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mandragoraNearly there.
******
[TO BE INSERTED AFTER THE SECTION ON BLOODFEVER]
"We're hit!" Ensign Lang cried, from her position in the co-pilot's chair next to Hamilton.
Margaret spared her a glare. "I know. Give me a damage report will you."
From the back of the shuttle, Ensign Vorik's calm voice could be heard. "Inertial dampeners are affected, I estimate that they have lost 72.8% percent function. In addition, both the warp dive and impulse power have been affected. Warp drive will go offline in no more than 11.7 minutes and I estimate we have no more than 7.3% impulse drive capacity."
Hamilton groaned inwardly. Damn! That meant they were going down and soon. Even as she pondered what best to do, Paris' voice, from his position in the lead shuttle, could be heard demanding a report. At Hamilton's explanation of the position, there was a short silence.
Then, "Okay," Paris said decisively. "It looks like your shuttle's in the worse shape, Marge, so you'll have to lead the way down and the rest of us will stay with you. The last thing we need is to be split up."
"But can't you carry on and come back for us."
"We're all hit, Marge. Not one of the shuttles left is spaceworthy."
Hamilton attempted to digest that information. "All of us?" she squeaked.
"Yep. Looks like the Hock'emn prediction that this part of the system was safe to fly through was totally wrong. I've never seen such intense fire, for a supposedly friendly part of space anyway," Paris said dryly. "By my calculations, there's no way your shuttle will get through that mine field up ahead and I'm not too sure about the rest of us either. So, we're going to have to land on the Gr'tig planet there."
"But, hasn't that seen some pretty heavy fighting?" Ensign Grimes objected from the helm of the third shuttle in their convoy.
"Do you have a better idea?" was Paris' response.
A heavy sigh came over the commlink. "Sorry sir, you're right."
"Okay, Marge, try and aim for the smallest continent, will you," said Paris. "From what little sensor readings we can pick up through all this interference, that's the area that looks to be in the best shape. Grimes and I will follow you."
"Understood sir," was the tense response. Hamilton sent off the standard distress call, letting Voyager know what had happened to her shuttle, then concentrated on the conn with grim determination. This was quite possibly going to be the most difficult landing she'd ever attempted, a nightmare with flak surrounding them, a mine field ahead and with both warp drive, impulse engines and inertial dampeners severely affected. Come to think of it, this bore a certain resemblance to one of Tom Paris' piloting programmes that he had instituted while he was still Chief Pilot. She'd been a little disbelieving that he insisted all the pilots on board had to succeed on the sim before they were allowed to take Voyager's helm, but found herself thankful for it now.
As they entered the atmosphere of the planet, the little shuttle's motion increased drastically as the vessel yawned from side to side, buffeted by atmospheric turbulence. With inertial dampeners offline, there was little Hamilton could do to compensate. She was aiming for the smallest continent, while flying over the middle of the largest when, suddenly, the shuttle was thumped in the side, sending it spinning round; they'd been hit by fire from the ground. Hamilton fought desperately to regain control of the wildly turning shuttle, succeeding too late, they were going to have to land, here, now. And land was a euphemism; what they were actually going to do was crash. Hamilton stared at the sensor readings, trying desperately to find a spot where she could set the shuttle down. She was unaware that she was leaning back in her seat as though by shifting her bodyweight she could somehow delay the landing. By her side, she could dimly hear Lang reporting their position to Paris and his response that the other two shuttles would continue to follow them in.
She yelled at her crew to brace themselves for impact, then, far too soon, the ground was rushing up to meet them, closer...closer...then impact!
Hamilton didn't know how long it was until she regained consciousness, but thought it was probably only a few seconds. She stumbled out of her seat, a little groggy with concussion, to find that, by some miracle, the shuttle had actually landed the right way up. She saw Vorik clambering up to her position over the debris-strewn shuttle; the shuttle's contents had been severely jarred by the impact. It appeared that the comm system was still working, because she could hear Paris' voice anxiously demanding whether they were all right. Hamilton took a swift look round the shuttle; all of its occupants, herself, Lang, Vorik and Chang appeared to be essentially undamaged. As she reported this, the relief in Paris' voice was unmistakable.
"Okay, grab your gear, anything that will be of use - weapons, medical supplies, rations -anything portable," he ordered. "We're moving out."
"I believe Starfleet protocols recommend that in the event of a crash, the shuttle's occupants remain with the shuttle," said Vorik's prim voice from the rear of the shuttle.
The impatience in Paris' voice was plain. "That's correct Ensign. *If* there's no nasty aliens out to get us. But the locals must have seen us come down and we don't even know which side controls this territory. We're sitting ducks here, so our first priority is to find cover and hope Voyager comes to pick us up soon. But we can't stay here, we could be overrun any minute."
Behind her, Hamilton heard Chang mutter, "Way to go Vorik," even as she responded to Paris.
"Understood, sir. Do you have any idea of where we might go?"
There was a tinge of derision in Paris' voice when he spoke, probably at what, on reflection, had been a stupid question. Of course he had an idea, he wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. However, she was grateful that all he actually said in response was, "We saw a natural depression surrounded on three sides by rock on the way down a couple of kilometres north of here, so we'll make for that. The others are closer, so I've told them to go straight there."
She was able to offer up only a feeble, "Yes, Lieutenant," in reply.
"Good. Oh, and Marge..."
"Yes sir?"
"Great flying!"
Even knowing of the less than palatable predicament they were in, Hamilton was unable to suppress a glow of pride at the compliment, particularly coming from a pilot as good as Paris. She examined the sensor readings, which, even damaged as they were, indicated that both Paris and Grimes had managed to set down nearby, Paris a little nearer, less than 200 metres away, with Grimes about a kilometre further in the opposite direction. She whistled softly. Some flying!
Once her party was ready, Vorik and Chang manhandled open the shuttle door, as the controls had been damaged in the crash. As the door cracked open, a pervasive stench hit the shuttle's occupants. Hamilton swallowed and attempted to suppress her gag reflex, while, by her side Chang disgorged the contents of his stomach, adding to the already less than fragrant atmosphere. The smell was a mixture; of scorched earth, rotting vegetation, the sickly sweet odour of decaying flesh and dominating the others, the aroma of cooked meat. As Hamilton realised just what the cooked meat represented, she felt the contents of her own stomach rebel once more and forced down bile. How many corpses did it take, burned by phaser fire, rotting where they lay, to produce *this*. She became aware that she was taking rapid shallow breaths, partly in an attempt to avoid inhaling more of the stench than necessary, but also because the air itself lay so heavily in her lungs. The humidity was frighteningly high; anything left in this climate would start to rot very quickly.
The light outside was dimmed, obscured by heavy atmospheric disturbance, the result of the bombardment of the planet, visible in the dark, ominous clouds above. They had landed at this planet's equivalent of midday, yet to the casual eye it appeared to be near dusk. Hamilton strained her eyes, trying to peer through the murk, to see what lay ahead. Where the shuttle had landed the ground was relatively clear, but not more than fifty metres away in any direction, there was forest growth, thick, heavy and verdant. This she had anticipated, knowing that the planet had a much lower landmass than average; its continents were small and what land there was, was often low-lying, swampy and insect infested. They weren't that far from one of the major population centres, that she'd been able to tell, even with the distorted sensor readings caused by the bombardment of the planet and the fighting on its surface. And yet, from all appearances, this area was totally uninhabited. She cursed the wavering sensor readings from her tricorder silently. It would be very difficult to tell if any of the local inhabitants, who were, presumably, better adapted to the environment, were approaching the shuttles, with no doubt hostile intent.
Behind her, she heard wheezing breaths and turned to see Vorik, bent over, fighting for breath. she thought with sympathy that the humidity must be most difficult for him, originating on a dry, desert planet as he did. Forgetting for a moment that Vulcans, as touch telepaths, should not be touched, she took his arm with concern.
"Are you all right?"
He attempted to draw breath sufficient to answer her, but failed.
"Lang! See if there's anything in the medkit to help Vorik." The diminutive security ensign nodded and wordlessly started to rummage through the medkit, but even as she did so, Hamilton, who hadn't taken her eyes off the view outside the shuttle, was able to make out through the gloom that humanoid shapes were approaching the shuttle. She snapped at Lang and Chang to stand ready and drew her phaser, standing to one side of the open door in readiness.
~~~~
"I'm afraid that isn't good enough, Ambassador," Chakotay said. His exasperation was thinly veiled.
The female Hock'emn blinked her large, multifaceted eyes rapidly. "My apologies Captain, but --"
"You assured us that it was safe for our shuttle to fly though the corridor. You told us that it's controlled by your forces, that it's patrolled at all times," Chakotay interrupted.
The woman twisted her torso sharply to one side in negation while the bridge crew watched in fascination at the seeming contortionist's trick. "It *was* safe, when we suggested that your shuttles should take that path, I assure you of that Captain Chakotay," she said earnestly. "Please, you must understand that it simply isn't in our interests to mislead in any way those who wish to trade with us, or to guarantee their safety and be proved liars. The attack by the Gr'tig was totally unexpected. Until now they've not had the means to destroy the corridor. We can only believe that they have somehow obtained new weapons."
"Or invented them," Chakotay said, his expression grim.
She shrugged again, causing more than one member of Voyager's crew to hold their breath, lest she stick in that posture. "Maybe," she said doubtfully. "But they've been a race in decline for centuries. I'm doubtful that they're capable of that type of initiative anymore."
"Yet they seem capable of enough initiative to hold your people off in a fight," Torres said nastily, from her position at the engineering station.
Even as Chakotay shot B'Elanna a reproachful glare, the woman's amber hue deepened until it was orange, an indication of her outrage. "The fact that those--" she uttered a word which didn't translate, "--have a certain military ability is well documented by their tyrannical and despotic actions in conquering and enslaving the peoples in this sector. We ourselves fought for several centuries to free ourselves of their oppression and yet they still persist, even now, when the rest of the sector is at peace, in waging their useless and debilitating--"
Chakotay held up a hand in an attempt to stem the woman's tirade. "We appreciate this Ambassador," he said hastily. "I'm sure Lieutenant Torres meant no offence."
B'Elanna cleared her throat. "The Captain's right. However, Ambassador, you surely understand that we're all worried about our ship mates."
The Hock'emn woman's colour faded to normal as her temper calmed. "I do, Lieutenant. And I really am sorry. We're doing all we can to locate them."
"But you're not having much success," Torres pointed out. "You know that Voyager's sensors are better than anything you have. If you'd just let us come close enough to the planet, then we could scan--"
"I've been informed by General Ivek that we cannot guarantee your safety," the Ambassador stated firmly. "In those circumstances, we simply cannot--"
"It's a risk we're more than willing to take." Chakotay's tone was reasoned, but definitive.
"But... if you are hurt, our reputation for safe trading could suffer."
Chakotay's expression chilled. "Ambassador, I can assure you that if you *don't* allow us close enough to search for our people, then all possible trading partners in this sector will know precisely what happened to the safe passage you guaranteed, because we shall tell them so."
The Ambassador's colour paled to a sickly lemon as she contemplated this threat. "Very well, Captain. I'll recommend that you should be given access and will give you my people's answer within one dekra. Trevik out."
The viewscreen changed to show a patterned starfield. For a moment there was silence then Chakotay asked, "Harry, how long is a dekra?"
"It's about one hour ten minutes, Captain," Kim reported.
Chakotay nodded absently. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be in my ready room for the next hour. You have the bridge."
He moved swiftly to the ready room, where he sank down into a seat by the window. He drew several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his tension, but it proved to be impossible. Not when he had so many people lost on a war torn planet, occupied by reportedly the most vicious race in this sector of space. And among them was Tom. His lover. Although it was only recently that he'd admitted to himself that was precisely what Paris was. He felt the awful, sickening worry rise to the fore at the thought that Tom could be dead, or injured, or, possibly worst of all, captured by the Gr'tig who routinely tortured all prisoners. And of course there were so many others, Kes, Neelix, Hamilton, for example. But, most of all he was worried about Tom.
