Trials 4: Shadow's Trials

by TerriTrek

Life aboard Voyager is a complicated thing. Paris, Torres, Kim and Shadow keep on trying. I suck at summaries. Fourth in a series.

4. Chapter 4

*****************************

The tension between Maquis and Starfleet personnel was running high. It was inevitable that an eruption would occur as the anger and resentment simmering beneath the surface surged upward and spilled over. It was ironic that Malista Shadow, the innocent reason for most of the ill feeling, wasn't even present at Sandrine's when it occurred.

Henley was shooting pool with Gerron Tem. As she bent over for a shot, she heard a snickering remark from someone seated at the bar. The first two times, she didn't understand all the words, but she caught the tone. The third time she heard the words clearly. Slamming her pool cue down on the table, she spun to confront the smart mouth who'd been stinging her with sotto voce comments.

It was Crewman Paul Castelle. He'd just shared one gibe too many with the unresponsive Starfleet crewman sitting next to him at the bar. When Henley turned to confront him, Castelle got to his feet, his expression combining smiling defiance and a smirking leer. "Something wrong, Henley?" Insolence dripped from every syllable.

She made a move toward him, to find her way blocked by Gerron's shoulder as he faced her. "Henley, don't lose your temper."

She darted a glance at the young Bajoran, then turned her glare toward her antagonist. "Yeah, there's something wrong, Castelle. You have something to say to me, say it loud enough I can hear you. And say it to my face!"

The confrontation drew the eyes and ears of all those present in Sandrine's bar. All activity was at a standstill. Several people stood and drew closer, vaguely forming a semicircle. It was no coincidence that the Maquis were lining up near Henley and Gerron.

"What did I say?" Castelle said mockingly. "I was just expressing admiration for your form---with a cue stick." Unsure what was going on, several Starfleet crewmen were moving to stand with him---just in case. They couldn't leave one of their own isolated and outnumbered---whether they liked him or not. Castelle knew that and counted on it. He hadn't expected Henley to actually confront him. Shadow hadn't.

"Yeah, sure," Henley snapped. "I don't need your admiration. Or your opinion. So keep it to yourself."

"Maybe the Maquis haven't heard of freedom of speech? It's one of the principles of the Federation Constitution," he sneered. "But I forget, you Maquis are from those backwater colonies in the demilitarized zone."

Henley went for his throat. The only reason she didn't get it was because Gerron Tem wrapped his arms around her waist and thrust her back into the small crowd of Maquis and her forearms were seized by Dalby and Chell on either side of her.

"No! That's what he wants! If you throw the first punch---" Gerron whispered vehemently right in her ear.

Henley, breathing hard, let Gerron's words soak in and subsided even as she glared at the other man. The whole incident might have ended there, except for a single mistake in judgment.

"See?" Castelle said to the other Starfleet crewmen, gesturing toward Henley. "I told you those Maquis women were savage. They're barely civilized---but that just makes them wilder for sex. I hear they're insatiable? Right, Gerron?" The ensign was keeping a wary eye on Dalby and Henley, assuming any action would be started by one of the two hottest heads among the Maquis crew. That was his mistake.

He underestimated the young Bajoran's reaction to the taunt. That became clear as Gerron swung a fist and connected with Castelle's jaw. Castelle dropped to the deck, holding his chin and shaking his head to clear it. Before he could scramble to his feet, Dalby, Henley, and several other Maquis stepped forward, as did Castelle's Starfleet companions.

Before more fists could fly, a strong and powerful voice boomed, "That's enough! Stand down!" The First Officer, accompanied by Lt. Tuvok and two Security Officers pushed through the crowd and placed themselves squarely between the opposing sides.

"Everyone back off," Chakotay continued, staring down each and every crewmember individually. "You're finished for the night. Go to your quarters. As of now, the holodeck is closed for the night."

Reluctantly the crowd started to dissolve, the level of muttering increased but they obeyed. There were several more Security Officers stationed in the corridors to ensure the hostilities wouldn't be carried on elsewhere.

Chakotay looked down with disgust at Crewman Castelle. He should have known this man would be involved. "Lt. Tuvok, place Crewman Castelle and Crewman Gerron under arrest. The captain will deal with this in the morning."

At a nod from Tuvok, Ensigns Simms and Hudson took the sullen pair into custody and marched them to the brig.

Dalby began to protest, but was stricken into silence by the glare in Chakotay's brown eyes. He swallowed his words.

Henley was still standing there as well. "Gerron didn't---"

"Save it," the commander snapped. "I expect a full incident report from each of you in one hour---in my office. And that goes for you, too," he added, directing the comment to the Starfleet crewmen who'd apparently been siding with Castelle.

They nodded reluctantly, accepting their dismissal and skulking out of the holodeck. Henley and Dalby continued to wait for an opportunity to speak to the first officer. Their eyes darted to Lt. Tuvok.

Chakotay noticed. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your promptness in dealing with this situation before it got out of hand."

"Anticipating problems facilitates dealing with them when they arise," the Vulcan replied. "Though I fail to see how you were able to predict this course of events with such accuracy. Did you have access to information that I did not?"

Chakotay's dimples briefly flashed into view. "In a manner of speaking. That's why I programmed Sandrine to warn us, if it seemed likely that a brawl was about to occur."

Tuvok nodded. "A wise course of action. If you will excuse me, Commander, I will fill out an incident report of my own and check on the status of the prisoners." At Chakotay's nod of dismissal, he left the holodeck.

The first officer now turned his attention to his former Maquis shipmates. "When I asked you for information last week, you stonewalled me. You ready to talk? Now?"

They nodded.

*****************************

Lieutenant Tuvok ran a quick assessing eye around the brig and the occupants of the two cells. He nodded approvingly at Simms and Hudson. "Have you summoned medical assistance for the prisoners?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," Simms replied. "The doctor is on his way. He was a little put out that we didn't bring them to Sickbay---"

"The doctor is quite frequently 'put out' as you call it," Tuvok replied evenly. "Their injuries do not seem severe enough to warrant chancing further confrontation while they are undergoing medical treatment."

"Yes, sir." Simms darted a look at his partner, soliciting his opinion wordlessly.

Hudson stepped forward. "Lt. Tuvok, there is a matter we need to discuss with you. We've been informally investigating a problem that may be more widespread than we believed in light of this incident...."

***************

END OF TRIALS FOUR PART 2

*****************************

Malista awoke slowly, vaguely aware of an unusual feeling of safety, warmth, and comfort. A pleasant spicy scent nearby tickled at her nose. She smiled as she snuggled into the source of the warmth---then her whole body seemed to turn to stone. Her eyes flew open.

Her nose was pressed up against a red tee-shirt. That was covering the muscled chest of Harry Kim. Awareness rushed at her like an incoming photon torpedo as she recalled the previous night's events.

She didn't remember falling asleep. She certainly didn't remember getting into her bed, but that was undoubtedly where she was.

Harry was sharing her bed?!

Her face was pressed up against his chest, one arm around his waist, her hand clutching at his back, her other hand tucked under her cheek. One of his arms was draped over her back, holding her loosely against him. Their legs were entangled. They were both barefoot, but other than that, they were fully dressed.

She held her breath. She had to get out of the bed. This was embarrassing. Maybe if she was careful, she could get up and get changed into her uniform before he woke up. As she moved, her glance drifted up. Too late. He was awake.

He was lying on his side, his elbow propped on the bed, his chin cradled in his palm---and he was watching her with wide awake brown eyes. "Good morning." He moved his hand off her back and used it to brush her hair away from her face. His touch was disarmingly gentle.

She blinked. "Good morning. Uh, Harry..."

"You fell asleep." Her confusion and embarrassment were plainly written across her face. "I didn't want to wake you. I know you haven't been getting much sleep lately. So I carried you in here."

She bit her lower lip, her green eyes anxious with unspoken questions.

He pulled her lip free with his thumb. "Stop that. When I put you on the bed, you didn't seem to want to let go of me." He smiled at her fondly. "So I stayed. Just think of me as a teddy bear. Or a security blanket. How are you feeling this morning?"

She thought about it. "Better. I feel better. I'm sorry---"

With a flash of impatience, he laid a finger across her lips. "I'm really getting tired of listening to you asking forgiveness. Stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault. For example, those messages?"

Her eyes dropped.

"Malista, it's not your fault that some depraved dimwit is sending you that stuff. But I wish you'd told me. Or reported it to Security. Or both. I don't want there to be any secrets between us." He lifted her chin to meet her eyes. "If you have a problem, I want to know about it. I want to help you deal with it. And if I can't help you deal with it, the least I can do is---be supportive. Hold you. Comfort you. I told you---I love you." He'd thought the words so often, he didn't realize he'd never actually said them aloud until this moment.

They both flinched as her alarm sounded, stating the time. They had to be on duty in less than thirty minutes.

"Harry---" Her eyes filled with tears. "Harry, we don't have time for this discussion right now. Can we talk later?"

He swallowed his disappointment. He'd thought that surely by now she would trust him enough to tell him what was wrong. "Sure. I'd better get to my quarters."

They disentangled themselves, both feeling a bit awkward. She walked him to the door. "Harry? Thank you. For everything."

He flashed her a grin. "You're welcome."

***************************

At the morning staff meeting, the doctor had further test results to report. "It seems that my first report was---in error." He seemed reluctant to continue.

"In what way, Doctor?" the captain probed.

"In my original report, I stated that the only problem was a slight irritation of the optic nerve. In doing further scans, I have also noted that there is a pattern of stress along the neural pathways leading from the optic nerve. This pattern is most clearly seen in the six most affected, but is also present in others who were not affected at all. Ensign Kim, for example, who has dark eyes and showed no symptoms, nonetheless shows a minute degree of stress," the doctor concluded.

"And the cause of this stress?" Chakotay asked.

"The patterns seem to suggest that the probe was, in fact, trying to communicate. The light was the medium of the message. Unfortunately, we were not able to understand the message. It seems likely that the probe searched out the most compatible---" The doctor paused to search for an inoffensive word. "Conduits? Receivers---for the message. It was a visual rather than auditory message. The six who were rendered unconscious were evidently the most compatible receivers for the message of all those present on the ship."

"Wait a minute, Doc!" Paris interrupted irritably. "Are you trying to say all those colored spots dancing in front of our eyes are some kind of writing or code? I didn't get anything from that probe except a major headache."

The doctor's glare at the pilot expressed his exasperation. "I didn't say the message was successfully transmitted. I said it was an attempt. Your brain patterns may not be compatible with that of the race that is sending the message. You may not be able to comprehend the message at all."

"Have you come any closer to identifying why those six were chosen?" Janeway inquired. She'd been pondering that herself.

"Mr. Kim's theory was partially correct. It did have something to do with eye color. But, as you know, Captain, The Six are not the only crewmembers aboard with blue or green eyes. Some happened to be wearing protective lenses in the course of their work. That may have interfered with the selection process. Another factor seems to be the purity of the eye color at the time the probe was scanning and the lack of melanin in the iris. Many people with blue eyes, nevertheless have spots of brown or other shades of color in the iris," the doctor explained.

Tom Paris was getting really annoyed with being one of a group that everyone kept referring to as The Six. It seemed depersonalizing somehow. "Doc, what are you saying? Someone scrambled my brain while trying to talk to me by flashing lights in my eyes?"

"A rather non-technical assertion but essentially correct," the doctor replied.

Tom rolled his eyes, but sank back into his chair massaging his forehead. "That's nice to know. But it would be more helpful if you could help me get rid of this---headache."

The captain's concerned eyes examined him. The pilot's irascibility was out of character. "Doctor? Can you do something for him?"

"He thinks it's psychosomatic," Tom muttered sourly, his frown deepening as the pain behind his eyes suddenly sharpened and intensified. He pressed his fingertips to his temples and massaged them. "I don't really have a headache---I just *think* I do. That's why I can't sleep either. And have weird dreams when I finally do get to sleep. It's all in my mind. What there is left of it!"

"Based on further research, I am prepared to revise my diagnosis, if Mr. Paris will return to Sickbay for examination and treatment," the doctor stated.

Tom stifled a moan. "Anything. Just get rid of these lousy spots while you're at it. They're very distracting." He lurched to his feet, holding his head. He paused for a moment as he waited for the dizziness to pass.

"Mr. Paris, go to Sickbay. Mr. Kim, would you escort him, please?" the captain requested.

When the door had slid closed behind the two men, Janeway turned her attention back to the EMH. "Doctor? You were saying the probe was an unsuccessful attempt to communicate?"

"Yes. I would suggest that we devise some manner of communicating with these people before they make a second attempt. Their first try caused a small degree of damage to the neural pathways. I have been able to repair it and, in addition, I've developed a palliative to address the eye problems and the headaches. I have also devised a temporary measure which may provide some protection for those members of the crew who are particularly vulnerable to this form of attack. I will try the device on Mr. Paris. If it seems to be appropriate, I will issue the devices to each of the at risk crewmembers, beginning with The Six."

"Thank you, Doctor," Janeway replied. "Is there anything else?"

"In light of the continuing symptoms, I believe the probe may have merely been preparing The Six for receiving the message. The best explanation I can come up with is that the probe delivered some sort of virus through the optic pathways that is trying to rewrite the neural pathways to enable them to understand the message. They may try again," the doctor said somberly. "And if they do make another attempt at the same intensity level, the result may be permanent blindness, massive brain damage---or death."

****************************

Tom leaned heavily on Harry's shoulder as they walked across the bridge to the turbolift under the watchful, speculative eyes of the relief bridge crew. Between the jiggling splotches of color before his eyes and the pain in his head, Paris was finding it hard to keep his balance.

