Chapter 9

Tom woke slowly.  He was hungry, and the calls of his stomach 
roused him from sleep.

"All right," he said out loud, and rose to dress.  There were only a few 
changes of clothes in his bag, and he chose an outfit for working out.  
He'd eat first, then go find a gym.  The ship had to have a gym on 
board.  His only footwear, the new boots, weren't good for exercising, 
but he could probably work out barefoot.

Two days on a troopship had done nothing for his mood.  Since the 
encounter with the soldiers, and with Dahl, he had kept to his cabin, 
eating at odd hours and avoiding contact.  He realized that if he 
couldn't have interaction, he at least needed action, and isometrics in 
the cabin were getting boring.  His legs needed something more to 
get back into shape.  Besides, he needed to be around other people, 
even if they didn't talk to him, just to keep himself from stewing in 
his own resentments.

It was late for breakfast, early for lunch.  In the mess hall he found 
something to drink and something in a packaged labeled "bakta 
fruit".  He ate quickly, reflecting that life in the Delta Quadrant had at 
least prepared him for standard soldier's food.  The packaged fruit 
was worthy of Neelix.  Poor Neelix.  Dead Neelix.

Tom shook off the thoughts and went in search of the gym.  A query 
to the computer interface in the corridor gave him deck and location.  
Modular Starfleet design meant he had no trouble finding it.

There were a few people inside, perhaps fifteen.  He ignored them, 
took off his boots, and moved toward an open area to start his warm 
up -- a combination of yoga and Klingon martial arts he had learned 
from B'Elanna.  He put his mind on hold, subsuming himself gladly in 
the feel of his body.  He moved through the muscle groups, using 
machines and free weights, until finally he lay on his back in a 
matted area, finishing his cool-down stretches.  He stretched full 
length, arms and legs reaching toward the opposite walls.  It felt 
good, but he was not allowed to luxuriate for long.

"Hello, Tom."

Tom didn't even open his eyes.  It was Dahl.  "Hello, whatever the 
fuck your name is."  He could hear the man sigh in response, and a 
rustle of fabric tracked Dahl's move from standing to sitting on the 
floor.  Tom mentally called up warp equations, and asked,  "What do 
you want?"

"You don't seem too happy to see the man who saved your life."

When he reached the fifth derivative of the Chochrane series, Tom 
opened his eyes.  The person sitting next to him was the Dahl of the 
Logan, not the officer in uniform from the mess hall.  "Shit," was 
Tom's verbal response, both to himself and to Dahl.  "Ba'ruq saved 
my life, and frankly, a real medic wouldn't have had to saddle me 
with that brace."

Tom sat up, facing away from Dahl, and continued, "I've seen my 
original medical scans, Dahl, or whateverthefuckyournameis.  If it 
had been me treating you, I'd have had you walking on your own in 
a week."  He chose to ignore the lie Dahl had told Ba'ruq.

"I never said I was a good medic, Paris."

"Stow it," Tom said dismissively.  "Starfleet isn't that sloppy."

There was a long pause before Dahl acknowledged, "No.  No, they're 
not."

Tom permitted himself a mock smile at the admission.  "So should I 
call you 'Dr. Whateverthefuckyournameis'?"

"I specialized in psychiatry," came the confirmation.

"Is that true?" Tom asked pointedly, and he heard rather than saw 
the shrugged response.

"What does it matter?"  It was a soft voice, the remembered voice.  
"Right now I could tell you that space is filled with stars, and I doubt 
you'd believe me."

"You sure as hell have that right."  Psychiatry made sense, though, 
given the way Dahl had sounded like a Starfleet counselor back on 
the Logan.  Tom finally twisted enough to face Dahl.  "Psychiatry?"

The man raised his eyebrows and in rueful self-mockery said, "I was 
never very good with my hands."

