This is an original fan story. However, it uses characters and situations copyrighted by Paramount. I make no claims to any copyrights regarding these characters. This story is for my enjoyment and for the enjoyment of readers.

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"I'm here to see my husband," Chakotay said.

He raised the basket in explanation, smiled in what he hoped looked like good-natured idiocy. New guard, new rules of engagement.

The guard eyed Chakotay dubiously: first look at the guy from the other part of the galaxy. He motioned, and Chakotay lifted the cloth. The guard frowned down at the slightly soggy pizza and the fruit. He blinked; seemed puzzled.

"Pizza," Chakotay explained. "A delicacy. My husband's favorite food."

His jaw was clenched under the bland smile; he knew the guard could hear his heart hammering, hoped the guard had his own banal explanation for it: nerves at entering the prison; excitement at seeing his beloved spouse.

Terror that the guard could tell Chakotay was lying through his tightly clenched teeth.

But the guard just eyed him and waved him on. Unarmed: nobody apparently ever tried to escape, and the doors were wide open--

Chakotay joined the families waiting to see other prisoners. Waiting to feed other prisoners: a dozen different smells rose from the baskets they carried. Women, men, children.

He looked around, smiled at familiar faces, tried not to show that he was checking out security, tried to seem just ... curious. Guards relaxed, confident. Five, four-- Doors wide-- --three, two--

Shut. It happened briskly, firmly, automatically. Open one instant, clanging shut the next. Right on the heels of a basket-bearing man who scampered inside at the last instant. A cat-call from someone ahead of Chakotay; the man grinned and answered cheerfully--and profanely, given that the universal translator entirely failed to translate it.

Chakotay eyed the door and the guard lounging on the other side of it. Yep: timer.

One-twenty, one-nineteen-- Guards inside looking them over. --fifty, forty-nine-- Chakotay looked back, tried to keep the look of idiotic contentment. --three, two-- Tried to keep it even when the door failed to open. Well, shit. Apparently randomized. Okay, then: one, two, three, four-- The inside door opened, and Chakotay filed in with the others.

Down a corridor appallingly familiar: worn floor, dingy walls, general air of institutionalized hopelessness. Standard issue for prisons all over the galaxy: Federation pens, Cardassian interrogation facilities-- He gripped the handle of the basket, tried to catch his breath.

Stopped at the next set of doors and waited as doors slid shut behind them, as the group was looked over again by cold-eyed guards. --one hundred, ninety-nine-- The inside doors slid open thirty seconds earlier than they had the day before. Randomized. He'd find the pattern.

Room split by a long counter. And ... prisoners.

Chakotay looked for his. Taller than the Wieong'tha, not as tall as whatever those bluish types were--

Eyes wary, then confused.

Then amused.

Chakotay hoisted the basket onto the counter.

"The guard said my wife was here," Tom Paris said.

"Hi, sweetie," Chakotay dead-panned.

Paris laughed. A little hysterical. Caught himself; grinned at Chakotay. Leaned forward, careful to stay on his side of the line that halved the counter-top, careful not to knock over the bottle of water at his elbow.

"The guard reminded me that we're not supposed to fuck," he said sweetly.

How did HE know? flashed into Chakotay's mind, but he didn't say it. Grinned at Paris instead.

Paris's mouth tightened. "And they're...."

"Yep." He busied himself with spreading the cloth from the basket on the counter, took out the pizza on its plate. Didn't look up until he was sure Paris had a lock on his expression.

Paris was staring off at nothing, jaw tight, face pale as anyone Chakotay had seen who wasn't dead.

Chakotay sat quiet until Paris looked at him. "Eat," he said.

Paris's eyes were flat. "You--"

"--stayed," Chakotay finished for him. He looked levelly into Paris's eyes. "I stayed, Tom. You knew I would."

Paris's gaze was unreadable. He picked up his pizza and began to eat, but it looked mechanical.

"The whole--" he said.

"The whole time." The whole fucking nine months of Paris's sentence. He set that thought aside; his own problems weren't the issue now.

"Sorry you lost the coin toss?" Paris said listlessly.

"Huh uhhhhhh." Leer; grin at Paris's double-take, at the flush that rosied his face, at his shadow of a grin. "Told you I had to pull rank on Harry--didn't think you two were really compatible. Same with Torres. And ... was there some guy in Engineering you promised yourself to?"

"That was just one date," Paris said primly. "I didn't even let him kiss me."

Chakotay grinned. "Anyway, I told him he was too late; the deed was done. He seemed really disappointed."

Paris's gaze grew dreamy. "He was really good with his mouth."

Chakotay leaned forward. "I thought you didn't let him kiss you."

Paris grinned at him. "Not on the lips." Then, a little crooked grin. "Jealous? It was before we got hitched."

Smart ass. Chakotay took the fruit out of the basket, examined it critically. Those replicated grapes always looked too perfect to be really appetizing.

"Was it a nice ceremony?" Paris said around a mouthful of pizza. "I was kind of ... here."

"Janeway officiated. Neelix made a cake." He grinned. "I brought some."

Paris eyed the basket. Wistfully. Warily. The wariness was appropriate: Chakotay had sampled the cake. The wistfulness--

"Wife?" Chakotay prompted.

Paris didn't take the bait. "Harry didn't stay?"

Shit. "He wanted to," Chakotay said. "A lot of people wanted to. But there was only so much room on the shuttle, and the culture here is so complex, we were afraid just about everybody'd end up in-- Well...."

There was a wry twist to Paris's mouth. "In jail," he said. "Instead, it was just the natural-born jailbird. Who got left HERE."

