Summary: "Following an encounter with an unexplained phenomenon, Tom
Paris relives the past six years of his life, while B'Elanna and the
Doctor race against time to save his mind from irreparable damage."
Rated PG
BY MALCOLM REEVE - 106625.3210@compuserve.com
This is the first of a two part story set somewhere in the middle of
season four.
Acknowledgment: Many thanks to Jan for her continuing
encouragement, constructive comments, and for previewing this story
for me! Thank you!
"INSTANT REPLAY" BY MALCOLM REEVE
PART ONE
If traveling through empty space was boring, Tom Paris reflected,
then traveling through a nebula was much, much worse. A bunch of
dust particles floating aimlessly about, nowhere to go, nothing to
say for themselves. Frankly, they were dull. He yawned, flopped
back into his seat and put his feet up on the helm control. Well,
who was watching? After five days alone on the shuttle, Tom was
suffering from a near terminal case of cabin fever. There really
were only a limited number of ways to amuse yourself on a shuttle,
for five days, with no one but the computer for company and nothing
to see but dust. And Tom had tried them all, at least twice. But
the real problem, the thing that was really making him itch, was that
he was missing B'Elanna, body and soul. But especially body.
He'd suggested that she come along, of course, but his pleas had
fallen on deaf ears. "Why would I want to spend five days collecting
dilithium in the middle of some boring nebula?" she'd asked him over
lunch. "It's your idea, you go."
He'd played his ace card then; he'd smiled his wickedest, most
charmingly seductive smile. It never failed. Never. "But how will
I fill all those empty hours without you?" he'd asked her.
And for a moment, he'd thought she was his. She'd leaned closer, her
eyes smoldering with what he'd fondly assumed was passion. Beneath
the table, her hand had touched his leg, nimble fingers tracing
higher and higher.... He'd smiled. Must have looked like an idiot.
"I suggest," she'd murmured, her warm breath tickling his ear, "that
you bring a good book." And with that she was gone.
He sighed at the memory, and the sigh quickly turned into a yawn.
Bored; he was interminably bored. And Tom hated being bored. Things
always seemed to go wrong when he was bored.
"Computer," he said out loud, "play Paris Fourteen." The computer
obliged, and the shuttle filled with what B'Elanna would have called
an 'obscure twentieth-century ditty'.
"Computer," he asked, not for the fist time, "How long until we reach
the rendezvous point?"
"Two hours thirty five minutes and fifteen seconds," it rattled off,
seemingly not irritated by Tom's repeated request for the same piece of
information. He half expected it to reply, "Get yourself a clock."
The music changed track, and Tom smiled. This was his current
favorite; B'Elanna didn't see the joke - her sense of humor was
sometimes disturbingly Klingon - but HE thought it was amusing. He
sang along for a while.
"Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you...
For here am I sitting in a tin-can, far above the world. Planet
Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."
He wasn't exactly sure what a tin-can was, but he suspected that it
felt a lot like the inside of a shuttle, after five days, alone, in
the middle of the galaxy's most boring nebula.
"Computer, do you know what a tin-can is?" he asked, for want of a
better conversation.
"Please specify the parameters of...."
A brilliant white light suddenly flashed towards the shuttle.
"Computer, darken the windows!" Tom barked. This was more like it!
"Windows are at maximum opacity," the computer told him smoothly.
Tom swore under his breath. And then, since he was alone, he swore
loudly too. The light was blinding; he could see nothing.
"Computer, analyze the source of the light."
"The source of the light is a sub-temporal distortion field."
"Is it heading this way?" he snapped, blind fingers fumbling
uselessly at the controls. Perhaps boring wasn't so bad.
"Please re-phrase the question."
The brightness intensified, and Tom screwed his eyes shut against the
glare. But it made little difference. All he could see was red
through the thin veil of his eyelids. "Is the distortion field
approaching the shuttle?"
"The distortion field is approaching the shuttle."
"Take evasive action."
"Unable to comply."
"What?"
"Incomplete question."
The light was painful now, and he crushed his eyes into the palms of
his hands in an attempt to dim the glare. But it was useless; his
whole body felt translucent.
"Why are you unable to take evasive action?" he snapped. If only he
could see to fly the shuttle himself!
"The velocity of the sub-temporal field exceeds the maximum velocity
of the shuttle."
"Then go around it!"
"The dimensions of the sub-temporal field exceed the maximum distance
traversal by the shuttle prior to impact."
"It's too big and too fast," Tom paraphrased, thinking as quickly as
the mind-numbing brightness would allow. "Estimate time to impact."
"Impact in twenty-five seconds."
"Estimate damage to the shuttle and the cargo."
"No damage to the shuttle or its cargo is anticipated."
That was good. "Estimate damage to me," he asked.
The computer paused before answering: "Unable to determine."
"Great," he muttered. "Down-load all logs and sensor readings into
the ship's main data-base, maintain course to rendezvous point with
Voyager, broadcast a hail on all frequencies, and...."
The sub-temporal field hit with the crushing weight of a tidal wave.
Tom felt himself hit the floor with a heavy thud as the white-light
flooded into his body, lifting his mind free and carrying it away
like so much flotsam. He could feel memories blinking out of
existence, his life contracting and reducing with each thud of his
rapidly beating heart. He had to stop it. He had to stop the flood
washing his mind away while there was still something left of
himself. Instinctively, he knew he had to grab hold of something in
the flood, some part of himself.... Dimly, through the rushing of
the white-light, he thought he heard himself scream; it was hard to
tell in that all-consuming brilliance, but it was enough. It was
something to hold onto. And so he screamed, and screamed and clung
to that shred of himself against the almost overwhelming ferocity of
the force that battered at the remnants of his mind.
***
B'Elanna Torres tapped her foot impatiently as the turbo-lift stopped
on its way to engineering. The door hissed open and Neelix stepped
inside, his enthusiastic grin warning her to keep a firm grip on her
temper.
"Good morning, Lieutenant," he began cheerily.
"Neelix," she replied, hoping to keep the conversation short. She
had enough on her mind this morning.
"And I'm sure it IS a good morning for you!" he carried on, ignoring
her frosty response.
"Really? Why's that?" She knew exactly why, but was unable to
control her tongue. Neelix wasn't the first person to make a similar
comment this morning. It was beginning to grate.
"Why, because Lieutenant Paris will be back this morning!" Neelix
replied.
"He will?" she asked dryly. "I'd forgotten."
"Oh, I'm sure you hadn't!" Neelix persisted, oblivious to her
sarcasm. "And I thought I'd prepare a little romantic dinner for the
two of you this evening..."
"Neelix," Torres interrupted, struggling to keep her temper. "I
appreciate the thought, but really, don't bother."
"Oh, it's not a bother! I'll set up a little table near the window,
some low lighting..."
Mercifully, the turbolift stopped. "Good-bye Neelix," Torres said
without a backward glance, as she stalked into Engineering. Watching
her staff scurry out of her way, she guessed that the irritation was
showing on her face. She stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to
smooth the tension from her features. She just couldn't stand
everyone watching her, waiting for a reaction. What did they expect?
That she'd swoon at the feet of the returning hero? Some chance,
after volunteering for that idiotic mission. Five days, out of
contact and alone in the middle of an unchartable nebula? He'd be
lucky if she even spoke to him once he got back. IF he got back.
She scowled again; woe betide the next person who mentioned the name
Tom Paris within her hearing.
***
"Approaching the rendezvous point," Kim reported.
"No sign of the shuttle," Tuvok added.
Janeway nodded in acknowledgment. She wasn't concerned. She had a
lot of faith in her one-time wayward pilot. He'd be there. Instead
of worrying she gazed out at the rainbow-hued nebula drifting in
endless swirls of slow, lazy color. It's beautiful, she thought to
herself, and fascinating. Ceaselessly fascinating. Tom's lucky,
having five whole days to explore it in depth, up close. I'll have
to ask him for a full report, once he...
"I'm picking up something coming out of the nebula," Kim said, right
on cue. "It's the shuttle."
Janeway smiled and rose to her feet, "Hail him."
"No need," Kim replied, then he frowned. "The shuttle's hailing us,
but it's an automated hail. Just a standard greeting."
"Reply," Janeway ordered, suddenly uneasy.
"No response. Trying all frequencies. Still no response."
"Tuvok; life signs?"
"Scanning...."
Janeway tensed as she waited, hoping that Torres wasn't listening in
on this exchange. Knowing her Chief Engineer, she probably was.
"...one life sign," Tuvok reported after what seemed like an age.
"But very weak."
Janeway's heart sank. "Mr. Kim," she barked, "can you get a lock?"
"Aye, Captain," Kim replied immediately. "It's Tom."
"Transport him directly to sickbay." She tapped her comm badge as she
headed for the turbolift, "Doctor, prepare for an incoming casualty.
Lieutenant Torres meet me in..."
"On my way, Captain," Torres' voice cut across hers, brittle with
tension. Janeway set her jaw grimly as the turbolift started
speeding her towards sickbay; whatever she was to find there, her
instinct told her it wasn't going to be good.
***
The brilliant light lasted so long that Tom found it hard to remember
what had been there before. It tore at his mind, but he hung on
determinedly, and at last the light dimmed and subsided into
darkness. His memory of the light faded with its brilliance, and
soon all he remembered was darkness, soft and silent. And then he
was falling; lights - memories - flashed past him, a face, a feeling,
a touch, speeding so fast he couldn't reach them. And then they
slowed, came into focus and...
"Hey, Paris, I'm with you today!"
Tom stared at Mitch in bewilderment.
"Hey, wake-up Lieutenant!" his friend grinned at him.
"Sorry," Tom shook his head, "I just had a really odd sensation."
Mitch raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Yeah, well, so did I when I saw
the duty schedule - you seen what we got today?"
Tom turned back to the screen he'd been scanning. His heart sank:
"Supplies Duty. Are they kidding?"
"Someone has to do it," Mitch told him, with a parsimonious voice
designed to irritate. "Even fly-boys like you."
Tom shook his head. "I'll die of boredom in Starfleet before they
let me near anything remotely interesting," he complained. It was
bad enough being stuck in the Caldik system, but assigned to Supplies
Duty? It was too much.
"You know why they're doing this don't you?" he asked Mitch, as they
made their way to the transporters.
"No," Mitch replied, his attention suddenly caught by a pretty young
ensign, who gave them a wink as she passed. Mitch grinned back at
her, but Paris just scowled. He wasn't in the mood.
"It's because of dear old Dad," he grumbled. "Can't be seen to be
favoring the Admiral's son. Oh no. Better give him all the really
crummy jobs, just in case."
"You reckon?" Mitch asked, glancing at him sideways. "It's not
because of that stunt you pulled last week, over Caldik V?"
"No one saw that," Tom replied. "And anyway, what do they expect?
If they gave me something more challenging...."
"You only just made Lieutenant! What do you expect to be doing?"
"When my Dad was my age, he was..."
Mitch held up a warning hand. "I don't want to hear it Paris!" he
said with a grin. "I don't care what he was doing. You're not him.
Quit trying to be."
"I'm not!" Tom objected, feeling angrier than the comment deserved.
"That's the last thing I want to be, believe me."
Mitch shrugged. "Right. Then let's forget about what the Admiral
was doing, and start figuring out how we're going to make this
supplies run a little more interesting!"
"You got any ideas?"
"One or two," Mitch admitted, grinning dangerously. "One or two."
***
B'Elanna burst into sickbay, barely pausing to allow the doors to
open in front of her. Looking around, she saw the Doctor and the
Captain standing over a bio-bed, talking quietly.
"What happened?" she asked as she approached them.
"He's alive," Janeway told her immediately.
"But?" Torres asked, hearing the reservation in the Captain's voice.
"But he's in a coma," the Doctor replied.
"Then get him out of it," Torres snapped, looking down at Tom. He
was pale, but aside from that he looked like he was sleeping. She
stared at him, willing him to open his eyes and smile at her, but he
didn't move.
"That WAS my intention, Lieutenant," the Doctor sniffed. "However,
there are complications."
B'Elanna's head snapped up. "What complications?"
"That's the problem," the Doctor frowned. "I don't understand the
readings I'm getting."
"It seems that Tom's condition is somewhat unusual," Janeway
explained gently. "Doctor, can you explain the problem again?"
"Very well. Lieutenant Paris's brain activity is not compatible with
his comatose state. In fact, when I conducted a level ten neural
scan, it revealed conscious brain activity."
"You mean he's aware of what's going on?" B'Elanna asked, reaching
down and taking Tom's hand in her own.
"No," the Doctor shook his head. "The neural pathways that are
active are those set down a number of years ago - they're memories."
"Then he's dreaming?" the Captain guessed.
"It's more than dreaming. The neural scan revealed extensive damage
to the cerebral cortex..."
Brain damage! Torres felt suddenly cold, and clutched tighter to
Tom's hand as the doctor continued.
"...the cerebral pathways containing his memories have been
disconnected from the normal brain functions, and are not operative."
"He's lost his memory," Janeway concluded. "But what about the
active neural pathways you've detected?"
"That's what I don't understand," the Doctor replied. "Some of the
memory pathways are beginning to reconnect themselves."
The Captain frowned. "How's that possible?"
"With this degree of damage, it's not."
"So what's happening to him?" Torres asked, cold fear squirming in
the pit of her belly.
"I don't know," the Doctor admitted, "but I do have a theory."
"Which is...?"
"I believe that Lieutenant Paris is re-experiencing his memories, in
real time, and that as he does so, the memory pathways are
reconnecting."
"Then he's re-living his past experiences?" the Captain asked.
"Essentially, yes. And as he does so, the neural pathways reconnect,
leading onto the next memory, and so on."
"Then he'll be okay?" B'Elanna asked hopefully.
"Given enough time, the memory pathways should all reconnect," the
Doctor agreed.
"How much time?" the Captain asked sharply.
The Doctor pursed his lips. "The neural pathways that are currently
reconnecting were originally laid down six years ago. He is reliving
those experiences, in real time."
Torres understood immediately. "Then he won't recover all his
memories for six years," she said in a hollow voice.
"I'm afraid not."
"And if you wake him up now?" the Captain asked.
"If I wake him up now, he won't remember anything that has happened
in the last six years."
"Then we have to wait until all the memory pathways are reconnected,"
B'Elanna insisted. If they woke him now, he wouldn't even know her
name; the thought sent her stomach twisting toward her toes.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but that's not possible," the Doctor replied.
"The damage to the cerebral cortex was not limited to his memory
pathways; there was also some damage to his higher brain functions.
At the moment the damage is minor, but the longer he is comatose, the
greater the disintegration of his higher cerebral functionality. I'm
afraid there will be little left of Lieutenant Paris in six years."
"How long do we have?" the Captain asked.
"Maybe a week," the Doctor replied. "If I don't wake him then, there
will be permanent brain damage."
B'Elanna felt suddenly sick. "Can you help him?" she asked through a
mouth turned to sawdust.
"I'll try, Lieutenant," the Doctor replied. "But at this stage, I
don't even know what caused his condition."
"Then it's not a medical problem?" Janeway asked, suddenly eager.
"I can find no record of any similar case," the Doctor told her. "My
guess would be that something did this to Mr. Paris. Something, or
someone."
The Captain placed a hand on B'Elanna's arm. "Lieutenant," she said
quietly. "I understand if you want to stay with Tom, but we need
someone to investigate his shuttle, to see if we can determine what
caused this."
"On my way, Captain," Torres replied, laying Tom's hand by his side,
and with a final squeeze, releasing her hold. "I'd rather do
something useful."
Janeway nodded, understanding. "The shuttle's been transported to
shuttle bay three."
"I'll keep you posted on my progress," Torres told her, turning on
her heel and heading out of sickbay. She had a week to find the
solution. She'd do it; she had to. And when Tom had recovered...?
Well, then she'd probably kill him for putting her through this.
***
"Lieutenant Paris reporting Sir," Tom said, standing to attention
before the thick-set Commander.
"At ease, Paris," Commander Dail replied, scanning the roster before
him. "Ah. This should be good for you - give you some practice at
keeping your speed in check, eh?" He flashed Tom a grin. "There's a
cargo of dibase hyrolium to be transported through the Baleric
debris-zone to Caldik Prime."
"Thank you sir," Tom replied, not attempting to keep the sarcasm out
of his voice.
Dail looked up, one eyebrow raised. "Is there a problem,
Lieutenant?"
Paris shrugged. "It's boring, that's all."
"Boring?" Commander Dail leaned back in his seat, and looked at Tom
speculatively. "You think you should be doing something more
interesting?"
