Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I'm so sorry that it has taken me so long to update! I had most of this chapter written ages ago, but it has taken me a long time to get back into it and complete it. (You see, my muse and I were 'kidnapped' by an incredibly hot, eighteenth century pirate captain by the name of Jack Sparrow.) A thousand apologies!
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Part Four
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Stardate: 53945.6
With all, including the finer details, of a rescue and attack plan worked out, Voyager's senior staff and Tira left the briefing room they had relocated to.
Stepping back out onto the bridge, Tom reached up to remove the unneeded cortical monitor from the top of his neck behind his right ear. The movement painfully shifted the damaged skin on his shoulder causing him to wince. His fingers found the circular medical instrument and pulled it off easily. Looking ahead as he followed the others, he lowered his arm.
He gasped as a stinging pain blazed through his arm as the phaser burn was pulled open. His left hand instinctively grabbed the wound and tried to squeeze the pain away.
Tom felt a supporting hand take hold of his uninjured shoulder and guide him off the bridge.
"Sickbay," Janeway commanded, as Tira dashed in after them, and the turbolift began its decent. "We'll get that arm sorted out before we go any further."
Paris didn't protest.
In sickbay, The Doctor scowled alternatively at Tira, for stealing his mobile emitter, and the captain, for doing nothing about it. Guilty, the Narcian shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, while Janeway plain ignored him.
Tom perched on the edge of a bed and the EMH flicked on a dermal regenerator. A gentle, warm sensation replaced the discomfort in Tom's arm and the pain lines in his face lessened.
While The Doctor aimed a particularly long glare at Tira, Tom swiftly reached over to a trolley of vials and hyposprays. With practised ease, he drew up a dose of stimulant and had injected himself before The Doctor noticed. Alerted by the hiss of the emptying hypo', the EMH whirled around and gave Paris a heated glare full of anger that he saved especially for him. He snatched the instrument away, but it was too late for him to do anything about it.
"Stimulants are just a quick fix," The Doctor scolded. "You should be resting in bed."
"No time for that, Doc," Tom said, his expression a mixture of shame and a smirk.
"It'll catch up with you later," the medical hologram stated, crossly.
"Well, I'll just have to deal with it then," Tom replied, his tone gaining an irritated edge.
Janeway went to admonish her lieutenant for taking his medical care into his own hands. But then remembered behaving similarly herself the month before. Plus he was needed on the away team, she justified.
Watching Tom slide off the bed, Tira realised what poor shape he was in due to lack of sleep and mental draining. Damage that was her doing. Her face clouded with empathic pain.
"What have I done?" she wailed, softly.
Tom read her concerned expression and reached forward to take hold of her arms.
"Hey," he soothed, making her meet his eyes. "You're here to save us."
"I…" Tira protested, meekly.
"Pull yourself together," Tom said, his voice gentle but firm. "It's time to get this show on the road."
*
"Your personnel have not arrived at the designated point," Commander Hane told Tuvok, contempt and irritation slurring his voice.
"We are attempting to rectify the problem," the Vulcan replied, evenly looking up at the image of the Narcian that filled the bridge's main screen.
B'Elanna dashed about around him, going from control panel to control panel.
"The damn transporters are on the blink the again…" she crossly muttered, seemingly to herself, but loud enough for the inter-ship com to pick up and transmit to the Dominator.
"I will send my security team to find them," Hane barked, growing impatient.
"No!" B'Elanna cried, angrily, meeting the image of the Narcian's eyes.
Commander Hane quirked an eyebrow.
"I will fix it," she declared, venomously. "I will not be beaten."
A smirk pulled across the Narcian's face and he leant back in his command chair, his arms folded across his chest.
.
Tira led Captain Janeway, Tom, Chakotay and Harry through the lower levels of the Dominator.
Uneasily, Janeway noted that Tom knew the route as well as the Narcian. It bothered her that she didn't fully understand what had happened to him or how the holographic Tira was able to exist. However, what bothered her more at that moment was the condition of her surroundings.
