Star Trek: Voyager - 042 - Protectors

by Kirsten Beyer

  Not that much less, Paris thought, but held his peace.

  “They have to know that one Intrepid-class vessel and a special-mission ship can’t make a dent in unraveling this quadrant’s mysteries, but bringing us home now is tantamount to admitting that sending us out in the first place was a mistake. And I don’t think anyone is eager to add that to their resume right now.”

  “Do you think it was a mistake, Chakotay?”

  “No,” he replied as if offended by the thought.

  “You want to stay?”

  “I know this is where we can do the most good right now, even if they don’t.”

  “So how do we show them that?”

  “We do what we’ve always done . . . we prove them wrong . . . again.”

  “Yes, but again I ask, how?”

  The captain stepped back from the railing and began to pace the small area before his desk. “We need to avoid any appearance of impropriety or renegade impulses. We need to demonstrate to Starfleet that we take our responsibilities seriously and that we can play by the rules. But we also need to show Command that continuing to explore this quadrant is a worthy investment of time and resources.

  “I want you to compile a list of possible targets for exploration. When we first left the Delta Quadrant behind, we’d barely scratched the surface of its depth and breadth. We need to find a mission that could yield significant results, not just for us, but for the Federation.”

  “So no baby stars, uninhabited systems, or interesting nebulas?” Paris quipped.

  “First contact would be nice,” Chakotay mused.

  “Agreed, but those can be a little unpredictable. I know things ended well with the Children of the Storm and Riley’s people, but we ticked off the Indign and the Tarkons pretty well, and there’s still that little matter of our lost hologram to consider.”

  “Unless Reg has found any promising leads in our absence, I’m not sure where to begin looking for Meegan.”

  “We can’t just let her go.”

  “Call it instinct, but my sense is if she plans to move against us in any way, she’ll find us when she’s good and ready.”

  Paris shrugged. “If in the meantime you’re suggesting we revisit any of the territories we already know a little about, we do have something of a reputation preceding us to deal with.”

  “Not everybody called us the ‘ship of death.’ ” Chakotay smirked.

  “No, just the ones who survived our first visits.” Paris chuckled.

  “You know what I mean,” Chakotay insisted.

  “I do.” Paris nodded. “And with your permission, I’m going to ask Seven and Harry to help me create this list.”

  “Absolutely. Be prepared to present it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I was planning to spend most of the day finalizing preparations for the memorial service, and then, attending it.”

  “And?”

  “Sleep is for sissies.”

  “Don’t you just love being first officer?” Chakotay teased.

  “Yes, sir.”

  After a moment, Paris added, “Are you going to be okay?”

  Chakotay had moved to take his seat, but paused. “How do you mean?”

  Paris considered testing the waters but honestly no longer had the patience for anything less than a reckless dive. “Without the admiral,” he replied.

  “Yes.” Chakotay smiled, and Paris sensed he meant it. “She’ll be back. And when she returns, we’re going to have done ourselves proud in the interim.”

  Paris wanted to take this at face value, but he knew he needed to push a little further. “You lost her once and it didn’t go all that well. You’re not afraid of losing her again?”

  Chakotay might have punched anyone else for insubordination at this, but coming from Paris, who had come painfully close to losing his wife and daughter, it was a fair question.

  “I’m not going to lie. The thought is too awful to contemplate. But I’m not going to live every day of the rest of my life in fear. And neither is she. Tomorrow is promised to no one. We can’t waste today. A few thousand light-years between us changes nothing. She will come back.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “You think they’ll decide she’s not up to the job?”

  “I think on her worst day, she’s overqualified,” Paris replied sincerely. “But I don’t like the idea of her facing all of this alone. I wonder if she needs us right now even more than we need her.”

  “She has us,” Chakotay insisted. “That’s never going to change.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Paris agreed.

  As Paris crossed to the door to begin what was going to be a much busier day than he hoped for when he arrived, Chakotay called after him.

  “Conlon submitted her morning engineering report and indicated B’Elanna wasn’t present. Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Paris said. “Just a little under the weather this morning. I’m sure Doctor Sharak will have her back on her feet in no time.”

  “Good. As you were.” Chakotay dismissed him.

  Paris continued out the door, slightly chagrined at withholding his and B’Elanna’s happy news. Paris had only known for a few days that his family was about to get a little bigger, and B’Elanna had forbidden him to tell any of their friends for a few more weeks. It was an understandable request, but Paris couldn’t help but think that especially today, Chakotay could have used a little good news.

  Still, he was determined to provide the captain with some by the next morning, come what may.

  “The proper term is hyperemesis gravidarum, Commander,” Doctor Sharak said in his most soothing voice.

  Lieutenant Commander B’Elanna Torres responded by heaving once again and depositing the results in a small basin Sharak had offered her the moment she had entered sickbay.

  “Don’t . . . care . . . what you call it . . .” B’Elanna finally said through ragged breaths. The last several hours had sapped every ounce of strength she possessed. “Just . . . make it . . . stop,” she finished, and punctuated the thought by retching again.

  “I can’t,” Sharak said.

