Homecoming - Christie Golden [34]
“I want to perform the Challenge of Spirit,” she demanded.
AGE NINE
The girl has no friends. Her teachers are worried and send home notes expressing their concern. Her mother and the owner of the Hand attend meetings, at which they make appropriate comments and nod as if concerned. But behind the closed doors of their home, nothing changes.
The girl bears no physical signs of the damage that is wrought upon her daily. The tool she knows as a dermal regenerator closes up the lacerations, fades the bruises. The broken bones are harder to disguise. Lies flow thickly: She’s so clumsy, she tripped on a toy and fell down the stairs. She’s such a tomboy, always playing in the trees.
The girl keeps herself to herself. She does not raise her hand to answer questions, but frantically studies the information given and consistently makes the [98]highest grades in the classroom. No one wants to play with her, and she does not invite such pastimes. No one wants to study with her. No one wants to be around her in any way, shape, or form. They do not know what they sense, these nine-year-old children, but it is as strong and as wrong as the stench of decay, and they avoid the girl completely.
She scribbles in a journal, deleting each entry once it is written lest it be discovered by the owner of the Hand. She has fantasies of coming to her instructors, of telling what the Hand does to her, to her mother, but does not dare act.
She reads the assignment dutifully, and writes her report as if her life depends upon it.
Chapter 8
“WHAT?”
Tom Paris seldom bellowed. He hadn’t liked it when his dad had bellowed when he was younger and disliked the sound of it even more coming through his own throat. But he was bellowing now, and he knew it, and frankly he didn’t give a damn.
“I know how you must feel,” said B’Elanna as they stood together in their quarters on the Klingon ship. “But—”
“No,” bellowed Tom, “no, you don’t know how I feel. Damn it, B’Elanna, we’ve only just gotten back! Our baby is exactly two weeks old today, and you want to go on some vision quest that claims the life of one out of every three pure-blooded Klingons who attempt it?”
[100] She bristled. “Are you saying because I’m only half-Klingon that I won’t be able to make it?”
Tom sighed, his anger ebbing. Fear and frustration rushed instead to fill the void. “That’s not the point and you know it.”
B’Elanna made an annoyed sound and fished around in the collar of her uniform. Removing a crumpled piece of parchment, she shoved it at him.
“Read this,” she snapped. Curious, he read with dawning comprehension, and nodded when he had finished. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
“I wish you’d said this at the beginning,” he said, handing the note back to her. “I hate it when we argue.”
“So you understand.” She was visibly relieved.
“Of course I do. It’ll also help me explain to Mom and Dad—”
“No. I didn’t even want to tell you. You can’t tell anyone about the note.”
Tom stared. “Why do we have to keep this secret?”
She sighed. “You’re not supposed to have any but the purest motives when you accept the Challenge of Spirit.”
“I’d say your goal is pretty pure.”
“So would I, but I don’t think the priests would see it that way, and I don’t want to risk not getting permission to go.”
“Hell, sweetheart, you’d go anyway.”
She smiled, and her eyes sparkled. “Yeah, but it’d be a lot harder, and it’d cause a diplomatic incident.”
“I’ll try to think of something to tell the folks. Maybe it’s some kind of rite of passage to honor your mother’s death or something.”
[101] “That sounds believable,” said Torres.
“Please, please take care of yourself,” Tom said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he reached out and wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t know what Miral and I would do if anything happened to you.”
He thought he saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “I will. I want to do this and come home and be a family. God,