The BLTS Archive - Stopwatch fifth in the Inequality series by Sigrid (sigridthehaughty@yahoo.com) --- DISCLAIMERS: Standard disclaimers. Voyager and the characters are not mine, but the story is. Do not archive without my permission. SPOILERS: Thirty Days DEDICATED TO: AbyKitten, for being my greatest net buddy. Haggis, Carolyn, anne, Stephanie and Kelly also! --- For the third time in five minutes, I check the chronometer on my console again. 1500 hours precisely. Another hour and thirty minutes to go. I have never known a shift last so long. All I want to do is hand over Ops to Ayala or Forster and seek refuge in my quarters, so I can scream. The tension is so thick, I feel like I'm suffocating. Really. I mean, I know it's just an expression, but if there was anymore tension in the room, it would likely ignite the ship. B'Elanna says I'm prone to exaggeration, but then she can escape to engineering whenever she wants to. She's damn lucky sometimes. I wish I had my own section of the ship to command and escape to, whenever I wanted to. I don't even have an office. Maybe that's how the Captain, the Commander and Tuvok all keep calm. Go into their offices and scream. Damnit, now I've got an image in my head of a screaming Tuvok. Not a good idea on bridge shift. Not a good idea on this bridge shift. . . "Something funny, Ensign?" The first words she's spoken for over an hour. The first words anyone has spoken for an hour. And it would have to be a reprimand, of sorts. Although it's not like I've just been thrown in the brig for thirty days and demoted. "No Ma'am." "Good." Usually, she'd ask what the joke was. She'd come over and ask me quietly, or tell me to share it with the group. We'd laugh. We'd share. I feel like it's my first day all over again. Usually though, it's Tom with all the jokes. But not anymore. The Lieutenant would have the jokes, would cause the laughter. The Ensign sits, shoulders straight, paying attention to his console, and only his console. No time for anything else. It was no surprise the Captain and the Commander decided to keep him as Chief Pilot. It'd be pretty stupid to do otherwise, in my opinion anyway. But then, no one really asks my opinion. It's Tom's first shift today. Almost two weeks after being released. Neither B'Elanna or I were sure what to expect, really. I mean, we were both pleased he was coming back, the bridge hadn't been the same, and neither had the engines, according to B'Ela, but there would definitely be tension, between him and the Captain. Although I'm not sure I expected all this. It's almost as if there's something going on. . . B'Elanna thinks I'm crazy. She's probably right, but I don't know. . . I can just feel that there's something that is happening that we can't see. . . What's that noise? I look down and see a message on my console. Damn. I turn and look at Tuvok, who's staring at me, one eyebrow raised. He's asking for my attention on the sensors, but it took him three messages to get my attention. Strangely, he doesn't vocalise his request. Probably because he doesn't want to draw attention to it. Whatever people say, Tuvok's a fair guy. Sure he's a Vulcan, and you can never tell what he's thinking, but he's fair, really. I envied Tom and B'Elanna for melding with him, for finding out a little about what lies under that exterior. Even though both tried to explain it to me, neither could. Entering into another person's mind. . . an unbelievable experience. . . I run the diagnostic on the sensors he's requesting, finding the fault he's noticed, and I set about fixing it. Almost. . . and done. How long did that take? Wow, ten minutes. 1516. A little closer. Not much, but a little. . . I'd kill for an alien ship to come and greet us, attack us. . . something! Something to get away from this tension. But all I can do is observe and think. . . Tom's running some sort of diagnostic, but I can tell, although he's trying to concentrate, he's not really. He's so used to the controls, he can do it all almost automatically, but his mind is elsewhere. He's having to make odd corrections, his hands moving back and forth among the panel in the same sequence two or three times. I've learnt to observe him, observe them all. There's something to be said for standing at the back, being able to see everyone without them seeing you. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tuvok glance around as well, focusing on Tom, the Captain, Chakotay. . . He's drumming his fingers. He's agitated, but trying to hide it. He's almost successful. The captain beside him is sitting straight, legs crossed, arms resting on the supports either side. Classic "I'm in control" pose. Except she usually uses that when she's under threat. I'm not sure who's in control. B'Elanna was here earlier, but she's escaped now. It had been a comfort, knowing someone felt the same way I did, but since she can escape. . . Damn, that's unfair. 1522. We've been on shift seven hours. It feels like seven months. The calm before the storm. When is it going to break? Part of me wants a break from this. . . but I don't want to see the results of the imminent explosion. But I think it's going to happen. I *know* it's going to happen. I don't want to be around when it does. I didn't get to talk to Tom before he came on shift, except for when he commed me at 0200 hours and told me he was going to be working on the bridge today. I'm not sure if he even knew what the time was, and I had no idea what he was doing up at that time. I thought maybe he had been with someone, and had just left, but when I asked for his location (call it curiosity), he was in Chakotay's quarters. Which was kinda odd in itself. Even B'Elanna had to admit that. She pointed out that Chakotay was the logical choice with whom Tom discussed coming back to work, but at 0200 hours? Chakotay seems to be around a lot these days. Tom sees more of him than he does me. Which isn't too bad. I still see him in the messhall, and I still have other friends, like B'Ela and Seven. I wonder what she would make of this scene. . . It would be interesting to hear her perspective. Anything so I can just leave this damn place! The last time I