notes: sorry for the late update. Many thanks to Helen and absynthe for the beautiful beta job. The next chapter is written and done, and will probably be posted on Wednesday or Thursday - though I could maybe be convinced to update it earlier. My hope is to have this finished written by the end of August...but we'll see.
Part XV: Invadere
The Kaminoans came in squads of ten. Their shuttles punched through Voyager's hull, opened like poisoned flowers, and vomited warriors dressed in chitin armor, bearing swords on their hips and what looked like compression rifles in their four arms. They shot rapid, angled beams of light that smoked when they hit the walls and floor and burned when they struck flesh.
Chakotay crouched beside Mike Ayala and Corani Afrah, rifle of his own couched in the crook of his arm. Around the corner came the sounds of a Kaminoan squad, voices high and whistling as they spoke in their own tongue, with words and code that the Universal Translator could not decipher.
Ayala tapped Chakotay on the shoulder and made a swift, cutting motion with his hand, three fingers extended. Chakotay nodded, and held up his own hand, curled into a fist. He pumped it once, twice, three times—and with a burst of power Ayala somersaulted around the corner, landing on his shoulder and coming up in a crouch, firing even as he moved.
Chakotay and Afrah followed, coming out behind Ayala's covering fire, Chakotay in the lead. He fired off a short burst over Mike's head, and heard the satisfying thunk-crack of energy discharging against flesh. One of the Kaminoans howled—and then a second scream joined the first as one of Mike's shots hit home.
Recovered from their surprise, the Kaminoans opened fire. Pale light flashed overhead, to hit the walls and ceiling above and behind with sizzling force. Heat glanced across Chakotay's cheek, leaving a stinging burn. Too close, he thought, ducking a second too late.
"Fall back," he called, reaching out to touch Mike on the shoulder. Even with their two companions on the ground, the Kaminoans still outnumbered Chakotay, Mike, and Corani almost three to one. "Regroup at Junction C-6."
Ayala nodded, and from the corner of his eye Chakotay saw Afrah already begin to retreat. He followed her lead, placing one foot behind the other and continuing to fire, aiming at the line of encroaching Kaminoans. They hissed, their spines rattling when the yellow-orange fists of light hit too close—but still they pressed forward, two of their hands reaching for the twin blades strapped to their sides.
Uh-oh, Chakotay thought—but as before, he was a second too late.
The first Kaminoan leapt forward with a shrieking cry, bringing its swords down in a swooping cut. Ayala lunged backwards, tripped on his heels, and fell with a cry. He landed awkwardly on one shoulder and rolled, barely missing the blades as they arced down toward his back.
Chakotay darted forward and grabbed the back of Mike's uniform jacket. He hauled him to his feet, then pushed him forward and down under the Kaminoan's upraised arms. "Go!" he shouted—and Mike sprang forward, seeing the same opening Chakotay had.
They ran half-doubled, dodging Kaminoan arms and legs, barely believing their luck. The world was a tangle of limbs, of guns, of blades glinting in the flashing strobe of the now-silent red alert. And then, as sudden as a slap, they were free and clear.
Shots fired, and missed, to either side of them as they sprinted for the corridor junction ahead. Red and pale green light mixed and bled together, lighting the hall before them and throwing racing shadows against the walls.
Ayala, ahead of Chakotay by a step, hit the bulkhead shoulder-first. He spun, using the momentum to turn him in the direction he wanted to go, and took off again. Chakotay bent at the waist and, using a trick he had learned while running from his sister, let his feet slide out from under him. Shifting his rifle into his left hand at the last second, he let his palm slap the ground and slide him to a halt. The skin burned, and Chakotay knew it would hurt every time he tried to close his fingers—but as he dug his toes into the ground and launched himself forward, disappearing around the corner just as a fresh volley of pale light smeared the floor where he had been a second before, he figured the sacrifice was worth it.
"What about Afrah?" Mike asked through heavy breathing, turning as Chakotay caught up to him halfway down the next hall.
"She's on her own," Chakotay said.
Mike nodded. "And what are we going to do?"
They spun around another corner and came to a panting halt. They turned and listened, rifles at the ready. When they heard no movement from either side, they settled down against the wall in a crouch.
"What we have been doing," Chakotay said, at last answering Mike's question. "We take out as many of these insects as we can, and hope or pray that it's enough."
Mike looked long and hard at Chakotay. His pale face shone in the scarlet light, giving him the appearance of wearing a mask of blood, and his eyes were gaunt pits of shadow. "We have no hope of winning this," he said, voice low but curiously calm. "You know that, right?"
Chakotay looked at his old friend, and saw in his face the very same despair that yawned between his ribs. "I do know," Chakotay said. "But we can do our best. We owe her nothing less."
"Her?" Mike asked. He paused, and when Chakotay did not speak, said, "Do you mean Voyager? Or do you mean her captain?"
Chakotay did not speak. He checked the charge on his rifle, and then stood up with a decisive click as he shot the battery home. "Let's go," he said.