And the fact that he couldn't let the crew know of the depth of his anxiety, his fear, made it worse, he had to act only as concerned as he would be about anyone who was one of his crew, who he worked with closely, maybe someone who was also a friend. But, he couldn't show his real feelings to the crew, not if he wanted to keep their relationship quiet. Although, did he? Really? Maybe it was time he and Tom went public. After all, their relationship looked fairly permanent, it had lasted all these months after all. He'd talk about it to Tom, when...if...no - when - he returned to Voyager. And that was one reason why he should keep his mouth shut, it wasn't his decision to make on his own. The other was that the crew didn't need any distractions, not when most of them were no doubt concerned as it was about the missing crewmembers.
He hadn't missed the looks of sympathy both B'Elanna and Harry had given him, at least they knew the truth, which helped a little, he supposed. And of course, they were both also close to Tom, were particularly worried about him as well, most likely. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the wiry strands spring back into shape even as his hand left them. He should really try to get some work done, but knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate. He pulled up the maps of the sector and schematics of what Voyager had been able to glean of the conflict between the Hock'emn and Gr'tig once more. Maybe by studying them, he could determine where it was most likely the shuttles would have set down. Harry and Ensign Lo at the conn were working on it as well, that he knew. And at least this way he kept himself busy.
~~~~
Hamilton released the breath she'd been holding with a whoosh, when she heard Paris' low voiced, "Marge," from in front of the shuttle. For once she was actually glad to hear the sound of that annoying nickname. Paris, together with the occupants of his shuttle, Ayala, Nicoletti and Kes, clambered into the shuttle. It was obvious that Kes realised what ailed Vorik, who had been valiantly attempted to suppress his wheezing, because she swiftly pulled a hypospray from the medkit she was carrying and injected him. His breathing quickly eased and after a second or two he was able to stand upright, although his colour was still overly green. With barely a pause, Kes scanned Hamilton with the medical tricorder, muttering something about concussion and injected her with a hypospray. Almost immediately, Hamilton felt the slight fuzziness at the edge of her vision clear and the headache thumping at her temples muted to a slight ache.
"Report, Lieutenant," Paris ordered Hamilton. His breathing was a little more laboured than normal; the atmosphere having its effect on him also. He wiped at his forehead as he spoke, pale skin gleaming with sweat.
"We're badly damaged. I doubt that the shuttle will fly again."
Hamilton pretended not to notice Paris' muttered "Shit!", as she shared his sentiments. Voyager couldn't afford to lose another shuttle. "Any injuries?" he asked. Hamilton shook her head. Tom sighed heavily. "Okay. Well that's one good thing. Let's move."
Within seconds the eight crewmembers were moving out, cautiously scanning ahead. Paris was in the lead, with Hamilton behind, then Vorik and Nicoletti, who were scanning the area with tricorders. Ayala and Lang, who were both flanking the party, were each cradling a phaser rifle, although all other members of the group had their phasers drawn, set to heavy stun. They set off warily, at each step sinking heavily into the mulch beneath their feet, Hamilton had to force each foot free with an audible popping sound. Her lungs laboured to draw in sufficient air and within minutes she was completely covered in sweat. She shifted her grip on the phaser as it slid through her sweat slick fingers. All the while she was conscious of an indefinable prickling on the back of the neck. Nerves, or some atavistic sense warning her of danger? She wasn't sure.
It didn't take them long to reach the undergrowth, from here on the going became even harder. At each step she still sank ankle deep into the soggy ground, but, in addition, it was necessary to push aside vegetation, all the while keeping a wary eye open, in the even dimmer light afforded by the fibrous vegetation, for animal, reptile or insect life. The air was alive with sudden noises, not just the sounds of their passage, as it was impossible to move quietly, but also, presumably, hopefully, the local wildlife. As they walked, Hamilton gradually became aware of a high pitched buzzing sound, one that was steadily increasing in intensity. She peered forwards, straining to see in the dim light, wondering what was the cause. Her fingers gripped the phaser tightly, white at the ends with the pressure. Abruptly, the forest growth ended, leaving them gazing out at a wide, scorched clearing. The vegetation was burnt at the edges, this was no natural clearing, but a combat scene. For some reason, fighting had taken place, here, in this forest, why, for what possible tactical advantage, Margaret didn't know.
She was too busy staring in horror at a scene from hell. The air was thick with large, purplish flies, the source of the buzzing. They were clustered everywhere, settled thickly on various lumps scattered on the ground. Hamilton's gorge rose, at the realisation that the lumps were corpses, and she turned away abruptly, the contents of her stomach splattering the ground to the side. She wasn't the only one, even the normally stoic Ayala was unable to contain his disgust. She couldn't help throwing a pleading look at Paris, who was gazing fixedly ahead, white faced, nostrils pinched. His jaw tightened, the fine, aristocratic profile appearing to be the epitome of arrogance as he, too, attempted to control his instinctive reactions to the putrescence before them. He glanced around. "This way," he said curtly, the long legs striding forward.
More slowly, every centimetre of skin crawling, Hamilton followed suit. As they walked, the flies angrily gave way before them, only to immediately settle down again behind, landing on the tempting feast spread out below them. The ground was even stickier here; each foot had to pulled free with an audible slurp. As her left boot sank down, Margaret felt the familiar sinking sensation, followed by a jar as her foot struck something solid. She looked down and was unable to prevent a cry of disgust. Her foot was embedded in a rotting corpse, the soft, swollen tissue parting beneath the force of her step like a piece of overripe fruit. Her breath came in short, panting gasps as she tried to free her boot, but her foot was wedged beneath the bones of the ribs, nestled tight. She fought not to panic, to give into the disgust rising high within her, as the flies dived busily around her stationary figure, when she heard a calm voice by her ear.
"Let me help you Lieutenant." Vorik bent down and plunged his hand into the decaying flesh, snapping the bones of the rib cage. She quickly pulled her boot free. The young Vulcan's expression was impassive, but even in the dim light, Hamilton could see the lines of strain bracketing his mouth. She nodded to him in thanks, not trusting her voice, also conscious of the need to keep as quiet as possible. The others in the group had also stopped, as they had been ordered, sensibly, to keep together, but now, wordlessly, they set off again, but this time their attention was torn between watching around them and keeping an eye on what was underfoot.
More and more corpses, and body parts, littered their path. Here was part of a torso, its blackened guts spilling out in long, slimy tendrils, there a limb, still wearing a shoe on its foot. Over there, part of a severed head gazed sightlessly upward, large, bulbous eyes protruding and long purple tongue lolling to one side. The stench grew stronger, the further they walked. All the corpses were in a fairly advanced state of decay, but here, on this planet, this probably meant they'd died only hours earlier, as the heat and humidity induced rapid decomposition. To Margaret, the walk took on the strange, surrealistic nature of a nightmare, part of her couldn't believe that she was wading through such putrescence, such horror. How much longer, till they reached the place of - relative - safety that Tom had indicated? She tried not to think of what the substance that had oozed over the top of her boots and was wending its way down her leg in clammy stickiness consisted of, tried not to let her rising nausea get the better of her. She had to stay alert, keep looking out for danger, not let external factors affect her, not give in to fear and panic. Her life depended on it. She clung to the thought of her Starfleet training; cadets were taught to deal with any situation that they might encounter. She deliberately dampened down the thought that no training exercise had ever been anywhere near as bad as this.
"How much further?" she asked Paris in a low voice.
He didn't turn his head to look at her, but answered quietly, "Not more than 300 metres or so."
She felt relief, nearly there. And the corpses had thinned out, were easier to avoid, as they reached firmer footing. It couldn't be much longer now. Even at that welcome thought, there was an explosion of light and sound beside her. They were under attack! By unspoken accord, they started to run, scattering to provide their attackers with a less easy target. Bolts of laser light flew through the air, their high, mosquito whine assaulting her ears. She was unable to keep from cringing in response, instinctively hunching over, to make a smaller target as she ran crab wise over the uneven ground.
She felt a bolt of fire miss her by centimetres, its passing leaving behind a smell of scorched ozone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Susan Nicoletti fall forward and bent down to help her up, thinking the other woman had stumbled. She pulled Nicoletti up by the arm, frowning at the woman's weight. "Sue," she hissed. "Move!" Nicoletti's head lolled on her neck, as her face turned, Hamilton saw the smoking ruin where half her head had been. She was dead. Margaret cut off her instinctive cry, letting go of Nicoletti's arm, as Ayala came panting up behind her. She started to run, when she felt a tremendous force hit her in the ribs, knocking her off her feet. For an instant she felt indignation; what was that! Then, the pain hit her, no subtle anguish, but a broad, full, wave of agony. She was conscious that someone, somewhere, was screaming, such noise, a shrill, keen sound that assaulted her eardrums. And also there was that smell, of barbecued flesh, but this time fresh and new. At first she felt only vaguely the sensation of being lifted in strong arms, but once Ayala started to run, as her body was jolted with every foot fall he took, from somewhere she also noticed that the screams had increased. God, she wished whoever it was would just shut up!
~~~~~
Chakotay looked at the viewscreen expectantly. "Well," he demanded. "What's the answer?"
Ambassador Trevik essayed a rather nervous smile. "May I introduce you to General Ivek." She gestured to the small, rather stocky Hock'emn woman standing by her side. There was a distinctly military bearing to the woman and her dark, utilitarian clothing suggested a uniform of some kind.
Chakotay inclined his head, impatient with the delay, but determined to employ the niceties none the less, lest the Hock'emn take offence. The General acknowledged the salutation with a torso twisting bow, but then, to Chakotay's hidden relief, got down to business.
"We will permit your ship to come into our territory, Captain," she said briskly. As Chakotay opened his mouth to thank her, she added, "However, there are certain conditions that you must comply with."
"And these are?"
"You will be escorted by two of our ships at all times. This is for your safety, Captain. It is not negotiable. It would do our reputation no good at all, as I'm sure you realise, if your ship was destroyed."
Chakotay frowned. "I have no objections," he said carefully. "Provided that your ships don't seek to interfere with our search."
"Of course not. The ships will be there for your safety only, I assure you of that."
She seemed sincere enough, Chakotay thought. Plus, what choice did they have? They couldn't fight the entire Hock'emn force after all. And he couldn't say that he didn't appreciate her straightforward manner. "Agreed," he said, matching her military tone. "Thank you General."
"I must also warn you Captain, that we have scheduled a counterattack on the planet in [ ] dekra. If your people aren't found before then, they'll have to take their chances, I'm afraid."
Chakotay stared at her in appalled silence for a moment. "Can't you postpone it?"
"I'm afraid not, too much rides on this, the lives of thousands of my people are at stake. You have our profound apologies, Captain, but, as I'm sure you understand, this is war. Now, if your ship will follow mine. The sooner we start, the better."
Chakotay resolved to talk to her further about the attack the Hock'emn were proposing to launch, but first, they'd start the search. "Of course."
Both women nodded and signed off. Chakotay turned to his crew. "Ai-Ling," he ordered Ensign Lo at the conn. "Plot a course. Harry, implement the search parameters." At last, they were doing something.
~~~~~
Paris spared a glance for Ayala, who was protectively cradling Hamilton with his arms. Her screaming had at last muted to a low, monotonous moan as her tortured vocal chords gave out. He moved closer to the pair, to provide covering fire, noting approvingly, with the small corner of his mind that was not a mass of terror, that Chang had taken the phaser rifle off Ayala. Then, he saw figures rushing towards him, but managed to check his instinctive move to fire when he recognised Neelix' distinctive silhouette. Behind him were Carey, Grimes and Ramirez. As they approached they fanned out protectively, Grimes helping Ayala carry Hamilton, laying down covering phaser fire. The seconds until they were, at last, inside the welcoming enclave, which was partially shielded from the sky by an overhang, stretched out on the edge of eternity. But, finally, they were there, the whine of the portable forcefield perimeter springing to life behind them.
For a long moment, Tom just stood there, inhaling dank air into straining lungs, balancing on a knife-edge of pain as he fought to catch his breath. He tasted blood. It wasn't that he was in bad shape, more that the atmosphere on the planet wasn't conducive to Human lungs. Or, come to that, Talaxian, Vulcan, or Ocampan either. Neelix and his group were in better shape, though and he noted that it wasn't long before they were laying Hamilton out on a relatively dry patch of ground. Even as she strove to catch her breath, a panting Kes quickly bent over her, gently trying to peel away her clothes from the wound marring the Chief Pilot's torso, frowning when she realised that the cloth was fused with flesh by the heat of the blast Hamilton had taken.
