The BLTS Archive - Desecrated
Third in The Dark Is Rising series
by Suzanne Finn (yatokahc@aol.com)
and
Julie Kirkham (arizona@exl.co.uk)

---

March - June 1999

DISCLAIMER - Star Trek and all its characters belongs to the mighty
Paramount. We can't say that we play nicely with the other kids when
in their sand-pit, but we do promise to put their toys back without
breaking them. Well... okay... we promise to glue them back together
before returning them!

*Warning* - This is definitely not a place for the delicately minded
or easily offended! This story contains relatively graphic violence.
If this is something you do not care for, then we urge you to go to
one of the nice PG-13 stories in Suz's realm. It is not our intention
to offend. We therefore humbly warn you now.

*Warning* - If you like the "nice, amiable" Chakotay and the "almost
perfect" Kathryn Janeway, then this may not be the story for you.

*Warning* - This is definitely a non-canon story. If you don't like
creative history... turn back now.

This story is part 3 in The Dark is Rising series. If you have not
read The Dark Side or Sine Qua Non, this story will make absolutely no
sense. We therefore recommend you read them first :

---

A necrotic cloud born of the downdraft from the departing shuttle's
nacelles whirled around him, obscuring the terrain... and the
advancing Braai.

Tom blinked the grime from his eyes, squinted about him. If the surge
concealed the location of the Braai, it concealed his location as
well; he could use the flying dust and debris to conceal his escape...
assuming he fled now.

He dropped to one knee, then hauled the dead weight of the man in his
grip upward and over his left shoulder. Hesitating briefly, he
verified his purchase, then, heart pounding, levered himself to his
feet.

"Damn it," he wheezed through clenched teeth. Chakotay was solid.
Despite that knowledge, Tom was unprepared for the weight of the man.
He inhaled sharply as his balance shifted and threatened to fail him.
Dust settled in his lungs, choking him. He coughed, then held his
breath, fighting to quiet his spasming throat and lungs. Despite the
din of the departing shuttle and shouts and weapons fire, the cough
was audible... and distinct.

Pressure filled his throat. Tears stung his eyes.

He shifted the unconscious man, recovered his balance.

And then weapons fire exploded to Tom's left.

The cloud had thinned considerably, the cranberry and black of his
uniform, and that of his Commander's, easily detectable amidst the
earthen moil. He was losing his advantage.

Abruptly, he pulled his phaser from its mooring at his waist, then
wheeled and bolted to the southwest, in a direction that led him away
from the Braai. He had to put distance between himself and them...
before the billowing grime settled completely, exposing them, leaving
them vulnerable.

Within seconds, he slipped beyond the perimeter of the open area, and
disappeared amidst the hillocks and pilings, amidst the brilliance and
heat of the Braai desert.

He hurried as much as possible, senses alert. He listened for sounds
beyond his own feet impacting with stone, glanced back over his
shoulder, to his right and left, to see if they were being followed.
So far, there was no sign of pursuit.

He labored strenuously over the uneven ground, winding his way among
the preternatural rock formations. Already his progress was slowing.
His pace, combined with the midday heat, the ruggedness of the
terrain, and the weight of his burden were taking their toll. His
endurance was waning.

Tom paused and took stock of the situation. If he hoped to elude the
Braai, he had to find a hiding place, and soon.

Sweat streamed into his eyes. He scrubbed absently at it with the back
of his hand, as he recalled the desert he'd seen as the shuttle had
approached the LZ. The region had little to offer, unless...
Instinctively, Tom veered to his left. The bracken forest. With luck,
they could hide there. He'd head southeast, gain on the bracken while
continuing to put distance between himself and the Braai.

For a long time, he could find no easy way through the hillocks and
postings. He struggled generally southeastward, searching for usable
paths, but the terrain turned him insistently east. The bent of the
course left him frustrated and uneasy. It was imperative they move
_away_ from the Braai. He briefly debated abandoning the bracken and
heading due south...

And then a heat like fire grazed his cheek. He flinched, instinctively
ducked and changed direction, then froze as he came face to face with
three Braai soldiers, weapons trained unerringly on him.

What limited hope he'd had was suddenly spent.

Tom slowly held his free hand up in the universal gesture of
surrender, the phaser in his grip slipping and falling to the ground
as his hand unclenched, his fingers splayed.

He warily eyed the soldiers as they drew closer, separated, and
circled him.

"Kick your weapon away," the soldier immediately in front of him spat.

Without hesitation, Tom complied.

"Place him on the ground."

Tom's gaze snapped up, met his captor's. Calm. It was essential to
remain calm. It was essential to preserve some semblance of calm until
the guise became real, so that he could think, assess, plan.

"Your companion," the Braai hissed. "Lower him to the ground. Now!"

Tom's free hand went to Chakotay's thigh.

"Slowly. No tricks," the soldier grated. "One misplaced move, and you
will regret it."

The threat carried conviction. "No tricks," Tom echoed, raising his
hand in resignation. As gently as he could manage, he sank to his
knees, shouldered the unconscious man to the ground. It was then he
noticed two darts protruding from Chakotay's back. His brow furrowed
as he reached for one, fingered the shaft. But, before he could
dislodge it, a hand grabbed the collar of his uniform, dragged him
away, then hauled him to his knees.

"Hands behind your head! Fingers locked!" a voice bellowed in his ear.

Wincing, he complied.

And then the hand on his collar was gone.

For one staggering heartbeat, Tom screamed silent and futile warnings
at himself as the man stepped from behind him, moved toward Chakotay.
Tom's gaze darted between Chakotay and the Braai, frantically guessing
at the soldier's intent. His heart pounded in his throat as he felt
the danger suddenly thicken around him.

The soldier froze.

Tom's muscles tensed as the tumult of boots against rock followed by
the bark of orders and indecipherable grunts of acknowledgment struck
him from behind. He didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified as
the soldier standing over Chakotay turned, nodded dark acknowledgment
to someone behind Tom, then moved to fall in line with the ranks.

Abruptly, the clamor faded into silence, as the Braai unit surrounded
them, fixed their aim.

Tom swallowed hard. They were in trouble.

The muffled rumor of a footfall broke the silence. It was followed by
another and another, drawing closer with torpid deliberateness, behind
Tom, to his right. At the edge of his sight, he detected movement, but
resisted the urge to turn his head and look. Instead, he schooled his
features, his thoughts.

A Braai soldier, dressed in what resembled military fatigues, layered
with dust and dirt and sweat, drifted along the periphery of the
circle of soldiers into Tom's view. He was obviously the ranking
officer. The man in charge.

When in Tom's direct line of sight, the soldier stilled, turned to
squarely face him. Tom found his chin involuntarily lifting, his brow
furrowing slightly, not from the bright sunlight but from the elusive
familiarity of the face before him. He knew this Braai.

From the question coloring the man's expression, the Braai knew him as
well. And then a spark of recognition lit the man's eyes. "You are the
pilot of Voyager," he declared flatly.

Shit, Tom thought. This wasn't good. "I'm afraid you're mistaken," he
replied, working to place the face.

The officer shrugged, his eyes reflecting indifference. He nodded to
one of his men, then jerked his chin toward the inert body lying on
the ground. The soldier broke rank and stepped to the still form. He
casually toed the human, then delivered a brutal kick to its torso in
an attempt to elicit a response, to uncover a ruse.

Tom hurled himself to his left, careless of everything but his need to
protect the vulnerable and abused First Officer. But before he'd
covered half the distance, a backhanded blow connected with the side
of his face, sent him sprawling.

For a brief moment he saw stars.

"He's... injured..." Tom gasped, fighting for breath as he pushed
himself to hands and knees. A hand gripped his hair, yanked him to his
knees, forced him to face the Braai officer.

"And who might this man be?" the officer prompted.

Tom betrayed a hint of panic, then tightened his form. "My mother," he
mocked.

A slow smile spread over the Braai's face as he closed the distance
between himself and his captives. "It would serve you well to keep me
on your good side."

"Is that so." Tom smiled in return, then tried to pull his head free
from the hand restraining him. To no avail. Keep him talking, he
thought. Buy time. And don't piss him off... too much. "And just who
are you?"

"I am General Herros, first of the Fourth Detachment, and second to
the Council of Elders." The General stilled, studied the young man.
There was no hint of recognition in the alien's eyes, in the lines of
his face. Strange, he thought, his name did not evoke a response. The
pair was from Voyager; the uniforms were unmistakable. And yet, the
Herros name meant nothing. Anger rumbled through him. "What are you
doing in the third sector?" he quietly demanded, dropping to his
haunches next to the lifeless human.

Tom's gaze darted to Chakotay, then back to the General. He frowned.
"Third sector?"

"Why did you return to our planet? Why are you here?"

"We were having a picnic. Unfortunately, your..." Tom's retort was cut
short by a violent blow to his back. In spite of himself, he cried out
his pain. He reflexively arched forward, attempted to lunge beyond his
tormentor's reach, but couldn't, pale green fingers entwined in his
hair preventing his escape.

Herros considered the gasping man. Insolent. Spirited. Protective.
Qualities he admired. Qualities he despised. Qualities easily
manipulated.

Herros reached down, roughly flipped the human to his back. Slack arms
flopped against stone as he examined his prisoner, checking for signs
of life, gauging the seriousness of injuries. The human was alive. The
drugs in his system would soon dissipate. The plasma burns,
contusions, and various other injuries did not appear to be
life-threatening... he would still be useful. "High Command will be
pleased," he whispered.

A long knotted finger traced the lines of the tattoo at the man's
temple with interest. Curious.

Herros turned his head slightly, his gaze still fixed on the arched
lines adorning the human's flesh, spoke over his shoulder. "Arrange
for transport to Scylla... for both of them." And then his finger
stilled. "You will be our guests... that is, until your Captain
returns for you." He rose, grinned down at Tom. "At which time, she
will be arrested for crimes against the Braai nation."

"Captain Janeway committed no crime," Tom snapped.

The General growled obscenities under his breath as unexpected anger
flared. He strode viciously toward the prisoner, then backhanded him
across the face. The sound of flesh impacting flesh resonated in the
unusual silence of the desert.

"The whore you call _Captain_ is a murderer," Herros seethed, seizing
the collar of the alien's uniform, pulling him close. "A butcher
responsible for the cold-blooded massacre of countless Braai...
citizens and soldiers of the Empire."

Tom held his breath, refused to inhale the hot breath clawing at him,
refused to inhale the spittle spewed from enraged lips.

"My brother was among that number." Herros tightened his grip. "My
brother was among the first to be slaughtered. His body was found in
the ruins of the interrogation room where that bitch had been held,
his throat cut. Your Captain," he spat, "is not only accountable for,
but guilty of his murder... the murder of them all."

"She will pay," Herros hissed, pulling the human impossibly closer.
"You all will."

---

Tuvok was as close to suffering annoyance as a Vulcan would permit.

Lieutenant Tom Paris had disobeyed a direct order.

Again.

While the Lieutenant's motives could be considered valiant, the
attempt itself had been foolish, and had endangered the entire
mission. And now, Voyager faced not only the loss of its First
Officer, but its pilot as well.

Thoughtfully, he stood, turned to face the rear of the shuttle as the
cargo ramp descended, revealing Voyager's main shuttle bay. Before the
hatch completed its journey to the shuttle bay floor, a security team
hastened inside, immediately assisting the injured.

The visibly worn features of Kathryn Janeway greeted him as he exited
the battered craft.

"Tuvok." A gentle smile of relief lit her face. "It's good to see
you."

"And you, Captain." Tuvok nodded solemnly.

Kathryn's gaze drifted to the aft portal, to Neelix, to the security
team carrying the injured crewmen from the shuttle... Basehart,
Hickman, Harris. "Report, Commander."

"Acquisition of dilithium was successful, Captain. Most of the
remaining requisition items were obtained as well. Unfortunately, the
mission encountered problems when Ensign Hickman became embroiled in a
dispute..."

Kathryn found herself not listening... distracted... her attention
focused on the aft ramp, the doorway. A frown marred her face as she
turned to watch the small group making their way from the bay, heading
to sickbay, then turned back to the open shuttlecraft door. A tendril
of panic slithered through her. "Where are the Commander and
Lieutenant Paris?"

An ambivalent eyebrow rose. "We lost them on the surface."

The word struck her with a force no physical blow could. She paled
imperceptibly. "Lost?"

"We were attacked as we were preparing to depart. Commander Chakotay
was injured and unable to reach the shuttle. Lieutenant Paris
attempted to rescue him. We were forced to leave them behind."

"Are they still alive?"

"Unknown, Captain." Tuvok inhaled slowly, eyed his friend. "We could
run scans of the planet's surface in an attempt to determine their
status. However..."

Kathryn held up a hand, interrupted him. "I know. The geochemistry of
the planet interferes with our ability to compile complete and
accurate scans."

She exhaled sharply, stunned. Tom. Chakotay. Her best pilot. Her best
friend. Both...

What? What were they? She refused to believe they were dead. She
wouldn't. She couldn't. Until she was presented evidence to the
contrary, she would operate under the belief that they were alive. And
in all probability, prisoners of the Braai.

She felt impotent. Useless. Voyager was in no condition to remain in
Braai space. Voyager was in no condition to fight for the return of
her own.

"Captain?"

Tuvok's voice tugged her back into focus. She straightened, lifted her
gaze to the Vulcan's. "I want a full report by 0800 tomorrow morning.
As soon as this ship is capable, we're going back."

Tuvok nodded, once. He'd expected nothing less.

---

A pale green palm slammed against wood, the force of the concussion
causing the table itself to jump, shift placement.

Chakotay didn't flinch. He merely fixed his gaze on the shadeless
ebony eyes of the Braai towering over him.

Kyrax. The henchman delegated the responsibility of interrogation.

Chakotay surmised the assignment had not been random, that Herros'
choice had been deliberate and certain. His first impressions of Kyrax
were that the man was conversant... experienced... in the art of
information extraction. Chakotay was well-acquainted with men like
Kyrax, had encountered many over the years; vile, unscrupulous, and
ruthless men who took pride in their handiwork... men who derived
great pleasure from their craft.

The intense blackness boring into Chakotay betrayed a murderous
intent.

Dangerous didn't come close to describing Kyrax.

Ninety minutes had passed since Chakotay had been dragged into the
room in which he now sat, and had been forced into consciousness.
Ninety minutes had passed as he'd watched the Braai Commander flex the
rudimentary elements of intimidation and coercion. Ninety minutes had
passed as he'd been battered with the same questions over and over and
over again. Ninety minutes had passed during which he'd responded with
nothing but silence.

Silence was his only guarantee of survival. And survive he would,
until either Voyager returned, or he found a way out of this place...
wherever this place was.

And what of Tom? Were the images nipping at his memory merely
hallucination, or had Tom actually jumped from the shuttle in an
impetuous attempt to rescue him? He wouldn't put it past him.

If Tom was here...

The creak of the table fractured Chakotay's thoughts.

With deliberate ease, Kyrax pressed his other palm against the table
top, leaned closer. "What is your name?" he quietly pressed... yet
again.

And yet again, silence was Chakotay's only response.

"You are an officer of the starship Voyager, are you not?" Kyrax
already knew the answer... had known before commencing the
interrogation. Herros had managed to expedite the procurement of
information regarding the Braai's previous encounter with Voyager.
Transmission records had allowed them to identify their prisoners.
This man was none other than Voyager's second in command; the other,
Voyager's pilot.

Kyrax leaned closer still, slid his gaze over the dark features of his
silent captive... features half-hidden beneath the grime and blood of
battle. He found nothing that betrayed a weakness. No pain, no panic,
no concern. No anger, no exhaustion, no fear. Nothing.

Time, and various methods of persuasion, would change that.

Kyrax's gaze crept to the markings at the human's temple. Curious.
He'd never before seen a species that adorned its flesh in so
permanent a manner. He idly wondered at its significance, then
immediately banished the question. The information was irrelevant.

Again he met the blank stare of his prisoner. "Where is Voyager?"

Far from here, Chakotay trusted. He hoped Tuvok had managed to safely
return the shuttle and its contents to Voyager, and that even now,
Voyager was beyond the reach of the Braai, B'Elanna and her crew
effecting repairs, restoring life to the dying ship.

Kyrax straightened, crossed his arms over his chest. "Why did you
return to our planet?"

Silence.

"What was your purpose here?"

Silence.

"Where is Janeway?"

Silence.

"Voyager will undoubtedly return for you."

Undoubtedly they would. If he knew his Captain, and he _did_ know his
Captain, she would not leave her crew to the Braai. Alive, or dead.

"When?"

When? Chakotay's gaze lowered, fixed on a random point between the far
edge of the table and his interrogator. When? He didn't know.

Kyrax exhaled heavily, forcefully reigned in the embers of genuine
anger gnawing at his control. The first stage was not usually so
difficult. But there was something distinct about the man opposite
him... something indefinable, something that bespoke a spirit not
easily broken. This man would be a challenge.

"You are not very talkative, my friend," Kyrax said, in a tone that
suggested defeat.

Chakotay knew better.

"Is there anything you would like to add to this interview, any
question you would like to ask, before you leave?"

Silence.

"No?"

Kyrax wasn't overly concerned at his lack of progress; he'd yet to
spend time with the flaxen human. Perhaps the two could be played off
one another, used against one another, used to undermine one another.
The dynamics would reveal themselves in time. He _would_ acquire the
information Herros required.

The Braai Commander lifted his gaze, his chin following more slowly,
then spoke to the shadows beyond. "Take him to the East wing... then
bring me the other one."

Chakotay's heart skipped a beat. Tom.

A guard concealed within the shadow beside the door snapped to
attention, nodding his acknowledgment. He strode from his position,
grabbed the alien's upper arm, and pulled him to his feet.

Chakotay offered no resistance as he was dragged into the corridor...
a corridor so like those through which he'd stolen a week before: dim
bordering on dark, walls of solid rock. Had he not known better, it
could have been the same fortress.

But it wasn't... and now _he_ was the prisoner.

---

Chakotay was shoved over the threshold of a squalid cell block,
manhandled across the chamber, then unceremoniously flung to the floor
of a small cell. He pushed himself to his knees, then settled back on
his heels, resisting the temptation to turn and glare at the squad
behind him.

He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

The fading tramp of footsteps signaled their leave. When he knew he
was alone, he exhaled slowly, deliberately, expelling the pain and
apprehension and anger he'd held clenched behind a facade of
indifference.

Ignoring the protests of his right hip and thigh, the tightness in his
chest, Chakotay struggled to his feet, then turned to take in his
surroundings.

The cell block was like something from the dark recesses of Earth's
history... a time when those in bondage, whether criminal or
persecuted, were exiled to places such as Devil's Island, Botany Bay,
Auschwitz, others. Such places were not unique to Earth. The
Cardassians maintained similar prison camps. For centuries.

He'd far too many memories of such camps; Cardassian, most of them...
from his time in the Maquis, from his time in CBO. Odd, he thought,
how similar such places were. Differences existed, but only
superficially. Behind the method and madness and hate, the purpose was
exactly the same.

A visceral tremor coursed through him, shaking him free of his
memories. He swallowed hard, focused his attention on the cell in
which he stood. It was relatively small... less than four meters
square. A low wooden pallet rested against the rear wall, a threadbare
blanket crumpled in a heap upon its rotting surface, undoubtedly
infested with some parasitic insect.

In contrast to the dim corridors through which he'd been impelled, the
illumination in his cell was intense, originating from several sources
embedded in the ceiling, too high overhead. It would not be possible
to gain access to them all without assistance.

Chakotay limped to the rear wall, inspected it closely. It, like the
wall to his left, was comprised of solid stone, its surface irregular,
peppered with cavities fit with what appeared to be even more light
fixtures. He bit the inside of his mouth, frowned, cast a quick glance
around the chamber. Fixtures infested the walls and ceiling of the
entire block, allowing the capability to flood the area with brilliant
harsh light, continuously and indefinitely.

There were no windows. There was nothing resembling a timepiece. The
environment provided nothing with which to mark the passage of time.
It was an interrogator's dream... and the incarcerated's nightmare.
The technique was centuries old, and centuries effective.

Chakotay turned back to the rear wall of his cell. Condensation coated
the surface, giving the stone an unusual sheen. Tiny rivulets of
moisture formed, meandered downward, then trickled to where wall
joined floor. He pressed his hand against the moist rock. It radiated
no warmth. It was in all probability an internal wall, for the stone
had not absorbed the heat of the day. The cell block could be anywhere
within the bowels of the fortress.

He exhaled sharply, pulled his hand from the damp surface, wiped it on
his uniform, then turned his attention to the floor. It was comprised
of a substance he did not recognize... hard, rough, cold. The natural
gray of the material now lay almost completely hidden beneath untold
layers of stain and stench... vestiges of the souls confined here
before him.

His gaze drifted to his right. There were four holding cells lining
this wall of the block, each approximately the same size. Mottled
metal bars, embedded in the floor, ceiling, rear wall, and rock
columns positioned at the front junctures of the cells, separated
them. He migrated to the bars, stared into the three empty cells
beyond. There was no visible indication that Tom had been held in any
of them.

He slowly raised his hands, wrapped them securely around two bars,
tested the strength of the barrier... it didn't budge. He shifted to
his right, tried again. And again.

Nothing.

Chakotay swore silently, then trapped his lower lip between his teeth.
The barrier was ancient. If there was a weakness to be found...

He turned to examine the front of the cell.

The front wall was a forcefield, projected from mechanisms implanted
in the rock columns... floor to ceiling. The forcefield stood in stark
contrast to the rest of the cell block... the lone bastion of
technology. There was no obvious access to the projection mechanism.

He... no... _they_ were in trouble.

He shuffled to the energy barrier, looked into the chamber beyond.
There was one point of entry, near the remote corner of the room, half
hidden among the shadow clinging to the far wall. He squinted against
the darkness, but detected nothing lurking there.

The center of the chamber appeared to be a work area, engineered for
interrogation, for coercion, if the instrument-laden stands, overhead
grating, and inclined table were any indication. He snorted. A work
area? It was a torture chamber. Hell incarnate.

The four holding cells were provided a generously unfettered view of
the center area. Intentionally so. Torture took many forms.

Chakotay's gaze drifted to the table, unadorned save for restraints
anchored at each of the four corners. The floor beneath the table lay
testament to the atrocities committed... stained and pitched toward a
crusted drain. He faltered as contradictory fears clamored in him,
fears animated by an inevitability congealing before him, an
inevitability beyond his control.

Their roles had already been determined. It was the nature of
coercion, the psychology of the art. Stress the weakness. Erode it.
Tom would be the target. And he would be a means to an end.

And then without warning, a tremor convulsed through him, demanding
his attention. Sweat bled from his pores. His nerves shrilled, cried
the pain of his earlier injuries. His muscles trembled. The last few
hours were catching up with him.

He cursed his body's weakness. He didn't have time for this. Tom would
be delivered to the cell block soon, and Chakotay wanted to be ready.
He had to think, devise a plan, find a way to sustain them both.

---

"Where is your ship?" Kyrax gently pressed, as he circled behind the
young pilot.

"Couldn't tell you," Tom remarked sharply. "But if you happen to find
out, could you let me know?"

Kyrax smiled humorlessly. This human was nothing if not acerbically
mocking; almost the antithesis of his counterpart. The stark contrast
between the two was promising. He stilled, crossed his arms over his
chest. "Why did you return?"

"I liked the climate." Tom had grown tired of the questions. He'd
managed to remain silent for roughly thirty minutes; but, by the fifth
iteration of attending tedious and unoriginal questions, his mouth got
ahead of him. He'd provided his name and rank... standard fare for the
prisoner of war. He'd have provided his serial number as well, if he'd
been able to remember it. The remainder of the Braai's questions...
well... Tom could obfuscate with the best of them.

"What is your purpose here?"

Tom simply shrugged his shoulders.

"Where is Janeway?"

"In her office?"

"And your ship?"

Tom cocked his head slightly. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed.
"Haven't we been here several times already?" He shook his head. "Are
all the Braai mentally challenged... or is it just you?"

The Braai's smile deepened. At last he was making progress. He was
irritating, effecting, unbalancing. In less than forty-five minutes,
he had discovered more from this man, more _of_ this man, than he had
in almost two hours with the other. Youth and inexperience... an
ambrosial combination. "I ask you again... where is Voyager?"

Tom snorted and rolled his eyes. "Mentally challenged is _definitely_
an understatement."

"When will they return for you?"

With deliberate slowness, Tom lifted his right hand, inspected his
fingernails.

Kyrax again moved, circled to the opposite side of the table, studying
the human as he went. While extremely intelligent and physically
capable, the young man was uninitiated. He did not understand the
craft. He was easily goaded, easily impassioned. He rode his emotions
impetuously. He would be their target.

Tom froze. Dirt and blood were impacted between flesh and nail.
Chakotay's blood, he thought. He hadn't seen the Commander since
they'd passed through the gates of the fortress. Several Braai had
dragged the unconscious man from the transport, and retreated into the
keep. For all he knew, Chakotay was...

"Is there anything you would like to add to this interview, Mister
Paris? Any question you would like to ask, before you leave?"

The casual tone, the gentleness with which the question was asked
startled Tom. He dropped his hands to his lap, lifted his gaze to the
face of his captor.

Kyrax recognized the fleeting indecision in the young man's eyes.

"Where is Commander Chakotay?"

Kyrax couldn't contain the satisfied grin that spread across his face.
Youth and inexperience. The dark man had a name: Chakotay. "Nearby,
Mister Paris." He shifted his gaze, nodded to the guard by the door.
"Take him to the east wing."

"Where?" Tom pressed as the guard hauled him from his chair.

The Braai Commander rose, smiled benevolently at his prisoner. "The
guard will take you to him."

Tom frowned, suspicious, but ceased his resistance. He shrugged free
of the guard's grasp, then turned and followed him into the corridor.
The interrogation had gone better than he'd anticipated. He'd expected
something more physical, something involving pain. Instead...

He exhaled slowly. What the hell was going on?

---

He heard their approach, before he saw them, before they emerged from
the small corridor leading into the cell block... a handful of
sentries, Tom in their midst. As the group approached, Chakotay
settled his gaze on his shipmate. Tom looked no worse for the wear...
dirty, tired, agitated, but otherwise unharmed. He didn't miss the
relief that flooded Tom's face when the young man noticed him.

Tom's gaze never wandered from his Commander as he was ushered into
the adjacent cell and was sealed within. Chakotay was conscious and
alert... a vast improvement over the last time he'd seen him... a vast
improvement over what he'd feared. As the Braai unit vacated the cell
block, he stepped to the bars separating their cells.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

Tom blinked, taken off-guard. His mouth opened, worked at a response,
but his brain had not yet processed Chakotay's meaning. Words refused
to form.

Chakotay pushed himself to his feet, stepped awkwardly toward the
pilot. "If our situation wasn't so dire, I'd put you on report for
disobeying a direct order."

Tom huffed, incredulous. Yes, he'd disobeyed an order, but every man
on board the shuttle would have done exactly the same. He just
happened to beat them to it. "You would have done exactly the same
thing."

That was beside the point. Chakotay exhaled heavily. "Look, Tom... I
appreciate what you tried to do, the intent behind it, but..."

"But what?" Tom snapped. "Why are you _really_ angry? Because my
attempt to save your sorry ass failed? Or because it was _me_ who
tried?" He shook his head in disbelief. He thought they'd moved beyond
this... years ago.

"No," Chakotay grated. "Because that one impulsive act endangered the
entire mission. And now, instead of one prisoner, they have two." Tom
had no idea what awaited them, how his presence had drastically
altered what lie ahead. Damn the man. Had Tom stayed on the shuttle,
had Tom followed orders, he would be alone. Were he alone, the dread
slowly strangling his soul would not exist... would not have reason to
persist.

Chakotay swallowed hard, glanced to his right, toward the center of
the cell block. It wouldn't happen again. He wouldn't let it. Tom
would not end up like Nathan.

Tom's gaze followed Chakotay's, to the chamber beyond his cell, and
froze. He'd walked right by it. He'd been so focused on Chakotay that
he hadn't noticed. Shit. They were in trouble.

Chakotay saw the moment the embryonic tendrils of apprehension lit
Tom's eyes. He felt them himself. This was their Hell. "Regardless of
what happens," he ordered. "Regardless of what they offer, promise,
threaten... do... give them nothing."

"What else would I give them?" Tom soberly replied, his gaze darting
to Chakotay, then involuntarily returning to the center of the block.
Inchoate doubt gnawed at the edges of his imagination. He refused to
acknowledge its existence. "I can endure... that." He jerked his chin
in the direction of the table.

Chakotay silently studied the man before him... the crucible of their
fate. He was overwhelmed with the urge to reach between the bars, take
the young man's face between his hands, and shake him into
understanding. But then the hard lines of his mouth bent, and he
sighed. "Tom," he urged. When the pilot's gaze again met his, Chakotay
pressed closer to the bars. "They won't hurt you."

Tom's brow furrowed in confusion. "Then what's with the medieval
exhibit? Pure intimidation?"

Chakotay shook his head. "No." A sudden weariness washed over him, a
weariness he could ill afford. He bit the inside of his cheek, glanced
toward the work area, then back to Tom. "It will, without doubt, be
exercised."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning Kyrax plans to use me to break you."

"What?" Bewilderment furrowed Tom's brow. And then the implication of
the Commander's word hit. He clenched his jaw against the anger that
sparked. "Don't flatter yourself, Chakotay," he spat, wincing inwardly
at the emotion his voice betrayed. The weak link... that's what his
commanding officer thought he was. Of the two of them, he was the
easiest target, the most easily influenced and manipulated.

"This isn't an attack on your character, Tom." Interrogation rarely
was. The cut of Chakotay's mouth thinned as he fought for the words to
explain the dynamics. "It's a carefully orchestrated offensive... one
in which the Braai will attempt to maximize their chance for success.
The dynamics are complicated, but Kyrax is a master tactician. He's
well-practiced."

"And how do you know that?" Tom whispered.

"Because I've run across men like him before. He's steeped in years of
experience. He _reeks_ of it." Chakotay's gaze dropped to where metal
fused with the floor. "And in this instance, you've been designated
the path of least resistance. I'm the goad." He shrugged. "At least
that's what Kyrax is counting on."

"And if you're wrong?"

Chakotay's dark eyes lifted. "I'm not wrong."

Tom suddenly felt dismembered from himself. They were in trouble. "So
what do we do?"

Prepare. Proactive survived. Reactive did not. "You're about to get a
crash course in how to fight these bastards."

Tom turned away, let his gaze trudge at random over the outer chamber.
Fight? He didn't want to fight them... he wanted to kill them. With a
heavy heart, he turned and nodded. "Okay... do it."

