Zeva system
U.S.S. James T. Kirk

Lt. Nenyaht rubbed his eyes warily before opening them, hoping that in those few seconds, the answers to all of his problems with the deflector would be answered.

No such luck.

He sighed heavily in defeat, contemplating running another diagnostic, even though he knew the results would be the same as all the others: everything was running within normal limits. The deflector was working exactly as it was designed to. That was his problem: deflectors weren't as efficient as the people working in research and development labs liked to think they were.

"The computer told me I'd find you here," a rich, gravelly voice said from the doorway. Although he knew exactly whose voice that was, he turned his head toward her.

"It's usually right about such things," he said, a small smile on his face and in his voice. "What brings you to deflector controls, Kathryn?"

"Well, to see you, of course," she said, as if such an answer were expected and obvious. "I think the better question is, why are you still here?"

He gestured toward the controls around the small room. "This is my domain. I'm stationed here."

"I know that," she said impatiently. "But why are you still here?"

He sighed. "The ship doesn't fly as well under a cloak as it should. I was hoping to figure out why. So far, everything looks normal."

She nodded, moving forward to study one of the displays. "I wish I had a suggestion, but Starfleet's knowledge of deflector controls far surpassed my own when your mother started working for Research and Development. At least on Voyager, they were limited by our equipment, so I could still pretend to be able to contribute some knowledge." He grinned, but didn't say anything. She turned to face him. "You missed breakfast this morning."

He grimaced; in the heat of the moment with the Nygleian armada, he had forgotten about their plans. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I was locked up down here."

Her grin widened, her eyes twinkling. "And I was locked upstairs in a briefing, Nenyaht. I'm just joking. If you can tear yourself away from the deflector controls for a little while, though, we can go up to the Officer's Mess and get something now."

"Sure," he said, entering his codes to lock his workstation. "What meal is it, anyway? I've completely lost track of time."

Admiral Janeway only shrugged in reply. "I honestly don't know," she said as they headed out into the corridor.

In the end, neither bothered to check a chronometer to determine what time it was or what meal they should be eating; Nenyaht simply decided that he wanted a chicken sandwich, and Janeway requested a bowl of pasta soup from the replicator. "You looked a little uncomfortable when I brought up Abbey last night," Janeway opened, always getting straight to the point. "Is everything okay?"

"As okay as it's been for the last six years," he said with a sigh. "Actually, last night, after she got off duty, she came and got me from my quarters. Joe reprogrammed her replicator to have an attitude, and she needed an engineer to come fix it."

"And did you?" Janeway asked, grinning at the thought of Abbey's reaction to being the target of one of her brother's pranks.

"I looked at it," he said, "but you know how good of an engineer Joe is. I can fix it, but it's going to take longer than just a few minutes. I should let her know that I haven't forgotten about her, and that I'll get back to it when this Nygleian crisis is over. Well, when this current Nygleian crisis is over."

"I think she's a little bit too busy to worry about her replicator at the moment," Janeway commented. "She's on the planet with the field medical teams." Nenyaht paused, his sandwich halfway between his plate and his mouth.

"She's down there?" he repeated.

"Yes. I think I heard that she's with Dr. Jackson and a few of the other flight surgeons on the southwestern continent. There's a stadium in the middle of an urban center that they're using for an emergency field hospital."

The chicken sandwich returned to Nenyaht's plate without him taking a bite. "So you're telling me that she was sent down to a stadium to treat Zevian patients after a Nygleian attack," he said, his voice flat with the exception of those emphasized words. Like his mother, his voice became cold when he was angry. "I hope they have a counselor standing by for her when they return to the ship."

Janeway frowned. "I'm sure she'll be able to perform her duties without any problems."

"Oh, I'm sure of that, too," Nenyaht agreed. "And I'm sure when she gets back, she'll tell everyone she's fine and will go on with her life like nothing's happened until she has a major breakdown. It might be a few days, maybe a few weeks or even a couple of months, but it will happen. She isn't always rational about how she expresses her emotions and they have a tendency to get the best of her. This will get the best of her." His voice became hard. "Her first roommate at the Academy was Zevian. They were on the gymnastics team together, and she was one of the five girls on the team who died in the attack—the attack in a stadium, the attack that also took her future career, her favorite pastime, her ability to walk, her aunt, her cousin, and her fiancée. Tell me, Admiral, if you were in that situation, how would you do?" Without waiting for a reply, he abruptly stood from the table, his chair threatening to topple before he grabbed it and set it straight. He didn't even glance back at her as he stalked from the room, his sandwich forgotten on his plate.