“Sekaya,” he began, feeling his way, “I think there may be something we need to discuss.”
He caught her in mid-bite. She’d just placed a fork-ful of cheesecake in her mouth and her eyes went wide as she chewed. Swallowing, she coughed, said, “Discuss what?” and reached for her coffee.
“Earlier today,” Chakotay continued, “you said, ‘We didn’t want to drop everything on you at once.’ ”
He was right. Sekaya had been holding something back. She quickly looked down at her plate of half-eaten cheesecake. Then she flashed a smile at him.
“I should have known that you’d pick up on that. Just because you’re a contrary doesn’t mean you’re slow on the uptake.”
“Tell me.”
She sighed and pushed her plate away. For a long moment, she stared at her hands, then she began.
“First, tell me your impression of how things were back home when you came to visit,” she said.
Uneasily, Chakotay said, “Everything seemed fine. I asked around a bit, about how you fared under the Cardassians, and everyone reassured me that the occupation had gone quite uneventfully. That the Cardassians hadn’t bothered you, as we had all hoped. I remember thinking that Father had died for nothing after all, that he must have gone out looking for a fight just on principle.”
She eyed him. “Our father. A staunch proponent of peace and cooperation. You really believed he went looking for a fight?”
“It was the only theory I could come up with that fit the facts,” Chakotay said. “If Dorvan V was never bothered by the Cardassians, and Father still joined the Maquis, what else was I to think?”
“When he died, you left Starfleet. You became a Maquis, just like him. You went looking for a fight just on principle too.”
He looked down at his cup of cooling coffee. “Of course, the reason he and I hadn’t spoken in so long was because I wanted to leave our world and join Starfleet. Father felt that Starfleet—that the Federation—had let our people down. When I got the news…it was almost as if Starfleet had killed him, as if I had killed him. So I picked up the torch he’d dropped. I picked up his cause. And I wear this in honor of him,” he said, touching the tattoo on his forehead with a finger. “As do you.”
She smiled, then the smile faded as she continued. “But…you didn’t fight near our world,” she said.
“No,” he said. “The Cardassians were the enemy everywhere. I fought where I could—where I was sent.”
“It must have been a relief to hear that the war was over, that the Maquis were all pardoned.”
“It was, as I told you when I visited,” he said, growing slightly annoyed. “Sekaya, you’re dancing around the issue. What’s all this about?”
Sekaya sighed. “Chakotay, we lied to you. Well, no,” she amended immediately, “that’s not true. We just…we just didn’t tell you certain things.”
“Things like what?”
“We haven’t told anyone yet. The Federation abandoned us. We had no wish to tell them what we endured.”
Concerned, he said, “What happened?”
She lifted her dark eyes to his. He saw her swallow. “Father didn’t die for nothing. He didn’t go looking for a fight. The fight came to us. You see…the Cardassians didn’t leave us alone after all.”
He reached across the table to clasp her hand. “Tell me.”
“I will. It was one of the things I wanted to do, why I agreed to this mission when Admiral Janeway suggested it. But I didn’t think—I just got here today, Chakotay. I want to tell you, but…I’m sorry. I’m just not ready to talk about it.” She smiled without humor. “Maybe I should go see Astall along with the colonists.”
“Maybe you should,” he said, completely seriously.
Sekaya rose and tossed the napkin on the table. “It’s late, and it’s been a long day. I ought to get back to my quarters,” she said.
“You can’t just drop that on the table and walk away,” Chakotay replied.
“I need more time to prepare. To figure out how to word things properly.” She stood, twisting her fingers, staring at the carpeting. “I didn’t expect to have to talk about it the first night. I thought we’d spend some time together, and it would just naturally come up.”
“It just did.”
She threw him a look of exasperation and fear commingled. “I know, but I just don’t want to talk about it right now, all right?”
“Sekaya, you may not be part of Starfleet, but you’re on a Starfleet vessel and I’m its captain. You’ve just told me that the Federation failed to protect our people. I’d be within my rights to order you to tell me.”
