Spirit Walk_ Old Wounds (Book 1) - Christie Golden [49]
Slowly, B’Elanna returned to her chair. She sank down without thinking, staring at the ancient parchment, wondering. Worrying.
The kiss on the back of her neck made her bolt upright. She turned in her chair and found her husband, who had prudently taken two steps back. “Prudently” because her fist was clenched and ready to strike.
“Hey, you haven’t even heard my news yet,” Tom protested jokingly.
With an effort, B’Elanna unclenched her fist. “What is it? What did Janeway want?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded steady.
“She wants me to accompany her on a diplomatic mission,” he said. B’Elanna had never seen him look so happy at the thought of being on a diplomatic mission before, and it made her realize exactly how miserable he’d been.
“Something about trying to talk some planets out of withdrawing from the Federation,” Tom continued. “She says there are a lot of people there it could be useful for me to meet.”
“Honey, that’s wonderful!” She meant the words, but her stomach clenched just the same at the thought of leaving now, just when it looked like—
“When do you have to leave?”
“Janeway said a ship should be here in a few hours. I better get started packing, and I want some time to say good-bye to you properly.” He looked at her meaningfully.
At any other time she would have been the one to drag him into their bed, but now…She glanced quickly down at the parchment before she set her teeth and rose.
As she walked down the twisting staircase toward their room, B’Elanna resolved that she wouldn’t say anything to Tom until he came back. Her news could wait. And this way, she could make sure.
Could make sure that the scroll she had been examining was genuine.
Could make sure that it had not been one of the ones Kohlar had had access to.
Because in examining a list of the so-called prophecies from the Kuvah’Magh, there was a phrase that had chilled her to the bone, a phrase that Lakuur had assured her translated precisely in one way only, and was open to no other interpretation:
I am a Voyager.
Tennis, thought Chakotay. Somehow, it fit.
He couldn’t see Ellis all sweaty and bloody in a boxing ring (too messy); couldn’t imagine his priggish young first officer white-water rafting (too uncomfortable) or swimming (too much exposed skin) or even riding a horse (too smelly). Almost at once, Chakotay amended that; polo would also suit Ellis.
But tennis seemed to fit the younger man to perfection. Janeway, too, had enjoyed playing tennis, so Chakotay was up on his game. But Janeway played her favorite sport the way she did everything else: with intensity, skill, and gusto. She ran for every shot, lobbed back with everything she had. Sweat flew from her brow, her lungs worked, her muscles tensed. Tennis definitely was a workout with her.
Ellis met Chakotay on the holodeck in traditional clothing that was as spotless as Chakotay had expected it to be. His first officer wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with a collar, white shorts, and white socks with, predictably, the appropriate tennis shoes. The shorts and shirt showed off more musculature than Chakotay had expected. Even as he had the thought, Chakotay realized that he should, indeed, have expected it. Of course Ellis would be in excellent shape. All Starfleet officers were supposed to be, and Ellis would be as by-the-book about that as he was about protocol.
“Shall we just practice, or would you like the crowd?” Ellis asked.
“The crowd?”
Ellis nodded. “Doesn’t the court look familiar?”
Chakotay looked around, and suddenly became aware of a profusion of purple and green.
“Is this Wimbledon?”
Ellis smiled, his lips curving up under his regulation-length mustache.
“Precisely,” he said. “We can even have strawberries and cream during the break if you’d like. Although,” he added, “I always worry about spilling on these white clothes.”
Of course you would, Chakotay thought. “I could do without the pressure of performing for