Chapter 6 - Touché
Tom finally left the bridge, after satisfying himself that the suicide ship seemed to have been on its own. How many more of the deadly weapons could the Talari have in any event?
Tom Paris was not entirely a stranger to suicide missions, when he thought about it and knew that he would not hesitate to fly a shuttle into another ship, if doing so meant saving Voyager, Miral or any of his loved ones from a similar fate. He also knew with certainty that Kathryn Janeway, Harry and B'Elanna would do – had done – similar things, many times over.
How many more pilots would be willing to give their lives to deliver a blow in the name of a dying conflict they still hoped to win for their people, when peace negotiations were already underway? Assuming that was what those who managed the ship that brought down the Gettysburg wanted? Or did they blow the ship out of space in order to gain access to Midas and its riches? His memory flashed back to Tierna, the Kazon warrior who had blown himself up in order to enable the Nistrim to take over Voyager. Tierna's sacrifice had been entirely in the name of greed - there had never been another like him.
Speculation won't get you answers.
He forced his mind back into the practical aspects of their present predicament. Starfleet could not be raised; they were too close to the anomaly, and subspace messaging yielded nothing but echoes. He had given orders to keep trying, but found himself silently and unaccountably relieved that thanks to this glitch, the families of the Gettysburg dead would live another day or so with their world intact.
Tom's last action on his way to the turbolift had been to ask his officers to "figure out where the hell that goddamn cloaking technology came from." It had similar characteristics to the cloaks the Enterprise had encountered in the Neutral Zone; none of Janeway's briefings mentioned a Romulan presence anywhere near this system though. That said, the Romulans could be nearly as mercenary as the Ferengi – depending on what they wanted – and they didn't exactly have to travel here to make a sale.
He shook off these thoughts; the matter was in capable hands. Harry had been in the Neutral Zone, he knew how to deal with things under cloak ... Time to get his head into a space where he could be Tom Paris, sometime medic, not The-Captain-Who-Solves-Everything. Right now, the medic was who his ship needed most.
The doors to Sickbay opened to reveal a scene of pure chaos. The Doctor flitted from patient to patient, interspersing barked commands to Nurse Tval and a couple of volunteers with complaints about people with minor injuries who failed to leave fast enough for his taste. But there was no doubt about the efficiency and effectiveness of his triage assessments and treatments, and those who were familiar with his peculiar bedside manner knew better than to take offence.
By unspoken agreement, Tom handled the minor injuries, while the EMH and Nurse T'val dealt with those requiring surgery. He moved swiftly, using the opportunity to try and reassure injured crewmembers shaken up by the attack. But if he was honest with himself, all he wanted was to lash out and punch something or someone; his heart wasn't really in the healing.
Except …
"I want Mommy," the little girl someone had dropped off on the biobed beside him sobbed. "I hurt, and I want my Mommy."
"Shhhh, sweetie," Tom made the soothing sound as he ran the dermal regenerator over the gash on her forehead. "I'm really sorry, but your mommy can't be here right now. But I'm here to help. It won't hurt so much in a minute. See? Already better."
She nodded, biting back another sob and looking at him with large brown eyes. Tom rallied, gave her a smile – the bright, reassuring one he reserved for Miral when she needed encouragement to pick herself up after a fall. And he hoped his little patient wouldn't see the pain behind his own eyes, the unshed tears. She was only three, four years old at best.
"Look, I have a scrape just like yours on my own forehead. I haven't had time to deal with it yet, and it's not bad enough to bother the Doctor about it. You think you can fix it for me?"
The little girl tentatively took the regenerator he handed her, almost dropping it as the weight surprised her.
"Here, push the button and then wave it slowly across my forehead, like this." He squatted down beside the biobed, took her hand and steered it across the back of his hand, watching a small scrape on his knuckle disappear as if it had been erased.
"Now you try it. Up here."
"Mr. Paris, we don't have time …" the Doctor caught himself when he saw just what was happening, and tensed his jaw a little, in a grimace of realization and sympathy.
"Never mind," he muttered, and turned to his next patient.
Tom gave the little girl a thank-you hug and a kiss on the head when she was done. About half of her strokes had hit the target, and he assumed his forehead at least looked a bit better.
"Great job, sweetheart," he said. "What's your name?"
"Andrée. Andrée Gallagher," she said shyly, reaching for Tom's collar, as he swallowed.
