The Maquis Raider Class starship, Liberty. Fourteen hours later.
Martin rubs the inside corners of his eyes with a finger as he makes his way to the engine-room, a steaming mug of hot brown liquid in his hand. Everyone has been pulling double, even triple shifts to get the Liberty up and running again before the food runs out. There isn't much the teenager is good at with regard to starship operations, but he wanted to contribute, so had become official errand boy come drug pusher. Keeping the crew high on caffeine is a vital job in itself he supposes, if you look at it the right way.
As he glances at the mug, he privately wonders if anyone has noticed the taste. Their supplies of coffee ran out two days ago and it would be rather tricky to explain what they're actually drinking now. Pushing the door sideways as it sticks yet again, Martin enters the engine-room, expecting to see B'Elanna with a variety of parts scattered around her as usual. It's amazing how much focus she has, her latest shift has lasted almost twenty-four hours now. He furrows his brow though when a quick scan of the room reveals no activity. "Lanna?" he calls.
A snuffling catches his attention. Walking behind the engine core, he finds the erstwhile engineer lying asleep on the floor, a hexagonal metal shape still in her hand. Placing the mug on a ledge, he kneels down and gently shakes her. "Lanna?" When he gets little reaction other than unintelligible mumbling, he smiles and picks up the mug again, holding it under her nose.
B'Elanna moans and slowly pries open her eyes. "Whazzit?" she mumbles, still very much in a groggy state. Then she freezes and sniffs the air, the scent of her favourite addiction penetrating her senses. Pushing herself into a sitting position, she holds out her hands towards Martin impatiently. "Coffee! Now!" It isn't even remotely a question, but a stern and irrefutable order as only a sleep deprived half-Klingon can make.
He firmly hands it over, more than familiar with this routine now after almost two weeks of keeping the supply line going. He watches B'Elanna as she drinks. "How's everything going?" he asks quietly. "Chakotay told me the last salvage team managed to bring back some decent parts for you."
B'Elanna takes another sip, barely paying attention to what he's saying. All her attention is on the mug of warm, caffeine-filled goodness she holds in her hands. It isn't until a loud clatter is heard from across the room that she even looks away from her drink. Her eyes narrow and her ears all but perk up like a dog who has just sensed the presence of its prey. Setting her mug down with a clink, she rises to her feet in one smooth motion, all feline grace. Her earlier sluggishness is all but forgotten.
Four long strides and she's standing just behind the source of the noise. Heather Keane. Nice girl, good engineer. But there's one rule here that everyone must abide by or she'd start spitting nails. If the Chief doesn't sleep, nobody sleeps. She taps her foot impatiently on the deck plating as she watches the slumbering woman, a tool lying beside her, obviously the source of the clatter. Crossing her arms over her chest, she sets her best scowl onto her face. "Oh Heather," she intones, her voice a velvety soft purr that anyone who knows her has learned to fear by now.
Heather doesn't move a muscle, continuing to snore softly.
B'Elanna grins wickedly, leans down and suddenly yells at the top of her lungs, right next to Heather's ear. "UP AND AT 'EM, KEANE!"
Heather hits the proverbial roof, cursing loudly. By the time she's finished flailing about, she finds herself facing the opposite direction and staring B'Elanna right in the eyes. "Er... Good morning?" she says, trying to catch her racing heart.
"Good morning," B'Elanna sweetly replies, standing back up. "Sleep well?"
"All five minutes of it," Heather mutters as she gets to her feet, shaking her head wildly to try and get rid of the ringing in her ear. "You know if you could bottle that voice and sell it, you'd make a fortune off the narcoleptic community." She looks at B'Elanna, then bends down, picking up the thick cable she'd been having trouble with earlier. "Well... now I'm awake I might as well get back to work, huh."
B'Elanna eyes Heather as she edges around her. "Sounds like a plan," she replies, nodding briskly.
Martin watched the scene unfold with interest. Any other time and the self-confessed 'wildcat' would've responded in kind, even to B'Elanna. Their spats are pretty much legendary. Over the last couple of days though, he's noticed that Heather's moods have actually improved, something that he can only put down to coffee-substitute. He'll really have to get those grainsacks in storage scanned properly.
Looking back to the Chief, he freezes as he sees her staring at him with an odd look on her face.