Tom chose his words carefully. "I think that my skills could be put
to better use, Sir. Yes."
"I see," Dail said. "Well, Paris, you're a good pilot, I won't deny
it." He leaned forward, meeting Tom's gaze with shrewd, dark eyes.
"So why do you think you're here in the Caldik system, doing supply
runs to Caldik Prime?"
Paris pursed his lips, but didn't reply.
"Come on," Dail said with a smile. "It's not like you to be at a
loss for words, Paris. Say what you think - speak freely."
"Well, if you really want to know," Tom replied, "I think it has to
do with my father."
Dail raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"No one wants to show me any favors, in case they're accused of
sucking-up to the Admiral. So instead, I get all the worst
assignments."
"I see," Dail replied. "So it has nothing to do with you, or your
abilities?"
"I'm one of the best pilots in Starfleet," Tom told him boldly; it
was the truth, and everyone knew it. Why hide it? "I can't think of
any other reason I'd be stuck out here," then almost as an
afterthought he added, "Sir."
"Can't you?" Dail replied, leaning back in his seat and folding his
hands across his belly. "I can. There's more to being a good pilot
that handling a few smart maneuvers, and winning a couple of
competitions. You need discipline and patience. And that's why
you're here."
Tom clenched his jaw together, refusing to reply. Discipline,
patience. Dail sounded just like his father. What he needed was
something to DO.
"I see you don't agree," Dail observed. "And that's another reason
you're here. A pilot who is too arrogant to recognize his own
failings is a dangerous pilot; until you learn your own limitations
you won't be going anywhere near a Starship, Mr. Paris. The sooner
you realize that the better. The better for your career, and the
better for Starfleet."
"Yes sir," Paris replied through gritted teeth.
Dail smiled at him, and shook his head slightly. "Don't be too
disheartened, Tom," he said. "You're an excellent pilot, and have
all the Paris potential, believe me. You'll be following right in
your father's footsteps, I have no doubt. You have the mettle, it
just needs a little tempering; a dash of humility is all you need."
Dail gave him a serious look: "And one day, believe it or not, even
you will make a mistake. And then you'll realize that you're as
mortal as the rest of us, and when that day comes, you, and your
career, will really start to fly."
Tom smiled coldly. "Yes Sir," he said again. He wasn't going to
argue. What did Dail know about humility? Dail had his own life, he
wasn't living in anyone's shadow. Dail's triumphs and failures were
his own; he had no expectations to fulfill, no expectations to
disappoint. Humility? Tom had been weaned on the stuff. It was the
last thing he wanted. He could fly better than anyone, even better
than his father. Why shouldn't he be arrogant? He was the best and
he had a right to be arrogant about it; heaven knows, he failed at
everything else.
Commander Dail handed him a padd, with a small shake of his head.
"These are your orders, Paris. Take the Trafalgar. Your crew should
be waiting in the shuttle bay."
"Aye Sir," Tom replied, taking the padd and turning to leave.
"And Paris," Dail called after him, "try and stay out of trouble on
this one."
***
"So, where're we going?" Mitch asked as soon as Tom left Dail's
office.
Paris handed him the padd. "Caldik Prime," he said. "Delivering
dibase hyrolium."
"Ooh, boy," Mitch replied. "Exciting. All the way through the
Baleric debris-zone at quarter impulse. I can hardly wait."
"Dail said it would make me practice keeping my speed down," Tom
grumbled.
Mitch laughed. "I can see his point. You are a bit of a speed
demon."
"Only because I can handle it," Tom told him with a quick grin.
"So what else did he say?" Mitch asked. "You were in there ages."
Tom shrugged. "Nothing interesting," he muttered, taking the padd
out of Mitch's hand and changing the subject. "So, who've we got
today?"
Before he could scan the crew list, Mitch reeled off the names:
"Borella, Castile and De Almo."
"Not 'Boring Borella'," Paris groaned. "This trip's getting worse
and worse."
"It won't be so bad," Mitch told him.
"Oh?" Tom replied, a gleam in his eye. "So, what's the plan?"
"You ever made the Baleric run at full impulse?" Mitch asked.
"FULL impulse?" Tom repeated, eyes wide. "No one has," he paused,
giving his friend a shrewd look, "have they?"
Mitch grinned. "Not yet. But it sounds like fun."
"It sounds crazy."
Mitch shrugged. "Suit yourself, but Harrison took the record last
week."
"He beat Bedi's time?" Tom asked in surprise.
"By a full second."
Tom did a quick calculation. "Then he didn't hit full impulse the
whole way."
Mitch grinned at him: "No. But I bet you could."
Tom considered. It was crazy, and if they got caught, they'd be in
deep trouble. But he could already feel the adrenaline surging; it
would be a real test of his abilities, better than any simulation.
And at least it would relieve the boredom. He returned Mitch's grin
with one of his own.
"So let's go break some records!"
***
The computer bleeped an alert. "We're approaching the Baleric
debris-zone, Lieutenant," Borella reported in her softly accented
voice.
"Thank you Ensign," Paris replied, returning to the helm and dropping
out of warp.
"Estimated time of arrival on Caldik Prime, two hours and thirteen
minutes, Sir," Castile added.
"We'll see," Tom replied with a small smile. He saw Castile and
Borella exchange a hasty glance, and his smile broadened; they knew
his reputation, and he planned to live up to it on this trip. These
new graduates needed a little shaking up from time to time.
"You got plans tonight?" he called over his shoulder to De Almo.
Ensign De Almo was a little older than the others, and shared some of
the same - interests - as Tom.
"It depends what time we get back," De Almo told him. "There's this
girl in engineering...."
Tom grinned. "Stay away from engineers," he warned him. "They're
always trouble."
"Then you don't know Mari Capriccio," De Almo told him, a wicked tone
to his voice.
OH YES I DO, Tom thought, VERY, VERY WELL. But he kept it to
himself; Mari Capriccio had a reputation almost as bad as his
own.... He smiled. "Well then, we'd better see what we can do to
get you home in time, Ensign De Almo."
"Hey Paris," Mitch chirped, "You ever heard of a Commander Chakotay?"
Tom shook his head. "No. Why?"
"I know him," Castile interrupted. "He taught for a term at the
Academy when I was there; tactical strategy, I think. He was pretty
good."
"I bet," Mitch replied, scanning a screen in front of him. "They've
just issued a warrant for his arrest; he's defected to the Maquis,
and they think he might be trying to use his Starfleet contacts to
get at information about the de-militarized zone."
"I doubt it," Tom replied, turning around in his chair. "Who'd help
him? If he was smart, he accessed all the information he needed
before he left. That's what I'd do."
Borella stared at him in astonishment. "You'd leave Starfleet?" she
asked.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he said, irritated by the
stupid question.
De Almo shook his head. "I can't understand it. Why would anyone
leave Starfleet to go and live with a bunch of outlaws?"
"Maybe because he's fighting for a cause?" Mitch suggested.
"Something he believes in?"
Tom laughed. "I never had you pegged as a romantic, Mitch."
"Romantic?" his friend objected. "Hardly. I'm just not as cynical
as you, Paris. Some people DO devote their lives to more than fast
ships and promotion."
Tom frowned, and turned back to the helm controls. Fast ships and
promotion? Those were his father's ambitions, not his. Weren't
they? He pushed the thought aside. What did it matter? Starfleet
was his life, and always would be. He'd never throw his career away
for an ideal, be it the Maquis or anything else. That was a fool's
game, and Tom Paris, whatever else he might be, was no fool.
"Talking of fast ships," he said lightly, changing the subject, "I
heard that Harrison made the Baleric run in fourteen minutes last
week."
"Thirteen-point-six," De Almo corrected him.
"That's fast," Castile commented. "Harrison's pretty good."
"Not that good," Paris replied. "I bet we could do it faster."
"No way," Borella interrupted, glancing down at her controls. "You'd
have to be at full impulse almost the whole way. You'd never be able
to navigate the debris field at that speed. It's impossible."
"Nothing's impossible," Tom told her, flashing her his best smile.
She returned it with a blush and a small, self-conscious, smile of
her own. She's quite pretty really, Tom mused, I wonder what her
first name is? Maybe I'll find out later.... He grinned to himself;
it was always so easy.
"Harrison will be really pissed if we beat his record so soon,"
Castile laughed. "Haminda Bedi held it for three months before him."
"Oh, I can't wait to see his face when we tell him," De Almo agreed.
"All right," Tom squared himself to the controls. "Then let's do
it."
"Aye Sir," Mitch replied eagerly, dropping into the co-pilot's seat.
"Castile, keep an eye on the shields," Paris ordered, "Ensign
Borella," he deliberately softened his voice when he said her name,
"start the chronometer on my mark."
"Aye Sir."
"Okay, everyone just find someplace to sit down and hang on. We're
going to have some fun!"
***
It was late. Her body told her it was late, that she should be
sleeping, but she ignored its complaints and forced herself to work
on. She dreaded the thought of going back to her quarters, of trying
to sleep in the empty darkness. While she was working she could keep
the fears at bay; ignore them, bury them. But the night was their
time, when they came creeping out of the darkness, tugging at her
mind, stabbing at her guts with sharp, cruel barbs. YOU'VE LOST HIM,
they said. HE'S AS GOOD AS DEAD TO YOU NOW.
B'Elanna shook her head sharply against the waking dream, and tried
to refocus her eyes on her work. But it was useless. Despite
herself her eyelids drooped, heavy with fatigue, her normally nimble
fingers grew clumsy and awkward. She needed to sleep, however
painful the dreams. Straightening, she yawned, stretched her cramped
muscles, and turned her back on Tom's shuttle.
The corridors outside the shuttle bay were deserted, her own
footfalls the only sound in the night's deep silence. She should
sleep, she knew, but not yet. Not quite yet.
"Sickbay," she said as she stepped into the turbolift.
When the doors to sickbay opened, she saw the Doctor leaning over
Tom, a tricorder in one hand and a worried frown on his face.
"It's a little late for visiting, Lieutenant," he told her sharply,
without looking up.
"I couldn't sleep," she lied, walking quickly towards Tom. "How's he
doing?"
"Funny you should ask," the Doctor replied, not taking his eyes from
his patient. "His adrenaline level has risen alarmingly over the
last few minutes; he's under considerable stress."
That much was clear. Tom no longer lay peacefully sleeping; his head
jerked from side to side, he muttered unintelligibly, and beneath his
eyelids she could see his eyes darting wildly. B'Elanna reached out
a hand and smoothed the hair from his face. His skin felt warm under
her fingers, familiar and reassuring.
"Will it hurt him?" she asked the Doctor, curiously calm.
"I doubt it," he replied, looking up at last and closing his
tricorder. "Mr. Paris has already experienced this event once. If it
didn't kill him then, I see no reason why it should now. But
whatever it is he's remembering, I doubt if it's pleasant."
So did B'Elanna. And she had a good idea what it might be; six years
ago was not a good point in Tom's life. Not good at all. Her heart
went out to him: "Hang on Tom," she whispered, "I'll get you out of
this. I promise."
***
"Whoa, that was close!" Tom muttered as he swung the shuttle around a
large chunk of debris that loomed out of nowhere.
"Ten minutes!" Borella called from behind him, her voice tense and
excited. "We're going to do it!"
Tom's heart was racing as fast as his ship. It was hard. Harder
than they knew and much harder than he'd expected. But pride forbade
him to back down; if Harrison could do it, he could do it better.
But there were so many calculations, and at this speed...
"Watch out!" Mitch shrieked, half laughing as Tom twitched the ship
aside, just in time. Something large and deadly sailed past, close,
much too close. He should slow down; he was barely in control. But
they were so close...
"Two thousand kilometers," Castile reported. "Almost there!"
"Ten minutes thirty seconds."
"C'mon Tom," Mitch urged. "We're over three minutes ahead of him!"
The debris was coming fast now, and the shuttle jolted violently as
something hit them. Tom cursed. He'd have to explain THAT to
someone.
"Shields at seventy percent," Castile told them. "Holding."
This is crazy! Slow down! The voice in his head was loud and
insistent. But there were other voices too; Mitch and the crew,
urging him on. He couldn't let them down. And he could see the end
of the debris zone now, they were almost there. He could see the
green haze of the planet's atmosphere, they were so close, when....
A hammer blow crunched into the ship with a terrifying force, sending
them all sprawling in sudden, shocking blackness.
"Paris!" he heard Mitch yell, as Tom cut the engines and fumbled for
the emergency power. "What the hell was that?"
"We've got no power," Castile shouted, panic creeping into his voice.
"The warp nacelles have been sheared right off!"
Tom struggled to breath as the impact of the words hit him. What had
he done? A thousand curses came to his lips, but he could find
breath for none.
"Engage the emergency back-up power!" Mitch was yelling, Caldik
Prime's atmosphere casting his face in a sickly green light.
"I'm trying," Tom snapped, just as his shaking fingers closed over
the manual release. The emergency power came on-line, it's gentle
hum vastly reassuring.
"Is everyone okay?" Tom asked shakily, looking over his shoulder.
"Borella's injured," De Almo told him, from where he knelt before the
young Ensign. "She'll be okay."
"Shield status?"
"Gone," Castile reported in a shaky voice.
"Transporter?"
"Off line."
"Communications?"
"Off line."
"Damn it," Paris muttered to himself. How could this be happening?
How could he have let this happen? Idiot! He felt a cold kernel of
fear freeze in the depths of his stomach. This was bad, really bad.
This would be a huge black mark on his far from pristine record.
Perhaps the last? THAT thought frightened him more than the vacuum
outside his wounded shuttle. His mind began to whir. Perhaps he
could convince them it was an accident? Anyone could get clobbered
in the Baleric debris-zone, no matter how fast - or slow - they were
traveling. If he could just...but then he had no more time to
think. It all happened at once; Mitch screamed out to his right,
alarms started wailing and...
"No!"
The rock that hit them was huge; had it given them more than a
glancing blow, they would have died right there. But the blow was
hard enough, sending the little shuttle spinning out of the debris
zone, on a direct course for Caldik Prime.
"We're entering the planet's gravitational field," Mitch shrieked as
he struggled to stay in the co-pilot's seat. "Pull up! PULL UP!"
"I've got no engines," Paris yelled, working frantically at the
controls, willing them to do his bidding, to pull them out of the
merciless grasp of the planet below. "Damn it!"
Violent tremors shook the shuttle, as the first tendrils of Caldik
Prime's emerald atmosphere brushed at the ship's underbelly.
"Warning, hull temperature exceeding safety parameters."
"Divert all power to the shields," Paris yelled at Castile; he could
already feel the heat building. "Castile - the shields!"
"Shields at fifteen percent," the young ensign replied in a terror-
drenched voice. "It's all we've got!"
Deeper and deeper into the atmosphere they plunged, shields burning
red, buffeted by turbulence that dropped the ship hard and fast,
leaving Tom's stomach thousands of meters above. Dimly, from behind
him he heard De Almo muttering an incantation over and over; a
prayer? God knew they needed one.
At last they came out of the cloud layer, and Tom saw trees and water
speeding below them. They were coming in way too fast, he knew, and
without the engines it was impossible to slow their descent. All he
could do was keep the shuttle's nose up, and hope. He left the
praying to De Almo.
"Impact in thirty seconds," Mitch told him, his voice shaking.
Tom concentrated on the controls, there was no room in his mind for
anything more; hold her steady, keep her nose up, aim for that
stretch of water ahead. Hold her steady, keep her nose up. Hold her
steady...
"Twenty seconds."
Hold her steady...
"Fifteen seconds."
Too fast. They were coming in too fast!
"Ten seconds."
"God have mercy," De Almo called out suddenly.
"Five seconds!"
"Brace, brace, brace!" Tom yelled as the ground rushed up to meet
them with a bone shattering impact that turned the air to fire. And
then he knew no more.
***
"He's still sleeping," the voice said. "Do you want me to wake him?"
"No," said another. "He'll have enough to deal with. Let him rest
for now."
"It's a real tragedy," the first voice said, heavy with sadness.
"All of them so young."
"I just wish we knew what happened, but there's not much left of the
shuttle..."
"It's a miracle any of them survived."
"Well, you can take the credit for that Doctor.... Let me know when
he's awake. I have a visitor for him."
"Aye sir."
***
Slowly, Tom became aware of his body, heavy and still. He was lying
down. Soft covers touched his skin, something cushioned his head.
He curled his fingers by his side, feeling them slide over smooth
sheets. Opening his mouth slightly he licked at lips gone dry and
sticky, and tried to swallow the nasty taste that clung to his teeth.
