The Lost Voyages
The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been
by Soledad
CARETAKERAlternate pilot episode
Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.
Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.
CHAPTER EIGHT: DAMAGE CONTROLThe other side of the galaxy! The same sentence that sent the rest of the surviving bridge crew into deep shock, caused almost ridiculous relief in Tom. He knew he was being selfish and not yet fully aware of the bigger picture, but the only thing he was able to think at the moment was the fact that he hadn't delivered Greg and the others into the hands of their jailers after all.
He might have gotten them killed, of course, extending his bad karma all over them due to the mere fact that he had been with them for a while. But every Maquis would prefer death to prison, and he knew that. Not out of some weird sense of honour (save perhaps the few Klingons among them); it was simply better for morale to have martyrs than to know that one's friends or family were rotting in prison. It was that simple.
Janeway, overcoming her first shock, whirled around to face her operations officer. "What about the Maquis ship?" she asked.
Kim rubbed his bleary eyes, concentrating on his readouts once more. "I'm not reading any life signs on the Maquis ship."
Gee, because if you did, they wouldn't be here anymore, Paris thought sarcastically. They were got lost days ago and could have been here the whole time!
Still, the fact that the Crazy Horse was abandoned, didn't necessarily mean that her crew was dead. The Maquis were resourceful. And Chakotay hadn't led the Advanced Tactical Training courses at Starfleet Academy for nothing.
Apparently, Janeway had come to the same conclusions, because she jerked her chin towards the spidery structure that dominated their main screen, asking, "What about that... that array?"
Harry shrugged apologetically. "Our sensors can't penetrate it."
Yep, definitely a bigger predator, Tom nodded to himself. This time Starfleet won't be able to shake its superior technology threateningly, just to get its wish. The bigger shark might have swallowed their prey, and there was a distinct possibility that they would become the next course.
Janeway remained silent for a while, studying the rhythmic flashes of radiant energy throbbing out from the center of the structure, watching them sparkle off into the distance and vanish. "Any idea what those pulses are that are coming from it, Mr. Kim?"
"Massive bursts of radiant energy," Harry stated the obvious while calling up more readings. "They seem to be directed toward a nearby G-type star system."
"Try hailing the Array," Janeway ordered in what Starfleet cadets used to call 'the best Captain Kirk-manner'. It usually meant the tendency amongst Starfleet captains to try bullying aliens a lot more powerful than themselves and wind their crew out of harm's way with a good bluff. Admiral Owen Paris was considered to have it perfected to an art form, and apparently it was one of the many things he'd taught his protégée back on the good old Al-Batani.
Kim acknowledged the order with a hurried nod and tried his best to obey. Paris waited for further orders (beyond having stopped the ship that is), in face of a dire need for helping hands. But nothing came.
Of course, he thought with bitter amusement, she would rather allow someone to die from the lack of help than give me even the smallest responsibility if she can avoid it, no matter under what consequences. I'm not an officer here, after all.
Janeway's comm badge chirped before he could confront her about her misplaced priorities, and she tapped the badge to activate it.
"Engineering to Bridge," the comm channel crackled with static so madly that the male voice calling them was barely recognizable. Nevertheless, Tom was quite sure that it couldn't be the Benzite – the sound of it was different.
"Bridge here," Janeway replied, obviously recognizing the caller. "Is that you, Mr. Carey?"
"Aye, Captain, "the engineer named Carey replied. "We have some severe damage here… The chief's dead. Possibility of a warp core breach…"
Oh no, Tom clenched his teeth in helpless fury, not him, please! Could the little ones still be saved? He felt he had to do something. He couldn't simply let the unborn babies die in their father's body. If he only could get there somehow…
"Secure all engineering systems," Janeway ordered the slightly panicked junior engineer. "I'm on my way."
"As she hurried toward the turbolift, Kim looked up from his panel. "No response from the Array," he reported glumly. Gee, what a surprise…
Janeway stopped dead in her tracks, frowning. "Ensign," she waved him away from his station, "get down to Sickbay. See what's going on. Mr. Rollins, the bridge is yours."
