Disclaimer: Star Trek Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount/Viacom. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: B’Elanna and Chakotay and a shuttle crash.
Author’s Notes: Takes place mid-season three, before the Borg encounter. Many thanks to Seema for the beta.
Blackbird
By Rocky
B’Elanna dragged herself up by sheer force of will, trying desperately not to touch any console parts that still had live current coursing through. Though the billowing smoke made visibility almost impossible, she could tell the comm panel was a lost cause. Ditto navigation and propulsion.
A sudden fit of coughing bent her double once more. She took small gasps of the acrid air, hoping she wouldn’t end up hacking up a lung. The spasm passed, and she slumped against the cracked pylon in relief.
A low moan caught her attention. “B’Elanna?”
“Chakotay!” She turned to the nearest pile of rubble—which had once been the co-pilot’s station—and began digging, ignoring the sharp bits of titanium that stung her already raw hands.
His head and torso were coated in dust and grime, but aside from some cuts and scrapes he looked more or less intact. “Are you all right?” she asked, then berated herself for her stupidity. Anyone could tell at a glance that he was not all right at all, not with the heavy crossbeam lying across his pelvis and obscuring his legs.
“I’ve been better,” he said, with his typical understatement.
She leaned over him. What had Kes called them, in the course on field medicine and triage? Right, the ABC’s—Airway, Breathing, Cardio.
He winced when she felt for the pulse in his throat. “Sorry,” she said. “Well, you’re bruised quite a bit, and there’s a nasty gash on your temple, but you appear to be alive.”
“And going to stay that way.” He shifted slightly. “Help me up.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Chakotay. You could have back injuries—“
“Help me up,” he said again, struggling to raise himself on his arms. “Shit, that hurts.”
“How far down does it hurt?” she asked.
“I can’t feel my legs,” he said at once, answering her unspoken question. “But it hurts like hell everywhere else.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” she said, grasping his shoulders and easing him into a semi-sitting position. He turned his head—wincing once again—and gave a low whistle when he saw the extent of the damage surrounding them.
“Hull intact?” he asked.
She nodded. “I think so. Most of the consoles are little better than scrap metal, though.”
Chakotay closed his eyes. “Anything still working?”
“I was just about to check out the auxiliary systems.”
“How are we fixed for life support?”
From an earlier glimpse out the main viewport, B’Elanna knew night had already fallen outside. “Like I said, the hull appears to be intact. So we should be able to retain heat for a while.”
He glanced around at the dimness. “Some of the emergency lighting is functioning.”
“So we have some reserve power, yes.”
“Enough to power a distress beacon?”
“I’ll let you know in a second.” B’Elanna headed toward the starboard side of the shuttle. “Yes. And the damage doesn’t seem to be too bad over here. I think I can set up a signal. But—“
“But what?”
“Reserves are only at 25%. There isn’t enough for both a signal and maintaining life support.”
“You said we should be able to retain heat—“
“Oxygen is still a problem. If we shut down life support, we’ll run out of breathable air in four hours.”
Chakotay didn’t hesitate. “Set up the beacon.”
“Chakotay—“
“If Voyager picks up our signal, they’ll be here before we run out.”
“If they pick up the signal,” she pointed out. “The same ion storm that sent us down through the moon’s atmosphere is sure to interfere with communications. We could be dead before Voyager even knows we’re here.”
“We were just approaching sensor range when the storm hit. The captain will be looking for us. Voyager will be able to track our warp trail, get close enough to pick up our signal.”
B’Elanna wondered at the confidence in his voice. She looked at him again, saw how pale he was. The thought struck her that Chakotay was more seriously injured than he was letting on, that he wasn’t sure he was going to even last as long as the oxygen held out.
“OK, then, you’re the commander.”
She punched in the commands, then swore.
“What is it?”
“This panel’s not as undamaged as I thought. I’m bypassing some of the relays.”
“Can you still get a signal out?”
“It won’t be anything fancy, but yes, it will give our position.” She finished her work and suddenly slumped over, feeling a pounding headache and a stitch in her side.
“B’Elanna!” His voice sounded weaker than it had a moment before. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she answered shortly. “How about you?” She knelt by his side, and tearing a piece of fabric from her tunic, wiped away the blood trickling from the gash in his forehead. His skin felt clammy to the touch. Frowning, she felt his chest. He tried unsuccessfully to evade her probing hands.
“Stay still,” she said. “I’m no doctor, but I think you’ve got a broken rib. Or two.”
He put his hand on hers as she attempted to continue her exploration further down. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. Unless you’ve got an osteoregenerator, I think the ribs will have to wait till we get to Sickbay.”
The first aid kit had been stowed in the section of the shuttle that had been the hardest hit. “Sorry, I don’t. Let me feel your abdomen, Chakotay.”
Again, he resisted. “To what end? I repeat, we’ll just have to wait.”
“Right.” She sat down next to him. “We wait.”
“That’s a first.”
“What is?”
“You listening to me, not arguing, not jumping up trying to see if you can do something, anything.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not like you, at least,” he corrected himself. “Not like how you used to be. I guess being in Starfleet has taught you some patience.”
She snorted. “Hardly. If anything, I’m even less patient than I used to be because now I automatically assume that no matter what I do, something is going to go wrong.”
“That so?”
“Yeah. Our current situation isn’t proof of that? Routine mission to survey the planetary system, and then all of a sudden, here we are, crash-landed on some godforsaken moon.” She immediately wished she could take back those last words.
He only said, mildly, “Maybe you should have gone with Paris instead.”
She rolled her eyes. “Being stuck in the same shuttle with Paris for 18 hours is not my idea of a good time. Besides, who’s to say I wouldn’t be worse off?”
