The Dark Tunnel

by Layla-V

C/P: What if things had happened differently on the Ocampa staircase during the attempt to rescue Chakotay? AU set in the Caretaker/Voyager's early season 1. Originally published in Dec 2001

1. Chapter 1

Story Note: This story uses major events taking place in Caretaker and the start of Voyager's season 1. Now's the time for me to perhaps come out with a warning since some might call this story a 'major character death story with a twist' but I'd like to assure you that I personally am not fond of death stories and have put more emphasis on the said 'twist' than the death part of this strange little tale. Having said that, I won't spoil it anymore for you except to ask you to please proceed with an open mind. Everything is not as it appears to be and there are mysteries afoot.

---

Dark Tunnel 1 - Devastation

I grab the shivering steel rail with shaking hands, my eyes blinking furiously to clear the clouds from my vision.

It's not the menacing near-darkness of the cave that blurs my vision. Neither is it the dust and debris falling from the quaking rocks above and around me.

It's the heat.

It's the slick, thick sweat that rolls down into my fluttering eyelashes, making my eyes water, forcing me to squeeze them shut for a ceaseless moment; only to snap them open again as the realization sinks that every second gone may be a second too late.

My heart pounds thunderously as I shuffle my feet to the left and right, desperate to find a firm foothold, desperate to move down the stairs so that I can accomplish what I came down here for.

Desperate to save the life of a man who means more to me than I will ever admit to his face.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

The sudden reproach sends a shiver down my spine as a wetness of a different kind swells up under my lashes.

I look at him lying on the creaking iron floor, sprawled over the platform, just a few steps below me. I watch as he closes one large shaking hand over a metal bar, painfully attempting to huddle over the side of the railing, trying not to rest too much of his weight on his broken leg.

And failing.

A hurtful hiss is exhaled from between teeth clenched in unbearable pain.

I try to gauge his emotions, wanting to catch his eyes, to figure out how best to approach him in his obviously uncivil disposition.

Still he keeps his eyes averted from mine. He won't give me the chance to look into his eyes, the chance to see his fear, to sense his terror that the stairs will crumble and he will fall.

Yet I don't have to look into his eyes to know he's scared.

I can smell his fear, his sweat, and his pain. I want to take it all away from him. I want to get him to safety.

Suddenly, I notice something sparkle against his chest - a glittering carved stone, or an engraved metal emblem, or perhaps a piece of polished ivory, I am not sure what - hanging around his neck with a thin string, but when I blink its gone. I blink again, wondering what it was, and then let it go deciding my eyes are probably playing tricks with me.

Several dozen meters above us, another explosion rocks the surface and the whole staircase shudders in agony.

God, I have to get him to safety now.

"Look, I know you are scared, Chakotay," I say to him. "But you don't have to fight me because I am trying to save your life."

Now he looks at me, his head whipping up to pierce me with his penetrating, black stare and I feel myself cringing at the expression on his face. The hate, the disgust, and the disdain - all vie for supremacy with that unbearable hint of sorrow that clouds his brown eyes.

Unfathomable, unendurable sorrow.

"I don't want your benevolence, Paris," he grates corrosively, his face tightening, his voice hoarse with pain yet firm in decision. "I want no more lies, no more deceit, no more fucking hypocritical stints of sympathizing with the cause." He grits his teeth. "You don't have to act anymore. I know your truth."

I stare at him, my eyes wide. I can't believe he wants to bring up our past at a time like this. Doesn't he realize I only want to save his ass and get him the hell out of here?

"I didn't betray you, Chakotay," I plead with him, taking one more step down. "I never betrayed you."

The caves rumble as another explosion shakes the planet surface, the sound of the groaning metal grating my nerves, as the whole staircase shudders in sync with the quaking rocks.

"What?" He narrows his eyes in scorn, his face tight with hurt. "You didn't help the Starfleet to track us down?" He clenches his teeth. "You didn't agree to Janeway's offer to get you out of Auckland so that you could help her catch us? What was it that you wanted, Paris? Did you want to see all of us get thrown into maximum security prison for the rest of our lives?"

His expression shifts, something unreadable fleetingly passing his features, but I can't recognize what it is. He grits his teeth. "You did all that so that you could walk free, didn't you? Mission finally accomplished. Daddy's little boy at last making him proud."

His words cut through my soul as his cold, dark stare burns me.

"NO!" I scream.

He's got it all wrong. That's not how it went. How can he believe I would sink so low?

"You're wrong, Chakotay." My voice shakes as I plead at him with my eyes. "I did agree to Janeway's offer but I never for a second thought that we would find you."

The metal scaffolding shakes with another explosion and the realization that I am losing this argument pummels into my gut.

Precious seconds are slipping by. This is no time for arguments.

"I don't believe you," he yells, his hands gripping and slipping through the heaving, rocking rails. "You lied to me."

His agonized voice shakes as he closes his clammy fingers around the slippery fence, barely hanging onto the balustrade that now seems suspended by mere hinges.

"Chakotay!" The fear that this would all end in vain suffocates me, as I slide down frantically to reach him with an outstretched hand. "Please, give me your hand."

The stairs I stand on jolt violently as another explosive beam hits the surface and I find myself slammed into the side of a metal fence. I somehow scramble to my feet, turning to face him again. "Please."

I reach out for him.

"I trusted you." His eyes glisten with unshed sorrow, pain, and something else. Something final. "You sold us out."

And with those words I finally recognize the elusive emotion in his expression: Resignation.

The metal shrieks in protest, as another explosion on the surface sways the entire scaffolding. I watch, aghast, as the metal juncture joining the platform that Chakotay lies on begins to crumble under the pressure. In despair, I stagger down a step.

"Chakotay," I scream at him, my hands flailing out in desperation but the metal floor has gotten too weak to take my additional weight. The stairs give away under my faltering feet and I am thrown forward onto the side of the railing, the platform breaking under the pressure.

The cave suddenly fills with stifling dust, grime and falling debris, and for a second I can't see anything. The roar of the grinding metal deafens my ears as I scream for him again and reach out one last time to grab him, to save him, to get him out of there.

And find empty air.

I blink in horror, only to see that the platform he was lying on is gone.

It's gone.

It's fallen.

I didn't get him.

He's fallen.

He's gone.

"CHAKOTAY!"

I scream his name in the oppressive, suffocating darkness, as unashamed tears roll down my cheeks, and I hear my own cry echoing back to me in the Ocampan caves.

I failed him.

I let him fall to his death.

"Chakotay."

My pathetic whimper is the last thing I remember from that day.

---

"Get the hell up, Paris."

I am jolted awake by the heel of the boot that connects with the side of my ribs. I scramble up on the lumpy mattress, my sides burning, my pulse racing raggedly, and look blearily around the cubicle searching for the source of the voice and the abuse.

The bright lights are blinding to my half-asleep eyes, my heart still pounds at the burning memories of the nightmare. I swallow heavily to calm myself, to get my nerves under control, to get ready for the day that is to come.

"And stop sniveling, for gods sake. You KNOW they hate it when you snivel in your fucking sleep," the same voice continues. "Pathetic pussified sonofabitch."

Baxter. Only he would use this kind of endearment.

The 'they' in question are more partial to asshole, slut and whore.

"You're supposed to finish your pet welding project in the third sector today, and you'd better do it, you fucking loser, otherwise you'll be in big trouble."

Funny. Every work I am forced to do becomes my pet project.

Never mind that I may have been dragged to it kicking and screaming, while being beaten, kicked, thrashed and pounded all the way.

It is always my pet project.

And if I refuse, 'they' make sure I have hell to pay.

They.

They are the amalgamated mutation of two reluctant groups of people that are being forced to live together on this hellhole.

They are the scum, the lowlife of all existence as I know it; the grotesque monstrosity that dominates, and represses, the humanoid population on this cursed gorge of a planet.

Baxter grabs my left bicep in a vice-like grip and pulls me out of the bed. His other hand disappears from my view and moves down my body and I cringe in disgust as one grime-filled fingernail fleetingly brushes against my hip.

"What's the matter, babe?" He smiles sickly at me. "Did I hurt you when I kicked you into wakefulness?"

I pull my arm out of his claws. "Get your hands off me," I snap at him, as I stand up straighter in front of the man, gritting my teeth.

He shrugs as he blows a kiss at me, and I turn away from him, walking out of the cubicle I've been assigned.

I once read somewhere that the scum always accumulated at the bottom of the vessel.

I thought that I had seen the worst, the lowest and the most condemned, in my year long incarceration at Auckland.

I never realized how wrong I was.

You don't have to go to prison to see the refuse of the civilization.

All you have to do is take a bunch of otherwise normal people and throw them in an unexpected situation, take away the leadership they are used to following, and throw in a horde of savage enemies for added entertainment. Then you can have your very own inescapable, private hell right there.

This planet is the pit, the bottom, the abyssal hell-equivalent of the delta quadrant.

'They' are the scum of all existence, having finally shed their civilized masks, and shown their true ugly faces after being abandoned on this godforsaken world.

They are the remaining crews of the deceased Federation starship Voyager and the equally deceased Maquis cruiser Crazy Horse.

I hear Baxter muttering something about how he misses replicators and clothes refreshers to one of his ex-fleeters, and I try to forget the feeling of his slimy fingers on my skin.

They are scum and this is my private hell.

And I have no one else to blame but myself.

It's all my fault.

I failed Chakotay.

I let him fall to his death.

---

The dying rays of Lovaugim's setting sun beat down the side of my face. The slight breeze that started with the advent of dusk feels cool on my sunburnt skin.

I rub the sweat off my eyes with the right shoulder of my dungarees and carefully try to guide my tired, shaking hand, which is holding the sonic welder, back in place between the juncture of the two metal sheets.

The work today has been slow, arduous and brutally punishing. It has not been much different from any other day actually.

But welding days are always a little harsher than usual.

