Star Trek Voyager: Unworthy

by Kirsten Beyer

  A discreet blip on his comm panel alerted him to a message from Lasren. He quickly locked down his panel and walked the few paces to the first post he had occupied aboard Voyager— ops.

  “Problem, Ensign?” he asked under his breath.

  “I think it’s a glitch,” Lasren replied, pointing to his display. “The new comm relays send out a lot of interference while they’re synchronizing, but during that last burst I thought I saw an actual carrier wave.”

  “Show me,” Harry instructed. He loved his job at tactical, but he’d never forget the seven years he’d spent in Lasren’s current shoes. The young Betazoid was by no means a novice. He’d held his post for almost three years, including during the battle at the Azure Nebula where hundreds of Starfleet vessels had been destroyed in minutes and Harry had sustained critical injuries. To this day Kim believed it had been a miracle Voyager had escaped annihilation. Lasren was tough and incredibly conscientious. But like Harry, back in the day, he sometimes missed the forest while engrossed in the study of a particularly interesting tree.

  Kim took a moment to scan the reading and much to his alarm found himself agreeing with Lasren. He nodded silently to the ensign and moved to take the seat beside Tom.

  “Something wrong, Harry?” Paris asked softly without looking up.

  “I don’t want to sound paranoid,” Harry began.

  “Too late,” Tom noted with a faint smile.

  “Someone on this ship just piggybacked an unauthorized transmission onto one of our new relay signals.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Tom wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know, but given the strength, it looks like whoever did was sending that message pretty far.”

  “How far?”

  “Maybe as far as the Delta quadrant.”

  Tom’s face fell into more serious lines. “I’ll check it out.”

  “You want some help?”

  “No.” Tom shook his head. “I got it.”

  “Okay,” Harry replied, rising. “Want to grab dinner after our shift?” He’d been making similar offers for days but Tom had continued to distance himself by begging off each time.

  Tom shocked Kim by replying, “Sure.”

  “Oh, great.” Harry smiled. “Maybe by then Seven and Chakotay will be free and we can find out what’s really going on.”

  Tom favored Harry with a wry smile.

  “I know. You don’t know,” Harry answered for him.

  Paris took a deep breath and did his best to look busy as Harry crossed back to his station. He’d been holding on to that message for B’Elanna—confirming Voyager’s arrival at the rendezvous coordinates—for days. He’d decided that the transmission could be most easily masked during the initial deployment of the relays.

  But you have to get up pretty early in the morning to get anything past Lasren, Tom reminded himself.

  It didn’t matter. Lasren would trust Harry and Harry would trust Tom to determine if the transmission was evidence of any threat to the fleet. By the time Harry figured out that he’d been lied to, Tom would no longer be aboard. He’d be with his family. With fewer than twenty-four hours to go he found it almost impossible to think of anything beyond his arms around them.

  Paris couldn’t believe that his Starfleet career was over. He was surprised by how much it bothered him. At least Tom knew that he was leaving the ship in good hands. Having risen higher than he had ever believed possible within Starfleet, Tom was about to walk away without a backward glance.

  “And I was so sure Commander Paris was having a little fun at my expense,” Counselor Cambridge said wryly as he stepped into the Galen’s sickbay. Chakotay was standing beside the ship’s chief medical officer, who for reasons that completely eluded the counselor still only called himself “the Doctor.” Opposite them, seated upright on a biobed, sat Seven of Nine. As always, the sight of her made Cambridge wonder where he’d left his last breath.

  “Hugh,” Chakotay said, smiling warmly as he turned to shake his hand. They’d served together for three years, but it was only recently that they had become close.

  “You’ve been with the fleet two days and this is the first I’m hearing of it?” he asked in mock annoyance.

  “We were given temporary quarters aboard the Galen, though it’s my understanding that as soon as the Doctor sees fit to release Seven from observation, we’ll be transferring to Voyager,” Chakotay replied, smiling.

