Spirit Walk, Book Two

by Christie Golden

  Tom had since learned to enjoy alien alcohol. Sometimes quite a lot. But he’d always stayed away from anything pink.

  The memory of that ignominious incident flashed in his mind as he, Janeway and Tuvok, all clad in their dress uniforms, materialized inside a room that was, if not a clone of that long-ago and faraway embassy, at least a kissing cousin of it.

  “My,” said Janeway as she looked around admiringly. “Starfleet is pulling out all the stops.”

  She barely got the words out before a server with a tray of champagne appeared at her elbow. She and Tom took one, Tuvok politely declined. Paris took a sip of the beverage and raised an eyebrow approvingly. Starfleet was indeed pulling out all the stops.

  “So, Mr. Paris,” Janeway said quietly, “tell me about our cast of characters.”

  There was a wild butterfly of panic in his stomach. Janeway clearly expected him to point out all the people he’d read up on during the flight. Fortunately, Tom was a people person and he had a good head for names and faces.

  “That’s Ambassador Mnok, from Ysa,” he said, his gaze falling on a humanoid female who would have seemed quite attractive to him except for the tusks poking out of her mouth. “They’ve been among the most outspoken of the secessionists. In fact, Mnok has been credited—or accused, depending on your opinion—of spearheading the movement.”

  “Very good. Who’s that over there?”

  “That’s Clan Leader Kai,” Paris replied promptly. Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all. “He’s got all four of his hands full. He and his advisers want to stay in the Federation, but his people want to secede.”

  He looked around, and suddenly grinned.

  “And that,” he said, “is Admiral Montgomery. He’s very gruff and bristly but a softie when it counts.”

  “I heard that,” Montgomery growled, turning around to glare at him, and Paris went pink. “You don’t look quite so dashing with that foot in your mouth, Paris.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Paris stammered, snapping to attention and feeling nervous perspiration dewing his forehead. “I was attempting to inject a little levity into the situation. My apologies if I’ve offended you.”

  “God knows this gathering could use a little levity,” Montgomery said as he strode toward them, snaring a glass of champagne from the seemingly ever-present waiter. “You look as red as a Skakarian tuber, Paris. Consider yourself properly chastised.”

  “Aye, sir,” Paris replied, relieved. Underneath it all, Montgomery really could be a softie.

  “Any updates, Ken?” Janeway asked.

  Montgomery grimaced and knocked back the champagne. “Unfortunately, yes. I’ve just received word that the governing body of Parnasi has refused to come.”

  Paris searched his memory. The Parnasi, the Parnasi…oh, yes, the joined species. It took three of them to form a single entity. This interesting fact made “governing body” a more revealing, and literal, term than usual.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Paris said. “The Parnasi have great influence in their sector.”

  “And there are at least two other neighboring planets considering secession,” Tuvok said. “Unfortunate indeed.”

  Montgomery sighed and helped himself to a small, unidentifiable appetizer from yet another omnipresent waiter. Popping it into his mouth, he said around the morsel, “This is a tough call. On the one hand, you want each species, each world, to do what’s really right for them. On the other, it’s hard for me to understand how withdrawing from the Federation can be right for anybody.”

  Janeway smiled gently. “We’re slightly biased, Ken.”

  Montgomery grunted. “Maybe. But we’re no starry-eyed fools, either. All you need to do is look at the history of the Federation to see how much better things are for its member planets.”

  “Such a statement is subject to interpretation” came a cool, smooth female voice from behind them. Startled, Tom looked to see a woman with orange-red skin and hair in the most elegant garb he’d ever seen. The gossamer-like silver material hugged her figure in the places where it ought to, but seemed to float to the floor from her back and hips. Her mouth was quite wide, covering most of the lower half of her face, and as she delicately clasped a glass of champagne, he saw that she had only four fingers on each hand.

  Janeway turned, her face composed. “Amar Kol,” she said in a pleased tone of voice. “I’m delighted to finally meet you in person.”

  The wide mouth widened further in a smile. “Admiral Janeway,” Kol replied. “I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” She extended a hand and Janeway grasped it.

