The BLTS Archive - Sed Nobis
Fourth in The Dark Is Rising series
by Suzanne Finn (yatokahc@aol.com)
and
Julie Kirkham (arizona@exl.co.uk)

---

September 2001 - ???

Disclaimer: Not ours. Never were. Never will be. Don't want
Paramount's version of them anyway.

Authors' Note: In this time of great tragedy and unrest, we all need a
little diversion. This story has been in the making for quite a while
now, but because of personal upheavals, the writing was slowed,
stalled, shelved, and more. We dusted it off a while back, and though
it's not yet finished, recent events have spurred us to start the
sharing process.

Technical Note: Just a reminder–we're by no means techie Trekkies, so
some of the technobabble requires a leap of faith. If you're not
feeling adventurous, turn back!

Warning: Like its predecessors, this story contains graphic violence.
If this is something you do not care for, we urge you to leave. It is
not our intention to offend, and so we humbly warn you now.

Warning: If you like the nice, amiable Chakotay and the almost perfect
Kathryn Janeway then this may not be the story for you. We doubt that
the gang is much in character. But then, we don't much care either. If
you do, we suggest you leave.

Warning: We don't particularly care for the canon set by TPTB as of
the beginning of season four, so we've taken some liberties! If you
don't like creative history, run away!

Latin Lesson: Yes, it's that bloody Latin again. What does this title
mean, you ask? It is taken from the phrase non mihi, non tibi, sed
nobis: not for you, not for me, but for us. Interpret at will.

Time Frame: This is set approximately three days after the events of
Desecrated, the third story in The Dark is Rising series.

Thanks: A huge thanks to Lee, Speedo, Jen, Diane, Sandra, and Megan
for their beta efforts! You've helped to make this little universe
much more than it might have otherwise been.

Any errors that remain belong to us!

For Lorraine and her mother... We hope you've found your peace.

---

Tom shivered in the cool, antiseptic air of the main bay, hugging
himself tightly and staring moodily at the floor. At some point over
the past few days–when, he couldn't pinpoint exactly–a preternatural
chill had seeped into his bones and gripped him deep in his belly. He
thought it unlikely he would ever be warm again.

Try as he might–and try he did–the import of the chill eluded him,
though he knew there had to be a reason for it. But he was tired, and
he didn't want to think about it anymore. In fact, he didn't want to
think at all. Introspection had never been a favorite pastime, and he
was quite skilled at avoiding it. A flash of humor and a heavy dose of
diversion served well as a bulwark against self-revelation.

Since returning to Voyager, he'd constantly been with some person or
other, making it a simple matter to fill every waking moment.

But alone in the dim stillness of Voyager's sickbay, he was stripped
of his defenses. His only protection lay asleep on the biobed at his
back–not quite what he'd been hoping for.

Tom sighed heavily. He was alive and physically intact, and after the
hell of the last few days, he supposed that ought to have been enough
to create some sense of peace.

But peace was as elusive as warmth.

Tom turned his head slightly and took in the First Officer–how quietly
he slept. Chakotay had come out of his semi-sustained coma sometime
during the night, and had been awake off and on ever since. But it
wasn't until now that Tom had mustered the courage–the need–to see
him.

Chakotay's face seemed less empty now, and a faint tinge of color had
crept into his cheeks. Tom had forgotten what Chakotay looked like
whole and free of pain, and he swallowed hard at the sight.

He'll be fine, the Doctor had said. He's strong.

Very strong.

As the ghostly whisper licked up Tom's spine, he froze. With sudden
hallucinatory clarity, he felt the cold hardness of the mottled cell
bars in his fists. He felt again the bile rise in his throat and the
anger surge in his veins as a black tongue trailed along Chakotay's
neck and a pale green hand gripped his groin.

Tom clamped his eyes shut, trying to push it all from his head, but
eyes open or closed, he couldn't seem to fight off the wolves of
memory.

Do you revel in his pain?

He felt something bitter twist around in his belly like a snake
shifting itself in its sleep. Pain was not something he'd ever taken
lightly.

You're a fool!

He considered leaving, quickly, before anyone knew he'd been there. He
felt steeped in blood and cruelty, and he needed a respite from it
all. But that was why he was here, wasn't it? A few stolen moments
with someone who, despite everything, still saw some light in the
universe.

---

Kathryn lifted her chin and eyed her Chief Engineer as the young woman
passed through the door to the ready room. The worry impacted around
B'Elanna's eyes didn't seem as severe as it had a few days before, but
her condition had not improved. Worry was now forfeit to fatigue.
Chakotay was awake, and Tom was more or less holding his own, but
Voyager still suffered, and while the status of the ship was not
critical, it was serious enough to require constant attention.
Engineering had been pressed to its limits for far too long.

Truth be told, B'Elanna had held up far better than Kathryn had
expected.

Her gaze dropped briefly to the PADD in the Engineer's hand, then
again drifted upward. Ship's business; she could see it concentrate
the muscles of the young woman's jaw. Leaning back, she gestured
toward the chair opposite her. "Have a seat."

B'Elanna proffered the PADD she carried, and then dropped heavily into
the chair.

"What have you got for me?"

"Problems," the half-Klingon replied, pointedly meeting the Captain's
gaze.

What else is new, Kathryn thought wryly. She couldn't remember what
life was like without problems. "Care to elaborate?" she prompted,
scanning the contents of the PADD.

"The warp complex." B'Elanna moistened her lips, then resting her
elbows on the arms of the chair, clasped her hands. "The core is
stable, but there are several anomalies within the matrix itself.
Immediately following replacement of the crystals, DCAF was sound, and
though not up to spec, it held its own. However, over time, some minor
problems have developed."

"How minor?" Kathryn hedged.

