Chapter Text
You wake up with a headache like you recently encountered the business end of a bat’leth. At first you’re afraid to open your eyes because that might hurt too, but you ease up your right eyelid to take a peek. You’re on a biobed in a Starfleet facility – which means you’re a prisoner.
The slight movement of your eye causes a bustle around you. You hear the beeps of a medical tricorder and a hand folds around yours.
“He’s regaining consciousness,” an unfamiliar male voice says. “He may be experiencing some confusion. The memory centers of the brain were affected.”
“Chakotay,” a woman says – probably the one who’s holding your hand considering how close the voice is. Who would be holding your hand? It doesn’t sound like Seska or B’Elanna. “Open your eyes, Chakotay,” she says. “You’re going to be okay.”
You brace yourself for more pain and open your eyes. The bright overhead light you had feared isn’t there. Lighting comes from behind panels, indirect and soothing. You blink as a medical officer comes into focus at the foot of the biobed, a middle-aged man without much hair left.
You shift your eyes to identify the source of the woman’s voice and there she is, hovering to your left. Shoulder-length reddish hair, worried blue eyes, and a face you’ve only seen in an intel file. It’s the face of the captain who chased you into the Badlands – now the face of your captor. She’ll get a tidy promotion out of this. Maybe a bigger ship than that little runabout she came after you with.
“Janeway,” you say.
“Yes.” She smiles as if she’s relieved. She doesn’t seem to have noticed your bitter tone and she’s still holding your hand. This must be some new kind of prisoner psychology, but she won’t be getting anything out of you today. You’re wise to Starfleet’s confidence games. “How do you feel?”
“Like a Trakan beast kicked me in the head,” you say, which is true and not classified.
“Doctor!” she exclaims. “He’s still in pain.”
The medical officer approaches and before you can protest applies a hypospray to your neck. The pain abates instantly, but who knows what else he’s given you – a sedative, a truth serum? You breathe deeply and try to sense any change in your brain function. If anything, you feel clearer than you’ve felt in weeks, surviving on minimal rations through firefight after firefight.
“I’m hungry,” you say, because it’s also true and their gentle prisoner protocol might allow you a decent meal before the interrogation fun begins.
Janeway moves to the replicator and orders mushroom soup, which disturbs you on several levels. First, it suggests a level of detail in Starfleet intelligence files that you hadn’t been aware of. They’ve interrogated your friends or even your family to discover that preference. Second, she’s beginning to unnerve you with the solicitous friend routine – exactly the intended effect, no doubt. She's out of uniform in some kind of snug tunic that looks all kinds of right, probably meant to soften you up. And third, when she brings the soup steaming on a tray and raises the biobed to a sitting position so that you can eat, the soup is your mother’s own recipe. You drop your spoon with a splash.
“What the hell is this?”
Janeway’s jaw drops. “The family soup recipe. Your favorite, Chakotay. Doesn’t it taste right?” She picks up the spoon and tastes it. “It tastes just right to me. Doctor, scan him again. I’m afraid the brain damage is more serious than we thought.”
“I’m not brain damaged,” you snarl. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing but I demand to be returned to my ship.”
Janeway and the doctor exchange glances.
“You took a leave, remember?” she says. “You’ll be reassigned to command Voyager next year.”
“Voyager? What are you talking about? My ship is the Val Jean.”
At that, Janeway turns the color of cauliflower. She braces herself with both hands on the edge of the biobed and studies your face.
“What stardate is this, Chakotay?” she asks.
You consider. Judging by the severity of your injury, you could have been out for a few days. The Val Jean might even have been destroyed, considering the odd reaction from these Starfleet hacks when you mentioned your ship.
“It can’t be any later than Stardate 48316.2.”
The doctor steps to your side and begins scanning you. He snaps shut the medical tricorder with a frown.
“Captain Chakotay,” he says. “This will come as a shock, but today is Stardate 59459.12. Over twelve Terran years have passed since Stardate 48316.2.”
“What?”
The doctor holds out the tricorder with the time and date displayed at the top of the screen.
“You could fake that easily,” you snap.
“To what end?” Janeway asks. The baffled expression is good. She's some actress. You have to find a way out of here - but first you need to know where here is.
“Where am I being held? What are the charges against me?” Your head is feeling much better. You push the tray aside and swing your legs off the biobed.
“You really should rest,” the doctor says.
Janeway puts a hand on your arm. “There are no charges against you. It was a bad shuttle accident during training maneuvers, that’s all. We should have kept you sedated until you’d recovered more fully.” She shoots a glare at the doctor that is somehow familiar, but you shake off her hand and stand up.
“Where am I?” you demand again.
“You’re at Starfleet Medical in San Francisco,” the doctor answers. “You’re home.”
As they both stare at you, you survey the room and find it otherwise empty. No security. No sign of force fields. You shove Janeway aside and sprint for the door.
TO BE CONTINUED.