All went black for the space of several heartbeats.
Tom knew he was alive and conscious, but he had no idea where he was or how he fit into such a teeny space. The capsule emerged out of liquid into air, still spinning around with momentum that even a speed maniac like Tom was uncomfortable with. When the capsule slowed to an irregular wobble, he checked out his surroundings. Sharp yellowing mounds rose up on each side of the domed space—
Wait. Those are teeth. What the—?
A most horrible gacking noise reverberated around him. A projectile of tangled sticky hair exploded through the air behind him and hurtled straight into the capsule. Tom closed his eyes and braced for impact. With a juicy thwack, the capsule adhered to the pellet. The sour, acidy fumes of partial digestion penetrated the capsule’s permeable membrane.
Tom cracked open one eye as the hair ball emerged from between sharp, pointy canines, watched by the yellowing eye of Kol’s mangy cat, Felix. When the nest of fur and mushy, chewed foodstuffs crashed into the floor, the capsule went with it and exploded on impact, sending Tom Paris flying headfirst toward the ground. His skull hit with a crunch, rendering him unconscious.
Chapter 7
With Seven standing at his left shoulder, Chakotay sat in the captain’s chair on the bridge, watching the viewscreen. The “gash,” as they’d come to call the phenomenon formerly known as the microsingularity or the rift, filled the center of the screen. Waterfalls of white-blue light cascaded over both sides of the gash. Voyager had traveled as far as she could without risking entrapment by the phenomenon. Ayala had scanned the region, discovering, not surprisingly, that the space-time fabric had become riddled with abnormalities that appeared only hours old. Seven appeared to be the only one of the crew unsurprised by how quickly the metamorphosis of the region was occurring. Ensign Knowles had become exceptionally twitchy in the last twenty minutes. Navigation back to regular space would be challenging. But for now, Voyager would wait.
“The probe is ready for launch,” Seven said. “At your word, Commander.”
The risk they’d taken by remaining in Monorhan space came down to this moment. “Launch probe,” Chakotay said.
Seven stepped away from her observation position and took a seat at the engineering console. She tapped a sequence of commands into the control panel.
A trail of yellow-red flame streaked across the viewscreen, aimed directly for the gash. Chakotay never moved his eyes from the torpedo casing bearing the probe, as it drew closer, ever closer, to its target. Mentally, he counted down the time he knew it would take to enter the gash and activate. Ten…nine…eight…
“Activating separation sequence,” Seven said. “Probe will detach…now.”
The torpedo casing fell away, disappearing offscreen as the probe veered up and away from the edge, executing a perfect arc above the gash before plunging downward and vanishing amid the cascading lights.
“Probe initiation sequence under way,” Seven said. “We should start receiving transmissions within thirty seconds.”
Chakotay sat, immobile, hands threaded together on his lap, watching intently. The atmosphere on the bridge vibrated with the crew’s expectations. They knew the stakes. Elongated seconds elapsed. Not a sound disturbed the quiet. When, by Chakotay’s count, at least sixty seconds had passed, he ordered Seven to report.
“The probe has yet to begin transmitting,” she said, her soft, low-pitched voice quavering almost imperceptibly.
“Give it a bit longer. We’ve never encountered phenomena like this and it might not work exactly to our expectations.”
“Yes, Commander,” Seven said tersely, and resumed tapping commands into the workstation computer interface.
Chakotay felt awash in sympathy for Seven. She had proposed this mission that Chakotay suspected many crew members wouldn’t have undertaken given the chance to object. As captain of Voyager, he alone bore responsibility for the consequences of that mission. He wouldn’t be able to look his crew members in the eye and tell them he had done all he could to assure their well-being if he hadn’t tried to recover the Doctor.
Another minute elapsed. Then another. Seven’s fingers still flew over the console with frantic speed.
