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The Good Samaritan
Part 1 of 1
Synopsis:  Set in early fifth season.  Lieutenant Paris recalls being pulled off the streets seven years before.
          *Read the Hungarian translation of the original version by Kriszta*

The Good Samaritan

    Tom squinted against the sunlight that hurt his eyes, wishing desperately for some way to calm the churning of his stomach.

    I'm a total screw-up, he thought.  Only months before, he'd confessed in front of a Starfleet panel to lying about the deaths of his three closest friends.  He'd been stripped of his rank and cast out of Starfleet.

    I'm a total failure.   He remembered, with frightening clarity, his father's words afterwards.

    "I'm sorry things had to be this way."  Usually "son" would have followed such a statement.  Admiral Paris called all younger men "son", so it was now as if Tom was now unworthy of the honor.

    The brilliance of the sunlight made his eyes hurt.  He scowled upwards, wondering why the sun had to be so cheerful on such a bad day.  His questing hand found the bottle--real alcohol, not synthesized--he had curled up with the night before.

    He felt comforted by the almost- full bottle's presence, which seemed to expel his fears and the pain of old memories.  After a few hearty gulps, he could open his eyes.

    Tom's surroundings were vaguely familiar.  He'd been here only a few years ago, yet his fuzzy brain refused to recognize where "here" was.  A few sips from the bottle later and he no longer cared.  He was beginning to lose feeling of the biting pain in his stomach and the dull throbbing of his head.

    After a brief physical struggle with gravity, Tom leaned against the sun-warmed wall and sighed--then leaned over and emptied what little there was in his stomach.  The vomit stung his mouth and dry heaves wracked his weakened body, bringing tears to his eyes.  A few more swigs'll take care of that...

    A shadow crossed his face.  A figure stood staring down at him from a few meters away, framed by the mouth of the dead-end alley.  In his mind, Tom pasted a frown of contempt on the silhouetted, unseen face.

    "What are you looking at?" he croaked.  "Never seen a drunk?"  He saw, suddenly, that the stranger wore a Starfleet uniform.  Sunlight glinted off of more than one pip.  For a moment, Tom panicked, thinking it is father, but just as quickly realized his father didn't have a lean build.

    "Actually," came the measured reply in hauntingly familiar tones, "I have.  And you are a mess."  The man shook his head.  "And to think I was once you."

    Tom struggled into a half- sitting position and wiped his mouth.  "I'm not buying it," he said.  "Don't give me one of those 'I-was-once-like-you-but-look-at-me-now-and-you- could-do-the-same-too' things.  I don't want your sympathy or whatever it is you're selling."  A spasm clenched his stomach again and he collapsed, wishing he wasn't so weak.  Maybe after a couple of drinks...

    A hand fell on his shoulder as fingers pried the bottle from his grasp.  Tom heard it smash against a far wall.  Or maybe it wasn't so distant; everything was closing in.  "Hey," he gasped.  "That was mine."

    "Not anymore," the stranger replied, sitting next to him.  "Tom, you have to get your head out of the gutters and get on with your life."

    "How'd you know my name?"

    "I know all about you, but that doesn't matter.  What does matter is getting you off the street."

    "I'm not going anywhere," he protested, even as the Starfleeter pulled him to his feet as if he weighed nothing.  The sudden change in blood flow made him even more dizzy.  He felt himself slipping in the stranger's hold.

    "Damn," he heard the Samaritan say, sounding as though he was meters away rather than less than an arm's length.  "You haven't--"

    Tom's tortured, empty stomach contracted once more and he fell unconscious.

*      *      *

    When he woke, he was in bed.   His bed.  The dream was over.  Tom Paris sat up and rubbed his eyes.  He'd thought that the drunken months following his dismissal from Starfleet had been forever lost in the bottom of a bottle of Tarkalian ale.

    This dream had been different from an ordinary dream.  In it, he recalled and relived every moment of his last day on the street, a day he had completely forgotten, until now.  He remembered vaguely being dragged through the streets of what he later realized was Marseilles, carried by a merciful stranger to Sandrine's back door.

    The French woman had welcomed him with open arms.  She bathed his forehead with a cool cloth while she and the stranger talked.  She'd fed him and promised the stranger she would take care of Tom.  The stranger had kissed Sandrine on the cheek, then man, uniform, and pips were gone.

    Paris climbed out of bed and wrapped his robe around himself.  When Captain Janeway rested her hand on his shoulder, he felt safe and comforted, maybe an unconscious reference to feeling safe when his unknown rescuer had done the same.

