Part six
To part five

---

"Your man is being whipped," said the guard.

There was just no damn way that sentence got easier to hear. But, "Thank you, sir," Chakotay said meekly, once he got his breath back.

Things didn't improve the next morning, when Chakotay arrived to doctor Paris and the sub-assistant warden shadowed him during the whole process. Mercifully, they'd given Paris just a handful of blows; but he'd retreated into himself, avoiding everybody's eyes. Unease brushed the back of Chakotay's neck.

"They said I cheated at cards," Paris said later, still pissed off over his donuts.

"But--" But, you do.

"Not this time." Paris finally looked directly at Chakotay; there was a lot going on behind those angry blue eyes. "Besides, everybody in our alcove cheats-- that's part of the fun. It's a better game if you can cheat without anybody noticing. But," he said around a bite of donut, "this time, I had a really great hand, so I was playing it straight. And then that damn guard came over...." His face closed up again.

"What I'd like to know," Chakotay said, "is why the sub-assistant warden was so interested in my medical skills."

That sparked something; Paris knew some good gossip. He leaned forward. "He's got some trouble of his own," he confided happily. "Some trouble with bribes not getting to the right people. It's all over the prison."

Some trouble with-- "Bribes?" Chakotay said.

"Yeah. Bribes run this place." Paris took a swig of coffee. "If you want a different job, you bribe somebody. They usually send part of it up the chain of command, but--" He grinned delightedly. "--but not always. That got the sub-assistant warden in trouble with higher ups."

"What happened to 'low-status individuals don't give gifts to those of higher status'?"

"They're actually all the same status. Besides, it's not a gift. It's--get this!--it's salary."

"What?"

"It's part of their salary. Everybody who works here gets the same pay check. If you want to keep your job, you pay the guy above you. And if you want to get a better job, you pay him more. The more people paying you, the bigger your salary."

"A pyramid," Chakotay said. "A gigantic pyramid scheme." And the filthiest system he could think of. "I didn't know the Ferengi had gotten this far into the Delta Quadrant."

Paris laughed. "The Ferengi would have figured out a way to get the prisoners paying into the system, too."

Yeah, Chakotay thought, there was always that.

That prickle of unease he'd felt as the sub-assistant warden looked over his shoulder still nagged him that afternoon as he chose vegetables for a salad to accompany Tom's favorite pizza. The young Shiunta man was drooping around the produce stand, sighing and sulking ostentatiously. Good god but Chakotay didn't want to know why.

He found out anyway.

"I'm so looooonely," the Shiunta said in a theatrically pathetic voice, where Chakotay could hear him.

"Huh!" The fruit seller sounded even grumpier than usual. "Your bottom can miss one visit to your husband! I not able to take him to be fucked this time," she confided to Chakotay.

And, of course, the young man couldn't go there by himself; social mores demanded he be chaperoned.

"My husband will miss me so muuuuuch." If the young man got any more theatrically tragic, Chakotay was going to start laughing.

The fruit seller stared at Chakotay for a moment. Then, "You go to be fucked on the same day as this one," she said.

And, Oh, no, Chakotay thought in horror.

She didn't say anything but let the frustration in her face ask for her. No, Chakotay thought. Good god, he couldn't; he just--

Chivalry kicked him in the mental shin. "Why don't I take him?" Chakotay asked. After I down about a liter of brandy. But, Grow up, his conscience told him. It's only a five-minute walk.

It would be a very long five-minute walk, he realized a minute later, as the young man's effusive thanks became seductive coyness. He ignored it: ignored the gentle biting of a luscious lower lip, ignored the admiring gaze through eyelashes, ignored the brush of fingers against his hand as the Shiunta gave him a bag of those vegetables that registered in the mouth as tomatoes. Then the young man picked up one of the little purple-gold plums and, catching Chakotay's eye, breathed on it. And handed it to him with a melting look.