Tom bit his lip, trying to smooth his features into a look of composure. He felt sick and shaky, his heart thumping in his ears, the result of coming down from the adrenaline high. But he was in command here; he had to stay in control, couldn't show weakness. Once he felt able to speak, he quietly asked everyone to attend him, as he looked at the demoralised band of filthy, sweating survivors. Nicoletti's death had shaken them all, he thought. On some level he simply couldn't believe that Sue Nicoletti, the woman who he'd once jokingly told Harry had a cold heart, who he'd spent six months trying to persuade to date him, was dead. He closed his eyes briefly in sorrow, another person lost when under his command, but knew that he couldn't afford to really acknowledge those feelings right now, his duty was to the living. He moved to the centre of the enclave, standing on a slightly raised hillock, studying the rubble indicating that once, probably not long ago, there'd been a community here.
He looked at the faces of the crew, expecting him to tell them what to do. They were all competent adults, but he was the one on charge. He drew a breath. "We'll keep watch in shifts, broken up into four hours at a time. I want at least one security specialist on duty at any one time, Ayala, Lang, Ramirez and Neelix." The Talaxian looked surprised for an instant at being singled out, but then a pleased smile beamed across his face. He'd been on the supply mission mainly because of his expertise in trade, but now his work in security was being acknowledged also. "Carey, Ayala, Lang, I'm putting you in charge of each shift you work, I'll take the other. Kes, I think as our medic, you'd do best concentrating on Hamilton. Ramirez..." Tom continued to hand out orders with crisp efficiency, ending the briefing with a nod to Carey.
The engineer and Paris walked over to one side of the depression, as the other crew busied themselves with the tasks they'd been assigned, concentrating their efforts on improving their defensive status. Tom was very reluctant to rely solely on the perimeter forcefield, which could be broken, of that he was all too well aware.
"You wanted a word?" Carey asked.
"Uh huh. What's the chances of boosting our signal so that it's easier for Voyager to pick it up?"
Carey rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, glancing over at the portable beacon. It had been designed specifically for use in hostile conditions; its signal was meant only to be audible to Federation ships. "I think I can do it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe by as much as about 30%. Only problem is that it'll likely burn out sooner."
"How much sooner?"
"Three, maybe four days."
"Compared to what?"
"They're designed to last for about seven days, depending on local conditions."
"Okay," Paris said slowly, pondering that the chances of them lasting even two days in these conditions were slim. In this case, increasing the strength of the signal in return for a shorter life was an acceptable trade off. "Do it!" he said decisively.
Carey nodded and strode over to the beacon as Tom walked over to where Kes still bent over Hamilton, who was, mercifully, unconscious. "How is she?" he asked softly.
Kes looked up at him, her fragile face worried. "Not good, her injuries are moderately severe. Nothing that we couldn't deal with in sickbay, but..."
"This isn't sickbay."
Kes nodded. "I think I can keep her stable for a while, up to forty hours maybe, but without proper treatment..." She hesitated.
"Yes?"
The Ocampan bit her lip, looking down at her patient, then back up at Tom. "She'll die."
"Forty hours?"
Kes nodded. "And that's about the maximum Tom."
He sighed heavily. "I see, Well, I guess we'd better hope that Voyager picks us up by then." Although he didn't say it, he thought that it was also unlikely, assuming that they were attacked again, that they'd be able to defend themselves for that long anyway.
He turned to go, but stopped when Kes caught at his sleeve. "You'd better let me take a look at that," she said, pointing to some blood smearing his left hand.
Tom looked down his arm with some surprise, he'd not even been aware that he was hurt. "It's just a scratch," he said, dismissively.
"Even a scratch can become a nuisance in these conditions." Kes' tone was firm.
He grinned at her. "Yes Ma'am" The smile faded, as he recalled the last time he'd had occasion to use that appellation, to Captain Janeway. He thought that Kes, empathic as she was, might have caught part of his sorrow, because her answering smile quickly faded, as she indicated he should sit down on a nearby rock, while she cleaned and regenerated the wound. It turned out to be, as Tom had said, merely a scratch, but even a cut could quickly become infected in the morbid conditions they were in.
When she'd finished, Kes stood up, determination radiating from every pore and, in her turn, called for attention. The soft voice carried remarkably well, as she told the crew to each come and see her, so that she could treat any cuts they might have, pointing out that in these unhygienic circumstances, any untreated wound could fester. There were no objections, what she said made obvious sense.
Tom looked around at the group with approval. They'd done what was needed with dispatch, as though their lives depended on it, as indeed they did. When all preparations were finished, Ayala came up and spoke to Tom quietly. "What now, Sir?"
Tom shrugged. "We wait."
~~~~
Harry frowned at his console. Damn this interference anyway! He blinked tired eyes in an attempt to regain his usual clarity of vision; he'd been staring so hard at the screen that it had started to blur. He returned his concentration to the readouts, the lives of twelve of the Voyager crew, among them his best friend, not to mention being the First Officer, also Hamilton, the Chief Pilot, Kes, Neelix...He swallowed hard, trying to force down his fears. Please, let them be all right. He glanced over to the side, for a brief moment meeting the equally anxious gaze of Jon Rollins. He returned to the readouts, feeling oddly comforted at the knowledge that Rollins too was scanning for any sign of the missing crewmembers.
~~~~~
Tom sat quietly, ready to assist Carey, who grinned in triumph. "Got it!" The signal beacon had taken a bit more effort than he'd first thought to alter, but, with Paris' assistance, it was now broadcasting at maximum strength. His head jerked as there was the sudden whine of phaser fire. As one, both men leaped to their feet and ran, phasers drawn for the perimeter. So far, the forcefield was holding strong, resisting the efforts of the Gr'tig to pierce it. Luckily, it looked like they only had hand weapons available to them. The forcefield would not resist a phaser canon, for example, for long.
Lang turned from her position behind a rock as Paris landed by her side. "It doesn't look like they've got much chance of cutting through at present," she said.
Tom glanced up, where the bluish coloured light of the forcefield arched up above them. "Not without air support or heavier weapons anyway." He watched, fascinated, as he saw glimpses of the Gr'tig forces, small, olive skinned humanoids, bearing an unfortunate (to Human eyes anyway) resemblance to toads. Not surprising, given their environment, they could well be descended from amphibians after all. Although just what had caused them to be so aggressive was an interesting question. He pondered whether the Voyager crew should counter attack, but decided not to risk it just yet. Later, if it looked like the Gr'tig were going to breach the forcefield, they'd have no choice, but, given the overwhelmingly superior numbers of the Gr'tig, they'd be risking too much, for too little benefit. Sometimes, killing large numbers of opponents might serve as a deterrent, make the enemy look for easier prey, but this was not in accordance with the characteristics he'd read as being typical of the Gr'tig. They liked to kill and were tenacious in doing so. Plus, the thought of being captured and tortured to death wasn't exactly attractive; better a clean, quick death.
~~~~~
Torres looked up from the console. She'd left the bridge for engineering, where she felt most at home. She couldn't do anything to assist in the search up there, but, down here, she could ensure that all sensors were operating at maximum efficiency. It wasn't much, but at least it was something, and anything was better than sitting there, simply waiting. And watching.
~~~~
In spite of their circumstances, Tom couldn't help grinning at the expression of distaste that crossed Ramirez' face as she bit into the field rations.
"Look at it this way Juanita," he said. "It could be worse." Then, with a swift look over at Neelix who was patrolling the perimeter of the forcefield, "It could be Neelix' cooking!"
The laugher, tinged with a slight edge of hysteria, which greeted this sally was, Tom thought, rather more than it deserved. However, he knew that the release of tension, even for a few moments, was such a relief that the overreaction was understandable.
So far, in the four hours or so they'd been here, the Gr'tig had tried to break through the perimeter forcefield twice, without success. It appeared that they were only lightly armed, for which Tom was deeply thankful, but couldn't help wondering how long it would be before reinforcements, with heavier weaponry came up. Shit! How much worse off could they be, than to crash-land in the middle of a war zone. What was apparent was that they were pretty much surrounded, even with the sensor readings distorted as they were, that was apparent. He wondered whether they'd have done better to make a run for it, but, any safe territory was so far away, that he very much doubted that any of them would have made it. Even getting this far had resulted in one dead and one wounded. They could have split up into smaller groups, made lesser targets, but that would have drastically cut down on their chances of being picked up by Voyager.
So, in the circumstances, he thought that he'd made the right decision, even if for him it was purgatory to have to sit here and wait to be rescued, when everything he was cried out to him that he should be *doing* something, anything! The old impulse to act, something that was, perhaps, part of the reason why he was such a superb pilot, but that had also got him into so much trouble in the past. The ability to make a split second decision was, of course, a command skill, but, the ability to live with those decisions afterwards was equally important. And, realistically, he knew that anyone could make a mistake. Even such legendary commanders as James Kirk, or the present Captain of the Federation Flagship, the Enterprise, Jean-Luc Picard had made a few. Even his own father too, not that he seemed to accept that, Tom thought sourly, or accept anything less than perfection in his son. He told himself sharply to stop thinking like this, immediately and forcibly returned his attention to the here and now.
The short, stocky, heavy boned Ramirez, her powerful build a legacy of the fact that her ancestors had lived for three hundred years on a high gravity planet, put down the ration bar, then, reluctantly, picked it up again. Tom looked at her approvingly, smart woman, she knew the necessity to keep one's strength up. Even if the food tasted like shit. He gulped his own rations down, shuddering at the unpalatable taste, determined to set a good example, even though eating was the last thing he felt like doing, then reached out with his left hand for the water bottle. He frowned, his hand felt strange, uncoordinated. Then he shrugged, probably a result of the strain he was under, because it looked fine.
"Tom." He looked up at Kes' low voiced call, then grabbing a ration bar and water bottle, wandered over to where she sat beside Hamilton. He handed the items he was carrying to her, ignoring her attempt to refuse them.
"You need to eat," he said sternly. "That's an order Kes."
She nodded solemnly, opened the ration bar and started to nibble on it. Her expression, beneath the grime that streaked her lovely features, was deeply unhappy.
"What is it?" Abruptly, she stood and moved away from Hamilton, who was heavily sedated, but conscious, barely. Tom walked with her.
"It's Margaret. She's not responding to treatment."
Tom frowned. "In what way?"
"I'm not sure. There's some sort of infection and it doesn't matter what I do to clean her wounds, it keeps on coming back."
"Something in the atmosphere maybe, because of all the crap that's been dropped," Tom speculated.
"I don't know. But, every time it comes back, it spreads a little more. Tom..." She stopped and swallowed; her distress was plain. "My original estimate of forty hours was too optimistic. She'll survive for only another eight, maybe nine, hours.
"Shit!" He was wholly unable to prevent the exclamation. Heads swung round, as he continued in a quieter tone, "There's no way to slow it down?"
"I've tried everything I can think of. Maybe if the Doctor was here--"
"Don't sell yourself short Kes. We're not exactly well equipped here, remember."
She essayed a watery smile, grateful for her friend's attempt to comfort her, even if it was in vain.
He smiled back, one of his most practised fakes. "Okay, keep me informed if her condition deteriorates worse than expected." At Kes' nod he strode over to where Hamilton was lying and squatted down beside her. Her eyes were open, but dull with injury and there was a greyish cast to the ebony skin that worried him. One glance was enough to tell him that here was a very sick person. At least she wasn't in any great pain, though, thanks to the painkillers Kes had injected her with. He spoke in a soft voice. "Hey there, Marge. How're you doing?"
Hamilton stirred slightly. "D...don't call me Marge," she slurred. Tom laughed, feeling tears prick at the back of his lids. "Not doing too bad," Hamilton mumbled. "Feel like shit though."
He patted her hand. "That's our Marge, always calls a spade a spade."
"Not Marge, Margaret!"
He grinned at her. "Nope. Sorry. Marge it is."
"Whas the position?" she slurred.
He swiftly debated what to tell her. "We're not doing too badly. We're in a defensible position and have set up the location beacon. It's only a matter of time till Voyager picks us up."
