NEW VOY: Vice Versa (1/8), PG [P/T, Tu, All]

Title: Vice Versa
Author: Dave Rogers
Email Address: daverogers@geocities.com
Series: VOY
Rating: PG
Codes: P/T, Tu, All
Part: 1/8
Date Posted: 27th October 1999

Summary: In aiding a disease-stricken planet, Tuvok performs one mind 
meld too many.

Disclaimer: The characters are mine, the story is Paramount's. No, 
wait...

Acknowledgement: Thanks to Jenn for beta-reading. Jim Wright's "Delta 
Blues" site was a valuable source of background material.




Vice Versa



Surak of Vulcan, in his later writings, likened the well-known Vulcan 
mind meld to a mountaineering expedition; two katras, joined for 
mutual safety and support, embarking on a shared mission with a common 
purpose. Modern scholars of the work, while agreeing that aspects of 
the analogy - the need for consent of both parties, for instance, and 
the axiom that a mind meld should only be undertaken for a specific 
and limited purpose - are valuable, nonetheless consider it one of the 
more whimsical statements of the original Vulcan Master. It is even 
whispered - in private, and among close friends, of course - that the 
great Surak may have been influenced by emotion in his choice of 
words.

History, unusually, has underestimated Surak in this. For he knew, as 
few Vulcans care to remember, the most important respect in which the 
simile holds true: the most dangerous part of climbing a mountain is 
coming down again.



Tuvok had been on the bridge for an hour and nineteen minutes, give or 
take a few seconds, when his panel reported the detection of a ship at 
the limits of sensor range. Having alerted Commander Chakotay, he kept 
careful track of the ship as it closed with Voyager, but before long 
it was clear that the ship was in no danger. A small patrol vessel at 
best, the newcomer had limited warp capability and low-powered phaser 
banks, which were currently uncharged. He was confident in announcing 
to Janeway, as she entered the bridge, that the tactical situation was 
favourable; his immediate job done, he merely observed and analysed as 
the Captain answered the ship's hail.

"This is the B.P.S. Morningstar," announced a humanoid with a high 
forehead, a magnificent crest of multicoloured hair, and apparently no 
ears. "Please state your identity and your business in Ballistic 
space." Tuvok quickly checked the universal translator logs, and 
found in the annotations file that "Ballistic" came through as a form 
of a proper name rather than an adjective; sometimes these nuances 
could be important, and he filed the information away for future 
reference.

"This is Captain Kathryn Janeway, of the Federation Starship Voyager." 
As always, Tuvok took careful note of the Captain's exact words. This 
form of response had been worked out between them, long ago, as the 
ideal compromise between appearing to convey information and, in fact, 
conveying none. "We're just passing through, on our way home." The 
words had been changed there recently; trying to get home, their 
original choice, had made them look too vulnerable, and Tuvok had at 
last convinced Janeway to change the speech. "We'd like to request 
permission to pass through your space."

"What's your course, Voyager?" A logical question, Tuvok thought. He 
quickly compiled a data transmission, which Voyager's computer had no 
trouble converting to a format the Ballistic ship's computer could 
read. A quick nod in return to Janeway's glance over her shoulder, and 
then he was back to playing the passive observer, musing, as he 
waited, on how smooth this process had become in over five years of 
practice.

"We've just uploaded navigational information to your computer, 
Captain..." Janeway's voice trailed away, and Tuvok gave another nod, 
of approval this time. Gentle pressure on the alien ship to release 
some information, or be thought impolite. Standard First Contact 
technique.

"Kla'stor," replied the Ballistan captain. "Thank you, we're reviewing 
your route now." He looked away for a few seconds, then continued, 
"Your route takes you close to trading station three, Mangonel colony. 
If you need to replenish any supplies, you're welcome to visit the 
station." Again, a reasonable request on the surface, but Tuvok would 
need to check carefully whether the trading station was all it claimed 
to be. He turned to his sensor panel and prepared a multilevel sweep 
program, ready to run whenever Voyager arrived. Again, a nod to the
Captain, approving her reply.

"Sounds like a good idea, Captain Kla'stor," replied Janeway, and 
Tuvok could tell from her voice, even though her back was to him, that 
she was smiling. This part of the script was more hers than his, due 
to the involvement of emotional responses, but he fully agreed on the 
need to avoid any threatening appearance at this point. "We'll be 
there in," and she looked down at the navigational information Harry 
Kim had, presumably, sent to her display screen, "seven hours."

"We'll advise them to expect you, Captain Janeway," concluded Kla'stor. 
"We will be happy to accompany you there. You have permission to 
proceed."

Seven hours would leave plenty of time for analysis of this contact, 
so for the time being Tuvok simply ran a test on shield and weapons 
status. It seemed to have been a promising First Contact, he thought, 
with at least a seventy-five per cent likelihood of a peaceful 
outcome; but they must be wary, out here in the Delta Quadrant, where 
occasionally even more promising encounters had turned out badly.



"Paris to Torres."

"Mslp. Gwy."

Tom leaned over B'Elanna and shook her shoulder gently. "B'Elanna, 
you're on early shift today."

"Damn." She opened one eye, looked round at the ruins of her quarters, 
and smiled at Tom. "Why do we always end up doing this when I'm on 
early shift?" Then she noticed something else. "You're dressed! 
Where've you been?"

"The mess hall. I got you some..." Tom looked at the cup of steaming 
liquid pensively. "It's brown," he finished lamely.

"Ecchh. There's only one Neelix." Slowly, painfully, B'Elanna managed 
to force both eyes open. "Computer, state present time."

"Ship's time is 0550 hours," replied the impassive voice.

Suddenly B'Elanna was flinging the blanket aside and leaping to her 
feet. "0550! I'm on duty in ten minutes! Why didn't you wake me up?" 
Tom stood aside and watched appreciatively as she dashed around the 
cabin, dressing rapidly. "Torres to Carey. Joe, is everyone available 
for a staff meeting at 0600?"

Carey's voice was calm and relaxing as he replied, "Negative, Chief. 
Vorik and Nicoletti are checking out a plasma leak in Jefferies tube 
five. Can we put it back to 0630?"

"Okay. Anything I need to look at in the meantime?"

"Neelix called in. One of the mess hall replicators is offline."

"Again? Right, I'll take a look. Torres out." She turned to Tom. 
"Maybe I'll get a few minutes for breakfast, anyway. Care to join me?"

Tom put on his best innocent smile. "How could I refuse?"

As they entered the mess hall, there was a sound of subdued cheering, 
and their way to the servery was barred for a few moments as one long 
line of hungry crewmen split itself into two more manageable ones. 
Neelix looked up from a tray of something unidentifiable, looking, as 
usual, far too cheerful for this time in the morning, and cried out, 
"Good morning, Lieutenant! Efficient service as always - I see you've 
fixed it already!"

B'Elanna gave the offending replicator a hard, questioning stare; but 
it was hard at work producing edible alternatives to Talaxian 
breakfast cuisine, and the looks on the faces of the as-yet unserved 
crewmen convinced her that this was not the time for preventive 
maintenance. Eventually she relented, and joined Tom at the counter.

"Well, I seem to have half an hour free after all. Neelix, what's 
for... no, don't tell me. I probably don't want to know."

Tom took care not to look satisfied as they sat down together. 
Although he and Joe Carey weren't close friends, they shared a mutual 
respect, a devious streak a kilometre wide, and - for their own 
separate reasons - a vested interest in keeping a certain Chief 
Engineer happy.



Ballista trading station three turned out to be an impressive edifice; 
it was a space station larger than a Starbase, practically an orbital 
colony in itself, in geostationary orbit around the Ballistan colony 
world of Mangonel. Tuvok's automated scans had determined that, while 
equipped with powerful phasers and shields, the station's weaponry was 
primarily for defence, and was generally consistent with its role as a 
trading post. It seemed that Voyager and the station, in the event of 
hostilities, would probably be fairly evenly matched, except of course 
for Voyager's ability to leave in a hurry if things turned unpleasant. 
Tuvok had, therefore, not registered any concern with Voyager docking 
at the station; and so, shortly after their arrival, Janeway and 
selected senior staff members met with an official delegation at the 
entry port.

"Captain Janeway," a slightly overweight Ballistan extended a hand, 
palm upwards, in greeting. "Permit me to introduce myself. My name is 
Sta'nerov, and I serve as Planetary Wxasprutlminkpilt." Clearly, the 
universal translator couldn't figure that one out yet, but the 
Planetary Wxasprutlminkpilt, whatever one was, saw the confusion on 
Janeway's face at once and attempted to explain. "Our social system is 
somewhat complex, Captain. Planetary... Commissioner, may be a similar 
function that your translators can understand. Suffice it to say that, 
in these circumstances, I may be taken to speak for the people of 
Mangonel, and for Ballista itself."

"I think I understand," replied Janeway, a little amused. "You're the 
political leader of this colony?" Her gaze hardened a little as 
Sta'nerov, and the four Ballistans with him, shook with barely 
contained laughter.

"A simple enough analogy, I think," replied Sta'nerov with a smile. 
"Forgive our amusement. Our society has moved a little beyond," he 
suppressed another chuckle, "politics."

Janeway smiled back; she couldn't feel offended by this cheerful, 
honest-looking, smiling faced man. "Permit me to introduce Commander 
Chakotay, my first officer; Lieutenant-Commander Tuvok, chief of 
security; Lieutenant Junior Grade B'Elanna Torres, chief of 
engineering; and Ensign Harry Kim, chief of ship's operations." 

"My pleasure," repeated Sta'nerov, shaking hands as he went. "Captain 
Kla'stor, you have already met; Es'porun, the colony's Chief Medical 
Officer; Jia'terna, Leading Metasocial Facilitator; Ta'kernal, 
Minister of Science and Engineering." Kla'stor, in real life, turned 
out to be a little smaller than he appeared on a viewscreen, though 
his coloured crest towered over all four Starfleet officers. Es'porun 
and Ta'kernal were both middle-aged women, and Jia'terna a young man, 
of an age that appeared to correspond to a Terran thirty-year-old. 
"If you would all care to accompany me to the meeting chamber," went 
on Sta'nerov, "we can conclude a few formalities before allowing your 
crew to visit the station, and the colony, for shore leave."

As Sta'nerov led them along a broad, spacious corridor, brightly lit 
and decorated with wall friezes of pastoral scenes, the group 
fragmented into smaller conversations. Tuvok carefully manoeuvred his 
way to the metasocial facilitator, who seemed to be the youngest and, 
perhaps, the easiest of the Ballistans to pump for information. His 
opening gambit was a show of curiosity. "I see that your colonies and 
ships appear to be named after weapons," he commented in an offhand 
tone. He was about to continue, but to his satisfaction Jia'terna was 
only too willing to talk.

"That's right, Commander, but generally obsolete weapons." His 
expression serious for a moment, he continued, "Our planet has a 
history of warfare and unrest, up until two centuries ago, when we 
chose to divert our energies to social engineering. Since then, we 
have devised a stable society, and made great strides in medical 
science, but we feel it's important to remind ourselves of our warlike 
nature." He turned to look Tuvok full in the face, and answered the 
Vulcan's unspoken thought. "Perhaps we are very similar, Commander. I 
would need to know more of the history of Vulcan." Then, seeing 
Tuvok's look of surprise, he seemed overcome with confusion. "Forgive 
me - I meant no intrusion. A small minority of us have some latent 
telepathic powers - mine are among the strongest - and we can 
sometimes receive thoughts from other telepaths without intending to. 
I hope you are not offended?"

"Not at all," replied Tuvok. "Vulcans are not offended." Interesting; 
he would have to find out whether this minority could read the minds 
of non-telepathic species as well. In the meantime, Vorik and Jurot 
had better not be included in the first shoreleave parties, and his 
own mental shields had better be in place from now on.

Meanwhile, unsurprisingly, B'Elanna Torres and Ta'kernal, engineers 
both, had found a great deal in common. Cautiously at first, they had 
explored the limits of each other's technology; then, finding enough 
points of similarity that - from B'Elanna's point of view at least - 
the Prime Directive was no longer of great importance, they had 
launched into a deeply technical discussion of the finer points of 
replicator performance under heavy usage. Harry Kim, following them 
and trying desperately to find some common ground with the Chief 
Medical Officer, almost moved to intervene as he heard B'Elanna's 
voice start to rise in volume during a heated debate on maintenance 
schedules, but a diplomatic incident was averted by their arrival at 
the conference room, to a roar of laughter from Captain Kla'stor at 
one of Chakotay's anecdotes from his Maquis days. And then Sta'nerov 
was inviting them to be seated, and quiet descended on a group already 
beginning to feel at ease with one another.

The clincher, though, was yet to come. Sta'nerov looked aside for a 
moment, and announced in a slightly unnatural tone, "Computer, ten 
khrnentza." He looked back apologetically, and commented quietly, "I 
never do feel comfortable speaking to those things," and then passed a 
cup of steaming liquid to each of them from an aperture in the wall.

Kathryn Janeway lifted her cup, took a cautious sniff, and realised 
that she had died and gone to heaven. The drink wasn't exactly any 
particular blend she could identify, but coffee it looked like, coffee 
it smelled like, and coffee it clearly, undeniably, gloriously and 
unmistakably tasted like. She tried to control her reaction, knowing 
that Sta'nerov was watching her, but it seemed that she hadn't been 
quick enough.

"Our favoured local beverage, here on Mangonel," said Sta'nerov. "Yet 
to catch on back on the homeworld, so we have a plentiful supply of 
the beans it's made from. Perhaps you might be interested in some?"

Janeway looked round at her officers, and realised that there was no 
point in concealment. Chakotay, Torres and Kim were looking at her with 
broad grins, and she could swear that even Tuvok was almost smiling. 
Best to own up. "It bears a strong resemblance to a drink I'm rather 
partial to," she replied, trying to ignore Torres' snort of amusement 
at her understatement. "I'm sure we'd be interested in trading for 
some." Then she realised, with a brief pang of loss, that her cup was 
empty. 

But Sta'nerov was clearly determined to be the perfect host. "Computer, 
another cup of coffee for Captain Janeway." Now it was Janeway's turn 
to almost laugh out loud; the miraculous workings of the universal 
translator never ceased to amaze her, and it seemed to have formed the 
same opinion about khrnentza as had she. However, her thoughts came 
back after a moment to the continued absence, in front of her, of 
another cup of coffee. "My apologies, Captain," continued Sta'nerov, 
"but there seems to be a problem with our replicator. Computer, please 
send a maintenance engineer to our location."

"Here, let me take a look." Torres was on her feet and removing the 
access panel above the wall replicator almost before Sta'nerov had 
finished speaking. Janeway briefly considered stopping her - but this 
was serious, a cup of coffee was at stake. From inside the wall, the 
half-Klingon's voice emerged at intervals - "phase inverter degraded" - 
"power couplings worn" - "handling capacity inadequate" - and then she 
emerged, and issued a crisp order. "Computer, one coffee." With almost 
tangible pride, she handed the steaming cup to Janeway, and then 
addressed the Ballistan engineer. "I've made one or two alterations 
that should make it a bit more reliable, but give me a couple of days 
and I can come up with some schematics for you to implement that ought 
to reduce your failure rate by about ten times." Then, belatedly 
looking back to Janeway, "If that's okay, Captain."

Aha, thought Janeway, looking at five Ballistan faces, suddenly very 
earnest and serious. It seemed they had hit the jackpot; for some 
reason, broken replicators must be a big problem here. "You can get to 
work on it as soon as we're finished here, Lieutenant," she replied, 
with a meaningful glance at Sta'nerov. "Now, Commissioner, perhaps we 
can discuss specific items for trade?"



How many times, Tom wondered, had they had this argument? Discussion, 
he corrected himself; it hadn't reached the stage of yelling and 
throwing things yet, and it usually didn't. Not here, in Engineering, 
anyway.

"You didn't take any shore leave at the last three planets we visited, 
B'Elanna. You need a break." Tom leaned on the railing around the warp 
core and tried to look nonchalant.

"Work it out for yourself, Tom," she answered with strained patience 
as she strode past with a hyperspanner. "Carey's down with Arithean 
Flu, Nicoletti's just finished a double shift, and Tuvok just sent 
Vorik off with Jurot to get some galicite from Ballista Prime. They'll 
be gone for a week. The rest of my staff are on the trading station 
fixing replicators - how the hell they let them get in such a state I 
just don't know - so who's going to look after Engineering?"

"The warp core's shut down, the engines are off line. What's to look 
after?"

"There's a lot of valuable equipment here," replied B'Elanna, as she 
disappeared beneath a console, "and things tend to walk away. I'm 
staying here to guard it."

"Couldn't you get Seven to do that?"

B'Elanna looked out briefly and shot Tom a filthy look. "She's the one 
I'm guarding it from."

Aha, thought Tom. "Didn't you know? She's down on the planet already. 
The Captain ordered her to spend eight hours adapting to new social 
situations."

B'Elanna looked out from under the console again. "I've still got to 
finish off the repairs to the plasma leak in Jefferies tube five. 
Maybe you should just go on your own."

"Maybe," replied Tom carelessly. "I might see how Seven's getting on 
down there. She could probably use some advice on how to..."

A muffled "Like hell she could!" issued from under the panel, followed 
by, "Torres to Kim. Harry, how's the power coupling diagnostic going?"

