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From: pegeel@aol.com
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative
Subject: REPOST: Raisins and Almonds, VOY, J&C, G
Date: 13 Nov 1996 19:26:46 GMT
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Voyager and her characters belong to Paramount.  I just hack around
writing about 'em.  No profit, unless you count the fun and practice.

Summary:  With Kes in coma, Kathryn Janeway has to deal with an alien
culture to gain medical assistance for her.  In the process, she and
Chakotay continue to work out the intricacies of their professional and
social relationship, ande Kathryn works on her adjust ment to the changes
forced on her by the Delta Quadrant.

"Raisins and Almonds"
by
Peg Robinson
c.1996


     Given the nature of the Delta Quadrant I suppose it was about par for
the course, though I still have trouble dealing with that sort of
extravagance.  Our trip to the World of Veils ended with pirates,
epiphanies, and renaissances; and began, like all good quests, with
uncertainty and hope.  In between there was grief and conflict; a few
rather seductive holy men, if your taste runs to such things; and, most of
all, births.  And like all births, there were the requisite labor pains;
and newborns, both literal and figurative; and, of course, lullabies. 
Which is as good a place as any to start.

     The room was dim to keep the glare from the baby's eyes, and quiet,
barring the soft bip and ping of the monitors. Kes' baby stirred on my
chest, restless.  She was happy enough, but hadn't dropped off yet.  I
settled back in the big armchair B'Elanna's maintenance people had dragged
in, and started the lullaby again, wrapping my voice around the vaguely
middle-eastern melody.

                  "To my baby's cradle at night
                   Comes a sweet little goat, all snowy white;
                   The goat shall run to the market,
                   While mother her watch will keep,
                   To bring back raisins and almonds:
                   Sleep, my little one, sleep"

     "Nice.  Old?"
     I nodded, not needing to look up.  After two years I know Chakotay's
voice.  "Mmm. I think so.  My grandmother used to sing it."
     "How's she doing?"
     "Kes or the baby?"
     "Either.  Both."
     "The baby's going to be all right.  The baby-holding seems to be
working, there haven't been any more problems, and we have plenty of
volunteers to snuggle her, so she should be fine.  It's a good thing Kou
noticed she only had the attacks when she wasn't being held.  As for
Kes...  not so good.  Situation stable, if you define stable as 'getting
worse at a steady rate'. "
     "Damn."
     Which said it all pretty succinctly.  I patted the baby's back, glad
she didn't know the tragedy shaping up around her.   "You here to take a
shift with the baby?"
     "No.  Tuvok's handing over the bridge to Chin when second shift
starts, and wanted to tell whoever was doing cuddle detail that he'd be
down to relieve them soon.  I guess that means you're off-duty as soon as
he gets here."
     "He could have just opened a link and told me over the com system."
     "I guess he didn't want to wake the baby with that beep the link
opens with."
     "I suppose.  Hold her a minute, will you?  I think she needs a new
diaper, and I used the last one earlier, when I came in."
     "Tell me where they are, and I'll get one."
     Chakotay'd been hovering around sickbay ever since Neelix had crashed
the party at Sandrine's a week before, but had never come so close to the
baby, so far as I knew. He was shy as a deer about it; memories of Seska's
death, and the loss of 'his' baby pressing in too heavily, ghosts at what
was looking more and more like a deathwatch.  I wasn't the only one who'd
ached for him.  He has come to be cherished on Voyager, and not by the
Maquis alone.  But he has his silences.  I suspect I wasn't the only one
with no idea how to give him any comfort.  I handed the baby over, ready
to save them both if he froze, hoping he wouldn't.
     "Easier if you hold her."
     I'll say one thing for him -- he knew what he was doing.  He
supported her neck without having to be told, settled her in the turn of
his arm like an old pro.  I slipped into the next room, rummaging in
cupboards for spare diapers, leaving him alone with her, and came back to
find him gently running a finger over the funny, fuzzy, roached hair-ridge
that makes her look like a little, palomino-dappled foal.  He looked up,
and grinned, and shook his head.  "I can't decide if she's the silliest
looking thing I ever saw, or the prettiest.  Where do you want her?"
     I nodded my head towards the rolling supply table we were using as a
changing stand.  I was relieved to see the smile.  I'd missed it.
     He let her hang on to his finger while I unwrapped her; blew softly
across her mane, and grinned as she squirmed and blinked.  She gurgled,
and wriggled like a little pollywog, gazing up at him in clear delight.
     They made a pretty picture, the two of them:  the baby with her
dapples and blue eyes, Chakotay dark-eyed and olive-skinned, with the
bridge of his nose peeling from the burn he'd picked up on Egypt.  I had
to hide a smile watching the two flirt with each other.  He seemed to have
decided that, whatever else he felt, he liked little 'Kes jr.'.
     It only took a minute to swap the soaked pad for a dry one.  Chakotay
collected the wet one, and had it down the disposer before I'd finished
sealing the new diaper.  I picked the little one up and was about to
settle her back on my shoulder when Tuvok arrived.
     He's too Vulcan to admit it, but he loves babies. He reached out for
our little pony-child with a determined certainty.  He rested her on his
chest, head nestled in the turn of his neck, and murmured to her in
Vulcan.  It sounded like a camel clearing its throat, but I followed just
enough of it to know he was telling her she was all right now -- Tuvok was
there to save her from all the crazy humans.  It reminded me of how he'd
been when T'Pel gave birth to their last...  
     He finally looked up from her to us.  "How is she?"
     "Fine.  The doctor says that unless something else goes wrong she
seems to be over the worst of it.  The holding seems to be triggering the
hormonal and chemical responses she should be having, so it's working as a
substitute for being a pouch-baby.  She took 80 ml of replicated milk, we
just changed her, and she ought to settle down and sleep soon."
     Tuvok arched an eyebrow at Chakotay.  "We?"
     Chakotay gave a sour grin.  "Don't look at me... Mama Janeway had
that well in hand.  All I did was watch."
     "I am relieved.  The child has suffered sufficient trauma already,
without exposing her to further stress."
     Chakotay snorted.  "At least with me she won't think she's landed in
the wrong starship.  I smile, once in a while."
     "Precisely my point, commander.  How is Kes?"
     I tried to find a way to give the bad news.  I was spared the
necessity.
     "She's dying."  The holodoctor had materialized like the bad fairy,
his face tense and anguished.  "I've done everything I can think of.  None
of it works.  She's dying."
     The better our medical technology is the harder it seems to be to
accept the implacability of death.
     Chakotay crossed the room to look into the main bay.  "How long?"
     The doctor looked hungrily towards the room beyond, as though he
could see through walls to his patient beyond.  "I can't say for certain. 
I've succeeded in slowing the progress of the systemic collapse, and the
hormonal surrogates and synthesized antigens I prescribed are performing
some of the correct functions to stand in for her own, but there's no sign
that her body is going to start producing the substances again naturally. 
Her immune system is still fluctuating wildly:  sometimes she appears to
have no resistance at all -- other times too much.  Her body is
self-destructing.  Nothing I've done has done more than delay the
inevitable."
     "Guess."
     I reached out, put my hand on Chakotay's arm, feeling the tension
bunching his muscles into burls.  "Commander...  he doesn't know."
      He relaxed slightly, nodding, and looked back to the doctor. 
"Sorry."
     The doctor nodded bleakly.  "Apology accepted, Commander Chakotay.  I
understand.  If I could answer your question I would."
     Tuvok shifted the baby in his arms.  "Perhaps it is better that you
cannot.  It has been my observation that the only thing undisciplined
minds find more perturbing than imminent death is the certainty of when it
will occur.  Have you told Mr. Neelix?"
     The holodoctor's mouth tightened, bitterly.  "Mr. Neelix isn't
answering my calls on the com system, and hasn't chosen to enter the
sickbay since she went into coma three days ago.  At the time he called me
a charlatan, a quack, and a murderer." He lowered his head.  "It is
unfortunate that he appears to have been correct."
     I stepped away from Chakotay, approaching the doctor.  "Don't. 
You've done all you could.  You're a doctor, not a miracle worker."
     "I would prefer to be a miracle worker.  I might be of some use
then."
     Sometimes it seems cruel to me that we create beings in our own
image, and spare them so few of our own pains.  Children, androids --
Emergency Medical Holograms.  I suppose it goes along with the better
gifts we give.  If he weren't able to love Kes so, he wouldn't grieve at
losing her.  But his pain was almost too clear.
     Chakotay spoke again.  "There's nothing more to do?"
     The doctor shook his head.  "I may be able to extend her life to a
limited degree. But I've taken every action open to me, given the
knowledge compiled in my memory banks.  There is simply too little
information available to me regarding Ocampan medicine to hold out any
hope that I will be able to find a solution to her problems before they
become terminal."
     "If you put her in stasis?  Maybe then you could buy the time to cure
her..." Chakotay was clutching at straws, but at least they were logical
straws.  His face fell when the doctor shook his head, though.
     "I don't know what would happen.  She's responded atypically to
several actions on my part already, and given the peculiarities of her 
metabolism, and her psychic abilities, and the speed of her aging cycles
I'm not sure what the effect of placing her in a stasis field would be. 
It would be easier if she were already dead... at least then I wouldn't
have to worry about how her energy fields would interact with the stasis
bed."
     Tuvok cleared his throat, rocking the child slightly, his eyes locked
to her face.  "In that case perhaps it would be in the best interests of
all concerned if you were to hasten her demise, rather than delay it."
     "What?!"
     Chakotay's outburst was no more than the doctor and I would have said
if he hadn't beaten us to it.
     Tuvok looked up from the child, brows up in cool reproval.  "You
misunderstand.  Stasis technology is imperfect; but if I understand
correctly, the revival rate for individuals who die of simple injuries and
who are promptly placed in stasis is high.  If the doctor were to kill Kes
at this time, and place her in a stasis field, we would in that way
acquire time to search for a cure for her physical ailments, and would
have a better chance of  reviving her than we would if we allowed her
condition to deteriorate to the point at which she would die naturally."
     Chakotay looked like he'd taken a hard blow to the head -- totally
dazed.  The doctor was merely blank.  I don't know what I looked like, but
as the shock wore off I could feel the idea beginning to stir around;
dangerous, but tempting.  I looked at the doctor.  "Can you estimate the
probability that you'll find a cure for Kes before she dies?"
     "Less than 12.37%"
     "And the odds of your being able to revive her if you were to kill
her in a simply repairable way, and place her in stasis?"
     "Difficult to compute with absolute accuracy, for many of the same
reasons that I am unable to cure her  at this time.  However, there are
certain techniques used in the old cryogenic sciences that bring a body to
 an approximate condition of death.  If I were to use those before
attempting to place Kes in stasis... that  might work where the extreme
answer of literal death and revival might not.  I would be able to bring
her  to a state mimicking death under controlled conditions before
attempting to place her in stasis, avoiding the problem of the interaction
between her metabolism and the stasis system."
     "And if you had the time she was in stasis to look for an answer...
do you think you could find a treatment for her?"
     He shrugged.  "Revival rates improve the briefer the time spent in
stasis, and under the circumstances I'd want to leave her under for the
briefest possible time.  If one were to assume an optimal period of three
months in stasis, I would estimate the odds of my finding a treatment at
better than 23%"
     "That's all?"
     "That's assuming I'm unable to acquire new information concerning
Ocampan physiology and medical practice.  Were we to find a source of
information regarding Ocampan medicine the odds would increase
substantially.  Given the right information, I might even be able to
declare it a practical certainty.  That is a large condition, however:  it
is quite possible that we would find no such source, or that any source we
found would merely confirm that her condition is beyond treatment, or that
it is so novel that even those familiar with Ocampan physiology would be
at a loss to treat it
     "You're really thinking of going through with this..." Chakotay was
deeply unhappy.  I had to admit it was a big risk, and one that, after
Egypt and his distress over the death of Jorland, was sure to be setting
off unhappy associations for him.
     Tuvok gazed calmly at him over the baby's head.  "It is logical,
commander."
     My two senior officers locked gazes; something unresolved and
possibly unresolvable passing between them.  The intricacies of the
relationship between those two have always been convoluted.  They're even
more so since the Great Maquis Strike, and Egypt.  Chakotay swung his gaze
to me unhappily.  I gave him an opening:
     "Commander, do you see any better options?"
     He shook his head, mute.  I nodded.  I honestly hadn't expected more.
 The situation was too far into disaster to allow for many choices.  I
turned to the holodoctor, extending the question to him.  "Doctor?"
     "While the proposed course is radical, it has hope in its favor.  I'd
like to run some tests to try to determine Kes' probable response to
stasis, and make a final evaluation of the current situation as it affects
my chances of reviving her.  But, unless I discover something unsuspected
in her physiological makeup, this appears the best answer to an otherwise
hopeless situation."
     "How long to run the tests, and make your evaluation?"
     "Perhaps three hours.  Possibly more, depending on whether I can test
Kes directly, or I'm forced to design a computer model to safely evaluate
her responses without placing her at further risk."
     I nodded.  "Good.  You do that, and I'll see what I can find out from
our data banks about possible sources of medical information in this area
of the Delta Quadrant.  It shoots dinner, but that's standard around here.
 Commander, join me?  I could use a systems-crawler on my team right about
now."  He nodded, and I turned back to Tuvok and the doctor.  "In that
case, gentlemen, I think we'll be on our way.  Doctor, contact me as soon
as you've finished your evaluation.  Tuvok, have fun with the baby."
     Tuvok sent me a thoroughly disgusted look.  I've never been sure
whether he admits to himself just how much he enjoys children or not --
but I am sure he's not about to admit it in front of others.  "I will
endeavor to provide sufficient care and nurture to the infant, and will do
what I can to ensure her continued well being.  I will not have 'fun'."
     I grinned, and collected Chakotay with a glance.  As we left the
room, I called back, in my clumsy conversational Vulcan:  "Just don't let
her mix with the crazy humans 'Uncle Tuvok' -- we're a bad influence".
     Chakotay turned to me as we headed down the hall.   "I didn't know
you spoke Vulcan."
     I shook my head.   "I don't.  Not really.  I can handle a simple
conversation in a pinch, and I've got a great science vocabulary, at least
as a reader.  Vulcan is the language you have to know these days, if you
want to keep up with scientific developments.  I couldn't get through the
more important professional journals without some proficiency.  But I'm at
my best with their logic symbology.  Actual speech patterns are nearly
beyond me."
     We stepped into the turbolift, I ordered it to the bridge, and it
started up with that smooth, stomach shifting slide.  He looked over at
me, with a speculative, curious expression.  After a moment he risked a
probe.  "Tuvok says he knew you when you were a kid."
     The turbolift stopped, and we moved out onto the bridge.  Before Chin
could scramble out of the seat I waved him back.  The second shift crew
watched as we came through, heading for Chakotay's office.
     "You didn't know that?"
     He looked at me from the corner of his eye.   "No one ever told me."
     I thought about it.  "I assumed you'd read my records.  You have
access to everything but the really private material, and the restricted
files.  It never occurred to me you hadn't read them."
     He shook his head, and started collecting his desk terminal.  " I
didn't have the option in the Maquis." He folded the terminal shut, picked
it up, and headed for the door. "And I figured you'd take my head off if
you found out I'd been messing around in your files for anything less than
an emergency.  Seems like an invasion of privacy, somehow. "
     We didn't say any more as we crossed through the bridge to my ready
room.  Once there Chakotay linked up the terminal so that it sat on the
outer side of my desk, pulled up a chair, and keyed the computer on,
slipping out the manual command pad.
     "So -- how did you and Tuvok hook up?  When his wife was dancing in
New Delhi?"
     "You really have been getting better acquainted with Tuvok.  No, that
was before my time.  If I remember the year correctly, I was at conception
minus a few decades then.  That was after Tuvok's first hitch, with Sulu.
When I was 13 my father got an invitation to lecture at the Vulcan Science
Academy for five years.  Mother arranged to transfer over to the Vulcan
branch of the Terran Diplomatic Corps, and we all ended up in ShiKhar,
living in the diplomatic compound.   Tuvok had been assigned to diplomatic
branch and was doing guard detail for the Embassy.  It let him stay on
Vulcan with his family for awhile, but it was a slow job.  Those of us
living there had diplomatic immunity, so he was really there more to
protect us from wild alien militants, and the rare Vulcan with a loose
enough interpretation of Surakian philosophy to allow for a bit of
political terrorism.  I think he found a bored, miserable kid a bit of a
relief from his own boredom.  And I fit in the gap between his second
child and the one T'Pel was carrying at the time.  So he more or less
adopted me.  Coffee?"
     He shook his head, his attention beginning to drift as he pulled up
files on the screen.  "No.  I haven't been sleeping too well the last few
days.  If I start on the caffeine this late, I might as well not even hope
to get my eyes shut."
     "Firelios strain?" I asked, naming a gene-tailored varietal that
didn't have the caffeine.
     He made a face.  "No.  Maybe a cup of jago?"  That one was a sour
brew from Altair III.  
     I got cups of coffee and jago from the replicator, reminded myself I
had to check the status of my replicator account soon, and sat down,
keying on my own terminal.  
     Chakotay took a sip, and looked at me.  "Are you really going to let
the doctor do it?"
     "The other choice is to let her die."
     He ducked his head over the cup.  "Logical."
     "Yes."
     "No wonder you and Tuvok work so well together.  'Great minds think
alike'.  He trained you well."
     "You don't sound like you entirely approve."
     He shrugged.  "Just not the way I tend to think about things.  I
don't think I could have made that choice."
     Egypt again, and maybe Seska haunting him.  But I've seen his
records, both those from when he was in Starfleet, and those bits
Intelligence had picked up from his years in the Maquis, and he was
underestimating himself -- badly.
     "Yes, you could have.  You've made harder calls."
     "Not lately."
     Which was true enough, but not his fault.  The situation hadn't left
a lot of room for him to make the kinds of calls he'd made as captain of
Crazy Horse.  The calls he'd made out here?  There'd been some bad ones;
but there'd been some good ones too, and he'd done better than I could
have expected.  It wasn't an easy situation for him.
     "Different circumstances."
     He shrugged again, attention lost in the jago cup.
     I started setting up my screen, opening directories and files.  "How
do you want to divide it up?"
     "You're asking me?"
     "You are the web monkey.  Might as well get some use out of that."
     "I was a web monkey.  It usually got me in trouble of one kind or
another."  There was an edge of unhappiness, and bitter anger in the quiet
line.
     "It got you into the Academy."
     "I know."
     I let it pass.  'Command unity' was proving a pain, in some ways --
we weren't quite close enough for me to feel safe asking nosy, probing
questions that might let him tell me where it hurt.  I returned to my
original question.  "So, what end of the search do you want to take?"
     "General files, I think.  Can you take the stuff  Stellar
Cartography's compiled?"
     I nodded, and soon we were both too deep in our work to talk further.