She sighed, closing her eyes. "Good."
"You okay?"
The dark eyes opened. "Sleepy."
He smiled down at her. "Go to sleep then. I'll talk to you later."
She nodded and her heavy lids closed. Tom's smile vanished as if it had never existed as he drew in a shaky breath. Nine hours maximum, then she'd die. They'd lose her, along with Nicoletti.
He moved away, to be intercepted by Ayala, who, with Hamilton out of commission, Tom had designated as second in command, primarily because of his extensive security expertise. "How's she doing?" Gregor asked.
Tom shook his head, his face a mask of sorrow. "Not too good."
Ayala's face lengthened, as he fought to maintain an impassive expression. He lost. "How long?"
Tom didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "Maybe nine hours."
Gregor swore fluently, in Spanish. As their commbadges weren't working, due to the atmospheric disturbance, Tom wasn't sure what it was he'd said, but figured that what Ayala had said probably mirrored his own feelings. "Is there anything we can do?" Ayala asked.
"Kes is doing all she can. Pray maybe, if there's any god you believe in." Ayala shrugged helplessly, like many 24th century humans he wasn't a religious person.
Tom clapped him on the shoulder. "Get some sleep Greg, you're on duty in a couple of hours remember."
The big security lieutenant nodded and started to spread out his bedroll. Tom, having decided to take his own advice followed suit. He doubted that he'd be able to sleep, but he had to set a good example, it was his duty. Duty, that once hated word, but now, it was what kept him going, the need to take care of the others prevented him from brooding too much about the fact that, unless Voyager came to the rescue they would probably all die. He thought that the others had probably also figured that out, and was proud of them all. So far, they'd all held up remarkably well. He just hoped that they could keep it up. Until rescue, or the end. Whichever came first.
~~~~~
Harry glared at the sensor readings. The planet wasn't *that* big, so *why* couldn't he find them. An attempt to calculate the shuttles' likely trajectory, from the time they'd released their distress beacons had failed, the imponderables were simply too great to be able to calculate with any reasonable degree of certainty where they were likely to be. Oh sure, he could say that if they did *this*, then *that* was the likely result. But, it was equally likely that they'd done *this* instead, which would produce an entirely different result. It didn't help that what landmasses there were (assuming they'd managed to set down on land of course) were in general low-lying and water logged. That kind of terrain was difficult to survey under ideal conditions, which these were anything but.
He'd been at this for eight hours now, with barely a bathroom break; he ate at his console. He hadn't given up, of course, but was only too well aware that the whole planet, practically, was a battleground. What were the chances of survival for twelve all too fragile individuals in those conditions?
He glanced up to see Chakotay hovering at his elbow again. In spite of his understanding the depth of the Captain's anxiety, he was beginning to become irritated with the man. As soon as he had anything positive to report, he'd let him know. Surely Chakotay understood that? He probably did, possibly also knew that his attitude was annoying, but probably couldn't help himself. Harry thought that if Tom ever wondered whether Chakotay had any feelings for him now, he should see the Captain now. Of course he was concerned about everyone on the planet, but he'd never before seen Chakotay look so worried.
As for himself...he inhaled deeply. Tom Paris was nothing if not a survivor. So was Neelix, come to think of it. They'd be all right, they would! Tom would hold them together, until Voyager picked them up. He bent over his console again, doggedly.
~~~~
Tom looked at his left hand, trying to flex it. The fingers were too swollen for him to be able to do more than bend them a couple of millimetres. Fuck it. This he didn't need. He walked over to Kes, who was busy bending over Ayala's arm. It too was swollen. This was not good. Kes looked up, her large blue eyes bloodshot, threaded through with tiny red veins.
"It's no better?" she asked Paris wearily. Wordlessly, he held out his hand. Kes snapped out something in Ocampan, a sure sign of her worry and frustration. For the past few hours anyone who'd received even the slightest scratch was showing the same symptoms, the area where they'd been wounded was swollen and infected. It didn't matter what she did to try and heal the infection; it kept coming back and each time it was worse.
She took a trembling look at Hamilton's prone figure, the pilot's once pretty face was now so grotesquely swollen as to be unrecognisable. Her formerly trim figure was now misshapen, the skin so strained over swelling flesh that it looked as though she might burst open at any second. Kes felt the sting of helpless tears, she could do *nothing* to help, she couldn't even ease Hamilton's pain any more, all sedatives having ceased to work a couple of hours ago. Margaret was constantly moaning in her agony, a low ceaseless sound that abraded Kes' nerves, tore into her, increased her guilt at being unable to help. And now, it looked like half of the landing party might go the same way.
"Hey Kes." Tom's voice was gentle. "It's okay, it's not--"
"No it is not 'okay'!" Kes snapped, her normally deep contralto voice almost shrill. "Look at her, look at you! And I...I can't do *anything*."
"You *have* been doing something. You've been helping us all, a lot. It's not your fault Kes."
She bit her lip at Tom's emphatic tone. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, ashamed.
"For what? For caring?"
Blue eyes looked up into blue. He was tired and scared too, Kes realised. Of course he was. But he was doing his best not to show it. For herself, yes, she was scared, but most of all, she hated not being able to help, it went against all her instincts. She smiled at him, serenity ostensibly restored, determined not to show her feelings when it couldn't do anyone any good. "Thank you Tom," she said quietly. He nodded his acknowledgement of her thanks. "I think it's best if I leave your hand for the moment, see how it progresses." He nodded again, what could he say. He knew, they all did, that without effective treatment, they would end up like Hamilton, but there was no point in making a fuss about it now, not when they could die at any minute, if the forcefield gave way anyway. There'd been six attacks in total, none successful, but each time, the forcefield weakened a little further. It was just a matter of time until it gave way.
~~~~
Harry straightened his aching back. Eleven hours and still nothing. He felt like screaming in his frustration, as he pushed back his hair from where it fallen over his eyes, but then frowned. What was that? He bent back down to the console but seconds later, stood up. "Captain!" His voice was high with excitement. "I've found them."
Chakotay was out of his chair, where he too had been studying the same information as Harry, in a flash. "Where?" he demanded as he came up to Kim's console. Harry pointed to the reading indicating the distress beacon; the signal wavered, but was definitely there.
"They must have boosted the signal somehow, else we'd never have picked it up."
Chakotay heaved a sigh of relief. "Great. Now, if we beam them up straightaway--"
Harry shook his head. "There's too much interference, Captain."
Chakotay closed his eyes in frustration. To send out another shuttle would be crazy, as it would likely meet the same fate as the others. He turned away, then whirled back to Harry. "What about landing Voyager?"
Kim examined his readings once more. When he spoke his voice was thick with reluctance. The ground's not stable enough, we'd sink."
Fuck it! "Harry, raise General Ivek for me. We'll see if she can help."
~~~~~
Paris watched with morbid fascination as the Gr'tig ceased yet another as yet futile assault on their position. Thank God for Federation technology. Although he reckoned the forcefield would withstand no more than another couple, maybe three, assaults. He jumped, when his commbadge crackled into life.
"...oyager to Paris. Voyager to Paris." It was Harry.
"Paris here Harry," he cried. For a moment there was nothing but static, he tried again, calling to Voyager. From their positions around the enclave, heads began to turn in his direction.
Then, after a few agonising moments, "Tom is that you?"
"Voyager, Chakotay! It's great to hear you guys again." Tom felt a weight strapped to his chest lift at the sound of his lover's voice.
"Listen Tom, we don't have much time," Chakotay said urgently. "We're boosting the signal off the back of your beacon to talk to you at all. We're coming down with the Hock'emn to meet you, but we can't land nearer than twenty kilometres to your position, because the ground won't take it. The Hock'emn are going to launch a counterattack on the area you're in in three hours. I've tried to dissuade them, but they're adamant, say that if they don't too many of their people are likely to die, that it's all arranged. So, there's not going to be enough time, to get you out, unless you come to meet us. We'll try to meet you en route, but the Hock'emn say that the terrain isn't good between the proposed landing site and you, so we can't come any nearer than about four kilometres in ground vehicles, after that, we'll be on foot."
Paris took a look around at his filthy, sweating, ill and injured group, then thought about the Gr'tig who were most likely lying in wait for them outside. His heart sank. "We'll do our best, Captain," he said, hoping that his voice didn't waiver too much. "Give me the co-ordinates."
For a few minutes, the two men engaged in a discussion of logistics. Tom waived Ayala over to listen in, as the others of the landing party, gathered up useful gear, weapons, water, medkit. Just before he signed off, Tom said, "Oh and Chakotay..."
"Yes?"
"You are *not* coming down. Do you hear me," Tom said fiercely. "This is far too dangerous, we can't risk losing both the Captain and the First Officer."
For a long moment, there was silence, then finally, reluctantly, "Understood. Chakotay out."
Tom released the breath he'd been holding, at least Chakotay would be safe. In a quiet, resolute voice, he explained to the group what the plan was. He felt immensely proud of them at that moment, they knew what the odds were against them, but there was no protest. Although, what was the point? If they stayed here, they'd die. He picked up his gear, awkward with only one working hand and went over to Kes, who was sitting beside a thankfully unconscious Hamilton, futilely mopping her forehead. "How long does she have?
Kes looked up to where Paris stood, his tall form silhouetted against the dark sky. "Not long. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Her organs are already starting to fail."
Tom swallowed heavily. Well, that made the decision a little clearer. "Can you give her something, to...to..." Words failed him.
Kes nodded, her eyes huge. "But Tom--"
"Look around Kes. Look what state we're all in. And there's the Gr'tig outside, waiting for us. We can't take her with us, we'll never make it if we're slowed down by carrying her. And...And...she's dying anyway, we won't meet up with the rescue party for at least an hour." His voice cracked as he spoke.
Kes silently turned away and started preparing a hypospray. At that moment, Grimes came over. "I'd like to volunteer to carry Margaret, sir."
Tom shook his head. That won't be necessary, David, but thanks."
The other man screwed up his face in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
Tom inhaled deeply. Best to come right out with it. "We're not taking her with us."
"What! But...No. You can't!"
"We have no choice." Paris' grim tone was an exact match for his expression. "Is the hypospray ready yet, Kes?"
Grimes' expression reflected his outrage at his dawning realisation of what Paris intended. "So, you're going to *kill* her! Grimes' voice was loud with anger and from around the enclave, everyone stopped what they were doing.
"She's dying David." Kes' soft voice was shockingly loud in the stillness.
"But if we get her back to Voyager--"
"She won't last that long," Paris stated simply. "And I'm not letting the Gr'tig take her alive."
"But...to kill her. Look, you don't have to do this." Grimes' voice was desperate. "I'll carry her, I'm willing to take the risk."
"But I'm not! We're leaving her behind."
"No. Fuck you! I've told you I'll carry her." Grimes bent over Hamilton, started to pick her up.
Tom didn't recognise his own voice as he spoke, the frigid, grating tone was one that sounded familiar but he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it before. "I said no, Ensign. That's an order. You may be willing to take the risk, but I'm not prepared to risk everyone on you pulling some heroic stunt. You'll slow us down if you take her, put us all at risk. Put her down. *Now*!"
Grimes let go of Hamilton and whirled to face Paris. The Ensign was breathing heavily, red faced with anger, both fists clenched. By contrast, Paris was chalk white, nostrils pinched, head held high. For a moment there was silence, broken only by Grimes' hoarse breathing, then he turned away, stalked over to his pack, where he slung it on his back. Tom turned back to Kes. "Give me the hypo, I'll give it to her."
Kes shook her head, expression resolute. "She's my patient. I'll do it."
"Kes--"
"*No* Tom." Before he could protest further, she deftly injected the dying woman, whose heavy, agonised breaths slowed, then ceased. Silence.
Tom clenched his jaw so hard he felt the ligaments protest. He picked up his own pack again, fumbled with it, trying one handed to hoist it onto his back. Wordlessly, Neelix assisted him, his eyes dark with grief. "Everybody ready?" Tom asked with a commendable attempt at briskness. He glanced around, some, like Ayala and Lang meeting his gaze, others staring at the ground, Grimes glaring at him. No one spoke. "Let's go."
