Author's Note: Because most wounds don't neatly heal in the time that elapses between television episodes.
Legal/creative Note: Episode flashbacks within this story make generous and repeated use of the writing of Jeri Taylor (among others), if laced with my own narratives. Just like the characters themselves, I don't claim those works as my own, legally or creatively. Fun, not profit. Yada yada. . .
Fever Pitch
I. The Deep
"Happy Ancestor's Eve!", Neelix greets Janeway.
"Happy Ancestor's Eve, Captain," the rest of the senior staff chime.
"What's all this?" Janeway asks, her tone courting a clear warning.
"It's April 22, Ancestor's Eve. It's a holiday first established, err. . ." Neelix hesitates, continuing, "well. . . today, actually, with the Captain's permission."
"Neelix," Janeway scoffs, already frustrated. She can see where this is going, and while she appreciates the thought, she's in no mood for any of this.
"I think he's onto something, Captain," Chakotay quickly defends. "An evening of reflection in honor of those who came before."
"Here, here," Harry smiles. "Uncle Jack would approve."
"It got me out from under a warp conduit," B'Elanna comments wryly. "I'm all for it."
"I appreciate what you're trying to do," Janeway begins warily, "but-"
"Neelix," Tom quickly pipes up, sensing this is all about go awry, "the gift."
"What gift?"
"Shannon O'Donnell Janeway, circa 2050," Neelix replies, handing Janeway the framed photo. "We did a little more research. This photograph was taken in a small park near Portage Creek, thirty-eight years after the dedication of the Millennium Gate. I thought it would look nice in your ready room, on the shelf next to your desk."
"Thank you," the Captain responds diplomatically. "But I'm not so sure she has a place there anymore."
"You are mistaken, Captain," Seven intones solemnly.
"Oh?" Janeway sighs, momentarily amazed at the former drone's characteristic. . . bravado. At some point, she's really going to have to talk to Seven about the way she voices her disagreement.
"Her life captured your imagination. Historical details are irrelevant."
"I concur with that analysis," Tuvok adds, earning a silent censure from Janeway.
"If it weren't for O'Donnell, you never would have joined Starfleet," Chakotay piles on.
"Yes, and I would have never have gotten you all stuck here in the Delta quadrant."
It's the kind of dark statement Janeway rarely allows herself. But by now, she trusts her staff enough to let them sees this part of her. Even if 'this part' happens to be a mere silhouette of a substantial pain, with infinite contours.
"It gave us all time to get to know each other," B'Elanna points out, sharing a stolen glance with the man she loves.
Inwardly, Janeway sighs. She isn't cheered up, not even close. But putting on a good show of it for her crew sometimes goes hand-in-hand with actually feeling better later. And as she locks eyes with Harry and Tom's smiling faces, feels the touch of Chakotay's encouraging arm, she begins to feel her spirits genuinely perk up, if only a little.
"Time for a family portrait of our own- everyone, gather around the Captain please," the Doctor instructs, as the staff, by silent and unusual agreement, decide humor him. "Face the camera."
As they all heed the Doctor's directions, gathering around Janeway with smiles and even loose embraces, Janeway chides herself to take more joy in these occasions. Her staff together, without crisis or immediate danger. A weary and sometimes haggard crew, taking solace in the company of trusted friends, even lovers.
"To family," Janeway pronounces, her chest filling with newfound resolution.
"To family," seven voices echo, their laughter and warmth captured for posterity on the Doctor' holo-imager.
Janeway is pushed into the cargo bay with a harder than necessary thrust from one of her escorts' phaser rifles. She catches her footing in time to keep from falling forward, throwing an inconspicuous glance over her shoulder to see which one of her officers just tried to shove their Captain onto her face.
Her eyes catch sight of Ensign Tragor's firm expression, noting the faint tinge of smugness around his mouth, before averting her gaze once more.
"You will remain here," Tragor announces. "If you attempt to escape or contact other members of your crew, we will kill someone in the brig."
You're all my crew, she thinks desperately. This is my ship.
They depart moments later; the sight of her officers, clad in their old Maquis fatigues as they erect a force field around her, burning an image into her mind that will last longer than her confinement here.
The field they've placed her in is roughly two meters by two meters. Enough room to move about, but not enough to work up a good stride if she paces. Pushing away the possibility that Tuvok may have specified these dimensions of her make-shift holding cell for this very reason, she begins to consider her relatively dire situation.
The former Maquis crewmembers are out-numbered three to one on board, but at present they have control of all of Voyager's systems, all fifteen of her decks. The Starfleet crewmembers have been imprisoned, Chakotay no doubt separating her from them in order to deprive them of the assurance her presence brings. Likely letting them wonder if she's already dead. And she would be. If Chakotay hadn't given Tuvok a disabled phaser.
The image of Tuvok standing stoically beside Chakotay in the ready room after he passed the Chakotay's loyalty test is yet one more that will burn behind Janeway's eyelids.
