Chapter 12 - Tarantella

"I can't hold a stable warp field, Captain!"

The cabin of the Flyer rocked again, a series of sudden jerking, jarring bounces that for all in the world felt as if the small ship had hit something, or a few somethings. The impacts rattled the occupants' teeth and caused even the Doctor, who normally made a point of pretending to float above mere disturbances with holographic superiority, to succumb to the urge to hold onto something.

It was a testimony to the force of the gravimetric shears common inside the heart of the Narov cluster during the current alignment of its multiple suns, that they affected even the in-between of warped space. Of course, what was happening inside the Snowflakes was not limited to gravitational forces, but included a toxic cocktail of electro-magnetic emissions that bounced off and reinforced one another, solar flares, ion storms and related phenomena, all of which were much more fun to read about in astrophysics treatises than they were when encountered live.

"Let me give you a hand," Tom managed to get out to Coulthard, as he straightened out in the helm's auxiliary seat. Any additional minute they could eek out of the Flyer at warp speed would shorten their journey to Alnitak, not to mention lessen their exposure to the storms outside in real space where there ferocity was virtually unrestrained.

If there was one thing Tom hated down to his pilot soul, it was ion storms – he had escaped two with his life hanging by a thread. One had left him and B'Elanna floating in space, the second had seen him and the Flyer buried under 30 metres of benomite. In both instances, oxygen depletion had become a rather acute concern, and he wasn't keen to find out whether 'three' really was a charm.

"Here, watch this," he told Coulthard as he made his fingers dance across the board. "Deflectors at max, shields at 50% …"

"Why shields?"

"Solar flare radiation," Tom replied briskly. "Fifty percent is enough to keep most of the really icky stuff from giving us a sunburn. Any more, you divert too much power from structural integrity, which matters in the buffeting we're about to get. Sensors at max, looking for gravimetric shears. Now look at that."

He pointed to a pattern in the console that showed two waves on a criss-cross pattern headed straight for the Flyer. "Don't try and fly through that, Paul. If you stay just above it, with the deflectors on max like we have them now, you can kind of bounce off it, like …" another rattle went through the cabin, but with nothing like the force of the previous ones.

"…this. See? Here goes the other one. Skim 'em, like a pebble on waves. You ever do that as a kid? We used to spend our summers by the sea, and ..." Another bone-rattling bump momentarily stopped Tom's childhood reminiscences.

"I'd already done some flying then, and thought why couldn't you use that approach when flying through crappy conditions in space? I mean, a wave is a wave is a wave, right? Only works with a shuttle though, most starships have too much … ouf, here we go … mass to bounce off properly. Would tear holes in the hull. Of course my Dad wouldn't let me try it, I was only what, ten, twelve? So I had to wait until I got a spot on Nova Squadron. Helped get us our fourth Rigel Cup, in fact. Nice ships, the Squad used in those days. Here, you try it."

"Mister Paris," the Doctor's voice intruded, its tone halfway between petulant and annoyed. The sight of Tom in his element at the helm – and deeply into one of his stream-of-consciousness piloting monologues – erased whatever rank considerations he might have had from his memory subroutines.

"I'm so glad you're enjoying this little adventure, but may I remind you that this is not one of your simulated training sessions. This shuttle is very real, as are the conditions you're flying through, and your … playing around is causing the remainder of the crew considerable discomfort. In fact, Lieutenant Nicoletti is getting space sick."

"I'm okay," Nicoletti said faintly and inaccurately, but valiantly, "I think it's just what's left of the smell from that garbage. I'm sure if I could up environmental controls a bit, especially the air exchange, and route more power to the inertial dampeners, I'd be …" the next bounce swallowed her final words, and she turned another shade of pale green, barely suppressing a retch.

"Sorry Sue, Doc," Tom said, watching intently to see whether Coulthard would manage to skim the next gravitational wave. He clapped the younger man on the shoulder when the Flyer suffered another one of its shudders, but nothing more.

