No one could possibly have expected a small Federation vessel, prepared only for a short journey, to last even a year stranded in a hostile foreign quadrant. The chances of survival diminish even more when the crew of said vessel is made up half by unrefined terrorists, half by the people sent to capture them, and by one man who has managed to betray both sides. And although the ship's survival is remarkable, the relation of its unlikely shipmates is as predictable as former prey's civility to its one-time predator. That is to say, just to the left of unstable peace and just to the right of a continuous brawl. The prospering ship is a stark contrast to it's failing crew, where insubordination is always a precedent to a sudden outburst of fury. But then, metal bulkheads are easier to fix than cracked hearts and lonely lives. Everyone on Voyager reacts to their own pain by inflicting some on others, whomever they blame for the vast distance between them and home. The Starfleet crew blames the Maquis. The Maquis blame Starfleet. In sickbay, there are two medical assistants, one Maquis and one Starfleet. They treat their respective colleagues, and one has yet to see either one cross ranks and treat someone with insignia different from their own. It is truly a wonder how Voyager has lived with out a full-blown mutiny, by either the Starfleet crew or Maquis, trying to get rid of the other. There is a rare existence of agreement between the two on one person: Tom Paris is responsible for all of Voyager's troubles.

With the exception of a few in the know people, not much is known or even cared about Tom Paris, beyond that he was once a Starfleet Cadet, kicked out of the academy for a nasty shuttle accident in which he claimed responsibility all but too late. Afterwards, he joined the Maquis as a mercenary pilot, but was captured by the Federation almost immediately. He was convicted of a variety of crimes relating to Maquis activities. After reading a small amount of Federation law, it becomes apparent that a Maquis crime conviction is a legal game of dominoes, particularly for a Federation citizen and former Starfleet cadet. Once convicted of being a Maquis, it is almost certain that one will also be convicted of treason, terrorism, and trafficking arms and contraband. It seems a tad unfair to one without the hatred for the Maquis contained by most Starfleet courts, who cannot question the legitimacy of such laws that allow them to lock up Maquis by the hundred. Tom Paris, surely, did question the laws that sent him to Auckland Penitentiary for eleven years and seven months, in addition to five months of time served while he was awaiting trial and then sentencing. Twelve years is a long time out of a young man's life. Which is probably why he said yes.

Yes to Captain Kathryn Janeway's request for a qualified guide to lead her to the Maquis, to Tom's former cell leader, Chakotay. And if he did, he'd have her respected words at the hearing the following year, where he might be released eight year earlier than his sentence read. Who would say no? He didn't. He lead her to the big Maquis' stomping grounds, and Voyager was tossed through space to land on the other side, far too quickly, far too great a distance from the Bad Lands, with far too many casualties sustained from the bumpy ride. It wasn't Tom's fault. The deaths of Voyager's first officer, chief engineer, pilot, and entire medical staff were not his fault. He did what he was asked; he led them to the Maquis. He fulfilled his end of the bargain, on the other side of the Galaxy.

And wished like hell he hadn't, considering the consequences. When the Maquis ship was destroyed, his former comrades boarded Voyager. "Traitor!" His one-time associates hissed at him. He never expected to survive past that first tension-filled meeting on Voyager's bridge. The first week was pretty safe for Tom; the discovery of Janeway's Vulcan security officer as a spy on Chakotay's ship turned the Maquis' attention elsewhere. The Maquis had someone else to hate and plot to assassinate for a month. The addition to the crew of the friendly Delpha Quadrant native Neelix, who had attempted to save but ultimately lost his mate, a elfish telepath named Kes, as well as the controversial Maquis crew assignments, and the Emergency Medical Holograph's less than stellar attitude upon activation made the first month too busy for Tom to know what would happen in later months. Tom feared Chakotay's appointment as first officer, and he envied Batehearts's appointment as pilot.

Whatever Captain Janeway's intentions for Tom were, she kept them to herself, for she left him unoccupied for the first 6 months of the journey. It was then that the Maquis began taking their revenge. Tom's various Federation enemies followed suit. From that moment on Tom Paris has been treated for the fracture of every major bone in his body. Treated for internal organ damage, cranial hemorrhaging, and even one most unfortunate case of bowel perforation, as well as other severe damage in that area. That never happened again, someone in power ordered that particular kind of abuse to cease. Possibly Commander Chakotay, who spent time in Cardassian slave camps, and saw many assault victims. Commander Chakotay could end half of Tom's suffering with one order, and although he's certainly lessened it, he is still responsible for the broken ribs Tom received a week ago, having never condemned it. However insubordinate and obnoxious the Maquis are to Federation officers, they are always obedient to Chakotay. Maquis captains have always been practitioners of corporal punishment to keep their crews in line, many suspect it still goes on behind Tuvok's vigilante surveillance of the Maquis. It's sad and sickening that one can tell which side attacked Tom by the wound. The Maquis are creative and resourceful; they could make a weapon out of anything. They have to; Lt. Tuvok strictly regulates weapon replication, and is especially careful about keeping phasers out of Maquis hands. Starfleet crewmembers can easily get weapons, which is probably why Tom limps to sickbay singed and blistered so many times. Tom's used his programming skills to prevent the EMH from reporting his injuries to the Captain, before he had tried seeking no medical attention whatsoever and using a regenerator that didn't even begin to treat most of his injuries. While most of the crew decidedly wanted to avoid encounters with hostile aliens, Tom enjoyed Red Alert because it meant everyone not on duty was in their quarters, so Tom wouldn't get shoved as he walked down the corridor, or receive a warning glare that indicates he can expect a lot more than shove later. Stress tends to put the crew on edge, but atleast they're too busy to bother him at the moment. Over the months, the fights had been less brutal and more time passed in between. Tom didn't know if Janeway had found out or if Chakotay was helping him out, or if he'd finally lost the interest of his tormentors. He certainly was unaware of the Maquis' side project, which was a great distraction. He wasn't about to experiment, but rather enjoy not having fresh bruises everyday.

The second year of the journey he'd been assigned to the botanical garden. To get to the converted cargo bay, he had to pass the shuttle bay on a daily basis. It was really only a matter of time before it occurred to him that his means of escape were right outside the door. And only a matter of time, three weeks, until he got enough courage to turn into the wrong room. What was a complete accident was that Chakotay was in the Shuttle Bay when he came to check out which shuttle he would use for his flight. Tom entered the Shuttle Bay with the same determined pace he'd been striding through the ship with. No variation his steps communicated he was intent on a destination. Or atleast he was until he saw Chakotay. He tried to backtrack through the door, but it slid shut with an audible hiss, enough to get Chakotay's attention.

Oh Shit, Tom thought.

"Paris."

"Oh, Chakotay." Tom hastily covered the stream of mental expletives with a tone of indifference in his greeting. With the Maquis he usually reverted to a tone of arrogance that got him attacked, but not with Chakotay. Chakotay was too damn big for him deliberately provoke, atleast when he was not in the mood to get pounded. Tom had a few inches on the man, but Chakotay had what really counted: mass. Besides, Chakotay had never directly hurt Tom in the year they'd been on the same ship. Yelled at him, berated him, certainly not stopped other Maquis from hurting him, but never personally taken a hand or anything else to Tom. Why stop a good thing when it's on a roll?

"Walked into the wrong room, can you believe it? I meant to go to the garden," Tom explained, already with his back to Chakotay.

"Wait, Paris. I was meaning to talk to you."

How wonderful, Tom thought, marveling at his ability to be sarcastic within his own head.

Tom turned half way around.

"About what?"

"The vegetables you gave Neelix last week. They gave half the crew food poisoning."

Good. That's what they were supposed to do. I wouldn't have gone to all that trouble of injecting them with Rajivian poison if it didn't have an effect, Tom thought bitterly.

"Really? " I scanned them before I gave them to Neelix, he must have cooked them wrong or something."

"The doctor found traces of Rajivian poison in the afflicted crew members."

"Well, we did receive the seeds from one of the planets in the Rajivia Empire. The Rajivian people might not be as well intentioned as they appeared. But I wouldn't know, remember? I'm not allowed off the ship. You'd have to ask the away team that traded for the seeds."

"I was on the away team. When we scanned the seeds there was nothing to indicate poison."

"Maybe you made a mistake."

"I don't make mistakes, not ones that endanger this ship."

"Maybe you did, this once."

With that, Paris turned completely and left as he had entered. He strode down the corridor, into the converted cargo bay of plants and topsoil. I hope he puked for a week, he thought, dropping to his knees next to the tomato bush. He ripped out some offending weeds from its base. I am a pilot, not a damned gardener. I'll poison the entire crew if I have to. Hell, I'd poison the entire crew just for kicks. His hands began to bloody from the sharp stems, but he didn't stop.

While Paris steamed, Chakotay stared at the door from which he had departed. B'Elanna Torres stuck her lightly ridged head out from a shuttle hatch.

"He deliberately did something to those vegetables, didn't he?"

Chakotay turned around, as B'Elanna climbed out of the shuttle and reclined against it.

"Yes," Chakotay strolled closer. "And he's probably going to do it again."

"Shouldn't we do something?" B'Elanna approached her commanding officer, noting he looked more amused than enraged.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because, if it happens again, Janeway will figure it out. She'll take care of it."

B'Elanna's voice took on an edge. "Since when do we leave things to those Starfleet fucks? Especially when we can handle it so much better."

Chakotay's voice took on an edge of it's own, far more dangerous than anything Torres could produce. She was instantly cowed.

"Tom Paris is the least of our problems, B'Elanna. Focus on the big not the small. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. But I don't understand how that applies in this particular situation," B'Elanna continued, despite the danger she knew could come of questioning Chakotay. "Sir," she quickly added.

Chakotay sighed. He knew the hatred for Tom Paris harbored by his crew was strong. He didn't share it as strongly as he once had. He didn't have the God damn time. Why the crew continued to focus on Paris, rather than Tuvok, Janeway, or any of the others equally responsible, was beyond him. Not that he liked Paris, the arrogant--

"Sir?" B'Elanna interrupted his thoughts.

Chakotay looked at B'Elanna and sighed again. The woman was irritated at his delayed response, and he had lost his own irritation with her pressing questions.

"If Paris gives the ship indigestion, it's not going to interfere with our plans. It might even help create a distraction. If you take action, Janeway or Tuvok will keep an extra eye on us. That's not what we need now. It's not worth it, B'Elanna. When we're done, you can do whatever you like to Paris, if he's still on the ship," Chakotay pacified, suddenly very tired.

"Still on the ship? You'd let him leave?" B'Elanna was incredulous.

Chakotay met B'Elanna's wide eyes with his own hard stare, "The coming weeks aren't going to be organized, B'Elanna. If it works, it's not going to be clean. They aren't going to line up so we can pick and choose who stays and who goes."

B'Elanna nodded slowly. She returned to the shuttle, and Chakotay left the bay for a nap in his quarters. It was apparent to B'Elanna, who knew him so well, although he hid it carefully from everyone else, that the man was exhausted. She didn't blame him. Leading a mutiny wasn't exactly restful. The Maquis had been plotting this for over six months. They'd finally reached the stage where it wasn't just a detailed plan for the future, but a daily routine where nearly everything they did was in preparation for the big event. B'Elanna wasn't repairing the shuttle; she was setting everything on board, the replicators, engines, life-support, sensors, warp, and other vital components to endure a journey of decades. As much as some of them deserved it, the Maquis weren't just abandoning the Federation's people in the middle of space. They would be given the shuttles to continue home on, or they could choose to make a home on the inhabitable planet that Voyager's course would bring them to in a matter of weeks. But they could not stay on Voyager. Not anymore.

Chakotay strode down the corridor outside the shuttle bay, towards the turbo lift. He wasn't on duty for another four hours. That should get him about an hour of sleep, and just about three hours of worry and anxiety. He considered taking a sleep aid, but dismissed the option. The last time he had taken one of those he had indeed slept, but with dreams of his plans gone wrong and his crew slaughtered. No, he wouldn't be taking on of those again until it was all over. He felt a slight breeze by his wrist, and looked in that direction.

And instantly felt the familiar pressure between his brows. Headaches had baffled doctors of the 20th century, but now the brain's complicated chemistry was fully understood, and headaches subsequently prevented. Chakotay thought he had a case that would stun the Alpha Quadrant's most educated physicians. Not that they would ever hear about it. But it was a remarkable case. The main symptoms: An instant headache and feeling of dread upon seeing her royal highness.