Almost running into the energy of the containment field, Kathryn banishes this thought, too. It's another wound she doesn't have the luxury of contemplating at the moment.
Her thoughts turn here to the intermittent communications she heard chirped from the Tragor and the others' badges as she was led down to the cargo bay. Something about Kim and Paris- a foiled attempt to recapture deck six.
The fact that the weapons lockers are on that deck inspires hope in Janeway, but it also bids forth a deep sense of unease. Chakotay's preference for non-violence will clearly give way when pushed (though how far she's yet to ascertain), and it isn't if his preference is shared by other members of the Maquis to begin with. If any gains were made on deck six, it was quite possibly at the cost of Starfleet lives.
Starfleet and Maquis. The old designations, now rampant throughout her internal dialogue, gives her a long moment of pause. To come this far and be back to that. Worse than that. It's a reality that could break her if she let it.
She spends her time in isolation plotting, debating strategies, and worrying. Nothing miraculous strikes her, nor should it be expected to, given how deprived of information she is. But she has a few ideas that may prove useful, later.
Five hours go by, perhaps more, before the cargo bay doors part again, two guards emerging with a limp form being dragged between them. Even fifteen meters away, with his head lulling down and obscuring his face, Janeway recognizes the unconscious body as that of Paris.
The fact that the pilot's been beaten, (and as she will see in a moment) with special care taken to color one side of his face, is obvious. Janeway watches in silent concern as the security detail unceremoniously deposits Tom on the floor with a thud, erecting a separate force field around him, a few meters from where she herself stands imprisoned.
"He needs medical attention," she demands, as the guards make to depart once more.
"His internal injuries have received it," one of them hisses. "Perhaps you can convince him to behave a bit better during his stay with us. . . And if not, it's really no matter. We should be dumping all of you on a nice, deserted rock any hour now."
Janeway doesn't know if they're telling her the truth about Tom's injuries being tended to, or else offering this just to shut her up. She knows it's no use to argue with them given their obvious distaste for Lieutenant, though maybe she would have a shot if she's able to speak with Chakotay again.
When they're left alone, Janeway tries calling to Paris, doing everything she can think of to rouse him. The only time he appears on the verge of consciousness is when she grows desperate, barking his title across the distance between them. But even then, the response is just a low moan as his arms stir slightly.
In the renewed isolation, she wonders if Chakotay has already begun transporting members of the crew off ship. They were at impulse previously, but she can feel by the lack of vibration in the deck plates that even that motion has stopped. Which means that either the Maquis efforts have been somehow stalled, or Voyager has already reached a planet suitable for stranding the more than one hundred crewmembers of Starfleet affiliation.
Looking at Tom's crumpled form on the ground, even the eternal optimist in Janeway can't consider the first possibility more likely than the second.
When the lights in the cargo bay flicker on and off for a period of several minutes, more than two hours have gone by since Paris was deposited by Chakotay's officers. Janeway listens outside for any sign that the power outage is a sign of another Starfleet uprising, but she hears no commotion in the corridors.
The continued silence doesn't rule out hope. The cargo bay she and Tom are being held is on deck fifteen, deep in bowels of the ship. There's fourteen decks between their present location and the bridge; four and six decks, respectively, to Engineering and the transporter rooms. Even if the members of Starfleet crew have mounted an ambitious rebellion, Janeway's present location wouldn't be in the path of the fighting.
Another power fluctuation and another flicker of lights. This time, the room goes completely dark, save the faint glow of emergency lights lining the walls.
When Janeway hears the hiss of the force field destabilizing, she quickly darts to Tom, beginning to drag him by his legs rather than wasting precious time trying to wake him.
The motion causes Paris to finally regain consciousness, and by the time his Captain's moved him clear of where the containment field previously stood, he's jerking away from her, his eyes opening to reveal confusion and then pain.
"We're being held in cargo bay four," she supplies quickly. "The force fields they had around us dropped when the power fluctuated."
"A miscalculated risk on Chakotay's part," Paris groans, rolling onto his stomach, then getting up slowly and with obvious effort. "He knows only force fields in the brig and engineering are maintained by emergency power."
"He must have thought it was worth the risk to separate me from the crew. . . Apparently you too." She smiles wryly, looking around for a med-kit as she prioritizes tasks in her head. "Your little insurrection must have left quite an impression."
Tom nods, moving to retrieve the med-kit that she's found and now beginning to look through it. He finds the regenerator and slowly attends to his face, then pulls up his uniforms jacket and sweater, revealing nasty bruises on his torso.
"Let me," he says, taking the medical tricorder from her and scanning himself.
"How bad?" she asks, after a few moments are passed in silence.
"Not good. But not terrible."
She doesn't believe him, not even a little. And watching him load a hypospray, she suspects it's with a stimulant rather than just an analgesic.
