Warmth, Tom would give anything to have it, but unfortunately it was a commodity not easy to come by in the small cells of an Allorian prison ship. He judged the temperature in this particular cell to be in the lower 50's. It was an improvement over his previous accommodations to be sure, the cell he'd awakened in had been even colder, but it had still been a difficult task trying to recover the body heat he'd lost from cryogenic stasis. Either the Allorians preferred this cold environment or they didn't feel the need to supply climate control to the holding cells. There was no reason they had to as far as Tom could tell, it seemed that all of the prisoners in the ship were held in stasis.
He pulled the edges of the thermal blanket closer around him to conserve what little warmth his body could generate. The thermos the doctor had left him radiated delicious warmth and Tom had latched on to the small container as if it was the only life buoy in a vast and frozen sea. He was reluctant to drink from it and lose it as an external heat source, but another sip of the hot brew might ease the incessant chattering of his teeth. He removed the cap and drank cautiously. The liquid was bitter, but it served a dual purpose in giving warmth and replacing the electrolytes he'd lost during the haphazard transport from Voyager's brig to this alien ship.
What had transpired from the time he'd been hijacked to this vessel and the moment he awakened was still largely a mystery to him. He had so many questions to ask, but after the doctor had revived him, his next task was to retrieve Ayala, who had also ended up in frozen stasis. Before he departed on that task however, as he moved his patient to a "warmer" cell, the doctor had time to give Tom a few of the facts he so desperately craved.
Tom and Mike Ayala had been hijacked from Voyager, along with the Allorian prisoners from the brig and all had been placed in frozen stasis in this odd prison transport vessel. The vessel had apparently come in response to a distress signal from one of their outposts on that shadowy planet. Upon arrival, they detected Allorian life patterns onboard Voyager, and had taken them by force without preamble. This was the worst news Tom could hear, and he was disheartened. Harry's theory was wrong; the signal hadn't been from the away team after all and so wasn't a sign of their survival. As more time passed, Tom felt hope for B'Elanna's safety being maliciously stripped away from him piece by bloody piece.
Waiting for the doctor to return taxed Tom's patience. He hated this cramped cell. When he paced, which turned out to be more often as his strength returned to him, he could feel his hair brush the low ceiling, much to his growing annoyance. The six metal slats in the middle of the cell, which were apparently spare bases for stasis units, were so cold that they siphoned heat from his body, so he couldn't sit down for any long period of time. He felt trapped.
When he could take the confinement no longer, he stepped out of the cell's only exit, as he'd done many times already during this period of waiting. The archway opened up to a cavernous space that was oval in shape and strikingly vast in comparison to the cell. The walls around the perimeter ran several stories high and were pockmarked with thousands of other archways. The place was a honeycomb prison cells. Tom could only imagine how many prisoners this ship actually held.
The gangway, which lined his level midway up from the main floor, was apparently the only walkway in the entire place. It was constructed of a flimsy looking but surprisingly strong metal mesh that didn't give under his weight. There were no struts or supporting rods running underneath. It was like someone had rolled it out and attached it to the wall and that was it. If he looked down at his feet he could clearly see the many levels below. He oscillated between claustrophobia and vertigo depending on where he was standing.
Walking to the curled edge of the mesh that served as a railing, he peered down into an open courtyard of sorts where several of the wolf like creatures milled about, carrying more stasis units to and from various openings. It looked less like a prison and more like a busy cargo ship.
Another chill came over him and when he pulled the blanket up around his shoulders, he felt a tug at the sore patch on his chest where the circular teleportation device had been so unceremoniously attached. It had to be the worst mode of travel he'd ever experienced. He felt as if he'd been through a cosmic shredder and then haphazardly taped back together. He was lucky to have coalesced in one piece and in the right order, and he hoped never to go through that agony again.
The pain renewed his worries about B'Elanna and the Captain and what they might be going through. It seemed unlikely that Chakotay would have gone on with his plans of a recovery team going down to the planet when Voyager had been maliciously boarded by an alien race that snatched two crewmen. The fact that it was the same race that had instigated their troubles to begin with only complicated matters.
His feeling of dread grew with each passing moment. God! Where was the doctor? He reached up to tap the combadge he still wore then remembered it had been damaged in the freeze. In a surge of exasperation, he tore it off and hurled it across the chasm. The action didn't satisfy him though. The combadge fell silently to the floor below, not even rewarding him with the tiniest clatter. He wanted to shout, to curse; anything…but there was no object on which he could vent his mounting frustrations.
But at that moment, a dark and foreboding feeling crept over him. He straightened and pulled himself away from the railing. He'd felt this way before and was starting to recognize it. It seemed always to take hold of him whenever one of them was nearby.
Mister Paris. He heard the thought before it was actually spoken. The intrusion into his mind felt like a violation. He turned and saw the Allorian approach, her steps lightly shuffling on the mesh walkway. It was the ambassador, that Cahla Sin'b. He remembered her as the Allorian who was with the doctor when Tom first awoke from stasis.
As she came closer, her wide benign smile emanated no hostility, but he took a step back anyway. He still hated them, all of them. He hadn't met an Allorian yet that was worthy of his trust.
"Mister Paris." The voice was rough and yet feminine.
"What do you want?" Tom said brusquely not willing to let his guard down for a moment.
The ambassador stood serenely with her long arms resting at her sides. "The doctor had a few difficulties resuscitating Mister Ayala," she said, her words slow and cumbersome, as if speaking aloud was foreign to her. "The doctor has requested," she said and then began again telepathically. Follow me, Mister Paris. I will take you to him.
The ambassador then turned, her flowing silvery garment billowed around her as if buffeted by a soft breeze. She glided down the walkway clearly expecting Tom to follow like some kind of lap dog.
Anger and distrust had built up so much that Tom's feet would not move even if he wanted them to, but at least he'd found a target for his fear and frustration in the lanky form of the ambassador. "Go to hell!" he shouted after her retreating form. "Why should I follow you?"
She turned her head only slightly in response and her mind stated simply, You have no other alternative.
A rattling sound came from behind and Tom turned to see that the walkway was loosening behind him. The slackening mesh drew back into the walls like a serpent into its pit. There were only a couple of meters of walkway left behind him and that was going too. Soon, there would be nothing between him and the floor below. He'd die if he fell that far. The mesh began to draw away from his feet. Scrambling backward to relative safety, Tom knew resistance was pointless. He had no choice but to follow Cahla Sin'b, and into whatever peril she may lead him.