As promised, Part I. Because of the length of the update, this will be split across three posts. Hopefully I've sorted out the punctuation issues from last time (for some reason, it posted cleanly to Sufficient Velocity and with weird off-brand letters at SDN). Part II will be posted Tuesday night.
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PART I
Three Days Earlier
Federation-Cardassian frontier
It hadn't been Chakotay's week.
"The Cardassian vessel is closing," said Tuvok. The Maquis raider shook under another phaser volley. Something important behind the captain's chair failed with a shower of sparks; they rained on the back of his neck, each one stinging like a mote of fire.
"B'Elana!" shouted Chakotay.
"I know, God damn it!" Behind them, the engineer yanked a panel off the wall and tore into the mess of jerry-rigged machinery that kept Val Jean alive, cursing in Klingon and English.
Val Jean banked hard, faster than the inertial dampers could compensate. A'shadieeyah Mohammad, Chakotay's crackerjack pilot, was doing her best, trying to dodge the cruiser's weapons fire. Mohammad had gotten them out of more than her share of impossible jams, but this time the spoon-heads were hanging tight.
"Weapons?" said Chakotay. It was more of a prayer than an order.
"Weapons would be nice," said Seska, Chakotay’s Bajoran second-in-command.
"I'm really not in the mood for jokes," said Chakotay.
"Weapons inoperative," said Tuvok.
"B'Elana, is there anything--"
"How about I stick a broom up my ass and sweep the floor while I'm at it?" said Torres.
"B'Eleana, I need phasers!"
"How much do you need a warp core breach?"
"The Cardassians are going to give me one anyway if you don't get those phasers online."
"They won't need to bother in a minute!"
"They don't need to wait that long!"
Seska leapt out of her seat and dove into an open access hatch and started working on the weapons herself. Mohammad turned the ship again, but not in time to avoid a phaser hit amidships. Every alarm on the bridge wailed to life at once.
"Shields collapsed," said Tuvok.
"One more hit and we're done!" said B'Elana. “Chakotay, the phasers don’t matter! We can’t fight our way out of this.”
"Can you give me warp speed?"
"Are you crazy?" said B'Elana.
"Can you!?"
"I can give you one second. Maybe."
"Do it. A’sha, how far are we from the Badlands?"
"Ten light years from the outer boundary,” said Mohammad.
"The Cardassians will be anticipating such a move," said Tuvok.
"I can't get us ten light years on a one-second burst," said B'Elana.
"There's another ship out there between us and the Badlands," said Kurt Bendera, Val Jean's sensor operator and a Starfleet defector like Chakotay and Tuvok. "They're trying to lay low, but I caught their warp signature a couple of times. If we go to warp, they’ll intercept."
Chakotay made a snap decision. "A’sha, come about, prepare for warp on my mark."
"What?!" said Mohammad and B'Elana together.
"Kurt’s right, there’s another cruiser out there. We need to draw him out of position before we make a run for the Badlands.”
“If we even can make a run for it,” said B'Elana.
“That’s your responsibility.”
“The Cardassians are powering up their tractor beam,” said Tuvok.
“A’sha, now!”
Val Jean banked around as hard as it would go, then leaped into warp like a spurred thoroughbred. The tractor beam missed them by meters.
Seska returned to her seat, smeared with grease and grime, sheened with sweat, and bleeding from a cut on her forehead. With a motion so subtle nobody else on the bridge could have possibly seen it, she placed a hand on his.
"This had better work," she said.
"It will. Any luck with the phasers?”
“I got them back, for now.”
“Good work,” said Chakotay. “Hopefully we won’t need them.”
B'Elana had done better than she'd promised. They stayed at warp for five seconds, and momentarily hit warp six before the warp drive gave out.
"Brilliant, B'Elana," said Chakotay.
"We don't have much time," said Seska. "We need to get the warp drive back in working order before the Cardassians figure out where we went."
No sooner had she said that than an alarm went off at Bendera's station. "Cardassian Galor-class cruiser warping in sixty astronomical units from our position." Pause. “Correction, two of them just warped in.”
"How long until they spot us?"
"Three minutes to perform a full sky scan," said Bendera. "If we’re very very lucky."
"B'Elana get your ass in gear."
"You don't need to tell me twice." She started banging and cursing on machinery.
Two minutes later, the Galors went to warp. They were on top of them before Chakotay could even shout the alarm.
"We have warp!" said B'Elana.
"Helm, engage!" Val Jean warped away again just seconds before the Galor fired. The plasma clouds of the Badlands swelled to fill the entire viewscreen.
They had to drop out of warp again at the edge of the Badlands, not even Mohammad daring to run through the dangerous patch of disturbed space faster than light until she got her bearings. The Maquis had mapped the whole area (at no small cost in blood) and a skilled navigator like Mohammad could warp through safely, but not quickly.
And the Cardassians were starting to map the place, too.
"Let's move," said Chakotay. "I don't want to hang around here all day."
"I'm working as fast as I can, boss," said Mohammad.
And then the hunters were on top of them again.
"Go!" shouted Chakotay, watching the two cruisers approach on the viewscreen like orcas bearing down on a wounded seal. Val Jean leapt to warp again, with the Cardassians baying at their heels. One followed at a distance while the other closed in--so when Mohommad dropped Val Jean out of warp to turn, one would overshoot, but the other wouldn't.
"They're going to wait until we're in open space and then they're going to attack," said Chakotay.
“Trying to shake them,” said Mohommad.
The ship dropped out of warp, turned with thrusters, then bounced into warp again. Mohammad had free reign with the ship, taking them through the twisting warren of safe passages through the Badlands without asking Chakotay or anyone else for instructions.
"They are still pursuing," said Tuvok.
"I'm taking us into the Rat's Nest," said Mohommad. "If the spoon-heads have that charted, I'll eat my scarf."
