Episode Two - Point of Reference

Chapter 4
First, Second, and Third Contact

Ilidaria was a pretty little blue marble splashed with dusty white clouds. Jadzia logged every bit of information the sensors could pick up, casting her net wide over the planet as she requested all the data their various ministries were willing to share. They were a trade hub for this tiny corner of the edge of the galaxy, positioned in an advantageous cluster of stars at the entry to one of the long spiral arms edging the expanse of starless black. Their investitures of natural development, health and wellness, and agriculture were happy to share their wealth of knowledge on the planet's sociology and ecology, as well as a few tidbits they'd picked up on other planets in the system and a bit more distant.

Meanwhile, the investiture of defense politely demanded they shut down all power to their offensive and defensive systems. Jadzia declined the invitation equally politely, and was lead to believe that no further action would be taken—yet—purely because they were not Kazon.

Jadzia turned in her chair to take in the rest of the little science lab, the one door out into the hallway and the other on the wall across the room leading into sickbay. Gerron sat at the console nearly in the center of the room between the two, tapping rhythmically on the glass.

She couldn't tell if he was reading. She couldn't tell if he could read. She supposed that would be a good thing for the science staff to be able to do, and she'd never met anybody who couldn't. Certainly not in this century.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, trying to sound friendly and interested while maintaining a professional distance.

Gerron shrugged. "Not really."

That wasn't exactly helpful, but she didn't know how to press without embarrassing him if he really couldn't read or didn't otherwise know what he was looking at. "Well, what if we take a look together? I think we're going to do this a few times, so may as well get some training in and—"

"I'm good."

Jadzia frowned, and was momentarily gratified that Gerron at least noticed. "Then you'll have to come up with something better than not really. This is a new species on the other side of the galaxy. There's got to be something interesting."

Gerron sighed obviously. "I assume these 'handshake protocols' are kind of standard."

Jadzia took back her shock that he'd used the precise Bajoran word for an opening hail specifically for first-contact situations. At least, she was assured he could read.

He went on, "You know, what types of fruits and insects aren't allowed on the planet, what all trafficking will get you arrested, and who to contact in case of theft or kidnapping or unpaid parking tickets."

Jadzia couldn't tell, due to his dry tone, if he was being serious or not. She did her best to withhold a chuckle just in case. Especially since he seemed a little offended.

"They've also sent along an entire packet for identifying sexual compatibility with the three major peoples that live on this planet," he said, and tapped a few times. "Is that normal?"

Jadzia wondered if most Bajorans probably didn't have much experience with visiting other planets or even interacting with other species. "It is. Especially for planets with major trade centers. They also usually include major communicable diseases with transmission vectors and what types of medical assistance they can provide."

"There you go, then. Nothing interesting."

Jadzia blinked. "You're looking at a planet with at least three major species with different sexual compatibilities, and you consider that uninteresting?" Jadzia suppressed a giggle as the door into the hallway swept open.

Chief Paswan stepped in, somehow thinner now than he'd been only three days ago, his reedy frame looking fragile and his eyes sunk in. Gerron gave him half a glance before turning back to his console and apparently ignoring whatever the chief had to say.

It was well enough, since he said, "Excuse me, Commander, may I speak with you?"

"Sure," she said, and crossed the room. Paswan looked mildly uncomfortable, casting a glance in Gerron's direction long enough for Jadzia to catch it and suggest, "Can we walk? I've been sitting here all morning."

He nodded. "Yes, a walk might be helpful for me, too."

They went out into the hallway together where Paswan seemed to be at a loss for where to go next. Jadzia took the lead. "What can I help you with, Chief?"

He gave another heavy sigh, rubbing his forehead with one hand idly. "You don't have to call me chief, Commander."

Jadzia only gave a small nod in acknowledgement, thinking he probably was used to Mister Paswan when some form of a title was given at all. He was obviously uncomfortable with his new position of authority, despite his clear experience. Despite the similarities to O'Brien, professionally, they seemed nothing alike otherwise.

"I have given some thought to the, um…" Paswan paused to cast a glance around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "The situation that you brought up yesterday," he said, even though they were the only people in the hallway. "There was a development early this morning—in short, guilty parties confessed and a penalty was given. One of those penalties was that the party in question be supervised at all times."

