"And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with the confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night."
~Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach
After treating Sam, Tom returned to Kathryn. He carefully wrapped her body in a wet blanket and scooped her limp frame into his arms. Having carefully carried her to their cell, he placed her on the ground with infinite ease.
Being the most critically injured, he was concerned that seeing her in this condition would only kill the spirits of the crew-- what was left of them anyway. He was further worried by the fact that several of the prisoners had developed an illness that resembled tuberculosis. Fearing for her health while her immune system was fighting any infections she contracted because of her wounds, he had asked the guards to separate her from the rest of those hurt in the fire.
In his absence, her breathing had grown uneven and her skin-- what was left of on her face and chest-- had taken on an unhealthy pale hue. Leaning her body against his, he slowly peeled away the fabric of her uniform, checking for wounds that were hidden by the cloth. A sulfuric smell entered his nose. He fought hard against the instant nausea that it created, but found it was only exasperated by the mottled, charred flesh that remained hanging loosely from her arms and legs.
"Trying to take advantage of an unconscious woman? Really, Tom," she said, coughing. Her throat was so raw from the fumes of the blaze that she was convinced she had actually swallowed the flames.
"You're just too irresistible to ignore," he responded, smiling.
Kathryn laughed lightly, but stopped abruptly, grabbing at her left side. Tom helped her down onto the soil of their cell. This time, she wasn't even trying to hide her pain from him-- a fact that was not missed on his part.
Drawing the small lantern the guards had provided him with earlier during the night down her body, he returned his glance to her chest. Having wiped away the dried on blood, he was alarmed to see more than scratches. He needn't run his hands over her rib cage; she was so gaunt that he could see that at least two ribs were broken. Her hands and arms were more damaged than her chest. Second and third degree burns covered most of the surface; entire layers of flesh were blackened, red, and hanging loosely from muscle and bone. Tom covered her extremities in snow again, letting them act as a coolant.
A turbulent mind fought hard to remain in control. Her injures were beyond his help. Short of a miracle, only advanced treatment would restore her life. Seeing his struggle to maintain his composure, Kathryn attempted to lighten the mood.
"Sweet words. Keep it up and you might..."
He paused looking up from her chest where he was tying the securing the wrappings to stabilize her broken ribs to her face. "Might what?" He said, realizing she hadn't finished her thought. Her eyes were closed. Shaking her shoulders lightly, he repeated her name. "Kathryn? Kathryn? Don't fall asleep on me."
"Sorry...I'm just so sleepy," she admitted.
"I know, but you need to stay awake. You probably have a concussion," he said, concern etched across his face.
"How bad is it?" she asked, finally.
Tom paused for a long moment not sure whether the truth was something she needed to hear. "Kathryn, I..."
"The truth, Tom," she said, evenly. Her eyes were pleading with him.
"It's bad," he said, lowering his eyes. "Without a medical tricorder I can't be 100% sure. I can tell you that, without treatment, you will probably never regain the use of your hands. Yours arms and legs are nearly as bad. There are shards of glass in both as well as your face and legs, but I can't get all of the debris out. You've got at least two broken ribs, and smoke inhalation."
Kathryn raised her chin as she listened to Tom list her injures. It was a vain attempt to stop the tears that were forming in her eyes. Unable to move without screaming in pain and unable to wipe away the wetness she felt burning down her cheeks, she felt utterly helpless. Beyond all that, the pain was excruciating. Not for the first time during her trip here, she found herself wishing she had Vulcan mental abilities necessary to block out pain.
"I feel so lightheaded," she admitted.
"Lack of oxygen circulating in the blood stream. Contrary to what you might think, Kathryn, you are not invincible."
"What is that supposed to mean?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You should have just gotten out of the damned building."
"And what about Sam?" she replied, voice raising. "You would have me just leave her in there? I promised this crew I would get them home just like I promised myself I would never leave a member of my crew behind."
"You can't save everyone, Kathryn," Tom said, cupping her face with infinite tenderness.
"Neither can you, Tom."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He recoiled instantly anger rising in his voice and face.
"You can't save me this time, and you know it."
"Shhh...don't talk like that," he said, looking up from her and staring at the bars before him. Tom's eyes began to brim with unshed tears as his mind chastised him for being so weak. He needed to keep things together for her sake as much as his.
"I always imagined I would have a Starfleet funeral. Just like I always assumed that I would die on the bridge of my ship. Either that, or as a gray-haired admiral. I never guessed I would go like this- without dignity and forgotten as soon as the rest of my crew dies off. Maybe I was just being selfish, but I always assumed that something I would do would leave a legacy- a scholastic publishing at the very least...or children."
Desperate to lighten the mood, Tom blurted out the first tasteless comment that came to mind. Of course, it was something that had, oddly enough, been weighing in his mind. "You know, technically, you did have children."
Kathryn looked up at him with an incredulous look. "Children that are lizards and on some far-removed planet. We don't even know that they survived. A number of creatures are dependent on their parents until adulthood."
"I wonder what they would have been like had they been rescued." Tom mused, staring out at the night sky through the bars of their prison cell.
"They'd probably have a great sense of humor, be prone to breaking the rules, and persistent to the point of being annoying like their father," Kathryn replied, a wistful smile on her face.
"I was thinking more along the lines of your beauty, intelligence, and ability to pull men in like the Sirens," Tom said, meeting her eyes evenly.
"I'm none of those things," Kathryn said, sobering. "I am just a woman who was once your captain."
"I left out modest to a fault," he volleyed, smiling.
"You're starting to sound like Chakotay did," she replied.
Tom gasped and laughed lightly. "A fate worse than death."
