Chapter 18

He had danced for too many hours, long enough to spot the 
repetition.  Chakotay was in a loop, and though the pattern was long, 
it had repeated enough that he could recognize it.  If it weren't 
happening in the fluid space of Dreamtime, he'd guess it had 
restarted every hour.  He had counted at least twenty repetitions 
since he'd been able to see the pattern.

Nothing worked to break him of the Vision.  He had tried to walk 
away, but as soon as the sounds of chanting faded behind him, they 
would rise again before him.  If he stood still, the dance would 
simply move to where he was.  Now he stood pacing back and forth 
between two circles, trying to keep himself in the near quiet.  He 
needed to think.

That damn black box.  Someone was controlling the Akoonah, and 
he'd bet latinum that his body was no longer in the temporary 
quarters.  Kathryn would be trying to find out why he'd skipped 
breakfast and Nachayev probably had an arrest order out for him.  
Or maybe Nachayev had something to do with this, and he was in the 
hands of whatever this Section Thirty-one was that Nwateo Sehm 
belonged to.

Chakotay hoped they hadn't put a uniform on his body.

*

It was late evening as they walked down streets apparently 
preserved in their Twentieth century state.  Tom knew better, that 
the lighting would have been more random, the streets dirtier, and 
the people more economically stratified four hundred years ago.  The 
building over the underground facility was two blocks away.  Next to 
Tom walked the perfect image of Nwateo Sehm, red haired, grey 
eyed, and annoyingly attractive in civilian clothes.

Rand had sent the data on the Betazoid and included what he thought 
was the true name:  Detin Fahl.  Tom had laughed, wondering 
whether 'Debt in full' was another joke, or if the accidental similarity 
was the source of the all the other double names.  It was fitting 
either way.  Tom wanted pay back.

They had doubled back to meet the Logan, receiving the data in 
transit, and spent the rest of the trip modifying the mobile emitter.  
Rand knew what they were planning, and had given them her best 
wishes.  Tom was glad of anything that might help, and as they 
approached the building his confidence threatened to waver.  He 
glanced at the person next to him.

Without her high heels, Seven was barely taller than the Betazoid.  
She had bound her breasts so that she would not have, as she put it, 
physical structures outside the holomatrix.  The visual aspect of the 
disguise worked well, and Ba'ruq had modified the emitter to give 
out appropriate sensor readings.  The voice and personality were a 
different problem.

Speech patterns were as important as voice prints, and they had 
spent an extra hour setting up a rule-based program to convert 
Seven's crisp speech into something more like Fahl in his Treyn Dahl 
persona.  They introduced contractions, slang terms, and a shade of 
humor in the tone.  Seven had some control over it, and though not 
perfect, it was better than hearing her Borg-style speech in the 
Betazoid's voice.  When they got the compensation routines running, 
it worked fairly well. 

It had to work, Tom thought, glancing at the building that was their 
target.  Seven wanted certainty, and they had made several 
contingency plans, but Tom knew they were going to have to make it 
up as they went along.

"We're being followed," Seven said softly.

Tom didn't turn to look.  The streets were not so crowded at this 
hour, and if she thought there was someone, there was.  "Action?"

"We could ignore them."

"Bad idea."

"Stop."  He obeyed, turning as if to say something to his companion, 
eyes flitting.  He could see nothing.

"Whoever it is is cloaked," she said.  "I can detect a presence based 
on heat and energy signatures."  Tom watched as the figure of Fahl 
focused on the wall a few feet behind them, and said "We're waiting."

It was like Seven to have no middle ground.  If she could not ignore 
it, she would confront it.

With a brief shimmer, the pattern of bricks gave way to a tall, broad 
figure dressed in black.

"Mack?"

The big soldier faded back into the brick-work saying, "That's not 
really the Betazoid, is it?"

"No, it isn't, and I'm not a new recruit."  Tom tried to tell with the 
negatives what they were trying to do.

"Got it.  Follow whatever plan you had.  I'm just backup," came the 
deep voice.  "Mom figured I needed a reminder of life outside the 
OCS."

"Great, but how do you do that?"

"Little trick we picked up from the Jem'Hadar.  Get going."