With an effort he lifted his eyelids, but they were heavy, and the
light was bright. He let them fall shut again. But someone had
noticed.
"Doctor, he's waking up."
"Give him five mils of quortrozine."
Something cool was pressed to the side of his neck, a small hiss, and
then his mind began to clear. His eyes flickered open again, and he
found himself staring at a white ceiling.
"Lieutenant Paris?" a voice said to one side. He turned his head
slowly in the direction of the sound, and saw a serious face
regarding him. "How do you feel?"
Tom opened his mouth, swallowed, licked at his lips: "What...?" he
croaked.
"You were in a shuttle accident," the man said slowly, emphasizing
each word. "Do you remember?"
Tom shut his eyes against the memories that crashed down upon him;
the ground rushing towards them, De Almo screaming out, the impact,
fire.... "The others," he said thickly, fear making him sick. "What
happened to the others?"
The doctor put a hand on his arm. "Ensign Mitchell will recover from
his injuries," he said gently. Tom held his breath; there was more,
he could tell from the sadness in doctor's voice. "I'm sorry
Lieutenant, but Ensigns Borella, Castile and De Almo died of their
injuries. There was nothing we could do for them. I'm sorry."
Tom felt his world shatter. Dead? All dead? Because of him. He'd
killed them. His blood turned to ice and fire and he wanted to
scream.... He screwed his eyes shut, but it wouldn't dim the pain or
the cold guilt that froze his heart. He was to blame. He should
have died. He should be dead, not them. Through the chaos of his
mind he dimly heard the doctor's voice, heard words but failed to
grasp their meaning. What did it matter what he said? There were no
words. Nothing could be said... Hot tears leaked from beneath his
tightly shut eyes, trailing down the side of his face. Why hadn't
he died? He should be dead.
"...not your fault, Lieutenant."
Somehow those words reached him. He opened his eyes, letting more
tears spill.
"It was a terrible accident," the doctor repeated, "No one blames
you Lieutenant. You did your best."
Tom stared at him through a veil of tears. What was he saying?
Didn't he understand? He'd killed them. His recklessness, his
arrogance, his pride...
"You were struck by a piece of debris in the Baleric debris-zone. Do
you remember? It wasn't your fault."
Tom just stared as realization dawned. They didn't know. They
didn't know what he'd been doing.
"But I..." he started, but the doctor interrupted him.
"Get some rest," he advised, patting him comfortingly on the arm.
"And when you wake up, there's someone here who wants to speak to
you."
Words still refused to come to him. He had killed them, and no one
knew. No one knew. He felt the cool of the hypo-spray on his neck,
and then darkness claimed him once more.
***
The next time he woke, his head was clearer, and so was the pain. It
jabbed at him, sharp and insistent; he was guilty, his life would
never be the same again. Clarity brought other thoughts too;
thoughts that frightened him even more than the guilt. He'd be
disciplined, busted down. It might even end his career. And in the
corner of his mind, a nasty little seed planted itself; NO ONE KNEW.
Somehow, they didn't know the speed he'd been flying. All he had to
do was keep his mouth shut. Castile, De Almo and Borella were dead.
It was terrible, but it wasn't as if he'd been the only one
responsible. They'd all encouraged him, they'd all wanted to beat
Harrison's record...
"No," he said out loud, his voice startling the empty room. No, it
was wrong. He should take the blame. He was the pilot. But...
The door hissed open, interrupting his thoughts. Tom's jaw dropped
when he saw who entered. It was the last person he'd expected to see
here. The last person he wanted to see:
"Dad? What are you doing here?"
"Visiting my son," the Admiral replied gruffly, stepping into the
room. "How are you Thomas? The doctor told me it was touch and go
for a while."
Tom shrugged. "He says I should be fine."
His father nodded, moving closer, but not too close. Never too
close. "You were lucky. I saw the crash site. There wasn't much
left."
"I guess not. I don't really remember."
"No. Well, that's probably for the best," the Admiral nodded,
lapsing into the awkward silence that so often fell between them. He
stood, hands folded neatly behind his back, gazing out of the window.
"It's a shame you didn't manage to reach the Tagar Lake," he said
after a while, "it would have made a softer landing."
"There wasn't much time," Tom retorted, instantly defensive. "And I
had no engines. I did my best."
"Yes. Yes, I'm sure you did." Silence again.
"So, how long are you staying?"
"A few days. I thought I'd stay for the inquiry."
"The inquiry?" Tom felt the blood drain from his face. His father
must have noticed, because his brow creased into a frown.
"What's the matter? You've got nothing to worry about. It was just
an accident..." he stopped suddenly, and fixed Tom with those
piercing eyes he remembered so well from his childhood. "It WAS an
accident, wasn't it Thomas?" Tom remembered that voice too; tell me
it wasn't your fault, it said. Tell me you didn't screw up.
"It was an accident." The lie came instinctively to his lips.
"Something hit us."
His father's gaze didn't let up. "Good," he said. "And I assume you
followed all the correct procedures?"
"Of course," Tom replied, dropping his gaze to his fingers, balled
into a fist by his side. "But there wasn't much I could do without
power to the engines."
"Did you try diverting the emergency power system?" his father asked.
"No. We needed all power for the shields during re-entry. There
wasn't enough for both."
"Hmmmm. Obviously the transporters were off-line?"
"Dad, trust me. We were dead in the water. And then we were hit
again, and knocked into the gravitational field of Caldik Prime.
There was nothing I could do. Nothing."
"No, of course not," his father replied. "Still, it's a shame about
missing the lake though."
"It's a shame for Borella, Castile and De Almo."
"And for you. This won't look good on your record, even if it was an
accident. And you should have been up for promotion at the next
board."
"Promotion?" Was that all he ever thought about? "Dad, three people
are dead."
"No one joined Starfleet without knowing the risks, son. Space is a
dangerous place. They were unlucky, that's all. You're going to
have to get used to it. When you have your own command..."
"If..." Tom corrected, sullen as an adolescent.
"When. Then you'll have to deal with fatalities on a regular basis.
It's never easy, but I find...."
Tom tuned out. He wasn't in the mood for a lecture. And anyway, it
didn't apply. The only bad luck Borella, Castile and De Almo had run
into was having him as a pilot. Luck, on the other hand, had been
with him the whole way. Not only had he survived the crash, but he'd
escaped all blame too; he was home free. All he had to do was keep
his mouth shut, and luckily for him, he didn't have a problem with
that. Not a real problem. Not the kind of problem that would force
him to brave the displeasure of Starfleet, and worse, the
disappointment of his father. No, he wasn't that brave. The truth
wasn't that important. Not when it wouldn't change anything. They
were dead, and truth or lies, they'd stay that way.
"...Are you listening to me?"
"I'm sorry. I must've drifted off...I'm pretty tired." Lies again.
So easy once you start.
"Of course," his father drew closer and patted him awkwardly on the
shoulder. "I'll let you rest now. I'll stop by again tomorrow."
And with that he left. But within those few minutes, the ugly little
seed of deception had rooted itself firmly in the corner of Tom's
mind, and watered by his own fears, it had already grown into a tree
of lies. And Tom was trapped firmly within its branches. His
decision had been made for him. He would keep his mouth shut and
ride the storm. He had no choice now.
***
B'Elanna lay awake, staring at the stars streaming past her window.
They reminded her of Tom. Voyager in motion was his somehow, just
like the humming engines were hers. But he wasn't at the helm now.
He was fighting old battles in sick-bay, reliving the darkest parts
of his life, and there was nothing she could do to help him.
If the Doctor has to wake him, she mused, what will he be like?
Young, she realised, and arrogant, she guessed. Would she love him?
Could she? He wouldn't be the man she knew now, tempered by his
mistakes, valuing the second chance he'd been given.
Tom had once wished they'd known each other at the Academy. It
wasn't a wish B'Elanna could share. "You'd have hated me," she'd
told him then. And I'd have hated you - she'd kept that to herself.
Timing. It was all in the timing. And now that timing was all
screwed up.
She was never meant to meet the Tom Paris of six years ago. It
wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't work, and she couldn't let it happen.
He needed those six years, and so did she.
Sitting up, B'Elanna slid out of bed and padded towards the bathroom.
May as well get an early start, she thought. Three days to go, and
six years to save.
***
It should have been raining, Tom thought. The brilliant sunshine
didn't seem to fit the somber scene, it jarred against the black
clothes, made the poignant flowers too festive, too bright. His own
offering lay among them, resting near the memorial to his three dead
colleagues, but he didn't get close enough to see the flowers he'd
sent. He hung back, not wanting to intrude, afraid that he might be
seen, afraid that he might be recognized and not welcomed.
He had forced himself to come; it was a kind of punishment. The pain
was a scourge against the guilt that was destroying his sleep; he'd
face the consequences of his failure, even if it was only privately.
Everyone else thought he was a hero, of sorts. The brave Lieutenant
who had managed to get the shuttle down against the odds; it was salt
in the wound, guilt piled on guilt. And he wasn't so blind to
responsibility that he didn't feel it. But he didn't feel it
strongly enough to risk his career with the truth. Perhaps he was
more like his father than he liked to admit? Fast ships and
promotion. Was that all he wanted? Was that more important to him
than the truth?
As he watched the mourners he saw two figures break away from the
group and head towards him. Squinting in the morning sunshine, Tom
strained to recognize them, but they were strangers and he turned
away. He was about to leave when someone called his name:
"Lieutenant Paris?"
He looked round to see a middle-aged couple approach him, dressed in
black, eyes red and puffy with grief. Sudden panic drove his heart
into his throat; who were they? What did they want?
The woman smiled a tremulous smile and held out her hand to him.
"Lieutenant Paris? I'm Clara Borella, and this is my husband Will;
we're Alana's parents." Her voice caught as she mentioned her
daughter's name, and her husband put a comforting hand on her
shoulder.
"We're glad you came," he told Tom in a voice as gentle and lilting
as his daughter's.
Tom stared at them, his mind frozen. Alana? Alana Borella? He
hadn't even known her first name. "I...," he started. What could he
say? I'm sorry I got your daughter killed?
"It must be hard for you," Clara said, reaching out and touching his
arm. "We wanted you to know that...that we don't blame you at all.
They explained what happened. How it could have happened to anyone."
Tom felt sick to his stomach, his mouth tasting the bitter guilt that
churned in his guts. "I'm very sorry," he said at last, sure that
they could see the truth in his face. Clara nodded, fresh tears
springing to her eyes.
"Alana spoke about you," Will said with a smile. "She said you were
the best pilot in Starfleet."
"No. She was wrong," Tom muttered, looking away. He'd hardly ever
spoken to the girl! He hadn't even known her first name. He felt
tears of his own, but they were trapped inside now, trapped by the
lie that he was living, and he could not shed them.
"I'm sure she was right," Clara added, smiling almost shyly. "She
said you had pretty eyes too - and she was right about that."
Tom turned to look at them, the confession burning on his lips. But
Will Borella spoke first; "Commander Dail told us that no one could
have piloted the shuttle better than you - it's good to know she had
the best possible chance. It's a comfort, of sorts."
And with a final, tearful smile, they turned and walked slowly back
to the rest of the mourners. Tom watched them go in agony, his dry
eyes burning with tears that refused to fall.
***
"Computer, play Paris fourteen," B'Elanna asked as she sank into the
chair by the console in her quarters.
The computer obliged and the strains of some obscure twentieth-
century ditty played into the room. It wasn't really her style, but
it made her feel closer to Tom.
"Computer, access shuttle logs, audio and visual display."
She had spent the whole day in the shuttle-bay and come up with
nothing useful. Sure, she'd figured out that some kind of sub-
temporal flux had passed through the ship, but so what? Nothing had
been effected. Nothing but Tom. So she'd turned to the logs in
desperation, hoping that they might inspire her. She started with
the mission logs. Her heart jumped painfully when she heard Tom
speak, even if he was just reeling off the day's activities. It was
comforting to see him though, to hear his familiar voice, even see
him smile occasionally. But there were five days worth of logs, and
she didn't have much time.
"Computer, forward by seventy-two hours."
The images before her rushed ahead as the computer scanned for the
right date; a blur of activity, pictures, sounds.... And that was
when the solution hit her.
"Of course!" she yelled, jumping to her feet and heading for the
door, leaving Tom to report the day's events to an empty room.
***
"After this we'll be home free," Mitch murmured as they walked
together towards the inquiry chamber.
"Will we?" Tom asked. He couldn't get Clara Borella out of his head.
"Of course," Mitch replied, tension straining his voice. "What's the
matter with you?"
"Nothing," Tom muttered, staring ahead. "I'm all right." All he had
to do was keep his mouth shut. But it wasn't so easy. He couldn't
sleep, he couldn't eat. The guilt was with him every moment,
compounded by the lie. What was it all for? For his career? For
his father's career? He didn't know anymore. He just didn't know.
"Lieutenant," he recognized his father's voice immediately, and
turned.
"Admiral." By his side he sensed Mitch spring to attention, but Tom
didn't bother. He never did anymore, and it drove his father wild.
Mitch received a cursory nod from Admiral Paris; "Go inside, Ensign.
I want to talk to my son."
"Aye Sir," Mitch replied, leaving them hurriedly. Tom didn't blame
him.
"Checking up on me?" he asked when they were alone.
His father ignored the tone in his voice. "I've come to give you
some good news actually. I thought you could do with cheering up
before the hearing."
"Good news?" Tom was dubious.
"A new posting. Commander Dail is releasing you to the "The Victory"
- Chief Con Officer. You leave in two weeks."
Tom just stared. This was it. This was what he'd always wanted. At
last. But now? After the accident? It was impossible. Suspicion
narrowed his eyes: "How?"
His father smiled. "There's no point in being an Admiral if you
can't pull a few strings."
"No favors," Tom insisted, reviving an old argument.
The Admiral's lips compressed into a frustrated line: "You don't need
favors. Dail was impressed with the way you handled the accident.
He thinks you're ready, and so do I."
"The way I handled the accident." Tom's voice was as empty as his
soul.
"Not many people could have landed that shuttle Tom. You did well,
and you deserve the reward."
"No..." It was wrong. It was terribly wrong.
"Lieutenant," steel crept into his father's voice. "This is not an
invitation to dinner; you have your orders. I don't expect to argue
with you about it."
"I'm not arguing, I'm just..."
"Enough."
"But..."
"I said enough." His voice cracked like a whip, as he grappled with a
temper that sought to elude him. After a pause he spoke again. "I
don't understand you, Thomas. I thought this would be good news. I
thought it was what you wanted."
"It is," Tom confessed. "It's just...the accident..." he struggled
with the words. "It's not right."
"Accidents happen, Tom. Deal with it."
"Aye, sir," the words came out without thought. His mind was
elsewhere. How could he explain? He was alone, trapped in the lies
he had spun, and with every twitch, they held him tighter. What to
do now? Accept the reward? It was blood money; his career taking
off on the backs of his dead colleagues. Colleagues his pride,
arrogance and stupidity had killed. But how could he not accept?
The only way out was to admit the truth. Admit his part in the
accident, and worse, admit that his reports and testimony were lies.
He was trapped. Stuck fast. And so he had a choice; live the lie
and prosper, or live the truth and perish.
"Tom?" his father's voice brought him back to himself. "Are you
well? You've gone very pale."
"I'm fine," he muttered, turning towards the hearing room. "Let's
just get this over with."
His father patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "You'll be all
right Tom," he told him as they walked into the chamber. "You'll
see."
But Tom barely heard his words. Before his eyes danced the tearful
face of Clara Borella, while a single phrase spun in his head; damned
if you do, damned if you don't.
***
"So, you see we have to speed up the process," B'Elanna explained to
the Doctor.
"Like fast-forwarding a shuttle log?" he sounded skeptical.
"Exactly - if we could play his memories a hundred times faster than
real time...."
"Then we could wake him up much sooner. I agree."
"Can you do it?"
The doctor frowned. "We'll need to stimulate the cerebral cortex
quite substantially, without causing any further damage to the
hypothalamic region.... Let me think."
As the doctor walked away, B'Elanna turned back to Tom. He was
resting peacefully now, something that looked like a smile touching
his lips. Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him. "Hang on
Tom," she murmured. "We're getting there."
***
Tom sat at the front of the chamber, aware of the weight of people
sitting behind him. Adjudicator T'Kara presided at the bench, his
elderly face creased by many years, but his eyes, sunk into his
hollow face, glittered with an intelligence as bright as the stars.
He swept the crowded chamber with his shrewd gaze before he spoke.
"The evidence in this case seems conclusive, and I am prepared to
disclose my findings. Before I do so, does anyone have anything
further to add?"
