Chapter 2 – The Mission
Starfleet Headquarters, San Franscisco
Tom sat in the waiting area outside Fleet Admiral Nacheyev's office, convinced the chair he was sitting on had been expressly designed to give off the appearance of a warm welcome, while sending the subliminal message that one was only there on tolerance. Even more disconcerting was the feeling that he should apologize each time some junior officer seemed compelled to walk a little straighter at the sight of his four pips. No really, it's okay, Ensign – it's only me …
Meetings with Nacheyev were no one's favourite pastime, although the look of glee he had briefly seen flash across her face after Voyager's dip through the Golden Gate Bridge had almost humanized her in Tom's mind, and his past substantive interactions with her had been fairly … positive. He knew rationally, moreover, that she had to be favourably disposed towards him in some way, since she had signed off (perhaps even initiated) his latest, rather precipitous promotion. But none of that seemed to be able to calm the butterflies in his stomach now.
The summons to receive his first assignment, which traditionally came with something akin to a pep talk from senior command, did not particularly bother him. What did force him to sit on his fingers lest he chew them to the quick, though, was that he would also be told who had been assigned to Voyager as his XO. A choice that would be made for him for the foreseeable future, or at least until 'Paris junior' developed the necessary political clout to pick his own Number One. Decisions over which he had no control never sat easily with Tom, and he found himself wondering yet again whether he had made the right choice, embedding himself ever deeper in the strict hierarchy that was Starfleet.
The door opened, and the Fleet Admiral's aide de camp waved him inside with a wide, welcoming grin. Jarod Tervellyan and Tom had spent the year in Advanced Strategic and Technical Command training at the Academy together, where they had developed both a great deal of respect for one another and, Tom thought, laid the foundation of a promising friendship. Tom had been looking forward to catching a glimpse of Jarod in the course of this meeting, but even so was slightly taken aback by the warmth of his old class mate's greeting. The last time they had communicated in the line of duty, when the Enterprise had been held hostage by the Andorian fleet, the weight of the Admiral's expectations seemed to have taken at least two inches off Jarod's frame and replaced them with five years of age and a bunch of grey hairs.
So why was he grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat now?
"Come in, Captain Paris," the Fleet Admiral's cool voice greeted him. She was seated at a conference table in one corner of her spacious office, a number of PADDs spread out before her. She did not rise to greet her guest, but gestured vaguely towards one of the chairs across the table from her.
"Please have a seat. I believe you know Commander Tervellyan." It was not a question. The woman's memory was legendary (some people even suspected it was her who spoke to them when they activated a Starfleet computer), and Tom was not surprised that she knew of their past association. What made the comment remarkable was that she had made it at all. Alynna Nacheyev never made idle conversation or small talk. Tom's ears pricked up.
Nacheyev wasted no time getting to her point. "You are still in need of a first officer, Captain. I mentioned this fact to Commander Tervellyan last week, and he expressed an interest in the position."
She paused, to watch the effect of her statement on Tom. His eyebrows shot up, and he looked over at Tervellyan, who had remained standing. His grin widened when he saw Tom's mouth open slightly.
It didn't take Tom long to figure out that Nacheyev would not have mentioned his former classmate's interest if it had been academic, and he felt a corresponding grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He inclined his head slightly in Tervellyan's direction, given that he was clearly not expected to say anything quite yet. Indeed, Nacheyev continued.
"The Commander is on a two-year assignment to my office, but Picard convinced me in conversation some time ago that it would be interesting to put two graduates of the new command training curriculum together. And since you are the first such graduate to receive your own command, Captain, you get to be our guinea pig. And Commander Tervellyan gets an early release from his current assignment."
She cast Tom a long look from under her pale lashes, her lips tightened in a not-quite-smile. He quickly digested the fact that the Ice Queen had just come frighteningly close to making a joke, and that some sort of response would be called for.
"Well, I seem to specialize in taking advantage of early release opportunities," he quipped back, allowing his genuine pleasure in the decision to reflect on his face, before saying the polite words his Starfleet breeding provided easily.
"And I'm sure this one will work out well, too. For everybody – although I'm sure you will miss him, Fleet Admiral. Thank you."
