Spirit Walk, Book One

by Christie Golden

  “You’ve been captain before,

  sir,” said Kim.

  “Yes,” agreed Chakotay,

  “a rebel captain of a tiny vessel

  that Voyager could eat for lunch.

  It’s not quite the same thing.”

  Chakotay looked out the shuttle’s windows. They had reached Voyager, and now the viewscreen was filled with the familiar image of the ship that had been home to him for seven years. As always, he admired her sleek lines, but this time, there was something different.

  This time, the ship was his.

  Chakotay smiled as he heard a familiar voice. “Voyager to Captain Chakotay’s shuttle,” said Lyssa Campbell. “You are cleared for docking.”

  Harry smiled a little as well; for seven years, that sort of announcement had been his job.

  “Voyager, this is Captain Chakotay’s party on final approach.”

  “Voyager welcomes you,” Campbell replied. “Prepare for docking.”

  This is the real homecoming, thought Chakotay.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2004 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

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  ISBN: 1-4165-0005-7

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  This book is dedicated

  to all those who have felt called

  to walk a spiritual path.

  Many blessings.

  Acknowledgments

  Many people were instrumental in the creation of this book. I wish to thank the following individuals: Joe RedCloud, for information on the Lakota language and culture; Malcolm Simpson, M.D., for medical “jargon”; Tom and Amy Gutow, Jeanne Cooper, and Patty Hutchins of Castine, for helping me bring this small Maine town to life in these pages; Mark Anthony for very helpful input at a crucial juncture; and Michael Georges and Robert Amerman, my loyal First Readers.

  Any errors contained in this book are entirely my own.

  Prologue

  2375

  THE CARDASSIAN PRISONER of war stretched out on the comfortable Federation bunk, glowered at the uniformed back of the security guard standing outside the force field, and cursed his fortune.

  He had been so close. No, not close, he had actually succeeded. If only he’d had more time! So much of what had happened had been just plain bad luck. Timing often was indeed everything, and this time, the timing had been abominable. His colleagues hadn’t helped matters any, either. Idiots. Striking that adversarial attitude when, really, they were all on the same side.

  But the Cardassian was intelligent enough to realize that he himself had contributed to his eventual capture. He had been so wrapped up in his work that he’d done some foolish things. Grimacing with embarrassment as he recalled them, he mentally amended that to “stupid” things. Patience was a virtue, a necessity in his work, and he had forgotten that important directive. He had allowed the pressure and the sheer thrill of discovery to push him into making the choices that had led to his present lamentable state.

  He sighed, loudly. The guard standing outside his cell shifted her position but didn’t look in. At least he wasn’t going to be executed, and he had Captain Jean-Luc Picard to thank for that. It had been pleasant, chatting about his work with Picard. The captain had been an attentive, intelligent audience. Perhaps, thought the Cardassian, there was some hope after all. Hope that once the Dominion was victorious, there would be individuals who, although former enemies, would assist in building a new, brighter future.

  But at least for now, the Cardassian knew he’d be sitting out the rest of this war. Glancing around at the room that was the brig on a Federation starship, he allowed himself to think that perhaps being a prisoner wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe they would let him listen to his beloved opera, or speak with his wife.

  Maybe they’d even let him continue his work. After all, the war would eventually be over, and his kind would be needed. Even vital.

  Commander William Riker glanced at his captain. The patrician features were tight and cold, the hazel eyes blazing with righteous anger, the lips thinned with suppressed outrage. Riker couldn’t blame him. He wanted to pop the Cardassian one too.

  “At least we got him,” he said quietly.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes, quite. He can’t do any more harm languishing in a Starfleet prison,” Picard replied. “Do you know, Number One, I feel a bit queasy simply knowing that he’s on my ship.”

  Riker grinned wickedly. “We’ll decontaminate the brig once we’ve completed the transfer,” he joked. He added, more seriously, “I know what you mean. It’ll be nice when the bastard’s someone else’s problem.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” said Picard.

  “Captain,” came Data’s measured voice, “The Adventure is hailing us.”

  “On-screen,” said Picard.

  The delicate features of Captain T’Piran filled the screen. The Vulcan woman nodded in recognition.

  “Captain Picard. It is pleasant to see you.”

  “And you, Captain T’Piran. I must confess, I have been eagerly looking forward to your ship’s arrival.”

  She arched a black eyebrow. “I am not surprised,” she said. “Your prisoner is…distasteful.”

  Riker chuckled. There was such a thing as an honorable foe, a fellow warrior fighting for a cause he believed in. One could respect such an adversary. But this guy…

  “We are ready to receive the prisoner as soon as you are prepared to transport,” T’Piran said.

  “Believe me, Captain,” Picard replied, “we are more than prepared.”

  A few moments later, and it was done: the prisoner had been safely transferred to the Adventure. Picard and T’Piran exchanged courteous farewells, and when the Vulcan’s face was replaced by an image of her small ship leaping into warp, Picard sighed.

