Chapter 8
Tom smiled at the computer screen and said, "See if you can get
someone to try my little suggestion. And remember, even hawks
build nests."
He leaned back. "End recording. Computer, transmit to Captain
Chakotay, Wolf Raider." Tom wondered what the Starfleet censors
would make of the last bit. Maybe it would cause them to watch
Chakotay more carefully, and maybe a little pressure would squeeze
the man out of Starfleet.
"Tom," he said to the air, "you are one conniving bastard." He turned
away from the computer console in the tiny but thankfully private
room he'd been assigned. Troop transports were not known for
luxury, but at least he had space to be alone, which was more than
the grunts were afforded.
Grunts. It was a deprecating word for the people who bore the worst
of this, or any, war. He'd pulled a few out of Dominion prison camps,
and resupplied more than a few caught behind enemy lines. He
respected them, though it had been a long time since he felt the same
deep loyalty to the ideals they fought for. He pitied them, knowing
they fought on in good faith for an institution that Tom knew didn't
always deserve that faith.
It didn't always, he reminded himself, but it usually did. Starfleet
and the Federation meant something, stood for high ideals. He knew
that it was people who failed, not institutions. Still, he was not going
to let it pass that people in the institution had used him.
He was starting to get angry again, and he could not afford it. He
needed to keep focus, to learn everything he could before acting,
before taking his revenge. Two deep breaths. Compose the face.
Smile. He liked Seven's idea of revenge, and in her usual drive for
efficiency, it would also free a friend and get the Runners the best
medical care available. Stealing Voyager's EMH would give them all
three.
When they parted company on DS 9, she had taken her private flyer
and followed Ba'ruq to his colony. There she would help him install
the Dominion shield generator and refit the Logan's medical bay with
the computer space and hologenerators the Doctor's matrix would
need. All they had to do was get a download device into the room
where the EMH program was isolated. They hadn't figured out all
the details yet.
He stood and stretched. Time for lunch and to see what else was on
this sky bucket. He left his quarters and spent a few moments
finding his way to the mess hall. It was sparsely populated, but
several uniforms of various departments were seated at tables or
standing in line for food. Tom joined the line, and the man in the
queue ahead of him turned to regard him with curiosity.
Not for the first time Tom mildly regretted the Bajoran earring. It
had garnered many such looks, but he answered the gaze evenly.
"Good morning."
The tall man, a 'Fleet soldier with a short brush cut and a large build,
nodded in response and turned away. Tom didn't pursue
conversation. When he reached the head of the line he took one of
the pre-set trays, walked over to an empty table, and sat facing the
door. He wished he'd thought to bring an entertainment padd. If he
ever needed distraction it was now, when he was surrounded by
Starfleet uniforms.
His mind wandered as he ate. He permitted himself a trace of worry
about Ba'ruq, and a momentary chagrin that Seven had nearly
convinced him that her late evening with Harry was all innocence
and engineering. He was nearly through with the meal when a few
newcomers pulled out chairs and sat at his table. He looked up in
welcome, but was surprised to see that they didn't have trays. The
faces were not friendly.
"Can I help you?" Paris fell back on bland civility, feeling old
reflexes engage. He'd been through this scene in the Auckland
prison, on Voyager, in the bars on Ursula's Moon. It didn't worry
him too much, since there was little chance that things could get
violent in such a public arena. He could write the script, though.
There were three, two men and a woman, and he guessed it would be
the smaller of the men who spoke. He was right.
"What's the Runner he-ro doing on a troop ship? Should we be
prettying ourselves up for the newsfeeds?" The man's voice was a
scornful drawl.
Tom pushed away his tray and leaned back. "I do what I do, just like
you. But there's one of me and a lot of you, and even when you have
the harder job, they put the vids on me. I can't help that." He spoke
frankly, without trying either to insult or appease. He knew they
had a hard job, and understood somewhat why they might respond
to him this way. His openness didn't work.
"Doesn't hurt, who your daddy is."