"Very. But there are several. Individually, they amount to nothing
more than a nuisance, but collectively they add up to a major
headache. The only way to safely stabilize the entire system is to
take the engines and warp core offline, realign the frame, and then
restart the core."

Exhaling heavily, Kathryn set the PADD on her desk, then raised a hand
to her temple, tiredly kneading a burgeoning ache. "Estimated repair
time?"

"Sixteen to eighteen hours. However, it's not just DCAF that needs
attention. We're having problems with both the port and starboard
nacelles."

"Latent damage from the initial Braai incursion?"

B'Elanna nodded wearily, the mention of that accursed species no
longer enough to muster a more fervent response. "Both nacelles are
experiencing problems with the plasma injectors. Our failure to
maintain a stable plasma stream over the past two and a half weeks has
weakened them. They're in desperate need of maintenance. However, the
injectors are fabricated from arkenium duranide and single-crystal
ferrocarbonite, neither of which we have in stock."

"Is the problem critical?"

"Not yet."

An auburn eyebrow raised at the phrasing of the response. "How long
before it becomes critical?"

"It's hard to say. Three weeks, maybe a month." B'Elanna shifted in
her chair, no doubt at the look of exasperation in her Captain's eyes.
"I have a suggestion, Captain."

Interest raised the auburn brow higher, as Kathryn nodded for the
Chief Engineer to proceed.

"If we were in the Alpha Quadrant, we'd schedule Voyager for general
maintenance and refit at the nearest Starbase. As we don't have that
luxury, we could set course for that uninhabited M-class planet on the
far side of the sector, land Voyager and perform our own dry dock
maintenance."

Kathryn leaned forward slightly. Dry dock? Of course. The M-class
planet–a planet twice beyond their reach, but still within their
need–was approximately eight days away at warp six–well within
critical range, and well out of reach of the Braai. And from initial
scans… it might just be feasible. "How long would you need?"

"For essential maintenance? Three… maybe four days. But I'd like to do
more than essential work. Voyager has been flying for over four years
without benefit of a proper overhaul. She needs it."

No ship in the fleet would have been neglected for so long. "And for
complete maintenance?"

"Three weeks. Maybe more."

There was nothing surprising with that. Dry dock at a state-of-the-art
Starfleet facility inevitably meant an extended leave. This was no
different, except that this was. "What about the topography and
ecology of the planet?"

B'Elanna shook her head. "Nothing certain beyond the original scans."

Kathryn turned the suggestion over in her mind. Dry dock. It had
definite merit. She'd discuss Voyager's needs with Tuvok and have
Seven prepare a detailed scan summary. If the planet proved as
innocuous as initial sense data indicated, they could do more than dry
dock the ship. Voyager needed the down time, and so did her crew.
"I'll take it under advisement, Lieutenant."

---

A slight frown creased Chakotay's brow as he took in the young man. At
first he thought Tom was–impossibly–asleep on his feet, silent and
still, propped up against the side of the biobed. But then he saw the
man's throat work at swallowing and the muscles along his jaw bunch.
He was awake, staring at the floor.

The light from the Doctor's office cast a soft glow on Tom's skin, and
Chakotay was inexplicably overcome with an urge to reach out and touch
him, to feel the truth and life of him–affirmation that he was real
and they were indeed home. But he resisted the pull. He was too raw,
too much too close to the surface.

Sighing indistinctly, he shifted slightly on the hard mattress of his
bed. He felt drained and empty, still in fragments. And yet his mind
was quite clear, perched at some far remove from the rest of him. He
wondered what time it was, how long he'd been sleeping, then decided
it didn't really matter. He'd needed the rest–still did, he supposed.

And by all appearances, so did Tom. How long had he been standing
there?

"Tom?"

The young man tensed even more, then straightened and turned, his blue
eyes dark in the dim room. But his expression was merely observant, a
touch circumspect. "Hey, Chief."

Chakotay bristled, lips pressing together at the name, but then
relaxed. Annoying was as natural to Tom as breathing. As often as not,
Chakotay was willing to lower himself to the occasion, but at the
moment he'd neither the desire nor the energy.

And then he noticed Tom was shivering slightly, shoulders hunched up,
hugging himself. There was nothing mocking about him. Maybe Tom didn't
realize what he'd said. Or maybe the sense of connection between them
still lingered.

They remained silent for a minute or two, regarding each other, the
hum of the warp engines–slightly off, but familiar and
reassuring–suffusing the hush between them. It all seemed so peaceful
and undemanding, incongruent with the events of the past couple of
weeks, as if the Braai had never happened.

"How are you feeling?" Tom asked at last, softly.

Chakotay blinked at the brush of sound. "Tired, but not bad." He was
silent a moment, then murmured, "You?"

The corners of Tom's mouth curled in an almost-smile, and he shrugged.
"Not bad."

Another silence.

Something somewhere beeped.

"I'm glad you're here," Chakotay ventured. He swallowed hard, then
cautiously, his voice low, said, "I wanted to thank you."

Tom's eyes widened slightly. "For what?"

"For saving my life."

"I didn't have much to do with that."

"That's not what the Doctor said."

Tom harrumphed.

"And in that prison… there was only you."

Tom drew a long breath and sighed it out slowly, and in that breath,
Chakotay saw something, something in his expression–a grim weariness.
Something pained and pensive, as if he were carefully measuring a
standard and himself against it, and not much caring for the result.

Chakotay shook his head. "Don't."

Tom froze, genuine confusion creasing his brow. "Don't what?"

"Blame yourself," Chakotay said. "What happened wasn't your fault."
Despite how he'd upbraided the man for disobeying the order to leave
the planet–the repercussions of his disobedience–it wasn't his fault.
"There was nothing you could have done to stop them."

Tom's broad shoulders tightened suddenly. "I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes," he said stiffly.

"Then get over it," Chakotay counseled, his tone making no allowances
for self-recrimination. "I have."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "You're a real comfort, Chief," he said sharply.