As they walked away, Seven said, "I assume that is the Mack with 
whom you associated on your trip to Earth?"  Not even the projector 
could make such a formal phrase sound like Detin Fahl.

"Yes, and please watch your speech patterns."

"So that's Mack?"  

The tones matched perfectly the voice Tom remembered from the 
Logan's medic.  He tensed but smiled.  "That's more like it.  Yes, it is, 
and I'm glad he's here."  Tom was serious about that.  Mack's 
presence gave him a confidence in their plan he hadn't felt before.

They entered the main door of an old office building, the lobby 
walled with polished stone.  There was a gleam of yellowish metal 
from old fashioned-looking lifts, but Tom assumed the mechanical 
elevators had been replaced with turbolift technology.  He liked that 
the appearance of old technology was maintained.

The lifts were not their destination.  The schematics indicated that 
they could only reach the underground areas from a stairwell.  There 
were security scanners all down the stairs, and if they didn't pass 
scrutiny they would be trapped and vulnerable.

At the door they paused and looked at each other, silently agreeing 
to go on.  Inside was a landing with steps heading both up and down.  
It was well-lit, but dusty, as if little used.  Seven took the lead 
heading down, Tom behind her.

The scanning devices must have been well hidden.  They saw nothing 
out of the ordinary but the archaic design of the handrails until they 
reached the old-style door at the bottom.  Seven pulled it open 
without hesitation, and stepped into blackness.  Tom noted that no 
light from the stairwell bled into the dark space beyond.  No sound 
came back out, and he took a breath and entered.

Once inside he could hear the ambient sounds, but saw nothing.  He 
thought they were in a small room.  Seven was just in front of him, 
and there seemed to be at least one other person.  Tom was suddenly 
glad that the hologram included infrared, so that Seven would look 
like the Betazoid even in the dark.

A woman's voice spoke.  "Det, is that really you?"

"No," came the voice next to Tom, laden with Dahl's teasing.  "I'm a 
Borg drone in a holosuit."

Tom almost choked with both astonishment and laughter.  The best 
lie was always to tell the truth so that no one believed it, and the 
humor was typical of what he remembered of Treyn Dahl.  Tom 
followed suit.  "Does that make me a Cardassian with a face lift?"

"Shut up, Paris."  Both voices spoke.  Whoever was in the dark knew 
who Tom was.  No surprise there.  Suddenly there was a sound of 
movement, a waft of air, and a grunt of a falling body before the 
unfamiliar voice croaked, "Lights."

A dark woman glared up from the floor.  Seven -- Det, he reminded 
himself -- held the woman's arm over her knee, ready to break it.  
There must have been an attack in the darkness.  A lilting voice 
grunted, "Must be you.  No one else could catch me like that.  Damn 
telepaths always know what you'll do."

Seven let her go, saying, "So how've you been?"

The woman smiled, white teeth flashing in her light brown face.  Tom 
looked at her carefully.  She was dressed in a shiny black version of 
an outdated Starfleet uniform with no insignia.  A dark braid of hair 
swung down past her waist as Seven helped her up. 

"I'm fine, Det, but you may be in trouble for bringing him here."

The face of the Betazoid grinned.  "Oh, I doubt it would be the first 
time I've pushed the edges of an assignment."

The dark woman was now serious.  "But not since you worked for 
Sloane.  I thought he broke you of that."

A shrug answered her.  "I was out with the Runners, remember?  I 
got used to taking short cuts and improvising."

"Bringing Tom Paris here was definitely not a short cut.  You can't bat 
your eyes at Sloane like you could with Nachayev.  Besides, you're 
supposed to be dead or in Dominion hands."

"Convenient, isn't it?"

Paris watched the exchange, awed by Seven's acting job, and 
somewhat startled by hearing Nachayev's name in connection with 
Detin Fahl.  The woman in black was between them and the exit from 
the room into the underground facility.  Whatever test Seven had 
passed by countering the woman's attack, they weren't moving 
forward.  He decided to try to push it.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat, but this isn't exactly what I had in 
mind," he drawled, gesturing about the bare room.

"This isn't about what you had in mind."