Chakotay put a grape into his mouth. "I didn't say it was perfect." His voice was sharper than he'd meant it to be.

Paris looked at him. "What are you so fucking mad about?" he asked. "I'm the one in fucking prison."

And I'm the one who has to watch his ass, Chakotay thought. And yours. "I'd've handled it differently."

Paris looked at him dubiously.

Chakotay looked right back, biting down on another grape. "And I'm going to handle it," he said with significance. "Differently."

And prayed, as hope flared in Paris's eyes, that he'd never know that Chakotay was lying. Lying harder than he'd ever done even to the Cardassians.

~ ~ ~

Because there was no fucking way in hell he could break Paris out of there. They'd proved that time and again at what seemed to be twenty-four-hour staff meetings.

"Energy shield--" that foiled sensors, and "--generator is--" who the hell knew where. Well hidden, apparently behind a shield of its own. And, "--vent system--" so byzantine that no one could read where it all came out. "System of doors--" that sealed you in, so that a "--gas of an unknown type--" could do who-the-hell-knew to you. "Possibility of electro-magnetic-pulse weapon" which would fry phasers and communicators. "Guards apparently on random schedules" so you'd never know if your friendly, bribeable guard was even going to be in the building.

By the end of the endless meetings, Janeway's increasingly bleak expression had hardened in that way that meant she'd made one of those hellish decisions.

Nine months, she'd finally pointed out. It would be only nine months. Then Paris would be freed and could follow them. Could catch up with them. Tuvok concurred: needs of the many outweigh the blahdeblahblah. Harry Kim's outraged and mulish expression squelched itself under Janeway's stern gaze; his outburst flickered out under the force of her authority and logic. B'Elanna Torres fared likewise. Neelix had been just no fucking use at all.

Chakotay held off until the meeting was dismissed and the others were gone. The resulting donnybrook lasted a searing half hour. At the end of it, Janeway looked ready to throw him in the brig.

"Then I'm staying," Chakotay snarled. "Someone has to: somebody has to bring him food and necessities. A family member or a spouse." He childishly flung the word in her face and saw her blink.

The little chin lifted. "I'll draw up the annulment contract. Make sure it's signed as soon as he's released, so there's no question of the legality."

Was that so Chakotay would be free for-- "Conjugal visits are mandatory," he said, and watched her eyes harden.

"I don't think it's wise for crew members of different ranks to marry." Her voice was brittle. "At least not out here, not with our limited crew and our limited resources." To his surprise, her eyes softened. "Anything could happen out here, Chakotay. And when one spouse can give an order that could--" Her mouth tightened. She took a deep breath. "Just make sure the annulment is legal."

As he watched her leave the ready room, he felt as if he'd been phasered. "When one spouse can give an order--" She was the captain; he was just-- Well, he thought, you still have fifty-plus years to change her mind.

Presuming, of course, that he and Paris made it back to Voyager. Nine months, in a shuttle docked in the station; then a possibly fruitless pursuit of Voyager. Which would, Janeway kept saying, take it slow. Stop to study everything of interest. Double back to pick up two errant crew members, when they got a signal.

And probably piss off every warlord in the next five systems, Chakotay thought. He looked to the shuttle's specs, beefed up its security system, its shields.

Marrying Paris was a matter of signatures on a contract; they hadn't even been in the same room while signing.

Being married to Paris entitled him to all manner of new experiences, also involving contracts. The Wieong'tha were big on contracts. There was the one where Chakotay agreed not to bring suit against the prison or its employees for lack of sexual servicing while the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris was incarcerated, and not to hold the prison or its employees liable should his marriage to the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris end or suffer damage directly as a result of said incarceration; there was the one where Chakotay agreed that he was to supply such foodstuffs and hygienic necessities as the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris required, and agreed not to hold the prison or its employees liable should such foodstuffs and/or hygienic necessities prove to be inadequate. The one where the Wieong'tha agreed to allow Chakotay to determine and to administer medical aid to the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris when said Chakotay deemed appropriate and/or necessary. There was the contract where--after much forceful arguing--the Wieong'tha agreed not to require Chakotay to finish out the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris's sentence should the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris die before it was entirely served. And the one where Chakotay agreed--after much forceful arguing--to allow the warden to determine and the guards to administer such punishment of the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris as was deemed appropriate and/or necessary, excluding mutilation, but not excluding such punishment as might cause temporary marking, bruising, and/or blood loss, though not to the extent that such marking, bruising, and/or blood loss would interfere with the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris's ability to sexually service said Chakotay. And that he would not hold the prison or its employees liable should such punishment, marking, bruising, and/or blood loss be the direct cause of damage to his marriage to the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris.

And then, gee, there was the lovely spectacle of the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris beginning the first stage of his sentence by being brought from the temporary cell to a room where he stripped in front of Chakotay and six gloved guards, handing his clothing to Chakotay. Who then was expected to watch the ensuing search of body cavities and the minute examination of Paris's person. And who got to sign off on the description of every bruise, bump, scratch, scar, and mark on the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris's body. Oh, and weight--probably so there would be no argument over whether or not said foodstuffs were proving adequate.

Chakotay tried to watch as if it were some demonstration in Interspecies Relations back at Starfleet Academy, but he found himself wanting to phaser just about everybody in that room. Paris had drawn into himself, staring away from Chakotay into some middle distance. He obeyed orders, flinched at the more invasive probing. He didn't look at Chakotay as the paperwork got signed, didn't look as he dressed in the ill-fitting jumpsuit and thin slippers the guards handed him, didn't look back as he went through the door into the prison proper.

