THE LOST VOYAGES
The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been
by Soledad
CARETAKER
Alternate pilot episode
Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.
Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.
Author's notes:
This is the last finished chapter for now. The next update will take some time, I'm afraid. I expect six other chapters to the end, unless the muse has other ideas.
As always, heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: NEW ALLIANCES
It didn't take more than ten minutes for the landing party to arrive at the eating zone. They were still flanked by the young Ocampa, but they also had someone new with them: a young woman, blonde, blue-eyed and smooth-faced like Kes, yet wearing the same colourless robes as the rest of the city's population. Also, compared to Kes' angelic beauty she was rather plain – and, according to the wealth of experience mirrored in her large eyes, considerably older than Kes. Seeing the doctor sitting with Chakotay, those eyes lit up at once.
"Father," she said in a soft and sweet, almost childlike voice, "please do not be angry with me. I… I was just sorry for them, and they were so desperate to find a way out of here.."
"I am certain that you meant no harm, Pharin," the doctor answered soothingly. "Why don't you tell us what happened, so that we can find the patients quickly?"
The woman named Pharin – apparently the doctor's daughter and, memory clicked in for Chakotay, also Daggin's wife – sighed.
"I came for morning meal shortly after you had left, Father, and I met the patients right here. One of them, the dark female, accused me of watching them," she shook her head in amazement at the ridiculous idea. "But the other one, the young male, calmed her down. Then I gave them some of the medicine Daggin and his friends make."
Turning to Chakotay, she added as an explanation. "My husband and some others have broken from tradition and left the city. The colony grows fruits and vegetables.
"I know," Chakotay nodded. "We've seen their gardens. But what kind of medicine did you give our people?"
"We've discovered quite by accident that the moss that grows on certain fruit trees has healing properties," Daggin answered for his wife. "We brought it to the clinic, and Pharin and the others distilled various sorts of medicine out of it."
"But the patients had no trust in our medicine," Pharin said sadly. "They insisted that their only hope for survival would be to get to the surface where their own people could find them."
"So, what have you done?" the doctor asked gently.
Pharin looked at him with a certain tense bravery. "I have shown them a way. The one through the ancient tunnels – where Kes was able to get through."
"Oh, child," Toscat shook his head in sorrow, "you know that such things are against the Caretaker's wishes."
"I know, anan Toscat," Pharin said, "but keeping these people here against their will is wrong. Especially as we can't help them. The Caretaker…" she bit her lower lip in anguish. "The Caretaker has been behaving strangely for the past tenth-cycle... Abducting people, increasing the power supply…"
"The power supply?" Chakotay repeated, exchanging meaningful looks with Janeway. The nurse shrugged uncertainly.
"The Caretaker tripled the energy he sends us," Toscat admitted uncomfortably. Of course he would know such things. "We have enough stored now to run the city for five years. We don't know the reason for it. But whatever the reason might be, we have to trust the Caretaker's decisions."
We have no other choice, he supplied mentally, for Chakotay only.
Janeway frowned. "Where should we look for our people then?"
The nurse made an uncertain gesture. "I can show you the entrance to the ancient tunnels as I have shown them. As Kes can tell you, over the years, small breaches have appeared in security barriers just large enough for someone to slip through. But it still requires digging through meters of rock to get out," she added sadly. "I don't think they've gone too far yet. They were weakened already."
"You don't need to show us the way," Kes said with determination. "I know where to go."
"But we are very deep underground," the doctor said quietly, "and those tunnels run long. How would you know in which one to look for them?"
"This instrument," Paris lifted his tricorder a little, "can locate their biosigns. If we split up and search several tunnels simultaneously, finding them shouldn't take too long."
Janeway nodded sharply, hiding her surprise over the leadership abilities of the Admiral suddenly surfacing in his prodigal son. "Let's do it. Tuvok, go with Mr. Paris. Ensign Bennet, Crewman Fitzpatrick, you're with me. I assume you want to take your own crewman," she looked at Chakotay.
The Maquis leader shrugged. "Of course."
They split up and followed Kes and the other young Ocampa in small groups. Before leaving, however, Chakotay turned back for a moment.
"Toscat, I'd like to continue our conversation, once we've found our people. I believe there are many things we could learn from each other."
