VIII. Hope, and other dangers
The Romulans finally enter the war on the side of the Klingon-Federation alliance, and though this is the development that most of the Alpha Quadrant has been praying to various deities for, many suspect the Empire's entry is too late to stop the sweeping Dominion victory that is already in the works.
In this, Tom is unquestionably part of 'the many'. And to his own growing dismay, Kathryn remains an adamant, vocal member of 'the few'.
The senior officers (minus, of course, DeSalvo) often share their opinions together at length, and in these various confabs, Kathryn never misses an opportunity to voice the optimistic thesis that the war is reaching a tipping point at which momentum will unquestionably swing back in the Federation's favor.
Tom doesn't comment on the Captain's song and dance to Baker or M'ret, but he assumes Kathryn's optimism to be just that: the performance of a commanding officer who refuses to let the morale of her beleaguered crew slip any lower. It isn't until the two of them are alone one night, going over a tactical briefing in the privacy of his quarters, that he considers the thesis that Kathryn's misguided optimism is honestly just that.
The bulkhead in her ready room has yet to be made structural sound in the months since their first outing, and given the inherent danger of the room, she's been forced to abandon it all together as a work space, holding formal briefings on whatever space station or starbase they happen to be docked at, or else in her own quarters. The latter is a reality Tom knows she's less than thrilled with, given that she prefers to consider her personal space relatively off-limits. He tries to offset the intrusions by setting strict guidelines for meeting times with the Captain, and so too, offering up his own quarters as an alternative meeting place, in situations in which seats for all five of the ship's senior officers aren't required.
Tom's noticed that although Kathryn has all her one-on-one's with the other department heads in her quarters, she's never again invited him in there alone since their first and only private exchange there, the morning after her ready room was destroyed and he'd brought with him a shard of her lucky teacup. He tries not let the knowledge sting, given the dangerous and often hazy line Kathryn must walk with regard to him. Still, there are many nights (quiet nights, following tumultuous and long shifts) during which it would be nice to walk across the corridor with the same casual ease that Baker feels when he waltzes into Tom's own quarters and sprawls out in the center of the couch.
"You're staring," Kathryn tells him now, not looking up from the padd she's scanning. They'd been having a lengthy exchange, about the number of ships the Dominion will need to defend the Romulan front and how many more ships she thinks it would to take to actually make a push there, when the dialogue turned into a monologue (as it often can, with her). And apparently, at some point, he started staring at her.
"You were talking," he replies. "Generally one looks at someone when they're speaking."
"You weren't looking, you were staring. And if you're really going to maintain that you did so because you were listening to me, please feel free to repeat back to me even one thing I've said in the last five minutes."
She has him there. "I believe there was something about the Romulan's production schedule for more valdore-class ships?" he guesses, closing one eye. It's one of the only sentences he caught, and even then it resonated for the sole reason that he rather fancies the way she pronounces 'valdore'.
"Listening," she arches an eyebrow. "Right."
She's actually a little amused, and her failure to hide it all the way is a tactical error. Tom seizes on the opportunity to tease her. "It's not my fault," he shrugs, and sets his smile on high-beam. "Sometimes you talk a lot."
"M'ret once offered you to put you out an airlock for me," she reminds him, wagging an index finger. "If I were you, I wouldn't give her an excuse with that kind of insubordination." She sets the padd in her hand down on his couch, growing serious when she asks, "honestly, Tom, what were you pondering so seriously a moment ago?"
He was thinking about a lot things, actually. But as a couple of them involve fantasies (in one case, an actually memory) of things she's made clear are over the line, he picks a thought he presumes she'll find the least objectionable.
"I was just thinking about the Romulans," he begins, scratching a wrist that doesn't itch. "Well, more accurately, I was baffling over why you think the opening of the Romulan front so drastically changes the outcome of the war. I mean, by all standards, we're still losing ground."
"All we have to do is permanently stop the flow of Dominion reinforcements through the Bajoran wormhole," she shoots back immediately. "And there's good reason to think that will happen soon."
"And then it's a war of attrition."