Husbands all know that if someone gives them this fruit it means they want to be fucked. "No, thanks," Chakotay said briskly. "I thought my husband might like to try these." He picked up a tiny basket of a pea-sized fruit that was triple the price of the plums.

"Ah! that--" The fruit seller's voice stumbled. "--that--that my gift for you!" Her mouth smiled big, but her eyes were on the basket, calculating sadly. "For helping! For helping this one go to his husband!"

Er-- "Thanks!" Chakotay said. "I'll certainly be back to buy more; my husband loves good fruit."

And, Tom did love it, to the extent that Chakotay made a mental note to go back and buy all the old woman had.

"--So, somebody decided that Aonwa was the one who told somebody I was cheating." Tom popped a handful of the little fruits into his mouth. "She denies it, but nobody believes her, so she has to find another alcove. If anyone will take her," he said self-righteously. "Nobody here likes a snitch."

"But a cheater is--"

"Well, everybody cheats at hekkasha." Tom laughed. "It's the only way anybody can win!"

Chakotay chuckled. "Well, as long as nobody shavs her," he said.

"'Shav'?"

Did he have it wrong? "Knifes her?"

Tom laughed. "Shiv!" he said. "It's shiv!"

Shiv, shev, who cared. "I think you make half that stuff up," Chakotay said. Paris's performance during their sojourn in 1996 North America had been less than stellar.

"Just because you failed history...," Paris said comfortably, tossing a handful of pricey fruit into his mouth.

"I did not," Chakotay said, "fail history. But refresh my memory: 'groovy'?" One of the nonsense words he'd misused.

Paris flushed, but laughed. "At least I had the right century."

"Just the wrong tense," Chakotay said wryly, foolishly pleased when Paris laughed again.

Making Paris laugh, he thought later, as he packed the remains of supper, was becoming far too satisfying, especially for a guy who was not supposed to think of Paris as anything other than a lower-echelon crew member who needed to be kept alive.

You need to watch yourself, he reminded himself. Flirting with Paris wasn't part of the assignment.

It was, however, a really entertaining bonus.

~ ~ ~

"No," the guard said.

What? "But it's in the contract," Chakotay protested. "I need to take care of my husband."

"No."

The guard looked like the type who wasn't going to give in. Chakotay looked over at the line of family members waiting to have breakfast with their prisoners. "My medical equipment will set off--"

"Then leave it here."

So you can take it apart and see what the hell it does. Chakotay looked at the guard, pondered. "I--I shouldn't," he said regretfully. "My husband--he-- It's his invention. He's very ... possessive."

The guard looked back, pondered. "It will be destroyed by the weapons detector," he countered.

"Yes." Chakotay smiled regretfully.

The guard eyed him in silence. Then, "The basket will be searched by hand, coming and going." And, "Our detectors compare your readings when you exit to your readings when you enter."

Okay, so no sneaking in something extra. And scratch one tricorder/regenerator. That was okay: he'd thought of some improvements. Scratch the hypospray, too. And if you can't use plan A, Chakotay thought, there's always plan B.

But what troubled him as he watched the guards paw through the basket and tried to look humble and meek and excited to see his beloved husband was that the dynamic had shifted. This beating was starting to feel like a test.

One he couldn't afford to fail.

"Where the hell were you?" A grimace of pain flickered across Paris's face; he shifted in his chair as if unable to find a position that didn't hurt.

"They wouldn't let me."

The blue eyes met his; Paris's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

"I thought," Chakotay said lightly, "that you might like something special on your fruit this morning." He took out the container and sprinkled powdered analgesic liberally on the pea-sized fruit.

Paris blinked; a grin dawned on his face. "You think of everything," he said. "Sweetheart."

"I try," Chakotay said, beaming fondly at him. "Sugar muffin. Now, eat them all right up!"

"Your wife feeds you very well! Those berries are expensive!"

Paris turned gingerly and smiled up at the guard with idiotic-looking goodwill. "Yes, sir! I'm very lucky to have him." Filled his mouth with berries.