---

She was on Voyager. But...

The corridor down which she moved was unfamiliar to her. Perhaps it
was the lighting: dim, threatening dark. Shadows, thick and
preternatural, clung to the walls and ceiling. Shadows concealed the
familiar; distorted and disfigured it. Shadows played tricks on the
mind; undermined.

She was on Voyager. But...

Her feet stilled as her eyes narrowed, peered into the
near-impenetrable dimness ahead of her. She knew her ship... by heart.
She had walked every centimeter many times over the last four years.
She knew every corridor, every Jefferies tube, every bay and cabin and
lab. She knew her ship, and yet she didn't know this.

She whirled as sudden laughter echoed like wails down the corridor.
"Who's there?" she quietly demanded.

Silence grazed her.

She squinted into the murkiness surrounding her, searching the shadows
for the source, but found nothing.

Something was there.

She could feel it.

And then, the walls of the corridor came alive. Alloy and shadow
shifted, coiled about her, receded, took form. Her head snapped
around, following the length of the corridor, watching as dark masses
stepped from the walls, and converged. The face of the devil stepped
forward.

"He's mine," he whispered gruffly, glaring at her from behind wild
ebony.

A frown marred her brow. "Who?"

"He will betray you."

Her gaze darted about her, to the forms congealing and closing in.
There was no escape. She swallowed harshly, again met dark eyes.
"Who?"

A pale green hand reached out, brushed against her cheek, combed
through her hair, gripped the back of her neck. She stiffened,
resisted as the hand pulled her closer.

Hot breath clawed at her neck. "He already has."

"Who?" she pressed.

And then the grip loosened.

He spun her, pushed her ahead of him into the dark, moiling tide of
shadow. She found herself standing before a wooden door. A hand dug
into her upper arm while the other shoved the door open. The Braai
pushed her over the threshold, into a lightless passage, through
another door.

She couldn't see. An irrational visceral fear of running into
something kept her from breaking free of the hand clenching her arm.
And then it yanked her back, thrust her to the floor. She caught
herself, her hands connecting with slick sticky warmth.

A flash of white exploded around her, revealing a faceless man within
arm's length... beaten, bloodied, wrists and ankles bound by
restraints, outstretched upon a Braai table.

She was kneeling in his blood.

Darkness engulfed her again, ripping the man from her sight.

She felt movement and heat behind her, fiery breath in her ear. "You
are mine."

"No," she hissed, her voice uncompromising, her head shaking
vehemently. She was not his. Never.

"Your strength is mine."

No.

"_He_ is mine."

She frowned. He...

And then white exploded around her again. Just as quickly darkness
regained its hold. However, light reigned long enough to imprint the
image of pain behind dark eyes, a tattoo upon a bloodied brow...

Chakotay.

His name rustled through her, carrying his pain with it.

And then the Braai was on top of her, crushing her into viscous
warmth, his tongue like a lick of wet fire on her neck, her jaw, her
lips...

---

She slammed into wakefulness, a guttural protestation escaping her
lips as she struggled to free her ensnared limbs. She was suffocating,
she felt sure of it, some unseen captor tightening its grip...
stealing her voice, her breath, her mind.

Kathryn's eyes flew open, were met with coalescing shadows,
surrounding her like indistinct phantoms.

As her arms battled their captor, her mind battled to gain focus...
gripped in some transitory state between sleep and consciousness; a
state where truth was impalpable, where the dream seemed real and the
reality dreamlike, where reason had little bearing.

She blinked hard. Her eyes darted uncertainly over her surroundings,
peering apprehensively at the shadows, her mind providing form to what
her eyes could not clearly see.

She shuddered, closed her eyes, attempted to calm herself. Calm was
imperative.

Slowly, she pushed herself up on her elbows, willed her eyes to open,
glanced up from beneath long lashes, recognized the dark form of her
bureau, the slightly ajar door of her closet, the nightstand beside
her bed, chronometer and glass of water undisturbed atop it.

She was in her quarters.

Breath, held unknowingly in her lungs, escaped in a rush. Carefully
extracting her arms from the bedding in which she was ensnared, she
pushed herself upright, lifted her hands, scrubbed at her face,
grinding at the sweat and weariness and fear.

Madness. It was all madness. Trickery. Absurdity. Irrational
maunderings of the mind. And yet those maunderings plagued her,
unsettled her, over and over and over again.

Kathryn had spent the last several days in one long, acute discovery
of exhaustion.

Voyager had managed to escape Braai space unscathed. And though they
continued to limp away from the danger, dilithium in hand, the tension
on board was tangible.

There was no evidence of pursuit. The Braai had no need; they knew
Voyager would return. For the moment, the ship itself was not
vulnerable, affording them some semblance of refuge in which to effect
repairs, to resurrect the ship.

But that did nothing to alleviate the somber mood that pervaded the
crew.

They'd abandoned their own.

The decision had been necessary, for Voyager's survival. And yet...

She snorted. She'd had to make far too many 'necessary' decisions as
of late. The mantle of command. It came with the job. But, no Captain,
no crew had ever been sentenced to the fate Voyager had. No Captain,
no crew had ever been forced to withstand that life without relief,
without some tangible hope.

At times, it seemed too much.

And now, the strain she might normally ignore and deny, violated her
thoughts, her dreams, her hope, her peace. Peace... at times she
doubted she would ever know the true meaning of the word.

Her hands stilled as her thoughts drifted to a memory. Words. A story.
A heart. He'd touched a place in her she'd thought she'd hidden deep
and hard, and yet it was just below the surface, waiting to be
unearthed... by him. Chakotay, her strength.

In the heavy silence of her quarters, she sat impotently on her bed,
her face buried in her hands, and prayed to whatever deities existed
to sustain Chakotay and Tom... until Voyager returned.

---

The office was small, furnished only with a desk and chair, the walls
devoid of embellishment. The desk top was barren save for a small
communications device, a parchment-filled pouch, and a cup of mundroot
tea.

Kyrax settled back in his chair, absently toying with the metal signet
ring on his right hand, a trophy seized from a prisoner executed many
years before. His thoughts were as distant as the memory of that
prisoner, but were rooted in the present, in a cell block two levels
below him, and the ship from which they'd come.

Voyager would return, of that he was sure... it was only a matter of
time. But when? And in what condition?

Security reports from Chadik, the town nearest where the Federation
shuttle had been intercepted, included records of an exchange between
a local trader and an unidentified Braai that quickly escalated into
weapons fire. The weapon used was an off-word weapon, by all accounts
identical to the hand-held stock used by Voyager.

Kyrax had dispatched a team to investigate the incident. The Braai
involved in the exchange were strangers... had arrived in town a few
days prior to the tussle, had been involved in many and varied trade
negotiations. In the pouch before Kyrax was a list of items, as yet
incomplete, for which the strangers had negotiated... items for which
Voyager had so desperate a need, her Captain had sent a team, in
disguise, to infiltrate Braai society to acquire. That need bespoke
much.

The fingers of his left hand abandoned the ring on his right and
slipped inside the pouch, pulled a sheaf of parchment free. Dilithium.
An uncommonly traded item, but traded nevertheless in the streets of
the peripheral towns... mostly for illegal weapons. Voyager did not
deal in small dilithium-powered arms. The quantity obtained by Voyager
implied heavy damage to their power systems, perhaps even the engines.

The alloys and ores acquired implied the same. Voyager was in
trouble... severely weakened and vulnerable.

And the food stocks they'd procured implied a need beyond the
functioning of the ship.

He wondered what Voyager's condition would be when she returned, what
damage would go untended to expedite that return. And return Voyager
would. Their previous encounter with Voyager was indicative of the
bond between these humans. Janeway would reclaim her own.

Kyrax stilled. His gaze shot across the room, as his office door was
flung open, and without invitation a man barged in.

Herros.

"Why do you relax? Why do my prisoners rest comfortably in my cells?"
Herros demanded angrily. "You are paid to do a job!"

The cut of Kyrax's mouth thinned as he consciously smothered the anger
that sparked. The man was going to be a problem. Herros' impatience
would jeopardize Kyrax's strategy if he persisted in interfering. His
dealings with the Herros family had taught him one thing, if
nothing... they were all ruthless, and all impatient.

"I want those codes. Sitting here, doing nothing, will not get
results!" Herros fumed, planting his palms against the desktop,
leaning heavily on them.

Kyrax snorted quietly. It had only been seventeen hours. They had
time. "I _will_ obtain the information you require, General," he said,
carefully setting the parchment down, straightening. "However, it will
take time."

"We don't have the time. Voyager will return soon. I need those
codes."

Kyrax inhaled deeply, tempered his tone as if dealing with a child.
"And you will have them. Just... not today."

"I'm not surprised," Herros snapped coldly, leaning closer. "You have
the best facilities in the Nation at your disposal... and yet they sit
idle. _You_ sit idle."

"You know as well as I that information extraction can be a long and
varied process." Kyrax's eyes narrowed as he met Herros' intent gaze.
"These humans are a strong species. Care must be taken to determine
their weaknesses and strengths. And the dynamics between the two..."

"We don't have time for your games!" the Braai General growled. "Kill
one... and tell the other he will suffer the same fate should he not
cooperate."

"It won't work."

"The threat of death always works."

Kyrax shook his head. "Not in this instance." He sensed an intense
loyalty in these humans. The quiet conversations he'd listened in on
were telling evidence of their bond. They would rather die than betray
their ship... and each other. This would not be easy.

The two men stared intently at one another over the expanse of the
desk, silent and measuring. And then Herros acquiesced, straightened.
"What is your intent?"

"To erode the younger one. He appears to be the weak point in the
dynamic."

"If he is so weak, then kill the older one..."

"I said he was the _weak point_," Kyrax defended. "He's not a weak
man." He shook his head emphatically. "He is merely inexperienced.
He's young. He's impulsive. He has not yet learned to detach himself
from what's happening around him. _That_ is his weakness, and _that_
will be his downfall."

Herros snorted disdainfully.

"He isn't going to be easy to break." Kyrax inhaled deeply, exhaled
slowly. "Neither of them will be."

"How do you propose to... stress this weakness?"

"I'm not yet certain. I suspect there's an emotional tie to the older
man. He cares what happens to him." And emotional entanglements,
whether superficial or significant, were a weakness easily
manipulated. "If that's the case, then there's leverage."

"And how do you intend to test your theory?"

A shrewd grin crept over Kyrax's face.

Herros smiled to himself. There was a reason Kyrax was Chief
Interrogator. He knew his craft... extremely well. Still, this was too
important for even the slightest mistake. "Don't fail me on this,
Kyrax," he grated heavily.

An insulted eyebrow raised in response.

"You have three days."

Kyrax stiffened. "Three days may not be enough time."

"It will have to be." Abruptly Herros turned, walked out the still
open door, and disappeared into the dark corridor beyond.

---

"I am certain, Captain, that they are simply being held prisoner."

There was nothing simple about being a prisoner of the Braai. She knew
from experience. "What makes you so sure?" She leaned forward, elbows
pressed to her desk. Despite the confidence with which her Security
Officer had presented the facts, despite the facts themselves, she
clung to the hope that Tom and Chakotay had evaded capture. "There's a
chance they got away," she offered hopefully. "It's possible they
eluded the Braai and have gone to ground somewhere in the area."

"While that is possible, Captain..." Tuvok's eyebrow raised as he
considered the likelihood. "It is highly unlikely." He held her gaze
for several moments before continuing. "Commander Chakotay appeared to
be unconscious at the time of our departure. And, while I consider
Lieutenant Paris capable of many things, I do not believe him capable
of carrying the Commander's body for any great distance, in midday
desert conditions, while simultaneously avoiding enemy forces. As we
were taking off, shuttle sensor readings, though erratic and
incomplete, indicated several dozen Braai converging on our position
from all flanks. It is more probable that Commander Chakotay and
Lieutenant Paris did not make it through the cordon of soldiers and
are now being held."

Kathryn straightened, then sank back into her chair, weariness taking
hold of her. Tuvok was right. She knew that. But she didn't want to
think about it. She didn't want to think about her First Officer and
her pilot. She didn't want to think about what they were enduring. She
couldn't. There were too many steps to take before she could. Her ship
was still in trouble, engineering struggling to integrate the new
crystals, power concerns critical and food not far behind. She
couldn't. It brought back too many memories and nightmares. She
couldn't. But she had to... for their sake.

Tuvok watched his Captain with a knowing eye. Her despondency was out
of character, but not totally unexpected considering recent events.
Kathryn Janeway looked drained. It was apparent that she wasn't
sleeping, dark circles stark against too pale skin, under dull eyes.
Her uniform hung loosely on her frame. Her hair had lost its normal
luster. Despite his Vulcan heritage, Tuvok felt... concern.

Neelix had confronted him outside the mess hall not an hour before,
feeling it necessary, out of concern for his Captain, to inform him
she had not eaten a full meal in several days. Disturbed, he'd checked
her replicator ration reserve and discovered little activity save a
small frequent debit.

She'd seemingly pumped herself with coffee to keep herself going.

"Captain, at this point, there is nothing we can do for the Commander
and Lieutenant Paris." Tuvok paused, considered his words. "Our
primary concern is Voyager, her onboard crew... and her Captain. You
need to rest..."

"Rest?" she interrupted, as she realized where he intended to steer
the conversation. Her expression clouded. She shook her head. "How can
I rest?" she asked, pushing herself to her feet, turning away. "Main
engineering is in turmoil. We'll be lucky to restore full power to the
engines any time soon. Our food stocks are depleted. The entire crew
is working double, even triple duty shifts just to keep Voyager
flying. I have two decks shut down, and another two about to join them
because power can't be maintained. I nearly lost a crewman in a
senseless barroom brawl on some godforsaken planet. My First Officer
and my pilot are MIA. And Chakotay..." She stopped herself, unsure how
to continue. Chakotay's past was the least of her worries. And yet he
was foremost on her mind.

"Neglecting our needs will not lessen our problems," Tuvok said, his
concern evident.

She exhaled slowly, turned to face the Vulcan. And then her entire
demeanor softened as she looked into the face of her friend.
"Tuvok..."

"Torres to Captain Janeway."

Kathryn sighed, threw Tuvok a beholden glance. "Go ahead, B'Elanna."

"Captain, I need to take the main computer offline for ten minutes
while we reboot several subsystems and perform a level-two diagnostic
on the ancillary controller."

"When?"

"Now."

An auburn eyebrow raised. Short, and not necessarily sweet...
B'Elanna's temperament as of late. Kathryn couldn't blame her. Hell,
she was there with her. "Very well, B'Elanna." She absently scratched
a spot above her right eyebrow. "Keep me informed."

"Aye, Captain. Torres out."

Heartbeats passed in silence, and then Kathryn once more looked to her
friend. Again, she could not deny the Vulcan's logic. Neglecting her
needs would not lessen their problems. A half-smile found its way to
her lips. "Would you care to join me for breakfast?"

---

The clout rattled Chakotay's jaw. He instinctively clenched his teeth
against the impact, then braced himself for the blow sure to follow.

It never came.

Chakotay slowly turned his head to face the man who'd struck him. The
soldier was at a disadvantage; every move made required permission,
permission granted by the man seated comfortably three meters distant.
The hesitation, the delay gave Chakotay an edge, an advantage... that,
and the fact that Kyrax was merely toying with him.

He needed an edge.

For the last hour, Kyrax had sat immersed in shadow, silent and
watchful, granting his permission to the soldier with an occasional
nod. A faint smile painted Kyrax's lips, a smile that grew at the
trace signs of Chakotay's discomfort.

Chakotay was vulnerable, kneeling, arms outstretched in some mockery
of crucifixion, wrists securely bound to posts anchored in the floor
and ceiling. His legs had long since cramped up, his right hip and
thigh were on fire, his knees were painfully numb. But, the worst pain
emanated from his torso... the compression injury. Unable to nurse the
injury to his ribs and chest, he was struggling to maintain a normal
breathing rhythm.

He knew his injuries would be used against him. They already had been.
And at some point, they would be indistinguishable from the others,
those he was yet to suffer. And so he pushed the pain to some dark
corner of his mind, behind a mask of indifference. His physical
condition was irrelevant.

Chakotay watched Kyrax with a practiced eye. The man was a master. And
for now, the master was merely playing... testing the players, and his
assumptions, before he'd invested too much time and blood, before he'd
spent his leverage and lost the ability to modify his strategy. A dead
prisoner wasn't leverage.

And then Kyrax rose, stepped from the shadows into the circle of light
enveloping Chakotay and his tormentor.

"Commander Chakotay."

Chakotay's gaze lifted. He'd suspected Tom had unwittingly, out of
concern, given the Braai his name. An innocent slip. Harmless. There
was little question Kyrax had intended to use the information to
intimidate and agitate him, however fleetingly. Chakotay merely met
the use of his name and the sardonic grin that framed its utterance
with unreactive cool.

"We can continue on this way indefinitely, or..." The grin faded. "You
can tell me what I want to know."

Chakotay remained silent, leveled his gaze on an indistinct point in
the shadows as the Braai Commander approached.

"You know, Commander..." Kyrax stopped, sank to his haunches, came
face to face with the marked man. "This could get very painful. For
you. For your friend. However, were you to give me your full
cooperation... I could stop all of this. Right now."

Chakotay lifted his face to the Braai, a raw glint of contempt
darkening his features.

Kyrax eyed his captive, then slowly pushed himself upright, tutting.
He sighed, then turned his back to his prisoner, made to walk away.

And then agony exploded in Chakotay's chest, as Kyrax whirled and
kicked him full-force in his injured ribs. Consciousness threatened to
abandon him; the breath in his lungs already had. His chest heaved,
seeking precious oxygen, as his mind grappled for control... of his
body, his reaction, the pain.

Kyrax bent low, gripped Chakotay's hair, forced the First Officer's
face to his. The pain impinged on the human's face tugged at the
corners of his mouth. "I _can_ be a reasonable man," he intoned
flatly, then backhanded Chakotay high on his left cheek.

Unprepared for the viciousness of the onslaught, Chakotay was unable
to ride the blow. Already bruised skin was rent, a jagged ring riving
through flesh over cheekbone. Hairs were ripped from his scalp as the
force of the impact snapped his head backward and to the side, the
pale green fingers enmeshed in his hair unforgiving, unmoving.

"My offer is most generous."

Hot, rancid breath assaulted Chakotay's skin, nose, lungs.

"Perhaps you require some time to realize the beneficence of it."
Kyrax's free hand gripped Chakotay's chin, forced his gaze forward yet
again. "Perhaps you require more than time." The Braai Commander
jerked Chakotay's head to the left, exposing his throat, then looked
past his prisoner, nodded to the soldier beyond.

And then something sharp was thrust into the base of Chakotay's neck,
just above the collarbone. In spite of himself, he cried out.

Then again... another. Needle-like. Small. Cold. Metal. Piercing.
Painful. Chakotay clenched his teeth against the pain. This wasn't
good... whatever _this_ was.

"Perhaps you require enlightenment." Kyrax struck Chakotay in the
throat, not hard enough to crush the man's windpipe, but with enough
force to remind him of his vulnerability. Kyrax relished the quickened
pulse, throbbing beneath his palm, the involuntary gasps forced by too
empty lungs struggling for breath. And yet... defiance stared back at
him. "Perhaps you require a taste of what awaits you should you
ultimately refuse my offer. Consider it... incentive." And then the
Braai Commander shoved at the dark man, releasing him, and again
nodded to his assistant.

As the first lick of current struck, Chakotay's wall shattered in an
unholy wail. Every muscle in this body constricted. His nerves
screamed white fire. His body seized, then convulsed in involuntary
response.

And then it was over. The source of his torment was terminated. But,
the pain persisted. He went limp, the full weight of his body suddenly
supported only by his wrists and shoulders. His head fell forward,
hung low as he fought to retain his purchase on consciousness.

"Pain is pain," Kyrax grated, the menace behind his words clear. "What
is your pain to me?" He grabbed hold of Chakotay's jaw, jerked it up.
"Nothing," he whispered. "It is nothing. But to you..." He casually
inspected the results of his work. "There's a much easier way."

Chakotay noted absently the pristine whiteness of, the plumbness of
the Braai Commander's teeth. Too perfect. It had all been too perfect.
The Braai had given too perfect an appearance from the outset. He
should have known.

Kyrax smiled menacingly as he examined the barely conscious prisoner.
His gaze traced the marking on the man's brow. "The choice is yours,
my friend." Abruptly, he released his grip and stepped away, sank once
again into the shadows.

Chakotay heard the murmur of conversation between Kyrax and the young
soldier, but was unable to make out what was said over the thunderous
pounding in his head, the wrack of his respiration.

And then the restraints at his wrists were disengaged. Before the
floor could rush upward to impact his body, rough hands grabbed the
scruff of his uniform, and dragged him from the room.

---

Tom paced the width of his cell for the hundredth time since Chakotay
had been dragged from the block. They'd been left to themselves since
the initial interrogation, interrupted once when a guard had entered
bearing something that was supposed to pass as a meal, and once more
to be wrenched from sleep. They'd used the time as best they could, to
prepare, but Chakotay was convinced they were being monitored...
visually and aurally... and so, much of their time had been spent in
silence.

Tom stilled, glanced around the chamber, again tried to search out
what might be a monitoring device. But he could identify nothing.

The possibility of being constantly watched unsettled him... left him
tense and uncomfortable. He and Chakotay were continually on guard...
would have to remain so: wary, careful of their words, vague in their
intent, subtle in their movement.

They couldn't even take a piss in private. At least he could urinate
into the adjacent unoccupied cell. Chakotay, however...

He glanced toward the doorway on the far side of the room. Chakotay
had been gone for a long time... over an hour, if he'd judged
accurately. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to gauge the
passage of time. At some point, time would lose its meaning
altogether. But for now, he was painfully aware of its course.

And it had been over an hour.

He swallowed hard. When the guards had burst into the chamber, he'd
expected them to drag Chakotay to the work area in the center of the
cell block. But that hadn't been the case. Tom had been left alone...
with nothing but his imagination and his solicitude to keep him
company; dangerous and subversive companions.

The bang of a door startled him.

His chin snapped slightly higher as the rumor of footsteps grew louder
and louder. For countless moments, Tom couldn't move, couldn't
breathe. And then four Braai emerged from the entry corridor, half
dragging, half propelling the unsteady form of his Commander.
"Chakotay," he rasped.

A sweat-damp face lifted, met his.

Tom's gaze drifted over Chakotay's face, his body, taking in every
injury, old and new, as the man was manhandled across the room and
then shoved into his cell. Bastards, he thought, then glared at the
guards. But his intent fell flat; they were studiously not looking at
him. They erected the force field, turned on their heels, and left.
Without one word.

A shred of panic emerged as he stepped to the bars and watched
Chakotay sink to his knees. "Chakotay." But the Commander didn't
respond; he sat back on his heels, arms cradling his ribs, ignoring
Tom's supplication.

Chakotay closed his eyes, concentrated on the hard stability of the
floor, and on the pain of his body... enduring it in clenched silence.
He willed his breath to slow, to even out. Untold minutes later, the
pain began to subside, hammering out its existence in a manageable
pulsing ache.

When he felt he could endure the movement, he opened his eyes, slowly
turned his face to intense, concern-filled blue. Chakotay licked his
dry and swollen lips, then forced himself to stand. His body felt
unnaturally inarticulate as he crossed the short distance to the bars.
When he reached them, he turned, leaned his left side heavily into the
metal, used it to slide to the floor. Sitting required less energy and
control.

A gentle hand cupped his chin, lifted it up and away from the bars.
His first instinct was to jerk free of the touch, but he resisted the
impulse; Tom needed this... the contact... the reassurance. Perhaps it
was the medic in him.

"Ring?"

Chakotay frowned, then remembered the laceration on his cheek. He
nodded.

The hand released his chin, slipped down his chest to his side, gently
pressed a rib not protected by his cradling arms. Chakotay smothered
the wince that threatened.

A rush of breath escaped the younger man's lips. "And this was for
_my_ benefit?"

Chakotay momentarily considered Tom's question, then allowed his gaze
to slide through the bars. He shook his head. No... this was nothing.
This was the hint of a promise.

This was only the beginning.

---

The warp core remained inactive, inert, the normal luminous flux
noticeably absent, as the engineering staff swarmed around it. Main
Engineering was a hive of activity, both the upper and lower levels of
the bay buzzing with teams trying to revive the almost lifeless
system.

Tuvok's away team had secured a sufficient supply of dilithium
crystals, as well as other crucial supplies. Voyager's salvation.
However, for more than forty-eight hours, B'Elanna and her crew had
fought to integrate the new crystals into the assembly, without
success.

B'Elanna's normal disposition was frayed... which wasn't saying much.
"Damn it!" she fumed, slamming her palm against the console before
her. For the third time in as many hours, she'd tried to realign the
hydrogen isotope, only to have a minor correction in the alignment
crash the boot, forcing her to start again.

"What happened?" Carey asked from his station on the upper level.

B'Elanna bit back a caustic retort, settled for, "Nothing."

"It crash again?"

"In flames," she shot back, counting to ten, attempting to reign in
her ragged mood.

Carey quietly exhaled his frustration. It shouldn't be this hard.
Maybe they were too tired, making careless mistakes. Maybe they were
preoccupied, their thoughts too far ahead of where they should be.
Maybe... He shook his head. It didn't matter. It still shouldn't be
this hard. He leaned forward, studied the Chief Engineer on the level
below. "Shall we start again?"

B'Elanna absently nodded as she manipulated the realignment data, ran
a quick simulation, then displayed the results. The cut of her mouth
thinned as she compared the sim results against the log data of the
previous alignment attempt. Close. They were damn close. "I think I
can see the problem." Her face lifted. Her eyes met Carey's. "Give me
a few minutes to modify the parameters."

Carey nodded, then turned his attention to his own console, and reset
the cold start sequence... for the hundredth time. He could do this in
his sleep. He practically was.

Cold start activation was a procedure any engineer worth his or her
salt could plod through should the need arise, but the practiced
knowledge with which Voyager's engineering team flowed through the
process...

Yet another side-effect of their brush with the Braai.

Odd, he thought, how time and existence and purpose were suddenly
defined in terms of the Braai: pre-Braai, post-Braai. They'd once been
defined in terms of the Caretaker, and the Hirogen. He wondered idly
when some greater catastrophe would erase the scars of the Braai and
again reshape their view.

"Okay, Carey. Let's try it again."

Carey jumped, startled from his thoughts by the irritation-laced bark.
He would be glad when this was over. Torres was as ill-tempered as
hell. Not that he could blame her. The strain on her was incredible.
The fate of the ship rested within her capable hands, within her
ability to restore the warp engines. And her oldest friend and her
lover... indirectly their fate rested within her hands as well, for if
she could not resurrect Voyager, Chakotay and Tom Paris...

Carey exhaled heavily, straightened. "Ready," he called out. He held
his breath as he monitored the engine status. So far so good, he
thought as the supercooled isotope was injected into the deuterium
tank... very good.

"Check the reactant injectors!" B'Elanna shouted, glancing quickly at
the core before turning her attention back to the system status.

"The injectors are nominal," Carey replied. "Open the magnetic
constrictors."

B'Elanna nodded and moved to a console to her right. Now came the
test... whether or not the matter/antimatter reaction could be
regulated. She clenched her jaw. Tense seconds passed as the reaction
peaked... and then leveled off, finally settling within acceptable
operating parameters.

A faint hum filled the expectant quiet that had suddenly settled over
the bay. All eyes turned to the center of the room, to the familiar
harmonic moil of gas, to the familiar blue glow. And then a lonely
cheer broke the silence, followed quickly by a rush of others.

They were back online.

B'Elanna smiled to herself, at their success, and the celebration
around her. They needed this victory. Desperately. And then the cut of
her mouth thinned as her eyes lowered. Now, to ensure that the core
stayed online, and that the daunting list of repairs was tended to.
"Carey," she bellowed.

"Right here, boss," came the faint Irish lilt, quiet and close.

B'Elanna started and spun. He was grinning. He knew they weren't out
of the woods... not yet... but he was grinning. They'd taken a giant
step forward. She couldn't help but return the smile.

"You did good."

"_We_ did good," she countered, her gaze sweeping the bay, then
returning to settle on the Lieutenant. Abruptly, her smile faded, and
she again turned to the bank of terminals behind her. "I want you to
double-check the reactant injectors and the magnetic constriction
segments every five minutes for the next hour." She glanced at him out
of the corner of her eye as he stepped to her side. "If they remain
stable, we'll increase power in the matter/antimatter chamber and
release it to the power transfer conduits."

Carey nodded his agreement.

"I'm concerned about the magnetic constrictor coils. But, my main
concern is the dilithium crystal articulation frame." She distractedly
studied the core reaction status. "If that goes down, we're back to
square one."

"I checked the coils myself, B'Elanna... twice," Carey assured her.
"They're okay." He turned to face her squarely, leaned his hip against
the console. "Look, why don't you go and get something to eat. Take a
break for the hour. There's nothing we can do with this..." He waved
absently at the warp core to his left. "Not until DCAF beds in and
settles down."

The Chief Engineer was poised to argue the point; there was plenty to
be done. Instead, she said nothing, as her mind and body asserted the
reason, the need behind the suggestion. She suddenly felt an acute
desire to sleep. For innumerable hours she had fought with every
system in engineering, programmed and reprogrammed countless lines of
code, replaced over and over again conduits and relays and assemblies.
And when she wasn't occupied with resurrecting the warp core or
fighting with her engineers, she was butting heads with someone
else... some hapless crew member who dared demand her attention beyond
the confines of the bay. At times even Tuvok, Neelix, Harry, Seven,
the Captain. They'd all fallen victim to her.

Tuvok had been forced, on two separate occasions, to warn her she was
out of line and would be removed from duty, confined to quarters,
and/or reprimanded should she refuse to desist. She'd taken him
seriously and backed down... though, she doubted the Vulcan would
carry out his threat. Voyager needed her too much.

Neelix had simply shrugged and continued on with whatever he'd been
doing, forgiving, understanding.

Harry had tried valiantly not to look hurt and offended. But he had.
And he'd every right to be.

The Captain had given as good as she got, and ultimately had rank on
her side.

And Seven? Did nothing rankle the woman?

Despite the cost, she'd driven herself to persevere in the face of
exhaustion. They all had. But now... now that they'd reached a long
elusive milestone...

What had Chakotay said? For _their_ sanity as well as yours? B'Elanna
sighed, her shoulders sagging imperceptibly. "Okay," she said
halfheartedly, turning to face her capable second. "I'll either be in
the mess hall or my quarters."