With that, she marched into the turbolift, without as much as a glance back. Rollins stepped down to the command chair, answering the already closed turbolift door dutifully, "Aye, Captain."
Kim was about to leave the bridge as well when Tom hurried up to him and grabbed his arm. 'Harry, wait for me!" Then, turning slightly to Rollins who, after all, was in charge of the bridge at the moment, "Lieutenant, may we try to get a lock on the chief and beam him directly to sickbay?"
"What for?" Rollins asked, a little harshly from sheer frustration. "He's dead. You heard Carey."
"I did, but the babies may still be alive," Tom replied, wishing desperately that the big man would understood him quickly, instead of wasting valuable time. "Chief Mendon was a Benzite, Lieutenant, and he was pregnant – just a few weeks before giving birth."
Harry stared at him in utter shock, but Rollins simply nodded his understanding. He was no expect in exobiology but had been long enough in Starfleet to accept the biological peculiarities of other races.
"How do you know about it?" was all he asked. Tom shrugged, his eyes saddening.
"He made a joke at lunch about having to eat for five now. I asked why and he told me."
"I see," Rollins looked at Harry. "Ensign, beam the chief to sickbay before you get down there. Maybe something still could be done for the babies. Mr. Paris, do you have any experience with providing first aid?"
"I have been fully trained as a field medic," Tom answered thankful for the first time that the Admiral had forced him to take that particular course, "but that was years ago."
"Better than nothing," Rollins shrugged. "Accompany ensign Kim in sickbay then, your training may prove useful."
"Understood," Tom nodded crisply and followed Harry to the turbolift. It felt so good to be useful for a change even though he knew that his limited knowledge wouldn't make much difference. He made a mental note to thank Rollins later.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Voyager was first hit by the unknown force, head nurse T'Prena was helping Dr. Fitzgerald to run calibrating samples through the cellular diagnostic sequencer. With no patients currently in sickbay – and with their preparation time having been cut short before leaving DS9 – bringing the medical equipment up to date was the most logical thing for them to do. They had to finish their incomplete preparations before things became dangerous. They were in the Badlands, after all – not the safest place in the Alpha Quadrant.
So they were working like the well-oiled team they had been for years. The doctor was running the samples, while T'Prena checked the operation of the sequencer with the help of one of the diagnostic computers, standing about a meter away.
This simple fact saved her life. When the ship lurched violently, throwing her backwards to the floor and the sequencer exploded directly into Dr. Fitzgerald's face, only the edge of the escaping fire licked over her helpless body. Even so, the pain was excruciating, and she recognized with cold detachment the rupture of her eardrums. But at least her Vulcan discipline spared her the panic that would trigger a highly illogical reaction in a human crewmember.
She realized that she needed to hold her breath until the fire leapt over her body or else her lungs would be seared shut and she'd suffocate in approximately 6.72 seconds. She kept her eyes tightly shut, too – she didn't need to see her own body to diagnose the third-degree burns she must have suffered and the chilling numbness that could only be caused by severely damaged neurological systems and dangerously low blood pressure.
A human would have fallen into deep shock and been dead already. But she was Vulcan. It was within her abilities to survive even this extent of damage – if she followed medical protocol.
Of course, she would need some assistance with that. Risking one eye open, she saw that the fire had already passed her unfeeling body. Now it was safe to speak – as long as she avoided any sharp intakes of breath.
"Computer…," she heard some sluggish reaction from a console on the other side of the some-filled room. "Initiate emergency… medical… holo… holo…," she lost consciousness before she could finish the most important order of her life. So she didn't see the limp body of Lieutenant Stadi shimmering into existence on one of the biobeds.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Engineering looked like the glowing depths of hell.
Junior Engineer Joseph Carey was very near to complete, mindless panic. Three of his fellow engineers were dead already – one of them the friendly Benzite relief chief, whose balanced manner he'd come to value greatly, after having served under Voyager's actual chief engineer for five years. Not that Sarah MacDougal would be a bad person – and she was a pretty good engineer as well – but she never got over losing her position aboard the Enterprise-D. It had been due to the silly prank of an intoxicated, but unfortunately ingenious, young boy, which had very nearly caused the destruction of Starfleet's brand new flagship(1).