"Was," interjected the woman in mock sympathy. "He lost his daddy
this year."
Paris refused to react, though the words cut him deeply. The larger
of the two men, the silent one, was the soldier from the food line, and
he looked uncomfortable. The other man, smaller only in comparison
to his companion, started in again. "You Runners just glide in and
run out when it suits you, and everyone says, 'Hoo-ray.' We're on
the ground, day in, day out, taking whatever the Dominion throws at
us. It's boredom or death, and no in-betweens."
'Boredom or death' sounded like the Delta Quadrant. Tom started to
speak, but stopped himself from trying to justify his life to this
soldier. The man facing him was starting to warm up to his subject,
to work himself into a good display of indignant feeling.
"You're nothing," he sneered. "Y'know what we call you pesky
Runners?" He didn't wait for Tom to shake his head. "Butterflies,"
the man answered. "You flutter in all pretty, and everyone says,
'Ooo!'" He fluttered his hands in a grotesque parody. "But you can't
stand up to the real work of a war."
Another voice broke in. "Are you quite through?"
Tom only glanced up far enough to see the pips at the neck of the
newcomer standing nearby. "It's all right, Lieutenant. Let them
have their say."
The officer answered, "Only if they know what they're talking about."
Recognition coursed through Tom. He knew that voice. Without
looking up he said, "Dahl, I can handle this."
"Probably so, but these three probably have no idea what you've
done."
"Don't," Tom said sharply, still not looking at the Betazoid.
Dahl ignored him. "Any of you have friends in the 523rd?" The
bigger man nodded, and Dahl continued in a voice harder than Tom
had ever heard on the Logan, "Go look up the incident on Lynand III,
and then come tell me what a 'butterfly' this Runner is." He paused
and then said, "Dismissed."
The three soldiers left rapidly, and Treyn Dahl took the chair
opposite Paris.
Tom wasn't prepared for this encounter, and he took care not to shift
the mask he'd assumed for the soldiers while his mind sifted
possibilities. Dahl was probably assuming that the uniform would be
a surprise. Tom had to react appropriately, but the anger he had
been carrying for days wanted expression at this, it's main target.
Warp equations. They might serve the double purpose of keeping
him calm and shielding his thoughts from a telepath.
Tom broke the silence. "Let me guess: Your name isn't Treyn Dahl,
and you're in Starfleet Intelligence."
"Reasonable assumption."
"No wonder you were such a lousy medic." Tom allowed one
eyebrow to rise in mock query. "So what do I call you now?"
"Treyn Dahl," came the answer. "It's a good name, and the
assignment isn't quite over yet." A slight smile moved the corners of
the mouth. "Sorry about the 'lousy medic' part."
"Yeah." Paris stared at him with a contrived expression of bored
annoyance. Beneath the mask he was taking in the differences
between the Runner he had first met and the uniformed officer he
faced now. Some of the changes were subtle, and some were not.
Dahl had defined features, and the blond hair that had always hung
loose past his shoulders aboard the Logan was now pulled back
severely. When they first met he had seemed softer, more feminine
maybe, but the figure before him was hard and commanding.
The Dahl of the Logan had been open, relaxed, and he'd had the easy
sensuality and deep eyes that seemed innate to natives of BetaZed.
Tom had felt his mind touch during the training sessions for the
brace, and remembered it as full of humor and compassion. The
officer across the table was different, with the bearing of Starfleet
training and an air of control. The dark gray eyes seemed more
shallow, and only the full lips gave any hint of sensuality. This man
seemed like he would never talk of healing the soul as well as the
body, as his character on the Logan had done.
"... Tom? Hey, Tom!" The Betazoid's voice intruded on his
observations.
"What?" He let some of the annoyance on his face into his voice.
"What happened to the brace?" Dahl seemed genuinely curious.