     Back home in the Federation a search was a relatively simple thing. 
Not easy.  Mastering any information system is an art, and the more
complex the system the more mastery you need.  But in the Federation there
were entire battalions of folks sorting, evaluating, and cross-referencing
materials.
     Out here we're getting in over our heads.  We're undermanned,
over-worked, with too few people on board with archival science training. 
'Memory Alpha' we aren't.  Chakotay and I had a hell of a job on our
hands.  For awhile all you could hear was the patter of our fingers on the
control pads, the occasional creak of a chair, the odd sigh or grumble of
frustration as a promising lead turned out to be a dead end.
     About an hour and a half into the search I'd completed a first cruise
through the material in Stellar's files.  I had a few hopefuls, and I
needed to try again from another angle; but my eyes were tired and I
needed a few minutes to let my brain cool off before diving back in.  I
stretched, picked up a cup of coffee that was cold as stone, and leaned
back in my chair, looking over to see how Chakotay was coming.
     He was still going strong, focused tight on his work.  He'd taken the
larger, and more miserable job: the general files that hadn't even had the
sort and evaluation that most of the material in Stellar had been through.
 Fair enough.  I was a good science officer once, but I know my limits.  A
good web monkey can climb places in a computer I can't, and make it cough
up information in ways a more linear mind might not.  Chakotay was playing
the terminal like a master playing a Strad.  Watching, I found myself
caught.

     He's a beautiful man.
     'Shibui' :  it's a Japanese term for the kind of beauty that's as
much a matter of unstated silences and subtle textures as anything.  The
word can mean a lot of different things: astringent; understated; bitter;
endowed with the beauty of age.  Simple beauty with depth, and evocation;
beauty which has survived its way into grace.  Weathered wood gates, river
polished stones, bonsai trees, ancient raku tea services.  That's
Chakotay.  His skin is looser than in holos of him as a young man; the
crow's feet and wrinkles are beginning, the line of his jaw isn't as
clean-cut and hard.  He doesn't have the lithe resiliency that shows in
the film records of him in sporting events back when he was in the
Academy.  But it's balanced by a grace he didn't have then, a sense that
he's more at ease, less worried about who's watching.  And I've found as I
grow older myself that there's an odd tenderness I feel for faces that
look like they've actually seen a few things.  And beautiful eyes, and a
smile to die for if you can get him laughing.  He sends me into red alert
if I let myself notice.
     The last two years it's seemed wiser not to notice -- or try hard not
to let it show when nature flags me down in spite of my caution.  Reality
has never allowed for more than flirt and dream, though, and there's
always been the needs of the work or the next crisis to come around the
bend to burn away any romantic haze before it's done more than start to
develop.  But in the quiet of the office, with him locked hard into his
work, it seemed safe enough to let myself feel the little shudder of
"nice... very nice" that I don't allow myself normally.  A small
indulgence: to let myself admire a man I'd come to admire in more ways
than one.  And it's not as though he hasn't paid me the same compliment a
time or two.  So I looked, and enjoyed -- and worried.
     He looked too tired.
     I sighed, finished the cold coffee, rubbed my eyes, and returned to
the terminal.  I'd try to deal with it later.  For the time being there
was enough on my plate with the question of Kes.  I pushed it to the back
of my mind; another problem to be dealt with on the day the Delta Quadrant
gave me the time and stability to take it on.

End section 1


Raisins and Almonds.
Peg Robinson, c. 1996

     It was probably about an hour later, as I was trying to sort through
a pile of cryptic comments regarding 'Ocampanoid races', that he slapped
the table, and grinned evilly at his screen.
     "Gotcha, sucker."
     "Pay dirt?"
     "I think so.  Close, high tech, Ocampan-type race, though they don't
seem to have the difficulty with lifespan that Kes' people do."
     "Let me see."
     Before I could 'twin' his screen on my own, he'd spun the terminal so
we could both see it.  I leaned in towards the center of the desk, he did
too, and for a brief second I felt that annoying, jittering feeling I
remember from my teens and early twenties, when 'too close' was a
perpetual problem.  I shoved the attraction to one side, no longer feeling
free to indulge it, and locked my mind to the screen.
     The evaluation looked good.  It was from a collection of material
we'd gotten from a passing Talaxian merchant caravan that traded regularly
along the route we were taking home.  We'd had the information for about
six months.  It had lain in a file that long, waiting to be incorporated
into the databases, and probably wouldn't have been touched for another
month or more if this hadn't come up.
     "The Talaxians call it 'The Walled Market', but according to this the
natives' name for it is Abbyzh-dira: means The World of Veils.  Apparently
a comment on the rings."  He shook his head.  "Not many habitable worlds
with rings: it appears to be a peculiarity of the system.  Dust particles,
with a lot of reflectivity.  Must be pretty."
     I nodded, and reached out to run my finger down the column of specs. 
"Pretty is nice, but this is better -- they've been in contact with
space-faring races for nearly a thousand years.  Beats us by about six
hundred.  That gets us past the first of the Prime Directive questions. 
Trade-based economy; they don't leave their own planet often, but they do
business with races that do.  Their specialty -- this is looking good,
Chakotay:  herbs, spices, medicinals... and trained experts in a variety
of fields; though how you 'trade' experts is worrying."
     "Slavers?"
     "See if you can find out."
     His fingers flew over the command pad, the screen flickering in
response.  "Can't tell for sure.  They definitely refer to it as 'trade',
and there seem to be indications of exchange of funds.  But if the
Talaxian records are correct, the 'experts' traded not only don't need to
be confined, but they're expected to be treated as first class passengers
on any trade ships that carry them.  And there seem to be a hellacious lot
of contractual obligations listed in the files concerning the rights and
liberties permitted them.  Maybe somewhere between contract labor,
serfdom, and sworn men?  There doesn't seem to be much on it."
     I shrugged.  "Unless you can screw more information out of that
machine, we may just have to wait until we get there to find out for sure.
 What else?"
     "The Talaxians seem to think they're -- tricky -- to deal with. 
Nothing specific.  Damn."  He spun through more screens, looking for
who-knows-what.  At last he shook his head.  "No.  There's more, but not
much more to the point.  They look like the best option I've found so far,
though.  Want me to keep looking?"
     "Maybe later.  I think you're probably right.  This looks like our
best shot, right now.  If you have time tomorrow see if you can dig more
up, either on this world or any other possibilities, or assign Harry the
job if you're too busy.  In the meantime we run with what we've got."
     He nodded, and sighed, saving the file to his own account and turning
the terminal off.  I called the bridge, gave Chin orders to compute and
set a course for the coordinates we had on Abbyzh-dira, then called the
holodoctor.
     "Doctor, have you finished your evaluation?"
     "You're early, captain.  It will be another hour before the final
tests are in and the evaluation finished."
     "Are you far enough along to give me some idea of whether we're
looking at a good risk, or an impossibility?  We've found a potential
source of medical information, and possibly even assistance, and I'd like
to be able to take the matter up with Neelix now.  That would be easier if
I knew more about what we're looking at."
     "Indeed.  In that case, captain, I would recommend that you advise
Mr. Neelix that at this time the results, while inconclusive, are
promising."
     "Very good, doctor.  Practicing your bedside manner again?"
     "Yes, captain.  I found the phrase under the heading 'Null-terms:
optimistic.' Did I use it appropriately?"
     I hid a smile.   "Perfectly, doctor.  I'll pass it on to Mr. Neelix. 
I'll also tell him we won't make any final decision until the results are
in and we've conferred with both of you."
     "Very good.  Captain, if I may ask... how much hope should I place in
this possibility?"
     "'The results, while inconclusive, are promising.'  Seriously, we've
only found the one planet so far, and until we get there..."
     "I understand.  'Insufficient evidence.'  A common condition at the
moment.  Will that be all?"
     I nodded.   "Yes.  You can go back to your tests now.  Janeway out."
     Chakotay was rolling his jago cup, watching the sediment swirl in the
bottom.  He looked up once I was done, then back down into the cup.  
"Sorry."
     "What?"
     "I'm usually better than that.  Sorry I couldn't offer you more than
the one world."
     It brought me up cold.  "Commander, under the circumstances one world
is a miracle."  I shook my head.  "I wasn't sure we'd find any."
     "We have the entire Delta Quadrant on file in there somewhere. 
Enough information to have Kilpatrick drooling.  One world seems like
small potatoes."
     "One may be all we need."
     He just gave a twisted grimace.
     I put a hand on his, waited for him to meet my eyes.  "Commander, you
can't find what isn't there -- and you can't make what is there jump
through hoops when no-one has had the time to sort and compile it. 
Certainly not in under three hours. Even in a well organized archive a
thorough search can take weeks."
     His eyes drifted away from me to a corner of the room.  He drew his
hand away smoothly enough that I wasn't sure if he was trying to escape
the contact, or just needed to rub the back of his neck.  In either case
he was pulling away into himself, curling up where I couldn't reach him. 
Not as shaken as he'd been after Egypt; but still, something was wrong.
     "Damn."
     He turned back to me, startled.  "What?"
     "I could ask the same.  Chakotay, or Peshewa, or Joseph, or whatever
the hell would make you feel like I give more than a regulation damn, you
are worrying me.  You've just done a hard job well, and you're acting like
you failed a major mission.  Could you kindly tell me what's going on?"
     His face went stubborn and set, and I knew I wasn't getting any
answers.   "I'm just tired."
     "Chakotay, I know that the baby, and Kes... You never really said
anything after Seska died.  If you need someone to talk to..."
     His mouth set hard.  "It happened.  It's over.  I dealt with it then.
 Now I'm just ..." He met my eyes, tense and frustrated.  "Leave it.  All
right?  I just need a bit of rest."
     That was about as convincing as Tom claiming he didn't have designs
on B'Elanna, or that he hated pool.  I felt like snarling, but pushed it
down.  The last thing I needed was to set him off further: not when we
were still trying to work out the dynamics of the 'New Command Order'.  I
slapped the coffee cup down on the desk, glad it was empty.
     "In that case, schedule yourself some down-time.  Spend a day or two
running something pleasant on the holodeck, go to the story circle --
*something* relaxing.  And get some sleep.  And consider that a direct
order.  The holodoctor has enough to worry about without you pushing
yourself into exhaustion."
     The room was silent as Chakotay closed and disconnected his terminal,
and I logged off and closed down for the night.  I collected our cups in
silence, I disposed of them in silence.  I wished I could shake him in
silence.  Dignity, Kathryn.  Remember your dignity.  Remember his dignity.
 I do Yankee Lady very well.  A good blend of old New England blood and
Lace-curtain Irish, with a nice, inarticulate mid-western overlay.  Good
hygiene, a stiff spine, and an inquiring mind.  Unfortunately that sort of
thing isn't much good when you're trying to find your way through someone
else's feelings blind, without smashing into something.  It's even less
use when you're in a mood to navigate with a bit of an eye to smashing
into everything in sight.  I'm told B'Elanna throws things.  It sounds
good sometimes.
     He didn't look at me as he finished the last of the close-down. 
"Anything else?"
     "No.  You can consider yourself off-duty, not that officially you
weren't hours ago.  I'm afraid *I* have to go talk to Neelix."
     He gathered up the terminal, tucked it under his arm, and stood there
a moment, staring at the surface of the desk.  Then he sighed.  "Want
backup?"
     Hell, yes, I wanted backup.  I'd have given my pips for backup,
though I've got to admit, under the circumstances, given the Delta
Quadrant, I'd think the less of anyone crazy enough to *take* my pips. 
But Chakotay was already ragged.
     "You're certainly welcome, commander.  But Neelix at his best isn't
exactly your favorite person on board ship."
     "I'll live."
     Part of me wanted to jump at his offer.  Part of me wanted to wrap
him up and ship him off to his bed like he was six -- lord knows, I felt
like someone ought to be looking after him.  Finally I just nodded.  "So
long as you know we're going to be getting a preview of purgatory. "

