Survivors - Past and Present
by
Nicol Leoraine
and Anon
aka VirtualQueens
Chapter 5
Somewhere in the distance someone was coughing. Paris knew it couldn't be him, because he wasn't breathing. Funny how that thought slid smoothly across his mind without creating any sort of alarm or fear. He wondered if he was dead. It would explain the not breathing part, but not the pain that he felt as awareness slowly returned. It started in his head, a slow steady throbbing. It really wasn't that distracting and Tom ignored it, watching fluffy white clouds float slowly by. But the gentle throbbing quickly took on a life of its own and grew into an unbearable pounding, as if a warp core meltdown was occurring inside of his head.
He groaned, drawing in a deep breath of air as he did so. The breath turned into a coughing fit though and the clouds melted into a field of dancing gold stars. He felt dust covering his face, and dirt (or was it blood?) caking his eyes shut but in comparison to the lightning from his chest and thunder from his head, the dirt was nothing. He gasped for air between hacking coughs, and in one such moment as he drew in a breath of cool air he was hit with the realization that the coughing was about to turn into something more. From somewhere amid the swirling stars a pair of strong hands turned him on his side, and just in time. He didn't know how long he lay on the ground, alternately retching and coughing, and he had no recollection of how he came to be lying on something semi-soft, feeling water wash over his face.
"Easy Paris, just take little breaths. Come on, open your eyes." A strained pause and then "Tom, now would be a great time to wake up." Another pause, during which Paris groaned and then "Don't make me order you Paris. Wake up."
There was something funny in the commander's voice, something that Tom couldn't quite identify. He didn't think it was concern over his condition. Hell, Tom didn't think anyone on Voyager really cared what happened to him.
But they weren't on Voyager were they? Slowly, like a worn vid tape, missing its soundtrack in some places, whole images disappearing in others, the events of the last few hours came back to him.
"Chakotay?" He muttered, turning his head to one side and letting out a small sigh.
He felt the air around him shift and then a hand was on his chest, keeping him from moving further.
"Can you open your eyes?" Checotay asked, wiping the pilot's face with the damp corner of his uniform.
Tom's head dipped slightly in a nod and a brief moment later his blue grey eyes opened partway. The stormy orbs seemed to search for a moment before finding Chakotay´s eyes.
"We have company." Chakotay muttered, pulling Paris' head and shoulders onto his lap, a position that made breathing infinitely easier for Tom. Looking up into the commander´s face Tom suddenly placed the emotion he'd heard in the commanders voice. It was fear.
"Company?" Tom hissed, wondering when breathing had become so painful.
Chakotay jerked his chin up and Tom followed the motion, quickly finding the source of Chakotay's fear.
They were surrounded by a group of bedraggled men. Bedraggled, armed men. Each was holding a loaded crossbow and several held sturdy spears. They didn't exactly look angry or hostile, more curious than anything, but none the less their weapons were pointed at the Starfleet officer's chests.
"They took our supplies and the phasers, though they still aren't working." Chakotay said, looking around at their silent audience.
"Who are they?
"I don't know. They took the translator, not that it's working anyways. They pulled us into the caves though. When I came to, our things were gone and they were standing there, watching us."
Tom, whose eyes had been slowly drifting shut again, looked up in surprise as two of the men started to talk. Their speech sounded faintly familiar, as if he'd heard it before, but Tom couldn't place it, and if Chakotay's tense body was any indication, he couldn't either.
The men sounded impatient, edgy. One was pointing alternately between the small cave entrance and his crossbow and spoke in a rapid fire manner, as if trying to make a point. The second was gesturing at a curved archway that Chakotay presumed to lead further into the cave system. He didn't seem as upset, and his fervent glances at the pair of men on the cave floor seemed more worried than hostile.
"I think I'm rooting for the guy on the left." Tom muttered, watching the exchange.
"I agree. He looks less..."
"Intent on throwing us back outside or shooting us?" Tom said, coughing slightly at the end of his sentence.
"Precisely." Chakotay replied, gently pulling Tom a little more upright. The pilot´s face was an unhealthy shade of white and Chakotay could feel the effort it took him to draw each shallow breath.
"How're you doing?" The commander asked quietly, watching as Tom leaned his head back, resting it against Chakotay´s chest. Something told him that had he not been wounded and tired Tom would have never allowed someone so physically close to him. Chakotay had noticed it during Tom's brief time in the Maquise and it had become more pronounced since he'd arrived on Voyager.
"Tired." Tom muttered, letting out as much of a sigh as his lungs and ribs would permit.
Seeing his eyes drift shut Chakotay lifted one arm to shake him awake but lowered it when he saw the pilot´s eyes open of their own accord.
"I'll be fine," he wheezed.
Chakotay had never heard a more blatant lie.
While the two Starfleet officers talked another man had arrived in the cave. He was older than the others, and his dark hair was laced with grey.
Chakotay had never been good at guessing ages but this man looked to be in his early to mid fifties. Older than the rest, but not exactly ancient.
