A Hot Cup of Coffee
Part 1 of 5
Synopsis: The saga about coffee... and having too much of it.
A Hot Cup of Coffee
Third shift solitude, quietly thrumming warp engines, and soothing music should have been relaxing to Lieutenant Tom Paris, perhaps even helped him concentrate, but right now, he was stuck. Sighing and turning over in bed, Paris attempted to clear his thoughts. Unfortunately, he had just run afoul of the writer's block he had been afraid the captain would get.
Only a few months earlier he and Lieutenant Tuvok had set about revising "Insurrection Alpha", a former tactical scenario that had become the holodeck craze of the ship, only to be trapped in the revised parameters former crewmember Seska had set as a trap for Tuvok. Only very quick thinking by both Tuvok and the captain had kept the two officers from being little more than dust in the ship's ventilators.
Paris and Tuvok had then promised they would work together on a holonovel the whole crew could enjoy. After trying to work with Tuvok's straightforward logic, Tom finally told the Vulcan he would write the story by himself. However, he soon began to regret his earlier confidence, having come up with no sudden inspirations. Exasperated, he had compiled a list of previously written holonovels and was now busy trying to "borrow" a plot line from one of them.
It has to be fun, he thought, then deleted all of the "Captain Proton" episodes from his datapadd, but not so... me.
He scanned the list again. It has to be realistic... Unconsciously, he rubbed his left forearm, where the holographic Seska had shot him in the arm, then the "revised" doctor had injected the wound with acid. Although the physical injury had long since been healed, it stung now, reminding him to be careful about this holonovel—-or maybe he was just being childish.
But not too real. He deleted all of the tactical programs with a flourish and an exaggerated press of the keypad.
It has to have plenty of action, he continued, then deleted every Klingon holonovel from his list, but not a lot of violence. He continued to delete enormous amounts of titles from his list: romantic, but not "sappy"; challenging, but not mind-boggling; witty, but not hilarious; thrilling, but not heart-pounding... After he ran through every specification he could think of, he found himself stuck with one possibility: "Beta Cassiopeian Retreat". It sounded like a vacation, and the title was unappealing as well as unhelpful. Sighing, Paris deleted it from his padd before switching the device off and tossing it in the floor.
Ordering the computer to turn off the lights, Paris settled back in bed. Maybe, he thought drowsily, sleep already taking hold of and dragging his eyelids downward, maybe a little sleep and a dream or two would help. Exhaling, he pulled the dark blue sheets up to his nose and closed his tired eyes.
"0730 hours," stated the computer.
Paris' eyes flew open. Oh no!
* * *
Captain Janeway didn't even know her helmsman liked his coffee strong and black, much less had she ever seen him drink five cups in less than an hour. She knew, from personal experience, that much caffeine, real or synthesized, was not good for anyone.
"Mr. Paris," she said simply, stepping up to a meter behind his seat. The lieutenant set down his current (Sixth? thought Janeway—she wasn't sure) mug and swiveled around to face her. "Ease up on the caffeine, Tom. You're already making even me a little edgy." She smiled to lessen the impact of her words.
At first it appeared Paris was going to say something, but he opted, instead, for an irritating grin and nodded. As Janeway returned to her seat, however, he unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a yawn. She stopped in her tracks and spun on heel. "Were you up all night, working on that holonovel again?" Blushing furiously, he nodded again. Sighing and smiling, she returned to her chair. "Just don't fall asleep at the helm, Mr. Paris." Then, quietly, to her first officer, "At least he's dedicated."
Chakotay smiled and toasted her
silently with his own cup of black java before returning to his examination
of the day's duty roster. At the fore of the bridge, Paris' skin color
matched the red on his uniform as his mind flailed desperately for a story
and his body fought the caffeine for sleep. It was a competition worth
betting on, which succeeded first.
He couldn't help it; as Tom Paris stepped into Sickbay, he yawned. Again. The sharp auditory sensors of the holographic doctor immediately picked it up, of course.
"Lieutenant," he admonished, "didn't you get any sleep last night?"
Paris stifled yet another yawn. "No. Sorry, Doc," he replied sheepishly, another embarrassed blush beginning to touch his cheeks.
"You were working on that holonovel again, I suppose." It was not a question. "Well, if I ever want to play it, I suppose I could relieve you of medical duty for the rest of the week." Paris grinned and choked back another yawn.
"Mmmhmm." The doctor raised one eyebrow triumphantly, as though confirming a diagnosis. "Get some sleep, Mr. Paris; that's an order."
Paris couldn't believe his ears.
The doctor had given him an order to sleep! As he jogged out of Sickbay
with mock-energy, yet another yawn escaped his lips.
