Tuvok was refusing to drink much of the water, deferring to Akaar, whose injury, the ensign felt, gave him priority for the precious liquid. And yet, of the two of them, Akaar felt Tuvok had more to offer the universe should he survive than did he. The Vulcan had a wife, and children, and a longer lifespan to share with them. Akaar had only his mother, the woman who, acting through friendly Capellan intermediaries, was endlessly building his tomb on their homeworld; it was not a sign that she wanted him to die, but rather a monument to remind everyone concerned that, deposed or not,he was the rightful high teer of the Ten Tribes of Capella.
As Tuvok slept, Akaar put his plan into motion. He had saved some scraps of fabric from the shuttle’s wreckage, as well as a razor-sharp shard of splintered duraplast. Now, he opened the dressing on his hand, wincing at the pain. Picking a particularly bruised area, he drove the shard in far enough to draw blood.
Holding a large scrap of fabric steady, he began to write hisvriloxince , the last testament he would leave behind. He wrote to his mother, to Keel and his confederates who had conspired to keep him from the teership, to those he had served with in Starfleet, to those he had captained, and to those for whom he held a special place of friendship in his heart. He explained that his final act ofw’lash’nogot was not the action of a coward, but rather a way for him to allow Tuvok to survive for a few days more, under the assumption that help would arrive in time to save his friend.
He had already explainedw’lash’nogot to Tuvok in one of their many conversations about death and the afterlife. The ritual suicide was one of the most holy of the Capellan customs, reserved as the highest honor one could perform for another; to die for one’s loved one or friend was a sacrifice beyond words, the ultimate expression of love and loyalty. Tuvok had listened intently then, but did not comment, nor offer any stories of comparable Vulcan rituals.
The Capellan concept of afterlife was different than that of any other culture that Akaar had ever encountered. Rather than believing that their souls or spirits or memories would live on, the Capellans believed that theemotions they felt upon death would live on. Thus, those who died filled with rage would fuel the anger that the living might feel for decades to come. Those at peace or in love would bring happiness for generations past them. The actual memory of the dead person and his or her life were the reasons that so many monuments to the dead existed on their world; they were the only tangible markers that someone who was no more had ever been.
Akaar finished his note, then exited his tent, squinting into the bright, eternal light. He could hear Tuvok’s labored breathing inside the shelter, a sure sign that even his great strength was declining quickly. He placed the note, and the remaining water, near the opening of Tuvok’s tent.
Returning to his own shelter, Akaar sat, cleared his mind, and slowed his breathing. He closed his eyes and began moving his lips in a silent chant as old as the High Teers of antiquity. He could feel the pace of his heartbeat slowing as the ritual took him steadily downward in a deathward spiral. Soon, death would be irrevocable. This would all be over, and all pain and deprivation would be behind him forever. He opened his eyes for a moment and noted that his vision had already begun to gray around the edges.
With a little luck, his friend and colleague could stretch what resources remained after his passing, thus ensuring Tuvok’s survival—at least until such time as rescue finally arrived. Within minutes, he would be gone, and his emotions, his love and loyalty and courage, would be released into the universe. He prayed that it would strengthen his friend as much as their residual food and water would.
He opened his eyes again. The sunlight brightening his shelter was steadily dimming, and he viewed the interior of his tent as though through a narrow tube.
He focused on the memories of joy he held, of his mother, his crew, his friends.
On courage.
After Ledrah’s memorial, Tuvok had filed out of the holodeck with the rest of the crew, then retired to his quarters for quiet, but ultimately fruitless, meditation, ending as it had in an onslaught of memory, all of which he recognized—but not all of which was his.
He rose from the mat on the floor, snuffed the candles he had left burning, and brought the lights up to half-illumination.
He hadn’t thought about the crash-landing in the Neltedian system—the incident that had essentially ended his friendship with Akaar—for years. At least, not until after he had seen his old friend and colleague again in Titan’s transporter room right after the escape from Vikr’l Prison.
Following that surprising reunion, Tuvok had begun to think that Akaar had finally put his old resentments behind him. Now, however, Tuvok understood that his apparent initial rapprochement with the admiral had merely been the result of the exigent circumstances arising from Tuvok’s hair’s-breadth rescue.
Why am I having such vivid recollections of the Neltedian planetoid?he wondered as he began exchanging his black robe for a standard duty uniform. Perhaps the reason was merely Akaar’s presence aboard Titan.
Or maybe it is because Akaar, too, is plagued by those memories.Thanks to the unexpectedly strong telepathic bond he and Mekrikuk had forged during their imprisonment together, Tuvok was inclined at least to see this as a possibility.
And, perhaps, to consider that the time might have come to bury the past, once and for all.
“Computer, where is Admiral Akaar?”
Approximately four minutes later, Tuvok stood in a nearly empty corridor on deck five. He touched the controls to the door chime.
“Come,”answered a deep voice from the keypad on the wall.
The door hissed open and Admiral Leonard James Akaar stood in the open doorway. Gone was the dress uniform tunic he had worn hours earlier at Ledrah’s memorial service, but the sleep-rumpled red uniform shirt he still wore, opened at the sternum, as well as the dark pigmentation surrounding Akaar’s eyes, testified to the restless night his old friend had spent thus far, and the troubled state of his psyche.
“Commander,” Akaar said. “The hour is late.”
“But perhaps it is not too late for either of us, Admiral,” Tuvok answered. “We need to talk.”
Akaar smiled thinly but without any evident humor. “Then perhaps you had better come inside.” He stepped back from the doorway and gestured toward the interior of the wide VIP quarters he occupied.
“Sit. Be comfortable,” Akaar said, taking a seat on a sofa after the door had closed, ensuring their privacy.
Tuvok took a seat near the far wall. “It is time for us to set our differences aside.”
Akaar regarded him impassively for several moments before replying. “Why now, Commander? Do you anticipate that we will be forced to share one another’s company for an extended period?”
“Given some of my previous experiences,” Tuvok said, raising an eyebrow. “I must acknowledge that as a distinct possibility.”
The huge Capellan chuckled, a great rumbling sound that reminded Tuvok of better times. “It must be getting tiresome for you, constantly being catapulted thousands of light-years from Federation space.”
“That is something of an understatement,” Tuvok admitted drily. “After three such events, I have begun to wonder if my presence aboard a starship should be considered a warning to its crew.” His former friend’s laughter gave Tuvok hope that their old enmities might finally be laid to rest.
A look of something that resembled sadness crossed Akaar’s weathered features. “I tried to save your life, Tuvok.”