"I upgraded," Paris said dismissively. Ba'ruq said Dahl was the one
who suggested contacting Seven of Nine, so he had to know about his
new implants. The question told him, though, that Dahl must have
have been watching him long before the soldiers sat down. He
changed the subject, and asked the one thing he most wanted to
know. "Is Ba'ruq in your report, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, but -- " Dahl held up his hand as Tom cursed silently. "But
Starfleet already knew about the colony. I don't believe that
information has been shared with the Klingon High Council."
Tom felt relief wash through him, and a sense of guilt easing. He was
not responsible for betraying the existence of Ba'ruq's people. He
asked his next question. "So what were you doing on the Logan,
apart from pretending to be a medic?"
"Runners go places the 'Fleet can't, Tom," came the answer with a
note of impatience. "You know that."
The answer was no answer, really, but Tom had not expected better.
"Of course," he said blandly, and rose to pick up his tray. He set it
down again and placed his palms on the table, leaning close to the
face he had once thought was a friend's. He said softly, "Look,
whatever the fuck your name is, I didn't need your little
intervention with those soldiers."
Tom stood up and took his tray to the recycler and made to leave.
He turned back at the door to see Dahl leaning back with his tight
braid hanging down, eyes to the ceiling. He looked unhappy. Tom
spared thought to wonder why, and decided that he didn't care. He
went back to his quarters.
*---*
Chakotay regarded the screen on his desk, seeing the message
waiting from Tom. It bore, in addition to the censor approval codes,
an indicator flag from Command. The flag meant that something in
the message had caught their eyes, and would require a report.
Thanks, Tom.
"Begin playback."
Paris' face filled the screen, earring glittering and eyes bright. "Hello,
Chakotay.
"Leave it to me to tell you I'm a lousy correspondent and then prove
myself wrong by sending you messages.
"I got yours, by the way. I'm sorry I couldn't get your Bajoran friend
Kostin on to the Logan. She'd already left, but I did give him a few
contact names.
"Starfleet's sending me to Earth on their own transports. I'm on a
troopship for the first part, but I'll transfer to an Intrepid class for
the second leg. That'll be weird. Voyager, but not Voyager."
Tom's figure shrugged, then smiled at Chakotay with a glint of
wicked meaning. "See if you can get a woman to try my little
suggestion." Then the eyes softened, as he finished, "And remember,
even hawks build nests."
Chakotay stared at the screen, and he couldn't stop a half-smile at
Tom's irrepressible nature. As soon as Tom's face faded it was
replaced by a transcript of the message with sections highlighted for
explanations. He'd expected the reference to Kostin Bonyer to be
flagged, but it wasn't. Only the last two sentences had a request for
further information.
"Tom, you bastard," he said. "You did that on purpose." He leaned
back and considered, and the thought that rose was a memory of two
days ago, when Admiral Nachayev's call pulled him out of bed with
Tom.
He let himself replay the interaction in his mind. After giving him
his orders, orders which shouldn't have warranted an admiral's
personal attention, she had mentioned Tom. She had asked Chakotay
if they'd seen each other on the station, and he said yes.
"Pardon me for asking a personal question," she'd said in her overly
polite manner, "but is he with you now?"
Chakotay refused to blush, though aware that it was obvious he was
out of uniform. "He's in the other room, and the terminal is hushed.
He can't hear anything."
"Oh, Captain, we trust your discretion. I simply wanted to ask you to
do me favor." She used the sincere near-wheedle that always made
Chakotay wonder how she'd risen so high.
"A favor?" he'd asked carefully.
"Yes, Captain. You see, he's been offered treatment at Starfleet
Medical, and we want to make sure he accepts."
Chakotay had smiled, as if in collusion, but the request seemed odd.
He used the explanation that Tom had given earlier, fishing. "Proof
that he's off the front lines will help negotiations."
"Exactly, Captain." She had permitted herself a gracious expression.
"Anything you can do to encourage him to come to Earth would be
most helpful."
Chakotay didn't tell her that Tom's decision had apparently been
made. Instead he used the opportunity to get more information. "I
don't think it will be easy, sir. He has no love for Starfleet
Headquarters."
