Dawn
I loved the mirrors. The mirrors in the traveling carnival that came to Bloomington every fall, that is. You had your usual assortment of freaks from across the galaxies, like Klingons without forehead ridges or silver Bolians and of course, the staple of a two-headed Terran.
The carnival also offered the usual array of dizzying, nausea-inducing rides including my nemesis, the zero gravity spinner. Take a tumble in that one and it was nearly impossible to walk a straight line afterwards.
But the mirrors, now those attracted me. We - my sister and I - would walk into the funny house, fingers clenched into a fist, giddy with anticipation but already tense with fear and excitement. Every funny house had the usual assortment of strange noises, slimy things to touch and creaking floor boards, but the end - those mirrors, now that's what excited me.
There were mirrors that elongated, that distorted, that shrunk - all of it casting a strange illusion on reality. In a word, it was... disconcerting.
I only bring up the carnival because that same feeling of confusion is very apparent now as Chakotay and I stare at each other.
In the past, we have had our arguments, our inability to see eye to eye, but this, but this is different. In just a few short days, he has changed. I don't know how I know this - I just do. He looks different, more relaxed, more confident, and he looks comfortable. Comfortable as in he belongs here, has always belonged here.
Comfortable as he never appeared during our seven years together.
Damn, that hurts. Really, truly hurts in a way I didn't think possible. If Chakotay is aware of the tension between us, he gives no sign as he looks at me, impassively and unemotionally.
"How are you?" I ask formally, only slightly aware of a Ktarian leading Paris away and of Tuvok hovering over my right shoulder.
"Good," Chakotay says. "I'm glad you're here."
"Have they treated you well?"
"Well enough. It has been... confusing, to say the least."
"I'd agree with that."
"Come, let's go somewhere warm," Chakotay says. "The chill gets under your skin after a while."
Chakotay leads the way, with the other Maquis falling in behind him. I don't know if it's an unconscious decision on their part, but they - Chell, Gerron and Ayala - look to Chakotay as their leader; it's strange because for seven years, they viewed me as such. But I suppose, it's like leaving the funny house - I enjoyed a surrealistic experience for a long period of time and now, well, now things were back the way they had been before the Caretaker.
The Maquis have apparently made the best of their situation; the buildings are functional if not attractive. They have opted for efficiency in design and layout, aligning most of their structures on either side of the dirt road. At the head of the road is the building that Chakotay grandly refers to as the meeting house.
We climb the three steps up and immediately are assailed by a cloud of warm air.
"I didn't realize I was so cold," I confess as Chakotay indicates a bench.
"Can I get you coffee?" he asks. I suppose he thinks my answer is a foregone conclusion because he heads immediately to the replicator. I look at Tuvok, who shrugs.
"This is... interesting," Tuvok says in that careful way he uses when he's trying so hard not make judgments.
The interior of the meeting hall is simple - several rows of tables and benches arranged in two columns running the length of the room. There are six windows - two on the long wall, one each on the shorter walls and the remaining two on either side of the door. The Maquis did not decorate this room in any way. There are no personal effects, no homey touches. This last realization saddens me in a way that I did not think possible.
"Here," Chakotay hands me a steaming mug. I take a sip. He has
replicated it exactly the way I like - French Roast, served black with two spoons of sugar.
"Thank you," I say. I look around.
"We were worried," Chakotay says. He takes the seat opposite of mine. "We saw the explosion. Felt it, actually, and no one would tell us what happened to Voyager. It's good to see you, Captain."
"We felt the same," I say. "We didn't know if you made it or not. Only that an order had been submitted for your release. However, no one would tell us if you had been released at all."
"I'm surprised they didn't just leave us on that station," Chakotay says with a trace of uncharacteristic bitterness. "That would have solved the Maquis problem."
"Curious." Tuvok tips his head to the side. "Indeed, if it had not been for Admiral Paris' intervention, it is doubtful you and the others would have been released."
"Admiral Paris?" Chakotay asks in confusion. "What about him?"
"It's a long story," I say. I restrain the urge to cover his hand with mine and it takes so much willpower to keep from reaching across the table to run my hands through his black hair.
"We're still trying to figure it out ourselves. Needless to say, the events of the past six days have been extraordinary."
"We had much to discuss," Tuvok says primly. "And we do not have a lot of time. There have been some questions raised -"
The door opens and the Ktarian stands there, data PADD in hand.
"Jessup," Chakotay says. "Captain, this is Herid Jessup. Jessup, Kathryn Janeway, and this is Commander Tuvok."
"Nice to meet you," Jessup says in a voice that implies otherwise.
"What is it?" Chakotay asks, clearly irritated at the interruption.
"I need some assistance in the Delta Flyer," Jessup says. "Tom Paris thinks that the EMH can help B'Elanna. He wants to download the program to the Infirmary."
"B'Elanna?" I ask. "What's wrong with her?"
"We found her unconscious," Chakotay says. "Possibly an allergic reaction to an insect bite, but I'm beginning to think that it might be something more dire. She and Jessup went to signal Voyager and she was injured. When we went back to get her, we found her in delirium, screaming about forgiveness. Unfortunately we have not been able to treat her illness with the supplies we have now."
"How serious is her condition?" I ask the Ktarian sharply. He shakes his head.
"It doesn't look good," Jessup answers.
"I will assist you." Tuvok gets up from his seat. "Captain, Commander."
Jessup shoots Chakotay an irate look, possibly at the mention of the title "Commander." I shouldn't be surprised; old feelings do not fade easily or without pain.
With Tuvok and Jessup gone, an awkward silence - the type that usually follows the typical "I'm right, you're wrong" arguments - descends.
Finally, I reach across the table and cover Chakotay's hand with mine.
"Hi," I say very softly. He offers up a smile, shy but sincere. I note, with a pang, that his smile doesn't quite make it up to his eyes, and that, that worries me. "I - how have you been?"
"Cold," he says. "Worried."
"You said that before," I remind him. He pulls his hand away.
"Sorry," he says. "How is the coffee?"
"Perfect."
"Good."
I take a deep breath. "I've missed you, Chakotay."
He raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"You heard me. I was... I missed having you around. I can't figure out what's going on and that disturbs me. There are pieces, but no picture. I thought, I thought if I could talk to you, maybe you would be able to guide me in the right direction. You've always been so good at showing me how things fit together. I missed... your advice."
"Glad you acknowledge that."
Bitterness edges his voice, a deep-seeded resentment. I think about all of the times we have gone toe to toe and of all the times, I ignored his counsel. And with a pang of shame, I remember clearly relieving him of duty - an action I've never been proud of and have never apologized for.
"I know we've disagreed in the past," I tell him quietly. "Sometimes violently. We've been able to get past all of that, Chakotay. I need... I want your support. I need to know that you're with me, whatever happens now, I'd like to know that you are there."
"You don't have to doubt my loyalty, Kathryn."
"I wasn't. I didn't know if things had changed now that you were back with the Maquis."
"I don't mind being here, if that's what you are asking. I know the Federation doesn't want me, and hell, after what I went through with your Starfleet-"
"My Starfleet?" I ask sharply. "What are you talking about, Chakotay?"
"You forget that for seven years you commanded a Starfleet ship. Starfleet on the surface, Kathryn. Beneath, it was something else. Maybe there was a bit of a Maquis undercurrent and we pledged our allegiance to Starfleet because we had no other choice. I hate to break it to you, but we Maquis, sometimes we felt suffocated by the Starfleet attitudes, that stiff adherence to laws that did not quite apply to our situation. We never thought we had to die for Starfleet, but then your fatalistic outlook was one thing I never admired about you."
He knits his fingers together and focuses down on the table's metallic surface. I take a sip of the coffee and then put the mug down.
"I'm glad you're finally being honest with me," I tell him.
He shrugs. "I've had a lot of time to think, Kathryn. Fresh air, it has a way of clearing the mind."
There's something - a tiny note of self-realization - in his voice, that catches my attention.
"I've been thinking also, and I still don't regret any of it. Chakotay, I need your help. I want to find out what's going on, and I think you might hold the missing part."
"What are you talking about?"
"Admiral Paris and I had a conversation prior to the destruction of the starbase. He mentioned something to me, something a scheme involving Starfleet officers and border colonists."
Chakotay shakes his head. "Doesn't sound familiar."
His tone is easy, almost lazy in its intonation.
"Think," I lean forward. "Some officers in Starfleet, after the treaty was signed, offered their protection for a fee. The protection never came through, the Cardassians ran roughshod over the colonists while the Federation turned its back on its own citizens. The Maquis came into being, yet there were Starfleet officers out there, collecting sums for a service that would never be rendered. Who were they, Chakotay?"
Chakotay looks at some point over my shoulder, deliberately averting my gaze.
"Chakotay?" I ask very softly.
"Let me talk to the others," Chakotay says. "Maybe they know."
Yeah right, I think. Chakotay has never been a terrific liar; a few days on a frozen planet haven't changed Chakotay's lack of ability to deceive me.
We sit in silence for a few minutes and then I clear my throat.
"Chakotay," I say. "I meant what I said, about wanting your help and support."
"I know and I appreciate it."
"But?"
"Maybe we should go check on B'Elanna," Chakotay suggests quickly. "I'd like to see if Tom has diagnosed what's wrong with her."
"You're avoiding me," I tell him. "Don't worry. We'll continue this conversation at another time."
"I don't doubt it," he answers evenly.
~ end part I ~
****
B'Elanna's chest rises and falls in an even cadence. Her cheeks are tinged pink, warm with fever, and her eyes are slightly open.
I note that her elbow joint is stiffening, possibly as a result of the insect bite. I grab a tricorder and note with dismay that indeed, she has arthritis in that joint now.
At least she won't be so quick with that bat'leth.
But by the same token, she'll be slower when she puts her arms around me.
God, B'Elanna.
You never realize how much you want - need - someone until you face the very real possibility of losing that person. You always take the person you love for granted, never even telling her that you love her, until it's almost too late.
I didn't know.
I didn't realize.
But I suppose that's another trait I get from my father.
I'd like to think he wasn't a cold, self-centered, self-serving bastard, but my father never gave me any indication to think otherwise. When he was home, he'd lock himself in his study, coming out only long enough for meals. He seemed intent on avoiding my sisters and me at all costs; he would ask about our day in the most general of terms and not really seeming to listen to anything we had to say. When we misbehaved, like most parents, he would stand in front of us, clearly detailing our infractions, and the tone of his voice would make us shiver with fear.
My father never hit me.
I want to make that clear.
He never even raised his voice to me.
Instead, he would talk at me in this evenly modulated voice and he would speak in grammatically correct sentences, complete with clipped accents and a sharp edge. Every conversation with him ended the same way.
"How do you think you're going to get into Starfleet Academy if you keep going like this?" he would say. "If you keep getting in trouble, you'll never make anything of yourself."
And yeah, that point belonged to him - I give him that much. There were nights when I would lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what would happen to me if I failed math or history again.
So I learned, in my father's presence, to be brief, brilliant and gone; I would make my escape before he could push me further or ask me questions that would delve deeper into some issue I wanted to avoid.
The year I turned sixteen, my father spotted the first strands of gray in his hair. By the time I graduated from high school, his hair turned completely white; I'd like to think that some of my antics were responsible for this change of pigmentation, but that might be giving me - and not genetics - a bit more credit than necessary.
I rebelled for a very simple reason.
My father wanted a Starfleet boy; that much was evident. He stood over my shoulder as I typed up my Academy application and he even found (bribed?) colleagues to supply references. Never hurt to have an Admiral as a father.
I never told my father I didn't want to go to the Academy. That I would go was assumed and so every conversation with him was on that topic. I suppose I was so grateful that my father even wanted to talk to me that I clung to that topic of Starfleet Academy and hoped one day, I would make him proud so we could talk of other things.
The day I left for the Academy was my father's proudest moment. His eyes glittered with an emotion I found unfamiliar and unsettling and he even wrapped his arms around me in a suffocating hug, nearly crushing my ribs in the process.
"Make me proud," he said.
Well, we know how that story turned out.
That one time I got expelled, yeah, I expected Daddy to get me back in. And he did. Through clenched teeth, he explained to the dean that I did not mean to cheat on that Mechanics of Thermodynamics exam; rather, I'd given into stress and the temptation of "borrowing" an answer or two from Elizabeth Nagol was overwhelming.
I sat there the entire time with this artificial expression of contrition - one that I had practiced many times in the mirror - slapped on my face.
So back into the Academy I went, and this time, made it through without any serious mishaps. I graduated and my father attended, in full dress uniform. I even have a holoimage of this great moment in Tom Paris' life - my father, his arm around my shoulder, grinning broadly, and me, looking very much like I'd rather be shooting pool at Sandrine's.
"Well done," my father said that day. "I'm proud of you, Tom."
"Thank you, sir."
"Keep it up."
"I will."
I broke this promise to my father in the mess that went down in history as Caldik Prime.
I think everyone needs a Caldik Prime to their credit. Without the body count, of course. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
At the very least, surviving something like that makes you care a hell of a lot less.
I remember the day of my hearing, sitting in front of the tribunal, without really seeing the three JAGs at all. I really did believe these proceedings were a mere formality; once again, my father would get me out of this one. He was seated in the back row, and I had to restrain myself from twisting around to see him. I knew what I'd get if I turned - classic Paris steely glare.
Damn, we were blessed with baby blues, and maybe God meant for us to attract the opposite sex with them, but my father, he just drilled right through me with those eyes of his; I swear I could feel that gaze in my intestines, liver, spleen. You name it, his disappointment in me become a part of my internal organs. There was nothing I could do to escape the anger in his eyes or in his voice, no matter how dangerously calm he sounded.
At the time, I speculated that maybe it was a godsend that there were three Starfleet security officers assigned to me, otherwise my father would have made good use of that largely ceremonial phaser he wore at his waist.
So yes, when the discharge came, I was shocked. Knocked speechless, really. For once in my life, there was no joke at the tip of my tongue, no easy quip ready to fly out. Just utter silence.
All eyes were on me as I rose and when I turned, I noted that my father, always so proud, was sitting in the back row, his head cradled in his hands.
I became real good at running away. Hell, if I had to list my talents in order, flying would certainly come first but escapism would be a close second. The moment the tough got going, so did my feet. I marked the exits as I was walking in the door and I made sure I was never too cornered in that I couldn't find a way out.
And that's how I ran smack into the Maquis. I'd exhausted all options and there they were.
I secretly admired the Maquis; they stood for everything my father was against. There was also something so damn sexy about them, something so Robin Hood-esque, something so daring and adventurous, that I couldn't resist; my blood churned with excitement and that familiar rush of adrenaline settled into my limbs.
Finding the Maquis had been easy; there were many that were sympathetic to their cause. You just had to talk to the right people, so it only took me a few months to turn up on the Maquis' front door step.
Where I met B'Elanna. She'd been spunky even then, though I would never dare tell her now that "spunky" was the first word that came to mind when we met. Then, she had been undernourished, skinny, her eyes too large for her face and those wild short Klingon curls flying every which way.
God, how things change.
I look down at B'Elanna now. Nine years ago, we could not even look at each other without animosity. In fact, during my early days in the Maquis, I'd stay away from B'Elanna, convinced that she would do me in if she could. And now, I can't even imagine what my life will be like if she doesn't wake up.
And to make one thing really clear: I'm not going to impale myself on something sharp if something happens to B'Elanna. Physical suffering is not my style; rather, psychological torture, that's what I like. Dark, smoky bars, lots of nameless women, and synthale overflowing my glass - now that's the true path to self-torment.
God, I'm a sick bastard; I'm already thinking my anguish through, already trying to protect myself in case the unacceptable and unbelievable happens.
I don't want to be without her.
Honestly.
And I want her to damn well get out of that bed, get to her feet, so I can grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into that stubborn Klingon head of hers. More importantly, I want to yell at her and ask her what the hell was she thinking when she scared me half out of my mind?
"So it's real important you wake up," I whisper into B'Elanna's ear. "Because I've got a bone to pick with you, B'Elanna. So wake up, so I can tell you just how angry I am with you because you're - damn, you know, B'Elanna, I can't stay angry with you for very long. You always have this way of making me come around. Sure, I'm afraid you're going to filet my insides with that bat'leth of yours like that time when I created that Klingon holodeck program for you? I love it when you get that angry. So damn you. Just wake up so - I miss you. Please. B'Elanna. For me.
For once in your life, listen to me."
But still, there is no response and face it, I've been as eloquent as I possibly can be. There is a fine line between Cicero and mushy stuff, believe me, and I've got to walk it, because otherwise B'Elanna will either accuse me of being distant or pandering. If I'm not walking the line, I lose out.
I hope B'Elanna appreciates the effort.
I release her hand when Janeway and Chakotay enter.
"How is she?" Chakotay asks.
"Not good," I shake my head. "I've done everything I know and nothing's worked."
"What is the cause?" Janeway questions.
"The readings I took, they are anomalous. I've sent Jessup to download the EMH. Maybe he can help."
"I know. He came to ask Tuvok for help," Janeway says. She circles B'Elanna, eyeing my wife with a proprietary glance that shocks even me. "Is she dying?"
Silence.
Damn, I didn't know Janeway could be that cold, that insensitive. And then I look up, note that the Captain has turned slightly away from B'Elanna, even though her fingers still linger on my wife's forearm. Janeway tips her head away from us, sniffles a bit, and then turns back to face us.
"Well?" she asks briskly, as if this past moment, this slight display of tearful emotion, had never happened.
I cannot speak so I merely nod my head.
Janeway sets her jaw; I've seen that look before. The Captain learns only from the best and apparently, my father was her tutor in this area.
"That's not an acceptable outcome," she says firmly.
I look at the Captain. For the first time in months, we are in complete agreement.
****
We leave Tom in the Infirmary and cross to the quarters that Chakotay shares with another Maquis member. Outside, a thin ribbon of chill runs through the air, sharp enough to burrow right beneath my skin. I shiver slightly, bowing my shoulders in a bit. Chakotay glances at me.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
"Cold. I'd think, at the very least, the Federation could have installed climate control."
"I like it."
"You would. I suppose you enjoy being back in nature. Have you built a bathtub yet?" I regret the words immediately. Chakotay stops and puts his hand on my forearm.
"No," he says. "I- there isn't anyone who would appreciate it here."
For a moment, I fancy that Chakotay is coming back to me, that he is slowly thawing and our relationship will be back to normal.
"But... everything else," I say. Chakotay reaches to cup his cool hand around my neck, drawing me closer. "Everything else is fine, right?"
"I wouldn't want it any other way," he says. He rubs his thumb against my cheek and then releases me. "Don't worry about us, Kathryn. We'll be fine."
"You... you aren't coming with us?"
"Coming where?" Chakotay looks surprised.
"I'm getting you out of here."
"I don't know if I want to go."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Where do I go, Kathryn? What do I do? Here, at least, we can have our own lives, without carrying our past into our future. I don't want to explain why I did what I did over and over again. Now that the Federation is shaking hands with the Cardassians, we don't even have a convenient excuse."
"You don't need excuses, Chakotay."
"If we didn't, would we be standing here right now having this conversation?" Chakotay asks. "By all that's right, we ought to be wining and dining at Starfleet Headquarters, not standing in the middle of some godforsaken tundra, grasping at straws."
I eye him.
"So that's what this is all about to you, is it?" I ask. "Grasping at straws? You don't think there is something going on?"
"Oh, I believe there is a conspiracy. There's no doubt in my mind about that. Starbases don't just blow up for no reason," he tells me. "I don't know if I want to be the one tilting at
windmills."
"Is that why you wouldn't give me the information I wanted?"
We stand there, barely centimeters apart, and not for the first time in our long partnership, we are light years away in thoughts and emotions. This time though, I don't sense we'll come to an agreement. In so many ways, we've returned to that moment seven years ago when I was staring at Chakotay, Maquis rebel, with obvious distaste and distrust.
Wind whips brown, brittle leaves around our feet. I shiver again, not certain whether from the cold or in shock over Chakotay's obvious detachment.
Chakotay sighs deeply.
"Let's go inside," he says. "It's better to talk out of the wind."
"You can't hide from me," I tell him. "I find it hard to believe that you did not know about corrupt Starfleet officers. I think knowledge of such a plot would be information the Maquis would have thrived on. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't use it for your own gain."
"Inside," Chakotay says sharply. He starts walking, head bowed down against the wind. I follow him.
"You've never lied to me before!" I yell after him. "Why now?"
Chakotay enters the house and stands just inside the doorway, waiting for me.
"Come in," he says. "Come on, Kathryn."
I take the steps two at a time and pass Chakotay without a glance.
"I didn't lie to you."
"Then what just happened? You told me, to my face, without blinking, how you didn't know a thing about a Starfleet extortion scheme and now you admit it?"
"You think it's going to help our case?"
"I think it's related. Admiral Paris made a point of mentioning it to me. It could explain a lot of things. Chakotay," my voice softens. I look around and note the gray-furniture, the lack of personal effects, and the out-dated replicator unit on the far wall. "We've been through a lot together. Some of it good, some bad - very bad. This is no different."
"You have a career, Kathryn," he sits down on the sofa, and leans forward, resting his weight on his thigh. I take the armchair directly opposite him; the straight back lacks cushion and cool metal sends a shiver through my spine.
"Such as it is," I scoff. "McArthur is looking for me. Once he finds out where I am, even that Dauntless commission will evaporate."
"What?"
I realize that Chakotay has no idea that Starfleet has reassigned me. I explain quickly and he looks faintly amused.
"Starfleet acknowledges your many violations of the Prime Directive and instead of putting you in front of a tribunal, they decide to ship you to the far corners of the quadrant?" Chakotay asks. "And you want me to go back to Starfleet? That's ridiculous. Or maybe you don't think so?"
"I know what it looks likes and I'm asking for your help. Please, Chakotay. I'm begging." I offer him what I hope looks like a smile. He shrugs.
"If you go to Starfleet with this information, you understand your career could be over," he says very softly.
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."
"You don't have to be right."
"I won't ignore my duty to my crew."
"We're not your problem anymore."
"Don't say that," I say. "Remember what we talked about? When we sensed division among our crew? You were with me then, Chakotay, arguing that Starfleet and Maquis work together. Why not now?"
"Because the stakes are higher now. You could jeopardize your career."
"I can take care of myself."
I get up from my chair and kneel next to him, taking his hand in mine.
"If what you says happens and I get discharged, I can think of worse places to spend my exile than here," I tell him softly. "With you."
His eyes widen and he sits back, still clutching at my hand. It is almost as if I've given him the permission he has been desperately seeking; no matter the distance between us, Chakotay is still looking out for my welfare and I cannot fault him for that.
"I'll tell you," he says.
~ end part II ~
****
Tuvok and Jessup burst into the room. I look at them questioningly, still holding B'Elanna's hand in mine.
"Well?" I ask.
"We are downloading the EMH now," Tuvok says. He covers the distance from the door to the only console in the room in about three steps.
"What?" I ask.
"The Doctor says that these symptoms are similar to those recorded when Lieutenant Torres went to gre'thor."
"Terrific," I stand up. "Great, B'Elanna. Thanks."
Jessup looks at me, "What are you talking about?"
"She- damn," I slam my palm against the biobed. Jessup grabs my arm.
"Paris!" Jessup exclaims. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but she's sick and you're not helping!"
"This is exactly like something B'Elanna would do!" I yell back. "Probably some misguided sense of honor and she decided to go back to gre'thor for some unfinished business. Damn! She- she knows how I feel about that but did it anyway."
"What are you talking about? What's gre'thor?"
"Klingon hell. She went last year in a controlled environment to redeem her mother's honor. It was frightening, to say the least. I almost lost her." I lean forward on the biobed, my fingers just barely touching B'Elanna's leg. "I almost lost her. I know the effects from the Borg cube were traumatic and I knew she had unresolved issues - God, I should have listened."
"Please state the nature of the-"
I look up at the EMH, who at this moment in my life, is the sweetest hologram I've ever seen. And yeah, I'm including all of those stupid holographic girlfriends I created in an attempt to experience something that was physically satisfying, but mentally disappointing.
"Mr. Paris," the Doctor says. "How is Lieutenant Torres?"
I show him the readings from my tricorder.
"Your results are slightly more elevated than mine," the Doctor admits. "Her condition is extremely critical."
"Do something then," I snap. "Don't tell us what we already know."
"Calm down, Mr. Paris." The Doctor rapidly takes inventory. "You didn't tell me that the facilities were so primitive."
"There are supplies on the Delta Flyer," I point out. "Basics, that is."
"I will retrieve them," Tuvok says, probably glad to get out of this room. I don't blame him; if it weren't for B'Elanna lying there on the biobed, there'd be flames in my wake too.
The infirmary, given my experiences on Voyager, is not exactly my favorite place to be.
"I am aware of what is available on the Delta Flyer," the Doctor hovers over B'Elanna. "Please retrieve them for me."
"You can help her, can't you?" Jessup asks quietly.
"I will do my best, Mister...? Who are you?"
"Jessup. Herid Jessup."
"Pleased to meet you, sir. Now, if you will kindly step out of my way..." the Doctor does a rather slick sidestep move which makes me think that he practices such steps when no one is looking. "Mr. Paris, you too."
I oblige, nearly bumping into Jessup. He glares at me. I shrug.
"Hmm, I'm reading increased neural activity," the Doctor says. "There is some cellular deterioration and I'm detecting signs of some kind of virus. Mr. Paris, please upload this scan to the Delta Flyer's medical database. See if you can find a match."
"Right," I take the PADD with the relevant information and nearly fly out of the Infirmary. I'm half way to the Delta Flyer before I realize that that annoying little toad, Jessup, is on my heels.
"What do you want?" I ask him.
"I thought I'd help out."
We pause long enough to nod at Tuvok, who walks past us briskly with the medkit from the Delta Flyer over his shoulder.
"Help out?" I ask, clenching my teeth. "What do you mean?"
"B'Elanna means a lot to me. If there is anything I can do for her-"
"Haven't you done enough?" I query.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You left her there. Maybe if you hadn't taken so long-"
"I explained that! I intended to go right back, but I-" he pauses. "I- I didn't realize. I stopped to help the others move some equipment-"
"You knew B'Elanna was hurt and you still took your time?" I'm nearly yelling at this point. I resume walking and head towards the Delta Flyer. Once inside, I bump my head on the low ceiling and I curse colorfully. Not for the first time, I make a mental note to raise the ceiling height in my next shuttle design. I slide into the chair previously occupied by the captain, swivel around, and adjust the knobs on the side to compensate for my greater height.
"You're right, Tom."
"Damn! You're still here?" I don't turn around as I punch the buttons on the console. The Delta Flyer's medical database is not as comprehensive as Voyager's, due to the small storage capacity, but the information is useful and the Doctor does his best to keep it updated.
Jessup, uninvited, slips into the pilot's seat. He turns around so he is facing me.
"You don't deserve her," he says.
"That's your opinion."
"You were a rotten excuse of a Maquis; my opinion of you as a person is even less complimentary."
"Believe me," I laugh. "I've been insulted by others in higher positions with much more flair. I'm sorry you don't think I deserve B'Elanna and maybe I don't, but it's really none of your business, is it?"
"I care about her."
"So do I."
"You have a funny way of showing it."
"And on what basis are you drawing that conclusion? Aw hell, you know what? I don't owe you any explanations," I tell him. "I'm not having this conversation with you."
I watch the small monitor as it runs through the comparison algorithms. The search is relatively slow, but then time is all a matter of perspective. When you're defending the galaxy against the machinations of cybernetic creatures, a few hours seemingly melt into minutes. Of course, then there's the brig; believe me, thirty days in that insanity-inducing chamber feels longer than our entire stint in the Delta Quadrant.
Hovering over B'Elanna, like I've done so many times, now that's a lifetime of waiting right there. Waiting for her wounds to heal, waiting for those brown eyes to open and waiting for those full lips to turn up into that smile reserved especially for me.
"You want to explain what happened when you betrayed us?" Jessup asks.
I look at him in annoyance and surprise, completely amazed that he has yet to stop talking. There's nothing worse than someone continuing a conversation you don't particularly want to have.
Especially when the other person tosses around scary words like "betrayed."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I ask lightly.
"I'm calling it what it is," Jessup says. "It was a betrayal, clear and simple. Why did you even join up if you were going to surrender at the first opportunity?"
"What is this? A trial? I didn't do anything wrong."
"We trusted you."
"Ha! You never trusted me, none of you," I tell him. "Maybe Chakotay, but only on a good day after a few raktajinos. The rest of you hated me, so don't try to pretend my time in the Maquis was fuzzy and warm."
"You volunteered for a mission and we trusted you to fulfill that mission," Jessup presses on doggedly.
"I carried out the mission." I sigh and punch a few keys. A data appears on my small viewscreen.
"You didn't come back."
"I was captured. I bet no one told you that," I say. "Starfleet. The way I saw it, Herid, I had a choice. I could either let us get captured or we could all die. Do you understand now? I surrendered willingly so that the mission would not be jeopardized."
"Coward."
"Hardly. I saved your comrades' lives. Apparently, they didn't think much of the gesture, since I seem to still have this stain on my reputation. I'm glad to know that my time in Auckland really did mean something."
"Your father didn't help you out of that mess? I'm sure he could have saved you from the penal colony if you were worth saving."
I take a deep breath. Low blow indeed. No, my father did not help. In fact, I'm sure he read of my arrest with thin-lipped silence and not once did he visit or send me a message. I'm sure if my father had had his way, he would have erased Thomas Eugene Paris from the family tree neatly printed on parchment and framed in his office.
In a way, I was glad for his distance; I wouldn't have known what to say if he had come. Though, there have been times when I have wondered - wondered if just one visit from him could have made all of the difference in our relationship.
There's no point dwelling on questions when you know the answers you desperately seek are no longer available.
"No," I say very quietly just as the console beeps at me, signaling completion. "Here's everything we have about the Ghasa virus."
Jessup's face is very pale as he leans over my shoulder to read the console.
"Damn," he says in a low voice. "You think this is what B'Elanna has?"
"Looks like it," I say. "Back... back when I was in the Maquis, there was a Bolian who died, right? She had symptoms just like B'Elanna does now."
"Janie," Jessup nods. "She was the first one. Others got sick, but we managed to get them medical treatment, so they were okay."
"Did you suspect that B'Elanna had Ghasa?"
"No," Jessup says. "I had no reason to suspect it. They told us that they had eradicated it."
"Who?"
"The Federation. When they told us that they were resettling us here, we asked specifically about Ghasa because that's the reason why we abandoned this as a base of operations in '71." Jessup gets out of his chair, nearly tripping over the slight step. "They told us that the virus had been eliminated and we didn't have to worry about it."
"They were wrong," I say grimly. I get up. "Either that, or the Federation lied. I'd like to believe the former, but current events lead me to believe that it's probably the latter. We better go; gotta get this information to the Doctor."
I brush past Jessup, and then, as I step out into the chill of the afternoon air, I turn to look back at the Ktarian. His rigid posture would make a dance teacher proud.
"Hey!" I call. "You coming?"
"Yeah."
He falls into step next to me.
"How long have you been here?" I ask. A feeble attempt at small talk, but it's better than walking in shoulder-to-shoulder silence. Plus, it's also a chance to make sort of friends with a guy who is still in love with my wife. At the very least, I can figure out what his dastardly motives are. One thing's for sure: I'm not letting him out of my range of vision.
"Two, three years. Somewhere in there."
"A long time."
"Yes."
"No cases of the virus before B'Elanna?"
"No, but then we never really had cause to leave the settlement," Jessup says. He shivers slightly and bows his head against the increasingly sharp wind. "Sure, we'd venture out a bit, but mostly we stayed within the boundaries."
"But you never questioned the Federation authorities?"
"How? We asked certain things and they gave us answers. How were we to know that they were lying to us?"
"That's your problem," I tell him as we mount the stairs to the Infirmary. "You're too trusting."
"Well, you've got the opposite problem," Jessup shoots back. "You don't trust anyone."
I narrow my eyes at him and for a split second, I feel a primal need to lunge at the man, grab him by the throat and squeeze. The Doctor intercedes, effectively placing himself between my violent tendencies and Herid Jessup.
"Ghasa," I say. "Everything you need to know is on the data PADD."
"Ah, I am familiar with that virus," the Doctor says. "In fact, according to the database, the
disease has a sixty percent mortality-"
"Doctor," I say, grabbing his arm anxiously. "Look at B'Elanna."
I point. B'Elanna's veins, blue and raised, are visible beneath her now largely translucent skin.
"The first symptom of death," Jessup mutters. "Before the bleeding..."
I whirl on him.
"Shut up!" I exclaim. "Just shut up."
"She's going to die," Jessup says morbidly, his eyes fixed on B'Elanna. "We must face it."
"No need to plan the funeral so fast, Mr. Jessup. I can stabilize her," the Doctor says quickly.
He moves to B'Elanna's side. "Mr. Paris, please, get me the hypospray - yes, that's the one. Thank you."
I cross the room to hand the Doctor the hypospray and my fingers brush B'Elanna's cheek lightly; her skin burns me. I lean down and whisper into her ear, "You can't die on me, B'Elanna. Not now."
I straighten up and look over at Jessup whose resigned facial expression makes me want to punch him. And then I notice his quivering lower lip and even though I don't want to, I feel sorry for the guy.
I look back at the Doctor and it bothers me that he isn't humming, something he does every time he works on a patient. I swallow hard.
"Can you help her?" I ask softly. The Doctor does not look up and for a moment, I think he didn't hear me and then I realize the truth; he doesn't know.
~ end part III ~
****
Anticipation kills me.
Literally.
Watching Chakotay fumble for words and wondering exactly what he will say has me on edge. He is right - that much I have to admit. I am taking a gamble, hoping that his information will somehow provide the "out" my people need.
Yes, despite what Chakotay says, I still don't see the distinction. I don't see Maquis and I don't see Starfleet; I see Voyager's crew. Janus-faced we are, true, but we couldn't have survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant without each other.
"Chakotay?" I ask very softly. He doesn't look up. Somehow, the lines on his palms are
infinitely more interesting to him. In a way, his silence reminds me of that second just before your stomach leaps right into your throat - that rush of excitement and fear that precedes a plunge from heights.
My sister - she hated those rides at the carnival; she would hold onto the safety bar, white-knuckled, her eyes closed tight. On the other hand, I loved every moment. Loved that free fall, and then that slight tickle of a laugh that bubbled up when I realized I had survived something death defying. Or maybe that was my own misguided sense of immortality; when you're young, you're allowed to think you can fall forever.
But of course, the adult in me has a very different sense and it's one that Chakotay is driving home in a way that I had never thought.
If I fall now, there won't be a safety net. There won't be a red-faced, heavy-set ride operator smiling gap-toothed at me while I walk away drunkenly.
"You never saw the destruction," Chakotay says very quietly. "You never saw the death."
"I know."
"You don't know what it's like to see your family dragged from their home and their land, screaming."
"You're right, I don't."
"When the offer came, we took it," Chakotay glances at me. His expression is serious, his tone pensive. "I didn't think myself capable of violent anger, Kathryn. I always prided myself on equanimity. You know I don't always think violence is the way out."
"But you do - you have been violent."
"I changed the day my father was murdered."
Chakotay lowers his eyes and suddenly, there is a spot on the wall directly above his head that is unbelievably fascinating to me.
"Then the Cardassians arrived. I don't know how many there were, but we were certainly out-numbered. I think even at that time, we still thought the Federation would come to our aid. We were horribly misguided."
"You knew the terms of the treaty."
"Theoretically, yes. Practically, no. It's one thing to understand a particular edict, Kathryn; it's a completely different matter when you live it."
"Like a mirror," I say with a bit of feeling. "You know, the ones that distort you? Until you step away, you don't realize that you aren't ten meters tall."
Chakotay looks at me blankly.
"Haven't you been to a traveling carnival, Chakotay?" I ask.
He shrugs, "No."
Silence again. Slightly uncomfortable, but necessary. I clear my throat.
"Go on."
"You fight a long time for something you believe in, something that you think you can win, and all that's left is a field, once alive with crops, and you are there, cradling your father's body. He didn't want to be saved. I'm sure if we had tried, we could have saved him, but he said no. He said no."
Chakotay takes a deep breath and stands up. He stretches and then walks to the far wall, the only one with a window.
"I don't blame him, Kathryn. I think, if our positions had been reversed, I would have done the same. You can only fight for so long."
"I don't understand. When was this deal made? Before your father's death?"
"Yes."
"Were you there?"
Silence again and then a slight nod.
"Yes."
"Who else?"
"Michael Eddington, among others. Don't know if you've heard of him. I brought B'Elanna along because I didn't want anything to happen to the ship that would prevent us from making the meeting, but she never attended any of the negotiations."
"Did you talk about what went on with her?"
"Just vaguely," Chakotay says. "She asked a few questions, I answered them, but you have to understand. In the Maquis, we didn't ask because knowing too much put the entire cell in danger."
"So I hear," I say. "Resistance Cell Dynamics with Professor Glendale. Sounds like a physics class, actually."
"You took that class too?"
"An easy elective," I smile wryly. "I planned to apply some of the philosophy Glendale taught when I went after your ship."
"Too bad all of that book learning went to waste."
"Indeed," I say. "Who were the others, Chakotay? Who else was involved in the negotiations?"
"No one who is alive now and no one has heard from Ro Laren in years," Chakotay says. I look at him in surprise at the mention of Ro Laren who was the first Starfleet officer to openly defect to the Maquis. I assumed, like everyone else, that Ro was dead, but Chakotay apparently believes otherwise.
"Ro is still out there?" I ask. Chakotay shrugs.
"She wasn't with Eddington during that last battle and Starfleet never caught her," Chakotay chuckles. "Ro always knew how to run circles around Starfleet. It's a trait that made her a good asset to the cause. I wouldn't be surprised if she was simply out there, lurking, waiting for the right moment to expose the real traitors."
The way he stresses this last word, 'traitors,' irks me greatly.
"With whom did you make the deal?" I demand.
"Does it matter?"
"Why do you keep saying that? Of course it matters!"
"I did most of the negotiating," Chakotay says. "But Eddington was the driving force behind the talks. He arranged the talks, you know. Set them up, and then during the breaks, he would drill me and then coach me on what to say next. He was still wearing a Starfleet uniform then."
"Did Starfleet know about Eddington's involvement?"
"No, no," Chakotay shakes his head. "They had no idea."
"Who are `they'?"
Chakotay shifts in his chair.
"McArthur?" I ask very softly. "Was it Rodney McArthur?"
"No," Chakotay offers a grin. "He was the only one who wasn't there."
"But he knew."
"Yes, of course."
"I've known the Admiral a long time. He's a good man, Chakotay."
"I knew you'd say that. That's the inherent problem with perception. We allow people to see only those facets we want them to see. But it wasn't McArthur. It would have been so easy. I knew McArthur's son, John, at the Academy. We're the same age, took many of the same classes. I saw John only once after we graduated. He died three days later."
"Died?"
"An unfortunate scuffle."
"Scuffle?"
"Yes."
"Maquis related?"
"Yes," Chakotay says. "He crashed a shuttle while inebriated. He was badly injured. That's when I found him. We brought him back to camp, gave him medical treatment. He hadn't been gone even a day before he called in the Federation on us. That's gratitude, isn't it? We save his life and he turns us into the authorities. We had warning though. Ayala followed him. So when they came, we were ready. It was... unfortunate."
"I see."
The pieces are falling together slowly. I see a clear picture of Admiral McArthur grieving over his only son. I see the murderer - Chakotay - emerge from the depths of the Delta Quadrant and here, finally, is the chance for revenge - the chance to avenge a death.
"Who?" my voice is sharp and impatient. "Chakotay, who were they?"
He chuckles.
"Don't you hate it when the mirror shatters, Kathryn?"
"You're scaring me."
"No," he says. "I'm just telling you what was - is. I'm not entirely convinced that McArthur is behind this, but it's a definite possibility. He certainly had the means to engineer the destruction of a starbase and he had the motive. John McArthur was one of many who died for a variety of reasons and by the law, we should stand trial for that death and the others. But you know, in those long hours of questioning, Admiral McArthur never asked about what happened to John. It was almost as if it didn't matter."
"Because he knew you would not leave the starbase alive."
"Maybe," Chakotay says. "But I don't think that's the reason."
"What do you mean?" I lean forward. "You just said McArthur was a possible suspect."
Chakotay shrugs and then picks up a rock - the one and only useless object in this otherwise utilitarian setting.
"Aren't you going to tell me?" I ask.
"I think he didn't ask because he knew in the end that it didn't matter," Chakotay says. "If you have high-ranking Federation officials afraid of a group of terrorists for any reason and know that those people are going to do anything to prevent certain facts from coming out, then the details don't matter. I got the feeling that Admiral McArthur was stalling. He was waiting for someone or something."
Chakotay turns the rock over in his hands, examining it closely. He holds it up to me.
"See this? It's metamorphic," he says. "Note the granoblastic texture."
I take the rock from him. There is nothing extraordinary about this rock, nothing at all. I put it down as Chakotay returns to his seat.
"I didn't know you liked rocks," I tell him.
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
Sometimes Chakotay makes me feel very small. I'd compliment him on that ability, but I hate it when he cuts me down like that. So I do what I always do when he makes a pointed comment I dislike: I change the subject.
"Chakotay?" I ask softly. "Who do you think McArthur waiting for?"
