"Unnngh…"

Ara Lerano clawed her way out of the inky blackness of unconsciousness centimeter by painful centimeter, slowly realizing that the rhythmic pounding that surrounded her was actually coming from inside her head. Somehow, she didn’t find that comforting.

"Ensign?" said a low voice next to her. "Can you hear me?"

Ara groaned in the affirmative, not recognizing the voice but very glad that it spoke standard like herself.

"Be quiet if you can," cautioned the voice. "We’re not quite out of danger yet."

Something in her companion’s manner of speaking made Ara open one eye. At first she couldn’t make out much of her surroundings, but after a moment, the darkness receded a bit and she could make out a swath of red on another shoulder and the faint steel blue of a pair of Human eyes.

She sat up quickly.

Too quickly.

"Captain," she whispered, grimacing against a wave of vertigo. "What happened?"

"Apparently the Mildri didn’t appreciate my honesty," said Janeway dryly, indulging in a bit of gallows humor which was hurriedly replaced with concern. "How badly are you injured, Ensign? Has your memory been affected?"

Lerano took a moment to sort through the confusing signals her body was sending to her brain. Mostly, she ached—though it was fairly obvious that the aching became more intense on the left side of her torso, trimming the edges of a scorching core of pain.

Broken ribs, she ticked off on a mental list. Some bruises. A whack on the head. Not bad, considering.

She shifted positions, trying to find a better angle in which to converse with her captain, finding herself mildly perplexed when her left arm seemed to disobey direct orders, lying still and unresponsive against her side. Lerano frowned down at it, believing—at first—that she had simply cut off its circulation by leaning too heavily upon it.

Then she saw the real problem.

The hilt of a wide-bladed dagger gleamed in the dim light. But Lerano couldn’t see the blade.

It was buried in her arm, just below her left shoulder.

She swallowed her own nausea.

"I was going to say that my memory hasn’t been affected, Captain," she whispered shakily. "But I don’t remember this happening."

Janeway leaned forward, following the ensign’s intense gaze.

She blanched, seeming suddenly at a loss. Then just as suddenly, her hesitancy slipped beneath the seamless mask of command, imprisoned in the sort of ice that even the desert heat of the planet’s surface could never melt. In fact, Ara could not swear she’d even witnessed the earlier moment, fleeting as it was.

"Can you stand?" Janeway herself was already on her feet.

"I—I think so." Ara pushed herself to her knees, leaning against the solid structure to her right. "Where are we?"

"Some sort of access passageway, I suspect. You pushed me into it after all Hell broke loose." She gave the young Bajoran a quizzical, almost sad look. "You don’t remember any of that, do you?"

Ara was quiet for a moment as she navigated her way to her feet.

"I remember B’Elanna launching herself at one of the guards," she offered. "And Tuvok telling me to stay close to you. After that, things get a little…confusing."

Janeway chuckled mirthlessly. "That doesn’t surprise me. You were a little busy just then." She motioned for the young woman to be silent as she led the two of them further down the darkened corridor. It seemed to be deserted, for the time being anyway, and that was a stroke of good luck that Voyager’s captain was not prepared to give up without a fight.

When they reached the first intersection of corridors, Janeway motioned Ara to be still. She then disappeared around the darkened corner. Before Ara could follow, she retraced her steps, choosing another branch to explore. In a few short minutes, the compact woman with the auburn hair managed to reconnoiter each of their traveling options.

When she returned, she helped Ara to the ground for a few minutes rest.

"Our first priority is to get to the surface. After that, we’ll get you to the shuttle. Can you fly without the use of your left arm?"

"I’ll manage," replied Ara, wishing she’d kept up with her pilot competency trials over the last few years. After all, it wasn’t as if she’d had all that much to keep her busy. For someone in shuttle maintenance, the Delta Quadrant could be a little dull.

"Good. Once you’ve taken off, I want you to avoid the Mildri patrols. Hide out anywhere you can, use the edges of the radiation storms if you have to, but don’t leave the atmosphere unless absolutely necessary or unless I haven’t contacted you in 24 hours—"

Ara started, her chestnut eyes snapping up to meet her captain’s.

"What? Wait a minute! Where will you be?"

"Looking for the other two members of our team." Janeway’s usually blue eyes had bled out to a ferocious gunmetal gray, leaving no question as to the seriousness of her next words. "We got separated back there and I won’t leave this planet without them. I promise you, one way or another all four of us will be returning to Voyager."

She wished—and not for the first time in the last few minutes—that she could risk using her communicator to at least contact her missing officers. But what if they too were in hiding? How could she risk compromising their location simply to know if they were alive? Not to mention, her knowledge of Mildri technology was sketchy at best. It was possible they had the capacity to scan for communication signatures. If she tried to contact Tuvok or B’Elanna now, she might end up compromising the whole team.

The young ensign started to say something else, but Janeway wearily held up her hand.

"No buts, Ensign. That’s an order."

"With all due respect, Captain," said Ara darkly, "I was going to say that I might be able to repair the secondary systems on the shuttle, allowing us usage of the transporters. If so, then I’ll be able to beam the three of you aboard the shuttle when you reach the surface rather than risk landing again."

Janeway frowned at Ara for a moment before her expression softened into one of tentative chagrin.

"I’m sorry, Ara, that was uncalled for. I guess I’ve been defending my decisions to Chakotay for too long. It was wrong of me to assume you were challenging me."

"I’m not Chakotay," replied the ensign, her voice dripping with contempt.

Janeway blinked, clearly not having expected such obvious distaste for her first officer from one of the Maquis. After all, hadn’t this woman chosen to serve with him, joining his cadre of her own free will? Her eyes narrowed briefly as she considered the ensign, noting the Y-shaped ridging of her nose, the angular set of jaw, the strength of will that kept her from collapsing from the injuries she’d suffered.

There is something going on in there, she thought, catching the young Bajoran’s dark eyes for a moment. And that something made her nervous in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time. Not since Seska.

Janeway let the comment and her reminiscences go for the moment, deciding the two of them had rested for too long. The quicker they could secure the shuttle and retrieve her missing officers, the sooner this whole horrid ordeal could be put to rest. And Janeway wanted it to be over. Finally and irrevocably. Because, in the back of her mind, with far more presence than she had ever expected or anticipated, the mere thought of seeing Annika again was making her heart clutch and her blood leap in her veins.

You got it bad, Kate, noted her psyche gleefully, making a completely inappropriate appearance from its recently dormant state.

"We’d better get moving," said Janeway, shoving her inner voice back into the little mental cage it called home. "I don’t want to be caught napping by a troop of guards."

