Title: Mors Principium Est Author: Ben Mason Contact: tychocelchu@mpx.com.au Series: Voy Part: 1/3 Rating: PG-13 Code: K/7, P/T, All Date: Summary: Sequel to "Dream Lover" which was somewhere in season five, but before a certain generational ship, Voyager is raided by pirates/slavers. This is set three months after the first raid. Archive: ASC, SeventhHeaven OK. Anywhere's else - Jus' lemme know! Disclaimer: When TPTB are finished with Voyager, will there be any spoils left to divide? Not from me. * * * * When the USS Voyager was first commissioned the crew were aware of three ship wide alerts - red for battle, yellow for readiness and blue for planet fall. There were of course others, but these were ones that *everyone* reacted to. One month after their arrival in the Delta Quadrant, a new warning system was developed. More subtle but no less effective, it was passed from crewman to officer alike by a word, a movement, or a gesture. It had no name, was not officially recognized and unofficially denied existence. Rumored to have been adapted from a technique used by the maquis members of the crew it was soon in universal use and dreaded universally. B'Elanna Torres was in a bad mood. Tom especially hated these days in later years as everyone assumed that he was at fault and therefore expected him to rectify the situation. Now, years later, there was another, similar, alert in use. The method of delivery was slightly different, however. One person would walk into the mess, eyes wide, face pale; order a cup of coffee and sit staring at it for at least ten minutes before drinking. Word would pass quickly. The originator of this technique was one Frederick Bristow, who, on the wrong day at the wrong time, made a comment about someone being 'a little testy today' and 'PMS' outside what he believed was her range of hearing. The result had not been explosive, like the frequent scene in engineering. Rather it was quiet. So quiet that none could later testify as to what was actually said, but it was a week before anyone could prevent poor Freddy from fleeing to the nearest turbolift at the merest rumor that she was on the same deck, and never again did he enter the Astrometrics Lab, even if Seven was off ship at the time. Today, their worst nightmare came true. The starboard entrance to the mess opened and a trembling, white-faced Tal Celes entered and ordered a cup of coffee. Through the opposite doors, Jenny Delaney entered, one hand tracing the corridor wall, still unnerved by her sudden (and inexplicable) blindness two weeks earlier. She looked around the room, and sighed in relief at not finding what she was seeking. For the first time since becoming a member of Voyager's crew, Neelix utilized his knowledge of the more colorful parts of Federation Standard. "Oh, shit!" * * * * The two women eyed one another as they stood at the corridor junction nearest the deck five turbolift: analyzing, sensing, and silently communicating. Finally they seemed to come to an agreement. They would not be at *each other's* throats. At least not today. "It would seem we are at the end of' the 'grapevine'." "Or that they went out of their way to *not* tell us. Even Tom has been avoiding me lately." "Then who informed you?" "Carey was acting cagey, so I cornered Nicoletti. She gave in easily under pressure. You?" "Crewmen Tal did not need correcting once in three hours." "Fear is an excellent source of motivation, isn't it? I was about to pay a visit to the Captain, join me?" "Also my intended destination. It is more efficient if we express our opinions in one voice." "You're right. I didn't think. I should have called you first. We should put our heads together." "A combined and concerted argument would be more effective." "And more efficient." "Of course." "Your place or mine?" "Astrometrics is quieter. Less prone to interruptions." "Logically sound. Tuvok would approve." "That is doubtful." They entered the lift and turned to face the empty corridor. "Quiet today." "I wonder why?" * * * * B'Elanna tapped the ship to ship comm button as Seven input their course, "Delta Flyer to Voyager, we have cleared the shuttle bay and will be enroute to the 'nebula' in one point two minutes." "Acknowledged, Delta Flyer. Don't get too 'captivated' by those 'shifting' colors. The Captain would like to read your report sometime this century." B'Elanna grinned at Chakotay's response. "The Captain gave us thirty hours, Commander. She'll have it by then or not at all. Flyer out." Moments later, the two ships parted ways. One was headed in the same direction it had for over five years, the other wasn't headed anywhere near a nebula. Instead it would take a week to reach the small isolated mining facility on a small isolated moon in an unremarkable system owned by a very large and powerful empire. "Well, Seven? Do you think that should satisfy the need for posterity?" Seven kept her gaze on the controls in front of her. "Should the need arise. Barely." "I'm insulted." B'Elanna stretched out as much as the cramped conditions would allow. "I thought Chakotay and I played our parts pretty well. Hmm. Maybe we should audition for one of those theatre groups that journey around the Federation when we get back." "I would not advise it." "Oh? And why not, Madam Critique?" "Many of Voyager's crew have the ability to act. Captain Janeway. The Doctor. Even Ensign Paris can on occasion." She gave her new roommate a malicious smile rarely seen by any, and even fewer since the raid two months prior. "Tuvok would excel in any thespian career. Neither you or the Commander are one of these people." "I resent that remark. We're not that bad." "If you insist. However I wouldn't advise handing in your resignation just yet." Seven paused for a moment, as if mulling something over. "Why were you and Commander Chakotay emphasizing certain words?" "Old Maquis code. He was trying to say a lot in just a few words. 