” Her lips, purple with blood, curved in a smile. “I have no…no doubt that my arrival will cause…quite the commotion.”
Torres tasted blood. She had indeed bit her lip too hard. Her tongue found and explored the ragged flesh, tasted the saltiness. Her senses were heightened. Everything was clear, sharp, vibrant, and she didn’t want to let a second of it pass without being exalted.
“Momma…I don’t know if I can do this,” she quavered.
“You can. You can do anything. Have you not learned that by now?” She shuddered in pain. “I cannot feel my legs…hurry, daughter, or the moment and I shall both pass without honor.”
Torres took a deep breath. She pushed the part of her that quailed from the task into a small box in the back of her mind and shut the lid.
“I love you, Mother,” she said.
“I love you, my daughter,” Miral breathed. Their gazes locked. “We will meet again,” she said, echoing the words the Miral in B’Elanna’s vision had said.
Her throat tight, her eyes burning with tears, B’Elanna managed, “In Sto-Vo-Kor.”
Miral nodded, then with a hint of humor added, “But not too soon, eh?”
Somehow B’Elanna laughed. “No,” she agreed, “not too soon.” Miral’s chest hitched.
“Daughter…hurry….”
Staring right into her mother’s eyes, B’Elanna Torres screamed an incoherent cry and brought the knife down on Miral’s throat.
She was not prepared for the horrible crunching sound, the fountain of blood that pattered, soft and warm, on her face. She was not prepared to see the light go out of her mother’s eyes, even as B’Elanna forced them open. For an instant, her mind danced on the brink of madness. No child should have to do this to a parent.
With hands that trembled, she wiped Miral’s blood on her cloak, the hide of the creature that had sealed Miral’s fate. B’Elanna threw back her head and howled with all the strength she had in her, turning her grief into a victory cry. Surely Kahless himself would hear this sound. And all would know that a warrior was on her way to join them.
She couldn’t recall the Klingon words for the dirge. Panic fluttered in her chest, panic that somehow she’d mess this up, too, like she had messed up so much in her life. The words simply weren’t there.
I’m half human, she thought. Human language will have to do.
“Only Qo’noS endures,” she began. And as she chanted, the darkness of the awful night gave way to a cold, steel-gray dawn.
• • •
&nb
sp; B’Elanna Torres awoke with a whimper, her limbs aching from being held in a strange position for so long. Her heart felt sick and sore, but for a brief, blessed moment, she couldn’t recall why. As she untangled herself, she saw her mother’s corpse, and remembrance crashed down upon her like an avalanche.
She wept again, curled up in a fetal position, until she had exhausted her tears. Then she struggled to her feet and, stumbling like a drunken man, made her way over to where Miral lay.
Horrible though the sight was, B’Elanna felt a strange comfort steal over her. This wasn’t Miral. This was simply the shape, the shell, that passionate woman had worn in life. Now that she was dead, Klingons believed the body was nothing.
B’Elanna couldn’t make that leap, not yet, but she had a glimmer of insight into how Klingons could feel that way. In the full, harsh light of day, she saw how badly her mother had been wounded, and had an inkling of the pain she was in. To have endured hours, maybe days, of living in that agony—no. Although part of her screamed that what she had done was wrong, a louder part was quietly telling her that it was right.
They were to have left for the temple today, she and her mother. They were to have traveled together, telling stories and singing songs, and laughing, embarking on a new chapter in their lives. Instead, the journey back would be as lonely as the journey here, with much less hope to brighten it.
Torres took a deep breath, and began to gather stones for a cairn. Klingons wouldn’t bother. But she was only half-Klingon, and her human half couldn’t bear the thought of her mother’s body becoming food for scavengers.
She was a blend of two peoples. Her mother wanted her to be proud of that heritage.
She would start today.
Chapter 22
“DEPENDING ON HOW strong she has become, it is likely that the queen will attempt to access all Starfleet systems,” said Seven. “We must alert Starfleet Command so that they are prepared.”
“Mr. Kim, patch Admiral Montgomery through to Starfleet Command,” Janeway ordered. “Ken, tell them to physically isolate Starfleet Intelligence as well. We’ve got to keep the queen and her drones inside that building. Everyone should wear envirosuits. It will offer them at least some protection from the nanoprobes.”
“I’m on it,” Montgomery said grimly.
“Should we suit up as well?” Chakotay asked. While they had been talking, the Doctor and Kaz had been preparing hyposprays. As he spoke, Chakotay tilted his neck and Kaz pressed the hypospray to his artery.
“It would offer additional protection,” Icheb said.
“I would not recommend it,” said Tuvok. “They are cumbersome and would hinder our movement. And if the suit were ruptured in any way, we would be as exposed as if we were not wearing them.”
“Agreed,” said Janeway.
“According to Starfleet Command, she’s already accessed the system,” Montgomery said. He looked as if he desperately wanted to punch something. It was a sentiment Janeway shared.
“Has she locked them out?”
Montgomery was reading information as she spoke and said, “No, it looks as though she withdrew of her own accord. Now why would she do that?”
“Maybe she can’t handle that much information yet,” Icheb said.
“Lock her out,” Janeway said. “Tell them to make sure she can’t access those systems again. She’ll probably keep trying.”
Montgomery nodded and spoke to his contact.
Janeway tilted her head, felt the cold press of the hypospray. “Has everyone been vaccinated?” Her team nodded.
“May I suggest that we transport to the control room first?” Data said. “I may be able to access the computers and countermand some of her orders.”