He leaned against the wall of the turbolift and closed his eyes, his hands never ceasing to massage his temples and forehead. "Deck Five."

"Tom, I know this isn't a good time---" Harry began hesitantly.

Paris made an effort and managed to squint one eye open at him. "What?"

"It's Malista. Someone's been sending her these---messages on her terminal."

"What kind of messages?"

Harry's face twisted with distaste as he remembered the small portion he'd read before snapping off the monitor. "Filth. It's the worst stuff I've ever seen---and it's---it makes me sick to even think about it. Accusing her of all kinds of things. Sexual things. Talking about her body, nasty garbage---describing what they want to do to her---" The bitterness of bile was in his throat, making him want to gag.

"Who---"

"They were sent anonymously. She didn't report it. She's been deleting them. From something she said, I got the impression she's been getting them every night. Probably for weeks." Though nothing had been accomplished yet, Kim felt better for having shared this burden with his best friend. This was beyond his own experience, but perhaps Paris could help him deal with it.

"Damn. That must be why she's been losing sleep." Tom put his hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezed it. "That might explain a few things."

"Has she said anything to you about this? Or given you any explanation for the amount of stress she seems to be carrying?"

"No. For the same reason she didn't tell you. She wants to handle it." The turbolift door slid open on Deck Five. As they started down the hall, Tom continued, "The problem is that she isn't handling it. She's trying to avoid it, pretending it will go away. That's part of it."

Harry frowned his puzzlement as they entered Sickbay.

"Try not to worry about it, Harry. I'll try talking to her. Sometimes, it's easier to talk to someone who----"

"Who's got some experience?" Kim said almost harshly as he eased Paris down on a biobed.

Tom made an effort and captured his friend's gaze with blue-eyed intensity. "I was going to say, someone who's not as close, but experience may come into it, too. She knows your background. You're the one who's had a normal family and a normal childhood. She may not think you'll understand, but she does love you, Harry."

"She's never said so," Kim said unhappily. "The closest she's come is the night we made up. Before we went to Sickbay, she said 'I *think* I'm in love with you.' She never said she IS in love with me. And I love her, Tom. I never thought I'd really love anyone after I realized that I'd never see Libby again. But I really love Malista. Why can't she see that? I even told her I loved her this morning. And she just looked at me like she was going to cry! I don't know if I'm pushing too hard or if she just doesn't love me. Maybe she's changed her mind, but she doesn't know how to tell me. I can't tell what she's thinking!"

Tom sighed. Yet another problem to deal with. Communication skills were definitely underutilized on this ship.

"It's hard for her to trust, Harry. If she says it out loud, it means it's true---and she's afraid *you* don't want to hear it. As for why she hasn't told you about the problems she's been having--- I'd be willing to bet she feels like a failure because she hasn't been able to solve them herself. She's pretty good about beating herself up for every perceived fault. She wants you to think the best of her. Hell, she doesn't think she's good enough for you. She all but came out and said so one evening when we were talking."

"That's crazy," Kim protested. "I've *told* her---"

Paris shook his head slowly from side to side, and immediately regretted it as the sparkles of light intensified. "Harry, Harry, Harry. Telling her isn't going to be enough. You've made a good start. Just by being you and being supportive, you've already helped her a lot. The Doc says its common for victims of sexual assault to feel like they're tainted in some way. Marked out as a victim. This business with obscene messages has probably reinforced that idea in her mind."

"So what should I do?"

"She needs a lot of practical demonstrations of how you feel about her. You may tell her she's wonderful a hundred times---but someone else has already told her a *thousand* times that she doesn't measure up. Negatives are so much easier to believe than positives. Trust me. On that subject, I do know what I'm talking about." He sank wearily and thankfully onto the relative comfort of the biobed as Kes came over and ran a scanner around his head.

Kim wanted nothing more than to continue the discussion while Tom was open to talking about personal issues, but he was due back at the staff meeting and his friend was in pain. "I'm sorry I bothered you with this right now. I'll talk to you later, Tom. Feel better. And thanks!" He tried to smile, but failed utterly and trudged out of Sickbay as Tom lifted a hand in a careless, dismissive wave.

The doctor came over with a dyspeptic expression and yet another scanner and hypospray.

"Oh, joy! To be in Sickbay when the doctor is in bloom! Or do I mean with the blooming doctor?" Paris mumbled wearily.

"Tom," Kes protested gently. "Close your eyes and stay still."

"Sure. Why not? Hey, where's everyone else?"

"What do you mean?"

"The rest of The Six," Paris complained. "If I'm having a recurrence of symptoms, shouldn't they all be here too?"

"No," the EMH replied. "The effect was not uniform. The others may arrive shortly as their own symptoms intensify. Perhaps I'll call them in after I finish your tests. It's not surprising that your symptoms are more severe. Your eyes contain the least amount of melanin of anyone on the ship."

"Oh, goody," Tom exulted sarcastically. "I've set yet another record. Be sure to notify Starfleet Command. Send a copy of the report to the attention of Admiral Owen Paris. He likes to be advised about these things."

The doctor nodded, missing or ignoring the sarcasm completely. "I'll be sure to make a note of it in your medical file---which, by the way, is becoming quite full. If you continue your frequent visits here, I may have to start a second folder for you, Tom."

The helmsman surrendered to the inevitable and found himself drowsing off. Sleeping was better than being awake if you were going to be stuck in Sickbay. At least then you didn't have to hear the play by play as Dr. Frankenstein and Tinkerbell trifled with your body and mind as if they were toys. He really *hated* feeling out of control. He hated it even more when it was his own body that was out of his control.

*****************************

By the time Harry Kim returned to the staff meeting, the topic of conversation had moved on to Tuvok's Security report. He slid into his seat as they were discussing the near confrontation between Maquis and Starfleet personnel in the holodeck the previous night.

"The doctor came to the brig to treat a fractured bone in Crewman Gerron's hand and the dislocated jaw of Crewman Castelle," Tuvok noted. "Both crewmen declined to make a statement regarding the cause of the altercation."

The captain turned to the first officer and raised an eyebrow.

"Captain, as I reported to you last week, the level of tension has been rising steadily for some time. Last night, I had the opportunity to discuss the matter with reliable sources. The problem seems to stem from the sexual harassment of certain Maquis personnel, by certain Starfleet personnel," the commander said. He didn't look happy.

Harry, unnoticed for the moment, flinched. He had a bad feeling about this. This might have something to do with the source of the obscene messages Malista had received, but he didn't want to mention it. It would be betraying a confidence. Wouldn't it?

"Sexual harassment? On *my* ship? Do you have names to go along with these accusations?" Janeway's snapping eyes were cold steel gray.

"No, Captain. I'm sorry. The only name I've confirmed is Crewman Paul Castelle. That stems from his behavior last night." Chakotay looked down at a padd that held his notes on the incident. "It seems that Mr. Castelle has been spreading all kinds of stories about his sexual prowess and how he has demonstrated it with the female Maquis crewmembers. He has also instigated some vicious and slanderous rumors about the sexual appetites of Maquis women. Last night, he was more overt in his bragging and made the mistake of doing it where one of his targets could hear it. Crewman Henley was playing pool when she overheard him making remarks of a---personal nature about Henley's anatomy and sexual interests and habits." Chakotay stopped to clear his throat. He hoped the captain wouldn't ask for specifics. His dark coloring nearly hid the hot flush of blood he already felt rushing up his neck to his cheeks as he recalled Castelle's exact statements as quoted by those present.

"Overheard by whom? Were there any other witnesses? Or is it her word against his?" Janeway interrupted, citing a frequent problem in such cases.

Chakotay took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He did not meet the eyes of the other officers. "Overheard by Henley and Gerron."

"Not exactly impartial testimony," Janeway commented.

"Castelle was talking to Crewman Molina, who has also given a statement that corroborates Henley's story," the commander continued. "Mr. Molina just happened to be seated at the bar next to Mr. Castelle and was the unwilling audience for Mr. Castelle's remarks. He was not involved in any way in Castelle's actions and, in fact, disapproved of them."

"It seems we may have overestimated Mr. Castelle's intelligence," Janeway remarked dryly.

"Or perhaps he underestimated the auditory acuity of Crewman Henley," Tuvok remarked.

Janeway shot a sharp glance at him. If that remark had come from anyone else, she'd have thought it was a joke. Tuvok was just stating the facts. "Perhaps," she muttered. "What is going on? You say this is a pattern of behavior that Castelle has established before? Have there been any other complaints? Is there anyone else involved? And have all the female Maquis crewmembers been the objects of these---verbal attacks?"

B'Elanna Torres spoke up. "I haven't, Captain. Or if I have been, I haven't heard anything about it. But I think Malista Shadow has been bothered. She's been upset and distracted for days---maybe longer."

All eyes in the briefing room turned toward Harry Kim. He had time to brace himself for the impact of their gaze. He sat there stolidly trying to pretend he had nothing to contribute to the meeting, his face a blank mask. He wasn't as practiced at it as his friend, Tom Paris. Some of his anxiety leaked through his carefully managed expression.

"Harry? Has Malista been harassed?" Janeway asked gently.

"She hasn't filed a report." His carefully worded answer was precisely accurate.

"That's not what I asked," the captain returned pointedly.

No escape. If anything, his expression became even more deadpan as he tightened his jaw obstinately. "I am not personally aware of---" He couldn't say it. He couldn't look Captain Janeway in the eye and lie to her. He'd never been able to lie well. He cleared his throat. "Captain, I---"

She waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sorry, Harry. I shouldn't have put you on the spot. I'll discuss this with Crewman Shadow myself."

The ensign wanted to protest, but swallowed the words with an effort.

"Lieutenant Tuvok, if you'll continue to look into this matter, I'd like to know the extent of the problem. I'm sure Commander Chakotay will give you any assistance you require," stated the captain.

The Vulcan nodded. "An investigation is already under way. My own sources have the name of another possible suspect and are interviewing possible witnesses to ascertain the degree of involvement of others."

"Now, Harry," Janeway turned back to the Ops Officer. "We need to analyze the energy readings of those probes and find a way to block them. Last time, they evidently passed right through our shields and the hull without setting off the intruder alert warning. If we can't block them, I want to know when they're coming and where they originate. Then I want to start working on a way to modify the Universal Translator program to work on nonverbal languages, such as these light and color signals so we can communicate with those who sent the probes."

"Yes, ma'am." It was an unconscious echo of Tom Paris. "I'll get to work on it right away."

A few moments later, the meeting was dismissed and the officers scattered to their duty stations. On the way to the bridge, Torres found a moment to pull Kim aside. "Harry, I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned Malista---"

He shook his head. "You're her commanding officer. It's your duty to report something like that."

"Was I right?"

"Yes. But I don't want to talk about it. It's her story, not mine. If she wants you to know---as her superior or as her friend---it's her place to tell you."

B'Elanna nodded. She hadn't seen Malista yet today. She still owed the younger woman an apology. That was the next item on her agenda. Before she reached the turbolift, Lieutenant Tuvok called her over to his station.

"Lieutenant Torres, if I am going to investigate the possibility of a sexual harassment problem aboard this ship, it would be helpful to know where to begin. You mentioned that Crewman Shadow has been distracted and upset. Can you cite a particular instance?" Tuvok remarked as emotionlessly as if discussing weather conditions on Vulcan.

Torres tried to pinpoint an incident. She wasn't good about noticing subtleties of behavior. Usually her mind was too engaged with technical or problem-solving matters to pay much attention, but on one occasion in particular, it had struck her that Malista had been uncomfortable with her duty assignment. So had Gerron. And the simple task had taken far longer than it should have to complete---or was there another reason that Shadow and Gerron had been long overdue in reporting back to Engineering?

She nodded slowly as she considered her words. "If I were you, Tuvok, I think I'd start looking in the Biology Department. She was---very tense---when she returned from repairing the environmental controls there."

The Vulcan raised one eyebrow. He knew that, Malista Shadow had seen two members of the staff of the Biology Department socially on separate occasions: Lt. Trent Salaka and Crewman Sven Haldersen. That raised the possibility that one or both of them could be a source of the problem, though the Security Officer had never had any indication that either was the type of man to force his attentions on an unwilling partner. "I will investigate that possibility, Lieutenant. Thank you."

Torres continued on her way to Engineering.

*****************************

As it turned out, B'Elanna didn't have a chance to apologize to Malista. By the time she reached Engineering, Crewman Shadow had been summoned to the captain's ready room and had left for the bridge.

As Shadow crossed the bridge, her green eyes involuntarily slid toward the Operations station. Ensign Kim put as much encouragement and love as he could in the look he sent her. She appreciated it. Pausing for just a moment as she approached the door, she found herself smiling back at him.

She didn't blame Harry for telling the captain about the messages on her terminal. That must be what this was about. If he'd told the captain, he'd done it out of concern for her. She'd expected a summons like this from the moment he'd found out. She braced herself. She was prepared for anything Janeway might say. Or so she thought. She hit the signal for admittance.

"Come."

The young woman swallowed hard, her smile disappearing as if it had never existed, and stepped into the room. Captain Janeway was sitting behind her desk, Commander Chakotay was seated to her right, and there was a vacant chair on the left. With a polite smile, Janeway gestured her toward the empty seat. "Please, sit down, Crewman Shadow."

She sat as instructed, but didn't relax. She was poised on the edge of the seat, her spine rigid. Her hands clenched tightly on the arms of the chair. Her face was an icy, controlled mask, but her eyes had a glint in them that disturbed Chakotay. She looked like someone who was holding onto the tattered edges of her self-control---as if it were the difference between life and death.