"Don't you eat ha'uja berries?" The guard was looking suspiciously at Chakotay.

Is that what they were called? "I--uh--I like them," Chakotay said. "Too well."

"Yeah," Paris piped up. "He gets fat."

Look who's talking. "But, darling!" Chakotay said with a catch in his voice, "you said you liked me plump!"

Paris's eyes widened in startlement for half a nanosecond. "Of--of course I do! Dear. I just-- You know what the doctor said." Stuffed more berries into his mouth.

Er-- Chakotay looked down at the counter, found his inner 20-year-old Shiunta. Sighed; let his shoulders droop; made his lower lip quiver; watched his forefinger trace meaningless patterns on the counter-top. "You said you wouldn't talk about that again."

"Uh-- You're right. I'm ... sorry?" Paris finished the berries. "And," he said through them, "look! I ate them all. So we don't need to talk about it ever again! He thinks I might leave him for somebody not as fat," he said confidentially to the guard. "Is your wife that jealous?"

"Uh-- Of course!" The guard was casting bewildered glances at Chakotay, at Paris. "Wives are-- Maybe you need to beat him!"

"I'll ... keep that in mind," Paris said cheerily. Then, in a low voice, to Chakotay, once the guard moved away, "Good god; that seems to be their answer to everything."

"I have the feeling they think they've noticed something about my medical routine." Chakotay laid out the rest of breakfast and fiddled with the tricorder: yep, dead all right. "You may be in for a rough time."

Paris's mouth twisted. "I've had worse." He grinned at Chakotay. "That was some performance! For a minute there, I thought you were my thirteen-year-old cousin Tabitha! Where'd you learn to act?"

"I was imitating this guy I've met."

"A guy?" He popped a bite of donut into his mouth. "Should I be jealous?"

Chakotay laughed. "He's a walking wet dream," he admitted slyly; and, yeah, that got Paris's attention. "But he's married. And the personality is--" He found himself wincing and laughing at the same time. "I'd really hate to have to live with that."

"So I better tone it down, huh?" Paris gave him a grin and a wink.

Never. "Whatever you say. Cupcake." Then, "Did you enjoy the fruit?"

"Oh, yeah. The fruit was great." Paris stretched easily, caught himself, cast a wary glance at the guards, moved more tentatively.

"Good! I'll give you some of that extra-special stuff in your lunch," Chakotay said, tucking the analgesic into Paris's lunch basket.

"You're so good to me," Paris said contentedly. "If you weren't so damn frigid in the sack, you'd be the perfect wife."

Another of Paris's nonsense words. "What sack?" Chakotay asked in mock innocence, grinning when Paris blinked and opened his mouth to explain.

"You know, sugarkins," Paris said with a glare, "once I'm out of here, I might just have to give you a few lessons in wifely duties and ... obedience."

Hmmm. "Promises, promises," Chakotay said mockingly as he stood up to leave.

When he looked back, Paris was grinning. And eyeing him with speculation and appreciation that was so flattering as to be just--well--ridiculous.

~ ~ ~

The gap between the turning cylinder and its protective shield of rocks looked even smaller than he'd remembered. Nervous, Commander?

Put it aside. Chakotay double-checked the coordinates, looked at the navigation program. Tested the comm in the helmet. Slid an extra tricorder into a pocket. Checked the coordinates. Eyed the narrow gap.

You're wasting time.

He emptied his mind of every thought but his mission, then walked over to the transporter, put on the helmet, switched on the mic, and said, "Energize," before his brain could remind him just how stupid this idea was.

Damn narrow gap. The transporter had put him just inside the gap, in shadow, where--theoretically--no one would notice him.

He put a hand on the rocky shield to keep himself from floating into something; eyed the rotating station three meters away. Too damn close for his comfort, and other parts of the station were even--

Quit it.