  “Amar, may I present Admiral Kenneth Montgomery. Admiral, this is Amar Merin Kol, the leader of Kerovi.”

  “Admiral,” Kol said graciously. “I understand you are a famous war hero.”

  Montgomery looked slightly embarrassed. “I did what I had to do. What my duty demanded of me.”

  “As do we all,” said Kol in her pleasant voice.

  “This is Commander Tuvok, my former security officer, and Lieutenant Commander Tom Paris, my former pilot.”

  Kol greeted them all in turn. “I see you agree with a quote from my world, Admiral Janeway: ‘Old friends are the best friends.’ ”

  “Kerovi is an old friend of the Federation indeed,” said Janeway smoothly. “I do hope that we won’t see that friendship severed.”

  “Perhaps it will be strengthened even as it changes,” Kol said.

  Tom was suddenly and peculiarly reminded of an ancient dance form called a minuet. It was formal, precise, elegant, and usually performed by people who were just as formal, precise, and elegant. It didn’t take too much imagination to imagine Janeway and Kol engaging in such a dance.

  He tried not to sigh as he was reminded all over again how difficult diplomacy was. Give me the conn any day, he thought, and gathered his wits as Kol turned to him.

  “Lieutenant Commander, what do you think?”

  I think I need another glass of champagne was what he really thought, but he said aloud, “I think that the Federation would be distressed to lose Kerovi. Clearly, her people are attractive, insightful, and intelligent, and such individuals can only be an asset to the whole.”

  Montgomery looked startled at the eloquent response. Janeway looked pleased and not a little surprised. Even Tuvok raised an eyebrow. Paris felt better. Maybe this diplomacy thing wasn’t so hard after all.

  Kol seemed amused. “Admiral,” she said to Janeway, “would I be right in suspecting that our Mr. Paris is quite popular with the ladies?”

  Before Janeway could answer, Tom replied, “I am a happily married man, Amar, with a lovely daughter. They are presently the only ladies in my life, and I adore them both.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “But you haven’t forgotten how to flirt.”

  Slightly panicked, Tom looked from Kol to Janeway. Neither was giving him any hints as to how to proceed. He gave up and asked frankly, “Is that a bad thing?”

  Kol laughed and everyone visibly relaxed. “Not at all, Mr. Paris! I only wish that we were gathered this evening for no other purpose than to enjoy dancing, feasting, and harmless flirtation.” Sorrow showed in her eyes. “Since my husband’s death, when I became Amar to complete his term in office, I haven’t had much time for dancing and flirting.”

  “My condolences,” Paris said sincerely.

  Surprising him, she slipped her arm through his. Her smile was bright, though there was still sadness in her eyes. “The real negotiations begin tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight is simply a social occasion, and I shall embrace it as such. Tomorrow, we may all find our voices raised in argument and even perhaps anger. But tonight, I think I’ll consider it a success if I have a handsome human leading me through a dance or two. May I borrow him, Admiral?”

  “As long as you return him, Amar,” said Janeway. “I’m going to need him in the future.”

  Hope surged through Tom at the words. He gave her a grateful look as he led the leader of Kerovi to the dan
ce floor, and saw Janeway nod approvingly.

  So far, so good, Kaz thought as he sat alone in sickbay perusing the data Patel had collected. Gradak seemed to intrude only when there was a lull, when there was nothing pressing to capture Jarem’s attention. That had been his worst fear—that he would be rendered useless as a physician by this other person sharing his consciousness. But tending to Patel had been no problem, and even this, studying Patel’s data, was enough to hold the Maquis at bay.

  For now.

  It was much as he had expected. The creatures that had attacked the away team were this planet’s version of a primate, evocative of both the Earth species known as an orangutan and also with characteristics associated with the more dangerous mugato, although it had no trace of that creature’s poison.

  Kaz frowned as he delved deeper. Surely this couldn’t be right—this thing had more in common with Earth-based primates than ought to be the case with a species that had evolved on an entirely different world. Maybe Patel had somehow contaminated the data—although with her reputation, it seemed highly unlikely. Devi Patel wouldn’t be that careless, not even when a huge, clawed creature was charging her.

