Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle

by Kirsten Beyer

  For the past nine months, that problem had been the U.S.S. Voyager—the ship, its crew, and the countless details of their seven years spent in the Delta quadrant.

  Initially she had been tasked with a minute analysis of the “modifications” that had been made to Voyager’s many systems while the ship was out of range of any Starfleet repair facility. The most interesting were the ablative hull armor and transphasic torpedoes; they had been gifts—or contaminants, according to the Department of Temporal Affairs—from a future Admiral Janeway for use in Voyager’s final confrontation with the Borg before the ship had returned home, and had been stripped from Voyager immediately. Despite their effectiveness and the potential tactical advantages they provided, they had to be balanced against Starfleet’s necessary caution toward such advanced technology as well as the repercussions to the timestream.

  Some of the other modifications, the shipboard dilithium refining unit designed by Chief Engineer B’Elanna Torres and the regenerative circuits and relays provided by Seven of Nine—a former Borg that Captain Janeway had somehow managed to repatriate into individuality—merited closer consideration. These modifications had been truly inspired, though brought about by necessity. The Intrepid-class explorers had never been designed with such long-range excursions in mind; however, many other starships were, and Eden felt strongly that many of Voyager’s innovations should be safely adopted fleet-wide.

  She’d already spent months arguing this point with Admiral Kenneth Montgomery, Project Full Circle’s ranking officer. Though the decision had been made to restore Voyager to Intrepid-class standard prior to its return to active duty, Eden remained hopeful that she was making headway with Montgomery and that soon, many of the modifications she’d proposed would find their way back onto Voyager, as well as other Starfleet vessels.

  It had been a whiplash-inducing change of pace a few weeks ago when Montgomery had advised Eden that she was now considered “off” the study of Voyager’s technological alterations and assigned instead to spearhead a thorough analysis of all discoveries, both scientific and cultural, made by Voyager while in the Delta quadrant. Eden couldn’t be sure if this change in her orders was meant to be a compliment. Secretly she suspected that Montgomery might have grown weary of her constant pressure and had simply been looking for a new subject to keep her busy until Starfleet was ready to formally respond to her proposals.

  However, once Eden had begun to dig into the existing reports on her new subject, including personnel logs and transcripts of the initial debriefing sessions of all of Voyager’s crew, she realized that Project Full Circle’s work in this area had, thus far, been cursory at best.

  Captain Kathryn Janeway’s session—a meeting which Eden would optimistically have scheduled to cover at least a week—had only been half an hour. The rest of the senior officers hadn’t fared any better. The fifteen minutes granted to Seven of Nine, surely one of the most extraordinary and potentially invaluable sentient beings currently alive, had bordered on criminally negligent, at least in Eden’s estimation.

  The “official” rationale—welcoming home a heroic vessel—meant sacrificing thoroughness on the altar of necessity. Hostilities with the Dominion were still fresh in everyone’s mind when Voyager had made its unexpected return to Earth. Starfleet’s focus had been on recovering from the losses it had suffered. It was almost as if the brass believed a complete restoration of Starfleet’s numbers to levels prior to the war was the only thing that could assure everyone, Federation citizen or not, that the cost of victory over the shape-shifters bent on galactic domination had been well calculated and had done no permanent harm. Voyager added to their tally.

  Eden understood the value of quantity, especially when you were showing the enemy your teeth. Personally, however, she was also a fan of quality. To her thinking, Voyager had just spent seven years collecting data that, if analyzed and implemented properly, might give the Federation tactical advantages to make the next inevitable conflict with one of those species who had just never learned to work and play well with others much easier to conclude quickly and relatively painlessly.

  The Dominion conflict had been one of attrition. Starfleet had managed time and again to keep most of the Dominion’s resources on the Gamma quadrant side of their territories, while working to overcome their formidable but fragmented constituency in the Alpha quadrant. Starfleet’s losses in this conflict had been the largest in memory. Eden understood why Command had made their choice; she just didn’t happen to agree with it, as there was little chance that the only solution to another such conflict was simply more ships.

