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Captain's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 2.

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Having spent the majority of the first day pushing our new ship to her limits, today we kicked back and relaxed to a more meandering pace. Since we were still undecided as to our heading, there seemed little point in wasting any more fuel.

Yesterday’s uninhibited antics had been a necessary emotional outlet for us all, particularly Tom, and we'd all wanted to get as far away from Dorvan as possible.  It saddened me that I 'd spent seven years trying to get home and then, after less than a week, had been as eager as the rest of my crew to leave the planet far behind us.

Yesterday, we hared away from Dorvan at warp nine and didn’t slow down all day. I practically had to drag Tom away from the helm to go to bed.  Fortunately, by this morning, even Tom’s need for speed had eased, and at 1800 this evening he gave no argument when I announced that it was time to stop for dinner again. We programmed a fixed orbit over a small, uninhabited planet, switched on the auto-pilot, and retired to the mess hall.  

Over the last couple of days, Neelix has done a wonderful job of rearranging the First Officer’s Cabin into an open-plan public lounge with a separate dining area.

As long as you ignore the fact that his galley area has been welded together from the discarded bunks from CQ2, that the communal table consists of three smaller tables bolted together, that the chairs are all mismatched and that a curtain of spare sheets hides Neelix’s sleeping area from view, the mess hall is quite pleasant.  The lounge area is particularly nice, with a low table to play cards, several plastic but realistic plants scattered around, and plenty of hot coffee on hand.

So tonight's meal had a jovial, family atmosphere, with even the Doctor joining us after we'd eaten. Having adopted the appearance of a Klingon today, the Doctor offered to regale us all with Klingon opera by way of after-dinner entertainment. Fortunately for both our ears and our digestive tracts,  we managed to instead convince him to join in a game of poker with Harry, Sue and myself.

Tom excused himself, saying he had something he wanted to do in our quarters. I was obviously concerned, already wondering whether the exertion of flying was proving to be too much for him, given his still-fragile state of health. He looked tired, but he certainly seemed happy enough and he had eaten a little more than half his dinner, which was an improvement on yesterday.  I was reluctant to let him go but, on the other hand, I didn’t want to treat him like an invalid. He's a grown man and I have to let him make his own choices.

So I let him float off by himself and waited until the door closed behind him before allowing my unhappy sigh to escape.

“He’s fine, Chakotay,” Harry said, with an understanding smile. “He hasn’t been this happy for months. Maybe he’s never been this happy. He told me this is the first time in his life that he’s felt truly free.”

“I understand what he means,” Sue agreed. “I was a Starfleet brat too. From the first day I was old enough to understand what the word ‘responsibility’ meant, I was made aware that every choice I ever made would reflect on my family and on my career.  I never did anything  without having to worry about whether it fitted in to my parents’ dreams for me. The idea of being footloose, working for ourselves, and just looking out for each other, is so wonderful.”

“It might not be so wonderful when we're hungry and out of fuel,” Harry laughed.

Sue poked him in the ribs and their resultant ‘fight’ ended with them both collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles. Then they both looked guiltily at me, their smiles suddenly nervous, obviously wondering whether ‘Commander’ Chakotay would emerge.

Instead, I grinned back at them.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not joining in. The only person I tickle is Tom,” I said, and I saw them relax and exchange happy, relieved smiles.

To be honest, my instinctive response had been to make a mild reprimand for their unprofessional conduct. But, fortunately,  before I opened my mouth my brain kicked into gear and reminded me that we're no longer Starfleet personnel. 

We're the crew of the Thunderbird. 

Safety dictates that a starship can't be run as a democracy. In a crisis situation, there's rarely time to put decisions to the vote. So there has to be a Captain. Someone who takes ultimate responsibility. But whenever the ship is safe and we're free to relax, there's no reason why we can't have the easy relationship of friends. 

After all, Harry, Sue, Neelix and the doctor are practically family, and I think that's why they've chosen to join our crew. They certainly didn't sign up with Tom and I in the hopes of getting rich. 

So I played two hands of poker, while Neelix bustled around happily, pouring coffee and giving loud advice about the quality of people’s hands.  It was difficult to bluff each other when the little Talaxian kept bending over our shoulders and giving woeful exclamations at the cards we were holding.  At first it annoyed us, and then it became part of the game, a new rule - Neelix handicap.

I refused the third hand, deciding that it was time to find out what Tom was up to.  I left the others deciding that the only way to stop Neelix’s interference was to give him his own hand and make him join in.  I was actually sorry to miss his first poker lesson, but not as much as I was eager to join Tom.

As I entered our quarters, I spied him typing into the computer console, whistling snatches of a song, and totally oblivious of my entrance.  Feeling mischievous, I slipped my shoes off by the door and crept across the room.

"You sound happy," I whispered into his ear.

He nearly shot out of his wheelchair with fright. He'd been so absorbed with his task, and whistling so loudly, that he hadn't heard my furtive approach.

"Jesus, Chakotay, don't sneak up on me like that," he huffed, but his eyes sparkled as I leant in to steal a kiss.

“Just be glad I wasn’t after your scalp,” I snickered.  

He offered me a blinding, welcoming smile. “You going to go native on me, Chief?” he grinned. “Cos I really fancy the idea of you with a bare chest and war paint.”

“Just a bare chest?” I mumbled into his neck and he squirmed as my tongue licked his neck.

“Hold that thought, Cha. Just let me log off.”

"What are you doing, Tom?" I asked, peering over his shoulder to peek at the computer screen.

"Figuring out why this isn't going to work,” he said.  

I felt myself stiffen with sudden tension. "Why what isn’t going to work?" I asked carefully.

"The Thunderbird, us, all of it," he replied.

My stomach turned over, but when I met his eyes they were surprisingly serene and the smile on his face was relaxed and genuine.

"So why are you so happy?" I asked in bemusement.

I, also, had reached the same sad conclusion.  Both Tom and, far more surprisingly, I had been too lost in the sense of freedom and adventure for the first day to do anything except grin like birds let unexpectedly out of a cage.  Yet, doubts had already set in and I'd hesitated to discuss the subject with Tom.  I was relieved that he'd come to the same conclusion, but mystified by his cheerfulness.

"Well, understanding a problem is the largest part of fixing it," he announced solemnly.

I hid my smile of amusement at his portentous words. 

"Okay, so name the problems," I challenged, wondering whether his quick deductive mind had found the same ones as I had.

Tom started to read off his list.

"We have no money. We don't have an engineer. We don't have the money to hire an engineer. We don't have a good enough navigational computer to trust the autopilot completely and anyway, unless Harry and Sue take one shift and you and I take the other, we can't fly 24/7.  If Harry and Sue work a shift alone, they have no pilot. If you and I are alone we only have either ops or tactical. If someone attacks us, we'll be dead in the water."

"Go on," I encouraged.

"We don't have the money for docking fees but slowing down to hold an all-stop takes more fuel than continuing to fly. Even holding an orbit around a planet, like we did tonight, is wasteful.  We can't afford to waste fuel.  We need more crew. We can't afford to pay, or even feed, more crew and, besides, we don't have the room for them."

"We have crew quarters 3. There are four bunks in there," I pointed out.

"But you said we'd be flying passengers. We can't put them in the cargo bay like crates of bananas, can we?" Tom pointed out reasonably.

I grinned. So far, Tom and I were in accord. I wondered how much further our thinking matched.

"Harry and Sue don't need all of Crew Quarters 2," I suggested.

"They can't share quarters with strangers. They're practically married, Chakotay. We  wouldn't like to share, would we? Neither should they have to," Tom said, outrage dripping from his voice.  

I doubted either of them were as vocal as Tom when it came to love-making, but wisely refrained from saying so.

"We could partition CQ2," I suggested. "It's large enough to be turned into three fair-sized quarters."

"Partition it with what?" Tom asked reasonably. "Even if we cobbled together some false walls, they'd still have to share the communal bathroom. It would cost far too much to refit everything. Far more than we currently have, anyway."

Both Jacqueline and Jean-Luc had separately offered us a small fortune in credits to ‘tide us over.’ When I'd refused to accept Jacqueline’s money, she had instead spent it on equipment for the sickbay, thereby forcing my hand. Jean-Luc had responded by simply opening a generous line of credit in our names.

There was nothing to stop us from using it, except pride, yet it was an option that I didn’t even want to consider, and I was relieved that Tom hadn’t mentioned it either.

"So, what do you suggest?" I asked him.

"We need work to get the money to refit, and need crew to be able to do the work.  We'll just have to find ourselves some haulage jobs, and an engineer who will work for food and a promise, and maybe a spare pilot.  We could reroute ops and tactical controls through the main computer so that all operations are accessible from any terminal. That way the ship can run constantly on a skeleton crew."

"I can pilot, " I pointed out.

"I know, stupid, but when I'm in bed, you are too."

"Stupid?" I asked, in mock outrage.

"Okay, Captain Stupid," Tom grinned.

I refused to rise to the bait, the conversation was far too important for us to be diverted into a fight, since every squabble for the last 48 hours had resulted in us settling our differences in bed.  The glint in Tom's eyes told me he had already figured out that one.