"And you're a real pain in the ass," Chakotay shot back.

Chakotay expected a hot, defensive response, but he didn't get one.
Instead, Tom fell silent for a moment, and then he huffed, the fight
going out of him, a wry smile lighting his eyes. "So I've been told."

They'd been here before, and they both knew it. And in the feeble
comfort gained in the familiarity of the exchange, Chakotay yielded.
It was too soon for them. "B'Elanna?"

"Among others." After a moment, Tom sighed heavily and leaned against
the biobed, his gaze falling to his feet.

"You look tired."

Tom blinked, gaze sliding upward.

"You should go back to your quarters. Get some sleep," Chakotay said
softly. "You don't need to stand watch over me." Not anymore.

"I didn't come here for you," Tom said, expression unmoving. "I was
just out for a walk."

Chakotay knew better. "You don't lie worth a damn."

Tom snorted, rolling his eyes. "I liked you better when you were
unconscious."

---

Kathryn slumped into the cushions beneath her, staring without intent
into the darkness of her quarters. She debated calling for lights,
then decided against; she didn't want to confront the harsh reality of
light–not yet. At the moment, she preferred the refuge of the
indistinct, amorphous twilight.

Dull had its allure.

Sinking deeper into the couch, she squeezed her eyes shut, and pinched
the bridge of her nose. The headache that had been pounding a fierce
rhythm in her skull for the last six hours finally seemed to be
abating. The timing was perfect; her shift was over–all eighteen hours
of it.

She snorted. Eighteen hours was a relatively short duty shift by
recent standards. The reduction in shift time was a good sign; the
crew was slowly returning to an operations schedule that could pass
for something on the outer limits of sane. And though the motions of
their daily life were slowly approaching routine, what lay beneath the
surface was far from.

Blinking hard, Kathryn turned her head slightly, took in the
suggestion of PADDs scattered over her coffee table; reports from
virtually every department, among them, Seven's scan summary and
B'Elanna's Engineering report. She'd already spent hours sifting
through those two alone. B'Elanna's recommendation had definite merit,
and Seven's summary was a promising corroborator.

As for the other reports…. Her gaze tripped further over the disarray
to the three PADDs she'd separated from the rest.

Ayala's and Gerron's mission reports were virtually identical–once
again. The wording was different, but their perspectives were more or
less the same and their assessment frighteningly cognate of their
earlier rescue mission. And like that earlier mission, their reports
were severely lacking in detail.

But where their reports were lacking, Tuvok's had been extremely
comprehensive–as only a Vulcan's could be. He'd spared her nothing.
There had been points of questionable tactics, actions she couldn't
quite come to terms with. Some part of her had believed–however
foolish–that Tuvok could bring them back without slaughter. Or maybe
she'd wanted to believe, to assuage her conscience, to shield her
moral standing, to make herself feel better about what she knew they
were ultimately going to have to do–had done.

Regardless, she couldn't censure them for those actions. She knew her
crew, their intelligence and honesty and wealth of courage. They
weren't brutal acts committed by brutal people. They were a violent
means to a justifiable end.

She herself had a sincere desire to spend a long life striving to do
right by the universe. To her amazement and dismay, what she had
sanctioned on the Braai homeworld didn't seem in conflict with that
desire.

She couldn't condemn them. She'd authorized–tacitly supported–it all.

And yet it disturbed her. Greatly.

It disturbed her even more that Ayala and Gerron were less than
forthcoming. It was apparent that they didn't trust her. Maybe not
willfully, but… Hell, she couldn't blame them. The only example upon
which to gauge her response was their previous mission, and she'd
handled that badly.

Very badly.

She'd believed Chakotay wrong–a belief so necessary that it had been
unconscious. Yet what Chakotay and his team had done to save her and
the others was no different than Tuvok's mission and methods. Perhaps
it had been more personal for Chakotay, but she couldn't dispute his
motives–they were unknown to her.

She swallowed hard, gaze narrowing as she eyed Tuvok's report. His
analysis had been painstaking and his final conclusions logical.
Still, she was stunned that he was recommending the permanent
formation of a trained covert team on board Voyager. Was there truly a
need? Her back had been to the wall on the Braai homeworld; she'd had
no choice. But it was hard to believe that they'd find themselves in
such dire straits ever again, or that she'd willingly compromise
herself–again.

Or was she too goddamned naïve to believe it? A covert team had been
necessary once….

No. Twice.

Tears suddenly stung Kathryn's eyes as her gaze slid to the Doctor's
report. It had been hard to read. And the Doctor–bless him–knew it
would be; the words had seemed deliberately detached and clinical, and
yet a shocking account of the injuries Chakotay had suffered. Chakotay
had been through hell.

She picked up the PADD and rose, moving to stand at the viewport.
Knowing now what she did of Chakotay's past, the Doctors conclusions
regarding his physical and psychological state, and his ability to
return to duty were not surprising.

"… Despite the disturbing nature of the Commander's captivity, and the
subsequent aggressive and invasive treatment required to save his life
(see section 4.5 of this report), he has survived the experience with
no discernible residual trauma. Under article 756 of the Starfleet
medical code, I have carried out all standard Starfleet mental fitness
tests and he has responded with positive results (see section 5.2 of
this report).

All physical injuries have healed and his mental state is sound. Once
officially released from my care, it is my opinion that the Commander
is fit for duty and may assume all the responsibilities that the post
of First Officer requires."

Kathryn scrolled through the sections that the Doctor referenced.
She'd read them before–the extensive list of surgeries and
medications–and yet she had to swallow the lump hardening in her
throat.

Her heart beat loud and hard at the memories suddenly rushing through
her mind. She silently cursed the Herros brothers and their
cronies–accused them–and yet at the same time she blamed herself. She
was responsible for Voyager and her crew.