"And then it's a war of attrition," she agrees, but in an oddly confident tone. As if she hasn't studied the same centuries and centuries of military history that he has. As if she doesn't know that in such a scenario, the odds are stacked in favor of the side willing to commit the most atrocities, employ the most unspeakable weapons while doling out the most indiscriminate destruction and slaughter. And while Tom is realistic enough to recognize that this party might, in time, be a desperate Federation, he by no means thinks that such a victory, at the cost of so many of their principles, will be much to celebrate.
"Surely at some point," he begins, sitting up straighter, "we have to start weighing the cost of winning against the value of the victory itself."
"The value of the victory?" she repeats, now remarkably agitated. "We're not talking about a few disputed systems or access to a particular trade passage. We're talking about our survival."
"And I'm worried about the survival of the Federation in ways that go beyond life over death."
"By all means, let's philosophize about that. Right after we establish with certainty that minor life over death issue!"
She's being awfully patronizing, which is bad enough on its own, but it's compounded by the fact that she's deliberately talking past the point he's raised. He's about to open his mouth in anger, but then the memory of Chakotay's face in that farmhouse in Oklahoma - the palpable rancor the former Commander so obviously still harbored when citing his apparent fallout with Kathryn over the Borg - stops Tom from acting out any of his more impatient impulses.
"Alright," he says, holding up his hands. He's unwilling for this to become an all out war, so to speak, and it's clear from her posture that Kathryn will not be the first one to back down.
"I'll expect your weekly helm report first thing in the morning," she informs him, standing up suddenly from his couch. "I'll distribute it personally to the others after that."
"You're leaving? Now?"
"We don't have any other business to address," she says coolly, "and I have neither the interest nor the patience to continue debating tactical odds with someone junior in rank and relevant experience."
"Junior in relevant experience?" he raises his voice, now pissed to the point of no return. "I take it the years I spent navigating an unknown, hostile quadrant with you don't factor into your estimation of my relevant experience?"
"No," she spits back. "Not when you didn't have to personally bear the burden of that ship's safety. Not given that you had the luxury of harboring as many doubts as you wanted out there, never having one hundred and forty sets of eyes on you, watching for even the slightest doubt that you could get them home."
"You're right," he drawls, "I was just the idiot pilot."
"And I was the person in charge."
"You're not a person," he throws open his arms, now stooping to use one of her own jokes against her, "you're a Captain."
Her jaw clenches at this, her chest appearing to expand with a breath of air that she doesn't immediately exhale. "Goodnight, Lieutenant Commander."
He doesn't watch as the door closes after her, and when she's gone he makes himself set to work on the report he's expected to hand her in the morning.
He gets ready for bed after that, convinced as he slides under the blankets that he'll probably never sleep. Not when he's filled with so much bile.
He does, falling asleep immediately, and when he wakes he feels no worse than he has any other morning in recent memory.
. . . . .
The resentment he feels toward Kathryn lasts only a few days. They're too busy working around the clock after that, and by the completion of a week-long patrol of several systems surrounding Andor, his anger has grown more contemplative. He slowly begins to feel foolish and shortsighted, though not simply for the needless argument he and Kathryn have had.
Eventually, he knows, he will apologize, if only to ease the god-awful tension the bridge crew is currently suffering through on quiet shifts. But Tom decides that an apology won't exactly fix the problem, as part of what's at issue is the very fabric of their working relationship.
Baker is about as brash as Starfleet officers come, and yet such an argument would never happen between Baker and the Captain because the Doctor sees her first and foremost as his Captain. And the problem (the real problem, Tom has decided) is that he doesn't anymore. At least, not without a conscious effort.
What degree of fault each of them have in this, Tom goes back and forth on. But ultimately, who's at fault doesn't particularly factor into the solution. And the solution, Tom thinks, is obvious. Painful and difficult, if still obvious.
He has to request a transfer off the Henry. Go to another ship, with a Captain with whom he doesn't share a complicated personal rapport. More importantly, he needs to allow another officer to provide the same to Kathryn in the form of an objective XO.
His transfer out from under her command was what Kathryn had initially proposed, back in San Francisco, when she realized he wanted to keep his commission. And then that fell by the wayside, Tom deciding that the nature of their relationship was her problem to deal with, not his. It's both, he thinks to himself, while he tinkers with a helm interface they're in the process of upgrading. He's quiet the rest of his shift, and after it's over he goes to sickbay to cancel plans he'd made with Clint to run through a few hand-to-hand combat exercises.