"The rewiring of the terminals is a great idea, although I think we need to find our Engineer first. None of us are sufficiently competent.  Any other ideas?" I asked.

"Yeah, the Doc.  He's a Mark V, now, right?"

"Yes?" I replied curiously.

"So he has a much faster processor and a broader memory matrix?"

"That's right," I replied, trying to remember the exact specifications that Data had told me, but failing miserably.

"Fine. So, we can download a whole new stack of sub-routines into him.  He can become multi-tasking.  He can become our 'auto-pilot',  in effect, when we sleep. I mean we hardly need a full-time doctor, well maybe I do, but the rest of the time he's pretty bored and he always wanted some command opportunities when we were on Voyager. I bet he'd jump at the chance to be your First Officer."

Why the hell hadn't I thought of that?  Then reality struck me like a cruel dousing of icy water.

"Those kind of sub-routines cost serious money, Tom," I reminded him sadly.

He just grinned. "Depends where you download them from, doesn't it?" he replied cheekily.

"Oh, that's all I need, a shareware first officer," I grumbled. Then another thought struck me. "Not that I'm arguing with the idea of promoting the Doc, but why don't you want to be First Officer?"

"What? You’ve got to be kidding. I refuse to spend my whole married life with my husband pulling rank on me.  I've thought about it and I'm not going to be a member of your crew."

"What?" I gasped in panic. "Tom, I told you, the Thunderbird is your ship. Hell, you can be the Captain if it’s bothering you that much."

"Nope, you're the Captain, the rest are your crew and as for me, well, I'm just along for the ride. Kind of like a freelance, you know?"

I looked at him in complete bemusement. "Tom, this isn't Starfleet, we don't even have to have ranks."  

He shook his head. "Of course we do. God only knows what kind of mayhem would happen if we ran this like a democracy.  In a pinch, everyone has to know whom to turn to and whose decision is final.  Shit, Cha, even pirate ships have Captains."  

Since his words echoed my own earlier conclusions, I couldn't argue with him. But it really bothered me that he was so dead-set against being part of the 'official' crew.

"So why are you so set against working under me?"  I asked him.

"Hell, Cha, the only place I want to be under you is in bed. The rest of the time we have to have some kind of equality."  

I reeled slightly. Despite his easy smile, his words felt like an accusation.

"Do you think I don't consider you my equal, Tom?" I asked him, unable to keep the tones of hurt out of my voice.

"Look, don't get upset, Cha, I'm not complaining or anything.  It's just that you really dominate me in the bedroom and I love it, but I can't live my whole life feeling like that. Particularly now that I'm a cripple."

"Don't call yourself that, Tom, you know I hate it," I snapped furiously.

"It's the truth, Chakotay, and it doesn't worry me so it shouldn't bother you.  Hell, it's my body. I can call it anything I like. But ,I tell you what, if anyone else ever calls me names, you have my permission to rip their tongues out," he replied with a rueful smile.

"So, what exactly are you saying, about your position on the ship?" I queried, deciding it was the safer topic.

"You're the Captain. In a crisis, what you say goes. I don't want to risk our lives arguing with you when seconds count. But, about the rest of things, I want to be consulted. I want my opinion to count, and I don't want you to order me about like my thoughts and feelings don't matter. "

"Do I do that?" I asked sadly.

"You don't mean to, but yes you do.  You shot me down in flames this afternoon for suggesting we go to DS9. You didn't even let me explain why I wanted to go there," he reminded me softly.

"I'm sorry," I said. He was right. The mere mention of DS9 had awoken so many uncomfortable  memories that I'd rejected his suggestion out of hand. As he said, I'd 'shot him down in flames' in front of Harry and Sue. On the other hand, he hadn't even tried to make me change my mind.

"Why didn't you argue with me? I said 'no' and you just said 'okay'."

Tom blushed and looked away from me as he replied. "You're my husband, Cha, I don't want to fight with you in front of the others. It's really bad manners."

"Well THAT came straight out of Owen's mouth, didn’t it?" I said gently, and he flushed and then gave a ragged laugh.

"Yeah, well my marriage instruction came from watching Maman and Dad. They never fought in public. It just 'isn't done' in polite circles, you know."

I tabled that comment for later discussion and concentrated on the primary point of our conversation by asking him the question I should have asked when the subject had originally come up.  "So why do you want to go to DS9?"  

He shrugged slightly. "Because Julian's there and he can help me access the programs we need for the Doc, and there's a good chance we might find some stranded Engineer who needs a job just to get off the station, and we could even maybe find some work there."  

I felt like a complete shit. No wonder Tom had been pissed at my casual dismissal of his suggestion. My reason for not going had been based on nothing more than emotion and hurt pride.

"They're all excellent reasons," I admitted, with a sigh. "I was wrong not to consider them and you were wrong not to bring them up earlier.  From now on, I want you to call me on any bad decisions immediately.  I need your help here, Tom.  We're flying blind and we need to be a team. That's why you're wrong about wanting to be separate from the crew.  I might be the Captain, but we're all equal... Except, you're obviously more equal than the rest, of course," I added hurriedly, wanting to make it clear that his vote was always going to hold more sway with me.

“There’s no such thing as more equal,” he snickered. “But, I understand what you're trying to say, and as long as you agree to at least listen to my opinions before rejecting them, I guess I can live with it.”

“So, you’ll be my First Officer?” I asked with a grin.

“No,” he replied, and my bemused expression triggered his temper again.

“I’m in a goddamned wheelchair, Chakotay, in case you'd forgotten.”

“So?” I challenged.

“If there’s an emergency, if something happens to you, the First Officer needs to be able to take over, maybe even run a rescue mission.  I can’t do it, and I won’t let myself be put in the position of having to order someone else to do something I can’t. It would be too damned humiliating.”

As much as I hated to agree with him, he was right. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel inadequate. On the other hand, I didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to tell Tom what to do on his own ship.

"So what position do you want, Tom?" I asked him.

He pretended to consider deeply, furrowing his brow and giving a deep sigh.

"What I'd really like, right now, more than anything, is the position of..." he said, then paused teasingly.

"Yes?" I encouraged.

"Captain's cock-warmer," he finally replied, giving me me a huge leer.

Needless to say, the discussion came to an abrupt halt as I decided it was the Captain's duty to check his qualifications for the position.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 5.

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I guess I should have expected it. Our relationship has been one fucked up misunderstanding after another, since the first time we laid eyes on each other. The only good thing about our current situation is that the Thunderbird is so damned small that we can't avoid each other. 

You'd think that is a bad thing but, believe me, it's not.

It was certainly unpleasant lying in bed next to Chakotay's stiff back last night, while he pretended to be asleep just so he didn't have to acknowledge my presence. He was so pissed off with me that if I wasn't in a wheelchair, I swear he would have decked me. Instead he just went all formal on me, talking over my head like I wasn't there. 

At least he can't call me "lieutenant" anymore in that condescending voice that always made me want to punch his lights out.

And, of course, he had to help me get to bed. I'm getting really independent these days but, when my body is over-tired, the distance between my wheelchair and the bed becomes insurmountable. 

It's difficult to keep pretending to ignore someone when you have to undress them, pick them up and carry them to the bathroom and then to bed. 

So he just went all efficient on me, reminding me of those six terrible weeks on Voyager when he treated my body like a piece of meat. Like a trained nurse, he did all the things that my exhausted body refused to do for itself, and then he climbed into bed next to me, turned his back and pretended to go to sleep.

I knew that if I gave in and apologized, or even cried, he would have relented and forgiven me. But I'm not wrong, dammit. We're supposed to be partners. He isn't in charge. 

Chakotay is not omnipotent, omniscient and all seeing, as much as he likes to think he is.  

I just know Jem is going to work out for us. I feel it in my gut. I want Chakotay to trust me on this.

Admittedly, he wasn't exactly what I had in mind either, when we arrived at DS9, and since, these are my logs, I should be honest at least with myself.

When I met Jem Trabor again, in Quarks, I didn't see him, I saw myself. I saw the washed up bum that I would have become after prison, if the Voyager mission hadn't come along to save me.

For that alone, I still have a place in my heart where Kathryn Janeway holds a special place. No matter what happened later, I'll never forget the chance that she gave me.

That's another thought that Chakotay and I agree to differ on. He is a strange man, my husband. So tolerant of fools and foibles, so absolutely, rigidly unforgiving of personal transgressions.  Janeway hurt me, so she's irredeemable in his eyes. But she saved me once. Surely that counts for something?

He says I'm too forgiving, too trusting, too gullible. Which is strange considering the fact that I am the most cynical person I know. Yet, it's true too. My own feelings of inadequacy force me to constantly strive for approval. I need to feel popular, need to feel loved. I cling to the false comfort of acquaintances, while Chakotay is only concerned with the opinion of true friends.

And because I'm so painfully aware of my own failures, I find myself more understanding of other people's weaknesses.  I can identify with them, empathize with them, and god forbid that I, Tom Paris-Chakotay, should ever judge another person and find them lacking.

