29.

"How can I help you today, Captain Paris?"

Peering over at the oft-discussed captain from the seat of his usual console, the Berlin's physician knew the answer was by no means simple, though it was plainly obvious the man did need assistance. Dokaru's suggestion that he might talk with the man, captain to captain, to try to discover what had happened to the young Human, had not been a bad idea after all.

"I'm having a problem," Tom rasped, then cleared his throat. "My science officer diagnosed me with a liver problem a few months ago, but I haven't been able to see a specialist, yet. I had an incident last night... I need to get it taken care of. You can download her file. She knows I'm here."

Dr. Masdi gestured to a nearby biobed as he pushed himself away from his lab readings. Standing, how showed a modest height and build beneath his neat gray hair. A ten-year veteran of the Cardassian border conflict, his dark blue eyes held an unabashed directness about them as he scanned the form before him. "Mind if I have a look for myself first?" he asked.

Tom shrugged, nodded. Taking off his coat and drawing a firm breath, he reached back and pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed. He blinked away the resulting pain as the doctor came near with the tricorder and pressed his mouth firmly shut. His eyes still reflected a certain amount of anxiety, however.

Waving the tricorder slowly over his patient a couple of times, Masdi reset the parameters then scanned again. His tongue poked briefly out to lick his upper lip; then he rubbed his lips together. Without looking away from the readings, he asked, "Do you mind if I pull your file now?"

Paris frowned, then assented with a short nod.

"I'll try not to keep you waiting too long. Excuse me."

The doctor came around the corner into his office and with a few words, he connected with the Guerdon's science technician, who indeed had been waiting in her office for his call. The Vulcan said little, not wanting to interfere with the physician's work, but transmitted her captain's medical file with a quiet comment of gratitude.

Cutting the connection and calling up the file, Masdi's eyes soon danced over the neatly recorded history and increasingly worrisome test results. Notes taken by the tech also showed a steady decline of motor function, alertness and appetite. His own scan was a dire one to conclude the rest. Running the whole through the Federation database, a result shot back to Masdi's screen several seconds later. Seeing it, his head dipped in a nod to himself and his shoulders briefly sagged. But then he brought his head up again to spy through his window the young man on the table. Paris was trembling and the muscles in his jaw were tensed.

The doctor punched up the man's personal file, requesting the abbreviated version. He blinked as he read it, setting ship's gossip and facts in their correct places, glancing up a couple times as he did when an image of the ousted officer scrolled into view. Masdi stilled for a moment, remarking to himself at the difference between the two images. Another file opened. Methodically, the doctor's fingers tapped on the LEDs, his stare unbroken from the display as that information was digested. Finally, he leaned back and exhaled slowly. He looked out to the main ward again.

The patient outside had closed his eyes. He was trying to sit straight-trying to hold on.

Finally, Masdi pressed his hands on his desk and got to his feet. Moving to another console, he tapped in a course of treatment, glanced over it then returned to give his diagnosis.

After several seconds, Paris opened his eyes. Returning the physician's attention, his visual examination seemed equally thorough-and conclusive. He breathed a sigh through his nostrils and waited.

Masdi did not keep him waiting any longer.

"Min-Dirov's Cirrhosis is a very rare disease in humans, Captain, and entirely preventable."

The younger man rolled his eyes. "Here we go."

"Not we-you."

"Yeah, me. Going, right now." Tom slid off the table, muttering, "Another goddamned bad idea."

"Generally, it takes a few more years for the liver to present this form of dysfunction," Masdi stated as the man strained to get an arm in his coat. "Your beverage choices along the route have been exceptionally effective." Seeing Paris shrug at that, he added, "If you're going to kill yourself, there are far easier and less painful routes to it."

"I'm not in it for death."

"So, you're into suffering instead."

"Doc-"

"Do you think it's what you're supposed to do for the rest of your life because you crashed a shuttle and your crew died?"

"Two lousy days," Tom hissed to himself, "and I wouldn't have to listen to this."

"No, maybe not," the doctor deduced, willfully ignoring the younger man's digression. "If you were sorry you survived, you'd be dead already. Still, it's not easy to know your error had fatal consequences; it's a natural defense to try to not think about it, one way or another."