Janeway recognized that something was very wrong here. Before bringing up the suspected harassment, the captain decided to give the younger woman some positive feedback in an effort to ease the tension. "A few weeks ago, Commander Chakotay and I began crew evaluations and performance reviews."

The statement confused Shadow. She frowned slightly as she made an effort to concentrate, trying to ignore both the pain in her head and the disconcerting sensation of sparkles of multicolored light randomly appearing and disappearing in her line of vision. "I'm sorry, Captain. What did you say?"

The captain traded concerned glances with her first officer. She smiled gently and encouragingly at the girl. "Malista, your work since you've become a member of this crew has been exemplary. In fact, it was the excellence of your performance that led us to discover you were working two different jobs and two shifts. Both your supervisors recommended you for promotion."

The green eyes rounded. Her mouth opened and closed twice before she choked out, "What?"

Janeway leaned forward, hands clasped before her on her desk, and spoke very clearly. "I thought you should know that you have been recommended for promotion to Ensign." She waited for the idea to sink in, expecting at least a smile of pleasure from the young woman. She didn't get it.

Malista Shadow surged to her feet, planted both fists on the captain's desk and shouted right in the captain's face. "You can't do that!!"

Before the captain could do more than blink and recoil from the ferocity of her tone, Shadow pounded the desks with her fists. "You can't do that! You can't promote me!! I won't LET you!!" Her icy features were now a twisted mask of rage, flushed with the heat of her anger.

Chakotay was on his feet, ready to intercede physically if necessary. His movement drew her attention.

Shadow spun to face him, to plead with him. "You can't let her do this. I don't *want* a promotion. You can't let her, Chakotay! Please, you have to stop her! It will ruin everything! They'll think---he'll think---everyone will think everything they said was true! I don't want a promotion! She can't make me take one, can she?"

The captain got slowly to her feet, staring as she tried to comprehend what had gone wrong and what Shadow was talking about.

"Malista---" Chakotay began, touching her arm lightly. Her eyes were closed. Every muscle in her body seemed to be clenched in an effort to regain command of herself.

The more she tried for control, the more it seemed to slip away. The very rigidity of her body made it easier to notice when she began to tremble. Her eyes opened and darted back to the other side of the desk. Her mouth dropped open as she suddenly heard what she'd said---and realized how she'd said it---and to whom.

She'd yelled---at the captain! The captain!! Her hands flew up to cover her mouth in horror. "Oh, Zeus! Captain, I----" Words fled from her mind before they could be voiced. She bit down on her fist, hard enough to draw blood.

Shaking and trembling, her knees gave way and she crumpled into the chair, drawing her legs up and tucking her head down until she was curled into the fetal position. She wasn't making a sound. Somehow that was more poignant than if she had been screaming or crying.

The first officer reached out tentatively to touch her shoulder. She recoiled even more, if that was possible. He threw a helpless glance at Janeway. She mouthed, "Sickbay?"

He nodded. "Malista?" No response. "Malista, we're sending you to Sickbay." Her body jerked, her head moved from side to side. "Not through the corridors or the bridge." Another shudder racked her. "We'll transport you."

No response. Her breathing was irregular as she took in air in small frantic gasps. He activated his commbadge. "Chakotay to Sickbay."

"Yes, Commander?" the doctor's cool voice replied.

"We have a---medical emergency. You have an incoming patient. Crewman Shadow

is---not well. Chakotay out." He cut off the communication before the doctor could

ask any inappropriate questions within the range of his patient's hearing.

The captain tapped her own commbadge. "Transporter room two, medical emergency. Beam Crewman Shadow to Sickbay." She disappeared in a sparkle of light.

Chakotay and Janeway regarded each other with consternation.

"I was trying to put her at ease," the captain said, settling herself into her chair, forcing herself to speak calmly, though she felt shaken.

"I know." He sat down heavily and wiped a hand across his brow to remove the dew of perspiration.

"What was that all about?" she asked. "Do you have any idea?"

"She's been under a lot of pressure," the commander said hesitantly. "I think it was the accumulation of a lot of different things. Somehow, the idea of getting promoted---" He lifted his hand in a helpless gesture. "That was a full blown anxiety attack."

"She seemed to just snap," Janeway concurred. "Do you think---will the doctor be able to help her?"

"I don't know. If Paris is still in Sickbay, he may be able to help. I think it's just a symptom of emotional overload. Too many bad experiences and emotional experiences---both good and bad---in too short a period of time. Our counseling sessions have been inadequate. She still refuses to open up to me completely. The Doctor and Tom and I talked about it yesterday," he informed her. "I just wish that probe hadn't chosen her as well. That can't have helped the situation. She's probably got the same health problems as Paris, but she wouldn't let anyone know about it. What should we tell Harry?"

"Give me a moment," the captain replied. "I'll think of something." She sighed. "I hope."

*******************************

The raised voice spilled through the doors of the ready room and onto the Bridge---not the words, the sound-proofing was too good for that. Nevertheless, Harry Kim recognized the shrill shouting as Malista's voice. Reflexively, he started to move around his Ops console.

"Ensign Kim." It was Tuvok.

Kim's eyes flew toward the Security Officer.

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Have you found a method of detecting the probe's approach?"

With another uneasy glance toward the captain's private room, Kim returned his attention to the panel in front of him. "I think so. I've remodulated the sensors to alert us to any changes within the frequency range of the probe's energy signature. We should have a warning next time it approaches the ship."

"At what distance?"

Kim missed the question as sudden silence fell in the next room. Why would Malista be shouting? He'd never heard her shout---not once. What could the captain have said? How bad was the problem? Were the obscenities on her terminal the least of what Malista had been dealing with? Should he---

"Mr. Kim!" Tuvok didn't raise the volume of his voice, just the intensity. "At what distance will the probe be detectable?"

His words snapped in Harry's ears, warning him to focus his attention where it belonged. Kim gathered his thoughts and referred to his padd. "Uh---" He was interrupted by the chirp of the commlink.

"Janeway to Kim."

"Kim here, Captain."

"Please join me in my ready room."

"Yes, Captain." With an alacrity born of apprehension, Kim was around the Ops station and halfway to the ready room doors before Ayala could replace him.

As he stepped inside, his eyes searched for Malista Shadow. He'd watched her come in. She hadn't come out. He'd been too preoccupied to note that a transport had occurred. The captain and first officer met his eyes steadily.

Before he could formulate a question, Chakotay answered him. "We sent her to Sickbay, Harry. She became---hysterical." He hesitated over the word, wondering if it truly conveyed an accurate representation of what had occurred.

The young man gulped. "Why? Did you ask her about---"

"We didn't get that far," the captain stated softly. "She was very tense when she came in. I attempted to give her a compliment to make her feel more comfortable. Let's say, she didn't react in the manner I expected. I told her she'd been recommended for promotion. She started screaming that she didn't *want* a promotion."

Kim's face went totally blank as he tried to grasp the concept. "What? Why? Why would she---I don't understand."

"That makes three of us, Mr. Kim," Chakotay said heavily. "Sit down, Harry. We need to talk."

*******************************

Tom Paris had changed out of his uniform. Kes had suggested he make himself comfortable during the last round of tests. Since he was now officially on medical leave, he was wearing his favorite black jeans and a black tee-shirt. Smart woman, that Ocampan. She knew how much he hated Sickbay pajamas. Her wiliness had ensured his cooperation during the last three tests. The ones he'd been awake for. He hated tests.

Paris had finally been dismissed and was about to return to his quarters to try to get some sleep when he heard Chakotay's message. He stayed there to await Malista's arrival.

If Commander Chakotay hadn't identified the patient beaming in, the EMH wouldn't have recognized her immediately. She materialized curled tightly into a fetal position, head tucked down, hands now clasped behind her neck, face hidden between her arms and legs. When the transporter effect released her, she was lying on her side, unmoving on the floor, breathing shallowly and rapidly.

The doctor reached for a hypospray. Paris grasped his wrist and silently shook his head. Chakotay had advised him to go with his instincts. 'Okay, then here we go,' he thought. 'Ready or not, here I come.' He took a deep breath and assumed a calm he didn't feel.

Paris dropped down to sit cross-legged next to Shadow, not touching her, but sitting close enough to touch if it became necessary. In a cool, conversational voice, he said, "Malista, what the hell is going on here?"

The EMH frowned at Paris' cavalier attitude and would have spoken his disapproval aloud but, from the response he received, it seemed that the pilot knew what he was doing.

As she recognized his unruffled voice, Shadow's rigidity visibly lessened. Slowly, by degrees, she began to uncoil, stretching out on her side, her arms still wrapped around her head and covering her face. Her breath was still coming in short pants.

"Sis, breathe like a normal person," Tom ordered in a bored tone. "You keep hyperventilating and you'll pass out and be at the Doc's mercy for *hours*."

"Hmmph!" the doctor muttered, shooting an indignant glare at the pilot from under a furrowed brow. His justifiable resentment of the comment was somewhat mollified when Paris winked at him to indicate he wasn't serious. "If Malista is in need of assistance, she can have every confidence that I will provide it," the EMH stated clearly and firmly.

There was slight easing in the tension of her body. The normalcy of the conversation, the lack of embarrassing questions, and the fact that the two men present were trusted friends were all factors in helping her to reassert her self-control at her own pace.

Paris waited for another moment as her breathing evened out and became less labored. "Malista." This time he waited patiently for a reply. It was almost a full minute in coming.

"What?" Her voice was muffled and shaky, but at least she had finally responded.

"Let me give you some advice. If you want to clean the Sickbay floor, don't do it with your uniform," he said. "We have cleaning tools for that kind of thing."

One hand came down to swat tiredly and feebly at his leg. "Oh, shut up, Tom." She left her hand resting on his knee. He dropped his hand over hers. Her eyes opened to slits, watching him, trying to gauge his reaction to her behavior. He gave her hand a squeeze and winked at her.

"People are always telling me to shut up, Doc!" he complained loudly, looking up and signaling the EMH with his eyes that he should answer.

"I wonder why, Mr. Paris!?" the doctor said. "It's a mystery to me." He was intrigued by the lieutenant's handling of the situation and was recording it for further study. It might be helpful in developing and improving his own bedside manner.

"Some people just don't have a sincere appreciation for humor." Paris grimaced and got to his feet. He put his hands on his hips in his best Janeway impression and stared down at the young woman. "Sis, get up," he ordered. "If the Doc had a *real* emergency, they'd beam in on top of you. That could get embarrassing." He extended a hand in her direction.

She took it and staggered to her feet with his help, her muscles aching and protesting their mistreatment in being locked in place so tightly and for so long. He slipped an arm around her waist and led her to a biobed. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her up, then seated himself next to her. He slipped a brotherly arm around her shoulders, carefully refraining from making her feel constrained, but allowing her to feel connected to and supported by his presence.

"Doc, are you going to run that scanny thing over her?" he asked in his most deliberately annoying nasal inflection. She winced and gently nudged him with her shoulder. She hated when he did that. That voice grated on her ears. He only used it when he wanted to annoy or tease her.

"Scanny thing?" the doctor echoed scathingly. "If you are referring to my diagnostic scanner, then yes, I am going to perform a scan." He suited his actions to his words. He noted that Paris had subtly warned and relaxed his nervous patient and made it possible for the EMH to approach without alarming her unduly. He made a note to do a study comparing the lieutenant's unusual methods with those of professional counselors. There seemed to be some correlation, regardless of whether the young man's actions were the result of training or instinct.

"I can predict what you'll find," Tom said smugly. "Headache, eye irritation, and a lack of sleep catching up with her. She's been riding on her emotions for too long. She needs rest and relaxation."

She let her head fall back to rest on his shoulder, eyes closing. "Good diagnosis, *Doctor* Paris. What's your next trick?"

"Well," he drawled, "I recommend the Doc give you some of that jungle juice he gave me. I was his test subject this morning and it worked on me. It lessens the headache. It doesn't get rid of the spots, but somehow they're less noticeable. Maybe the color is fading or they just aren't tap dancing any more. They're waltzing instead."

The doctor silently nodded his agreement of the pilot's summary. Aloud he scoffed, "Jungle juice? I will have you know, Mr. Paris, that this elixir is concocted from several natural herbs and the juices of certain fruits that produce---"

Paris waved him off. "Yeah. Sure, Doc. Jungle juice." Malista almost found the energy to laugh at the doctor's indignant expression.

The EMH injected her with the hypospray. "Here. I want you to wear these. Hopefully they will protect your eyes from further damage, should the probe reappear."

Paris and Shadow took the visor like objects from his hand. Paris unfolded the ear pieces and slipped the device on. They reminded him of the safety goggles worn when using superheated materials. "They're tinted. What are these things, Doc?"

The holodoctor all but preened. "They are optical instruments with polarized lenses designed to protect the human eye from glare or radiation. I got the idea from our visit to Earth of 1996. I took the design from something called RayBans. They were very popular for protection against ultraviolet radiation before the advent of the controlled weather satellite programs in the 22nd century."

Shadow reluctantly slid the glasses into place. "Everything looks----green."

"That facilitates the filtering process," the doctor explained then moved away to give them some privacy. Mr. Paris seemed to be dealing with the crisis satisfactorily, but the doctor prepared a sedative hypospray and kept it close at hand. Better to err on the side of caution.