talked to him properly was the night after he was released. He was a little drunk, we both had a couple of beers too many, but then we were celebrating. Celebrating his release, his self-respect. . . Not many people know Tom Paris very well. Not on this ship, not back in the Alpha Quadrant, I suspect. Me, B'Elanna, perhaps Sandrine. . . I'm not sure who else qualifies. He can be hurt so easily, but no one seems to realise that. I'm not sure why that's so hard to see, but it is. I don't think I'm particularly perceptive, but I know Tom, I know what he's thinking, feeling. . . Well, usually I do, but something has happened, and I don't know what. That unnerves me. I've tried subtly trying to find out what the hell is going on. Will he tell me? No. It's an on and off thing. Sometimes, he was just Tom. Funny guy, cracking jokes, flirting with B'Elanna. . . And other times? He'd hardly even talk to me. He'd deny that anything was going on, but sometimes, he just seemed. . . empty. Like there was something draining the life from him. Shadows under his eyes. He didn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve that. More minutes pass. I wish he would talk to me. I wish he would tell me what was going on. What had been going on? He started not asking me to meet him at Sandrine's as often. We didn't eat lunch at the mess so much. . . At first, I thought it was me. But when I talked to Tuvok, he told me that Tom had stopped eating lunch with him too. That was so unlike Tom, I knew how much he enjoyed talking to the Vulcan, exchanging jokes, discussing literature, holodeck programs. . . But what else could I do? B'Elanna didn't know what was wrong with him, and who else could I ask, without it getting back to Tom. Trust. Trust is the most important thing to him. He needs to know he can trust his friends. . . I just wish he would let us help him, listen to him. . . As if to break the stillness, Chakotay drums his fingers one last time, and then gets up. He turns to me, nodding, and then walks to the Conn. I strain to hear what is being said, to the point where I almost trip over the corner of my console. Great, Tuvok's seen. He raises an eyebrow in amusement, and then get backs to work. . . Like he isn't curious as hell, either. I look back at the Conn, see Chakotay stretching his fingers, as they rest on the back of Tom's chair. He's knelt down, checking some of the readings on the lower console, before standing, bending, whispering something in Tom's ear, something about "belonging on the bridge. . ." Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Captain straighten. If I heard those words, no doubt the Captain did too. When Chakotay first suggested the protest to us, three weeks ago, I, at least, had been shocked, to say the least. I hadn't expected that from him. I hadn't expected him to stand up to the Captain, especially not on behalf of someone I thought he hated. I had always figured. . . well, overactive imagination, I suppose, Kim, but I had always imagined that, well, there was something going on between Chakotay and the Captain. The flirting on the bridge, the cracks about mating behaviour, the quiet weekly dinners. . . They've become a thing of the past, now. You're more likely to find Chakotay in the mess, or in Sandrine's. And rarely with the Captain. Tuvok sits with her sometimes, but I've noticed, more and more, she's alone. . . So she doesn't eat there as often, anymore. I remember, once, a very long time ago, when we first got stuck out here, how Tom and I had an argument about senior officers, and how you couldn't ask the Captain to sit with you. He had said that it wasn't the done thing. . . but who else did she have, out here? Who else did any of us have to turn to? Sometimes, conventions need to be ignored. . . they need to be brushed aside. It takes a strong person to do that. Why is she alone? I feel for anyone who's alone, apart from her ship, her crewmates. . . Chakotay, Tom. . . perhaps she has Seven, perhaps not. . . can she really turn to Seven? Even Tuvok signed the protest, stating that it was a legitimate cause for complaint. Tuvok. Her longest friend. And B'Elanna. . . another reclamation project gone wrong. . . She sits there now, the model of self-control, arms resting at her sides, her classic control posture. Her back is straight, she stares straight ahead. . . But her eyes flicker, toward the Conn and the two officers there, who seem to be sharing a private joke. . . to someone who wasn't observing as intently as I was, it would barely be noticeable, but in those few seconds, I see pain, loss. . . That realisation jars me. This woman, she's the Captain. She's not the ordinary woman I've caught myself thinking of. You can't feel sorry for the Captain. You have to feel respect for the Captain. . . How can a Captain maintain respect, when four of her senior officers protested her decision to punish a fifth? When she has nobody on this ship to talk to, except maybe a hologram. . . It was one day my dream, to become a Captain myself. When I first set foot on this ship, I imagined commanding her through battles, leading the fleet toward victory. . . But the look in her eyes. . . that dream, is just a dream. And now it's shattered into a million pieces. Did she once think Captains were superhuman? Did she think that you suddenly ceased being an ordinary person, with ordinary needs. . . If she's an ordinary woman, than the answer would be yes. . . As I stand there, waiting for the minutes to pass, like everyone-else on this ship, I can't help wondering when the dream crashed down around her. When it caused that look in her eyes, as she watches the Conn, and her latest mistake, her latest disappointment, the latest piece of evidence that perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn't as superhuman as she had thought. . . the lines around her eyes, it seems fresh, to me, anyway, but perhaps she has known for a long time. I can't look anymore. The fairytale hasn't ended the way it should. . . Only a few more minutes to go. . . Captain Janeway? She has a lifetime to go. --- continued in the sixth story in the Inequality series 'If I Could Chose My Own Truth'