Three days had passed without incident after Seven's supposed contact with the Borg. By then, almost everyone on board knew what really was wrong. Some were scared to go near Seven, while others regarded her fearfully, pitying her.
Tom Paris, B'Elanna Torres, and Harry Kim were in the shuttlebay, doing maintenance on the Delta Flyer. They and Tuvok were scheduled to go down on the planet beneath them on another food scavenge. No one had answered their hails so they were to proceed with the utmost caution while they explored. After they returned to Voyager, Tuvok was going to try a mindmeld on Seven to try to discover which of her personalities had left it's little "gift". Maybe then they could do something to help Seven.
"Tom! Try it again!" B'Elanna's voice made its way to where he was wedged under the main drive. Wires snaked across his body, uncovered. If he made one wrong move…Or if something went wrong…
"Sure," he grunted. He pressed his hand up into the Flyer's workings and focused on the line that, he hoped, would supply extra speed into the thrusters. Ignoring the sweat that ran into his eyes from the three to four hours he had been crouched in the tiny space, he enjoyed an ironic thrill that ran through him. He loved to spend a whole week's wroth of holodeck rations in one day working on a twentieth century automobile to show to B'Elanna. At first, she didn't appreciate his work but now she knew what hard work it really was. Working on the Flyer, his brainchild, was almost as much fun.
He forced his wandering mind to the task. Twisting his wrist, he tightened and clamped the errant wire into place. Removing his hand, careful to avoid touching the exposed copper wires, he tapped his commbadge attached to the gray tank top shirt he had donned for this part of the mission. "Go ahead and try it, Harry. Just make sure B'Elanna is still ready."
"Hold for just a second, Tom. Tell us if anything happens on that end of the line," his friend answered, static interfering.
Tom eyed the wires so close to his face. "I hope nothing happens. I'll be a roasted duck." Even so, he began to untangle himself from all the wires.
A sudden whine began to develop near his hearing. He peered in at the wire he had connected in to all the others. Smoke drifted out of one end and he realized that he still hadn't plugged it in all the way.
"Harry," he called into the commbadge, "power the Flyer down! Quick!"
All he got in reply was static. He doubted if Harry had heard him. Meanwhile, sparks were beginning to shoot in all directions, creating a further problem of a possible explosion if a spark hit a certain wire.
Just in case Harry could hear him, he yelled, "Power down!"
Still no reply.
Gritting his teeth, he swore. He would have to fix the wire himself, while the Flyer was powered up, maneuvering between now live and uncovered wires, without frying himself.
Right. Captain Proton had it easier.
Cautiously, he extended his right hand and began the intricate dance with the wires. He made it unscathed to the problem wire and swallowed. There was no way he was going to correct the problem without hurting himself and if he didn't do something, the other wires could malfunction with the touch of a spark, or worse.
Holding his breath, he reached out toward the wire.
The sound was faint and only B'Elanna heard it. Snapping around, she located Harry in the co-pilot's seat, twirling a gage.
"Harry! Power down the Flyer!" She barked. Extracting herself from the weapon's console, she raced out of the Delta Flyer with Harry at her heels. She reached where Tom had been working but found him lying with his eyes closed, his right arm badly burned and the skin a mass of sores resting on his chest. The wires exposed near him provided the story.
"Tom!" She shouted. "Harry, grab an arm!" Together, B'Elanna and Harry pulled Tom out of the mess he had been so eager to fix.
Once he was a safe distance away, Tom's blue eyes snapped open. He moved his right hand to grab the floor to push himself up, and muttered another expletitive as the pain washed over him.
Harry's dark face was full of concern. "Tom, what happened? Are you all right?"
Tom allowed B'Elanna to help him to his shaky legs. "I told you to turn off the Flyer. The connection was weak and in danger of being critical when I decided you couldn't hear me and I fixed it myself," pain made his voice wheeze and he gritted his teeth.
Harry and B'Elanna glanced at each other.
"We didn't hear you," they chorused.