Her dark eyes flashed. “You wouldn’t,” she said in a low voice.
He softened. “No, I wouldn’t. But this…this isn’t kind of you, Sekaya.”
She went to him then and, bending, kissed his temple right on the tattoo.
“It’s not about being cruel or kind, Chakotay. It’s about being ready to talk about something that’s very important—to bare my soul. To reveal a secret. You know what a big thing that is to our people. And besides, I really did want to come on this mission to help the Loran II colonists. I don’t want what happened to our colony to distract me from my duties to this one. Do you understand?”
He pressed her hand to his cheek. “Not really,” he admitted. “But I respect you. Tell me when you feel the time is right, but I warn you, I’m not dropping you back off at Deep Space 6 without learning this secret.”
She smiled then, and he felt relief wash over him as he saw the familiar dimple appear in her smooth brown cheek. Whatever it was, and it was clearly bad, it hadn’t robbed his beautiful, ebullient sister of her ability to laugh. And for that, he was grateful.
“Thanks, big brother. The dinner was great. Good night.” She paused at the door. “Chakotay…it really is good to see you again.”
The door hissed closed behind her. He tossed his own napkin on the table and stared at it unseeingly, his hands on his hips.
“Everything seemed fine,” he said to himself.
Chapter
9
KAZ WHISTLED as he updated some files, pausing now and then to glance around appreciatively at his new surroundings. It had been a while since he’d been on a ship, and he liked what he saw of Voyager’s sickbay. Like nearly everyone in the medical profession, he’d read about the Doctor’s “adventures” with interest and, truth be told, quite a bit of envy. To be a doctor in the Delta Quadrant, facing new challenges nearly every day—how stimulating such a thing must have been.
He chuckled to himself, wondering if that was really Jarem’s thinking or Gradak’s, or maybe even the poet Radara’s. He was all of these, and yet he was his own man. Jarem very much enjoyed being a joined Trill, and not for the first time thought how fortunate he had been.
The whistling died in his throat as he recalled the circumstances under which that joining had come about. Most joined Trill who were about to receive a symbiont transplant lay beside the dying former host, so he knew his experience was not unique. But this had been no peaceful passing. Gradak hadn’t wanted to die, hadn’t needed to die.
Shouldn’t have died….
“Medical emergency,” came the voice of Captain Lanham. The ship was already on red alert. “Sickbay, prepare to receive injured.”
“Understood,” snapped Jarem, running his hands under the sanitizing light. “How many?” His team began preparing even as he spoke, readying tricorders, assembling medications, prepping the biobeds, opening overflow cots.
“Sixteen,” came the reply.
Kaz didn’t ask who the injured were, where they had come from, how they came to be wounded. He didn’t care. There would be time for that later. Right now, he was a doctor, and all that mattered was healing them if he could.
He heard the hum of the transporter. The wounded filled all the beds and some materialized on the floor. Quickly he and the nurses helped these to the cots. Some of the injured were conscious, with only minor inj
uries that Jarem’s experienced eye recognized as being caused by phaser fire. Others were in much worse shape.
The transporter hummed again and more patients materialized. Jarem went cold inside as they shimmered into existence.
“Oh no,” he breathed, sickened by the sight. Lying on the floor, burned and bloody, were several children. What had happened to them? What kind of depraved being would direct phaser fire on children?
He barked orders for a triage setup. His team assessed the injuries and immediately got to work on the worst of the injured. Even as he concentrated on setting up a blood infusion for a Bolian, he took a quick mental inventory of the races: mostly human, a few Bolians, and some Bajorans.
And then he understood. These were Maquis. But Maquis who had their families with them….
“Doctor, you’d better see this,” came a strained voice from one of his nurses.
