"I trust, Commander," she says coldly, "that Chapter H, section 5, paragraph r, subparagraph vi, rings a bell with you?"

We are in her ready room. She has not invited me to sit down. Those dark eyes are definitely on the slate side of blue. Her face is set in an expression that I have not yet learned how to read. Either she is secretly amused and just going through the motions, or I am in big trouble. She’s obviously citing Regulations, but which one? Then it dawns on me what she must be talking about.

"Oh, you mean the part about senior officers not using physical discipline on junior officers," I say, pretty sure that must be it. If I’ve guessed wrong, though, I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about.

"You are familiar with it, then," she says. Her voice could make ice on the Vulcan desert. "Would you care to explain your little…confrontation …with Crewman Dalby yesterday, then?"

Damn. I should have known she'd hear about it. She knows everything that goes on this ship, to the point that I sometimes wonder whether she is telepathic. I should have told her about this myself, but we were busy with the gel pack failures and … Stop making excuses. I didn’t tell her because I wasn’t sure how she would react. It wasn’t exactly by the book.

I am about to explain, when I take a good look at her eyes. She’s not angry. If she were angry, I’d be getting the Death Stare in full force. "Oh," I say. "You mean the demonstration."

I’ve surprised her. "Demonstration?"

"Yes," I say, with as much sincerity as I can muster. "Dalby was expressing a wish that this ship were run in a more Maquis style. I was demonstrating the difference between StarFleet protocols and Maquis, um, techniques." A left hook to the jaw can probably be called a demonstration.

She bites her lip to keep from smiling. "I see. So there was no disciplinary action involved?"

"None whatsoever, Captain," I say. It’s not actually a lie; more like a fib. A …shading, perhaps. It certainly was lesson for Dalby.

Her eyes are dancing now. My breath catches for a moment. Every once in a while she reveals the essence, the spirit, that hides behind that mask of command. I’d like to know that woman. "Very well," she says, still not smiling except for those eyes.

"Torres to Captain Janeway," B’Elanna’s voice splits the room.

"Go ahead, B’Elanna," she says.

"Tuvok has figured out what’s infecting the gel packs," B’Elanna says. She hesitates for a moment, then adds, "It’s a cheese."

The Captain’s first reaction is to tilt her head and focus on something about a parsec away. Then she looks at me with silent inquiry.

I shake my head. "B’Elanna’s got a sense of humor, but not about the ship. And Tuvok"–I let it hang. She knows Tuvok would not jest about something this important to the safety of the ship.

"I knew it would sound like that," B’Elanna says angrily. "Captain, it’s not a joke. We really do have a problem with a cheese."

She sighs. "We’re on our way, B’Elanna." She looks at me, and her mouth tugs far to one side. "Tell me, Commander," she says, "do you remember any regulations about errant dairy products?"

Spirits, but I enjoy this job. I enjoy this woman.

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