Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and all characters therein are the property of Americans who are not me. No infringement of copyright is intended.
This story is set approximately around Season 3-4, but no particular spoilers other than this happens before Thirty Days. Rating M/15 for mature themes. Thanks to Star Trek Voyager: Lower Decks for all factual/technical information pertaining to the layout of the USS Voyager, and Star Trek: Technobabble for the correct spelling of "Jefferies Tube".
FEEDING THE FURY
Chapter 5
"Aagh!"
"Chakotay!" Tom uttered the cry as he stumbled, managing to place a boot in the man's stomach as he artfully fell into the wall but just a little too hard for comfort, "Oomph!"
"Commander! Tom! Chakotay! Lt Paris! Are you alright!"
Neither man was momentarily able to answer the cacophony of simultaneous exclamations as various concerned people converged on their position. Assuring Harry that he was only winded, Tom turned around, his attitude the very verisimilitude of apologetic concern, though inwardly he bubbled with vicious glee. It had taken several minutes of inconspicuously loitering with intent before Chakotay had got a hot drink from Neelix and Tom was able to accidentally 'hurry' towards the Mess Hall exit too fast and crash full into the man. Even as Chakotay painfully got to his feet, the skin of the hand holding his stomach was blistering from the scalding coffee.
"Where's the fire, Paris?" Chakotay wheezed, scrunching up his face in pain.
"Chakotay –"
"No harm done," Chakotay waved away their concern.
"Your hand," Tom pointed out with faked solicitousness.
"It'll only take a minute in sick bay. It's alright, Tom."
Tom managed to make a solo getaway as Harry, in full Ensign Eager mode, whisked Chakotay off to sick bay to get the burn tended to. Once in the corridor, however, his sheepish expression dissolved into one of flinty anger. The few seconds of spiteful satisfaction gained from his actions had gone leaving a hollow feeling of discontent. Chakotay hadn't even given him the pleasure of overreacting to the incident with harshness thus allowing Tom to go into his 'martyred innocent' routine.
He entered his quarters, locking the doors behind him moodily and flung himself on the couch, glaring at the computer on the coffee table and angrily wanting to throw it against a wall. He had tried long into the night for days to winkle out just how Chakotay had pulled off his 'in two places at once' stunt to no avail. He growled in frustration; it was so hard to batten down his rage all the time. It took all his willpower just to be civil to Chakotay. It was a good job that he rarely had occasion to interact with Crewwoman Jurot, as Voyager's last surviving Betazoid would be able to pick up his homicidal impulses a parsec away at this rate.
He activated the diagnostic/search program again in irritation, consigning Jurot to…
Tom hesitated as he was about to press a command key, a memory resurfacing in his mind, of another Betazoid crewmember, Lon Sudor. Unlike Jurot and the late Lt Stadi, Voyager's original Helmswoman inadvertently killed by the Caretaker, Sudor had been Maquis, which was why his incomplete medical files contained no warning of psychopathic neuropathy. In a way, Seska's invasion of Voyager had been the best thing that ever happened to Sudor, allowing him to die a hero's death instead of being confined to the brig for seventy years as a murderous nut-job.
Tom stared at the program waiting patiently on the screen to be reactivated. Betazoids were telepaths and empaths, but they could also transmit as well as receive. Tom shook his head irritably – fanciful nonsense, Jurot had no beef with him, and if she had why wait for four years to begin some game of slow torture?
Nevertheless, he leaned forward and on impulse, carefully began to change the program's diagnostic and search parameters…
Continued in Chapter 6…
© 2005, Catherine D. Stewart