He turned to Tervellyan, extending a hand that was gripped firmly. "Welcome to Voyager, Commander. I look forward … really look forward to working with you."
Nacheyev seemed pleased, although as usual it was hard to tell with her. This particular subject matter having been concluded to her satisfaction, she moved on to the next item on her agenda with brisk efficiency.
"I hear that your ship is ready for deployment, Captain. We have a mission that is ideally suited for you and Voyager. Commander?" She nodded at Tervellyan.
Obviously, his First Officer-designate knew something about the nature of the mission already due to his association with the Admiral, a fact that amused Tom far more than it bothered him. He sat back and watched as Tervellyan activated a holoscreen set into the conference table. With a slight buzzing sound, a small point of light expanded into a sphere showing a small cluster of stars, each surrounded by a number of planets. Thanks to the speeded up rotations of the model, their intricate orbits were clearly visible.
"The Snowflakes!" Tom exclaimed involuntarily. Nacheyev inclined her head in silent appreciation of the speed with which he had recognized one of the more obscure corners of the Alpha Quadrant.
The official name of the cluster was the Narov system. Given the sophisticated dance the small stars and planets wove around one another – close enough to move each other in an intricate push-pull of gravimetric forces, but never coming lose to touching, or destabilizing one another's orbit - an early stellar cartographer with a love for Tchaikovsky had christened them after his favourite dance, in his favourite ballet. The system was located just beyond Federation space, off the shoulder of the constellation of Orion - as seen from Earth - but the region was becoming well-travelled due to the metals and minerals found on some of its uninhabited planets and asteroids.
The Narovian Union consisted of a loose central government, with eleven associated planets each subject to their own local administrations. A new, privately-run space station had been set up only recently, thirty light years away and just outside Federation space, in order to service the fast-developing trade routes.
It was no secret - but also not a well-advertised fact - that Starfleet had been making overtures to the Narovian Union with a view to expanding Federation membership. They had been warp capable for over a century, and contacts were regular and relatively amicable, but nothing more. A cold hand gripped Tom's stomach briefly as he contemplated the dire possibility that he was being sent on a diplomatic mission. Surely Nacheyev didn't remember – hadn't meant - what she had said about his supposed diplomatic skills, after his run-in with the Andorian emperor a few months ago?
As if she had read his mind, Nacheyev elaborated. "The mission we have in mind for Voyager is prima facie a humanitarian one, Captain Paris. We do hope that it will be followed by formal diplomatic overtures down the road, but right now there are other priorities." She nodded at Tervellyan, who picked up the thread.
"For the last eight months, a major outbreak of the Magellanic blood virus has been spreading across the Narov system. So far it has affected six of the eleven planets, here," he pointed at the six most centrally located worlds. "The Union and local governments have been unable to synthesize enough medication to inoculate the population of the remaining five, let alone to provide treatment for those who are affected. Given the extent of interplanetary trade and dependency within the system, the disease is virtually impossible to contain. A quarantine has slowed it down a bit, but the Union has turned to the Federation for help."
Nacheyev smiled, a genuine smile this time that touched her pale eyes. "The Council apparently listened carefully to what you and Will Riker said when you were challenged for leaving Dr. Fincher in the Trifid nebula. The amount of goodwill generated by a genuine humanitarian gesture can never be underestimated. Accordingly, Starfleet has been ordered to provide assistance."
A humanitarian gesture that bought goodwill. Friendship, with happened to no-strings-attached decency? But despite his reflexive cynicism, Tom had to admit to himself that someone getting access to medication for his kids probably wouldn't care a great deal whether the Federation incidentally scored political brownie points off their survival.
At least would not be expected to shake hands, make nice over canapés, and come back with a signed application for Federation membership – that was a relief. But what he was being asked to do left a number of questions, which, being Tom Paris, he wasn't shy to ask.
"If Starfleet wants to send a shipment of medical supplies, why not send a couple Whorfin class ships? They have much bigger cargo holds than Voyager. Or if it's speed and results you're looking for, rather than volume, wouldn't one of the mobile hospitals be more useful? We're as fast as they are, but they have the additional equipment and trained personnel."
His eyes darted from the Admiral to her EA, looking for a visual clue as to whether he had just asked a smart question, or by overtly questioning the Admiral's judgment, condemned himself to patrolling the outer rim of the Coalsack for the rest of his career.