He keyed on the beacon and waited for the shuttle to home in on the signal. Heard the blip! blip! blip! of a return signal when it did. Listened to the chatter the shuttle was relaying to him. No one seemed to have noticed the transport; no one seemed to have noticed him inside the gap.

He turned on the tricorder strapped to his left arm and adjusted the holographic display inside his visor so he was being warned just about the big stuff--obstacles he'd need to avoid. Brought up his left leg and turned on the tricorder strapped to his ankle; made sure it was recording. Picked up the tricorder tethered to his right arm and fiddled with it, aiming it at the rapidly turning station. Same shit readings he got inside the station. But--

Chakotay looked out at the shuttle, small against the stars; watched the other ships, large and small, that maneuvered around this entrance to the station; watched his shuttle obediently shift position when a big vessel elected to stop in the shuttle's line of sight, between it and its clear view of the gap.

--but he was going to do this. Because if there was one tiny chance that he could find Tom inside that station, he wanted to know about it. So he could go back to that shuttle and blow a fucking big hole through the shield, through the station, and through anybody who got between Tom Paris and a way the hell out of that fucking prison.

The complete darkness inside the gap was almost unnerving. Chakotay darkened the outside of his visor and kept his eyes on the display inside. Even the bit of holographic light showing through his visor would be bright against this darkness; he couldn't risk someone looking into the gap and seeing something they shouldn't.

He made his way deeper into the gap, eyes on the display. The tricorder on his arm warned him of an antenna racing toward him, attached to the station; the tricorder in his hand gave him a confused picture of energy patterns whizzing past.

The monotonous blip! from the shuttle grew more erratic as the distance grew, as the signal was interrupted by protrusions on the rock shield or the station. When the signal disappeared, he stopped and cleared his visor. The shuttle end of the station was a distant field of light.

Three hours. He had three hours in the suit: an hour and a half in, and an hour and a half out. The chronometer inside his helmet told him that twenty minutes had already passed. He looked ahead. The other end of the station was--well, it was that way, one fucking long way away.

Chakotay cautiously felt his way along the shield, eyes on the tricorder in his hand. He blanked that display inside his visor, enlarged the chronometer's display, pulled up the display from the tricorder at his ankle. Tried to correlate those readings with the ones from the tricorder in his hand and then thought, very clearly, Quit. He could do it later, in the shuttle. Better the computer searching for promising readings than him wasting time trying to do it out here.

The hazard detector flashed red just in time for him to shove himself out of the way of the big fucking antenna array scraping toward him at 120 meters a second. Unfortunately, he shoved harder than he realized, and he spent some precious time cartwheeling through darkness, feeling for the rock shield with both hands and both feet, praying to every spirit he could think of that some huge piece of solid architecture wasn't about to clobber him.

His right foot touched rock and snuggled itself into a promising gap long enough for him to get a grip on the rock shield. He wasted some time clinging there, trying to get his breath back and stop his heart from hammering its way out of his chest. Focus, dammit: that kind of gasping only lessened the amount of time he could spend out here.

Chakotay caught himself and laughed. Yeah, Commander: be terrified at almost losing your life when it's CONVENIENT.

He took a good cleansing breath (okay: even LESS time, now, that fussy part of his brain grumped) and looked at the readings from the tricorder in his hand. Those damned confused readings.

He pushed away from a flange on the station that sliced the darkness behind him and thought, Just quit trying to interpret the damned readings. Yes, the thought that he could find a way in to rescue Paris was glorious, but he wouldn't find it out here; he'd find it in the nice, safe shuttle with its bountiful supply of oxygen and its wonderful computer. Just take the damned readings, get the hell out of here, and finish the job in comfort. Good advice. He should take it.

He pulled himself along, waited for the station to rotate beneath him, pulled himself along, waited for the station to rotate; and gradually the dark gap became a place where he pulled himself farther along, checked that the station had rotated completely below him, and then pulled himself farther. Slowly the station rose to meet him as the rock shield around it hugged close: eight meters, seven, five; and Chakotay cursed whatever idiot engineer hadn't thought to make the gap between station and shield wider, or whatever idiot contractor had profited by narrowing the gap so he could use less rock.

