Episode 8-13 ? Remora - Voyager Virtual Season Project

Episode 8-13 - Remora
By: Jim Wright (reviewboy47@hotmail.com) The last meal of the day had been served, and Crewman Chell was wiping down
the last of the tables. He scratched the surface with his thumbnail to
free up a spot of dried sauce from the day's Chicken Catch a Torres, and
then gave it one final swipe. There. He looked around the mess hall--his mess hall--and smiled. Seven months
ago, nobody was sure Neelix's shoes could be filled. Sure, he hadn't taken
on all of the Talaxian's duties--who would want to? But the mess hall--
that was an assignment Chell had coveted long before Neelix left. It
wasn't often a cook could give a duranium-bellied Bolian a case of
indigestion, but Neelix had succeeded more than once--and he was determined
never to let that happen again. He put up the last of the chairs and returned to the kitchen. He still had
work to do. They would be here soon. There had been early concerns about letting Chell handle the meals, and not
simply because his Starfleet (bah!) service record left much to be
desired. No, it was simple prejudice against the legendary Bolian
constitution, and fears that those not similarly blessed would have their
insides jellied within a week. He smiled remembering Dalby's exaggerated--
as usual--warnings: "Count me out--Chell drinks cherry-flavored warp
plasma!" Chell grabbed the bottle of kichim. Dalby was half-right; it was cherry-
flavored. But the syrupy drink he loved so well would hardly give the
engines a decent impulse boost, let alone warp. Kichim was light nectar
compared to that vile raktajino Dalby favored. Chell had wanted this job. He was, truth be told, the only one who wanted
the job. But he'd lobbied as though it were the cream of the duty roster,
and Chakotay convinced the captain--and Chell had earned fans in a hurry.
His creative dishes had proven to be delicious for every species on board.
The most dangerous part of the menu was the awful puns Chell used to name
them. It was an ongoing source of pride. Chell added some more decanters on a serving tray along with six clean
glasses, and walked them over to the table surrounded by sofas near the
window. All he had to do now was wait. Chell had never warmed to Neelix's role as Voyager's morale officer, but he
would rise to the occasion for a special subset of the crew. After all, it was Hudson's Day. *** "To Cal Hudson--the first and the finest!" Dalby raised his glass in toast.
A bit of raktajino sloshed over the side. "Here, here!" the others said, not quite together, clinking the rims
together over the now-sticky table. The cups' contents, once unique, had
begun to blend together after a series of toasts. Jaren's coffee mixed with Tabor's synthale. Dalby's raktajino swam with
Chell's kichim. Splashes of all these, and Ayala's tequila, swirled in
poor Billy Telfer's water glass like a demonic lava lamp. "Tell us about the time Hudson took out that Galor-class vessel," Billy
said eagerly. "You mean the time he snuggled up to the belly of that sucker in a type-two
shuttle and set the warp core to overload?" Dalby asked. "Hell, if it
weren't for me running the transporters, it would have been his last
mission." Dalby's words were beginning to slur. There may have been some blood wine
mixed in with the already-potent brew. Only Chell knew for certain, and he
wasn't saying. "Maybe we should call this Dalby's Day," Ayala noted wryly, and there were
smiles all around. Dalby had been monopolizing conversation on this annual
flight through the Memory Nebula; with each passing year, Dalby's role in
the exploits of the legendary Commander Hudson, one of the key founders of
the Maquis, had grown increasingly central. "No way," Dalby insisted. "Although--I was there when Cal stared down
Sisko, you know..." Chell rolled his eyes, as he always did. "We know..." Dalby ignored him, as he always did, honoring the tradition. "It's hard to
believe those two were ever friends, the way they glared at each other."
His eyes lost focus as his mind recalled the scene. "You say he and Sisko went way back," said Billy. "Yeah," said Dalby, taking another sip, wincing as a drop of kichim sizzled
on his tongue. "Cal told me once about their time in New Berlin. They
were like brothers." Dalby's smile faded; he shook his head sadly. The silence caused the men to
stare into their drinks, each lost in thought of brothers lost and left
behind. "Until he showed up with that damned Gul Dukat, I think Cal was
convinced he could bring Sisko around. After seeing all the Cardies had
done to Bajor, why wouldn't he have fought for the rights of our own
Federation citizens?" Chell's face flushed with blue intensity. "It was bad enough that he
didn't join us! Sisko destroyed us!" Jaren frowned at this. "You saw Sveta's letter. The Dominion did that."
