Chapter 11—2368
Lt. Tom Paris narrowed his eyes slightly as he sent the ship in a tight turn, feeling the slight pull that wasn't covered by the internal dampers. "Delay on the starboard nacelle of two microseconds compared to port," he reported for the on-going record.
*Lt. Paris,* the engineer manning the flight simulator cut in through the comm system, *there's a message coming in for you from Admiral Paris.*
Paris sighed, then frowned. Last he knew, his father was still running the Junior Survival Strategies practical experience on some uninhabited planetoid somewhere, and even if he had just returned, relations between the two Paris men were strained enough that Tom wouldn't expect his father to just comm to chat—especially while he was on duty. If there was one thing Tom had gotten from his father's countless lectures growing up, it was that when you were on duty, you better be on duty. "Put it on the screen," he ordered.
As soon as his father's face appeared, the simulated ship seemed to stop, the program frozen. "Admiral," Tom said formally.
It appeared from the admiral's background that he was in a building of some sort, almost hospital-like in the sterility of the décor. The younger Paris' heart jumped a beat, wondering if something had happened to his mother or one of his sisters. "Tom," Owen Paris replied, no hint of the formality that his son had displayed. "We just returned to Earth an hour ago. I, well, I think it would be a good idea for you to come to San Francisco."
Tom felt his eyes widen. Owen Paris rarely minced words. He began to feel that something ominous had happened. "What is it?" he asked with a frown.
The elder Paris paused slightly. "I don't quite know how to say this, but something happened the last day of the practical to B'Elanna. She's in stasis right now. The doctors are with her."
The younger Paris stared blankly at his father's image for several seconds, trying to process his words. Stasis chambers were only used for medical transport and storage in life-threatening situations in which the medical team at hand couldn't fix the problem without killing the patient. "What happened?" he asked once he recovered his voice.
"There was a snake," Owen said, his voice heavy with—regret? Tom had never heard that particular emotion from his father before. "All of our scans revealed that the venom was non-toxic to humans." His voice picked up a bitter edge. "Nobody realized that the venom would react to a protein in the myelin surrounding Klingon nerves, completely destroying it."
Lt. Paris didn't remember much of his biochemistry course, and he was pretty sure such problems weren't covered in his field medic course, but he knew that that couldn't be good. "What's going to happen?" he asked quietly, as if afraid that speaking any louder would somehow jinx her.
Admiral Paris shook his head slightly. "We don't know. I've been in communication with the hybrid neurologist at Starfleet Medical since it happened, but he says there no way to evaluate the situation without seeing her. He's in there now."
"The situation," Tom snorted. "Torres is not a 'situation', she's a…" his voice trailed off, not quite sure how to finish that statement. He straightened slightly in his chair. "I'll be there tomorrow."
---
It had been three days since Admiral Paris' Junior Survival Strategies class returned to San Francisco, three days since Cadet B'Elanna Torres had been transferred to Starfleet Medical, two days since she had been released from stasis. She was still unconscious, still unaware of anything, and according to Dr. Moshe Zalun, the hybrid neurologist, it would still be a few more days, maybe a few more weeks, before the myelin-generating compound she was getting would coat enough of the nerve cells in her brain to allow her to wake up.
Lt. Tom Paris watched his former plebe silently from the chair he had occupied since he arrived, for some reason unable to get up and leave until he knew for sure that she would be okay. If he didn't look too closely, he could convince himself that she was sleeping, her large brown eyes closed, her dark curls flowing gently over her shoulders. When he did bother to look, though, he couldn't miss the signs that this was deeper than slumber. The eyes under the lids didn't move as they would have while dreaming, the blanket covering her was as smooth as it had been when it was placed, belying the fact that she hadn't been tossing and turning. Although he couldn't see it, he knew a muscle stimulator was pressed against both sides of her chest, forcing her diaphragm to contract and relax to allow her to breathe, since the nerves that normally did that job were as functionless as the rest of the nerves in her body. Similar stimulators were on the major muscle groups of her arms and legs, trying to keep those muscles from degrading between physical therapy sessions. There were cortical stimulators on both temples, giving high doses of the myelinating drugs directly to her brain.
"You don't have to do this, Tom." The sudden voice startled Paris from his reverie, and he glanced up to see his father standing in the doorway.