  “Now, Number One,” he said, “About that decontamination you suggested…”

  With the prisoner safely off the Enterprise, the tension aboard the ship dissipated. The Cardassian had been the last reminder of a difficult, though ultimately triumphant, time, and everyone on board was relieved that things were finally getting back to normal. Betazed had been freed. The station the Cardassians had been building was destroyed. Deanna’s mother, the irrepressible Lwaxana, and her young son were safe, and a monster was now safely behind a force field aboard the Adventure.

  To mark the occasion, Riker and Deanna Troi indulged in her favorite decadent pastime—eating chocolate. They met in Ten-Forward as soon as they both went off duty, a few hours after the prisoner had left the ship. Seated at their usual table, Troi lifted the small, dark brown sweet between thumb and forefinger and regarded it with reverence.

  “Thalian chocolate,” she said in a dreamy voice. “The beans are aged for at least four hundred years.” Gesturing with the chocolate for emphasis, she said, “This ma
kes replicated chocolate taste like targ dung.”

  “Huh. Haven’t tried targ dung in a while,” dead-panned Riker. When she offered the candy to him, he declined, saying, “No, thanks. I get more entertainment out of watching you eat it.”

  She raised an eyebrow and gave him just the hint of a smile. “True connoisseurs consider this an aphrodisiac, you know.”

  A slow grin spread across Riker’s face. “Well, in that case,” he amended, leaning forward and opening his mouth.

  Suddenly Picard’s voice was heard throughout the ship. “All hands, this is the captain. We are at yellow alert. Assume stations and prepare for rescue maneuvers.”

  They exchanged glances. “You’d think after what we’ve just been through we’d catch a break,” Riker said, rising.

  Troi popped the last of the exquisite chocolates into her mouth. Around the confection, she said, “We never catch breaks, Will. Haven’t you figured that out by now?” And they headed for the turbolift.

  Picard glanced up as they entered the bridge. Riker didn’t like the look on his face. As he and Troi assumed their seats, Riker asked, “Status?”

  “We’ve received a distress call from the Adventure,” Picard said grimly. “They were seconds away from a warp core breach and attempting to evacuate when they sent the call. We heard nothing more. Presently we are heading to their last known location at warp nine.”

  Their eyes met. Both men knew that even warp ten, if such a thing were possible, might not be fast enough. Seconds—sometimes nanoseconds—counted. If you weren’t able to shut down a warp core breach in time, chances were you wouldn’t make it to the escape pods.

  Their fears were confirmed when they dropped out of warp. There was no sign of a ship, no sign of escape pods—nothing but debris floating in the iciness of space.

  Just to be sure, Picard asked in a clipped voice, “Deanna? Anything?”

  Her large brown eyes full of sorrow, she shook her head. “No one survived, Captain.”

  Riker hated moments like these—moments when he was utterly helpless and there was no action to take to ease the pain. The Adventure was no more; Captain T’Piran, her five-member crew, and their infamous prisoner were dead.

  “When we first brought Crell Moset on board,” said Picard, “I assured him he wouldn’t be killed.”

  Riker gazed out at the floating debris. “Looks like you lied.”

  Chapter

  1

  2378

  ADMIRAL KATHRYN JANEWAY APPROACHED the pool table, her jaw set, her eyes bright. Captain Chakotay thought Joan of Arc might have worn that same look of passionate determination, gripping a lance instead of a cue stick. Janeway surveyed the table, called her shot, lined it up, and to the surprise of neither of her watching friends, sank the ball.

  The three of them were in the real, bona fide Sandrine’s in Marseilles. Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris had made the introductions a few months ago and told Sandrine about how popular the replicated bistro was on Voyager’s holodeck. Sandrine had been enormously pleased to think that her “simple, petit bistro offered so much comfort to lost travelers.” The elegant blond proprietor had kissed everyone on the cheek—the men on each cheek, a bit too lingeringly—and offered complimentary champagne and caviar all around.

  Tonight, six months after Voyager’s return home, only Janeway, Chakotay, and Dr. Jarem Kaz were enjoying the dim lighting and cozy atmosphere of the bistro. Janeway sipped a glass of fine French wine between shots, Kaz had indulged in Antarean brandy, and Chakotay held a glass of cold mineral water with lime.

  “Got a big day tomorrow,” he said as he ordered, “and besides, I have to stay sharp if I have any hope of winning against Admiral Shark here.”

  In the end, though, Chakotay realized that his decision to stick to water didn’t help much. Janeway continued to dominate the game.

  “Maybe we should change the rules,” Kaz said to Chakotay as Janeway sank her fourth ball.

  Janeway looked up in mock horror. “Gentlemen, I’m surprised at you. You should know by now that I never, ever change or bend rules.”

  The two men exchanged amused glances. Chakotay had been Janeway’s first officer for seven years and knew nearly everything there was to know about the woman who had brought her crew home against impossible odds. Janeway kept to the spirit of the law, but not always the letter. She took risks and followed her gut instincts and her heart’s advice as well as the logic of her brain.

