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Synopsis for Part 10: Chakotay rushes to keep an appointment


Part 11: Kissing the Gunner's Daughter

Stardate: 56870.14107686446 (November 14, 2379, Time: 14:26:08)
Starfleet Command Medical Complex (Tenth Floor), Earth

"Good. You're all here." The EMH affirmed, sweeping through the Examination Room doors and into the Waiting Area. He skimmed over the group with an active scrutiny that ended in a dour smile. "And relatively on time," he needled the occupants of the turbo-lift.

"Nice to see you, too, Doc." Tom interposed, drolly. "What's it been, five, six whole days since you and I saw each other last?"

Not needing a defender, B'Elanna was more direct. "What's this about?"

The Doctor's mood fully disintegrated. "Let's adjourn into to the Conference Room, shall we?" He glimpsed indecipherably at Chakotay and eased to Seven's side. "It will be more comfortable in there and we can have the privacy needed to speak freely." He propelled the drone ahead, a ductile hand at her back, the dark Vulcan trailing the footpath of his heels.

Chakotay juddered involuntarily. Ma' uts tin taan. I do not like this. He knew full well he couldn't leave, but wasn't ready to deal with the fallout from the events that led up to the extermination of his marriage in front of his comrades. Nevermind, the ominous dynamics of an ambush mystery meeting. He could only pray things wouldn't get any worse. Still, if the sudden intense countenance of the EMH was any indicator, it probably meant some-kind-of Holy Hell was about to break loose. He shook his head. These kinds of meetings never ended well. B'Elanna pinched his elbow. He gave her what he hoped came across as a look of reassurance, and they exited the lift. A sober Tom and austere Harry nodding simultaneous greetings; caboose-ing the entire band, as they filed the out of the room.

A lank sea-green individual, garbed in a flimsy white robe, reclined at the head of the conference table, a multitudinous shock of natty gray braids surrounding a stalky pair of antenna, curtaining an amber gaze. Both the EMH and Tuvok silently acknowledged the entity, though neither moved to make introductions. The stranger's eyes latched onto Chakotay as he entered the room and lingered. The intimacy of the behavior, enough to make Dorvan dweller wonder if, when and/ or where, they had met previously.

Tuvok entered a code into the control panel on the wall, disabling the room's Automatic Recording Program. "Doctor, if you are prepared to begin?"

"Of course." The physician indicated for everyone to take seats. The systematic ceiling lights, shone over-brightly, glinting off his bald head as he addressed his former shipmates. "Four days ago, shortly after Chakotay left Betazed, Icheb collapsed in his Academy dorm room."

"My God." B'Elanna turned toward her husband.

"Is he all right?" the pilot asked.

Seven answered, "He is currently unconscious in a semi-comatose state though his condition, at this time, is stable."

Chakotay looked at Seven, really looked at her for the first time since he walked into the Doctor's medical suite. Though physically recovered from their shared misadventure, her skin was exceptionally pale, even for her, and had acquired a sallow tinge. Lavender shadows cleaved to her lower lashes and skirted her comely eyes, making them appear non-conformably huge. It was obvious she hadn't regenerated recently. He disrupted her view and frangibly held it. She thrust the moment aside. "Is it the same thing that killed Reg Barkley?" he ventured.

The Doctor's vocal processors temporarily failed him, and the Vulcan took charge, "Affirmative, along with taking the lives of both, Crewmen Lessing, and Gilmore."

"And Mark Johnson," Chakotay concluded, softly.

"That is correct."

Harry brushed a glossy lock of black hair away from his cherubic face. "So all four of the deceased are either former members Voyager or people who have come in contact the crew?"

Tuvok nodded. "Starfleet believes that Voyager may have brought an unknown pathogen through the Borg Conduit upon our return from the Delta Quadrant."

"Is it true?" B'Elanna wanted to know.

"It is not." Seven responded, evenly. "Icheb's symptoms and those of the other victims all display earmarks of a particularly virulent, lethal form of Iresine Syndrome."