Carey never truly understood why Chief MacDougal had been blamed for the whole incident. Shouldn't it have been the duty of the kid's mother to keep him under better surveillance? And shouldn't security have kept all unauthorized persons out of engineering? Joe's own sons were too young to cause that sort of trouble; still, had his family been aboard like on the really big ships, he'd have seen that the kids never even got near such dangerous areas. Of course, his kids weren't spoiled brats. Moira took care of that. And living in a big family with grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins all on the same spot, taught them to adapt very quickly.
He shook his head, chasing away the pleasant but distracting memories of Josh and Clark, and tried to concentrate on the actual matters that needed to be handled quickly. He spotted Bill Chapman escorting those of the injured who still could walk out into the corridor, while Vorik, deadly pale under his Vulcan mask of serenity, was putting out fires with a hand-held extinguisher. Boylan – when did he find the time to put on an emergency suit? – was checking the Warp core for pressure, and Nicoletti, her short, dark curls singed by the fire, worked frantically to get the diagnostic systems back online.
Sight was limited by the smoke and escaping gas that was rapidly filling the whole room, and the precise, unaffected voice of the computer kept announcing:
"Warning. Warp core microfracture. Breach imminent… Warning. Warp core…"
Damn it! He was not trained to deal with a disaster of this magnitude alone. Sure, he had been in Starfleet for eleven years by now, and he had seen his share of close calls – especially on the Rutledge, under Captain Maxwell(2) – but there always had been an older, more experienced officer whom he could consult.
Don't lose it now, Joey, he warned himself. Remember, Miles is dealing with this sort of shit on a daily basis. And with unreliable Cardassian technology, at that!
But that was an entirely different situation, and he knew it. He was a good engineer, but he could never compare his solid knowledge with the intuitive talent of the one and only Miles Edward O'Brien. That's why O'Brien was the CPO of Deep Space Nine, while Joe was still serving as a junior engineer.
Someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. "What's the warp core pressure?" the captain asked.
"Twenty-one hundred kilopascals and falling," Sue Nicoletti answered in Carey's stead, who pulled a face. Damn, it didn't look good.
Janeway moved deeper into the engine room, her chin tucked forth with stubborn determination. It was a strangely reassuring sight – to know that one's captain wasn't ready to give up easily.
"Lock down the magnetic constrictors," she ordered, giving Carey the shock of his life.
"Captain…," he stared at her for a moment, too shocked for any immediate reaction. Sure, what she wanted could work – under ideal circumstances. Needless to say, circumstances were far from ideal right now.
"Captain," he began again, finally gathering his wits, "If we lock them down at these pressure levels, we might not be able to reinitialize the dilithium reaction.
"Warning. Warp core microfracture…"
"We don't have a choice," Janeway snapped impatiently. "We've got to get the reaction rate down before we try to seal it."
Which was true, of course. So Carey only sighed, waving silent commands to Chapman and Vorik to join them, and started working.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Paris and Kim raced down the dark, cluttered corridor that led from the turbolift to the sickbay doors – which refused to open for them automatically. Harry frowned, grabbing for his tricorder.
"I'm reading fires inside," he said, a little startled. Even in the 24th century, fire in space was a horrible thing to face. "We'll have to be careful when we open the doors."
"Assuming we can get them open at all," Tom replied dryly, kicking the panel that hid the fire extinguisher open. He pulled the hand-held tool loose from its mount and gave it to Harry, taking the ensign's tricorder in exchange. "Let me go first. I'm a medic, after all – and, unlike you, I'm not crucial for maintaining the ship. Nobody's gonna miss me."
"I would!" Harry said vehemently, holding the extinguisher as if it were some sort of weapon. Tom snorted, not making any comment, while he worked to force the manual controls to cooperate. Finally, the double doors slid aside with a protesting groan, and the terrible stench of burnt flesh struck them in the face, together with the acid smoke of electronic fire.
Harry ducked under Tom's arm and darted to the far wall where the fire had almost reached the store of chemicals. Tom coughed into his arm, searching for lifesigns in the near-darkness – and practically stumbled over the sprawled bodies at the base of an exploded console.