Tom laughed, but it mostly expressed annoyed disbelief.  The facial 
expression, the sense of humor, they were typical of the man he had 
instantly liked on the Logan.  In the last few days, though, Tom had 
revised his opinion downwards, characterizing the Betazoid as an 
untrustworthy bastard, an opinion confirmed yesterday by the image 
of the Runner transformed by a Starfleet uniform.  But the man in 
front of him was entirely at odds with the unscrupulous acts to 
which Tom had been a victim.  Shaking his head, Tom asked again, 
"What do you want?"

"Right now?"  Dahl shrugged and pushed a lock of hair out of his face 
in a gesture Tom had once found appealing.  "I'd like a sparring 
partner."

"Gym's full of 'em."  Tom gestured toward the other people 
exercising.

"Ah."  Dahl's charcoal eyes gleamed at him with a sudden feral edge.  
"None of them are as highly motivated to try and get a piece of me."

Tom looked, and saw neither the officer nor the Runner.  This, finally, 
was the man who implanted data chips disguised as medical devices, 
the man who left a crippling injury unhealed.  Paris said the first 
thing that came to his lips.  "You fucking bastard."

Dahl rose to his feet, wearing a smile Tom did not like.  "Damn 
straight," he said, extending his hand to help Tom up.  "You game?"

"Damn straight," Tom answered, and took the hand.  Instead of rising 
with it, he snaked out his foot catch Dahl behind the knees, using the 
hand to pull him off balance.  

From there the fight began.  They obeyed the rules of sparring, but 
the punches were only barely held back.  Tom had height, reach, and 
mass on his opponent, but Dahl was fresh and in better shape.  For a 
few minutes it seemed they were evenly matched, and their area of 
the mat drew a few onlookers.  It wasn't long before Tom's legs 
betrayed him, tired from their workout and no longer as strong as 
his mind expected them to be.  Dahl flipped Tom over his shoulder, 
and Tom landed resoundingly on the mat.

It took him several moments to catch his breath, and when he 
opened his eyes he was gratified that his opponent seemed winded 
as well.  Dahl raised his eyebrows in question, and Tom conceded 
defeat with a nod.  "Same time tomorrow?"

"Sure," Dahl answered, pushing back damp locks of hair.  He began to 
make the offer of help up, then seemed to think the better of it.  "I 
look forward to dropping you again," he said, and walked out of 
Tom's field of view.

Tom lay on his back a few moments more, staring at the ceiling and 
trying to make sense of Dahl's actions.  A new figure stepped close to 
his head, and Tom found himself looking up at the large man from 
the mess hall.  "Hello."

The man answered by nodding, then stepped around and offered his 
hand to pull Tom to his feet.

"Thanks."  The man only nodded again, and Tom was about to decide 
he was mute, but he spoke slowly in a deep voice.

"About Lynand III."

Tom sighed and smiled, looking down.  He prepared himself to hear 
the "I was wrong about you" speech, but it didn't come.  The man 
only said, "Thank you."

Tom looked up and saw something genuine and restrained, and he 
gave the man an honest answer.  "I'd do it again, but I hope to hell I 
never have to."

The soldier nodded, and said, "That guy."

"Yeah?"  Tom knew he meant the one who had spoken in the mess 
hall.

"I decked him."

"Well then," was all Tom could manage.  He held out his hand, saying, 
"You have me at a disadvantage."

The man took it in a bone-crushing grip.  "They call me Mack."

"'Built like a Mack truck.'"  The 20th century reference was out 
before Tom caught himself.  It was too fitting, but he expected to be 
asked, "What is a truck?"  Instead he saw the man smile.

"Yeah.  No one ever gets that."

"It's a little obscure," Tom admitted, "but the 20th century's always 
been my favorite."

"Me too."

Tom looked up at him.  "Really?  How come?"

Mack's smile broadened, and he said the one word that would 
cement their friendship:  "Cars."

