Ragnarok (15 page)

He still couldn’t identify the round things on the far side of the room; they looked like sacks of some sort. There wasn’t anything else in the place—he could see no furniture of any kind.

He did finally spot what he took to be the door controls, and maybe even a light switch, built into the doorframe a dozen centimeters above his head. He hadn’t checked that far up when he had felt around before.

The P’nir, he decided, must be very tall indeed.

He peered up at the panel, but he didn’t have enough light to make it out clearly, and he didn’t want to just experiment randomly.

There wasn’t any obvious way to get the door open. He sighed, and set to work slicing out a panel large enough for him to crawl through.

When the panel came free he caught it an instant before it would have rattled onto the floor, and lowered it gently—and silently.

He looked through the opening, hoping that he wasn’t going to find a squad of P’nir security guards waiting out there for him.

He saw no feet, no shadows, no sign that anyone was nearby; he knelt and crawled through.

He was in a passageway, about the width of an ordinary corridor, but much taller; he scrambled to his feet and looked both ways.

The walls and decks were mostly smooth, featureless black; the ceiling seemed to be lost in the greenish gloom overhead. Far above him on the walls, were red and green markings he could not interpret.

There were closed doors all along one side of the corridor; he had just cut his way through one of them. The opposite side was blank.

This was one of the gloomiest, most ominous places he had ever seen in his life, Kim thought.

He tried to remember the scan he had seen of the P’nir ship, and to figure out which direction would lead to the hangar deck.

He’d become disoriented in the unlit storeroom, but he thought that he remembered which side of the corridor the room had been on… but he wasn’t sure.

Well, if he was wrong, he’d just have to get turned around later.

He picked his direction and started walking, moving as quietly as he could, his phaser ready in his hand.

He’d gone a hundred meters along the passageway and rounded two corners before he finally remembered to reset his weapon to stun.

“Activate emergency medical hologram!” Kes shouted, as she helped a wounded crewman, dazed and staggering, in through the door of sickbay.

She had been on her way back up to the bridge, to ask if she could help, when she had found this man slumped against a corridor wall, bleeding profusely from a head wound and seemingly unable to move any farther under his own power. She had grabbed him by the arm and almost dragged him here.

The familiar image of the doctor appeared instantly beside one of the beds, facing the wrong direction. “Please state the nature of the medical emergency,” he said, as he turned to see the Ocampa and the crewman.

Blood was streaming from a gash in the man’s forehead; Kes didn’t bother to answer the hologram’s standard preprogrammed question.

The doctor didn’t seem to need an answer. “Get him on the bed,” the hologram ordered.

Kes struggled to obey, but the dazed crewman was much larger and heavier than she was and was not helping much. The doctor reappeared at her side and grabbed the man’s legs, heaving him gently but unceremoniously into position.

Amazing, Kes thought, that computer-generated magnetic fields could work so much like human hands.

“What happened to him?” the hologram asked as he ran a medical scanner over the head wound. “A drunken brawl in the lounge?”

“No,” Kes replied. “I think he fell and hit his head on some equipment.”

“Mmm,” the hologram said. “Severe scalp laceration and a minor concussion. We can fix that right up. Though I’m not sure it’s wise for us to be encouraging such clumsiness.” He was working on the wound even as he spoke, running a tissue sealer along the gash.

“He wasn’t clumsy,” Kes protested.

“Oh? Then how did he come…” the hologram began.

Just then the ship shuddered as a Hachai barrage assaulted the shields.

The doctor looked up at the ceiling as if he expected it to fall in on them at any second. “What was that?” he demanded.

“We’re under attack,” Kes explained. “That was how he fell.”

“Under attack?” the hologram asked, staring at her. “By whom?”

“They’re called the Hachai,” Kes explained. “We got caught up in a big battle between them and these people called the P’nir.”

“Oh, did we?” The hologram frowned as he made a final pass along the wound with his instrument. “Perhaps it was the captain who was clumsy, then,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Kes said quietly.

The doctor put the tissue sealer aside and began wiping away the blood with a cleansing pad.

