His eyes would not open.
It's not that he was too tired to wake; he was awake, but his
eyelids were stuck together.
"Commander Chakotay, can you hear me," the voice repeated.
Chakotay, still blind, fumbled for his combadge.
“Uh,” was all his parched throat could manage.
"It's me, B’Elanna.
You can return to your quarters."
"Uh-huh.”
"Okay Sunshine, Torres out."
His fingers picked at his crusted-over eyelids, until
rays of light shone through, like daggers.
Suddenly, a need a shot through him, a need to like no other.
He needed to use his own bathroom. And
about a gallon of cold drinking water would be nice, too.
Staggering to his feet, he checked to see that he
still had all his clothes. Satisfied
modesty would be retained, he stumbled out of the room.
Left leg. Right
leg. Left leg.
Right leg. Left leg.
Open the door. Right leg.
Carrying the rest of the body, the legs marched through the door of
Chakotay’s cabin. Left leg.
Right leg. Step through
debris. Step out of pant leg.
Left leg. Right leg.
Chakotay walked through his cabin, throwing of his
clothes before reaching the bathroom. Taking
himself in hand, he released the contents of his bladder, the sound drowning out
any minute fragments of conscious thought.
In fatigue, he leaned his head against the wall.
Thump thump.
Jerking his head upright, he wondered what the sounds
were. He shrugged and shook himself
off before starting the shower.
Thump thump.
The water cascaded down, washing away the grime of the
last two days. He was infinitely grateful that he had saved up so many water
rations.
Thump thump.
He wondered what that banging sound could be.
It seemed to be coming from Kathryn’s quarters, but it was too
late—or too early—for her to be awake.
Thump thump thump thump thump.
This sounds continued until it had drilled itself
through the fatigue-entrusted layers of his mind to the active core of reason.
Thump thump.
Suddenly it occurred to him what that sound really
was.
Thump.
It was a sound he had never, not in over six years,
heard coming from her room.
Thump.
It was the sound of her headboard banging into the
wall.
Thump.
His heart sank, bringing his body to sit on the floor
of his shower, utterly dejected.
"Are you feeling all right, Chakotay?"
Kathryn asked warmly as they sat on the bridge.
He thought that she seemed a little too friendly for
someone who knew exactly what she had done to him last night.
He grumbled, "I'm just not feeling well today."
She whispered, "A little hung-over?"
How did she know?
Was it that obvious?
"A little. Okay,
a lot.”
She patted his hand.
He nearly recoiled, but instead forced a smile.
It was at that point he knew his shift was never going to end.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,”
Chakotay whispered harshly.
They were crowded behind the counters in Neelix’s
kitchen. The mess hall was dark and
quiet, for now. Tarran was fiddling with the latches as Chakotay kept watch,
unable to believe he was here, helping this man. It started when, at the end of his shift, he had gone to the
recycling room, but paused just in front of the door.
"We're closed," came a voice from somewhere
inside the room.
"It's me," Chakotay shouted.
"Oh, then come on in.
I was just going to grab some dinner; want to come?" Tarran asked.
"Sure."
They left and sauntered down the hall, speaking
little. In the mess hall, they ate
silently while enduring the leola root soufflé.
Only when they left did either talk.
Tarran said, "I hope you're not still sulking about that explosion. Take it as a freeing experience. I mean, it was only stuff--and sometimes the stuff we own ends up owning us."
While his first instinct was to throttle Tarran where he stood, Chakotay thought about his words for a minute. It was only stuff. He'd lost everything before and never missed a beat. And it's not like he lost a friend, someone important, like Kathryn. So he just shook his head.
Then the ensign asked, "I could use your help with
something, if you're not too busy. "
His answer had been a simple yes.
So he was now trying to be as silent as possible while peering over the
countertop, terrified of being spotted by some crewmember.
“Admit it, this is the most fun you’ve had in
ages,” Straker said. “This is
the most delicate part. I have to
disable the cupboard’s alarm system, with out setting it off.
Got it.”
He threw open the cupboard and began scooping the
husks into the bags they brought.
“You finish this, Chak, and I’ll get the rest of
the stuff.”
