III.
So much for shore leave...
Yosian central command is a flurry of activity when Kathryn arrives. When the First Minister's comm came through, she and Tuvok, who had been taking the rare leisure opportunity to attend a scientific symposium together on one of Yosia's outer moons, immediately shuttled back to the planet on the Flyer.
"Captain Janeway!" the First Minister calls to her from across the crowded room, moving quickly in her direction. Her distinctive Yosian ear tips, which extend almost to the length of antennae, are drooping in obvious distress and worry. "Words cannot express my regret that your vessel has been caught up in this unfortunate incident. Had we any idea that this might happen, you can be assured..."
Seeking to gently cut off what promises to be a long-winded apology, Kathryn lightly places a hand on the other woman's forearm. "Please, First Minister – regrets are unnecessary. But an explanation of what's going on would be most helpful. Our understanding is that the area of space which Voyager was to transverse was a standard shipping lane that was regularly in use."
"Indeed, it is. The Olian Passage is one of the most frequently traveled regions of Union space," the First Minister assures her, nodding to include Tuvok in her comment as well. "In fact, three of our ships are now caught in the same sector of space as well as two of our allies' vessels."
"Perhaps if you could explain..." Tuvok begins before the First Minister interrupts, "Yes, of course. My apologies again. Rennon?" she beckons to a harried looking young man monitoring a nearby screen. With one last glance at the data before him, Rennon moves over to join them. "Could you explain to our guests the nature of the Olian Rifts?"
"Certainly, First Minister," Rennon nods, and, turning to Kathryn and Tuvok, motions them to a nearby computer, calling up an image of what looks like a jagged hole in what is apparently a subspace matrix. "The Olian Rifts are fissures that form in subspace. They create a phase fluctuation which interferes with the fields created by our ships' faster-than-light engines." Rennon's ear tips droop sadly as he adds, "And apparently your ship's as well. The rifts effectively act as barriers, making faster-than-light travel through the region nearly impossible. And, because only this area of each anomaly," an area encompassing perhaps two percent of the fissure is highlighted on the screen, "is detectable by most ship's sensors, vessels often do not register the presence of the rifts until it is too late."
Kathryn glances back at Tuvok's raised brow before asking their shared question: "But I thought that this area of space was frequently traveled? How is that possible with the presence of the rifts?"
Rennon's ear tips began to rapidly change color – in confusion or as a sign of some emotion, Kathryn can't be sure. "The first recorded occurrence of the Olian Rifts was over two centuries ago, soon after we developed the capability of traveling faster than light. Ever since that time, their appearance has been regular and predictable, occurring every twenty-four of our planetary years and lasting for approximately two seasons. During this predicted window, our vessels and our allies' vessels simply take a longer route to avoid the Olian Passage until the rifts dissipate."
"Are we to understand that the current recurrence of the rifts was not predicted?" Tuvok questions.
The pulse of colors at the top of Rennon's ears intensifies and Kathryn decides that it indeed indicates a mixture of confusion and frustration. "They shouldn't have reoccurred for another decade," the scientist laments.
Something clicks in the back of Kathryn's mind, but she pushes it away for the moment, focusing on more immediate concerns. She turns back to the First Minister. "You said that there are currently six ships caught in this area of space, including Voyager?" At the First Minister's nod, she continues, "Have any of them been able to make contact?"
The First Minister nods again. "Two of our own vessels have been able to report back in. Their engines were disabled by their encounters with the rifts, but they are otherwise undamaged. We have been able to triangulate the likely positions of the other ships, including your Voyager. We are currently prepping rescue ships to aid all six."
"Have you been able to equip these rescue ships to travel safely through the Olian Passage?" Tuvok queries.
"They are specially designed with advanced sensors and shields to detect and provide some protection from the rifts, yes," the First Minister assures. "They go largely unused between the rift's appearances and so must be prepared but should be ready to depart within the hour."
