She couldn’t fathom her world without Tom. Whether she liked it or not, he’d become the emotional epicenter of her tempestuous existence. Slipping past her defenses using characteristically charismatic, clever ploys had been easy for a mercenary like Tom. Had it been the challenge of the impossible conquest that drew him to her? The place, the moment she knew he’d succeeded in making her love him—she couldn’t name. She still hated herself for being stupid enough to fall for his gambit. And now she was stuck, sick with shock and nausea, wondering, worrying, waiting for answers that might never come. Please let him be safe, she thought. Please let him come home.
“Don’t do it, Tom,” Harry warned again, panic contorting his face.
Tom recognized the look. It was the same look Harry wore when Tom suggested that the captain really wouldn’t care if he appropriated Chakotay’s password to “borrow” from Tuvok’s replicator rations to cover an unexpected gambling debt (unexpected because Ensign Tariq was obviously cheating: the way the chips landed on the wheel made a full-color quarto impossible!). Hypercautious Harry felt about risk the way Ferengi felt about loaning latinum. The irony of Harry’s reluctance to wade into the unknown was that he, more than anyone in Tom’s acquaintance, was most likely to be mutilated, squashed, or killed, regardless of how careful he was. So why be careful? In Tom’s experience, most of the risky situations Harry studiously avoided had a component of fun.
Tom liked fun.
And he was hungry. If room service had food, he wanted some. He twisted the door handle and pulled the door back to admit the visitor. “Come on in!”
Harry cringed, scrunching up his eyes as if expecting a photon torpedo to detonate where he sat.
A uniformed server, a man wearing gold, purple, and black striped trousers with an antiquated military-style high-waisted solid purple jacket sporting rows of shiny brass buttons, wheeled his covered cart past Tom and stopped in front of Harry. His black pillbox hat with gold braid (being a holoprogrammer who specialized in “vintage” designs, Tom had an eye for such details) featured an ill-fitting chin strap. The syrupy light from the clown lamp failed to illuminate his face, which was bowed toward the cart.
Luscious smells wafted up from the cart. Tom’s stomach growled impatiently. “I hope you’ve got pepperoni pizza in there—” Tom began.
The server yanked the burgundy drape off the cart, revealing a tray of hamburgers stacked with bacon, tomatoes, and lettuce; mounds of chili fries sprinkled with stringy, melted cheese; and two milkshakes as tall as Tom’s forearm. “It’s on the house, boys,” the server said, meeting Tom’s eyes and smiling predatorily.
“Q!” Tom’s initial shock at Q’s presence gave way to a backdoor sense of relief. The illogic and seeming randomness of their current predicament, with Q figured in, made more sense in kind of a Q-like way. How else could he and Harry have taken a test flight using the tetryon transporter and ended up in this stinky dive? He reached for a milkshake and took a long pull on a red-and-white-striped straw. Mmmm…chocolate malt.
“Don’t eat that, Tom!” Harry said, his eyes wide. “It’s probably—”
Tom paused in midsuck. Harry had a point. But he was hungry and this was the best malted milkshake he’d ever had; so what if it turned him into a tribble? He took another long pull, savoring the cold icy sweet streaming down his throat.
“Probably what?” Q leaned over, nearly touching his nose to Harry’s. “What kind of Q do you take me for? I’m insulted, Mr. Kim.” He held his hand—thumb touching his middle finger, poised to snap—next to Harry’s ear.
Harry pulled back. “I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—I, um…” he stammered. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his face became a decidedly paler shade.
Q arched an eyebrow. “Gotcha.” He glanced at Tom. “Is he always this easy?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward Harry.
Tom shrugged and reached for a chili fry. “Well yeah—” Tom said, hesitantly. “Pretty much.”
