Star Trek Voyager: Unworthy

by Kirsten Beyer

  Neither option was particularly good, but something she hadn’t felt in years, something she had buried, rushed through her veins reminding B’Elanna that she was, first and always, a warrior.

  She had been pushed to her limits by the Warriors of Gre’thor. She’d lost something to them she hadn’t even missed until this moment. She had unconsciously chosen to become a victim, and that had left her frightened and alone. It had made B’Elanna think that she had no control over her destiny. It had separated her and her daughter for far too long from the man she loved.

  A Klingon chose how they faced life and death. She didn’t plan to die, but suddenly she knew in her bones that she didn’t plan to live by anyone else’s terms.

  B’Elanna shut down the warp drive and pushed her impulse engines to maximum as she came about to face her assailant.

  “You’d better have more than that in your torpedo tubes,” she said aloud, “because I’m done running.”

  B’Elanna returned fire.

  Captain Eden had sat calmly in her chair on the bridge for the hour it had taken Voyager, the Hawking, and the Galen to cover the twenty-plus thousand light-years between the fleet’s first stop at the terminus of the Beta and Delta quadrants to the first location they were going to investigate. The fleet had separated into three groups of three ships. The first group was tasked with investigating a potentially dangerous alien species encountered during the Aventine’s prior investigation of a series of subspace corridors that had granted the Borg easy access to the Alpha quadrant. The second group was following slowly on Voyager’s heels dropping communication relays along the way.

  Paris was looking forward to the end of this particular leg of the trip, mainly because he knew B’Elanna and Miral would be waiting there to greet him. But he was also curious to see what was left of the transwarp hub Voyager had destroyed four years earlier. Their rendezvous point was the last stop Voyager had made in the Delta quadrant and it was poetic that it would be the first place the fleet would investigate. Tom hadn’t spent a lot of time wondering what they might have missed when they left the Delta quadrant behind. Picking up where they had left off just seemed right.

  Starfleet Intelligence’s reports assumed that they would find nothing. All traces of Borg technology had vanished along with the Caeliar. Whether or not this would include the debris of a vast unicomplex remained to be seen.

  Though he was still getting used to seeing the trim, ebony-skinned figure in the command seat, the last several months working to ready the fleet had banished any concerns Paris had felt in serving under her. Eden was sharp and tough. She began every morning with a long list of orders, but Tom took comfort in the fact that her personal list was usually twice as long. She treated her senior officers as trusted comrades, encouraging them to show initiative and rewarding them with heartfelt praise when they managed to exceed her high standards. It was still too soon to tell whether or not she would bond with those who had been with Voyager the longest. The sudden death of Admiral Janeway followed too quickly by the chaos of the Borg Invasion during which Chakotay had completely unraveled had left those who had served together for eleven years shell-shocked. It was clear that some of the newer officers, including Conlon and their new CMO, Doctor Sharak, were warming to Eden. Counselor Cambridge, Paris had learned, was an old friend of Eden’s. Tom had served for three years with Cambridge aboard Voyager without ever developing the casual warm regard for him that Eden obviously felt.

  Paris found himself considering the differences between Voyager’s female captains. Kathryn Janeway had been ferocious, driven by a passion for exploration. She was protective of her crew, quick to find the brightest spot in any catastrophe, headstrong, and sometimes reckless in battle. Afsarah Eden’s power was calmer and deeper. There was a regal quality to her that went beyond her exotic beauty. Her wide, dark eyes set above an aquiline nose punctuated by firmly set, full lips were always hungrily searching, an inquisitiveness borne of a desire beyond exploration. She seemed to be seeking synthesis, whether of a new technology or a character trait of a crewman. She rarely spoke freely. The distance she kept was professional and appropriate to her station, but Tom felt that if he ever needed to cross that line, she would respond with patience and respect.

  She was fifteen years older than Janeway had been when she assumed command of Voyager, and with her age had come a sense of both calm restraint and poise. Eden hadn’t spent all her years in Starfleet exploring space. Scuttlebutt had it that she had passed on a promotion to join the fleet. Paris wondered if commanding Voyager might have meant setting aside her goals.