"I quite agree," the Ocampa elder said, "but you might not have the time. You've angered the Caretaker already by interfering with his plans – and our life. There is no way to tell how he will react."
Remembering his encounter with the elusive alien entity on the Array, Chakotay answered thoughtfully, "I think there wouldn't be any way to guess your Caretaker's reactions correctly anyway."
The way down the tunnels was longer than they had expected, and before long, Tom Paris could feel the approach of a good, old-fashioned panic attack – one the like of which he hadn't had for months. The dark hopelessness of this place reminded him of the ruins of a nameless colony planet he had visited with a rescue team as part of his Academy training.
The planet had been bombed to pieces during the Federation-Cardassian war, made inhabitable for at least a few centuries. But the salvage of the remains had been still going on, not because there was anything of true value to salvage, but because young cadets needed the sad experience of such missions. Tom could still remember vividly the horrible feeling of the weight of the rock above him – the suffocating awareness of the meters and tons of dead planet hovering above his head, ready to crash down onto him in any given moment.
Of course, he could have asked to be given a different assignment. As he had no problems with the tiny, enclosed space of a cockpit – and he never had – his claustrophobia wasn't considered a career hindrance. But that would have been a weakness, and the Admiral didn't tolerate weaknesses in any of his children. Especially not in his only son. So Tom went with his class to that accursed planet… and had had the irregularly recurring panic attacks ever since.
Well, this planet was very much alive, of course, at least under the surface, but that didn't help Tom's condition much. Unfortunately for him, the tunnels were barely high enough to stand upright in them – in some places not even that high. The fact that his only companion there was an emotionless Vulcan who couldn't possibly be bothered by such illogical things as a panic attack caused by extreme claustrophobia, didn't help either.
Tom used his flashlight to illuminate the immediate area in front of him, and his glance fell on a rickety spiral of metal stairs that faced straight upward. He set a tentative foot on the lowest step, and the metal began to creak and crackle and bounce, as if ready to plunge down into the bottomless darkness below. Wetness dripped, dropping from the rock all around them and Tom could smell a peculiar sweetness, like the stench of rotten fabric – or rotten flesh – emerge from the unknown depths below the staircase, trying not to think about rebellious young Ocampa who might have tried to get out this way.
"If they came this way, they could only have climbed upwards," he stated reasonably, fighting the urge to get violently sick. "So, if we keep going up, we should be heading in the right direction."
"A little simplicistic perhaps, but true nevertheless," the Vulcan commented. "Would you care to take the lead, Mr. Paris?"
Tom took a deep breath, trying to calm himself… and felt a new wave of nausea caused by that hideous stench. "You better go first. That way I won't kill you, too, when I fall."
For a moment the Vulcan seemed as if he wanted to ask something, but mercifully he decided against it and simply stepped up to overtake Tom and began to climb. With agonizing slowness, Tom followed his lead. The bright whiteness of Tuvok's flashlight danced above them, revealing nothing but the next dozen or so webbed metal steps. It seemed that they had been climbing and crawling in these godforsaken tunnels for several lifetimes, and there was still no sign of Harry… or of that Maquis woman.
"How far are we from the top of these caves?" Tom asked, unable to remain silent any longer. Let the Vulcan think he was just another idly prattling human – talking actually helped him hold his panic at bay.
"We have made one-third of the way," Tuvok, of course, had absolutely no difficulty checking the tricorder in his hand while climbing upwards and holding himself securely with the other one.
"Any sign of them?" Tom asked, against all hope.
"Not yet," Tuvok paused for a moment. "In fact, unless these rocks contain a substance that would be interfering with our tricorders, I do not believe that either Ensign Kim or Miss Torres could be in these tunnels."
Great, just great! Tom felt sarcasm arising in him. What have we climbed up these back-breaking steps for, then?
But out loud he only said. "So, what are we doing now? Crawl back and report to the Captain that we failed?"
"Negative. As I already told you, we cannot trust our readings completely. The only logical action is to continue our way upwards, in case the readings are false. Besides, the closer we come to the surface, the easier it will be for Voyager's transporters to pick us up."