"Oh." Jadzia huffed, but tried not to sound unenthusiastic—though she really didn't want to be the one to supervise Torres at all times. But then with her training in Klingon martial arts and her technical ability, she was more of an obvious candidate for the position than Paswan probably knew. "And you'd like me to do it?"

"Unfortunately, Vorik shouldn't be in charge without at least one skilled engineer available—and, right now, that's me or Torres. Maybe one day, when we have even marginally better staff. But if I supervise Torres, then she has to be on my shift or I have to figure out how to not sleep." The way Paswan slumped when he spoke, Jadzia had a good guess what was making those skeletal shadows on his face and drawing his lips.

"Can I get back to you tomorrow?" Jadzia asked, and marveled at her initial gut reaction to ask Subcommander T'Rul, local Romulan, to please supervise and train the Bajoran she wasn't sure could read until about ten minutes ago. "I'd like to say yes, but I have to make sure there's someone available to sort out science emergencies in a pinch."

"Yes, of course," Paswan said with a sigh and a nod. "Thank you, Commander."

It was clear he thought he was just going to walk away, but Jadzia called him back to where she stood in the empty hallway. "Chief—I mean, Paswan?" He turned back just as she sighed, shut her eyes for a moment at the unaccountable awkwardness.

"Yes?"

"You don't look very good," she said.

He looked down. "Everybody is suffering from the stress, Commander."

"Jadzia," she corrected, and watched him bristle at the suggestion. "Have you slept?"

"Commander…"

She wasn't above doing what needed to be done regardless of how annoying it made her out to be. But, still, it might have seemed like an overreaction to him. "Chief," she said, reciprocating his address. "I know you're taking on a lot more responsibility than you're used to, and I know you probably feel like you have to pull more than your own weight because of it. We're all feeling that shock and loss and stress right now, and it's okay to take a few hours to get some sleep."

Paswan straightened, the way he probably did ten or fifteen years ago whenever he happened to be reprimanded by an officer. His openness had closed off, and his eyes focused somewhere in the middle of her own gaze.

"I'm not above ordering you to sickbay to make sure you get some."

"I think you don't understand what a state the Defiant is in…" he said from between clenched teeth.

"I probably don't," she allowed. She hadn't looked closely, and hadn't read Paswan's demure warning yesterday with urgency. Still, they were in a relatively safe place: over a planet with plenty of resources to save them all from suffocating or starvation, and forty crew to put to work to trade for antimatter if it came to that. They had options, and none of them were ever nice ones. But she did know what the worst option was. "But I do know that we'll be worse off if you run yourself into the ground trying to keep this ship flying. Now, let's go to sickbay. The Defiant can survive a day without you. You need rest."

He shriveled slightly, shook his head. "I don't need rest," he said, his hard tone disintegrating into a whisper. "I need a staff that knows what they're doing, or at least cares to know. I need anyone else to be chief." He bit off the last word, shut his eyes.

That wasn't happening, and they both knew it. She also knew the Maquis staff was a mess. Most of them didn't know their ass from an antimatter injector. "You're wrong if you think you can't manage the department—"

"Don't patronize me." He rolled his eyes, turned away slightly as Jadzia imagined she looked shocked. "I have the skills and experience needed to fix the Defiant. I know I do and I know I can. But I can't do this—I'm moderating disagreements between uncooperative parties and holding fresh cadets' hands while juggling maintenance and roll-out tasks on a new prototype starship without Federation resources or the space and time to even test these systems. It would be easier if I had no staff at all."

She couldn't say whether that was true and doubted it could be arranged, anyway. But, clearly, he wasn't thinking straight. "Report to sickbay, Chief. That's an order. I'll escort you myself."

She smiled, since the door was just a few meters away at this point, anyway.

With a dejected sigh, because he was still a petty officer at heart, Paswan headed toward sickbay. Just before stepping up to the door, he murmured, "I apologize for the disrespect, Commander…"

Jadzia sighed, tentatively patted his shoulder. "Believe me, Mahesh, disrespect doesn't even figure into my list of concerns right now."