"Keep blowing off drills and you're going to get weak," Clint tsks at him, before checking on a crewman who's suffered a minor plasma burn.
"You're right," Tom relents. But that evening, he can't seem to keep his mind focused during their sparing, and he ends up on his back after only a few minutes, blood slowly trickling out from a cut on his lip.
"I don't know what confined space your mind is presently trapped in," the Lieutenant grunts, pulling him to his feet. "But, boss, you better find a way out of it."
Tom doesn't think to be angry with the Doctor's presumptuous words. How can he, when Baker's right?
. . . . .
When Tom's submits his official request for transfer to Kathryn, he does so in person. She's off-duty, working in her quarters, and in accordance with his policy for the senior staff, he arranges a meeting time with her several hours in advance.
Whatever Kathryn was bracing herself for when he walks in, this obviously isn't it. She reads the padd carefully and then looks up at him, only to look back down, scanning the padd again. "If you were anyone else," she begins, sounding vaguely angry, "I would assume this to be an attempt to coerce an apology from me."
"No coercion," he offers softly, "I'm more than willing to apologize first. As I once warned you, sometimes I'm a jerk and say things that I don't mean. For that I'm truly sorry, Captain. And though I hope you feel the same, whether you do or not doesn't change the problem we have."
"Tom."
"Captain," he says, trying to sound as detached as he possibly can. "We both know the nature of our rapport compromises both of our positions. You said yourself, back on Earth. Factor in that we've developed a knack for pushing the others' buttons, and - Well, I think we both understand the difficulties."
"I don't suppose I can convince you to take a week to think about this?" she asks after a long silence, and now whatever facade of anger she began with is gone. She sounds unmistakably sad.
It's something Tom was rather expecting, although he also assumed her regret would be colored with relief. After all, it wasn't initially her heart's fondest desire, him still accepting this particular post, after what happened between them in France.
The thing is, she doesn't appear relieved in the slightest at his request, and this revelation makes Tom's stomach feel like it's in free fall.
"If you prefer to wait a week before submitting my request to Command, I respect your right to do so."
As far as protocol, it's her prerogative to do whatever she wants with his request, including feeding it directly into the replicator to be recycled. He doesn't think she will, but the look she's giving him makes him a little uncertain of it.
It also makes him question whether he's doing the right thing.
"Have you thought about where you'd like to go after this?" She forms her question politely and calmly, though her eyes bespeak only loss. It reminds him of the way she smiled sadly at him that first day in Marseilles, and for this reason he regrets the decision not to just send her his transfer request in a message.
This conversation suddenly feels impossible. It feels like someone is methodically pulling out his intestines, centimeter by centimeter.
"Harry mentioned a week ago that the Exeter's down a pilot," he manages. "I'm not sure if the spot's still open though."
"Being with Harry," she nods. "That would be nice for both of you."
"I'd find it a comfort," he acknowledges. "I would prefer. . . to have a friend aboard."
"I'm sorry if I couldn't always be your friend here" she offers, in almost a whisper. And Tom has to fight the urge to bolt, to just run right out into the corridor, hearing her sound so openly gutted despite that she's wearing her uniform.
"You didn't have the luxury of making me feel otherwise." It's not a lot of absolution, but he means it, and it's all he has to give.
"Right."
"Thank you, Captain."
She hesitates for a moment, and Tom looks at her with as much stoicism as he can muster. He's made his decision and he thinks it's the right one, and yet he still feels like he's losing a mentor and a friend and still something else, all at the same time.
He just needs this to be over. All of it. Not just this conversation, but this whole thorny push-pull between them.
Please just let it be over.
"Dismissed, Mister Paris," she nods, abruptly breaking eye contact, and it's all Tom can do not to rush out of her quarters after he spins around on his heel.
Over. Over, over, over.
. . . . .
