The strength of a ship depends not only on the sturdiness of its structure and the strength of its systems, but also on the soundness of its crew. The crew of the smallest ship is what keeps it afloat on the rockiest of seas. When a vessel is destroyed, it is because the metal shell gave out, not because of anything short of devotion from its crew.

But when the crew of a ship is shattered, ripped apart by betrayal, and the ship is only damaged, will it still survive?

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? True, maybe, if applied to something that benefits from being hurt. Like a muscle, which will ache and burn after being used excessively, but will strengthen and grow from the painful work. Muscles allow people to function, but it can be hard for one to accept such a concept in life.

Arguably, it doesn't even apply in some situations.

Certainly, it means nothing to the participants in a carefully planned uprising, which proved to less carefully planned than thought.

And therefore, a failure.

By all accounts, a failure which should have been a resounding victory. All the components were in place for the Maquis to trounce the Federation. Scoundrels versus a good, upstanding loyal crew, with the battle conditions favoring the Maquis. Or so they'd thought. Being outnumbered, outgunned, and fighting on the enemy's turf would hardly seem advantageous, but it truly had looked that way.

The Maquis always fought like that, relying on the emotion behind fierce and persistent, if meager, forces. And it was usually an effective, brutally quick strategy. A detailed strategy, with meticulous planning. One which normally didn't deteriorate at such an unbelievably fast-and unstoppable-rate. Reading of the opposite forces was usually good enough that it was possible to predict and hopefully prevent reactions that would threaten the completion of their mission.

A very big error would be to underestimate their enemy and be woefully unprepared to react to the retaliation.

They made a very big error.

If they had the patience, they would probably be able to identify the point at which the tables turned. Or, they might produce a variety of answers.

When Janeway stopped being totally oblivious.

When the entire Federation crew was given weapons.

When they had to cancel Plans A and B.

When Plan C didn't work.

When they decided to take on Captain Janeway in the first place, one of the more bitter ones might respond.

Bitter being one of the most common emotions among those who fled the scene of their failed attempt to take Voyager. All know better than to be openly resentful of the mastermind behind the entire thing. And most know to better than to internalize the anger and blame, making oneself completely miserable.

Which is why it's preferable to cover those feelings with more rage at the victors of this conflict. The Starfleet crew is to blame for the failure of the mission against the Starfleet crew. Pretty simple. Pretty self-explanatory. Pretty frustrating. And from this anger grows the desire to return and try again.

And win this time.

Because Maquis missions don't end with half being forced to flee and the others being left in the lap of their enemies, to an unknown fate.

The only way anything like that happened was if the mission wasn't over, and they were planning on coming back and finishing what they failed to complete the first time. And whether or not they'd originally thought they'd need an encore doesn't really matter. The Maquis won't accept that they went through the pain of the loss of their comrades and the humiliation of being defeated just to be taught some lesson in humbleness and resilience.

They are, however, perfectly willing to accept that the pain they feel will soon be transferred back on to those who caused it.

The concept that they shattered the crew of Voyager is entirely ignored by the Maquis, who for the most part never considered themselves part of the Voyager crew and were with this effort trying to remove those who they did consider Voyager's crew: people in Starfleet uniforms.

The winners of this conflict might have a slightly different perception of on what that battle was supposed to do, besides force the Maquis to retreat. But again, it's far more pleasant to dwell on the emotions stirred up by the fight, than think about what actually happened.

Most of these emotions are actually very similar to the feelings contained by the losers of the battle. Maybe a little less shame and finger-pointing, but anger is the prevalent emotion, again.

It could be because it is better to hate the Maquis for daring to revolt, than to think about why the Maquis thought they'd win or why they came so close to actually winning.

Well, it wasn't *that* close.

Close enough to disable the Bridge.

Close enough to gain control of Engineering, even if temporary.

Close enough to hurt *a lot* of Starfleet crew.

Close enough to shoot the Captain.

All of which are very close, actually.

And they all serve the purpose of heating the anger of the Starfleet crew.

Whether or not every individual Starfleet member will admit to feeling betrayed by the violence instigated by people wearing more or less identical uniforms, they do. Even if they never liked the Maquis, it was pretty much accepted that they had given up being terrorists. Even if they never trusted the Maquis, this kind of brutality was not on their minds. And so this crew is shattered, by betrayal and fury.

It's not very safe to be a Maquis prisoner on Voyager now. Those who were left behind because they were wounded, unconscious, or otherwise unable or unwilling to retreat now reside behind force fields in the Brig, overlooked by guards who, if it were a democracy, would certainly vote for a few public executions.

Ironic, how much the Maquis appreciate Starfleet regulations now.

Unmentioned is the Starfleet crew who fled the fight, neither participating in the attempted coup or defending against it. It's probably less dangerous to be one of them than one of the captured Maquis but not by much. Desertion ranks a little bit lower than mutiny in terms of ways to enrage the Voyager crew. Punishment is coming, the unfortunate few understand, but not before the mutineers who escaped are returned to the ship to face their own punishment.

Those without weapons played a part in fracturing Voyager, by their faithlessness in her strength.

In addition, there are those who never picked a side to win. Or maybe they did pick a side, but didn't take actually take part. And maybe the furious crew could construe that they did indeed take part.

There are only two people who fall under the last two categories, one under the former and one under the latter.

Only one remains on Voyager, one very lonely, very scared, very paranoid woman.

Tom Paris should have been enjoying the feeling of pilot controls beneath his fingers. He should have been reveling in the feeling of freedom on board the empty shuttlecraft. Empty of vicious Maquis and Starfleet crew, empty of anyone planning on hurting him in one way or another.

There was a side of him that was thrilled to have finally made it off Voyager, after the long time spent on board the insufferable ship. That side wasn't concerned, at the moment, with the fact that he'd escaped Voyager in a very different way than planned, leaving the ship under circumstances he'd never imagined.

That part of him was significantly happier than the side of him that was actually dealing with reality.

The side that was very much aware that he'd launched from a ship in the midst of a failed mutiny. Launched side by side with the escaping losers of said mutiny. The troubled side of him knew that his course was not all that different from the Maquis' course. He also knew that he had no real idea what conditions on Voyager were now, just that he'd left Harry, Neelix, and Naomi and her mother there. He realized that unless Voyager was completely crippled beyond repair, she would be chasing the escaped Maquis as soon as possible.

Hell, even if Voyager was crippled beyond repair and Janeway was still alive-which she had been the last time he had checked-Voyager would still be coming after the Maquis. The crew would just get out and push.

It was these worries that haunted him, overcoming his ability to be pleased with himself for finally getting away.

He really, really wished he'd escaped without the Maquis right behind him. They'd ignored him, after hailing his shuttle moments after launching from Voyager. He hadn't responded, and they hadn't persisted.

Which was a really good thing, considering what they might have responded with.

Somebody had spruced his shuttle up very nicely, and he had no doubt the Maquis acquired shuttles were equally improved.

Regular Starfleet shuttles did not come equipped with such massive firepower, and nor were the shuttle systems designed for enduring years of travel, which they appeared to be now. Shuttle Medkits weren't stocked as extensively as the one stored in the back. Starfleet shuttles certainly weren't manufactured with cloaking devices.

Which the Maquis controlled shuttles definitely had.

He'd yet to be able to find a cloaking device installed on his own shuttle, to his great dissatisfaction. He guessed it was hidden somewhere in the shuttle systems, disguised as something else. That was how the Maquis back in the Alpha Quadrant got harmless merchant vessels though check points, only to have them turn into unseen weapons of assault once past.

For now, he was reduced to tracking the Maquis ion trails with his sensors, feeling incredibly exposed.

He didn't think that the Maquis were going to attack him, after paying him no attention whatsoever for the past week. Of course, the Maquis preyed on what their enemies didn't expect, so he wasn't going to take his eyes off them.

He knew very well that he could alter his course, head a direction that would take the Maquis significantly away from their chosen path if they wanted to follow him. He stayed on course, still feeling the incredible need to keep an eye on the Maquis, just to watch his back.

That was assuming the Maquis had a chosen path; he knew he didn't. Tom wasn't going anywhere, he was just going *away*, wherever that might prove to be. The Maquis, however, were probably heading somewhere in particular, even if 'somewhere' was just randomly chosen coordinates.

All of that meticulous planning by Chakotay, of course.

Tom wondered just how Chakotay felt about losing, which brought a grin to his face. The grinned dropped as he began to realize that although Chakotay was probably thoroughly pissed off by the results, he probably had been prepared for them. Hence the improved shuttles.

The Maquis hadn't been planning on launching the Starfleet crew off in these improved craft, in all likelihood. The shuttles had been the Maquis' escape clause.

Eyeing the small sensor blips that were the Maquis ion trails, Tom wondered just where in Chakotay's plan the escape clause was. And where the re-try plan was in relation. He may have only flown one actual mission with Chakotay's Maquis, but he knew Chakotay's style and giving up wasn't.

Tom doubted if the fight for Voyager was anywhere near over.

There was nothing like the atmosphere in craft fleeing the scene of defeat. It felt like deja vu to Chakotay. He'd experienced it with many of the same people, back in the Alpha Quadrant. The difference was defeats by the Cardassians and occasionally Starfleet and other anti-Maquis Federation allies weren't nearly as disheartening as being defeated by Janeway. That woman triumphing over their efforts was an enormous blow.

He was glad, though, that his people weren't acting as if this was a crushing situation. They were acting pissed, bitter, and wounded-which many of them were-but not vanquished.

Henley was stomping around the small craft, pretending to be checking on the wounded that she had already treated days ago, but really, Chakotay could tell, only pacing restlessly. She occasionally stopped to swing open the Medkit and remove an instrument and swipe it over someone. Then she returned to her path, winding around the legs and other extended limbs of the other passengers. Finally, getting more than a little annoyed with her incessant wandering, Chakotay sent her a fierce glance, communicating that she should plant herself somewhere.

Henley received the look with the smoothest of reactions; a quirked eyebrow and a small, temporary pout. She slowed her stride to a stroll, without disrupting her determined walk, and slid nonchalantly into the seat beside Ken Dalby. Her Medkit swung with the motion of her body, falling forward and striking Dalby in the knees.

Dalby yelped softly, scooting away from her and nearly falling off the bench.

"Sorry," muttered Henley, hauling the Medkit to the side of the seat.

Chakotay watched Dalby deliver an irritated look to Henley-who barely managed to look apologetic-as he moved back into the center of the bench. Dalby's eyes dropped then, to scan the sensor readings before him. Henley craned her neck, peering over his shoulder.

Chakotay found it slightly amusing that upon having her roaming shut down, Henley would turn to Dalby's method of distracting himself from whatever frustrations he was feeling. All the Maquis were, of course, frustrated and trying their damnedest to keep it from seeping into the atmosphere, making the already uncomfortable feel of the craft completely unbearable.

Dalby, it seemed to Chakotay, was feeling considerably worse than the others were. The stricken look on his face, tight lips and hunched brow communicated far more than just disappointment at losing, or even sadness at the loss of so many of their comrades.

He looked heartbroken.

Well, he looked like he was trying desperately to avoid looking heartbroken.

For all of Dalby's beseeching for Sam and Naomi Wildman's safety, it had always seemed like a nervous performance to Chakotay. Perhaps it wasn't. It appeared Wildman was more to Dalby than a warm body to bed, and her daughter more than just the offspring of the warm body.

Chakotay made a small mental note to keep an eye on Dalby. He had never given any indication of disloyalty so far-his failure to kill Tom Paris appeared to be incompetence not disobedience. They were in pretty deep for Dalby to suddenly decide that he'd made the wrong choice. Still, relationships had odd effects on normally reliable people.

Ironically, Dalby's distress seemed to be improving his performance. He was watching the sensors like a hawk, focusing on the small blip that was the other shuttle.

It had launched with the Maquis, but taken a slightly different course and gone to warp instantly.

At first, Chakotay had hoped fervently that it was B'Elanna-who hadn't been heard from since she reported that she needed to get to Sickbay. He had full confidence in her ability to escape, but it was not to be, at least on that shuttle.