---

He awoke in a dull haze, ushered into awareness by the harsh bark of
an abrasive voice and the bite of a boot on his thigh. He missed the
once-annoying monotone of the ship's computer: insistent, yet easily
dismissed. This... _this_ could not be ignored. _This_ could not be
delayed. _This_ could not be switched off in pursuit of one more
precious moment of sleep. Sleep was a charity given only on Braai
terms: _when_ they specified, for the duration they specified. When
was erratic, and the duration insufficient.

They were exhausted.

"Up," the gruff voice ordered.

Chakotay touched the hard, rough metal against which he'd slept,
steadied himself, then levered his reluctant bones erect. His gaze
lifted, met the weight of Tom's, then with grim effort, migrated to
the guard now outside his cell, activating the energy barrier.

The guard scowled, then gestured toward two small containers just
inside the doorway.

A meal. Of sorts. Water and an unrecognizable substance, most likely
low in calories and of paltry nutritive value. Meals were like sleep:
charity.

The Braai were not a charitable race.

Chakotay stared with blank unfocus at the tiny containers. He was
abysmally hungry. He closed his eyes momentarily, willed the sensation
numb. He could not eat. However, water he could not do without.
Survival demanded he not do without.

He pushed away from the bars, retrieved the container of water, then
gingerly lowered himself to the hard pallet and drank.

"You've got to eat something."

Tom's quiet urging caught Chakotay's attention. He didn't answer...
merely met concerned blue eyes, then returned to his drink.

"You've eaten nothing since we've been here, Chakotay."

Chakotay's hand stilled, the container poised at his lips, then
lowered. He swallowed hard, hazarded a glance at the guard on the far
side of the chamber, and then turned his gaze full on Tom. The young
man looked as tired as he felt... perhaps worse. "It's best that I
don't."

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at the gruel in his hands.
A suspicious eyebrow raised. "And why is that?"

Chakotay slowly pushed himself to his feet, shuffled the short
distance to the bars, eyeing the guard as he went. "Because it's
drugged," he whispered, studying the bent blonde head.

Tom's eyes snapped to the Commander's. "What?" he croaked. "And you
let me eat this shit?"

"You're fine," Chakotay murmured.

"And how the hell do you..."

Chakotay reached through the bars, grasped Tom's wrist, cutting short
his protest. "Mine, Tom. Not yours."

Tom stared wide-eyed at his commanding officer for a moment, then a
look of ashamed relief filled his face. He would not be touched. The
Braai would not touch him. Instead... His brow furrowed as he studied
the worn face of the man before him. His heart ached with the sense of
his own helplessness. "And the water?"

Chakotay withdrew his hand, shrugged. "A human can't survive long
without water." No living creature could. Kyrax would know that. It
was only a matter of time before the water too was tainted.

Tom raked a hand unhappily through his hair, too worn, too stunned to
respond. But he heard the truth and inevitability behind Chakotay's
words... and accepted them.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered at what point it would
all become unendurable. In time, endurance itself became abstract... a
mere concept, too intangible to carry conviction. And yet, he'd vowed
to give the Braai nothing, regardless the cost.

Tom extended an unsteady hand, proffered the container of mush. "Then
we'll share."

"No."

"Chakotay."

"No." An adamant head shook. "You'll only succeed in forcing their
hand. They'll either remove the privilege, or drug yours as well."
Neither were acceptable consequences. Though the gruel had little to
offer, it was better than nothing. And Tom would need every advantage,
however slight. Chakotay sighed, stepped closer to the bars. "Tom..."

"Is there any other information, critical or otherwise, that you're
withholding?" the young man interrupted, his voice laden with emotion
and fatigue.

Chakotay exhaled slowly. "You didn't need to know."

"Don't patronize me, Chakotay. This isn't some black ops mission, and
I'm not your charge," Tom snapped, his voice suddenly alive, low and
angry.

"No," Chakotay rebutted. "But I am your commanding officer."

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, hard, forcing back a knee-jerk
retort. He hated the easy refuge, the easy justification afforded by
the mantle of command. And yet in this instance, he understood why
Chakotay used it. But he didn't need to be protected. He didn't want
to be. "The only way we'll survive this is together... and knowledge
is key. I need to know _everything_," he said, filling his voice with
as much determination as he could muster. "All or nothing, Chakotay."

Chakotay studied the young man gravely, uncertainly, then relented.
Tom was right. He couldn't protect him. But he could better arm him...
with further insight... with complete knowledge.

---

"May I?"

B'Elanna jumped, the quiet voice splintering her bleary reflection.
She blinked, looked up, smiled gently, flustered. "Are you sure you
want to risk it?"

Harry smiled in return, settled into the chair opposite the Engineer,
his hands wrapped loosely around a cup of coffee. "Congratulations. I
understand the warp core is back online."

B'Elanna nodded. "Thanks," she replied, her voice hollow. "But, we've
got a long way to go."

Too long.

The words hung unspoken, but they were there, and understood. Voyager
was a long way from being ready to return. Harry trapped his lower lip
between his teeth, eyed her untouched meal. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," she said, lowering her gaze. She bit her lower lip, stared
absently at her dinner. The comfort she'd sought in the meal remained
elusive. Even the basic need of food was lost; she wasn't hungry.

Harry's brow furrowed. "We'll get them back."

A muscle at the side of her jaw twitched. She wanted to believe that.
She wanted to believe they would get them back... in one piece. But
the odds were against her. Everything... everyone... she'd ever loved
in her life had either left or been taken from her. Even here, in the
Delta Quadrant, she was not invulnerable. _They_ were not
invulnerable. And then anger sparked. Her hands dropped to her chair,
gripped the edge of the seat. "I feel so damn... helpless," she spat.

Harry turned away briefly, glanced around the mess hall, then turned
sympathetic eyes on his friend. "We all do."

Her head shook vigorously. He didn't understand. "I'm Chief Engineer
of this ship. I should be able to..."

"What," Harry interrupted in concerned exasperation. "Do more than is
humanly possible?"

Her eyes burned. "Repairs shouldn't be taking this long. It shouldn't
be this hard."

Harry leaned forward, watched B'Elanna closely. "I hate to break it to
you, B, but you're not some kind of god."

At her lack of response, he smiled gently. "Close... but you're not."

Her features reluctantly softened. "You're a real boost for the ego,
Starfleet."

"Yeah... well." He shrugged, threw her a lopsided grin. "So..." He
jerked his chin toward her plate. "Can I help you with that?"

She snorted, and handed him a fork.

---

"Cowards," Tom hissed, face flushed, hands white-knuckled, wrapped
around cast metal. "Why don't you take on someone who can stand on his
feet!" He was almost desperate, though he knew he wasn't supposed to
be, or at the very least, he wasn't supposed to show it; he'd been
ordered.

Fuck that.

His gaze dropped to the man on the floor of the adjacent cell. "Stay
down, Chakotay. Damn it, stay down!" He winced at his own voice, the
hushed panic, blatant defiance, and raw emotion it bespoke.

Chakotay lifted his gaze to see Tom pace out his agitation, then
still, grip the metal barrier separating them, barely contained, then
pace again... all the while his mouth moving, taunting the guards,
baiting them, trying to divert their attention. It wouldn't happen. It
wasn't in Kyrax's plan. Had Tom heard nothing? Could he not follow a
simple order? He was playing right into Kyrax's hands, giving Kyrax
too much, revealing too much.

He pushed himself to his elbows and fixed Tom with a punishing glare.
And then a boot connected with his chin.

"Bastards!" the young man grated through clenched teeth.

Kyrax sat insulated, hidden among the shadows clinging to the wall
opposite the row of cells... thoroughly engrossed. Absorbing. He
watched with keen interest as the Lieutenant paced a path along the
metal wall, like a caged Tzeercat... feral and angry, yet measuring.
He attempted to gauge the man's responses to the physical abuse
exacted in the neighboring cell. The young man's hands twitched, his
barely contained anger hammered out on the floor, fumed in disparaging
words. Kyrax could almost taste the flaxen man's desire to reach
through the bars and vent.

There was a weakness there, but the exact nature of that weakness
remained elusive.

"Try me, you fucking toads!" Tom shouted, beating his fists against
alloy. But his vehemence elicited no response. The Braai guards
continued to ignore his protestations, his derision. Their intent lie
on the floor in their midst.

Mechanically, Tom rubbed his hands, winced at the bruises he'd given
himself.

Discipline, he thought. Give them nothing. But, it was hard... it was
hard to ignore the sounds, the pain, the blood.

He fell silent for a moment, studied the floor as if he were using the
stone to measure his words, his thoughts, his course. And then a hush
fell heavy on the chamber, save for the tortured rasp of his
Commander's breath. Tom's eyes lifted and settled on the Braai
threesome. They had ceased their torment.

Now, two expectantly watched the third... waiting.

Chakotay's numbness and pain seemed to become complete, and yet he
knew they were far from, the heavy shroud of silence surrounding him a
sure sign. They hadn't left. He could hear them through his pain...
their labored breath. They were there still, evaluating, determining
their next move. And Kyrax? The bastard was out there... watching.

"Pick him up," a deep voiced ordered. "Hold him."

Rough hands gripped Chakotay's upper arms, hauled him to his feet. He
tried to force his legs under him. But they would not support his full
weight, so he allowed himself to hang slack between the Braai
restraining him. Without thought, his gaze drifted to his left,
intercepted distressed blue. Turn away, he silently pleaded. Don't
watch.

And then blood blurred his vision, dripped to his bruised cheek and
swollen lips and chin and jacket.

"You have a strong body."

The sneer hauled his face upward, slightly to his right.

Kyrax smiled in the darkness at Trul's words, at the direction they
implied. Sexual violence was a powerful weapon.

Trul smirked, then slowly circled the held prisoner, a hand absently
tugging at the soiled, charred, and bloodied remnants of the
Federation uniform. A derisive smile touched pale green lips as Trul
stroked his hand over the human's chest, sides, back, backside. "Very
strong."

Hot breath licked at the back of Chakotay's neck, followed by a
tongue. He felt the Braai grin against his skin, felt the jostle of
encouragement from the two on either side of him as they snorted their
approval.

And then the tongue was gone, and the Braai was in front of him, in
his face. Chakotay tried to sink back as a palm flattened against his
chest, but the hands restraining him held him fast. The Braai leaned
closer, brushed his hand lower, over Chakotay's stomach and groin. And
then his breath caught in his throat as his testicles were seized. A
rush of adrenaline slammed through him at the contact. Despite the
coolness of the room, he was sweating. This was not an option. He
clenched his fists against the memories assaulting him. No fucking
way.

"Hold him firm," Trul hissed as he removed his hand from between the
man's legs, then produced a knife sheathed at his belt. He absently
pressed the point against the man's chest, into the seam separating
cranberry from black. "I've always found it intriguing that stripping
a being of its clothing makes it so much more... vulnerable."

"Don't touch him!" Tom screamed. "Leave him alone! I swear to God, if
you so much as..." And then his words failed him, transforming into a
wail of frustration as the Braai effectively sliced through the
multiple layers of Chakotay's uniform, baring his chest. He could see
no area of the exposed flesh untouched by injury, mild or severe.

Chakotay willed his breath to slow. He pushed his mind to clear,
filtered out Tom's quiet dirge, the visceral laughter of his
tormentors, bridling hands, the brush of metal against his skin as his
sleeves were dissected, first one then the other. He pushed his mind
to focus, to grapple for a plan of action. Over the last few hours,
Kyrax had intensified his maneuvering. Were he and Tom to manage to
break free on their own, now was the time... while they still had
their strength, and their sanity.

And then what remained of his jacket and shirt was freed from the
waistband of his pants and dropped carelessly to the floor.

Trul stepped back, raked a long lingering gaze over the half-naked
man. Fear. He wanted to see fear. Instead, he saw something else,
something he didn't quite recognize.

Chakotay held his breath, carefully watched as the Braai stepped
imperceptibly closer, knife held loosely in his hand. It took every
ounce of training he'd ever undergone, training he'd spent years
trying to forget, to force himself to inaction. He had to bide his
time. He would only get one shot; he had to make it count.

The soldiers flanking him held him tightly... too tightly. When he'd
been hauled to his feet, he'd allowed his body to go limp and they'd
been forced to bear his full weight. He had to perpetuate their
perception of his injuries, allow them to continue to believe in his
weakness... or his attempt would fail. If he did anything to change
their perception, they would change their hold. He slowly released his
breath, remaining heavy in their grip, struggling slightly, feigning
fear, feeding their need to induce terror and inflict pain.

Surreptitiously, Chakotay repositioned his hands, weaving his fingers
into the fabric of the tunics of the guards. He painstakingly
tightened his hold, obtaining purchase for the leverage he would need.
His gaze fell heavy on the Braai before him... watchful.

Trul stepped closer, grinning, absently fingering the dagger in his
hand.

Chakotay's expression darkened as the Braai stepped within reach.

Tom felt as if he was heavily sedated, watching the scene unfolding
before him through a thick haze. This couldn't be happening. But it
was. He could stop it, at any time, but his hands had been tied... by
an order, by his own rectitude. And so he watched in impotent horror,
swallowing the bile rising in his throat.

What happened next was a blur... almost an illusion, a slight of hand,
untouchable yet tangible. Horrifically poetic.

In one fluid quick motion, Chakotay lifted his right leg, knee almost
touching his chest, then snapped it forward and upward, connecting
with the Braai's groin. The Braai were almost anatomically identical
to humans... the blow equally as debilitating to the Braai male.

Trul stopped dead in his tracks as the booted foot impacted his groin,
the sudden pain overriding his ability for controlled movement. His
fingers involuntarily loosened their hold on the knife as his knees
lost their ability to lock, to support his body. The air in his lungs
escaped in a strangled cry of pain. His vision clouded. And then he
toppled forward, hands cradling his abused genitals, until he met
resistance. The floor.

Tom unwittingly flinched at the scream of pain. His mouth worked
silently at an obscenity, as his mind howled in rage. And then the
Braai soldier toppled forward, fell face down on the floor, allowing
him an unfettered view of his Commander. Tom blinked. Stunned. How the
hell?

Without lowering his foot, Chakotay maintained his grip on the
flanking guards. They effectively provided balance, leverage, as again
he retracted his right leg,  knee to chest, then thrust it outward, to
the right, while simultaneously tugging the guard to his right,
forward into the oncoming attack. The kick connected solidly, just
above the guard's right knee cap. The popping sound of the joint
dislocating echoed through the chamber, a tentative wail on its heels.
The guard's purchase on his prisoner was lost as he collapsed in
agony.

Kyrax straightened in his chair, but remained in the shadow...
curiously impressed and intrigued. He would allow this to play out...
and perhaps learn the measure of this human.

The third Braai hadn't moved, stupefied by the unexpected aggression.
The prisoner hadn't been able to support his own weight, bloody and
bruised and crushed. And yet...

The Braai shook his head, began to recover his faculties. He tightened
his grip on the prisoner's arm in an attempt to hold him in place,
until his fallen comrades could recover, or until help arrived.

And then he realized his error. In tightening his grip, he'd given
control to the human. Too late he saw what awaited.

Chakotay used the added leverage against his captor. With a wide
swinging motion, he drew his right hand back. In a blur of power and
speed, he pulled the guard in, and struck him in the throat with his
ridge hand.

The guard's feet flew from beneath him as his body snapped up and
backward, his throat crushed. He panicked as his back heavily collided
with the floor, the air in his lungs forcibly expelled on impact.
Terror-filled eyes widened as the prisoner came into view. Emotionless
eyes stared back at him. Dispassionate. Calculating. The guard
thrashed his legs, searching for traction, desperate to escape.

Blankly, Chakotay pressed the heel of his boot heavily into the
guard's torso, crushing his diaphragm, and with it any hope of
survival.

The Braai's lungs collapsed completely; he began to suffocate.

Tom's lungs burned. He'd forgotten to breath, spellbound. It had all
happened so fast... a blur. And yet it passed in slow motion, every
detail, every nuance, had been permanently impressed in his memory...
crystalline. Three men felled, one almost certainly dead or dying. He
would have sworn minutes had passed, but in reality only seconds had
been spent.

Voyager's First Officer stepped back slightly, breathing hard at the
rush, the effort, and took in his work.

The guard with the dislocated knee struggled painfully to his good
knee, haltingly reached for a weapon on his utility belt. Tom was sure
Chakotay was oblivious to the danger, his back to the man. But before
Tom could shout a warning, Chakotay turned, limped casually toward the
injured Braai.

The guard faltered. He knew speed was essential, but fear and
expectation numbed his responses. He fingers fumbled at his belt,
unable to grasp anything. And then he froze as a shadow fell across
him.

Chakotay grabbed the guard's chin in his left hand, reached behind his
head with his right, grasping a handful of hair, then abruptly and
sharply snapped his head to the right.

The sickening sound of separating vertebrae reached Tom's ears.

Kyrax shifted in his chair, leaned in to the preternatural silence. He
sat forward slightly, allowed his gaze to slip to the floor of the
human's cell as the lifeless body of the guard was dropped.

Impressive.

And then the alien Commander turned... faced Trul. The alien's
movement was calculated and deliberate, of that Kyrax had no doubt. He
allowed his gaze to drift to Trul.

Kyrax recognized the fear in Trul's eyes, in Trul's posture as he
pushed himself to his knees. Fear was a wasted emotion, and yet a
powerful weapon. What he saw in Trul was not powerful, and it angered
him. What he saw in Trul was debilitating and weak. What he saw
repulsed him.

"No," Trul hissed, raising a hand as if to fend the dark man off.
"Stay away."

Chakotay batted the hand aside, stepped closer, striking a precision
blow to the Braai's throat. It was designed to stun and terrify. It
accomplished both as a cry escaped the malefactor become dupe. And
then Chakotay whirled, three-hundred sixty degrees, slamming his elbow
squarely in the Braai's face, breaking the cartilage in his nose and
driving it up into the soldier's frontal lobe, disintegrating his left
cheek bone, breaking his jaw. The almost lifeless body sailed
backward, head first into the wall, then sliding to the floor, head
bent at an unnatural angle.

Kyrax blinked hard. He had never seen anything like it... in all his
years. Nothing.

The measure of the human was far more than he'd expected.

And then the Braai Commander reached blindly for his weapon, pushed
himself to his feet, and started toward the far corner of the cell
block.

Tom stood rooted to the floor, mesmerized, not sure what he had just
witnessed... how Chakotay had been capable. The rumors regarding
Chakotay's past had been fertile fodder for his mind, his imagination.
But this...

Yet it didn't matter. In some vague way, he was grateful.

And then a coil of weak panic writhed in his heart. In the carnage
that lie before him he realized yet another risk to himself. The
threat dismayed him.

He'd discovered the frontier into the narcissism of hate.

Movement in his peripheral vision captured Tom's attention. Kyrax
emerged from the work area of the cell block, weapon raised. Tom's
head snapped to his right. "Chakotay!" he warned.

The energy blast was off its mark, narrowly missing Chakotay, passing
harmlessly over his left shoulder, impacting the wall behind him.
Chakotay instinctively dropped, rolled forward into a tight ball.
Kyrax. He'd forgotten Kyrax... or at least hadn't planned that far
ahead.

And then his world turned to fire as Kyrax fired again, caught him
high in the left shoulder as he came out of his roll, settled on his
heels, started to straighten.

As the floor rushed up to meet him, Chakotay heard Tom... words
incomprehensible and muffled. And then a blaze of white heat engulfed
him and he sank into the numbing darkness of oblivion.

---

The conference room was quiet. Despite the telltale signs that the
warp core was functioning and the engines were being nursed to full
strength, the mood was subdued and somber. Two of their own were
missing.

Neelix sat uncharacteristically immobile, thoughts focused on his
galley and the meal he would prepare in celebration of the return of
Voyager's First Officer and pilot. He was certain of their recovery.
He was certain Captain Janeway would return, regardless the threat of
the Braai. He was certain, and still he found himself unusually
somber, as if the mood of the crew had bled into his soul.

He glanced across the table and studied the young Ensign seated there.
Harry Kim's face was the picture of misery. His best friend was
missing, in all probability in the hands of the Braai.

Harry sensed eyes on him, fidgeted and lifted his gaze. Neelix. The
Talaxian was watching him, his gaze intent, yet gentle. And then he
offered a sympathetic smile. Harry half-heartedly returned it, then
glumly turned to the gray-blue chair to his left; Tom's chair...
painfully empty. He felt burdened by a heavy sense of loss. But, Tom
was alive. So was Chakotay. He had to believe that.

The pneumatic hiss of the conference room doors pulled Harry's face to
his right. The Captain entered, closely followed by both B'Elanna and
Tuvok. None wore an expression indicative of good news.

Harry sighed. Damn.

He tracked B'Elanna as she crossed the room to the oversized table.
She leaned over her chair, quietly, but deliberately, placed a PADD on
the tabletop, then pulled out her chair and dropped into it,
exhaustion defining every movement. He couldn't remember the last time
he'd seen her so depleted. Even their last encounter, in the mess
hall, did not find her in this state.

Her hair was disheveled from incessantly pushing it from her face. Her
dark eyes were sunken and lifeless from lack of sleep, and
insubstantial and infrequent meals. Worry and need weighed heavy on
her... slumped her shoulders, pulled down the corners of her mouth.

The Captain didn't look any better. In fact, Harry thought, she looked
worse. He noticed the way she eased her body into the chair at the
head of the table, slowly raised a hand to her brow and massaged some
phantom pain, sighed. And yet, as pressed to the limits as her body
was, she was far from defeated.

"B'Elanna," Kathryn said, lowering her hand, wrapping herself in her
resolve. "Why don't you open with your report."

B'Elanna nodded, leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on
the surface of the table, PADD within easy reach should it be
required. It wouldn't be. It never was. "The good news... the
replacement dilithium is doing its job. We have finally managed to
successfully integrate the new matrix into the system. While the
dilithium does not meet nominal Starfleet standards, I don't
anticipate any immediate problems with the matrix." B'Elanna looked
from officer to officer. Expressions changed subtly as the news was
absorbed. Neelix was the only one unable to contain a satisfied grin.
It felt good to provide light... hope... in the darkness in which they
were submerged. " Engines will be back online within the hour.
However..." She fixed her gaze on the Captain. "I would recommend
speeds no greater than warp one, possibly warp two, for the first few
hours... until we've established the stability of the matrix. Also,
replicators are back online, although I recommend that we continue
restricted usage until the warp engines have been fully tested and
we've recouped at least a portion of the energy reserves lost."

Kathryn nodded her understanding and approval.

"Most major systems still bear damage, in varying degrees. Repairs are
underway. With a stable power supply, repairs should remain effective.
We've also initiated rerouting systems back to the main grid... as the
grid can handle it, of course. However, with the erratic overloads and
surges experienced over the last ten days, some of the pathways were
irreparably damaged. We'll have to rebuild them from raw components,
which is going to take time." She exhaled heavily, slowly. "We had to
get creative to keep Voyager operational. As a result, we created even
more work for ourselves."

Again, Kathryn nodded. B'Elanna and her crew had worked a miracle. She
wouldn't begrudge them their methods. "How long before the warp core
is fully operational?"

B'Elanna moistened dry lips, leaned back in her chair. "Four... maybe
six hours."

"You have four hours, B'Elanna. Focus repairs on weapons and shields."
Kathryn exchanged a knowing glance with her Chief Engineer. Minimal
function. Minimal function was all she required to return... except
for those systems that were key to engaging the Braai, those systems
that were key to getting back what was theirs. "In just over four
hours, I want to be heading back to Braai space... at warp six." Her
expression suddenly hardened, her voice dropping to something just
above a whisper. "They have something that belongs to us."

"Aye, Captain," B'Elanna returned, equally serious, equally expectant.
She could engage the engines now, but couldn't guarantee their
stability. If they went to warp too soon, everything they had suffered
over the last few days would be for naught. She wouldn't allow that.
She wouldn't risk her ship. She wouldn't risk Tom or Chakotay.

"Tuvok..." For the first time since the meeting began, Kathryn turned
her attention to her Security Chief. The vacant chair between them...
her First Officer's chair... painfully underscored her imperative.
"You're in charge of the rescue mission. I want a preliminary report
by 1600 hours."

Tuvok simply bowed his head in acknowledgment. He unobtrusively
studied the woman before him. A commanding presence. A strong will. A
determine heart. But, she was wearing around the edges. Even he, with
his Vulcan physiology, had to admit to a certain degree of fatigue and
frustration, the course of the last several days compounding beyond
tolerable: incursion, abduction, threats, a failing ship, more. And
that was merely the physical. A trust had been broken. Not just
between the Captain and First Officer, but between them all. How well
did they really know one another? After four years... after all they'd
been through... after all they'd shared.

Healing was possible. But it had to start where it all began... with
the Captain and First Officer... with Kathryn Janeway and Chakotay.

"Harry... Seven..." Kathryn turned her attention to the unlikely pair.
"Make the sensors your priority. Effect repairs and then direct your
attention to the Braai. Whatever Tuvok needs in the way of surface
scans and previous scan summaries... give them to him. I also want
constant monitoring. I want to know everything those... creatures...
are up to." Her nose crinkled fleetingly in distaste. And then her
expression flattened, her chin raised slightly. "When we reach Braai
space, I want no surprises."

"Yes, ma'am." Harry Kim nodded soberly as he looked first at the
Captain, and then the former Borg.

They were going back.

---

Taking care not to step on any of the dead, Kyrax moved to the still
form of the unconscious alien and stared intently at him. He fumed
silently, his hands folded loosely behind his back, the fingers of his
left hand drumming a weird rhythm against the palm of his right. He'd
been too lax. He'd underestimated his opponent, not thinking him
capable of the carnage in the midst of which he now stood.

He didn't make the same mistake twice.

His gaze lifted. His eyes caught the younger human crouched silent and
clenched on his pallet, watching with inscrutable intensity as the
dead guards were removed from his Commander's cell. He wondered at the
measure of this second human. No doubt he'd underestimated him as
well.

And yet there was one thing of which he was certain: the fierce bond
between the two, their allegiance to one another. The connection was
unmistakable. He'd bore witness to it; glances exchanged, words
spoken, occasional touches. Knowing they were constantly monitored,
they'd altered their behavior, their conversation. But no modification
could veil their bond.

Kyrax lowered his gaze, nudged the inert human to his side with the
toe of his boot, then dropped to his haunches. He gripped the
Commander's chin and inspected the condition of his face. "You would
do well to tell me what I want to know," he intoned flatly, gaze
lifting.

Blue eyes snapped to ebony.

"There are no other hopes or helps for you... or your friend," he
said, deadliness bleeding into the edges of his voice. "Your Captain
will not help you. She fated you to this. And then she abandoned you."
Again his gaze lowered, his hand easing its grip, sliding to a
bloodied shoulder. "Give me what I want and I might help you... make
things easier for you."

Tom huffed his contempt, the cut of his mouth thinning. He wasn't a
fool, despite what anyone thought. "How? By killing us?"

"Do you revel in his pain?" Kyrax posed, eyebrows raising as his eyes
again met the Lieutenant's.

Tom bowed his head. He remained still for a long time as if he were
preparing himself. A spate of disgust shook him; he was trapped in an
impossible dilemma, between Voyager and Chakotay. He shook his head
slightly... the problem _was_ penetrable, but the solution was
unbearable. "Fuck you," he seethed.

"You can stop his torment," Kyrax eased. He lifted his hand and slowly
turned it, blood coating the palm and ridge, and presented the young
man a clear view. "Whatever you ask is mine to give." Sighing heavily,
he heaved himself to his feet and stepped from the cell.

Tom watched the Braai as he activated the force field to Chakotay's
cell, then stepped into plain view of his own. His hands itched with
an intense urge to strangle the bastard, to wipe the smug expression
from his face. His body strained with the base compulsion to seek
vengeance. His heart ached with the need to stop the verbal dumping of
responsibility and blame; he couldn't bear the immensity of the
responsibility, however hollow, however unreal.

"It's simple, really." Kyrax slowly stroked his hand over his tunic,
leaving a crimson trail in its wake. "Your cooperation for his life."

Distinct and low, Tom growled, "Forget it."

"You're a fool," Kyrax spat.

Tom flinched imperceptibly, the undercurrent of anger in the Braai
Commander's voice rattling him. He hazarded a glance at the prone
figure on the floor of the adjacent cell, and silently prayed for
strength.

---

Tuvok stepped into the relative silence of his office. It was almost a
relief to escape the flurry of activity animating the bedraggled ship.
Though the warp core was not yet nominal, the reassuring hum of the
burgeoning engines infused the crew with a hope and vitality that had
dwindled over the last two weeks.

Despite partial restoration of main power, his office remained in
substantial darkness. Energy conservation measures were still in
effect, until power was fully restored and proved stable.

"Computer... increase illumination to seventy-five percent." He
stepped to the replicator embedded in the wall panel by his desk and
ordered a hot saya. Though full rations had not yet been reinstated,
the tight control on power usage had been fractionally eased, allowing
for the luxury. While not a frivolous man, he indulged himself.

Voyager was recovering.

He retrieved the steaming cup and turned to his desk. He placed the
PADD he was carrying on the desktop and moved to sit, then stilled,
the object resting against the bulkhead below the view port capturing
his attention.

The trunk sat silent station in his office since its confiscation.
Like the newly discovered component of the First Officer's personnel
jacket, it remained unopened, its contents a mystery.

The lock mechanism and lid of the trunk bore identical insignias: a
Venrizyn serpent coiled around the Starfleet emblem. The choice of
insignia was certainly apropos were even the slightest intimations of
the Commander's past true.

A division within the influence of Advanced Tactical. A division so
few had heard of, its very existence was impossible to confirm along
official channels. Corroboration was near impossible, especially here
and now. There was no one to confront, no one to contact, no one to
question.

Perhaps.

Intrigue and frustration gnawed at him as he eyed the trunk. He should
have gained access by now. The Commander should have granted that
access. But Voyager's problems had been far more pressing, and gaining
entry to the trunk had not been imperative.

Until now.

He absently placed the cup of saya next to the PADD, then stepped to
the trunk and picked it up. It was heavy, but his Vulcan strength
countered its bulk. He dropped it to the floor beside his desk, then
rotated it to allow clear access to the lock.

Without benefit of the Commander, he was left to his own devices.

Perhaps.

---

Awareness returned gradually. He was cold, numb. Breathing was
difficult, though he didn't know why. His chest felt tight, his throat
partially obstructed. He tasted... What? What was that taste?

He slowly became aware of... voices? Yes. Voices. No. _One_ voice. A
familiar voice, but he couldn't place it. He was having difficulty
differentiating one word from another. It didn't matter. Despite his
inability to discern the words, it was somehow comforting. Constant.
Soothing.