They turned again, and then Mohommad opened up the warp drive to full power. Something went bang and caught fire; B'Elana cursed and screamed and hammered on machinery with a wrench (B'Elana referred to such outbursts as an ancient Klingon mechanics' ritual).
Ahead of them was a vortex of raging plasma storms. The Rat's Nest was a network of passages interlaced through one of the most violent regions of the Badlands; the storms had been particularly bad that whole year. From a distance of a few light years, the tendrils of hot gas seemed motionless; Chakotay knew that was only because they were so enormous and so far away. The tips were flailing at half the speed of light and could burn away entire planets. Mohommad and the Cardassians could avoid those, but the smaller bursts that popped up at random outside the safe areas could incinerate a passing starship. Sometimes they popped up inside the safe areas, too. Especially in the Rat's Nest.
Val Jean began rattling. "What the hell is that?" said Chakotay.
"Subspace is very disturbed around here, boss," said Mohommad. The rattle became violent shaking.
"We're going to have to drop out of warp if this keeps up," said Torres. "The engines don't like this at all."
"I see a spot," said Mohommad. "Dropping out of warp."
They fell below superluminal speed in a bubble of calm a few million kilometers across, surrounded by vast clouds of hot gas.
"The Cardassians overshot us," said Bendera. "They're in the middle of a cloud."
"On screen!"
The two Galors were being buffeted by plasma and repeatedly slashed by energy discharges. One took a shot right across the bow that penetrated the shields and tore away part of the hull.
"Let's move," said Chakotay. Val Jean warped away, leaving the Cardassians behind. A few minutes later, when Mohommad had to turn again, Bendera checked their long range scan.
"Are they following us?" said Chakotay.
"Negative. They're leaving the Badlands."
"They had enough for one day," said Seska. She shook her head. The Bajoran earring she wore jingled. “There’s no way we should have survived that.”
“But we did,” said Chakotay. He leaned back in his chair and smiled for the first time all day. The adrenaline of combat was draining away, leaving him in a euphoric haze that was nearly post-orgasmic.
Speaking of...
"A’sha, take us through the Rat's Nest and out the other side of the Badlands. Make sure there aren't any spoon-heads on the other side waiting for us."
"That's Federation territory, sir."
"Same difference. Just keep us out of trouble."
"Will do, boss."
Chakotay went back to his cabin. Seska followed discretely about five minutes later.
Afterwards, they were both dozing when a single bright flash woke them both up.
"What the hell was that?" said Chakotay.
Some tremendous force like a collision shook the whole ship, tossing them both out of Chakotay's bunk onto the cabin deck. “Kurt, what the hell is happening?” he shouted into the intercom. A piercing ringing noise, like amplifier feedback, was building in the background.
“Something’s happening with the storms. There’s some kind of phased--” The intercom cut out.
“Kurt! Kurt!”
“To the bridge!” shouted Seska, pulling on her shirt.
Chakotay lunged for the door. Val Jean shook, and suddenly there was pain and blinding white light. The ringing noise was deafening, louder than the end of the world. “Seska!” he shouted.
Val Jean fell down a hole in the world.
#
New Senegal Penal Colony
Tom Paris was digging a hole when two guards came to him and told him he had a visitor. In his early days on New Senegal, he would have had a remark for them; "I told your mother I'm not interested in any more conjugal visits" perhaps. There was a series of mile-long, zigzagging ditches through the desert north of camp, each one dug by him and a few other insubordinate prisoners, reminders of the price of a smart mouth here. Mostly these days, he didn't say anything to the guards besides "yes sir" and "no sir".
They escorted Paris across a kilometer of scrub desert to a plain white concrete bunker on the outskirts of a cluster of other concrete buildings, the administration center for the camp. Inside, the bunker was dim, so he couldn't see right away who was waiting for him inside. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, a short, trim, dark-haired woman in a Starfleet uniform materialized out of the gloom. Her tunic was red, in the newest cut, with four rank pips: a starship captain. Behind her were two other Starfleet types, wearing gold and looking like miserable pricks. Cops, he guessed. Or maybe spooks. Starfleet Intelligence.
"Good morning, Mr. Paris," she said. Her accent was French. "My name is Captain Nicole Bujold, of the Federation starship Voyager."
"Hi," he said.
"Please," she said, "sit down." She waved her hand at a hard metal chair on one side of a steel desk. He did so. She sat across from him. The two spooks remained standing.
"What's this all about, Captain?" said Paris.
“We have a little situation on our hands, Mr. Paris. We were hoping you could help us.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Starfleet,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”
“A what?”
“A drink, Mr. Paris.” She showed him a bottle of brown liquor. “It’s not a trick, Mr. Paris. I thought you’d appreciate a little hospitality.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have a drink.”
“Excellent. Now I have an excuse to drink as well.” She smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. After she poured both glasses, Paris knocked his back. Synthehol.
“What situation do you have?” said Paris.
"Three days, ago Maquis raider named Val Jean disappeared in the Badlands."
Paris's eyes widened. A second later, he realized that had been a mistake. Never show Starfleet you know anything about anything. He sighed internally. Mistakes had marked his entire tenure as a freedom fighter, which was one reason why he was digging holes on New Senegal.
"I take it you know the name."
"I've heard it," said Paris.
"You picked it, from what I understand." Another one of those cool, cheerless smiles.
"If they disappeared in the Badlands, they were probably destroyed,” said Paris.
"Perhaps," said Bujold. "That is what the Cardassians are claiming. But there are enough holes in their story to make us believe they aren't telling the whole truth."
“So she’ll turn up somewhere else. I can’t help you with that. They abandoned all the hiding places I knew about as soon as I got captured.”
“We have reason to believe the ship is still in the Badlands somewhere. It’s...important to us that we find Val Jean.”
“Because of Chakotay?”
“Yes, because of Chakotay. Other than Cal Hudson himself, Chakotay might be the most capable and dangerous leader the Maquis have. If he’s still alive, we must make certain he does not fall into Cardassian hands.”