That was the unquestionable truth – if not exactly what Tom had hoped for – so the younger man shut up and continued to follow the Vulcan. They climbed for another lifetime or two, and Tom slowly came to the crazed imagination that the damned tunnels would never come to an end but would go on and on indefinitely. He did his best to climb the metal steps, crawl through the passages made for the considerably smaller Ocampa and still keep an eye on his tricorder, but it had become increasingly complicated.
"This damn instrument isn't willing to throw off any definitive readings," he growled impatiently. "It keeps threatening to spike around every turn!"
"It is most likely responding to power leakage from the containment field," Tuvok responded calmly.
"And where might the goddamn containment field be?" Tom felt his frustration rising anew but didn't really mind. It was still better than another panic attack.
"That distance is still undetermined," Tuvok replied in typical Vulcan manner.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Geez, thanks a lot, Tuvok!"
The Vulcan glanced back for a moment. Tom could more feel than see an arched eyebrow rising even higher. "I do not know what you expect from me, Mr. Paris."
"No," Tom replied with a soft, self-ironic laughter, "of course you don't. How could you? You're a Vulcan, after all."
Unsurprisingly, no answer came. Trying to lighten the mood with a lame joke in the company of a Vulcan – and an exceptionally stiff one like Tuvok – was a feeble attempt anyway. They climbed some more in silence and finally, after what seemed another eternity, they came up to a tunnel that was more or less level, with hundreds of shafts leading almost straight upward from smooth, oval entrances near the floor.
Tom briefly wondered whether there once had been times when the Ocampa had regularly visited the surface. Why else would they have needed so many upward shafts? Perhaps these tunnels had only been sealed when the Kazon first appeared on the planet? That was something worth finding out. Later. When they'd found Harry.
"We better split up," Tom said. "There are hundreds of these things, and, to borrow the favourite statement of the alien, not enough time."
"That is a logical conclusion," the Vulcan agreed. "However, I am not sure it would be wise to leave you alone, Mr. Paris. You seem to be… uncomfortable in closed spaces."
"If you mean that I'm claustrophobic, you are right," Tom replied through clenched teeth. "But that has never stopped me before, so don't worry, just let's hurry up!"
"Strange," the Vulcan mused, following him with measured steps, "that you had no… difficulties with very small cockpits."
"Those are usually attached to some vessel that can fly freely in big, empty spaces," Tom pointed out. "Besides, I know that I can get out any time I want." And if you dare to ask about prison, I'll shoot you and leave your corpse behind to rot in these godforsaken tunnels, he added for himself.
Fortunately, Tuvok was careful enough not to ask, and they reached the first open shaft. Tom thrust the tricorder through the opening and waited, holding his breath. The small instrument blipped dispassionately, acknowledging the ever-present containment field, but… it made a different sound this time!
"I think I found something," Tom said softly and ducked to step under the cool, damp shaft, fighting another panic attack as this shaft was hardly wide enough for a person to climb up another metal staircase. The surface of the tricorder screen switched to a biological configuration. A steadily pulsing light in the upper right corner clearly showed someone's erratic heartbeat, and below that, in Starfleet-issue block letters, stood simply: HUMAN.
"They're in this one!" Tom called out to Tuvok. "At least Harry surely is." He pulled himself uncomfortably into the narrow chamber and craned his neck to try and see something… anything. "Harry?"
No answer, just the hollow echo of his own voice. He didn't back out of the tunnel, however, and hit his elbow painfully as he activated his comm badge. "Paris to Janeway!"
"Go ahead," came the immediate answer.
"They're in one of the shafts, Captain," Tom reported. "I can't see them," he checked his readings again, "but they're definitely up there We're going after them."
"Call for transport, when you have them, Paris," Janeway ordered. "We'll meet you on the ship. Janeway out."
"Yes, Ma'am," Tom, already clambering on hands and knees up the metal stairs, answered sarcastically, not caring that she won't hear him anyway God, he hated these narrow shafts, he was barely able to breathe. Well, the faster you climb, the quicker you will find Harry and can beam out of this… this empty grave…
The rest of the landing party was beamed out immediately, and Chakotay requested a transfer to his own ship until B'Elanna and the Starfleet Ensign were found. He didn't like to leave the task to those two traitors, but he realized he had no other choice. He couldn't follow them, as he didn't even know in which of the couple of hundred shafts they were stuck. At least aboard the Crazy Horse he could do something useful.
