Star Trek Voyager: Unworthy

by Kirsten Beyer

  But before Eden could complete her sentence, Voyager was struck by a surge so fierce it almost threw Tom from his seat.

  “Slipstream corridor destabilizing,” Gwyn reported calmly.

  “Prepare for emergency shutdown,” Eden began.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Gwyn shot back.

  “It’s not your call, Ensign,” Eden quickly reminded her.

  “Due respect, Captain,” Gwyn replied as her hands moved deftly across her panel, “I can compensate for the variances manually and bring the fleet out in synch. Otherwise we’re going to scatter.”

  Eden threw Conlon a questioning look to which the lieutenant responded with a nod that clearly gave Gwyn the go-ahead.

  “Lieutenant Patel, route Ensign Gwyn’s calculations automatically to the fleet,” Eden ordered.

  “Everybody, hang on,” Gwyn advised.

  That’s exactly what I want to hear at a time like this, Tom thought bitterly as he clutched his armrests tightly.

  Over the next few seconds, Gwyn proved as good as her word. The ship continued to shudder mercilessly, yet Gwyn’s manual modifications showed that she was reconfiguring the phase variances on the fly, feeling her way through the task in a way no computer could.

  Grudgingly, Paris’s respect for the pilot went up by several degrees.

  Finally, the tumbling white tunnel dispersed and Paris heard everyone on the bridge simultaneously sigh with relief as the viewscreen once again displayed a vast field of stars.

  Eden rose from her seat and placing a gentle hand on Gwyn’s shoulder said, “Good work, Ensign.” Turning to Conlon she asked, “What happened, Lieutenant?”

  “As best I can tell, the coefficient for maintaining synchronization is off. Each individual drive is functioning properly, but there’s a drag created by utilizing the same corridor that throws off the calculations enough to make the last few vessels vulnerable to stabilization errors,” Conlon replied.

  “How fast can you fix it?” Eden asked.

  “I need an hour with the other chiefs to verify the readings we got and revise the algorithms,” Conlon replied.

  “Do it.” Eden nodded. “Stand down yellow alert.” Turning to Tom she added, “The bridge is yours. I’ll be in my ready room. Please ask Admiral Batiste to meet me there.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Tom replied, rising to his feet.

  As Eden moved toward the ready room doors, Tom took the measure of the rest of the bridge crew. Once Eden was out of earshot he said, “This is just the universe’s way of telling us we can do better, right, everybody?”

  He was rewarded by a chorus of grins and a “Yes, sir,” from Ensign Lasren, which suggested he had taken the remark too seriously, as was the young Betazoid’s wont. After giving Conlon a reassuring smile he moved to Gwyn.

  Lowering his voice he said, “That was grace under pressure, Ensign.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, a little too pleased with herself.

  “How were you able to adjust so quickly to the phase variances?”

  Gwen shrugged. “I did what felt right.”

  “Felt?” Tom repeated.

  “It’s what I always do when I fly, though I have to admit, I’ve never felt anything quite like Voyager. ”

  “You’re talking about instincts, right?” Tom asked dubiously.

  “I guess,” Gwyn replied. “I’m half Kriosian. My mom was a pretty strong empath, which sucked for me growing up. I think I got a little of it, but I don’t use it—I mean on purpose, if that makes any sense.”

  Paris nodded, thoughtfully. In a way it did. Voyager used bioneural gelpacks, which, while technically not alive, might facilitate a connection like the one Gwyn described. He made a mental note to ask Counselor Cambridge about it. “The thing is flying the way you did is only part of the job. Don’t ever be late for your shift again. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.” Mumbling under her breath, she added, “If you’d ever had sex with a Deltan, you’d have been late for your fair share of shifts too, sir.”

  “Something you’d like to share?” Paris snapped.

  “No, sir.”

  Tom was instantly aware that she reminded him of someone he hadn’t thought of in a long time; himself, when he was her age. This unpleasant revelation was followed immediately by the formation on his lips of the response his father, the admiral, would have undoubtedly made.

