AN: I'm finally returning to writing. It's been a long hard slog to get diagnosed with my autoimmune disease and find a treatment that works. Hopefully, I'll get around to finishing my long-forgotten stories. I can't commit to updating as often as I would like, but at least the muse is returning.
Chapter Nine: Maligned.
Thirty-seven hours. It took the discontented element of the combined Starfleet and Maquis crew a little over a day and a half to discover each other. A few exchanged words, and suddenly they had a focus for their fear. Emotions heightened, stranded thousands of light-years from home, it became easy to decide on the target, especially with the Captain playing her senior officers against one another and only one complete outsider to focus their anger, resentment and frustration.
Someone grabbed Tom from behind, placing a bag impenetrable to both light and air over his head. The sudden darkness didn't faze the operative who had been expecting this attack. However, the tightening of a cord around his throat caused his body to act instinctively. Fighting his reflexes and forcing himself to relax by dropping his hands to his side, Tom triggered the SpecOp's comm badge he'd replicated into the sleeve of his standard uniform.
Opening a ship wide channel, Commander Paris silently called for help while slowing his breathing. Attempting to conserved what little oxygen remained in the bag, Tom hoped he'd be rescued in time. Hyperaware of his surroundings, the officer realised he'd been attacked by three, very well trained and strong assailants. The blows rained down on his chest from both sides as someone continued to strangle him. Paris both felt and heard three ribs crack, then the punches go lower and around to his back. There were aimed at his kidneys to maximise damage and pain. The pattern familiar for a Maquis attack, combined with the strong fingers on the garrotte suggested Starfleet training. Still he took the beating without fighting back, hoping help would soon be at hand.
When he finally went down, the vicious kick to the head stopped the pain as blackness encompassed the SpecOps Officer's mind. On the bridge, Tuvok understood the sounds issuing from his station's speakers immediately. Alerting one of his teams, he authorised a site to site transport when he located Mr. Paris's comm signal in a hallway on deck six. The tactical officer expected something of this nature would eventually occur, just not quiet this soon and not for Mr. Paris to broadcast the incident throughout the ship.
"What the hell is that," Janeway rushed from her ready room. While asking the question, a sickening realisation hit her. "Tuvok," the Captain shouted, however the Vulcan held up his hand to forestall further questions.
"We don't want to kill him," came a raspy tone through the communications system. At this point, it became obvious Mr. Paris's attackers understood their words had been disseminated throughout Voyager. Every person on board heard to their vicious assault and Tom's moans of pain. By the time the security team arrived, Commander Paris's assailants fled and he needed to be transported directly to sick bay.
"Tuvok, you're with me. Chakotay, you have the bridge. I'll be in sick bay," Janeway ordered, rushing towards the turbolift. Stilted silence stretched between the Captain and tactical officer as they hurried through Voyager's halls. "Doctor, how is he," Kathryn asked the moment the doors opened, worry and anger evident on her features.
"Commander Paris has a concussion," the EMH reported, moving around the unconscious body in the surgical alcove with a medical tricorder in hand. "Three broken ribs, he's lucky, they only caused contusions to both lungs. Bruised kidneys and liver. The worst injury is to his trachea," the hologram pointed out the red line encircling his patient's throat. "The swelling resulting from the physical trauma and decreased blood oxygen levels have led me to place Mr. Paris on temporary respiratory support. I suspect it will take several hours to treat all his injuries but he will be back to duties within forty-eight hours."
"I see," Janeway allowed one eyebrow to rise. "Let me know if anything changes, Doctor."
"Captain," the EMH paused, as if unsure how to report his suspicions. "These injuries were inflicted upon Mr. Paris in a pattern to cause maximal pain and suffering, but not inflict life threatening injury. Even the pressure of the ligature," the doctor pointed to an area on Tom's throat, "did not cut deeply enough for complete strangulation. Quite clearly, the aim was to incapacitate Mr Paris. I find it concerning that the Commander obviously did not fight back, even though he has the strength to do so. I am unable to locate any defensive wounds. Until he is ready for discharge, I am keeping a force field around this bay for Mr. Paris's protection."