“Should I expect more casualties?”

“I don’t know,” Kes admitted. “Probably.”

“The battle is continuing?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Tuvok said it would last another thirty years.”

The hologram abruptly stopped and put down the pad. He looked at his patient, then at Kes.

“This hardly seems like an appropriate time for jokes,” he said reprovingly.

“I’m not joking, Doctor,” Kes replied.

“Well, somebody must be,” the doctor said, “and it hardly seems likely that it’s Tuvok! He’s a Vulcan, for heaven’s sake—Vulcans don’t joke.”

“No one’s joking,” Kes said quietly.

“Nonsense,” the hologram insisted. “Space battles do not last for thirty years! My programming directs me to assume that absurd statements made by persons who are not likely to be delirious are attempts at humor, and I would say that your statement certainly qualifies as absurd.”

Then he paused and stared at Kes, as if struck by a new thought.

“Or are you delirious? Did you bump your head, as well?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine, Doctor.”

“Then don’t tell me these silly tales of thirty-year battles!”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” Kes insisted. “Ask the captain if you don’t believe me.”

The doctor stared at her for a moment, then said, “I’ll just do that.”

He looked up. “Sickbay to bridge.”

“Janeway here. We’re rather busy right now, Doctor-what is it?”

“This Ocampa woman is here with some foolishness about a thirty-year battle…”

“We’re in a battle right now, Doctor, and yes, it could last thirty years—but we won’t, if we don’t get out of here. Bridge out.”

The doctor stared at the ceiling for a moment, then turned back to Kes.

“You were serious,” he said.

She nodded.

“And the captain was serious?”

Kes nodded again.

“We might be destroyed?”

“It’s possible,” Kes said. “Though I certainly hope we won’t be—they’re trying to get us clear.”

“In any case, we can expect more casualties, can’t we? Before we’re destroyed, I mean.”

“I think so,” Kes agreed.

“Well, then what are you standing there for?” the doctor shouted.

“This man’s condition is stabilized—get the next bed ready!

Bring me a medical tricorder, and make sure we still have internal transporter capability to get the wounded here…”

The hologram began readying his own supplies, checking the computer log of what was on hand against what was actually in the various compartments.

“I assume you’re available to help me out—what about…” The doctor paused, and seemed to shudder, though Kes thought that might just be a power fluctuation in the imaging systems. “What about Lieutenant Paris? Not that he was all that much help.”

“Oh, he’s at the helm,” Kes said. “He can’t possibly leave his post.”

The doctor nodded, and Kes almost thought he looked relieved. “I see,” he said. “And I suppose the rest of the crew is all busy at battle stations, as well, and there aren’t any surplus personnel we could recruit to assist us?”

“I don’t know,” Kes said. “I suppose Neelix might be… I mean, the captain ordered him off the bridge, told him to go cook.”

“Neelix? The Talaxian?”

Kes nodded.

The hologram appeared to consider the idea carefully; Kes was once again amazed at how lifelike the simulation of a human being was.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to be interested in food during a battle—at least, not for the first few hours,” the hologram said.

“Get him down here. If he gets in the way we can always send him back to his pots and pans.”

Kes nodded, and tapped her combadge.

As she summoned Neelix, she thought to herself that it would be a relief having him there; she wouldn’t have to worry about what might be happening to him elsewhere.

Then she glanced at the doctor. Had he thought of that? Could he have thought of that? Had he decided Neelix should be here not because he would really be helpful, but just so Kes wouldn’t worry?

She didn’t know. Federation technology was a wonderful thing, but could a computer program have been so thoughtful as that?

She decided not to worry about it. It didn’t really matter why, so long as Neelix would be there with her.

Just then the ship shook violently. A moment later the shimmer of a transporter appeared over one of the beds, and the first of the next batch of wounded appeared. Kes hurried to help.

When Neelix arrived a few minutes later he found Kes and the doctor working together over a badly burned woman—a power conduit had blown out on Deck Eight.

The Talaxian watched helplessly for a moment, then responded to the call of another of the injured.