Chakotay spent the next half hour viewing an insanely upbeat holovid on the rules of his new role as prisoner's wife, with a Wieong'than woman who had the stunned expression of someone who'd just been slapped. He knew the feeling. And then he signed a contract stating that he had heard and understood the rules as explained to him, regarding his conduct with regard to the prisoner Thomas Eugene Paris....

And all, Chakotay reminded himself now, as he had fifty times a day from the beginning, because of a fucking handout.

~ ~ ~

It was one of those things they just had to stop for: the cylindrical space station near a class-G star, spinning regally at its L-point between a large gas planet and its biggest moon. No reason, really, to be out here--no habitable planet nearby, no especially interesting natural resources.

Just the Wieong'tha: suspicious, imperious, bureaucratic. There were, of course, others; a dozen races traded at the station. But the Wieong'tha ran everything: their station, their laws. Which turned out to be the problem.

Caste formed the core of the Wieong'than culture, and it determined everything. Really, they learned much too late, everything. Jobs and family life, language and religion. What you ate, where you lived, and who--or what--you prayed to. There were five major castes and sometimes as many castes within each caste--not as unwieldy as it sounded, Chakotay discovered, because your relationships tended to be within your own major caste; you didn't ordinarily deal with anyone outside it. Thus, the ruling Oanohtsieldua seldom dealt with the next caste down--the ellunio--who rarely spoke to the bielda, who had few dealings with the shantsui, who pretty much ignored the tha. If you were of the upper caste within your major caste, you facilitated any dealings with the lower caste of the major caste above yours: the highest-caste shantsui, for example, might deal with the lowest-caste bielda. Between major castes (and maybe between the castes within the castes--Chakotay was never sure) touch was forbidden to the extent that even a footprint could pollute the higher castes. Hell--even the shadow of a lower-caste person was polluting. Chakotay was sure that the whole system seemed some wonderful, rich cultural ballet to the Wieong'tha, but from the outside, it just looked like an overflowing anthropological cesspit. Though a damn fascinating one.

No one on Voyager thought to ask what caste space travelers belonged to.

The docking bays inside the Wieong'than space station were colorful and shabby and interesting and filthy and loud with the mingled voices of a dozen races. Everything a young Starfleet lieutenant looked for in a shore leave. And Thomas Eugene Paris could be some explorer when he had a chance. Wandering with Harry Kim away from the docking bays was exploring. Gawking at the shops and the temples and the Wieong'tha just beyond the docking bays was also exploring.

Tucking a bright, shiny coin into the fist of a cute little Wieong'than kid, so she could buy candy to replace what she'd just dropped in the street, was a crime. Especially when he patted her on the head.

Harry Kim's frantic voice on his commbadge brought Chakotay almost at a run. He met Harry halfway, because it was already too late: Paris had been hauled off to jail by the local Defenders of the People, who, Chakotay learned, patrolled every neighborhood just for such an occasion. In fact, they'd been trailing Paris and Kim from the moment the two stepped onto the street.

There was no trial: Wieong'than law didn't require one when at least one individual of a higher caste than the perpetrator witnessed the crime against caste.

And, it turned out, every damn Wieong'tha on the station was of a higher caste than the perpetrator. Because there was a sixth caste overlooked by the literature: non-Wieong'tha. And visitors from some place that the Wieong'tha had never heard of were at the bottom of the bottom-most caste there was.

Nine months. It was a light sentence, because the little girl was of the tha. If she'd been of one of the middle castes, Paris's sentence would have been years. And if she'd been of the Oanohtsieldua, Paris would be dead, executed on the spot by the Defenders of the People.

One of the Aiildan--also non-Wieong'tha--acted as liaison and walking recorder: "It is my joy to take your words to those who must hear," he intoned every time they met, "and my sorrow that it must be thus." Then he would hold out the little humming recorder, to remind them that it was there.

"Can we speak off the record?" Janeway said the first time they met; and the Aiildan looked thoughtful.

"It occurs sometimes that it cannot record the voices of those who speak to someone nearby," he said. "It hears best those speaking directly to me."

Tuvok lifted an eyebrow; Janeway regarded the Aiildan for a moment. Kim looked confused. Okay, Chakotay thought, we play games.

"Those who must hear," the Aiildan went on, "have first a question about the One Who Resists." His hand flexed, and the recorder's humming paused. "That would be your crew member." The recorder hummed again. "Those who must hear must learn if there are those who might claim him."

As Janeway opened her mouth to answer, the Aiildan held one of his free hands open about six inches in front of his stomach in a gesture so urgent that she stopped. (It was, Chakotay learned later, the Aiildan gesture for "stop": the man was symbolically warding them from his brood pouch.)

Janeway looked at him, looked closer. "... Yes," she said finally. "He belongs to--" The sudden gesture again. "--he is claimed."

The Aiildan relaxed, and--Chakotay noticed--so did he and Janeway and Tuvok. Apparently that was the right answer.

"Good. Those who can claim him must look to his needs while he is in the place of correction. And," the Aiildan said very carefully, "his possessions and those of whomever can claim him now belong to the Cleansing God, given as gift for the ritual of cleansing for the child."

Chakotay saw Janeway's body stiffen as she realized what she'd almost done: almost said, "He belongs to the ship," almost handed Voyager over to the Wieong'tha. For a minute he couldn't catch his breath.

"Everything?" Kim asked sharply.

The Aiildan looked him in the eye. "All," he said, "which does not belong to someone else."

Chakotay saw Kim think, Okay, and did some sorting out himself. Probably there was some stuff that Paris wouldn't resent losing. And definitely there was stuff that belonged entirely to Voyager. Commbadge, for example. Data padds.