My former first officer looks at me in surprise, almost as if he didn't realize that he hadn't answered my question.
"Admiral Paris."
~ end part IV ~
****
You don't ever think about how your day is going to play out when you first kick off the covers in the morning. Of course there are scheduled events - a meeting here, a lunch date there, and of course, that "things to do before I die" list - but you don't really ever know how your day will end up.
If I had known, I would have never gotten out of bed to face what is rapidly becoming the longest day of my life.
I didn't think it possible for an hour to contain more than sixty minutes.
Didn't think it possible for there to be more than sixty seconds in each one of those damn minutes.
Back when B'Elanna and I were floating out there in space, now that felt like a long time. When B'Elanna decided to move on over to the Borg cube, time literally stretched out until it frayed at the edges.
The Doctor moves mechanically, and he never - not once - makes eye contact. He does not sing as he often does to pass time, and he rarely says anything more than, "Mr. Paris, pass the hypospray" or "Mr. Paris, I need ten milligrams of such and such drug."
Tuvok, never a great conversationalist, stands with exceedingly proud posture against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his gaze leveled on Jessup, who stares back at us angrily.
Occasionally, the Ktarian's eyes drift to B'Elanna and his expression softens.
The one saving grace is that all of us - Tuvok, Jessup and I - have been inoculated from the virus, thanks to the Doctor's quick work. At least I know I won't die a blithering, blood mass, though I suppose there are more humiliating ways to say good-bye to life.
"Tom," Jessup's voice is low. I eye him and the Doctor nods at me. I let go of B'Elanna's hand and walk over to Jessup.
"What?" I ask.
"Is she going to be all right?"
"The Doctor thinks so."
"That's good."
"I didn't mean to leave her."
"I understand. It's okay."
"No, it's not."
"You didn't know."
"Maybe I did," he says.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that maybe I did know."
"What are you saying?" my voice is very low.
Jessup runs a hand through his hand.
"You left her on purpose? Did you infect her?" I ask in my most dangerous voice.
Silence.
Tuvok hovers over us, casting a lithe shadow over us. In the background, the Doctor hums "Someone To Watch Over Me" - his tune of preference when tending to the sick.
"No," Jessup laughs. "I would never hurt B'Elanna. God, I love her."
I pretend not to hear this last confession of Jessup's and ignore the bile accumulating in my mostly empty stomach. So what if he loves B'Elanna? I'm the one she married, right? Of course, in the Delta Quadrant, the options open to B'Elanna Torres were limited, but still... possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?
"Then...?" I ask as calmly as I can. "What are you saying?"
"When that insect bit her, I should have paid more attention," Jessup says. "I've seen the
symptoms before. Damn, I watched Janie die and I should've known. Should have known."
Tuvok relaxes. No potential murder suspect here. In a way it's disappointing; I'd love to hang Jessup up by his underwear and plant my fists squarely in his gut.
"It's not your fault," I respond, a bit more nicely than I would have liked to. In truth, I really do want to throttle this man who left B'Elanna out there in the woods. It would be nice to have a go at him right here, but of course, that would disturb the Doctor's efforts to cure B'Elanna. In the interest of selfishness, I hold back.
"When we found her, I thought I would be the one to save her," Jessup goes on. His eyes are glassy and I note that his skin is flushed. "And she would be grateful... so grateful. So, maybe that's why I was late. Because I thought she would appreciate me, and be so grateful-"
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about. You and B'Elanna. She doesn't deserve you."
"We're talking about this again? You really do have a one-track mind. You might as well come out and say what you want to say since you obviously can't move on from this subject. So go on, explain yourself."
"She needs someone who can support her, who can see her for the complex individual she is. She needs someone honorable."
Okay, now that hurt, damn it. You can badmouth my DNA all you'd like and hell, I'd join you in that particular sport since I'm so good at it myself, but question my honor? Now I'm mad
I lunge at Jessup, my fist making much needed contact with the tender skin of his cheek.
"Lieutenant!" Tuvok grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me off of Jessup. I note with satisfaction that the former Maquis fighter strokes his cheek gingerly.
"You haven't changed," Jessup says bitterly. "You still use your fists to communicate."
"Only when provoked," I say evenly as I shrug off Tuvok's grip. Jessup struggles to his feet and with some small measure of glee, I notice that his breathing is labored.
"I don't suppose you ever cared what happened to us after your little joyride!" Jessup yells.
"Gentlemen, quiet!" the Doctor roars.
"I saved lives! If I hadn't surrendered, we would have been killed!" I yelled back.
"If you had been true to the cause, you would not have surrendered. B'Elanna, Chakotay, Seska, Suder, me - none of us would have surrendered. We would have rather died!"
"Forgive me for wanting to live! I've never had a death wish! Never. I didn't join the Maquis to end up dead and forgotten."
"So then I was right all along. You joined because you wanted to drink and women -"
"Yes and the Maquis would be the ideal place for that," I scoff. "Don't be ridiculous."
Jessup's voice was very soft, "I watched you, Paris. Did you sleep with every woman in the Maquis?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Does B'Elanna know?"
"She knows I've made mistakes in the past. She knows there have been women."
"Does she know how many?"
"It's not important."
"Does she know that sometimes you didn't even know the names of the women you slept with?"
"B'Elanna knows what she needs to know. She can ask me anything and I won't lie to her."
"You're despicable."
"I'm not the same man you knew ten years ago."
"Ha!" Jessup flails his arms as he takes a step towards me. Tuvok holds onto my arm.
"Calm, Lieutenant," Tuvok says.
I shrug Tuvok's arm off and duck as Jessup's fist narrowly misses my cheek. Tuvok immediately puts himself between the two of us, obviously miffed that he did not react fast enough to prevent Jessup's actions.
"Look, whatever happened, it happened almost ten years ago," I say. "Let's put it behind us, all right?"
"Do you know my sister died because you surrendered?" Jessup asks. I look at him in surprise; I didn't even know the bastard had a sister.
"That's right, Tom," Jessup goes on. "You were supposed to rescue a group of colonists from Arcady. You remember this, right?"
"Of course I do. How could I forget the only mission I ever ran for the Maquis?"
The memory itself, however, is faded. I remember a planet, its scars visible from space. I remember the desperate calls for help and then, the Federation vessels narrowing on us. For the first few nights in Auckland, I replayed that scenario - reviewed every detail in my mind - before assuaging my conscience with the salve that yes, I had done right this time. For once in my stupid, goddamned life, I had done the right thing.
I had been unselfish and for once in my life, I hadn't attempted one of the million daredevil scenarios playing through my head.
In those moments before I surrendered, I remembered Caldik Prime. Thought of the dead as the Federation pounded us with their superior fire power, and I remembered the mothers and their quivering lips and red-rimmed eyes.
And I realized, as I contemplated my small crew of five, that I didn't want to add to the body count already to my credit.
So, I opened the hailing frequencies without asking anyone and got an admiral - Gil Atherton, I think his name was - who evidently had been in Starfleet since the creation of time, his skin leathery and his eyes bloodshot.
I knew him from the haughty soirees my parents held once a month. The top brass would swarm en masse into our house, descending upon the hearth of the Paris family with their loud, abrasive voices and commanding statures; each talked louder and more quickly than his predecessor. During these elegant parties, my mother would swoop in and out of the crowd, her voice unnaturally high-pitched and her eyes glittering with excitement; I often wondered if my father realized that my mother injected herself with an antidepressant prior to these little gatherings. So my mother, perfect in black dress and white pearls, blond hair neatly pulled back from her face and arranged perfectly, would dance attendance on these Starfleet officers, taking compliments on home and cooking graciously.
And then would come the command to bring out the Paris progeny. We - my two sisters and I - would troop out freshly scrubbed and heaven forbid if there be even a crease in our clothing - and we would smile brightly for the admiration of all and the honor of our father. Our father would present us each in turn, giving each officer the opportunity to pinch our cheeks and wonder at our futures in Starfleet.
"Of course the Paris family has had a long, distinguished service record," my father would invariably say. "There is no reason for that to change now, is there?"
Everyone would smile, my father would beam and my mother's eyes grew brighter; as for us, we would be brilliant, brief and gone, slipping away and hiding in the darkest corners of the garden, hoping that the dirt clinging to our shoes would not give us away.
"Tom Paris," Admiral Atherton said in his clipped voice full of Federation authority.
"I surrender," I said very clearly. "We surrender."
And I did not look at the stunned expressions around me; obviously, they didn't mind dying for a cause. I did mind. Dying, that is.
"Your father will be disappointed," Atherton said.
"Did you hear me? We surrender."
"I can't believe this," Atherton said. He shook his head, looked properly mournful, and then looked back at me. "Very well. I accept your surrender."
Starfleet beamed us off of the smoldering wreck of our ship, and while we watched, they tossed a couple of torpedoes at it for good measure. I shrugged off the destruction of the Maquis ship the same way I shrugged off everything else. Another milestone marking yet another failure for Tom Paris. It seemed to me that I was doomed to inconsequentiality - a crime for a Paris.
Atherton, probably out of loyalty to my father, called me into his Ready Room before depositing me unceremoniously in the brig with the rest of the Maquis.
"So this is where you turned up," Atherton began.
"Yes, sir."
"With the Maquis."
"It would seem so."
"Your father did not raise his son to turn traitor on all that the Federation holds dear."
"What my father did or did not do is not relevant," I answered evenly.
"Shame on you," Atherton rose, drawing himself out to his full height. "Your father is a splendid man, a shining example of what a Starfleet officer ought to be. You do him dishonor with your actions. You do realize that you will never have a career in Starfleet now, don't you?"
I looked squarely at Atherton and nodded.
"I never wanted one," I told him. "I... I wanted-"
And then I stopped, unable to complete the sentence. Atherton stared at me.
"Tom?" he asked.
I shrugged.
"You're right," I said. "I'm an utter failure. I have ruined the Paris name." I was pandering now, but Atherton soaked it all up; doubtless he would run to my father and tell him about the humbling of one cocky Tom Paris. Maybe, my father would be pleased with my admissions. Maybe he wouldn't care.
"That's all?" Atherton asked.
"Isn't that enough?"
I remember standing there in Atherton's Ready Room very clearly. That particular moment in my life strings itself along with all of the other moments of dismal failure. For once, just once, I'd like to be acknowledged for doing the right thing. Just once.
And evidently, this surrender of mine won't register as a credit for Tom Paris.
As I look at Herid Jessup, I'm amazed that his lips are still moving; thankfully, I barely hear the words dripping from his lips. B'Elanna has accused me in the past of not listening, of drifting away when she is telling me something of the utmost importance; I see now what she means. With difficulty, I bring myself back to the present to focus on what Jessup says.
"Are you listening?" Jessup is evidently furious with me.
"Yeah, yes, of course."
"You never did evaluate the consequences of your actions-"
"I went to Auckland, isn't that enough? Have you ever been to Auckland? Damn uncomfortable place. You complain about the one blanket in the Maquis, we didn't even get one in the prison camp."
"There you go again, feeling sorry for yourself," Jessup shoots back. "Did you ever think what happened because you surrendered?"
"No," I tell him. "Are you happy now? I didn't think about it. So what?"
"Well, because you surrendered, they never got off the planet. In fact, the Cardassians moved in the very next day. The colonists fought, Tom. They fought for their homes, their land, and for their lives. I managed to go there a few days later and their blood still stained the soil."
"I didn't know!" I yell at him. "How could I know what would happen? I had to make a decision and I made one."
"You took the easy way out!"
"No, I did not!"
"Gentlemen!" the Doctor's voice is loud behind us. "If you might be so kind to remember, I do have a patient."
We go quiet, but we still glare at each other with suspicion. Jessup is the first to blink, but
I extend my hand.
"We don't have to like each other," I tell him. "In fact, go right on hating me and that's quite all right with me. I'm sorry about your sister. I didn't know. But right now, I don't have enough in me to care. I should, but I don't. I'd like to let the past be the past. I've changed and I'm tired of having to prove that to everyone. So, you do what you like; I don't want to fight anymore."
Jessup shrugs, "You're still a despicable pig."
I smile at him; he doesn't deliver the insult with same flair as B'Elanna.
"I'll take that as a compliment," I say.
~ end part V ~
*****
Chakotay has a way of understating the shocking, of delivering the most stunning, heart-stopping gut-wrenching news in a calm, unruffled manner; he might as well be spinning parables around a campfire for all of the emotion he displays now.
I, on the other hand, well, I'm sure Chakotay's going to have to peel me right off the floor and carry me out of here.
I remain seated, stunned into a silence that I cannot quite break out of.
Chakotay says nothing because he understands what it's like to have a trust violated.
The man I knew - Owen Paris - apparently was nothing like the man he projected himself to be.
The man I admired, he was another a projection, if you will - of what the ideal Starfleet officer should be like.
Truth be told, I fall easily.
It had taken all of my courage to request Admiral Paris to serve as my advisor for my honors thesis back in the Academy; I had taken on the massive compact halo objects as my topic and I needed someone who could steer me through it.
Paris had done that and more, and the day I presented my thesis to the Committee, he sat in the front row.
After graduation, Paris approached me with an offer.
"You'll be the junior science officer," he said. "It's the Arias mission. Consider this a great opportunity to put your theory in practice."
And of course, I had accepted; I would have been foolish to do otherwise.
I would wake each morning, and compose myself into a stellar example of what a Starfleet officer ought to be, just so I could catch his eye. Once, he noted me observing him, and he beckoned me to come near.
"You look pensive. What are you thinking about?"
"Thinking about this mission and when we're going to have a chance to observe spatial phenomena in action."
"That fascinates you?"
"On a primitive level. I like the idea of something bigger, more dynamic, and of course, maybe have an opportunity to witness the very forces which formed our universe."
"It's good to see you have a passion for something," the Admiral told me. "Perhaps- I wish that the enthusiasm you showed, I wish it manifested itself - well, it's not prevalent in the younger generation."
"That, sir, if I may be candid..."
"Of course, Kathryn."
"That, sir, is a matter of perspective."
"Discipline. That's what it takes."
"I understand."
Paris looked at me, the slightest hint of a smile stretching his thin, pale pink lips.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked.
"I try not to be, no, sir," I told him.
"You don't have to lie, Ensign."
"I know," I said. "It's honor to serve on your ship."
"If it were not an honor, would you say so?"
"Probably not, no, sir."
"That's what I thought," he sighed. "Why don't people tell me the truth? Tell me, Ensign, why you watch me so closely."
I didn't have an easy answer. Remember that I was still young, rather naive, and I had yet to develop the ability to think quickly and diplomatically. Paris saved me from answering by laughing and grasping my shoulder with his large hand.
"Are you interested in command?" he asked seriously.
"It would be a future goal of mine, yes."
"Then watch and learn." Those Paris blue eyes twinkled at me. "Command isn't as easy as it seems, Ensign. It's an art. You must appear to be infallible, flawless, and never should you show a moment of indecision. You should be willing to call a bluff when necessary and you should be prepared to lie and lie well. They call it diplomacy, but we'll call it what it is, Lieutenant. You must be conniving, deceitful, but you must also be fair and just. You must adhere to doctrines of Starfleet, yet you must be able to see the shades of gray when the rule of law is not clear. You must make everyone happy but also be prepared to disappoint everyone - all at the same time. You must be willing to kill, as you are to heal and protect. You must make sacrifices and forgo indulgences for the greater good. Are you still interested, Kathryn?"
"Put that way, sir, it hardly sounds satisfying."
"Ah, but that's where you're mistaken," the Captain nodded at passing crewmen. "There's nothing in my life that could afford me greater pleasure or satisfaction than this career. One day, you'll understand, Ensign. One day."
"I hope so, sir."
From that day on, Paris would notice me and call me to his side, asking me a variety of questions. Quizzes on various Starfleet procedures turned into long hours on the Bridge training and later, into private sessions with the Captain himself on the fine art of command, as he so liked to bill his one-hour lectures.
It was in one of these private meetings that I learnt that this so-called science expedition was really a spy mission and I had been woefully deceived; there would be no exploration of the natural forces for me. Rather, we were on a reconnaissance mission to gather information about Cardassian military operations and troops. Even in my disappointment, I found it difficult to despise Admiral Paris for not being entirely honest with me then.
When I finally left the Paris' tutelage, he looked at me pensively.
"You'll make a fine captain," he said.
"I had a good teacher."
"If I were a terrible teacher, would you say otherwise?"
And because I knew how Owen Paris wanted this question answered and with my newly discovered confidence backing me up, I nodded.
"Yes, sir, I would."
"Good," Paris said approvingly. "Then I have done my job and done it well."
And even during my short shoreleaves, I would drop in on Paris, let him know how I was doing, and in the darkest corners of the Delta Quadrant, when it seemed like we would perish out there,
I would wonder what Paris would do in the same situations.
I see now that I was painfully deceived.
That spy mission, that was simply a symptom of the untruths and deceptions he would spin later. Yet, we all believed. We all admired. And Owen Paris, he accepted our adulation and gave us grave, ponderous words of wisdom. So the charade, this charming facade of an upstanding officer, continued.
He did it with mirrors.
Those damn mirrors.
Hell, I look at myself every morning and try not to see the insane Kathryn Janeway who periodically took control. I stare at my reflection and try to compose myself into a calm, articulate, commanding leader. Several deep breaths, shoulders thrust back, a lift of the chin and voila, I am the Captain, the embodiment of all things Starfleet and Federation. I recite the Prime Directive on my knees with my hands clasped, my eyes closed in serene meditation. I confess regularly for violating that divine mantra and I hope that in the high holy place that is Starfleet Headquarters, forgiveness is forthcoming.
I'm a traitor to my own religion.
Chakotay reminds me of this frequently.
What the hell, he's the reason for my conversion.
He looks at me with those dark eyes and immediately, I find myself thinking those thoughts that no Starfleet-fearing Captain ought to be thinking.
Downright sinful, if you ask me.
I'm sure there is a special place in hell for people like me. If I look to that ancient philosopher, Dante, for his interpretation, I would hover somewhere in the first few circles - where reason cannot govern the most natural of instincts. As for Admiral Paris, well, he earns himself a front row seat in the eighth circle of hell, his soul forever encased by flame.
I suppose then, that it's fitting, that Admiral self-immolated himself in the eerily beautiful explosion of a starbase.
But why he saved the Maquis, now that's a question I can't answer. Then again, not all questions have answers and some things are better left unknown and open to speculation.
"Kathryn?"
"I'm thinking."
"I know. You get that little crease right between your eyes," Chakotay says.
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"No one ever asked."
"So, if I understood you properly, Admiral Paris was the one who engineered this scheme."
"He was one of the main players, yes."
I sigh. A dull ache begins in my right temple and I know that before long, this pain will settle itself comfortably behind my eyes, not to be evicted until somehow, I can make my way to the first aid kit on the Delta Flyer.
"There's a certain irony in knowing the truth, isn't there, Kathryn? After all we went through?"
"Things aren't as they seem," I say dully.
"I'm sorry."
"I know," I sigh. "I suppose it was... quixotic, wasn't it? Idealistic, even?"
"There is nothing wrong with a belief system, Kathryn. You need to understand that some will subjugate that system even as they insist that they are the upholders of that particular creed."
"My fatal flaw, right?"
"It's not so bad to take people at face value."
"I can't believe I was deceived and so easily..."
"I think the Admiral Paris you knew and the one I knew, those were two different men at different periods in time. In retrospect, his reputation as an outstanding Starfleet officer should not be in doubt."
"He broke the law."
"Yes."
"He betrayed confidences."
"Yes."
"And he and McArthur, they wanted the Maquis out of the way, so the truth wouldn't be revealed."
"That's how I see it, yes."
I mull over the information and slowly the scenario of what must have happened plays out in my mind. Voyager nears the Alpha Quadrant and those Starfleet officers involved in the scheme panic. Someone must do something. So Voyager is sent to a decrepit, out of the way starbase. Admiral Paris, delayed on his way out from San Francisco, gives McArthur orders to delay us however he can. McArthur runs through a farcical, half-hearted interrogation, but even he is not entirely sure of what is planned.
"Why would Paris secretly order your evacuation? It seems to me that he went through a lot of trouble to cover his tracks," I ask. "Why didn't he just order you to Alonius Prime?"
Chakotay shrugs.
"I don't know," he says. "It could be that he wanted to conduct a real trial, but because of the explosion, he couldn't carry out those plans."
I ponder this suggestion, but even that seems out of character for Owen Paris.
"If he was afraid of you talking, what about the others?" I ask.
"What?"
"Didn't all of the Maquis know?" I ask. "What about those Maquis who have been exiled here for years?"
Chakotay shakes his head.
"We never came out and said who was involved," he says. "The deal fell through almost immediately. The first raid they didn't show, we knew we couldn't count on Starfleet for protection. It occurred to us that maybe we could cause a stir back in San Francisco if we revealed names, but by then, we were in the thick of the battle. They were hunting us down and petty grievances -"
"These weren't petty grievances," I tell Chakotay. "What did you give them?"
"Everything," Chakotay offers me a sad smile. "You know, I don't have a home to go back to. My family owned that land for years and now, well, I exchanged it for protection. I suppose Admiral Paris knows who owns it now."
"Or did," I say grimly.
"What do you mean?"
"Owen Paris is dead. He died in the explosion."
Chakotay chuckles. I look at him in surprise; my former first officer is not one to exhibit inappropriate emotion.
"That's one way to clear a conscience," Chakotay says. "And it makes me wonder, yes, I wonder..."
"Wonder what?"
But on this question, Chakotay is strangely silent; his eyes take on a faraway look. After a few minutes, he rouses himself.
"You must be hungry," he says.
"Actually, I'd like to talk about returning to Voyager."
"Food first," he says.
I recognize a challenge when one is thrown down. I nod.
"Food then."
*****
"Hi."
B'Elanna's voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it's enough to startle me right out of my seat. She looks at me sleepily, her eyes barely open. I grab her hand.
"You came," she says.
"Of course."
I brush her hair away from her face. Her skin is still warm and slightly damp. She offers me a smile, the one that always hits me physically in the stomach.
"How do you feel?" I ask. I look around for a tricorder and spot one on a low shelf. I grab it and come back to B'Elanna. "According to this, you're on the road to recovery."
"That's good news." B'Elanna squints at me. "You look tired, Tom. Did you spend the entire night in that chair?"
"Pretty much," I smile. "Your friend Herid offered me a spot on his sofa for the night, but I have a hearty sense of self-preservation."
"He wouldn't have hurt you."
"Your friends still hate me, B'Elanna. I have the bruises to prove it."
B'Elanna struggles to sit up, and winces at the exertion. I help her, placing my arm directly behind her shoulders.
"You fought with him?"
"A little fight. Over you," I grin at her.
"Over me?" she laughs. "No, really. What did you fight about?"
"It's not important, B'Elanna. We've agreed to avoid each other at all costs."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. You didn't answer my question. How do you feel?"
"You're changing the subject again."
"So are you."
"I didn't think I was alive," B'Elanna confesses. "I was there. In gre'thor."
"That's what the Doctor speculated."
"Is the Doctor here?"
"Yes, but he's off-line right now."
B'Elanna lifts her arm and cautiously moves her fingers.
"You may have some stiffness," I tell her. "We weren't sure if you'd get full mobility back."
She nods as she stares at her fingers.
"Hey," I say softly. "In no time at all, you'll be puttering about again. It'll just take some time."
"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna says. She stares over my shoulder. "How long have you been here?"
"Just a day. Seems longer than that, though."
"You were there."
"Where?"
"In my... in gre'thor with me. You had planned a honeymoon. You wanted to go to Chicago, that's what you planned, and at the last moment, you changed your mind and we were going to go to a beach instead. A real beach."
"That sounds nice."
"And then you left. I - I reached out for you, but you vanished." B'Elanna bites her lip and she fumbles around on the biobed with her stiff arm.
"Hey there, careful," I say. "Tell me what you want, B'Elanna."
"I didn't know," she goes on, almost as if I never spoke. "I thought it was real. And then there were the ghosts... the walking dead. They were there too. I asked for forgiveness and they, they didn't..."
I wrap my arms around her as best as I can. She lays her forehead on my shoulder as I run my fingers through her hair. B'Elanna shivers, but I make no further move to ask her what is wrong.
There are many things I've learned during the course of our rather erratic relationship and one lesson is that you never ask questions that hint at any kind of emotional weakness. B'Elanna and I, we don't do that. We cry in silent, letting only the puffiness of our eyes speak for what we cannot say, and we nurse our battle scars in dark corners where the other cannot see what bleeds.
After a few minutes, B'Elanna lifts her head. Her eyes are still watery, but she seems calmer now.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I don't know. It's up to the Captain and Chakotay, I suppose."
"Chakotay doesn't want to leave."
"He doesn't?"
"No."
"Do you?"
"And go where?"
Good question. Where to go? Given that those of us with less than stellar service records will probably find ourselves scrubbing pots in foul smelling kitchens for a living, the possibility of living happily ever in a castle on a hill seem rather remote.
"I don't know," I admit.
"What if they don't let us go?" she asks.
"I never thought of this place as home sweet home, but I suppose it would have to do."
"You'd stay here? With me?"
"B'Elanna," I lean in so that we're eye to eye. "I would have stayed in the Delta Quadrant with you. You really only had to ask."
She puts her hand on my chest as she lowers her eyes.
"I don't want to doubt you, Tom. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. I know."
At that moment, we hear the hiss of the EMH coming online.
"Please state - ah, B'Elanna, Mr. Paris," the Doctor sounds positively jubilant. I wish I could sound that alive first thing after getting out of bed. As it is, I'm bleary-eyed and positively cranky in the morning before that first cup of that all-rejuvenating caffeine brew. And B'Elanna, well, she's not a morning person either; you don't even look at her unless you want to be turned to stone. And even after two cups of coffee, you're still treading on dangerous ground with my temperamental wife. "How do you feel, B'Elanna?"
"Fine."
"My tricorder begs to differ."
"Excuse me?" there's a decidedly violent edge to B'Elanna's voice. I grin at the Doctor and he shrugs his photonic shoulders in surrender. Apparently, the Doctor has been paying close attention to his lessons; you never argue with a Klingon who says she feels fine.
"You should take it easy," the Doctor says.
"Don't worry," I assure him. "I'll make sure she does."
It's a good thing B'Elanna's arm is still stiff otherwise I'm sure she would have taken a nice swipe at me. Impulsively, I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. When I look at her, she is smiling.
"Then I will trust you to Mr. Paris' care," the Doctor says. "Lieutenant - you are still a
lieutenant, aren't you?"
I shrug, "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."
"It doesn't matter," the Doctor sighs melodramatically. "We'll all be scattered across the galaxy, communicating via subspace. We'll be friends, not fellow officers."
"What is he talking about?" B'Elanna asks.
"New assignments," I tell her. "The Captain has already been reassigned."
"Everyone?"
"Just her. The rest of us were - are - supposed to get our assignments when we reached Deep Space Nine."
"Oh."
God, when someone gets under your skin the way B'Elanna has gotten under mine, you know exactly what that person is thinking, even if they don't articulate those thoughts. I smile at her but say nothing. After all, I don't know what's happening anymore than she does and there are questions without answers. I imagine we'll figure it out as we go along.
And that, in a nutshell, is the plan.
~ end part VI ~
****
You take an inherent risk when you fall in love.
Mark and I, we met at a stuffy reception at Headquarters. We stood on a balcony, enjoying the chill of the autumn evening, champagne in hand, and comparing the puffed-out chests of the assembled. We never set out for anything more than the pleasure of another's company.
It was always the little things that got me; the way his brow would furrow when he was deep in the thought, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me or the way his hair stood up on end in the mornings.
I never really thought much of what I was doing with Mark. And then one morning, I woke up and there was Mark, lying next to me, his arm across his face, the sheets down by his waist, and I drew my knees to my chest and stared at him. I think I sat there for a good ten minutes, just staring at him, and realized that I liked waking up next to him. I realized that I liked knowing that he was there at night when I came home and reveled in the feeling that he was the first person I wanted to tell everything too.
And so, if you term that love, then yes, I did love Mark.
Now, Chakotay, that's another story entirely.
Nothing easy there, nothing at all.
As we walk across the hard ground, Chakotay doesn't look at me at all. In fact, he does his best to avoid speaking at all and I wonder where this sudden coolness comes from.
Damn him.
Damn what I feel for him.
A professor once stood up in front of my class back at the Academy and dropped the profound philosophy of marriage on us; he said, very seriously too, that you should never marry for love.
"One day you'll wake up and the love is gone and all you have is this person," he lectured. "You should have something else, something more than a memory of love to hold you together. Otherwise you will start to feel annoyed with those habits, which tinted by the first blush of love were adorable or endearing. No, listen, you must have something more than love."
And even in those days, I thought like the scientist I wanted desperately to be and could not reconcile myself to an emotion that defied explanation or basic in solid theory. The very thought of a quickening pulse and elevated temperature at the appearance of a particular person did not appeal to me because I could not understand such a response without resorting first to science.
My father once told me that there existed those things that could not be explained and such was love; that particular emotion was a force unending and unbending.
What dismayed me most about the concept of love was the singularly frightening thought that you
could choose whom you loved; you could not choose who would love you back.
I did not mean to fall in love.
I did not want to fall in love.
Damn.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Some nights, I would look over at Chakotay and note the way his dark hair flopped over his tattoo. I would dwell on that tiny cleft in his chin, the one that is barely noticeable unless you are eye-level with it. I would run my lips over his cheek, his stubble harsh against my own soft skin, and his eyes would open, almost as if my touch shocked him.
Sometimes, I would trace my fingers over those long, sinewy limbs, dragging my fingertips through the soft tufts of hair on his chest. In the soft candlelight - the slender tapers, which I replicated from hoarded rations - I would focus on the small colorless spot on his lower lip and then I would run my fingers over his cheekbones. Sometimes I would tease him about the way he carefully trimmed his eyebrows and kept them blunted at the edges.
You don't notice these things without reason.
Even when we went toe to toe, I was always so aware of him.
It was impossible, always, to ignore Chakotay, even when I wanted to, even when I knew that I should.
And the way he gets to me... God. I didn't think it possible for someone to stand across the room, not raise his voice, and yet still make me profoundly aware of his presence.
If Chakotay knows, he gives no indication. Rather, he torments me in that rather careless but quiet way of his. The way his eyes glow with an intensity, the way his voice slightly cracks when he thinks I'm wrong - all of these are signs of something, something that neither of us dares to name.
But what damns me most is the simplest of all.
Chakotay has this way of saying my name. Somehow, he manages to round the vowels and soften the syllables. His voice caresses me even though his hands remain resolutely at his side. Sometimes, I'll turn away from the viewscreen, see Chakotay, observe that sly smile of his, and know that he was not looking at the same thing I was.
So you see, it's entirely different.
I am the captain; he is my first officer.
I am Starfleet; he is Maquis.
It shouldn't have been this way.
The first time I truly let him in, right after Kashyk, I should have known better. But I buried my face into the smooth curve of his neck, inhaled deeply, and I couldn't pull away.
Night after night, there he was, in my bed, and promptly, before our shift, he would slip out from under the covers, get dressed and leave.
How no one knew the truth about our relationship remains a mystery to me.
Or maybe out of respect, they - Voyager's crew - remained silent and respectful. Strange, because they never afforded Tom and B'Elanna that same courtesy.
Chakotay's shoulder brushes mine and he looks at me.
"Sorry," he says shortly.
Physically, we have never been closer. If I dared, I could reach up and run my fingertips down his pink cheek and trace the strong curve of his jaw. I could smooth hair mussed by the chilly wind in one smooth gesture; yet for all of that, I have never felt more distant from this man.
I think it's true what my professor said all those years ago.
I never thought it would apply to me.
****
B'Elanna, exhausted by her illness, sleeps while the EMH remains offline. I haven't seen the
Captain in hours, so I take the opportunity to search Janeway out.
Outside, I find Tuvok, on his way to the Delta Flyer.
"Have you seen the Captain?" I ask.
"They are in there," he points to the meeting hall.
"Anything important?"
"No."
"Thanks."
Jessup doesn't look at me as I enter the meeting hall. In fact, he does his damndest to stay the hell away. It doesn't matter; I'm not into making friends today. I see Janeway and Chakotay and make a beeline for them.
"Tom, how's B'Elanna feeling?" the captain asks. Chakotay does not look up. The Captain shrugs.
"She's awake," I say. "And looks like she'll be just fine."
"That's good to hear."
They both have food on their plates, but neither appears to be eating.
"Join us," Chakotay says.
"Please," Janeway indicates the chair next to her.
I eye them both warily.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Chakotay has been filling me in on some background," Janeway says evenly. "Putting the pieces together, if you will."
I sit down next Janeway and look across the table at Chakotay. Chakotay and I have always had a tumultuous relationship, ranging from pure dislike to cool neutrality. Some days, we actually managed to have a conversation, but other days we could barely stand to look at each other.
Back during my short, lamented stint with the Maquis, Chakotay looked at me with narrowed eyes; for the most part though, I was grateful that he did not bestow me with the same dislike the other Maquis, including B'Elanna, reserved especially for me. I think, even then, Chakotay saw something redeemable in an arrogant young pilot and when I surrendered to Starfleet, I thought with a pang that I would never truly know what prompted Chakotay to take a chance on me.
During all of our time on Voyager, I never asked Chakotay about the Maquis. The lines were drawn so clearly, the boundaries of what we could and could not talk about, and the Maquis was one of those.
Once, during a late night in Sandrine's, I looked across the table at Chakotay, who seemed completely fixated on the Captain and I said very softly, "I'm sorry."
I don't know if the former Maquis leader heard me because he did not acknowledge me at all. In fact, even if he heard me, my time on Voyager had given me plenty to apologize for.
"Anything I'd be interested in?" I ask easily.
"Quite a bit, actually," Chakotay says. Janeway looks over at me and gently runs her fingers over the curve of my jawbone.
"You've been hurt," she says very softly.
"Nothing serious."
Chakotay raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Janeway breathes deeply.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"It's about your father," the Captain says.
I look across the room at the former Maquis who are laughing about something. Back when I was one of them - and I use that phrase very loosely - the Maquis fighters seemed to possess a special camaraderie and in some ways, I envied their ease with each other and their openness. A part of me wanted to reach out and ask - no, beg - for friendship, but instead, it was much easier to turn to a bottle of alcohol and turn into the charming Tom Paris, quick with a joke and suave with the ladies.
No wonder they hated me.
I hated me too.
"What about him?" I ask.
"I don't like to speak ill of the dead-" Janeway begins, but then she pauses as Tuvok approaches us.
"Voyager will arrive in a few hours," Tuvok addresses the Captain. "They had already set a course when they received B'Elanna's message. Starfleet Headquarters is anticipating our arrival."
"We're going to San Francisco?" I ask.
"Yes," Janeway nods. "I need to clear some things up and I can't do it from here."
"What about your posting on the Dauntless?" I ask.
Janeway shakes her head.
"Not important," she says. "I've turned it down."
Chakotay looks surprised.
"You didn't tell me that, Kathryn."
"I had Tuvok rely the message for me," the Captain says. "Chakotay, we've got to figure this out, okay? If I accept the posting on the Dauntless, who will fight for you?"
"We're quite capable of fighting our own battles."
"I know." Janeway reaches across the table to cover Chakotay's hand with her own. "But please, indulge me on this one. I need to see it through."
"In the meantime, I think we Maquis need to stay here."
"What are you talking about?" Janeway seems genuinely shocked by Chakotay's statement. "I know you wanted to stay here permanently, but I thought you would come to San Francisco with me to
find out what's going on."
Chakotay shakes his head. "According to the others, the political climate for the Maquis back on Earth is nothing short of homicidal. It may be best for all involved if you negotiate without the constant reminder of... our activities. I think our presence would only make it more difficult for you."
"What about B'Elanna?" I ask. After our recent misadventures, I have no intention of leaving B'Elanna behind; left to her own devices, I have no doubt she'll run off and join another Collective.
"B'Elanna included," Chakotay says flatly. His expression dares me to fight him, but I know that this is one battle I cannot win; unfortunately, when it comes to choosing between Chakotay and me, B'Elanna will always go with Chakotay. I can't explain how I know this - or even how much it hurts me - but there it is: the plain, unvarnished truth. And can I help it if I'm a little greedy? A little quality time with the wife isn't too much to ask, considering I'm a newly married man. But of course, given Janeway and Chakotay - and their complete lack of perception when it comes to anything mildly romantic - I have a feeling that my honeymoon with B'Elanna is going to have to wait a bit longer.
"I can't change your mind?" Janeway's voice is low, throaty, and uncomfortably seductive. I squirm a bit in my chair. Chakotay shakes his head. Janeway inhales deeply and then stabs a piece of vegetable with her fork.
"Maybe it's not as bad as you think it is," I put in. Chakotay glances at me.
"I'd like to be optimistic, Tom, but I also have to be realistic. We're better off staying here."
Janeway breathes in deeply again and then puts her fork down.
"The Doctor will remain here also, just in case," Janeway says. "Tom, I know you're disappointed; we'll come back for B'Elanna. Soon, I promise."
Her own tone drips with disappointment and not for the first time, I wonder if there is something more between the captain and her first officer.
I bite my lip. I understand what they are saying in theory, but in practicality, I don't know how I can leave B'Elanna. But then, I've always been real good at running away, so maybe this could be yet another opportunity to do what I excel at.
"If that's how you feel," I say. "If that's what would be best for everyone involved..."
"That's how I feel," Chakotay says defiantly.
"You do what you think best," Janeway says in that tone that says she's not finished with Chakotay yet; he knows it too but looks defiantly back at his former captain. It's amazing; reconciling the utterly calm Chakotay with his crazy outlaw friends has brought a bit of defiance and spark back to his demeanor. I like Chakotay this way; somehow, he looks more... alive.
I clear my throat.
"Did you have something to tell me?" I ask.
Janeway and Chakotay exchange a look, one more deep and telling than any of the million suggestive looks that passed between them over the past few years. I'd always wondered about those non-verbal communications of theirs. There were times too, when B'Elanna and I were at odds with each other, I envied the natural closeness between the Captain and her first officer; it was a relationship of mutual respect, deference and maybe, something more.
"About my father?" I persist. "You said you had something to tell me."
"Tom," the Captain leans forward, her hand moving off of Chakotay's and onto mine; now I know I'm in trouble. The Captain, always inclined to tactility, is even more touchy-feely when she's about to drop a bombshell. "Tom, I've got something to tell you."
I look at her, thinking maybe there is joke hidden beneath this uncharacteristic redundancy of hers.
"You don't have to protect me," I tell her. "It's worse if you try to sugarcoat whatever it is you're trying to tell me."
"Right," she says. And then for the third time, she says, "Tom, I've got something to tell you."
~ end part VII ~
****
Tom listens carefully as I detail his father's betrayals; I use "betrayals," even though it's a rather harsh word and Tom noticeably winces when I say the word.
When I finish, Tom droops, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging down.
"Tom?" I ask softly. Next to me, Chakotay stirs uncomfortably in his chair.
"I'm sorry," Chakotay says.
"I know this is a shock to you. I was stunned by the revelation also," I say.
More silence. Tom simply sits; it's almost like he's deflated, all of the energy squeezed out of his body. I get up and cross the short distance between us. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently, but Tom shrugs off my touch.
"I don't need your comfort," he tells me shortly.
"Look, I know you've had some difficulty dealing with your father's death and this-"
"How would you know?" he challenges. "How would you know if I had difficulty and why would you care?"
"Tom," I say. "You know I care. I don't know why you would question that."
"I'm not questioning it; I'm only saying that you and Chakotay and everyone else, you all have kind words, appropriate words, but none of you truly know or understand what I feel. So don't say that you care because I don't know what you're caring about."
"That's not fair," Chakotay interjects.
"Aw, hell," Tom gets to his feet. "Who said anything was fair? If life had been fair, I wouldn't have had to cheat on an exam. If life were fair, no one would have died at Caldik Prime and most of all, if life had been fair, there would have been no Maquis. Am I right, Commander?"
"Okay, then, you're right," Chakotay says. "Life is not fair, but that's no reason for you to lash out at the Captain."
"It's okay," I tell Chakotay. "Tom, look, you've gone through a lot. I want to help you through it."
"Look who's talking," Tom says to Chakotay. "This is a woman who allowed herself to get assimilated by the Borg and when she returned, she did not even blink; she did not even think of the consequences of her actions."
"Why do you keep bringing it up?" I ask.
"You talk about helping me; you can't even help yourself." Disgust drips from Tom's voice and I shiver at the coldness in his blue eyes. "You don't even know the first thing about empathy."
"That's no way to talk to your captain," Chakotay says. My former first officer gets to his feet.
"Is she even still a captain? There seems to be some doubt about that," Tom retorts icily.
"That's enough!" Chakotay and Tom are now standing mere centimeters from each other, both of them looking as infuriated as I've ever seen them.
"I'm not done," Tom says.
"Oh yes you are," Chakotay answers.
"Gentlemen," I say quietly. My voice shakes, but I try to appear confident to them. Both turn to
look at me. "Commander, if I could have a minute with Tom?"
"I'll be outside," Chakotay answers.
Tom and I stand in silence as Chakotay leaves. I take a deep breath, count to ten and then I speak.
"You have every right to be angry," I tell Tom. "With me, your father, with anyone you choose. You don't have the right to vent that anger in an unproductive manner."