She stood and helped her injured crewman to her feet, then started down the corridor she’d chosen to travel, feeling confident that it would lead to the surface in no time.

"Captain," hissed Ara. "Wait."

Janeway turned to see the young Bajoran motioning for her to return to the intersection. She did so, carefully hiding her annoyance.

"What is it, Ara?" she asked tightly, their lack of progress making her restless.

The young woman knelt to the ground, removing her good hand from its protective hold on her useless arm to mark in the dust at her feet.

"This," she whispered, pointing to a curved line, "is the cavern we were in when the fight started. And here…" She made a little X along the wall. "…is the access port I shoved you through, right?"

Janeway nodded. "Yes, but we don’t have time—"

Ara cut the captain off. "Show me the route you took after I lost consciousness," she demanded, knowing the captain had had to hide them briefly until she’d come out of her stupor. She was embarrassed by that moment of vulnerability but she hoped no color showed in her cheeks. She’d failed Tuvok’s implied order to protect the captain once already. Though she refused to acknowledge the reasons why, burying them deep inside herself where she hoped she’d never see them again, she was strangely determined not to fail a second time.

Janeway regarded the ensign coldly, wondering if she were feverish or otherwise mentally incapacitated. But Ara’s eyes—though perhaps a little wild—glittered in the murky light, sharp and intelligent and feral. The captain wondered if she could trust them.

Ara gestured to the drawing.

"Show me, Captain." She looked up at the smaller woman with complete confidence and utter surety. "It’s important."

Janeway knelt in the dust with her crewman, glaring at her for a long, hard moment. Then she traced a circuitous route from the access port, ending with a small crosshatch that represented the intersection they now huddled in. She hoped her memory of the route was accurate. Especially if it was truly as important as Ara seemed to think.

Ara absorbed the drawing, her eyes flicking from point to point. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. The tension drained from her face and Janeway suspected that had she the use of both of her arms, Ara’s hands would now be pressed together in a manner that facilitated meditation.

After a moment of silence, Janeway breathing little as she watched the young Bajoran, Ara’s eyes snapped open. She pointed to the corridor Janeway had been ready to take.

"That is the most direct route to the surface, Captain, but we can’t take it. We must assume that we left a trail in this dust or with my blood," she said, indicating the seeping wound at her shoulder. "The Mildri should be following it right now. They will anticipate us heading for the surface and the shuttle. They’ve probably got that corridor blocked already somewhere ahead. We should double back to here," she added, pointing to an intersection not far away, "and take this corridor."

The captain, a little chagrinned that she hadn’t anticipated a roadblock, was leery of Ara’s choice.

"But that one heads right for the main habitation level," she whispered harshly.

"And the main ventilation system. I noticed it as we were being led down to the main entrance. If we double back now and make use of the ventilation shafts, we will most likely make it to the surface before they realize what we’ve done. And as long as they haven’t moved or destroyed the shuttle, it shouldn’t be that hard to reach it. Especially if we follow the ventilation shafts under the main marketplace, located here." She circled a large area south of their present location. "If we can find a shaft that emerges to the surface there, the chaos should provide enough cover for us to reach the landing site on the outskirts. Here, I think." She marked a spot southeast of their location.

Then she grabbed the hilt of the dagger in her arm, clearly preparing to pull it out.

Janeway hurriedly reached for and restrained the young woman’s hand, a little slow on the uptake since she was still boggled by the fact that the very detailed map on the floor of the despicable cavern they now sheltered in had come entirely from the ensign’s memory. Of her very first visit planetside.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Ensign," she said gently.

Ara blinked at her. "We need a weapon in the event we’re confronted."

"We’ll have to do without for the moment. The last thing I need is for you to bleed to death down here." She pulled the young woman’s hand off the hilt of the weapon and nodded to the wound. "At least one artery has been severed. Several veins too. The dagger may be the only thing keeping you alive right now and I need you more than I need it."

"Fine. Whatever." The sullen look on the Bajoran’s face was meant to mask her surprise and gratitude for the captain’s concern and it did a poor job of it. "Let’s get moving. Try to keep to the marks we’ve already made."

Janeway nodded, part of her—a part she really didn’t have time to recognize right now—impressed by the tactical abilities of this member of her maintenance crew. She made a mental note to read Ara Lerano’s personnel file when and if they ever returned to Voyager. There was more to the young woman than met the eye and the captain, as a scientist at heart, didn’t subscribe to the "romance" of mystery. Mysteries were merely a problem to be solved, in her opinion. And a problem she didn’t necessarily appreciate where her crew was concerned.

Five minutes later, Ara raised her good hand, signaling the captain that they should come to a halt. They were nearing the intersection where they would break off from their original route and the dark-haired pilot wanted to take a moment to go over the new plan one more time, knowing they may not have the opportunity again.

"Left at the intersection, Captain," she said, her voice so low, Janeway had to strain to hear her even in the silence. "The servants’ habitation levels are above us, no doubt poorly ventilated because they figure they’re close enough to the surface for some fresh air to reach them. The main egg-bearer habitation levels are below us. We’ll have to go down to pick up a ventilation shaft. It will be riskier but the access ports repeated every 200 meters or so in that level. We’re sure to find a suitable one more quickly from there."

Janeway agreed, motioning for the ensign to move on.

They had just entered the left corridor when the unmistakable clicking and hissing of a group of Mildri could be heard somewhere nearby, steadily getting closer.

Ara pushed the captain in front of her, propelling her further down the darkened passageway. Then she quickly tore the sleeve from her damaged uniform, using the gaping hole from the dagger to its best advantage. With a deftness Janeway could not quite believe, the young woman crab-walked backwards from the intersection, dragging the length of cloth back and forth along the floor, efficiently obliterating their footprints in the dust. When she reached the captain’s position, she stood, tucking one end of the sleeve into the waistband of her pants, and grabbed the captain’s arm, pulling her deeper into the shadowy corridor. She stopped only when the sounds of the Mildri reached the intersection.

Janeway and Ara pressed themselves flat against the uneven, roughhewn wall and remained perfectly still. From her vantagepoint, the captain could just make out several large, bulky shapes, unmistakably Mildri, as they methodically checked the corridors. One broke from his unit and began down their corridor, nearly upon the two escapees before his commander called him back.

In the next minute, they could hear the troop move off.

Ara didn’t waste a second.

"They’ve picked up the false trail," she whispered as they hurried down the corridor. "It won’t be long before they discover it’s a decoy. We’ve got to get to the ventilation shafts before then."

Janeway didn’t argue.