"Chakotay told me once that all spirits are bound to each other in one form or another and that they would meet up again in each incarnation."
"And you don't believe him?" Tom asked, stroking her hair and returning his gaze to the star-filled sky.
"I don't know what I believe anymore. Is their life after we die or do we just slip into a sleep and never wake up? I guess I am just a realist at heart."
"I'd like to believe that I was more important to this earth in some aspect other than just procreation and dying. I would like to believe that, for at least one moment, my father would be proud of me. I'd also like to know that, in the end, I would get redemption despite the life that I led."
Kathryn let out a sigh and looked up at him. "Redemption," she repeated.
"It's why you stayed to help Sam and kept us going all these years. Whether you want to admit it or not; you felt that the only way to prove yourself was to get us home. But, in the process, Voyager became home."
"That's because we've been away from Earth too long."
"Berating yourself isn't going to get us any closer to home," he retorted and watched her recoil. Instantly, he regretted saying it. "I'm sorry, Kathryn...I shouldn't have..."
"It's okay," she said, offering a weak smile. "Sometimes a dose of the truth is what the doctor ordered."
Tom nodded in return and they fell into a brief mutual silence. Kathryn broke it. "If you had to do it all over again...your life I mean...what would you change?"
He gave pause to the question, mulling the answer over in his mind. "Nothing," he said.
"Nothing?" she repeated.
Tom shrugged. "Everything in my life lead me to this moment. If I hadn't ended up in prison, I never would have met you. I also wouldn't have been along for this ride to the Delta Quadrant which means you wouldn't have had your best pilot at the helm."
Kathryn smiled but said nothing. Tom continued. "I also wouldn't have gotten the chance to know you...really know you. To me, you were the grand specter that my father always compared me to. I used to hate you for it. Now, I can't imagine my life without you."
"I don't know what to say...," she said quietly.
"You don't have to say anything," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"Are you trying to coax me into a deathbed confession? Because it isn't going to work."
"Oh...the intrepid Captain Janeway has some deep, dark secret. I never pictured you are the religious type."
When she didn't reply, his gaze lowered to her limp silhouette. Fear crept into his tired mind. He tilted her head back and lowered his head onto her chest, quieting his own breathing. Her broken body lay unmoving. The vapor he expected to feel on his cheek was not there.
With trembling hands, he slid his fingers from her chin to her neck. No pulse... he checked the other side with the same result. Taking in a deep breath he filled her with two breaths and turned to chest compressions.
"Damn it, Kathryn, don't you dare leave me..." The voice sounded strange even to himself.
Time seemed to stand still. His muscles ached, but he ignored them. Eight sets of compressions...more to come... simply ignoring the blinding fire that spread across his arms and back. Sweat dripping from his forehead. Tuvok would say it illogical to persist. The doctor would have called her by now, Paris. His mind taunted. The voice of his father-- a distant imaging of a tired mind-- blamed him for yet another dead comrade.
Death moved into the shadows of the room, reaching its flithy hands towards Kathryn, but not yet touching her. Its maw opening in anticipation of the taste of flesh, saliva dripping with the expectation. It taunted him, hoping to convince him to stop his endeavors.
"NO!" Tom screamed, desperate to clear his mind of these thoughts. "Don't leave me, Kathryn, please."
Laboring on, he finally received a small glimmer of hope. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as her chest rose of its own accord. A pulse, weak and thready moved slowly against the pads of his fingers.
Exhausted, Tom sank back against his cell wall. Unwilling to lose contact with her body, his hand reached to stroke her hair once silken strands. It was one of the few tangible areas of her body. His muscles ached, his head was pounding, but most of all the pain and realization at the idea of almost losing her spread through him. First time in months, he felt himself crying.
The Doctor stood in the laboratory performing an autopsy on the latest Talaxian trial. This child had survived only a few hours outside of his pod before dying. Having the most knowledge of this being's structure, he had been asked to assist on the case. When he refused, they had threatened to kill the real Mr. Neelix.
If he were to be honest with himself, he wished that he was the same program he had been when first activated. That hologram was programmed with indifference on some level. Standing here, in the brightly lit, stark white room, his hands being covered in the blood of the infant as he dissected the tiny heart, he felt dirty. By helping in their little experiments, he knew he was dooming future clones to the same fate-- death. Be it on the autopsy table or from birth, more would die all in the name of taking care of their own race.
"Computer, resume recording of file Beta-010, Talaxian Male trial 73."
"Recording."
"A full dissection of the heart revealed that the cause of death was not a series of malfunctions in the respiratory and cardiovascular track as previously suspected by the Kamien team. It was, in fact, a birth defect. This fetus' life was ended because the left chamber of the heart was not fully developed when removed from his status pod. Upon reviewing the DNA structure of this being, I have found that gene pair 26 will need restructuring on the sub-cellular level to correct the problem.
"Stop recording, add time and date index, and send file to Talken, G'tan Kairon, and Tanari," The Doctor ordered the main computer as he began placing the tiny being into the standard stasis containers.
The signal above the stainless steel medical bed he was working at began to blink. Someone was entering the medical laboratory. Assuming it was Tanari, he returned to placing the removed organs into the closest of the array of small status containers near him. Each glass held an embalming solution that was a sickly yellow in color.
"Hi, Doc, I've been ordered to work on your holomatrix. G'tan Kairon is sending you on a little mission."
"Lieutenant Torres?"
"You make it sound as if you've seen a ghost," B'Elanna said, wrinkling her nose as she entered fully into the room. The smell of the embalming fluid's putrid smell reminded her of partially cooked Kovar Beast-- a mixture of skunk and a rotting banana peel. She marveled at the fact that The Doctor was oblivious to the smell. Making a mental note to check his sensory routines, she smiled at his expression; shocking the Doctor was rare indeed.
