Disclaimers: Voyager belongs to Paramount; "Talking Stick" belongs to Macedon. "Circle" belongs to me, and I have only myself to blame. If you have't read "Talking Stick" I recommend you go over to the archives and do so right away. Not only will this story make a lot more sense if you have, but "Talking Stick" is too good to miss. Macedon's given Chakotay a voice, and some real complexity of thought, and a strength, and cultural identity that don't always show up very well on the show. All I can say is I've tried to do a little of the same for Janeway. If you're looking for hot romance...this ain't it. Just a quiet little transition piece, as I try to work my way to what I'd like to see Janeway become. In another portion of reality I'm on record as claiming this thing is a "first step in a process" story. If I'm lucky, some of you will like it. If I'm really lucky, the gods of hapless writers will smile on me, and I'll be able to take Janeway a few more steps along the way before I wander off to other projects. Oh, and yes: if you're worried that I leeched off of Macedon's excellent story, I did have the good manners to *ask* about it...and I must say I've never been treated more graciously. (Macedon, I'll flatter you all day if you like...it's too much *fun* not to! And every word true!) And like many a soul before me, I do follow the great dictum: If you're gonna steal, steal from the best. "CIRCLE" c.1995 Peg Robinson (aka Pegeel@aol.com) Captain's personal log, stardate 2785.9. Hell. I hate this log. Back in the old days I never used it at all. If I needed to talk, I went to a counselor, or a friend, or wrote to Mark, and avoided the whole diary question altogether. I don't like the things anyway, and knowing that all that "personal" material was going to end up on file in the Star Fleet Intelligence archives somewhere didn't exactly thrill me. Nowadays the only people I can see opening this file and listening to it are the children my crew may have, and their children: only Wildman's born so far, most not even conceived. I imagine them sometimes: grown, wearing faces that echo the ones I see every day, walking through the ship as I do. I can imagine them opening this file, and trying to find out by listening to it how it is that their world came to be just so. Guess they'll just have to live with the fact that I'm at least as confused as them. It's him again. Chakotay. He's started a story telling circle. Well, no. It started itself, and dragged him in. But there's no real question that it is his. He told me about it right away. He's good that way; better than I ever expected. Better than I would have expected even a straight-line officer to be. When there's even a little shift in the dynamic of the ship he shows up at my desk, or materializes at my shoulder on the bridge, and the next thing I know he's handing me some bit of information that...changes things. A good officer, better than I had any right to have hoped for. Why does that shake me? It shouldn't. It should be a relief, under the circumstances. It isn't every day you take on an enemy as your partner. To find out he's the best first officer I've ever had should be a relief. It is. But it's also...I don't know... Things were simpler when this all began. I remember sitting at my desk, in my ready room, Tuvok on alert, like a good hunting dog on a fall morning. We were reviewing the Intelligence Reports, the personal files on the "enemies of the Peace". I suspect it stings Chakotay, to look at those reports now and see just how much we knew. The strength of his ship, the names and faces and records of his crew. The truth is, Tuvok was going in because we did know so much about them...we could tailor a cover story perfectly, fitting it to the specific needs of that one little group. And once in Tuvok could learn what we didn't know. The locations of bases, the overall plans of the Maquis. "The big picture". But the small picture...we had those details well in hand, thank you very much. We gave particular attention to Chakotay, that day. He was the key. We went over everything. Psych profiles, biographical history. His resignation from the Fleet at the death of his father. It made for interesting reading, even the less intimate stuff. His Academy records: good, but uneven, with odd quirks and idiosyncrasies. His service records, similar. The final report from the Captain of the Exeter, placed in Chakotay's files at the time of his resignation, was painful to read. Old Kuto Falin had been grooming him, waiting for the day that his first officer, a Commander T'Alti, took her first command. Then Chakotay was to move into her spot, and Kuto had been expecting great things. The regret and the anger were biting, and directed as much at Star Fleet, and at Federation policy as at Chakotay himself. As a Maquis he came into his own. That, of course, was what made him worth the hunt. He developed too many ties, become the focal point of too much information. He'd welded a rummage sale crew into a skilled attack force, and like many other former Fleet officers was helping the Maquis pull their other ships together, turn them into a true unit, instead of the independent clusters they had started as. Not yet as deep in Maquis command as some of the other Fleet renegades, but that made him a better target. Prominent enough to be useful, obscure enough not to be too well protected. "Well, Tuvok...do you think you can manage it?" One of those human things: asking the question that doesn't need an answer. When you've been in Star Fleet for a while you get used to...transposing...from one culture or race to another. If Tuvok had been a Klingon he'd have been grinning hard enough to give a tiger an inferiority complex. If he'd been a Ferengi, he'd have been rubbing his hands and doing that little shuffling jig they all seem to do when they see a hot prospect ahead. As it is he's Vulcan, and a Star Fleet officer, and Tuvok; and if his eyes were a bit brighter than usual, and his stance a bit more...anticipatory...he wouldn't have liked having it called to his attention. "Undoubtedly, Captain. Given the information at our disposal, I estimate my chances of success at better than 84.783%. Granted that Mr. Chakotay displays a certain...unpredictable randomness in his actions. None the less, I see no reason to be concerned. The final outcome is nearly assured." I grinned. I've known Tuvok a long time. The certainty might be there...but it was that elusive 15.217% that had brought the look of anticipation to his face. " A worthy foe, Tuvok? You haven't had a good hunt in a long time." "Captain, you are mistaken in my motives. There is no "hunt". Only a job to be done. Criminals exist, and divisive elements; and I, in my capacity as a Star Fleet officer, attempt to bring them under control for the well being of the Federation as a whole. But I take no pleasure