  Her former husband, Admiral Willem Batiste, was less of a mystery. Tom had spent more time on and off duty around this breed of man than he’d cared to. Batiste, like so many of his father’s friends, carried himself with an energy that dared anyone to contradict him. Though Tom had never witnessed anything but the utmost in professionalism from either Eden or Batiste, he secretly wondered how Eden was able to serve under him.

  He and Harry had managed to catch a quick dinner in the mess the night before, but messages to Chakotay and Seven had gone unanswered. Tom was curious what had brought them to the fleet but this mystery could wait.

  Gwyn—who hadn’t stepped so much as a hair out of line in the last two weeks—interrupted his reverie as she announced, “Dispersing slipstream corridor.”

  Paris had finally become so accustomed to the transition during their test runs that he had started to take it for granted. The turbulent white tunnel vanished as the ship’s inertial dampeners strained to compensate for the abrupt shift in velocity. After a few seconds, the viewscreen showed a serene starfield.

  “Helm, full stop,” Eden commanded. Turning her head toward Tom with a faint smile, she added, “How does it feel to be back, Mister Paris?”

  “Weird,” Paris replied honestly. He read subtle disappointment in her face, so he added, “But in a good way.”

  The captain asked, “Gwyn, what’s our distance to the nebula?”

  “One point six light-years, Captain.”

  “Let’s take a look, shall we? Helm, plot a course.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Gwyn replied.

  “Bridge to Admiral Batiste,” Eden called.

  “Go ahead.”

  “We have arrived at the coordinates and are preparing to investigate the nebula that was the site of the transwarp hub.”

  “ Keep me informed. Batiste out.”

  “Ensign Lasren, advise Hawking and Galen to hold position until we return.”

  Tom wondered if the uncomfortable warm and prickly sensation he was experiencing might have been his blood pressure rising, as there was no report yet of B’Elanna’s ship.

  “Lasren, are long-range sensors detecting anything unusual in the area?” Paris asked.

  “I’m recalibrating our sensors to compensate for the nebula, sir.”

  “Captain,” Kim’s troubled voice piped in. “I’m picking up high energy discharges near the nebula.”

  “Source?” Eden asked.

  Paris had to hold tightly to his armrests to avoid coming out of his chair. Harry finally said, “Two ships, an unregistered vessel similar to Federation design and a much larger vessel of unknown origin.” He added, “The larger vessel has a cube-shaped configuration.”

  “Is it the Borg?” Eden asked calmly.

  “The readings don’t match anything in our database. There are traces of tritanium, but the alloy and weapons signatures don’t appear to be Borg.”

  A small mercy.

  “We should investigate,” Paris quickly advised Eden. Please, he added silently.

  “Agreed,” Eden replied. “Ensign Gwyn, alter course to intercept. Lieutenant Kim, Yellow Alert.”

  Within moments the battle in progress appeared on the viewscreen.

  “Life signs?” Eden asked.

  “Two Klingons aboard the unregistered vessel. No life signs detected aboard the cube. It appears to be fully automated.�
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  “More Klingons in the Delta quadrant?” Eden asked, her brow furrowing.

  “The cube has sustained damage, Captain,” Kim reported. “Their shields are failing and I’m detecting overloads in several systems. The unregistered vessel’s shields are at eighty percent of maximum.”

  Paris was torn between admiring B’Elanna’s success and getting her the hell out of danger as soon as possible. The shuttle maneuvered easily around the larger ship, avoiding direct fire. Still, the situation could change in seconds.

  “Open a channel,” Paris ordered.

  “Channel open,” Lasren confirmed.

  Before Eden could object, Tom said, “This is the Federation Starship Voyager to the pilot of the unregistered vessel. Do you require assistance?”

  A garbled response came over the comm.

  “Lasren, can you clean that up?” Paris demanded.

  “Commander,” Eden said angrily.