"Good job, Paul, you're getting it! Truth is, folks, this is still a heck of a lot better than what we'd have to deal with if we were on impulse. Suggest you give everyone an anti-nausea hypo, Doc, including me. I suspect we'll be dropping out of warp any second now, and then …. Shit."

True to his word, the warping stars outside the view screen shortened until they were points of light rather than rainbow-hued streaks, and both the buffeting and the stress on the Flyer's hull increased four-fold.

"Suggest now is a really, really good time for those hypos, Doc," Tom managed to grind out between his teeth, before more urgent matters caught his attention. "Paul, correct course to eight-oh-four-point-niner-niner, unless you want to head straight into that ion storm."

"Mr. Paris …"

"Not now, Doc, you do your job, let me do mine." Tom's tone brooked no contradiction, and the EMH wisely suppressed the temptation to point out that the Captain was actually doing someone else's at the moment.

"Sir, the pull from that front is too great, I'm not sure I can avoid …"

"Yes we can, if we manage to get into the shadow of Alldor Prime and then slingshot around it…" Tom's voice drifted off, as he focused on the controls, his hands a blur now, his face grim.

"Slingshot?" For a moment, the Doctor looked horrified, even if he was the least likely member of the Flyer's crew to suffer any lasting damage as a result of the wild roller-coaster ride the shuttle was currently on.

"Got it!" Tom's flat hand hit the console in momentary triumph, and for a blissful three or four minutes, the Flyer was gliding evenly, at full impulse.

"Man, this weather sucks." Schmidt, who usually was happy to comment – however laconically – on what was going on around him – had been sitting in uncustomary silence for the last little while. With the Doctor's hypospray having finally allowed him to open his mouth again without fear of losing his stomach contents, and secure in the knowledge that he had already lived through the worst part of his life, he now felt perfectly free to voice his opinion to the cabin at large.

"Why do people even live here? I mean, if it's this bad out in space, what the hell must it be like on the surface of those benighted planets when they start pulling against each other like that?"

Tom's mission preparations had added considerably to what he had absorbed about the Dance of the Snowflakes as an astrophysics major, and he found himself happy for once to be able to pull a Janeway – being the Captain Who Knows Something About Everything. Of course, he wouldn't be able to do it with her nonchalant, scientific eloquence, but he figured the key to impressing people was not to sound like you were just mouthing your briefing notes.

"Well, for one thing, it's not always this bad. This kind of alignment happens only about every ninety years or so, I think. And yeah, things do get a bit rocky on the surface of most of the inhabited planets too – extreme tides, fissure volcano eruptions, massive storm systems that can ruin crops on a global scare, that sort of thing. But the Narovians have pretty well perfected earthquake-proof housing, and no one lives too close to the coast unless it's up really high."

"Not a good time to have a pandemic happening, is it," Schmidt responded. "Add some locusts and a bunch of aliens on horseback, and you have the basis for a pretty good doomsday cult."

"Well, personally I think the Orion Syndicate qualifies on either count," Tom replied grimly.

And then all other discussion was suspended in the face of Coulthard's sudden exclamation:

"Captain, the storm is catching up!"

Tom spat out a curse between his teeth, and made a quick calculation. The Flyer's proximity to the nearest celestial bodies – the outermost planetoids of the Alldor system – made going to warp risky, but there was open space ahead for half a parsec and they should be able to re-establish a warp field at least in the short term. Perhaps his 'skimming pebble' metaphor could benefit from an expansion, and the shuttle be submerged in warped space for brief periods of time?

He wheeled around, and gave a brief explanation of his idea to his co-pilot, even as he entered the necessary commands. This wasn't the first time he'd taken the Flyer to warp in a tight space …

"Hold on, folks!"

With a flash and a sudden jolt, the Flyer went back to warp just as the outlying front of the ion storm threatened to seize her in its grip. Tom expelled a little air through pursed lips in relief. Schmidt was right – the weather out here sucked.

…..