in the pursuit, only satisfaction in a job well done." Right. I've known Tuvok a *very* long time. Long enough to know he lies like a angel: not often, but when he does he never flickers an eye lash. And like most Vulcans, he lies as much to himself as to anyone else, to protect that silence he tries to cultivate at his center. It's one of those things I think they need and fear humans for. We challenge their perceptions, and knock at the foundations of their assumptions about themselves. I believe they'd find us downright unbearable, if we didn't have enough compassion not to let our nosiness and challenge-lust go too far too often. That day I let it ride. There'd be another day to stir up the hornets in that hive. I dismissed him, with a little promise to myself that I'd pull his leg a bit the next time I saw him. My Great Aunt Fannie's girdle there's no "hunt"...the man *lives* to hunt. Half the trouble I've had with Tuvok out here has to do with that. It's hard for him to accept his prey as his equals, and as full partners. There was no problem at first. We got back several worthwhile reports from him, slipped out through override links in the computer systems of every space station they passed through. Things were going well, and I was hoping that soon we'd have enough information to call it a day, and pull Tuvok back in. After that it would be up to Intelligence to get as much use as they could out of the information, before gathering up Chakotay and his crew. I don't enjoy it when my people are out on their own, particularly when they're as close to me as Tuvok is. It's necessary, and I deal with it. But I'm damned if I like it. It would be good to bring him back in. I had even planned to embarrass him a bit by dragging him out to a little Punjabi restaurant I know on Deep Space 9. It was something that would remind him of T'Pell; something he'd love, not that he'd ever admit it. I thought of it as a little teaser to sweeten him up for her. And then the ship disappeared, dropped out of all report, somewhere in the badlands; and I spent the next weeks sifting through those Intelligence Reports with a dilithium lattice filter, looking for some shred of a clue as to what had happened. The old information; the new bits that Tuvok had passed on. It's amazing how your sense of control and certainty can crash. Before the disappearance I had felt as though the information we had on that little group and on the general practices of the Maquis was ample...maybe even over-generous. There wasn't much sense of mystery, and I had felt disappointed for Tuvok that the hunt had been so lackluster. Now I looked at the files again with a new uncertainty. It's been hard times in the Federation lately. The Cardassian Treaty was...unfortunate. One of those compromises politicians love, and the rest of us struggle with. So much about Cardassian culture is unacceptable by our standards. Violent, cruel; and that seems to bring out the same elements in us. I kept thinking of the tales of Cardassian torture chambers, the containment camps of Bajor, the manipulations of the Obsidian order. All of that violence is rumored to be reflected in the Maquis in new and frightening ways, as though they have no choice but to mirror it back; to attempt to return it in kind. I still don't know how much of the rumor is true, and how much just an extension of the fear and resentment that the whole issue raises in the rest of the Federation. But true or not I went over those records a hundred times, looking for some hint as to where the ship had gone; but looking even more closely for hints of what Tuvok would be facing if he had been discovered. The idea of him in the hands of angry Maquis terrified me. Worst of all was the visit to tell T'Pell. Not that she hadn't been informed already, but there is a bond between Tuvok and I that carries over to T'Pell and the children, and it would have been wrong to have avoided that visit. I went over the evening before I left Vulcan for Earth, to meet with Intelligence and pick up Tom Paris. The sun hadn't set yet, but the air had already begun to cool off, and the shadows were long. The younger children ran in the cool red court yard in the shade of early evening, herded gently and patiently by Tuvok's oldest daughter, as I spoke to their mother. I'm still shaken by look on her face as I promised to bring him back. That's one of the hardest things about dealing with Vulcans. Whatever lies they tell themselves, they won't accept the ones you tell them. Not for comfort, not for hope. Her eyes said she was waiting. Hoping. But not believing. I knew that she had already started to gather the incense for the Ceremony of Endings. I knew she was waiting in the night for the moment when she would feel her marriage bond with Tuvok snap, like a guy line giving way, and know that he was gone. Nothing I could say would remove the tension from her eyes. I hoped action would do better than words. If there was no hope, if he was dead by the time I reached him...I had some very unethical thoughts right about then. Most of them inspired by Cardassian torture chambers and rumors of Maquis cruelty. And so to earth, to pick up Tom Paris. And then to Deep Space 9. Then to the badlands, and then.... That first conversation by subspace radio was quite an event. Unique. My bridge was still God's own wreck from the sleigh-ride that had brought us there, and my brain was feeling about as bad. So much had happened. That blazing trip through, the deaths, the sudden transport to the array. The old mom and the Banjo man. Seeing the faces of the Maquis: still as they lay in that morgue of a med area. Tuvok's face more still than even his own control could make it. Then waking on Voyager; Tom announcing Harry Kim's absence. And the only possible ally I had for seventy light years was the man I had tracked into the badlands, and into nowhere. It was a hell of a situation, and a hell of a choice. For both of us. I remember calling him by his Fleet rank, and then wondering if I shouldn't have granted him his captaincy, even if it was Maquis. I still don't know why I didn't; whether I needed to exert some kind of authority, or whether I was trying to call up old habits and training, or just the fact that right then I needed him to be the Fleet officer he had been, not Maquis, and my enemy. Those first moments of contact that's what he was, though. Suspicious. Angry. More than a little scared, caught at the back of beyond between me and the array. I wasn't at all sure he'd consider a truce, much less make alliance. Well. It worked. I can't even take any credit for it. It would be nice to see myself as the mastermind who brought the whole thing together, but I can't afford the self- flattery. The whole damned thing would never have worked if it weren't for him. Somehow he jumped past the anger, and the suspicion and the