Don’t do it, don’t do it, Harry chanted mentally.
q threaded Harry’s fingers with her own and squeezed tightly.
The Rutillian’s finger leisurely drew invisible circles as he contemplated his choice. He turned a yellow glowing eye on q’s team and fixed his finger toward Monorha.
The Doctor writhed on the floor, Vivia’s containment field pressing against his matrix. Voyager’s message replayed several times, taunting him. He focused his energy, trying to push through Vivia’s barrier the way he had when he’d first been captured, but discovered he was incapable of breaking through. He struggled to understand what had changed when a realization struck: he was clothed in Ced’s flesh.
Vivia looked on placidly, watching him suffer. Clearly she wanted him to relent—to admit that she was right, he was wrong—or he would never return to his ship. The Doctor thought of Kes. He would hold on for her sake. He couldn’t allow Vivia to hurt the child. The sizzling heat of containment strangled his matrix; the Doctor shrank away from the field, remembering what agony Vivia could inflict on him. One last time, he tried to reason with her, crying weakly, “Don’t…be…like them!”
Vivia hovered beside the orchestra pit, the bland, repetitious music of the strings punctuated by Voyager’s static message. He could see the conflict warring on her face. That she hated—no, loathed—the Exiles was without question. But she made no move to free him from the energy field that pressed closer, ever closer with every passing second.
Give up and you will go home.
Crackling, jagged threads brushed against his matrix like sharp-edged knives, peeling his skin away layer by layer. A single thought remained in his mind and he willed Vivia to know it: I will not betray Kes.
She answered him with a hard look.
The Doctor braced himself for the end.
The field collapsed.
Vivia’s head jerked from side to side, searching for the culprit who had thwarted her plan.
“This isn’t your choice to make, Vivia,” a new voice said.
Panting, the Doctor rolled over onto his back and sprawled out on the stage.
Q strolled out of the wings, hands linked behind his back. “Get on your feet, man. There are great things afoot. Get it? Afoot—feet? I just keep ’em coming.”
How dare you! Vivia raged.
“How dare I?” Q said, raising an eyebrow. “How dare you. You know better than to fiddle with the timeline, Vivia. You can’t negate the consequences of others choices simply because you’re a little bothered by a few photons.” He reached down and gave the Doctor a hand up.
The Doctor brushed the dust from his uniform. “Thanks.”
“You’ve got a decision to make,” Q said. He pointed to the ceiling, indicating the loop playing Voyager’s message. “Return to that tin can you call a starship or to that adorable Ocampan you’re so fond of. It’s up to you.”
How easy it would be to leave this hellish dimension and return to live among the people he loved—people who needed him. The penultimate question: Once the Light was reborn, what would happen to Kes? Balim’s words came back to him. I promise you that you will return to Voyager if you trust me.
He sighed deeply, whispered words that he hoped beyond hope that Seven of Nine would hear, and made his choice. In a blink he disappeared.
No one understood how difficult it was, Vivia thought, to be the caretakers of the strings. The Q could be cavalier about the Nacene duty: they weren’t bound to any one dimension. They could do as they pleased. Spoiled children.
Q folded his arms and walked over to the edge of the stage where Vivia hovered above the orchestra pit. She pointedly ignored him.
“You should know better than to tamper in the big game, Vivia. But he was right, you know, the Doctor. You should think about what he said—while you’re waiting for your company to arrive.” He snapped his fingers.
Vivia spun around to face him but Q had disappeared.
Chapter 10
Seven and Chakotay rushed onto the bridge.
“Report!” Chakotay ordered, before he’d even taken his place in the captain’s chair.
Seven walked straight to the engineering station.
Ayala read from his console. “Class-five energy wave originating in the vicinity of the third planet. Sensor readings are inconclusive.”
“Shields down to eighty percent,” Rollins added.
“Can we expect another wave?” Chakotay said, studying the data pouring into his own viewscreen.