Gallagher. Not among the sixty-five, that he knew with a cold certainty; transporters had failed before they got to the bridge. But maybe her mother had been in the mess hall, or on security detail in the negotiations? Harry was even now cataloguing the survivors; only after that was done would they tell the children …
Who would tell the children?
"My Daddy's a Captain too," the little girl said matter-of-factly, touching his pips. A 'Fleet brat, she had probably known her rank insignia before she learned her colours. He certainly had … "I bet he's really busy right now. Things are a bit of a mess."
She looked around critically, wiping her damp cheeks with her sleeve and hiccupping a little, and realization dawned. "This isn't even our Sickbay."
"You're right, Andrée, things are a mess, and you're not on the Gettysburg anymore. You're on Voyager now. But you're safe here, and that's the most important thing. That's what your Mommy and Daddy want for you, more than anything."
Using the present tense. Coward. Deep breath. Steady voice.
"I tell you what though. Why don't you go to our nursery for a bit? That's where my own little girl is. She's just a little bit younger than you. Her name is Miral, and she will make you feel welcome on Voyager until we can sort things out, okay?"
Andrée nodded solemnly. "Is the nursery less messy?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, there's toys and crayons everywhere, pillows on the floor, books being pulled off the shelves … So - how could we ever tell the difference if it was a mess?"
She giggled a little at that, and Tom felt as if he had been given a momentary absolution. He waved over one of the crewmen from security who had just been dismissed by Nurse Tval. The man was clutching his arm, but seemed otherwise mobile and more than happy to have a task. He took the little girl's hand to lead her away; she waved at Tom as she left.
How on Earth do you tell a four-year-old that her parents have been turned into a cloud of ash, slowly dispersing in space?
Tom was almost grateful when his comm badge chirped. The feeling didn't last.
"Captain, sensors are detecting a signature similar to that of the vessel that attacked the Gettysburg, heading for us on an intercept course. Arrival is expected in fifteen minutes." Asil.
Tom spat a curse and turned towards the EMH.
"Gotta go, Doc!" he shouted and sprinted towards the turbolift. It didn't even cross his mind to be relieved that he no longer had to seek permission to leave Sickbay.
…..
Tom's first question out of the turbolift was addressed to Harry, who was bent over the ops console beside Asil.
"Are you sure? The first ship was cloaked."
"Icheb recalibrated the sensors to check for the particular emissions the weapon gives off, rather than for warp signatures or known engine resonance patterns."
Tom nodded his approval to the young science officer, over at his own station. "Good thinking, Ensign. Obviously they didn't consider that. They must be new to cloaking technology, and haven't adapted their systems to that yet."
He tapped his comm badge. "Paris to Engineering. Do we have warp yet?"
"Two minutes," came B'Elanna's voice over the comm.
"Make it thirty seconds if you can."
Tom turned to Baytart. "Full impulse, Pablo. Get us the hell away from here. Mike, fire phasers at will on the retreat. I'm not taking any chances that that thing will latch on to us like it did to the Gettysburg."
"Belay that order, Lieutenant." Kathryn Janeway's gravelly voice came from the turbolift. Her hair was in disarray, but otherwise the emergency transport appeared to have not caused her any difficulties. Her posture was as straight as it had ever been, and she strode onto the bridge without looking where she was going; her feet knew the way.
"Hold your fire unless this ship demonstrates hostile intentions. Destroying it could ruin everything we came here for."
"And melting down the Gettysburg didn't display hostile intentions or ruin things?" Tom was incredulous.
"We don't know who was responsible for that action, Tom, except that it wasn't this ship. It could have been the action of an isolated faction. I doubt that anyone from Talar or Denaros would attack their own leadership."
"Well, somebody did. At the very least we're looking at a very well equipped faction, with access to top-of-the-line Talari weaponry," Tom shot back. "Weaponry that this ship carries as well, since that's how Asil detected it. And I believe they're powering it up, otherwise we might not have."
"Understood. Nonetheless, Mr. Ayala, do not fire until I give permission."
Tom stood still for a moment, not sure what he should do, or how should he feel. His direct order on his bridge had been just as directly countermanded – but by an Admiral. Not to mention that the Admiral in question was his former Captain, whose judgment in these matters had allowed Voyager to survive for seven years.
Was there a protocol for this? Should he be angry? Was he angry? He looked over to Harry, but Harry had apparently not noticed a thing; he was bent on tracking the ship on the reconfigured sensors. And all considerations aside, decisions still needed to be made.
Decisions. He'd made so many …
Three hundred and three on the Gettysburg. Two on Voyager. Andrée Gallagher.
