Star Trek: Voyager®: Full Circle

by Kirsten Beyer

  Very few humans or aliens were really taken with the game these days. Like baseball, for many it seemed to be a quaint anachronism. For Batiste, that had quickly become part of the appeal. He considered it a rare opportunity to “get back to nature.” An avid camper, Montgomery wondered if Batiste truly understood how ridiculous he sounded when he said things like that. He also wondered why so few aspects of the game, particularly the clubs or the balls, had continued to be adapted with modern technology in the last few thousand years, apart from a few cosmetic alterations to the shape of the putter and wedges. Of course, such adaptations would have made the game easier, but that was apparently not the point.

  Further, Montgomery had become convinced over the last few years that Batiste must be cheating. That bastard’s practicing in his off hours, he thought bitterly as Willem executed a perfect three-hundred-meter drive that landed just off the green of the sixteenth hole. The hole was a par three, but Montgomery doubted he’d reach the green in four strokes, especially the way he was chopping up the course today.

  The admiral stepped up to the tee and did his best to quiet his mind. Unlike most of his regular duties, multitasking was not a skill that was helpful when applied to golf. Instead, the game required a balance of focus and calm, an ability to get out of one’s own way and simply allow the body to execute a single, swift graceful motion in which the club was responsible for the majority of the work.

  “Looks like that slice is coming along beautifully,” Batiste joked as Montgomery’s shot flew dramatically toward the tree line banking the right side of the fairway.

  Montgomery replaced his driver in his bag and hefted it onto his shoulder in preparation for the death march to retrieve his ball. Another of Batiste’s little quirks was that he insisted they walk the course rather than use hovercarts. This usually added at least an hour or two to their game, but as these “meetings” were meant to be part recreation, part work, Montgomery rarely found reason to dispute this request until right around the eleventh hole, when he found himself wishing that his combadge would sound, alerting both of them to an interstellar disaster that would make finishing the game impossible.

  “See you on the green,” Montgomery said optimistically as he began his weary trek.

  “I’ll walk with you,” Batiste replied amiably. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

  “What’s that?”

  It took most of the few minutes required for them to reach the tree line and actually find Montgomery’s ball, wedged between the gnarled roots of a jacaranda, for Batiste to outline the proposal he was preparing to make to Starfleet Command regarding Voyager.

  Montgomery almost tripped at about the same time Batiste relayed the mission’s most startling feature.

  “You want them to what?” Montgomery demanded, worried that the heat, the frustration, and the exhaustion might finally be getting to him.

  “You heard me,” Batiste replied placidly.

  Montgomery stepped back gingerly to avoid touching the ball and adding yet another stroke to the game as he considered his friend.

  He looks serious, Montgomery had to allow. And he sure sounds serious.

  This could mean only one thing.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Montgomery asked.

  Batiste chuckled, stepping aside to allow him as unobstructed a path to the fairway as his dismal shot would permit.

  “I have not.” Batiste smiled.

  “And have you, by any chance, run this absurd notion by Admiral Janeway yet?” was Montgomery’s next question.

  “You’re the first person I’ve told,” Batiste said casually. “I was hoping to get your input, as well as Eden’s final report, before I discuss it with the rest of the admiralty.”

  “A Ferengi would have an easier time selling hot water in hell than you’ll have getting this past Kathryn,” Montgomery replied. Most starship captains developed a sense of proprietary regard for their crews, even their former ones, but Kathryn Janeway had taken that propensity to entirely new dimensions when she had been promoted to vice admiral. True, the circumstances of her ship and crew had been unique, and that alone granted her a certain amount of latitude among her peers. But Kathryn’s crew was dearer to her than colleagues or friends. To her, they were family. And she watched over them with the keen eye of a mother hen, even from the distance her new position required.

  “Setting that aside for the moment, what are your thoughts, Ken?” Batiste asked patiently.

  Montgomery shook his head, realizing that he’d just pulled his sand wedge from his bag rather than his pitching wedge.

  At this point, what the hell difference does it make? he thought, lining up his shot with his back braced uncomfortably against the tree.

  He was half considering his response and halfway into his backswing when his combadge chirped. Amid the desert stillness it sounded like the firing of a phaser, and he brought the club down sharply, digging into the hard soil and barely tapping the ball over the tree root before it dribbled a few feet farther, coming to rest several meters short of the fairway but at least in the relative clear.

  “If you’d like to try that again?” Batiste offered graciously.

  Montgomery waved him off, equal parts disgusted and relieved, and stepped a few paces farther into the trees before he opened his side of the comlink.

  “What is it?” he barked in frustration.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Admiral, but I have a priority communication for you from Captain Chakotay.”

  “Put it throught,” Montgomery ordered.

  After a brief pause, Chakotay’s voice greeted him. “I hope this isn’t a bad time, Admiral.”

  “Oh, it’s an excellent time,” Montgomery assured him, grateful at least that whatever Chakotay wanted to discuss with him had brought him a few moments’ reprieve from the dismal game.