First, we get no food in the daytime and staying hungry after the paltry meal I have in the morning is tough in the face of the hard work we are forced to do in the excruciating heat.

And second, our 'supervisor' for the welding days is one callous, revolting bitch.

"What's the matter, Paris, the work getting too boring for you?" the imposing, red-haired woman standing behind me snarls, her shoulders squared, one hand purposefully rapping the long wooden staff against her right thigh. "If you are bored, let me know, I will arrange for something a little more exciting for you."

I turn my head around and stare at her, squinting my eyes against the glaring sun and notice a covert half-smirk on her face.

My heart sinks when I recognize the look in her dark, vaporous gaze. It's the same look she gets when she is either frustratingly horny or extremely pissed. Either instance means trouble for anyone who bears the brunt of her wrath.

But I am well versed in ways to deal with her. I have had almost twelve months practice, after all. It doesn't mean I will be safe from her temper, but it will probably assure me a somewhat satisfied state of mind in the aftermath.

In this hellhole, in the midst of this depressive, oppressive subversion, a moderately mollified state of mind is the best anyone can hope for.

"What's the matter, Seska," I drawl out in my cockiest tone. "You aren't GETTING any lately?"

Her face suddenly freezes, her eyes turning colder if possible, and the snarling features turn an uglier shade of red.

Amazed, I look at the transformation with wide eyes.

It baffles my mind every time I see Seska when she is pissed off.

I always thought Bajorans were soft-spoken, nonviolent people. I met many Bajorans in the academy, and on duty, and always found them to be compassionate and caring. Even the Maquis I met in Chakotay's cell, after I was kicked out of Starfleet, were proud and passionate about the cause, but always warm-hearted and gentle at core.

Seska, on the other hand, doesn't look like any Bajoran I have ever met.

I am rudely shaken out of my thoughts as one end of her wooden staff comes flying at me and savagely hits the same side of ribs that made friends with Baxter's boot this morning. Gasping, I double over in pain and stagger back from her, trying to avoid any more rude surprises.

For a second or two, I feel a string of expletives simmering at the tip of my tongue and I have to swallow them back with effort, knowing that uttering them will only provoke further attack.

Instead, I grit my teeth and look up at her, my burning eyes conveying my defiance in a way no words can ever do.

Her acid gaze pierces mine and once again I am reminded of how odd she looks as a Bajoran. Her eyes are too cold, her face too cruel, her whole make up a little too vehement for the members of her species.

If I didn't know better, I would think Seska was a fake Bajoran.

The corners of my lips twitch as I wonder how she would react if I said that to her face. If she's as proud of her heritage as the other Bajorans I know, she would be pretty damn ticked off.

She probably notices the hint of a smile flickering at the corners of my mouth, because I suddenly find myself sprawled on the ground, the sole of her leather boot jabbing me on my belly, pushing me down on the hard ground.

"Get back to work, Paris," she snarls at me again. "You waste too much of my freaking time."

And with one last punishing thrust of her boot, she pulls back, straightens up and, turning around, moves off to her next mark.

As I brush myself off and, ignoring the various aches and pains that needle down my body, turn around to face my unfinished task, a stray thought comes to me.

For the thousandth time, I wonder if life on Lovaugim would have been better for me if I had decided not to transport the Maquis crew from their cruiser onto Voyager.

If Seska and her cronies hadn't been here, would this gorge still resemble hell or would it have been a somewhat better place to live?

After all, it was me whom Janeway had left in charge at Voyager's conn, when she beamed down to the Caretaker's array with Tuvok, and it was I alone who made the decision to transport the Maquis crew to Voyager after their ship was badly damaged.

Would Harry have lived if we didn't have the Maquis terrorists scampering around Voyager?

I am not so sure.

I am not even sure whether it was the Maquis who killed Harry.

It could've been the Kazon.

I mean, Maquis or not, Voyager was still damaged beyond repair and I had no other choice but to crash-land her on this planet.

It was a nightmarish situation. So many people were wounded, many fatally, others critically. How could anyone have been ready to defend themselves when the fucking Kazon followed us down to this planet?

I had never seen so much blood in my life.

I lost the body count of how many Starfleet crewmembers were slaughtered that day.

I know many Maquis died too.

And quite a few number of Kazon as well.

So who knows who killed Harry?

Or that furry Talaxian man.

Not to mention that young Ocampa girl who apparently disappeared and was never found again. Disappeared, along with most of the women in the Starfleet and Maquis crews, all of whom vanished off the face of Voyager, and this planet, never to be heard from again.

I wonder what the Kazon did to them.

I also sometimes wonder what became of Captain Janeway and Tuvok. Were they ever able to get off the array? Some say that the Kazon landed on the array and killed them too.

I wonder if they were killed quickly and mercifully. Or if they were tortured and tormented for a long time before being barbarously hacked to death.

I have seen a few such killings on this very planet, in front of my very eyes.

I have seen the scum of Starfleet do it to their own fellow crewmates.

I wonder if it could've happened differently.

I hear footsteps coming my way and shake myself out of my daze.

"Paris, I don't understand why you goad Seska like this."

It's Torres; coming with her daily doze of antibiotics for the injuries that are inflicted on me everyday in new and sundry places.

I look at the half-Klingon and suddenly feel like a criminal, guilty, for thinking that life could have been better for me without the Maquis.

"You shouldn't rile her up like this." She frowns at me and presses the tube in my palm. "She not only stays pissed at everyone else after that, but also takes her anger out on YOU yourself later on."

I find myself smiling at the Maquis engineer who regularly steals medicine for me from the infirmary of the same people who inflict those injuries on me on an equally regular basis.

She's one of those resilient few women that no one, not even the Kazon, was able to touch.

"You know what, Torres," I grin at her. "Goading Seska and the other bastards is the highlight of my existence these days."

She snorts and shaking her head at me straightens up again. "Pig," she growls affectionately. "You'll never learn."

And with that, she turns around and walking down the same path she came through, disappears between the tents and cubicles, leaving me alone with a sonic welder in one hand, and a tube of antibiotic cream in the other.

Oh no, life couldn't have been better if I hadn't transported the Maquis to Voyager. I can't imagine how I would've survived all these months if it hadn't been for Torres and others like her.

It isn't the Maquis' fault that things have turned out the way they have.

It isn't because of Starfleet or the Kazon either.

I really have no one else to blame but me.

It's my fault.

Mine alone.

It's all happened because I failed Chakotay.

I let him fall to his death.

---

The air is thick with tension, as pain and fear ooze off our burning, sweat-soaked bodies like so many vapors drifting off scorching, red-hot metal.

Another explosion rocks the planet surface several dozen meters above us, and the whole staircase shakes in abject terror.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

I look at him curled up against the side of the railing, face screwed in pain, his large, strong hands desperately hanging onto the metal bar, hanging onto dear life.

"I am not gonna leave you here, Chakotay." I take a careful step down the rocking stairs. "I told the captain that I would get you out of here and I am not leaving without you."

His head whips up at this, as he pierces me with his penetrating, black stare, and I feel myself cringing at the expression on his face. For a split second I catch sight of a small shiny object dangling from a string around his neck, but before I can ascertain what it is, I am distracted by the look on his face. The utter betrayal, contempt, and hate in his eyes stab at my heart and I feel my throat tightening at the flow of overwhelming emotions.

"You don't have to fucking patronize me, Paris," he snarls at me, his eyes burning with anger and pain. "I am sure the captain won't mind a Maquis terrorist falling to his death in a nameless cave on a nameless planet." His voice shakes yet he continues on. "Isn't that why you agreed to help her find me? So that Starfleet could throw my crew and I into prison for the rest of our lives? I am sure the admiral would be very proud of you now."

His words cut through my soul, his cold, dark gaze blistering me from the inside out.

"NO!" I scream. That's a lie. I never wanted it to happen this way. I can't believe he would think so low of me. "You're wrong, Chakotay." My voice trembles as I look at him with pleading eyes. "That's not what I came here for. I know I agreed to the captain's offer but I never thought that I would find you."

The metal structure trembles as the planet surface is rocked by another explosion. I watch, dismayed, as the platform Chakotay lies on shifts under the pressure of the blast and one of his hands loses its grip off the railing.

"You're lying," he screams, trying to claw his lose hand back onto the railing. "You betrayed me."

The shifting metal groans against my jarring nerves, as the stairs I stand on shudder in sympathy. Yet, I have to move and I have to move fast. I grab the railing on either side of me, and stumble down towards him.

"Give me your hand, Chakotay." I call out to him, my voice hoarse with fear. "Please, give me your hand."

Suddenly, the whole cave is filled with dust and pieces of falling debris as another explosion occurs on the surface, and the staircase shakes violently enough to throw me backwards on the stairs. I watch in sheer horror as the floor Chakotay lies on crumbles and his other hand slips off the railing as well.

With a cry, I scramble up on my feet and try to reach down to him, my hands outstretched.

My eyes lock with his for just one final second.

"You sold us out," he whispers, his voice tinged with unimaginable sorrow.

And with that he slides and falls off the platform, as my agonized scream fills the empty cave and resonates back to ring in my ears.

"CHAKOTAY."

---

I bolt upright on my bed, my heart pounding, my breath heaving and my clammy fingers scratching vacant air only to come back empty-handed. The night's warm breeze makes my sweat-soaked skin shiver in the still darkness. My hands tremble with loss and tears roll down my face as pinching, voiceless sobs wrench my hoarse throat.

It's always like this.

Always the same, on these painful nights, when the nightmare comes back to me in full force - alive, breathing, flinging those sorrowful memories back at me.

Always the same. Yet each time there's something a little bit different.

A word here, a look there. A changed expression, a somewhat different exchange of conversation.

Always something to remind me that it was a new dream.

And yet always the same.

Always reminding me of the same thing, of my one cursed failure.

Reminding me of the fact that I lost him.

Lost him before I had a chance to tell him how I felt, how important he had been, how much his respect had meant.