He who lives in glass-houses shouldn't throw stones, as the saying goes.

Which brings me back to Jem.

I'm not stupid, although you would think so from the way Chakotay spoke to me yesterday. I know that Trabor is a drunk. He fell into a bottle years ago and never managed to climb out. But, that doesn't make him a bad person or even a bad engineer, necessarily.

He's a wounded man.

He's scarred and bitter and broken.

Like me.

His wheelchair is a bottle, but it is no less pitiful or real.

And he doesn't have a Chakotay to pull him through the bad times, to shine a light of hope over the blackest of days and remind him that 'the soul would have no rainbow, if the eyes' had no tears.'

Chakotay is my rock, my foundation, my everything.

But he is also sometimes a pig-headed despot!

I know that hiring Trabor is a risk. Yet, some risks are worth taking, some people are worth saving, and if I ever met anyone in need of saving it's Jem.

It isn't as if he can get hold of alcohol on the Thunderbird, anyway. He'll have to go cold-turkey. I think that's one of the main reasons he agreed to join us. He sees the isolation of the Thunderbird as being the last lifeline that might possibly save him, before he spirals so far down that he can never come up again.

The Doc says his liver and kidneys are virtually pickled. Our unexpectedly good sickbay is the other temptation to Trabor. He needs proper medical care, needs it fast, and hasn't a credit to his name.

Growing up as a Starfleet brat, I never thought about medical care. I assumed it was free. The great Federation flaunted its medical prowess and I took it for granted. It never occurred to me that nothing is free. That if you aren't in Starfleet, or living on one of the Federation home planets, or have no money, then medical attention is just a fantasy.

There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.

Julian had been treating him, of course. That's what Julian is like. He wouldn't turn away a wounded founder without slipping him a couple of hyposprays of painkiller.  It was Julian who told me all about Jem, and suggested that we took him on.

I was dubious, I admit. The downside of Julian is that he not only has a tendency to take in stray kittens, but then he tries to pass them off on his friends. Yet, since Julian was also illegally downloading several thousand credits worth of navigation software to upgrade the Doctor, I felt obligated to at least agree to look the guy up.

It wasn't difficult to track him down. I found him slumped on the bar at Quarks.

When he turned those crazed black eyes on me, I admit I nearly fled the bar.  You see, I'd heard the story, heard the name, and yet never actually realized that I knew him. 

Just one look at his face brought Auckland, and all its misery, crashing back from where I'd tried to bury it. Yet Jem dragged himself momentarily out of his own misery, to regard my wheelchair, my paralyzed legs, and his mouth twisted.

"I am sorry," he whispered at me, in a voice gruff from long abuse. "I'm scaring you. I'll go."  

"Don't," I begged, ashamed of myself, and he shrugged, sat down again, and said clearly, "I know what Dr Bashir told you. It's not true, none of it. I'm not worth saving."

"You're wrong, I know you," I answered him. "Anyway, everyone is worth saving." 

I meant it. I have to believe everyone is worth saving. The day I stop believing that is the day I'll no longer be able to face myself in a mirror.  

"Your husband won't accept me," he replied.

And since it was my mind that he was reading with his black, Betazoid stare, I guess that I knew really, even at that moment, that Chakotay would go crazy.

So, I guess, anyone reading this log, will call me a fool for going ahead and hiring him anyway, without even a word to my husband.

But if I'd asked, Chakotay would have refused, and that would have been that. No matter how long I had begged, ranted or raved, he wouldn't have caved in. So I just presented him with a fait accompli and now I'm paying the price.

I just couldn't walk away, no pun intended. I couldn't leave that beautiful, broken Betazoid to drink himself to death on DS9, when we needed an engineer so desperately, and he needed a friend more than anyone I'd ever met before. 

I owe him. 

Jem Trabor saved my life in Auckland. He didn't know it. He didn't know me. But he kept me sane. His grief and guilt was so much greater than my own that he taught me, just by his existence, that people carried greater burdens than I and still survived.

Chakotay still wasn't talking to me this morning. He actually gave me 'the day off', saying he wanted to test the Doc's new program, but it was pretty damned obvious he just wanted me out of his sight. 

So much for our honeymoon. Five days and we're already at each other's throats like a couple of spiteful tomcats.

He'll forgive me though. He always does.

He isn't mad at me exactly, anyway. He's worried, and concerned for me. He thinks I've put myself on the line for someone who'll hurt me, let me down, and even, maybe, break my heart.

I think he's actually a little jealous too, the stupid idiot. 

He took one look at Jem and his whole body froze in dismay. 

It's my fault, I guess. I was so determined not to let Chakotay meet an unshaven, drunken bum, that I dragged Jem, figuratively, back to the Thunderbird and had him washed, shaved and dressed to kill.

Unfortunately he cleaned up surprisingly nicely. I'd forgotten how handsome he was. I mean, he's straight, so I'd never thought of him in that way.

Anyway,  all Cha saw was a stunning young man who was closer my age than his and, well, he wasn't exactly happy.

Then he read Trabor's station record, discovered he'd been thrown off more ships than most people had even seen, and apparently decided I'd been thinking with my dick, not my brain.

All this time I've been worried that Chakotay would tire of me and run off with someone healthy instead, and it's he who pulls the insecure jealousy act. 

Ironic really.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Captain's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 5.

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Today's been hell. Several times I've reached to comm. Tom and then stopped myself. 

I admit I was childish yesterday in the way I dealt with Tom, and then I compounded the problem by continuing to sulk this morning. Hopefully he'll accept my apology tonight without asking too many questions.

The problem is that I'm right and he's wrong. 

There's not much room for compromise when the situation is so clearly black and white.

But I don't want this to be a personal issue between us. We need to keep things like this on the bridge, not let them spill over into our bedroom.

The problem is, I'm only human. I'd spent a fruitless day searching DS9 for work and being met with incredulous laughter by most people when I suggested they might want to use the Thunderbird.

So I'd been disheartened and tired when I'd returned to the ship. The docking fees were extortionate and I still hadn't found anyone who was willing to offer us a job. Although there were a lot of small freighting opportunities on offer, one mention of who I was or, more honestly, who my pilot was, had made the prospective customers scurry off in search of more reputable operators.

I was gut-sick. The unfairness of how Tom had been publicly branded as insane made me want to bang people's heads together. I didn't know how to face him, and tell him my bad news. 

I was busy rehearsing the words over and over in my head, trying to figure out how not to tell him the truth, without actually telling a lie, when he greeted me with Jem Trabor.

I went absolutely crazy. I was furious with Tom. Not just for hiring the man without even discussing it with me but, more importantly, because it was bad enough the Thunderbird bearing the reputation of an insane pilot without throwing a drunken engineer into the mix.

It doesn't matter that Trabor is apparently never going to touch alcohol again. He has a reputation. He's known throughout the quadrant for having caused the Moulinaue disaster. His trial was even more public than Tom's after Caldik Prime.

Trabor was at Auckland at the same time as Tom, serving a sentence for involuntary manslaughter. There were extenuating circumstances, of course. There always are. He'd lost his pregnant wife and a two-year-old son in a shuttle malfunction. Instead of being granted immediate compassionate leave, his Captain had insisted that he worked his way to the next star base. To be fair to Captain Johannsen, the warp engines of the Moulinaue had been dangerously damaged in a skirmish on the Romulan border, and Trabor had been the only engineer left uninjured by the attack.

But the Captain should at least have had his replacement engineer check out Trabor's repairs before engaging the warp engines after leaving Trabor on Rigel.

Trabor had made an error when he repaired the anti-matter containment field. Understandable, given his state of grief. The Moulinaue was lost with all hands and Trabor was sentenced to 18 months at Auckland. The prison sentence was a sop thrown at the families of the deceased. Trabor should never have seen the inside of a prison. He should have been hospitalized.

So after his release, according to his record, he spent the next six years drinking himself around the quadrant, getting thrown off one ship after another, desperately trying to escape his guilt and grief.

Not easy to forget, when other people remember, and you're a Betazoid.

In Jem Trabor I see another Lon Suder. I see a tragedy unfolding before my eyes. I see a man spiraling towards inevitable destruction.

I see a man who will break Tom's fragile heart.

I also see a man whose reputation will destroy the Thunderbird. Not because of the Moulinaue. I haven't met anyone who knows of the incident who hasn't blamed Captain Johannsen for what happened, rather than the grief stricken engineer. 

But, out of that pity, Captain after Captain gave Trabor a 'second-chance' and each and every time, Trabor repaid their kindness with drunken inefficiency and bad attitude.

We can't afford the taint of Trabor's reputation, let alone his possible sabotage of our ship. 

Somehow I have to explain this to Tom without sounding as though I am refusing to help his friend. 

Trabor isn't Tom's friend, he's just a guy Tom met in Auckland. Tom doesn't owe him anything. Tom isn't responsible for him, and Tom and I have enough problems without taking Trabor into the mix.