They'd hailed the shuttle, but received no response.

Dalby wasn't even able to read any occupants before the other shuttle raised its shields, and he promptly wanted to blast it to pieces. After it didn't respond to their hail, that want grew.

That was the general desire of most of the Maquis, fresh from battle and not ready to stop fighting.

Chakotay overruled them all, knowing that whoever was on board would certainly be able to retaliate with the improved weapons systems of that shuttle.

A battle so close to Voyager could only lead to the Maquis shuttles getting damaged, and even if the other shuttle was destroyed, he couldn't risk the chance that one or more of their acquired vessels would be lost or harmed.

They just didn't need to give Janeway the additional advantage of damaged ships.

That wasn't even considering the other options, like Voyager suddenly coming alive and taking part in the battle.

No, it was better to put as much distance as possible between them and Voyager, while planning their second attempt to take Voyager.

An eye, of course, was kept on that mystery shuttle.

It didn't do anything to identify it as friend or foe.

It didn't do anything, period.

With only a slight difference from their course, it stayed steady.

Dalby watched it, and Chakotay found it easy to believe that despite their cloaked ships, whoever was inside that shuttle was watching them.

Harry Kim gripped tighter to the crewman holding him upright, which probably wasn't the best way to counteract the wobbling, because the arm around his shoulder loosened and nearly dropped while his supporter grunted and struggled to hold him up. Given a choice, he wouldn't have chosen someone so slight in stature to half-carry him, Harry thought, and then decidedly agreed with when the arm did slip off, sending him lurching to the floor.

His leg jolted agony up his spine as he landed, his vision blackening. When it came back, Samantha Wildman's face was above his. She was pale, with deep dark circles under her eyes, concern being expressed in a ragged, exhausted voice. She slipped her hands under him; somehow managing to draw him up while the man he'd fallen half on top of pushed from below. Somehow they managed to lift him on to the nearest bio-bed. Sam whipped out a hypospray, pressing it into his neck. It hissed, and the pain began to subside.

Now she was scanning his leg, a focused expression creeping over her face. Finally, she snapped the medical tricorder shut, setting it aside.

"What'd you do, Harry?" She asked, tiredly, turning and walking towards some medical equipment.

"He fell," supplied the former human-crutch, lingering at the door.

"Yeah," Harry confirmed to Sam. To the crewman by the entrance, "Thanks for helping me here. Can you finish the repairs without me?"

"We're almost done, so yeah."

"Good. Watch your step," he called to the crewman's back as the door slid shut.

"Right," the half-amused voice trickled back.

Sam walked back holding what looked like a leg brace. She grasped his leg and drew it straight, sending a muted signal of pain up Harry's body. He hissed, teeth clenched.

"Where'd you fall?"

"The Jefferies Tubes. We were repairing some of the blown circuits. I fell down one of the ladders."

"You broke three bones," Sam said, setting the instrument over his leg from his ankle to upper thigh, not noticing his grimace as he began to feel the uncomfortable sensation of bones knitting.

She seemed almost distracted, hardly interested in his injury, simply performing the necessary treatment automatically and she was definitely exhausted.

"I was lucky the hatch to the next deck was closed. I would have fallen further," he said, trying to drown out the slight buzz of the instrument clamped onto his leg with his voice.

"Why'd you fall?"

"I missed the next rung with my foot and then just fell."

"Oh." She stared at the contraption around his leg for a moment, then looked up as if his response had triggered a delayed reaction.

"How long has it been since you slept, Harry?" She asked, her face still listless but her tone sharp.

"Why?" Harry replied, perfectly aware that he was thwarting the question.

"Because," she began, a quality to her voice somewhere between sarcasm and exasperation that still managed to communicate her total understanding of the situation. "I was wondering if you're another one of the many people who are ignoring their health and physical needs-such as *sleep*, endangering themselves and Voyager."

Sam stared at him blankly, clearly awaiting a response.

"Many?" he asked.

"*Yes*."

"Who?"

"Tuvok, for starters. I tried to explain to him that victims of close range phaser blasts do not leave Sickbay within thirty-two hours, if that," Sam let out an irritated breath. "He was able to justify it, logically, of course, somehow. Which is something considering how many people with injuries like his left without even bothering to act like that were listening to me."

She checked the progress of the procedure, adjusting one of the clamps around his calf.

"Joe Carey, too. He's risking permanent side effects for leaving with a half-treated head injury. And you can tell him that the Medkit he swiped when I wasn't looking is only going to reduce the pain in his head, and only coming back here is going to get rid of it. And then there's you," Sam finished matter-of-factly.

"Joe's really needed in Engineering," Harry told her earnestly. "It's a mess. And Tuvok's coordinating everything that's involved in getting the ship back on its feet and ready to go after the Maquis. *I* was fixing some of the damage done to the Jefferies Tubes. The Maquis wrecked a lot of systems by having fire-fights up there."

Sam deactivated and began swiftly undoing the clasps of the device on his leg.

"Repairing Voyager won't do any good if the entire crew is ready to collapse from exhaustion and untreated injuries," Sam snapped.

She tugged the brace off his leg and set it aside. She ran a scanner up and down, not meeting his eyes. Harry stared at the top of her head, trying to understand that Sam was simply stressed from having dealt with the injured, and trying to deny that a small part of him was thinking the she had other reasons for wanting to delay repairs by reducing the workforce. Reasons having to do with protecting the escaped Maquis, among whom, he thought, was Ken Dalby.

"How does it feel?" Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

"A little stiff."

"That's normal." She set the scanning instrument aside. "Though I wouldn't go climbing any ladders for the next, say, six hours."

Sam crossed her arms, stepping to the side of the bio-bed.

"Got it?" She asked in much the same tone that she probably used to tell Naomi to go to bed.

"Yes," he replied. "Perfectly."

"Good."

Harry started to scoot off the bio-bed when Sam stopped him, pressing a hand lightly against his shoulder.

"Harry, please don't think that I don't want you to help speed up repairs, I just..."

Sam sighed deeply, closing her eyes momentarily, then meeting his eyes again.

"I'm just not enjoying being the only doctor on Voyager, and having to try treat patients who need the EMH or at least someone better trained than I."

"There's no one else," Harry began, feeling his suspicions soften as he stared into her drawn face and shiny eyes.

"No, Harry, I know that. I know you don't have time to try to find the EMH, or even if his program still exists. But the crew is over-extending themselves and having accidents like yours because they're too tired or in too much pain to concentrate, and I'm getting a little stressed. And you were here to yell at." She squeezed his shoulder. "Don't take it personally. I still want you to go get some sleep, though."

"I will," Harry agreed. Almost as an afterthought, he asked, "When was the last time *you* slept, Sam?"

Sam almost smirked. "That's not important, Harry. As acting CMO, I have access to every single stimulant in the medical database."

She nearly cracked a smile.

"But, it was at the EMH's, er, my desk. Right before you walked in here."

"Neelix to Sickbay," the Talaxian's voice cut through almost before Sam stopped speaking.

Sam's hand left Harry's shoulder, darting to her comm badge.

"I'm here, Neelix. Is Naomi-"

"Naomi's fine," Neelix interjected before she'd finished the question. "The Captain just informed me that the power supply to the Mess Hall has been repaired. I want to get down there so the crew has something better to eat than those awful rations. Do you need me to take Naomi with me, or can you or someone else come and watch her? She's taking a nap, but I suppose she can sleep in the Mess Hall."

Sam's hand dropped from her communicator, rising to rub the bridge of her nose in an utterly defeated motion.

"Neelix, I can't leave Sickbay. I guess you'll have to take her with you. She's going to have a fit when you wake her, though."

Sam's drawn face resurfaced as her arm lowered and her hand slid down her face. Her dreary expression changed as her eyes alighted on Harry.

"Hey.... Hold on, Neelix."

Sam closed the line, grasping Harry's shoulders with both hands.

"Harry, would you please? Naomi hates having her schedule disrupted, and I don't want her any more upset than she already is. She's napping, so you can sleep on my bed. Would you mind?" Sam asked hopefully, withdrawing one hand and fidgeting with the single pip on her collar.

"Sure," Harry said, relieved to see a look of gratitude sweep over Sam's face, replacing the despair.

"*Thank you!*"

She opened the comm line, confirming to Neelix that he was free to leave and that Harry was on his way. Harry rose from the bio-bed, feeling the slight awkwardness in his repaired leg. He took a few tentative steps toward the door, testing his balance.

"Thank you so much," Sam repeated.

"It's no problem," he assured her. "Have you told Naomi what happened?"

Before Harry's eyes, Sam's entire demeanor changed, her posture stiffening.

"No. Not really. I haven't seen her since we got back, been too busy here," Sam drew out, her gaze focused somewhere behind him.

She wrapped her arms tightly, nervously, around her waist, still not making eye contact.

"Naomi's pretty intuitive, so she knows something bad happened. Neelix told her that the Maquis left, but not much more. I was waiting to explain it to her in person, not over the comm line, so that she could ask me questions," Sam finished, her distant gaze finally flickering to Harry's face. "Not that I can answer them."

Sam's eyes dropped then, moving to follow her hand, which was tracing the edge of the nearest bio-bed, while the other stayed pressed tightly against her stomach.

"I tried really hard to explain the Maquis and Starfleet situation to her, that merging into one crew wasn't that easy but that Voyager made it work. After this," Sam shook her head, tilting it to glance at Harry again. "I'm not really sure what I'm going to say. I think, maybe, that this kind of betrayal from the Maquis might be more traumatizing than being on Voyager when they were trying to take the ship would have been."

Harry could feel the sympathy well up in his chest, as Sam tried to tug the edge of off the bio-bed with the hand that wasn't still clutching herself.

"It's going to be tough," he agreed, searching for words that might provide some sort of encouragement. "But, you're a good mother, Sam. I think you can help Naomi understand it and deal with in a healthy way. You'll know how she feels, considering your relationship with Ken Dalby."

That was probably the wrong thing to say.

Sam's eyes darted to some distant spot on the far wall, her face drawing even tauter than before.

"Yeah," she said quickly, her fidgeting hand freezing in place on the bio-bed rim. "Goodbye, Harry." Forcibly, she looked back at him. "When you get to my quarters, Harry, I really want you to sleep. Naomi naps for a very long time, and you'll hear her if she has a nightmare. Just sleep and you'll build up some more energy." A tentative, lighter tone tried to come into her voice, "My bed's really soft, Harry. Probably because Naomi likes jumping on it."

Her gaze was already travelling away from him before she finished speaking. The last comment, meant with levity, came out heavy and dead.

"I promise I'll get some sleep, Sam," Harry said softly.

He turned to go, but before he got near the door, it was already open. A whirling flash of gold security uniforms surrounding a single blue science uniform tumbled into Sickbay.

The blur of colored uniforms transformed into four security guards grappling with one struggling Maquis prisoner. For such a slight young man, Gerron was managing to retain a lot of mobility while being gripped by four much larger men who seemed to be trying to hold him in place.

It looked to Harry like there was an electrical current running from the hands of the security guards holding Gerron's right side to the grip the other two had on his left side, sending Gerron into writhing fits.

It seemed to be a quiet eternity of just watching Gerron struggle. Harry wasn't quite sure what to do, even as he began moving towards the five to help. He knew he wouldn't exactly be much help, considering Gerron wasn't even staying still enough for him get a secure hold.

Time had stilled before Harry's eyes, and now it jumped back into motion, broken by the sharp feminine gasp from behind Harry. Seconds later, Gerron jerked free, breaking away from the security guards and practically flying past Harry. He forcefully brushed Harry's shoulder in either his haste to get away from the security guards or from some perception of Harry as a threat. Whatever Gerron's intention, the blow succeeded in knocking Harry off balance.

His recently healed leg did not take kindly to the shove, refusing to bend on cue and sending Harry toppling to the floor. One of the security guards nearly stomped on his hand as the four rushed after Gerron. Harry pulled his arm back from where the boot sole landed only a second before it would have been too late.