  “There are a lot of interesting things to see in the Delta quadrant and this is the best seat in the house, but you could easily miss all of them. Have you ever scrubbed a plasma conduit with a microfilament?”

  “No, sir,” Gwyn replied, paling visibly.

  “Take my word for it, you don’t want to.”

  “No, sir.”

  “As you were.”

  As Paris returned to his seat to contact Admiral Batiste, Harry leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “What was that all about?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Tom replied.

  “She’s something else, isn’t she?”

  Tom shook his head and staring grimly at Harry said softly, “You should ask Mirren.”

  Harry paused, first confused, then enlightened, and finally disappointed.

  “Damn,” he said under his breath. “Hang on, I thought having intimate relations with a Deltan was fatal.”

  “Dangerous, but definitely not deadly,” Tom replied with a knowing smirk. “Personally, I think the Deltans started that rumor just to make themselves more interesting.”

  Harry heaved a resigned sigh before returning to his post.

  One of these days Harry’s going to fall for the right girl, Tom assured himself. It was just a pity he wasn’t going to be aboard Voyager long enough to see it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Apair of mismatched shuttles outfitted with imposing phaser cannons towed B’Elanna’s ship through the security grid established around the asteroid Neelix and some five hundred of his fellow Talaxians now called home. When she reached Neelix, she had been forced to pull a fussy Miral onto her lap to confirm her identity. To say Neelix had been shocked by her presence in the Delta quadrant would have been gross understatement. However, once he’d confirmed their identities, he had quickly dispatched the shuttles to her location. Three days later, they reached New Talax.

  When B’Elanna disembarked in the asteroid’s small shuttle hangar, Miral clutching to her tightly, Neelix’s roguish grin at the sight of them melted away all the years of distance between them as surely as if they had never existed.

  “If you aren’t the most beautiful sight.” He smiled through glistening eyes as he folded mother and child into his arms. Miral squealed in protest, but Neelix would have none of it, deftly prying her from B’Elanna’s grasp and lifting her high overhead to get a good look at her. By the time she had been returned to the deck, she was staring at Neelix in wonder.

  “I never did have the chance to meet you in person, little Miral, but you have always had a special place in my heart. My goodness, look how big you’ve gotten.”

  A petite Talaxian female with fine, blonde hair stood just behind Neelix throughout their preliminary greetings. A reticent-looking boy standing beside her kept his eyes glued to the deck resolutely.

  “Hello, Dexa,” B’Elanna greeted Neelix’s wife, extending her hand, which was immediately rebuffed in favor of a hug.

  “Welcome to New Talax,” Dexa said warmly. “It’s wonderful to see you again. You remember our son, Brax?”

  “I remember the thousand questions he had for me and my engineering staff the day you both toured Voyager,” B’Elanna said, smiling. “Hello again, Brax.”

  “Ma’am,” he said politely.

  “Dexa has prepared a succulent feast for both of you,” Neelix added. “Well, maybe feast isn’t the right word. Our supplies are quite limited, but still …”

  “I’m sure it will be wonderful. Miral and I are starved,” B’Elanna assured him.

  Dexa gently coaxed Miral into
taking her hand and began to lead the way through the cavernous halls toward their private residence. Neelix bounced along beside B’Elanna, his arm draped over her shoulder as if he feared that releasing her would make her vanish.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Neelix said softly as they walked, “but where’s Tom?”

  “He’s Voyager’s first officer now,” B’Elanna replied, suddenly realizing how much ground there was to cover between the two of them.

  “Oh, I knew that,” Neelix scoffed. “I just assumed that if you were here, he couldn’t be far behind.”

  “He isn’t,” B’Elanna was relieved to be able to tell him truthfully. “But how did you know that?”

  “Admiral Janeway, of course,” Neelix answered. “I’m still the Federation’s official ambassador to the Delta quadrant and as such receive regular, or fairly regular, reports. Though, to be honest, lately the reports have been few and far between,” Neelix trailed off. “Actually, it’s been more than a year since the last communiqué arrived from the admiral. Did you by any chance bring a new one or perhaps a message from Samantha or Naomi?”