~~~~
******
[TO BE INSERTED AFTER THE SECTION ON BLOODFEVER]
"We're hit!" Ensign Lang cried, from her position in the co-pilot's chair next to Hamilton.
Margaret spared her a glare. "I know. Give me a damage report will you."
From the back of the shuttle, Ensign Vorik's calm voice could be heard. "Inertial dampeners are affected, I estimate that they have lost 72.8% percent function. In addition, both the warp dive and impulse power have been affected. Warp drive will go offline in no more than 11.7 minutes and I estimate we have no more than 7.3% impulse drive capacity."
Hamilton groaned inwardly. Damn! That meant they were going down and soon. Even as she pondered what best to do, Paris' voice, from his position in the lead shuttle, could be heard demanding a report. At Hamilton's explanation of the position, there was a short silence.
Then, "Okay," Paris said decisively. "It looks like your shuttle's in the worse shape, Marge, so you'll have to lead the way down and the rest of us will stay with you. The last thing we need is to be split up."
"But can't you carry on and come back for us."
"We're all hit, Marge. Not one of the shuttles left is spaceworthy."
Hamilton attempted to digest that information. "All of us?" she squeaked.
"Yep. Looks like the Hock'emn prediction that this part of the system was safe to fly through was totally wrong. I've never seen such intense fire, for a supposedly friendly part of space anyway," Paris said dryly. "By my calculations, there's no way your shuttle will get through that mine field up ahead and I'm not too sure about the rest of us either. So, we're going to have to land on the Gr'tig planet there."
"But, hasn't that seen some pretty heavy fighting?" Ensign Grimes objected from the helm of the third shuttle in their convoy.
"Do you have a better idea?" was Paris' response.
A heavy sigh came over the commlink. "Sorry sir, you're right."
"Okay, Marge, try and aim for the smallest continent, will you," said Paris. "From what little sensor readings we can pick up through all this interference, that's the area that looks to be in the best shape. Grimes and I will follow you."
"Understood sir," was the tense response. Hamilton sent off the standard distress call, letting Voyager know what had happened to her shuttle, then concentrated on the conn with grim determination. This was quite possibly going to be the most difficult landing she'd ever attempted, a nightmare with flak surrounding them, a mine field ahead and with both warp drive, impulse engines and inertial dampeners severely affected. Come to think of it, this bore a certain resemblance to one of Tom Paris' piloting programmes that he had instituted while he was still Chief Pilot. She'd been a little disbelieving that he insisted all the pilots on board had to succeed on the sim before they were allowed to take Voyager's helm, but found herself thankful for it now.
As they entered the atmosphere of the planet, the little shuttle's motion increased drastically as the vessel yawned from side to side, buffeted by atmospheric turbulence. With inertial dampeners offline, there was little Hamilton could do to compensate. She was aiming for the smallest continent, while flying over the middle of the largest when, suddenly, the shuttle was thumped in the side, sending it spinning round; they'd been hit by fire from the ground. Hamilton fought desperately to regain control of the wildly turning shuttle, succeeding too late, they were going to have to land, here, now. And land was a euphemism; what they were actually going to do was crash. Hamilton stared at the sensor readings, trying desperately to find a spot where she could set the shuttle down. She was unaware that she was leaning back in her seat as though by shifting her bodyweight she could somehow delay the landing. By her side, she could dimly hear Lang reporting their position to Paris and his response that the other two shuttles would continue to follow them in.
She yelled at her crew to brace themselves for impact, then, far too soon, the ground was rushing up to meet them, closer...closer...then impact!
Hamilton didn't know how long it was until she regained consciousness, but thought it was probably only a few seconds. She stumbled out of her seat, a little groggy with concussion, to find that, by some miracle, the shuttle had actually landed the right way up. She saw Vorik clambering up to her position over the debris-strewn shuttle; the shuttle's contents had been severely jarred by the impact. It appeared that the comm system was still working, because she could hear Paris' voice anxiously demanding whether they were all right. Hamilton took a swift look round the shuttle; all of its occupants, herself, Lang, Vorik and Chang appeared to be essentially undamaged. As she reported this, the relief in Paris' voice was unmistakable.
"Okay, grab your gear, anything that will be of use - weapons, medical supplies, rations -anything portable," he ordered. "We're moving out."
"I believe Starfleet protocols recommend that in the event of a crash, the shuttle's occupants remain with the shuttle," said Vorik's prim voice from the rear of the shuttle.
The impatience in Paris' voice was plain. "That's correct Ensign. *If* there's no nasty aliens out to get us. But the locals must have seen us come down and we don't even know which side controls this territory. We're sitting ducks here, so our first priority is to find cover and hope Voyager comes to pick us up soon. But we can't stay here, we could be overrun any minute."
Behind her, Hamilton heard Chang mutter, "Way to go Vorik," even as she responded to Paris.
"Understood, sir. Do you have any idea of where we might go?"
There was a tinge of derision in Paris' voice when he spoke, probably at what, on reflection, had been a stupid question. Of course he had an idea, he wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. However, she was grateful that all he actually said in response was, "We saw a natural depression surrounded on three sides by rock on the way down a couple of kilometres north of here, so we'll make for that. The others are closer, so I've told them to go straight there."
She was able to offer up only a feeble, "Yes, Lieutenant," in reply.
"Good. Oh, and Marge..."
"Yes sir?"
"Great flying!"
Even knowing of the less than palatable predicament they were in, Hamilton was unable to suppress a glow of pride at the compliment, particularly coming from a pilot as good as Paris. She examined the sensor readings, which, even damaged as they were, indicated that both Paris and Grimes had managed to set down nearby, Paris a little nearer, less than 200 metres away, with Grimes about a kilometre further in the opposite direction. She whistled softly. Some flying!
Once her party was ready, Vorik and Chang manhandled open the shuttle door, as the controls had been damaged in the crash. As the door cracked open, a pervasive stench hit the shuttle's occupants. Hamilton swallowed and attempted to suppress her gag reflex, while, by her side Chang disgorged the contents of his stomach, adding to the already less than fragrant atmosphere. The smell was a mixture; of scorched earth, rotting vegetation, the sickly sweet odour of decaying flesh and dominating the others, the aroma of cooked meat. As Hamilton realised just what the cooked meat represented, she felt the contents of her own stomach rebel once more and forced down bile. How many corpses did it take, burned by phaser fire, rotting where they lay, to produce *this*. She became aware that she was taking rapid shallow breaths, partly in an attempt to avoid inhaling more of the stench than necessary, but also because the air itself lay so heavily in her lungs. The humidity was frighteningly high; anything left in this climate would start to rot very quickly.
The light outside was dimmed, obscured by heavy atmospheric disturbance, the result of the bombardment of the planet, visible in the dark, ominous clouds above. They had landed at this planet's equivalent of midday, yet to the casual eye it appeared to be near dusk. Hamilton strained her eyes, trying to peer through the murk, to see what lay ahead. Where the shuttle had landed the ground was relatively clear, but not more than fifty metres away in any direction, there was forest growth, thick, heavy and verdant. This she had anticipated, knowing that the planet had a much lower landmass than average; its continents were small and what land there was, was often low-lying, swampy and insect infested. They weren't that far from one of the major population centres, that she'd been able to tell, even with the distorted sensor readings caused by the bombardment of the planet and the fighting on its surface. And yet, from all appearances, this area was totally uninhabited. She cursed the wavering sensor readings from her tricorder silently. It would be very difficult to tell if any of the local inhabitants, who were, presumably, better adapted to the environment, were approaching the shuttles, with no doubt hostile intent.
Behind her, she heard wheezing breaths and turned to see Vorik, bent over, fighting for breath. she thought with sympathy that the humidity must be most difficult for him, originating on a dry, desert planet as he did. Forgetting for a moment that Vulcans, as touch telepaths, should not be touched, she took his arm with concern.
"Are you all right?"
He attempted to draw breath sufficient to answer her, but failed.
"Lang! See if there's anything in the medkit to help Vorik." The diminutive security ensign nodded and wordlessly started to rummage through the medkit, but even as she did so, Hamilton, who hadn't taken her eyes off the view outside the shuttle, was able to make out through the gloom that humanoid shapes were approaching the shuttle. She snapped at Lang and Chang to stand ready and drew her phaser, standing to one side of the open door in readiness.
~~~~
"I'm afraid that isn't good enough, Ambassador," Chakotay said. His exasperation was thinly veiled.
The female Hock'emn blinked her large, multifaceted eyes rapidly. "My apologies Captain, but --"
"You assured us that it was safe for our shuttle to fly though the corridor. You told us that it's controlled by your forces, that it's patrolled at all times," Chakotay interrupted.
The woman twisted her torso sharply to one side in negation while the bridge crew watched in fascination at the seeming contortionist's trick. "It *was* safe, when we suggested that your shuttles should take that path, I assure you of that Captain Chakotay," she said earnestly. "Please, you must understand that it simply isn't in our interests to mislead in any way those who wish to trade with us, or to guarantee their safety and be proved liars. The attack by the Gr'tig was totally unexpected. Until now they've not had the means to destroy the corridor. We can only believe that they have somehow obtained new weapons."
"Or invented them," Chakotay said, his expression grim.
She shrugged again, causing more than one member of Voyager's crew to hold their breath, lest she stick in that posture. "Maybe," she said doubtfully. "But they've been a race in decline for centuries. I'm doubtful that they're capable of that type of initiative anymore."
"Yet they seem capable of enough initiative to hold your people off in a fight," Torres said nastily, from her position at the engineering station.
Even as Chakotay shot B'Elanna a reproachful glare, the woman's amber hue deepened until it was orange, an indication of her outrage. "The fact that those--" she uttered a word which didn't translate, "--have a certain military ability is well documented by their tyrannical and despotic actions in conquering and enslaving the peoples in this sector. We ourselves fought for several centuries to free ourselves of their oppression and yet they still persist, even now, when the rest of the sector is at peace, in waging their useless and debilitating--"
Chakotay held up a hand in an attempt to stem the woman's tirade. "We appreciate this Ambassador," he said hastily. "I'm sure Lieutenant Torres meant no offence."
B'Elanna cleared her throat. "The Captain's right. However, Ambassador, you surely understand that we're all worried about our ship mates."
The Hock'emn woman's colour faded to normal as her temper calmed. "I do, Lieutenant. And I really am sorry. We're doing all we can to locate them."
"But you're not having much success," Torres pointed out. "You know that Voyager's sensors are better than anything you have. If you'd just let us come close enough to the planet, then we could scan--"
"I've been informed by General Ivek that we cannot guarantee your safety," the Ambassador stated firmly. "In those circumstances, we simply cannot--"
"It's a risk we're more than willing to take." Chakotay's tone was reasoned, but definitive.
"But... if you are hurt, our reputation for safe trading could suffer."
Chakotay's expression chilled. "Ambassador, I can assure you that if you *don't* allow us close enough to search for our people, then all possible trading partners in this sector will know precisely what happened to the safe passage you guaranteed, because we shall tell them so."
The Ambassador's colour paled to a sickly lemon as she contemplated this threat. "Very well, Captain. I'll recommend that you should be given access and will give you my people's answer within one dekra. Trevik out."
The viewscreen changed to show a patterned starfield. For a moment there was silence then Chakotay asked, "Harry, how long is a dekra?"
"It's about one hour ten minutes, Captain," Kim reported.
Chakotay nodded absently. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be in my ready room for the next hour. You have the bridge."
He moved swiftly to the ready room, where he sank down into a seat by the window. He drew several deep breaths in an attempt to calm his tension, but it proved to be impossible. Not when he had so many people lost on a war torn planet, occupied by reportedly the most vicious race in this sector of space. And among them was Tom. His lover. Although it was only recently that he'd admitted to himself that was precisely what Paris was. He felt the awful, sickening worry rise to the fore at the thought that Tom could be dead, or injured, or, possibly worst of all, captured by the Gr'tig who routinely tortured all prisoners. And of course there were so many others, Kes, Neelix, Hamilton, for example. But, most of all he was worried about Tom.
