Spirit Walk, Book One

by Christie Golden

  “Have you completed the physical, Doctor Kaz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m out of here.”

  She slipped off the biobed and strode purposefully toward the door.

  “Lieutenant Tare,” he called after her, “you didn’t want me to touch you even in a professional manner during the course of a routine medical exam, and I’m a doctor and a flesh-and-blood being.”

  “What’s your point?” she snapped, not breaking stride.

  “What would you do if something happened to me? If you had to be treated by the Emergency Medical Hologram?”

  She had reached the door. “I’d do whatever it took.”

  “Lieutenant!” Kaz heard a note of pleading in his own voice. She stopped at the door, but didn’t turn around. Her body language screamed her conflict.

  “Listen,” Kaz continued, more softly. “The captain, Astall, and I are the only ones who know about your abduction. And only Astall and I were alerted to a possible sexual assault.”

  She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at him, carefully controlled anger on her beautiful face.

  “Let’s keep it that way,” she said, and left.

  It had been a lousy shift in engineering. Chittenden had encountered cold stares and icy voices the entire time. One expected that from Vorik, but not from fellow humans. He wondered if his argument with Campbell was now public knowledge. He hadn’t meant to sound off like that—certainly not to a higher-ranking officer like Campbell—but it had hurt to be reminded of his friends who’d died defending the quadrant.

  So when his shift ended, he hurried out of engineering and headed for the turbolift with more haste than was perhaps advisable. He could almost feel Vorik’s eyes boring into him as he strode briskly for the door. Let him stare, David thought. He couldn’t wait to get to his quarters and kick back with a good book, his favorite pastime.

  The turbolift doors hissed open and he found himself staring into a pair of gorgeous blue eyes.

  He couldn’t speak.

  “Are you getting on or not?” said Lyssa Campbell.

  He wasn’t sure. Which would be worse, riding with her or pretending he hadn’t meant to get on the turbolift? The former would be uncomfortable, but the latter would be just stupid. Looking down at the floor, Chittenden shuffled into the turbolift and gave it the floor he wanted.

  The silence was agony. David racked his brain for something to say. He came up with exactly nothing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Campbell looking at him from time to time. She looked as though, she, too, wanted to say something.

  Finally, David took a deep breath. “Lieutenant Campbell, I wanted—”

  “Ensign Chittenden, the other day—”

  They looked at one another and laughed a little.

  “You first,” Chittenden said.

  “No, you.”

  “You outrank me,” he pointed out pleasantly.

  She grinned. She was absolutely stunning when she grinned; David had thought the phrase about someone’s face “lighting up” was a cliché, but in Campbell’s case it was true.

  “You got me there. Ensign, I wanted—”

  The turbolift came to a halt and the doors opened. The cute red-haired woman and the rangy fellow David remembered seeing in the mess hall during his moment of shame entered. Campbell eyed them and fell silent. They stepped between Chittenden and Campbell, and in a moment, the turbolift reached Campbell’s floor. She left without a word. David watched her go. He thought about following her, but both the doors and the window of opportunity had closed.

  “A lot of us liked what you said in the mess hall the other day,” the fellow said. He stuck out his hand and Chittenden shook it. “Name’s Rafe Sanderson.”

  “I’m Janine McKay,” the girl said, also extending her hand. She held David’s a bit longer than was necessary. “Some of us are tired of the way the former crew of this ship seem to think they’re better than us.”

  “I don’t think they think that,” David said. “They just…have a different perspective. Besides, they’re our crewmates now.”

  “Yes,” Rafe said, “and I’m happy to obey their orders and work with them. But that doesn’t mean I have to like them.”

  “Our shifts are over. We’re heading to the holodeck and then the mess hall for dinner,” Janine said. “Would you like to join us?”

  David thought about Lyssa Campbell, about the book that was waiting for him in his quarters, and decided to hell with both of them. This was a new phase of his life. He was going to do some new things.

