• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

When he opened his eyes, Chakotay found himself back in his quarters, his face wet with tears.

The dark matter. Had it conjured up Coyote, or had that been a true part of bis quest? Was he supposed to attack it, or let it envelop him in a symbolic death and, one hoped, rebirth? He was certain, however, that one was not supposed to kill one's spirit guide.

Unless it wasn't one's guide at all.

There were too many questions, all with unsettling answers. Too rattled to close the ceremony properly, Chakotay thrust the objects back into the medicine bundle and shoved the whole thing back in the drawer. He was wet with sweat and was trembling, and when sleep finally came to him, he dreamed of sand dunes and the yellow eyes of the Trickster.

Telek had been up for... he didn't know how long. Captain Janeway had kept him company for several hours as they began the painstaking and perhaps eventually futile attempt to reconfigure the sensors to pick up any trace of Shepherd activity. Seven of Nine had stayed even longer. Telek found that he felt remarkably comfortable around the former Borg. During the quiet hours while the rest of the crew of Voyager slumbered, he coaxed the attractive female into telling him about the Borg.

That was a revelation. Telek had never thought of himself as a man with an overactive imagination, but he didn't think even the famed Storyspinners of Tikal Province on Romulus could have come up with a more frightening tale. Creatures who were half organic, half machine, who existed solely to convert others to their likeness, to "assimilate" without thought, without question-the idea was terrifying.

He imagined some might liken the Romulan instinct for conquest to the Borg's abominable assimilation, but there were profound differences. Romulans were individuals, and respected individuality.

They wanted to bring other worlds into the fold, it was true, to exchange knowledge or tools for the powerful and often desirable cloak of Romulan protection. But surely that could not be held equal to the Borg's abominable practice of assimilation!

At last, even the indomitable Seven of Nine grew weary and retired to her regeneration chamber. Telek was left alone to pursue his task. He noticed that the security guard who had been a constant presence since he first arrived on the ship had been quietly reassigned. The gesture moved him. These people trusted him.

Of course, he mused, the minute he attempted to meddle with the computers or any of the ship's systems without express permission, he'd be arrested and thrown in the brig, so perhaps it wasn't as complete a gesture of trust as he'd like.

He chuckled, nibbed his tired eyes, and resumed his work.

His life, over the last several months, had revolved around the Shepherds the way Romulus revolved around its central star. If anyone knew the Shepherds, it was Telek R'Mor. He knew mem even more intimately than did Chairman Kaleh, for he was the one with whom Lhiau and, less often, another Shepherd worked on a daily basis. He had learned to recognize their smell, sense their presence, decipher their muttered whisperings. White he was working on the wormholes, trying to find something he desperately did not want to find, Telek observed and noted and analyzed these beings responsible for both his success in his field and for the obliteration of the

true timeline, and he had committed every scrap of information to memory.

It was by such focused and subtle eavesdropping that Telek had learned that the Shepherds with whom he was working so closely were not representative of all members of their race. Lhiau was so egotistical that it was with difficulty that he managed to conceal his contempt for his "softer" fellows. It was these other, more benevolent Shepherds whom Telek R'Mor hoped to contact.

Of course, it was possible, perhaps even probable, mat he would pick up traces of the darker Shepherds and not their more moral