PART TWELVE: THE
RAGING MOON
Comes
on the cycle of the ebbing tide
Whilst
now the hour of my reason died
This
madness gripping all of me too soon
will
herald forth, the raging moon
vanhunks
Kathryn's hand rested on Ethan's shoulder. His exoskeleton had slowly been separated from his skin, which still had a bluish tinge to it. The first two days he had been in the cargo bay where the Borg alcoves were housed. The doctor had thought it necessary to have Ethan regenerate in a fully functional alcove with all systems running at optimum efficiency. The alcove Ethan had devised through the remaining nanoprobes in his body had been ill-equipped to deal with keeping him alive. That he had been in there almost two weeks had been a miracle, which could be credited to his sense of survival. On Voyager, the two days in Seven's alcove had returned some of his power, enough that the EMH could remove him to sick bay and commence returning Ethan to his human state. Still, after a week of treatment, and despite the absence of the prosthetic eye, other outer implants and his exoskeleton, he had not improved.
She shuddered at the thought that he would surely have died had he remained in his make-shift alcove at Beaver's Lodge, since the unit had been degrading and showing signs of malfunction.
Ethan looked ill as she had never seen him, such a stark contrast to the strength of the man. She pictured him sitting, bent in deep concentration or sublime enjoyment over his cello, creating mesmerising, haunting sounds that floated like soft clouds in the evening air. She pictured him at the dinner table when he'd spend the time watching her eat, or some mornings when she'd catch him drinking whisky. He'd raise the glass in a cryptic salute before taking another sip. Some mornings, she'd wake up and find him sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at her. She was comfortable with him doing that, not surprised at all. He'd smile at her, then tell her she had fifteen minutes to get ready, they were going to abseil down the cliffs and picnic on the beach below.
She missed him. Seeing him in that Borg alcove had shocked her for a few seconds before she collected herself, realising why he had been so hard on himself, and on his family whenever they came too close. She was the closest anyone had been to him. It afforded her a rather bleak honour because of his sensibilities and the way she had come into his life. They had become friends even though most of the time, he was still so acerbic. She noticed how he had softened that stance towards her lately. To his credit, he had not expressed his anger the day she returned to Beaver's Lodge from her vacation on Dorvan, even though she knew he had sensed instantly what had happened between her and Chakotay. She smiled grimly. He was never going to like Chakotay. The dusty boot print of a Borg drone on Chakotay's photo spoke volumes. It manifested his awareness of her and the man whom she loved, manifested his own feelings towards Chakotay.
Die a natural death… How long was that going to take?
Ethan had only been awake when she had deactivated the alcove. By the time she and Ayala had arrived at Starfleet Medical, he had slumped into an unconscious state. The oxygen flow through Ethan's body had been slowed down by his transformation, which was something the EMH had been trying to correct. His skin still showed a bluish tinge as a result. Soon either Seven of Nine or Icheb might have to be called in to assist. Again, a grim reminder that might not even be necessary, since it was quite possible that they would have received signals from Ethan's neural transceiver. His primary cortical node, however, had been malfunctioning from the start.
"Mainly," the EMH started, "because over a period of ten years, it has been degrading as each year passed. Every time Commander Bellamy transformed from human to Borg and back, the cortical node has lost some of its programming and therefore, in the absence of the Collective, reduced its efficiency on a yearly basis. It's why some of the implants were not present during his latest transformation, why his nanoprobes have been sending out error-ridden instructions."
"Doctor, I've been told by Admiral Nechayev that Ethan returned to Earth as a damaged drone. I'm assuming that the Collective rejected him; indeed, perhaps he was beyond repair."
"That may be the reason for the yearly regression. I've also established, Admiral, that Commander Bellamy bears the genetic markers of a Delta Quadrant race. A race that - "
"Mutates every spring..." she added softly, as the realisation dawned on her.
"Affirmative. If Commander Bellamy wishes to remain Borg - "
"He'll die…"
"But that can be corrected, if we have either Seven of Nine or Icheb here," said the doctor. "Their nanoprobes could help restore the damaged implants and remap his DNA."