By the time they reached the juncture that would take them to the main habitation level, Ara had lapsed into silent hand signals to communicate with the captain, telling her their intended route and the order of their movements without so much as a flicker of uncertainty. Though only marginally surprised by yet another seemingly hidden talent, Janeway did wonder exactly what function the dark young woman had fulfilled in Chakotay’s band of renegades, making a mental note to ask him. Wondering why she hadn’t thought to ask him before.

Ara indicated her intent to go first and Janeway nodded her understanding.

Taking a deep breath, the two of them prepared to launch into the next phase of their plan…

<"Stop!">

The menacing voice came from behind them and the two Starfleet women slowly turned as one, coming face to face with two armed Mildri guards.

It was not the same Sickbay Samantha had left.

Physically, everything was as she’d left it…the biobeds, that faint antiseptic smell, the pristine equipment…even Naomi was curled up in the same position, sleeping soundly under her silvery solar blanket.

It’s just that suddenly Voyager’s medical facility was so loud.

And so crowded.

Sam looked anxiously around the large bay, finally catching sight of the holographic doctor, his height and baldness conspicuous in the crowd of crewmembers. She quickly made her way over to him.

"Doctor? What's going on?"

The EMH glanced up from his task.

"Ah, if it isn't Voyager's very own avenging angel. Tell me, how is the vengeance these days? I hear it's best when served cold." He depressed the control on a vaccination-model hypospray, administering a large dose of a faintly green liquid to a young ensign from ship's stores.

Samantha sheepishly averted her eyes. "It wasn't Seven's fault," she said quietly.

"Really? Did you jump to that conclusion all by yourself?" he asked, hurrying his last patient off the biobed and his next one on. Several crewmembers in the area chuckled at his sarcasm, which made Sam flush red with embarrassment.

As the Doctor administered another dose of liquid to yet another crewman, he looked up, scowling when he noticed the damage to the ensign’s hands.

If they’ve actually come to blows, I’ll put them both in the brig, he thought testily.

"What did you do to your hands?" he asked sharply. Then, "Never mind. I don’t want to know. Should I call security? Have them look for the body?" He bustled another few crewmembers through his frantic medical bucket brigade.

Sam’s eyes flashed. "Seven was called to Engineering or else she’d be here right now—uninjured, I might add. Just point me in the direction of a decent dermal regenerator and I will be fine. Then I can help you."

The Doctor palmed a device off a cart nearby and flipped it at her.

"I've requested Mr. Paris' presence. He should be here any minute."

Samantha rolled her eyes.

"Tom Paris," she said, shaking her head. "You don't need a flyboy, you need a fulltime nurse."

"Are you volunteering, Ensign? You can start today. The pay isn't much but you'll be busy." He glanced up as the doors whooshed open, admitting another three crewmembers. "Very busy," he added ruefully.

"What is going on, Doctor?" asked Sam, finishing with the dermal regenerator. She glanced nervously over to her sleeping daughter, wondering if the child had become a carrier to some strange disease...or its first victim.

"We've had a massive outbreak of anemia." He plugged another ampule into the hypospray and continued his inoculations. "I have no idea what's causing it and I can't run any tests because I am too busy giving everyone iron supplements."

Sam reached over the biobed and took the hypospray from the frowning hologram.

"You run tests, I'll pump iron," she said with a smirk. "Mr. Paris can assist me when he gets here."

The Doctor blinked a few times, startled by and yet grateful for the offer. And desperate enough to take it, knowing that if he was going to get a handle on this epidemic, it had better be soon.

"You’re initiative has been noted, Ensign. If you have any questions--"

"Vorik to Sickbay. I have a medical emergency in Engineering."

Samantha paled, the recently acquired hypospray frozen over her first patient.

"That’s where Seven’s supposed to be," she blurted.

The Doctor was just about to respond to Vorik’s hail when—

"Bridge to Sickbay. Doctor, please respond." It was Chakotay’s voice and he did not sound happy. Or particularly well.

"What now?" muttered the hologram, wishing he hadn’t bothered activating himself that morning. Then realizing it wouldn’t have made much difference either way. If he hadn’t, someone else—no doubt—would have.

To Chakotay he said, "Not right now, Commander. I have a medical emergency in Engineering that requires my immediate attention." He was almost out the doors when they opened, admitting Tom Paris, whose run was brought to an abrupt end upon seeing the number of people in the medical facility.

"Whoa! What’s going on, Doc?" he asked, wide blue eyes surveying the situation. "Goulash night in the mess again?"

The Doctor sidestepped his nurse neatly and called behind him. "Ensign?"

Samantha looked up and spotted the helmsman, waving him over.

"Tom, I need you over here!"

Finally free, the EMH turned to leave and was stopped in his tracks once again, this time by an emergency site-to-site transport materializing practically right on top of him.

It was Vorik and he was carrying Seven of Nine.

The young Borg was convulsing violently and it took both the Vulcan and the Doctor to get her onto the nearest biobed. The two men struggled to hold her still long enough for the hologram to activate a restraining field, which—though only marginally more successful at holding her—at least kept Seven safely on the examining table.

She continued to buck against the field, the telltale blue energy bursts popping like the flash of the Doc’s own holophotography camera.

"Mr. Paris! Assist me, please!" The EMH’s first priority was stabilizing his patient but he had a strong suspicion that that wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded.

The helmsman/nurse rushed over and immediately began to assess Seven’s vital signs, his fingers flying over the monitoring equipment.

"Heart rate and respiration are maxed out, Doc. Blood pressure is lower than accepted norms. Temperature is 103.7 degrees and rising."

Seven cried out in pain, jerking against the restraining field even more strongly than before, trying to bring her knees up to her chest. A spasm rocked her and she barely managed to turn her head to the side in time enough to vomit another measure of dark blood. When she was finished, tremors shook her slight frame and she looked up at the Doctor.

"Help me," she whispered, voice small and quivering. She was obviously deeply terrified, which certainly did not inspire confidence in the EMH. A fact he tried valiantly to hide.

"Don’t worry, Seven, help is here," he said gently. Then he pressed a hypospray to the young woman’s neck and released its payload of bright blue liquid. "You rest. Let me take over now."

Darkness came almost immediately for Seven, eroding her vision and pulling her into a warm, inky place where the pain and the fear could not reach her. She felt her body relaxing, almost melting as the sedative coursed through her and she wanted so much to let her grip on consciousness slip away, allowing her to float in this strange and liquid place.

But one thought, one word would not let her rest. Not until it was spoken. She fought her way to the surface of the darkness, forcing the word from bloodstained lips made thick by the medicine.