To Tom's surprise, the voice was Fahl's.  Seven was playing this to 
the hilt.  She continued, speaking to the woman, "Look, I got him off 
the front lines, but Starfleet didn't get the Borg subsystem.  Seems he 
found out about the data chips I put in him and they rigged the 
nanoprobes to blow.  He says he was just mad he didn't get paid for 
his 'services'.  Seven of Nine still trusts him, though, and he thinks he 
can get us what we want."

"For a price," the woman said scornfully.  Tom hated those words said 
that way.  He'd heard it too often.

"There's always a price."  Fahl's voice was more formal, more like 
that of the Dahl in a Starfleet uniform Tom had seen on the troop 
ship.  "Whether it's paid in latinum, or lives, or even just personal 
happiness.  If it serves the Federation, we do it."

It seemed to hit a nerve.  The woman merely nodded and turned to 
the door, which slid into the wall like a modern door.  She led them 
down a corridor that could have been lifted from any Starfleet 
facility, with standard lighting, walls, and flooring.

So far Seven seemed to have guessed right, saying and doing things 
that made the woman accept her as Detin Fahl.  Tom made another 
foray into the deception.  "He said I could see Chakotay."

Their guide stopped, not turning.  "How did you know he was here?"

"How do I ever know anything?  I have my ways."  Teasing banter 
was in Seven's words.  "Can we go there first?"

There was a hesitation, then, "Sure."  She turned left at the next 
cross-corridor, stopped at a door and pressed the key to open it.  
They stepped past her into the room.

Tom was shocked at the sight of Chakotay on a cushion in the corner 
of the otherwise empty room, leaning against the walls and 
unconscious.  There was a crust around his mouth, and the Akoonah 
was fastened to his hand, his fingers glowing from the amber light of 
its central control.  Tom bent down to shake him, and when he didn't 
move, pulled at the strap holding the device.

The door slid shut behind them.

"I don't know who you are," said the woman's voice from a speaker, 
"but you're not Det.  You're not a telepath."

*

The end of the dance was abrupt, but the process of coming out of 
the dream was agonizingly slow.  Chakotay's limbs were 
unresponsive.  The lassitude, he realized, was more than sleeping 
nerves.  He was paralyzed.  Urgent whispers reached his ears but no 
words resolved out of the sound.  

He tried to open his eyes, and they obeyed.  He could see two 
shadowy figures bent toward each other.  When he blinked they 
solidified into Tom Paris and Nwateo Sehm.  He didn't try to make 
sense of it, and let the mixed feelings wash through him.  Tom's 
image brought relief and a kind of comfort, but that the spy was with 
him confused the feelings with alarm.

Tom threw an object to the floor.  It klunked heavily, and Chakotay 
recognized the Akoonah.  Alarm and anger -- emotions muted only 
by his inability to move and express them -- rose as he watched the 
heel of Tom's boot descend. The machine did not break, but rather 
skidded out from under the pressure.

Tom reached for it, but Sehm grabbed it first.  Chakotay's anger gave 
way to astonishment as he watched the Betazoid break off Starfleet's 
black attachment, then crush the Akoonah itself.  His body was 
suddenly freed, his mind less clouded, and his first lucid thought was 
that Sehm should not have been able to break it with his bare hands.  

He brought his own hands to his face to rub away the rest of the fog.  
His arms ached with the movement, which was more difficult than it 
should have been.  He must have been in one position for far too 
long.  He felt a hand on his shoulder as if through a layer of padding, 
and Chakotay dropped his hands to look.  Tom was crouched next to 
him, and he tried to look into the blue eyes, but couldn't focus.

"Chakotay, are you all right?"

Chakotay heard the concern in Tom's voice, nodded and tried to 
speak.  It took a few attempts to get words past his parched throat.  
"Can't feel legs.  How long?"

"Have you been here?  At least twenty hours, probably thirty.  How 
are your arms?"

When he tried to move them more, they hurt more.  Fire and needles 
heralded the return of circulation and nerves.

Sehm's voice asked, "Is he damaged?"

"What? Why?" Chakotay croaked, as Tom answered, "I can't tell for 
sure without a tricorder."