Lost him before I could do any of these things.

Reminding me that I failed him.

I let him fall to his death.

---

Today's pet project is digging wells.

But I am not alone today. There are fourteen other guys, Starfleet and Maquis alike - people who weren't naturally cut out to be miscreants, reprobates or psychopathic murderers - assigned to various different tasks along with me.

Yosa, one time Maquis - and full time hooligan - is regulating the day's proceedings with a surly condescension tinted on his frowning, impatient face.

In other words, it's his turn to stand in the shade to pass orders, throw insults and occasionally raise the whip at fifteen dehydrated, hurting men, clad in the minimum of rags, toiling the day's hard chores in the scorching sun.

Four similarly armed fellow-thugs watch along from the sidelines, enjoying the show.

As if digging a well in the hard, brittle site chosen for Lovaugim's first water extraction project isn't hard enough; we have to bear the vengeance of scamps and bullies too, in the midst of all this sadistic perversion.

I remember a long gone sultry summer day, back home in San Francisco, when I dug a well in our backyard.

I was six years old. My uncles and aunts had all come with their families to stay for the weekend. Two of my cousins, Tammy and Richie, were both around my age and we were playing an 'ancient technologies' game in the backyard.

I remember spending hours digging a 20-inch deep, 12-inch in diameter well in the soft ground, which I then carefully and painstakingly lined and paved with a fine coating of mortar, and left to dry for a few more hours.

Richie replicated a small wooden bucket, which he fitted to a pulley that Tammy helped him make, following an example she had learnt at school, and attached them to the well.

Tammy's mom, Aunt Liz – who was dad's younger sister – helped me build a small battery using only a lemon, an 18-gauze copper wire, steel clips and sandpaper – all from an experiment I had dug out the previous night.

The well was then filled with clear water and the battery was attached to the pulley that, when operated, would pull the bucket filled with water out of the well. And there and then, we had created our very own battery-operated, homemade tube-well.

Even the admiral had stood along with the rest of the family and had smiled and applauded us on our joint effort.

I had felt so thrilled to make him proud of me.

That is one of my last memories of my father smiling at me for doing something fun.

I am taken out of my daydream when I hear a scuffle behind me and turn around just in time to see Yosa kicking out Baytart's legs from under him, causing him to crash to the ground. The manacles that are locked around both his feet are magnetized at once and both his legs are locked together immediately, hindering any movement from his waist down.

I wince, and have to willfully clench my hands at my sides to stop myself from flying at the Maquis, as he viciously kicks Baytart a few times to drive whatever point he was trying to make home. I hear quiet yelps and groans come from the fallen man and close my eyes in pity as I watch Yosa's whip-holding hand rise and come down in quick succession a half dozen times.

No one dares coming to the young pilot's rescue lest they want the same fate to befall them.

My heart pounds in sympathy as I stand quietly for a few long seconds and let Yosa simmer at the pilot, letting the anger, the frustration – for whatever reason it flared up – drain out of his system. After a while, he apparently loses interest and turns around, demagnetizing the manacles around Baytart's feet.

Seeing the opportunity, I quietly walk towards the pilot and bend down to help him up. Silent tears streak his face, as my eyes make note of angry gashes and marks across his bruised chest, and I feel a wave of anguish and anger pass through me.

"Hey."

I freeze as I hear Yosa come behind me. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I don't answer him until I have pulled Baytart to his feet and only then do I straighten my shoulders and turn around to face our keepers. What I see makes my blood turn cold.

Yosa has taken his shirt off and his fellow-thugs, who have followed him out of the shed, are in the process of stripping. I watch with growing disgust and fear as their hands move in unison over their groins, readying their anatomies for the diversion they seem to have planned for today.

"What do you think you are doing, Paris, helping our game stand up and all?" Yosa sneers, advancing on us. "He's in such fine state for a little entertainment, y'know." He looks behind me at Baytart, licking his lips provocatively, and I feel a shudder run down my spine. "We're just getting in the mood, didn't you know that?"

Feeling my heart thudding with a mixture of increasing alarm and trepidation, I gather up my courage and stand straighter, blocking their path. "Look, he's hurt and in pain." I try hard to use a conciliatory tone. "You've had your fun kicking him around, why don't you just leave him alone now?"

"Tom…" I hear Baytart whisper from behind and notice one of Yosa's men, a Fleeter, walk around us from the left, moving in position behind us.

"Get out of here…" I hiss at Baytart, as a second man makes his way to our back from the right side.

"But Tom…" Baytart's voice shakes.

"Now." I wheeze impatiently, praying he will listen to me.

Suddenly, I find the neck of my sweatshirt gripped in Yosa's large hands as someone pulls my hair from behind and a fist connects with the back of my neck. I grunt in pain, falling forward as Yosa grips my shoulders in a tight grasp. I feel a slick wetness brush my cheek and pull back to see Yosa's tongue slipping in and out of his mouth in a squalid dance, his breathy whisper tingling my ear.

"What are you gonna do if I let him go, Paris?"

Sudden bile rises up my throat and a sick terror settles in the pit of my stomach, as I spit out my hatred on the vile face leering down at me.

I have to stop them, my brain says, as my fear-stricken heart pounds inside my chest.

Yosa howls in fury and muttering a spew of curses comes unleashed on my face, punching and pummeling and pounding at me, his mottled face turning dark with anger. I feel my jaw give away under the assault as my nose shatters and I feel my face and neck and chest get sprayed with fresh, burning blood.

I scream in agony and clenching my right hand into a tight ball, strike out at the man in front of me. My fist connects to his jaw with a resounding crack, as my knee strikes out to connect with his hip, making him cry out in pain, but my shoulders clutched in his hands somehow lessen the force of the initial blow. And suddenly I am lying on the ground, as my arms are gripped and pulled up over my head and more than one pair of boots kicks my abdomen, my ribs, and my thighs. I pull my legs and kick out at my attackers but the heavy manacles make it impossible to do much damage.

"Fucking Maquis traitor..." I hear someone yell and try to recognize the voice but fail.

Too many hands land on my body, sliding up and slipping down, pinching, scratching, squeezing, as my clothes are ripped off and pushed out of the way.

I never stop struggling. Frenzied with fear and anger, I kick and punch and grapple and strike out whenever one of them loses their grip on my hands. I feel skin breaking under my jabs, hear their grunts and frustrated curses. But each time my arms are grabbed and pulled over my head again, as more fists fall on my face and chest, leaving them bloody and sore.

"Oh the slut is in fine mood today." It's Yosa. "Yeah, fight Tommy, I love it when you fight, you turn me on so much when you scream."

"Get off me, you bastards," I howl at them, but they are already gripping me by my shoulders and turning me around.

"Oh but we are only just starting, Tommy," Yosa sniggers, as my legs are pulled apart and I feel their slimy hands on my back, and thighs, and ass.

"How would the Maquis traitor like to feel a Starfleet dick in his ass?" someone else laughs as I am pinned tightly to the ground, unable to shake them off.

"Noooooooooooooo," I cry out, my bleeding face pressed into the dirt, as angry tears prick the back of my eyes.

"Asshole, sold us out to the fucking Federation," I hear another one growl as brutal, invading fingers come clawing and scratching at me, making me shudder in disgust.

Mocking, biting words swarm into my ears, digging tunnels into my head, like too many crawling, burrowing insects; and I close my eyes, trying to block out the voices and the sensations. I make an attempt to go deeper into my mind, to remember that clear, sunny day back home in San Francisco, and the well I had dug at age six. I remember how the admiral had stood and applauded me on my feat and wonder what he would think of me if he saw me right this minute.

A seething fire splits its way into my gut as I am invaded in the most defiling way possible, and I feel a burning, flaming agony melt into my senses. I am hardly aware of anything but that pain, and the shameful tears that roll down my face unhindered, as the fire spreads out in all directions, choking me, stifling me.

Amidst the unbearable debasement, the realization dawns on me that the admiral would probably never want to have anything to do with me after all that I've gone through in this hellhole.

He wouldn't want to taint the Paris name.

I can't remember when darkness encroached onto my senses and I fell into the waiting arms of oblivion.

---

I tightly grip the shaking metal rail with hands too damp with sweat and choke as grime and dust fill the cave and my nostrils.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

The railing slips out of my grasp with each tremor that jolts the staircase and swallowing hard the crushing fear, I clutch it again.

He is hurt and scared and terrified. Yet he still wants to push me away. Still wants to pretend he doesn't need my help.

A sudden confused surge of anger comes unleashed within me from some deep dark place inside, but I make no effort to calm or ground myself.

"What the fuck are you trying to prove, Chakotay?" I scream at him instead. "I am standing here trying to get you the fuck out of this godforsaken cave and you are playing fucking hard to get?"

His head snaps up and he pierces me with his penetrating, black gaze, the heat in his eyes turning something inside me.

"Fuck you, Paris," his voice shakes with pain, his eyes burning with anger, and yet I see an unmistakable tinge of grief clouding the deep brown depths. "You're a traitor,"

Suddenly I notice something sparkle against his neck and I blink, trying to focus on the object, but its gone just as fast. His dejected whisper, stabbing at my heart, instead diverts my attention. "You sold us out."

"I didn't betray you, Chakotay," I moan as I find my anger dissipating and in its place sharp, slithering tentacles of fear grip my heart, squeezing my chest, making it hard for me to breath. "Give me your hand, Chak." I plead with him, my heart in my mouth, as I carefully descend the rocking steps to reach him. "Please, there is no time."

And there isn't.

It's already too late.

I watch in horror as the floor Chakotay lies on crumbles under the pressure and, with a scream, I scramble to my feet, moving towards him to catch him one last time but find nothing but a frigid emptiness in my grasp.

"CHAKOTAY."

---

Someone is calling my name. Gentle fingers on my face. Something cool and damp being rubbed over my forehead and my closed eyes.

"Tom."