B'Elanna added, "It must have been the copper wires or the alloy blocking the comm." She rolled her eyes. "You had to have this done today. I told you it was too risky. But no, the Great Tom Paris, Pilot Extraordinaire, is never wrong. How does the flame of victory feel now?"
Tom groaned with agony. He almost wished his hand would have been burned beyond the nerves. At least then he wouldn't have to feel it. "Charbroiled. I'm going to walk to sickbay alone."
Harry began to protest as B'Elanna's shock left her momentarily speechless.
"You can't be serious," she finally managed.
Tom shot her a withering look as he stumbled to the door. "I'm walking to sickbay, with or without your permission. Someone needs to stay here to clean up and I'll only be back in time to fly this thing. The wire is in now, all you have to do is finish the connection in the weapons' and pilots' consoles and put it back together. I'll be with the Doc if you need me."
B'Elanna's brow furrowed in thought. She came to an instant decision. "Harry, go ahead and get started. Tom's not going alone, I don't care what he says. I'll be back shortly," and with those orders, she followed Tom into the corridor.
Naomi hummed to herself as she wound her way to the cargo bay where Seven of Nine's regeneration chamber lay. No matter how hard Neelix tried to pretend nothing was wrong with Seven, she had seen the crew whispering together for the past few days, shooting Seven concerned glances.
Something was WRONG.
Naomi decided to investigate. Perhaps if she asked Seven, the ex-Borg might tell her. Usually, the woman was composed and secretive, yet Naomi had glimpsed a side of Seven when she had been taken over by her 'personalities' that Naomi could understand. Neelix had also explained about Seven's past. Naomi pitied her. No childhood! No parents! How awful!
Rounding the corner, she reached her destination swiftly. The door slid open at her approach and the dim lights caused her to pause. After her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she carefully began to walk toward the alcoves that were positioned against the wall, expecting Seven to be standing there in her version of sleep.
Instead, Naomi was shocked to find no trace of Seven.
"Seven?" The little girl asked.
No response came—which was very un-Seven-like.
"Computer, locate Seven of Nine," Naomi demanded, feeling panicked.
"Seven of Nine is in Cargo Bay Five," the cool voice answered.
Naomi almost stomped her foot in frustration. Feeding speed to her small feet, Naomi began running around, looking everywhere she could think of. Finally, Naomi sank to the step of Seven's platform for her alcoves. Where could she be?
She let her gaze roam the shadowed room. It seemed cavernous and empty without Seven or someone else there. Her eyes followed the alcoves, then to the semi-circled console that was a combination of a miniature astromatrics lab and main console for the maintenance of the alcoves. Loose blonde hair peeked out from one of the rounded places of the broken circle.
"Seven!" She squeaked, surprised.
In a flash, she was kneeling beside the unmoving woman. The blue of Seven's one piece uniform was speckled with blood from a deep gash on her forehead. From Naomi's point of view, it seemed that Seven had fallen and hit her head while working on something. Naomi needed to get medical help, fast. She headed for the door as fast as her short legs would allow, almost rushing headlong into Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres.
Her mind worked furiously. Didn't Tom have medical training? She remembered him listening attentively to the Doctor whenever someone was brought into sickbay.
"Mr. Paris! I need your help!" Naomi begged. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his left hand and pulled him into the cargo bay, Torres following. She led him to where Seven was sprawled, her hair askew, the blood puddle growing in size.
Tom's haze of pain went to the back of his mind as he quickly assessed the situation. He forced his right hand to maneuver as he checked Seven's pulse.
Naomi gasped as Tom's mangled right hand came into her view. She hadn't noticed it before in her haste to gather help for her friend. Tom shot her an amused look tinged with pain as he ripped the sleeve of his jacket above his injured hand off. Pressing it to Seven's head, he tried to ease Naomi's fear for him by joking.
"Hey, it's not as bad as it looks. It doesn't even hurt," he lied. Even as he said it, he knew Naomi didn't believe him. He then tried to keep the girl busy. "Why don't you keep this pressed on Seven's head after I pick her up? We'll take her to sickbay."
Naomi nodded, her eyes wide.
Torres, however, was having none of it.