Tuvok looked thoughtful; Janeway frowned; and Chakotay thought, That's what the damn Wieong'tha are counting on, isn't it? Technological artifacts from other species, handed over as part of their rituals.

Apparently so, for after they'd spent days sorting over their options, combing through other cases in a fruitless search for a defense, ransacking their brains for a way to stage a prison break; after Chakotay had made his furious offer to Janeway and he and Paris were married; after Paris had begun his sentence; after the crew had finished picking over his and Paris's belongings, the Aiildan looked at the piles of books and clothes and assorted souvenirs of nameless planets and said softly, "It has happened that those who must hear have been so honored by some gift to the Cleansing God that the One Who Resists has been cleansed as well and been freed." His gaze willed them to understand him.

They did understand, all too well. The Wieong'tha didn't have replicator technology. The Wieong'tha didn't have warp engines. The Wieong'tha hadn't yet developed regenerators, knew nothing of transporters. And Janeway wasn't going to let them get their hands on any of it.

Not that Chakotay blamed her: the Kazon had settled any qualms he might have about handing advanced technology over to those who didn't understand it. And sabotaging whatever they gave to the Wieong'tha was apparently too risky. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

And, now, after the crew had built a really nice little shuttle--a real home away from Voyager--and presented Chakotay with the things they suddenly remembered didn't belong to them after all; after the goodbyes had been said and the promises been made that, really, it wouldn't be any time at all before Paris and Chakotay caught up with them; after he stood in the docked shuttle and watched Voyager disappear through the distant docking bay hatch; now he and Paris were the ones who would have to live with it.

~ ~ ~

The first night, he sealed the shuttle's hatch and felt himself finally relax. No more looking over his shoulder, no more shying at every social contact, no more double talking. Just him. Alone, on a ship where status didn't matter. Where rank didn't matter. Where a vibrant and beautiful woman didn't outrank him, didn't make herself cold because she had the power to send him to his dea--

Oh, quit that. Melodramatic. Self pitying. He was tired, and dealing with the Wieong'tha seemed to have left a stain on his soul. And elsewhere on the station, Paris was facing a dark, empty night of his own, now that Voyager was gone. Shower. Meditate. Get yourself centered for Tom.

He stepped naked from the sonic shower in his quarters ("Believe me," Kim had said, "living with Tom, you'll need your own bathroom, just to stay sane.") and took up his medicine bag. ("I think perhaps you didn't give this to me after all," Janeway had said, eyes twinkling as she handed it to him that morning.) Settled on the floor, he laid everything out, paused a moment to savor the quiet, fixed the akoonah to his forehead.

"Akoochemoya," he murmured. "I am far from the bones of my ancestors, far from the sacred places of my people. I seek a way through a dangerous landscape. I seek a path through a wilderness I do not understand."

He sank into the dream. What he hoped for, he didn't quite know; what he got was nothing concrete. Only darkness, comforting, restful. Wrapped around him like the arms of a loving mother. His guardian did not come to him, but he felt her just at the edge of vision, waiting patiently until he was prepared for her presence.

When he opened his eyes, he felt oddly refreshed. True, some part of his mind restarted that endless sorting of possibilities and options, but he felt better than he had since they'd docked here.

He felt better still when he saw the messages that had been beamed back from Voyager and been dutifully recorded by the shuttle's sensors. Messages of good cheer for Tom.

Who refused to listen. "Don't," he said at breakfast the next morning, when Chakotay started to recite them. "I don't-- Is it true?" He looked angry. "Could Janeway have bought me out of here?"

Chakotay glanced around. The chattering families on either side seemed deeply uninterested in him and Paris--and the noise obscured conversation better than anything electronic.

"The captain--" Chakotay stopped when he saw Paris's face. "The captain," he said distinctly, "didn't think it would be wise to introduce new technology into this system. I agree." And then, when Paris glared at him, "You know what a disaster it could be."

He could tell that Paris did know. But Paris was angry, and Paris was hurt, and Paris was probably feeling claustrophobic; and Chakoty didn't blame him.

"Is everything ... all right in here?" Chakotay asked.

Paris stared at him, blinked.

"Are you safe?"

A corner of Paris's mouth twitched in a sardonic grin. "This is like a Federation pen," he said. "Nobody touches anybody. I'm fine." Then, "I belong to you, remember? Nobody else has any right to touch me."

Except every prison guard. Chakotay leaned forward. "They made me--"

"I know about the contracts," Paris said harshly. His jaw was tight. "The fucking guards made sure I knew about that contract in particular. Prisoners leave each other alone, because-- Did you know you could sue somebody for beating me up? Let alone raping me. Wieong'than law is real specific about that. Because I'm your fucking property now."

Chakotay's stomach had clenched. He put down his coffee. "It'll," he said. "I'll--" He tried again. "We'll make it work," he said. "We can do this. Just hold on. We can do this." Damn, that sounded hokey.

To his surprise, Paris didn't jeer. Instead, he looked into Chakotay's face as if he wanted very much to believe.

"Give me some time," Chakotay said.

And Paris didn't say, I know you're bluffing. He didn't say, You HAD time. You and the whole crew had time. And you STILL couldn't do it. Instead, he looked down at his mug of coffee--the mug around which his hands were wrapped so tightly that his knuckles were white--and said, "Good coffee," and drank deep.

Chakotay began his seminar in Wieong'than law that morning. Voyager had downloaded the entire Wieong'than legal code, searched it, re-searched it. It was huge and branched off from Wieong'than religious codes; and the legal codes and religious codes of a couple dozen other planets were braided through it. The computer had searched it, and half the crew had searched it; and Chakotay was convinced that if he could just work his way through it, law by law, and trace back precedents and traditions and maybe chart everything....

