Archive: PTC and Destiny. Anywhere else, please ask.
Disclaimer: A long, long time ago, in a galaxy not so far awayÖone man changed the face of television as we know it with two simple words. Star Trek. Today we are enjoying the spawn of his genius. Remember, Star Trek: Voyager is not, I repeat not mine. Everything about it belongs to Paramount and I am not getting paid for this.
Summary: A short "Unimatrix Zero" coda that takes place immediately after the Delta Flyer is destroyed and Voyager pulls away from the Borg cube.
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It hurts. I really want to get away from the helm and go back to my quarters to lie down. But I canít. If I ask Chakotay to be relieved, heíll ask why. I canít tell him it hurts, because then heíll have the Doctor scan me. The Doc, competent hologram that he is, wonít be able to find a thing wrong with me. So I canít leave the helm, even though the pain is killing me.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Ensign Bayhart standing behind me. Chakotay nods, telling me to get off the bridge. I give him a grateful nod; he knows what Iím thinking and understands, but he also expects me back on the bridge for any unexpected developments. Iím all right with that; Iíd do nothing less. Fighting the pain, I make my way to the turbolift, then to my quarters.
As soon as the door slides shut behind me, I rip the two pips from my collar. Why didnít I do it? I could have done something, anything to stop the mission, or at least stop BíElanna from going. I told her I couldíve rigged the Flyer, that losing my promotion would be a small price to pay if it would keep her safe, but for some reason I didnít. Who gave a damn about my pips anyway? Iíd gladly take on the rank of crewman or even official observer if it would have ensured BíElannaís safety.
I toss my jacket and turtleneck over a chair before heading over to my bed. I thought that lying down might have eased the pain, but I was wrong. It hurts even more now. Thereís no helm or navigational data to distract me. Wonderful, I even find BíElannaís discarded nightgown tangled in my sheets. Suddenly I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. No matter how often the Doctor, Chakotay, and even Captain Janeway herself reassure me that everything will be alright, I canít help thinking what if itís not that simple.
Lying alone in my bed, with BíElannaís favorite emerald silk nightgown carefully extracted from the heap of sheets, it hurts even more than when I was on the bridge. The pain is in my stomach, clutching relentlessly, and in my heart, its viselike grip sometimes making it hard to breathe. If this keeps up I really ought to try and get something for the pain from Sickbay. But that would involve talking to the Doctor, who would insist that there was nothing physically wrong with me and that itís all psychological. I think Iíll just lie here and worry.
I feel so guilty, like Iíve failed somehow. I shouldnít have let BíElanna go on that insane kamikaze mission. I know I should have some faith, but I canít. I canít help wondering why I didnít fight her harder about going.
Sheís been assimilated. Their fading life signs had attested to that fact. My beautiful, fiery BíElanna reduced to a drone, Drone God Only Knows of Hundreds of Billions, slaving away on some damned cube in Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix What the Hell have we Done.
Iím so afraid of losing her. Doc assured everyone that he will be able to extract their Borg implants once theyíve returned, but what if we canít get them back? I donít think I could live with the knowledge that I hadnít stopped her, that because of me sheíd be a drone forever. And if we do, by some God given miracle, get them back, how can we guarantee that the BíElanna we get back is the one I love? I canít imagine what the Hive Mind is like, and what if BíElanna doesnít come back the way I remember her? There are so many Ďwhat ifsí. I should never have let her go. God, it hurts.
I roll over onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillow. Her scentís still there, freesia or lavender or some flower, and plasma coolant. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the scent, pretending sheís still here, having just gotten up to go to the bathroom, instead of walking around on some damned Borg cube. It almost works. For a nanosecond I convinced myself, but that nanosecondís gone before I realize it.
My door chime sounds. God, I really donít want company right now. The last thing I need is the Doctor coming to make a house call just to reassure me Iím just suffering from anxiety and an overactive imagination. Whoever my visitor is, I hope he or she goes away really soon. Damn, itís Harry. I should have remembered to lock the door when I first came in.
I donít look up from my pillow; I donít want to talk to Harry right now. But I do tilt my head and sneak a peek at what heís doing. Heís sitting in the chair near my bed and waiting for me to acknowledge his existence. While heís patiently waiting his little naïve heart out, Harryís eyes land onÖ something. As he flushes bright red, I realize he just saw BíElannaís green nightgown. What did he think BíElanna and I do? Sit around discussing Vulcan literature? I mean, we do discuss a lot of things but talking isnít everything.
He finally realizes Iím not going to talk to him anytime soon and stands up, offering the standard "Donít worry, Tom, Captain Janeway knows what sheís doing" line as he left. I mutter something incomprehensible into my pillow and wait for the telltale whoosh of the doors to confirm his departure before taking my face out of the pillow.
I wish I trusted people like Harry did, but Iím too jaded and cynical. I just hope BíElannaís all right and that weíre going to be able to get her back in time. I hope I didnít do the wrong thing letting her go. Damn, it still hurts.
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