"Just finished, Maquis," came back Harry Kim's voice from the 
commbadge. "Are you ready to test the main shield controls?"

"I think we've done enough for today, Harry. Are you rostered for 
shoreleave?"

"Sure, but I don't mind staying till we're done."

"That's okay, you get going. See if you can find Seven when you get 
there, she could probably use some company."

Harry's voice sounded surprised, and a little confused, even over the 
commlink. "Okay, I'll try."

"Have fun, Harry." B'Elanna was out from under the console now, and 
looking into Tom's grinning face from very close up. "If I thought 
for one moment," she prodded his chest viciously with a finger to 
emphasise each word, "that that was anything but another ploy to get 
me to go on shoreleave with you..." Her eyes blazed, somewhere between 
anger and amusement.

As she was so close, Tom took the opportunity to slide his arms gently 
round B'Elanna's waist. "So you're coming?"

"Anything to stop you going on at me!" And then silence for the next 
few minutes, as B'Elanna found a much better way to stop Tom going on 
at her.



Four hours later, after a long trek and some further strenuous 
activity, Tom and B'Elanna sat in the late summer sunshine, arms 
round each other, backs against a tall pillar built of flat stones to 
mark the summit of the fell they had recently climbed. It was not the 
highest in the area, but the Ballistans had mentioned it as a place 
to visit for a spectacular view. Around them, higher peaks rose in a 
great circle, but ahead and below stretched a dog-leg shaped lake, 
clear and glassy in the still of the afternoon. So smooth was its 
surface that every tree on the far bank, where forests stretched right 
down to the water line, could be seen in sharp detail in the 
reflection from the water. A few small dwellings were scattered around 
the banks, but dwarfing them all, half-hidden in trees on the near 
side of the lake, was a monstrous, featureless white block of a 
building, at the foot of a slope so steep that it seemed they could 
drop a stone right on to its roof. As Tom stared down at the building, 
trying to make out any details, a familiar voice behind them 
commented, "Fascinating, is it not?"

Tom surreptitiously straightened his clothes, stood up, and turned to 
face Tuvok, stepping slightly to one side to obscure the view of 
B'Elanna closing the fastenings on hers. "Uh, hey there, Tuvok. Come 
to see the view?" Tom winced slightly as Tuvok raised an eyebrow at 
his accidental double entendre, and there was a suggestion of a growl 
from behind him.

"Initially, no." Tuvok seemed to be avoiding noticing anything he felt 
he shouldn't see. "I chose this spot for quiet meditation, on the 
assumption that I was unlikely to be interrupted - a hypothesis you 
and Lieutenant Torres appear to have been testing also."

"Um, yeah. About that, Tuvok..."

"Mr. Paris, let me remind you that you are on leave, and your actions 
are none of my concern so long as they do not contravene local laws or 
infringe the Prime Directive."

Tom decided it was time to change the subject. He couldn't see 
B'Elanna's face, of course, but he could almost sense the heat 
radiating from it. "Any idea what that building is?"

"None at present. However, you may also note," Tuvok indicated distant 
fields with an outstretched arm, "that there are many crops in this 
region that have not been properly tended; grazing beasts appear to be 
straying into arable areas here," indicating a nearer region, "and 
several apparently fertile fields have been left unplanted. This 
region appears typical of the colony as a whole, suggesting a serious 
shortage of farming personnel. The inevitable question we must ask is, 
where have they gone?"

"Fishing?" asked Tom innocently. A sudden sharp pain in his upper arm 
informed him that B'Elanna was standing by his side.

"Unlikely, given the absence from this planetary ecosystem of any 
type of fish," replied Tuvok dryly. "However, there are several large 
buildings of the type we see below us, and our hosts are most evasive 
when asked their function. I suspect they may be in some way related."

"Don't you think you're getting a bit paranoid, Tuvok?" Tom's brow 
furrowed in concern.

"Perhaps. However, paranoia is, unfortunately, one of the requirements 
of my role on Voyager, whatever my preferences." It was hard to tell, 
but Tuvok's voice appeared to hold a hint of regret. More brightly, he 
continued, "I intend to investigate the building below us discreetly. 
I had intended to do so alone; however, since you and Lieutenant 
Torres are dressed," he paused for an interval Tom felt was precisely 
calculated to cause the maximum embarrassment, "for outdoor activity, 
you may wish to join me."

"Sounds interesting," said Tom. "C'mon, B'Elanna, let's take a look."

"So much for spending some time together," came B'Elanna's voice from 
above and behind him as they started to scramble down the slope.



The building looked even larger close up, and was surrounded by what 
appeared to be the local equivalent of a barbed wire fence. As they 
came closer, faint sounds could be heard from ahead of them. Tuvok 
suddenly turned and raised a hand to still Tom and B'Elanna, and all 
three crouched in the cover of some thick undergrowth to watch.

The breaking of a window shattered the peace of the woodlands around 
them, and all three saw a Ballistan flying through a cloud of glass 
fragments to land shoulder first on the rough ground between building 
and fence. As he stumbled to his feet, two other Ballistans, dressed 
in dark green overalls, vaulted through the window and were upon him 
in moments. One produced a hypospray and pressed it to the fugitive's 
neck; in moments he was limp and inert between them, and within a 
minute of his escape he was being carried, reasonably gently, back 
inside. A scream was heard, followed by the sound of a door closing; 
then there was no more. 

From a roadway nearby, engines could be heard, and as all three 
crouched under cover for a moment's rest, Tuvok whispered, "I have 
observed freight vehicles visiting buildings of this type at the rate 
of three or four to the hour. Clearly they are transporting something 
in or out. Stay under cover while I endeavour to determine the nature 
of the cargo."

He had been gone for a minute when Tom heard one of the vehicles come 
to a standstill nearby, probably to enter a gateway in the wire. After 
a few seconds the engine roared at full volume again, and a few seconds 
more saw Tuvok back with a package in his hand. "I removed this from 
the rear of the vehicle," he whispered. "Packets like this appeared to 
form the majority of its load."

"Food," remarked Tom, opening the lid. "Looks like basic field rations 
to me." He took a small bite and chewed. "These things always taste of 
cardboard, whatever quadrant you're in."

"And they're replicated," added B'Elanna quietly. "Trust me, I can 
tell," she added.

"I think she was born with a built-in tricorder," commented Tom to 
Tuvok's raised eyebrow, ignoring B'Elanna's glare.

"If these buildings require large supplies of food, and there is an 
agricultural shortfall on the planet," mused Tuvok, "that might 
explain the poor state of repair of the replicators. The evidence 
suggests that a large proportion of the population is confined in 
these buildings, but for what purpose, I cannot ascertain. I suggest 
we find a position from which we may make a closer inspection."

They crept through the trees, following the fence as it drew nearer to 
the side of the building, then Tuvok waved a hand again and all three 
stopped. Ahead, the forest cleared, and a road could be seen, coming 
from the direction of the capital city and leading only to the 
building. Cautiously, they crept forward to the edge of the forest, 
and Tom and Tuvok studied the fence and the entry gate.

"Hey, look," hissed B'Elanna. "What the hell's she doing here?"

A small open groundcar was approaching along the road, and in the rear 
seat they saw Es'porun, the chief medical officer. They took cover as 
the car swept past, drawing to a halt at the gate. After a brief and 
inaudible exchange of words with a small pillar by the roadside, the 
gate opened automatically, and the car slowly drove on.

"Fascinating," murmured Tuvok. "Unfortunately, it appears that we will 
be unable to gain closer access to the building by this route."

"I can get us through that fence in a couple of minutes," suggested 
B'Elanna. "There can't be more than a simple alarm system."

"Indeed. However, I am reluctant to take such a course. So far our 
actions have been, at worst," Tuvok pursed his lips in thought for a 
moment, "impolite. A deliberate attempt to force entry would be 
tantamount to an act of aggression. I would prefer a less intrusive 
approach."

"Well, why don't we just go and ask?" Tom saw dismissive expressions, 
so continued, "Seriously. Wait on the roadway for the head honchette to 
come back, and ask her what's going on." He tried to ignore B'Elanna 
incredulously mouthing the words 'head honchette'. "Like you said, 
we're not doing anything illegal. Anyway, from the amount of stuff 
they're giving us just to fix their replicators, it looks like they'll 
do a fair amount to keep us sweet."

Tuvok considered this for a few moments, then reached a decision. "I 
believe your proposal has merit, Mr. Paris. I suggest, however, that we 
join the road out of sight of the gate, then walk towards it when we 
hear the car return. That way, we will not appear unduly duplicitous."

The chief medical officer's visit was fairly brief, and a few minutes 
later, by careful timing, Tuvok, Tom and B'Elanna were just arriving at 
the gate as the groundcar approached it from the far side. Again the 
gate opened automatically, and closed behind the car as it passed 
through; then it drew to a halt alongside them.

"Good afternoon, doctor," hailed Tuvok. "A fine day for a walk, is it 
not?" Tom winced slightly at the false bonhomie, and thought for a 
moment he saw Es'porun do the same; but then he realised that her 
expression was something different, something like fear, or shame.

"Pleasant indeed," replied the Ballistan nervously. "But this isn't the 
best place for a walk. There's far more to see in the mountains."

"The views are impressive," said Tuvok, "but the lowland regions appear 
to be the habitat for some interesting flora and fauna. We have made 
some other observations that we would be interested to discuss further."

"I'd be glad to talk about our woodland fauna if you're interested, 
although I'm not much of a biologist," replied Es'porun with a hint of 
relief.

"We had speculated on the function of these installations." Tuvok 
indicated the building behind them. "Are they some kind of medical 
facility?"

"Mr. Tuvok, I don't wish to be inhospitable, but there are matters we 
would feel uncomfortable discussing."

Her voice was shaky, but her eyes seemed to be pleading with them. In a 
flash of insight, Tom realised that she was hiding a secret that she 
desperately wanted to tell them, but could not; a situation familiar to 
him from the dark days after the Caldik Prime incident. So as Tuvok 
began to speak, Tom gently touched his arm, stepped forward and spoke in 
a soft voice.

"Doctor, whatever it is, we're friends, and we're not going to judge 
you for it. Just tell us. Maybe we can help."

"How can you help?" she blurted out, in a voice close to crying. "We're 
supposed to be the best doctors, the best psychologists, the most  
advanced society in the sector - and even we can't do anything! What 
can you offer that we can't do ourselves?"

Tuvok moved closer and stood beside Tom. "Maybe if you told us more, we
could assist."

"I can't tell you." Es'porun's hands moved up to cover her face now. 
"We can't let offworlders know. We just... we can't." Her head bowed, 
and her shoulders shook slightly.

Tuvok drew a breath, but stayed silent as Tom caught his eye and gently 
shook his head. Then Es'porun appeared to reach a decision. She sat up, 
lowered her hands, squared her shoulders, and said, "Perhaps you're 
right. We're not used to looking to others for help, but this is one 
thing we've failed to cope with. I'll inform Sta'nerov of my decision." 
She paused for a moment, deep in thought, then continued, "You have a 
hierarchical command structure, don't you?"

"That is correct," confirmed Tuvok.
 
"Your Captain should see this first. Would you ask her, please?"

Tuvok looked at Tom, who nodded, and at B'Elanna, who said, "I trust 
her. Go ahead."

"Tuvok to Captain Janeway. The Ballistan chief medical officer would 
like to speak to you regarding the matter we discussed earlier today." 
Tom and B'Elanna exchanged amused glances; Tuvok had, as usual, been 
playing his cards close to his chest. "I suggest you beam down to my 
present position. Lieutenant Torres and Ensign Paris are here already."

"Acknowledged, Tuvok. I'll be right down."

Moments later, the shimmer of a transporter beam announced the arrival 
of Kathryn Janeway, a few metres along the road. She walked casually 
over to the groundcar and addressed Es'porun. "Good afternoon, doctor. 
I believe you have something to show me?"

Es'porun opened the door of the car and stepped out. "This way," she 
said simply, walking to the gate. "Es'porun, code three five two. Five 
to admit." The gate opened, and Janeway, Tuvok, Torres and Paris 
followed her to the door of the building.



It certainly looked like a hospital, smelled and felt like a hospital; 
even the taste of the air proclaimed it as a hospital. They had not 
gone more than three steps into the foyer before Tom Paris felt an 
irrational desire to be somewhere else, a fifth and most conclusive 
proof that it was indeed a hospital. The only sense that disagreed 
was their hearing. Hospitals did not, in any of their experiences, 
sound like this.

It wasn't the screams; they were relatively few and far between, and 
tended to sound more like anger - and, occasionally, excitement - than 
fear or pain. It was the other noises, the hummings, the steady high-
pitched droning noises, the shouted repetitions of a nonsense word or 
phrase, that echoed in from distant rooms, overlaid in a complex 
aural mosaic of practically every sound the humanoid vocal chord was 
capable of producing. The overall level of the sound was muted, 
suggesting considerable soundproofing, and adding an air of clinical 
detachment that somehow enhanced, rather than detracted from, the 
eerie sense of wrongness about the scene.

"I'm not sure how to describe this facility," began Es'porun 
nervously, falteringly. "It's a hospital of a kind, but there's no 
real treatment going on. It's not a prison, but we have to keep people 
here for their own good. Maybe we could call it..."

"A lunatic asylum?" Janeway's face was as rigid as stone and her lips 
a thin line across it, as she stared the Ballistan full in the face.

"Captain, we are not barbarians! I have heard of such things, but we 
would never just shut away the mentally ill and forget them. We care 
for everyone in our society." Es'porun's voice faded away, and Tom saw 
that look again.

"Unless?" he prompted gently.

Es'porun's voice was barely audible as her gaze dropped to the floor, 
and she said, "Unless there was nothing else we could do." Then she 
found some strength again, stood straighter, and said, "Come and meet 
my son."

She led them down a series of stark grey corridors, with closed doors 
along either side, and explained as she went. "There was an epidemic, 
about a year ago, of an unknown disease. We eventually found a 
vaccine, but by then almost half the population had been infected. 
All the sufferers made a full physical recovery, but a minority were 
subject to complications."

"How large a minority?" asked Tuvok.

"Approximately twenty per cent. Here," Es'porun handed the Vulcan a 
portable data terminal, "the figures are in the main database." She 
slowed down, then stopped and opened a door. "He's in here. I come and 
visit him when I can."

In contrast to the corridor, the room presented a warm, friendly 
atmosphere. The walls were decorated in relaxing colours, and posters 
were stuck to them, although mostly too high to reach. On one wall 
was what appeared to be a folding bed, and a table was folded down 
from a set of wall cupboards on the opposite side. On the remaining 
wall, opposite the door, a window looked out through barbed wire to a 
vista of the lake shore, framed by woodland on either side. In a 
corner, a display screen was currently switched off. And on two chairs, 
either side of the table, sat two young Ballistan men, both apparently 
about twenty years old. The nearer one looked round as they entered, 
and said, "What's up, doctor? Did you leave something behind?" 

The young man on the far side of the table sat silently, staring at a 
blank area of wall. In front of him was a plate containing a ration 
bar similar to the one Tuvok had taken from the vehicle outside, and 
from time to time he placed a lump of it in his mouth and chewed it 
quietly.

"It's all right, Loa'ten. I've brought some more visitors." Es'porun 
then addressed the silent young man on the far side of the table. 
"Fra'porun, this is Captain Janeway, of the starship Voyager, and some 
of her officers. They've come to see you."

Still looking at the wall, the young man replied, "Gra'mets was a 
groundcar who lived at a transportation depot with five other 
groundcars. They were bigger than Gra'mets, and boasted about it. The 
Chief Engineer won't choose you again, they said. He wants big, strong 
groundcars like us. Gra'mets had not been out for a long time. He 
began to feel sad." Then he fell silent again, and resumed eating his 
meal.

Janeway walked to the end of the table and crouched down close to 
Fra'porun. "What's your name?" she asked him gently.

"...asked the Chief Engineer. Mor'tago, sir, but people generally call 
me Leaper. They say I bounce. I don't really, sir, but I like Leaper 
better than Mor'tago."

B'Elanna joined them, and tried a slightly different tack. "Who are 
you?"

"Gra'mets. Who are you? I'm Bor'kela. Oh yes, I remember you. You took
my passengers when the electric storm knocked out my navigational 
sensors."

In response to Janeway's uncomprehending look, Es'porun produced a 
small rectangular object with a picture and some writing on the front. 
"Gra'mets the Groundcar. It's a series of children's stories I used to 
read to him when he was," her voice cracked for a moment, "when he was 
a little boy. Now he can recite them all from memory, but he can't say 
anything else. Watch."

She inserted the object into a slot on one side of the display screen. 
The screen immediately lit up, and showed what looked like a simple, 
two-dimensional equivalent of a holo-novel. It was an animation, using 
brightly coloured models, simple tunes and a narrator's voice telling 
a story, and as he heard it start, Fra'porun immediately turned and 
watched, totally absorbed in what was clearly a familiar and 
comforting series of tales.

"Loa'ten's his care worker. Fra'porun only needs one these days," said 
Es'porun in a flat voice.

"So this is the condition of some ten per cent of your population?" 
asked Tuvok.

"Fra'porun's one of the less seriously affected," replied Es'porun. 
"He can feed and dress himself. A few days ago, I think he even... 
recognised me..." She choked back the tears and turned to Janeway. 
"So there you are, Captain. You've seen our secret shame. We've 
failed. We can't cure them."

