“Of course,” Janeway replied. “As soon as possible.”
“Further, I accept your offer to investigate this disaster. With your technical resources, I believe you will be able to help us understand what has happened if for no other reason than to explain it to the loved ones of the dead.”
“Also agreed.”
“And finally, I request that you allow me to contact my rih-hara-tan.”
“I will ask my second-in-command to arrange for the transmission and pipe it in here. Please stay as long as you need.” Rising, Janeway indicated her chair and viewscreen. As she walked around the desk, Chakotay entered the room. “Excellent. Commander, please speak to Mr. Tuvok and ask him to find the correct frequency to contact Captain Ziv’s homeworld.”
“We’re working on it, Captain,” Chakotay said. “There are difficulties, but Tuvok thinks that, as we get nearer, the problems should be resolved.”
“Fine. I think we should give the captain and his…his hara some privacy until Tuvok makes contact.” With that, Janeway walked out the door, never so grateful to be leaving her sanctum.
Disaster plus 25 minutes
* * *
Diro knew he was expected to say something, say anything, but he did not know what it should be. In just the short time since Captain Janeway had left the room, all the others, all his fellow haran, had said something heartfelt about the loss of the transport, expressing their sorrow, their anger, their incomprehension, but Diro had remained silent. When the others turned to him, his tongues were as dry as ashes. He felt his haran close to him, felt the link ready for him should he need or desire it, but Diro could not respond. He was isolated.
Staring out the long row of windows in Captain Janeway’s ready room, the only words that came to mind were I’m sorry. If he said the phrase aloud, though, he knew he would repeat it over and over again…how many times? Fifteen thousand? He felt that trying to express his sorrow and horror in one all-encompassing statement would demean the dead.
But were sorrow and horror all he was feeling? He wished that they were, but he owed the dead honesty if nothing else. So, instead of being heartfelt or eloquent, Diro chose to be truthful. Staring out the window, looking at the pinprick stars, he said softly, “I’m glad I’m not dead.” The others waited for more, but Diro was silent.
Finally, Ziv said, as if to bring his remarks to a conclusion, “We’re glad you aren’t dead, too.”
Diro turned to look at his harat, disappointment in his weakness tearing at his soul. “I’m sorry, Ziv,” he said. “I know I should be mourning—I feel their deaths here within me—but more than anything, I’m thinking about what it would be like to die that way, so suddenly, without foreknowledge. Could anyone in the holds have known what was about to occur?”
Rising, Ziv shook his head sadly and joined Diro by the window. “No, my haran. There is no way they could have known. Even Mateo could not have known. I watched the transmission, and the change, whatever it was, was so quick…They were gone before any of them knew what happened. Was this just or merciful? I do not know.”
Pointing at the blue glow the windows emitted, Diro asked, “Did the forcefields protect us? Or was it all just chance?”
“No,” Ziv said with certainty. “I refuse to believe that. I chose to believe we were spared for a reason. We must return to Monorha, tell the rih-hara-tan what we have seen, and hope that these miracle workers, these Voyagers, can aid us.”
“And if not?”
Ziv shrugged, his eloquence at an end. “Then consider this question when your end comes: Would you like to see it coming or not?”
Turning back to the window, Diro stared long into the darkness between the stars, searching for an answer.
Chapter 6
“Can the shields take it, Tuvok?”
Tuvok knew the answer to Captain Janeway’s question, but hesitated to give it too quickly. Tuvok had long ago learned that with humans one could not simply dispense information, especially when the answers carried so much emotional weight.
He knew precisely how much radiation the white dwarf would produce, assuming the readings he had been taking over the past several hours were an accurate baseline. He also knew how much punishment Voyager’s shields could take, and that those shields could survive many hours of exposure, assuming nothing else changed. But there was the problem: Conditions rarely remained constant.
