Disclaimer: Voyager belongs to Paramount and Brannon Braga.
Riiiiiight, likes he has any idea of what to do with it.....
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The lift door opens and I step out into the dimmed night lighting on the Bridge. There is a hasty scrape of legs swinging off chair arms as Ensign Kim notices the swoop of the door and my presence. I pretend I do not hear. He is young, and I am willing to overlook his minor indiscretion. There is yet time for him to learn the discipline of command and the necessity for decorum on the Bridge. He sits upright and composed in the Captain's chair by the time I come to stand beside it.
Rising, he stands rigid and at attention as he briefs me on his watch. "All systems are operating within normal parameters. I ordered a course change at 04:22 to avoid an area of space with a high reading of tetrion radiation. A compensating course correction will be required. The navigation log has the coordinates. Sickbay reports that Crewman D'Argent has been release from Sickbay. And Neelix wants to talk to you about something he says is important, though he wouldn't say exactly what."
I listen attentively, cocking my head slightly to one side, and nod when he has finished. "I have the watch, Ensign. You are relieved."
He stand still a moment longer, seems almost ready to snap a salute at me, although saluting has never been a Starfleet tradition. He is offering an atonement for his earlier unacceptably lax behavior. As I move unspeaking past him to assume the command seat, he relaxes, knowing he has been forgiven. He moves toward the upper deck and the lift and is stifling a yawn against the back of wrist when I call out to him. "Mr. Kim, please ask Mr. Neelix to report to me in my office at..." I pause briefly to recall the posted schedule "...0915."
I suspect I already know the cause for Mr. Neelix's concerns, but I prefer to hear it from his own mouth in case my own assumptions are in error. My logic has been less than sure of late.
"Begin day watch," I call into the air and the ship's computer complies, raising the lighting level and initiating the automated housekeeping programs that will ready Voyager for another day. The day shift crew begins to arrive and I note that for the fourth time in as many days that Lt. Paris has arranged a substitute in his place--a dark haired woman whom I first take to be Lt. Stadi, though that cannot be since the lieutenant is six years dead, killed when the Caretaker first dragged Voyager halfway across the galaxy and to the Delta Quadrant. I have never seen Lt. Stadi sit at Voyager's helm, though I had served with her before and knew she had been assigned as pilot. The misperception is troubling. I add it to the list of items that require further meditation. A list that seems to grow ever longer and never shorter.
Hours later, Commander Chakotay arrives on the Bridge. He is late and wears the hollow look of a man who has not slept well. He yawns as I brief him, then winces. His hand is halfway to his face before he notices that I've noticed. His hand drops and his fingers brush restless circles against his thigh. There are no overt signs of bruising along his jawline, but I bet if I were to look inside his dopp bag, I would find a purloined dermal regenerator stashed beside his depilatory and deodorant. He glares defiantly at my thoughtful look, as if challenging me to say something.
I say nothing.
* * * * *
In my office, I await the arrival of Mr. Neelix. Early in the voyage, I noted that the Starfleet notion of punctuality and Talaxian idea of time do not coincide; however, today Neelix is only 20 minutes tardy in arriving for his appointment. He enters my office hurriedly, almost furtively, as if fearful that someone might see him. He is wearing his usual inharmonious clash of colors and carries a dish towel in his hand. Seeing me, he makes an attempt to shove the towel into the pocket of his apron, only to discover that he has left his apron back in the Mess. I gesture him toward the chair arranged in front of my desk. He sits and fidgets with the towel, passing hand to hand and back, unwilling to look up or speak what's on his mind.
I ruthlessly squelch an impatient sigh and a sharp reminder that -he- was the one who had requested this meeting. Instead I state the obvious. "Is there a problem you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Neelix?"
He looks up, blinking rapidly, startled by voice. "Yes. Yes, There is, Mr. Vulcan. It's about the ..." He drops his face and mumbles the last word so that only my keen hearing renders it intelligible.
"There's a problem with the Mess Hall?" I repeat his inaudible utterance back to him. "Has Mr. Paris initiated another food fight ? Shall I have him executed? Or will 50 lashes suffice?" I deadpan.