Forcing his stiff knee to bend, Harry pulled himself up, wincing at having made yet another impact with the ground in so short a time.

The four security guards had formed a semi-circle around Gerron, but had not yet seized him.

As he got to his feet completely, Harry saw why.

Standing beside Gerron, in a distinctively defensive and aggressive posture, was Samantha Wildman. Gerron was half-clinging to her, bright fearful eyes darting from each of the men surrounding them. Harry saw now, for the first time, why Gerron had been brought to Sickbay in the first place. Before, he hadn't been still long enough for Harry to discern anything to be wrong with him.

Now, Harry could see a distinct layer of sickly sweat over Gerron's paler than usual skin, and it didn't seem to all have been produced by exertion. There was a very large developing bruise running from his chin to his temple on the left side of Gerron's skull, accompanied by a fresh, bleeding gash on his forehead. . There wasn't anything observably wrong on Gerron's torso, but he was hunched over, the one arm that wasn't frantically clutching Sam Wildman wrapped protectively around his stomach.

Gerron suddenly looked very young. He *was* young, Harry knew that. But he had never seen Gerron when he wasn't skulking around looking like he had unpleasant intentions, not desperate and fearful like this.

And he certainly didn't look like enough of a threat to require the presence of the four hulking security guards.

Sam, looking somewhere between shocked and angry, with her formerly gray face rapidly flushing, was barking orders at the security guards to get the hell away from her patient.

The security guards were slowly backing away, protesting that their orders from Tuvok were to stay with him.

Sickbay had been deathly quiet before the five new arrivals entered; now it was almost deafening.

Somehow, over the din of Sam screaming and the security guards screaming right back, Harry managed to make his voice heard.

"Hey!"

Three of the four security guards turned to look at him; two drawing their weapons from their belts as if he was some kind of threat.

Sam glanced at him momentarily, not having any more time because that was the instant Gerron chose to pass out. She rushed to re-position her arms to catch him as he collapsed. Harry had no idea where she got the strength to both catch Gerron and then hoist him smoothly on to the bio-bed that Harry had recently vacated. Gerron wasn't that big, but was definitely bigger and heavier than Sam. The strength apparently came from the same place the rage that was on her face did.

It was probably a combination of the two that allowed her to forcefully shove the fourth security guard away, as he began approaching the bio-bed perimeter. Harry didn't think that she actually caused the guard to stumble backwards, considering that he probably outweighed her by two hundred pounds of muscle and was nearly two feet taller.

All the same, he backed up, indicating to his three companions that their duty could more or less be accomplished from fifteen feet away, now that their prisoner was unconscious.

"Harry," called Sam.

She was quickly activating various equipment, face still crimson with fury.

"I need your help. Grab that medical tray next to you."

Harry picked it up, walking quickly past the security guards to deliver it to her. He felt uncomfortable kinks in his leg snap as he moved. As he extended it towards her, she didn't look up, hunched over the medical console. Her hands darted rapidly over the keys and the medical arch rose from the sides of Gerron's bio-bed to close over him.

"Hand me the neural-"

She glanced at him, seeing the clueless expression fall over his features before she even finished the name of the instrument.

"End of the tray, Harry. Little square things that go on your forehead."

Feeling ashamed of his medical ignorance, even though Sam didn't seem to care, Harry picked the small instrument and pressed it into her hand. Sam quickly centered it on Gerron's forehead, making a small sound of concern as she noticed the cut right beside it for the first time.

Sam returned to the console, and Harry stood beside her. The medical scanner began to scroll information down the screen at an unbelievably quick rate. It was a blur to Harry; not that he could understand it any way.

Sam, however, understood it perfectly.

"Broken.... punctured... lacerated... concussed...!"

Sam turned, mouth agape, cheeks flushed blood red and eyes blazing, to the security guards.

"Just what the hell were you trying to do? Kill him!?" She spat the accusations with fury.

The one who she had shoved responded, seemingly barely affected by her reaction.

"He resisted," he said, calmly.

"Did he?" Sam mocked as her eyes slid into slits and darted sideways.

It was apparent to Harry that she was contemplating saying something else but was holding her tongue. She apparently decided against it, physically turning away from the men.

"Get out of Sickbay," she commanded coldly, pulling a regenerator off of the tray Harry was still holding and leaning over Gerron.

"We have orders to stay with him," stated the same insolent guard.

"You have new orders," Sam snarled, without looking up. "From the Acting Chief Medical Officer, who outranks you all. She says get the hell out of her Sickbay before she reports you to Tuvok for brutality."

It took a very short amount of time for the four men to consider her words.

"We'll be outside," the only vocal one of the four told Harry, choosing to not look at Sam.

"Just get out," Sam ordered.

The four quickly retreated out the door.

The door slid quietly shut, almost drowned out entirely by the loud, emotion-filled sigh produced by Sam.

"Thanks, Harry. You can just put the tray down on the instrument table right there," Sam said, quite pleasantly if hurried, in stark contrast to the harsh voice she'd been using for the past ten minutes.

"And Harry, once you get to my quarters could you comm Tuvok and tell him that I would like to see all the injured Maquis? Somehow, I think the brig guards are only bringing in the ones who are at risk of bleeding to death internally."

The harsh tone began to creep back into Sam's voice.

"Sure, Sam. I'll tell him."

"Thank you. And don't forget to go to sleep."

"I won't," Harry promised.

He exited, awkwardly stepping around the four security guards crowding around the other side of the door.

"We had to end up with the Maquis whore as the only Doctor, huh," the same dolt commented casually as Harry walked by.

Harry didn't answer.

He found himself troubled.

The four faces of Samantha Wildman flashed before his eyes in rapid secession. She'd been exhausted, slow in movement and pale in complexion, when he'd first walked in. There'd been a little anger when she talked about the stress she was under, but she'd remained with an almost gray complexion. When he'd brought up Ken Dalby-which he now knew not to do-she'd turned into an anxious, distant and disconnected person, who wouldn't make eye contact. And when Gerron had clung to her, there had been full-blown rage, with her cheeks inflamed and eyes blasting. Rage that had faded into medical competency and blood that had drained from her face.

Harry wasn't sure what to think. She was obviously hurting, at the loss of Dalby and by the destruction of Voyager's peaceful life. Before arriving in Sickbay himself, he'd heard some concerns from other crewmembers who returning from visiting the injured, that the only doctor on board was the lover of one of the people who had inflicted so much damage to Voyager. He couldn't, however, associate Sam with any kind of destruction. He couldn't see her supporting the Maquis, even if half of them were gone. She felt betrayed, he was sure. He couldn't believe she was feeling anything else, even if Gerron ran to her like she wasn't wearing a Starfleet uniform.

Tom peeled himself out of the helm seat, grimacing as his stiff muscles strained and his joints popped. One bad thing about being the only pilot-hell the only person-was that he didn't have any down shifts. And with his paranoia-justifiable, yet paranoia all the same-he didn't want to leave the sensors for the bunk in the back for a while or even the sonic shower for a few minutes.

He was, however, hungry enough to head to the replicator and bring back some dinner to the helm. Or he was until the sensors started beeping like crazy. He dropped back into the chair instantly, having only half risen in the first place.

There was something off to port. Something made of titanium and not moving, with either no life signs or shields. As his shuttle got closer, the object became visible, looking like some kind of primitive satellite or probe.

It was inactive, Tom's sensors reported, and it looked to be dead.

Satisfied that it wasn't going to come to life and do something nasty- like shoot at him-Tom stayed on course. He resumed his plan of getting dinner, rising from his seat. He stretched as he walked over to the replicator, trying to kick the kinks out of his legs. He approached the replicator.

"Paris984," he told it. "Tomato Soup. Hot."

The dish shimmered into existence, smelling delicious before it even finished appearing. Tom reached for it, mindful of the computer's warning of its heat. He picked the bowl up, careful to keep his fingers away from the heat radiating from the bottom of the bowl and seeping through the saucer it was set on. Really not in the mood to burn his hands, Tom held the edges of the saucer.

All his precautions really were very wise and safe; they just couldn't help that it was the instant that he was holding boiling soup that his shuttle started to shake. It lurched backwards, sending everything not attached to the shuttle falling in that direction.

Tom honestly barely felt the scalding liquid as it sloshed over his hands and then his uniform, past the very first moment of fiery pain. So intent was he to find out what the hell had just happened and to get back to where he might be able to retaliate. He let the tray drop and shatter on the floor. He put the pain out of his mind, fully expecting that worse things were on the way if he didn't get back to the helm.

He stumbled back to the helm, hands stinging and the alarms of the computer going nuts ringing in his ears.

The dead satellite had come to life.

A tractor beam extended visibly-and his sensors confirmed that's what it was-holding his shuttle immobile.

Tom pressed his hands against the helm controls-the burned pads on his fingers exploded in pain at this-and proceeded to try every trick he knew to shake a tractor beam's fix.

The only thing he succeeded in shaking was the shuttle, so violently he nearly fell out of his seat.

He gave up on the idea of breaking the hold through piloting methods.

He'd just blast it into little pieces.

He sent a mental thanks to whichever Maquis had improved his shuttle's weapons, not that whoever it was had had any idea that he or she'd be helping him in the long run.

He targeted the center of the probe; the area that his sensors said was emitting the beam.

Tom fired.

He didn't have time to observe the damage.

The shuttle exploded in blinding light.

The blinding light faded to solid red.

The red lifted like a curtain as he opened his eyes.

Oh, shit.

Somehow he'd ended up sprawled on the floor near the helm. Except for the residual flashes of light every time he blinked, the shuttle cabin was eerily dark. The computer was off, realized the part of his mind that wasn't completely stunned and in significant pain. Tom glanced down at his hands, which were sending jolts of pain up his arms again. His palms were blistered and bloody. The soup definitely hadn't done that.

But the helm had, apparently, when it exploded beneath his fingers.

Clumsily, Tom stumbled to his feet, without using his hands to push himself up off the floor.

Orally, he confirmed the computer's deactivation.

"Computer?"

Silence.

Tom felt a cold shiver run up his spine, a welcome yet frightening guest to the heat radiating from his arms.

The satellite-probe-whatever the hell that thing was had gone dead again. The tractor beam was gone but Tom still couldn't move with a dead shuttle.

Something wet dribbled off his chin, and without thinking he raised a hand to touch it.

Blood.

He'd bashed his face in to the floor as well. For the first time he noticed the taste of blood coating his lips.

Feeling helpless, Tom moved to the back of the shuttle where the medkits were. If nothing else, he could treat his burned hands and torn face and wait for whoever had activated the satellite to come and get him. He wouldn't be completely helpless when they came.

Unless, of course, the Maquis came across him first.

There were still phaser blast holes on the corridor walls. In places, the rug was burned completely away. Half of the crew quarters' doors had been reduced to mangled pieces of metal after the Maquis had locked them inside. It made Voyager look so much more like a helpless vessel of castaways than the powerful starship it was.

It disgusted her to see the damage as she walked the halls.

She knew, of course, that it was far more important to fix the structural damage, to revive the failed systems, and to heal the injured than to patch minor scrapes for being eyesores.

But it turned her stomach, every scorched mark a reminder of one of her crew who had fallen, shot by one who had pretended to be one of their own, until such time that they thought they could wrench control of Voyager away.

A time that should never have come.

And hadn't, really, for what the Maquis did-* tried to do* failed miserably for they seemed to have thought that her crew would just cower and surrender.

Wrong.

If you didn't count the cowards who had fled rather than fight for the ship, that is.

And she wasn't counting them, not as part of her crew.

Every leader, every captain, learned from mistakes.

Her mistake was blindness, allowing infiltrators to enter her crew, serving along side them only to turn and try to destroy them. She had been so unseeing up until the very commencement of the attempted mutiny, even now she couldn't think of why she hadn't felt the uprising coming as quickly as it had, and why she hadn't known that certain members of her crew were so cowardly as to flee.