For a time, he floated, carried by the timbre of the voice, the deep
resonance and richness of it. It succored him, his insensate body, his
uncertain mind. The shred of familiarity it offered seemed a
lifeline... a lifeline to which he clung, and used to pull himself
outward.

"... about boarding school. Over the centuries things really haven't
changed all that much. And Crilde... the _ultimate_ stereotype.
Really. I kid you not. There have to be secret labs scattered
throughout the quadrant where they breed people like him. Anyway...
we'd wait until Crilde had turned in for the night. He was the
soundest sleeper I've ever seen. The sleep of the dead. You could set
off a photonic charge next to his bed and he wouldn't wake up. In
fact, one night, Squidge and I snuck into his room and reprogrammed
his shower to use reclaimed waste instead of recycled..."

He forced his eyes open, slowly, weakly. The brightness, the harshness
of the light caused him to start, the movement sending shards of pain
shooting through him. He involuntarily moaned, the sound catching at
the back of his throat, muffled. As the pounding in his head dulled,
he heard his name.

"Chakotay?"

The tone, the life behind the voice, was different somehow... not as
worn, not as detached as it had been a few seconds prior. So familiar.
Steeling himself, he rolled to his back, the movement accompanied by a
groan of protest, and pain. He forced himself past the shroud
enveloping him, forced himself to focus on the voice.

"Take it easy. Just lie still."

He slowly turned his head to the left. He could barely discern the
figure beyond, the flesh surrounding his eyes swollen and bruised,
hampering his efforts.

His eyes slipped shut; exhaustion suffocated him. The gentleness of
the voice fed his desire to close his eyes, feel nothing, sleep
forever.

"Chakotay... stay with me."

Paris. Tom Paris. His eyes again opened; he squinted as he attempted
to bring into focus the blur of the man. What had happened?

And then an unexpected shiver coursed through him. He groaned, every
ounce of him throbbing with an uncontained pain.

"Damn."

Chakotay started at the sound of a muffled thud... flesh impacting
something solid. The floor. Hard. Cold. He was cold. And yet, the cold
numbed him, distanced him.

"Okay... listen..."

He heard Tom exhale heavily. The man sounded frustrated and angry. He
sounded concerned and anxious and grateful. What had happened?

"I need you to concentrate, Chakotay. Focus on what I'm telling you."

Concentrate. He could do that... concentrate. Things were growing less
and less fuzzy... sounds, sensations, thoughts, images... all were
becoming clearer as he pulled himself further into consciousness, into
greater connection with his body.

"You need to come here... to me. Do you hear me? Do you understand?"

Chakotay swallowed hard, gagged helplessly on the substance in his
throat. Convulsive movement ravaged him as he coughed, his body seized
with pain. And then the coughing subsided, the taste of blood in his
mouth. Thick. Sticky. Acrid. Sweet.

"T... Tom?" his voice chafed.

"Here... I'm here. Chakotay, we need to get you warm. I need to check
your injuries."

He nodded imperceptibly. Reassured. Reassuring. Again, a shiver shook
him; he needed to get to Tom. With great effort, he rolled to his
left, then onto his stomach... and froze. His breathing became
labored, the world spinning beneath him.

"It's okay... rest for a minute. Breathe."

His eyes clamped shut. He focused on each breath... in and out. And
then a face flashed in his mind... pale green flesh, a ridged nose,
ebony eyes... ushering in a rush of memories. He struggled to distill
them, grappling for a purchase.

Pain. Derisive laughter. Hands. A knife...

"Chakotay..."

The Braai.

"... you still with me?"

After what seemed hours, Chakotay's eyes slipped open. "Yeah," he
breathed.

He attempted to raise himself to his hands and knees, his body
fighting his mind in the effort, muscles trembling, nerves screaming,
stomach lurching.

"You're doing great."

Sluggishly, but methodically he pushed himself up, gritting his teeth
against the swelling pain; he fought to ignore it, to concentrate on
his target. But it was a losing battle. As he forced one hand forward,
agony burned through the hand and arm on which he bore his weight. His
strength faltered; he pitched forward, fell once again into darkness.

---

Another hour passed with no progress made.

The programming was ingenious. The final two levels of the mechanism
allowed only two opportunities to enter the correct code... if both
attempts were incorrect, the multi-level code was reset in an
apparently random configuration and the operant forced back to the
initial level.

The programming bordered on illogical, virtually impossible to
comprehend. It shouldn't work. And yet, it did. There was an easier
way, there had to be. Something he was missing. Something obvious. He
just hadn't found it.

The similarities to the access mechanism to the First Officer's
personnel records did not escape him. If he could unlock the key to
one, the other might be more easily broken.

Tuvok leaned back in his chair and reached for the cup before him. The
contents moistened his lips before he realized the liquid had long
been cold. An eyebrow raised as he absently studied the beverage... in
time he would crack the codes, in time he would gain access.

In time.

Uncharacteristically, Tuvok sighed. Voyager did not have time.
Chakotay and Paris did not have time. He needed to know what he was
working with, what was available to him... now.

He rose from behind his desk and migrated toward the view port. He
turned briefly to ponder the trunk, the Venrizyn serpent seemingly
returning his stare. He had to make a choice.

He slowly turned back to gaze at the starscape before him. He was a
Starfleet officer. A senior officer. He had sworn to uphold the ideals
of Starfleet, to advocate and maintain the tenets of the Prime
Directive. Integrity and duty were core. Doing the right thing was
imperative.

The Starfleet in him dictated his choice.

But he was more than Starfleet... he was a member of a family.
Integrity took many forms. Here, in the Delta Quadrant, on board
Voyager, integrity and duty, adherence to Starfleet rules and
regulations, at times became indistinct abstractions, irrelevant.

There were times when the right thing had little to do with Starfleet.

It was only logical.

Tuvok's chin rose slightly. It _was_ only logical. Without pause, he
tapped his comm badge and turned back to again eye the trunk resting
alongside his desk. "Tuvok to Ayala."

---

Somehow, flat on his stomach, left arm threaded through the bars, face
pressed into the metal, Tom had managed to graze the Commander's
outstretched hand, find purchase on two fingers. With all his might
he'd pulled the unconscious man toward him, then awkwardly struggled
to turn him to his back.

Now, he had Chakotay positioned along the metal barrier. The man's
bare torso was covered with blood, bruises, lacerations, singed and
swollen flesh. His hands and face were equally as wretched, the tattoo
at his brow almost indistinguishable.

Tom winced as he pressed the fingers of his right hand to the pulse
point on Chakotay's neck. He closed his eyes, attempting to block out
the image before him, to concentrate on his touch. And then he felt a
rhythm beating faintly against his fingers... a bit fast, but steady.

Biting his lower lip, he opened his eyes, withdrew his hand, removed
his jacket and carefully placed it beneath Chakotay's head.
Unconscious, vulnerable, still... it was easy to forget the
calculatingly deliberate man he'd watched slay three Braai.

He shuddered as he studied the almost serene face. He respected this
man... beyond measure. And yet, at the same time he was almost
frightened by him. He was at once succored and unsettled by his
presence. He could not fathom the contradiction of him... or what that
contradiction evoked within himself.

He blinked hard and pushed himself away from the mottled bars.
Spinning, his eyes searched the small cell, located the tin of water
he'd abandoned hours earlier when Kyrax and his men had entered the
block. He quickly retrieved it and the threadbare blanket crumpled on
the pallet against the stone wall, then returned to his Commander.

He tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his turtleneck and dipped it
into the water. He snorted as he imagined Chakotay arguing the
foolishness of the action; the liquid was precious, and shouldn't be
wasted.

As far as Tom was concerned, this wasn't a waste.

He reached through the bars and gently ran the damp weave over the
unconscious man's face. Blood and grime gave way under his
ministrations. He frowned, paused, inspected Chakotay's jaw,
cheekbones, and skull; nothing appeared to be broken. Despite the
brutality of the beating, discernible wounds were dermal only... at
least for now. A concussion was likely. The guards knew what they were
doing. Tom had heard of methods, both ancient and modern... beatings
intended to keep prisoners alive for days, atrocities intended to
break the spirit while slowly and painfully breaking the body.

But this man wouldn't break.

He knew it.

The Braai knew it.

Tom swallowed hard. Bloody hell. "You're a mess," he quietly
complained as he wiped slightly swollen lips, cleared blood from
nostrils to ensure a clear airway, pressed the cloth to the reopened
and oozing cut on Chakotay's left cheek. The next drubbing would
negate his tending, but he needed to do something. He needed to
concentrate on something other than himself.

He dropped the cloth to one side, then carefully took inventory of the
injuries covering the First Officer's body. Superficial lacerations
marked the man's arms and torso, where the Braai knife had grazed
skin. Bruises mottled flesh. Plasma burns blackened and blistered
Chakotay's left shoulder. The man's right hip and thigh were most
likely in similar condition beneath the charred cloth of his trousers.

He suspected one, quite probably two, broken ribs. He gently pressed
the palm of his hand into the unconscious man's ribcage; the skin and
bone beneath gave way slightly... were spongy and slow to return to
their natural place.

"Shit," Tom muttered, shaking his head. "How the hell... ?" His eyes
narrowed in diffident awe. Despite the injury to his ribs, Chakotay
had endured in silence, as if nothing were wrong. Hell... he'd managed
to kill three men.

Tom licked dry lips, then scrutinized the dirty cloth to his right and
decided to discard it. He ripped another strip from the hem of his
shirt, soaked it.

He found himself staring at the man... intently studying him. A few
gray strands peeked through ebony hair, and the crimson coating it,
capturing his attention. A smile played in his mind as he drifted
through a memory... a happier time... a time when the Captain and the
Commander unabashedly engaged in mischievous banter.

You're beginning to go gray, Commander.

The Captain had whispered the observation, had even leaned over the
console separating the command chairs to minimize the distance her
voice had to travel. Still, he'd heard. Who hadn't?

Every one represents a time you've called for red alert, Captain.

He'd actually heard the boyish smile creep over the Commander's face.

I expect to be completely gray by year's end.

He'd tried to cover the snicker that had escaped, but the rustle of
the Captain's legs uncrossing, the slight pause in her response had
indicated she'd heard.

Well hell... what had she expected?

So this is my fault?

I know of a cure...

How things had changed over the months. Circumstances. Crew. The Borg.
The Braai.

"What happened, Chakotay?" he murmured. And then he shrugged, in
response to his own vagary, uncertain as to what he referred.
Chakotay's relationship with the Captain? Their previous encounter
with the Braai? Chakotay's past? The carnage only hours past?

Tom cleared his throat, shook off the reflection. This wasn't the
place, or the time.

Again his hand moved, brushing the damp cloth over livid flesh.
"Bastards," he spat as he cleaned Chakotay's side, a distinct bruise
shaped like the crossed laces of a boot standing dark against swollen
redness. His eyes narrowed as he studied the distention. The swelling
could be a result of many things... the dermal bruising, the broken
ribs, some other internal injury, or a combination of any or all.

He slid his hand beneath the First Officer, and rolled him to his
side, facing away. The discolored and tumid flesh extended to
Chakotay's back.

Damn.

What he wouldn't give for a tricorder. What he wouldn't give to be
somewhere else.

As gently as he could, he resettled the man and continued to clean the
angry area. And then his hand froze as the pressure of the cloth
elicited an almost imperceptible protest of pain. "Chakotay?"

There was no response.

Tom cast aside the cloth in his hold and rested his hand on his
Commander's chest. "Chakotay," he urged, the pounding of his heart
near deafening. And then a faint rasp floated to him.

"Nathan?"

Tom frowned, the utterance slurred and indistinct. Who? He shook his
head, leaned as close as the bars would allow. "Chakotay... it's me...
Tom."

Reluctantly, Chakotay stirred, pain and nagging instinct pulling him
from his fog. "Tom?"

"Yeah," he affirmed, his hand slipping to the Commander's shoulder.

Dark eyes fluttered open. Oh hell. "You... okay?"

Tom was momentarily stunned by the question. "Am _I_ okay?" And then
anger flared: an absurdly irrational burning. "Yeah... _I'm_ fine." He
snorted. "Shit," he hissed. "What the hell were you thinking? What the
hell were you doing?"

Chakotay winced as furious fingers gripped tender flesh. Trying to
save our asses, he thought, but his mouth refused to form the words.

"If you intended to piss off Kyrax and his cronies... you succeeded."
Hot breath escaped in a rush as Tom relaxed his grip, pulled away. He
picked up the bloody cloth at Chakotay's side, worried it. "Damn it,
Chakotay." His tone twitched with fury and helplessness.

Chakotay could understand Tom's anger, though he didn't agree with it.
In his own mind, his actions had been logical. And somewhere in Tom's
mind, the logic of it also stood to bare. But logic didn't dictate
emotion, and his current condition probably scared the shit out of the
young man. It scared the shit out of _him_. His gaze hitched to Tom's.
The young man didn't move; he looked like a figure of stone, numb and
unforgiving and dazed. "I had to." What else could he say?

Tom's head dropped forward. He squeezed his forehead against the metal
as if to restrain the pounding of his thoughts. "I know." It wasn't
his intention to judge this man. He couldn't. With his left hand, he
reached out, rested a gentle hand on Chakotay's bruised brow. The
older man's eyes slid shut as if grateful for the touch... soothed.
"You need to stay with me."

Chakotay's eyes opened briefly, then closed again. "Tired," he rasped.

"I know you're tired... but you have to stay awake."

Stay awake. Two simple words. A reasonable request. A necessary one.
However simple, it was difficult to grant; he was cold, insensate, in
pain, exhausted.

"Damn it... open your eyes!"

The First Officer's eyes shot open as a hand gripped his arm. Tom was
shouting at him. A ploy. A not so subtle tactic to keep him on the
edge of awareness, to force him to remain in the here and now. A place
he'd rather not be.

An instant of silence covered them as fear and worry collided within
the Lieutenant. Together. They were in this together. "Your life is
mine. Remember?" He wouldn't let Chakotay go. He'd hold him to his
promise; a promise years old and almost forgotten, a promise made
lightly but held firm, a promise exacted from a heritage not quite
Chakotay's, but close enough. He'd use whatever he had to. "I've
decided it's time to collect. You're not going anywhere."

Chakotay snorted weakly. Your life is mine? What crock of shit was
that? Four years. It had been over four fucking years. "Fuck you," he
managed. His voice seemed to make no sound, but the intent was clear.

"I'm not letting you off the hook, Chief."

Chakotay stiffened. "Don't... call me that," he choked, his voice
suddenly stronger. No one called him that. No one. Not anymore.

Irritation bordering on anger suffused him with an energy he thought
he no longer possessed. Tom knew how to rub him the wrong way, knew
exactly which buttons to push. Tom was good at it. He knew what Tom
was doing... and why. It irritated him all the same.

Tom released his grip, compelled his body to relax, muscle by muscle.
He drew a trembling breath, but when he exhaled, he was calmer.
"Okay... we'll make a deal. You stay awake... talk to me... and I
won't call you Chief. Fair enough?"

A shiver raced down Chakotay's spine, the subtle movement driving a
spike of pain through him, forcing a moan past his lips, his brow to
furrow, his eyes to clamp shut. The pain was growing... sharper...
more brutal. He grew still, his only desire to retreat... sleep.

"Damn it, Chakotay!"

Again, the Commander's eyes flew open. His breathing quickened
slightly at the anger evident in Tom's voice. Had he ever really heard
Tom angry before? Genuinely angry? Insistently angry? Desperately
angry? He tried to remember...

"You still with me, Chief?"

"Don't... call me... that," Chakotay wheezed, as he attempted to focus
his gaze on the young man.

A rapacious smile tugged at Tom's mouth. He didn't know why the word
rattled Chakotay so, but he didn't care. It provoked him. That was
enough. "Then talk to me."

Chakotay swallowed hard. At the moment, he could think of nothing to
say. He wasn't ordinarily a man of many words. And now, when Tom
seemed to be of the impression that it was important to remain
conscious, to engage in idle conversation, he found himself even less
so. He was at a loss. He couldn't think. There was too much pain.
"About what?" he forced.

Tom bit his lower lip. About what? Hell. Something that required
little effort, and yet enough to keep Chakotay awake and aware... and
talking. "You."

"Me." He huffed weakly at Tom's answering nod. "What... about me?"

Tom shrugged. "Everything. Anything. After four years of working
together... even socializing upon occasion... I don't really know you.
What kind of childhood did you have? What was your favorite pastime?
Who was the first girl you ever kissed?" Tom paused, a mischievous
smile turning his lips. "What really happened between you and the
Captain on New..."

"No," Chakotay rasped gruffly. "No talk... of the Captain."

The smile on Tom's lips faltered, then faded. Under normal
circumstances, Chakotay wouldn't capriciously talk about the Captain.
But here, they were being watched. And the Braai had little love for
Kathryn Janeway. She was a definite non-subject. As were many topics.
He frowned slightly as he rifled through his earlier ramblings; had he
said anything he shouldn't have?

"What the hell kind of name... is _Squidge_?"

Tom's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He'd been babbling, for hours,
while Chakotay lie unconscious. At the time, it was the only comfort
he could extend... his presence through his voice, his stories. In
truth, he'd talked to comfort himself as much as to comfort Chakotay.
It had helped... a little.

He cleared his throat and tore another strip from his shirt. "It was a
nickname. And... you're supposed to do the talking, not me." He dipped
the cloth into the tin cup, then reached through the bars. "Nice try,
though," he said, bringing the cloth to Chakotay's lips, urging them
apart, then squeezing the excess into his mouth.

Again Tom soaked the cloth, and repeated the action.

"Thank you," Chakotay whispered gratefully.

"You're welcome," Tom whispered in return.

Chakotay eyed his shipmate as again the cloth was soaked. This time,
however, the cloth was gently pressed against his shoulder. He almost
objected to the waste, but the coolness of the water felt good amidst
the pain. Spirits... he hurt. His eyes drifted shut as he focused on
the balm and attempted to push away the suffering.

And then the cloth was gone. Tom's voice nudged into his pain. "Open
your eyes, _Chief_."

Chakotay swallowed harshly. "You're a real... pain in the ass," he
returned weakly, forcing his eyes open. Nathan was too. The
similarities were astounding. Why had he never noticed? Maybe he had,
but chose to ignore it, the memories too painful to resurrect. And
yet, avoiding his past had gained him nothing. He'd come full
circle... unexpectedly reenacting a horror he'd hoped to erase from
his mind forever.

Tom huffed, a wry smile in his eyes. "So I've been told."

"B'Elanna?"

"Among others."

Chakotay smiled to himself. 'Pain in the ass' seemed a bit tame for
B'Elanna. Still, it wasn't beneath her to volley the epithet. He
missed her. He missed Kathryn. He missed them all. He missed his
life... a life that no longer seemed real. _This_ was his existence
now. He didn't want this existence. He merely wanted to close his
eyes... and sleep.

"It was a... nickname," he said, in oblique answer to Tom's thoughts.

Tom met the glassy gaze of his Commander. "Not one you're particularly
fond of, I take it."

"On the contrary."

Tom straightened and discarded yet another soiled strip of fabric.
"Who was she?"

"She?"

"Yeah," Tom shrugged. "The woman who conferred the title."

"Not _she_. _He_," Chakotay rasped. "A friend."

Tom considered the words, then shifted. "So..." he drawled. "If you
don't mind the nickname, then why do you..."

And then Chakotay drew in a sharp breath, a muffled cry lodging in his
throat... an unexpected surge of pain overwhelming him.

The sudden violence of Chakotay's distress buffeted Tom. His hands
lunged through the bars, clutched at the knotted hand nearest him. For
an instant, his hard grip sustained the Commander. But it wasn't
enough.

With welcome relief, Chakotay surrendered to the darkness.

Absently, Tom reached out with his free hand and stroked Chakotay's
hair. With an effort that wrung his heart, he strained to hear the
rhythm of Chakotay's breathing. He studied the pallor of the hand in
his own, dismay blanketing him at its graying tone. He was losing him,
slowly; Chakotay was slipping away.

And the Braai... they were far from finished.

Tom sniffed sharply and hung his head. Where the hell was Voyager?

---

Ayala sat in stunned silence, fighting the urge to reach up and pinch
himself. He wasn't dreaming. He hazarded a glance to his left; Gerron
sat in mirrored bewilderment, not quite listening... his reaction
dominating him.

Ayala swallowed hard, turned again to face the Vulcan. "What exactly
are you saying, Commander?" He winced inwardly at his suspicion-laden
voice. But this was surreal... and they didn't have time for games.
Voyager was returning to the Braai homeworld, as soon as they were
capable; though not officially announced, they all knew it.

An eyebrow raised slightly as Tuvok glanced briefly to the view port;
stars glittered like specks of broken innocence. "That we work
together... a united team." He paused, turned his gaze on the young
men. "Your experience will greatly increase our chances of
successfully retrieving Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Paris."

"You're assuming they're still alive," Gerron observed, bitterness
dulling his tone.

Tuvok's eyes searched the young man. Anger and blame crowded his
edges. What the anger and blame were directed at, Tuvok could only
guess. "I am firm in that belief," he said, straightening. "It would
be illogical for the Braai to kill them."

"Commander..." Ayala sat forward, leaned his elbows heavily on the
arms of his chair. "Hostage rescue and extraction is not something
that you just... _do_." He looked to Gerron, searching for the right
words to explain. "It's something that has to be planned with as much
precision as possible. Preparation involves extensive training and
drills. Preparation is everything. Intelligence is everything. We need
knowledge of the area. We need to know where the hell they are being
kept."

"I am well aware of what is required, gentlemen." But it was so much
theory. In reality, theory did not always apply. "However, your
previous HRE mission was exacted with little reliable intelligence of
the area, and no preparation."

Gerron snorted. "That's not quite right, Commander. We were able to
obtain quite a bit of information, and planetside... we had the
necessary equipment." He glanced discretely at the trunk beside
Tuvok's desk.

Ayala watched the Vulcan echo his friend's errant glance. What the
hell was Tuvok after? Whatever it was, it felt like they were on the
same side. Who'd have thought. "Our ace in the hole was Chakotay.
There isn't a man alive... in the Alpha _or_ Delta Quadrants... that
can plan a mission as well as he does. It's like second nature to
him." He jerked his chin toward the trunk, half-hidden from his view.
"What's in there are merely the tools of a trade."

"A trade for which you served as apprentices for a long time."

Ayala shrugged. "He taught us a few things."

"I'm counting on that."

Ayala exchanged an intrigued glance with Gerron. Who'd have thought.

Gerron too leaned forward, met dark eyes. "With all due respect,
sir... cut to the chase."

Tuvok stilled, exhaled slowly. The words sat poised in his throat,
pushing toward clarity. It _was_ only logical. "I am asking for your
conviction. I am asking for your assistance and involvement. I believe
the most effective strategy for rescuing the Commander and the
Lieutenant requires a marriage of your trade and mine."

Ayala's eyes narrowed. "And what about the Captain? What does she
believe?" he hedged.

The Vulcan rose, circled his desk. "The Captain is not yet aware of my
intent."

Gerron exhaled sharply, then smiled incredulously. "I'll be damned,"
he muttered, then shifted in his chair, sobering. "Do you honestly
believe she'll allow any mission that involves us?" In light of the
dressing down he and Ayala had received following their previous
mission, he doubted she would allow either of them access to the
ship's weapons store again.

Tuvok fixed the young man with a stern look. "You underestimate
Captain Janeway," he said, voice even. "She'll do whatever is
necessary to recover the Commander and the Lieutenant."

Ayala wasn't convinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.
And yet, an hour ago he wouldn't have thought Tuvok capable of
stepping outside the confines of official channels. "I hope so," Ayala
replied, briefly glancing at his shipmate, exchanging a discrete nod,
then turning again to the Chief Security Officer. "Because the
boundaries are about to blur."

Tuvok nodded in knowing silence.

---

"I do not understand the significance."

Neelix smiled; he wasn't surprised. Seven had been Borg most of her
life. There was nothing _comforting_ about the Borg. He sighed, then
sidled into the chair across from the striking woman. "The
significance is beyond filling a basic physical necessity. It's
nurturing... soul-satisfying... healing."

A mechanical eyebrow lifted as Seven's gaze dropped to the plate
before her. "There is nothing within the chemical composition of this
food that would suggest the ability..." Her words ceased, interrupted
by quiet laughter. Her eyes lifted.

"No, Seven," the Talaxian chuckled. "It's not the food itself, but the
memories and emotions associated with it. There are foods that connect
us with a special time or someone we love." He smiled gently. "It's
those memories and those people that provide comfort."

Seven frowned. "And macaroni and cheese is such a food."

"For Ensign Jaare and a few of the others." Neelix shrugged. "For
Lieutenant Torres, it's banana pancakes. For Captain Janeway...
caramel brownies. The specific food differs from person to person." He
knew. For the past three duty shifts he'd attempted to provide as much
in the way of comfort as he possibly could, including the meals
provided.

"It is... experiential."

The Talaxian nodded his response.

"And for you?"

Neelix stilled, taken off-guard by the question. His speckled forehead
crinkled in thought as a melancholy smile tugged at his lips. "Leola
root fistash," he whispered. At Seven's unspoken urging, he continued.
"I remember as a boy, the solstice passing... the day of total
darkness. We would stay in our night-clothes all day, like one long
slumber party. My mother would drag all our bedding into the telling
room... gather us around the warmth of the fire. My bothers and
sisters and I would lie snuggled in our coverings as she told stories
of solstices past, all the while slowly brewing the fistash over the
flames." His gaze lowered. "She had a gentle voice, my mother... a
gentle manner."

"And this memory brings you comfort."

Neelix's wistful smile bloomed. "Yes."

Carefully, Seven unfolded the napkin on her tray, placed it over her
lap, eyed the meal before her and attempted to absorb its
meaningfulness. Odd, she thought, that something as necessary and
functional as food should rouse such a response. Despite the
strangeness, she grasped at the concept. There was strength in
comfort, regardless the form.

---

Tom stood frozen and horrified. He shut his eyes tight, hoping against
hope that in blocking the sight, the nauseating sounds and smells
assaulting him from the center of the cell block would also cease. He
wasn't so lucky.

The young pilot winced as if the pain and suffering of his Commander
had somehow been transferred to him through sympathy and guilt. Would
that it were.

Tom's throat felt raw like sand. His pulse beat like lifeblood in his
ears. His lungs labored. Around him, the air thickened as if the
offenses before him took personal notice of his outrage and were
taunting him. With sudden desperation he threw out his hand, gripped
the metal bars to his left, screwed his eyes impossibly tighter
against the chaos suffocating him.

Damn the Braai. Damn them to Hell.

Stay with me, Chakotay, Tom's mind pleaded. He dared not give voice to
his thoughts... not anymore. It accomplished nothing. And after his
previous confrontation with Kyrax, he feared any insurgent words or
actions would do nothing but make things worse for his Commander.

He swallowed hard, slowly opened his eyes, squinted into the shadows
on the far side of the block. Was this what Kyrax wanted as well? Was
this a sign he was weakening?

Kyrax melted into the shadows of the work area, recumbent in his
comfortable chair. Isolated. Insulated. He again found himself
studying Voyager's pilot, the young man peering intently into the dark
shadows, attempting to discover him. The human knew he was there, but
the coalescing darkness did not permit an exact location. Still, the
man searched.

Kyrax smiled with dim pleasure. Already the Lieutenant's movements
were slowing, his eyes dulling. Deprived of sleep and adequate
nutrition, any being would suffer as much. But venhordryn was also at
work in this instance. The drug had been intended for Chakotay.
However, he'd shared his water with the pilot... out of necessity. The
pilot had used all of his ration to care for the injured man.

How touching, he sneered to himself.

The Braai Commander glanced at the dark man then again at the fair.
Fleetingly, he felt an insignificant tremor of failure as he
considered them. He knew, given enough time, he could crush them, but
Herros was impatient and unwilling to allow the craft to take its
natural course. Only an hour before, Herros had again stormed into his
office, displeased with his progress... or lack thereof.

Kyrax snorted. Herros did not appreciate or understand... neither the
art, nor the subjects. Interrogation was not precise. And these humans
were unyielding and uniquely strong... both of them.

And then the alien Commander screamed in anguish, his voice growing
more hoarse as the minutes passed and his torment increased. The play
of emotion on the Lieutenant's face was fascinating. Kyrax thought for
a moment the young man was eroding, but then his chin raised, and he
again glared into the shadows, a fire burning behind blue eyes.

The line of Kyrax's jaw set. Herros' deadline would come and go
without gain... at least employing current methods.

It was time to escalate.

He rose, stepped from the confines of the shadows, and crossed the
short distance to the inclined table to which Voyager's First Officer
was strapped. When he stood between his two prisoners, he stopped, his
back to the table, his gaze fixed on the fair-haired stripling. He
noted with satisfaction the hint of alarm in the young face. The pilot
was learning; stimulus and response.

Abruptly, Kyrax turned, took in the man bound to the table. Pain
defined the lines of his face, his body... battered and bloody and
breaking. And yet, he remained resistant, every look murderous, every
cry wrenched free with great difficulty.

They fed off one another... this man and his shipmate; their strength,
their defiance.

"Enough," Kyrax ordered quietly. He listened for a reaction from
behind him, and was quickly rewarded.

Shit, Tom thought. He again found himself moving, pacing out his
agitation on the floor beneath his feet, hate goading his heart,
contempt nipping at his heels. The burden of what was happening was
becoming almost intolerable.

One word. That's all that was required to stop it all... the sounds
and smells and sights. One word was all that was required to ease
Chakotay's torment. Or so Kyrax had promised. But the promise was
hollow, and the price too high.

And yet, what price was being paid in resisting?

When near the force field, Tom stilled, lifted his eyes to the horror
before him. He looked helplessly from Chakotay to Kyrax and back
again. He swallowed hard, as Chakotay struggled to lift his head, but
his body refused to meet his will. Instead, obsidian lifted.
Regardless of what happens. Regardless of what they offer, promise,
threaten... do... give them nothing.

"Is there anything you'd like to say, Mister Paris?"

The question splintered Tom's thoughts. Anger flared. He wanted to
lash out and strangle the bastard. But he refused to play that game
any longer. His hands clenched into fists, his nails biting into his
palms, the pressure and pain building as he squeezed harder and
harder. Tiny rivulets of blood seeped between his fingers, but he
didn't care.  He needed to feel the pain. He needed to know he was
still in control of _something_.

Kyrax slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder at the
Lieutenant. "Wouldn't you like to bring an end to this nonsense?"

Tom met the Braai's gaze, but remained silent. And then Kyrax lifted a
hand, almost in a gesture of dismissal, but instead, one of the guards
behind the Braai Commander moved and a scream was ripped from
Chakotay.