Suddenly, the doors swished open and two pairs of feet
entered, albeit quietly. Chakotay
shot Tarran a look of horror, but Tarran signaled for quiet.
The footfalls stopped. Chakotay
wondered how they were going to get out of the mess hall undetected, but his
friend just motioned for them to stay put.
After only a few moments, the two crewmembers started making noises.
Giggling, smacking, and moaning noises.
Chakotay could only shake his head.
Crouched over, booty in hand, the two conspirators
stealthily crept out of the mess hall. Not
that they needed to use that much stealth.
Chakotay thought they could have dropped a plasma grenade in there
without the lovebirds noticing.
Soon they were running down the corridors like errant
schoolboys. Chakotay thought he
might have even caught himself giggling. Reaching
the recycling lab, they both broke out in belly laughs.
“I think this calls for a celebratory drink,”
Tarran exclaimed.
Hours later, the duo staggered out of the lab.
“Hey, Chak, you ever been in a fistfight?
A real fistfight, where two men agree to fight about something, then
pound the crap out of each other until one gives up.” Tarran slurred.
“Well, I box, but I’ve never really been in a
fight. And there was that time with
that Cardassian… but that doesn’t really count.”
“Then I think you should hit me.”
Turning to him, Chakotay said, “No!
Why?”
“Well, I don’t think a man is really a man ‘till
he’s been in a knock-em-down, drag-em-out fistfight..”
“Oh, come on Tarran, this is the twenty-fourth
century. Aren’t we beyond that
sort of thing?”
“Yeah, we moved past it in our minds, but not in our
hearts. Does the thin veneer of
civilization make us any happier?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then hit me.”
“No.”
“Pussy.”
“Don’t even bother.”
“You’ve been the Captain’s little helper for
years, but she can’t be bothered to help you out with your little problem.
I say she should put out or get out.”
This infuriated Chakotay beyond all reason.
With a scream, he leapt at the man and began pummeling him with his
fists. In turn, Tarran kneed him in
the gut and gave him a couple shots to his face.
Just then, two crewmen came around the corner.
Instead of trying to pull the two combatants apart, as Chakotay expected,
the two men merely stood to watch the spectacle.
Tarran rolled away and spat at them, “Aren’t you
going to join in?”
The two men looked at each other, then jumped in.
It only grew from that point.
Within a week, the word discreetly spread and one of the cargo bays was
chosen as the meeting spot. Someone
even managed to borrow—probably steal—a dermal regenerator from sickbay,
much to the chagrin of the unsuspecting doctor.
The rules were laid.
Each week, once a week, they fight.
During that time there was no rank, no uniform.
They were shirtless, sweat-slicked, bloodied warriors.
Challenges were made, scores were settled. Then the night was over, the wounds were healed, and the men
returned to their normal lives.
One of the first fights was between the reluctant Tom
Paris and Neelix. Both stepped into
the ring, seemingly on amiable terms. Chakotay
could not hear their words from his position at the back of the crowd, but Tom
shrugged and his opponent reflected the gesture.
It appeared that they just did not want to fight.
Beside him Straker stood, watching the same scene, and
chanting. Chanting?
“What are you doing?” Chakotay whispered.
“Never underestimate the power of suggestion, my
friend. Your mind is your greatest
weapon,” Straker said, before returning to his machinations.
Chakotay struggled to understand what the man was
whispering. It sounded like one syllable said over and over.
As each syllable slithered between Tarran’s teeth, both stared into the
ring at the non-combatants. With no
perceptible reason, Neelix, then Tom, turned and looked directly at Straker.
Tom merely squinted and crooked his head, but Neelix widened his eyes in
comprehension and fury.
The word, the word could almost form itself in his
mind.
Tom didn’t look back at Neelix in time to see the
attack and, before he could prepare, he was tackled to the ground.
The furious Talaxian bared his teeth before applying some sort of alien
forward armlock on the supine Paris, facing him, but leaving an obvious opening.
What was the word?
Winded, Tom allowed Neelix to drag him to his feet,
where the opening remained. Paris
saw the way out and took it, slipping beneath his adversary’s linked arms.
But it was a setup and Neelix’s knee was waiting to be unleashed on his
lowered head. One of Tom’s teeth
flew to the corner of the cargo bay floor and blood bubbled down his chin and
neck to smear across his chest. This
only fueled his desire to fight.