She'd spent hours sifting through the past few weeks, the torrent of
events, and the more she examined them, the more convinced she became
that it all could have been prevented. From the moment they had
entered Braai space she had mismanaged everything. She should have
known.

Against her will, her memories tumbled further back, to the Hirogen,
the Borg, to the Caretaker and the destruction of the array, her
single-minded obsession to protect those who couldn't protect
themselves. Forays in compassion and defense, in and out of her
control.

But they'd survived. And they'd survived the Braai as well.

Just, she thought, eyeing the PADD in her hand. They had been lucky.
They–she–could just as easily have lost him.

She'd do it again to get Chakotay back. But was it just him or would
she do the same for anyone on board? What if it had only been Tom on
that planet? This crew was her family, this ship her home. Maybe what
she believed no longer mattered. Maybe there was no choice, when push
came to shove, in how far she would go for her crew.

---

Pale green stretched for as far as the eye could see, indistinctly
blending with a sky so crystalline it would undoubtedly shatter were
he to touch it. The prairie was comfortably sunny and easy on the
eyes, the grass thick and springy under his feet. A gentle wind
wrapped itself around him, soft and warm, and he inhaled deeply, the
air fragrant and fresh.

He contemplated lying down in the softness and basking in the soothing
warmth, but something touched his arm, preventing thought from
becoming reality.

"Tom."

After a pause full of the scent of the grass and the whispering
breeze, Tom snorted in amusement and turned toward the familiar tenor.
"Well, don't you get around."

Chakotay didn't respond–didn't even look at him. Instead, he stood
facing behind Tom, hands raised to shade his eyes.

Frowning, Tom's gaze followed Chakotay's. He raised his own hands,
squinting against a sudden brightness. And then his gut wrenched, his
eyes widening. A vast darkness obscured the horizon, moving toward
them, fast, devouring, like a black tide.

Without thought, he gripped Chakotay's arm, turned, and started to
run, but couldn't. His feet wouldn't move. He glared at them in
confused desperation, willing them to do something–anything–but they
refused.

"It's not coming for you."

His gaze snapped up, meeting dark eyes and a gentle smile.

Bleeding hell, Tom's mind screamed. Not again! His eyes darted to the
advancing fury and then back to Chakotay. Their gazes locked, and in
those eyes Tom saw a resignation and a strength that scared him…
shitless.

His grip tightened on Chakotay's arm as he swallowed hard. Was he the
only coward?

And then a foul-smelling wind kicked up, coiling around them, raking
over the grass, twisting it in strange patterns. The sun disappeared,
and an odd glow fell over them. The grassland began to churn and rise
up, thickening and taking form.

Massive.

Braai.

Herros.

Before Tom could breathe, Herros whirled and struck him viciously,
sending him to the unforgiving blackness at his feet.

"Tom!"

Through a dark flash of limbs, he caught a glimpse of Chakotay,
bleeding and in pain.

"No!" Tom howled, pushing himself up, lunging toward Herros. But hands
suddenly congealed all around him, grabbing, clawing, wrenching at
him. Just as he began to split apart, he heard another voice, heavy
and sleepy–"Tom?"

Tom jerked awake, his heart pounding. "What?" he gasped.

"You're dreaming," B'Elanna muttered, voice thick, not quite awake
herself.

"Shit," Tom breathed. He was shivering, drenched in a cold sweat. He
drew in a breath, then exhaled shakily. It had been a dream. Another
fucking dream.

B'Elanna shifted in bed beside him. "You all right?" she asked.

"Yes." As all right as he could be. He rolled toward her, resting his
head on the pillow next to hers. She stirred again, releasing a long,
comfortable sigh, draping an arm limply over his side.

"Go back to sleep," she said, still sounding muzzy.

He lay unmoving for a long time; he didn't feel sleepy–not anymore.
He'd had enough sleep. Or maybe he just wanted to stay as far away
from the confines of sleep as he possibly could. Sleep held nothing he
desired these days.

Unlike Scylla.

There were times, immured in that Braai hellhole, when he'd managed to
stumble into sleep… and dreamed of her. He'd dreamed of burying his
hands in her hair, of tipping her head back so that he could devour
her mouth with his own. He'd dreamed of her breast pressed against his
lips, of drawing her body tight against his own and suckling hungrily.
He'd dreamed of sinking deeply into her, of finding frantic, sweetly
desperate release.

But now, home, with B'Elanna warm and near, he dreamed of the Braai.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, burying his face
in her hair. "Do you know?" he whispered. "Do you know what it feels
like to have… no hope? To try as hard as you can and still be damned?"

She was quiet for a moment, and then she shifted closer, fitting her
head in the hollow under his chin. "Yes," she breathed. "Yes, I do
know."

Something in his chest tightened at the response. Perhaps she did. The
Vidiians weren't that distant of a memory, nor were the Cardassians.

"I've never felt so powerless, so… helpless in my life," he said, the
words barely audible as he pushed them past the thickening in his
throat. "What they wanted… I couldn't give. And Chakotay…."

Her arms tightened around him, holding the fragile pieces of him
together. "Chakotay is alive because of you. And as for the rest of
it, he knows." She lifted her face to his, eyes glistening in the
starlight. "You did the right thing."

Chakotay did know–had said as much. But it all seemed just
words–hollow and meaningless. "It felt wrong."

"That's what they wanted you to feel. But what they did was wrong. And
what you're thinking about yourself, that's wrong, too."

His brow knit together. "How do you know what I'm thinking?"

A dark eyebrow rose, a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth, and he
realized no answer was needed.

"In time it will all fade."

He sighed as the tension slowly bled from him. Said was easier than
done, but as he looked into B'Elanna's eyes, he knew he wasn't alone.
"I missed you," he said softly.