He sent the Andorian woman to help with the repairs and returned to the bridge for a short debriefing. Needless to say that he was not happy to learn about Seska's actions. Ayala, however, only shrugged at his fuming.
"Leave it be, Chak. You know how stubborn she is once she gets one of her ideas. Besides, it all turned out well, didn't it?"
"I'm not so sure," replied Chakotay grimly. "Where is that Kazon boy… what's his name again?"
"Rettik. And he's not a boy, Chak, at least not biologically. He's an adult by all but social respect – and he'd do anything to earn that respect and be accepted by his own people as an equal. Including selling us out to the best bidder… or cutting your throat in your sleep."
"Where's he now?" Chakotay asked. Ayala lifted a heavy shoulder.
"In the cargo bay… or what's left of it. I had Jackson force him under the sonic shower – he stank, you know – and we are trying to keep him as far from our technology as possible."
"That's probably a good idea," Chakotay nodded. "I'm not happy to have him here, but we can't change it. We might need the protection of the Kazon, if for nothing else than crossing their territory unmolested. But to tell the truth, I don't trust them. And after having talked to the Ocampa, I don't like them either. Not at all."
"They are about as pleasant a company as a bunch of drunken Klingons," Ayala agreed. "With the little difference that they are desperate and don't have much to lose. Watch your back around them, Cap."
"I will," Chakotay promised. "Now, let's see those repair logs…"
They were checking the state of the repairs for the next few minutes. They seemed to make promising headway; still, Chakotay was not entirely satisfied. But at the moment he couldn't help things – not without Torres anyway. He could only hope that Paris and that Vulcan spy would find her in time.
"I guess things are going as well as it can be expected," he finally said. "Keep an eye on the repairs, Greg, and call me in the moment B'Elanna is found."
Ayala shot him a knowing look. "While you go and intimidate the hell out of our… guest?"
"Greg," Chakotay said with a wolfish grin, "you have no idea how right you are."
"I think I do," replied Ayala to his Captain's retreating back; and indeed, he did. He had known Chakotay since their early childhood, being a Dorvan V citizen himself (even though his own parents were a little less bound to tradition than Kolopak's family) and knew that Chakotay needed an outlet for his anger once in a while, or he couldn't keep his calm in tense situations. That Kazon youth was in for the surprise of his life.
Rettik was pacing in the small, empty cargo bay of the alien ship like a caged predator, still fuming over his recent humiliation. The strangers had forced him into some narrow cell – and that without his clothes! – and switched on some… apparatus that removed the protective layers of grease from his hair and skin! Had he needed to return to the planet in this condition, the harsh sunlight would have damaged him irreparably. When they finally gave him back his clothes, he realized with disgust that they, too, were changed somehow – the typical scent of his tribe and home had been removed and they smelled faintly like… like nothing he knew. And then they put him into this empty room and refused to let him out! How was he supposed to keep an eye on that treacherous female if he couldn't get out?
The doors swooshed open and the big, quiet man with that strange pattern on his temple – Rettik remembered him being in that first landing party of the aliens – entered. He moved with the predatory grace of a shagrat, the large hunting cats of another planet Rettik had visited with his tribe many years ago, and his dark eyes were cold, his face unreadable.
For an endless moment, the alien leader glared at Rettik with snake-like intensity, and the young Kazon needed all his willpower not to squirm under his scrutiny.
"My name is Chakotay," the alien finally said in a surprisingly soft voice. "I am the captain of this ship, and frankly, I'm not happy to have you here. I don't trust you any further than I could throw you, and I know you would kill me without a moment of hesitation if you thought it would serve your interests. So I'll warn you only this one time: should anyone of my crew come to harm because of you, I'll kill you with my own hands. Slowly and very, very painfully. Am I understood?"
Rettik gulped nervously. He could see in those cold eyes that the man meant what he said. All the young Kazon was able to do was to nod. To his utter, furious embarrassment, the alien patted his face like a child's.
"Good boy. Remember this, and…" he was interrupted by the chirping of his comm badge. "Chakotay here."
"They have them, Cap," Ayala reported. "They were beamed right into Voyager's sickbay. Do you want to get over there?"
"Sure. On my way to the transporter room. Have someone ready. Chakotay out."