  “Sure,” he said. “I heard there was a program that was really popular on Voyager. We should check it out.”

  They arrived at the holodeck. David figured out which program he wanted, and the doors slid open to reveal a darkened French bistro. A lovely young woman was performing songs in French to the accompaniment of a piano, and an older but still attractive blond woman drifted about, greeting familiar guests. A tall, gaunt man lined up a shot on a pool table.

  Just as David was starting to smile at the scene, Janine snorted. “They considered this fun? No wonder they’re all walking around like they have something shoved—”

  “How about the one I showed you last time?” Rafe suggested.

  Janine brightened. “Yeah, that was great. Let’s do that one.”

  “Computer,” called Rafe, “End current program and run Sanderson 4 instead.”

  The scene shifted. Instead of a bistro, they now stood in an alien bar. The music was loud and abrasive, and the air thick with smoke. If this were a real place, Chittenden realized he’d have his lungs full of illegal substances, but this was only a re-creation. The room was dark, and it took his eyes some time to adjust.

  He could make out some gaming tables. Dabo? He couldn’t tell. Over in another corner of the room, someone uttered a string of angry words in a language David didn’t understand. The person threw something down on the table and stood up. Across the table, someone else stood up too. Their chairs fell back. Someone stepped between the two and said something that apparently calmed them down, but David averted his eyes regardless. It wouldn’t take much for a fight to break out here.

  “Thirsty, angel face?”

  David glanced down to see a woman that he knew to be an Orion slave girl. Her thick, wild hair was black and her perfect body a gorgeous shade of green. The words were coquettish, but even in the dim, smoky light David could see that her eyes were dangerous. Rafe had his arm around the tiny waist of a woman from a species David didn’t recognize, but in her skimpy outfit, it wasn’t hard to see that she had three breasts.

  Janine, too, had a companion, a human male, tall, fair-haired, and powerfully built. He was bare to the waist, and sweat gleamed on his oiled skin. He handed her a drink and kissed her throat in one smooth motion.

  Janine caught David staring. She laughed as the man progressed from throat to earlobe. “Isn’t he great? I’ve named him Herbert.”

  “Herbert?” Chittenden said, choking slightly.

  “He’s so not a Herbert I thought it was funny,” Janine said. “Try the Romulan ale, it’s fantastic.” She eyed him, grinning a little at his discomfort.

  “Thirsty?” repeated the slave girl. The word was a demand rather than a question. The green Orion woman eyed him and curled her lips in a snarl that managed to be both frightening and erotic at the same time.

  “Um, yeah, I’ll have a beer,” Chittenden managed. He felt a little ill. This was not the sort of “entertainment” he enjoyed. Because holograms weren’t really people, there were few restrictions on what one could do with them. You weren’t supposed to create holograms that looked like people you knew, but beyond that, they were just a collection of photons. But the thought that Rafe enjoyed creating a slave woman and a gigolo who looked prepared to do more than just flirt nauseated him.

  This smoky, seedy, rather scary place was not his cup of tea. He’d liked Sandrine’s. He’d wanted to talk with
the pretty Janine in a private, dark place, while they engaged in a harmless pastime like pool and sipped fine wine or drinks with exotic names. But she seemed to be enjoying the holographic male’s attention a bit more than she ought, and suddenly she didn’t seem quite so cute.

  David wished he’d followed Lyssa out and given her that apology.

  A yell went up from the game table in the corner of the room. That fight had broken out after all. It was going to be a long evening.

  Chapter

  10

  “KLINGON BUREAUCRACY IS worse than Starfleet’s, and I thought that was pretty bad,” Torres whispered to her husband as they followed Commander Logt up a seemingly interminable flight of twisting stone steps.

  They had spoken with Logt several days before about obtaining permission to consult the ancient records. At first, their request had been summarily denied. To Tom’s surprise it was B’Elanna who had challenged Logt and pushed back, insisting that they had a right to peruse any records that might pertain to their offspring. Logt had contacted them only that morning with the good news that the just-rebuilt library would indeed be open to them. With restrictions, of course.