She smiled gently, leaning close. And then she took his breath between
her lips, whispered "I love you," and gave it back again.

---

She'd given Chakotay a few moments to realize she was there, but his
eyes stayed shut. He wasn't asleep, though; the lines of his body were
slightly tensed, not relaxed in slumber. She'd watched him enough in
recent days to know the difference.

With his waking had come a renewed swell of concern and curiosity. The
Doctor had admirably stemmed the flow of would-be well-wishers, but
the visitors Chakotay had been allowed were more than he'd needed; he
was exhausted. The few times she'd stopped by sickbay herself, he'd
been asleep.

She couldn't blame him if he wasn't ready to face another concerned
crewmember.

Sighing, Kathryn's gaze dropped to the cup she held in her hands, and
the syrupy, blue liquid within, nose wrinkling at the sight–and smell.
Putrid was too kind a description for the stuff. It was beyond her why
in today's day and age the developers couldn't manufacture something
that tasted better–or less.

She didn't envy Chakotay the task of ingesting the substance,
regardless of caloric and nutritive benefit.

Leaning against the edge of the biobed, Kathryn took in the still form
of her First Officer, allowing her gaze to slide over what flesh she
could see, arms and chest, whole and healthy, and face, dark and
quiet, but with life beneath that calm surface. He looked good–a
little worn around the edges perhaps, but good.

She briefly contemplated leaving him to his rest or escape or whatever
it was he was doing, but instead exhaled slowly, loud enough to
convince his eyes to open. They regarded one another for a moment, and
then she offered a faint, crooked smile. "Nice of you to join me."

One corner of Chakotay's mouth lifted, his brow creasing slightly in
an oddly bemused expression.

"How are you feeling?"

"The question of the day."

"No doubt." He'd obviously been asked one too many times. She held out
the cup. "Time for a little nourishment–Doctor's orders. He thought
this might be easier for you to handle at first."

Chakotay grimaced. "Easier than what?"

"Neelix's cooking?"

Chakotay snorted his amusement, then pushed himself to an elbow and
took the cup. He sipped carefully, swallowed slowly, and if the look
on his face was any indication, hoped it would stay down. She knew
exactly how he felt.

"How's Voyager?" he asked, resting between sips.

She looked at him curiously, watching the rise and fall of his chest,
and the play of light and shadow on the strong, clean lines of his
face. There was little doubt that he was at least marginally aware of
Voyager's current condition. The question should have surprised her,
but it didn't; they were on uncertain footing and Voyager was
comfortable, common ground. "She'll be all right," she responded.

He didn't push for more, but merely stared at her for a moment, a
tremor running down his throat as he swallowed. "How long has it
been?"

"Three days at warp six." But then, he undoubtedly knew that too. "The
crystals are sound and there's no sign of pursuit, though the Braai
couldn't keep pace even if they tried. We seem safe enough, and if
nothing else, that's a novelty."

Chakotay nodded, mouth quirking. "Yes," he said, then downed the rest
of the nutritive.

Kathryn took the cup from him, then pushed herself away from the
biobed and walked to a nearby recycle unit, aware of Chakotay's gaze
as it followed her. "You never answered my question," she said,
glancing over her shoulder.

"No, I didn't."

She laughed at that–at least the response was honest.

And then her smile faltered as she mentally stumbled over the
word–honest. The definition had somehow changed. Or perhaps the import
of it had. Degrees of honesty. Half-truths and omissions. What lay
between them still hurt, but over the past several days, she'd begun
to understand his reasons.

Honor had led Chakotay to his decision–to conceal his past. Honor, and
an unwillingness to decline a responsibility he felt was his
regardless of the ties that had been broken. He'd had little warning
or choice about joining Voyager and her crew; no time to make
decisions or resolve conflicts. And yet he'd shouldered the
responsibilities–old and new–and moved forward.

Yes, he'd lied–more or less. But he was an honorable man; he was not
one to abandon his obligations.

"Kathryn?"

Chakotay's voice tugged at her awareness, and she blinked, her gaze
shifting to his. He was frowning slightly, without doubt at the odd
picture she made, buried in half-shadow, cup in hand and on the brink
of being reprocessed, brow puckered in thought as if reconsidering its
fate.

Depositing the container, she drew a deep breath, then exhaling
slowly, turned to fully face him. The creases on his brow had faded,
but his gaze was dark and intent and steeped in concern–for her.

She swallowed hard. Yes, he'd lied–more or less. And there was no
question that he'd been afraid. But she'd been afraid, too–afraid that
despite their bond he wouldn't choose her when confronted with the
struggle between a very old and entrenched oath and a present-day
family.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

It seemed a reasonable place to begin. She was sorry. Sorry that
Chakotay had been captured and tortured. Sorry that she had been taken
prisoner, and that Chakotay had felt compelled to resurrect his past
to rescue her–them. Sorry that Voyager's need had driven them to the
Braai in the first place. Sorry for so much more.

Small words, but they held more of her heart than any other words she
might possibly summon.

He didn't say a word. His eyes gleamed in the dim light as he tilted
his head slightly, but he had that trick of hiding all his thoughts
behind an inscrutable mask, revealing nothing. Had he even heard?

Then little by little he held out a hand to her, a smile hidden in the
corner of his mouth. She reached toward him, hesitant, but he took her
hand, pulled her closer, threading his fingers between her own. The
strength and warmth of him was startling, and she jumped slightly.
Then she tightened her grasp. They'd been through quite a bit to
arrive at this; she wouldn't let go now.

They stayed like that then, awkwardly unsure. She was intensely aware
of him–how could she not be? He was only centimeters away, the
available air thick with a charge almost strong enough to be visible.

And then a throat cleared.

Kathryn let go of Chakotay's hand at once, turning sharply to find the
Doctor standing just outside his office door, watching them.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but time's up."

