notes: So it's been like what...three months since I updated? I'm so, so sorry. I'm also sorry it's so short, and definitely not my best writing. Hopefully it won't be nearly as long until my next update, and I think the next one will be longer too... I will admit though, encouragement and people holding me accountable will definitely help me keep writing, and you can do that by reviewing... Just a thought ;)

Thank you for reading though, and I hope you enjoy!

Part XX: Effugium

"What did they want?"

Tom settled down beside Chakotay, back against the wall, legs outstretched. He had given Chakotay space right after he had returned, a hand signal and a few quiet words keeping the rest of the crew in the cell away from him. He had seen the black look on Chakotay's face, and known it for what it was—a warning.

It had been almost an hour since Chakotay's return, however. And Tom was tired of waiting.

Chakotay's hands, resting in his lap, tightened into fists. "Bastards," Chakotay muttered darkly. His voice carried a rich, deep anger that burned red and dangerous and full of a hate that Tom hadn't known Chakotay was capable of.

"Commander?"

Chakotay flattened his hands against his thighs. "It was them. It was them all along. And we were all just rats in their twisted little experiment."

"Commander?" Tom said again, carefully. He had never seen Chakotay like this before, and it scared him.

Chakotay sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, the anger that so frightened Tom bleeding out of him in long, slow, painful waves. "You might want to settle in," Chakotay said at last, once his breathing had evened out from ragged bursts into a deep, rhythmic cadence. "This is probably going to take a while."

~oOo~

Harry Kim was restless.

Hours earlier, he and nineteen of his fellow crewmates had been shepherded past cells already filled with Starfleeters and into a cell of their own. The forcefield had gone up, and then they had been left alone but for the two guards that periodically appeared outside of their cell, armed with guns and glares.

"What do you think they want?" Lyndsay Ballard asked. She was sitting next to Harry, legs stretched out in front of her, feet nearly touching Amanda Smith's across the way.

Harry shook his head. "I don't know," he said grimly. "But they clearly were really serious about getting us." You don't throw dozens of ships at someone unless you really want them, Harry added silently.

Lyndsay sighed and let her head fall back against the wall behind them with a soft thunk. "I hate this waiting," she said. "It's killer on the nerves."

Harry made an indistinct noise of agreement. Across the way, he saw Amanda nod her head.

"If only someone would come in," Harry said. "We could jump them. Or at least try to get some answers."

More sounds of agreement, and a rippling wave of nods. Everyone, it seemed, was as restless as Harry.

Time passed slowly, stretching on and on with the all the density of eternity. Harry stood and paced up and down the cell, stepping over feet and legs. He was joined by Lyndsay once, and once by Amanda, and a dozen times with other members of the crew. Each time one joined him, they spoke quietly, with hushed words and of hushed plans.

Harry had just sat down after yet another lap around the cell when the sound of footsteps came down the hall. Then a harsh, angular voice ordered everyone in the cell to move against the back wall.

Harry leapt to his feet and motioned for his crewmates to back against the wall. They obeyed, but Harry could see the tension and anticipation in each of the faces he glanced at. This was what they had been waiting for.

He gave a slight nod—and received a handful of nods in return. They would follow his lead, and would follow the plan, rudimentary and desperate though it was, that they had all discussed with him.

The forcefield fell. The two guards stood in the opening, guns settled in the crooks of their arms. The second guard was also carrying a pot that smelled faintly like beef stew.

"Stay back," the first guard warned, and then the second stepped into the cell.

Harry lunged. He tackled the second guard, knocking him to the ground with a clatter and a splash of gravy over floor and walls. The Kaminoan yelled, high and chittering, and broke Harry's fall with his body. Then hands, grasping at Harry's hair and face, shirt, arm. He rolled off of the Kaminoan beneath him, hitting the ground with a thud. He crambled upright.

The Kaminoan rose as quickly and squared off across from Harry, knees bent, four arms spread wide and ready for his next attack. Its gun lay out of reach against the far wall. They circled each other. Every second Harry half expected to feel the sting and bite of the other Kaminoan's gun—he even heard the spit-crack of a gun discharging—but it didn't come. All that came was the sound of his breath in his ears, and the shudder of his feet against the grated floor.

A yell, and then the Kaminoan charged. Harry braced himself, readying himself to leap aside—but the hit never came. There was the sharp crack of something hard hitting bone, and the Kaminoan slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Lyndsay appeared above the downed Kaminoan, the now empty and slightly disformed stew pot in her hands.

"Thanks," Harry said.

"No problem," Lyndsay replied, dropping the pot beside the unconscious Kaminoan.

Harry looked around him. The others were already hurrying to the other cells in the brig, keying down the forcefields holding their companions. In seconds, the hall was filled with the black, blue, red, and yellow of Starfleet uniforms.

Together, Harry and Lyndsay dragged the two unconscious Kaminoan guards into their now-empty cell. Then Harry triggered the forcefield and stepped away, satisfied.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Harry turned, surprised at the tone of voice—harsh and upset, and if Harry didn't know better, scared—to see Chakotay pushing his way through the crowd of Starfleeters, Tom at his shoulder. Harry stepped forward and stiffened to a salute.

"We managed to get the best of the two guards," he said, and then stepped aside and motioned so that Chakotay could see the two unconscious Kaminoans in the cell behind him. "Is that a problem?" he asked, a frown beginning to steal away the thrill of triumph he had felt at the Kaminoans' demise.

"Spirits," Chakotay hissed. He did not look pleased, Harry thought.

"Should we not have done that?" Harry asked, prodding. He looked at Tom—Tom, who seemed to share their commander's upset. His face was drawn and ashen, and his mouth was a thin, hard line. "Tom?" Harry asked, taking a step forward, toward his friend. "What did we do wrong?"

"The Kaminoans are, believe it or not, trying to help," Tom said. "Or at least that's their story."

"Help us?" Harry asked, doubtfully. "The captured our ship and put us in cells. How is that helping?"

"It's the Captain," Chakotay said bluntly.

Harry, still confused, looked to Tom for a translation.

"Her sickness," Tom said, meeting Harry's eyes over Chakotay's shoulder. "It was caused by the Kaminoans. They say they're trying to save her."

"And you believe them?" Harry asked, voice shrilling with disbelief.

Chakotay shook his head, but said softly, "Yes." He looked troubled, however—troubled and uncertain, two things Chakotay rarely was. To see him thus now was deeply unsettling to Harry.

"What do we do?" Harry asked, looking at Tom, then back at Chakotay.

Chakotay was silent for a long moment, eyes roving over the Starfleeters milling about the hall. He glanced once over his shoulder, toward Voyager and escape. At last he looked back at Harry and Lyndsay standing behind him. "Now," Chakotay said, just as softly as before. "Now reclaim Voyager. And we go look for answers—real answers."

end notes: Remember, reviews are like liquid gold - and it pays just like gold too, because it helps me to write more fast