*--*

It was 36 hours before Chakotay walked into his quarters again.  The 
laid out fetishes from his medicine bundle were scattered over the 
floor, and only at the sight of them did he even vaguely remember 
his Vision.

The past day and a half had been rough.  Ten hours from rendezvous 
they'd been surprised by three Dominion ships and a Cardassian 
cruiser.  Wolf Raider had played fox to their hounds until finally 
leading the hounds into the snare of the waiting fleet.  The ship had 
taken damage in the chase, taken casualties.  Right now Harry was on 
a biobed, fighting not to be added to the list of the war's dead.

Most of the repairs could be managed in flight, and Wolf Raider was 
tucked in the middle of the pack for safety while the work was done.  
Dispatching repair teams, organizing by priority -- these were 
Harry's jobs.  Chakotay could cede the engine work to Chief Engineer 
Banta, but the structural damage he had managed himself.

Only now could he rest, get the shower he so badly needed, but it 
would have to wait a few moments more.  He picked up the stones, 
feathers, and other bits of personal history from where the jarring of 
the ship had landed them.  Once they were re-tied into his medicine 
bundle he looked around for the Akoonah.  It was under the bed.  
While on his hands and knees he noticed the wisps of tobacco leaf 
scattered wildly across the carpet.  He decided to leave it to the 
automatic cleaners.

He indulged in a brief water shower and stepped back out into his 
cabin.  He was not prepared to see the yellow and green coil with its 
cool eyes regarding him.

A Vision without the Akoonah was rare and sacred.  Part of him 
knew that he'd been awake and under stress for over two days, and 
once such arduous work formed the rituals his people used to reach 
the spirit world.  His guide flowed out from her resting place, tongue 
flicking out at the loose tobacco on the floor.  Chakotay had the 
distinct impression she was testing his offering to see whether it was 
worthy.

After a few sinuous coils the snake stopped to look at him, and he 
knew its meaning: "Why do I have to work for this?  Why is this 
scattered?"

With that it was gone, and in his exhaustion Chakotay knelt and 
began to gather the cut leaves.  He didn't usually suffer from sleep-
deprivation hallucinations until about sixty to seventy hours awake, 
and so far he'd only been up about fifty hours.  No, this was a Vision, 
and the command had to be obeyed as a priority.

Chakotay took on the tedious job as if gathering the leaves was a 
metaphor for healing Harry's injuries.  He prayed as he searched, 
prayed to the spirits, and to the Great Spirit which was Universe -- 
things he didn't believe in, yet didn't disbelieve.  He prayed for 
Harry's life, and he offered in exchange his labor for the sacred herb 
and the songs that rose unbidden as he worked -- old songs, and new 
songs made for the moment.  When he was at last satisfied that the 
tobacco was gathered, he collapsed on his bed.

It was just under six hours later when the computer woke him, 
chanting, "The time is oh-five-thirty."  Chakotay groaned and 
stretched, then stood up.  As he dressed he commed the bridge.  A 
very junior watch officer answered.  That was a good sign.

"Status."

"Repairs are going well, sir.  Lieutenant Banta is satisfied enough 
with the engines that she turned Engineering over to her second, and 
is currently asleep.  One last hull repair on the starboard lower aft 
section requires EVA suits, and the crew chief wanted to wait until 
he had a rested group of workers."

"Good decision.  Carry on.  Captain out."

His next call was to sick bay, and he was answered by the formal 
tones of his Vulcan CMO.  "Srinak here, Captain."

"Report."

"We have had no deaths, Captain."  Chakotay was instantly relieved.  
The dry voice was continued, "Four crew members were treated for 
minor injuries and released to normal duty.  Four had more serious 
injuries and have been placed on limited duty status, and three 
remain in Sick Bay."

"Harry?"

"Commander Kim has not regained consciousness."

"Prognosis, doctor."  Chakotay's voice did not betray his deep concern.

There was a pause.  "It would be advisable for you to attend the 
commander and myself in Sick Bay."

