Chapter 5

B’ELANNA TORRES HAD KNOWN she’d miss her husband when he left, but she hadn’t anticipated missing him quite so much.

Without his jovial presence, she was forced to realize just how un-Klingon she really was. They’d banded together, the outsiders stubbornly insisting on staying in the monastery and perusing the scrolls, but now that he was gone, there was no one to share a joke with, no one to turn to when the whole Klingon thing just got old.

It wasn’t that Tom had been a big help in transcribing the documents; he’d only just figured out how to write with the bone stylus, and Torres had picked it up after a couple of attempts. And, she had to admit, she was actually glad she didn’t have to read everything she found aloud to him.

But she missed him, missed his warm, comforting, occasionally irritating presence. She missed having another pair of hands to hold their daughter and comfort her when the little girl squalled. She missed the physical expression of their love, passionate and sweet despite having to be performed on an animal hide on a cold stone floor.

More than anything else, she missed having someone to share her increasing suspicion that their daughter might, indeed, be the Kuvah’Magh.

The Scrolls of Ghargh, as Torres had discovered they were called, hadn’t been touched by hands in decades, perhaps centuries. Perhaps Kohlar’s ancestors, who had left this quadrant so long ago, had been the last ones to see them. They were certainly dusty enough.

She had had to specially request them, and Gura and Lakuur had made much of the fact that the mongrel was wasting their time. Although, since they were librarians, one might think they were supposed to spend their time pulling up scrolls for pilgrims to peruse. B’Elanna thought this, but said nothing.

The two had brought out a large, intricately carved, and dust-covered box. When the librarians lifted off the top, B’Elanna saw that the box was crammed full of scrolls.

“Ghargh was a heretic,” Gura said. “He wanted to bring back the gods from the dead. The Kuvah’Magh was supposed to be the one who could do that.”

Lakuur made a guttural sound in the back of his throat, and for a wild second Torres thought he was going to spit in contempt. But then, apparently, he realized where he was, and that spittle was not conducive to the preservation of old furniture and older tomes.

“Why do you wish to see these?” Gura asked. “Surely you do not truly believe your child to be a daughter of prophecy. Especially not this offensive, outlandish prophecy.”

“Do you always interrogate pilgrims seeking knowledge in such a fashion?” B’Elanna had retorted. “Especially pilgrims who come with the blessing of Emperor Kahless?”

That had shut them up good and fast, and they mostly left her alone after that.

She’d held her breath as she touched the Scrolls of Ghargh, convinced they would crumble to dust themselves, but the paagrat hides upon which they were written were sturdier than they looked. The hand that had jotted down the words that had survived over the centuries had been an unsteady one, and the words were spidery and hard to read. But it was without a doubt the same author who had penned the scrolls Torres had read back on Voyager, and she realized she was trembling as she settled down to read.

Libby Webber materialized in her cabin and sat down heavily on the bed, trying to gather her thoughts. She was exhausted, so it was a more difficult task than usual. She got herself a cup of Vulcan mocha, extra sweet, from the replicator and sipped it slowly.

She was on the trail of a mole. A mole who was slippery, whose trails inevitably disappeared. He or she had accessed deeply personal information from a variety of sources, but there were no corresponding leaks.

Captain Skhaa, the avian who enjoyed the Vulcan lyre, had apparently been in two places at the same time: in attendance at a concert, and accessing Voyager’s logs from a site several light-years away. She’d spent the evening doing everything she could to corroborate Skhaa’s presence at the concert, and was satisfied that he was indeed there.

Who, then, had accessed the information?

She jumped, startled, when her computer beeped. Composing herself, she touched a pad. Harry’s face appeared on the screen.

A rush of pleasure rushed though her, followed immediately by worry. “Harry, what is it?”

His face was troubled, and though he managed a smile, she could sense its falseness. “Nothing I can really talk about yet. I just—I just wanted to see your face. Know you were all right.”

Something bad had happened and Libby knew it. She also knew what he needed—light chitchat, giggles, warm smiles. A sense that no matter what was going on in Harry’s life, she, Libby, was happy and carefree and safe. So Libby talked about the concert, about Montgomery sending flowers, about meeting her “fans.” She realized that she could never tell Harry about her real life; he couldn’t handle worrying about her and still do his job properly. He needed her safe and bubbly and in no danger whatsoever.

“Sounds like fun,” Kim said. “You’d better make sure I’m in the front row for your next concert when

when I get back, okay?”

His voice cracked a little. How she ached for them to confide in each other! He was no raw recruit, not anymore. Something very bad must be going on.

“Of course, honey. I’ll let you go. Love you.”

When his face disappeared, so did her smile. She redoubled her efforts. A deep instinct told her that whatever was happening on Voyager was connected to the mole who had accessed that ship’s logs.

She had to find him.

Marius Fortier sat with his head in his hands, his fingers tangled in his curly black hair.

“This world is hungry,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It took my brother from me, and now it’s taken your sister. Creatures, you said?” he asked, raising his eyes to look at Chakotay. “What kind of creatures?”