The EMH's timing left something to be desired, but they'd had an
agreement; it was late, and Chakotay needed his rest. Sighing heavily,
she nodded. "All right, Doctor."

A small gust of disappointment passed through her as she turned back
to Chakotay and offered a look of regret. While the distance between
them still existed, they'd somehow managed to close the gap slightly.
It was a start.

A hope.

---

Chakotay rolled onto his side and stared sleeplessly at the wall–an
almost alien-looking landscape, all odd angles of muted light and deep
shadow. It could have been the surface of the second moon of Andyr
Prime. The color was right, and the jagged shadow toward his feet was
almost identical to that thrown by the Kybalan range at the exact
moment the third sun crested the horizon. But Voyager was a long way
from Andyr Prime. There was no Kybalan range and no third sun, just a
collection of diagnostic devices and the light from the Doctor's
office–the hard, physical fact of sickbay.

At first he was just grateful to be home–and alive–but the novelty
hadn't taken long to wear off. He felt as if he'd been yanked from one
prison and thrust into another.

And he wanted out.

It didn't help that freedom was only meters away, beckoning.

Rolling onto his other side, he stared at the sickbay door. There was
no real reason for the Doctor to hold him any longer. The only
lingering effect of the entire incident was fatigue, and he could
sleep in his quarters–tired didn't require a watchdog.

Of course the Doctor didn't agree, dismissing the possibility every
time Chakotay broached the subject, regardless the tack or the
reasoning.

Do you honestly expect me to believe that when you walk out that door
you'll do as ordered and rest?

No, but he had hoped that maybe….

I wasn't created yesterday, Commander.

Sighing, Chakotay rolled onto his back. He breathed deeply through his
nose and tried to relax, concentrating on the slow beat of his heart
and the throb of blood in his fingertips where they rested against his
stomach, attempting to shut out the light, the murmur of electronic
noise, the antiseptic undersmell.

But he couldn't.

Since gaining consciousness, he'd slept more than he'd been awake, and
now he was stiff all over and sharply alert, though he doubted he
would feel wakeful for long. His body hummed with a wearing tension.

He pushed himself to his elbows and glanced around the bay.
Surprisingly, the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. Of course, out of
sight didn't necessarily mean out of minding distance–the Doctor was
most likely in the lab connected to his office.

Still, it was more freedom than he'd been granted for quite some time.

Swinging his legs to the side, Chakotay slipped from the biobed,
hesitating slightly as flesh met cold. And then his eyes dropped to
his feet, pale against the gray flooring. Exactly where did he intend
to go?

Without conscious thought he wandered the room. He ran a hand over the
rough coverlet of a biobed, then fidgeted for a moment with a tray of
medical instruments. He slid a finger down the side of the replicator,
briefly debating real food, something decidedly not blue. He leaned in
the doorway of the Doctor's office and basked in the subdued
illumination and the knowledge that he could turn it off if he chose.

Too many times in his life he hadn't the luxury of choice.

Chakotay's gaze drifted and he stared blindly at the floor, feeling
unwelcome memories rising like a storm tide: stifling heat, lifeless
blue eyes, a flash of pale green and a flood of crimson, pain and
fear, anger and shame. There was an obscene simplicity to the
sensations–a visceral clarity that hurt. And along with them came a
crushing sense of… sorrow.

I'm sorry.

At first he didn't understand what she'd said, or why. But sudden
realization struck, and he couldn't have been more stunned. He hadn't
expected to survive his captivity on the Braai homeworld, and the need
to make his own apology, to set things right, to make his peace was
imperative. But this, he didn't expect this–another reprimand perhaps,
but not this.

And when she'd reached for his hand….

Chakotay exhaled heavily, scrubbing wearily at his face, and then let
his head fall forward, feeling the taut pull of muscles he couldn't
relax in his neck and shoulders. It wasn't precisely pain, but it was
more distant from comfort than he cared to be at the moment. He turned
back toward the primary alcove, reaching up with one hand to squeeze
some of the tightness from his shoulders.

"You're wearing me out, Commander."

Chakotay froze, then biting his lower lip, turned to face the Doctor.
He should be so lucky.

---

Moving slowly, Harry stretched slightly, wary of lurking muscle
cramps. He felt worn out, as though some raw energy ration had been
used up, and any sudden movement might trigger something he hadn't the
strength to ward off.

His left ankle popped as he extended his feet, then again as he flexed
and rotated them slightly–too many hours on his feet. His lower back
agreed.

He was too young to feel this old.

Forcing himself from the bed, he shuffled to the terminal on his desk
and brought up his schedule. Nothing terribly different from the day
before–unfortunately. He opened his mailbox and scanned the contents.
Meeting reminders for meetings already in the schedule. Meetings
rescheduled and already reflected in the schedule. Maintenance
timetables, which weren't appropriate for the schedule. An invitation
to lunch from Simonson, already noted in the schedule; it was work,
not pleasure–there was no other time available in his day to schedule
a meeting to discuss the latest bank of diagnostics run on Ops.

Sighing, Harry deactivated the console, then moved into the bathroom.
He leaned heavily against the edge of the sink and looked at his
reflection blearily.

He looked about as old as he felt.

A shower; that would help. It couldn't hurt–unless he fell and knocked
himself out, of course.

He eased out of his T-shirt and boxers, grimacing as aching muscles
and joints protested the movements. Even stepping over the minimally
raised threshold of the shower stall was tiring. He fumbled with the
controls, then stood still, wishing he had the luxury of real water.
The undetectable sonic surge didn't have the same invigorating effect
as the sluice of hot, pounding water.

After what seemed like an adequate amount of time to achieve clean and
disinfected, he stepped from the bathroom. He stopped by his closet
and pulled out a uniform. He stared at it blankly for a moment, not
quite remembering the last time he'd sent anything through the
refresher. A quick sniff assured him it was either clean, or close
enough to clean not to offend.