Chakotay tried to resist the doubts besetting him, but he found them difficult to ignore the longer their wait continued. Knowles unspoken concerns about returning to normal space were justified. Voyager would need to be on its way as soon as possible. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to order Seven to abandon the probe when he heard her assault on the console stop. He twisted to look at her. Her eyes opened wide, sparkling with excitement that prompted Chakotay to smile. “Seven?”
“The probe is transmitting data,” Seven said.
A cheer rose up from the bridge.
Leaning back into the captain’s chair, Chakotay’s shoulders slackened, as some of the considerable weight he’d been carrying since he’d taken on the mantle of command dissipated. He felt like a teenager again, approaching the Elders with his request to undertake the rituals that would prove him to be an adult in the eyes of the tribe. Having passed the first test, he knew the second would be more difficult. The probe would endure the conditions within the gash for ninety minutes. For the moment, though, this small victory felt very, very satisfying.
Rising from his chair, he took two steps before pausing to address the bridge crew. “I don’t need to tell you all that we have a brief window in which to find the Doctor. Seven, please contact the away team and let them know our time frame. I want them back here before the probe goes dark.”
“Yes, Commander,” Seven said.
“Once the search-and-rescue operation is completed, we will set our course for regular space and beyond that, the Alpha Quadrant. I’ll be in—” He hesitated, uncertain as to which possessive he should use. In his mind, this was still Kathryn’s ship. He was, however, the captain. Remembering his recent visit to engineering, when B’Elanna had questioned whose ship this was—his or Kathryn Janeway’s—he realized that now, more than ever, he needed to provide leadership. “I’ll be in my ready room after I’m done meeting our guests in sickbay.”
His next challenge: not one, but twelve rih-hara-tan and rih in training Neelix had brought aboard. When Sem had attempted her mischief with Voyager’s gel packs, he had witnessed firsthand what a psionically gifted Monorhan was capable of. The idea of bringing aboard a dozen individuals who theoretically had the ability to wreak havoc on Voyager during the sensitive probe operation made Chakotay nervous. He’d already ordered Rollins to maintain extra security around sickbay until the rih returned to their ship. He stepped into the turbolift.
Chakotay prided himself on keeping an open mind about places or persons he didn’t know. Growing up in a unique human subculture had taught him what it felt like to be judged by strangers—especially those outside the Federation who knew nothing of their history. His desire to come to a greater understanding of the inhabitants of the galaxy had been, in part, one of his motivations for joining Starfleet.
But Chakotay wasn’t a fool either. He was fond of his great-aunt’s adage “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Such was his thought as he entered sickbay to meet the Monorhan rih. As needy and vulnerable as the Monorhans might appear to be, Chakotay knew from painful experience that such a perception was inaccurate.
He had been on the bridge with Captain Janeway when Sem, a rih sent by the Monorhan planetary government as an advisor, had forced her way onto the bridge during a dangerous operation and tried to interfere. Her ability to manipulate the gel packs was direr than any virus the packs might have contracted from one of Neelix’s creations. Furthermore, Sem had violated one of her culture’s most formidable taboos: she’d initiated a sexual relationship with her shi-harat. Chakotay was not so naïve that he believed all rih to be as black-hearted as Sem; he was not so trusting to believe otherwise.
Sickbay’s doors parted, admitting Chakotay to the crowded treatment area.
“Captain on deck,” said Ensign Juarez, a medic, as he walked past a biobed where she was treating two skeletal rih.
“At ease,” Chakotay said immediately. Looking around the room, he found his new “doctor” engrossed in what appeared to be surgery on an unconscious Monorhan. Since crewmen were passing in and out of her work area, he assumed her procedure wasn’t too delicate. “Lieutenant Nakano, can you give me a report while you work?”
In the surgical bay, Yuko glanced up from an instrument tray and waved him over with a gloved hand. When dealing with unknown aliens, medical staff often took additional precautions—like gloves—lest an unexpected contaminant cause problems for either Voyager’s crew or the alien. “A minor procedure to excise a pocket of infection. We can talk while we work, Captain.”