By his side, Tom saw Mitch's fingers twisting together in his lap as
the ensign held his breath, waiting for the dread voice of an
accuser. Tom's father sat near the bench, his hands folded across
his spreading belly, his face the face of an Admiral; concerned,
intelligent...and complacent. He had no idea. No idea.
Inside, Tom's heart raced as the moment lengthened before him in a
silence that was absolute. He saw the adjudicator's eyes take in the
whole room, pausing to rest momentarily on Tom, piercing him like
needles of fire. And as he gazed into those ancient eyes, he saw his
own life expand before him. He saw himself in twenty years time, as
fat and complacent as his father, his life built on a lie, his career
built on the graves of the three dead officers. And he knew, with a
certainty he had rarely known, that he could never live that life,
never live that lie.
The moment was almost past. T'Kara opened his mouth to speak...and
Tom stood up. His knees and his guts felt like water, his clammy
hands tingled with tension as he smoothed them nervously against his
trousers, trying to swallow the nerves that crowded his throat.
Trying to find his voice.
"Paris!" he heard Mitch hiss in a strangled whisper. His father just
stared, motionless, waiting; his gaze as eloquent as any words -
don't you fail me now, it said. Don't you dare.
T'Kara turned his bright eyes back towards Tom. "Lieutenant Paris,
do you have something further to add to your testimony?"
Despite his sand-dry mouth, Tom's voice was strong. "Yes Sir."
"Then proceed."
"Before I start, I would like to say, for the record, that I alone am
responsible for my actions. No other officer was involved with what
happened either on board the Trafalgar or," the briefest of glances
at his father, "afterward."
"Very well," T'Kara replied carefully, his interest piqued.
Tom's heart raced wildly as he licked at dry lips. The words were on
his tongue, all he needed was the courage to utter them. And at last
he found it. Staring straight ahead, looking at no one, he said: "I
lied in my testimony to the inquiry, Sir." Shocked gasps whispered
around the chamber at his words.
"Lied?" The adjudicator's eyes turned hard as agate. "That is a
serious offense, Lieutenant."
"Yes Sir."
"And what was the nature of your lie?"
"When the accident happened I was not traveling at the recommended
safe speed for the Baleric debris-zone."
"I see," the adjudicator replied, glancing down at the console before
him. "In your testimony, you stated that you were traveling at one
quarter impulse. Are you saying that is untrue?"
"Yes Sir. I was traveling at full impulse."
"FULL impulse?" Mutters from the spectators interrupted T'Kara,
until he quieted them with a swift motion of his hand. "And in your
opinion, Lieutenant Paris, did your excessive speed contribute to the
accident?"
Tom licked his lips. This was it. This was the moment. "Yes Sir,
it did. It was the cause of the accident. I'm responsible."
Disbelieving cries echoed through the chamber behind him, and through
the noise he thought he heard a woman sobbing. Clenching his jaw Tom
stared straight ahead and watched as his father stood up and left the
room, giving his son one final glance, a glance full of such deep
disappointment that Tom knew he would remember it for the rest of his
life.
***
"Will it work?" Janeway asked looking dubiously at the contraption
B'Elanna and the Doctor had created.
"There's no way of knowing until we try," B'Elanna told her.
"I'll be monitoring Mr. Paris' neural activity the whole time,
Captain," the Doctor assured her. "We can abort if it seems to be
doing more harm than good."
Janeway considered, looking down at her young pilot. He WAS young,
she realised, watching him sleep. Too young to risk damaging
further? Perhaps, but this time, at least, it wasn't her choice.
She had become so used to making these life or death decisions for
her crew, her family, that she'd forgotten that in this case, she
didn't have to. Unlike many of her crew, Tom had next of kin here in
the Delta Quadrant. Well, practically, anyway. She turned to
B'Elanna.
"It's your decision, Lieutenant."
Torres nodded in understanding and thanks. "I think it's worth a try
Captain. I have to try and bring him back."
"I know," Janeway replied. "I understand."
***
Eyes front, Tom marched along the endless corridor, trying to ignore
the security team that escorted him. The door at the end was small,
seemingly innocuous, but behind it lay his fate; the verdict of
Starfleet Command. As they approached, their shoes click-clicking on
the hard polished floor, the door hissed open and his father emerged
into the corridor. The Admiral's face was flushed with anger.
Suddenly light-headed, Tom felt the blood drain from his face. He
knew what this meant. He knew why his father had come here, and he
knew instinctively that he had failed. The Admiral could do no more
for his wayward son, and Tom knew how much he must have hated trying.
His father walked towards them, white hair glinting in the bright
light, eyes mere chips of ice. Tom watched him, his gaze locked on
the Admiral's face, looking for...what? Forgiveness?
The Admiral stopped as they passed in the corridor, and gazed at his
son with eyes full of injured pride. Tom trailed to a halt, the
security team hanging back, unsure.
For a long moment, they said nothing, father and son looking at each
other over a chasm grown immeasurably wide. In the end the Admiral
spoke first: "No favors."
Tom nodded, understanding. "No favors." He wanted to say more, to
apologize, explain...but he couldn't find the words. What his father
thought, he could only imagine.
"I'll tell your mother," was all he said before he turned and walked
away, leaving Tom to face his fate alone.
Alone. For the first time in his life he understood the word's
meaning, and it terrified him; chilled him to the core, clamped a
fist of ice around his mind. Feeling himself start to shake, Tom
screwed stiff fingers into fists by his side and clamped his teeth
together.
"Let's go," a voice prompted him from a distance, and somehow his
legs carried him forward once more.
He had never felt so empty, so cold, so utterly abandoned. So afraid.
And in that moment he realised that he had a choice; fight it, or
succumb to the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him. Tom chose
to fight. And so he forced a smirk to touch his lips, made a glint
of careless arrogance brighten his eyes; Lieutenant Thomas Eugene
Paris, the sucker, was dead. He'd died with his crew on the
Trafalgar. Welcome to the new world. Welcome to the new Tom Paris,
the screw-up, the loser, the nobody. Welcome, and beware.
After that, the proceedings streamed past in a blur, as if he was
watching it happen to someone else. Who was that poor schmuck in the
uniform? Why did he look so pale when they told him to hand over his
Starfleet insignia? Why was his hand shaking when he signed his
resignation papers? It wasn't him. It wasn't the new Tom Paris. He
would never look that scared, that lost. Never.
And then it was over, and he was standing outside, blinking in the
sunlight, stripped of his rank, his uniform, his life. A nobody.
And as he looked around him, at this new world, he had a curious
sensation. For the world, it seemed, was beginning to accelerate, to
rush towards him, around him, through him - images, people,
sounds.... It was too much, too much to take in. And then the
darkness was upon him and he was falling again, too fast, much too
fast....
END OF PART ONE
***
"INSTANT REPLAY" BY MALCOLM REEVE
PART TWO: CONCLUSION
Summary: "Things go from bad to worse for Tom. Will B'Elanna's
skills be enough to bring him back to her?" Rated PG.
BY MALCOLM REEVE (e-mail: 106625.3210@compuserve.com)
This is the second of a two part story set at some point in the
middle of season four.
"It's too fast!" the Doctor called out, "shut it down! Shut it
down!"
Torres hit the abort button with such ferocity that Janeway was
convinced she must have broken it.
"What happened?" B'Elanna asked, breathing heavily.
"The neural pathways were reforming too fast for his cerebral cortex
to process the information," the Doctor rattled off, eyes fixed on
his instruments. "We were overloading him."
"Is he all right?" the concern in Torres' voice was mixed in equal
part with frustration.
"Yes, I think so. But we're going to have to give this some more
thought."
"Perhaps if you got some rest?" Janeway suggested to B'Elanna.
"Gathered your thoughts? It's late, and...."
Torres was ignoring her. She had an idea, the Captain could
practically see it forming in those dark, fiery eyes. "We need to
upgrade him," her Chief Engineer said.
"What?"
"Upgrade his memory."
"I'm a doctor, not a computer engineer," the Doctor snapped.
Torres ignored him as she tapped her comm badge: "Torres to Seven-of-
Nine."
"This is Seven-of-Nine."
"Come to sickbay immediately," and then, almost as an afterthought,
"please."
"I am on my way, Lieutenant Torres."
Janeway raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Torres shook her head: "It's
a long shot, but I've done crazier things."
***
The sound of the docking clamps engaging jolted Tom from his drowsy
reverie. They'd arrived. Around him the other passengers were
gathering their possessions, yawning, stretching their legs, pleased
that the journey was over, eager to see loved ones. Tom felt
nothing, but that was no surprise. He'd felt nothing for a long time
now. How long had it been? Two months? Three? He'd lost track,
but it didn't matter. Time had no meaning for a nobody.
Over the comm system an automated information broadcast droned,
explaining arrival procedures, security procedures... Tom tuned out.
That oh-so-proper Starfleet voice irritated him, reminded him of
things past, things lost forever. Hoisting his hold-all over one
shoulder, he headed for the exit, joining the end of a long line of
passengers waiting to leave the ship.
"Not so fast Paris," a low, female voice called. Tom turned, a smile
touching his lips.
"Kyel," he said smoothly, watching her slink through the milling
crowd towards him. Her long legs, shock of red hair, and almost
indecent attire attracted a number of stares. "Looking for a goodbye
kiss?" he asked with a grin.
Her delicate eyebrows arched over violet eyes: "A kiss?" she rolled
the words over her tongue, deliberating. "Perhaps. After."
"After what?" Tom asked his eyes drifting down from her eyes,
lingering over her...
"You owe me money, Paris," Kyel murmured, stepping closer. She was
tall, as tall as Tom, and it unnerved him a little.
"Didn't I pay you?" he asked, his blue eyes full of innocence. "Must
have forgotten."
"Forgetting can be dangerous," she told him, her breath warm on his
face as she stepped closer and pressed something cold and hard into
his belly. A disrupter; illegal and very nasty. Tom smiled.
"Good job you reminded me then," he replied easily, reaching slowly,
carefully, into his pocket. "Two bars I believe...?"
Kyel eyed the latinum in his hand, greed making her violet eyes
smolder a deep, dark blue. When she spoke, her rich voice was
regretful: "Two bars."
Swiftly, Tom reached an arm around her waist, and pulled her close.
She tensed in his embrace, the disrupter jabbing hard into his ribs,
but he ignored it. Leaning close, brushing her neck with his lips,
he whispered: "I'll give you five for the weapon."
"I could kill you right here and take your money," she purred,
nuzzling closer.
He didn't thing she meant it. "This close to Starfleet security?" he
murmured. "I doubt it."
"You'll never get it off the ship," she told him, her own lips doing
interesting things to his left ear.
"I'll take my chances."
"Mmmmmmmm," she breathed, "why don't we discuss this in private?"
He was tempted. Very tempted. But not stupid. "It's now or never,"
he told her pushing away slightly and favoring her with his most
seductive smile; it never failed. Never.
Desire flashed in her eyes; "No tricks," she promised him as her lips
danced over his, and he almost believed her. Almost, but not quite.
"You want the latinum, we trade right here. Right now."
Kyel glared, pouted, and then decided. "Show me the money," she
demanded. Tom obliged, just as he reached down between them and lay
hands on the disrupter. Their eyes locked as she reached for the
latinum, and in a split second, the trade was made. Hurriedly, Tom
slipped the weapon beneath his long coat, while Kyel counted her
reward.
She looked up at him, tossing her long red hair over one shoulder.
"It's been nice doing business with you, Paris."
He inclined his head. "Kyel - it's been nice doing...everything with
you."
She smiled then, a slow enticing smile that reminded him of long, hot
nights. "I've had better," she told him, her violet eyes glowing,
"but not many." And then she turned and left, her hair and hips
swaying with each step.
***
Janeway watched the doctor raise an eyebrow, and glance warily at
B'Elanna.
"How is he?" Torres asked impatiently.
"Urm, fine." The doctor said. "Actually, he seems to be quite
enjoying himself."
Torres scowled. "Well I'm glad someone is," she snapped. "Have you
figured out how far forward we brought him?"
The doctor returned his attention to the tricorder. "About three
months," he said at last.
B'Elanna sighed as the doors to sickbay slid open, and Seven-of-Nine
stalked in.
"Lieutenant Torres. You asked me to come here."
"Yes. I need..." B'Elanna was clearly struggling with the words.
"I need your help."
When she had finished explaining the problem, Seven stood in silence,
staring down at Tom. After a moment she spoke.
"His mind is too small."
Janeway couldn't help smiling at her choice of words.
Even B'Elanna raised an amused eyebrow; "That's one way of putting
it," she admitted.
"We need to expand his capacity to process information. If he were
part of the collective..."
"Well he's not," Torres interrupted, "But I think I have a way to
expand his processing capacity. Tell me how you were linked to the
Borg collective mind..."
***
The disrupter, wedged in the small of his back, seemed to burn
against his skin as Tom sauntered past the station's security
personnel. A group of drunk, and rather rowdy, Klingons were
attracting a lot of attention ahead of him, and Tom was grateful that
no one seemed to be paying him much attention. No one except one
man. Or was he a man? A penetrating, relentless gaze peered out of
a not-quite-human face; a half formed face. The man, or whatever he
was, stood perfectly still, hands behind his back, watching Tom
intently. Tom returned the stare, coming to a halt a few meters in
front of the creature.
"Odo. Chief of Security," it said at last, in a short, clipped
voice. "Welcome to Deep Space Nine, Mr. Paris."
"How nice. A personal welcoming committee. I'm touched," his voiced
dripped contempt. "A present from my father?"
Odo's eyes narrowed. "I don't know your father," he replied stepping
closer. "But I know all about you. And I want to know why you're on
my station."
Tom shrugged: "I'm on vacation."
"I can think of nicer destinations."
"But this has the advantage of distance - I needed to get away from
Earth for a while."
Odo grunted. "Earth? I thought it was Caldik Prime you were running
from?"
Tom felt his whole body tense at those words, but he kept the smirk
on his face nonetheless: "News travels fast."
"This is a Starfleet operation. You won't be welcome here Paris."
"That'll make a change."
Odo stared at him, and to Tom it seemed as if those strange hollow
eyes could read his very soul; could see the color of his heart.
After a long moment, Odo flicked his head in a gesture of dismissal:
"I've got my eye on you," he warned as Tom started walking. "Oh, and
Mr. Paris," his voice dropped as Tom moved past him, "cause any
trouble on my station and I'll be mailing your molecules back to your
father, whoever he is."
Tom smiled despite himself, and moved on quickly. He had someplace
to be, and little time to spare. Besides, with the station's Chief
of Security on his tail, he didn't plan to be staying long.
The bar was easy to find. Well, it WAS the only one on the station.
Tom ordered a drink, waved away the Ferengi's offer of the holo-
suites, found a dark corner, and sat down. Then he waited, and
watched, and waited. He watched the patrons come and go, assessing
them, trying to guess which one would be his contact. That Vulcan
over there? The one with half an ear missing? Or that human woman,
who swaggered with the gait of a warrior and drank like a parched
Klingon? Perhaps the young human lad sitting on his own, tall and
lanky, his face as serious as only the very young can be? Yeah, he's
just the sort to risk his life for the romance of a cause, Tom
thought, just the sort. A shadow fell across his table:
"Need another drink?" the Ferengi asked him, tray in hand.
"No."
"How about some conversation then?" He sat down.
"Get out of here," Tom snapped. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Oh?" a toothy smile broke his face, "Is she pretty?"
"I have no idea," Tom told him, "just leave me alone, will you?"
The Ferengi sat up, affronted. "You really DO have an attitude
problem, don't you?" he asked. "I can see why Starfleet threw you
out."
Tom scowled, rapidly loosing his temper. "What do you WANT,
Ferengi?"
"Want? Me? Why nothing, I'm just here to provide a service."
Tom glared at him for a moment, and then realization dawned: "YOU'RE
my contact?"
"Let's just say I'm a messenger," he replied. "They'll be in room
8794 in the habitat ring, for the next, oh, fifteen minutes." He
grinned. "You'd better run."
Tom stood slowly, towering over the little Ferengi. "Thanks for your
help," he said as coldly as he could manage, "I'll be sure to
remember it." He got a brief flash of satisfaction from seeing the
bar-keeper swallow nervously, before he turned and sauntered from the
bar. It wasn't until he was well out of sight that he started to
sprint.
The room was at the far side of the habitat ring, a quiet and
virtually deserted section, and by the time Tom reached it he was
breathing hard. Leaning over, hands on knees, he struggled to gather
his composure and catch his breath. But he stopped breathing
altogether when he felt the cold metal of a phaser against his neck.
