{ }are for thoughts. {-- --} are for flashbacks. Frequent changes in POV, and they are there, so watch for them. If you've read this far, I think you know what to expect. Enjoy.

In your life, you make lots of decisions. Good, bad, in-between--you check out your closet and decide what shoes to wear, or whether this uniform is straighter than that one. You take a moment to think what you want for dinner, with both entrees being obvious bad choices. You choose whether you'll go out on a date, or what key to hit when the Aliens of the Week try to turn your ship into a salvage yard, with a special on vacuum-dried crewmembers.

Those kind of things.

You don't know that when you decide to fly a shuttle on a routine mission to a backwater planet, you'll kill four people. You don't guess that when you take up a man for a drink in an alien bar, you'll end up a Maquis rebel . You don't have a fucking clue that deciding to hang around two seconds too long on a mission will get you a prison sentence and some serious reflection time doing body work on the shuttles you once skimmed the sky with.

And until that moment, that moment with a hypo spanner in one hand and staring at a red-haired woman you recognize too well, you really don't have a clue what a decision really means.

Saying yes to a dazzling offer--a way out of the mess you've made of your life. Agreeing to live a lie to save the ship--for her. Taking your ship into terrorism to prove a point, make a statement. Standing by a biobed and making a decision to take the expedient path, not the moral, and injecting an alien with a drug you know will make their life a living hell, to get the job done.

And cutting away the rank pins from your Captain's collar while she lay half-conscious across your lap, her head a mass of bruises, eyes unfocused, all that trust for you to do what was right. Hearing her scream, watching what they did to her, to make you talk, make you break, watching her shatter into pieces you know that nothing will ever be able to put back together again.

How in the name of God do you ever make a decision again? How do you trust yourself to make the right one?

It all came down to one decision. And so far in his truly spectacular career of being a fuck-up, Tom Paris could make those. Good, bad, and in-between. And he could make them fast.

He levered himself up on one elbow, drawing in a deep breath. That was still new, and he wondered if he'd ever get tired of it, the feeling of painless air, no blood, no fluid. Slowly, he got himself sitting up, the standard issue sickbay coverall settling around him with a soft crackle that made him wonder, and not for the first time, what the hell they made those things out of anyway.

"Computer, location of the EMH?" He let his feet slide to the floor, skin recoiling with the contact to the cold floor.

:::The EMH is deactivated.:::

One down. He put some weight on one foot--no, his leg didn't look as if it wanted to collapse, but it didn't look very enthusiastic, either.

"Location of Captain Janeway?"

:::Captain Janeway is in her quarters.:::

"Perfect. Computer, recognize Tom Paris, authorization Alpha Tau Omicron 1 2 3--decrypt all log entries made for the most recent Da'Oon contact. Engage privacy lock on Sickbay, authorization Paris three two."

And to think, one decision was all it took. One hypospray the Doc didn't give.

One moment of crystal-clear consciousness in a room full of whispering people, Harry and Sue in the corner, seen through barely parted blue eyes Another fascinating luxury--sight--that he had to fight the need to examine.

Tom grinned as he put his weight fully on the floor.

* * * * *

"He's still in conference with the Da'Oon."

Vorik's voice was that wonderful kind of expressionless that really made you wonder about Vulcans. Their culture, their habits--their sanity. Or lack thereof.

Harry felt like he'd been on a three-day bender and took the coffee Sue offered with a shaking hand, gulping the first burning mouthful without a wince. It wasn't alcohol that caused the dry mouth, shaking hands, jerky, jittering movements that had come to dominate his life.

"Has he asked you yet, Vorik?" Sue asked slowly, sipping her drink--Harry couldn't tell if it was coffee or tea, and why the hell did he care, anyway?

"Yes." Cool, Vulcan aplomb. Harry, not for the first time that night, and probably not for the last, envied that coolness. Of course, once you've helped lead a mutiny, Harry supposed that some quiet espionage wasn't anything to sneeze at. "He wanted to know all the information Ensign Paris extracted from the Da'Oon."

"Does anyone have any idea why he's asking?" Carey, beside Ayala on the sofa, asked the question that Harry had hoped these crewmembers would be able to answer, when they had agreed to come--and would hopefully agree to help.

Sue's lips flattened to a thin line on her face, eyes turning down to stare into her cup.

