Finally, her curiosity exceeded her humiliation and she turned to Kahless.
“What is this place?” she asked softly.
“It used to be called the ‘home of the stars of the gods,’” Kahless whispered. “Now, of course, they are the stars of Kahless,” he added, “but that was never the intention of its builder.”
“Who built it?” B’Elanna asked, uncomfortably aware that no one else was speaking.
“I do not know,” Kahless replied, and B’Elanna instantly felt a little less ignorant.
T’Krek stood at the base of the obelisk. He turned his attention to B’Elanna and approached before the emperor could say anything further.
“Twelve centuries ago, the pe’taQ Hal’korin designed this shrine as a gathering place for the qawHaq’hoch. The order was divided into twelve corps, each led by the fiercest warrior among them. The leaders of the twelve could only be identified to one another by the weapons they carried. Hal’korin, may she writhe in agony in Gre’thor, forged twelve bat’leths and marked them as her own. Only when the twelve were assembled could the secrets of her cursed order be revealed.”
From a purely tactical point of view, B’Elanna could see the wisdom in this; passwords, codes, handsigns, and the like were all time-honored traditions among those for whom subterfuge was a way of life. At the same time, the machinations of this ancient society also reinforced her certainty that all of these people, qawHaq’hoch and Warriors of Gre’thor alike, were barking lunatics.
“What secret do you seek?” Kahless asked. B’Elanna had the sense that he asked the question for her benefit and was silently grateful.
“When brought together in this place, the twelve bat’leths will reveal to us the location of the qawHaq’hoch sanctuary. We know that the sanctuary was created by Hal’korin, to hide these heretics and their dark work should they ever fall from favor, as they ultimately did.”
“The Warriors of Gre’thor have, to date, found and slaughtered eleven of the twelve leaders, and the descendants who claimed their place,” T’Krek went on, his chest swelling at the fond memory. “Their weapons now rest here.
“The blade you carry, B’Elanna Torres, is the twelfth sword of Hal’korin.” T’Krek held his hand out to B’Elanna. “With your permission.”
Kahless nodded, and B’Elanna passed her bat’leth to T’Krek. He then knelt before her and placed the sword in the trench, its ends clanging softly as they were locked into place between the two on either side. The bat’leths now formed a perfect, unbroken circle.
B’Elanna wasn’t sure what she expected to happen. At first she decided that the unimaginable stress of the past several hours might finally be taking its toll when she felt her gorge rising and her stomach began to churn. She took a few halting steps to ward off the dizziness as the stars above her head began to spin. She was suddenly aware of two strong hands on each of her arms, holding her firmly, those of Kahless and Logt. With a heavy, metallic clank, the sensation passed and B’Elanna realized that it hadn’t been her head that was swimming. Whatever mechanism controlled the projections of the stars above her had actually moved, reorienting itself to a new alignment, probably of a particular time and date necessary for the ritual she was now unwillingly sharing.
She enjoyed a momentary sense of calm, until the ground at her feet began to glow. Soon enough she realized that the bat’leths in the trench were actually floating on a substance that was now the consistency of molten lava. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that the original shrine had been constructed at the base of a long-dormant volcano, common enough on Qo’noS.
Those around her knelt at the sight. At first B’Elanna assumed it was more quasi-religious nonsense, until she realized that the now luminous bat’leths had begun to cast laserlike points of light toward the obelisk. The tallest of the Warriors standing right at the lip of the magma-well blocked some of the spectacle by their position. Without reverence, B’Elanna, Kahless, and Logt likewise knelt and watched as T’Krek moved about the obelisk, studying and measuring the points on the monument illuminated by the refracted light of the weapons. He then turned his attention to the sky above, comparing the patterns in the stone to those fixed overhead.
Finally T’Krek grunted, “Bridge.”
“What are your orders, Captain?” a disembodied voice growled.
“Set a new course,” T’Krek said haughtily. “The sanctuary is located on Davlos.”
