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and doing diagnostics. Open toolboxes lay gutted on the deck as crew members in gold uniforms rooted through the piles of contraptions that Chakotay could not begin to name. Once in a while one person would hand another some device or change a setting and try again. B’Elanna Torres was nowhere to be seen.
    He heard her before he saw her, demanding the smaller laser torch from a teammate he identified as Lieutenant Carey. He was gratified and surprised that she would choose her old rival as her workmate.
    “There aren’t any smaller sizes,” Carey said.
    “What do you want me to do, go to sickbay and get a laser scalpel?”
    B’Elanna emerged from under a workstation, a grim smile on her face.
    “Good idea,” she said. “Maybe a bunch of them so everyone can have one. These interfaces are tiny, and I don’t want to have to cut any more than we need to.” She turned her attention to the entire Engineering staff. “Everybody, remember, everything we cut today we’re going to have to rebuild. So be selective. Work fast and work accurate, but don’t overdo it.
    We’re going to have to stretch supplies and replicator power enough as it is to get this system back on-line.”
    “Did you really mean that about the scalpels?” Carey asked.
    B’Elanna seemed confused. “Of course. It was a brilliant idea.”
    It. Carey shook his head. “I’d hate to face down the doc for those,” he said.
    “I’ll go,” Chakotay volunteered.
    That was when Torres, Carey, and the rest of Engineering realized that the exec was on deck.
    “But, Commander, isn’t that a waste of your time?” Torres asked.
    Chakotay smiled. “Mr. Carey is an engineer and belongs down here.
    And I think I can convince The Doctor to give me the supplies.
    Besides, it will get me out of the stench.”
    Carey grinned and shrugged. Cutting through interfaces with laser torches really did create an unpleasant aroma, acrid and harsh on nasal membranes.
    He still felt very strange, alienated even from B’Elanna, with whom he had served in the Maquis and whom he had mentored through her tempestuous career.
    And then the absurdity hit him. There was something very wrong if he felt alienated from B’Elanna, utterly unconnected and unwanted by someone he valued so highly. Someone he knew valued him.
    And now he felt vaguely threatened. Paranoid, even, worried about what she might be thinking or planning.
    This made no sense. He had been thinking about his feelings, wondering why he was ill at ease. And there was no real problem outside his head. The loneliness wasn’t linked to anything in real life at all.
    This had nothing to do with him, Chakotay realized. There was something else wrong. Maybe the intuition that made it clear that no matter what the orders, the ship was heading straight into the tachyon field was giving him new information.
    Only without the proper quiet and peace of mind he couldn’t use it, couldn’t follow the threads into the spirit world where he could see it all very distinctly.
    Someone jostled him and muttered a perfunctory apology, racing back to another work crew. He tried to step out of the way, only to find himself walking over a set of implements of various size and color whose function he could not identify.
    “Commander, could you pass me the two millimeter containment jib?” a young ensign asked.
    Chakotay moved aside so that she could choose the tool herself.
    He was definitely in the way here.
    If he had some possible insight into the problem, something that might get them out of trouble, it was his duty to follow it as seriously as possible. When he was captain, he hadn’t cared where the information had come from, so long as it was useful.
    And he certainly would have insisted that one of his senior officers with such a feeling follow it up and get whatever could be found.
    Deciding that he would talk to the captain as soon as he could made him feel better. The loneliness was still there, debilitating if