Apparently, it was the former.
"Good questions, Captain, if aid delivery was the primary goal of your mission. The fact is, we sent three transports to the Snowflakes already. They arrived six weeks ago, but we have been unable to verify that the antigen they carried was actually distributed by the central medical authorities. Receipt was acknowledged from the coordinates we were given by the authorities for beam-down, but we have been unable to verify that any of it reached the population centres for which it was intended." Nacheyev took a short breath, and looked at Tervellyan to continue.
"Those same sources initially confirmed that there had been no noticeable impact on the spread of the disease, and no reduction in the number of active cases. Simply put, we have been unable to trace the medication. The containers we might have been able to locate, but the anti-viral agent is contained in small vials that need to be diluted in order to be administered in the numbers required. Once that has happened – there's no way to track it. We initiated a more in-depth investigation of the various contact points but took a burn on our contacts almost immediately after the orders went out. There's been no word since."
Tervellyan turned to Nacheyev, and the two officers exchanged a quick and somber look. We took a burn. There were names attached to that phrase, lives cut short. Families that would never see their loved one again. Tom swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He'd been there, undercover. Knew the risks. He hoped the agents died believing they had sacrificed themselves for the sake of the civilians who went untreated, not for advancing the Federations expansionist agenda.
He knew where he would put his emphasis, if asked.
"You figure the antigen has been deliberately diverted, to - what did they use to call this? - the black market?" As far as Tom was concerned, corruption ranked only slightly behind assimilation among the things he would gladly devote his life to eradicating from the Quadrant. And when it played with the lives of children … "I suppose there's a lot of money to be made from people desperate enough for medication."
Nacheyev nodded, and gave him a calculating look. "Indeed, that would be a logical conclusion. Needless to say, even using official channels it has been very difficult to follow up once the deliveries were made; the whole system is under quarantine."
"Understood," Tom said. His mission was indeed crystallizing. He smiled a little. "You want us for our powers of observation."
Voyager had highly advanced telemetry, thanks to the Borg enhancements Seven of Nine had installed in the astrometrics lab. Starfleet engineers had been busily trying to copy the instruments and calibrations, but he knew from B'Elanna that those attempts had been only partially successful to date; Voyager remained the best-equipped ship in the fleet for long-range observation and sensing. The Prometheus class ships, Starfleet's latest toys, had been developed more for their advanced propulsion and tactical systems than their ability to detect, say, far-off wormholes or interstellar probes; Voyager's sophistication in this area remained unique.
Nacheyev's lips curled upward. "I am glad you understand your assignment so quickly, Captain. Needless to say, even if we don't expect you to go to ground in the Snowflakes, this project has to remain highly classified. We have no knowledge how deep the … potential network behind the diversion extends."
Tom's mind was already in problem-solving mode. "And needless to say, whoever is behind the diversion, is probably just as aware of the Federation's interests as the Council, and may well be intent on sabotaging the rapprochement between us and the Narovian leadership."
Nacheyev nodded her approval and rose, having exhausted her agenda. She saw no need to get involved in operational details; the Ice Queen had ascended through the ranks in part thanks to her ability to delegate effectively, and was known to pull on the reins or issue detailed directions only when she took a personal interest in the matter.
"You will have forty-eight hours to load the medication and prepare for Voyager's departure. Good luck, Captain Paris. We look forward to your report."
She held Tom's eyes only long enough to comply with the basic dictates of courtesy, before turning her attention to one of the PADDs on the table before her. He understood the dismissal as clearly as if it had been articulated and rose crisply to his feet, nodding at Tervellyan as he did so.
The Commander followed him out, as Tom had hoped.
Once they were alone, Tom bridged the momentary awkwardness with a broad smile. They were friends - albeit not close - but professional respect came first, and lines needed to be established quickly. An observer of the relationship between Janeway and Chakotay, and a conscious participant in his own dealings with Will Riker, he thought he knew how. His voice, when it came, was all business, despite the friendly overlay that coloured it.
"So, I trust you're available to report for duty immediately, Commander?"
Jarod responded with a sharp nod, and a smile of his own. He understood the game as well as Tom.
