The ship creaks and groans around us, temperature dropping by the minute. Distant crashes blend with the sound of Ensign Kariuki’s moans, a bleak soundtrack to the darkness of the half-crushed hall. And Chakotay is speaking, voice not cancelling out but
nonetheless
warming the frightened darkness. I crawl around the perimeter of our accidental prison, checking for warning signs of further collapse, for leverage,
for a
way out. Crewman Rameau
tests pulses
in steady rotation, monitoring the spread of blood across makeshift bandages. And Chakotay is speaking as red seeps
across
his
own
shoulder, his warm voice gently assuring the young and injured among us that we will be rescued when the battle is over, that we will be safe, that they will be all right.
When the crashing ceases and, shortly
afterward,
the distant hum of the warp core purrs
back
to life, I expect we’ll wait here
several
more
minutes, if not longer.
The transporters will need
to be brought back online
before we can be beamed
through
the
meters of collapsed and twisted bulkheads. I abandon the fruitless search for
a means of escape
and silently take
Crewman
Peterson’s
cold hands
in mine, hoping that we have those minutes.
Chakotay’s
steady
voice continues as the rest of
us
silently settle in for the wait.
Except there isn’t a wait.
Instead: a BANG! louder than lightening and a whirring hum. A glowing circle traced into the collapsed bulkhead, then pulled away. Light, molten metal and
blazing
flashlights and red alert beacons, cascading
into the darkness as the rescue team pours one by one through the smoking hole.
Captain Janeway is the first through,
disheveled hair
glinting crimson
in the firelight, and then our former trap is filled with purposeful voices and efficient motion, bright-shouldered figures kneeling by the injured and widening the blasted passage. The
musks
of
smoke and sweat tangle with the
sharpness of blood and urine, and I breathe it all in, savoring the scent of lurking death blasted into so much smoke.
Unlike certain crewmembers, I’m not much of one for joking around on duty, but the injured need to feel in their bones that they have reached the aftermath. “Can’t believe I didn’t see that coming, Captain,” I tell Janeway as we bend together to lift
Peterson
onto a stretcher, a quip to feed the growing warmth.
Over
the captain’s
left shoulder, I can see Chakotay smiling at her. If we were all in another place and time, without ranks between us, I might float the suggestion that he’s enjoying
the particular
view he happens to be getting at the moment.
In reality, of course, the quip would be as inaccurate as it is inappropriate.
My
one-time
captain’s
gaze is weighted with a far deeper emotion, looking at our fiery-haired rescuer with…not relief, but something
else, something closer to faith.
I understand, now, the meaning of his calm in the dark. He was not pretending
for the sake of the injured
that
he was not afraid: he wasn’t. He knew we had no reason to be.
bekjaneway 