betrayals, past the outrageousness of the situation and found a way to give me what I needed in spite of it all. And he carried the rest of them along with him. It was strange seeing that corroded, beat up, reconditioned excuse for an assault ship ride shotgun beside Voyager. It felt as though there was...I don't know. I do know it helped to look into the view screen and see her gliding ahead of us, or tracking along side. She wasn't much of a thing to lean on; a ratty heap of a former freighter, with reconditioned everything and an arsenal out of a salvage yard. But damned if I didn't feel good as she paced us. I've never had the nerve to ask him what it cost him to ram her to hell the way he did. It was a strange time. A strange alliance. It worked then. It works now. You know what they say: don't fix it if it ain't broke. But God, it's been rocky. I could have shot him for the laughter in his eyes when I made the offer to meld crews...and commands. The sonofabitch has the most cross- grained, scraggy sense of humor. It keeps cutting through everything I think I know, and rattling my sense of dignity. But I love it, too. I know the bridge crew thinks we're crazy...sometimes things happen, like Neelix on another idiotic morale mission, and the next thing you know we're half dying from the strain of not laughing ourselves senseless. Why is it that the things that make him the best officer I've ever worked with are the very things that throw me off balance? He does it every time. I look at a familiar pattern, something I think I understand. He inserts himself into it, and Whoops! Hey presto! Familiarity goes out the airlock, and everything starts to look quirky. As though just by existing he was an agent provocateur for chaos. He's started a story telling circle. There I go again, landing the responsibility on his shoulders. But it's true, and I might as well say it, since he's taken that responsibility himself. It might have started on its own, but without him it wouldn't have been the same. He told me about it. I think he'd done one or two of them before he showed up in my ready room to let me know, but only to be sure that it was going to be a regular thing. I knew something was up just by the way he moved. He has an amazing range of expression just in his body language. This time he was drawn in, just a bit cautious, as though he wasn't quite sure what kind of response he was going to get. That happens sometimes; I can see him trying to figure if something is going to turn into a round of regulation nit- picks or not. As it was I could've hugged him when he told me. They needed something like this, and it wasn't the sort of thing I could have simply legislated into existence. After that it became a constant, and the results have carried over from the circle into everyday life. It's a good thing I already had a sense of the kind of power and status that role would give him, or I wouldn't have been ready for the change. When things are busy on the bridge there isn't much difference. But once things slow down, and the chatter begins, the pattern changes. The jokes begin to slip out, and little references get passed from Tom to Harry to Chakotay...even Wildman, who's a quiet little thing, gets in on it; and even in uniform, with the lights high and no stick in his hand, Chakotay's the center of it. The references to stories have turned into a kind of shared short hand, and the only thing that allows me to follow some of the conversations at all is that he makes an extra effort to give me quick annotations and summaries. Even with that, there are a lot of times I feel left behind. I comfort myself with the pleasure of seeing the crew come together, and with regular doses of The Litany of Command Isolation. "Thou shalt hold thy Power to the Degree thou dost remain Separate." That one used to be a joke, back at the Academy. Those of us with dreams would put on our most pompous, high-professorial faces, and intone it like it was the text for the day, then fall down in giggling lumps, never really believing we'd be so cut off if we came to command. It's only after you've served for a while, and moved up far enough to have had to lead some, that you begin to see how hard it is to balance personal relationship against the need to command obedience. I like it better when the circle stories show up in the ready room; just the two of us at the end of a day of grunt- level paperwork; or at the beginning of the day, as we review the work ahead of us, and slog down coffee. We get the necessary stuff out of the way, then the conversation begins to wander a bit, and pretty soon he's telling me about the latest round. It's fun to watch. Relaxing, funny. He's really a dreadful ham. One night he was telling me about Harry. The boy had driven B'Ellana near crazy the night before by telling a shaggy dog of exquisite duration, chock full of sly sexual word play, all the while keeping his face pure and innocent as the snow; with B'Ellana catching every joke, but never sure Harry had any idea what he was saying. Chakotay was spinning the whole thing out for me: first Harry, then B'Ellana, then telling about his own little additions, the moments when he'd managed to throw her off the scent to help Harry string it out. He was playing it for all it was worth and having a grand time watching me fall apart over it. "So B'ellana's beginning to twig...she's got this look in her eye like she used to get when the warp drive began to give that funny whine it'd get before everything went to hell and the power dropped off-line...I used to think she believed she could intimidate it into cooperating with her. And just as she's about to blow, Wildman, of all people, cuts in like butter wouldn't melt with a very straight-faced question about the length of the supporting member, and Harry nods, and I nod and allow as how that's a very good question; and B'Ellana's looking from one of us to the other, baffled as a baby. Then Harry explains with perfect propriety that the length makes no difference in that particular application, that it's a matter of diameter and nature of the force applied, and I remind him that angle of intersection has to be taken into account, and torque, and Harry's nodding intensely, and commenting that you have to consider the effect of slow rotation on a highly lubricated surface, and finally B'Ellana can't stand it one more minute, and grabs up two coffee cups from the next table, and empties them over both our heads. Then she takes the extra time to pour sugar on me, and tells me I'm a rotten influence. At which point Harry caps it all by looking up at her with the most pitiful, innocent expression I've seen him manage yet, and with coffee dripping off of his nose says "But B'Ella-a-a-ana...I don't understa-a-a-nd...What did I *say*?" So B'Ellana just stands there, trying to decide if she has the balls to