Chakotay's question had been ignored.  Where was he, and why was 
Sehm with Tom?  He watched, noting his own nakedness, as Tom 
grabbed his numb legs and pulled them straight.  It took some effort 
on Tom's part, but Chakotay could feel nothing.  He was still 
disoriented.  

Tom seemed to be trying to rub the brown legs back to life, and it 
was working slowly.  Too slowly.  An ache began to permeate 
Chakotay's limbs, deepening to severe pain.  The physical sensations 
made it hard for him to think, to try to figure out what was going on.  
He only knew that he was angry, and that he had cause to be.

Tom tensed and rose when the door opened and a square-jawed man 
came in, followed by a dark-skinned woman with a long braid.  They 
were dressed in black uniforms.  Chakotay understood the words 
that followed, but he took several minutes to make them mean 
anything.

"You see, Meera," the man said, "it actually is a Borg drone in a 
holosuit.  Why don't you turn it off, Seven of Nine."

Sehm disappeared and faded into Seven, but she looked wrong.  Her 
hair was loose, and there was something strange about her shape.  
Chakotay's confusion deepened, but at least now he knew Tom had 
come for him, that Tom wasn't with the spy.

"That's better.  Mr. Paris, Seven of Nine.  My name is Sloane, and this 
is Meera."  He indicated himself and the woman with a polite gesture.  
"Now, you tried to pretend you were bringing Paris to join us.  Why 
not make it real for both of you?

"Why would you trust us?"  Tom.

"I don't 'trust' anybody, but you could be useful."  The man's voice 
was even and reasonable-sounding.  "I would certainly prefer the 
two of you under my control.  Do you know how many careful plans 
you have disrupted with your little heroics, Mr. Paris?  Until tonight, 
I wasn't sure I could ever predict what you would do."

"And if we do not comply?"

"Resistance might be futile."  The man was very matter of fact, but 
then smiled and said, "Pardon my little joke.  It's difficult to pass up."

Tom ignored the attempt at humor.  "You said, 'You two,'  What about 
him?"

Chakotay thought that 'him' must mean himself.  He looked at Tom 
then at Seven, who was wearing an strange belt and still seemed 
wrongly shaped.  They both looked grim.  Then he looked at the 
woman called Meera, and she looked grim as well.

"He had two purposes," the man was saying.  "First was so I could 
find out what happened to a promising operative.  Second was to lure 
you here."

"Then you planned to dispose of him?"  Seven.

"Only if necessary."

"You can't have expected him to cooperate after leaving him here like 
this."

Sloane did not answer.

"So did you find out about the operative?  I'm a little curious myself."

"Hadn't had the opportunity yet.  Too many other more pressing 
matters.  Your Captain Chakotay was perfectly safe in the meantime."

"What do you offer if we choose to join your organization?"  Seven.

"A chance to serve the Federation in a more directed manner, and 
better tools to do it with."  Sloane smiled slightly.

"And you get?"  Tom.

"Complete schematics of Seven of Nine and her assistance in 
enhancing some of my operatives with Borg bioengineering."

"And if we say no?"

"Why would you?  Seven of Nine's little speech in the anteroom was 
quite well taken.  You do believe in the Federation, Tom, or you 
wouldn't fight so hard for it."

"You just want control of the Runners.  You don't need me for that.  
You've already had one operative on the Logan.  You probably have 
two for every ship."

"Not quite, and no-one else is as visible as a leader."

Chakotay knew that the man with the square jaw and the deep lines 
around his mouth was lying.  The young woman was the key to 
discovering what was true and what was not.  He had watched her 
through the entire exchange, and although she was silent, her shifts 
of eye and posture told Chakotay everything he needed to know.

The man intended to kill them if they did not cooperate.  She knew 
that.  Now Chakotay did, too, and it fueled his anger enough that he 
did the only thing his disoriented mind could come up with.  He tried 
to launch himself at the square jawed man.  

His legs tried to respond, raising him to his feet with the sensation of 
electric shocks, but his ankles failed.  He was falling even before the 
fist of the dark woman connected with his head.  Chakotay went 
down into blackness, anger shocked out of him and replaced by a 
vague relief that this time there was no chanting.