Trouble was, he was continuing his studies in Wieong'than prisons that morning; and also starting a course in "Great Prison Breaks of the Federation and Known Systems"; and beginning research on trade relations under the Wieong'tha.

Not actually as complicated as trade relations with the Wieong'tha. Back to the Aiildan, who--for a fee--gave him a crash course and who--for another fee--wrote him an introduction to a member of the tha who would--for a fee--handle transactions for him with the shantsui, who owned the only Wieong'than shops he could enter. Even then, he had to watch where he stood, lest his shadow pollute either the tha or the shantsui. Remembering who to talk to was easy, since as far as the shantsui were concerned, he didn't exist. Even the tha mediator occasionally seemed oblivious, when Chakotay asked what he apparently considered too many questions.

He got through it by pretending that it was an exam in Interspecies Relations at the Academy. Got an "A" on it, too.

Prisoners were allowed only two meals a day with their families. Chakotay had made sure Paris had leftovers at breakfast to eat for lunch and then watched Paris watch impassively as the leftovers were searched by the guard. Chakotay ate the same stuff himself, for lunch and then wondered why: guilt or companionship? He tried to settle on the latter.

The shuttle's computer had spat out a list of the foods Paris had replicated on Voyager in the last months, and Chakotay sorted it into stuff he himself ate and stuff he didn't. He grinned at one item: Delmoni's Spectacular was popular on Star Fleet vessels, since most of the crew developed a taste for the greasy little subs while at the Academy. That would be Paris's lunch tomorrow.

The afternoon was given over to an exploration of the ratty dives and hole-in-the-wall shops near the docking bays. Some, he was relieved to see, were run by non-Wieong'tha. Not as many as he'd expected, though: didn't the Wieong'tha want interstellar trade? Then he thought, Of course not; not if it meant that the polluted races of the star systems would find themselves comfortable on Wieong'than ground. The area near the docking bays was a labyrinth of narrow alleys, some with cubicles in which a variety of beings--male and female--beckoned. Prostitution was legal on the station, and, Chakotay had read, travellers low on funds found it a convenient source of income.

Another source of income was the little curio shop run by a thin little Shiunta who argued with his veiled wife and fawned over customers. Odd lots of statues, stones, books, clothes--whatever a spacefarer could pawn or fence. Another shop was full of second-hand electronic wares.

And saloons everywhere. One shabby little dive not far from the shuttle managed to be quaint, filthy, and comfortable all at once. The name on the sign didn't translate, but the overflowing glass of alcohol it pictured was universal. The bar was surprisingly light-filled, either so the bartender could keep an eye on the customers or the customers could keep an eye on each other. The floor didn't bear sensor-reading. The bartender was an Aiildan, rounded, Chakotay realized from his studies, because he was pregnant. Or brooding. Or whatever it was the Aiildan called it when the male was carrying developing embryos.

"House special," Chakotay told him. Some places in the Alpha Quadrant, that got you beer; some places, wine; some places, something no one but the locals could pronounce.

Here it got you--he checked it with the tricorder before drinking--something with alcohol and, apparently, fungus. And starch. Something citrusy. Ah, yes: hooch with a twist. He sipped. It tasted as vile as the ingredients hinted. But smooth. And cheap.

He cast a casual eye over the clientele. All non-Wieong'tha. Here, a guy could learn a lot about this part of the quadrant.

Half a drink later, Chakotay wandered off to the toilet. Cubicles, each with a hole in the floor, over which customers apparently stood or squatted or did hand stands or whatever they needed to do to relieve themselves. Elegant.

And a door that opened into an alley lined with cubicles and prostitutes. Convenient.

He wandered down the alley and checked his mental map. Also checked the time.

Time for supper.

Paris looked antsy before he saw Chakotay. Relieved and heart-breakingly cheery when they sat down to eat. Lonely, Chakotay realized.

"Harry says hi," Chakotay recited while Paris ate his soup, "and did you remember you owe him thirteen replicator credits. What for," he added dryly, "I can't imagine."

Paris flirted his bad-boy look at him. "A gentlemanly wager," he said.

Of course. "And Neelix sent me his recipe for cream of leeola soup--" That got the expected sputter. "--which I accidentally deleted. And I think I can't get the ingredients, anyway."

"Small miracles," Paris murmured, and they grinned at each other.

Janeway had sent a message, too, but it was of the "keep-your-chin-up" variety which Paris probably wasn't ready to hear.

"What about breakfast tomorrow?" Chakotay asked.

"Donuts?" Paris said hopefully.

"I forgot to ask," Chakotay said. "How are the exercise facilities in there? Good, are they?"

Paris grinned, unrepentant. "I get to walk around the section where the new non-Wieong'than prisoners are held. I'll walk around them a couple extra times, but those donuts better be glazed."

"And pushups," Chakotay said. "Lots of them. And situps. But I like that walking thing." He looked meaningfully into Paris's eyes. "I like that walking thing a lot."

Paris was quick. "I'll take a stroll tonight," he said, "before bed."

Paris's stroll probably wouldn't garner any information Chakotay didn't already have, but it would keep him busy and give him hope.

Hope which at Chakotay's end was sorely lacking.

The Wieong'than legal code was as dense and complex as he remembered. Even spread over three screens, it was impossible to keep track of. Maybe if he added some color coding. And, maybe--

Well, now.