B'Elanna entered the Captain's ready room, where Asil had taken up temporary residence; the Vulcan had taken Tom's earlier invitation as the logical basis for blanket permission to do so, given the kind of restrictions under which she had found herself operating.

Always happier near her warp core than the bridge, B'Elanna, for her part, was perfectly fine with temporary command having passed to an officer junior to her in rank. But that didn't mean she had to show Asil any particular deference, particularly across a desk that held several holovids of her own daughter. She came straight to the point.

"I thought you should know that records have disclosed a private communication last night," she said. "Crewman Cor Zelis. It was not her first such communication, either, although the first since the general prohibition."

Asil raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any indication as to the recipient of these communications, Commander?"

"We're still trying to isolate the precise destination; it turns out Cor is pretty good at encryption. But the recipient seems to be located near Bajor, or in the former DMZ. The transmissions appear to be fairly regular in nature – daily, in fact. Usually at night, we found."

"We? I thought I had requested that you carry these investigations out on your own, Commander."

"I asked Ayala to assist. He's not up to full duty yet, but he can certainly go through comms logs while sitting at a console. You may not have noticed, Lieutenant, but we're going through a rough part of space, and Engineering is a busy place. I can't be everywhere."

Seeing that Asil was about to protest, despite the deliberate reminder of their relative seniority, B'Elanna decided to take the bull by the horn.

"You know," she began unceremoniously, "I probably shouldn't be telling you how to do your job. Tom gave you the bridge, and I'm not arguing with that decision. But if you want to be the Acting Captain, in a time of … well, maybe not crisis quite yet, but a time of certain strategic decisions being required, and without a First Officer, you should really consider having staff briefing sessions. We're a team here."

Asil hesitated for the briefest of moments, before coming to a decision. "A team that may include an infiltrator who is working with the Orion syndicate," she said. Caution is advised."

B'Elanna frowned; Asil probably thought she was telling her something new, but given her request to track communications – not to mention the news regarding the transport manipulations – it didn't take Vulcan logic to add one and one, and arrive at two. In fact, she had been spending whatever time she could spare mulling over the implications of the situation for Voyager's crew. But …

"Among the senior staff?" she said, her voice incredulous. "I mean, with the exception of Commander Tervellyan and yourself, I've known everyone for years. I find that hard to believe. Ayala, Baytart – of the senior officers currently on the ship – if you're suspecting one of them, or Icheb for that matter, since he seems to be running Ops for you right now, you're really carrying Vulcan paranoia a bit too far."

In a more conciliatory tone, she added, "You know, your father once recommended that one of our senior officers, Chakotay, be left out of an operation to flush out a traitor. It worked, but the price that was paid by that lack of trust was pretty high. It was months before some people were talking to each other again, and although nothing more was ever said, I think both Janeway and Tuvok realized that the approach had been a mistake."

She shook her head slightly when she remembered that - however irrational her own reaction had been - Tom's inability to share with her the real reasons for his actions in the month leading up to his departure from the ship had probably set back their eventual relationship by at least a year. Official secrecy had their place, but trust among friends did not just have to be earned, it had to be given.

"The point is, if there's a traitor among the senior officers, he or she will show their colours sooner rather than later, and if key people know what to look for, it'll be sooner. Keeping people like Baytart, Ayala and Icheb from discussing tactical decisions at this time can't be helpful. They bring an experience to the table that you can't afford to cut yourself off from. I'm sure Tom would agree – in fact I know that he would. He already regretted not telling anyone about the nanoprobes in the antigen. As a former colleague of ours would tell you, serial consultations are inefficient. It's best to work as a collective."

Having said her piece, she turned to leave. "If there's nothing else …?"

Asil held very still for a moment, as she worked through what she had just been told. "Thank you Commander. What you have said is … logical. Please remain here, and I will request Lieutenants Ayala and Baytart and Cadet Icheb to join us."

…..

The three men's faces betrayed their disbelief, as they digested what they had been told. Icheb in particular seemed utterly thrown off his stride – such as it was, given that he was still marveling at finding himself included in senior briefings. His eyes, huge with unasked questions and a dash of panic, darted from officer to officer.