  Of course, when Chakotay had finished relaying his message, Montgomery was less inclined toward gratitude. Emerging from the tree line, he found Batiste standing beside his bag, sipping from his water bottle. The hovercart he had called after closing the communication with Chakotay could be heard buzzing toward them from the direction of the clubhouse.

  “Sorry to cut this short, Willem, but I have to get back to San Francisco right away. Captain Chakotay is testing out his improvisational skills, and we’ll probably be at war with the Klingons before the day is out.”

  “I thought Voyager was on its way to Kerovi.”

  “They were,” Montgomery shot back bitterly.

  Batiste nodded. “Understood. I think I’ll play through.”

  “Good idea.” Montgomery nodded. “Give you some time to reconsider.”

  “Then you don’t approve of my idea?” Batiste asked.

  “I don’t,” Montgomery replied honestly. “Of course, I can see the value in what you’re proposing, from a purely exploratory point of view. But I also believe that sometimes you can ask too much of a person. Voyager’s time in the Delta quadrant wasn’t your average deep-space mission. Those people went through hell. I’m not saying they wouldn’t be up to it. Voyager’s crew is one of the best Starfleet has ever produced. But I would never ask it of them, and neither should you, my friend.”

  Batiste nodded. Montgomery didn’t honestly know if he was agreeing with him or simply mustering a new argument.

  Either way, Kathryn will set him straight.

  And that would be a conversation worth watching, Montgomery decided, if only to see Batiste struggle as futilely as he had all afternoon.

  Paris barely noticed Chakotay return to the embassy conference suite Ambassador Worf had provided them for their work. Spread before him on a table lay the fruits of the Klingons’ investigation to date, and they were a sparse meal at best.

  One of the Klingons discovered dead on Boreth had been Kularg. Tom found that one image of the man kept playing over and over in his mind, once he had wiped away the vision of Kularg lying on the nurser
y floor, his blood pouring forth from the dagger driven into his heart.

  Often when Miral had refused to stop fussing, particularly around nap time, Kularg would say, “The time has come for blood pie.” The first time he’d heard this, Tom had worried that his daughter had finally become too infuriating for Kularg to handle and had just been relegated to the dinner menu. But before Tom could step in, Kularg had deposited the crying child on her back on a pile of tanned targ skins and softly started to assemble the imaginary blood pie on Miral’s tummy. He would announce each ingredient, then pantomime placing it on her stomach. Of course, the stirring motion that accompanied each addition was the part that usually calmed Miral the most. This gentle massage, combined with the fascination that would often overtake Miral as she diligently watched the movement of his hands, usually meant that well before the “pie” was done, Miral was either laughing from the tickles or fighting to keep her eyes open as sleep overtook her.

  Tom had never known a Klingon like Kularg, and believed he probably never would again. Klingon society still had rigid ideas about the roles of men and women. Kularg’s nurturing instincts might have been construed by some as a form of weakness. Tom saw only honor and strength in the old warrior and someone he would miss.

  The only other bodies discovered at the scene were those of two females who had yet to be identified. They were not of a noble house, nor were they commoners. As best anyone could tell, they had never before set foot on Boreth, nor on any other Klingon colony. Until they had been found dead, it seemed they had never existed.

  For the time being, the Klingons investigating the matter seemed to believe that the attack had been directed against Kahless. The concurrent disappearance of Commander Logt, one of his personal guardians, only reinforced this notion. It was no secret that there were still many Klingons who had difficulty accepting Kahless as their emperor, symbolic though that title was. Clone or not, the man had already provided such valuable service to the empire that Tom saw this point as completely moot. But Paris worried that Martok’s only interest in the events on Boreth was to make certain that this was not the prelude to another attack on his position as chancellor.

  Usually, Tom didn’t suffer from delusions of grandeur or the belief that the universe revolved around him or his small cares. But he firmly believed that the attack had been directed at Miral. The problem was he couldn’t prove it, and until he could, he wasn’t going to change the focus of the investigation.

  He wished Tuvok was here now. The Vulcan who had once been Voyager’s tactical officer was now teaching at Starfleet Academy. But during their time in the Delta quadrant, Tuvok had demonstrated on numerous occasions that he possessed a keen investigative sense, beginning with an encounter with two warring cultures during which Tom had been falsely accused and convicted of murder. Tuvok’s tenacity had saved his life. Paris couldn’t help but think that if Tuvok and his tenacity could be brought to bear, it would aid his efforts immeasurably. Depending upon how things developed in the next few hours, Tom decided he should make this recommendation to Chakotay and Janeway to see if there might be any strings that could be pulled.

  One of Worf’s aides, an efficient human named Giancarlo Wu who had gone out of his way to be helpful, entered the conference room carrying a rather large box. He placed it before Tom and said gently, “Commander, these just arrived. They are all of the personal items that were left in your family’s quarters on Boreth.”

  Paris thanked him with a nod, then steadied himself to begin going through them.

  “Have they been thoroughly analyzed by the investigative team?”

  The young man cleared his throat and replied, “If by analyzed you mean tossed carelessly in a box and labeled for storage, then yes.”