     My evaluation of the situation was, if anything, overly optimistic. 
Purgatory looked good after that interview.  When we got there and rang
the doorchime there was no answer at first.  I identified us, and got an
answer back.
     "Go away."
     Chakotay and I exchanged glances.  I tried again.
     "Mr. Neelix, we've come to discuss Kes with you.  Would you let us
in?"
     "She's dead, isn't she?  Don't spare me.  I can take it.  You don't
have to soften the blow."
     "Mr. Neelix, she isn't dead.  We do need to have a talk with you, and
I think we'd all be happier if we don't have to have it shouting in over a
com link.  Could you *please* let us in?"
     He didn't answer for a moment, and I found myself wondering if I was
going to have to run a command override on his security lock.  Just about
the time I was ready to start 'punching my way through', the door opened,
and we were met by the less than decorative sight of a Talaxian in full,
all-out breakdown.
     "So tell me the worst.  That electronic monster's killed my beautiful
Kes, hasn't he?  Oh, I *knew* she should never have trusted him!  I *knew*
it.  I told her and I told her:  'You just can't trust him to know what's
*best* for you, my dumpling.'  First it was tests, and then it was
hormones and then it was suppressing this and suppressing that.  What I
say is it's all well and good to have a hologram as your doctor, but when
it comes right down to it you want to see someone who knows what it is to
feel sick *without* having to run a special program to get the idea."
     He went on, chattering in that vein, nervously pacing around the
room, and it would have been as annoying as his monologues usually are if
it hadn't been so clear that he was terrified of what we'd come to tell
him, and barely an inch away from tears.  I glanced at Chakotay, who
looked almost as ill as Neelix, cleared my throat, and began.

     I've spent worse evenings in my life.  Most of them out here in the
Delta Quadrant, now I think of it.  But this one rated close to absolute
zero on the scale from  'awful' to 'worth committing suicide before
experiencing'.  It took over half an hour just to make it clear to him
that we weren't planning on murdering her outright.  Once he had it down
he went into hysterics over the possible risks, and only slowly accepted
that there were almost no risks greater than just letting things run as
they were.  I was just getting ready to take up the issue of Abbyzh-dira,
when the dam finally broke.  He'd been shaking his head, and muttering
over the incompetence of a doctor who made a mess of a simple thing like
pregnancy, when the tears began:  first a drizzle, then sick, gasping
sobs.
     I looked frantically at Chakotay, but he'd gone tighter than a fiddle
string.  For a moment he just looked at Neelix, then closed his eyes. 
When he  opened them again he spun, and paced to the back of the room
where the viewscreen was, locked his hands behind his back like a Vulcan
in full formal withdrawal, and stared out at the star field.  All I could
see was the edge of his profile, lit by the stars beyond.  Some backup
he'd turned out to be.  I looked back at Neelix.
     It's too easy to see his feelings for Kes as a bad joke: a mismatch
between a beautiful young princess and an aging Frog Prince who never
managed more than half the conversion back from frog to prince.  It's a
mistake to see it that way, though.  He loves her with a conviction and a
dedication that's overcome age, culture, jealousies, and, perhaps most
impressively, his knowledge that he has very few years with her... and
that about half of those will be spent with her physically older than him.
 It takes courage, like living with the terminally ill.  That's a hell of
a lot of love.  More than I've managed so far in my life.
     I reached out, and the next thing I knew I had a sobbing, scruffy,
and drooling Talaxian plastered to my front.
     Like I said, I've spent worse evenings.
     A few.
     Not damned many.

     After about fifteen minutes I had to send Chakotay to the restroom to
round up some tissues.  Things were getting entirely too damp and slimy
for endurance.  He came back with his hands full, handed Neelix a few, the
rest to me for safe-keeping, and rather guiltily sat down on the sofa on
the other side of Neelix, putting a hand on his shoulder as the little man
sniffled, and snorked, and mopped his eyes, and his face.  I drew the line
when he started trying to wipe off the front of my uniform.  There are
limits.  Neelix settled back in the sofa after a moment, patted Chakotay
and I on our respective knees, and drew in a long breath.
     "I'm sorry.  I'm sure this has come as a great shock to you; I know
most people think of me as a very reserved person, close with my feelings
and so on.  As good as Mr. Vulcan, I am.  But this has all been too much
for me."  He sighed, missing the looks of disbelief Chakotay and I
exchanged.  "I'm done now.  I'm sure I can cope... I just needed a moment
to contemplate this tragedy quietly.  It won't happen again.  Now you
wanted to tell me about something else?  Where we were going?"
     I nodded.  "Mr. Neelix, do you know anything about a planet called
Abbyzh-dira?"
     Neelix blinked, and shook his head.  I was about to start when
Chakotay cut in.
     "'Toggul farri moh' -- the Walled Market?"
     Neelix blinked.   "You *aren't* serious, are you?  I mean, oh,
*really*.  The Walled Market? "  He blinked at us, and shook his head. 
"You *are* serious!  Now that *is* something."
     Chakotay looked grim.  "There's a problem?"
     Neelix shook his head.  "Not a *problem*."  He groped for words  "The
Walled Market... it just..." He waved his hands in the air, seeming to
paint pictures of grand vistas only to wipe them away in dissatisfaction.
"It's...it's.. Do you have any place in your part of the galaxy that's,
well, mysterious, and dangerous, and beautiful, and oh, I don't know..."
He frowned.  "Perilous.  That's the word.  Perilous."
     Chakotay and I looked at each other, thinking.  Chakotay ventured
one.  "Shangri-la?"
     "Mythical.  The Medusan's planet?"
     He nodded, frowning.   "Maybe.  The Nexus?"
     "Mmmm.  That's pretty perilous."  I looked at Neelix.  "Just how
perilous is perilous?  I want to do everything I can for Kes, but you have
to understand I can't take Voyager into a situation that's likely to get
us all killed."
     Neelix shook his head.  "Oh, no.  Nothing like *that*.  Or not
really.  Sometimes, maybe.  There *are* stories, though I don't give them
much credit.  I mean after all, some things are just more than a person
can believe.  Ships that just disappear?  Whole worlds destroyed?  Beings
who can destroy you with a thought?  Space ghosts?  It's beyond
reasonable."
     Chakotay looked at me, and I could see some of the same thoughts
moving through his eyes that I was thinking.  Borg ships, cloaking
devices; the Q.  Some things that are beyond reasonable are dangerously
real.
     I caught Neelix's eye.  "Maybe you'd better tell us all you can. 
Under the circumstances we need your expertise, Mr. Neelix."
     The next hour was -- interesting.  It become clear that Abbyzh-dira
was this part of the Delta Quadrant's 'wonder planet':  a blend of Tir Nan
Og, the city of Prester John, Xanadu, Mecca, The Forbidden City, Solomon's
Mines, El Dorado.  There was no question that it was real, or that it did
in fact trade with the rest of the Quadrant; but trade was done only at
one point on the planet's surface, and anything beyond the bazaar was off
limits, and very mysterious.  And the reception of those traders who
accepted the limitations was variable.  As for the nature of the planet,
or the market, or the natives:  the tales Neelix told varied so widely
that there was no telling *what* we'd be facing when we arrived. Neelix
seemed to feel that the general attitude of those who had dealt with the
Kithtri, the natives of Abbyzh-dira, was that as often as not they would
demand something that the traders would have chosen never to part with,
with an instinct for the most valued thing in any instance.  But the whole
narrative was so wild, and so obviously as much a matter of legend as
truth, that we couldn't decide what to believe.  
     I looked over at Chakotay.  "Well, what do you think?  Do we risk
it?"
     He turned it over, then shook his head.  "Your call.  We're going in
blind.  We could run into anything."
     "That's normal, out here.  This..."
     "Like I said, your call.  Your ship, your crew."
     He was hedging.  He was right, though.  It was my decision, in the
final call.
     Kes and Neelix have become valuable members of Voyager's crew.  Since
Kes had finished her medical training she was almost invaluable: our only
mobile doctor.  And as variable as Neelix' information could be, he was
still one of our best sources, and our best contact with Deltan natives. 
We owe them a huge debt for all they've done for us.  They are
'Voyageurs'; no less than any of us from the Alpha Quadrant.
     "We'll risk it."

     Within an hour we'd been to sick bay, and seen Kes taken from coma to
such deep immobility that the med tricorders needed to be reset to even
register her as a life form, rather than an inanimate object.  The doctor
and his med techs gently transferred her to a stasis couch, the field went
up, and she lay there, Sleeping Beauty on her bed, Snow White waiting for
a kiss from her prince to wake up and spit out the bite of poisoned apple.
 Her prince....
     Neelix was a wonder.  I'd expected more hysteria.  Instead, the
realities of the situation seemed to steady him.  He'd gently run one hand
over her face, and murmured something in her ear just before the stasis
field went up, then nodded once, turned to the doctor, and, to my
surprise, simply wrapped himself around the 'man'.  The doctor looked the
most addled mix of confusion, grief, and comfort.  He gingerly put his own
arms around Neelix, and they stood there a moment, mourning the woman they
both cherished.  Then Neelix straightened, and looked the doctor in the
eye.
     "I believe I have a daughter.  Can I see her?"
     The holodoctor looked at him, amazed, then nodded.  "If you'll follow
me...."
     After they left, I looked at Chakotay.  "I'll be...   I didn't expect
that."
     He just shook his head.  I don't know what he was thinking.  He
didn't say.  After looking at his face, I didn't ask.  I'd already been
brushed-off once that evening, and once was enough.

     The three week trip was uneventful: a fact that I came to regret. 
It's bad news when you start thinking wistfully of Kazon left light years
behind, or even the odd Vidi'ian or two.  But quiet times on a ship can go
from being a welcome relief to a misery in next to no time; cabin fever
seeming to take everyone on board, leaving the crew restless, irritable,
and bored silly.  The trip to Abbyzh-dira was like that.
     Everyone was in half-mourning for Kes. Neelix was spending most of
his free time in the nursery with the baby, though he'd returned to the
living once the decision to put Kes in stasis was made. The times he
wasn't on baby-duty he cooked, and served meals; but his usual cheerful
chatter was absent.  Paris was knee-deep in the process of trying to
organize a ship-wide poker tournament, without much success; Harry Kim was
in the middle of one of his periodic bouts of homesickness.
     Tuvok had settled into a quiet, contemplative mode, and when I
approached him about it indicated in that dry, impenetrable Vulcan manner
that he needed time for meditation and solitude.  He didn't come right out
and say that my presence would be a nuisance and a distraction from
whatever philosophical truth he was hunting , but the message was clear in
the subtext.  If Chakotay had come back from Egypt hurting, Tuvok had been
struggling with his own complexities since the time of the Strike, and
Egypt seemed to have brought some of that to a head.  When he'd given me
his briefing afterwards he'd only gingerly alluded to his comments to
Chakotay regarding his 'holiness'; a reference so oblique as to be a
give-away to anyone who knew him that it was a trouble spot.  I suspected
that the issues of 'holiness' and 'command unity', and his own discomfort
with my Maquis XO, and our mutual need to allow Chakotay into our command,
were things he had to struggle with alone for awhile before taking them up
with me, or Chakotay.
     I left him to his incense and his orchids.
     Chakotay had walled himself up in his office, rearranging his duty
shifts to leave himself free to ransack the computer, trying to compile
more information about our destination -- and in the process attempting to
single-handedly wrench the cluttered chaos of our datafiles into something
resembling order.  When I pointed out that the archival work might better
be left in the hands of someone like Magda, who, though no expert at
computers as such, had a better than average grasp of how to assemble a
working information retrieval system, he just shrugged and said he might
as well do it himself, since he was doing the research anyway.  I didn't
point out that that was a lot like saying that as long as you were mining
dilithium anyway you might as well take the time to construct a few extra
star ships to use it.
     I was more disturbed that he'd stopped going to the story telling
circle.  I asked around and discovered, to my relief, that the swing shift
circle was holding together, 'mothered' by Megan Delaney; but Chakotay's
circle was looking lean and sorry.  I didn't know which aspect of the
whole situation was more disturbing to me.
     I knew that the circle needed Chakotay.  I also suspected Chakotay
needed the circle.  Holed up the way he was, and hurting, I suspected he
needed it badly.  But short of making attendance a direct order, there
wasn't a hell of a lot I could do. Compelling a grown man to behave
sensibly isn't the easiest thing to manage, when he's dead set on behaving
contrary to all reason.  And Chakotay is one of the few people I know who
can match me stubborn for stubborn.
     It was very annoying.
     About the only thing that was working at that point was a project
B'Elanna and I had had in hand for months.