'Don't get captivated' and 'shifting colors' meant 'don't get caught' and that everyone is unreliable. Trust no one, have eyes in the back of your head and your finger ready for transport. The bit about the report, was 'come back safe'." "And what was the meaning behind your reply? It would be impossible to achieve this in thirty hours." "Its - - - an engineering term. Hours, days - whatever: they're all interchangeable. The meaning was simple. If we aren't back in a month, don't come looking for us." "I recall reading a report about a similar message that Commander Chakotay once sent to Voyager, telling you not to go after him. You disobeyed." "They won't this time. The Captain can't afford the risks. A handful to one is manageable. But when you start talking multiple digits to one? No. They'll stay on course." "Then why did she order us out on this mission?" B'Elanna looked at her friend askance. "And here I thought we were going AWOL. You really know how to take the fun out of life, don't you?" "And you spend too much time in Ensign Paris' company, his behavior is corrupting your personality." "I've always said a little corruption is good for the soul." Seven sighed in exasperation. "Just answer the question Lieutenant." "Very well 'Civilian Advisor'." B'Elanna sobered somewhat. "Remind me of plan B." "Plan B? Should negotiations with the Captain fail, we were to - - - -" Seven's eyes widened as she realized the implications. "Steal the Flyer and go AWOL." She looked out the front 'screen of the small ship at the space between speeding stars. "Janeway knows her crew well." Dorgos, Mine Slave Master of Araidl VII's second moon, was bored. An average male of his race, with average height, average looks and average talent; he possessed an above average enjoyment of the pain of others. But the mines had been quiet lately. No riots, escape attempts (which were impossible due to a lack of ships and an over abundance of kelvinite) or assaults on the guards. Even output was up. Ever since that unfortunate event nearly a month ago. *Damn those dark demons to seventh level of hell!* He glanced down to the blind woman seated cross legged on the floor next to his office door. In her hands she held a piece of coarse cloth through which she was very slowly threading some peculiar design with a blunted needle, seeking out each spot exactly with her fingertips. She was now his responsibility - 'a matter of honor' - according to the Dark. He had to care for her every need - food, drink, quarters. It was like marriage! Including the lack of . . . physical interaction. The twin rows of helixed quills running from his forehead to the nape of his neck clicked against each other in irritation. Not even an unfortunate 'accident' would rid him of this . . . burden. The only time she was out of sight was when she made her daily visit to the mines to visit her kinfolk. Ironically it was this hour of freedom that caused him the most stress. Dorgos hated it. The stress, the pressure, the lack of entertainment... But most of all he hated her. Because of her - - - Dorgos was living with a constant niggling of fear. Just enough to make him restless and irritable. He hated being afraid. His underlings weren't too fond of Dorgos being afraid either. He had a tendency to take his frustrations out on them, which is why the messenger at his door was on the verge of trembling visibly. Unlike many of his comrades, the young regnant's uniform was fresh from the 'cycler's, and his boots were polished to a high sheen. He was young enough to still have ambition, but still too green to realize that a posting to this mine was a form of exile. As Dorgos had discovered. Dorgos' quills clicked again as the messenger gained his attention. "Uh, sir?" "What." "A ship, sir. Just landed at the shuttle pad." "Why wasn't I notified when they entered orbit? You know procedure." The regnant cringed in preparation for his reply, fearing (and rightly so) that for his news, he would be reduced a rank to a mere soldier. "The sensats didn't pick it up. A northern guard saw it on approach." Dorgos considered this, frowning, quills clicking rhythmically, his interest piqued. "Have they yet made clear their intent?" The Slave Master watched as his sub-ordinate nearly gave a short sigh of relief. "Negative, sir. There has . . . .wait." He held a hand to his ear as if to here more clearly the report coming through his commpiece. "Sir? There are two waiting at the pad for you, species unknown. They desire . . . to buy!" * * * * Seven resisted the urge to give in to her itching newly bald scalp, shining a iridescent green in the glare of the system's sun streaming in through the main 'port. The cadre of soldiers approaching across the landing pad seemed to take forever to arrive. She turned to her comrade in