And the fact that he couldn't let the crew know of the depth of his anxiety, his fear, made it worse, he had to act only as concerned as he would be about anyone who was one of his crew, who he worked with closely, maybe someone who was also a friend. But, he couldn't show his real feelings to the crew, not if he wanted to keep their relationship quiet. Although, did he? Really? Maybe it was time he and Tom went public. After all, their relationship looked fairly permanent, it had lasted all these months after all. He'd talk about it to Tom, when...if...no - when - he returned to Voyager. And that was one reason why he should keep his mouth shut, it wasn't his decision to make on his own. The other was that the crew didn't need any distractions, not when most of them were no doubt concerned as it was about the missing crewmembers.
He hadn't missed the looks of sympathy both B'Elanna and Harry had given him, at least they knew the truth, which helped a little, he supposed. And of course, they were both also close to Tom, were particularly worried about him as well, most likely. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the wiry strands spring back into shape even as his hand left them. He should really try to get some work done, but knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate. He pulled up the maps of the sector and schematics of what Voyager had been able to glean of the conflict between the Hock'emn and Gr'tig once more. Maybe by studying them, he could determine where it was most likely the shuttles would have set down. Harry and Ensign Lo at the conn were working on it as well, that he knew. And at least this way he kept himself busy.
~~~~
Hamilton released the breath she'd been holding with a whoosh, when she heard Paris' low voiced, "Marge," from in front of the shuttle. For once she was actually glad to hear the sound of that annoying nickname. Paris, together with the occupants of his shuttle, Ayala, Nicoletti and Kes, clambered into the shuttle. It was obvious that Kes realised what ailed Vorik, who had been valiantly attempted to suppress his wheezing, because she swiftly pulled a hypospray from the medkit she was carrying and injected him. His breathing quickly eased and after a second or two he was able to stand upright, although his colour was still overly green. With barely a pause, Kes scanned Hamilton with the medical tricorder, muttering something about concussion and injected her with a hypospray. Almost immediately, Hamilton felt the slight fuzziness at the edge of her vision clear and the headache thumping at her temples muted to a slight ache.
"Report, Lieutenant," Paris ordered Hamilton. His breathing was a little more laboured than normal; the atmosphere having its effect on him also. He wiped at his forehead as he spoke, pale skin gleaming with sweat.
"We're badly damaged. I doubt that the shuttle will fly again."
Hamilton pretended not to notice Paris' muttered "Shit!", as she shared his sentiments. Voyager couldn't afford to lose another shuttle. "Any injuries?" he asked. Hamilton shook her head. Tom sighed heavily. "Okay. Well that's one good thing. Let's move."
Within seconds the eight crewmembers were moving out, cautiously scanning ahead. Paris was in the lead, with Hamilton behind, then Vorik and Nicoletti, who were scanning the area with tricorders. Ayala and Lang, who were both flanking the party, were each cradling a phaser rifle, although all other members of the group had their phasers drawn, set to heavy stun. They set off warily, at each step sinking heavily into the mulch beneath their feet, Hamilton had to force each foot free with an audible popping sound. Her lungs laboured to draw in sufficient air and within minutes she was completely covered in sweat. She shifted her grip on the phaser as it slid through her sweat slick fingers. All the while she was conscious of an indefinable prickling on the back of the neck. Nerves, or some atavistic sense warning her of danger? She wasn't sure.
It didn't take them long to reach the undergrowth, from here on the going became even harder. At each step she still sank ankle deep into the soggy ground, but, in addition, it was necessary to push aside vegetation, all the while keeping a wary eye open, in the even dimmer light afforded by the fibrous vegetation, for animal, reptile or insect life. The air was alive with sudden noises, not just the sounds of their passage, as it was impossible to move quietly, but also, presumably, hopefully, the local wildlife. As they walked, Hamilton gradually became aware of a high pitched buzzing sound, one that was steadily increasing in intensity. She peered forwards, straining to see in the dim light, wondering what was the cause. Her fingers gripped the phaser tightly, white at the ends with the pressure. Abruptly, the forest growth ended, leaving them gazing out at a wide, scorched clearing. The vegetation was burnt at the edges, this was no natural clearing, but a combat scene. For some reason, fighting had taken place, here, in this forest, why, for what possible tactical advantage, Margaret didn't know.
She was too busy staring in horror at a scene from hell. The air was thick with large, purplish flies, the source of the buzzing. They were clustered everywhere, settled thickly on various lumps scattered on the ground. Hamilton's gorge rose, at the realisation that the lumps were corpses, and she turned away abruptly, the contents of her stomach splattering the ground to the side. She wasn't the only one, even the normally stoic Ayala was unable to contain his disgust. She couldn't help throwing a pleading look at Paris, who was gazing fixedly ahead, white faced, nostrils pinched. His jaw tightened, the fine, aristocratic profile appearing to be the epitome of arrogance as he, too, attempted to control his instinctive reactions to the putrescence before them. He glanced around. "This way," he said curtly, the long legs striding forward.
More slowly, every centimetre of skin crawling, Hamilton followed suit. As they walked, the flies angrily gave way before them, only to immediately settle down again behind, landing on the tempting feast spread out below them. The ground was even stickier here; each foot had to pulled free with an audible slurp. As her left boot sank down, Margaret felt the familiar sinking sensation, followed by a jar as her foot struck something solid. She looked down and was unable to prevent a cry of disgust. Her foot was embedded in a rotting corpse, the soft, swollen tissue parting beneath the force of her step like a piece of overripe fruit. Her breath came in short, panting gasps as she tried to free her boot, but her foot was wedged beneath the bones of the ribs, nestled tight. She fought not to panic, to give into the disgust rising high within her, as the flies dived busily around her stationary figure, when she heard a calm voice by her ear.
"Let me help you Lieutenant." Vorik bent down and plunged his hand into the decaying flesh, snapping the bones of the rib cage. She quickly pulled her boot free. The young Vulcan's expression was impassive, but even in the dim light, Hamilton could see the lines of strain bracketing his mouth. She nodded to him in thanks, not trusting her voice, also conscious of the need to keep as quiet as possible. The others in the group had also stopped, as they had been ordered, sensibly, to keep together, but now, wordlessly, they set off again, but this time their attention was torn between watching around them and keeping an eye on what was underfoot.
More and more corpses, and body parts, littered their path. Here was part of a torso, its blackened guts spilling out in long, slimy tendrils, there a limb, still wearing a shoe on its foot. Over there, part of a severed head gazed sightlessly upward, large, bulbous eyes protruding and long purple tongue lolling to one side. The stench grew stronger, the further they walked. All the corpses were in a fairly advanced state of decay, but here, on this planet, this probably meant they'd died only hours earlier, as the heat and humidity induced rapid decomposition. To Margaret, the walk took on the strange, surrealistic nature of a nightmare, part of her couldn't believe that she was wading through such putrescence, such horror. How much longer, till they reached the place of - relative - safety that Tom had indicated? She tried not to think of what the substance that had oozed over the top of her boots and was wending its way down her leg in clammy stickiness consisted of, tried not to let her rising nausea get the better of her. She had to stay alert, keep looking out for danger, not let external factors affect her, not give in to fear and panic. Her life depended on it. She clung to the thought of her Starfleet training; cadets were taught to deal with any situation that they might encounter. She deliberately dampened down the thought that no training exercise had ever been anywhere near as bad as this.
"How much further?" she asked Paris in a low voice.
He didn't turn his head to look at her, but answered quietly, "Not more than 300 metres or so."
She felt relief, nearly there. And the corpses had thinned out, were easier to avoid, as they reached firmer footing. It couldn't be much longer now. Even at that welcome thought, there was an explosion of light and sound beside her. They were under attack! By unspoken accord, they started to run, scattering to provide their attackers with a less easy target. Bolts of laser light flew through the air, their high, mosquito whine assaulting her ears. She was unable to keep from cringing in response, instinctively hunching over, to make a smaller target as she ran crab wise over the uneven ground.
She felt a bolt of fire miss her by centimetres, its passing leaving behind a smell of scorched ozone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Susan Nicoletti fall forward and bent down to help her up, thinking the other woman had stumbled. She pulled Nicoletti up by the arm, frowning at the woman's weight. "Sue," she hissed. "Move!" Nicoletti's head lolled on her neck, as her face turned, Hamilton saw the smoking ruin where half her head had been. She was dead. Margaret cut off her instinctive cry, letting go of Nicoletti's arm, as Ayala came panting up behind her. She started to run, when she felt a tremendous force hit her in the ribs, knocking her off her feet. For an instant she felt indignation; what was that! Then, the pain hit her, no subtle anguish, but a broad, full, wave of agony. She was conscious that someone, somewhere, was screaming, such noise, a shrill, keen sound that assaulted her eardrums. And also there was that smell, of barbecued flesh, but this time fresh and new. At first she felt only vaguely the sensation of being lifted in strong arms, but once Ayala started to run, as her body was jolted with every foot fall he took, from somewhere she also noticed that the screams had increased. God, she wished whoever it was would just shut up!
~~~~~
Chakotay looked at the viewscreen expectantly. "Well," he demanded. "What's the answer?"
Ambassador Trevik essayed a rather nervous smile. "May I introduce you to General Ivek." She gestured to the small, rather stocky Hock'emn woman standing by her side. There was a distinctly military bearing to the woman and her dark, utilitarian clothing suggested a uniform of some kind.
Chakotay inclined his head, impatient with the delay, but determined to employ the niceties none the less, lest the Hock'emn take offence. The General acknowledged the salutation with a torso twisting bow, but then, to Chakotay's hidden relief, got down to business.
"We will permit your ship to come into our territory, Captain," she said briskly. As Chakotay opened his mouth to thank her, she added, "However, there are certain conditions that you must comply with."
"And these are?"
"You will be escorted by two of our ships at all times. This is for your safety, Captain. It is not negotiable. It would do our reputation no good at all, as I'm sure you realise, if your ship was destroyed."
Chakotay frowned. "I have no objections," he said carefully. "Provided that your ships don't seek to interfere with our search."
"Of course not. The ships will be there for your safety only, I assure you of that."
She seemed sincere enough, Chakotay thought. Plus, what choice did they have? They couldn't fight the entire Hock'emn force after all. And he couldn't say that he didn't appreciate her straightforward manner. "Agreed," he said, matching her military tone. "Thank you General."
"I must also warn you Captain, that we have scheduled a counterattack on the planet in [ ] dekra. If your people aren't found before then, they'll have to take their chances, I'm afraid."
Chakotay stared at her in appalled silence for a moment. "Can't you postpone it?"
"I'm afraid not, too much rides on this, the lives of thousands of my people are at stake. You have our profound apologies, Captain, but, as I'm sure you understand, this is war. Now, if your ship will follow mine. The sooner we start, the better."
Chakotay resolved to talk to her further about the attack the Hock'emn were proposing to launch, but first, they'd start the search. "Of course."
Both women nodded and signed off. Chakotay turned to his crew. "Ai-Ling," he ordered Ensign Lo at the conn. "Plot a course. Harry, implement the search parameters." At last, they were doing something.
~~~~~
Paris spared a glance for Ayala, who was protectively cradling Hamilton with his arms. Her screaming had at last muted to a low, monotonous moan as her tortured vocal chords gave out. He moved closer to the pair, to provide covering fire, noting approvingly, with the small corner of his mind that was not a mass of terror, that Chang had taken the phaser rifle off Ayala. Then, he saw figures rushing towards him, but managed to check his instinctive move to fire when he recognised Neelix' distinctive silhouette. Behind him were Carey, Grimes and Ramirez. As they approached they fanned out protectively, Grimes helping Ayala carry Hamilton, laying down covering phaser fire. The seconds until they were, at last, inside the welcoming enclave, which was partially shielded from the sky by an overhang, stretched out on the edge of eternity. But, finally, they were there, the whine of the portable forcefield perimeter springing to life behind them.
For a long moment, Tom just stood there, inhaling dank air into straining lungs, balancing on a knife-edge of pain as he fought to catch his breath. He tasted blood. It wasn't that he was in bad shape, more that the atmosphere on the planet wasn't conducive to Human lungs. Or, come to that, Talaxian, Vulcan, or Ocampan either. Neelix and his group were in better shape, though and he noted that it wasn't long before they were laying Hamilton out on a relatively dry patch of ground. Even as she strove to catch her breath, a panting Kes quickly bent over her, gently trying to peel away her clothes from the wound marring the Chief Pilot's torso, frowning when she realised that the cloth was fused with flesh by the heat of the blast Hamilton had taken.