  Cambridge shot an appraising glance at the Doctor, who was completing a tricorder scan of Seven.

  “Two full days of observation? Is someone being a little overprotective of their patient?” Cambridge asked Chakotay quietly.

  “Not in this case, I’m afraid,” Chakotay replied.

  Turning to the Doctor, Cambridge extended his hand. “Doctor, I have been summoned. The question remains, to what end?”

  The Doctor took the counselor’s proffered hand. “I will, of course, forward you my complete analysis for your review, but the concise version is this. A little more than five months ago, Seven underwent a process by which the Borg implants that had once sustained her biological systems were replaced by what I am going to call, for lack of contradictory evidence, Caeliar catoms. She has shown no physical signs of distress as a result of this process; however, Seven has reported a consistent presence, is that fair?” he asked Seven pointedly. When she nodded he continued, “A presence that seems intent upon convincing her that she is no longer Seven of Nine, but rather Annika Hansen.”

  It was the most remarkable story Hugh Cambridge had heard in a long time. The fact that its subject was a woman he had admired from afar since the first day they had met was enough to pique his interest. Sensing where this was going, he realized that any hope he might once have nurtured of getting to know Seven better had just been dashed. She was about to become his patient.

  “That sounds terribly unpleasant,” Cambridge said, meeting Seven’s eyes.

  “I have provided Seven with a neural inhibitor,” the Doctor continued, pointing out a small, metallic oval affixed to the base of her skull just below her right ear. “I have monitored her steadily for the last thirty-six hours and it seems to have silenced the voice in her head.”

  “But it’s not a long-term solution, is it?” Cambridge pointed out.

  Seven, obviously growing weary of everyone present talking about her rather than to her, said, “Captain Eden has insisted that you monitor me until such time as my condition has been resolved.”

  Turning to Chakotay and the Doctor, Cambridge asked, “Gentlemen, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  Once they had stepped out, the counselor planted himself directly before Seven, crossing his arms at his chest.

  “And I’m guessing you find the prospect of my participation in this process utterly distasteful,” Cambridge allowed.

  “I will abide by the captain’s request,” Seven acknowledged.

  “But not willingly,” Cambridge noted, “which is going to be a problem.”

  Seven’s gaze hardened, a feat the counselor hadn’t actually suspected was possible until he actually witnessed it.

  “I do not know what you require of me, Counselor,” she replied. “But if it is in my power, I will do my best to comply.”

  “Prior to this transformation the Doctor described, do you believe you had fully recovered from the trauma of having once been a Borg drone? Put it this way, is there a reason you never chose to refer to yourself as Annika Hansen before this presence began making its troubling demands?”

  “I have been referred to as Seven, Annika, and Professor Hansen, depending on the party addressing me,” Seven replied, “and though I have found it annoying to correct people over an insignificant matter, what I am experiencing now is different.”

  “You consider your identity insignificant?” Cambridge asked.

  “Until now, I have never had cause to question my identity. I considered my designation irrelevant,” Seven corrected him.


  “Until now?”

  Seven paused briefly before asking, “Are you attempting to be helpful?”

  “No,” the counselor replied. “At this point I’m just trying to figure out how much help you’re actually going to need.”

  “If my concerns are a burden to you—” Seven began.

  “Not in the least,” Cambridge assured her. “But here’s the bottom line. If you don’t want my help, then I can’t help you. The good Doctor here may be able to address your most troubling symptom. My job will be to address the underlying cause, which I’m not convinced began only five months ago. Unless you are willing to explore that possibility, and agree to participate fully in the process, there’s really nothing I can do for you.”

  Seven’s face flushed as she bit back the desire to tell him exactly where he could shove his help.

  “Very well. I will comply,” she finally replied.

  “Then we’ll begin first thing in the morning,” Cambridge said. “Do you know where my office is aboard Voyager ?”

  “I will find it.”