"Only Vorik or Ayala would know, and they weren't there for all the interrogations. I was only there for one." She shifted in her seat, and Harry touched her shoulder lightly, getting an unconvincing smile from her lips as her eyes skipped to Vorik.

"What did he ask you exactly?"

Vorik's face became even more impassive, and Harry toyed with the thought of shouting. But it didn't get passed the amused notion stage before Vorik inclined his head.

"He wanted confirmation of the records of the interrogations Ensign Paris, Lieutenant Ayala, and I performed, as pertaining to the possible Da'Oon threat," Vorik answered slowly, distinctly. "He wanted to be certain we did not miss any details during the Inquiry."

"Did you?" Harry asked bluntly. And he knew everyone else was asking the same question.

"I do not believe so, but I was only present for three-quarters of the interrogations, Ensign Kim," Vorik answered imperturbably, hands coming up to steeple themselves before him on the table he shared with Baytart.

"Did Tom report everything they told him?" Harry asked, eyes flickering between Vorik, Carey, Baytart...

"Yes." Ayala, certain.

"Yes," Vorik, confident.

"No."

All eyes went to Sue, who was staring down at her cup, unblinking. Still.

"What?"

"Tom made a private report to the Captain," Sue answered softly. "She instructed him not to release it during the Inquiry."

Carey was nodding slowly, to Harry's shock, and, he noted, that of the others, including Chief of Interrogation and Tactical Operations, Vorik {That is unkind, Harry.}.

"You're thinking when he was refining the dosage for RU487, aren't you?" he asked.

Sometimes, you see, just *sometimes*, Harry thought he could remember that experience of being under the drug's influence when Tom administered the dose that would expel the K'eya entity. And his flesh would crawl, and he would hear odd sounds--his own screams?--that would fade away as quickly and as quietly as they had come.

Though the Doc assured him it was only his imagination.

Only his imagination, only his experiences watching the recordings of Tom's interrogation of the K'eya entities in crewmembers bodies.

Only that.

Maybe.

"Yeah," Sue said, even more softly. "He didn't talk about it--but the Captain had the recording. Maybe she still does have it--after all, not all the recordings were destroyed."

Harry flushed dull crimson, hearing that faint, malicious little jab in her voice. Meant only for him--after all, presumably, no one except the culprits, Sue, and Tom knew.

"What was on it?" He set his cup down on the coffee table with a rattle, somewhat surprised it was empty. Wondered vaguely when he had finished it.

"The history lesson about the K'eya and the Da'Oon. I heard it," she added indifferently, and took a long drink from her cup. Harry was pretty sure by now it was coffee--too thick for tea, too dark.

Wondered why he was focusing on something as minor as the beverage of choice of Sue Nicoletti.

"That was released," Harry answered.

"Not all of it." She held her cup between both hands, and the clear blue eyes came up to meet those of everyone in the room briefly--Carey, Vorik, Megan, Ayala, Baytart, Sam, and finally Harry, the outsider, the one who'd never gotten even a temporary promotion to a higher rank, Harry, who'd been cavorting on the planet with B'Elanna, Harry, a K'eya--he wondered if they still had moments when they looked at him askance, suspicious.

He had that reaction looking in the mirror each morning, seeing his own face, studying it as if it was a stranger's. Every damned morning.

"The Captain restricted some of the information," Sue answered indifferently.

"How do you know?"

"I was at the Inquiry. I know what Tom reported and didn't." She smiled a little. "Don't look like that, Vorik--he didn't want to involve you any more than you already were. It was the history of the K'eya war with the Da'Oon. I knew because I was second in command--and I think he needed to share with someone." She sipped her cup again, shaking her head.

"What was it?" asked Harry, seeing no one else was going to ask, even though he knew, and they *knew* he knew, that they all wanted to know.

"As I said, the reason for the Da'Oon lock down of that planet," Sue answered, setting her cup carefully on the table. She shook her head. "I still don't understand why she did it, to be honest."

They waited while she searched her memory.

"The K'eya were part of what was once a co-joined species," Sue told them, picking her words with care, almost as if afraid that a single mistake would break her narrative apart.

"Like the Trill," Harry, worshipper of Jadzia Dax from that single moment he saw her on DS9, said. So he was pathetic. He could live with it.

"*Not* like the Trill," Sue corrected. "The species they joined with didn't have consciousness of its own. They were--" she frowned. "They were bred, like cattle. For the purpose of providing the K'eya with a host. And the K'eya used them for procreation of their own species as well."