But he was getting good readings that he could correlate with the ones that the tricorder at his ankle was--

The display looked damned blurry and something was making a noise that was pretty fucking irritating--

Chakotay blinked, raised his hand to rub his eyes, blinked again when his gloved hand touched hardness instead of his face. Helmet. There was a helmet on his head. He--

Pain shot the fuck through him that second, and he doubled, grabbing for his left arm. Shit shit shit, that hurt.

Fuck.

He took a deep breath and silenced the alarm that was helpfully pointing out that the suit had been breached. Breached at--he blinked at the display inside his visor--at his left arm, which was--thankfully--still in place.

Chakotay switched on the light on his helmet, carefully turned his head. The suit was-- Well, "mangled" was such an ugly word, even if it was accurate. --just above his left elbow. Seamed with the sealant that had automatically flooded the breach. That arm wasn't interested in moving, though-- He yelped as a muscle involuntarily tightened. --though it still the fuck hurt. And he was-- Oh, shit.

The helmet light glittered on rough rock, illuminated the turning station about half a meter from his head. He was floating between, with nothing to grab onto.

Reach--reach--stretch--groan, but dammit reach--and he twisted, turned, tried to crawl against vacuum; reached and thought, Why the hell didn't you grab a jet pack, moron? but he knew why: there'd be tight spaces and a pack wouldn't fit; and there was a flash of red inside his visor and he looked at the approaching whateverthefuckitwas and thought, Ah, HELL, and twisted while his shoulder blared painpainPAIN; but managed to get his feet pointed toward the station and connected with that deadly object that let him kick weakly off so that he slammed into the blessed rock shield only luckily not with his helmet. Hit the damned wall with his good shoulder instead, and then grabbed and grasped and generally tried to meld with that sweet rock wall.

He clung there, eyes closed, keening against the agony in his bad arm. Shaking, though his right hand had a grip on the rock that could turn carbon to something almost as precious as this ugly piece of beautiful solid rock. Below him, the station was turning, and he brought his knees up close to keep his feet out of the way, made himself into a safe little ball.

And that part of his brain that was pure Starfleet said very distinctly, Get it together, Chakotay.

He opened his eyes. The chronometer informed him that his air would run out in about an hour and twenty minutes. Good. He hadn't been in here nearly that long. All he had to do was crawl very carefully out.

And which the fuck way is that, Commander?

One way, the rock glittered in the light from his helmet; the other way, the rock glittered in the light from his helmet. He felt all the blood in his body drain toward his feet even though there was no damn gravity here at all, felt a chill grip him that had nothing to do with the iciness of space.

Chakotay closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. Get it together, Commander. Push aside the fact that you have no fucking idea which way the shuttle is; ignore the fact that if you go the wrong way they might find your desiccated corpse in here a couple centuries from now--about the time Tom Paris finishes his prison sentence. Paris....

He jammed his foot into the space between a couple rocks and untethered the tricorder, shoved it into a pocket. Unhooked the tether from his right side and fastened it on his left. Lashed the tether around his forearm, pulled it tight. Yelped and pulled it tighter, binding his bad arm to his body.

Fought the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. Closed his eyes and tried to sink into that place where he was when he was calm; tried to feel with those senses he used when he was meditating.

Okay, Commander: which way?

He caught himself thinking about it; caught himself picturing what would happen if he guessed wrong; caught himself thinking about Paris alone in the station, serving a double sentence because Chakotay wasn't there to feed him, was in fact floating just outside the station, dead from suffocation because he'd chosen the wrong direction-- Quit it.

He closed his eyes; he let out a breath; he sank past the pain in his arm to that place inside him where things were sure. Where he was sure.

Yes.