Janeway's voice was soft with compassion. "I don't see anything here 
to be ashamed of, doctor. What I see is a proud people facing tragedy 
with dignity, and coping as best they can."

Es'porun seemed not to have heard. "A tenth of our population are 
unable to function, and another tenth are looking after them. The rest 
of us are just struggling to keep them fed. We get the energy we need 
from the solar arrays, but we haven't the people left to produce our 
own food. So we use the replicators too much, so they're breaking 
down. Before you came, we calculated we had about six months left to 
find a solution. Now, maybe a year, with the repairs you've done 
already."

"What about the homeworld?" asked Tom. "Can't they help?"

"Their epidemic was about two months after ours. We sent them the 
formula for the vaccine, and they got most of the population 
inoculated in time. They've got problems looking after their 
sufferers, but they'll survive. It won't be easy, which is why they 
can't help us. We're on our own."

"Apart from us," remarked B'Elanna. She tapped her commbadge. "Torres 
to Carey."

"Yes, Chief?" came a rather thickly nasal reply.

"Joe, you just got over the flu. Beam down my toolkit to this 
location." She turned to Es'porun. "Doc, if you're delivering food 
here, your replicators must be..." She paused, looking confused for 
a moment, then took a deep breath and coughed. "Must be down. Where 
are they?"

Loa'ten leapt to his feet. "Let me show you. They've been out of 
action for a month."

"I should be able to fix them. I seem to be fixing a lot of 
replicators lately." B'Elanna gave Tom a suspicious look as the toolkit 
materialised. She picked it up and followed Loa'ten out of the door. 
"Sorry about the shoreleave, Tom," she said as she left.

"Sorry, hell. I can hold a spanner too," said Tom's disappearing voice 
as he left with them.

"Typical," said Janeway with a smile. "If I know my crew, we'll have 
them all working double shifts on replicator repairs. Now, doctor," 
she turned to face Es'porun, "I'd like to see whether we can offer 
any medical assistance. Our emergency medical hologram is at your 
disposal," she waved a hand at Es'porun's surprised look, "it's a long 
story, but he's programmed with all the Federation's medical knowledge 
and he may be able to suggest some new approaches."

The Doctor, however, in the senior staff meeting back aboard Voyager, 
was unable to suggest much. "The condition resembles certain syndromes 
encountered in early childhood in humans, Betazoids and Trill hosts, 
but they're generally dealt with by prevention rather than cure," he 
said with a frown. "Early intervention is generally so successful that 
adult cases are almost unknown. I have some tests I'd like to conduct, 
but I don't have any suggestions right now."

"I believe that leaves us with only one further possibility," said 
Tuvok in the silence that followed.

Janeway addressed her old friend severely. "Tuvok, I know what you're 
thinking, and I don't like the idea."

"Captain, these patients are clearly suffering a major communication 
disorder. The mind meld has been known to be highly effective in the 
treatment of many such afflictions. Since the Ballistans possess only 
latent telepathic abilities, it is logical to assume that they are 
unable to perform a mind meld, therefore it is a promising approach 
that has not yet been tried. Logic dictates that I should make the 
attempt."

"But even if it works, you can't meld with a hundred thousand people!"

"One hundred and twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and sixty-three, 
according to Ballistan records," Tuvok corrected her.

"All of whom are already suffering from a major psychological 
disorder," added the Doctor. "I seem to remember there was something 
of a problem last time you tried something like this." His voice 
dropped to an irritated mutter. "Not that anybody's likely to take 
much notice of my warnings."

"On the contrary, Doctor," said Tuvok. "Your warning is understood 
and appreciated. However, the needs of the many must outweigh the 
needs of the one. If I am successful, it is possible that the 
experiences of a recovered sufferer may suggest new approaches."

"I'll consider it, Tuvok," replied Janeway. She turned to B'Elanna. 
"How are the replicator repairs going? Are our systems compatible 
with Ballistan technology?"

B'Elanna shrugged. "A replicator's a replicator. I guess there are 
only so many ways you can build one. We're not doing much more than 
re-wire them. They've got some rather serious design faults, but 
nothing I can't put right with their own components." Her voice 
faltered as she burst into a fit of coughing. Seeing Janeway's look 
of concern, she added, "I seem to have picked up Joe's flu. I guess 
I'll just have to work through it."

"I appreciate the effort, B'Elanna," said Janeway. "Well, if nobody 
has any other business, I think we're done here. Dismissed."

She caught Chakotay's eye as the others filed out, and the two of them 
waited behind.

"Not sure which way to jump, Kathryn?"

"I don't know, Chakotay. If there's anything we can do, we should. But 
there's only one Tuvok, and in the face of all this, it doesn't seem 
enough."

"My people have a story, Kathryn." Chakotay pressed on despite 
Janeway's scornful snort. "An old man was walking on a beach one 
morning, after an unusually high tide. The beach was covered with 
thousands of starfish, washed up above the high water line, and as the 
sun rose higher, many started to die from the heat. The man came upon 
a small child, who was picking up starfish, one at a time, and throwing 
them back into the sea. He walked up to the child, and said to him, 
'Why are you bothering to do this? There are thousands of starfish, and 
all of them will die in the heat. You can only save a few. You can't 
make any real difference.' The child didn't answer at once, he just 
picked up another starfish and threw it back into the water. Then he 
said to the old man, 'I made a real difference for that one.'"

Janeway regarded Chakotay critically, her head tilted and her eyes 
narrowed. "Your people have a story?"

Chakotay nodded silently.

"Your people, as I recall, came from the rain forests, hundreds of 
miles from the sea." One side of Janeway's mouth seemed to be 
escaping her control, curving irrepressibly upwards.

"Perhaps we may have heard it from someone else," admitted Chakotay 
with a grin.

Janeway grinned back. "You're right, though, Chakotay. We have to do 
what we can. I'll give Tuvok permission to try the meld."



Later that afternoon, Janeway beamed down directly to Fra'porun's 
hospital room, where Tuvok was already explaining his proposal to 
Es'porun. "The meld is temporary, but will allow me to communicate with 
your son. In some cases the meld itself may effect an improvement; 
alternatively, I may be able to obtain information on your son's 
condition. However, I cannot be certain that I will succeed."

"Or that you won't suffer a major psychosis in the process, or that -"
The Doctor stopped talking abruptly in the face of Janeway's death 
glare.

Janeway turned back to Es'porun. "It might help," she said, "but we 
don't want to get your hopes up."

"Thank you, Captain," replied Es'porun with a touch of bitterness, 
"but I have no hopes left. You may as well try."

Tuvok crouched down by the young man, who was sitting at the table, 
quietly speaking along with the sound track of his story. As Tuvok 
placed his hands on the Ballistan's face, Fra'porun craned his neck 
sideways slightly to keep a clear view of the screen, but made no other 
response. Then Janeway, Es'porun and the Doctor watched quietly, as a 
bizarre interchange took place between the two.

"Gra'mets found himself going faster and faster."

"My mind to your mind."

"He tried to stop, but he couldn't."

"My thoughts to your thoughts."

"He tried to sound his siren, but he couldn't."

"Our minds are as one."

"Oh dear, he thought. What a silly groundcar I am."

"Our thoughts are as one."

"Then a friendly navigation controller said, 'I know what you need, 
Gra'mets.'"

"We are together."

"The controller re-routed him on to the escape road."

"We are as one."

"Thank goodness, thought Gra'mets."

Then their voices ceased, and the only sound in the room was the quiet 
narrative of the story. Tuvok and Fra'porun remained rigid, locked in 
the mind meld and barely breathing. Their own breathing almost silent, 
Janeway, Es'porun and the Doctor watched and waited.



Slowly, gradually, and familiarly to a veteran of many mind melds, 
Tuvok found himself feeling other feelings, thinking other thoughts, 
looking out of other eyes.

The first impression to strike him was of the colours, harsh, 
jangling, even painful in their intensity. Dust motes shone with the 
brilliance of galaxies before his eyes, blinding and confusing him, 
and obscuring his view. A moment's careful refocusing and his gaze was 
fixed now on the display screen in the corner; or rather, on a small 
patch in the upper left hand corner, where the fine acuity of his 
senses resolved the picture into minute red, blue and green spots, 
each varying slowly in intensity. A desperate act of will was needed 
to broaden his outlook and see the whole of the screen. As he did so, 
the colours became easier to bear, and the discomfort they engendered 
was replaced by...

The sounds. He could hear a complex, pulsating rhythm, at the very 
limit of detection. While the part of him that was Tuvok recognised 
the sound as four heartbeats - and how could he discern so faint a 
sound? - the part of him that was Fra'porun braced itself, rigid with 
pain as the gentle murmurs threatened to pierce his eardrums and spear 
deep into his brain. Then the pain was gently washed away by a new 
sound, soothing and calming, as a familiar sequence of noises impinged 
on his senses. This was familiar, this was safe, these noises he could 
produce himself, but always the same, always predictable, never 
threatening to overwhelm his fragile composure.

The colours on the screen were somehow linked to the sounds. Again, 
the beauty of the sight before him was its predictability, a haven of 
peace in a self of confusion and unquiet.

In a self of...? The part of him that was Tuvok began to realise that 
this mind had no word for 'world', no understanding of internal and 
external, but only the self, with an internal and an external aspect. 
Detaching himself partly for a moment, he observed Fra'porun's shock 
and fear as an unexpected noise - a sudden sharp breath from Janeway, 
Tuvok suspected - shook his faith in the continuity of events. Then 
the sound of the story surrounded him again, and all was safety and 
peace. Tuvok gently strengthened the bond again, as the joint mind 
resumed its recitation of the children's story.

Tuvok carefully examined the other senses available to this mind. 
Touch; the moment he thought of tactile sensations, he felt a stabbing 
pain in his left arm, where it lay across the edge of the table. The 
arm moved, apparently of its own accord; Fra'porun's conscious mind 
seemed to have forgotten its connection to the motor centres for a 
short time. The pain receded, as the arm lifted. The hand swivelled 
backwards on the wrist, and Tuvok felt a stretching of tendons that 
his intellect told him should be painful, but which the mind of 
Fra'porun perceived as comforting, like the smell of yellow or the 
sound of rising steam. So there was synaesthesia present, as well as 
sensory overload. He would have to be careful interpreting any sensory 
phenomena.

The sense of taste seemed to be coping fairly well at present. Tuvok 
felt Fra'porun's right hand lift the ration bar to his mouth, and then 
the bland, featureless taste of the food concentrate joined the sight 
and sound of the story and the stretching of his wrist as a soothing 
influence. As the four senses worked together, Tuvok felt a sense of 
blissful peace steal over their joined minds. The sense of smell did 
not appear, at the moment anyway, to be a problem; the clinical aroma 
of the hospital was as familiar and stable as anything else he could 
experience, and the slight overtones of Vulcan and human body odours 
were not strong enough to cause physical pain.

As Tuvok observed Fra'porun gradually becoming more comfortable with 
his surroundings, though, he began to realise that he had not yet 
explored all the senses; there was something else in this mind, that 
it had carefully blocked out and was hiding away even from itself. He 
recalled his conversation with Jia'terna the previous day, and quickly 
formed a working hypothesis. Recalling his mental training, he began 
the process of va'num-kae-a'kweth, the search for what the mind has 
hidden. Over an undetermined length of time, he gradually opened a 
channel into the hidden sense, and felt satisfaction - quickly and 
thoroughly suppressed - at the confirmation of his suspicion. There 
was little time for satisfaction, though, as the wave of sound hit 
them both.

It was as though all the demons of hell were bellowing in Tuvok's ear. 
Voices crowded in on the joined minds, comforting, jarring, pleading, 
cajoling, shouting, whispering, offering advice, recounting stories, 
reprimanding, or simply screaming incoherently. From the external 
aspect of Fra'porun's world-encompassing self, Tuvok felt the sound of 
screaming, and realised it was Fra'porun's own voice; yet it faded 
into inaudibility beside the torrent of voices. Overwhelmed by pain 
and shock, Tuvok let go his grasp on the hidden sense - and felt a 
sudden, comforting silence. Exploring the other five senses again, he 
felt a residue of disarray and confusion, as Fra'porun's mind 
struggled to cope with the sensory overload, cutting off or re-routing 
the responses to some stimuli, enhancing others, until at last the 
fragile equilibrium was regained. And throughout the process, Tuvok 
felt Fra'porun's voice chanting the reassuring words of the stories of 
Gra'mets the Groundcar.

As Fra'porun relaxed, Tuvok knew that he had found the object of his 
search, and it was time to terminate the meld. There was one more task 
he could accomplish, though, if his assumption was correct. It would 
be quick to achieve, would involve a minimum of risk, and might be of 
incalculable benefit to Voyager's hosts, not to mention this one young 
man himself. He mustered his mental strength, and began.



For Janeway and Es'porun, there was little to watch or wait for, it 
appeared. As Tuvok established the meld, Fra'porun's recitation of the 
story ceased, and his face relaxed into the gentle pressure of Tuvok's 
fingers. Some slight movement of the young Ballistan's eyes could be 
seen from time to time, but otherwise there was no movement. Both 
women watched, each lost in her own private thoughts, as for almost 
half an hour there was no change.

It took both of them by surprise when Fra'porun suddenly threw his 
head back, his face contorted in agony, and screamed. Es'porun started 
forward, but Janeway's outstretched hand restrained her. Slowly the 
young man's face relaxed, his eyes fixed back on the viewscreen. Then, 
softly, both he and Tuvok began chanting along with the continuing 
story narrative. Again, the tableau before them settled down to a 
steady, stable state, and it seemed that nothing could now disturb the 
two men's equilibrium; that they would remain here, motionless apart 
from the movement of their lips in monotonous chanting, for all 
eternity.

The situation could not, of course, remain unchanged for ever. A few 
minutes later the story ended. The screen went dark, the narrator's 
words came to a close, and a simple tune played to mark the finish of 
the recording. Fra'porun sat back, his face pulling away from Tuvok's 
splayed fingers. He turned, stood up, looked in the wall cupboards, 
and muttered, "Now where did I leave 'Bor'tago the Shuttle'?" Only 
then did he notice the other occupants of the room. He looked at his 
mother, standing open-mouthed next to Janeway. "Hi, mum. Have you 
seen..." He suddenly frowned in confusion. "Why am I looking for a 
kid's story?"

As Es'porun rushed forward sobbing and flung her arms around the 
confused young man, Janeway quietly crouched down beside Tuvok, who 
had yet to move. The Doctor stood at her side, produced a medical 
tricorder and began to scan him. Gradually, Tuvok's lips began to 
move, and the sounds issuing from them became identifiable as the 
words of Fra'porun's stories.

"Typical," grumbled the Doctor. "I tried to warn him of the dangers, 
but as usual he just went ahead and messed around with his mind. And 
now, I suppose, you'll be expecting me to pick up the pieces?"

"That will not be necessary, Doctor." Tuvok slowly raised his head and 
turned to look at the Doctor. "There were some brief after effects of 
the mind meld, but I am now recovering."

"What did you do, Tuvok?" asked Janeway, looking in wonder at the 
family reunion going on a few feet away.

"I correctly surmised, Captain, that the individuals most seriously 
affected by the epidemic were those in the population with latent 
telepathic powers." Tuvok was on his feet now, and appeared to be 
exerting himself slightly to bring his eyes back into focus. "The 
disease activated those powers. Unfortunately, the Ballistans are 
extremely powerful receptive telepaths, and the resulting sensory load 
was too much for the processing centres of the brain. The result was a 
general sensory disorder, accompanied by a total retreat from 
reality."

"So how did you bring him back?"

"I utilised the mind meld to transfer certain Vulcan control 
techniques. Fra'porun will now be able to block out unwanted thoughts 
at will. It should be necessary to perform the same procedure on all 
the other sufferers."

The Doctor interjected sardonically, "The other one hundred and 
twenty-five thousand,"

"Seven hundred and sixty-two sufferers," interrupted Tuvok. "Your 
point is well made, Doctor; however, I also transferred the ability to 
perform a limited version of the mind meld. Fra'porun will, when he is 
fully recovered, be able to perform the same procedure on others, who 
will then be able to do likewise. The treatment of the entire 
population should simply be a matter of geometric progression."

"Amazing," breathed Janeway, looking again at the two Ballistans. 
"Well done, Tuvok. I think you'd better rest now, though."

"I would prefer not to, Captain. The more sufferers I can treat now, 
the more rapidly the treatment of the entire population will proceed. 
I request your permission to continue."

Es'porun was drying her tears now, and turning back to Janeway, Tuvok 
and the Doctor. "Let him, Captain, I beg you. These people have 
suffered so much. And Mr. Tuvok... you've given me my son back. I can 
never thank you enough as it is; but we'll be eternally grateful for 
any more help you can give us."

Tuvok gave a typically dispassionate nod. "My pleasure, doctor. Now, 
I suggest I continue with some of the more serious cases. Can you 
please assist me in identifying appropriate patients?"



"Hyperspanner."

"Huh?"

Give me a hyperspanner, Tom. Did you come here to help or just stand 
and watch?"

"I just gave you the hyperspanner." Tom pointed. "There it is, right 
behind you."

"Oh. Sorry." B'Elanna blinked, looked down at her feet and shook her 
head. "Maybe I've been working too hard, or maybe it's this flu. Let's 
take a break when I've done this one, okay?"