"Remaining Borg is the last thing Ethan wants, Doctor. He wants to be human again. Permanently, not just at a certain period of the year."
"I understand, Admiral. Still, in order to effect that radical a change as we have done with Seven of Nine, Commander Bellamy needs help."
"Understood. But we found him in a regeneration alcove, Doctor. Surely some repairs had been going on during the time he was there?"
"This drone – "
"Commander Bellamy."
"Fine. Commander Bellamy's system is on a downward spiral. He is a machine that is winding down. Because his cortical node malfunctioned from the outset, he is in fact, dying."
"As a Borg."
The doctor's eyes had narrowed.
"Yes. But also, his human DNA has been compromised during the process and as I've already indicated, through the degradation of the last ten years, every time he transformed."
"Do everything you can to save him, Doctor. A whole quadrant depends on his recovery."
"A whole quadrant? That is an enigmatic statement, but I'll let it go for now, Admiral. If you will please stand aside…?"
The doctor had continued working. Ethan had still not woken up and she thought privately that it was better that way. She knew him. Ethan had kept his condition a secret because he wanted no pity, because she thought he'd be ashamed of what he had become, that he never wanted anyone to see him in that state.
She hadn't realised that she had still been holding Ethan's hand. The hand had clamped tightly around her fingers and she had trouble extricating her hand from his, thinking that he might have heard them after all and was expressing an emotion through touch. Even more disconcerting had been the fact that Ethan's neuroprocessor had been a diminished version from that of the standard Borg drone. It had a failing neuro-electric field, one that had lost its power in increments of what they estimated was about ten percent on an annual basis. At the moment, only his neural transceiver would alert any Borg within a range of several light-years. With the absence of a Borg cube in the quadrant, no regeneration of damaged components by other drones could be effected, nor could Ethan run a self-diagnostic. Still, with Seven and Icheb within relative spitting distance, it was possible they might have isolated some signals.
Now, after a week, Ethan was more like the Ethan she knew. His scalp was already showing fine tufts of white hair; his face deeply creased, with his mouth drawn into what she thought might be a cynical curve. The Vulcan nurse had dressed him in Starfleet hospital wear and the blue heightened the bluish tinge of his skin. The EMH had been falling all over his holographic feet finding the best strategies to deal with a human turned drone, turned human again and whose lifesigns were failing.
"This drone is dying," declared the EMH as he snapped the tricorder close. "His human DNA is in regression for the second time."
"Doctor," Kathryn said, on a sigh, "he's not a drone. This is Ethan Bellamy. He is self-aware as a human, knows his name and has never referred to himself as anything but Ethan Bellamy. Please, don't call him a drone."
"Admiral," the EMH retorted, lifting an eyebrow, "I understand. Commander Bellamy needs an infusion of blood, preferably from a family member carrying the genetic strains of his DNA."
Earlier in the week, she had informed Mark and Wanda because they were Ethan's only relatives. She didn't want to entertain the idea that Ethan was dying, but it was necessary for them as next of kin to know what was happening. Mark seemed as unsurprised as Wanda at the news of Ethan's transformation into a drone and wanted to come immediately. At that time, they had not yet transported Ethan to Voyager's medical bay.
"That makes sense, Doctor," Kathryn responded. "I have informed his cousin. Actually, they are third cousins."
"That will be enough for me to work with."
"Her name is Wanda Johnson. You're looking for a type match."
"Exactly. I suggest you get her here as soon as possible – "
"I am here," a voice had sounded up behind them.
"Who is this - ?" the EMH asked. Through the door breezed Wanda, who had suddenly grown wings it seemed, since she had appeared so introverted when Mark had introduced her to Kathryn. Now, Kathryn's delight rippled through her as she took a step forward.
"Wanda! You came!"
But Wanda had walked immediately to the bed. Her face creased as she gazed at the face of her cousin. Kathryn thought she was going to cry. She felt like crying herself.
