NEW VOY: Coffin (1/1), PG [P]
Title: Coffin
Author: Dave Rogers
Email Address: daverogers@geocities.com
Series: VOY
Rating: PG
Codes: P
Part: 1/1
Date Posted: 12th November 1999
Summary: PTC Archivist's Challenge story: Just how claustrophobic is
Tom, and why? After the events of "One", a flashback to Tom's Maquis
days.
Disclaimer: I just like to write about Paramount's characters. I
always have. I don't know why.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Jenn for beta reading, Tara O'Shea for
issuing the challenge, and Jim Wright's Delta Blues website for
background information.
Coffin
The Mutara class nebula a recent memory, three friends and a perpetual
outsider relaxed in idle conversation.
"Just think - we could have died in those coffins," said Tom Paris
nervously. B'Elanna Torres quietly laid a hand on his in reassurance.
"I suspect you would have found a way out before that, Lieutenant,"
replied Seven of Nine with typically muted amusement.
"What do you mean?" asked Harry Kim, sensing a chance for some gentle
ribbing of his closest, but sometimes most irritatingly self-confident
friend.
"Lieutenant Paris refused to stay confined. On four separate
occasions, the Doctor and I had to put him back into his stasis unit."
The reformed Borg looked round at all three of them, two amused and
one abashed.
Harry laughed. "Were you, um, locked in dark closets or something as a
child?"
"I just don't like closed places. I never have. I don't know why."
Tom Paris was lying, of course. Partly, at least.
================
The first ship was small, cramped, slow and uncomfortable, as befitted
the dignity of its sole passenger. The aged Lieutenant-Commander in
the Captain's chair could hardly have had a distinguished career, nor
was it likely that any of his crew were destined for better things.
The simple task of ferrying Maquis prisoners back to Earth for trial
and, presumably, imprisonment was itself almost beyond them, and they
made up for their lack of hope in the age-old fashion: finding someone
even lower in the pecking order, and engaging in simple-minded
cruelty.
Not that they would have seen it that way. Ensign Mendoza, second of
Security, honestly believed that Tom Paris was a dangerous man, and
that strip-searching, solitary confinement and round-the-clock cell
inspections were no more than reasonable precautions.
"Wake up, Admiral's son. Inspection time."
Paris struggled to sit up, helped by the anticipation of the blows
that would follow if he wasn't stood to attention within twenty
seconds. He stood, silently at first, as Mendoza searched him and
poked into every corner of the brig cell. Then, as the officer moved
towards a certain panel, Paris felt that a diversion was necessary.
"Okay, I confess. I've made a hand phaser out of yesterday's stew.
It'll stun at fifty paces."
Mendoza stood, turned to Paris, and scowled. "Very clever. I'm sure
you'll get a few years' remission for that sense of humour."
"Then maybe I'll be out before you make Lieutenant. How long is it
now, *Ensign* Mendoza? Not too many promotion prospects on this run."
"Stow it, Paris. I hear they're setting up a penal colony on
Antarctica just for you Maquis. That'll stop your smiling."
"I'm sure it'll seem even colder after the warmth of your
hospitality." Paris watched the Mendoza's face carefully. Push him
hard enough but not too hard, that was the trick. The ensign had
already forgotten which bits of the cell he'd inspected.
Mendoza took a brief glance at the security camera, still clearly out
of commission. Then, turning swiftly, he thrust the butt of his phaser
rifle into Tom's solar plexus. "Sorry, Paris. Clumsy of me," he said
as he left the cell.
Paris stayed, crouched in the corner, as Mendoza left for some other
task. Usual procedure, then; they simply didn't have enough crew to
watch him full time and still man the ship. Feeling inside his left
boot, he took out the bone he'd found in yesterday's stew, inserted it
into a carefully hidden gap between two bulkhead panels, and worked
quietly for a few minutes. Slowly, silently, a panel hinged out from
the wall, and the tempting prospect of a Jefferies tube lay ahead.