deception, garbed in the metallic environmental suit they had purchased from a passing insectoid trader the week before. The type that kept the user at a comfortable temperature, regardless of exterior conditions. "Explain again your reasons for our roles and these absurd disguises." she murmured. "Quite easily, you don't fit the suit," "There were other sizes," "According to certain sources, I can't act," "I retracted that statement," "So the submissive look on me just wouldn't fit," "I'm sure Ensign Paris would enjoy it," "I look terrible in green," "And I do not?" "And most important of all, everyone has already seen you bald. No one will ever ... It's show time." And with that the short silver insect and her tall emerald slave shimmered blue as the transporter took them to the surface. * * * * Dorgos appraised his new 'clients' as they walked down the short ramp of the vessel parked on the tarmac. Of course the term client was easily interchangeable with 'property', as it had been several times in the past. It all depended on which was the more profitable, both for the Imperium and for the inner lining of his own pocket. After all, that's what free enterprise was all about, right? The problem was that he was uncertain into which category these two fell. Dorgos' eyes shifted from detail to detail as he, the flanking guards and the stumbling female crossed the tarmac that served as the moon's 'spaceport'. First the ship. Somehow, while looking like something owned by a less than reputable dealer in junk, it had been able to beat the most advanced sensor tech in the quadrant. (According the to the guy who'd installed it anyway.) Yet at the same time, this vehicle that didn't look like it would survive escape velocity, let alone warp speeds; apparently possessed enough firepower to annihilate a medium sized destroyer. He was no skeptic but even Dorgos had just a few doubts about these conflicting reports that denied what his eyes were seeing. Undoubtedly his superiors would find his lack of faith disturbing. Then there were the beings themselves. His eyes were immediately drawn to the one on his right, the slave. Obviously female, she was taller than her owner by a head, and although appearing subservient to the other, as slaves should, she held herself tall with a self assurance he'd only ever seen in a reigning pit fight champion. Her skin practically glowed under the hot sun with a brilliant emerald sheen, one that was interrupted by little clothing that covered strategic areas. Dorgos was immediately aroused, and smoothed his quills down with his left hand. His right strayed to the rank dagger on his hip as he examined the other stranger. It was garbed in an environmental suit, designed in insectoidal style; made almost entirely from some polished metallic material, except for the enlarged eyepieces that were an impenetrable black. In one hand was a fist sized white ball held in a swirling filigree design connected to the suit's helmet. The ball glowed as the being greeted gett. "pehtahks, all." The voice was sibilant, and soft, but Dorgos remained wary all the same. "I see you, strangers. Who do you be and what be your intentions?" Dorgos had always felt that formality was a good defense in situations like this. The white ball in the insect's hand flashed white for a few moments as his words were translated. Finally it whispered again. "our name is unpronounceable to your soft tongue. you may call us cul'lahh. we intend to buy slaves for our mistress. mine slaves cheap. consider us saviors. very loyal." As if that were a queue, one of his guards suddenly found himself with the tip of a blade at his throat, held by an emerald hand. The guard didn't need any further convincing to remove his hand from the sidearm strapped to his leg. Dorgos scowled at the blundering idiot's clumsiness. "_very_ loyal." "So I see. It won't be necessary for any further unpleasantness. The heat shall only grow as the day goes on. Shall we continue the negotiations inside the compound?" Once again Dorgos had to wait for a reply as his words were translated. At that moment he decided. *By tomorrow morning they'll belong to me. Especially the she.* The insect began to move toward the compound, but stopped when she reached the dark haired blind female who swayed in the heat of mid-morning. In a blink, the emerald object of Dorgos desire was at her owner's side, listening intently to something he could not hear. The green one took position aside the blind woman and began to assist her in making her way up the rocky path. He mused on this on the way to the only buildings on the entire moon, making plans for capture. *During their sleep. Yes that would be the best time. Delay them until tomorrow, bury them in procedure and take them when they are least ready for it.