He knew Fitzgerald was dead, even before the tricorder confirmed his fear. The nurse, however… He squatted down next to her limp body, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, too blinded with smoke to see much. Her uniform was blasted open, stiff along the edges where the fabric had melted and burned, but, surprisingly, her injuries didn't seem lethal. Fitzgerald's body must have screened her from the worst of the explosions, Tom thought, lifting one clammy wrist and looking for her pulse. It was weak and erratic beneath his touch, like the heartbeat of a wounded bird, but at least it was there.
"They must have been right next to the console when it exploded," Tom closed the tricorder. "Harry, can you switch the systems to emergency power? I need to find a first aid kit; and do something about the air, we're gonna suffocate here."
"I can try," came the uncertain answer, but in less than a minute, the ventilation system roared back to life and started pumping out the bitter smoke from the room, replacing it with recycled air. At the same time, emergency lights blinked on, first dimly, then brightening to almost normal levels, and slowly, one by one, the still working consoles awoke.
Tom pulled the sheet from one of the biobeds and draped it over the doctor's broken body. The wounded would start arriving soon, and their dead CMO wouldn't be a comforting first sight. Then he scooped up the unconscious nurse and laid her on the biobed next to Stadi's. He couldn't do anything for Stadi, her condition was too severe for his limited knowledge, but if he could wake the nurse to assist him…
He found the first aid kit and quickly prepared a hypospray with Tri-Ox and an analgesic that matched the Vulcan metabolism and injected the nurse with it. After that, he grabbed a dermal regenerator and began to treat her wounds, hoping that the famous self-healing abilities of her race would do the rest.
Dragged back from the verge of her healing trance, T'Prena opened her eyes with considerable effort. She saw the Starfleet observer whom Dr. Fitzgerald seemed to have a deep-rooted dislike for, working on her injuries with a dermal regenerator – and with acceptable efficiency. What was he doing here? She raised a hand to stop him for a moment.
"The… doctor…?" she asked, coughing, and felt the coppery taste of blood in her mouth.
"Don't move," the human warned, "you might have internal bleeding. The doc is dead. And I'm just a field medic – I can't deal with this alone."
"Initiate… the EMH…" she whispered before sinking back to unconsciousness again.
Tom shot Harry a frustrated look. He'd been out of touch with new Fleet technology for years. "Harry! What's she speaking about?"
"Oh!" Harry's face lit up with recognition, and just as the first group of wounded – a burned, battered bunch in engineering gold – stumbled through the permanently open doors, he shouted: "Computer, initiate Emergency Medical Holographic Program."
Something akin to a transporter beam tingled near to an empty examining table, and a balding man in Starfleet blue – and with an almost manic look on his face – appeared at Harry's side, as he tried to lift an unconscious engineer onto the bed. Tom left the nurse for a moment, running over to help the ensign.
"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," the hologram said in a slightly impatient tone, looking at the growing flood of patients with a frown.
"Multiple percussive injuries," Harry told him curtly. As if this were some sort of a trigger, the hologram flashed into action with a speed that could make one dizzy. Bending over the ugly-looking leg wound of an engineer, the EMH threw another question at Harry over its shoulder.
"Status of your doctor?" In the same time it had already started treating the wound, quickly and efficiently. Tom and Harry looked at each other and shrugged. They couldn't really expect a hologram to come to the right conclusions on its own.
"He's dead," Harry finally answered. The answer didn't seem to phase the hologram a bit.
"Point four cc's of trianoline," it ordered promptly, and Harry shot a panicking look at Tom.
"Trianoline?" He had no idea what sort of drug that could be.
The doctor gave him a chilly look of disapproval, that made poor Harry cringe. Tom, used to the much more intimidating facial expressions of the Admiral, came to the rescue.
"We lost our nurse too," he explained. "At least temporarily."
The doctor blinked in a strange manner, then flashed to one of the scattered medical cabinets and selected a hypo, together with a canister of spray. "How soon are replacement medical personnel expected?"
"That could be a problem," Harry felt the beginning of dizziness as he tried to follow the inhumanly quick movements of the hologram. "We're pretty far away from replacements right now."