And so a moment’s hesitation seemed a sensible precaution. Captain Janeway would remember this later and factor her tactical officer’s reluctance into her decisions. He looked out over the top of his station at the officers clustered around him—the captain, Chakotay, Kim, Torres, and the Doctor—and considered releasing a scowl. Holding a meeting on the bridge, while not a security risk, might mean that those who did not currently need to would hear certain facts better left uncirculated. He understood the captain’s motivations: Staying on the bridge meant she could respond quickly to an evolving situation. Staying close to her ready room was both respectful of their guests and prudent. While overall he was impressed with the Monorhans, he could not know what their guests might do when they recovered from the shock of watching thousands of their people wiped from existence so suddenly.
“Taking readings from the white dwarf has been difficult, but I believe we have captured enough data to make reasonable assumptions about its behavior. Despite the significant output of X-rays and other forms of hard radiation, we are not currently in any danger.”
“But as a precaution,” the Doctor inserted, “I recommend a course of hyronalin for everyone on board. It will protect the crew from the worst of the radiation damage if the shields should fail.”
“Very good, Doctor. Chakotay, inform all hands.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Doctor,” Torres asked. “What about the Monorhans?”
“What about them, B’Elanna?”
“Are you going to give them the treatment, too? Their sores—those are caused by the radiation, aren’t they?”
“They are,” the Doctor said. “But the damage is far beyond anything that could be cured with a simple hyronalin treatment.” He shook his head remorsefully. “Of course I can help them—I will help them—but what will happen to them when we return them to Monorha? We don’t have the resources to treat an entire planetary population.” He looked at the captain. “Do we?”
“Not the symptoms,” Captain Janeway said. “But perhaps the cause. We’ll know more when we reach the planet and can study the white dwarf at closer range.”
The group began to disperse, each returning to his duties. The door to the captain’s ready room opened, and Captain Ziv and his associates shambled out, then settled into the now familiar wedge formation. “Have you been able to contact my rih-hara-tan, Captain?”
“Not yet, Captain. Conditions in this area are very unusual. We have just now decided our ship’s shields can withstand the radiation from the white dwarf and so we will be pressing ahead at higher speed.”
The hara exchanged glances and a quick burst of burbling clicks. Finally, Ziv turned back to the captain and said, “On several occasions you have made reference to a ‘white dwarf,’ but we do not understand what you mean. At first, I thought it was a failure of the translator as before, but my hara all hear the same words. What does it mean?”
Now it was Voyager’s crew’s turn to exchange looks. Finally, all faces turned to Tuvok to explain. Straightening, his hands clasped behind his back, Tuvok recited, “When small or medium-sized stars begin to run out of hydrogen and the fusion reaction has slowed, the forces of gravity within the star will compact the remaining mass. This results in a relatively small, relatively cool body known as a white dwarf. A white dwarf’s outer helium and hydrogen layers are thin and the X-rays that were always created by the hotter inner layers are free to escape. Thus, your planet’s problem.”
“Oh,” one of the Monorhans said. “They’re talking about the Blue Eye.”
“The w
hat?” Kim asked.
“The Blue Eye,” Captain Ziv said. “That’s our name for the dead star that orbits the central sun.”
“Ah,” Captain Janeway said. “We call that dead star a white dwarf.”
One or two of the Monorhans clicked at each other, and their long necks undulated in what, to Tuvok’s eyes, appeared to be their version of a shrug. “A peculiar name, Captain, but we understand now.”
“In any case, the whi…the Blue Eye makes communications difficult. We will continue to work at the problem as we move through this transitional zone around the system. It may take time, so you might be more comfortable in your quarters…. Neelix did assign you a suite, didn’t he?”
The Monorhan nodded. “We would appreciate the opportunity to refresh ourselves and…to speak more among ourselves. How long do you think this process will take?”
“Tuvok?”
“Perhaps another hour. No more.”
Ziv nodded. “An hour then.”
Moments later, the Talaxian, responding to the captain’s hail, returned to the bridge, then hustled the Monorhans onto the turbolift. As soon as they were off the bridge, the captain said softly, “Keep watch over them, Tuvok.”
“I intend to, Captain.”
“They have no reason to believe that we’re not responsible for the destruction of their vessel.”
“None whatsoever.”
“I think the Monorhans are a people who are slow to anger, but if they do, they may do something desperate.”