"You believe this to be a warning," the Tactical Officer asked, his eyebrow rising in typical Vulcan fashion.
"Yes," the EMH offered with a sigh, before returning his attention to the patient, "and that Mr Paris did nothing to offer resistance."
"Thank you, Doctor," Tuvok nodded, indicating his captain ask no further questions with a quelling look. "I shall require a full report so I may investigate this incident."
"Tuvok?" Janeway enquired after leaving sickbay. Concern littered her grey eyes. It didn't matter what her personal feeling towards Tom Paris, no one attacked a member of her crew in such a manner and got away with it. Especially the third in command. Yet, Kathryn felt slightly guilty. Her behaviour towards the man had not been exemplary and no doubt, in part, led to this altercation.
"I suspect Mr Paris knew he would be attacked and chose not to fight back for his own reasons," Tuvok stated. "Indeed, Mr. Paris prepared for this event, both to ensure his safety and bring the perpetrators to justice. I was able to lock onto the signals of three crew members who were in the same location."
"Have them report to my ready room," the Captain barely held in her fury. Eyes blazing, she stopped in the middle of the corridor.
"That would not be wise," Tuvok counselled, directing them to approach the turbolift as if they were discussing normal ships business. "I am not certain; however, I believe the Commander allowed this incident to occur for his own reasons. Until he is awake, may I suggest we appear to investigate, allowing the perpetrators to consider themselves safe from reprisal. I suspect such an action will augment Mr Paris's plans. At this time I suspect he is attempting to flush out the malcontent element."
"I won't condone this behaviour on my ship, Tuvok," Janeway glared at her tactical officer as they entered the lift. With only a few moments left to speak in complete privacy, she ordered, "you have until Mr. Paris wakes. Then I want to speak with him myself. I don't care what his allegiance, officers on Voyager do not carry out their own missions without first including the Captain."
"Aye, Captain," Tuvok responded, allowing one eyebrow to rise. This subtle movement got his message across better than words ever could. Only the long association allowed the Vulcan to chastise his commanding officer for her behaviour which, in part, caused the current issue with Mr Paris.
Deposited on the bridge, Janeway once again removed to her ready room to consider this latest information. She would have to quell the feelings generated by both Paris and Torres. As a Starfleet Officer, Janeway found it almost impossible to trust an operative who seamlessly inserted himself into the Maquis for three years. At some point, Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres must have developed at least sympathy for the Maquis cause.
Is that the issue? Kathryn, the woman asked Janeway, the Captain as she looked out at the unfamiliar starfield. Is that why I don't trust Paris? Less than a week ago, I would have believed everything I heard about the man. He mocked me from the bridge of a Maquis raider, as if he really were the First Officer of that vessel. I have very little proof that he's an intelligence officer, other than his ability to get out of the brig by using an authentic Starfleet SpecOp's override code and replicate a uniform. Admiral Patterson wasn't forthcoming with details, only that he wanted the man back at HQ for debrief.
Sighing, Janeway flopped onto the couch. The stack of PADD's on her desk ignored. The Captain needed a moment to think without the constant demands of running the ship. The inability to delegate had always been Kathryn failing and it caused the majority of her difficulties now.
"I have competent officers," she sighed heavily, the words tumbling out, heard only by her reflection, "in Tom Paris and Chakotay. If only I could trust them."
Rolling her eyes, Kathryn realised she hadn't trusted Cavitt either, and he'd been a Starfleet officer his entire career. This issue, Janeway came to the startling conclusion, is me. I need to learn to let go. How did Tuvok gain my trust all those years ago?
The answer would not come easily. Continuing to stare out at the inky sky filled with unfamiliar stars, the Captain realised she was just as lost as her crew. Determined to get them home, it increased her feelings of responsibility and loneliness. I cannot go seventy years with only Tuvok as my friend. I must make peace with Chakotay, Paris and Torres, if there is to be any functional cooperation between the senior officers.