“I thought you and the Cardassians were cooperating against the Maquis.”
“Against the Maquis, yes, but Chakotay is not an ordinary Maquis. He’s a defected Starfleet line officer and Academy instructor, with advanced knowledge of our capabilities and tactics. If the Cardassians capture him, they will almost certainly learn what he knows, one way or another.”
"What do you want from me?" said Paris.
“I intend to search the Badlands for Val Jean and her crew. I’ll need a guide."
"Forget it," said Paris.
“You know as much about the Badlands as anyone. There’s even a prominent feature named after you. Paris’s Ring, I believe.”
“’Paris’s Asshole’,” said Paris. “I said forget about it. I’m not leading you to them.”
"Think of it as a rescue mission. Your friends could be in serious trouble."
"They probably slipped past the Cardassians and the spoon-heads are just too embarrassed to admit it. Chakotay and friends are probably still laughing about it on some asteroid somewhere."
“Our sources indicate the Maquis are concerned as well. No one seems to know where Val Jean is.”
“Don’t kid yourself. Your operatives don’t know a single thing the Maquis don’t want you to know,” said Paris.
“Mr. Paris, I don’t have much time to waste. If you’re not going to help me--”
"I'm not selling out the Maquis," said Paris. "If I lead you through the Badlands, you'll be recording every kilometer of the flight. You'll learn more about it from me in a day than you could have learned on your own in a year--and so will the Cardassians, as soon as you turn over your charts to them."
"It is curious you speak of 'selling out'. Because if I remember correctly, you were 'sold out' yourself by Chakotay."
Paris ground his knuckles into the hard steel tabletop. A part of him admired Bujold for doing her homework. She knew exactly where to poke him.
"Other than ruining Chakotay's day, what are you offering me for helping you?"
"A reduced overall sentence, and a transfer to a minimum security facility."
Paris didn't respond. It was a better offer than he’d expected.
Bujold leaned in. "We're interested in one person, Mr. Paris: Chakotay. The rest of the crew, your old friends, they'll get token sentences. I’ll even arrange so that the ones you care about the most stay out of jail.”
He swore he saw her wink.
She continued: “And if they are in trouble, you'll be saving their lives." She paused to fold her hands in front of her. "Or, you can rot here until the proper authorities declare you rehabilitated. Who knows how long it will take to rehabilitate a hardened terrorist?”
"What if you don't find them?"
"If Val Jean cannot be found despite your sincere best efforts, then so be it,” said Bujold.
Paris said nothing.
Bujold leaned in. “You owe them nothing, Tom. Chakotay stole Val Jean from you and dumped you in Starfleet's lap. Why are you still protecting him?"
"I want a parole," said Paris. “To Earth. If I help you, I want to go home.”
“Betazed,” said Bujold.
“So someone can keep an eye on what I’m thinking,” said Paris.
Bujold shrugged. “Best and final offer, Tom. Betazed is a lovely world, with lovely people. And when your sentence is up, you’ll be free to travel wherever you please. The more helpful you are to Starfleet today, the sooner that day will come.”
Paris sat and thought it over. The two spooks shifted impatiently.
“Voyager departs for Deep Space Nine in ten minutes, Mr. Paris,” said Bujold. “And so does this opportunity.”
“Is this offer in writing?" said Paris.
She took out a PADD and laid it on the desk in front of him. "Take as much time as you need to read it."
He scrolled past the Starfleet legalese and thumprinted the signature box on the bottom. "I'm in."
"Excellent," said Bujold. She lifted her glass. “Salut.”
#
Deep Space Nine
Ensign Harry Kim stood by one of the Promenade's huge windows, watching Voyager's final approach. His heart raced when he first read the name and registry number--his ship, his first assignment. His hand drifted up and brushed the single rank pip on his collar, and then down to his communicator badge. He was three weeks out of the Academy, but he’d spent all of those three weeks a passenger en route to Deep Space Nine.
He watched the ship until it passed out of view, docking high overhead. Then he wandered back onto the Promenade. He still had three hours before he had to board Voyager--a ludicrously fast turnaround for a starship making the trip from final evaluations at Utopia Planitia to Deep Space Nine, but still a long time for him to stare out the window in dreamy excitement, watching starships pass through the Bajoran Wormhole. After a while, traffic through the wormhole slowed and he decided to find something else to do. He’d be seeing the wormhole up close in a few hours anyway.
The Promenade was crowded with people moving in all directions, but there were a few discrete streams, and one of them was flowing into Quark's Bar. The place was crowded with Starfleet, many of them waiting, like Harry, to board Voyager. He felt like he should be mingling in the crowd and making friends, but his shyness presented an insurmountable wall. He found a seat at the bar instead.
The Ferengi bartender (Quark, presumably) had no problems with shyness and seemed to sense Harry was looking for someone to talk to. Or maybe just that Harry wanted a drink.
"Good afternoon, friend," said the Ferengi. He struck a classic bartender's pose, leaning on the bar with one elbow while polishing a glass. "What can I get for you today?"
Harry glanced at the forest of bottles behind Quark. His brain promptly locked up. He had no idea what ninety-nine percent of them even were. "I'll have...a rootbeer," he finally said.
"A rootbeer? A rootbeer?!”
“What? What’s wrong with rootbeer?”
“My good sir, where are you from?"
"Uh, Earth?"
"Earth! And have you ever left Earth before?"
"Well, we took a family vacation to Mars once."
Quark gave Harry a look of pity and astonishment. "Do you mean to tell that this is your very first voyage beyond your home sun, and you’ve come here, to this magnificent entertainment establishment--” he waved around at the bad “--famed across a thousand worlds, with your choice of beverages from across the galaxy to delight your senses and expand your horizons, and what you want is a root beer?"
"Well, I--"
"Never mind. Starfleet has obviously already beaten the adventure out of you. Rom, one root beer!"
"Now wait. What else do you have?"
"That you'd like? Oh, tap water, tap water with ice, tap water with bubbles--"
"I'm serious. What else do you have?"