He turned and began to pull himself along the rock shield.

Tricorder. Maybe the tricorder readings held a clue as to whether or not he was going the right--

Except the readings were too subtle for him to figure out right now: difficult to correlate time and place and odd energy reading without a computer, without even a clear head that wasn't whining about pain and fear that he was going the wrong way. And the hazard detector hadn't been set up to record everything--yes, indeed, a miscalculation on his part, but really, who managed to remember everything? Besides, he'd been busy softening the sensor readings so something could slip past them and collide with him; a man couldn't do everything; a man had limits.

He pulled himself along, pulled himself along; and the rock ahead of him caught the light of his helmet and the station below him spun at a dizzying pace while he pulled himself farther along, prayed that he was going the right direction, and then pulled himself farther.

It would be faster if he could push himself off, fly free like one of those physics demonstrations that they showed little children learning that a body in motion remained in motion until something stopped it. Except if he did that, the thing stopping him would be something so damned solid and come up so fast that he'd be stopped pretty permanently. So Chakotay had to cling to the rocks, pulling himself along, pulling himself painfully along, a demonstration of what could go wrong if you did something this fucking stupid.

He gasped, opened his eyes. Blinked at the hand grasping a rock for the dearest kind of dear life. The chronometer informed him that about a minute had gone by while he'd taken his unexpected nap. Shit--he had to keep focused. Shit, as a muscle in his bad arm tensed itself. Paris was waiting; he couldn't fuck around; he had to stay sharp.

He pulled himself along, and while he pulled himself farther along and pulled himself farther along and pulled himself farther and farther along, the oxygen level glided inexorably down down down, and the numbers on the chronometer flipped down down down.

Luckily, there was a flash of red in his visor that stopped him because it seemed like it might be signaling something kind of important, before the big fucking antenna array scraped past him at 120 meters a second. Son of a bitch.

And then a part of his brain said, You have about a minute before that thing sails past again. LESS than a minute, now. Now, even less. Because he knew this, knew how fast the damned station was rotating, and-- There it was again.

He shoved himself forward, hoping that a minute hadn't gotten shorter since he'd been past here earlier, hoping that it had, indeed, been that big fucking antenna array and not another one, another one that had another big fucking antenna array exactly opposite it, so they sliced past this point about thirty seconds apart, except thirty seconds might be long enough for him to fly past.

Fly past and--ah, god, was he going to be able to grab something? Something solid and not trying to kill him, if he had a preference. And--

Slam! right into the fucking wall again, and--why, how convenient--now he had a matching breach in the other side of the suit, which was sealing itself over what was going to be one hellacious bruise.

Turn off that fucking light, the Starfleet part of his brain said very clearly, though, really, it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to the amount of oxygen at his disposal, because it just didn't; and he flipped off the fucking light and blinked into solid fucking darkness, except-- Except there seemed to be a lighter patch of darkness out there.

Oh, good. That was good.

About twenty minutes in, he'd seen a similar patch of night, and the chronometer said he had twenty-five minutes now, plenty of time to drag himself forward toward that patch of open space plenty of time of course he'd make it because Tom was waiting for supper and his arm didn't actually hurt at all he seemed to have left the pain elsewhere and there was that damned red again maybe he should turn on the light to see if something important was--

Everything went dark for an instant that patch of night sky ahead of him went completely dark for an instant.

He pushed ahead. Pushed ahead and pushed ahead and saw the red flash again though this time the patch didn't go dark which was good.

Tom was waiting.

Oxygen wasn't-- Something odd about the oxygen or he was excited because he was gasping needed to calm down calm himself the fuck right down so he wouldn't use the oxygen up faster even though it didn't seem to be flowing right

and he was pushing himself along, the pain left behind, his heart beating in his ears that were filled with the wheeze of his lungs and his heart beating beating beating and all in his head was Tom--Tom--Tom

some blipping

a blip

hit something on his chest the blip

blip

ceiling of the shuttle through his visor

and helmet

helmet off

helmet off now

just touch

here

Airrrrrrrr, his lungs said as they gulped it in, and the helmet rolled off someplace and clinked against something as he flung out a joyful arm to grasp airrrrrrrr.