Three days into the week Kathryn has asked him for, Tom begins to debate what he should tell Clint and M'ret about his transfer. He'd planned to wait until the week is up and it became official, likely letting Kathryn announce it herself, so nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But they've all been serving together for months now and he can't imagine either the tactical officer or the CMO will accept his impending transfer without a strong push for explanation. Late at night, in the privacy of his quarters, he decides that the least he owes them is to tell them some version of the truth, however limited to facts that don't involve protocol infractions.
He thoughts are interrupted by a sudden jarring of the ship; an apparent lurch to starboard that makes him curse out loud, a framed picture of his oldest sister's children falling to the ground with a clatter.
"Janeway to Paris."
Replying to the Captain's hail becomes unnecessary a moment before Tom can find his commbadge, as the ship rolls again, the Yellow Alert klaxons beginning to blare as the sensors to both his and Janeway's doors are evidently tripped, no doubt by the eddies of the class-ten nebula causing the present turbulence.
"Shit," he hears her curse and sees across the corridor, both of their doors now frozen in the open position, that she's cradling a coffee cup that's apparently spilled all over her. "Please tell me the pilot on duty isn't in the process of further damaging my ship," she growls to him over all the clatter.
Given that he can see and hear her, watching as she shakes an apparently burned hand, he decides it best to help. "Ensign Salik might not provide the smoothest ride," he informs her, stepping into her quarters before the ship rocks again, and her door closes with difficulty behind him, "but the nebula doesn't pose a significant risk to the ship."
"Only to my teacups," she mutters, looking with pronounced vexation at another porcelain cup, shattered across the floor.
"It's better to let Salik practice with interstellar eddies, not Jem'Hadar ships."
"Valid point." She looks at him with something he can't immediately identify before quipping, "and by all means, do come in."
"Sorry," he offers automatically. "I could just see from across the way that you burned your hand. You have a med kit anywhere?"
"Bathroom," she gestures with her head, and then winces a little. "Thank you."
"Well," he calls into her, having rummaged through her bathroom, "I found the regenerator, but it's power supply is dead. Have a spare one anywhere?"
"There's a type-two tricorder in the second drawer of my dresser. The power supply from that should be compatible."
"I don't see one," he says, after more searching. Her personal items are surprisingly cluttered. Not at all what he'd expect.
"Damn," she mutters. "Maybe it's in the third drawer?"
It is, as it turns out. But among the many random items to share a home in that drawer is a familiar circular object that makes Tom forget what he's in the process of doing. He picks up the apparent memento, wrapping his fingers around the smooth, black resin.
"Did you find it?" she calls, sounding annoyed. Perhaps just vexed with the idea that someone's digging around in her private space. It's something that Tom would normally be sensitive to, were it not for the shared memory he's just unearthed.
"Uh, yeah. It was right next to the eight ball in your drawer."
"Oh," she says, sounding like she's flinching all over again. "Right. That drawer."
"May I ask where this little black beauty came from?" he inquires, rolling it over his palm as he walks back to the couch. Granted, he already knows the answer, assuming he's right and there's a dearth of pool tables to which Kathryn has grown emotionally attached.
"From Sandrine's," she replies, now recovering her characteristic matter-of-factness. "Will you bring that regenerator over here already? This burn is. . . starting to hurt."
He does so, carefully examining the inflamed skin that stretches from her fingers down to her wrist, and then setting the regenerator to the appropriate setting. Goes about trying to erase the damage that's been incurred.
"I never saw you lift it," he tells her, and holds the device to her wrist. "The eight ball, I mean." He remembers that she was wearing a coat that day. It was raining in Marseilles, and when they left the storage area where the pool table was, she had her hands shoved deep in her coat pockets.
He understands the impulse, especially as the table was obviously about to be disposed of. It's just an impulse he really wouldn't expect it, coming from her.
"You had your eyes closed," she reminds him. "I believe you were bidding farewell to the pool table before we left."
"I was," he acknowledges. "I guess we have different ways of letting go of things."
"I don't like to let go of things," she admits, watching with seeming interest as he runs the regenerator back and forth across her palm. "I often. . . refuse to accept the possibility that I may have to lose something. I've been told it's a character flaw."
"There are worse flaws," he thinks out loud, and finishes the regeneration cycle. "All better."