try to give him her interpretation of the whole thing or not, with him looking as naive as a two year old. I still don't think she's sure she's been had." By then I was howling, with my ribs so sore I thought I'd die. He was having a ball, stretching it out as much as Harry had, eyes dancing, everything about him poured into it. All I could do was snigger and gasp. "Oh, God, I wish I'd been there. It sounds perfect!" "Why don't you come next time?" I shook my head. "No. Don't want to wreck it." He looked at me. I'll tell you, not two whole years into this trip yet, and I already hate that look. It's the one he gets when he thinks I'm making a major mistake, but it's in an area he doesn't think I'll let him comment on. A bit exasperated, a bit amused, but mostly...withdrawn. It's the other side of the Command thing. Sometimes you pull away from your people; sometimes they pull away from you. When they do it to protect their own privacy it's bad enough. When they do it because they know you'll never let them in, it's terrible. "I don't see the problem. You come, you sit down. What's to wreck?" He was skimming close on that one. Sometimes you can say a lot more by playing dumb than you can by bulling in, and I knew damned well that he knew what the problem was. "No. It's one of those times command gets in the way. As long as I'm not there, there's no problem. Once I am...well from that point on the Captain's on the bridge...whether she wants to be or not." He shot me a sneaky, sly look, and a grin. "In that case maybe I'd better stay away too. Wouldn't want to throw a monkey wrench into the crew's off duty time." I gave him the best "don't push it" expression I had. "You may be First Officer, Chakotay, but there are still things that you can get away with that I can't. Besides, you were invited. You already had a reputation as a story teller. For me to show up..even out of uniform..would be something else again." He let it ride, for which I was heartily grateful. The temptation was bad enough as it was, and I was half ready to say yes that evening. It was one of those tough ones...the ones where everything you've learned tells you to back down...and your gut response is to go for it. I *knew* there was every chance that if I showed it would ruin at least one evening for everyone, and possibly break the circle entirely; though that was a long shot. Most groups with any strength at all can survive one visit from the superintendent. I think even more I was worried that I'd weaken Chakotay's position. Again, he could have recovered, but I didn't want to risk even a small disruption there. Second in command is one of the hardest spots in the hierarchy. Your power goes just as far as the seat next to you and no further. The boss is always right there, and unless you get creative, and find a way to work the reverse side of the system, the informal side the Captain *can't* access, it's too easy to just turn into the captain's puppet, which is no use to anybody. Chakotay had come in cold, under the worst of circumstances, and I'd watched him play it close at first. He'd been doing remarkably well, all considered, picking up a thread here, a thread there, with a good instinct for what was going on; but this was the first time I'd really seen him find his footing with the crew as a whole, and I didn't want to do a thing to shake it. And I have to admit, I was scared of what it would do to my position, too. The Litany of Command. Separation is Power. Tom Paris's father used to talk about that one, back when he was my Captain, and I was a fresh young officer; and my heart would go out to him. He seemed so lonely. Now I knew how he felt. But out here, with no back up, I can't afford to blow it. Too much is riding on my being able to hold things together. I couldn't see any way to enter that circle...really enter it, not just pass through, nodding and playing Good Captain...no way that didn't mean letting go of the safety that isolation provides. But he seemed so sure it would work. And I've wanted so much to believe he was right that I've had to really fight to compensate for my own desire. Even from this distance I can feel the warmth and strength of that circle like you feel the heat coming through the side of a tent on a bright day. My mother used to love working shows...just amateur theater, but she gave it her all when she had any time. I grew up around the groups she worked in, and I can feel the same kind of heart in his circle that I saw in the ensembles. I remember one exercise: the room dark, the cast and director all pulled together, side by side, back to belly, pushed as close as they could get in a big knot; their eyes closed, holding hands, just listening to themselves breathe. And then, as the breathing came together, and even the twitching of individual limbs seemed to come into synch, they'd sing. It could be anything...it depended on the night. Sometimes old show tunes, some going back hundreds of years. Sometimes classical, sometimes religious. They learned the most gorgeous Kyrie from a Catholic priest who worked with the group, and Havah Na Gila from a big bear of a Jewish cantor. There were Italian motets and English madrigals every time the troupe took on Shakespeare, and Russian folk tunes when they got ballsy and tried Chekov or some of the funny, mordant stuff by Ivanova. There was an absolutely obscene version of "The British Grenadier" that seemed to come out either on nights when nothing went right, or alternatively on the nights when everything was so good they felt invincible. I remember a night when the song was Dona Nobis Pacem, sung in round, the voices passing it back and forth and around, like a braid. But they always liked to finish up with a real oldie: "May the Circle be Unbroken." Like it placed a seal on the bond they'd formed, locked it in like a course that's been plotted and set. Voices, and breathing. Warm hands, laughter. Maybe tears. I haven't had that for long time. I wanted accept his invitation, wanted it to work, like I had wanted my offer to him to work. If I go down there I give away all the power I hold on the bridge, and trust him to know how to make it work, how to bring it around, as surely as he's trusted me to hold the command. Ultimately it would be in his hands, and it would work for them and me and all of us as much by his efforts as by anything I could do. Down there, in that room, he's the Captain, and they're his crew. He was invited. But thanks to him, I was invited too. I've been over it a million times, trying to find a way to pull it off. I wonder if he has any idea of how many times I've nearly done it. I go down the turbo lift to deck two. Walk down the corridor with a padd clutched in my hand as though I intended to do something with it. So far I've never actually made it in the door. I either skim past, as far from the door as possible so