"These panels have been disabled," she says, tapping a console. "We won't be able to ascertain what systems are down from here. But at least we can try to make it past that door."
"Internal sensors, propulsion, and transporters are all out, and all non-essential power expenditures have now been shut down," Tom announces at a clip, casting a quick glance at Janeway as he slides both the hypo and the tricorder into his waistband. "B'Elanna will be angry enough that she'll have main power up within the hour. The other systems will take two to four. Depending on exactly how pissed she is. "
The trace pride and affection Tom still voices this last part with isn't lost on Janeway, even as her eyes lock with his, waiting for information on how he came by this knowledge, or at the very least an exposition of the exact cause of the ship's apparent cascade failure.
None of it is forthcoming from Paris, who simply nods to the ceiling to indicate the possibility that whatever surveillance Chakotay rigged in the cargo bay might yet be functioning.
It's a distant possibility, and even if it proves true Janeway isn't sure that it matters. If any surveillance is presently operating, they will no doubt be met by armed guards the second they try to pry open the cargo bay doors.
They move to the bay entrance, Tom once more opening the medical tricorder as he stands in front of it.
"No life signs on the other side," he pronounces. But keeps it open, just in case.
"Occupied with the power failure," Janeway ventures, beginning to tinker with the doors' manual overrides. "Our biggest advantage in this is how thinly stretched they're going to be."
She continues to work on the doors, missing the dark expression that appears on her helmsman's face.
"I promise you, Captain- what Chakotay lacks in numbers he makes up for in willingness to gamble."
Tom voices the warning in a low tone, his eyes locked on the medical tricorder to avoid meeting his companion's. Kathryn Janeway knows Chakotay. But she doesn't know this Chakotay. The mercenary; the cynical strategist. The calm demeanor that abruptly dissolves when the old rage that bubbles within him reaches a boiling point.
Paris doesn't voice any of this, and his Captain quickly turns away from him, nodding to the door to indicate that they can now pry them open.
The pilot bites his lip to keep from screaming at the agony the effort causes him, Janeway trying her best to ignore his change in pallor and slightly shaking hands. There's nothing she can do for him that he wouldn't have been able to do for himself if he could, and as concerned as she is for his health, there's obviously more at risk than either of their individual lives.
They emerge into the darkened and deserted corridor, quickly opening a hatch to a Jeffries tube and climbing in. Janeway goes first, Paris' labored breaths trailing behind her until they reach the conduit break that will allow them to stand up.
"The cascade failure?" she prompts immediately, upon reaching the break.
"Harry caused it," Tom says, with a small cringe as he swings his legs down. "It was a program initiated hours ago, but with a built in time delay. It's going to take them a while to track down the cause, and even longer to eradicate the program. Harry wrote it to jump from database to database."
"Your venture on deck six?"
"I went for the weapons lockers as a diversion," Tom confirms. "It gave Harry time to slip into the holo lab."
Janeway nods here. The holo lab is one of the few interfaces other than those in Engineering and the bridge that would permit such an act of sabotage.
She looks up, allowing her gaze to focus on the officer who acted as a shield for his best friend and colleague.
"What happened to Harry, the others?"
"Returned to the brig I think."
"And they kept you for. . . ?"
"Casual conversation and a few polite questions," he responds dryly. Making no move to answer her further.
Janeway makes a sound in the back of her throat, otherwise letting it go. The past six years with Tom have been more than enough to teach her when to press him and when to give up.
"We need to make it to the bridge," she says, though more to herself than to him.
"The bridge is a long way away from here," he sighs. "But maybe Engineering is a possibility."
If they make it to Engineering, they might be able to keep the ship immobile. Possibly even shut down the core, thus delaying Chakotay's progress 'relocating' the Starfleet crew. But what happens then, when they are standing still with weapons brandished?
Neither wants to think about the prospects, but they also don't have a choice. Inaction, given their current situation, is untenable. Absolutely out of the question in both of their minds.
"Let's begin making our way there," she instructors, gesturing to the shaft ahead. "We'll avoid all major conduits that repair teams might work in."
"Any ideas what to do when we get there, ma'am?"
"Always," she intones. And with all the confidence she doesn't feel. "Will you be able to keep pace without seriously exacerbating your injuries?"
"Of course," he replies, adopting the same façade.
"Then Engineering here we come."
They begin to make their way at an impressive pace, their movements halted only when one of them thinks they hear something ahead.
But it's in those frozen moments, in the darkened depths of the ship, that each of their fears threaten to overtake them; consumed by the feeling of Voyager being dead in the water - the cold metal beneath their palms failing to pulse with energy, and the familiar hum of power absent from their ears.
There is a fire, starting in my heart,
reaching a fevered pitch
and it's bringing me out the dark.
Finally, I can see you crystal clear.
Go ahead and sell me out,
and I'll lay your ship bare.
"Rolling in the Deep", Adele