"How do you suggest I vent that anger? Counseling sessions? Maybe I ought to lie on a couch and talk about my ambivalence for authority and my incorrigible nature brought on by a fierce need for attention from a distant and cold father. How does that sound? In fact, you could even sit right there and listen. I bet you'd like that. I bet you'd like to take your personal reclamation project one step further and eradicate my demons, real or imagined. How does that sound? You could even take the credit for the new, improved Tom Paris. I bet you'd like that."
"Sounds like you have a lot of anger," I say stupidly. You know, they don't really teach this kind of thing back in Starfleet Academy; it's definitely an on-the-job developed skill, and even after seven years of command, I still don't know how to reach out to Tom or B'Elanna or any of the others. Even Chakotay, whom I feel closest to, accuses me of remoteness.
I don't mean to be cold; I want to be fair. That's all I've ever wanted - to be a fair and good captain. Admittedly, I've had the loyalty of my crew for the last seven years, but whether I earned it or they gave it to me blindly - because that's the Starfleet way - I don't know.
I suppose there are questions you'll never know the answers to.
Maybe it's better that way.
"Tom?" I venture cautiously. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
"Yeah, you're sorry, I'm sorry, we're all sorry. Who even cares?"
"Don't use anger to push me away. Not now."
"How can you possibly understand what I'm going through?"
"Look, I admired your father. It shocked me when Chakotay told me what happened all those years
ago. I would never have guessed that Admiral Paris could be capable of doing such things."
"Well, I don't believe it," Tom says.
"Are you accusing Chakotay of lying?"
"I'm saying I'm not letting my father off that easily."
"I don't understand."
"All of my life, my father has been a shining paragon of virtue and duty. He never even had dust on his shoes, not even when he walked up the path to our front door. Even dirt stood in formation for Owen Paris. No, he would never do what you're accusing him of. Making a covert deal with the DMZ colonists against Starfleet's specific orders, no, that's too easy."
"Too easy because it gives you a way to knock him down a few notches?" my tone is unnecessarily
cruel, but Tom doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I resented my father because he was so perfect. Perfect in every way and he wanted me to be just like him. I - Captain, I just wanted to be me. I know that sounds silly and maybe even somewhat juvenile, but I never really wanted a career in Starfleet. I don't even know that I wanted a career. Maybe all I wanted to do was drink synthale and shoot pool. What the hell is that matter with that?"
"Well-"
Tom holds up a hand.
"I know what the matter was," he says. "I'm Owen Paris' son. Owen Paris' son was going to be someone whether he wanted to be or not. So you see, I'm not letting Dad off that easy."
"You're going to have to, Tom."
"No - there's something more here."
"What do you intend to do?"
Tom looks at me. "I'll ask my mother."
There is something curiously appealing about a thirty-something Starfleet lieutenant looking for maternal reassurance even as his belief of what was dissolves into a blurry what is. You've got to seek your comfort somewhere and hell, in lieu of Chakotay, I'd go for my mother. But in Tom's case, I'm not sure that his mother is the best source of information or even comfort.
There's something about Anya Paris that makes me wonder if she knows anything about her husband's extracurricular activities. I have a faint memory of a reed-thin blond with large, round blue eyes and nervous hands. She spoke in low, carefully modulated tones; I doubt she ever raised her voice. Anya capably hosted the gatherings at the Paris home with quiet elegance, always carefully and conservatively dressed in black, a string of pearls - no doubt real - around her neck. Yet, for all of her efficiency, in our few meetings, I rarely got a feel for the woman; in some ways, she didn't really exist or if she did, she kept her real personality subservient to that artificiality so exalted in the high ranks of Starfleet admiralty.
"You think she'll know?" I ask very softly. Tom shrugs.
"I'm ready to go home," he says, carefully side-stepping the question. "It's been a long time."
"Yes."
He sighs. "You think it's true, Captain?"
"About your father? Yes. Chakotay has no reason to lie."
"Is that why he hated me?"
I look at him in surprise.
"Because of my father?" Tom continues. His face takes on a pensive expression. "Chakotay never liked me. That's not saying much either, since the Maquis, including B'Elanna, hated me from the moment I showed up. Chakotay at least tried. I could still feel his dislike, no matter how
he tried to suppress it and I thought, maybe if I could just prove myself... just once, maybe that would make all of the difference."
"Is that why you took that mission? The one when you surrendered?"
Tom looks at me in surprise; we have talked about many things in the past - Tom's short-lived career as an outlaw and his subsequent capture and incarceration, now those are topics we haven't touched. I suppose there are things you just don't mention out of consideration and maybe, he thought I didn't really know or remember what happened prior to his Voyager days.
"Maybe," he answers guardedly. "Doesn't matter. The deck was stacked against me anyway; my father made sure of that. No matter what he did, he made sure there'd always be some kind of block in my way. The Paris name is a curse."
"That's not true."
"And how would you know?"
"I wish you'd stop fighting me, Tom."
He looks at me, almost sadly.
"Yeah," he says. "Me too."
"Have you told B'Elanna?"
"No, not yet. I will."
I take a deep breath. "I am sorry, Tom."
"Not as sorry as I am," he says. "I still don't believe it. My father wouldn't go back on his word; it would be out of character for him."
"I agree."
"Something must have happened to him," Tom says stubbornly.
"Possibly," I agree.
"Or there's a mistake."
"There's that option also."
"Yeah," Tom says. "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I'd like to say good-bye to B'Elanna."
I nod and watch him leave. I sit down on the couch and breathe deeply, not even looking up when Chakotay reenters.
"I saw Tom," Chakotay says.
"Yeah?"
"Did it go all right once I was gone?"
"Fairly. He's angry. Really angry."
"That's to be expected."
Chakotay kneels in front of me, intertwining his fingers with mine.
"Are you angry with me?" he asks very softly.
"No. If anything, I'm angry at myself."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not especially."
"One day you're going to have to talk."
"Now you sound like me when I talk to Tom."
Chakotay quirks a smile. "Ironic, isn't that? Maybe you should take your own advice every now
and then."
"Reconsider," I tell him. "Don't stay here. Come with me."
"You know I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?"
"My life is here."
"I need you."
Chakotay releases my hands. "You've never needed me, Kathryn. You only pretended to."
"That's not true. How many times do I have to apologize? I swear, all I've done since we've gotten home is apologize. I'm tired of it."
"So stop," Chakotay says calmly. "Stop apologizing. Do what you mean to do and do it with confidence, not regret."
"Easier said than done."
He puts his cool hands against my cheek and draws me in closer so that our foreheads touch; his skin is cold against mine.
"You take care of you," he says very quietly. "I can't do that for you. I've tried, Kathryn. So many times, I've tried-"
"So this is it?"
"Depends what you mean by that."
"Means you're putting a pretty big stamp of finality on us."
"That's where you're wrong," Chakotay releases my face and stands up. He takes a few steps and then turns to look back at me.
"There never was an us, Kathryn. Only you existed. Everyone else was convenient to you."
"That's not fair.
"But you don't deny it either."
I twist my hands together. "I do regret that. It's a hard lesson to learn, Chakotay."
"I know," he crouches in front of me. "But you're going to have to learn this one without me. I - I can't help you, no matter how much I want to."
I grip his shoulders tightly, but he doesn't react. After a few minutes, he disentangles himself gently from my desperate embrace.
"I'm going to check on the Delta Flyer. I need to check on something with Tuvok," he says. "Take your time."
And as he leaves, I'm so tempted to ask, so tempted, but dignity holds me back; the truth wounds and the last thing I need to know now is that Chakotay never cared.
~ end part VIII ~
****
B'Elanna is awake and feisty, bickering with the Doctor, when I enter. She smiles at me, a full-force, radiant smile.
"You must be feeling better," I say.
"Much better," she beams. I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek.
"I can attest to that," the Doctor says. "She has been complaining for hours. I tell you, I've never had a more miserable patient than Lieutenant Torres."
"That doesn't surprise me," I grin at B'Elanna. "Hey, Doc, can you give us a moment? I need to talk to B'Elanna."
"Something wrong?" B'Elanna asks. She is sitting up on the biobed, knees drawn to chest, and I notice that she is wearing drab brown - the same colors she wore as a Maquis operative. After all these years together, I know that B'Elanna looks best in red; after all, red is the only color that can compete with my firebrand wife.
"You might say that," I tell her. Quickly, I relate to her the story Janeway spun so eloquently for me. B'Elanna listens in rapt attention, her chin resting in her palm. When I finish, I look at her for some measure of shock, but she shrugs.
"What?" I ask. "What does that expression mean?"
"I was there, Tom," she says. "I know what happened."
"How come you never said anything?"
"Because I didn't know his name," she says in exasperation. "Eddington did all of the talking and he and Chakotay actually worked out the details. I was just there in case anything happened to the ship. I wasn't even in the room when the discussions were going on. Can you imagine if I were the one doing the negotiations? The outcome would have been much worse if they had let me into that room."
I nod. B'Elanna as a negotiator? Wouldn't happen. She's too hot-tempered, too quick to jump to conclusions and prone to leaping across tables and grabbing unsuspecting victims by the throat; some, like me, might enjoy being throttled by B'Elanna, but others would call her diplomatic efforts attempted murder.
"I can't believe you never told me," I say.
"It never came up."
"For God's sake, B'Elanna. This was important. How could you keep it from me?"
"Because it never worked. It was a deal that fell through. I never kept anything from you. What did you want me to do? Go to Chakotay and say, `hey, who was that guy you dealt with back when we thought Starfleet might help?' It didn't matter, Tom, so I didn't ask. Besides, in the Maquis, the less you knew, the better."
"I don't believe my father would do such a thing. I don't believe he would lie to women and children and then turn his back on him. That's not like him."
"Well, why don't you ask him?" B'Elanna asks.
"Because he's dead."
B'Elanna recoils. "Tom, I-I'm sorry. I- I didn't know."
"Died in the explosion," I tell her. "He didn't get off the starbase in time, but he did get you off. I suppose I should be grateful for that."
"What are you talking about?" B'Elanna gets off the biobed and waits a second, steadying herself, before she takes my hand. "Tom, this is important. Talk to me."
"I am talking to you now. He didn't get off, but he somehow forged a release order to get you, Chakotay and the others off of the starbase prior to the explosion."
"That's not what I meant," she says quietly. "Tom, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I tell her briskly. "Nothing a beer or two and some cartoons won't take care of."
"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. "Your father died. It's natural for you to feel something. Damn, even I felt something when I went to gre'thor and realized my mother might be dead. You lost a parent-"
"Now you sound like the Captain. Why the hell are you all always trying to get me to talk about how I feel? Damn, I'm tired of that!"
"Are you yelling because you're angry at me or with your father?"
"Sorry," I calm down immediately. "I'm not mad at you. I'm sorry. I- I just don't want to believe what they told me and-"
"Why can't you, Tom? You know Chakotay and the Captain wouldn't lie to you."
"But there has to be some reason why. Why? That's what I don't understand. If I knew why, maybe I could reconcile myself to this - to knowing this thing about my father."
B'Elanna runs her hand up and down my arm. Her touch is light and welcome. I realize how much I've truly missed her over the last week. And it's not just the fact I've been waking up without her days, it's more of breathing her in, hearing her voice, seeing her eyes light up in that way meant just for me. I wrap my arms around her and she buries her head against my shoulder.
"I don't want my final memory of my father to be one that is so... negative," I tell her quietly.
"Why do you feel the need to redeem him?" B'Elanna asks reasonably. It takes me a long time to compose an articulate answer in my mind.
Until this very moment, I hadn't thought there might be a reason for my need to know why my father would have done something so contrary to his beliefs.
"Because it's something I would have done," I tell B'Elanna frankly. "Make a promise for my own gain and then renege on it. God, you don't know how many promises I've broken in the past. I think a part of me wants to be... redeemable?"
B'Elanna pulls away from me and cups my cheek in her hand.
"And you don't think you are?" her voice is scarcely above a whisper. "Tom, no. Please. Don't think like that. No. I hate it when you do that to yourself."
"You don't count; you're biased."
"I think I do count," she leans in for a soft flutter of a kiss. "If nothing else, you, you redeemed me."
I run my fingers through her hair and kiss her gently on the forehead, cheeks, and lips. God, how I've missed her. Missed this. In a way, with B'Elanna right here, maybe all of this doesn't matter; maybe everything I've been fighting against, well, maybe it's time to surrender.
"Yeah?" I whisper.
"Yeah," she says, smiling at me. "Yeah."
I gently disentangle myself from her arms.
"I'm leaving, B'Elanna."
"What are you talking about?"
"Voyager is on its way to rendezvous with the Delta Flyer. We're setting a course for San Francisco."
"I want to come with you."
"I'm afraid you can't. Chakotay wants you to stay."
"Why?"
"Chakotay thinks you were brought here for a reason, B'Elanna, and he could be right. I- I don't want anything to happen to you. Please, stay here."
"I almost died on this planet," she says. She moves her arm gingerly. "And you want me to stay here?"
"The Doctor has synthesized an antidote for the virus; you should be fine."
"I don't want you to be alone, Tom, not after everything that has happened."
"I'll be fine."
"I should be with you."
"I have Harry."
"Harry, right. Are you comparing me to Harry?"
"There's no competition, B'Elanna, believe me. I'll be fine. Please, stay here until we get everything figured out. I promise, as soon as we find out what's going on, I'll come and get you. I promise."
She looks at me contemplatively and I reach to squeeze her hand.
"I'm being selfish, B'Elanna," I tell her. "Chakotay seems to think you will be better off here and I want you with me. But at the same time, I have to acknowledge that given our circumstances... I don't want anything to happen to you, B'Elanna. So promise me you'll stay?"
"I'm worried about you."
"I know," I let go of her hand and squeeze her shoulder gently. "I... and maybe it's better that
I do this alone? I need to be selfish, B'Elanna. Can you understand that?"
She bites down on her lip and nods. I sigh in relief.
"Thank you," I tell her. "You're wonderful."
"Maybe you should tell me the truth. Is there a girlfriend back on Earth that you don't want me to know about?" B'Elanna musters up the barest hint of a smile.
"Perhaps."
"What's her name? I should probably warn her that you're a pig."
"If you're going to do that, you might as well get it right. Tell her I'm an incorrigible pig,"
I lean in for a kiss. "I'll miss you."
"Hmmm?"
"You know what I mean," I release her from my grip. "You do know, right?"
She nods.
"Yeah, Tom," she says. "I know."
"Janeway to Paris."
I sigh.
"Paris here."
"We're ready to go, Lieutenant."
"Right. I'm on my way."
I kiss B'Elanna one more time.
"I know you won't miss me," I tell her.
"Don't do anything stupid."
"You know me," I answer.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Computer, activate the emergency EMH."
The Doctor appears, wearing his usual dazed look. "Please - oh, Lieutenants. How nice to see you again."
"I'm leaving," I tell him briskly.
"What about me?"
"You're staying here," I answer. I look over at B'Elanna, who doesn't look back at me. "Your skills - they're needed here."
"You will come back?"
"Of course." I'm still looking at B'Elanna but she refuses to look back at me. At that moment,
Tuvok enters.
"Lieutenant Paris," he says. "Are you ready to leave?"
"Yes," I tell him.
B'Elanna turns her back as we leave. I glance in one of the windows as we go past and I see her leaning against the biobed, one hand against her face. Tuvok looks at me curiously and I point towards the clearing where the Delta Flyer awaits us.
"Let's go," I tell Tuvok. "We're getting late."
****
The first time I stepped on Voyager, I felt a sense of awe that has never quite dissipated; my ship never fails to amaze me and I wonder if this love affair of mine will ever end.
In our private moments together, Chakotay would sometimes joke about my obsession with Voyager.
"If it came down to me or the ship, which would you choose?" he asked one night, as we lay curled on the sofa, his hand gently rubbing the length of my thigh. "Or am I on dangerous ground?"
"Dangerous ground."
"Well? What's your answer?"
"You're still asking? Even after that warning?"
"I want to know."
"What about the crew?"
"If the crew didn't matter, would you choose the ship or me?"
"Depends on circumstances." I drew my finger in a circle across his chest. He grabbed my fingers and pressed them to his lips. "This isn't a fair question."
"I think you'd pick Voyager."
"For God's sake, don't be so ridiculous."
"I've seen the way you talk to Voyager," Chakotay said. He pressed his lips against my cheek for a moment before continuing. "There's a lot of tenderness there."
"We understand each other."
"Like lovers?"
"It's a ship, Chakotay. You can't possibly make that kind of comparison."
"But you use a certain kind of voice when you talk to Voyager," Chakotay protested. "It's low, husky... the one which never quite makes it out of your throat?"
"This one?" I whispered. Chakotay smiled at me. He touched the side of my face, tucking a short strand of hair behind my ear.
"Yeah," he whispered back. His lips brushed my throat and then his eyes met mine as his fingers trailed down my cheek. "That's the one."
But joking aside, I did feel very proprietary about Voyager. I loved standing in the middle of the Bridge, taking a look around, and knowing that all this sophisticated technology belonged to me to command.
A bit egotistical, isn't it?
Allow me my arrogance, just this once.
I'm already fearing the worse on our return to Headquarters. In my nightmares, Starfleet will give Voyager to someone else - someone who does not quite understand Voyager as I do. Or they might even scrap her down for salvage, an unworthy fate for a proud ship.
So I take each step onto the Bridge as if it were my last and I memorize each detail, capturing each moment and freezing it in my faulty memory.
I note Harry, his round face eager and enthusiastic, but his eyes filled with concern; he stands at his usual spot directly behind my chair. Tuvok stands slightly off-center at Tactical. Chakotay's chair is empty. I could ask Tuvok to fill it, but somehow, it seems disrespectful to replace my First Officer so quickly.
Seven sits at B'Elanna's usual station, her blond head cocked to one side, her eyes alert and questioning. A couple lieutenants stand in the back, working busily; I'm ashamed to say that I did not take the time to greet them when I returned to the bridge.
Paris usually takes the Helm, but in a rare moment of emotion, he asked for some leave.
"Just a few hours," he said as we approached Voyager in the Delta Flyer. "I need some time to sort things out."
"Take as long as you want."
"I only need a few hours," Tom repeated firmly. He held my gaze firmly with his own before I looked away, feeling uncomfortable but not quite sure why.
"Granted," I said.
"Thank you," Tom replied with equal formality.
So, Tom sulks - or so I imagine - in his quarters.
I have half a mind to send Harry down to see Tom, but I get the feeling that Tom would not appreciate the gesture. Rather, a sympathetic expression from his best friend may shut Tom down completely. God knows if he won't share his feelings with B'Elanna or Harry, he'll throw himself out of an airlock before he talks to me.
So there you have it.
I am a woman with a ship. A good ship with a good crew, but seemingly at odds with the people who matter most to me.
Seven, however, is still speaking to me, as are Harry and Tuvok; for small blessings, I should be grateful. But I am very much like that grandmother whose grandson is carried away by a tide; upon his return, she thanks God profusely, but wonders at the loss of the child's baseball hat.
The viewscreen displays a star-map of our current coordinates; a yellow line plots out the best route to Earth while a red blinking dot signifies our progress. The helm officer - one Ensign Pablo Baytart - navigates expertly and without any sign of strain or nervousness.
Baytart is an excellent pilot, competent, and generally good-natured. But despite these obvious attributes, I miss Tom at the helm. In a moment of tension, I can always count on Tom to whirl around in his seat and deliver a wisecrack. Right now, I could really use someone with a sense of humor on my bridge.
"Captain?"
Harry's questioning tone jerks me out of my reverie.
"What is it, Harry?"
"Incoming message from Admiral McArthur. It's marked confidential."
"I'll take it in my Ready Room."
"Sending it now."
In my Ready Room, I first get a cup of coffee and then settle myself comfortably in my chair. I bring up my small view screen and after a few moments, I'm greeted with the rather perturbed expression of Rodney McArthur.
"Kathryn, there have been questions about your activities," he begins.
"It's good to see you too," I tell him.
"I've defended you as much as I possibly can."
"What's going on? Who's saying what?"
"They know about your visit to Alonius Prime."
"I didn't think that would stay a secret from long. Starfleet is better at surveillance than it wants to admit."
"You have a lot of explaining to do when you get here."
"Let's keep it simple, all right? I wanted to check on my people."
"They are Maquis traitors."
"To you, not to me."
McArthur, in his sterile Starfleet office, leans forward, almost so close that his nose is uncommonly large; I resist the urge to smile. McArthur jabs his finger at the screen.
"You have to choose, Kathryn," he says. "Loyalty to us or loyalty to them."
"You can't be serious."
"The Maquis betrayed the Federation; some of them were even Starfleet officers. We cannot make exceptions in this particular situation."
"Are you sure you aren't spewing the agreed upon rhetoric? Or are you remembering the death of your son at the hands of the Maquis?"
"So you know about that," McArthur says.
"Yes. Chakotay told me."
McArthur looks away from the screen and then after a few seconds, turns back to look at me.
"A day does not pass when I don't think of John. I don't know what went wrong with my son, but I don't necessarily blame the Maquis for his death. I know they tried to help him, and for that, I'm grateful."
"So you forgive them for the death of your son, but not the actions they took to protect their homes?"
"You aren't going to change minds, Kathryn," McArthur says firmly. "The Maquis are universally reviled-"
"Why is that? Is it because the people in power perpetuate the hatred? Or are you just repeating the party line?"
"Don't take that tone with me, Kathryn," McArthur holds up a hand. "Look, I care about what happens to you. I don't care what happens to the Maquis. As long as they are on Alonius Prime, they are no one's problem."
"That's quite the attitude."
"It's an acceptable attitude," McArthur says. I sense from the tone of his voice that McArthur does feel some sympathy towards the former Maquis, despite his obvious reluctance to admit it.
"Tell me," I say. "Whose idea was it to move the Maquis to Alonius rather than keeping them in a standard penal colony?"
"I can't say for sure. There was a committee."
"Were you on the committee?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else I would know?"
"Owen Paris, of course."
"Of course," I say. "Tell me, how well did you know Owen Paris? Because apparently, I didn't know him at all."
"What are you talking about?"
I quickly fill him in on the conversation I had with Paris back on the starbase and then the subsequent discovery of Paris' diplomatic efforts - if you can call them that - with the Maquis. McArthur settles back in his chair and blinks a few times.
"I had no idea," he says flatly. I offer him my best poker face even though I suspect that my old mentor is blatantly lying to me.
"From what I gather, Commander Chakotay was the only one who could really reveal Owen Paris' part in the scheme," I tell McArthur. "When I talked to Paris, he told me that you weren't part of the scheme, but I think he was lying to protect you. I think you're lying when you say you don't blame the Maquis for your son's death. I think you engineered the destruction of a starbase, to protect yourself, Admiral Paris and others. You intended for all the Maquis to die, didn't you, as revenge for your son's death? You stalled because you wanted Owen Paris to approve of your actions. You wanted him to come and qualify your actions. And even though he agreed, he still managed to evacuate the Maquis without your knowledge. That's what I think happened. What do you say, Admiral?"
"What you're saying is ridiculous!"
"Are you denying it?"
"What you're accusing me of is preposterous."
"I have proof, Admiral. One of my officers, Seven of Nine-"
"The Borg?"
I glare at the Admiral. "She is human, sir, just like you and me."
The Admiral holds up a hand. "You do understand that there is some trepidation regarding this drone-"
"We call her Seven, sir," I tell him coldly. "I request you do the same."
McArthur fiddles with some buttons on his viewscreen and then he looks back at me.
"What were you saying about proof?" he asks. His voice shakes, but I refuse to feel any sympathy for my former mentor.
"As I was saying, Seven has run several simulations of the events leading to the core meltdown. I'll ask her to upload her findings to you, along with some of the logs she has compiled regarding the accident. I believe the evidence will show that you activated the process which eventually led to an overload of the central core and the destruction of the starbase."
"You're accusing me of attempted murder," McArthur says. "We've known each other for years now, Kathryn. You must know that what you're saying isn't true."
"Admiral, I know what kind of man you were." I lean forward in my chair. "Seven years ago, I was sure of everything and now, I realize I was deceived. Even in the Delta Quadrant, I held fast to ideals that you and Admiral Paris apparently abandoned long ago. People died in that explosion.
I can give the families of the dead the answers they need."
McArthur rubs his hand across his eyes.
"You don't want to do this," he says. "You'll destroy my career and smear the reputation of a dead man with baseless accusations. How do you even know Chakotay is telling the truth?"
"He has no reason to lie to me."
"You won't be able to prove any of this."
"I don't need to," I answer. "And I don't want to. You forget Paris' son is a member of my crew. I have no desire to taint his father's memory with accusations. And I've always admired Owen Paris. I would rather keep this information to myself. And Admiral, I don't want to ruin your career. I only want my people to be treated fairly."
"I'd like to see the logs," McArthur says.
"Will you destroy them?" I ask.
"Destroy the information?"
"Come now, Admiral," I lean forward and for a split second, I wonder if my nose appears as large to the Admiral as his did a few minutes ago. "If I give you the results of Seven's investigation, will you destroy it?"
"I only want the truth, Kathryn."
"Don't you already know it?" I ask sardonically. McArthur looks back at me sadly.
"You've spun a fantastic theory. Truly ingenious and creative, but it's not true. I did not order the destruction of the starbase. And I was never involved in the Maquis scheme; Owen Paris was not lying to you when he said that."
"You didn't answer my question. What about the data integrity?"
McArthur nods then.
"Fine," he says. "You have my word; your data will be safe with me. I have nothing to hide and your analysis will prove that."
"If you say so. I'll have Seven begin the transfer with the hour."
"Now, Kathryn," McArthur says. "There are some who think your actions in the Delta Quadrant are indefensible-"
"I say they were necessary."
"I don't believe there will be a court martial."
"What are you talking about?"
"Would you resign quietly? Or take a demotion?"
"You can't be serious. A few days ago, you offered me another commission."
"That was before your little jaunt to Alonius Prime. Kathryn, you ruined whatever little standing you had had. I fought for you, really I did, but there are none, save me, who would willingly give you another ship to command."
"Are you telling me my career is over?"
"I'm saying that you made a mistake."
"I wanted to know about my people. What's so wrong with that?"
"I refuse to talk in circles with you."
I note that McArthur looks tired, looks old; his shoulders slump, and he rests most of his weight on his forearms. I'd like to take pity on him, for old time's sake, but the coldness in me prevents me from sympathizing in any way.
"And here we were expecting a hero's welcome," I tell him bitterly. "For all the trouble it has been to return home, we should have stayed in the Delta Quadrant. At least there, we knew we couldn't trust anyone."
"I am sorry," McArthur says. I simply shrug.
"I'll see you in San Francisco," I tell him. "Janeway out."
~ end part IX ~
****
My father always managed to get the last word in; even dead, he still gets to me. Harry says the logs arrived a few minutes after I left with Janeway and Tuvok for Alonius Prime. The date-stamp indicates that the logs were uploaded about thirty minutes prior to the destruction of the starbase.
It's nice to know that my father's last thoughts were of me.
My sisters and mother have also written to me. Nice of them, I think, to acknowledge that I'm alive. Right after Caldik Prime, I became person non grata for my mother and sisters. I bet they even talked about me in muted tones, the same way you'd talk about a cranky great-aunt, God rest her soul, who passed on to the great relief of the rest of the family.
Mother, always concise and to the point, welcomes me home in her elegant but distant fashion; Isobel and Julia talk about their careers, their families, their homes, but reveal nothing of themselves in their words.
It hurts, especially from Isobel, whom I had considered a close confidant, since she is only eighteen months younger than I am.
I set their letters aside in favor of my father's logs.
I admit, in the years since I last saw him, I've lost a sense of the man. Childish memories remember someone who was cold and distant, but then, you remember what you choose to.
There were good times with my father, like the time he took me to the space museum or when he nervously guided me through my first flying experience.
Why can't I remember the good instead of constantly dwelling on the constant friction between the two of us?
I suppose because admitting I did care for my father and that I may have loved him in my own lazy way would hurt too much now.
I enter my quarters, acutely aware of everything around me. I'm suddenly - and strangely - fascinated by the texture of the gray carpet. For the first time, I realize the lone painting - maroon and purple splashes of paint on a white canvas - on my wall is damn ugly. I never liked the bedspread and the pillows are soft and lumpy. B'Elanna's gray turtleneck, the one with the stain on the wrist from some Engineering mishap, lies on armrest of the sofa. I remember helping her out of that turtleneck, running my hands over her smooth skin, and then nibbling at that spot directly between the shoulder and neck, while she wrapped her arms around me.
I kick off my shoes and let them lie where they fall; no one will be coming by to trip over them.
Or so I hope.
I have been thinking of this moment for hours now, this moment when I can actually sit down and with clarity, listen to my father's logs. I don't know what I hope to find, don't know what I'm going to feel; I suppose I'd just like to know that Owen Paris, at one time, was a real person.
I want him to be flesh and blood, like me, and I want to know that he bled red like I do.
An awful lot to ask, isn't it? And I know, as well as the last person, that you can't always get what you want.
Especially where Owen Paris is concerned, there is no way you can hedge your bets.
I lie down on my bed.
"Computer, play logs of Admiral Owen Paris," I say.
I close my eyes, put my hands behind my head and cross my feet at the ankles.
Interestingly enough, this chunk begins the day Voyager vanished and my father's entry for that day consists of one line only: "My boy is gone."
The next log entries are filled with excruciating detail regarding Starfleet's efforts to locate Voyager and also, of the various theories circulating about our strange disappearance. As months go on, Father's thoughts regarding Voyager and especially me, are relegated to a Cinderella-esque status; it's nice to know my return wasn't a burning obsession for Dad. His tone is occasionally conversational and sometimes even affectionate, especially when he talks about Julia's daughter, Linsey. He records Linsey's birth - in 2373 - with a sense of awe and then proceeds to spend the next year chronicling everything from the first tooth to the first step.
His voice lulls me to sleep and when I wake up, I'm aware of a different tone.
"Anya asked about Tom today," my father says. "She came into the kitchen and asked what I - what Starfleet - was doing to find her son. She emphasized the word `son,' maybe to drive home the point that she thinks I haven't contributed enough in the search for Tom. It's just another item in her long litany of ways I've let our son down. I've tried so many times to explain, but Anya won't listen. If I could, I would have saved Tom, but when do you stop? Anya thinks never. She thinks I should have stepped in after Caldik and she wouldn't speak to me after they - or as Anya would say, - I, sent Tom to New Zealand. Since he's disappeared, she hasn't said much at all. Not about Tom, not about anyone. Today, out of the blue, she asked. I told her that Starfleet has every reason to believe the crew of Voyager is alive and well. She didn't look convinced at all and she asked again, this time saying, `Owen, what are you doing to bring your son home?' and I was forced to admit the truth; I had done nothing but attend meetings and discuss various options, evaluate and discard. I had no solutions. Anya stood there in the doorway and she looked so - well, so not like Anya, that it scared me. I asked her what was wrong and she laughed. `If you have to ask, Owen,' she said and then her voice trailed off. Finally she said, `You know, it's all right, Owen, to say his name. You - we - can talk about Tom. I think - I think I would like that.' She left then, not giving me the chance to respond. I don't avoid talking about Tom - I don't have a way of talking about him that will leave me with a good feeling. That - that's a terrible thing to say about one's son. I wish things had been different."
I stretch out and roll onto my back. My father's logs continue, but I'm no longer listening. In a way, I don't know if I have made a terrible mistake by invading the privacy of a dead man, but at the same time, he wanted me to have the damn logs. He wanted me to hear what he had to say.
He wanted me to know that my mother actually cared enough to speak up and that no matter what he would say later, he had been so disappointed at one point that he did not know what to say about me.
Damn cold place to be.
Hurtful too.
The logs of Owen Paris do a fairly decent job of telling me about Reginald Barclay's Pathfinder project from Starfleet's viewpoint. Apparently, the project earned a lot of scorn from the powers that be and poor Barclay had to put up with a great deal of ridicule before he finally received permission to go ahead; amazingly, it was my father who pushed for the Pathfinder project.
"I haven't said anything to Anya but I think this Barclay fellow may have something. His ideas are unconventional and I understand he has been under psychiatric care in the past. But, for Anya's sake, I can't ignore any opportunity to communicate with Tom. It would be nice... to talk to Tom."
My father's voice drifts off in this log and soon I hear only a hiss, as if he had forgotten he had been recording a log in the first place. I forward the logs to the next one.
"Begin log. Lately, Anya has taken to ignoring me completely. She seems to huddle under her own hurt, not bothering to tell me what the matter is. I would ask, but what's the use? I'm sure whatever is bothering has to do with Tom; hell, everything has to do with Tom these days. I tell Anya about the latest developments and she regards me in icy blue silence. I don't know how to reach her or convince her that I'm doing all that I can. The other day, she told me that I couldn't possibly know what she, as a mother, was going through. I had no answer, but I felt resentful; why does everyone thinks I have forgotten Tom? I haven't. Not for a single moment. End log."
"Begin log. I was in Tom's room today. I still think of it as Tom's room even though he hasn't slept there for years. Isobel found me looking through Tom's things and she asked me what I was doing. I told her I was thinking about Tom and she said, `You think he's alive?' and I hated that she articulated my worst fears. I held Isobel's hand tightly until she pulled away. I told Isobel that I believed Tom was coming home and she looked at me, somewhat sadly, I think. `I don't want to hope, Dad,' she said. `It hurts too much.' I asked Isobel if she missed Tom and she didn't answer me right away. Like me, she lacked the right words to express herself.
`I miss him,' she admitted finally. `But Tom, he's not... he's not reliable, Dad. He does what he wants. Maybe he was never on Voyager. Maybe he's here and always has been. Isn't that a possibility?' Isobel's right. Tom is erratic. During his time at the Academy, there were periods of time when we had no idea where Tom had disappeared to and I remember Anya pacing the length of the living room, worrying over a son who could not even give us the courtesy of a note. This time though, I know that Tom isn't ignoring us.
`Tom is on Voyager. I know that for a fact,' I told Isobel and she shrugged. 'Maybe you're right,' she said. `But it's less painful to think that he's hiding from us than the possibility that he might not be... alive.' I told Isobel, very firmly, that Tom was alive and was coming home. `I hope you're right,' she said. God, I hope I'm right too. End log."
A log from the next day indicates that this is the day we made contact with Starfleet Headquarters.
"Begin log. I heard Kathryn's voice and for a moment, I experienced a sense of surrealism, of excitement, of genuine relief. Kathryn sounded the same, even with a bit of an echo over the communication channel and some fuzziness, but that was Kathryn Janeway. I asked her how she was and she replied, `Very well. They're an exemplary crew - your son included.' The tone of her voice made me wonder what stories Tom had told Voyager about me. Rather a frightening thought that my reputation could be spread into the furthest reaches of the Delta Quadrant. And so I said the first thing that came to my mind: 'Tell him... tell him I miss him. And I'm proud of him.'
Kathryn answered, much to my disappointment; I would have liked to have heard Tom's voice, but she said, 'He heard you, Admiral.' A few seconds and a couple words more, and that was the end of the communication but I told Tom, right? Maybe too little, too late, but some things, you shouldn't wait for. And I'd waited six years. When he gets home, we're going to talk, just the two of us. I don't think we will be ever at ease with each other; there is too much tension and no amount of talking will ever heal the wounds. But an effort, that's what I'm looking for. An effort from me, an effort from him, and maybe, we can begin to understand each other. Computer, end log."
I stop the logs there; enough of my father's inner angst for now. Reacquainting yourself with the dead, at the very least, is unnerving.
****
What bothers me most is the "why." The simplest explanation is most often the correct one; in that case, I'd like to think that we've stepped through the looking glass. On a whim, I had Harry and Seven double-check the temporal sensor logs, a move that earned me a raised eyebrow from the former drone, but surprisingly, no comment. And they both responded to my request respectfully, but with a bit of sadness, that no, this was not a mirror universe and yes, we had arrived in the same Alpha Quadrant we had left behind.
"I could double-check navigational sensors to make sure those aren't malfunctioning," Harry offered helpfully. I shook my head.
"Thank you, Harry, but not necessary," I told him. "I- I wanted to be sure."
"Of course," Harry said. Both he and Seven wore similar expressions; I know they both thought that I had finally lost all of my senses.
It would be ironic, wouldn't it? The Hirogen, Krenim, Borg, and Kazon hadn't managed to drive me crazy, but a few conversations with Starfleet pushed me right over the precipice. I suppose I can expect to spend the rest of my days in an institution, picking daisies when they let me out for air and babbling incoherently about Starfleet conspiracies.
After the court martial, of course.
My last conversation with McArthur makes it very clear that I'm treading water; I'm tiring and there is no indication that anyone, including McArthur, will extend me a lifeline before the waves close over my head.
I press my hand against my forehead.
"Captain?" Tuvok is right behind me, his voice low, but concerned. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I turn to face him.
"What?"
"You are not well."
"It's a headache. Nothing serious."
"You have been under considerable strain. Maybe you should rest?"
I look at my friend gratefully. His suggestion is the best I've heard in days.
"Good idea," I answer. "I will. You have the bridge, Commander."
I take one last look around and offer up a smile in an effort to put a happy face on our current situation. But I know that no one is fooled.
"Are you all right?" Harry asks sotto voce as I pass him. "Captain?"
"I'll be in the Messhall if you need me," I answer.
"Right."
You never think about the kilometers of gray carpet on Voyager until you can't lift your head to look at anything else but the floor. The carpets are still clean, due to Chakotay's diligence while I was traipsing around on the Borg cube.
God, of all the stupid things I've done...
That particular mission - someone must have been looking out for me, since I'm now staring at clean carpets and not the metal grid flooring of the Borg cube.
The Messhall is sparsely populated when I get there and Neelix stands behind his counter, reading a PADD.
"Coffee," I tell him without preamble.
"Captain!" Neelix says energetically. "How are you?"
I grunt at him, a response Neelix ignores. He pours out the coffee, and hands me the steaming mug.
"Is everything all right?" Neelix asks; he follows me to a table at the furthest corner of the Messhall. I sit down, cup my hands around the mug, and bite my lip.
"You're the third person to ask me that in the last ten minutes."
"There must be a reason for that, right?" Neelix asks reasonably.
"I'd be lying if I told you that everything was going according to plan," I tell him.
"There has been talk," Neelix says.
"Of course," I say. "I should never count the Voyager rumor mill out."
"It might help if you talk to the crew."
"I will, when I know what's going on."
"They are worried about the former Maquis."
"I am too."
"We heard stories about Alonius Prime and how Chakotay decided not to come back with us," Neelix says. "The crew respects the Commander; they are concerned."
"I know, Neelix."
"And Lieutenant Torres? Is she all right?"
"According to the Doctor, she's on the road to recovery."
I look down into my coffee and note my own fuzzy features reflecting back from the dark liquid. Neelix leans forward.
"The crew is worried about you, Captain," Neelix says. "They - they care about you and they know... they know when something is wrong."
"Neelix, I appreciate your concern-"
"You need to talk to the crew. Just tell them what's going on. They are all excited about being home and most of them are making reunion plans. I know you don't want to temper that enthusiasm, but please, they need to know."
I smile at Neelix. When we first met, I was angry with him for deceiving me and yet, in seven years he has become a trusted member of my crew, and the one person I can trust to give me a gentle analysis of my crew's psyche.
"I've never thanked you," I tell him softly. "I- I appreciate everything you've done for me, for Voyager."
"Captain-"
"No, really. You made yourself indispensable in so many ways and I am grateful. No matter what, that much is true."
Neelix, damn him, his eyes mist over and he reaches over and grabs my hand.
"It has been an honor to serve with you," he tells me. "No matter what they say about you, I'm sure there is no finer captain in all of Starfleet."
"I'll take what I can," I tell him. "But will you be absolutely candid with me?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know if I took too many risks. Did I endanger the crew more than necessary? Did I give orders which were contrary to our mission?"
Neelix settles back in his chair.
"You did what needed to be done," he says. "The circumstances, they dictated unusual procedures. You couldn't follow the rule book."
"Chakotay would have said the same. What do you think?"
Neelix considers carefully. Today he is wearing his blue suit with the gold trim; a blue and
white striped shirt is visible in the V of his coat. From the mottled skin of his neck and face to the golden tufts of hair, artfully arranged in Talaxian fashion circa seven years ago, he cuts a comical appearance. Yet, despite this clownish appearance of his, Neelix's expression is completely serious and contemplative. I feel a sudden rush of emotion for this man who joined my crew and quickly earned our trust and loyalty; I'm also infinitely glad that he choose to remain with us.
"Be honest," I urge. "I need to know."
"I think there were certain circumstances when you might have done well to heed Commander Chakotay," Neelix says carefully.
"You're referring to the Equinox?"
"Yes."
"And to Seven?"
"Yes."
I sigh. "I didn't have any choice," I tell him.
"You believed you didn't have a choice," Neelix says gently. "I think you wanted an alliance with the Borg to succeed so you would have something to your credit when you returned home. There's nothing wrong with that, Captain. But when you forcibly detained Seven of Nine against her wishes, now that, that's where you went wrong."
"You don't spare feelings, do you, Neelix?"
"You asked for candid talk."
"So I did. What else, then?"
"You want me to come up with more examples?"
I leaned forward.
"How about the mission to infiltrate the Borg cube? Was that a situation when I should have listened to Chakotay?"
"Yes."
I lean back in my chair.
"So you agree with all of... them?"