She did have inklings of ideas, but they repulsed her.

When she had demoted Jenny Delaney, among the others who had fled, the woman had been crying silently. It wasn't so odd that one would cry at a demotion and formal reprimand with the threat of future confinement but that Delaney was staring straight at her the entire time, as opposed to most of the others who wouldn't even make eye contact.

It was very easy to read the blame in Delaney's eyes: blame for not preventing the mutiny attempt -that badly injured Megan Delaney, incidentally-and made Jenny Delaney decide that it was necessary to drop her Starfleet duties and flee Voyager.

That accusation existed in the silent faces of everyone who had fled Voyager; everyone who didn't want to recognize their own cowardice.

She'd really wanted to toss them all into the Brig, just to quench her desire to punish them. She'd realized, though, with a little conference with Tuvok, that it wasn't that simple. Despite her loss of trust in them, they were needed on Voyager. With the sheer amount of crew who'd been lost-the Maquis, the injured, and the dead-Voyager had to use every last man they had. Everyone who wasn't in the Brig or in Sickbay was working around the clock to repair Voyager, she'd seen to that.

And everyone in the Brig or in Sickbay knew exactly why.

The Maquis in the Brig didn't need to be told why, although she'd made a point of visiting the Brig for that exact purpose.

They didn't seem to know how to react. It was plain to see that they'd lost a great deal of their fusion with the absence of Chakotay. Half of the Maquis glared silently at her, others flung whispered obscenities towards her, and still others looked away fearfully.

They all reacted to her intention to capture Chakotay and the other escaped Maquis in pretty much the same way. One collective smirk.

She'd left the Brig, even angrier than before if that was possible. She was heading to the Bridge, her eyes catching every scorched mark on the wall.

There was even one in the turbo lift.

She already seen the battle scars on the Bridge. Someone had had the sense to clean up the bloodstain besides Tactical. She didn't know where the burned patch on the floor a few feet in front of her chair came from, but she couldn't take her eyes off of it.

As she sat in her seat, listening to Joe Carey's report on Engineering, her gaze gravitated to the mark on the floor.

Engineering was functioning normally finally, despite significant water and fire damage. It could sustain warp and engage in battle. There were still a few questionable systems. The Maquis had raised hell by having shoot-outs in the Jefferies Tubes. The remaining systems would probably be up by the time they encountered the Maquis.

At maximum warp, starting now, and considering the fact that the Maquis had almost a week head start but also that the Maquis had only shuttles, Voyager would be close to the Maquis within two days, optimistically .

And then the escaped Maquis would wish very badly that they never tried to take Voyager away from her rightful Captain.

"That's awfully destructive," mused Ken Dalby as neutrally as he could, not lifting his eyes from their spot on the sensor screen.

"That's the point," snorted Henley from her seat beside him.

Ken could feel the eyes of every Maquis in the shuttle land on him, and he was more than certain that although the small shuttle view screen only showed a few of the passengers on the other shuttles, they were all listening to him.

"What I mean," he asserted, looking up, "Is that if we pick up from that point in Plan E Voyager is going to take a real beating. If we go through with that, it's going to be so much work to repair it all. It's not very far from destroying Voyager completely."

Chakotay stared at him, hard.

"There is a great amount of destruction in that scenario," he admitted. "How would you suggest we change it?"

"We don't use all of the step from Plan E. Localized destruction in Engineering and the Bridge. Less mess for us and it probably will kill everyone there."

Ken heard the murderous intent of his last words ring in his own head.

Henley shook her head, "That might be possible if we were on Voyager, like we planned it. There's no way to execute such specific attack measures with photon torpedoes from the exterior."

Over the comm link, Jarvin's voice sounded as if he were standing right next to Ken.

"We don't even know if anyone activated any or all of the charges."

Henley sank backwards in her seat.

"We didn't think we'd need them. Plan C was supposed to have worked," she muttered. "It wouldn't have been a priority."

There was a heavy silence, the discussion of attacking Voyager deteriorating into the depressing reasons of why there had to be this discussion in the first place.

Chakotay cut into the stillness curtly.

"Let's think it over. Think what we can do, not what we can't."

For a moment there was only the familiar blips as the other shuttles disconnected from the comm channel. Then, simultaneously, everyone moved, turning back to monitor his or her station.

Ken started to glance down at his screen. He felt Henley move closer and peer over his shoulder. He resisted the urge to elbow her away, her closeness bothering him. Chakotay had made her sit down after her incessant pacing made everyone nervous, and inexplicably she had decided to practically sit on his lap.

He forgot all about Henley when he looked down at his screen.

The other shuttle was dead in space. No shields, no life whatsoever.

Nothing, the sensors said, should have caused that.

There was some sort of antique satellite off to port of the dead shuttle, but it was inactive and harmless, the sensors reported.

Ken spun around in his seat, jostling Henley and nearly knocking her off.

"Chakotay, I think you should see this."

Chakotay rose and walked over to Ken's station, drawing the other Maquis' attention. He looked down at the screen, quickly assessing the information.

"What happened?" He asked, concern in his voice.

"The sensors don't see anything that should have disabled it," Ken reported.

"It could be a trap," suggested Henley. "Waiting for us to come up to it so it can attack. How old is this trick?"

"It's too obvious," replied Chakotay. "And stupid. The odds aren't even in its favor. It's only one ship."

"And its not supposed to be able to see us," Ken added. "We're cloaked."

Chakotay stepped back to the center of the floor.

"Power weapons on all shuttles. If it moves, destroy it."

He paused.

"Have you been able to identify the occupants, Dalby?"

Ken glanced downwards.

"One human male, with normal life signs."

Chakotay nodded, his face unreadable.

"Steer clear of that satellite," Chakotay ordered the helmsman.

"It's dead," said Henley.

"And how old is that trick?"

Henley smiled a little, scooting back on to the seat.

Suddenly, she spilled on to the shuttle floor, though Ken knew he hadn't touched her. Everyone in the shuttle was jostled in place. Chakotay gripped the top of a chair for support.

"What happened?"

"Cloaking device is disabled," Ken reported.

"Weapons are down," added Henley, scrambling urgently back on to the seat.

"The other shuttles are reporting the same thing."

"I want to know what did that," Chakotay ordered, striding over and holding tightly to the back of Ken's chair.

"Not the other shuttle!"

Ken stared at the sensor readings, which were refusing to tell him where that jolt had come from.

Behind him, he heard deafening noise and indiscriminate phrases shouted at Chakotay from the shuttle's various stations.

What he did hear was that the cloaking device was decidedly not going back up and none of the shuttles had access any longer to their weapons systems.

He blocked the ruckus out, and then he found out just what the hell had done that.

A ship. A very big ship. In exactly the same location that the ancient satellite had been only moments ago. Well, the satellite was still there; actually, it was part of the ship. If in fact that was a ship and not a space station.

"Chakotay..." he called.

At the same time, a Maquis at another station shouted above the din:

"We're being hailed!"

The sound dropped, everyone silencing and turning expectantly to Chakotay.

Chakotay looked at Ken's sensor screen, face dark and serious.

"Open a channel."

The view screen blinked from the sparkling stars to the dark interior of, apparently, the bridge of the massive ship. The Maquis shuttle was deathly quiet, its occupants alternating from staring at the screen to staring at their commander.

Henley's hushed whisper sounded awkwardly loud as she stared frightfully at the sensor readings and murmured,

"Technologically superior and *huge*, Chakotay. Be nice."

"Weapons wise," Ken clarified, softly. "We might be able to outrun it, though."

"If it wasn't shooting," Henley added.

The humanoid that appeared on the screen was remarkably indistinguishable, gray with a brown ridge where there might be a nose.

"I am the rear quadrant Defensive Minister of Pelora. You have entered the Peloran Empire's space. It is forbidden to travel our space disguised as you were. Such devices are not utilized in this space, nor are weapons. Identify yourselves and purpose."

Chakotay stepped confidently forward, and Ken could swear he had the same charismatic expression he wore when they weaseled their way past inspection points back in the Alpha Quadrant.

"Greetings, Minister. I am Chakotay of the Maquis."

There was a definite change in atmosphere when Chakotay identified themselves as something they'd been pretending for the longest time not to be. Ken saw the faces of so many people light up that he couldn't help but smile as well.

"We are travelers from very far away. Please forgive our accidental infraction of your laws. We were merely protecting ourselves. We are peaceful and of course will abide by your laws."

The Minister was not convinced.

"Explain your purpose here."

Chakotay tried again, visibly moving into the persuasive persona that usually worked so damn well.

"We have no distinct purpose. We are travelers and explorers."

"And refugees," muttered Henley, soft enough to avoid being picked up by the speaker yet loud enough that Chakotay sent her a stern glare out of the corner of his eye.

The Minister's eyes shifted, a motion that Ken had seen enough times on enough border guards to know that it meant, "I still don't trust you." Every Maquis had seen the expression before, and with it there was the distinct feeling of discouragement setting in.

"Are you affiliated with the shuttle that arrived a while ago?" Continued the Minister.

It was easy to tell from his demeanor that being affiliated would probably not get on his good side.

"No," said Chakotay instantly. "We are from the same place, but have no alliance with it."

This pacified the Minister.

"Very well. You may proceed into Peloran Space, but you will not be able to activate your disguise or your weapons."

Chakotay nodded affably, although Ken was beginning to see tension in his back. The view screen blinked back onto space. Chakotay ordered the helmsman to proceed, his order nearly drowned out by Henley's explosion.

"No *weapons*! No cloaks? Chakotay-"

"I don't like it either," Chakotay interrupted, speaking to everyone. "We'll get out of this space as soon as we're able. But, for now, at least, we know that Voyager won't be able to attack us here, and I got the feeling that the Pelorans are the ones detaining the other shuttle."

"Why?" Wondered Ken, out loud.

"It must have done something to upset them. And we're not going to upset them to find out what it takes," responded Chakotay, turning to stare out the view screen.

Tom Paris had a hell of a time wrenching the Medkit open with the condition his hands were in. Once he got the regenerator out and working though, the relief was indescribable.

And if he concentrated on the physical relief then he didn't think as much about how scared he was.

Nothing had happened since that satellite thing had blasted his computer off-line.

Not a damn thing.

He kept waiting for the aliens who had activated the satellite to show their faces, but they didn't.

He kept waiting for the Maquis to discover he was an easy picking and blast him away. But they didn't, either.

Keeping an eye on the view screen-his only way of observing now-he continued working on his hands until the burns and scrapes were mere memories.

It had been only ten minutes since he'd pried himself off of the floor, but Tom could feel every second that was slowly ticking silently by. He almost felt like he was being watched. Which was why he felt the need to look like he was doing something else entirely as he carefully pried the bulkhead off the wall to see if he could manually mess with the components and bring the computer back up, all without touching the controls-which were completely destroyed at the helm-and which he didn't trust not to conduct another blast to his hands.

Not that he didn't think that the same incapacitating shock could be directed through the exposed electronics, but going for the components instead of the control panels seemed a tad bit sneakier.

The sudden hum of the computer and the intensifying light made Tom jump out of his skin.

Because he hadn't touched anything yet.

He turned around slowly, almost expecting to see someone already standing in the shuttle.

There was no one.

Not inside the shuttle, anyway. Through the view screen, he could see a massive ship that definitely hadn't been there when last he looked. He couldn't take his eyes from it as he crossed from where he had been standing to the front of the shuttle. One of the consoles chirped, but he couldn't look away from that huge ship. Or maybe it was a space station. Either way, it was giant.

It kept chirping, insistently, until Tom backed up and finally tore his gaze from the screen.

The ship, the enormous ship, was hailing him.

Apparently their logic was shoot first, then talk.

Tom dropped into the nearest chair, reaching over and activating the comm channel. He was facing away from the screen, as the chair had been turned away from the screen. He heard the screen activate as he began to swivel, the oddest feeling of fear and anticipation taking over his body like being doused in cold water.