     "Pass me the micro spanner."
     "Five mic or six?"
     "Five."
     "Here you go.  Do you have the phase-gauge?"
     "Mmm-mmm.  Look in the tool kit."
     "Did."
     "Damn.  What about over by the projection unit?  That's the last
place I remember us using it."
     "Bingo."
     B'Elanna and Harry'd been trying to come up with a free-standing
hologenerator; a spin-off from the work they'd done to try to get the
doctor freed from sickbay and the holodeck.  They'd only been half
successful at that project:  it had turned out to be too costly in terms
of power and computational capacity for it to be practical to turn the
entire ship into a holodeck; and the focused projectors hadn't ever really
panned out.  So they'd started hacking around with the idea of little,
portable generators that could pick up on the main computer by remote, and
then using the ship's internal sensor web to allow the doctor to see,
hear, and speak.  The problem was in giving him more than a light-based
illusion for a body.  In the sickbay, and on the holodeck, he got his body
from replicated matter and stabilized force fields.  So far they'd been
able to design a portable unit that picked up the image-generation
information computed by the main computer through a remote link; but it
couldn't generate more matter than about the mass of a cat, and the image
didn't have more than a couple of yards of movement to either side of a
holo-unit.  Not really useful in terms of providing Voyager with ship-wide
health care.  For that it appeared we'd have to count on Kes, if she
recovered, or send people to sickbay.  But it had occurred to me that a
series of units spread around the ship would allow the doctor to at least
make preliminary evaluations, and to experience some kind of social life. 
Anything that improved his social skills seemed likely to be a benefit.
     B'Elanna isn't the only one who takes out her aggressions on
inanimate objects.  There's a certain satisfaction to swearing over a gel
pack, or cussing when you find you've misprogrammed the replicator and
generated an entire set of mis-routed circuitry.  At least you're furious
for a concrete reason, and there's no one to be hurt if you decide to
smash the things to oblivion when they just don't work.  B'Elanna and I
both seemed to be venting a lot lately.  The results were unprecedentedly
good progress -- and a lot of odds and ends of former machine to dump in
the disposal units.  Harry'd put up with us as well as he could, but the
last month or so he'd more or less ceded us the project, and stayed out of
the way of the angry women.

     "SON of a GODDAMN, whirling, integrated, negative-feedback
BASTARD!!!!!!!!   Shit."
     "Trouble, Be?"
     "No.  Of course not.  It's not like this damned project has *ever*
given us any trouble, now is it?"
     "Not even once.  So what isn't giving you trouble?"
     "Fuckin' phase synchronizer."
     "Software or hardware?"
     "Yes.  Also squishyware.  Damned gel packs.  If we ever get back home
can I kill the bright boy who came up with that idea?"
     "'Bright girl.'  T'Pring of Vulcan.  Brilliant mind, if you don't
mind that half her stuff takes thirty years to work the bugs out, and
she's never the one to do the clean up -- it's always some poor sucker
like us who gets stuck holding the dirty end of the stick.  Sure, kill her
if you like.  Give me a call before you go after her, and I'll give you a
hand.  The woman always seemed to have an attitude back when my father
worked with her at the V.S.A..  She seemed to think humans were a
particularly revolting new insect  form."
     "This is new?  I thought *all* Vulcans felt that way.  Tuvok sure
seems to."
     I blinked. "Tuvok?  He's had his problems integrating,but I'd say
he's about as tolerant as they come."
     "Kahless on crutches with a limp bat'tleh. If that's 'tolerant',
spare me the real hostiles."
     "Hmmm?  He wouldn't have come back to Starfleet if he were one of the
isolationist faction."
     B'Elanna glowered for a second, then dropped her eyes.  I wish she'd
quit that.  I know it's leftover hero worship, but it drives me crazy.  I
understand some of it, given the life she's led, but still...  It usually
comes out either when she knows she's running against my own norms -- or
when Chakotay's involved.  Or both.  This time it turned out to be both.
     "He treats the Maquis like we smell.  And he'd push Chakotay out the
airlock in a second, if he thought he could get away with it."
     "Wrong."  She didn't say anything, but she slammed the spanner down
on the table hard enough I was afraid we'd  have to recalibrate it before
we could use it again.  "B'Elanna, he's *Vulcan*, and straight line Fleet,
and a Security Chief.  You can't expect him to stop being that.  As for
Chakotay... I don't know if you'll believe this, but I think Tuvok's
gotten to be as close to him as he is to anyone else on the ship, except
Kes and me."
     "Yeah, right.  He just loves seeing Chakotay in the second chair."
     I put my own spanner down and sighed.  "No.  But he understands why
Chakotay's XO, and he's beginning to try to work it out.  We all are."
     B'Elanna prodded the holo-unit in front of her listlessly.  "What did
Tuvok do to Chakotay on Egypt?"

End section 2.


Raisins and Almonds.
Peg Robinson, c.1996


     "What?  He didn't do anything.  What makes you think he did?"
     "Chakotay's been... unhappy... since they came back, and he's not
talking to any of us.  Something Jorland said before he died made some of
us think. -- I don't know.  That maybe things were worse between you all
than we'd thought."
     Damn Jorland.  Even dead he was trouble.  First I had Chakotay eating
his heart out over his death, now this.
     "Just what did Jorland say?"
     B'Elanna avoided my eyes.  "Nothing much."
     "Right."
     "Really, just the occasional comment.  Something he said that last
night just stuck in my mind."
     "Mmmm?"
     "It wasn't important."
     "Damn it B'Elanna, don't leave it hanging like that."
     "Just that Chakotay should have been in charge of the mission."  She
suddenly blazed up.  "It's *true*.  He *should* have been in charge.  I
thought maybe Tuvok had... I don't know.  He's a proud man.  I thought
maybe Tuvok had hurt him, somehow."
     I used to accept the idea of  "Chakotay, the Proud Man".  Seemed
appropriate for a Maquis Warrior.  Tall, dark, handsome; silent, proud,
introverted.  Classic romantic type.  It took me a while to see it for
what it was -- B'Elanna's fantasy.  Not that Chakotay doesn't have his
pride, or his privacies.  We all do, and Chakotay may even have a few more
than most.  But he isn't by any means the 'Tragic Hero' B'Elanna seems to
see him as.  I think he *refuses* that role -- too much of a sense of
humor and too much commitment to making the best of things to languish and
brood appropriately, as a general rule.  Over time I've come to see him as
less like Byron than like an old cat T'Pel had when I was a girl.
     Vulcans and cats have taken to each other like summer and ice cream: 
a match made in heaven.  The two species seem to have been designed for
each other.  T'Pel had been given this one as a kitten by a visiting
Terran choreographer as a thank-you present for her help in researching
traditional Vulcan dance modes, and he thought he owned Tuvok's home
compound.  He was a massive Siamese tom who swaggered around the courtyard
in ShiKhar, 'protecting' the family and guests from skittering  leaves and
scuttling ghokrikah: little, biting, lizardoid creatures that can't really
do much harm, but which leave a nasty rash if they chomp into you.  The
first few times I met Jundri I thought he was classic -- fierce, and
aloof, and desperately dignified.  Then I found out that he chased toes,
that he thought my hair was catnip, that he'd run around the courtyard
playing 'wild cat' for no more excuse than the pure fun of it, and that if
you rubbed his stomach he rolled on his back, waved his feet in the air,
and drooled.  Literally.  Silliest damned thing I ever saw.   He was the
most social animal I ever met, even more than most dogs, and an absolute
clown.
     All you had to remember was he didn't mind if you laughed with him;
but if you laughed at him, or if he pulled a dumb stunt and embarrassed
himself, he'd sulk, grumble, and slink into the breezeway under the house
and have to be lured out with plates of replicated cream and lots of pats
and cuddles.   Only after you'd convinced him you thought he was a
beautiful, wonderful cat, the best cat on Vulcan, would he creep out and
curl up in your lap, all covered with dust and insect wings, still feeling
sorry for himself but ready to be pampered and tickled back into a good
mood.
     Which gave me an idea or two about how to deal with Chakotay and his
funk, but still left me with the problem of B'Elanna.
     "Be, I won't deny we've had our problems working out the command
team.  And before you start to bristle, for God's sake give a moment's
thought to just how hard a challenge that is.  Tuvok and I have made some
mistakes -- and so has Chakotay.  But we're trying to work that out.  As
for the Egypt mission:  that wasn't a mistake, and Chakotay knew damned
well why we did things the way we did.  Tuvok had the dessert experience;
Chakotay didn't.  It was also... politic."  I sighed, and thought. 
Jorland was dead... there was no harm in letting B'Elanna know some of
what he'd been up to; and letting her know might make her a bit more alert
if Kilpatrick, or anyone else tried playing similar games.  With Jorland's
death we'd won a bit of breathing space, but if Ididn't use it to our
advantage we could still be in trouble.
     "B'Elanna, you want to take anything Jorland said with a grain of
salt.  I'd rather you didn't pass this around, but we set up the Egypt
mission the way we did was because Jorland was trying to trigger a mutiny.
 We first got wind of it during the 'Strike', and we've been trying to
settle out the trouble he was stirring up ever since.  One of the things
Egypt was supposed to accomplish was to give Jorland a chance to see Tuvok
and Chakotay splitting power comfortably -- and let some of you who have
ties to Chakotay see that he stepped aside willingly because it was
expedient, rather than because Tuvok and I were forcing him to.  Jorland
could have built a marvelous power base just from Chakotay's own friends,
without Chakotay lifting a finger to call for your support.  We had to
head that off, somehow."
     B'Elanna looked at me blankly, then began to swear.  "Son of a --
that *bastard*.  The fucker was *playing* with us.  I could..."  She
slammed her hand on the table, making the tools and holo-unit parts jump
and rattle.  Then she looked up at me, shocked.  "That isn't why Tuvok and
Chakotay....."
     "No.  They did what they did as a mercy, and because there wasn't any
other choice.  Or at least, Tuvok did.  As a mercy to Jorland; and to
Chakotay:  the sonofabitch was going to go back and get himself killed
trying to save Jorland."
     I was as shocked as B'Elanna at the sudden fury in my voice.  I
pulled out from the table, and paced across the room, trying to collect my
wits.  I was angry and shivery and suddenly feeling vulnerable.
     B'Elanna spoke behind me, her voice pleading.  "He's a *good* man. 
He wouldn't have wanted Jorland to...."
     "Damn it, B'Elanna, enough!  I *know* he's a good man.  If he weren't
I'd have found a way to get him out of that chair a long time ago."  I was
hanging on to my own arms, trying to rein in the frusration and anger that
had ambushed me.  I hadn't realized just how insecure the idiot's heroics
made me feel.  "The man plays dodge 'em with Kazon ships, tries to take
out Seska single-handed, damn near lets that Kazon boy kill him on the off
chance the doctor can bring him back, tries to pull Jorland out of a
hopeless situation... One of these days he's going to get himself *dead*. 
 Is it so hard for you to believe I don't want the bastard to get himself
killed confusing 'noble' with 'suicidal'? "
     Behind me B'Elanna stirred restlessly.  After awhile I heard the
rattle of tools.  I took a breath, forced myself to relax, turned, and
returned to the table, picking up the segment of the hologenerator I'd
been working on.
     B'Elanna glanced at me, then back to her work.  "I didn't know you...
I mean..."
     "Like you said, he's a good man."
     "Stupid, sometimes."
     "Aren't they all?"
     She laughed.  It was a bit shaky, but it wasn't a bad try.  "Most of
'em.  Is that why the two of you have been hanging around together
lately?"  She tried to pass it off as an innocent question.  It wasn't
really convincing.
     "With Jorland plotting it seemed like a good idea to make sure
everyone knew we were working out the command problems.  And it's not like
it was torture to spend the time with him -- or it wouldn't be if he
weren't in a funk."
     "He's like that, sometimes.  He used to be a pain in the ass during
down-time, after a bad mission."
     "What did it take to snap him out of it?"
     She shrugged, and looked unhappy.  "Seska used to cheer him up a lot.
 Magda could sometimes pull him out of it.  For a while, after Seska cut
out, I thought *I* was getting the hang of it.  Then he went off and tried
to get himself killed after she stole the transporter tech.  I used to
think it was my fault, somehow -- that if I'd said the right thing he
wouldn't have gone off like that."
     "Stupid.  I mean him, not you.  Well, you too, for blaming yourself. 
It wasn't your fault.  Sometimes he's impossible."
     "Proud."
     "Proud is stupid if you use it to get yourself caught on a Kazon ship
without a snowball's chance of pulling your mission off.  Hell, it was
months after that before I could look at him and not wonder just what the
hell he'd been thinking of.  I still wonder sometimes.  Tuvok was
half-convinced he actually intended to rendezvous with her, and it had
gone wrong."
     "Told you Tuvok didn't like him."
     "Tuvok's a Vulcan Security Chief."
     "Like I said.  Same difference."
     "Not really."
     She grinned wryly.  "I'll take your word for it.  Where's the six mic
spanner?"
     "Here.  How long do you need it for?  I was about to adjust the
secondary stream."
     "Just for a second.  You know, this thing still isn't what it should
be, but we're up to the point where we could use it to let the doctor out
of the 'dungeon' now."
     "Mmm-hmm.  I don't know if we're *ever* going to solve the problem of
how to give him a real body, instead of just a ghost, though."
     "Someday.  I'm not giving up yet.  Maybe if he doesn't mind being the
size of a cat?"
     "Fat chance.  His ego'd never fit."
     She laughed, then smiled shyly at me.  "Captain...  If you can pull
Chakotay out of it... I mean....  Hell."
     I tried to smile back.  Not easy when you feel like sinking through
the floor.  I had a bad feeling she was reading-in a lot more than the
flirt and spark that seemed to be the limit of our connection, and was
hanging a lot of hope on a relationship that had staggered along more
often distant than close for most of the last two years.  "I'll see what I
can do, B'Elanna, but if his old friends can't bring him around, I
wouldn't count on my being able to.  I'm only his captain."  Before she
could say anything else I hurried on.  "By the way -- now that we have the
prototype looking good, what would it take to run up a few more of these?"
     "How many?"
     I did a quick calculation in my head.  "About ten.  Maybe twelve."
     She whistled.  "'A few', you say."  She grinned.  "Well, give me a
few days to figure out the load on the replicators, and I'll see what I
can do for you.  What do you want them for?"
     I shook my head and smiled.  "Let's just say I have a little pet
project in mind."