"It's not the only thing right now."

"It's not going to work, Captain." Masdi held the other man's glare when it turned back to him. "You're always going to think about it, no matter what you do to yourself."

Finally getting his arm in his coat, the young captain looked at his hand. One of them was gripping the hem of his pocket. It was shaking, the twitch in his leg became more pronounced. The man was obviously in great pain and taking as many pains to try to hide it.

"Let's put it like this:" the doctor continued as he leaned against an opposite bed, "This will kill you. I could treat you five times and it'll be what kills you as long as you keep imbibing the same gruel. And each time you're treated, the symptoms will come on more rapidly until you're in need of a full transplant. But you won't be anywhere near a facility that will be able to serve such a request in enough time, once you finally cross that threshold. You'll be in a great deal of pain and you'll probably be alone when your liver finally shuts down. Whatever you're trying not to think about? That'll be the last thing you think about before your heart stops, and you'll die having done nothing but let it rot you from the inside out. And for what? You think people are going to cry for a martyr? I promise you, they won't. You sure won't have honored those people who died. So I would highly recommend you find some other means of dealing with your guilt."

"Are you going to treat me or aren't you?" Tom demanded.

"I'm required to," Masdi assured him. "But I'm also responsible for advising my patients on the proper way to maintain their health and well-being."

"I've worked really hard to get away from the lectures, Doc. I'm not some junior officer angling for correction."

"And I've been through more with your sort than you're aware of. You think you're the only one who's done what you have? Lied about an accident? Captain Paris, I know at least three similar incidents that haven't been resolved, as you resolved your situation."

"Nice to know someone's keeping count. By the way, you're not answering my question."

"I'll treat you, make you feel like you did when you were a second-year cadet. But I'll lecture you as much as I like, Captain, especially when I know you have the capability to right your mistakes."

Tom coughed a laugh, leaning back against the bulkhead. "Yeah, I've done a great job at that."

"You're still moving, aren't you?"

"Barely. There's some more I could do to fix that."

"You've got a good crew who seems to care and it's obvious you work harder now than you ever had in Starfleet."

"Thanks for the recap," Tom drawled, then narrowed his eyes. "What's your point?"

"The point is, you've already been punished. Starfleet made sure to punish you in every way it fairly could and you'll always have the onus of having to remember it. So it's time to let those people go. You have to get on with your life, or you'd might as well end it and save everyone the trouble. -I'll bet you already knew all this, though. You just haven't gotten around to accepting it. It's why you're here."

"I'm here because I nearly died on the way to my quarters last night."

"Why you're at this point, Captain," Masdi clarified. "Though, now that you mention it, you recovered enough to get yourself in my room not ten minutes after I arrived. You could've rationalized waiting again if you'd wanted to; you could've grabbed some more painkillers. But you know you need to make a change and are probably waiting for someone to take you there. If that's the case, I have no problem telling you that you can't keep going like this. You have to let those crewpeople go and move on, and you have to at least switch to synthehol, or you will meet a premature death. You'll be a pill capsule in open space and no one will remember anything but what brought you down and how you let it happen."

That stopped Paris-stopped his tongue and froze his expression. In fact, he stared blankly at the doctor for almost a minute; thoughts, memories and emotions flitted behind his yellowed eyes as he put together the full picture. He drew shallow breaths, and then finally coughed a longer one. His hand gripped his pocket again as he tensed, then relaxed. His lips parted.

"Can you treat it now?" he asked roughly, pushing himself from the wall. He tried to stand without wobbling, but finally had to set a hand on the side of the bed.

The doctor returned a belabored stare. "Don't tell me: You're on a schedule."

"Sort of," Tom admitted. "My engineer's expecting me after lunch to check in and help with some RTC repairs."

"If anyone on board questions your rank, I'll vouch for you," Masdi deadpanned as he turned back for his office. "Take your coat off. I'll call my nurse."


The surgery was not as straightforward as the computer promised-but then, such treatments rarely went as planned. The level of degradation in the man's internal cavity was far worse when Masdi and his nurse got inside of it. Things he hadn't scanned for popped up, causing him to hold back on the liver and address those first.