* As a result, he did not see eleven small electronic parts being passed from one bright green hand to a pale trembling one. * * * * Night. Despite the now cool air, nothing stirred near the small vessel lying prone on the tarmac. Not animal, not insect, not even the air itself. It could be thought that no one knew that this little piece of the universe existed. Nothing could be further from the truth. A vast array of sensors recorded everything. And almost nothing. About all the technicians had been able to tell about the craft was that it was visible to the naked eye. Density, material, weapons capability and so on - all readings were being blocked by the ship's security screen. The possibility of the shuttle being an illusion had been dismissed as soon as the occupants had shown themselves. It was obviously real. Right up until it ceased to exist. The former occupants also ceased to exist, as if they had never been. As did ten slaves, all purchased on the same day from the Baringi pirates; including one blind female belonging personally to Mine Slave Master Dorgos. The techs spent a full quarter period arguing over who would be the unfortunate soul to tell Dorgos he was a walking dead man. * * * * The interior of the Delta Flyer was like the outside: dark and silent. Like a tomb. A darkness that was briefly chased away by two bright columns of blue light, that quickly coalesced into two humanoid figures. Consoles came alive under the deft manipulations of their fingers and the ship responded in kind, streaking away and out of the solar system; suddenly gone in a flash of light. Inside were twelve members of Voyager's crew. Ten survivors, almost unbelieving at their good fortune; and two rescuers still in disguise, not being able to believe their misfortune; too shocked to grieve yet. All staring at the isolinear tag that would have allowed Harry Kim to escape his incarceration as well. Had he still lived. But in saving the life of the now blind Megan Delaney from the attentions of a dark and cruel guest of the Slave Master. . . . . . . . . he had lost his own. * * * * I awake. I think. I think I am awake. But I am uncertain for I cannot ing, All is blackness. I am uncertain for I cannot hear, all is silence, silence of the womb(egg); no - tomb. There is no heartbeat echoing through the dark, this is not my mother's womb (in my shell). Other senses are dulled likewise. I can detect no scent, nor taste anything. My body is unresponsive, and I cannot feel ground or wall, not even the breath of air against my cheek. I dreamed like this once, or am I still dreaming? But I am awake, despite the evidence. It is more an instinct than anything else, an awareness. I think, therefore, I am. Where this thought comes from, I do not know. It is almost not my own, more like a memory of something someone once said, or something I read. But if I am, then who am I? I do not know. Images, sounds, memories assault me. A beautiful female, blonde haired and blue eyed. A babe in swaddling cradled in my arms. A woman I called 'mother'. Laughter, tears, anger and grief. But there are other things, also. Darker things. Death, fear, darkness. Things I have witnessed, things I have, O gods help me, things I have done! Murder most foul, and cruelty beyond measure. These things do not align with those others and I flee from them, into the dark. A sound - scraping, hissing _match_ . The name comes to me unbidden. A sight - a tiny spark of light, sputtering, then growing steady, almost blinding in the darkness _candle_ A scent - pungent, frightening and soothing at the same time, _incense_ Then there is another, and another, their numbers increasing to a full score; allowing me to see the room I inhabit. It is vast. All I can see as I lie here on the ebony carpeted floor are columns, evenly distributed; equally black as the massive rough hewn stone in front of me (altar), but not as deep a darkness as the thick softness covering the floor. I raise my eyes, seeking a ceiling and finding none, only the inky darkness. A Temple. And certainly not one to the goddess of beauty and light. "Welcome back from the dead, my boy." toonow this as speech. The voice that speaks is so much, almost too much, at once. It is soft, yet harsh, loud but intended for me only. I feel I must shrink from it as one would a mortal danger, yet at the same time I am enraptured by it. I seek the endless darkness for the source, but find nothing. Finally fear and joy release my frozen vocal chords and I speak. "Who are you? And who am I?" A face appears in the darkness, alone as if painted on a matt black canvas. White and pale to the point of translucence, scarred ritually in such a way to accentuate certain features, so that instead of being ugly, the face becomes flawless. A marble sculpture, hanging in shadows. A word escapes my lips, like gas escaping a cracked pipe. "Master." There are memories associated with this face, this place. Pain, discipline, perhaps a little pride in my own achievements; but not so much that I am arrogant. Rigorous training, long periods of fasting and meditation. I see him angry, disappointed, and blank. But never proud, never satisfied. I was never good enough. There is not, nor ever was, any happiness here. So why do I remember being a giggling child, bright skies and the love of a good woman? He speaks again. "Who are you? You are two who are now one. You are one who was dying, and one who was . . . .suitable. In time only one will remain, the strong one, the one who is my progeny and heir. Once again you will be Raa'Venn. I smile as I lay on the soft ebony fibers. The strong shall survive, eh? Then I am grateful you know not the strength of the human heart. "Then a raven I shall be." Then all the nerve endings in my body come alive as one, ripping over my flesh like a million white hot needles, and I scream in agony. Fin Translation of the title: "Death is only the beginning."