Though he doubted anyone would notice.

While the workload wasn't as heavy as it had been a few days prior, it
was still substantial, the crew working long hours with only short
breaks. Off-shift time was spent attending to the necessities, which a
clean uniform wasn't.

Food, on the other hand, Harry thought as he slipped his jacket on,
was essential. He glanced over his shoulder at the chronometer on his
bedside table. He had just enough time, if he hurried.

---

B'Elanna stood in the deserted corridor, awaiting the turbolift she'd
summoned. She shifted her weight, aching and tired. At the moment, she
wanted nothing more than to retreat to the confines of her quarters
and sleep, for about ten days. But she hadn't the luxury.

She absent-mindedly ran her hands over her jacket and adjusted the
sleeves. Wrinkled. Noticeably wrinkled. The entire uniform. What did
she expect when it had spent the night in a heap on Tom's bedroom
floor? She should have taken more care, but she'd been too tired at
the time–and then too occupied.

She sighed heavily at the prospect of the shift ahead of her. It was
going to be a hell of a day.

The hiss of the pneumatic doors announced the turbolift's arrival.
Quickly running her fingers through her hair, B'Elanna raised her
head, and came face to face with Ayala and Harry.

She momentarily froze as Ayala's gaze briefly took her in, then
flicked to her face.

"Rough night, Be?" he asked, stepping from the lift, an amused glint
in his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips.

B'Elanna shot him a warning glance as she moved to stand beside Harry,
grateful when the doors of the lift slid shut, severing the retreating
form of Ayala from her sight. "Engineering," she ordered.

Restless movement skittered along the edge of her sight, and she
turned her head slightly, studying Harry out of the corner of her
eyes. He threw an occasional glance her way, immured in some silent
debate–obviously making no progress. She exhaled impatiently. "Go
ahead and ask, Harry."

"What?" he puffed innocently, eyes wide.

She faced him fully. "Whatever it is you're trying to decide whether
or not to ask."

"Maybe it's none of my business."

"It probably isn't, but that hasn't stopped you before."

Harry snorted, a smile lighting his eyes. "Good point." And then he
sobered, the smile slipping from his face. "How's Tom?"

---

Commander Tuvok strode purposefully down the corridor toward his
office and the start of his shift, the impact of his boots against the
flooring unheard as his mind sorted through the day ahead.

Rounding the final corner he came up short, almost tripping over a
pair of legs jutting from a maintenance hatch. He couldn't stop the
single eyebrow that rose or the faint crease that split his brow. The
owner was humming loudly–and with feeling–a single boot tapping the
air in time to the tune.

The Vulcan quickly debated requesting termination of the
noise–regardless of how he analyzed the sound, he could find nothing
melodious within the sequence–but decided it was best to ignore the
racket by hiding within the soundproof confines of his office, just a
few short meters away.

Besides, despite Voyager's tentative state, the crew seemed to be in
relatively stable spirits. It was best to leave well enough alone.

With careful purpose, he stepped around the prone limbs. As the office
door slid shut behind him, the still-raised eyebrow lowered in relief.

And then it raised again.

While there was no ambient lighting in the room, only the dim glow
from the warp-distorted starscape and the interface terminal displays
that covered most of the back wall, there was enough light to make out
his desk and the small collection of PADDs stacked on it.

"Computer, lights," he ordered as he crossed the short distance to his
desk and gathered up the devices. He eyed them briefly: an update from
Engineering that he'd requested thirty minutes before coming on
duty–only eight minutes post-completion according to the timestamp–and
the Gamma shift security and tactical reports.

Four reports–not bad for the start of the day.

Tuvok turned to the replicator and requested his usual early morning
blend. He shifted the Engineering report to the front as the
replicator whirred then deposited a beverage container on the delivery
tray.

And then the eyebrow lifted again as Tuvok retrieved the mug. The
contents didn't look like tea. The contents didn't look liquid. In
fact, the contents didn't look ingestible.

Lifting the container to his nose, Tuvok inhaled. Lubricant. Of the
engineering variety.

He deposited the mug on the delivery tray then reached for his
communicator. But his hand never completed the journey as he suddenly
recalled the musical maintenance man in the corridor. He glanced
briefly at the Engineering report, scanning the section headings.
Replicators were first on the long list.

By the time he reached his desk he was fully apprised of the temporary
fault within the replication system. He resigned himself to the fact
that he would have to stop by the mess hall on his way to the senior
staff meeting.

Sitting down, he turned his attention to his terminal. There was a
message from the Doctor informing him of Commander Chakotay's imminent
release from the medical facility. In the days since the Commander's
capture, Tuvok had been attending to the duties of the First
Officer–in addition to his own. Over the course of the next few days,
he would slowly be relinquishing those responsibilities to the
Commander, who was slated to return to duty the following rotation,
though only for a partial shift–no doubt the Doctor taking steps to
ensure his patient didn't overdo it.

Tuvok felt a pang of sympathy for the Commander. Chakotay would
undoubtedly oppose the move.

He made a mental note to speak with Chakotay as soon as possible, to
bring him up to date on Voyager's current state. He also wanted to
discuss the logistics of forming of a Black Ops team, but knew the
discussion would have to wait until the Captain had made a final
decision.

And so he was left to contemplate the mere idea. He'd already spent a
great deal of time pondering the existence of an entire organization
within the ranks of Covert Operations and Special Forces Battalion.
The implication and duplicity was astonishing, but understandable. In
a less than perfect universe, power could not exist–persist–without
covert action, posturing and placement. Black Ops was assurance. And
with plausible denial, Starfleet's hands remained clean.

Duplicity distilled to simple need. Need exonerated, or at least
turned a blind eye.