"I don't understand who this `them' you're referring to is," Neelix says frankly. "But Captain, do you have regrets?"
"I am apparently suffering from an incurable case of guilt," I try to laugh it off but Neelix glances at me, concern obvious in his wide eyes. "All right, it's true. I do have regrets and guilt is something I'm not very good at. I'd like to not feel this terrible about the way things have turned out."
"Can I ask you a question? Candidly?"
"Of course."
"If you hadn't done some of those things you are concerned about, what would you have done instead?"
"I don't know," I confess. "I did whatever it took to get my crew home. Getting home, that was what was important nothing else. Sure, I could have settled us all on some uninhabited class-M planet, the first one that came along. That would have been the easy way out, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," Neelix nods.
"I made a commitment to my crew, Neelix," I tell him seriously. "I didn't take the easy way out and I made mistakes. I was wrong; I admit that. I- I guess I just didn't expect to feel this way about it all."
"And you have other concerns? About the Maquis?"
"Especially the Maquis. I'm not optimistic."
"You think the Commander and the others will be on that planet indefinitely?"
"Who knows?" I push my chair back in a momentary fit of restlessness. "Chakotay certainly has no wish to leave. He's with his friends now and he wants to remain with them. You know, Neelix, you serve with people for a certain amount of time and you think you know them. God, it hurts when you find out the truth."
"Are you sure Chakotay really wants to stay?"
"I asked him so many times to come with me. I was tired of hearing the question myself, but I had to make sure."
"If Commander Chakotay is staying behind, there is a reason for it," Neelix lowers his eyes, so that he is no longer looking at me directly. "The Commander cares about you, Captain; he wouldn't abandon you. Not now."
I bite down on my lip, trying to swallow the lump growing in my throat.
"I hope you're right," I tell the Talaxian.
"Captain," Neelix says gently. "Don't dwell on those things which hurt you. You cannot change the past, so you must accept it; the consequences you face now are not of your making. As you said, we could be living on a class-M planet in the Delta Quadrant now. It's to your credit that that is not the situation."
I get up from my chair as Neelix takes my empty cup. I pause to look at him.
"Thank you," I tell him. "I appreciate the conversation."
"And Captain?" Neelix places a gentle, but restraining hand on my forearm. "You can't be all things to all people."
I nod, "So I'm learning."
The walk back to the Bridge seems interminable and in some ways, disappointing. At one point, I stop, and lean back against the curved wall of the corridor. I note the fluorescent lights lining the tops of the corridors and the thin, illuminated lighting strips running along the bottom of the walls.
And that damn gray carpet.
Seven years is a long time to walk on gray carpet.
When we get back, I'm going to make a recommendation to the starship interior design: no more grays and browns. Really.
But I know it's not the colors of Voyager which are irking me at this moment. Rather, it's a sudden realization, a truth undeniable that has suddenly become clear to me.
I never thought I'd get tired of Starfleet.
Funny how things change.
~ end part X ~
****
The listening session continues. Admiral Paris speaks, and I note with amazement, that my father's voice is curiously monotone and sleep inducing.
This time, I lay on the sofa, covered with a soft, blue blanket, while I listen.
"Begin log. I invited Reginald Barclay for dinner tonight. He stopped by my office around fifteen hundred to confirm that I had indeed invited him. `I- I wanted to make sure- sure that you had meant - meant to invite me,' Barclay said. He stood in front of my desk, playing with his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot. A gentle flush of red colored his cheeks and I felt the urge to stand up and give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. But of course, that kind of behavior is inappropriate, so instead, I remained seated and confirmed the invitation. `It is so - so nice of you and, and Mrs. Paris,' Barclay said. `Thank you.' I told him that the dinner invitation was the least we could do for him since his project had made it possible for us to communicate with Voyager. Barclay was punctual, not that I would have expected otherwise. I introduced him to Anya and she was warm and gracious. Dinner was rather a stilted affair, as Barclay is not a skilled conversationalist and Anya and I had long fallen out of the habit of speaking with each other. Anya pressed him for information about Voyager but Barclay couldn't share much more than we already knew. I could tell Anya was disappointed, but she continued to entertain, smiling her patented artificial smile, her teeth clenched tightly together. I'm really trying, I am, but it gets harder everyday. End log."
The next few logs are boringly Starfleet. Promotions, demotions, a few comments about the Dominion War and some stray notes about a peace treaty or two.
"Begin log. Julia came today with Linsey; John is out of town, so Julia was feeling the strain of being alone. Linsey demonstrated her temper for us today and Julia sent her to her room. In many ways, she reminds me of Tom when he was her age. And speaking of Tom, I sat down the other night to try to remember everything about him. We have some old holoimages of him, but most are from his Academy days. I can only imagine what he looks like now. What amazes me though, is aside from the three major incidents - expulsion from the Academy, Caldik Prime and New Zealand - I can't remember anything else about Tom. I know there were good times, times when we got along, but I'm at a loss. I wish I could remember."
Again, my father drones on and on about his adorable little granddaughter. I get the feeling though, that my daughter's child is less than angelic and not entirely deserving of such blind adoration.
"Begin log. Linsey broke one of Anya's vases today and Anya didn't say a word. She just scooped up the pieces, with a warning to Linsey not to come closer. I watched from the doorway and a second later, Julia came by to see the damage. `I'm sorry, Mom, really,' Julia said. Anya shrugged. `Don't worry about it,' Anya said. `It's just a vase. I can replicate another one.' Julia grabbed Linsey and lectured the little girl in a voice that made me cringe. Later, I asked Anya about it. `Where did Julia learn that?' I asked. Anya looked at me in surprise. `From you,' she said. `You always talked to Tom like that.' That night, we slept with our backs to each other. End log."
I sit up then, feeling a bit sick. I get up and replicate some tomato soup. I think about turning on the television as I eat, but then that reminds me of B'Elanna, who mandated no television during dinner.
"When that thing is on, you don't talk to me," B'Elanna said. "I refuse to play second fiddle to one of your cartoon characters."
"But B'Elanna-"
"Please," she held up a hand. "We get little enough time together as it is; I don't want our time together to be marred by that thing."
So the television stays off.
B'Elanna's got me well trained.
I wonder if she knows that.
I finish up the soup and resume my place on the sofa.
"Computer, resume Admiral Paris' logs at the last mark," I command. The computer obliges.
"Begin log. We're getting messages from Tom on a monthly basis now. They are short, rather curt messages. He doesn't tell us much, which disappoints Anya greatly. She is the one who composes the messages back; apparently, I am not worthy of writing to my son. Her messages are a barrage of questions, most of them involving his eating habits. Tom never answers her questions directly, so we assume he is well, healthy, and eating enough. End log."
"Begin log. We got a long letter from Tom today. The stardate indicated that he wrote this a while ago. He began it simply saying, `Mom, Dad, I had to borrow the space to send this from B'Elanna Torres, so I hope you understand.' The letter went on about a demotion to ensign he received. Anya and I both listened to Tom's story and in a few places, his voice actually cracked. Anya bit her lip and I didn't say anything. When the log was over, Anya got up and left the room, but I stayed there and played the letter again. And again. Finally, Anya came back.
`What is the matter with you?' she asked. `Are you just looking for another reason to be disappointed in your son?' She didn't give me a chance to respond because we heard Linsey crying in the next room and Anya went to check on her. I sat back in my chair, contemplating Anya's question. To be honest, I don't know why I listened to Tom's letter so many times. I think, in retrospect, I just wanted to hear the sound of his voice. End log."
"Begin personal log. I saw Julia out in the garden today, apparently cutting flowers for an arrangement. We're having a party tonight and Anya's all aflutter with the preparations. Everything needs to be perfect. So in an effort to escape my wife, I went out into the garden. It was a nice day, warm, with a slight breeze and the sky was a faded shade of blue. `Can I help?' I asked and Julia looked at me with obvious surprise.
`I'm all set here, Dad,' she said. `But thanks for asking.' She pointed at the basket of flowers at her feet. `I just need to get these done before Linsey wakes up,' she said. `Really, that child runs me ragged.' I nodded in a manner I hoped was sympathetic. `It will pass,' I said. `I remember you and Tom, you had the devil in you.' Julia looked at me. `You never talk about Tom,' she said. I shrugged. `What's there to say?' I asked. Julia laughed then and picked up her basket. `A lot,' she said. 'You could say a lot, but you don't. You never have. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe it wasn't the devil in us, maybe we just wanted to talk to you.' I grabbed Julia's arm. `Was - was I a good father, Julia?' I asked.
Julia considered and she looked off into the distance, looking so serious, that I was afraid of her answer. `You had a career, Dad,' she said. `Starfleet needed you. We were proud, you know, all of us. Isobel, Tom and I, we were proud that you were so important, but sometimes we needed a father.' I nodded. `I'm sorry, Julia,' I said. But she shook her head. `Doesn't matter now,' she said. 'Excuse me. I've got to check on Linsey. Make sure she's not getting into more trouble.'
She handed me the basket and went inside. I took the basket in and gave it to Anya. Anya started to arrange the flowers with her usual artistic flair. I stayed and after a moment, Anya asked, `Do you want something, Owen?' And I swallowed hard, because for the first time in years, I lacked sufficient courage. I said quietly, `I want to know if there was a time when you, you needed me and I wasn't there.' Anya dropped the flowers, but then got to her knees to pick them up. `Yes,' she said finally. And she refused to say more. End log."
The next few logs revert to the standard what "Admiral Paris did at work" format. Once again, there are boring, excruciatingly detailed notes about a peace treaty that suddenly fell through.
Hardly interesting, considering I'd never heard of the world before, but apparently, it was a matter of great importance to my father.
In a fit of impatience, I fast-forward to the last logs my father recorded.
"Begin personal log. I talked to Rodney today. He said Voyager is on its way. I asked about the Maquis and Rodney said that no conclusion had been reached. I noted something needed to be done and Rodney agreed with me. `There are careers at stake here,' I told him and Rodney nodded. `I know, Owen,' he said. `Don't think I haven't thought about it.' I tried to remember what little I could about Chakotay and could come up only with a faint impression of a calm, utterly expressionless man who spoke in low tones. Not once during those negotiations did he raise his voice. At the time, I was livid to be sitting across the table from someone who had once worn a Starfleet uniform. I don't understand how you could turn your back on the great institution that is Starfleet.
I later learned that Michael Eddington, of all people, and Ro Laren, both former officers also, had also been involved behind the scenes. It made me furious to know this. At least Chakotay had resigned his commission prior to joining the Maquis, but Eddington? Eddington was still one of us. I suppose when Voyager disappeared and Ro Laren vanished, I let myself get complacent. Who was there to tell the story of what happened? After all, Eddington's been dead for years; went down in a blaze after being hunted for years by Captain Sisko, God rest his soul. They martyred him, you know. The Maquis still speak the name of Eddington with whispered reverence and I don't understand. I never did. End log."
"Begin personal log. This peace treaty is going to be the death of me. At least the negotiations keep me away from the house. Anya started cleaning. Tom's coming home, so everything must be spotless. She even went into his room and started putting things into order. I highly doubt that Tom will return home. I just hope he'll hear me out when we finally meet face to face. End log."
"Begin personal log. I talked to McArthur today and recommended that Voyager dock at Starbase 87. Rodney didn't like the idea. `You know that particular starbase is a disaster, don't you?' Rodney asked. `I don't think that's the kind of welcome we should give to Voyager.' I listened to Rodney's protestations and then cut him off as firmly as I could. `Don't argue,' I told him. `I have a plan.' Rodney didn't look happy. `I don't like the tone of your voice, Owen.' I tried to reassure him, but Rodney still looked uneasy.
Finally, I said, `I need to settle the Maquis question. Sending Chakotay to Alonius Prime where he still can talk, no, that's not going to work. Not this time.' Rodney argued with me. He said that it was very possible Chakotay did not remember me; after all, Chakotay had ample time to say something during the datastreams sent back to Earth, yet he never did. `That doesn't meant he won't say something now,' I argued back. In the end, McArthur agreed with me. Voyager would dock at Starbase 87 and he would stall until I arrived. And then, well... end log."
"Begin personal log. Left today for Starbase 87. I didn't say good-bye to Anya. I doubt she'd even notice my absence. I suppose it's better this way. I should feel guilty, but I don't. Besides, it's better that Anya doesn't know what I've planned. Hell, I don't even know if I want to know, but I've got to do something. I've been talking to the others and we all feel a sense of trepidation. Rodney is very nervous. He doesn't like it at all, but he agrees that something must be done. `Send them to Alonius where they can all rot if you'd like,' Rodney said. I nodded. `That's the back-up plan," I said. `Someone proposed a resurgence of the Ghasa virus.' Rodney looked at me with disgust obvious on his face. `I can't believe you'd actually do it,' he said. I laughed then, more out of hysteria and stress than anything else. `I know,' I answered. `I can't believe I'd do it either.' End log."
"Begin personal log. I saw Captain Janeway today. She looked the same, maybe a bit thinner than I remember, but she certainly carried herself with more height and authority. Her new confidence fits her well and I'm pleased with the change I see in her. We talked for a long time and she told me about Tom. I enjoyed hearing about my son in glowing terms and I'm eager to see him as soon as possible. Of course, there are those damn peace treaty negotiations making such a meeting next to impossible to arrange and of course, the question of what to do with the Maquis needs to be decided.
But the situation is now infinitely more complicated. I found out from Kathryn that Tom had married B'Elanna Torres - the woman who had given up her allocated space in the datastream so he could tell us about his demotion. For the first time, I felt guilt about what I had planned. Rodney stopped by that night and urged me to change my mind. `There's always the Ghasa virus,' he said. `Send them all to Alonius Prime, conveniently forget a medical supply shipment, and they all die. It's simple and a lot less messy than this.' And I considered his words carefully.
Once begun, I couldn't turn back. `Let me think about it,' I answered. Rodney looked at me seriously. `You'll ruin your career,' he warned. `If you do this, it will be a lot worse than trading with a few terrorists. This is murder, Owen. Think about it.' He got up and left. I couldn't sleep, thinking about Tom, B'Elanna Torres, and Kathryn's plea to me to help the Maquis. The idea of a relationship with Tom means a lot to me, but I don't know if I can turn back now. I knew even before I left home that I had already lost everything. Or maybe I lost it all when I sat across from Chakotay all those years ago. I don't know. End log."
"Begin personal log. It bothers me that Tom never told me about his marriage. Granted, Kathryn said it happened very suddenly, but during all of our communications, he never even mentioned B'Elanna Torres, save the one time. I didn't believe things were so bad between us that he could not even mention his relationship. I haven't said anything to Anya about B'Elanna Torres. She may have the same difficulty I have in accepting a Maquis as a daughter-in-law. Or maybe, just to spite me, she will welcome B'Elanna with open arms. I'm trying, really I am, but I cannot bring myself to accept my son's choice. So maybe Tom was right not to tell me. I'm glad I know now. It makes what is to come easier. End log."
"Begin log. Tom was on the station today, but because I was in those damned meetings all day, I didn't get a chance to see him. I'm tired of these logs, by the way. Tired of recording them, tired of listening to my own voice. Anyway, Tom was on the station today, and he stopped by the interrogation room. Apparently he made a racket trying to see this B'Elanna Torres. Security dragged Tom out and escorted him to Voyager. According to the security detail, at one point, Tom turned to them and said, `I want her back in one piece. If you even touch her...' Tom didn't finish his statement, but Security correctly logged the it as a threat. So add another black mark to my son's record. End log."
"Begin log. I've made a decision. Maybe this is where it ends. I haven't said anything to Rodney yet, but he did send me a brief message this morning. The plan is on, evacuate by 1400. That doesn't give me much time. Damn. I've been trying to figure out these encryption logarithms for the last hour now. I'd ask for help, but I don't want to tip my hand. End log."
"Begin log. Not much time now. Rodney has already left the station. He told me to hurry. I've finally figured out to reroute the release order. The last thing I want is for suspicion to fall on Rodney for anything in this mess. And in my own selfish way, I don't want any of this to be traced back to me. I don't want Tom to hate me anymore than he already does. I guess it's too late for that. End log."
"Begin personal log. Seems ironic to record this just an hour or so before death. It's not every man's luxury to plan for his death, so I feel lucky, Tom, very lucky. To be able to pick the time and the circumstances, that is indeed a luxury. I want you to know that Chakotay, B'Elanna Torres and the others should be safe. I've ordered their evacuation and I hope they made it off the station.
It's too late for me, Tom. I've already started the process that will destroy this starbase. I know there's a lot you don't understand. I know you're probably bewildered. Hell, I'm confused myself. I suppose you want to know what happened when I sat down to negotiate with the Maquis. Well, I was in it for myself. For the first time in my life, I saw an opportunity, which would benefit me and not Starfleet, so I took the chance when asked. All I wanted was the land. Rich soil plus a nice vein of latinum running through the rocks just below the surface. You're surprised, aren't you?
Money doesn't motivate us, or so the Federation likes to think. Starfleet compensates me well, Tom, but you can always be richer. So when I was given the chance to own this property, I couldn't pass it up. So we made the deal. I didn't set out to renege on the offer, but I justified the breaking of the contract by the simple fact that these were terrorists, plain and simple.
They never said a word because we hunted them down, day and night, but everyday, those of us involved in the scheme were terrified that one of them would speak and maybe, Starfleet would take them seriously. But it never happened. Chakotay was on Voyager, seventy thousand light years away, and who knows what happened to Ro Laren? I believed that the truth would never surface and I could contemplate the lines of latinum to my heart's delight.
Congratulations, Tom, you now own some land on Dorvan IV. It wasn't practical to live there in the past because of the Dominion War and tensions in the DMZ, but it might be all right now. If I ever had a regret in my life, it's that I made a promise and didn't keep it. And I'm not talking about the Maquis; my opinion of them has never changed. I'm talking about you, Julia, Isobel, even your mother.
I should have been there, but I wasn't. I didn't think at the time, and I regret so much. So, I hope you understand, Tom. I don't have much time. I did save your wife for you, so maybe that makes up for the past when I wasn't the father you needed and wanted. And there's the land - that's yours to split evenly with Isobel and Julia. Tom, I wish nothing but the best for you and B'Elanna. Goodbye. End log."
~ end part XI ~
****
I've lost track of time.
Morning or night, I have no idea.
I don't even know what day it is.
I don't think it matters.
I've been walking for hours. Or maybe seconds, or minutes, or days - I have no idea. I pass crewmembers in the corridors and their names escape me. I mumble a hello and pass them, without waiting to see if they respond.
When I accepted my first commission, it surprised me how easily you could lose a sense of time in space. You see only the dark coldness of space and that - that never changes.
I end up in my quarters because roaming the corridors endlessly has started to get to me. I'm sure the crew thinks I'm crazy; hell, even I'm inclined to agree with them.
The first time I entered these quarters over seven years ago, Mark was with me. He looked around pensively. He stood like he does when he's nervous - hands jammed into pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.
"Nice," he said. "Bigger than your quarters on the Al-Batani."
"I'm the captain now, Mark," I reminded him. I opened some dresser drawers and peered into the closet. "The position does have a perk or two."
"So do I call you `sir' now?" he asked. He peered out of the window. "Nice view of the space dock you've got there, Kathryn."
"I prefer `ma'am,'" I replied. "And the view will change."
"Well," Mark said. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of you."
"Thank you," I said. I peeked into the bathroom, which was amazingly large for a starship. I even turned on the sonic shower, putting my hand beneath it to feel the pressure. "This is good, really good."
"Who decorates these quarters anyway?" Mark said. I went back out into the living area and saw him staring at a rather dismal picture - gray canvas streaked with maroon.
"Starfleet has an entire department responsible for decorating starships."
"Functional design, but certainly not attractive."
"Well, I do intend to bring some of my own things to brighten the place up."
"Hmmm," Mark smiled. "Well, I do have something for you. Something to make it a little more homey."
I looked at him in surprise.
"You didn't have to do anything," I told him.
"I wanted to," he said. "Look over there."
Mark pointed to a side-table, located to the left of the sofa.
"A tea set?" I asked. "Mark, it's lovely."
I picked up the silver pot and then examined each of the matching cups in turn. I felt Mark watching me the whole time.
"I know how you are about your coffee," he said. "And I thought this might make things a little more... elegant?"
"It's lovely," I repeated. "And you're sweet. How did you get this in here? I couldn't come onboard until a couple hours ago."
Mark smiled.
"It pays to make friends with the cleaning crew," he said. I crossed over to him and put my arms around his neck.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything. And especially, thank you for agreeing to take care of Molly."
"Not a problem," he said. "She's a good dog."
"I appreciate it."
A moment of silence passed, and then Mark cleared his throat.
"We need to talk, Kathryn, when you get back."
"I know," I answered. "Be patient, all right? It's just for a few weeks. Maybe six months, at the most."
Mark sighed and looked around the quarters once more, taking in the mostly gray and maroon decor with a jaded eye. I put my hand on his forearm.
"It won't be so bad," I told him.
"Right," he said in the matter-of-fact tone that meant he did not agree with me, but did not feel like arguing the point.
I held his hand tightly as we continued to look around. Mark tried out the replicator and it produced a decent cup of coffee.
"Voila. I suppose you'll be all right now," Mark said. "Coffee, that's all you've ever needed, isn't it?"
I looked at him for a long time, contemplating his craggy, aquiline features and dark eyes I loved so much.
"Coffee makes most things better," I told him.
"Not the answer I was hoping for, but I'll take it."
"Well, you shouldn't make statements like that then," I said crabbily.
"Right."
Mark looked so crestfallen that I felt terrible for snapping at him.
"We'll have that talk when I get back," I said softly.
Mark nodded.
"When you come back," he said. "God, I am going to miss you."
"Me too," I said with a trace of insincerity, only because I was dreading the talk we would have on my return. The thought of marriage - however much I loved him - seemed to be a step towards restricting my freedom. We would be equals in everything, bound together, and forced to take the other into consideration for every decision. In truth, I was secretly glad for the time away to think about what I truly wanted, but of course, I couldn't tell Mark that I was having second thoughts about spending the rest of my life with him.
"Truly," he said. "Come back soon."
During our first weeks in the Delta Quadrant, I found that I missed Mark with a frightening intensity. I would wake up at night, missing his presence next to me and it disturbed me greatly that I did not know what he was doing or how he was feeling. Did he miss me the way I missed him? Did he wonder if I was alive? Some nights, I would write him letters before going to sleep.
The letters would be exactly the kind he hated - chatty, gossipy, a basic list of events that had gone on Voyager. I would have written deeper letters, the ones that revealed my most inner feelings, and I would have told him that if we had had that talk, I would have said yes. But I could never bring myself to spill my emotions into a data PADD, because that seemed like a lousy way to confess what I should verbalize. More importantly, I wanted to see his face when I told him. I wanted to be able to run my fingers over his cheek and down his jawbone as he held my hand in his.
I dreamt of my reunion with Mark so many times until the day I found out he had gotten married. After reading that message, I spent most of that day philosophizing in the holodeck with daVinci when Chakotay showed up.
"I was looking for you," he said. "Dinner?"
A simple request uttered in a casual tone, but I looked at Chakotay differently that day. So I nodded, joined him in the mess hall. He told terrible jokes and I laughed so hard that tears ran down my cheeks. That night, I pretend that Chakotay had a sense of humor, for no other reason than to persuade myself that those tears weren't shed for Mark.
Even when Chakotay and I moved past dinners and the occasional date on the holodeck, I still thought about Mark on occasion and I would find myself obsessing over an endless "what if" fantasy.
I didn't realize that Chakotay knew I occasionally mused about the life I should have had with Mark, until one day Chakotay was lying in bed, watching me get dressed. He looked lazy, his hair rumpled, his torso exposed from waist up.
"Good morning," I said. Chakotay grunted back.
"Talkative today, aren't you?" I continued. I pressed my lips together as I applied lipstick.
"Do you really want to talk?" Chakotay asked.
"Before coffee? Not really, but go ahead."
"I don't know if I should."
"If you have something to say, say it," I said in exasperation. I hated it when Chakotay tossed out little hints but didn't follow up on them, for whatever reason.
"You put up boundaries," Chakotay said. I looked at him in surprise.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"We've been... together," Chakotay began and then his voice trailed off. I sat down on a chair to lace up my boots. "You don't think about me outside of this bed, do you?"
"What?"
"You don't think about me. You rely on me to be there when you need me, but it doesn't matter to
you how I feel, does it?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Why do you ignore my advice?"
"I don't. I listen."
"You pretend my opinion counts. I don't know what hurts more: knowing you're going to ignore what I have to say or asking what I think and pretending it counts."
"That's not true."
"I suppose it's too much to ask how you really feel."
"You know how I feel," I told him. "That's never been a secret."
"You want to let me in on it?"
"Chakotay, I don't have time for this."
I stood up and took a quick look in the mirror. I noted that my cheeks were still slightly flushed and my eyes sparkled just a bit more than usual. I straightened my clothes, fluffed my hair lightly, and then turned to look back at Chakotay.
"You're wrong," I told him. "I can't believe you'd even say such things."
"You know it's true, Kathryn. Even when we returned from New Earth, you wouldn't talk to me about what happened between us there."
"For heaven's sake," I said. "I need to be on the Bridge. We'll talk about this later."
Chakotay shook his head.
"No, we won't," he said. "We won't ever talk because you don't want to say certain things out-loud. You're afraid to."
"Do you have an ancient warrior story about that?" I asked snidely. "Maybe you can come up with one between now and dinner."
"This is why I should never try to have a meaningful conversation with you," Chakotay said. He got out of bed and grabbed his clothes. "You're an impossible woman. Sometimes, I don't even know if you're real."
He stalked off into the bathroom and a few seconds later, I heard the hiss of the sonic shower.
I sighed and left my quarters at a brisk pace.
Now I barely recall the way Mark looked when he stood here in my quarters. I do remember Chakotay though and the way his features would soften when he looked across the table at me and I would shiver, knowing that the emotions on his face were not a trick of candlelight.
I curl up on the sofa, pulling a shawl over my shoulders. I focus on the endless starscape outside my window, thinking how a nice walk out an airlock would surely cure all that ails me now - and forever.
Chakotay was right. I'm a statue, a goddamned marble masterpiece. I can't risk emotion for I will crack, and I can't risk motion for surely I would fall and surrender to a passion greater than me.
And maybe it wouldn't have been bad to say those three little words - just once.
~ end part XI ~
****
I wake with a gasp.
The logs, they're over. God, those logs...
They sounded just like my father - overly formal, stilted, and occasionally vague. I marvel at the fact that he even recorded his thoughts for prosperity, knowing how incriminating this information could be.
But then he never intended to return home from Starbase 87.
My father's logs show me a piece of the father I've always wanted: the father who missed and loved me desperately. But then, there was also the cold, calculating ruthless Starfleet officer and that's what I'm having difficulty with.
I hate to have such a schizophrenic view of my father.
I'm hungry, so I replicate some oatmeal and peanut butter toast. I'm halfway through eating when
the door chimes.
"Come," I call.
Harry walks in.
"You doing okay?" he asks.
"Now that I have food, yeah."
"I tried to comm you a couple times. You didn't respond."
"I was busy. Sorry."
"Sure you're okay?" Harry grabs the chair opposite me and sits down. He raps his fingers gently on the table. "The Captain hasn't been on the Bridge in hours. Tuvok recommended she get some rest. I think she's wandering around the ship."
"I see," I answer neutrally. At this moment, I don't care what Captain Janeway is doing. If she feels the need to take a look around a ship that won't be hers in a few days, by all means, she should go ahead. She's more sentimental about this ship than some mothers are about their children.
"I thought I'd let you know we're only a couple hours away now," Harry says. "Everyone is getting more excited now. Even Seven received some letters from relatives." Harry's broad face lights up with a smile. "She is... unsure as to how to respond."
"Is that a direct quote?"
"Yes," Harry answers. "I don't suppose you would help her out?"
"Why not you? It would be some good, quality bonding time with Seven. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
"Come on, Tom," Harry says. "Help her out, okay?"
"Why not you?" I ask again.
"Why not you?" he counters.
"Because I don't feel like it."
Harry relaxes back in his chair. His finger tapping gets on my nerves.
"You're not okay, Tom," he says. "Stop lying to me, to yourself, to everyone around you."
"I just need time alone."
"I bet you didn't even tell B'Elanna. I bet you acted like everything was just fine. She probably doesn't have the first clue."
"I told B'Elanna."
Harry doesn't look convinced. He shrugs.
"Have it your way," he says. "I'm just trying to help."
"You don't believe me."
"Of course not. You're a first class escapist, Tom. Even before you commit yourself to anything, you're looking for a way out. Just once and I really mean, just once, can't you be honest? With me, if no one else?"
I look around my quarters, focusing on everything except for Harry. I can't deal with his concern and care right now for the pure fact that I don't believe he can help me; no one can help because no one else on the damn ship knows what I'm going through.
I hate when people tell me they understand because damn it, they don't. They simply look at you with wide eyes, thin lipped expression, and they nod at you in a sympathetic manner. Somehow, you feel that they really aren't listening when you speak; you imagine that they are thinking about a dinner date or maybe what they plan to wear tomorrow. And then, they all cluck at you, pet you gently on the shoulder and say, "I'm sorry. I understand how you feel."
Occasionally, my father would come into my room during the turbulent teen years. He would stand at the foot of the bed, stare down at me and in his most dignified voice, he would say, "Thomas, I understand what you're going through. If we discuss this, we can arrive at a solution together."
Hell, I hated that. I never wanted to arrive anywhere; I was already where I wanted to be and not for a single minute did I believe my father could understand me or anything in my life. So when he came, I would roll onto my stomach and pull the covers over my head, hoping to block out the irritating sound of his voice. And invariably, my father would say, "Dammit! Would you just talk to me?" and I wouldn't respond; eventually, he would leave, and I would feel like I had won a small victory.
I sigh and look back at Harry.
"I've been listening to my father's logs," I tell him. "I- I don't know what to make of them."
Because I feel the need to talk to someone, I quickly tell Harry about my father's activities.
"I don't understand, Tom," he says.
"I don't either," I tell him. "I've listened to some of the logs over again but even that doesn't help."
"Why would your father do such a thing? The land he's talking about, why should that matter? It's not like it would be of any value to anyone who is not Cardassian."
"Maybe he planned to sell it to the Cardassians," I say. "Maybe he wanted to auction it off to the Ferengi, I don't know."
"There's got to be a mistake."
I look up at Harry.
"Yeah," I say very softly. "I wish I'd gotten the chance to talk to him. Really talk to him."
Harry nods.
"I thought you might feel that way," he says. "Regardless of anything else. Are you going to say something to the Captain?"
"I haven't thought about it."
"Seven's tests indicated that the explosion wasn't an accident. The Captain believes that Admiral McArthur is responsible."
"Sounds like McArthur did everything to convince my father not to go through with it," I answer bitterly. "Wish he'd listen. I don't understand why my father thought he was at the point of no return. I don't get why he didn't pull back when he had second thoughts. It's beyond my comprehension."
"Does he explain himself in the logs?"
"Not very well."
"So are you going to tell the Captain?"
I look down at my hands.
"I- I don't know," I answer. "I suppose if she asks..."
"That's an easy one. She won't ask," Harry says. "You're off the hook. Another decision avoided."
"Very funny, Harry. Nice of you to kick me when I'm down."
"I'm not kicking you, Tom, at least not intentionally. I'm trying to figure out what's going on with you. Hell, I don't know why I even try."
There's something in his tone that reminds of the way I used to speak to B'Elanna during my unrequited love phase in an attempt to get her to see me as more than an arrogant pig.
"Because you're a good person, Harry," I tell him. "And I do appreciate it."
Harry allows himself a tiny smile.
"Glad to hear it," he says.
I lean back in my chair, turning my body sideways, so I can see out of the windows.
"It wasn't all bad, Harry. I also learned some things about my family from Dad's logs," I say. "I can't wait to meet Linsey, my sister Julia's daughter. She sounds like a handful, a bit like me."
"That's what we need, another Tom Paris," Harry says with a laugh. "Mind if I get something from the replicator?"
"Help yourself."
A few seconds later, Harry returns with a cup of coffee. He inhales deeply.
"I missed this stuff," he says. "Back at the Academy, I swear, I had more coffee than blood running through me. Insane. Made me jittery all night, but I didn't want to try those drugs. You know which ones I'm talking about."
"Yeah."
Harry's eyes narrow.
"You tried those stimulants, didn't you?" he asks. "The ones that keep you awake all night?"
"And into the next, yeah," I answer. I push my empty plate away. "Kept you wide-eyed and active, let me tell you."
"Did you use them often?"
"What is this?" I ask him. "Why are you interrogating me?"
Harry shrugs.
"I've never asked before and I don't know what kind of time we've got left."
"You sound like San Francisco is the end of the road."
"You don't think so?"
"I told you already I don't know what to think. I certainly don't expect that San Francisco is where it's all going to end for us."
"You're an optimist," Harry says.
"Look who's talking," I lean forward. "Harry, I've got too many questions. I need to know why."
"You know I'll help you."
I shake my head.
"No," I tell him.
"Tom..."
"Look," I say. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. I want to do this alone. I need to."
Harry looks doubtful but after a moment, he nods his head.
"Yeah," he says. "I get that."
I gaze at my friend. I allow myself a smile, even if it doesn't seem to fit on my face right now.
"Thanks," I tell him. "For everything."
"Don't mention it."
"Yeah."
He leans back in his chair.
"I don't have anywhere to be," he says. "And I checked the holodeck before I came down. It should be free. What do you say?"
I look down at the PADD, which contains my father's last words, and back at Harry. Taking aim at some of the bad guys in the Captain Proton simulation seems like brilliant idea right now; if I can't shoot my father, disrespectful as that sounds, I might as well take this pent-up anger everyone insists I have and put it to good use.
"Yeah," I say. "The holodeck, that sounds like a good idea."
****
I roll over in bed, and stare up at the ceiling in a moment of disorientation. Then I remember everything and a second later, I'm on my feet, heading into the bathroom. I dry heave a few times, but bile continues to burn in my esophagus. I slump to the floor, nearly banging my head on the toilet.
I'm pathetic.
Damn pathetic.
For seven years, I stared down aliens and called their bluffs.
Even took a few risks myself.
Won most of the gambles I took.
Thought I did a pretty good job with Voyager too.
Now, one conversation with an admiral and I've reduced myself to a sniveling mess.
Lovely.
I draw my knees to my chest, hugging them close to me. I'm suddenly aware of the cold and wonder about the environmental controls. And then I remember that B'Elanna's not here to monitor to the systems and thinking about B'Elanna naturally leads me to thinking about Chakotay.
Neelix said that Chakotay must have a plan; he wouldn't leave me.
Neelix knows the crew better than anyone. Hurts me to admit it, but it's true, very true. He spent the time getting to know them; I just dished out orders, watched the crew follow my directives, and occasionally, one of them would question me. Most of the time though, out of a sense of propriety, I would stay in my quarters when not on duty, waiting for Chakotay to arrive on whatever pretense he had concocted for that day. Some nights he would show up with a duty roster and a formal, "Captain, I thought you would want to review my changes for this week
In some ways, I enjoyed the subterfuge but I also resented the invisible barrier that kept me from socializing more informally with crew.
Sometimes, I wanted to do more than lean towards Chakotay; I wanted to grab his hand right there in front of everyone. I wanted to brush my lips against his cheeks lightly the way B'Elanna does to Tom when she thinks no one is looking.
If that's love... God, what am I saying? It must be, right? I don't even know. I hate that I don't know.
When we spent time in the void, I allowed only Chakotay to visit. He would hand me the duty rosters, give a general state of the ship ("Everything is operating at peak efficiency, Captain.") and then he would gently massage my shoulders and back. He would tell me stories, and soon, I found myself looking forward together. In a way that made me uncomfortable and exited at the same time, I anticipated his arrival, sometimes with shaking hands and flushed cheeks.
And other moments, when I felt our relationship growing too close, frighteningly close to the point where Mark and I had been, I would draw back. I relied heavily on my sense of guilt as a convenient excuse and Chakotay, hesitantly, would agree and withdraw.
Once, I wandered the corridors of Voyager, keeping close to the walls, and ducking into storage rooms if I heard voices. That night, I saw Tom and B'Elanna. They were in front of his quarters and his hands rested on her hips lightly. I could barely make out their conversation, but it was something about breakfast plans and then B'Elanna broke away. A second later, Tom turned down the corridor and saw me there.
"I thought I heard something," he said. "It's usually B'Elanna who suspects someone's around, but this time... it's good to see you, Captain."
"Hello, Tom. I- I didn't mean to intrude."
"You didn't," Tom said easily. "It's your ship."
He laid special emphasis on the word `your' and I didn't particularly care to correct him; hell, at that moment, I didn't care much about anything but getting the crew home in one piece and these days, the possibilities of that seemed to be next to nothing.
"Is- is everything all right?" Tom asked carefully. "We've been worried about you."
"I need some time to think," I told him. "Everything is fine."
"Would you tell us if the situation was otherwise?"
"I've always been candid with the crew."
"In your way, yes."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I leaned back against the wall, folding my arms against my chest. "I've never lied to any of you, Tom."
"I didn't mean to imply that you did," Tom answered. "I think you tell us the truth the way you want to see it. But I suppose, you can say that of anyone. We all look at things from our own perspectives."
"When did you get so philosophical?"
In spite of myself, I was amused by Tom's comments. I did feel the sting of reproach underlying his words, but the sight of a pensive, serious Tom? Now that was a phenomenon rarely observed.
"I've had a lot of time to think also," he said. "B'Elanna and I've been fighting."
I blinked in surprise at his frankness; it wasn't like Tom to talk about his relationship to B'Elanna. I didn't even think he talked to B'Elanna about their relationship.
"I wouldn't have guessed," I answered finally.
"You've been in your quarters, with all due respect," Tom said. "Right now, we're okay, but I know we're due for an argument any time now. God, I hate it when we fight. It eats at my gut, you know? I'm always thinking of a million things I should have said. And then I think about how I can make it up to her. And it's odd, because no matter what the argument is about or who started it, I always think it's my fault. Even when she apologizes, I feel terrible, because I feel like I've failed her in some way. Sometimes, B'Elanna's got me so turned around, I don't know what to think."
Then Tom bit his lip, looked at me and said softly, "But I don't suppose you know how that all goes?"
I wanted to disagree with him, but I couldn't. After all, where do you start if you're already at the beginning? If Tom wanted to stand here and trade relationship tips, what could I say? The truth? And how exactly would that come out? Maybe something along the lines of: "I do understand what you're talking about, Tom. I don't know how to tell you this - hell, I'll just say it. Chakotay and I are sleeping together. We can't tell anyone because it's a breach of protocol, but yes, the rumors are true. And you must have noticed by now that Chakotay and I have a communication problem. At least that's what Chakotay thinks. He's always analyzing, reading too much into each situation. I know what the problem is and he's wrong. He likes to question my decisions and I don't like his solutions. The issue of command, it gets in the way. What do you think, Tom? How does that compare to your relationship with B'Elanna? Maybe we should trade notes."
But of course, I couldn't say all of that. I simply looked at Tom, swallowed hard, and said with sincerity, "I hope you and B'Elanna work things out. It's not easy, I know- but I think you can do it."
Not exactly a gung-ho speech there, but I couldn't rouse myself to the proper levels of enthusiasm when it came to B'Elanna and Tom. To me, they often acted like unruly children, fighting constantly because it was easier to trade insults than to confess to something real. Or maybe they didn't know how to be in love. And in that case, who was I to offer them any advice?
Tom nodded, said his goodnight, and disappeared into his quarters.
And because I didn't want to risk encountering anyone else, I headed back to mine. Once back in the privacy of my quarters, I poured myself a glass of Merlot, and sat down on the sofa. I thought about Tom and B'Elanna and the way Tom's eyes glazes over when he looks at B'Elanna.
When Chakotay came that night, I pulled him into the bedroom and put my hand on his chest. He covered my fingers with his and for a long time, we just stood there. At some point, I leaned forward, resting my cheek against his chest, and he held me.
"I'm here," he said very softly and that night, I felt safe from the blackness that threatened to engulf me.
The memory makes me want Chakotay even more at this moment for nothing more than his ability to keep the demons far away from me. Even in those moments when I hated him for contradicting me, I knew he stood behind me, no matter what I did, ready to protect me from myself.
Pathetic.
Damn.
Starfleet captains don't huddle on the floors of bathrooms, hugging their knees. They don't sit in dark rooms, brooding and ruminating over past foibles. Starfleet captains certainly don't allow for relationship issues to interfere with command.
There should be a class on this kind of thing because I don't know what do other than sit here and sulk on the bathroom floor. Truth be told, I'd rather not be a captain for a while. Being womanly, even for a few seconds, would be nice change of pace.
I would like to believe McArthur is responsible for my current state, but I'm gradually beginning to realize that Starfleet, in all of its schizophrenic glory, is only partially responsible for my current distress.
If my crew could see me now, what would they say?
~ end part XII ~
****
"What is it? Captain Proton?" I ask.
"You'll see," Harry says. He punches in some codes while I shift from foot to foot behind him. I try to peer over his shoulder, but Harry's not having it; he shifts his body so I can't see
what he's doing.
"Don't hold me in suspense," I say.
"Patience is a virtue, Tom," Harry says. "Good things come to those who wait."
"You sound like a grandmother."
