chapter thirty six: unstable fixed points

The Delta Flyer was swooping through the air like an avenging angel. Seated at the helm, Paris focused his mind on the controls like Torres had taught him to; he was enveloped in the Delta Flyer, it seemed. It was an almost euphoric feeling, being one with the machine, as if he understood it completely. And he did. He could see the layout of the world below him with such absolute clarity, it was startling, He fired the phasers, and Torres fired the torpedoes and kept an eye on sensors and Voyager's status. And he flew. Oh, how he flew.

The fighters were gone now, blown to shards by the Flyer's powerful Fire-enhanced weapons. It had been a tough battle, but the enemy fighters had been poorly coordinated and their shielding had crucial flaws. Still, the Delta Flyer had taken a beating, and her shield strength had dropped alarmingly to fifty percent. Paris was determined to keep it at that level and no lower. He would be better prepared the next time.

"There's a moving armament on the city wall that you missed," said Torres, fingers flying over the controls. "You should take it out."

Paris glanced at the tactical screen she'd mounted beside the seemingly-archaic controls on the Delta Flyer. She was right; the monstrous construct was crawling on the edge of the city wall and taking potshots at the Warriors battling below. A dark scorch clawed its way across the aggregation; he guessed that he'd hit the targeting mechanisms, but had left the weaponry unscathed. That would explain the wild shooting; he watched as the armament lobbed a poorly-aimed blast into a phalanx of Maldorian Warriors. "I don't know, B'Elanna," he said with a chuckle, "they're probably doing more damage than we are."

Torres scanned the area. "You're right. With targeters out they'll be not much of a threat. We have other things to worry about."

Paris closed his eyes and refocused his efforts on the battle. With Torres' guiding hand in his mind, he visualized the battleground before him, visualized the controls of the Delta Flyer, visualized the targeting scanners of the Flyer. Maldorians—where was the highest concentration? Target. Aim. Fire. No time to think. Only the ship, and the battle, and the firing, the firing, the constant firing.

Target. Aim. Fire. He blasted a group of five into oblivion with a single shot of his phasers. Fires burning bloodred; Torres' silent cry of triumph within him.

Target. Aim. Fire. Another group, converging on an isolated pocket of Ashkari fighters. They were flying close to the ground, close enough that the fire burning on the ground were fanned by the wake of their passage.

Target. Aim. Fire. A third group, this time distressingly close to the captain. He felt her stumble as the blast shook the ground. He felt the deaths but chose to ignore them.

Then a sudden jolt threw him out of the chair; with a sickening lurch he felt his fingers slide off the controls before he hit the ground with a huge crunching thud. Stunned, he scrambled to his feet. His head was pounding, his feet somehow wobbly. Thick smoke in the air, klaxons blaring; he could barely see the controls. "What happened?" he demanded of Torres.

"We took a hit to the port nacelle—it was that armament we spared—we're venting plasma!" She sounded angry, strong.

"Can we fix the damage?" he asked. He tried to reconnect with the Flyer; he got nothing. The ship was badly damaged; he could be as well. His ears were ringing. He looked at the altitude control and it didn't look good. "We could divert the plasma from the injured nacelle--"

"No time!" She exclaimed, and she was right. The Flyer was plunging towards the ground in flames; they would impact in less than thirty seconds.

Torres hauled herself across the crazily-tilting floor. "What are you doing?" he asked her.

She lunged for the transporter controls. "Getting you the hell out!" And before he could protest the Flyer faded away in a series of blue sparkles.

Space has never been a friendly place for humans, and it was even less so when filled with enemy who were trying their level best to blast you into oblivion—and suceeding. Yet in the command chair, with the beautifully ethereal Dione beside him, Chakotay had no time to ruminate on such thoughts. Everything was focused on the battle.  gazed at the scene unfolding before him. The Panizhe fleet, a motley complement of slightly more than a hundred ships, faced ten or so behemoths of the Eminent fleet. The nearest Eminent ships were ten hours away; the battle would have been decided, one way or another, by then. The Panizhe fleet, of course, had no reinforcements. Everything that they had was there.

Shots blazed across the viewscreen; some flared as they hit their targets. On the darkened bridge Chakotay watched grimly as another one of their smaller vessels was decimated by a volley of bolts from one of the Eminent destroyers, first glowing from the inside, then expanding into a fireball of superheated vapors and shards of metal fragment. He only prayed that the crew had made it out alive.

Before him, Kes winced as one of their ships spiraled out of control and smashed into the side of the Eminent destroyers, erupting in flame. The destroyer shuddered under the impact and began to lurch slowly; Chakotay could see it was already beginning to disintegrate.  One down, too many others to go, he thought grimly.

Kes calmed herself down and continued steering Voyager as the battle continued. Chakotay and Dione continued to give orders. Kim and Tuvok continued to work in tandem. Between them the newly-installed tactical projector glowed green; the holographic projection of the ships swirled in the air like wraiths.

A combined attack from Voyager and two other Panizhe ships blew another one of the giant Eminent ships to pieces; the expanding pressure wave swept across Voyager and the ship shook violently as it was pitched backwards, like a child's toy in the water, set adrift. On the bridge, Chakotay gripped the armrests of his seat—Janeway's seat—as the bridge tilted at an awkward angle.

Just as things were slowly returning to normal on the bridge, they were jolted violently—from what? Chakotay was nearly thrown out of his chair; klaxons blared from somewhere. The bridge was beginning to fill with thick white smoke; it stung his eyes. "What was that?" he demanded.