"Nothing could keep me away," Wanda said with conviction. "The minute we received your message, I told Mark I would be returning to Earth. I hope I'm not too late. There's no way I'm going to stand outside the loop again where Ethan's concerned. He has got to realise we're family; he has to lose some of that dourness and stop pushing everyone away. Though I can assure you, his dourness has made him interesting, in an Ethan kind of way."
His stern, aloof demeanour made him interesting? Kathryn thought Ethan the most enigmatic man she had ever met. Wanda was right about one thing. The aura of mystery surrounding him was a quality that drew people, it piqued their curiosity. He had been so obsessive about keeping his identity secret. It was clear Wanda didn't know he was Henry F. Marchand, the great author. His books had been turned into holonovels; besides the electronic versions, those who required the books were happily obliged in their requests by his publishers, who remained as tight-lipped about their elusive premier author as Ethan Bellamy was.
"Yes," Kathryn decided, "Ethan is always interesting…"
"If I can help at all," Wanda continued as if she didn't hear Kathryn, "I'd be happy to donate all my blood. He looks so ill…"
"Ah, then you've come to the right place," exclaimed the EMH. "This... human here is in need of your lifeblood, Mrs Johnson."
"Mrs Johnson? Call me Wanda, please."
The EMH nodded and walked to the ever familiar console near the biobed and busied himself there, taking no more notice of them. Kathryn knew he was glad that Wanda had arrived, and that he was setting up the procedure for blood analyses and transfusion.
Wanda touched Ethan's cold hand, shaking her head in sympathy. Then she leaned over him and planted a light kiss on his forehead. Kathryn wondered if Ethan had ever appreciated Wanda loving him so much. He rejected all affection. Only with her had he let down his guard. She had been held in his arms, been read to by him, been bathed and fed by him, been cared for by him. There had been times she had simply lain in his arms and closed her eyes, never wanting to open them again. Many times, she woke up in the dead of night and he'd be there, pulling her into his embrace and comforting her. Other times he played for her, saying that Saint Saëns composed The Swan just for her. She had butted heads with him over The Raging Moon and had become familiar with his characters, bleeding, agonising, raging with them just as he had. He'd tell her "You’re good, Kathryn. You’re good..." No one knew of that side of the man.
Wanda straightened up and glared at the doctor.
"Well, aren't you going to start immediately?" she demanded to know.
"Wanda," the doctor said, turning to face her, "the drone - Ethan - may be dying, but he's not dead and he's not going anywhere. But don't you go anywhere. I'll need you over a forty eight hour period."
"Wanda," Kathryn said evenly, "thank you for coming at such short notice."
"No problem at all, Kathryn. Ethan may not want to acknowledge us in his life, but I love him. He was there for me when I needed him and even then, he concerned himself with my problems, putting his own traumas aside."
"That's Ethan for you."
"You sound very proud of him, Kathryn. He cared for you too, as I understand."
"He made me welcome in his home. That in itself says much of him," she replied, ignoring Wanda's questioning glance.
"I always suspected that he became this way because of what happened ten years ago," Wanda continued on a sad note. "I was the only next of kin then and when I finally did get here, he had already been healed. Or, that's how it looked. The white hair was a side-effect."
"You've never been to his home in Oregon?" Kathryn asked.
"No. More's the pity. He shut everyone out of his life. Came out too infrequently. We were never really friends until that time. Admiral Paris found me. I didn't know about Ethan's fate and that of his family. After that we became a little closer, acknowledging that we had to stay in touch. Still, he remained a complete enigma and even now I can't say whether the trauma of being assimilated was responsible for that or whether he was always like that…" Wanda paused, then said softly, "He became the father I missed at my wedding. I – I'm sorry…"
"No, don't be, Wanda. I'm glad Mark is happy again. Looking back at the way things evolved, I think it was best for both of us."
Wanda gave a relieved sigh. "Mark took a very long time to get over you, you know…"
"Wanda, let's put this behind us, okay? I'm happy for both of you. One hundred percent."
"Thank you."
"I hope one day you can see Beaver's Lodge. It is the most beautiful place on Earth."