Janeway, that is. She was right beside him, matching his quick pace despite her shorter legs. And she was greeting him in a way that made it apparent she was clueless that he was less than pleased to see her. She always was.

"Commander," she was cheerful.

"Captain," he was ingenuine, but she couldn't tell.

They entered the turbo lift together. Which was absolutely what he wanted: to be in a small space with a woman whose mere presence put him in pain. That and she continued talking. She was pleased with the progress Torres was making on repairing the damaged shuttles. She couldn't believe they'd all been afflicted with the same problem simultaneously. He said he couldn't either, but he knew all it took was Dalby and whatever problem he'd invented for B'Elanna to have to fix.

"I'm glad Torres has become such a benefit to this ship. At the beginning, she seemed so angry. I wouldn't have believed then that now she'd put on a Starfleet uniform and be such a willing asset. She's doing excellent work," Janeway remarked.

Chakotay's headache disappeared, his dread replaced with amusement. This was damn amusing. Of course Torres was doing excellent work-she'd been promised that for toiling in a Starfleet uniform her excellent work would remove the Federation and their uniforms from Voyager permanently.

"Yes, she certainly is," He said. And the smile on his face was not because he was proud of B'Elanna.

The turbo lift came to a halt with a gentle noise.

"This is me. And I'm not late for dinner with Tuvok, I guess I had more time than I thought I did." Janeway left.

As the doors slid shut, Chakotay whispered to Janeway's back, "No, you don't have any more time."

But she was unaware of what was definitely a threat. Utterly unaware.

Maybe he'd sleep after all.

Neelix bustled around the nearly deserted mess hall. The busiest meal times of the day had passed, and he might have a few late shift stragglers, but nothing to keep the food out for. His one remaining customer wasn't eating; he was hunched over a cold bowl of soup, staring into it like there was something of great interest in the broth. But the young man's face indicated he'd like to drown in it, and his posture was barely holding him above it. Neelix finished wiping down the last down sticky table, and dropped his damp cloth on it. As casually as possible, he sidled over to the one occupied table. He smiled down at the bent head.

"You're up late," Neelix ventured, with the inquiring tone that usually elicited a response, whether a harsh command to leave, or the immediate sharing of thoughts and troubles.

"Oh, hi Neelix," Harry Kim raised his head. "I'm sorry, am I in your way?"

"No," Neelix quickly reassured, unobtrusively planting himself in the chair opposite Harry. "I was just concerned. You didn't eat your soup, and you looked, if I'm not mistaken, a bit troubled."

Harry smiled just a little. "I didn't eat the soup because I know Tom had a hand in making it."

Guilt flashed across Neelix's face. Harry's smile grew a bit more, as Neelix struggled to deny any wrongdoing on Tom's part.

"It's okay, Neelix. I'm not going to tell on him. You should have seen him when he told me. He was absolutely giddy."

Neelix relaxed. "It would be nice to see Tom happy," he mused. At that, Neelix noticed the brief smile on Harry's face drop completely. "Are you troubled over Tom?"

Harry looked back up from the soup bowl, which had attracted his gaze yet again.

"Tom? No. Which is a good thing, actually. I like it when I don't have to worry that someone's going to kill him."

Neelix nodded in agreement, disturbed that Harry meant the word kill literally. Harry seemed inclined to continue speaking, without anymore prodding.

"Maybe you can help me, Neelix."

"I'll do my best, Harry," Neelix offered instantly. A moment later, "With what?"

Harry sighed, distractedly stirring the cold soup. "My troubles. But they aren't just mine; they belong to the whole ship. I know you know nearly everything that happens on the ship."

"Well, I am the Morale Officer," Neelix paused for a moment. "What little morale there is."

"You've done a fine job with morale, Neelix, considering what you have to work with." Harry met Neelix's eyes. "Do you think you could tell if part of the crew were up to something?"

"Up to what?"

"Something harmful to the ship. What, I don't know!"

Neelix leaned closer to Harry. "What makes you think that something's up?"

"When Voyager started her journey, the Maquis and the Federation couldn't look at each other without starting a brawl. Now? There hasn't been so much as a fistfight in a few months. The Maquis don't forgive and they never forget, so why would they stop? Unless they have something else on their minds."

"Maybe they got tired of Captain Janeway putting them in the brig," Neelix offered weakly. "Or maybe they realized that fighting wasn't going to bring them home any faster. I think you might be seeing something where there's nothing," Neelix finished gently.

"I hope your right, Neelix. One of the Academy instructors told me once, that as dangerous a person is when they're fighting, they're twice as dangerous when they're not fighting: Because they're plotting what they're going to do the next time they're fighting. I can't get that saying or this feeling out of my head."

"What are you going to do?" asked Neelix.

"For now, hope that I'm wrong," Harry said. "I'm just keeping a close eye on anything out of the ordinary. Tom keeps the closest watch over the Maquis, for his own safety. He'll know if I'm just being paranoid. I'll ask him tomorrow."

Harry rose. He placed a hand on Neelix's shoulder. "Thanks for listening, Neelix. Even if you don't believe me, I think I've sorted out some things in my own head. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Neelix called belatedly to the back of Harry's head. Neelix picked up the tray and carried it back to the kitchen. Kim's worrying words had ruined what had been a decent day. As he disposed of Tom's special stew, he found himself getting lost in disturbing thoughts provoked by Harry's possibilities.

Neelix wasn't any delusions that certain people on Voyager liked certain other people on the ship. The mess hall had certainly been home to more than a few of the Maquis-Starfleet conflicts. Those had ceased a while ago, but the mess hall was still ground zero for Maquis-Starfleet interaction. He'd been privy to some of the nastiest looks he'd ever seen, tossed across the room or passed slowly and purposefully while standing in line. At crowded times, there was a bit more jostling that required. He more than occasionally heard muttered complaints about Starfleet protocol. But he could not see what Harry saw so clearly. Maquis and Starfleet crewmembers eventually sat together during meal times. Although he wasn't always within hearing range, the conversations didn't look like an exchange of death threats. Just last week, the Commander and Captain had dinner together. It looked enjoyable: The Captain doing most of the talking, the Commander occasionally interjecting.

They'd stayed for an hour or more, the Commander smiling, sitting back in the chair, his elbow on the armrest and his fingers rhythmically rubbing his temple the entire time.

Tom Paris's door chimed. Again. And again. He rolled over in bed, dragging the pillow over his face as he did. Which had absolutely no effect on the volume or repetition of the sound. Who the hell was bothering him at this hour? He didn't report to the garden for another three hours, and if Chakotay had reported him to Janeway, then he probably wouldn't be reporting to the garden period. Tom stumbled out of bed, tripped over his boots, and was sent sprawling into the carpet. Where he discovered that he'd tracked dirt in, the night before. He yanked himself up and went to the door. If this was Chakotay, or any Maquis, hell if it was anyone short of Tuvok or Janeway, he was going to greet them with a swift kick to the gut.

It was Harry Kim. He was bouncing from foot to foot. His entire body was moving with impatience. Damned sweet, annoying kid, Tom thought.

"Harry," Tom greeted him with a less than welcoming tone. "What's up? I wasn't."

If Harry noticed Tom's evident irritation, he chose not to acknowledge it.

"Tom, I need to talk to you."

Tom rubbed his eyes-he had sleep and dirt in his eyelashes. "About what," he sighed.

"The Maquis."

"My absolute favorite subject. Why can't this wait, Harry?"

"Because it's important. And because I go on duty in a few hours."

"Me too," Tom retorted. "Hence the sleeping I was doing."

"Tom, I don't want to talk about this in the corridor, I don't want any of them overhearing."

"I don't want to talk about this period."

"Tom, you don't even know what this is," Harry snapped at his disagreeable friend.

"If it involves the Maquis I truly don't care."

Actually, Harry knew Tom probably did care, but was too pissed at being woken to admit it.

"Tom, it should take only a second. Can I come in?"

Tom stepped back, and turned back into his quarters, muttering under his breath the entire time. Harry followed him, noting that not only was his friend acting like a recalcitrant little boy, but his quarters looked like one lived there, too. There was even dirt ground into the carpet.

"Where'd the dirt come from, Tom?"

"I work in the garden, where do you think the dirt came from?" Tom collapsed on the couch. "What was it about the Maquis that you wanted to wake me up for?"

Harry walked over and stood in front of Tom, who was apparently falling right back asleep.

"I think the Maquis are planning on assassinating Captain Janeway," Harry stated.

That woke Tom up immediately. "What?" He opened his eyes and stared at Harry.

"Or atleast planning on getting rid of her somehow."

"How the hell did you come up with that conclusion?" Tom asked.

"I thought this over for a long time, and I talked over it with Neelix. The Maquis used to be constantly insubordinate and violent, and now they're practically docile. And Chakotay is spending a hell of a lot more time with Janeway than he used to. I think they're getting her trust, and then killing her, so command of Voyager goes to Chakotay."

Tom shook his head in disbelief, Harry liked making utterly senseless connections, but this was extreme.

"Harry." Tom sighed. He didn't even know where to start. "First of all, be careful who you call docile. Some of them will rip your legs off and feed them to you. Secondly, Chakotay just has bad taste in women. Thirdly, command of Voyager would go to Tuvok because the Starfleet crew would throw a temper tantrum if they were under Chakotay's command. And fourthly, I think you've gone insane."

"Tom-" Harry began.

"No, Harry. Please just think over what I've said and if you still think you're right, we can talk about it later, okay?"

"Okay, before I go, just tell me, what do you know about the Commander and the Captain?" Harry asked.

Tom was curling back up on the couch. "As far as I know, he just wants to fuck her, not fuck her up."

Harry winced at the profanity, and turned to leave.

As he left, Tom called after him, "Hey Harry, Neelix's serving Peach Pie today. Whatever you do, don't eat it."

Harry halted, and turned around. "Tom, what did you do?"

"I switched the syrup with a really powerful Klingon laxative." Tom started chuckling.

Harry shook his head.

"What are you going to do when Janeway catches you?"

"Offer her some pie."

"Tom, she not as oblivious as you think she is."

"We'll see, Harry."

"What if she bans you from the Garden and the kitchen?"

"I'll just cry my eyes out. She not going to do anything, Harry. She's a moron. Aren't you late for your shift?"

Harry left at that. But he was thinking, that if his Captain couldn't catch Tom and his food hijinks, how could she keep an eye on all the Maquis?

He passed two Federation crewmen in the corridor on his way from the Bridge. One belatedly acknowledged him with a semi-respectful 'sir,' the other was even later in her response, motivated only by her companion's kick to her shin. Chakotay rounded the corner, pretending not to have heard the last, whispered part of her greeting,"Commander Shithead."

Before, he might have taken her aside for a long, menacing conversation about the dangers of making derogatory comments to a Maquis, and then to hit her where it hurt, he would use the Starfleet code and speak to her as the first officer, on the inappropriateness of insubordination. Hell, he knew the regulations better than most Star Fleet officers did. One had to know what one could get away with, and one had to know which article Janeway was using to justify her latest endeavor that seemed to everyone not inside her skull, to be a violation of the esteemed Prime Directive, as well as a stupid decision on its own. The latter was being none too rare.

But the days of intimidation tactics and observable dissatisfaction with the Star Fleet regulations, not too mention the Star Fleet crew, as well as the Captain's senseless decisions were long gone. With them went his daily 'chats' with certain people. And the rest of his Maquis sacrificed their time with their own rude devotees. For most it was a relief not to have react to the constant comments with instant viciousness. Except B'Elanna, that is. She had enjoyed rebuking her harassers. He knew how she felt. After a day of incessant disrespect and mistreatment, it felt damned good to watch the blood slowly drain from the distressed face of someone who was indirectly responsible for the stress of your day. B'Elanna saw a lot of attitude in Engineering. She was in charge of a crew with an 80/20 percentage of Star Fleet and Maquis. B'Elanna's orders were slowly executed, altered without her permission, and challenged outright. Now she had no recourse but to make notations of their behavior in her reports. Fat lot they cared. Not nearly as effective as the back of the hand response in Maquis engineering sections.

But she and all the Maquis were glad that while they were halting their brawling reactions, it wasn't because they were surrendering to the mistreatment. On the contrary, it was so they could take a stand against it, without it being obvious what they were planning. Less eloquently, it was so they could kick some Star Fleet ass, without looking like they were going to. B'Elanna didn't like eloquence.