Paris slid the glasses up and down his nose, finally leaving them in place. After a moment, he asked, "Feeling better?" She nodded. "Okay, so what happened, Sis?" She tensed. "Tell me," he insisted. "You know I'll find out anyway. Everyone tells me everything eventually. I have this power!"

She turned her head away from him and mumbled something under her breath.

"What?" He shook her shoulder. "Speak Standard, not Greek," he complained.

She looked at him with the beginnings of a displeased frown. "I *was* speaking Standard."

"Then speak it louder."

Her eyes dropped again. "I said," she whispered, "I *yelled* at the captain."

"What?" Paris couldn't believe his ears. If he'd been asked to predict what she was going to say---well, that certainly wouldn't have been on the list.

A little more loudly, becoming defensive, she said, "I YELLED at the CAPTAIN!"

"What did you yell?" he inquired politely.

She stared at him.

"Well, it makes a difference," he said offhandedly. "I mean if you called her names---like Ironpants Janeway or Killer Kathryn or the Bun of Steel---"

"Tom!"

He shrugged. "Okay. So you didn't call her names. What did you yell at her?"

She bit her lower lip, caught herself, and stopped. "She told me I was up for promotion to Ensign. I told her I didn't want a promotion. Very loudly."

"I wish I could have seen her face," Paris said wistfully. "And Chakotay's. I assume he was there? Do you think the security cams----"

"Tom!" she said again. "I YELLED at the captain!" She couldn't believe he didn't grasp the seriousness of her offense.

He raised his eyebrows. "So?" He looked only mildly interested. "Did she faint?"

"What? No!" She tried to pull away from him.

He refused to let her go. "Malista!" He waited till she stopped squirming and he had her full attention. "What do you think she's going to do? Space you? Trust me, the captain has been yelled at before. By the best of them, I'm sure. Including my own dear father, Admiral Paris. And believe me, he can tear a strip off you. Captain Janeway will *survive* being yelled at. You can apologize later. She's a reasonable woman. She'll forgive you. Right now, I want to know why. And why you turned into a basket case just because you lost your temper."

"Basket case?"

"Old Earth expression. Something to do with the guillotine, I think. When they lost their heads, people got carried off in a basket. Something like that. Stop trying to change the subject. Why would you get upset when you're offered a promotion? Most people would be glad for the recognition of their hard work. Why aren't you?"

She didn't answer, refusing to look at him.

His jaw tightened. Paris was not prepared to let her withdraw this time. Things had gone too far if she could lose control to the point of having an anxiety attack of the magnitude of the one he'd just witnessed.

It was time to deal with this. He just prayed he would know what to say. "Fine. You don't want to talk to me. I'll get Harry."

Her eyes flew to his, panicked. "No! You can't tell Harry!"

"Why not? Give me a reason, Sis, or I'm calling him to come to Sickbay right now. You will talk to me---or you talk to him." His blue eye were determined. He meant exactly what he said. "Or you can go back and yell at the captain some more," he added provocatively.

"I don't *want* a promotion," she said evenly.

"I figured that out. Why?"

She ducked her head and mumbled.

"Damn it, Malista! Answer me!"

Her body jerked and her eyes flew up to meet his. She'd never heard Tom sound so angry---at least, not at her. "I said because everyone will think the rumors are true!"

He sighed tiredly. "Which *rumors* are we talking about *this* time?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes ran around Sickbay, pausing for just a moment on the entrance. He got the message. Anyone could come in. At any time.

"Okay, fine," the lieutenant said. He turned to the EMH. "Doc, I think we're going to continue this little therapy session in a more private locale. Would you be willing to place Malista on medical leave for today as well?"

"Of course," the hologram agreed. He gestured Paris closer with a beckoning finger and they stepped out of the young woman's earshot. "If it is your intention to provoke a reaction and allow Malista to vent her anger, I feel I should warn you that it may be hazardous."

Paris' aristocratic features took on a haughty, reproachful air. "Malista will not hurt me." There was no sign of doubt in his azure eyes. "I'm taking her to the holodeck for some privacy. She may get angry. She may be furious. But she would never hurt me. And I *will* help her."

"I will monitor your---conference from here, but I promise not to interfere unless necessary to ensure her safety or yours," the doctor stated. "Tom? I feel I should warn you. She has been repressing her emotions for some time. She may resent your part in leading her to release them and make you the object of her deep seated resentment and rage. You should also know that she may never forgive you for your part in this."

The pilot's mouth twisted bitterly. "I know that, Doc. Sometimes you have to be willing to lose someone's love in order to do what's best for them. And I'm a gambler, remember? Or I used to be. I'd say the odds are about fifty-fifty, at this point. But even if * I * lose her, I'll make sure Harry won't. I'll take that deal. Would you notify the captain and the commander for me?"

The EMH nodded. He waited until the duo had departed for the holodeck before he signaled the Bridge.

**************

"Harry, it's obvious Malista is emotionally---overwrought." Chakotay chose his words carefully. "We would prefer to ask her about any harassment---"

"I don't know that she would answer your questions, Commander," the ensign confided uneasily. His fear of betraying a confidence was overridden by his fear for Malista's mental and emotional health. "I found out by accident, last night that someone has been sending her---" He trailed off as he glanced at the captain and tried to think of how he could explain the contents of the messages and their impact on Shadow without embarrassing himself or his superior officers. "She's been getting obscene messages on her terminal. Tom and I figured out that she's probably been receiving them for weeks. That's why she hasn't been sleeping much."

"Obscene?" The captain's tone asked for clarification. "How obscene? I mean, in what manner?" She cleared her throat and plowed on. "Harry, I'm sorry. Could you give us some idea of the---content? It's not necessary to, uh, give details. Just a general idea."

Harry's face was flushed and hot, but he maintained control of his expression. "I only saw one. Malista didn't report them and has been deleting them as she got them. It was threatening. Sexually threatening. Crude comments about---her body and what they---he wanted to do to her. Not with her. *To* her." Kim had reached his limit. "I saved the one from last night. If you'd like to---"

"Maybe later," Chakotay said. "Do you know if Malista has been bothered in any other way? Comments or unwelcome advances?"

The young man looked miserable. "She won't talk to me. Or to Tom. I know something has been bothering her, but she wouldn't tell me what was wrong. She kept saying she wanted to handle her own problems. After I, uh, got so jealous for no reason before, I think she's afraid I won't believe her. Until I found the message, I didn't have any clue as to what was bothering her."

The comm system signaled. "Please turn to your Emergency Holographic Channel."

The captain hit the control and the doctor's unsmiling visage appeared on the viewscreen. "Yes, Doctor?"

"I have placed Crewman Malista Shadow on medical leave. She will not be reporting for duty today."

"How is she?" Harry blurted, throwing protocol out the airlock without a thought.

"She is---recovering. Mr. Paris was able to calm her and bring her out of her self-induced anxiety attack. She was breathing normally when she left and her vital signs were nearing normal parameters," the EMH reported.

"When she left? You dismissed her from Sickbay?" Janeway asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not exactly. I released her into Mr. Paris' care. He is going to attempt to persuade Malista to discuss her problems in a more private setting. He is confident that she will talk to him. He plans to insist on it. Vehemently, if necessary."

"Doc, where---" Kim began.

"Mr. Kim, I know you are concerned, but I do not think your presence would be helpful." The doctor tried his 'sympathetic smile'. It wasn't terribly successful, but it was improving with practice. "Malista seems reluctant to speak to anyone. It is Tom's intention to compel her to confide in him in order to give her the opportunity to verbalize the reasons for her emotional distress. He believes---"

"Doctor," Chakotay interrupted, "I'll explain to Mr. Kim. Thank you." The doctor nodded his agreement and closed the communication channel. "Captain?"

Janeway nodded toward her first officer, got to her feet, and moved toward the exit. "Take all the time you need, gentlemen." She returned to the bridge.

After her departure, Kim waited impatiently for Chakotay to begin. Finally, he couldn't stand the silence. "Commander, what is going on? What's wrong with Malista? Why can't I go see her? She may need me."

Chakotay was shaking his head before the ensign had finished his first sentence. He'd been trying to decide how much detail he should go into and wondering how to explain to the younger man what he, Tom, and the EMH had discussed. "I'm sorry, Harry. She wouldn't want you to see her right now. I'm sure."

"Why not? I only want to help her! I love her!" His impassioned voice and expression were absolutely convincing.

Chakotay sat forward, studying the young man carefully. "Have you told her that?"

"Yes."

"Harry, I don't want to intrude on your personal life---"

"Commander, I don't think you have a choice. I want to know and I want to know now. What is going on?"

*****************

Tom had chosen the holodeck program of Lake Como for several good reasons. It was a peaceful setting, but it was also a not-so-subtle reminder of the roots of the friendship between the two of them. It was here that he and Malista had first talked at length and made a start at confiding in each other. It was here that she had planned to commit suicide and it was here that he had stopped her, earning first her anger then, eventually, her gratitude.

He led her to the picnic table and bench under the shade of the tree overlooking the lake. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the still waters near the lake shore and stole a quick moment to admire the look of the RayBans. They suited him.

"Groovy," he said approvingly, with a fond smile in remembrance of Raine Robinson. While waiting for Tuvok to return with breakfast, she'd finally told him, much to his embarrassment, that the word was at least twenty years out of date by the time he'd used it in 1996.

With a quick glance at Malista, he slipped off his pair, then removed hers, and set them on the picnic table. Tom wanted to be able to read the changes in her expression and her eyes were a dead giveaway of her feelings, at least to him. Plus, his own eyes were often his best means of communication. He wasn't willing to sacrifice that advantage for the possible protection the eyewear might provide in a situation that might not arise.

She stood next to the bench and made an effort to relax. In the distance, on what appeared to be the horizon, sailboats glided to and fro with bright, colorful sails fully unfurled and making rainbow patterns against the purplish blue sky.

Paris gave her a moment to contemplate the beauty of her surroundings before he broke the silence. "This is peaceful, isn't it?"

"Yes. You were right about the doctor's 'jungle juice'. The headache is sort of blurred around the edges. It's not gone, but it's manageable. And the spots do seem duller. How strange. I wonder why----"

"The privacy lock is activated. We're alone. Are you ready to talk now?"

"About what?" she asked warily, as she turned to face him. She hoped if she forced him to define the limits of the conversation he might miss zeroing in on the source of her anxiety and she could divert him to a less threatening topic. It was a method that had served her well in the past. It clouded the issues and made direct lies unnecessary.

He understood her better than she'd thought. He didn't fall for that tactic. It was probably one he'd used himself.

The roguish pilot looked positively parental in demeanor as he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms across his chest and frowned at her demandingly. "Make no mistake here, Malista. We *are* going to talk. No more evasions, half-truths, changing the subject, or telling me what you think I want to hear. You are going to tell me what has been making you tense and scared and robbing you of sleep. Then you and I will decide how to deal with it. Whatever it is." He paused.

She stared up at him mutely, her eyes meeting his, then darting away.

"Harry told me about the messages," he added.

She gulped her dismay at this revelation, and dropped her eyes. Her knees gave way and she sank down onto the bench beside her. She'd hoped she'd have more time to come up with a story, an excuse, something.

"Do you know who's sending the messages?" he asked gently, crouching next to her without touching her.

She shook her head mutely, her eyes fixed on her clasped hands in her lap. "Did he---did he tell you what they said?"

"No. Just that they were nasty. I don't have to know the details. I don't want to. What I do need to know is why you didn't report them to Security? Or tell Harry? Or me? Or B'Elanna? Or even Chakotay? It's not like we all haven't been asking you what was wrong. Why didn't you tell us, Malista?" he insisted.

"I didn't want you to think---I thought maybe I---" Her hesitant words faltered.

"You thought we'd blame you?" he said, disappointment coloring his pleasant tenor. "Tell me, Sis, did you ever reply to one of the messages?"

"No." Her voice was very small.

"Did you put a notice on the ship's bulletin board asking for a porno penpal?" he asked in the same matter-of-fact tone.

"No! Tom!" She straightened in revulsion and tried to recoil from him, but he latched onto her wrist and held her in place.

"Then you aren't to blame."

"How can you know?" she cried, twisting her arm, trying to pull it out of his grasp.

He refused to let her slip away from him. "No more hiding, Malista. I know you aren't to blame, because I know the kind of pervert who gets his thrills by assaulting and sickening someone with an anonymous attack like this. It's probably someone who was afraid to approach you directly with a proposition. Afraid of rejection, or afraid you'd have him thrown in the brig. Or maybe someone who just has a grudge against you for whatever sick reason in his own mind. Someone who knew or guessed that you wouldn't report it. Someone who knew it would get to you. I know *you*. I know you wouldn't knowingly encourage something like this. That's how I know it isn't your fault."

She shook her head mulishly, miserably. "It has to be."

"How could it be your fault some deviant decided to send that filth to you? You said you didn't reply or ask for it. Come on, Sis," he said, shaking her arm lightly when she failed to respond. "I can't wait to hear this one."

"I must have done something. Said something. To someone. They wouldn't do something like this and keep it up, if they didn't think I wanted it. I *must* have done something."

Paris almost growled under his breath in exasperation, but caught himself. That's what he got for hanging around with half-Klingons he supposed. "Malista, listen to me, it's not your fault. You don't *have* to do anything to encourage that type of mistreatment. *Except* to let it go on. And you did do that! That part of the blame is yours. You could have put a stop to this after the first one by reporting it. How long have the messages been coming to your terminal? One week? Two?"