  B’Elanna felt her face fall. She had long ago accepted the harsh reality of Kathryn Janeway’s death. She grew suddenly cold as she realized that Neelix would have had no way of knowing.

  They reached the entrance to Neelix’s quarters, and B’Elanna nodded for Dexa and Brax to enter with Miral as she pulled Neelix aside. Her eyes began to burn with fresh tears as she said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, Neelix.”

  Neelix was no stranger to tragedy. Sensing B’Elanna’s pain, he took her gently by both hands and squeezed a little of his strength into them.

  “Better get it out quickly, then,” he said.

  Swallowing hard, B’Elanna said, “Admiral Janeway is dead, Neelix. She died investigating a Borg cube that entered the Alpha quadrant over a year ago.”

  Neelix’s eyes widened briefly, as did his mouth. Finally his head began to move slowly back and forth.

  “That’s not … I mean it doesn’t seem,” he stammered. As his breath began to come in short, quick bursts, he finished, “It’s not possible.”

  “I’m so sorry, Neelix.”

  Only then did she see his face begin to contort as he visibly struggled to hold back the tears.

  Icheb stood at attention, his default position when in doubt, as Chakotay ushered Sveta inside. She wore a simple brown tunic of light fabric, belted tightly by a dark leather strap at her small waist. Beneath the tunic were a pair of loose trousers and soft, well-worn boots. Her dark eyes scanned the room in a manner which suggested to Icheb that she lived in a constant state of curiosity or alertness. Though the top of her head barely reached his shoulders when she finally came to face him, Icheb sensed a taut, wiry strength in her.

  “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine,” Chakotay said by way of introduction. “Sveta, this is Icheb.”

  Icheb automatically extended his right hand, and Sveta shook it more gently than he expected.

  “Hello, Icheb.”

  “Ma’am,” he replied.

  “Why am I here?” Sveta asked, turning to face Chakotay.

  “I’m going to attempt a Pacrathar.” was Chakotay’s puzzling reply.

  Sveta’s face quickly transitioned through surprise and concern before settling on reticence.

  “A what?” Icheb asked.

  “It’s a sort of vision quest, but it is unique in that it is not performed by an individual. It is the creation of a joint meditative state,” Chakotay explained.

  “Joint as in, including me?” Icheb asked, dismayed.

  “Kaslo was a long time ago,” Sveta interjected with an unmistakable hint of warning.

  “I know,” Chakotay said, “and if you’re not up to it, I completely …”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that,” Sveta said, cutting him off. “But I would like to know what would make you willing to risk it, especially considering how things turned out last time.”

  “A friend needs my help,” Chakotay replied. He then went on to share a little of Seven’s history with the Borg and the Caeliar. Soon enough, Sveta nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “But how is this supposed to help her?” Icheb asked. And how exactly did things turn out last time? he wondered.

  “Over the last several days, Seven has been lucid most of the time. This morning she received word that her aunt died, and I believe this triggered some sort of psychological break. She’s conscious, but she won’t talk to me. I don’t know any other way to reach her.”

  “And why aren’t you taking her to a doctor?” Sveta asked.

  “Seven doesn’t trust Starfleet to evaluate her objectively at the moment, and frankly I can hardly blame her. I believe she is now being sustained on some level by Caeliar catoms. Should Starfleet confirm their existence—” he said.

  “—they’d never let her go,” Icheb finished for him.

  “What I have observed leads me to believe that Seven is actually at war within herself. She is battling her human nature, her Borg nature, and her new Caeliar nature, and it’s hard to tell right now who’s going to win. But if we can reach her and provide her with enough strength to hang on, I believe we can stabilize her condition long enough for me to find her the help she really needs.”

  “The Caeliar?” Icheb guessed.

  Chakotay grimaced. “What they broke they might be able to fix. I’m going to take Seven to find them.”

  “Do you know where they are?” Icheb demanded.

  “No, but I do know where to start looking.”

  “Why do you need me for this?” Icheb asked.