“What?” he snapped as he monitored the Bolian. Good, he was stabilizing now that Jarem had hooked him up to the plasma infusion unit and closed his wounds with an autosuture. When the nurse didn’t reply, Jarem turned around irritably—and went pale.
Clad in the odd, mismatched clothing typical of the Maquis and lying unconscious on one of the cots was a Trill.
Jarem’s mouth went dry. He motioned to one of the nurses to finish up with the Bolian. Quickly, Jarem scanned the Trill. His injuries were extensive; he would not survive. Worse, he was joined. Both the host and the symbiont were in danger of death now.
Kaz licked his lips. “Computer, activate the Emergency Medical Hologram.”
The balding, slightly annoyed-looking hologram appeared. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency.”
“We have a joined Trill who’s not going to make it,” Kaz said. “You have to remove the symbiont and prepare it for transport to Trill.” Briefly, Jarem pressed the dying Trill’s hand, then turned his attention back to the other patients.
Sighing as if he were being dreadfully put upon, the EMH scanned the Trill.
“The symbiont has been traumatized,” he said in a crisp, impersonal voice. “It will not survive the trip. You are correct in your assessment that the host also will not survive.” Perfunctorily, he pulled a sheet over the still-breathing Trill and eyed the room full of injured. “Perhaps I can assist elsewhere.”
“No!” cried Jarem, horrified at the Doctor’s lack of compassion and startling himself and his team with his outburst. He ripped off the sheet from the injured man and stared again at the dying Trill’s face. In a very real sense, this was his brother. Instilled in his people was an intense desire to protect the symbionts who were the keepers of what it truly meant to be Trill.
He couldn’t stand here and watch both host and symbiont die needlessly. Not when there was something he could do.
He made his decision. He wouldn’t inform his captain, because regardless of what Captain Lanham said, Jarem knew he’d go through with his plan. Sometimes it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. He began to remove his uniform.
The hologram stared disapprovingly. “What are you doing, Doctor?” it inquired acidly.
“I’m getting ready for surgery,” he said. “And I order you to do the same. You’re to transfer the symbiont into me. I’m going to be its new host.”
The hologram arched an eyebrow. “You are far too old to complete the joining successfully,” it said.
“Not too old to try,” Jarem said. Forestalling the hologram’s next comment, Jarem said quickly, “In your expert medical opinion, can this man survive?”
“No.”
“Can the symbiont survive the trip back to Trill without a host?”
Uneasily, the EMH replied, “No.”
“Are the odds of its survival increased if it is transferred to a living host?”
Something flickered in the dark eyes. “Yes, provided both it and the host survive the transfer.”
Jarem glanced around sickbay. His staff had everything under control. Those who had been most grievously wounded had already received treatment. They would survive; Jarem’s team did not need his assistance.
The dying Trill did.
He pushed one of the emergency cots closer to the Trill Maquis. The man was still breathing, although barely.
Jarem looked up at the hologram. “May I remind you,” the hologram said, “that you have not been properly prepared to accept the symbiont? That, in fact, you may prove to be a poor match?”
“Even a poor match increases the likelihood that the symbiont will survive, at least long enough to get it back to its homeworld,” Jarem said. “Doctor, you’re under orders from the chief medical officer to perform this surgery, so let’s get going.”
Suddenly he grinned. “I’ll probably be court-martialed for this. That should make you happy.”
“I am an Emergency Medical Hologram,” it replied somewhat testily. It pressed a hypospray to Jarem’s throat. The last thing Jarem heard as an unjoined Trill was the hologram saying irritably, “Happiness is irrelevant to the performance of my duty. Let us hope you survive long enough to warrant a court-martial.”
Kaz smiled in remembrance. Captain Lanham had not pressed charges; after all, Jarem Kaz had not directly disobeyed an order. Plus, Kaz had argued very persuasively that his action had saved a life.
The first few weeks with the symbiont were difficult, more difficult than he had anticipated. The joining demanded a great deal of energy, and Jarem had to admit that he was indeed not as young as he once was. Lanham had wanted to cancel the ship’s current mission and get Kaz to Trill, but Jarem had insisted he could manage.