It's a familiar voice that calls me from far, far away and I contemplate following it out of the dark cave I am trapped in. Yes, it's a cave, and there is utter stillness inside, and yet I feel strangely content staying right where I am. I don't want to leave this sanctuary, this quiet, tranquil refuge that gives me a kind of peace that I don't think I'll find anywhere else.

"Tom."

But the voice persists. I try to close my ears to it but it continues to prod me, crawling into my head, tapping into my consciousness.

Leave me alone; I try to tell the voice. But my mouth doesn't move. I feel confused for a second. Why won't my mouth cooperate? I reach out with my arms instead, pushing the invisible voice away, telling it to let me be. I don't want to be bothered, I say silently, please leave me alone.

My only answer is sudden spikes of raw, biting pain that assault me, piercing my jaw, my face, my head, my arms. I groan as tendrils of liquid fire settle down onto my abdomen and my legs.

"Tom," the voice repeats, trailing me from some far away dismal corner of my sanity.

I can't hide anywhere. The voice is everywhere.

The voice comes closer, nearer, following me, as flickers of consciousness slowly break onto the dark horizon of my mind.

My breath ragged, needles of pain beating down my body, I slowly open my eyes to the glaring lights on the ceiling of Voyager's sickbay.

"Tom, don't try to talk," the voice has a face now and its bending over me, touching my face, my shoulders, with kind fingers, "Don't try to move just yet either. We still have some work to do."

For some reason, the voice is reassuring, non-threatening, and I find myself relaxing a bit.

I am in the sickbay. Which means I really must be hurt badly. They don't bring us to the sickbay unless there is some serious damage done. Though, for some reason I can't remember what really happened to me.

"Here." A cool rag is being rubbed gently over my neck and my chest and I flinch as it passes over my tender ribs. "Shh, it's okay, let me use the knitter over here. We're almost done."

As my jumbled brain heeds the soft hum of the bone-knitter, I suddenly remember the name that goes with that voice.

"Ken?" I ask, my voice a mere gurgle and then I groan again at the resultant pain in my jaw.

"Hey, I told you not to talk," Dalby frowns at me but his voice is gentle. "I haven't given you a painkiller yet, that's why your jaw hurts so much."

Painkiller? I thought we ran out of them two weeks ago. I should've known they had some stashed away in a hidden corner of the now mostly defunct sickbay. With a sigh, I close my eyes, letting the Maquis complete his job.

Someone presses a hypospray against my neck and my eyes again fly open at the contact, only to realize its Joe Carey, who shrugs apologetically and softly injects the painkiller into my bloodstream.

It's almost funny seeing all these one-time engineers acting as medics in these decadent times.

As always, Carey finishes his job and quietly disappears somewhere in the background, leaving me alone with Dalby.

As Dalby finishes knitting my ribs together, I feel the discomfort in my chest slowly abate. My head feels clearer so I decide to test my strength by trying to move my limbs, only to cry out as a sudden sharp pain erupts into my lower body. My whole body twists in a spasm as the pain travels up my legs like molten lava, stirring along my bruised thighs, moving around my beaten backside, finally to settle in that vulnerable spot between my sore ass-cheeks.

My whole lower body, my legs, my ass, is on fire. As my eyes fill with unbidden moisture, I suddenly remember exactly what happened to me.

Some of the mortification must have shown on my face, because Dalby instantly presses another hypo against my neck and somehow the pain shrinks, ebbing into a dull ache, pulsating inside my battered bones.

"Tom, its okay," he speaks softly, trying to reassure me, his hand touching my shoulder comfortingly. "It's over now, you're alright."

Only I don't want to be comforted. I don't want to hear any soothing words of how things are all right and that no one is going to hurt me anymore. Been there, done that, many time over. No words, no amount of verbal comfort, can make life in this hellhole okay for me. It's not okay. It's never going to be okay.

I turn my head and look at him. "Where's Baytart?" I ask, my voice forced to sound firm with a considerable effort, my steel veneer barely in place.

Dalby frowns as if suddenly a disturbing revelation has been made to him; his eyes glitter with an emotion I don't have the strength to face right now. "He's fine," He looks at me wearily. "They didn't touch him after all. They didn't wanna touch him and you knew that, didn't you?"

I swallow heavily. "No, I didn't. How could I have known?"

"Because it always happens like this," His volume rises exponentially. "I don't know why you always have to pick a fight with those fucking bastards, Tom. You're not everyone's goddamned savior."

"Damn you, Ken," I snarl at him, suddenly pissed off at him that he's pissed off at me. "They were gonna hurt him. What did you expect me to do? Stand back and fucking watch?"

Dalby grits his teeth, exasperated. "That's exactly what I'd have wanted you to do. It's better than getting your jaw and ribs smashed."

But he's wrong, and he knows it. He knows it as well as I do that the only reason they keep coming after me is because I fight back, because they haven't been able to break me as yet. And they will never be able to. I'll never stop fighting, even if they kill me.

Dalby sees something in my eyes and his expression shifts. "Y'know you did some damage too. Yosa had a broken nose and a fractured jaw, Bronowski's shoulder was pulled out of his socket." He stares at me a second and then says. "I just wish you wouldn't pick fights on your own. Let whomever they come after deal with them. They come after Baytart," his volume rises. "Let Baytart deal with them."

"But he's just a kid." I sigh in agitation.

"For gods sake, Tom," Dalby shakes his head at me. "What difference does that make? It's not like he's never been raped before."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. They hit me like a sledgehammer, pummeling into my chest, and my face crumples, as suddenly I am back at the digging site, pressed face down into the dirt by brutish hands, coarse fingers invading me, making it hard for me to breath.

I come up thrashing on the bio-bed, arms flailing, as I turn to my side, attempting to climb off the bed, and am gripped firmly by strong hands.

"I have to go," I moan, trying to wrench myself free, as Dalby's hands run over my back, soothingly. "Please, let me go," I sob helplessly into the front of his shirt, sagging ungracefully in his arms, as mutinous tears roll down my face, soaking his shirt. "Please, I need to get outta here…"

Dalby shushes me, gently rocking me, telling me that I am safe here, that I am safe for now, and no one is going to come here, at least for now. Long, exhausting minutes tick by like this and as I sluggishly feel my breathing return to normal, I look up to find a troubled expression on his face. I know he realizes what threw me off, the one wretched word that I can feel in my veins but not bear to hear in my ears, not bear to acknowledge verbally.

But it's not his fault, not his pain. It's my shortcoming, my failure, and my hell.

"I won't let them touch you, Tom," he declares. "Not here. They have to go through me first."

And I know he means it. He will fight for me, as he has done many times before. As long as I am in front of his eyes, no one will touch me. Amidst this horde of mercenaries and psychopathic bastards, Kenneth Dalby is someone on my side, one of the good guys.

I look at this man - once an enemy, now a friend - and think of the strange anomalies we come across in the journey of our lives.

Ken Dalby is one such anomaly.

When I first came across him, which was during my brief stint in the Maquis, I thought he was the biggest sonofabitch I had ever seen. He was rude, disdainful, insolent and angry at the whole fucking universe. I thought he was nothing but trouble and since I had enough problems of my own, I figured it would be in my best interests to stay away from him. I didn't even try to get to know him. All I saw was the surface anger and hatred, and decided he was simply a jerk.

It's something else that I was perfectly capable of screwing up my life on my own but that's a whole different story.

Even when I crash-landed Voyager on this planet, even after all the massacre, the blood and the Kazon, I didn't understand who Ken was. I thought he was another Maquis terrorist, a mere felon, an aggressor. Nothing more.

It wasn't until he saved me from one of the deranged gangs here, got me out of the cell block where I had been left to die after being beaten half to death, that I realized he was not like them at all. He got beaten up himself, fought his way out of there just for me, saved my ass. I asked him why he did what he did, why he saved my life, and he said that he knew a kindred soul when he saw one.

Torres told me he had lost the girl he had loved to the Cardassians, had seen her get raped and killed in front of his eyes, and that was what had driven him crazy, what had made him join the cause.

When I thanked him for saving me that day, he just shrugged his shoulders as if it was no big deal.

Except it was big deal to me. When the mask finally came off, I realized Ken was just like me, a victim himself. Misunderstood. But once you got to know him, he was a hell of a friend. He's the only person in here that calls me by my first name, and the only one I like to call by their first name too.

I would have it no other way.

"Are you feeling better now?" he asks me and I nod, still feeling a little numb. "I wish the Captain was still around," he sighs.

It takes me a few seconds to realize that he's talking about Chakotay. Chakotay was the only captain Dalby knew. He never got to see Janeway. He didn't set foot on Voyager until they were all gone.

Chakotay.

A small stab of pain goes through me and I take deep breaths to center myself but all I can think of is the nightmare. The same nightmare that, for reasons unknown, has been invading my sleep all too frequently these last few weeks. Memories of a fateful day lost long ago, but still as fresh in my mind as if the events occurred just yesterday, flash back into the reel of my mental cinema and I almost groan in pain.

It's a pain that transcends physicality. It's a pain in my heart. In my soul.

I slide off the bio-bed, my feet touching the cool soil of Sickbay. "I need to go to my room, Ken." I don't meet his eyes as I face the walls and look at the bulkheads and glance up at the ceiling with all the bright lights – all the scrap that we could salvage from the remains of USS Voyager.

This is all that's left of Voyager. After the Kazon were through with our intrepid class starship, all that was left were heaps of scrap metal and bulkheads and two bio-beds from the sickbay. The Kazon took about everything else that was worth shit.

I try to think how funny it would have been to see the EMH's expression if we had told him that his sickbay's floor was now made of hard ground and soft soil and patches of dry grass. But of course, the EMH was disabled one year ago. Somehow I don't find much funny these days.

"I swear if the Captain were here, he'd deal with all these assholes himself." Dalby is still talking, working himself up, not noticing my discomfort, or perhaps I have gotten better at hiding my grief. "Damn, I wish he were still alive."

