Push

 

Push.

 

I focus on the syllable.  It is a metaphor, push.  Hard, initial force followed, hopefully, by a smooth, easy release.

 

A hopeful word, really.

 

I push.  The stone is perforated, its ravaged surface biting into my palms.  I focus on the pain, using it.  The tearing of the skin, the imbedded rock aching into the heels of my hands; don’t run from the pain.  Channel it.  Push into it.  Push through it.

 

Rock gives way, as it always does, to persistence.  Another stone rolls, another half-meter, third-meter, quarter-meter.

 

My eyes sting.  Sweat and dirt have nested beneath the lashes, but I can’t stop.  I can’t wipe them.  I have to push.

 

Another boulder, another crack in the planet keeping me from them.  Stripped stone, polished by millennia, standing between me and my crew.

 

Desperation, fear, panic.  I kill them without preamble as they rise again and again in my heart.  No time.  No fear.

 

Push.

 

I hear the spark of energy behind me.  Somehow, a transporter beam can cut through my deepest fears.

 

I don’t turn around.  I know who’s here.  Tuvok, already scanning the structure of the cave for signs of imminent collapse.  The EMH, hurrying to my side.

 

I brush him away, barking orders to the others, the teams from security and engineering.  Short, clipped words.

 

Captain Frogger.  I overheard a crewman whispering that once.

 

I snap back to my work.

 

Push.

 

No phasers.  The structure is too unstable for a frontal assault.  Tight, precise, cutting beams—aim there.  And there.  Now, help me push.

 

Tuvok speaks.  In his soothing voice, he articulates the causes for concern.  The dwindling supply of oxygen.  The instability of the bubble that encases the six crewmen.

 

Six.  There are six life signs.

 

There were seven crewmen in that tunnel.

 

Members of my crew.  Chakotay.  Seven of Nine.

 

B’Elanna has arrived.  She is setting up a force field generator.  Shore up the ceilings and walls, buy us a bit more time.

 

Good plan.  Aim my phaser.  Agony.  Careful.  No rushing.  No clumsy, frantic stabs at heroics.

 

My mind.

 

I have a Velocity game with Seven of Nine tomorrow.

 

I bark another order.  Help me, crewman.  Help me cut.  Help me push.

 

I can’t do this alone.

 

My hands are bloody.  The Doctor is pushing to examine them.  I snap at him, and he backs off.

 

Another boulder.

 

Can we get through?  Is it enough for a transporter signal?

 

B’Elanna shakes her head, pounding the boulder she’s leaning against.  She taps the padd frantically, furious concentration on that lovely face.

 

Chakotay was her captain long before he was my first officer.

 

I want to strangle Tuvok.  If I could rip my hands from this stone, I might.

 

I don’t want to know the odds.  I don’t want to know.

 

Tuvok is digging, too.

 

We’re on our hands and knees; like animals, we protect our own.

 

Another big one.  Tuvok, B’Elanna, Crewman.  No time to struggle for names.

 

Just push.

 

There is the sickening, yawning sound of rock against rock.  The shielding holds.

 

B’Elanna?

 

Can we get through?

 

Tight, but possible.

 

Try it.  Get a lock.

 

Silence.  Deadly, horrible silence.

 

I am suddenly aware that my palms are on fire.  My eyes burn, and tears mix with ash and soot on my grimy cheeks.

 

Do we have them?

 

Silence.

 

We got them.

 

Breathe.  Breathe.

 

I don’t let myself ask the question.  Six of seven.  Is it friend?  Or Crewman?

 

My communicator chirps.  Chakotay’s voice.  He tells me, in breathless tones, who was lost.

 

Crewman.

 

Acquaintance.

 

I try not to feel relief as I let the Doctor work on my hands, as the others stabilize the field, as we prepare to beam back, back to the minor injuries.  Back to the processing of hard-won ore.  Back to the somber ceremony, the casket shot into the star, the solemn words and music of our traditions.

 

I’ll postpone my Velocity game.  Out of respect.

 

The beam envelops me.  It’s defragging my nerves.

 

I’m calmer when I step off the platform.

 

Try not to smile, not to grin with giddy joy at seeing them at the console.  Seven of Nine.  Chakotay.

 

It would be inappropriate.

 

But the smile pushes, and I can’t resist.  At least, not completely.

 

END