  Exhausted and dispirited, B’Elanna lay her head against the inclined biobed. “Do your people have a position on euthanasia?” she asked.

  Sharak seemed to seriously consider the question. “We do,” he finally replied, “though it is a personal choice rather than one imposed by society as a whole.”

  B’Elanna turned her head to make sure Doctor Sharak knew that last question had been her extreme distress talking and not a serious request. Although he was the first Tamarian she had ever met and the nuances of the expressions of his wide, dark-brown mottled face were often difficult to decipher, an assured smile and twinkle in his eyes put her fears to rest.

  “But do not despair, Commander. This condition has arisen much later in your pregnancy than is normally encountered and will likely subside shortly as the hormones currently aiding the fetus’s early growth diminish to the more normal levels you will maintain for the next several months. In the meantime, I will monitor and supplement your fluid intake and electrolyte levels. I will also provide daily injections of vitamin supplements to replace those you will likely be unable to keep down until your appetite returns.”

  “You mean to tell me we can communicate via subspace, create warp fields, dematerialize and rematerialize complex matter at will, and manufacture weapons that operate in multiple phase states but Federation medical science still hasn’t cracked the code on morning sickness?” B’Elanna demanded.

  “Oh, we have,” Sharak replied. “We now understand the precise hormonal and chemical interactions that produce your symptoms and have learned through years of experimentation that the wisest course of action as long as your health is not seriously jeopardized is to allow nature to act as it must.”

  “This is natural?”

  “Yes,” Sharak replied, “and in your particular case, its intensity is likely related to the
genetic issues present in your son’s mixed heritage.”

  “Tom and I already have one child, and my first pregnancy was nothing like this.”

  “Every union of genetic material is unique, Commander,” Sharak assured her, “as is every ensuing gestation.”

  B’Elanna paused as Sharak’s words finally registered.

  “My son’s heritage?” she asked.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “It’s a boy?” B’Elanna asked as wonder momentarily replaced her general misery.

  Sharak’s face fell. “I am sorry, Commander. Did you not wish to know the gender of your child prior to its birth?”

  The fleet engineer’s stomach heaved again, and she immediately rolled to her side and grabbed the basin. When the sensation had subsided, she sat back and replied, “It’s okay.” Placing her hands protectively over her belly that had yet to show even a hint of rounding, she imagined the look in Tom’s eyes when she told him they were about to have a son.

  It more than made the last several hours worth it.

  Like most expectant mothers, B’Elanna had been hoping for ten little fingers and ten little toes. The rest, including the child’s gender, was gravy. But something in the knowledge that this was her son, Tom’s son, filled her with awe.

  It’s going to be okay, my little man. Your mom is a Klingon warrior. I’ve been through worse.

  Lieutenant Harry Kim, Voyager’s security chief and tactics officer, was pleased with his handiwork. He stood beside the chief engineer, Lieutenant Nancy Conlon, and Seven of Nine in what had once been cargo bays two and three. For the time being, they had been merged into one vast compartment, empty but for a newly erected command console and the presence of dozens of specially designed holographic generators.

  “Let me see it one more time?” Kim asked.

  Conlon and Seven exchanged a knowing, weary glance, but the lieutenant complied without comment. At her command, the bleak gray bulkheads were replaced by a large reception hall decorated in somber earth tones. A small raised area at one end had been designated for representatives from each fleet vessels, save Plank’s, whose loss had already been memorialized. The rest of the space was filled with rows of long, low, cushioned benches running the length of the room, on which the surviving crews from the vessels Voyager, Quirinal, Esquiline, Hawking, Curie, Achilles, Galen, and Demeter would sit during the formal part of the ceremony.

  “And the park?” Kim requested.

  In a flash, the interior location shifted, and the same dais and benches sat in an open-air recreation of Federation Park in San Francisco at night. This would be used for a brief time at the end of the service. Once it was done, the space would be reset to an interior but populated by casually arranged tables and chairs to allow the various crews to interact more personally.

  Kim and Conlon, with Seven and Paris’s help, had spent the last several days considering the most appropriate and personal forum in which those who had served together but a few short months and had recently been separated by tragedy could come together as a fleet to commemorate the lives of those lost. It had been Conlon’s suggestion to make contact with the survivors who had hastily returned to the Alpha Quadrant less than a week ago and hold the service together in real time using the communications buoys the fleet had launched when they first arrived in the Delta Quadrant. Kim had initially envisioned mounting ceiling-to-floor viewscreens to create the illusion that those assembled were sharing one space. It had been Seven’s suggestion to simply create a holodeck large enough to house Voyager, Galen, and Demeter’s two hundred plus crew while simultaneously allowing them to actually interact directly with the more than seven hundred who would be gathering in the Alpha Quadrant.

  This minor miracle could never have been accomplished without the assistance of the officers at Project Pathfinder who had worked years earlier to reconnect Voyager with the Alpha Quadrant when they had been lost in the wilds of the Delta Quadrant. Although Pathfinder’s work had been refocused when Voyager first returned home, many on staff there now still felt a certain kinship with Voyager’s crew, and a small contingent had been assigned to monitor the fleet’s relays and enable continuous communications capabilities when the new fleet had launched. Seven had made direct contact with an old acquaintance, Commander Varia, and he had dropped everything to assist her in making the necessary preparations from his end.