When Chakotay was situated at her elbow, Yuko began explaining the various medical undertakings that her team had completed since Neelix and the rih had come aboard.
“Have you seen anything I should be aware of?” Chakotay asked in a tone that let Nakano, a former Maquis under his command, know, without him having to state it explicitly, that he had concerns.
Nakano fused the incision closed, administered an anti-infective hypo, then stripped off her red surgical gown and gloves and promptly tossed them in the replicator. “Quite the opposite. Naomi Wildman causes more problems during her checkups than these rih do. They are polite to the point of obsequiousness. I’ve heard more versions of ‘thank you’ today than I’ve heard in four years.”
Looking around sickbay, Chakotay saw nothing that negated Nakano’s observations. “Interesting. Keep up the good work, Lieutenant.”
As he passed by a biobed, a rih reached out and touched his sleeve. Chakotay paused, and acknowledged the Monorhan with a polite nod of the head.
“You are the captain?” came a treble voice, accompanied by the subvocalizations he’d come to associate with the Monorhans.
“May I be of assistance?” Chakotay said.
“I am Tei, the eldest rih among all the rih-hara-tan,” she said. “Your haran has aided in healing our ailments. We are forever in your debt.”
What struck Chakotay about this rih—as opposed to say, Sem—was the utter guilelessness in her expressions and tones. He was reminded of the holy women of Teplos III who devoted their lives to tending the shrines of their ancestors and pursuing pious endeavors. “I wish we could do more for your people—like transport you home. But our capacity is limited at this time.”
“You have already returned our lives to us.” She bent over and took Chakotay’s hand in her own thick, heavily bandaged appendage. “I give you a life oath, on behalf of the other rih and all our haran, that should you require our aid, we will offer it.”
Chakotay contemplated Tei’s promise as he entered the turbolift; her words remained with him as he dropped into the chair behind Kathryn’s desk in her ready room. He toyed with a favorite coffee mug bearing a graphic of a dog. Kathryn must have used it during her last visit to this room. Glancing inside, he discovered coffee stains. He used to wonder why she didn’t just throw her empty mugs into the recycler—he’d asked her about it once. She’d told him that she liked having objects in her life that had history, because it gave her a sense of connection to events and people. Sitting here, holding an item that linked him to her, he understood exactly what she meant.
He glanced at the chrono: seventy minutes to go. Waiting was the difficult part, and he had no doubt that the next hour or so would be the longest part of an already long week.
At a future time, when Chakotay reflected on his days as Voyager’s acting captain, he would realize how dramatically he’d underestimated how long this hour would turn out to be.
The Doctor asked three soldiers before he found one who knew of Balim’s whereabouts. Apparently Lia’s chosen mate socialized little with the troops. The Doctor believed he knew the reason for the soldier’s reticence: he likely didn’t want to be found out.
Balim had last been seen leaving the supper fires and following the switchback trail up to the overlook where the Doctor had watched the battle with Iga. It was believed that Balim had been sent for reconnaissance purposes, since the overlook had the most expansive view in the area.
The watch patrol numbers were doubled as evening came on. Constant vigilance against a surprise attack was required. As the Doctor made his way to the trailhead, he had been met at each tension-filled checkpoint he passed through with questions: Will we be attacked tonight? Can the general lead us? The Doctor admonished them to be wary but to avoid letting fear control them, for otherwise mistakes would be made. His years with Kathryn Janeway had taught him the importance of maintaining composure in the face of adversity. He had been struck, as he reassured the soldiers, by their youth. Indeed, as he asked their ages, few had reached five years.
The long, twisting path up to the overlook gave the Doctor plenty of time to think about Lia, Vivia, and his mission. Regardless of whether Balim was the Light, the Doctor couldn’t stand around idly while Lia remained in the thrall of a Nacene Exile. Lia’s life would be in danger, and so would the lives of those who served with her. Yet there was no denying that Lia loved Balim. The Doctor couldn’t readily dismiss her feelings; he had no right to tell her who to love. Conflict raged within him every step up the hill. No good resolution presented itself.