"Forty-two. I've gotten forty-two messages," she choked out. "Almost every night. At first they weren't too bad. Just kind of rude. But they kept getting worse." Now that she'd begun talking, she couldn't seem to stop. The feeling of relief was incredible as the pressure of keeping secrets eased as the words flowed out. "They got worse after Harry and I broke up. Then when Harry and I---after we got back together, they got even worse. I kept thinking they couldn't get any worse, but they did. More specific. More sadistic. I stopped reading them. I just deleted them right away. As soon as I saw what they were." She held herself with her free arm and began rocking back and forth as she spoke.

Tom released his hold on her forearm, stood, and reseated himself on the bench behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her head back to lie on his shoulder, and started rocking along with her as she lay cradled against his chest. She absorbed his warmth, drawing strength from his figurative and literal support.

Paris was doing the math in his head. The messages had started not long after Dishon had died. So this probably had nothing to do with him or a desire to hurt Harry Kim somehow. It had everything to do with persecuting Malista herself. He was sure Tuvok would find that interesting.

After a few moments, the lieutenant decided it was time for the next step. "What else?"

She stiffened in his arms, the rocking motion ceasing. "What?"

"Sis, you're answering a question with a question again," he rebuked mildly, releasing his hold on her and turning her to face him. "What else has been going on? Computer messages wouldn't be enough to get you into this state of anxiety. So something else has been going on. You and Harry seem to be getting along. Is it B'Elanna? Are you having trouble working with her?" He fervently hoped for a negative answer, but made sure that hope didn't show in his demeanor.

"No, of course not," she replied. "She's a good supervisor. She lets you know what's expected and demands your best performance. I don't have a problem with that." There was a hint of a proud smile as she added, "She says I do an excellent job. I'm good at repairs and she knows she can count on me. That's what she said and I believe her. She wouldn't tell me that if it wasn't true."

"You're right there," Paris chuckled. "My B'Ella is not known for diplomacy in dealing with her staff. She doesn't suffer fools gladly. She told me she was glad you and Nicoletti have the good sense to fix what needed fixing and ask for help if you needed it. That seems to have been a problem with other members of the engineering staff?"

Malista nodded, smiling slightly and remembering an incident---actually several incidents. Working in Engineering was never dull with its volatile Chief.

Paris persisted in returning to the topic of conversation she didn't want to deal with. "So it's not Harry or B'Elanna. So that brings us back to my question: what else is going on?"

Her face fell once more. "Tom, I can handle it---"

"You're not handling it! You're avoiding it. It's not going to go away because you pretend it isn't there! Any more than those messages did. Tell me what's going on."

No reply.

Coaxingly, he tried once more. "Sis, I promise you I won't blame you. Tell me what's going on."

There was still no verbal response, but this time she did succeed in pulling away from him. She got to her feet and walked down to the edge of the lake, rearranging the mud there with the toe of her boot. It gave her something other than Tom to focus on.

Paris took a deep breath that almost ended in a gasp of surprise as he felt those 'instincts' Chakotay had spoken of kick in. He suddenly knew, without knowing how he knew, that this or something like it had happened to Malista Shadow before.

He stopped about six feet behind her. He didn't want to invade her personal space again without her permission. That didn't seem to be working. It was up to her to make the next move. Before he could think logically and argue himself out of speaking, he said the first thing that came into mind. "Who didn't believe you last time? Who made you take the blame the last time?"

Her head snapped up, she darted a quick, disbelieving glance at him, then refocused on the mud. "My father. My brothers."

"Are we talking here about Huldon III?" he calmly queried. "Or before that."

"Before that," she mumbled.

"How long before?" He moved a step closer.

"When I was thirteen," she whispered.

He took another step closer so he could catch her words. His hands automatically lifted towards her, wanting to touch, to hold, to comfort. He forced them back down by his sides. He could try to persuade her with words, but he wouldn't use physical means of persuasion. It would make them both too uncomfortable.

"You were---raped---at thirteen?" he croaked, somehow ashamed, but not surprised, that his voice broke in his horror at the thought.

"No," she shot back, her voice gaining in volume, as if having made the decision to tell him had strengthened her in some manner. "Not---quite."

Her gaze trailed away to the colorful sails on the boats on the holographic horizon. "I started a real growth spurt when I was twelve. I was growing taller very quickly. And I was getting---" She made a helpless gesture toward her breasts.

"You were developing?" Tom offered. He detected a little gasp of surprised laughter. "Hey, I had older sisters. Granted, I didn't pay much attention, but even I remember all the angst they went through when they suddenly sprouted---Never mind. You were saying?"

"Let's just say I was beginning to look very womanly. I probably looked older than my age because of it," Malista speculated, not sounding happy about the idea. "Any way, I grew very quickly and my coordination wasn't really keeping up. So my father gave me permission to take dancing lessons. I started walking into town once a week for lessons from a woman who worked with our circus in the sideshow sometimes. She was an exotic dancer, but she'd learned all kinds of dancing and gymnastics and she thought lessons might help me with coordination, flexibility. You know."

"I bet you were a great dancer. You still are." Once or twice, Tom had come to the holodeck early and caught her dancing alone as her warm-up for their workouts, but she'd refused to share her dancing with anyone and stopped as soon as anyone arrived.

She sent a half smile over her shoulder at him. "I was enthusiastic, at least. I loved it. I loved music. All kinds of music. Singing was wonderful, but I *loved* the dancing. All kinds of dancing. It was almost as good as flying. When I was dancing, I felt so free! I wanted to learn every dance Mariza knew. I told my father I wanted to be a dancer when I grew up." Her face saddened.

"Let me guess," Tom said. "He said you couldn't. Why? Did he bother to give you a reason?"

She nodded. "I wasn't good enough. I was too tall. I'd never make any money at it. All kinds of reasons. Well, I was a good student. Mariza taught me everything---ballroom dancing, jazz dancing, ballet, all kinds of dancing from many different worlds. She taught me some gymnastics routines as warm-up exercises. And all kinds of dances," she repeated. "Some were very athletic and acrobatic and others were very controlled and graceful. At the time, I just thought of the dances as---exercises. Fun exercises. It was a way to let me feel in control of my body, my muscles. I just threw myself into every dance, not thinking about what other people would think if they saw me."

"Uh-oh. Do I take it she taught you some of her 'exotic' dances?" Tom already had a pretty good idea how her father would have reacted to that. Especially if Malista was wearing the appropriate costume for each dance.

"Yes." A mischievous grin flashed toward him. "Did I mention Mariza was half Orion and half human?"

The image that leapt to mind took Tom's breath away. "Oh, my." It was inadequate, but all he could manage. The temperature in the holodeck suddenly seemed much higher. He tugged at the v-neck of his black tee-shirt.

"Yeah. That's what all the men thought. But at the time, I didn't think of the dances she taught me as being suggestive, or sexy. I mean, I was only thirteen. I hadn't even really noticed boys then. I'd had enough of the male of the species just dealing with my father and five older brothers. I was totally outnumbered after my mother died." She'd returned to drawing patterns in the mud with the toe of her boot.

She took a deep breath. "But someone else saw me dancing. And it gave him ideas. He was a salesman visiting the colony. He was watching through the window of Mariza's studio. She caught him at it once and made him go away. Then a couple of days later, he followed me when I started home."

Paris wanted to tell her to stop. He wanted to close his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the expression of pain on her face. He did neither. He *really* didn't want to hear this. But she needed to tell it, probably the first time she'd ever told it. He clamped down on his feelings, keeping his neutral mask in place with an effort that bleached his knuckles white as his hands clenched into fists.

"Looking back, he wasn't very bright about how he--- Maybe it was his first time to try something like that. Or he thought I wouldn't object. He waited till I got outside of town and then he approached me. I was so stupid!" Her voice broke on a sob. "He called out to me and asked me to stop. And I did! Can you believe I was so *stupid*?"

Tom took another step closer. He was within arm's reach now, waiting for her to turn to him. If she would. He wanted to be there to catch her if she fell---figuratively or literally. But, at this moment, as she was lost in memories of the past, he had a hunch that his touch wouldn't be welcomed.

It was up to her this time. *She* had to reach out to him. If she would. Or could. He would be there when she was ready.

"He kept talking about how he was lost and needed directions, while I stood there like an idiot and let him get close to me. Then he grabbed me and dragged me behind some trees off to the side of the road. He tried to kiss me, and he started tearing at my clothes, and I couldn't breathe, and he knocked me d-d-down---" The tears were running freely down her cheeks as she stammered to a stop. She gulped. "Then the next thing I knew, my brother Giorgios was pulling him off me. He and Stephanos and Demetrios were going into town for some supplies when they heard me scream. Funny, I don't even remember screaming."

She shrugged. "Demetrios held me and helped me cover myself with his jacket, while Stephanos and Giorgios beat the man---half to death. I was afraid they weren't going to stop. I thought they were going to kill him. Right there. They might have, but the constable of the village came and arrested the man. I was screaming and crying hysterically. My clothes were torn, my skin was scratched from his nails, my nose and mouth were bleeding. The boys were all cursing and shouting. The man was---there was blood all over---"

"Malista." The quiet voice called her back to the present. It was an effort for Paris to prevent the revulsion from showing in his voice. He didn't want her to think it was meant for her.

"I don't even remember hearing about how he was punished. I didn't testify at the trial. No one would tell me anything. They didn't want to upset me." She threw off the memories as if shrugging a cape off her shoulders. "I used to laugh and smile at people all the time. I wasn't always a 'Stoneface'---an 'Ice Princess'. Until I learned what smiling at the wrong person could cost me."

Tom grimaced. He hadn't realized she knew the names she was called behind her back. He had hoped she hadn't heard them and been hurt by them. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

Her mouth twisted. "He said---I smiled at him. Demetrios told me. That man told the constable, that I smiled at him. That's why he--- After that, I never went anywhere without one or more of my brothers or my father. Never. And I never took another dancing lesson."

"Your father blamed you?"

She nodded as she raised her hands to wipe at the tears on her cheeks. "He said the dances were obscene. The studio shouldn't have had a window. That I must have done something to---to entice---to make the man think I would---wouldn't mind what he wanted to do to me."

"And you believed him?"

"Of course," she said, lifting a hand, palm upward. "He was my father. He wouldn't lie to me. He loved me. He wanted what was best for me."

"No, he didn't," Paris contradicted. "He imprisoned you. How was that best for you?"

"He wanted to keep me safe," she argued.

"But he didn't teach you how to fight back? To protect yourself?"

"No. He said that's what I have---had brothers for. And a husband when the time was right." She made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Little did he know, huh? That it was never going to come up? But he predicted it anyway! He said if I went with the Maquis that I'd regret it. That I'd be attacked again and my brothers wouldn't be there to help me. He said only sluts ran away from home. When they were in heat. I didn't know then what he meant, but I found out. Oh, did I find out." A sob tore its way free from her throat. Her hands flew to cover her mouth as if to suppress any others, prevent their escape.

"It wasn't your fault!" Paris persisted.

"I *must* have done something. I'm just so stupid---"

"Stop that!" Paris snapped. "You are not stupid. Who told you that you're stupid?"

She didn't answer. "Let me guess. Your father. Why? Did you make another career choice he didn't approve of?"

"I wanted to be an acrobat or gymnast. He said I was too tall. Then I thought about being a doctor. He said I couldn't pass the entrance exams. That I wasn't smart enough." She still refused to look at him.

"He was wrong. He lied to you. I've seen your test scores. The doctor showed me your records. Your intelligence level is above average. Borderline genius." There was no room for argument with the pilot's flat statement. "You're smart enough to do anything you want to do."

"No, there must be a mistake. That couldn't be true. My father---"

"He was wrong about a lot of things, Malista. He wanted you to stay home on the farm with him, right? So he would say anything it took to keep you there."

She shook her head, fists clenching at her sides. "No. He wouldn't do that. He loved me. He wouldn't lie to me. He loved me!"

"He manipulated you. He used your guilt and shame over being attacked to control you." Tom's voice remained level and unemotional. "Then when you finally rebelled against him and joined the Maquis, he disowned you. That's not love. That's control. You have a right to be angry with him. What he did was wrong."

She began to tremble with the effort of staying on her feet. She spun to stare defiantly into his eyes, taking a step back to increase the distance between them and almost tumbling into the water.

Paris tried to catch her, but she stumbled away from him, out of his reach.

Her chin was quivering, her eyes full of tears that she refused to release. "Stop saying those things! You don't know what you're talking about! You're saying my father didn't love me! But he did! I know he did!"

Tom Paris now had a new understanding of the word 'heartache'. His heart literally ached with sympathy for her pain. "I'm not saying he didn't love you, Sis. I'm saying he didn't know how. He loved the person he wanted you to be. But he didn't want you to grow up. He loved you, but *he* messed it up. His fault, not yours."

"How would you know?" She was still resisting the truth, denying it, though she could see it now laid out before her as clearly as a starchart. She needed more from Tom Paris before she could allow herself to believe he spoke the truth. She needed some proof that he wasn't just stealing a trick from her book and telling her what she wanted to hear.

"Because my father and your father probably have a lot in common," Tom replied sadly. It was so hard for him to talk about his father. He inhaled deeply, hoping he could get it out before his throat closed completely. "I could never please my father either. And it took me years to discover that it wasn't about *me*. I don't think I really accepted that until---until I wound up in the Delta Quadrant. With Captain Janeway's help and Harry's friendship and trust, I found out I wasn't the general screwup everyone expected me to be."