The screen blinked from the view of the gigantic ship to a dark room, with a single nondescript occupant. Tom stared at the decidedly non-threatening alien, a slight figure with gray skin and a patch of skin resembling a roach instead of a nose.

It probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, considering that the alien had a much bigger ship-which was actually attached to the so-called satellite that had blasted him, the slightly damaged sensors were only now reporting-superior technology, and seemed to be quite good at damaging ships with inferior technology.

Tom did it anyway.

"What the hell is your problem?" He demanded before the alien could speak.

The hairless skin on the forehead of the alien shot up, indignation obviously not the reaction he was used to.

"I am the rear quadrant Defensive Minister of Pelora," the alien began, flustered.

"And I'm Tom Paris, pilot. What the hell did you do to my ship?"

"You violated Peloran law by attempting to damage my vessel," replied the Minister, gaining composure.

"And what about holding my ship? That's legal?"

"It's standard procedure when two or more related vessels proceed separately to the Peloran border."

"I'm one ship, Minister," Tom said, well aware that the alien was talking about the Maquis.

"I know that," snapped the Minister, offended. "You were followed closely by several disguised ships, of identical making."

"I *didn't* know that," lied Tom smoothly. "When that satellite-which I thought was a satellite, not a ship-detained me I thought I was in imminent danger and defended myself. I didn't know it was that it was a border procedure. I didn't even know this was a border," Tom finished truthfully.

The Minister looked exasperated, but not quite to the point of blasting Tom's shuttle again.

"You're transgression is forgotten, providing you abide by our laws if you are allowed to enter Peloran space."

"Absolutely."

The alien looked at relieved as Tom felt.

"Then, identify yourself and purpose."

"Tom Paris, pilot," Tom repeated.

And I'm fleeing the scene of a really ugly mutiny-no, that didn't sound very good.

"I'm going home. To the Alpha Quadrant."

"As you have no hostile intentions in Peloran space, you may proceed. However, you will be escorted by one of our ships to ensure your compliance to our laws. You cannot utilize weapons in our space."

It sounded to Tom like he just got a free escort of protection from the Maquis.

"Good," Tom said.

The Minister seemed to scowl, cutting off the comm channel.

From somewhere a smaller ship appeared on Tom's sensors. Smaller than the gargantuan, but bigger than Tom's tiny shuttle. Bigger than Voyager, by a bit. Tom felt the jolt as it extended another tractor beam and latched on to him. He could repair the helm in the time it took for the Peloran vessel to propel him through Peloran Space.

And he wouldn't have to worry about the Maquis.

Hell, maybe he'd just sleep.

Harry Kim couldn't help but notice all the damage in Voyager's corridors. There were phaser streaks one every wall, a minimum of one every meter. Half of the doors had huge holes in them from when their occupants tried to escape the locked quarters by blasting their phasers. The carpet was also wrecked, burnt and shredding. If he looked long enough he could imagine it served as a timeline of the attempted mutiny. Smooth, clean and normal, to slightly singed and dirty, to completely unrecognizable, blackened until he could see the plating on the floor.

On his way to Samantha Wildman's quarters, he mentally assessed all the destruction. He'd have to make up repair assignments for all the cosmetic damage, eventually. Once all the system repairs were done, and that wouldn't be for a long while.

He did a double take as he neared the Wildman's quarters. One of the adjacent quarter's entrances was completely mutilated. Not only were the doors mangled by a piece of the doorway had been broken off, and the other half hung down like a broken branch. It didn't even resemble what the quarters of a starship of Voyager's caliber should look like.

Harry reached Sam's quarters. Her door was actually intact. But then again, she and Naomi had been on shore leave during the mutiny. No one had been inside to fight his or her way out.

Hoping not to wake Naomi, although there was nothing he could do to quiet the door controls, he tapped in the appropriate sequence to open the door.

The doors slid smoothly, and thankfully quietly, apart. It was pitch black within, and when the doors slid shut blocking out the light from the corridor, Harry couldn't see a thing. He squinted into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

He still couldn't see anything.

"Computer," he whispered, wincing at the loud beep of recognition. "Lights at twenty percent."

The lights instantly rose, illuminating the previous darkness.

Only seconds later, Harry heard the light patter of a child's feet, followed by the small shadow that entered the room moments before Naomi did.

"Mom?"

"No, Naomi. It's me, Harry."

"Oh." Naomi's face drooped. "Where's my mom?"

"She's in Sickbay," Harry explained, noticing that although in her pajamas, Naomi didn't look to have been napping recently.

"Still?"

Naomi crossed her arms over her chest, her face squeezing into a distinct pout.

"Yeah, Sweetie. She has a lot of patients. She has to take care of them."

Harry walked further into the living area of the quarters.

Unconvinced, Naomi scowled harder.

"She's been there forever. I thought the EMH was supposed to be Voyager's doctor."

Feeling somewhat intrusive, Harry took a seat on the sofa. Naomi, still plainly unhappy, climbed up and took a seat besides him.

"We can't find the EMH, Naomi. Without your mom, there's no one to help the injured."

"What happened to the EMH?" asked Naomi, staring at him.

"We don't know. The computer won't run his program," Harry told her honestly.

He hadn't had that much time to search the annals of the Sickbay files for the Doc's program before being reassigned. He still couldn't believe that the Maquis would delete the EMH, however much resistance he was providing. No one in the Maquis had substantial medical training, and Torres, among many others, could certainly have programmed him into a loyal Maquis doctor.

Remembering his promise to Naomi's mother, Harry got up off the coach and headed to Sam's comm station. He called up Tuvok's station on the Bridge, knowing that there was nowhere else the Vulcan would be. He relayed Sam's request to Tuvok, who had no discernible reaction, only nodding and assuring it would be taken care of. He thanked Tuvok, cutting off the comm link and returning to the coach where Naomi was still sitting.

"When is my mom going to come home?" asked Naomi, plaintively.

"Pretty soon," Harry reassured her, although he honestly didn't know how long Samantha needed to monitor her patients.

"Oh," said Naomi, obviously not believing him. She leaned against the back of the couch, looking a bit sleepier now that her hopes of having her mother come had been dashed.

"Did the people in Sickbay get injured when the Maquis left?" She asked innocently, looking at him from half-closed eyes.

Unsure of just how much Naomi had been told by Neelix or for that matter how much Sam wanted her to know, Harry was tentative to respond.

Naomi took his silence as an affirmative to her question. Her eyes were closing faster now, and Harry took the pillow from the space between them and put in his lap. Naomi practically collapsed on it, confirming that she hadn't been napping at all. As she curled up on it, Harry could barely hear her murmuring as her face pressed into the pillow.

"I guess Mom wanted to go on shore leave so badly 'cause she knew people were going to get hurt when the Maquis left," muttered the child as she drifted off. Then she raised her head, eyes barely open, and said loudly and clearly,

"Computer, lights off."

In the darkness, Harry Kim sat frozen at what Samantha Wildman's daughter had just accidentally revealed.

Maybe fifteen minutes after Harry left Sickbay, Tuvok commed Sam Wildman. He told her that she should be receiving the untreated injured Maquis within the hour. He sounded perfectly neutral, of course. She'd managed to calm down significantly since Harry left, but heard the hoarseness in her own voice and knew Tuvok would too. She'd thanked him for his quick response, not letting on that she was thanking him for being the only person on board whom she could truly trust to not be seeking further revenge against the Maquis. Moments after Tuvok cut the comm line, O'Donnell from the Brig reopened it. He only spoke a few words, telling her that he was beaming in the injured Maquis one at time. He was curt, speaking sharply like he'd just been chastised.

Good.

She turned around to face the bio-bed that she'd cleared, checking the set up of the medical equipment. She hadn't actually treated any conscious Maquis yet. She'd had far more Starfleet patients than Maquis, but the Maquis patients were in far worse condition than the others, and thus far unconscious. Sam picked up the medical tricorder and flipped it open, watching the figure on the bio-bed shimmer into existence.

It was B'Elanna Torres, stretched out on her side, facing away from Sam. Even from the back, Sam diagnosed a grazing phaser blast to the shoulder, which looked to be a few days old. Torres reoriented to the room, sitting up quickly and surveying Sickbay. She glanced over her shoulder, noticing Sam for the first time. She didn't move, just sat there, her lack of reaction making Sam suddenly become nervous. More nervous, anyway. She didn't quite know what she'd been expecting Torres-any Maquis-to do, but to sit quietly and wait for medical treatment was not high on the list.

She circled the bio-bed, running the tricorder over Torres. Another phaser wound, this one to the upper torso. Maybe the Maquis got worse injuries because they didn't stop after being shot once. Torres mutely extended her right hand into the tricorder's path. Sam first stared at the tricorder screen, which said Torres had broken her wrist, rather badly at that. When Sam raised her eyes from the tricorder to the actual injured body part, she saw the massively swollen limb that had to hurt terribly. Forgetting the identity of her patient momentarily, she found herself speaking almost sympathetically.

"How did that happen?"

"Vorik," responded Torres, making direct eye contact for the first time. "And Paris shot me twice."

Sam turned away, reaching for the equipment tray. Over her shoulder, she felt obliged to retort.

"Someone shot Vorik, too," she said, remembering his ugly phaser wound.

"That was Henley," replied Torres, an almost amused innocent tone to her voice. "Not me."

She winced when Sam took hold of her wrist, regenerator in hand. Sam could feel Torres' eyes on her as she held the regenerator over the injured wrist.

"So, where's the EMH?" Torres asked, staring at her outstretched hand.

"That's a good question. If you asked enough of the Maquis, you might find out."

"Oh," said Torres, an inexplicable look of mirth falling over her face.

Torres' apparent amusement at the Doctor's absence irked Sam enough that she was less than gentle in rotating Torres' wrist. If Torres noticed the aggression, she ignored it.

"Is Ken in the Brig?" Sam asked finally, avoiding eye contact.

"No," Torres said smoothly. "He must have left with Chakotay."

Sam continued her ministrations with the regenerator, her mind slowly processing the information. She wasn't sure, actually, how she felt knowing that Ken wasn't on Voyager.

It eliminated the dangerous temptation to go down and see him, which she obviously couldn't do.

And it increased by tenfold the desire to want to know where he was and if he was okay.

As if reading her mind, and if not that certainly reading her face, Torres smirked.

"Don't worry, Janeway's made it clear that's she's going to bring them all back." Torres' lips curled. "You can probably arrange to share a cell."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Having prior knowledge of a mutiny and keeping quiet about it is frowned upon by Starfleet, *Ensign*."

Torres met Sam's eyes, her own wide and knowing.

"I was-"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me. You helped us out. Thanks."

Sam dropped Torres' arm, backing away.

She returned to the tray of instruments, putting down the regenerator.

"If you take off your uniform and get into a patient gown, I'll treat the other injuries."

Torres obliged to that request without speaking any further. In fact, she remained quiet for the rest of the exam, except for wincing when Sam prodded the sore tissue on her belly. Treating Torres' injuries, running completely on automatic, Sam could barely keep from inflicting more. Torres had all but threatened to tell Janeway. Not that Janeway would believe her, Sam calmed herself by thinking. Janeway hadn't even mentioned Ken when Sam had seen her in Sickbay after first being brought back to Voyager.

Of course, she'd been a little occupied then.

After the exam, as Sam was putting away the equipment, Torres scooted off the bio-bed and wandered across Sickbay. Sam turned to watch her, not putting it past Torres to attack one of the sedated Starfleet patients. Or to snatch something and use it as a weapon.

Torres wove around the bio-beds, heading toward the one on which Gerron lay.

She paused by it, leaning over the side. When she looked up, her expression was serious.

"Is he going to be alright?"

"He was hurt pretty badly," Sam replied, not feeling the desire to assure or comfort Torres in any way.

"Would the EMH be able to treat him better than you can?"

Someone had finally alerted Tuvok to the fact that the injured Maquis had yet to be treated. A situation that was in violation of regulation number whatever. B'Elanna Torres didn't know where it said prisoners had to have access to medical care, but it did and Tuvok knew where, so no matter how pissed O'Donnell was, he still had to beam her to Sickbay.