"I'll carry Seven to sickbay," B'Elanna argued. "You can't hold your arm up, not to mention carry someone as heavy as you. I'll carry her."
Naomi glanced up at the glaring adults and tentively offered a suggestion. "Why don't we just teleport Seven to sickbay? That way no one has to carry her just in case her neck is hurt."
Tom smiled. "Excellent idea, Naomi." He tapped his commbadge. "Paris to sickbay."
"Yes, Mr. Paris?" Came the Doctor's reply.
Tom bent over Seven again and removed the makeshift bandage to check on the bleeding. "Seven's been injured and we dare not move her. Prepare for emergency beaming."
Torres cut in, "And make it two. Tom is injured as well."
Naomi giggled at the murderous glare Tom shot his girlfriend. Grownups could be so cranky sometimes.
"Whenever you are ready, Mr. Paris."
Tom sighed and took Naomi's place beside Seven. His arms and hands were covered with his and Seven's blood. He must look a fright.
"Energize," he sighed.
When the forms of Paris and Seven materialized, the Doctor didn't know which one looked worse. He paused, split, trying to decide who needed the more immediate medical attention. Fortunately, Paris, on the second biobed, solved his dilemma for him.
"See to Seven first, Doc. I can wait."
The Doctor hurried to the unconscious woman. He scanned the head injury, then the rest of her body form head to toe. His holographic fingers flew over numerous consoles as he investigated the seriousness and cause of the injury. Once satisfied that the wound could be mended, the Doctor ran his sealer over her skin to block the flow of blood. When he finished, he gathered a wet cloth and cleaned up Seven's face, smoothing her long hair to cascade around her shoulders.
A grunt from his other patient spurred him into faster action. Satisfied that Seven was stable and clean, the Doc turned his undivided attention to Tom Paris. As he began to clean up the burned pusses of skin, he attempted to cheer the young man up.
"What were you doing, experimenting with the panels in your quarters again?" Doc asked, a light tone to his voice.
Tom grunted. "No, trying to play real-life Captain Proton."
The Doctor risked a quick glance at Paris but saw he was uncharacteristically serious. "Did you succeed?"
"We're not space dust so I guess so," was the reply, thick with pain.
The Doctor came to an immediate decision. "I think it will be better for you and me if I gave you something to block the pain." He braced himself for an argument but, to his utter amazement none came.
"As long as I can be fit for duty in three hours," Tom warned, slinging his feet onto the biobed to get comfortable. "I don't trust anyone else to pilot the Flyer, save the captain herself and even then the trust is strained."
The Doctor frowned. "I won't make any promises, Mr. Paris, but I will discuss it with the captain."
Tom nodded, wincing.
The Doc gathered the appropriate hypospray and touched it to Paris' neck. A slight decompression of air could be heard and Paris almost immediately relaxed on the biobed.
A feeling of helplessness washed over him and the Doc frowned slightly. "Sleep well, Mr. Paris." Gathering other supplies on a cart near him, the Doctor set to work on Paris' hand.
Chakotay couldn't sleep. The news about Seven of Nine was still too disturbing for him to settle peaceably in his mind. He needed to talk to someone. His thoughts swung to his spirit guide.
Pressing the metal of the stimulator of the Akoona to his forehead, he easily entered the land of his spirit guide.
She was waiting for him on the green hill, her tail twitching in agitation.
Chakotay frowned. Something was wrong.
Run with me, his spirit guide demanded.
Shrugging, Chakotay obliged her and they ran over the green, lush plains swiftly. The blue sky darkened gradually and dark clouds threatened. Chakotay stopped, panting.
What's going on? He wondered.
His spirit guide raced back to him.
There is danger on Voyager, Chakotay, she informed him. She shook her fur. It will spread and kill quickly. Return to where it began to stop it. You will have no choice.
But why? What is it? Chakotay yelled through the sound of the rising storm in his mind.
His spirit guide trained yellow-gold eyes on him and no amplification was needed to hear her words.
Something which you have no defense against. A type of plague that has no regard for species or gender. Something that even the Borg left alone. It will consume you. And the crew.