He paused as he tried to measure just how much detail he needed to go into for her to understand what he meant. "My problems with my father were all about *his* expectations. It didn't matter what I did or how well I did it. He didn't want me, the real Tom Paris, as his son. He wanted to create me in his own image. He was so busy trying to shape and mold the son he wanted, he never got to know the son he actually had. And, who knows? He might have actually *liked* me, if he'd ever let me just BE me. Does that make sense?" He could detect the sympathy in her eyes. He'd reached her. Now if she would just apply what he'd said....

"Yes, Tom, it does." For the first time since they'd come to the holodeck, she moved toward him rather than away from him.

She placed her hand on his, then looked away at the boats so she wouldn't have to meet his eyes as she continued. "My father wanted me to become the perfect farmer's wife. Especially after my mother died. I took over the household duties, even though I was terrible at them---except for cooking. I wanted to be out in the barn, fixing the machinery, repairing the equipment. I always was an engineering type."

She paused and shrugged. "If I had gone into medicine, I probably would have worked in the technical end. You know, inventing or repairing equipment. I was always persistent and curious. I wanted to learn how to perform every act in the circus. In addition to performing on the trapeze and high wire, I apprenticed with a different act every season. My father didn't mind that. He said it kept me busy and out of mischief. But I also wanted to learn the technical side of farming, how to work on the machinery. So I made a deal. My youngest brothers, Androcles and Spiro were put in charge of repairs but they weren't good at it or very much interested either. My father told them if they would just apply themselves---"

"That sounds familiar," Tom remarked. "That's what I heard every single grading period. No matter how good my grades were. If I could get a 95, why couldn't I get 100? If I got 100 in all but one subject, he only noticed the one I missed. Finally, I just gave up trying so hard. If I wasn't going to please him anyway, I decided I should have some fun along the way doing the things I was interested in."

She smiled ruefully. "Yes. Your father does sound a lot like mine. He expected every one of his children to be the best at everything and he didn't accept excuses. He thought all we had to do was try harder and we should be able to anything. It seemed to work for him, but not for us."

A reminiscent smile lit her usually solemn features. "Andy and Spiro were supposed to be doing a home schooling course on repairing and building farm equipment, but I took the lessons too. Andy used to let me work on the machines if father wasn't around. And in return, Andy helped me with the housework and Spiro did the gardening. Until papa found out. The whole family got into an uproar. Papa accused the three of us of conspiring behind his back. He said I wasn't acting like a real woman or I would leave men's work to the men. Spiro and Andy were upset because he accused them of acting like women and of spoiling me. Demetrios tried to calm everyone down, but then---That's when we got the message that Giorgios and Stephanos had been killed. And the next day, I ran away and joined the Maquis---" She sighed heavily.

She burst into tears, turning to bury her head on his shoulder. He let her cry without interruption for as long as she needed. When the sobs began to subside, he pressed a handkerchief into her hand. "How do you feel?"

She mopped her face as she considered her answer. She gave him a twisted smile. "Broken."

"It's when you feel broken that you can clear away all the old rubble and begin to build again. You're not alone. We're all building a new life on Voyager, Sis. Some of us just had to clear away the ruins of our pasts before we could begin again."

She hugged him tightly. He was beginning to feel like a teddy bear, by the time she sat back. This time her smile was more genuine, tinged with relief at having a huge burden removed from her soul by his intervention. For the first time in a long time, she felt a slight twinge of hope lighten her mood. She knew her recovery from trauma and anxiety wasn't over, but she'd made a beginning. And he was still there. She hadn't scared him away. And if Tom hadn't run, maybe Harry wouldn't either?

Paris cleared his throat to regain her attention. "Malista, your father loved you, but he tried to make you fit into a box of his own design. When you didn't fit, he tried to force you to fit. You were smart enough to get out. At least it didn't take a major disaster like Caldik Prime to get you to go your own way. You've come so far. Don't let him push you back into that box after all this time."

"I don't understand."

"You *aren't* to blame for being attacked---not when you were thirteen. Not on Huldon III. And not now. Not on Voyager. So tell me about what else is going on."

He turned his hand in hers to clasp her fingers lightly. "Then we'll see if we can

put a stop to it."

She raised her eyes and searched his face. Whatever she was looking for, she evidently found it and her expression softened with trust. "All right. Do you want to sit down?"

"Only if we both promise to stay seated. This jumping up and down is making me motion sick," he whined.

She smiled at that highly unlikely possibility. "Promise." When they were seated comfortably, she began. "The day after the night Harry and I made up---Full Moon Night---there were a lot of rumors flying around the ship. Everywhere I went people were asking me questions. Some of them weren't very nice about it."

"I told you---"

"I know," she interrupted. "Empty wagons rattle. I tried to ignore it, but I wasn't ready for that much public attention. It's strange to know that everyone is talking about you. But that wasn't the main thing. Some of the Starfleet crewmen---they started saying things."

"Things like?" Tom asked, eyebrows at attention.

"Things more direct than rumors or questions. Like did I think Harry could---do I have to get specific?" she asked plaintively.

"How specific did *they* get?" inquired the pilot uncomfortably.

"Very."

"Then don't. Save the details for your complaint to Security." He made it sound like filing a report was a foregone conclusion.

"Tom---"

"Malista." His blue eyes were stern. This was not a negotiable point as far as he was concerned. "Go on. Was it just words?"

"At first. They *looked* at me, too. I mean, more than just looking. Leering. Like they were imagining---"

He held up a hand. "Yeah. I can imagine. Go on. What did you do about it?"

"After a few days of me ignoring them, most of it stopped. Except for two men in particular. I tried to avoid them, but I couldn't always. Sometimes we'd share a turbolift, or I'd pass them in a corridor, and they'd say things under their breath to me. Ask me if I wanted to---call out to me---tell me they---I can't talk about this," she sighed defeatedly. "It's just too embarrassing."

"I assume as time went on, they didn't give up. Did they touch you? Threaten you?" Paris' voice seemed deeper, angrier, colder.

"The first few times *could* have been accidents. At least that's what I told myself. They'd brush up against me as they passed. A hand would graze my hip or my breast. There was nothing I could say without looking stupid. They'd just claim it was an accident and I'd look like an hysterical fool. That was about the extent of it, until---" She sighed heavily. She picked up the sunglasses from the table and began to play with them. It gave her something to do with her hands.

He ducked his head and caught her eyes. "Come on, Sis. Tell me. It's good practice for when you tell it to Tuvok."

This time she didn't let him get away with the implication. "Tom, I can't file a report."

"Sis, you can't NOT file a report." He immediately frowned. "That doesn't sound right. You know what I mean. You tried ignoring it. They won't be ignored. You told them to take a flying leap at a warp coil, right?"

"Not exactly," she admitted. "I told them to leave me alone, but they kept saying I was playing games. That a woman who looked like me---That I really wanted them. "

"Oh," Paris nodded sagely. "A *real* pair of dimwits. 'No' means 'maybe' and 'maybe' means 'yes'. These dimwits have names?"

"Why do you want to know?" she asked suspiciously.

"Not so I can beat them to death. Or even half to death. Though I'll admit, the idea has some merit," Tom answered, keeping his voice light, his face impassive. He should have known she could read him too well to be fooled.

"Tom, this is one reason I didn't want to tell you---or Harry. I've had a taste of freedom now. I don't want to find myself caged again! Even for my own protection!"

Tom eyed her speculatively. "Think about that, Sis. Do you really think that would happen? Knowing me? Knowing Harry?"

Her voice faltered. "I don't know. It happened with my family. It happened with Niko. I don't want to have to go back to staying in my quarters every moment I'm not on duty, and being escorted everywhere when I'm out of my quarters."

"Malista, you didn't need me or Harry to do that to you. You did it all by yourself." Tom watched the impact of his words strike her and realization dawned in her eyes to be replaced by something akin to horror.

"Oh, Zeus. You're right. I did." She blinked back tears. "I did it to myself. The Maquis, especially Gerron, have been escorting me everywhere when I'm not with you or Harry. And I've hardly left my quarters at all for weeks. I am so---"

"If you say stupid, I may hit you," Paris threatened mockingly. "One more time, Sis:

You are NOT stupid. Don't say that again or I won't be held responsible for what I'll do. I understand why you reacted that way. You fell back into a safe pattern of behavior when you felt threatened. That's natural. You have a right to be angry at those men for making you feel threatened. Get angry with them. Not yourself. Harry and I will help you. One of us, or both of us if you want, will go with you to file a report. And we won't blame you. We want to help you, not make you feel guilty. Now, can we tackle one more topic?"

She nodded slowly, unsure what he was going to bring up next, knowing only that it would make her uneasy to deal with it.

"What's this all about?" His hand reached up to lightly touch the tightly twisted hair piled on top of her head. His finger stroked her cheek.

"What do you mean?" She was genuinely puzzled.

"Pulling your hair up into the Bun of Steel style that even Capt. Janeway abandoned. Frowning all the time like you just tasted Neelix's leola root stew. Giving up on wearing makeup during duty hours. Are you trying to look unattractive?" Paris inquired.

She flushed with embarrassment. "Yes. I thought if I was doing something to attract attention, that maybe it would go away if----"

"Did you take that Gawaine and the Loathely Lady story a bit too seriously? You want to look good for Harry---at night. But you want to look hideous---or as close as you can get---during the day when other people can see you? To keep you safe from their attentions?"

"I guess that might be where I got the idea," she confessed reluctantly. "Being attractive hasn't exactly been a positive experience. I attract people I don't WANT to attract---except for Harry. I can't seem to stay invisible on this ship any more. I thought that if I made myself ugly, people would ignore me or leave me alone."

"Did it work?" he scoffed.

"Not very well," she conceded.

"Never work," he commented lazily. "Even a blind man would find you attractive. Your voice is like warm honey. You have a sweet, gentle character. Your insides are as lovely as your outsides. And for those fortunate enough to see you, you are what my mom used to call 'beautiful to the bone'. The only way you're going to look unattractive enough to prevent anyone from wanting you is to disfigure yourself surgically or something drastic like that. I don't think the Doc would do it and I'm certain Harry wouldn't appreciate it. Your behavior lately has confused the hell out of him, you know. You've hurt him. You won't talk to him and he's afraid it's all his fault."

"Nothing is *his* fault!" she stated indignantly.

"Oh, please! Don't tell Harry that!" Paris groaned. "He's died twice and come back. You tell him *that* and he really will develop delusions of godhood!"

Malista couldn't believe she could giggle at that jab. "Tom, you know what I mean."

He sobered. "Yes, I do. But I also know that Harry loves you. He wants you to be healthy and happy and he's willing to help you in any way he can. You're being very cruel to keep shutting him out."

Her jaw dropped as she was presented with an entirely new point of view. "I wasn't shutting him out!"

"No, you were protecting him. Isn't that what you said you didn't want him to do to you? You didn't want to tell him what was going on because you thought he'd blame you, or smother you with protection. You didn't give him a chance. You just shut him out. You've really hurt him, Malista," he concluded solemnly. "He's afraid he's going to lose you. And you're important to him, whether you believe that or not."

"Tom, I didn't know. I wasn't sure how he really felt. I didn't think that he--" She bit her lip.

"You thought it was just hormones? Oh, come on, Malista! If it was hormones, he wouldn't still be waiting to---you know. He'd have taken you up on your offer to 'just do it' a long time ago. Harry is emotionally involved." Paris rolled his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension building there and at the base of his skull.

It was crucial that she understand this point. He spoke slowly and emphatically. "There is a difference between a healthy love and protectiveness and one that's carried to extremes the way your father and brothers did. Yes, Harry wants to protect you, but he is not such a control freak that he expects to wrap you up and store you in your quarters for safekeeping---like Niko Dishon did. There's a healthy balance that can be found if you both work at it. But that means you have to talk to each other, be honest with each other, and work it out together. This business of shutting him out of parts of your life just isn't going to work. Especially not here on Voyager. The ship is too small." He glanced down at her.

She was staring calmly and thoughtfully at her fingertips. If Tom believed her, didn't blame her, then it was likely that Harry would feel the same way. The two of them agreed more than they disagreed about anything important. Maybe she wouldn't lose him after all. Maybe there was a chance she could keep Harry a while longer. Maybe.

"Malista?"

She looked up at him and smiled. "I was just thinking I need to bake a lot of gingerbread men and baklava to soften Harry up for all the apologizing I need to do."

"Oooh. Can I have the leftovers?" he teased boyishly, relieved to leave heavy emotionalism behind.

"Yes. If there are any." Catching him by surprise, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly once more. "Thank you, Big Brother. How did you ever get to be so wise?"

He couldn't speak for a moment. He hugged her back, relaxing for the first time in---he checked his chronometer---forty-five minutes? They'd run the gamut of emotion in forty-five minutes? Wow.

He cleared his throat. "You'd be surprised the things you learn in prison," he responded.

She squeezed more tightly. "Don't feed *me* that line of felgercarb!" She giggled against his shoulder.

"Acck! Sis, if you strangle me, I can't feed you anything," he protested automatically.

She released him and sat back to study his face. "Tell me something. Why do you care so much? I'm not *really* your sister. You didn't have to get this---mixed up in this mess I call my life. Why?"

"I told you I have two older sisters? Neither one of them is in Starfleet. They didn't have to fight family tradition because when I was born I became 'Owen Paris' son'---which meant that he didn't need to hope they would carry on the family name. Anyway, by the time I left for the Academy, they were both out of the house, going to school or working on their careers. I loved them, but I didn't get to spend a lot of time with them. I had hoped that when we were a little older," Tom stopped as his voice almost broke. He cleared his throat again. "I was kind of looking forward to being 'Uncle Tommy', you know? But I may never get that chance in the Alpha Quadrant."