"Disarm him," a voice said from behind, and Tom felt someone pull the
disrupter from beneath his coat.
"That's a nasty weapon," the voice said again.
"I'm a nasty person," Tom replied.
"So I've heard. Stand up and put your hands where I can see them."
Tom did as he was told.
"Darian, tell the others he's here," the voice said. A slim young
man, practically a boy, Tom realised, stepped out from behind him,
dressed in the dull, inconspicuous clothing of those who want to be
forgotten. He cast a quick look at Tom as he passed, a look of
contempt mixed with curiosity; a look Tom had come to recognize. He
returned the stare with one of his own; hard and bleak. The boy
looked away and Tom smiled to himself. Green, the boy was as green
as grass. As green as the atmosphere on Caldik Prime. His smile
faded.
Darian slipped into a room to Tom's left - not the room the Ferengi
had told him, of course - and after a few moments he poked his head
out again.
"The commander says bring him in," he chirped in a voice that
betrayed his age. Just a child. A firm hand grasped Tom's shoulder,
and the phaser pressed against the back of his neck: "All right
Paris, move it."
He was ushered into a dark room full of whispers. There were people
in the darkness, behind him and to his side, but he could only see
one man. One man who stood leaning against an internal doorway, a
dim light illuminating a square face that would have been blank but
for the tattoo that decorated it.
"My name is Chakotay," the man said in a slow, quiet voice. "I hear
you wanted to talk to me?"
Tom inclined his head. "I'm here to offer my services to the
Maquis," he replied smoothly.
"And why would you want to do a thing like that?"
"For the money," Tom lied.
Chakotay's face darkened. "Money?"
"The Maquis need pilot's. I'm a pilot," he forced a grin. "I'm the
best pilot you'll ever get - and I don't work for free."
"We don't hire mercenaries," Chakotay snapped, but there was
something bordering on doubt in his voice.
Tom took a gamble, rolling the dice in his head: "That's not what
I've heard."
Chakotay glared at him, but didn't answer. Instead he said, "Why
should I trust you? You could be a Starfleet plant."
"I could be," Tom admitted, "if you think Starfleet would kill three
of its officers just to give me a good cover story."
"Faked."
"No," Tom shook his head, unexpected emotions surging. "Not faked.
I went to their funerals, I ...." He clamped his jaw shut, furious
at himself for revealing so much.
"You killed them," Chakotay finished his sentence, skewering him with
serious, dark eyes.
Tom held his silence for a moment, marshaling control. "Yes I did,"
he replied eventually. "It was an accident."
"Starfleet don't usually throw you out for having an accident,"
Chakotay observed. Tom felt the muscles in his neck tense. He was
being tested. Chakotay knew what had happened, Tom was sure of it.
They all knew. This was some stupid test of his honor: the man was
more Starfleet Commander than Maquis rebel. He could imagine him in
command red. Tom smiled, but kept the smile internal; he decided to
play the game.
"They threw me out because I lied about what happened," he replied,
lacing his voice with the appropriate level of contrition.
"Why would I want to recruit a liar?" Chakotay asked.
"How many lies did you tell before you left Starfleet?" Tom shot
back. "Did you lie to your Captain, to your crew...?"
The Maquis leader stopped him with a sharp gesture of his hand. "I'm
not here to answer your questions, Paris," he snapped. "I made my
decisions and I'm living with them."
Tom smiled. "Then we're in the same situation. We understand each
other."
Chakotay shook his head, his eyes dark and unfathomable. "I don't
think you and I will ever do that Paris," he said slowly. Tom
shrugged. He had to agree; this Maquis leader was not what he had
expected. He was no reckless maverick, but neither was he a misty-
eyed idealist; he was as straight and solid as any Starfleet officer,
and more so than most. Deep down, Tom felt a grudging respect for
the man, a respect that irritated like a bee sting; it only pointed
up his own inadequacies. Arrogant, foolish, cowardly, dishonest....
"If you want to join us, you leave with us now," Chakotay told him,
interrupting his gloomy thoughts.
"I'm all yours," Tom replied, masking his feelings with the flippant
manner he knew irritated all those stiff Starfleet types. He was
pleased to see that it worked just as well on Chakotay.
The Maquis leader glared at him, before speaking; "Go with Darian.
He'll take you to his cell. You will follow his orders until you
arrive there. If not, he's ordered to kill you. Do you understand?"
Tom glanced over at the boy, who was watching him with a kind of
terrified fascination.
"I understand."
"Good," the commander turned away, toward the dark room behind him.
But at the last moment he paused and looked back at Tom: "Oh, and
Paris," he added, "If you betray us, I'll kill you."
Tom opened his mouth, a witty comment on his lips, but Chakotay's
attention was already caught by someone in the room beyond. Tom saw
the glint of a Bajoran earring and heard a husky female voice;
"Torres just reported in," it said, "and she's brought someone with
her; a Vulcan."
"A Vulcan...?" The rest of Chakotay's words were lost, as he
disappeared into the darkness.
"Let's go," a high-pitched voice piped at Tom's elbow. Looking down
he saw Darian watching him warily, his hand hovering close to his
hip, presumably where his phaser was hidden.
"Lead the way, boss," Tom replied, giving Darian what he hoped was a
friendly smile. The boy turned without a word, and led him out of
the darkness and into the future, whatever it might be.
***
"Let me get this straight," the Doctor said. "You want me to remove
a Borg implant from Seven's cerebellum and implant it in Lieutenant
Paris' head?"
"It's only temporary," B'Elanna explained, trying to remain calm;
time was running out! "We'll use the Borg implant as an interface
between Tom's mind and a section of your holo-matrix. We can
accelerate the memory feed and use the processing power of the ship's
computer to enable Tom to assimilate the information faster."
"You mean, he'll be inside my head? Able to access my most private
thoughts? I don't know if I like that idea."
"If it makes you feel any better, you'll be inside his head too."
"Unsurprisingly, that does NOT make me feel better."
"Look Doctor, this is our best chance to get him back..."
"Aren't you forgetting one other thing?"
"What?"
"Seven. I can't predict how removing the Borg implant from her
cerebral cortex will effect her. It could be dangerous."
Torres bit her lip, swallowing frustration. They were so close! She
turned to Seven. "Well?" she asked. Hearing the sharpness in her
voice, she tried to soften it. "Will you do it?"
"Damaging one individual to repair the non-essential systems of
another is not efficient."
Torres felt her anger rising, and noticed the Captain preparing to
step between her and Seven.
"But Lieutenant Paris was kind to me once," Seven continued. "And
that was not essential or efficient. I will help him."
It took a moment for B'Elanna to swallow the emotions that churned
inside; anger and relief, tinged with grinding anxiety. "Thank you,"
she managed at last. "Doctor?"
"Very well," he replied. "Come this way Seven - it won't hurt a
bit."
***
"So, where are we going?" Tom asked, as the little ship headed out
from DS9.
"You'll see when we get there," Darian replied.
"Okay."
Tom watched the kid flying the ship. He was how old? Sixteen maybe?
He wondered what his story was, what had brought him to the far ends
of the galaxy at such a young age.
"How long 'till we get there?" Tom asked him.
"Couple of minutes to the Badlands. Then...as long as it takes."
"The Badlands? Sounds like fun."
"You're not frightened are you?"
Tom wasn't, but he could sense the fear beneath the boy's bravado.
"I'm sure you can handle it."
"Of course I can," Darian snapped. "I've done it a million times."
"Right."
Silence descended. Tom gazed out of the window, watching the
familiar blur of warped space. It felt good to be back out in it,
and soon he would be flying again. He could hardly wait. That was
the real reason he was here. Not the money. That had been a lie.
Another lie. But it didn't matter. All he really wanted to do was
fly. It was all he'd ever wanted to do, and they'd taken it away
from him. Outside Starfleet, what chance did he have? A freighter
pilot? Even they wanted to see a license. And the thought of being
grounded for the rest of his life - it was unimaginable.
So, after drifting for a couple of months, he'd remembered the story
Mitch had told him the day of the accident; the story of a Starfleet
Commander who'd defected to the Maquis. And the idea had been born.
If he couldn't fly with Starfleet, he'd fly against them. So long as
he was flying, he didn't care who it was for. Besides, the Maquis
had a good cause. Life, liberty...that kind of thing. And if they
killed a few Cardassians, who cared? They were only Cardassians.
They probably deserved it.
And so here he was, as far away from Starfleet Command as he would
ever get, sitting in a ship that had definitely seen better days,
watching a child fly him to his new home. A year ago, hell, six
months ago, no - THREE months ago - he would have laughed out loud if
someone had suggested that his future would lie here. Yet here he
was.
"The commander said you were a good pilot." Darian's words startled
him.
"Did he?"
"He said you're one of the best, but you've got an attitude problem."
Tom smiled. "My reputation precedes me then. I've never met
Chakotay before."
"He's the best."
"Why's that?"
"He just is."
Tom recognized hero-worship when he saw it. "Do you know why he left
Starfleet?"
"Because they sold us out, that's why."
"I see."
"So, why are you here?"
"Like I told your Commander - for the money."
Darian glanced at him, his young face suddenly shrewd. "What do you
need money for?"
"Why do you care?"
The boy shrugged. "I don't."
Tom considered for a moment. "So, why are YOU here?"
"To win."
"You think you have a chance - against the Federation and the
Cardassians?"
"Why else would we be fighting?" The reasoning of a child. Tom
suddenly felt very old - had he ever seen the world that clearly?
Had he ever had that much faith in anything? Even in himself?
"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.
"Younger than you," Darian replied, an impish grin brightening his
eyes.
"You look about twelve," Tom told him. It got the desired response.
"I'm seventeen!"
"Ah. So why aren't you in school or something?"
The smile faded. "Because it's not there anymore. The Cardassians
destroyed it, and most of the colony."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, everyone is. They don't do anything about it though."
A soft bleep alerted Darian to the controls. He made a few
adjustments and they dropped out of warp with a force that almost
flung Tom from his seat. Darian shot him a sideways grin.
"Oops. Should've warned you about that I guess."
"Problem with the inertial dampers?"
"They don't like slowing down."
"No kidding."
"Okay. This is where things start getting a little crazy."
The Badlands. An apt name, Tom mused as he watched the swirling mess
on the view screen. He glanced over at Darian; the boy was studying
the controls intently, chewing nervously on his lower lip. It didn't
bode well for a safe passage.
"Need a hand?" Tom offered, knowing it was a mistake the instant the
words left his lips.
"No. I'm fine. I told you."
"Okay." Tom let it drop, but maneuvered himself into a position where
he could see the controls for himself. The kid was plotting an
intricate course, avoiding the bulk of the plasma storms, heading for
a small planetoid at the heart of the territory. So far so good.
"So is it true?" Darian asked, his eyes never leaving the controls.
"What they said about you?"
"I don't know," Tom told him. "What did they say?"
"That you murdered three people because they were getting promoted
and you weren't."
Tom couldn't repress a bleak laugh. "Who told you that?"
"I just heard it. Is it true?"
"No."
"But you did murder three people?"
"No. It was a...WATCH OUT!" The little ship passed dangerously
close to a plasma flare, its concussion wave knocking her off course
- and into the path of another flare. "Starboard, Starboard!" Tom
yelled.
"I'm trying," Darian yelped. "It's not responding."
"You have to compensate - reverse the port thrusters."
"What?"
"The port thrusters!"
Darian was in a panic now, his fingers flying, making more mistakes.
The ship was listing badly to port, drifting closer to the center of
the storm. A warning light started flashing on the console; shields
were failing.
"The damn ship's barely spaceworthy!" Tom muttered. In another few
minutes they'd be caught in the middle of the storm and without the
shields, he knew they wouldn't last long. So Tom made a decision:
"Give me the controls."
"No - I can do it."
"Darian," for a moment he was an officer again, "that's an order."
It worked. The boy relinquished the controls, and with a few deft
touches, Tom had them back on a level heading.
He took a deep breath: "That was tricky," he lied.
But the kid saw right through him. "Not for you."
"Maybe not," Tom smiled. "But I've got a few years on you. It's
just experience."
"I panicked," Darian told him, glumly-honest. "I could've got us
killed."
"Well, you didn't. You knew when you were out of your depth - that's
important."
"Is it?"
"Trust me on that one," Tom told him. "I know all about it."
***
"So, we're ready to try?" B'Elanna persisted.
"Yes, yes all right," the Doctor snapped, still fussing over Seven.
She lay on a nearby bio-bed, recovering from the procedure to remove
the Borg implant from her brain. To Torres' impatient eyes, the
Doctor seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time with her.
At last he looked up, folded away his tricorder, and left her
bedside.
"I want to take it slow to start with," he warned her. "We'll just
try a moderate increase in the data flow. After last time, I don't
want to take any chances."
"Whatever you say," B'Elanna agreed. "Let's just get started!"
"Very well," he moved to the device that surrounded Tom's head, and
B'Elanna turned to the nearby computer console.
"Let's start with a point-five percent increase," the Doctor said.
"Point-five," B'Elanna echoed, adjusting the controls. The Doctor
was right, she knew. Take it slow, assess the results. But she was
so impatient - she wanted it to work NOW. She wanted him back so
badly, that she could hardly wait. It had to work. It absolutely
had to. They were almost out of time, and if this failed she knew
that the doctor would have no choice but to wake him up - and he
would be lost to her. This was his last chance; their last chance.
She held her breath and waited as the Doctor silently monitored the
results.
***
Tom had gained a shadow. It had started the moment he'd arrived in
this desolate place that, he guessed, he had to call home. The
shadow was a little shorter than him, with dark hair, dark eyes and a
serious face, and it had a name: Darian. After the incident in the
plasma storm, Darian had forgotten all the stories of murder and
mayhem that surrounded Tom, and proudly boasted of him as a friend
and comrade. Tom didn't really mind; he needed all the friends he
could get. But sometimes he just wanted to be left alone. And this
was one of those times. So, he'd lost his shadow in the camp, and
hiked a short way up one of the hills that surrounded them. He had a
good view over the ragged settlement, he could see the tattered array
of ships the Maquis wryly called their 'fleet' - they had a sense of
humor, at least - and he watched the plasma scarred sky glowing a
dull red in the painfully thin atmosphere. It was what passed for a
sunset in this God-forsaken place.
He shouldn't have come so far on his own. It was against camp policy
- not something that bothered him - but it was also stupid. The air
was thin, almost too thin to breath; hypoxia was an ever present
danger, and if he passed out up here he'd be brain damaged for life
before anyone came looking. He'd brought some air with him, of
course, so he figured it was worth the risk. Worth the risk to lose
his shadow for a while, to escape the whispers that followed him
around the camp. To be wonderfully, mercifully alone. Especially
today.
Today was his birthday. Traditionally the day for some of the
wildest, most outrageous parties Starfleet had seen. He smiled at
the memory; boy, had he got himself into trouble at the Academy! But
back then he'd had reason to celebrate; another year older, another
year closer to graduating, another rung on the ladder. But this year
was different. What was there to celebrate? Stranded in the middle
of - well - nowhere, literally. On a rock that tried to pass itself
off as a planet, flying ships that would have been antiquated when
his father was a boy. No cause for a party. Not that anyone here
would want to celebrate with him anyway. Darian was the only one who
considered him a friend. The others just watched, and whispered.
They didn't trust him, and he couldn't really blame them. He
wondered how many birthdays he'd spend among these people; all of
them perhaps, or none. Maybe he'd get lucky; go out in a blaze of
glory before he had to endure another one this lonely, another one
this far from home.
Resting his chin on his hands, he glared moodily at the ramshackle
Maquis settlement below. And as he did so a lone figure emerged from
one of the prefab shelters, scanned the horizon, and set out
purposefully towards Tom. He didn't need to look any closer to know
who it was; his shadow had found him. Probably a good job - his
thoughts were definitely drifting toward the morbid.
Standing up, Tom took a couple of breaths of the air he carried, and
started down towards Darian. The kid seemed in a hurry, so Tom
guessed he'd been sent to fetch him. He hoped it meant some action
at last. He'd been here two weeks already, but the cell leader,
Anya, didn't seem to trust him enough to let him fly. Not yet.
"Paris," Darian called. "Come on!" Although he'd only walked a
short distance, the boy was already breathless.
"You should've brought some air," Tom told him as he drew near.
"I'm okay," he replied, grinning. "Chakotay just contacted Anya -
we've got a target."
Tom smiled. At last! "What kind?"