"Kathryn…" she breathed. A soft plea…then silence.

Of all the crewmembers present in Sickbay, only one heard Seven at that moment…and the only indication of it was a slight arch of a Vulcan eyebrow.

The Doctor looked up at Vorik. "Tell me what happened," he barked as he readied a tricorder to scan the unconscious Borg.

"We were investigating an anomaly with several ore samples taken from the planet’s surface. I left to retrieve a tricorder at Seven’s request. When I returned, she was unable to stand."

"What kind of anomaly?" He passed the sensor nodule of the tricorder over Seven, beginning at her head and working his way methodically down, trying his best not to be overly concerned with the fact that the young Borg's body still twitched even in unconsciousness.

"Several of the older samples of duranium and tritanium have apparently become unstable, mutating into a simple silicate compound."

"Did Seven come into contact with this compound?"

The Doctor had finished his scan and was urgently entering commands into various monitoring devices. Tom Paris, maintaining his vigil on Seven's lifesigns, attempted to remain dispassionate and professional despite the disturbing information being routed to his station. He was only marginally successful, having to jump start himself on two different occasions just to carry out the orders streaming across his board.

"Not that I am aware of, Doctor. The samples have been in stasis since they were brought on board and none of the seals has been compromised." Vorik watched as an agitated Tom Paris scooted across Sickbay to retrieve more equipment. "May I inquire why that information is of significance?"

"Because," replied the EMH, features grim as he turned grave eyes to meet Vorik’s gaze, "36% of Seven's abdominal implant is now comprised entirely of a simple silicate compound."

Kathryn Janeway turned slowly, mind spinning with half-formed plans and possible tactics for defense or escape. Even as part of her realized there were few options here, a larger part, the maverick part that made her the kind of starship captain she was, refused to capitulate. If even the slightest opportunity presented itself, that maverick part of her would seize on it like a shark in a feeding frenzy and she knew it. She remained alert and observant, realizing that was the best she could do at the moment.

Ara, for her part, also remained alert, though she saw fewer options. Facing armed opponents who were both a good meter taller than her made her feel completely outmatched. The fact that there were only two of them did little to reassure her.

Two of them against a Starfleet captain and an injured shuttle mechanic, she thought, distinctly not liking the odds. Wonderful.

She decided that any advantage was better than no advantage, though, and she reached for the dagger in her arm.

"Don’t!" hissed the captain, watchful eyes catching the ensign’s surreptitious movement. "That’s an order!"

Ara briefly toyed with the possibility of disobeying that order.

After all, she thought bitterly, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve ever done that.

But she dropped her good hand back to her side, deciding to err on the side of caution…for now.

<"Janeway of softshells will find death following that burrow. Janeway of softshells must come with S’zili."> The lead Mildri, shorter than his counterpart, took a half-step forward.

Janeway considered the Mildri’s words for a moment, keeping a close eye on Ara as she did so. The young ensign maintained a heightened state of readiness that buffeted the captain, nearly swamping her with waves of aggression and hostility.

"And if I refuse?" Janeway kept her arms splayed slightly to her sides, showing her empty hands to the Mildri. There was no point in provoking them just yet. Especially when the odds were not particularly in her favor.

<"Janeway of softshells would like to die? S’zili will not stop softshells from choosing death. But if Janeway wants to be with other softshells and return to large flyer called Voyager then Janeway will come with S’zili. Now.">

The other armed Mildri backed up a few steps and cocked his head to the side. He gave a few clicks and hisses that were not loud enough to be translated by the universal translator.

<"Time ends, Janeway of softshells. Decide now."> S’zili’s large, mirrored eyes regarded her blankly and Janeway wished, not for the first time, that this species was more readable. There was nothing in the eyes that gave her any sense of the guard’s intentions or trustworthiness.

Words, however…

<"Come with S’zili and Iiritik now and S’zili will take Janeway and other softshell to Janeway’s Tuvok.">

That was enough to convince the captain. Her eyes shaded into the steel of conviction and she gave a sharp nod of compliance, eyes flicking to Ara’s to convey not only her intention to cooperate with these two Mildri—for the moment—but also her expectation that Ara would do the same. Without complaint.

Ara dipped her eyes briefly to show submission. Even if this was a trap—as she feared—tactically they really didn’t have a choice. Especially if the Mildri were telling the truth about Tuvok. Providing the Vulcan was alive and coherent, reuniting with him could only be considered positive, no matter what the circumstances.

S’zili nodded back at the terran woman and chirped at Iiritik, the taller guard immediately moving to the rear of the small troop. The four uneasy comrades started off in a direction that took them ever upward, Voyager’s crewmembers hurrying to match the longer strides of the Mildri.

"I don’t understand, S’zili," said Janeway after a few moments, hoping she wasn’t mispronouncing the difficult name in some offensive manner. "Why are you helping us?"

<"Because Janeway of softshells is an egg-bearer.">

Now that didn’t make any sense at all but the captain was unable to challenge the statement at the moment. S’zili had stopped them at an intersection and was obviously listening intently to something no one else could hear. Suddenly, both Mildri crouched low to the ground and became absolutely still. Ara quickly mimicked the movement even as Janeway stood there, baffled, wondering how such large creatures could fold themselves into such small packages.

Ara tugged urgently on Janeway’s pant leg and the captain was uncomprehending for a split second before she, too, dropped into a crouch.

It seemed a measure of eternity, crouched in the dark with her arms around her knees and her head tucked close into her body, trying to make herself as small as possible. She tried to breathe slowly and shallowly to combat the stifling humidity of her position. And she tried desperately to concentrate on anything but the strain in her hamstrings and thighs as muscles and tendons struggled to remain still.

Just as it seemed she could take no more, the unmistakable sound of a Mildri search party—a large one—reached her ears. When her muscles were literally screaming with the strain of her position, the search party passed within a meter of their location, heading toward the primary habitation levels at top speed.

A long time later, Ara nudged Janeway, letting her know it was safe to move again. The captain stood and stretched, rubbing blood and feeling back into cramped muscles. She weathered the pins and needles effect as best she could, gritting her teeth as she shook reluctant extremities. Ara didn’t seem to need as much time to recover, making Janeway nervous for no reason she could determine.

When it was apparent that their fragile counterparts were ready to move again, the Mildri resumed their journey to the surface. Ara started to follow them then abruptly stopped, aware suddenly that Janeway had no intention of moving.

<"Follow S’zili,"> said the lead Mildri, turning those expressionless black eyes toward the reluctant captain.