He hurried to the aft cargo bay with real excitement. Holodeck. They had a portable holodeck that he'd just have to put together-- And he could assign everything a different color and move everything around in three dimensions; and it would be all linked and organized; and the answer would be obvious--

As legal codes went, this one seemed typical: the usual mix of religious mores and social customs, hardened into law by time and repetition. Evident infusions of other legal codes: the Aiildan, the Shiunta, the Dletl, and others.

And a nice, large chunk of law imposed by conquering outsiders who'd long ago built this space station at the crossroads of nowhere and removed the Wieong'tha from their newly uninhabitable planet to serve the Empire, now collapsed.

"Empire?" Janeway had pounced on the word like a k'nau on a tasty garrge. "Empire"--especially "collapsed empire"--could mean trouble ahead, as leaders raced to fill the vacuum.

Chakotay thought a lot about this Empire over the next two days, as he sorted and linked rulings and precedents and commentary into a multi-hued forest of paragraphs and phrases with a lot of dense underbrush.

"And in the Ancestral Time"--as one commentary on debt phrased it--some ambitious somebody or other celebrated his rise to absolute power by creatively renaming himself "the Conqueror" and declaring war on every other nation on his planet; and then celebrated his triumph over them by imaginatively renaming his holdings "the Empire" and declaring war on the inhabited planet in the next system; and then celebrated the annexation of that planet by taking over the colonies and inhabited planets of--

Well, here it just got monotonous. Somewhere in all that conquering, the Conqueror eventually died, but the ball he'd started rolled along pretty well on its own; and eventually the mantle of Empire was spread over a hideous number of systems. Then, after a few hundred years, the mantle began to shrink, as conquered systems rebelled; and, finally, the whole thing collapsed.

Just in time for Voyager to plow through the remains on her way home.

Home, Chakotay thought, to her own cozy little emp-- He stopped himself. Tired. He was tired. And feeling sorry for himself.

Still, dipping into A History of the Empire for Young Persons of Both Sexes, in a series of conversations; intended as a sequel to The Child's Little Book of Empire--bought cheap at the curio shop, since the book was ten years out of date--he found himself keeping a mental list of what the Federation had in common with this conglomeration of planetary systems. Toleration of the traditions of local cultures, as long as they didn't conflict with imperial law. Fairly light-handed rule by the central governing body. An apparently insatiable curiosity about what lay beyond the next nebula or who inhabited the next star system.

Other things were more ... imperial. Government without any real representation. Wealthy and politically connected families from the Conqueror's own planet providing not only what there was of a senate, but the governors of even the most distant star systems. The occasional dissolution of the senate by an overenthusiastic emperor. Ruling families ingenious in the use of money and bloodshed to grab power and to keep other similarly ruthless families from snatching it away.

It was sickening and all too familiar. After all, "the Empire" was a phrase Voyager's crew didn't hear more than--oh--every other week. Though the Conqueror must have seemed bizarrely out of place in what was originally an unwarlike culture, transforming it as he orchestrated the plunder and subjugation of a large portion of the galaxy. Chakotay flipped again through the first chapters of the book. Hints here and there of a man socially awkward, but charismatic. A doer, rather than a thinker. After the description of the conquest of the second planet, mentions of someone referred to as "the Companion"--wife? concubine?--who seemed to have guided and advised him. No biological children. A loyal officer adopted to succeed him as emperor.

Chakotay snorted and tossed the book aside. The Empire was over with, and it was time to go feed his own companion.

Who was bored--always dangerous with Tom Paris.

"I'm about to go fucking insane," Paris said, picking moodily at his lekshau casserole.

"Six more days. Quarantine'll be over, and I can bring you--" Chakotay searched his memory for entertainment approved for those in the next stage of incarceration. "--books. Paper, chalk, paint--"

"Cards." At Chakotay's raised eyebrows, Paris elaborated: "Hekkasha cards. Playing cards. Those you can bring me now. It's really popular around here. We play for--ah--" He grinned. "--for the top bunks in the alcove. Well, they play for it; I haven't had a chance to, since you need your own deck. Thetl usually wins; I think she cheats."

"Isn't everybody here for violating laws having to do with status?" Damn, but sentient beings were predictable.

Paris laughed. "Nothing else to play for, I guess."

Nothing else. Certainly no personal possessions, beyond soap and skivvies, which was pretty much all new prisoners were allowed.

"That's Thetl," Paris said, pointing down the row of inmates to a wispy-looking Shiunta making eyes at the delighted--and veiled--Shiunta man across from her. "And ... that's Rielk'n." One of the blue types--Chakotay really had to find out what to call them. "And Kieo--" An Aiildan woman, berating her very pregnant husband. "And Lakachnau--" Another Shiunta, apparently trying to carry on five different conversations with his children. "And--" Paris frowned. "I don't see Iugh. His family doesn't seem to show up every day. He goes hungry a lot. And, of course Rikasha and Gurrsh left quarantine today, so I'll probably have two new alcovemates tonight or tomorrow. I hope they know how to get along with people," he said primly.

"It's only six days," Chakotay reminded him.

"Yeah, and then I've got a new bunch of inmates to figure out, and new guards to get used to." Paris didn't seem happy at the change. He looked Chakotay in the eye. "And a new section of the prison of the prison to ... explore."

"Maybe--" Chakotay tried to make his tone encouraging.

But Paris was having none of it. "Cards," he said as he rose. "I'd appreciate it."

Paris's edginess seemed to have rubbed off on Chakotay, who took a long edge-dulling walk through the docking bays before he went back to the shuttle. He didn't blame Paris: the prison system seemed designed to keep everybody but the Wieong'tha off balance. For instance, the constant movement of prisoners from one part of the prison to another, as they went through various stages of confinement, surely designed to keep them from developing relationships with various guards that could be exploited, even as it reminded them that obedience was important and that status was very, very important.