"We know, but if you think it will help, please tell him that Admiral
Janeway would be his personal liaison."
They had ended the transmission after that. He hadn't told Paris
about Nachayev's request, or about Janeway's assignment. That a
senior admiral had brought it up, that a junior admiral was assigned
as liaison -- something was too important to Starfleet, and Chakotay
wasn't sure what it was. The negotiation point was a reasonable
explanation, perhaps.
Perhaps.
Chakotay wondered what Tom was up to this time. He rubbed his
eyes, then keyed the terminal to deliver his report.
Next to "See if you can get someone to try my little suggestion,"
Chakotay entered: This sentence refers to a specific sexual practice,
and is of the nature of a private joke. Further details can be
provided if necessary.
He hoped they asked for further details, and he bet himself that
Nachayev would blush if he told her.
Next to "Remember, even hawks build nests," he wrote: The sentence
refers to an old Indian legend. ("About two days old," he laughed to
himself.) I believe Mr. Paris is referring to a possibility that he may
cease his activities as a Runner.'
"Give them what they want to hear," he punctuated mentally, then
caught himself. Since when was Starfleet "them"?
Since Tom planted a seed of doubt, came the answer, and since
Nachayev watered that seed.
He contemplated his report for a moment, and he didn't like the
thoughts that came to him -- unsorted, unappealing, and more than a
little disconcerting. With a sigh he keyed the terminal to deliver his
amendments to Command.
Chakotay checked the time. He was technically not on shift -- not
that captains were ever off duty -- and the rendezvous was over 12
hours away. He needed time away, time to think. He needed
something, and when he relaxed himself to look inside and find what
it was he needed, the answer was unequivocal. He stepped out of his
ready room on to the bridge.
Harry stood up out of the command chair, but Chakotay didn't take
his place. He stepped close enough to his First Officer to speak
quietly. "Harry, I'll be unavailable for a while."
Kim looked at him questioningly, and Chakotay answered carefully,
"I need a little... specific guidance."
After a moment's confusion, Chakotay saw understanding in Harry's
eyes. "I'll see that you're not disturbed, sir."
"As much as is possible."
In his quarters Chakotay brought out his medicine bundle, a packet
of tobacco as an offering to the spirits, and the Akoonah. He lay
them on the floor of his bedroom, every movement feeling hesitant
from disuse, and as he remembered the forms he thought about his
last impromptu vision.
One of the first lessons his tribe taught their children was to listen.
They would be sent to sit alone in the wilds, or anywhere, and told to
open up to the sounds. It served both a practical and a spiritual
purpose. In a very material sense, survival in the wild meant
knowing your surroundings, knowing the normal sounds of insects
and birds, so that any change would be noticed. For the heart,
though, it demonstrated that the world is busy, that life moves in its
own ways, "Despite," as his father used to say, "your big boots
crashing around."
Three nights ago the Akoonah had taught him that lesson again, but
this time the wilds had been the land that was himself. His guide
had appeared as the familiar green and yellow snake, and silently
crawled inside him, twining herself loosely three times around his
spinal cord, as if nesting in the unfulfilled desire for Tom. The paths
of discovery had risen from his groin through his spine and down
into his limbs. If the view of himself in the shop window on DS9 had
surprised him, listening to his body in Vision from the Akoonah
astonished him. The depth of his disconnection from his inner self
was disturbing.
The path leading to his head, his mind, showed him thought
appearing like bright arrows of linearity, not connected to the body.
Chakotay realized the lines of his thought and the paths of his body
should be an interconnected web, that the Akoonah was telling him
he had forgotten how to see the whole. By constantly planning,
constantly projecting, he had forgotten to simply be who he was,
where he was, body and mind linked as one.
Lastly, though, he saw his heart, and the Vision showed him that he
had lost it long before ripping it out to give to Tom. It had been a
loss of slow attrition. The giving had allowed him to regain his core.