Harry looked confused. "Iresine what?

"A rare neurological disorder, native to the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma Quadrants," Seven clarified. "Characterized by electropathic residue, a decreased histamine count, and coma. Death is not a common side-effect but has been known, in some cases, to occur."

"So, is that what this is?" B'Elanna queried, pensively.

The Doctor recovered his voice, regarding Seven in openly apologetic manner, and said, "No." He readdressed the group, "In 2368, an unusually high number of what, were thought at the time, to be cases of Iresine Syndrome, were reported across several planets. The misdiagnoses were discovered by Dr. Beverly Crusher when several more cases were thought to have broken out on the Starship, Enterprise-D. None of the victims, however, presented decreased histamine counts, and all of them presented traces of having had recent telepathic contact."

Seven accessed her Borg memory, leveling a scowl at the Doctor as she made the identification. "Telepathic Memory Invasion."

The EMH was grim. "Yes."

"That's a form of mind-rape." Tom interjected, stunned. "I remember reading the case study. The perpetrator was Ullian, and no deaths were reported. TMI attacks are characteristically brutal, but Ullian telepathic contact —even a forced memory retrieval, isn't lethal. So, how could, and why would an Ullian, none of us have ever met, transmute a psychic violation into the ability to kill?"

The colorful squatter, merely an observer up until this point, pushed away from the conference table and rose up, regally. "He could not." The man's voice was queerly desiccated, crackly as if he hadn't spoken in eons, but solidly timbered. "Nor could or would any other self-respecting member of his race. Telepathic Memory Invasion has been outlawed as a practice on the Homeworld for many years."

B'Elanna reached her limit. "Who is this guy?"

"State your designation." Apparently, Seven had, too.

"AkeenIligranP'Trell th'G'Phov." The outlander articulated, crispily, and went on, "The perpetrator of those crimes has long since been dealt with. I am acquainted with Jev. (20) He spent several seasons in adolescence, with his progenitor on Andor(ia)." th'G'Phov's speech lulled, dramatically, his august expression turning severe. "He was fast-friends with my former bondmate, your Admiral Janeway's current spouse."

Chakotay's hands curled into fists in his lap, the space separating his ears beginning to roar. "Ek'Norval ch'Raioth."

Harry struggled to follow. "The Admiral's married? When did that happen?"

"Wait." B'Elanna put up a hand in disbelief, "I may be way off base, here, but are you trying to tell us the Andorian ambassador is killing Voyagersusing an adapted telepathic technique he picked up from some alien nutter, as a teenager? Is that even possible?"

"His Ambassadorship is abnormally gifted." th'G'Phov asseverated, by way of explanation. He appeared to be entirely serious.

Chakotay directed the next question at both Commander Tuvok and the Doctor, his mannerisms deceptively mild. "How long have the two of you known?"

Non-reactive as always, the Vulcan deferred to his photonic confederate —who, at least had the programmed ability to look guilty.

"The admiral first contacted me almost three months ago." The EMH admitted, glumly.

"While you were still on Betazed." Chakotay quietly stated. "With Me."

"Yes. I informed Commander Tuvok, on Admiral Janeway's instruction, shortly, thereafter."

"No one else?"

"Admiral Owen Paris."

Chakotay's vision clouded red. "And Starfleet's take on all of this?"

"Up until this juncture, we have not been able to collect adequate proof of the ambassador's activities." Tuvok supplied, re-entering the discussion. "Both, Admirals Paris and Janeway agree we cannot read Starfleet in without it."

"So Janeway married and has been living with a murdering psychopath as part of an off-the-books, deep-cover operation and my father approves." Tom submitted, cantankerously, bushwhacked by the news.

Chakotay rubbed the back of his neck. The roaring was much, much louder now, his rancor growing, exponentially. He needed to refocus or he was going to hit something, someone: Vulcan, Photonic, Crossbreed. Whatever. He didn't particularly care. "Doctor, do we have enough proof, to get ch'Raioth, now?"