A grey haze filled the air that seemed to strip a thin layer from her lungs with each breath she took. Masses of steaming pipes rose up the walls and bent over her head, with smeared glass faces of pressure gauges at seemingly irregular intervals. Coatings of rust and the dim lighting gave everything a shade of dirty orange. The corridor gradually widened into huge room filled with hissing pipes and humming machines. The machinery was a strange blend of metal cogs and pistons in a variety of sizes, crystals pulsating with yellow light and clear tubing filled with an iridescent red fluid.
Hundreds of workers shuffled about in the vast room, each of them hunched over with exhaustion, severely undernourished and clothed in rags. Narcians and a wide range of other unknown humanoid species made up the slave force. The guards spread amongst them were easily identified by their bulky straight-backed figures, neat black uniforms, the clubs they held ready to beat any slave that faltered and, most of all, their arrogant manner.
Quiet and unseen, the four Humans followed Tira into a smaller hatch to avoid the guards. They found themselves in the Dominator's much more unpleasant equivalent of a Jefferies tube. Quickly, they began to ascend the conduit. Sweat soon beaded on their foreheads and trickled down their backs. Each touch of the ladder's hot rungs resulted in painful pink skin that threatened to blister.
Eventually, they stepped off the ladder into a large vent. They crawled along inside the metal tunnel, the walls scorching their knees, hands and shoulders. The vent led to another ladder, which they descended until Tira opened a hatch.
They stepped out to find themselves on the other side of the vast room, hidden behind stacks of plastic crates.
Tira and Paris peered around the crates, their eyes searching the workers for a particular slave.
"There I am," Tira said, pointing towards her counterpart bent over a control panel to their left.
The two of them, followed by Janeway, Chakotay and Harry, edged around the side of the crates.
Tom checked that none of the slaves and particularly none of the guards were looking, then took a step into the open. "Tira," he called in a whisper.
The Narcian slave turned towards the sound of her name in surprise. Tom held a finger to his lips and she obediently closed her mouth before any sound could escape. He motioned with his hand for her to follow him behind the crates. She nodded, looked around her, then silently hurried after him.
Once safely behind the crates, the Narcian glared defensively at Paris. "Who are you? How do you know my-" Her second question died on her lips at the sight of the holographic version of herself. "Great Light…" she breathed, her gaunt face bleached by shock.
The holographic Tira stared back at the organic version of herself with fascination. Tom looked at the malnourished slave with a haunted expression, the memories that the time-travelling Tira had given him surfacing afresh.
With the former unofficial leaders of the expedition seeming to have lost the ability to speak, it was Captain Janeway that the Narcian girl sensed as the leader and looked to for an explanation.
As best she could, Janeway quickly explained what had happened and what they were trying to do. All eyes watched as the girl processed the information, wondering how they could convince her of the truth of the bizarre situation.
The Narcian frowned, thoughtful. "That's…that's…that's…possible."
Her unexpected reply took a while to sink in, then even the hologram was pleasantly surprised.
Wasting no time for further conversation, the holographic Tira opened a nearby hatch in desperate need of oil and they all stepped through into a dark corridor.
Brown paint peeled from the corridor's bulkheads, leaving bare patches of dull metal, and the still air tasted of damp decay and all but turned their exposed skin to ice. The dark metal of the deck was slick with frost, but grizzly moss offered enough grip for them to keep their footing. They could see Voyager through the narrow windows that were fitted along one wall.
Eventually, the long corridor ended with another hatch that led to a maze of cold metal conduits and vents. Captain Janeway could do nothing but follow the holographic Tira. It wasn't until they exited the narrow tunnels and were hurrying through the well-maintained corridors of the upper decks that Janeway was able to just about follow the simpler route from memorised schematics of the Dominator. The hologram led the way to the time-travel room to merge the two versions of herself together, but it would be Captain Janeway that took over and led them back out. The holographic version had warned that the Narcian would be unlikely to aid them until her memories had settled properly, which could take hours.
