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By Root 336 0

on his board was flashing faster now, but the patch in the screen was throbbing even harder, and he kept the phasers on it, firing steadily. The yellow light strengthened, became almost solid, and the shuttle bucked again. Grayrose gave an exclamation in her own language, sounding at once angry and afraid, and Paris triggered the torpedoes. He saw them drop away from the ship, twin points of light brilliant as diamonds against the flagship's hull, and then the shuttle seemed to stagger in its tracks. The yellow light flared red for an instant, and Paris swung his couch to face the final Andirrim fighter. It was at point-blank range, clearly visible through the dome, and he fired more by instinct than plan. The fighter seemed to shudder, its image distorted for a fraction of a second by the failing shield, and then the entire ship vanished in a ball of flame. Paris covered his head, an unstoppable, reflex action, as debris bombarded the shuttle, chunks of flaming metal soaring past the dome. A second explosion rocked the shuttle, and he swung back to see the flagship falling away, trailing a debris cloud of its own. He caught a brief glimpse of a hole in the side hull, and then the shuttle was falling away, spiraling down toward the planet.

"Grayrose! We did it, Grayrose!"

There was no answer, and Paris frowned, risked a glance over his shoulder. The Kirse pilot hung slumped against her pillar, hands limp on the controls. Even as he watched, one hand slipped free, to dangle at her side. Paris swore under his breath, and glanced a final time at his display. The Andirrim were definitely breaking off the engagement, the fighters pulling free of the tangled fight, the bigger ships

moving away under power, and Paris wrenched himself out of his harness.

"Grayrose?" Lights were flashing yellow all over the pilot's boards, but he ignored them, crouched at the Kirse's side. Her eyes were closed, the great wings drooping, uncontrolled, but there was no sign of external injury. He tore frantically at the straps that held her against the post, got them all loose at last, and laid her gently on the deck, turning her cautiously to check for injury. There was still no sign of one, but a thick cable trailed from a socket at the base of her spine. He touched it, unable quite to believe what he was seeing, and snatched his hand away from the too-warm casing. She had been plugged into the shuttle's system, part of the ship-and that, he thought, was probably what had hurt her. Hastily, he ripped up a strip of the deck covering, used it to protect his hand as he tugged the cable out of her back. He caught a quick glimpse of a socket, blackened metal and scorched ceramic, but a flap of skin rolled smoothly down over it, like an eye closing. He swallowed hard, tasting bile, and reached for her neck, feeling for what would be a pulse point on a human. He thought he felt something, the sluggish beat of blood, and slapped his communicator.

"Paris to Voyager. For God's sake, come in, Voyager. "

There was an instant's pause that seemed to last an eternity, and then Janeway's voice answered. "Voyager here, Mr. Paris."

Paris swallowed a sob, bending close to Grayrose's unresponsive body. "Medical emergency. Grayrose is hurt, badly hurt, she needs help-"

"Beaming you directly to sickbay," Janeway interrupted, her voice firm. "Are you injured, Mr. Paris?"

"No-"

The shuttle dissolved in midword, and Paris found himself crouching on the sickbay floor, Grayrose still in his arms. Kes bent over him, the holographic doctor directly behind him.

"Get her up on the table," the doctor ordered. "Quickly now."

Paris swallowed again, fighting tears and his own disorientation, and disentangled himself from the Kirse's body. He lifted her, awkwardly, Grayrose all dangling limbs and wings, and laid her as gently as he could on the nearest diagnostic table. The holographic doctor moved in, and Kes took Paris's arm, urging him away. For an instant, he resisted, wanting to see, to help, simply to be there, but then common sense reasserted