"Thanks," she says, and flexes her hand to test it. "Now all I have to do is clean all this up."
Her quarters are in a state of disarray. A small table has turned itself over, various knickknacks lay broken on the floor, and a cascade of padds from atop her desk has apparently taken out a variety of other items on their way.
"I'll help," he shrugs, although a voice in the back of his head tells them that sticking around is a bad idea. "Many hands makes for light work."
"My mother used to say that, back when my sister and I were little."
"It was the opening line of many of my grandpa Paris' go-to lectures," he sighs.
It's relatively quick work, given the two of them, but by the time Tom finishes stacking the last of the items back onto Kathryn's desk, the ship shudders again, this time harder, and everything - including Tom - goes crashing to the floor.
"I'm going to kick the shit out of that little Vulcan," he seethes, feeling pain shoot through his back as we watches the shiny eight ball roll across the floor.
"Please do," Kathryn grits, from the relative safety of a chair.
"M'ret to Janeway."
"Janeway here," Kathryn acknowledges, not bothering to hide her exasperation. "I certainly hope you're comming to report that we're about to clear the nebula."
"We are, Captain. Ensign Salik informs me we'll be re-entering regular space in approximately two minutes."
"Tell the Ensign that his Captain expects him to make that a non-undulating two minutes."
"Mister Salik reads you, Captain," M'ret notes, after a particularly amused pause.
"That'll be all then. Janeway out."
"Should I inform Salik he owes the Captain a new porcelain tea service?" Tom asks, still on the floor, and debating whether it's worth it to even get up until they've reached open space.
"To what end?" Kathryn throws up her hands. "He'll just shake it to pieces in under a month."
"I think we're probably being too hard on him," he points out, finally sitting up. "He's really not a bad pilot."
"No," she acknowledges, "he just isn't you."
It's the kind of compliment that would normally earn her a wink and a joke, but neither are comfortable for him at their current juncture, and so he remains silent, failing to acknowledge her last sentence as he pushes himself off the floor.
"Is your back alright? You landed rather hard over there."
"It's fine," he bluffs, already feeling where a large bruise will likely form. He snatches the eight ball off the floor before it starts to roll again, then hands it back to her without comment.
"You're a bad liar," she chides.
"One of the many things that landed me in prison."
"Tom."
"I'll have Baker look at me later."
"When? He's probably flooded with ankle sprains and nauseous crew right now."
"Tomorrow then."
It's a minor point, not the stuff of heated arguments. But the thing about his current dynamic with Kathryn is that their interactions shift without warning from talking with complete ease to fighting tooth and nail over something trivial.
And though he would like to blame it on the fact that they've slept together previously - that they're now on a small ship, under constant stress, and unable to trust themselves around the person in whom they could mostly readily confide - Tom has begun to suspect that this it's actually something innate to the way they relate to each other.
It's a thesis that makes him resent the dynamic even more.
"I'm not going to fight over this," he throws up his hands. "I refuse."
"We're not fighting," she shoots back.
"Sure we are," he gestures with exasperation. "It's one of our, oh, three modes of interaction. The other two being Red Alerts and not-so-harmless flirting."
He expects to blow up at him; waits for her cheeks to flush a deep red before she tells him in a low voice to get the hell out of her quarters. Instead, she looks stricken. Maybe a bit ashamed, too.
"You're right," she admits with a brittle chuckle. "You're absolutely right." She folds her arms over herself, making a protective posture manage to look casual, and takes a deep breath when she says, "you're wise to want off this ship. This isn't healthy, what I expect of you."
What she expects from herself is even worse. But Tom doesn't say this, despite the overwhelming urge. "I've never been a poster child for mental health decisions," he smiles, by way of making her feel better.
"That makes two of us," she admits. And then, perhaps as an apology, tells him, "I've made a few inquiries with the Exeter's Captain, on your behalf."
"Harry told me they've already filled the only open pilot slot they had."
"Yes, but what Harry doesn't know is that Chief Conn officer of the Exeter just found out she's pregnant. She's requesting a transfer planetside."
"Chief Conn?"
"It's more appropriate for you than a simple pilot's position, given your rank. Frankly, I think any CO would be unwilling to give you anything less given that it's a significant demotion."