“At once, Captain,” the voice replied.
As those around her rose and began to congratulate themselves with hearty cries and pounding of chests and shoulders, B’Elanna’s eyes remained glued to the obelisk. She promised herself that later she would return and examine every atom of the monument with a scanning device more sensitive than her eyes. She gazed at the bat’leths floating in the trench. A thought gnawed at the back of her mind.
For all of its elegance, Hal’korin’s crude mapping system is ripe with potential for minute variations that would undoubtedly alter the location indicated by the obelisk. T’Krek seems certain that he’s found what he was seeking, but without further analysis, I’m not ready to bet my life or Miral’s on his calculations.
It was a journey of at least four days to Davlos, even at maximum warp. For now, B’Elanna had nothing but time, and she was determined to use it well.
She was suddenly aware of Kahless, helping her to her feet. When she rose and looked up at him, he said softly, “There was something you wanted to ask me earlier.”
With so many thoughts racing through her mind, B’Elanna had to search for a moment to recall her question. Finally it came back to her.
“On Boreth, did you try to warn me of the danger we now face?”
He shook his head.
“Perhaps I should have,” he admitted sadly. “I was confident in my ability to protect you, and I apologize for not sharing my concerns with you sooner.”
B’Elanna felt her ire rising. Part of her wondered if all of this might have been avoided had Kahless chosen long ago to bring her into his confidence. She bit back the first response that came to her as, despite her oath, Logt would probably snap her neck for even the slightest display of impudence toward the emperor.
“I see,” B’Elanna managed to reply. Of course, if Kahless hadn’t written her the cryptic message, that begged the question: Who had?
B’Elanna was suddenly conscious of her extreme fatigue. Every bone in her body was racked with the pain of either stress or injury. Her stomach began to growl, though the thought of food was sickening. A low, tingling buzz washing over her suggested she’d do well to find a bed soon.
It was almost a pleasant thought. To curl up beneath the animal skins she’d grown accustomed to on Boreth, Miral tucked into one arm, and…oh, dear gods…
Tom, she thought, her heart splintering anew in her breast.
She hadn’t given him a moment of consideration since she had stood before Logt in the audience chamber, making her request. In real time it had been less than twelve hours earlier, but those hours had been so full of fighting and fleeing and desperate worry. Since Tom had left her on Boreth and returned to active duty, she had grown too accustomed to thinking of her problems as only hers, and taking solitary measures to solve them. But now, when the weight of her loneliness was palpable and the ache to feel his arms around her so pressing, B’Elanna saw how well she had deceived herself.
Her need for her husband was not an idea. Nor was it something she could turn on and off at will. Like the life of her daughter, it breathed within her. For too long she had only been able to glimpse that soft tender place in her dreams, when in flashes she could smell the sweet tang of his flesh, or feel his imagined hands caress her gently. These dreams had done little to comfort her in the harsh light of day, and so she had buried them, as if she could will them to dissipate and with them, the bond that was so inconvenient when they were separated.
Tom would never have done the same; of that much she was
certain. Now she had days ahead to wonder if, when she shared this horrible lapse with him, he would ever forgive her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Chancellor Martok asked.
His question was directed at Chakotay. Though Janeway was the ranking officer, this was, as she had reminded Chakotay when they entered the Great Hall and were ushered into Martok’s private chamber, “His idea and, therefore, his hoverball match.”
The admiral and Paris stood just behind Chakotay, waiting with palpable impatience. It was only due to the influence of Ambassador Worf that Martok had agreed to the audience at all. Worf stood ominously behind their group near the ornately carved doors of the suite.
Starfleet captains weren’t in the habit of requesting audiences with the chancellor of the Klingon Empire. Chakotay seriously doubted that his request would even have been considered were it not for their personal connection to B’Elanna and the fact that she had gone missing at the same time as Kahless.