Harry nodded, frowning, filing away the information in his mind as she spoke, cross-referencing everything he knew--and hit the solution perfectly. It didn't take a genius to figure it out, after all.

"The Da'Oon," he breathed suddenly. "They were the cattle, weren't they?"

"The Da'Oon."

* * * * *

Tom got to the terminal, sinking down on the chair as his legs gave out under him. Closed his eyes, taking a deep breath...

"Three, two..."

"It will be accepted," Tom said softly. "What did you do to me, B'Elanna? I don't need this distraction." He shook his head, washing the images away, fingers moving easily over the workstation he used in Sickbay during duty shifts, finding the logs Chakotay had made.

"They're meeting now with the Da'Oon Captain, Chakotay and Tuvok both," he whispered, liking how his voice sounded--it was still such a novelty to hear and see.

"Bombing, B'Elanna. Antimatter bombing from space, hoping to wipe them out. But most have fled. You don't think they returned the Captain and I for our health, do you?" He felt the smile turn up his mouth, sensing past Seven B'Elanna's cool control, as brittle as glass, needing the outlet the planet would no longer provide for her.

*Needing* the outlet. He sat up straight, shutting his eyes at the barrage of emotion coming off her, so strong, he no longer felt Seven at all, nothing but that powerful, all-pervading rage that he'd always known she was capable of--but until now had never suspected.

Tuvok had done her a lot of good after all. He'd have to consider discussing with B'Elanna increasing the number of her sessions.

And thoughts of that conversation made him smile.

"You want them dead, sweetheart?" he whispered, pulling up the last log Chakotay had made on his Da'Oon visitors. Her hate was infecting him--not that he needed it. He had plenty of hate already, growing steadily stronger, tightening the pit of his stomach, clenching his hands on the desk. "Don't worry, we'll find them. Every last one of them."

* * * * *

She was in her quarters, sedated as the Doctor had so carefully and tactfully suggested, and to the shock of all concerned, she'd agreed with.

Chakotay didn't know what made him more nervous--the Doctor's unexpected sensitivity or Janeway's quiet resignation to his suggestion.

But she'd be up by now, doubtless with a cup of coffee in her hand. Staring out her window, maybe dressing to get back into Sickbay and sit over Tom with that look on her face that he didn't understand. That he hated to see there.

So he pushed the code for her door and walked in, uninvited. You didn't give Kathryn Janeway any leverage, any points against you--you walked in, caught her off-balance, at what passed as vulnerable in a woman who'd stared down Hirogen in wrecked corridors and attacked Borg cubes for transwarp coils. A woman willing to torture a man for security codes in the Shuttlebay and leave him to die in the hand of the species he'd helped kill. A woman who'd make a deal with aliens to sell a Starfleet ship for the safety of her crew.

No points at all. Not even one.

She was in uniform, coffee in hand, turning around to look at him, blue eyes already narrowing, getting her feet under her in the metaphorical sense, preparing--

"You kept information from me." He waited a beat, giving her only enough time to process what he said. "You and Tom, about the Da'Oon and K'eya. About the relationship. About that sealed planet."

She drew in a breath, possibly to yell her anger at him for invasion of her privacy, maybe just to get enough air in surprised lungs.

"You didn't tell me the Da'Oon were on board," she answered. "You should have reported to me immediately."

"You are on medical leave--"

"Then I'm off it *now*." She put her cup down, picking up her pips from the coffee-table.

"No you're not."

Chakotay watched her back, still hunched over, grown suddenly still, and the slow, inevitable rise of torso--he traced the straightening of her back, the rise of her neck, the lift of her head--the slow, careful turn of her entire body--then all he could see were those impossibly cold eyes.

"What did you say?" Her voice was quiet.

"You are on medical leave." {Am I shaking?} "Until the Doctor says otherwise, you are unfit for duty." His hands were damp--he wanted to wipe them dry on the leg of his pristine uniform, but couldn't.

Not one point. Not one.

"I am medically recovered."

"Psychologically, you aren't, Captain." He paused, forcing himself to meet her eyes. "Kathryn, your experiences--"

"Commander." He wanted to step back--title and tone together. "Are you relieving me of duty?"