"Guess his engineer will just have to wait," Masdi commented with a snort as he reset the tissue regenerator.

Worse of all of the ailments outside the disease itself were the festering ulcers in his stomach and on his lower esophagus. It was a wonder to Masdi how the man drank anything at all. They looked to have been there a while and the man hadn't twenty-seven years.

That completed, the doctor moved on to the side effects of the liver dysfunction. Series of veins required treatment; his blood required detoxification and several points of swelling were relieved. The liver itself required a few attempts by the regenerator to remove all the scarring, and it had to be done in sections as a series of antibiotics were injected. That at last completed, the doctor and nurse deactivated the organ spreaders, then sealed the large incision site. Finally, a few more runs by the bioscanner corrected the jaundice and bruising. Some closer work took care of the bruise on Paris' hip.

Backing off a step to re-read the re-evaluation, Masdi nodded to his nurse, who dutifully prepared the patient to be revived. On second thought, Masdi held up his hand. "Just one more thing," he said, stepping away to the medical replicator. Tapping into the menu, he quickly found what he was looking for; a few seconds later, the small implant appeared, sitting on a sample glass. Masdi picked it up and grabbed the requisite hypospray. Loading the implant, he injected it into Paris' abdomen.

"Not that I don't trust you, Captain," the doctor said, his mouth pursed into a smile. He nodded at his nurse again and pulled away his surgical gear. "We're done. Scan his vitals and bring him back up to normal temperature. Then I'll revive him myself."

The nurse wordlessly went to it, well accustomed to his superior's temperament and knowing on whom they'd been working. When his duty was completed and he'd handed the required stimulants to Masdi, he excused himself to the lab.

"Thank you, Alston," Masdi said, then took a seat by his patient once again. Shutting down the table, the machinery pulled away, revealing a man who at last looked as he was supposed to, save a shave and decent haircut. Pressing the hypospray to Paris' throat, the doctor set that away, too, then waited.

Several seconds passed before Tom Paris breathed normally; slowly, his eyes opened to the stark Starfleet lighting above him. Blinking, he breathed again, then looked over.

Masdi ghosted a smile of greeting. "Good afternoon, Captain Paris. How do you feel?"

Tom cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. "Groggy, a little sore."

"That'll go away with more sleep," the doctor told him. "I thought you'd prefer to have that in your own quarters."

"I need to get down to my engine room."

"A little late for that, I'm afraid-and I apologize. I did try to whip you back into shape in record speed, but you'd abused yourself more efficiently than I'd at first detected. I contacted your tech Savan and let her know. She said she would assist your engineer today."

Tom nodded, still breathing as though he slept. Thinking a moment, his brow furrowed as he caught up. "What time is it?"

"About fifteen hundred," Masdi answered then stood to help Paris up. "Again, a solid rest should help the residual stiffness and fatigue a great deal. If you come in tomorrow, I'll likely send you off with a bill of perfect health."

"And it's not even Christmas," Tom smirked, sliding down the table to his feet.

"You got a lot, though," Masdi returned. "I'll transmit your revised medical file to you. You should know what the last few years did to your body."

"Birthday, too. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Staring hard at the younger man, he held his position until the attention was returned. The look on Paris' face was unreadable-well trained, the doctor understood. He sighed, shrugged. "Just do me a favor, for everything I've done for you today, would you? What we were talking about before your surgery? Think it over. Really, Captain, you have a chance to keep yourself from sinking again, a great chance to get past what got you here. You'll never do anyone any justice by destroying yourself-not your crew, your friends or your family-and it won't do you any good, either. And you do deserve to move on. Take it from someone who's been serving on this border since you were still in grade school and who's seen just about everything man can do: You have the right to recover."

With that, the doctor returned to the lab console he had been sitting at when his patient first entered the sickbay.

Captain Paris grabbed his coat and strode out of the doors.

Only when he got to the center junction did he realize that he was striding.


Even his quarters looked different.

Pulling on a fresh shirt, Tom peered out of his bedroom to the place he'd been calling home for two and a half years, and he suddenly wondered how he'd been doing it. -Not that he'd been very clear-headed through it all, nor did he spend much time there, but the chairs were impossibly short and hard. He didn't have a single decoration of his own on the drab walls; it was dark and stuffy. Yes, he knew these things, but how did he deal with that?