And indeed, once that initial period had passed, he had proved to be a more than adequate host for the Kaz symbiont. He had learned so much from it about Gradak, the previous host, and all the others the symbiont had joined with. All of them were living within him now, after a fashion.
And Gradak’s memories were swimming to the forefront now that they were on a mission heading back into what was once Cardassian space.
The door hissed, and Kaz returned to the present. He was surprised and pleased to see the ship’s pilot standing awkwardly in his sickbay.
“Hello, Lieutenant Tare,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
She glanced around, her dark eyes flickering.
“I have been told that I should report to you for a physical. I thought it best to get it over with.”
Her body language, words, and tone of voice all screamed to him that she had no desire to be here. He couldn’t blame her and was in fact surprised that she had taken the initiative. There were a few crew members he had suspected he’d have to chase down in order to get them to come in for their SOP physicals, and she topped the list.
“Please, get on the biobed. This won’t take long.” He gestured, and she hopped obligingly onto the bed.
The biobed ran through its analysis, then Kaz asked her to sit up while he examined her himself. He attempted to make small talk.
“How do you like Voyager so far?”
“So far, so good,” she replied.
“Good people,” Kaz ventured.
“Yes, it seems so.”
“How have you been feeling overall?”
“Fine.”
Not exactly forthcoming. She seemed to sense that he was probing, and she didn’t appear to like it.
Akolo Tare was a special case. In keeping with Starfleet confidentiality, few of her current crewmates knew about her ordeal at the hands of Oliver Baines’s holograms. Only Kaz, Astall, and Chakotay had been officially briefed about the incident. After she had been returned, Tare had undergone a thorough physical and psychological exam and been deemed fit to return to duty.
That was all Chakotay needed to know, but Kaz had a concern that the captain of Voyager didn’t. Words and phrases from Tare’s medical report floated back to him: Subcutaneous hematomas present on both forearms and shoulders…some apparent erythema…indication of disruption at the cellular ATP or possi
bly mitochondrial level…moderate soft tissue abrasions…superficial lacerations…small areas of contusions and ecchymosis over labia…Etiology of trauma indeterminate, possibly secondary to sexual assault or other causes.
In other words, Kaz thought bitterly, the doctor could neither confirm nor deny if Akolo Tare, in addition to being abducted, humiliated, and beaten, had also been sexually assaulted. Tare herself had volunteered no information either way.
If she had indeed been raped, it was a bad business, for more than the first and most pressing reason. Obviously, the most important thing was that Tare needed to come to terms with it sooner rather than later. She needed to heal emotionally as well as physically.
Also, Kaz knew it would shake the holographic rights issue to the core. Questions would arise that would need to be addressed: Did a hologram qualify as a person under these circumstances? Could it properly be called “rape” if the perpetrator wasn’t a living being, but a collection of protons?
He was worried about her, but was unsure as to how to get her talking. After finishing his analysis, Kaz had an idea.
He looked at the tricorder and frowned. “There’s nothing like good old-fashioned tactile input to help along technology,” he said, extending his hands. “May I?” He wanted to see how she would react to a male touch.
Tare tensed. “Is that really necessary?”
“Strictly speaking, no,” said Kaz. He kept his face bland, but watched her like a hawk. He didn’t lie to his patients. “But,” he continued, again telling the truth, “it would help me in my analysis.”
“Do you suspect there might be something wrong?” she challenged.
He hesitated before replying, then decided that full disclosure was the best option. Akolo Tare didn’t look like someone who appreciated the roundabout method of approaching things.
“Yes,” he said finally, looking her right in the eye. “I suspect you might have been raped, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Tare went very still. Her dark brown eyes never left his, but her nostrils widened as her breathing quickened. When she spoke, her voice was icy and calm.
Spirit Walk, Book One Page 8