Spirits, the way she put things. No gray for her, black or white, right or wrong. She would do either one, but never put them on a graduated scale, tried to fool herself to what she was doing. He drew in a breath he hoped didn't tremble.

"The Doctor has relieved you of duty," he managed. "Until such a time as he declares you fit, you will stay off-duty."

A moment of silence, and he couldn't read anything in her eyes.

"You want my ship that badly, Commander?" A soft lilt, mocking, and his jaw tightened. "Get out." And she turned her back on him, as naturally and easily as breathing, dismissing him from her attention as if he had no existence other than that which she gave him--as her first officer.

Slowly, he backed away, then turned to the door. Deliberately forgetting what he had come here to talk to her about, instead leaning against the wall outside her quarters, regulating his breathing, closing his eyes against that cold-eyed look still vivid in his memory.

She'd given in too easily. He knew that.

And he even knew what she would try to do.

"Computer, deny all communications access to Kathryn Janeway, authorization Chakotay Iota One." He waited for a second, then nodded to himself. That would work--but only temporarily.

* * * * *

Tom found the files B'Elanna had used next to make her neural interface device, loading it on a page for future reading, then pulling up the Doctor's reports on Seven's changes to it. Straightforward enough, even if it didn't make much sense.

Not now, anyway.

"Nothing is changed," he whispered. "It happened my last night there, B'Elanna. They didn't bring the Captain and I back because of sympathy or some desire to make a statement--they brought us back because they were afraid of what would happen if they were caught with us by those attacking them." He glanced down at his hands.

"It doesn't matter how I--know--this information." He could see B'Elanna's face in his mind's eye, as clearly as if his eyes had seen her. Which, in a way, he was, even if he didn't know exactly how it was happening. "Gently, sweetheart. Be gentle with Seven. She's a hell of a lot more fragile than you are right now." He shook the images away, knowing that the concentration to do that only happened briefly, and he didn't have long. He had a nasty feeling that someone would be wandering into Sickbay to see how poor Tom Paris was--

--and God help him, it could be Harry. Harry or Sue, trying to figure out a way to get back and help out B'Elanna and Seven--and he could have told them that B'Elanna and Seven would need that help before long, if B'Elanna couldn't keep herself together, and without a target, only a burned out planet she couldn't step foot on--

This was B'Elanna Torres. She wanted that man and she wanted that cure.

"Shit, they have EVA suits."

* * * * *

Chakotay knew, just knew, his day was going to get even worse. And of course, it did, with the descent of Harry Kim, an unlikely harbinger of misery at best, sitting in the chair across from him.

"Harry, I know how you feel about B'Elanna and Seven--"

"They're getting the cure for Tom," Harry answered, his voice edge, posture straight, practically screaming Bad Things for Chakotay if something wasn't done. Chakotay stood up.

"I'm calling a staff meeting at 1200 hours," he answered easily. "We'll discuss it then. Not until then, Harry. Dismissed."

Harry rose, with insulting slowness--where the hell was he getting this recalcitrant streak from anyway? No evidence of it until today, right here, right now, no warning, nothing, just a suddenly and unignorable Harry Kim looking a hell of a lot more adult than he'd ever looked, uniform rumpled, and eyes sunk in dark shadows.

"Yes, sir." And only Tom could have taught Harry the way to say that, turn respect into an insult that you couldn't answer.

Shit.

* * * * *

"I need to make sure," Tom answered, laying back on the biobed. "I can't leave without being certain that it's not somewhere down there." He closed his eyes briefly, beginning to enjoy the double view--oddly enough, it wasn't at all difficult to feel their presence; frighteningly easy, in fact. And getting steadily more addictive. Just below the surface of B'Elanna's thoughts, he could feel her desperate struggle for control, turned his full attention on it, trying to keep her steady.

The Doc's information on the neural link, as studied by its effect on one Tom Paris while unconscious, had been very, very useful. And it helped, that he knew his lover so well. Knew how she thought, how she acted--how to defuse her when necessary. Though he could state with absolute honesty he never expected to have to do it this way.

It was so odd, to be himself and feel B'Elanna at the same time--feel Seven only a little more distantly. Her disapproval. Her frustration, and just below the surface, her own cool anger, in its own way as remorseless as B'Elanna's. That Seven might have the better control over it, but it was still there, as visible to him as a gaping wound.