He had instructed the Maquis to let the change happen slowly. It every Maquis had stopped criticizing Star Fleet regulations, had stopped standing up for themselves in verbal arguments, or had suddenly stopped participating in the brawls they themselves usually instigated-well, that would've been damned suspicious. So it happened over time. Until one day no one was muttering about the stupid chain of command, it biggest flaw that Janeway was in charge. No one was reciting the Federation's wrongs against the Maquis. No one was making anymore comments about Star Fleet incompetence, or drawing direct relationships between the arguably low intelligence of Star Fleet crewmembers and the size of their genitals. Well, actually, all those things ceased in public, and continued at the same rate, in private. But to outsiders, it looked like the Maquis had broken; no more nasty terrorist individuals questioning sound decisions, disrespecting the Captain, or trying to turn an orderly ship into a disorderly brawl. Too bad for Star Fleet that things aren't always as they appear.

Chakotay entered B'Elanna's quarters just in time to see her smack Gerron across the back of the head for messing with an intricate Klingon statue. He was the last to arrive; B'Elanna's quarters were already filled with Maquis. He motioned for B'Elanna to stop her efforts to repair the damaged statue and take a seat. She did, but not before smacking Gerron again. He stood before the group and cleared his throat. The encounter in the corridor made his voice all the more powerful and forceful.

"This is how it ends..."

Tom Paris had blown off Harry's worries as the products of a very bored, yet very imaginative mind. He wasn't so sure anymore. He had just watched a procession of Maquis enter B'Elanna Torres' quarters, over the last hour. Chakotay was last. Tom heard Jenny Delaney call someone "Commander Shithead," from where he was lurking. The Maquis did not have a weekly poker game. This was bad beyond words. He didn't even know if this was a usual thing. How long had these meetings been going on? How could he not have known something was up? He had to find out what was happening in Torres' quarters.

He had a lot of experience with the Jeffrey's Tubes, having used them as safer, alternate routes through the ship, back when the crap was being kicked out of him on a daily basis. He easily found the one situated directly above where he guessed the Maquis were meeting. He could hear a muffled voice, which meant whoever was talking, was talking very loudly inside. He pressed the amplifier he'd grabbed on his way, against the floor of the Jeffrey's Tube.

"-by our hand, and we end it now!" Chakotay's voice boomed into his ear.

No, this was no poker game. Goddammit, how could he have not known about this?

"In one hundred forty-four hours, Voyager will reach the Planet designated Alpha 634. The end of the line," Chakotay continued.

Tom recognized the powerful tone in Chakotay voice. It was the same one that he used when motivating his people against the Cardassians. It screamed authority, power, and occasionally just screamed. This was getting worse by the moment.

"Any last questions, this is the time."

Tom had a few questions alright. Like, what the hell was happening in a hundred forty-four hours on Alpha 634?

A different voice piped up to Tom's ears. It sounded like Dalby, but he couldn't be sure.

"What if there is a member of Star Fleet who has never been one to fight against us, and is willing to live under our rules. Would she or he be allowed?"

Allowed to what, Tom thought furiously.

"Have you told anyone, Mr. Dalby?" asked Chakotay. The question was harmless, but Tom heard the danger in it.

"No!" Dalby answered quickly. "She, this person's very intuitive. She, this person feels something in the air that's what they told me. The fact that she hasn't told anyone else is a tribute to her cooperative nature."

"Who is it?" Chakotay asked.

There was a pause, while Dalby debated whether to reveal the person to the Commander. Tom already knew who it was. The woman Dalby had been sleeping with for the past eight or so months. How was it that Harry and someone else had sensed this, whatever this was, coming, and he hadn't? Maybe Harry was sleeping with one of the Maquis. If that's what it took to keep on top of the Maquis, Janeway should be able to nip this in the bud. Except Harry definitely wasn't sleeping with anyone, and Janeway wasn't sleeping with Chakotay, he saw that now.

"It's Samantha Wildman," Dalby finally said. "She asked me to try to ensure the safety of her child."

"We don't hurt children," replied Chakotay.

A female voice interjected, Tom thought it was B'Elanna Torres.

"You said so yourself. This isn't going to be organized. People might get hurt in the chaos."

"Very well," Chakotay decided. "The Wildmans will be removed to Alpha 634, first. Whether or not they return will be decided later."

"Okay," said Dalby, sounding like he knew it was the best he could get for his lover.

Okay, it sounded to Tom like the Maquis were indeed planning a mutiny, to what end he didn't know. Assassinating Janeway, like Harry thought? Maybe. Taking control of Voyager? More likely. Killing him? Might happen in any mutiny orchestrated by the Maquis. He wasn't about to stick around to find out. Things weren't all that great for him under Star Fleet, how much worse could they get under the Maquis? He could end up dead, which was quite a bit worse. He'd just be given a very short time in which to fulfill his plan to flee voyager. A hundred forty-four hours was five days, and he had to be out of there before the Maquis' plan came together.

Tom started crawling out of the Jeffrey's Tube. He didn't have time to hear about anymore of it. Besides, he couldn't really glean anything from the conversation. Chakotay had started talking about the importance of Step Gamma, without explaining what Step Gamma was. Tom didn't have time to try and decipher little bits of information; he had to get a move on.

First, confirm his transportation off Voyager. He knew Torres had been working on the shuttles a lot, of late. Now he suspected it had something to do with what they were plotting. Were the Maquis planning on leaving Voyager? Well, they'd have to do it with one less shuttle.

Second, he'd go tell Harry his suspicions were somewhat right. He'd ask Harry to come with him, even though he knew his young friend would want to stay and fight the insurrection. He'd have to ask Harry to keep it quiet until he left Voyager, or somehow the leak of information would be traced back to him, and the Maquis would come after him.

Third, he'd have to get a check-up from the Emergency Medical Holograph. Who knew how long it'd be until he had access to decent medical care again?

Lastly, he would have to say good-bye. Good-bye to Harry, who he knew wouldn't come with him. And good-bye to Neelix, the friendly little Talaxian didn't deserve to watch the ship go to hell. But Neelix wouldn't come with him, either. His two friends would want to stick it out, God knows why.

But Tom knew, once he left, he would never see them again.

Tuvok observed Tom Paris tumbling out of a Jeffrey's Tube, landing none too gently on the floor of the corridor. He swore upon landing. He swore again when he lifted his head up and saw Tuvok.

"Mr. Paris," Tuvok greeted, peering down at him

"Tuvok." Tom struggled to turn over and get to his feet.

Tuvok extended his hand. Tom grasped it and allowed the strong Vulcan to pull him upright. How the hell was he going to explain this?

"I guess you're wondering what I was doing up there," Tom began, brushing himself off.

"You may explain that, as well as your activities in the mess hall, to the Captain," Tuvok stated.

Tuvok took hold of Tom's bicep, and forcibly began to lead him toward the turbo lift. Tom didn't resist, like he had any chance of getting away from Tuvok.

Of all the inopportune times for Harry to be right twice....

Captain Janeway was sitting at her desk when Tuvok escorted Tom into her ready room. She motioned him over. Once he stood in front of her, he realized she truly looked dangerous for the first time.

"Tom." Her voice was dangerous, too.

This was not good.

She picked up a PADD from the surface of her desk. She activated it, and began to read from the displayed text.

"Leola Root Stew, contaminated with syrup of ipecac."

She paused, looking up to meet his eyes. He could swear her eyes were snarling.

"Tomato Soup, contaminated with digitalis."

Her words were slow and deadly. The woman was pissed.

"Bajoran Hasperat, contaminated with Gelsemium."

The words were smooth and precise, yet it still sounded like she was growling.

"Tuwalli Pie, contaminated with Pycrotoxin."

Apparently she knew the effects of every poison, judging by her rising fury. Or maybe she was just that mad.

"Rajivian vegetables, injected with Rajivian poison."

Well, atleast she didn't have all his offenses. Unless she was skipping all the ones she couldn't pronounce.

"Peach Pie, with syrup of T'y'Lyhek'Ra."

She butchered the pronunciation.

And she was going to butcher him.

She swiveled in her chair, looking out at the stars. She'd rather speak to them, than to him.

"You are guilty of endangering this crew, of harmfully altering the food supplies of this ship, and of conduct unbecoming a-"

Well, he wasn't a Star Fleet Officer, she seemed to have forgotten.

"-paroled inmate."

But she found a perfectly suitable phrase to substitute.

"Do you have anything to say in you defense?"

Nothing that wouldn't get him into even deeper shit.

He shook his head.

"Tom Paris, I sentence you to ninety days in the brig," she ground out between clenched teeth.

Oh shit. And he hadn't said anything.

"Take Mr. Paris to the brig," she ordered Tuvok.

Tuvok grasped his arm again. This time he had to pull Tom in the desired direction.

Tom let him, but at the open door, he halted.

"Jeez," he tossed over his shoulder, "You'd think I was planning mutiny or something!"

And he was pleased to see that the entire Bridge crew heard him. Especially Ayala at Tactical, whose head shot up to stare at him.

Yeah, he thought. Go tell Chakotay. Get him nervous.

That was him, Tom Paris, arrogant to the end.

And if he was in the Brig in five days, while the Maquis mutinied, it really was his end.

Captain Kathryn Janeway's jaw was aching from clenching her teeth so tightly together. In her lap, her fingernails dug through the cloth over her knees. They hurt, too. Her spine was stiff, her back pressed against the chair back. Even her toes were pressed firmly against the bottom of her boots. Her entire body was rigid. Every major muscle and a few minor ones were stretched taut. She stayed totally still in this position for a few moments after the door to her ready room slid shut, after allowing the cause of her of her anger to exit.

Then, she drew her legs up. She wrapped her arms around her knees, letting her boots dangle over the edge of the chair, staring out at the stars. One thought better when compressed, she thought. And it was hell of a lot more difficult to break things from that position. Because she shouldn't break things. Including her teeth. With some difficulty, she relaxed her jaw. And then as a bombardment of thoughts struck her mind, her teeth clamped back together with the same force as before.

Tom Paris could have killed someone. He was probably trying to kill someone. One doesn't put those amounts of deadly poisons into food unless you want the person eating it to die. Quite painfully, considering the effects of some of those poisons. The stars flying by the window blurred. The Klingon laxative? That was something she might have expected. Digitalis in Tomato Soup? That was pure homicidal intent, and a sadistic homicide at that. The only reason lives hadn't been lost was the crew's willingness to go to sickbay when they felt horribly ill. That and the efficiency of the programmers of the Emergency Medical Holograph.

She ought to alter the charges against Paris to attempted murder for every dish he'd created. Keep him in the Brig ninety years instead of ninety days. When Voyager got back to the Alpha Quadrant, Paris would go back to the Auckland Penitentiary, just as she'd planned when they originally set off on the Mission to retrieve Tuvok and capture the Maquis. He'd just go back an old man. And she'd speak on his behalf at his next parole hearing, just as she promised. She'd speak on his outstanding ability to act like an upstanding citizen, and be practicing criminal behavior in secret. She'd tell them of his willingness to hunt down the Maquis, then get in frequent brawls with them and with the Star Fleet crew, and then stop fighting only to continue fighting in the most cowardly way possible, with poison in their meals. When they least expected it. When she least expected it.

Janeway unwrapped one of her arms, using that hand to rub the bridge of her nose. At one level, she knew the agonizing pain there was purely psychological, along with the fury she had for Paris, she felt immense guilt. She'd been the one to appoint him to the kitchen. She'd taken a long time deciding where to put him on the ship. She'd known the merging of the former Maquis and Star Fleet crews wouldn't be easy. She didn't need someone who was hated by both sides making it even tougher. So she'd put him with Neelix. Neelix liked everyone. And in addition to putting him in a position to try and poison the entire crew, she hadn't known what he was doing.

It had taken the anonymous transmission she'd received that morning, for her to realize that someone was trying to kill her crew. It distressed her to no end that she hadn't known. Hell, it pissed her off. And she knew, she knew from the expression on Tom's face, that she still didn't know the half of it. Someone who had just been found guilty of a multitude of crimes didn't look that relieved, unless they'd gotten away with more than they'd been caught for.

Which brought her to her second question, why the hell hadn't she known? The mess hall was quite obviously an instant suspect for originating a mass poisoning. If the EMH had reported a mass poisoning. Which he hadn't. And that wasn't a failure on the part of his programming. She wondered how good Paris' programming skills were. Quite good, she imagined. Causing a fatal shuttle accident, getting caught on his very first mission for the Maquis, his record made him out to be positively inept. Like hell.

