Day 16

"There's really not much else to report…"

"Not much else to report, or nothing else to report?" the captain snaps at Kim. Her sharp tone rouses Sir from his distracted state. He glances at her, finds her lips pursed and her fists clenched on the tabletop.

"Nothing else to report, Ma'am," Kim confirms, blushing slightly.

"Next?"

B'Elanna leans forward in her seat. "Just before gamma shift change last night, we found a tricorder on the upper deck of main engineering," she says, fiddling with the suspect device in her hands. She pauses, looks to the captain for direction.

"Are you prepared to share those findings now, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, I am. I just wanted to be sure you didn't want to hear them in private first."

"We have no secrets here." She waves the engineer on. Sir is taken aback at how impatient the captain has grown. This is her wall, he thinks. She's finally put up shields against the unending onslaught of devastating news.

"Okay," B'Elanna begins. "We checked the serial number, located the matching tricorder, and analyzed the data..." Slowly, almost painfully so, the engineer rises from her chair. Sir worries again that his friend has not been getting adequate rest. She winces and Paris, to her right, jumps reflexively, but she ignores him and proceeds to the computer panel on the wall.

"As you can see, the last twelve batches of data remained in the memory buffer. The first five entries are gel pack viability analyses, the timing and results of three of those readings match with our version of the tricorder."

"When was the last scan performed?" the captain asks.

"The last matching reading was taken three days ago. I'd expect the fourth reading will be taken tomorrow, and the fifth in five more days past that."

"Who normally performs these analyses?"

"Ensign Vorik. This tricorder is from his toolbox."

Sir isn't sure that he understands completely where this information is heading, but he listens intently, trying to stay focused.

"After the fifth reading is where things get a little… interesting," B'Elanna continues. "At ten days out, someone scans for life signs from behind a bulkhead. There are twenty-four individuals identified. Six humans, one Vulcan, and seventeen aliens."

"Seventeen aliens?" the captain asks with a gasp; her stoicism breaking.

"Yes, and of those there appear to be at least six different species."

"Maybe we'll be holding negotiations," Paris suggests with an unconvincing shrug.

"If we are, they're not going to go very well," B'Elanna says. "Because two days later the tricorder is used as a comm unit and receives text orders."

She points to the screen where Sir reads:

18:30:45: blow charges on mark
18:31:22: MARK

"Well, that might explain the debris," Kim says, his voice flat.

"Indeed," Tuvok concurs.

"Go on," the captain prods. She leans forward, folds her hands and does not dare look away from the screen.

"This is…" B'Elanna shifts her feet. "This next one you're going to have to hear." She taps the panel and a staticky, panting voice fills the room.

"This is Jacobson. I've been hit. Fucking Ayala got me in the back. I made it to Jefferies tube eleven… eleven something. Paris says to hang on. Someone's coming to help but I… they won't be quick enough… Whoever finds this, tell my family I'm sorry. Tell them I wanted to see them again so… so badly. Carey, Gilmore… anyone left… They used to be us, but don't let them fool you…"

There is a long pause and everyone remains silent. Sir doesn't dare breathe. B'Elanna continues to stare at the floor.

"Get… our ship… back."

"That's it," B'Elanna says, ending playback. "A half-day later someone accessed and copied the recording."

"Did he say Ayala?" Kim asks.

B'Elanna simply nods.

Sir glances to the captain. Her jaw is set and her eyes focused straight ahead.

"That was how many?" he asks, wanting to get the rest of this over with. "Eight?"

"That was the ninth record," B'Elanna confirms, she taps forward to the next display. "Record number ten is someone diagnosing power failures. There are thirty-seven couplings damaged beyond repair and fifteen which are still operational."

She pages ahead.

"Records eleven and twelve begin twenty-five hours apart, sixteen and seventeen days from now. They begin early in the morning and are used for the better part of each day to check for structural instabilities. Let's just say the results aren't good."

"Shocker," Tom says under his breath. B'Elanna clicks off the display and walks back toward her husband. He pulls out her chair and she sits down carefully.

"Does anyone have anything to say about this… information?" the captain asks. "Tuvok?"

"There is ample data here to begin drawing a number of inferences, however I would prefer to review the material again and then speak with you in private before voicing those conclusions to the group."

The captain nods. "I've changed my mind on our little rule about secrets. What you saw here, what you heard..." she points at each of them in turn, "doesn't leave this room. Understand?"

Everyone nods, but no one dares breathe a 'yes, Ma'am.'