He was still speaking when the holodoctor had already finished cleaning and sealing the leg wound. Fortunately, the poor engineer remained unconscious during the whole procedure, which was fast and thorough – however, gentle treatment was not part of it.
The doctor was at another bed already and looked down at Stadi with interest. "Tricorder," he said, looking back, one hand thrust out expectantly. Harry grabbed his tricorder from Tom's hand and pressed it into the hologram's grasp – only to have it pushed back.
"Medical tricorder!" Tom could hardly believe it, but the hologram actually rolled its eyes.
Harry looked around in confusion, but Tom had already found the requested device. The hologram didn't bother to thank him, of course. "Clean him up," he ordered, meaning the former patient, and Harry hurried to obey.
"Severe head trauma," the holodoctor murmured, checking Stadi's condition. "The spinal column is torn in the waist area. The eyes… hmmm…" It activated the diagnostic arc over the biobed, adding nonchalantly, "A replacement must be requested as soon as possible. I am programmed only as a short-term emergency supplement to the medical team."
Tom felt that irrational fury rise in his gut once more. He knew it was pointless to be mad at the hologram for being totally insensitive. But Stadi was in critical condition, and Mendon was dead, and the babies might be dying in his pouch already… and he was just in no mood to fight with a computer subroutine.
"Well, we may be stuck with you for a while, Doc," he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. That earned him an irritated look from the hologram.
"There's no need for concern," it remarked. "I am capable of treating any injury or disease."
"Are you familiar with Benzite physiology, too?" Tom asked. The holodoctor rolled its eyes again.
"Of course I am! I'm not a mere human physician, you know. I've been designed with the information from 2,000 medical reference sources and the experience of 47 individual medical officers. I am the embodiment of modern medicine."
"In that case," Tom replied, equally irritated and totally fed up with its attitude, "you might want to take a look at Chief Mendon here. He's dead, but there are four babies in his pouch who might still be alive."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Carey selected Ensign Vorik to help him activate the core seal – as a Vulcan, the ensign had the strongest nerves and steadiest hand by default. The move caused a great crack of thunderous light, and the stench of ozone began to fill the engine room. Joe could see Bill Chapman's ghostly pale face less than a meter away; the young man was sweating profoundly.
"If the Warp core leaks now, we'll go off like a supernova," Chapman whispered.
"Tell me something I don't know," Joe replied through clenched teeth, not really trusting the whole idea himself. But the field's initial discharge settled into a deep, steady glow that looked like blue mist inside a crystal cylinder, and the engines began their usual slow, quiet thrumming again. Joe thought he'd never heard a tome more beautiful.
"Unlock the magnetic constrictors," the captain ordered, her relief as obvious as everyone else's. Joe nodded to Nicoletti, who punched in the command without losing a second.
"Constrictors on line," she reported, and power slowly returned to the ship's damaged systems.
"It's working," Joe murmured.
"Pressure?" Janeway asked, still not quite believing that they'd actually made it.
"2,500 kilopascals and holding," Sue Nicoletti looked up and gave them one of her brilliant smiles. "And holding."
There was a collective sigh of relief – except Vorik, of course – and they were about to go ahead with their work, when Janeway's comm badge beeped.
"Bridge to Janeway." Rollins' voice was composed as always, but Janeway had been his commanding officer long enough to notice the barely restrained panic in it. "We're being scanned by the array, Captain. It's penetrated our shields…"
Janeway whirled around. "What kind of scan?" There was no answer. Janeway glared into the blank air, waiting. "Bridge? Janeway to Bridge, respond."
Joe Carey was so focused on his captain that he didn't realize that something was wrong – until he felt the familiar tingle of a transporter beam catching him unawares. He realized half a second too late what was happening – before he could move away – the engine room around him became a blur of indefinable colours.
"Initiate emergency lock-off…," he heard the captain's voice, then everything faded and then was gone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
While Harry was busy cleaning up the engineer with the leg wound, the EMH sent Tom to handle a female crewmember with contusions, edema, and a local subdermal hematoma. The hologram then concentrated its efforts on the still living babies in the dead body of the Benzite male.