Kathryn glances over at Tuvok, who nods. "I would like to take a team of my people on the Delta Flyer and accompany your rescue vessels. The Flyer should be adequately equipped to navigate the Passage if you would be willing to share your data on the rifts with us."
"Of course," the First Minister agrees.
"First Minister?" Another official interrupts, approaching rapidly. "We are receiving a communication from the Voyager."
Kathryn looks sharply up at the First Minister who gestures graciously to a communications station. An instant later, a rather static-ridden image of Tom Paris fills the screen.
"Captain!" he greets her while making some adjustments on his end to clear up the signal. "You don't know how good it is to see you."
"The feeling is mutual, Lieutenant," she assures him. "How's everyone there?"
"We have some bumps and bruises but nothing critical. Seven and B'Elanna have set us up with a temporary EMH to deal with any immediate issues."
Kathryn exchanges another look with Tuvok at that but doesn't press for more information for the moment. "How is Voyager?"
"Dead in the water, Captain," is Tom's succinct reply. "Our impulse drive was powered down for the articulation tests and our warp drive was knocked offline when we encountered a subspace phenomenon..."
"The Olian Rifts are what the Yosians call them," Kathryn supplies.
That catches Tom's full attention. "They knew about these things?" She's surprised to hear the sudden anger in the usually easy-going pilot's tone. She holds up a hand, forestalling whatever might be coming next. "It's a long story, Tom, but they had good reason not to expect the rifts to occur again for another decade. They had no ill-intent in not sharing their knowledge of the phenomenon with us."
This seems to appease Tom somewhat but his expression remains fairly unreadable, reminding Kathryn suddenly very much of the elder Paris of her acquaintance. He swallows his remaining anger though as he continues with his report. "Right. So we are running life support and other necessary systems on EPS power reserves alone. B'Elanna estimates that they will last ten hours. We are adding the reserves from the shuttles we have on board which should give us another hour or two." His expression hardens further into grimness. "After that, we're down to EVA suits."
"With any luck, you shouldn't have to get that far," Kathryn assures him. "We'll be leaving within the hour with the Delta Flyer and several of the Yosian ships specially configured for dealing with the rifts." She checks the coordinates from which the comm signal originated. "At full impulse, we should be able to reach your position in slightly more than ten hours."
Despite the confidence that she puts into her tone, the numbers speak for themselves and that 'should' is more weighted than either would like. Kathryn finds and holds her pilot's eyes. "We'll do what we need to in order to get to you in plenty of time, Tom. Keep them safe until we do."
Something more sparks in Tom's eyes as he replies, "Aye, Captain," and then signs off.
Drawing a deep breath, Kathryn turns back to Tuvok. "Let's get a team together to man the Flyer. I want to be ready to leave as soon as the Yosian ships are prepped."
.
Having accomplished what could be done on the bridge, Tom begins to make his way down to engineering. On the way, he stops in the mess hall for a supply of emergency rations and in sickbay for warming blankets and a small stockpile of emergency medical supplies. Minimal life-support means that the ambient temperature has already fallen dramatically and, thanks to the Doc's meticulous training, he knows that hypothermia will become a potentially fatal threat long before the ship runs out of breathable air.
For as many times over the last several years as he's navigated Voyager's corridors and access tubes by the illumination of a wrist-light after one disaster or another has struck, this passage feels particularly unsettling. With the warp core and the impulse drive both silenced and the usual crew complement of a hundred and fifty reduced to the eight in engineering and himself, the ship is deathly quiet.
At the same time, the lives of those eight crew members who are on board are weighing on him more and more heavily.
Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell his superiors were thinking when they first pinned a second pip on the collar of his twenty-two year old self. It had been done with all proper formality but also with a level of perfunctoriness: he was a Paris, he had been actively serving for the minimum required number of months and, thus, the promotion was universally expected. Including by the recipient himself.