"Aye, Captain. I've been relieved as of tomorrow. I need to get some things together, but should be able to report to the ship at fourteen hundred Standard Time. Is that acceptable?"
"It certainly is. I'll make sure your quarters are ready." Tom hesitated for a moment. "I assume you're still … single?"
The question was not asked out of curiosity, but in order to determine how the First Officers quarters would need to be configured. Tervellyan clearly understood that, although a brief shadow crossed his face. His break-up with his wife of six years had been headline news at the Kirk Centre; while he had been protective of the details, the wide-spread assumption was that a prolonged period of togetherness had not worked particularly well, for two people used to spending long months on their own.
"Yeah," he answered. "I am." He brightened a little, and an impish smile crossed his features and lit up his dark eyes. "Bachelor life isn't all bad, though, I gotta admit. Being off the leash definitely has its plus sides."
Tom snorted, and matched his new XO's light tone. "Just remember, the Chief Engineer is off limits, and there are certain rules in other respects … Alright, see you tomorrow. And Jarod – I'm really glad to have you. Really glad, and especially hearing that you asked for the assignment. That means a lot."
He held out his hand again, and Tervellyan shook it solemnly.
This might almost work out, Tom thought to himself as he left Central Command.
…..
Tom felt close to whistling even as his mind started to play out scenarios for the mission. Sure, Voyager had her sophisticated sensor technology, and whatever equipment had been overtaken by developments during her seven years in the Delta Quadrant had long been replaced. But monitoring distribution networks required a little more than a good toolkit and powers of observation. If he could only figure out a way to tag the antigen itself, so that it could be traced even after it was dispensed…
"Captain Paris."
The well-known voice cut across the quadrangle as clear as a bell, almost in answer to his musing. Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix Zero One, née Annika Hansen, had no difficulty at all competing with the wind blowing in from the Bay.
Tom stopped in his tracks, a slow smile stealing across his face. He turned towards the owner of the voice, without a trace of annoyance at the imperiousness with which she had sought to command his attention. She was what she was.
"Hey, Lieutenant Seven," he said jovially, stressing each word. He'd seen her wince uncomfortably – still - anytime someone called her Hansen, even though that was now her official designation, and by her own choice. His off-handed thoughtfulness was rewarded with a small smile. All the same, he knew it would be useless to ask her to call him Tom; she never had when they were onboard together – why would she change now?
"Fancy meeting you here."
The long, panther-like strides of the former Borg drone took her to his side in a matter of seconds. Tom absorbed the sight of her Starfleet uniform, the blue of the science track peeking through the grey jacket. There were two pips on her collar - one black, one gold. She had breezed through the Academy in record time as expected, and in recognition of her service on Voyager been permitted to graduate with a lieutenancy rather than the common ensign status.
Officially only a junior teacher, Seven was already leaving her mark on the astrophysics faculty and her lectures were surreptitiously attended by many of the senior staff.
"Our meeting was not a coincidence," she responded matter-of-factly. "I had heard you would be receiving your orders this week, and entered an alert for your bio signs into the transport from McKinley station."
"You hacked into the transport system just to know when I'd be coming to San Francisco?" Tom was a little incredulous. "If you wanted to see me or meet me for coffee, why not just comm me?"
"I thought it might be pleasant to surprise you," she said simply. "You have always sought to convince me of the value of spontaneity in human relationships, and I wished to demonstrate the effectiveness of your lessons."
Tom heroically refrained from pointing out that being alerted to his presence via his bio signs was, perhaps, a fair ways from anyone's understanding of spontaneity, but he had certainly been surprised, so he let it go.
"Well," he said, "whatever - here we are, then, and I'm certainly glad to see you, Seven. Would you like to go for a coffee, or do you not require a caffeinated beverage at this time?"
"A cup of Vulcan tea would be pleasant, thank you," Seven responded with something like a smile. She sure had loosened up in the last couple of years, Tom mused – up to a point, anyway, when he found himself scrambling to follow as she unceremoniously stalked away towards the civilian promenade.
At his suggestion, they headed to a small café, known to be a favourite hangout for those working at Starfleet Command. When they were seated, Tom studied his erstwhile crewmate over the rim of his cup.