He gave her a rueful smile, and stepped inside.

Jadzia didn't know whether she followed to make sure Mahesh got treatment or to just say hello to Julian. Julian straightened from his hunch over the center console when they entered, turned to them in interested concern.

"What do we have here?" he asked, strolling closer as he broke out the old medical tricorder.

"I haven't slept…" Mahesh said, obviously irritated.

Julian frowned at the readings on his tricorder. "You certainly haven't. No worries, though, Chief." He went to the replicator and ordered a tablet of mild sedatives. "I've been handing these out like candy."

Mahesh took the pill from Julian's hand with some mystification.

"Oh, it's a pill," Julian explained. "The hypos are a bit more intensive in terms of replication power, so it's old-school for us right now. But they work just as well."

"I see…" Mahesh nodded his approval. "Thank you for being so considerate of our power reserves, Doctor. I will use this tonight," he added, and pocketed the pill.

"Be sure you do."

Julian and Jadzia watched Mahesh leave, and stood in silence in the empty sickbay.

"Thanks," Jadzia said. "He's so tired he was almost insubordinate."

Julian smirked. "Wonderful."

Commander Worf's voice barked over the comms above them: "Cargo Bay One to Sickbay. We have a medical situation here, Doctor."

With a puzzled expression, Julian tapped his combadge. "Bashir here. What's the problem, Mister Worf?"

"There has been… an incident. The situation is under control, but Ensign Bennet and Mister Doyle require medical attention. Lieutenant Tuvok has requested that we remain here until he investigates."

"Alright. I'll be right there." Julian gave Jadzia a glance, eyebrows raised in both concern and interest, before tapping his combadge again. "Care to join me?"

Jadzia was more than happy to provide backup, and figured Gerron would probably be happy she wasn't coming back to supervise his assessment of handshake protocols.

She and Julian had both gone over the updated crew manifest, so both of them were familiar enough to know that Bennet was Starfleet and Doyle was Maquis. It wasn't even ten o'clock in the morning four days into their trip, and already things were heating up.

The two of them went out to the turbolift to get to Cargo Bay One—the room directly below the science lab and sickbay. Jadzia didn't know what to make of Julian's nervous fiddling with the medical tricorder that he wouldn't normally have carried in his hands, but she was perfectly confident in her own ability to handle herself in a fight. Worf said the situation was under control. There was no reason to be immediately concerned.

Though concerned for their future, perhaps there was a reason for that.

They arrived in Cargo Bay One apparently just a few minutes after Riker and Tuvok. Ensign Markus Bennet sat against one wall, cradling his arm against his chest with scarlet blood dripping off his chin and onto his yellow uniform. Andrew Doyle—though all the Maquis called him Andy—sat on the opposite wall, blood dashing the corner of his mouth and a bruise encircling his eye.

The other seven security personnel stood with their backs against another section of the wall, with the exception of Lieutenant Geissler. She paced before them like a prison guard, hand on a phaser she was clearly ready to pull.

Julian went first to Bennet. Jadzia could only guess the triage decision here was based on "most blood present."

"What going on?" she asked, stepping up to where Riker, Worf, and Tuvok seemed to be in conference. Jadzia positioned herself next to Worf in case things went south. She wasn't sure what his background was, but he was Klingon. There were certain abilities that just came with the genes, and expectations went right along with the natural strength and aggression.

"What's going on here is that we have a big damn problem," Riker snapped, and when Worf opened his mouth to speak Riker held his hand up to stop him. "I don't really care who started it, and I don't want word getting to the other departments that I'm personally ready to toss half of security of all things off the ship myself."

Tuvok seemed nonplussed. "At the rate at which you threaten to put crew off the ship, we would have no crew left to man the Defiant in five-point-seven days."

Ignoring him, Riker groaned in obvious irritation as he turned his eyes to Doyle. "You really couldn't hold it together for three days?"

Doyle made a rude gesture in their direction.

Worf frowned. "The situation has been handled," he said, and then glanced at the people pressed against the wall three meters distant.

