Ragnarok (14 page)

Chakotay studied the ensign for a moment before replying, “Aren’t we the cheerful bunch. All right, so we don’t know what to expect from the P’nir, that’s no reason for us to assume the worst. Yes, we’re prisoners, but they may be negotiating with Captain Janeway for our release right now. As long as we’re alive, there’s hope. And don’t forget Ensign Kim; he’s out there somewhere.”

“Yes, sir,” Rollins replied wearily. “I haven’t forgotten Harry Kim.”

The ship shuddered; Janeway grabbed at a railing to steady herself.

“Engineering!” she shouted. “Can you give us additional power for the shields?”

Engineering was a madhouse; crew members were hurrying about, trying to steady the energy flows that kept the ship running despite the fluctuating feedback from the battered shields. The feedback was plainly perceptible here as deep thudding whenever the Hachai attacked, and an uneven vibration in the deckplates beneath their feet. The steady blue-white glow of the warp core seemed to have intensified, but that was only because the regular lighting had dimmed as power was diverted to the defensive systems.

In the midst of chaos the chief engineer leaned forward to shout into the communicator.

“Sorry, Captain,” B’Elanna Torres replied, as she struggled to do a dozen things simultaneously, “you’ve got whatever power we can spare.”

Then she noticed a readout. “But I’ll try,” she said.

She worked the controls, then smiled.

“You’ve got it,” she said.

Sometimes, Torres thought, the Voyager’s state-of-the-art bioneural computer net could be a real nuisance; like most new, relatively untried technology, it was finicky and prone to unforeseen problems.

Sometimes, though, it worked just the way it was supposed to, and when that happened the bioneural equipment was an unmitigated delight.

That was the case now; the computer had been suffering from excessive heat leaking through from the raging battle outside, and had, acting entirely on its own in the interest of self-preservation, begun using the ship’s recycling systems to convert waste heat to usable energy.

It had been directing this energy to reserve, but the tap of a button let Torres redirect it to the shields.

Torres enjoyed having decent equipment to work with; in her years with the Maquis all she’d had was outmoded junk. Now, if she only had a source for spare parts, she thought, life would be just about perfect—at least, the portion of her life that centered on her work.

And that assumed, of course, that her life wasn’t about to come to an abrupt end.

The ship shook suddenly, and the energy reading for the shields dipped slightly. Somewhere something hissed sharply as a conduit buckled.

“What the hell is going on out there, anyway?” she asked a nearby crewman—she didn’t remember his name; many of these Starfleet people in their tidy uniforms still looked pretty much alike to her, and this wasn’t one of the regular Engineering personnel, just someone running an errand. “Who are those people, and what are they fighting about?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” the man replied, “but it’s one hell of a big battle out there. Mr. Tuvok compared it to Ragnarok.”

Torres stared at him. “What’s Ragnarok?”

The crewman blinked. “The final battle of the Norse gods,” he said.

“You know.”

“I do?” Torres asked.

“Uh… you didn’t know?” He blinked again, and belatedly added, “Sir?”

“No,” Torres said. “I know who the Norse gods were—Thor and Odin, right? Or were those Greek? But I never heard of this Ragnarok thing—why would I?”

“Well, I thought—I mean, it’s a legendary battle…” He saw her blank expression, stammered, and said, “I thought you’d know about famous battles, what with… that is…” He saw the growing anger in her expression and decided to stop without finishing the sentence—but he couldn’t help looking at the ridged brow-plate that was the most visible sign of her Klingon ancestry.

“What would I know about battles?” Torres shouted, grabbing the crewman by the front of his uniform and lifting him off the floor.

“I’m an engineer, dammit, not a soldier!”

Just then the ship shook under another Hachai barrage, and Torres tossed the crewman aside and hurried to tend her engines.

The crewman, unhurt, picked himself up off the floor and stared at Torres, amazed that someone that size, even a Klingon, could be strong enough to throw him around like that. She wasn’t very big at all, considerably smaller than he was, but she had lifted him without any apparent effort.

Klingons were apparently stronger than they looked. Given how formidable many of them looked, that was a rather frightening thought.