  He adjusted the parameters and ran the information through again. This time, when the computer returned the results, Kaz sat down heavily in his chair and wiped his forehead, staring at the data displayed on the screen.

  Humanoid DNA.

  Kaz swallowed, running a hand through his thick dark hair as he tried to make sense of what he saw. How could these primates have humanoid DNA? Granted, it was the thinnest of lines that stood between humanoids and primates—for instance, there was a 98.5 percent genetic similarity between humans and chimpanzees on Earth—but it was a line that was not crossed. How, then, did these creatures on Loran II show up as being humanoid?

  Evolution from some sort of primate was common, if not entirely universal among humanoids, but as the process was usually long and slow, it was hard to pinpoint when a species made that transition. Kaz liked the term humans had given this in-between state—“The Missing Link.” They’d never found concrete evidence of that point in their evolution when the monkey became the man. Few other species had, either; this evolutionary moment was so subtle, so fleeting, that concrete evidence was rarely found.

  He wondered if that was what he was seeing here. The idea excited him. He thought about waking Patel to tell her what he’d discovered, but decided to wait until he was certain.

  “Computer,” he said, his voice taut, “run a comparison with this DNA against all known samples in the database. Cite closest matches.”

  Even as fast as the computer was, this was a huge request, and it took several seconds before the crisp, feminine voice cited the answer.

  “Submitted DNA sample has been identified as human.”

  “What?” Kaz yelped, as if the computer was a person and not a machine.

  And then the computer delivered the most shocking statement yet: “Closest matches in database: Marius Fortier and Captain Chakotay.”

  Chapter 8

  IT WAS STARTLING, to think how much the quadrant had changed in a mere three years.

  When Crell Moset had been transported out of the Adventure’s brig onto the small cloaked ship that belonged to his future friend the Changeling, the Cardassians were still a proud and powerful race. Now, Cardassia was broken, beaten, struggling with idiotic notions of democracy. They were a defeated people.

  The thought appalled and infuriated Moset. Once he had thought of a pleasant scientific alliance with some of the more advanced species of the Federation. Now, even if such a thing were possible, he would spit upon the idea. Humans, Vulcans, Trill, Bolians, Bajorans—Betazoids—he had nothing but contempt and hatred for them all. The only value they had was what they could do for him, for his experiments.

  Which was why these new beings were his hope.

  He cooed to them as they huddled in their cell, staring at him with wide black eyes. One of them ran a clawed paw across a streaming nose.

  Moset turned off the forcefield and beckoned to one of them. It was the youngest, one of only a few young ones they had found and the only one that had survived. Moset had named him Kaymar, after his father. Kaymar was his favorite.

  Kaymar looked at him and then lumbered forward, placing his forepaw—no, thought the scientist, his hand—in Moset’s.

  “That’s my good boy,” Moset said approvingly. “Now, you know what to do.”

  Indeed it did. Kaymar hopped onto the slightly raised table and sat patiently, bleating from time to time and scratching at the occasional parasite.

  Moset touched the computer, adjusting the proportions of the components for the next treatment. A tweak here, a nudge there—he began to hum, nodding his approval at what he saw. The touch of a padd prepared the hypospray.

  “Now, my boy,” he said to Kaymar, “give me your paw.”

  Obediently the creature stuck out a foreleg. Moset felt for the soft, fleshy part of its upper arm and pressed the hypo. Kaymar looked at him expectantly. Moset chuckled, went to the replicator, and programmed a Cardassian delicacy—a ripe, juicy ulyu. He handed it to Kaymar, who hooted softly and began to devour the scarlet fruit.

  While the little fellow was thus occupied, Moset scanned him with the tricorder. A little better: the DNA from Chakotay seemed to be having a slight effect. But not nearly as much as he hoped.

  Kaymar finished the ulyu and sniffed about for more. Gently Moset guided him back to the cell and erected the forcefield. He had had it programmed so that it was visible to the naked eye; the creatures needed to be able to see the barrier or else they would wander into it. And the absolute last thing Crell Moset wanted was to cause these precious children any pain.