Tom spun, wailing in anger and frustration and protest.

And then Chakotay screamed again.

"Damn you to Hell!" Tom bellowed, unable to contain the response,
loathing and despair and helplessness consuming him.

"I'm afraid we're already there."

Again Tom spun, faced his tormentor. "You don't know what Hell is," he
spat, again unable to stop the words. "But you will."

"You're not exactly in the position to make threats," Kyrax murmured
in muffled amusement.

"Threats?" Tom hissed. "Try a fucking _promise_."

Kyrax's amusement erupted in a smile. Venhordryn and anger... a
combustible combination... one that might work against this man.

The Braai's smile only provoked Tom further. "He'll wipe that fucking
grin off your face."

A curious eyebrow lifted, as Kyrax eyed the barely contained young
man.

"And I'll help him," Tom growled.

Kyrax stepped closer, casually crossed his arms over his chest. "Him?"
he snorted, jerking his head to indicate the man strapped to the table
behind him. "He doesn't seem to be much of a threat," he grinned.

"He didn't seem much of a threat before he killed three of your men
either... did he?"

The smile slipped from the Braai Commander's face. A mere error in
judgment. He didn't make the same mistake twice, especially with these
two; they recognized mistakes, and took advantage of them.

He dropped his relaxed posture, stepped even closer to the pilot. And
then he turned his head and nodded. "Proceed, Voestak."

Tom's eyes snapped to the center of the room. He watched in horror as
one of the guards surrounding the table grabbed hold of Chakotay's
blood-slick arm, inserted a hypodermic, and emptied the contents.

Almost instantly Chakotay reacted, shattering in a guttural cry. His
body bucked hard against his restraints, the metal cutting deeper into
already raw and lacerated flesh. And then his body seized, convulsions
wracking him, his screams of pain suddenly emasculated gurglings as
his body fought for control, for sanity, for life.

Ebony fixed on blue. "One word, Mister Paris. One word is all it
takes."

"You fuck!" Tom shouted, launching himself at Kyrax. Too late he
remembered the force field separating them. And yet, he didn't care.
Even as the first wave of pain struck, he sighed his relief; oblivion
was better than his current Hell.

---

"What do you have for me, B'Elanna?" Kathryn asked flatly, leaning
back in her desk chair. The headache she'd suffered for four days had
suddenly mushroomed over the past hour. Not even the fact that
Voyager's engines were near operational standards could alleviate the
pressure. Not even the fact that B'Elanna guaranteed high warp
capability within the hour eased the strain. Nothing would short of a
whole crew.

As the ready room doors slid shut, B'Elanna sighed, crossed the room,
and handed the Captain a PADD.

Kathryn accepted it, eyebrows raised in question. She indicated the
young woman sit. "What's this?"

"Captain..." the half-Klingon began, absently dropping into the chair
behind her. "As you're well aware, transport to and from the surface
of the Braai homeworld is not always possible. It can be characterized
as sporadic, at best."

Kathryn nodded. "Yes. It's been quite the thorn."

B'Elanna rubbed her palms on her thighs, forward and back again,
uncharacteristic optimism barely contained. "We've determined there's
a high concentration of quasi tellurium quartz covering most of the
planet's surface. In some places, it's several kilometers thick." Her
hands came to rest on her knees. She leaned forward, resting heavily
on her palms. "Quasi tellurium and tetrahedral quartz are in the same
silica family."

Kathryn's eyes narrowed and dropped to the PADD in her hand.
Tetrahedral quartz?

"Seska and I had worked through some hypothetical calculations using
the data we'd retrieved from the Sikarian spacial trajector. Those
calculations encompassed the use of the silica on a planet's surface
as an amplifier for the portable transporter system."

The Sikarians. Seska. Kathryn had doubted for a very long time that
any good would ever come of that encounter... or that woman. The
incident had undermined her faith in her crew; in particular... Tuvok,
her long time ally and friend. And yet they'd risen above; now even
stronger than they had been. Her gaze drifted up, met B'Elanna's. "I
thought Sikarian and Federation technology were incompatible."

"Incompatible wasn't accurate," the Engineer said slowly,
determination charging her voice. "Sikaria's mantel was approximately
twenty kilometers thick, comprised of several rock types, but
predominantly tetrahedral quartz. The crystalline structure amplified
and focused the trajector field, providing the ability to transport
great distances through a great range of potential interference. Our
problem arose when the plasma manifold destabilized because it was
being bombarded by anti-neutrinos." She leaned forward even more. "We
couldn't compensate for a catalyst of such immense concentration."

Kathryn's eyes lit with hope. "I'm listening," she prompted.

"So... Seska and I worked on the supposition that the object we wanted
to transport was a lot smaller than Voyager..."

"As in a person rather than the entire ship."

"Exactly."

"And your conclusions?"

B'Elanna straightened, bit her lower lip. "We didn't finish the
project, Captain. Not long after we'd begun, Seska..."

Kathryn waved her hand, interrupting. They both knew what had
happened. But now... perhaps there was something salvageable from
Seska's miserable existence. "What exactly did you come up with?"

"We'd need a modified portable transporter that taps into the quasi
tellurium quartz. We could use the ship's deflector array to emit
phase neutrinos and direct them at the pattern enhancers planetside.
Hypothetically, a neutrino dispersion pattern and a parabolic subspace
bubble between the deflector and the pattern enhancers would be
created. Once created, we could transport to Voyager from the
surface." B'Elanna bit her lower lip, cocked her head to one side.
"The only problem... there would be a substantial accumulation of
anti-neutrinos. The window for transport would be small. And... it
would be a rough ride."

But should B'Elanna actually be able to pull it off, the possibility
of transport capability, using the very rock that riddled the planet
like a cancer...

The corners of Kathryn's mouth rose in promise. "Use as many people as
you need. Pull in Harry and Seven. Inform Tuvok of what you're doing,
and keep him apprised of your progress." She exhaled slowly, rose from
her chair and circled her desk. "This is very promising, B'Elanna.
Very promising."

B'Elanna offered a smile.

"You have two hours to determine feasibility."

"Captain..."

Kathryn cut short the Chief Engineer's protest. "We enter Braai space
in less than ten hours. I don't want to be scrambling for retrieval
alternatives at the last minute."

"Understood," B'Elanna replied, pushing herself to her feet. Two
hours? She wasn't sure it was possible. And yet, too much was at
stake. Besides, if she didn't believe this would work, she'd never
have presented the idea to the Captain.

She silently snorted. Two hours? She done far greater things in less
time.

---

"I don't think sticking a spanner in there is going to fix things,
Mariah," Alison Jaare said, watching warily as her colleague
contemplated the problem.

"B'Elanna said it was symptomatic of a minor regulator problem,"
Mariah Henley said. "So... let's adjust it." She shrugged. "Simple."

Alison eyed her co-worker, unconvinced. "B'Elanna is also the Chief
Engineer... she makes anything technical sound easy. Besides, we're
not exactly outfitted with the proper tools. And... we haven't been
cleared to make the repair."

"Are you doubting my ability?" Mariah snorted good-naturedly. "Look...
Stellar Cartography is a bit low on the priority list at the moment.
According to the Chief Engineer, it's a minor problem. If it's minor,
we can handle it. And then maybe we can start getting some work done
again."

"Mariah..."

"This is the conduit that feeds the main consoles in the SC bay... and
this is the regulator," she said, tapping the offending junction box
with the edge of the spanner.

It happened without warning: a flash of plasma arcing from the conduit
and grounding to the spanner clasped within the Ensign's right hand.
Mariah was thrown up and back, slamming full into her work partner,
her momentum propelling both along the narrow Jefferies tube and
hurling them against the bulkhead. Upon impact, the fused and
smoldering residue of what remained of the spanner rained to the
floor.

Alison Jaare groaned as she stirred, worming her way from between her
friend and the wall. "What did you touch?" she grated as she pushed
herself to hands and knees. Faced with silence, she looked to her
right. "Mariah!" she gasped, scampering the half-meter to the woman's
side. "Mariah!"

But there was no response.

"Damn it," Alison hissed, pressing two fingers to the pulse-point on
the unconscious woman's neck. Her breath caught in her throat, and
then escaped in a sudden rush of relief at the thready pulse beating
against her. Without pause, she slapped her comm badge. "Medical
emergency. Lock onto my signal. Two to beam to sickbay."

Within seconds, the pair materialized in a deserted sickbay.

"Computer, activate Emergency Medical Hologram," Alison barked.

Nothing.

"Computer, activate EMH!" Panic slithered over the edges of her voice.

Seconds passed like minutes, like an eternity. And still... nothing.

"Ensign Jaare to Ops."

"Go ahead," came the voice of Harry Kim.

"Harry, I'm in sickbay with a medical emergency... and the Doctor's
program won't activate. I need someone down here _now_!"

"Ensign Jaare, this is Captain Janeway. Ensign Kim is on his way, as
is someone from Engineering. What happened?"

"Ensign Henley was injured in an EPS overload... some kind of
electroplasma shock. We were working near the regulator when it
malfunctioned."

"What is Ensign Henley's condition?"

"She's unconscious. Her pulse is thready," Alison droned as she
struggled to lift her injured friend to the nearest bio-bed. "Her
breathing is a little shallow, and she has some nasty looking burns on
her right arm and hand."

"Are _you_ okay, Ensign?"

"Just shaken up."

"Very good. Help will be there shortly, Ensign. In the meantime, do
what you can to assist Ensign Henley."

Alison nodded at the disembodied voice. "Yes, ma'am."

"Keep me posted. Janeway out."

Alison felt suddenly alone... abandoned... incompetent. She'd been
trained to handle emergency situations, but basic medical proficiency
was a lesson long passed and long forgotten. She snorted gruffly. It
didn't matter... she'd have to dredge her memory and do it.

She bit her lower lip and scanned the main bay, searching for a
medical tricorder. It was always the first thing the Doctor did. She
moved to a nearby medical tray, and grabbed the desired device. "I can
do this," she muttered.

And then the main sickbay doors opened, admitting Harry Kim and Joe
Carey.

Help had arrived.

---

The pressure and chill against his right cheek began slowly to nag at
his skin and bones, the discomfort pulling him up off the bottom of
his stupor. For a time, he whirled in ache, unable to distinguish
between it and fear. He knew what awaited him when he fully awoke; the
reek of blood, sweat, urine, and bile filled him.

Everything became dread; he wanted to scream. But he couldn't... not
here, not now, not with _them_ watching.

The Braai.

Kyrax.

Tom labored the final distance to awareness and forced his eyes open.

He lay on the floor of his cell, facing the outer block, the back of
his head and shoulders pressed uncomfortably against the bars
separating him from his Commander.

The cell block looked odd from this angle, strangely exaggerated, more
menacing... lurching and looming. The slant unsettled him. Abruptly,
he pushed himself upright, then leaned back against the laced barrier,
eyes closing against the ache of his body.

He drew a deep shuddering breath, then he tilted his head back,
thudded it against the metal, and dropped it forward to his raised
knees.

What the hell had he been thinking? He'd lost control. In his emotion,
he'd forgotten caution. In his fury, he'd forgotten the necessity of
remaining closed. It was easy to forget. His usual coping mechanisms
required more involvement; keeping quiet was contrary to his nature
and took greater effort. But, apathetic sarcasm was an unavailing
weapon, an ineffective shield against the Braai.

He lifted his head, squinted against the brightness. What he wouldn't
give for darkness. What he wouldn't give for a glass of pure water, a
hot shower, a comfortable bed dressed in Starfleet-issue sheets, a
bowl of leola-root stew. What he wouldn't give for the touch of
B'Elanna's hand, her crooked smile, her...

And then a stridulant moan ruptured his thoughts.

He scrambled to his knees and spun around, jerking his face to the
prone figure on the floor of the neighboring cell. The Commander's
eyes were open, but he seemed unaware, his gaze glazed and inward,
focused on something unseen.

Tom backed slightly away from the bars and dropped to his stomach.
Chakotay wasn't quite a meter away; an easy reach this time.

---

Kathryn Janeway shook her head abruptly, rejecting Tuvok's plan before
he'd the opportunity to complete the briefing. There were too many
risks... too many _unacceptable_ risks... and she would not place any
other crew members in unnecessary danger. Frankly, she was surprised
Tuvok had proposed it. It was uncharacteristically perilous.

"This is unacceptable," she said simply, as she eyed the logistics
summary in her hand.

"Every plan has its risks."

"I'm not prepared to live with _these_ risks." Kathryn dropped the
PADD on her desk. Again shaking her head, she pushed herself to her
feet and murmured in a tired voice, "There has to be another way."

She circled the desk and wandered to the raised sitting area of her
ready room. For a time, the only sound was the faint hum of the warp
engines as she turned Tuvok's proposal over in her mind. It seemed
incomplete, purposefully lacking, but she held her suspicions and
questions in abeyance. Without turning, she spoke. "Ignoring the fact
that Neelix's shuttle isn't equipped for this kind of mission... his
ship is known. Even if it weren't immediately recognized, the warp
signature would give its origin away."

"Those are valid concerns. However, I believe we can breach Braai
defenses unchallenged for an interval sufficient to get the away team
to the planet's surface undetected."

Kathryn snorted, then turned on her heel to face the Vulcan. "And what
then? Chakotay and Tom could be anywhere on that planet. Even if we
assume they're being held in the same approximate location of their
capture... and that's assuming they've been captured... we have no
surface intelligence. The risks..." She cocked her head, absently
studied a point on the balustrade separating the two levels of the
room. The risks were too great.

"No," she said, gaze lifting, voice adamant. "There _has_ to be a
simpler, more effective way."

Tuvok rose, moved to stand before his Captain, and wordlessly
proffered a PADD.

Kathryn accepted the device, a single eyebrow raised in expectant
question.

"An alternative, Captain."

She eyed the PADD, then lifted curious eyes to her Chief of Security.
Her gaze narrowed as she waved the PADD slightly. "Do you mind telling
me why we've taken the scenic route to this particular end?"

The Vulcan's chin raised imperceptibly, his gaze unwavering. "I felt
it necessary to have something against which to gauge the merits of
this proposal."

She silently studied the face of her friend. Whatever the mission
recommendations the PADD contained were, Tuvok obviously expected
resistance on her part, which meant there was at the very least a hint
of protocol violation involved. "I see," she said slowly. "Do I really
want to hear this?"

"It is not really a question of want, Captain, but one of need."

Kathryn stilled at the Vulcan's words... words so closely echoing
those of Chakotay days earlier, as he attempted to impress upon her
Voyager's need and the necessity of returning to the Braai homeworld.

Want and need often collided. And more often than not, need prevailed.
As it should.

Chakotay had been right.

Need was imperative.

"All right, Tuvok," she acquiesced, nodding. "I'm listening."

---

For a moment, the brightness reeled; but he felt a hand touch his
chest and steady him. And then the brightness reeled again as his
stomach hitched up and he gagged, helpless.

Without warning, he found himself on his side, vomiting bile and the
minimal fluid content of his stomach. And then there was nothing left.
But still he continued to retch, body clenched, throat burning.

Darkness threatened, but the hand on him, the voice enveloping him
anchored him in consciousness.

Chakotay felt a cloth drawn over his lips and cheek, and then he was
eased to his back, too drained to move himself. His chest heaved with
effort as he worked to bring his breathing under control, but it was
difficult to focus... the bitter taste and smell of bile and blood,
the rapid pounding in his head, and the inexorable pain that was his
body distracted him.

Tom numbly stroked Chakotay's hair, wiped the sweat from the older
man's brow, murmured inadequate words of comfort. He stared at his
Commander and felt ruin crowding him. He was trapped in an
impossibility, with no way out save desperation. And over time, his
desperation grew.

He snorted, muttering silent obscenities at himself. It's what the
Braai wanted; he was playing right into Kyrax's hands.

Tom bit the inside of his cheek, hard, as he tried to keep even his
self-reproach in check.

He needed to detach. Chakotay had warned him. Chakotay had tried to
impress upon him the necessity of indifference. Chakotay had tried to
prepare him. But nothing could have prepared him for this.

Nothing.

This was hard. Too hard.

And time was running out.

Chakotay pushed his focus outward as the hand in his hair stilled. He
debated shrugging off the attention. And yet he drew strength and hope
from the touch. If Nathan weren't here, he would have withdrawn into
himself long before; a form of protection, of distancing himself.

The Commander frowned slightly. Detachment was key. How many times had
Czendric shoved that down his throat? He'd spent years living,
breathing, preaching it. Seven fucking years. He'd spent seven fucking
years of his life denying himself. He'd spent seven fucking years
doing exactly what was expected of him. He'd spent seven fucking years
playing by _their_ rules, and he'd lost... everything.

"Chakotay?"

The First Officer blinked. He wanted to answer, but his lips refused
to give form to the words. In anguished silence, his gaze staggered to
the troubled blue of the man through the bars... then faltered in
confusion.

Tom pressed the back of his hand to his Commander's damp brow.
Chakotay's temperature was slightly elevated... a low-grade fever, but
high enough to detect through touch alone. He exhaled slowly,
attempting to rationalize the fever, to assuage his own uneasiness
through _clinical_ detachment. Chakotay was fighting an infection,
undoubtedly born of the squalid conditions of the block and the open
wounds covering his body. And in all likelihood, he'd sustained
internal injuries. In time, symptoms would become more apparent;
inchoate signs were already manifesting themselves.

He swallowed harshly as he watched Chakotay closely, and tried to
gauge the man... his state of mind, his pain. Despite his condition,
Chakotay had the face of an immutable man... eyes capable of fire, but
fierce in their glazed calm, lips potentially expressive, but rigidly
slack. The Commander betrayed little. It seemed nothing about this man
was simple; everything was a contradiction. Parts of him lay beyond
reach, perhaps even beyond comprehension.

"Chakotay," Tom again urged. "Can you hear me?"

As if in response, Chakotay's breathing changed. The First Officer
groped weakly around him, absently seeking purchase on the hardness
beneath him... leverage. His right hand connected with metal. He
gripped it feebly, tried to roll to his right, but pain pushed him
back.

He felt a hand on his arm. "Up," he rasped.

Tom shook his head. "I think you need to stay where you are."

Chakotay swallowed convulsively, his tongue sticking to the roof of
his mouth. "Help... me... up," he forced, almost choking on the words.

Tom's hand slid to the Commander's chest and held him down. "Lie
still."

"Damn it... Nathan," Chakotay wheezed.

Tom's brow furrowed. "Who the hell is Nathan?" he muttered to himself.
Twice now he'd been called Nathan. He exhaled stiffly, searching the
heavy gaze of his Commander. The man was barely lucid, caught in some
fugitive memory... some delusion. Tom could almost see a part of
Chakotay rallying to clear his mind.

And then a moment of clarity gripped the First Officer. "Tom?"

Tom couldn't stop the relieved smile that spread over his face.
"Yeah," he reassured. "It's me... it's Tom."

Chakotay simply wanted to remain on the ground and sleep, but he
fought the desire, again fumbled for a grip on the metal bar in his
hand. "Up," he insisted.

Tom's smile faded as he snorted in exasperation. Stubborn sonofabitch.
"And exactly what do you expect to gain by sitting up?"

For a moment, Chakotay clung decrepitly to the mottled rod, turning
the question over in his mind. "Myself," he murmured faintly, and then
he pulled himself to his side. "By... re-resisting."

Tom watched him, confused, oblivious to his meaning. And then
realization struck. He bit his lower lip, struggled with Chakotay's
need, and increasing disability. The man was stubborn. To the end.

Clumsily, he heaved the Commander up, positioned him with his back to
the bars, legs stretch out in front of him. Tom threaded his right arm
through the barrier, under the Commander's armpit, then wrapped it
supportively around the man's chest, hand planted firmly against his
side.

Chakotay felt weak... as if he was on the verge of melting to the
floor.

But Tom held him firm.

They sat that way for a long time. Silent. Motionless. At some point,
Tom leaned his head to the side, pressed his temple against the bars,
and listened... to the wrack of Chakotay's respiration... slow,
labored, shallow.

And then a tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Chakotay wasn't doing well. Tom couldn't pretend for any length of
time that he was; everything about the man told him otherwise. But he
wasn't prepared to lose him. He couldn't.

"Tom?"

Tom's head snapped up at the whisper of sound. He sniffed and cleared
his throat. "Yeah?" he whispered in return.

"What... ever ha-happened..." Chakotay's voice shook convulsively.
"... to Squidge?"

A smile pushed its way through Tom's ache. "Four years ago... he was a
senior liaison with Starfleet's Diplomatic Corps. Before we were swept
to the Delta Quadrant, he was negotiating an alliance with Niphylon
Prime. I always found it rather ironic that someone with his penchant
for..."

"Tom?"

Tom's breath caught in his throat at the sound of Chakotay's voice.
"Yeah?"

"I... need you..."

He felt the spasm of breath and pulse against his arm, cold and damp
skin against his skin, the slick and sticky warmth of blood.

"... to t-tell Kathryn..."

He smelled the evidence of pain and torment and desecration.

"... something."

He heard the finality behind the words.

---

Kathryn eyed her Security Chief, then allowed her gaze to drop to the
PADD in her hands. She trapped her lower lip between her teeth as she
again skimmed the summary. "I can see merit in the plan," she said.
Ostensibly, the plan was sound. On the surface, there was nothing
questionably un-Starfleet-like in the strategy; but that was strategy,
not execution. And Tuvok had been almost cagey in his presentation...
in a Vulcan sort of way... as if there was something he was omitting
or dancing around.

And yet, she trusted him.

"It cedes us a good chance of success," Tuvok said quietly. "I do not
believe the Braai will be aware of the deception. As such, the odds
will be in our favor."

Kathryn's face lifted to the Vulcan's. Her eyes narrowed. "I'll have
to admit it's very promising. However, there are several exposures."

Tuvok nodded his agreement. No strategy was fool-proof. No strategy
was without exposure. But this was their best available option. He
knew it. His Captain knew it. "This is merely a preliminary summary,
Captain. Several aspects require further analysis and preparation.
However, it is my belief that the foundation of the plan is sound."
The majority of the risk lie in the execution; hence his choice of
team. And therein lie the rub, the ultimate obstacle.

He wouldn't tell her... not yet, not until he had complete agreement
on the plan itself.

A brief smile met her lips. "It's rather... Machiavellian." She'd not
really thought him capable. No, that wasn't true; he _was_ capable.
However, he preferred the more direct approach. This was not his
typical style.

"Indeed."

The eyebrow arched over staid brown reanimated her smile. And then she
too sobered. "We still need surface intelligence." Without it, they
were looking for a needle in a haystack. They needed an exact
location. Armed with that knowledge, and B'Elanna's modified spacial
trajector, they stood a fair chance. "I want to know where they are...
_before_ you leave this ship." In four hours they would breach Braai
space. There wasn't much time.

"There is little we can establish until we are closer." Tuvok shifted,
locked his hands behind his back. "If they have not been captured,
locating the Commander and the Lieutenant will not be difficult. It is
Standard Starfleet Operating Procedure to remain as close to the area
of incident as possible. Should they have been taken prisoner..."
Tuvok paused and considered their options. Should they have been taken
prisoner, locating them would a challenge. "If we are lucky, our
current monitoring of Braai communications will uncover relevant
information."

It was Kathryn's turn to raise an eyebrow. "If Tom and Chakotay are
prisoners of the Braai, I doubt the Braai will broadcast detailed
information." She shrugged stiffly and shook her head. "They know
we're out here... somewhere. They know we'll be returning. It would be
foolish to assume otherwise. They know we'll be searching for Chakotay
and Tom. They know the potential exists that we're monitoring
communications in an attempt to do just that."

It was only logical. However, Tuvok's experience with the Braai had
taught him much. While they were shrewd and cunning, they were not an
overly intelligent species. That coupled with a base volatile nature
led inevitably to mistakes. It was only a matter of time before they
slipped up and rendered something vital.

"Flesh out the logistics," Kathryn said, indicating the PADD in her
hand. Determination lit her eyes. "At first glance, this holds our
best chance of success. But I'd like to see a more detailed tactical
analysis."

Tuvok nodded his acknowledgment. The first hurdle had been cleared.

---

Joe Carey cursed for the tenth time in as many minutes. He and two
other engineers had been working for just short of six hours and had
yet to determine the problem with the EMH. They knew what the problem
_wasn't_, and that, in and of itself, was helpful. However,
process-of-elimination was not how he'd hoped to attack this.

Regardless, the holo-emitters and holo-reactors were fully functional.
That left the holo-processor. And yet...

Carey exhaled heavily, loudly. He and Ensign Kim had combed through
the EMH program, code-byte by code-byte, and had uncovered nothing
critically amiss... nothing that would prevent the activation of the
Doctor. There was minor corruption in a few of the memory management
subroutines, but they'd corrected the problems and moved on.

But still, the Doctor remained offline.

Luck was with them; there had been no need for _trained_ medical
personnel since the discovery of the problem. Mariah Henley had been
extremely fortunate. The plasma burns she'd suffered had not been as
serious as first thought. While they were painful and deep, he, Harry
Kim, and Alison Jaare had successfully treated the young woman.
Nothing more than a painkiller, topical analgesic and a dermal
regenerator had been required.

Other than Ensign Henley, there had been only two additional medical
cases: indigestion and a headache.

Luck was with them. So far. However, they were fast approaching Braai
space. And Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Paris...

Carey lifted a hand to his forehead and kneaded the flesh above his
left eye, the pressure of his own headache building. "It's _got_ to be
the magnetic containment field," he said, pinching the bridge of his
nose. "We've ruled out the projectors and the reactors and the
programming." He dropped his hand. "So... what does that leave us
with?"

"The main holographic processor," Crewman Dwight muttered tiredly.
"It's the only main component left that could manifest a malfunction
in this way."

Carey wasn't entirely convinced. He'd the nagging feeling they'd
overlooked something. But then, the processor was the only component
they'd not fully examined. But then, he was tired. They all were. They
could easily have missed something. "Set up the series theta,
level-two diagnostic."

---

Ayala, Gerron, and Tuvok.

She wasn't surprised. In fact, she'd expected it. Tuvok's plan bespoke
covert. It would be foolish of him to draft anyone other than these
two for the mission he was proposing. Though, she suspected they'd had
a hand in the planning as well.

As Kathryn crossed Tuvok's office, she studied the threesome, hunched
close together... faces raised, expectant. Ayala and Gerron sat eyes
wide, expressions tainted with guilt as if caught doing something of
which she wouldn't approve. If their situation were not so dire, she'd
have laughed.

"Gentlemen," she offered in greeting as she stopped flush with Tuvok's
desk. With a slight smile, she extended the PADD in her grip. "I've
reviewed the final tactical analysis. It looks good." She eyed Ayala
and Gerron, then turned back to her Security Chief. "Do it,
Commander."

"Preparations are already underway, Captain."

Again, she'd expected nothing less. They'd not the luxury of
protracted, self-indulgent thinking or action. Time would not permit
it. "Good," she said, nodding, idly fingering the headset resting on
the desktop near her. Her gaze dropped. A SAT device. Identical to, if
not the very one Chakotay had used planetside two weeks prior.

Two weeks. Had it only been two weeks? For one slivered moment, her
mind slipped into that past, images beating against her like heavy
jolts of anger and fear. She understood those emotions... anger and
fear; they were a part of the condition of her existence. And then the
images faded as she harnessed those emotions and turned them
outward... directed them toward a purpose.

Her eyes again focused on the compact device as she picked it up. They
would need the advantage it provided... as well as the other equipment
in Chakotay's trunk.

Abruptly she turned and handed the headset to Ayala. "Be careful,
gentlemen. And... good hunting."

And then she left.

Tuvok stared after her, an eyebrow raising even as duranium alloy slid
between them, severing his view. She'd known. All along. She'd known
his intent. She'd known his choice of away team. She'd known.

"I'll be damned," Gerron muttered, exhaling sharply.

Tuvok fixed the young man with a knowing look. "Indeed."

---

Kathryn Janeway sat motionless, mulling over her first words to the
Braai. Voyager was minutes away from Braai space, minutes from
detection.

She snorted to herself. The Braai were learning. Prior to their
previous brush with the species, the outermost sentries lingered near
the Braai homeworld. Now, the perimeter of their territory was
littered with small intercept craft. Patrolling. Waiting.

Voyager would not be able to slip into Braai space undetected. Not
this time.

They'd expected as much... counted on it.

She exchanged a weighty glance with Tuvok, then faced forward. "Open a
channel, Mister Kim," she ordered, leaning back in her chair... a
relaxed posture; however, she was anything but relaxed. Every muscle
in her body felt clenched and brittle. Her stomach roiled, her heart
pounded. She fought the urge to stand and pace, to swallow, to worry
her hands against the arms of her chair.

Control was imperative.

"We are being hailed, Captain," Harry said, eyes lifting to the
Captain.

"On screen, Mister Kim."

Kathryn froze as the forward viewscreen filled with a face unknown and
yet vaguely familiar. She smothered the frown that threatened; she
didn't know this Braai, and yet the shadowless ebony fixed on her...
eyes she would never forget, but desperately wished to, eyes that
plagued her dreams and her memories.

She forced herself beyond the ebony, beyond the apperception. "I am
Captain Kathryn..."

"I know who you are... _Janeway_," the Braai spat harshly,
interrupting. "The whole of the Empire knows who you are." The Braai's
face twisted in an ugly scowl. "You're either incredibly stupid or a
fool to have returned to the scene of your crimes."

Kathryn bristled. "And you are?"

"I am General Herros..."

Kathryn's breath caught in her throat at the name.

"... first of the Fourth Detachment, and second to the Council of
Elders." An insidious smile crept over his lips as he leaned closer to
the transmitter, raked his eyes intently over the human female. "I am
Herros Troy, brother to Herros Kalas, the man you butchered in cold
blood."

Brothers. Their faces were similar, their eyes identical. Hate and
bitterness radiated from those eyes, seemingly undermining her
strength. Dread and fatigue forced tenacious fingers into the crannies
and crevices of her soul.

And then anger flared at her reaction to Herros' words, at her
reaction to Herros' eyes, at her inability to control so critical an
aspect of her command self, at her inability to shake her soul free.
She was better than this. Abruptly, she pushed herself to her feet,
stepped forward. "General Herros..."

"Silence!" the Braai fumed. And then with visible effort he calmed.
"Retribution is required," he hissed. "You will turn yourself over to
the Council so that you may be charged and sentenced for your crimes."

Kathryn stiffened, her gaze hardening at the General's demand and the
implied or else. "I have no intention of giving you anything," she
said, voice like iron.

"Not even in exchange?" Herros pressed.

Kathryn's eyes narrowed. "For what?"