Yet, I just know Tom will turn those beautiful blue eyes on me and remind me that it could have been him in that bar today, drunk and abandoned. That only his posting to Voyager and our chance encounter with the Caretaker saved him from leaving Auckland with the same self-destructive urges as the Betazoid.

Tom will see my failure to offer Trabor a chance as being a personal slight, a confirmation that I would have turned my back on him, had I found him under the same circumstances.

And, the sad thing is that it's true. I would have weighed up the cost of my involvement and would have turned my back, unwilling to pay the cost of admittance. I would have never discovered the wonder of Tom's soul.

So, against my better judgment, I find myself wondering whether to give Trabor a chance, after all.

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Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 6.

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I just read yesterday's entry and decided that I shouldn't wait to add an update. God forbid that anything should happen to me and anyone going through my effects is left with the impression that there was anything wrong between me and Cha.

I kind of over-reacted, I think. It was our first 'proper' fight and I obviously read too much into the situation. Everything is fine again now.

Well not exactly fine, but so much better that I have learned two things since yesterday. Firstly, Chakotay and I really need to learn to talk to each other. It's all very well being so hot for each other that we can't keep our fingers to ourselves, but I'm definitely going to have to stop relying on sex to pull us through difficulties.

Not that it isn't an exceedingly pleasant way to resolve an argument.

Secondly, we have to learn to separate personal problems from professional ones.

In Starfleet it's relatively easy. You have ranks and roles to define your workplace relationships. Once you put that uniform on in the morning, your mind snaps into a mode of professionalism that forces you to act appropriately and leave personal issues behind. On the Thunderbird, it isn't that easy.

The minute I arrive on the bridge each morning, I damn well know whether Sue and Harry had wild fantastic sex the night before or had a fight. The air of either ecstatic satisfaction or brooding anger hangs in palpable waves over their heads. I assume that the same is true of Chakotay and I.

Of course, with us it's worse. Not worse as in our problems are more important, but worse because everyone is so damned protective of me. 

They can't help it, I guess. There's something about this fucking chair that seems to overshadow everyone's perception of me. No matter how well I cope with it myself, no one else can separate me from my paralysis. They see me as vulnerable and in need of protection.

It's sweet. 

It also pisses the hell out of me.

So, anyway, when Chakotay and I argue, he gets the emotional rap. Not because everyone else thinks I'm right and he's wrong, but because he is apparently supposed to pander to me like the invalid that I am.

Well, fuck that.

So from now on, we are going to keep our personal arguments just that. Personal.

Besides, everything is better today. We actually have a job. It isn't much of a job, and to be honest we only got it because we'e so desperate that we're cheap and, let's face it, the Ferengi are never ones to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It hurt Chakotay's pride to accept the commission, I think. He turned positively pale when he agreed to Quark's miserly terms. On the other hand, a job is a job and we need to swallow our pride and just do it. Eventually we'll gain a reputation for honesty and reliability and then more doors will open to us.

As for Trabor, well, Chakotay has agreed to give him a chance, at least. He said that as long as the engineer stays sober and out of his hair, he'll give him the opportunity to prove himself to us.

And Jem has already begun to re-route the bridge command terminals so that we can access all operations from any station. Of course, Chakotay has got the Doc double-checking all the work, with such blatant rudeness that I personally would have told him to get stuffed by now. But Jem just ducks his head and takes it, only his black eyes revealing a bottomless pit of despair and lost pride. He lets himself be constantly second-guessed by a hologram who only had engineering sub-routines downloaded the day before.

I love the Doc really, but his air of superiority sometimes drives me to the brink of madness. It's insufferable in my opinion. Yet, Chakotay is right too. We can't afford to become another Moulinaue.

On a much brighter note, which is the real reason for this log entry, we slept together again last night and it was good. Better even, perhaps, for the release of our pent up tension.

So, despite what I said earlier, maybe using sex to pull ourselves through difficulties isn't such a bad thing. When words aren't enough, when apologies and recriminations stick in our throats and make communication impossible, still our bodies dance to their own tune. Flesh on flesh we connect and become one body, one soul, and all other issues become insignificant next to the power of our need for each other.

I feel alive from his touch. It's electrifying to me. I breathe with his breath, see with his eyes, walk with his legs. It is awesome and shattering and yet so painfully wonderful that the idea of life without him is impossible. In those moments of intimacy, there is nowhere that I end and he begins. We overlap and merge, our thoughts, bodies and desires becoming one.

Perhaps, in time, we'll learn to carry that connection out of the bedroom and into the rest of our lives. 

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Captain's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 6.

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Last night I made my peace with Tom.

It wasn't until I arrived in our room and saw the flicker of nervous hope in his face, saw with sadness the flickering shadows of fear in his usually brilliant eyes, that my decision to put the Trabor situation well and truly behind us coalesced.

So I put the problem to bed, by putting Tom well and truly to bed.

"I'm sorry," I told him, as I entered our room. Not sorry for the stance I had taken but bitterly sorry for his pain.

"I'm sorry too," he agreed and reached out his arms in invitation.

That was all the encouragement I needed. I swept him out of his chair and carried him into the bedroom. He just relaxed in my arms, agreeing to my intentions simply by his silence.

I lay him on the bed, then stripped myself quickly and turned back to look at him. His face was flushed, his eyes almost as black as Trabor's as he teased his lower lip with his teeth. He'd unfastened his shirt and it had fallen open to reveal his pale chest, each rib still clearly defined beneath his rosy nipples.

Guilt struck me afresh as I again realized just how underweight he still was. He looked more boy than man without the camouflage of his clothing.

"What have you eaten today?" I asked quietly, and his blush deepened from lust to embarrassment as his forehead furrowed and his eyes avoided mine.

He couldn't answer, because the answer was probably nothing, I realized. Instead of making an issue of it, and thereby causing him even MORE stress, I simply made a note to talk to Neelix and the Doctor about the situation

For some reason Tom always reacts to stress with self-starvation. Although I have no intention of behaving so childishly again as to deliberately ignore Tom, there will inevitably be times when I'll be absent from the ship. I'll have to set up a safety net for Tom, whereby people check among themselves whether he's eaten.

Evidently realizing from my silence that I wasn't going to push for an answer at that moment, Tom relaxed and regained his earlier expression of complete wanton need. His fingers began to fumble with his waistband and a prominent, tell-tale bulge tented the fabric over his groin.

My own cock pulsed in sympathy, its swollen head reaching eagerly as I stepped forward and replaced Tom's hands with my own.

"Let me," I whispered huskily, and he arched his hips to help me slide the trousers down his thin legs.

I froze for a moment, amazed anew at the beautiful sight beneath me. There is nothing in this life that can sing poetry in my soul like the vision of Tom, naked and needy beneath me.

I couldn't resist bending my mouth to his elegant cock and licking its length from the soft red-blond curls of his pubic hair down to the weeping head of his glans. I flicked my tongue into his slit, tasting the sweet saltiness of his essence and I shivered with pleasure as the taste exploded on my tongue like nectar.

His fingers crept through my hair pleadingly, encouraging me to continue, as though there was any way I could have stopped. I swallowed him, my throat opening in welcome to his thick presence and he groaned and bucked as my hot mouth caressed his length. I tickled his balls and perineum as I bobbed my head up and down his cock, listening to his moaning gasps, and then, with a small scream, he came in my mouth and I licked and savored each drop until his now limp organ drooped with exhaustion onto his thighs.

Tom's head collapsed back on the pillow, haloed by his blond hair, the tension drained from his features and replaced by a look of such peace and contentment that I actually forgot my own unsatisfied erection, content simply to have brought him such pleasure.

Yet, typically, Tom was not yet satisfied.

"Take me, Cha," he whispered, as I crawled up the bed and nuzzled into his neck, nibbling on the damp tendrils of hair that curled under his ears. 

His hair is still barbarously short, but he's stopped cutting it since our escape to Dorvan together. Perhaps he finally understands that I love him with long hair because it's one of my personal tastes, not because of any resemblance to Angel. I hope he'll continue to let it grow, but it's his choice, and not one that I have the right to interfere with.

"It's okay, babe. You're too tired," I replied softly. "Just let me hold you."

His eyes snapped open and suddenly he didn't look tired at all.

"That wasn't an offer," he replied sharply. "It was an order. You have a duty as my husband to fulfill all of my conjugal rights. So do me."

I looked at him in complete surprise and my astonishment must have been evident because his stern mask slipped and his mouth began to twitch as he fought to hide a grin.

"Conjugal rights, huh?" I growled with mock fierceness as I reached down and ran an experimental finger down his flaccid cock. It reared back to life so quickly that I snatched back my finger in shock.

"Afraid the trouser snake is gonna bite you, Cha?" Tom sniggered.

"I keep forgetting how young you are, Tom," I confessed, still stunned at Tom's unfailing ability to be brought back instantly to arousal.

"Nah," he replied playfully, "it's all the energy that should be going to my legs, getting redirected to my dick instead."

"Really? Maybe that's why some people describe it as a third leg," I leered back, still uncomfortable with the easy way in which Tom made light of his paralysis but determined to follow his lead.

"So you gonna do me, big man?" he challenged me, his eyes glinting wickedly.