     The voyage wore on.  Chakotay was still spending most of his time in
his office working on the archives, so the bridge chatter was at a minimum
and what there was seemed to center around Paris -- which made for racy
talk and sly innuendo, but not much else.  When I wasn't on bridge I was
in my ready room, looking through all the information the holodoctor had
compiled on Kes' condition.  I didn't expect to find much.  My training
was more in physics and astronomy than in any of the biological sciences. 
But you don't make it to science officer without a solid grounding in all
the fields, and I figured that a new set of eyes might see something in a
different light, come at the problem from a different angle, and give us
some kind of clue the doctor had missed.  So far I hadn't had much luck,
but I'd increased my knowledge of Ocampan physiology immeasurably, and
polished up my biology vocabulary in the bargain.  But even with the new
studies I was feeling slow, and stodgy, and as stir-crazy as the rest of
the crew.  One afternoon, midway through the second week, I finally
realized I'd  had enough.  I slapped the computer off, and opened a com
link to Chakotay's office.
     "Commander, what are your plans for this evening?"
     His reply was a bit tired, but good-natured.  "Well, let's see: I
*had* thought I might spend the evening on Risa, at Strutter's, but
circumstances prevent me from attending.  Why?  Are you looking for
another 'command unity' event?"
     "I suppose you could call it that.  How about a quiet, candle-lit
dinner at Chez Neelix, and a few hours on the holodeck?  I'm going stale,
and if I don't do something I'm going to climb right out of my skin."
     "Mmmm.  Not the most enticing prospect.  I've always preferred my
captains with their skin on -- they roast up better that way.  Sure.  What
kind of holo-adventure?"
     "No adventure.  Just bring a pair of swim trunks.  Damn.  You do
swim, don't you?"
     "Captain -- the only folks they let out of the Academy who don't know
how to swim..."
     "Right.  Stupid.  I forgot.  The only ones who don't swim literally
can't swim.  Do you like to swim?"
     "Now she asks.  Sure.  Swim like an otter."
     "Then is it a date?"
     There was silence for a second.  Then he answered, an amused note to
his voice.  "I don't know, captain. *Is* it a date?"
     I shook my head, a smile catching me off-guard.  "Captains don't
date.  It's beneath us.  We escort, or are escorted, to an engagement."
     "OK.  But be warned -- I don't believe in long engagements."
     "In that case I'll have you home by ten, commander."
     "Damn... just when I thought I'd finally found a way to ruin my
reputation."
     "You're a terrible man, commander."
     "I try, captain.  That all?"
     "Mmm-hmm.   It'll take me about an hour to clean up and shake the
kinks out.  I'll drop by  your quarters in, say, an hour and a half?"
     "Fine.  See you then."
     "Janeway out."
     The com link blipped off, and I smiled.  Why kill two birds with one
stone, when you can kill three, or even four?  I was promoting command
unity, shaking the boredom that was eating me alive, getting in the laps
I'd been meaning to work in all week, and cheering up my listless XO.  Not
bad for one com call.

     When I dropped by his quarters he met me at the door, still in
uniform.  I looked him over, and sighed.
     "I declare uniforms non-obligatory, and you decide you're going to
live in yours.  Let me guess:  your trunks are black and red too."
     He nodded in amused confirmation.  "Complete with pips.  You never
know when you're going to have to pull rank on a holocharacter."
     "No holocharacters.  No adventure.  Just water.  I don't suppose you
expected the scrub pines to come to attention for you?"
     "Scrub pines?"
     "You'll see.  Any idea what Neelix is serving tonight?"
     "Would you recognize it if I did?"
     "Probably not.  It's usually better that way.  The ones that stand
out enough to remember are usually memorable for reasons of indigestion."
     We ambled our way to Neelix', ate a dinner that was better than his
worst, and worse than his rare best, nodded to all and sundry, put up with
some terrible teasing from Magda for our recent lack of sociability, and
retreated as soon as we could, heading for the holodeck.  Once we were
there I slid the holochip into the slot, and uploaded the program.  The
gray walls faded out; replaced with black sky, stars, low shrubs and
knobby, lumpy pines, and the scent of water and pine and bayberry, and the
creak of frogs.  The cottage sat behind us, the front room lit by a single
lamp.  The lake lay ahead, reflecting the sheen of stars and moon.  The
raft and dock were pale ghosts floating on the black water.
     I heard Chakotay draw in his breath.  "Nice."
     "Mmm-hmmm.  Let's go in and change. Last one in's..."
     "A rotten egg..."  He was already scooting across the porch, and into
the room beyond.  By the time I got in he'd found the front bedroom, and
closed the door.  I cut through the kitchen to the back bedroom, and
slipped into my suit, hurrying out to the lake again as soon as I was
changed.
     He was standing at the edge of the water, just looking out.  He
looked back as he heard my feet scrutch through the sand.
     "Where is it?"
     "Massachusetts, near Plymouth.  It's all pine barren along the coast,
with a lot of little lakes.  My grandmother's people have had this place
for ages.  I used to spend summers out here."
     "I always figured you for a city girl."
     I shrugged, then remembered he probably couldn't see me in the dark,
with his eyes not yet adjusted from the light in the cottage.  "City,
country... it doesn't make much difference these days, with transporters
and shuttles putting everything in ten minutes reach of everything else. 
This area's been thin of residents since before the Eugenics wars, after
the old industries moved out; and after the wars ...  It's almost like a
Yankee secret.  Locals know about it; but non-natives go for the Cape, or
Nantucket and the Vineyard, and leave the little stuff for those of us who
love it.   So, are we going in?"
     "How cold is it?"
     "Fair to middling.  It's spring fed, so it's not exactly toasty, but
I took the readings for this in mid-summer, and the water'd warmed up a
bit.  If you ever feel like freezing, I have another I took in late May."
     "I'll pass, for now.  'Fair to middling" sounds more my speed
tonight."
     We padded down the dock.
     "Dive shallow, not deep.  The bottom's only about seven feet down
here, and you'll whack your head if you cut in too steep."
     "Gotcha."
     I drew a breath, heard him do the same, and we knifed into the water
only seconds apart.  We came up sputtering and gasping.
     "Jeezus, woman!  'Fair to middling?'  You're *nuts*."
     "It could be worse.  Did you ever swim in the Pacific when you were
in the Academy?"
     "Yeah.  But after the first time I wore a wet suit.  A man could
freeze his nuts off."
     "I wouldn't know."
     He chuckled, the sound clear across open water.  "Right.  So, what's
the plan now?"
     "I need to get in some laps, or the equivalent.  I was thinking of
cutting across the lake and back, but it takes about forty-five minutes
round trip.  Game?"
     "Game.  Crawl or breast stroke?"
     "If I said butterfly?"
     "I'd die. I'm not in that kind of shape anymore."
     "Me neither -- and I'm feeling lazy tonight.  Breast stroke."
      We struck out, and in a few minutes had matched our paces.  Soon the
only sounds were the blow and puff of our breath, the occasional splash
and splat of kick and stroke, cricket song, and the bragging and brekking
of the bullfrogs in the frog pond behind the cottage and along the shores
of the lake.
     It took the full forty-five minutes, and more.  We were in no rush. 
There was something desperately comforting about the sounds, the movement
of water currents stirred up by his strokes, the glimmer of reflected
light on the water.  And the lake was heart-home to me.  By the time we
neared the cottage shore again I was half way to heaven, and in no hurry
to leave.  I aimed for the raft instead of the dock or the shore, grabbed
the edge, kicked and pulled at the same time, and shot up onto the
polyboard planking.
     The air hit like arctic hell.  Through chattering teeth I called up
two heavy terry robes, which arrived just in time for me to hand one to
Chakotay as he pulled himself up beside me.  He whuffed, chattered his own
teeth, and wrapped himself in the robe in a rush.  The two of us sat
huddled in the thick cotton for a few minutes, letting the chill wear off
and the heat build up.  Then I slid down, lying on my back and looking up
at the stars.  After a few minutes Chakotay eased himself down too, a few
feet away, his head near mine, his feet trailing in the water off the side
of the raft.  He was close enough I could hear his breath, still a bit
deep from the swim.  I imagined I could even feel the heat of him next to
me.  His hand crossed into my field of vision, as he pointed up to the sky
simulated above us.
     "There's Corona.  And Aquila."
     "Taurus, Gemini, Cassiopeia.  It took me ages to get this program
right."
     "You love this place."
     "Mmm-hmmm.  My house is near here.  About five minutes away by
aircar.  Over in Carver.  Colonial revival.  I wanted to be near enough to
just come on over any time it hit me, with no worry about transporter
schedules, or rush-hour overloads.  Mark and I used to come out for the
weekend, and walk Molly around the lake, or over past the cranberry bogs."
     He was silent for a while.  When he did speak, he had on his
'sympathy' voice.   "You miss him, don't you?"
     I smiled, a bit wistfully, knowing only the stars saw.  "No."
     "I understa...  What?"
     "No.  I don't really.  I did at first.  Very badly.  It was a long
time before I realized that what I missed had stopped being Mark and
become the things he stood for.  Home.  Certainty.  Knowing there was
someone to go back to, waiting for me.  When I did see it, it took me a
long time to get over feeling guilty about *not* missing him. He was a
dear man.  He deserved to be missed."
     I've noticed that happening more and more often lately, with all of
the crew.  People talking about the ones left behind as though they were
dead, though we're the ones who passed away through the wave.  I suppose
it's all a matter of perspective, but it seems to make the mourning easier
if you see yourself as the survivors, though there's a guilt associated
with that too: the guilt of letting go.
     Chakotay lay silent, apparently not willing or able to comment on my
lack of grief for the man I'd hoped wouldn't 'give me up for dead.'  It's
not the sort of thing folks know how to deal with.
     After awhile I sat up and leaned my back against the diving tower,
still looking up at the night sky.  "How's the research going? Find out
anything more about Abbyzh-dira?"
     He sighed, and rolled over on his stomach, resting his head on his
arms.  "Not much.  Bits and pieces.  I've put what I've got together in a
report.  I thought I'd give it to you tomorrow morning, so you could look
it over during the day and get back to me.  You might have a few ideas I
haven't.  I'm about run dry."  He lay there a moment, then continued. 
"Neelix has been a lot of help.  He pointed me at some good leads.  The
bad news is he also pointed out something we should have seen.  It's a
heavily used trade route.  The Kithtri may not travel much, but every
merchant in the region and some from a lot farther away come to
Abbyzh-dira to trade.  The result is that there are a lot of freebooters,
too.   And the system is located in a fluky area of space.  There are some
weird stretches, a lot like the Badlands, and a lot of anomolous
'weather'.  Abbyzh-dira's sun seems to generate an unusually high number
of flares, and it stirs up a lot of ion storms to screw up sensor
readings.  Therre are a lot of bolt holes for a ship to hide, a lot of
good spots for an ambush.  Neelix thinks we should be prepared to be
attacked.  Apparently most of the ships form caravans, for all the old
reasons.  Safety in numbers.  A lone ship will look like a tethered goat
to the predators."
     "I suppose we should have expected it.  I still haven't really made
the transition to this place.  It's like landing in something like the
Odyssey, or the Arabian Nights, with Sinbad.  Beautiful, frightening. 
Dangerous.  Unpredictable.  We turn around and find gods.  Or devils. 
Crazy place."  I pulled the robe closer around my shoulders, sealing out
the cool air. "I'm glad you're working well with Neelix.  It's easy to
forget him, but he's still the best resource we have, and at least *his*
expectations are based on what's really here, instead of Alpha Quadrant
assumptions."
     "Mmm.  Captain..."
     "Kathryn."
     "Kathryn."  He chuckled; a soft, dry sound.  "You won't faint?"
     "It is my name."
     "I was beginning to think it was a secret weapon.  You nearly keeled
over that night."
     "So sue me.  I wasn't expecting it."  I sighed.  "You get used to the
rank.  I don't know.  What would you do if I suddenly started calling you
'Peshewa'?"
     He didn't answer for a moment; then gave a half-sigh, half-laugh. 
"Look to see if my father or one of the other elders had materialized next
to me.  It's not like 'first name, last name.'  More a matter of context. 
'Chakotay' is what my mother gave me when I was born.  'Peshewa'... if the
old traditions still held that's what I would have become after I went on
vision quest.  It's the name my father gave me in his role as elder and
the tribe's meda.  My adult name.  But even in the tribe on Dorvan the old
traditions were patchwork, and I was  'Chakotay' as often as not.  Even my
father usually called me that, unless there was a ritual reason not to. 
'Joseph' -- you know why I have that one."
     I smiled in the dark.  "And 'Minou'?"
     "Oh, God.  You looked it up."
     " Magda told me."
     "Hell."
     I laughed.  "Don't feel too bad.  The fact that you put up with it...
Let's just say it's good to know you can put up with having your tail
twisted.  She's a real character."
     "She didn't stick you with 'minou'."
     "Nope.  *I* got 'minette'."
      He propped himself on his elbows, and peered at me, his face pale in
the moonlight.  "You're kidding..."
     "No."
     "Why'd she..."
     "*You* figure it out.  If you think you know, get back to me and I'll
tell you if you're right.  What were you going to say when we detoured?"
     "Hmmm?  I forgot.  Oh.  Damn.  Right.  What are we going to trade
when we get there?"
     I didn't answer.

