Disclaimer: Sadly, none of Star Trek: Voyager is mine. I have only borrowed the concept and characters to have fun (but gain no profit) writing this story, which is mine.

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Author's Note: This story is set late season 6.

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Star Trek: Voyager

Timeline

By

Starzangel

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PART ONE

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Stardate: 53942.4

"Long-range sensors are picking up a vessel ahead, Commander," Ensign Kim reported from the ops station.

Lieutenant Paris's fingers didn't falter as they continued to dutifully dance across the helm console. However, his pupils dilated ever so slightly as he, along with the rest of U.S.S. Voyager's bridge crew, instantly came alive with apprehension and excitement at Harry's words.

"Identification?" Chakotay asked.

"Unknown, sir," Kim replied.

"Dist- "

Suddenly, a huge green and silver subspace distortion appeared. The bright light swirled wildly, towering above them in the centre of the main screen.

In a flash it was gone.

Then, without warning, an invisible shockwave slammed into Voyager. The starship bucked, bursting conduits and tossing her crew around.

In front of Tom Paris, the helm console emitted a spray of sparks and came rushing towards him. Its flickering lights glared into his eyes, until he felt a sharp pain in his forehead, then all he knew was darkness that gave way to nothingness.

.

Captain Janeway stumbled out of her ready room onto the bridge.

"Report!" she ordered, shouting over the disarray.

Around the captain her crew struggled. A fire extinguisher hissed as a staggering Tuvok put out a fire at the tactical station. Harry Kim reached up a hand, grasped the edge of his console, and unsteadily pulled himself to his feet. Chakotay was slumped on the floor, his back against his chair, holding his spinning head with both hands.

"Chakotay, what happened?" Janeway asked, urgently.

He groaned, meekly.

She turned to the main screen, as Voyager shuddered. Static overlaid tilting stars.

At the helm Tom Paris's head rested against the console, eyes closed and blood trickling from a nasty head wound.

Beneath Janeway the ground slipped sharply to the right. She gripped hold of the helm to prevent herself falling down. Tom's limp body rolled towards her, smearing blood across the console. Then the ship tilted to the left and Paris slid the other way, his head bumping across the controls.

Concern knitted Janeway's brow as she clutched the console with one hand and reached over to her pilot with the other. Trembling fingers searched for a pulse in his neck.

She felt rather weak but regular heartbeats and relief washed over her.

The ship jolted violently again.

"Lieutenant, wake up!"

Shudders rippled through the swaying ship.

"Tom!" Janeway called, urgently, and squeezed his shoulder.

The blond-haired lieutenant didn't stir.

Voyager tipped further to the left and her bow rose upwards. As she fell against the helm, Janeway heard Harry groan and beside her Tom tumbled limply to the floor.

She needed to stabilise the ship.

Using both hands she pushed herself upright and surveyed the top of the console. Swiftly she tapped in commands, praying that the ship would respond.

Voyager obligingly righted herself, albeit jerkily.

Janeway was dimly aware of Tom groaning at her feet while she struggled to keep the ship in a stable position.

.

Tom Paris opened his eyes in a haze of pain, his head spinning. He stiffly sat up, which fiercely increased the symptoms for several seconds before they lessened, freeing his mind from the fog. Fighting down nausea, he struggled to his feet and held onto the helm chair to stop himself swaying. The console in front of him blurred twice before he was able to focus clearly and discern what needed to be done.

His fingers quickly stumbled across the familiar buttons, falling into step next to Janeway's.

Voyager stopped slipping and held a constant and correct position.

Captain Janeway let out a quiet, relieved sigh and gave him an appreciative smile.

Tom reached back, fumbling for his chair. His movements were wobbly as he sank down onto it, though the ship was now still. A shaky hand tentatively rose to his throbbing forehead and felt the wet and sticky blood trickling from the gash there. Tom closed his eyes, shutting out the spinning world.

He felt Janeway's hand on his arm and opened his eyes. The face that looked into his own was full of concern. Tom let his hand fall from his forehead.

Janeway touched his chin, gently tilting his head up so that she could inspect the bleeding gash better.

"That's a bad wound, Tom," the captain said, wincing with empathy.

"Yeah," he agreed, wearily.

"What was that?" Chakotay asked, staggering to his feet behind them.

"A temporary subspace distortion followed by a shockwave," Tuvok answered.

"Status," Janeway ordered, turning around.

"There wasn't time to raise the shields, Captain," Kim told her, his tone apologetic. "Damage reports from all decks. Hull breach on deck nine, being sealed. Numerous casualties. And the warp core is offline."

Captain Janeway surveyed her crewmen's condition. Harry flexed a sore wrist a few times, then gave his full attention to his console. Janeway noticed the slightly dazed look in Chakotay's eyes and he kept a hand pressed against his left temple as he stepped up to join Kim at the ops station. Tuvok wasn't seriously hurt and was successfully suppressing any discomfort he did feel.