She didn't bother rising from the cell floor, watching O'Donnell's furious face disappear as the tingling transporter beam overtook her.

Sickbay appeared around her. B'Elanna sat up. The phaser wounds to both her shoulder and stomach protested mightily to the movement but she ignored them, peering around and seeing no one, save patients who appeared to be unconscious. They hadn't been that stupid, had they? To beam her into Sickbay without anyone conscious there.

No, they hadn't.

Samantha Wildman, Dalby's paramour, walked out from behind her. She was holding a medical tricorder, making her way to the front of the bio-bed. Wildman looked...odd, was the only word B'Elanna could pick. In silence, Wildman ran the scanner over her. B'Elanna offered her arm out into the path of the tricorder. Looking past her fingers, B'Elanna let her eyes roam around Sickbay. She didn't see the EMH anywhere. Wildman had been training with the Doc for a short while, B'Elanna knew. She had thought that perhaps Wildman had been stuck with her to assure that the other patients were treated by a medical professional, but it appeared that they actually hadn't been able to activate the Doc.

Ha. Morons.

"How did that happen?"

Wildman's voice interrupted. She sounded hoarse and tired, but surprisingly sympathetic. Sympathy was not what B'Elanna had been expecting. This was an interesting development. The Maquis might have an ally who wasn't locked up or light years away from Voyager.

"Vorik," B'Elanna answered, searching Wildman's face for a reaction. "And Paris shot me twice," she added, angrily.

Waking up in a haze of pain and confusion on her Brig cell floor, with the barest memory of Paris shooting her as she rushed him in the Turbo Lift had been an awful experience. She didn't know what had happened to Paris, but she hoped it was very painful and slow.

Wildman turned away, reaching for the equipment tray. She turned her head and tossed a remark completely devoid of sympathy over her shoulder.

"Someone shot Vorik, too."

That wasn't compassion lacing Wildman's words, it was acid.

Oh well. It had been nice to hope, even for a few seconds, that Wildman might be still be on the Maquis' side. Seemed when Wildman no longer had to worry about the violence of the mutiny and whore herself to Dalby for protection, she was perfectly comfortable in a Starfleet uniform. Big shock there.

"That was Henley," B'Elanna pleasantly informed Wildman. "Not me."

Wildman took hold of her wrist, sending lancing pain jolting up B'Elanna's arm. B'Elanna ground her teeth at the sudden reunion with the pain she'd been ignoring for the past week. Upon awakening in the Brig, it had been far more important to determine just why the hell the Maquis had lost while she'd been unconscious than to lie still and experience the agony of a broken limb and two separate festering phaser wounds. Well, she'd been able to do that after the Brig guards had told her to shut up.

Wildman was running the instrument over her wrist, a dark look on her face.

"So, where's the EMH?" B'Elanna asked innocently, watching the instrument's progress and relishing in the relief it was providing.

"That's a good question," Wildman snapped. "If you asked enough of the Maquis you might find out."

"Oh."

At that moment, Wildman fiercely twisted B'Elanna's wrist. That was just nasty. And it *hurt*. B'Elanna chose to ignore it, deciding to wait until after medical treatment to react.

"Is Ken in the Brig?" Wildman was avoiding eye contact, her face as tight as her voice.

She's not supposed to care anymore. Why the hell would she ask?

"No," B'Elanna answered truthfully. "He must have left with Chakotay."

She watched Wildman's face for a reaction. Something flickered across it. A series of somethings followed rapidly.

"Don't worry," B'Elanna said, well aware of the taunting tone in her voice. "Janeway's made it clear that she's going to bring them all back. You can probably arrange to share a cell."

Wildman looked stunned.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Having prior knowledge of a mutiny and keeping quiet about it is frowned upon by Starfleet, *Ensign*," B'Elanna said in the closest imitation of Janeway that she could manage.

Pretty close, apparently. Wildman started stuttering out an excuse.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," B'Elanna said sweetly. "You helped us out. Thanks."

Since Wildman had switched loyalties, it couldn't hurt to point out that her current side wouldn't like her any more if they knew what side she'd been on a week ago. It would be nice to have an ally not locked up, whether through traditional loyalty or equally traditional blackmail.

Wildman turned away, harshly directing her to take off her uniform and get into a patient gown.

It felt surprisingly good to shed the Starfleet uniform. Actually it hurt very badly to lift her arms above her head, but once she dropped the gold and black garment on the floor, she felt better. Removal of Starfleet uniforms was part of what the Maquis had meant to do.

Definitely not in Sickbay after having been shot and having lost, but it was a small...well, it wasn't a victory, it just felt damn good.

B'Elanna felt much better than she had when she'd arrived in Sickbay by the end. Wildman had remained silent while treating the phaser wounds, and it had given B'Elanna a chance to get a good uninterrupted assessment of Sickbay. She noticed Gerron, unconscious or sedated, laid out on a bio-bed. When Wildman retreated to put away various instruments, B'Elanna got up and made her way over to him.

Gerron was still very pale, the same color he'd been all week. It had taken all week for him to vomit up blood, a serious enough symptom for the Brig guards to finally decide that maybe he was going to die if they didn't get him some treatment. They hadn't been interested in Ayala's and her own insistent warnings of his condition up to that point.

B'Elanna felt Wildman's eyes on her from across the room and raised her head to meet them.

"Is he going to be alright?"

"He was hurt pretty badly," Wildman replied coldly.

B'Elanna looked down again.

"Would the EMH be able to treat him better than you can?"

"Probably."

There was a definite trace of expectancy in Wildman's voice, and without the accompanying contempt and anger, B'Elanna might have been tempted to undo what she had done earlier to the EMH.

As it was, she wasn't.

"Then it's a shame you can't find him."

"It's time for you to go back to the Brig. Get back in your uniform."

"I don't want to ever put that thing on again," B'Elanna said simply.

Wildman audibly smacked the heel of her hand into the console she was leaning against, before storming over to the nearest replicator. She shoved the garment that she got from it into B'Elanna hands and returned to the central Sickbay consoles, then turned her back on B'Elanna.

The transporter beam caught her by surprise, considering she'd only just pulled her head through the clothes and that Wildman had only turned around for a second.

The Mess Hall was nearly deserted. The word had yet to spread, probably, that power had been restored and Neelix was cooking something that tasted marginally better than the rations. A week of eating supplies meant for stranded away teams and Neelix's cooking was more than welcome. At this point, Jenny Delaney would normally have inserted some relatively obnoxious remark about how wonderful it was that Tom Paris was no longer involved in food preparation.

But it wouldn't have been funny in the least.

Instead, she and Megan sat in silence in one of the few intact chair and table sets. It appeared that to the Maquis-or some cornered Starfleet crew-chair and table legs made excellent bludgeoning devices, once broken off. Jenny categorically refused to think about the scene that she might have found here during the Maquis mutiny, but she could tell by the way that Megan's eyes wandered aimlessly around the room that was exactly what Megan was doing.

Megan's arm was firmly folded around her side, where one of the Maquis had struck her with some nasty exploding device. It was long healed, by Samantha Wildman of all people. It could have been Ken Dalby who inflicted it in the first place, but Megan didn't remember and Jenny hadn't gotten there fast enough to see her attacker.

The decision Jenny had made next was the reason it was so wonderful to be alone is the Mess Hall, without the aggressive stares, hateful glances, and spiteful whispered remarks.

They weren't hiding from the rest of the crew, but it was nice to find refuge from them. Okay, maybe they were hiding, but it was really hard to get any work done with the knowledge that someone nearby seemed to be inclined to shove her down the nearest Jefferies Tube hatch. Here, Neelix didn't seem to know what had occurred, and didn't care to ask why her single pip was missing.

Because Captain Janeway had ripped it off.

Except for that, her sister's trauma so recent in her memory, and the demolished condition of the Mess Hall, it might have been a normal day having lunch-more like dinner, now-at a time when there wasn't much traffic.

Except that on a normal day they'd be bitching to each other about their days-specifically the Maquis and how much they hated them.

Now, the mere memory of those conversations induced chills. As did the encounters with Chakotay. Running into Torres-jeez, *mere* days before the mutiny.

It was frightening to think how unaware they'd been.

It was more frightening and disgusting to think about how unaware Captain Janeway had been.

And from the tone she'd used while berating Jenny and the others who had avoided the violence, it was clear that the Captain thought she bore no blame whatsoever.

Although unwilling to get herself in deeper trouble by informing the Captain that she was indeed culpable, she hadn't been able to keep from glaring at her during the demotion.

She hadn't been able to keep from crying, either.

At least Megan was considered to have been involuntarily removed from Voyager, and therefore hadn't been regarded a deserter.

Yes, having been bleeding heavily enough to lose consciousness, Megan hadn't been able to have an opinion on whether or not she wanted to stick around to see if they could be target practice for more Maquis who were in fact very skilled as it was.

Captain Janeway may have distinguished that they were two different people, but as far as the rest of the crew was concerned at the moment, they were one and the same and they were both traitors. The fact that Megan retained her single pip was of unimportance.

No matter what Janeway did to Jenny in the long run-and at worst it seemed to be limited to permanent confinement to the Brig or her quarters-she didn't and wouldn't regret launching in the escape pod.

Jenny could still feel her sister's blood flowing over her arms as it had when she'd held her in the escape pod.

As long as she only felt it as a memory and Megan sat beside her.

The door to the Mess Hall slid open, loud against the silence.

With her back to the door, Jenny had to judge from the expression on Megan's face. Her sister's eyes slid to the doorway, face tense.

Fleeing the ship and then to be found shirking the work would do well to piss off anyone who didn't already hate her.

Megan's face relaxed fractionally. Jenny glanced over her shoulder to see for herself.

The Mess Hall door slid shut behind Harry Kim. Harry was holding a bundled up blanket to his chest. He stopped only steps inside, probably as stunned by the damage as Jenny had been.

He started walking again, shifting the blanket he was holding, heading towards them. As he got closer, it became clear that there was small, sleeping, figure wrapped up in the blanket. Harry looked like he'd been asleep recently, too. The hair on the back of his head was pointing every which way.

On any other day, Jenny would have immediately started teasing him about it.

On this day she waited to see what he said first.

Megan spoke first, rising from her seat to greet him.

"Hi, Harry," she said softly, minding the tuft of red hair peeking out of the top of the blanket.

"Hi, Megan," he answered. Turning his head toward Jenny, in the first relatively kind voice she'd heard since returning to Voyager, "Hello, Jenny."

"I heard that one of you was injured by one of the Maquis."

He was positively the only person besides Sam Wildman to have expressed any interest or sympathy in Megan's injury.

"Yeah. But I'm fine now," Megan said brightly.

He smiled at her.

"Glad to hear it." He glanced back to Jenny.

She held her breath, not really pinning Harry as the type of person to say something like, "I heard you're a cowardly traitor," for example.

"Neelix is in the kitchen?" he asked.

It was a totally innocuous question but it made Jenny really happy.

"I think he went back to the storage area."

"Thanks."

He moved on, heading towards the door to storage.

Pablo Bateheart was having a difficult time concentrating on the helm controls. It just felt indescribably different on the Bridge.

Not just because the first officer, among the other Maquis Bridge officers were gone.

Even the tone of the silence that dominated the Bridge had changed. Before it had been respectful and professional, with brief occasional friendly banter between stations. Now the silence was just chilly and cautious.

Cautious because making Captain Janeway's face turn any darker would definitely be a bad thing, if even possible.

So, distracted as he was, Pablo didn't let it affect his performance.

The change in the Bridge atmosphere, disturbing as it was, was significantly better than it had been when the Maquis had been on it last.

It had been mildly surprising to hear the acid exchange between the Captain and Chakotay; that kind of thinly veiled aggression was common between Maquis and Starfleet crew, but the rumor mill had Janeway and the first officer sleeping together.

The rumor mill was very wrong, for shortly after the exchange, Chakotay took it upon himself to shoot the Captain.