"Fine by me. You've been working eight hours straight, it's about time 
you had some rest." An idea struck Tom. "Hey, how about exploring some 
of the local cuisine?" He smiled, and put on his best seductive tone 
of voice. "A candle-lit dinner for two, in the finest restaurant 
Mangonel has to offer? After all, we're all getting treated like 
heroes, so we might as well make the most of it."

"Tom, give me a hyperspanner." B'Elanna's words ran into a fit of 
coughing.

Tom rolled his eyes in frustration. "It's right there, next to you. I 
just told you."

B'Elanna rose from the replicator and turned, slowly and unsteadily, 
to face into a vacant area of the room. "Tom, give me a hyperspanner,"
she repeated, walking forwards with a stumbling gait.

"B'Elanna?" Tom took her gently by the shoulder and waved a hand in 
front of her face, but got no response. "B'Elanna!" He tried to shake 
her, but she kept walking, her half-Klingon strength overcoming his 
grip.

Suddenly, B'Elanna seemed to see something, or hear something. She 
threw Tom aside, opened the window, and with one last shout of "Tom, 
give me a hyperspanner!", jumped out. Within moments she was outside 
and running, across the compound and through the gate, left open for 
the steady flow in and out of Voyager's engineers.

Tom picked himself up, crossed to the window, and followed. Too late, 
he remembered that their room was on the upper floor of the two-storey 
hospital, and by the time he had remembered he was lying on the ground 
with a stabbing pain in his right ankle. He cursed, smashed a fist 
into the ground, and then activated his commbadge.

"Paris to Voyager." Far ahead of him now, running at a steady pace, 
B'Elanna disappeared into the trees.

Chakotay's voice came back, calm and reassuring. "Go ahead, Tom."

"Commander, we've got a problem."



"A word, Captain?" enquired the Doctor as he entered Janeway's 
temporary office in the hospital.

"Excuse me, Captain," said Es'porun politely. "I'll leave you to talk 
in private."

"Thank you," replied the Doctor. As soon as she was gone, he turned to 
Janeway with a worried look. "Captain, I've been analysing some data 
on Mr. Tuvok's mind melds, and I felt you should see the results." He 
held out a padd.

Janeway studied the padd intently for a few seconds, then looked up at 
the Doctor in total incomprehension. "Recovery time? I'm not sure I 
understand what you're getting at, Doctor."

"You may have noticed, Captain, that when Mr. Tuvok disengaged from 
his initial mind meld, he was disorientated for a brief period. I have 
been observing each mind meld, and the period of disorientation has 
occurred each time. As you can see, the time taken for recovery is 
increasing exponentially with each meld, and my extrapolation shows 
that Mr. Tuvok will be risking severe mental damage if he performs 
more than two further mind melds."

"So you think he should stop?" asked Janeway, after a moment to decode 
the Doctor's jargon.

The Doctor grimaced. "If you recall, I suggested he should never have 
started." In response to a mild version of Janeway's look of death, he 
relented enough to admit, "However, the results have been remarkable. 
Mr. Tuvok has effected a total cure in each of his eight attempts. If 
his patients are able to carry on the work for him, there should be no 
need for him to risk destroying his mind, and with any luck he should 
be able to leave here with more intelligence than a sea cucumber." The 
look he got for that one was sharper.

"He's doing a ninth meld right now, I understand," said Janeway. "I'll 
tell him about your conclusions. I'm sure he'll appreciate the need 
to..."

"Chakotay to Janeway." The commbadge interrupted her.

"Go ahead, Chakotay."

"Captain, I just heard from Tom Paris. B'Elanna seems to have been 
affected by the Ballistan disease. She's disappeared from the hospital 
and our sensors can't trace her."

"Why not? She must be the only half human, half Klingon in the Delta 
Quadrant."

"Unfortunately, Captain," interjected the Doctor, "the Ballistan 
physiology bears a remarkable resemblance to Lieutenant Torres's."

"So she could be susceptible to their diseases too?" Janeway's voice 
rose in anger. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" 

"An unforgivable oversight on my part," replied the Doctor shamefully. 
"I had assumed that the disease was no longer active, since there had 
been no new cases for a year. Clearly I was mistaken."

"All right, no sense crying over spilt milk. Chakotay, alert security, 
I want as many people as we can spare on search teams. Doctor, are any 
other crew members at risk?"

"Unlikely, Captain. It appears that the Klingon part of Lieutenant 
Torres's DNA is what makes her so susceptible. In any case, we can ask 
the Ballistans to vaccinate our crew."

"You'd better ask Es'porun to come back in, then, Doctor. After that, 
find Tuvok and brief him when he comes out of the mind meld. I want 
him directing the search parties."

"Aye, Captain." The Doctor left the room, and moments later the 
Ballistan chief medical officer entered.

"I heard about Lieutenant Torres, Captain. I'm sorry..."

Janeway cut her off with a wave of a hand. "Not your fault, Es'porun. 
But I'd appreciate your help."

"Anything I can do, Captain."

"We'll need vaccinations for my crew; best not to take any chances. 
Give our EMH any information you've got on the disease so he can 
prepare a cure for Lieutenant Torres. I'll need maps of the area, 
and some information on the capabilities of your transport systems.
And if your security services can figure out where she's gone..."

"Our what, Captain?"

"Security services? Never mind. If there's any way you can help us 
look for her, I'd appreciate it."

"I'll arrange it, Captain." Es'porun left the room hurriedly.

"We'll find you, B'Elanna," muttered Janeway to herself. "We'll find 
you."



Tuvok gradually swam his way back into the world of external reality, 
fighting yet again the attempt of his senses to shut down and deny all 
that surrounded him. The words of a nonsense song issued from his 
lips, but ended in confusion as the memory of their meaning dispelled 
the comfort of rote recitation. As he reassembled his psyche, he 
became aware of a familiar face staring at him, and a familiar, rather 
peevish voice.

"Congratulations, Mr. Tuvok. You've now survived nine attempts to 
destroy the workings of your mind. I think it's time to rest on your 
laurels."

"Is that a medical opinion, Doctor, or simply the expression of a  
simulated emotional preference?" Tuvok realised that his own words 
were prompted by emotion, and paused to regain his control. These 
melds, however successful, were proving highly fatiguing, and logic 
suggested that the Doctor might be correct.

"Mathematical extrapolation, Commander," replied the Doctor smugly, 
showing Tuvok the results on his padd.

"I see." Tuvok briefly checked the validity of the figures. "It would 
appear that the rate of increase of recovery time has itself 
increased."

"Exactly," agreed the Doctor. "Even one more meld would present an 
unacceptable risk."

"Then let us hope that the Ballistans I have treated are indeed able 
to perform their own mind melds. In the meantime, I imagine you are 
going to advise that I rest?"

The Doctor grimaced. "If only I could. Unfortunately, Lieutenant 
Torres seems to have become the latest victim of the epidemic. She 
was last seen running off into the woods asking Ensign Paris to hand 
her a hyperspanner. The Captain needs you to organise the search 
parties."

Tuvok raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I was unaware that Lieutenant 
Torres would be able to contract the illness." As he spoke, he stood 
up and, motioning to the Doctor to follow, left the room. They turned 
towards Janeway's office. "How do her symptoms compare with the 
Ballistan records?"

"Textbook case," said the Doctor. "Initial flu-like symptoms, 
followed by short term memory loss, erratic behaviour, psychological 
distress and complete regression to a non-communicative state. Running 
away seems to be typical too."

Tuvok nodded. "Hardly surprising, given the nature of the disease. Are 
sufferers known to exercise normal intelligence in planning their 
flight?"

"Not usually, no," replied the Doctor, as they approached Janeway's 
office. "They generally just keep going on foot until someone stops 
them or they meet with an accident." As soon as the words were spoken 
he saw Tom Paris, still with a slight limp, rounding the corner in 
front of them, and he felt that his interpersonal skills subroutine 
was decompiling spontaneously when he saw the young man's face freeze 
in reaction.

"Accident?" Tom's voice was steady, dispassionate and controlled, in a 
way that told both Tuvok and the Doctor that he was extremely worried 
indeed and fighting not to show it. "What kind of accident?"

The Doctor could hardly believe he was hearing his own reply. "The 
kind of accident that could happen to anyone who wasn't looking where 
they were going in a mountain range." Tom's face stayed frozen, but 
the Doctor could clearly detect subcutaneous capillaries contracting.

"Tuvok, we have to find her fast!" Even Tom's control was starting to 
slip now. "There are cliffs, lakes, quarries, waterfalls..."

They entered Janeway's office to find the Captain, Es'porun and two 
other Ballistans studying a map on a large data padd. "Tom, Tuvok, 
Doctor," began Janeway, "take a look. We've got search parties here, 
here and here," pointing out slowly-moving red markers, "and the 
shaded areas have already been searched. Any suggestions?"

Tom took a quick look, and thought a moment to orient himself. Then he 
sketched a line roughly on the padd. "She was headed that way when I 
saw her," he said in a shaking voice. The line appeared to lead 
directly into the lake.

Tuvok turned to the Ballistan chief medical officer. "Doctor, where 
are the main inhabited areas in this region?"

"They're marked in green, here and here," replied Es'porun.

"Then we may conclude," mused Tuvok, altering Tom's line, "that 
Lieutenant Torres has altered her course to avoid this area," 
indicating a large expanse of green. "The disease renders proximity to 
other minds most uncomfortable," he added. "It is unlikely that she 
would approach this settlement closely."

"She was running, but not very fast," commented Tom. "That means she'd 
have got about this far," indicating a point on Tuvok's line. "Can we 
get a site-to-site transport there?"

"Nicoletti's standing by," replied Janeway. "Tuvok?"

"I recommend a point slightly further ahead," declared the Vulcan. 
"Here, we should simply be able to wait for her to arrive." He 
indicated a slight promontory on the side of a hill. "The site 
commands a good view of the surrounding area, and we will be able 
to..."

"Let's just get a move on and go there, okay?" said an exasperated 
Tom Paris, receiving a raised Vulcan eyebrow in reply.

"Tuvok, take this," ordered Janeway, handing over a hypospray. "It's 
the antigen for the disease. Stick together at all times." She tapped 
her commbadge. "Janeway to Nicoletti. Prepare to transport Commander 
Tuvok and Ensign Paris to map reference three nine two mark four seven 
eight." She turned to Tom and Tuvok. "Good luck. Energise."



They spotted B'Elanna almost instantly, down the hillside from their 
vantage point. With a quick "Thanks, Tuvok" from Tom, they were in 
quiet pursuit. Sensing their presence, she turned downhill, away from 
them and alongside a fast-flowing stream.

"I suggest we hurry, Mr. Paris," commented Tuvok. "There is a 
waterfall some seventy metres ahead of the Lieutenant's present 
position." He was taken a little aback at the speed with which Tom 
shot ahead of him.

Tom reached her first. "B'Elanna, stop. It's me, Tom."

"Tom?"

"Yeah, Tom. Stop, B'Elanna. You're going to be..."

"Tom, give me a hyperspanner." There seemed to be no meaning behind 
the words as she chanted them in a neutral tone.

"Okay, I get it. Sorry, B'Elanna, but I have to do this." Tom grabbed 
B'Elanna's arm to try and stop her. A moment later he was lying on his 
back, dazed, and made a mental note to hold both arms next time. By 
the time he caught up with B'Elanna again, Tuvok was with him, and 
between the two of them they managed to hold B'Elanna still, though 
she continued to struggle. 

Tuvok tapped his commbadge. "Tuvok to..." His words were cut off as 
B'Elanna, having worked a hand free, struck him in the mouth. Then she 
was moving again, heading onwards towards the waterfall and the cliffs 
around it despite the weight of Tom Paris, who was somehow still 
holding her round the waist.

"Stop her, Tuvok," shouted Tom.

Tuvok realised there was only one way. This time, instead of tackling 
B'Elanna by the arms or legs, he reached out with both hands, and 
grabbed her face. It was not the ideal way to initiate a mind meld, 
but it would serve. As he intoned the familiar words, B'Elanna's 
struggles died down, and she stood still, Tuvok in front of her, as 
Tom tapped his commbadge.

"Paris to Nicoletti. We've got her, Sue. Prepare to beam three direct 
to sickbay."



A tableau of three figures materialised gradually in Voyager's 
sickbay, and as their forms took shape the Doctor stepped forward with 
a medical tricorder. As he did so, Tuvok's hands fell away from 
B'Elanna's face, and both looked round as the mind meld dissolved.

"Tom, thank god that's over!" exclaimed Tuvok, turning to Tom Paris 
and flinging both arms round him.

"The procedure appears to have been successful," said B'Elanna to the 
Doctor in precisely modulated tones. "Lieutenant Torres appears to 
be..." She stopped in confusion, then continued, "Appears to be in the 
wrong body..."

The Doctor watched, his program temporarily unable to formulate a 
course of action, as Tom Paris tried to extricate himself from Tuvok's 
embrace and B'Elanna collapsed, unconscious, to the floor. The moment 
he realised that B'Elanna was unconscious, his triage subroutine took 
over, and in moments he had lifted her on to a biobed; but already she 
was regaining consciousness.

"Forgive me, Doctor," continued B'Elanna in the same unnaturally calm 
tone of voice. "It appears that the mind meld has..." Her eyes rolled 
upwards again, and once again she passed out.

The next moment, the Doctor found himself fighting off an enraged 
Vulcan, as Tuvok was upon him, trying to hurl him to one side. Tuvok's 
voice was a scream of range, as he shouted, "What the hell did you do 
to me, you pointy-eared Pe'taq?" The Doctor quickly reconfigured the 
sickbay holo-emitters to increase his rigidity of form; Tuvok was 
strong enough when his Vulcan emotions were under control, and now, 
with his emotional suppression mechanisms - presumably - disabled for 
some reason, he was almost unstoppable. Then there was the hiss of a 
hypospray as Tom Paris stepped up behind the Vulcan, and Tuvok too was 
falling to the floor.

"Thank you, Mr. Paris," the Doctor nodded in his part-time assistant's 
direction. "Now perhaps you would give me a hand lifting Commander 
Tuvok..."

Suddenly the incongruity of Tuvok's shout at B'Elanna became apparent 
to him.

"Let me rephrase that. Perhaps you would give me a hand lifting 
Lieutenant Torres on to a biobed; I believe Commander Tuvok is already 
on one."

Tom seemed remarkably quick on the uptake, considering everything. 
"You think they've somehow exchanged minds, Doc?"

"Something like that." The Doctor scowled. "I don't know how many 
times I've warned Mr. Tuvok about the dangers of jumping into somebody 
else's mind at the drop of a hat. And now, as usual, I'll be expected 
to pick up the pieces and put everybody's mind back in the right body. 
People round here just..."

"Can you actually do that?" interrupted Tom.

The Doctor gave Tom the nearest he could manage to a look of sympathy. 
"I have no idea, Mr. Paris." He tapped his commbadge. "Emergency 
Medical Hologram to Captain Janeway. Captain, would you please meet me 
in sickbay as soon as possible? Mr. Tuvok's latest mind meld appears 
to have had some unforeseen results."

"On my way, Doctor." Moments later, Janeway materialised in front of 
them. "What's the problem?"

"Captain, Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres appear to have..." The 
Doctor paused in confusion. His medical databases seemed to lack an 
appropriate description for the phenomenon he was faced with. "As a 
result of the mind meld, they appear to have exchanged minds."

Tom cut in. "B'Elanna's mind's in Tuvok's body, and Tuvok's mind..."

"Thank you, Tom, I think I get the picture," Janeway interrupted. 
"Doctor, are they physically okay?"

"Mr. Tuvok is sedated..."

"Which one?" Janeway's question completely upset the Doctor's train of 
simulated thought.

"Ah. I see the problem. Mr. Tuvok's body is sedated, after an 
attempted attack on Lieutenant Torres' body, which appears to be 
subject to fits of unconsciousness which," the Doctor looked round at 
a stirring B'Elanna - a stirring B'Elanna's body, anyway - "appear to 
be affecting her... him? ... intermittently. Captain, I am having 
serious problems coping with the grammatical complications of this 
situation."

Janeway's face nearly slipped; but then she noticed Tom, trying to 
keep his self-control and stay calm, glaring at the Doctor for his 
levity. "For now, Doctor, I think we'd better switch names as well as 
minds. It'll make things simpler when they both wake up."

"That appears to be a logical choice, Captain," said B'Elanna's voice 
from the biobed. "Doctor, I believe I have recovered from my 
temporary loss of consciousness. I request that you release me from 
sickbay so that I may resume my duties."

"I see. You've performed repeated mind melds until you've got so 
confused you can't even decide which body your mind should be in, 
you're trying to adapt to controlling an unfamiliar body - which, I 
might point out, could be considered the property of Lieutenant 
Torres - you've just suffered two totally unexplained periods of 
unconsciousness, and now you intend to get back to work?" The Doctor's
voice was positively dripping with sarcasm. "Your Vulcan logic never 
ceases to impress me."

"My Vulcan logic is infinitely preferable to..." B'Elanna's voice 
began to rise in anger, then suddenly shut off as her body slumped 
back on to the biobed.

"Captain, Mr. Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres are relieved of duty on 
medical grounds until further notice," announced the Doctor with an 
air of finality, as Tom scanned B'Elanna's body with a medical 
tricorder. "Lieutenant Torres will not regain consciousness for two 
hours. In the meantime, I recommend some time off for Ensign Paris. 
That way I might actually get some peace in here."