He'd have about thirty minutes to explore further. A shame he didn't
have a schematic for one of these modified Peregrine class couriers,
he thought; he'd have been able to find an escape pod in a few
minutes.
The Jefferies tube was small and cramped, but Paris had never been too
concerned at being in tight spaces. Or tight situations, for that
matter; he was down now, but not out, and at the speed this ship
looked capable of he couldn't be too far from the demilitarised zone.
An escape pod, a subspace message to Chakotay, a few hours' wait and
he'd be a free man. He was actually looking forward to telling
Chakotay how he'd got the message through. Maybe he'd actually start
to win his Captain's confidence this time.
And then there was a low, muted thud, echoing through the entire ship,
and the walls of the Jefferies tube seemed to shake. Paris realised
that there was another factor in the equation. The ship was under
attack.
It took him a couple of minutes of frantic crawling to get back to his
cell, and he barely managed to secure the panel before Mendoza hurried
in.
"Paris, come with me." Mendoza held a phaser rifle in shaking hands.
Beware a nervous man with a gun, Paris remembered from his Academy
training. He raised both hands, palms forward, in a gesture of
acquiescence, then went ahead of Mendoza.
"This is the weapons bay," said Paris in surprise as they reached
their destination. "What are..."
"Warning. Hull breach in two minutes," interrupted the computer's
voice.
"Get in," ordered Mendoza, indicating a photon torpedo casing. The
cover was open and a portable life support unit was inside.
"Any chance of an upgrade to first class?"
The butt of the phaser rifle hit him in the stomach again, and this
time he struggled for breath for a few seconds.
"There's no room in the escape pods. You're lucky the Captain's even
bothering with this. Get in now, or I'll kill you."
He looked like he would, and Paris could understand why; any delay
here reduced Mendoza's own chances of reaching an escape pod. So he
laid down quietly in the torpedo, and waited as Mendoza sealed the
casing. He heard the hiss of the other torpedo launcher, and realised
the captain must have fired to mask his own departure; then there was
a sudden acceleration, and all was darkness and silence.
Trained reflexes and responses kicked in immediately. No telling how
long this would last; time to take stock, see what resources were
available to him, act to maximise his chance of survival. Groping
around in his makeshift spacecraft, he found the life support unit
and switched on its integral spotlight. He could see very little
around his own shadow, but enough to see he had the absolute basics.
Field rations, water, air and a waste recycling unit. Bearing in mind
the way he'd been treated, it was more than he'd expected. Maybe the
crew had just been afraid of him, maybe they were just decent people
trying to do their jobs. A couple of years ago, he'd probably been
much the same.
Most importantly, there was a subspace beacon in the torpedo, sending
out a continuous distress call. Paris didn't know which direction the
torpedo had been launched in, but he presumed he was in, or close to,
one of the Federation's main shipping lanes. There'd be something out
there, a freighter, a Starfleet vessel, or whatever. So long as it
wasn't Cardassian, he'd probably be safe enough. In fact... whoever
picked him up would have no idea he was a prisoner, might even take
him back to the demilitarised zone. It was worth a try, anyway.
He drifted gently off into a peaceful sleep, the best he'd had since
his capture, as he rehearsed his cover story. Here, even trapped in
this tiny coffin, he felt almost free already.
The second ship was small, fast, manoeuvrable, but most of all
unobtrusive, as befitted the type of mission it was likely to perform.
The two men who crewed it were human, and beyond that there was little
to say of them. Of average height, average build and average
colouring, they could both have vanished into any crowd. Neither used
names in addressing the other; it seemed that names were in any case
no more than a momentary convenience to such men as these. If asked
about an organisation called Section 31, no doubt both would have
denied that such a thing had ever existed.
"He's early," said the slightly taller of the two men. "I'm picking up
a standard subspace beacon at seventeen mark thirty-five degrees, five
thousand kilometres."
"Are you sure it's him?" asked his slightly lighter-haired companion.