    With shock, he realized just how far he'd come from the starving, drunken wretch that had been pulled off the street by a kind stranger.  Tom was now a lieutenant and the chief helmsman of one of Starfleet's finest ships, serving under the most courageous captain he'd ever known.  He was friend to the lovable Neelix, the often-irritating Doctor, and the gullible Harry Kim.

    He was lover to the beautiful B'Elanna Torres.

    He smiled to himself and stood staring out the window at stars no human had visited.

*      *      *

    "Captain, I'm picking up an M- class planet on sensors.  It's uninhabited."

    Captain Janeway turned her head to Ensign Kim.  "Uninhabited?  Is there vegetation?"

    "Yes, Captain," Kim replied.   "Sensors indicate that much of it is edible."

    "Janeway to Neelix."

    "Neelix here," came the cheerful reply.

    "Mr. Neelix, we're approaching a planet full of edible vegetation.  How are your food stores?"

    "Good, Captain, but it never hurts to replenish them!"

    "Thank you, Mr. Neelix.  Janeway out," she said.  "Mr. Paris, alter course for the planet and engage at warp four."

    "Yes, ma'am," Paris replied.

*      *      *

    They were in orbit and Neelix was excited.  He'd chosen an away team to gather the edible plants from the surface, which included Tom Paris.  Even though the Talaxian was a good friend, his enthusiasm for cooking and his, um, interesting culinary creations made him almost unbearable at times.

    Please say this planet doesn't have anything that tastes like leola root, he silently prayed, shooting a grin at Samantha Wildman.  The blond ensign smiled back, as if reflecting his thoughts.  Neelix had finally exhausted his supply of the irritating tuber only a few weeks before.

    The food gatherers were transported to the surface, where Neelix jumped into action, dividing the party into pairs.  Each pair was assigned a different kind of plant to harvest.

    Lieutenant Paris and Ensign Wildman were paired together.  The two headed for a large clump of tall fruit-bearing trees.  As Samantha looked around at the huge plants, Paris felt a sudden chill.  He hefted the crates a little higher.

    But the hairs on the back of his neck were still standing on end.

    "All right, Sam," he smiled, trying to hide his discomfort.  "I'll take that taller tree over there and you can get this smaller one."  He pointed to a nearby tree.

    "Sounds fine by me," Samantha replied, taking her crate from him.

    Paris carried his own crate through the tall underbrush to the tree he'd chosen for himself and absent- mindedly began to pick the yellow balls.  Before long, he'd gotten all the fruit he could reach without moving his feet.  He shoved the crate around the tree.

    His skin prickled and he took an involuntary step backward.  He was suddenly in a very bright patch of sunlight.  Paris threw an arm up to shield his eyes and looked around.

    Paris was now standing on the sidewalk of a very busy street.  People milled every where, caught up in the crazy dodging only life-long city-dwellers had managed to master.  It all seemed so foreign to him from his life on a starship except for one small thing.

    They were speaking French!

*      *      *

    Samantha Wildman stretched up and pulled down one last fruit.  She tossed the golden sphere into her crate and rubbed her hands together.

    "I'm going to another tree," she called to Paris.  There was no reply.  "Tom!"

    Only the chirping of the birds answered her.  "Wildman to Paris."  Again, no answer.  Blood began to pound in Wildman's temples.

    "Wildman to Neelix."

    "Neelix here!" the ship's cook happily replied.

    Samantha bit her lip.  "Have you heard from Tom?"

    "No.  Why?"

    She drew a breath.  "I can't find him.  I don't know how long ago he disappeared, but I tried to contact him a minute ago and got no answer."

    Neelix tried vainly to not sound worried.  "I'll contact Voyager.  Maybe there's some kind of natural interference.  Neelix out."

    Within a few minutes, her commbadge chirped.  "Voyager to away team, prepare for transport."

    Oh no, Wildman thought.   The away team was being recalled because one of their numbers was very mysteriously missing.

*      *      *

    "As best as I can tell," Ensign Kim said, worry marring his young face, "Tom disappeared only fifteen minutes ago."

    Captain Janeway glanced at the planet filling the upper-third of the viewscreen.  Why were the things that appeared the least harmful so often the most dangerous?

    And how is it that Tom Paris always manages to find trouble? she wondered.

*      *      *

    How is it that I always manage to find trouble? Paris asked himself.  He leaned against a nearby wall, trying to be inconspicuous.  And how is it I always end up in Marseilles?

    It was obviously either a very good replication of the French town by some alien entity with a fascination for busy Earth cities or it really was Marseilles.