Pablo's recollection ended shortly after that, having been hit in the back by someone firing either at Chakotay and missing, or deliberately aiming at him. He'd woken in Sickbay, with many injured colleagues, among them Janeway herself and even Tuvok.

A good number of the Maquis, including Chakotay, had escaped in shuttles, apparently.

They had a good head start, but left easily traceable ion trails.

Janeway had made it unquestionably clear that the escaped Maquis would be captured, no matter what.

Pablo had his doubts about whether they'd be able to bring the Maquis back, even if they caught up to them.

It was while he was thinking what Janeway would probably consider heresy, that sensors reported they were approaching a vessel.

Janeway ordered a full stop and the vessel appeared on the view screen. After a tense pause, Janeway asked if the image was magnified.

It wasn't

In fact, Janeway had to have the image compressed, just so the whole ship would fit on the screen. Tuvok quietly ticked off the sensor readings.

Its capabilities certainly matched its size. Predictably, its maneuverability and speed were impeded by its size, and Pablo thought that if it proved to unfriendly some quick flying might save them. Still, he hoped the Maquis hadn't picked up any alien allies during their flight from Voyager.

He was too immersed in analyzing the helm data to notice who initiated the comm link, but suddenly it was open.

The Captain's typical introduction had already begun, as Pablo raised his head to look the view screen. The alien listening to Janeway was human-sized and gray, with a brown ridge where Pablo had a nose.

Janeway continued speaking. When he was bored and sure he wouldn't get caught-and now was certainly not the time-Pablo sometimes mouthed Janeway's introduction speech right along with her. He knew exactly what she was going to say.

She was doing it now, identifying herself and Voyager, assuring the as yet unidentified alien that they were peaceful explorers. Janeway did, however, have an unusually hard edge to her voice.

The alien spoke then, identifying himself as the rear quadrant defense minister of Pelora. He wanted to know their purpose in Peloran space.

What Janeway said next, Pablo couldn't have mouthed along. If one forgot the situation, it was truly bizarre.

Captain Janeway had been preaching tolerance, understanding, and unification with the Maquis since the beginning. After what had just happened it was predictable that her feelings might have changed, but it was still surreal to hear the words coming out of her mouth.

Janeway rose from her seat and stalked across the Bridge, stopping behind the helm chair and resting her hands on its back.

Pablo felt her grip his chair, rather tightly at that.

"We are pursuing several shuttle craft which escaped from Voyager a week ago."

She started drumming on the helm chair with her fingertips.

"They contain fugitive mutineers. They were a terrorist group we were forced to integrate into our crew and staged an unsuccessful violent attempt to overthrow my command. We believe them to extremely dangerous and wish to take them into custody for our own safety as well as the security of whomever they may encounter in the future."

The alien on the screen reacted to this information.

"Several shuttlecraft entered our space hours ago." The Minister seemed deeply perturbed. "How did this terrorist group identify themselves?"

"They're called the Maquis."

The Minister had definitely heard that word before.

"Minister, may I invite you to come on board Voyager, where we can more intimately discuss the situation?"

"There is nothing to discuss," replied the Minister. "One shuttle is already in custody for firing upon this ship. The occupant claimed to be unaffiliated with the others, but clearly was. We will return that shuttle to Voyager and the others will follow shortly."

"Let us assist you," Janeway said, steadily drumming her fingers near Pablo's neck.

"Unnecessary, Captain. This region was once full of conflict and the Peloran government is dedicated to preserving the current peace. We will not allow foreign conflict to enter our space for it could potentially escalate. I would not have allowed the shuttlecraft to enter, had I known. Once these Maquis are returned to Voyager we would ask that you detour around Peloran space."

Janeway was now tapping the heel of her head against Pablo's shoulder. The rhythm had altered slightly, and Janeway was oozing irritation, if well disguised.

"Thank you, Minister."

The comm channel blipped off, and the Bridge was left in the cold silence.

Janeway removed her hand from Pablo's shoulder, returning to her seat.

"Now," she said softly. "We wait."

Naomi was stirring in Harry's arms, not quite awake but no longer completely asleep. Tom had told him that Naomi was a notoriously light sleeper, but exhaustion seemed to be keeping the little girl down. She'd stayed asleep for four whole hours, and shamefully, so had he. It had been completely accidental. He'd been sitting in the dark, trying to think of ways to turn Naomi's incriminating statement about her mother into something innocent. He'd failed, miserably so. And then suddenly he'd been opening his eyes and cringing at the extremely painful crick that had developed in his neck.

When he checked the chronometer, shockingly nearly four hours had passed. Naomi had still been asleep, but he hadn't been willing to stay seated and concoct further virtually baseless suspicions about Samantha Wildman. He knew Neelix had been on shore leave with the Wildmans. Harry was sure that Neelix could disperse his paranoia.

Or, alternatively, confirm it.

Naomi had barely moved when he slid the blanket beneath her and wrapped it around her. He thought she might wake up when he lifted her, but she only snuggled tighter into his hold. Even the bright lights in the corridor didn't bother her, nor the hum of the Turbo Lift.

She'd started to wiggle while he was talking to the Delaney twins, and he'd had to cut the conversation short. He was almost glad, not feeling that comfortable around the twins.

It was all over the ship what had happened. One of the twins had been injured during the mutiny and the other had taken her sister and fled Voyager in an escape pod.

From their nervous faces and uneasy voices it was plain to see that they had been taking much abuse from the rest of the crew, in addition to whatever punishment Janeway had handed down.

Harry was careful not to add to it. It was very easy to understand panicking under those circumstances. He'd been panicking, too, but had had the sturdy and logical presence of Tuvok to remind him to stay sane. If he'd been Jenny and seen a relative, an identical twin -someone with his own face-injured, he was sure he would have seen the appeal of leaving the ship.

Terror in the face of the mutiny he could understand. Prior knowledge, the ability to warn Voyager and maybe even abort it, he could not.

Naomi continued to stir as he walked into the storage area where Jenny had directed him. Neelix rose from a place on the floor. Knowingly, he wordlessly took Naomi out of Harry's arms. He carried her further into the storage room, settling her onto a makeshift cot set on the floor.

He slid a partition shut, blocking off the area.

"She's really tuckered out, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "She is."

"She's been waking up five times a night to see if her mother has come back."

"Sam's pretty busy in Sickbay. It might be a while."

"I know. She asked me to wait for her before answering any of Naomi's questions. That doesn't help Naomi, though."

"Sam's pretty upset with what happened. Especially with Ken Dalby's involvement."

"She has a lot to explain to Naomi," Neelix went on.

She has a lot to explain to everyone, Harry thought.

"When Ken Dalby and Lon Suder tried to kill Tom, she told Naomi that he had fallen down." Neelix smiled marginally. "I guess she'll have to do better than that.

Harry had completely forgotten about the attempt by the Maquis on Tom's life. After the attempt on the Captain's life, as well as on virtually every other Starfleet crew member's life, it had seemed pretty normal for what the Maquis had been doing. And since sometime during the mutiny Tom had simply disappeared-Harry chose to believe that his friend had made it to a shuttlecraft and safely escaped-he hadn't thought of it.

Now his only thought was if Sam had known about the attempt on Tom's life beforehand.

She could not have. She just could not have.

Harry become aware that his mouth was hanging open and he was standing there in stunned silence.

He recovered.

"How long was Sam in a relationship with Dalby, anyway?"

"She never really told anyone when it began, understandably. Only later was she more honest about where she was spending her free time. It was probably under a year."

"Oh."

A year. Sam had to have known what the Maquis were up to. How could you spend a year with someone and not know virtually their every move?

The partition Neelix had closed now creaked open. Naomi, hair tousled and face scrunched up, stepped through.

"Neelix." She was not very far from whining. "I'm hungry."

"I'll get you something, sweetie." Neelix turned to head back into the Mess Hall. "Would you like something, Harry?"

"Sure." He really wasn't that hungry, though. His appetite had steadily decreased, right along with his opinion of Naomi's mother.

Naomi and Harry took a seat at the table vacated by the Delaneys. Neelix headed to the kitchen. Harry sat across from Naomi and watched her petulant face.

"So, Naomi, did you have fun on shore leave?"

"No!" Naomi was emphatic.

"Why not?"

"It was raining. Everything was green. Mom was fighting with everybody. No one wanted to go back to Voyager and I did."

That was not quite the evidence against Samantha Wildman that Harry was looking for.

"And they were keeping secrets."

"What kind of secrets?"

"I don't know. They were secrets. Everyone was whispering so I wouldn't hear."

Naomi toyed with her fork.

"And I didn't get to say goodbye to Tom. Neelix said he left with the Maquis."

"Yeah, he did."

At the same time as the Maquis departure, anyway. *With* the Maquis was doubtful.

"I'm going to miss him," Naomi said softly.

"I am too, Naomi," Harry said. "I already do."

In the time since the smaller Peloran vessel had grasped Tom's shuttle in its tractor beam, he'd repaired the damaged helm controls. He'd picked up and disposed of the smashed remnants of what had been going to be his dinner. He'd replicated a new bowl of tomato soup, but after raising the spoon to his lips and experiencing one of the most painful sensations in the entire universe, he carefully set the bowl aside and picked up the regenerator he'd been using earlier.

He hadn't quite done an adequate repair job on the damage done to his face-particularly his mouth-by his sudden impact with the floor.

He was more careful and precise with the regenerator this time. Of course, he wasn't distracted currently with any thoughts of his imminent death, as he had been last time.

His soup was cold when he finished. He rose, picking up the bowl and returning to the replicator. The soup sloshed from side to side as he set it back in the slot.

That was expected, he'd been walking with it and stopped suddenly to put it down. It wasn't the motion of the liquid that made him stop and stand still, it was another feeling.

When he'd been in flight training, one of his instructors said to feel the motion of the ship. Other instructors thought that was ridiculous, because one didn't need to rely on a feeling because of all the helm instruments.

Tom didn't usually notice, but he definitely felt something.

On this instinct he returned to the helm and took in the sensor information.

The Peloran vessel towing him had just reversed course.

That move would definitely not get him through Peloran space faster, as the border Minister had clearly wanted him to go.

Tom wasn't ready to overreact just yet, although the thought of the Pelorans changing their plans all of a sudden was setting off alarms in his head.

We need to talk this out, Tom thought. He took a seat and hailed the Peloran vessel.

The alien that responded closely resembled the one at the border, although Tom instantly noticed a different demeanor that told him indignation and sarcasm was not the way to go with this one.

But there was nothing wrong with being direct and demanding to know where he was being taken.

"You've reversed course. Why?"

The alien stared at him scornfully.

"We have orders to return this shuttle," He paused, glancing downwards at some kind of reading. "To a ship called Voyager."

"Unhh?"

Was the first unintelligent sound Tom produced, and it was followed by several more disjointed syllables as Tom's brain went into overdrive so fast that his mouth couldn't follow.

He realized pretty quickly from the expression on the alien's face that he had better put himself back together and talk his way out of this.

"No!"

Still one syllable, but actually coherent.

The ridge on the alien's face moved up an inch in what was probably a sneer.

"No?"

In any culture in any quadrant in any part of the universe the expression on the alien's face was one of somebody in a position of power about to get considerable pleasure out of abusing someone in a lesser standing.

Tom knew that face. He knew that if he didn't take a deep breath and calm down he would not get anywhere.

Well, he might get back to Voyager.

His chest tightened at the mere thought.

"No," Tom said, calmly and deliberately. "At the border, the rear quadrant Defense Minister said that I would be escorted through Peloran space."

While speaking, Tom quietly checked the status of his weapons systems. His promise of obeying Peloran law and not firing any weapons was completely negated if they wanted to bring him back to Voyager.

"That is correct. Voyager is outside Peloran space. They will take custody of your shuttle once we escort you to the border."

The ridge moved again in what was definitely a smirk.

"Wait," Tom began.

"It is not negotiable."

The screen blinked dark, bringing back up the view of space and stars.