They managed to get to their destination without mishap, and the hologram typed in the code to open the doors. Once they were all inside and the doors were safely closed again, the holographic Tira headed for a control panel, while Janeway, Chakotay and Harry stared at the projection of colourful fluidic energy in the centre of the room with awe.
Having finished setting up the device, the holographic Tira approached her counterpart. Her fingers curled around the mobile emitter and pulled it from her sleeve. Instantly she disappeared, leaving the emitter to fall into the nervous girl's waiting hands.
Tira stared down at the small device lying on her palm, as bright light flared out into the room and she was coated in a rainbow of colours. An electric force struck her. The girl's green eyes widened and she gasped sharply.
The waterfall of colour receded, leaving the painfully thin girl trembling. Tom caught her as her knees gave way and carefully lowered her to the floor.
"Tira?" he questioned, stroking strands of dirty auburn hair from her sweat-soaked face.
Her eyelids fluttered crazily, her eyes moving rapidly beneath them.
Gradually they stilled, then opened and focused on Tom's anxious face. Her lips slid into a weak smile.
"It worked," she told him.
Tom helped Tira to her feet. She gripped his arm tightly, swaying for a few moments, gathering her balance. The others waited patiently until the Narcian was able to stand steadily alone, then Janeway motioned for them all to follow her out of the room.
The four Starfleet officers and Tira hurriedly made for the engineering office, intending to render the Dominator's shields and weapons offline. However, upon reaching a T-junction in the corridor, they were met by an armed group of ten guards who, it became quickly apparent, had been sent to apprehend them.
They hastily ducked back around the corner with fatal green energy beams narrowly missing them. Orange-red Starfleet phaser fire joined in to create a colourful and deadly display.
Paris shielded Tira with his body, as she cowered unarmed against the wall. He poked his head around the corner and shot a guard at close range.
"They're advancing, Captain!" Paris cried, as the Narcian guard fell down at his feet.
"Do their weapons have a wide-field function?" Janeway asked, shouting above the sound of streaking phasers.
"No, they only have one setting," Tom replied, while a terrified Tira struggled to find her voice.
Paris picked up the fallen guard's weapon and turned to press it into Tira's hand. Her eyes widened in alarm.
"I-I can't…"
"Yes, you can," Tom told her, staring deep into her eyes. "Remember what you did in the…future."
Memories filled her pretty face.
"I remember," she said, her voice gaining strength and she tightened her grip on the phaser. She smiled grimly. "I can do this."
When the captain gave the order, together the five of them surged around the corner meeting the guards head on with the Starfleet phasers firing on wide-beam.
All of the remaining nine guards fell down to join their comrade.
Suddenly a green beam seared through the air, scarcely missing Janeway's head, as she turned to see another team of guards approaching them from behind.
Instinctively she fired back, as she yelled for her crew to draw back towards the next bend in the corridor. Firing over their shoulders, they ran for the shelter of the turning.
However, the draining events of the last few days had taken their toll on Tom Paris's strength and reaction time. Despite the adrenaline surging through his blood, he didn't see the fallen guard reaching for his ankle and was unable to stop himself from falling down when his balance was tipped.
Tom fell hard, knocking the wind out of his chest. He didn't have enough breath to call for help, as he watched the others disappear around the corner without noticing that he wasn't with them.
Coughing, he slowly rose to his feet and aimed his phaser at the line of guards.
"It's on wide-field," he told them in a gasping shout. "I can take you all out in one shot."
The guards kept their weapons steadily pointed at him, but hesitated to take any action, not wanting to provoke him into firing.
Swiftly the group parted to let through another Narcian, who walked tall with an arrogant air of authority.
"Take him to Interrogation Room One," the Narcian instructed.
Paris shifted his phaser's aim onto this newcomer, presuming that he was the senior officer, and started to protest, "I don'–"
He wasn't aware of the guard creeping up behind him until pain seared through his body. He cried out in agony and the phaser tumbled from his hand to the floor.
As two pairs of strong hands gripped his arms, Tom kicked out viscously, but the cold mouth of a metal barrel against his neck forced him into reluctant submission.