"Understood, Doctor." Janeway turned to Paris. "Tom, I know this is 
going to be difficult for you. Get some rest, go to the holodeck, or 
whatever else you need to do. We'll need you here when B'Elanna wakes 
up. The Doctor'll keep you informed. Dismissed."

"Whatever you say, Captain," replied Tom, and left with a reluctant 
glance over his shoulder.

"Well, there's one thing to be grateful for," commented Janeway, as 
soon as she was sure Tom was out of earshot.

"What would that be, Captain?"

Janeway looked at the two figures on the biobeds, both in yellow 
tunics. "At least they won't need to replicate new uniforms." She 
grimaced slightly at her own black humour, then finished, "Do what 
you can, Doctor," and left.



Outside sickbay, a thought struck her. "Janeway to Kim. Harry, are 
you busy right now?"

"Just finishing a diagnostic, Captain. I should be done in," Harry's 
voice paused for a moment, "fifteen minutes."

"When you're finished, you're off duty for an hour. Look in on Tom, 
I think he may need someone to talk to."

She disengaged the commlink, leaving a mystified Ensign Kim to finish 
his diagnostic.



The best thing was usually to keep walking till the initial shock died 
down. After that, Tom thought, he could take a while to think things 
through. One thing was certain; he'd better be in full control in two 
hours' time, when Tuvok - no, when B'Elanna woke up. He wondered 
whether he'd sedated him - no, her - to protect B'Elanna - no, Tuvok - 
no, B'Elanna's body...

The train of thought slowly collapsed under the weight of its own 
revisions. Where had he got to? Maybe he'd injected the sedative just 
to get himself some thinking time, that was it. Well, now he'd got it, 
and found himself wishing for a crisis - warp core breach, attacking 
aliens, some weird spatial phenomenon - anything to stop him having to 
do the thinking he'd made himself time for.

Maybe it would be okay, and they'd wake up back in their own bodies. 
Sure, Paris, he told himself, that's always happening to you. Your 
whole life just suddenly turns out right again for no reason. I don't 
think. Or maybe the Doctor would figure something out. After all, he 
usually did; he'd saved B'Elanna's life enough times, not to mention 
Tom's own - in fact, he'd solved a similar problem for Chakotay, years 
ago. But suppose he didn't? Suppose B'Elanna had to live the rest of 
her life in the body of a hundred-year-old Vulcan? How would that 
affect her, and - selfishly, but more importantly to Tom right now - 
how would that affect them?

The gender of the Vulcan in question was, of course, the sticking 
point, he realised as his thought processes began to stabilise. Inter-
species relationships he could handle - after all, B'Elanna was, had 
been, probably would be again, whatever, get a grip, Paris - another 
train of thought derailed itself, and he struggled to recall where 
he'd got to this time. B'Elanna was half Klingon, there was that 
Betazoid woman back in the Alpha Quadrant, he couldn't even remember 
her name now, and there had been others he probably couldn't remember 
at all. Age differences he could handle too; after all, Janeway was 
much older than...

Let's not go there, Paris, he thought.

So it basically came down to the problem that the woman he loved was 
now, however temporarily, a man. He'd never had a relationship with 
another man, had never been tempted - well, not that he recalled - to 
experiment. Thinking back on his upbringing, he remembered that his 
father's attitude to same-sex relationships had been rather old-
fashioned, reminiscent of some aspects of twentieth century attitudes, 
and he suspected some of Admiral Paris' homophobia might have been 
passed on to him; but the simple truth was, the whole idea filled him 
with - what? Not exactly revulsion; he certainly didn't feel that way 
about any of the same-sex couples on Voyager. More a sense of 
wrongness, that somehow he shouldn't be close to B'Elanna as a man. 
There was another problem nagging at him from the back of his mind, 
but he couldn't quite track it down. And he was tired, and thirsty,
 and holodeck two was just round the corner, and with most of the crew 
on shoreleave it turned out to be vacant...

"Computer, run holodeck program Paris three."



Harry Kim found him there, some time later, alone in the bar, with the 
holographic characters switched off, staring into a glass full of blue 
liquid.

"Romulan ale? I hope you're not due back on duty today."

Tom turned a weary pair of eyes in Harry's direction. "It's okay, 
Harry, I'm just watching it."

"Watching it?" Harry was mystified. His friend seemed to be in one of 
his stranger moods. Then again, from what the rumour mill said was 
going on in sickbay, maybe that wasn't surprising.

"Just watching it. Maybe I'll drink it, maybe I won't"

"Seems a waste."

"You drink it, then." Tom pushed the glass in Harry's direction.

Still confused, Harry lifted the glass and took a drink - then 
spluttered, gagged, coughed and sprayed the bar with blue droplets. 
"That's not Romulan ale! What the hell is it?"

"Try it again."

Harry took another sip, gingerly this time. "It tastes like... coffee?
Really good coffee. It's even hot."

"But it looks like Romulan Ale. So which is it, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Coffee, I guess. How did you do this?"

Tom waved a hand dismissively. "I've been brushing up on replicator 
programming. So why'd you spit it out?"

"I don't know. It wasn't what I expected, I guess."

"Yeah." Tom nodded quietly. "Not what you expected."

Harry decided to try the direct approach. "Look, Tom, what's the 
problem?"

"Problem, Harry? No problem," Tom rounded on him with a humourless 
smile. "The woman I love is currently a Vulcan Master, emphasis on the 
male gender. Why should that be a problem?"

"It's true, then," responded Harry. "How's she taking it?"

His concern for B'Elanna seemed to knock the wind out of Tom. He sat 
back on the bar stool, opened and shut his mouth wordlessly once or 
twice, then said in a gentler voice, "I don't know. She hasn't woken 
up yet."

"Woken up from what?"

"I had to sedate her. She went mad and tried to kill Tuvok. Or was it 
the other way round?"

Harry smiled. "Sounds more likely the first way." Then he looked Tom 
full in the face, and his smile faded, as he said, "She'll need your 
help with this, Tom. We both know B'Elanna; she's tough enough on the 
outside, but underneath it all, she's..."

"Still pretty tough, believe me." Now Tom was smiling. "I know what 
you mean, Harry, I just need to get my head in the right place."

"At least it's not where it was when I came in here," replied Harry. 
"How about Tuvok? How's he?"

Tom frowned. "That's the really strange thing, Harry. I can understand 
B'Elanna getting mad," he paused for Harry's chuckle to subside, "but
Tuvok keeps passing out. I don't think the Doc knows why. It happened 
three times when I was in there. He woke up, started to say something, 
then wham! - out like a light."

A light seemed to be dawning on Harry. "Did he get particularly 
emotional before he passed out?"

"Yeah, at least one time," mused Tom. "There were some weird tricorder 
readings too. Almost like her systems were shutting down. His systems, 
I mean - no, her systems -"

"Tom, Vulcans need emotional controls because their emotions are a lot 
stronger than anyone else's, right? And Tuvok's going to use the same 
techniques even though he's in a different body. Maybe it's just too 
much, and everything shuts down."

"Harry, we're talking about B'Elanna here. She's hardly a Borg ice 
maiden."

"I wonder. Klingons don't control their emotions at all. Maybe because 
they're not all that powerful, I don't know." Harry stood up. "I think 
we should have a word with the Doctor."

"Right with you, Harry. B'Elanna should be waking up any time." He 
nodded towards the glass on the bar, and grinned. "Have a coffee 
before you go?"



They strode into sickbay together to find Janeway and Chakotay already 
there. "Ah, Mr. Paris," the Doctor greeted them, "I was just about to 
call you. Lieutenant Torres appears to be regaining consciousness."

"What about Tuvok, Doc?" asked Kim. "Does he still keep passing out?"

"Yes." The Doctor's gaze dropped. "I have been unable to find out 
why."

"I've got an idea, Doc." Harry spoke quickly. "Can you shut down his 
emotional control techniques? I think they may be too powerful for 
B'Elanna's body."

"An interesting suggestion, Mr. Kim," replied the Doctor with even 
more than the usual degree of sarcasm. "Not satisfied with Commander 
Tuvok's attempts to destroy his own mind, you're proposing that I 
should give him a hand. Well, why not? Perhaps I could give him a 
strong stimulant at the same time, in case he feels like assaulting 
somebody." Suddenly the Doctor noticed Janeway's eyes, and subsided. 
"One moment." He turned to the data console, entered some commands, 
and raised his eyebrows at the result. "It appears your theory may be 
correct, Mr. Kim. It might be wiser, however, only to suppress Mr. 
Tuvok's emotional control partly. Mr. Paris, please assist me in 
attaching this suppresser to Mr. Tuvok's cerebral cortex." He tutted 
as Tom turned to the wrong biobed. "This one, Mr. Paris."

After a few minutes' work, the Doctor turned back to the console and 
entered some commands. Almost immediately, B'Elanna Torres's body 
stirred, and gradually she, or rather Tuvok, sat up. B'Elanna's voice 
spoke again with Tuvok's tones. "It appears you were correct, Doctor. 
Perhaps I am not yet fit to resume my duties."

"Hold on a moment. I need to determine how much emotional control to 
leave active." The Doctor entered a command, then quickly entered 
another as Torres's eyelids began to droop and her body began to rock 
backwards. "That appears to be the upper limit. I'll try a greater 
level of suppression."

Gradually B'Elanna's face took on an expression of disorientation and 
fear. "Doctor, I need more control than that." Her voice, speaking 
Tuvok's words, was shaky and quiet. Again the Doctor entered commands 
to the console.

"I believe that will keep Mr. Tuvok conscious and stable," pronounced 
the Doctor.

"Good work, Doctor." Janeway spoke for the first time since Tom and 
Harry had entered. "Tuvok, you're to stay in sick bay until the Doctor 
releases you. In the meantime, you and he can work together on some 
way of getting you and B'Elanna back into the right bodies." She 
seemed to have less trouble than the others in deciding who was who. 
"Now, how's B'Elanna?"

"She's coming round, Captain," announced Paris, who had crossed over 
to the other biobed now. "It's okay, B'Elanna," he added in a softer 
voice, "Take it easy. You're in sickbay, everything's going to be 
okay. Just try to stay calm."

"Tom?" The voice was almost a croak. "What the hell happened to me?"

"Shhh, take it easy, B'Elanna. I had to sedate you. You'll be a bit 
groggy for a while."

Tuvok's eyes opened. "What did Tuvok do to me? Everything feels wrong, 
this isn't my body - why did you sedate me?"

"You were attacking Tuvok. Or rather, you were..."

"Oh yeah, I remember." The voice was still drowsy and slurred. "I 
guess I just lost my temper. Funny, I thought I could control it 
better than that."

Harry Kim, listening from the biobed holding B'Elanna's body, opened 
his mouth to speak; but, as he did so, the Doctor cut in. "Mr. Kim, I 
suspect your hypothesis holds good here too. Lieutenant Torres, you 
may find your emotions harder to control while you are in Mr. Tuvok's 
body. It appears that the physiological aspect of emotional responses 
is greatly enhanced in Vulcan biochemistry. I may," he continued in a 
slightly abstracted voice, "consider writing a paper on this 
phenomenon. It could unlock the key to the entire medical mystery 
of..." Six hostile stares gradually impinged on his optical sensors. 
"When the current crisis has been resolved, of course," he finished 
curtly.

B'Elanna was fully awake now. "I see. It looks like I'll have to use 
those meditation techniques you taught me, Tuvok. I think I can cope, 
though. Do I have to hang around here too, or can I get back to my 
quarters?"

"Now that Mr. Tuvok's condition is stable, I see no reason why either 
of you should remain here," replied the Doctor. "You may both return 
to your quarters. Good luck in deciding which quarters to return to."



Tom had caught the Captain's nod in his direction as B'Elanna got up, 
and now he was walking her back to her quarters. He mentally 
reinforced the thoughts; B'Elanna, walking *her*, *her* quarters. This 
was B'Elanna, he kept reminding himself, even though she looked like 
Tuvok. Her voice was starting to change slightly, though; it still had 
the basic sound of Tuvok's voice, but something in the phrasing, the 
accent, the inflections, was unmistakably B'Elanna.

"Hello? Torres to Paris. Are you there, Tom?" Tom realised he'd been 
so lost in thought that they were almost at B'Elanna's quarters.

"Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?" Tom looked round, and 
felt a wrench again at the sight of the wrong face.

"I said, what exactly happened to me?"

"Oh. Uh, you got the Ballistan disease. Tuvok had to do a mind meld to 
bring you back, but something went wrong. Actually," a thought struck 
him, "it may have been... We beamed you up in the middle of the meld. 
I don't know whether that's ever happened before. Maybe the 
transporter beam..." 

"Maybe tomorrow, Tom. I'm wrecked. Let's just get some sleep, okay?" 
They stopped at the door to B'Elanna's quarters. There was an awkward 
silence, then, "Oh. We've got a problem here, haven't we?"

Silence for a few more seconds, as two minds furiously raced through 
various possibilities.

"Look, I don't think we should..."

"B'Elanna, as long as you're..."

"You first."

Tom felt his thought processes freeze up solid. "We can't talk about 
this out here."

"I think you'd better come in."

"I think I had, yeah."

The door swished open. Tom stood aside, then followed. He sat 
nervously on the edge of the bed and regarded his companion from a 
safe distance as she sat nervously on the sofa.

"Look, Tom, as long as I'm in Tuvok's body I ought to look after it. 
I probably shouldn't do anything he wouldn't."

Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Sounds reasonable."

"Then come here and hold me. I'm scared."

"Scared? You? Never." His face relaxed into a smile, and he stood up 
and walked over to the vacant side of the sofa. "Probably just some 
Vulcan biochemical thing. Tell you what, I'll replicate you some of 
that tikh bread and ha'meth tea Vorik's always on about."

"Please! Have you tasted that stuff?"

"No." They both sat forward and turned face to face.

"Neither have I, and I drank some once. Hot water tastes stronger."

"Best stay away from hot water, then. We don't want to over-excite 
you." Their faces moved closer.

"Oh, I think I could cope with a little excitement." There was a 
roguish smile behind the voice.

As they spoke, Tom suddenly realised they were leaning towards each 
other, their lips parting. Then, in a moment, all he was aware of was 
Tuvok's face inches from his own. He froze, then stood up and turned 
away.

"B'Elanna, I'm sorry. This just feels... weird. I can't..."

"It's okay, Tom." The voice sounded more like Tuvok's now, and Tom 
could sense the effort B'Elanna was making to stay under control. "It 
doesn't exactly feel right to me either."

"I should go."

"Don't go. Just stay with me till I go to sleep. I'm scared, Tom."

He turned, and he was holding her, and her head was on his shoulder, 
and the fact that it was the wrong head didn't matter any more. "I'm 
here, B'Elanna. I'm here for you." And for a while they stood, silent, 
and let the fear go away.



Tuvok had rejected politely Captain Janeway's offer of company, and 
was headed for his quarters alone. As he paced gently along the 
corridor, however, he saw a colleague approaching whose detachment 
might be a valuable aid to him in a potentially emotional time.

"Seven. May I speak with you? I require your advice."

The Borg's ocular implant raised in surprise. "I am not engaged in any
specific task at present, Lieutenant. However, your request is most
unusual."

"I believe I have requested your advice on several previous occasions," 
replied Tuvok, momentarily perplexed. "I have always valued your clear, 
unemotional approach to problem solving."

Seven of Nine inclined her head curiously. "I was unaware that you 
valued an unemotional approach. Are you attempting to initiate the 
social process commonly described as," she searched her memory for a  
moment, "burying the hatchet?"

"Curious," replied Tuvok. "I was unaware of any unresolved enmity 
between us."

"I may have misinterpreted some of your remarks," admitted Seven. 
"It appeared to me that your description of me as a 'cold-blooded 
mechanical Borg bitch' in the mess hall two weeks ago was..."

"Ah. I believe I see the cause of the misunderstanding. You have not 
been informed of the situation concerning myself and Lieutenant Torres, 
I presume?"

Tuvok felt a momentary pang of regret that B'Elanna Torres was unable 
to witness Seven's response. He was sure that the sight of her totally 
confused and uncomprehending face would have been greatly enjoyable to 
the true originator of Seven's verbal self-portrait. However, logic 
dictated that he should explain at once. "Due to an unexpected outcome 
of a mind meld, Lieutenant Torres' consciousness now appears to reside 
in my body, and mine in hers."

"I see," replied Seven, her own face calling her a liar. "Then... who 
are you?"

Tuvok almost laughed out loud. Curious; an emotional response. He had 
better reinforce his control. He applied the appropriate technique as 
he spoke. "I am Lieutenant-Commander Tuvok, and I wished to..."

It appeared he had overdone the emotional suppression, he mused with 
regret as the corridor whirled around him and gently faded to black.



"Tom, I think I've got a problem," came the voice from the bathroom.

Tom felt a rising sense of panic. "What is it? Do you need me to..."

"Relax, Tom, I don't think it's serious. It's just that I can't... do 
what I came in here for."

Ah. He quickly tested a hypothesis. "What are you thinking about?"

"Well... You remember a couple of weeks ago, when we were both on 
gamma shift and we both worked late?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"And we met up in the mess hall, and there wasn't anyone else there, so 
we..."

"I remember." His mind worked furiously. "Think about leola root stew."