My veneer breaks for a third time in the last half-hour and I want to curse myself for my weaknesses, for my inability to control my emotions. But his words remind me of my real failure, remind me of the fact that I am responsible for Chakotay's death.

"Shit, Tom." Dalby is horrified. "I am sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It's not your fault that the Captain died. I know you tried to save his life."

So what difference does that make? I tried and I failed. The trying doesn't matter if you fail. The trying doesn't matter if the man you were trying to save dies thinking you were a traitor and a fuck up, if the man that meant so much to you didn't even want to live if it meant owing his life to you.

The trying doesn't matter if the man you loved hated you.

"Tom."

I shake my head, still not able to look at him, still not able to speak. I gather my wits together and slowly walk out of the room, wincing and limping in pain.

The trying doesn't matter. What matters is that I failed. I fucked up.

I let him fall to his death.

---

I am on light duty today. I don't know how but Torres was actually able to pull some strings with Seska's cronies and she let me work inside the welding camp, inside the shade. They got into a big fight right outside the encampment, spitting and snarling at one another for what seemed like hours, fighting like wild animals.

The fiery Klingon warrior against the fake Bajoran bitch.

You can guess who'd have won this round.

Dalby doesn't have much say against Seska. She treats all males as her own private band of slaves, even the ones who side with her. Torres, being a female, and hotheaded enough to match her evenly in all areas, is the only one who can bitch-slap her effectively.

I should feel happy that the good guys won this round of verbal skirmishes, but happiness is an emotion that evades me more often than not.

I haven't seen Dalby today but I know he's somewhere around, keeping an eye on me. I saw Torres a few times, stomping off in the distance, rigid with anger. Though for some reason she didn't come near me at all, didn't ask me anything, didn't even look at me, all the while I was sitting inside the shade welding at my pet project.

I suspect she might be pissed at me for some reason. Probably the same reason I think Dalby is ticked off. They think I have this perverse wish to deliberately get myself into situations where I end up getting hurt. Crazy, huh? They think I have masochistic tendencies that have gotten out of control in this base environment.

For two people who understand me better than anyone else here, sometimes they don't seem to understand me at all.

How can I explain to them that this whole situation is my fault to begin with? All these deaths and destruction and pain - theirs, mine, and everyone else's - it's all blood on my culpable hands. How can I tell them that I have no way to redeem myself other than to take a little of their pain any chance I can?

After all, I am responsible for taking away their lives, their peace and their happiness, aren't I?

Happiness is an emotion I haven't experienced in twelve long months.

---

I blink my eyes trying to clear the cloud of dust enveloping me from all sides, obstructing my vision, settling in my mouth and my nostrils, hindering the flow of oxygen that makes breathing possible for me.

It's so dark. So quiet. Just like the dead.

The only sound I hear is the reckless thud of my heart beating loudly in my ears. It's an ominous sound, foreboding, hopeless, suggestive of impending doom.

Or perhaps a reminder of destruction already befallen.

Another explosion on the surface shakes the entire balustrade and suddenly I realize the dust is clearing. I clutch the rails on both sides and take two fearful steps down, squeezing my eyes to stop the unsought irritation weeping down onto my face, and quickly open them again, wanting to see what's ahead of me, wanting to know what's below.

Suddenly it becomes visible: the twisted, contorted edges of the metal steps and the metal junctures holding the platform that were torn away by the force of the explosion on the surface, torn away right in front of my eyes.

The platform that is no longer there.

"Oh God, no," I hear myself moan, as I strain to look down the tunnel, my heart pounding deafeningly, as if it would tear out of my squeezing chest.

And then I see him. His twisted, broken body lying on the sharp, jagged rocks below. His one arm splayed out over his head, as if he had been trying to reach out to something.

As if he had been trying to reach out to me.

I feel myself go rigid and cold with realization. I hear myself moan and slide down on the metal floor, shaking with grief.

"Chakotay."

I cry out, my voice hoarse with pain as hot tears slip down my cheeks, stubborn in their pursuit.

---

"Paris."

Startled, I jolt up on my bed, my chest heaving with exertion, my heart contracting with waves of guilt and fear.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I spring, my defense mechanism slipping into action, lashing out with both hands at the intruder who has slipped into my cubicle in the black night.

"Paris." I hear a painful grunt in the silence of my room, as my fist lands on a body that suddenly didn't seem to be poised for attack.

I freeze as my baffled brain belatedly realizes it's not an attacker.

"Dammit, its me. Torres."

I scramble for the light switch and turn it on. She is standing on the foot of my bed, one arm clutching the side of her ribs where my blow landed.

"Shit, I am sorry," I stammer, suddenly feeling contrite. "Did I hurt you badly?"

"No, its okay," she wheezes and looks closely at me, straightening up.

"You startled me," I try to explain. "What are you doing here so late at night?"

She looks at me warily for a few seconds, as if assessing my frame of mind and my mood, and then shrugs slightly. "I was just passing by and I thought I heard you…" A tentative pause. "…groaning."

My face flushes hot as I suddenly remember the nightmare. I feel a blush creep up my neck and I know she can see it on my face. I avert my eyes from her dark ones.

"I…I just wanted to make sure you were okay," she mumbles, clearly embarrassed herself.

I take a deep breath and try to force a grin on my face, trying to act nonchalant. "Well, the first thing you do in such situations is to turn on the lights, Torres."

My heartbeat suddenly picks up speed when her eyes narrow at my words and I notice a strange expression flicker through her features. I stare at her, expecting her to say something but she turns around, walking to the water-cooler, and picks up a glass, filling it with the not-so-cool water.

With her back to me, I raise my hand to my face and flinch as my fingers encounter the familiar wetness on my cheeks. Shit. I had been crying in my sleep and now she has seen the evidence. I hastily try to rub my face clean before she can see me. She turns around and pauses, appraising me for a second and then brings the water to me. I lower my eyes, not willing to meet her gaze, my teeth working on my lower lip nervously.

"Here," she offers me the glass, sitting on the edge of my bed. "Drink this."

I take the glass from her and try the nonchalance routine again. "I was having this wild nightmare." I shake my head, a plastic smile on my quivering lips. "Dunno where it came from." I take a large gulp of water, willing my heart to calm.

"You still blame yourself, don't you?"

Her question catches me by surprise and I freeze, my eyes flying up to finally meet her probing brown gaze. I stare at her for exactly three heartbeats and then speak. "Blame myself for what?"

"Blame yourself for Chakotay's death."

I realize my mouth has dropped open, as I stare at her in shock. I am astonished that she is talking about this after all this time. She has never, not once over the past twelve months, ever mentioned Chakotay to me. We talk about many things, Torres and I. We talk about the situation we are in, about the scraps of Voyager that we have to gather to create rudimentary structures for the inhabitants on this planet, about the lack of hope we constantly find ourselves in. We talk about the violence we saw and continue to experience around here, about the Kazon, the Maquis, the Fleeters, and so many other things.

But she has never, ever talked about her captain to me before. She has never mentioned the incident on the Ocampan stairs. She has never tried to rub it in my face the way some of the other Maquis do. I can't imagine why she would start now. I wonder if this is only the extension of the cold shoulder that I received from her the whole day yesterday.

"What are you talking about?" I can't help but sound defensive, skeptical, and hate myself for it. The last thing I want to do is further alienate her from me.

"I heard you cry out his name, Paris," she sounds suddenly remorseful. "I've heard from others that this isn't the first time." Her brow is wrinkled with concern. "Do you get nightmares about what happened on Ocampa?"

I let myself breathe slowly, the feeling of relief suddenly descending on me. She's not here to rub it in my face. She is concerned about me. But I still can't bring myself to let down my guard too fast. I slide an impassive expression on my face and shrug.

"Well, what if I do?"

She frowns slightly. "Well, you shouldn't 'cause it WASN'T your fault."

My short-lived peace of mind quickly evaporates into thin air. What's the matter with all these people? I feel exasperated. A day before Dalby was trying to calm me down about the same thing, and now its Torres sitting down at the edge of my bed trying to reassure me that I am not to blame for what happened on Ocampa?

"You're wrong, Torres. It IS my fault." I grit my teeth, suddenly feeling my eyes brim with traitorous tears and blink my eyes stubbornly, willing myself to stay in control. "I let him fall."

She snorts out a short exaggerated laugh, a small puff of air exhaled through her nostrils. "It was a fucking accident. You didn't push him off the stairs, did you?"

"I was too slow," I frown, feeling my tightly wound coil of control springing out of my hold. She's not supposed to be sitting here. She shouldn't talk to me about Chakotay. There was a reason why she didn't all this time and it was probably for the best. But now it's getting all spiraled out of control, it's not right, she can't do this. But I can't stop myself, can't get a grip on my emotions, on my mouth, on the staccato beat of my thudding heart. I open my mouth and my pain comes out in an embarrassing near-wail. "I should've tried harder."

"Yes you should have," she snarls and I halt at her words, thinking this is crunch time, that I was right and she is really here to rub salt into my wounds, to make me roll on the hot, burning coals of my guilt. Instead she lowers her volume and her gaze softens a bit. "But it wasn't in your control. You tried, he slipped and fell and died. It's over. You can't relive that nightmare for the rest of your life, Paris."

I feel torn between feeling guilty that I thought so low of her, and feeling mad that she has the audacity to come here and tell me what I can and not dream about.

"It is all my fault, I shouldn't have listened to his rants, I should've just scooped down and picked him up." I hear myself groan. "If I had done that, he would still be alive and none of this shit would've happened."

She throws her arms out in frustration. "Nothing can get through to your thick skull, can it?" She shakes her head and regards me with a strange glint in her eyes. "As far as all-out pig-headedness is concerned, you are just like Chakotay."