"Seems to me you're coming back to normal. Same old carefree happy Tom Paris, eh?"
"If you say so."
"What are you doing?" Seven approaches us. She holds a PADD in her hand. "Ensign Kim, I was looking for you."
Harry turns around guiltily.
"Did we have a meeting, Seven?" he frowns. "I don't recall-"
"No," she holds the PADD out. "I require your assistance in responding to this letter."
Harry takes the PADD and scrolls through the content.
"It is of a conciliatory nature," Seven continues. "However, I am uncertain how to respond. I believe a reply is appropriate in this case."
"Depends," I say, thinking about some of the letters that I wrote to my father from New Zealand - letters that he never answered. "If you have something to say, that is. Or maybe, you don't, in which case, you don't write back. Whatever you want, Seven."
Seven looks at Harry, ignoring me smoothly.
"It's human nature, isn't it?" I ask. "Do what you want to do since you're going to do it anyway?"
Harry stares at me.
"What are you talking about?" he asks finally. "Seven needs advice, Tom, and you're not helping."
"It's her decision," I say. "Whatever she chooses to do. I don't know why you can't see that."
"I am unsure of how to draft a letter," Seven says. "I have never written a letter before. You offered your assistance earlier."
"Of course," Harry says. He shoots me a look with the intention of reducing me to a shriveling pile of guilt at Seven's feet; hell, he's not getting me this way. Seven and her letter, damn, they can fend for themselves.
"These individuals, Karin and Kristophe Hansen, have offered to meet me when we dock," Seven says. "Kristophe Hansen is my father's brother. My uncle."
"So the letter says."
"I must rehearse a speech."
I laugh.
"No speech necessary, Seven. Be yourself," I advise. "It's only family."
"Tom," Harry says agitatedly. "Would you stop it?"
"Look," I hold up a hand. "It's a letter, for God's sake. Just say or do something, but don't think about it."
I punch in a code to open the holodeck and the doors slide open. Instead, Harry has programmed a tropical jungle, complete with lemurs swinging from tree branch to tree branch and in the distance, I can hear the roar of a river. Brightly colored florae dot the verdant shrubbery while vines twist around tree trunks. Humidity hangs in the air, sticky and oppressive. I look at Harry in surprise; he shrugs.
"A rainforest?" I ask. "Of all things?"
"It is an interesting environment," Seven observes. She glances around. I hear the howl of a wild animal and a second later, I'm aware of a snake hanging discreetly from a tree branch.
"Harry!" I scream. I jump back, nearly knocking my friend over. Harry regains his balance.
"Something wrong, Tom?" he asks innocently.
"I thought gangsters, Harry. Captain Proton at the very least. Even the beach. But this? This is a rainforest. What are you thinking?"
"Look at the detail," Harry grabs my arm.
"I'm looking." I point to the snake whose tongue darts in and out of its straight-line of a mouth quickly. "I don't like this, Harry. God! You programmed a snake?"
A second later, something small and furry runs across my boot. I jump, earning me a look of disdain from Seven of Nine.
"There are mice in here? Good lord, Harry. What is this?" I exclaim.
"I believe it is an authentic recreation of a rainforest," Seven says. She takes a few steps and then glances up at the canopy of leaves above us. "The temperature, however, is uncomfortable."
"Sorry," Harry says. "Like you said, it's authentic. Do you like it, Tom?"
"Are you crazy? What is - damn it, Harry, something bit me!"
"You should be okay. I left out the poisonous species," Harry answers.
I stare at him in surprise.
"That was thoughtful," I retort as I rub the red welt on my ankle.
"I programmed this a while back," Harry says pensively. "Before we even got back to the Alpha Quadrant... I've been wanting to show it to you for a while, Tom. I'm - I'm proud of it. I think it's one of the best programs I've done."
Seven leans down to pluck a reddish-hued flower from a shrub. She holds it up, examining it - stamen, pistils and all.
"What species is this? I am unfamiliar with this flower."
"It is a Heliconia, commonly called lobster claws. See how the flower looks like a claw?" Harry leaves my side to talk to Seven. For a few minutes, they discuss this particular blossom in great detail. Seven seems satisfied and then she looks at me.
"Lieutenant," she says. "Are you not interested?"
"I was misled," I answer grumpily.
"Fine, go," Harry says.
"What possessed you?" I can't resist asking. "This isn't exactly the ideal vacation spot. You could have left the mosquitoes out."
I slap at my arm and I'm irritated that Seven and Harry do not seem to be tasty prey for the insects of the rainforest.
"Next time," Harry says.
"Hell, even you think there won't be a next time. You choose this program for our last holodeck experience? Don't be ridiculous."
"Come with me," Harry says. His tone is firm, effectively cutting off any other complaints I must have. "I'm sorry that there aren't any fast cars or shuttlecraft for you to race, but this is important to me."
Properly chastened, I follow Harry and Seven.
The undergrowth is thick and in some places, still damp with morning dew. Harry, wielding a machete, cuts us a path expertly; I'm truly impressed at my friend's skill. I would have never guessed that trail blazing was a hobby of Harry's.
I step gingerly to avoid stepping on snakes, mice and other native fauna that Harry might have felt lent authenticity to the program. The trek is arduous since no path exists and the sounds of the jungle make me nervous.
Finally, we emerge on the bank of a river. The water is murky but fast flowing. On the other side, I see more trees.
"Well?" I question.
Harry points to a smooth-faced boulder jutting out of the bank.
"See that?" he asks.
"Yeah?"
"I almost proposed to Libby there," he says. "`Almost' being the operative word. I actually lost my footing and fell in. I lost the ring."
"That is unfortunate," Seven says.
"I've been thinking a lot, Tom," Harry says. "You asked about Libby and I told you that I didn't expect anything. But the other day, I came here to sit on that rock and I realized that I don't want any regrets. I don't want to look back for the rest of my life and wonder what would have happened if for a single moment, I had kept my balance."
"You did not propose again?" Seven asks.
"No. The Voyager posting came up and I thought that I had plenty of time. Libby never knew what I had intended. I needed to save up for another ring. Of course, I didn't think it seven years would pass before I could ask the question. And now... well, I was certain of her then. Hell, I was certain of me too."
I stare in fascination at the rock. I can almost see Harry and Libby standing there and Harry, in his enthusiasm, slipping on a wet spot and landing in the water. I imagine that he laughed nervously the way he does when he isn't sure what to do next. Maybe Libby extended her hand to help him out, maybe she jumped in after him or just maybe, she stood there and laughed. Harry doesn't seem inclined to fill in the blanks.
"You should write the letter, Seven," Harry says firmly. "But not the way Tom suggests. Write with your heart and tell them everything. Answer the questions they ask. Don't wait for another opportunity; take this one now."
This new philosophical Harry stuns me. In the past, I've always chided him on being wet behind the ears, but his present sincerity and serenity both reveal a side of Harry I've always ignored in favor of his more playful side.
"I'll help you," Harry says. Seven looks relieved.
"Harry?" I ask.
"What?"
"Why - why did you choose a rainforest?"
Harry shrugs.
"Like everything else," he says. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
He leads the way back through the forest. This time, our walk is much easier since we follow our original path. I think about making a joke about maps or even about programming nice trails into the scenario, but Harry doesn't seem inclined to humor at this moment.
Back in the corridor, Harry ends the program and then looks at me.
"I've wanted to show you that for a while," he says.
"I'm glad you did," I tell him. "Why didn't you ever say anything before?"
"I guess the longer we were away, the further away reality got. I started to forget Libby - the way she looked, walked, spoke, all of those things. And then, when you asked me about her the other day, I remembered this. In a way, it bothered me that I could forget so easily a moment that could have been the most important in my life."
"Do you intend to renew your acquaintance with this woman?" Seven asks. I look at her and for the first time, I think I detect a note of jealousy underlying Seven's tone. She keeps her expression even, but I wonder if there is something there. When Seven first came aboard Voyager, Harry had definite surge of testosterone whenever the former drone came within thirty meters of him. I teased him then, perhaps to the point where his attraction to her all but vanished. Yet, never for a second did I imagine Seven could have an interest in someone that went beyond efficiency and expediency.
"I wasn't going to," Harry answers. "Tom asked me a while ago and I said no, but I think - remembering this, I think I want to see her. It may not be the same, but I'll regret it if I don't. I don't want any regrets. Can you imagine us, Tom, at ninety years old and wondering what if we had done things differently? I don't want it to be like that. So I think I'm going to answer Libby's letter. I'll ask her to meet and there won't be any expectations, none. I think it's too much to ask, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I answer. "Like a lot of things, it's too much to ask."
"Do you plan to meet your family?" Seven asks.
"I don't know," I say. "My mother and sisters, they didn't say anything in their letters."
"Do they know about your father?" Harry asks softly.
I lean back against the wall and rub my hand across my eyes; suddenly, I'm very tired.
"I don't know. They must, right?"
Several crewmembers walk by us, talking in low voices. They nod a greeting at us, but pass by us without further conversation.
"Ensign Kim," Seven says. "You did not finish your story. What happened when you fell in the river?"
Harry's expression immediately brightens.
"I didn't? Oh, I landed in the water and it was maybe waist deep, but the current ran strong. Libby found a branch lying on the side of the bank and held it out to me. Pretty funny, isn't it?"
Seven tilts her head to the side.
"I fail to see the humor," she says. "But Libby sounds like a nice individual."
"Oh, she is," Harry answers wistfully.
"I didn't know going home would be this painful," I say. Harry looks at me in surprise.
"Think about it," I continue. "We've been hoping for home for years now and now that we are, I'd rather be back in the Delta Quadrant. What do we do now? We don't even know. God, I don't even know when I will see my mother. I don't even know when I'll see B'Elanna again. I don't like this, Harry."
"Tom, you've been through a lot in the last few days," Harry says kindly. "It's only natural you're having difficulty coping."
"Don't," I hold up a hand and then take a step away from Harry and Seven. "`Difficulty' is an understatement. I'm still trying to figure out what remains. Do you get that? You were talking about reality before, Harry. You were saying that you'd gotten away from reality for a while and yeah, we did. It's not just coming home to family and accolades. What we remember doesn't exist anymore and that's what's difficult. The rest, those are just details. Minor details."
"The death of a parent is not a minor detail," Seven retorts.
"I didn't say that," I answer. "I only pointed out what I felt. Don't think I have for one second forgotten my father. Believe me, I'm never going to forget him. Not after what he's done."
"What has he done?" Seven asks. I realize that she has little idea of my father's role with the Maquis and the subsequent destruction of the starbase. "I did not know your father, Lieutenant, but I believed him to be an honorable individual. Was I mistaken?"
Harry and I exchange a look. It's better, I think, that the memory of Owen Paris, distinguished Starfleet Admiral, remain a hazy vision of what was, rather than what is.
"No, Seven, you're not wrong," I say. "He- he was honorable in his way. And you know what? He was so proud of his granddaughter. The way he talked about her, God, I wish I could have seen the two of them together. When he talked about Linsey, he seemed less like an admiral, more like a human being. It was... nice."
"That's a good way to remember him," Harry says carefully.
"Perhaps I should recall my parents in a similar manner," Seven adds. She doesn't say anything else, but I know exactly what she means.
"I'll help you with that letter," I tell her in one of those heartfelt moments of dysfunctional solidarity. Kind of a "I'm okay, you're okay" moment, but without the hugging.
"Thank you," Seven says. "I am grateful for your assistance."
"Tuvok to Paris."
"Paris here."
"Report to the bridge. We have arrived."
He doesn't have to give us much more information. Seven's letter is going to have to wait.
"Understood," I reply. "Paris out."
Harry, Seven and I exchange a look and then, silently, we walk towards the bridge.
****
"Tuvok to Janeway."
"What is it?"
"We are in range to dock."
"Already?"
Deep breaths. Long and slow.
"Are you all right, Captain?"
"I'm fine. Thank you for letting me know. Janeway out."
I rise from the sofa, where I've been resting for the last hour or so, trying to convince myself that a good cup of coffee is all I really need to shake off my anxiety. The effect, I realize, is the exact opposite of what I'd hoped for; my hands shake as I reach for a clean uniform. I dress quickly and then take a look at myself in the mirror.
Outwardly, I look every inch the regulation Starfleet officer, from the arrangement of pips on my turtleneck to my gleaming boots. Hell, you can't even tell that just over five months ago, I was the epitome of perfection, dressed steel plated armor, complete with the accessories every well-dressed drone needs: various blinking lights, tubes of varying radii and glow-in-the-dark circuitry.
But the Doctor has done his work well, and there are no scars. Not any that you can see and I refuse to confess to any of the rest.
I run my hand over my hair, smoothing a few stray hairs back into place. A deep breath, a quick pinch to the cheeks for color, and I'm ready to step back into the persona of Kathryn Janeway, Captain.
I swallow hard as I walk down the empty corridors. You can imagine how you'll feel in a certain moment. I mean, I visualized for hours about what a homecoming would feel like. And I practiced that happy feeling. Then when I realized I wouldn't get my ticker tape parade and no one would be celebrating our return, then I practiced this homecoming - the one where I would walk alone, head held high, blinking back tears.
Still, my imagination did not feel like this. Not at all.
I hate reality.
I arrive on the bridge to see my crew working diligently at their stations. They are calm as if coming home is something we do regularly.
"Commander," I nod at Tuvok.
"Captain."
He gets up from my chair and moves slightly the left so I can sit down. I take a look around my bridge before settling down. They - Harry, Tuvok, Tom, and Seven - offer back nervous smiles. Moments like this need speeches, rousing Cicero-style orations guaranteed to bring everyone to a foot-stomping ovation. Yet, when I need them most, words fail me miserably.
"Okay, people," I say. "This is it. Take us in, Tom."
I sit down and cross my legs. Tuvok sits down next to me.
"You have fulfilled your promise to the crew," he says in a low voice.
"Two-thirds of them anyway."
Tuvok maintains his rigid posture.
"You must be looking forward to seeing your wife and children," I observe.
"I anticipate our meeting with considerable joy," Tuvok says.
"For what it's worth, I appreciated you. Very much."
"Captain?" Tom twists around. "We have permission to dock."
"Go ahead, Tom," I say. Then, in a low voice, I continue my conversation with Tuvok. "You always put logic into situations where none existed. Thank you for that clarity."
"You are welcome," Tuvok responds. "Captain, I do not intend to leave until the fate of the
Maquis is settled."
I look at him in surprise.
"What?"
"And if you are subjected to a court martial, I intend to represent you."
"Tuvok, thank you," I cover his hand with mine. "Your friendship has always meant so much to me, but I don't want to keep you from your family. Not after all this time."
"I will not abandon you."
"Thank you." I offer Tuvok a smile. "Are you adopting me as a reclamation project?"
He tips his head towards me slightly, but doesn't offer a response.
"Chakotay put you up to this, didn't he?" I lean over so that only a few centimeters separate me from Tuvok.
"We did discuss your situation briefly," Tuvok admits. "But he did not have to convince me. He only suggested that he felt some trepidation regarding our homecoming. We believe there is a plot out to discredit you."
"Tell me something I don't already know."
The ship lurches as the docking clamps slide into place. I look up at the viewscreen and see the vast steel framework of the station. I stand up. Tom turns to face me.
"Captain?" Harry asks. "Incoming message from Starfleet."
I stare at the viewscreen and then turn to look at Harry. Seven, who is sitting at B'Elanna's station, stares at me.
"Welcome home," I tell them.
Tom begins the applause. Slow and softly, but applause all the same.
It's definitely not what I imagined, but it will have to do.
"Captain?" There is definite tension and urgency in Harry's voice. I look at Tuvok and sigh.
"What is it, Harry?"
"Incoming message from Starfleet."
I sigh.
"I heard you the first time, Harry," I tell him.
"They're welcoming us home."
Tuvok and I glance at each other. I stand up and look at Harry.
"You're certain?" I ask.
Yes. And they are requesting permission to board."
"Requesting permission?" I frown.
Harry looks uncomfortable and he shifts side to side.
"Harry?"
"Actually, they are requesting to board and would like you to surrender command of the ship, effectively immediately."
"That's more like it," I say.
Tuvok nods.
"Indeed," my Vulcan friend says.
"Well." I look around at my crew. I note that their boots gleam, their pant creases are perfectly lined up, and all haircuts are regulation length. They look serious, the very epitome of Starfleet protocol. If nothing else, Starfleet can't fault me for not having a professional, well-dressed crew. "It- it has been a pleasure serving with all of you."
I bite my lip. I pace the bridge, very aware of the suffocating quiet around me.
"Whatever happens now," I continue. "I want you all to know that I commend you for your service and loyalty. You performed your duties with honor and distinction. If I can, I will recommend all of you very highly. I wish you all good luck."
I take a deep breath and then look up at Harry.
"Let them board," I tell him. I sit back down, clutching the arms of my chair one last time.
Tuvok looks at me.
"This is not over," he says in a low voice.
I smile at him.
"I know."
~ The End ~
(to be continued in "A Fugue in Blue Minor").
I loved the mirrors. The mirrors in the traveling carnival that came to Bloomington every fall, that is. You had your usual assortment of freaks from across the galaxies, like Klingons without forehead ridges or silver Bolians and of course, the staple of a two-headed Terran.
The carnival also offered the usual array of dizzying, nausea-inducing rides including my nemesis, the zero gravity spinner. Take a tumble in that one and it was nearly impossible to walk a straight line afterwards.
But the mirrors, now those attracted me. We - my sister and I - would walk into the funny house, fingers clenched into a fist, giddy with anticipation but already tense with fear and excitement. Every funny house had the usual assortment of strange noises, slimy things to touch and creaking floor boards, but the end - those mirrors, now that's what excited me.
There were mirrors that elongated, that distorted, that shrunk - all of it casting a strange illusion on reality. In a word, it was... disconcerting.
I only bring up the carnival because that same feeling of confusion is very apparent now as Chakotay and I stare at each other.
In the past, we have had our arguments, our inability to see eye to eye, but this, but this is different. In just a few short days, he has changed. I don't know how I know this - I just do. He looks different, more relaxed, more confident, and he looks comfortable. Comfortable as in he belongs here, has always belonged here.
Comfortable as he never appeared during our seven years together.
Damn, that hurts. Really, truly hurts in a way I didn't think possible. If Chakotay is aware of the tension between us, he gives no sign as he looks at me, impassively and unemotionally.
"How are you?" I ask formally, only slightly aware of a Ktarian leading Paris away and of Tuvok hovering over my right shoulder.
"Good," Chakotay says. "I'm glad you're here."
"Have they treated you well?"
"Well enough. It has been... confusing, to say the least."
"I'd agree with that."
"Come, let's go somewhere warm," Chakotay says. "The chill gets under your skin after a while."
Chakotay leads the way, with the other Maquis falling in behind him. I don't know if it's an unconscious decision on their part, but they - Chell, Gerron and Ayala - look to Chakotay as their leader; it's strange because for seven years, they viewed me as such. But I suppose, it's like leaving the funny house - I enjoyed a surrealistic experience for a long period of time and now, well, now things were back the way they had been before the Caretaker.
The Maquis have apparently made the best of their situation; the buildings are functional if not attractive. They have opted for efficiency in design and layout, aligning most of their structures on either side of the dirt road. At the head of the road is the building that Chakotay grandly refers to as the meeting house.
We climb the three steps up and immediately are assailed by a cloud of warm air.
"I didn't realize I was so cold," I confess as Chakotay indicates a bench.
"Can I get you coffee?" he asks. I suppose he thinks my answer is a foregone conclusion because he heads immediately to the replicator. I look at Tuvok, who shrugs.
"This is... interesting," Tuvok says in that careful way he uses when he's trying so hard not make judgments.
The interior of the meeting hall is simple - several rows of tables and benches arranged in two columns running the length of the room. There are six windows - two on the long wall, one each on the shorter walls and the remaining two on either side of the door. The Maquis did not decorate this room in any way. There are no personal effects, no homey touches. This last realization saddens me in a way that I did not think possible.
"Here," Chakotay hands me a steaming mug. I take a sip. He has
replicated it exactly the way I like - French Roast, served black with two spoons of sugar.
"Thank you," I say. I look around.
"We were worried," Chakotay says. He takes the seat opposite of mine. "We saw the explosion. Felt it, actually, and no one would tell us what happened to Voyager. It's good to see you, Captain."
"We felt the same," I say. "We didn't know if you made it or not. Only that an order had been submitted for your release. However, no one would tell us if you had been released at all."
"I'm surprised they didn't just leave us on that station," Chakotay says with a trace of uncharacteristic bitterness. "That would have solved the Maquis problem."
"Curious." Tuvok tips his head to the side. "Indeed, if it had not been for Admiral Paris' intervention, it is doubtful you and the others would have been released."
"Admiral Paris?" Chakotay asks in confusion. "What about him?"
"It's a long story," I say. I restrain the urge to cover his hand with mine and it takes so much willpower to keep from reaching across the table to run my hands through his black hair.
"We're still trying to figure it out ourselves. Needless to say, the events of the past six days have been extraordinary."
"We had much to discuss," Tuvok says primly. "And we do not have a lot of time. There have been some questions raised -"
The door opens and the Ktarian stands there, data PADD in hand.
"Jessup," Chakotay says. "Captain, this is Herid Jessup. Jessup, Kathryn Janeway, and this is Commander Tuvok."
"Nice to meet you," Jessup says in a voice that implies otherwise.
"What is it?" Chakotay asks, clearly irritated at the interruption.
"I need some assistance in the Delta Flyer," Jessup says. "Tom Paris thinks that the EMH can help B'Elanna. He wants to download the program to the Infirmary."
"B'Elanna?" I ask. "What's wrong with her?"
"We found her unconscious," Chakotay says. "Possibly an allergic reaction to an insect bite, but I'm beginning to think that it might be something more dire. She and Jessup went to signal Voyager and she was injured. When we went back to get her, we found her in delirium, screaming about forgiveness. Unfortunately we have not been able to treat her illness with the supplies we have now."
"How serious is her condition?" I ask the Ktarian sharply. He shakes his head.
"It doesn't look good," Jessup answers.
"I will assist you." Tuvok gets up from his seat. "Captain, Commander."
Jessup shoots Chakotay an irate look, possibly at the mention of the title "Commander." I shouldn't be surprised; old feelings do not fade easily or without pain.
With Tuvok and Jessup gone, an awkward silence - the type that usually follows the typical "I'm right, you're wrong" arguments - descends.
Finally, I reach across the table and cover Chakotay's hand with mine.
"Hi," I say very softly. He offers up a smile, shy but sincere. I note, with a pang, that his smile doesn't quite make it up to his eyes, and that, that worries me. "I - how have you been?"
"Cold," he says. "Worried."
"You said that before," I remind him. He pulls his hand away.
"Sorry," he says. "How is the coffee?"
"Perfect."
"Good."
I take a deep breath. "I've missed you, Chakotay."
He raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"You heard me. I was... I missed having you around. I can't figure out what's going on and that disturbs me. There are pieces, but no picture. I thought, I thought if I could talk to you, maybe you would be able to guide me in the right direction. You've always been so good at showing me how things fit together. I missed... your advice."
"Glad you acknowledge that."
Bitterness edges his voice, a deep-seeded resentment. I think about all of the times we have gone toe to toe and of all the times, I ignored his counsel. And with a pang of shame, I remember clearly relieving him of duty - an action I've never been proud of and have never apologized for.
"I know we've disagreed in the past," I tell him quietly. "Sometimes violently. We've been able to get past all of that, Chakotay. I need... I want your support. I need to know that you're with me, whatever happens now, I'd like to know that you are there."
"You don't have to doubt my loyalty, Kathryn."
"I wasn't. I didn't know if things had changed now that you were back with the Maquis."
"I don't mind being here, if that's what you are asking. I know the Federation doesn't want me, and hell, after what I went through with your Starfleet-"
"My Starfleet?" I ask sharply. "What are you talking about, Chakotay?"
"You forget that for seven years you commanded a Starfleet ship. Starfleet on the surface, Kathryn. Beneath, it was something else. Maybe there was a bit of a Maquis undercurrent and we pledged our allegiance to Starfleet because we had no other choice. I hate to break it to you, but we Maquis, sometimes we felt suffocated by the Starfleet attitudes, that stiff adherence to laws that did not quite apply to our situation. We never thought we had to die for Starfleet, but then your fatalistic outlook was one thing I never admired about you."
He knits his fingers together and focuses down on the table's metallic surface. I take a sip of the coffee and then put the mug down.
"I'm glad you're finally being honest with me," I tell him.
He shrugs. "I've had a lot of time to think, Kathryn. Fresh air, it has a way of clearing the mind."
There's something - a tiny note of self-realization - in his voice, that catches my attention.
"I've been thinking also, and I still don't regret any of it. Chakotay, I need your help. I want to find out what's going on, and I think you might hold the missing part."
"What are you talking about?"
"Admiral Paris and I had a conversation prior to the destruction of the starbase. He mentioned something to me, something a scheme involving Starfleet officers and border colonists."
Chakotay shakes his head. "Doesn't sound familiar."
His tone is easy, almost lazy in its intonation.
"Think," I lean forward. "Some officers in Starfleet, after the treaty was signed, offered their protection for a fee. The protection never came through, the Cardassians ran roughshod over the colonists while the Federation turned its back on its own citizens. The Maquis came into being, yet there were Starfleet officers out there, collecting sums for a service that would never be rendered. Who were they, Chakotay?"
Chakotay looks at some point over my shoulder, deliberately averting my gaze.
"Chakotay?" I ask very softly.
"Let me talk to the others," Chakotay says. "Maybe they know."
Yeah right, I think. Chakotay has never been a terrific liar; a few days on a frozen planet haven't changed Chakotay's lack of ability to deceive me.
We sit in silence for a few minutes and then I clear my throat.
"Chakotay," I say. "I meant what I said, about wanting your help and support."
"I know and I appreciate it."
"But?"
"Maybe we should go check on B'Elanna," Chakotay suggests quickly. "I'd like to see if Tom has diagnosed what's wrong with her."
"You're avoiding me," I tell him. "Don't worry. We'll continue this conversation at another time."
"I don't doubt it," he answers evenly.
~ end part I ~
****
B'Elanna's chest rises and falls in an even cadence. Her cheeks are tinged pink, warm with fever, and her eyes are slightly open.
I note that her elbow joint is stiffening, possibly as a result of the insect bite. I grab a tricorder and note with dismay that indeed, she has arthritis in that joint now.
At least she won't be so quick with that bat'leth.
But by the same token, she'll be slower when she puts her arms around me.
God, B'Elanna.
You never realize how much you want - need - someone until you face the very real possibility of losing that person. You always take the person you love for granted, never even telling her that you love her, until it's almost too late.
I didn't know.
I didn't realize.
But I suppose that's another trait I get from my father.
I'd like to think he wasn't a cold, self-centered, self-serving bastard, but my father never gave me any indication to think otherwise. When he was home, he'd lock himself in his study, coming out only long enough for meals. He seemed intent on avoiding my sisters and me at all costs; he would ask about our day in the most general of terms and not really seeming to listen to anything we had to say. When we misbehaved, like most parents, he would stand in front of us, clearly detailing our infractions, and the tone of his voice would make us shiver with fear.
My father never hit me.
I want to make that clear.
He never even raised his voice to me.
Instead, he would talk at me in this evenly modulated voice and he would speak in grammatically correct sentences, complete with clipped accents and a sharp edge. Every conversation with him ended the same way.
"How do you think you're going to get into Starfleet Academy if you keep going like this?" he would say. "If you keep getting in trouble, you'll never make anything of yourself."
And yeah, that point belonged to him - I give him that much. There were nights when I would lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling, wondering what would happen to me if I failed math or history again.
So I learned, in my father's presence, to be brief, brilliant and gone; I would make my escape before he could push me further or ask me questions that would delve deeper into some issue I wanted to avoid.
The year I turned sixteen, my father spotted the first strands of gray in his hair. By the time I graduated from high school, his hair turned completely white; I'd like to think that some of my antics were responsible for this change of pigmentation, but that might be giving me - and not genetics - a bit more credit than necessary.
I rebelled for a very simple reason.
My father wanted a Starfleet boy; that much was evident. He stood over my shoulder as I typed up my Academy application and he even found (bribed?) colleagues to supply references. Never hurt to have an Admiral as a father.
I never told my father I didn't want to go to the Academy. That I would go was assumed and so every conversation with him was on that topic. I suppose I was so grateful that my father even wanted to talk to me that I clung to that topic of Starfleet Academy and hoped one day, I would make him proud so we could talk of other things.
The day I left for the Academy was my father's proudest moment. His eyes glittered with an emotion I found unfamiliar and unsettling and he even wrapped his arms around me in a suffocating hug, nearly crushing my ribs in the process.
"Make me proud," he said.
Well, we know how that story turned out.
That one time I got expelled, yeah, I expected Daddy to get me back in. And he did. Through clenched teeth, he explained to the dean that I did not mean to cheat on that Mechanics of Thermodynamics exam; rather, I'd given into stress and the temptation of "borrowing" an answer or two from Elizabeth Nagol was overwhelming.
I sat there the entire time with this artificial expression of contrition - one that I had practiced many times in the mirror - slapped on my face.
So back into the Academy I went, and this time, made it through without any serious mishaps. I graduated and my father attended, in full dress uniform. I even have a holoimage of this great moment in Tom Paris' life - my father, his arm around my shoulder, grinning broadly, and me, looking very much like I'd rather be shooting pool at Sandrine's.
"Well done," my father said that day. "I'm proud of you, Tom."
"Thank you, sir."
"Keep it up."
"I will."
I broke this promise to my father in the mess that went down in history as Caldik Prime.
I think everyone needs a Caldik Prime to their credit. Without the body count, of course. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
At the very least, surviving something like that makes you care a hell of a lot less.
I remember the day of my hearing, sitting in front of the tribunal, without really seeing the three JAGs at all. I really did believe these proceedings were a mere formality; once again, my father would get me out of this one. He was seated in the back row, and I had to restrain myself from twisting around to see him. I knew what I'd get if I turned - classic Paris steely glare.
Damn, we were blessed with baby blues, and maybe God meant for us to attract the opposite sex with them, but my father, he just drilled right through me with those eyes of his; I swear I could feel that gaze in my intestines, liver, spleen. You name it, his disappointment in me become a part of my internal organs. There was nothing I could do to escape the anger in his eyes or in his voice, no matter how dangerously calm he sounded.
At the time, I speculated that maybe it was a godsend that there were three Starfleet security officers assigned to me, otherwise my father would have made good use of that largely ceremonial phaser he wore at his waist.
So yes, when the discharge came, I was shocked. Knocked speechless, really. For once in my life, there was no joke at the tip of my tongue, no easy quip ready to fly out. Just utter silence.
All eyes were on me as I rose and when I turned, I noted that my father, always so proud, was sitting in the back row, his head cradled in his hands.
I became real good at running away. Hell, if I had to list my talents in order, flying would certainly come first but escapism would be a close second. The moment the tough got going, so did my feet. I marked the exits as I was walking in the door and I made sure I was never too cornered in that I couldn't find a way out.
And that's how I ran smack into the Maquis. I'd exhausted all options and there they were.
I secretly admired the Maquis; they stood for everything my father was against. There was also something so damn sexy about them, something so Robin Hood-esque, something so daring and adventurous, that I couldn't resist; my blood churned with excitement and that familiar rush of adrenaline settled into my limbs.
Finding the Maquis had been easy; there were many that were sympathetic to their cause. You just had to talk to the right people, so it only took me a few months to turn up on the Maquis' front door step.
Where I met B'Elanna. She'd been spunky even then, though I would never dare tell her now that "spunky" was the first word that came to mind when we met. Then, she had been undernourished, skinny, her eyes too large for her face and those wild short Klingon curls flying every which way.
God, how things change.
I look down at B'Elanna now. Nine years ago, we could not even look at each other without animosity. In fact, during my early days in the Maquis, I'd stay away from B'Elanna, convinced that she would do me in if she could. And now, I can't even imagine what my life will be like if she doesn't wake up.
And to make one thing really clear: I'm not going to impale myself on something sharp if something happens to B'Elanna. Physical suffering is not my style; rather, psychological torture, that's what I like. Dark, smoky bars, lots of nameless women, and synthale overflowing my glass - now that's the true path to self-torment.
God, I'm a sick bastard; I'm already thinking my anguish through, already trying to protect myself in case the unacceptable and unbelievable happens.
I don't want to be without her.
Honestly.
And I want her to damn well get out of that bed, get to her feet, so I can grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into that stubborn Klingon head of hers. More importantly, I want to yell at her and ask her what the hell was she thinking when she scared me half out of my mind?
"So it's real important you wake up," I whisper into B'Elanna's ear. "Because I've got a bone to pick with you, B'Elanna. So wake up, so I can tell you just how angry I am with you because you're - damn, you know, B'Elanna, I can't stay angry with you for very long. You always have this way of making me come around. Sure, I'm afraid you're going to filet my insides with that bat'leth of yours like that time when I created that Klingon holodeck program for you? I love it when you get that angry. So damn you. Just wake up so - I miss you. Please. B'Elanna. For me.
For once in your life, listen to me."
But still, there is no response and face it, I've been as eloquent as I possibly can be. There is a fine line between Cicero and mushy stuff, believe me, and I've got to walk it, because otherwise B'Elanna will either accuse me of being distant or pandering. If I'm not walking the line, I lose out.
I hope B'Elanna appreciates the effort.
I release her hand when Janeway and Chakotay enter.
"How is she?" Chakotay asks.
"Not good," I shake my head. "I've done everything I know and nothing's worked."
"What is the cause?" Janeway questions.
"The readings I took, they are anomalous. I've sent Jessup to download the EMH. Maybe he can help."
"I know. He came to ask Tuvok for help," Janeway says. She circles B'Elanna, eyeing my wife with a proprietary glance that shocks even me. "Is she dying?"
Silence.
Damn, I didn't know Janeway could be that cold, that insensitive. And then I look up, note that the Captain has turned slightly away from B'Elanna, even though her fingers still linger on my wife's forearm. Janeway tips her head away from us, sniffles a bit, and then turns back to face us.
"Well?" she asks briskly, as if this past moment, this slight display of tearful emotion, had never happened.
I cannot speak so I merely nod my head.
Janeway sets her jaw; I've seen that look before. The Captain learns only from the best and apparently, my father was her tutor in this area.
"That's not an acceptable outcome," she says firmly.
I look at the Captain. For the first time in months, we are in complete agreement.
****
We leave Tom in the Infirmary and cross to the quarters that Chakotay shares with another Maquis member. Outside, a thin ribbon of chill runs through the air, sharp enough to burrow right beneath my skin. I shiver slightly, bowing my shoulders in a bit. Chakotay glances at me.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
"Cold. I'd think, at the very least, the Federation could have installed climate control."
"I like it."
"You would. I suppose you enjoy being back in nature. Have you built a bathtub yet?" I regret the words immediately. Chakotay stops and puts his hand on my forearm.
"No," he says. "I- there isn't anyone who would appreciate it here."
For a moment, I fancy that Chakotay is coming back to me, that he is slowly thawing and our relationship will be back to normal.
"But... everything else," I say. Chakotay reaches to cup his cool hand around my neck, drawing me closer. "Everything else is fine, right?"
"I wouldn't want it any other way," he says. He rubs his thumb against my cheek and then releases me. "Don't worry about us, Kathryn. We'll be fine."
"You... you aren't coming with us?"
"Coming where?" Chakotay looks surprised.
"I'm getting you out of here."
"I don't know if I want to go."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Where do I go, Kathryn? What do I do? Here, at least, we can have our own lives, without carrying our past into our future. I don't want to explain why I did what I did over and over again. Now that the Federation is shaking hands with the Cardassians, we don't even have a convenient excuse."
"You don't need excuses, Chakotay."
"If we didn't, would we be standing here right now having this conversation?" Chakotay asks. "By all that's right, we ought to be wining and dining at Starfleet Headquarters, not standing in the middle of some godforsaken tundra, grasping at straws."
I eye him.
"So that's what this is all about to you, is it?" I ask. "Grasping at straws? You don't think there is something going on?"
"Oh, I believe there is a conspiracy. There's no doubt in my mind about that. Starbases don't just blow up for no reason," he tells me. "I don't know if I want to be the one tilting at
windmills."
"Is that why you wouldn't give me the information I wanted?"
We stand there, barely centimeters apart, and not for the first time in our long partnership, we are light years away in thoughts and emotions. This time though, I don't sense we'll come to an agreement. In so many ways, we've returned to that moment seven years ago when I was staring at Chakotay, Maquis rebel, with obvious distaste and distrust.
Wind whips brown, brittle leaves around our feet. I shiver again, not certain whether from the cold or in shock over Chakotay's obvious detachment.
Chakotay sighs deeply.
"Let's go inside," he says. "It's better to talk out of the wind."
"You can't hide from me," I tell him. "I find it hard to believe that you did not know about corrupt Starfleet officers. I think knowledge of such a plot would be information the Maquis would have thrived on. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't use it for your own gain."
"Inside," Chakotay says sharply. He starts walking, head bowed down against the wind. I follow him.
"You've never lied to me before!" I yell after him. "Why now?"
Chakotay enters the house and stands just inside the doorway, waiting for me.
"Come in," he says. "Come on, Kathryn."
I take the steps two at a time and pass Chakotay without a glance.
"I didn't lie to you."
"Then what just happened? You told me, to my face, without blinking, how you didn't know a thing about a Starfleet extortion scheme and now you admit it?"
"You think it's going to help our case?"
"I think it's related. Admiral Paris made a point of mentioning it to me. It could explain a lot of things. Chakotay," my voice softens. I look around and note the gray-furniture, the lack of personal effects, and the out-dated replicator unit on the far wall. "We've been through a lot together. Some of it good, some bad - very bad. This is no different."
"You have a career, Kathryn," he sits down on the sofa, and leans forward, resting his weight on his thigh. I take the armchair directly opposite him; the straight back lacks cushion and cool metal sends a shiver through my spine.
"Such as it is," I scoff. "McArthur is looking for me. Once he finds out where I am, even that Dauntless commission will evaporate."
"What?"
I realize that Chakotay has no idea that Starfleet has reassigned me. I explain quickly and he looks faintly amused.
"Starfleet acknowledges your many violations of the Prime Directive and instead of putting you in front of a tribunal, they decide to ship you to the far corners of the quadrant?" Chakotay asks. "And you want me to go back to Starfleet? That's ridiculous. Or maybe you don't think so?"
"I know what it looks likes and I'm asking for your help. Please, Chakotay. I'm begging." I offer him what I hope looks like a smile. He shrugs.
"If you go to Starfleet with this information, you understand your career could be over," he says very softly.
"It's a risk I'm willing to take."
"You don't have to be right."
"I won't ignore my duty to my crew."
"We're not your problem anymore."
"Don't say that," I say. "Remember what we talked about? When we sensed division among our crew? You were with me then, Chakotay, arguing that Starfleet and Maquis work together. Why not now?"
"Because the stakes are higher now. You could jeopardize your career."
"I can take care of myself."
I get up from my chair and kneel next to him, taking his hand in mine.
"If what you says happens and I get discharged, I can think of worse places to spend my exile than here," I tell him softly. "With you."
His eyes widen and he sits back, still clutching at my hand. It is almost as if I've given him the permission he has been desperately seeking; no matter the distance between us, Chakotay is still looking out for my welfare and I cannot fault him for that.
"I'll tell you," he says.
~ end part II ~
****
Tuvok and Jessup burst into the room. I look at them questioningly, still holding B'Elanna's hand in mine.
"Well?" I ask.
"We are downloading the EMH now," Tuvok says. He covers the distance from the door to the only console in the room in about three steps.
"What?" I ask.
"The Doctor says that these symptoms are similar to those recorded when Lieutenant Torres went to gre'thor."
"Terrific," I stand up. "Great, B'Elanna. Thanks."
Jessup looks at me, "What are you talking about?"
"She- damn," I slam my palm against the biobed. Jessup grabs my arm.
"Paris!" Jessup exclaims. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but she's sick and you're not helping!"
"This is exactly like something B'Elanna would do!" I yell back. "Probably some misguided sense of honor and she decided to go back to gre'thor for some unfinished business. Damn! She- she knows how I feel about that but did it anyway."
"What are you talking about? What's gre'thor?"
"Klingon hell. She went last year in a controlled environment to redeem her mother's honor. It was frightening, to say the least. I almost lost her." I lean forward on the biobed, my fingers just barely touching B'Elanna's leg. "I almost lost her. I know the effects from the Borg cube were traumatic and I knew she had unresolved issues - God, I should have listened."
"Please state the nature of the-"
I look up at the EMH, who at this moment in my life, is the sweetest hologram I've ever seen. And yeah, I'm including all of those stupid holographic girlfriends I created in an attempt to experience something that was physically satisfying, but mentally disappointing.
"Mr. Paris," the Doctor says. "How is Lieutenant Torres?"
I show him the readings from my tricorder.
"Your results are slightly more elevated than mine," the Doctor admits. "Her condition is extremely critical."
"Do something then," I snap. "Don't tell us what we already know."
"Calm down, Mr. Paris." The Doctor rapidly takes inventory. "You didn't tell me that the facilities were so primitive."
"There are supplies on the Delta Flyer," I point out. "Basics, that is."
"I will retrieve them," Tuvok says, probably glad to get out of this room. I don't blame him; if it weren't for B'Elanna lying there on the biobed, there'd be flames in my wake too.