"I don't really care about that."
"I know," she acknowledges. "But everyone else in Starfleet does, so it's going to be difficult to get a potential CO to take you on in a position they feel you've long ago outgrown."
"How long until the slot on the Exeter opens?"
"Maybe six weeks. I didn't think you'd be willing to hold off that long, so I wasn't sure whether to raise the possibility with you."
In truth, he doesn't want to wait that long. Waiting is painful; far more painful than the actual leaving will likely be.
And yet, there's the idea of being on a ship with Harry again.
"I'm willing to wait," he decides. "Assuming the spot is definitely going to come open."
"It is," she assures him. "It's only a question of when."
"Great," he says, feeling a little more at ease.
"Great," she echoes, putting on a praiseworthy show of support.
"I'll leave you be now," he tells her. "Sorry for coming into your quarters without an invitation."
"Minor medical emergencies are a good excuse," she quips, and then grows a bit more serious. "And I think you already know that my lack of private invitations to you was a professional decision, made wholly against all my impulses as a person."
"I'd hoped," he confesses. Then adds, if only in his capacity as XO, "but everyone needs someone to talk to, once in a while."
"I know where to find you. For the time being, anyway."
It's a dismissal, however subtle, and Tom seizes on the cue. "Good night, Captain."
"Good night, Tom."
. . . . .
Things tend to return to something approximating normal in the week following their turbulent time in the nebula. Whatever passes for normal anyway, once an officer has declared his desire to transfer out from under a Captain with whom he's been locked in an unbecoming cycle of flirtation and tension.
Tom tries not spend time alone with Kathryn, keeping meetings to their absolute minimum, if as pleasant and casual as he can. His strategy of diplomatic distance pans out alright, even if it takes a fair bit of energy, like when he gets a comm from Neelix stating that he'll be on Starbase 279 at the same time the Henry is scheduled to dock there for maintenance in two weeks.
"I guess the three of us need to have dinner together," Kathryn says to Tom, after they leave the bridge. "Or would you prefer to visit with him on your own?"
"I think a reunion is in order," he responds amicably. "So long as our Talaxian friend doesn't offer to cook."
"He seems quite invested in his training in the Federation diplomatic corps. His last comm to me involved a lengthy meditation on the ultimate weakness of the Khitomer Accords."
"A more optimistic envoy for the Federation I could not hope to nominate," Tom rejoins. "Although I fear many of our present negotiations involve species who've failed to embrace the motto 'don't kill the messenger'."
"Would you care to set up the particulars of our rendezvous with Mister Neelix?"
"You go ahead. Just tell me when and where to show up, Captain."
"Certainly," she agrees, but lingers in the corridor between their quarters, as if to say something else.
Tom pretends not to notice, pleasantly bidding her a restful evening before he slips through his door. It isn't ideal, this newest dynamic, but it's safer, even if it does go against every instinct Tom feels, coiled and tight within his belly.
Safe is better for everyone, Tom reminds himself daily. Safe is better for ship and crew, and healthier for both of them individually. The fact that Tom has never made a habit of choosing 'safe' over its opposing option is a personal failing of his, not an objective statement about the actual intrinsic value of the things that are 'safe'. He gives this speech to himself repeatedly, most often while sitting at the conn, the weight of Kathryn's gaze pressing at his back.
"Dropping out of warp," he informs the bridge, on a morning in which he's had more to worry about than his own regrettable decision-making habits.
"Any sign of Dominion ships, Lieutenant M'ret?"
"Not presently, Captain, but picking up characteristic warp signatures. And they're fairly recent. Less than than thirty-six hours ago."
"Tom, enter orbit around that second moon. Let's see what we can find from there."
They've been ordered by Admiral Ross to break off pre-assigned Fleet movements after another defiant-class ship, the USS Cambridge, went missing in a system not too far removed from renewed fighting over Betazed. But Tom and the other senior officers have been given little information other than that they're to find the ship at all at costs. The fact that the Captain can't tell them anything else is of course frustrating, though Tom's characteristic cynicism rightly targets HQ's motives rather than Kathryn, who's merely constrained by her own orders.