they won't notice me and as close as I dare get, so I can peek in with my head down, an "I am very busy" frown stuck on my face. Or I stop short of the door. I've heard more stories that way; leaning against the bulkhead, pretending to be checking something on the padd. Coyote stories. Jokes and pun-fests. Little tales of love, or laughter, or tragedy. I was there the night Wildman told about about the first time her baby smiled. God, the hugs, and tears and laughter after that...and me out there in the hall, not knowing what to do. I wanted to go in so much. Even Tuvok has joined them; has made his way into the circle. There's something there; something in that relationship that's changed, something I've missed. He and Chakotay are still as sharp and sly towards each other as ever on the bridge...if anything they seem even more so, a sort of half playful/half serious competition, with me caught in the middle and not sure of my role. But whatever is going on, they've passed some milestone. Something about the story circle, and that Talking Stick Chakotay gave Tuvok. A few months after Tuvok started going, I got up the nerve to ask him about it. Not so much about he and Chakotay, exactly, but about the story circle. It seemed so out of character. He gave me one of those l-o-o-o-ng Vulcan looks, then nodded. "I have been told by a reliable authority that the telling of stories tells us "who we are" and that if the stories go untold, we forget who we are. While I have not been able to test this premise to a sufficient degree to ascertain it's truth to a high level of certainty, my experience would indicate that this is indeed the case. I do not wish to forget, Captain." I looked in his eyes and saw T'Pell, and the children, and the shady red court yard. Do you see what I mean? There's Tuvok; a known quantity. I may know he loves T'Pell, and misses her like hellfire. He may know I know. But he'd never risk letting the power of that slip loose for the crew to see. Until you add Chakotay. Whoops! Hey presto! The next thing you know Tuvok's telling tales of Vulcan, and T'Pell burns in his voice as he describes her dancing of the Tale of the Sisters. Or he's telling Wildman about the birth of his children, and behind the control and logic the passion is there, and the sorrow, and the compassion for a poor ensign, alone with her baby, without her husband. Whoops. Hey presto. I can't seem to make it into the circle. Every time I try I hear Admiral Paris, back when he was just Captain Paris, sitting in his ready room discoursing on the loneliness of command, and the need for a Captain to "distance" himself from the crew. Three weeks ago I nearly did it. I know the nights now, and I'd thought it through. I'd figured out what to wear. Lord have mercy, I haven't put so much thought into an outfit since my first "informal" party during my first posting, when I still thought my life would rise or fall based on the color of a blouse or the choice between pants or a skirt. The whole thing made me feel downright foolish. It's one thing to dither over your clothes when you're twenty-one, and just finding your feet; another when you're in your forties, a captain years since, and only going to an informal story telling session. So I'd picked out camouflage civvies. You know; dark, no color in particular? The most boring sweater you can imagine. Slacks only a tad less formal than Star Fleet issue, but in a hazy gray. And I was blessing the saints that Chakotay keeps that room dim. I thought, maybe, if I just slid in, I could make it to the edge of the ring. And as long as I stayed in the shadows, they might be able to ignore me. I started out early, trying to time it so I'd get there after the flock began to gather, but before there were so many there that I'd have to march my way past all of them to find a spot to sit. Well, of course, I never made it. Skittered past like runaway mercury. Before I even had time to talk myself into a second try, I found myself at the holodeck. Stepped in. Sandrine's was up and running. That was a bit of a surprise. Not that everyone on ship is part of the story circle every time, but somehow listening to bridge chatter I'd gotten the impression that Paris was going to be there that night, and Sandrine's is really Tom's baby. He loves that joint; damned if I know why. It's dark, and grubby, and the holo patrons are sharks...and Sandrine is a shark raised to the power of n, where n is a very large number. Oh, a shark with a heart of gold, I'll give Paris credit for that much subtlety in the programming; but still and all a shark. Tom was there, as civvie-clad as I was, though with a lot more personality. I think he must have arranged a swap with some of the Maquis, because where ever the hell those clothes had been, they'd seen better days. They had the look of rough living on them, and a touch of ...attitude. Tom's face was perfectly coordinated, too. Sad, and sullen, and a bit lost, with a "live hard, die young" flame burning in his eyes. He was at the far end of the table, chalking his cue, a half played out game already on the table. I froze for a moment, a bit angry at the idea of having to deal with him, with no way out that didn't at least include a hello and a nod, and I was as uncertain I was welcome there as I was about the story circle. Something told me he might not be in the mood to share space with anyone as authoritarian as his captain. "Well, well. Slow night in the ready room?" "Slow enough." He just nodded, and bent over the table, lining up a bank shot. It was one of those moments. If I went out too soon I embarrassed us both. If I went in...well, the worst that could happen would be that I'd have to fend off Sandrine. She'll chase men by default, but lacking a suitable male subject she'll chase anything, and Tom usually has her programmed to treat him as an unsuitable subject. Leaves him free to chase the real crew members, while conveniently tangling the competition in Sandrine's clutches. I crossed to the bar, ordered a Kahlua and cream, side- stepped a few passes from the sharks and Sandrine, and watched Paris play. He wasn't at his best. A bit flaky around the edges, like his control was off, or as though he wasn't really watching what he was doing. He scratched once, blew some simple shots. Finally he managed to clear the table, and started fishing the balls out to rack up again. "Play a round, Captain?" It was his bad-boy voice, not quite aggressive enough to force a comment, too aggressive to ignore entirely. " Are you sure, Mr. Paris? You don't seem to be up to much competition tonight." I threw in the bite that implied that I would definitely be competition, and he shot me a grin that had a touch of war in it. It's one of the things I've learned about my Prodigal: if you're too gentle he falls apart. If you're too rough, he crawls away. Hit it just right, with