  Sometimes those risks didn’t pay off. Sometimes they exacted a dreadful toll. But most of the time, Kathryn Janeway won.

  Just as she was doing now.

  Kaz had known Janeway and Chakotay for only a few months, but the three of them had become fast friends in that time. The Trill doctor had risked everything to help them stop a deadly threat to Earth shortly after the Voyager crew had returned home. During that crisis, Kaz had trusted Janeway as Chakotay had learned to trust her, with much less reason. And with that trust, he had earned two friends for life.

  There were other reasons why Chakotay found himself gravitating to the doctor. The Trill’s previous host, Gradak, had been a Maquis, something he and Chakotay had in common. Gradak Kaz had died shortly after the devastating sneak attack on Tevlik’s moon base—the very site out of which Chakotay himself had operated during the war. As Chakotay had once told Janeway, if his ship hadn’t been spirited away to the Delta Quadrant by the Caretaker, he would probably have died on Tevlik’s moon along with several thousand other Maquis and their entire families.

  Even more significantly, both Gradak and Chakotay had personally known the traitor Arak Katal, the Bajoran who had betrayed the Maquis to the Cardassians and was directly responsible for the massacre.

  Chakotay liked Jarem for himself, never having known Gradak. But the knowledge that part of his new friend understood what it meant to be Maquis made Chakotay even more inclined to befriend the Trill.

  As much as he personally liked Kaz, he respected him even more. The Trill had been Chakotay’s first choice to replace the Doctor on board Voyager. Kaz had readily agreed, and Chakotay was looking forward to working with him.

  “Oh, come on,” sputtered Kaz as Janeway prepared to sink yet another ball.

  The outburst was perfectly timed. Janeway laughed and her shot went wild. Still laughing, she yielded to Chakotay.

  “I pass it to you, my old friend,” she said, and he knew she referred to more than the table.

  Tomorrow would mark his first official day as captain of the U.S.S. Voyager. The ship would be re-launched, with its new captain, new crew, and new missions. It was a bittersweet moment for Chakotay.

  “Six, right-hand side pocket,” he said, and lined up the shot.

  Janeway had always told him the truth, and she’d been frank about how hard it had been for her to persuade some in Starfleet Command to award Chakotay the position of captain. He’d found out later just how hard she’d argued.

  “You should have seen her, Chakotay,” Admiral Kenneth Montgomery, former foe and now friend, said to him one night not too long ago. “I’ll be frank—it ought to have been impossible. You were a Maquis, and the only proof they had that you could be trusted was her word and Voyager’s logs. But Janeway wasn’t going to leave the room until she’d gotten you that captaincy. I’ve never seen anyone argue so passionately for something in my entire life. By the time she was done, I think everyone was prepared to offer you the presidency of the Federation.”

  Chakotay found out later that others, too, had come before Starfleet Command to speak to his accomplishments—Montgomery among them. He’d blushed to hear how highly thought of he was among both relative strangers and his former crewmates. Chakotay knew he’d been given a rare opportunity, and he was determined that his friends—especially Kathryn—would never regret their decision to support him.

  He’d also been allowed to assemble what he considered to be a “dream crew,” the finest from Voyager and some of the best the Federation could off
er in the Alpha Quadrant.

  In addition to Kaz, he’d been able to get Harry Kim to agree to take over security, Lyssa Campbell, Voyager’s former transporter officer, to step into Harry’s old position at ops, and the unwittingly entertaining and intelligent Vorik as chief engineer. Two amazing women as pilot and science officer and a Huanni counselor—every captain’s first choice for that important, delicate, and sometimes difficult job—rounded out the senior staff.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to work as a team, Kaz?” Chakotay asked as he lined up his second shot. “It might take both of us to beat her.”

  “No, I’ll wait and play the admiral—I mean, whoever wins this game,” said Kaz.

  “Yeah, yeah, wait until you’re on my ship, my friend,” said Chakotay. He missed the next shot, and Kaz looked at him meaningfully.

  Chakotay drank some of his water and looked around. Sighing, he said, “This is almost a perfect evening. I only wish Tom were here.”

  Janeway, chalking her cue, gave him a sympathetic glance. She knew he was referring to more than just the evening’s entertainment.

  “We tried,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied. “Two black sheep was just too much for Starfleet to swallow.”

  “For right now,” Janeway said. “Thirteen, corner pocket. And besides, he’s still on parental leave on Boreth, with B’Elanna and Miral.” Before she shot, she regarded Chakotay intently. “Don’t worry, Chakotay. I’ve got my eye on Tom. I’m not going to let Starfleet forget about him. He’s too valuable an officer.”

  Chakotay had wanted Tom Paris as his first officer. Despite—or perhaps because of—their clashes in earlier years, Paris was someone he had learned to trust completely. It had seemed so right, so logical a choice, that even now the memory of Janeway gently telling him that his request had been denied stung.

  “They’re willing to gamble on you, and they’re willing to gamble on Tom,” Janeway had said. “Just not both of you on the same ship.”