End section 3


Raisins and Almonds
Peg Robins9on, c.1996
.
     It's a growing problem.  In the Federation, if we needed something we
requisitioned it from Starfleet.  If it went over budget we got into
arguments with the PTB -- and either went without, or got our way.  Trade
was an issue the civilians worried about, and politicians.  Starfleet took
care of its own, and the member planets took care of Starfleet.  Out here
it's a whole different ballgame.  I'm beginning to see why politicians and
traders seem so unreliable to Fleet officers.  They don't have the luxury
of pretending they don't have to compromise.  I've been having to
compromise a lot lately though, and it's left me feeling dirty.
     I finally sighed, and responded.  "I don't know.  I was hoping they'd
respond to it as an emergency.  Most cultures seem to have some kind of 
'good Samaritan' clause.   Altruism is a civilized virtue."
     "Depends on how you define 'civilized'.  I know some 'savage'
cultures that make the Federation at it's best look like a pack of thugs. 
And some civilized ones, like the Cardassians, that make the worst we can
offer look like sweetness and light."
     "Determined to make me think, aren't you?"
     "Is that a problem?"  His voice held a trace of challenge.  I tried
not to be annoyed.
     "Sometimes.  I suppose you'd better keep it up, though.  'The bright
light of inquiry.'  You keep me on my toes."
     "So, what *do* we trade?"
     "How's the replicator load these days?  Maybe we can come up with
gold, frankincense and myrrh."
     "Could be.  The botanicals have a better chance of selling than
semiprecious metals, though.  Gold is everywhere:  Frankincense is a bit
more exotic.  What about seeds and cuttings?  Kes and the doctor have come
up with a lot of things by cloning plant samples from the bio-files. 
Tomatoes, potatoes, corn, peppers.  All of those would be rare
commodities."
     "Breach of Prime Directive.  I know it's strange to think of plants
as 'technology', but agriculture is one of the oldest technologies we
have. You can change a world with a few seeds."
     "I know."  He rolled to sit cross-legged, less relaxed than he had
been a few minutes before.  He was still, but it was the stillness of
containment, not of true ease.
     "I suppose you would."  I tried to smooth his feathers.
     He wasn't soothable.  "So, seeds are out.  Cultural artifacts? 
Literature, music, film, that sort of thing?" The frustration was still
there, just under the surface.
     "If they'll take them, I suppose.  Even that makes me nervous.  You
can change a world with a book, or a piece of music, too."
     "I *know*.  Capt -- *Kathryn*.  We don't have many choices.  We can
trade labor, information, cultural relics like artwork, or technology. 
Labor is the only one that has much chance of sliding in under a really
strict interpretation of Prime Directive rules; and we don't have the time
or the manpower to offer that one very often.  But dammit, there are
looser interpretations; ones that leave us a bit more room to maneuver."
     "And there are worlds that have paid the price for looser
interpretations.  If we get this wrong we could rip the hell out of this
entire quadrant."
     He stood, and paced restlessly to the side of the raft, the water
rising as his weight tipped the balance of the floats.  "If you're going
to keep that attitude we might as well quit now.  We can't help changing
things just by existing out here.  The only way we're coming out of this
without changing anything more than we already have is to do what you
threatened:  blow the ship up, and us with it.  That's the only way to
keep from interacting with the world -- withdraw from it.  Other than
that, you take your best shot, and deal with whatever comes of it."
     "*That's* a responsible attitude to take."
     He spun, and glared.  I glared back, wondering why the hell an
evening that had been delightful so far was suddenly escalating into a
war.  When he replied his voice was that tense, controlled growl he gets,
complete with stubborn overtones.
     "Yes, goddamn it, it is.  More responsible than sitting in a corner
pretending you can just go on acting like nothing has changed, and we'll
manage to wish ourselves home any day now.  The way you want to do it, we
still change things - but it's all by accident, and we can't even try to
pick and choose what we'll deal with."
     "At least if it's an accident, our hands are clean."
     "Bull.  If it's an accident it's still our job to try to clean up
after it; and if it happened because we closed our eyes and tried to
pretend we could just slip by without making a ripple then we still made a
choice, and it's not an accident.  Damn it, you're the one who said
sometimes you have to 'punch' your way through."
     "And you're the one who damned near got himself killed trying to
reclaim Federation technology before it shifted politics in the quadrant
forever",  I snapped back, angry he was pushing.
     "That's because it wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for my
mistake."
     "Seska's mistake.  She's the one who wanted to break the Prime
Directive."
     "And I'm the sonofabitch who brought her along.  I clean up my own
messes."
     "She made her own choices.  You don't get to take the blame for them,
dammit.  You didn't invent her from scratch, and you weren't her captain
when she went rogue."
     "She didn't 'go rogue', she *was* rogue -- and I missed it."  His
voice was sharp and juniper-bitter in the darkness.
     "So did I.  So did Tuvok.  Do you think you're supposed to be able to
control everything in your life?"
     "No, that's *your* neurosis." He prowled across the decking and back
again, the water sloshing dangerously near the edges of the raft,
threatening to swamp us.  "I just think I'm supposed to manage a competent
job of work.  Instead I ended up with two spies and a traitor on my ship,
took one of them as my lover, let her get away, got fooled into thinking
she was carrying my child, screwed up dealing with that so badly I needed
my ass saved, I nearly lost us Voyager, and thanks to her the Kazon have
more information than they know what to do with about Federation
technology."
     "Oh, bullshit.  The only part of that that was your fault was you
took her to bed, and unless you're a lot worse than I thought you were she
had something to say about that too.  The rest was her own damned idea --
except that jackass 'knight errant' stunt you pulled.  And every one gets
a shot at stupid once in a while."
     "Look, can we get back to the Prime Directive, and leave my past
alone?  At least there's some chance we can solve that one."
     I nodded, furious, but not entirely sure why I was, or how the
conversation had taken the turn it had.  What had started as a
professional disagreement had become dangerously personal.  I pulled back
to the question of trade.  "There's nothing to solve.  We stick to the
rules.  No argument."
     "Wonderful.  And if there's no other choice?"
     "Then there isn't.  I'm not going to destroy a world just to save one
person."
     "Logic, again.  You use it like it was the answer to everything, and
forget that all it takes is a change in premise, or a different set of
assumptions and you can come up with a different answer.  There are a lot
of different truths, depending on where you stand.  You'll give up any
chance Kes has, to save a world; but what if the Kithtri are grown up
enough to make their own decisions?  You don't have the right to take away
their choices just because you want to stay lily-white, and you do owe Kes
and your crew your care.  That's what a captain is, it's what you do. 
Your obligation is to them first."
     "My obligation is to the Federation first, and to what it stood for."
     He turned where he stood, midway across the raft, fists balled, old
anger burning in his eyes as he slammed his words into the last connection
I had with my old reality -- my belief in the value of the Federation. 
"Oh, to abandoned obligations?  Or are you sticking to a law that makes
colonists criminals for fighting for homes the Federation sold out from
under them?  How about our insistence that we're a peaceful people -- and
all the while we're fighting the Cardassians, and half an inch away from
war with the Klingons and the Romulans? Or the idea that we're all equal,
that all our worlds have something to offer -- but look around Star Fleet
and you see what equal is worth?  What about self-righteous judgments
about who's 'ready' to join the Federation and who's too 'savage' to join
our elect ranks?  Ever looked at the way it works out, Kathryn?  We've
turned our backs on species that had every qualification for membership
that we did when Vulcan and Earth formed the first alliance two hundred
years ago -- in fact we've turned down species that made us look like
monsters.  But we've accepted or allied with races that are barbarians. 
Ever wonder why?"
     My temper snapped.  I scrambled up to meet his anger with rage of my
own, and we faced off in a way we haven't since the first few minutes he
was ever on Voyager, when we glowered ourselves into a truce we needed. 
This time we had less peaceable desires.
     "More Maquis philosophy, or is this another historical metaphor?  I'd
watch out, your last one was less than perfect."
     "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
     "Just that if you're going to climb up on a soap box, you might want
to make sure you have the sermon worked out a bit better ahead of time --
and give a little thought to the possible results.  You're damned good at
telling me to throw away the principals of the Federation, commander, and
I'll grant you they aren't perfect.  But I suspect your Chief Joseph would
have been glad to trade the U.S. Supreme Court for a Federation Prime
Directive review board any day of the week."
     He was still, smoldering, his temper gone beyond the flash point. 
Unfortunately I was blazing hot and furious myself, my control singe-ing
away like torched tinder.  His anger and mine together were incendiary.  
     "Low blow, 'Kate'."
     "Why, because that's 'yours'?"
     "No."
     "Because you'd prefer to believe in your nice little metaphor, that
makes the Federation synonymous with 'the bad whites' in the past, and
lets you play 'Chief Joseph' to your heart's content?"
     I once said he seemed like a 'bear person'.  I've come to see that
that was a pretty stupid comment to make under the circumstances.  A smug
assumption that I knew things about the nature of his beliefs that I
didn't know at all; a joke I shouldn't have made.  But he *does* make me
think of a bear, or a bull, and never more than when he's angry. 
Something large, and dark, and ember-eyed.  Anger granted mass and
velocity.  As he shifted his weight and leaned into the argument I knew I
had a bear on the raft with me.  An angry bear.
     "It was *wrong*.  So was the fucking Cardassian treaty."
     "It was wrong, but it was the best they could come up with.  The
Treaty... it was the best *we* knew how to manage.  And unlike the Wallowa
decision, there was some effort put into making reparations.  We do better
these days, commander.  And the Prime Directive has a lot to do with
that."
     "Right.  So I can go back to my chair and keep quiet now.  Kathryn
Janeway has summed up the past, present and future in one simple lesson. 
No more radical ideas, no more anger, and most of all no more loud-mouthed
sermons from the Maquis XO.  I'll tell you a few humorous anecdotes about
my sordid past screw-ups, I'll trot out the 'mysteries' of my culture and
religion, you'll marvel at what a profound fellow I am, and forget me as
soon as there's a command decision on the line.  A good little apple,
Maquis in a red uniform."
     "You can't blame me for that, commander.  I didn't force you into the
uniform, and I didn't tell you to 'shut up and sit down'. You're the one
who decided to wear the uniform.  You decided the first time, you decided
the second time, and you've decided again.  Ever think maybe you liked it,
commander?  Or does that threaten your self-image too much?"
     "The hell you didn't force me into the uniform.  It was part of the
deal -- or did I miss something?  As I recall, you're the one who insisted
it would be a 'Starfleet' ship."
     "And now?  I no sooner give you the choice of shucking the damned
thing than you weld yourself into it so tight  I was beginning to think
it'd put down roots in your skin and you'd have to have it surgically
removed to take a shower."
     "I'm damned if I'm going to go out in civvies just because you and
Magda cut a deal.  I've been trying for two goddamned years to get you to
the point where you could stand to see just one Maquis as something other
than shit; I've been playing good little apple so long you could make
cider out of me, and when I finally screw up in spades, and start a
mutiny, *then* you suddenly decide to make best friends with Magda, grant
the Maquis civilian status, and bless me with the magnanimity of getting
'integrated' into the holy command team.  You know something?  I'd hoped I
could earn your trust; it used to drive me crazy that no matter how hard I
tried all you saw any time I raised my head was 'wild Maquis'.  But I'm
not sure I want your trust as a fucking consolation prize; the reward for
being so big a screw-up I can't try to tell you about who I am and who my
crew is without nearly getting us all killed."
     Right then, for the first time since he'd come aboard, I felt as
though he hated me.  As though he was *enjoying* hating me.  It hurt more
than I wanted to know.  I pulled back, fighting the hurt with anger.
     "Damn."
     "What?"
     "That's what this is about?  I hurt your damned feelings by finally
getting some sense?  That's wonderful, Chakotay.  It would have been
*fine* if you could have shown me the error of my ways, like Moses coming
down from the mountain.  But I finally figure out that I've been screwing
up for two years, and try to do something about it, and you go into a sulk
for weeks because you didn't get the star role.  'Mr. Wisdom' didn't get
to illuminate the pig-headed, straight-line, tight-assed Starfleet
officer.  So you turn it around, take a mutiny that I started by leaving
explosives lying around in spite of all common sense, and find a way to
blame yourself for lighting a match in a dark room."
     "That's not it."
     "No?"
     "No, dammit.  I should have known better.  I knew how much I hated
feeling like second class citizen; I should have thought how much the rest
of the Maquis would hate it.  Me, I loved being Fleet again, and it still
hurt dealing with you and Tuvok, and everyone seeing me as a threat if I
so much as looked sideways."
     "Chakotay, we never meant you to think that."
     "Bullshit!  You and Tuvok went a long way out of your way to make
sure I knew just how far the pips would carry me. Are you really going to
try to tell me you two didn't do everything you could to keep me
'contained'?"
     I closed my eyes.  "Sometimes.  Chakotay, why the hell are we having
this fight?  I've messed up.  You've messed up too.  But overall we've
held things together, and lately we seemed to be making some progress.  Do
we really need to tear each other apart just when things are looking up?"
     "Shit.  Computer, terminate holoprogram."
     The lake disappeared, along with our robes.  Chakotay stalked over to
where his uniform lay in a pile on the floor of the holodeck.  I was
blinking, trying to adjust my eyes to the glare of the lights after the
dark of the lake.
     "Chakotay, what...."
     "Commander."
     "What?"
     "Commander.  It was easier that way.  Me commander, you captain. 
Nice, simple, no fights.  Let's stick to basics.  I'll come to attention,
keep to the background, let myself get shanghaied into the occasional
propaganda appearance at Sandrine's, and never make any more dangerous
suggestions.  That should keep you content until the next time Tuvok comes
up with some reason to worry about my loyalties."
     I damned near warped across the space between us and grabbed his
elbow, spinning him.  He swung with the pull, and we stood glaring at each
other.
     "What the hell is going on with you?  You've been miserable for
weeks, you're jumpy as a cat, I can't get two words out of you half the
time without twisting your arm first, you're letting the circle die for
lack of a bit of attention, B'Elanna's worried about you, Magda's worried
about you, *I'm* worried about you, you're locking yourself away from
everyone.  Now we've gone from getting along to firing photon torpedoes in
under half an hour, and I don't understand it.  I don't understand *you*."
     "No.  You don't."
     "Then help, dammit.  I'm not a Betazoid. I don't read minds."
     "Just as well.  Sorry, I think I feel safer not handing you the
inside of my head.  You might add that to the security files, along with
everything else."
     "When the hell have I ever used that against you, commander?"
     He blinked, closed his eyes.  "You haven't."
     And suddenly the dynamic was gone; whatever had driven the fight
dematerializing in seconds.  The anger wasn't gone, but the ability to
carry the war on drained away from us, and we stood there, two frightened,
middle-aged officers; looking stupid, standing in swim suits in the middle
of a gray room.
     After a moment, he started pulling on his uniform again.  I wanted to
hit him, and didn't know why; I wanted to say "I'm sorry", and didn't know
what for.  I wanted to run to some-one and scream "He started it", but I
wasn't sure he had.  I wasn't sure who had.  
     And who was I going to run to, anyway?  I was the goddamned captain. 