“We don’t know, and we didn’t get a chance to take any tricorder readings,” the Changeling Chakotay replied. He wanted to get this over with, yet he knew that the real Chakotay would feel an empathy with this human and would take his time. He chafed at the forced kindness.

“It is likely that these

beasts

are what killed those of us who stayed behind,” Fortier continued, feeling his way to logic through his pain. “How strange this all is

we never saw any animals like them before. And now they have come like Death himself, out of nowhere, to take those we love. I am so sorry for your loss, Captain. Sekaya was a wonderful woman. We all felt so comfortable with her. She cared so much.”

Yes, yes, we’re all sorry for Chakotay and Sekaya, let’s get on with this, the Changeling thought.

He stood, hoping Fortier would take the cue. “There’s a saying among my people,” he said, making one up on the spot. ” ‘Action heals the wounds.’ I think it’s time I took some action. We need to leave this planet and return you to Earth. Someone will help you find a new home.”

Fortier shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Captain. I understand that there are risks, but I would like to see if it’s possible to recover the remains of our fallen friends and families. And see if we can’t find a way to resettle and still protect ourselves from these creatures. The voices of our dead call to me.”

I don’t care if they’re using communicators, “Chakotay” thought. He took care to conceal his irritation.

“I’ll tell you what. We had to leave a shuttle on the surface. I’ll be transporting down to retrieve it. I’ll see what kind of readings I can get while I’m there and think about whether it’s too risky to consider recolonizing. Will that be acceptable?”

Fortier considered the offer, then nodded. “I must tell you that we are still hopeful we can return to our home, Captain. Despite the tragedies we have all endured.” He rose and shook Chakotay’s hand. “Again

please accept my deepest sympathies for your loss. I know what it is like to lose a beloved sibling.”

“Thank you.” The Changeling smiled tentatively. The smile evaporated as soon as the door closed behind Fortier. Damn the man and the typical human stubborn, “exploring” spirit. Well, it would probably be a good idea to have fake tricorder readings on hand anyway. It would silence any protest until he was able to complete his task.

He wished he could contact Moset, alert him as to his impending arrival. Probably he could contact him via Sekaya’s combadge, but he couldn’t risk either Campbell, the new ops officer, or Kim, the old one, detecting the transmission.

Speaking of which

“Chakotay to Kim.”

“Kim here.” The security officer was in command on the bridge while “Chakotay” talked to Fortier.

“We’ve got a shuttle on the surface that needs retrieving.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll send a security officer to pilot it back to Voyager.”

“Negative. I’ll go get it myself.”

“Captain?”

“You heard me, Lieutenant. I don’t want to put anyone else at risk.”

A long pause. “If I may speak freely, Captain, I know that your sister’s death has upset you, but surely—”

Thanks, Harry. Great idea. “Lieutenant Kim, I don’t recall you arguing against my orders when I was first officer and you were ensign.” It was a wild guess, but by the silence that followed, a good one. Kim had unwittingly just given the Changeling the perfect excuse for any “unusual” behavior Harry or anyone else might notice—distress and grief over the death of his poor, beloved Sekaya.

“As you wish, of course, sir. Do you want to inform Starfleet Command, or shall I do so while you’re getting the shuttle?”

Damn. “Chakotay” hesitated. “Neither, Lieutenant. When I get back, we’ll be returning directly to Earth.” He hadn’t told Fortier that, but who cared?

“Sir?” Kim’s voice actually cracked on the word. “Voyager has just lost its first officer!”

“Mr. Kim, I’m getting tired of your insubordinate attitude.” The real Chakotay hadn’t exaggerated very much when he’d talked with “Ellis.” He really had to have been a more casual leader than the Changeling had thought if Kim felt bold enough to protest so often. “We’ve all just been through a lot. I don’t want to have to relieve you of duty. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir. We’ll maintain orbit and wait for your return, and make no contact with Starfleet Command or Admiral Janeway until you give the order.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Notify—” “Chakotay” paused. What the hell was the new transporter officer’s name? Stefan? Stefaniak, that was it. He couldn’t recall the man’s rank. “Notify Stefaniak that I’ll be heading for the transporter room.”

“Aye, sir. Kim out.”

The Changeling sighed. This was much harder than playing “Priggy” Ellis. Nobody here knew Ellis, other than by reputation. And frankly, that reputation had been created by the Changeling himself. He’d been trapped in Ellis’s body for so long, he’d practically invented who Andrew Ellis had become. This was much different. Chakotay was well known by a sizable portion of the crew, including several senior officers. The Sekaya excuse was handy, and he’d milk it for all it was worth. But he had to be careful, too. If he strayed too far away from the essence of Chakotay, the troublesome Kaz would relieve him of duty.

A wave of longing and nostalgia washed over him. Solid for so long

for too long

the memory of the Great Link, the sensations, the powerful feeling of union, was fading with each day. He wondered if he’d ever be able to return. He dismissed the wistful thought the instant it occurred. Even if Moset was able to completely solve his problem and he could contrive to get back to the Gamma Quadrant, he would not be permitted to partake in that union.

As humans would say, to hell with them.