"We do." The EMH confirmed, gesticulating vigorously. "Icheb's nanoprobes, have not only managed to keep him alive by blocking the most damaging effects of the ambassador's implantation of TMI, but they have also dissembled the masking of his telepathic signature. Unfettered, ch'Raioth's blended genetics leave quite a distinct trail. We have him dead to rights."

"Unfortunately, there are complications," Tuvok revealed, dispassionately, dropping a virtual shoe.

Seven's eyebrow lifted, quizzically. "Complications?"

The Vulcan explained, "As you are all, unquestionably aware, on the approximate Stardate: 56814.9, Shinzon of Remus staged a successful military coup of the Double Planet's Remun slave caste against Romulan Empire, and is now Praetor of the Romulan Senate. The situation has the potential to become extremely volatile. The Enterprise-E has been dispatched with Captain Jean-Luc Picard conducting the initial diplomacies. Because the Remuns are recently known to have strong telepathic abilities, Starfleet has tapped Ambassador ch'Raioth who will shortly be dispatched to Romulan Space to advise on the situation —and possibly, to engage in talks on a near and future date."

"You think Starfleet won't be moved to intervene until after the situation has stabilized." Chakotay did not need affirmation. "How much danger is our admiral in?"

"A great deal." th'G'Phov said, earnestly. "As are you all. We are running out of time."

"Why is he doing this to us? And what does he want from Janeway?"

"Grant me access to you mind, Mister Chakotay," the green man requested, solemnly. Urgently. "I would share with you, my thoughts."

Chakotay clobbered the flat, freshly-waxed top of the conference table with a clenched paw. "Negatory!" he barked. "We're not doing that." He'd had his fill of other people's voices in his head.

th'G'Phov plopped sullenly, back into his chair, regarding Chakotay with an oddly disappointed, dead-duck expression. "The ambassador desires offspring," he disclosed, perturbingly.

"What?" Harry looked absolutely blutterbunged, like he'd been surprise-launched from his chair directly into deep space.

"She is already gestating."

The roaring exploded.

B'Elanna practically shot across the table, pissed-off, ready to call out what she obviously saw as bullishit. "I spent a lot of time in Quarantine watching media casts, catching up on what we'd missed while in the Delta. I found the stories covering Andorian reproductive crisis particularly interesting. (21) Andorians require multiple sets of compatible gametes to procreate. What you're saying is genetically impossible."

"We watched those media casts together, B'Elanna." Tom leaped to his feet. "And, no, no it is not. Not if you clone one parent and grafts bits and pieces of a second onto the fetus." He stared at the Doctor in outright tergiversation. "You son of a bitch. You could be de-complied for this!" He pointed an accusatory finger at the EMH while addressing the cluster-at-large."He's been meeting with ch'Raioth and Admiral Janeway. I don't know how regularly or for how long, but I saw them leaving Examination One, last week when I was here." Tom not only sounded angry, but looked betrayed. "Please tell me, someone, somehow, altered the Doctor's program."

*Grant me access to your mind.*

The tacit phrase burrowed, terrifyingly inside Chakotay's brain.

Bulldozed, he jockeyed erect, his chair see-sawing noisily across the floor as he kicked at it inadvertently. Time stopped: the remaining occupants of the room instantaneously silent, petrifying into place. He opened his mouth but issued no sound. Incapable of willing his muscles into action, helpless, as th'G'Phov, swooped from the table, and fully delved into his mind. Chakotay's consciousness forcibly ballooned, his thoughts popping off to nothing, like water bubbles breaking on the surface of a pond. He plummeted headlong into delirium: the walls of the Conference Room collapsing; wood-and-concrete crumbling into dust —only to rebuild and re-surround him as familiar red-brown borders comprised of bricks baked of the earth...

Chakotay was home. He was home, safely relocated to own his room. On Dorvan V...