Unusually, it was Ayala who found his voice first. "It certainly doesn't make sense for Crewman Cor to be involved with the Syndicate, regardless of those transmissions. It was her and Murphy that first discovered the irregularities with the transporter and told us about them. Why would she work with Murphy on that, and then point it out to us, if she's with the Syndicate?"

Asil returned his challenging stare with an impassive glance. "It has been known for individuals in a situations such as this to secure credibility by appearing to be cooperative, by disclosing non-vital information. Since Voyager was being prevented from making further deliveries by the conditions in the Narov system, and since it became known that the antigen already diverted had been rendered traceable, Cor would have nothing to lose in showing how the original diversion had been effected."

B'Elanna thought about this, and frowned. "Maybe, but I'd find that hard to believe; she seems a decent person, completely focused on her kid. Miral and Algor play together, and I've met her a few times. But I suppose we could install a duplicate emitter in her console so we can monitor any future transmissions."

"You mean, tap into her comm line? Sure," Ayala shrugged. "Consider it done."

Baytart and Icheb, both a little subdued, summarized the ship's current status in tandem, navigation and ops being equally implicated in their current pursuit of the Rigellian. The freighter, according to long-range sensors, had clearly made an effort to lead its pursuer straight into the volatile environment of the Narovian system. Not surprisingly, it must have found the going less pleasant – and possibly more prejudicial to the freighter's structural integrity – than anticipated. According to Baytart, the ship had changed course to avoid the worst of an incoming ion storm and appeared for the time being headed towards Rigel, but its current arc was still consistent with a possible destination somewhere in the Alnitak Belt. The pilot briefly wondered what the Flyer was going through, on its 'short cut' right through the centre of the gravitational mayhem.

"Please transmit this information to Captain Paris on the Delta Flyer," Asil said, but Baytart wasn't done yet.

"I've an idea that might lead them to believe we've gone away. We could simulate a couple of explosions by venting warp plasma when we reach the edge of that storm, then hide out for a bit in the shadow of one of the planetoids around Alldor. They might think we got either blown up or discouraged."

B'Elanna nodded excitedly. "That could work! If we put on the ablative armour and modify our shields to resonate in the omicron band, we won't look anything like we did before, if that freighter has the means to detect us at all. We can resume pursuit and not have them know we're behind them. Would give us the element of surprise when we get there."

Asil exchanged glances with Ayala, the Chief Tactical Officer, who shrugged and nodded. Sure. Delta Quadrant subterfuge …

"A viable plan, with a certain logic to it, Commander," she said. "And you are certain, Lieutenant Baytart, that you are able to simulate such a potentially catastrophic event?"

"No problem," the conn officer responded. "We've done that sort of thing with Voyager before. The Captain was at the helm at the time, of course, but he ran holosims for the other pilots afterwards. Piece of cake, besides Commander Torres knows what to do."

"Excellent," Asil said. "Thank you for this excellent suggestion. Commander, we will proceed accordingly. Please advise when you are ready to engage the plasma exhaust. So unless there is anything else, you are dismissed."

B'Elanna rose, barely suppressing a triumphant smile as she left the room with her usual energetic stride to head back to Engineering. Tom would be pleased; they'd turn this mixed crew into a team yet. And she didn't even have to break anyone's nose ...

Ayala, for his part, was almost at the exit when Asil called him back.

"Lieutenant Ayala, a moment of your time." He stopped and turned back, puzzled.

"I have noticed that our Orion guest is continuing to wear your jacket. I assume she has your consent in this? I need not remind you that it is not permitted for non-Starfleet personnel to be wearing Starfleet attire."

Ayala hesitated briefly, then shrugged. "Yeah, I know. But it seems to give her … something she needs right now." He searched for the right words.

"When I was in the Maquis, and even before, in the colonies, I met a lot of refugees, people fleeing the Cardassians. I was one, for a while. It's tough, being on the run, especially when there is nothing left where you're from, and you have no idea what there is to go to. She seems to like Starfleet, so I gave her the jacket. Something to hang onto. Besides, she's always cold."