Seven hours and a restful nap later, Paris sat in a quiet corner of the mess hall, reviewing the notes he had jotted down over the past month. The notes, however, were no help. Rubbing his tired eyes, he reached for the ever-present cup of strong black coffee as the mess hall doors slid open, admitting B'Elanna Torres. Shooting her a tired smile, he raised the mug to his lips, found it empty, and waved Neelix over.
"Are you getting anywhere?" Torres asked.
"No," he sighed. "Last night, I tried looking for another holonovel to work from, but I ended up nit-picking everything right off the list."
The Talaxian cook's expression was smug as he poured Paris yet another cup of java. "I told you, make it about a daring trader who–" Neelix began.
"–Who gets a coffeepot shoved down his throat by an angry half-Klingon," Torres shot, irritably. Neelix hopped a wide-eyed thirty centimeters backward before realizing the engineer wasn't serious.
"I'd thought about making it a war-story," Paris continued, half to himself. "Probably an Earth war. Which one, B'Elanna: the Hundred Years' War, the American Revolution, the War of 1812, the French Revolution, the Mexican Revolution–"
"Mexican?" piped Neelix. I've got some Mexican cuisine! They're the ones with the 'jalopy-nose'." A frown creased his spotted face. "But, for some reason, the replicator doesn't know what jalopy-nose are." Paris nearly choked on his coffee.
"Imagine that," snapped Torres, sitting down beside the pilot.
Coughing, Paris resumed, "B'Elanna, you said you wanted a mystery." He glanced at her for confirmation, which she gave. "And the captain wanted an American Western." He frowned down at the padd.
"In that case," Neelix began, following Torres' example and sitting down, "why not–"
"Not now," interrupted Paris. "The problem is, Westerns are too confining and if I stage it in any period of Earth history, it can't be about an important historical event, because then everybody would know how it ends..." He lapsed into silence, brow furrowed deeply with concentration.
His fingers began restlessly tapping the table. Torres recognized the pattern as the proper sequence for initiating the warp drive on the helmsman's console. She noted with interest that his long fingers moved with a grace that she knew she couldn't match.
"Ever think about playing piano?" she smiled. Paris, deep in thought, never heard her. Despite the fact that he annoyed her so much of the time, she decided that thinking suited him: it made him impossibly cute.
"Part of what made 'Insurrection Alpha' so fun was that it was about us..." he was mumbling.
Neelix opened his mouth again, probably to throw in his "daring trader" suggestion. B'Elanna shot him a scathing glare; the chubby alien leapt to his feet, mumbling about unfinished business, and retreated to the kitchen with his coffeepot.
Smiling to herself, she rested her chin on Tom's shoulder. "Part of the fun was not knowing who wrote the program. But this time we all know who."
To her surprise, he looked up, grinning. "Right. So, what if I made it a whodunit?"
"A who-what?"
"A whodunit. Who did it. It's a 20th century Earth expression, meaning a murder-mystery."
Torres sighed and sat up. "With you, it's always 20th century Earth. You should have been born in the 20th century."
"What? And grow up to be a Navy pilot or a racecar driver? And marry Raine Robinson?" He grinned wickedly.
"Never mind, I like you right here," Torres replied immediately.
Paris shook his head. "Anyway, if everything with me is 20th century, why don't I put it in 1920s Chicago?"
"Too violent. Try again."
"This from a Klingon? How about 1990s Los Angeles?"
"Hmm, same reason. Besides, isn't once enough? Like you said, part of what made Tuvok's program so fun was that it was about us." Then she amended, "The crew of Voyager."
He was silent, though a huge grin suddenly threatened to split his face. "Oh no!" she cried. "Don't you dare make it a 'Captain Proton'! I won't play it if you do."
Eyes twinkling mischievously, he put an arm around her shoulders. "Not this time." He took a sip of coffee, then made a face. "Yuck! I am really beginning to hate this stuff!"
"Why are you drinking it, then?" Tom Paris was a great guy, but sometimes he really confused her.
"To stay awake," he sighed. There was a sudden look on his face, as though he had touched a high-level force field. "Revenge on the coffee."
"Excuse me?" Had she heard him right?
Once again, the face-splitting grin, except, this time, there was more mischief to it than pure joy. "I've got it."
"Really? Oh, finally! So, what are you doing?"
"Like I said, I'm making it a whodunit about the crew."
"Wait a minute, Chakotay said he doesn't want to be the bad guy." His grin, the one she felt like slapping off his face, was her only answer. "Hey, but then you won't be able to play it because you'll know who 'done' it."
"Not if I tell the computer to randomly select from the crewmembers who aren't playing. The players will never know." This time, Torres wasn't sure whether to slap the grin off or kiss him.
"Players? More than one at a time?"
"Sure! It'll be more fun that way, and chances are you'll have more time to catch the killer." The grin turned into a smirk. "After, of course, he or she kills half the crew."
