Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [7]
Chakotay was still getting used to being aboard a Starfleet vessel again. He recognized the upgrades added since his last posting; they were at once familiar and unique. The sounds and even the smells were comforting in their familiarity, but the provisional rank bar at his collar, despite its size, felt like a huge weight. It was one thing to command a ship full of like-minded freedom fighters, all burning with a special kind of passion. This was different. This was everything he rejected out of anger, and now it appeared to be the only likely solution to the question of survival.
When Janeway broached the notion of combining crews and following Starfleet protocols, he readily agreed. Without structure and some form of discipline, the seventy-year journey would never be completed for either crew. Since he made that agreement, though, the grumbles from his former Maquis team were not lost on him. There’d be time enough to talk to them one on one, he knew. In fact, there was likely to be plenty of opportunity to talk to them two and three times, something that might be required for a few of them, particularly notorious complainers like Dalby and Chell.
What left him feeling uneasy were two of the bridge crew, people he’d be dealing with every day. There was Paris, a Starfleet washout and a failure as a Maquis who then worked against them for his own selfish goals. And yet, mere days ago, Paris rescued him from certain death. Who was this young man?
Tuvok was also something of an enigma. The Vulcan had infiltrated his own cell and provided Starfleet with intelligence that resulted in the Badlands chase, which led to the current predicament. While he respected that Tuvok was doing his duty, Chakotay couldn’t shake the notion of having been betrayed-by both Tuvok and Tom Paris-and he remained ambivalent in his feelings toward them.
He turned his attention to the trim woman, his new commanding officer, who said in a slightly strained voice, “Chakotay, the quartermaster indicates all of the Maquis crew have received the requisite personal items to help them settle onto the ship.” Clearly, preparing her remarks for the service had once again pushed her toward exhaustion. She had spoken well, choosing her words carefully to acknowledge the loss of life from both crews. His estimation of her continued to rise, and he hoped his fellow travelers saw how special she was.
“Thank you, Captain; I’m sure they appreciate it.”
“It’s not a kindness, Chakotay,” Janeway said wearily. “For them to live and function, they need things beyond clothing. We’ve seen to that. And not a moment too soon. The entire replicator system seems to be malfunctioning.”
“How is engineering coming along?” the new first officer asked, still adjusting himself to thinking ahead, using Starfleet skills he thought he’d no longer need.
“Slowly,” she said. “The worst of the damage is cleaned up, but we need to goose those engines if we want to get home on schedule.” She gave him a tired grin and then returned her attention the main screen.
“Mr. Kim,” the captain called out, turning to face the young ensign. “See what you can do with the impulse reactors. Maybe we can channel additional power from there.”
“Aye, Captain,” Kim said brightly, hands already tapping controls. Chakotay wondered what it was like to be so young, so eager for the challenges ahead. For a moment, he envied Kim his naivete.
“We’ll have a senior staff meeting tomorrow morning at 1100 hours and see what the first set of priorities is,” Janeway added.
Before Chakotay could respond, the ship shuddered