I sigh and lean back on the wall, pulling my knees up against my chest. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She takes a deep breath as if readying herself to divulge a deep, long hidden secret. "When you were caught on that mission by Starfleet and got thrown in prison," she starts cautiously. "Chakotay blamed himself for it."

For a second or two, I have this urge to laugh in her face, so over the top her words sound to me. But her gaze is intense and her face serious. "What are you talking about?" I protest. "He HATED me."

She looks at me as if I have gone mad, her eyes go wide and an almost comical incredulity creeps up on her face. "He didn't HATE you, Paris, he CARED for you, too fucking much. Y'know, scoop down and pick him up sounded just about right." She has a strange twist on her lips - a small, sad, rueful smile. "Don't know what happened there that day but you SHOULD have stayed in your fucking character and riled him up to no end. That's what he liked most about you."

But he DIDN'T like anything about me.

"You're crazy." I shake my head at her, thinking she has lost her mind, the lump in my throat making it hard to get the words out. "He thought I was a traitor." My heart is thudding again, my mouth dry. Please stop right here, I want to scream, I don't want to hear anymore. "He CALLED me a traitor. He thought I sold him out."

"Paris, I don't know what he said to you on Ocampa," she continues, heedless of the desperation on my face. "But I know this. When the Starfleet caught you, he went absolutely crazy. He wouldn't stop looking for you; he was ready to go after you, to try any desperate stunt to get you out of the clutches of Starfleet, to get you out of prison. It was just not possible; you had been taken so fast, we had had no warnings.

"When it became clear that there was nothing we could do, he barricaded himself in his cabin for two days. He wouldn't come out, he wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't eat, wouldn't do anything.

"When he finally came out, he was a changed man. We could tell he was wracked with guilt, he blamed himself for not being alert enough, for letting you fall into the trap, for letting you get caught. He was devastated."

My heart is no longer pounding in my chest. In fact, it seems to have stopped beating altogether, for there is a silence inside me that smothers all senses - a choking, stifling stillness that fills me, suffocating me. Her voice sounds distant, as if scattered over jagged alien terrain, booming through the lonely frigid mountains and valleys of my heart.

She can't be telling the truth, I hear a voice inside me saying, it can't be true. It's a lie, a game - a vengeful, spiteful, cruel game.

Yet her gaze is eager, her dark eyes luminous, her face animated with conviction, as she digs into her side pocket and takes out a small shiny object. My swimming gaze falls over the object as she holds it in front of me. It's a seashell, silvery-white in color, bright, glistening, and beautiful.

With rising horror I notice the small hole, at the top of the flat surface of the shell, where someone had once threaded a thin cord to wear the ornament around his neck.

"It was Chakotay's." She presses it into my hand, not aware of the turmoil in my mind, and in my heart. "This was one of the few things I could get out of his cabin before we beamed to Voyager," Her voice echoes through the void in my head. "I had hidden it a year ago and only today remembered where it was. I dug it out and realized there was only one person who could make use of it, and that's you."

It's hot in my quivering palm and with a gasp I drop it onto the bed. "No," I shake my head; my ears suddenly buzzing as I feel my heart kick start its ragged beat again. "I can't take it, it belonged to him, he wouldn't want me to have it, it won't be-"

"You're wrong, Paris." she frowns, cutting me off in the middle of my protest. "You are exactly the person he would have wanted to give this to," She picks up the shell and presses it back in my palm, insistently. "Chakotay told me it was his good luck shell and I can't think of anyone who needs a better luck in here, than you do."

---

The setting sunrays fall over my outstretched knees, my upper body partially hidden in the shade, as I sit with my back pressed to the cool wall. A half-empty bowl of gruel - something they insist is food - sits on the ground beside me.

My fingers run over the sleek surface of the seashell, one callused thumb deliberately tracing the smooth spirally bend at the base inlaid with soft coiled ridges - which appear to once have been festooned with purple and silver dyes and strokes of shiny paint but are now faded with time. And sand.

Yes, there's lots of cool, coarse sand, the remnants of which are now packed inside the shell. Sand under which Torres had buried this shell a year ago.

She said she did it so that Seska wouldn't get her hands on it. Seska had had this thing for Chakotay, something no one could miss back in the Maquis, including me, and would've blown her top if she knew Torres had something personal of Chakotay's and hadn't given it to her. The Bajoran quite adamantly - because of a past romance with the captain, short-lived as it was - considers herself the rightful successor to him even though he had hated her guts. He had hated her guts and wouldn't have wanted her to have this shell according to Torres.

For some strange reason the half-Klingon is positive that he would've wanted ME to have this instead. How absolutely, ridiculously fucked up is that?

She thinks that telling me about Chakotay, about how he had felt about me, will make me feel better. He cared about me, she said. My getting captured devastated him, she thought. He felt guilty, she insisted. He blamed himself, he was never the same when I was caught, he was a changed man, he never forgave himself, and the list goes on.

It was like opening a can of worms. Once she started talking, she couldn't stop. It was as if she had been bursting with the need to talk about her mentor with someone, anyone. As if she had been dying to tell me about everything that Chakotay had done and said and spoken and implied while I was spending leisure time as a guest of Starfleet in Auckland.

I wanted to ask her why she didn't dig the shell out all these months, but she didn't need to be asked anything. Somehow she knew all my unasked questions and answered them anyway with a zest I had never seen in her before. She said she had lost track of the site because we had uprooted the living quarters over it several months ago and she couldn't find it no matter how hard she tried. And today, of all days, miraculously, she saw a mark that she herself had left there twelve months ago.

Today of all days.

It was his good luck shell, she said. Chakotay always used to wear this ornament around his neck, she related, it was something very precious to him, and she has no idea why he wasn't wearing it the day we went down to Ocampa twelve months ago. I know he wasn't wearing it in the Ocampan tunnel that day on the stairs - the day I failed him - but I have seen it in each and every dream of mine since then. Even when I didn't know he used to wear it, even when I didn't know what it was, I still saw the thing in the dreams.

Why? How did my subconscious mind know? What the hell does all this mean?

She even broke down and cried at one point, something I had never thought I'd see in my lifetime. My fiery, strong, Klingon friend – crying for her captain, her friend, her brother.

The coldness has descended even deeper inside me.

How can I explain to her that my knowing how Chakotay had actually felt about me cannot possibly make me feel better?

Can't she tell it makes everything even worse, more deplorable, more pitiful, for me?

At least until yesterday I used to think that one day I would probably be able to convince myself that the man I failed was someone who hated my guts, someone who felt it beneath himself to be saved by a lowlife like me.

Yes, I could think that he was too good, too noble, too dignified, to be tainted by my touch and thus chose to rather die than be in my debt of life.

Except now even that safety net has been pulled out from under me. He liked me, she says. He cared, she insists.

I failed the man I loved, the man who cared for me too. How can I ever forgive myself for that? I let him fall to his death. Why didn't I try harder? What was I afraid of? He was in pain, he was scared, he wanted to live, and yet I let him fall. Why didn't I die with him?

Tonight is the one-year anniversary of my failing Chakotay. It's been a year, one whole year, since I let him die. How will I ever face my demons?

Good luck shell, is it? I close my fingers around it and feel its coolness seeping into my palm, as if it's a balm and it intends to soothe the fire inside my veins. The fire that burns like ice - frigid, cruel and relentless.

I close my eyes and wish that I didn't have to feel the pain anymore.

---

"Voyager, can you get a lock on us now?"

The words slide out of my mouth without a hitch and then I blink, suddenly confused as to where I am. The air is hot around me, the day blazing, humid and sultry. The earth below me is dry and parched, arid and desolate.

It's a place that is eerily familiar.

"Affirmative, but we are getting only five signals."

I almost jump at the voice that comes out of my combadge. I look down, baffled, at the uniform I wear, a red and black Starfleet observer's uniform, and am suddenly aware of others' presence beside me. Both my arms are around people on my sides and I turn my head left and right to find myself looking at the Talaxian Neelix, the Ocampa Kes, and Torres, and Harry. The last two are clad in Ocampan attire and suddenly I realize this is a dream.

A new variation of the same dream.

I find myself slipping into the role as if doing a stage play, the words tumbling out of my mouth with ease, words that have been etched into my brain, repeated many times in my mind over the past one year. Though this is the first time I am dreaming about actually being on the surface, the first time I am seeing anyone other than Chakotay. All the previous versions were about the insides of the tunnel.

But it's still a dream, of course. Just another crazy, demented image dreamt up by my delirious mind.

"The others…" I start, speaking into the combadge again, and suddenly stop as my eyes fly up to watch an explosive beam jolt down from the sky to hit the surface and I hear myself scream at everyone. "GET DOWN!"

We fall down to the ground in unison and brace ourselves as the earth shakes, clouds of dust rising up to add to the confusion.

My eyes move to rest on the hole, the opening to the tunnel, in the ground a few feet from me, dust blustering up from it, and sense a feeling of déjà vu' go through me.

My right hand rises to tap the combadge once more and I hear myself speak again. "Paris to Janeway!" My voice has the same note of apprehension as it had one year ago - and just as was the case last time, there is no answer to my hails. "Chakotay. Tuvok," I hear my voice shake. "Do you read?"

No answer as expected. I glance towards the other four; coming to the same conclusion I did the last time. "Voyager, prepare to transport everyone in this group but me," I say into the combadge, as I get up.

"Aye sir," comes the reply.

"You're not thinking of going back there."

It's Neelix, looking at me incredulously, and I almost smile at his timing. Strange things recurrent dreams are, impeccable and indefectible in their exactness. Instead I just stare at him, realizing it doesn't matter what I think. My role in this dream is predetermined and won't change the outcome no matter what I do. As always. "Well, a fool needs company," Neelix squares his shoulders and turns to Kes. "Take care of yourself, dearest. I'll see you soon."

I run to Neelix and take his combadge off his shirt, handing it to Harry instead. "Voyager, make that three to beam up. Lock on to the other combadge and energize."