In the brief exchange they had shared with Ambassador Worf—who doled out words with the same care that a Ferengi took when parting with latinum—they had been told that Martok had agreed to the meeting as a courtesy to the ambassador, but insisted that it take place “quietly,” so as not to raise questions among the rest of the High Council, now in session. Martok had apparently chosen not to alert the council to the emperor’s disappearance until he could provide them with Kahless’s new whereabouts, which still remained a stubborn mystery.
Chakotay knew Martok by reputation only. His renown as a leader of men in battle preceded him. Martok had come to power during the Dominion War. The very day he arrived on Qo’noS, his position as chancellor had been challenged by a usurper who had managed to lay waste to the Great Hall and much of the monastery on Boreth before that coup had come to its violent and bloody end. Martok bore livid scars, each one a testament to the battles he had fought. He had no need for pretense or a need to show his power. He wore it as easily as the massive cloak denoting his office.
Several years earlier, he had lost his left eye at the hands of the Jem’Hadar, but his remaining one rested unnervingly on Chakotay. The captain returned the hard stare with assurance. He knew Martok had no patience for weakness, or politics.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Chancellor,” Chakotay began politely. “You do us a great honor.”
Martok nodded, as if that much was obvious. Chakotay decided that there was no way to wade comfortably into these waters; best just to dive in and get it over with.
“I’ve come to offer my assistance, and that of my crew, in the search for B’Elanna Torres, her child, and the Emperor Kahless. As I am sure you are aware, B’Elanna is the wife of my first officer, Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris, and Miral is his daughter. B’Elanna served honorably aboard Voyager during our years in the Delta quadrant. She is family.”
“Your concern is appropriate, Captain, and does you credit,” Martok replied sternly, “but surely Ambassador Worf has already advised you that our investigation of their disappearance is already under way. We do not require your assistance at this time.”
Chakotay knew a dismissal when he heard one. He had come too far, however, to accept it quite so quickly.
“But perhaps the more resources we are able to apply to the problem, the more quickly we might expect to arrive at a solution,” Chakotay offered.
“I assure you, Captain,” Martok glowered, “it is not a question of resources. I have assigned the finest warriors at my disposal to this task. I know you do not mean to suggest that the Klingon Empire requires the interference of Starfleet in this matter.”
“Of course not,” Chakotay responded immediately. “I wish only to make you aware that should you decide that our assistance might be of use to you, we stand ready to provide it.”
Insulting the leader of the Klingon Empire had not been at the top of Chakotay’s list of things to do that morning, though from the decidedly chilly reception he was receiving, he felt he might have.
“Then you may consider me so advised,” Martok said, waving his hand to one of the two guards who flanked Worf by the door.
“I appreciate your—”
But Chakotay never had a chance to finish that statement.
In a flash of movement, Chakotay barely glimpsed Paris out of the corner of his eye moving toward the wall on his left. A heartbeat later, Tom was holding a huge bat’leth that had been resting in ceremonial elegance on the wall, displayed nobly along with several others that decorated the room. With a cry, Tom rushed toward Martok, raising the sword overhead, but before Chakotay could move to restrain him, that mission was deftly accomplished by the two Yan-Isleth whose job it was to protect Martok’s life with their own.
Paris put up quite a fight, but the behemoths on either side of him made that struggle fruitless. One guard wrenched the bat’leth from him, almost tearing his right arm out of its socket in the process, while the other forced Tom to the floor.
It ended as quickly as it had begun, with Paris lying at Martok’s feet, pinned down by both of the guards. Worf had moved instantly to Martok’s side and now stood there, seething with fury. The only two people in the room with a modicum of composure left were Janeway, who stood by Chakotay’s side stoically, and Martok, who hadn’t moved a muscle during the attack or its aftermath.
“I must tell you, Commander Paris,” Martok said with a smirk, “your diplomatic skills leave something to be desired.”
Chakotay decided that the fact that Martok hadn’t ordered Paris to be dismembered on the spot was probably a good sign, though Worf looked ready to do just that at the chancellor’s request.