"Dismissed."


Neelix
Personal Log
Stardate: 54760.2

It's nearly noon and I'm still feeling rotten. I'm queasy and hot. Good news is at least my vision and my mind are beginning to clear a bit. I woke up this morning in a fog as thick as Jubalian spice-pudding.

The Doctor ran some scans, said my blood-pressure is elevated and my neurotransmitter levels – whatever those are – are massively imbalanced. He accused me of self-medicating! Can you imagine? I've never done such a thing in my life... or, well… not onboard Voyager. I'd never. Of all the preposterous things to suggest. Needless to say, I gave him a piece of my mind.

He finally settled on the diagnosis of stress-induced fatigue.

Stress? Ha. I'd believe that stress would make my head pound and my stomach ache, but can it also leave a strange taste in your mouth? I'd swear I've been eating lemons. And can stress take away a whole day from you? Because I can't remember anything at all from yesterday… I'm told that I served breakfast, and lunch. I met with Commander Chakotay about crew morale in the evening, then no one saw me again until I didn't show up for breakfast this morning and people started to worry. I just… went to bed, I suppose, slept right through all of my wake-up alarms. The whole thing is very odd, and rather frightening if you ask me.

Maybe the Doctor is right. Stress and nerves. I'm getting too old for this. I think I'll just try to sleep a bit more and maybe I'll be well enough to serve breakfast tomorrow. Until then, Chell can continue to cover for me.


Day 17

Cpt. Kathryn Janeway
Personal Log
Stardate: 54764.1

The Doctor came to see me today. He's concerned for the rising number of patients complaining of stress-related symptoms.

Without going into specifics, the reported incidents of headaches, insomnia – or conversely, people falling asleep at their post – gastrointestinal distress, and other anxiety issues have risen drastically in the last two weeks. And poor Neelix, his situation is alarming to say the least.

To be perfectly honest, the stress is beginning to get to me, too. Tuvok approached me a week ago, and now the Doctor has seen fit to express concern for my well-being. Both of them have hinted around the idea that I'm chronically depressed, though they wouldn't dare say it so directly. Quite frankly, I'm surprised that Chakotay hasn't been checking in. A few years ago, he would have been the first at my door, making sure I was resting and eating… but then, he's been extremely busy. And times have changed.

I digress.

Moving forward, we're continuing to direct efforts on two fronts – prevention and preparedness.

The Doctor bent my ear for a good while about how our survival training has grown complacent, and he's right. I have therefore directed him to begin refresher first-aid classes for every member of the crew. His first students start bright and early tomorrow, and I expect they will all be eager and attentive.

This afternoon, our medics began stockpiling supplies both in sickbay and in three other locations that can serve as treatment centers, should the need arise. We've created secondary backups to the EMH's program and B'Elanna's teams are going to install holo-emitters in cargo bay two and the mess hall. I have also ordered the doubling of available medkits in all workrooms on the ship and had one delivered to each crew member's quarters. Tomorrow, I think I'll add additional pre-packaged food and water rations to the list.

Tuvok is still running tactical drills in both holodecks for the better part of the day. We need to re-open them soon for recreation, though, stress-relief is about to become priority number one. Even the best trained soldiers are no good if they're not calm.

Some may see this preparation as misdirected paranoia, but I see the efforts serving a dual purpose. We will be prepared for whatever threatens us, either now or in the distant future. And, a busy, empowered crew won't have as much time to idly dwell on what-ifs.

In the meanwhile, there's not much else to be done. I'm going to try to keep up with my personal log a little bit more deliberately. Writing down what we're doing seems to help me relax… it's one of the only things that does these days. Heaven knows I need to do something other than wear a path in the carpeting of my quarters.


Day 18

"You probably don't know this, Captain," the woman begins, "but I like to paint."

Sir casts a glance across the ready room desk. The captain's lips are pressed tight together and so he moves the conversation forward.

"I remember, Mariah," he says, angling slightly toward the officer. "You showed me your folio when we were on the Val Jean."

Crewman Henley smiles slightly and demurs. "Well, I'm in the middle of creating a series of paintings. I've been doing one a week on these little canvases." From the black pouch she carried in, she pulls a piece, not much larger than a padd. "I pick a room with a bit of a view and do part of the interior of the ship juxtaposed with some portion of the stars outside."

She lays the canvas flat on the desk and spins it toward the captain. "I painted this one two days ago, from the couch in the mess hall."