Trudging up the final stretch to the top, the Doctor once again longed for his holomatrix: no sore muscles and certainly no fatigue. The uncomfortable tingling had returned as well, though not as powerful as before, affirming what he already suspected to be true.
Rounding the last corner, he saw Balim, an ill-defined silhouette, standing at the top of the trail, blocking his passage. Walking up through the soldier’s shadow, the Doctor noticed upon drawing closer that Balim carried no visible weapons and wore no armor. Clad in the artless tunic of a peasant worker, Balim appeared harmless enough—on the surface.
Closer observation revealed muscular arms and shoulders; Balim could snap a neck like a twig. His lithe body hinted at speed and agility in running or fighting. He lacked any visible symptom of the radiation sickness that plagued virtually every soldier the Doctor had encountered. That should have tipped me off, the Doctor thought. Traitor.
“I’ve expected you,” Balim said. “You’re a long way from home, creature of light.”
His words had the melodious, sonorous roundness the Doctor recalled from their encounter on the battlefield. He probably could sing a competent aria, given the chance.
“Exosia isn’t exactly next door, Master Balim.” The Doctor stopped walking when he came close enough to look Balim directly in the eye. The previous night’s waxing crescent moon had been replaced by the more effulgent light of the first quarter, providing them enough illumination to see by. “I’m here representing Lia’s interests.”
“Are you sure you don’t mean Vivia’s?” Balim countered. “You’re here to stop me. Call out to Vivia, tell her you’ve found her archenemy so she can send a cadre of her followers to capture me.”
The confession startled the Doctor; he paused, as if struck by a physical blow. So you are the Light. He needed only to stop the Light to fulfill his promise to Vivia. But Lia…
“You should be confused, man of light. You’re on the wrong side; you don’t see it yet.”
“I’m not confused. I’m concerned. What Lia sees in you beyond your handsome face eludes me, but she loves you and I need to understand why she cares so much before I make any decisions about Vivia. You’ve taken Ocampan form and seduced a vital military leader—that can’t be an arbitrary decision on your part.”
“The way you explain it makes me sounds so calculating,” Balim said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Believe me when I say I had no intention of involving myself in the affairs of this world.”
“You’re not denying you’re Nacene?”
“If you don’t deny you’re photonic.”
“I’ve seen w
hat your kind has done to the Ocampans. You reduce them to being dependent children—” Recalling Tanis and the other Ocampans on the array, the Doctor continued, “—or you exploit their psionic abilities.”
Turning his back on the Doctor, Balim walked back onto the outlook, gazing out over the battlefield. “Suspiria wasn’t always as you found her,” Balim said thoughtfully. “Of course, you’ll learn that for yourself, so expending energy to persuade you now is a waste of time for us both.”
Indignation welled up within the Doctor. How dare this Nacene sound self-congratulatory and so lackadaisical about matters of critical importance! He stormed over to where Balim stood. “That little display on the battlefield—the orb of burning light is what the troops are calling it. Quite theatrical and quite nearly impossible for an Ocampan to sustain such a display of telekinetic powers without help.” Remembering Kes’s suffering at Tanis’s hands because of Suspiria, he could barely contain the impulse to squeeze the life out of the handsome form the Nacene had taken. He took several steps toward Balim, fists raised. “Why can’t you leave the Ocampa well enough alone?”
Smiling sympathetically, Balim gently pushed the Doctor’s fists down until they hung at his sides. “There is an empathic connection between the Nacene and Ocampa that the Exiles have failed to find elsewhere. What began as harmless interest became, for some of my kindred, far more deadly.”
“Some of your kindred? Mestof’s wizards?” The Doctor recalled that two of them had been taken into custody. “I should have realized that only a Nacene can effectively contain another Nacene. Lia is very impressed with your strategy.”
String Theory, Book 3: Evolution Page 22