Mr. Paris was anything but, she was beginning to realize. He was a pilot, a holograph programmer, a Gardner (and a decent one, she'd thought before today), and a damn fine liar. A liar who knew how to get to his enemies. She'd noticed the presence of Bajoran foods on the PADD. Who'd enjoy Bajoran foods? Why, people who worked rather closely with Bajorans, and spent time on Bajoran ships and Bajoran influenced planets. The Maquis.

The level that didn't know the pain in her head was purely psychological was rubbing the bridge of her nose raw. She'd have to check the Security schedule and find out who was stationed in the brig for the next ninety days. If it were any former Maquis crewmen, she'd have to have Tuvok amend it. One glance at the list and they would know just who he was trying to get. And then they would get him.

A Star Fleet crewmember might be pissed. Would definitely be pissed. But every one of them had a hell of a lot more restraint than any one of the former Maquis. The Maquis had calmed down significantly since the beginning of the journey. But she knew not to test them. Or tempt them. And beating the hell out of Tom Paris was an enormous temptation, and a test they'd fail. Chakotay's amiable nature hadn't rubbed off on his former crew.

There were times to trust the Maquis. This wasn't one of them.

Gerron was the first to leave B'Elanna's quarters, sprinting away from her curses. The crowd diminished slowly after his exit. A mass exodus from B'Elanna's quarters would reveal just how large the gathering had been. As it was, it looked like a dwindling poker game. Which was to be the official response, if anyone asked what they were up to. And to keep their stories straight, Chakotay cleaned them out during the fictional poker game, which had far too many participants and no winning pot. But Janeway would buy it, as would Tuvok.

But the truth was, it was Chakotay that was cleaned out by his conspirators' barrage of questions. For something he knew was going to chaotic, violent, and a generally brutal event, it was actually thoroughly planned, and exhausting to explain. But that didn't stop everyone from needing clarification on every step. He was pleased with their plan, for the most part.

There was no pretending. This wasn't going to be a simple ship wide announcement, instructing all Star Fleet crewmembers to line up in the Transporter Room, to beam down to Alpha 634. And that was once rid of half her passengers, the good ship Voyager would continue on home to the Alpha Quadrant. It wasn't going to be that clean, try as they might.

But there was no posturing, either. The Star Fleet crew wasn't going to be dragged from their quarters and duty stations, phaser barrels to their heads. They weren't going to be tossed onto the Transporter Pad, without explanation. Even the real bastards weren't getting thrown out airlocks. No unnecessary violence, no murders that could be avoided, nothing in the "How to Have a Successful Mutiny," Handbook. Not if they could help it, and not unless Plan A failed.

And try as hard as the Maquis did to find gaping flaws in it, they couldn't. Which didn't mean there weren't any, B'Elanna had pointed out. No, of course it didn't. It just meant that any flaws would be a surprise. A surprise that could come as one person with a phaser or an entire Security Team armed to the teeth.

In which case, Chakotay explained, the inevitable violence became necessary.

"I want you all to survive this. I don't want this to turn into a war," he'd said.

At which point B'Elanna snorted. "This is a mutiny, Chakotay, not a picnic."

"And it's not a war, either. I know some of you have personal issues with some members of Star Fleet, but this is not the time to deal with them. If you're taking care of personal vendettas, you're not doing your job. You all have jobs. Collectively, our job is to take this ship. But it can't be done if we're not doing the things to bring about that end."

He knew they understood. It was too damn close to suddenly start taking issue with a plan that had been so long in forming and so careful in execution, so far.

Five days. Only five days.

In the corridor he met Ayala, coming off duty from the Bridge.

"The Bitch put the traitor in the brig," he announced, his message decipherable to anyone, if it hadn't been whispered.

Considering Paris' recent activities, that wasn't any surprise. And it was one less possible problem to have to work with.

Chakotay nodded and moved to pass Ayala, but the man grabbed him by the shoulders and hissed urgently,

"He knows. I heard him, he knows!"

Chakotay froze. No mistaking what it was Paris knew.

Well, here was another problem to bury. Or the modern day equivalent.

Chakotay shook himself loose of Ayala's desperate grasp.

Of all the inconvenient things to happen.

He motioned for Ayala to accompany him back to B'Elanna's quarters. Time for another poker game. This one would definitely allow for discussion of violence.

B'Elanne looked up when the two men entered. There were still a few stragglers inside, raiding her Replicator rations, to her intense displeasure. She noticed the look of irritation on Chakotay's face. What the hell could he have learned after three minutes in the hallway to produce an expression like that?

"What happened?"

Ayala provided her answer. "Tom Paris knows."

Well, she knew what had produced that expression, now. Little did she know, at the moment, she was mirroring it.

As much as she had wanted Chakotay to understand the necessity of dealing with that little runt, this was not how she wanted it to come around. Still, it wasn't an impossible obstacle. Her eyes shot to the Klingon Ceremonial Dagger on the wall. Ceremonial? Well, she'd say a little prayer after it was done. She'd replicated the weapon during their first weeks on Voyager. Tuvok the traitor had wanted to confiscate it. She'd thrown a fit and claimed one just like it had been destroyed on Chakotay's ship. He'd never entered her quarters on that ship, and couldn't disprove the outright lie. She'd insisted it held cultural significance to her. She got to keep it, but had never put it to its intended use. She'd had to correlate the rest of the decor around it. The other Klingon items in her quarters helped destroy the thought that she was storing it for later use.

Well, better late than never.

B'Elanna's face went from irked to feral.

"Where is he?" She inquired, the tone of her voice communicating her intentions.

Chakotay dropped heavily into a chair. "Inaccessible. The brig."

"His kitchen activities?"

Chakotay nodded.

"Has he told anyone?"

Anyone who might not be in the Brig, and who might be perfectly accessible?

"Not to my knowledge," said Ayala. "He just stood in the doorway of the Bitch's Ready Room, and said really loudly that one would think he was planning a mutiny. I guess he was talking about the time he's been sentenced to in the Brig, but no way was he talking to Janeway. He looked straight at me when he said it. He was letting me know that he knows."

"Why would he do that?" asked B'Elanna. "Did he think we'd take the hint and just stop?"

"No," replied Chakotay. "Paris thought he'd get a dig in, and let us know he's got something on us. But you're right, it was a stupid choice for him to make."

"Because we're going to kill him."

"Right."

Chakotay turned his head toward the other Maquis in B'Elanna's quarters.

"Jarvin," he called. "Who's the next one of us on duty in the Brig?"

Jarvin sat down at B'Elanna's terminal and called up the upcoming duty schedule.

"Dalby," he replied.

"When?"

"Three days. Duty shift Alpha."

"What if Paris talks in the meantime?" asked B'Elanna.

"We need to monitor the Brig. B'Elanna, get a repair crew in there under any circumstances you can. Plant it and patch the vid and sound to these quarters. If Paris says anything..."

Chakotay didn't finish his sentence, but B'Elanna had already decided to sharpen the blade on that dagger.

Chakotay rose to leave.

"I'll let Dalby know what he has to do, if you don't have to do it first."

After Chakotay's departure, Jarvin and the other Maquis soon left.

B'Elanna took a seat at her terminal. She tapped into Jarvin's replicator account and stole back what he had used of hers.

A full account of Replicator credits. Three days until Paris was dead. Five days until Voyager was theirs. This was going to be a good week.

Just inside Dalby's quarters, Chakotay spoke to him in hushed tones. Dalby nodded, as he was dictated his duty. When the Commander left, Dalby returned to his bedroom, even though it was still early in the evening.

He wrapped himself around the slick, feminine body in his bed. She stirred at his touch, and felt the tension in the arms that encircled her.

"What is it?" She asked, knowing he wouldn't tell her.

"Nothing, Samantha."

I have to kill Tom Paris in three days.

He kissed her.

"Nothing at all."

Tom Paris was feeling stifled. He always felt stifled in small spaces. The Brig had to be one of the worst small spaces for someone claustrophobic to be imprisoned in. He could cross the floor in eight steps. Side-to-side, that is. The slight heat of the force field kept him away from the front of the cell. That and the rather painful energy bursts it produced when he touched it by accident. Or on purpose.

If you put a mouse in a cage with a piece of cheese that would zap the mouse when it touched the cheese, how many times would the mouse touch it?

Sixteen, or however many menacing glares from the security guard it took to make the mouse decide that if he did that again, he would lose his little mouse head.

Not the cleverest of metaphors, Tom mused, but it would do.

Besides, pet mice were given something to do in their cages other than test the boundaries. Janeway might provide a little metal wheel, if she felt sorry for him. Or she might provide a guillotine if she didn't. Better off not requesting anything while the fury was fresh.

For some reason, Tom felt restless. For someone who had been in the brig many, many times before, and in a penal colony for years, and who should know how to entertain oneself while in jail, restlessness was an unknown feeling. He couldn't focus on exercising. He tried having a staring contest with the guard, but that only got him an even more menacing look than his force field poking exploits had. He couldn't even sleep.

He lay in the semi-darkness that the Brig qualified as an appropriate darkness for prisoners that had to be visible to the Brig guard, on the hard mattress, feeling wide-awake. There was what he could only describe as a coil of energy in his stomach, his spine felt ready to spring.

When Janeway tossed him in the Brig for protecting himself against vicious attacks from both sides of the crew, or fighting as she called it, he'd never experienced the excess adrenaline he felt now. Probably had something to do with the fact that those were weekend to weeklong stints in the brig, and he was tired, sore, and furious that getting the tar kicked out of him qualified as fighting.

This was a ninety-day stint that he doubted would go beyond five days, and he didn't know whether he'd be alive the following eighty-five days.

In the middle of his sleepless night, there was finally some entertainment in the small brig. B'Elanna Torres and another Maquis crewman arrived. They had a whispered conversation, far out of his earshot, with the Star Fleet guard.

You turn your back, I'll kill him.

Or so he imagined she was saying.

Apparently paranoia was part of the package, because after briefly speaking with the guard, Torres and her companion went to work on something besides him. They removed a panel from the ceiling. Torres boosted the other Maquis up inside the Jeffrey's Tube. Then she climbed up on a footstool and disappeared half way into the tube.

Tom couldn't see what they were doing, but he stayed in the same inconspicuous position for twenty minutes, watching all the same. And he was quite glad he did, too. Because the Star Fleet guard managed to somehow kick the foot stool out from under Torres. Quite impressive because he was standing across the room when the half-Klingon dragged herself off the floor.

Tom was practically asphyxiating from hiding his laughter. He was waiting for the woman to fly across the room and decapitate the guard.

She didn't.

She calmly picked up the instrument that had fallen with her, and checked it for damage. She set the stool back up. She took a first step on it, recalibrating the settings that had been altered when it hit the floor. It was only then that Tom saw her illuminated by the Brig lights, and read her body language and saw the real story.

Torres' entire body was quivering. Quivering with fury. She was stabbing the buttons with more force than necessary. She might actually break the key pad. She turned her head in his direction.

Eye contact.

If human looks could kill, they probably would, but Klingon looks would be a much more painful way to die.

Torres looked away. She climbed back up on the stool, disappearing entirely into the Jeffrey's Tube.

Tom stopped watching.

In five days, all the Maquis who were that angry, that angry they were physically shaking, would no longer hold it inside.

He didn't want to be around when that happened

Tom Paris slept, but he didn't like his dreams.

Harry Kim came to visit him the afternoon of the next day. They had a severely edited conversation, and a rather uncomfortable one at that, well aware of the security guard's presence. They talked about what Tom would do when he was released, because Janeway would never allow him back in the kitchen. Tom suggested that he be appointed to the holo-gym as a human punching bag.

Harry didn't find it very funny.

The security guard seemed to like the idea.

Tom knew, vaguely, what would happen if anyone dropped the force field, time for his release or not. His plan wasn't very detailed, but it had a certain goal in mind.

He would run like hell.

He would leave Voyager.

He would never, ever come back.

But he just smiled and let Harry ramble on about taking a position in cargo storage. It was perfect for him, his friend explained. Very few crewmembers for him to work with, not a single Maquis.

Except, Tom thought, those crewmembers would have the daily opportunity to drop huge, heavy containers on top of him.

To Harry, he just said he would inquire with the Captain at the end of his sentence.