A wistful envy grew in Wanda's eyes. "Mark and I… We often talked of just barging in, but you know Ethan."
"Things will change, I'm sure," Kathryn reassured her.
"He looks so ill."
"Hopefully, this procedure should work," the EMH assured them. "The first transfusion should take a few minutes, Mrs Johnson...Wanda…"
"Thank you, Doctor. Ethan might not know it, but there are a whole lot of people around him who care about him."
Wanda's eyes were on Kathryn when she spoke.
***************
"Admiral, you are scheduled to transport to Voyager in ten minutes," Lieutenant Ayala reminded her.
She nodded, glad that Admiral Paris had appointed him as her aide. He had proved invaluable since he had taken up his duties and now he was ready to send her off to Voyager once more. It had been good having him around. She didn't have to think or worry about the mundane issues or nitty-gritty aspects of her work which he smoothed for her with so much ease.
"Thank you."
"And Cadet Icheb is ready to join you. He has been most anxious to see Commander Bellamy. I don't know why. Why didn't you refuse his request, Admiral?"
"Because I trust Icheb. Commander Bellamy is now almost human, but he was Borg, like Icheb. Besides, if the doctor thinks it's necessary to use Icheb's nanoprobes, then the cadet will be there."
"Icheb has picked up signals from Commander Bellamy when he was fully Borg, I take it?"
"Yes," she sighed, "though they were very faint. It's why Icheb came to me. I had to tell him what was happening. I'm not ruling out the possibility that Seven of Nine may have picked up those same signals. I'm waiting to hear from her sometime..."
"Admiral, I honestly think you can rest, assured that Seven of Nine will consider all information classified, should she make her way here."
Kathryn nodded again.
"Well, I have to go. Ethan is on the mend now that he's received a series of blood transfusions, but he's not completely out of the woods yet."
"Is he still unconscious?"
She sighed again. The EMH had debated on whether to have Ethan awake during the procedures. It was probably for the best, since she thought that Ethan, when he woke up, would like to see himself normal again. That day in his alcove at his home, the Borg implants and impassive appearance had not been enough to hide what she thought was his shame at being seen in that state.
"Yes, but he'll be revived early tomorrow morning. Doctor has decided to wake him. His cousin Wanda has left, but the doctor has drawn additional units of blood from her within her limits. She threatened us both with death if we didn't notify her immediately of his recovery. She's currently with her husband on Torthran III."
"Then that is good. Carmen and the boys will enjoy the weekend at your home. I must thank you again..."
"Lieutenant, that's no problem. I'll be based at Beaver's Lodge for the next few months, and it's good to have a family in the house again. Just tell the boys the studio is off limits, okay?"
"Okay. Ready to go?"
"Oh, yes," she said, her heart suddenly thumping more wildly at the thought that Ethan would be awakened today.
She left her office and hurried to the transporter pads where Icheb was waiting. The young cadet smiled as she approached him.
"Admiral Paris has kindly agreed to let me accompany you, Admiral Janeway," Icheb said.
Of course Admiral Paris would. Icheb had been granted a waiver to start his second year and was already way ahead, though not as far as James Rollins, son of Magnus Rollins. The two young men had become firm friends.
"Then he has faith in you that you'll play the catch-up game quickly."
"I have already finished one paper."
That didn't surprise her. Icheb had enhanced capabilities, like Seven of Nine, but the young man was not given to boasting about it. It fact, she had learned from Owen Paris that he played it down.
"Good for you, Cadet. Ready?"
Icheb smiled.
"I am. I desire very much to be of service, Admiral Janeway."
Kathryn glowed under the warm look of the young ex-Borg. Here in the Alpha Quadrant, she was his mother, and the former crew of Voyager his only family. Sighing, she hit her commbadge.
"Janeway to Voyager. Two to beam up."
**********
"Daddy,
do people go crazy when the moon is full?"