"The pickup's not due for two more days."
The taller man studied his console. "Photon torpedo casing, standard
Federation distress beacon, one set of lifesigns - human - and within
half a parsec of the rendezvous. If it's not him, it's one hell of a
coincidence."
"Agreed. Bring him in."
Moments later, the photon torpedo materialised on the transporter
pad. As the cover swung open, neither man betrayed any surprise, but
both surreptitiously checked the phasers at their hips.
"Am I glad to see you," gushed Paris. "I thought nobody was ever going
to find me!" He held out a friendly hand. "Tom Piper, Federation
observer to..." What was the name of that place Chakotay was always
talking about? Oh yes... "Dorvan. I was taking passage on the USS
Goshawk, when we got attacked by Cardassian renegades. I'd be really
grateful if you could get me to a starbase." As he spoke, Paris tried
hard to project the image of a naive young bureaucrat with more
talent for speaking than for listening; but from the silent stares of
the two men watching him, he began to suspect something had gone
wrong already. "Or somewhere in the demilitarised zone. Or any
inhabited world would do," he prattled. "Whereabouts are you headed?"
The taller man turned to a computer console, entered a few commands
and studied the results; then he turned back to Paris. "The Federation
observer on Dorvan is a Bolian woman named Chenarr." A phaser appeared
in his hand. "Try again."
"Chenarr, right. I'm supposed to be assisting her for the next three
months..." Paris stopped talking, as the man before him shook his
head slowly and deliberately. "Okay, what the hell." It hadn't been
much of a plan anyway, and he didn't have another story prepared.
"I'm a member of the Maquis. I was captured two weeks ago and I was
on my way back to Earth for trial. I don't know what attacked us, but
the ship was done for and there weren't any spare places in the
escape pods. If you're Starfleet then I guess I'm still headed for
Earth. If you're not, there's a man called Chakotay who might reward
you for bringing me back."
"Not good enough," said the taller man in a flat voice.
"What d'you mean, not good enough? You think I'd make up something
like that?"
The taller man nodded towards the lighter haired man, then looked
back to Paris. "We'll find out who you are."
Paris never saw the taller man fire his phaser; it must have been the
other. He fell, unable to move, but still conscious, as the two men
picked him up and placed him on a bunk. There was the hiss of a
hypospray, and then confusion set in.
The passage of time seemed erratic and unpredictable at first. There
were faces bent over him, and lights, and a voice asking questions.
He was vaguely aware of the questions; always the same, over and over
again. He answered every one, as clearly as he could. He felt a
desperate, burning need to get the answer right, to satisfy the
curiosity of his inquisitors, to make them happy. He told them his
name, his background, the names of his Maquis cell, the co-ordinates
of the Maquis base, and any other piece of information he felt they
might like to hear. He was desperately worried, though, that in his
confusion he might have got the details wrong; so he told them over
and over again, even after the questions stopped. His concern turned
to fear, when it became clear that they didn't want to hear his
answers any more, and then to an aching loneliness as he saw them
both turn away.
"He's telling the truth," said the taller man. "Nobody could resist
the sort of dose we've given him."
"I still don't like it," said the lighter haired man. "An Admiral's
son gone bad, he says. He's Starfleet through and through. He could be
a plant."
"Space him? Even if anyone found him, there wouldn't be any
questions. We could launch him in that torpedo, but just not put the
lid down again."
"No." It was clearly a command. "Put him under and give him a shot of
amnesiac. We'll wait for Smith."
Paris knew very little of the next two days, drugged and comatose in
the rear compartment of the anonymous ship. He vaguely sensed
something when the transporter beam delivered a photon torpedo similar
to his own, and he was almost conscious when the cover hinged open to
reveal a charnel stench and a much-decayed corpse. He heard,
uncomprehending, the taller man utter one word - "Smith" - and then
there was another hypospray.