If she's still the Captain.

Harry left the Brig without ever saying, "I told you so," although Tom knew Harry had every right to throw his dubious judgment of the Captain back in Tom's face

And Tom let him leave without so much as a hint to Harry that he'd been right. Right on both the Captain's ability to discern the going's on that he'd thought she was oblivious to, and on the Maquis' plan to take Voyager.

To which Janeway was truly unaware. Or perfectly content to let them go through with it, anyway.

How had she managed to catch him, a single person, and not take notice of what a good part of the crew was involved in?

Hmm. Because he'd been tattled on, he'd guessed that much. By Chakotay, he'd decided. The Maquis wanted him out of the way for a while. And Janeway didn't have a clue about the mutiny because the Maquis were damn good at keeping their plan quiet. No Maquis was going to tell.

But Tom could.

He wrestled with that thought for a very long time.

It sounded like the Maquis had had this in the works for a very long time. Alerting the Captain to it might only speed up its arrival. And make it all the bloodier.

And telling certainly wouldn't endear him to Maquis, should they be the victors.

But maybe Star Fleet would be able to defend against the uprising. Or maybe they wouldn't.

There were too many scenarios in which the Maquis won and in which they would execute their swift revenge against him.

Execute. Gee, there's irony for you.

He'd keep his mouth shut, Tom decided. Whatever happened would happen without warning from him.

He felt rage building in his chest.

Janeway was blind, deaf, and dumb. Who the hell gave her a Starship? She was as responsible as the Maquis for whatever was going to happen in five days. Four, now. There were people in her crew who didn't deserve to be led to their deaths by an incompetent Captain. Not many, but some. Any deaths would be on her inept hands. Including his own.

A poor Captain would know when her crew was abusing an individual for fun. A decent Captain would know when her crew was divided into two alienated and aggressive parts. A good Captain would have prevented the separation in the first place, and the Maquis wouldn't feel they had to do this.

But Captain Janeway was a Captain four days away from losing her ship and had no idea what was coming.

It was then that Neelix entered the Brig. He was carrying a steaming tray. Behind him, little Naomi Wildman followed.

"Hello, Tom," Neelix called.

"Hey, Neelix," Tom replied. He couldn't keep the smile off his face when he saw Naomi. Her mother frequently left her with Neelix during her duty shifts and during her personal time with Ken Dalby. By association, Tom saw a lot of Naomi.

"Hello, Naomi!"

"Hi, Tom!"

Naomi was only a toddler by human years, but her Ktarian paternity gave her the size and intelligence of an older child. But not the patience. The Security Guard had to grab her arm to prevent the child from running smack into the activated force field. Once Neelix deactivated it and set the tray down inside, Naomi ran inside the cell and into Tom's arms.

"Captain Janeway's taken away your replicator privileges," Neelix quietly explained the presence of the tray.

"I think it's a fair exchange," said Tom, one arm around sweet Naomi. He paused. "Did you make it?"

"Yes," said Neelix.

Good.

Tom dug in without the fear that someone had taken revenge for poison with poison.

"Where's you mother," he asked Naomi, who was digging into his chocolate pudding with her fingers.

"I don't know." The chocolate pudding was now being spread around her mouth.

"Samantha had some work to do, she said," offered Neelix. "She's not on duty, though."

Samantha Wildman was probably off working hard to save herself and her daughter from the hell to come. Samantha had never bothered him, never tried to keep her daughter from associating with him, and never participated in the Maquis-Starfleet hostilities. And now she knew what even the Captain didn't. There was a smart woman. He looked down at her daughter. A little chocolate mess never hurt anyone. If that was the worst thing Naomi had to deal with, then her mother was doing a fine job.

Maybe the future would be better if it was Captain Samantha Wildman.

Kathryn Janeway was having breakfast in the mess hall. Something she felt much safer doing now that a certain chef was no longer in contact with the food. She watched Neelix run hurriedly around the wide room, trying desperately to not only staff the serving line, but take care of what seemed to be consecutive mishaps the dining area. Unfortunately, the mess hall was now clearly understaffed. She'd have to talk to Chakotay and decide who would be an adequate replacement. She wondered what exactly Tom Paris had done, besides poison the food, to make his absence so noticeable.

From Neelix's frantic efforts to handle what was obviously not his usual workload, the belligerent young man had to have done something productive. As her thoughts turned back to the lone residence of the Brig, she felt her fingers tighten around her fork. She forced herself to relax and continue eating normally.

The night she'd put Paris in the brig, she'd let the outrage take over. It was a perfectly normal reaction, but not one she should have let continue through the night. She'd been so busy hating Paris for his actions, being outraged that they could occur on her ship, she'd forgotten to do anything else. Janeway had spent the previous day calming herself down. She was still working on it. But she was ready to talk about it. She was ready to work it out as Captain and as Kathryn Janeway, both of whom had just been betrayed by Tom Paris.

That meant she needed to talk to Tuvok.

And there he was, coincidentally, having just entered the mess hall. He was standing in the long serving line, his impassive face a contrast to the impatient faces in front of him. Janeway pushed her empty plate aside. She made her way toward the line. She brushed by some former Maquis, who had joined the line behind him. As she passed, she could swear she heard someone mutter an emphatic "Bitch!" But when she looked back, the two former Maquis were still talking about the inadequate supply of replictor rations. She must have misheard, or the hungry former Maquis thought she was cutting in line. Once behind Tuvok, she called his attention.

"Mr. Tuvok."

He turned around.

"Captain."

"This appears to be going nowhere fast. Perhaps you would join me in my quarters for a conversation. My replicator rations."

"Certainly."

They began to exit the line.

"About what do you wish to talk," inquired Tuvok.

"Tom Paris," she answered succinctly.

And it was definitely not her imagination that all conversation by the former Maquis ceased, and that there were a good many ears inclined towards her. Tuvok took notice, as well.

"It would be wise to begin this conversation in your quarters," he told her.

"Indeed."

And we're going to talk about what the hell that was, too, she thought, hearing conversation slowly begin again.

As soon as they were gone, Jarvin turned sharply to Gerron.

"Go tell Chakotay," he ordered.

Gerron had sprinted from the mess hall before Jarvin finished saying the Commander's name.

Neelix, behind the stove, steadfastly pretended he hadn't heard a thing.

Janeway did not speak to Tuvok in the corridor or the Turbo Lift. Their silent, determined stride towards her quarters projected the message to clear out of the way. Samantha Wildman, walking towards them with her daughter, got the most awkward of expressions across her face. And when they passed, she grabbed Naomi's hand, increased her speed, and practically dragged her daughter towards the Turbo Lift.

"Mom!" Naomi whined, trying to keep up with her mother's longer legs.

Her mother didn't appear to have heard the complaint.

"This is not good," she muttered to herself.

And when Naomi whimpered again, Samantha picked her up. She clutched the child tightly in her arms.

"Not yet. Not yet. It can't happen now," Samantha repeated to herself.

Naomi had no idea what her mother was talking about, but she didn't like the tone to her voice.

In the Captain's quarters, Janeway paced. Tuvok sat and watched her intense emotions fly over her face.

"You wished to speak about Tom Paris," he prompted.

"I did. Now I want to talk about what just happened in the mess hall."

She stopped moving.

"I want to know what that was."

In the Mess Hall, Neelix nervously continued to serve breakfast.

In the Brig, Tom sat on the bunk and wished like hell that someone would bother to bring him breakfast.

In the Wildman quarters, Samantha searched her mind for a way to protect Naomi and herself from something that had come too early.

In the first officer's quarters, Chakotay was being warned that their plans had just been shot to hell.

And in the Captain's quarters, Janeway and Tuvok discussed the veracity of their former Maquis comrades.

Or lack thereof.

And while Tuvok spoke with logic, Janeway found herself strangely paranoid, her mind racing with thoughts of a Maquis conspiracy. She'd been blissfully unaware that Tom Paris was endangering the crew on a daily basis. God only knew what Chakotay's people could be up to, without her knowledge.

Chakotay's people? When did she start thinking of the former Maquis as his people?

Former? She was going to have rethink putting that word in front of Maquis.

Mean while, Tuvok spoke with fewer accusations.

"It is well-known that many of the former Maquis have low opinions of Mr. Paris."

"To say the least," she retorted.

"Many of them also harbor aggression towards him," Tuvok continued.

"I noticed."

She started moving again.

"It is possible that their profound interest in our conversation was in order to find out why he is in the Brig, and for how long. And a few might be aware of the circumstances under which he was placed in the Brig, and be curious when he will be released, so that they might...take issue with him in regard to his crimes, personally."

That was Vulcan for "They want to beat the shit out of him."

Janeway circled the coffee table again.

"By no means have those aggressive feelings disappeared entirely, Tuvok. But no action would be taken against him. That type of behavior has long since ceased."

When her steps brought her to face Tuvok again, she found his arched eyebrows residing near his hairline.

The universal facial movement for "What?"

Or maybe it was "What universe are you living in?"

"You disagree?"

Tuvok nodded.

"The former Maquis have ceased perceptible aggression, but I believe it is a deception. Motivated perhaps, by your instructions to Commander Chakotay to resolve differences with the Star Fleet Crew. Unwilling to make the effort, the former Maquis have only pretended to obey."

"How long have you had these concerns?"

"I reached that conclusion approximately a year ago."

"Allow me to phrase that differently, why the hell didn't you inform me?"

"My concerns have been minimal, Captain. Had they ever reached a point where I believed there was danger to Voyager or the crew, I would not have kept silent." He added, "And I thought that you had reached a similar conclusion. I was in error."

Janeway finally sat down across from Tuvok.

"Do you believe that the Maquis may, imperceptibly, have continued their abuse of Mr. Paris?" She sighed. "I remember when I used to have put him in the Brig, for his own protection, on a weekly basis. I thought those fights were over with."

"I do not know. I do not believe so, for I believe I would know if they had. And if Mr. Paris was being abused, poisoning the crew was not an appropriate response."

"I know. He didn't respond appropriately before, either. He was making weapons out anything, remember?" Janeway growled, her eyes darkening to recall that time.

Tuvok obviously did.

"He should have reported the attacks, not responded to them with more violence," said Tuvok.

"Yes."

Janeway felt the adrenaline fading. She'd been so caught up in her sudden belief that the former Maquis were up to something, the realization that they weren't, drained her. She smiled weakly at Tuvok.

"I was beginning to think there was some sort of Maquis conspiracy abounds. Turns out, I only completely misjudged the feelings of half my crew."

"You requested that I alter the security schedule in order to prevent any former Maquis from guarding Paris. You were aware, to an extent."

Janeway nodded. She didn't feel any better.

"Have you done that?"

"Yes, Crewman O'Donnell will take Lieutenant Dalby's shift."

"Good. Now, I believe I need to speak with Commander Chakotay."

Chakotay was with seven other Maquis, among them B'Elanna Torres and Ken Dalby. They were trying, rather fruitlessly, to come up with a spontaneous plan that was similar to the original. And failing.

B'Elanna swore Tom Paris had said nothing. Unless he'd suddenly become telepathic or found a way to communicate that couldn't be detected by sight or sound. She'd installed the monitor his first night in the Brig, and kept an eye on the vid.

It didn't matter if Paris had been the one to tell Janeway. What mattered was that she knew.

And everyone in Chakotay's quarters jumped when her voice came over Chakotay's comm badge.

"Janeway to Chakotay."

And everyone froze.

Chakotay was the first to react. He gestured to the others to keep quiet

"Chakotay here," he replied, his voice perfectly neutral.

"I think it's time we had a discussion. I'll be coming by your quarters, if that's alright."

It didn't sound like a request.

"Certainly, Captain."

He ended the conversation.

"You need to get out of here before she comes," he announced.

Dalby was already clearing the PADDs and getting rid of all evidence of what they'd been doing.

Little late for that, Chakotay thought.

Time for this, he thought, as B'Elanna handed him a phaser rifle.

He stared at it.

"We don't know that I need that yet."

"Yes, we do," was B'Elanna's firm reply.

He placed the phaser rifle on the couch, beneath a designed throw cover, and put a pillow on top of it.

He sat down beside it.

The Maquis scattered from his quarters.

B'Elanna lurked outside in the corridor, waiting for the Captain.

She saw Janeway walking towards Chakotay's quarters.

Alone.

Unarmed.

What the hell?

B'Elanna watched her from afar, as Janeway chimed the door. A moment later, she disappeared inside.