And, without any further word, he left, leaving a fuming and thoroughly humiliated Rettik behind.
Chakotay was beamed directly into Voyager's sickbay and found it surprisingly crowded. Bendera, Chell and Yosa were still undergoing treatment in a separate room, while Gerron was on his way to getting better, though still weak and miserable. The Betazoid woman Chakotay had seen earlier was still lying in the Intensive Care area, heavily sedated, while Tom Paris, having apparently gone through decon and a quick sonic shower after his tour in the Ocampan tunnels, was checking some incubator units in which small, greyish-blue creatures, who looked surprisingly like fish, were squirming against the feeding and breathing tubes attached to their tiny bodies.
B'Elanna and the Starfleet ensign – Kim, Chakotay remembered, his name is Harry Kim – were lying on two examination tables, while the Vulcan nurse was giving the Ocampa doctor something like a crash course in Federation medicine. Chakotay shuddered, seeing the two new patients. The condition of Bendera and the others, when the illness had first befallen them, had prepared him what to expect; still, he hadn't thought that Torres and Kim would look quite so awful.
Tumorous growths covered their arms and necks, their faces were sallow, with dark rings under sunken eyes. Their skin, especially that of the young man, had faded to the colour of dried paper. And Chakotay suddenly became afraid that they had found them too late.
"Can they still be helped?" he asked Sito who appeared quietly on his side.
The Bajoran nodded. "It won't be easy. Their condition is much worse than the others'. The illness is full blown and virulent. But T'Prena hopes that we could use some of the Ocampa medicine to support the treatment. It would be so much easier if we could bring the EMH online – it has been programmed with the knowledge of 200 of the best doctors of the Federation or so…"
"Then let B'Elanna work on it," Chakotay suggested. "That would keep her from crawling up the walls from the sheer frustration of being caged – and there's a good chance that she could get the program fixed."
"I hope the Fleeters will let her," Sito replied seriously. "T'Prena is all right, all she cares for is healing her patients, but the others… I don't know."
Chakotay shrugged. "I can't believe they wouldn't want their doctor back.. even with the Ocampa around."
"Are they staying?" Sito asked, watching the gentle, elderly alien doctor and his straw-blonde daughter with interest.
"For a while anyway," Chakotay answered absent-mindedly. "What are those little creatures Paris is looking after?"
"Benzite babies," Sito answered. "Apparently, their chief engineer was pregnant and died when the Caretaker abducted Voyager. The little ones had to be delivered prematurely."
Chakotay glanced over to the incubators in surprise. "They look like fish."
"They are… in a sense," Sito yawned and rubbed her eyes wearily. "It seems that they are amphibians. The babies have gills, which they would lose during their growth, as their lungs take form. The problem is, nobody knows much about their species."
"So, they might die, after all," Chakotay murmured. "And even if they don't, they'll be the only ones of their kind on board. How can the Fleeters hope to bring them up properly, in case we are struck in the Delta Quadrant?"
"What else could they do, let them die?" Sito shrugged. "This is not our concern, Chakotay. We should see that we get our people fixed and back on the Crazy Horse as soon as possible."
"Don't you feel sorry for the little fishheads?" Chakotay asked in surprise. Sito was usually a lot more sensitive than that.
"Of course I do," the Bajoran replied, "but my first responsibility, here and now, is our sick and injured people. I can't afford to be sidetracked by other concerns. I've insisted that they be brought here – I must see that they get healed and the hell out of here before Captain Perfect changes her mind about cooperation."
"You don't trust her sincerity, do you?" Chakotay asked with a wry grin.
"I don't trust anyone in Starfleet above the rank of ensign anymore," Sito replied matter-of-factly. "I was willing to die or risk prison camp because Jean-Luc Picard asked me to go on a suicide mission. I trusted him and was willing to do anything to earn his trust and respect. But only a little later, that same man plotted against our people and very nearly manipulated Ro Laren into undermining the Maquis… I've lost my trust in Starfleet for good."
Chakotay nodded in understanding. Most Maquis who had formerly been in Starfleet had lost their illusions in similar ways.
"Well, our transporter is finally back online at least," he murmured, "and Ayala keeps a constant lock on all of us."