“Good thinking,” Janeway said. “And I don’t think we want to show up in her office first thing anyway. Admiral, are you ready?”
Montgomery said a few more words to his contact, and then terminated the conversation. His face looked haggard. “They’ve apprehended Grady, and he’s spilling everything. It doesn’t look good,” he said.
“I’m sure there were moments during the Dominion War when things didn’t look good either,” Janeway said, “and yet, you prevailed.”
When they reached the transporter room, Janeway entered the coordinates, fully expecting to encounter a block. There was none.
“That’s odd,” she said. “Why isn’t the queen blocking our transporter signals?”
“She wants us to come,” Montgomery said. “I know her, Janeway. She’s arrogant. She wants us to come and try to get her so she can have the pleasure of defeating us.”
Janeway looked at him sharply. “Sounds a bit personal.”
He grimaced. “It is. And we’ll leave it at that. Regardless, we’re walking into a trap.”
Janeway smiled. “She thinks we’ll be assimilated the minute we materialize, and she’ll have a whole new set of drones to play with. We may not have many advantages, but we’ve got this one.”
To Kaz, who was manning the transporter, she gave the order: “Energize.”
• • •
They materialized with phasers drawn, a wise precaution as their welcoming committee consisted of four drones. The away team fired, but one blast caught Tuvok in the chest. He staggered and went down.
Janeway and her team continued to fire. Almost at once she noticed two things: First, these drones appeared to have no personal shields, adaptive or otherwise, and second, the “full stun” which would have dropped an ordinary human instantly seemed to have less effect. She had to fire twice, point blank, before her target dropped.
In a few seconds, the firefight was over. Chakotay was already bending over Tuvok and pressing a hypospray to his throat to revive him. “I’m surprised they used stun,” he said, as he helped the Vulcan to his feet.
Data was at the controls, already beginning to link with the system. The lights on his exposed skull flashed green and red.
“Processing…” he said in a dull voice. Then, “She has full command of every system in the building. I am attempting to sever her control. I do not know how successful I will be.”
“She knows we’re here,” said Seven, “and she’s probably also aware we haven’t been assimilated.”
Montgomery nodded. “The drones may try to assimilate us the old-fashioned way,” she said. “We won’t be under her command, as the modified nanoprobes will block our access to the hive mind, but I don’t relish the thought of implants sprouting out of me.” He glanced at Seven. “No offense.”
Seven arched an eyebrow. “None taken.”
“Data,” said Janeway, “can you locate Covington’s office and show us how to get there?”
Data’s expression was fixed, his body stiff, but he entered the request. A map appeared on one of the many screens. Montgomery stepped forward and touched a few pads.
“We’re here,” he said, stabbing with his index finger. “Her office is here.”
“That doesn’t look too bad,” Paris said. “A turbolift ride and a few turns down a corridor.”
“When she controls the turbolift and has drones positioned every step of the way,” said Chakotay, “it’s pretty bad.”
Not even Paris could think of a smart reply to that one.
• • •
Covington felt as if she were straddling two worlds. One was the world of the flesh, in which she could see her colleagues and speak her orders. The other was the world of the machine, with its sparks and data streams and bombardment of information. She was starting to understand how to maneuver in this strange place between worlds, though it was difficult.
A sudden jolt, and information was abruptly in her brain. “They’re in the control room,” she said aloud. “The android has accessed the computer. He’s fighting me.”
The drone that had once answered to the human designation of Trevor Blake turned slowly toward his Creatress. She sensed his thoughts as surely as if he spoke them: We will not permit him to gain control.
The EMH hovered nearby, consulting his medical tricorder and occasionally clucking his tongue. But he knew better than to voice his apprehension. This was it. This was where they made their last stand, where they held off attack until the queen gained enough strength, enough experience, that she was able to take full and undisputed control of the planet.
Another jolt of information, this time painful, like a needle had been jabbed behind her ear. “They are not being assimilated,” she said softly, puzzled. “They are not even in environmental suits and yet…”
Fury and panic crashed through her. They must have discovered a way to prevent assimilation via the virus bearing nanoprobes. She had looked forward to bringing Janeway and Montgomery into her family as obedient drones, but if they were resistant, they were of no use to her. In fact, they were a very real danger.
Kill them, she ordered her drones.
• • •
It was the worst firefight Janeway could remember in her entire life. She hated fighting in close quarters, and it was made much worse in that many of the targets—she couldn’t bring herself to think of them as “people”—wore Starfleet uniforms.
Data was doing what he could. He had achieved moderate success in overriding some of the more basic security measures and had started placing force fields between Janeway and her people and the drones—which was a very good thing indeed, as Janeway saw that the phasers were now set to “kill.”
More than once, she recognized an old acquaintance staring at her with a pale face and blank expression. When she was forced to fire at what had once been Aidan Fletcher, who moments ago had been as human as she, she felt a deep pang of regret that was immediately replaced by anger.
Montgomery was at her side, muttering furiously. He was taking this all personally, she could tell, and she couldn’t blame him. If she knew a few people here, she was willing to bet he knew dozens.
There was noise everywhere, from the screaming of phaser fire to the sound of furniture and equipment being destroyed to the grunts of the Borg as they dropped. Janeway’s breathing was shallow and her hair was falling into her face. It was so hard to make so little headway. The actual distance they had to travel on the map was insignificant, but it might as well have been miles. She thought she understood the feelings of the men in the trenches during World War I, as they clawed for every centimeter.
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