He came to in a darkened ship, the smell of death everywhere. He rose,
and staggered over to the torpedo casing; a small, rational part of
his mind sensed an opportunity to escape, but it involved getting
back into his spaceborne coffin, and for some reason his instincts
were warning him against the idea. As he leaned over the torpedo
casing, his senses allied themselves with his instincts, and he saw
that this was the wrong coffin. The remains of the man called Smith
were not pleasant. Fighting the urge to vomit, he pulled himself over
to the other casing and checked, as well as his disorientated state
permitted, that the contents were present and working. Then he moved
over to the transporter controls and entered a delayed beamout. The
rational part of his mind was shouting to him that it was all too
easy, but the message was lost in his confusion, and a few seconds
later he was sealed in his coffin again.
On the bridge, the taller man observed an alarm, and commented, "He's
gone."
"Good," replied the lighter haired man. "End of problem. With that
amount of amnesiac in his system, he'll never remember us even if he
does get picked up. And if he doesn't make it, he'll live long enough
to purge the drugs from his system. Nothing points back to us."
"Did he give us anything useful on the Maquis?"
"Possibly. It's untraceable, which is the main thing. One of my oppos
in Starfleet Security might be interested. He's been trying to get a
man into Chakotay's cell for a few months."
The taller man thought for a minute. "We pumped a hell of a lot of
drugs into Paris. Any idea what the side effects are?"
The lighter haired man shrugged. "Who cares?"
Trained reflexes and responses kicked in immediately. No telling how
long this would last; time to take stock, see what resources were
available to him, act to maximise his chance of survival. There seemed
to be a problem with the life support unit, though. It shouldn't be
allowing that smell to linger in the air. In fact, it was getting
stronger, starting to make him gag. It couldn't be his imagination,
could it? In his drugged state, anything was possible. He felt for
the spotlight, felt again, felt nothing. He started to panic,
hammering with a bruised fist at the front of the unit, but no light
came. How long had he been in this coffin? It was getting smaller, the
air was foul and rank, his chest was crushed by a great weight. His
vague, disconnected memories of a second ship, of two anonymous men,
were already fading. He heard a sound, loud and high-pitched, and
realised for a brief while that it was his own voice, screaming. At
last his ravaged and abused mind took flight, leaving only a
thrashing, struggling, purposeless body for the distress beacon to
advertise.
The third ship was bright, clean and efficient, the very epitome of
Starfleet excellence. Its Chief Medical Officer and Chief of Security
were both extremely interested, for different reasons, in the haggard,
wide-eyed, screaming wreck of a man they had picked up, kept alive but
not whole in a photon torpedo casing. Deep sedation and antidepressant
therapy dealt with the concerns of the former, a DNA scan and a
subspace exchange with Starfleet Command with those of the latter.
And if the rebel, traitor, liar and possible murderer they delivered
into the hands of a Federation remand institution two weeks later had
picked up the odd phobia along the way, so deeply rooted that the
ship's counsellor had been unable to begin to trace its source, who
indeed cared?
================
Seven of Nine seemed lost in thought for a moment. "Perhaps you
dislike being alone."
Tom assumed a carefully studied flippancy. "Perhaps. Who cares? I'd
have thought we could find something more interesting to talk about."
"Tom, you're not trying to - ow!" Harry Kim looked down at his shin.
B'Elanna Torres quickly stepped in. "Thanks for keeping the engines in
good shape, Seven. Did the nebula have any effect on the warp core?"
Soon she, Seven and Kim were deep in the complexities of warp field
theory.
Tom sat back, competent but unwilling to join the discussion, and
wondered. He remembered being unconcerned by small spaces, long ago.
He remembered the fear that had taken over, adrift for several days
in a photon torpedo casing - itself enough to account for some
residual claustrophobia - but had never quite been able to tell
exactly when he'd lost his self-assurance, where the panic had begun.
Over the years since then, he'd filed it away in the back of his mind,
under the heading "Who cares?"
Maybe some day, though, he'd take another look; because here on
Voyager, at last, it seemed that a few people did indeed care.
THE END
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