Day 95
Sir approaches the makeshift village from the west, moving slowly through the tall grasses which swish past his legs. The sun is beginning to set as he lumbers on; he hadn't realized that he'd wandered so far away and now, with every fiber in his body screaming, he wishes he had stayed closer to home.
Home.
That's what this is, after all.
Drawing closer to the settlement, voices become clearer. People are milling about in the last minutes before dark. Warm light from inside the modular constructs drift out into the trodden lane that connects the thirty-nine buildings as a kind of neighborhood.
He smiles and nods to Henley, Gilmore, and Murphy who are sitting near a campfire, glances to Harren, who is apparently too stubborn to stop reading just because it's now dark, catches sight of two people walking hand in hand, though he can't make out who they are.
Eventually he comes up to kneel beside Carey and Vorik by the supply building. Vorik has a flashlight trained inside the casing of the main power-converter module.
"How are we doing?" Sir asks.
"The system is operating within expected tolerances," Vorik reports.
Carey shuts the manifold and turns the handle to lock it. "Tomorrow we'll hook up the third and fourth sets of solar panels. After that, and with everything we've syphoned off of Voyager, we'll be good to go for decades," he says.
Sir swears he hears a hint of pride in the man's voice, and rightfully so. After everything this crew has been through in the last months – fending off an insidious alien invasion, the loss of half of their comrades, then hobbling through space on minimal resources – the long-term survival of those who are left no longer rests with commanding officers, rather, with a handful of skilled engineers.
He shows his approval with a pat on Carey's back. Then, with effort, he rises and continues on his way.
A faint smell of hot, sweet fruit wafts past. A couple dozen meters ahead, Neelix is standing above a large stew pot, stirring, while Chell looks over his shoulder. Just beyond the cooking fire is the edge of the vast grove of food-laden trees which made this valley so appealing a place to settle. Several people, barely more than shadows, are gathering kindling for their fires. One of them is singing softly. Tal, he realizes. Tal is the one humming. And Rollins is with her.
Nozawa emerges from his home to bring in a few towels which had been left to dry by the sun. "Evening, Captain," he says.
Sir dispenses with the need to correct him – there are no titles here, not anymore – and instead he simply wishes the man a restful night.
He chances a glance towards the pond to the north, sees a few people bathing there. Moonlight, now brighter than the sunset, reflects off the mirrored surface, highlighting the figures in its wake.
Nearing the edge of the settlement, Sir focuses his attention to seek out one specific person. He could use his communicator, certain that his former first officer still carries one, but looking with his eyes and heart feels more organic in this place.
The effects of a long day and an even longer walk has him fatigued to his very core. He rests a moment with his hand against one of the modules, Baytart and Dorado's home, he believes. But somewhere along the way he's lost track of who lives where. He tries to focus, takes in a long breath, and the nausea which has been steadily building is allayed for a moment.
Another twenty meters ahead, he finds Paris cleaning his boots on a squat bench outside of the dwelling he now shares with Samantha Wildman. What an unexpected pair, he thinks, Tom and Sam. The only two with families on board – both of those families torn apart. Each surviving with grief far greater than the others, yet somehow bonded by it.
Sir remembers the night Samantha finally woke in sickbay, the Doctor was still offline and Tom, though nearly paralyzed by his own anguish, was so intently focused on saving this one, last person. Sir worried in that moment that if Samantha were lost, Tom surely would be as well.
He also remembers coming to Samantha's bedside the next day, when it was fairly certain that she would survive, prepared to tell her about Naomi but unable to form the words. That's when Tom stepped up, said simply, "Let me."
"Ah, Chakotay."
Sir is roused from his memories as Tom looks up from his boot. "Right on time. Hang on and I'll get the, uh… stuff." He disappears into the house.
Sir takes Tom's seat, puts his head between his legs, and inhales a few deep breaths. He reminds himself that in just a few moments, the pernicious voice inside his head will be muzzled, relegated once again to that of a silent bystander.
"You've been gone a while. I was wondering if we were going to have to send a search party," Tom says, re-emerging.
"Just out for a walk." The cool hypo is pressed to his neck, and he waits for the bit of relief to spread throughout his body.
"Nice night for it," Tom replies, releasing the medication. "How's that?"
It takes a moment, but soon Sir's pain, and the insidious noise, abates. "Better, thank you."
"Any more hallucinations?" Tom asks, squatting low in front of him.
"No. Still gone."