"Are you sure you don't want a root beer? It's safe and bor--I mean, predictable."
"I'm serious. I'm sure I don't want the root beer."
"Well, okay then. Rom, hold the root beer!" The Ferengi at the other end of the bar made a hand gesture that might have meant "OK!". If Harry had been paying closer attention, he might have noticed that Rom hadn't been doing anything that could have been construed as pouring a root beer in the first place.
Quark leaned in close to Harry. Harry could count the points of his teeth. "So what do you have in mind?"
"Um...you pick. What's good?"
"Well, everything I have is good. But I thought we were having an adventure. You don't want something good, you want something great. And I have just the thing for you."
"What's that?"
"Romulan Ale."
Harry's eyes widened. "That's illegal!"
"It's illegal in the Federation, my boy. This station is Bajoran territory!"
Harry pondered, remembering his third grade production of the epic drama, Romulan Ale Is Uncool, where he had played "Incurably Insane Romulan Ale Addict #3".
Except, of course, that Romulan Ale was cool. If it wasn’t, they wouldn’t have put on a stupid play to make kids not want to drink it. "Okay," he said. "I'll have some."
Quark smiled in a way that made Harry want to flinch a little. He retrieved a decanter of blue liquid from under the bar, and with great ceremony, poured some into a small glass, which he pushed across the bar to Harry. Harry took one sip; it was smooth and cool, and very sweet, unlike how he had imagined.
"That will be one strip of latinum," said Harry.
Harry fished in his pockets for his FedBank chit, which let him carry Federation credits with him in areas where money was necessary. Quark held a chit reader over the bartop. Harry gave Quark one credit, plus another half-credit as a tip. He smiled at Quark.
"Where are the other hundred ninety-three and a half credits?" said Quark.
"The other what?"
"The other hundred ninety-three and a half credits you owe me."
"But you said it was only one."
"One strip of gold-press latinum. You're paying in Federation credits, and the current exchange rate is 194 to 1."
"But the exchange rate is 1 to 1!"
"The official exchange rate is 1 to 1. Only an idiot actually accepts one credit for one strip of latinum. Try it; go down to the currency exchange and buy one strip for one credit. They'll laugh you right out the door."
"But you have to take credits at the official exchange rate. That's the law."
"I have to take credits at the official exchange rate in the Federation. And while we all recognize that the issue of Bajoran sovereignty vis-a-vis the Federation is complicated on this station, we’ve already established that this bar ain’t a Federation establishment, and therefore, I don’t have to take Federation funny money at the official exchange rate. You owe me one hundred ninety-seven credits."
"197? I just paid you one and a half."
Quark put his hands on his hips. "The credit just fell to 198 and a half to the strip."
Harry sighed and paid. He didn't try to tip the Ferengi this time. He even bought a second Romulan Ale, and a third, and a fourth, the last costing him 352 credits, Harry reasoning that once back on the ship, he wouldn't have much to spend his money on anyway (Harry listened as Quark told a long tale of woe about the pitfalls of fiat money and his own misadventures in Orion currency speculation, Harry the whole time thinking that he thought it was the customer who was supposed to tell the bartender a sad story). He had been at the bar for an hour when a civilian took the stool next to him (a stool Harry didn't remember being there, but he'd been drinking for an hour).
"Romulan Ale," said the civilian, a man in his early thirties.
Quark poured him a glass. "One strip of latinum,” he said.
The man thought for a moment, then entered a number on Quark’s chit reader. Quark entered a different one; they haggled for a few minutes until they had settled on a price. Then he moved down the bar, leaving Harry and the stranger alone.
The man took a sip of his drink. "Damn," he said. "This is a lousy vintage." He squinted down after Quark.
"Mine's okay," said Harry.
The man eyed Harry. "Mind if I take a sip?"
"Sure," said Harry.
The man took Harry's glass and had a small sip. He started laughing.
"What?" said Harry.
"This isn't Romulan Ale," said the stranger. "This is Wild Berry Tasty-Ade and synthehol. And I thought I got snookered. Next time make sure he hasn't switched bottles on you."
Harry stared at him. "I paid 352 credits for that!"
The stranger laughed again. "The exchange rate isn't that bad. I paid 83 for mine. Always stop by the currency exchange first to check the rates."
"Oh," said Harry. He stared into his glass, having intense flashbacks to high school.
The stranger seemed to take pity on him. "What's your name?" he said.
"Ensign Harry Kim," said Harry.
"You with Voyager?" said the stranger.
"Yeah."
"Me too." He held out his hand. "Tom Paris."
Harry took it. "Nice to meet you. What are you, a civilian expert?"
"Something like that."
“Have you worked in the Gamma Quadrant before?”
“We’re not going to the Gamma Quadrant,” he said.
“Huh?”
A call came over the station intercom: "All Voyager crew, report to Pylon Three."
"That's us," said Paris, finishing off his drink. When he saw Harry abandoning his, he finished that, too.
"Should I try to get my money back?" said Harry.
"From him? You’re kidding, right? Come on."
They walked out of the bar, joining the crowd flowing towards Pylon 3.
"Hey," said Harry, "was it my imagination, or did your stool wink at me when you got up?"
Paris shrugged. "You never know in this place.
#
USS Voyager
Federation-Cardassian Frontier
Lieutenant Kathryn Janeway was still getting settled in her office when the door chimed. "Come," she said.
The doors hissed open and Captain Bujold walked in. Janeway sprang to her feet.
"As you were," said Bujold. "I just came down to see how you were settling in."
"Just fine, ma'am," said Janeway.
"What do you think of the facilities here?"
"They're very nice," she said. "Not as much space as we had on Atlantis, but all of the equipment is top of the line."
"Alas, we don’t have a Nebula’s lab space," said Bujold. "Our mission profile is geared more towards observation than analysis.”
“It seems like a missed opportunity,” said Janeway. “This ship would be perfect for long-term science missions.”