"You and Harry were killed when you were caught trying to escape. I saw your death reports."
"I was or at least that is what they told me. Tanari repaired the damage and Kairon sent me to work repairing the damage to Voyager. Apparently, they plan on using it in their armada, and I was worth more to them alive," she said stepping towards the surgical steel table he was standing next to. The Doctor put his hand up to stop her.
"Why don't we go into Tanari's office and do this."
B'Elanna shrugged her shoulders. "Whatever suits you."
The morning came, just as it always did. Tom's eyes opened slowly. He shifted slightly, muscles complaining. Kathryn moaned lightly as he moved. A brief moment passed while Tom found his bearings. Rubbing his eyes while shook his head, he managed to ward off Morpheus' hard grip. As soon the fogginess lifted, he recalled the horrors of last night. He quickly moved to her side, and placed two fingers against her neck, breathed a sigh of relief to find a pulse. It was the heat of her skin that alarmed him; she was covered in perspiration.
Infection was, no doubt, setting in. Like a parasite, it was already sapping the last bits of strength she had left. There was little he could do but cleanse them, save keeping her hydrated, and hope for the best. Silently, he cursed the poor conditions. Medical expertise was of little help if you were living in a place that wasn't unlike the Dark Age.
He touched her face lightly with a damp cloth and pulled his blanket from beside her. Kissing her lightly on the forehead, he whispered to her, "I'll be back."
From the cell, he called to one of the guards. A rather portly man with dark eyes and helmet that was too large for him came waddling towards the cell.
"Whatcha want?"
"The captain is still ill. Can you bring me some water, please?"
To his surprise, the man rolled his eyes and unlocked the cell. "You do it, but try anything funny..."
Tom merely nodded and walked quickly to the well a few feet away. He slowly turned the crank attached to pail's rope and lowering it into the darkened depths of the shaft. After he heard the splash, he began drawing the bucket up.
"She's sick, huh. Damn shame. She had spunk."
"She isn't dead yet."
"Yet. Just a matter of time in this place. If Kenoshia wasn't such a hard ass he might actually keep prisoners."
Tom merely nodded in response. A dozen witty come backs came to mind, but now was not the time to make this guard irate. Finding any of them willing to help was such a rare thing...
"You realize I've gotta tell both him and Tumeric you two can't go to the Yard today."
"Yeah"
"Keep in mind that your friend only has three days to recover, or ..."
"Let's hope that's all she needs," Tom said, cutting off the guard's comment before he could complete it. The last thing he wanted to think about was the consequences.
With a resounding crack, the crank locked into place. Reaching across the aperture of the well, he grasped the pail with one hand and the hook binding it to the rope with the other. With deft movements, he released it and heaved the aluminum cylinder onto the ground before him. Once there, he gained a better grip on the narrow handle and lifted it. The cruel metal shards, created by careless users past, cut through the calloused flesh of his hands, but he disregarded the minor affliction.
Returning to the cell, Tom knelt down by her side. "I told you I'd be right back." He carefully packed more snow around her thin frame. Hopefully, it would help lower her temperature. It would also help to keep her badly burned skin moist.
With an equal amount of care, he started cleansing the superficial wounds to her face. He couldn't help but notice that, even in sleep, her face was not peaceful. Pain, or rather the tell tale facial expression of a person in deep physical torment, marred her features.
With the assistance of the bright light of day, he set out to remove the shards of glass that he could and clean the wounds left in their wake as best he could. Thankfully, he had had the foresight to squirrel a few clean scraps of his uniform away early on in their imprisonment.
"I remember the first time I saw you in New Zealand. It was far from love at first sight. You stood there, hands on hips and stared me down with that look my father used to give me when I screwed up. Not that I wasn't used to that. So, I decided I would respond the way I always do-- sarcasm. But you saw through my crass remarks. You always could do that, couldn't you, Kathryn? Gauge people by their actions rather than words."
Tom gave a pause while he switched to cleaning the side of her face opposite him. He knew it was a rhetorical question, but he sensed a calmness that came over her when he was in a close proximity.
"You stood there-- the perfect image of what a captain should look and act like-- domineering, but caring and sincere all at the same time. I told you I was yours just to ruffle your feathers, but you knew that, didn't you? That moment, I went with you because something told me to. Call it fate. You were the first person that I trusted in a long time.
"Never could figure out why you decided to have faith in me. Hell, I was too busy getting the feel of a helm under my fingers again to worry about it. But you...you knew the second I saved Chakotay that I was more than the sum of my mistakes. First person to give me a real chance in ages.
"Wonder what my father would say about this whole situation. Probably something like 'Keep it together for the good of the team, son.' My reasons are purely selfish though. We both know that... I've come to depend on you a great deal more than just being my captain or my friend. I've come to see you as..."
Tom spoke aloud as he worked too engrossed to notice the sound of heavy footfalls approaching.
"How touching, Paris."
Tom's eyes shot up from Kathryn to the dark silhouette standing behind the grill of iron bars.
"What do you want, Tumeric?"
"If you want the captain to live, I suggest you lay back and play dead."
"But why...,"
"Do it," he said, then turning to look over his shoulder, "load these two onto the shuttle. I am going to take them to waste management myself."
"Yes, my lord," the sycophant Kenoshia said, entering the cell with three other guards.
Tom clamped his eyes shut and held his breath as best he could as he felt a rough set of hands take hold of his wrists and ankles.