"You know, Chakotay," Tom says, biting his lip. "Exerting yourself isn't going to help your situation. Doc said –"
"I know what the Doctor said," Sir replies, too tired to snap as he would otherwise do. "It doesn't really matter, does it? Two weeks or three? I'd rather see what I can while I'm able. Plus, I needed to get away and think."
Tom's brow is furrowed, his eyes cast downward. "I just wish there was some other way…"
"I wish a lot of things, too," Sir says, fighting back a rising tide of sorrow mixed with sickness. He lifts his chin, stands from the bench and tugs at his shirt. "So, tomorrow," he says, "I trust you've spoken with everyone?"
Tom nods. "There are just a few things we need to grab. Joe and I will have the Flyer ready whenever you are."
"Right after breakfast," Sir says. "Goodnight. And thank you."
Day 96
In comparison to the planet below, the artificial atmosphere onboard is cold, dry, and stinks of burnt metal.
From the moment he steps foot into the shuttlebay, Sir's eyes begin to play tricks on him once again. He blinks once, twice, but the vision of a crewmember in blue doesn't disappear. He focuses toward this semi-transparent image of a long-dead officer still manning his post, then notices that Tom and Carey are both staring at him.
Sir shakes his head and the ghost fades away. Since he has their attention, he taps the band tied tight around his upper arm. "In case anyone has forgotten, keep your phase discriminator on and active at all times. We haven't lost anyone to the radiation pockets yet, and I don't intend to start today."
"And keep your weapon holstered, Paris," Carey prods. "No need to make the voids any bigger."
"Thanks for the reminder, though I'm not sure what else we could lose," Tom says with a sigh.
Side by side, they traverse the darkened corridors using SIMs beacons to light the way toward the one operational turbolift. The silence is thick and none of them dares break it. Once inside, Sir shies away from the image of a blonde woman, garnering a concerned glance from Tom.
Now, more than ever, Sir realizes that Voyager herself has changed. She is no longer the safe haven she once was, promising to return them to their loved ones. She is a graveyard. She is a curse.
But not for long.
"Ah! Captain, Commander, Chief, welcome aboard." The friendly face of the EMH-turned-ECH greets them as they exit onto the bridge. "I trust you've self-medicated appropriately for this little excursion?"
"Ten cc's arithrazine, as prescribed," Tom confirms.
"Doctor," Sir says. "Did you gather the last of the supplies?"
"Yes. Emergency Holographic Stockboy at your service. Everything has been collected in cargo bay one."
"Tom, get those supplies transported to the Flyer, then finish off the checklist. Joe, bring our thrusters online and make sure the other systems are ready to handle this last flight. I have a few things to take care of up here."
"Aye, Sir," the men reply, taking their leave.
"Computer, transfer command control from the ECH back to me. Authorization, Chakotay-lambda-one."
"Authorization confirmed. Command control has been transferred. ECH has been deactivated."
"Well, that was fun while it lasted," the Doctor says, his red uniform replaced once again by the more familiar blue version.
"Unless you have anything else you need, please report to the Flyer."
For a moment, the Doctor seems taken aback at Sir's abrupt tone, but he holds his tongue and retreats from the bridge without a word.
Sir has a number of places he needs to visit before he's ready. But first and foremost, he must stop at his office. If he's taking one last tour of the ship, he intends to do it with something of hers in his pocket.
To conserve what little power is left, all doors have been left open, so when he arrives on deck two, he needs only to turn a corner and walk straight to his desk. He settles in his old chair and reaches for the bottom drawer, moving aside a few pads, a picture. He's leaned over, feeling around in the dark. But he finds nothing.
He shines the beacon towards the back.
The velvet pouch is gone.
A knot tightens in his chest, his stomach lurches, and he slams the drawer closed.
'Of all the things that have disappeared from the ship in the last months, why did this have to be one of them?' he curses silently.
He focuses on a piece of artwork hanging on the wall, swallows his disappointment once more, then heaves himself from the chair and continues on.
Every deck holds another memory and another bitter tease of what used to be. He's walking on graves. Pushing past ghosts of the living. Nicoletti died there. Ashmore was overtaken here. He remembers blood and screams, the horror of crewmen murdering each other to keep from being killed themselves.
Then he turns a corner and sees – with tired eyes – living, breathing people going about their day.
The juxtaposition of life and death is almost too much for him to handle.
By the time he realizes that he has to take a break or risk collapsing, he's traversed the length and breadth of decks one through seven. His pace grinds to a near halt, his vision is begins to blur. From his pocket he retrieves a hypospray, dials up the dosage, and injects himself in the neck.