a note of challenge, and he lights up like a super nova and every thing comes together. It's worth it just for the pyrotechnics. But beyond that, it makes him a relief to be around. After months of treating everyone in sight with controlled protocol, it's good to be around someone who'd go crazy if you were too polite. He racked the balls with a bit of extra flair, strutting it for me, cocky as hell. I picked up a cue, chalked it, and with overblown gallantry he gestured for me to break. It was a good break. The balls spread out wide, leaving me a lot of clear shots, and plenty of opportunity to pick fancy shots just for the fun of it, rather than because there was no other way. And I was in good form. I cleared the table that first time, with Paris whistling and laughing, and begging for another chance. By then I was laughing too, and willing to be suckered, so we racked 'em up again, and this time I let him have the break. Somehow the fact that I'd already beaten him solid without him ever having a chance to get in a shot had loosened him up. A strange response, but there it was. He was moving more easily now, and if the break wasn't as pretty as the first one it gave him the excuse to take his time setting up his shots. He called the five ball, side pocket; eased the cue back, and shot clean. It dropped like gold, with a satisfied thunk, and he prowled the table looking for his next shot. "So, Captain, what brings you here tonight?" "Like you said. Slow night in the ready room." "Bull. Bull-fucking-shit. If you don't mind my saying so, Captain, if you shoveled that stuff up and bagged it you could sell it as high grade fertilizer on the next ag world we come across." "You're pushing it, Paris." "Damned straight. It's not every night I have the chance to give a four pip a bit of hell, and after that last game you owe me. So let's try again. You don't hang out in your ready room in civvies. If you did, they wouldn't be middle- aged mouse clothes. If they were, you wouldn't wear them to Sandrine's. If, by some totally unpredictable chance you *did* wear them to Sandrine's you still wouldn't spend time shooting pool with a screw-up lieutenant who's obviously had better days. So tell me, Captain, what gives?" "Feeling hostile tonight, Paris? Or are you just stalling while you set up your next shot?" "Both. Seven ball in the corner." He sank it without a problem, and then the three ball after it, slick as sin. He cocked his head at me. "Well? Tell Unca Paris. I'm trustworthy as the day, and twice as bright. Hadn't you heard?" "So what brings *you* to Sandrine's, Tom? I thought you were going to the story circle with Harry tonight." "Clever. None of your damned business, Captain. I suggest we withdraw to lick our wounds. I'd say that came out about even." He tried for the four, missed, and moved to the bar while I stepped in. I called the four myself, took it nicely, called the two, and began to set up a fancy bank shot. Unfortunately, he decided he needed to be open and honest at the crucial moment, and the shock didn't just make me blow the shot, it made me send the ball ricocheting around the table. "Tonight's my anniversary." I just stood there for a moment, leaned over the table with the cue at full extension, staring at him and listening to the bumps and clatter. When things had quieted down I shook my head. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He got that sulky I'm-a-devil, you-can't -mess-with-me look, and tried to pass it off as a flip joke. "I mean it. Tonight's my anniversary. Today marks the day I lost my innocence." My first inclination was to laugh. It's not that Tom isn't innocent. Deep down he's more innocent than my Good Son, Harry, who I suspect has a deep and abiding understanding of evil. That boy's like a Paladin, for all his open face, and youth and gentleness, and that frightens me a bit sometimes. But Tom? He's the ill-made knight, the Prodigal Son... virtue and ideals hidden like something fragile behind the snarky manners and openly worn scars. But he works so hard at that image that the contrast between the bad boy he pretends to be and the naive little virgin his words implied was outrageous. I think the only thing that kept it in was the ragged look he wore. I just stood there, with the cue across the corner of the table, and waited. It felt like the right move "Four years is a hell of a long time." I knew we were in for another round. Sure and certain. I could have quoted Tuvok the odds on it, and not been off by a decimal. 100% No chance of error. "The accident." "Yeah. No. Not really. That was four years and two days ago. No, today is the anniversary of the day I snuck into the main computer and altered the records." Sometimes I wish he could let it go. The rest of the time I know that if he ever does entirely I won't be able to look him in the eye again, or trust him with so much as a used up phaser battery. But it wasn't the first time I'd wished he'd handle it a bit better. As Captain I don't get pulled in to his dalliances with despair often, but you can't sit on the bridge with him without sensing the self- loathing sometimes. "So?" "So." "This brings you to Sandrine's." "Yep." I thought it through. "Harry wanted you to go to the story circle and tell it, didn't he?" Bitter. A very bitter smile. "Yeah. The kid thinks it's time I aired it in public. Thinks the circle's the place to do it. He has some crazy idea that once everybody knows it all, it's done." I doubted very much that Harry had said anything so simple, but it wasn't the time for a cross examination of the witness. It was time to put on the Captain's hat again. "Go." "No." Absolute. It would have taken a full round of photon torpedoes to budge him. I let it lie, knowing it would simmer around in that stubborn brain of his. I just glanced at the table. "Your shot." "Not interested. Consider it your game." "You're ahead by two. I'd say it's yours." "So what are you doing in Sandrine's?" "One of the advantages of being Captain. You can keep some things to yourself." I still feel guilty over that line. It's a good line, and I was right to use it on Paris that night. But the time I hit Chakotay with it? Well, let's just say he deserved a better answer. He'd trusted me. Trusted me enough to work with me, to put his crew in my hands knowing how hard it would be to mesh them with a pure Star Fleet crew. Trusted me enough to battle it out with me over Torres...and if you can't trust someone enough to fight with them you can't trust them at all. OK, I'd tried to live up to the trust. But he deserved to know if it was returned; if I could have taken the same gamble, and given him the same trust. The trouble is the answer then would have been no. If the circumstances had been reversed, and we were on the Maquis ship, would I have served under him? All right, he was being a bit of a hell raiser