"Come now, Captain," the Braai snorted, venom tingeing his voice. "We
both know to what I refer." A menacing smugness blanketed pale green
features. "It's why you're here."

Kathryn took another step forward, crossed her arms over her chest.
Captured. They'd been captured. And if Herros was ready to negotiate a
trade, life for life, then they were still alive and somewhere within
his jurisdiction. Or so she hoped. "You haven't the slightest idea of
why I'm here, General."

"Don't I?" Herros chortled in self-absorbed amusement, then sobered,
clearing his throat. "It seems your last visit was cut short... rather
abruptly, and you were forced to leave something behind," he said,
expression slack, eyes deadly. "And now they're mine."

Kathryn cast a quick glance at Tuvok, then turned back to the General.

A mordant smile curled Herros' lips. "Unless..."

"I want to see them," Kathryn demanded.

The Braai's smile faded into an ugly grin. "Do you doubt my sincerity,
Captain?"

Kathryn's hands went to her hips as an eyebrow raised. "You're
suggesting I barter myself for something which you _claim_ to have in
your possession. I'd be a fool to demand anything less."

"Of course you would," Herros said with a sour shrug. He nodded to
some unseen Braai to his left, then again turned his dark gaze on the
Captain. "You're lucky I'm a generous man."

And then the General disappeared, replaced with the local starscape.

Kathryn blinked, once... twice... then dropped her hands and settled
into her command chair. "Ensign Chiao... drop to one-quarter impulse.
Maintain a course ten-thousand kilometers from the perimeter of Braai
space." At the young helmsman's acknowledgment, she turned to Ops.
"Harry, keep an eye on those patrol ships. Anything unusual... I want
to know."

One hour. She'd give Herros one hour.

---

A weak tendril of panic crept through Tom as he gently shook the man
in his arms. "Hey... _Chief_," he murmured urgently, trying to elicit
a response. But Chakotay had no awareness to spare; he could not
answer.

It wouldn't be much longer now.

Tom would be alone.

He raised his left hand, reached through the bars and pressed his palm
gently to Chakotay's back. How had they come to this? This wasn't
supposed to happen. This wasn't how they were supposed to end. Not
here. Not with the Braai. But, fate was cruel and twisted. And
somehow, this man with whom he'd carefully rebuilt a basic trust, with
whom he'd painstakingly established a basic respect... somehow this
man had become the point of impact between Tom's opposing madnesses.

He groped for answers to his distress, to the distress of the man he
held, but he found none. There was no bargain, no compromise. He was
helpless. Impotent. He could do nothing.

Distantly, he heard footsteps. His gaze snapped to the doorway on the
far side of the block, his heart pounding. As four Braai emerged from
the distant corridor, he tightened his hold on Chakotay. He wouldn't
let them take him. He couldn't.

Unexpectedly, they were standing outside his own cell... deactivating
the force field. He felt an odd sense of horrific relief. They wanted
him, not the Commander. Him.

Suddenly hands were grabbing at him, wrenching him free of his charge.
He watched in horror as Chakotay slumped to the ground... still and
silent... and rage consumed him. He howled violently, lashed out
furiously with his feet, not caring with whom he connected, as long as
he inflicted an equal measure of suffering.

And then pain exploded along the side of his face.

---

"Captain."

Kathryn's chin snapped up as her gaze flew to Ops.

"We're being hailed."

"See if you can pinpoint the origin of the signal." At Harry's nod,
the cut of her mouth thinned and she turned to face the main
viewscreen. "On screen."

An ashen image flickered into focus: a small, dimly-lit room, bare
save for a chair deliberately placed in the center of the floor away
from the walls and the single door to the right... and General Herros
leaning smugly against the far wall, gaze lifted to the fisheye.

Seconds passed.

And then a scraping noise like a gasp of pain fractured the silence.
The door to the room swung inward, admitting light and a small group
of soldiers, Tom Paris in their midst.

Kathryn's heart leaped. The young man appeared exhausted, thin, dazed,
dirty, manhandled... a fresh bruise was forming on the right side of
his face, a thin trail of blood ran from the corner of his bruised and
swollen mouth into his nascent beard. Truth be told, he looked better
than she'd expected. And, her heart leaped; relief enveloped her.

But then she found her gaze drifting expectantly to the open doorway.

Nothing. No one.

She swallowed hard, rose from her chair, fixed her gaze on the
Lieutenant as he was ushered to the center of the room and shoved
unceremoniously into the chair.

Herros brought his head forward from the wall, then pushed his body
away and came to stand behind the human. "You would do well not to
doubt me, Captain," he said, resting his hands heavily on the pilot's
shoulders. "I believe you know this man."

Kathryn's gaze dropped. Unbridled emotion flashed behind the young
man's eyes, and then was gone. She offered a faint smile, nodded.
"Tom."

"Captain," the Lieutenant returned grimly, his gaze skipping past her,
grazing the bridge.

And then pale green fingers gripped Tom's hair, forced his chin up.

"Your time is limited," Herros hissed into the young man's ear.
"Choose your words wisely."

Tom winced as his hair was again roughly yanked, then hissed relief as
the grip was abruptly released.

"You have two minutes, Captain."

As Herros returned to the far wall and settled himself against it,
Kathryn took a closer look at her pilot. His condition was remarkable.
His condition reassured her... strangely. For a moment, a sweet sense
of relief overwhelmed her, and then her purpose asserted itself in the
exigency of time. "How are you?"

Tom swallowed hard, hesitated briefly as he considered his response.
His eyes darted briefly to the side, almost in an effort to gauge the
watchfulness of the Braai behind him, and then he lifted his gaze to
the small screen in the distance. "_I_ am fine." His fingers grazed
the rank insignia at his neck and then tugged at his collar. "As a
matter of fact," he muttered, sarcasm edging his voice. "It's a great
place for an extended vacation." He scratched his nose and rubbed his
eyes. "We get to stay up late... no curfew here, Captain."

And then Tom winked at her, a smile on its heels. Kathryn's eyes
narrowed imperceptibly as she took in the Lieutenant, his subtle
movements and twitches. Tom, by nature, was not a still man, but this
was uncharacteristic... odd. Lice, she thought... or the Braai
equivalent of it.

"Your time is running out."

Tom's head snapped slightly to the side at the General's gruff
prodding. "Look, Captain," he said, turning again toward home. "I'm
supposed to convince you I'm uninjured and that the General here is an
all-around good guy."

"And are you? Uninjured?"

The corner of Tom's mouth lifted. He scratched his chin. "Sure," he
said, shrugging his right shoulder.

"And Chakotay?"

"We're hanging in there." He scratched at his left temple, then
snagged a small bit of fabric at his chest, and scratched at the skin
underneath. "We're using the time to get to know one another better."

"Tom..." But the Lieutenant ignored her, started to ramble on about
the finer points of Braai hospitality, his gaze intense as if he were
desperate to convey his message... as insincere as it was.

And then the General was looming over Tom, hand gripping his shoulder.
"Enough!"

Herros hauled the pilot to his feet with a ferocity that made Kathryn
wince. The General shoved the young man unceremoniously into the
waiting group of guards near the doorway. And then Tom was gone,
manhandled roughly from the room. Only Herros remained, settling
himself on the lone chair.

"What about my First Officer?" Kathryn demanded.

Herros snorted derisively. "Be grateful I've allowed you this much,"
he spat. He stiffened, breathed deeply. "You have thirty minutes in
which to surrender yourself. The fate of your officers hinges on your
decision."

Once again, Kathryn Janeway found herself staring at the local
starscape, communications abruptly terminated.

For several moments, silence shrouded the bridge; no one moved, no one
breathed.

"Any luck locating the transmission source?" Kathryn asked softly.

Harry looked up. "I've managed to narrow it to a small region. I'm
still in the process of filtering the sensor data. However, sensors
aren't yet fully functional." It would be weeks before Voyager as a
whole was back to normal. "And, interference is high."

Kathryn exhaled in frustration and lowered her gaze to stare absently
at the deck. They needed a location. It was vital.

And she had thirty minutes.

She was almost aware that the unresolved stress within her was
building toward a crisis; but she repressed the knowledge, drove the
threat down with anger. She didn't believe she could endure another
ordeal; she'd handled the first so badly. And yet, what would she be
willing to risk for the lives of her officers? Tom. Chakotay. Her brow
furrowed. What had Chakotay risked for her?

Her chin snapped up with resolve. "Harry, have the senior officers
report to the briefing room in ten minutes. Tuvok," she said, striding
toward her ready room. "You have the bridge."

---

Tuvok studied the ready room door, his gaze intense with knowing and
question. He'd known Kathryn Janeway for a long time. They'd spent
many years in service of one another... and as friends. He knew her
well enough to know what she was considering, what he could clearly
see impinged behind blue eyes as she'd walked past him.

What she didn't realize was that he wouldn't let her indulge in the
sacrifice. None of them would.

Before he could turn the bridge over to Ensign Kim and enter into the
fray of her resolve, he was intercepted.

"Commander Tuvok," Ayala clamored, abandoning his station at secondary
Ops. "I need to speak to you and the Captain... immediately."

An eyebrow lifted at the young man's insistence. But as Tuvok's gaze
drifted to the ready room door, he dismissed the request. "I do not
believe this is a good time, Mister Ayala."

Coming to the Commander's side, Ayala dropped his voice, laced it with
an urgency his expression belied. "On the contrary, Commander. This is
the perfect time." He jerked his chin toward the main viewscreen. "I
know where they are."

---

Kathryn raised her gaze to the ceiling and shook her head at the sound
of the door chime. She was not in the mood. "Come in," she snapped at
the intrusion. Through the clutch of her annoyance, she turned from
the starscape, watched Tuvok and Ayala enter and, together, cross the
room, stopping just short of her. "This had better be good,
gentlemen."

"Captain, Mister Ayala has uncovered something of vital importance to
your decision."

"And just what decision would that be, Tuvok?" He knew her too well...
perhaps better than she knew herself at times. At the disapproving
look he threw her way, she knew he was fully aware of her intent.

"Captain." Ayala stepped forward, interrupting the silent exchange. "I
know where they are."

Kathryn's gaze rushed to the young man. "What?" she asked in skeptical
bewilderment.

"Lieutenant Paris sent a message." Ayala lifted a PADD between them.

Kathryn's eyes widened slightly. "And precisely how did he manage
that, Mister Ayala? We all heard what the Lieutenant said. There was
nothing..."

"No, Captain," Ayala interrupted. "The message was coded."

Kathryn exchanged a hopeful glance with her Chief of Security. "How?"

"A very old and very effective method. Lieutenant Paris used a five by
five code box employed by the armed forces of the twentieth century...
by prisoners of war."

"A what?"

"A five by five grid with twenty-five cells to which the alphabet is
overlaid in a set pattern. If the code is cracked by the prisoner's
captors, the overlay can be rotated easily. It's effective and
simple."

"At last count," Tuvok interjected. "There were twenty-six letters in
the Earth alphabet."

Ayala nodded. "Yes... but the letters 'c' and 'k' often sound the same
and are therefore viewed as interchangeable. They share a cell."

Kathryn stepped closer, fixed the young man with a questioning gaze.
"That still doesn't answer 'how?'"

Ayala shrugged. "At first I wasn't sure... his movements were a bit
uncertain. But it didn't take long to recognize the pattern." Tom had
learned the rudiments of the code quickly. That surprised him. Even
basic proficiency wasn't easy. He sighed, moistened his lips... met
the expectant gazes of his commanding officers. "His fidgeting...
scratching, winking, twitching, finger and hand movements." To the
unacquainted, it would seem like nothing. It would seem as if Tom had
merely been uncomfortable, or infested with something. "He was passing
line and column order numbers for the box code, as well as a series of
sign signals."

Kathryn's brow furrowed. How the hell would Tom...

And then her frown faded as realization dawned. Chakotay. Chakotay had
the training... in methods current and ancient. Chakotay had passed
some of that knowledge to Ayala. And undoubtedly to Tom should he be
unable to convey the message himself.

They'd never have known had Ayala not been on the bridge.

"Where are they?" she asked quietly. "What did Tom say?"

"His exact words..." Ayala lowered his head and read the message. "X
sect 7, E wing, Intero R9, Scylla prison. Chak bad. Tort 7. No
Herros." Again his gaze lifted, fixed on his Captain's. "In
combination with other signs and signals... they're being held in
section seven of the east wing, interrogation room nine of Scylla
prison. Chakotay is badly injured. He's been tortured repeatedly..."

Her throat went dry. Tortured? It was little wonder Herros would not
permit access to him. But he was alive. Still.

"... Don't trust Herros." He paused, cleared his throat, and extended
the PADD. His gaze faltered. "There's also a personal message for you,
Captain... from the Commander."

Wordlessly, she accepted the PADD, her eyes tumbling to its tiny
screen, to the words displayed on it... and her heart gave up its
rhythm. "Thank you, Mister Ayala," she whispered as she turned and
stepped to the viewport. "If there is nothing else..."

Tuvok studied his Captain. Whatever the message held...

He turned to the Ensign at his side and nodded. They would have her
decision soon enough.

And then she was left alone, tears welling in her eyes as her gaze
slid from the viewport to the PADD in her hand. Three words. Three
simple words. Words that ripped at her heart. Words that gripped her
soul. Words that blurred as her heart broke and spilled like despair
over her cheeks.

--- I'm sorry, Kathryn. ---

---

He could hardly breathe; his body impacting the floor so savagely, the
air was forced from his lungs. Through his daze, he fought to gasp
inadequate shreds of air, but his captors undermined the effort as a
boot connected with his right hip, shoving him even harder into the
floor beneath him.

Anger and pain held his eyes shut, even as he heard the faint hum of
the reactivated energy barrier and the dying echo of footsteps.

And then his lungs found purchase in the rank air surrounding him. His
chest heaved, then slowly settled to a normal rhythm as he recovered
himself.

But still, Tom couldn't move, frustration and exhaustion, elation and
stunned relief overwhelming him, consuming what little reserve
remained.

Voyager had returned.

It wouldn't be long before they were home.

Tom swallowed hard, then bit his lower lip. Home; so close, and yet so
far. Home; their hope, and yet perhaps the one thing that could
destroy them... he and Chakotay. The Braai would most certainly be
less discriminating in their efforts to extract information, for with
Voyager's presence, there was a greater urgency... and a new target.

His eyes shot open at the prospect. He pushed himself to his knees,
and hugged himself in an effort to contain his alarm. Chakotay
couldn't withstand any more.

His gaze shuffled to his left, to Chakotay's cell. The Commander
hadn't moved since Tom last saw him. If it weren't for the faint,
pained rasp of respiration, the slight rise and fall of the man's
ribcage, Tom would have thought him dead. But he was still alive.

Tom fell forward to hands and knees, and crawled the scant meter to
the bars. "Chakotay?" he called hesitantly. There was no response...
no sign he'd heard at all. "Chakotay," he urged with more force,
reaching through the metal weave to grasp the man's arm. But still
there was no answer.

Tom's gaze grazed the still form. "Voyager is here, Chakotay," he
said, hope bolstering his voice. "They're here. You need to hang on.
Don't give up. You need..." And then his voice failed him, his body
suddenly trembling. He'd never known Chakotay to give up on anything
or anyone.

He wouldn't let him start now.

---

Kathryn surreptitiously studied her staff, their faces reflected in
the mirrored surface of the conference room viewport. She'd entered
the room only seconds before, declining to take her seat. Instead,
she'd taken position behind her chair, back to the table, and silently
stared at the striking view before her. Despite its beauty, what lay
beyond held a danger that was incalculable.

The Braai had taken much. But no more.

Slowly, Kathryn turned to fully face her senior staff, every one
silent and attentive... expectant.

"We came to the Braai in peace and in need, with good intentions and
good will. We weren't met in kind. They lied. They deceived. They
committed acts of terrorism against Voyager and her crew. And now,
they have two of our officers... our friends. I intend to get them
back.... by whatever means necessary." Kathryn's gaze circled the
table, resting on each officer for a few seconds before moving to the
next. There was no vacillation in their loyalty to Voyager or their
friends; not one of them wavered, not one questioned her. "To recover
Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant Paris, we'll engage the Braai."

Tangible relief swept the room, a palpable tension on its heels.

"Until a few minutes ago, ground intelligence was insufficient.
However, we now know where Chakotay and Tom are being held." Kathryn
hazarded a glance at her Security Chief. He remained stolidly alert.
"Lieutenant Paris managed to pass on a message relaying their location
and position."

The Chief Engineer leaned forward, perplexed, anxious, and hopeful.
"How?"

"How isn't important at the moment. What we need to do now is focus
our efforts on improving that ground intelligence. The content of
Tom's message states they are being held in a section of Scylla
prison. Mister Kim, I want you to search through the information we've
compiled on the Braai and their homeworld. See if you can uncover the
location of this prison."

"Yes, ma'am."

The Captain didn't miss a beat as she turned to the Chief Engineer.
"B'Elanna, how are you coming with the spatial trajector?"

"We have a working model. However, we haven't been able to fully test
it." In an ideal world, B'Elanna would have the luxury of testing it
for weeks before attempting to use it with live subjects.

"Will it work?" Kathryn pressed.

B'Elanna didn't respond immediately, contemplating her answer. There
were so many variables to be taken into consideration., so many things
that could go wrong. "Theoretically, yes. Simulations have gone well.
But the actual device? I need more time... to run a few more tests."

"We don't have time, B'Elanna." Kathryn raised her hands, rested them
on the back of her chair, leaned heavily into it. "Will it work?" she
asked, voice was laden with an undeniable urgency.

B'Elanna dropped back in her chair, troubled. She had confidence in
her work, her ability. But this project was critical. If her
calculations were off, even slightly, people she cared about...
loved... could die. "Field-testing it on this mission is a viable
option."

Kathryn nodded, satisfied with the answer. "What about the Doctor's
program?"

"The Doctor is still offline. Joe Carey is working the problem."

"Estimated time to repair?"

"Three to six hours." B'Elanna's jaw clenched. Restoring the EMH was
imperative. While she'd been told Tom was in good condition,
Chakotay's condition was unknown. They had to be ready for anything.

Kathryn bit her lower lip, then exhaled heavily. "Assign additional
personnel to assist Lieutenant Carey, if required." She hesitated,
debating revealing the full content of the message Ayala had
transcribed. She didn't want to. She didn't want them to worry.
However, full disclosure was necessary. Again, need won out. "Chakotay
is in need of medical assistance... _immediate_ medical assistance. We
need the Doctor operational now."

B'Elanna's expression dulled. She nodded mutely, swallowing the sudden
ache in her throat.

Kathryn eyed the young woman, recognized her pain... a pain she felt
herself, to her soul.

She took a deep breath, circled her chair and lowered herself into it.
Her gaze wandered the table. Harry Kim, B'Elanna, Seven... they all
sat quietly. Neelix looked almost beside himself, his need to do
something, to help, confounding his ability to remain calm.

Kathryn's gaze turned to the opposite side of the table; familiar
faces, but unfamiliar in this context. It had not passed unnoticed,
the quiet that had settled over the conference room when they had
entered. Their presence was unexpected, and yet no one was surprised.

"As you all know, the Braai are aware of our presence in their space.
That awareness introduces a number of problems." Her voice hardened
with each word. "We've forced their hand. Time is now of critical
importance to both us and, in particular, to Chakotay and Tom."
Kathryn threw a sympathetic glance at B'Elanna. It amazed her how well
the young woman was holding up under the pressures of her position and
her heart. The half-Klingon was definitely fraying at the edges, but
to be honest, Kathryn had expected far worse. B'Elanna had surprised
her yet again, with her tenacity and endurance and focus. "The Braai
are ready for us and any action we may take in trying to recover our
crew. As such, recovery will be a bit more of a challenge... which is
why I've asked Mister Ayala and Mister Gerron to join us."

---

The Braai Captain swore and braced himself on the console before him
as yet another errant blast buffeted his vessel. Close. Damn close.

He fastened his gaze on the image looming on the small viewscreen to
his right. Voyager was immense in comparison to his own ship... larger
than he'd imagined, yet sleek and graceful. But he was well aware that
an untold power burned behind her beauty... a boon of technology and
weaponry. Spoils, for the victor. A hero's trophy.

Minutes prior, he'd thought the starship no match for the twin
squadrons dispatched to slow Voyager's progress toward the Braai
homeworld, to stop her. But now...

The Captain's brow furrowed. The two squadrons had rallied and
attacked on all flanks, threw everything they had at the enormous
ship. And yet, Voyager remained untouched, her shields apparently
stronger than first assumed. The starship had volleyed fire at the
Braai craft, but nothing close to what he suspected they were capable
of. Who held the advantage in the skirmish was inconclusive. The Braai
Captain suspected it wasn't his force; Voyager was merely toying with
them.

Again, phaser fire rocked the small craft, the hull plating seemingly
squealing in agony at the strike; the fourth such impact in as many
minutes. They couldn't take much more. With shields inoperable, one
well-placed hit, and they were gone. Retreat was fast becoming their
only option.

"Damage report!" he shouted above the din of the battle.

"We've lost weapons. Shields are still inoperable. The engines are
losing power and the energy bank just lost its charge." The second
Lieutenant's hands flew over the bank of controls before him as he
pulled up ship's status. Suddenly, his hands stilled.

The lighting flickered and died. For several long moments, there was
utter silence and then power miraculously returned, accompanied by a
high-pitched whine.

The Braai Captain scurried to the ancillary Tactical console,
attempting to reroute what power remained to aft shields. If he could
cover their retreat...

"Sir!" the second Lieutenant yelled. "The main power generator is
approaching overload! We need to reduce the drag on the..." His
warning never completely gained voice as his console exploded in a
mass of sparks and smoke and debris, his body lifted from its seat and
hurled across the deck, impacting bonelessly to the deck at his
Captain's feet.

The Captain eyed the lifeless form, then nudged the man with the toe
of his boot. When there was no immediate response, he whirled to his
weapons officer. "You!" he bellowed. "Get ..."

Abruptly, darkness shrouded the bridge as power again failed, silence
overwhelming the crew for a second time. And then the vessel shuddered
and a low whine punctured the hush, gradually increasing in pitch and
volume.

The Captain exhaled heavily, then clenched his jaw to meet his fate.

The ship's limit had been reached.

---

Ayala and Gerron moved swiftly through the small, dark engine room.
Time was critical. Time was limited. Time slipped by... precious
seconds before they too became statistics of the small and somewhat
bloody engagement beyond the hull of the ship.

In the less than two minutes they'd been on board the Interceptor,
they'd managed to dispatch the four Braai on duty in the engine room.
SAT scans showed no immediate danger beyond the main doors. The
remainder of the ship's complement was located on the bridge, three
Braai, no more. For the time being, they were alone.

The engine room was unique, archaic, unlike anything they'd seen
before, including their days in the Maquis, when _any_ space-worthy
vessel was a blessing to their cause. This was... well... for a warp
capable species, this was sad. They were surprised the ship was
capable of flight at all. But they weren't here to debate Braai
engineering techniques; they had a task to perform.

Gerron separated from his companion and moved through thickening smoke
to a bank of consoles at the far end of the room, where Tuvok was
already working. He threw a sideways glance at the Vulcan, then began
to enter a coded sequence.

Without warning, the whole of the ship was immersed in darkness.

The sudden power loss galvanized Ayala into action; speed was
essential. He moved forward silently, compression rifle raised and
took up a defensive position at the engine room doors, monitoring the
tactical display in the eyepiece of his headset. It was up to him to
ensure the safety of his team. They had neither the time nor the
desire for complications.

Tuvok studied the data in his eyepiece; though he'd mastered the
general functioning of the elite forces SAT headset, the real-time use
of the device required more concentration than he was willing to
spare. He pushed past the nonessential information flashing before him
and focused. He'd no choice but to rely on the experience of the men
with him, their ability to absorb everything the device communicated.
"We have thirty-three seconds," he said calmly as he pulled the small
regulator from the pouch on his chest. He adjusted the gauge on the
device, then affixed it to what was identified as the main power
source for the Interceptor's engines.

Almost instantly, the console displays flickered slightly, and then
came to life, settling to a constant flux as power was restored.

Without command, Ayala and Gerron moved from the engineering bay in
tandem, and started working their way to the vessel's bridge. The
Interceptor was much smaller than most of the ships employed by the
Maquis, but its importance was just as great.

The ship would be theirs.

As they approached the bridge, the sounds of an explosion slammed
through the access portal. Gerron exchanged a smile with Ayala. One of
the life signs on the bridge had disappeared. Only two Braai remained.
Hardly a challenge at all. Two meters from the open hatchway, they
stilled.

Smoke billowed into the corridor, carrying with it a distinct odor.
Ayala's nose crinkled in distaste; the smell of burned flesh was
unmistakable... human or Braai, it smelled the same. He raised a hand,
folded up the neck of his mask to cover his exposed nostrils and mouth
in an attempt to filter out the stench, but the fetor clung to his
clothing and refused to give up its hold.

He'd live with it. He'd lived with far worse.

Suddenly, the ship was again immersed in darkness, the engines died.
Gerron signaled Ayala and the two men charged through the hatch onto
the bridge.

Neither Braai was aware of the danger behind them. Neither Braai was
aware of the intruders. Neither saw death coming, swift and sudden.

Ayala stepped over the body of the Braai at his feet, nodding to
Gerron to move the bodies aside; they didn't need the inconvenience.
"The bridge is secure."

"Acknowledged," came Tuvok's reply.

And then the engines came to life.

"Main power has been restored. The regulator is nominal..."

At Tuvok's pronouncement, rogue smiles crossed the lips of the
twosome.

"... Stage one complete. Rescue two is secure."

---

Harry's intensity softened as his chin snapped up. "They're on board,
Captain. The ship has been secured."

"Very good, Mister Kim," Kathryn said as she watched the small craft
careen across the forward viewscreen. "Mister McKenzie, let's adopt
better aim. It's time to give the Braai something to contemplate...
something to distract them." She turned to face the man at Tactical;
McKenzie had a lot of experience... he was Tuvok's best replacement.
"And send a few shots across the away team's bow. We don't want to
appear as if we're playing favorites. But please... try to avoid
blasting them from this world into the next."

"Yes, ma'am," McKenzie replied as he analyzed the distribution of his
targets. His fingers raced over the small tactical targeting scanners
and fired.

"Godspeed," Kathryn whispered as she settled back in her command chair
and watched as the tiny Interceptor retreated, carrying her crew once
again into the maws of Hell.

---

"Fuck!" Gerron snapped, then grinned, gripping the console next to him
as the small craft trembled from the nearby concussive fire. "That was
close." He eyed his companion. "Who was at Tactical?"

Ayala swallowed hard, gripped the console in kind. "McKenzie."

"Well... he certainly knows how to keep up an appearance," Gerron
muttered as he dropped into the chair to his right, furiously working
the helm controls, struggling to maintain forward flight.

"Damn it, Gerron... can't you do something about this rocking motion?
I think I'm going to throw up," Ayala groaned as he manipulated the
engine status controls. "There... that should do it."

Instantly, lighting was restored to the small craft.

"Well done, Mister Ayala," Tuvok commended as he stepped onto the
bridge. In one sweeping glance, he surveyed the bridge; it was
damaged, but operable. Moving to stand beside Gerron, he eyed the
Braai littering the meager floorspace. One appeared to have perished
as the result of an explosion, the remains of a console to his left
the obvious source. The two remaining Braai appeared relatively
unmarked, but dead regardless. "Are the other ships attempting to
communicate?"

Gerron didn't spare the Vulcan a glance as he continued punching
commands into the console before him. "They've tried, but I've
returned garbled data, to make it look like the communications system
was damaged by Voyager's last attack."

Ayala shook his head ruefully. "That's not far from the truth. It's a
wonder this heap can fly at all."

And then the ship bucked violently, shuddering, rattling, forcing the
three men to brace themselves on whatever was within reach.

"I believe the regulator is about to fail us, gentlemen," Tuvok yelled
above the din, moving rapidly to the aft access portal. "How much
longer before we are within transporter range?"

"Another two minutes, at the very least," Ayala ground out. "The
portable unit won't work beyond ten kilometers." He gritted his teeth,
then worked his way to Gerron's side. "Go help, Tuvok."

Gerron nodded, then dashed precariously from the bridge, on Tuvok's
heels. By the time he reached the engine room, Tuvok was already
making adjustments to the regulator.

Gerron jerked his chin toward the portable transporter to their right.
"Go for it, sir. I'll handle this. I can give you two minutes, but I
don't think I can give you much more." He watched the Vulcan nod then
move to the transporter, struggling to keep his footing as he went.
"Damn," he muttered, turning his attention to the regulator status
display. This was going to be close.

Suddenly, the ferocity with which the ship vibrated increased. They'd
hit the outer layers of the planet's atmosphere.

Tuvok stopped only momentarily to hit his comm badge. "Commencing
stage two," he droned, then severed the connection as he continued to
assemble and calibrate the portable transporter. The violence of their
flight would make transport nothing if not a challenge.

And then the fury impossibly worsened. The Braai Interceptor plummeted
and pitched brutally, making it difficult for the men to remain on
their feet.

"Fucking useless stabilizers!"

Tuvok raised a disapproving eyebrow at the muffled comment in his ear.

"Now who's going to throw up?" Gerron complained.

"I'm doing my best," Ayala grated. "Our trajectory is off and we're
going in too fast."

Gerron glanced hastily across the room, to where Tuvok worked,
shrouded in smoke. Great, he thought.

"Hang on," Ayala's voice warned. "It's about to get worse."

Gerron swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, breathed quickly in
and out. Fucking great.

---

"They've just entered the lower levels of the ionosphere, Captain."
Harry scanned the data rapidly scrolling past him. "If they pick up
any more speed, they'll either skip right off the dense underlayers or
they'll disintegrate."

Kathryn shot the Ensign a grim look, then turned back to the main
viewscreen to track the progress of the small ship. Even without
Harry's status report, it was obvious the vessel was unable to
maintain a straight trajectory; the ship was being mercilessly
buffeted by the currents of the Braai homeworld's atmosphere.

She determinedly pushed herself to her feet and strode through
reddened dimness to the upper level of the bridge, toward Ops. "Can we
get a transporter lock on them?" she asked, suddenly at Harry's
shoulder. He didn't have to respond; she already knew the answer as
she studied the data before her.

Harry threw her a sideways glance and shook his head. "There's too
much ion radiation in those levels of the atmosphere. It's deflecting
and distorting the targeting scanners."

"Skeletal lock?" she asked grimly.

Again Harry shook his head. "Same problem."

A sudden signal caught their attention. Harry's fingers flew over his
console. "Incoming message." As he decoded the familiar signal, he
pressed his palms to the surface of his station, leaned forward.
"Stage two, Captain."

