Protocols Unknown: A Decision of The Stars

Memory Code Jumps

She had stood here a thousand times. But this time, the ship didn't know her name.

The lights flickered. No consoles glowed. No voices moved through comms. The stars outside were static, dead. She turned—no one was at their stations. No Tuvok. No Chakotay. Just the echo of her own boots against the deck plating.

"Report," she called out. Her voice disappeared into silence.

She moved through the ship, corridor to corridor, but everything felt wrong. Slanted. Quiet in the way that meant something was missing.

Then she heard it—a child's cry. Distant. Muffled. Familiar.

She followed it. Junction after junction. The sound slipped just out of reach every time. Doors wouldn't open.

She reached Sickbay and found it dark. On the biobed: a blanket. Pale blue. Folded, but stained. She stepped closer. A single boot sat beside it—tiny, scuffed at the toe.

Her stomach lurched. "Where is she?" Janeway whispered. Her voice cracked.

Footsteps behind her. She turned.

Seven.

No—just her silhouette. Backlit. And holding something in her arms.

"You said she'd be safe," Seven said. But her voice wasn't hers. It was modulated—layered with static.

Janeway stepped forward, reaching— "Is that—?"

Seven turned. The bundle was gone. Her arms were empty.

A low voice echoed behind her. Her own voice.

:: If I don't come back from this, or if something happens—block the memories. ::

Janeway turned again. The console was flickering to life—her log replaying on a loop.

:: She can't be used. She can't be taken. Promise me. ::

The log skipped. Glitched. :: She can't be used—unless you needed her to be, right, Captain? ::

Her voice grew louder. Sharper. Then the bridge again.

But now she was alone in the captain's chair, restrained. Her arms wouldn't move. The screen ahead was filled with static—no starfield. Just sound.

A thousand whispering voices.

"You left her."
"You made us forget."
"You did this to her."

She screamed. No sound came out.

And then—

A drone stepped into view. Small. Child-sized. Her face hidden behind an incomplete ocular plate.

Janeway reached for her, sobbing now. "No. No—don't—"

The drone tilted her head. A tiny hand reached out. And spoke.

"Captain," she said.

Janeway tried to speak, but her throat was tight. Her breath caught. Then the voice shifted—warped—and softened.

"Captain," Naomi said again, from somewhere behind her. "What's rule number three?"

Janeway turned. The bridge was gone.

Now she was in the mess hall—but not quite. The lights were too dim. The stars outside the viewport were moving—not past them, but around them. Circling like they were caught in orbit, or prey.

Naomi stood on a chair beside her, hands on her hips. Her braids were half-unraveled, her voice clear.

"What's rule number three?" she repeated, more urgently now.