If he could no longer be a part of something greater than a single entity, then he would embrace his uniqueness. There was no Changeling like him anywhere.

When he could, when this was all done, he’d design a special shape to inhabit. He’d pick a name for himself. He’d have his own power instead of this borrowed kind; his own troops and servants and lackeys to carve out a niche in this quadrant that would be his and his alone.

Until then his goal, as it had been for nearly eight years, was to again become what he once had been.

He gathered his thoughts and headed for the transporter room.

Kaz was in his natural environment with a patient to treat and monitor, and for that he was selfishly grateful. Gradak had stepped back, for the moment, and Kaz’s thoughts were clear and focused.

Patel had been pretty badly injured. She had several broken ribs, a bruised lung, and a ruptured spleen. Fortunately, no irreversible damage had been done, and he was able to successfully heal the injuries. Sleep was the best thing for her now. Since things were quiet in sickbay for the moment, Kaz had decided not to continue sedating Patel. She’d wake up on her own, and when she did, he’d send her off to her quarters for a few days to recover.

He watched her sleep, pleased to see the normal color returning to her round cheeks and the steady rise and fall of her chest. As he regarded her somewhat paternally—he couldn’t help it; the Kaz symbiont always made him feel older than and protective of his friends and patients—his eye fell to the tricorder she still clutched in her small hand.

She’d let her phaser go, but not the tricorder. What was so important that she kept such a tight grip on it even when she was unconscious?

Gently, so as not to awaken her, he tried to maneuver her little fingers off of the instrument. She stirred at the movement and her eyelids fluttered open. A slow smile spread across her face.

“Hello, Dr. Kaz,” she said drowsily.

“Hello yourself, Lieutenant,” he replied, grinning back. “How do you feel?”

She didn’t answer at once, but took a deep breath instead. “Decidedly less in agony.”

He helped her sit up. She still held on to the tricorder. “Do you remember what happened?” he asked, reaching for his medical tricorder to take another scan.

“We took the shuttle down to the planet, and then we separated. I remember thinking that Loran II was going to be pretty boring. There was nothing about it that set it apart from other Class-M planets.”

“Except for something large and furry and clawed, apparently,” said Kaz. He nodded his head as he examined the tricorder readings. She was fine.

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, yes, they were quite intriguing!”

“They did a pretty good job squashing you and almost killing you, Patel,” he said. “I’m not sure I’d call that intriguing.”

“Oh, but they were!” A look of panic appeared fleetingly on her face, then she relaxed as she realized she still held the tricorder. “I got some good readings.” She handed him the instrument. “You might be interested in taking a look yourself.”

Patel looked so eager, so hopeful, that Kaz succumbed. “Certainly,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’d be analyzing it myself first, of course, but somehow I’ve got a feeling that you’re about to tell me to return to my quarters and not do any work for a while.”

“Why, you didn’t tell me you were a telepath, Lieutenant.”

“Not at all. I just had several years of premed. I assure you it’s not what I want to do, but I trust you’ll notify me if you run across anything interesting.”

“Indeed I will. Do you think you’ll be able to rest, or shall I give you a sedative?”

“I’m still pretty tired,” she confessed. “I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

As she slipped off the table and walked out of sickbay, Kaz found himself wishing all of his patients were so willing to follow doctor’s orders. He looked at the tricorder, smiled a little, carefully set it down, and returned to finishing his report on Patel’s injuries.

She was tiny, fair-haired, with the biggest blue eyes he had ever seen. Eyes that he could easily drown in. When she had first joined his crew, he thought she wasn’t even big enough to hold a phaser rifle. But she’d proven him wrong, time and again. That delicate-seeming frame housed a passionate and fiery spirit. She’d fought on Bajor, as part of the resistance, and refused to be content with simply driving the Cardassians from her homeworld. That wasn’t enough. She joined the Maquis, to track the Cardassians down wherever they might be terrorizing other worlds, other people.

“Vallia,” Kaz said, his voice deep and hoarse with emotion.

As if she were physically present, he could smell her scent, a combination of sweat and the metallic tang of the weapons she always carried and her own unique fragrance; felt the brush of soft, full lips on his—

Kaz made a fist and slammed it down. Vallia was dead, that much he knew from Gradak; was dead, was the lover of someone else, not him, not Jarem Kaz

.

Gradak had backed off when there were injured requiring treatment. He’d respected the needs of others that much, at least. But now that there was nothing to really occupy Kaz’s thoughts, Gradak had come right back again, settled down in Kaz’s tall, strong body as if he belonged there.

Kaz looked again at Patel’s tricorder with a renewed appreciation for the information it contained. Patel had managed to take some scans of the creatures. Maybe analyzing the data would be enough to send Gradak back into a sulky retreat.

Kim and the others hadn’t been able to tell him much. Chakotay might have gotten a better look at the creatures, but this was clearly not the time to ask him. There wasn’t much Kaz could surmise from the injuries alone.

It would occupy his thoughts. And it was better than seeing and feeling the lithe, lost Vallia in his arms.

“Computer,” he said, his voice trembling but sounding in his ears like his own again, “transfer data from the tricorder to main computer.”