We watch them shimmer into the transporter beam and turn towards the tunnel again. I follow the Talaxian as he climbs down the hole, into the hot, dusty tunnel. The cave shakes with each explosion on the surface and we find our descent become difficult with every passing second. Yet it's a dream - a nightmare - and it has to be relived, as the curse it is to me, over and over again.

We pass the energy barrier and find ourselves on the staircase again. The visibility here is even worse as dust fills the cave with every shiver on the surface, but we relent, moving down the stairs, aware of the lack of time on our side.

"Here they are," Neelix calls out and then I spot them too: Captain Janeway sitting beside the black Vulcan Tuvok who seems injured.

And Chakotay, laying on the platform a flight below them, his one leg twisted to one side at a painful angle.

"Neelix, help me with Tuvok," Janeway orders, and the Talaxian moves to the task, helping the Vulcan up on his feet with her help and they move quickly, climbing the stairs up to the mouth of the tunnel.

"I'll get Chakotay," I hear myself repeat, but they are gone already, vanished into the tangle of my delirious mind.

It's a dream, just a dream, yet my heart is thudding again - frenzied in my chest.

I look at him, curled to one side, his large, clammy hands clutching the railing in a painful grip.

"Get out of here, Paris, before the whole thing comes down."

The same words, the same angry tone, the same sad, hurt look in his ebony eyes. Why are you so angry, Chakotay? I want to ask him. Please don't think that I betrayed you because I didn't, I want to scream.

Rile him up, I hear Torres say in my mind. Rile him up to no end, she persists.

I find myself moving on the shaking floor towards the flight that leads down to the platform he's lying on. "I intend to," Strange, unfamiliar words roll out off my tongue. "As soon as I get YOU up." I grab the shivering rails with both hands as my heart starts pounding inside my chest. A surreal, peculiar feeling sinks down on me. Something is wrong.

"You get on those stairs, they'll collapse," he pants, his face twisted in pain that is too familiar to me. "We'll both die."

Rile him up; rile him up good, she screams in the chaos of my confused mind.

I find myself moving down the flight, my hands gripping the rails furiously. "Yeah, but on the other hand," I take deliberate steps that feel almost habitual and yet strangely unacquainted at the same time. "If I save your butt, then your life belongs to me."

What the hell am I doing? I am supposed to be just playing a part in this dream. So why is my traitorous mouth going off like this?

An explosion rocks the surface and the whole staircase jolts, making me fall to one side and I watch with growing panic as his position shifts as well, the blast jerking him to a side. But with characteristic steel determination, he holds on to the railing.

Rile him up, she cries, stay in character for Kahless' sake.

"Isn't that some kind of Indian custom?" my mouth speaks for me as I grab the rails to steady myself again.

"Wrong tribe." he wheezes through teeth clenched in pain, his brow wrinkling at the discomfort - or perhaps at my strange behavior. Stay in character, is it?

"I don't believe you," I find myself smirking at him and my heart curls up inside my chest at my audacity. He's in pain, he's hurting and you're smiling? I hear my brain screaming at me. Yet my eyes widen as my legs lumber down the shaking stairs and reach his side in three quick strides.

Scoop down dammit, scoop fucking down and fucking pick him up, Torres screams. Her voice is hoarse with yelling at me and my head is hurting at all the noise. But I have to listen to her, yes I have to listen to her, otherwise she'll probably break my neck when I wake up, since this is obviously a dream on fucking steroids.

I watch, flabbergasted, as my upper body bends down and my left hand shoots out to move behind his right shoulder. My fingers curl around his shoulder blade, my wrist and thumb curving to grab the meaty part of his shoulder.

And suddenly it hits me.

His smell. His heady, earthy scent, sinking into my senses, the feel of his body shifting under my hand, as slight tremors jolt through his strong, wide frame.

Rile him up, Torres screams inside my head, and I feel like screaming back at her to shut the fuck up. But the words that come out of my mouth are directed at him instead, and are strangely much more peaceful than I feel inside.

"I don't believe you."

There's an alien smirk on my face, a cocky, insolent amusement playing in my eyes, which I am sure he can see. It's wrong, my brain screams, you're gonna lose him again if you keep this up, he hates you, he hates this attitude, he's gonna fucking die. But I am not listening to my brain anymore. I am not listening to anyone, not to myself, or to Torres either. I am playing a bizarre role in a twisted, strange dream on a freaking mind trip.

"You'd rather die than let me be the one to rescue you?" I smirk at him, riling him up.

Yes, I am riling him real good.

His eyes meet mine in confusion. Yes, even he knows the role we're both supposed to play in this dream and he's wondering what the hell's gone wrong with me.

But I watch, puzzled, as he shakes his head in a strange surrender.

"Fine, be a fool."

I freeze as he throws his left arm around my neck, my heart suddenly racing as his body comes in direct contact with mine, his scent almost completely consuming me.

"If I have to die, at least I'll have the pleasure of watching you go with me," he snarls in between clenched teeth.

My throat is suddenly too tight to let any more words out. I take a deep breath, his scent filling my nostrils, and with our arms secure around each other, I pull back to straighten up. I pause a moment to steady my hold around him, and then turn around, keeping my left arm around his bicep and grab the metal rail with my right one. He curls his left arm around my neck, his right one holding the rail to steady himself, as I help him move up the stairs, keeping his broken leg in consideration.

Rile him up, rile him up dammit, Torres is still screaming in my head, don't go out of character now, Paris.

His body is flat against mine, his muscular chest pressed against my back, the feel of him making it harder for me to think. But my mouth is still mouthing off.

"Isn't there some Indian trick, where you can turn yourself into a bird and fly us out of here?"

Fucking genius, Tom, my brain grumbles at me, he's going to let go now, he hates you, he fucking hates you, you moron.

But as we move up the flight, I hear his soft grunt against my neck.

"You're too heavy," he says, his hold tightening against my chest.

We climb off the flight and just as soon as we do that, an explosion rocks the surface, shaking the entire staircase violently. I watch, frozen with a familiar terror, as the platform we were on just a moment ago, tears off the flight and falls down into the dark, rocky tunnel.

The platform that fell down a year ago, and took Chakotay with him.

The same platform that always fell down in all my previous dreams.

What the hell is going on?

"What's the matter, Paris?" he huffs in my ear, taking me out of my trance. "A little explosion shook you up?"

His tone is sarcastic, taunting.

My heart is thudding up a storm inside my chest, my brain confused to no end, but the taunting is MY job, my dear captain.

"Not in your life, Chakotay," I smirk at him, gripping his arm tightly and increasing my speed as I move up the stairs.

He swears under his breath, his fingers digging into my shoulder almost painfully, as we climb up one flight after another, moving up the stairs with quiet urgency.

"Fuck you, Paris," he growls against my neck, his breath hot and sweltering against my skin.

"Anytime, Chak," I smirk as my mouth mouths off again.

See, Torres? I am riling him up. Bet, you wouldn't have to break my neck now, would ya?

He's strangely silent after that exchange, as we cover the rest of the distance with quiet precision, the explosions on the surface only slightly slowing us down. Strange dream it is. Going on and on like a fucking stuck record, unending like a long winding road leading into oblivion. I should be waking up pretty soon. I wonder how long my crazed brain will play havoc with my sanity?

As we reach the mouth of the tunnel, I climb up first and then bend down to help him up, my heart suddenly beating faster in sympathy for his bad leg. He's in pain and here I am hurrying him around, dragging him up the shaking stairs. But he's strong and resilient and I didn't hear him complain even once.

And besides it's nothing but a bizarre dream, right?

I find myself tapping onto my combadge, playing a part of the stage play that was never planned, and ordering a beam out for two. A moment later, we find ourselves in Voyager's sickbay, my fingers still around his left bicep, and I blink in confusion as the EMH comes hurrying over to our side.

"Help me get him up on the bio-bed," the holodoc orders, an impatient yet familiar frown on his face.

I stare at him, suddenly feeling more flabbergasted than I have ever been in my life. What the HELL is going on here?

"Mr. Paris, didn't you hear what I said?" the EMH scowls at me. "Help me get him UP on the BIO-BED."

The impatient sigh from Chakotay shakes me out of my stupor and I stand up, helping the EMH tug the leather-clad Maquis up and onto a bed. As the doctor busies himself with fixing Chakotay's leg, I let my gaze move around the sickbay. The same familiar bulkheads around me, the same ceiling above me, and the same wonderful bright lights shine overhead. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and then open them, looking down, waiting for the soft ground to appear and the dry grass to spruce up. But its all nothing but regulation Starfleet duraplex floors.

Wake up, I tell myself, wake up now. It's a dream, a crazy, deranged, psychotic dream. Wake me up please, Torres, I silently plea.

But Torres is sitting in the sickbay right here with me. Kes, the Ocampa, is running a small instrument over her and Harry is sitting on a bio-bed, apparently looking just fine.

The sickbay doors slide open and my eyes widen as Captain Janeway walks inside, looking around at everyone. She walks to Harry first, as he straightens up and slides off his bio-bed, and asks him how he is. Then she goes to Chakotay and the doctor tells her the fracture is almost repaired. She acknowledges Torres and Kes with a nod and then turns to me.

"How're you, Mr. Paris?" her gaze is soft, her voice concerned.

My ears buzz with the commotion inside me as I force a smile on my face and nod at her. "I am fine, ma'am." My throat tightens as memories of the last time I beamed up on Voyager wash over me. I had failed Chakotay and my meeting with Janeway had occurred on the bridge.

Wake up, wake up, fucking wake up, I scream inside my head.

"Bridge to Janeway." A voice comes over the comchannel.

"Go ahead," she replies.

"Captain, two Kazon ships are approaching the array."

"Set a course." She moves towards the door. "I am on my way."

My eyes follow her out of the sickbay, my confusion blinding.

"We've got to get back to our ship."