"What?!"

"Leola root stew. The smell of it, the way it makes your nose water. 
The purple-brown swirls. The taste. Think of the way the seed nodules 
crunch between your teeth like little bits of grit..."

There was the sound of running water, and a relieved sigh. "Thanks, 
Tom."

"No problem." Another thought occurred to him, and he went over to a 
particular drawer and produced a pair of his own pyjamas. "You'd better 
wear these tonight," he called, opening the bathroom door a short way 
and tossing them through on to the middle of the floor.

"More comfortable? My size? Some guy thing I don't know about?"

"No. I'm just not ready to see Tuvok in your blue nightgown."



Seven of Nine, confused and uncertain in an unfamiliar situation, had 
clearly decided that the best course of action was to take him to his 
quarters, Tuvok mused. Now he found himself regaining consciousness on 
his own bed, while she waited patiently beside it. Seeing his eyes 
open, she now spoke.

"Are you recovering, Commander?"

"I appear to be. It is clear that I have not yet mastered certain 
aspects of controlling the body in which I find myself." He realised 
she had correctly stated his rank this time, and added, "I see you are 
now aware of the situation."

"I am. While it is an unprecedented occurrence, I am aware that 
unprecedented occurrences are commonplace aboard Voyager. As I believe 
Captain Janeway once informed Ensign Kim, weird is part of the job. 
And since Lieutenant Torres is not, in my experience, given to playing 
practical jokes of this sort, it seems reasonable to believe you."

Tuvok nodded. "A logical analysis. Perhaps you would assist me 
further. I have found that my logical faculties are somewhat impaired 
while I inhabit Lieutenant Torres's body."

"Gladly." After this simple word of assent, Seven waited patiently, 
clearly expecting Tuvok to make the next move.

"My exchange of consciousness with Lieutenant Torres was as a result 
of a mind meld," began Tuvok, marshalling his thoughts carefully. "It 
seems, therefore, that another mind meld might be necessary to restore 
each of us to our own bodies. However, without understanding of the 
process by which the transfer occurred, success is unlikely."

"Why do you wish to be restored to your own bodies?" The question 
stopped Tuvok's train of thought dead in its tracks.

"Explain."

"Lieutenant Torres's body is healthy and efficient," explained Seven. 
"Her life expectancy is approximately similar to your own, since the 
greater Vulcan lifespan is offset by your former body's greater age. 
The physical skills of your bodies are fully suitable for the 
assumption of each other's duties. I see no reason for this 
restoration."

Now it was Tuvok's turn to be speechless, an experience he found all 
the more disconcerting for its rarity. Taking his silence as 
agreement, Seven continued.

"I suspect that the impairment in your logic may be a temporary 
phenomenon while your control systems adapt to your new body. A 
similar effect is seen in recently assimilated drones of a new 
species, before the Collective has fully explored their biological 
distinctiveness. The drones are inefficient for a short time - 
typically a few days - before reaching perfect integration with the 
Collective." Tuvok felt that she sounded almost wistful. "However," 
she concluded cautiously, "this is not my field of expertise. I 
suggest you discuss it with the Doctor."

Tuvok finally found his voice again. "I must admit, the possibility of 
allowing the present situation to persist had not occurred to me." He 
briefly analysed and categorised the emotional reaction that had left 
him speechless - a condition, he had to admit to himself, he had often 
observed in Lieutenant Torres - but stopped short of applying the 
relevant emotional suppression. Lieutenant Torres's emotions were, 
after all, a highly relevant factor in this deliberation. "I suspect 
that Lieutenant Torres would react to such a suggestion with violent 
anger."

"Not an uncommon reaction for Lieutenant Torres."

"Indeed. And I suspect Ensign Paris would exhibit considerable 
discomfort."

"Discomfort is irrelevant." Seven appeared to be close to smiling.

"Nevertheless, I feel we should attempt to rectify the situation." 
Tuvok could not for the life of him come up with the slightest logical 
justification for this decision, but fortunately Seven of Nine seemed 
disinclined to challenge his authority.

"Then we should analyse the mind meld in more detail. Were there any 
unusual occurrences during its execution?"

Tuvok wondered why he'd been unable to think through this yet. It was 
fairly obvious, really. "Lieutenant Torres and I were transported to 
Voyager while melded. In every other way, the meld was quite typical. 
We might work on the hypothesis that the transporter pattern buffers 
were somehow affected by the mind meld, and interchanged neural 
patterns between myself and Lieutenant Torres."

"A possibility," admitted Seven. "Starfleet transporters are 
inefficient in many respects. I have frequently suggested to 
Lieutenant Torres that they should be enhanced using Borg technology. 
She has yet to agree to such a procedure - unless you have been 
informed recently that Gre'thor has become coated with ice."

The remark was so deadpan, and Tuvok's emotional control so weakened, 
that he could not help a slight snigger at Seven's remark. Panicking 
for a moment, he quickly suppressed the emotional response, and felt 
himself slipping into unconsciousness. He managed to croak, "Seven... 
sickbay..." - and then the darkness overwhelmed him again.



He awoke to find the Doctor leaning over him with a medical tricorder. 
"Ah, Miss Tuvok. A pleasure to see you back again so soon. It appears 
that I was mistaken; there appears to be a very good reason why you 
should remain here in sickbay."

"'Commander' will suffice, Doctor." Tuvok could sense the snappish, 
angry tone of his - no, technically B'Elanna's - voice, but his recent 
attempts at emotional suppression suggested that any repetition would 
be a bad idea. 

"It appears that the cortical suppresser is inadequate to protect 
Lieutenant Torres's hypothalamus from Vulcan emotional control 
techniques," continued the Doctor, oblivious to Tuvok's rebuke. "It 
seems that Vulcans accomplish by training and meditation what the 
hypothalamus is supposed to do naturally in any other humanoid. I'm 
beginning to wonder how any Vulcan ever survives to old age, treating 
your minds the way you do."

"Before we began to treat our minds so brutally, Doctor, most did 
not," replied Tuvok forcefully. "Your approval notwithstanding, our 
history makes it clear that Surak's techniques are vital to our peace 
and well-being."

The Doctor completely failed to disengage his sarcasm subroutine. "I'm 
sure you've explored every alternative..." he began.

"Doctor, I did not come here to deliver a history lesson!" shouted 
Tuvok. Then he calmed down and continued, "I apologise. My behaviour 
is becoming increasingly unstable."

"I apologise too, Commander," replied the Doctor. "I'll take a closer 
look at your neurological processes, and see if I can come up with a 
better solution."

"Is Lieutenant Torres experiencing similar problems?"

"As far as I can tell from her lifesigns, she's experiencing normal 
sleep right now," said the Doctor, adding with a grimace, "As normal 
as you'd expect, of course, for a Vulcan physiology controlled by 
Human-Klingon neural impulses." 

"Curious," mused Tuvok. "I would have expected Lieutenant Torres to be 
overwhelmed by the physiological responses of the Vulcan metabolism. 
It appears that her emotional control is even more effective than I 
had previously surmised."

"Or maybe that..." The Doctor seemed lost in thought. "Excuse me for 
one moment." He was gone for almost a minute, with occasional sounds 
issuing from near his office terminal; then he returned wearing a 
grave expression. "It appears, Mr. Tuvok, that I have underestimated 
the role of the Vulcan thalamus in the suppression of unwanted 
emotional responses. It appears that the physiological component of 
Vulcan emotional control is in fact the dominant part. Lieutenant 
Torres will probably, therefore, be able to control her emotions with
considerable success so long as she remains in your body."

"And while I remain in hers?"

"That appears to be the problem." The Doctor looked Tuvok full in the 
face. "Your emotional control techniques are suppressing the 
homeostatic functions of the hypothalamus, but you don't have the 
Vulcan ability to take conscious control of the autonomic nervous 
system. Therefore, whenever you attempt to employ emotional control 
techniques, you black out."

"Then I must not employ them," Tuvok responded quietly. "You must 
increase the intensity setting on the cortical suppresser."

"But the continued use of such a high setting is dangerous in itself,"
continued the Doctor, his voice rising in tone. "You won't survive 
more than a few days on full intensity."

"And if I continue to experience blackouts?"

The Doctor turned away, and lowered his eyes. "Much the same, I'm 
afraid."

"Then we must find a way to return Lieutenant Torres and myself to the 
correct bodies. Doctor, I suggest I attempt a mind meld. I am aware of 
your objections, but..."

"I won't object, Mr. Tuvok. Frankly, I can't see any other way out of 
this mess. I'll advise the Captain."



"My mind to your mind."                "My mind to your mind."

Tuvok and Torres sat, face to face, on the biobed in sickbay, with Tom 
Paris and the Doctor on hand to monitor the progress of the meld.

"My thoughts to your thoughts."        "My thoughts to your thoughts."

There had been some uncertainty as to who should attempt to perform 
the meld. Tuvok explained that the mental technique was crucial, but 
the Doctor countered that the Vulcan neurophysiology was necessary to 
perform any telepathic act.

"My mind to your mind."                "My mind to your mind."

Torres had remained surprisingly calm as it became clear that Tuvok 
had no idea whether he could even begin a mind meld in a half-Klingon, 
half-human body.

"My thoughts to your thoughts."        "My thoughts to your thoughts."

Tuvok's abortive attempts to explain the mental disciplines necessary 
to Torres had foundered on the simple inability of language to 
describe what was, after all, a completely intangible process.

"My mind to your mind."                "My mind to your mind."

So they had decided that both should attempt the meld simultaneously, 
in the hope that either Tuvok's neural patterns would somehow be 
capable of forming the mind meld irrespective of host, or that some 
retained memory of Tuvok's would enable Torres to carry out the meld.

"My thoughts to your thoughts."        "My thoughts to your thoughts."

And it wasn't working. The chants from both of them, in unison at 
first, grew gradually more ragged.

"My mind... oh, forget it."            "My mind to your..."

Torres' fist, driven by Tuvok's sudden rage, drove into the edge of 
the biobed. "It is hopeless! I cannot be expected to..." The eyes 
began to roll upwards, until the Doctor made a quick adjustment to the 
cortical suppresser. "It appears that neither of us is able to 
initiate the mind meld," continued what Tom Paris still thought of as 
B'Elanna's voice, a little calmer now, but shaking with barely 
restrained emotion.

"What next, Doc?" Tom spoke in a relaxed, flippant tone that fooled 
no-one. "Wait for Vorik to get back? He should be leaving Ballista 
Prime some time around now."

"Great," muttered B'Elanna. "Just what I always wanted - Vorik running 
round in my brain again."

"Maybe. Or perhaps one of the Ballistans Mr. Tuvok has cured would 
like to return the favour," replied the Doctor. "It would seem the 
least they could do."

"I would prefer to avoid that approach if possible, Doctor." Tuvok's, 
or maybe B'Elanna's, eyes widened slightly and her forehead ridges 
became a little more pronounced, and the other three present all 
became aware that Tuvok was not as calm as he wished to seem. "The 
Ballistans, for all their friendly behaviour and peaceful appearance, 
are nonetheless an unknown quantity. I would prefer to avoid them 
receiving an impression of weakness."

"B'El..." Tom choked off the name in the middle of pronouncing it. 
Damn! He still couldn't get the hang of this. "Tuvok, that's just the 
sort of thinking that stopped the Ballistans from letting us help. We 
might be..."

"No! I am still this ship's Security Officer, and I will not permit 
the Ballistans to be informed of this problem!" interrupted Tuvok, far 
louder than was really necessary. "Doctor, how seriously will my and 
Lieutenant Torres' condition deteriorate from now until Ensign Vorik 
returns?"

"Lieutenant Torres appears to be completely stable," pronounced the 
Doctor, adding "uncharacteristically," too quietly for any of his 
corporeal companions to detect. "However, Mr. Tuvok, I cannot maintain 
this suppresser setting for more than five days at the most without 
risk of severe neural deterioration."

"And Mr. Vorik is expected to return within four days," reasoned 
Tuvok, calm once again. "Logically, we should wait until then."

"Voyager could meet him halfway," suggested Tom. "We'd cover that 
distance in a day easily."

"Our business here is incomplete," pointed out Tuvok, "and we would 
need to explain ourselves to our hosts. No, I shall recommend to the  
Captain that we remain here and make another attempt at restoring 
Lieutenant Torres and myself when Ensign Vorik returns."

"Which leaves us with only one problem," said the Doctor. "If we're 
going to conceal all this from the Ballistans, either you two are 
going to have to keep out of sight, or you're going to have to 
pretend to be each other well enough to fool everyone. Do you think 
you can do that?"

"I do not believe that will be a problem, Doctor." Tuvok's voice rang 
out with such calm, dispassionate assurance that Tom believed for a 
moment that the Vulcan was back in his own body; but the grin and the 
wink in his direction that followed could only have come from 
B'Elanna's mind. 

"You think I want to spend the next four days fixing replicators?" The 
voice was B'Elanna's, but the anger sounded false and unconvincing. 
Tom and the Doctor looked at one another, reached a silent 
understanding and both shook their heads. Torres might be able to 
impersonate Tuvok, but Tuvok wouldn't fool anybody.

"Commander, Lieutenant," began the Doctor, "I think it would be wiser 
if you were to remain aboard Voyager for the next few days. This will 
be a trying period for both of you, and we wouldn't want to tax your 
acting skills along with everything else."

As Tuvok and Torres departed for their quarters, Tom quietly slipped 
into the Doctor's office as he updated his records, and spoke softly, 
as if afraid of being overheard.

"Doc, I didn't like the sound of what Tuvok had to say about the 
Ballistans."

"In what way, Mr. Paris?"

"Well," Tom grimaced, "You know Tuvok. He can get a little paranoid, 
and if he's under stress, and his emotional control's turned off..."

"I agree, Mr. Paris, replied the Doctor smugly. "You'll note that I've 
already made precisely that point in my report to the Captain." He 
turned the desktop terminal towards Tom with a flourish, and waited 
for his reluctant deputy to finish reading the screen.

"Thanks, Doc. So you'll advise the Captain to ask the Ballistans for 
help?"

"Not yet, Mr. Paris. Mr. Tuvok is correct; there's no need to involve 
the Ballistans right now. If there's a problem with Vorik's attempt, 
though..."

He left the remark unfinished and quietly returned to his report.



Tom Paris gradually dragged himself from the murky depths of a long-
awaited night's sleep, fighting the urge to smash his offending 
commbadge with a single blow. The nagging voice would go away, true, 
but there'd be someone along soon enough to disturb him anyway. So he 
tapped the badge to activate the link, mumbled a quick and barely 
comprehensible "On my way, Captain," and then pried open his eyelids 
in a desultory attempt to determine where he was on his way from.

The shapes and colours around him gradually resolved themselves, as 
his eyes adjusted to the light, into the familiar scenery of 
B'Elanna's quarters, and a stabbing pain in his left shoulder reminded 
him that her sofa was never the most comfortable place to sleep. He 
looked over to the bed, where the unfamiliar figure was still asleep, 
and watched the rise and fall of the wrong chest for a few seconds; 
then he rose, stumbling slightly, rubbed his eyes, stretched, and 
turned for the door. Last night's uniform would just have to stay on 
for the time being; right now, coffee was the key to survival.

A few minutes later, cup still in hand, he walked into the briefing 
room, stifling a yawn, and nodded a greeting to the familiar faces 
around the table.

"Good morning, Tom," Janeway greeted him. "Sorry to wake you up" - 
she sounded like she could live with the guilt - "but this can't wait. 
Commander." She glanced at Chakotay, who nodded, and took over.

"Ten minutes ago we received the following message from the shuttle 
Armstrong. It was an automated mayday call from Ensign Jurot, and 
we've received repeat messages every two minutes." Chakotay pressed a 
button, and Jurot's voice, somewhat obscured by static, issued from 
the desk console.

"Shuttlecraft Armstrong to Voyager. Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is 
Ensign Jurot. This shuttlecraft is out of control and travelling at 
Warp factor three. Ensign Vorik is incapacitated. Unable to access 
controls. Please assist. Armstrong out."

Chakotay turned to his right. "Harry."

"I've tracked the Armstrong. It's heading away from Ballistic space at 
Warp three all right, but it's changing course every sixty seconds," 
explained Kim. "I can't figure out where it's headed; the course 
changes don't make any sense to me."

Janeway turned to the emergency medical hologram. "Doctor."

"It appears that the Ballistan disease may have affected Ensign 
Vorik," began the Doctor.

"I thought it could only affect B'Elanna," Tom interjected.

"So I thought at first. However, while Vulcans should be immune to the 
physical affects of the disease, there is a possibility that the 
mental symptoms may affect any Vulcan who has been exposed directly to 
Lieutenant Torres's neural pattern," explained the Doctor. "In other 
words, any Vulcan who has performed a mind meld with Lieutenant 
Torres - which includes both Ensign Vorik and Mr. Tuvok."

"Brilliant," muttered Paris. "Bang goes our one chance for... Sorry, 
Captain," he finished, realising he'd been thinking aloud.

"That's okay, Tom. Now, we need to rescue Vorik and Jurot, retrieve 
the shuttlecraft, and find a way to cure Vorik and return Tuvok and 
Torres to their own bodies. I'll be more than grateful for any 
suggestions." She smiled at the last few words, and Tom felt his 
shoulders relax slightly. As his body relaxed, so his mind kicked into 
gear, and within seconds he had a suggestion to offer.