The infirmary, given my experiences on Voyager, is not exactly my favorite place to be.
"I am aware of what is available on the Delta Flyer," the Doctor hovers over B'Elanna. "Please retrieve them for me."
"You can help her, can't you?" Jessup asks quietly.
"I will do my best, Mister...? Who are you?"
"Jessup. Herid Jessup."
"Pleased to meet you, sir. Now, if you will kindly step out of my way..." the Doctor does a rather slick sidestep move which makes me think that he practices such steps when no one is looking. "Mr. Paris, you too."
I oblige, nearly bumping into Jessup. He glares at me. I shrug.
"Hmm, I'm reading increased neural activity," the Doctor says. "There is some cellular deterioration and I'm detecting signs of some kind of virus. Mr. Paris, please upload this scan to the Delta Flyer's medical database. See if you can find a match."
"Right," I take the PADD with the relevant information and nearly fly out of the Infirmary. I'm half way to the Delta Flyer before I realize that that annoying little toad, Jessup, is on my heels.
"What do you want?" I ask him.
"I thought I'd help out."
We pause long enough to nod at Tuvok, who walks past us briskly with the medkit from the Delta Flyer over his shoulder.
"Help out?" I ask, clenching my teeth. "What do you mean?"
"B'Elanna means a lot to me. If there is anything I can do for her-"
"Haven't you done enough?" I query.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You left her there. Maybe if you hadn't taken so long-"
"I explained that! I intended to go right back, but I-" he pauses. "I- I didn't realize. I stopped to help the others move some equipment-"
"You knew B'Elanna was hurt and you still took your time?" I'm nearly yelling at this point. I resume walking and head towards the Delta Flyer. Once inside, I bump my head on the low ceiling and I curse colorfully. Not for the first time, I make a mental note to raise the ceiling height in my next shuttle design. I slide into the chair previously occupied by the captain, swivel around, and adjust the knobs on the side to compensate for my greater height.
"You're right, Tom."
"Damn! You're still here?" I don't turn around as I punch the buttons on the console. The Delta Flyer's medical database is not as comprehensive as Voyager's, due to the small storage capacity, but the information is useful and the Doctor does his best to keep it updated.
Jessup, uninvited, slips into the pilot's seat. He turns around so he is facing me.
"You don't deserve her," he says.
"That's your opinion."
"You were a rotten excuse of a Maquis; my opinion of you as a person is even less complimentary."
"Believe me," I laugh. "I've been insulted by others in higher positions with much more flair. I'm sorry you don't think I deserve B'Elanna and maybe I don't, but it's really none of your business, is it?"
"I care about her."
"So do I."
"You have a funny way of showing it."
"And on what basis are you drawing that conclusion? Aw hell, you know what? I don't owe you any explanations," I tell him. "I'm not having this conversation with you."
I watch the small monitor as it runs through the comparison algorithms. The search is relatively slow, but then time is all a matter of perspective. When you're defending the galaxy against the machinations of cybernetic creatures, a few hours seemingly melt into minutes. Of course, then there's the brig; believe me, thirty days in that insanity-inducing chamber feels longer than our entire stint in the Delta Quadrant.
Hovering over B'Elanna, like I've done so many times, now that's a lifetime of waiting right there. Waiting for her wounds to heal, waiting for those brown eyes to open and waiting for those full lips to turn up into that smile reserved especially for me.
"You want to explain what happened when you betrayed us?" Jessup asks.
I look at him in annoyance and surprise, completely amazed that he has yet to stop talking. There's nothing worse than someone continuing a conversation you don't particularly want to have.
Especially when the other person tosses around scary words like "betrayed."
"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" I ask lightly.
"I'm calling it what it is," Jessup says. "It was a betrayal, clear and simple. Why did you even join up if you were going to surrender at the first opportunity?"
"What is this? A trial? I didn't do anything wrong."
"We trusted you."
"Ha! You never trusted me, none of you," I tell him. "Maybe Chakotay, but only on a good day after a few raktajinos. The rest of you hated me, so don't try to pretend my time in the Maquis was fuzzy and warm."
"You volunteered for a mission and we trusted you to fulfill that mission," Jessup presses on doggedly.
"I carried out the mission." I sigh and punch a few keys. A data appears on my small viewscreen.
"You didn't come back."
"I was captured. I bet no one told you that," I say. "Starfleet. The way I saw it, Herid, I had a choice. I could either let us get captured or we could all die. Do you understand now? I surrendered willingly so that the mission would not be jeopardized."
"Coward."
"Hardly. I saved your comrades' lives. Apparently, they didn't think much of the gesture, since I seem to still have this stain on my reputation. I'm glad to know that my time in Auckland really did mean something."
"Your father didn't help you out of that mess? I'm sure he could have saved you from the penal colony if you were worth saving."
I take a deep breath. Low blow indeed. No, my father did not help. In fact, I'm sure he read of my arrest with thin-lipped silence and not once did he visit or send me a message. I'm sure if my father had had his way, he would have erased Thomas Eugene Paris from the family tree neatly printed on parchment and framed in his office.
In a way, I was glad for his distance; I wouldn't have known what to say if he had come. Though, there have been times when I have wondered - wondered if just one visit from him could have made all of the difference in our relationship.
There's no point dwelling on questions when you know the answers you desperately seek are no longer available.
"No," I say very quietly just as the console beeps at me, signaling completion. "Here's everything we have about the Ghasa virus."
Jessup's face is very pale as he leans over my shoulder to read the console.
"Damn," he says in a low voice. "You think this is what B'Elanna has?"
"Looks like it," I say. "Back... back when I was in the Maquis, there was a Bolian who died, right? She had symptoms just like B'Elanna does now."
"Janie," Jessup nods. "She was the first one. Others got sick, but we managed to get them medical treatment, so they were okay."
"Did you suspect that B'Elanna had Ghasa?"
"No," Jessup says. "I had no reason to suspect it. They told us that they had eradicated it."
"Who?"
"The Federation. When they told us that they were resettling us here, we asked specifically about Ghasa because that's the reason why we abandoned this as a base of operations in '71." Jessup gets out of his chair, nearly tripping over the slight step. "They told us that the virus had been eliminated and we didn't have to worry about it."
"They were wrong," I say grimly. I get up. "Either that, or the Federation lied. I'd like to believe the former, but current events lead me to believe that it's probably the latter. We better go; gotta get this information to the Doctor."
I brush past Jessup, and then, as I step out into the chill of the afternoon air, I turn to look back at the Ktarian. His rigid posture would make a dance teacher proud.
"Hey!" I call. "You coming?"
"Yeah."
He falls into step next to me.
"How long have you been here?" I ask. A feeble attempt at small talk, but it's better than walking in shoulder-to-shoulder silence. Plus, it's also a chance to make sort of friends with a guy who is still in love with my wife. At the very least, I can figure out what his dastardly motives are. One thing's for sure: I'm not letting him out of my range of vision.
"Two, three years. Somewhere in there."
"A long time."
"Yes."
"No cases of the virus before B'Elanna?"
"No, but then we never really had cause to leave the settlement," Jessup says. He shivers slightly and bows his head against the increasingly sharp wind. "Sure, we'd venture out a bit, but mostly we stayed within the boundaries."
"But you never questioned the Federation authorities?"
"How? We asked certain things and they gave us answers. How were we to know that they were lying to us?"
"That's your problem," I tell him as we mount the stairs to the Infirmary. "You're too trusting."
"Well, you've got the opposite problem," Jessup shoots back. "You don't trust anyone."
I narrow my eyes at him and for a split second, I feel a primal need to lunge at the man, grab him by the throat and squeeze. The Doctor intercedes, effectively placing himself between my violent tendencies and Herid Jessup.
"Ghasa," I say. "Everything you need to know is on the data PADD."
"Ah, I am familiar with that virus," the Doctor says. "In fact, according to the database, the
disease has a sixty percent mortality-"
"Doctor," I say, grabbing his arm anxiously. "Look at B'Elanna."
I point. B'Elanna's veins, blue and raised, are visible beneath her now largely translucent skin.
"The first symptom of death," Jessup mutters. "Before the bleeding..."
I whirl on him.
"Shut up!" I exclaim. "Just shut up."
"She's going to die," Jessup says morbidly, his eyes fixed on B'Elanna. "We must face it."
"No need to plan the funeral so fast, Mr. Jessup. I can stabilize her," the Doctor says quickly.
He moves to B'Elanna's side. "Mr. Paris, please, get me the hypospray - yes, that's the one. Thank you."
I cross the room to hand the Doctor the hypospray and my fingers brush B'Elanna's cheek lightly; her skin burns me. I lean down and whisper into her ear, "You can't die on me, B'Elanna. Not now."
I straighten up and look over at Jessup whose resigned facial expression makes me want to punch him. And then I notice his quivering lower lip and even though I don't want to, I feel sorry for the guy.
I look back at the Doctor and it bothers me that he isn't humming, something he does every time he works on a patient. I swallow hard.
"Can you help her?" I ask softly. The Doctor does not look up and for a moment, I think he didn't hear me and then I realize the truth; he doesn't know.
~ end part III ~
****
Anticipation kills me.
Literally.
Watching Chakotay fumble for words and wondering exactly what he will say has me on edge. He is right - that much I have to admit. I am taking a gamble, hoping that his information will somehow provide the "out" my people need.
Yes, despite what Chakotay says, I still don't see the distinction. I don't see Maquis and I don't see Starfleet; I see Voyager's crew. Janus-faced we are, true, but we couldn't have survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant without each other.
"Chakotay?" I ask very softly. He doesn't look up. Somehow, the lines on his palms are
infinitely more interesting to him. In a way, his silence reminds me of that second just before your stomach leaps right into your throat - that rush of excitement and fear that precedes a plunge from heights.
My sister - she hated those rides at the carnival; she would hold onto the safety bar, white-knuckled, her eyes closed tight. On the other hand, I loved every moment. Loved that free fall, and then that slight tickle of a laugh that bubbled up when I realized I had survived something death defying. Or maybe that was my own misguided sense of immortality; when you're young, you're allowed to think you can fall forever.
But of course, the adult in me has a very different sense and it's one that Chakotay is driving home in a way that I had never thought.
If I fall now, there won't be a safety net. There won't be a red-faced, heavy-set ride operator smiling gap-toothed at me while I walk away drunkenly.
"You never saw the destruction," Chakotay says very quietly. "You never saw the death."
"I know."
"You don't know what it's like to see your family dragged from their home and their land, screaming."
"You're right, I don't."
"When the offer came, we took it," Chakotay glances at me. His expression is serious, his tone pensive. "I didn't think myself capable of violent anger, Kathryn. I always prided myself on equanimity. You know I don't always think violence is the way out."
"But you do - you have been violent."
"I changed the day my father was murdered."
Chakotay lowers his eyes and suddenly, there is a spot on the wall directly above his head that is unbelievably fascinating to me.
"Then the Cardassians arrived. I don't know how many there were, but we were certainly out-numbered. I think even at that time, we still thought the Federation would come to our aid. We were horribly misguided."
"You knew the terms of the treaty."
"Theoretically, yes. Practically, no. It's one thing to understand a particular edict, Kathryn; it's a completely different matter when you live it."
"Like a mirror," I say with a bit of feeling. "You know, the ones that distort you? Until you step away, you don't realize that you aren't ten meters tall."
Chakotay looks at me blankly.
"Haven't you been to a traveling carnival, Chakotay?" I ask.
He shrugs, "No."
Silence again. Slightly uncomfortable, but necessary. I clear my throat.
"Go on."
"You fight a long time for something you believe in, something that you think you can win, and all that's left is a field, once alive with crops, and you are there, cradling your father's body. He didn't want to be saved. I'm sure if we had tried, we could have saved him, but he said no. He said no."
Chakotay takes a deep breath and stands up. He stretches and then walks to the far wall, the only one with a window.
"I don't blame him, Kathryn. I think, if our positions had been reversed, I would have done the same. You can only fight for so long."
"I don't understand. When was this deal made? Before your father's death?"
"Yes."
"Were you there?"
Silence again and then a slight nod.
"Yes."
"Who else?"
"Michael Eddington, among others. Don't know if you've heard of him. I brought B'Elanna along because I didn't want anything to happen to the ship that would prevent us from making the meeting, but she never attended any of the negotiations."
"Did you talk about what went on with her?"
"Just vaguely," Chakotay says. "She asked a few questions, I answered them, but you have to understand. In the Maquis, we didn't ask because knowing too much put the entire cell in danger."
"So I hear," I say. "Resistance Cell Dynamics with Professor Glendale. Sounds like a physics class, actually."
"You took that class too?"
"An easy elective," I smile wryly. "I planned to apply some of the philosophy Glendale taught when I went after your ship."
"Too bad all of that book learning went to waste."
"Indeed," I say. "Who were the others, Chakotay? Who else was involved in the negotiations?"
"No one who is alive now and no one has heard from Ro Laren in years," Chakotay says. I look at him in surprise at the mention of Ro Laren who was the first Starfleet officer to openly defect to the Maquis. I assumed, like everyone else, that Ro was dead, but Chakotay apparently believes otherwise.
"Ro is still out there?" I ask. Chakotay shrugs.
"She wasn't with Eddington during that last battle and Starfleet never caught her," Chakotay chuckles. "Ro always knew how to run circles around Starfleet. It's a trait that made her a good asset to the cause. I wouldn't be surprised if she was simply out there, lurking, waiting for the right moment to expose the real traitors."
The way he stresses this last word, 'traitors,' irks me greatly.
"With whom did you make the deal?" I demand.
"Does it matter?"
"Why do you keep saying that? Of course it matters!"
"I did most of the negotiating," Chakotay says. "But Eddington was the driving force behind the talks. He arranged the talks, you know. Set them up, and then during the breaks, he would drill me and then coach me on what to say next. He was still wearing a Starfleet uniform then."
"Did Starfleet know about Eddington's involvement?"
"No, no," Chakotay shakes his head. "They had no idea."
"Who are `they'?"
Chakotay shifts in his chair.
"McArthur?" I ask very softly. "Was it Rodney McArthur?"
"No," Chakotay offers a grin. "He was the only one who wasn't there."
"But he knew."
"Yes, of course."
"I've known the Admiral a long time. He's a good man, Chakotay."
"I knew you'd say that. That's the inherent problem with perception. We allow people to see only those facets we want them to see. But it wasn't McArthur. It would have been so easy. I knew McArthur's son, John, at the Academy. We're the same age, took many of the same classes. I saw John only once after we graduated. He died three days later."
"Died?"
"An unfortunate scuffle."
"Scuffle?"
"Yes."
"Maquis related?"
"Yes," Chakotay says. "He crashed a shuttle while inebriated. He was badly injured. That's when I found him. We brought him back to camp, gave him medical treatment. He hadn't been gone even a day before he called in the Federation on us. That's gratitude, isn't it? We save his life and he turns us into the authorities. We had warning though. Ayala followed him. So when they came, we were ready. It was... unfortunate."
"I see."
The pieces are falling together slowly. I see a clear picture of Admiral McArthur grieving over his only son. I see the murderer - Chakotay - emerge from the depths of the Delta Quadrant and here, finally, is the chance for revenge - the chance to avenge a death.
"Who?" my voice is sharp and impatient. "Chakotay, who were they?"
He chuckles.
"Don't you hate it when the mirror shatters, Kathryn?"
"You're scaring me."
"No," he says. "I'm just telling you what was - is. I'm not entirely convinced that McArthur is behind this, but it's a definite possibility. He certainly had the means to engineer the destruction of a starbase and he had the motive. John McArthur was one of many who died for a variety of reasons and by the law, we should stand trial for that death and the others. But you know, in those long hours of questioning, Admiral McArthur never asked about what happened to John. It was almost as if it didn't matter."
"Because he knew you would not leave the starbase alive."
"Maybe," Chakotay says. "But I don't think that's the reason."
"What do you mean?" I lean forward. "You just said McArthur was a possible suspect."
Chakotay shrugs and then picks up a rock - the one and only useless object in this otherwise utilitarian setting.
"Aren't you going to tell me?" I ask.
"I think he didn't ask because he knew in the end that it didn't matter," Chakotay says. "If you have high-ranking Federation officials afraid of a group of terrorists for any reason and know that those people are going to do anything to prevent certain facts from coming out, then the details don't matter. I got the feeling that Admiral McArthur was stalling. He was waiting for someone or something."
Chakotay turns the rock over in his hands, examining it closely. He holds it up to me.
"See this? It's metamorphic," he says. "Note the granoblastic texture."
I take the rock from him. There is nothing extraordinary about this rock, nothing at all. I put it down as Chakotay returns to his seat.
"I didn't know you liked rocks," I tell him.
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
Sometimes Chakotay makes me feel very small. I'd compliment him on that ability, but I hate it when he cuts me down like that. So I do what I always do when he makes a pointed comment I dislike: I change the subject.
"Chakotay?" I ask softly. "Who do you think McArthur waiting for?"
My former first officer looks at me in surprise, almost as if he didn't realize that he hadn't answered my question.
"Admiral Paris."
~ end part IV ~
****
You don't ever think about how your day is going to play out when you first kick off the covers in the morning. Of course there are scheduled events - a meeting here, a lunch date there, and of course, that "things to do before I die" list - but you don't really ever know how your day will end up.
If I had known, I would have never gotten out of bed to face what is rapidly becoming the longest day of my life.
I didn't think it possible for an hour to contain more than sixty minutes.
Didn't think it possible for there to be more than sixty seconds in each one of those damn minutes.
Back when B'Elanna and I were floating out there in space, now that felt like a long time. When B'Elanna decided to move on over to the Borg cube, time literally stretched out until it frayed at the edges.
The Doctor moves mechanically, and he never - not once - makes eye contact. He does not sing as he often does to pass time, and he rarely says anything more than, "Mr. Paris, pass the hypospray" or "Mr. Paris, I need ten milligrams of such and such drug."
Tuvok, never a great conversationalist, stands with exceedingly proud posture against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his gaze leveled on Jessup, who stares back at us angrily.
Occasionally, the Ktarian's eyes drift to B'Elanna and his expression softens.
The one saving grace is that all of us - Tuvok, Jessup and I - have been inoculated from the virus, thanks to the Doctor's quick work. At least I know I won't die a blithering, blood mass, though I suppose there are more humiliating ways to say good-bye to life.
"Tom," Jessup's voice is low. I eye him and the Doctor nods at me. I let go of B'Elanna's hand and walk over to Jessup.
"What?" I ask.
"Is she going to be all right?"
"The Doctor thinks so."
"That's good."
"I didn't mean to leave her."
"I understand. It's okay."
"No, it's not."
"You didn't know."
"Maybe I did," he says.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that maybe I did know."
"What are you saying?" my voice is very low.
Jessup runs a hand through his hand.
"You left her on purpose? Did you infect her?" I ask in my most dangerous voice.
Silence.
Tuvok hovers over us, casting a lithe shadow over us. In the background, the Doctor hums "Someone To Watch Over Me" - his tune of preference when tending to the sick.
"No," Jessup laughs. "I would never hurt B'Elanna. God, I love her."
I pretend not to hear this last confession of Jessup's and ignore the bile accumulating in my mostly empty stomach. So what if he loves B'Elanna? I'm the one she married, right? Of course, in the Delta Quadrant, the options open to B'Elanna Torres were limited, but still... possession is nine-tenths of the law, right?
"Then...?" I ask as calmly as I can. "What are you saying?"
"When that insect bit her, I should have paid more attention," Jessup says. "I've seen the
symptoms before. Damn, I watched Janie die and I should've known. Should have known."
Tuvok relaxes. No potential murder suspect here. In a way it's disappointing; I'd love to hang Jessup up by his underwear and plant my fists squarely in his gut.
"It's not your fault," I respond, a bit more nicely than I would have liked to. In truth, I really do want to throttle this man who left B'Elanna out there in the woods. It would be nice to have a go at him right here, but of course, that would disturb the Doctor's efforts to cure B'Elanna. In the interest of selfishness, I hold back.
"When we found her, I thought I would be the one to save her," Jessup goes on. His eyes are glassy and I note that his skin is flushed. "And she would be grateful... so grateful. So, maybe that's why I was late. Because I thought she would appreciate me, and be so grateful-"
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about. You and B'Elanna. She doesn't deserve you."
"We're talking about this again? You really do have a one-track mind. You might as well come out and say what you want to say since you obviously can't move on from this subject. So go on, explain yourself."
"She needs someone who can support her, who can see her for the complex individual she is. She needs someone honorable."
Okay, now that hurt, damn it. You can badmouth my DNA all you'd like and hell, I'd join you in that particular sport since I'm so good at it myself, but question my honor? Now I'm mad
I lunge at Jessup, my fist making much needed contact with the tender skin of his cheek.
"Lieutenant!" Tuvok grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me off of Jessup. I note with satisfaction that the former Maquis fighter strokes his cheek gingerly.
"You haven't changed," Jessup says bitterly. "You still use your fists to communicate."
"Only when provoked," I say evenly as I shrug off Tuvok's grip. Jessup struggles to his feet and with some small measure of glee, I notice that his breathing is labored.
"I don't suppose you ever cared what happened to us after your little joyride!" Jessup yells.
"Gentlemen, quiet!" the Doctor roars.
"I saved lives! If I hadn't surrendered, we would have been killed!" I yelled back.
"If you had been true to the cause, you would not have surrendered. B'Elanna, Chakotay, Seska, Suder, me - none of us would have surrendered. We would have rather died!"
"Forgive me for wanting to live! I've never had a death wish! Never. I didn't join the Maquis to end up dead and forgotten."
"So then I was right all along. You joined because you wanted to drink and women -"
"Yes and the Maquis would be the ideal place for that," I scoff. "Don't be ridiculous."
Jessup's voice was very soft, "I watched you, Paris. Did you sleep with every woman in the Maquis?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Does B'Elanna know?"
"She knows I've made mistakes in the past. She knows there have been women."
"Does she know how many?"
"It's not important."
"Does she know that sometimes you didn't even know the names of the women you slept with?"
"B'Elanna knows what she needs to know. She can ask me anything and I won't lie to her."
"You're despicable."
"I'm not the same man you knew ten years ago."
"Ha!" Jessup flails his arms as he takes a step towards me. Tuvok holds onto my arm.
"Calm, Lieutenant," Tuvok says.
I shrug Tuvok's arm off and duck as Jessup's fist narrowly misses my cheek. Tuvok immediately puts himself between the two of us, obviously miffed that he did not react fast enough to prevent Jessup's actions.
"Look, whatever happened, it happened almost ten years ago," I say. "Let's put it behind us, all right?"
"Do you know my sister died because you surrendered?" Jessup asks. I look at him in surprise; I didn't even know the bastard had a sister.
"That's right, Tom," Jessup goes on. "You were supposed to rescue a group of colonists from Arcady. You remember this, right?"
"Of course I do. How could I forget the only mission I ever ran for the Maquis?"
The memory itself, however, is faded. I remember a planet, its scars visible from space. I remember the desperate calls for help and then, the Federation vessels narrowing on us. For the first few nights in Auckland, I replayed that scenario - reviewed every detail in my mind - before assuaging my conscience with the salve that yes, I had done right this time. For once in my stupid, goddamned life, I had done the right thing.
I had been unselfish and for once in my life, I hadn't attempted one of the million daredevil scenarios playing through my head.
In those moments before I surrendered, I remembered Caldik Prime. Thought of the dead as the Federation pounded us with their superior fire power, and I remembered the mothers and their quivering lips and red-rimmed eyes.
And I realized, as I contemplated my small crew of five, that I didn't want to add to the body count already to my credit.
So, I opened the hailing frequencies without asking anyone and got an admiral - Gil Atherton, I think his name was - who evidently had been in Starfleet since the creation of time, his skin leathery and his eyes bloodshot.
I knew him from the haughty soirees my parents held once a month. The top brass would swarm en masse into our house, descending upon the hearth of the Paris family with their loud, abrasive voices and commanding statures; each talked louder and more quickly than his predecessor. During these elegant parties, my mother would swoop in and out of the crowd, her voice unnaturally high-pitched and her eyes glittering with excitement; I often wondered if my father realized that my mother injected herself with an antidepressant prior to these little gatherings. So my mother, perfect in black dress and white pearls, blond hair neatly pulled back from her face and arranged perfectly, would dance attendance on these Starfleet officers, taking compliments on home and cooking graciously.
And then would come the command to bring out the Paris progeny. We - my two sisters and I - would troop out freshly scrubbed and heaven forbid if there be even a crease in our clothing - and we would smile brightly for the admiration of all and the honor of our father. Our father would present us each in turn, giving each officer the opportunity to pinch our cheeks and wonder at our futures in Starfleet.
"Of course the Paris family has had a long, distinguished service record," my father would invariably say. "There is no reason for that to change now, is there?"
Everyone would smile, my father would beam and my mother's eyes grew brighter; as for us, we would be brilliant, brief and gone, slipping away and hiding in the darkest corners of the garden, hoping that the dirt clinging to our shoes would not give us away.
"Tom Paris," Admiral Atherton said in his clipped voice full of Federation authority.
"I surrender," I said very clearly. "We surrender."
And I did not look at the stunned expressions around me; obviously, they didn't mind dying for a cause. I did mind. Dying, that is.
"Your father will be disappointed," Atherton said.
"Did you hear me? We surrender."
"I can't believe this," Atherton said. He shook his head, looked properly mournful, and then looked back at me. "Very well. I accept your surrender."
Starfleet beamed us off of the smoldering wreck of our ship, and while we watched, they tossed a couple of torpedoes at it for good measure. I shrugged off the destruction of the Maquis ship the same way I shrugged off everything else. Another milestone marking yet another failure for Tom Paris. It seemed to me that I was doomed to inconsequentiality - a crime for a Paris.
Atherton, probably out of loyalty to my father, called me into his Ready Room before depositing me unceremoniously in the brig with the rest of the Maquis.
"So this is where you turned up," Atherton began.
"Yes, sir."
"With the Maquis."
"It would seem so."
"Your father did not raise his son to turn traitor on all that the Federation holds dear."
"What my father did or did not do is not relevant," I answered evenly.
"Shame on you," Atherton rose, drawing himself out to his full height. "Your father is a splendid man, a shining example of what a Starfleet officer ought to be. You do him dishonor with your actions. You do realize that you will never have a career in Starfleet now, don't you?"
I looked squarely at Atherton and nodded.
"I never wanted one," I told him. "I... I wanted-"
And then I stopped, unable to complete the sentence. Atherton stared at me.
"Tom?" he asked.
I shrugged.
"You're right," I said. "I'm an utter failure. I have ruined the Paris name." I was pandering now, but Atherton soaked it all up; doubtless he would run to my father and tell him about the humbling of one cocky Tom Paris. Maybe, my father would be pleased with my admissions. Maybe he wouldn't care.
"That's all?" Atherton asked.
"Isn't that enough?"
I remember standing there in Atherton's Ready Room very clearly. That particular moment in my life strings itself along with all of the other moments of dismal failure. For once, just once, I'd like to be acknowledged for doing the right thing. Just once.
And evidently, this surrender of mine won't register as a credit for Tom Paris.
As I look at Herid Jessup, I'm amazed that his lips are still moving; thankfully, I barely hear the words dripping from his lips. B'Elanna has accused me in the past of not listening, of drifting away when she is telling me something of the utmost importance; I see now what she means. With difficulty, I bring myself back to the present to focus on what Jessup says.
"Are you listening?" Jessup is evidently furious with me.
"Yeah, yes, of course."
"You never did evaluate the consequences of your actions-"
"I went to Auckland, isn't that enough? Have you ever been to Auckland? Damn uncomfortable place. You complain about the one blanket in the Maquis, we didn't even get one in the prison camp."
"There you go again, feeling sorry for yourself," Jessup shoots back. "Did you ever think what happened because you surrendered?"
"No," I tell him. "Are you happy now? I didn't think about it. So what?"
"Well, because you surrendered, they never got off the planet. In fact, the Cardassians moved in the very next day. The colonists fought, Tom. They fought for their homes, their land, and for their lives. I managed to go there a few days later and their blood still stained the soil."
"I didn't know!" I yell at him. "How could I know what would happen? I had to make a decision and I made one."
"You took the easy way out!"
"No, I did not!"
"Gentlemen!" the Doctor's voice is loud behind us. "If you might be so kind to remember, I do have a patient."
We go quiet, but we still glare at each other with suspicion. Jessup is the first to blink, but
I extend my hand.
"We don't have to like each other," I tell him. "In fact, go right on hating me and that's quite all right with me. I'm sorry about your sister. I didn't know. But right now, I don't have enough in me to care. I should, but I don't. I'd like to let the past be the past. I've changed and I'm tired of having to prove that to everyone. So, you do what you like; I don't want to fight anymore."
Jessup shrugs, "You're still a despicable pig."
I smile at him; he doesn't deliver the insult with same flair as B'Elanna.
"I'll take that as a compliment," I say.
~ end part V ~
*****
Chakotay has a way of understating the shocking, of delivering the most stunning, heart-stopping gut-wrenching news in a calm, unruffled manner; he might as well be spinning parables around a campfire for all of the emotion he displays now.
I, on the other hand, well, I'm sure Chakotay's going to have to peel me right off the floor and carry me out of here.
I remain seated, stunned into a silence that I cannot quite break out of.
Chakotay says nothing because he understands what it's like to have a trust violated.
The man I knew - Owen Paris - apparently was nothing like the man he projected himself to be.
The man I admired, he was another a projection, if you will - of what the ideal Starfleet officer should be like.
Truth be told, I fall easily.
It had taken all of my courage to request Admiral Paris to serve as my advisor for my honors thesis back in the Academy; I had taken on the massive compact halo objects as my topic and I needed someone who could steer me through it.
Paris had done that and more, and the day I presented my thesis to the Committee, he sat in the front row.
After graduation, Paris approached me with an offer.
"You'll be the junior science officer," he said. "It's the Arias mission. Consider this a great opportunity to put your theory in practice."
And of course, I had accepted; I would have been foolish to do otherwise.
I would wake each morning, and compose myself into a stellar example of what a Starfleet officer ought to be, just so I could catch his eye. Once, he noted me observing him, and he beckoned me to come near.
"You look pensive. What are you thinking about?"
"Thinking about this mission and when we're going to have a chance to observe spatial phenomena in action."
"That fascinates you?"
"On a primitive level. I like the idea of something bigger, more dynamic, and of course, maybe have an opportunity to witness the very forces which formed our universe."
"It's good to see you have a passion for something," the Admiral told me. "Perhaps- I wish that the enthusiasm you showed, I wish it manifested itself - well, it's not prevalent in the younger generation."
"That, sir, if I may be candid..."
"Of course, Kathryn."
"That, sir, is a matter of perspective."
"Discipline. That's what it takes."
"I understand."
Paris looked at me, the slightest hint of a smile stretching his thin, pale pink lips.
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked.
"I try not to be, no, sir," I told him.
"You don't have to lie, Ensign."
"I know," I said. "It's honor to serve on your ship."
"If it were not an honor, would you say so?"
"Probably not, no, sir."
"That's what I thought," he sighed. "Why don't people tell me the truth? Tell me, Ensign, why you watch me so closely."
I didn't have an easy answer. Remember that I was still young, rather naive, and I had yet to develop the ability to think quickly and diplomatically. Paris saved me from answering by laughing and grasping my shoulder with his large hand.
"Are you interested in command?" he asked seriously.
"It would be a future goal of mine, yes."
"Then watch and learn." Those Paris blue eyes twinkled at me. "Command isn't as easy as it seems, Ensign. It's an art. You must appear to be infallible, flawless, and never should you show a moment of indecision. You should be willing to call a bluff when necessary and you should be prepared to lie and lie well. They call it diplomacy, but we'll call it what it is, Lieutenant. You must be conniving, deceitful, but you must also be fair and just. You must adhere to doctrines of Starfleet, yet you must be able to see the shades of gray when the rule of law is not clear. You must make everyone happy but also be prepared to disappoint everyone - all at the same time. You must be willing to kill, as you are to heal and protect. You must make sacrifices and forgo indulgences for the greater good. Are you still interested, Kathryn?"
"Put that way, sir, it hardly sounds satisfying."
"Ah, but that's where you're mistaken," the Captain nodded at passing crewmen. "There's nothing in my life that could afford me greater pleasure or satisfaction than this career. One day, you'll understand, Ensign. One day."
"I hope so, sir."
From that day on, Paris would notice me and call me to his side, asking me a variety of questions. Quizzes on various Starfleet procedures turned into long hours on the Bridge training and later, into private sessions with the Captain himself on the fine art of command, as he so liked to bill his one-hour lectures.
It was in one of these private meetings that I learnt that this so-called science expedition was really a spy mission and I had been woefully deceived; there would be no exploration of the natural forces for me. Rather, we were on a reconnaissance mission to gather information about Cardassian military operations and troops. Even in my disappointment, I found it difficult to despise Admiral Paris for not being entirely honest with me then.
When I finally left the Paris' tutelage, he looked at me pensively.
"You'll make a fine captain," he said.
"I had a good teacher."
"If I were a terrible teacher, would you say otherwise?"
And because I knew how Owen Paris wanted this question answered and with my newly discovered confidence backing me up, I nodded.
"Yes, sir, I would."
"Good," Paris said approvingly. "Then I have done my job and done it well."
And even during my short shoreleaves, I would drop in on Paris, let him know how I was doing, and in the darkest corners of the Delta Quadrant, when it seemed like we would perish out there,
I would wonder what Paris would do in the same situations.
I see now that I was painfully deceived.
That spy mission, that was simply a symptom of the untruths and deceptions he would spin later. Yet, we all believed. We all admired. And Owen Paris, he accepted our adulation and gave us grave, ponderous words of wisdom. So the charade, this charming facade of an upstanding officer, continued.
He did it with mirrors.
Those damn mirrors.
Hell, I look at myself every morning and try not to see the insane Kathryn Janeway who periodically took control. I stare at my reflection and try to compose myself into a calm, articulate, commanding leader. Several deep breaths, shoulders thrust back, a lift of the chin and voila, I am the Captain, the embodiment of all things Starfleet and Federation. I recite the Prime Directive on my knees with my hands clasped, my eyes closed in serene meditation. I confess regularly for violating that divine mantra and I hope that in the high holy place that is Starfleet Headquarters, forgiveness is forthcoming.
I'm a traitor to my own religion.
Chakotay reminds me of this frequently.
What the hell, he's the reason for my conversion.
He looks at me with those dark eyes and immediately, I find myself thinking those thoughts that no Starfleet-fearing Captain ought to be thinking.
Downright sinful, if you ask me.
I'm sure there is a special place in hell for people like me. If I look to that ancient philosopher, Dante, for his interpretation, I would hover somewhere in the first few circles - where reason cannot govern the most natural of instincts. As for Admiral Paris, well, he earns himself a front row seat in the eighth circle of hell, his soul forever encased by flame.
I suppose then, that it's fitting, that Admiral self-immolated himself in the eerily beautiful explosion of a starbase.
But why he saved the Maquis, now that's a question I can't answer. Then again, not all questions have answers and some things are better left unknown and open to speculation.
"Kathryn?"
"I'm thinking."
"I know. You get that little crease right between your eyes," Chakotay says.
"Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"No one ever asked."
"So, if I understood you properly, Admiral Paris was the one who engineered this scheme."
"He was one of the main players, yes."
I sigh. A dull ache begins in my right temple and I know that before long, this pain will settle itself comfortably behind my eyes, not to be evicted until somehow, I can make my way to the first aid kit on the Delta Flyer.
"There's a certain irony in knowing the truth, isn't there, Kathryn? After all we went through?"
"Things aren't as they seem," I say dully.
"I'm sorry."
"I know," I sigh. "I suppose it was... quixotic, wasn't it? Idealistic, even?"
"There is nothing wrong with a belief system, Kathryn. You need to understand that some will subjugate that system even as they insist that they are the upholders of that particular creed."
"My fatal flaw, right?"
"It's not so bad to take people at face value."
"I can't believe I was deceived and so easily..."
"I think the Admiral Paris you knew and the one I knew, those were two different men at different periods in time. In retrospect, his reputation as an outstanding Starfleet officer should not be in doubt."
"He broke the law."
"Yes."
"He betrayed confidences."
"Yes."
"And he and McArthur, they wanted the Maquis out of the way, so the truth wouldn't be revealed."
"That's how I see it, yes."
I mull over the information and slowly the scenario of what must have happened plays out in my mind. Voyager nears the Alpha Quadrant and those Starfleet officers involved in the scheme panic. Someone must do something. So Voyager is sent to a decrepit, out of the way starbase. Admiral Paris, delayed on his way out from San Francisco, gives McArthur orders to delay us however he can. McArthur runs through a farcical, half-hearted interrogation, but even he is not entirely sure of what is planned.
"Why would Paris secretly order your evacuation? It seems to me that he went through a lot of trouble to cover his tracks," I ask. "Why didn't he just order you to Alonius Prime?"
Chakotay shrugs.
"I don't know," he says. "It could be that he wanted to conduct a real trial, but because of the explosion, he couldn't carry out those plans."
I ponder this suggestion, but even that seems out of character for Owen Paris.
"If he was afraid of you talking, what about the others?" I ask.
"What?"
"Didn't all of the Maquis know?" I ask. "What about those Maquis who have been exiled here for years?"
Chakotay shakes his head.
"We never came out and said who was involved," he says. "The deal fell through almost immediately. The first raid they didn't show, we knew we couldn't count on Starfleet for protection. It occurred to us that maybe we could cause a stir back in San Francisco if we revealed names, but by then, we were in the thick of the battle. They were hunting us down and petty grievances -"
"These weren't petty grievances," I tell Chakotay. "What did you give them?"
"Everything," Chakotay offers me a sad smile. "You know, I don't have a home to go back to. My family owned that land for years and now, well, I exchanged it for protection. I suppose Admiral Paris knows who owns it now."
"Or did," I say grimly.
"What do you mean?"
"Owen Paris is dead. He died in the explosion."
Chakotay chuckles. I look at him in surprise; my former first officer is not one to exhibit inappropriate emotion.
"That's one way to clear a conscience," Chakotay says. "And it makes me wonder, yes, I wonder..."
"Wonder what?"
But on this question, Chakotay is strangely silent; his eyes take on a faraway look. After a few minutes, he rouses himself.
"You must be hungry," he says.
"Actually, I'd like to talk about returning to Voyager."
"Food first," he says.
I recognize a challenge when one is thrown down. I nod.
"Food then."
*****
"Hi."
B'Elanna's voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it's enough to startle me right out of my seat. She looks at me sleepily, her eyes barely open. I grab her hand.
"You came," she says.
"Of course."
I brush her hair away from her face. Her skin is still warm and slightly damp. She offers me a smile, the one that always hits me physically in the stomach.
"How do you feel?" I ask. I look around for a tricorder and spot one on a low shelf. I grab it and come back to B'Elanna. "According to this, you're on the road to recovery."
"That's good news." B'Elanna squints at me. "You look tired, Tom. Did you spend the entire night in that chair?"
"Pretty much," I smile. "Your friend Herid offered me a spot on his sofa for the night, but I have a hearty sense of self-preservation."
"He wouldn't have hurt you."
"Your friends still hate me, B'Elanna. I have the bruises to prove it."
B'Elanna struggles to sit up, and winces at the exertion. I help her, placing my arm directly behind her shoulders.
"You fought with him?"
"A little fight. Over you," I grin at her.
"Over me?" she laughs. "No, really. What did you fight about?"
"It's not important, B'Elanna. We've agreed to avoid each other at all costs."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. You didn't answer my question. How do you feel?"
"You're changing the subject again."
"So are you."
"I didn't think I was alive," B'Elanna confesses. "I was there. In gre'thor."
"That's what the Doctor speculated."
"Is the Doctor here?"
"Yes, but he's off-line right now."
B'Elanna lifts her arm and cautiously moves her fingers.
"You may have some stiffness," I tell her. "We weren't sure if you'd get full mobility back."
She nods as she stares at her fingers.
"Hey," I say softly. "In no time at all, you'll be puttering about again. It'll just take some time."
"Yeah, I know," B'Elanna says. She stares over my shoulder. "How long have you been here?"
"Just a day. Seems longer than that, though."
"You were there."
"Where?"
"In my... in gre'thor with me. You had planned a honeymoon. You wanted to go to Chicago, that's what you planned, and at the last moment, you changed your mind and we were going to go to a beach instead. A real beach."
"That sounds nice."
"And then you left. I - I reached out for you, but you vanished." B'Elanna bites her lip and she fumbles around on the biobed with her stiff arm.
"Hey there, careful," I say. "Tell me what you want, B'Elanna."
"I didn't know," she goes on, almost as if I never spoke. "I thought it was real. And then there were the ghosts... the walking dead. They were there too. I asked for forgiveness and they, they didn't..."
I wrap my arms around her as best as I can. She lays her forehead on my shoulder as I run my fingers through her hair. B'Elanna shivers, but I make no further move to ask her what is wrong.
There are many things I've learned during the course of our rather erratic relationship and one lesson is that you never ask questions that hint at any kind of emotional weakness. B'Elanna and I, we don't do that. We cry in silent, letting only the puffiness of our eyes speak for what we cannot say, and we nurse our battle scars in dark corners where the other cannot see what bleeds.