The Talaxian's head snaps up. His eyes are as wide empty jars and his mouth is gaping open with incredulity. He suspects that I have just made a joke, and I have, after a fashion. It is a technique I have found useful over the years. Few people expect humor from a Vulcan. We have a galactic reputation as dour and humorless race. I have found that a harmless, incongruous remark or two frequently leads to a lessening of anxiety and improved communications. The technique appears to work now with our Talaxian chef.
"Oh, no! Nothing like that," the small man exclaims. "Something else. Something else entirely. There been someone using the mess after-hours is all. Normally now, I wouldn't even mention it. But, you know how the Captain feels about that. And there was those other two times too." He is babbling now, recalling the occasions when illicit kitchen use led to the discovery of stowaways. I incline my head and acknowledge his contribution to ship security, but already I know this time the situation's different.
"Has there been any pilferage?"
"Oh, no." He flaps the towel as to dismiss the suggestion. "Well, not much anyway. Not like that time....Only a some crackers. And leftover slice of creamcake was gone this morning. And...." He hesitates and I sense he has reached the heart of the problem.
"And?" I prompt, as I lean forward, with my hands folded patiently on top of my desk, my body language urging him toward confession.
"Coffee. A pot of coffee. Every time." Neelix shakes his head side to side with sadness and resignation. "Every night before I close up, I set up a pot of coffee so it's ready for the early risers. The first shift really likes their coffee first thing in the morning. It wakes them up." He whispers this conspiratorially. " So I always like to have it ready for them. But this last week, whoever has been in the mess has been taking the coffee. They leave the dirty pot, but the coffee is all gone. "
His expiation of words continues, but I understand his guilt now. He thinks he has laid this accusation against his Captain. Since our return from the Borg ship and our assimilation, the Doctor has forbidden her caffeine and other stimulants. He's set a medical override on her replicator privileges and passed similar orders to the Mess. The Captain is not well, growing wraithlike, paler and thinner with every passing day.
"It's not that I mind or anything. It's really not a problem. It's just that....well, I'm not sure what I ought to do." The towel twists helplessly in hands.
"You've already done all that is necessary, Mr. Neelix. Please continue with your usual routine. I'll take care of it from here," I assure him and see the relief ripple out across his homely, freckled face.
"Thank you, Tuvok. Thank you." He grabs my hand and pumps it doublehanded before hurrying off to prepare for the lunchtime crowd.
In his haste, Neelix has left his towel behind in the chair. I reach for it and notice my hand is shaking, quivering uncontrollably like a prayer flag driven before an autumn storm. I still it with my other hand, but when I release it, the trembling resumes.
I stare at the traitorous appendage with the same sense of distant disappointment I usually feel for inoperative tricorders or misaligned hyperspanners. The nerve grafts the Doctor emplaced to repair the damage from the Borg implants must be faulty. Perhaps the acetylcholine uptake on the motor neurons needs adjustment. I make a mental note to mention the problem to the Doctor when I see him.
* * * * *
"Make a fist.....
Good. Now open you hand flat.....
Good. Turn your hand over....
Touch your fingers so.....Do it in sequence....
Good. Can you feel this?....."
The Doctor sighs and leans back from his close examination of my hand. "Your reflexes are absolutely textbook. Motor and sensory nerves are all functioning normally." With one hand, he shifts the medical sensor bank display so I can see it. "There is no appreciable delay of nerve impulses on your myleogram," he says, tapping an index finger against the screen. "And your neurotransmitter levels are optimal. No signs of rejections. No scarring. No infection." He sighs again. "In other words, Mr. Tuvok, I can find no reason, no *physical* reason for your hand failing to respond to your volition."
I remove my hand from his grasp. His touch annoys me, although I do not receive the psychic backwash that I do from most humans since the Doctor is holographic and not flesh. And I resent his implication.
"Have you considered that there may be some other reason for your complaint?" the doctor continues, oblivious to my subtle anger. "You have undergone an extremely traumatic experience."
<the maddening itch as the nanites mine your skin for organics to grow the polymer sleeve that subsumes your arm. the hot electric burn as biometallic circuitry leaps from nerve to nerve. the icepick stab as the optical implant enters your eye and burrows into your brain.>
"I am fine," I say, blank-faced, as turn to exit the Sickbay door.
The Doctor grabs my arm, spinning me back around to face him with more than necessary force.