"No." Janeway crossed her arms over her chest and planted herself firmly in the dust. "I want some answers and we’re not going anywhere until I get them."

S’zili was silent for a moment then turned to Iiritik and the two of them chittered softly at one another, the rise and fall of a conflict apparent in the tones even if the universal translator couldn’t decipher the conversation. Finally, S’zili bowed his head, looking cowed.

<"Janeway of softshells may ask questions. Quickly.">

"You said you were helping us because I am an egg-bearer. I don’t understand. Why would you help someone who desecrated the holiest of your holy sites?"

<"The Holy Enclosure is not holy to S’zili or to Iiritik. Janeway has desecrated only a prison. A symbol of our oppression.">

"And who are you? A faction of the servant class?" Janeway’s eyes glittered in the dim light, two sharp glints of steel measuring every answer and every gesture. She didn’t want to get caught up in a class struggle or a civil war. Not if she could avoid it. And she was planning to avoid it. At all costs.

<"No. The steriles are sperm-bearers that hatched sterile. Since sperm-bearers with no sperm cannot contribute to Mildri population, sperm-bearers with no sperm contribute to the care of Mildri who can. Steriles, too, are oppressed but S’zili and Iiritik are not with steriles.">

Janeway blinked. As far as she knew, there were only three classes of Mildri: the servant class, the egg-bearers, and the sperm-bearers. Of these three classes, only two were oppressed as far as she could see. And if S’zili and Iiritik were not part of the servant class then that only left…

"You’re egg-bearers…"

S’zili froze for a moment and then nodded. Iiritik joined her.

<"Janeway of softshells is correct. Iiritik and S’zili are Mildri egg-bearers.">

Before she could say anymore, a sound rumbled through the burrows. It was a long tone, like a gong, and brought the two Mildri up sharp.

<"Answer time ends, Janeway of softshells. Follow now.">

Ara and Janeway had no choice but to follow the Mildri, regardless of the questions that swirled in their minds.

Being left behind, in danger of discovering the purpose behind the maddening, reverberating clangor, simply was not an option.

"What are you trying to tell me, Doctor," said Chakotay, rubbing his arm where a healthy dose of iron had just been administered. It hadn’t hurt, of course. Chakotay’s personal experience, however, led him to distrust the medicinal value of anything that didn’t. Old Maquis habits died hard.

"I’m trying to tell you that my Sickbay isn’t prepared to handle an epidemic of these proportions, Commander," said the EMH. He kept his voice low so as not to disturb the six sleeping patients currently under observation, but he was unable to keep the urgency from his voice. "Even with Biometrics’ generous loan of Ensign Wildman." He gestured to the full room. "I have four patients who are suffering serious debilitations and two others who are critical. I am already to capacity in just the first day!"

He pinned the first officer of Voyager with a meaningful glare.

"And this is only going to get worse, Commander," he continued ominously. "Even though Ensigns Wildman and Paris have been able to handle some of the routine treatments, such as administering iron supplements, I am still the only doctor available on this ship. With 143 potential patients wandering around, I hardly have enough time to run simple tests, let alone find a cure!"

Chakotay rubbed the back of his neck with one broad hand, regretting having ever left the bridge. In fact, the way he was feeling, he regretted ever having left the Alpha Quadrant.

And I thought I had problems before. Now an epidemic? Great Spirit, protect us all. He shook his head, grateful at least that his mind was clearing.

"What can I do for you, Doctor? What resources can I provide Sickbay to give you the time to run your tests and find a cure?"

"I need more medical personnel, at least a rotating shift of two or three who have medical training." The doctor looked away momentarily, as if considering what he most needed. "Of course, I’ll need Tom exclusively. He has the most medical knowledge on the ship. After me, of course." He moved away a few steps, his photonic eyes flicking absently over the still form of Seven of Nine, his most critical patient at the moment.

"In the event that my serious cases exceed the number I am able to manage here, I will have to set up a secondary ward. Most likely in the mess hall. If Mr. Neelix could be put on standby, I would be most appreciative." And that thought led him directly to his last request.

"And I will need replicator privilege. So far, many of the cases of anemia are mild, like yours. Though obviously not cured by the iron supplements, they are at least managed by regular doses. If those doses could be replicated on a schedule in each crewmember’s quarters, my assistants could more easily manage the cases too serious or advanced for those measures here."

Chakotay nodded, pushing himself off the examination table.

"I don’t see why you can’t have Tom. As long as we’re in orbit around Biia T’aok, we won’t be needing him on the bridge. And I will see what I can do about assigning some additional personnel down here as well." He sighed, looking around the dimmed medical facility, eyes coming to rest on Samantha Wildman, who hovered sleeplessly near her daughter, one of the serious cases. "I’m sure Neelix will be happy to help in any way that he can," he added, knowing the Talaxian had already come to him to volunteer to do just that.

"And the replicator privilege?" pressed the Doctor.

Chakotay averted his eyes, tracing his tribal tattoo with the pad of a thumb.

"Well, that may be a problem, Doctor…"

"Commander, I need that replicator privilege! If you think I care about exceeding my ration budget—"

Chakotay put his hands up quickly, stopping the Doctor’s tirade.

"This isn’t about ration budgets. This is about the replicators themselves. Replicator efficiency and accuracy is down across the board, almost 8% now. And there have been reports of outages, slow responses, and misfires all over the ship." His brow crinkled in just that way that said that he was particularly worried. "It seems the epidemic is spreading beyond the crew, Doctor."

A discreet chime sounded and the Doctor quickly walked over to one of the biobeds, running a tricorder over the prone figure upon it. Chakotay followed him.

"That sounds like a problem for our fearless chief engineer, Commander," he whispered harshly, finishing with his scan. "Tell her, not me." Then something occurred to him and he looked up, disgusted. "Or is she still gallivanting around on the planet’s surface?"

"The away team hasn’t returned, no," said the first officer tightly. If the Doctor had been paying closer attention, he might have seen the worry that crinkled the skin around Chakotay’s eyes. As it was, he was simply too busy with Ensign Jurot to notice.

"Well surely someone else on this ship is handy with a spanner!" groused the hologram. "Get Vorik or Lieutenant Carey to fix them, I don’t care!" He turned to retrieve two different hyposprays and pressed each into the young Betazoid crewmember's neck. He resisted the urge to shake his head in disgust, knowing that these supplements were only maintaining her condition, not improving it.