“That’s an interesting opinion. Most people would say a ship this small isn't really suited to long-duration missions "
Janeway smiled. "We have more volume than a Constitution, and Jim Kirk seemed to do okay for himself."
Bujold heaved a theatrical sigh and gave Janeway a wry smile. "I agree with you. But since Wolf..." She shrugged. She was right. Since Wolf 359, science had gotten the short end of the funding stick. New general-purpose ships designs like the Intrepid class had less and less space devoted to science facilities, older ships were seeing their science labs left off of refit lists , and most of the new designs in the pipeline were strict combat ships with no science facilities at all. Even the giant Galaxy and Nebula class explorers were seeing their science capacity shrink. Janeway understood the rationale, but she didn't have to like it.
"Have you gone over your inventory yet?" said Bujold.
"Eh? Yes, I have. I was going to mention--"
"You are short several items."
"It's a lot more than several, ma'am. I'm not sure I understand the rush. The Gamma Quadrant isn't going anywhere."
"Our mission to the Gamma Quadrant has been postponed. I'm sorry I didn't inform you before now, but the situation is unfolding rapidly. A Maquis ship has disappeared in the Badlands; Chakotay is on board, and we have been tasked with finding him. Time is of the essence for us."
"I understand," said Janeway. She pretended to be distracted by a blinking figure on her PADD, to hide her irritation.
"I have an assignment for you," said Bujold. "We will be in the Badlands in a few hours. I would like you to send someone to work with Mr. Paris and Lieutenant Stadi to plot a course and plan our search."
Janeway went through her mental list of officers and crewmen in her department. The trouble was, she'd been on board Voyager less than a day, and couldn't even remember all her people's names, let alone their qualifications. She'd had all her assignments drawn up for a star mapping mission to the Gamma Quadrant, and now she had to completely redraw them on no notice. Bujold waited, tapping her foot. Janeway, pressed, decided on the one person she knew she could trust.
"I can do it," said Janeway.
Bujold gave her a curious look. "You, Lieutenant?"
"Yes ma'am."
"What is your specialty again?"
There was a long pause. "Meteorology, ma'am."
"Meteorology."
"Yes. Specifically, meteorology of class J and T planets."
"Gas giants," said Bujold.
"Yes," said Janeway. Her ears were starting to turn hot. “The fluid dynamics of the Badlands plasma systems are very similar...” She trailed off.
Bujold stared at the overhead for a moment, as if she had just spotted an interesting bug or somesuch thing. She said "Hmm" several times. Finally, she said to Janeway, "Well, if you feel it is best, by all means, please join Lieutenant Stadi and Mr. Paris on the bridge."
"Yes ma'am." After Bujold left, she pulled up her department's personnel records and flipped through them, looking for someone else to send to the bridge.
#
USS Voyager
The Badlands
Lieutenant Stadi didn't like the way Tom Paris was leaning over her shoulder, watching the helm station's readouts. For one thing, he was making noises: small "hmms" and "uh-huhs" like an Academy instructor, making it clear he was critiquing her performance, as if a failed terrorist had any business judging a Starfleet officer. For another, he was looking at her breasts. She was sure of this because she was Betazed. She tried not to read minds unless she had a good reason, but Damn. Nice cans. I'd hit that, was hard to ignore, especially when he thought it two or three times in the first hour.
"Set course 285 mark 13, warp 3, four minutes," said Paris.
"That's a little slow," said Commander Cavit, Voyager's first officer.
"If you want to blow your nacelles off in a subspace pothole field, be my guest," said Paris.
"This is ridiculous," said Cavit. "The Cardassians told us where Val Jean disappeared. Why don't we just go straight there and start looking?"
"Because the Cardassians couldn't find their own asses in the Badlands," said Paris. "All we know is that Val Jean went into the Rat's Nest. We're looking where she would have gone if she came out."
"That's an unorthodox search pattern, Mr. Paris," said Bujold.
"Look," said Paris, "One of two things happened. They went into the Rat's Nest and they never came out, meaning the ship was wrecked, meaning it's not going anywhere; or they did leave, and they're hiding somewhere else in the Badlands. If that's the case, you want to catch them now, because the Maquis watch both sides of the border and someone saw us go in. If Chakotay is still in here, and he's alive, it's a race to find him before he finds out we're looking."
Bujold and Cavitt seemed to accept that explanation, though Stadi glanced back over her shoulder once and saw Cavitt sitting in his chair cracking his knuckles, a sure sign he was unhappy, even to someone who wasn’t telepathic. Stadi felt the same.
That unhappiness deepened as the search dragged on for another hour, and then another, and then another after that. Paris tried several times to make small talk with her. She brushed off each attempt with clipped, one-word answers. She tried to ignore her disgust when he started having sexual fantasies about her. When that failed, she started deliberately making small mistakes for him to correct, under the assumption that if he was micromanaging her, he wouldn't have time to wonder if she took "it" there.
Bujold stood. “Are we in a safe location, Mr. Paris?”
“Relatively speaking, yes,” he said.
“Let’s pause here for a few minutes. I believe we could use a break.”
Stadi stood up, noticing for the first time how her eyes were burning and her back was complaining. She’d been in that chair for a long time.
"May I speak to you in my ready room, Lieutenant?" said Bujold.
"Of course, sir.”
Bujold asked the question as soon as they were in her office: "Is he leading us on a wild-goose chase, lieutenant?"
"I don't...if he is, he is hiding it well. Better than he's hiding his other thoughts."
"Does he know you're a Betazed?"
"I think so," said Stadi.
"Hmm," said Bujold. "Lieutenant, if I order you to do so, can you pilot us into the ‘Rat’s Nest’ without his help?"
She nodded. She was getting used to the Badlands, now, and more than that, getting used to Voyager. “This ship can do it,” said Stadi, patting the wall.
"If Mr. Paris gives you any indication he's not making a good-faith effort, signal me."
"How?"