They encountered another patrol two corridors down. They downed three Kaminoans, and then beat a hasty retreat back the way they had come.
"We're going to run into the other patrol," Mike pointed out.
"Then I think it's time to get off this deck," Chakotay said.
They crawled into the nearest Jeffries tube, locking the hatch behind them. Then, on hands and knees, with rifles banging the backs of their legs, they crawled halfway across the deck, then took a ladder down two stories. When they at last emerged on Deck 8, it was to a silent and empty corridor.
"How many do you think are left?" Mike asked as they shut the hatch behind them.
"I don't know," Chakotay replied. It wasn't something he wanted to ponder.
They were almost to the next hall junction when Chakotay's combadge chirped.
"The Doctor to Commander Chakotay."
Chakotay and Mike stopped and looked at each other. With trepidation, Chakotay reached up and tapped his 'badge. "Chakotay here," he said. "What is it, Doctor?"
"We need your help," came The Doctor's hushed voice. "Kes and I are trapped in a supply closet on Deck Four. The captain is with us and needs medical attention. There are Kaminoans in the hall outside, and I fear it's only a matter of time before they find us."
Chakotay watched Mike's expression harden, a mirror to his own. "Understood," he said. "We're on our way."
The fifteen minutes it took for them to reach Deck Four were agony. Images of the Kaminoans finding Kathryn and the others kept playing and replaying in Chakotay's head; he saw again and again her slumping boneless to the deck of her ship, a hole blasted through her chest. And, selfishly, he kept thinking that their last conversation—real, proper conversation, when both of them were conscious—was that afternoon in her ready room when they had fought.
He didn't want that to be the way it ended.
"How are we going to do this?" Mike asked, when at last they were crouched together beside the hatch leading out onto Deck Four.
"We try to take them by surprise," Chakotay said. "So far we've mostly been fighting defense. They won't be expecting an attack."
Mike nodded. "Okay," he said. "Then let's do it quiet."
Chakotay nodded. The ghost of a grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and he said softly as Mike reached for the latch, "Just like that one time on Bowark Nine. Remember?"
Mike shook his head. "How could I forget?" he asked. "We were supposed to be doing a stealth mission, and you screwed us over the first five minutes on the ground. And here we all thought that Natives were supposed to be one with the forest."
"Shut up," Chakotay hissed, though there was no venom to the words. "Or this time you'll be the one to blow our cover."
They eased the hatch open, then crawled out. The corridor was empty in both directions, and they shared a long look steeped in many years of camaraderie and friendship. Then Chakotay nodded, and Ayala nodded in return, and they parted ways, Chakotay to the right, Ayala to the left.
It was quiet—eerily so. Even in the wee hours of ship's night, the hum of the engines was ever-present, the whine of the lights just barely beyond conscious hearing. Now, though, there was nothing—only the flash of crimson red alert lights, and the soft tread of Chakotay's boots on the thin carpet.
Then, voices. Chakotay slowed, straining his ears to hear them better. They were high and nasal, foreign words on foreign tongues, a garble of translated and untranslatable that made listening to them a labyrinth of language. It made Chakotay's head hurt.
He crept forward on silent feet, gripping his rifle in sweat-slick palms. He would draw them out, then away from the supply closet that was down the hall. He had no way of knowing if it was the one that The Doctor had called him from—but regardless, if he could induce the Kaminoans to chase him, that would mean that many less on the search for Kathryn and the rest.
Chakotay rounded the corner—and froze.
The supply closet door was already open. Kes and The Doctor knelt with their faces to the right-hand wall, hands folded atop their heads. Four Kaminoans stood over them, rifles trained on their backs in silent, deadly warning.
Kathryn lay on her back in the middle of the hall, head lolling and arms limp at her sides. She was unconscious, though whether from the fever or because of some other injury dealt to her, Chakotay could not be certain. She was pale, and as still as death beneath the bloody light.
Chakotay raised his rifle and fired.
It was over almost before it began. The Kaminoans closed around Kathryn, blocking her from Chakotay's sight, and raised their weapons to their shoulders. One blast took Chakotay in the shoulder, and another snapped the rifle from his hands. He fell to his knees, dizzy and disoriented and trying to remember how to breathe, and when he managed to lift his head again to look for Kathryn, or The Doctor or Kes, it was only to see a long-limbed Kaminoan approaching, tall and looming in the dim light.
"What do you want with her?" Chakotay gasped out, with tongue numb and voice thick. "Why do you want her?"
"She was the Chosen," the Kaminoan said, words stiff and stilted, as if it were speaking carefully to a very young child. It halted in front of Chakotay and looked down, down, down at him. "She was meant to stand the trials."
"What does that mean?" Chakotay asked. "What—"
"There is no time," the Kaminoan said, cutting Chakotay off. It lifted its rifle, pointed it at Chakotay's chest, and fired.
Chakotay fell to the ground unconscious, the faint singe marks on his uniform smoking slightly. His last sight was of two Kaminoans lifting Kathryn into their long, spindly arms. And then—nothing.