  Paris turned directly to Eden and said softly, “Captain, my wife and my daughter are aboard that ship.”

  Eden’s eyes widened in surprise but she replied just as softly, “Your recently deceased wife and daughter?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Tom confirmed.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Eden’s jaw clenched but it was clear she didn’t doubt him. It was equally clear that once the confrontation was done, Tom was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

  “Red Alert,” Eden called out. “Battle stations.” Klaxons sounded as the bridge was bathed in a crimson glow.

  “Shields at maximum. Charging weapons,” Harry said.

  “Ensign Gwyn, put us between the shuttle and the cube. Ensign Lasren, as soon as we’re in position, advise the pilot of that shuttle to drop shields and prepare for emergency transport.”

  Voyager moved gracefully into position. The shuttle disengaged. The ship shuddered as the fire intended for B’Elanna was absorbed by Voyager instead. Kim’s reports indicated that they had sustained no serious damage.

  “Return fire?” Kim asked.

  “Not unless it becomes absolutely necessary,” Eden replied. “Lasren, have we got the crew of that shuttle on board yet?”

  Tom’s breath caught in his chest until Lasren replied, “Confirmed, Captain. Two individuals transported aboard. They require medical attention and are on their way to sickbay.”

  With a firm nod and a withering glance at Paris, Eden ordered, “Lock onto the shuttle with a tractor beam and get us out of here. Full impulse.”

  The helm began to execute the maneuver but the alien ship, which obviously didn’t know when it was beaten, pursued and continued to fire.

  “What are they doing?” Kim asked. “They couldn’t take that shuttle. They don’t stand a prayer against us.”

  “There’s no one aboard to reason that out,” Lasren reminded him.

  Eden addressed the pursuers. “Alien vessel. We mean you no harm. We have just recovered two of our people and do not intend to continue these hostilities. Stand down.”

  The only response was continued, intermittent phaser fire.

  “Lieutenant Kim, can you target their propulsion system?”

  “It’s hard to say, Captain,” Harry replied. “Our sensors show fifteen different configurations that could indicate propulsion.”

  “Pick the two most likely and fire,” Eden ordered. “I want to disable them, not destroy them.”

  Bright blue beams intersected with the cube and massive explosions bloomed across its scarred hull.

  “Brace for impact!” Harry called as the subsequent immolation of the cube sent violent shockwaves spreading through space, tossing Voyager about in their wake.

  Once the dust had settled, Eden turned a hard gaze toward Paris, but addressed Kim.

  “Do we need to look at the definition of disable, Lieutenant Kim?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Harry replied. “The ship had sustained too much damage. I can confirm that no-life forms were aboard.”

  “Stand down Red Alert,” Eden said cheerlessly. “Begin full analysis of the debris. I want to know where that ship came from and to whom exactly we now owe an apology.” To Lasren she added, “Contact Hawking and Galen. Advise them to regroup at our position to assist in the investigation.”

  Finally the captain turned on her first officer. “Why is it, Mister Paris, that we couldn’t manage five minutes in the Delta quadrant without ticking off the natives?”

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Paris said earnestly. “Permission to report to sickbay?”

  “With me,” Eden replied in a voice that chilled him. Rising from her seat she headed toward her ready room. “Mister Kim, the bridge is yours.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Doctor considered the hypothetical catom. It was truly a miraculous piece of engineering. He had studied a wide variety of molecular technology, but the catom in its elegance and simplicity put the the nanoprobe to shame. Of course, it frustrated him to a degree that he wasn’t certain he was actually looking at a catom. He had isolated discrete packets of molecules within Seven where once, much cruder machines had been integrated into her organic systems. For now, he labeled these particles catoms. Understanding exactly how they worked was going to take time.