  Clearly, a simple infusion of Chakotay’s DNA would not suffice. More drastic manipulation was called for.

  He turned around, his eyes still on the tricorder, and almost bumped into Chakotay.

  Moset gasped and dived for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, but the human was faster. Chakotay reached and gripped both of Moset’s wrists, crying, “Calm down, Crell, it’s just me!”

  Though the voice was Chakotay’s, the sense of arrogance that wove through the words was familiar to Moset, and he slumped in relief.

  “Don’t ever do that again!” he snapped, rubbing his bruised wrists. “You nearly scared me to death.” Suddenly the full implications of the Changeling’s presence struck him. “Is something wrong? Aren’t you returning to Earth?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just left a shuttle on the surface.” He grimaced. “If I’d been thinking properly I’d have piloted it back. I couldn’t risk anyone else transporting down here, so I came myself. It’s put me behind schedule. On the plus side,” he added, “you can give me another treatment.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” Moset had recovered—mostly—from the shock and was in control again. He stepped to the computer. “It has only been a few hours since your last one. I’d feel better if we could wait.”

  “Chakotay” shook his head. “I’m not going to let this opportunity slip by.”

  Moset thought fast. The real reason for his reluctance was the fact that he’d been working on the creatures, not on the Changeling’s predicament. But he didn’t want his benefactor to know that.

  “I don’t know if the treatment will be much different. I haven’t had a lot of time to work on this, you know.” He knew he sounded defensive and that worried him. But he was getting awfully tired of the Changeling’s demands.

  “Let me have it anyway. And give me some more for the trip, too,” the Changeling added.

  “More?” The treatments Moset had stockpiled were supposed to be used on the creatures.

  “More,” demanded the Changeling. He bent his neck to the side to give Moset easier access. Resentful but seeing no alternative, Moset prepared the hypo and pressed it into the skin.

  The Changeling closed his eyes as the chemicals cours
ed through his body. Moset stepped back warily. “Chakotay’s” features blurred and ran together. They reformed themselves into those of Moset. The Changeling grinned at Moset’s annoyed and discomfited expression. Then again he assumed the form of Chakotay. No, not quite; this form was more slender, with long black hair, larger eyes, curved red lips.

  Moset’s eyes widened. Was he doing it?

  The Changeling growled and suddenly snapped back into Chakotay. He slammed his fist into the wall.

  “I almost had it,” he muttered.

  “Sekaya?”

  The Changeling nodded. “I couldn’t reduce the mass sufficiently for a female humanoid. I don’t dare even try to do an insectoid or anything else.”

  “But you came closer than I’ve ever seen you,” Moset said, trying to encourage the Changeling. The scientist wanted him out of here so he could continue with his experiments on his children. When the Changeling and Voyager were safely out of this area of space, Moset would breathe more easily.

  “True,” the Changeling said thoughtfully. It extended its hand and the fingers grew smaller, more slender, with longer nails. He smirked a little. “Got her hands, at any rate.”

  “You probably shouldn’t delay,” Moset nudged, none too subtly. Chakotay’s dark, intense eyes regarded Moset thoughtfully. Moset stared back, trying not to reveal his unease.

  “You’re right. Chakotay’s crew is obedient and they’re fond of him, but some of them are starting to question my decisions. Give me the injections and I’ll be on my way.”

  Moset could think of no way to refuse him. Swallowing his disappointment, he stepped to a cabinet and opened it. Inside were several containers.

  “How many do you need?”

  “All of them. And the reversal ones, too.”

  Moset’s heart sank and for a brief moment he was furious. This was a very delicate formula to replicate; the containers he now regarded had taken him weeks to create. Still, for the moment, he needed to let the Changeling feel in control. Grinding his teeth at what he was being forced to do, Moset gathered all the containers and handed them to the Changeling, who had brought a satchel for this very purpose. Moset watched as several years’ worth of research, of trial and error, of long nights spent deep in thought, disappeared into the depths of a Starfleet bag. Almost as an afterthought, “Chakotay” grabbed a handful of hypos and tossed them into the bag as well.