Oh, damn, shit, his shoulder hurt. He got himself up on his good elbow in the awkward damned EVA suit and whimpered.

Self-pitying, aren't we? At least he'd managed to get the damned helmet off; any number of people had managed to suffocate on their own damned ships because they hadn't managed that.

And he gave himself the luxury of lying on the transporter pad, looking mistily around at this lovely Starfleet shuttle, breathing in lungfuls of lovely Starfleet air. He cherished this shuttle; it was so obedient, staying within transporter distance, maintaining its sightline, blip!ping so faithfully, so all he had to do was hit a button and it transported him here where there was air and that lovely biobed....

He laughed wheezily. Getting sentimental, Chakotay?

Oh, yeah. Waxing sentimental about this sweet little piece of Starfleet technology, though not about crawling to the little medical alcove or climbing onto the biobed.

"Computer, activate biobed sensor cluster," he wheezed.

"Sensor cluster activated."

Unfortunately, they hadn't been able to copy the Doctor's program into the shuttle's computer matrix. Not that Chakotay had tried very hard; that personality was difficult enough to deal with when there were 145 other people to act as distraction. But shit it would be great to have even the Doctor here now--be able to just lie back and be in pain while somebody took care of you, read the sensor readings, cut away the LPEG, tsked over your injuries and gave you those wonderful Starfleet medicines.

Luckily, he'd planned ahead, installing a nice little supply cart within reach of the biobed. Those lovely Starfleet analgesics worked just as well when he injected them himself.

Well-being washed into him as the pain receded.

Tom is waiting for supper.

He jerked himself awake. The computer was reading his vital signs to him. Three minutes had passed while he was passed out: shit--he had to put himself back together. Tom was waiting for supper.

Putting himself back together was just a lot of fun. There was the entertainment of peeling the fabric of the LPEG away from his impressively damaged arm and the diverting wooziness when he sat up to reach for a tricorder. And the tricorder reading was all kinds of amusing, what with the cracked humerus and the swelling and half a dozen new uses for the word "lacerated"--all of which the computer helpfully explained, complete with detailed descriptions of what he should do. Bossy.

The computer seemed kind of insistent that he connect a rehydration line and then was adamant that he lie quietly while the orthopedic regenerator did its work. Damn: almost as bossy as the Doctor.

Tom is waiting for supper.

He blinked muzzily. The well-being had washed itself out of him; he seemed to ache in every joint. The orthopedic regenerator was done with its work, though when he sat up the computer reminded him crisply that he still had damage that needed a regenerator and then he should rest for another 2.47 hours.

But Tom was waiting for supper.

Chakotay eased himself off the biobed and clung to it for a moment until the dizziness passed. Pulled out the rehydration line. Asked the computer what time it was.

And realized that Tom was no longer waiting for supper; he was now waiting for breakfast.

Shit.

Chakotay looked around the shuttle. He could take the shuttle back into the station now--let it dock itself, given that he was really in no shape to do the delicate maneuvering necessary. But that meant dealing with the guards just inside the station, and he just wasn't ready.

So he put himself back on the biobed and shucked the damaged EVA suit and obediently regenerated and ate and rested and fed the computer the tricorder readings he'd taken inside the shield and fell asleep hard well before the 2.47 hours were over.

~ ~ ~

"Where the hell were you?" Anger sparked Paris's blue eyes as he sat down.

Ah-- "Sorry, Tom," Chakotay said. "Had some trouble on a run outside the station. Sorry--I'll bet you're hungry." He looked down, focused on pulling breakfast out of the basket. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, that nasty-looking sausage Paris liked, ha'uja berries, Paris's favorite coffee--just an ordinary breakfast, no attempt to placate Paris with food here. He shook powdered analgesic over Paris's berries before he looked up.