"Yeah, well—" With a dark glower, Riker crossed the room to drag Doyle to his feet to the backdrop of Worf's objections and Julian's cautionary protests. "I think the situation needs a bit more handling. What do you think, Andy?"

"I assure you, Lieutenant," Tuvok said a moment later, putting undue stress on Riker's rank, "My investigation will be impartial, and the penalty strict."

While Riker and Tuvok continued to haggle over just what "strict" meant, Jadzia turned to Worf. "Looks like you have your hands full in here, Commander."

Worf sighed, nearly growled, and folded his arms across his chest. "The personnel assigned to the Enterprise were much more orderly."

"We're not in the Alpha Quadrant anymore," Jadzia cautioned, though she made a point to keep her tone more humorous. "Asking for Federation-flagship standards probably won't work out too well all the way out here."

"No." Worf considered that, then glanced at Jadzia and lowered his tone. "But I believe that even the Maquis are capable of the discipline required of a Starfleet officer, and I will continue to expect it."

"I'm just saying," she said, also trying to keep her thoughts confidential between them, "fear of reprisal is all well and good. But couple that with motive to succeed, and we might have a chance out here." When Worf looked at her like his universal translator had gone on the fritz, she sighed, and gently rolled her eyes. "Why did you join Starfleet, Worf?"

He looked at the floor for a moment while he thought, and when he looked at her, his eyes were bright. And was that the beginning of a smile she saw on his lips? "You're suggesting that I provide the positive incentive for better behavior?"

"Well, you are the commander here."

"I must admit," he said, looking back at his fresh-faced Maquis recruits with apparently new eyes. "I have never had to bribe my officers for better behavior in the past."

"Don't think of it as a bribe." Though, since he'd said it, she wasn't sure how else he was supposed to think of it. "Or do. I don't know if it matters. The point is that none of these people signed up for this."

Worf arched an eyebrow in her direction. "Perhaps they should have considered that spending the rest of their lives confined in a Federation prison was a possible outcome of their plan to steal the Defiant. Excuse me, Commander."

Jadzia found herself speechless as Worf moved off to address his crew.

#

Bond with him? What the hell did Chakotay think was going to happen?

If he thought anything other than an actually-broken nose was going to happen, he was delusional. Vorik was a smug, narcissistic ass. B'Elanna couldn't imagine being halfway friendly with him much less bonding with him. He thought he knew everything, but he didn't. Compared to her knowledge and gut instinct, he knew nothing.

And, of course, a Vulcan would hold a gut instinct in no higher regard than a half-digested meal.

"You gonna do it?" Seska asked, quietly, casting a glance in his direction as she folded her hands over her meal.

B'Elanna hushed her immediately. "He'll hear you."

"Let him hear me." Seska shrugged and picked up one of the pastry straws decorating her afternoon gruel. It was some kind of traditional Bajoran midday meal, made from a mashed grain and flavored with just about anything. Seska liked hers sweet. "What's he going to do?"

He was clearly going to do nothing. He was just sitting there, alone at his table with a bowl of watery soup. He wasn't reading or looking around, just staring at the wall or his table. Every now and again he'd rub his neck like it was sore, or like he'd heard something unaccountably stupid, like B'Elanna's idea to realign the plasma conduits.

The fact was, he'd been right about that. She figured she could offer that factoid as an olive branch. "He thinks he's better than me. And this is going to just prove it to him."

"So don't." Seska said that like she had any options.

Maybe Seska would have had options if she were the type to punch her coworkers in the face for standing a bit too close. Chakotay would put B'Elanna off the ship, and that was when she decided that Riker would let him. That was the difference.

"I'm not looking to settle down here, thanks," she said anyway, in case Seska hadn't heard or believed that part of the threat. "But if you have any other ideas, I'm all ears."

Seska shook her head, and brushed her fingernails on the table between them in a motion to go away. "It's not getting done just sitting here."

"Did you talk to Ayala?"

Seska didn't move her head as she directed her gaze up to B'Elanna's, as if to ask if her change of subject was really that transparent. She answered anyway. "You know that'll never work. He won't see our efforts as anything but rocking the boat that's taking him back to his kids."

With a sigh, B'Elanna nodded. "So much for improving the working conditions."

"Speaking of?"