"So, what's up? How's Chakotay? And why the sudden interest in seeing me?"
They had met a number of times over the course of the last year when the Enterprise had docked at McKinley, and of course Seven and Chakotay had been present at his instatement at Captain of Voyager. But the majority of their encounters had been in the context of crew reunions or gatherings; social events were not high on Seven's list of priorities and Chakotay had been content to dive into his new calling to the exclusion of nearly all else. Their most direct one-on-one interaction had been in respect of Icheb, whom Seven had recommended for a three-month-long, semester-break practicum onboard Voyager. Since Tom was only too aware of the young man's qualifications and had not yet managed to fill the astrometrics position, he had gladly agreed.
But now, at Tom's direct question about her reasons for this encounter, Seven seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Finally, though, she took his measure with her clear gaze. For the umpteenth time, Tom found himself wondering what exactly (and how much) she saw through the ocular implants hidden behind those cool blue eyes. Did she have X-ray vision, and could see past his uniform? Had she seen Harry's short-lived romantic interest in her - or his own suspicion at this sudden engineered encounter - as bright red streaks, or green flashes, in their cerebral cortex?
"Chakotay is fine, thank you. He is developing a series of lectures on the anthropological response of non-telepaths to those with telepathic or empathic powers, using the Devorian Empire as a case study. But I wanted to ask you a question, Captain," she said, with her usual determination and a complete absence of any contemplation that she might be denied.
Seven ploughed on. "Why do you believe you were promoted so quickly? Commander Tuvok has considerable seniority over you, and unlike you has never been decommissioned, imprisoned, demoted or put on trial for breaches of Starfleet procedure."
Boy, oh boy. Trust Seven of Nine to put her fingers on the very question that, only the night before, B'Elanna had caught him mulling over while staring at the ceiling in their bed. He supposed he should be grateful that Seven had posed it over coffee, rather than blurting it out on the bridge in front of half the Fleet's brass at his instatement.
B'Elanna, when he had asked her, had traced his sandy eyebrows with her thumb, smiling at his doubts. "From what I've seen, Starfleet has pretty good bullshit detectors when it comes to appointing captains," she had said softly. "The only real dud I ever met was Ransom, and I'm sure he wasn't like that before he got flung into the Delta Quadrant, or someone would have noticed. You've been there and back, through all sorts of stuff before and after, and from what I can see you've got it together now more than ever. That counts for a lot, and I guess they figured that out."
Tom turned his thoughts back to the present, and looked at Seven thoughtfully.
Tuvok. The Vulcan had sent him a very clipped, very precise congratulatory note on his appointment. Needless to say, it had contained not an ounce of resentment at having been leapfrogged by someone a hundred and twenty-odd years his junior, and with a two or three decades less active service in Starfleet. By all accounts, Tuvok had found Tom's elevation … logical. Heck, he had sent him his daughter. Talk about counts for a lot.
Tom chewed on his lower lip for a bit, before responding. "Well, Seven, to tell you the truth, I've been trying to figure that out myself. But if I understand what I've been told correctly, my appointment is … kind of an experiment. Starfleet has found, during the Dominion War but even before, that the type of people they used to promote were generally very good at following protocol, but not so good at coming up with creative solutions to unforeseen problems."
He chuckled ruefully. "And as you've been fond of pointing out a few times over the years, I do tend to be pretty … erratic the way I tend to look at things. I guess they're hoping that might translate into new perspectives, and new ideas for Starfleet. I hope they're right, 'cause otherwise I'll just end up before another court martial. Beyond that – your guess is as good as mine. But I can tell you that Tuvok himself didn't seem to be particularly surprised, or bothered by my promotion."
Seven gave the matter some thought. "So Starfleet is considering unpredictability and illogical responses to crisis situations as valuable traits? Interesting."
How could he possibly respond to that, without incriminating himself? But before Tom could try, Seven deprived him of the necessity.
"I assume they can be, provided these qualities are combined with at least an element of common sense, which I believe you do possess."
He almost inhaled his tea, and his shoulders began to shake with silent, suppressed laughter at the … what was it? A compliment? Oh Lord - Harry would appreciate hearing about this conversation … But Seven wasn't done with him yet.