Asil stilled, and cocked her head. Her father had been correct; there was much to be learned from these humans and the … logic of their emotions.

"Thank you, Mr. Ayala. I believe you are correct. Miss Valon has impressed me with both her determination and her personal integrity. She would do credit to whichever endeavour she eventually chooses and should be encouraged."

…..

Twelve hours spent in intense battle with the elements, in and out of warp, had taken their toll on the crew inside the Flyer. Sue Nicoletti - who had long since given up any pretense at stoicism together with her stomach contents, but had worked miracles maintaining the shuttle's structural integrity and keeping its inertial dampeners online - was finally peacefully asleep on one of the aft cots, thanks to one of the Doc's hyposprays.

Coulthard was in the other bunk, despite his protests that Tom had the greater claim even as he nearly collapsed from exhaustion. The last few hours of dancing to the Snowflakes' tune had been the most intense flight experience of his life, and he had for the moment completely forgotten that the fellow pilot who had guided him through it was not someone he was entitled to contradict.

"You've earned yourself a real bed, Paul, so don't argue," Tom had told him sternly. "Besides, I'm your Captain and can tell you to shut up. Don't make me. Now go to bed. That's an order."

Schmidt, who could sleep just about anywhere and anytime, had strapped himself to one of the consoles to avoid being flung around too badly and was passed out on the floor, snoring intermittently. Tom switched off the comms channel and walked over to give him a little nudge with his foot. He turned over without waking, and his breathing became even again.

Voyager seemed to have matters well in hand at their end for the time being, as well; he'd even managed to sneak in a couple of minutes for a subspace 'good night' chat with Miral. Time to take advantage of what downtime there was to be had. He turned to the EMH. "Hey Doc, your matrix back to normal yet?"

"It most certainly is, Mr. Paris. Sufficiently so, to tell you that you require some rest yourself. Something I repeatedly pointed out to Admiral Janeway. If we are to be successful in our rescue attempt, you will need to have such wits about you as you are able to muster. So follow your own advice, and go to sleep already."

Tom gave him a lopsided grin and engaged the autopilot. "Relax, Doc, you're preaching logic to a Vulcan. I was just checking whether you feel ready to turn on your Emergency Command routine for a few hours. The ship can pretty well fly itself for a bit, and we may as well make use of your holographic superiority."

Tom hesitated for a moment, willing to endure the Doctor's glare in favour of a last-minute systems check and a trip to the refresher and the storage cabinet, where the thermal blankets were being kept. He spread one over Schmidt before stretching his long body out on the floor and balling his clean – if somewhat more tattered – leather jacket into a pillow to cushion his head. B'Elanna would probably want to make him throw it out now, but as far as he was concerned it still had years of wear in it, and the extra hole just gave it character.

"Wake me if we run into something – or somebody," he said, stifling a yawn. He was asleep before the Doctor got a chance to respond.

…..

"Mr. Paris. Mister Paris, please wake up." The Doctor rolled his eyes in exasperation, debating whether his dignity would allow him to bend down and shake the object of his frustration. Desperate times called for desperate measures, he decided, and cleared his throat.

"CAPTAIN!"

"Hunh?" Tom, never at his best when freshly awakened, stirred and shook his head, instantly regretting the motion when his stiff neck and back complained. "Ow, shit. Should have taken Coulthard up on his offer of the bunk. I'm getting too old to crash on the floor. What is it?"

"I thought you might like to know that we are within two hours of the Alnitak system. So far we seem to be alone; there are no ships on long-range sensors."

"Great, thanks Doc." Tom got up and stretched, wincing a little at the cracking sound his spine made when he gave it a few tentative twists. He clapped the EMH on the shoulder in silent thanks for taking a full watch, went over to the replicator and ordered a double raktajino with extra milk.