Since recovering Lieutenant Paris and the Commander, Tuvok had been
granted limited access to Chakotay's prior record. Despite the
incomplete accounting, what he had seen had been impressive, and in
most cases there had been a legitimate need for the mission. There was
however a disturbing trend to impose the Federation's will on selected
species and/or planets because it was tactically advantageous,
regardless of the welcome. Posturing at its best. Tuvok had noticed
that on two separate occasions Commander Chakotay had voiced an
objection, but in the end had carried out the appointed mission.

To command such a man.

---

"That doesn't look very healthy," B'Elanna said, tapping the stator's
observation window.

Carey studied the readout on his tricorder. "The chrylon gas pressure
is off by 23 bars PSI, which may account for its instability."

"Hmm." B'Elanna looked back through the small pane "What's the MEV
rate from the EPS?"

"Flow rate to the EPS is on target. The fault has to be with the
stator," he surmised, squeezing in beside her.

B'Elanna shifted slightly, making room. "RPMs?"

"Under one-hundred twenty-four thousand."

"A bit low." She glanced at him. "You're right, it's the stator."

Carey shrugged. "There's not much else it could be at this point."

B'Elanna exhaled heavily as she wriggled out from her position. "This
is the third gravity generator on this deck alone that has started to
give us problems. Weren't these things designed to survive a supernova
or something?" she grumbled derisively. "I have better things to be
doing than chase down these damned faults. The MRI is failing," she
groused, reaching for another tool from the small box that Carey was
holding. "I have to realign the damned…

"What?" she said, suddenly noticing the grin plastered on his face.
"What is so funny?"

"You."

"Me?" B'Elanna snapped.

He nodded, then sniggered.

Four years earlier, she might have punched him in the nose–again–but
not now. Instead, she took a deep breath and considered.

They were all tired, suffering long hours and constant localized and
systemic operational failures and faults. Moreover, she'd been a bit
quick-tempered–maybe even irritable–of late. Everyone on her staff had
been bitten at some point by her bad mood.

If the worst she had to suffer from them was slaphappy, well…. She
allowed a slow grin to meet her own lips. "Sorry," she muttered, then
again set her eyes on the toolbox in Carey's arms. "With any kind of
luck things will ease up soon."

Curiosity lit Carey's curiosity. "Something going on I don't know
about?"

B'Elanna drew in a slow breath, debating whether or not to disclose
her recommendation for dry-dock–approval had not yet been given.
Still, she could use his input. Proper planning was crucial. "This
isn't for general consumption, but I've recommended dry-dock for
Voyager on the M-class at the edge of this sector."

"What did the Captain say?"

"She seemed receptive. Pending scan data and tactical analysis, I
can't see why she wouldn't give the go-ahead."

"We could go over every millimeter of Voyager, get her to near perfect
condition," Carey said, the normally faint Irish lilt of his voice
more pronounced with his sudden enthusiasm. The possibilities flashed
behind his eyes. "Receptive, you said?"

B'Elanna nodded.

"Any idea when the decision will be made?"

B'Elanna shook her head. "No. But we're on course for the planet, so
we're headed in the right direction."

"We'll need time to prepare."

"I know."

And then a slow, wily smile curled Carey's lips. "Maybe we shouldn't
bother with this gravity generator."

B'Elanna frowned. "Why not?"

"This generator services Janeway's private quarters."

"Among other areas of the ship." B'Elanna's eyes narrowed in
confusion, not quite following. "So?"

"So," he whispered, grin widening. "Maybe a little dysphoria will
expedite the decision."

B'Elanna's eyes widened, feigning shock. And then she laughed. For
Starfleet, he wasn't half-bad. "I think you'd better power down the
EPS to this generator and replicate a new stator assembly."

He shrugged, still grinning.

Definitely slaphappy.

"You might want to replace it before the Captain's shift is over, or
you may experience a little dysphoria of your own."

---

"Sneaking away so soon, Commander?"

Damn, Chakotay thought as he halted. The Doctor was really starting to
get on his nerves. Turning his eyes briefly to the ceiling, he shook
his head, then sighed loudly. "I was not sneaking."

"You were sneaking," the Doctor replied flatly.

Chakotay turned, fully facing the EMH. "If I were sneaking–which I
wasn't–I wouldn't be standing here talking to you."

A simulated eyebrow arched. "You were sneaking," the Doctor stated
firmly.

The First Officer didn't move, mutely pleading forbearance regarding
the trying EMH and his miserable bedside manner. For the briefest of
moments he contemplated termination and lockdown of the Doctor's
program, but non compos mentis was not the effect or evaluation he
wanted, so he merely crossed his arms and cocked his head. "Was there
something you wanted?"

"A little respect?" the Doctor mumbled. And then he straightened and
fixed Chakotay with a pointed stare. "This is more about what you want
than what I want."

Chakotay narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And what would that be?"

"Release."

Chakotay almost laughed. De rigueur? The Doctor had stopped him from
escaping only to make it official? "When?" he asked.

A blue-clad shoulder shrugged slightly. "You should rest for two or
three more days, but knowing you, twenty-four hours will have to do.
You can rest just as easily in your own quarters." And then the Doctor
stepped from the doorway of his office into the bay, a PADD in hand.

Chakotay tracked the hologram's progress across the room. Was the
hologram being deliberately thickheaded? He wouldn't put it past him.
"When?" he asked again.

"Is now soon enough for you?" Before Chakotay could respond, the EMH
continued. "The main replication system is offline, so should you
require something to eat or drink, I'm afraid you'll have to find it
in the mess hall."

Compared to what the Braai had served up, Neelix's fare was ambrosia.
"I'll keep that in mind."

"I want to see you again in the morning, before your duty shift."

Chakotay nodded. He'd expected as much. "Understood."

"Oh, and feel free to walk right in. You don't have to sneak."

---

To be continued...