The subdued heat of deep night, always-welcome, floated in through the open window. The breeze, milden and fresh-smelling as it slowly blended black ink into the early morning hours, oh, so, pleasant on his totally exposed, inexplicably over-warmed skin.

His body animated, erupted toes to scalp, every nerve ending instantly singing; bursting uncontrollably into flames.

Kathryn.

She sighed, dewily, opulently, voluptuously, into his scorching, greedy, open mouth; her slight, sweat-slick body, supple and quivering in his arms. Chakotay pressed forward: fire leaping off his tongue, in past her lips, onto her shoulder; her breasts pushing up into his chest, wreaking havoc on his skin. Lost to his emotions, he reveled utterly, in pleasure, unwilling to keep himself from binding to her. The depth of his commitment chanted to her in mother-words as she shattered, stuttering his name, and wrung out all he held within.

In k'áatech tuméen taan amen in...

-v-v-v-

The room, once again, shifted, creating change. The air cooling more and more as the walls fell a second time: earth-brick and dying heat replaced by something sleek, cold and exotic. Still naked, and suddenly alone, he now stood staring out, agog; at an unbelievably vivid landscape though a colossal plate of foreign glass.

A soundless, disembodied voice screamed out to him in warning as th'G'Phov appeared menacingly out of nowhere. He nabbed Chakotay by the hair and forced on him, a savage, bruising kiss.

*The woman's perfidy has driven Ek'Norval far from his senses.*

Chakotay slammed warp-speed back to Earth: to Starfleet; the Doctor's Suite; back into the meeting. He felt wretched, his clothing soaked in fright and perspiration, but he was now, somehow, uniquely focused; his mind open and receiving:

*The ambassador's power to inflict harm can be limited by distance.* th'G'Phov broadcast. *You will take the woman once the Diplomatic Envoy has left Federation Space. My mate and I will continue to help shield her from him as We have these last months until the Envoy has traveled far enough away. The woman must then, renounce him, publicly, in favor of you. Parliament will gladly support her choice... Do not misconstrue my intentions, Mister Chakotay. th'G'Phov's irises scintillated, dangerously. *If you deviate from these instructions, try to harm the ambassador, or go up against him in any other way, I will expose your secret to the Whole of the Federation, prematurely, and he will be well within his protected rights to challenge you to Combat. Make no mistake. He will end your life. I guarantee it.*

"Do not deviate," the outcross warned, again, aloud, his golden glare bleak with foreboding. He released Chakotay into a crippled heap upon the floor. "He will obliterate you all."

Illigran th'G'Phov stepped around the crumpled form, and quit the room.

-v-v-v-v-v-

Chakotay could no longer feel his fingers: his teeth rattled, lips purpling as his body glacial-ed over. Tom and the Doctor raced to roll him on his side. His stomach bubbled, wrenched and helix-ed, fried beans and acid expelling from him in vomitous contractions. His belly finally emptied, and the cramping came to a stop. Tom helped him to sit up. Chakotay gripped the pilot's shoulder, grappling to formulate spoken words. "Don't b-blame the EMH," he sibilated. "He only did what he h-had to, in order to protect her."

Badly needed warmth, in the form of Harry's jacket, approached —offered to him by Seven, her natural compassion overriding recent detestation. Chakotay struggled when he saw her: sliding back, slapping the hands trying to aide him. He broke down in wrecked, humiliated sobs. He wished with all his heart he could beam her away, away to somewhere —anywhere but here, at this moment, right now, with him.

She didn't deserve this. Didn't deserve any of what had happened. She had always deserved better than she received.

"I am being eaten!" he cried out, staring at her, a good woman who had loved him. A woman who had suffered too much, already, at his hands. "I'm so sorry, Seven, Kathryn's baby is mine."


Notes: Parallel Lines: Part 11, Kissing the Gunner's Daughter
20. Jev, an Ulillan (Telepathic) historian, who committed a number of telepathic assaults on ST: TNG'S episode, "Violations"
21. Ref. (DS9 - "Worlds of Deep Space Nine, Andor: Paradigm")