Now, there was a frightening thought, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted as she pondered it.
What if there wasn’t one mole? What if there was a whole group of them?
What if this was a real, honest-to-God conspiracy?
After his disappointing evening, the Doctor glumly returned to his apartment, which had been specially equipped with holographic emitters throughout. There was a message waiting for him. He scowled at the blinking light, as if it were the source of all his troubles, then he ignored it. He didn’t care who it was. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Sighing heavily, he threw himself onto the couch, covered his face with his arms, and wallowed in his wretchedness.
“A dismal universal hiss, the sound of public scorn,” he muttered, quoting Milton.
In all his years of activation, he had never been so spurned. Not even his time in prison compared to the anguish and humiliation he had endured over the last three hours. The worst thing about it was that he knew full well that none of it had been meant in malice. They weren’t trying to make him feel dreadful—they just did.
His computer beeped again. He rolled over and covered his ears with the pillow.
“Go away and leave me to my misery,” he muttered.
The beeping continued. There was only one person in the galaxy with that kind of stubborn patience, and even as he cringed from the thought of talking to her, he knew he wanted very much to see her face.
At last, steeling himself, he went to the computer.
“Doctor.” It was, as he had known it would be, Seven of Nine.
“Seven,” he said, imitating her stiff manner.
“It is my understanding that your speech was not well received.”
He looked away. “I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. I am transporting over.” And just that quickly the transmission ended and there was a hum in his living room.
The Doctor folded his arms and tried to look annoyed, but was too glad to see her for the pretense to be believable. He was always glad to see her, even though he saw her every day.
She was dressed in more casual clothes than she wore to their place of work, and she was wearing her hair loose. But her manner was as stiff as usual.
She got straight to the point.
“It has been my experience that for humans, a common way to acknowledge distressing passages in their lives is to participate in an activity called ‘drowning their sorrows.’ This usually consists of imbibing alcoholic beverages and interfacing with members of their collective who do not object to their somewhat maudlin behavior. Should you wish to acknowledge your disappointing reception among your peers this evening in such a ritual fashion, I will agree to accompany you.”
“Somehow, I think that was intended to make me feel better,” the Doctor said.
Seven arched a blond eyebrow.
“I don’t drink, Seven,” he said, both moved and exasperated by her. “I can’t. Well, not the way you’re referring to, anyway.”
“Nonetheless, you have been known to exhibit maudlin behavior. I will tolerate it if it assists you in regaining your usual equilibrium. Our group needs you operating at full capacity if we are to continue to maintain our high standards of intellectual discernment and offer our full assistance to the Federation.”
Four years since she was liberated from the Borg, and she still talks like a computer, the Doctor thought, somewhat fondly. Seven was Seven, and that was exactly why she was so dear to him.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us go forth and drown our sorrows.”
Chapter
12
THE DOOR CHIMED. “Come,” called Astall.
Her easily readable face registered surprise as her door hissed open and Kaz stepped inside. She got to her feet immediately.
“Dr. Kaz!” she exclaimed. “How very nice to see you. What can I do for you?”
He didn’t take the seat she indicated right away, but stood, fidgeting a little.
“I was wondering what your schedule looked like today,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes and went to the replicator. “I’m just about to have a nice cup of tranya,” she said. “Will you join me?”
“No thanks.”
The cup of orange beverage materialized in the replicator and Astall took a sip. Her ears flapped gently as she closed her eyes in pleasure.
“I just love this,” she said. She turned toward her guest. “My schedule is wide open,” she said. “Are you inquiring for yourself or on behalf of a patient?”
Sighing, Kaz gave up the appearance of nonchalance and dropped into a chair. He rubbed his tired eyes.
“Myself,” he admitted.
“Thought so,” she said. “You look like you haven’t been getting a lot of sleep.”
“I’ve been having some very distressing dreams lately.” He smiled without humor. “I’m such a hypocrite. There are a couple of people I’ve advised to come see you, and yet I keep putting it off myself.”
Astall wrinkled her nose pertly. “You’d be surprised at how often that happens,” she said. “Medical professionals, in both our fields, are often very good doctors, but very bad patients.”
“When can I schedule an appointment?”
She shrugged. “I’m free now. Are you?”
His eyes widened slightly. He realized he had hoped he could just get away with the empty gesture of making the appointment and then “forgetting” to show up. Her eyes twinkled, and he realized that although she wasn’t a telepath, she knew exactly what he was thinking.
He laughed self-deprecatingly. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
“Computer,” Astall said, “run privacy program Astall One.”
“Request granted,” came the pleasant voice of the computer. Now, Kaz knew, they would not be disturbed unless there was an emergency.
Astall rose and got a padd. She flicked a few buttons, then nodded. Gesturing with the padd, she said, “This is your record. Give me just a moment….”
She settled into her chair, her large eyes flickering rapidly as she read. Kaz knew that she’d only have to read the information once. All Huanni were blessed with eidetic memories.