"Any more left?" she asks, tilting her now empty mug towards him.
"Sure, the tray's just outside," Martin replies hesitantly. He walks backwards for a couple of steps before turning to leave, not noticing as Heather peers around the exposed juncture. The two engineers share a look.
Martin prepares two cups, B'Elanna's second and one for Heather. After a minute he walks back inside, jumping as both engineers suddenly rush him. "Uh... eager, aren't you," he says with a mild Help me, what have I done? expression. Yes, scanning those grainsacks is sounding a better idea all the time.
"B'Elanna!" a male voice sounds from the wall-mounted comms panel.
She mentally screams. Can't I even take five minutes? B'Elanna is sorely tempted to ignore the call, but finally relents, her playful mood - rare as it is these days - soured as she approaches the panel and presses a button. "This had better be good, Chakotay."
There's a brief pause before he responds, seemingly ignoring her tone. "I thought you'd like to know, we're within visual of the new ship the collector pulled here."
"And?" she asks impatiently.
"You'd better see this for yourself, B'Elanna."
Growling softly to herself, she takes her hand off the button and makes sure to retrieve her mug before she heads off to the bridge. With the ship comprising of only two decks, it's a short walk.
"Got one for me?" Jon pipes up as he sees the engineer enter, sipping her hot beverage.
Martin moves past her with the tray, the older Maquis pilot gratefully taking his own fix.
Chakotay declines as he drums his fingers on the side of the console. He's been getting edgy lately and it's more than just the repair schedule making him that way. He's come to an unpleasant conclusion about their predicament, but wants his best engineer to confirm it beyond any doubt before giving credence to the audacious plan he's just dreamed up.
When B'Elanna looks up, she almost drops the mug, scalding her fingers slightly as the liquid splashes over them. She barely notices though. "Federation?" she utters in shock. It hangs in space at an angle, looking small and unassuming against the scarred hulks that surround it. The design though is unmistakable, even at this distance.
Chakotay smiles briefly. "I suppose we shouldn't be surprised that Starfleet sent a ship after us. As far as they know, we crippled Gul Evek's ship and vanished into thin air."
"They're probably wondering if we've gotten our hands on a cloak," Jon says. He taps up a local scan one-handed, the other nursing his mug. The data is much slower than usual in appearing, but eventually scrolls across the screen. "Transponder reads as the USS Voyager. Their shields are gone, phasers, torpedo launchers, warp engines... half the decks are on emergency lighting only. Jesus, the collector must've hit it hard." His voice becomes sympathetic as he reels off the ship's damage. Not long ago these people would've been colleagues.
"Is anything online?" Chakotay asks carefully.
"Not a lot. Most of what's in the power distribution net - bar life support - is directed to transporters and turbolifts." Jon pauses. "If they sustained heavy casualties, getting the injured to sickbay would be top priority," he offers as an explanation.
Chakotay nods and turns his chair to face the engineer. "How are repairs going?"
Not again! Agitated, she takes another drink as she considers what line of bullshit to feed him this time. She's starting to run out of stories.
"Be honest, B'Elanna."
Her eyes flick to him in surprise. Does he really want to know? Reading something in his expression, she collects her thoughts and voices a fact she didn't really want to admit out-loud, the one thing that's sure to bring all of their hopes crashing down around them. "Honestly? You want a miracle I can't give you, Chakotay. I've been doing my best with the salvage we've scavenged, but all the jury-rigging in the universe isn't going to keep us going. We've been limping through this... graveyard for almost a fortnight now. We started rationing the food three days ago." She places her free hand against the hull, looking around the compartment with a pained expression. "She's been good to us, but we've put her through too much."
B'Elanna sinks into the nearest seat, the weight of everything that's happened since arriving in this godforsaken place, the work she's put in to try and somehow pull off the impossible, suddenly taking a visible toll on her.
Martin looks at her in surprise. "I didn't think the situation was as bad as that."
"I didn't either at first," Chakotay agrees. "But over the last few days I've started to wonder." He looks back to B'Elanna. "How long?"
She shrugs. "Days. Maybe another week at most, then we're dead in space." She looks out of the front window, taking in each vessel, trying to imagine them bright and full of life, rather than the cold, dark, ruined husks they are now. "Just like they are." She shifts her head slightly, looking at Martin. The teenager she regards as a kid brother stares at the floor, stunned. "I'm sorry, Marty," she murmurs.