That was not a good sign.  He grabbed a cup of coffee from the 
replicator, and made his way to Sick Bay, mug in hand.

Dr. Srinak greeted Chakotay calmly when he arrived, and conducted 
him into the CMO's office.  They stood facing each other, Chakotay 
watching the Vulcan face in vain for any sign of what was to come.

"What's your concern, Doctor?"

Srinak cocked his head sideways a fraction and began.  "You 
understand I am a surgeon and not a psychologist."

"Yes,"  Chakotay answered, "but I've always found your evaluations 
to be of importance."

There was a brief nod of acceptance before the doctor continued.  
"Commander Kim should have regained consciousness by now."

Chakotay took a deep breath.  "What do you think the problem is?"

"I believe he does not wish to wake."  The words were spoken flatly, 
directly.

"On what do you base this?"

Srinak looked levelly at his captain.  "I am breaking patient 
confidentiality under Starfleet order..."

Chakotay listened with half an ear to the citation.  This must be 
serious, and he realized the Vulcan was probably recording the 
conversation for his logs.  Protocol would be intact.  "I understand.  
Go ahead, please, Doctor."

"Commander Kim has been suffering from major depression for the 
last six months.  There has been one suicide attempt."  Behind his 
controlled expression Chakotay was stunned.  He'd had no idea.  The 
doctor said, "I have been treating him pharmacologically, but he has 
been receiving no formal counseling."

Chakotay said, "There are medical protocols for these situations.  All 
suicide attempts are treated as a sign of serious illness."  There was a 
questioning, almost threatening tone in his voice.

The Vulcan was not affected by the implication.  "There was no way 
to prove that the incident was an attempted suicide.  I merely 
deduced it based on the nature of the 'accident', and on the 
neurotransmitter levels in Commander Kim's readings.  The 
Commander would loudly disagree if I were to confront him."

Chakotay nodded grimly.  "Go on."

"I prescribed pharmacological therapy based only on the 
neurotransmitter imbalance.  Up to this point there has been no 
Command cause for concern.  He has responded well to medication 
and his performance has been exemplary.  I was not certain enough 
of my logic to approach you."

Chakotay cursed inwardly, face immobile.  Six months ago was Owen 
Paris' funeral, the last time Harry had seen B'Elanna and their 
daughter.  Chakotay remembered him as being understandably 
broody, and then a water skiing accident had broken one of Harry's 
legs and mangled his shoulder.  He hadn't thought of it as anything 
but unfortunate, but he himself had been dealing with his own mixed 
feelings about Tom.

With guilt, but in control, he said, "I see.  Do you have direct evidence 
that he doesn't wish to wake, or are you inferring from the 
literature?"

The doctor put on that near-affronted look so typical of Vulcans.  
"The literature correlated with my understanding of his case."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"I have two suggestions," Srinak said.  "First, I could give him a high 
dose of stimulant.  Second, we could... convince him to awaken."

Chakotay gave him the look he had long practiced on Tuvok, a near-
Vulcan stoicism of his own.  "You gave me your suggestions in 
ascending order of preference."

"Correct."

"How do you suggest we 'convince' him?"  Chakotay took a sip from 
his mug.

"Talk to him." 

"Excuse me?"

"Captain, I am not suggesting a bedside vigil.  Quite the contrary.  I 
suggest that you and the senior staff visit him as you would a waking 
person.  Let him know that you still wish him to be engaged in in 
your lives."

"Doctor, you'll excuse me if that sounds a little too easy."

The straight bangs swung forward as the Vulcan lowered his head.  
"I believe it is worth trying, Captain, but only for two days.  If he 
does not rouse by then, I will try stimulant therapy."  Srinak looked 
up again.  "Commander Kim has refused conventional counseling 
when I have hinted that it might be useful.  I hope for some 
collateral benefit to this approach."

"Hope?"

"Captain, emotions follow a... logic all their own.  I cannot be sure."