    Paris soon decided that twiddling his thumbs would get no answers to his many questions, and pulling out his tricorder would only make the residents stare at him as if was nuts.  Since he knew of nowhere else to begin, he headed for Sandrine's.

    He'd only gotten a few meters before he heard the unmistakable sound of someone violently emptying the contents of his stomach.  The now-familiar chill paralyzed his nerves as he turned to the sound and froze.

    The thin creature lying on the ground looked up.  "What are you looking at? Never seen a drunk?"

    Paris stared at the man he had been, a haggard, pathetic shell of a man.  "Actually," he said, chills coursing through his veins as he realized the meaning of this encounter, "I have.   And you are a mess."  He thought back to his own clean uniform and to the fact that he hadn't so much as touched a drop of real liquor for years.   Tom shook his head.  "And to think I was once you."

    The other Tom Paris, seven years younger but looking far older, sat up, complaining about not wanting any sympathy.  He doubled over with pain again.

    Lieutenant Paris stepped forward and put his hand on Tom's--his own?--shoulder as a gesture of comfort.   The captain's hand on my shoulder is always a comfort to me.  The younger man was lying on his side choking on vomit that wasn't there to come up.

    Carefully, Paris pried Tom's fingers off the bottle and looked at it.  Blue-green, the bottle was made of replicated glass.  He glanced back and forth between the bottle and its owner.

    Once, he thought, waking up didn't mean anything more than the opportunity to drink myself to unconsciousness again.  He held the offending bottle out at arm's length, gazing at it with contempt.  This was my life.

    Without any hesitation, he hurled the bottle at a nearby wall.  It shattered with a satisfying crunch of glass.

    "Hey," the still-gasping Tom croaked. "That was mine."

    "Not anymore," Paris answered, kneeling down.  "Tom, you have to get your head out of the gutters and get on with your life."

    "How'd you know my name?"

    I know all about you, he thought, then said it aloud.  "What does matter is getting you off the street," he continued.

    He was prepared for the younger man to be light from loss of muscle tone and days without eating, but when he actually pulled Tom to his feet, Paris realized just how close he'd come to dying almost eight years ago.

    "Damn," he muttered. "I--You haven't eaten for weeks."  He knew, then, that he wouldn't have survived another day on the street.

    That became all-too obvious when the younger man slipped in his arms.  Paris wrapped his arms around the scrawny ribcage and held on.

    I can't let you fall, he thought fiercely.  I'll never know B'Elanna or Harry or the captain if I do.  I think I'd even miss the Doc.

    Paris knew of one place he'd be welcomed, arms and heart wide.  He began to walk, carrying his frail package in his arms.

*      *      *

    Janeway paced furiously.  There was nothing, nothingto explain why one of her senior officers had disappeared.

    "Tuvok," she said. "Take a security team to the surface and examine every square millimeter of the area where Lieutenant Paris disappeared."

    "I don't get it," Ensign Harry Kim complained after the Vulcan had left the bridge.  "People don't just disappear into thin air!  They have to go somewhere!"

    "The only question is," Chakotay said, "where?"

    "A better question is," Kim began, his youthful features pale, "when?"

*      *      *

    The few people he met on his trek through the back alleys looked curiously at him and his burden.  "My twin brother," he'd explain quickly.  "He's sick."  He prayed none of them would recognize him.

    Paris reached the back door of Sandrine's without incident.  The sun was high in the sky and the tavern was closed.  He set Tom against a large crate and knocked on the door.

    Within a minute, the small panel in the door was pulled aside.  Large green eyes peered out and widened, then the panel was shut.  Locks flew from within and the door swung open.

    "Thomas?!" Sandrine asked.   Her eyes flew up and down his body, admiring the uniform.  Then she caught sight of the lieutenant's unconscious companion.  "How...?  Who...?"

    "Let's just get him inside," Paris said.

*      *      *

    "How are there two of you?" Sandrine asked as she bathed Tom's feverish forehead.

    Paris sat on a stool next to a small stove.  "It's a classic example of good twin/evil twin."  He laughed.  "I'm not sure which of us is which!"  He stirred the soup.

    "Why is one of you still in a uniform and the other not?"

    He looked at her critically.   "I think the Prime Directive or some other such law applies here, but I think you need to know...  I believe this is a paradox."

    "A paradox? Kill your great- grandfather paradox?  Tell me what is happening, Thomas!"

    Paris shook his head, then shrugged his shoulders.  "Okay," he said, "but you can't tell anyone, especially him."  He gestured toward the trembling figure lying on the cot.