Her eyes were sad for him, and for herself. "You may never get that chance in the Delta Quadrant either, Tom."

He shook a finger at her. "Never underestimate my best friend, Harry Kim. You may be in for a surprise or two. Sis? Harry said he told you he loves you. And you didn't answer. How *do* you feel about him? It's not just---hormones for you, is it?" He studied her expression carefully as the question sank in and she mulled it over before replying.

"I feel---I guess I sort of feel like Oliver Twist," she mumbled wistfully.

Anyone else would have asked what she meant, but Tom had recommended that she read the book. He knew intuitively exactly what she referred to. "You're afraid to ask for more? Afraid of getting your hand slapped away?"

She nodded, her wide green eyes mirrored hope and apprehension. "I don't want to lose what we have. He may not want more. He may change his mind when he finds out about---" Her hand flew to her mouth, trying to still the trembling of her lips.

Tom placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You can never win big, if you don't risk anything. Trust yourself. Trust Harry. You've become a major factor in his happiness. Don't let your fears keep you from reaching out to him." His throat was closing up on him. "And have the right answer ready when he asks you to marry him!"

"But I'm not---I'm not marriageable!" she blurted.

"That's not your decision to make," Paris contradicted. "If someone asks you to marry him, then you're marriageable. I know. Harry hasn't asked. Yet. That doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it. He moves slowly sometimes, but when he makes a commitment, he's in it to stay. I don't know if he told you how we met?"

She nodded.

He elaborated nevertheless, unsure of just how much Harry had told her. "I rescued him from a Ferengi con artist. He decided I was his friend without knowing anything about me. Did you know he chose to be my friend in the teeth of the disapproval of the senior officers of this ship? They told him to stay away from me. I told him the same thing. He told me no one chose his friends for him. He's a lot smarter, stronger, and tougher than most people give him credit for. It's that boyish exterior that makes people underrate him, I think."

"But why did you choose me?"

"It wasn't because of the family resemblance," he joked, then quickly sobered as she stared at him wistfully. She really needed to know. "Because you looked like you could use a friend. Or even an older brother. And I needed a sister. I didn't know it at the time. But I did. And you're it, you lucky girl! Bet you didn't know what you were getting into either, huh?"

"Tom," her voice was choked with tears. "Thank you. I still don't really understand why you picked me---"

"Are you under the impression this has been a one way deal?" he asked indignantly. "That I've helped you, but you haven't done anything for me?"

Her frown of puzzlement answered him in the affirmative.

"Malista! You have got to stop overlooking your sterling qualities! Don't laugh. I'm being serious. You saved my life!"

"That was sort of an accident." She shrugged. "I just grabbed you. *Anyone* would have done it. It was a reflex."

"A reflex that saved my life. And no, I don't believe that just *anyone* would have made the effort. You could have used both hands and both legs to save yourself from being blown out the hull breach. No one would have blamed you or even known the difference." He waved an impatient hand to still her argument. "Never mind. Do you remember how we started? B'Elanna had dumped me. Harry had abandoned me---I know, he didn't want to be caught in the middle between Torres and me, but the effect was the same. I *felt* abandoned. Then I saw you sitting all alone in Sandrine's. You looked so---abandoned yourself."

"I felt that way too," she said, sharing a sympathetic smile with him.

"I thought, 'Well, Tom, here's something to keep you busy. A redemption project.' So I approached you. Partly it was the challenge. To see if I could get you to talk to me when you wouldn't talk to anyone else."

"A redemption project? Oh, Tom, you didn't?!"

"I told you. I didn't know I was looking for anything more than something to pass the time. A hobby of sorts. I certainly wasn't looking for someone who would sneak her way past my defenses and get me emotionally involved. Where was I? Then when I really needed to talk, you were there for me. More than once. The first time we came here to Lake Como. And what made it even better, everything I told you didn't come back in some distorted form from the rumor mill."

"One thing I *can* do well is keep quiet," Malista commented wryly.

"Oh, yeah!" Tom agreed with a grin. "Sometimes too quiet. Like not reporting these people who've been harassing you?"

"Tom, I don't think I can do it. It's so embarrassing. I feel so st---dumb." She changed words hastily at his threatening frown. "I can see now that I shouldn't have tried to ignore it. I should have done something about it."

"Sis, I'm not going to make the decision for you, but I don't think you have a choice any more. The sexual harassment issue affects everyone aboard. There was almost a fight in Sandrine's last night. Gerron and Castelle are in the brig. The Doc was telling me about it before you came to Sickbay. I assume Castelle is one of them? You don't want others to suffer the same abuse you've put up with. The captain certainly isn't going to let you pretend this is going away. Not when it's beginning to affect ship's morale."

"And I have to go apologize to the captain." A shudder of dread ran through her at the thought. She knew it was ridiculous. She was at least a head taller than the older woman. Janeway wasn't going to hurt her. Then why did she feel so intimidated when those gray eyes fixed on her?

"Which reminds me, why did you get so upset about being offered a promotion?" Tom asked oh-so-casually.

"That was one of the things they kept saying. That I was after Harry or you or anyone who could get me a promotion." She frowned when he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Damn! You were the one they were talking about! I heard some rumor about someone supposedly sleeping her way to the top, but I thought they meant Kes or B'Elanna because they said something about the senior staff. Malista, that story has been circulated in every ship, on every world since the dawn of time. People who know anything won't believe it. Could you believe that tactic would work with Kathryn 'Call Me Captain' Janeway in charge?"

She sent him a shame-faced smile. "No, I guess not. But other people might believe it. Oh, and I have to tell Harry everything before I talk to Tuvok. Do you think he'll forgive me? For not trusting him enough to tell him before?"

Paris gave her his patented wide-eyed 'Are you joking?' look. It had the effect of making her wish she hadn't asked. He didn't answer her question directly. "I'll tell you what, Sis. I'll go with you to see the captain. I'm one of her favorites, you know." He smirked. "*Her* personal reclamation project."

"Oh, you've heard that nickname, have you?" Malista began. She picked up her protective lenses and slid them up her nose as she smiled up at him then handed him his own.

He put them on then let them slide down his nose so he could peer over them at her. "You know I think I could learn to like these things."

The intruder alert sounded. Almost in the same moment, the bright light of the probe reappeared on the holodeck. Tom Paris and Malista Shadow didn't have time to react at all. They simply winked out of existence.

**************************

Ensign Kim and Commander Chakotay were just resuming their stations on the bridge when the klaxon began to sound. Kim and Ayala worked in tandem, scanning the Ops station for input. "The probe is back, Captain!" Harry announced.

Before Janeway could react, Ayala added. "It's gone. It just popped in then disappeared. It was within range of our sensors for less than 3.5 seconds."

"That's too fast for another complete scan. What did it do?" Chakotay commented.

"Harry," Janeway began.

Before she could finish the thought, Harry was running a lifesigns scan. "Captain," he said heavily. "There are six lifesigns unaccounted for. Six crewmen are missing from the ship." He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing as Ayala took over and checked for more detailed information.

Janeway didn't need to ask for the identities of the six. She knew. They all did.

***************************

Tom's mind wavered slowly from unconsciousness to awareness. As his eyes finally opened, he saw that he was lying face down and on top of his right arm. He couldn't feel it at all. It was pinned between his body and the surface of the----bed? The numbness told him he must have been in this position for some time. This was not good. This was a bad thing. This was a very bad thing.

With a groan in anticipation of pain, he allowed his body to flop backwards and cast his eyes up toward to see the ceiling of an unfamiliar room. There was a ceiling there, wasn't there? Didn't seem to be. Strange. He definitely wasn't outdoors.

He felt the circulation beginning to return and became aware of sharp stabs and prickles of pain in his arm. "Owwwwwwww." It didn't help the pain, but the sound of his own voice reassured him somehow.

He wasn't dreaming. Damn. This really, really didn't look good. His communicator was missing.

His neck and back felt stiff. How long had he been lying there? Long enough to stiffen up this much? He tried to focus and concentrate. Something was different. He lay there for a moment and tried to assess his surroundings and his own physical condition. No spots! That was it.

Even the Doc's jungle juice had only managed to make them fade, but hadn't gotten rid of them completely. For the first time in what seemed like forever, there were no colored spots dancing in front of his eyes. None at all. And his head didn't hurt. Much. Or at least not any more than the rest of his body. He felt as stiff and sore as if he'd been pummeled by an angry or excited Klingon. A feeling he was somewhat familiar with.

Malista? Where was she? The last thing he remembered---He couldn't remember. No, wait. Malista was with him? If she wasn't here, then maybe she was safely on the ship? Maybe. But if this was because he was one of The Six? So was she. Or was he the only one---?

He staggered to his feet, wincing yet waving his arm to speed the returning blood flow. He might need that arm. His whole body felt stiff, as if he'd stayed in one position for far too long. 'A hexagon shaped bed?' he mused. As he glanced around, he thought, 'Maybe some kind of decorating theme?'

The room was hexagon shaped. Each side of the room rose smoothly and seamlessly from the floor to a height of approximately fifteen feet, then seemed to end without closure. High above the level of the caramel-colored walls, there seemed to be an opaque brown dome. A domed building? But the walls didn't go as high as the dome. In fact the distance to the dome from the wall was about another fifteen feet. It didn't make sense, but then nothing about this made sense anyway so Paris decided not to worry about it.

He began a tour of inspection, not knowing what he might find, but having nothing better to do. Maybe he could find out something about this place. Thinking aloud, he muttered, "First figure out where you are. If you can't determine your location, try to understand what's going on. Order and simplification are the first steps towards the mastery of a subject---the actual enemy is the unknown. Thomas Mann."

"Sheesh, those trainers at the Academy do know what they're talking about. What a surprise!"

"Don't let the fear of the unknown scare you into inaction. Who said that one? Can't remember. Maybe it was my dad? Oh, that's good, Tom. How many more pithy proverbs can you recite? And why are you talking out loud to yourself? The Doc would love to make a note of that in my medical records. Add that to all the extensive notes on my performance at the Academy."

But in a way, his experience in the classes, simulations, and field exercises at Starfleet Academy worked to his benefit in situations like this. He automatically fell back on his training and used it to help him feel in control---or at least, not totally out of control. Managed fear, if not conquered fear.

His concern for Malista began to mount. If all The Six were indeed here, she was the only Maquis. The others all had Starfleet training. They were familiar with strategies for maintaining calm in facing a fear of the unknown. The Academy trained every recruit in the protocols of first contact situations. Malista had no such training or experience. She must be frightened out of her mind to find herself imprisoned by an unknown enemy. And alone.

He jumped, startled as a section of the wall he was standing nearest suddenly moved. Though he hadn't seen any indication of openings, a panel slid down revealing a window of sorts between his room and the next. He stepped closer and peered through the transparent covering.

The room was identical to this one. The only piece of furniture was a hexagon shaped bed approximately eight feet across in the center of the room. Sitting in the center of the bed, cross-legged and arms resting on bent knees was Megan Delaney. She wasn't in uniform. She must have been off duty. She was wearing loose slacks and a long sleeved blue tee-shirt. One sleeve was torn open as if ripped along the seam from her wrist to just above her swollen, empurpled elbow. She seemed to be meditating, her eyes closed.

He knew she meditated when she was stressed and being kidnapped without warning was enough to stress anyone. He knew he felt stressed.

Paris slapped at the window with his hand, trying to make a noise to get her attention. "Megan!" He thumped the wall with his fist.

No response. Evidently, she couldn't hear him. Soundproofed? And one way glass? Well, her presence did give credence to his theory that he wasn't the only one brought here. Were the others here as well? The other four that made up The Six? Including Malista?

He wondered why the panel had opened. Had he triggered it, by approaching the wall? He decided to test that idea and approached the next wall section. Again, a panel slid down. An identical room. This one was occupied by Janine Lamont. The petite blond was pacing in circles---or hexagons---around the bed. She seemed nervous, but alert. She was out of uniform as well, wearing a tank top and jogging shorts. She was shivering as her breath misted in the air before her. Her room must be significantly colder than his. Her arms were wrapped around her waist while her hands rubbed up and down trying to generate warmth. There was nothing he could do about it---for now.

Paris moved to the next wall. Though he didn't notice a triggering device, the panel obediently slid down to reveal yet another identical room, this one occupied by Ethan Simms. The young ensign was seated on the bed, his left leg was turned at a peculiar angle, as if his leg was broken or damaged in some manner. His auburn curls showed signs of having been finger-combed repeatedly in agitation. He was out of uniform as well, wearing well-worn sweats and a tee-shirt damp with perspiration. He must have been working out in the gym, perhaps with Janine, when snatched from the ship. The young man's glazed eyes scanned right past Paris' position without a hint of recognition or focus.

"Ethan!" Paris shouted, as he whammed a fist against the clear panel. The ensign had looked right at him, but apparently hadn't seen him at all. All of the rooms had to be sound-proofed, the glass one-way. Why? What was going on? How had Simms been injured? A mounting sense of dread began to tickle its way up his spine, raising the soft golden hairs on the back of his neck. So far all the others seemed to be hurt in some way. Everyone but him. He felt stiff and sore, but had no obvious injuries. The lieutenant moved restlessly to the next section. He still hadn't located Malista.

The next panel slid away to reveal Sven Haldersen seated on the floor, leaning back against the bed. He was naked from the waist up and his boots were missing. His uniform trousers had been precisely sliced away just above his knees and his feet were a deep shade of blue---from his ankles to the soles of his feet. There was a line of demarcation that seemed to indicate the coloring had been placed there deliberately.