He felt himself dangling in the air only for a few hundred feet or so, then a scuffling sound followed. Biting his tongue as he was unceremoniously loaded onto the back of a shuttle, his body gave a deafening thump as it landed on the hard deck plating beneath him. Another, softer sound followed as the captain's body was gently laid by another guard next to his.
"Are you sure you want to deal with them yourself, sir?" Kenoshia's voice said in the distance.
"Positive. Nothing will bring me greater joy that to load the captain's body into the incinerator myself."
"Aye, sir."
The shuttle bay hatch closed finally, blocking out the cold night air. Heavy footfalls passed him.
"Open your eyes, Mr. Paris. It is safe."
Alarmed at Tumeric's presence near Kathryn, Tom stood. There was something odd about the man's stance. It seemed familiar.
"Where are you taking us?"
"To The Farm."
"I don't understand, sir. What possible gain could the Cardassians received by continuing to fight the Maquis?" The younger version of himself asked.
"Well, you have to understand that those in the Maquis had nothing to lose. When the Cardassians took over their homelands, they killed a great number of people. The Maquis responded by taking out as many soldiers as they could. So, the Cardassians entered into the war against the Maquis because they would only continue to attack. The Cardassians saw it as a the war as a preventive measure. We saw it as a weakening of their defenses."
"You were outgunned, outnumbered, fighting with out-dated, substandard equipment, and you thought that you could win?" the some boy voiced.
Commander Chakotay stood before the smattering of Replicas. Running a hand through his coarse hair, he began to wonder if he had truly been this irritating as a child.
"Lieutenant Torres has told us that the Klingons believe that there is honor in fighting and winning when you are greatly outnumbered," the same boy added obviously please with his knowledge of anthopology.
"Terrain records are filled with evidence that strategy is more important than numbers or weapons. The Revolutionary War of the Americas is a good example. The United States was greatly outnumbered and outgunned, but they still won the war. A few years later, when the Civil War broke out, the only reason that the South held out as long as it did was because of good leadership," Janeway suggested.
"Correct me if I am wrong, Commander, but didn't the South lose? Besides, the Maquis never saw any truly large scale turn arounds like the South did at some points along the way. Are you implying that their leaders were sound in their strategy? Because clearly...." the stoic boy asked.
"You can be so Vulcy sometimes, Vorik" Janeway said, rolling her eyes.
"What do you mean that the Captain and Tom just disappeared?" Chell said, wide-eyed to the troupe across the breakfast table. The blue skinned Bolian had turned into a deep cerulean from his outdoor work during the summer. Now, facing the winter, he was forced to keep his head wrapped to fight the cold that would come from an exposed bald head.
"Last night, Tom had the Captain carried into their cell, and he went to tend to her wounds after the worst of the injured were seen to. This morning, Naomi saw Kenoshia's men loading them into the back of the Flyer. It took off towards the incineration chamber. Rumor has it that the Captain died during the night and Tom offed himself," Ayala said, pulling her make-shift shawl around her shoulders. The crisp morning air was always unforgiving.
"Well, I heard that G'tan ordered them to be brought to a hospital...something about the Captain's life being worth more to him alive," another crewman said.
"Would explain why they got more food rations than we did..." Chell offered.
"And the easier assignments..." Ayala continued.
"Enough," Naomi said, slamming her fist down on the table. "The Captain would have never let anyone give her preferential treatment to her crew."
"How do you explain the rations then?" Chell asked.
"She was usually the one that took beatings for all of us, and you would resent the fact that she got one extra sliver of bread?" Naomi said, eyeing each of them. "If you remember correctly, she was put on an 'easier' work detail after she was beaten and nearly raped. The same detail that most of you were assigned to when you were ill."
"What about Tom? He was never as bad off as her, and he still got extra rations."
"Did you follow Lieutenant Paris to each of his assignments, Crewman?" Seven asked.
"Well...no, but..."
"How many times were you beaten without witnesses?" she queried. "It has been my observation that Mr. Paris has a higher tolerance for pain, and, given his...high regard for the Captain's well being, he would, no doubt, hide the indications of those injures."
"Look at what has happened to us; turning our backs on each other like we never knew each other. If we don't stick together, we might all be dead," Naomi said, "I need to check on my mother. If you'll excuse me," she murmured, slipping out from her seat on the bench.
"Who are you?" Tom asked, noting how easily this man...Tumeric managed a Starfleet craft.
"I thought that I told you the first morning you arrived here. Apparently you weren't listening. Typical human. I am G'tan Tumeric, leader of the Industrial Order's Yard. Now, go keep your captain alive."
"You seem to have a fairly good manage on how to run a shuttle."
"Of course I do."
"The Constellation always was a bit more difficult to handle than the other shuttles," Tom said, fishing for answers.
"I would think that you would know the difference between the Constellation and the Flyer, Mr. Paris. She is, after all, your creation," Tumeric replied, not hiding the irritation in his voice.
"How did you know that?" Tom asked, slipping into the copilot's seat.
For a split second, the carefully placed mask of neutrality slipped. Tumeric finally looked up from the controls and met Tom's gaze. His eyes revealed nothing nor did his voice when he replied.
"Simple deduction. Now, go take care of Captain Janeway. We should be there soon."
"What is The Farm?"
"You will learn when you arrive there. All you need to know is that it has a medical facility."
"Why are you helping us?"
"Because I can't just let her die," he replied more emphatically.
Tom decided to pursue the line of conversation. It would seem that he had lead Tumeric onto a verbal mine field.
"Why not? She's just another prisoner," he countered, voice dripping with venom.
"She is hardly another prisoner."
"Oh?"