Tom had taken his early command experiences in stride, drawing from a lifetime of watching the mannerisms of commanders, captains and admirals and throwing in a touch of his own not inconsiderable personal charm. And the various ensigns and crewmen and women serving on his away teams and shuttle missions responded to the combination of confidence and ease favorably, even those who were initially skeptical of the fast-rising son of an admiral...
...until Caldik Prime...
When three years later, Kathryn Janeway had handed him back that pip along with its companion, he had initially tried to imitate his early confidence with much less successful results. His audience had changed. He had changed. And, for a Starfleet crew alone in the Delta Quadrant, the rules had changed.
At Banea, his decisions had led to Harry's two day detention and interrogation and his own near-brush with madness. Two months later, he had lost Durst while the lieutenant was under his command (...and come damn near to losing B'Elanna as well...)
Slowly, and all too often painfully, Tom had grown up until, at Monea, he had re-found something that he had almost forgotten that he had lost and, in the act that lost him his rank, had possibly finally grown into it.
Opportunities for command over the last year and half had been sparse. Partially as a consequence of his lost lieutenancy and partially due to the larger complement for which the Delta Flyer allowed, he was rarely the senior officer on any away team. At the same time, whether by the Captain's choice or happenstance, the bridge seldom fell into his hands.
And, oddly and utterly unexpectedly, he found himself missing...something. Not the power, exactly, but the agency – and the ability to protect those he cared about.
Now, with that second pip back on his collar, Voyager and her small crew are suddenly his – to command and to protect. And, as heavy as that responsibility is, for perhaps the first time Tom feels like he is fully prepared to embrace it.
From the darkness and silence of the corridors, walking into engineering feels like entering a beehive of activity. Strategically placed floodlights show the small staff working at various stations, no doubt doing whatever can be done to extend the power reserves as long as possible. On the far side of the room, Tom catches a glimpse of B'Elanna consulting with Sue Nicoletti and Ensign Mulcahey. To one side of the group is the familiar form of an Emergency Medical Hologram, a perhaps even more familiar look of annoyance on his holographically projected visage.
"Lieutenant Paris," Seven greets him as she climbs down the access ladder from the upper workstations. She crosses the floor and begins to help him unload the supplies that he gathered on his way.
"How are things going down here?" Tom asks.
Seven considers her answer. "Acceptably," she decides. "Ensigns Tabor and Swinn were able to transfer the reserve energy from the shuttles effectively. Between those additional resources and the power preservation efforts the rest of the crew have made, we should be able to continue to run essential systems for an additional two hours beyond Lieutenant Torres's original estimate."
Tom nods. "If all goes well, our rescue party should arrive before then..."
"...that this is most irregular, Lieutenant. I really must insist..." The EMH's irked and irksome voice echoes across engineering breaking into his thoughts. Both Seven and Tom look up to see the hologram, tricorder in hand, trailing after B'Elanna.
"And how is our temporary Doctor?" Tom queries.
"Efficient if abrasive," is Seven's succinct answer.
Tom chuckles. "Missing our Doc's social skills, Seven?"
Seven's eyebrow arches. "While the Doctor's non-medical pursuits often seem superfluous, it is possible that they have had a positive effect on his ability to successfully interact with the crew." Then she follows the EMH's progress – or lack thereof – with B'Elanna for a moment. "Given the obvious limits of the original program in that regard, I can see why the Captain encouraged the Doctor to expand his programming – despite the inefficiencies it might produce."
Tom feels his own eyebrows climbing upwards. "Really? Despite the inefficiencies, huh?"
Seven appears to choose to ignore the implications of his comment. She nods towards the back-up hologram. "Given its limitations, I believe that this EMH program may need your assistance in convincing Lieutenant Torres to accept medical treatment. She has refused all aid and her injury, while not severe, may lead to complications if not attended to soon."
Tom's lips thin, his amusement gone. He tracks the pair for a minute before nodding to Seven. "Right. Thanks." And, taking a deep breath, he prepares to brave the lion's den.