  “Well, at least we’ll stay in shape,” Paris whispered back to her, his legs burning from climbing the steps.

  Logt paused, then turned menacingly. “Do you have a comment, Paris?”

  Tom tried not to gulp and failed. “Not at all. Ma’am,” he added.

  Logt glowered, then turned and continued. B’Elanna glanced back at her husband, her eyes bright with suppressed mirth, and they both fought down illogical giggles.

  Warmth flooded Tom. He loved this woman so much. He was more than willing to stick it out here on Boreth as long as she continued to blossom. And anything that was good for B’Elanna was good for their daughter, that excruciatingly precious little bundle of delight who was currently in Kularg’s good Klingon hands.

  He was, however, relieved when they reached the top of the stairs. Logt produced an ancient skeleton key from somewhere in the folds of her uniform, inserted it into a lock that was bigger than Tom’s hand, and turned it.

  Tom winced at the groaning sound the lock made, but the huge wooden door swung open. Logt stepped inside. Torres and Paris followed.

  “Wow,” said Tom, looking at row after row of ancient tomes. The huge bookcases extended from the floor to the extremely high ceiling and stretched so deeply into the room that Tom couldn’t see how far they went. A rich smell teased his nostrils.

  Books, he thought with a tinge of wonder. That’s the smell of books.

  He’d seen books before, of course, and appreciated them for the antiques they were. But most of the reading he’d done, and admittedly it hadn’t been a lot, had been off padds. Paris wasn’t much of a scholar, though he’d managed to get decent enough grades at the Academy. He preferred interactive novels on the holodeck to those one curled up with in one’s quarters.

  But even he could appreciate the years—make that centuries—of knowledge that were represented here. The sun came in through small apertures in the stone high above his head, casting pools of light upon the stone floor. Dust motes swirled languidly in the thick beams of light. There were huge, heavy tables and chairs, and wooden cabinets that competed with the bookcases.

  “This is amazing,” said B’Elanna. Both she and Tom had spoken in hushed whispers.

  “I am pleased you appreciate the work of the ancient scholars,” said Logt approvingly. “We were fortunate indeed that the books were spared during the attack. They have only recently all been placed here, in their new home. You will value them even more once you have read the words of the scholars, calling out to us across the centuries.”

  Tom usually didn’t get into this sort of stuff, but his skin prickled at her words. As he continued to look around, two priests appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Despite their less martial attire, they looked—and Paris knew they were—every bit as formidable as Logt.

  “Gura and Lakuur will assist you in acquiring the books and scrolls you need,” Logt said. “I will return to my duties. You may visit here every day for an hour at this time. Do not attempt to gain access at any other time.”

  Without another word Logt departed, her bootheels ringing in the huge chamber. Paris heard the door close behind her with a resounding boom.

  The priests stared at them with barely concealed dislike. Tom was really starting to get tired of the condescension with which the priests viewed him and, to only a slightly lesser extent, B’Elanna.

  “You are the parents of the so-called Kuvah’Magh?” one of them—Tom wasn’t sure if it was Gura or Lakuur—demanded, scowling.

  “We are the parents of Miral Paris, whom a group of Klingons we encountered in the Delta Quadrant believed was their savior, yes,” said B’Elanna.

  One of the priests snarled. “Hmph. I wonder if, half human as you are, you understand the arrogance of your claim?”

  “I claim nothing,” B’Elanna said, jutting her chin out a bit. “I know that Kohlar and his people believed this to be true. I wished to see the documentation upon which they based their belief and any other scrolls or books that might be pertinent.”

  “A mongrel and a human in this sacred room,” the other cleric muttered. “It is a sad state of affairs.”

  Tom choked back a retort and let B’Elanna handle it. At least she carried the same blood as they. She did not rise to the bait, merely stood her ground and gave them stare for stare. After a moment the priests shook their heads and led “the mongrel and the human” to a table.