     I started putting on my own uniform, glad that the water in my suit
had disappeared with the lake and the robes.  Wet swim suit shows when it
soaks through black uniforms.
     We left the holodeck together.  I invented an excuse to go to
sickbay, he invented a reason to go check out the status of the trip, and
we avoided the embarrassment of riding the same turbolift up to our
quarters together.  It didn't stop me from lying in bed wondering how it
had all gone sour so fast, how we were going to handle it the next day, or
whether he was having as little luck sleeping as I was -- and it didn't
stop it from hurting.

     Chakotay and I sat bridge watch together the next morning.  There
weren't any problems.  For all the fight hovered between us, we seemed to
be in synch, and the difficulty was more a persistent hesitance, something
blind and baffled between us that wanted resolution, but not armed
warfare.  But we managed to split our duties, run maneuvers, and keep up a
steady dialogue as well as usual, with no noticeable difference besides a
subdued quiet, like the hush after a storm in August.  That afternoon I
left Chakotay in charge of bridge routine, and retreated to the ready room
to review the report he'd handed me when I came back from my lunch break.
     It was as thorough as you could expect under the circumstances.  He'd
done a magnificent job.  I could see why he'd been worried the previous
evening. Taken as a whole our situation didn't look good.  We'd have to
get to Abbyzh-dira intact, manage a trade under what looked like uncertain
circumstances, and get out again without being attacked by an array of
possible enemies that we couldn't evaluate precisely, but which looked
like a potential disaster in the making.  And he was right, we had to
decide what, if anything, we had to offer in return for medical
assistance.  The one thing that was clear was that all reports indicated
the Kithtri would never give us that without a return.
     When Chakotay came in for our usual end-of-day review I was spooling
through the report again, wondering what the hell we were going to do.
     He came in warily.  We'd been burned, as surely as Chakotay'd been
burned on Egypt, and I think we were both afraid that away from the eyes
of the bridge team the anger that had flared up the night before would
spark again.  But fights were fights, Voyager was Voyager; we had jobs to
do, and that was, in the final reckoning, the only concern.  And, unstated
but there, neither of us wanted to return to the days when all we had to
share was a uniform and a duty.  We were both isolated from the rest of
the crew for a variety of reasons, and even if we'd hated each other on
sight some kind of friendship would have been preferable to the kind of
solitude that had prevailed before we'd begun to find our way to whatever
'command unity' had granted us. The evenings since the Strike had been
sweet, and more than I'd ever really hoped to have as long as I held the
captaincy, or he the position of XO.  A new dispensation.  I looked across
the desk, meeting his eyes, and smiled; tentatively, but as sincerely as I
could.  "How about coffee?  Or are you still avoiding caffeine?"
     His eyes were wary, gun shy, but he returned a smile as fragile and
hesitant as my own.  "Coffee's fine, today.  Later this evening, no.  But
it's early enough for it to wear off, and I could use the jolt."  I was
about to get up and get it when he shook his head.  "Let me.  It's not
like your replicator is any different from mine, and I owe you a cup or
two on my own credits. The usual?"
     "Black and lethal."
     "Right.  The usual."
     He fetched the cups, handed me mine, and pulled up his chair.
     "So. Did you have time to review it?"
     "Mm-hmmm.  You're right.  It's going to be dangerous, and the risks
may not pay off.  And we should be thinking about what we have to offer."
I took a deep sip of the coffee, enjoying the near scorching heat, and the
bite of the brew, then looked at him over the brim.  "You did a damned
fine job, you know.  I've gotten worse reports on a situation from trained
archivists, with every resource they could dream of at their finger tips.
You've pulled information out where anyone else would have given up and
left it in the hands of the gods."
     He shrugged, but looked pleased.  "Like you said, you might as well
get some use out of my being a web monkey."
     "It takes more than just a web monkey to make the connections you
did.  Chakotay, I'm not happy about this, but you're right, we do have to
make some kind of decision about what we're willing to trade.  I was
wondering; would you be willing to try to assemble some kind of report, or
evaluation of what we have to put on the bargaining table? Not just a
'lily-white' version, but anything, and everything.  I'm not saying I'll
approve all of it, or even any of it.  But you seem to have some sense of
what you think we could do, and I'd just as soon have the project in your
hands.  I trust your good sense not to give away anything we really can't
afford to give up, or let out of our sight."
     "Is this another consolation prize?"  His eyes were dark.  A bit
angry.  A bit insecure.
     I felt my shoulders tighten, and made a conscious effort to relax. 
"I mean just what I said.  I want to look at what you put together -- and
I'm not making any promises.  You've won some ground, commander.  Take
what you've won, and save the next assault on my ethics for another day."
     "I thought you said I should keep making you think."
     "I did.  I didn't say I'd like it."
     "It's my job."
     "Sometimes I think it's your vocation.  A mission from God."
     He was impassive, watching me; then he gave an frustrated sigh. 
"Truce.  I'll have the list to you by day after tomorrow.  I've got some
of the preliminary work done already.  But if I'm going to take the time
I'd as soon know you really will look at it."
     "I will.  What's next on our list?"
     We spent the next half hour going over day to day ship routine. 
Neelix was on half duty, and we'd had to assign him extra assistants in
the messhall to fill in for both him and Kes, though in the last month or
two of her pregnancy she'd already been down to doing little more than
chopping vegetables and stirring the odd pot of mystery stew. Energy
output ratings, reports from Life Support, a run down on who was in
trouble for what, and a few guesses as to why.  The usual.  A bit of this,
a bit of that, and we were done for the day.  Chakotay left, and I
silently congratulated the two of us.  One close call, but no real fights.
 Working out a new team balance was hell.
     Two days later he gave me the list.  I was glad I hadn't promised
anything.  Just spooling over some of his suggestions made me feel like a
traitor to every ideal I'd ever had.  I couldn't imagine how I'd feel if
the day ever came when I found myself approving them.  It felt like
another assault... like a little of me died every time I had to bend the
rules I'd believed in. At least he'd stayed well away from weapons
technology, and the ever-questionable transporter and replicator tech.
Apparently there were some things he couldn't stomach himself, even on an
"anything goes" list; either that or his sense of survival had cut in, and
he'd decided not to find out just how tolerant I was.  I hoped it was the
first.  If it was the second, command unity was farther away than I'd
dreamed, and his ethics were further from mine than I'd believed.

     The approach to Abbyzh-dira was amazing.
     There were no ion storms in the vicinity at the time, which left us
with full access to our sensor readings, and the view was incredible. 
Chakotay's report had been accurate:  the planetary system was ringed with
band after band of the sorts of wild energy fluxes you find in the
Badlands.  Funnels, whirlpools -- Scylla and Charibdis in lethal
incarnations.  Careening chunks of stony fragments catapulting in wild
trajectories.  The route we had to take was tortuous.  I found myself
feeling that the Kithtri couldn't have been better protected from easy
invasion if they'd planned their defenses.  Then, thinking of the rumors
about the race, I couldn't help wondering if they had.  Whether created,
or merely conveniently placed, the energies formed a shifting maze with
Abbyzh-dira's sun and system nested securely the center, the mystery in
the heart of the enigma.  Voyager had to proceed at a slow crawl, dropping
to sublight speed for the last few days of our approach.  We were on
constant alert for freebooters, but got no clear indication of their
presence.  A few ghosts, a few echoes of readings that might have been
predators lurking in hiding... or might not have.  More certain were the
bunched clusters of trade ships picking their way to the system from all
directions.  It was all just enough to keep us nervous.
     As if the maze hadn't been enough to do that already.
     Paris and Chakotay were both in something approaching heaven and hell
combined. The complexity of navigation, and the nervous search for
attackers had them both wound tight... as did the fact that there was
enough going on that we'd decided to twin the controls, with Chakotay
"assisting" Paris, doing a first round of course projections, so that
Paris could fine tune them with minimal fuss as he came to the crucial
moments of decision.  The two couldn't seem to decide if they were at
odds, with Paris muttering under his breath about backseat drivers, and
Chakotay bitching about jackass hot-shots who thought they could fly
blindfolded; or whether they were somehow joined in a shared amazement at
the wonderful weirdness of the place, and the chance to show off their
'fancy flying', competing half-amiably to see which could come up with the
most elegant and showy solutions to the navigational problems presented. 
B'Elanna, who'd come up from engineering to run the bridge console, Harry,
Samantha Wildman and I were having giggling fits listening to them, and
they both seemed to be getting a charge out of it, their insults and
mutters getting more theatrical and overblown each round.  Tuvok looked
long suffering, but I could tell even he was relieved at the good humor
that seemed to be taking the bridge after the weeks of lethargy.  Vulcans
may not know what to make of emotional, undisciplined races, but even they
prefer laughter to sour misery if they have to be exposed to emotionalism
in the first place.
     Then we passed the last barrier, our trajectory bringing us around a
whirling tunnel of coruscating energy...

     "Sonofabitch...."  Tom's voice was a near whisper.  The view must
have gotten the better of him.
     Chakotay nodded, his eyes glued to the screen. "Yeah...."

End section 4.


Standard disclaimers.

Raisins and Almonds.
Peg Robinson, c. 1996

     It was beautiful.  A scintillating sun; a yellow dwarf, but with a
magnitude at the top of the limits.  A blazing mantle of minor flares
stirred and flickered over the surface like windblown breakers.  Eight
planets spun in stately orbit.  Second out was Abbyzh-dira, its rings a
majesty around it.  Beyond the rings was a glittering swarm of  ships like
a necklace of gems, with more coming in or leaving even as we watched. 
Paris whistled softly under his breath.  Harry stood transfixed behind his
ops console.

     "I've never seen anything like that."
     "Harry, I don't think *anyone's* seen anything like that.  If that's
not one of a kind I'll give you Ricki's program, and give up women and
drinking."
     I smiled, staring as hard as anyone else on the bridge.  "I think
Ricki's safe -- and the women and wine had better look out when you come
in.  If there's anything else like that in the universe it's time to look
up God and have a little word with her about divine excess.  Harry, what
do your readings indicate about that place?"
     Harry jumped, and got a flustered 'oh, yeah' look.  He hurried to
sort out the information pouring into his station.  While he ran through
the input the rest of us continued to admire the system arrayed before us,
and the wonder that was Abbyzh-dira.

     It was stunning.  Calling the display around the planet "rings" was a
bit like calling a supernova a light display:  understatement carried to
extremes.  The Kithtri name for the planet was perfect.  The World of
Veils.  There were tier after tier of rings; swirling, tattered,
opalescent, radiant, joined by trailing streamers of dust that seemed to
flutter; though that was more illusion than fact, an illusion fostered by
the dazzle of light off of millions of reflective particles, and by the
rotation of the mass of rings offset by the slightly different rotation of
the planet just barely visible through the open gaps.  The ships that
clustered around shifted slowly, jockeying for position as ships left, as
more entered the crowded space around the planet below.   Some held orbit
at the lower levels, some hovered in stationary positions above, with
freight shuttles weaving courses gracefully between.  The effect was like
a Risan Kambri dancer; a provocative whirl of light and shimmer, with
occasional glimpses of the lush, inviting planet hidden inside the
surrounding glory.