“Now,” said Astall, setting the padd down. “Tell me about these dreams.”
He clasped and unclasped his hands, not sure where to start. Finally, he just decided to plunge right in.
“They’re about the life of one of Kaz’s previous hosts. Gradak. He was a Maquis. He was one of those killed during the attack on Tevlik’s moon.”
“Oh, Jarem.” Her voice was full of sympathy. “That was an awful incident. We on Huan mourned so deeply for the fallen.” He heard the sincerity in her voice and felt warm inside.
“Well,” Kaz amended, “Gradak wasn’t killed then, exactly. But it was there that he received the wounds that he’d die from later, on my ship.”
“Your ship? You weren’t able to save him?”
Kaz shook his head. “That’s not the point. We were able to safely transfer the symbiont to me. That’s how I became joined. But he—I—we keep having these memories of the night when he was attacked.”
She held up a pale purple hand.
“May I interrupt for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
“I make it a point to learn as much as I can about the various species who serve with me,” Astall said. “So I’ve done a lot of reading about your people, but of course I’m sure I haven’t grasped everything. Now…correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t Trill hosts undergo a great deal of training before they’re joined with a symbiont?”
“Oh, yes. It’s quite rigorous, being an initiate.”
“And yet you just told me that you received your symbiont a few short years ago. As an older man, without any psychological preparation for the joining, and under extremely trying circumstances.”
“That’s right.” Kaz nodded, wondering where this was leading.
“And right now, y
ou’re on a mission that is going to take you into what was formerly Cardassian territory.”
“I thought that might have something to do with it,” Kaz said, “and at first I just dismissed it. But then I…well, I started to get concerned when the dreams kept recurring. They were so vivid.”
She smiled and shook her head.
“No need for concern, Jarem. But you’re wise to address the problem before it grows worse. I have a feeling that these factors I just cited are combining to create an environment of stress for you at this point in time. I would imagine that it’s hard enough to integrate the emotions of a symbiont under ideal circumstances. With no preparation whatsoever, you were forced to absorb the memories of someone who’d been killed in one of the worst, most despicable slaughters in Federation history. And your record says nothing about you taking any leave to return to Trill for any further counseling.”
She looked at him a little sternly. Kaz was reminded of a teacher he’d had when he was a boy and smiled a bit sheepishly.
“No,” he said. “I would have if there had been a problem, but after a few weeks everything seemed just fine. Neither my captain, who’s the one who okays any leave, nor I felt there was a need. And it’s not as if I haven’t been under stress since I received the symbiont,” he added.
“Of course not. But I’m willing to bet that subsequent stressors had nothing to do with being a Maquis, or being in Cardassian space. Or even being around a cluster of people who have chosen to strike out in a different direction.”
That insight surprised Kaz. “You think the colonists are part of what’s triggering these memories?”
“They’re families of independent thinkers who live together in an isolated place far from normal Federation activity,” she said. “Ring a bell?”
He nodded slowly. He should have seen that for himself. “Yes,” he said. “Sounds an awful lot like the Maquis and their families hiding out on Tevlik’s moon.”
She smiled, her eyes soft with sympathy.
“No wonder Gradak is crying out to be heard,” Astall said. “You’ve never performed the zhian’tara, have you?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I just…never got around to it.”
He didn’t look at her as he answered. The real truth was that the ritual, which temporarily transferred the personalities of the Kaz symbiont into the bodies of the current host’s various friends, was a deeply personal one. The host had to completely trust the people he was permitting to bear the personalities. The Kaz symbiont had had twelve hosts, including Jarem; it had been hard to think of eleven people that he was that close to.
“I can imagine it would be difficult to round up that many people for the ritual,” Astall said, again as if she had read his mind. “And don’t worry, I don’t think it’s something we have to do right now, either.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“But there is a great deal of wisdom in the zhian’-tara. A ceremony of closure, I believe it’s referred to. And closure with Gradak is something you need right now, because his presence could start to interfere with the execution of your duties.”
Suddenly apprehensive, Kaz glanced up.
“It’s not interfering,” he said sharply. “I told you. It’s just some bad dreams.”
Astall smiled gently. “I said ‘could start,’ not ‘is starting.’ If you continue to have nightmares, I think eventually it will start interfering. And neither of us wants that to happen. We all have old wounds, Jarem. And that’s all right. They ache and linger and become a part of us. And we learn to live with them. But first, we have to make sure they’re healed.”
“So, what do you propose?”
“I think we need to sit with Gradak for a while and let him tell you about how he lived—and died.”
Kaz felt suddenly, strangely uncomfortable. He realized the feeling was vulnerability.
“I have the memories.”
“Of course you do. And you know as well as I that unpleasant memories often aren’t acknowledged. In traditional therapy, the patient and counselor bring these memories out in a safe place and look at them.”
“You sound like you’re examining a microbe with the computer,” he joked.
