The Doctor had explained patiently that often individuals such as these, whose mental gifts so far outpaced their contemporaries, tended to lack the social graces commensurate with their other accomplishments. Seven secretly enjoyed the fact that the Doctor’s tolerance had finally met its limits when the Tellarite Deegle had joined the group a month earlier.
The moment Seven had received Chakotay’s message, she had alerted the others to what little they knew of the events on Boreth, and everyone had agreed that Harees was the best resource the group possessed when it came to all things Klingon. Harees had obliged them with a lengthy recitation on the legends of the Kuvah’magh and the various prophecies relating to that mythical figure. Harees possessed an eidetic memory and had already shared with them several passages contained in dozens of ancient manuscripts, many of which suggested that Miral Paris’s unique circumstances had much in common with the promised savior.
Things got muddier when it came to the issue of what exactly the Kuvah’magh was supposed to save the Klingon people from. The so-called “Curse of the Gods” was a troublingly vague designation for an apocalypse, particularly since it had been over a thousand years since Klingon gods had been substantively referenced by any notable scholars. Still, the signs of the pending apocalypse seemed clear enough; the birth of Fek’lhr and the subsequent birth of the Kuvah’magh.
Harees had gone on to present the short list of known believers in these prophecies, and as the only group who was known to still exist were the Warriors of Gre’thor, she had settled on them—much too quickly, in Seven’s estimation—as the most likely to have committed the attack on Boreth.
“I do not accept your premise,” Harees responded.
“Of course you don’t,” Seven shot back. “If you did, your argument would collapse under the weight of its—”
“Seven, please,” the Doctor said briskly, obviously hoping to temper Seven’s frustration.
“The Warriors of Gre’thor are the only viable candidates for this attack,” Harees insisted again. “Their antipathy for the Kuvah’magh is well documented, as are numerous reports of their activities over the last millennium.”
“The Warriors of Gre’thor were formed to destroy the qawHaq’hoch, were they not?” Seven asked.
“Yes, but—”
“They exist only to stamp out every last vestige of these ancient heretics.”
“As you say, but—”
“Then if they are still active, it is logical to assume that the qawHaq’hoch are also still in existence,” Seven went on.
“There is no evidence to suggest—” Harees began.
“Seven’s right,” the Doctor interjected. “The fact that the Warriors of Gre’thor have not yet abandoned their quest must mean that to the best of their knowledge, their work remains unfinished.”
Seven was the tiniest bit relieved that he had been the one to finish her argument for her. Compartmentalizing came as naturally to her as breathing. But from the moment Chakotay had apprised them of B’Elanna’s disappearance, she had been unable to separate her fears for B’Elanna and Miral from her need to take constructive action. Debating the obvious with an Elaysian who had serious superiority issues wasn’t constructive. The truth was, she needed to be right about this, because if she was wrong, B’Elanna and Miral were probably already dead.
Seven found that thought completely unacceptable. During the four years she spent aboard Voyager, prior to its return to the Alpha quadrant, Seven and B’Elanna had clashed regularly on almost every topic. In truth, the two women had never really warmed to one another, though they had developed a healthy mutual respect. Captain Janeway had always insisted that Voyager’s crew was a family, one in whose company Seven would find solace that far outweighed the experience of being a drone in the Borg collective. The sad truth was that Seven hadn’t fully begun to accept this notion until that family had parted ways upon their return to Earth.
Seven had immediately become reacquainted with her only living biological family on Earth, her father’s sister, Irene Hansen. Aunt Irene was a steady, comforting presence. Silently she communicated her utter devotion to her niece, but also refused to smother her in it. Seven was encouraged to pursue any professional or personal activity that interested her, but always found herself looking forward to Sunday mornings, when she would transport to her aunt’s home in the Midwest for brunch and lazy afternoon walks. There Irene had proved most adept at a skill that often eluded Seven’s former shipmates; her aunt was an excellent listener.
Irene was a gift Seven was extremely grateful for. Once she realized there was no way for her to interact daily with her first real family—Admiral Janeway, Captain Chakotay, Tom and B’Elanna, Harry Kim, Commander Tuvok, Icheb, and Naomi Wildman—Seven had found their absence unsettling. True, she remained close to the Doctor; they worked together every day. And events seemed to conspire to bring her together with her former crew at least from time to time. Admiral Janeway made excuses to check in with her regularly, and Seven kept a watchful eye on Icheb’s progress at the Academy.
But the absence, which had begun as a dull ache, had, over time, transmuted itself into a more constant discomfort. The Doctor suggested that she needed to try harder to make new friends. The idea of doing so among the members of the Institute was unappealing at best, and he hadn’t blamed her for that.
Finally she had come to accept that the discomfort existed because she truly felt something for the Voyager crew. Feelings, once an object of study, had unwittingly become part of Seven’s internal makeup. This realization and her aunt’s gentle insistence that it was a normal part of her humanity had caused the pain, along with the corresponding loneliness. But that pain had reared a new and very ugly head when Seven was asked to confront the possibility that B’Elanna was dead, and that hurt was magnified when she considered the anguish it would also cause Tom Paris. She had read it clearly on his face the night she had spent at his parents’ home waiting in vain for B’Elanna to arrive with their daughter.