How the hell had B'Elanna thought of this way to get information on the Da'Oon? She knew almost everything he knew--with a little effort on his part, she'd know it all.

It wouldn't help her any--not yet, anyway.

* * * * *

So did he.

Tom drew in a deep breath, feeling--what was that? Heat. Amazing heat, burning him inside and out, all by himself, didn't need anyone else to make him feel this. Sweat beading on his forehead, turning onto his side as the cramps tightened his abdomen exquisitely. If he'd had something in his stomach, he would have thrown up.

From a distance, he felt B'Elanna whisper something, one hand going out to steady herself against the wall. Hitting it with a closed fist.

She was remembering this room. Just like he was.

No, not just that--she was remembering what happened here.

God, it was hot.

He opened his eyes on Sickbay, feeling something else.

B'Elanna, in that room. That cold, dark room, the odor more overpowering than any vivid memory could be. A phaser blast set on high, burning through three walls, which he honestly hadn't thought possible--but this was B'Elanna. God knew what she'd done to that rifle before she got down to the surface.

She was standing in the congealed pool his blood.

* * * * *

The staff meeting was not what Chakotay expected, though he would've been hard-pressed to describe what he *had* expected.

He'd forgotten. B'Elanna was gone, Tom was--not here, and the Captain was gone. He was facing Carey for Engineering, Baytart for Navigation, and Ayala as Tuvok's second in Tactical. Three of Tom's highest officers--and Harry--all watching him with utter composure, waiting for him to make a decision.

Well, waiting for him to make the right decision, anyway.

Chakotay, glancing at Tuvok briefly, realized the Vulcan was quite aware of the odds here.

There was a reason why mutiny was so serious, even as a last resort to stopping a bad captain. There was a reason why even the crew with every justifiable reason for turning on their officers was often looked at askance forever afterward. It had nothing to do with the justice of their decision, or the right and wrong.

It had everything to do with the chain of command.

"As you all know, three Da'Oon civilians were beamed to the ready room," not on pain of death would Chakotay have been able to call it 'his', "and there we discussed the situation in the Da'Oon Empire."

Harry's expression didn't change. Carey didn't so much as shift in his seat. Expressions unchanging.

It was the chain of command. No matter the circumstances, a mutiny does something to a ship, a crew. It always came back to you, that one break in command, justified or not. Once broached, it was never repaired.

"Apparently, at this time, there is a civil war," Chakotay explained. He took a breath, staring at the officers around the table

Once broken, the taboo is gone. He'd resisted the temptation when the Captain had gone after the Equinox with such determination. Fought it in himself, that easy step that had been taken once before. And forgiven completely, even if never quite forgotten.

{It was easier for Tom, even with the taboos, after the Moneans, though.} Chakotay glanced down at the PADD that he really didn't need. {He'd disobeyed, and got punished, but once the step is taken, you can't backtrack and get your scruples back. Once done, its done.}

"The K'eya left the planet--the Da'Oon aren't certain how. Three months ago, they entered Da'Oon space and began to reclaim territory--and Da'Oon colonies, including civilians."

"They were joined species," Harry answered, and Chakotay was hard put to hide his shock, wondering where that little piece of information came from--or had Harry guessed.

One single step makes it easier to go down that path. Chakotay couldn't forget it, even now. Couldn't forget that around the table, facing him, forced to trust them, were three of Tom's primary co-conspirators--one of whom served also as an interrogator of the K'eya.

How do you forget that? How do you trust that?

"They were not responsible for what happened to the Captain and Tom," Chakotay said finally. "They didn't even know about it. The K'eya control the Da'Oon homeworld, Sephemor. They found Tom and the Captain."

If hate could be cut, here it was, ready for the phaser, thick and hot and palpable, leaving a bad taste in the back of Chakotay's mouth as he breathed the air of it. If he could have forgotten who they were to Tom, to the K'eya, he knew they never would. And would never want to.

"Then why are they here--sir?" The respect added on a half-breath late, the finest line of insubordination possible, with a face of respect.

"They came to find Tom." Chakotay steepled his hands on the table, drawing in a breath. "The planet-bound K'eya knew what Tom did to get us free, even if they don't know how he did it. A Da'Oon officer, Gegred, discovered the possibility of getting rid of the K'eya using Tom's method, and also discovered that a ship with Voyager's warp signature was close by. So they came here, looking for Tom, hoping he was right." He leaned back. "And he was."