"You see, I have been reading up on the necessary qualities for successful leadership, in preparation for my own future career with Starfleet," she explained in all seriousness. "Given my obvious intellectual superiority, a switch to command track is something I should consider."
Clearly, Seven had spent too much time with the Doc ... But then she surprised him.
"However, one of the necessary qualifications I appear to lack is the ability to make people … like me, and this seems to be a required criterion for effective leadership. Would you concur with that, Captain Paris?"
Tom sought refuge in his tea for a minute. A mug of Earl Grey was good for many things, he had found out; granting its holder the ability to rag the puck for a minute – to use a metaphor from his second-favourite winter sport - had to rank in the top three. After swirling the amber liquid around in the cup for a bit, blowing on it and taking a delicate sip, he decided honesty was the best policy, especially since Seven was not likely to take offence.
"Well, truthfully, you're an acquired taste, Seven," he replied with a smile. "A taste I happen to have acquired, although your directness does take some getting used to. But as for the need for a good leader to be liked – well, let me tell you something. There were certainly times, including on Voyager - when people couldn't stand being on the same ship with me. When I first came onboard, and after the Captain gave me my field commission, most of them hated my guts. The Maquis thought I'd betrayed them, and the Fleeters thought I was a waste of my father's DNA. I'm not sure when or how that changed. But I also know there are still a lot of people in Starfleet who don't think I should be where I am."
He unconsciously ran his fingers over the four pips on his collar, and took a deep breath. "Truth be told, I'm not convinced that being liked, or likeable, necessarily makes someone a good commanding officer. I think the real key is respect. And you command that in spades. You just need to stop pissing people off by playing up your - however undeniable - superiority at critical moments, and swatting down others' views as 'irrelevant'. Once you eliminate that attitude and that word from your vocabulary, people will look past what they think they hear, to what it is you're actually telling them, and things should look up."
Seven looked at him thoughtfully, and Tom was reminded of nothing so much as the Admiral in whose company he had just spent half an hour. If the Ice Queen could parlay the emotional depths of a table top into the highest office in Starfleet, what in the universe would stop Seven?
"Thank you," the subject of his contemplation said simply, accepting the honesty of his response as the tribute to their friendship that it was. "I will think about what you have told me."
She made to rise, the conversation being over as far as she was concerned, when something occurred to Tom. He held out his hand.
"Wait a sec, Seven," he said. "Before you leave. Can I ask you something in return?"
"Certainly, Captain," she responded politely. "It seems only fair."
He chuckled. "It's not a personal question, just something … rather technical I've been wondering about. And you know my limitations in that field. So here goes. If you were asked to identify a specific antigen across a long distance, is there anything in Borg technology that might make that possible? I mean, antigens and immunogens are microscopic, and any diluting agent in which they're suspended could be easily replaced, so marking that is no good. So the way I see it, it's the immunogen itself one would need to tag to be sure, right? Could you do something like that, for example, with nanoprobes?"
Seven gave him a calculating look, but to his relief, made no specific inquiries, which he would not have been able to answer. She may be naïve in her approach to interpersonal relations, but she had now had her Starfleet training and understood the constraints of mission security.
"Yes," she said simply, before giving the answer he had really wanted, and hoped, to hear. "The Doctor will be able to assist. If it is important, I am willing to provide you with specimen nanoprobes. I believe the Doctor has developed a method for replication, but you would still require a certain minimum quantity."
Tom smiled his genuine gratitude – both at the generous offer, and the discrete manner in which it had been made, no questions asked. Some friendships might seem odd to outsiders, but they were worth their weight in latinum.
"You're the best, Seven, thanks a zillion. I'll have the Doc contact you later today; we leave on mission within the next 48 hours." Tom paused, and gazed at her fondly. "And you know what? What you just offered, and how, is exactly the sort of thing that makes people respect you. Just give yourself some time in Starfleet, and everybody will see that, get to know the real you. Surely, if they can accept me, accepting you will be … a cinch."
He let the thought trail away, and they took their leave of each other with the silent nods of people who understood one another very well indeed.
But all intended discretion aside, Tom did break out into his broadest grin as he headed back towards the public transporter. He might not feel like a captain yet, but at least the mission was off to a good start.