.
"I assure you that the procedure will only take a few minutes..."
"No!" she growls for at least the dozenth time, not bothering to turn as she pauses to grab her toolkit before heading across engineering towards yet another access panel and circuits which can be manually pulled to buy them all a few more minutes of life-support.
Not that use of her second arm and hand wouldn't be useful and – as Seven would and has reminded her – more efficient, but, at this point, staying busy and moving is the only thing that is allowing B'Elanna to keep her blackening temper somewhat in check and the thought of even a short break to allow the back-up hologram to tend to her arm threatens to push her over the edge.
She jumps as, thoughts and eyes elsewhere, she almost runs headlong into her husband. "Tom!" she exclaims, feeling oddly disconcerted. "I didn't see you come in."
"You've been busy," he responds with understanding. However, there is an edge to his voice as well and his eyes travel down to her arm.
She nods. "We've been able to pull enough conduits manually to gain another half-hour of life-support. That combined with the energy from the shuttles should buy us another two hours total." She's not sure if she's giving a status report or just trying to distract his attention from her injury. But there is something about his expression that she can't entirely read and she's finding that unsettling.
He gives a nod of his own, but his tone is too carefully neutral. "Sounds like good progress. Now how about taking a short break and letting the EMH deal with your wrist?"
A spike of annoyance shoots through her and she shakes her head. "It's a sprain or a minor break at worst. I can handle it," she insists.
Tom looks past her at the EMH, raising an eyebrow in question. "Doctor?"
"Lieutenant Torres's left wrist suffered a distal radius fracture. As well, my readings indicate that her seventh rib on the same side is broken, with the fragments pushing dangerously close to her third lung. Both injuries require treatment, but the fractured rib runs the risk of serious complication if not addressed soon," the EMH supplies with more than evident pleasure at finally having his opinion sought.
"B'Elanna..."
She cuts him off, moving to push past him. "I said I can handle it," she growls.
"B'Elanna." Tom reaches out and catches her right arm as she tries to brush past. She glares up at him, her anger and frustration – with him, with the EMH, but mostly with herself (her failed engines; her dying ship) – boiling over. "You need to let the EMH treat you." Maddeningly, he keeps his voice quiet, controlled.
Her gaze is locked with his, but she knows all too well that engineering has come to a standstill around them.
"Is that an order?" she spits back.
"If it needs to be."
His voice has become even more quiet, barely above a whisper, but his words stop her short. Once again, she is conscious of eight pairs of eyes upon them, eyes watching not just Tom and B'Elanna fighting – a not entirely uncommon sight – but a dispute between the two senior officers of the ship.
And the expression on Tom's face makes it clear that he knows all that as well. He waits quietly, making his case only with that gaze, waiting for the next move which needs to be hers.
What the hell is she doing?
She takes a deep breath, just managing not to wince at the pain that that elicits, fighting back against her darker impulses.
"Fine," she finally hisses. And then, "You know you're impossible."
His grip on her arm tightens as those damnable blue eyes fill with almost overwhelming amounts of gratitude and love. His smile is soft and only for her and she wonders when it became possible to say so much with so few words. "Yep. But you knew that already," and his tone echoes everything in those eyes.
After a long moment, Tom nods to the EMH who motions primly to the nearest chair. With an exaggerated sigh, she sits as he pulls out the osteo-regenerator and, around her, engineering begins to move again.
Which reminds her that she does still have something of an image to maintain. She turns back to Tom. "Grab a toolkit, flyboy. If I can't do the work, I'll just have to try to walk you through it."
With a grin of relief and more than a little promise – and, oh yes, he does indeed owe her for this one – Tom picks up her abandoned kit and throws her a jaunty salute. "Aye, aye, Chief. Always happy to lend my talents where needed."
Rolling her eyes at her husband, she resigns herself to the back-up EMH's less-than-tender mercies.