"Breakfast," he said to the EMH, when the latter raised an eyebrow and clenched his jaw in silent disapproval. "Caffeine for the brain, protein to keep me going, and calcium goodness for my aging bones."

The Doctor snorted. "I will never understand the need in you organics for artificial stimulants. Myself, I'm as fresh as a daisy, just as soon as I'm activated."

Tom took a sip of his raktajino and closed his eyes in momentary bliss. "Me too, but this," he waved his cup, "is what Irequire to be activated. That, a trip to the head and a sonic shower." He turned his head towards the main cabin.

"Computer, daytime illumination. Rise and shine, folks! We've got work to do. Time waits for no sentient being."

He made his move for the facilities before the other officers had finished opening their eyes; there were, after all, certain benefits in using your personal vessel for official business – not to mention being the boss.

Nicoletti emerged from the aft bunk looking a little rumpled, but all things considered much better than she had a few hours earlier. She watched Schmidt do push-ups on the floor with a slightly incredulous expression. "Jocks," she mumbled contemptuously, but nonetheless slid her eyes over the Ensign's rippling shoulder muscles with something close to appreciation. Her tongue ever-so-briefly and unconsciously touched her lips.

Coulthard was the last to give signs of life, but when he did so, proved to be one of those obnoxiously cheerful morning persons that made Tom swear silently to avoid long away missions with the man in the future.

It did not take long for everyone to be at their stations cleaned, watered and fed, and fully immersed in their professional personas - focused and sharp. The Alnitak belt was still several parsecs away, but given its sheer volume, the sooner they could narrow their search the better.

"Coulthard, check for residual warp signatures. Schmidt, scan for standard alloys used in construction of docking port and surface installations," Tom requested. "My assumption is that if there is anything in the Belt, it'll be a temporary storage facility or a way station. Some place where cargo ships drop off and pick up whatever it is they're carrying, to break up the runs between Rigel, Betelgeuse and the rest of Federation space."

"And Bellatrix – Orion III," the Doctor added, unnecessarily.

Coulthard couldn't help asking. "Why would they do that? Why not go all the way?"

"If this were an ordinary trading station, I'd say to facilitate the use of short-haul ships and short-haul crews," Tom responded. "Since it isn't, my guess would be plausible deniability, untraceability of cargo manifests and origin. The more stops along the way, the easier it is to create distribution chains with cells that don't know each other. Like money laundering, only with stuff."

"Or people," Nicoletti whispered.

"Yeah. Or people."

"I think I got something, sir," Schmidt announced about an hour into the uncomfortable silence that had followed the last exchange. "Concentration of duranium and tritanium, on a B-class asteroid, size approximating Vesta in the Sol system. Atmosphere present, but not breathable without o-tank supplement. Transmitting coordinates to helm for warp signature check."

Coulthard entered a few additional commands and turned to Tom, frowning. "Unable to detect warp signatures of any kind, sir."

"There aren't any, or you can't detect them?"

"The latter, I think. The outer part of the asteroid belt is rich in neurogenic particles that have failed to cohere into solid matter when the planetoids were formed. Any warp trails would be dispersed within minutes."

"Like a twig you use to erase footprints in the sand," Schmidt stroked his chin thoughtfully. "No wonder these guys like it here, you can't track 'em in. You have to know they're here already, if you want to find them. Good thing for us, you can't hide basic molecular structures."

"Unless you have a cloaking device. Let's hope the Orion Syndicate doesn't establish diplomatic relations with the Romulans."

Tom didn't feel the need to state the obvious – thanks to the conditions in the belt, if they found the right hole to hide in, the Flyer's warp trail would be masked as well, and no one would be the wiser for their arrival.

"Good work, guys," he said grimly. "Schmidt, send the coordinates of the suspected base to Voyager. And to Starfleet, in case they do manage to send us reinforcements. Sue, set up engines for silent running, and give us as much shielding as you can get away with. Try to alternate phase alignment on a random basis." Should have kept some of those miniature cloaking satellites we picked up with the Enterprise …

Tom focused on his console again, to try and find a plausible hiding spot for the Flyer where they could await the arrival of the Rigellian (with Voyager in hot pursuit, he hoped). A million klicks away should do it, with an approach that would keep the Flyer in the shadow of other asteroids to the extent possible.