“Say what will you will about Paris—and Spirits know, I’m no fan of his—but the man can pilot a ship.”
“Ion storms don’t play favorites, Chakotay. This had nothing to do with you. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He attempted a smile; it came out more like a grimace. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I was beginning to get a complex about my flying skills. Carey and some of the other engineers have been grumbling about shuttle repairs.”
“Let them grumble. Things are tough all over. If Carey isn’t happy, I’d be only too happy to put him on replicator maintenance instead. Or maybe waste extraction.”
“Hey, I was only joking about the shuttles.” Chakotay amended, “At least, mostly.”
“Right.” B’Elanna half-rose to get a look at the emergency beacon, still pulsing a steady green. No responses. She sat back, trying not to let her discouragement show.
“So what’s wrong with Paris?” Chakotay said, as if she hadn’t indicated that part of the conversation was over. “I heard you bit his head off the other day in the Mess Hall for no reason.”
“He was being annoying.”
“He seems to like you.”
“And every other female on board Voyager,” she said tartly. “Am I supposed to feel flattered? Tom Paris is an arrogant, smarmy son of a bitch with an overly developed sense of entitlement.”
“Harry’s his friend.”
“Harry is a sweet but naive kid who always sees the best in people.”
“That’s not a bad way to be,” Chakotay said thoughtfully. “Especially out here.”
“Meaning?”
“You might try it yourself sometime.”
B’Elanna’s reply was cut off when she noticed his head wound was bleeding once more. She tore off another piece of fabric, and applied pressure. Chakotay didn’t react. Seizing her opportunity, she gently pressed down on his abdomen. To her dismay, it felt rigid and distended.
“B’Elanna—“
“I think you’ve got internal bleeding, Chakotay!” she said, her fear coming out as anger. She jumped up to glance once more at the beacon. “Damn it! Maybe if I try to boost the signal--”
“B’Elanna.” He grasped her hands. “B’Elanna, not even you can fix everything.”
“But there has to be something I can do—“
“There is. Come sit by me again .” She slumped down in defeat. “Shh.” He stroked her hair clumsily. “Let me tell you a story.”
“A story?”
“An ancient legend of my people.”
B’Elanna opened her mouth to refuse. She’d had enough of Chakotay’s “ancient wisdom” back in the Maquis, had curtly refused his offer of helping her find her animal guide. It had seemed like a lot of foolishness, and worse, a distraction. But then she took another look at Chakotay, noted how his breathing had become more rapid and shallow. “Sure, tell me a story.”
“Blackbird lived a desperate existence, living off the pickings of others, at times even reduced to stealing from the cultivated fields to keep from starving. On one such foray, a child threw stones at him and he crashed to the ground, his wind broken. He lay there for a long time, frightened, unable to fly, growing hungrier and thirstier as time went by. At last, when he felt his strength ebbing away, hands reached down and carried him away. The boy who had caused his injury felt sorry for him, and turned to his grandfather for help. The old man bandaged the wing and laid him in a soft box to heal. Every day the boy would bring him food and water. At first Blackbird was too weak, and too afraid, to do more than sip some water. But soon he felt strong enough to nibble some corn, and within a week could hobble weakly from one side of his box to the other. Every so often Blackbird would look up at the sky, and then his gaze would return to the ground which was his prison.”
Chakotay’s voice was growing fainter. B’Elanna leaned closer, fighting her rising panic.
“After a time, the Old Man decided the wing had mended. He removed the bandage, and together he and the boy brought Blackbird back out to the field. ‘Fly and be free,’ the Old Man said, pointing toward the heavens. But Blackbird was afraid. ‘Fly,’ the Old Man said again. ‘It is who you were meant to be.’ Blackbird slowly raised his eyes to the sky, and gave a feeble stir. ‘Do not fear,’ said the Old Man. He gently lifted Blackbird and released him. A gentle puff of wind caught Blackbird’s feathers, and without thinking, he spread his wings and soared. Never had he flown higher, or father. The Old Man and Boy were tiny specks on the ground. Ahead of him was the sun. And Blackbird knew he was at last free.”
No sooner had Chakotay finished, then he began to cough. A bloody froth appeared on his lips.
“Chakotay!” B’Elanna clutched him in a sudden panic. “Chakotay!”
“You’re the blackbird, B’Elanna,” he whispered weakly. “All your life, you’ve been afraid and desperate, lashing out, but now is your chance to be truly free…”
His eyes rolled back into his head. “Chakotay!” she cried again. “Damn it, don’t leave me!”
At that moment, the signal beacon flashed red.
B’Elanna sat, unwillingly, on the edge of a biobed while Kes ran the mediwand over her. She craned her head to see the opposite side of the room, where the Doctor and Paris worked over Chakotay.
“We’re almost done,” Kes said reassuringly. “Only a few minor scrapes and bruises, and I’m giving you a hypo of tri-ox and narifin, which should take care of any lingering problems caused by the smoke inhalation.” She followed her patient’s gaze. “And Commander Chakotay is going to be just fine.”
“That’s good news,” Captain Janeway said. B’Elanna hadn’t even noticed her approach. The captain gave her a smile and a quick squeeze of the shoulder, then headed for Chakotay’s biobed. B’Elanna watched her take his hand while she conferred with the Doctor.
“He’s going to be fine,” Paris echoed, coming to join her and Kes. “We’ve stopped the internal bleeding; he was lucky we got to you in time.”
“Lucky.” The word felt unfamiliar on B’Elanna’s lips. “Yes, I suppose we were.”
“How are you doing?” Paris asked. She looked up to see his blue eyes staring intently at her, genuine concern etched into his face.
She exhaled slowly. “I’m fine, too,” she said, and thought that it just might be true.
FINIS