Idiot Janeway.

This was going to be easy for Chakotay.

Chakotay heard the door chime. He took a deep breath. He let it out. He touched the phaser rifle, hidden next to him.

"Come in," he called, careful to keep his voice as normal as possible.

The door slid open. Kathryn Janeway stepped inside. She was alone, weaponless, with an unusual, rather odd look on her face, which did nothing to put Chakotay at ease.

Who came to a mutineer without a phaser or an entire security team?

He hadn't thought she'd meant 'talk' literally.

"Captain," he greeted her.

"Commander." And her voice had the strangest quality to it.

"Have a seat," he offered, gesturing to the chair across from him.

"Thank you."

She sat down. Janeway was looking straight at him, but she said nothing.

"You said you wanted to talk," he prompted.

"Yes."

She took a deep breath, like she was preparing to speak for a very long while.

"It's been brought to my attention that the former Maquis are less than pleased with conditions on Voyager, but have kept their resentment to themselves."

Well, that was one way of saying it.

Out loud, Chakotay said nothing, wondering where the hell she was going with this.

"It's a disappointment, Chakotay, to say the least."

Disappointed? She was responding to a mutiny by being disappointed?

"I was under the impression that the many Maquis-Starfleet differences had been resolved."

Like hell.

"I was in error, obviously."

You were an idiot, that's what you were.

"It was in a conversation with Lt. Tuvok that I came to realize the scope of my mistaken assumption."

She kept talking, but Chakotay only kept one ear peeled to her words.

She talked about her questionable judgment of the feelings of his crew. She talked about the necessity of resolving the lingering difference between the Maquis and Starfleet crews. She said something about organizing group counseling sessions to discuss crew problems. She said she hoped they could reach a true reconciliation of the two crews.

Not a single word about the mutiny.

Because she didn't know about it, did she?

No, she didn't.

He tried his damnedest to keep the grin off his face.

She was finishing talking, "I truly hope we can reach a resolution, Chakotay."

"As do I," he lied. "And this time, we'll work harder."

She left his quarters. Only moments later, B'Elanna entered.

Her eyes screamed questions.

He was trying to keep from gloating, but not doing a very good job of it.

"She doesn't know a thing. Everything continues as planned."

B'Elanna's vindictive smile joined his own.

"Tomorrow Tom Paris dies..."

"And in three days, Voyager is ours."

In the Brig, Tom was brought a cold lunch by Tuvok, of all people. He asked where Neelix was, and it was explained to him that the Talaxian had taken ill. Neelix was in his quarters, after being examined by the EMH. Tuvok left then, and Tom Paris was alone, save the Security guard. And he had the most disturbing feeling, which he couldn't quite identify, creeping up his spine.

Ken Dalby gently rolled Samantha Wildman over on to the other side of the bed. The woman, still asleep, settled against the mattress with a soft sound. Ken sat up slowly, careful not to shake the bed or jostle his companion and wake her up. He observed her face for a moment. She looked very much like her child from this angle, minus the Ktarian spikes and red hair. He knew Naomi was going to be a very beautiful woman when she grew up. Her mother certainly was. Even more so when Samantha was asleep, and her features weren't stretched taut with worry and anxiety, as they had been of late. Like they were when she'd begun screaming at him earlier that evening.

The fight to change the balance of power had almost arrived early, terrifying Samantha. There had been no place for Samantha to take Naomi for safety. Samantha had stayed in her quarters for two hours, the time it took for Captain Janeway to prove to everyone that she was indeed incompetent and still completely oblivious. Samantha hadn't known what was happening, and could only hold her child and pray for their safety.

When Ken had arrived with the message that all was well, atleast for the meantime, Samantha turned her fright into furor. She'd tried to send Naomi to Neelix, so they didn't have a screaming fight in front of her. Neelix had retreated to his quarters, claiming illness. Ken had heard Neelix had been in the Mess Hall when Gerron and Jarvin had misinterpreted Janeway's words. Neelix had witnessed the Maquis' reaction when they thought their plan had been found out. Ken didn't want to think what might be done to keep the man quiet. He already knew what he was doing to keep Tom Paris quiet.

There had been no place to send Naomi, so her mother settled for putting her daughter in the next room. Then, quietly but fiercely she'd turned her anger against him. She'd hissed the fear she'd felt, the helplessness. In a harsh whisper, she'd blamed him. He'd held her-well actually he'd blocked a flailing arm and then he'd held her. He tried to explain the unpredictable situation, which he knew she understood perfectly.

At dinner, the atmosphere was nasty. Intuitive Naomi knew it was not the time to balk at eating her vegetables. And despite the attitude he'd received from Samantha, her reaction passed an unplanned test. She'd thought the real thing had begun, and hadn't suddenly run to the other side. She'd hidden in her quarters-their quarters, practically-and waited for him. Whatever uniform she was going to put on in the morning, she knew who was going to win. Ken knew Chakotay would allow the Wildmans to stay on board, when it was over and done with. He would see her reaction as a demonstration of trustworthiness.

He rose quietly from the bed. He took a PADD off the dresser and called up the Security schedule. His name had been removed from Alpha Shift, replaced with O'Donnell. Somehow, he didn't think that was going to be an obstacle. He'd have to tell Chakotay, in the morning. He would still be going to the Brig for Alpha Shift, he knew a way would be found for O'Donnell to be unavailable. For now, Ken was going to pretend he wasn't going to end a life in a few hours.

He went back to bed. He gently drew Samantha back into his arms. Ken Dalby's last sleepy thought was that he'd like nothing better than to stay in her warm embrace forever.

Tom Paris awoke slowly. He arched his back, trying to rid his spine of the stiffness induced by the hard Brig bunk. He wondered briefly if covering a rock with cloth and calling it a bed was against Star Fleet regulations. If not, it was definitely a violation of the Federation's Prisoner's Bill of Rights. As was only giving said prisoner one meal a day, which had happened to him yesterday.

Tuvok had brought him lunch, which he had eaten without the fear of poison. He knew Vulcans didn't have the capacity for revenge. Harry had come to see him afterwards. There'd been a huge fuss in the Mess Hall, Harry had told him. About what, Harry wasn't sure. He'd promised to tell Tom once he found out. Tom had a pretty good idea what the fuss was about, but said nothing to Harry. Tom had asked Harry how Neelix was, but Harry hadn't known.

Neelix hadn't recovered by dinner, though, because one of the Delaneys-he couldn't remember which one-brought him dinner. She'd made a nasty comment; something like it was about time someone put atleast one of the ship's cooks in prison, some of the meals were crimes against humanity. Very funny. He hadn't known if she knew why he'd been put in the Brig, but he hadn't taken the chance. He'd chopped the meal up into little pieces, to make it look like he'd eaten some of it. He'd gone to sleep uncomfortably hungry, actually hoping Neelix would be well by the next day and bring him some Leola Root Stew.

Damn, he was hungry. Tom sat up on the bunk, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Not that he really needed to see his surroundings. He could describe them by memory, with his eyes shut. Tiny Brig cell, Security Guard standing behind the console, and a whole lot of nothing. He dropped his hands from his face, expecting to see the same old, same old.

Except, there was a tray of breakfast set on the floor. He almost dove toward it, remembering just in time to question its source.

"Hey," he called to the Security Guard. "Neelix bring that?"

Tom pointed to the tray.

The Security Guard looked up, clearly surprised Tom would talk to him.

"No. Megan Delaney."

Aw, shit!

Tom's shoulders slumped. He was so hungry. He sat down and poked at the meal. It looked fine. Looked delicious. Smelled normal. Smelled wonderful.

Everything you made, he reminded himself, looked and smelled perfectly normal.

Yes, he tried to argue with his brain from his stomach's point of view. But I'm an angry, vindictive man with a nasty temperament and a tendency to hit people where they least expect it. Megan Delaney isn't.

She's not a man, he responded to his stomach, but you did get her sister pretty good with the Klingon laxative.

Yes, I certainly did.

And Tom found himself grinning insanely.

Oh, this wasn't healthy, he knew that.

Tom began chopping the waffles into little pieces, like he'd done with dinner the night before. He sat there a while, miserable, trying to find a distraction from the temptation before him. His eyes fell on the Security Guard, who met Tom's eyes with confusion in his own.

What was that old saying? When the news is bad, kill the messenger.

And when there's a force field between the two of you, annoy the hell out of him.

Tom smiled.

He knew this was what got him in the Brig so many times before; his irresistible desire to cause trouble where there had ceased to be any, or atleast increase the amount of trouble. He'd been taking revenge with his food poisoning endeavors, this was just because he was pissed. And hungry.

Tom put a piece of waffle on his fork. Turning the fork so the prongs were toward him, Tom catapulted the piece of waffle against the force field.

Fizz.

That was an amusing sound, Tom thought. Apparently the Security Guard didn't share Tom's sense of humor, because he sent an irritated glance in Tom's direction.

So Tom did it again. And again. And again.

He didn't stop when the irritated glances turned into a steady glare.

He didn't stop when the Security Guard told him to stop.

And he didn't obey the commands when they got even louder and profane.

And he definitely didn't stop when the man stepped out from behind the console and started walking towards him.

Come on, Tom thought, I want you to drop the force field. I want to get the hell out of here.

And that's just what the man was about to do, when the door slid open and Security Guard for the next shift walked in.

"Hey, Lang. You're off," said Crewman O'Donnell.

Lang shot Tom a withering look. Tom stared back at him innocently. Lang strode out of the Brig, passing O'Donnell on the way out. Lang muttered something to him. Tom didn't hear the entire message, just that it included the word 'asshole'.

O'Donnell stared at Tom for a moment, with measuring gaze. Tom stared sullenly back at him. He didn't have enough waffle left to provoke this one in to dropping the force field. O'Donnell took his place behind the Security console. He was only there a few minutes; Tom only had time to discover that drops of milk made a much softer, much less annoying sound against the force field, before Ken Dalby entered the Brig.

"O'Donnell, Torres needs you in engineering," he said.

"Engineering?"

"That's what she said."

"Why would I be needed in engineering?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"

O'Donnell had stepped away from the console, but was wavering as whether to stay or go.

"I'll cover for you," offered Dalby, tossing his head toward Tom.

That convinced O'Donnell, who quickly left the Brig. Dalby watched Paris watch him. Dalby walked over to a panel on the wall, feeling Paris' eyes on him the entire time. When he opened it, he took the phaser out in full view of Paris.

Tom wasn't hungry anymore.

Just because you know you're going to die, it doesn't make the actual experience any better. It doesn't make you braver, it doesn't make you calmer, and it does nothing to reduce the fear.

Nothing at all.

Tom was glad he hadn't eaten anything. If he had, he wouldn't be able to keep it down now.

Dalby shut the panel from which he'd retrieved the phaser. He didn't turn around. He was certainly taking his time-Tom didn't know if he should be grateful for the extra time or angry that Dalby was drawing this out. Tom stood up. Or atleast he tried to. His knees locked together. With considerable effort, Tom got to his feet. Something bothered him about dying sitting down. Something bothered him about dying at all.

Ken turned to face the Brig cell. Paris had risen. He was standing tall, in the center of the cell. Dalby had expected him to cower in the rear of the cell. Ken didn't know if he himself would be able to stay so calm in the face of the end. But it wasn't his end; it was the end for Tom Paris.

Dalby walked closer to the cell. Tom forced himself to hold still, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to tremble. He kept his breathing steady. Externally, he didn't give a damn that he was about to be murdered. On the inside, it was a different story. Tom's heart was pounding. Not only in his chest, in his head, in his hands, even in his knees, he could feel his blood pulsating. Firmly, he met Dalby's eyes. And Dalby dropped his gaze.

Ken looked down to check the configuration of the phaser. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to do this. Chakotay had said they didn't want an investigation. At the same time, they needed a cover story. Paris had tried to escape, better yet, tried to hurt Ken. The trajectory of the phaser beam and the placement of its target had to reflect this. But they didn't need a body. Dalby slowly moved the setting of the phaser from light stun. Past heavy stun, past kill, onto disintegration. He didn't see the shudders that went through Tom, each level he passed.

Dalby set the phaser on disintegrate. Atleast it would be quick. Dalby reached over and touched the Brig Control Panel. The force field dropped. Dalby raised the phaser, both hands wrapped around it. Tom swallowed, his throat dry. He desperately wanted to say something. Not something snide, not sarcastic. He wanted to have the last word. Hoping his voice wouldn't crack, he looked straight into Dalby's harsh eyes and said the first thing that entered his mind.