He watched them with faded blue eyes for several moments, then gestured imperiously at his companions, and said a few quiet words to them, obviously orders of some sort. Two men-the two who'd been arguing earlier-turned and looked at their captives. They glanced at Paris, who was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, and motioned a third man forward. The trio approached Tom and Chakotay slowly, as if trying to snare a wild animal. Considering Tom's dead weight and the crossbows still aimed at his head, Chakotay made no move to escape. Two of the men lifted Paris to his feet, slinging his limp arms over their shoulders, while the other one pulled Chakotay up and pointed at the passageway Tom was being led, or rather carried down.
"Go."
Chakotay was startled to hear the heavily accented word, but after a brief moment of hesitation he took off after Paris.
They were brought through a twisting mass of caves, lit by lanterns and flaming torches. The caves might have been natural at one time, but someone, or something, had smoothed the walls and carved elegant doorways. The rooms ranged from a tiny space that seemed to hold dried plants, to a huge hall, complete with a vaulted ceiling, that could easily accommodate three hundred people. Their journey ended in a medium sized cavern, warmed by a fire that was built in fireplace that had been carved from the very stone of the caves. A waterfall fell down one wall and into a series of stone cups, and then a small pond, again carved out of the natural stone.
Chakotay had no idea how a seemingly primitive people had managed to do such things, but he put that question away for another time. Tom, who had slipped into complete unconsciousness, was laid upon thick pile of brown and white furs.
Chakotay sat down next to him, taking in the uneven rise and fall of his chest. The men who'd brought them to the cavern didn't leave, but they did move up against the opposite wall. A moment later the graying man entered, and walked slowly over to Tom and Chakotay.
"You...are...human?" The man asked slowly, kneeling a few feet away from Chakotay.
"Yes."
"We-" the man made a vague gesture that encompassed those in the room as well as the passage way leading to the rest of the caves "-are also human."
He paused, as if he'd just revealed some great piece of information, and then said: "You are not from the other side of the hills."
"Uh...no." Chakotay replied, frowning slightly.
"Of course you aren't. You do not dress like them and you do not talk like them. Where are you from?"
"Far away." Chakotay answered diplomatically.
"Very far I suppose." The man´s English was accented but the more he spoke the more confident he seemed to become. "You did not seem to know the danger of the storms."
"We were caught by surprise."
"As were we." The man said gravely. "It is not the storm season. We were lucky none of our people were out when it started."
The man paused again and then said suddenly "I'm being rude of course. I am known as Conan."
Chakotay nodded his head, then motioned to the still unconscious Tom. "Tom Paris. I'm Chakotay."
"Tom...Paris is not well."
"He's hurt."
The man nodded and moved forward slightly, watching Chakotay for signs of consent. The commander nodded slightly and Conan shuffled over to Tom's side. He gently listened to the man´s chest, tapping here and there, and then looked up with a grave expression on his face.
"His chest, it has fallen."
"What?"
"His chest, how he draws air in, one side has collapsed."
Chakotay suppressed the urge to groan. He'd suspected that this might be the case, but had hoped that he was wrong.
"I can help him." Conan said bluntly "If you will trust me."
Chakotay glanced at the men on the other side of the room, but their weapons were no where in sight.
Conan followed his gaze. "You are not prisoners here. We offer you food and shelter from the storms, and when they are over you will be free to go. But your friend is hurt. He will not survive long without help."
"And you can help him?"
Conan nodded. "It is not an easy injury to treat." He warned "Air inside his chest is crushing his-" Conan seemed to be searching for a world.
"Lung?"
"Yes. The air has escaped his lung and now it is crushing it."
Conan paused for a moment then turned to the others and spoke in a rapid fire manner. The men left quickly and Conan struggled to his feet, scuffling over to the fountains. He lifted a crudely made silver cup and filled it with water, then carried it and a few cloths back to Tom's still form.
From somewhere in the folds of his blue cloak the man withdrew a small container. He opened the lid, sniffing the contents slightly, and then set it on the ground.
"Help me open his shirt." The man said, pulling at Tom's uniform. Chakotay, more familiar with the Starfleet clothing, easily removed the pilot´s shirt, exposing his chest.
He recoiled slightly at the sight of the scars that covered Tom's chest and abdomen, but Conan, who was accepting a stone box from one of the men, didn't seem to notice. He set the small chest on the ground and flipped an unseen latch, opening it with a slight grating sound. He withdrew a long, thin, silver needle, glancing at Chakotay as he did so.
"You will have to hold him still."
Chakotay swallowed hard, hoping this wasn't a very large mistake, and did as the man said.
Conan had set the needle down and was smearing a tangy scented gel over one side of Tom's chest.
"This will help with the pain of the needle but it will do nothing for the deeper pain. If he awakens we can give him tea for that." The man said, lifting the needle off the ground.
Glancing at Chakotay, then back down at his patient, Conan inserted the needle in one swift, smooth motion.
A/N-Nicol: Okay kids, sorry for the delay, it was all my fault. I was without connection and Anon won´t put up anything without me reading it first-) Anyway, all credits for this chapter goes to Anon.