*
Interrogation Room One was a windowless, square-shaped room. As well as there being an absence of windows, there were no vents either. Only a communication grill, a metal chair and suspicious dark stains broke the plain grey walls, ceiling and floor. The air was stale and had preserved the stench of a decade of bloody interrogations.
The younger guards were dismissed by the chief who Paris had heard referred to as Officer Yicks. After a black case was handed to the senior officer, the metal door clicked closed behind them leaving three officers in the room with Tom.
Yicks opened the case and withdrew a vial of blue liquid and a small instrument consisting of a clear bulb-shaped compartment and a long, thin needle. After filling the chamber with the fluid, Yicks motioned to the broad-shouldered Narcian pressing Tom against the wall. The guard let go of Tom with his thick hands and pushed his substantial weight through his shoulder against Tom's chest instead. He used his free hands to hold up the prisoner's left arm and pull back the sleeve to reveal the unprotected skin to his chief. As Tom choked beneath the crushing pressure of the guard, Yicks stabbed the needle into the exposed inner side of his forearm and the blue drug surged into his circulatory system.
Tom felt the drug take effect almost instantly. The chemical burned through his veins, tightened his chest and filled his brain with a numbing cold that shut out the majority of his senses.
Sensing the successful change in the prisoner, the heavy guard pushed himself off the weak Human who subsequently fell limply to the floor. With a grunt of disgust, the guard bent down and dragged Tom up into a slouch against the wall.
The large officer stepped back to stand beside the attentively watching Yicks, and was replaced by a wiry Narcian who gracefully folded down into crouch in front of Tom. He peered curiously at the prisoner, his manner peaceful but unnerving in a way Tom couldn't quite put his finger on. Unlike the others, when he spoke his tone was interested not demanding.
"These little round badges, do they reflect your position aboard your ship?" he asked, indicating the two pips pinned to Tom's collar.
The thickset guard growled in protest. "Dezrel, I don't see how this has any relevance to – "
The calm Narcian held up a silencing hand.
"What is your rank?" he asked the prisoner.
"Lieutenant," Tom replied, numbly.
"To what station are you assigned?"
"Helm."
"Are you a good pilot?"
"I…I guess…" Tom stuttered, his eyes rolling drunkenly back into his head and floating down again.
"Is the drug really necessary?" Dezrel snapped at his comrades.
"Yes. Dezrel, stand back," Officer Yicks ordered. He turned to the broad guard hovering above the prisoner like a vulture and gave a permitting gesture to go ahead, his mouth twisting with cruel pleasure. "Polaarus."
The muscular Narcian swept Tom up into a fireman's lift and dropped him onto the metal chair bolted to the floor. Then Yicks held him down with strong hands that pressed painfully into Tom's chest and shoulders, while Polaarus picked up thick pieces of rope fixed to the arms of the chair, threaded the cord into the loop and slipped one of Tom's limp wrists into it. He yanked and the material pulled tight, cutting into the flesh. Tom cried out and twisted in Yicks's hold, but there was no escape.
Three further restraints were fastened to Paris's other arm and his ankles, so that the chair held him in a firm and painful embrace.
Paris watched blearily as Polaarus took a step back and clicked his knuckles with a worrying manner of preparation.
Yicks stared menacingly into Tom's face.
"Why are you really here?" he demanded.
Tom was grabbed roughly by the hair and his head was jerked back.
"Have the Antranic Alliance sent you?" Polaarus snarled fiercely, his foul breath and spittle spraying Tom's pain-lined face.
When the prisoner didn't respond, Polaarus yanked at his head again pressing his neck against the back of the chair.
"Don't break his neck," Officer Yicks cautioned. "Not yet."
Polaarus spat in Paris's face and tossed his head forward, back above his shoulders.
"Are you from the Antran system?" Dezrel's calm, reasonable voice asked.
"No…no, I've never heard of it," Tom insisted.
Officer Yicks sighed with impatience and drew green fluid up into the injector. The needle pierced a second hole in Tom's arm and the new drug assaulted his insides.