"Don't know - Anya's going to brief us, and she told me to go get
you," he gasped for a breath, but waved away Tom's offer of air.
"Hurry!"
Darian led him to the prefab shelter that served as both mess hall
and general meeting room. As the door hissed shut behind him, Tom
sucked in a couple of deep breaths; the air was stale and recycled,
but it felt rich and strong compared with the thin atmosphere
outside. He felt quite light headed for a moment.
When he looked around, he saw that the room was full, and that all
eyes were on him. Silent, dark, suspicious eyes. He smiled at them,
"Good evening."
"Paris," Anya's voice was as short and hard as the woman who owned
it. Tom turned towards her, his smile freezing on her cold gray
eyes, their color matching the short hair that framed her thin
features. He didn't like her; she was the sort of woman over whom
his smiles held no power. It made him feel unusually vulnerable, and
that wasn't a feeling he enjoyed. "You shouldn't leave the camp on
your own," she told him.
"I'm very sorry," Tom replied, not meaning it and not caring that it
showed. "So, what's up?"
Anya's eyes narrowed. "We have new orders. Sit down, I'm about to
start the briefing."
Tom slouched into a seat, stretching his long legs out in front of
him. Darian perched nearby, eyes bright with anticipation.
"Chakotay has learned that a Cardassian convoy is heading into the
demilitarized zone. Ostensibly, it's carrying medical supplies and
food for the Cardassian colonists..."
This was met with bitter laughter. Anya held up a thin hand,
demanding silence.
"Of course, we know better. We believe that the convoy contains
vital components for nucleogenic weapons."
Tom, along with the rest of the room, sucked in a deep breath.
Nucleogenic weapons? Surely Starfleet wouldn't allow it?
"The convoy has to be stopped, and we're going to hit it with
everything we've got. We've managed to obtain a copy of its flight
plan, and we know it's going to come close to the edge of the
Badlands." A smile as thin as the rest of her touched Anya's lips.
"And that's where we're going to take them out."
"How big's the convoy?" asked a tall man, sitting to Tom's right.
"Pretty big, but our orders are to deal with the escort, not the
convoy itself. Others will take them on, once we've neutralized the
out-riders. I want Gamma and Delta crews to provide heavy covering
fire while we use the HKs to take out the escort; Turner and Wells,
Rapkin and West will take two HKs, and I want a volunteer to fly with
Paris in the third."
The silence was absolute. Tom glanced to left and right; no one
spoke, no one looked at him. Inside his heart a small voice cried
out in dismay, but he ruthlessly shut the door on its distress, and
allowed bitterness to take away that particular pain. "I can fly
alone," he told Anya, his voice loud in the silence.
"No." It was Darian. "I'll fly with him."
Tom shook his head, smiling slightly. He could guess exactly what
Anya's response to THAT suggestion would be.
"Very well," she said. "If you're sure."
Tom's jaw dropped. "But.." he exclaimed, shooting to his feet.
"He's too..."
"Too young?" Anya finished. "Yes. He is. But kids grow up quickly
out here, Paris. He's too young to have had his parents murdered
too, isn't he? But they were, and Darian has a right to exact some
justice for that, don't you think?"
"What justice is there in getting himself killed?"
"It's his choice, Paris, not yours. You're here on our terms. You
have no choice in this."
Tom could feel the tension in the room, the angry stares and
mutterings. He knew that further argument was useless, and
reluctantly sat down.
"Your target coordinates will be transmitted by Chakotay once you're
clear of the planet," Anya continued. "Let the heavy fighters go
first, and wait for his mark before engaging the escort." She swept
the room with a determined stare. "Any questions?"
There were none.
"Very well. Then let's go!"
The Maquis spilled from the shelter, excited yells penetrating the
thin walls of the hut. But before Tom could leave, Anya called his
name. He turned to face her, the shelter emptying around him. Anya
walked over to where he stood, looking up at him as the room fell
into empty silence. "I'm taking a risk on you," she said. "I
could've sent Eddings in the HK."
"I'm a better pilot," Tom told her. "What's the risk?"
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't trust you, Starfleet. That's the risk.
But I figure I have to test you some time, and this will be as good a
test as any."
Tom shrugged and turned away. "So test me. I'm not going anywhere.
Like it or not, I'm here to stay." Tom wasn't sure if he was
directing those words at Anya or himself; both, he decided.
"We'll see," was her only reply. And there was a cold laughter in
her voice that made Tom shiver.
***
Darian was waiting for him outside.
"What did she want?" he asked as they made their way towards the
scrambling ships.
"To wish me luck."
Darian glanced at him, not sure whether to believe him or not.
"So, which is ours?" Tom asked, changing the subject.
Darian grinned and pointed. "That one!"
Tom's heart sank so far he could feel it oozing out the toes of his
boots. Their ship was a little two-person fighter of very dubious
origin; dented, battle scarred and OLD. Under any other
circumstances Tom would have refused to fly it. But this was a
Maquis outfit and he knew they couldn't afford to be fussy. Darian
had assured him that there was some hot-shot engineer in Chakotay's
cell who ensured that all the ships were spaceworthy, but looking at
this, he had his doubts about her competence. As they approached, he
ran his eyes over the hull, looking for any obvious failures. It
appeared more or less okay, for what that was worth.
"Come on!" Darian urged, climbing inside.
I must be mad. The thought circled around his head as he looked at
the decrepit ship; it span in his mind until the moment he touched
her. The hull was cool under his hand as he pulled himself into the
ship and slid easily into the pilot's seat. The pilot's seat. And
then he began to smile. This was what it was all about. He glanced
over the controls, saw the pre-flight sequence lights blinking at
him, and took a deep breath. It even smelled right; that combination
of static and recycled air that always reminded him of flying.
"What's she called?" he asked.
"Who?"
"The ship. What's her name?"
"Oh. I don't think she has one."
"She has to have a name."
"How about - Victory?"
Tom shook his head. "Deliverance."
Darian shrugged. "Whatever."
It was a good name. It certainly felt like his deliverance; to be
sitting at last where he belonged. To be getting off that wretched
rock.
"Okay," he hit the comm panel. "This is Paris to control. Are we
cleared to go?"
"You're cleared Paris," it was Anya's voice. "Set course five point
nine mark six."
"Copy five point nine mark six," Tom replied. "See you out there."
"Copy that. And Paris - I'll be watching you."
"I'm touched," he told her, and terminated the comm line. Turning to
Darian, his smile widened into a grin. "Ready?"
Darian grinned back. "Ready."
Tom gunned the engines, feeling them respond with the usual throbbing
resonance. It would be loud on the ground, but he didn't care. With
a skill he knew would impress even Anya, he lifted the ship slightly
from the ground, spun her on her axis and opened up the engines. The
little rock disappeared beneath them in the blink of an eye, and Tom
whooped with pure exhilaration.
"I bet that shook'em up!" Darian laughed.
"Anya's going kill me when we get back, isn't she?"
"Yeah."
Tom shrugged. "You know what? I don't care."
They were leaving the atmosphere now, and dull red was suddenly
replaced by the swirling mass of the Badlands. Tom's sensors came
alive as he joined the other Maquis ships, weaving their way through
the plasma storms.
"So, what's the plan?" Tom asked. "I assume there is one?"
"Of course there is. We have to wait for the Commander to tell us,
remember?"
"Chakotay?"
"Who else?"
As if responding to a cue, the comm crackled into life. "Chakotay to
Paris. Respond please."
"Paris here. Go ahead Chakotay."
"I'm down-loading your target data and your mission objective. Go
in, do it, and get out. Understand?"
"Aye Sir," Tom replied. And then bit his tongue. That was a
Starfleet response; he could imagine the smile on Chakotay's face.
"Proceed, Mr. Paris." If he was smiling, there was no evidence of it
in his voice. "And good luck. Chakotay out."
Darian called up the information excitedly. "Wow," he breathed.
"Wow? Wow what?"
"The convoy has a HUGE escort: we have to take out THREE outriders!"
"Three? Are they kidding?"
"We can do it."
"Sure. If we had a Starship! But in this rust bucket...?"
"What are you afraid of?"
Tom gave him a hard look. "Dying. What are you afraid of?"
"Failing." Darian's eyes were at least as hard as Tom's.
"Give me the coordinates," Tom said, looking away.
Darian obliged, and Tom plotted the course. The convoy would arrive
in a matter of minutes; the Maquis would strike like lightening, and
disappear just as fast into the anonymity of the Badlands. That was
the theory. Reality, Tom suspected, might not be so smooth.
When they reached the ambush point he dropped the engines, damped the
power signature, and waited. Darian sat in silence by his side, his
young eyes eager with anticipation. Tom looked away, suddenly
unenthusiastic for the fight. What am I doing this for? It wasn't
the first time he'd asked himself that question since joining the
Maquis. The only problem was, try as he might, he could think of no
alternative. And so he waited.
***
"It's working."
The doctor's words were like cool rain in the desert. Joy reached up
and swelled her heart so that she felt like she would have to scream
or let it burst. But B'Elanna kept her elation in check, as she did
with all her emotions. In public at least. A smile, that was all,
touched her lips. "Shall we increase the speed of the data-flow?"
"Yes. In a moment. How is my holo-matrix coping with the input?"
Torres glanced at the controls in front of her. "It's holding up
well. Are you aware of the process?"
The doctor considered for a moment. "Yes," he said at last. And
raised an eyebrow.
Curiosity suddenly set her on fire! She knew she shouldn't ask. It
was private. It would be a terrible intrusion...but she just
couldn't resist. "So, what's he doing?"
The doctor gave her a sideways glance. "He's flying a ship. A
Maquis ship. And thinking about...a woman..."
B'Elanna's eyes narrowed.
"...Anya. Her name is Anya."
"Anya?!" Torres almost laughed.
"Doctor," the Captain interrupted. "I think it would be better if
you kept Mr. Paris's thoughts to yourself."
"Ah. Yes, sorry Captain. It's just - it's almost like they're my
memories too. It's hard to differentiate them - it's very real."
"I'll try isolating that section of your holo-matrix - make the
memories less intrusive."
"Very well," the Doctor agreed. "Although, it's really quite
enlightening. I would never have guessed that so much actually went
on inside Lieutenant Paris's head."
"Doctor."
B'Elanna could hear the note of warning in the Captain's voice. The
Doctor gave Janeway a quick smile, and returned his attention to Tom.
B'Elanna shook her head. Being jealous of a hologram was an unusual
situation to be in, but at that moment she was. She wished she could
plug herself into Tom's thoughts, to see, just for a moment, the
world through his eyes. She wondered what he saw when he looked at
her. No. Best not to go there. Definitely not.
***
The sensors lit up: "Here they come," Darian breathed.
"Lock on phasers," Tom told him. "I want this to be nice and clean -
no hanging around out there."
"There's too much interference to get a lock."
"Okay - then we'll wait. Can you ID the targets yet?"
"No. I've got a location fix but I can't get an ID...hang on."
Tom could see nothing beyond the plasma field, but he was almost sure
he could hear the thrum of the engines as the convoy lumbered past.
It was impossible of course - just his imagination playing games.
But for some reason he felt unaccountably nervous. It wasn't as if
this was his first combat situation; he'd been in countless
simulations, and not a few real battles. But this was different.
This time he didn't have the weight of Starfleet behind him. This
was his first act as a...what? Freedom fighter? Hardly that. How
about as a mercenary then? Maybe. Or perhaps criminal was more
appropriate? His first intentionally criminal act; it was enough to
make anyone nervous.
"The IDs are coming through...." Darian frowned. "They're not
Cardassian."
"What do you mean? It's a Cardassian convoy isn't it?"
"Yes. I mean, IT is. The convoy is, but it's got an escort," Darian
glanced up at Tom. "A Starfleet escort."
Shit! Tom felt his heart thudding hard and painful in his chest.
This was bad. Really bad. The shock must have shown on his face,
because Darian started to chew anxiously at his lower lip.
"Who are they?" Tom managed after a long, silent, moment.
Darian was confused. "I don't know..."
"Let me see," Tom leaned over and scanned the readings. A couple of
runabouts from DS9 by the look of it. No one he would know,
probably, but still - Starfleet! Could he really fire on Starfleet
ships?
The comm crackled into life: "Chakotay to Paris. You're not in
position. What's the problem?"
"No problem, Commander," Darian answered for him. "We're on our
way." The expression on his face asked the question: Aren't we?
"Then move it," Chakotay snapped, his voice distant behind the plasma
induced static. "We need you. Now."
"Yes Sir."
Tom's heart was racing. How did he keep getting himself into these
situations? It was wrong, but there was no way out. If he backed
down now, he knew what the Maquis would do to him; IF YOU BETRAY US,
I'LL KILL YOU. He remembered Chakotay's words and he didn't doubt
them for a moment.
"All right, let's do it," he said, letting out a slow breath, trying
to control the sick feeling that clawed at his belly. Nudging the
engines into motion, Tom maneuvered the ship into position,
ready to pounce. "I want you to target their shields and weapons;
disable them - that's all."
"Disable? But we...."
"That's an order."
"You're not in Starfleet anymore," Darian retorted, "You can't give
me orders."
Anger - at himself, at the situation, and at the kid - bubbled to the
surface; he didn't have time to argue. "Listen," he grabbed the
front of Darian's tunic, yanking him close. "This is NOT a game. We
could die out here. You do what I say, or you do nothing?
Understand?"
"Yes." Darian was a sullen child, and Tom felt a momentary pang of
guilt at his harshness. But it was for the boy's own good; the kid
had no discipline, no patience.... A faint smile touched his lips -
where had he heard that before? He shook his head.
"Get ready," his voice reminded him of his father. "I need to be
able to rely on you; no mistakes. Got it?"
"Yes sir."
"Chakotay to all ships: on my mark...MARK!"
This was it. The ship sprung to life under his hands, and Tom had
enough time for a brief, grudging, thank-you to the anonymous
engineer who maintained it. The ship looked rough, put it ran as
smooth as silk.
As the Maquis fleet spat out of the Badlands, Tom could almost see
the runabouts go to red alert. He knew, without a doubt, that their
shields were raised, their weapons locked-on, and that help was
probably already on its way from DS9. The Cardassian convoy they
protected was huge and ugly - Cardassian's never built anything for
its aesthetic value, and their ships were no exception. Big, gray,
ugly and well armed. But they were Chakotay's business; he had to
deal with the runabouts. No coincidence there; this was another
test. He remembered the cold laughter in Anya's voice, and
understood the joke. Only he wasn't laughing.
A streak of phaser fire scorched past them, clipping the shields.
"Report!" Tom snapped.
"Holding. No damage."
"Which one's ours?" Tom asked, as they swarmed into the convoy's
space, phaser fire from the runabouts' crackling against their
shields.
"That one. Two-nine-mark-eight-seven."
"I see him. Lock on phasers."
"Phasers locked."
Tom had to swallow hard before he gave the next command: "Fire."
"Firing all weapons."
The runabout shuddered under the impact of their phasers, and Tom
twisted their little fighter away before the runabout's weapons could
lock-on. He sent her into a dive, dropping beneath the Starfleet
ship, and then spun her one-hundred and eighty degrees, coming up
under the runabout's belly. "Fire", he ordered again, hating himself
even as the words left his lips.
Darian obeyed. "Their shields are failing!"
"Target their weapons."
A small explosion breached the runabout's hull and Darian whooped for
joy. Tom just felt sick. His hands were shaking on the controls,
and a cold sweat trickled down his back. How had he ever fallen this
low? In his mind he was inside the runabout - he'd flown a thousand
of them, every detail was as clear as day. What would happen when
the weapons array blew? He knew. He knew exactly. Someone would be
standing at tactical. An Ensign probably. And then the console
would explode - if they had a medic on board, the officer might
survive. Maybe. A year ago, that could have been him. Or Mitch.
Or Castile, or any of a hundred people he knew. Perhaps it was.
That thought turned him so cold he thought his blood would freeze in
his veins.
"Paris. Paris! Hey - what's up?"
"Nothing..." Tom shook himself. It was done. He had other
responsibilities now; he had to get Darian back in one piece.
"Where's the next target?"
"Four-zero-mark-two-ten."
"Setting course. Get ready with phasers..."
Slipping around the disabled runabout, Tom ducked the ship beneath
the huge Cardassian freighter, hugging her hull close to avoid any
danger from her ugly looking weapons array. The next target was
below him, and he knew he was already registering on their sensors.
But he also knew Starfleet tactical protocols; he was too close to
the Cardassian freighter. They wouldn't risk a friendly fire
incident - especially not with the Cardassians. So long as he kept
close to the massive freighter, he was safe. But the runabout
wasn't. His stomach nearly crawled into his throat when he spoke:
"Fire." Tom's order was bleak, but Darian didn't seem to notice.