Sir takes a moment to admire the work which depicts the side of an unknown officer in a science-blue uniform, seated at a table with a vase of flowers. In the background are the viewports, and a striking swirl of pinks and reds with black space and stars visible just beyond.

"The nebula is beautiful," Sir remarks.

"I agree," the captain says. He is relieved to finally hear her voice. "You're very talented."

Sir notices Henley start to blush. "Thank you, but that's not why I'm here."

"I assumed not."

They watch as she pulls another work from the pouch.

"This one," Henley says, placing the second painting next to the first, "was waiting for me in my quarters when I got back this morning."

Sir doesn't look to the second painting; his gaze remains fixed on the captain. She draws a deep breath and then releases it slowly.

"They're the same."

He finally chances a look.

"They're… almost the same," Henley says. "I've been studying them for the last hour. The flowers in the vase are just a little different. The one I painted – rather, the one I remember painting – has an extra daisy. And, the person in the uniform, Crewman McMinn, is missing in the second painting."

"Still," Sir says, "they're remarkably similar."

"There's one other thing," she says, spinning the first painting around. "Dalby flopped down onto the couch next to me and bumped my arm when I was working on the edge of the nebula. I made a little mistake. I don't really expect anyone else to notice, but it's not on the second canvas."

"I don't suppose you've dated these?" the captain asks.

"As a matter of fact…" Henley bites her lip and flips both over. "They match. Though I don't really need the date to confirm it. The view of the nebula is constantly changing; these weren't just done on the same day, but at nearly the same time as well."

The captain nods her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Thank you, Crewman," she says. "You're dismissed now."

"Yes, Ma'am," Henley replies. She shoots Sir an awkward glance and then takes her leave.


Captain's Log, Supplemental
Stardate: 54767.4

The attached file was just provided to me by Crewman Harren. A padd containing this log was found on his nightstand at approximately 0210 hours and tested positive for chroniton radiation.

Copied File: Security Protected
Personal Log
Crewman Mortimer Harren
Stardate: 54912.0

Well. Let's see. It's been about a week since I've done one of these and I'm waiting for a diagnostic to finish on the deflector array, so I figured, what the hell. Maybe talking'll keep me awake in this god-awful tube.

As is evidenced by the fact that I'm still dictating to a padd, the main computer core remains well and truly screwed. When we brought that puppy down, we really brought it down. Quite frankly, I'm surprised that we've been able to get anything done without it. I'll say this much for Carey, he must have been paying attention all those years serving under B'Elanna. He's come up with some pretty creative solutions. She'd be proud of him.

I'd like to think she'd be proud of all of us.

Aw, fuck. Who cares, really? I'm getting sentimental down here in the dungeon.

We're still in grey mode but coming out soon. When we do, the captain assures us we'll get at least one replicated meal a day. And not a minute too soon, I'm damn sick of rations. I didn't have the kilos to lose like some of the others – namely Chell. Now that I think about it, the one good thing to come of all of this is that at least I don't have to share quarters anymore.

I heard Sam Wildman finally made it out of sickbay. She's the last. A lot of people didn't think she'd pull through, especially after Naomi... I mean really, why bother? But, the death toll stands at seventy-three. Far too many for us to keep going. And then, of course, there's the radiation that's slowly killing us, not like we could stay aboard even if we wanted to.

Doc says we'll all live long enough to make it to the planet, but some people are really starting to show signs of poisoning. Bronowski yacked all over my shoes in the turbolift yesterday and then passed out. He'll be ok, but that's another able-body on restricted duty.

In a way, it's a shame to have come this far just to settle now. Janeway'd be pissed, that's for sure. Of all the shitty decisions she made for us over the years… well, she really stuck it to us with that last one. I mean, I'm as much for first contact and diplomacy as the next guy, but I'd rather survive to see tomorrow. Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if anyone else had been calling the shots.

Ow. Dammit. Shit-ass tube.

Where was I… Oh, right.

Never thought I'd say this, but I'm grateful for Chakotay. There were a lot of people who thought he'd lose his marbles considering what went down with Janeway, but he's kept it together. He stepped up, put on the big-boy boots, and is leading us to a place where we might actually have a chance.

Another two weeks at impulse and we'll be… home. I guess that's what we'll call it. I hope it's as nice as the scout party says. I plan on finding myself a little corner somewhere and just staying the hell away from everyone for the rest of my life.

Ah, finally. The diagnostic is done. I have twenty minutes to grab a nap before hitting the next hundred things on my list.