I pretended to consider the proposal until he finally lost his patience and slapped me lightly on the side of my engorged cock.

"You gonna do something with that or just keep waving it in my face?" he spat. Before I could reply, his other hand slapped a tube of lube into my hands.

"You do it," I replied breathlessly, offering the lube back.

His eyes darkened significantly as he popped the valve and coated his fingers with the clear gel before gently massaging my cock. The minute his greased fingers slid up my flesh, I felt my balls tighten and I froze, desperately fighting my body's need to erupt. Seeing my struggle, he calmed his movements, his fingers becoming feather-light as he coated my erection.

Trembling, I took some of the lube on my fingers and searched for his entrance. As soon as my fingers touched his sphincter, I felt the muscle relax and open welcomingly. I froze again, so overwhelmed by his body's instinctive reaction to me that I nearly came just from the realization.

I knew that there was no way that I could hold back my orgasm any longer and I looked at him helplessly.

"Just do it," he growled.

"You're not ready," I nearly sobbed.

"I'm always ready for you, Cha," he urged me sincerely.

I met his eyes, desperate to believe him, and, although I knew that I was risking damage to him, I couldn't resist the need in his eyes. I threw his legs over my shoulders and entered him in one smooth, brutal thrust.

He cried out in pain, yet his voice denied his own discomfort. "Oh GOD, yeah, that's it, fuck me Cha, fuck me hard," he demanded.

And although it sounds brutal in the light of day, at that moment nothing but a fierce, hard animalistic coupling could satisfy either of us.

There was no finesse in my movements, no gentleness, no consideration, just a violent battering of his insides with my hungry cock, my thrusts punctuated by my own ragged groans and Tom's gasping sobs, until with a roar I made one last vicious thrust, until my balls were almost buried in his ass with my dick, and I shot my load deep into his bowels as his own cum splattered my chest and his ravaged insides clenched and milked me dry.

Like I said, it was brutal. Yet it was beautiful too. A mutual animal need that we both experienced together.

"Oh God, that was fantastic," Tom gasped finally. "Though I don't think I'm gonna be so happy tomorrow when I sit in my chair," he added with a wry grin.

"How about I call the Doc to give you a couple of stitches?" I replied, as I rose to find a wash-cloth and a dermal regenerator.

"Bastard!" Tom laughed, throwing the lube at me. He continued to giggle as I repaired the tiny tears in his rectum.

"What?" I asked him.

"I was just imagining the Doc's face if I asked HIM to do this," he laughed back.

"I'm sorry I was so rough..." I began.

"Don't," he hissed, real anger in his voice. 

I looked at him in surprise.

"Don't ever apologize for loving me, Cha. I needed this tonight, so did you. It was wonderful, consensual and nothing to be sorry about," he stated firmly.

"It was beautiful, " I confessed sheepishly. "Your trust in me is the most wonderful thing in my universe. And yes, sometimes I doubt my own instincts, sometimes I doubt yours. But you're right, we both needed this tonight."

"Hold me?" he begged, and I climbed back into the bed and gathered him in my arms, his head nestled against my chest. 

It was only then that I mentioned Trabor, as we both still lay stunned by the beauty of our joining.

"He can stay," I said gruffly and I felt Tom's whole body soften into blissful relaxation against my own. His happiness at my decision was so obvious that I regretted the necessity to add my conditions.

"If I ever as much as suspect that he's been drinking, then he's off the ship. No trials, no passionate defenses or excuses. One chance only and if he blows it, he's gone," I stated firmly.

For a moment, Tom stiffened and I could hear him draw a ragged breath in preparation for his rejoinder. I already knew what he was going to say, that I was playing God again, that I had no right to keep laying down the law in such a fashion.

Yet, to my surprise, he released the breath again and molded back into my side, and the only word he uttered was "Okay."

His unexpected agreement warmed me, fanning the flame of love I held for him to a new level.  It appeared that we were both learning compromise, finding those places where we clashed and finding a way to blur the sharp edges so that our desires and needs could seamlessly merge.

I was suddenly glad that the argument had occurred between us. Despite the unpleasantness of the last 24 hours, we had faced a crisis, resolved it and moved on, both more secure in each other's love.  It was a lesson to me to face future crises head on, battle through them to a mutual agreement and thus let the roots of our relationship spread and strengthen.

We had both made the previous mistake of avoiding confrontation and our inability to talk had nearly destroyed us.  This time our relationship was for keeps. We were married and that meant forever. It was unrealistic to imagine that we would never argue. All we could do was turn each row into an opportunity to learn more about each other and thus strengthen our commitment.

And of course, the make up sex was always the best part.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First Officer's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 10.

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I have come to the decision, over the last 10 days, that human behavior is absolutely inexplicable.

This, of course, is a suspicion that I held when I was first activated on Voyager, yet I had insufficient data for comparison at that time. Over the years I came to the assumption that the behavior of the Voyager crew was an anomaly due to the fact that they were lost in the Delta Quadrant.

The dynamics of the various relationships that were forged during that traumatic time were unnatural, in my professional opinion. Yet, I experience the same complete bewilderment of the nuances of human behavior as I adjust to my new 'life' on board the Thunderbird.

This is not a Star Fleet vessel. The same rules and constraints that apply on a military ship are obviously absent, yet the dynamic here is both strangely the same and at the same time completely different.

Chakotay is indisputably the Captain of this ship. Everyone looks to him for support, guidance and decisions. He is 'in charge'.

Except that he isn't.

Tom is.

If Chakotay is the head of the ship, then Tom is its heart.

Even our new Engineer, Jem Trabor, has fallen under the spell of Tom's charm. I see him vying with Harry and Chakotay to please Tom, just as Neelix spends hours in his galley attempting to turn my nutritional orders for the pilot into something that will tempt his palate.

I can see the general protectiveness towards Tom possibly becoming a future issue that could cause tension between the two men.  On the fifth day of our journey, for instance, it became obvious that Chakotay and Tom had had a disagreement over the appointment of Trabor, and while Tom spent the day alone in his room, Chakotay spent that same time 'alone' on the bridge under the glaring condemnation of Harry and Sue. Then Neelix  practically threw Chakotay's dinner at him that evening.

The conclusion I have reached is that, in a crisis, Chakotay is the Captain but, in the popularity stakes, Tom is the clear favorite and Chakotay would do well to remember that fact.

Fortunately, before things came to a head, Tom and Chakotay apparently resolved their difficulties  and harmony was restored before we left Deep Space 9 towards Hyperia.

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Captain's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 12.

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I knew better than to accept that bastard Quark's assignment. Something about him just reeked of dishonesty.  Then again he's a Ferengi, so I wrote a lot of my caution off as being simple prejudice. He was also clever enough to offer such a small sum for our assistance that it lulled me into a false sense of security. I was so busy being offended by the paltry amount he offered us that I failed to adequately question him about the legality of imports from Hyperia.

I'm not completely naive. When we rendezvoused with Quark's contact at a small port on the third moon of Hyperia, I was careful to check all of the crates for contraband substances such as drugs and weapons before allowing them to be placed in the Thunderbird's cargo bay. It appeared that the cargo was nothing more than the manifold stated, several crates of assorted liquors, twelve pallets of Hyperian Caviar, which is just about the most disgusting foodstuff I have ever come across but is unsurprisingly popular with Klingons, and the last item was a box containing a few roughly hewn statues.

It was the last box that worried me. I had never seen such ugly or badly carved figures before. They were fat squat idols, each with pendulous breasts, fat bellies and anatomically improbable cocks thrusting out and then curving like handles on a mug. I spent a long time with a tricorder, checking that they weren't hollowed out and filled with contraband since I couldn't imagine anyone voluntarily parting with credits for such ugly statues.

My caution seemed unfounded. The statues were solid stone. I eventually decided that they were just some manner of tourist souvenir. Like Tom said, some people have fuck-all taste.

It wasn't until we were leaving Hyperian space that a huge battle cruiser dropped out of warp next to us and told us to stand down and prepare to be boarded.

That little fucker Quark had set us up.

The ugly statues turned out to be priceless artifacts that had been found in an archeological dig and only the fact that the Hyperians were natural telepaths and realized that we had been duped saved us from all being arrested on the spot.

They confiscated the treasures and fined us, although fortunately they were satisfied to take the 12 pallets of caviar as the fine. So we were left with several boxes of cheap liquor, less fuel than we had started with, and absolutely no chance in hell of getting paid by Quark.

I was all for heading straight back to DS9 and inserting one or two of those bottles of whiskey up Quark's ass, but Harry, the voice of reason as always, just pointed out that it would waste more fuel and since we had a "bad rep" at DS9 we were unlikely to get any other customers there. He said we would be better moving on from Hyperian space towards the Romulan border where there were always opportunities to ferry disenchanted settlers from the demilitarized zone back to less hotly disputed territory.

Tom agreed with him. Not because he wasn't furious with Quark himself, but because the idea of 'rescuing' refugees was far more exciting than any cargo opportunities we might find in Federation controlled space. As an independent, neutral vessel we had access to places that Federation Starships couldn't go. 