"You hug Naomi with those hands?"

Paris whispered maybe the only thing that could have delayed his execution. Momentarily. Ken's grip on the phaser loosened, slightly. His elbows almost lowered the weapon. Then, with even more determination, he tightened his grip. Raised the phaser directly parallel to Paris' midsection.

That was when the door to the Brig slid open.

Dalby instantly dropped his arms, using his body to hide the phaser. In the Brig doorway, Tom saw the most welcome sight he'd ever seen.

Neelix and Naomi.

The pure bravado that had been holding him up gave out. Tom fell to the floor of the cell, leg splayed. And he barely had enough strength to catch the streak of child that launched itself at him. He folded his arms around her small figure. He saw Dalby step away, the phaser hidden behind his back, irritation evident on his face. Tom buried his face in Naomi's hair. He tried to keep from crying. It was only against the warmth of Naomi's skin that he realized how cold he was. Clammy. Like a corpse. He held Naomi tighter. He wasn't a corpse yet.

Naomi could feel Tom's heart beat through his clothes. Fast and hard, like he'd been exercising for a very long time. This was a very small room, she didn't know what he could have been doing to get so tired. And he was squeezing her tightly. He wasn't talking at all, but he was happy to see her. Then she felt something warm and wet drip down the back of her neck. Tears. Like her mother's, the night before. Like the shine in Neelix's eyes. She didn't know what all the adults around her were crying about, but she didn't like it.

"Don't worry, Tom," she told him. "It'll be okay."

She tried to move her hands to wipe his face, but he was holding her too tightly.

Ken moved aside with a muffled curse. He turned his back on the image of Tom embracing Naomi like it was his last chance. Which it was. He walked over to Lon Suder and Gerron, who had followed Neelix through the door and were now lurking by it. Neelix had moved slowly toward Tom and Naomi.

"Lovely timing," Ken hissed.

"We're just keeping an eye on Neelix," Gerron whispered back. "We didn't know what we were interrupting."

"If you'd come in ten seconds later, do you know what Naomi would've seen me do?"

"Yes," said Suder.

"It's not like she's isn't going to see a lot more of that the day after tomorrow," justified Gerron.

"Aren't you the idiot who overreacted in the Mess Hall, and isn't that why Neelix needs keeping an eye on in the first place?" Ken snarled at Gerron.

Gerron didn't reply immediately, then he muttered, "It was Jarvin."

Ken shook his head at Gerron, to Suder he said, "I only have so much time. B'Elanna can't keep O'Donnell away indefinitely."

Suder took a step forward. "Neelix, it's time to go."

Neelix, kneeling next to Tom and Naomi, looked up.

"Get Naomi. It's time to go," Suder repeated, louder

Tom slowly disentangled himself from Naomi. He gently lifted her upright and pressed her hand into Neelix's. The Talaxian was hesitant to go. He knew all to well what his arrival had interrupted.

"Tom, if I stay..."

"Then the same thing will happen. To both of us," he said, mindful of small ears nearby. "I *don't* want Naomi seeing that."

Neelix nodded sadly. He guided a very confused Naomi out of the cell. Neelix turned back, his eyes wet.

"Tom," Neelix began, haltingly.

"Yeah, Neelix, I know."

The two men hugged, parting slowly when Lon Suder spoke for a third time. As Neelix and Naomi walked toward the exit, Tom called after them.

"Neelix, tell Harry...tell Harry goodbye for me."

Neelix stopped, and turned back.

"I will, Tom. I promise I will."

Gerron began hustling Neelix and Naomi toward the door. This earned him a viscous kick in shin from Naomi. She didn't know exactly what was happening, but she picked up on the desperate feelings of two of the people she loved most in the universe, and she knew the young Bajoran was partly responsible. As was her mother's 'friend' Ken, but he wasn't pushing her towards the door, away from Tom.

"Suder," said Ken. "I could use some help with this," he gestured to Paris.

"All right."

The door slid shut. Tom watched the two men approach him.

Well, atleast he'd gotten to say goodbye to Neelix and Naomi. That was a small comfort.

Tom didn't know what it was. Whether it was holding Naomi, feeling her confused sympathy, and knowing he would never get to hold her again. Whether it was the wrenching look Neelix gave him as he left. It could have been the thought that he wouldn't get to say goodbye to Harry. That he would never get to see Harry again. That he would never see Naomi or Neelix again. Maybe it was watching Gerron shove Naomi out the door.

Or, maybe he just didn't have any fear left. The human body can only accumulate so much abstract terror before it loses its ability to process that feeling to the brain. In which case, Tom thanked God for human limitations.

Because he wasn't scared anymore.

He was mad. Mad as all hell.

Normal people do not solve their problems by murdering them. By the same token, people with even an ounce of self-preservation do not stand still and let themselves be killed. Which was exactly what he was doing.

Not anymore, he thought, watching Dalby and Suder advance upon him.

The small, irrational part of his brain, probably the same part that had held him immobile before, wondered quietly why he had to wait until there were two attackers to have this revelation.

Tom ignored it.

I was in prison. I know how to fight. I don't care about the odds. I am not dying now. I am not dying here.

So intense were his thoughts, Tom didn't even hear the on-going conversation between Dalby and Suder.

"-he grabs the knife from his breakfast, rushes at you..." "And you shoot him," finished Suder.

But Tom heard what he needed to. He gazed at the two men, now dangerously close.

"Paris, step out of the cell," Dalby commanded.

No way in hell.

"Or what?" he snorted. "You're going to shoot me anyway."

Dalby's eyes flashed with impatience. That just made Tom angrier.

Was his death on a schedule or something?

And the same little part of his brain that wouldn't shut up, spoke again, remarking that Chakotay was very organized and Tom's death was most definitely planned on a schedule.

While Tom was trying to desperately to focus on Dalby, and ignore his idiotically random thoughts, he didn't see Suder approaching from the side.

The strong Betazoid physically tossed him out of the cell. Tom stumbled forward, straight towards Dalby. Hardly even thinking, he brought his elbow down hard against Dalby's shoulder.

The phaser clattered to the floor. Where, Tom couldn't see.

Neither could Dalby, which meant while Dalby was looking for it, Tom could grab his collar with one hand and get in several good strong rights with the other.

He got one.

Then Lon Suder drove him to the floor. The impact knocked the breath and a hell of a lot of strength out of Tom. Suder's big hands closed around his shoulders, inching towards his throat.

Tom bucked. Tom kicked. Tom tried jutting his head forward into Suder's face. He heard something in his own face crack, felt something warm gush down his chin. He didn't stop. He stared into Suder's wide black eyes. Murderous eyes. Tom forced one arm free, started feeling the ground for the dropped weapon. His fingers closed around the handle. He started drawing his arm back in. A forceful boot on his elbow stopped his progress.

Time was, a punch from Tom Paris would keep a man down for over an hour.

Times change.

As Dalby was proving with every increasing inch of pressure on his arm. With his last remaining strength in that arm, Tom sent the phaser skittering across the floor. There was a nauseating crunch before Dalby removed his foot. His arm stayed out, unnaturally bent. Tom's other arm fought both Suder's hands off his throat.

Suder shifted quickly, and when he was done moving his knee came down in Tom's solar plexus. A move which otherwise might have forced the air out of Tom's lungs, if Suder's fingers weren't squeezing his windpipe shut. Suder's other leg pinned his victim's legs down.

Tom tried clawing ineffectually at Suder's face. All he could see was those large Betazoid eyes. Black eyes.

The little voice came unbidden.

What the hell was this? Betazoids were supposed to be weak and brainy. Stereotypically, they weren't supposed to strangle people to death. Goddamn stereotypes. Suder couldn't feel what Tom felt?

The terror had returned. And there was pain.

Tom's vision tunneled. Red dots darted toward him.

He tried to breathe, discovered he couldn't. The knife from his tray slid toward him. Feebly, he reached for it. Too far away. Everything was too far away.

Atleast I fought. I tried. I tried my damnedest.

The last thing he saw was the barrel of a phaser enter his field of view, as it was held over his face.

Megan Delaney tried to step out of the Captain's way. Her troubles got her knocked into the wall. Her sister got knocked into the other wall. They both turned around to look at the solid streak of red blow by the other unfortunate crewmembers in the corridor.

"See, Jenny. I told you she was mad."

Jenny Delaney met her sister's eyes. "Yeah, you did. You didn't say how mad."

"Bateheart said you should've seen her on the Bridge. She gave Chakotay this look. Like a phaser beam, he said."

Continuing towards their adjacent quarters, the twins leaned closer together, shielding their gossip from non-existent bystanders.

"Did Chakotay know about it ahead of time?" asked Jenny.

"Probably. He hates Paris even more than Janeway does. And you know those Maquis. They have their own chain-of-command, and Janeway isn't in it. Chakotay probably ordered it done."

"Sue told me Janeway confined Dalby and Suder to their quarters."

"Yeah, but that's going to be the Brig, soon. What they did went way beyond self-defense," said Megan.

"Why didn't she do something to Chakotay?" asked Jenny.

Megan threw her arm around her sister, mockingly patronizing her.

"Do I really have to explain that, sister dear?"

Jenny shrugged Megan's arm off, irritated. "No. I know how the Maquis would react. Especially that Klingon bitch in Engineering."

"I'm glad to find you aren't that naive. It's disturbing, though, that Chakotay can have something like that done, and have no consequences. Even if it was just Paris. What if Chakotay decides he doesn't like someone else." Megan remarked.

"I know it's disturbing. That asshole used to take me aside when he thought I'd disrespected him, and he'd blatantly threaten me, and then act like he was only doing his duty as first officer," replied Jenny.

"Maybe Janeway will decide this is the last straw and toss all the Maquis off the ship," muttered Megan, without conviction.

As they rounded the corner, they almost collided with B'Elanna Torres.

"Sorry," said one of the Delaney twins, utterly unapologetic. They continued past her, apparently unconcerned that she'd heard practically their entire conversation.

Chakotay didn't have the excess energy to be too irritated with B'Elanna for entering his quarters without chiming first. She put her hands over the back of his chair, and greeted him with:

"I hear Janeway's acting like a targ with a phaser up-"

But he did manage a semi-threatening look that cut off her clever analogy. She moved in front of him, hands on her hips.

"What is it?"

"I just had a three hour conversation with her," He grimaced.

"And?"

"Yesterday I managed to disperse her suspicions."

"Yes."

"Not today."

"What does she know?"

"Not everything. Very little, but she sees the ever-growing possibility that there's something she doesn't see. That's what's dangerous."

"And Tuvok?"

"Tuvok is obviously no longer subject to any...interference...by Suder. The good news is that he doesn't know that he ever was. The bad news is..."

"He's Tuvok."

"Exactly. Suder was just 'confusing' him, as Suder put it. It should be a while before everything falls in place."

"We don't have a while."

"We do now. We're increasing speed to Alpha 634. We'll reach it tomorrow."

"Why?"

"I suggested we organize shore leave as soon as possible, to clear out "Cabin Fever" and any other emotions that accumulate after being confined on a ship for too long. Alpha 634 is the nearest M-Class planet."

"That's good," B'Elanna offered.

"Yes. And it was the least suspicious thing I said the entire time," he said with quiet mirth.

"Do we continue as planned?"

"Yes. But we're going to execute the rest of our plan with more competency and effectiveness than Dalby and Suder achieved."

"At least Paris won't be able to interfere. Twenty-four hours, the Doc said."

"Twenty-four hours. We'll be there by then."

B'Elanna left, apparently reassured, although Chakotay found himself somewhat subdued.

He couldn't get the last words he'd exchanged with Janeway out of his head. It wasn't so much the words, but also the tone in which they'd been uttered, and that they so exactly paralleled the journey of the coming fight.

He tried, with careful restraint and caution, to explain the Maquis rage to Janeway's blazing eyes.

"It's been a long trip, Kathryn."

And the use of her first name didn't have its usual effect of softening her response, which was thrust immediately back in his face, forcefully.

"It's only going to get longer."

There was another pair of hands touching Tom Paris. Not violent like Suder or Dalby. He couldn't open his eyes to see who it was. He found he still had the strength to wonder why the hell it took three Maquis to take care of him. What were they going to do now, throw him out an airlock?

Dear God, please don't let that happen.