Tom stared, trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. Haldersen didn't appear to be injured, but he wasn't moving. Sweat was pouring from his body in rivulets. While Janine's room was colder than normal, it appeared that Sven's was much warmer. From his point of view, Paris couldn't tell if the other man had other injuries or if he was even conscious.

Shaking his head, the lieutenant gave up and moved to the next section. Nothing. He stepped back and forward again. Waved his arms trying to find a trigger. Nothing. There was no panel there? Or had he done something differently this time?

He moved to the next section of the wall. A panel slid down. He moved in as close as possible. Finally. There she was. Malista was lying on her side on the bed. She was facing him, eyes closed. Unconscious? Asleep?

But unlike the other rooms, there was someone else in there with her.

One of their captors? The figure advancing toward Malista had its back to Paris. It was at least eight feet tall and was enveloped in some kind of shroud of dark brown material, like a hooded robe. What were they going to do to her? The pilot slammed his hand on the panel, hoping he could awaken Malista----warn her. He knew it was futile. But he had to try.

"Malista!" he shouted. He even tried thinking loudly, hoping somehow that telepathy would kick in, though he'd never been telepathic before. "Damn it! Get away from her!"

The figure stopped next to the bed. A slender, green, tentacle-like limb extended a four-fingered hand toward her.

The young woman suddenly exploded into a flurry of motion. Her uppermost leg snapped out to kick and her booted foot sent the alien lurching backwards, nearly toppling it to the floor. Shadow did a rolling back flip off the bed, landing on her feet beside it on the opposite side from the alien. She moved to keep the bed between them as the hooded figure stumbled forward once more.

Another hooded figure appeared behind her. Tom held his breath, willing her to turn around, to notice. She did, but it was too late. The second alien had wrapped a tentacle around her waist and was lifting her from the floor. It was his mistake that he didn't pin her arms or legs. She was struggling wildly---kicking, wriggling, hitting fiercely, gouging with her fingertips and nails. The alien's grasp on her faltered under the ferocity of her attack.

She abruptly dipped her head and bit the tentacle that was holding her! The alien lost its grip and she squirmed free, slithering bonelessly out of its hold. She dodged around him and managed to get her back to the wall opposite Tom's position.

She was cornered. The aliens on either side of her were moving towards her now. Her hand flashed down as she raised her right knee. She pulled a knife out of her boot!

A big wicked-looking knife with an eight inch blade. The aliens hesitated. They must have recognized it as a weapon.

Paris choked on his indrawn breath. "Damn! Where did that come from?" She was holding it as if she knew how to use it. He thought they'd taken that knife away from her after her suicide attempt. Evidently she'd gotten it back. But what was she doing with it in her boot? Did she carry it all the time? Now that was a scary thought for several reasons. More importantly, would she have the nerve to use it to defend herself?

That question was answered immediately. The aliens halted their advance toward her and turned toward each other. From their attitude, they seemed to be conferring. Malista never took her eyes off them. Her features were contorted into a mask of resolute fury, almost as if she was daring them to get near her again.

The aliens backed away from her and stepped apart, going to either side of the room, leaving her a clear pathway between them. They started toward her in a pincer movement, forcing her to move away from the wall to get away from them. Shadow watched them suspiciously, as did Paris. She moved to the center of the room and jumped up onto the hexagon-shaped bed, ready to move in any direction.

The aliens kept coming, as if shepherding her in the direction they wanted her to go. Which seemed to be toward Paris' cell.

The lieutenant heard a faint noise. The wall to his left, the one that hadn't had a viewing section, abruptly slid away, forming a portal between the two rooms. The aliens stopped moving. They seemed to be waiting for something.

Paris stepped to the doorway. "Malista!"

One tentacle came up slowly and gestured in the direction of Tom's position. They were telling her to join Tom? Now that was an order she could live with. Keeping a cautious eye on the aliens, she bounced off the bed and sprinted to the doorway.

Before Paris could do more than blink, Shadow was across the room and had thrown her arms around him, her weight driving him back a step into the room. The door panel slid shut behind them. "Tom! Are you all right?"

He fought back a wince as his sore muscles and stiff neck rebelled against being jostled by her embrace. He was devoutly grateful she had the presence of mind to keep the knife turned away from his body.

She tucked her head into the curve of his neck. The young man dropped his gaze to the top of her head. Her arms were wrapped around him, her head resting on his chest. His arms encircled her and squeezed gently. "I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"I'm much better now that I know you're all right. Oh, Tom!" She exhaled on a shaky sigh as she squeezed him a little more tightly.

"Yeah, Sis, but if you break my ribs, B'Elanna's going to be really ticked at you!" he murmured, easing her away to arm's length so he could examine her. "She thinks they're *her* special target."

"Are we the only ones? Or---" She lifted her knee and slid the knife back into its sheath in her boot.

Tom's eyes followed her actions and he made a mental note to ask her about that later. She was carrying a knife? He hadn't expected that. Damn. He'd told the EMH that she wasn't dangerous. She must have been more frightened of her harassers than she had led him to believe.

Tom shook his head in answer to her question. He stepped back, took her hand and turned them towards the other window panels. There were only smooth walls facing him on all sides once more. "Malista, I swear, there were windows here a minute ago. All six of us are here. I saw the others and they may have been injured. Are you sure you're all right?"

She held up her left hand for his inspection. "Someone gave me an unscheduled manicure." The fingernail on her left index finger had been chopped off, almost to the tip of her finger. There was a hint of bleeding around the rough edges.

"Your hair is falling down, Sis," Tom noted. Her bun of steel looked more like a disintegrating ponytail now. "And you're missing a big old swack of hair here, girl." He lifted a thick tress of the soft black curls in his hand.

"A swack of hair?" she repeated scornfully, as she lifted her hand to check it out. "It's called a lock of hair, Tom. Or a tress. Not a 'swack'."

About three inches was missing from the length of one section of her now unruly mane. She pulled the pins and ties from her hair, and finger-combed it as well as she could, trying to restore some semblance of order. She settled for trapping the long strands in a loose ponytail at the base of her neck and pinned the short strands out of her eyes.

"Details, details. Why would someone want a fingernail and a swack---oh, all right!" He corrected himself as she gave him 'a look'. "A lock of hair?"

She shrugged. She couldn't think of a good answer for that one. "Souvenirs?"

If only The Six were taken, then Tom Paris was the senior officer present. Though he hadn't thought about it consciously, he'd already begun to take charge of the situation. He was responsible for his fellow crewmen and he wanted to check on 'his' people. Frustrated by his lack of information, Tom turned and strode toward the wall, hoping to trigger the panel once more. He stopped in his tracks at Shadow's horrified gasp.

"Tom!"

He spun on his heel, looking for a threat to her. "What?"

She was staring wide-eyed at him. "Come sit on the bed," she directed.

"Why?"

"Just do it." She'd never been so bossy with him before. Something was wrong. And it had to do with him. He was sure he wasn't going to like this, but he obediently sat on the edge of the bed. She knelt next to him and slightly behind him. He felt her hands tugging at his collar, brushing his blond curls aside. He'd been meaning to get a haircut, but....

"Tom," she said in carefully measure tones. "You have a circular bruise on the back of your neck. Just at the base of your skull. It's a bright purplish blue and about an inch in diameter."

"Can you tell what caused it?" He kept his own voice level with difficulty. He wished they had a mirror. He wanted to see for himself. It unnerved him to know that someone had been tampering with his body while he was unconscious. He should have suspected something of the sort when he'd seen the condition of his fellow prisoners.

Her hand closed on his shoulder, simultaneously offering and seeking comfort. "If I had to guess, I would say someone took a sample. Possibly of spinal fluid?"

"No wonder my neck is stiff," he commented, cautiously turning his head from side to side.

"Tom, I want you to take your shirt off. I want to make sure this is all there is to find. You weren't aware of this?"

"No," he muttered. "I didn't notice anything. I thought I was fine. Just sore from being in one position too long while I was unconscious." He tugged at the hem of his black tee-shirt, groaning as his aches and pains protested the movement.

She helped him as much as she could, then checked his smoothly muscled back. "Tom, there are a series of---puncture marks up and down your spine and several bruises on your back."

"So someone used me as a dart board while I was out? Can you tell if they were taking things out or putting things in?" Unsurprisingly, his attempt at humor fell flat.

"No. But I don't like this," Malista said grimly. "You'll catch a chill. Here, put your shirt back on." She handed it to him and suddenly giggled.

He stared at her in disbelief as he took the shirt from her hand. "What? What's so funny?"

She ran teasing fingertips over the red gold curls that covered his muscled chest.

He captured her hand, then released it as he pushed it away, admonishing, "That tickles."

"I know it's silly, but it just popped into my head---" She giggled again as she helped him pull the shirt on so he wouldn't have to stress his sore muscles.

"What?" he asked patiently. He braced himself for an awful pun. Malista was almost as bad as he was about cracking jokes when she was uncomfortable.

"It just seems ironic that you're so---hairy. And Harry---isn't." Her voice spluttered with girlish giggles.

"You little brat! I don't *believe* you. Bad jokes at a time like this?" He rolled his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck slightly and groaned.

She grew serious immediately. "I'm sorry, Tom. Are you in pain? I wish I had a medkit," she remarked contritely.

"There's no point in worrying. We can't worry about things we can't control," he said. "What I want to know is: what was done to the others? Wait! Let me see your neck!"

She plopped down next to him on the bed and obligingly turned. He lifted her hair aside and peeked down the back of the collar of her uniform.

"Nothing," he said on a relieved sigh. "I guess you were the swack of hair and fingernail samples and I was the spinal sample. Samples? This reminds me of something. I can't think of---"

"Tom, to tell you the truth, I'm scared." She seemed slightly ashamed of the admission.

"You didn't look too scared when you pulled that knife!" he replied with a proud grin. "I thought B'Ella said you wouldn't fight."

She held up her hands, palms upward. "This isn't a simulation. I woke up and didn't know where I was or who they were. I pretended to be asleep for a while, hoping they'd leave me alone. I didn't know what had happened to you or if I was the only one here or not. But I couldn't just lie there when they started coming at me. I didn't know what they were going to do to me. Besides, George Natwick told me I needed to use my fear to give me strength. He said I had to turn the fear into anger and use it."

Paris tilted his head to one side consideringly. "Natwick just may not be as big a nitwit as I thought."

"He is not a nitwit. He's a very nice person, once you get to know him. He sort of reminds me of my brother Demetrios. Anyway, when I woke up there, in that cell or whatever, I was so afraid that I had to do something or go crazy. Then I remembered what George had said and began to deliberately make myself mad."

"How did you do that?" Amusement shone through Tom's curious expression, but she didn't mind. She knew it sounded strange.

"While I was lying there, pretending to be unconscious, I started listing all the reasons I was angry with whoever had done this."

"For example?"

"For example, how dare they kidnap us off our own ship? We didn't do anything to them."

"You got that right!" Paris agreed, starting to feel a tingle of irritation himself at the thought.

"And how it's all their fault that Harry is going to worry. About you. About me. About us. He's going to be so upset. And no one is allowed to upset Harry! Not if I have anything to say about it!" Her indignant tone struck Tom as being funny.

Maybe he was more exhausted than he thought. He was getting loopy. He started to grin again. "That's right. You're the only one allowed to upset Harry. You're cute when you're mad, Sis." He chucked her chin with his index finger.

"I'm not cute. Overgrown women are not cute," she muttered grumpily, pulling her face away from his hand.

"Knock it off!" he growled irritably, gently grabbing her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes.

"What?" She pulled away from him again, not meeting his eyes. She recognized that tone of voice. She'd heard it from him before.

"Stop making fun of yourself. You are NOT overgrown." He paused. "It's a matter of point of view. You and I are the right height. Everyone else is undergrown."

"I can't *wait* to hear you tell B'Elanna that *she's* undergrown. Can I sell tickets?" Shadow commented dryly, touched nonetheless by his defense of her---even if he was defending her from herself.

"B'Elanna is wonderful just the way she is. Practically perfect in every way," Tom hastened to say. "And you can tell her I said so. I just mean you shouldn't say demeaning things about yourself---and don't excuse it by saying you were only joking!"

"You're right," Malista admitted. "It bothers Harry when I say negative things about me too. I guess it's a habit. I'll try to watch it. Tom?"

"What?"

"Do you think Harry will be worried? Really?" It was a small plea for reassurance.

The lieutenant nodded decidedly. "Of course. I only hope you'll love him when he's bald. He's probably tearing his hair out as we speak. He wants you back in one piece. You concentrate on that idea. It's your *duty* to get back to Harry. He loves you and wants you and needs you---and these aliens have no right to make you or Harry unhappy. Get mad about that, will you?! I happen to know Harry had a special date planned for this evening. Don't tell him I told you! He's going to be really ticked at these aliens for spoiling his plans!"

A tentative smile tugged at her lips, then disappeared. "What are we going to do now?"

"Well, according to my training at the Academy, we assess our situation, gather intelligence, search for a means of escape, and wait for the opportunity to act." He took her hand in his and squeezed it.

"And if there is no opportunity?" she asked.

"Then we make one," he replied matter-of-factly. He was sure that he would find a chance. He was counting on it. He refused to even consider the possibility of a negative outcome.

She was convinced. They settled down to wait, holding hands, each lost in thought.

A bright light suddenly popped into existence in front of them. When the brightness faded, the hexagon shaped bed disappeared. Unprepared to have their seating yanked from under them, the two of them landed on the floor with thumps and groans of surprise. They looked around. The bed hadn't disappeared. They had. They were in another room.

*************************