The next few steps are heavy, made possible only by the bracing of a hand against the bulkhead, but soon feeling returns to his feet and he pulls himself onward.
He's again moving at a decent clip by the time he reaches the midpoint of deck eight, but a tear in the carpeting trips his foot and he stumbles, causing him to crash to his knees. Pain shoots up his legs. A ghost, clad in a silver suit, walks right through him and it sends a shudder through his whole body. He casts his eyes downward until she is gone.
With a groan, Sir pulls himself upright to continue on towards astrometrics. Once inside, he activates the viewscreen, bringing forth a brilliant, blinding image of the closest star.
One hundred, fifty-two million kilometers and this will all be over.
Gas flairs, creating a momentary hotspot which then quickly dissipates. He imagines that Voyager will cause much the same reaction when she is flown into the corona. He wonders what, if anything, he'll feel riding her to oblivion.
Relief, he thinks. That is what he will feel.
He turns off the display and leaves the room.
No further than thirty paces down the hall is a place he's been dreading more than most.
An empty slot. A missing pod. He considers walking on past but owes them at least a moment of silence. Head bowed, he remembers:
Four people seeking refuge from the battle that was raging within, unable to seal the hatch in time. Powerless to stop from being ejected by one of their own.
They couldn't close the hatch.
They couldn't close the hatch.
His fist impacts the bulkhead above the docking clamps, leaving a dent and splitting his knuckles. He stares at the blood as it drips to his fingertips, but he doesn't feel much in the way of actual pain these days, and maybe that's for the best.
He wipes the back of his hand against his trousers and drags himself away.
Deck nine, section twelve.
Until now, his trek has been punctuated by absolute silence. As such, the muffled sobs coming from the last quarters on the left are startling to say the least.
"I promised myself I wouldn't come back in here," Tom says as Sir steps through the open door. The commander is sitting on the side of an unmade bed, head hung, one hand on the edge of a white bassinet. Tears are falling down his cheeks but he doesn't bother to wipe them away.
"After she died… once we got the ship back. I couldn't bring myself to cross the threshold. I slept on Harry's couch for six weeks."
"I didn't know that."
"You had other things on your mind," Tom says, looking up. "And you had me do the relocations, remember?" Sir watches as his friend runs a finger along the pristine rail then wipes the dust onto his trousers. "Somehow, living with his ghost was easier than living with hers. Even when it came time to pack, I couldn't do it myself. I sent Sam."
Tom touches a finger to the mobile which hangs above the small bed. He spins it absentmindedly and the motion is mesmerizing.
"She'd have been a month old, you know. B'Elanna was due the day we arrived at the planet. The worst part is, I forgot. I didn't realize until a few days later." He stills the mobile. "I forgot, Chakotay. The birth of my child, what would have been the happiest day of my life, and I forgot."
"So did I," Sir admits softly.
"I worked so hard for what I had… I tried so hard…" Tom looks up, eyes pleading for an answer, an absolution. "How did things go so wrong, so quickly?"
Sir wants to convey words of compassion. He wants to somehow alleviate the man's suffering. But he has no meaningful way to do so, and as such, they linger in silence.
"Carey to Captain Chakotay."
Sir clears his throat, taps his combadge, "Go ahead."
"Everything checks out in engineering. Thrusters are ready to make the burn to leave orbit. You'll have enough for a twenty-two second burst. Feel free to set autopilot whenever you're ready."
"Thanks, Joe. Make any last stops you need, then report back to the Flyer."
"Yes, sir."
"And Carey… good work."
The line goes silent.
"The Flyer's packed," Tom says, standing from the bed. "Let's get this over with. Maybe once this ship is gone, it'll be easier to forget."
Tom walks out without looking back. But Sir first reaches to the mobile and takes from it a small, golden Voyager and tucks it in his pocket.
In the hall Tom turns left toward the turbolift. Sir stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "You should go to the Flyer," he says. "I've got this."
"What are you talking about? I thought we were going to do this together."
"This is something I have to do alone, Tom."
"Wait…" Tom says, realization dawning in his eyes. "You're not coming back with us, are you?"
Sir shakes his head.
"Damn. I knew it," Tom says, taking a step back as if painful decisions were contagious.