  “Logt notified us of the nature of your request. We have pulled the pertinent tomes and scrolls,” one of them said. “Lakuur will show you how to touch them.”

  Well, at least we now know which one’s which, Tom thought. Lakuur handed them each a pair of gloves. It was at that point that Tom realized something he ought to have figured out earlier. They were not going to be able to look at translations of these texts; they were going to have to handle the actual books themselves. His stomach flip-flopped.

  “Put these on,” Lakuur ordered. “You will be permitted to peruse one item at a time.” He shook his index finger at them, emphasizing the number. “When you are done, ring the chime and I will return the tome to its proper place. If you wish to take notes, you may, but you must be careful. If the ink spills and damages one of the precious books, you will be ordered to leave Boreth and never return.”

  Tom now noticed the small, pointed piece of bone on the table sitting next to an old-fashioned inkwell. Oh, great. This was just getting better and better.

  Gingerly, he and B’Elanna put on their gloves and sat down with the first of the scrolls. Tom held his breath as B’Elanna slowly, carefully unrolled it. Fortunately, although it looked as though it might, it did not crumble to pieces. Tom took the sharpened piece of bone that was to serve as a pen and the ink and sat down beside her. A second later, he stood and moved several seats away from B’Elanna and the scroll. The more distance between the ink and the ancient, irreplaceable scroll, the better. Lakuur watched them for a moment, then grunted and left.

  The minute he was gone, B’Elanna looked at Tom.

  “ ‘Oh, honey, let’s see what else is out there about the Kuvah’Magh.’ Great idea,” she said sarcastically.

  “Well, I didn’t know,” he protested. “I thought we’d be looking at translated padds, for heaven’s sake. I had no idea we’d have to wade through this.” He gestured at the pile of books and scrolls.

  “You get to take the notes,” she said, “since you can’t read Klingon.” She perused the first scroll and her face fell. “Tom…I’m not sure even I can read this. It’s Klingon, but it’s a very archaic version.”

  “It would probably be like my trying to read Middle English,” said Tom, his mind going back to when he was a teenager having to recite Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote….

  He marveled at the scrap of knowledge that floated
up. Memory was a funny thing.

  “Harder than that,” mused Torres. She continued looking at the scroll. Then, softly, she smiled.

  “This is it, Tom.”

  “This is what?”

  She gestured at the parchment. “This is the scroll that Kohlar and the others made copies of. It was written shortly after Kahless made the Promise. The monk who experienced the vision and who wrote the prophecy was supposed to be one of the first sent to Boreth, but he apparently angered some of the wrong people. The scroll of the Kuvah’Magh was written while he was in exile. I’m surprised it even survived.”

  Tom picked up the bone writing implement, trying not to mentally identify its original owner. He dipped the sharp tip in the bowl of thick black ink and tried to write on the parchment that had been provided. He succeeded in creating a very large blot.

  “This may take a while,” he said to his wife.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Sekaya, and meant the words.

  She, Astall, Fortier, and some of the other colonists stood on a gently swelling ridge, looking over the colonists’ former home. It was twilight, and the glorious hues of purple and orange bathed the simple yet functional houses that formed a small “town square.” Surrounding the square, crops stretched out as far as she could see. There was no lack of technology available, but it was harmoniously integrated into the landscape and it seemed to present to Sekaya a union of the best of both worlds.

  “It’s no wonder you wanted to return,” breathed Astall, her hands clasped to her heart and her large eyes alight with wonder.

  Fortier turned to them, his eyes searching each of their faces.

  “This is why I wanted you to come with us tonight,” he said. “I wanted you to see our home, so that you would understand.”

  Already some of the other colonists were venturing down the grassy slopes to the buildings they had called home. Birds twittered in the skies, settling down on trees to sleep for the night, while a baying, yipping noise in the distance indicated that there were others for whom the night was familiar.