As he tried to soothe the flash-blinded crewman, Neelix stole another glance at Kes and the doctor, still working smoothly together.

How could she work so well, Neelix wondered, with a mere holographic image? The two of them were moving smoothly together, Kes handing the doctor the right item almost before his hand reached out for it.

That sort of easy cooperation usually came from years of close contact, among people who worked together constantly—or in old married couples.

Neelix frowned at that.

Could it be some manifestation of Kes’s psychic abilities? Did she have some sort of telepathic rapport with the holographic doctor?

How could she have any sort of psychic link to a mere machine?

And as he patted cooling antiseptic onto abrasions, Neelix wondered whether he, himself, could possibly be jealous of a holographic image.

Chakotay and Rollins had been sitting cross-legged on the dark brown steel floor, talking quietly, and Bereyt had been lounging comfortably against a black wall, when an electric crackle drew the first officer’s attention. He looked up as the forcefield in the doorway vanished.

The single P’nir who stood in the opening had a broad stripe of yellowish green across the full width of its chest—in the dim green light Chakotay couldn’t tell whether the color was paint, or some sort of stretched fabric, or something else entirely. He supposed that however it had been applied, it might be an indicator of rank.

It wasn’t anything they had seen before, at any rate, and it did serve to distinguish this P’nir from the ones that had brought them to this cell.

Chakotay did not bother to stand; even if he had, he still would have had to crane his neck to meet the P’nir’s eyes. Instead he simply turned his head and looked up.

“Tell me how your larger ship is armed,” the P’nir demanded, without preamble. The question did not seem to be addressed to anyone in particular, but with that blank face and the pupilless eyes it was hard to be certain. The creature was looking down at the three captives, but Chakotay could not say which of them, if any, it had focused on.

Rollins and Bereyt looked to Chakotay for guidance; Chakotay had been ready for this. “We wish to speak to your captain,” he replied immediately.

The P’nir stared down at him with those four red eyes. Its hard, featureless face couldn’t change expression, but Chakotay thought it managed to look annoyed anyway.

“Tell me how your larger ship is armed,” it repeated, a little louder.

“Sir,” Bereyt said, leaning over toward Chakotay, “have you noticed that these people always speak in imperatives?”

Chakotay threw her a startled glance, and realized that she was right.

The only times he’d gotten a response from a P’nir he had prefaced a question with “Tell me.”

That might be helpful. Perhaps he could communicate with these beings after all. He unfolded his legs and got slowly to his feet, then looked up at the P’nir.

“Take us to your captain!” he demanded.

“No,” the P’nir said. “Tell me how your larger ship is armed.”

That reply wasn’t exactly cooperative, but the P’nir had at least responded to him; Bereyt’s observation had been accurate. The P’nir were apparently disinterested in any sort of polite implication. His statement that they wanted to speak to the captain had been ignored as irrelevant, while a demand to see the captain had at least gotten an answer. He had to tell the P’nir outright what he wanted in order to get them to pay any attention at all.

“Understand that I’m forbidden to tell you that,” he said, raising his head high and trying to look as commanding as he could.

That wasn’t very commanding at all, when faced with a creature a meter taller than himself; he felt almost like a child, looking up at the thing’s face.

The P’nir stared down at him.

“Tell me who forbids it,” it said.

“My own captain forbids it.”

“Defy your captain.”

Chakotay stared up at the P’nir for a moment, considering that, then said, “Only a captain has the right to defy a captain.

Isn’t that… I mean, tell me whether that is true among the P’nir.”

The P’nir stared down at him and seemed to think for a moment before replying.

“It is not true,” it said.

“Explain,” Chakotay snapped back instantly.

The P’nir seemed uncomfortable; perhaps it was unsettled by the reversal of roles, by Chakotay making demands instead of yielding to them. Still, it answered.

“One may defy a captain not one’s own,” the P’nir said. “And when a captain acts improperly, even one’s own captain must be defied.”

“My captain has certainly not acted improperly,” Chakotay said.