My head snaps back to look at Chakotay, who's sliding off the bio-bed, his leg apparently healed. He's motioning towards Torres, who follows his example, climbing off the bed she was lying on.

"I strongly advise you to rest." I hear the EMH complain somewhere in the background but I can't hear anything else he says. My feet march me out of the sickbay, following the man I just brought back from the Ocampan stairs, in a convoluted version of my strange unending dream.

Torres and Chakotay are walking ahead of me briskly, headed towards the turbolift, as I try to keep up with them, confused as hell as to what is going on in my head. I walk after them, my fingers curling and uncurling in frustration, and with a restless sigh, I shove my hands inside my pockets.

And freeze.

There's something inside my right pocket, something I hadn't expected to find in there at all. I abruptly halt in my stride, wrap my fingers around the object, and slowly pull it out.

It's the shell.

A shiver goes through me as I feel my knees buckle with an overwhelming weakness and surely I would have fallen if it weren't for the bulkhead on my side that I grip with my left hand's shaking fingers. My head snaps up to catch Chakotay's retreating bulk disappearing inside the turbolift's closing door, Torres on his side, and a strange, alien moan escapes my throat.

"Tom, are you alright?"

It's Harry on my side, looking at me with worried eyes.

"But how could this be?" I am talking to myself, not able to pay attention to Harry's concern, as I press my back to the wall, my throat convulsing. "This was supposed to be with him, dammit, it was part of the dream."

"What dream?" Harry asks, exasperated. "What's wrong, Tom?"

I close my hand tightly around the shell and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, trying to calm my racing heart.

And suddenly it's clear to me.

Chakotay wasn't wearing this shell around his neck when I went to get him up the stairs a little while ago. I didn't see the shell with him. I didn't see it because it wasn't WITH him.

Just like he wasn't wearing this shell around his neck a year ago, the day I failed him, because it wasn't with him then either.

Except there's only one difference this time.

This time I didn't fail him.

This time I didn't let him fall.

---

Voyager's bridge is on fire.

At least that's what it smells like.

There's too much smoke, too many exploding consoles, and a deafening commotion of conduits spitting electric sparks, as crewmembers fall left and right with every shot the Kazon take at us. The scenes unfolding around me are way too reminiscent of the events that took place twelve months ago for my liking.

I take a deep breath and look down at the chronometer for the umpteenth time.

No, not events that took place twelve months ago. Events that took place… when? In the future? In a dreamt up past? In another lifetime?

Even if my still-confused brain keeps telling me that those were events that took place a year ago, the chronometer in front of me tells a different story. The time, it says, is 1734 hours, and the date April 28, 2371.

But shouldn't that be 2372?

"Voyager to Janeway."

I hear Harry hail the captain behind me and wet my suddenly dry lips.

If it's 2372 now, then what the heck is Harry doing here? He died a year ago too. And so did most of the bridge crew. If its 2372, then what am I doing here? Why am I sitting at Voyager's helm? What am I doing, guiding and flying the graceful sleek ship in the midst of enemy fire, helping tactical to fight back the Kazon, inventing evasive maneuvers right on the spur of the moment - not caring whether they'd ever be approved by Starfleet?

And besides, I can still feel the darn seashell inside my trousers right pocket.

"Go ahead," Janeway responds from the array and I flinch in my seat.

Oh but this is too reminiscent, too familiar, too fucking out of this world. Like last time, Janeway has again left me in charge of the bridge and gone down to the array with Tuvok. And I just know I am going to screw this up again.

I look up at the viewscreen, my heart in my mouth, and then look down at the readings. The Kazon have apparently realized that we won't be contained by their three tiny, infuriating scout ships and have called for backup.

"We've got problems here," Harry reports to the captain, as the huge brown monster whale of a ship comes into view. Its mammoth proportions, its bizarre yet colossal size, makes it look way too imposing, way too intimidating, and I hear my heart hammering inside my chest.

Too fucking reminiscent.

I hear the exchange between the captain and operations at the back of the bridge and can very well remember what this ship did to us the last time. It ripped us apart, completely, relentlessly, without any qualms whatsoever. My palms are sweaty all of a sudden, my mouth dry. There are too many of them and only one of us.

No sooner than the words are heard in my mind, is my attention diverted to the small blip zigzagging across my sensors.

I am wrong.

We're not alone this time. Chakotay is at the helm of his Maquis cruiser. He's alive and he's on his ship and I never got the fucking chance to give him back his shell. My brow wrinkles as I watch the Kazon ship fire on the tiny cruiser and then feel my heart swell as the man at the helm swings the small ship smartly around the hits, rising and dipping with absolute precision, firing back at the shield-less Kazon ships with unerring vehemence.

There are times when only a pilot can tell the precise control and splendor in someone else's flying. I had seen Chakotay fly during the Maquis and always knew he was a damn fine pilot but the maneuvers I see him pull on the viewscreen right now make me feel proud.

My attention is suddenly redirected to my own controls as Voyager rocks again, the huge Kazon ship turning more of the firepower in our direction, and I take the ship through a series of defensive maneuvers, my heart clenching inside my ribcage at the assault.

I remember what this shit did to us the last time, as I feel my adrenaline-infused body tense with rising terror.

So consumed I am by the task at hand that I nearly jump in my seat when I suddenly hear Chakotay's voice come through the comchannel.

"Paris," he addresses me, his tone sharp. "My crew is coming over. Tell one of your crackerjack Starfleet transporter chiefs to keep a lock on me. I am gonna try and take some heat off your tail."

Beam over his crew? The Maquis? On Voyager? No, not again, this isn't right, this was what went wrong the last time, this can't happen again, my brain screams at me. What the hell is he planning to do?

Yet when I open my mouth, my recently awakened cocky persona does the speaking for me.

"Acknowledged," I hear myself replying. "But don't think for a second this makes us even, Chakotay. Your life is still mine."

Huh? What the hell's wrong with me? He's beaming over the crew to Voyager and apparently going off on some last minute intrepid, kamikaze stunt and all I can do is remind him of the life-debt?

Rile him up, I hear Torres' shrill voice cry inside my head, stay in character, you idiot.

But as Chakotay whirls his small cruiser between incessant weapons fire, propelled towards his target, zipping around and firing at the scout ships at his tail end, I watch the big Kazon ship turn its full attention on him.

He's going to blow up, I think to myself, my throat tightening with fear, as my heart sinks low in my stomach – which all of a sudden feels ready to heave and spew all its contents in one ragged breath. He's going to blow up because I didn't give him his good luck shell.

"I am holding a lock on him, sir." I hear someone report behind me. "But he's getting too close."

The shell, he doesn't have the shell, my brain screams at me, and instinctively, my hand slides inside my pocket, my fingers curling around the smooth curved ridges of the seashell. Granules of coarse sand are damp against my palm, as I feel someone's presence next to me. I look up to find Torres standing beside me, her eyes riveted to the viewscreen, naked fear etched on her dark, expressive face, and swallow heavily.

Scoop him up, she speaks inside my head, you have to scoop him up.

"I am getting you out of there, Chakotay," I yell into the comline.

"NOT YET," he screams back at me, still advancing towards the Kazon ship, as the whole bridge watches the spectacular view with their breaths held in trepidation.

The scout ships increase their bombardment on us and the whole ship shakes, consoles exploding all around the bridge. As smoke once again fills my nostrils, the horrific thought occurs to me that if we took any more fire we might lose the transporters, and then we won't be able to beam Chakotay off his ship.

"You're breaking up," I scream into the channel, watching the small cruiser fly towards the gigantic ship in a bold, straight line, its shields lighting up like Federation Day fireworks under the continued fusillade. "Standby for transport."

"WAIT," he yells, as we all hear explosions in the background on his own bridge.

My fingers clench tightly around the seashell, my stomach in helpless knots, as we watch the cruiser get closer and closer to the giant ship, phaser fire hitting him with a vengeance, until he's almost onto the Kazon, he's almost there, he's about to collide with them. And at that one last nanosecond, when he's nothing but a burning, flaming, ball of fire, we hear his scream,

"NOW!"

And he rams the cruiser into the belly of the Kazon battle ship, and we watch, aghast, as he blows up into smithereens, leaving nothing but shreds of burning debris in his wake.

For a second or two, there is pin drop silence on the bridge, as the only sound I hear is my heart thudding inside my chest, and then I find my voice.

"Transporter room two." My voice sounds strange to me, high-pitched, shaking. "Do you have him?"

There's a beat when there's no response to my query and I feel my heart lurch inside me. And then his soft voice comes over the channel.

"They got me," he replies back, an unexpected hint of a smile enriching his deep voice.

I feel myself go limp as a wave of enormous, immeasurable relief cascades down on me.

Everything is a blur after that. I am only aware of the swish of the turbolift doors opening behind me as Chakotay walks down the bridge to come and stand next to me. Everything else is a haze as my fingers automatically move on the console, moving the ship around, doing the work that I am supposed to do.

I am hardly aware as, despite my previous fears, Janeway and Tuvok return back to the bridge unscathed and she opens a channel to exchange pleasantries with the Kazon Maje.

I am barely conscious as she orders me to move the ship away from the array so that Tuvok can fire tri-cobalt charges at the station to blow up our only chance to return to the alpha quadrant.

I don't even pay attention when Torres charges up to the diminutive woman and demands to know whom she thinks she is to make these decisions for everyone. I only hear Chakotay's soft yet firm voice as he grabs the half-Klingon's shoulder and tells her to watch her mouth in front of the 'captain'. Or something to that effect.

I only feel his presence next to me, behind me, all around me, as his scent fills me and consumes me, until all I can breathe is him - hot, musky, and earthy. I watch with glazed eyes as the torpedoes are fired at the array, one after the other, and our ticket back home is blown into shreds of blazing, burning metal right in front of everyone.

Everything is all right.

Chakotay is alive.

Nothing else matters to me.

I scooped him up to safety this time.

---

Continued in Expiation