That word of arcane power.
Tom rose to his full height.
The Talaxian stood chest-to-chest with him and spouted off a string of
what must have been potent insults, but Paris bore them all silently.
When the shorter man had stopped, Paris brought his full height and
strength into a descending hook, fist directly on target for Neelix’s nose.
With a cry, he fell.
A word of strife that fell from the instigator’s
lips.
Tom quickly fell upon him and the two became a mass of
writhing hatred, striking and grunting their collected rage with bloody result.
Soon exertion and injury both were sapped of energy by, but they would
not stop.
The word…
Smeared in blood and still scrabbling at each other
with dulled nails, the two men were pulled apart.
Kes.
“Slide.”
Suddenly bolt upright, he wondered what woke him,
until he heard the noise.
Thump thump thump.
Not again. As
of yet, he had not determined the identity of his mortal enemy, but he vowed he
would.
Back on the bed, he pulled the covers up around his
ears, but the sound would not be shut out.
“Computer, play some music… something Klingon.”
It wasn’t “The Ballad of the Battle of
Whatever”, but it helped block out the sound from her quarters.
Chakotay sat on the floor and opened his medicine bundle, caressing each
object and reflecting on its meaning to him.
“A-coo…”
“Gesuntheit.”
He was in the ice caves again.
Larry, Ice God of Unrequited Love, stood before him.
Opening his beak, Larry said, “So, Choco-latté, I
see someone is doing the horizontal mambo with your Kat toy next door.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“What are ya gonna do about it?”
Chakotay shrugged.
“What can I do; I don’t even know who he is.”
Larry said, “I’ll give you a hint.
He’s a lot closer than you think.”
“What?”
But Larry was gone.
During the morning briefing, the Captain was unusually
chipper. Apparently even the
completed refit of the plasma exhaust manifolds warranted Kathryn’s glowing
praise. That meant she had an
enjoyable night.
“Commander.”
Kicked out of his daydream [th], he sputtered,
“Sorry, what was that, Tuvok?”
“I said there has been a rash of unauthorized
entries into Cargo Bay 1[check].” Do
you know anything about it?”
“No,” he lied, “but I’ll look into it.”
“Of course.”
Tuvok didn’t sound convinced.
This made him both the hunter and the hunted, but,
while they were closing in on him, he was no closer to unmasking his faceless
enemy.
“I think you should call him Digger.
Digger O’Toole,” the penguin said.
Looking up, Chakotay saw the conference room was now
empty. They must have finished the
meeting and left. His only companion was Larry, who now occupied the
Captain’s usual seat.,
“You don’t get it,” Larry said, while shaking
his head in a very human gesture.
“I get it, it just wasn’t funny.”
“To you.”
“Yeah, so Digger’s tool is boldly going where mine
will never go. Let just poke fun at
the big chief. Ha ha.
So, what are you doing here? Come
to give me another hint as to who this guy is?”
“If I told you he has a recurring problem with a
proto-yeast infection of the feet, would it help?
It’s extremely itchy.”
It was Chakotay’s turn to shake his head.
“Everyone on this forsaken tin can, bobbing in the sea of lost spirits,
got that damned case of alien athlete’s foot.”
“Not everyone.
Not your little captain friend,” the penguin teased.
“It’s like she floats above the deck, suspended by angels at each
shoulder. Did you know she’s
already beaten that crass little number Seven of Nine at twelve games of
Velocity this week? And, for some
strange and unknown reason, she’s started another watercolour of New Ear…”
“Enough!” the Commander roared.
“All you do is come here and torture me about the man who is using the
woman I love in ways I could only—in ways I should be using her!
All the while feeding me useless bits of information when you know
exactly who he is! What kind of
spirit guide are you?”
“Fine then, big boy, go it alone.
But ask yourself one question: how could I possibly now the face of your
enemy?”
“Who’s Digger O’Toole?” another voice asked.
Suddenly, Larry was gone and Tarran was asking him
about something he said ages ago.
“Have you been here the whole time?” Chakotay
asked.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you were communicating
with the spirits, or talking to yourself like regular people do.”