He brushed himself off and muttered to one of the Engineering crew, “I thought all Klingons studied battles and warrior myths.”

The engineer glanced surreptitiously at Torres. “She’s only half-Klingon,” he whispered back. “She was raised on Earth, and she likes to favor her human side. Doesn’t like it when people take her for a full Klingon.”

“Well, she’s got Klingon strength and a Klingon temper, anyway.”

“Don’t tell her that!”

The crewman nodded; he didn’t want to find himself on the floor again—or worse.

Besides, he was supposed to get back up to the bridge with his report.

On the bridge, at that moment, Janeway demanded, “Assessment of the situation, Mr. Tuvok.”

“Our own circumstances are precarious, Captain,” the Vulcan replied, as he turned to read one of the wall displays. “Due to the superiority of the P’nir shield technology over Hachai offensive weaponry, the Hachai are accustomed to operating by englobement, and have pursued that tactic against us, making it impossible for us to simply retreat the way we came. We must instead maneuver for survival, while looking for openings in the Hachai formations. Such openings are inevitable, but it is not inevitable, nor even probable, that they will allow us immediate escape from the conflict; it’s more likely that we will need to find our way through several partial englobements before breaking into open space.”

“Is that going to be a serious problem?” Janeway asked. “You said we could hold out for hours.”

“That depends on what methods you choose to employ, and on the attitude of the P’nir,” Tuvok replied, turning to face her across the pale gray console that separated his station from the central level of the bridge. “If we do not return fire, the Hachai will be able to close in more tightly on us; if we fight, the Hachai will presumably be forced to keep their distance, and openings will therefore be more likely to occur, but we can expect heavier concentrations of fire directed at us in return. Our perceived willingness not to merely fend off, but if necessary to destroy, Hachai ships will also affect the outcome.”

“We’ll do what we have to,” Janeway replied. “What was that about the P’nir attitude?”

Tuvok explained, “While we must assume that the Hachai will be uniformly hostile, we do not yet know whether the P’nir will ignore us, or aid us, or perhaps even join the Hachai in attacking us.”

“I should think they’d be willing to help us,” Janeway said.

“Isn’t there an old saying, `My enemy’s enemy is my friend’?”

“As with so many of your human proverbs, Captain,” Tuvok said, “there is a counter to that—`Better the devil you know than the devil you do not.”” “Well, then, let’s let the P’nir know who we are,” Janeway snapped. She glanced forward; Paris was far too busy keeping Voyager clear of Hachai attacks to be bothered. She looked to port and saw that Kim’s station was vacant.

“Get someone in here to take over in Ops,” she called. Then she turned back to starboard. “Tuvok,” she said, “see if you can open a channel to the P’nir.”

“Aye-aye.”

Janeway watched the main viewscreen as weapons fire blossomed vividly across their shields. The image wheeled and veered as Paris maneuvered the ship.

“The P’nir are refusing our hail, Captain,” the Vulcan reported.

“Damn,” Janeway said.

The ship shook as a Hachai blast struck it squarely.

“Shields at ninety-four percent, Captain,” Tuvok reported “Mr. Paris, if you will notice…”

“The gap ahead, starboard,” Paris replied. “I see it, thanks.”

“Captain, should we return fire?” Tuvok asked.

“How does it affect our odds?” Janeway demanded.

“Due to the fact that it will make us more dangerous and cause the Hachai to concentrate greater effort on us, our odds of destruction in each encounter will increase,” Tuvok said.

“However, because our weapons should cause the Hachai to keep their distance, the odds of escape from any given attempt at entrapment also improve. The net result is that fighting will not significantly change the odds of our survival and eventual freedom, but will accelerate the outcome, whichever it may prove to be.”

“It’ll make whatever’s going to happen happen faster,” Janeway said.

“Yes,” Tuvok said. “And it may also affect the attitudes of both the Hachai and the P’nir toward us. We have insufficient data on their respective psychologies to determine just what that effect might be.”

“Well, we’re not in any hurry yet, not while the shields are still solid,” Janeway said. She stared at the blazing inferno on the viewscreen, considering then asked, “Since we’re in here anyway, can we get a closer look at that globe?”