Flashes of light began to sporadically blind him, an assortment of muscles irregularly cramped into iron twists of agony, blood rushed to his head and picked up a pounding beat. Meanwhile, the three Narcians started up a bombardment of questions.
"What was your plan?"
"Where are the others?"
"Are there more vessels coming?"
"What were you going to do?"
"Has the Antranic Alliance proclaimed war against the Narcian Empire Fleet?"
Tom repeatedly swore that he didn't know, but they continued to persist.
"What is your security code?"
"Who are your leaders?"
"What weapons does the Alliance have at its disposal?"
"What other planets are supporting the Antrans?"
"How many warships does the Antranic Alliance have?"
"I don't know anything about the Antranic Alliance!" Tom wailed one last time.
Officer Yicks thoughtfully pulled at a fox-like ear. Then he dropped his hand and sighed, wearily.
"Chuck him in a cell," he ordered.
The senior Narcian strode from the room as Polaarus brought a concrete fist down onto the back of Tom's head.
*
Not knowing what woke him, Tom Paris slowly opened his eyes. He saw rust-coated bars above him and the ground was cold and slimy under his back. Familiarity sent alarm bells ringing, but he didn't know where he was or how he'd got there.
Gradually recognition came and Tom realised with dread that he was in a Narcian cell. He groaned, dizzily wondering if all of Voyager's crew had been enslaved.
The sound of phaser fire screeched with uncomfortable loudness through Tom's head and he rolled over onto his side. He struggled to focus his eyes on his friends on the other side of the bars and pushed himself up onto his knees. He staggered to his feet and wavered at the door that swung open in front of him.
Chakotay was smiling at him and indicating towards the open doorway that led out into the corridor.
Tom didn't feel able to move. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell them about the overwhelming pressure in his head, the sickness that gripped his throat, the numbness in his limbs, the lights that danced maniacally in front of his eyes and the vice like grip inside his chest. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong with him.
Barely aware of his surroundings, Tom found himself silently walking on autopilot across the dimly lit room. That was what Chakotay wanted him to do. He forgot that they didn't know something was wrong and he hadn't told them.
As he reached the threshold, Tira stretched out a welcoming hand to take hold of his. She was smiling. Like Chakotay. Everyone was happy.
Sharply, lucidly shot back bringing the message that no one knew he was feeling so unwell.
Tira's smile slipped, concern filling her eyes. Tom saw her lips move in the shape of his name, but he heard nothing. She was falling away from him seemingly in slow motion, then to his surprise the floor jarred hard through his body causing his head to limply jerk to the side. He felt the icy moss on the floor brush his cheek, then his eyes wearily closed and he knew no more.
.
"What have they done? Oh, Great Light! What have they done?" Tira cried, distressed.
Frantically, she paced the short distance from one side of the corridor to the other, wringing her hands.
"Do something!" she yelled at Voyager's officers.
Kim roughly caught the girl's arm, halting her in mid-stride. Then Harry's eyes met Tira's and his grip softened. Tira staggered to regain her balance and then stilled. She stood trembling, fearfully watching Tom's friends trying to help him.
"Janeway to Voyager. Six to beam directly to sickbay." The captain's voice was tense, but controlled.
The horrors of the Narcian vessel turned into blue-silver light that became so bright that it crossed the upper limit and fell into total dark.
*
Listening to the biobed pick up Tom's erratic heartbeats and broadcast them into the room, Tira hugged herself tightly. Beside her Captain Janeway stood fretting to one side of sickbay's central computer access panel, giving The Doctor and Harry, who was assisting him, space to work.
A black arc rose from the sides of the bed and covered Tom's body. Harry loaded hyposprays and passed them to The Doctor. The EMH worked rapidly, his forehead creased in deep concentration, fighting to save Paris's life.
Eventually, Tom's pulse strengthened and steadied. The Doctor stepped back to review the data displayed on a nearby screen.
Floating in a choppy sea of consciousness, Tom drew in a shaky breath. Then slowly his eyes opened and stared ahead unseeingly. His lips parted, and frail but unmistakable words tumbled out.
"The…Antranic Alliance…"
.
To be continued…