So I reluctantly agreed that my vengeance on Quark could wait for another day.

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Chief Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 13.

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Poor Chakotay is SO cute when he sulks.

It wasn't his decision to accept Quark's assignment. We all agreed that it was worth taking the risk of doing business with a Ferengi, so we're all equally to blame for what happened. Besides, apart from denting our pride, it was no great loss. The cost of the fuel expended in going to Hyperia was little more than the exorbitant docking fees we were paying to stay at DS9, and we might be able to get some credits for the booze.

Anyway, Harry's idea is stellar. I love the idea of nipping in and out of the demilitarized zone while the Romulans and the Starfleeters glower at us from the borders. 

We won't be doing anything illegal. We will be a neutral, civilian ship plying an honest trade. Our only real problem is room.

We had a long discussion about it and agreed that Chakotay and I would move into sickbay temporarily. The Doctor has agreed to shut himself down each night so that Chakotay and I can have privacy. Harry and Sue will move into our quarters. Jem will move in with Neelix and that way we have room to take a dozen or so passengers at a time. It will do until we are on our feet a little and can afford to have the Thunderbird's interior redesigned to a better specification.

We've also reached a mutual agreement that for every ten paying passengers we'lll take two for free. The problem with a job like this is that, ,in a way,  we'll be preying on other people's misery. Our passengers will be refugees. They'll be leaving their homes and their livelihoods behind and although we can't afford not to charge them for their journey, we don't want to take advantage of their desperation either.

The likelihood is that those people who'lll be willing to pay for passage out will have squirreled away some substantial wealth. They will be able to pay us handsomely for their passage. On the other hand, that wealth will be needed to set themselves up in new lives so it would be wrong of us to charge too much just because they have the money at the moment.

To ease our consciences, we'll take two extra non-paying passengers each trip. I'm not sure how we'll decide who they'll be, and we obviously won't let the other passengers know what we're doing because this is far too small a vessel for resentment to live on board.

My idea is to take the money off all twelve, and then use the journey to decide which two get a refund.

So, I guess it's obvious that I'm pretty excited about this. We'll be doing good, earning money and playing 'secret santa' to some of our passengers. I said as much to Chakotay but he just gave me a blank look as if he didn't know what I was on about. Which is blatantly untrue since we celebrated Christmas every year on Voyager. Mind you, we celebrated every other religious and secular ceremony we could think of too, so maybe he genuinely has forgotten.

Personally, I just think he's sulking.

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Chief Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 14.

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I was wrong.

He wasn't sulking.

NOW he's sulking and, believe me, the difference is obvious.

We're approaching the demilitarized zone so we moved into our "new" quarters last night. 

After Chak moved a couple of biobeds together against the wall and tied them together, then unhooked the monitoring equipment and put our own quilt on - the one Chak's mom made for us - the room looked almost like home.  Okay, it just looked like a sickbay with a double bed in the middle but, what the hell, we were alone.

Because Chakotay was still pretty quiet and miserable, I decided to cheer him up, I waited until he'd helped me into bed and undressed and then, before he got his sleep pants on, I slid myself to the middle of the bed and then gave a huge groan as though I were in pain.

He was at my side instantly, his gorgeous cock dangling freely between his legs like a lollipop well overdue a licking.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes so worried that I felt instantly guilty. Still, I would be making it up to him, I decided.

"I think there's a gap between the beds, Chak. Something's pinching me," I lied.

"Can't you move sideways off the gap?" he asked, reasonably enough.

"I'm trapped," I sobbed.

Chakotay climbed up on the bed to check the strapping that held the two beds together. Because I was lying down the middle, he had no option other to straddle my chest and lean over my head. It was perfect. I couldn't have maneuvered the Thunderbird any better.

The precise moment he realized that the binding was tight and I was lying, was the same moment that his cock reared over my mouth and I opened wide and swallowed.

At the same time, I grabbed his ass cheeks in my hand and pulled him closer. He lost his balance, fell forward and inadvertently deep throated me.

I immediately started the deep sucking that would convince him that I had intended this from the start and simultaneously poked my middle finger into his ass.

I had taken the precaution of surreptitiously rubbing my own pre-cum on my finger first so that it was lubricated, so it was definitely shock that made him scream rather than pain, and since his cock immediately stiffened in my throat until it nearly choked me, he was obviously enjoying himself.

Which is why the Doctor's "Please state the nat- oops, sorry. Don't mind me..." probably pissed him off so much.

I don't see the big deal myself.

Like the Doc said, he had turned himself off but his program had activated at what it had interpreted as a scream of pain.

Besides, it wasn't as if it was Chakotay who was giving the blow job. I could understand that embarrassing him, but since his dick was rammed down my mouth, I don't see the problem.

Hell, the Doc might be a 'person', but bottom line he's a hologram. It wasn't like Harry or Sue walking in on us.

But Chak's still in a snit about it. He says he's not having sex with me again in the Sickbay unless the Doctor agrees that we can put an override on his program that means he is completely shut down. The Doctor, not surprisingly, is reluctant to agree. He says that's like us temporarily "killing" him just to get laid.

Chakotay understands his point of view but won't budge. The Doctor has refused to give in. Unless I can find a compromise that they'll both agree to, I'm going to have to spend the next six weeks or so with a permanent hard-on until we have earned enough money to refit.

In other words, there's trouble in paradise again. 

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Captain's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 16.

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Okay, I'm stupid. I admit it. 

The whole purpose of re-programming the Doc had been so that we could fly the ship 24 hours a day.

Because we were still saving fuel we hadn't changed to a 24 hour shift so it never occurred to me to simply banish him to the Bridge while Tom and I slept, rather than ask him to turn himself off.

Blame the stress of the Hyperian's customs search, for me not thinking about it before the night I went ballistic, and the considerable distraction of being caught with my pants down and my cock in Tom's throat for not thinking about it afterwards.

I was in such a state of embarrassment that I couldn't think straight and once the Doctor and I started to argue we were like a couple of posing cockerels, neither willing to concede or compromise.

Tom was in a state of shock, I think, otherwise he would have knocked our heads together then and there. As it was, he waited until breakfast the next morning before presenting me with a new duty schedule that solved all of our problems.

As I read his proposal, it occurred to me that I would never have made such an error when I was the First Officer of Voyager. When I said as much to Tom, he just grinned and said he preferred the new and improved more casual Chakotay.

I can see his point of view. I'm naturally a lot more relaxed now I'm not constantly responsible for a crew of 150 people. On the other hand, with only 6 people to juggle, I should be able to do it with my eyes shut.

The truth of the matter is that I'm doing most of my thinking with my cock at the moment. Having been unexpectedly given a second chance with Tom - or is that sixth or seventh chance in reality? -  he gets all of my attention. I don't even want to think about any of the other members of our crew. I definitely don't want to waste any time thinking about Trabor.

Not exactly admirable behavior for a so-called Captain, though.

I need to get my act together now.

We're orbiting Ceranus VIII, a small mining outpost that was colonized back in the 23rd century and became prosperous because of its immense wealth of latinum deposits.

A heavy defense shield kept us at bay until the residents checked our registration and our bona fides came back as legitimate. They have a huge problem with pirates, not surprisingly. They seem unconcerned by the fact that we have a 'mad' pilot and a 'drunken' engineer. All they apparently needed to know is that we're honest.

Of late, legitimate off world trade has been virtually impossible for the inhabitants and their standard of living has deteriorated accordingly.  Ceranus has little in the way of arable land and, since people can't eat latinum, the inhabitants are the richest people that you can imagine starving to death.

That's an exaggeration, of course. There are always black-market traders willing to arrive there and trade foodstuffs in exchange for exorbitant prices.  The Ceranians are a captive market and have little choice except to pay. 

Maybe that's why none of the traders will offer them passage off world. It doesn't make economical sense to let a captive market escape your clutches.  But I think the true reason for the traders' reluctance is their fear of being scanned by pirate vessels. If a Ceranian lifeform is detected on board, it's almost a certainty that there is sufficient Latinum to make an all-out attack worthwhile.

The traders still take a risk in coming at all, though, so their greed is perhaps understandable. To one extent, you could say there's no harm in it, since Latinum is plentiful and has no commercial value on Ceranus. So the traders are simply exchanging much-needed food for something that has no tangible value on the planet below.

The other side of the coin though, is that the Latinum has a high cost in lives. If it were easy to mine, it wouldn't carry it's high universal value. The lodestone that bears the latinum vein is notoriously fragile, crumbling at the first touch of a mining phaser. As the mine shafts are sunk further into the ground, the risk of a cave-in grows exponentially.  There are few families on Ceranus who have not given up sons and daughters to the brutal vengeance of the earth.

The other, more insidious danger is the fact that Latinum dust corrodes lungs. After twenty or thirty years down the mines, the miners are virtually crippled. Without lung replacements they are unable to even walk without gasping for breath and the medical facilities on Ceranus are several decades out of date.

Several dozen inhabitants have already signed up with us for transportation off world. Our main problem, though, is that Latinum weighs so much.