Tumeric stilled, gave an exasperated sigh, and turned towards Tom, meeting his gaze squarely. "You are an infuriating man, Paris."
"So I have been told," Tom said, crossing his arms.
"Do you know what the Industrial Order's punishment for aiding and abetting an escapee? Death to his family, his friends, and all those that served under him. If you stay up here we both run the risk of being caught. With you in the back, I can explain myself away...please."
Tom sat for a moment, digesting the conversation that had just transpired. Had he behaved as he just had in the encampment, he would have been beaten. However, the man that currently held him not only supplied him with the medical equipment he needed to stabilize the captain but also seemed to be trying to save her life. He found it all a little puzzling.
"The extra food rations?"
"Merely a precaution. She is the most valuable member of your crew. There are many species with rewards on her head for returning her alive."
"And the lighter work detail after she had been beaten?"
"A sick worker is worth less than one in perfect health."
"I'll buy that, but why transfer both of us to this farm? Why not just her?"
"The doctor will need an assistant to help him in the surgery. You have the most medical training of the surviving crew, and most of my men are not as familiar with human physiology," he lied.
Tom took a moment to refocus his thoughts. "Forgive me for sounding cynical, G'tan, but everything you say just doesn't add up. If she's worth so much alive, then why haven't you turned her over and collected her bounty?"
"The Industrial Order believes that breaking her of her spirit first will serve the larger purpose."
"The larger purpose?"
"We're having trouble releasing her security lock-out. All attempts to withdraw that information failed. We deemed that her only weakness is her attachment to the crew. Systematically killing them all is wearing her down. We are waiting to execute you last. The President feels that your death might cause her to take...brash measures." he lied again.
Tom's eyes narrowed. "I'll ask you again; who are you?"
"Not this again. You really should have your head examined, Mr. Paris. All those beatings you have had must have effected you short term memory."
"You just said you couldn't get passed the lock-out. If that was the case, then you couldn't get to any of the crew personal files. So, how do you know I have medical training?"
A warning klaxon sounded from the panel. "I said we couldn't get to all of the systems, Mr. Paris. I never said we didn't get to some of them." Tumeric's hands ran over the console. "It's a Kamien war vessel. Get in the back and tend to the captain now!"
"Not until I get some answers," Tom said, crossing his arms.
"I'll explain everything when we get there. It's not like I have a choice. Now, please. If you don't, we all might die today."
Tom nodded his head slowly and moved towards the biobed Kathryn was laying on. He overheard a short interplay between G'tan and another vessel. He could only hear bits of the conversation.
"What is the meaning of this? Detaining a superior officer is grounds for dismissal," Tumeric said, loudly. "I don't care if you were told to bring Janeway to the High Ruler himself. She is with me, understood? Good. G'tan out."
"Paris, I'm initiating a site to site transport," Tumeric said from the front of the vessel.
"Understood," Tom replied as a familiar blue beam surrounded both he and the captain. As the walls of the shuttle disappeared, they were replaced by that of the surgical bay. Tom found himself standing next to the biobed the captain was on. Tumeric was already rushing about sickbay quickly, collecting instruments.
He took in his surroundings. It was a large, well-lit sickbay that resembled the one on Voyager in many respects. The walls were a similar gray color. Four biobeds lay in a semi-circle with the main console for each at the head.
Directly across from him was the entrance. It was wide enough to push or carry gurneys through. To its immediate right was the doctor's office. Only the top half held windows. The lower portion was bulkhead material.
The room smelled of death and sterilization fluid. The latter was an curious mixture of rotting garbage and orange zest.
In the rear of the room, was the surgical bay where Tom was currently standing. At the head of this biobed, an upraised partition monitored Kathryn's heart rate, blood pressure, and respiratory rate. Each was critically low.
"What do you think you are doing?" He asked, watching as Tumeric held a medical tricorder over Kathryn's chest.
"Isn't it obvious? I am prepping to operating on the captain."
"The hell you are," Paris said, pushing Tumeric aside.
"Mr. Paris, I don't have time for your male posturing. You can assist me if you like, or I can sedate you. If I don't operate, she'll die."
"How do I know you won't do something to kill her?"
Tumeric's eyes narrowed. "First do no harm, Mr. Paris. It was the first thing that I taught Kes and it is the first thing they taught you in your first aid classes at the Academy."
"Doc?"
He nodded his head. "Now, are you going to help me?"
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"The Kamien have listening devices everywhere. They are unscrupulous not to mention paranoid."
"Aren't we still in a Kamien building?"
"Yes, but these people sent me to get you; they know you are here. They didn't want the Captain to die, and neither did I. Now, are you going to help me or stand there with your mouth open?"
Tom walked over towards the sanitizing unit watching months of dirt virtually float off of his body. Disinfected, he returned to Kathryn's side.
"What happened to you? How did you end up here?"
"Right before the attack, I had been called to the cargo bay by Seven. Half way there, the ship fell under attack. The bulkheads around me started collapsing. I was trapped. The communications array was down so I couldn't call for help.
"When we were boarded, I hid in one of the Jefferies Tubes and deactivated my program. I altered my appearance to look like one of the guards and escaped with a shuttle. They thought that I was bringing it for analysis."
"Why didn't you come for us sooner?"
The doctor began running last minute scans before starting the procedure. "They have a complex sensor grid. While it doesn't detect proton based life-forms, it does sense movement from any vessel or living species. If anyone without the proper genetic code...the Kamien genetic code... steps out of the bounds of their array, small robotic units are deployed to 'remove the threat.' I tricked one of their little devices, and G'tol Kairon brought me here."
"But how did you..."