A stream of profanity raced through Tom's mind, aimed half at the Pelorans and half at Janeway. He ground his teeth together and resisted pounding his fist against the controls.

Then, before he had time to think twice and decide it was a really bad idea, Tom powered the shuttle's weapons, hitting the keys with a bit more force than was necessary.

It was a whole half-second before the Peloran vessel noticed, hailing him again.

The interior of the Peloran vessel again filled the view screen. Simultaneously, his sensors alerted him that although smaller than the gargantuan border guard ship, his escort had substantial weapons, all of which were now activated and aimed at him.

"It is forbidden to activate your shuttle's weapons in Peloran space."

It was not the threat of the Peloran ship that made Tom reach over and lower his weapons.

"Oops," he said sourly. "My mistake."

The rational side of Tom that wasn't blinded by fury had managed to convince him that trying to fight his way free in the middle of Peloran space was far more suicidal than doing it when he was closer to the border.

Closer to the border meant closer to Voyager, that he knew.

The nasty Peloran disappeared from the view screen, leaving Tom alone with his thoughts, which incredibly managed to get more profane.

Eventually, though, the sound of his pounding heart echoing in his ears drowned out his obscenity laced internal mantra on what he would rather have done to him than return to Voyager.

He couldn't sit still, getting to his feet and pacing the shuttle confines.

His heart was beating abnormally fast. His breathing was unusually rapid, too. His desire to kick something was overwhelming.

He was either having a panic attack of some sort or his brain was revolting and punishing his body for having to deal with the thought of returning to Voyager after everything he'd done to get off.

In keeping with his terrible luck, time started to fly. Seriously. Every time he looked at the chronometer-and since he couldn't stop checking it, that was quite frequently-an obscene amount of time had passed from when he last looked at it.

Tom sat down at the helm, finally. He rested his elbows on the surface, burying his head in his hands. He slowed his breathing, listening to his heart resume a normal rhythm. In the peaceful darkness of his palms, he came up with a relatively rational plan.

Rational because it probably wouldn't get him killed.

But there was now way he was willingly returning to Voyager. None whatsoever.

The peace he'd found by blocking out reality was abruptly destroyed when he raised his head.

He shuddered involuntary, staring out of the view screen at Voyager.

Harry left the Mess Hall, suspicions about Samantha Wildman not cooled but roaring. He didn't get far in corridor before three different crewmen stopped him to relay the latest news.

It seemed Janeway had just gotten a whole lot of help in her pursuit of the Maquis. The Maquis had entered the space of a technologically advanced race, who weren't very happy to learn that they had just allowed shuttles full of violent mutineers into their territory.

The Pelorans had stated their intention to remove the shuttles from their space, and return the Maquis to Voyager's custody.

It certainly sounded simple.

The Maquis, Harry was sure, would make it anything but.

Harry had a duty shift on the Bridge in five minutes, so it looked like he was going to have a front row seat to whatever happened.

He knew he was going to witness far more than the Maquis' peaceful surrender.

The Bridge was silent when he entered it from the Turbo Lift. Janeway was sitting in her chair, staring straight ahead. She didn't so much as glance at him as he made his way back to his station. He took over his position, noting the presence of a truly giant alien ship nearby.

So these were the Pelorans.

Actually, judging from the size and capabilities of that ship, the Maquis just might surrender.

Or fight back and end up getting destroyed.

Which would be an enormous shame. Because it would mean that the number of Maquis on Voyager would not double, that their leader would not return for them to unite behind, and that Voyager would not find itself in the exact same position as when they first appeared in the Delta Quadrant.

There was nothing wrong, in Harry's opinion, with having fewer Maquis.

It was fine with him if the Maquis got themselves destroyed while the Pelorans were trying to capture them.

But his thoughts were only thoughts, for moments later Tuvok reported the approach of another, smaller Peloran vessel, towing one of Voyager's shuttles by a tractor beam.

Janeway rose from her seat. Although she had her back to him, Harry could read the triumph in her movements.

"On screen."

The smaller Peloran vessel crossed the coordinate line labeled as the Peloran Border. It dropped to impulse, staying close to the border.

"We're being hailed," Harry said to the Captain. "Audio only"

"Open a channel."

"Voyager, we have retrieved one of the shuttlecraft," the Peloran voice spoke. "Once you have taken custody, we will join the other ships in the retrieval of the other shuttlecraft.

"Thank you for your assistance," Captain Janeway began.

"We would recommend caution with this shuttlecraft," the voice interrupted. "The pilot was displeased with being returned."

"As expected."

The channel closed, and Janeway turned halfway around. There was a distinctive smirk plastered across her features.

"Tractor beam, if you would, Mr. Kim."

Harry did. He watched the beam extend to surround the shuttle, distinguishable from the Peloran tractor beam by its color.

There was absolutely no reason for the two tractor beams to have any reaction to each other

So there definitely shouldn't have been a miniature explosion, followed immediately by the retraction of both ships' tractor beams.

But there was. And suddenly the shuttle was free. The Peloran ship was reversing course and returning to Peloran space.

Before Janeway asked, but because he knew she would, Harry tried to reestablish the tractor hold.

He couldn't.

The shuttle was deftly maneuvering itself. Whoever was the pilot knew what he was doing.

At the helm, Bateheart agreed, muttering to himself, "Who the hell is flying that?"

"Take out its engines," Janeway ordered, brow hunched.

"Firing," responded Tuvok.

The shuttle pilot was quick, but not quick enough to avoid getting hit.

Quick enough to reposition the shuttle so that the damage occurred elsewhere, keeping the engines online, however, as Tuvok reported moments later.

Janeway's head snapped back furiously. At her command, Tuvok fired again.

A small explosion rose from the shuttle. It went dead in space.

Janeway dropped into her seat.

"Tractor beam."

This time, the tractor beam smoothly engulfed the shuttle, drawing it quickly towards the Shuttle Bay hatch.

"Tuvok," Janeway directed, needlessly since he was already halfway across the Bridge.

Tuvok disappeared into the Turbo Lift, calling for a security team to report to the Shuttle Bay 1.

Ten minutes after he left, Tuvok commed the Bridge.

"There is only one occupant, Captain."

"Who?" It very clear who she wanted it to be. But it wasn't Chakotay, and Harry was not expecting what Tuvok said next.

"Tom Paris. And he requires medical attention."

"What the hell are they doing?"

Henley's tense voice cut through the silence. None of the other Maquis were speaking, too entranced by the sight of several Peloran vessels through the view screen.

"Boxing us in." Chakotay heard Dalby say. There was strain in Dalby's voice, too.

"How many are there?" He asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Six," Dalby said.

Those weren't impossible odds.

"And I'm reading another fleet of six on their way."

Chakotay heard more than one person exhale a soft expletive.

He felt the eyes of his Maquis on him, but it was Dalby who spoke first.

"Sir," he began questioningly.

"Hail them."

"Which one?"

"Whichever one answers."

They didn't get a response until they were completely surrounded by all twelve ships. By that time, everyone was jittery. Dalby couldn't stop combing his hand through his hair. Henley looked like she wanted to start pacing again.

From another shuttle, Jarvin had already expressed his desire to shoot something.

Chakotay told him-told everyone-very clearly that there would be no shooting.

The Peloran who answered the hail was similar in appearance to the one at the border. It was immediately apparent that this one was significantly less easily persuaded. Probably some kind of military commander, if one was thinking tactically.

He could tell it wouldn't work just by the look in the alien's eyes, but Chakotay tried anyway.

In a smooth, competent tone-the one that was wonderful for explaining to border guards at the Demilitarized Zone that he was certainly not smuggling weapons to anybody and how dare they accuse him of such a thing-he began to speak.

"You have taken unmistakable hostile actions against us. We have been granted safe passage through Peloran space by..."

"Rear quadrant defense minister," Henley quietly supplied.

"By the rear quadrant defense minister," Chakotay repeated after her.

"Permission has been withdrawn," the alien said curtly. "Terrorist groups of any culture are not welcome. Your shuttlecraft will accompany us back to the border or we will disable your engines and tow you back."

"Who," Chakotay countered, "judged us a terrorist group?"

A Maquis in the back could be heard muttering, "Bitch!", but Chakotay ignored him.

"This is not negotiable. Will you return willingly or must we disable your shuttles?"

Pausing, Chakotay let his eyes roam around the shuttlecraft. There was not a single willing face there, nor were there any on the other shuttles, he knew.

But there was also not a single suicidal face among them, either.

"Willingly," he said, letting all pretense drop from his voice. "Although we must protest your involvement in something that does not concern you."

"We became involved once you entered our space. Once you have departed Peloran territory, we will no longer be involved."

The view screen went back to a view of the exterior of one of the vessels.

"We're being held in tractor beam. All of us," Dalby said softly.

"I hope you have a plan," sighed Henley.

She jolted from her seat and started pacing again.

This time, Chakotay didn't stop her.

The Brig guards were whispering to each other. And whatever they were talking about seemed to be good news.

To them, anyhow.

Try as she might, B'Elanna couldn't hear a damn thing. Discreetly listening from the center of her cell, she heard only murmurs. Pressed up against the force field, rather blatantly, she heard nothing but the fizz of her body against it.

Even if she had been able to hear anything, the two Brig guards immediately stopped talking to each other and told her to step back.

She did-not without a parting obscene gesture-returning to the rear of the cell. Ayala inched over to give her room on the bench without being asked. Probably because the last time that he hadn't moved she'd knocked him onto the floor.

"What are they talking about?"

"I don't know," she snapped, keeping her voice hushed.

"They look happy."

"I know."

"That's not good."

"I know that, too."

"They could have news about Chakotay and the others," Ayala said after a moment.

She knew instantly what he was imagining.

"If Chakotay had been captured or anything of the sort, they'd tell us."

"Why?"

"So they could gloat," she told him. "Break our spirits by catching our leader."

"I guess so," Ayala replied, not particularly believing her.

"Chakotay's not going to do anything to get captured," B'Elanna reassured him. "If he's coming back to Voyager it's on his own terms."

Ayala nodded.

"We might be able to help him somehow," she continued, lowering her voice even more. She didn't care if the guards heard them wondering about the conversation, but they couldn't hear them conspiring.

"Yeah?" Ayala snorted, loudly. "From in here? How?"

"Shut up," B'Elanna hissed, glancing over at the Brig guards.

"Okay," Ayala said, considerably softer. "How? Everyone's in the Brig."

"Samantha Wildman isn't."

"She's not on our side anymore, B'Elanna. She only was because she thought we'd win."

"I know. But she was on our side once, and I think she'd do a lot to keep Janeway from knowing that."

"When I was in Sickbay for the cut on my back, she had me restrained to the bio-bed," Ayala insisted. "She was very clear, she hates us. And Janeway wouldn't believe anything we said about her."

"I think I upset her," B'Elanna mused at the first piece of information. "Look, it doesn't matter whether or not Janeway would jump out an airlock before believing us, Wildman thinks she'd believe us. If we could get access to a terminal in Sickbay, we could do something."

"One of us has to be in Sickbay for that," Ayala pointed out.

"Yes. Someone has to get injured again. And then that someone has to intimidate Wildman into letting them get on the computer."

"Without making her mad like you did."

"Yes."

"The new command codes would be useful," Ayala said thoughfully.

B'Elanna nodded, already planning.

Tom gradually became aware of a figure in a Starfleet uniform moving around in his peripheral vision. He felt a little woozy, but it was already fading. Damn Tuvok and his nerve pinch.

The mental stream of profanity that had begun on his shuttle started up again. How badly he had wished never to see anyone wearing one of those again.

With his eyes in slits, he couldn't tell where he was. Back on Voyager, that was for sure. But not in the Brig, that was a surprise. And if he wasn't in the Brig, then maybe he wouldn't be on Voyager for much longer. The Starfleet uniform walked closer to him. From the position on his back, he couldn't see above the person's abdomen. He was completely still, eyes nearly shut. When the uniform was within arm's length, he struck.

Tom wrapped one ha