Star Trek: Voyager: Children of the Storm

by Kirsten Beyer

  She couldn’t argue with his thoroughness or the assignments. But she did have one thing to add.

  “We’ll remain here for eight hours. If no new information surfaces in that time about the whereabouts of Quirinal or Demeter, we will retreat to a safer distance before determining our next move.”

  Chakotay clearly bit back his response, but his disapproval of her choice to limit their time was obvious. Addressing the group, he said only, “You have your orders. Dismissed.”

  Eden expected a full-throated complaint once the others had left, but he surprised her by following the others out, leaving her alone with her copy of Demeter’s logs in the conference room.

  The silence that was her companion was no less tense than that which had permeated the room before she had learned of Planck’s fate. She took a moment to scroll through the list of the names and ranks of all hands lost aboard Planck, and a few minutes more to begin to grieve their loss. Seventy deaths were on her head, and each one left a bitter wound in her heart. She refused to add the weight of Quirinal’s or Demeter’s crews for now, though how they could possibly have escaped intact was hard to imagine.

  Eight hours from now, she might not have a choice, but she’d be damned if Voyager’s crew or the rest of the fleet would also be lost in a vain attempt to bring closure to this incident. She understood Starfleet’s curiosity about this species, but absolute truth often came at a price that was simply too high to pay. Thinking back over the last few minutes, she knew she could make peace with that eventually, but she doubted seriously that Chakotay would.

  “Damn you, Willem,” she said softly before retreating to her office.

  It took Seven nearly an hour to create a search subroutine for the astrometric sensors that could pinpoint Federation debris within the field comprised otherwise of Borg wreckage. Her initial review of the snapshot the sensors had taken during their all too brief mission to retrieve the buoy hadn’t revealed anything, but given the fact that a truly accurate reading would have taken at least an hour to render, she was not disheartened by her initial inability to find what she was seeking. The astrometric sensors were amazing things, but they were not designed to function best under time limits. They extended the power of long-range sensors dramatically, assuming they had sufficient time to extrapolate the data they were receiving. The three-minute glimpse she had to work with was almost useless, but even from this distance, she could align the sensors to study the debris field and search for alloys unique to Federation starship construction.

  All she needed was time, which was precisely the thing she did not have.

  She had also enhanced the astrometrics array’s subspace receivers. They had detected the buoy’s signal almost immediately upon Voyager’s emergence from slipstream velocity. The more she considered Quirinal’s predicament, however—at least as best she understood it from the fragments logged by Demeter—the more certain she was that the only chance they would have had to escape would have been by using their slipstream engines to put greater distance between themselves and the Children of the Storm than would allow for pursuit.

  This meant that the search grid for a signal from Quirinal needed to be much wider than the array’s receivers could possibly detect under normal circumstances.

  For all I know, they could have made it back to the Alpha Quadrant in the last two weeks, Seven thought morosely.

  This thought, however, suddenly sparked another, and sent her searching all available data for something else. Within minutes, she had found it.

  She immediately turned her attention to the deflector array and, to her consternation, found that access to the controls she required had been restricted. Given Admiral Batiste’s recent use of the deflector for his own dangerous purposes, Seven understood the increased security, though understanding made it no less irritating.

  “Seven of Nine to Lieutenant Conlon,” she said briskly. Her mind was racing, already calculating field densities and gravimetric wavelengths in preparation for putting her plan into effect.

  “This is Conlon,” the chief engineer replied.

  “Please release deflector controls to me at once,” Seven requested; though, because she was Seven, it sounded more like an order than a request.

  After a brief pause, B’Elanna’s voice answered her. “Why do you need deflector control, Seven?”

  “I have detected a class-A magnetar and intend to use the deflector to target it with a tachyon pulse in order to collapse it into a micro-singularity.”

  Another long pause suggested that her response was not being met with appropriate enthusiasm.

  Confirmation of this suspicion came when B’Elanna charged into astrometrics a few minutes later, almost seething. Without preamble she launched into an entirely unnecessary history lesson.

  “Seven, do I need to remind you what happened the last time you tried to use the deflector to emit tachyons? Because as I recall, it ended with me stranded in space trying to recover the warp core we had to eject when the deflector overloaded.”

  “I remember the incident perfectly well, Commander,” Seven replied flatly. “And while I realize the events of that day were traumatic, didn’t they also result in the profession of feelings for Commander Paris that ultimately led to your union in marital bliss?”

  The lightness of Seven’s tone had the intended effect. B’Elanna’s wrath deflated as quickly as it had asserted itself and she sighed, though she fell short of breaking into a full smile.

  “If I had it to do over again, I’d have found less extreme circumstances under which to begin my relationship with Tom,” B’Elanna said.

  “Would you?” Seven asked. Thankfully, both of them knew she was teasing.

  “What do you need a micro-singularity for? What did that poor magnetar ever do to deserve destruction? I mean, I’d like to leave as much of space as possible the way we found it,” B’Elanna said, returning to the subject at hand.

  “I intend to use it to expand our subspace receiver’s range.”

  Seven watched as B’Elanna mentally calculated the risks and rewards of her plan.

