Chapter 5
B'Elanna was mildly impressed with how well she had undertaken the role of Klingon administrator. All that time spent listening to her mother prattle on about the way of the warrior and her two years at the Klingon monastery after her father left must have paid off. Either that, or she was a much better actress than she'd ever thought. Maybe the next time the Doctor directs one of Harry's plays I'll volunteer to be in it, she thought, and then she quickly changed her mind. Who am I kidding? No way.
Gowron and Damar had taken her to a new ship, one that she was to use as her personal property while she reclaimed power in the sector from the renegade Martok. The only problem was that the ship was populated with a lot more Cardassians and Klingons – some of whom weren't involved in the Obsidian Order, Damar warned. Some of the crew were rumored to be spies for Martok, some were involved with aiding the Terran Rebellion, and some just wanted to kill the mongrel sub-regent who tainted the purity of the Klingon bloodline. Trying to sort out who was a friend and who was a foe was difficult, and she wasn't entirely certain she could trust her so-called friends anyway. Still, if she went along with the plan, she'd have a much better chance of finding Harry and trying to get home.
At the sound of the door chime, she gruffly bid entrance to two Klingons, a Cardassian, and an Andorian. The Andorian was a definite change of pace from the smattering of species she'd seen so far in this universe.
"What do you want?" she demanded in her best authoritative Klingon voice.
"Sub-regent, we need additional fighters if we are going to take on Martok," the Andorian said, bowing his head slightly. His antennae wiggled at her, entirely too close to her nose for her comfort. B'Elanna resisted the urge to take a few steps backward, though – if she was right about the role she was supposed to be playing, it was more likely she'd knock him over, rather than moving herself.
"Are you telling me you're too incompetent to do the job yourselves?" she barked, but inside she knew they had just given her the opening Gowron and Damar had told her to look for.
"No, Sub-regent," one of the Klingons assured her. He came forward and dropped to one knee, his fist clenched over his chest. "Daughter of Miral, please understand, we only want to make the battle go smoothly for you, so that you can be assured of a long and peaceful reign."
She nearly snorted aloud at that but managed to control herself. "I see," she said evenly. "Set a course for the nearest work camp. We'll buy some dispensable Terrans to help you."
"Terrans?" the other Klingon spat. "We need warriors!"
"Don't be a fool," the Cardassian said. "The sub-regent knows Klingon life must be preserved. If we suffer casualties in battle with Martok, let us be populated with Terrans."
"And Vulcans," the Andorian added. "I never liked them."
"Fine," B'Elanna intervened. "Set a course, and I'll pick out some strong Terrans for you myself." She gave a wry grin. "After all, I think I know a thing or two about them."
"With all due respect," the Andorian said, bowing once again, and this time his left antennae nearly tickled her face, "you should not subject yourself to their presence. My job is to do that kind of work for you."
Oh, please forgive me, she thought with an inward groan, but I've always heard that these grow back. She swiftly pulled the d'k tagh knife from her belt and sliced off the offending antenna. The Andorian lifted his head, then reeled at the sudden disruption in his equilibrium, and stumbled backward into the arms of one of the Klingons.
"You speak when spoken to!" B'Elanna shouted, shaking the knife at them all. "I told you I would pick out the Terrans, and I will! Now get out!"
Thankfully, the three left her chambers without further protest. After the door slid closed behind them, B'Elanna sank into her chair – her throne – and bit her lip.
It was breakfast time at the work camp on Aldebaran, and the prisoners had taken their seats around several long tables mercifully located under a group of trees. By 0900 the camp was steamy; by lunchtime the heat in the rock quarries, with no shade or breezes, would be nearly unbearable. For the time being, the prisoners took advantage of this momentary respite from their work and the sun.
Harry was slightly alarmed at how well he'd adapted to life in the camp in only a few days. The injuries the Cardassians had inflicted were healing, thanks to some special attention by Harry One and Annika, and he found the work of searching for valuable minerals among the rocks a mindless distraction. He was even getting to know some of the prisoners, talking to them, hearing their stories. That was the alarming part: he knew he couldn't stay forever – he had to get back to his world – and he could sense that he was becoming emotionally attached.
I can't get complacent about being here, he reminded himself over a spoonful of fish soup. I'm not one of them. I have to figure out a way to escape.
There were still two plans for escape going around the camp. The first was Chakotay's and promised a siege that would liberate them but meant they would have to wait a few more days. The second was Harry One's and offered the unlikely scenario of surviving a battle with the armed guards but promised they'd go down in a blaze of glory.
The Cardassians seemed to pay no heed to either plan, and in spite of the deadly consequences for being unable to work, they didn't punish anyone for talk of liberation. Harry had to wonder if it was because they guessed no escape attempt would be successful. For all he knew, the Cardassians had ships in orbit. Or maybe they just assumed that the Terrans were incapable of rising up after too many generations of being oppressed.