"It comes down to the fact that the Doctor can't say what will happen when I die," Sir explains methodically. "He thinks there's a possibility that the alien will regain control of its abilities – "
"And that it will timeshift again and attack another one of us. I know. I was there." His expression is pained for a minute then changes to a morbid smile and he lets out a chuckle. "At least you have a good reason. For a minute I thought you were going to say that a captain's gotta go down with his ship."
"This ship already took down her captain," Sir says softly. "And maybe that's part of it, but I really don't have a death wish. You all need to live free of this final threat."
For a moment, Sir thinks that this man, his friend, will try to dissuade him, try to get him to wait a while longer, until the end draws closer. But instead, Tom takes a deep breath, extends a hand, and says, "It's been an honor, Chakotay."
"The honor was mine," he says, meeting him with a firm grip.
"What do I tell them?"
"The truth. They deserve the truth. There are letters for each of them in my nightstand. Please see they're delivered. And my medicine bundle, it's on my bed. Would you bury it, under one of the fruit trees in the grove?"
Tom's eyes cast downward. "Of course."
"Thank you for your help and your sacrifices, Tom. Those people, our crew, they're lucky to have you to lead them. I know you'll keep them safe."
From his pocket, Sir produces the toy Voyager. He places it into his friend's hand.
"And please, don't forget everything."
With the Flyer safely away, Sir feels the last of his ties to life being cut. Only one thread remains.
Her quarters are straight ahead. They're his last stop and the only room left onboard with the door still locked. He hasn't been there since before she died, but now he knows he needs to. Like Tom, this is his last chance to make some kind of peace.
Sir pops the side panel in the hall, allowing a manual release. The door creaks and stops at halfway open, but it's wide enough for him to squeeze through.
For how long the quarters have been shut up, he expects stale air, musty, and dank. But it's not. To his dismay, it smells like her.
He runs a hand along her dining table; two candles, never lit, remain in their holders. How many dinners had they had there? How many laughs? How many arguments? Was there even a way to count?
He tears himself away from his recollections and looks around the dimly lit room. Her pictures still hang on the walls, a uniform jacket rests on the back of a chair.
Softly, he pads into the bedroom. Her sanctuary. The only place he never really knew her. And oh, he so wanted to know her there.
His beacon skims the chamber; dust motes catch in the beam. Light reflects off the mirror, then again from another shiny surface sitting upright on her dresser. He walks towards it and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. In a silver frame, he finds a picture of them.
"New Earth," he whispers, "Kathryn…" He is truly shocked to find the photograph there, never believing she'd have kept such a thing, especially not where she would undoubtedly see it every day.
Memories, unbidden, flood back to him. He feels the warm sunlight on his face, sees her green dress flowing in the breeze. For a moment he is lost; it makes coming back to reality that much more difficult.
Sir reverently puts the picture back in its place and turns to leave, but a faded image on the bed gives him pause. He sweeps his light across the pillows, illuminating ever-so-slightly the form of a woman there.
He gasps.
It's her.
She's sitting with her back against the headboard, ankles crossed, wearing a pink silk nightgown and robe. She harbors an expression of sadness as she stares down at her lap.
His first instinct is to look away, he's not meant to see her like this, at least, not here. But his eyes remain fixed to the vision.
Tentatively, Sir steps forward to see what has her attention. The ghostly image wafts away for a moment and then back again. In one hand she has a small gold bar, the one he lost months ago. In the other, a set of pips. On her lap is a velvet pouch.
The velvet pouch.
She closes her fists around the insignias, holds them both to her lips and looks towards the ceiling.
"Kathryn," he whispers, testing. She doesn't look up.
"I understand," he says. "I finally… understand."
And surely, he does. These hallucinations aren't just memories and hauntings, misfires within a damaged mind, they're glimpses into the past. The chroniton particles – remnants from the aliens that overtook them, the ones that riddle the ship making her too dangerous to destroy in open space – when viewed through the lens of the menace in his brain, must have been allowing him to see through the spatial tears. And if he can see into the past, then maybe, just maybe…
He runs from the room and goes straight to her desk. In one swoop, he slides everything off of the top and onto the floor, save for one padd which he quickly clears of all other data.
Then, he takes a steadying breath to collect his thoughts, and begins to record.
He pours his heart and soul, every last ounce of hope he can muster into that letter. He speaks of alien invasions and uninformed decisions, he tells the tales of personal sacrifice and desperation, he professes and he pleads and bleeds into that letter.
When he is through, he uses the tricorder from his belt to locate a pocket of chroniton particles near her dresser. Then he fires a low-intensity phaser beam into the outer fringe and tosses the padd into the void.