After a few minutes, B'Elanna lifts her head. Her eyes are still watery, but she seems calmer now.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I don't know. It's up to the Captain and Chakotay, I suppose."
"Chakotay doesn't want to leave."
"He doesn't?"
"No."
"Do you?"
"And go where?"
Good question. Where to go? Given that those of us with less than stellar service records will probably find ourselves scrubbing pots in foul smelling kitchens for a living, the possibility of living happily ever in a castle on a hill seem rather remote.
"I don't know," I admit.
"What if they don't let us go?" she asks.
"I never thought of this place as home sweet home, but I suppose it would have to do."
"You'd stay here? With me?"
"B'Elanna," I lean in so that we're eye to eye. "I would have stayed in the Delta Quadrant with you. You really only had to ask."
She puts her hand on my chest as she lowers her eyes.
"I don't want to doubt you, Tom. I'm sorry."
"It's all right. I know."
At that moment, we hear the hiss of the EMH coming online.
"Please state - ah, B'Elanna, Mr. Paris," the Doctor sounds positively jubilant. I wish I could sound that alive first thing after getting out of bed. As it is, I'm bleary-eyed and positively cranky in the morning before that first cup of that all-rejuvenating caffeine brew. And B'Elanna, well, she's not a morning person either; you don't even look at her unless you want to be turned to stone. And even after two cups of coffee, you're still treading on dangerous ground with my temperamental wife. "How do you feel, B'Elanna?"
"Fine."
"My tricorder begs to differ."
"Excuse me?" there's a decidedly violent edge to B'Elanna's voice. I grin at the Doctor and he shrugs his photonic shoulders in surrender. Apparently, the Doctor has been paying close attention to his lessons; you never argue with a Klingon who says she feels fine.
"You should take it easy," the Doctor says.
"Don't worry," I assure him. "I'll make sure she does."
It's a good thing B'Elanna's arm is still stiff otherwise I'm sure she would have taken a nice swipe at me. Impulsively, I lean in to kiss her on the cheek. When I look at her, she is smiling.
"Then I will trust you to Mr. Paris' care," the Doctor says. "Lieutenant - you are still a
lieutenant, aren't you?"
I shrug, "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."
"It doesn't matter," the Doctor sighs melodramatically. "We'll all be scattered across the galaxy, communicating via subspace. We'll be friends, not fellow officers."
"What is he talking about?" B'Elanna asks.
"New assignments," I tell her. "The Captain has already been reassigned."
"Everyone?"
"Just her. The rest of us were - are - supposed to get our assignments when we reached Deep Space Nine."
"Oh."
God, when someone gets under your skin the way B'Elanna has gotten under mine, you know exactly what that person is thinking, even if they don't articulate those thoughts. I smile at her but say nothing. After all, I don't know what's happening anymore than she does and there are questions without answers. I imagine we'll figure it out as we go along.
And that, in a nutshell, is the plan.
~ end part VI ~
****
You take an inherent risk when you fall in love.
Mark and I, we met at a stuffy reception at Headquarters. We stood on a balcony, enjoying the chill of the autumn evening, champagne in hand, and comparing the puffed-out chests of the assembled. We never set out for anything more than the pleasure of another's company.
It was always the little things that got me; the way his brow would furrow when he was deep in the thought, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me or the way his hair stood up on end in the mornings.
I never really thought much of what I was doing with Mark. And then one morning, I woke up and there was Mark, lying next to me, his arm across his face, the sheets down by his waist, and I drew my knees to my chest and stared at him. I think I sat there for a good ten minutes, just staring at him, and realized that I liked waking up next to him. I realized that I liked knowing that he was there at night when I came home and reveled in the feeling that he was the first person I wanted to tell everything too.
And so, if you term that love, then yes, I did love Mark.
Now, Chakotay, that's another story entirely.
Nothing easy there, nothing at all.
As we walk across the hard ground, Chakotay doesn't look at me at all. In fact, he does his best to avoid speaking at all and I wonder where this sudden coolness comes from.
Damn him.
Damn what I feel for him.
A professor once stood up in front of my class back at the Academy and dropped the profound philosophy of marriage on us; he said, very seriously too, that you should never marry for love.
"One day you'll wake up and the love is gone and all you have is this person," he lectured. "You should have something else, something more than a memory of love to hold you together. Otherwise you will start to feel annoyed with those habits, which tinted by the first blush of love were adorable or endearing. No, listen, you must have something more than love."
And even in those days, I thought like the scientist I wanted desperately to be and could not reconcile myself to an emotion that defied explanation or basic in solid theory. The very thought of a quickening pulse and elevated temperature at the appearance of a particular person did not appeal to me because I could not understand such a response without resorting first to science.
My father once told me that there existed those things that could not be explained and such was love; that particular emotion was a force unending and unbending.
What dismayed me most about the concept of love was the singularly frightening thought that you
could choose whom you loved; you could not choose who would love you back.
I did not mean to fall in love.
I did not want to fall in love.
Damn.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Some nights, I would look over at Chakotay and note the way his dark hair flopped over his tattoo. I would dwell on that tiny cleft in his chin, the one that is barely noticeable unless you are eye-level with it. I would run my lips over his cheek, his stubble harsh against my own soft skin, and his eyes would open, almost as if my touch shocked him.
Sometimes, I would trace my fingers over those long, sinewy limbs, dragging my fingertips through the soft tufts of hair on his chest. In the soft candlelight - the slender tapers, which I replicated from hoarded rations - I would focus on the small colorless spot on his lower lip and then I would run my fingers over his cheekbones. Sometimes I would tease him about the way he carefully trimmed his eyebrows and kept them blunted at the edges.
You don't notice these things without reason.
Even when we went toe to toe, I was always so aware of him.
It was impossible, always, to ignore Chakotay, even when I wanted to, even when I knew that I should.
And the way he gets to me... God. I didn't think it possible for someone to stand across the room, not raise his voice, and yet still make me profoundly aware of his presence.
If Chakotay knows, he gives no indication. Rather, he torments me in that rather careless but quiet way of his. The way his eyes glow with an intensity, the way his voice slightly cracks when he thinks I'm wrong - all of these are signs of something, something that neither of us dares to name.
But what damns me most is the simplest of all.
Chakotay has this way of saying my name. Somehow, he manages to round the vowels and soften the syllables. His voice caresses me even though his hands remain resolutely at his side. Sometimes, I'll turn away from the viewscreen, see Chakotay, observe that sly smile of his, and know that he was not looking at the same thing I was.
So you see, it's entirely different.
I am the captain; he is my first officer.
I am Starfleet; he is Maquis.
It shouldn't have been this way.
The first time I truly let him in, right after Kashyk, I should have known better. But I buried my face into the smooth curve of his neck, inhaled deeply, and I couldn't pull away.
Night after night, there he was, in my bed, and promptly, before our shift, he would slip out from under the covers, get dressed and leave.
How no one knew the truth about our relationship remains a mystery to me.
Or maybe out of respect, they - Voyager's crew - remained silent and respectful. Strange, because they never afforded Tom and B'Elanna that same courtesy.
Chakotay's shoulder brushes mine and he looks at me.
"Sorry," he says shortly.
Physically, we have never been closer. If I dared, I could reach up and run my fingertips down his pink cheek and trace the strong curve of his jaw. I could smooth hair mussed by the chilly wind in one smooth gesture; yet for all of that, I have never felt more distant from this man.
I think it's true what my professor said all those years ago.
I never thought it would apply to me.
****
B'Elanna, exhausted by her illness, sleeps while the EMH remains offline. I haven't seen the
Captain in hours, so I take the opportunity to search Janeway out.
Outside, I find Tuvok, on his way to the Delta Flyer.
"Have you seen the Captain?" I ask.
"They are in there," he points to the meeting hall.
"Anything important?"
"No."
"Thanks."
Jessup doesn't look at me as I enter the meeting hall. In fact, he does his damndest to stay the hell away. It doesn't matter; I'm not into making friends today. I see Janeway and Chakotay and make a beeline for them.
"Tom, how's B'Elanna feeling?" the captain asks. Chakotay does not look up. The Captain shrugs.
"She's awake," I say. "And looks like she'll be just fine."
"That's good to hear."
They both have food on their plates, but neither appears to be eating.
"Join us," Chakotay says.
"Please," Janeway indicates the chair next to her.
I eye them both warily.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"Chakotay has been filling me in on some background," Janeway says evenly. "Putting the pieces together, if you will."
I sit down next Janeway and look across the table at Chakotay. Chakotay and I have always had a tumultuous relationship, ranging from pure dislike to cool neutrality. Some days, we actually managed to have a conversation, but other days we could barely stand to look at each other.
Back during my short, lamented stint with the Maquis, Chakotay looked at me with narrowed eyes; for the most part though, I was grateful that he did not bestow me with the same dislike the other Maquis, including B'Elanna, reserved especially for me. I think, even then, Chakotay saw something redeemable in an arrogant young pilot and when I surrendered to Starfleet, I thought with a pang that I would never truly know what prompted Chakotay to take a chance on me.
During all of our time on Voyager, I never asked Chakotay about the Maquis. The lines were drawn so clearly, the boundaries of what we could and could not talk about, and the Maquis was one of those.
Once, during a late night in Sandrine's, I looked across the table at Chakotay, who seemed completely fixated on the Captain and I said very softly, "I'm sorry."
I don't know if the former Maquis leader heard me because he did not acknowledge me at all. In fact, even if he heard me, my time on Voyager had given me plenty to apologize for.
"Anything I'd be interested in?" I ask easily.
"Quite a bit, actually," Chakotay says. Janeway looks over at me and gently runs her fingers over the curve of my jawbone.
"You've been hurt," she says very softly.
"Nothing serious."
Chakotay raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Janeway breathes deeply.
"What's going on?" I ask.
"It's about your father," the Captain says.
I look across the room at the former Maquis who are laughing about something. Back when I was one of them - and I use that phrase very loosely - the Maquis fighters seemed to possess a special camaraderie and in some ways, I envied their ease with each other and their openness. A part of me wanted to reach out and ask - no, beg - for friendship, but instead, it was much easier to turn to a bottle of alcohol and turn into the charming Tom Paris, quick with a joke and suave with the ladies.
No wonder they hated me.
I hated me too.
"What about him?" I ask.
"I don't like to speak ill of the dead-" Janeway begins, but then she pauses as Tuvok approaches us.
"Voyager will arrive in a few hours," Tuvok addresses the Captain. "They had already set a course when they received B'Elanna's message. Starfleet Headquarters is anticipating our arrival."
"We're going to San Francisco?" I ask.
"Yes," Janeway nods. "I need to clear some things up and I can't do it from here."
"What about your posting on the Dauntless?" I ask.
Janeway shakes her head.
"Not important," she says. "I've turned it down."
Chakotay looks surprised.
"You didn't tell me that, Kathryn."
"I had Tuvok rely the message for me," the Captain says. "Chakotay, we've got to figure this out, okay? If I accept the posting on the Dauntless, who will fight for you?"
"We're quite capable of fighting our own battles."
"I know." Janeway reaches across the table to cover Chakotay's hand with her own. "But please, indulge me on this one. I need to see it through."
"In the meantime, I think we Maquis need to stay here."
"What are you talking about?" Janeway seems genuinely shocked by Chakotay's statement. "I know you wanted to stay here permanently, but I thought you would come to San Francisco with me to
find out what's going on."
Chakotay shakes his head. "According to the others, the political climate for the Maquis back on Earth is nothing short of homicidal. It may be best for all involved if you negotiate without the constant reminder of... our activities. I think our presence would only make it more difficult for you."
"What about B'Elanna?" I ask. After our recent misadventures, I have no intention of leaving B'Elanna behind; left to her own devices, I have no doubt she'll run off and join another Collective.
"B'Elanna included," Chakotay says flatly. His expression dares me to fight him, but I know that this is one battle I cannot win; unfortunately, when it comes to choosing between Chakotay and me, B'Elanna will always go with Chakotay. I can't explain how I know this - or even how much it hurts me - but there it is: the plain, unvarnished truth. And can I help it if I'm a little greedy? A little quality time with the wife isn't too much to ask, considering I'm a newly married man. But of course, given Janeway and Chakotay - and their complete lack of perception when it comes to anything mildly romantic - I have a feeling that my honeymoon with B'Elanna is going to have to wait a bit longer.
"I can't change your mind?" Janeway's voice is low, throaty, and uncomfortably seductive. I squirm a bit in my chair. Chakotay shakes his head. Janeway inhales deeply and then stabs a piece of vegetable with her fork.
"Maybe it's not as bad as you think it is," I put in. Chakotay glances at me.
"I'd like to be optimistic, Tom, but I also have to be realistic. We're better off staying here."
Janeway breathes in deeply again and then puts her fork down.
"The Doctor will remain here also, just in case," Janeway says. "Tom, I know you're disappointed; we'll come back for B'Elanna. Soon, I promise."
Her own tone drips with disappointment and not for the first time, I wonder if there is something more between the captain and her first officer.
I bite my lip. I understand what they are saying in theory, but in practicality, I don't know how I can leave B'Elanna. But then, I've always been real good at running away, so maybe this could be yet another opportunity to do what I excel at.
"If that's how you feel," I say. "If that's what would be best for everyone involved..."
"That's how I feel," Chakotay says defiantly.
"You do what you think best," Janeway says in that tone that says she's not finished with Chakotay yet; he knows it too but looks defiantly back at his former captain. It's amazing; reconciling the utterly calm Chakotay with his crazy outlaw friends has brought a bit of defiance and spark back to his demeanor. I like Chakotay this way; somehow, he looks more... alive.
I clear my throat.
"Did you have something to tell me?" I ask.
Janeway and Chakotay exchange a look, one more deep and telling than any of the million suggestive looks that passed between them over the past few years. I'd always wondered about those non-verbal communications of theirs. There were times too, when B'Elanna and I were at odds with each other, I envied the natural closeness between the Captain and her first officer; it was a relationship of mutual respect, deference and maybe, something more.
"About my father?" I persist. "You said you had something to tell me."
"Tom," the Captain leans forward, her hand moving off of Chakotay's and onto mine; now I know I'm in trouble. The Captain, always inclined to tactility, is even more touchy-feely when she's about to drop a bombshell. "Tom, I've got something to tell you."
I look at her, thinking maybe there is joke hidden beneath this uncharacteristic redundancy of hers.
"You don't have to protect me," I tell her. "It's worse if you try to sugarcoat whatever it is you're trying to tell me."
"Right," she says. And then for the third time, she says, "Tom, I've got something to tell you."
~ end part VII ~
****
Tom listens carefully as I detail his father's betrayals; I use "betrayals," even though it's a rather harsh word and Tom noticeably winces when I say the word.
When I finish, Tom droops, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging down.
"Tom?" I ask softly. Next to me, Chakotay stirs uncomfortably in his chair.
"I'm sorry," Chakotay says.
"I know this is a shock to you. I was stunned by the revelation also," I say.
More silence. Tom simply sits; it's almost like he's deflated, all of the energy squeezed out of his body. I get up and cross the short distance between us. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently, but Tom shrugs off my touch.
"I don't need your comfort," he tells me shortly.
"Look, I know you've had some difficulty dealing with your father's death and this-"
"How would you know?" he challenges. "How would you know if I had difficulty and why would you care?"
"Tom," I say. "You know I care. I don't know why you would question that."
"I'm not questioning it; I'm only saying that you and Chakotay and everyone else, you all have kind words, appropriate words, but none of you truly know or understand what I feel. So don't say that you care because I don't know what you're caring about."
"That's not fair," Chakotay interjects.
"Aw, hell," Tom gets to his feet. "Who said anything was fair? If life had been fair, I wouldn't have had to cheat on an exam. If life were fair, no one would have died at Caldik Prime and most of all, if life had been fair, there would have been no Maquis. Am I right, Commander?"
"Okay, then, you're right," Chakotay says. "Life is not fair, but that's no reason for you to lash out at the Captain."
"It's okay," I tell Chakotay. "Tom, look, you've gone through a lot. I want to help you through it."
"Look who's talking," Tom says to Chakotay. "This is a woman who allowed herself to get assimilated by the Borg and when she returned, she did not even blink; she did not even think of the consequences of her actions."
"Why do you keep bringing it up?" I ask.
"You talk about helping me; you can't even help yourself." Disgust drips from Tom's voice and I shiver at the coldness in his blue eyes. "You don't even know the first thing about empathy."
"That's no way to talk to your captain," Chakotay says. My former first officer gets to his feet.
"Is she even still a captain? There seems to be some doubt about that," Tom retorts icily.
"That's enough!" Chakotay and Tom are now standing mere centimeters from each other, both of them looking as infuriated as I've ever seen them.
"I'm not done," Tom says.
"Oh yes you are," Chakotay answers.
"Gentlemen," I say quietly. My voice shakes, but I try to appear confident to them. Both turn to
look at me. "Commander, if I could have a minute with Tom?"
"I'll be outside," Chakotay answers.
Tom and I stand in silence as Chakotay leaves. I take a deep breath, count to ten and then I speak.
"You have every right to be angry," I tell Tom. "With me, your father, with anyone you choose. You don't have the right to vent that anger in an unproductive manner."
"How do you suggest I vent that anger? Counseling sessions? Maybe I ought to lie on a couch and talk about my ambivalence for authority and my incorrigible nature brought on by a fierce need for attention from a distant and cold father. How does that sound? In fact, you could even sit right there and listen. I bet you'd like that. I bet you'd like to take your personal reclamation project one step further and eradicate my demons, real or imagined. How does that sound? You could even take the credit for the new, improved Tom Paris. I bet you'd like that."
"Sounds like you have a lot of anger," I say stupidly. You know, they don't really teach this kind of thing back in Starfleet Academy; it's definitely an on-the-job developed skill, and even after seven years of command, I still don't know how to reach out to Tom or B'Elanna or any of the others. Even Chakotay, whom I feel closest to, accuses me of remoteness.
I don't mean to be cold; I want to be fair. That's all I've ever wanted - to be a fair and good captain. Admittedly, I've had the loyalty of my crew for the last seven years, but whether I earned it or they gave it to me blindly - because that's the Starfleet way - I don't know.
I suppose there are questions you'll never know the answers to.
Maybe it's better that way.
"Tom?" I venture cautiously. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
"Yeah, you're sorry, I'm sorry, we're all sorry. Who even cares?"
"Don't use anger to push me away. Not now."
"How can you possibly understand what I'm going through?"
"Look, I admired your father. It shocked me when Chakotay told me what happened all those years
ago. I would never have guessed that Admiral Paris could be capable of doing such things."
"Well, I don't believe it," Tom says.
"Are you accusing Chakotay of lying?"
"I'm saying I'm not letting my father off that easily."
"I don't understand."
"All of my life, my father has been a shining paragon of virtue and duty. He never even had dust on his shoes, not even when he walked up the path to our front door. Even dirt stood in formation for Owen Paris. No, he would never do what you're accusing him of. Making a covert deal with the DMZ colonists against Starfleet's specific orders, no, that's too easy."
"Too easy because it gives you a way to knock him down a few notches?" my tone is unnecessarily
cruel, but Tom doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeah," he says softly. "I resented my father because he was so perfect. Perfect in every way and he wanted me to be just like him. I - Captain, I just wanted to be me. I know that sounds silly and maybe even somewhat juvenile, but I never really wanted a career in Starfleet. I don't even know that I wanted a career. Maybe all I wanted to do was drink synthale and shoot pool. What the hell is that matter with that?"
"Well-"
Tom holds up a hand.
"I know what the matter was," he says. "I'm Owen Paris' son. Owen Paris' son was going to be someone whether he wanted to be or not. So you see, I'm not letting Dad off that easy."
"You're going to have to, Tom."
"No - there's something more here."
"What do you intend to do?"
Tom looks at me. "I'll ask my mother."
There is something curiously appealing about a thirty-something Starfleet lieutenant looking for maternal reassurance even as his belief of what was dissolves into a blurry what is. You've got to seek your comfort somewhere and hell, in lieu of Chakotay, I'd go for my mother. But in Tom's case, I'm not sure that his mother is the best source of information or even comfort.
There's something about Anya Paris that makes me wonder if she knows anything about her husband's extracurricular activities. I have a faint memory of a reed-thin blond with large, round blue eyes and nervous hands. She spoke in low, carefully modulated tones; I doubt she ever raised her voice. Anya capably hosted the gatherings at the Paris home with quiet elegance, always carefully and conservatively dressed in black, a string of pearls - no doubt real - around her neck. Yet, for all of her efficiency, in our few meetings, I rarely got a feel for the woman; in some ways, she didn't really exist or if she did, she kept her real personality subservient to that artificiality so exalted in the high ranks of Starfleet admiralty.
"You think she'll know?" I ask very softly. Tom shrugs.
"I'm ready to go home," he says, carefully side-stepping the question. "It's been a long time."
"Yes."
He sighs. "You think it's true, Captain?"
"About your father? Yes. Chakotay has no reason to lie."
"Is that why he hated me?"
I look at him in surprise.
"Because of my father?" Tom continues. His face takes on a pensive expression. "Chakotay never liked me. That's not saying much either, since the Maquis, including B'Elanna, hated me from the moment I showed up. Chakotay at least tried. I could still feel his dislike, no matter how
he tried to suppress it and I thought, maybe if I could just prove myself... just once, maybe that would make all of the difference."
"Is that why you took that mission? The one when you surrendered?"
Tom looks at me in surprise; we have talked about many things in the past - Tom's short-lived career as an outlaw and his subsequent capture and incarceration, now those are topics we haven't touched. I suppose there are things you just don't mention out of consideration and maybe, he thought I didn't really know or remember what happened prior to his Voyager days.
"Maybe," he answers guardedly. "Doesn't matter. The deck was stacked against me anyway; my father made sure of that. No matter what he did, he made sure there'd always be some kind of block in my way. The Paris name is a curse."
"That's not true."
"And how would you know?"
"I wish you'd stop fighting me, Tom."
He looks at me, almost sadly.
"Yeah," he says. "Me too."
"Have you told B'Elanna?"
"No, not yet. I will."
I take a deep breath. "I am sorry, Tom."
"Not as sorry as I am," he says. "I still don't believe it. My father wouldn't go back on his word; it would be out of character for him."
"I agree."
"Something must have happened to him," Tom says stubbornly.
"Possibly," I agree.
"Or there's a mistake."
"There's that option also."
"Yeah," Tom says. "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I'd like to say good-bye to B'Elanna."
I nod and watch him leave. I sit down on the couch and breathe deeply, not even looking up when Chakotay reenters.
"I saw Tom," Chakotay says.
"Yeah?"
"Did it go all right once I was gone?"
"Fairly. He's angry. Really angry."
"That's to be expected."
Chakotay kneels in front of me, intertwining his fingers with mine.
"Are you angry with me?" he asks very softly.
"No. If anything, I'm angry at myself."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not especially."
"One day you're going to have to talk."
"Now you sound like me when I talk to Tom."
Chakotay quirks a smile. "Ironic, isn't that? Maybe you should take your own advice every now
and then."
"Reconsider," I tell him. "Don't stay here. Come with me."
"You know I can't do that."
"Can't or won't?"
"My life is here."
"I need you."
Chakotay releases my hands. "You've never needed me, Kathryn. You only pretended to."
"That's not true. How many times do I have to apologize? I swear, all I've done since we've gotten home is apologize. I'm tired of it."
"So stop," Chakotay says calmly. "Stop apologizing. Do what you mean to do and do it with confidence, not regret."
"Easier said than done."
He puts his cool hands against my cheek and draws me in closer so that our foreheads touch; his skin is cold against mine.
"You take care of you," he says very quietly. "I can't do that for you. I've tried, Kathryn. So many times, I've tried-"
"So this is it?"
"Depends what you mean by that."
"Means you're putting a pretty big stamp of finality on us."
"That's where you're wrong," Chakotay releases my face and stands up. He takes a few steps and then turns to look back at me.
"There never was an us, Kathryn. Only you existed. Everyone else was convenient to you."
"That's not fair.
"But you don't deny it either."
I twist my hands together. "I do regret that. It's a hard lesson to learn, Chakotay."
"I know," he crouches in front of me. "But you're going to have to learn this one without me. I - I can't help you, no matter how much I want to."
I grip his shoulders tightly, but he doesn't react. After a few minutes, he disentangles himself gently from my desperate embrace.
"I'm going to check on the Delta Flyer. I need to check on something with Tuvok," he says. "Take your time."
And as he leaves, I'm so tempted to ask, so tempted, but dignity holds me back; the truth wounds and the last thing I need to know now is that Chakotay never cared.
~ end part VIII ~
****
B'Elanna is awake and feisty, bickering with the Doctor, when I enter. She smiles at me, a full-force, radiant smile.
"You must be feeling better," I say.
"Much better," she beams. I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek.
"I can attest to that," the Doctor says. "She has been complaining for hours. I tell you, I've never had a more miserable patient than Lieutenant Torres."
"That doesn't surprise me," I grin at B'Elanna. "Hey, Doc, can you give us a moment? I need to talk to B'Elanna."
"Something wrong?" B'Elanna asks. She is sitting up on the biobed, knees drawn to chest, and I notice that she is wearing drab brown - the same colors she wore as a Maquis operative. After all these years together, I know that B'Elanna looks best in red; after all, red is the only color that can compete with my firebrand wife.
"You might say that," I tell her. Quickly, I relate to her the story Janeway spun so eloquently for me. B'Elanna listens in rapt attention, her chin resting in her palm. When I finish, I look at her for some measure of shock, but she shrugs.
"What?" I ask. "What does that expression mean?"
"I was there, Tom," she says. "I know what happened."
"How come you never said anything?"
"Because I didn't know his name," she says in exasperation. "Eddington did all of the talking and he and Chakotay actually worked out the details. I was just there in case anything happened to the ship. I wasn't even in the room when the discussions were going on. Can you imagine if I were the one doing the negotiations? The outcome would have been much worse if they had let me into that room."
I nod. B'Elanna as a negotiator? Wouldn't happen. She's too hot-tempered, too quick to jump to conclusions and prone to leaping across tables and grabbing unsuspecting victims by the throat; some, like me, might enjoy being throttled by B'Elanna, but others would call her diplomatic efforts attempted murder.
"I can't believe you never told me," I say.
"It never came up."
"For God's sake, B'Elanna. This was important. How could you keep it from me?"
"Because it never worked. It was a deal that fell through. I never kept anything from you. What did you want me to do? Go to Chakotay and say, `hey, who was that guy you dealt with back when we thought Starfleet might help?' It didn't matter, Tom, so I didn't ask. Besides, in the Maquis, the less you knew, the better."
"I don't believe my father would do such a thing. I don't believe he would lie to women and children and then turn his back on him. That's not like him."
"Well, why don't you ask him?" B'Elanna asks.
"Because he's dead."
B'Elanna recoils. "Tom, I-I'm sorry. I- I didn't know."
"Died in the explosion," I tell her. "He didn't get off the starbase in time, but he did get you off. I suppose I should be grateful for that."
"What are you talking about?" B'Elanna gets off the biobed and waits a second, steadying herself, before she takes my hand. "Tom, this is important. Talk to me."
"I am talking to you now. He didn't get off, but he somehow forged a release order to get you, Chakotay and the others off of the starbase prior to the explosion."
"That's not what I meant," she says quietly. "Tom, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I tell her briskly. "Nothing a beer or two and some cartoons won't take care of."
"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. "Your father died. It's natural for you to feel something. Damn, even I felt something when I went to gre'thor and realized my mother might be dead. You lost a parent-"
"Now you sound like the Captain. Why the hell are you all always trying to get me to talk about how I feel? Damn, I'm tired of that!"
"Are you yelling because you're angry at me or with your father?"
"Sorry," I calm down immediately. "I'm not mad at you. I'm sorry. I- I just don't want to believe what they told me and-"
"Why can't you, Tom? You know Chakotay and the Captain wouldn't lie to you."
"But there has to be some reason why. Why? That's what I don't understand. If I knew why, maybe I could reconcile myself to this - to knowing this thing about my father."
B'Elanna runs her hand up and down my arm. Her touch is light and welcome. I realize how much I've truly missed her over the last week. And it's not just the fact I've been waking up without her days, it's more of breathing her in, hearing her voice, seeing her eyes light up in that way meant just for me. I wrap my arms around her and she buries her head against my shoulder.
"I don't want my final memory of my father to be one that is so... negative," I tell her quietly.
"Why do you feel the need to redeem him?" B'Elanna asks reasonably. It takes me a long time to compose an articulate answer in my mind.
Until this very moment, I hadn't thought there might be a reason for my need to know why my father would have done something so contrary to his beliefs.
"Because it's something I would have done," I tell B'Elanna frankly. "Make a promise for my own gain and then renege on it. God, you don't know how many promises I've broken in the past. I think a part of me wants to be... redeemable?"
B'Elanna pulls away from me and cups my cheek in her hand.
"And you don't think you are?" her voice is scarcely above a whisper. "Tom, no. Please. Don't think like that. No. I hate it when you do that to yourself."
"You don't count; you're biased."
"I think I do count," she leans in for a soft flutter of a kiss. "If nothing else, you, you redeemed me."
I run my fingers through her hair and kiss her gently on the forehead, cheeks, and lips. God, how I've missed her. Missed this. In a way, with B'Elanna right here, maybe all of this doesn't matter; maybe everything I've been fighting against, well, maybe it's time to surrender.
"Yeah?" I whisper.
"Yeah," she says, smiling at me. "Yeah."
I gently disentangle myself from her arms.
"I'm leaving, B'Elanna."
"What are you talking about?"
"Voyager is on its way to rendezvous with the Delta Flyer. We're setting a course for San Francisco."
"I want to come with you."
"I'm afraid you can't. Chakotay wants you to stay."
"Why?"
"Chakotay thinks you were brought here for a reason, B'Elanna, and he could be right. I- I don't want anything to happen to you. Please, stay here."
"I almost died on this planet," she says. She moves her arm gingerly. "And you want me to stay here?"
"The Doctor has synthesized an antidote for the virus; you should be fine."
"I don't want you to be alone, Tom, not after everything that has happened."
"I'll be fine."
"I should be with you."
"I have Harry."
"Harry, right. Are you comparing me to Harry?"
"There's no competition, B'Elanna, believe me. I'll be fine. Please, stay here until we get everything figured out. I promise, as soon as we find out what's going on, I'll come and get you. I promise."
She looks at me contemplatively and I reach to squeeze her hand.
"I'm being selfish, B'Elanna," I tell her. "Chakotay seems to think you will be better off here and I want you with me. But at the same time, I have to acknowledge that given our circumstances... I don't want anything to happen to you, B'Elanna. So promise me you'll stay?"
"I'm worried about you."
"I know," I let go of her hand and squeeze her shoulder gently. "I... and maybe it's better that
I do this alone? I need to be selfish, B'Elanna. Can you understand that?"
She bites down on her lip and nods. I sigh in relief.
"Thank you," I tell her. "You're wonderful."
"Maybe you should tell me the truth. Is there a girlfriend back on Earth that you don't want me to know about?" B'Elanna musters up the barest hint of a smile.
"Perhaps."
"What's her name? I should probably warn her that you're a pig."
"If you're going to do that, you might as well get it right. Tell her I'm an incorrigible pig,"
I lean in for a kiss. "I'll miss you."
"Hmmm?"
"You know what I mean," I release her from my grip. "You do know, right?"
She nods.
"Yeah, Tom," she says. "I know."
"Janeway to Paris."
I sigh.
"Paris here."
"We're ready to go, Lieutenant."
"Right. I'm on my way."
I kiss B'Elanna one more time.
"I know you won't miss me," I tell her.
"Don't do anything stupid."
"You know me," I answer.
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Computer, activate the emergency EMH."
The Doctor appears, wearing his usual dazed look. "Please - oh, Lieutenants. How nice to see you again."
"I'm leaving," I tell him briskly.
"What about me?"
"You're staying here," I answer. I look over at B'Elanna, who doesn't look back at me. "Your skills - they're needed here."
"You will come back?"
"Of course." I'm still looking at B'Elanna but she refuses to look back at me. At that moment,
Tuvok enters.
"Lieutenant Paris," he says. "Are you ready to leave?"
"Yes," I tell him.
B'Elanna turns her back as we leave. I glance in one of the windows as we go past and I see her leaning against the biobed, one hand against her face. Tuvok looks at me curiously and I point towards the clearing where the Delta Flyer awaits us.
"Let's go," I tell Tuvok. "We're getting late."
****
The first time I stepped on Voyager, I felt a sense of awe that has never quite dissipated; my ship never fails to amaze me and I wonder if this love affair of mine will ever end.
In our private moments together, Chakotay would sometimes joke about my obsession with Voyager.
"If it came down to me or the ship, which would you choose?" he asked one night, as we lay curled on the sofa, his hand gently rubbing the length of my thigh. "Or am I on dangerous ground?"
"Dangerous ground."
"Well? What's your answer?"
"You're still asking? Even after that warning?"
"I want to know."
"What about the crew?"
"If the crew didn't matter, would you choose the ship or me?"
"Depends on circumstances." I drew my finger in a circle across his chest. He grabbed my fingers and pressed them to his lips. "This isn't a fair question."
"I think you'd pick Voyager."
"For God's sake, don't be so ridiculous."
"I've seen the way you talk to Voyager," Chakotay said. He pressed his lips against my cheek for a moment before continuing. "There's a lot of tenderness there."
"We understand each other."
"Like lovers?"
"It's a ship, Chakotay. You can't possibly make that kind of comparison."
"But you use a certain kind of voice when you talk to Voyager," Chakotay protested. "It's low, husky... the one which never quite makes it out of your throat?"
"This one?" I whispered. Chakotay smiled at me. He touched the side of my face, tucking a short strand of hair behind my ear.
"Yeah," he whispered back. His lips brushed my throat and then his eyes met mine as his fingers trailed down my cheek. "That's the one."
But joking aside, I did feel very proprietary about Voyager. I loved standing in the middle of the Bridge, taking a look around, and knowing that all this sophisticated technology belonged to me to command.
A bit egotistical, isn't it?
Allow me my arrogance, just this once.
I'm already fearing the worse on our return to Headquarters. In my nightmares, Starfleet will give Voyager to someone else - someone who does not quite understand Voyager as I do. Or they might even scrap her down for salvage, an unworthy fate for a proud ship.
So I take each step onto the Bridge as if it were my last and I memorize each detail, capturing each moment and freezing it in my faulty memory.
I note Harry, his round face eager and enthusiastic, but his eyes filled with concern; he stands at his usual spot directly behind my chair. Tuvok stands slightly off-center at Tactical. Chakotay's chair is empty. I could ask Tuvok to fill it, but somehow, it seems disrespectful to replace my First Officer so quickly.
Seven sits at B'Elanna's usual station, her blond head cocked to one side, her eyes alert and questioning. A couple lieutenants stand in the back, working busily; I'm ashamed to say that I did not take the time to greet them when I returned to the bridge.
Paris usually takes the Helm, but in a rare moment of emotion, he asked for some leave.
"Just a few hours," he said as we approached Voyager in the Delta Flyer. "I need some time to sort things out."
"Take as long as you want."
"I only need a few hours," Tom repeated firmly. He held my gaze firmly with his own before I looked away, feeling uncomfortable but not quite sure why.
"Granted," I said.
"Thank you," Tom replied with equal formality.
So, Tom sulks - or so I imagine - in his quarters.
I have half a mind to send Harry down to see Tom, but I get the feeling that Tom would not appreciate the gesture. Rather, a sympathetic expression from his best friend may shut Tom down completely. God knows if he won't share his feelings with B'Elanna or Harry, he'll throw himself out of an airlock before he talks to me.
So there you have it.
I am a woman with a ship. A good ship with a good crew, but seemingly at odds with the people who matter most to me.
Seven, however, is still speaking to me, as are Harry and Tuvok; for small blessings, I should be grateful. But I am very much like that grandmother whose grandson is carried away by a tide; upon his return, she thanks God profusely, but wonders at the loss of the child's baseball hat.
The viewscreen displays a star-map of our current coordinates; a yellow line plots out the best route to Earth while a red blinking dot signifies our progress. The helm officer - one Ensign Pablo Baytart - navigates expertly and without any sign of strain or nervousness.
Baytart is an excellent pilot, competent, and generally good-natured. But despite these obvious attributes, I miss Tom at the helm. In a moment of tension, I can always count on Tom to whirl around in his seat and deliver a wisecrack. Right now, I could really use someone with a sense of humor on my bridge.
"Captain?"
Harry's questioning tone jerks me out of my reverie.
"What is it, Harry?"
"Incoming message from Admiral McArthur. It's marked confidential."
"I'll take it in my Ready Room."
"Sending it now."
In my Ready Room, I first get a cup of coffee and then settle myself comfortably in my chair. I bring up my small view screen and after a few moments, I'm greeted with the rather perturbed expression of Rodney McArthur.
"Kathryn, there have been questions about your activities," he begins.
"It's good to see you too," I tell him.
"I've defended you as much as I possibly can."
"What's going on? Who's saying what?"
"They know about your visit to Alonius Prime."
"I didn't think that would stay a secret from long. Starfleet is better at surveillance than it wants to admit."
"You have a lot of explaining to do when you get here."
"Let's keep it simple, all right? I wanted to check on my people."
"They are Maquis traitors."
"To you, not to me."
McArthur, in his sterile Starfleet office, leans forward, almost so close that his nose is uncommonly large; I resist the urge to smile. McArthur jabs his finger at the screen.
"You have to choose, Kathryn," he says. "Loyalty to us or loyalty to them."
"You can't be serious."
"The Maquis betrayed the Federation; some of them were even Starfleet officers. We cannot make exceptions in this particular situation."
"Are you sure you aren't spewing the agreed upon rhetoric? Or are you remembering the death of your son at the hands of the Maquis?"
"So you know about that," McArthur says.
"Yes. Chakotay told me."
McArthur looks away from the screen and then after a few seconds, turns back to look at me.
"A day does not pass when I don't think of John. I don't know what went wrong with my son, but I don't necessarily blame the Maquis for his death. I know they tried to help him, and for that, I'm grateful."
"So you forgive them for the death of your son, but not the actions they took to protect their homes?"
"You aren't going to change minds, Kathryn," McArthur says firmly. "The Maquis are universally reviled-"
"Why is that? Is it because the people in power perpetuate the hatred? Or are you just repeating the party line?"
"Don't take that tone with me, Kathryn," McArthur holds up a hand. "Look, I care about what happens to you. I don't care what happens to the Maquis. As long as they are on Alonius Prime, they are no one's problem."
"That's quite the attitude."
"It's an acceptable attitude," McArthur says. I sense from the tone of his voice that McArthur does feel some sympathy towards the former Maquis, despite his obvious reluctance to admit it.
"Tell me," I say. "Whose idea was it to move the Maquis to Alonius rather than keeping them in a standard penal colony?"
"I can't say for sure. There was a committee."
"Were you on the committee?"
"Yes."
"Anyone else I would know?"
"Owen Paris, of course."
"Of course," I say. "Tell me, how well did you know Owen Paris? Because apparently, I didn't know him at all."
"What are you talking about?"
I quickly fill him in on the conversation I had with Paris back on the starbase and then the subsequent discovery of Paris' diplomatic efforts - if you can call them that - with the Maquis. McArthur settles back in his chair and blinks a few times.
"I had no idea," he says flatly. I offer him my best poker face even though I suspect that my old mentor is blatantly lying to me.
"From what I gather, Commander Chakotay was the only one who could really reveal Owen Paris' part in the scheme," I tell McArthur. "When I talked to Paris, he told me that you weren't part of the scheme, but I think he was lying to protect you. I think you're lying when you say you don't blame the Maquis for your son's death. I think you engineered the destruction of a starbase, to protect yourself, Admiral Paris and others. You intended for all the Maquis to die, didn't you, as revenge for your son's death? You stalled because you wanted Owen Paris to approve of your actions. You wanted him to come and qualify your actions. And even though he agreed, he still managed to evacuate the Maquis without your knowledge. That's what I think happened. What do you say, Admiral?"
"What you're saying is ridiculous!"
"Are you denying it?"
"What you're accusing me of is preposterous."
"I have proof, Admiral. One of my officers, Seven of Nine-"
"The Borg?"
I glare at the Admiral. "She is human, sir, just like you and me."
The Admiral holds up a hand. "You do understand that there is some trepidation regarding this drone-"
"We call her Seven, sir," I tell him coldly. "I request you do the same."
McArthur fiddles with some buttons on his viewscreen and then he looks back at me.
"What were you saying about proof?" he asks. His voice shakes, but I refuse to feel any sympathy for my former mentor.
"As I was saying, Seven has run several simulations of the events leading to the core meltdown. I'll ask her to upload her findings to you, along with some of the logs she has compiled regarding the accident. I believe the evidence will show that you activated the process which eventually led to an overload of the central core and the destruction of the starbase."
"You're accusing me of attempted murder," McArthur says. "We've known each other for years now, Kathryn. You must know that what you're saying isn't true."
"Admiral, I know what kind of man you were." I lean forward in my chair. "Seven years ago, I was sure of everything and now, I realize I was deceived. Even in the Delta Quadrant, I held fast to ideals that you and Admiral Paris apparently abandoned long ago. People died in that explosion.
I can give the families of the dead the answers they need."
McArthur rubs his hand across his eyes.
"You don't want to do this," he says. "You'll destroy my career and smear the reputation of a dead man with baseless accusations. How do you even know Chakotay is telling the truth?"