He was developing a new appreciation for his Bajoran and Maquis friends on Voyager.
Chakotay took a seat opposite him, eyeing him carefully. "Can we talk like civilized people?"
"What?" Harry looked up from his soup. "Oh, I'm not him. I'm just his lookalike."
"I know who you are," Chakotay said clearly. "He always has that dumb smirk on his face and that blonde on his arm. There's something different about you. It's in the eyes."
Harry forced another spoonful of the awful soup down his throat. It tasted like rotten lettuce and had the consistency of a thick puree, but he knew that missing a meal would make him weaker and susceptible to further injury. "When you talk about what humans are capable of, I guess it just reminds me of where I come from."
"So you understand," Chakotay said, ladling his own soup, "that we could be everything the Cardassians and Klingons are. We don't have to be the bottom-feeders anymore. We could be the elite."
"That's not what I meant," Harry corrected. "In my universe we're not interested in vying for power – not like that. We seek peace with other species. We want to learn about each other."
Chakotay choked, his hand flying to his mouth to prevent him from spitting the soup out. Then he started laughing openly at Harry. "Let me tell you one thing, kid. If the Terrans ever succeed in their rebellion, we're not going to be arranging any kind of peace treaty with the Cardassians and the Klingons. The first thing we're going to do is start executing them one by one for treating us like this."
An identical copy of Tom Paris dropped into the empty seat beside Harry without a word. He avoided making eye contact with either man and concentrated on his soup.
Chakotay looked up from his meal, and Harry could see all his powers of persuasion rising to the surface as he began to speak. "You're the one who voiced your concern at the meeting, aren't you?" Tom didn't acknowledge him. "What's your name?"
Tom looked at Chakotay with slight terror in his eyes. "Why?"
"Relax, I just wanted to know what to call you."
He shook his head furiously.
"All right, then I'll just call you Nick, okay? You look like a Nick."
Harry watched Tom – Nick – eating, and he realized that what he had mistaken for sarcasm at the meeting had actually been total fear. The Tom Paris he knew might have stood up to Chakotay, but this Tom Paris – this Nick – was convinced there was no way they were ever going to get out. It didn't even occur to him to be angry about their situation; he thought they deserved it.
What's a guy like that doing here?
"Do you mind if I ask how you got here?" Harry asked them.
They looked at him suspiciously, but then Chakotay gave a curt nod. "I came of my own will." He waited a moment for Nick and Harry to express their surprise. "That's right. My cell and I arranged for me to be captured so I could get the camp ready for the attack. But your friend –" He was speaking now about Harry One – "has everyone convinced that there's not going to be one. Do you see now why I need him to back down?"
"You intentionally got arrested?" Harry repeated.
"It's a lot easier than trying to make it out there on your own," Nick agreed.
Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Had the man no gumption? "What about you, Nick? If you believe Terrans are destined to be slaves, why were you in the Rebellion?"
"I wasn't," Nick corrected. "My sisters and I were living on Gamma Ceti, and the Klingons attacked. One of my sisters was taken to be a consort to the Regent, and I was brought here. I don't know what happened to Kathleen."
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly.
"Doesn't that make you angry?" Chakotay prodded. "Doesn't that make you want to fight back? To crush their ugly foreheads to pieces?"
"You shouldn't talk so openly about such things."
Harry looked over at the next table to see who had spoken. It was Vorik. How many people in this camp do I know?
"What's your name, son?" Chakotay asked him.
He looked around the table, a question in his eyes. "He asks everybody that," Nick said with clear annoyance.
"Vorik," the Vulcan answered, albeit reluctantly.
"Vorik," Chakotay said calmly, "we can't be afraid of the consequences. If we don't talk openly about how we're being mistreated, then we're never going to be able to change things."
"We can't change things," Nick protested with a shake of his head.
"Attempting to do so would be illogical," Vorik added.
"Listen to me, both of you," Chakotay said, "my father told me stories when I was growing up about great struggles for freedom our people fought centuries ago. And even more recently, only about two hundred years ago, humans had a powerful interstellar empire."
"No way," Nick said. "That's just a legend."
"Empress Sato? Emperor McNally? They weren't just legends." Chakotay forced himself to swallow another bite of the fetid soup. "Anyway, it's still something we can inspire to."
"An empire in which Terrans dominate Vulcans, Bajorans, Cardassians, and Klingons?" Vorik challenged.
"No," Harry interrupted. "What about all of those species living together? Sharing technology and resources, instead of fighting each other?"
"What a dream," Chakotay said scornfully, rising with his bowl of soup. "Call me when you build your…federation of species. I'll join up."