“In a way, I am. The brain is the most marvelous computer we’ve ever known. Nothing, not even Commander Data’s positronic brain, has been able to surpass its functioning. Gradak Kaz underwent severe emotional and physical trauma—so severe that it killed him. Those memories need to be seen…”
She paused. “No, more than seen. They need to be honored, to be witnessed, by Jarem Kaz if he’s to make them his own and give Gradak peace.”
She spoke quietly, gravely. The weight and seriousness she gave the words sobered him. He looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” he said softly.
Astall reached over and gently placed a hand on his knee. “Everything I know tells me that you won’t be able to move forward until you do. The closer we get to Cardassian space, the more intense these dreams will become. Gradak wants to be heard.”
Kaz looked down at his hands, entwined tightly in his lap. He didn’t want to do this. But he knew in his heart that she was right—that things would only get worse instead of better if he didn’t address it.
“Then,” said Kaz, “I will listen.”
Tom Paris was heartily sick of Boreth’s library. Hell, he was heartily sick of the entire planet of Boreth.
He felt utterly useless. He couldn’t help B’Elanna wade through the seemingly endless piles of scrolls and books. He’d finally figured out how to write with the bone pen, but only just. He had gone through several parchments before he could write anything resembling legible text, and the librarians were not happy with him.
Gura had taken it upon himself to lecture Tom about how difficult it was to make a single piece of parchment.
“First,” he had bellowed, “the proper paagrat must be culled from the herds. It is fed sacred grains until it is fat enough for our use. Then it is ritually sacrificed when the stars are right. Its skin is scraped and dried and treated to render a single sheet of parchment.”
“Sorry,” Tom had muttered, thinking that a padd was much more economical and ecologically responsible. Out of some oddly placed sentiment, he’d asked to see one of the animals. Grumbling, Gura had fished out a book and shown him a painting of the beasts.
Tom stared at it for a while. Then, plopping down the open book in front of B’Elanna, he said, “Look at what they use for paper on Boreth.”
Her eyes widened and a hand went to her mouth to cover a smile. Softly, so as not to be overheard by the librarians, she muttered, “Oh my God, it’s so cute!”
Klingon creatures were usually, to Tom’s eyes, as fierce and bristly as Klingons themselves, but paagrats were the exception. Looking like miniature gazelles, they had great big eyes and soft, fluffy fur.
“I feel terrible,” Tom said. “I’m writing on this little guy.”
“You’ve been eating it, too,” she said. “We’ve had it here a couple of times. It’s considered a delicacy.”
She returned to her research without another blink while Tom stared at the picture of the cute little fellow.
It seemed to stare mournfully back.
“It’s enough to make you want to go vegetarian,” he said.
“Tom,” she said, her tone a warning.
“Sorry, it’s just…We’re finding nothing.”
She looked up at him. “Which is pretty much what I predicted we’d find. How’s that for prophesying?”
Tom shook his head. “I still can’t help but believe that there’s something there. This is just far too clumsy and archaic a method for anyone to do anything resembling proper research.”
He closed the book, unwilling to meet the illustrated paagrat’s big-eyed, accusing gaze any longer. “I can’t help you, I can’t write with this stupid thi
ng, and I’m starting to have doubts about the ethics of scribbling on the skins of really cute little animals.”
Her eyes blazed for a moment, then she softened.
“I know. This is pretty frustrating, isn’t it?”
“ ‘Frustrating’ is far too nice a word, but I don’t want to say what I really think in front of the paagrat,” he said, pointing to the parchment.
“It’s not just the research, is it?”
He met her gaze. There was no lying to her. Softly he said, “For a Klingon, you’re a pretty good empath.”
“For a Klingon, I’m a pretty good wife,” she replied. She regarded him intently. “I’m sorry I asked you to come here. This is my calling, not yours.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Hey,” he said softly, “I asked you to marry me, remember? For better or for worse and all that. I’m more than happy to be here, to be with my wife and child.”
“I know you mean that, and I love you for it.” She squeezed his hand. “But you’re miserable and you won’t admit it. You don’t belong here. I just—I just don’t know what to do about it.”
If only I’d gotten that first officer position with Chakotay, Tom thought. It had been a bitter blow to him and to B’Elanna when Starfleet’s “permission denied” message had come through. He’d fumed at the injustice even as he understood the reasoning. Sure, they didn’t want former Maquis in the positions of both captain and first officer.
But damn it, how many times was he going to have to prove himself?
Tom straightened and took a deep breath. He squeezed B’Elanna’s hand one last time and then picked up the pen.
“Well, I’m here now, and the least I can do is overcome my squeamishness and see to it that this poor paagrat didn’t die in vain. Read me the next thing that has any pertinence.”
She looked at him searchingly, then smiled. He grinned back.
Sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, he thought, and began to take dictation.
Another large blot formed on the paper.
Spirit Walk, Book One Page 11