"Captain, I think I can get the shuttle back under control. I'll need 
some help, though. If I can get close enough to..."

"No time for details, Tom," Janeway interrupted him. "Take who you 
need."

"Captain," Tom paused nervously. "I'd like to take B'Elanna along."

Janeway frowned. "I'm not sure she's in a fit state. Doctor?"

"Lieutenant Torres appears reasonably stable, Captain," replied the 
Doctor. "I suppose there's no reason she shouldn't be exposed to the 
usual mortal dangers. After all, I'm going to have to rearrange her 
mind, so I may as well rebuild Mr. Tuvok's body while I'm at it."

Janeway glared briefly, and the Doctor fell silent. Then her 
expression relaxed, and she turned back to Tom. "Go ahead, Tom."

As Tom left the briefing room, Janeway's voice could be heard for a 
few more seconds. "Harry, contact the port authorities and get 
clearance for a shuttle launch. Chakotay, get in touch with the 
Ballistan chief medical officer. I'll need to ask her - "

The voices were cut off as the doors slid shut behind him.



The contrast between the senior staff meeting and Tom's departmental 
briefing was, as usual, strongly marked. Tom stood near the doors to 
the shuttle bay, a Tuvok-shaped B'Elanna to one side, and five other 
pilots before him in a ragged half-circle, with the Delta Flyer and 
Voyager's two remaining Class Two shuttles forming a backdrop to a 
scene of restrained urgency.

"We'll take all three ships, I don't know what to expect when we get 
there. Pablo, I want you to stay here and man the conn; be ready in 
case we need some heavy support. Culhane, Grimes, take the Sacajawea; 
Hamilton, you're with me in the Delta Flyer; Jenkins, take the Von 
Neumann with Lieutenant Torres." He watched their faces at this 
announcement; Jenkins briefly looked around, searching - he presumed - 
for the Chief Engineer, until she turned back with a look of sudden 
recollection. Tom continued, "I'll try to match course and speed with 
the Armstrong, slow it down, beam aboard and take control. If there's 
a problem, B'Elanna, you can beam over with me. We'll keep the third 
shuttle in reserve. Any questions?"

"Sir, matching course and speed with a ship at warp three that's 
changing direction every sixty seconds," began Hamilton. 

"...is my problem. Don't worry, I've done it before." Tom's eyes were 
cool as ice, defying anyone to question him. He hoped they wouldn't; 
he strongly suspected nobody had done it before. "Watch carefully, 
you might learn something." He smiled, and a laugh rippled around the 
group. "Anything else?" Heads shook gently all around him. "Okay, 
let's do it."



The ready room was quiet as Tuvok entered, but Kathryn Janeway and 
Chakotay were both waiting for him. He nodded a brief acknowledgement 
and sat down.

"Tuvok," began Janeway, "We've just heard from Jurot. Vorik's been 
affected by the Ballistan disease. I'm afraid we just ran out of 
options. Unless you've got some pretty serious objections, we're going 
to have to call on the Ballistans for help."

It was still uncomfortable, thought Janeway, to see B'Elanna's eyebrow 
rise like that. The mannerism was so characteristic of the Vulcan 
she'd known for so long that it was enough for her to recognise him 
by, yet it was drastically out of place on B'Elanna's unique forehead. 

"I would not advise it, Captain," replied Tuvok. "I am still not 
convinced of our safety if we show weakness before the Ballistans. Let 
me remind you that seventy-three per cent of the species we have 
encountered in the Delta Quadrant have proved hostile in some way, 
often after a prolonged and promising period of friendly interaction."

Janeway looked round to Chakotay, and barely discerned a slight nod of 
his head. Reassured by the moral support, she countered, "There's been 
no indication of any kind of hostility at any time, Tuvok. The 
Ballistans are grateful for our help. They'd do anything to return the 
favour. I'm sure we can trust them."

"Maybe so, but how far?" Tuvok was starting to sound disturbingly like 
B'Elanna now, as the tone and volume of his voice rose. "You are 
suggesting that a member of an alien species initiate a mind meld, in 
the course of which I may be unable to prevent their learning vital 
tactical information concerning Voyager's status. Are you prepared to 
take that risk? I am not."

It was a good point, Janeway admitted. "Couldn't that have happened 
already, while you were treating the Ballistan sufferers?"

"Impossible, Captain," retorted Tuvok curtly. "The initiator of the 
meld is able to choose what information is imparted. The recipient 
may, if properly trained, erect mental barriers around certain areas, 
but in my present condition I may be unable to do so successfully. We 
would run the risk, therefore, of making all my knowledge available to 
a possibly hostile civilisation."

Janeway replied softly, "As against the possibility of losing my Chief 
Engineer, and the certainty of losing one of her staff, my Tactical 
Officer and my oldest friend? I'm prepared to take that risk." Her 
voice hardened, and she could see Tuvok and Chakotay involuntarily 
sitting to attention at her tone. "And I'm prepared to order you to 
take it, if it's necessary."

Tuvok relented. "It will not be necessary, Captain. I will submit to 
the process, if you feel it is advisable. However, it would be 
advisable for me to make certain preparations before the attempt is 
made."

"I understand. Do what you must." Janeway smiled sadly at her old 
friend. "I'm sorry it has to come to this, Tuvok, but I need you."

"I understand, Captain. Your decision is logical." At Janeway's nod of
dismissal, Tuvok rose to leave.

After he was gone, Janeway turned to Chakotay. "What did you think?"

"It didn't feel right," replied Chakotay. "I thought he gave in too 
easily."

"Agreed," replied Janeway. "Still, short of confining him to quarters 
or throwing him in the brig, there's not much we can do. All the 
shuttles are out, and Carey's put a security lock on the transporters, 
so he can't leave the ship. Let's just hope we're mistaken."



The Captain will not listen to my objections, thought Tuvok. Logic 
tells me that my objections are reasonable; however, logic does not 
account for the conclusion I have already reached, that the Ballistans 
must not be allowed access to the information in my mind. It is 
illogical that I, a creature of logic, should have reached this 
conclusion; therefore, it cannot have occurred. However, since it has 
in fact occurred, the logical conclusion is that logic does not apply 
to this situation, therefore logic must not be forced to apply. 
Therefore I must act illogically. I will not allow this meld to occur, 
despite the absence of a logical objection. It is the only logical 
course of action.

It is confusing, this illogic, his thought continued. For more than a 
century my logic has sustained me, guided me, granted me peace and 
certainty. In this body, though, my logic is leaving me and I am lost. 
It is unlike the pon farr, where there is instinct and need to guide 
me. I am without guidance, without direction, without peace. I can 
only do what I feel I must, and hope it suffices.

And then: Is this what it is like to be human?



Speeds imperfectly matched, courses changing moment by moment, a 
devastating collision only held at bay by human skill and almost 
inhumanly fast reflexes, four shuttlecraft hurtled through the void. 
Two hung back, preserving a few precious seconds of life in the event 
that skill and reflexes might not be enough. A third headed the loose 
formation, weaving and turning according to the unknown priorities of 
a program entered, presumably, by a temporarily insane engineer. And 
the Delta Flyer, a singular contrivance of speed, grace and 
gratuitous decoration, followed it ridiculously closely.

Ben Hamilton felt his stomach lurch again. The inertial dampers were 
working very nicely, thank you, as he could verify by the moments of 
peace when he dared close his eyes; but a combination of duty and 
morbid, fearful curiosity forced them open again and again, and he 
was transfixed and horrified by the lunatic gyrations of the starfield 
visible through the main screen. It would be easier, he reasoned, to 
be in the leading craft; however random its swerves, it was at least 
acting rather than reacting, and even Tom Paris's reflexes left him 
having to overcompensate from time to time as another twist or turn 
took him, for a split-second, by surprise.

What terrified him most of all, though, was the characteristic 
insouciance of the pilot. Paris was not only controlling with ease a 
shuttle which the rest of them had taken weeks to learn to fly at all; 
he was not only following the moves of another ship so closely that 
every flight instructor at Starfleet Academy would simply have denied 
the evidence of his own senses and claimed the whole experience to be 
an unrealistic simulation; but in all this, he somehow found the time 
to sing snatches of twentieth-century songs. Hamilton found it hard to 
decipher the pilot's imitation of a Tennessee accent, but could make 
out enough to misunderstand the lyrics; why should a baby have been 
able to leave him anyway, and what was the historical or geographical 
significance of "Lonely Street"? It was almost a relief when Paris 
reached the end of the song and decided to make conversation instead.

"Did you notice the way the Armstrong reacted since we matched 
course?" Tom's hands moved imperceptibly, and the starfield spun 
impossibly around them.

"Y... Y... Y..." Hamilton dragged a deep breath through a dry throat. 
"Yes. It's not been changing course so much, has it?"

"Right. I wonder if he's trying to..." Tom hailed the Von Neumann. 
"Sandie, after the next course change, move up and get alongside the 
Armstrong, a thousand metres separation. Keep a close watch on her, 
and if you even think she's coming your way, break off." He turned to 
face Hamilton. "If I'm right, they'll be perfectly safe."

"Sir..." Hamilton didn't know whether to ask Tom to look forward again 
or to keep his peace for fear of distracting him. "Never mind," he 
added as Tom turned his concentration back to the controls, and he 
realised that his chief had only looked away for half a second; in his 
rather stressed condition, it had seemed like half a minute.

Tuvok's voice came over the comms link. "You're right, Tom. We're 
being scanned for life signs just before every course change."

"I thought so. Thanks, B'Elanna. Sandie, move up on my mark."

Behind them, as Hamilton monitored the rear sensors, the other two 
shuttles had moved out to positions flanking the Delta Flyer on either 
side. He heard a quiet "Yes!" from Paris, then the pilot was speaking 
to the Von Neumann again. "He didn't change course that time, Sandie. 
Move up now." Then, again to Hamilton, "Now we'll see."

"See what, sir?"

"I think Vorik's used some kind of proximity algorithm for steering 
the Armstrong. I think he's trying to get away from life signs. That 
means that in about thirty-five seconds he'll make a sharp turn across 
our bow. You may want to hold on to something; this could get rough."

Hamilton swallowed and tried not to think of pleeka rind. The ferocity 
of the manoeuvres they'd engaged in so far had nearly renewed his 
acquaintance with lunch, and the clear inference to be drawn from 
Tom's words was that things hadn't got rough enough yet. "Understood, 
sir," he managed to stammer. "Uh, do you want shields up?"

"Believe me, it wouldn't help," said Tom. "Hold tight. Here we go."

It was only a matter of seconds, Hamilton realised afterwards. One 
moment the Armstrong was stationary in the forward viewscreen. The 
next, it had turned to the right, and its profile was growing 
sickeningly close. Another moment, and the Delta Flyer itself was 
spinning round, and the Armstrong was centred in the viewscreen as 
they turned together; every panel line, every letter of the name, 
every number of the registration visible in stark detail. One last 
moment when the starfield steadied, and the sensors showed the 
Armstrong ahead and to their left, and the Sacajawea and the Von 
Neumann, unable to match Tom's reflexes, far behind and turning to 
intercept. Hamilton let out a slow breath, and waited for his hands 
to start shaking. After a few seconds, he realised he was probably 
not going to die, and started taking notice of the commands Tom was 
issuing over the comms link.

"Chris, Sandy, take up positions five hundred metres astern of the 
Armstrong, five hundred metres lateral separation from her course, at 
one-twenty degree angles from me; Sacajawea to port, Von Neumann 
starboard. You've got thirty seconds. Move it!" Tom closed the comms 
link, and turned to Hamilton again. "I'm hoping we'll overload any 
other life signs the Armstrong can detect, then as long as we stay 
here they'll be kept on the same course."

"Kind of like we're shepherding them?" Hamilton watched Tom's face for 
any reaction, then added, "I'm from New Scotia Colony, sir. We kept 
sheep. Lots of sheep. We used dogs to..." He realised he was babbling, 
and shut up.

"Three... two... one..." muttered Tom under his breath, "now. Ha! 
Paris to all shuttles. He didn't change course that time. I think 
we've got him under control now."

Tuvok's voice answered him. "Tom, I've hacked into the Armstrong's 
navigational computer. You were right. Vorik's set up a program that 
scans for lifesigns out to maximum range and changes course towards 
wherever the lowest density is. Trouble is, the little Pe'taQ's put 
some pretty good security locks on it. I can read it, but I'll have to 
be on board the shuttle to shut it down."

"Understood, B'Elanna. I'd better beam over with you. Stand by."

"Warp beamout?" Hamilton had heard it was possible, but knew there 
were serious risks. "Is that a good idea, sir?"

"I'd prefer not to, but we'll do it if necessary. I've got something 
else to try first. Take the controls, Ben, and just fly her straight 
and level." Tom paused, a thought appearing to strike him. "B'Elanna," 
he continued over the comms link, "What's the weighting factor on the 
life sign detection algorithm? I want to know what'll happen when you 
and I beam over."

The wrong voice came back to him again. "Good point, Tom. I think it's 
least squares. If Sacajawea drops back to seven hundred metres astern 
and off course as we beam over, that should do it."

"You get that, Chris?" Tom waited for Culhane's acknowledgement. 
"Okay. First, everyone interface your navicoms to the warp field 
sensors. In a few moments the Armstrong's going to drop out of warp, 
and I want us all to hold formation when it does."

"Drop out of warp?" Hamilton turned a questioning face towards Tom.

"I'm going to target the port nacelle with a polaron beam. If I can 
hit the warp coils, it'll disable the subspace field, and drop the 
shuttle out of warp. Here goes." His finger stabbed down on the 
control, and a beam of bright yellow light issued from the nose of the 
Delta Flyer.

"Dropping out of warp, sir!" reported Hamilton excitedly. "Nice shot."

"Thanks, Ben. Paris to Torres - ready to beam over on my mark. 
Culhane, ready to drop back. Mark!"

Paris dissolved from sight in a familiar blue beam, and Hamilton was 
left with the simple task of holding an unfamiliar ship in a tight 
formation at high impulse speed. Compared to the last few minutes, he 
thought, it was as good as a rest cure.



Ensign Jurot breathed a sigh of relief as two blue columns 
materialised behind her seat. She'd normally have been enjoying the 
ride; Betazoids generally found Vulcans easy company, simply for the 
rest it gave their empathic senses, but Vorik's emotional control had 
collapsed totally under the onslaught of the alien virus, leaving her 
overwhelmed by raw, untrammelled Vulcan fear and confusion. She had 
been almost unable to function for the past twenty hours, since Vorik 
had silently programmed the shuttle's navigation systems as she slept, 
simply because of the effect of Vorik's feelings. As the transporter 
beams crystallised into figures, she saw the two most reassuring faces 
she could have hoped for: Tuvok, whose emotional control far surpassed 
Vorik's, and Tom Paris, who kept his emotions under such a tight rein 
that he was almost Vulcan himself.

"Jurot, are you okay?" She nodded at Paris, and watched as he knelt by 
Vorik at the rear of the shuttle. The young Vulcan crouched, unmoving, 
his fingertips pressed to his cheeks and forehead, muttering, "My mind 
to my mind. My thoughts to my thoughts," repeatedly. There was the 
brief hiss of a hypospray, but the low chant continued. She'd never 
seen a Vulcan trying to perform a mind meld on himself; clearly there 
was a logical reason in there somewhere, but she was glad she didn't 
have to figure out what it was.

"The damned thing's three levels deep in encryption," came Tuvok's 
voice from the engineering panel. Jurot wasn't sure, but she seemed to 
sense anger from Tuvok, who didn't normally register with her at all. 
There was something else there too, but she couldn't quite tell what 
it was until Paris and Tuvok looked at each other.

"Can you break it, or are we going to have to do a manual shutdown?" 
asked Paris, radiating a calm ease that almost perfectly masked the 
feelings beneath.

"Ha! Anything Vorik can do, I can do better," replied Tuvok.

"That must be why I love you," grinned Paris.

"That must be it," agreed Tuvok. "Now stop distracting me, okay?"

Jurot tried not to betray any surprise, but neither of them was 
looking at her anyway. Banter like that between Paris and Tuvok seemed 
unlikely enough in the first place, but she could sense that there 
were genuine feelings behind it. What was the rumour mill going to 
make of this? She made a mental note to drop in to Stellar Cartography 
as soon as they got back to Voyager. And another one to warn the 
entire Engineering department, because B'Elanna Torres wasn't going to 
take this lightly.

The navigational panel suddenly went blank. "Ghuy'cha'!" Curiouser and 
curiouser; Jurot had never heard Tuvok swear in Klingon, or any other 
language for that matter. "He's put a shutdown sequence in. I've 
disabled the program, but we've lost the entire navigational system." 
Tuvok looked round at Paris again. "We'll have to tractor it in, 
unless you've got a better idea."

Paris quickly took the pilot's seat, beside Jurot. "Class Twos aren't 
too tough to fly on manual. Get me basic position readouts, and I 
should be able to find Voyager." He grinned as he turned to face 
Tuvok, looking away from Jurot. "That's if you think you can manage 
that?"

"Have I ever let you down?" smiled Tuvok in reply. He was less than 
three feet away, and it was unmistakably a smile, and clearly aimed 
at Paris. Jurot made careful mental notes of the conversation. The 
Delaney sisters would probably interrogate her for hours.