  “Excellent. Eight hundred hours.” Cambridge smiled. “I look forward to it.”

  Cambridge left her to consider his words, which he had no doubt would disturb Seven sufficiently through the night. Quickly he poked his head into the Doctor’s office where he was waiting with Chakotay.

  “You never bring me easy problems, do you, Chakotay?” he quipped lightly.

  “There wouldn’t be any fun in that,” Chakotay replied.

  “Should I assume that you are going to be with us for a while?” Cambridge asked.

  Chakotay nodded.

  “I’d have given anything to see the look on Montgomery’s face when you told him you were leaving Starfleet,” the counselor said, smiling conspiratorially.

  “So would I,” Chakotay agreed. “Unfortunately, circumstances didn’t permit that. I submitted my resignation in writing.”

  “Pity.”

  “I must say, Chakotay,” the Doctor interrupted, “it seems an extreme measure to take. Even if they weren’t prepared to give you command of Voyager again, I’m certain Admiral Montgomery would have found another post for you.”

  “I’m sure he would have gotten around to it eventually. I just couldn’t wait, and neither could Seven,” Chakotay replied. “If the Caeliar are still out there, this fleet will be the first to find them. Seven needs to know what happened to her.”

  “But it could take years,” the Doctor worried.

  “And in the meantime, she will have the most capable support I know of, yours, the counselor’s, and mine.”

  “Of course,” the Doctor nodded, “but …”

  “But what?” Chakotay demanded.

  “What if we never find them?” Cambridge finished for him.

  “Then we’ll adapt,” Chakotay suggested.

  The stares of concern that flashed among the three of them sealed a silent agreement.

  We might, Cambridge thought sadly, but I have no idea if Seven will.

  Given how much this extraordinary woman had already endured, never mind the invaluable service she had offered the Federation time and again, the counselor was suddenly struck by the enormity of what might be lost if they failed.

  “Right,” Cambridge muttered. “We’d best get started then.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Voyager was late.

  If Tom’s last message was accurate, they should have arrived at or near enough B’Elanna’s coordinates for her long-range sensors to have detected them by now.

  B’Elanna had hung all her hopes for Miral’s recovery on the appearance of the ship she had never intended to set foot upon again. She had no idea who their new chief medical officer might be. But as long as the doctor was Starfleet, she assumed he would be a vast improvement on the medical staff from New Talax.

  If they ever get here, she worried silently.

  Her stomach ached with an unpleasant combination of fear and nausea. Miral rested beside her in her booster seat, her head tipped forward at that sharp angle only babies seemed to manage with ease. B’Elanna had programmed a subscreen of her control panel to display constant readings of Miral’s vital signs. B’Elanna subconsciously matched her breath to the slow but steady blip monitoring her child’s heart.

  The last time B’Elanna had risked Miral’s life without informing Tom, three years earlier when she had first learned of the danger posed by the Warriors of Gre’thor, it had almost strained her marriage to the breaking point. She didn’t want to make that mistake again, and truly, the likelihood that any transmission she sent would be picked up by the Warriors of Gre’thor was infinitesimal. The problem was she didn’t know where Voyager was. If they were en route, like they were supposed to be, the slipstream corridor would garble any incoming transmissions. Anything received would be automatically stored in a buffer until the ship emerged from slipstream velocity, so whether she sent a message now or later, they wouldn’t receive it until the point had become moot.

  Of course if they weren’t already on their way that probably meant they wouldn’t arrive for hours. Telling Tom to hurry up or his daughter might die wasn’t going to help, though it might limit the number of recriminations between them should the unthinkable come to pass in his absence.

  B’Elanna needed a plan, or she was going to lose what little patience she still had. The nearest inhabited system her charts showed was twelve light-years away. She would give Voyager ten hours. If they didn’t appear, she would make the short trip and take her chances with a hopefully friendly alien species.