“I don’t think so,” Paris replied. “I don’t have a lot of choice about where we go, Captain, not if I want to keep us in one piece.”

“The unidentified object is not in our immediate vicinity,” Tuvok said.

“I must agree with Lieutenant Paris—any attempt to approach it would significantly decrease our odds of survival.”

Janeway nodded. It had been worth asking. Another thought struck her.

“Mr. Tuvok, the P’nir aren’t willing to talk to us, but what are they doing? How are they reacting to our presence?

Are they moving into position against us?”

“On the contrary,” Tuvok reported. “The Hachai have diverted their resources slightly in order to deal with us, and the P’nir, having noted this, are shifting their own concentration toward the far side of the battle zone. If the Hachai continue to devote significant effort against us, the P’nir advantage at the far side of the conflict may become decisive.”

“You mean the P’nir might win the whole thing because the Hachai are busy shooting at us?” Janeway demanded. “We may have altered the outcome just by being here?”

“Exactly, Captain. You will recall that you described the battle as a chaotic system.”

“And in a chaotic system, the tiniest change can affect the outcome,” Janeway said. She glared angrily at the screen. “So we may have given the P’nir the eventual victory, just by being here, but meanwhile they aren’t doing a thing to help us in return.”

“No, they are not,” the Vulcan confirmed. “In fact, from their positions, I would judge that the P’nir expect the Voyager to be destroyed, and they are maneuvering to be able to take advantage of the momentary disorganization the Hachai will experience when that occurs.”

“Contact the Hachai,” Janeway ordered. “Tell them what the P’nir are doing. Show them your findings.”

“Hailing.”

The main viewer could not be diverted for communications, not while Paris was flying the ship through the thick of the battle, so the channel to the Hachai was through Tuvok’s station; Janeway did not turn to see the visual, but she listened to the audio.

“More thagn P’nir treachery!” the Hachai commander shouted angrily.

“Do you really think we didn’t see something that obvious? Of course we see it! But it’s a trick—you are the real threat!”

When the transmission was cut off, Janeway said, “I heard, Tuvok.” She frowned, watching the screen unhappily. It seemed as if every time Paris aimed the ship at open space, a Hachai dreadnought would appear from nowhere, cutting them off, weapons blazing.

If they continued trying to dodge and run the Hachai would wear them down slowly, and despite Paris’s evident piloting skills, despite Tuvok’s estimation of the odds, it seemed to Janeway that eventually the Voyager would be caught and destroyed.

If destruction was inevitable, she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. And if they had already given one side the victory, they might as well make sure that it was a decisive one, one that would leave the winners in a condition to someday recover. That might mean a P’nir fleet would come out of the Kuriyar Cluster looking for trouble, but at least it would mean that the P’nir would survive.

“It seems the Hachai really want a war, and the one against the P’nir isn’t enough for them,” Janeway said at last. She reached down and wiped away the smear of dust where the Hachai doll had lain, then straightened up again.

“If that’s what they want, let’s give them one,” she said. “Mr. Tuvok, you have a free hand, as far as the Hachai are concerned—you may fire at will.”

Harry Kim smiled nervously to himself as he stood alone in the darkness. At last he had found the door. He could feel its outline clearly.

He hadn’t found any latch he could work, not even when he felt up and down both sides from knee level to the top of his head, but he could handle that; he aimed his phaser carefully and pressed the trigger.

The beam’s red glare and the shower of sparks were blinding after so long in total darkness; Kim blinked, then squinted, his free hand shielding his eyes. The smell of melting metal mingled with the oily stench the air already had to make a truly revolting odor.

Unlike many cultures, the P’nir apparently did not build their doors to default to open when damaged; the door didn’t move when the beam struck it. Kim released the trigger and lowered his weapon, then waited for his eyes to readjust.

The darkness was no longer absolute, even when the phaser had cooled and its glow vanished. The beam had cut a small hole through the door, and whatever was on the other side of it was lit; the ugly green glow of P’nir lighting seeped in through the tiny opening, providing Kim with enough light to make out, dimly, his surroundings.

Kim took a minute to look around, hoping that no one would happen to see the hole while he did it.