  “You think one or both of the ships might have used their slipstream drives to escape and are now too far out of range—”

  “I do,” Seven cut her off.

  B’Elanna turned away to stare at the large wall, which displayed the several searches the astrometrics array was currently undertaking, including the grid that showed the location of the magnetar Seven had discovered, less than a light-year from their present location. After a moment, she shook her head. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  “One would think after all these years, you’d have grown accustomed to it,” Seven replied.

  Finally, B’Elanna did smile. “You contact Chakotay. I’ll return to engineering to walk Conlon through this. And we’re going to go really slowly this time. If we end up needing to dump the core again, I’m going to blame you. And then I’m going to make sure you’re the one who has to go out there and get it.”

  “Understood.” Seven smiled back. “Though you should also add Reg Barclay to your list of targets. I would never have considered it had he not so successfully used similar technology to reach Voyager years ago.”

  “Yeah, remind me to thank him again for that the next time I see him,” B’Elanna said with appropriate sarcasm.

  Five hours later, and without damage to the deflector or core, Seven had successfully expanded the range of Voyager’s subspace receivers by approximately thirty thousand light-years.

  It would be another hour and forty minutes, however, until Seven’s efforts were rewarded.

  “You have to talk to her,” Tom said.

  He was seated at Chakotay’s left and had been quietly insisting for the last several minutes that whether or not their search results bore fruit, they were honor-bound to return to the scene of the battle to retrieve Planck’s remains and more thoroughly analyze the debris field for remnants of their other ships.

  “I know
,” Chakotay replied.

  “Between the two ships we’re talking about over seven hundred people. That’s too many families back home to leave wondering what happened to their loved ones.”

  Chakotay hadn’t considered it from this point of view; he was more worried about the seven hundred plus crewmen and officers that might still be in need of rescue. But Tom was right.

  “I know,” Chakotay said again.

  Tom paused, clearly not satisfied with Chakotay’s acknowledgment.

  “It’s not that I don’t understand the risks,” Tom went on. “But I can’t believe she’d just abandon them without knowing for sure that they were destroyed.”

  Chakotay met Tom’s eyes. “I get it,” he said intently. “But I’d like to see her come to that conclusion on her own before—”

  “Captain,” Ensign Lasren interrupted from ops.

  “Yes, Ensign?” Chakotay replied, turning to see the young Betazoid’s face alight with relief.

  “I think I’ve found our needle,” Lasren said.

  “On-screen,” Chakotay ordered as he turned back to the main viewscreen.

  A dark, grainy image filled the screen, replacing the star field. At first, Chakotay couldn’t see what had Lasren so excited.

  “I know it’s not much to look at, but this is the best image I can pull from the astrometric sensors,” Lasren said. After a moment, a subtle blue flash emerged and then disappeared so quickly Chakotay almost thought he had imagined it. “The debris field conceals the image but for that tenth of a second. It appears that the Federation contact is located well within the system.” When no one hurried to congratulate him, Lasren continued, “It’s faint, but I’m almost sure it’s them.”

  “Who?” Chakotay asked.

  The wind left some of Lasren’s sails as he replied, “I can’t say for sure.”

  “Could it be debris?” Tom asked.

  “Yes,” Lasren reluctantly admitted. “But as it’s the only contact visible, I’m thinking it’s an intact vessel, probably Demeter.”

  Chakotay stared hard at the image that Lasren had running in a recurring loop. Every few seconds, the blue flash appeared, almost daring him to come closer.

  “I agree with Lasren,” Harry piped up from tactical. “It’s definitely a Federation signature. I’d estimate approximately six hundred thousand kilometers from the system’s fourth planet. It’s also a viable trajectory from Demeter’s last known course.”

  Before Chakotay could contact Eden to inform her of this development, she hurried onto the bridge, her face aglow.

  “Ensign Gwyn, you should be receiving new coordinates from astrometrics at any moment. Plot a slipstream jump and let me know the moment you are prepared to execute.”

  “What happened?” Chakotay asked, rising as she approached the seat to his right.

  “Seven has picked up Quirinal’s distress call. They’re approximately twenty-two thousand light-years from our present position.”

  “They survived,” Chakotay said, briefly sharing the intensity of her relief.

  “It’s an automated signal. It doesn’t tell us anything about their condition. But we know where they are and we’re going after them,” Eden said.

  “Ensign Lasren believes he has detected Demeter,” Chakotay advised her.

  “Explain,” Eden requested.

  Chakotay directed her attention to the viewscreen and the sensor loop. When she didn’t immediately respond, he said, “Lieutenant Kim concurs with Lasren’s hypothesis.”

  Eden’s initial enthusiasm began to dim. After a moment she turned to Chakotay and, rising, said, “Your ready room.”

  Chakotay followed her through the bridge doors that accessed his private office. When the doors were closed behind him, she said, “My inclination is to go after Quirinal. Our evidence of their survival is more compelling than what Lasren has presented.”

  Chakotay took a moment to consider both sides of the unhappy equation.