“I don’t know, sir,” Ayala said. “Initially, it appeared as if an explosion took place. But on a second read, it seems more likely that something is collapsing at such a rapid rate that the result is a massive release of energy.”
“Has the away team been hit?” Chakotay asked.
“Can’t say, sir. Communications have been disrupted.”
Chakotay knew enough of his own species’ history to recall Earth’s twenty-first-century experimentation with hydrogen fusion, both as an energy source and as a weapon. Ayala’s interpretation of the data helped clarify his own thinking. No doubt in his mind that matter fusion was under way in the Monorhan sector.
“Another wave of that magnitude will drop our shield strength to fifty percent, maybe less,” Seven said. “Our ability to successfully exit this region will be compromised.”
“Ayala, I want the long-range sensor data on Monorha. What is the planet’s status?” Chakotay said, feeling his stomach twist with anticipated dread.
“Sir, the shields—” Rollins said.
“I’m well aware of the shields, Mr. Rollins,” Chakotay said.
“I have to concur with Mr. Rollins,” Seven said. “Once we have resolved the outstanding issue we discussed in the ready room, a speedy departure would be advisable.”
He met her eyes across the bridge. The Doctor! In the panic of red alert, he’d almost forgotten. “Seven, focus your attention on the probe. Resolve that situation as soon as possible.” His unspoken meaning: Do what it takes to get the Doctor back.
Seven nodded, almost imperceptibly, and returned to work.
A few seconds passed as Ayala complied with the order. Chakotay knew that the anomalous character of the region made every task take longer than any of them would prefer.
Finally, Ayala rose from his station, his mouth agape. “Sir…I don’t know how to say this, but it appears that Monorha is imploding. The planet…it’s collapsing in on itself.”
Before he could make a final determination of what course to take, Chakotay needed one last piece of information. “Scan the planet. Are there any unusual energy signatures?”
Ayala ordered the computer to perform the task.
The answer chilled them all.
“An incalculable number of Nacene are in the region of Monorha.”
Chakotay opened a channel to Tuvok. “Away team, this is Voyager. Get back here. Now!” As he walked over to Seven at the engineering station, he ordered Knowles to prepare her navigational coordinates for immediate departure.
“The rih-hara-tan are in the shuttlebay,” Rollins said.
He paused in midstride. His first inclination—to curse—quickly gave way to a realization that the Monorhan leaders might yet prove to be useful. “No one leaves Voyager. Tell Neelix to stay with them and stand by for orders.” Braced against the engineering console, he leaned over and said so softly that no one but Seven could hear him, “Are we going to be able to bring the Doctor in before Tuvok and the away team return?”
Words proved to be unnecessary: the worry in Seven’s eyes answered his question.
Klingons weren’t known as perfectionists, save where weapons technique—say, with the bat’leth—was concerned. Nothing but indifference could explain Klingon cuisine. So B’Elanna blamed the impulse driving her back to the compartment where she’d had problems with bleeding the coolant on her human heritage. Theoretically, what she had done should have destabilized enough of the volatile chemical that
an explosion would follow. The “should” part bothered her. She had neither the time nor the room to make a mistake. The chain reaction she’d carefully orchestrated needed to work the first time: there wouldn’t be a second chance. Besides, the last she’d checked with Tuvok, the shuttle wouldn’t be departing for another fifteen minutes. Plenty of time.
B’Elanna reached the edge of the compartment. The damnable gap she had to jump across. She’d done this what, a dozen times over the last hour and survived with a minimum amount of adrenaline-induced apprehension. Get a grip, Torres, she thought, and took the jump.
Midway across the gap, B’Elanna was struck from behind.
Her mind had only a few seconds to process the severe blow—akin to a belly flop into water off of a thirty-meter cliff—before the force expelled the air from her lungs. Breathless, she gagged; futile gasps drew nothing into her oxygen-starved body. The starscape before her helmet spun round and round until all the flecks of light blurred into jagged streaks. Disoriented, she reflexively threw her arms out to her sides, seeking a sense of up and down so she could right herself, but the spinning continued. Warm, dark lethargy relaxed her: she welcomed the relief.