Tom was still struggling beneath his captors’ feet as Chakotay quickly ordered, “Stand down, Commander!”
“I…will…not,” Paris managed, continuing to grapple helplessly against the two behemoths, whom he could not have hoped to better on his best day.
With something like amusement playing across his face, Martok said, “Let him speak.”
Though it clearly went against their wishes, the two guards unceremoniously lifted Tom to his feet, while continuing to hold him relatively steady in their viselike hands.
“I don’t have time for this!” Tom bellowed, now that he once again had full access to his lungs. “Conversation, diplomacy—we’re wasting time! My wife and my daughter are missing, and I won’t stand here and play games while you gamble with the life of my family out of pride!”
Chakotay understood that this was partly his fault. By reining Paris in, even for the short time it had taken them to reach Qo’noS, he had only given him a chance to stoke the fires of his rage. Though he had matured greatly in the last several years, Tom was still a wild and headstrong creature, never more dangerous than when threatened. The captain probably shouldn’t have allowed him to be on the away team.
“I couldn’t agree more, Chancellor,” Janeway added, putting Chakotay in an unenviable spot.
The captain didn’t know whether Martok was driven by necessity or ego. At any rate, an unbroken front was usually strongest, so Chakotay said with all the restraint he could muster, “I apologize for Commander Paris’s rashness. But not Tom Paris’s actions. She is his mate. We are offering our ship. Iteb Qob qaD jup ’e’ chaw’be SuvwI’.”
Martok glanced at Worf, who met his inscrutable gaze. Chakotay knew that this little scene was not going to be received well by Command. But when negotiating with any culture, it was usually beneficial to find common ground. The Klingons were a people of few words, preferring to allow their actions to speak for them. Tom had done no more than communicate his wishes in a language that Martok would understand.
Martok nodded slightly to Worf and then returned his gaze to Tom. With grudging respect he said simply, “Very well, boy, let’s see what we can do together to find your family.”
“But you must agree that this attack is much more likely to be the work of the Warriors of Gre’thor
,” Doctor Harees said for the fifth time in the last ten minutes.
“I do not,” Seven replied as patiently as she could. She didn’t know if it was Harees’s stubbornness she found most annoying at the moment or the fact that to accommodate the Elaysian’s physiology she and the Doctor had agreed to have this meeting with the Institute’s resident Klingon expert in her zero-g office. No matter what Seven did to focus on a stationary point or simply remember to take slow, regular breaths, floating freely about the room was a nauseating sensation. Naturally this unsettling requirement didn’t bother the Doctor at all. He had no actual stomach to upset, and was able to stabilize his mobile holographic emitter to keep him still in a position several meters above the floor. As a result, he could chat for hours with Harees in complete comfort. To further emphasize the fact, he was actually floating now with his hands in the pockets of the loose dark trousers he “wore,” paired with a vividly patterned shirt whose design she felt certain he must have gotten from Neelix’s old replicator files. His garish attire and self-composure only irked Seven further because she was currently sweltering in one of her light gray bodysuits, which rarely felt so restrictive.
“But, Miss Seven…” Harees began again in a high-pitched nasal whine, an attempt at politeness that only succeeded in hitting Seven’s last available nerve. Even the Doctor was no match for Harees in the condescension department.
“Simply repeating a false assumption does not make it any less false, nor does it strengthen a weak argument,” Seven interjected petulantly.
The first few months Seven had spent in the company of the most adept and facile minds in the quadrant had been a fascinating change of pace from her life aboard Voyager. She and the Doctor had been welcomed warmly and immediately made to feel that their contributions were both unique and valued. Over time, Seven had begun to realize that these wonderful minds were unfortunately housed in the bodies of individuals who usually possessed the emotional intelligence of the average five-year-old human. As a result, they tended to defend their positions with vehemence, which Seven found inappropriate on a good day and downright annoying on most others.
Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle Page 9