Tom bit his lip, trying to smooth his features into a look of composure. He felt sick and shaky, his heart thumping in his ears, the result of coming down from the adrenaline high. But he was in command here; he had to stay in control, couldn't show weakness. Once he felt able to speak, he quietly asked everyone to attend him, as he looked at the demoralised band of filthy, sweating survivors. Nicoletti's death had shaken them all, he thought. On some level he simply couldn't believe that Sue Nicoletti, the woman who he'd once jokingly told Harry had a cold heart, who he'd spent six months trying to persuade to date him, was dead. He closed his eyes briefly in sorrow, another person lost when under his command, but knew that he couldn't afford to really acknowledge those feelings right now, his duty was to the living. He moved to the centre of the enclave, standing on a slightly raised hillock, studying the rubble indicating that once, probably not long ago, there'd been a community here.
He looked at the faces of the crew, expecting him to tell them what to do. They were all competent adults, but he was the one on charge. He drew a breath. "We'll keep watch in shifts, broken up into four hours at a time. I want at least one security specialist on duty at any one time, Ayala, Lang, Ramirez and Neelix." The Talaxian looked surprised for an instant at being singled out, but then a pleased smile beamed across his face. He'd been on the supply mission mainly because of his expertise in trade, but now his work in security was being acknowledged also. "Carey, Ayala, Lang, I'm putting you in charge of each shift you work, I'll take the other. Kes, I think as our medic, you'd do best concentrating on Hamilton. Ramirez..." Tom continued to hand out orders with crisp efficiency, ending the briefing with a nod to Carey.
The engineer and Paris walked over to one side of the depression, as the other crew busied themselves with the tasks they'd been assigned, concentrating their efforts on improving their defensive status. Tom was very reluctant to rely solely on the perimeter forcefield, which could be broken, of that he was all too well aware.
"You wanted a word?" Carey asked.
"Uh huh. What's the chances of boosting our signal so that it's easier for Voyager to pick it up?"
Carey rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, glancing over at the portable beacon. It had been designed specifically for use in hostile conditions; its signal was meant only to be audible to Federation ships. "I think I can do it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe by as much as about 30%. Only problem is that it'll likely burn out sooner."
"How much sooner?"
"Three, maybe four days."
"Compared to what?"
"They're designed to last for about seven days, depending on local conditions."
"Okay," Paris said slowly, pondering that the chances of them lasting even two days in these conditions were slim. In this case, increasing the strength of the signal in return for a shorter life was an acceptable trade off. "Do it!" he said decisively.
Carey nodded and strode over to the beacon as Tom walked over to where Kes still bent over Hamilton, who was, mercifully, unconscious. "How is she?" he asked softly.
Kes looked up at him, her fragile face worried. "Not good, her injuries are moderately severe. Nothing that we couldn't deal with in sickbay, but..."
"This isn't sickbay."
Kes nodded. "I think I can keep her stable for a while, up to forty hours maybe, but without proper treatment..." She hesitated.
"Yes?"
The Ocampan bit her lip, looking down at her patient, then back up at Tom. "She'll die."
"Forty hours?"
Kes nodded. "And that's about the maximum Tom."
He sighed heavily. "I see, Well, I guess we'd better hope that Voyager picks us up by then." Although he didn't say it, he thought that it was also unlikely, assuming that they were attacked again, that they'd be able to defend themselves for that long anyway.
He turned to go, but stopped when Kes caught at his sleeve. "You'd better let me take a look at that," she said, pointing to some blood smearing his left hand.
Tom looked down his arm with some surprise, he'd not even been aware that he was hurt. "It's just a scratch," he said, dismissively.
"Even a scratch can become a nuisance in these conditions." Kes' tone was firm.
He grinned at her. "Yes Ma'am" The smile faded, as he recalled the last time he'd had occasion to use that appellation, to Captain Janeway. He thought that Kes, empathic as she was, might have caught part of his sorrow, because her answering smile quickly faded, as she indicated he should sit down on a nearby rock, while she cleaned and regenerated the wound. It turned out to be, as Tom had said, merely a scratch, but even a cut could quickly become infected in the morbid conditions they were in.
When she'd finished, Kes stood up, determination radiating from every pore and, in her turn, called for attention. The soft voice carried remarkably well, as she told the crew to each come and see her, so that she could treat any cuts they might have, pointing out that in these unhygienic circumstances, any untreated wound could fester. There were no objections, what she said made obvious sense.
Tom looked around at the group with approval. They'd done what was needed with dispatch, as though their lives depended on it, as indeed they did. When all preparations were finished, Ayala came up and spoke to Tom quietly. "What now, Sir?"
Tom shrugged. "We wait."
~~~~
Harry frowned at his console. Damn this interference anyway! He blinked tired eyes in an attempt to regain his usual clarity of vision; he'd been staring so hard at the screen that it had started to blur. He returned his concentration to the readouts, the lives of twelve of the Voyager crew, among them his best friend, not to mention being the First Officer, also Hamilton, the Chief Pilot, Kes, Neelix...He swallowed hard, trying to force down his fears. Please, let them be all right. He glanced over to the side, for a brief moment meeting the equally anxious gaze of Jon Rollins. He returned to the readouts, feeling oddly comforted at the knowledge that Rollins too was scanning for any sign of the missing crewmembers.
~~~~~
Tom sat quietly, ready to assist Carey, who grinned in triumph. "Got it!" The signal beacon had taken a bit more effort than he'd first thought to alter, but, with Paris' assistance, it was now broadcasting at maximum strength. His head jerked as there was the sudden whine of phaser fire. As one, both men leaped to their feet and ran, phasers drawn for the perimeter. So far, the forcefield was holding strong, resisting the efforts of the Gr'tig to pierce it. Luckily, it looked like they only had hand weapons available to them. The forcefield would not resist a phaser canon, for example, for long.
Lang turned from her position behind a rock as Paris landed by her side. "It doesn't look like they've got much chance of cutting through at present," she said.
Tom glanced up, where the bluish coloured light of the forcefield arched up above them. "Not without air support or heavier weapons anyway." He watched, fascinated, as he saw glimpses of the Gr'tig forces, small, olive skinned humanoids, bearing an unfortunate (to Human eyes anyway) resemblance to toads. Not surprising, given their environment, they could well be descended from amphibians after all. Although just what had caused them to be so aggressive was an interesting question. He pondered whether the Voyager crew should counter attack, but decided not to risk it just yet. Later, if it looked like the Gr'tig were going to breach the forcefield, they'd have no choice, but, given the overwhelmingly superior numbers of the Gr'tig, they'd be risking too much, for too little benefit. Sometimes, killing large numbers of opponents might serve as a deterrent, make the enemy look for easier prey, but this was not in accordance with the characteristics he'd read as being typical of the Gr'tig. They liked to kill and were tenacious in doing so. Plus, the thought of being captured and tortured to death wasn't exactly attractive; better a clean, quick death.
~~~~~
Torres looked up from the console. She'd left the bridge for engineering, where she felt most at home. She couldn't do anything to assist in the search up there, but, down here, she could ensure that all sensors were operating at maximum efficiency. It wasn't much, but at least it was something, and anything was better than sitting there, simply waiting. And watching.
~~~~
In spite of their circumstances, Tom couldn't help grinning at the expression of distaste that crossed Ramirez' face as she bit into the field rations.
"Look at it this way Juanita," he said. "It could be worse." Then, with a swift look over at Neelix who was patrolling the perimeter of the forcefield, "It could be Neelix' cooking!"
The laugher, tinged with a slight edge of hysteria, which greeted this sally was, Tom thought, rather more than it deserved. However, he knew that the release of tension, even for a few moments, was such a relief that the overreaction was understandable.
So far, in the four hours or so they'd been here, the Gr'tig had tried to break through the perimeter forcefield twice, without success. It appeared that they were only lightly armed, for which Tom was deeply thankful, but couldn't help wondering how long it would be before reinforcements, with heavier weaponry came up. Shit! How much worse off could they be, than to crash-land in the middle of a war zone. What was apparent was that they were pretty much surrounded, even with the sensor readings distorted as they were, that was apparent. He wondered whether they'd have done better to make a run for it, but, any safe territory was so far away, that he very much doubted that any of them would have made it. Even getting this far had resulted in one dead and one wounded. They could have split up into smaller groups, made lesser targets, but that would have drastically cut down on their chances of being picked up by Voyager.
So, in the circumstances, he thought that he'd made the right decision, even if for him it was purgatory to have to sit here and wait to be rescued, when everything he was cried out to him that he should be *doing* something, anything! The old impulse to act, something that was, perhaps, part of the reason why he was such a superb pilot, but that had also got him into so much trouble in the past. The ability to make a split second decision was, of course, a command skill, but, the ability to live with those decisions afterwards was equally important. And, realistically, he knew that anyone could make a mistake. Even such legendary commanders as James Kirk, or the present Captain of the Federation Flagship, the Enterprise, Jean-Luc Picard had made a few. Even his own father too, not that he seemed to accept that, Tom thought sourly, or accept anything less than perfection in his son. He told himself sharply to stop thinking like this, immediately and forcibly returned his attention to the here and now.
The short, stocky, heavy boned Ramirez, her powerful build a legacy of the fact that her ancestors had lived for three hundred years on a high gravity planet, put down the ration bar, then, reluctantly, picked it up again. Tom looked at her approvingly, smart woman, she knew the necessity to keep one's strength up. Even if the food tasted like shit. He gulped his own rations down, shuddering at the unpalatable taste, determined to set a good example, even though eating was the last thing he felt like doing, then reached out with his left hand for the water bottle. He frowned, his hand felt strange, uncoordinated. Then he shrugged, probably a result of the strain he was under, because it looked fine.
"Tom." He looked up at Kes' low voiced call, then grabbing a ration bar and water bottle, wandered over to where she sat beside Hamilton. He handed the items he was carrying to her, ignoring her attempt to refuse them.
"You need to eat," he said sternly. "That's an order Kes."
She nodded solemnly, opened the ration bar and started to nibble on it. Her expression, beneath the grime that streaked her lovely features, was deeply unhappy.
"What is it?" Abruptly, she stood and moved away from Hamilton, who was heavily sedated, but conscious, barely. Tom walked with her.
"It's Margaret. She's not responding to treatment."
Tom frowned. "In what way?"
"I'm not sure. There's some sort of infection and it doesn't matter what I do to clean her wounds, it keeps on coming back."
"Something in the atmosphere maybe, because of all the crap that's been dropped," Tom speculated.
"I don't know. But, every time it comes back, it spreads a little more. Tom..." She stopped and swallowed; her distress was plain. "My original estimate of forty hours was too optimistic. She'll survive for only another eight, maybe nine, hours.
"Shit!" He was wholly unable to prevent the exclamation. Heads swung round, as he continued in a quieter tone, "There's no way to slow it down?"
"I've tried everything I can think of. Maybe if the Doctor was here--"
"Don't sell yourself short Kes. We're not exactly well equipped here, remember."
She essayed a watery smile, grateful for her friend's attempt to comfort her, even if it was in vain.
He smiled back, one of his most practised fakes. "Okay, keep me informed if her condition deteriorates worse than expected." At Kes' nod he strode over to where Hamilton was lying and squatted down beside her. Her eyes were open, but dull with injury and there was a greyish cast to the ebony skin that worried him. One glance was enough to tell him that here was a very sick person. At least she wasn't in any great pain, though, thanks to the painkillers Kes had injected her with. He spoke in a soft voice. "Hey there, Marge. How're you doing?"
Hamilton stirred slightly. "D...don't call me Marge," she slurred. Tom laughed, feeling tears prick at the back of his lids. "Not doing too bad," Hamilton mumbled. "Feel like shit though."
He patted her hand. "That's our Marge, always calls a spade a spade."
"Not Marge, Margaret!"
He grinned at her. "Nope. Sorry. Marge it is."
"Whas the position?" she slurred.
He swiftly debated what to tell her. "We're not doing too badly. We're in a defensible position and have set up the location beacon. It's only a matter of time till Voyager picks us up."