  Real-time holographic communications of this size had been reserved for only high-level meetings of Federation and Starfleet authorities. When Kim and Seven had briefed Varia on their intentions for the service, he’d agreed it was possible, and in this case, absolutely appropriate.

  “Do you think we should . . . ?” Kim began.

  “I’m not contacting Varia again, Harry,” Conlon cut him off. “The relays are stable. We’ve already tested the matrix fifty times, and everybody who will be running the technical side of this thing knows their job. We’re ready,” she assured him.

  “Seven?” Kim asked, hoping she might countermand Conlon’s completely accurate assessment.

  “While I am a little concerned at fluctuations in relays nineteen and twenty-six’s power levels, we can bypass them if necessary,” Seven replied.

  “Are they still acting up?” Conlon asked, double-checking her own console.

  “We are ready, Lieutenant Kim,” Seven said.

  Kim nodded. While he took a moment’s pleasure in the results of their labors, certain that in a few hours hundreds of men and women now separated by more than twenty-thousand light-years would, for a short time, believe that they were standing right beside one another, that happiness was too quickly replaced by the unavoidable heaviness of the circumstances that necessitated their gathering.

  “Okay,” Kim agreed. Now, he only looked forward to the evening’s end, when he could tear the thing down and begin the much more difficult process of putting the devastation of the last few weeks behind him.

  Chapter Two

  VOYAGER, NEW TALAX

  Once Captain Chakotay had grown accustomed to her holographic presence, as vivid as everyone else on the dais, he had been unable to suppress the amusement that had risen unexpectedly throughout Captain Regina Farkas’s remarks.

  If anything, Farkas was shorter than he remembered; a trim woman in her seventies with white hair and a fading scar running down the right side of her face. She had served Starfleet for almost fifty years, and the wisdom she had accumulated in that time was not lost on him. Her voice was warm, her tone quaint and conversational. Everything about Farkas made him wish that her ship, the Quirinal, had not been one of those recently lost and that during the few months they’d served the same fleet, he’d actually found some time to get to know her a bit.

  “. . . at which point Parimon turned to his mother, tossed the sheet tied around his neck jauntily over his shoulder, and shouted defiantly, ‘Parimon to the rescue!’ ” Farkas paused here as light laughter rippled through the assembly. “He then proceeded, wearing only his underpants and that magical cape, to assault that tree with all the might of his five years, and damned if that keekit wasn’t back on the ground a few minutes later.” Farkas paused again as the luster the memory had brought to her eyes seemed to dim. “I know some of you might think that little recollection inappropriate for a gathering such as this. But I’ve known his parents, Lukas and Selena Dasht, for forty years, and while duty made it impossible for me to witness most of his life, I’ll never forget that first meeting or the certainty it left me with that young Parimon Dasht had great things in his future.

  “That’s the problem with moments like this. We want to think about the good times, our best memories of those we have lost. But now that we know how their lives ended, those memories are tainted by all of the untapped potential; the sense that it shouldn’t be this way.

  “I’ve read the final reports Captain Eden filed before her death, and included in them were notes of things she witnessed in the Omega Continuum while many of you sitti
ng here before me were marshaling every resource at your disposal to save my ship, Parimon’s, Itak’s, and Chan’s. I don’t know what to make of her reports. But I am disinclined to doubt the word of a fellow Starfleet officer, so the impressions she recounted have now been added to my understanding of events as I prepare to move into the future.

  “According to Captain Eden, there were four officers present, sharing some sort of meeting, just prior to the destruction of Quirinal, Esquiline, Hawking, and Curie. They included Captains Itak and Chan, as well as Lieutenant Waverly of the Esquiline and Ensign Sadie Johns, a member of my crew I did not have the pleasure of knowing well. What strikes me as odd is that Parimon wasn’t there. He should have been. There is nothing in Captain Eden’s report to explain this, so I have come to my own conclusion. Parimon wasn’t there because he had another battle to fight. Somewhere among the seven hundred and eighty-five of our fellows who were lost in Omega, someone needed him. So he delegated whatever task the others were performing to a trusted subordinate, and at that critical moment, was somewhere else, rushing to the rescue.”

  Chakotay had spoken briefly with Eden after she had experienced this vision and had committed the logs Farkas referenced to memory. He knew that Eden believed that hundreds of minds had been unable to function in the terror that was the Omega Continuum before they had died, and likely Parimon’s was among them. That was the only reason Chakotay could imagine for a Starfleet captain to forego a gathering where the result had been the intentional destruction of his vessel. But Chakotay couldn’t fault Farkas for choosing to come to her own conclusions about Captain Dasht. History was written by those who survived it, and her explanation was certainly easier to live with than the likely truth.

  Although the captain’s subsequent comments about Captains Itak and Chan and several of her own officers were of necessity less personal, they were no less poignant. But her final words were the ones Chakotay found hardest to forget.