“Have you missed me? I regret that I haven’t stopped by since Q and I procreated, but the rigors of parenting and restoring order to the Continuum since the war have left me little time to socialize.” Q took a seat on the edge of the bed beside Harry; Harry scooted over to put space between him and the entity. “What, pray tell is this? He lifted his arm, jammed his nose into the armpit, then inhaled extravagantly. Withdrawing, he wrinkled his upper lip and said, “Do I offend?” Shaking his head, he answered his own question. “No! Kathy’s clearly failing to teach her kids how to demonstrate proper respect for their superiors. But more than that, we have history. I thought we’d be backslapping like old buddies!” He smacked Harry between the shoulder blades, who eked out a painful grunt in reply. Leaning over, Q peered up into Harry’s hand-covered face. “Are you nervous, Mr. Kim?”
Harry shook his head. “This has to be a dream.”
Q crossed his legs and looked over at Tom. “Regretfully not. Look, boys, I don’t like having to involve myself in the troubles of lesser beings—”
Ply us with food, then start in on the insults. At least he’s still the same old Q…Tom rolled his eyes and reached for a burger. He might as well be full before Q ruined his life.
“Oh don’t start with me, Mr. Paris. There’s nothing untoward about my intentions,” he said snippily. “Fine. I confess: Toying with you lowly creatures can be amusing. But in this case I absolutely wish our rendezvous could come under more pleasurable circumstances. Inebriation, carousing, and other hedonistic pursuits might actually be fun with you two—” He glanced at Harry. “All right, maybe not him, but definitely you, Tommy. Let’s wager half the galaxy and find ourselves some strippers from Plaranik V, shall we? I hear they’re very flexible.”
“What do you want, Q?” Tom asked. “Because, in spite of the food—”
“I knew that would win you over,” Q said, obviously pleased. “You’re a creature of very fundamental desires. Speaking of which, how’s the little Klingon spitfire?”
“—it’s been a long day and we’re not in the mood,” Tom concluded. “If there’s no point to all this, send us home. Now.”
“Well, well! Your testy girlfriend’s domesticated you, Tommy. Too bad. First Vash loses her sense of humor, now you’re all work and no play. What’s a Q to do?”
“Q,” Harry said, raising his voice. “I’m with Tom. Voyager’s in trouble. We can’t sit around here and make small talk.”
Tom had to agree: Q’s obvious enchantment with his own relentless prattling was testing his patience.
He cocked his head and offered Tom a put-out sigh. “Fine. I’ll send you back after we take care of a few problems. Your esteemed captain really needs to curtail her humanitarian impulses and focus on the task at hand: namely, getting all you miscreants home. Voyager’s getting a reputation for not being able to work and play well with others. Kathy needs to learn to stay in her own sandbox or else there’ll be a dustup.” He paused. “Get it? Sandbox? Dustup? I keep throwing them, but you just stand there and watch the ball go by.”
Tom suppressed a groan and struggled to stay on topic. “You’re saying Captain Janeway caused a problem in the Monorhan sector?” he guessed.
Q smiled. “And it’s a doozy. No half-measures for our Kathy! This time, she’s managed to start the reversal of the Big Bang. Quite an accomplishment for such a primitive life-form, but nonetheless, ill advised in the grander scheme of things.”
“Hold on there,” Harry said suddenly alert, shaking his head with genuine incredulity. “That’s quite a responsibility to heap on—what was it you usually call us, ‘ugly bags of mostly water’?”
“That wasn’t Q, that was—” Tom said.
“The point is,” Q interrupted, rolling his eyes, “your species is mostly insignificant, but every once in a while you do something that makes your betters in the universal hierarchy take notice. Much the same way you might take note if a bunch of amoebas got together and built a tractor. Something audacious and daring and, in thi
s case—” He sneered at Harry. “—asinine.”
Tom pulled a tipsy wood chair out from the desk where it was tucked and straddled it backward, facing Q. “Granted astrophysics wasn’t my best subject at the Academy, but I’m failing to see how anything that Voyager’s done lately would have such catastrophic consequences.”
A look of annoyance—or exasperation—flitted across Q’s face. “It’s always ‘why this?’ and ‘why that?’ with you corporeals. Patience, children. You’ll have your answers soon enough. But we have to be on our way—”
Harry crossed his arms across his chest and exhaled loudly. “No. I’m not agreeing to go anywhere until you tell us where we are, what you want with us, and when we’re going home.”