We had counted on a dozen passengers per trip, but the weight of their bullion in our cargo bay would virtually cripple us. We need to be sleek and fast. The main reason few people offer to transport people off Ceranus is that they won't leave without their Latinum, but the moment we leave orbit there will be a flotilla of pirate ships waiting to capture us. 

Tom and the Doctor have run endless simulations through the computer and whichever way they try it, we can't carry more than six people at a time. Allowing for the idea of carrying one person free, the other five will have to be charged a substantial amount to make up for the fact that we will have to use our Heran shields, draining fuel at an alarming rate, and still run like hell, just in case.

Trabor, Neelix and Sue suggested we forgot about the free ride and gave everyone a slight discount.  Harry, The Doctor and Tom  got upset at that idea, because there are a fair number of Ceranians who are now too frail to mine and have no family to support them so the wealth that they collected earlier in their lives is rapidly shrinking just to put food in their bellies. They no longer have enough Latinum left to live as well as their compatriots in the Federation , but at least they will have access to decent medical facilities. Their savings, carefully spent, will allow them to have a frugal but decent life.

So the deciding vote is mine, and as the Captain I have to make my decision based on all of our welfare, rather than my immediate urge to agree with Tom.

It is his ship, after all, yet he hasn't put his foot down and tried to use that to sway the decision in his favor. 

He's playing fair. So I will too. 

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Chief Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 18.

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It sucks to be noble.

This is what I get for allowing a democratic vote on my own ship. 

My own husband voted against me.

That's not strictly true, I guess, since he actually proposed a compromise. Four trips with full fee paying passengers until we've earned enough profit for the re-fit, then we can afford to substantially reduce our profit margin and carry some free passengers.

It makes sense because the people in the front of the queue are the richest. It also means we can re-fit faster and carry our passengers in more comfort. (Not to mention the bonus of Chak and I getting back into our own quarters faster).

So why am I so pissed off?

Because I had this stupid idea that Chak would simply let me have my own way.  

For the last few weeks he's been thinking with his cock and I've been twisting him around my little finger. I knew it wouldn't last indefinitely, of course, but I think I'd hoped it would last a little longer.

On the other hand, I fell in love with Chakotay because he's such a strong person. I don't really think I'd like him to be under my thumb all the time. Command suits him better than the role of love-sick fool.

It was nice while it lasted though.

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Op's Officer's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 20.

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I hate them.

Ceranians, I mean.

I can't believe I bothered to argue with Chakotay over his decision to charge them all for passage.

Hell, if I'd known what they would be like, I'd have suggested we charged them double.

They do nothing but gripe about the accommodations as though they'd rather starve to death on their dust ball planet than share a bathroom.

They hate the food and, believe me, Neelix's cooking has improved a hell of a lot since he lost his access to Leola Root.

They think that because they each have enough Latinum in the hold to buy a dozen yachts the size of the Thunderbird, we should treat them as if they were visiting dignitaries rather than refugees.

I don't care if they shit Latinum. Manners cost nothing.

The only thing that is making this trip bearable is the fact that we are making a whole heap of credits and Chakotay has finally confined them to their quarters with the threat that if he sees any of them again before we reach Deep Space 3, he'll space them.

I really think he means it too.

I never thought I would ever see him lose it like that. Hell, when the guy explodes he does it with finesse. The Ceranians almost wet themselves at the look in his face, and I almost came.

Yeah, me. Straight Harry Kim.

God help me if Sue ever reads this entry because, believe me, I love her more than my own life, but in that moment as I watched Chakotay's eyes turn into blazing black flames, I was so turned on by the sight that I got a hard on.

I always understood that Tom and Chakotay loved each other, and I never denied they are both attractive looking men, but I never actually thought about what they did in bed together. My mind always skittered uncomfortably over the idea of two men fucking each other. 

Tom confided in me months ago that Chakotay was the "top" in their relationship and although I tried not to think about it too much I always kind of shuddered at the thought of my best friend letting another man do that to him.

Okay, so I'm a prude, maybe.

But this morning, when I finally saw the dangerous beast that lurks under Chakotay's calm exterior, I nearly creamed my pants.

So, I guess I'm saying that Tom's a lucky man after all, and I'm just glad that I finally understand why Tom loves Chakotay in that way. Somehow it makes a difference. Means that I can be a better friend to him. If he ever wants to discuss that part of his relationship in the future I won't blush and fidget uncomfortably like I did in the past, I'll discuss things properly with him.

Tom and Chakotay are no different than Sue and Me.

I understand that now.

So something good came out of what happened this morning, even if Tom was so badly hurt by those bastards that I saw him almost cringing under the helm at their cruel words.

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Chief Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 20.

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I can't stop crying and if Chakotay finds me like this he'll probably go crazy again and really throw the Ceranians out of the airlock. I'm hoping that if I write it down, I'll get it out of my system before he comes to bed.

I know everyone's pissed off with them for being so rude, but the truth's still the truth, isn't it? No matter how much good manners should hide it.

I am a cripple.

For the first time I have been seriously considering the artificial legs that the Starfleet Doctors suggested. Sure, I'd be half-machine but at least I would be able to walk like a real person.

Hell, what a stupid thing to think, let alone write.

I am a real person. And Chakotay loves me.

Not that I was in any doubt on that score. The day he turned his back on Angel and chose me instead was the last day I doubted his love. But if I'm being completely honest, I have to admit I occasionally wonder whether that love will last, given the handicap of my disability, and since it's only been three weeks since we set off in the Thunderbird we've hardly stood the test of time yet.

Today though, when he stood on the Bridge and ripped shreds out of our passengers for daring to voice out loud their doubts about being flown by a crippled pilot, I kind of fell in love with him all over again.

He was literally quivering with anger. Bristling like an enraged targ.

He was magnificent.

I swear even Harry nearly swooned at the sound of Chakotay's warm treacle voice raising into such volcanic fury that the bridge shook.

When Chakotay is angry, he goes quiet, his voice drops almost to a whisper. When he's furious though, he could topple a mountain with his wrath.

That's why I'm crying really, I think.

Not because of the insensitive cruelty of the Ceranians' words, but the way that Chakotay leapt to my defense.

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Captain's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 22.

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We delivered our first consignment of passengers to DS3 this afternoon - good riddance to bad rubbish - and the moment they disembarked I ordered Tom to set course back to Ceranus VIII.

He turned his head from the helm and gave me a slightly startled look, since our original plan had always been to dock overnight at the space station and take a little much-needed R & R, but he didn't argue with me. Neither did anyone else. Not one person queried my change of plans. 

I could put their compliance down to the fact I'm the 'Captain', but it doesn't wash. The Thunderbird's a civilian vessel, and in a safe environment like a Federation space-station we're all supposed to have an equal say.

So I think the reason it was just a case of everyone agreeing with me that the sooner we put some distance between ourselves and our 'passengers' the better.

I certainly didn't want to run the risk of accidentally running into one of them in a public bar. As long as they'd been on our ship, my role of Captain had forced me to handle them with a certain level of diplomacy. On neutral soil, I suspect the self-control I've been exhibiting for the past three days would have escaped me.

I'm furious about the way those fuckers spoke to Tom.  

Evidently, it's one thing to accept a ride from a 'mad' pilot but another thing entirely to be piloted by a man in a wheelchair.

I could literally kill them.

So we're heading back to Ceranus VIII for more passengers and this time our 'guests' will spend the entire journey confined to their quarters. 

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Chief Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 42.

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This is my first log entry for three weeks, which says two things, I guess.

Firstly, I've been so fucking tired that I haven't even given a thought to my diary. When we arrived at DS3 with our second load of passengers from Ceranus VIII, we discovered there was a time slot coming available in the repair bay due to a cancellation. The Chief Engineer offered to knock off the deposit already paid on the time, if we committed ourselves to having the refit during the free period.

The difference meant that we only needed two more trips to afford the re-fit and although we would be pushing the Thunderbird to her limits, not to mention ourselves, to get those two trips completed in time, the offer was too good to refuse.

So for the last three weeks Chakotay has had to pick me out of my chair at the end of each day and physically put me in bed where I have immediately gone out like a light. So much for all that palaver over the privacy of our temporary quarters. The only time we've had for sex has been in the bath each morning.

I love sex in the bath though. The water gives me buoyancy and I feel like an equal partner in our coupling.

I'm hoping that Chakotay will agree to the "minor" modification I have made to the re-fit plans. I worked out that if we had the starboard wall in our quarters moved back 30 centimeters to expand the bathroom, we can replace the bath with a full size Jacuzzi and still have room for me to maneuver my chair around the sink and toilet.

Of course, I am out of favors with him at the moment, which is the other reason for this entry.

Jem screwed up. Big time.

In his favor, he at least waited until we docked yesterday for our refit before blowing it. For the last five weeks his behavior has been impeccable. It was only when we disembarked into the station guest quarters that he lost it.

I should have known better, I suppose. I had even gone as far as dumping the liquor on our first stop at DS3 to prevent any temptation. The Thunderbird is a dry ship. Besides, with the drugs that Jem has been taking to repair his liver damage, an overdose of alcohol could  kill him, and he knows that.