  Eden already knew that there wasn’t a superweapon buried anywhere in Voyager’s logs. But there were other remarkable discoveries: a civilization that used space-time folding technology to cover distances so vast that they made warp drive look like a baby’s first steps in comparison, quantum slipstream drives, transwarp drives, never mind their discovery of entire new dimensions like fluidic space. The intelligence Voyager’s crew had collected about the Borg alone could fill much-needed volumes.

  Establishing Project Full Circle had been a step in the right direction, though it was terribly understaffed. Still, Eden was determined not to waste the opportunity presented by Voyager’s unique experiences.

  Her first step had been to request permission to conduct new debriefing sessions with as many of Voyager’s former crew as she deemed necessary. That request had been granted. The only caveat was that her sessions could not interfere with the crew’s other scheduled assignments. Admiral Montgomery had promised Eden privately to try and keep the ship and its crew relatively close to Earth to help facilitate her work, and thus far, he’d been as good as his word.

  She was anxiously anticipating the arrival of her first “victim,” Lieutenant Commander Thomas Eugene Paris.

  Tom managed to arrive at Eden’s office a few minutes early despite his mother’s insistence that he finish the obscenely large breakfast she’d placed in front of him before she would consent to his leaving the house. He knew she was just making up for lost time. But he’d also managed to put on a few extra pounds in his last couple of years in the Delta quadrant, and had determined to get his body back into “fighting shape” now that the stress of being stranded in the Delta quadrant, a new husband, and an expectant father were behind him. He’d made great strides on Boreth. Though, to his surprise, he’d developed a taste for live gagh, the rest of Klingon cuisine was nowhere near as appetizing, and he’d managed to drop back down to his Academy weight before returning to active duty. Much as he loved his mother, he wasn’t about to let her undo all the good he’d done.

  Captain Eden’s aide was a petite Deltan ensign. Tom hadn’t seriously looked twice at another woman since well before he’d finally married B’Elanna, but he soon decided that the effect of a Deltan’s pheromones had not been exaggerated and was relieved when he was ushered into Eden’s office only a few minutes after his arrival.

  “Good morning, Mister Paris,” Captain Eden said warmly, extending her hand to Tom as he entered. She was a tall woman, ebony skinned, with large, pitch-black eyes and dark, tightly curled hair trimmed almost to the scalp. She looked to be in her early thirties. Tom had reviewed what he could of her service record before their meeting, however, and knew that regardless of her appearance, she was probably closer to fifty.

  “Have a seat and make yourself comfortable.” Eden smiled, gesturing to a small conference table with a spectacular view of San Francisco Bay.

  “Thank you, sir.” Tom nodded.

  “Please.” She raised a hand gently. “Call me captain.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Tom replied dutifully, wondering how many female officers shared Admiral Janeway’s distaste for formal modes of address. He blithely considered throwing a “ma’am” into their conversation, just for fun, but quickly decided that though she seemed congenial enough, he didn’t want to press his luck.

  Eden situated herself, padd in hand, in a sing
le low chair across the table, while he struggled to find a position of attention on a couch that seemed designed to suck its occupants into deep relaxation.

  “I know you’re pressed for time, so we’ll just get started,” Eden said, transitioning to a more businesslike mode.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Tom replied, wondering if she was aware that he still had five full days of leave at his disposal before reporting back to Voyager. The quicker he got this meeting over with, the quicker his mother could continue driving him crazy with party preparations. Or maybe he could just take a brief, unscheduled jaunt to Marseilles, if time allowed.

  After a moment of silence Tom felt it was his obligation to fill, he said, “The truth is, Captain, I’m not really sure what you wanted to discuss.”

  Eden looked up from her padd sharply. “I’m sorry. I thought that was made clear in the request you received.”

  “Not really.” Tom shrugged.