Q sighed. “Think of this place as a suburb of the Q Continuum. There. Satisfied, Mr. Kim? The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back to that tin can you call a spaceship. Let’s go.” Q grabbed Harry’s arm and tried—unsuccessfully—dragging him to his feet. “Be advised: You are moments away from becoming a newt.”
“A suburb—not the Continuum proper?” Tom said. “Why? We’ve been in the Continuum before. Saved you from civil war last time we visited. Thought we’d be welcomed as heroes.” Q’s explanations weren’t passing the “smell” test.
“The Continuum has a strict visitors policy these days. No riffraff.” Q looked at them both disapprovingly. “Not to mention a dress code. Let’s be on our way—”
A thought occurred. A wide, toothy grin split Tom’s face. “You’re in trouble.”
“Am not!” Q said a little too quickly.
“You can’t bring us into the Continuum because you don’t want anyone to know. I’d say that puts us in a pretty good bargaining position. Say, we help you and you get Voyager back to the Alpha Quadrant.” Tom removed the burger platter from the cart and passed it to Harry. “You really ought to try one. The sauce is outstanding.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Harry selected a double-decker cheeseburger with a large onion ring sandwiched between patties and bun.
Q threw his hands into the air. “All right! I admit that my reasons for bringing you here weren’t entirely altruistic, but you have to believe me when I tell you that there wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for Kathy.”
“Still falling back on that tired excuse, Q?” Harry said between bites. “If you’ve got that explanation, I’m all ears.”
Q snapped his fingers. With a flash of white light, an enormous ear appeared in place of Harry’s head.
“You really need to work on some new material, Q,” Tom said.
Q frowned as he considered Harry. “Too predictable?”
Tom shrugged and nodded.
Q harrumphed and snapped his fingers.
Chakotay scrolled through the list of Voyager’s crew, studying their recent duty schedules, still amazed at the faithful service they continued to render, even under such strenuous circumstances. He didn’t know how he could ask them to do more. There had to be another way he hadn’t yet considered. He was just too damn tired to see it. Placing his hands over his face, he rubbed his eyes and rolled his neck around a few times to stretch out muscles cramped from sitting so long. Using a technique taught him by a shaman from his tribe, he cleared the clutter from his mind and revisited the task before him.
The list still looked the same as it had the last few times he’d studied it.
Slouching back in the Doctor’s chair, he sighed aloud and looked over at Captain Janeway in her stasis chamber. Seven, after having done everything within her ability to help Janeway, had left a short time ago to continue her work in astrometrics. Not even the “miraculous” nanoprobes would restore Kathryn to health.
“What would you do, Kathryn?” he said aloud. Being alone in sickbay meant he could indulge in a little crazy behavior—like talking to his nearly brain-dead commanding officer. As acting ship’s captain, he ought to be on the bridge, and he would be shortly. He just needed a little bit more time to think, without the eyes of every person on Voyager following his every move, worrying, seeking reassurance that their deepest fears wouldn’t be realized. Recalling the worst of their recent near-catastrophes, from the war between the Borg and Species 8472 to the Hirogen takeover of their ship, Chakotay finally knew what it must have felt like to have the fates of these hundred and fifty people hinging on every decision you made. Janeway didn’t have the luxury of being liked or being soft; she expected the best from herself and would accept nothing less from her crew. He was trying to figure out if there was room for mercy in the equation too.
“I’ve examined every name on this list the same way I have since you gave me this job and for the first time in many years, I’m stuck,” Chakotay said, glancing over at the stasis chamber. He wished for something, a miracle, perhaps. But he’d settle for an answer. He paused for a long moment, contemplating the silence, then said, “I guess I’ll have to figure it out myself, which is probably what you would have told me if you could.”
He asked the computer to change the sort parameters, providing him with each department’s rosters organized by the most hours worked over the past week to the least. Within seconds, the reconfigured list appeared, and it was as useless as the previous one.