"That might not be enough," Sito replied tiredly, "but still better than nothing. Now, if you don't mind, I think T'Prena needs me."
With that, she walked away to help the Vulcan nurse talk Janeway into allowing the Ocampa to remain on board for a while and to consider including their medicine in the treatment. Chakotay, unable to get closer to B'Elanna at the moment, chose to visit the other patients instead – even if that meant to endure Paris' presence.
"How are you doing, Gerry?" he asked the kid, not really expecting any answer and carefully avoiding touching him. Gerron would only allow Ken Dalby to do that, his ersatz father in the Maquis.
To Chakotay's surprise, Gerron risked a shy look at him and even something akin to an uncertain smile flickered across the kid's flawless face.
"Better," he said softy. "Still hurts, but… better."
"That's good to hear," Chakotay smiled. Gerry was so cute, frowning and trying to regain his speech patterns. This was the first time they had heard any articulate word from him since they had rescued him from the prison camp – a big step toward healing.
"Too long," Gerron added sadly. "Want back."
"I know you want to come back," Chakotay said patiently. "We miss you, too, especially Ken and Mariah. But you need to heal first. You were injured pretty badly. We can't help you on the Crazy Horse as well as these people can here."
Gerron nodded, a little sadly, but understanding the necessity. He was a bright kid. He could have had a promising future, had the Federation not sold his home planet to the Cardassians. But at least it was comforting that he seemed to come out of his deep trauma – even if it had required an even bigger shock to shake him out of the original one which had rendered him speechless.
Chakotay gave the kid an encouraging grin and walked over to the others.
"How are you doing?" he asked Bendera, routinely shutting out Chell's nervous prattle.
"We're getting better, too," Kurt rolled up his sleeve, showing Chakotay his forearm; the thick growths were definitely getting smaller. "We were luckier than B'Elanna and that Fleet kid – they look a lot worse than we ever did."
"Is the treatment very… unpleasant?" Chakotay asked. Bendera shrugged.
"It hurts," he explained stoically, "and it makes us sick afterwards. I never knew I could puke so much… but at least it seems to work. That Vulcan nurse says the EMH would probably come up with something better, if they could iron out the glitches in its personality subroutines."
"Maybe B'Elanna could help," said Chakotay. "She's the best I've ever seen. And being occupied would keep her in a much more cooperative mood."
"Yeah, but the question is: would they let her?" Bendera asked, doubt clearly written in his rugged face.
"We'll see," Chakotay replied. "Take care, Kurt. I want you – all of you – back on board, as soon as possible. I don't completely trust Captain Perfect and her shiny olive branch."
"You'd be a fool if you did," said Bendera grimly. "But what about Plan B? Have you given up on it entirely?"
"No; that's why I had everyone pack their bags and keep them in the transporter room," Chakotay answered.
"Well, what are you waiting for then?" Bendera asked.
Chakotay flashed at him a devious grin. "An invitation."
Having checked on the Benzite babies, Tom Paris walked over to the Intensive Care Area (ICA) to see how Stadi was doing. The Betazoid was lying motionless, her eyes closed, but a barely recognizable mental brush revealed that she was coming to. Tom stepped up to her biobed, once again wondering briefly how the designers could come up with something this uncomfortable for sick and suffering people, and took a limp hand in his own.
"How are you feeling, Stadi?" he asked gently. Stadi swallowed hard.
"As if I had been stomped over by an Allurian mammoth," she whispered. "Water…?"
"Be careful," Tom warned, easing the plastic tube from the water flask between her dry lips. "Just small sips… and don't drink too much. You've just had a serious operation a few hours ago."
"What… happened?" Stadi obediently let go of the water tube after a few sips.
"Your spinal column was broken, after the displacement wave had hit us," Tom answered, hesitating for a moment. He didn't know how much he should tell her, but he was determined not to lie. That would do no good; he just didn't know whether this was the right time for the whole ugly truth or not. "I'm afraid me moving you right after that didn't help, either," he added ruefully. He had realized his mistake, of course – only too late, like so many times before.
Stadi squeezed his hand weakly. "You tried to help. It was an… understandable mistake. One that I, too, would probably… have made in your… place…"
"Yeah, but you are not a field medic," Tom pointed out. "I should have known better. I just… I guess I panicked at that moment."