Jon has been studying Chakotay for the last minute. "You've got an idea, haven't you."
He nods grimly, but confidently, noting B'Elanna and Martin's faces as they look up at him. The latter looks hopeful, the former skeptical. "But it'll need everyone here to make it work." He turns to Jon. "Can you confirm the number of lifesigns aboard the Voyager?"
Jon twists slightly in his seat, tapping at his console. "None. The array must still have the survivors."
B'Elanna fidgets, unsettling memories of lying on hard metal as a large needle loomed closer and closer, rising to the surface. The pain as it pierced her was indescribable. From comparing stories though, she knows that she's the only one who recalls that aspect of their abduction. Something else to thank my heritage for.
"Which means," Chakotay starts, "that there's a completely empty starship sitting in front of us, just waiting to be reappropriated."
B'Elanna blinks. "What?"
"I'm serious. Let's transport to the Voyager, bring its primary systems back online and get out of this deathtrap."
B'Elanna though can think of several logistical problems right off the bat. "Chakotay, a ship that size must have a crew complement of at least a hundred, maybe two. How the hell would we operate it?"
"We'd have to automate more non-essential functions, but I think the work is manageable. I realise we'll be pushing ourselves hard, but no more than we have since we arrived here." He stares at her hard, seeing that she's still dubious. "B'Elanna, if our situation is as dire as you say it is, we've got nothing to lose by trying. At the very least it will buy us more time." He narrows his eyes at her. "Or do you want to just lie down and die?"
That finally ignites the spark in her. "I've never lain down for anyone," she hisses, shooting upright, "and I'm damned if I'm going to start with you."
"Lost that bet then," Jon quips idly, then wishes he hadn't as she locks him with a glare that could melt duranium.
"Then it's agreed. We try making the Voyager our new home," Chakotay says, having dispelled a few lingering doubts with his own rhetoric. "I'll inform Seska and everyone else up here. Can you go down below and bring your engineers into line?"
B'Elanna turns her glare to Chakotay, aware that she's being manipulated, but at this moment not caring. "I'll sell my team on it and get them over there before you pikers turn around." With that, she stalks off.
"Can't we just ask them for help?" Martin says quietly. "We'd have a better chance of seeing home again."
"Perhaps," Chakotay admits, "but it would be in handcuffs. You've heard how the government are painting us in the media. Do you really want us to spend the next few years in prison?"
The Maquis leader has a point, but It doesn't erase Martin's reluctance for one very good reason. "Chakotay, if we take their ship and they reappear in empty space..." He doesn't want to even finish that sentence.
"We don't know that. Whoever runs the array could transport them to another location."
"If they even care," Martin counters.
Chakotay stands up, his seat swinging back to front-facing. "You heard B'Elanna. We've no other choice," he tells the teen firmly. He looks to Jon. "Let me know if anything changes out there. I'll get the others ready."
Jon nods absently, his own thoughts on the matter conflicted. Trouble is, they're both right.
Martin turns his head to the pilot after Chakotay leaves the bridge. "I don't like this."
Jon can only silently agree as he starts drinking again.
"Is the airlock clear?" B'Elanna asks, all business. True to her word, she'd had no trouble convincing her team that Chakotay's plan was workable. To be truthful, most of them were relieved. More than anyone else on board, the engineers knew that B'Elanna was exaggerating their successes with the alien salvage.
"We've just linked up. I'm pressurising the tunnel now," Heather responds.
"Wish we still had transporters, this takes too long," Pete Hogan grumbles to himself.
"It takes as long as it takes, Pete," Heather says calmly. A minute or so longer and the green LED by the hatch lights up, signalling that the docking tunnel is safe to enter. B'Elanna steps forward, taps in her code and pushes the pad, watching the hatch doors part. With a wave of her finger, Heather follows her in, the rest of her motley crew close behind. Michael Jonas, the last to enter, closes the hatch before Heather gets to work again, this time on the Voyager's backup docking port. After a bare thirty seconds of tinkering, the airlock trips and the hatch opens, allowing the Maquis to pour into the ship.