Anemia was a dangerous, life-threatening affliction for a full Betazoid, even in cases that would be considered relatively mild for a Human. In addition to iron, Betazoid blood also carried an element known as turilite, a building block for the Betazoid neurotransmitter, psilosynine, which, in turn, was the primary facilitator for Betazoid telepathy. If the turilite fell below a certain level, the result could be psychotropic episodes, telepathic violence, catatonia, or even—in extreme cases—death. Yet for all that, Jurot wasn’t the Doctor’s most critical patient.

The holographic doctor glanced at the biobed next to Jurot, the one taken by Seven of Nine, worry of his own creasing the spot between his photonic eyes.

No, his most critical case was one he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Seven showed no signs of the anemia that plagued the rest of the crew. In fact, she showed no signs of any disease known to the Doctor. Her only symptoms were a high fever, intense pain, sporadic internal hemorrhaging, and an abdominal implant that seemed intent on turning into a derivative of glass.

Chakotay let the Doctor’s ire slide, realizing that even the EMH could be spread a little too thin in this. True, he may not need to sleep or eat or even breathe and he may not have to worry about contracting any organic contagion. However, maintaining a constant vigil over friends and colleagues who were suffering while helpless to do more than simply comfort them had to be both draining and extremely frustrating.

"Vorik and Carey are doing all they can, Doctor. As soon as anything changes, you will be the first to know." The first officer hoped he sounded confident that things would be improving on that front but the truth was he was finding himself severely lacking confidence…in everything but the probability that things would get worse. His trip to Sickbay had been a good deal less encouraging than he had originally hoped.

The Doctor sighed and touched a few controls on the monitors tending Seven’s vital signs.

"I don’t mean to be difficult, Commander. My first priority is the health of the crew. Sometimes I forget that there are other needs, other concerns as well."

Chakotay nodded, dismissing the whole conversational topic. He wasn’t quite ready to let the Doctor know exactly what "other concerns" he had. There was no need. It would only worry the hologram unnecessarily. And he certainly didn’t want the information to become general knowledge among the crew. Not yet. There would be time for that later.

At a loss for words, Chakotay glanced down at Seven, immediately startled by her pallor. She was usually very fair-skinned but this went beyond pale…by lightyears. Even her lips, usually rose-pink in color, were almost gray. Confusion and alarm met in his angular features.

"I would have thought that Seven’s nanoprobes would have protected her from anemia, Doctor. No matter what the cause."

"That may be the only thing they are protecting her from, Commander. Seven doesn’t have anemia." He handed a PADD to the first officer and waited while he read it. Finally, the younger man looked up, astonishment harsh in his features.

"Glass?"

"Essentially," confirmed the hologram. "Though it’s a little more crude, a little less durable." He stole a moment to look at the Borg, frustration and sadness evident in his own features. "But no less deadly." He shook himself after a minute and turned his eyes back to Chakotay. "It’s identical in composition to the compound some of the ore samples have mutated into, however, I have no idea how she came into contact with it. The stasis seals on the containers were all intact." Noticing Chakotay’s increasing discomfort, the Doctor added, "Didn’t you read Vorik’s report, Commander?"

"I put it on the back burner, Doctor. I had more pressing problems at the time." He tapped his communicator and initiated a link with Vorik, asking the Vulcan to report to Sickbay immediately…with the overlooked report.

"Commander?" The EMH frowned. "What is it?"

Chakotay grabbed a tricorder while he waited, scanning Ensign Jurot from head to toe.

"Well, I’m no scientist and I’m no doctor. But I am first officer aboard a ship without its captain."

"I see you have a firm grasp of the painfully obvious, Commander," the hologram smirked. "Is there some meaning in that declarative statement I should be aware of?"

"It means," said Chakotay, continuing to scan the other patients in the room, "that I have been reading quite a few departmental reports today." He glanced at the Doctor. "Remember those ‘other concerns’ you tend to forget? Well, it’s my job to remember them. And I have a theory that they are a lot more connected to each other than I had originally thought." He finished the last scan—of Naomi Wildman—and snapped the tricorder shut, looking up at the doctor with an even gaze.

"Tell me, Doctor, just how much crude silicate is normal in the bloodstream?"

It wasn’t actually the gong that brought B’Elanna Torres up from the inky depths of her unconsciousness—even though the monstrous wheel of resonant glass was positioned practically right behind her head and could be heard for kilometers once it had been sounded.

No, it wasn’t the gong at all.

It was the burning sand the Prial of the Mildri poured into her wounds. Definitely.

Before she could stop it, a growl rumbled up from her chest. She heard the skiffle of Mildri feet against the sandy cavern floor as they hurriedly moved away from her. B’Elanna opened one eye—finding the other firmly swollen shut—and pinned the nearest Mildri with a glare of murderous rage. It must have been an impressive sight despite her injuries and her restraints because the guard on the receiving end of it moved even further away from her, clearly uncomfortable.

The Prial, on the other hand, seemed rather unimpressed. He moved forward and roughly attached something to the captive Klingon’s chest. When he stepped back, B’Elanna craned her head to see what it was, surprised to see her commbadge. It was covered in blood and grime, but the shape of it was familiar in this alien landscape and it comforted her somewhat. A feral smile curled her lips ever-so-slightly. Suddenly things were looking up.

<"Does softshell understand the Prial now?"> The tinny translation of the large insectoid’s hisses and chitters erupted from the banged-up badge.

"Yes," said B’Elanna evenly. She carefully tensed the muscles in her arms, testing the strength of the bonds that bound her wrists, stretching her painfully between two posts. Her feet were securely tied together and tethered to a stake in the ground.

<"Then softshell will now answer the questions of the Prial!"> said one of the guards, stupidly—thought B’Elanna—hitting her in the side with a long metal rod seemingly hastily recruited for just that purpose. The guard chose his target well, picking a site where B’Elanna could feel several broken ribs. The pain of the jab did not make her scream, though, as the guard so obviously hoped. Instead, she glowered at him with one dark eye, silent as death.

In anger, he raised the rod again.

<"Stop, Ta’sis!"> said the Prial, blocking the blow with one long appendage. <"The Prial would have the softshell remain conscious for now.">

He ambled closer to the restrained Klingon and gazed at her with unreadable black eyes.

<"The Prial has questions,"> he said in a tone definitely meant to intimidate.

"The Klingon has spit," replied B’Elanna, following her incomprehensible announcement with a well-aimed projectile of viscous fluid. It hit the Prial squarely in one black eye.

All Hell broke loose.

The Prial backed up sharply and practically collapsed, hissing and clicking in a very agitated way. Two guards rushed to his side while another, coming up from behind B’Elanna, pulled his ceremonial dagger and buried it in the Klingon’s back.