She sighed, closing her eyes. "Good."
"You okay?"
The dark eyes opened. "Sleepy."
He smiled down at her. "Go to sleep then. I'll talk to you later."
She nodded and her heavy lids closed. Tom's smile vanished as if it had never existed as he drew in a shaky breath. Nine hours maximum, then she'd die. They'd lose her, along with Nicoletti.
He moved away, to be intercepted by Ayala, who, with Hamilton out of commission, Tom had designated as second in command, primarily because of his extensive security expertise. "How's she doing?" Gregor asked.
Tom shook his head, his face a mask of sorrow. "Not too good."
Ayala's face lengthened, as he fought to maintain an impassive expression. He lost. "How long?"
Tom didn't pretend to misunderstand him. "Maybe nine hours."
Gregor swore fluently, in Spanish. As their commbadges weren't working, due to the atmospheric disturbance, Tom wasn't sure what it was he'd said, but figured that what Ayala had said probably mirrored his own feelings. "Is there anything we can do?" Ayala asked.
"Kes is doing all she can. Pray maybe, if there's any god you believe in." Ayala shrugged helplessly, like many 24th century humans he wasn't a religious person.
Tom clapped him on the shoulder. "Get some sleep Greg, you're on duty in a couple of hours remember."
The big security lieutenant nodded and started to spread out his bedroll. Tom, having decided to take his own advice followed suit. He doubted that he'd be able to sleep, but he had to set a good example, it was his duty. Duty, that once hated word, but now, it was what kept him going, the need to take care of the others prevented him from brooding too much about the fact that, unless Voyager came to the rescue they would probably all die. He thought that the others had probably also figured that out, and was proud of them all. So far, they'd all held up remarkably well. He just hoped that they could keep it up. Until rescue, or the end. Whichever came first.
~~~~~
Harry glared at the sensor readings. The planet wasn't *that* big, so *why* couldn't he find them. An attempt to calculate the shuttles' likely trajectory, from the time they'd released their distress beacons had failed, the imponderables were simply too great to be able to calculate with any reasonable degree of certainty where they were likely to be. Oh sure, he could say that if they did *this*, then *that* was the likely result. But, it was equally likely that they'd done *this* instead, which would produce an entirely different result. It didn't help that what landmasses there were (assuming they'd managed to set down on land of course) were in general low-lying and water logged. That kind of terrain was difficult to survey under ideal conditions, which these were anything but.
He'd been at this for eight hours now, with barely a bathroom break; he ate at his console. He hadn't given up, of course, but was only too well aware that the whole planet, practically, was a battleground. What were the chances of survival for twelve all too fragile individuals in those conditions?
He glanced up to see Chakotay hovering at his elbow again. In spite of his understanding the depth of the Captain's anxiety, he was beginning to become irritated with the man. As soon as he had anything positive to report, he'd let him know. Surely Chakotay understood that? He probably did, possibly also knew that his attitude was annoying, but probably couldn't help himself. Harry thought that if Tom ever wondered whether Chakotay had any feelings for him now, he should see the Captain now. Of course he was concerned about everyone on the planet, but he'd never before seen Chakotay look so worried.
As for himself...he inhaled deeply. Tom Paris was nothing if not a survivor. So was Neelix, come to think of it. They'd be all right, they would! Tom would hold them together, until Voyager picked them up. He bent over his console again, doggedly.
~~~~
Tom looked at his left hand, trying to flex it. The fingers were too swollen for him to be able to do more than bend them a couple of millimetres. Fuck it. This he didn't need. He walked over to Kes, who was busy bending over Ayala's arm. It too was swollen. This was not good. Kes looked up, her large blue eyes bloodshot, threaded through with tiny red veins.
"It's no better?" she asked Paris wearily. Wordlessly, he held out his hand. Kes snapped out something in Ocampan, a sure sign of her worry and frustration. For the past few hours anyone who'd received even the slightest scratch was showing the same symptoms, the area where they'd been wounded was swollen and infected. It didn't matter what she did to try and heal the infection; it kept coming back and each time it was worse.
She took a trembling look at Hamilton's prone figure, the pilot's once pretty face was now so grotesquely swollen as to be unrecognisable. Her formerly trim figure was now misshapen, the skin so strained over swelling flesh that it looked as though she might burst open at any second. Kes felt the sting of helpless tears, she could do *nothing* to help, she couldn't even ease Hamilton's pain any more, all sedatives having ceased to work a couple of hours ago. Margaret was constantly moaning in her agony, a low ceaseless sound that abraded Kes' nerves, tore into her, increased her guilt at being unable to help. And now, it looked like half of the landing party might go the same way.
"Hey Kes." Tom's voice was gentle. "It's okay, it's not--"
"No it is not 'okay'!" Kes snapped, her normally deep contralto voice almost shrill. "Look at her, look at you! And I...I can't do *anything*."
"You *have* been doing something. You've been helping us all, a lot. It's not your fault Kes."
She bit her lip at Tom's emphatic tone. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, ashamed.
"For what? For caring?"
Blue eyes looked up into blue. He was tired and scared too, Kes realised. Of course he was. But he was doing his best not to show it. For herself, yes, she was scared, but most of all, she hated not being able to help, it went against all her instincts. She smiled at him, serenity ostensibly restored, determined not to show her feelings when it couldn't do anyone any good. "Thank you Tom," she said quietly. He nodded his acknowledgement of her thanks. "I think it's best if I leave your hand for the moment, see how it progresses." He nodded again, what could he say. He knew, they all did, that without effective treatment, they would end up like Hamilton, but there was no point in making a fuss about it now, not when they could die at any minute, if the forcefield gave way anyway. There'd been six attacks in total, none successful, but each time, the forcefield weakened a little further. It was just a matter of time until it gave way.
~~~~
Harry straightened his aching back. Eleven hours and still nothing. He felt like screaming in his frustration, as he pushed back his hair from where it fallen over his eyes, but then frowned. What was that? He bent back down to the console but seconds later, stood up. "Captain!" His voice was high with excitement. "I've found them."
Chakotay was out of his chair, where he too had been studying the same information as Harry, in a flash. "Where?" he demanded as he came up to Kim's console. Harry pointed to the reading indicating the distress beacon; the signal wavered, but was definitely there.
"They must have boosted the signal somehow, else we'd never have picked it up."
Chakotay heaved a sigh of relief. "Great. Now, if we beam them up straightaway--"
Harry shook his head. "There's too much interference, Captain."
Chakotay closed his eyes in frustration. To send out another shuttle would be crazy, as it would likely meet the same fate as the others. He turned away, then whirled back to Harry. "What about landing Voyager?"
Kim examined his readings once more. When he spoke his voice was thick with reluctance. The ground's not stable enough, we'd sink."
Fuck it! "Harry, raise General Ivek for me. We'll see if she can help."
~~~~~
Paris watched with morbid fascination as the Gr'tig ceased yet another as yet futile assault on their position. Thank God for Federation technology. Although he reckoned the forcefield would withstand no more than another couple, maybe three, assaults. He jumped, when his commbadge crackled into life.
"...oyager to Paris. Voyager to Paris." It was Harry.
"Paris here Harry," he cried. For a moment there was nothing but static, he tried again, calling to Voyager. From their positions around the enclave, heads began to turn in his direction.
Then, after a few agonising moments, "Tom is that you?"
"Voyager, Chakotay! It's great to hear you guys again." Tom felt a weight strapped to his chest lift at the sound of his lover's voice.
"Listen Tom, we don't have much time," Chakotay said urgently. "We're boosting the signal off the back of your beacon to talk to you at all. We're coming down with the Hock'emn to meet you, but we can't land nearer than twenty kilometres to your position, because the ground won't take it. The Hock'emn are going to launch a counterattack on the area you're in in three hours. I've tried to dissuade them, but they're adamant, say that if they don't too many of their people are likely to die, that it's all arranged. So, there's not going to be enough time, to get you out, unless you come to meet us. We'll try to meet you en route, but the Hock'emn say that the terrain isn't good between the proposed landing site and you, so we can't come any nearer than about four kilometres in ground vehicles, after that, we'll be on foot."
Paris took a look around at his filthy, sweating, ill and injured group, then thought about the Gr'tig who were most likely lying in wait for them outside. His heart sank. "We'll do our best, Captain," he said, hoping that his voice didn't waiver too much. "Give me the co-ordinates."
For a few minutes, the two men engaged in a discussion of logistics. Tom waived Ayala over to listen in, as the others of the landing party, gathered up useful gear, weapons, water, medkit. Just before he signed off, Tom said, "Oh and Chakotay..."
"Yes?"
"You are *not* coming down. Do you hear me," Tom said fiercely. "This is far too dangerous, we can't risk losing both the Captain and the First Officer."
For a long moment, there was silence, then finally, reluctantly, "Understood. Chakotay out."
Tom released the breath he'd been holding, at least Chakotay would be safe. In a quiet, resolute voice, he explained to the group what the plan was. He felt immensely proud of them at that moment, they knew what the odds were against them, but there was no protest. Although, what was the point? If they stayed here, they'd die. He picked up his gear, awkward with only one working hand and went over to Kes, who was sitting beside a thankfully unconscious Hamilton, futilely mopping her forehead. "How long does she have?
Kes looked up to where Paris stood, his tall form silhouetted against the dark sky. "Not long. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Her organs are already starting to fail."
Tom swallowed heavily. Well, that made the decision a little clearer. "Can you give her something, to...to..." Words failed him.
Kes nodded, her eyes huge. "But Tom--"
"Look around Kes. Look what state we're all in. And there's the Gr'tig outside, waiting for us. We can't take her with us, we'll never make it if we're slowed down by carrying her. And...And...she's dying anyway, we won't meet up with the rescue party for at least an hour." His voice cracked as he spoke.
Kes silently turned away and started preparing a hypospray. At that moment, Grimes came over. "I'd like to volunteer to carry Margaret, sir."
Tom shook his head. That won't be necessary, David, but thanks."
The other man screwed up his face in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
Tom inhaled deeply. Best to come right out with it. "We're not taking her with us."
"What! But...No. You can't!"
"We have no choice." Paris' grim tone was an exact match for his expression. "Is the hypospray ready yet, Kes?"
Grimes' expression reflected his outrage at his dawning realisation of what Paris intended. "So, you're going to *kill* her! Grimes' voice was loud with anger and from around the enclave, everyone stopped what they were doing.
"She's dying David." Kes' soft voice was shockingly loud in the stillness.
"But if we get her back to Voyager--"
"She won't last that long," Paris stated simply. "And I'm not letting the Gr'tig take her alive."
"But...to kill her. Look, you don't have to do this." Grimes' voice was desperate. "I'll carry her, I'm willing to take the risk."
"But I'm not! We're leaving her behind."
"No. Fuck you! I've told you I'll carry her." Grimes bent over Hamilton, started to pick her up.
Tom didn't recognise his own voice as he spoke, the frigid, grating tone was one that sounded familiar but he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it before. "I said no, Ensign. That's an order. You may be willing to take the risk, but I'm not prepared to risk everyone on you pulling some heroic stunt. You'll slow us down if you take her, put us all at risk. Put her down. *Now*!"
Grimes let go of Hamilton and whirled to face Paris. The Ensign was breathing heavily, red faced with anger, both fists clenched. By contrast, Paris was chalk white, nostrils pinched, head held high. For a moment there was silence, broken only by Grimes' hoarse breathing, then he turned away, stalked over to his pack, where he slung it on his back. Tom turned back to Kes. "Give me the hypo, I'll give it to her."
Kes shook her head, expression resolute. "She's my patient. I'll do it."
"Kes--"
"*No* Tom." Before he could protest further, she deftly injected the dying woman, whose heavy, agonised breaths slowed, then ceased. Silence.
Tom clenched his jaw so hard he felt the ligaments protest. He picked up his own pack again, fumbled with it, trying one handed to hoist it onto his back. Wordlessly, Neelix assisted him, his eyes dark with grief. "Everybody ready?" Tom asked with a commendable attempt at briskness. He glanced around, some, like Ayala and Lang meeting his gaze, others staring at the ground, Grimes glaring at him. No one spoke. "Let's go."
~~~~