"I'll explain the rest after, Mr. Paris," The Doctor said, running a medical tricorder over her limp body. His face fell grave.
"What is it, Doc?"
"Her condition is much worse than I thought."
Tom looked up from the pale flesh of her face to the Doctor's. An unspoken question clearly written in Tom distraught filled glance, the physcian answered in a sympathetic tone.
"She's going into hemorrhagic shock from internal bleeding; one of her broken ribs pierced her lung. She also has a brain embolism. Looks like the clot was thrown from her leg. To add to that, she has a fractured pelvis, wrist, a broken arm that is healing improperly, multiple contusions and abrasions... from previous beatings no doubt. Smoke inhalation. Second and third degree burns to sixty percent of her body. Some of her those wounds are infected... It's a wonder she is still alive at all."
"What are her chances?"
"If we can control the bleeding," the doctor said, already prepping Kathryn for surgery, "and repair the embolism before any permanent damage sets in, she has a 45% survival rate."
Tom leaned forward placing his hands on the biobed. He allowed his shoulders to slouch forward.
"The captain is the most resilient person I know. More so than even yourself. Now, stop the internal bleeding," the doctor ordered while he started an incision on Kathryn's skull.
Tom straightened from his position and picked up a laser scalpel. He refused to pull his attention from the task at hand.
"Stay with me, Kathryn," he whispered.
"Gather round, children. No crowding. No crowding," Neelix said, watching as the tiny lot bunched in front of his chair. It was remarkable how quickly the maturation shots were working. The first batch of Replicas were almost at four years in age by human standards of development. The only children not aged were those of the Gamma group. Currently, only two were created. The second being Naomi Wildman. It was deemed that accelerating her growth at such a young age might affect her as her Katerian chemistry. The maturation injections would wait until her immune system developed more- some time around six months old.
Neelix spied Lieutenant Commander Tuvok as he sat across the room feeding GV-001 who was now called Hope. A smile tugged as his lips as he saw the ever stoic Vulcan favoring the child with softened facial expressions. Of course, the Talaxian would never point out Tuvok's obvious fondness for the child.
"All right. Is everyone settled?" Neelix asked, finally taking his seat. "Good. Now let me see...last time I told you about the young woman that was married with the help of her fairy god mother."
"I still fail to see how this fairy godmother could create a carriage from a leola root, Mr. Neelix," the young Vulcan said, raising an eyebrow. The Talaxian merely smiled.
"Your question is a tribute to the Commander's teachings."
"Tuvok, be quiet. I want to hear the story," Kathryn said, turning to give her friend her best death glare.
"I have just the story to tell you all tonight. I found it in the databanks of Voyager. Once upon a time in a ..."
"...galaxy far, far away," a young boy chirped. "I remember that movie! Ensign Kim took me to see it yesterday."
"No Tom, this story is about a queen....an evil queen who was known for her vanity. Each night she would stand before an enchanted mirror and repeat the same words.
'Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all?'
"For many years the mirror replied to her that she was, but, one night, it told her that Snow White was. Enraged, the queen sent a warrior to kill the great beauty."
"Mr. Neelix, I fail to see how this is supposed to be a children's story. The dark overtones..."
"Be quiet, Annika," Janeway scolded.
"The hardened warrior rode off into the night to find the girl. His mission was simple: find Snow White, kill her, and return her heart to the queen, but, when he did find her, he fell in love with her instantly," Neelix continued.
"Failure to follow a superior officer's command is treason."
"Yes, it is, Harry. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. How could I forget? Unable to kill the young woman, the warrior warned her of the Evil Queen's plans and told her never to return to the palace. Agreeing, she ran off into the night. The warrior returned to the queen with the heart of a beast of the forest in her box rather than that of the girl.
"Years past while the girl hid in the forest with friends. The Evil Queen was unaware that the girl was still alive as the mirror proclaimed her the most beautiful woman in the land. Until one day a fair headed prince came upon Snow White in the forest..."
"There development is amazing, Talken," Kairon said, watching through a monitor. "Your work on this project will not soon be forgotten."
Talken stood a few paces behind his superior, unmoving. His eyes moving from the small children on the screen to the one of the sickbays on The Farm. Cameras within the rooms only turned on with movement to save efficiency. In this case, the Doctor and Tom were working on Captain Janeway. Though he found their interaction more informative, he spoke not against G'tol's viewing choice.
"The holographic humanoid was of great help. Without his suggestions, I am not sure that they would be as advanced as they are."
"How so?"
Talken turned his citrine eyes upon his master. Custom dictated that he must look at his superior when speaking. He had also found that the penalty for not giving Kairon his undivided attention could be quite painful.
"He was the one that suggested that we call the Replicas by the given names of those that we cloned. In that manner, they have absorbed their identities a great deal more quickly that other species in the past."
Kairon nodded and turned his own attention back to the children that sat in a small semi-circle around the older Talaxian. Talken's eyes, however, stayed upon his master. The wiry blond hair had grown slightly past regulation and his skin had lost its near transparent quality from time spent overseeing the crop yield. Genetic treatment was called for before their next meeting with the Industrial Order; the leader of the single largest production on Kamien could not be tanned like a common laborer.
Allowing his physical condition to slip to the point of being noticeable was a true sign of the amount of pressure his superior was under. The Voyager project had been a complicated one...
"How do you deal with the confusion of those that have their Alpha version here on The Farm?"
"That was actually one of the least difficult problems we have encountered. In cases where the Alpha has a first and last name, they are only referred to by their last name in front of the children. In cases of only one name like Tuvok, Neelix, and Chakotay, their names are proceeded by mister, instructor, or their rank."