Kathryn studied the scan data on the main Ops display. "Perhaps they
aren't in as much difficulty as they appear to be." Her gaze drifted
up, to the main viewscreen.

"Well, if they aren't, then they've certainly fooled me," Harry
whispered wryly.

And then a hesitant smile met Kathryn's lips. "I believe that's their
objective," she said in uncertain admiration of the affect. She
stepped from behind Ops and descended to the main level of the bridge.
"Keep them on sensors for as long as possible, Mister Kim."

"Aye, Captain."

---

"Tuvok," Ayala growled into his headset. "Please tell me the
transporter is ready. That planet is looking awfully big on the stat
monitor."

"I am just completing calibration, Mister Ayala, and have acquired a
lock on our target."

Ayala burst unsteadily through the engine room door and wove toward
the Vulcan's location. He'd no visual, the room thick with smoke. The
smell of burned flesh imbued in his mask did little to obscure the
odor or burning circuits and hot metal. The stink combined with the
smoke itself made his eyes water. He lifted the eyepiece, swiped
hastily at the tears, then replaced the headset.

Gerron worked his way to the Commander as well, clinging to whatever
would hold his weight along the way, struggling against the violent
bucking of the ship. The ship wouldn't last much longer. They needed
to get out here... now.

As he reached the Vulcan, Gerron's gaze dropped; Tuvok was rigging the
transporter module with explosives. Before he could question the man,
Ayala was at his side, eyes darting between Tuvok and himself.

"We are nearing our target," Tuvok intoned, rising, noting the silent
exchange between the two young men. "I merely wish to ensure this
equipment is completely destroyed. If for any reason this craft does
not disintegrate on impact, then the discovery of Federation
technology on board may jeopardize our mission."

Gerron and Ayala grinned against the dark fabric of their masks. Tuvok
was their fourth man. A natural.

---

Dusk was deepening over the desert. The planet's wildlife chattered
energetically to each other for a time, but their din soon dulled to a
quiet and relaxed murmur. Shadows lengthened and merged, combining
with the heightening breeze to cool the land and usher in the night.

The murkiness of dusk engulfed the black-clad team as the transporter
beam released them on the still and silent rooftop. Before
materialization was complete, each man had initiated a defensive sweep
of the target area anchored at his position, weapons raised.

Already the three were accumulating data via their headsets. As with
past experiences, readings were unreliable beyond twenty meters, the
planet's base rock interfering with scans. Each man studied the data
as it was displayed in their eyepiece, silently absorbing and
interpreting the information.

They were alone on the rooftop.

Daylight was dying rapidly. Light from the waning moon gave the
burgeoning night a faint patina of silver, with the exception of the
team's non-reflective gear.

Ayala briefly looked out across the small expanse of flat roof. A low,
chest-high wall rose approximately seven meters from him, the rooftops
of the town dominated by the fortress not too distant. Several
kilometers beyond lie desert, dotted with hillocks and wattle and
bracken. Harsh.

His gaze retreated, took in the rooftop itself. Rooftop was too simple
a description. What they found themselves in the midst of was more the
remnants of a courtyard: basins of petrified soil arranged in some
strange configuration, no doubt thriving microcosms of plant life at
one time, a crumbling bench, and what looked to be an aviary of some
sort, now empty.

The enclosure had gone unused for a very long time.

Ayala cricked his neck, then shuffled cautiously to the courtyard
wall, softly flattening himself to it, back and shoulders almost, but
not quite touching the ancient stone, weapon raised to the rooftop
access door; should anyone emerge from the entrance, they would be
immediately acquired by his rifle's targeting system.

He came to the door, reached out to touch the prominent handle,
maintaining his aim on the entrance, instinctively knowing Gerron too
had his weapon trained in the same direction. A quick glance to his
left substantiated what instinct had told him. With a nod, he turned
again to face the door and slowly wrapped his fingers around the metal
protuberance, then twisted his wrist.

He met no resistance; the door was unlocked. Very few courtyards, the
equivalent of twelve floors from ground-level, boasted a locked
door... in any society. A faint smile brushed Ayala's lips; the Braai
were no different. Besides, the Braai had never before encountered a
species with anything remotely resembling transporter technology.
Their defenses did not provide for it.

The threesome wasn't expected. Not here.

Commander Tuvok had chosen the transport site well. Despite all the
factors hampering the choice, he'd found an unsecure and deserted area
of the fortress. The fact that it was a secluded outdoor site was a
bonus. The cover of darkness was invaluable.

Ayala tugged, but the door only opened a crack. It was weathered and
heavy, obviously suffering from years of neglect, and now stood
unwilling to give in to the demands placed on it. He tugged harder.
The cumbrous door gave way, the hinges holding it in place creeking
their protest.

Ayala immediately released the handle and pulled his hand back to
fully grip his compression rifle, while Gerron lowered his own and
rummaged silently in a covered pouch at his left hip. Within seconds,
Gerron extracted a small cylinder, shook it, then directed the
canister's nozzle at the offending metal mounts; years of oxidation
and mineral deposits were doused with the liquid silicate.

As Gerron returned the canister to the pouch on his webbing, Ayala
once again grasped the pommel and tested the door's resistance. It
swung open easily, silently.

Tuvok cautiously took the lead, entering the room, rifle raised and
ready. There were no life signs in the immediate area, however the
whole of the fortress was constructed from the same rock that hindered
sensors. Despite the advanced capabilities of the headset, technology
had its limitations; caution was imperative.

Tuvok surveyed the room; it appeared to be living quarters. The
chamber was littered with only a small amount of furniture; spartan
yet functional. In all probability, the quarters of an officer of
considerable rank. Not many could claim to have a balcony and private
courtyard.

"Faint life signs," Gerron whispered. "Approximately fifteen meters to
the northwest... approaching." He jerked his chin toward an ingress to
his left.

Tuvok nodded abruptly. "Let's go," he said, moving to the ingress; a
short corridor led to a wooden door.

Gerron and Tuvok moved into position as Ayala eased the door open. The
corridor was clear... for now.

They slipped from the room, three specters mingling with the dark
shadows clinging to the rock walls of the keep; their descent had
begun.

---

Braai Strategic Defense was a hub of chaos. High Command had placed
them on alert when Herros had reported the capture of two of Voyager's
crew. However, many days had passed and the constant state of alert
had left them tired and unguarded.

Now, less than two hours after establishing contact with Voyager and
demanding her Captain surrender herself, the starship was punching her
way into Braai territory, and was now only minutes from the homeworld.

Strategic Defense had deployed two squadrons of Interceptors to arrest
Voyager's progress by whatever means necessary. High Command wanted to
leave nothing to chance; their last battle with the Voyager had
amassed too many casualties.

Two squadrons had been deployed; they'd believed the assemblage
sufficient. It was all that had been required to force Voyager to
retreat in their last off-world encounter. She had limped out of the
Braai system heavily damaged, and they'd congratulated themselves for
the superior power that they were.

It therefore came as a shock when within a few short minutes of
engaging the imposing starship, three heavily armed Interceptors had
been destroyed and a fourth was careening through the planet's
atmosphere, plummeting uncontrollably toward the surface.

Every hail directed to the crippled craft had gone unanswered. Even
those still in the battle had failed to establish reliable and
discernible communication with Captain Hyphstor.

As the Interceptor bounced through the lower levels of the
stratosphere, the Strategic Defense controller calculated the
projected ground zero for impact: a remote area approximately eight
kilometers west of the town of Chadik. Scylla was the nearest SD
facility. Without thought, he dispatched an order to Scylla requesting
immediate recovery.

Every piece of equipment on board was precious. It was imperative SD
arrived on the scene before the local scavengers.

---

For the third time in two weeks, they'd left behind the relative
safety of unclaimed space and hurled toward the Braai homeworld. With
each return, their path seemed more difficult, more unpromising.

Kathryn eyed the Interceptors attempting to chip away at Voyager. A
minor annoyance was all they amounted to. Voyager's real challenge lie
beyond, on the surface of the blue and green orb revolving lazily in
the distance.

Their scourge.

Despite what lie ahead, in their action, in their aggression, the
sense of moving forward reasserted itself in her, gave her a renewed
sense of purpose... and even hope.

At the same time, that aggression increased the risks. She was
gambling, with the lives she fought to save as well as the lives of
her away team. As Tuvok had said, and she wholeheartedly agreed: every
plan has its risks. And now, they were extremely cognizant of and
vulnerable to those risks.

The Interceptor the away team had seized had disappeared from scans
fifteen minutes prior, the result of crashing into the planet's
surface. The away team had beamed from the craft just before impact.
But their exact position within the bowels of Scylla...

"Captain... we're being hailed."

Harry's announcement jolted her. Kathryn straightened in her chair,
clearing her throat. They'd been receiving hails since they'd punched
their way into Braai territory. She'd ignored every one.

She threw Harry an inquisitive glance.

Hard lines etched Harry's face. "It's General Herros... again."

Kathryn nodded and faced forward. It was time... time to allow Herros
to maneuver and threaten and do, time to pray that Tuvok's timetable
was accurate.

For an instant, she felt a cold hand of foreboding on the back of her
neck, gripping her. She inhaled deeply and steeled herself. "On
screen."

Herros winked into view, and Kathryn momentarily faltered. Herros
stood in what could easily pass as a chamber of horror; low stands
strewn with devices of torture, some unrecognizable, some she knew
intimately... and in their midst, an inclined table stained with blood
and other substances she refused to name.

"Insolent bitch!" the General seethed, ebony eyes aflame. "How dare
you defy me. Stand down. Surrender yourself!"

Kathryn's jaw tightened as she met the Braai's gaze. The images and
sensations sparked by the room beyond would not deter her. "As I said
earlier... I have no intention of giving you anything."

"And so instead, you attempt this absurd showdown. Are you so arrogant
as to believe that flexing your muscles will send me cowering to the
corner?" Herros hissed through his teeth.

Kathryn slowly rose from her command chair and stepped forward,
shoulders squared, hands loosely clenched at her sides. "I want my
men."

Herros snorted his contempt. "Then surrender yourself."

One corner of Kathryn's lips rose in a humorless half-smile. "What
part of _no_ don't you understand?"

"I would venture the same part as you."

An auburn eyebrow raised. She crossed her arms over her chest, raised
her chin slightly in an air of defiant resistance. "I want my
officers."

"Surrender yourself."

"Mister McKenzie," Kathryn lobbed over her shoulder. "Target a random
power plant. Lock weapons and wait for my command," she ordered, never
breaking eye contact with the Braai.

Herros' expression grew darker, more incensed. "Don't play tough with
me, Janeway," he growled. "You'll lose." He jerked a hand upward,
gestured to someone out of visual range. "And so will your people."

---

Gerron swung his rifle from his right to his left and back again,
sentinel to the two men discarding the bodies of three Braai in the
room behind him. Several more bodies were secreted in various rooms
along the path they'd tracked; soldiers unfortunate enough to be in
the wrong place at the wrong time. The prison was teeming with Braai.
They were lucky they hadn't encountered more.

And then they were at his side and they were again moving.

As they moved deeper into the bowels of the prison, Tuvok noted the
occasional markings on doors and corridor junctions, each marking and
its position in the sequence of the corridor clarifying his
understanding of the overall numbering. They were moving in the right
direction. They were getting closer.

Twice their headsets had briefly detected human life signs, faint but
distinct, only to lose the signals to the composition of the thick
rock walls.

Chakotay and Tom were near. They had to be.

---

A cold wind blew through Kathryn's soul. It chilled her as if the
marrow of her bones had been laid bare to the icy blackness of space.
The risks of the gambit were about to be witnessed and endured.

Without warning, the distinct voice of Tom Paris struck her. Hoarse
shouts of protest and anger, shouts of loathing and desperation echoed
all through the Braai chamber. The sounds of a scuffle punctuated his
hopelessness and then there was silence, the unmistakable crack of
flesh impacting flesh resonating throughout the bridge.

She was aware of movement in her peripheral vision, of B'Elanna
forcibly restraining herself.

Forgive me, she prayed, uncertain of whom she asked it, but beseeching
it just the same.

And then two Braai guards erupted into view, hauling a semi-conscious
figure between them: Chakotay. His bare feet dragged limply against
the floor, a trail of crimson smeared in their wake. His battered and
bloodied body offered no resistance; he'd not the presence of mind,
his gaze empty like that of a blind man, his lips slack as if he'd
been bereft of every word or wail.

"Herros," Kathryn warned.

But Herros merely laughed and signaled for his men to mount their
prisoner on the defiled table.

The bridge fell preternaturally silent, all eyes fixed forward. They
watched helplessly as the man who was their First Officer and friend
was raised to the table, then restrained at wrists and ankles, stomach
to metal.

Kathryn could feel her pulse beating like the rhythm of thunder
against her skull as fear worked to crush her resolve. She suddenly
felt as if her world were collapsing, shrinking to one small point in
space. She knew what that table held, what awaited her First Officer.

And then B'Elanna growled.

Kathryn's gaze snapped to the engineering station and locked with the
half-Klingon's. Suddenly anger and cold rage manifested itself in
their shared glance. She clenched her teeth, turned her scorn on the
alien. "Mister McKenzie..."

"I would reconsider any rash act, Captain," Herros spat. Without
removing his gaze from the female Captain, Herros turned his head
slightly. "Kyrax," he spat over his shoulder.

A summons.

Kathryn's eyes narrowed as a soldier emerged from the shadows on the
far side of the chamber, derision drafting his expression. He stepped
silently to the middle of the room, to a low stand, then slowly
reached out, grasped a hypodermic and a lethal looking blade.

The cast of Kathryn's face hardened as her gaze nailed Herros. "Touch
him and you'll suffer the consequences," she hissed.

"Push me and I'll push back... harder," Herros snarled.

Without warning, Kyrax was alongside the table, towering over
Chakotay, wrenching his head back, plunging the hypodermic into his
exposed neck.

---

Chakotay slammed into awareness, into a cacophony of white heat and
cold and brightness. He struggled to breath, to gain stable purchase
in consciousness.

And then his body seized. The force of the convulsion tore an
inarticulate cry from his corded throat. His body bucked against his
restraints, the involuntary violence of his muscles knocking him
against the hard surface to which he was strapped.

Agony screamed its permanence in every shred of his being, every
corner of his mind... and he knew he was still alive; he suffered,
therefore he was.

---

Kathryn watched in horror as Chakotay's eyes shot open, as his body
convulsed, as his mouth contorted giving voice to his pain; he'd been
given a systemic stimulant. The Braai were maliciously and violently
forcing Chakotay into consciousness, forcing an unwilling awareness.

He  would feel it all.

Abruptly, Kyrax discarded the needle and pressed the point of the
blade to Chakotay's side. Without pause, the blade moved, grazing
already abused flesh as it drifted to the waistband of Chakotay's
pants. Kyrax twisted the blade, sharp edge to fabric, then dipped the
point beneath the cloth. In one fluid motion, he dragged the blade
from waist to ankle, renting the right trouser leg.

With the movement of the blade, blood ran.

"We can end this," Herros snarled dangerously. "Surrender yourself."

Kathryn took a step forward, heart pounding.

"I'll kill him."

---

The man on point slowed as he approached the intersection of
corridors, then came to a stop, sinking quietly to his haunches as he
pressed further up against the wall. Gerron extended a hand, gesturing
behind him, indicating caution. His colleagues followed his lead and
came to a standstill, on full alert, aware of every movement, every
sound, every subtlety of their environment.

Tuvok studied Gerron's hand signals. Combined with the overlaid data
in his eyepiece, the news was good: he'd picked up human life signs.
Voyager's Chief of Security silently moved toward the young man;
within a meter of the crewman, his own headset detected the life signs
as well.

"Two human and five Braai approximately twenty-five meters in that
direction," Gerron whispered over the headset comm, indicating the
narrow corridor opposite his position.

Ayala and Tuvok nodded acknowledgment as they ducked across the
junction and press themselves against the rock on either side of the
accessway leading closer to their target.

Gerron raised his weapon, ready to fire, then on bended leg,
crouching, moved into the dark mouth of the narrow corridor.

---

Kathryn eyed the blade at Chakotay's throat, the trickle of blood
running along the razor edge from the flesh in which the point was
embedded to the pale green fingers gripping the handle.

"Stand down," Herros demanded.

Kathryn's gaze darted from Chakotay to Herros and back again. Her
fists clenched even tighter as the blade at his throat sank deeper.
"Stop this, Herros," she rasped. "Now."

Herros smirked in meager triumph. "There's only one way, Captain," he
said flatly. "Your life for his."

---

Your life for his. Chakotay wanted to cry out at the words rubbed like
salt into his failure. Your life for his; the ultimate of sacrifices,
the ultimate of betrayals.

And then the cold metal at his throat cut deeper, reminding him of his
agony.

The voices around him passed back and forth, enveloping him, demanding
his attention, staunching the flow of his pain. One belonged to a
woman. Someone he knew. Someone.

He tried to thrust his scant strength outward, toward her. But, he
couldn't control his body anymore. He was only mind, and even that was
slipping away.

---

Herros knew the instant the alien capitulated. Weak, he thought
derisively. She was weak. Humans were weak. They so easily allowed
their emotions to undermine their position, to sway their thoughts and
actions. Weak. And then his reasoning faltered as his gaze drifted to
the flaxen human struggling to hands and knees not three meters
distant.

"I want them released _first_..."

Herros huffed gruffly.

"... or no deal."

"You are in no position to make demands!" the General barked. "I grow
tired of waiting, Captain," he spat, eyes darting again to the small
viewscreen on the far wall. "You will comply." And then he raised his
right hand, snapped his fingers.

Kyrax smiled at the non-verbal command. For as much as he disliked
Herros, he was more than happy to follow _this_ order. The human's
life was no longer necessary. He leaned heavily into the alien
Commander strapped to the table, grabbed a fistful of hair, jerked the
man's head back, and brushed his lips against his ear. "I'm going to
take great pleasure in this," he whispered under his breath. And then
he rent what remained of the First Officer's trousers, yanked them
free and tossed them aside.

---

They skulked along the short corridor leading to the cell block, the
chaos of eroding screams and angry shouting hiding whatever noise they
might have made. No one had heard the exterior door open and close. No
one saw or heard them duck from the access tunnel into the shadow...
even the guard standing post not two meters distant; his attention was
drawn to and focused on the center of the chamber, and the battle
being fought there.

Ayala's gaze followed the line of the guard's sight and rage suffused
him. Only Gerron's hand on his arm prevented him from rushing without
thought to the center of the room and killing the man brutally
slivering his Commander's flesh. He held his breath, willed his heart
to slow to a normal rhythm.

They had to move fast, before the Braai intent on ridding the
Commander of his flesh succeeded.

As a Vulcan, Tuvok could claim emotional detachment. But under the
black hood and SAT headset, something not entirely Vulcan erupted. He
swallowed hard and amended his thought. What he felt _was_ Vulcan...
ancient and primal and raw... what was prevalent before the days of
control and constraint. But he couldn't let that emotion rule him.
Their fire could fuel his action, but not direct his thinking. He
inhaled deeply in an attempt to restrict the indescribable emotion
pulsing in his veins. Detachment was key.

Suddenly, Tom was shouting throaty obscenities, counterpoint to
Chakotay's enervating screams and the violent exchange between Captain
Janeway and General Herros. Tom animatedly taunted and berated every
Braai in the room.

Tom knew they were here; he was trying to draw the attention of the
Braai, trying to distract them even further.

And then the word fire pierced the chaos, the unyielding voice of
Kathryn Janeway giving it life. Before Tuvok's brain could realize the
implication of the word, the ground shook.

Everyone froze.

The lighting flickered and died, then returned an odd violet glow as
emergency generators assumed control. Dirt and dust drifted down from
the stone ceiling, eerie specks of reflected light. A distant rumbling
swelled then broke through the prison, increasing the clatter.

Herros' eyes widened as he glanced at the ceiling. "What have you
done?" he seethed, face snapping to the now lifeless viewscreen. He
whirled, strode the short distance to his Chief Interrogator. "Kill
him... now."

But before Kyrax could again lift the blade in his hand, weapons fire
filled the room in a vicious and cutting fusillade.

Herros spun and watched two of his guards topple without raising their
weapons, the third as his fingers grazed his sidearm.

And then three shadows emerged from the edges of the darkness as if
they had manifested themselves from the walls. Demons in black. Armed
specters advancing with weapons raised, trained on the only two Braai
still alive: he and Kyrax.

Voyager, Herros hissed to himself.

Kyrax was momentarily stunned, his fingers losing their grip on the
blade in his hand as his mind grasped at the context of his
surroundings... of these men. But he quickly recovered himself.
Instinctively, his fingers tightened around the weapon in his hand,
adjusting the weight. In a blur, he spun, the knife thrusting upward,
but his intent was never realized as the whine of duel energy blasts
cut short his vengeance. He crumpled in a boneless heap at the base of
the table, black eyes open... vacant... lifeless.

Tuvok and Ayala turned their weapons from the Braai on the floor to
the General.

Herros eyed the trio as they approached. There was no way out. He
wouldn't escape alive. He wouldn't escape the victor. There was no
honorable option... save one.

He inhaled deliberately... and rushed them.

A fool's end. A coward's end.

---

For long moments, Kathryn stood unmoving, staring wretchedly at the
now darkened viewscreen, hands clenched at her sides, tears of anger
and dread pooling in her eyes, the screams of her First Officer still
echoing in her ears, piercing her heart.

The blast shouldn't have incapacitated the prison's power system. But
it had. In the act of threatening the Braai, she'd severed her
connection to them, and to Chakotay and Tom. She'd crippled their
chances.

In all probability, she'd sentenced Chakotay to death. But after
everything she'd witnessed, after the agony she'd heard in his voice,
seen in his expression and the clench of his body, perhaps there was
mercy in death.

And yet she refused to believe that. She wouldn't lose him. She
couldn't.

And Tom...

She swallowed the lump in her throat, and started to turn toward her
command chair. Her gaze stumbled over that of her Chief Engineer's.
The young woman's eyes mirrored what _she_ felt.

Unspoken understanding.

And then she broke the contact, returned to her command chair. As she
dropped down into it, her focus shifted to the faint thrumming of
Braai weapons impacting Voyager's shields. Futile attempts... as
barren and delusive as the planet below.

Her gaze drifted to the image of that planet on the main viewscreen.

Where the hell was Tuvok and his team?

---

Gerron retreated to the far corner of the room, to stand watch, as
Tuvok moved toward the table. "Mister Ayala, attend to Lieutenant
Paris," he said, jerking his chin toward the row of cells. He lowered
his rifle and grabbed a knife from one of the many instrument-laden
stands he passed. With great care, he cut the heavy restraints,
catching Chakotay's limp form as he was freed.

Ayala eyed Tom Paris as he approached the man's cell. In the odd glow
of the emergency lighting, he could see blood running from a fresh cut
at the man's brow down the ridge of his nose. But Tom didn't seem to
notice; he stood restless, agitated, and wild-eyed at the energy
barrier, breathing rapid, hands clenching and unclenching, his gaze
fixed on the center of the room, on Chakotay. "Tom?"

Tom blinked once, visibly struggled to redirect his attention. Slowly
he turned to face his crewmate... Ayala he'd heard Tuvok say. "Yeah?"

"You okay?" Ayala asked gently, fingering the force field controls and
deactivating the barrier.

"Yeah," Tom nodded. And then he was out of the cell, rushing to
Tuvok's side as the Vulcan lowered Chakotay to the ground. He dropped
to his knees and stared into the pain-filled eyes of his Commander.
"Chakotay?" he grated, brushing Tuvok's inquisitive hand aside.

Chakotay seemed not to have heard.

Tom lifted his eyes to the Vulcan's. "Have you got a medical
tricorder?"

Tuvok shook his head. "No." The statement was simple, and filled with
a regret he didn't think himself capable of. Even if he'd had one,
they couldn't afford the time. "We have to withdraw to the prison's
rooftop and contact Voyager. We'll beam directly to sickbay." He
quickly fumbled at a pouch at his waist, extracted a hypospray.

Again, Tom brushed the Vulcan's hand aside, adamantly shaking his
head. "No medications... not until we know what he's got in his
system."

Tuvok eyed the supine man and nodded. Abruptly he handed the
Lieutenant his compression rifle, then reached for the First Officer,
hauling the dead weight of the man upward and over his left shoulder.
Hesitating briefly, he verified his purchase, then levered himself to
his feet.

Lieutenant Paris and Mister Ayala in tow, he headed toward the
entryway and their escape.

---

They steadily worked their way upward, toward the rooftop. The journey
was perilous. The wing was swarming with Braai, confused and frantic
at the loss of power and the apparent surface attack. Frenzied voices
echoed down corridors as the soldiers scrambled to prepare.

The chaos made their progress difficult, forcing them to slow, to
stop, to hide. Three times, with no place to conceal themselves,
they'd been forced to confront an oncoming group of Braai. But they'd
had the advantage of their headsets... advanced notice, time to ready.

As quickly as each strike had begun, it was over, and they were again
pushing onward and upward, the dead in their wake.

Within minutes, they were alone, the Braai below them, filing to the
outer walls of the fortress, to protect their keep from the enemy.

Within a few more minutes, they reached the top floor of the wing:
personnel quarters.

They crept their way through the maze of corridors, finally arriving
at their point of entry... and slipped inside.

Tom eyed the room as he entered. Spartan. Harsh. It reminded him of
Kyrax. It reminded him of Herros. Hell... it reminded him of the
Braai.

And then he spied the bed. He crossed the room, pulled the heavy
top-blanket from the mattress, then hurried to follow Tuvok outside.

---

Troubled, Kathryn studied the viewscreen as if it might contain some
answer, some hope. But it only aggravated her distress, provoked her
like a sudden affront.

Her gaze drifted to her left, to Ops. She studied Harry as he hovered
over his station, looking for a sign... anything. Instead, she found
only a frown marring his forehead.

And then he blinked, glanced up. His dark eyes met hers and lit with
recognition of her unspoken question. He shook his head slowly, then
again lowered his eyes to his scans. Intent. Intense.

Kathryn swallowed hard.

They were overdue. They'd missed the window.

"I am detecting additional deployment from the surface, Captain."

McKenzie's words snapped Kathryn's attention to the main viewscreen
yet again. They'd have to drop shields for transport. A sea of Braai
Interceptors was not what she wished to face, unprotected. "When
they're in range, fire at will, Mister McKenzie."

---

The stillness of the man in his arms was almost too much for Tom. Even
the wrack of Chakotay's respiration had faded to almost inaudible, the
rise and fall of his chest barely discernible. And yet, the man's eyes
were open and staring; but Tom could see no remnant of awareness or
sanity in them.

He drew a shuddering breath. They were so close.

He lifted his face, took in the activity around him. Gerron again
stood guard as Ayala and Tuvok busied themselves with the precise
placement of a series of pattern enhancers.

"I hope these work," Ayala muttered, straightening.

"We'll soon find out," Tuvok replied. "Prepare to activate the
beacon."

Tom frowned at the exchange, then lowered his gaze. He absently
adjusted the blanket wrapped around Chakotay as a slight wind picked
up. "We're almost home, Chief. Stay with me," he whispered, more for
himself than the man in his embrace; Chakotay couldn't hear him.

And then Tuvok and Gerron were standing over him, lifting Chakotay's
body between them. "What's going on?" Tom rasped as he tried to fend
them off, to retain his contact with the Commander.

"We are preparing for transport," Tuvok said, as he and Gerron stepped
into the center of the ring of enhancers. He shifted, took the full
weight of the lifeless man in his arms. "Mister Paris, please step
within the perimeter of the circle."

As Tom complied, Ayala activated the beacon, then stepped within the
configuration of pattern enhancers, and waited for the familiar tingle
of the transporter beam.

---

The tension was almost palpable, the possibility of failure creeping
over the bridge.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since the Captain had ordered McKenzie
to fire on the power station planetside and they'd lost
communications. Try as they might, the link could not be
reestablished. They were essentially running blind.

Harry watched helplessly as Captain Janeway silently dropped into her
command chair. Boneless. She looked almost dejected, leaning back in
her chair, elbow on the armrest, fingers resting on her cheek. But her
moment of despair was brief and she rose to her feet to wear out her
frustration on the carpet beneath her feet.

He furtively glanced around the bridge. The Captain was now the
picture of calm, unruffled and competent. But Harry knew better; the
fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth screamed tension.

His gaze drifted to the taut head and shoulders of Ensign Chiao,
assigned to the conn in Tom's absence. Chiao sought to emulate the
Captain's poise, but his right leg bounced nervously while his fingers
hovered over the flight controls, anticipating, making small
adjustments as McKenzie requested preferred positioning at tactical.
Occasionally, the Ensign threw a strained glance over his shoulder at
the Captain, telling evidence of his desire to engage warp and leave
the Braai homeworld behind.

But they weren't going to leave, not yet, not without the away team,
not without Tom and Chakotay.

Harry swallowed hard, glanced at the sensor panel before him.

Nothing.

He continued his inspection. McKenzie was busy... the only member of
the bridge crew who actually seemed to have something to do. His
fingers smoothly traversed the tactical console, setting coordinates,
striking at the Braai Interceptors, exacting some measure of revenge.
Harry envied the man, his ability to vent his frustration.

With a sigh, he turned back at the sensor readout.

Nothing.

Shields were still at maximum; Voyager's defensive grid intact. Even
weapons had not been set to full power. Voyager was toying with the
Braai. A game of cat and mouse. A game they could play indefinitely,
need be.

Harry prayed it wasn't necessary.

Kathryn Janeway deliberately wandered to Tactical, gave the impression
she was studying the data displayed there. Harry knew she wasn't; it
was a ploy... something with which to occupy her mind as she waited.

He fumed silent concern, lowered his gaze to the Ops console. Where
the hell was the away team? They should have signaled by now.

The cut of his mouth thinned as he lifted his chin, found the eyes of
the Captain on him, expectant and hopeful. He could offer nothing but
a bleak shake of his head.

Grimly, she turned away and stared at the main view screen.

Harry's gaze slipped past her profile to B'Elanna. The half-Klingon
seemed oblivious to all around her, her gaze intent on the duplicated
sensor display at the engineering station. The intensity of her gaze
matched his own concern. They were so close.

And then a coruscation in his peripheral vision seized his attention.
"Captain," he hailed. "Sensors are detecting the beacon. The away team
is signaling for extraction."

Before the words were loosed, Kathryn Janeway was at B'Elanna's side.
"Prepare to drop shields on Lieutenant Torres' mark. Mister Chiao,
evasive maneuvers. Mister McKenzie, weapons to full strength." And
then she gripped the Chief Engineer's shoulder, steadying them both.
"Do it, B'Elanna... bring them home."