B'Elanna Torres was stunned. "Half the crew?" He nodded. "Any room for romance amid all this carnage?" she asked, standing.
"Well... there is the steamy love-scene between the Starfleet conn officer and the Maquis engineer—"
"Forget I asked."
* * *
Three hours later, Tom Paris was writing away furiously. Inspiration (at last) had struck and he was reluctant to let anything interrupt— except, of course, another cup of the revolting black coffee. He was half-hoping, half-afraid his taste buds would just burn off, so he would no longer be able to taste the vile liquid that was becoming his ward against sleep.
"How's it coming along?"
Paris glanced up to see Captain Janeway, wielding a cup of herbal tea. "Pretty good, Captain," he replied. "I'm really getting somewhere."
Janeway sat down across from him. "What is it?"
"A murder mystery."
"What's the setting?" she asked, intrigued. "The Old West? Deep Space Four? Talax? Risa?"
"No, no, no, and no," he grinned. "It's on Voyager."
Janeway frowned. "I thought you and Tuvok agreed it wouldn't be about the crew."
Paris rubbed his eyes and set the padd down beside the coffee mug, the bane of his existence. "Tuvok isn't writing it. Besides, the two things that made Tuvok's insurrection–" he quirked a grin at the thought–"so fun were, one: it was about our crew; and two: nobody knew who wrote it."
"But we all know who's writing it this time," she pointed out.
The lieutenant smiled. "Yes, but nobody knows who the murderer or murderers are, not even me! It's a regular whodunit!"
"A who-what?"
Paris grinned. "A whodunit. Who did it. It's a 20th century expression meaning a murder-mystery."
Janeway groaned and stood. "Do you need anything, lieutenant?" she sighed.
"Other than a convenient case of insomnia, no." Janeway wanted to throw him in the brig to wipe the infuriating grin off his face.
* * *
The captain called an officer's meeting the next shift, but excluded her helmsman, chief engineer, the doctor, and Seven-of-Nine, telling them the meeting wasn't any more important than what they were doing at the time. She had two things on her meeting agenda and neither really needed their inputs.
"First item of business is Tom's new holonovel." Janeway's announcement made the occupants of the room, minus Tuvok, sit up a little straighter. "He tells me it's almost complete and should be done by the day after tomorrow. He's chosen Harry, Chakotay, B'Elanna, the doctor, Ensign Wildman, Neelix, and myself to play the first time."
Harry Kim leaned forward. "Seven people?"
Janeway nodded. "Tom assures me he can set up the holographic matrix to handle seven people at one time, though it uses both holodecks."
"Any word what it's about?" asked Chakotay.
"This crew."
Tuvok cleared his throat. "Mr. Paris and I agreed it would not be about this ship or this crew."
The captain gave her mentor a quick glance. "He also said that the computer randomly selects one or more culprits from the remaining crew members who aren't playing at the time and the holographic alien visitors." Her officers, Tuvok included, nodded, impressed by Paris' creativity and ingenuity.
"Second item of business, I don't believe will be welcomed quite as openly." She paused, waiting for her officers to settle down. "I'm worried about Tom and B'Elanna. After their shuttle accident, they didn't speak or even look at each other for days."
"Oh. That's why you didn't invite either of them to this meeting," Kim said. "But what about Seven? And the doctor?"
"Both have a lack of experience dealing with human emotions," Tuvok explained. "I, on the other hand, have lived among humans long enough that I do have some expertise."
"Exactly," Janeway sighed. "Does anyone know what happened, what passed between them that caused them to avoid each other?"
Kim and Neelix leaned forward. "They aren't avoiding each other, Captain," Neelix began. "In fact, Tom and B'Elanna meet for meals together during their off hours, like they did earlier today!"
"That's good, Neelix. They were eating meals together before the accident, though I am glad they have gone back to doing that. We can't have two senior officers at each others' throats."
Kim blushed. "They were suffering from oxygen depravation, Captain, and B'Elanna had already had a bad day. I don't think her Day of Honor could have gotten worse." He fell silent.
"Spit it out, Mr. Kim." Janeway could tell her youngest officer had something more to share.
"It's just that... well, B'Elanna and Tom both seem to be in better moods, now."
Janeway leaned back and crossed her arms, waiting for Harry to continue.
Kim felt like an elementary student forced to recite his calculus equations and formula in front of his teacher and peers. He swallowed. Might as well get it over with, he thought.
"They're... they're a couple. Tom wouldn't tell me what happened between them that day—when they went EV—but the time the doctor and B'Elanna ran into that crazy hologram—" He was rambling and forced himself to calm. "When I talked to Tom in Sickbay, he seemed a little agitated or upset. I don't know for sure, but I think he was waiting for her."
The captain was silent as she absorbed the ensign's words. She was beginning to get a notion of what had happened. "Thank you, Harry. Dismissed, everyone."