He felt it beat strong, beats echoed faintly from somewhere outside
himself.
Chakotay remembered these insights, and looked down at his
preparations. "Listen to yourself. Listen to your body," the Vision
had said.
Right now his body was telling him his uniform itched.
He took it off piece by piece, laying it on the bed. There was
ceremonial garb in his closet, but he chose to go without. He seated
himself nude before his bundle, before his offering, before the
'hallucinogenic device'. The last time he used the Akoonah he had
switched it on; tonight he was going to enter into it.
He spent several moments unrolling the bundle, looking at each item
it contained. His personal fetishes included a few objects from Earth,
some from Dorvan V, more from the Delta quadrant. None had been
added in the years since Voyager's return.
When they were all laid out, each one treasured and remembered, he
reached his fingers forward.
It wasn't immediate, but gradually a sense of his Vision's
surroundings faded in. The constant hum of the ship's engines was
replaced by the un-silent quiet of a woodland. It was the familiar
starting place for so many of his inward journeys. He was still nude
in his vision, standing in a clearing under slanting rays of the
afternoon sun.
He looked around and saw his guide, green and yellow, waiting at the
head of one of several trails leading out. She had chosen one at right
angles to the sun, heading South, he guessed. He walked forward,
thinking greetings toward her, and received back a distinct answer:
"Thought you'd forgotten about me." It addressed him by his secret
names, the ones not even his father knew, and bade him follow.
The path led out to a wider clearing, nearly big enough to be called a
meadow. Many paces away, Chakotay could see a strange tableau.
As they came closer he could make out a huge, flat stone, about the
height of a table, with a hooded figure bustling around it as if it were
a workbench. Smoke rose from a brazier set up on a corner of the
rock, and spread on the table was a body, face down and arms
outstretched. The surface of the stone was large enough to support
the entire length.
A pot balanced over the brazier's coals, and Chakotay's nose caught a
whiff of parrafin. A pile of feathers was neatly placed near the rock.
He looked over toward his spirit guide, but she had gone. He was
supposed to be here. But what was this?
He watched, and in a few moments he understood what was
happening. The hooded figure was using wax to attach layers of
feathers to the arms and shoulders of the man laid out on the rock.
Chakotay was ignored as he moved to get a closer look, and saw that
one side was nearly finished. With each application of hot wax and
feather, the subject of this strange decoration flinched slightly. The
other arm and torso of the man on the stone was bare of feathers,
yet Chakotay could see the pitted scars where the technique had
been used before. But who was this?
He looked carefully at the torso, at the smooth buttocks with their
few sparse hairs that thickened to cover the legs with reddish curls.
This, with the dark blond hair in a ponytail, could only be Tom.
Chakotay walked around the rock to the head, and squatted down so
that he could see the face. It was Tom's face, disfigured momentarily
by a grimace of pain.
"What is this?" Chakotay asked, wondering whether he would be
heard.
"Just getting my wings, Chief." The reply was choked, with a gasp as
another feather was applied.
"These won't last, Tom. They'll melt or fall off, and you'll have to do
this all over again."
A rueful chuckle answered him. "I know, but when I'm up there, it's
worth it."
One side finished, Tom moved the densely feathered arm
experimentally. "I can't wait until it's all done." He seemed relaxed
during the break that came as the hooded figure moved his
equipment and the feathers to the other side of the stone table. "You
should try it, Chakotay."
At the suggestion, Chakotay flicked his eyes back over the scars of
the exposed shoulder. They ran regular and deep, the cicatrix
continuing down the entire back of the outspread arm. The sight
sickened him.
"Why do you do this to yourself?"
Tom's eyes looked at him unwaveringly. "Everything has a price,
Chakotay. I've chosen mine. I have to fly."
Before he could answer the vision began to fade, and the hum of
engines and a klaxon of red alert took over his senses. The computer
had engaged its override.
Harry's voice was urgent over the comm link. "Captain, we've got
trouble."
He was dressed and out the door in ninety-seven seconds.