This was going to be a delicate process, especially with the Vulcan nurse still in a healing trance and thus unable to assist. The female Betazoid patient would require extensive operations, but for the moment her condition was stable The diagnostic subroutines clearly stated that the unborn babies had priority.
Fortunately, several incubator units had remained undamaged by whatever hit the ship recently. The EMH adjusted them to Benzite metabolism, then prepared the necessary tools for the task before it, a task that most doctors would have found grisly.
"No concussion. You'll be fine," the human who was said to be a field medic told the patient he was treating. Good. At least the easy cases were being handled smoothly.
The EMH cut the scorched uniform of the chief engineer open, revealing the characteristic pouch. It was swollen considerably, as it would be expected in someone only weeks away from giving birth, but the protective flap hadn't clapped up yet, clearly indicating that the babies weren't fully developed. It wasn't safe to deliver them, but there was no other choice. They couldn't survive in a dead body.
The holodoctor selected a laser scalpel and slowly, carefully cut through the still sealed flap. Then it used a clamp to widen the cut, so that the little ones could be pulled out; then gently, it reached into the pouch.
"You're not seriously hurt," Tom said to his female patient. "You can return to your station – just take it easy."
She nodded, thanked him and slid down from the biobed. Tom couldn't resist taking a look at the EMH – right in time to see it pulling the first baby free. The little fishhead looked remarkably like his (her?) father, but that was to be expected. Benzites of the same genome usually did. However, even a non-professional like Tom could see that the baby was not yet ready to be born. It still had a fish-like fluke attached to its small rear, and its arms and legs were still much too short and weak.
"Will it live, Doc?" he asked quietly. The hologram shot him another irritated look – that seemed to be an integral part of its programming.
"I'm a doctor, not a seer, crewman. Now if you'd watch the – patient, until I put the baby into the incubator…"
Without waiting for an answer, the EMH turned around to place the gaping little creature into its replacement womb where it had the right atmosphere to breathe. When the doctor returned to the patient, however, the human assistant was gone.
The EMH looked around, as confused as a hologram could be, and realized that most of the other high-level lifeforms were gone, too. Upon its query the computer confirmed that this wasn't a glitch in its visual subroutines, and that all patients had been beamed away from sickbay, with the exception of the Betazoid and the Vulcan female.
This was not acceptable – not to mention against regulations. So, asking the highest-ranking officer for further instructions was required. The subroutine responsible for such minor decisions opened the specific EMH-channel to the bridge and activated the vocalization subroutine.
"This is the Emergency Holographic Doctor speaking. I gave no permission for anyone to be transported out of Sickbay. By whose authority have my patients been removed?"
The EMH waited for four hundred thousand nanoseconds, but there was no answer from the bridge. So it tried again. "Hello? Sickbay to Bridge. Please respond."
Nothing.
The holodoctor waited for exactly the same length of time. Then the decision was made. Whatever happened to the rest of the crew, it still had three more Benzite babies to be delivered and put into the incubator, and two patients in serious though not life-threatening condition to treat. It was going to be complicated without help, but the EMH was programmed to handle emergency situations.
"Fortunately, they have forgotten to terminate my program," the doctor told the next little fishhead, pulling it free and giving the small, blue-grey back a careful slap to start the breathing, "otherwise I wouldn't be able to bring you little things into the world safely."
And the EMH kept talking to its unresponsive patients while it brought to the light of the world (well, at least to the artificial light of sickbay) the last two Benzite babies, sealed the wound of their dead father, checked on the condition of the Vulcan nurse, put the Betazoid patient into a stasis chamber until the necessary operations could be performed, and instructed the computer to transport all dead crewmembers to the morgue.
After that, it seated itself in the doctor's office, activated the desk terminal to study the crew manifest – and waited.
TBC
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End notes:
(1) Reference: 1st season TNG-episode "The Naked Now". The kid in question is, of course, Wesley Crusher. Chief MacDougal only appeared in that episode. A reason for her replacement with several different male engineers was never given.
(2) Reference: TNG-episode "The Wounded". I made Carey an old friend and colleague of Miles O'Brien. The names of his wife and kids are given by me, too.