To be safe, I arranged room service for him so that he didn't need credits and advised the management that if they served him a single alcoholic drink that I wouldn't pay for any of our rooms.

Then, I forgot about him.

Hell, I hadn't fucked Chak in a bed for three weeks and we were long overdue some R & R.  We spent all day yesterday in bed, went out for dinner, returned to bed, went out for breakfast, returned to bed and we didn't get up again until lunchtime.

It was only when Chakotay went off this afternoon to answer some questions on the blueprint of the re-fit, that I thought to call by and see how Jem was doing. 

I found him passed out on his bed, snoring heavily and stinking of whiskey.

I panicked. I knew that if Chakotay saw him like that he'd be finished on the Thunderbird. So I floated off to the station sickbay to purchase a couple of hang-over hypos and then rushed back. The first hypo at least woke him up and then he puked all over the bed which at least got some of the alcohol out of him. 

"For fuck’s sake, Jem. I told you Chakotay would have your ass if he caught you drinking. Where the hell did you get credits for the whiskey?” I yelled at him.

"Harry," he replied.

I think I just closed my eyes in despair. I had deliberately concealed Jem’s problem from my best friend, to give Jem a fresh start, so it wasn’t Harry's fault. It wasn't even Jem's fault really. It was mine. Even so, I couldn’t  see Chakotay accepting the offer of my ass to kick instead.

“You’ve got to sober up, fast,” I told him. 

“You really fell on your feet, didn’t you?” he snarled at me, as I administered the second hypospray.

In view of my wheelchair, it took a moment for his comment to sink in and even then I was still a little confused..

“You mean the Thunderbird, or Chakotay?” I asked carefully.

“Auckland,” he replied, somehow building a wealth of venom into the single word.

“What?” I asked him, completely bewildered.

 “I remember you from Auckland,” he snickered. “You were the prison whore.”

I couldn't believe he'd say such a cruel and vicious thing to my face while I was busy trying to save his ass.

“That’s a lie, a fucking lie, and you know it. I never sold my ass. Never,” I growled.

“Oops, sorry. I remember now. You weren’t a whore. You gave it away for free. You were just the prison slut. You must have been good though. You never got that pretty face smashed in, did you? You didn’t even do your time. Did you do the guards that good, huh? Is that why you got parole? Must have pissed you off to find yourself stuck on Voyager though. But you solved that problem didn’t you? Hell,  fucking the Commander was a sure fire way of getting a cushy number," he replied.

I just sat there with my mouth open, and my eyes filling with tears. I felt completely defenseless. Even denying his words would somehow give them some form of reality. He seemed to take my speechlessness as permission to continue.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not dissing you. Fuck, you’ve got a talent, why not use it?”

“Talent?” I finally choked.

“Well, I figure you must be hot. Why the fuck else would he still want you, now you’re a cripple?” Jem asked.

It was only then that I realized he wasn't even looking at me as he talked, he was looking over my shoulder and, before I could turn to find out who the hell he was talking to, Chakotay moved past me in a blur, picked Jem up and literally threw him across the room so that he hit the wall with a sickening crunch and started to slide down to the floor.

Chakotay gave a bellow of pure rage and stepped forward to finish the job. For a moment of pure terror I actually thought he would kill the engineer. That's when the penny dropped.

"Chak. Please Chak. Don't do it. It's what he wants. Can't you see that? He wants you to kill him," I yelled.

"Good," Chakotay growled.

"NO," I wailed. "I NEED you, Chak," and the terror in my voice finally broke through his red haze of anger. He shook his head slowly, forcing calm over his furious body as he realized that if he killed Jem, he would be jailed and I would be abandoned.

I thanked the Spirits, the Gods and any other omnipotent beings that might be listening in that Chakotay was strong enough to control his anger. Most of the time he is as calm and steady as a rock, but when he perceives danger or insult to me, he becomes a cyclone.

"I don't ever want to see your face again," he told Jem quietly.

Jem was slumped on the floor, blood streaming from his nose from the force of his impact against the wall.

"No, Chakotay," I said calmly. "He's our Engineer and when we leave here he'll be coming with us."

Chakotay looked at me in complete disbelief.

"You're prepared to keep him after he said those things to you?" he demanded.

"Did you believe what he said?" I asked him quietly.

"Of course not," he spat, his eyes flashing outrage on my behalf.

"Then no harm was done, was it?" I asked. "I know it wasn't true, and you don't believe it's true, so it doesn't matter."

"You're still willing to give him another chance?" he asked me, his face completely puzzled.

"Just give him one more chance, Chakotay. Please," I begged.

"I'll think about it," he replied.

I still don't know what he's going to decide. The fact that he's willing to consider it at all is more than either Jem or I deserve and, to be honest, I'm unsure why I'm still putting myself on the line for him.

Only there was something so suicidal about the way he had deliberately taunted Chakotay by attacking me that it proves he needs pity more than hatred.

Besides, if I'm completely honest, there was a certain element of truth in his words. But I was a different person then.

There are a lot of things about the pre-Chakotay Tom Paris that I don't like. Jem reminds me of what I might have been if I had never taken that fatal trip on Voyager and I don't like what I see.

When I see myself in Chakotay's eyes though, I'm reborn.

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Op's Officer's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 50.

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It's been less than two months and the Thunderbird has changed from being a dream to a nightmare. 

Not that it appears that way on the surface.  The refit at DS3 means that Sue and I have left the impersonal bunks and communal bathroom of Crew Quarters 2 and are living in the comparative luxury of our own private Quarters. We have a double bed, a small personal lounge area just large enough to swing a cat in (if we had one) and even our own bath. The partition wall between our suite and the remainder of CQ2 has been fitted with sound dampeners so although there is only a 5mm bulkhead between us and any passengers. we have the illusion of privacy and Sue is pretty content.

She smiles a lot, and a smiling Sue is invariably an affectionate Sue, so I should be happy.

I'm not.

The problem is Trabor.

No, that's not strictly true. The *cause* of the problem was Trabor and his behavior on DS3. The current problem is more the shockwaves of reaction that are still impacting eight days later. I had thought that Chakotay's anger with the Ceranians had been extreme. In comparison to his current behavior, he was being positively friendly towards them.

Tom told me what happened but I'm taking his view of events with a pinch of salt. Tom is always looking for the good in Trabor, the redeemable qualities that lurk under the surface. Chakotay is pretty damned sure that Trabor has no redeemable qualities and I'm beginning to suspect that Chakotay's harsh opinion is correct. Trabor called Tom a cripple and a whore.

Chakotay should have spaced the bastard.

Admittedly none of us have seen much of the engineer since his return to the ship. He takes his meals in his own room and never attends our evening gatherings. That's okay in itself, since none of us can imagine having a civil conversation with him ourselves. The reason it's become an issue is that Tom keeps calling us on what he calls our "childish behavior".

Tom is unbelievable. If I didn't love the guy I think I'd hit him. He's decided that Trabor is in need of salvation, that Tom's own role is as Trabor's personal savior, and he's trying to force us all to play along with him. He's been married two months and he's already risking his marriage to help a bitter, washed-out alcoholic who evidently has a death wish.

He must have a death wish to have dared speak to Tom like that in front of Chakotay.

There's another issue here though.  I don't think this is just about Jem Trabor. Maybe, in a strange way, it isn't about Trabor at all.  This is about Tom's need to fight his own battles and Chakotay's persistence in treating him as though he is some kind of fragile doll.

Chakotay is so protective of Tom that he wounds him far more grievously than any perceived danger might. Every time Chakotay wades into battle with that "Tom is MINE" look on his face, it shatters Tom's pride. Yet if he confronts Chakotay about it, Chakotay reasonably replies that *anyone* would defend the person they loved from verbal or physical slights, whether they are real or merely perceived.

He's right, but he's wrong too. He's treating Tom like a wife. Like I treat Sue. He has the same unthinking chauvinistic need to protect Tom as I feel about Sue.

She doesn't like it and neither does Tom.

Whenever I flex my testosterone induced fits of male protectiveness, Sue swiftly brings me back to Earth with a figurative kick in the balls. She points out that she is smarter than me, scored higher in self-defense classes than I did and was stationed on a Starship while I was still sitting in the Academy still trying to imagine what the stars looked like from a view port.  

For Tom it's worse. He's a man. Just because he's married to a man it doesn't make him any less prone to the instinctive male need to seen as strong. The wheelchair doesn't help, of course, but five minutes in Tom's company soon proves that it takes *more* strength to live with his kind of disability than most people possess.

The only person who consistently fails to truly appreciate Tom's strength is Chakotay, and if he doesn't stop throwing his weight around and treating Tom like a child, I think that the Thunderbird is going to become their battleground.

I've found myself praying for us to stumble into the middle of some external conflict just to ease the pressure that is building within this ship.

Something is going to erupt very shortly and, the way things are going, it's Tom who's going to strike the first blow.

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Chief Pilot's Personal Log, “The Thunderbird,” : Day 52.

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tbc