*

It all happened too fast.  Chakotay shouted, lunged, and fell.  The 
woman named Meera rushed to intercept him with a block meant for 
a torso that landed hard on the greying head.  Part of Tom panicked 
to see Chakotay drop like a stone.  Seven moved almost too quickly 
to see, catching the woman's leg and twisting, forcing her down, but 
not for long.  She rose quickly on an obviously injured hip, targeting 
Tom rather than the Borg.

Tom blocked her first punch, but only barely.  Her second landed 
hard on his ribs as he tried to get into a better position, torn between 
facing his opponent and not turning his back on Sloane.  Warring 
instincts of self-preservation cost him.

Tom tried to kick the woman's wounded leg, but she had already 
moved.  As he looked for her he spared a thought to wonder why 
Seven wasn't backing him up.  He hit the floor hard, never seeing the 
blow that took him down, and had his answer when he opened his 
eyes.  

Sloane had Seven pinned under the steady aim of an unfamiliar 
weapon.  Borg shielding only worked when it knew what to defend 
against, and Seven had no expendable drones to acquire the 
information.

Tom tried to rise and only managed to sit up before he was choked 
from behind by a soft rope across his throat and a foot in his back 
giving the holder leverage.  His hand grabbed at his neck, and he 
knew the rope to be the woman's braid.  He knew he couldn't win 
this one with only attitude and courage.

But they were all he had.

He raised his hands in surrender, and the pressure lessened enough 
so that he could get sufficient air to say, "Talk."

"Let him go, Meera.  He knows he's not a threat."  Sloane had barely 
glanced away from Seven.  "What do you want to say, Mr. Paris?"

"You have what you want.  Why not just let me and Chakotay go?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"You're both too unpredictable.  No, it's best to eliminate you."

Seven spoke angrily.  "If you eliminate them, I will not assist you, 
and this body will be no more informative than any other 
deactivated drone."

"She's got a point," Tom said.

"I'm sure she does, but we captured enough live drones that we may 
have ways of inducing you to -- comply."

"I will not comply!"  Seven launched herself at Sloane in what should 
have been a suicide attack.  His shot went wide as he stumbled 
forward from what must have been a shove from behind.  A barely 
visible movement followed him in, and Tom remembered then that 
Mack was with them, and he suddenly realized they might get out 
alive.

He bent to where Chakotay sprawled to see whether he was alive, 
then fell heavily on the prone body when a blow landed on his 
shoulders.  Meera, he guessed, then felt rather than heard the fight 
that took place over his head.  He felt the chest beneath him rise, and 
relief coursed through him.  Tom had worried that the blow to 
Chakotay's head had been fatal, and the rise of breath told him 
otherwise.  This was going to be worth it.  He struggled to his feet in 
time to see Seven throw the dark woman against the wall where she 
slid to the floor and did not get up.

Seven stepped over to Tom, but looked past him.  He followed her 
gaze to where Sloane lay face down on the ground, still clutching his 
weapon.  Mack's cloaking worked strangely, Tom thought, because he 
had to be on Sloane's back.  What they could see was Sloane's head 
and shoulders and his set of legs, separated by a stretch of floor.  It 
was surreal.

Unfortunately the head and shoulders were still armed.  As Sloane's 
head was pulled up by Mack's invisible hand and slammed down, the 
fingers tightened on the firing stud of his weapon.  An energy beam 
went off in the general direction of Seven and Tom. It caught Seven 
in the foot, searing off the outside half and taking part of the ankle.

She went down with a noise.

Sloane, looking complete now that Mack had moved, lay motionless.  
Blood poured out his nose.

Tom felt a large presence next to him and heard a whisper directly in 
his ear.  "Get Chakotay out of here."

He nodded, realizing that Mack dare not speak where a sensor might 
pick up his voice print.  Tom knelt next to Chakotay and shook him, 
but there was no response.  The last time he'd had to carry him, 
Chakotay had at least been cooperative.  How many years ago was 
that?

Tom tried, but realized he could only drag the unconscious man, and 
he did not want to cause more injury by dragging Chakotay's bare 
skin across the floor.  It tore at him to admit it, but he called, "I can't 
do this alone."