Stadi squeezed his hand again, feeling his guilt and anguish clearly. "Tom… it's okay. Tell me… am I paralyzed?"
"Afraid so. Stadi, I'm so sorry…"
"Don't be. It wasn't your fault. I'm... not a doctor, but… it probably happened when I… hit the deck with my head. How bad… is it?"
"You'll be able to move your arms and shoulders," Tom replied sorrowfully, "but below that…"
"I see…" Stadi was quiet for a while. "At least… this leaves me with some semblance of… independence. How long till… my eyesight comes back?"
"Couple of days," Tom guessed. "probably a week or two. It depends on the tissue regeneration. T'Prena says it's better if we let your eyes recover on their own, and you're pumped full of medicine anyway."
"Mhm…she's right," Stadi was tiring rapidly, but something was nagging on her consciousness still. "Have you any… idea why I'm… feeling alien… presences all around me?"
"You are probably sensing the Ocampa," Tom explained. "They are a new species we have just met. Nice people; apparently telepathic, too."
"Oh… that explains it…" Stadi drifted off, feeling heavy and so very tired again. "I think… I'll sleep now…"
"That would probably be the best," Tom murmured, giving her hand a squeeze then laying it back on her unfeeling midriff. "You'll need your strength when it comes time to fully realize what happened."
In the main area Janeway, Chakotay and the medical personnel finally came to an understanding. It was decided that they would try to combine the treatment that T'Prena had already started by the other patients with the Ocampa medication, and that during their stay in sickbay Kim and Torres would try to work out the glitch in the EMH's subroutines.
"I hope for them that they can fix the EMH," T'Prena said, out of their earshot , "as they are in a much worse condition than the three Maquis who have been sent over to us. I am not entirely certain that the same treatment would be effective in their case."
"You mean we can still lose them?" Tom asked, joining them.
He got a few unfriendly looks, but he didn't care. As long as T'Prena accepted him as her medical assistant, there was little anyone – even the captain – could do. Quite simply, they needed him. Currently, he was the best-qualified medic on board.
"That is exactly what I mean, Mr. Paris," T'Prena answered matter-of-factly.
"We will stay and help with your ill people as well as we can," the Ocampa doctor promised. "Sadly, we know no treatment, but at least we are familiar enough with the symptoms."
"Are you not needed down there?" Chakotay asked quietly. "What if Toscat…"
The Ocampa gave him a gentle smile. "He will not leave before my work here is done. We have a certain… control in this matter. Besides, he can always call out to me mentally, and thanks to this… technology of yours, I can return to him immediately. Unless the Caretaker chooses to interfere," he added with the same resigned acceptance with which most older Ocampa spoke about the alien.
Remembering the entity's strangely distracted behaviour, Chakotay shook his head thoughtfully. "Somehow I believe he'll be otherwise occupied."
"I hope so," the doctor replied seriously. "I am determined to learn all I can about how to heal this illness… in case that knowledge might be needed in the future."
Chakotay grinned at him in sympathy. Apparently, most species had their version of the Hippocratic Oath. Even in the Delta Quadrant.
Janeway, having finished her discussion with the ragtag medical team, now stepped up to him, laying a hand on his forearm.
"Chakotay, I'd like to speak with you, if you have a moment. In private," she added.
Chakotay willed himself not to flinch. He didn't like being touched by strangers, but this was not the moment to discuss the issue of personal space.
"Of course, captain," he replied, looking around the slightly overpopulated sickbay. "Ummm… here?"
Janeway grinned. "Let's go to my ready room," she suggested.
They rode the turbolift and stepped out onto the bridge four decks higher. Lt. Rollins was still in charge, and Janeway wawed him to remain in the command chair a little longer.
"Have a seat," she gestured towards the sofa once they reached her ready room and stepped to the replicator. "Can I get you something?"
"Tarkalian tea, please," Chakotay answered. He'd have preferred herbal tea, but the blend he usually drank would require special programming. Janeway ordered him the drink then got herself a coffee – black and plain – and finally sat down on the other side of the table.
"So, how are your repairs going?" she asked. "The truth, please."
Chakotay shrugged. "It's a slow process," he admitted reluctantly. "but we are definitely making some headway. If we only had Torres back…"
He stopped, realizing that he had just given her a serious advantage. I must be more tired than I thought.