  Running her hand lightly over Miral’s forehead ridges, which were uncomfortably warm to the touch, she quickly amended her plan.

  Eight hours at the most.

  She was spared the need to reconsider again by a blurt from her sensor relay.

  Kahless be praised.

  A ship was approaching at warp speed and would be within range in minutes.

  “It’s going to be okay, sweetie,” B’Elanna said softly as her heart climbed into her throat. “Daddy’s almost here.”

  “Warning, unknown vessel approaching,” the computer advised.

  “It’s not an unknown vessel,” B’Elanna chided. “Why are you reading it wrong?” she asked, wondering how many new bugs she was going to find in her system since the well-intentioned Talaxians had been mucking around it. B’Elanna had supervised their efforts but hadn’t focused on them as sharply as was usual, given the amount of time she’d spent in the infirmary with Miral. She’d already been forced to reprogram the replicator that had offered leola root stew no matter what she ordered.

  Quickly reinitializing her scanners, B’Elanna muttered softly to the computer, “Look again.” But before the computer had time to adjust to the baseline parameters, she encountered a sight she had never expected to see again. All too soon it filled her viewscreen.

  “That’s impossible,” B’Elanna said, wishing that her eyes were deceiving her.

  A massive cube hung before her in space.

  As her heart took several deep, painful pounds, B’Elanna waited for the standard greeting of the Borg, promising assimilation. Her hands flew over the controls, rerouting power to shields, charging phaser banks, and preparing one of the ten precious transphasic torpedoes she’d carried for just such an emergency to launch.

  After thirty seconds, she realized that the vessel was not behaving like a Borg ship. Come to think of it, apart from its shape, it didn’t look at all like a Borg ship. The surface lacked the intricate black hull that had always appeared to her as something unfinished. In its place was a polished gray alloy her sensors weren’t identifying. The ship was also uncharacteristically refraining from scanning or threatening her in any way.

  The Caeliar? B’Elanna wondered.

  She knew next to nothing about them, apart from the fact that they had helped the Federation defeat the Borg in the last moments of the invasion. The news feeds B’Elanna had intercepted since then had be
en filled with outlandish speculations about this incredibly advanced species.

  Her Starfleet training reasserted itself. This could be a first-contact situation.

  With shaking hands she opened a channel and began transmitting standard friendship greetings.

  Ten seconds later, an angry purple burst of phased energy erupted from a corner of the cube and shook her ship from stem to stern, rousing Miral from her slumber. Her alarmed cries intensified with the second volley that B’Elanna had immediately moved to evade.

  Apart from the sheer rudeness of the exchange, B’Elanna was confused by what she was seeing. The alien ship’s energy weapons were strong, but her shields were holding and could likely sustain such fire indefinitely. She hesitated to shoot back as she didn’t want to make a bad situation worse. There was a chance these were warning shots, and hardly the most destructive the aliens had at hand.

  They obviously weren’t Borg, but B’Elanna had a hard time believing they were the Caeliar. What little she knew suggested that the Caeliar could easily have disabled or destroyed her vessel in one shot.

  Against her better judgment, B’Elanna decided to give diplomacy one last try.

  “Alien vessel, cease fire. You have engaged a civilian vessel. I have a child on board. I do not mean you any harm and if I have violated your space, I will be happy to depart in peace. Please stand down.”

  In response, the ship sent forth three quick bursts that B’Elanna also found disarmingly easy to evade.

  She was clearly out of safe options and Miral’s plaintive wails reminded her that she was risking more than her own life. With one hand she plotted an escape route and powered up her warp drive. She would run as far as was required to lose her combative new friends but hopefully not so far that Voyager wouldn’t be able to locate her if they ever arrived. A nagging thought snapped into the front of her mind. Neelix’s voice reminded her with harsh simplicity that she never used to run from a fight. She risked much by standing her ground, but there was no way to know what she might lose if she failed to be here when Tom reached these coordinates.