with the phrasing. I know a double entendre when it rises up and hits me between the eyes. But the serious question was there, embedded in the flirting, and he really wanted to know. And I didn't feel up to saying no, and explaining why. I didn't want to see the look a man gets when he's put his his life down on the Dabo table... and lost. By the time I could have pointed out that the situation wasn't entirely analogous; that he had served in Star Fleet with Star Fleet standards, that he knew what he was gambling his people's safety on; that I had over five times the people and no real way to evaluate what I'd be getting them into, it would have been too late. And it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Because I knew, and he knew that he hadn't really gambled on Fleet rules, and Fleet standards, or made a careful evaluation of the relative strengths and weaknesses of the situation. All of that was there, and I'm sure he'd run it through, but it wasn't what it was really about. What it boiled down to was a few long moments of confrontation, and a few hours in each other's company, and he'd decided to gamble on *me*. In one way he'd won. But he'd lost too, and I knew it that day. If I can't match that damned, demanding trust I've wasted his gamble, and everything it could have won. Tom reached behind the bar, and grabbed a bottle of syntha-absinthe, with a grumble to Sandrine as she moved to take over. He sloshed a healthy shot into a glass, poured in water from a nearby pitcher, and watched the cloudy swirls build in the green. I nursed my Kahlua and cream. A few of the sharks drifted over to the table, racked up the balls, and started a slow, desultory game, murmuring, cracking canned jokes. Tom and I sat at the bar, facing out, neither of us looking at much but the holo patrons. Not ready to leave. Not really comfortable staying. I began to wonder if there was a way out at all, or if we'd stay there 'till Tuvok sent the search parties out for us. Hell of a fate: stuck in Sandrine's with Tom Paris, both of us in black moods, trapped 'till the end of time. "You ever get scared, Captain? I mean really scared? Stupid, panic, acting on adrenaline scared?" "Of course. Who doesn't? Well, maybe Vulcans, though I doubt it. And Klingons wouldn't admit it if they did. But on the whole I'd say it's the breaks of the game; something we're all stuck with." He nodded, and sipped the absinthe, his face smoothing out a little. "That's what it was, you know. I kept thinking of what Dad's reaction would be when he found out what had happened. The sonofabitch already thought I was the biggest screw-up this side of the Neutral Zone." I shook my head. "He was proud of you. I remember a picture he kept on the desk. I used to look at it during briefings, and think how much it meant to him, to be able to look at you and your mother all the time, no matter how long we were out. I admired that; envied it a bit, that kind of loyalty." "Bull-fucking-shit." He glared at me. "I know the picture you mean. My aunt took the damned thing during a vacation Dad backed out on, so that he could attend a conference on new Warp drive developments. He wouldn't have even had it, except that Aunt Lil had it framed and gave it to him as a going away present the next trip out. If she hadn't handed it to him at the transporter terminal, I don't think it would have made it to the ship. Once it was on board it just got packed, along with everything else he owned, every time he changed commands. He never got a new one, never updated it. I was twenty and he still had this damned picture of me at seven, sitting on the desk at Star Fleet Headquarters in San Francisco. I used to visit on free days, trot on over from the Academy to try a bit of father-son bonding, and we'd sit there, with him grilling me on spatial rotations, and I'd wonder if he even saw the difference. Sometimes I even wondered if he knew the boy in the picture was the same person as the guy sitting in front of him." I rolled my glass between my hands. There wasn't much left in it, just enough to coat the surface with a film of coffee liqueur and cream. His father; Admiral Thomas W. Paris. My Captain; Captain Tom Paris. I couldn't bring the two images into alignment. "You were in love with him, weren't you?" I wasn't offended. It's hard to be offended sometimes, even when all the rules say you should be. I just shook my head. "A bit of a crush, maybe. Nothing more. Nothing earthshaking. He never did anything to encourage it, and I never thought to try for more. He was a man of honor." He shook his head. "Never did anything to encourage it. I find that hard to believe. Let me see. Yeah, here it is." He settled back with his back braced against the bar, raised his glass, and began to declaim, his voice dropping from his own tenor to a deeper baritone. " 'It's a lonely thing, command. The distance, the isolation. The separation necessary to all who would chose with a clear eye and a dispassionate mind. The Vulcans may not have it all right. A man needs more than empty logic. But when it comes to command, they're right on the mark. And if the cost is high, well, so are the rewards. To serve; to help others to serve. To give one's life to a cause. A noble thing, a worthy thing. But lonely. Only the greatest discipline will help one hold the line, and few are able to stand the solitude without breaking. Remember that Kathryn, when you come to command...and you will. Remember the loneliness, and feel compassion for those who have made the same choice before you.'" The look on my face must have been something else. As he rolled the words out, the years rolled back with them, and Captain Tom Paris seemed to hover for a moment on that stool beside me. My Tom, young Tom, looked me in the eye, and began to laugh. "I've heard that speech a million times. Sometimes I was there for it. Usually I heard it from one of his officers, well chewed and spewed out at the slightest excuse. I think all of the favored ones got that line. It was perfect for my father. He liked his officers giving him a little bit extra when they came to attention, and he particularly liked to see a touch of hero worship in the young women. I think he took it a bit further once in a while, but really, I think what he loved best was to see himself reflected in a kinder, gentler mirror than the one in his stateroom. So long as he had you all, he never needed to doubt himself. And so long as he kept you at a distance he never had to give anything at all to get that comfort. Comfort should cost something." All I could do was shake my head, and feel ill. "Hey, don't worry about it, Captain. Just remember, you're a thousand times better than he ever was, than he ever could be. All he managed to be was a set of rules, and a sharp uniform, and a picture on his desk to say he was a faithful family man. If he'd been out here we wouldn't have made it this far. It takes more than a speech or two to keep a crew together when it all falls apart." 