Janeway nodded, in a seemingly absent manner, but Chakotay was sure that she had recognized his lapse as well.
"Have you considered what we should do, in case we are unable to persuade this… Caretaker to send us home?" she asked.
Chakotay shook his head slowly. "Haven't had much time to think about it," he answered with a half-truth. "We've been too busy trying to keep the ship in one piece."
"You won't be able to survive on the Crazy Horse for long, should we be trapped in the Delta Quadrant," Janeway pointed out, watching him like a hawk. "Without a functional Warp drive you can't even hope to search for an M-class planet to start a colony."
"We could always stay with the Ocampa," Chakotay said, deliberately not getting the hind. "They are a friendly people. And they certainly could use our help with keeping their city running and the Kazon out of it. Or we could side up with the Kazon and get transported from here to a planet where we can live. There are possibilities."
"Every single one of which violates the Prime Directive," Janeway emphasized. Chakotay shrugged again.
"That's true. But frankly, Captain, I don't care, and neither do my people. We're not Starfleet. We're not even Federation citizens anymore. The Federation abandoned us, sold us to the Cardassians. Why should we care for Federation law?"
"And what if I offered you a different solution?" Janeway asked. "Not a perfect one, but maybe a better one?"
"Go on," Chakotay said with a frown.
"You could join Voyager," Janeway proposed. "We took heavy casualties as you know, and are in dire need of people to operate our ship. And let's face it, yours is a wreck."
"That she is," Chakotay admitted, "but do you really expect me to make it this for you easy to capture us all?"
Janeway suppressed an impatient sigh. "Really, Comm… Captain, do you think that's my first priority right now? Right here? Seventy thousand light years from home?"
"No," the Maquis leader said. "I know that first and foremost you want to get us home. All of us. You're Starfleet, it's part of your training. But should we manage to get home, with or without the alien's help – assuming the Crazy Horse could survive another transfer in her present condition at all – the same training would kick in again, and you'd do everything in your power to get us into a Federation prison. Or am I mistaken?"
To her credit, she held his glare without a flinch.
"No, you are not," she replied with the same blunt honesty. Chakotay nodded.
"Thought so. And this, Captain, is the exact reason why I can't trust you. We are uneasy allies only as long as we are here, in the Delta Quadrant. Back home, we'd become hunter and prey again – and right now, the prey is wounded, much more than the hunter. I can't take any risks."
For a moment, Janeway remained silent, obviously not used to such flat-out refusals from anyone but her immediate superiors.
"I see," she finally said. "Where does it leave us, then?"
Chakotay shrugged. "Where we have been from the beginning; since we ended up here: uneasy allies at best."
"Does this mean that you won't even think about my offer?" she asked.
"I will," he replied, "but whether I accept or not depends on if we can get home in the direct way or not. Actually, even if we can't I'll have to consider very carefully what's best for my people."
"Without us, you have no hope of getting home, one way or another," Janeway pointed out, not entirely without satisfaction. "I can't believe you would rather stay here in the Delta Quadrant."
"Oh, I do want to get home all right," Chakotay replied, "and so do my people. After all, we still have a war to fight… on two fronts. But we won't be much help for our cause rotting in a Federation prison. So yeah, if it comes to a choice, I prefer living free in the Delta Quadrant to serving a lifelong sentence for high treason back home."
"Surely you are exaggerating!" Janeway shook her head in disbelief. "It won't be more than a couple of years…"
"Even that would be more than what any of us would want," Chakotay interrupted. "But you are mistaken, Captain. Those of us who used to be Fleet, like Sito or myself, wouldn't get away easily. You wouldn't have put that Vulcan spy on my ship, had the brass not feared me. What I know of their precious secrets. What I could do with that knowledge. Remember, Captain, I used to teach advanced tactical training at the Academy. I'm not your average Maquis cell leader."
"Which is exactly why I'd like you on my ship," Janeway countered without a beat. "I could put your abilities to much better use."
Chakotay grinned. "You are nothing if not persistent, I have to give you that. As I said, I'll think about it – if it turns out that we can't get home the easy way. But even then, I'll keep other alliances in mind. Whatever serves the interests of my people best, I'll accept. Good day, Captain."
TBC