Chakotay permitted himself to rub his tired eyes.  "All right.  When 
do I start?"

"Now would be appropriate, if you have the time, sir.  Even a few 
moments could be helpful."  Srinak turned and led the way out to the 
open area of sick bay.  Harry wasn't the only one unconscious, and 
when Chakotay asked about the other two, the doctor assured him 
they were merely asleep and recovering well.

The two men walked over to where Harry lay inert, the diagnostics 
blinking on the wall above his head.  Chakotay thought to himself 
that Tom would understand what all the readings meant, that Tom 
would know what to say to Harry.  The Vulcan gave a slight bow and 
left him alone with the still form.  Chakotay drained the last from his 
coffee mug and looked down at the bed.  Harry looked okay, his 
surface injuries healed, but there were dark circles under his eyes, 
and a gray cast to his skin.

The doctor had said to treat him as normal, so Chakotay passed on 
the reports from the bridge, complementing Harry that his 
subordinates were well-trained.  If Harry had truly been awake he 
might have told him of the Visions, both the one before the attack 
and the one afterward, but the open area of Sick Bay constrained 
him.  Chakotay was reluctant to let his logical CMO know he'd had 
hallucinations.

"We're getting back in shape, Har'.  That console that got you -- I've 
never seen one blow like that.  The whole top flew off and slammed 
you in the chest.  Srinak says you broke almost every rib, had your 
lungs punctured in eight places, and did some damage to your 
stomach and liver.  He claims to have patched you up, so get better.  
Vulcans hate to be proved wrong."

In the end he reached for Harry's shoulder, simply saying, "I'll miss 
you in that left-hand chair.  Get better, and get your tail back on the 
bridge."

*

Tom waited in the gym for Dahl, stretching and warming up.  Dahl 
had been right:  Tom did want of piece of him, but Tom knew that 
anger would cede the advantage.

Mack was on the other side of the gym, working with free weights.  
They'd spent most of yesterday discussing internal combustion and 
gear ratios, and while Tom hadn't asked him to be here, he was glad 
of Mack's quiet presence.

Dahl came bounding in, dressed in a white gi that looked oversized, 
emphasizing his his pale skin and hair.  The braid was again severe.  
At the sight of his opponent, the full lips pulled into more of a sneer 
than a smile.  "Round two, Paris?"

Tom nodded, hoping his legs wouldn't let him down this time.  He 
gave no thought to his smoldering anger, focusing only on Dahl's 
posture, on reading the man's intentions.  They began circling, 
feinting, parrying.  Dahl slipped under Tom's guard and grappled 
him, trying to turn the sparring into a wrestling match.  Tom twisted, 
grabbing the smaller man by his waist and lifting his legs off the 
ground as he rolled his own body backward.  It surprised him 
momentarily to note how small Dahl was -- his presence made him 
seem larger.

Dahl recovered from the roll and got to his feet before Tom could get 
up.  He aimed a kick at where Tom's head had been on the mat, but 
Tom had moved by then and quickly regained his feet.  So it 
continued until Tom succumbed to the same throw which had 
flattened him the day before.  He didn't stay down, but he did raise 
his hands to acknowledge defeat.

As before, both men were winded.  Dahl picked up a towel and 
rubbed his face, smoothing back the hair which had escaped from his 
braid.  "Those new implants must be something else."

Tom merely replied, "They are.

"Can I see them?" Dahl asked, then qualified:  "Professional interest."

"Which profession?"

"Ah.  Yes.  Well."  Dahl looked embarrassed, but Tom did not believe 
it was genuine.  He merely asked, "Tomorrow?"

Dahl nodded, and Tom turned away toward the exercise machines.  
His legs needed work.  The voice behind him called softly, "Paris?"

He stopped, but he did not turn.  "What?"

"Chakotay likes your hair better short."