As death was an unacceptable outcome, Seven felt it was her duty to find another, more palatable one. But Doctor Harees, it seemed, had other ideas, and Seven was quickly losing what little patience she possessed.
“Further,” the Doctor added, “if the Warriors of Gre’thor were responsible for the attack, it is much more likely that the bodies of B’Elanna and Miral would have been found at the monastery.”
“Also true,” Seven finished for him. “Historically, the Warriors make no secret of their victories and usually display the bodies of their victims as a warning to those who continue to stand against them.”
“Be that as it may—” Harees said, but was interrupted by the sight of Deegle, rising to join their ranks.
“I have discovered something which I believe may be pertinent to your discussion,” Deegle announced.
The Doctor rolled his eyes.
“By all means,” he said too gallantly to be taken seriously.
The Tellarite went on, unperturbed. “While in the process of committing our files to memory I found that several years ago, this group was asked to verify the findings of an anonymous petitioner regarding a peculiar genetic anomaly. A Klingon anomaly. I have the results here,” he said, presenting a padd to the Doctor with a flourish.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just recite them for us?” the Doctor asked peevishly.
“If you’d prefer…”
The Doctor snapped the padd from Deegle’s hand. Seven guessed that even had the padd now in his hand contained the precise coordinates where B’Elanna and Miral could be found, the Doctor would probably debate it for several hours with Deegle just to save face. The only thing he seemed to dislike more than Deegle was admitting Deegle was right.
“As I was saying,” Harees continued, anxious to return to the argument at hand, “I believe that to purport that the qawHaq’hoch could have committed such an attack in the absence of any other verification of their continued existen
ce is to grasp at the most flimsy of straws. Perhaps B’Elanna and her daughter were, in fact, the final members of the qawHaq’hoch…”
But Seven wasn’t listening to Harees anymore. Instead, she watched as the Doctor’s expression moved from exasperation to curiosity to genuine concern.
“What is it?” Seven demanded.
“It may be nothing,” Deegle began.
“Nothing but the first sign of the Klingon apocalypse,” the Doctor finished, tossing the padd to Seven.
Unfortunately this caused Seven a frustrated moment of gracelessness as she struggled to catch it. After taking only a few minutes more to absorb Deegle’s discovery, she and the Doctor nodded to one another, their thoughts obviously running along the same disquieting path. The only comforting certainty Seven could find in Deegle’s revelation was that the time for theoretical discussions had ended.
B’Elanna would have sold her soul for a Starfleet-issue tricorder. The Klingon version Logt had managed to procure for her was both slower and less precise than the counterpart B’Elanna was used to relying upon. Still, it was the best she could hope for under the circumstances.
She had managed a few hours of fitful sleep after the ceremony at the obelisk. When B’Elanna had finally given up on further efforts, despite the fact that her arms and legs felt as if she’d spent the previous day scaling a rock face, she has risen weary but determined to begin her studies of the monument.
Kahless had yet to materialize. B’Elanna assumed he was either resting or making nice with T’Krek. Either was preferable to having him stand over her shoulder while she worked. Logt was already fulfilling that duty admirably. B’Elanna had half heartedly suggested to the woman that she should try and get some rest as well. Logt had been hovering over her at full attention when B’Elanna had awakened in the dank quarters T’Krek had provided them. B’Elanna seriously doubted that Logt had closed her eyes since they left Boreth. Klingons were well known for their resilience, and Logt could probably go at least another day before fatigue would become an obstacle. Still, Logt had dismissed B’Elanna’s suggestion with a scoff and only suggested that B’Elanna cease to worry about her physical needs and instead concentrate on her own.
B’Elanna needed something to occupy her mind. Without it, she would go mad before they reached Davlos. Natural curiosity had guided her back to the monument, and she had begun by analyzing the obelisk itself. It had taken hours for her to precisely coordinate the markings rendered in the stone with their stellar counterparts. Once the pattern had become clear, however, it was almost childish in its simplicity. Thousands of stars were actually referenced on the monument’s surface. A thorough search of every system would have been impossible even for the vaunted Warriors of Gre’thor, irregardless of the years. Without the coded bat’leths, the map inscribed on the obelisk was useless.
Next she next turned her attention to the swords. B’Elanna had always believed that hers was impressive, if a little ornate for pure practicality. Unlike most bat’leths, which had two sharpened edges that came to points at either end of the weapon, the blade Kohlar had given her—modeled on the original sword of Kahless, as were all of the bat’leths resting in the trench—contained a third pointed edge in the center of the blade. This third edge was also carved with the intricate Imperial trefoil design in which was embedded the mark of Hal’korin.