Fire? Don't fire? Not his call? Fine...
He looked over to his XO again. Harry – once an ops officer, always an ops officer - was exchanging rapid-fire observations with Asil, before speaking up.
"The signature is remaining constant. It's impossible to tell though whether that's because the weapon is already armed, or because that's its regular power emission."
With Ayala's eyes on him, seeking confirmation of his orders, Tom nodded.
"Mike – hold fire. But let's not stick around for a friendly hug and a chat." He turned to Baytart, whose hand had reflexively paused over the controls at Janeway's words - even though they had been meant for Ayala.
"Execute your orders, Lieutenant."
"Course, sir?"
Tom's mind raced. It was one thing to run away from a threat, quite another trying to figure out where to run to. And then to put that into a direction that Baytart could feed into the nav system. Oh, for a cloak …
Cloak.
"The subspace anomaly the Gettysburg was investigating. We'll use it to hide from their sensors until we can figure out what's going on, or at least until they show their cards and we … feel more comfortable about counter-measures."
Until the Admiral says it's okay for us to blow these bastards into the Q continuum.
His eyes flicked over to Janeway, who had clearly been about to issue her own directions, but instead thoughtfully nodded her approval.
"Excellent idea," she said. "Warp Six."
"Warp engines are online now." Baytart punched in the necessary commands, and the ship jumped to warp.
Tom turned to Asil. "Distance to the alien?"
The Vulcan frowned a little. "The alien ship remains in pursuit, and appears to be gaining."
"What?" Harry stared over her shoulder, rendered even more indignant by his verification of her findings. "I thought they weren't supposed to have technology that went beyond Warp Three."
"Go to Warp Eight, Pablo." Tom turned from Baytart back to Asil and Harry. "Still following?"
Harry nodded, with clenched teeth. "We're losing them now, but not by much."
"Paris to Torres. Can you give us Nine Point Five?"
"Not for long, we can't."
"I take that as a yes. Pablo, Warp Nine Point Five."
"Aye, sir."
"The increase in speed seems to have done the trick. The alien ship is falling behind. We'll be able to reach the anomaly and get under its sensor cloak shortly." Harry's voice was more relief than excitement.
Tom's screen flicked on, and B'Elanna's face appeared, her hair in disarray and smudges discolouring both her cheeks. Her tunic was still stained in dried blood, presumably from dealing with the injuries sustained by members of her staff. There had been no time for cleanup or other niceties; there wouldn't be for some time. Still, she was the most welcome and beautiful sight he'd seen in hours.
"Engines are holding out, but we won't be able to sustain that speed above ten minutes or so," she said, sounding exhausted but determined.
Tom, not bothering to hide his relief at seeing her, if only over the ship's vid comm system, replied, "Ten minutes is good; at Nine Point Five we'll be where we need to be. Once we're hidden by the anomaly we can finish repairs."
"Ten minutes," B'Elanna said, the menacing undercurrent in her voice unmistakable. "But no more. Not if you want to be able to fly her home. Just so we're clear here. Torres out."
Status updates continued to come in on a regular basis - on Voyager's proximity to the anomaly; on the location of the pursuing vessel; and on the progress of various repairs. Engines were holding – so far. Defective panels that had peeled off the ablative armour were being replicated, but could not be installed until the ship would be motionless, and EVA possible.
The EMH's announcement that they had lost another crewmember to the injuries she had sustained as a result of the concussive wave was met by stony silence on Tom's part, and Janeway's reaching for and grabbing his arm for a moment.
Crewman Sandra Peterson, Maintenance and Repairs. Third generation Starfleet non-commissioned personnel. Peterson had survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant before taking an assignment at Deep Space Six. She had applied for a transfer back to Voyager as soon as she had heard about her reinstatement, excited to be on a moving ship again and happy to be "home". Tom added his hand on top of Janeway's, drawing strength from the touch, as she did from his.
The Gettysburg's children were being cared for in the nursery, and Libby Kim confirmed that a number of crewmembers had already indicated they would take them in. Tom's quick consultation with B'Elanna confirmed her willingness to house little Andrée Gallagher until the children could be taken off the ship. When they were both on shift, Andrée – like Miral – would be looked after by Libby and her nursery staff, which had already been augmented by Harry through creative crew rotations.
Only four of the children – including one set of twins - had a parent who had been brought out of the Gettysburg alive. The small families were accommodated in quarters vacated by single Voyager crewmembers who had offered to double up with colleagues for the duration.