She blacked out.
Before Commander Chakotay had finished giving his order, Tuvok had started walking toward the airlock where Ensign Tariq was waiting with the shuttle. Ensign Luiz had joined him a few moments ago. Lieutenant Torres had requested additional time that Tuvok felt was unnecessary. Recognizing the engineer’s determination, he allowed her to remain working with the understanding that she would be transported aboard the shuttle at the soonest possible moment. The range and effectiveness of the transporters in this disturbed region favored Torres’s request for more time, however. Tariq would have to pilot the shuttle within visual range in order to assure that there wouldn’t be any problems with the matter buffer. She would be pleased.
The last of the supplies had been loaded into the passenger compartments moments ago. The rudimentary portable replicators that B’Elanna had asked for from Voyager were placed in central locations. Tuvok had explained their use, the best he could coupled with a demonstration, to the strongest Monorhan he could find in each place. It would be a good thing when the rih-hara-tan returned and could provide proper guidance.
He touched his combadge. “Commander Tuvok to Tariq. Time to depart. Has Lieutenant Torres returned?”
“She said she had one last compartment to check out and she’d—” The com signal stopped unexpectedly.
Before Tuvok could wonder why, the compartment he was traveling through quaked violently, swinging sideways, then back again, like a watercraft careering on the Sea of Tears on Vulcan. On every side, hull plating groaned; Tuvok watched the metal bow before his eyes. Monorhans clung to whatever foot- or handhold they could find. Debris flew through the air, crashing into whatever and whoever was in its path. The lights blinked off and on. Tuvok heard screams echoing throughout the ship, the thuds of bodies being hurled against the walls. He clung with one hand to a metal support that connected the floor and ceiling. “Tuvok to shuttle du Châtelet.”
Static answered him.
The tremors stopped.
Moments later: “Commander, this is Tariq. Shock wave of unknown origin just hit us.”
“Lock on my signal and prepare for transport as soon as I’m within range.”
“Transporter standing by, waiting for your command.” Tuvok resumed his trek toward the waiting shuttle. He had only five or so meters before he was in transporter range. For the first time since arriving in Monorhan space, he keenly felt the inconveniences caused by the abnormal spatial conditions. It would be far more efficient if Ensign Tariq could simply remove him from the premises, especially in red-alert conditions.
A vision of Lieutenant Torres in an EVA suit working on the outside of the ship flashed before his eyes. He touched his combadge. “Torres?”
No answer. He contacted Tariq.
“Sensors can’t find her,” the pilot answered. “She’s not where she was supposed to be. The shock wave must have thrown her from the ship.”
Tuvok had been counting the steps until he could leave this unpleasant and dangerous location. He checked his chronometer: the explosion had to be imminent. The shuttle needed to have cleared the area by the time the detonation sequence began. The second Tuvok stepped into range he ordered the shuttle’s transporters to beam him out.
The first words out of his mouth after he rematerialized were “Find Lieutenant Torres. Now.”
Well-orchestrated chaos on the bridge reminded Seven of those moments in the collective when all the voices spoke simultaneously. Her comfort in these circumstances aided her concentration. As subtly as she could, she slid open a door to a nearby storage compartment, removed a small earpiece, and slid it into place over her outer ear, the bud sliding into her auditory canal. Manually, she ordered the computer to send all the probe audio to her earpiece. She would not risk distracting Ayala, who sat nearby, by allowing the newly appointed bridge officer to hear the exact nature of the broadcast.
Granted, most of what Seven could hear was static and unintelligible garble. She had no doubt that someone inside the gash was attempting to communicate, but whether that communication was directed to her or at Voyager was what she needed to determine. Lacking the time to filter out the background noise, Seven had the computer record all of the transmissions so she could study them later.
As best she could, she multitasked, keeping a watchful eye on the events transpiring near Monorha. Best she could tell, the Nacene had attacked the planet, though for what purpose wasn’t readily apparent to her.