He tried to open his eyes, but found his eyelashes were too heavy. He cracked one lid, just barely. He wasn't on the floor of the brig, anymore. The someone was holding him still-or was it down? There was a hand on his neck and another on his hip. Dalby and Suder were not within his eyesight.

Good.

He must have passed out, or been beamed to this new location.

Maybe he'd died.

He tried to keep the one eye open just a little longer, but he was so tired. Not too mention confused. There was a blurry face, belonging to that someone, right above him. He couldn't tell who it was. It looked male, if blurry figures could be assigned a gender.

Chakotay, the little voice whispered.

Maybe.

So Chakotay wanted to do the honors himself, huh?

Fine, just as long as Tom didn't have to live through it.

His eye slid shut again.

When he opened his eyes again, the world made a bit more sense.

He was on a bio-bed. The EMH was hovering around his feet.

It was an enormous relief to see him, and not Chakotay.

Hey, Doc.

He didn't know if that came out aloud or not.

Somehow the EMH appeared above him. Something pressed against his neck. He tried to jerk away, having had too many things touch his throat as of late.His reflexes were seriously lacking; the thought only occurred to him after the contents of the hypospray - the something - emptied, and his muscles didn't obey the command to move, anyway.

The Doc was talking, or at least his mouth was moving. Tom couldn't hear him very well, he tried listen harder.

"Mr. Paris, severe damage was done to your throat," the Doc was saying.

Yeah, it's called strangulation.

"You cannot speak. There is a medical instrument inside your throat, doing additional repairs to the delicate tissues I was unable to treat during surgery," he continued.

Surgery? I don't remember any surgery.

"You were in surgery for three hours," the Doc went on.

Even though Tom couldn't speak, the surprise must have been reflected on his face, judging by the reaction the EMH had.

Gee, I hope some of that time was spent on my face, my arm, and whatever Suder did when he put his knee on my rib cage.

The Doctor must have interpreted the surprise as worry, because he hastened to reassure him.

"Your voice and breathing capacities will be perfectly normal after the instrument is removed. Do not worry, Mr. Paris. You'll be complaining quite vocally within twenty-four hours."

Ooh, levity.

Tom wasn't amused. This wasn't fair. He'd decided on his own to keep quiet about the mutiny. He kept quiet about the mutiny, the Maquis didn't kill him for the whole poison debacle. That had been the deal, even if he hadn't clued the Maquis in on it. They tried to kill him. He should be able to run screaming to Tuvok now. Tom didn't care now if the mutiny turned into a bloody mess- it likely would be in the first place, a bloodier mess wouldn't change much.

This wasn't fair!

"I'm going to sedate you again," said the Doc.

He picked up another hypospray from nearby, bringing it towards Tom's neck.

"I have two other patients. Unfortunately, I can't make house calls, and I don't believe you'd be particularly happy to see either one of them."

The hypospray touched Tom's neck. It hissed, flooding exhaustion into Tom.

"Nearly as much damage was done to Mr. Suder as was done to you, Mr. Paris," was the last thing Tom heard.

He barely had enough consciousness left to be pleased with himself. Barely.

Tom slowly woke up again. He was still under the affects of sedation; he could definitely feel the sluggishness in his body and brain. Tom wondered how long it had been since the Doctor had awakened him. It felt like forever. The dim, empty sickbay told him nothing.

Tom was being touched.

He peeked through his clouded eyes at whoever it was. He had a moment of terror, wondering if it was one of the Maquis come to finish the job. He prayed that Janeway had had the sense to post security - none Maquis security - outside sickbay.

It wasn't a Maquis.

It was Janeway.

Janeway?

She was standing by his shoulders. It was no wonder he hadn't been able to recognize her; she didn't look like the Captain.

She didn't have that powerful, authoritative posture Janeway always used. Her shoulders were slumped; her spine held none of the rigidity he saw so much of. She was in uniform, but it was hardly crisp or even clean. Her hair was mussed; the Janeway bun was coming undone. And she was touching him.

Tenderly.

This had to be some sort of delusion induced by the sedative.

Janeway doesn't slouch. Janeway keeps her uniform clean. Janeway's hair does not muss. And Janeway doesn't touch me. Not like that.

This delusion of Janeway continued to touch him. She was running her fingers lightly through his hair. Over and over again. She was talking, too. Very softly, and not to him. She didn't even know he was awake. Tom strained to hear her words.

Well, the voice of the delusion Janeway was exactly like the voice of the real Janeway.

Angry.

But not at him.

That was a change.

"What the hell," she murmured.

"What the hell," louder and angrier.

He didn't know how long she'd been there, talking, but not to him. He tried to keep totally still, and not let on he was awake - somewhat, at least - and could hear every word. He didn't think she knew, but she'd stopped talking. Her face descended towards his.

"I'm sorry." She was so quiet he hardly heard the words.

And then she was gone.

He struggled against the sedative, trying to sort over her behavior, but without the curious distraction there just wasn't any chance of winning the battle for consciousness.

Big brown eyes.

Peering into his own.

Tom Paris tried to scream. He tried to sit up and scoot away.

He was thwarted on both counts by two pieces of irritatingly effective modern technology-the tissue regenerator in his throat and the EMH's forceful hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the bio-bed.

And the Doc didn't bother to explain to him why he was being held down, being too busy scolding the owner of those big brown eyes, Harry Kim.

"Mr. Kim, I told you-!"

"I'm sorry, Doc. I didn't mean to startle him. I didn't know he was going to try and sit up like that."

"He cannot sit up. In order for the instrument-" The Doc's hand moved to enclose Tom's throat. "-to work properly, he must remain parallel to the floor."

The feel of the Doc's hand, even loosely, around Tom's throat made him uncomfortable. He lifted his arm-no longer broken, he noted-and tried to remove the hand.

It didn't work.

But it did bring the EMH's attention down to his patient.

"Did you hear me, Mr. Paris? You cannot sit up. You can be restrained to the bio-bed, if need be. Do you understand?"

The Doc didn't let go, clearly awaiting a response. Tom suspected from the Doctor's irritated tone that Harry had been here a while. Tom wasn't sure how to communicate his cooperation. If sitting up was bad, shaking his head was probably also on the not-okay list. He settled for mouthing 'yes'. The Doc let go and retreated from the perimeter of the bio-bed, allowing Harry to move in.

As he looked at Harry, Tom remembered how he'd felt when he'd thought he never see his friend again. He felt his eyes well up. He fought like hell to keep the tears from spilling over. That was the last thing he wanted: to be stuck flat on his back, crying, and unable to explain. Well, Harry could probably guess. Harry didn't say anything about Tom's efforts, which was only fair because Tom didn't have a choice about saying anything about Harry's own glistening eyes.

"Hey, Tom."

Harry had the additional problem of trying to keep his voice from cracking.

Harry took his hand in something that resembled a handshake and a squeeze combined. He didn't let go. And he held tight. Tom's fingers began to hurt a little. That was okay.

It was the best kind of pain.

"You look...a lot better."

That was a kind way of saying that he still looked like he'd been hit by a shuttle going Warp 10.

Or maybe a shuttle disguised as a Betazoid bastard named Suder.

Maybe Harry was becoming telepathic, because he squeezed harder and continued.

"That's a good thing, Tom. I saw you before, and..."

The paleness to Harry's skin and the distant look in his eyes told Tom that Harry was imagining exactly what Tom had looked like after the attack, and it wasn't pretty. The look of nausea fluttered from Harry's face, as he visibly forced the image from his mind.

"Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't come to see you earlier. I wanted to, I tried to. Tuvok practically broke my arm dragging me out of the brig. And then he threatened to have me confined to quarters if I didn't report to duty. That why I couldn't get here until dinner." Harry scowled, and spat with significant venom, "I don't know what Tuvok's problem was."

"Perhaps he was concerned you would attempt to break Mr. Dalby's jaw, as you did Mr. Suder's," speculated the Doctor, helpfully.

Harry broke Suder's jaw?

>From the look Harry cast in the Doctor's direction, not only was it true but Harry was not ashamed of his violent actions, as he once would have been.

He looked like he wanted to do it again.

Tom yanked Harry's hand to bring his attention back around. Harry looked back down, reading the questions in Tom's eyes.

"You don't remember, do you?"

Not a thing.

"I was just going to the Brig to visit you, and I met Tuvok right outside the door. He said he'd heard the guard on duty had been called down to Engineering, and he was coming to cover the empty post. We walked in and saw you...and Dalby and Suder."

It seemed to Tom that the pause had been used replaced the words 'getting killed'.

"Suder was choking you, and Dalby was holding a phaser right above your face," Harry was lost in the memory, his hand tightening around Tom's, like it had tightened into a fist to knock Suder away. While Tuvok had disarmed Dalby with minimal violence, Harry, enraged, had exceeded the necessary actions to save Tom. After which, Tom had been beamed to sick bay and Tuvok had forcibly removed Harry from the brig. Which is where Dalby and Suder were residing now, Harry explained.

Harry leaned closer, hand still tightly holding Tom's.

"I know you aren't in a position to argue now, but I think you were wrong earlier. About the Maquis being up to something. Besides what they did to you, I mean."

Harry leaned even closer, whispering.

"After the Doctor updated her on your condition, the Captain and the Commander went into her ready room. They were there for hours. When they came out, they *didn't* like each other. The Captain was looking at everyone with this death glare."

Harry raised his hand to his temple and shot it out in a straight line.

"Chakotay was, he was just quiet. And scary. I didn't like the hostility that was coming from everyone on the Bridge. And now it's beginning to permeate the whole ship. I don't know what's going to happen, but it isn't going to be good."

Neelix put his uneaten dinner back in the replicator opening. He wasn't hungry enough, delicious as Leola Root Stew was, although it lost some flavor when replicated. He hadn't felt like heading to the mess hall, knowing he would be followed by one of the Maquis, the entire way. And that there would be more Maquis in the mess hall, ones that were staffing the kitchen, upon his explanation that that was the duty of his normal assistants. The little comfort he got out of making them work was neutralized by the thought that he didn't know exactly what was happening in the kitchen, and that they could be following in the grand tradition of Tom Paris, with far deadlier intent.

Tom, who had been punished for his involvement in such activities. Punished nearly to death, Harry Kim had explained an hour ago, but had survived. Under the watchful eye of Gerron, Neelix had pretended the attack was a shock, and that he hadn't been witness to what almost were Tom's last moments alive. Before leaving, Harry had remarked in the most off-handedly way, that he still believed what he and Neelix had discussed days ago, in the mess hall. And Neelix had responded, hopefully without rousing the suspicion of Gerron, that he now agreed with him. Harry had, to his credit, avoided looking at Gerron at that answer, and left without a backward glance.

Neelix had been too nervous to eat. He was definitely too nervous to sleep. The nervousness persisted, even without the presence of Gerron, the quiet but incredibly intimidating younger Maquis, and Suder, the older Maquis whom he now knew had a violent under-belly, carefully hidden beneath a calm facade. He knew even without them peering over his shoulder, that he was still being watched. B'Elanna Torres had come in hours ago, claiming she needed to fix a receptor in his ceiling, but it was obviously some sort of device to monitor him.

Neelix knew he couldn't go tell the Captain what was happening, not without consequences closely resembling what Tom Paris had endured. He honestly didn't know exactly what was happening, as the Maquis assumed he did. He'd only overheard a disturbing conversation, and it was even more confusing than disturbing, in the mess hall. Gerron and Jarvin had had a peculiar reaction to a conversation between the Captain and Tuvok, involving Tom Paris, and now the formerly mention Maquis was guarding him whenever he left his quarters.

Neelix hoped fervently that Harry Kim did know exactly what was happening, and that he would report to the Captain and she would resolve it.

Neelix climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. If he couldn't sleep, maybe he could rest a bit. And he had almost, to his surprise, drifted off, when the door chimed.

He snapped awake.

It could be the Maquis. What did they want this late at night? When the ship was so quiet and so few people were on duty, and even less were awake?

The door chimed again.

Not opening the door wouldn't keep the Maquis out, he knew.

"Come in," he called, clutching the sheets.

The door slid open. Through the doorway to his living area, he saw a distorted shadow enter. It looked in all directions. It looked for him. The door slid shut, and the cabin was dark again.

"Neelix?" asked the young voice of Naomi Wildman.

Naomi. Neelix dropped the sheets from over his face, and quickly sat up.

"I'm right here, Naomi. Computer