  “I apologize again,” Eden said. “My aide, Tamarras, is new.”

  “It’s not a problem, Captain,” Tom assured her. “What can I help you with?”

  “Well,” Eden said, clearing her throat, “it will probably be best if we simply start at the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?” Tom asked.

  “Your time in the Delta quadrant,” Eden replied. “Your initial debriefing session by Starfleet Command on this subject was a little…” Eden paused before settling for “…sparse. It’s time to remedy that.”

  “Okay,” Tom replied dubiously.

  “The ship’s log indicated that you suffered mild concussive injuries in transit and came to consciousness on the bridge to find it in disarray. What were your first thoughts when you realized that you had been brought to the Delta quadrant?”

  That we were monumentally screwed, Tom managed to refrain from saying.

  “Well,” Tom began, pausing to clear his throat. “It’s been a while,” he said, struggling to find a clear and more appropriate answer to her question.

  “Take your time,” she insisted.

  Tom sighed deeply. Both his mother and Marseilles were apparently out of luck, because this was obviously going to be a very long conversation.

  B’Elanna couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

  She had come to the emperor’s audience chamber determined to make her case quickly. No matter how loudly she had protested, she was forbidden to bring Miral with her to this meeting with Kahless. Kularg had been only too happy to take Miral for what B’Elanna had promised would be only a few minutes, but B’Elanna’s gut tensed with nausea every second that passed with Miral out of her sight.

  B’Elanna had hurried from the nursery, up the winding staircase that separated the living quarters from the Great Hall, and straight to the anteroom located just behind the emperor’s throne. She had been surprised to find not Kahless, but one of his personal guards, Commander Logt, waiting to receive her.

  Logt was the woman who had invited B’Elanna to Boreth in the first place. Though she was no taller than your average Klingon female, she still managed to do “imposing” like very few people B’Elanna had ever known. She had a capacity for utter stillness that many warriors lacked. Most were tightly coiled springs ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Logt, however, carried within her a deep, slow power. B’Elanna had never doubted the woman’s strength. Her position as a member of the emperor’s personal guard testified to her abilities and accomplishments on the field of battle. In fact, the only cause for confusion Logt had ever given B’Elanna was over the nature of their relationship. From time to time it seemed clear that Logt truly wished to help B’Elanna in her quest. More often, however, Logt remained cool and aloof, her features as inscrutable as her motives.

  This was one of those inscrutable times.

  B’Elanna had quickly made her request, that she and Miral be allowed to leave Boreth for a short time due to a family requirement and return in a few weeks. Logt had heard her out in silence.

  The part B’Elanna couldn’t believe was Logt’s ultimate answer to her request.

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?” B’Elanna stammered.

  “You may leave, B’Elanna Torres,” Logt said slowly enough to sprinkle many layers of condescension into her tone, “and you may take Miral with you. But if you do so now, you will not be allowed to return.”

  “Why not?” B’Elanna demanded.

  “Only those whose motives are pure are granted sanctuary on Boreth,” Logt replied evenly.

  “And what makes you think mine aren’t?” B’Elanna asked, appalled.

  “A family requirement?” Logt said with unmistakable irony.

  Had B’Elanna not been ready to crawl out of her own skin, she would have had to admit that Logt had her there.

  She opted for as close to rational as she could under the circumstances.

  “Miral and I have been separated from our family for months,” B’Elanna said. “Their request that we join them to celebrate my husband’s promotion is a requirement, whether you believe it to be so or not.”

  “I do not question your devotion, B’Elanna,” Logt said a little less imperiously. “Only your motives.”

  “My motives?” B’Elanna bellowed.

  Logt’s mouth twitched with what looked like amusement.

  “You were granted access to our monastery only because of the emperor’s interest in your mother. Your stay has been extended because your intention to immerse yourself in your Klingon heritage is honorable. But this is not a recreational facility. Pilgrims to Boreth do not come and go as they please. You are here at the emperor’s pleasure, and your request to leave simply because your mother-in-law is throwing a feast hardly rises to the level of requirement.”