    "I'm from seven years in the future."

    "Seven years?" Sandrine asked quietly.  "You will be back in Starfleet and a lieutenant within seven years?"

    Paris tasted the soup, which needed a little salt.  "Actually, it'll start about a year-and-a-half from now," he sighed.  "After a few... problems, I'll be asked to help a Starfleet captain take her ship through the Badlands out in the Demilitarized Zone.  We won't make it all the way through before a graviton wave carries the ship to the other side of the galaxy."  He stirred the soup distractedly.  "I--he--will earn a field promotion."

    "And the respect of a lady," Sandrine said.

    "What?"

    "Thomas," she admonished.  "You think I do not know from the look in your eyes?  You are in love again, cheri, and I am happy for you."  Despite himself, Paris began to blush.  "She is a fellow officer, no?"

    "Yeah.  She's the chief engineer," he replied, ears burning.

    "But she is not human."

    How could Sandrine know all this just from looking in his eyes?  "She's a half-Klingon."

    Sandrine's eyes widened appreciatively and she nodded her approval.  "I always did say you were a wild man, Thomas, and you deserve a wild woman."

    Paris flushed again.  "Soup's ready, so I'll be going."  He ladled some of the thick red liquid into a bowl and passed it to Sandrine.  He suddenly wanted to see B'Elanna again, and he would gladly miss the opportunity to eat real tomato soup.  With a kiss on Sandrine's cheek, he turned to go.

    "One more thing," he said.   "Don't tell him any of what I just told you.  And don't tell let him leave until he's offered a job by a man with a tattoo over his left eye."

    "Take care of yourself, Lieutenant Paris," Sandrine answered softly.  "I'll take care of you."   She gestured to the man on the cot.

    Smiling, Tom Paris opened the door and stepped through.

    "I'm detecting chroniton particles on the planet's surface," Kim clarified.

    Is there any danger to the away team?" the captain asked, concerned, but Kim's panel chirped again.

"Tuvok to Voyager."

    "Go ahead," Janeway answered.

*      *      *

    The Vulcan security officer held his tricorder out, slowly turning a circle.  "I can extrapolate that Mister Paris was harvesting fruit and moved his crate to the other side of the tree to continue.  At a location approximately two meters from the base of the tree, Mister Paris vanished."

    "Transporter?" Janeway asked.

    Tuvok eyed the tricorder readings.  "Negative."  The device beeped as he adjusted the scan.   "I am detecting traces of chroniton particles.  However, there are other particles similar to those around a spatial rift."

    "A tear in the fabric of the space-time continuum," Harry Kim said.

    "That is a likely hypothesis.   Captain, I would like to--"  A flash of light attracted Tuvok's attention.  Tricorder data surged.  "Captain, I believe the rift is opening."

    "Back away, Mister Tuvok," the captain ordered.  "I don't want you getting pulled in."

    Tuvok dutifully stepped backward several meters, keeping constant watch on both the tricorder and the growing indigo circle of light.

    "The rift is now approximately one-half of a meter in diameter," he calmly reported.  "Now one meter.  One and one-half.  Two meters.  It--"

    Suddenly, the rift shrank rapidly and disappeared, leaving a very surprised Lieutenant Paris standing two meters from the base of the tree he'd been harvesting six hours before.

    "Tuvok! What's happening?" Janeway demanded.

    "Lieutenant Paris has returned, Captain," the Vulcan said, actually sounding surprised.

    "Tom?" she gasped.  "Mister Paris, what happened?"

    "It's a long story," Paris replied. "I'm not sure if I want to tell it."

    "Where or when did you go?" Kim asked.

    "To Marseilles, France," he answered, "seven years ago."

    "T " The captain sounded confused. "Mister Paris, how'd you get back here?"

    "Well," Tom answered with a grin. "I guess I could say I started looking after myself."

*      *      *

    Sandrine was tending customers, leaving Tom by himself.  She'd warned him not to move out of bed.

    Don't worry, he thought.   I bet I couldn't even lift an empty bottle.

    He'd only been half-conscious at the time, but Tom remembered hearing garbled words being exchanged between the still unseen stranger and Sandrine.  He remembered how tall and strong the man had looked as he'd stepped out the door, moving with the easy assurance of a man who could handle the most difficult of all problems.

    The food in his stomach and the warmth across his body was a welcome change and he began to feel sleepy.  Drowsily, he thought, If, by some miracle, they ever let me let back into Starfleet...

...I'd want to be just like him.

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