Mack was holding Seven of Nine, who appeared to be floating, though 
missing pieces due to the cloaking effect.  Tom couldn't look at it.  
She was set down on her good foot, and Tom held out an arm for her 
to balance.  "Over my shoulder."

"Wait.  He may require assistance."

Tom nodded, helped Seven to the wall for support, then helped Mack 
get Chakotay over his invisible broad shoulder.  When Mack stood 
up, the cloak partly covered Chakotay, so that his head and shoulders 
seemed to be bobbing in mid air.  Tom had to look away, the strange 
sight making him nauseated.  

Seven was waiting, not in evident pain, but Tom knew she could 
dampen her responses to injury.  There was no way that she could 
walk, but she seemed to have her intelligence intact.  "Sloane's 
weapon," she reminded him.  

Tom grabbed it before returning to her.  He bent, and she leaned, and 
he lifted her up into the same carry that Mack used for Chakotay.  
They headed out the door and into the corridor.

Tom followed Mack without looking up.  His only thought was to get 
out.  On the way to the anteroom they passed three fallen bodies, all 
dressed in the same black of Sloane and Meera.  Mack's handiwork, 
Tom guessed.  When they reached the bare chamber where they had 
first met Meera, it was once again dark.  The odd, spare pieces of 
Chakotay floated ahead of Tom into the blackness.  Once more, no 
corridor light penetrated that ink, and no sound came back out.

Tom steped through without hesitating.  The door swished closed 
behind him.  He tensed for another silent attack -- the facility was 
thought to have one more operative -- but none came.  Straight 
across the room would be the old fashioned door, and Tom headed 
for it, holding Seven's legs and trying not to bang her injured foot.

When he stepped through the door and into the stairwell where 
Mack had apparently set Chakotay on the steps.  As soon as Tom was 
through and the door closed, something began to coat the door with a 
dull yellow film.  Tom assumed it was Mack, because otherwise the 
spray was coming from nowhere.

"Go on," came a hoarse whisper from the origin of the yellow fog, and 
Tom obeyed, taking the stairs with the effort of his added burden.  
They made it to the top and through the door to the stone-walled 
entry way out of the heavily shielded areas.  He set Seven down.

"Signal the Logan for beam up, and have them wait for me.  I'll be 
right behind you.  Get the Doctor after that foot."

She nodded, tapped an instrument on her belt, and was shimmering 
into nothing before Tom even turned away.

Back in the stairwell he found Chakotay making his way up slowly, 
leaning heavily on the railing.  The bottom of the steps was obscured 
by mist.  Tom reached Chakotay with a few fast steps, and put his 
arm around the bare waist.  

Chakotay leaned on Tom's shoulder.  "Thought you'd forgotten me."

"Not a chance.  Where is he?"

"Who?"

Tom knew better than to say Mack's name in a room full of sensors.  
"There was somebody helping us."

"Didn't see anyone."

Of course he wouldn't see Mack.  Mack was cloaked.

Tom left Chakotay at the top of the stairs.  "Wait here," he said, and 
ran back down into the mist.

At the bottom landing he waved his arms around calling, "Come on, 
let's go."  The area was small enough that he should have been able 
to touch Mack, but there was nothing. The mist choked him, and he 
fled back up the stairs, telling himself that Mack was probably gone 
already.

An invisible hand stopped him.  "Get the hell out of here.  One plasma 
arc, and that mist is going to seal this whole area."

"What about you?"

"I'm all right.  I've done this before.  Didn't I tell you I was Special 
Forces?  Now get going."

Tom felt himself pushed up the stairs to where Chakotay waited for 
him, naked, battered, and confused.  He shook his head, thinking that 
there were as many layers to the Rands as there were within Section 
Thirty-one.

"Tom?  Okay?"  Chakotay still had trouble speaking, but to Tom's 
relief he looked okay.  Tom reached up to wipe the crust from 
around the full mouth before answering.

"I think so.  Let's go."  Tom led him into the building's lobby as a low 
rumble began to shake the floor, and a dark shape moved past them 
through the door to the street.  Tom wrapped his arms around 
Chakotay as if he would never let go, and signaled for transport.