Caretaker - L. A. Graf [47]
Tuvok coughed politely into his palm.
"Astonishing!" Trundling around behind Tuvok, Neelix bobbed up onto his toes to wave cheerily at the transporter technician behind the transparent protective barrier. "You Federations are obviously an advanced culture."
Tuvok turned to watch the little creature's curious progress around the transporter room, but found himself unable to willingly step any closer. "The Federation is made up of many cultures. I am Vulcan."
"Neelix." The alien spun, thrusting out a hand in an exuberant offer of friendship. "Good to meet you."
The thought alone of touching skin that both smelled and crawled forced another little cough out of Tuvok. That tiny breach in his Vulcan discipline so startled him--yet another inappropriate reaction, his cool inner voice informed him--that he didn't even have time to be grateful that Neelix was too quickly distracted to insist that Tuvok shake hands. Tuvok held his ground, reciting each stanza of the calming Pok'Tow in his head, as Neelix scurried across the room again to poke at an intercom panel with one dirty finger.
"Interesting. What exactly does all this do?"
"I assure you--" It took every ounce of his Vulcan control to step politely forward and gesture Neelix toward the transporter-room door.
"--everything in this room has a specific function. However, it would take several hours to explain it all. I suggest we proceed to your quarters." He was so pleased by Neelix's willingness to precede him out into the corridor that he added smoothly, "Perhaps you would care for a bath."
Neelix blinked up at him earnestly. "A what?"
For the first time, Tuvok experienced something close to regret that Janeway had successfully rescued him from the Maquis.
Chapter 12
Kim had awakened that morning feeling cold, lonely, and just a little bit sick. The first two he attributed to being held hostage in a colorless alien hospital with nothing to wear but a light cotton robe, and no one he knew to depend on or talk with.
The one time he'd been hospitalized as a child--for exposure to Rigellian fever after playing Starfleet explorer with a passel of rambunctious green children from an Orion diplomat's entourage --his mother and father had hovered about his quarantine suite the entire time. He hadn't even felt sick then (he never did get around to developing symptoms), but he'd still had all the books and films any boy could have wanted to drive boredom away, and Mother had even brought him his clarinet, in case his stay expanded to something longer than a week. As it was, he'd been allowed to go home after only three days, and his mother still threw him a "welcome home" party and invited all his friends.
Just remembering her round, happy face in comparison with all this dullness pushed a fresh clot of loneliness into his heart, and Kim had rolled over on his cold alien cot and cried quietly to himself until the worst of it went away.
Now, the silence of the dim infirmary only exacerbated the sick weakness in his stomach. Like an old analog clock, whose ticking both kept you awake and forcibly reminded you of the winks you were missing.
Sitting up, he tried to adopt an air of professional calm as he tugged wide the collar of his gown and peeked down it to inspect the knobby growths he'd already examined some five or six other times