"It was Sisko's war crimes that helped them do it!" Chell bellowed. "He
poisoned one of our colony worlds!" "I'm not defending Sisko," Jaren said. "But it was Eddington who started
the scorched-earth tactic against the Cardies." Scorched-earth had
happened enough under the Cardassian occupation of Bajor that Jaren
abhorred anyone who would use such a tactic. "Eddington had no choice," Dalby muttered darkly. "And Sisko did give the colonists time to escape," Tabor added. "Nobody
died. And he stopped as soon as Eddington turned himself in." "You ARE defending him!" Chell bellowed at the two Bajorans. "Just because
he's your Emissary--" Ayala rolled his eyes. Here we go again... "He saved the whole Alpha Quadrant from the Dominion!" Tabor shouted. "And from the Pah Wraiths!" Jaren added. "Where did the Maquis fit into that whole?" Dalby demanded. "Besides an
unmarked grave?" "He helped Eddington rescue some of us from the Dominion--!" "And now they're in jail, like we're gonna be if Janeway ever--" "That's enough!" Ayala shouted. "All of you!" It was inevitable. Maquis were fighters by nature--the meek Billy excepted-
-and nothing if not fractious. Every party became a brawl. Billy had
brought extra dermal regenerators just in case. They all glared at each other, ready to pounce. But Ayala was an officer,
and could toss them in the brig--and, like Chakotay, had a mean right hook
if they insisted on settling things the Maquis Way. Tempers gradually cooled to a low simmer. Ayala fixed his gaze on each man
until his fists unclenched. When the danger was past, he relaxed his own
hands and picked up his drink. He tossed the tequila back with one gulp.
Maybe they could avoid a brawl this year. But then Ken Dalby pulled out his phaser. He didn't point it anywhere in
particular; he simply held it like a cherished trophy. "If me and my good
luck charm had had just five minutes with that guy..." Chell openly admired the hash marks on the phaser's handle. "Look at all
those kills! Sisko wouldn't stand a chance." He got an idea, and ran from
the table toward the nearest replicator. The two Bajorans seethed. They were proud Maquis, but they drew the line
at demonizing the Emissary. Sisko was with the Prophets now, as he
deserved to be after all he'd done to preserve and revitalize Bajor. Ayala was shocked into a recent memory. The last time he'd seen Dalby's
phaser, it was a centuries-old relic in Chakotay's quarters. He had
promised the Commander he would say nothing, but he had a sudden
premonition...and shuddered. "Hudson would kill you himself if you tried," Ayala said. "You know that
better than any of us. Put it away, Ken." Dalby didn't press the point. Muttering something about "the last Maquis
standing," he holstered his weapon. The tension in the room lessened when
the weapon was safely away. Dalby patted it, as he always did. For luck. "As long as this baby is on
my hip or in my hand, I'll live forever," Dalby vowed. "Careful what you wish for, Ken," Ayala said. He wished he could say more.
The mood was turning morose. Each man was caught up in a solitary
reverie. The party was drawing to a close. "If only those upper-deck Starfleet pukes would give me a chance to use it
again. No offense," he added hastily, smiling at Ayala. He'd been itching
in vain for action for nearly eight years now. Voyager had seen plenty of
action...but almost none of it reached him. There was precious little room
for true warriors on Voyager. Chell was determined to end it on a positive note. "I'll eat to that," he
said, arriving with a large bowl of ice cream topped with chocolate, nuts,
whipped cream, and exotic fruits. "I call it Self Destruct Sundae," he
said proudly, handing out six spoons. "The first bite is yours," he said,
handing the last to Dalby. Dalby scooped up a generous dollop. He thought for a moment. "To Hudson,"
he said at last, raising the spoon. The others grabbed their own spoonfuls. "To Hudson!" They each took a
gooey bite. Chell grabbed the next sugary toast. "To Eddington!" "To Eddington!" Ayala took the third. He paused, as if considering his words. "To fallen
comrades," he said. His voice broke as he looked at Dalby. Six spoons rose in silent tribute. "I'll help you clean up," Billy said to Chell. "Me too," said Tabor. The other three volunteered as well, and they helped
each other off the couch and began picking up utensils. But then an all-too-familiar sound hit them. Red alert. "This is the captain," they heard over the comm. "All hands to battle
stations. All hands--" Chell was already at his station. "I've got it. Go." They handed him
their spoons and left the rest on the table. As the room cleared, Chell set about securing the tables and chairs. *** Captain's Log, Stardate 55350.5. Since the encounter with the Sernaix Ship
Mind, Seve