B'Elanna huffed and slammed her fingers on the table in attempt to keep her outburst somewhat quiet. "I didn't expect Tabor to be the one we'd have to get through to fix this."

Seska shook her head, folding in her gruel. "He's got his own mind, that's for sure. Certainly didn't give him enough credit. Who's he rooming with?"

"Ensign Harry Kim," B'Elanna said, and looked around for the fresh-faced ensign that managed to look like he was about to burst into tears 80% of the time. He was probably eating breakfast in his quarters. "Why, you think he got to Tabor?"

"Someone did," Seska said with a shrug. "But, no, I don't think it's Harry who put him up to that ludicrous display. I'll work on him."

"On Harry or Tabor?" B'Elanna asked, and Seska only smiled.

After a few bites of her food, Seska nodded, first at B'Elanna and then at Vorik across the mess hall. "Go on."

With a sigh, halfway a groan, B'Elanna pressed up from the table and went to the replicator. She was going to run out of credits quickly, but if she got her privileges taken away then she may as well use them while she could. She ordered up one pejuta, because why not, and one raktajino, because she wasn't drinking fucking pejuta.

She walked to Vorik's table and waited to be acknowledged.

A second after standing there silently, Vorik glanced at her. First at the cups in her hand, then at her face. "Miss Torres?" he said, his tone of distant apathy. "May I help you?"

Without invitation, B'Elanna sat down and slid the cup toward him. "I'm trying to apologize."

Vorik didn't accept what was admittedly not an apology, instead leaning forward to peer into the mug that B'Elanna had indicated was his. "What prevents you?" he asked, and then looked back up at her.

Thought he was so clever, this smug bastard. "I think you know what prevents me," she said, and leaned in close. To her satisfaction, he drew back as much as she approached. "That you owe me an apology, too."

Vorik considered that, and she just knew he was going to argue.

Maybe not argue. But he wasn't going to apologize. Not only did he think he'd done nothing wrong, but he thought he was right.

"I did not intend for my actions to be understood as threatening or otherwise intimidating. I apologize for not considering the effect my close proximity might have on you, and for infringing upon your personal space. I will endeavor to avoid any trespass beyond professional distance in the future." He slid the cup closer to himself, then picked it up. Smelled it.

B'Elanna couldn't think. She must've heard wrong. After he decidedly didn't take a drink despite a thorough inspection, she said, somewhat absently, "Uh… it's called pejuta. It's a Bajoran drink, sort of similar to coffee except it's not caffeinated."

"I see. And your beverage is not… pejuta." He took a sip as though he thought it might bite him.

"It's raktajino."

His eyebrows raised, but his interest was more directed toward what was in his hands rather than her choice of beverage. "Klingon, extremely high caffeine content."

"Yeah…"

"Do you accept, Miss Torres?"

She huffed, tried to figure out if he was being more impolite for pressing than she was for ignoring the apology. "I'll be put off the ship if I don't," she said, adding, "Speaking of which, I apologize for punching you in the face. So I guess we're even."

He stared, blinked.

"What?"

"I… nothing."

B'Elanna sighed, clawed her fingers on the table just to keep herself from punching him again. "Come on, we're talking, we're bonding. What's the problem? You don't like my apology?"

Vorik looked away from her for half a second before looking back. "I believed we had already addressed the physical altercation to satisfaction. There is no need to apologize again. I was under the impression that you were going to apologize for the categorical pejorative."

"Categorical pejorative?"

"I believe the phrase you used was pointy-eared bastard."

Hearing those words come out of a Vulcan's mouth was shocking. She couldn't decide if it was more or less shocking than he'd found them coming from her—Vulcan or not. "There's a Human saying about sticks and stones," she offered, since everything she'd said was true. He did have pointy ears. And he was a bastard.

"I see." He sighed, and pushed the cup back toward the center of the table. "Are we finished?"

Right, right, she was supposed to be apologizing. And if that was what he wanted an apology for, she didn't have much room to argue. Riker wouldn't let her. With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she shook her head. "No—look, I'm sorry."