"When she wakes up, someone should be here," the younger Paris replied calmly, not arguing. In the two days since he arrived, he hadn't seen anyone enter her room who wasn't employed by Starfleet Medical.
"Dr. Zalun said it will still be a few days, at the soonest," Owen replied, taking a seat next to his son.
"He said he didn't know what to expect," Tom countered. "Nobody's ever seen anything like this before."
The elder Paris knew better than to argue with his son, and the two men sat in uneasy silence for several minutes, Tom making notations on a PADD, and Owen watching his son, uncertain. "What happened out there?" Tom finally asked, not looking up from his work.
Owen frowned. "I told you, while we were breaking camp, a snake—"
"No," Tom interrupted, looking up. "I didn't mean that. I meant during the practical. When you commed me a few days ago, you called her B'Elanna. You never call cadets by their first names—even Syd and I were 'Cadet Paris'."
Admiral Paris was stunned for several seconds, not sure what to say. Tom realized that his father hadn't registered that he had called her by her first name until it was just pointed out. "I'm not sure, exactly," he said slowly. "It's a bit of a long story."
Tom snorted slightly and gestured toward the still figure on the biobed in the middle of the room. "I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."
His father frowned at those words, but once again, declined to argue. "You're right," he said, trying to figure out where to begin. "I grew to respect her very much over these last couple of months. She's very passionate about her work, very intelligent, among the most creative cadets I've ever worked with. I grew to enjoy our discussions very much."
Tom raised his eyebrows. He had never thought that he would ever see eye-to-eye with his father, but they had apparently come to the same conclusion about B'Elanna Torres. Still not willing to concede the similarities, however, he rolled eyes his slightly. "Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful relationship," he said sarcastically. It was hardly a fair comment—of all of his complaints about his father, unfaithfulness was nowhere near the list. An illicit affair with a cadet or junior officer—or anybody—would be as far from Owen's character as one could get. Owen gave his son a reproachful glance.
"Hardly, Thomas." He sighed slightly. "I really don't know where to begin."
"Well, you always the said the beginning is usually the best place."
The admiral chuckled and rolled his eyes slightly at his son's mocking tone. "The beginning. Well, the first time we exchanged more than a few words was probably the second day after we landed on the planetoid. We were approximately one and a half kilometers from a large river, and I gave her the assignment of designing a water transportation system from the river to our campsite, so we wouldn't have to take the time every day to go to the river and carry it back. I told her about some of the past solutions to the problem, including diverting a stream and creating an aqueduct system, and she just looked at me as if I were a complete idiot."
"I'm well acquainted with that look," Tom said dryly. "Sorry. Continue."
"While I was still speaking, she picks up a stick and begins drawing figures and equations in the dirt, not even hearing what I had to say anymore. I was starting to get frustrated with her disrespect and was about to call her out on it, but she wouldn't have heard me anyway, she was concentrating that hard on her project. Before I could say anything, she called one of her classmates over and asked him what depth the water table was at the campsite. Somehow, Cadet Richards knew immediately what she was getting at, and the two of them began planning something. I interrupted to point out that this was Cadet Torres' problem, which made Cadet Richards suddenly look pale enough I was worried about him fainting from fright, but she just gave me this look, and said, 'Nothing in Starfleet is ever a one-person job. I could probably come up with a solution to this problem on my own, but instead I chose to ask from help from one of our geology majors to come up with a better solution. Asking for help isn't necessarily a sign of weakness.' Then she smirked at me, and said, 'Your son taught me that one.'"
"And to think, I thought she never listened to me," Tom said, shaking his head slightly.
"I guess you made more of an impression that you realized," Owen said softly. Tom was sure there was more to that story that he was saying at the moment. "Between Torres and Richards, they designed a well that was more than adequate in supplying the water we needed for the camp. In all my years teaching this practical, I've never had any student consider that as a solution before. I had never considered that as a solution."
"She's an amazing engineer," Tom said. "I was able to see that from the beginning."
"She's an amazing person," Admiral Paris replied.
Tom studied his father for a second. While he was still far from completely forgiving Owen for his words outside the track and field stadium a year and a half before, he was beginning to see that maybe the admiral was far more human than he had given him credit for. "Yeah," Tom agreed. "She is."