So personal a comment, coming from so despised a creature, made 
something snap in Tom.  He whipped around, and charged.  Dahl 
made as if to dodge, but Tom knew his fighting style just well enough 
to anticipate the move.  He hit the smaller man full in the midsection, 
and they crashed to the mat together.

Tom let go long enough to change position.  Dahl tried to get away, 
but Tom turned him over and pinned him down.  One leg wrapped 
around Dahl's knees, and both his hands bore down on the slight 
shoulders.

"Don't.  Fuck.  With me."

"But, Tom," Dahl said, in a tone of friendly banter, "you're so very 
fuckable."

"You bastard!"  Tom let go of one shoulder and drew his hand back, 
intending to hit Dahl square in the face.

The blow never landed.  Mack had grabbed his fist.  "Let him go."

Tom let the big man pull him to his feet, and watched Dahl get up 
and nonchalantly retrieve his towel.  "Tomorrow, Paris?"

"Fuck off, Dahl."

"See you then."

Tom and Mack stood for a few moments in silence, until Mack said, "I 
can't believe you fell for that."

Tom shook his head.  "I know.  It's like being nine and having 
someone say, 'Your mamma wears Cardassian armor.'"

"Huh?" Mack said.  "I meant that throw he pulled on you."

"Oh."

"What is it with you and that lieutenant?"

Tom was still angry enough to tell some of the truth.  "I'm not sure 
whether he's really a lieutenant, or whether his name is Treyn Dahl 
or something else.  He's from some branch of Intelligence."  Tom 
sighed, unwilling to go much further.  "He infiltrated the Runners, 
and I was pretty fucking surprised to see him in a 'Fleet uniform in 
the mess hall."

Mack was quiet for a moment, then said, "You don't just hate him 
because he infiltrated the Runners."

"No.  No, there's more to it than that, but it's not worth telling."

"What else do you know about him?"

Paris shrugged.  "Betazoid for sure -- he's clearly telepathic.  Claims 
to be a trained psychiatrist."

"I'll see what I can find out for you, if you want."

Tom looked at the big man quizzically.  "No offense, but I doubt you'll 
get into Intelligence files."

Mack just grinned down at him.  "Not me, man.  Admiral Mom."

"You're a 'Fleet brat too?"  Tom chuckled.  "What are you doing here 
instead of the Academy?"

"Family tradition," Mack answered in his slow voice.  "Ever since wet 
Navy days we've gone into Command through the bottom rung.  I'm 
on my way back to San Francisco for Officer Candidate School now."

"How come we never met before?" Tom asked.

"Not too social a family, I guess."  Mack shrugged.  "Besides, you're a 
bit older than me."

"I guess," Tom agreed, shaking his head in amused disbelief.  "Your 
family's been doing this longer than mine."

"Yep.  Served on every Enterprise there's been."  Mack allowed some 
pride into his voice.

"I have to ask," Tom said.  "What's your family name?"

"You wouldn't recognize it.  It shows up on crew manifests, but not in 
history books."  Mack shrugged.  "It's Rand."

Tom shook his head, not recognizing it.  "What, do you specialize in 
Life Support?"

"Nah.  Administration and communications."  At Tom's puzzled look 
Mack said, as if intoning a family motto:  "Think of all those 
Enterprises that have been blown up, self-destructed, or crashed into 
planets.  *Somebody* has to call it in and do the paperwork."

Tom stared for half a second, and then burst out laughing.

Mack let the joke sink in, and Tom finally said, "Your entire family 
does Administration?"

"Not Dad.  He's a staff sergeant in light infantry."

"Is that where you've been serving?"

"Nope.  I followed Mom into Special Forces.  Hey," Mack continued, "I 
can show you that throw he's using."

"That would be good."  Tom stepped back and let the larger man 
precede him back to the matted area.

It was a simple thing to learn, but very tricky on an unsuspecting 
opponent.  After fifteen minutes, Tom would never fall for it again.

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