He recalled a time when each name on the list existed only as a rank and a department assignment. The names existed as pieces of this greater organism called “Voyager” and he would shuffle them around based on a host of easily quantified variables. Creating a duty roster was simple in those days, because the needs of the ship dictated his decision making. After four years of numberless hours living, working, and dying side by side with them, Chakotay couldn’t look at these names without imagining the faces of the loved ones they left behind and the relationships they’d formed since arriving in the Delta Quadrant.
His eyes flickered over the engineering shifts and he discovered, not surprisingly, that B’Elanna hadn’t slept in days. No wonder she was so ornery and short-tempered. The well-being of his chief engineer (or lack thereof) wasn’t the only concerning factor in drafting the new duty roster. Years of scheduling Ensign Matthews taught him she was prone to anxiety attacks, especially when she worked more than two consecutive shifts. Sensors were vital to a successful exit from Monorhan space. Could he afford to let her take a break now? Take Crewman Crana, a technician. The Argelian had a tendency to become so absorbed in his work repairing gel-pack relays that he’d work three consecutive shifts before collapsing at his workstation. Crana’s shifts had started after Sem had tampered with the gel packs. From what Chakotay could tell, he hadn’t stopped working yet. Every individual on B’Elanna’s staff had a similar story. All of them needed a full two weeks of shore leave, not the extra duty shifts Chakotay was assigning them.
Scanning the list now in an attempt to organize the crew into a cohesive, functioning unit for the next several days was proving to be an exercise in futility. He knew, without asking, that virtually every person in every department had been working round the clock since they entered Monorhan space. In recent hours, he’d come across more than a few crew members curled up in the corners of their stations or slouched down on the floor, attempting to catch a little shut-eye between crises. Trying to organize a fair duty roster that took into account crew exhaustion when they lacked so many critical senior staff members was proving to be impossible.
“Computer, close file Duty Roster Charlie-Two-Six.”
“File has not been updated. Do you still want to close?”
Before Chakotay could bark an affirmative answer, he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around to see who it might be.
“Why, hello, Commander,” Neelix said. “Surprised to see you here. Figured you’d be on the bridge. Crewman Chell had an unfortunate mishap with a wok and a plesbrian sea urchin and I came by to get a dermal regenerator.” The Talaxian craned his neck to look around to see behind Chakotay. “Looks like there’s one over on the shelf. Do you mind—?”
Chakotay held out h
is hands as if to say “help yourself.” “Crewman Chell’s in the galley?”
“Helps him burn off some steam. Keeps his mind off things. Everyone’s a bit on edge since—” Neelix nudged his head in the direction of what Chakotay was beginning to think of as a sarcophagus.
“Right.” Chakotay understood the feeling. He’d rather be anything but in charge at the moment. The screen filled with the unfinished duty roster nagged at him.
Neelix slipped the dermal regenerator into his pocket along with an analgesic hypospray. “Well, I’ll be seeing you around, Commander,” he said, and they exchanged waves before he started for the door.
Ambivalent, Chakotay watched him leave. Torn between the desire to get his job done and having an excuse to avoid dealing with his work, Chakotay wasn’t sure how he felt about Neelix leaving.
Midstep, Neelix paused and spun about to face Chakotay. “So do you mind my asking?”
“What?”
“How the new assignments are going,” Neelix said, resting an elbow on a console. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“They are.”
Neelix nodded. “With Tom, Harry, and the Doctor gone, everyone is curious who will replace them.”
“You can let the gossip mill know, Neelix, that we’re not replacing them,” Chakotay said, wondering if his declaration sounded believable. Only the hope that he hadn’t lost half of the senior staff was keeping him going. “We’re just temporarily reassigning their duty shifts to junior officers.”
“Of course they’re irreplaceable! We know you haven’t given up looking for them!” Neelix grabbed Chakotay by the uniform sleeves and squeezed his arms like a father offering reassurance to a child.
While he appreciated the Talaxian’s enthusiasm, Chakotay needed to attempt to maintain the aura of command. “Thank you for your concern, Neelix,” he said, calmly. “But let go.”
String Theory, Book 3: Evolution Page 4