Paris didn't seem to be buying it. "Did you--"

"So your wife decided not to run away from you after all!" Oh, good: one of the bigger jerks among the guards, speaking loud enough to attract everybody's attention. Chakotay froze himself into something resembling immovable humility, gripping the basket in his lap, humiliatingly aware of the amused glances cast his way.

He saw Paris bite back something cutting and then will himself into deference. "I always knew I could trust him, sir," he said meekly.

But the guard wasn't after Paris. "If you're not here, he doesn't eat!" he roared at Chakotay. "Don't you care if your husband doesn't eat? You've got such a fat contract, it's strange you don't care any more about him than this! You're always shouting about how you have to give him medicine when he's beaten, but you don't care enough to feed him, do you? Maybe he should beat you harder! Then maybe you would care how you treat him! Or maybe you're being fucked by somebody you like better while he's in prison! Is that it? Have you found somebody else to fuck you?"

The interested silence in the room was broken by muffled tittering. Paris's face was tight; he'd dropped his gaze to the table.

Chakotay felt the handle of the basket snap in his hands. He managed a bland smile as he looked up at the guard. "Of course not, sir!" he chirped. Do NOT say something sarcastic that would humiliate this guy in front of everybody, that practical little voice in his brain was warning. "I know he doesn't believe that, sir! He couldn't believe that!"

That roused Paris. "Of course not!" he said, blinking at Chakotay. He looked earnestly at the guard. "I know I can trust him, sir! I've trusted him every moment we've been married! He just had some troubles with the ship and couldn't get here in time."

Oh, god: they sounded like bad melodrama. And of course the guard had his own lines: "If you were my wife, I'd beat you every day, if you treated me the way you do him! You're a very bad wife!"

"I--I'm sorry, sir!" Damn: he sounded as ridiculous as he felt. "My husband knows I mean well!"

"Yes!" Paris piped up. "I'm sure he's very sorry!"

A heartbeat; another. The guard frowned into both their very earnest faces. "You should be grateful you have such a forgiving husband!" he snarled at Chakotay. "You should be very humble to him in bed the next time he fucks you!

"And you need to show your wife who is the man in the marriage!" he snapped at Paris as he stalked off.

"Of course, sir! Thank you, sir!" Paris chirped after him.

Slowly, the room filled with its familiar murmur, though Chakotay could feel eyes on him as he stolidly spooned yogurt into his mouth.

"What did you do to your arm?" Paris said, glowering at him.

"Hit something," Chakotay said evenly. Damned thing wasn't working quite right; needed more physical therapy.

Paris blanched, then his jaw tightened and his eyes stormed up. "Didn't I say not to do that EVA? That's what you did, isn't it: you went between the station and the--" He stopped when Chakotay looked at him.

"A little reconnoitering," Chakotay said crisply. "Thought I'd get all the angles covered."

"But I told you not to do that!" he said just low enough not to catch the guards' attention. "This is why! You could have killed yourself!"

"I just had to try," Chakotay said. "Wanted to cover all the angles."

Paris gave him a disgusted glare. Heat flared inside Chakotay.

"Look," Chakotay said. "I had to try. If there's the slightest damn chance--" He looked around, realized that they were still the center of attraction for those nearby. "If there's the slightest chance, I have to take it." Get you out, he mouthed, knowing that the guards couldn't understand the movement of his lips, hoping that Paris could.

He could. Paris looked abashed for an instant, then the anger was working through him again. "Just don't take any more chances," he said. "It's not worth it."

Yes it is, Chakotay thought. But he said, "Hadn't planned on it. I'm pretty sure I got what I needed."

Besides, he didn't say, this was the second time some experiment intended to get Paris out of the damned prison had backfired and made the guards more suspicious. Time to quit the heroics.

Until, of course, heroics was all they had left.

[To part seven]

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