"Tom isn't in any condition to give any kind of information," Harry said. Chakotay glanced at Ayala, who shrugged.

"I don't have the medical training, sir, and I never knew the dosage beyond what Tom instructed. He and Vorik worked that out with the database and limited input from the Doctor." The dark eyes were wary, settling on Chakotay as a bird on a live wire. "I don't know. I do know it depended on species and other physiological traits, but I couldn't tell you the formula. And to be honest, sir, I don't think Vorik could either. Tom did a lot of the fine work on his own. But the Doctor, if anyone, would know exactly what Tom did. He helped during the extraction of the K'eya."

Chakotay nodded.

"I'll talk to the Doctor and Vorik then." He paused, glancing around the room.

Perfectly aware of the question they wanted to ask.

* * * * *

Three hours and nineteen minutes after B'Elanna beamed down to the surface of the planet, she returned, tricorder in hand, face set, eyes dark. Seven helped her remove the EVA suit before taking the tricorder to the computer and beginning the decryption.

All without a word. Sometimes, B'Elanna thought, it was as if they didn't even need them. Which wasn't far from true.

She put her gear away, going to the pilot's seat and dropping down in it.

"There wasn't anything there, Seven. No medical information. But I downloaded what looks like a course--its entry date was recent, so I'm hoping that wherever they went, they left it on the computer. Some personal logs--I did a core dump of everything they had left, which wasn't much--and I have no idea how much is useful." She lowered her head into her hand, closing her eyes.

Nothing. Nothing down there, not the man who had hurt Tom, not the information needed to cure him.

Nothing except dying cities and a rotting world. Something burned in her eyes that she didn't bother to deny.

"Lieutenant." Seven was on the Bridge. B'Elanna didn't bother to turn around.

"What, Seven?"

"The sensors show the damage here is at least two weeks old."

B'Elanna nodded dully. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that something had to give, and give soon--but the exhaustion was preventing anything getting through.

"I'm guessing that they were escaping when they dropped of the Captain and Tom. But why bring them back?" B'Elanna frowned suddenly. "Why'd they bring them back, Seven?"

"Perhaps they could not travel quickly enough carrying them."

"Then why not just kill them?" B'Elanna turned on her heel, suddenly, eyes unfocused. "Seven, why not just kill them and be done with it?

Seven couldn't answer.

She suspected, however, that soon, she would need to.

* * * * *

Tom tried to draw in a breath, hissing it out with the next cramp.

He eased himself half up, finding the floor by dint of falling on it, getting to the workstation.

"Computer, erase all access logs made in the last four hours from this station."

The sounds the computer made didn't sound like a confirmation, but Tom was pretty sure it wasn't the computer malfunctioning. He sank on the cool floor, the next cramp ripping up into his abdomen, through his throat--and it was so hard to get his arms under him enough so he could throw up and not choke to death instead.

So fucking hard when there was still so much to do.

"Computer--" his voice was going, and a sudden lance of pain sliced up his instep. He gasped, rolling onto his back. "Computer, send all information I accessed to--" he was running out of air fast, this had to go right. "All information recorded on the--all information I recorded on the Da'Oon threat, file Paris Beta Three, to Ensign Vorik, encrypt with Federation code 73-1-A4. Erase log of transmission." He closed his eyes, sinking into the floor. "Activate EMH."

And, thank God, everything faded.

He hoped, on his last thought, that Vorik understood.

* * * * *

"Baytart, heading 213 mark 43. Prepare for warp."

Baytart nodded as he entered the course corrections.

Chakotay glanced around the Bridge, then at Harry.

"Open a channel to the Da'Oon ship, Mr. Kim."

"Aye sir."

Slowly, Chakotay sank down in the Big Chair, taking an involuntary breath as he did so. It shaped itself to him with sickening ease. As if Kathryn had never sat in it.

Spirits. Damn.

"Channel open." His hands tightend on the armrests.

The Prime Directive didn't cover what he was about to do.

"We're preparing to jump to warp on the headings you've specified," Chakotay said clearly. "On my mark."

"Understood, Commander." Gegred answered, his broad, dark face appearing on screen. "We'll be with you."

Chakotay looked around at his Bridge crew, feeling rather than seeing their satisfaction. They were getting what they wanted.

And he wanted it too. Fuck the Prime Directive.

"Engage, Mr. Baytart."