Their phaser fire washed off the runabout; the Starfleet crew knew he
was there and had adapted their shields to compensate. Tom smiled
with an unexpected sense of relief; they were good, of course. An
alarm suddenly started bleeping: "What's that?"
"Photon torpedoes!"
"Where?"
"There's a Cardassian fighter! One-eight-mark-three-zero."
"I see it. Damn it!"
Tom tried to twist out of the way, but he was stuck; too close to the
freighter and too close to the runabout beneath. The meat in the
sandwich. Two direct hits; Tom thought the reverberations would
rattle the teeth from his skull.
"Shields?" he yelled through the turmoil.
"Forty-five percent - falling. We're losing power..."
Beneath him, Tom saw the runabout start listing. One of the
torpedoes had hit her too; the Cardassian weren't too fastidious
about friendly fire it seemed. But they WERE stupid.
"The runabout's engines are off line."
Tom didn't need Darian to tell him that. He knew what a ship adrift
looked like; "She's still armed. Target her..."
Their ship shuddered.
"What was that?"
"No!" Tom hissed, flinging the engines into full reverse.
"What is it?" Darian asked. "Why are we heading for the Cardasian
ship?"
"They've got us in a tractor beam - target it."
"I can't get a lock. They're doing something to their shields."
"What?"
"I don't know. It's like they're slippery or something - I can't get
a fix."
"Shit!" The engines were beginning to protest as they fought against
the relentless force pulling them in. "Just fire anywhere!" Tom was
desperate now; he was NOT going to become a Cardassian prisoner.
He'd rather die.
"Firing."
Another jolt, and the tractor beam loosened its hold. Almost, but
not enough. Then Tom had an idea; "All power to the forward shields,
and hold on," he yelled, thrusting the engines forward, and driving
their ship hard and fast, on a direct collision course with the
Cardasian ship. He heard Darian scream, just as the tractor beam
disengaged; with a violent tug, he wrenched the ship from its
suicidal path, just in time. Despite himself, despite what he was
doing, Tom found himself grinning. "They blinked first," he said,
breathless with adrenaline.
Darian just stared at him, his eyes wide and terrified.
The torpedo alarm sounded again, and Tom stood the ship on end,
cutting around in a tight circle beneath the enemy vessel. The
photon torpedoes hissed past, impacting harmlessly against the
shields of the huge freighter. Chakotay's never going to get near
that thing, Tom realised. The whole mission was impossible.
"We're being hailed," Darian told him, his voice shaking.
"By who?"
"One of the Starfleet ships."
"Ignore it. Target the third runabout..."
"I can't see it. No, wait. It's on the other side of the
freighter...one-two-mark-seven-zero."
"I'm on it. How are the shields?"
"Forty percent - still falling. There's a power drain somewhere."
"See if you can locate it," Tom told him, concentrating on dodging
the deadly phaser blasts from the Cardassian fighter that was in
pursuit.
Ducking their little fighter under the freighter again, Tom passed
the disabled runabout. He gunned the engines, trying to outmaneuver
the lumbering Cardassian fighter. But there was no response.
"I'm losing power to the engines!" Panic fired his blood, but his
training kept all trace of it from his voice. Darian was less
disciplined.
"I know," he snapped. "I'm trying to lock it down... Give me five
minutes."
Tom almost laughed. Five minutes! The Cardassians were practically
on top of them. The comm crackled into life: "Maquis ship. This is
the USS Endurance. You have a power leak in your aft plasma relay.
You'll lose all power to your engines in three minutes. Drop your
shields and prepare to be boarded."
"Darian?"
"They're right - the plasma conduit in the power relay's totally
fried," he looked up with serious dark eyes. "But three minutes is
long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
"To get back to the Badlands."
Tom only considered for a moment. "We'll never make it past the
Cardassians," he decided, turning the ship around, dropping closer to
the disabled runabut.
"It's worth a try!"
"Really?" Tom asked. "You want to be a Cardassian prisoner?"
The boy paled. "No. I'll never be that. But it's better to go out
fighting."
Tom shook his head. If it was just him, perhaps it would be worth
the risk. But Darian was just a kid. What did he really know about
fighting or dying? Or living.
He cut the engines. "No. It's better to live."
"What're you doing?" Darian yelled, frantically trying to re-engage
the engines. "Turn us around - get us out of here!"
"We don't stand a chance," Tom snapped, pushing him away.
"Coward!" the boy cried, tears in his eyes. "Traitor!"
Tom ignored him and hit the communicator panel. "USS Endurance.
This is the Maquis ship - Deliverance." His lips twisted in a bitter
smile. "We surrender to the Federation. Repeat: we surrender to the
Federation."
"This is Endurance. We accept your surrender, Maquis. Stand by to
be boarded."
"No," Darian's voice was a disbelieving whisper. "What have you
done?"
"Saved your life," Tom told him. "Believe me, this is going to be a
lot worse for me than it is for you."
Darian stood up, his face streaked with tears and betrayal. "They
were right about you. You're a coward, and a loser. I should never
have trusted you."
Tom returned his gaze in silence for a moment. Then he too stood up,
turning to face the spot where he knew the Starfleet team would beam
in. "Don't let them see you crying," he said in a soft voice. His
own tears of shame were locked so deep inside he doubted they would
ever fall.
Now he could only wish for one thing; that no one he knew would be
involved in this mess. But the moment the transporter shimmered into
solidity, Tom knew that the gods had abandoned him completely.
"Paris?" the young ensign gaped, phaser drawn, his face a picture of
astonishment.
"Mitch." Shame washed through him in a wave that was almost
overwhelming. But he refused to succumb to it. Instead he twisted
his lips into a smirk, and hoped it didn't look too sickly. "I guess
you'd better arrest me then."
***
The Doctor sat down heavily, his head in his hands.
"What is it?" Janeway asked, dashing to his side.
"It's..."
"Is there something wrong with the program?" B'Elanna asked, scanning
the readings before her. They all looked fine.
"No. It's just...awful."
"What is?" The Captain spoke softly, concerned.
"I feel - HE feels - so, so terrible. Worthless. It's
indescribable. I never realised...." His head sank into his hands
again.
Janeway looked up. "Can you isolate the Doctor's program further?"
"I'm trying," Torres replied, her mind and fingers whirring. "How's
that?"
The Doctor raised his head, some of the pain easing from his face.
"Better," he told her. "Thank you."
"This must be difficult for you," the Captain said gently. "Is there
anything I can do?"
"No. Thank you Captain. It's just that I'm not used to the," he
paused, considering, "to the intensity of the emotions Mr. Paris is
experiencing. It's really quite powerful."
As the Doctor spoke, Torres glanced at Tom. Perhaps it was her
imagination, but she thought he looked paler than usual, his lips
thin and colorless. She didn't doubt the doctor's words; she knew
how powerful his feelings could be. In that respect, he wasn't so
different from herself. They were both capable of powerful emotions,
and both afraid of expressing them to anyone. To anyone but each
other.
"Are you ready to continue?" the Captain asked.
"Yes," the Doctor sighed. "Let's get this over with - I just hope
Lieutenant Paris has some fun soon!"
B'Elanna allowed a small smile to touch her lips. "He will," she
said quietly. Once she entered his life, the Doctor would notice...
Her face suddenly flushed scarlet, and she sucked in a shocked
breath. The Doctor understood immediately, a smug smile creeping
across his face:
"Needless to say, everything I witness - if that's the right word -
will be subject to the strictest patient-doctor confidentiality."
B'Elanna's eyes narrowed, just as the Captain's widened in
understanding. If Tom's life hadn't been at stake, she would
probably have ripped the Doctor's stupid holo-emitter from his stupid
holographic arm and stamped on it. Instead she made do with a stare
that would have sent any of her engineers running for cover. The
Doctor merely raised an eyebrow.
"Shall we proceed? This should prove highly - enlightening. From a
strictly medical point of view, of course."
***
Tom lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. It was gray. They
always seemed to be gray. Well, always was probably an exaggeration.
His experience of prison cells was, admittedly, rather narrow. In
total, three. There'd been the one on DS9, dark, and distinctly
Cardassian despite the Starfleet uniform standing in the corner.
Then the cramped brig aboard the USS Williamsburg, and finally the
holding cell in which he now lay, awaiting the sentencing hearing
that would condemn him to some other cold, gray cell.
He smiled. It was astounding how calmly he could contemplate that
now; prison - Tom Paris the convict. But it hadn't always been so
easy. Oh no. That first day, in that first prison, on that dank,
dark space station, had been very different. Very different indeed.
Manhandled from the runabout by two security officers, with Mitch
marching ahead, refusing to even look at him, Tom had been given over
to Chief of Security Odo. The Changeling had spared him one quick,
disappointed, glance and then sent him to the cells.
Up until then, Tom had been in control; he'd met the contemptuous
mutterings of the Starfleet crew with scorn of his own, he'd returned
their curses with insolent smiles. He was Tom Paris after all; he
had a reputation to maintain. But when they had left him alone in
that cold, dark cell, when the security field had shimmered across
the door, then reality had hit with a vengeance. Blind, unreasoning
panic, fueled by bitter anger, had overpowered his reason. There
was no way out; he was trapped. He'd shouted, yelled for attention,
demanded to be released, demanded to talk to his father, to the
Commander of the station, screamed curses at anyone who had tried to
reason with him, even thrown himself against the security field until
the pain and anger had driven him to his knees in exhaustion. And
then he'd cried. Cried like a child; months of tears that had gone
unshed - guilt, fear, loss, shame, betrayal and anger. Bitter,
bitter anger.
Why had they driven him to this? Why had they all abandoned him -
his friends, his father, his colleagues - washed their hands of him
and condemned him to this hell of his own creation? Why didn't they
help him? He had cursed them then, loudly and bitterly. Every
single one of them. Cursed them for making him who he was, cursed
them for abandoning him to his fate, and cursed them because he was
alone. So utterly alone.
And he had known, as he sat shivering on the cold floor of that bleak
Cardassian cell, that this was the end. His life was over. And in a
single moment of terrifying clarity, Tom had understood that he would
be better off dead. He had lost everything; his career, his family,
his friends, and now his freedom. But worst of all, he had lost
himself, his purpose and his reason.
Looking back, as he lay staring up at the ceiling, Tom knew without a
doubt that, had he possessed the means, he would have ended it there.
The panic would have driven him into the pitiless chasm that had
yawned beneath him, and he would have welcomed its embrace with
relief.
But he'd lacked the means, or perhaps the courage, and another
blackness had overtaken him. Sleep, heavy and dreamless, had stolen
away his exhausted mind, and when he awoke the panic had subsided.
In its place sat a curiously cold detachment, a detachment that had
remained with him ever since. It allowed him to function, dimmed the
pain and the fear, put him back in control. But it didn't stop the
anger. No, that was still there, no longer wild and uncontrolled,
but focused, precise and clinical; cold slivers of hatred directed at
those who had reduced him to this state. Mitch, for suggesting the
stupid stunt. Dail, for boring him into recklessness. But most of
all his father; it was HIS cold disapproval, his eyes, hard as winter
ice, that had started the lie. And for that, Tom would never forgive
him. Never.
Yes, that first day had been the hardest. But he had survived. Just
as he had survived the long, tedious voyage back to Earth, learning
the whole while to harden his heart against the contempt of his one-
time colleagues. And he would survive the future, the countless
other gray days spent in other gray cells, much like the one in which
he now lay.
He'd been here a week, going through the formalities of the trial,
cutting a deal with the authorities. He had no compunctions about
trading his limited knowledge of the Maquis - specifically about how
Starfleet could lay their hands on Chakotay - for a commuted
sentence. Why not? What did he owe the Maquis? If they hadn't sent
him out in a barely spaceworthy ship, with a kid as a co-pilot, he
might not be lying here now, staring at that dull gray ceiling.
The memories of the Maquis reminded him of Darian. He'd lost sight
of the kid as soon as they'd reached DS9; Tom had no idea where he
was. Not that it mattered. The boy had just stared at him in silent
contempt during the whole trip back to DS9. Much like Mitch had.
Well, he didn't care anymore. They could think what they liked about
him; he was closed to them, their disapproval no longer hurt.
A noise returned him to the present, as the security field guarding
his cell crackled and dropped. Tom turned his head, not bothering to
stand.
"On your feet Paris. Time to go."
"So soon? But I'm having such fun."
"Just move it. The court's waiting."
Tom pushed himself upright with a sigh, "Guess they can't start
without the guest of honor." Getting to his feet he yawned,
stretched, and straightened the ugly gray prison uniform he wore.
"Lead the way."
As he entered the court, Tom's advocate, Jonus Taylor, half rose to
greet him. He was a small, nervous looking man, with a nose that
twitched like a mouse, and little dark eyes that blinked too often.
Tom hated him, which was no reflection on the man; he hated everyone
and everything right now. As he was escorted into the dock, Tom just
nodded towards his advocate. There was nothing to say to him, the
deal had already been struck. He would have no surprises today.
Or so he thought.
From the vantage point of the dock, Tom had a good view of the
courtroom. It was small and warmly intimate in a Federation kind of
a way. Everything was quiet and orderly, seamlessly efficient and
dressed with a smile. And at this moment, Tom hated it. The
coziness made him want to scream.
Casting his eyes about the room, Tom's gaze rested on the judge. She
was young and serious looking, with a long elegant face marred only
by a frown of concentration. She noticed his gaze and looked up,
nodded once in his direction, and returned her attention to the Padd
she was studying. Tom looked away, his eyes wondering the room until
they were arrested by something shockingly familiar. Another pair of
eyes, as blue as his own, were staring back at him. Tom had thought
he was prepared for anything, that nothing could disturb him now.
But he was wrong. The one thing he had never expected, had never
even thought of, was that his father would turn up to witness this
final humiliation.
Tom gripped the steel railing in front of him, his face flushing an
angry red as he met his father's unreadable gaze. Now he saw him
there, Tom understood the horrible inevitability of it. He had to
come, he realised sourly, he just had to rub my nose in it.
A movement caught Tom's attention as the Clerk of the Court came to
stand before him: "Please state your name for the record."
"Thomas Eugene Paris." He spoke quietly, struggling to control the
bitter anger that raged against his father; why can't he just stay
out of my life?
"Thomas Eugene Paris," the judge's voice was soft, reasonable. "The
Clerk will read out each of the charges that have been brought
against you. At the end of each charge you will enter a plea of
guilty or not guilty. Do you understand?"
"Yes Ma'am."
"Very well," she nodded to the Clerk, "Proceed."
"Thomas Eugene Paris," the clerk began, "you are accused by the
United Federation of Planets of the following crimes: one, that you
were a member of a militant organization known as the Maquis with the
stated objective of undermining a legal treaty negotiated between the
Federation and the Cardassian Empire. How do you plead?"
"Guilty." He could feel his father's stare, feel the disapproval in
it, the anger.
"Two, that as a member of the Maquis you did knowingly fire upon a
registered vessel of the United Federation of Planets, the USS
Endurance. How do you plead?"
Tom paused, glancing at his father; this time he met his eyes. They
were sad. Sad and angry. "Guilty," Tom said, his voice loud and
sour with anger of his own.
His father just closed his eyes and looked away.
"Three, that during this assault you committed actual bodily harm to
one Ensign Ulanov, a crew member of the aforementioned ship. How do
you plead?"
"Guilty." Tom remembered his father's words; "no one joined
Starfleet without knowing the risks, son. Space is a dangerous
place". Ensign Ulanov had been unlucky. That was all. It was a war
and people got hurt. That was life. That was a Starfleet life.
Tom's advocate approached the bench, murmured a few words to the
judge, and returned to his seat.
"Thomas Paris," she began in her soft voice, "you have entered a plea
of guilty against all charges. I am advised by Mr. Taylor that you
have provided assistance to Starfleet regarding the location of
certain Maquis cells, and I have taken this into account in
determining your sentence." She paused, turning to look at him; he
found her intense gaze disturbing, but refused to drop his eyes.
"Nevertheless, your crimes are serious," she continued, "especially
in light of your previous career as a Starfleet Officer. The use of
terror as a political tool will always be looked upon with disgust by
those peoples who consider themselves civilized. That you have
committed these acts of violence against your own people, your former
colleagues and comrades in arms, only makes your crimes more
despicable."