“They may try, Captain, but they will not succeed.”
Captain Janeway nodded, satisfied that her message had been understood.
* * *
Cleared of all the disruptive elements, the noise level and the mood on the bridge soon returned to its usual efficient, businesslike hum. Chakotay asked, “Ensign Knowles, how long to Monorhan orbit?”
“At our current rate, sir, sixteen hours.”
Chakotay glanced over at the captain. “Is that acceptable, Captain?”
“It is. Try to give us a smooth ride, Ensign.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Kathryn looked at Chakotay and said, “Commander—a moment of your time. Tuvok, you have the bridge.”
Entering the ready room, Chakotay noticed a pungent though not unpleasant odor. “The Monorhans?” he asked.
“When they get stressed, I think,” Kathryn said as she knelt down by the small hutch beside her desk and began to open and shut cabinet doors. Finally, after the fourth or fifth slam, she said, “Ah!” Turning back to Chakotay, she held up a cloth-wrapped bundle in triumph. “Here we are.”
“What’s this?”
“Get two coffee cups,” she said as she unwrapped the bundle.
He rose to obey, but asked again, “But what is it?”
“Something Mark gave me before I left Earth. He told me, ‘Keep this tucked away in case of a bad day.’” Kathryn finished unwrapping the package and said, “This has been a pretty bad day, hasn’t it?”
Chakotay put the cups in front of her and said, “We’ve had worse.”
“We’ve had many worse and much more deadly. I wouldn’t consider doing this if I felt we were in any danger…any more than usual…” She placed a bottle on the desk, then held her hands to either side of her head about four inches away from her scalp. “As my mother used to say, ‘I have a headache this big.’ You pour. Not too much, though; it’s potent.”
While carefully working the stopper out of the bottle, Chakotay studied the label. Not being a drinker, he didn’t recognize it, but the name had a nice Old Earth flavor to it: Jameson Irish Whiskey. When the stopper popped out, the rich, peaty aroma immediately overwhelmed the lingering musky smell of the Monorhans. “Woo,” Chakotay said. “That’s really something.”
Pouring a modest amount, Chakotay asked, “You’ve had this for more than four years?”
“I forgot about it until earlier this year and since then, well, when would I have wanted a drink?”
“I can think of fourteen or fifteen occasions. Easily.” Chakotay swirled the liquor around in his cup and inhaled. Generally, he did not much care for spirits, preferring wines or ales if he was going to drink, but if Kathryn was willing to offer something so rare, he was happy to partake. He sipped, and the whiskey left a trail of liquid fire down his throat as warming vapors rose up into his nasal passages. “Wow,” he said.
Leaning back in her chair, Kathryn lifted her feet up onto her desk, something like a smile on her lips. “Indeed.” She shifted her gaze to the view out her window. “Over fifteen thousand beings died just a little more than an hour ago, Chakotay, and here I am having a drink. Do you think I’m being callous?”
Surprised by the question—almost as surprised as by the drink—Chakotay thought for a moment and said, “No.” Reflecting further, he said, “I think you tend to take things much too much to heart sometimes. Not everything that has gone wrong on our trip so far has been your fault.”
Kathryn looked askance at him and raised an eyebrow. “Oh. Thank you,” she drawled.
“You’re welcome,” Chakotay said, settling back as well as he could into his chair. He briefly considered putting his feet up onto the desk, but decided that might be pushing the situation too far. “Here’s how I see it: We just stepped up to the edge of the abyss and now we’re savoring a moment of reflection. The Monorhans should mourn; maybe at some point we should even mourn with them. But just for now, I say let’s be glad we’re alive.”
Smiling sadly, Kathryn lifted her cup in salute and said, “Slainte.”
Chakotay lifted his in response, then asked, “We are off duty, aren’t we?”
“If I say we are,” Kathryn said, “then we are. I’m the captain.”
Though savoring the moment of quiet companionship, Chakotay couldn’t ignore the question that had been growing in his mind. “Then if we’re off duty, I’m going to ask you this as a friend and not as your first officer.”