He remembered the full moon from the last time he had any sense of being Ethan Bellamy, in his own skin, in his own head, master of his own destiny. He remembered that full moon, now light-years away in his memory, flitting hesitantly, then confidently, an arrogance of its power over the mind and the body and the soul and Earth's waters ingrained. He remembered it moving with repulsive pleasure at exercising its will over humanity's needs until the giant, yellow-orange disc vanished from sight behind the firs. Not for him the knowledge that Earth's moon was populated and colonized. It still controlled her waters.
The ebb. The flow. The peaks. The troughs. The highs. The lows. Crime. Punishment. Guilt. Absolution.
The question, so innocently asked by a child, barely six, whose eyes mirrored his own.
The moon, my child, controls the Earth's waters and warns us not to venture too far. Where have you learned of people going mad, son?
From
you, Daddy! Silly Daddy! You told me so yourself. Are you a storyteller?
I hope so.
Songs of a wayfarer...
My distances are closing in, my vortex narrowing to confluences where I, in utter revulsion, refuse to go. Use your power, Bellamy, control your thoughts and focus them on moving away from the eye of the dark moon's wrath. Sheath your anger now and cover it with your sensibilities, your power to wake from the deadly moon dances. Peel away your fear and reveal your own depths; colour them with the paints of war and do battle with her, to release you forever into the arms of the Sun, the Light of Enlightenment, the Great Openness to which you know you belong.
Feel her grace upon you, feel a soft hand in yours and open your eyes to the Light, for she is there, waiting, waiting, waiting...
Your Other Self is no more. Descend into the pit of Hell and vanish there forever in time's great game of death.
His eyes burned, aching with the weight of his eyelids on them, bearing down on his defences, his strength to engage them in his own private war for victory. Rise, Knight of the Sun. Live with me in the light.
"Open your eyes now, Ethan..."
A voice. A woman's voice. Her voice. Was it the Voice of the Light? The voice that raged with him against the moon's wrath? A memory, a trickle to his conscious mind, of a morning, the whisky...reminded him of her. The same voice, full of complex textures, yet blissfully real as it descended from the heights, drifting through the fog to him, so that the sound of her words fell upon his face, his lips, his hands…. It was the balm, a cooling balm that quietly healed and revitalised his soul so that he could not, in all of heaven's creation, ignore the soft urgency of it.
He tried to speak, but his lips were parched, tenaciously clinging together to prevent his rampant thoughts coming to order and responding. He closed his fingers around her hand, holding on to it like a man drowning, or dying of thirst when that hand became the guide to a cool brook. From his very depths, he cried silently to be connected to the Light, the Sun of the Forevermore. No words came from his mouth and so, in abject pain, the heavy eyelids tore away, took their burden and like a curtain over the arch of the playing area, revealed his eyes and gave them back to the world.
He blinked slowly, several times. It was quiet, and the light fell into the silence; his eyes adjusted to the new dimness but even so, objects were blurred, bobbing precariously before they defined themselves as the circular light above him, the ceiling of what he sensed must be a starship. Unmistakeable elsewhereness of his person. He frowned at that.
Starship? Had he taken leave of his senses? Another object.
A face. Clear at last as his eyes fixed on it like someone who had trekked through an arid land with no hope of finding water. A familiar face, the welcome sight of an oasis – a resting place… He moved his lips, found with joy that he could slip his tongue out and moisten them. Several times he performed the action until at last he could make an attempt to speak.
Kathryn's face hovered above his own. She looked...worried, yet a smile broke through the concern, a watery smile that reached him.
"Kathryn..."
"Welcome back, Ethan."
"I raged with the moon and conquered its fire..."
"I know. You are whole again."
"Whole again?"
"I'll explain everything. You must rest now."
"No…tell me…"
"Ethan, you have been transformed to your human state. You will never be Borg again…"
He let the words sink in. Ten years. Every year, he feared most his other being, his collective invisibility, hearing a thousand voices that spoke as one, to him… Every fibre in his body screamed the denial of implants, of nanoprobes racing through him, like vultures attacking every corner, assimilating his mind, his most precious and private emotions… Like clockwork, his body betrayed him every year, a process unstoppable, inevitable, forcing him into hating mankind, hating the creation that was Ethan Bellamy, Borg, the revulsion of Ethan Bellamy, human.