  “Frankly, neither evidence is terribly conclusive, and if we go after Quirinal now, we risk losing Demeter.”

  “Let’s say Lasren is right,” Eden said, clearly unmoved. “Two weeks ago the Children of the Storm took Demeter into the heart of their territory, and the ship has survived this long in one piece.”

  “Without a lot more information we can’t assume that their condition is stable.”

  “Nor can we begin to mount a rescue mission without a lot more information about what we’re up against,” Eden countered. “We know Quirinal engaged the enemy. Before we risk going after Demeter, we need to know a hell of a lot more than we do right now about their tactics and destructive capabilities.”

  Chakotay massaged his forehead with the heel of his palm. “We could return to the fleet and send Esquiline, Achilles, and Galen after Quirinal,” he suggested.

  “And lose another two days in the process.”

  “Or we could send the Delta Flyer in to aid Demeter while we go after Quirinal.”

  “After what they did to Planck, you really think the Delta Flyer is going to be much help?”

  She was right, and he knew it, but he still couldn’t justify abandoning that flashing blue signal. After a brief pause Chakotay finally admitted, “There’s no good answer to this one, is there?”

  Eden shook her head. After another tense moment she made her decision.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SIXTEEN DAYS EARLIER

  U.S.S. DEMETER

  As Commander Liam O’Donnell exited the bridge, his hands were already beginning to shake. The calm veneer he had just displayed for his crew was a performance he had perfected over the years. It was easier to do in the presence of a genuine problem as intriguing as the Children of the Storm because at least part of his mind could focus on that. The moment he was alone, however, he was forced to acknowledge the gravity of the situation, and to add this to the list of things at which he had failed in his life.

  Anyone looking at O’Donnell’s file would have had a hard time seeing those failures. His record was a collection of one amazing and usually impossible accomplishment after another. Only Liam counted the lives lost in the days, weeks, months, and years leading up to his breakthroughs. Only Liam knew that the most important thing he had ever attempted had ended in abject failure and two deaths he could never accept.

  Only Liam knew that he had eschewed active command of a vessel for years because he doubted his ability to function under the stress of a situation exactly like the one he now found himself in. Every life aboard Demeter was now his to save or lose, and if lost, he doubted he would ever recover.

  “Alana,” he whispered, placing one slow and steady foot in front of the other, trying as best he could not to allow the familiar panic that was the prelude to failure to engulf him.

  As the seconds dragged with no response, a cascade of shadows began to crowd in around him.

  This isn’t my fault, Alana, he pleaded with her. Please, answer me. Everyone is doing the best they can. No one is going to die. I’ll go back to the lab and get to work. These aliens have a weakness and I’ll find it before anyone else does. You’ll see. I won’t fail you again.

  Every time he repeated this thought, he believed it less.

  Alana, please …

  A vaguely familiar darkness asserted itself. A nauseating wave swept over him, beginning in his toes and leaving him sweating and breathless within seconds. A hand lifted to his head came down drenched.

  No … nobody has died yet.

  It’s been years.

  Years since the walls had fallen.

  Years spent patiently rebuilding them with Alana’s help.

  Years since he had risked anything more disastrous than the failure of one of his experiments.

  Damn you to hell, Willem Batiste. Damn the Children of the Storm, the Borg, the Delta Quadrant. Damn the entire Federation.

  Placing one hand against the hallway wall to steady himself, the commander wondered how long his stomach wou
ld continue to hold its contents.

  He forced his eyes to focus on a single joint on the wall, but with each breath he attempted, the sourness in his stomach ratcheted upward and a pool of tinny saliva gathered in his mouth.

  Looking up, he saw a ghost standing before him. Obsidian eyes glared at him, far more menacing than the brown, rough-scaled flesh of Kressari’s Quorum Minister Genov-see.

  “The land in question has been privately held for nineteen generations,” the minister thundered.

  O’Donnell hadn’t laid eyes on the man in twenty-four years, and he damn sure wasn’t in the Delta Quadrant right now.

  “You were brought here to help us solve this problem, Lieutenant O’Donnell,” Genov-see went on vehemently. “You promised us yields would quadruple within the first three planting seasons. Are you really the best the Federation can do?”

  O’Donnell felt his knees buckle, but he caught himself with both hands against the wall before hitting the floor.

  I won’t … go … back … there! he shouted in his mind.

  The vision disappeared, and he got his first fresh breath in minutes. Swallowing bile, O’Donnell righted himself and staggered toward the turbolift.

  Where the minister stood patiently waiting for him.

  “The fate of my people is in your hands. Children will go hungry …”

  “Stop it!” O’Donnell shouted, this time aloud. “They’re already dead!”

  Children.

  Hungry children.

  Starving children.

  Emaciated faces racked with helplessness.

  Memories of the Kressari he had once been sent to save crowded into his mind’s eye, each more horrifying than the last.

  So many children.

  O’Donnell knew what was happening to him, and he wasn’t going to meet it on his knees.

  It took every ounce of strength he possessed to walk the few meters from the turbolift to his cabin. As soon as he reached it a terrifying new thought struck him.

  She’s gone, he assured himself.

  Dead.