"I'd like to do a bit of a recce before company gets here – establish whether there's a permanent presence there, and if so, how many. Paul, once we're actually inside the belt, slow to one half impulse and try not to hit anything."

He might as well have said 'Battle stations," given the intensity that settled back over the occupants of the cabin. Even the EMH was unusually silent, despite the fact that for the moment he had really nothing to do. His earlier complaints, that his intention in joining the Voyager crew had actually been to advance his service to medicine, had earned him nothing but a largely unapologetic sorry from Tom, and the offer to take him offline for a while.

Bored, he started pacing, and Tom renewed the suggestion.

"No thank you, Mr. Paris. I wouldn't want to miss all the excitement. Besides, I want to ensure I'm properly consulted this time before you come up with any other unorthodox uses for my holographic matrix."

Tom smiled a little ruefully. "Touché, as Picard would say. But you told us many times that you were programmed to be heroic when the need arises, and you were always keen on expanding your horizons. So can you really blame me?"

His attention was drawn away from the Doctor and he was rendered suddenly breathless, by the sight of the asteroid belt now in full view on the screen before them. Even the EMH was moved to utter a disbelieving "Oh, my word!"

Dozens, hundreds, thousands of pieces of stellar flotsam, some barely larger than rocks, others large enough to be considered planetoids. They had hung in this space for billions of years - a curtain drawn across the vastness of space, in silent protest against the void. Jagged and broken, they were the collateral damage of the failure of Alnitak's three suns' to achieve sufficient stability to form proper planets. Drifting alongside each other - sometimes colliding, occasionally pulled out of their orbits and towards a fiery death in one of the three stars - few had ever been blessed with the touch of a foot.

A man could get poetic at a time like this, Tom thought for a moment. Not to mention droolat the piloting challenge… Well, no matter - he needed to focus on finding a suitable hideout for the Flyer.

"Still no traffic on long-range sensors?" he asked Schmidt as he scanned their immediate neighbourhood for possible candidates. Too bad they weren't on Voyager. With access to the Astrometrics lab, not to mention a few minutes of Seven of Nine's time, were she onboard – although Icheb was a close second - this job would have been a cinch.

"None," Schmidt replied. "According to the last transmission from Voyager, they didn't make nearly as good a time through the Flakes as we did; they couldn't cut through the center. So we have to sit here and wait. Unless we take over that base?"

Tom did not miss the hopeful plea in that last query. Arno Schmidt, after a decade of forced idleness in that Romulan prison camp, had energy to burn, and was keen for action – for better or worse. Tom smiled a little.

"Let's not rush into things here, Ensign. Can we see what's there yet?"

"What looks like a Daedalus Class vessel, probably goes with a basic ground crew that keeps the place running. Wonder what they've done to earn this assignment? Nothing else. Wait – there's a bit of a recent warp trail. The neurogenic particles aren't as thick here. Someone's been by not too long ago."

"Biosigns? Sue?"

"Half a dozen, by the looks of it. I can't tell species specifics though. The planetoid has a largely iron ore mantle, and is riddled with caves like a Turkellian cheese. Depending how deep down they've burrowed, I won't be able to read much of anything. We'd have to get a lot closer."

"Riddled with caves, eh." Tom stroked his chin. One shuttle, with crew. One Daedalus Class freighter. Even odds. The Rigellian would likely come straight here with their Starfleet hostage, to lie low for a while and figure out next steps.

What better place to hide out and wait for them, than right in the viper's nest?

"You sure it's only six, Sue? How reliable are the instruments?"

"For the purposes of detecting life signs, pretty good I'd say."

Tom tugged his lower lip between his teeth for a good minute or two before coming to a conclusion. He turned to his small contingent.

"You guys ready to help the Flyer grab the perfect parking spot?"