  “I have no experience in this sort of thing but you seem to …”

  “Seven and I only recently reconnected after a long time,” Chakotay interjected. “I’m not sure she trusts me, but I know she trusts you. I need you there with me.”

  Sveta nodded, though Icheb remained unconvinced. Taking Chakotay’s hand, she said, “You should prepare yourself. I’ll explain the ritual to your young friend here.”

  “Thank you.” Chakotay smiled before retreating upstairs. Turning to Icheb, Sveta considered him kindly and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not like anybody died last time.”

  “If it was your intention to comfort me with that remark, I suggest you try an alternate strategy,” Icheb replied seriously.

  Icheb entered Seven’s bedroom behind Sveta. Something in him rebelled at this intrusion into Seven’s privacy, but if what Sveta had described as the rest of their afternoon’s activities was accurate, he had barely begun to compromise Seven’s personal space.

  In all the years Icheb had known Seven, he had rarely given thought to the emotional connection between them or how to best categorize it. When they first met, she had been something of a mother to him and the other young Borg liberated from the Collective. Over time, however, especially after Icheb had the opportunity to meet his biological mother, that description had begun to feel inappropriate. The concern Seven regularly displayed for his well-being was certainly evidence of friendship, though he rarely felt that she was as needful of his presence as he seemed to be of hers. Only when the time had come for him to contemplate the possible loss of Seven, when her cortical node had failed, was he forced to accept that any label he might apply to their relationship was inadequate. Icheb had quickly discovered that he was more than willing to sacrifice his own life for hers, which spoke of a deeper bond. Her adamant refusal of his offer indicated that she shared his feelings. Since then, he had come to think of her as family. Perhaps sister came closest to an acceptable term.

  Still, Seven had always remained an aloof and terribly private individual, and much as he understood the depth of her need, Icheb could not shake the belief that Seven would not approve of their present course.

  Seven lay upon her bed, staring at the ceiling. A strange object—which Icheb supposed was the akoonah Sveta had described—rested by her right hand. Chakotay sat near it, his eyes closed. T
he room’s curtains blocked out the early morning sun, and the temperature approached stifling. Sveta had already explained that the ritual in which they were about to engage was traditionally performed in a sealed hut heated by a fire. Icheb was silently grateful that the home’s fire-suppression systems made that impossible.

  Sveta had Icheb sit on the opposite side of the bed, next to Chakotay. Chakotay’s breath was shallow. Icheb understood that Chakotay had already entered a private meditative state.

  During the Pacrathar, one individual would be the center of the group. In essence, that person, Sveta in this case, became a primitive, biological version of a Borg interlink node. As a disinterested, third party, she would remain firmly grounded in the real world while Icheb and Chakotay journeyed together into what Sveta had described as “the place in between realities.” Apparently without Sveta’s presence there was a chance that Icheb and Chakotay could become permanently lost in this alternate realm. Nothing in Icheb’s studies of quantum, temporal, or spatial mechanics allowed for the existence of such a place, but he accepted the premise for the time being. Icheb attempted to put what he was about to experience into some context to which he could relate—his short life as part of the Collective, or what he knew of Vulcan mind melds—though he believed that the Pacrathar owed more to spiritual exploration than physical reality, and this only heightened his reservations.

  Chakotay took a deeper breath and, opening his eyes, turned his attention to the akoonah. He then carefully positioned Seven’s fingertips so that they rested lightly on the interface. Both Chakotay and Icheb joined hands with Sveta and placed their remaining free hands simultaneously on the pad of the akoonah.

  Icheb was immediately conscious of a faint buzzing sensation in his head, a lightness to which he was unaccustomed, along with a disorienting wave of nausea. He barely registered Chakotay’s words as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply to calm his stomach.

  “Akoochimoya. We are far from the lands of our ancestors. We ask the spirits to guide us in our search for the one we know as Seven of Nine.”

  Icheb felt himself moving through what felt like warm water. He clutched Sveta’s icy hand tighter until the movement stilled and he felt solid ground beneath his feet.