"Tap your commbadge twice."
"Understood, ma'am."
#
"Nothing," said Dvorska, the ops officer. "No debris, no warp trail."
Paris nodded. It had been an hour since they'd last stopped. He looked over Stadi's shoulder at the helm console, wondering for the hundredth time what she looked like under the form-fitting Starfleet tunic. It had occurred to him, vaguely, that she was a Betazed and could probably hear his thoughts, but other than occasional encounters with the dog-faced guards of New Senegal women's camp, this was as close as he'd been to a woman in years.
"Set course 636 mark 49," he said. "Warp 2."
He heard whispering behind him. He turned to see Cavitt and Bujold conferring. Cavitt looked angry; Bujold looked tired. They'd been searching the Badlands for most of the day.
Bujold noticed him watching them. "Mr. Paris," she said, "how much longer do you expect this to take?"
"I don't know, ma'am," he said, truthfully. "The Badlands are as riled as I've ever seen them. We have to go slow."
"Like hell we do," said Cavitt. "We could use our own sensors to navigate and be at Val Jean's last reported location in half an hour." He pointed at Paris. "I think he’s stalling so his friends have time to escape."
"That's bullshit!" said Paris. "You think I actually care if Chakotay goes to jail? Hell, I'd be happy to help put him there."
"We're all tired, Mr. Paris," said Bujold.
"I don't have to stand here and take that," said Paris.
"Mr. Paris, can you truthfully tell me you aren't trying to buy time for your friends?"
He hesitated. Just a hitch, not enough that most people would even notice. But it was enough for a single word to flutter up from his subconscious: No. "Yes," he said.
He heard a communicator tweet twice. He looked back. Stadi was glaring right at him.
"Mr. Paris, perhaps we should discuss this further in my ready room," said Bujold.
"Fine," said Paris. He followed the captain to her lavish office just off the bridge. She didn't waste any time.
"Mr. Paris, I believe my first officer is correct. I think you have been leading us on a wild goose chase in order to protect the Maquis."
"Why would I do that?" said Paris. "You know I hate Chakotay's guts."
"Yes, I do," said Bujold. "But perhaps not his pilot's, no?"
Paris's ears and neck started to burn. "Fuck her. She screwed me, too."
“Mr. Paris, I offered you a deal in good faith, and in return you lied to me."
"I'm not lying!" he said. Am I? What the hell am I doing?
"I will give you one last chance, Mr. Paris. Tell me the fastest way to the Rat's Nest right now, or I will have you escorted to the brig."
Paris told her.
"Thank you, Mr. Paris," she said. She tapped her communicator. "You may come in now," she said.
The ready room doors slid open and two big security goons walked in. "Take him to the brig," said Bujold.
"What!" said Paris. "You said you wouldn't send me to the brig if I told you!"
"I lied," said Bujold. "Now we're even." The goons seized him by both arms and half-led, half-drag him across the bridge, to the turbolift.
"Ensign Donaldson, take Mr. Paris's position," said Bujold as she strode onto the bridge. "Lieutenant Stadi, set course 383 mark 54. Mr. Cavitt, take the ship to Yellow Alert." She planted herself in the captain's chair. Without turning to look at him, she said, "Enjoy your next thirty years, Mr. Paris."
#
USS Voyager
The Badlands
They had given Harry Kim had the overnight shift at ops. Because of this, he was off-duty when Voyager entered the Badlands, and did not have to report to his general quarters station when they sounded yellow alert. The price for this was that he was supposed to be asleep, but between the excitement of a first mission and his own body clock insisting it was only early in the evening, he couldn't sleep. At 1900 hours, only an hour before he was supposed to wake up anyway, he gave up. He slipped out of the quarters he shared with three other junior officers and, his clarinet in hand, went to the deserted forward observation lounge, to play Benny Goodman and watch the red and yellow plasma clouds outside shift to blue and violet as they repeatedly jumped to warp.
About thirty minutes after he arrived, he noticed that the warp hops no longer seemed random. Instead, they were closing in on some huge, gnarled blister of violent storms. It was beautiful, and thrilling, and more than a little scary, because it just kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger, each hop bringing out finer details. He had no sense of scale, but the blister had to be at least a light-year across.
Then came another hop and it was gone, replaced by a hellscape of storms and flares that looked close enough to touch. He gasped and realized they were inside it. Then they hopped again, and again, and again, in quick warp bursts, like they were trying to find a path through it. He forced himself to keep playing his clarinet, knowing that the people on the bridge knew what they were doing.
His faith was rewarded when Voyager hopped into a clear bubble of space and stayed there. He checked the time; 1948, enough to try a new arrangement of Glenn Miller he had found.
There was a single, bright flash of light.
Outside, the color of the sky changed from orange-red to yellow.
Captain Bujold's voice came over the intercom: "Lieutenant Janeway, report to the bridge."
The yellow brightened to white. Harry’s clarinet playing trailed off. There was a ringing sound building in Harry's ears.
The warp engines started building up power again as Voyager banked hard to port.
The Red Alert siren managed a single whoop.
The white light outside became blinding, like the surface of the Sun. Harry looked away, shielded his face, felt his arms burn. The light felt like it was everywhere, inside and outside. The ringing had built to an earsplitting volume. There was a terrible roar, and Voyager was smashed by some great force. Harry was hurled out of his seat into the side of the bar, where falling bottles from the shelf behind rained down on him.
And then one of the big windows shattered, thirty centimeters of transparent aluminum giving way with a scream like a damned soul, and Harry was being sucked out to space, saved at the last second by a force field snapping to life. The ship shook more, and he dove for cover under a table.
It stopped like a guillotine blade hitting a chopping block. There was a final thud, and then silence. Gradually he became aware of the red alert siren, the howls of alarm and pain outside, noises from the ship, and a low moan he was making himself as he cradled his burned forearms. When he was finally sure the shaking was done, he crawled out from under the table.
He stood up and looked out the window.