     "It isn't natural."
     Paris moaned like a man in love for the first time; an irony coming
from our resident Casanova.  "Harry, Harry, Harry -- of *course* it's not
natural.  Supernatural, radiant, divine -- pure magic!  Not natural."
     Harry gave a disgruntled huff.  "No. I mean *it's not natural*.  I
mean, it's artificial.  Whatever is going on, the rings are being held in
place by a generated force field.  And it's putting off an ionic charge
you wouldn't believe.  Perfect to break up sensor readings, perfect to
deflect and diffuse most of the radiation from the sun.  It's probably the
only thing that makes the world below habitable.  But it *isn't natural*. 
As in NFIN: 'Not Found In Nature'."
     Tuvok raised an eyebrow.  "One might wonder whether to categorize the
result as art or technology."
     "Both.  I like the way these people think -- practical, beautiful,
and showy as hell.  If you're going to do something, do it up brown and
leave the competition gasping."  Chakotay gazed with delighted wonder at
the view in the screen.
     B'Elanna shook her head admiringly.  "What competition?  If you can
do that the rest of the universe might as well just pack their bags and go
home, except maybe the Q, or the Organians."
     The bridge fell silent for a moment as we contemplated that less than
reassuring thought.  Then Harry spoke up.
     "We're being hailed from the planet's surface, captain."
     "Put them on screen, Mr. Kim."
     Abbyzh-dira dissolved, replaced by as provocative a mystery.
     The first impression was of eyes.  Beautiful, elegant eyes, ringed
with what might easily have been kohl, if it hadn't had a shimmer to it
that kohl never had.  Bluer than blue, long lashed, lids and brows
sculpted by a master.  Only eyes.
     There was nothing else to tell me anything about my caller. 
Everything else was hidden by a cascade of glimmering beads, streamers of
tinsel, silken threads in a hundred colors, all shifting and sliding
across the face and body hidden beneath, but never parting at any point to
reveal the person hidden inside.  All I could see was eyes, and that
swirling veil.
     "We are the Kithtri; the body and the soul.  Who are you, who come to
the market?"
     The voice was in that range that could have been low alto, or high
tenor.  No gender identification easily possible.  I responded.
     "I am Captain Kathryn Janeway, and my vessel is the Federation
starship Voyager."
     The eyes sparkled, lighting up, seeming to laugh.  "You are rumored,
captain.  Word of you has reached us from the far lands, and our souls
have sung of you.  Do you come to trade?"
     "Perhaps.  We are considering the possibility.  But while we're
considering, we would appreciate help with a more immediate problem.  A
member of my crew is ill, a woman of a race related to your own. Kes is an
Ocampan; perhaps you have heard of them?"
     "We have heard of them.  What of them?"
     "Nothing, though it is good to know you have heard of them.  It
increases the chances of your being able to help us.  We were hoping you
could determine what is making Kes ill, and help us cure her."
     The eyes blinked and laughed; the veils shivered as the body beneath
shrugged.  "That is a matter for trade, captain.  Come to the market, and
we will talk.  In the meantime, thou art welcome in our space.  Thy ship
in our haven, thy bodies in our home, thy souls in our tabernacle.  Be
welcome."
     The screen shimmered, and returned to the image of Abbyzh-dira.
     Paris shook his head.  "Well, *that* was certainly different."
     "On the contrary, Lieutenant Paris.  It would appear to me only too
consistent with the pattern of first contacts in this Quadrant. 
Uninformative, unhelpful, and unintelligible."  Tuvok sounded as though
he'd been sucking lemons.
     Chakotay snorted.  "C'mon, Tuvok.  In comparison with some of the
greetings we've received, that was sweetness and light.  No weapons, no
threats, and no bad rep.  Let's give it a little time, and see how it
shapes up.  At least they're willing to let us stay, they're giving us
their blessings, and they seem to want to trade.  They could have sent us
packing."
     "I do not find their blessings reassuring, commander.  They are
playing with us.  That they feel they can afford to do so would indicate
that they are either unaware of the potential of Voyager -- or are
sufficiently strong that they need have no concerns.  If we must deal with
these beings, it would be preferable to do so from a position of strength.
 Can you say we shall be doing so?"
     Chakotay looked out the screen at the shimmering veils of 
Abbyzh-dira.  He shook his head.  "No.  Maybe we'll have to make do with
good will, instead of strength.  Sometimes that's enough."
     "Sometimes.  However statistics would indicate that power is more
often successful than good will or philosophy, when dealing with political
entities."
     Chakotay looked at my security officer, a wry smile twisting his
mouth.  "You're one hell of a fascinating Vulcan, Tuvok.  From what I know
of Surak's philosophy I'd expect you to be the first on the ship to argue
for the potential for peace."
     Tuvok arched a brow, his gaze meeting Chakotay's without turning
away.  "And given the history of your people, and your commitment to the
Maquis, I would expect you to be the first to point out the dangers of
contact between differing cultures, and the potential for violence in such
encounters:  yet you have repeatedly chosen to take extreme risks in the
name of peace.  By the standards of my people you would be much respected,
while I can only aspire to one day reach complete accord with the way of
peace, and labor to achieve a full understanding of the principal of the
IDIC.  I still seek a wisdom that you appear to come to naturally."
     Chakotay flinched.  "Not wisdom.  Just optimism, and the belief that
the only way we can have peace is if we take some risks to give it a
chance.  Nothing more, Tuvok.  I'm not completely lost to realism."
     Tuvok looked at him, expressionless.  "Nor was Surak, commander.  He
chose to die for the same principal you have just stated -- though I will
admit, he stated it far more eloquently.  His final speech is renowned,
and changed my world.  You might wish to read it sometime.  I believe you
would find his comments...enlightening."
     Chakotay looked away, uneasy.  Tuvok looked ready to carry the
discussion further, but I cut him off.  Chakotay'd been too clearly
disturbed by the question of his role as a 'holy man' after his return
from Egypt for me to want the issue carried further; at least not on my
bridge, and not in the middle of an on-going first contact situation.
     "Enough.  Planning time.  Paris, you have the com.  Chakotay, Tuvok,
B'Elanna, to the briefing room. Harry, contact Mr. Neelix and have him
meet us there.  We have an away mission to work out."

     The meeting went quickly.  It was clear that the best and possibly
the only way to deal with the Kithtri was to attempt trade.  I assigned
the away team to Chakotay this time, as he had more experience in
diplomatic contact than Tuvok, but I kept both of them on the team.  They
may not always get along, but their skills and approaches balance each
other well, and I knew I wanted Tuvok's level head involved in this. 
Sending a legend-minded hero to a land of legend was tempting fate.  The
final cut was Chakotay, Tuvok, Neelix, Paris to pilot the shuttle through
Abbyzh-dira's veils,  Ensign Klaus to swell Tuvok's security team, and
B'Elanna to try to make an on-the-spot assessment of the technological
capabilities and needs of the Kithtri.  I handed Chakotay a memory chip as
the meeting came to an end.
     "It's a list of trade items I picked from the report you put
together.  The first tier you can use as opening offers.  I'm not too
worried about trading them.  Second tier use only to hint at more to come
-- and try not to give away too much.  I'm less happy with them, but could
manage to justify the risk."
     "And the third tier?"
     "There is no third tier. If you don't even get a nibble, come back. 
I'm not going any further than this.  Certainly not without further
discussion here on Voyager."
     He looked grim, but nodded, pocketing the chip.  Then he left to
rendezvous with the rest of the team at the shuttle bay.

     We lost contact with the shuttle twenty minutes after launch, as they
entered Abbyzh-dira's veils, but that had been expected.  However the
Kithtri were boosting their com signals, the shuttle and the com badges
didn't have enough kick to send a signal reliably through the disrupting
influence of the ionically charged barrier.  Communication was going to be
dicey if the Kithtri didn't cooperate, and transporters would have been
not only useless, but lethal.  Voyager settled in to wait.  I could almost
feel my crew holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen to Kes;
to see what would come of the contact with the beautiful, mysterious
planet hovering in our screens.  It was pacing time.  The shuttle would
take over three hours to get down and about the same back, depending on
our orbital postion when they left.  Then add in however long it took to
deal with the Kithtri.  Plenty of time to twiddle our thumbs.
     Chin didn't notify me of their approach until after twenty-three
hundred, ship's time.  By then I'd settled down for the evening, and had
to rush like crazy to get back in uniform to go meet them.
     It took me longer than  I expected to reach the shuttle, and when I
did get there I thought for a moment I'd missed them.  The bay  was dark,
the shuttle settled in its parking space.  Not even the usual maintenance
crews -- or I thought so until I saw one of B'Elanna's ensigns slipping
quietly past.  I was about to ask what was going on when she shook her
head, and gestured silently to the bay beyond.  I looked, saw nothing, and
continued in.
     As I came around the side of the shuttle I found Chakotay.  He sat in
the open hatch, propped against the frame, his back to me.  He sighed, and
ran his hands over his face, yawned, and then shifted, preparing to rise.
     "Might as well stay where you are.  You can brief me here as well as
anywhere."
     He jumped a little, and gave a tired smile.  "Just as glad to be
spared the trip to the ready room.  I'm beat."
     "I can tell.  You look like you've been through the wars.  Where's
the rest of the team?"
     "I sent them on to bed.  They're as beat as me, and there wasn't any
reason to keep them up.  Their observations can wait until we have a
briefing meeting tomorrow.  It's not like we came back with good news, or
anything you'd need to make a fast decision on.  Even Tuvok looked tired,
for a change.  Must have been sensory overload.  That's one hell of a
place."
     I settled myself on the floor of the shuttle, bracing my own back on
the opposite side of the hatch.
     You can usually tell when someone's back from an away team.  It's not
just the dirt, or that they're usually tired, and scratched up, and
sunburned.  They move differently, trying to make the adjustment between
differing gravity levels.  They *smell* different.  Sometimes it's mud,
and swamp.  Sometimes green grass smells.  Sometimes the smoke of
campfires, sometimes dust and sand, or salt seas; alien but familiar in
their iodine tang.  Chakotay smelled like faint traces of sweat, overlaid
by a heavy perfume of spices and flowers and fruit, with accents of 
incense smoke and roasted meat.  And his face was pink.  Starfleet has
spent a fortune developing long-lasting sunscreens, and away teams always
forget to wear the stuff.
     "You've got a sunburn again.  Let me get the shuttle med kit.  At
least then you'll only lose the top layer."
     "Leave it.  What's done is done.  I might as well let it sit.  Maybe
that way I'll remember to cover up next time."
     "Not a chance.  Me, I cover up:  red head's complexion, even if I
don't have the hair to go with it.  I burn and freckle. You think you're
indestructible.  A bit of a burn isn't going to change that."
     He shook his head.  "Not indestructible.  Just stupid.  I don't think
first."  He closed his eyes for a moment, as though to rest them.
     "You're a tactician, not a strategist.  I bet you're good at finding
shade, even if you forget the sunscreen.  So, tell me about it."
     He leaned back, and opened his eyes again, looking into a remembered
world.  He described what he saw with an odd, detached awe; weary and
wondering.
     "It's incredible.  I kept expecting to see Sinbad, or Ali Baba.  A
bazaar out of an Arabian fairy tale.  We landed at the edge of the trade
zone, and had to walk through the place to make our rendezvous.  You
wouldn't believe it, Kathryn.  Animals, dancers, food stalls, music, trade
goods like you've never seen in your life, even on Risa; and everything
shaded by flowers on trellises; and beds and drifts of them between every
stall; and tents, and pavilions.  There were at least five or six dozen
races represented there, just on the way in and out.  And fountains! You
should see it.  Fountains with fish swimming around in them, all the
colors of the rainbow.  And bright? You don't realize it at first -- the
rings break up the light enough that you don't really *see* it, until you
realize that there's light everywhere.  I felt like I was in a fantasy. 
Then we got to the Bargaining Hall.  No fantasy."
     "Mmm?"
     He sighed, and ran a hand over his face again.  He looked across at
me, his eyes sad and hurting.  "I might as well not have wasted my time
being angry with you this morning.  It wouldn't have mattered if you'd
cleared everything on the list, including the stuff I *didn't* like. Three
tiers, four, five.  It wouldn't have mattered.  Straight deal: they'll
trade us a med expert.  Outright trade, we get him entirely, no
replacements, no returns.  In exchange they want one of ours.  A med
expert for a med expert.  No dickering, no debate.  Neelix tried, Tuvok
tried, I tried.  Even B'Elanna tried, and if you've never seen B'Elanna
trying to be diplomatic you've missed something special.  No go.  They
aren't moving."
     "Shit."
     "You said it."
     "So they are slavers."
     He shrugged.  "Hard call.  It's not slaving in the way we think of
it.  They had their 'expert' there.  He was helping with the deal.  Didn't
seem to mind in the least.  If anything he seemed delighted at the thought
of going along with us, and offended that we wouldn't deal.  I've heard of
slaves who bought into the system, but this seemed to go beyond anything I
ever imagined.  Like being traded away to complete strangers was an
adventure, or a picnic, not exile and bondage.  I kept wondering if he
would have felt the same way if we'd been Kazon, or Cardassians.  The
scary thing is, I think he would have. An adventure, nothing more.  In any
case, we screwed it up.  Not a hope.  Neelix cried on the way back. Just
once it would have been nice to get it right." 
     "Stop it."
     His head snapped up, eyes startled.  "What?"
     "I said *stop it*.  I've had it.  You want to blame yourself for
something stick to the things you have some control over.  Jorland, Seska,
how many planets you find in the archives -- you don't have any control
over those things.  Damn it, you're the best XO I've ever worked with. 
You're ten times better than I had any right to ask for.  Stop acting like
a Ferengi bankrupt.  The self-pity is getting thick enough to slice, and
it isn't pretty."
     He just sat for a few minutes, arms draped across his knees.  He
shook his head.  "I take responsibility for what I do -- and for what I do
wrong."
     "Then at least get them straight.  The Kithtri being slavers isn't
your fault, and I'm not going to put up with you acting like it is."
     "And the Strike?"
     I sighed.  "We split, maybe?  You should have thought it out a bit
better first.  I should have dealt with the Maquis from the beginning.  I
think that I get to claim 'ultimate cause', though.  I was captain -- and
the only reason I didn't deal with it was because the whole situation
scared me green.  I still think all you did was blunder  into it."
     "I should have made you look at the question when I came on board. 
Instead I settled for the 'safe' route.  It was too easy to pretend it
wasn't really a problem, and settle for keeping my mouth shut, and blaming
you and Tuvok."
     "It's not like Tuvok or I went out of our way to encourage you."
     He nodded.  We sat a while longer.  Then he laughed.  "Best XO you've
ever worked with?"
     "Mmm-hmm.  You're certainly better than I was, when I had the spot. 
I think Miethaf-akki had me promoted just to get me out of his hair."  I
grinned.  "You don't know how lucky you are, Chakotay.  The situation
*could* have been reversed.  You'd have hated me as first officer.  There
wouldn't have been room on Crazy Horse for the two of us.  I'm a pushy
broad."
     He snorted.  "I hadn't noticed."
     "That's what I love about you:  you're so diplomatic.  Seriously,
you're good at the job.  Not perfect, but neither am I.  We'll work it
out.  You notice details I don't, and as much as I hate it, you make me
look at things I'd rather pretend weren't there.  Keep it up.  And quit
torturing yourself.  If you don't, I'll have to send you to the nearest
thing we have to a counselor.  Do you want to spend the rest of the trip
in therapy with the holodoctor?"
     He howled, sliding slowly down the door frame.  "I surrender!  I'm
wonderful, marvelous, magnificent... you should be down on your knees
thanking me for working with you.  Is that good enough, or do I have to
get even more egotistical?"
     I chuckled.  "I'll think about it."