  In essence, catoms were programmable matter. They could reconfigure themselves, presumably into any shape or arrangement required by the systems they were sustaining. It seemed likely that since these catoms were keeping Seven alive, their configurations might be more specific than the catoms that reshaped Captain Erika Hernandez, a human woman who had become part of the Caeliar gestalt. Only after Admiral Batiste had cleared the way had the Doctor been able to access Hernandez’s classified medical file. He knew that the best minds in Starfleet Medical were trying to understand how the catoms altered her human physiology. The Doctor knew he was at a disadvantage but he had confronted deeper medical mysteries since he had first been activated and did not doubt his ability to rise to this challenge.

  An incessant chiming broke his concentration, which he realized was a comm request from Voyager’s sickbay. Doctor Sharak, Voyager’s CMO, was the first Tamarian the Doctor had met. For years, the universal translator was unable to render the Tamarian language into Standard. Finally, a Tamarian captain, Dathon, had risked his life and that of Captain Jean-Luc Picard in a bid to bridge this gap. It was discovered that the Tamarian grammatical structure was based on metaphor. Several members of Doctor Sharak’s species had built upon those first tentative steps by immersing themselves in Federation culture, resulting in new translation protocols.

  Sharak was the first Tamarian to enter Starfleet’s service. As the principles of science were universal at their most basic levels, the fact that a scientist whose language was based on metaphor could communicate more easily in these realms was understandable. What made Sharak remarkable was that while studying at Starfleet Medical, he mastered Standard.

  The Doctor opened the channel, and Sharak’s wide, mottled face appeared before him.

  “Greetings, Doctor,” Sharak said amiably.

  “How may I assist you, Doctor Sharak?”

  “Do you retain within your personal database baseline analysis of a Miral Paris?” Sharak asked.

  “Of course,” the Doctor replied, wondering why Sharak might require this information.

  “Would you be so generous as to transmit it to me?”

  “Immediately,” the Doctor said, nodding. “Is there anything else?”

  “No.”

  “You should have the files now,” the Doctor replied as he confirmed the upload from his database.

  Sharak signed off without further comment and his face was replaced by the standard Starfleet symbol.

  Resuming his analysis a troubling, recurring subroutine pestered the Doctor until he realized it would disrupt his concentration if he failed to address it. He quickly reactivated his comm panel to hail Doctor Sharak. Moments later the face of Sharak’
s nurse, Ensign Eline Bens, appeared.

  “May I speak with Doctor Sharak?” he inquired.

  “The doctor is with a patient but I will have him get back to you as soon as possible,” Bens said.

  “I understand. I’m just curious about a request he made to review an old patient file. Can you tell me why he wished to see Miral Paris’s records?”

  “Miral Paris is his patient. Could you excuse me, please?” Bens abruptly terminated the transmission.

  The Doctor sat stunned for two point six seconds before contacting Commander Glenn.

  “What can I do for you, Doctor?” she asked.

  “Captain, I have to get to Voyager immediately. Are we close enough to transfer my program?”

  “We’re en route to meet up with them now,” Glenn advised. “We should be in range in the next few minutes. What’s going on? ”

  “Doctor Sharak’s nurse has just advised me that he’s treating one of my old patients.”

  “I’m sure Doctor Sharak has matters well in hand,” Glenn noted.

  “The patient in question died three months ago.”

  Glenn immediately replied, “Understood . Ensign Lawry, increase to maximum warp. Get us within range of Voyager, now, and hail Captain Eden for me .”

  The moment her ready room doors closed behind them, Eden turned to Paris, her obvious sense of betrayal plain in her troubled eyes.

  “You weren’t surprised to find that ship here, were you, Mister Paris?”

  “No, Captain,” he admitted. “Though I was surprised that they were engaged in battle.”

  “Explain,” Eden ordered.

  Tom took a deep breath. “A Klingon sect known as the Warriors of Gre’thor tried to kill my daughter three years ago.”

  Eden nodded for him to continue.

  “The Emperor Kahless, B’Elanna, and I all agreed that the only way to stop them was to make them believe that B’Elanna and Miral were dead. B’Elanna constructed that ship at a civilian facility. During the Borg Invasion she ejected wreckage near one of the battle sites and when it was found, they were declared dead. I provided B’Elanna with our rendezvous coordinates.”