The older children had been told, and an encoded list of the casualties had been prepared; it was ready to be sent to Starfleet Headquarters Command the moment a comms window would open up. Given the interference from the anomaly, Asil had opined that this could take some time.
In the midst of the litany of problems and small victories, Arno Schmidt's voice came on, dripping with ill-concealed venom. The delegation of Denaros was protesting its "confinement", and wished to see the Federation envoy. As far as they were concerned, the attack on the Gettysburg had clearly been a Talar-led operation; the weapon used spoke for itself.
The Talari President, on the other hand, claimed that the Denarians must have seized and used Talari technology, in order to scuttle the peace talks. They clearly wanted the Federation to believe that the Denarians were the victims – an old ruse, that no one should fall for. He did not respond to Tom's caustic request for an explanation of how the Denarians had gotten their hands on the Talari's primary weapon of mass destruction.
The one thing both delegations seemed to agree on was that talks would be terminated. Admiral Janeway - and the Captain of the ship they were now on against their will and pursuant to circumstances beyond their control – simply must ensure their immediate return home.
Janeway's patience snapped. "Tell them to cool their heels for a while, Ensign. Tell them we're both injured. Anything. I don't care. I need to make sure the ship is safe before I deal with them."
She turned to Baytart. "How much longer to the anomaly?"
"We have reached the outer rim, Admiral."
Tom's eyes locked with Janeway's, as if seeking confirmation of what he was about to propose. His voice sounded questioning, almost unsure when he made his proposal.
"I don't think we need to go all the way into the thing to take advantage of its cloaking effect. From what I saw of the data the Gettysburg gathered, the gravimetric impulses emanating from the anomaly's core are reversing light wave polarity up to a quarter of a light year out. If we go too far in, we risk additional stresses on the hull. We should be safe if we stay in the outer rim and carry out evasive maneuvers at irregular intervals; the key is to keep our location unpredictable."
Janeway reflected for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Yes, you're probably right, Tom. Mr. Baytart, position?"
"Fifteen billion klicks out, sir."
"When you get to ten, bring her about."
Tom nodded, pleased that Janeway had accepted his suggestion rather than insisting on her first command. He looked around the bridge and noticed Ayala's dark eyes resting on him thoughtfully, a slight frown on his face. He briefly wondered what his tactical officer was thinking about when he should be focusing on tracking the alien ship, but his ruminations were interrupted.
Asil's clear, uninflected voice cut through the hum of the bridge, over the clatter now being made by the emergency repair crew.
"Captain, we are being hailed."
"On screen," Tom and Janeway said in unison. He flicked her a fleetingly amused look but said nothing, while she cleared her throat in mild embarrassment.
"Old habits …" she muttered by way of explanation, if not apology. Then added, "One way visuals only."
The screen showed what appeared to be a Talari in civilian clothing, but with distinctly military posture and demeanour. His face bore a deep scar that pulled up the corner of his mouth, giving him a somewhat sinister appearance that was augmented by the cold, calculating stare in his eyes.
What could be seen of the interior of his small ship was sparse, but the technology displayed seemed to Tom somewhat more advanced than their briefings had led them to believe the Talari possessed. He frowned briefly and tapped a couple of commands into his console while waiting for the man to speak.
"Federation vessel. You are harbouring those who ordered the rape, murder and mutilation of our innocent settlers and their children, and that traitor - the so-called Supreme Talon of Talar - who would lie down quietly, make peace with these beasts and then give them what is rightfully ours. There can be no peace, without justice for the wrongs done by Qorath and his ilk, and no legitimacy for Naldar's rule while he holds sway with them."
He drew a breath, as if to ensure that the extent and righteousness of his indignation would register properly, before continuing in the face of stony silence from his audience.
"We demand that you hand over Qorath and all members of the Denarian government present on your ship to negotiate this so-called peace, so that they may be tried for their crimes. We also demand that you hand over Naldar, who is unfit to rule over the Talari worlds and who has brought us nothing but shame. We honour Talith, defender of her people. She and the other members of the Talari delegation may go in peace. We mean her, and them, no harm."
Except for the fact that their cohorts almost melted them down with the rest of the Gettysburg. Collateral damage, no doubt. Kathryn and Tom exchanged glances. He shrugged; as far as he was concerned, negotiating with irrational fanatics was her area of specialty. He motioned to the comm link, inviting her to speak.
"Your demands are unacceptable. We are in the midst of negotiations for a peace that will benefit all the people in this sector. The Federation does not respond to blackmail, or to violence, and we won't be diverted from our goal, which is peace between Denaros and Talar."