B’Elanna screamed and arched wildly, some part of her still alert enough—despite the white-hot pain radiating from her lower back—to notice that the stake that held her feet had been pulled free by her movements. Fury and instinct, a deadly combination when used by a Klingon, coalesced in B’Elanna’s core, turning mere happenstance into opportunity.

Upon seeing one of the Prial’s attending guards leave him to rush towards her, B’Elanna curled her knees upward and sent her head and torso backward. The stake swung slightly outward and B’Elanna used it to its greatest advantage, somehow getting her booted feet behind its wide, round head and driving it forward with all her might. It sank into the soft, unprotected flesh of the oncoming Mildri’s neck, a bilious fluid spurting from the wound.

B’Elanna then pushed off the stake, leveling her body and hitting the guard behind her in the abdominal region, knocking him backward into the gong with enough force to make it sound once more. But that little maneuver pulled the other Mildri, thrashing and clawing at the spike in his throat, towards her again.

Just when the lieutenant was realizing that instinct was not necessarily the best strategist, the dying Mildri lurched to the side and fell heavily into the organic cording that bound her right wrist to its post, snapping it and freeing her arm.

And that was just enough of an advantage to turn chaos into a fighting chance.

Saying a brief prayer to Kahless that the dagger had missed her spine and steeling herself for the inevitable pain, B’Elanna reached behind her and yanked the blade from her back with a roar. Once it was free, she grinned a feral grin. Because even though she was still bound and immobilized, she was also angry...and armed.

Which practically made her invincible.

A sound from the cavern entrance, however, distracted her and she raised her head to see three smaller, darker Mildri guards rush in and throw themselves at the remaining guards around the Prial. Startled, B’Elanna could only gape at the melee, wondering why Mildri were suddenly fighting each other. As a result, she completely missed the approach of familiar feet.

One dark hand covered her mouth even as another restrained her hand holding the dagger.

"Do not struggle, Lieutenant. I will have you free momentarily."

Tuvok removed his hand from B’Elanna’s mouth and took the dagger from her hand, sliding it effortlessly between her boots and cutting the bonds there. Using the momentum from that cut, he reversed directions and cut the remaining cord at her left wrist just as she was finding her feet and regaining her balance.

"Show off," she hissed at him as she crouched close to the ground, eyes darting from Mildri to Mildri, assessing the battle and where she was likely to do the most damage.

"On the contrary, Lieutenant," said Tuvok, crouching behind her. "That was merely the most efficient method of freeing you."

B’Elanna almost rolled her eyes. "Don’t tell me you’re taking lessons from that damned Borg now, too?"

Tuvok didn’t bother to answer. "I suggest that we concentrate on making our way to that exit," he said sternly, indicating a side corridor that he had no doubt entered from but that was now blocked by two Mildri locked in mortal combat.

"Our escort is waiting for us there."

"Escort? Escort to where?" She tried to look into the darkened corridor to see what was waiting there even as she began moving toward it.

"To the shuttlecraft. I have been assured that Captain Janeway and Ensign Ara will be waiting for us there."

B’Elanna smiled. "And then we can get off this rock of dry targ dung? What are we waiting for?"

Before Tuvok could restrain her, the young woman launched herself into the nearest melee, her agility and capacity for destruction only slightly compromised by her wounds. As he followed her, he determined that while it was not the most logical course of action, it was certainly the most efficient. Leading him to surmise that perhaps the lieutenant had been the one ‘taking lessons from that damned Borg’, as she had so eloquently put it.

They finally stumbled into the corridor, leaving the sounds of the fight still raging in the cavern, and B’Elanna whirled on Tuvok.

"You said something about an escort?"

<"Vissi and Ssskok are here, softshell Tuvok. Softshells must hurry.">

"Do not fight them, Lieutenant Torres," said Voyager’s Chief of Security calmly as he positioned himself in front of the larger of the two Mildri. "The sensation is disorienting for only a moment."

B’Elanna blinked, acutely aware of the smaller Mildri taking up position behind her. "What sensation is disorienting?"

"The sensation of flight," said Tuvok, just as his Mildri’s dorsal carapace split open to release a pair of sturdy, leathery wings. The Mildri’s upper appendages hooked beneath Tuvok’s arms and the lower ones braced his legs along its body length, making the Vulcan less wind resistant.

B’Elanna’s eyes were round and terrified as she watched Tuvok and his Mildri lift off the corridor floor and head quickly away from the cavern. The scream she screamed when her own Mildri caught her off guard and lifted her up into the air was conveniently drowned out by the beat of wide, buzzing wings.

Chakotay took a moment to straighten his uniform before entering Sickbay, hoping that he didn’t look as exhausted as he felt. When he was satisfied that he looked somewhat alert, he stepped forward and triggered the facility’s automatic doors.

The Doctor glanced up from monitoring Ensign Jurot, took a second, longer look at his commanding officer…and scowled.

"You haven’t had any sleep at all, have you, Commander?" he sighed, voice low in deference to his sleeping patients. "And don’t bother lying. You look like something a sehlat dragged in."

Chakotay dismissed the doctor’s admonition with a wave. "I won’t lie to you, Doctor. I feel like something a sehlat dragged in. And dragged back out again." He leaned heavily against the main examination table and didn’t object when one of the young crewmen he’d had assigned to Sickbay wandered over and pressed a hypo to his neck. The hiss of his latest iron supplement was a familiar sound by now.

"Report," he added wearily, brown eyes drifting around the room, finally coming to rest upon Samantha Wildman curled around her young daughter, both deeply asleep. He wondered if the dark smudges beneath the officer’s eyes indicated a progression of her anemia or merely her exhaustion as a result of assisting the Doctor. In any event, he was glad that she was resting now.

"I have some good news and some bad news, Commander. The good news? I know the cause of the epidemic and the other systems failures."

Chakotay almost smiled, his fatigue lightened by the announcement. And then his face fell as he made a guess about the bad news.

The Doctor did not miss it.

"Yes," he said darkly. "The bad news is I’m not any closer to finding a cure."

Voyager’s first officer sighed and rubbed the tattoo over his left eye. "All right. At least we have a starting point. What’s causing this?" He gestured at the seven patients in the room.

The EMH motioned Chakotay over to an access terminal. He pulled up a visual file showing a sample of blood identified as Naomi Wildman’s. It was magnified to the maximum level, showing each individual molecule in the child’s blood clearly.

"Watch these molecules here," said the Doctor, pointing out several innocuous-looking globules. They shuddered for a moment, sloughed off a small bit of matter, then sidled up to other molecules, absorbing them whole. After a few seconds, the entire process began again.

