Part II: Dissimulare

B'Elanna was furious. "What the hell happened? Why the hell didn't anyone catch any warning signs?"

She didn't accuse him, but Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair at the conference table when B'Elanna's gaze landed on him, and he refused to meet her eyes. Seeing warnings that a sun was about to have a solar storm large and strong enough to scorch three of its system's planets was his job—and his apparent lapse or oversight had nearly cost the entire crew their lives. He had been silent since Voyager had escaped the storm, save to give voice to reports as they came in, and had not said a word since the senior staff members had gathered in the conference room.

Chakotay, seated beside her as always, wondered how Kathryn was going to deal with him—and with the anger and blame that was obviously already being heaped at his feet, by both his crewmates and himself. He did not have long to wonder.

Kathryn leveled a stern look at first B'Elanna, then at the rest of the senior staff seated around the table. "Every single one of you has made at least one near-catastrophic mistake in your career," she said coolly. "Even me. Laying blame at this point will help no one—including you. Any lesson that may have needed to be learned has already been learned. Am I understood?" A smattering of nods rippled around the table. "Good. And make certain that each of your crews knows that too.

"Now, B'Elanna, how long until we have warp drive back online?"

"We're going to need to do a lot of repairs before we can even think about going to warp," B'Elanna said. Her tone was terse, and her lips were still thin with anger, but she seemed less inclined to lash out, or at least to start yelling. "Half of the decks are barely containing atmosphere right now, and our shields are shot to hell and back. We're going to need to fix those, and beef up at least some of the hull before we can go any faster than impulse."

"Time estimate?"

B'Elanna pulled an unhappy frown. "Three days, maybe. If we all work double shifts."

Kathryn nodded. "Then you have three days. I don't like sitting around, waiting for the Kaminoans to find us sitting here like a bird with clipped wings."

The Kaminoans were a highly advanced, insectoid race of people that Voyager had encountered two weeks earlier. Their planet, covered almost entirely with salt-water oceans whose beds were comprised of many minerals Voyager needed desperately, seemed like a miracle. After only half a day, however, negotiations had collapsed, and they had been pursued by the Kaminoans' small yet heavily weaponed cruisers since.

Tom raised his hand. Kathryn looked over at him, bottom lip quirking as if she was fighting a smile—he never looked more like a cocky schoolboy than when he raised his hand during debriefings—then nodded for him to speak.

"We chose the third planet to orbit partly because of its unusual magnetic field, which hid us from sensors, right? Well, I asked Harry to run a system-wide scan for anything that might also provide a dampening effect on sensors, just in case we had any unwelcome visitors. Though his report wasn't fully complete as of last night, he did find that more than half of the asteroids in the nearby asteroid belt contain a mineral that he thought might have been the cause of the planet's scrambling effect. It wouldn't be nearly as effective as orbiting the planet, but if we move Voyager into the asteroid belt, it may help to hide us from any unwanted eyes."

For the first time that morning, Chakotay saw Kathryn Janeway smile. "Well done, both of you," she said, making sure that Harry saw and felt her gaze. "Let's do it.

"Anything else?"

The Doctor, joining them on the conference room screen, cleared his throat. "This is a reminder that all personnel who were subjected to more than thirty seconds of unimpeded solar light will need to visit Sickbay twice a day for the next week for anti-radiation treatment. That means all of you except for B'Elanna." His gaze lingered an extra few seconds on Kathryn, who seemed oblivious to his look, and Chakotay hoped he would not be forced to drag her down to Sickbay. He knew he probably would.

Kathryn looked around the table, and when no one else made a move to say anything, she stood. "Dismissed."

Everyone rose and began to shuffle about, gathering padds and moving towards the doors. Chakotay also stood, and turned to speak to Kathryn—only to find that she had already left her seat, and was approaching Harry. He let her go and gathered up his own things, though he watched out of the corner of his eye as she put a gentle hand on the young ensign's shoulder, halting him for a few words.

Chakotay left before they had finished speaking. He did not want to lurk, and even though he wished—needed—to speak with Kathryn, preferably in private, her ready room would be just as good of a place to do so as the conference room. Better, even, he told himself as he settled into his seat at the center of the bridge.

Tom was already back at the con, and was turning Voyager's listing nose toward the outer reaches of the solar system. The hum of the impulse engines threaded weakly through the deck as he brought them online, and then they were moving forward at a slow but steady crawl.

By the time Kathryn joined him on the bridge, the asteroid belt was in sight. It was a long and thick band of shadow against the far-distant stars, a strand of rolling stone and ice that stood out against the blackness of space and hid the system's outer, gaseous planets from view.

Kathryn lowered herself into her chair stiffly. Chakotay glanced over at her—and once more, he took in her rumpled uniform, her tangled and sweat-sticky hair, her pale skin. It still held a shade of unnatural pink, despite her pallor, even though the Doctor had treated her burns at the same time as the rest of the bridge crew, and her freckles stood out in sharp relief across the bridge of her nose.

A ghost of a frown tugged at Chakotay's heart. The question which he needed to address with her grew in his mind, sending small roots of worry into his heart and the first tendrils of concern tingling down into his fingers. He wondered why he hadn't seen the warning signs before.

Because your entire ship was about to be destroyed, the logical part of his mind whispered. He ignored it.