Having served out the quarantine period, during which prisoners settled in, learned the rules--and the guards presumably found out who was likely to be a trouble-maker--Paris would be allowed certain types of personal possessions and moved to another section of the prison, for inmates who'd proved they could be trusted to follow the rules. Trustworthiness here earned him another bump up in prison status, another move, and a right to a wider range of privileges and possessions. And then another; and possibly another--

It was heartening that Paris's situation inside the prison would just keep improving; but the whole thing was still oddly depressing. You didn't REALLY think you'd be able to get him out, DID you? the pragmatic voice in his head said sarcastically. Blow a big hole in a wall somewhere? Help him chip his way through a couple meters of solid rock? Well, no; but having Paris moved to a different section of the place every few weeks certainly wouldn't make things easier.

The hekkasha deck turned out to be fairly easy to find: twenty octagonal cards with bright, abstract symbols on one side. What the hell you played with them, Chakotay couldn't imagine. What Paris would figure out to teach his alcovemates to play with them, Chakotay didn't want to imagine.

"And, did you sleep well last night?" Chakotay asked with a grin the day after he brought the cards.

"Really well." Paris had that smug look that used to make Chakotay want to deck him. "Top bunk is great. Though the one across the alcove, away from Stinky, would--"

"Stinky?"

"He's kind of ... hygienically challenged. New guy." Paris glanced down the row of inmates, smiling when his alcovemates smiled at him.

Settling in with his new family. Logical that Paris would bond with some of the other inmates, but-- He's getting to used to this, Chakotay thought with a twinge.

Back at the shuttle, he looked at the laws charted out on the holodeck, which looked less like a system of laws than it did the history of Alpha Quadrant trade routes he'd put together at age ten: a multi-colored forest of linked paragraphs and phrases that in some places seemed to stretch for miles and made pretty much no damn sense at all. He's getting used to this, Chakotay thought again. Maybe that's a good idea.

He spent the afternoon reinforcing his mental map of the docking bays and the area around them. Walking the alleys where beings of a dozen species prostituted themselves; stepping into seedy dives; sampling some of the local produce. Found a fruit Paris might like. Chatted with the little, dried-up blue fruit-seller, who grabbed his hand and rubbed his brownish skin.

"Where you from?" she chirped.

"A place called 'Earth,'" he replied, oddly charmed.

"Huh." Then, "Brown people there, huh?"

Ah-- "Yes. Many brown people." And green people, and beige, and blue....

"Huh."

"May I-- What's the name of your planet?"

She straightened with pride, lifted her hands to shoulder height and poked herself. "Iushka! My people are Iushka!"

Huh! Chakotay put out his right hand. "I'm pleased to meet you!" he said.

She looked at his hand, puzzled.

"This is a custom on Earth," Chakotay said. "We shake hands. Unless-- Is that all right?"

Apparently it was: she tentatively put out her left hand, and he carefully shook it, absurdly delighted when she laughed--showing a mouth with not a lot of teeth--and then shook his hand so hard he worried about his old shoulder injury.

At the old woman's laughter, the cloth covering the doorway behind her twitched aside; a veiled young Shiunta man peered through the opening.

"Huh!" she said, releasing Chakotay and grabbing the newcomer. "This man is my no-good helper." The young Shiunta averted his eyes from Chakotay's face, though his golden skin was flushed. Shy? "He is--" the Iushkan woman said to Chakotay. "He has no name."

Then, "Married," she said in answer to Chakotay's bewilderment, failing entirely to clear things up. "His man is in prison; I take care of him, though he is a no-good helper."

Ah! Still didn't get it. "My husband is in prison as well," Chakotay said inanely. "It's lonely, isn't it?"

And then the young Shiunta looked straight into Chakotay's eyes--damn beautiful eyes: almond-shaped, brown with flecks of green. Mesmerizing. Actually, if you didn't mind the spots, the Shiunta were a handsome people.

"You have a husband?" the young man said.

"See?" The Iushkan woman smacked his backside. "See? You not the only pel't'kh wants his husband!"

The young man grinned through his filmy veil at Chakotay, who suddenly reeled with cultural overload. Pel't'kh wants his-- And the veil; and, He has no name-- He was going to have to do research on the Shiunta. A lot of it.

"When did your man go in?" the Shiunta asked.

"Ah-- He's halfway through quarantine."

"Huh!" The Shiunta had obviously spent a lot of time with the old woman. "That means you cannot yet fuck him." He looked devastated for Chakotay. "My husband will return to me in only another turn of the sun. Now we can fuck for two full days and a night." Said proudly.

My, but that was just a lot more information than Chakotay really needed. And the stamina required-- He froze his face in a polite smile, to keep from laughing.

"I'm glad that your husband is so close to freedom," he said. "I'm glad to have met you." He stuck out his hand. "Is this--?"

"Hah!" The old woman grabbed the young man's hand, thrust it into Chakotay's. "This is urth custom. See? He from urth. See?"

The Shiunta's hand was limp in Chakotay's, but even through the veil his smile was a delight.

All the way to the prison that evening, Chakotay found himself grinning. We can fuck for two full-- Paris would love this story.

Except-- Chakotay was waved aside by the guard just inside the main entrance--motioned to some other guard doing paperwork at a desk. He tried not to feel the chill of unease prickling his spine. Could mean anything. Could mean--

"Your man is being whipped." The guard went back to his papers.

An instant where time froze-- "What?" said Chakotay.