"I don’t understand," said Chakotay. "Is that normal?"

"Not for iron molecules, no. But for mimetic metallorganic weevils, yes, that would be very normal behavior. In fact, that would be the entire essence of their existence."

Chakotay just stared at the hologram. "Mimetic metallorganic weevils?"

"Has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?" asked the Doctor. "I named them myself."

The first officer ignored the hologram’s posturing. "Where did they come from?"

"From Biia T’aok, of course." The Doctor retrieved something from a cart. "Ensign Wildman brought these to me about an hour ago," he said, indicating the two yellowish silicate teacups. "When she purchased them on the planet’s surface, they apparently looked quite different. Decorative, in fact. She mentioned intricate loops and swirls of metal and glass together. She’d been so impressed by the artistry, she bought two, one for herself and one for Naomi."

The two men looked at the unimpressive remains.

"This is what is left of them," added the Doctor.

Chakotay gingerly lifted one of the cups from the tray and eyed it warily.

"Like the ore samples in Engineering," he said darkly. "But I don’t understand. These weevils of yours seem to be voracious. Why are they destroying our ship and crew and not Biia T’aok or the Mildri?"

"Ensign Wildman has a theory about that, actually, but she was in no condition to begin testing it. As her doctor, I insisted she get some rest before beginning her experiments. She has had even less sleep than you have, Commander. She’s been assisting me in Sickbay since she brought Naomi in yesterday."

Chakotay placed the cup on the cart and sighed. "I understand. Please tell her that I want hourly updates on her progress once she begins."

"Certainly, Commander. Is there anything else—" The Doctor was interrupted by a sudden and insistent alarm coming from Seven’s biomonitoring equipment. Both men rushed to her side.

After taking a moment to assess the situation, the Doctor tapped his holographic communicator. "The Doctor to Ensign Paris! Please report to Sickbay immediately!" He hated to wake the helmsman—especially since he’d only been off duty for approximately 3 hours—but he had no choice. Although he’d been expecting to face this particular problem with the Borg, he had hoped that it wouldn’t be so soon.

"What is it?" asked Chakotay. Urgent chirps came from the monitor on Seven’s bed and he leaned over to peer at the data streaming across the screen, starting when Seven suddenly bucked against the restraining field, apparently going into some sort of seizure.

"Her abdominal implant has taken too much damage! Her nanoprobes have determined that it cannot be repaired and are breaking it down for recycling!"

The Doctor’s holographic fingers flew over his board, trying to stop the Borg efficiency that was threatening his patient’s life. He finally made a disgusted sound and slammed his hand on the edge of the monitor. "I can’t stop it! I’ll have to remove the entire implant."

Tom—who had just skidded to a halt next to Chakotay, still struggling with his uniform tunic—looked blankly back and forth between the Doctor and his commanding officer.

"What’s going on?"

"Seven’s abdominal implant has to come out!" snapped the Doctor. "And we don’t have much time. Let’s move, Mr. Paris!"

Tom lurched into medical assistant mode and hurried away to retrieve the surgical equipment pack. The Doctor recruited Chakotay into helping him move the biobed to a less populated area of Sickbay where he could operate with more privacy.

"Will she be all right, Doctor?" asked the first officer in hushed tones.

"I don’t know, Commander. This isn’t exactly a standard surgical procedure," said the hologram as he hastily programmed the surgical clamshell unit to close over Seven’s convulsing body. "If the nanoprobes succeed in breaking down what remains of her implant, they are going to want to rebuild it. They don’t have the necessary raw materials for such a task, which means that they will do the next best thing. They will break down implants in surrounding tissue to use in the reconstruction. If that material is also contaminated with the weevils, it won’t be long before the new implant fails and the nanoprobes start the recycling process all over again." The Doctor glanced up at Chakotay. "If allowed to continue, eventually all Seven’s implants will fail and she will die."

Before Voyager’s first officer could reply, Seven of Nine arched her back and cried out, obviously in excruciating pain.

"Mr. Paris, if you would care to join me sometime today?" called the Doctor.

Tom arrived with a small antigrav cart, locking it into place next to the EMH and snagging a tricorder off of it, intent on scanning Seven’s current vitals.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Chakotay, feeling rather helpless. The Doctor pinned him with a meaningful look.

"You might want to inform the captain of Seven’s condition," he said pointedly. "And the risks involved."

Chakotay blinked. Although he’d not forgotten that the captain and the rest of the away team were still unaccounted for, in all the chaos, he had forgotten that that fact wasn’t exactly common knowledge yet. The Doctor, busy with preoperative preparations, spared the commander a glance when he hesitated.

"Is there a problem, Commander?"

Realizing that this was probably not the best time to notify the EMH of the situation—yet not having the energy to formulate a convincing story—Chakotay

simply sighed. "The away team is approximately 11 hours overdue, Doctor. Their status is unknown and the current density of the radiation storms restrict—"

What now? thought the weary commander, hoping against all hope that something awful, like the entire Borg Collective, wasn’t massing off their port nacelle.

"Go ahead, Harry."

"What sort of energy discharges?" prodded Chakotay, trying to keep his voice even. Now was not the time to have hopes dashed.

"The radiation storms are still too dense for sensors to penetrate, Commander, however we are visually able to see a displacement of ionized particles in the atmosphere. The levels of energy output required to displace that much ionized gas are consistent with…phaser fire!" Harry practically yelped the last part, aware what such a conclusion could mean.

Chakotay was already on his way out of Sickbay. "The shuttle?" he asked as he bounded down the corridor toward the turbolift.

"’Likely’ isn’t going to get the Captain back, Harry!" snapped the commander as he bolted into the lift. He barked a low command for the unit to take him to the bridge then continued his orders to the ensign. "Extrapolate a ‘likely’ point of exit and move to intercept. If they are firing phasers in that storm, they are under attack!"

Chakotay felt the surge of power that flooded Voyager’s engines that moment as Harry directed the helm on an intercept course. The lift doors opened before the ship reached its destination.

"Report!" snapped Chakotay as he rushed onto the bridge. Harry smoothly relinquished the captain’s chair to him and returned to his position at ops.

"Sensors have detected a massive energy surge, sir," he announced as his fingers danced over his board.

"More phaser fire?"

"Too big for that," replied Harry absently, continuing with his calculations. "These readings are more consistent with…" He looked up at his commanding officer with wide eyes. "…with the breach of a major propulsion system."

Stunned silence blanketed the bridge.

Voyager had reached the intercept location and was hovering silently at the edge of Biia T’aok’s atmosphere…

Waiting for a shuttle that it now seemed would never arrive.