"Some kind of tricobalt-equivalent device!" Kim grimly reported from the conn.

"Shields down to sixty percent," Tuvok added.

"I can hold it together," said Dione in her musical voice, shutting her eyes in concentration. "The Maldorians have changed tactics-- they know that the Panizhe will fail without our direction."

"Then transfer our authority to another one the ships then— " Chakotay began, but he was cut off by Tuvok.

"Our shields are being regenerated," the Vulcan said with an enviable lack of emotion. "I would suggest we alter our tactics to include protecting Voyager as well."

"No," said Chakotay staunchly. "I don't want to waste precious resources. Arrange for authority to be transferred down the command chain in the event that Voyager is destroyed."

Tuvok acquiesced with a slight tilt of his head. "Done."

"Good." Chakotay rose from his chair. "Gather the ships in sector forty-two alpha and perform an alpha pattern attack on that ship over there-" he turned quickly to look at the projector, "-in sector fifty-one delta."

The Panizhe ships regrouped as the commands were issued, surrounding the giant ship in question.

"On my mark," said Chakotay.

Behind them, another behemoth changed course to protect its fellow destroyer.

"Now!"

The ships opened fire at their specified target squares; the coruscating red energy blazed forth at the Maldorian ship. Rocked by multiple explosions, the ship began listing to a side.

"Break formation! Kahtari, to the flank! About turn, and fire at the one behind us!"

"They're charging weapons-"

"Evasive maneuvers—Elysia and Merentia, fire forward arrays—now get us out of here!"

Voyager soared upwards as the behemoth shot forward on a collision course with the dying destroyer. Behind Voyager, the three Panizhe ships attacked as Chakotay instructed. Their crews joined by an intangible network of psychic connections, the Panizhe ships worked in perfect harmony.

The tide was turning. Or at least, he hoped it was turning.

Then before him Kes gasped. "They're in trouble on the surface."

Janae slammed hard into Janeway, knocking her to the ground. Janeway watched, stunned, as the flaming Delta Flyer thundered above their heads. She could feel the heat from the burning plasma; the sound was deafening. The ground shook. The Warriors scattered before the ship as she came hurtling down. With a terrible sound, the vessel struck the ground and skidded several hundred meters, gouging a huge trench in the earth. Pushing Janae aside, Janeway struggled to her feet and ran for the wreckage. Tom! B'Elanna!

There was no reply; Janeway feared the worst. Then weakly, Torres' voice: I'm fine.

Janae caught up with her. "We must lead the troops into the city, now!" she insisted.

Janeway thought of Myriam's voice in her head. But no, she had to help Paris and Torres. "Lead them! I will follow!" she instructed Janae. Then she ran forward.

The Delta Flyer had finally stopped moving. In the darkened, smoky interior, Torres climbed to her feet. She was aching everywhere, but she shut the sensations out, ignored them, walling them off into a part of her that didn't exist. She was alright. Tom was alright. The Flyer had flown her last, but they could always build another. Everything would turn out fine.

In her mind Janeway called out for her. I'm fine, she insisted staunchly, but somehow the words didn't come out as strongly as she hoped. She took a deep breath, marshaling her reserves of strength as Nydea has taught her.

The viewing portals had been badly damaged and were heavily splattered with the dirt thrown up by the ground; the light they let into the interior of the wreck was minimal. Relying on her memory of the ship's interior, Torres fought her way to the door. They were jammed, but she forced them open. Her pike was strapped to her utility belt; she extended it and jumped out into the open, ready for battle.

It was a hellacious mess. From above, the battle scene had looked distant and isolated, but here, up close and personal, she could feel its frenzy. And the frenzy was drawing her towards it—she felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, a readiness to do battle. Pain and exhaustion fell from her, forgotten in the heat of the battle.

Janeway was running towards her; there was an immediate relief in her face as she saw Torres emerge from the wreck of the Delta Flyer.

It was then that Torres saw the figure running behind Janeway, a serrated metal force pike in hand.

Time seemed to slow. In horror, she watched as the pike left the assailant's hand and sailed towards Janeway. She opened her mouth to scream a warning, but still the pike sailed in an inexorable arc, hurtling towards its target—

Janeway was thrown forward by the impact of the pike; her eyes widened in surprise as she crumpled to the ground, the front of the pike protruding through her chestplate—

"NO!" shrieked Torres. "Captain!" She rushed forward to Janeway's side, a sudden pounding in her head. This can't be happening—it's only a dream—no! It's not real!

Someone seized her wrist, breaking her stride, It was Janae, her eyes somehow frantic and bloodshot. "No time for that! The city! "

Torres flung her aside with a crazed scream and rushed towards Janeway. She had somehow pulled the pike out of her and was now lying crumpled on the ground in a spreading pool of blood, the pike lying beside her in her bloodied hand.

This time Janae leapt in front of her and seized both her wrists. "It's too late!" she shouted in Torres face, and Torres could see that there were angry tears in her eyes. "If you want to make her death count, continue fighting! Kill the bastards!"

The stunned grief within Torres wouldn't let her fight. She wanted to curl up and cry, or wither away so she wouldn't feel the pain. But there was something else, someone else in her head, screaming instructions, and working her up into a frenzy. And then she felt angry. Gods, she felt so angry—

A half-deranged scream ripped from her lungs, and she seized her pike with a firm grip. "KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!" And then she lunged forward and ran for the city, cutting down everything unfortunate enough to stand in her way.