The Badlands were gone. Outside the windows hung a planet, an orb of banded yellow clouds. Beyond it were stars. Between it and Voyager was an object, a central sphere larger than Voyager surrounded by mile-long panels, like giant knives welded together blades-out.
"Oh, shit," said Harry.
#
Val Jean
Ocampa system Kuiper belt
"You were right," said Seska. “It’s pulling another ship through.”
Chakotay snapped around to face the viewscreen. A brilliant white bloom of light was boiling in orbit of Ocampa, resolving into the shape of a starship.
"I am getting a reading," said Bendera. "It's a Federation starship."
That got everyone's attention.
"A rescue mission?" said Mohommad.
"Capture is more like it," said Chakotay.
"They are badly damaged," said Tuvok. "They did not weather the trip well."
"The Kazons have spotted them," said Seska.
"How badly damaged are they?" said Chakotay. "Can they fight?"
"Their warp drive is unstable and going into shutdown," said Bendera. "No discernible shield readings. Their main phaser batteries appear to have suffered emitter damage."
"So they're helpless."
"Not necessarily," said Tuvok. "They may still have photon torpedoes."
"Interesting," said Chakotay.
"Should we hail them?" said Bendera.
"Not yet," said Chakotay. "Let's just watch for now."
#
USS Voyager
Location unknown
Harry Kim staggered into sickbay and immediately tripped over a body lying by the door. "Ah shit," he said. The dead man had a blue uniform, two and a half pips, and had been in sickbay: Kim was pretty sure he'd just tripped over Voyager's former chief medical officer. His head was cocked at an unnatural angle, neck snapped. He looked around and saw a younger officer, most likely the nurse, laying prone beside a blown-out plasma conduit, with half her face burned off.
"Ah shit," he said again. "Computer! Activate emergency medical hologram!" I hope this works, he thought.
A bald, middle-aged simulacrum in a blue Starfleet uniform shimmered to life in the middle of sickbay. "Please state the nature of the medical emergency," it said, as if it couldn't see two bloody bodies lying on the floor.
"There's been some kind of accident; there are casualties all over the ship," said Kim. "Including them."
The EMH wasted no time, grabbing a medical tricorder from a cabinet and scanning both bodies. "They're dead," it said. "Are you injured?"
Kim showed him his blistered hands. "Second-degree burns," the EMH said immediately. It picked up a dermal regenerator. "Hold still." It gave Kim a few waves of the device, enough to shrink the blisters. As he worked, the doors hissed open and more people staggered in, a security rating with bad burns and, leaning on him, a petty officer with a grotesque compound fracture.
"Move," said the EMH to Harry.
"But I'm not done!" said Kim.
"This is a triage situation," said the EMH. Its voice never changed from a clipped, professional monotone. Some bedside manner, thought Kim.
"Attention all crew, attention all crew," said the intercom. "This is Acting Captain Janeway. Anyone who is not hurt must report to his or her red alert station immediately. All section chiefs, please report your status to the auxiliary bridge immediately."
#
Voyager Main Engineering
The clamor of the alarms in Engineering was deafening. Lieutenant Joseph Carey stared at the master control board and tried to decide which crisis to tackle first. "Vorick, we're still losing pressure in the primary impulse cooling circuit; get the emergency injectors restarted before the starboard reactors melt! Beltran, find out where it's leaking. Damage control, we're venting atmosphere on deck nine through the HVAC system; seal those intakes on the double. Rodriguez! What's the story with main power?"
"Sir, the starboard plasma injector fused shut and the blowdown valves stuck closed; we came a cunt-hair from blowing the whole fucking core. The warp plasma vented into the EPS system; that saved the core, but we've got plasma blowouts all over the ship and the electrical system is fried. I can get you auxiliary power off the impulse reactors, and that's if you're lucky."
"How are the antimatter pods holding?"
"They're solid, sir. About the only thing on this fucking boat that isn't broke right now."
"Attention all crew, attention all crew," said the intercom. "This is acting captain Janeway. Anyone who is not hurt must report to his or her red alert station immediately. All section chiefs, please report your status to the auxiliary bridge immediately."
Carey glanced up from the control board. "Are you kidding me?" he said. How is the fucking science officer the acting captain? He had known Janeway for about six hours and she hadn't impressed him; career blueshirt tag-alongs never did.
"Computer," said Carey, "Who is the legal commanding officer of USS Voyager?"
"THE COMMANDING OFFICER OF USS VOYAGER IS LIEUTENANT KATHRYN JANEWAY."
Shit, though Carey.
"Bridge to engineering," said the intercom.
"Here we go," muttered Carey. "Engineering; Lieutenant Carey reporting."
"What's your status down there?"
"Bridge, we have a total warp core shutdown. We're bringing up the impulse reactors for power generation right now."
Pause. "Lieutenant Carey, this is Commander Janeway. When can we expect warp power to be back online?"
"Commander, the starboard plasma injector has fused shut. That's what caused the plasma backflash throughout the ship. At this point, I have no idea what state the rest of the warp core is in. We might not be able to bring it back up at all; at the very least, it's going to take days to properly inspect it all."
Another pause. Carey made a show of twiddling his thumbs; Rodriguez caught the gesture and sniggered. "Engineering, we need warp power back as soon as possible," said Janeway.
"I understand, ma'am," said Carey. "But the backflash hit the reaction chamber. I could have spalling on the chamber wall, I could have microfractures in the pressure vessel, I could have a cracked dilithium crystal for all I know right now. It's going to take some time."
"What about the port nacelle? Can we use that?"
I cannot believe this is happening to me, thought Carey. "Ma'am, the reaction chamber feeds both nacelles. Even if the port nacelle worked perfectly, there's no way to power it."
There was yet another long silence. "Ma'am, maybe we should just call for a tow," said Carey. "It's pretty long odds we can fix this girl outside of a drydock."
"That's impossible," said Janeway.
What? Why? "Ma'am, the subspace comms should be operational."