As they make their way to main engineering, B'Elanna takes in the internal damage. It more or less follows the observed pattern in the derelicts they've raided. The larger the ship, the more punishment the displacement wave inflicts. Fortunately the Liberty was small enough that the damage wasn't as bad as it could have been. But combined with its age and the lack of compatible parts, the ship's death warrant had all but been signed anyway. She checks the computer panel near the blastdoors as they arrive, the last action logged being the elimination of an environmental hazard inside. Well, at least they all won't choke to death.
The doors part and B'Elanna starts assigning her team to different stations. The first thing everyone notices is the dark and silent central warpcore. Without its glow, the room seems oddly sombre. "There's physical damage to the core," Pete reports, looking at the status screen. "Seems like the Fleeters made a start on fixing it, but didn't get very far before they were taken."
"Can we finish the job?" B'Elanna enquires.
"We'll soon find out," Heather grins, ducking under the railing and moving in to inspect the damage in person.
Several hours later and B'Elanna is satisfied that the Voyager can be made fully operational again, given enough time and materials. "The ship took a battering," she reports to Chakotay on the progressively clearing bridge, "but its armour protected it from far worse."
"Armour?" he queries.
"Ablative armour," she elaborates with a smug smile. She enjoys showing off her technical knowledge. "It's designed to dissipate the energy from direct weapons fire and disintegrate at a more controlled rate than regular hull plating. Without it, this would've been just another derelict. All ship's systems seem to be powered by something other than isolinear chips too. The response time is much quicker than I'm used to. When we get all of the key systems online, I'll be taking a closer look."
"Looks like we have ourselves a new home then." Chakotay is privately impressed with the Voyager as well. Starfleet must have made some improvements since I left. "Do we have warp drive yet?"
B'Elanna snorts. "You're optimistic. Sublight only, Chakotay. And I'd recommend not pushing those engines too hard until we can confirm their stress tolerances."
Perhaps that was a bit too much to hope for this early. "What else is online?"
"Well secondary power levels are fine for now, but they won't last forever. The warpcore has to be number one priority. There's trouble with the phaserbanks, I doubt they'll be up anytime soon. The torpedo launchers seem clear though. I've got someone working on shields, long range sensors too. You have internal and short range and I've given you a working viewscreen, so we won't be flying around completely in the dark. Given how undermanned we are, you're lucky to get that much."
Chakotay nods. Hearing the air-compressed hiss of the turbolift doors opening, he turns his head. He'd sent people belowdecks earlier to check out weapons and other equipment. That must be one of them now.
An imposing woman strides confidently out. She looks for all the world like a Valkyrie warrior, tall with well-defined muscles and that leather bodyvest she wears over her civilian clothes. Rumour is she sleeps in it. "Bloodstar," Chakotay acknowledges carefully. Regardless of no longer being in Starfleet, the former Marine Colonel is touchy about being addressed by her first name. Even the woman who came aboard with her - former Sergeant Highway - doesn't have that privilege, preferring to use her old rank.
"The armoury is well stocked with a variety of energy weapons and grenades, including special issue compression phaser rifles," she reports with a smile that implies pleasure in her findings.
"Good to know," Chakotay replies. "We may need them before too long."
"So we are going back to the array?" Seska voices her suspicion from Tactical station.
"That would be a mistake," Bloodstar cuts in, stating her opinion with authority.
"Then it's my mistake to make," Chakotay counters. "We leave no-one behind."
"You know, I kind of miss Tuvok's dour face around here," B'Elanna smirks. The marine just glowers at them both before taking her leave of them. The fact that Bloodstar doesn't like the Vulcan is reason enough to go back for him, even if you discounted Chakotay's credo. B'Elanna privately agrees with him though. Leaving friends behind isn't what the Maquis are about. No-one knows why Tuvok wasn't returned to the Liberty with the rest of them, but she knows Chakotay will do whatever he can to get him back.
Chakotay turns to the Bajoran. "Seska, I'm hoping a larger show of force will convince the owners of the array to return both Tuvok and ourselves to the Alpha Quadrant, so I'll need you on top of your game."
"Being on top is what I'm good at," she answers back, perfectly aware of the double-entendre.
Chakotay just smiles slightly. "So several of the crew tell me." He ignores her outraged expression, turning back to his Chief Engineer. "B'Elanna, I'll need warp speed as soon as you can give it to me."
She nods. "I'll see what I can do to speed things up without compromising the work."