"Chakotay, go down to sickbay with Mr Paris and get your injuries treated," Janeway ordered. She turned to Paris, "Tom, remain down there. I'm sure The Doctor will need your services and it's not as if we'll be going anywhere for a while."

Tom nodded carefully and Chakotay went over to the helm to help him to his feet.

"The rest of you are to go over the sensor logs and find out what caused that subspace distortion," the captain continued.

Exhausted, Paris leant heavily on Chakotay who wrapped a supportive arm around him. Together they stumbled to the turbolift.

.

To say sickbay is busy would be an understatement, Chakotay mused as the doors slid open.

Paris was uncomfortably heavy on his bruised shoulder and pain pulled at his left temple. He scanned the room for a place to release his load.

A young, fair-haired ensign, sitting up on a biobed holding a broken arm, noticed the new arrivals and drew up her knees to vacate the end of her bed. Smiling his thanks, Chakotay eased a weak and ashen Paris up. The lieutenant sat bent over with his legs dangling down the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees, his forehead in his hands.

The girl noticed the blood seep between Lieutenant Paris's fingers and drip onto his lap. She took a wad of gauze from a nearby tray and slowly, being careful not to aggravate her injured arm, shifted around so that she sat next to Paris on the edge of the biobed.

She lightly touched his shoulder. "Lieutenant."

Paris looked up. "Here," she said, handing him the gauze.

"Thanks," he murmured, attempting a wan smile.

Tom pressed the material firmly against his bleeding forehead. He sat silently for a few minutes, eyes closed. Then sighed and muttered something unintelligible.

"What?" Chakotay asked, from where he leant against the wall.

Paris opened his eyes. "Tricorder," he mumbled. "Get me a tricorder. Please."

Chakotay's gaze searched the room but didn't see one not it use. However, the ensign obliged, finding one next to the tray of gauze.

Paris put down the now blood-soaked fabric. He pulled the mediscanner off the top of the tricorder and flicked it on. He ran it over himself, watching the results appear on the medical tricorder's screen. Making a diagnosis, Tom grunted and shut off the mediscanner.

He turned to the girl. "Dermal regenerator? Thanks."

Tom was about to apply the healing rays to his head when it was snatched from his hand.

"No self-diagnoses here, thank you, Mr Paris," Voyager's Emergency Medical Hologram snapped.

The Doctor picked up the tricorder and scanned Paris.

"Concussion and deep laceration. But not critical."

He expertly removed all trace of the wound with the dermal regenerator, then pressed a hypospray against Tom's neck.

The EMH's expression softened. "I would tell you to go lie down, but I need your help here. Do you feel up to it?"

Tom touched his healed forehead and felt the painkiller and stimulant in his bloodstream get to work.

"Sure," he said, slipping off the bed onto his feet.

The Doctor handed him the tricorder. "Begin with the commander and Ensign Watkins."

*

"Lights: dim," Tom Paris told the computer, as he stepped into his quarters. The bright glare hurt his tired eyes and spinning head.

It was four hours since the appearance of the subspace distortion. The crew's injuries were healed and the ship's repairs well under way. Paris had decided to take an early night, drained by the day's events.

His stiff and bruised muscles complained as he sank down onto his bed. He took off his boots and lay back. Wearily, he considered getting undressed, but couldn't find the strength to get up. The ceiling spun in front of his eyes for several minutes, his mind whirling too much to sleep, until eventually his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off into slumber. . .

.

The corridor was dark. The only luminescence came from the stars shining though the narrow windows along the outside wall. It was beneath the windows, where the gloom was deepest, that Tom crouched, wide eyes flitting from left to right. The icy, stale air easily penetrated the thin, dirty, rag-like clothes that hung loosely over his malnourished frame, causing him to shiver convulsively. His empty stomach cramped with hunger and his mouth and throat were parched, his rapid breaths scrapped like sandpaper. In the shadows, he silently hurried further up the corridor.

Suddenly, an ear-splitting squeal filled the passageway.

He stopped, startled.

Above his head the source of the noise, a communication grate, vibrated and static crackled. Then the harsh, cold voice of Commander Hane echoed down the corridor, "We are approaching the alien starship. All hands to battle stations."

His sore, callused hands clawed up the flaking brown paint on the wall as he slowly stood up to peer out a window.

In the glass he saw a reflection. The face that stared back at him could have been that of a pretty, twenty year-old Human girl, were it not for the two fox-like ears atop the head and the hairline that came down in a point between the eyebrows. Though her face was gaunt, thick hair shone red, gold and brown through layers of grime.

Xar-cet-Mir-ar Tira.

He knew her more than he knew himself.

Tira came from the planet Narcia and had been wrongly enslaved by the Narcian Empire Fleet. Her father was named Xar and her mother was Mir. 'Xar-cet-Mir-ar' meant 'Xar and Mir's'. On Narcia she'd trained Torells - dog-like animals - and had had a clear view of the setting of the two suns from her bedroom window.

Something caught his eye through the glass. It came closer and closer until he could clearly see the huge, white starship.

The ship was familiar to him. . .it was Voyager.