What exactly was the Cambridge doing out here, unaccompanied and so close to the fighting? And what about it is so valuable that the Commander of the Tenth Fleet has declared it must be found, despite that in the present state of the war, ships are lost by the dozen, occasionally the hundred, and so often without a scrap of wreckage?
"Detecting approximately forty life signs in a small complex on the moon's surface," M'ret announces. "Records indicate it was once a mining facility, but operations were suspended almost a year ago. The facility is supposed to be abandoned."
"Dominion forces?"
"Unable to tell, Captain. The moon's fistrium deposits are interfering with our sensors. No sign of surface-to-space weapons, however."
"Keep working," the Captain orders. "I'll be in my quarters if you make any headway."
"Ma'am?" Tom inquires. It's not like her to leave the bridge at a time like this.
"I've been ordered to keep Admiral Ross apprised."
The Captain exits, and M'ret favors him with a sideways glance, the meaning of which Tom is more than able to glean.
I don't like this.
"Me either," Tom sighs, low enough that only M'ret can hear. "Me either."
. . . . .
"Come," Tom hears Kathryn bid him, before he enters into her quarters-turned-office.
"M'ret and DeSalvo are still working on getting better scans of whoever's down there," Tom informs her, without preamble. "A modification DeSalvo already made allowed M'ret to locate a trail of wreckage on the moon's surface that's consistent with a small ship."
"The Cambridge?"
"M'ret doesn't think so. The vague impression she can get of the materials is more indicative of a Romulan scout ship than anything."
"Romulan?" she repeats, scanning the padd he's handed her. "We're quite a ways from any Romulan fleet movements."
"And we're awfully close to contested space, which makes it odd that the Cambridge was allegedly out here on her own. But I don't suppose you can shed any light on that?"
"A little," she tells him, sounding a bit relieved. "At least, as of about an hour ago."
"Your comm with Admiral Ross?"
"I'll be briefing the senior staff," she says, by way of acknowledgement. "Will you please assemble them here in fifteen minutes?"
"Of course, Captain."
He can tell by how incredibly courteous she's being that the news is going to be a complete shitfest. It's a little tell she has: the worse the news she's about to announce, the more noticeable, even unnecessary, her politesse in the lead up to it.
"And inform Doctor Baker that I'll to speak to him now. I have a few things to go over with him privately, before the briefing."
"Understood," he nods, and hides his confusion that she needs to speak with Clint first, and not him. "I'll leave you to it, ma'am."
. . . . .
"It's been named the Limos Virus," Kathryn informs them, pulling up an image of the microscopic agent in question. "By genetic design, most humanoid species can serve as carriers, but only members of the Jem'Hadar will develop symptoms."
"It prevents the breakdown of isogenic enzymes," Baker explains, his face grim. "As all of you know, Jem'Hadar soldiers have been genetically engineered to be dependent on doses of the drug ketracel-white given to them by their Vorta handlers, the ketracel-white providing them with the isogenic enzymes their bodies require, but do not produce on their own."
"Once infected with the Limos Virus," Kathryn continues, "Jem'Hadar warriors will be unable to the metabolize their ketracel-white rations. Theoretically, their bodies will experience the same symptoms as ketracel-white withdrawal."
"Which are what, exactly?" Tom asks.
"Pain, eventual circulatory shutdown. Psychological symptoms ranging from fatigue to uncontrollable violence and paranoia."
"They rather reliably turn on their Vorta handlers," Baker concludes, after Kathryn finishes the succinct list, "and then, when there's no one else left to kill, they kill each other."
"And Starfleet has set about to engineer this virus?" M'ret clarifies, more disdain in her voice than Tom actually expected from her. But perhaps that's a bit of unfounded speciesism on his part.
"There has apparently been a sustained, classified effort of an assembled group of virologists and microbiologists," the Captain confirms. "And though I have not been informed of the exact length or depth of Project Limos' efforts, what I do know is that ten day ago, at an undisclosed location, they had what they considered a significant breakthrough."
"And that batch of infectious 'breakthrough' was to be couriered by the Cambridge?" Tom hazards a guess.
"Correct. But thirty-nine hours ago, Starfleet lost all contact with her."