He waited until they were safely in the asteroid belt, Voyager's groaning hulk drifting in steady cadence with the slow dance of the rocks all about her, to turn to Kathryn. "Might I have a word?" he asked, voice low and quiet, pitched just loud enough for her to hear and no louder.

She jerked, as if startled by his voice, and glanced at him. "Is it urgent?" she asked, leaning a little over the armrest and console separating them.

Chakotay looked at her. He saw the thin film of sweat gathered on her brow, the pale flush of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes. "Maybe," he said.

Kathryn Janeway quirked an eyebrow at him, lifted a corner of her mouth, and said, "Well, until you decide whether it's urgent or not, I have other matters to attend to that definitely are time sensitive." Her voice carried a teasing lilt, but Chakotay did not miss the sour note beneath her tone, the dissonant cord of strain that echoed in her eyes—in eyes that did not laugh as was their wont when she teased him, but remained cold and still and empty but for her command mask.

She did not give him time to respond, or even to finish compiling his thoughts, before rising abruptly from her chair. Sparing only one final, parting glance down at him, she disappeared toward OPS, questions in the soft tone she used when not giving commands already dripping from her lips.

Within moments she was gone from the bridge, heading toward Engineering, leaving Chakotay in silent, expectant command of the ship.

He did not see her again until after Beta shift had ended.

Tired, body aching and head throbbing, Chakotay was on his way to the messhall for a late dinner when saw her. She was walking in the opposite direction, hair falling out of its bun to dust the sides of her face, a case Chakotay suspected was filled with tools and pads in one hand, her expression set in narrow concentration; she didn't even seem to realize he was there until Chakotay stepped directly in front of her, putting out a hand to halt her before she could walk into him.

"Commander."

Her greeting was stiff and disconcertingly formal, and she tried to pull away before he could respond. Chakotay's hand, resting on her left shoulder, tightened, pulling her to a standstill. She froze, but then allowed him to push her back in front of him.

"What can I do for you, Chakotay?" she asked, this time with resignation.

"You've been avoiding me." It was not a question, but a realization.

"No."

It was a lie, and they both knew it.

"What's going on, Kathryn?" Chakotay asked. Again his fingers tightened on her shoulder, holding her still when she tried to pull away. If he let her go now, it would be another day before he was able to talk to her, at least—and he didn't feel like he had a day to spare. "Kathryn, what's wrong?" he pressed, taking half a step forward. His encroaching presence forced her to look up at him, and her eyes flashed when they met his, in demand, challenge, and layered beneath it, dismay.

"What do you think is wrong, Commander?" she snapped. "My crew was almost killed today, and my ship is holding atmosphere only with tape, spit, and prayer."

Chakotay's eyebrows crept up. If he had to guess, B'Elanna was the one who had said that, but to hear Kathryn repeat it was something of a shock. To hear her say the words with an edge of bitter anger was even more surprising; if she was anything, Kathryn was a forced optimist: a woman who had learned that the only way to encourage and inspire her crew was to profess the belief that all was better or more certain than it was.

"Kathryn, what's wrong?" Chakotay asked again.

She was silent for a long second, then she took a short step back and, at last pulling away from Chakotay's hold—he could sense she was no longer about to flee, and so relaxed his grip—lifted a hand to run down her face. A groan escaped her lips, slid through her fingers like the broken notes of an accordion, which was then chased by a sigh.

"I'm just tired, Chakotay," she said at last, dropping her hand and looking up at him once more. "I didn't sleep well last night, and then today… Well, you understand."

Chakotay forced a mirthless smile. "I do." And he did—he too was tired, the exhaustion of the late night and the stressful day buried down to his bones. But there was more to it than mere exhaustion, he thought—felt, suspected.

Glancing up and down the corridor to ensure that they were alone, and no crewmembers were about to walk into their conversation, Chakotay stepped forward closer again, and once more reached out to take hold of Kathryn's shoulder. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, at his touch, but she did not pull away.

"Are you sure there's nothing else?" Chakotay asked. He looked down at her, silently demanded that she meet his gaze, dared her to lie to him. "You were in your ready room this morning, but didn't come out onto the bridge until after I was there—and I had come all the way from my quarters. And, no offense, but you looked like hell even before you made it out."

You still looked beautiful, though, the treacherous voice in Chakotay's mind whispered. He quashed it, smothering that line of thought before it could prove distracting.

"I'm fine, Chakotay," Kathryn said. She met his eyes—and in turn, she silently dared him to challenge her, to question her statement, to deny her honesty.

Chakotay laughed inwardly. What did he do but challenge her, but question her decisions, but deny her honesty when it came to her personal health. Did she not realize that she was, in this very moment, trying to deny him all of what it meant for him to be her commander? Her friend?

Chakotay breathed out a sigh, and let his hand slide from her shoulder. "Have you at least eaten today?"

Kathryn laughed, brittle and short but finally, truly amused, and this time it was her who reached out to touch him. Her hand was warm through his shirt. "While I can sometimes appreciate it, your mother hen act can be very irritating, Chakotay. I'm fine," she said again. "I'll see you in the morning."

And then she was gone, breezing around Chakotay and striding purposefully down the hall, tool- and padd-filled case swinging at her side, shoulders tense and head high.

She's not fine, Chakotay thought, turning and watching her disappear around the corner. She was too certain, and not tired enough, for all her act of exhaustion; she was hiding something—from the crew, from him, probably from herself.

Chakotay just hoped he could find out what that was before any real damage was done.