The only redeeming feature was the very comfortable bedding-though it was a heap on the floor, waiting for the refreshers to come back online. The comforter, pillowcases and sheets all reeked of alcohol and vomit and his suddenly sensitive nose reeled well before he got on them. They were probably better off recycled. Nevertheless, with but a spare blanket, he did get over six hours of solid, undisturbed sleep. He almost felt guilty for it when he woke, though Torres had told him she wouldn't need him until twenty-three hundred, when she went back on shift and the last supplies had been replicated.

The rest had done just what the doctor said: He felt excellent. He'd forgotten what it felt like without the heaviness in his head or the flaccidity in his limbs. He felt like he needed to walk, even run.

We don't have a space set up for exercise here, do we? he pondered idly. He knew he had a great deal of natural energy-or at least he always had before. If that stuck around, he'd need to do something to burn that off.

He remembered once again that his sleep had been without disturbance, no memories, no panic attacks. He wondered if that was going to last as long as he lay off the drink. It could have simply been the aftereffects of the surgery.

Lay off the drink.

Tom paused, leaned against the window and pulled a breath into his unclogged lungs. All the sudden, it was so simple? Just stop? His form of relief had been such a part of his life for the past four years that Tom was having a real disconnect considering its he wondered why in the hell he'd want it back, considering how great he felt, how clear-minded and free of pain he was.

"Day hasn't started yet," he told himself with a smirk.

Then again, being drunk never did help him get away from what he knew, nor could he punish himself enough with it. Masdi had pretty well nailed that one, too. Tom knew he liked the numb, though. He'd become comfortable within the haze. He was afraid of the clarity of feeling and the emotional responsibility that came with it. But again, he'd always felt, always remembered-remembered painfully well. Rather, remaining intoxicated let him shirk off the emotional responsibility he had to them...

What I owed them, he thought again. The thought sat a moment longer. What do I owe them...for what happened out there?

Then he felt as though he could run fifty laps around that squat little ship.

"I need new chairs, maybe a chaise," he added, pushing himself away from the window to grab a pair of trousers-the last clean ones he had. He hoped they didn't smell, too.

I've been walking around wafting that odor, he thought as he slid his legs into the holes. He sighed. Goddamned wreck. No kidding people stayed away from me.

He needed to put on a few kilos at least.

"Damnit, I need to do something!" His mind was everywhere-making up for lost time. It'd been so long, and he hadn't slowed down enough yet to get annoyed at it. But again, he hadn't been out the door yet. He'd probably want a couple bottles of slowdown by the end of it. He had a fresh half-crate with his name on it in the back of the lounge.

Tom stopped again, trying to get back to that other train of thought...and then couldn't recall what-

"Torres to Paris."

Tom walked over to the wall comm and tapped it on. "Yeah, B'Elanna. I'm here. Need something?"

A pause, then, "Yes, well, it's twenty-two hundred, but I'm already on. Lieutenant Carey and I have been working on the port controls, and he had some good ideas on how to realign them. The new protocols are working well; I'm ready to start on rebooting secondary systems as soon as navigation is taken care of."

"Sounds great. Thanks."

"Um, yeah. Anyway, if you're up for starting on the new GNS connections, I'll be in navigation control with Carey in about ten minutes."

"I just need to shave and I'll be right there."

Another pause. "Okay. Torres out."

Tom nodded and popped his closet open to grab his boots and some socks. He tossed them on the bed for the moment, hurrying himself. A little distracted herself, B'Elanna still sounded upbeat about the progress and was ready to move forward at last.

Moving back into the bathroom, he almost didn't look. Pulling out his shaving kit, though, knowing he'd have to, he finally glanced up, then looked again.

The kid wasn't there, but what he saw was a hell of a lot closer to it than the ghoul he'd viewed not a day before-an image that hadn't left his near memory yet-and probably never would. No, he wasn't young anymore and he did need to gain some weight, but his color was good, his eyes were clear and steady; he looked and felt healthy...and was back to square one, give or take four pretty lousy years.

What about you? he asked himself, staring himself in the eyes. You ready?