Kathryn sighed deeply. “Which means you’re really being my first officer, but you’re trying to be diplomatic about something.”
Chakotay snorted. “Maybe a little.”
“Go ahead,” Kathryn said, then sipped some more of her drink. “Or, no, wait: ‘Permission granted.’ What’s your question?”
Pausing to think, Chakotay realized suddenly how hard the whiskey was hitting his system. He was going to need to find the Doctor before the next crisis occurred and acquire something to sober himself up. Rallying, he asked, “How much do you think we owe these people?” he asked. “What do you think we should be doing for them?”
“An interesting question,” Kathryn asked. “Why do you ask?”
“Because of a discussion I had with B’Elanna earlier.”
“A ‘discussion’? With B’Elanna? I don’t believe you.”
“A tirade. B’Elanna assaulted me with a tirade.”
“You see? Now I believe you. What was her point?”
“Distilling it down for you?” Looking into his cup, he saw that he was almost finished with his drink. Ask for more? he wondered. No, probably a terrible, terrible idea. Then, thinking back on his last statement, he chuckled feebly at the use of the word “distilling.” Absolutely no more. “She worries about ‘her’ ship. This is our home, she says, and the only way we’re going to make it back home—for those who want to get home, she added carefully—is if we take care of her. Sometimes, B’Elanna says, you are…careless.”
Twisting her legs, Kathryn half-turned toward her windows so she could watch the stars slowly slide past. Her words came slowly, as if she was thinking about each one as she said it. “Meaning,” the captain said, “that I stick my nose into other people’s business sometimes.” She shrugged. “What can I say? She’s right. But these people, the Monorhans—we dragged their ship into a spot in space where it was shattered into millions of pieces. Doesn’t that mean we owe them something?”
“I don’t know, Kathryn. The ship was prob
ably going to be destroyed anyway. At least we saved Ziv and his hara. We can take them home.”
“But no more than that?” Kathryn asked. “What if we know something that would spell the difference between their entire civilization being wiped out or saved? Don’t we have a responsibility?”
“Perhaps,” Chakotay said. “But how far can we go before it’s too far? These people haven’t developed FTL technology yet. And while I don’t think we could have abandoned them, we might have to consider carefully whether General Order One allows us to do more than take them home.”
“And then watch them die in our monitors as we fly away.”
“We might not be able to prevent it, Kathryn,” Chakotay said. “We may appear to have unlimited resources to these people, but you and I know that isn’t true. How much are you willing to expend in order to try to fix a situation that can’t be fixed?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, Chakotay,” Kathryn said. “But I’m not ready to give up.”
“No one is asking you to give up, but if the time comes, I’m going to step in and remind you. Are you going to be prepared to listen to me?”
“Of course. That’s why I give you whiskey.” She raised her glass in salute, then tossed off the remaining liquor. Chakotay raised his glass in response, but knew there was no more to drink and he wasn’t going to ask for more. He decided then and there that if the captain ever again asked him if he wanted a drink, he would politely refuse. Though he knew his job was to tell the captain everything she should know in order to make a decision, telling her everything he felt would set a dangerous precedent.
* * *
Sem, the rih-hara-tan of the Eleventh Tribe, was not pleased. Even though Ziv could not see her, Ziv heard it in her voice, in the pauses between sentences. He knew her moods well, better than anyone in the universe. Even better than she knows them herself, Ziv reflected. She was not, however, giving in to her displeasure, her anger or suspicion. Sem had listened to Ziv’s report and understood all the implications, spoken and unspoken. She knew that he and his hara were being treated as honored guests, but were, in fact, only a whisker’s breadth from becoming prisoners. Ziv had no doubt that the weakest of his hara could break any of the Voyagers in two with the merest blow, but he also had seen their forcefields. If Sem ordered them to attack the Voyagers, to try to take possession of their ship, he and his comrades were honor-bound to obey, even knowing they could never succeed. Fortunately, Sem was not that stupid. Crazed, sometimes, Ziv thought. Amoral. Remorseless. But stupid? Oh, no, never that.