"I don't suppose there's any indication they ended up in a firefight with the Jem'Hadar whose warp signatures we found?"
"No comm traffic to indicate as such," Kathryn replies to M'ret. "Although, obviously, Starfleet can't rule out such a possibility." She stands up, clicking off the holographic representation as she announces, "our mission is to locate the research the Cambridge was carrying, and to return it, intact, to Starfleet, no matter the cost."
No mention here of trying to locate any surviving members of the Cambridge's crew, but at this point in the war, Tom realizes this is par for the course. What still disturbs him far more is that they've dispatched one lone Federation ship to hunt down a weapon they apparently deem so valuable.
This isn't the time or place for voicing any of this, however, and when the Captain dismisses them with solemn note about clearance level, Tom doesn't hang back to further discuss the matter with her. She no doubt has her own misgivings about all of this, but it's up to her to lend voice to those concerns if and when she sees fit.
DeSalvo vacates the room first, which Tom minds slightly less than he used to, the arrogant bastard having at least proven himself a good engineer. A few moments later, Tom files out into the corridor on the heels of Baker, who is turn trailing M'ret. All three get into the turbolift with the expressed intention of going down to one of the science labs, but as soon as the lift begins to descend, the Doctor calls for it to halt.
"I assume I'm not alone in thinking that this feels as cozy as a romantic dinner with the Tal Shiar?" M'ret asks, before Clint can even open his mouth.
"Good to know Starfleet's officially in the biological weapons business," Tom mutters, by way of confirmation.
"I'm sure we've been in that business a long time," Baker observes "We're only being afforded the rare confirmation of it because Starfleet managed to lose a ship at an inopportune moment."
"You're alright with this?" Tom accuses, surprised at how cavalier Clint sounds.
"Hell no I'm not," Baker shoots back. "I'm a doctor for Christ's sake. And before that, I did covert ops. I've seen firsthand what these kind of bioagents can do."
"It seems irrational they're we're the only ship tasked with searching for the Cambridge," M'ret observes, "no matter how quiet Starfleet wants to keep this."
"My thoughts exactly," Tom nods, and then shakes his head. "Why the name 'Limos' anyway?"
"Limos was the goddess of starvation in ancient Greek mythology," Clint informs him, and touches the panel to resume the lift. "One of the myths about her was that the goddess of the harvest asked Limos to curse a king who'd particularly pissed her off. So Limos filled the guy with an epic, insatiable hunger that caused him to eat everything in sight. And when feast after feast just made his hunger worse - he finally ate himself."
The lift doors open, and Tom remains, along with M'ret, standing bewildered at Baker's apparent wellspring of knowledge.
"What?" Clint demands of them after their pause, and Tom can't help but throw an amused glance to M'ret. "I like to read, okay? And aren't you supposed to be the Earth history buff, Lieutenant Commander?"
"Twentieth century Earth history," Tom corrects him, "but good to know I can come to you with all my burning mythology questions, professor."
"The Greeks and Romans were too obsessed with sex and war," Baker mutters. "Norse mythology is way more nuanced. The next time we're docked at a station, you can buy me a pint and I'll tell you all about Thor."
"Fascinating," M'ret deadpans, and Tom can hear her smirk.
"Remind me never to go drinking with you, Doc," Tom teases, and they round the corridor to the science facilities. But then the doors of the lab slide shut behind them and the momentary levity falls away.
"So," Baker says, touching his fingers to a panel, and Tom takes a deep breath.
"Time for you to teach us everything you can about engineering, transporting, and delivering a biological agent of mass destruction, Clint."
They set to work, all three of them, with M'ret and Tom asking questions that the Doctor answers to the best of his ability. But after an hour of pouring over the limited data they have on a microscopic organism, Tom's mind begins to wander in the moments when no one's speaking. He thinks about the cursed ruler from Clint's myth and the idea of being plagued by unremitting hunger. Wonders what it would be like to go on day after day, beset with desperate emptiness, the likes of which nothing could fill.
Tom knows it's just an ancient fable, but part of him can't help but that the poor sap was lucky that he died. Far more desolate would be a life that's long, punctuated again and again with the fevered hope that the next day might yet vanquish a constant, unfulfilled need.
. . . . .