'A thousand times better.' I didn't feel like it. A snappy uniform, a list of regulations; a photograph on my table and a speech for every occassion. A smile for all the nice young officers...and a wall the size of a mountain range to keep them out. So was I a paragon of Command...or something a hell of a lot darker? I looked towards the ceiling, where the audio pick-ups were hidden behind the holograms. "Computer, what time is it?" "The time is twenty-one hours and thirty-five minutes." Nine-thirty. The circle would still be there. The voices, rising and falling in the dark. I turned to Tom. "You said comfort should cost something. I say you should pay what it costs, and get the comfort while you can. Go to the circle, Tom." "No." I waited him out, eyes locked to his. "Dammit, I'm scared. I know what they say. I know what they think. And I'm not going to stand there, and try to tell it, with them hating my guts, knowing that from there on in it's open season." "You choose. You decide to gamble your trust, win or lose, or you don't gamble...and never win." "Right. Who the hell am I supposed to trust? The Fleet officers who hate my guts for the accident, and the cover- up? The Maquis? They still want to stick a knife in me. Harry's already made his choice, but he can't hold it together for me alone. I can't win in there alone, and there's nobody there to catch me." "Chakotay will catch you. You won't fall." "Bull." "He will. He's held that group together through worse. He's kept your skin intact, even in the face of the Maquis. Trust him." "Come with me." I shook my head. "I can't. Not tonight. Not for this. If I go, I change things. As long as I stay out of it, it's his call...and they've already made the choice to trust his calls. If I go, I shake the balance, and make it look like I don't trust you, or him, or them to get it right. Not tonight, Tom. Trust him. He'll bring it around somehow. " He seemed to shrink in a bit. It wasn't despair, just a sort of relaxation, and I knew I'd won. He sat there, tired from the fight...and then began to grin. "Well, it's not like he doesn't owe me. Or may be I owe him." His chuckle was odd. Almost tender. Not really anything I'd expected. "What?" "Just remembering. Looking back to the start. I'll say one thing for the bastard. When he decides to throw in with you, he doesn't hold back. When he was stuck on that stairwell, back on the Ocampa home world, I thought I was going to lose him to pure, piss-proud stubborn. For a few minutes there I was sure he'd rather go down than let me save his sorry ass. Then...I don't know. Something shifted, I think something in how he saw me. And the next thing I know he's holding on for sweet life, and cracking jokes over my head. And I never quite saw how it all worked. All I ever knew was that first he didn't trust me, would rather die than trust me; and then he did, and was willing to hang on and leave it to me." He drained the glass, stood, straightened his clothes (not that it made much difference), and came to attention, with a brisk cockiness that made me proud of him. He's a brave man, if he only knew it. "Permission to leave, Captain?" I nodded, grinning at him, trying to put all my approval in a laugh. "Permission granted, Lieutenant Paris. Consider yourself dismissed." After he left I played a few solo rounds, and one against the holo sharks. Nothing great. Nothing to write home about. But it felt good. He did it. I knew he would, but I never had the chance to doubt it. Chakotay was there in my ready room the next morning, lit up like a Christmas tree, and grinning his head off, and I had the basics cold before first shift ever started. I told you he was good. Not a shift in dynamics but I don't hear about it: if not the details, out of respect for confidences, then enough to let me know something's in the air. This time I had a blow by blow description. The entrance. The telling. The gathering in and the letting out. I could see it all in his words; he spins a fine tale. The joy and accomplishment in Chakotay's voice, the thought and the careful consideration, were something to witness. Afterwards, coffee in hand, we went out to our posts, and were there to greet Tom as he scooted in off the turbo lift. It was a good moment. I'll keep this one in mind for a long time to come. A sense of family, of knots working themselves free. A sense of energy passing in a circle, round and round the three of us; like the old theater exercises, like a song. Tom's still going to be a long time healing, a long time finding his place in the crew. Chakotay and I will be a long time finding our balance as a team. But that morning was like a promise to the future. The circle's come together twice since then. I've stayed away both times, letting it find its balance again, not wanting to crowd in too quickly after Tom's tale. But tonight I'm going, and this time I'm not skittering away. I've even chosen my outfit, this time in less than five minutes. It's one of my favorites, a rich green, somewhere between low-slouch drapey and piratical; and with the jewelry I've chosen I'm gonna be noticeable as hell. But I figure he's carried off the challenge of serving under me with some dash, and style, and a solid refusal to hide what he is; and the least I can do is return the compliment, and try to bring the thing off with a bit of class and humor. No more mouse outfits. Just me, with all the stubbornness and command mystique that comes with me. I wonder if I'll shake his peace of mind the way he shakes mine? I kind of hope so: it'd be a shame if that wasn't reciprocal too. So much of our lives is already shared. Sometimes I wonder if this is how it's going to be between the two of us, from now until the end: passing our power, our people, our responsibilities, our laughter and our anger back and forth between us, like shuttles passing from hand to hand across a loom, weaving a life and a community. Tuvok, quoting I suspect I know who, said that stories tell us who we are. I've been thinking a lot lately that they also tell us who we can become, for better or worse. I wonder what becomings we'll all find in Chakotay's circle? Good ones, I hope. Maybe, if things go well, I can con him into letting us sing a bit too. I would dearly love to teach them the filthy version of "British Grenadier." And we could finish off with "May the Circle..." I'd like that. That song has been running through my head for weeks now, and it would be a relief to hear it passing from voice to voice around a circle, not just spinning through my mind. Not that I think I'll ever be free of it entirely. You see, there are a few things I have found to be just so: sometimes a story becomes a promise. And sometimes a song is a prayer. -End-