  Paris had to swallow hard before he could reply, “Thank you,” his voice thick with emotion.

  At the far end of the table, Chakotay was conferring with Admiral Janeway. Tom caught bits and pieces, including Chakotay’s remark that Admiral Montgomery had been apprised of their situation and would provide them with new orders shortly. As long as those orders didn’t include continuing on their former course to Kerovi, Paris couldn’t have cared less. In the meantime, he knew that both of them were studying recent starship traffic around Boreth along with the lists of all those who had been in residence at the monastery at the time of the attack.

  Forcing himself to keep in mind that the items in the box before him were simply objects and not the last pieces of the wife and child he would never hold again, Tom began to sort through them. The first thing he discovered was the civilian clothes B’Elanna had worn when she first came to Boreth, as well as a number of robes and hide cloaks she had accumulated. Several soft pieces of cloth, the Klingon analog of diapers, were also present, and though Paris knew well that they had been scoured by rough Klingon hands after each use, he still believed he could smell Miral, or at least the scent he had last associated with her, on every one of them.

  It was more than he could bear.

  Tom’s heart heaved within his chest as the hot tears he had forbidden to fall rose to his eyes.

  Setting the cloths aside, he struggled to focus. He recognized all of the box’s contents thus far, but noted that a few important things were missing; among them, Miral’s favorite blanket and B’Elanna’s bat’leth.

  The only two things B’Elanna wouldn’t leave behind if she’d been forced to leave Boreth in a hurry.

  This thought was at least almost comforting.

  At the bottom of the box was a light cloak B’Elanna usually wore at bedtime. Tom knew that it would be covered with her scent and for a moment felt his legs shudder beneath him. He gathered the folds of fabric in his hands, kneading them gently for a moment, trying to find the strength not to wallow, when a faint crackling sound met his ears.

  Paris played the fabric over again in his hands and discovered the source of the sound: a small piece of parchment crumpled in one of the pockets.

  He removed it and laid it carefully on the table, assuming it would be a scrap of text B’Elanna might have made note of in her studies. Much as he dreaded the thought of another visceral reminder of her absence, the sight of her handwriting, Tom forced himself to open it carefully so as not to damage the delicate page.

  It was written in Klingon. And it was not written by B’Elanna’s hand. The only word he could make sense of at first almost dropped him to his chair.

  Kuvah’magh.

  He knew that with some effort he could translate the rest. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Like as not, this was part of B’Elanna’s research, nothing more, part of his mind insisted.

  Tom studied the other words. The next one he recognized made his heart beat even faster.

  Danger.

  Finally Tom abandoned his attempt and simply scanned the words into his tricorder. A moment later, the horrific translation glowed out from the tiny screen.

  You and the Kuvah’magh are in danger.

  The pain that had been strangling his heart only moments before was immediately replaced by rage.

  She knew.

  Where or when B’Elanna might have received this message was unclear. But suddenly the faint misgivings he’d had every time they spoke for the last several weeks became both crystal clear and horrifying.

  You and the Kuvah’magh are in danger.

  B’Elanna had lied to him.

  True, it was a lie of omission, but he wasn’t ready to grant her anything.

  She knew. She knew and she didn’t tell me.

  Had he been able to think more clearly, he might have found some solace in the fact that here at last was tangible proof that his gut had not been mistaken. Finally he could present the Klingons with evidence that they were sniffing the wrong dung heap.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the table.

  He looked up to see Admiral Janeway rising to her feet as a relieved smile spread across her face.
<
br />   Turning, he found the reason.

  Standing at the door to the conference room were B’Elanna, Logt, and the Emperor Kahless.

  All three of them looked like hell.

  Hovering behind them was Ambassador Worf. He nodded briefly to Tom, then backed from the doorway to allow them privacy.

  Kahless and Logt moved toward the far side of the room. Though they had never met Chakotay or the admiral, they, too seemed painfully aware that Tom and B’Elanna both needed a moment before whatever else was to come could begin.

  B’Elanna’s face held its fierce determination for the first few moments her eyes locked with Tom’s. But soon it started to crumple as pain and fear met the desperate need she seemed to be trying to communicate.

  Tom’s heart answered hers with a brief mutual longing and relief. But it was replaced almost instantly with the knowledge of her betrayal and how much that betrayal might have cost them both.

  Tom wanted to go to her.

  She wasn’t rushing to him though, and he thought ungenerously that her guilt must be holding her back.

  Finally, however, he realized that there would be time for arguments and recriminations later. For now at least, she was here, and that was something.

  Tom started forward on trembling legs and crossed the small space separating him from his wife.

  He just didn’t know if the first thing he should do was to kiss her or kill her.

  The Kortar had been in orbit above Davlos for seventeen hours. Ten hours ago, their initial scans had revealed no indication that the sanctuary might be found there. But T’Krek was too keen a hunter to be dismayed by such a setback. The qawHaq’hoch had mastered the ability to hide themselves. Obviously some sort of energy field or natural anomaly was interfering with the ship’s sensors.