The unknown Talari rose a little in his seat.
"You will comply with our demands, Federation vessel, and if you do not we will destroy you. You may hide now, but we know where you are and we will be waiting. But understand this: We are not afraid to die for what we believe in, and for what is right for our people."
He paused dramatically, as if wanting to make sure that his message would sink in.
"But our fight is not with the Federation. If you do not wish to die, send the Denarian delegation and Naldar out of this … this nebula in a shuttle, and you and Talith will be free to go. Justice will be done."
Another pause. "I speak for the Children of Talasar."
The Talari stared at the screen for a moment, before abruptly cutting the transmission without awaiting a response.
"Well," Tom said into the silence, "Nice to know that they didn't have a particular beef with the three hundred people they just murdered. Wonder what they'll do with the people they do have a problem with?"
He looked over at Janeway, who was staring thoughtfully at the screen, as if studying the after-image of the man, and listening to the echo of his words.
"Time for a discussion with the senior staff, I think." Tom reached for the comm panel in his chair.
"No, wait, Tom. I would like to hear what the Talari know about this character first," the Admiral said. "Then we can discuss options."
Tom frowned for a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose it couldn't hurt," he said. "Although I'm not sure, frankly, just how our tactical options would change as a result of whatever the Talari have to say. We'll still be stuck in the anomaly, with them waiting to attach themselves to our hull when we come out."
But there was no real challenge in his tone, even as Janeway frowned a little at having been questioned. He turned to Baytart. Positioned beside the pilot, he rested the heels of his hands on the helm console. "Pablo, carry out evasive maneuver patterns at random intervals, but make sure you don't go deeper in or farther out of the anomaly."
Baytart turned around. "Wouldn't we be safer deeper inside, Captain?"
Tom shook his head. "That depends on what you want to be safe from. Our friend there may have a version of the Scourge onboard, but contrary to his ill-informed assumption this is not a nebula. I remember the times I got stuck in subspace. It wasn't fun, and that was flying shuttles, not Voyager herself. We'll have to walk a rather fine line between the danger in here and what's waiting for us out there. Change positions frequently, but don't go in any deeper."
Kathryn studied the swirling vista on the view screen for a long moment, unseeing, as the stars that were just visible through the distortions at its rim shifted, stretched and twisted with the maneuvers Baytart coaxed out of Voyager.
"I'm not sure what the hell that was all about," she said as if to herself, although the look she gave Tom suggested that the question was not a rhetorical one. "A revolution on Talar? A faction of colonists bought off by the Denarians? Talasar was one of the colonies ravaged by Qorath and his troops. But why, in all the intel reports I have seen, and in the discussions with both Parties, have we never heard of a group that calls itself the Children of Talasar?"
Tom shifted his weight back onto his feet and released the helm, briefly clapping his conn officer on the shoulder as he turned towards the Admiral. If she was looking to him for input, he would be happy enough to provide it.
"You forgot independent commercial interests," he said. "Wouldn't be the first time … Either way, who or whatever they are, seems like a game changer to me."
There was no irony in his voice.
Kathryn nodded slowly. "Let's make sure they don't take over what we are trying to accomplish here. We still have two sides to an armed conflict to reconcile, and from where I stand, the Children of Talasar will not be allowed to interfere just because they have a big gun in their pocket."
She looked around the bridge, hands on hips. "Well, it looks like things are well in hand here. I'll go and see the two delegations and see what they have to say about this development. I'll call a senior officer's briefing as soon as I'm done. You have the bridge."
And with that, she rose from her chair and headed for the turbolift, leaving the Tom to exchange a slightly puzzled glance with his First Officer, who shrugged. Some things, apparently, never changed.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: "Touché" is what fencers will say to acknowledge a hit, raising their hand in the process. Theoretically, anyway; most fencers would rather not admit that they've been hit - especially when the scoring apparatus registers simultaneous hits, or one that's valid and one off-target - in the hope that the referee messes things up and doesn't score it against them. I mean, seriously. That whole gentlemanly, acknowledge-your-opponent's-finesse-and-hand-him-the-weapon-when-he-drops-it-in-mid-fight thing? Highly exaggerated, hate to wreck your illusion here. At least when it comes to matches during competitions.
But sometimes a hit just is so bloody obvious that you might as well get points for sportsmanship by acknowledging it; the referee will do it for you in any event. Then straighten your blade, to buy some time and to make sure it will bend to your will the next time, and try to even up the score.