He considered that for longer than she thought was appropriate, then said, "You clearly have no intention of improving our relationship with your apology. Furthermore, you seem to believe that I deserve—"

"That's not—"

"That I deserve this treatment," he went on over her attempts to speak. "I do not believe that of anyone."

She took another breath, but he just kept talking.

"Again, I apologize for my misstep into your personal space. I would welcome any insight you might have regarding how I may improve our interactions, but I am to be engaged elsewhere at this time. Please excuse me, Miss Torres." Vorik rose, hesitated, then turned back to her. "I do, however, accept your apology. I will tell the commander there is no need to speak of this further." He left the mess hall at a quick clip.

B'Elanna cast a glance back to the table she'd been sharing with Seska, but she wasn't there anymore. And that went about as well as she expected it to.

Why was she always doing stuff like this? She was going to get herself thrown off the ship.

"I've seen some really bad attempts at mending bridges in my time," a voice said with distinct amusement, "but you really just launched all torpedoes at it, didn't you?"

B'Elanna looked up to see Commander Jadzia Dax just as she was taking a seat. With a frustrated sigh and a gesture, she said, "Please, sit down."

Dax frowned, but didn't apologize for the intrusion—inviting herself to B'Elanna's table or for eavesdropping. "You can't mean you were really trying."

"For the record… I was, really." Off the record, she had no idea what, exactly, she was trying. Trying to apologize without ingratiating herself with Ensign Vorik. "May I, uh… speak freely?" She couldn't believe how quickly that phrase had floated to the top.

Dax nodded invitation.

"Ensign Vorik is a conceited asshole."

Dax seemed to find that funny. "I'm afraid I don't know him well enough to say."

B'Elanna didn't miss the implication that she couldn't have known him well enough for that, either. But she didn't know what he'd have to do to talk her out of that opinion. He was too attached to his rules, and too attached to everyone else being attached to those same rules. In other words: asshole.

"Is what he said true?" she asked, her look turning slightly sour.

"About the, uh…" What the hell did he call it? "The categorical pejorative? Yeah." She shrugged, since she didn't see it as a big deal. "I'm sure he can handle it. He's a big boy."

"So because he can handle name-calling, that gives you free license to be a conceited asshole?" Dax wondered, and leaned on her elbows to look at B'Elanna more closely.

B'Elanna knew better than to answer that question in the affirmative. Vulcans in general were, of course, perfectly capable of simply ignoring whatever insult was thrown their way. They were one of the most powerful and populous people in the Alpha Quadrant—some of them probably, sitting in positions of power in Federation councils for war and diplomacy, advised in favor of the action the Federation took that put the Maquis in the position they were in. They were responsible.

But Vorik wasn't. And if Vorik or anybody else took issue with B'Elanna treating him as a scapegoat for his uniform, B'Elanna didn't think she could argue with a bit of personal retribution. For example, right now.

"I can handle a bit of name calling," she said, even though she'd just told herself in no uncertain terms not to say anything like that.

"And a punch to the nose?"

B'Elanna smiled. "I'd be a pretty shitty Klingon if I couldn't."

"Good." Dax slapped her hands on the table and stood. "Let's do this, then."

B'Elanna glanced up, around the room for backup but found none. "Excuse me?"

"I've been assigned to babysit you until you decide to get yourself in order," Dax said, leaning back over the table even though she didn't sit. "I've resigned myself that this is gonna take as long as it takes, but I figure a little friendly sparring might help both of us blow off some steam. So we're going to replicate some bat'leths and settle this the old fashioned way."

"I'm not exactly, uh…" B'Elanna stopped, realizing that admitting to her lack of practice with any of the traditional weapons of her mother's people wasn't in her best interest. Admitting that B'Elanna was only good in a fistfight when her opponent was weaker or she had a secure element of surprise also didn't sound like it'd benefit her. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked instead, going for the assumption that Dax might have been cutting off more than she could carry.

It was a stupid assumption. Dax wouldn't have strolled into the mess hall and challenged her to a duel if she wasn't at least reasonably sure she could win. She was eight or nine lifetimes old. She knew all sorts of things B'Elanna didn't know.

"It wasn't my idea. You said you can take a punch to the nose," Dax said. "So that's exactly what you're going to do."