"Thank you." The Maquis leader finally turns to Jon as he takes the Captain's chair. "Is the navigation console operational?"
"Everything seems to check out okay. Pete said that a power surge shorted out a lot of the sub-circuits, but he's managed to replace them from storage." He tries to avoid looking at the stain of dried blood below him. Whoever that belonged to, he hopes they got medical attention quickly.
"Plot a direct course to the array then and take us out, half impulse for now."
Jon does as instructed, using the co-ordinates he'd taken from the Liberty's databanks. However the moment he tries to engage thrusters to start their momentum, his screen suddenly blinks out. "Computer's not responding. It's cut off my access to helm controls."
Chakotay's brow furrows. He twists in the chair to Seska. "Can you transfer the helm to your station?"
"Hold on," Seska mutters, tapping pads, then her screen does the same. "What the hell?"
The ship is thrown into the eerie glow of red alert. "Authorisation denied," comes the computer's dulcet tones. B'Elanna literally springs into action, realising the ship isn't going to be such easy pickings after all.
"B'Elanna!" Chakotay shouts above the red alert siren.
"Damnit, I thought it was too good to be true," she spits, looking at the engineering display. "There's some kind of automated security program in operation. Looks like the computer identified us as hostiles as soon as we tried to move. All propulsion and weapons systems have been locked off."
Chakotay inwardly curses and moves quickly over to her. "Can you get them back?"
"I can try, but any more tampering and the computer might set-off other defensive measures against us."
"Who has authorisation to override this?"
B'Elanna thumps her controls as they flicker and starts working desperately. A flashing message tells her what she needs to know. "Any of the senior staff, but that doesn't help us."
"Maybe it can. Can you hack into the memory dump and clone authorisation?"
She sighs and starts tapping again. "Probably, but the codes also require retinal scan. How the hell do we get around that?"
Chakotay has to admit he's stumped there and the loud siren isn't exactly conductive to his thinking. It's then that a solution comes over audio. "Hello?" a confused voice comes over. "This is Sickbay. Why is the ship on red alert?"
"The Doctor!" Chakotay and B'Elanna both shout in unison and race off. The turbolift refuses to open though, so B'Elanna wrenches the access panel off the jeffries tubes. "Seska, you have the bridge," Chakotay calls back just before he disappears inside.
Tuvok becomes aware of a new sensation, similar to that of a transporter beam activating. Quickly fighting his way to consciousness he discovers he can no longer feel any pain, only the cool sensation of satin bedclothes on his naked skin. Opening his eyes, he sees a sumptuously appointed bedchamber with himself centred on a king size bed, silken wall coverings and soft pillows scattered about. As he sits up and scans the room visually, the only door opens and three elfin featured young ladies enter.
Welcome, one of them projects at him, I am Enn.
Welcome, the next sends to him, telepathically, I am Sia.
Welcome, the last mentally voices, I am Nah.
"Where am I?" Tuvok asks.
This is the reproductive center. We have been chosen as your partners for this cycle, Sia sends.
"Chosen in what way?"
Mistress Suspiria found you for us, to give us children who can survive and prosper on the surface of our world once more. With your assistance, our twenty generations of entrapment in these subterranean caverns will come to an end.
"A logical desire. But why do you think I could succeed in fathering children with your species? You know nothing about me and I know little about you."
Mistress Suspiria has searched long and hard for our ideal partners, making sure we are compatible in every way. Now that she has found you, let us begin, Nah thinks, climbing onto the bed.
Yes, we are near the end of our cycle, Enn sends, also climbing up. This will be pleasant for all of us if you co-operate.
Feigning acquiescence, Tuvok stretches his arms out and gathers the three young ladies to him. Sliding his hands to Enn and Sia's shoulders, he gives them a neck pinch then shifts to Nah before she can broadcast any cry for help, telepathically or otherwise. Gently he lowers the three of them to comfortable positions on the bed. The skin to skin contact had opened their minds to his and he now knows a great deal about the Ocampa as they call themselves, despite the briefness of their mental contact. Their desire to bear his children is very real and very intense. In many ways, these three are going through a hormonal surge similar to the Pon Farr.
Certain that they are unharmed and resting comfortably, Tuvok finds his clothing neatly folded on a small table and gets dressed.