"You're fine! You're fine!" The Doctor rarely shouts, but he is doing so now. "Lt. Torres is using Mr. Paris for her own personal punching bag. Captain Janeway is on REM suppressants for twice as long as any doctor with a care for his medical license would in good conscience allow. And now you come in here and casually ask me to replace your left hand because it doesn't work right--like I keep spare body parts lying around on a shelf. And you say you're fine. Well, you're not fine. None of you are fine. And the sooner you admit it then the sooner you can begin to heal."
I pointedly remove the Doctor's hand from my biceps, sure that he is malfunctioning. His operational protocols should inhibit him from touching Vulcans except in matters of clinical necessity. This is not a matter of clinic necessity. Then I see his eyes. They are haunted pools of frustration and regret. He is a healer who cannot heal. He blames himself for not delivering a miraculous return to normalcy.
I gentle my voice and actually answer him this time. "I *am* fine, Doctor. Unlike humans, Vulcans have complete access to our subconscious. We have no hidden monsters, no secret fears. I am quite capable of dealing with the events of these past days." This is not entirely the truth, but it is close enough. "Allow me the dignity to do so in my own way and in my own time." I do not plead, will not plead, but I cannot entirely erase the entreaty in my voice.
The usual twitter and cheep of the ship's normal background sounds loud as I wait for the Doctor's decision. "All right," he say quietly at last. "But I want you back here in a week for a follow-up exam. And if you have any more dissociative episodes, I expect you to notify me immediately. It's unlikely, but I could have missed something."
"Agreed," I promise readily and again start for the door. Halfway there, I turn around, this time of my own volition. The Doctor is frittering, making small, unnecessary adjustments to the medical sensing panels-- a sign of just how unsettled our return has made him. "Doctor, Captain Janeway and Lt. Torres will also be fine. It will take time and each must of them must find her own way. You have done all that you can. Trust that it is enough."
The Sickbay lights glint off his bald pate as he nods slowly. "I hope so, Mr. Tuvok. I sincerely hope so."
* * * * *
The single flame of the meditation lamp burns steadily and the
resinous scent of pah-ho incense floats on the air, but I cannot achieve
a meditative state. I close my eyes and again repeat the Litany to Still
the Mind. It's no use. I stand, brushing my fingers along the slick,
blue silk of my Hasadaar master's robe as I rise from the floor.
* * * * *
The darkness cocoons me as I wait. I do not have to wait long. My coffee thief enters the Mess Hall noisily and incautious bootsteps tromp across the floor. I wait until I hear the clatter of the empty beverage urns before calling for the lights.
Commander Chakotay throws up a warding arm and stands pinioned by sudden brightness.
"Commander, " I greet him.
He blinks furiously while his eyes adjust to the increased illumination. "Tuvok. How?....Why?"
"Mr. Neelix approached me this morning with a report of stealing after hours. The rest was a matter of simple logic.....Plus I checked Security's surveillance database."
Chakotay's face hardens when I say that and his lips compress into a thin, angry line at what he perceives as my prying.
Did you not know I would, Commander? Did you not know that I wouldn't try to shield her from the consequences of her actions? Are you arrogant enough to believe that you are the only one who loves her?
He knows that I know.
I know that since the Captain was released from Sickbay, he has spent every night inside her cabin, that the entry protocols for her quarters have been reprogrammed to accept his biometrics.
Chakotay draws a deep breath, squares his shoulders and faces me, awaiting judgment.
I do not know if they engage in intercourse or if they merely share watch against the shadows that draw near in the dark hours of the night, nor do I care. That thought surprises me. A month ago I would have felt differently. I would have approach each of them and cited decorum and discipline, protocols and procedures. Now.... now....
I hold out my offering, a thermos pot of coffee. "Tell her....tell her that I too have dreams."
I turn on heel and leave Chakotay standing in the Mess hall.
* * * * *
The single flame of the meditation lamp burns steadily and the resinous scent of pah-ho incense floats on the air. I wear the coarse woven robe of a novice. It feels unfamiliar, wrinkled from storage and stiff from disuse as my fingers trail over it.
There is one more thing I have to do before I attempt my meditation.
I light the taper from the lamp's flame and touch it to the memorial
candle. I recite the ritual words slowly, imbuing them with meaning,
"Benara Stadi, I mourn for thee."