"Mr. Carey, come to the auxiliary bridge. I think you should brief me in person."
With crayons, no doubt, thought Carey. He was about to argue when a thought occurred to him: She's out of her depth and she knows it. I might be the highest ranked officer left alive after her. The thought of taking command of Voyager in this state didn't exactly make his heart leap, but at the same time, he realized he trusted himself more than some dweeb who'd taken the bridge officer's exam on a lark--and maybe Janeway did, too.
"I'll be right up, Lieutenant." Whoops. Should have said "ma'am". Oh well.
"What was that about?" said Rodriguez.
"They need me on the backup bridge. Ensign Vorick’s in command, but you’re in charge down here, understood?"
"Yes sir."
"Oh, and Rodriguez?"
"Yes?"
"I’m the chief engineer now. I might be the captain of this ship in ten minutes. From now on, when you make a report, stow the colorful language and stick with the numbers."
"Undersood, sir. Sorry sir."
Carey pointed to a crumpled figure at the foot of the ladder to the upper catwalk. “And have someone take care of Commander Patel’s body.”
"Aye sir."
#
Janeway had never been in so much pain in her entire life. The initial shock of her injuries was fading, along with her brain's natural pain suppressors. Her shoulder felt like someone had taken a welder to it and her headache was getting worse.
"Navigation, do you have a fix on our location yet?" she said.
"No ma'am, not yet. The best I can tell you is that we're somewhere in the Delta Quadrant, ten thousand light years from the galactic rim. I've found Sagittarius A, but there aren't a lot of other landmarks out here."
"Keep looking," said Janeway, knowing it was a tall order. They were on almost the exact opposite side of the Milky Way from the Federation, exactly the area most thoroughly obscured by the giant molecular clouds and the galactic core. They couldn't have gotten much further from Earth if they'd tried.
Janeway took another dose of painkiller from the first aid kit and injected it directly into her shoulder, where it did almost nothing. She gritted her teeth. She would hang on until the pain became too distracting to ignore. Then, she promised herself, she'd go to sickbay. Why hasn't Sickbay reported in yet? she thought.
In front of her, on the viewscreen, was an image of the yellow planet they'd found themselves orbiting, and an alien space station. The star and the planet weren't on any charts in the database, and the space station refused to respond to their hails. They hadn't bothered hailing the planet; there wasn't any point. The surface temperature was over 400 degrees.
Big fat zeroes, she thought bitterly. She was positive the space station was somehow responsible for their being there, but whoever was on board wasn't talking.
The doors hissed open and Lieutenant Carey walked into the cramped auxiliary bridge. He spotted her sitting in the central chair, said "Lieutenant Carey reporting, ma'am," and then seemed to take a half-step back as soon as he got a good look at her. I must be some sight, she thought.
"Report, Lieutenant," said Janeway.
Carey looked confused. "Wouldn't you prefer to do this in the briefing room?"
"I can't hold my breath for that long," said Janeway. When Carey didn't seem to get it, she said, "The briefing room blew out along with the rest of Deck One. So just talk to me here."
"All right," said Carey. "The starboard plasma injector fused shut when we tried to go to warp. When that happens, the plasma in the conduit is supposed to be shunted through an escape valve out into space. It didn't. The high pressure plasma stayed trapped in the line until it found an outlet into the low pressure EPS system, and then all hell broke loose. Right now, I don't know what kind of damage it did to the reaction chamber, the dilithium matrix, the portside injector, the portside nacelle, the antimatter injectors...nothing, really. Thanks to the EPS overload, there's serious damage all over the ship. Electrical power is unreliable, replicators are out, transporters are out, shields are out, SIF is out, phasers are out. Like I said already, I don't think the ship can be repaired here. We need a tow back to a starbase. We've probably got more sick and injured than sickbay can handle; those people can't wait until we get propulsion back online."
"Mr. Carey," said Janeway.
"Ma'am?"
"Right now, we are approximately 70,000 light years from the nearest starbase. Whatever force wrecked the ship also pulled us out here. So for the time being, you're on your own."
Carey stared, unbelieving, looking back and forth between Janeway and the viewscreen.
"We should hail that station," he finally said.
"I already did, Mr. Carey."
"We should hail them again."
Janeway snapped. "What do you think we've been doing up here, Lieutenant?"
Fucking around, said Carey's face. "Sorry, ma'am. I got--"
"We need main power back on line as soon as you can get it."
"Yes ma'am. What are my secondary priorities?"
Janeway reflected on that. "That's your call," she said.
"Yes, ma'am." A long pause, and then, "Ma'am, where am I in the chain of command?"
Janeway tapped the key panel on her armrest. "First in line behind me," she said.
"Was I...was I always behind you?"
"How should I know?" said Janeway. The pain was getting worse.
"Captain, we're being hailed! Audio only."
Maybe they're friendly, thought Janeway. "Put it on speaker."
A deep, scratchy, arrogant male voice boomed over the speakers. "Unidentified ship, this is Jal Jabin of the Kazon-Ogla. Heave to and prepare to be boarded. If you surrender without a fight, everybody lives. If you don't, I'll space every last one of you."
Nope. "Mr. Gombe, show me the source of that transmission."
A massive brown ship, shaped vaguely like the head of a squid, appeared on the viewscreen, approaching them at relatively low speed. It had snuck on them undetected at warp--another bad sign for Voyager's readiness, but not one that Janeway could afford to worry about at the moment.
"Red alert," said Janeway.
"Shields and phasers are out," said Carey, in case she’d forgotten in the last minute and a half.
"Get down to engineering right now," said Janeway. "Get me whatever shields you can get."
"Yes ma'am." He took off running, off the auxiliary bridge.
I'd better stall them, she thought.
"This is Lieutenant Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship--"
Janeway was interrupted by a flash from the Kazon vessel and a sudden explosion on Voyager.
Statistics: Posted by RedImperator — 2015-12-05 01:11pm