  B’Elanna knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere with Logt. She opted to switch tactics.

  “Where is the emperor now?” she asked.

  “That is not your concern.”

  “Has he been apprised of my request?”

  Logt’s voice dropped menacingly.

  “He will be,” she replied, “but I do not doubt his answer, nor should you question my ability to speak now with his authority.”

  B’Elanna’s fists were clenched so tightly at her sides that the nails of her fingers were now drawing blood in small half-moon indentations on the heels of her palms.

  In another lifetime, the only release she would have found in such a moment would be to hit something very hard. But Kathryn Janeway’s patient mentoring had tempered the steel at the center of B’Elanna’s being. Violence had its place. Here and now, it would accomplish nothing.

  B’Elanna took a deep, ragged breath.

  Maybe it was for the best. She wanted the option to return to Boreth. But she and Miral would be leaving in the morning, with or without Logt’s permission.

  B’Elanna dropped her head in defeat. Almost just as quickly, it snapped back up when the unmistakable clang of metal on metal reached her ears.

  Logt’s eyes met hers briefly. B’Elanna saw in their momentary widening the same fear that now clawed at her chest.

  Without another word, both women rushed from the chamber.

  As they ran down the interminable winding staircase, the sounds of battle grew louder, joined by the lusty wails of Miral.

  The nursery!

  B’Elanna broke off her full-out sprint just long enough to duck into her private chamber and retrieve the bat’leth she had brought with her to Boreth. It had been a gift from Kohlar, an ancient weapon patterned after the original Sword of Kahless. B’Elanna hadn’t practiced as much with it as she would have liked. But at this moment, that hardly mattered.

  Logt stood at the entrance to the nursery, her mek’leth already drawn. Had she not stepped to her right, presumably to join the fight, B’Elanna would have run headlong into the woman when she reached the open doorway.

  It took B’Elanna only a few seconds to assess the situation. Kularg lay nearest her, a qutluch bur
ied in his chest. His blood pooled on the floor and from the look of it, he was already in Sto-Vo-Kor. Logt and three male warriors were battling five females, all of whom wielded bat’leths. A sixth woman stood behind them, holding Miral. B’Elanna was about to join Logt when she realized that one of the men struggling to reach Miral was Emperor Kahless himself.

  Another loud cry from Miral reminded B’Elanna that there would be time for explanations later. Now, all that mattered was saving her daughter.

  B’Elanna knew well enough the bloodlust that overtook a Klingon in battle. She had never known, however, that the rage could be so focused when that lust was paired with a mother’s instinctive need to protect her child.

  B’Elanna glided forward, ducking to avoid a wide sweep of Logt’s blade. The warrior fighting Logt managed to parry, but she was not prepared for the undercut from B’Elanna’s bat’leth, which buried itself in her abdomen. With a grunt B’Elanna quickly freed her weapon from the woman, who was now bleeding to death, and turned to face her next assailant. Miral would have been close enough to touch, were it not for the woman and the blade now blocking B’Elanna’s path.

  This warrior, B’Elanna would fight alone. The sides were now evenly matched. As she brought her bat’leth up to block her foe’s first strike, B’Elanna realized that whoever this warrior was, she possessed strength and balance that were truly alarming. She was not much larger than B’Elanna, but she fought with fluid grace, as if she were meditating while wielding her lethal blade.

  Blow for blow, she easily blocked each of B’Elanna’s thrusts. B’Elanna was soon gasping with the exertion, but she gave no thought to herself. Miral was so close, B’Elanna could taste the victory.

  Suddenly, B’Elanna was aware of a new sound. As the line of fierce women protected her, the warrior holding Miral had drawn a disruptor from her belt and turned toward the back wall of the nursery where she was cornered. In a matter of a few blasts, she had managed to create a small opening in the wall. A couple more and she would have opened an escape route for herself and Miral.