The metallurgic analysis was equally fascinating. Most bat’leths were forged from baakonite. The swords Hal’korin had created were largely comprised of this metal, but also contained trace elements of another substance, which the tricorder could not identify. In all likelihood it was some rare metal that Hal’korin had worked into her weapons but that, a thousand years later, might be much harder to come by. B’Elanna knew nothing of the craft of sword-making. But a cursory comparison of her blade with the more modern bat’leth that Logt had obtained for her showed clearly that the ancient bat’leths were significantly more robust than those in common use today. The analysis suggested that the ancient blades had been formed by a folding technique that reduced impurities, thereby strengthening the swords and allowing them to maintain their sharpness long past the time when most others would dull.
B’Elanna circled the trench, conducting a painstaking scan of every blade. She then darkened the room to study the ways in which the swords cast light upon the monument. Her initial analysis showed that T’Krek had been correct in calculating that the bat’leths pointed to Davlos as the location of the sanctuary. What was most interesting was the fact that it was the impurities within the blades that allowed this effect to be created. The blades should have blocked all light, casting nothing but shadows upon the monument. Miraculously, however, light did penetrate the bat’leths, but only in points where the tricorder indicated were heavy with specific concentrations of baakonite and the other trace metal.
Backtracking, B’Elanna compared the metallurgic variations within each blade. She could not imagine the patience or mastery of forging that would have been required to produce impure variances so specifically. Likely as not the bat’leths were forged and then the monument was constructed based upon the respective impurities, but even if that was the case, the precision was still staggering. In every instance, B’Elanna found a variance of less than .00027.
The tricorder emitted a shrill bleat as it completed its latest set of calculations. She glanced at them, already certain of the result. B’Elanna stared at it for a long moment, then actually rubbed her eyes to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.
Every instance but one.
B’Elanna paused.
There was no question that she had reached her mental and physical limits. Hope and desperation might account for the error she now saw before her. She checked her findings again, then rechecked them two more times just to be certain.
Only then did the knot in her stomach loosen just a bit.
“Logt,” she called softly as she set her tricorder at the lip of the trench and gently removed the bat’leth in question from its place. It sat three places away from hers in the circle.
“What is it?” Logt asked as she approached.
Without taking her eyes from the weapon, B’Elanna said, “How hard would it be to find out exactly where the Warriors of Gre’thor acquired each of these bat’leths?”
Logt considered the question, then replied, “I do not know how thorough their records are. Most likely they retain their history in songs and stories.”
Oh, let’s hope not.
“I need to find Kahless,” B’Elanna said, replacing the sword in the trench and rising to face Logt.
“I shall accompany you.”
“No,” B’Elanna replied briskly. “You are going to break into their database and see if there is any written record of these lunatics’ exploits. Download whatever you find into this tricorder.”
The woman looked at B’Elanna as if she had finally abandoned what few senses Logt had ever given her credit for possessing.
“Where you go, I go,” Logt replied evenly.
“We’re not going to argue about this,” B’Elanna said fiercely. “In a matter of days, this ship is going to reach Davlos. It will take them less than twenty-four more hours to thoroughly scan the planet.”
Logt’s right eyebrow twitched. She was either tired or impressed.
“By the time they do that, we need to be gone,” B’Elanna continued. “And if we haven’t figured out where that bat’leth came from and made a discreet escape, we’ll never find Miral before they do.”
“And what will you be doing while I conduct this research?” Logt asked.
“After I speak to Kahless about stealing a shuttle, I’m going to spend some quality time with the replicator nearest our quarters.”
Logt favored her with a hard stare. B’Elanna knew that she had not provided the warrior with sufficient details of the plan that was forming in her mind, but perhaps B’Elanna’s certainty was all Logt needed for now.
“As you wi
sh,” she said with a slight nod.
B’Elanna hurried from the chamber. It would have been exaggeration to say that she was hopeful, but she was suddenly infused with a heady sense of cautious optimism. For the first time since this nightmare had begun, B’Elanna believed she knew how to find Miral on her own, and she had the beginnings of a plan. Its success hinged on too many variables for her to stomach at the moment, but it was enough to keep her feet hurrying along as she made her way through the Kortar.
All she needed was one very important piece of information, and a little luck. With that, they could be off this cursed ship and reunited with those she actually trusted to get this job done—most important, Tom.
The only remaining question was how long it would take the Warriors of Gre’thor to realize their error, and B’Elanna’s subterfuge.
B’Elanna didn’t believe in signs, especially now that she was surrounded by people who consciously chose to live and die by them. But if fate had a hand in any of this, it had finally given her a slim advantage over the Warriors of Gre’thor, and, as she knew all too well, the smallest advantage often meant the difference between life and death.
One thought spurred her onward.
They’re heading for the wrong planet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Admiral Kenneth Montgomery was playing golf.
He hated golf.
Willem Batiste had introduced him to the game almost five years earlier, and in all that time, Montgomery’s game had yet to improve. Batiste’s, on the other hand, was coming along quite nicely. When they’d begun their regularly scheduled monthly “meetings” in Desert Springs, they’d both agreed to abandon the game within a year if neither of their handicaps improved. Over time, however, the tranquillity, the dry warmth, and the way in which the activity forced them out of their routine became more of a draw than their respective skills.
Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle Page 10