Then he found her. Sad eyes, eyes dark with concern, with the old, old memories and pain of her past, her tormented present. And she brought him back. A lifeline as necessary as he had once been to her.
"Where am I?" he asked, unable to let go of the light, wanting to recede again into darkness, his own voice still sounding like an old man's - a croak, a whisper.
"On Voyager," she replied, squeezing his hand, kissing the back of it.
He saw his hand, couldn't pull his gaze away from it. Where were the blue metallic veins? Was he no longer a drone? For the first time, a sensation… The voices were gone. The Noise that clamoured in his head and kept him nailed to a Cross…gone. Now he heard only his own voice and Kathryn's voice.
"Your Voyager? In its sickbay? Are we alone here?"
"I wanted to be here alone with you when you opened your eyes, Ethan."
"Whole again?" he repeated his question of earlier.
"Forever in the light of humanity."
Did darkness descend on him again? he wondered, that thought receding as he realised Kathryn had moved closer, filling his light, becoming a welcoming cool oasis as her lips touched his forehead.
An image. A beavers splashing in the stream, unfettered, slick, smooth trajectory as it slid over an obstacle in the water. Kathryn's bright laugh that sounded in the clear, icy air of Oregon.
When she leaned back, she smiled, a smile that was tender, yet…sad. Her eyes were kind. He wanted to comfort her. That urge entered his mind so quietly that he knew it must always have been there. He brought her hand closer and pressed it against his mouth. Then he released her hand, his fingers reluctant to disengage, lose contact with her, with what felt so remarkably real. He explored his skin, touched his scalp, felt the first stirrings of hair growing again.
"You once told me your white hair was genetic..."
"I lied about my mother."
"I saw pictures of your sons," she said quietly.
He closed his eyes, saw Rourke and Piers with their rich brown hair slightly darker than Kathryn's. His fingers slid away from his scalp. Kathryn's hand covered his, enclosed it in the reassurance of life, regained. She had been in his room. She had seen him in his alcove, that prison that controlled his life every spring.
"You saw me naked..."
"I saw a man who needed me. Take it or leave it."
He remained silent for a long time, mulling over her words, registering the time when he had uttered the same sentiment to her. She had been embarrassed then that she had been stripped, so physically and emotionally vulnerable.
"I was a drone, Kathryn. A Borg. Three of Five in the hierarchy of the hive mind. You cannot know what - "
How could anyone understand? His orders…infiltrate the Federation, seek out its weaknesses… The countermanding of Starfleet, Nechayev ordering him to divulge the vulnerabilities of the Borg. The Borg refusing to repair him, sending him back to Earth… The Federation experimenting until he died… Too many, the confusion, the hatred afterwards…
"I understand, Ethan. I once experienced the thoughts of the Collective."
"I should have died."
"Then your work would have been a loss to the Federation."
"It means nothing. I lost everything."
"So have I..."
A tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed it away with his hand, noticing how clear his hand looked, how healthy his flesh. He was Ethan Bellamy again, fully human. Her sadness tore into him; the sensation surprised him.
"Forgive me."
"I'm just glad to have you back."
"I was going to assimilate you. How can you be glad?"
"Yet, you stopped. That alone was evidence that Ethan Bellamy still remained in control of his own mind."
He remembered now. Desperately he had tried not to send his nanoprobes into her body. He could never do that to her and make her suffer his fate. He had suffered the sorrow of the universe and carried his guilt like a great iron ball chained to his feet to remind him that he had transgressed. Ten years was too short to pay penance for his deeds.
It would have been so easy. His hand had been poised to strike, to add Kathryn's distinctiveness to his own and enhance her in that way. He'd lost his individuality. He couldn't see her losing hers. The price was too great
And so was his remorse.
"Ethan...?"
"I said I would tell you my story one day. You deserve to hear it, Kathryn."
"Ethan, it's not n - "
"It is. It is very necessary. You don't know how necessary..."
"Then you give me a great honour..."
**************
END PART TWELVE