The guard looked up, frowned. "Your husband," he said with exaggerated patience. "He's being whipped. He forfeits this meal." Back to the paperwork.

Whi-- "Wait a minute," Chakotay said more calmly than he felt; and a little voice in his head warned, Don't grab him don't touch him don't get near him don't let your shadow fall on him--

The guard glared up at him, evidently annoyed that this really important paperwork was being interrupted by some idiot who couldn't understand the simplest Wieong'than words.

"I need to talk to somebody." Chakotay tried to keep his tone level, subservient; knew he was failing. "Tom isn't-- I have to talk to somebody; it's in the contract. He isn't a species you're used to; we have physical limits you're not used to. We negotiated-- I have to talk to somebody. Somebody in charge of--"

The guard heaved an enormous sigh and beckoned to another, paperworkless, guard, who listened to Chakotay with an expression of exaggerated patience before frowning and beckoning to another guard who--

On and on, from one guard to the next, clutching the damn supper basket in both hands and calmly cajoling, reasoning, explaining that they had to listen to Chakotay, that there was a contract, that humans were pretty fragile, that Tom couldn't be punished the same way as the others, that damage could be done to him which the Wieong'tha wouldn't even notice, that they really had to listen to Chakotay, that punishment could cause some damage they wouldn't even know would be fatal, that humans had certain physical limits, that it was in the contract, that Tom wasn't the kind of species they were used to, that if they were going to whip Tom then Chakotay should be--

On and on, up the chain of command, through one office and another; and finally, some long time later, some sub-assistant warden of this part of the prison, strolling into his office to listen to Chakotay explain that human beings weren't like the other species the Wieong'tha had dealt with; human beings could be more fragile than the Wieong'tha were used to; they really shouldn't punish Tom until Chakotay had had a chance to--

"We've just finished," the sub-assistant warden said. "After your husband was stripped, we had him show us where his body should not be struck. We were very careful." He smiled at Chakotay. "You can be proud of him. When he was being whipped, he only cried out once--"

And there was a lost minute there--he only cried out--where everything went blank--he only cried out--

And when everything realigned, Chakotay heard his voice talking, explaining that it was in the contract they had to let Chakotay look at Tom they had to let him take care of Tom that Tom wasn't the same kind of species they were used to dealing with that humans didn't react the way they were used to and Chakotay had to tend to Tom had to tend to him pretty quickly had to tend to him now--

"Tomorrow." The sub-assistant warden was crisp, as if offended in Tom's behalf that Chakotay wasn't prouder of his husband for only crying out once. "He has been put into his cell. He'll be carefully monitored, since--since he is human and so--" His mouth twisted wryly. "... fragile."

"I need to bring in a ... diagnosing device," Chakotay said. "An electronic device. I need it. It's in the--"

"--contract," the sub-assistant warden said dryly. "It will be made note of." Then, "Tomorrow."

And, that was it. He was firmly escorted out of the sub-assistant warden's office and then out of the prison, still clutching that stupid basket with the now-cold stew and the fruit he'd bought special, because Tom might like it.

He only cried out-- Home, to the shuttle. He didn't remember much of the walk back, only the accompanying haze of fury and frustration and guilt and resentment. Automatically stepping out of the way of the Wieong'tha, so as not to soil them with his presence in the universe. --only cried out--

Locked down in the shuttle, he automatically put the stew and the fruit into the refrigeration unit and stowed the basket in its place. Fruit tomorrow, and something light, because Tom might not be in any shape to--

Tidy something. Everything was a mess. Chakotay worked his way through the shuttle, moving things. --only cried out--

He'd put together a kit for just this kind of ... emergency; and now he took it out and put it where he could just grab it tomorrow; and then he went through it and carefully examined the medicines--only cried out--and the tricorder and fiddled with everything to make sure it all worked and put everything back; and then opened it up to recheck that everything still worked--

The voice in his head that he trusted said, very distinctly, Stop it. You're working yourself up.

And he made himself stop and stand still for a minute, eyes closed. Normal breaths. Clear your head. Normal breaths. Clear everything out of your--

When he could breathe normally, he opened his eyes, closed the damn medikit, put it down. Eat. He should eat something.

But the piece of fruit he ate sat sour in his stomach. Meditate.

But he couldn't just lose himself in meditation when Tom was in pain in some cold cell.

Shower. He settled on a long shower, the tepid water running over him. Damn Tom: always pushing some boundary or other. Always startled that it got him into trouble; and then finding some other boundary to test.

And that's just what you admire about him, the smooth voice reminded him. Reluctantly--but you do admire it. Because that was what Chakotay himself had often--

He found himself smiling. Boundaries. If you didn't push the boundaries, what the hell was the damn point? Then, For pete's sake, Tom! in gentle exasperation.

Lying in bed, he tried to relax. But the soft bed reminded him that Tom was lying in a cell, in agony, which started up the anger again. After he was stripped, we had him show us-- Sick bastards--making Tom show them where it was safe to hurt him. Damn the Wieong'tha, and damn their culture-- And mixed with the anger was some half-formed guilt that he wasn't there to keep Tom from being hurt--

Quit it! he ordered himself; but somehow he still just couldn't sleep.

So he got up and went to the holodeck, naked as he was, and put on his boxing gloves and programmed a punching bag that his head became the guard with the paperwork and the sub-assistant warden and whoever had ordered Tom to show them where it was safe to hurt him and whatever damned son of a bitch had beaten Tom, as Chakotay pounded it, pounded it, pounded it; until the white-hot blaze of fury and obscure shame burned itself out and he could take off the gloves and run some water over himself and fall onto the bed again and almost sleep.

[To part two]

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