Tom smiled, pleased to see the Judge's eyes narrow in anger. What
did she know about it? Comrades in arms? They'd been only too happy
to wash their hands of him, why should he owe Starfleet any more than
he owed the Maquis? If there was one thing he had learned in all
this, it was that only one person would look after Tom Paris. And
that person was Tom Paris. Not learning that lesson sooner was his
biggest regret; had he known it on Caldik Prime he would never have
made that stupid confession. That was his one, big mistake. But it
was one he'd never repeat. Never.
"You clearly show no remorse for your acts," the Judge said, the
softness gone out of her voice, "and I see no option but to award you
a custodial sentence. You will be taken from this court to a place
of detention where you will be held for a period of three years, with
parole not eligible before the end of the first year. Do you
understand this sentence?"
"Yes, I understand."
The deal had already been explained to him, it wasn't a surprise, but
there was an icy finality to the words when they were spoken by the
judge; it made him shiver. It was real, he was going to prison, and
a sudden, cold, fear turned his blood to ice-water. Instinctively he
looked to his father then, but got no comfort there; the Admiral sat
with his head in his hands, his face hidden.
***
Sometime later, Tom sat in his cell, numbly staring through the
security field at the Security Officer beyond. It was over. It was
real. He was going to prison. In a few hours he would be sent there
by secure transport: the New Zealand Penal Settlement. He was a
convicted criminal. Him, Tom Paris, the golden boy, the Admiral's
son, the best pilot in Starfleet.
"Paris." The Security Officer's voice startled him. "You have a
visitor."
The door hissed open to admit his father. This time Tom wasn't
surprised. He'd known he would come, to have his say, to absolve
himself of the responsibility. Tom smiled. He didn't plan to let
him off easily this time.
The Admiral stood before the cell, hands behind his back. Tom
remained seated, watching him, matching his silence.
"Why Tom?" his father said at last, more in sadness than in anger.
"I don't know." That was the truth, at least.
But his father's brows shot together in a sudden frown: "That's not
good enough."
"No. I don't suppose it is," Tom replied, feeling the anger
building. "But then again, nothing ever is, is it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Nothing I've ever done has
ever been good enough, has it?"
"Good enough?" his father spat the words. "How dare you speak to me
like that, after what you've done?! Do you have any idea how this
will effect your family? Have you ever thought about that? Eh?
Even once in your selfish little life?"
Tom shot to his feet. "Selfish? Oh that's rich coming from you! A
man too busy to raise his own son, too busy to realize that his
wife's...."
"Leave your mother out of it," the Admiral warned darkly.
"She used to say you were married to Starfleet, not..."
"I said leave her out of it!" he snapped. "I'm not the one who's
kept her up crying all night for the last three months!"
Tom was silenced for a moment, genuine regret piercing his anger.
His father stepped closer, lowering his voice. "We just what to know
what went wrong."
"What went wrong?" Tom shook his head. "I don't know. I can't tell
you."
"But you had everything. We GAVE you everything, didn't we?
Everything that you needed."
"Ha!" Tom almost laughed. "Everything? All you ever gave me was
what you wanted me to have. You never even asked what I wanted, did
you?"
"I don't understand what...."
"No. And that's just the point, isn't it? You don't understand.
You never have."
His father's eyes narrowed. "Then why don't you explain it to me?"
"Now?" Tom shook his head, retreating from his father's suggestion.
"It's a bit late, don't you think?"
"Just tell me what it is you wanted. What it is I didn't give you."
Tom clamped his lips shut, unwilling to go where his father was
leading. It hurt too much, it had gone too long unsaid. But this
might be his last chance, he knew, to say the things he had wanted to
say for so many years. And so, with a courage he had begun to doubt
that he possessed, he began to talk.
"You gave me everything except one thing: myself. I could be what I
wanted, as long as it was what you wanted. I could do what I wanted,
as long as you approved. I could live my life as I wanted, as long
as it was how you lived your life. Don't you understand? I want to
be myself. To live my own life, my way, to be ME, not you."
"I see," his father replied. "Well, now you have what you want;
you're living life YOUR way. And look what a mess you've made of it
so far."
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but realised he had nothing to say.
His father fixed him with eyes grown cold and hard. "You will always
be my son, Thomas, although I can't say that's something that gives
me any pride," he shook his head, not dropping his gaze. "I will
always love you as a son, but I doubt that I will ever respect you as
a man."
And with that he turned on his heel and left the room. Tom watched
him go in a kind of numb daze. The pain was so sharp, so deadly,
that he was afraid it would destroy him, and so he buried it deep,
piled anger and hatred upon it, and did his best to forget those
cruel words.
After a few moments he sat down, and stretched out, returning to his
contemplation of the gray ceiling.
***
An urgent bleeping startled B'Elanna Torres.
"What's that?"
The Doctor frowned. "His higher brain functions are beginning to
deteriorate. We don't have long."
"Can we increase the data-flow?"
"He's stable at the moment. I think we can risk it."
"Good. Increasing to forty percent."
"Forty percent."
B'Elanna watched as the data streamed through her fingers - Tom's
life digitized, reduced to its essentials. The data flow was
mesmerizing to her tired eyes. How long had she stood there,
watching over his memories? Hours, days? The Captain had come and
gone, and come again. Other friends had drifted in and out, some
concerned for her, others for Tom. But she had remained, the
guardian of Tom's life. Why? Because somewhere in that electronic
stream, she knew she existed. And those memories were, to her, the
most precious. It was selfish, she knew, but it couldn't be helped.
"Increase to fifty percent," the Doctor ordered, eyes fixed on his
tricorder.
"How far have we brought him?"
"Almost a year."
"How's he holding up?"
"Actually, very well," the doctor told her.
"Shall I increase the flow to sixty percent?"
"Not yet," he looked up "I want to pause here to assess. If
everything checks out, then I think we can finish the job tonight."
B'Elanna didn't risk a smile. It might be premature. She just
nodded in acknowledgment, and tried not to think about Tom opening
his blue eyes and smiling at her. No. Don't go there. Think about
the job. That's all. Just think about the job...
***
Just think about the job, Tom told himself. Focus on the now, don't
think about the past, don't think about the future.
A few sparks crackled near his fingers as he worked, and the spring
sun shone warm on his back. Life wasn't so bad; as long as he
focused on the job, and didn't think too much about anything. Of
course, that wasn't easy in this place. Thinking was something they
positively encouraged here. Councilors came two a penny, popping
out from behind trees when you least expected them, probing,
constantly wanting to talk about the past, wanting to explore the
future. The talking was the worst thing, really. That and the ankle
tag. He hated the damn thing, flashing at him, reminding him of what
he was; prisoner, it flashed, cast-out, unclean.
He shook his head. There he went, thinking again. It didn't do him
any good. None at all. He concentrated harder on the job at hand.
It wasn't difficult. Just some simple engineering. A child could
have done it. But it kept the thoughts away. He concentrated on the
sparks, the play of the tiny laser. So hard was he concentrating,
that he was startled when he heard someone speak his name.
"Tom Paris?"
It was a woman's voice, one he didn't recognize. Tom looked up. He
saw Starfleet boots, and a uniform in command red, with a Captain's
pips on the collar. The woman watched him closely, measuring him, a
smile playing near her lips....
***
"Sixty percent," B'Elanna reported, eyes fixed on the medical
console.
"Vital signs stable."
"Increasing to sixty five percent," her fingers made the small
adjustment.
"Holding."
"Seventy percent." It was working! She felt her heart start to beat
faster, her stomach squirming with nervous tension. She was
beginning to dare to hope.
"We've brought him forward another eighteen months." The Doctor
raised an eyebrow. "I believe that life is starting to improve for
Lieutenant Paris.... Increase to eighty percent."
"Eighty percent."
"Three years."
The doors to sickbay hissed open and the Captain entered, closely
followed by her First Officer. "How's he doing?" Janeway asked as
she approached the bio-bed.
"Very well," the Doctor told her. With a half glance at B'Elanna, he
dropped his voice. "I hate to admit it, but Lieutenant Torres'
solution appears to be working quite well."
The Captain smiled. "I'm glad. When will you be able to wake him?"
The Doctor glanced at his tricorder. "At this rate - another few
minutes should do it."
Janeway and Chakotay exchanged a brief glance. "We'll stay," the
Captain said.
B'Elanna couldn't help frowning. The Doctor, the Captain and
Chakotay? The whole ship would be turning up to watch. But the
gripe was a selfish one. Tom was their friend too, they had a right.
And she'd have her time alone with him. That thought brought a
smile; oh yes, she'd make sure she had plenty of time! He owed her
now. Big time. She hadn't forgotten how he'd gotten into this mess
- volunteering for that stupid mission into the nebula. Her smile
broadened. She'd make him pay all right!
"Four point five years," the Doctor reported, casting a suddenly
amused glance at B'Elanna. She tried to ignore it, but felt her
cheeks flush nonetheless.
"Begin slowing the data flow," the Doctor told her, still smiling.
"We're almost at the present."
"Decreasing data flow to ten percent."
"Neural pathways are almost fully reconnected. Lieutenant, terminate
the data link."
"Terminating link...now." Torres looked up. "How do you feel?"
The Doctor cocked his head, considering. "I'm still aware of
Lieutenant Paris's mind."
"That's because the Borg implant is still in place," B'Elanna told
him, leaving her station and moving to the bio-bed. The Captain and
Chakotay stepped aside to let her get close. "Can you wake him up
now?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded less desperate than she
felt.
"We'll see."
B'Elanna held her breath while the Doctor considered the results of
his tricorder scan.
"His neural pathways appear to have fully reconnected."
"Then he'll have all his memories back?" Chakotay asked quietly, from
where he stood behind B'Elanna.
"I can't say for sure," the Doctor replied, his words turning
B'Elanna suddenly cold. "But there's only one way to find out."
Without further warning, he held a hypospray against Tom's neck and
pressed.
The small hiss sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room. Everyone
held their breath for what seemed like an eternity. Torres' fingers
crept down and entangled themselves with Tom's, giving them a
reassuring squeeze. But her eyes remained fixed on his pale face,
willing his eyes to open.
Nothing.
She squeezed his fingers tighter, her whole body rigid with tension.
She heard the Captain shift uncomfortably behind her, and was dimly
aware of Chakotay placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Nothing.
***
The images rushed past too fast to see, yet somehow he could
understand them. People he knew; people he loved, and people he
hated. Moments of despair and moments of pure joy. Each one flashed
past in an instant that lasted forever, but passed so fast that he
could barely see it. And above the images, he heard voices,
indistinct, garbled words, fractured sentences.
"...data flow to ten percent..."
"...neural pathways...Lieutenant..."
They were familiar, somehow, those voices. They matched the images
that flashed in his mind; a face, a smile, a laugh, a touch.
"...memories back...?"
Yes. Memories. That's what they were. The voices were memories.
Just like the images. Or were they? Something else intruded into
the darkness. A new sensation. It was cold. It touched his neck,
and drove back the darkness. And then something warm touched his
hand, squeezed his fingers as the images trailed slowly to an end.
And then there was nothing. It was over. And his mind was left
frighteningly empty, barren of the images that had bombarded it
for...how long? Forever perhaps.
But in that aching emptiness, a new awareness dawned; new, or long
forgotten? He suddenly became aware of his own breathing, in and
out, slow and steady. And then he remembered his legs. He could
feel them, draped in something cool and soft. And there was a smell.
It was familiar, it reminded him of somewhere...sickbay.
He opened his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness.
Everything looked white, which was curious; he was expecting gray.
He opened his mouth. "What...?" he croaked feebly, trying to order
his scattered thoughts. Where was he? Caldik Prime? No. Prison?
No. Somewhere else...
A man was watching him. He looked familiar, but Tom couldn't place
him. He looked like a doctor, but...
And then he saw HER. Her face chimed a joyous chorus in his heart,
and he knew that, where ever he was, he was home. Her name was on
his lips before his fog-bound mind struggled to understand it's
meaning; "B'Elanna!"
And when he said her name she smiled, and it was like sunshine;
"Welcome back Tom."
"Where've I been?" he asked, not taking his eyes from her face.
"A long way," she told him, leaning close, brushing his lips with her
own. "But we brought you home."
***
The noise in the mess hall bubbled pleasantly around him, as Tom
cradled a drink in his hand and gazed out at the stars. It had been
three days since the Doctor had released him from sickbay, and his
mind was still a little fuddled. His memories were all jumbled,
events from yesterday and events from six years past collided in
confusion; it was hard to sort them out, to put things in the right
order. He glanced down at his uniform; today was the first day he'd
been able to wear it, so fresh was the memory of his disgrace. He'd
felt like a fraud each time he'd picked it up.
The last few days had not been easy, but at least they'd given him
the chance to think, to approach a new understanding of himself and
his life. Revisiting those years had allowed him to place them in a
new perspective. He had regrets, of course, bitter regrets, and a
new sense of shame for some of the things he'd done, and for the man
he'd once been. But he was starting to accept those feelings now, to
accept that they were part of him.
"Penny for them," B'Elanna offered, smiling as she slid into a seat
opposite him. She's so beautiful, he thought, her smile igniting a
warmth in her dark eyes that set his pulse racing.
"I was thinking about you," he told her.
"Good answer," she approved. "But I don't believe you."
His eyes widened in wounded innocence: "I'm hurt."
"You're brooding," she accused, sipping at her drink.
"Just thinking." He paused, watching her watch him. "Do you ever
wonder how your life would've turned out if things had been
different? If you'd made different choices?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes. But there's not much point, is there? I
can't change anything."
"I know, but I can't help wondering. If I hadn't..." he stopped,
surprised at how difficult it still was to talk about. Even now.
Even to B'Elanna, the one person in his life that he truly trusted.
He took a steadying breath. "If I hadn't pulled that stupid stunt at
Caldik Prime...if I hadn't lied about it...everything would be
different."
B'Elanna nodded in silence, giving him space to talk.
"And if I'd never joined the Maquis, never fired on those Starfleet
ships..."
"You wouldn't be here," she finished for him, and there was an
emotion in her voice that caught his attention. She smiled when he
looked at her then, an unspoken question in his eyes. "I'm a pretty
selfish person," she explained. "I can't help it, but I'm glad you
did what you did. I can't imagine being stranded out here without
you."
He reached across the table and took her hand; it felt warm and
delicate in his fingers. "There are a lot of things I regret," he
told her, "but being here isn't one of them. It's just HOW I got
here that I regret. I messed up a lot of lives on the way."
She squeezed his hand. "And you've saved a lot too - remember that."
"But I still wish..." Clara Borella's face danced before his eyes
again. "I wish the accident had never happened."
"I know. But you can't change that. It's part of you now, it's part
of what you are," she paused and leaned back in her chair, watching
him speculatively. "What sort of person do you think you'd be if it
hadn't happened?"
Tom thought back, remembering the Tom Paris of all those years ago;
only interested in fast ships and promotion, Mitch had said. He
shook his head. "I guess I'd be a lot like my father," he admitted,
and then smiled. "But at least I'd have gotten promoted by now!"
B'Elanna raised an eyebrow, catching his changing mood. "You'd
probably be a Captain at least."
"At least."
"With your own ship?"
"Of course."
"Probably spending your time ferrying squabbling diplomats around
Federation space. Boldly going where everyone's been before."
"Undoubtedly."
She shrugged. "Sounds kind of dull."
"Very," he agreed.
"So...?"
"So, you're right," he admitted. "Life is strange and unpredictable;
just when I thought it was dragging me down to the very bottom, it
was actually leading me up here - to the top." He shook his head,
marveling at the revelation. "I once told my father that all I
wanted to so was be myself, to live my own life," he smiled as he
understood a new truth, "but I'd never have been able to do that in
the Alpha Quadrant. It's only here that I've ever really been
myself. I guess I'm luckier that I realised."
"Chakotay would call it fate."
Tom smiled. "Written in the stars?"
"Maybe." She grinned, leaning over the table and kissing him lightly
on the lips. "It sounds nice."
"You're not getting all romantic on me are you?"
She raised an eyebrow. "It's not unheard of."
"Well, if the stars brought ME here," he said, reaching out to touch
her face, "do you think they had a hand in your fate?"
B'Elanna smiled slowly, and took another sip of her drink. "Ah,
well," she replied, "that's another story altogether, isn't it?"
THE END
***
Loved it or hated it? Either way, let me know! Email me at
106625.3210@compuserve.com
And if you liked it, and haven't already read it, check out "Double
Dealing" also on the PT Collective Archive!
Thanks for reading!
Thanks for reading! I love to get email, so let me know what you
think so far! 106625.3210@compuserve.com
(
geocities.com/area51/cavern) (
geocities.com/area51)