The probe indicated that it had nearly located all of the Doctor’s datablocks. All that needed to be done was to initiate the transfer. Seven wanted to allow as much of his matrix as possible to be identified before the rescue started, so she watched the green bars climbing on her screen for the optimal level to be reached.
A red light flashing on her console drew her attention. She raised her eyes to the sensor readouts. She glanced sideways and saw Ayala, looking at her; their eyes met. An unvoiced question passed between them: Who tells the commander?
Seven nodded encouragingly.
Ayala spun away from Seven. “Commander Chakotay, a second shock wave is heading in this direction. We have five minutes before it arrives.”
Since the green bars on the screen remained unchanged, Seven permitted herself a moment to study Chakotay’s solemn, stern face. How he would protect Voyager from the inevitable damage to the shields was not a problem he had the luxury of time to solve. He paused for a long moment, then touched his combadge. “Neelix, I’m ordering an emergency transport of the rih-hara-tan. Mr. Rollins, lock in on the Monorhans and send them to main engineering.”
“Sir?” Rollins sounded confused.
“Do it,” Chakotay snapped.
Very clever, Commander, Seven thought as Chakotay’s plan took shape in her mind. I don’t know that I would have thought of that approach. As tempting as it was to try and be involved in the emergency goings-on, Seven directed all her attention to the probe. If the identification rate continued as it had thus far, she expected to initiate transfer within seconds.
Another blurt of garbled noise erupted into her earpiece. Something amid the noise—an intonation, the modulation—sounded familiar. She knew how close they were to restoring the Doctor to Voyager. Her hand hovered over the button that would bring him home—
The green bars vanished.
Seven blinked, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her. But no, the screen remained empty. Trying to remain calm, she studied the datafeed, wondering if the probe had gone dark, if the shock wave had interfered with the transmission—anything that would explain why she had the Doctor a moment ago and now she didn’t. Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Chakotay, who was barking orders at Neelix and the rih-hara-tan. She couldn’t tell him now. Not when the risk to the ship was so great. She shifte
d her attention back to the probe.
“Shock wave will arrive in three minutes,” Ayala said solemnly.
She had never understood the human expression “having the rug pulled out from under me” until now. In this moment when it seemed all her best efforts had failed, it felt as though the deck plating had dropped out from beneath her feet, dragging her digestion and circulation with it.
The Doctor awoke to lightning dancing across a sickly, gray-yellow sky, answered by growling thunder. The air, thick with humidity, promised rain, but there would be none for this dying world. The Doctor knew this story’s ending. Nacene interference would destroy Ocampa, and its people would spend millennia held hostage deep in the ground because of unlivable surface conditions. Looking around him, it was as if these soldiers—Lia’s army—could sense that fate would rule against them over the long term. They packed their gear, collapsed their tents, and prepared to leave for the next battleground. The Doctor had made it known that Lia would not recover from the damage she suffered in the last attack. Junior officers had assumed command. He had no idea where they were headed or what their plans were other than actively pursuing Mestof’s soldiers. He had not involved himself in their decision making, choosing instead to devote all his attention to Kes.
Pulling his cape closer around him, he sat up and huddled into the rock wall beside the tent, seeking protection from the dust and wind. At least Kes was protected from the elements, inside. Last time he checked on her, shortly after Vivia had returned him to Ocampa, she had slept as peacefully as a female could in the final stages of gestation. How many hours had that been—six? Seven? And truth be told, he wasn’t exactly sure how to think of the woman who rested behind the tent flap.
In his dealings with her, he spoke to her and treated her as he would Kes, though she had explained to him that the physical body he interacted with belonged to Lia. Lia’s weak and fragmented life force had temporarily grafted onto Kes’s. Being already accustomed to complex and intense neurological energies, Lia’s Ocampan physiology readily accomodated Kes’s highly evolved life force.
String Theory, Book 3: Evolution Page 29