"Most efficient." Kairon said, signaling his approval by nodding his head.
"How do you plan on balancing out their ages? As I understand it, they are now all four years of age. According to Voyager's records, Tuvok was in his nineties when we captured him while other members varied in age from teenage years to old age."
"As I said, the Doctor has been of great assistance. He pointed out that their systems are very delicate in youth because their bodies aren't fully developed. Because the immune and glandular systems are, after all, that pathway we use to age the system and both highly important in growth, the Doctor suggested that we wait until their race's puberty to make these adjustments as the body expects rapid, uneven growth."
"All of their cognitive skills are developing evenly?"
"For the most part. As predicted, each Replica is showing faster development in their original's major field. It is also interesting to note that those studying music under the real Mr. Kim are doing as much as 60% better across the board than those that are not. I believe we should include some level of study for all those involved. It would speed up the end result," Talken explained.
"I'm not so sure. Many logs spoke of a longing to have studied different instruments as a child and stayed with it."
"Some human schools required arts education from the Terrain year 2000 to the current as part of the main curriculum. I believe it wouldn't be a great stretch. There music is very mathematical in formation. The ability to play an instrument also increases hand-eye coordination which will, in turn improve targeting abilities when they learn weaponry."
"Very well. Ask Mr. Kim to include all the children in basic music theory from now on."
"Yes, sir."
"What of young Kathryn and Tom's development?"
"While Tom is excelling at flight simulators, he is not living up to the expectations placed on him. Mr. Neelix noted that Mr. Paris tended to rely in his 'gut instinct' when in battle. Standard flying patterns that Starfleet provided were just the foundation of the movements he used.
"Kathryn, on the other hand... there is just something missing from her. There is the same attitude, and compassion towards here peers, but Mr. Neelix tells me that her determination doesn't match. Mr. Chakotay agreed. He called it her 'fire.'"
"Suggestions?"
"We knew from the beginning that replicating such diverse personalities would be difficult. I believe that Starfleet personnel would give some leeway for mistakes in our creations as the crew have been lost for some time. However, the Janeway and Paris replicas must be the most convincing.
"I will be able to make adjustments accordingly once I am able to interact with the real Janeway more. If worse comes to worse, we will instigate our contingency plan. I would, however, prefer not to. The real Janeway is a wild card."
"Agreed," Kairon said, turning towards his desk and looking over his agenda list. With such a large scale product, it was not uncommon for them to barely have time to meet.
"I have already had Janeway and Paris brought to The Farm. The Captain is being operated on now, and the holographic doctor advised me that no unnecessary stress should be placed upon her should she survive. I will wait a few days to speak to her. However, I would like you to speak with Paris in person. He needs to feel a strong force as he respects and understands them more than those he sees as subservient," Talken said, evenly.
"You know my own mind better than I do, Talken."
Talken lowered his head to show his respect. Open praise from his master was rare indeed.
"How goes the seed studies?" Kairon asked, turning to glare at the screen once again.
"As strong as it has been in some time. We have a small portion of their crew within Greenhouse five. They have, in the past few months, advanced our technologies further than we anticipated. This year's yield should be twice that of the previous."
"Excellent. We need that cover well established and quickly."
"So it shall be done," Talken said, clasping his hands behind his back.
The alarm for morning roll call sounded and the prisoners of The Yard raced from the breakfast area to the center of camp. There, in a straight line, stood the forty seven members of the Kazon crew that had been captured just days before. G'tan Tumeric climbed the thirteen steps to his favorite place- the execution 'stage.'
Those seasoned members of The Yard knew exactly what was going to happen. The only question left unanswered was by what means and how many.
"Yesterday, the sewing factory was burned nearly to the ground. A great deal of valuable equipment was lost. Precious time will be spent the next few days to rebuild. There is also the labor of burying your dead before this place begins to smell of rotting carcasses. All of this reflects badly on me. Someone is going to have to answer for this crime. Who is responsible? The only information that I have gathered is that the guilty parties were Kazon," he said, looking down at the line of red-faced soldiers.
"Speak now and save your comrades."
"We are all guilty," a young Kazon said, turning towards G'tan in defiance.
A slightly tanned jaw jutted out in anger as yellow quartz eyes turned viciously towards the disobedient boy. Hands clasped behind his back, he slowly stomped across the platform towards the insolent child. No more than eight in age, the Kazon boy slinked backwards toward the line of his ship mates as G'tan approached. Crouching down so that his sight was even with the rebellious child, he favored him with a demonic gaze powerful enough to send shivers down Lucifer's spine. A small, yellow puddle began to form on the soil beneath this untested would-be 'soldier's' shoe.
"What did you say?" Tumeric said through clenched teeth.
The wide-eyed boy stepped back yet again, stumbling over another Kazon soldier and toppling towards the ground behind him straight onto his 'pride.' The action did not stop his retreat. Crawling on his hands, he continued to distance himself.
"Kenoshia!" Tumeric bellowed. "Kill every other Kazon in that line, and don't stop until those responsible step forward.
An evil sneer crossed Tumeric's lips as the macabre dance began. Once powerful Kazon soldiers of varying ages fell to the crimson soaked ground with a gapping hole in their chests.
Those that still breathed stood tall in the hot morning sun. Chins high and stature straight none of them broke their stance to gaze down at their twenty three ship mates that now littered the ground. When Kenoshia reached the end, his haughty smile deepened.
"Oh how the mighty Kazons fall.... I am still waiting for an answer," the ring leader shouted to the gathered crowds.