---

They didn't wait long... mere seconds really, but it felt like an
eternity.

Night had drawn in around them like a cloak, protective yet confining.
The only tangible evidence of their freedom was the blanket of stars
above. Tom lifted his face to the myriad points of light; familiar
stars in an unfamiliar configuration, the perspective all wrong.

He felt suddenly like a wide eyed child, transported back through
time. He was six years old and on his first unaccompanied camping trip
in the wilderness of his backyard. He couldn't quite see the back of
his house, but he knew it was there... his refuge, his sanctuary. All
he had to do was run through the treeline and across the thirty meter
lawn, and he'd be home. Safe. His mother would settle him at the
kitchen table, make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pour
him a glass of milk, and everything would again be right with the
world.

Now, as Tom looked at the faces of his companions, his rescuers, the
memory of that night reasserted its hold on him. Every sound seemed
amplified, every noise ominous and menacing. The darkness seemed
darker, the cool night air frigid. Even the moonlight conspired
against his courage.

The sudden urge to run threatened to overwhelm him, but a firm grip on
his shoulder grounded him, reasserted his presence in the here and
now.

Ayala.

He felt suddenly weak, a rush of fatigue swaying him. The power of his
will, the adrenaline on which he'd subsisted for days was failing him,
leaving him spent and disoriented. It was inevitable... a natural
consequence. He knew that.

But rational thought had little bearing in his mind.

Tom shut his eyes and attempted to pull himself together. He couldn't
lose it. Not now. Unexpectedly, the hand on his shoulder tightened its
grip; silent reassurance.

Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, a strangled noise roiling in his
throat, almost but not quite a sob. He bit his lower lip, hard, using
the pain to focus his mind and keep the turmoil at bay. He had to hold
on. He owed them at least that... Tuvok, Ayala, Gerron. He owed them
more than he could ever pay.

Abruptly he turned and allowed his gaze to rest numbly on the now
unconscious First Officer. The blanket he'd wrapped around the man had
fallen partially away. Shivering in empathy, he reached out to grasp
the dangling fabric, to adjust it, to protect the man from the growing
chill of the night air. But as flesh touched cloth, his world shifted.

Tom froze, then exhaled sharply as the transporter took them.

The darkened courtyard instantly dissolved and their world congealed.

Tom blinked, then clenched the Braai weave in his fist and pulled
himself closer to the man in Tuvok's arms. His gaze stumbling from the
familiar walls before him to Chakotay's face. "We're home, Chief," he
whispered. Home. Voyager.

In the next instant, the ship rocked beneath him. Shields, he thought.
Voyager's shields would have been lowered to make the transport. But
they were on board now. Safe. Shields could be raised.

They could get the hell out of here... leave this shit-hole behind.

And then his vision blurred, his body convulsing faintly. His world
muddled around him, sight merging with sound and smell and touch. He
was vaguely aware of the Captain's voice, and Tuvok's, but the words
were confused and somehow unimportant. In the recesses of his mind he
knew he was tumbling headlong into shock. Somewhere on the rooftop of
the Braai prison, he'd given up the iron of his resolve. He'd let
go... let them.

Now, his body and mind were shutting down. He no longer needed them;
they'd served their purpose.

But as his eyes slid shut and his legs grew unsteady, an incensed
voice strafed him. His eyes flew open, and he tried to focus on
Ayala's threatening undertone as the young man confronted Joe Carey.

"What the fuck do you mean, we don't have the EMH?!"

"We've had difficulty localizing the problem," he shot back. "We're
close... twenty minutes, maybe."

Ayala stepped close to the man, anger and a tendril of fear in his
eyes. "He may not have twenty minutes." He gestured desperately at the
biobed upon which Tuvok had placed the Commander. "Look at him."

Carey glanced at the brutalized man, then swallowed harshly. "We're
doing the best we can," he said, voice thick and strained.

"That isn't good enough!"

"Mister Ayala."

Tom winced at the edge to Tuvok's voice, a tone he'd never heard
before, a threat that stopped Ayala cold.

For the briefest of moments, Ayala's gaze lingered dangerously on the
engineer, then he stepped back, exhaled shakily. "We need the
Doctor... now." And then he shifted his weight and hurried to
Chakotay's side.

Tom dazedly watched as Carey turned and instantly redirected his
energy, working furiously at one of the medical bay terminals. It was
only then that the implication of Ayala's words distilled in his
mutable mind. He straightened as if he'd been yanked upright, then
blinked hard. This couldn't be happening. For one staggering
heartbeat, he stood still, screamed silent and futile obscenities at
the men around him... pleading with them to do something, _anything_.

And then he felt eyes on him.

"Mister Paris."

Tom's brow creased, uncertain to whom the voice belonged; strange in
his ears. He entreated clarity find a fingerhold in the crooks of his
awareness, gather in the shreds of his strength, reanimate his
purpose.

He'd let his guard down too soon. He'd let go too soon.

"Mister Paris?"

He slowly turned, looked up into calm brown. "Tuvok."

"Are you able to assist Commander Chakotay?"

Tom stared dumbly at the Vulcan for long moments, then by sheer force
of will nodded. "Yes," he breathed, his conviction lost in the
utterance.

Tuvok's eyes narrowed as he studied the young pilot, the slightly
glazed look in his eyes, the sluggish response to auditory
stimulation. The Lieutenant was fading. Fast.

Tom could see the doubt in the man's eyes. Tuvok watched him as if he
feared he would fall down, or apart, doubting his ability, his
strength. Unable, unwilling to face the Vulcan's uncertainty, he
averted his gaze, scuffled to the prone form of his Commander, and
called out for a medical tricorder. Ayala was instantly at his side,
pressing the device into his hands.

The pilot shuddered as their immurement burned through his mind. With
pristine clarity, he saw every injury as it was inflicted, every drug
as it was administered. He heard every scream and moan and gasp.

Vacantly, he stared at the instrument in his hand. He couldn't do
this. There were too many injuries... injuries he didn't know how to
treat.

Then anger flared and he impelled himself past the crippling barriers
of his own impotence. He couldn't give up on Chakotay, on himself. Not
now. Not here.

Determinedly, he pulled the medical wand from the top of the
tricorder. His hand trembled slightly as he positioned the wand over
the First Officer and activated the microscopic scanners. The medic in
him fought to assimilate, to analyze the readings streaming over the
small display; temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, blood
chemistry. But even the tricorder was inadequate for the task,
overwhelmed with the inrush of data.

Shoving the device at Ayala, Tom moved to the biobed's control panel
and activated the bed's scanners. His fingers stumbled over more
controls, and readings instantly appeared on the overhead diagnostic
display... readings he understood with grim certainty.

"I need some room," he grated at the young Maquis hovering at his
elbow. Ayala threw him an apologetic look and stepped back, still
lingering but no longer looming.

Without warning, the wail of an alarm pierced the heavy silence.
Chakotay's body seized. His neck and back arched up as his head pushed
deep into the small pillow beneath him, hands clawed, jaw clenched.

Tom's eyes widened as he lunged to his left, pressed a firm but gentle
hand on the Commander's chest, to calm him, to restrain him. The
irregular pounding of a too fast heartbeat buffeted his palm; violent
in its rhythm. Dangerous.

"Can't you give him something?" Gerron cried, suddenly on the opposite
side of the bed.

"No," Tom snapped as he tried to push Chakotay's body down. "I need to
know what's wrong first." He lifted his gaze to the Maquis. "He's
sustained extensive injuries. He's bleeding internally. His system is
so full of chemicals..."

Again, Chakotay's body bucked upward. Tom's mind screamed indecision
as he leaned more heavily on the man beneath him. He had to do
something. But something could kill the man. And yet, nothing could
kill him as well. He bit his lower lip, eyed the man dying under his
hands. "Ayala, replicate 20 CCs of Tricordrazine." Something had to be
better than this.

The ex-Maquis hurried to the medical replicator. Within seconds, the
desired medication was produced. He grabbed the dispenser and was
again at Tom's side, pressing the hypospray into the medic's hand. And
then he stepped back, watching helplessly as Tom injected the neural
stimulant.

Almost instantly, Chakotay's body slumped to the bed.

Scrutinizing the lifeless man, Tom activated the surgical support
frame. As the black shell enveloped the body of his Commander, he
leaned forward, raked a hand through Chakotay's hair. "Hang in there,
Chief," he pleaded on the barest of breaths. "Stay with me."

Reluctantly, he straightened, then turned his attention to the support
frame display. His jaw clenched at the magnitude of what lay before
him. He didn't know where to begin, what to tackle first. In addition
to the obvious, the burns, the lacerations and bruises, the high grade
fever, there were broken bones and numerous small fractures... most
likely stress fractures, bones cracked or severed as muscles and
ligaments had been pushed beyond their tolerance. Bones broken not
necessarily from blunt force trauma, but literally snapped by
Chakotay's own muscles.

And there was the damage to Chakotay's internal organs. The beatings
alone were enough to brutalize his body, but he'd suffered chemical
invasion as well. The damage was indescribable and extensive; injuries
Tom could see, but some of which he could not comprehend. Chakotay
needed more than Tom could provide.

Tom inhaled deeply, staring at the battered face of his commanding
officer, then turned to Tuvok. "I can't do this," he said, despair in
his voice, in his eyes. "Medics aren't trained for this. He needs the
Doctor."

"The Doctor is not here, Mister Paris."

"You're not hearing me, Tuvok," he snapped, blinking back the sudden
blur of his vision. He dropped his hands and gripped the edge of the
bed, attempting to steady himself as the room began to tilt beneath
him. "I... _can't_ do this. I don't know how." His breath escaped in a
rush as he hung his head, closed his eyes. "If... if we don't get the
Doctor back online... _now_... we'll lose him."

Silence suffocated the room, the passage of time marked only by the
intermittent beep of the monitor registering the First Officer's life
signs.

And then Tuvok turned to face the engineer frantically working several
meters distant. "Progress, Mister Carey?"

Carey's head snapped up, his response swift. "We're still a good
fifteen minutes from completion."

Ayala hissed angrily.

"Would additional engineers reduce the repair time?" the Vulcan asked,
stepping into the ex-Maquis' line of sight.

"No, sir. There are already two teams working the problem. More won't
make a difference." He wished it would. He knew what was at stake.
Despite his focus on the repair at hand, he'd heard everything. And
even had he not heard, it was obvious from what he'd seen... the
Commander was dying.

---

Tuvok stepped from the quiet of the turbo lift into the subdued and
ordered intensity of the bridge. The room was awash in the sanguine
glow of red alert. His gaze snapped to Tactical, where McKenzie stood
a study in concentration, targeting and dispatching the Braai vessels
surrounding Voyager. The Vulcan eyed the main view screen. They were
still in Braai space, fighting untold numbers of Interceptors, working
to clear a path to their escape.

The task was not arduous, merely tedious; the Braai ships were no
match for Voyager. Still, Captain Janeway would not lower her guard
until they were at warp, hurling away from the Braai homeworld,
leaving the horror of this place behind.

"Welcome home, Mister Tuvok."

The Vulcan's gaze sought that of his Captain. She smiled faintly at
him from her command chair. But the smile was short-lived, her
expression sobering as she took in his somber presence.

She knew.

Kathryn pushed herself upright and addressed the conn. "Ensign Chiao,
lay in a course for the Alpha Quadrant. As soon as we've got a clear
path, engage at warp five." And then she strode toward her ready room.
"Mister Kim, you have the bridge."

"Aye, Captain."

"Tuvok," she said, bidding him follow with a gesture.

As soon as the ready room doors slid shut behind them, sealing out the
dull noise of the bridge, Kathryn turned to face her Chief of
Security. She couldn't help the smile that again found its way to her
lips, a smile of relief that he was home, that they all were home.
Safe. But again, her smile faltered. She knew the Doctor was still
offline, and that Chakotay...

"What is it, Tuvok?" she asked quietly.

He regarded her for the briefest of moments, then softened his Vulcan
expression. "I think you should report to sickbay, Captain."

For long seconds, she didn't breath, merely gaped, closed-mouthed at
the man, the taste in her mouth changing to an old, settled fear.
Tuvok was her oldest friend. He knew her past, the hurts and the
failures and the losses. He'd seen her struggle through the aftermath
of them all. "Is he that bad?"

"Lieutenant Paris is doing what he can to stabilize the Commander's
condition, but he's critical. Without the Doctor, there's little
hope."

Kathryn's brow furrowed as she stepped backwards toward her desk, as
if increasing the distance between them would skew reality and alter
his judgment.

And then she slapped her comm badge. "Janeway to Torres."

"Go ahead, Captain."

"Get down to sickbay and help Carey get the EMH online."

"I'm already on it, Captain, assisting the repair team in Engineering.
We're initiating a final reboot of the system now. Carey's got things
covered in sickbay. He should be able to activate the Doctor within
the next five minutes."

Her gaze snapped to the Vulcan's; what she saw knotted like dread in
the pit of her stomach. "I'm on my way to sickbay now. Meet me there.
Janeway out."

She straightened, started across the room, then stilled. The muscles
along her jaw bunched as she glanced over her shoulder and met dark
eyes. "Thank you, Tuvok," she said, voice thick. "Thank you for
bringing them home."

---

B'Elanna ran full into Gerron as she burst through the doors to
sickbay, the grim young man escaping the main bay, arms laden with the
rescue team's equipment; only his nimble footing kept him upright.

"Shit, B'Elanna," he hissed, bobbling his load. "Slow down." And then
he stumbled to a halt, cognizant of what lay behind him, what she was
walking into. He swallowed roughly, forced a deep breath, then turned
to the young woman. "Be."

But she didn't hear him, her gaze, her awareness already helplessly
intent on the sight on the opposite side of the room. Tom and Ayala
stood over an unconscious yet writhing Chakotay, attempting to
restrain him, their lips working frantically, words she couldn't
understand or hear, words of reassurance and comfort.

As she drifted into the room, tears pooled in her eyes, a cascade of
emotions warring within her. They were home. Tom. Chakotay. She could
reach out and touch them and she'd meet resistance. They were real,
not some figment of her imagination. They were home, on Voyager, with
her.

With shamed relief, she thanked whatever gods existed that Tom was all
right.

And then her gaze fell and she wailed in mute grief.

---

"Morphenolog," Tom ordered, cradling Chakotay's cheek in his palm.
"It's okay," he soothed, willing some part of the man to hear his
words and find solace. "We're back on Voyager, Chakotay. We're home.
You need to fight... come back to us." As quickly as Ayala left his
side, he reappeared, requested medication in hand. "This will help
with the pain," he said, grabbing the hypospray and releasing a small
dose of the drug into the Commander's bloodstream.

The analgesic instantly infused Chakotay's system, his breathing less
frantic, his body less rigid. Tom turned to the SSF display and
verified the First Officer's vitals. The man's blood pressure was
falling, his heart racing.

Tom's brow creased; he couldn't do this indefinitely. He couldn't
administer drug upon drug in an attempt to temporarily stabilize
failing systems. At some point, the strain on the Commander's body
would be too much, the drugs ineffective. There would be nothing left
to stabilize, to salvage. Chakotay needed surgery. More.

Despair sucked at Tom like a black tide, scourging what little energy
he'd managed to muster. His eyes slid shut as he hung his head. "Hang
in there," he breathed, not certain to whom his words were directed;
Chakotay or himself. He shuddered against the chaos of the bay, the
sound of audible alarms verging on distracting. The pulse of
Chakotay's vitals no longer struck a regular rhythm, growing more wild
and erratic with each passing second. Deteriorating.

He willed his eyes open. "30 CCs Lectrazine," he droned. Before he
could even think to lift his head, the medication was palmed into his
outstretched hand. But the hand that held it firm in his grasp didn't
move. His gaze stumbled to his right, to the tiny hand touching his
own. And then his breath escaped in a lamenting rush.

"Tom?"

B'Elanna watched as blue eyes tripped upward and met her own.

And then Carey's voice pierced the turmoil. "Reboot is complete," he
asserted, flying to his feet. "Computer, activate EMH."

The Doctor's form solidified in the center of the bay. "Please state
the nature..."

"Doc," Tom blurted out, pulling away from B'Elanna, lurching around
her toward the hologram.

The Doctor spun, took in the bedraggled form approaching him. "Mister
Paris. I was not..." But his words failed him as his gaze brushed past
the Lieutenant and fell upon the tortured man beyond. In an instant,
he was moving.

---

Kathryn Janeway strode into sickbay in time to witness Ayala and
Torres depositing the limp body of Tom Paris on a biobed.

"B'Elanna?"

The young woman's chin snapped up. "Captain," she acknowledged. As
Kathryn's gaze fell to the inert form of Voyager's pilot, B'Elanna's
followed. "He was on the verge of collapsing."

"Was?"

"The Doctor was forced to administer a strong sedative."

Kathryn's head lifted, silently demanding an explanation.

"He was... reluctant... to leave the Commander's side, Captain," Ayala
said with an almost begrudged admiration.

Understanding lit Kathryn's brow. Tom was a strong and determined man;
a trait for which few gave him credit. But their lack of recognition
did not invalidate the truth of it. Undoubtedly, Tom had wanted to see
Chakotay through.

She eyed the subdued young man, assured herself he was all right, then
turned to fully face the primary medical alcove. The Doctor was moving
purposefully around the biobed, manipulating various scanners and
terminal display screens.

"The Commander is in need of emergency surgery, Mister Ayala," the
Doctor said without slowing or looking up, his fingers darting over
the data entry panel of a small PADD. "May I count on your
assistance?"

"Yes, sir," Ayala replied, hurrying to the EMH's side.

The Doctor proffered the PADD. "Replicate these items. We're going to
need them."

As Ayala accepted the PADD and headed toward the medical replicator,
Kathryn approached the alcove. She struggled to keep her eyes on the
medical hologram, not the inert and battered body of her First
Officer. "Doctor?"

"I'm sorry, Captain. I don't have time to give a detailed accounting."

"Will he be okay?"

"His condition is critical," the EMH responded, sparing her a brief
glance, then injecting yet another restorative into Chakotay's
bloodstream. "He's lost a lot of blood. His body has sustained
significant trauma, injuries left untended for too long." He sighed.
"I can't make any promises, Captain, other than I'll do my best."

"... Yes. I know." And then Kathryn's gaze lowered to the man on the
biobed. "Can I have a moment with him?"

The Doctor stilled, considered her throaty request, then nodded
roughly. Without pause, he stepped to one side, allowed her access.
"I'll go and check on my new assistant."

Her gaze followed the hologram as he retreated to confer with Ayala.
She had every confidence in the EMH, but even he was not capable of
miracles.

Kathryn trapped her lower lip between her teeth, suddenly found
herself staring at nothing. For some reason, the Doctor seemed no
longer present in the room, which was nonsense; he was right there,
face intent and earnest. Nevertheless, he was gone in some way, erased
from her attention, replaced with the insistent cuff of the primary
bed's support frame monitors.

Slowly, she turned her face to the sound, to the prone form before
her, and the rhythm of her heart faltered. She thought she'd be
prepared. She'd seen Chakotay. She'd watched horrified as the Braai
had pointedly taunted Voyager with him, with his suffering. But in the
flesh...

Without thought, she reached out a hand to rest in his hair, the other
to rest gingerly on his mottled and bloodied chest. The contrast was
startling, flesh against flesh, pain against pain, need against need,
life against life.

Disparity.

Some part of her wanted nothing more than to blame the disparity
between them on someone else, some enemy who had afflicted them... the
Braai. But that was too easy. She couldn't abdicate the
responsibility.

She leaned closer, stroked the blood-stiff hair beneath her hand. "I'm
sorry, too," she whispered.

---

Tuvok stood duty on the bridge, settled in the Captain's chair, eyes
intent on the warp distorted starscape displayed on the main view
screen. "Any sign of pursuit, Mister Kim?"

"No, sir."

They'd uneventfully gone to warp ten minutes prior. For those ten
minutes, they had scrutinized sensor data, meticulously searching for
any signs of the Braai. But the Braai had nothing powerful enough with
which to give chase.

They were alone.

It was over.

A Vulcan eyebrow lifted at the irony of the thought. It was far from
over. The Braai would be with them for a long time to come.

---

Thirteen hours after going to warp, Tom remained in sickbay, burrowed
in a sedative-induced sleep. The young man, while in far better shape
than Chakotay, had suffered himself; he was exhausted, dehydrated,
undernourished.

Chakotay was in a coma. The Doctor had managed to keep him alive,
barely. The EMH had lost him twice during the surgery to repair a
badly damaged kidney, the most life-threatening of his injuries; both
times, the Doctor had brought him back. Once stabilized to the
hologram's satisfaction, the remainder of Chakotay's injuries had been
treated.

But his body was weak, undermined by the loss of blood, and like
Tom's, by a lack of water and food and rest. So much served to work
against him.

Kathryn imagined him asleep, but the support frame extended over his
still body did little to shore the illusion; it succeeded only in
emphasizing his fragile condition, and just how close she'd come to
losing him.

In more ways than one.

Over the last two weeks, she had not permitted herself time to ponder
their tenuous relationship. She'd devoted nothing more than a random
thought to herself, to him, to them; she'd not considered herself
capable of an honest evaluation, the wounds of her own ordeal and his
betrayal too raw. So she'd avoided and deferred. Besides, there had
been more pressing matters. Voyager had been in trouble, her crew held
captive; whatever discord existed between herself and her First
Officer had not been a priority, at least not at the time.

In reality, the excuse had been only partially true. In reality, she'd
been unwilling, and in some small way, afraid... of what she might
discover.

But now, with the Braai no longer a physical threat and Voyager in no
immediate danger, she had no excuses, nothing with which to keep her
from sleep and fill every waking moment.

Truth be told, she wasn't looking.

Kathryn closed the distance between them, lifting a hesitant hand,
gently resting it on Chakotay's shoulder. Asleep, his face gave up its
stolid hardness, the iron of command, the mask of indifference. He
looked younger, vulnerable, and inexpressibly dear; not the feral mien
of the man she'd watched toy with, then kill a young Braai soldier,
but the man she'd known for four years. Her Chakotay.

-- I am what I am. I am what you know. I am what you see. --

She wouldn't lose him. She couldn't. Not again. Even if it meant
facing her own demons... and his.

---

He wasn't sure what it was that woke him, but the pressure on his
bladder was definitely a contributing factor. Tom groaned with
discomfort as he rolled to his side and debated crawling back into
sleep. He wasn't ready to wake up, to get up, despite the urgings of
his body.

He sighed softly, sleepily grasped the blanket covering him, and drew
it up to his chin. For a time he drifted on the edge of somnolent
awareness, reveling in the warmth enveloping him, the pliancy of the
mattress beneath him, the clean air filling his lungs.

And then reality slammed into him with disorienting ferocity,
plundering his breath. The ache of his body, the pangs of his belly
reanimated the memory of a harsh prison cell, the Braai, Chakotay; but
the hum of Voyager's engines, the intermittent beeping of electronic
equipment, and the faint antiseptic smell of sickbay smothered his
panic almost instantly.

He hesitantly cracked his eyes open, expecting to be blinded by the
bright lights of the main bay. To his relief, he discovered his biobed
awash in thoughtfully subdued lighting. After the constant barrage of
brilliance to which he and Chakotay had been subjected by the Braai,
the dim lighting was welcome, a comfort missed.

He opened his eyes wider, focused on what he could see of sickbay.
Nothing.

And then panic again found a fingerhold. "Chakotay?" he croaked, his
throat closing on the name.

"Ah, Mister Paris... you're awake."

Tom started, rolled to his back, every muscle and joint protesting the
movement. But he ignored the ache. "Where's Chakotay?" he rasped. "I
have to..."

"Calm down, Mister Paris," the Doctor interrupted, eyes lit with
concerned understanding.

Tom shook his head in adamant refusal; he wouldn't be diverted. "Where
is he?"

The Doctor's head cocked slightly as he considered the young man.
"Commander Chakotay is over there." He directed Tom's attention to the
primary biobed scant meters distant, then retrieved a medical
tricorder. "Now please, lie still."

Tom fell silent, gaze intent on the still form of his Commander.

The EMH eyed the Lieutenant, then initiated his scan.

"How is he?"

The Doctor's gaze darted from the instrument in his hand to the First
Officer to Tom. "He's holding his own, but in a coma." At the crease
of Tom's brow, he deactivated the tricorder and set it aside. "He has
you to thank for that. He's alive now only because of you... your
actions and your emergency medical training."

Tom locked his jaw and said nothing; he was responsible for far more
of Chakotay's current state than the Doctor could ever imagine.

The Doctor's eyes narrowed as his gaze again followed the pilot's to
the darkened primary alcove, and Chakotay. "You are still dehydrated,
Mister Paris. I would like to get some Neodextraline solution into
you. And then I'd like you to try to eat something."

Tom's head turned, his gaze seeking the Doctor's. "How long have I
been here?"

"A little over twenty-four hours."

Tom's frown deepened, and then he pushed himself to his elbows. "I
need to hit the head," he stated simply. He pushed himself upright,
swinging his legs over the side of the biobed, then jumped off.

"Mister Paris," the EMH objected, firmly grasping the Lieutenant's
upper arm. "We can take care of..."

Tom waved his hand dismissively. "I'm fine," he lied. His legs felt
weak, almost as if they would buckle, but he felt the need to move, to
get up, do something.

The Doctor sighed in resignation. "All right. But then I want to get
that Neodextraline into you."

Tom nodded, then started across sickbay. As he scuffled over the
floor, his gaze limped again to the First Officer. Chakotay looked
peaceful, as if he were sleeping. But Tom knew better.

He gritted his teeth, hurried his step, and tried to close his ears to
the memory of the man's agony.

---

He sat in a moderate circle of light, staring at his fists. Even
without looking up, he knew they were there, in the cloudy darkness
beyond. He knew, but he gnawed on his lip and kept his eyes lowered.

If he didn't look he wouldn't see them, and they wouldn't exist... not
really.

So he sat, legs crossed, hands knotted, knuckled and veined with
denial and fear.

And then an agonized whisper tugged on his chin, drew it up.

"Tom."

His head snapped to his right, eyes searching, attempting to penetrate
the ineluctable dark; but he could discern nothing, the moil
unnaturally thick.

"Chakotay?" he hazarded.

Almost instantly, a wail racked the noiselessness, seizing his heart,
chilling his soul; pained and lonely and forsaken. "No!" he screamed,
lunging at the ebony. But the murk was impenetrable, his body
impacting solid resistance where dark met light. He miscarried
backward, hit the floor.

"No," he wheezed.

"Tom."

He winced at the desperation that confronted him. "Chakotay."

He pushed himself to hands and knees, crawled to the periphery of his
cell, then stilled as a hand convulsed into view, limp and bloodied.

Without thought, he reached out, grasped the hand, and tugged. And
then the shrouded man gasped, the hand suddenly clenched and clawing,
frenzied as the darkness attempted to reclaim it, suck it back in.

"Tom..."

He grabbed at the hand with both of his own, pulling with everything
he had in him. But his hold was too tenuous, the skin too slick with
blood. His grip was slipping... loosing...

---

Lungs clawing for air, mind screaming his Commander's name, Tom's eyes
flew open, were met with muted light and shadow. For a fleeting
moment, he reeled, fought to place the play of light above him; and
then memory returned.

Sickbay.

With an effort, he swallowed his panic and pulled the blanket covering
him closer to his body, willing the lingering chill of the nightmare
to fade.

For some time he lay rigid, fighting the need to go to Chakotay and
reassure himself the man was all right. But he'd reached a crisis
point while he'd slept; a battle he'd lost. What he'd lost, he didn't
know, but there was hole within him, the ache of an indescribable
emptiness. Palpable.

With a shuddering breath, Tom rolled from the blanket, pushed himself
upright, and slipped from the biobed, gaze recklessly moving over the
room, stumbling to Chakotay.

He eyed the unmoving man and froze, suddenly unable to force his feet
to move. He struggled to recapture all the denials on which his
survival depended, denials he'd spent a lifetime perfecting, denials
dismembered and discarded by the Braai. He was untouchable. He had to
be.

But he couldn't hide. Rage and horror were livid within his exposed
heart, taunting, insinuating deception, threatening that should he
near Chakotay, should he touch him, the illusion would shatter and he
would find himself sitting on a rotten wooden pallet in a Braai cell,
trapped within a mind gone mad. Alone.

He lowered his head, squeezed his eyes shut, hissed through clenched teeth.

This was real; he knew it was. They were home.

But somehow, being here, being on board Voyager, he was unable to
keep the madness, the fear at arm's length. There was no longer a
distraction, a focus outside himself; there was nothing except the
rage and horror. It was all too real, too close to the surface, raw.
He felt so fragile that he could hardly believe he was still intact.

But he was. They were.

He hugged himself tightly.

They were intact. They were all right.

Weren't they?

They were home. But home didn't necessarily mean all right. He didn't
feel all right. And Chakotay...

Again his eyes lifted.

"Tom?"

Tom's gaze snapped to the left, his chin following more slowly. Dark
eyes rested on him, concerned and gentle. An instant passed in numb
blankness before he realized the odd picture he made, standing in the
dark, body turned in on itself. Clumsily, he unclenched himself,
straightened, gathered in the shreds of his vulnerability. "Be." His
awkward tone echoed strangely in the dimness.

For one slivered moment, silence hung between them, and then B'Elanna
moved, migrating toward him. Slowly. "You okay?"

Tom shifted his weight, leaned against the biobed behind him, and
watched her approach. "Yeah."

"I expected to find you sleeping."

A tired half-smile found its way to his lips, then faded as he
shrugged. "A person can only sleep so much."

B'Elanna stopped just short of him, her eyes drifting to his hair,
over his face. "You need to rest. You're exhausted," she whispered.
"But, I'm glad you're awake." And then she lifted a hand, hesitantly
rested it on his arm.

Her eyes lifted to his, black with sorrow and heat.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he whispered, voice shaking. He leaned close,
lifted his hands to cup her face. This was real; he knew it was.

With a sweep of his tongue, he took her mouth in his, then rested his
tongue against the full lower lip of her open mouth... and waited.
Consent was not long in coming; her tongue enveloped his, sucked him
in and released him. He eased into the kiss, for a moment resisting
her tongue, then seeking it out and sucking it into his own mouth. He
inhaled her breath, letting it fill him. Her warmth spread through
him, filled his lungs, his belly, drilling a hole through him, leaving
him drained and aching; a warmth that made the emptiness within him
shift and blur and numb, like an anesthetic.

And then a hope distilled in his mind. He _could_ forget. He _could_
hide. There was a way.

With an unsteady heart, he clutched her to him, and lost himself.

---

Finis

To be continued in Sed Nobis.