Tuvok turned back to the engineering panel and worked silently for a  
few more moments, until part of the navigational panel lit up again. 
"Will that do, hotshot?"

"I can bring it back," replied Paris with easy confidence. "No 
problem. You beam over to the Delta Flyer with Jurot and Vorik - he'll 
be stable until you can get him to sickbay - and Ben can give you a 
ride back. I'll be a bit longer, so warn Joe I'm coming in and he can 
tractor me into the shuttle bay from Engineering."

"Okay, Tom," replied Tuvok, reaching out to take his hand in a brief 
contact that left Jurot almost gasping for breath. She hadn't picked 
up this sort of emotional intensity since... well, it had been Tom 
Paris that time too, but Torres had been the other party, and for the 
sake of her own peace of mind Jurot had tended to avoid the two of 
them whenever they were together since then. "See you later." And then 
they kissed. A brief peck on the cheek, but a kiss nonetheless. This 
was going to be dynamite, thought Jurot, when she broke the news!

"Bye, B'Elanna," replied Tom. He's calling him B'Elanna? This, thought 
Jurot, was looking decidedly unhealthy. She began to wonder whether 
she dared tell anyone.

"Torres to the Delta Flyer," Tuvok spoke into his commbadge. "Three to 
beam aboard." Torres. He called himself Torres. This was just too 
weird to handle.

I must be delusional, thought Jurot as the transporter beam took hold 
of her. Too much emotional resonance from Vorik, it's left me seeing 
things. And as she materialised aboard the Delta Flyer, she decided 
that maybe passing out right there and then would be a good idea.



Kathryn Janeway was anxious to return a favour as she ushered the 
small Ballistan delegation into the ready room.

"Doctor, welcome to Voyager. Would you care for a cup of coffee?"

The chief medical officer's eyebrows raised in pleased surprise as 
she took a sip of Janeway's favourite Altairan brand. "Unusual 
flavour, Captain. Perhaps you might trade us some replicator recipes, 
now we have so many repaired and working."

Janeway nodded, acknowledging the Ballistan's implied thanks. "I'll 
be glad to, Doctor. We have, I believe, over seventy different blends 
on file." And I believe I've tried them all, she decided not to add.

"You've already met my son, of course. Fra'porun, this is Captain 
Janeway. You might remember her from the hospital."

"I remember you, Captain, but I'm not sure where from," said the 
young man as he and Janeway shook hands. "I think it must be the mind 
meld. A lot of this ship looks kind of familiar - I think I've picked 
up some of Mr. Tuvok's memories."

Janeway glanced briefly at Chakotay, who met her look with deep 
concern in his eyes. She made a mental note to advise Tuvok to change 
all his command codes as soon as all this was over.

"I'd be interested to know how much you've picked up from Mr. Tuvok." 
Janeway carefully gave her least threatening smile to the young man. 
"For example, exactly what he thinks of me."

Fra'porun laughed. "I can't give you anything specific, Captain. All 
I can say is that if you order me to do anything, I'll probably do it. 
Apart from that, it's hard to tell."

"Captain, can we get down to business?" Es'porun placed her coffee cup 
gently on the table. "My son," she continued with an indulgent smile, 
"has performed seven melds since Mr. Tuvok..." She broke off, closed 
her eyes momentarily, took a deep breath and continued. "Anyway, he's 
been working hard to rehabilitate other sufferers, but when he heard 
about your problem he nagged me constantly until I accepted his offer 
to help. There were many other offers, I must say - Mr. Tuvok's 
treatment has touched everyone's life on Mangonel already."

"How many successful cures have you achieved?" Chakotay asked with
interest.

"So far, over ten thousand." Es'porun paused for the Starfleet 
officers' expressions of surprise. "It's been a major organisational 
problem, but those sort of problems I can never have enough of." She 
smiled broadly. "About ninety per cent of cases have only required a 
single meld. Most of the remainder just need a second attempt, and 
we've had no outright failures -" she laid the fingertips of her right 
hand on the palm of her left, in the Ballistan equivalent of crossed 
fingers, "so far." She looked around. "I'm surprised Mr. Tuvok isn't 
here... oh, of course I wouldn't know..."

"No, he's not here," said Janeway, rescuing the Ballistan.

"In body or in spirit," added Chakotay with a deadpan expression.

"But I'll see if I can get in touch with him." She tapped her 
commbadge. "Janeway to Tuvok," she began, studiously ignoring the 
involuntary movement of Fra'porun's hand to his chest in response. 
"Mr. Tuvok, please respond." She waited a moment, then said, 
"Computer, please state location of Commander Tuvok."

"Commander Tuvok is in his quarters," replied the usual 
disembodied voice.

"Computer, scan for lifesigns in Commander Tuvok's quarters."

"No lifesigns present."

"Damn. Computer, scan entire ship for Vulcan... belay that. Scan 
entire ship for human/Klingon hybrid lifesigns and report position."

"One set of human/Klingon hybrid lifesigns detected in Jefferies tube 
five."

Janeway had completely missed the swish of the ready room doors 
opening, and so misunderstood Es'porun's surprised cry of "Mr. Tuvok?"

"Yes, so it appears," she replied. "He seems to have left his commbadge 
behind. Would you excuse us for a minute?" Then she saw who had just 
entered the room, and realised why Es'porun had spoken. "B'Elanna, 
I'm glad you're back. We may need you." She led Chakotay and Torres 
out on to the bridge, and waited for the door to close behind them.

"Tuvok's in Jefferies tube five, without a commbadge. I suspect he may 
be trying to prevent the Ballistans carrying out a mind meld on him. 
B'Elanna, can we flood the section he's in with knockout gas?"

B'Elanna stepped over to the engineering console and studied a 
schematic. "Negative, Captain. We've got some repairs going on in 
five. There's a temporary forcefield on the plasma conduits in that 
section that'll prevent us injecting anything into the section, or 
beaming anything out. I can't shut it down without venting plasma into 
the Jefferies tube, and that might kill Tuvok." She looked closer, and 
exclaimed, "He's trying to shut it down himself! We've got to stop 
him."

"If he succeeds, I suppose no-one'll be able to get at his tactical 
information," said Janeway dryly. "That must be why he chose that 
tube. Suggestions?"

"Captain, let me go and talk to him," replied B'Elanna.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" put in Chakotay. "This could call 
for some delicate negotiating skills. It might be better if I..."

"Chakotay," B'Elanna cut him off in mid-sentence, "look at me. If 
Tuvok won't trust this face, this voice, who will he trust?"

"You're sure you're up to it?" Janeway's concern showed clearly on her 
face. "You've been through a lot lately, and you can't have adjusted 
to being in Tuvok's body."

"That's the strange thing, Captain," replied B'Elanna. "I seem to be 
coping with all this much better than Tuvok. I haven't felt this 
peaceful, this much in control, since... well, ever. It'll almost be a
shame to go back." She laughed a little at the two concerned faces. "I 
said almost. I'd rather not be a hundred year old Vulcan any longer 
than I have to. Let me see what I can do."

Janeway nodded. "Do it."



B'Elanna Torres crawled up to the bulkhead and accessed the hatch 
control panel. A quick investigation showed that she would be unable 
to override Tuvok's security codes. The hard way, then. A short burst 
from a hand phaser burned away the lock (and she cursed Tuvok for the 
work it would take to repair the damned thing), and then she started 
opening the hatch on manual.

The hatch moved about ten centimetres, then stopped. From behind it 
came the hiss of escaping plasma. B'Elanna couldn't make out much 
through the gap, but it appeared that Tuvok had already weakened the 
forcefield around the leak. There wouldn't be too much harm done if 
she could seal it soon, but more than a few minutes' exposure could be 
harmful. If he collapsed the field completely, there might be a plasma 
fire, which wouldn't leave much of either of them. Either way, she had 
to get through to him quickly.

"Tuvok, let me in," called B'Elanna. She tried to force the hatch to 
open further, but from her cramped, crouched position in the tube she 
couldn't exert any real force on it. It felt like Tuvok could keep her 
out all day if he tried. For once, her strength advantage over him was 
working against her.

"I am sorry, Lieutenant," her own voice replied. "I cannot."

"I know what you're trying to do, Tuvok. I won't let you."

"Lieutenant, I understand that you would prefer your body to be 
unharmed. However, the safety of the ship is of paramount importance. 
I cannot allow my tactical knowledge to fall into Ballistan hands."

Despite Tuvok's typically precise and pedantic mannerisms, the voice 
sounded wild, uncontrolled, almost hysterical. Time to gamble, then.
"Tuvok, they already know," lied Torres. "Fra'porun reeled off the 
full status of weapons, shields and power couplings. There are over 
ten thousand Ballistans healed already, and they all know enough to 
take us over without a fight."

"No..." The voice was weaker now, shaky and sounding close to tears. 
"We can't let them... we've got to destroy the ship..."

"Tuvok, listen to yourself." B'Elanna could hardly resist an 
irrational impulse to laugh. "Destroy the ship to keep us safe?"

There was nothing in reply. B'Elanna could hear breathing from the 
other side of the bulkhead, but no movement. She tried again to shift 
the hatch, but it had hardly started to move before the resistance 
stiffened, and they were once again at stalemate. Still, as long as 
Tuvok was holding the hatch, he wasn't likely to make any progress on 
deactivating the forcefield.

"Tuvok," she began again, "I know it's hard. I have to cope with those 
feelings every day. You're not used to it, you can just shut it down, 
and believe me, sometimes I wish I could. The last few days," she 
smiled, "the last few days it's been so easy, if I get steamed up 
about anything I can just shut it down. If I've got your control, you 
must have my emotions." Keep talking, that was the key. "Trust me, 
Tuvok. I'm your friend. I'm on your side." She reached through the 
gap at the edge of the hatchway, and felt for Tuvok's hand. "Take my 
hand, Tuvok. I understand what you're going through. Those feelings 
are my feelings, those thoughts are my thoughts..."

As she felt the hand in hers, she had a moment's surprise at how small 
and fragile it seemed, and then...

...and then there was no more separation, no more isolation, no more 
loneliness, panic or fear, and Tuvok felt himself part of a greater, 
calmer, more logical whole, and there was no more risk, no more 
uncertainty, no more need. And Torres saw through two pairs of eyes, 
and felt her passions returning, the fire that fuelled her re-ignited, 
and felt a pang of regret as her briefly-won serenity faded into 
memory. Two hands clasped tightly together, two free hands flung the
hatch aside and met, two katras flowed from body to body, and both 
were complete.

Tuvok allowed the mind meld to stabilise for a few minutes while he 
carefully surveyed the two minds and bodies, and checked that he knew 
for certain which was which. Then, slowly, gently, his katra took that 
of his friend and colleague in tow, and carefully replaced it within 
its proper body; and having done so, softly retreated into its own. 
Again he paused for a short while, then allowed the link between them 
to dissolve. As his senses returned to normal, he looked closely at 
the face looking into his own, and noted with approval the pattern of 
ridges on its forehead. Then, at last, it was time to speak.

"Lieutenant Torres, I suggest you restore the forcefield in this area. 
There is some danger of a plasma explosion."

B'Elanna blinked a few times, looked around, then replied, "Okay, 
Tuvok. Back off and let me come through."

"That will not be necessary, Lieutenant. The leak is now behind you."

"Oh. Right." B'Elanna turned to the open access panel, then paused 
briefly with her hands before her face. "Fragile? Hah! What was I 
thinking?"

"You were thinking that the way you see yourself is not the way that 
others see you," said Tuvok softly.

"And you were thinking that you can't live without logic," replied 
B'Elanna in a surprised voice. "Tuvok, are we still connected 
somehow?"

"Quite possibly," admitted Tuvok. "Even with a normal mind meld, there 
is sometimes a persistence of mental contact, and what we have just 
experienced was in no sense a normal meld."

"Tell me about it," muttered B'Elanna. "I hope it doesn't last too 
long, that's all. There are things I'd rather not share. Here, hand 
me a..."

She glared at Tuvok as he produced a tricorder.

"Oooo-kay. That'll be safe until we can do a proper repair job." 
B'Elanna emerged from the access panel and pointed. "The bridge is 
that way."

Tuvok activated his commbadge. "Tuvok to Captain Janeway."

The sound from the other end of the commlink suggested that someone had 
been holding their breath rather too long. "Janeway here. I take it 
you two are back in your own bodies now."

"That is correct, Captain. I was able to carry out a mind meld with 
Lieutenant Torres."

"What?" shouted B'Elanna. "I crawl all the way in here to drag you 
out, burn through a hatch, do all the work, and now you're the one 
who..." She stopped abruptly as laughter issued from Tuvok's commbadge. 

"I see you're back to normal too, B'Elanna," came Janeway's voice. 
"I'll tell our guests we won't need their help."

"I would suggest you ask them to assist Ensign Vorik, Captain," said 
Tuvok. "It would be unwise for me to perform another mind meld at 
present."

"Agreed, Tuvok. Both of you report to sickbay as soon as possible. I 
still want the Doctor to check you out. Janeway out."

"You will note, Lieutenant," Tuvok turned to B'Elanna, "that you were 
unaware of my intended words to Captain Janeway until I uttered them. 
It appears that the residual link has dissipated."

"Right." B'Elanna still sounded peeved. "All the same, I'd like to do 
a test of my own."

Tuvok raised an eyebrow. "What kind of test had you in mind?"

"If you don't know, then we're okay." B'Elanna banished the mental 
image she'd called up. Thanks to Tom's reticence, she would probably 
be the only one aboard Voyager to know how fetching Tuvok looked in a 
blue nightgown.



B'Elanna was at the engineering station on the bridge when Tom 
finally arrived, exhausted from nursing the crippled shuttle home.

"Paris to Voyager. Impulse engines powered down. Somebody bring me in, 
'cause I'm not landing this thing on manual."

"Voyager to Paris. Message received. Prepare for tractor beam."

"Paris to Voyager. Please tell me that's Engineering and not 
Tactical."

"Voyager to Paris. You think I'd trust Tuvok with a tractor beam?"

"Paris to Torres. Take me home, ma'am."



Tuvok sat quietly, concentrating on the flame of the meditation lamp. 
His meditation had been fulfilling, relaxing and peaceful, and his 
equilibrium was fully restored. He mused idly on his recent 
experiences; not for the first time, he had experienced emotions of 
the sort humans - and, of course, Betazoids, Bajorans, half-Klingons 
and presumably Talaxians - were subject to at all times, and as before 
he found them inefficient and dangerous. He felt considerable sympathy 
for the more emotional members of the crew, and resolved, also not for 
the first time, to show them all the patience and understanding he was 
able to. In time, perhaps, he could help them overcome their emotions 
and join him in Vulcan harmony. Paradoxically, Lieutenant Torres, one 
of the most emotional members of the crew, was perhaps most worth 
working on; she had responded well to his tuition, and from his recent 
experiences it was clear that her emotions caused her considerable 
torment. He would redouble his efforts help her in future, therefore. 
It was only logical.



There was one final surprise to follow, as Sta'nerov, the Planetary 
Commissioner, paid a farewell visit to Voyager. In a mercifully brief 
speech in the mess hall, he concluded, "Finally, the Ballistan 
Commonality has resolved to grant full diplomatic recognition to the 
United Federation of Planets. Although travel between our 
civilisations is impractical at present, we intent to appoint an 
ambassador-in-residence to the Federation, who will prepare to 
relocate to the Alpha Quadrant at whatever time such a journey becomes 
viable. Once again, farewell, Voyager, and we wish you a safe journey 
home."

The crowd in the mess hall dispersed as Janeway, Chakotay and a 
fully recovered Tuvok escorted the Ballistan delegation to the 
transporter room, and soon Tom and B'Elanna found themselves headed 
together towards deck nine.

"Did you see the Captain's face when he finished?" asked Tom, his 
face so carefully composed that only B'Elanna could tell how pleased 
he really felt. "I think that'll make the whole trip worthwhile for 
her."

"With any luck she'll be a bit less stressed, anyway," countered 
B'Elanna. "We could do with one of her good patches." She held up 
both hands in mock self-defence. "I know, I know, it's a tough job 
and she's all alone out here. We've had this argument enough times. I 
think I know both sides now."

"Good, 'cause I wasn't going to say it anyway. There's something else 
that just occurred to me." He looked straight ahead, avoiding her 
gaze, until she finally cracked.

"Come on, Paris, spill it."

"The Ballistan disease only affected people with latent telepathic 
powers."

B'Elanna considered the implications for a moment. "You're suggesting 
that I..."

"Well, you work it out for yourself. Who actually started that mind 
meld with Tuvok?"

B'Elanna snorted as they reached her quarters. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? I don't think so," said Tom as the door closed behind 
them. "I bet you could manage a mind meld if you tried really hard."

"Oh yes?" The corners of B'Elanna's mouth started to curve upwards. 
"Well, I'm off duty till 0600, and you don't seem to be very busy. So 
how do you think we should go about it?"

"Well, we have to be touching." Tom placed B'Elanna's fingertips 
against his face. "Like this."

B'Elanna tried to look serious. "No, that's not working."

"How about if I touch your face too?"

"Nope."

"How about if I touch you there?"

"Well..."

"Or there?"

"Um..." B'Elanna bit her lip, hard.

"Or there? Does that work?"

"Oh god, yes."

One last thought occurred to her, while rational thought was still an 
option.

"Why do we always end up doing this when I'm on early shift?"


THE END