A long pause followed as the sound of gunfire ceased its thunderous echo through the camp. The remaining crew of Voyager as well as a motley group of other prisoners that came before and after their arrival stood in the early morning sun looking onward at the carnage. Long time prisoners began to wordlessly take bets on the numbers killed in the second round while others looked on, disgusted. The pot? The loser's food for the day.
The group's attention was once again pulled to the front as the same young boy found the courage to speak again. "You have already killed the conspirators, G'tan," he called up to the angered leader.
"So, the little nipper has a tongue left after all. Why do you defy me? We will see if you are still as outspoken when you are loaded into the crematorium ovens still alive," then, turning towards his favored guard, Kenoshia, "March them there now and be sure they take their friends with them."
"But sir, G'tol Kairon warned against taking drastic measures again," Kenoshia whispered.
"That was only with the Voyager crew. These Kazon dogs are different," he returned at equal level. "Besides, the ground can always use good fertilizer."
Kenoshia blew his whistle and barked orders at the surrounding guards. Each Kazon retrieved one of their fallen, slinging the lifeless bodies over their shoulders, they were forced to run the two miles toward the massive, foreboding tower in the distance from which the odd gray snow fell day and night.
Swirls of colors danced before her until an image cleared in her mind. She had been here before. The light sound of the concertina filtered down the street to the tiny establishment she was in. A long bar to her right as she entered and pool tables in front of her. A slender figure leaning over a table, posed to take the next shot. She recognized him immediately. The blond hair and slender fingers were a dead give away.
"Pretty impossible shot for a novice," she said, approaching him. His fingers slipped and the cue ball went rolling across the table. He gave an exasperated sigh and rose.
"You know, Captain, I had a week's replicator rations riding on that shot."
"A few days in the mess hall won't kill you," she retorted not even hiding her amused grin.
"Are you kidding? My digestive system can handle a full week in the mess hall."
"If I have to brave it, then all the senior officers should," she said, laughing.
"I'll make you a deal. I'll eat the with you every day this week if you can go without coffee."
"Me without coffee is as deadly as B'Elanna and Neelix trapped together in that Barney program you created for Naomi a few years back. The incessant 'I Love You' song playing...where did you find that thing anyway?"
"Barney was a fad during the 20th century. Something quite a few people would rather forget."
"I can't imagine why," Kathryn said, rolling her eyes.
"So who was this bet with? Harry? B'Elanna?" She asked, taking a long sip of the drink Sandrine had brought her.
"Tuvok actually."
"Tuvok?" Kathryn repeated, nearly choking.
"He asked how many games I had played without losing then asked what time I would be playing so that he could monitor the pool table. If I won more games than this holographic pool shark, I would get his rations."
"I wonder why he would do a thing like that..."
"He said 'probabilty is against you if your record is as you say.' Then he checked the records for this evening and told me he would monitor my progress via a comm-link. Something about having to complete reports."
"You know, that's funny considering he just asked me to come check up on you. He said you have used more than your share of holodeck time this month and that I should come speak to you about it for the sake of fairness aboard the ship."
"And you just happened to come right as I was making my final shot. Thanks, Tuvok!"
"It was my pleasure. Tuvok out." A voice said through the comm. system. Tom looked over at Kathryn and smiled.
"I think I could almost hear him smiling."
Another flash, two hours later when the attack first broke out. Tuvok was shot by Kamien guards as they boarded the bridge. His body withered against the ground, caught in a current that ripped through him. A visible wave that resembled blue lightening coupled with the smell of burning flesh came before his final cry of agony before he lost consciousness.
"I am the High Ruler of the Industrial Order. This is Kamien Territory. Prepare to land your vessel, and move your crew towards the camps. Not complying will mean death to your entire crew. Is that clear Janeway of Voyager?"
She nodded her head slowly and motioned for Tom to follow his orders.
"We will land the ship on the surface as you ask. Please don't harm any more of my crew."
"Agreed."
She casually strolled towards the helm and entered in command lock out codes silently. Tom looked up at her and met her gaze. He offered her a weak smile, and whispered "We'll get through this."
White light filtered in again, another scene change. The holodeck at one of the Doctor's slide shows. She half listened to him drawl on as her eyelids flittered open and closed. How many hours had it been since she last had sleep? The Doctor's presentations were a wonderful cure for insomnia...if it were just an appropriate time. Not that he would notice... A brief moment of black followed by a light tap on the shoulder.
"Rough night, Captain?" B'Elanna said from behind.
"That and the right setting..."
Seven sat to her left entering data into a PADD. She raised an eyebrow.
"The Doctor's presentation is not a productive use of my time. Since you felt it necessary to ask all senior staff be present, I choose to use the time more efficiently."
"If only we could all get away with it...," Harry replied.
"Maybe we could convince him we were taking notes," Tom said from behind her.
The scene began to change again. This time, however, the light that filtered in was black. A voice drifted towards her.
"Don't leave me, Kathryn..."
An image came into view, but this one she saw as a bystander. Tom was over her doing something, but she wasn't sure what. Movement towards his side. The image blurred as she walked, steadied. The palms of his hands dug into a person's chest forcing it down two inches or so. Her eyes drifted up towards the body's face. Pale skin, blue tinted lips, auburn hair...her own flesh so well known to her. She reached out and touched it to find it ice cold.
He was holding her now, crying. A light opened on the far side of the cell's wall.
"Come home, Kathryn."
He had taken her father's form again this time, but she wouldn't be fooled.
"I can't stabilizer. She's lost too much blood...she's coding! Cortical stimulator. Charge."
"Charged."
"No effect."
"Again, Mr Paris."
"No effect."
"Again."
"Come on, Kathryn...Fight, damn it!" Tom whispered, oblivious to the Doctor's odd stare.