"He has no reason to lie to me."
"You won't be able to prove any of this."
"I don't need to," I answer. "And I don't want to. You forget Paris' son is a member of my crew. I have no desire to taint his father's memory with accusations. And I've always admired Owen Paris. I would rather keep this information to myself. And Admiral, I don't want to ruin your career. I only want my people to be treated fairly."
"I'd like to see the logs," McArthur says.
"Will you destroy them?" I ask.
"Destroy the information?"
"Come now, Admiral," I lean forward and for a split second, I wonder if my nose appears as large to the Admiral as his did a few minutes ago. "If I give you the results of Seven's investigation, will you destroy it?"
"I only want the truth, Kathryn."
"Don't you already know it?" I ask sardonically. McArthur looks back at me sadly.
"You've spun a fantastic theory. Truly ingenious and creative, but it's not true. I did not order the destruction of the starbase. And I was never involved in the Maquis scheme; Owen Paris was not lying to you when he said that."
"You didn't answer my question. What about the data integrity?"
McArthur nods then.
"Fine," he says. "You have my word; your data will be safe with me. I have nothing to hide and your analysis will prove that."
"If you say so. I'll have Seven begin the transfer with the hour."
"Now, Kathryn," McArthur says. "There are some who think your actions in the Delta Quadrant are indefensible-"
"I say they were necessary."
"I don't believe there will be a court martial."
"What are you talking about?"
"Would you resign quietly? Or take a demotion?"
"You can't be serious. A few days ago, you offered me another commission."
"That was before your little jaunt to Alonius Prime. Kathryn, you ruined whatever little standing you had had. I fought for you, really I did, but there are none, save me, who would willingly give you another ship to command."
"Are you telling me my career is over?"
"I'm saying that you made a mistake."
"I wanted to know about my people. What's so wrong with that?"
"I refuse to talk in circles with you."
I note that McArthur looks tired, looks old; his shoulders slump, and he rests most of his weight on his forearms. I'd like to take pity on him, for old time's sake, but the coldness in me prevents me from sympathizing in any way.
"And here we were expecting a hero's welcome," I tell him bitterly. "For all the trouble it has been to return home, we should have stayed in the Delta Quadrant. At least there, we knew we couldn't trust anyone."
"I am sorry," McArthur says. I simply shrug.
"I'll see you in San Francisco," I tell him. "Janeway out."
~ end part IX ~
****
My father always managed to get the last word in; even dead, he still gets to me. Harry says the logs arrived a few minutes after I left with Janeway and Tuvok for Alonius Prime. The date-stamp indicates that the logs were uploaded about thirty minutes prior to the destruction of the starbase.
It's nice to know that my father's last thoughts were of me.
My sisters and mother have also written to me. Nice of them, I think, to acknowledge that I'm alive. Right after Caldik Prime, I became person non grata for my mother and sisters. I bet they even talked about me in muted tones, the same way you'd talk about a cranky great-aunt, God rest her soul, who passed on to the great relief of the rest of the family.
Mother, always concise and to the point, welcomes me home in her elegant but distant fashion; Isobel and Julia talk about their careers, their families, their homes, but reveal nothing of themselves in their words.
It hurts, especially from Isobel, whom I had considered a close confidant, since she is only eighteen months younger than I am.
I set their letters aside in favor of my father's logs.
I admit, in the years since I last saw him, I've lost a sense of the man. Childish memories remember someone who was cold and distant, but then, you remember what you choose to.
There were good times with my father, like the time he took me to the space museum or when he nervously guided me through my first flying experience.
Why can't I remember the good instead of constantly dwelling on the constant friction between the two of us?
I suppose because admitting I did care for my father and that I may have loved him in my own lazy way would hurt too much now.
I enter my quarters, acutely aware of everything around me. I'm suddenly - and strangely - fascinated by the texture of the gray carpet. For the first time, I realize the lone painting - maroon and purple splashes of paint on a white canvas - on my wall is damn ugly. I never liked the bedspread and the pillows are soft and lumpy. B'Elanna's gray turtleneck, the one with the stain on the wrist from some Engineering mishap, lies on armrest of the sofa. I remember helping her out of that turtleneck, running my hands over her smooth skin, and then nibbling at that spot directly between the shoulder and neck, while she wrapped her arms around me.
I kick off my shoes and let them lie where they fall; no one will be coming by to trip over them.
Or so I hope.
I have been thinking of this moment for hours now, this moment when I can actually sit down and with clarity, listen to my father's logs. I don't know what I hope to find, don't know what I'm going to feel; I suppose I'd just like to know that Owen Paris, at one time, was a real person.
I want him to be flesh and blood, like me, and I want to know that he bled red like I do.
An awful lot to ask, isn't it? And I know, as well as the last person, that you can't always get what you want.
Especially where Owen Paris is concerned, there is no way you can hedge your bets.
I lie down on my bed.
"Computer, play logs of Admiral Owen Paris," I say.
I close my eyes, put my hands behind my head and cross my feet at the ankles.
Interestingly enough, this chunk begins the day Voyager vanished and my father's entry for that day consists of one line only: "My boy is gone."
The next log entries are filled with excruciating detail regarding Starfleet's efforts to locate Voyager and also, of the various theories circulating about our strange disappearance. As months go on, Father's thoughts regarding Voyager and especially me, are relegated to a Cinderella-esque status; it's nice to know my return wasn't a burning obsession for Dad. His tone is occasionally conversational and sometimes even affectionate, especially when he talks about Julia's daughter, Linsey. He records Linsey's birth - in 2373 - with a sense of awe and then proceeds to spend the next year chronicling everything from the first tooth to the first step.
His voice lulls me to sleep and when I wake up, I'm aware of a different tone.
"Anya asked about Tom today," my father says. "She came into the kitchen and asked what I - what Starfleet - was doing to find her son. She emphasized the word `son,' maybe to drive home the point that she thinks I haven't contributed enough in the search for Tom. It's just another item in her long litany of ways I've let our son down. I've tried so many times to explain, but Anya won't listen. If I could, I would have saved Tom, but when do you stop? Anya thinks never. She thinks I should have stepped in after Caldik and she wouldn't speak to me after they - or as Anya would say, - I, sent Tom to New Zealand. Since he's disappeared, she hasn't said much at all. Not about Tom, not about anyone. Today, out of the blue, she asked. I told her that Starfleet has every reason to believe the crew of Voyager is alive and well. She didn't look convinced at all and she asked again, this time saying, `Owen, what are you doing to bring your son home?' and I was forced to admit the truth; I had done nothing but attend meetings and discuss various options, evaluate and discard. I had no solutions. Anya stood there in the doorway and she looked so - well, so not like Anya, that it scared me. I asked her what was wrong and she laughed. `If you have to ask, Owen,' she said and then her voice trailed off. Finally she said, `You know, it's all right, Owen, to say his name. You - we - can talk about Tom. I think - I think I would like that.' She left then, not giving me the chance to respond. I don't avoid talking about Tom - I don't have a way of talking about him that will leave me with a good feeling. That - that's a terrible thing to say about one's son. I wish things had been different."
I stretch out and roll onto my back. My father's logs continue, but I'm no longer listening. In a way, I don't know if I have made a terrible mistake by invading the privacy of a dead man, but at the same time, he wanted me to have the damn logs. He wanted me to hear what he had to say.
He wanted me to know that my mother actually cared enough to speak up and that no matter what he would say later, he had been so disappointed at one point that he did not know what to say about me.
Damn cold place to be.
Hurtful too.
The logs of Owen Paris do a fairly decent job of telling me about Reginald Barclay's Pathfinder project from Starfleet's viewpoint. Apparently, the project earned a lot of scorn from the powers that be and poor Barclay had to put up with a great deal of ridicule before he finally received permission to go ahead; amazingly, it was my father who pushed for the Pathfinder project.
"I haven't said anything to Anya but I think this Barclay fellow may have something. His ideas are unconventional and I understand he has been under psychiatric care in the past. But, for Anya's sake, I can't ignore any opportunity to communicate with Tom. It would be nice... to talk to Tom."
My father's voice drifts off in this log and soon I hear only a hiss, as if he had forgotten he had been recording a log in the first place. I forward the logs to the next one.
"Begin log. Lately, Anya has taken to ignoring me completely. She seems to huddle under her own hurt, not bothering to tell me what the matter is. I would ask, but what's the use? I'm sure whatever is bothering has to do with Tom; hell, everything has to do with Tom these days. I tell Anya about the latest developments and she regards me in icy blue silence. I don't know how to reach her or convince her that I'm doing all that I can. The other day, she told me that I couldn't possibly know what she, as a mother, was going through. I had no answer, but I felt resentful; why does everyone thinks I have forgotten Tom? I haven't. Not for a single moment. End log."
"Begin log. I was in Tom's room today. I still think of it as Tom's room even though he hasn't slept there for years. Isobel found me looking through Tom's things and she asked me what I was doing. I told her I was thinking about Tom and she said, `You think he's alive?' and I hated that she articulated my worst fears. I held Isobel's hand tightly until she pulled away. I told Isobel that I believed Tom was coming home and she looked at me, somewhat sadly, I think. `I don't want to hope, Dad,' she said. `It hurts too much.' I asked Isobel if she missed Tom and she didn't answer me right away. Like me, she lacked the right words to express herself.
`I miss him,' she admitted finally. `But Tom, he's not... he's not reliable, Dad. He does what he wants. Maybe he was never on Voyager. Maybe he's here and always has been. Isn't that a possibility?' Isobel's right. Tom is erratic. During his time at the Academy, there were periods of time when we had no idea where Tom had disappeared to and I remember Anya pacing the length of the living room, worrying over a son who could not even give us the courtesy of a note. This time though, I know that Tom isn't ignoring us.
`Tom is on Voyager. I know that for a fact,' I told Isobel and she shrugged. 'Maybe you're right,' she said. `But it's less painful to think that he's hiding from us than the possibility that he might not be... alive.' I told Isobel, very firmly, that Tom was alive and was coming home. `I hope you're right,' she said. God, I hope I'm right too. End log."
A log from the next day indicates that this is the day we made contact with Starfleet Headquarters.
"Begin log. I heard Kathryn's voice and for a moment, I experienced a sense of surrealism, of excitement, of genuine relief. Kathryn sounded the same, even with a bit of an echo over the communication channel and some fuzziness, but that was Kathryn Janeway. I asked her how she was and she replied, `Very well. They're an exemplary crew - your son included.' The tone of her voice made me wonder what stories Tom had told Voyager about me. Rather a frightening thought that my reputation could be spread into the furthest reaches of the Delta Quadrant. And so I said the first thing that came to my mind: 'Tell him... tell him I miss him. And I'm proud of him.'
Kathryn answered, much to my disappointment; I would have liked to have heard Tom's voice, but she said, 'He heard you, Admiral.' A few seconds and a couple words more, and that was the end of the communication but I told Tom, right? Maybe too little, too late, but some things, you shouldn't wait for. And I'd waited six years. When he gets home, we're going to talk, just the two of us. I don't think we will be ever at ease with each other; there is too much tension and no amount of talking will ever heal the wounds. But an effort, that's what I'm looking for. An effort from me, an effort from him, and maybe, we can begin to understand each other. Computer, end log."
I stop the logs there; enough of my father's inner angst for now. Reacquainting yourself with the dead, at the very least, is unnerving.
****
What bothers me most is the "why." The simplest explanation is most often the correct one; in that case, I'd like to think that we've stepped through the looking glass. On a whim, I had Harry and Seven double-check the temporal sensor logs, a move that earned me a raised eyebrow from the former drone, but surprisingly, no comment. And they both responded to my request respectfully, but with a bit of sadness, that no, this was not a mirror universe and yes, we had arrived in the same Alpha Quadrant we had left behind.
"I could double-check navigational sensors to make sure those aren't malfunctioning," Harry offered helpfully. I shook my head.
"Thank you, Harry, but not necessary," I told him. "I- I wanted to be sure."
"Of course," Harry said. Both he and Seven wore similar expressions; I know they both thought that I had finally lost all of my senses.
It would be ironic, wouldn't it? The Hirogen, Krenim, Borg, and Kazon hadn't managed to drive me crazy, but a few conversations with Starfleet pushed me right over the precipice. I suppose I can expect to spend the rest of my days in an institution, picking daisies when they let me out for air and babbling incoherently about Starfleet conspiracies.
After the court martial, of course.
My last conversation with McArthur makes it very clear that I'm treading water; I'm tiring and there is no indication that anyone, including McArthur, will extend me a lifeline before the waves close over my head.
I press my hand against my forehead.
"Captain?" Tuvok is right behind me, his voice low, but concerned. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I turn to face him.
"What?"
"You are not well."
"It's a headache. Nothing serious."
"You have been under considerable strain. Maybe you should rest?"
I look at my friend gratefully. His suggestion is the best I've heard in days.
"Good idea," I answer. "I will. You have the bridge, Commander."
I take one last look around and offer up a smile in an effort to put a happy face on our current situation. But I know that no one is fooled.
"Are you all right?" Harry asks sotto voce as I pass him. "Captain?"
"I'll be in the Messhall if you need me," I answer.
"Right."
You never think about the kilometers of gray carpet on Voyager until you can't lift your head to look at anything else but the floor. The carpets are still clean, due to Chakotay's diligence while I was traipsing around on the Borg cube.
God, of all the stupid things I've done...
That particular mission - someone must have been looking out for me, since I'm now staring at clean carpets and not the metal grid flooring of the Borg cube.
The Messhall is sparsely populated when I get there and Neelix stands behind his counter, reading a PADD.
"Coffee," I tell him without preamble.
"Captain!" Neelix says energetically. "How are you?"
I grunt at him, a response Neelix ignores. He pours out the coffee, and hands me the steaming mug.
"Is everything all right?" Neelix asks; he follows me to a table at the furthest corner of the Messhall. I sit down, cup my hands around the mug, and bite my lip.
"You're the third person to ask me that in the last ten minutes."
"There must be a reason for that, right?" Neelix asks reasonably.
"I'd be lying if I told you that everything was going according to plan," I tell him.
"There has been talk," Neelix says.
"Of course," I say. "I should never count the Voyager rumor mill out."
"It might help if you talk to the crew."
"I will, when I know what's going on."
"They are worried about the former Maquis."
"I am too."
"We heard stories about Alonius Prime and how Chakotay decided not to come back with us," Neelix says. "The crew respects the Commander; they are concerned."
"I know, Neelix."
"And Lieutenant Torres? Is she all right?"
"According to the Doctor, she's on the road to recovery."
I look down into my coffee and note my own fuzzy features reflecting back from the dark liquid. Neelix leans forward.
"The crew is worried about you, Captain," Neelix says. "They - they care about you and they know... they know when something is wrong."
"Neelix, I appreciate your concern-"
"You need to talk to the crew. Just tell them what's going on. They are all excited about being home and most of them are making reunion plans. I know you don't want to temper that enthusiasm, but please, they need to know."
I smile at Neelix. When we first met, I was angry with him for deceiving me and yet, in seven years he has become a trusted member of my crew, and the one person I can trust to give me a gentle analysis of my crew's psyche.
"I've never thanked you," I tell him softly. "I- I appreciate everything you've done for me, for Voyager."
"Captain-"
"No, really. You made yourself indispensable in so many ways and I am grateful. No matter what, that much is true."
Neelix, damn him, his eyes mist over and he reaches over and grabs my hand.
"It has been an honor to serve with you," he tells me. "No matter what they say about you, I'm sure there is no finer captain in all of Starfleet."
"I'll take what I can," I tell him. "But will you be absolutely candid with me?"
"What do you want to know?"
"I want to know if I took too many risks. Did I endanger the crew more than necessary? Did I give orders which were contrary to our mission?"
Neelix settles back in his chair.
"You did what needed to be done," he says. "The circumstances, they dictated unusual procedures. You couldn't follow the rule book."
"Chakotay would have said the same. What do you think?"
Neelix considers carefully. Today he is wearing his blue suit with the gold trim; a blue and
white striped shirt is visible in the V of his coat. From the mottled skin of his neck and face to the golden tufts of hair, artfully arranged in Talaxian fashion circa seven years ago, he cuts a comical appearance. Yet, despite this clownish appearance of his, Neelix's expression is completely serious and contemplative. I feel a sudden rush of emotion for this man who joined my crew and quickly earned our trust and loyalty; I'm also infinitely glad that he choose to remain with us.
"Be honest," I urge. "I need to know."
"I think there were certain circumstances when you might have done well to heed Commander Chakotay," Neelix says carefully.
"You're referring to the Equinox?"
"Yes."
"And to Seven?"
"Yes."
I sigh. "I didn't have any choice," I tell him.
"You believed you didn't have a choice," Neelix says gently. "I think you wanted an alliance with the Borg to succeed so you would have something to your credit when you returned home. There's nothing wrong with that, Captain. But when you forcibly detained Seven of Nine against her wishes, now that, that's where you went wrong."
"You don't spare feelings, do you, Neelix?"
"You asked for candid talk."
"So I did. What else, then?"
"You want me to come up with more examples?"
I leaned forward.
"How about the mission to infiltrate the Borg cube? Was that a situation when I should have listened to Chakotay?"
"Yes."
I lean back in my chair.
"So you agree with all of... them?"
"I don't understand who this `them' you're referring to is," Neelix says frankly. "But Captain, do you have regrets?"
"I am apparently suffering from an incurable case of guilt," I try to laugh it off but Neelix glances at me, concern obvious in his wide eyes. "All right, it's true. I do have regrets and guilt is something I'm not very good at. I'd like to not feel this terrible about the way things have turned out."
"Can I ask you a question? Candidly?"
"Of course."
"If you hadn't done some of those things you are concerned about, what would you have done instead?"
"I don't know," I confess. "I did whatever it took to get my crew home. Getting home, that was what was important nothing else. Sure, I could have settled us all on some uninhabited class-M planet, the first one that came along. That would have been the easy way out, wouldn't it?"
"Yes," Neelix nods.
"I made a commitment to my crew, Neelix," I tell him seriously. "I didn't take the easy way out and I made mistakes. I was wrong; I admit that. I- I guess I just didn't expect to feel this way about it all."
"And you have other concerns? About the Maquis?"
"Especially the Maquis. I'm not optimistic."
"You think the Commander and the others will be on that planet indefinitely?"
"Who knows?" I push my chair back in a momentary fit of restlessness. "Chakotay certainly has no wish to leave. He's with his friends now and he wants to remain with them. You know, Neelix, you serve with people for a certain amount of time and you think you know them. God, it hurts when you find out the truth."
"Are you sure Chakotay really wants to stay?"
"I asked him so many times to come with me. I was tired of hearing the question myself, but I had to make sure."
"If Commander Chakotay is staying behind, there is a reason for it," Neelix lowers his eyes, so that he is no longer looking at me directly. "The Commander cares about you, Captain; he wouldn't abandon you. Not now."
I bite down on my lip, trying to swallow the lump growing in my throat.
"I hope you're right," I tell the Talaxian.
"Captain," Neelix says gently. "Don't dwell on those things which hurt you. You cannot change the past, so you must accept it; the consequences you face now are not of your making. As you said, we could be living on a class-M planet in the Delta Quadrant now. It's to your credit that that is not the situation."
I get up from my chair as Neelix takes my empty cup. I pause to look at him.
"Thank you," I tell him. "I appreciate the conversation."
"And Captain?" Neelix places a gentle, but restraining hand on my forearm. "You can't be all things to all people."
I nod, "So I'm learning."
The walk back to the Bridge seems interminable and in some ways, disappointing. At one point, I stop, and lean back against the curved wall of the corridor. I note the fluorescent lights lining the tops of the corridors and the thin, illuminated lighting strips running along the bottom of the walls.
And that damn gray carpet.
Seven years is a long time to walk on gray carpet.
When we get back, I'm going to make a recommendation to the starship interior design: no more grays and browns. Really.
But I know it's not the colors of Voyager which are irking me at this moment. Rather, it's a sudden realization, a truth undeniable that has suddenly become clear to me.
I never thought I'd get tired of Starfleet.
Funny how things change.
~ end part X ~
****
The listening session continues. Admiral Paris speaks, and I note with amazement, that my father's voice is curiously monotone and sleep inducing.
This time, I lay on the sofa, covered with a soft, blue blanket, while I listen.
"Begin log. I invited Reginald Barclay for dinner tonight. He stopped by my office around fifteen hundred to confirm that I had indeed invited him. `I- I wanted to make sure- sure that you had meant - meant to invite me,' Barclay said. He stood in front of my desk, playing with his hands and shifting his weight from foot to foot. A gentle flush of red colored his cheeks and I felt the urge to stand up and give him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. But of course, that kind of behavior is inappropriate, so instead, I remained seated and confirmed the invitation. `It is so - so nice of you and, and Mrs. Paris,' Barclay said. `Thank you.' I told him that the dinner invitation was the least we could do for him since his project had made it possible for us to communicate with Voyager. Barclay was punctual, not that I would have expected otherwise. I introduced him to Anya and she was warm and gracious. Dinner was rather a stilted affair, as Barclay is not a skilled conversationalist and Anya and I had long fallen out of the habit of speaking with each other. Anya pressed him for information about Voyager but Barclay couldn't share much more than we already knew. I could tell Anya was disappointed, but she continued to entertain, smiling her patented artificial smile, her teeth clenched tightly together. I'm really trying, I am, but it gets harder everyday. End log."
The next few logs are boringly Starfleet. Promotions, demotions, a few comments about the Dominion War and some stray notes about a peace treaty or two.
"Begin log. Julia came today with Linsey; John is out of town, so Julia was feeling the strain of being alone. Linsey demonstrated her temper for us today and Julia sent her to her room. In many ways, she reminds me of Tom when he was her age. And speaking of Tom, I sat down the other night to try to remember everything about him. We have some old holoimages of him, but most are from his Academy days. I can only imagine what he looks like now. What amazes me though, is aside from the three major incidents - expulsion from the Academy, Caldik Prime and New Zealand - I can't remember anything else about Tom. I know there were good times, times when we got along, but I'm at a loss. I wish I could remember."
Again, my father drones on and on about his adorable little granddaughter. I get the feeling though, that my daughter's child is less than angelic and not entirely deserving of such blind adoration.
"Begin log. Linsey broke one of Anya's vases today and Anya didn't say a word. She just scooped up the pieces, with a warning to Linsey not to come closer. I watched from the doorway and a second later, Julia came by to see the damage. `I'm sorry, Mom, really,' Julia said. Anya shrugged. `Don't worry about it,' Anya said. `It's just a vase. I can replicate another one.' Julia grabbed Linsey and lectured the little girl in a voice that made me cringe. Later, I asked Anya about it. `Where did Julia learn that?' I asked. Anya looked at me in surprise. `From you,' she said. `You always talked to Tom like that.' That night, we slept with our backs to each other. End log."
I sit up then, feeling a bit sick. I get up and replicate some tomato soup. I think about turning on the television as I eat, but then that reminds me of B'Elanna, who mandated no television during dinner.
"When that thing is on, you don't talk to me," B'Elanna said. "I refuse to play second fiddle to one of your cartoon characters."
"But B'Elanna-"
"Please," she held up a hand. "We get little enough time together as it is; I don't want our time together to be marred by that thing."
So the television stays off.
B'Elanna's got me well trained.
I wonder if she knows that.
I finish up the soup and resume my place on the sofa.
"Computer, resume Admiral Paris' logs at the last mark," I command. The computer obliges.
"Begin log. We're getting messages from Tom on a monthly basis now. They are short, rather curt messages. He doesn't tell us much, which disappoints Anya greatly. She is the one who composes the messages back; apparently, I am not worthy of writing to my son. Her messages are a barrage of questions, most of them involving his eating habits. Tom never answers her questions directly, so we assume he is well, healthy, and eating enough. End log."
"Begin log. We got a long letter from Tom today. The stardate indicated that he wrote this a while ago. He began it simply saying, `Mom, Dad, I had to borrow the space to send this from B'Elanna Torres, so I hope you understand.' The letter went on about a demotion to ensign he received. Anya and I both listened to Tom's story and in a few places, his voice actually cracked. Anya bit her lip and I didn't say anything. When the log was over, Anya got up and left the room, but I stayed there and played the letter again. And again. Finally, Anya came back.
`What is the matter with you?' she asked. `Are you just looking for another reason to be disappointed in your son?' She didn't give me a chance to respond because we heard Linsey crying in the next room and Anya went to check on her. I sat back in my chair, contemplating Anya's question. To be honest, I don't know why I listened to Tom's letter so many times. I think, in retrospect, I just wanted to hear the sound of his voice. End log."
"Begin personal log. I saw Julia out in the garden today, apparently cutting flowers for an arrangement. We're having a party tonight and Anya's all aflutter with the preparations. Everything needs to be perfect. So in an effort to escape my wife, I went out into the garden. It was a nice day, warm, with a slight breeze and the sky was a faded shade of blue. `Can I help?' I asked and Julia looked at me with obvious surprise.
`I'm all set here, Dad,' she said. `But thanks for asking.' She pointed at the basket of flowers at her feet. `I just need to get these done before Linsey wakes up,' she said. `Really, that child runs me ragged.' I nodded in a manner I hoped was sympathetic. `It will pass,' I said. `I remember you and Tom, you had the devil in you.' Julia looked at me. `You never talk about Tom,' she said. I shrugged. `What's there to say?' I asked. Julia laughed then and picked up her basket. `A lot,' she said. 'You could say a lot, but you don't. You never have. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe it wasn't the devil in us, maybe we just wanted to talk to you.' I grabbed Julia's arm. `Was - was I a good father, Julia?' I asked.
Julia considered and she looked off into the distance, looking so serious, that I was afraid of her answer. `You had a career, Dad,' she said. `Starfleet needed you. We were proud, you know, all of us. Isobel, Tom and I, we were proud that you were so important, but sometimes we needed a father.' I nodded. `I'm sorry, Julia,' I said. But she shook her head. `Doesn't matter now,' she said. 'Excuse me. I've got to check on Linsey. Make sure she's not getting into more trouble.'
She handed me the basket and went inside. I took the basket in and gave it to Anya. Anya started to arrange the flowers with her usual artistic flair. I stayed and after a moment, Anya asked, `Do you want something, Owen?' And I swallowed hard, because for the first time in years, I lacked sufficient courage. I said quietly, `I want to know if there was a time when you, you needed me and I wasn't there.' Anya dropped the flowers, but then got to her knees to pick them up. `Yes,' she said finally. And she refused to say more. End log."
The next few logs revert to the standard what "Admiral Paris did at work" format. Once again, there are boring, excruciatingly detailed notes about a peace treaty that suddenly fell through.
Hardly interesting, considering I'd never heard of the world before, but apparently, it was a matter of great importance to my father.
In a fit of impatience, I fast-forward to the last logs my father recorded.
"Begin personal log. I talked to Rodney today. He said Voyager is on its way. I asked about the Maquis and Rodney said that no conclusion had been reached. I noted something needed to be done and Rodney agreed with me. `There are careers at stake here,' I told him and Rodney nodded. `I know, Owen,' he said. `Don't think I haven't thought about it.' I tried to remember what little I could about Chakotay and could come up only with a faint impression of a calm, utterly expressionless man who spoke in low tones. Not once during those negotiations did he raise his voice. At the time, I was livid to be sitting across the table from someone who had once worn a Starfleet uniform. I don't understand how you could turn your back on the great institution that is Starfleet.
I later learned that Michael Eddington, of all people, and Ro Laren, both former officers also, had also been involved behind the scenes. It made me furious to know this. At least Chakotay had resigned his commission prior to joining the Maquis, but Eddington? Eddington was still one of us. I suppose when Voyager disappeared and Ro Laren vanished, I let myself get complacent. Who was there to tell the story of what happened? After all, Eddington's been dead for years; went down in a blaze after being hunted for years by Captain Sisko, God rest his soul. They martyred him, you know. The Maquis still speak the name of Eddington with whispered reverence and I don't understand. I never did. End log."
"Begin personal log. This peace treaty is going to be the death of me. At least the negotiations keep me away from the house. Anya started cleaning. Tom's coming home, so everything must be spotless. She even went into his room and started putting things into order. I highly doubt that Tom will return home. I just hope he'll hear me out when we finally meet face to face. End log."
"Begin personal log. I talked to McArthur today and recommended that Voyager dock at Starbase 87. Rodney didn't like the idea. `You know that particular starbase is a disaster, don't you?' Rodney asked. `I don't think that's the kind of welcome we should give to Voyager.' I listened to Rodney's protestations and then cut him off as firmly as I could. `Don't argue,' I told him. `I have a plan.' Rodney didn't look happy. `I don't like the tone of your voice, Owen.' I tried to reassure him, but Rodney still looked uneasy.
Finally, I said, `I need to settle the Maquis question. Sending Chakotay to Alonius Prime where he still can talk, no, that's not going to work. Not this time.' Rodney argued with me. He said that it was very possible Chakotay did not remember me; after all, Chakotay had ample time to say something during the datastreams sent back to Earth, yet he never did. `That doesn't meant he won't say something now,' I argued back. In the end, McArthur agreed with me. Voyager would dock at Starbase 87 and he would stall until I arrived. And then, well... end log."
"Begin personal log. Left today for Starbase 87. I didn't say good-bye to Anya. I doubt she'd even notice my absence. I suppose it's better this way. I should feel guilty, but I don't. Besides, it's better that Anya doesn't know what I've planned. Hell, I don't even know if I want to know, but I've got to do something. I've been talking to the others and we all feel a sense of trepidation. Rodney is very nervous. He doesn't like it at all, but he agrees that something must be done. `Send them to Alonius where they can all rot if you'd like,' Rodney said. I nodded. `That's the back-up plan," I said. `Someone proposed a resurgence of the Ghasa virus.' Rodney looked at me with disgust obvious on his face. `I can't believe you'd actually do it,' he said. I laughed then, more out of hysteria and stress than anything else. `I know,' I answered. `I can't believe I'd do it either.' End log."
"Begin personal log. I saw Captain Janeway today. She looked the same, maybe a bit thinner than I remember, but she certainly carried herself with more height and authority. Her new confidence fits her well and I'm pleased with the change I see in her. We talked for a long time and she told me about Tom. I enjoyed hearing about my son in glowing terms and I'm eager to see him as soon as possible. Of course, there are those damn peace treaty negotiations making such a meeting next to impossible to arrange and of course, the question of what to do with the Maquis needs to be decided.
But the situation is now infinitely more complicated. I found out from Kathryn that Tom had married B'Elanna Torres - the woman who had given up her allocated space in the datastream so he could tell us about his demotion. For the first time, I felt guilt about what I had planned. Rodney stopped by that night and urged me to change my mind. `There's always the Ghasa virus,' he said. `Send them all to Alonius Prime, conveniently forget a medical supply shipment, and they all die. It's simple and a lot less messy than this.' And I considered his words carefully.
Once begun, I couldn't turn back. `Let me think about it,' I answered. Rodney looked at me seriously. `You'll ruin your career,' he warned. `If you do this, it will be a lot worse than trading with a few terrorists. This is murder, Owen. Think about it.' He got up and left. I couldn't sleep, thinking about Tom, B'Elanna Torres, and Kathryn's plea to me to help the Maquis. The idea of a relationship with Tom means a lot to me, but I don't know if I can turn back now. I knew even before I left home that I had already lost everything. Or maybe I lost it all when I sat across from Chakotay all those years ago. I don't know. End log."
"Begin personal log. It bothers me that Tom never told me about his marriage. Granted, Kathryn said it happened very suddenly, but during all of our communications, he never even mentioned B'Elanna Torres, save the one time. I didn't believe things were so bad between us that he could not even mention his relationship. I haven't said anything to Anya about B'Elanna Torres. She may have the same difficulty I have in accepting a Maquis as a daughter-in-law. Or maybe, just to spite me, she will welcome B'Elanna with open arms. I'm trying, really I am, but I cannot bring myself to accept my son's choice. So maybe Tom was right not to tell me. I'm glad I know now. It makes what is to come easier. End log."
"Begin log. Tom was on the station today, but because I was in those damned meetings all day, I didn't get a chance to see him. I'm tired of these logs, by the way. Tired of recording them, tired of listening to my own voice. Anyway, Tom was on the station today, and he stopped by the interrogation room. Apparently he made a racket trying to see this B'Elanna Torres. Security dragged Tom out and escorted him to Voyager. According to the security detail, at one point, Tom turned to them and said, `I want her back in one piece. If you even touch her...' Tom didn't finish his statement, but Security correctly logged the it as a threat. So add another black mark to my son's record. End log."
"Begin log. I've made a decision. Maybe this is where it ends. I haven't said anything to Rodney yet, but he did send me a brief message this morning. The plan is on, evacuate by 1400. That doesn't give me much time. Damn. I've been trying to figure out these encryption logarithms for the last hour now. I'd ask for help, but I don't want to tip my hand. End log."
"Begin log. Not much time now. Rodney has already left the station. He told me to hurry. I've finally figured out to reroute the release order. The last thing I want is for suspicion to fall on Rodney for anything in this mess. And in my own selfish way, I don't want any of this to be traced back to me. I don't want Tom to hate me anymore than he already does. I guess it's too late for that. End log."
"Begin personal log. Seems ironic to record this just an hour or so before death. It's not every man's luxury to plan for his death, so I feel lucky, Tom, very lucky. To be able to pick the time and the circumstances, that is indeed a luxury. I want you to know that Chakotay, B'Elanna Torres and the others should be safe. I've ordered their evacuation and I hope they made it off the station.
It's too late for me, Tom. I've already started the process that will destroy this starbase. I know there's a lot you don't understand. I know you're probably bewildered. Hell, I'm confused myself. I suppose you want to know what happened when I sat down to negotiate with the Maquis. Well, I was in it for myself. For the first time in my life, I saw an opportunity, which would benefit me and not Starfleet, so I took the chance when asked. All I wanted was the land. Rich soil plus a nice vein of latinum running through the rocks just below the surface. You're surprised, aren't you?
Money doesn't motivate us, or so the Federation likes to think. Starfleet compensates me well, Tom, but you can always be richer. So when I was given the chance to own this property, I couldn't pass it up. So we made the deal. I didn't set out to renege on the offer, but I justified the breaking of the contract by the simple fact that these were terrorists, plain and simple.
They never said a word because we hunted them down, day and night, but everyday, those of us involved in the scheme were terrified that one of them would speak and maybe, Starfleet would take them seriously. But it never happened. Chakotay was on Voyager, seventy thousand light years away, and who knows what happened to Ro Laren? I believed that the truth would never surface and I could contemplate the lines of latinum to my heart's delight.
Congratulations, Tom, you now own some land on Dorvan IV. It wasn't practical to live there in the past because of the Dominion War and tensions in the DMZ, but it might be all right now. If I ever had a regret in my life, it's that I made a promise and didn't keep it. And I'm not talking about the Maquis; my opinion of them has never changed. I'm talking about you, Julia, Isobel, even your mother.
I should have been there, but I wasn't. I didn't think at the time, and I regret so much. So, I hope you understand, Tom. I don't have much time. I did save your wife for you, so maybe that makes up for the past when I wasn't the father you needed and wanted. And there's the land - that's yours to split evenly with Isobel and Julia. Tom, I wish nothing but the best for you and B'Elanna. Goodbye. End log."
~ end part XI ~
****
I've lost track of time.
Morning or night, I have no idea.
I don't even know what day it is.
I don't think it matters.
I've been walking for hours. Or maybe seconds, or minutes, or days - I have no idea. I pass crewmembers in the corridors and their names escape me. I mumble a hello and pass them, without waiting to see if they respond.
When I accepted my first commission, it surprised me how easily you could lose a sense of time in space. You see only the dark coldness of space and that - that never changes.
I end up in my quarters because roaming the corridors endlessly has started to get to me. I'm sure the crew thinks I'm crazy; hell, even I'm inclined to agree with them.
The first time I entered these quarters over seven years ago, Mark was with me. He looked around pensively. He stood like he does when he's nervous - hands jammed into pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.
"Nice," he said. "Bigger than your quarters on the Al-Batani."
"I'm the captain now, Mark," I reminded him. I opened some dresser drawers and peered into the closet. "The position does have a perk or two."
"So do I call you `sir' now?" he asked. He peered out of the window. "Nice view of the space dock you've got there, Kathryn."
"I prefer `ma'am,'" I replied. "And the view will change."
"Well," Mark said. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of you."
"Thank you," I said. I peeked into the bathroom, which was amazingly large for a starship. I even turned on the sonic shower, putting my hand beneath it to feel the pressure. "This is good, really good."
"Who decorates these quarters anyway?" Mark said. I went back out into the living area and saw him staring at a rather dismal picture - gray canvas streaked with maroon.
"Starfleet has an entire department responsible for decorating starships."
"Functional design, but certainly not attractive."
"Well, I do intend to bring some of my own things to brighten the place up."
"Hmmm," Mark smiled. "Well, I do have something for you. Something to make it a little more homey."
I looked at him in surprise.
"You didn't have to do anything," I told him.
"I wanted to," he said. "Look over there."
Mark pointed to a side-table, located to the left of the sofa.
"A tea set?" I asked. "Mark, it's lovely."
I picked up the silver pot and then examined each of the matching cups in turn. I felt Mark watching me the whole time.
"I know how you are about your coffee," he said. "And I thought this might make things a little more... elegant?"
"It's lovely," I repeated. "And you're sweet. How did you get this in here? I couldn't come onboard until a couple hours ago."
Mark smiled.
"It pays to make friends with the cleaning crew," he said. I crossed over to him and put my arms around his neck.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything. And especially, thank you for agreeing to take care of Molly."
"Not a problem," he said. "She's a good dog."
"I appreciate it."
A moment of silence passed, and then Mark cleared his throat.
"We need to talk, Kathryn, when you get back."
"I know," I answered. "Be patient, all right? It's just for a few weeks. Maybe six months, at the most."
Mark sighed and looked around the quarters once more, taking in the mostly gray and maroon decor with a jaded eye. I put my hand on his forearm.
"It won't be so bad," I told him.
"Right," he said in the matter-of-fact tone that meant he did not agree with me, but did not feel like arguing the point.
I held his hand tightly as we continued to look around. Mark tried out the replicator and it produced a decent cup of coffee.
"Voila. I suppose you'll be all right now," Mark said. "Coffee, that's all you've ever needed, isn't it?"
I looked at him for a long time, contemplating his craggy, aquiline features and dark eyes I loved so much.
"Coffee makes most things better," I told him.
"Not the answer I was hoping for, but I'll take it."
"Well, you shouldn't make statements like that then," I said crabbily.
"Right."
Mark looked so crestfallen that I felt terrible for snapping at him.
"We'll have that talk when I get back," I said softly.
Mark nodded.
"When you come back," he said. "God, I am going to miss you."
"Me too," I said with a trace of insincerity, only because I was dreading the talk we would have on my return. The thought of marriage - however much I loved him - seemed to be a step towards restricting my freedom. We would be equals in everything, bound together, and forced to take the other into consideration for every decision. In truth, I was secretly glad for the time away to think about what I truly wanted, but of course, I couldn't tell Mark that I was having second thoughts about spending the rest of my life with him.
"Truly," he said. "Come back soon."
During our first weeks in the Delta Quadrant, I found that I missed Mark with a frightening intensity. I would wake up at night, missing his presence next to me and it disturbed me greatly that I did not know what he was doing or how he was feeling. Did he miss me the way I missed him? Did he wonder if I was alive? Some nights, I would write him letters before going to sleep.
The letters would be exactly the kind he hated - chatty, gossipy, a basic list of events that had gone on Voyager. I would have written deeper letters, the ones that revealed my most inner feelings, and I would have told him that if we had had that talk, I would have said yes. But I could never bring myself to spill my emotions into a data PADD, because that seemed like a lousy way to confess what I should verbalize. More importantly, I wanted to see his face when I told him. I wanted to be able to run my fingers over his cheek and down his jawbone as he held my hand in his.
I dreamt of my reunion with Mark so many times until the day I found out he had gotten married. After reading that message, I spent most of that day philosophizing in the holodeck with daVinci when Chakotay showed up.
"I was looking for you," he said. "Dinner?"
A simple request uttered in a casual tone, but I looked at Chakotay differently that day. So I nodded, joined him in the mess hall. He told terrible jokes and I laughed so hard that tears ran down my cheeks. That night, I pretend that Chakotay had a sense of humor, for no other reason than to persuade myself that those tears weren't shed for Mark.
Even when Chakotay and I moved past dinners and the occasional date on the holodeck, I still thought about Mark on occasion and I would find myself obsessing over an endless "what if" fantasy.
I didn't realize that Chakotay knew I occasionally mused about the life I should have had with Mark, until one day Chakotay was lying in bed, watching me get dressed. He looked lazy, his hair rumpled, his torso exposed from waist up.
"Good morning," I said. Chakotay grunted back.
"Talkative today, aren't you?" I continued. I pressed my lips together as I applied lipstick.
"Do you really want to talk?" Chakotay asked.
"Before coffee? Not really, but go ahead."
"I don't know if I should."
"If you have something to say, say it," I said in exasperation. I hated it when Chakotay tossed out little hints but didn't follow up on them, for whatever reason.
"You put up boundaries," Chakotay said. I looked at him in surprise.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"We've been... together," Chakotay began and then his voice trailed off. I sat down on a chair to lace up my boots. "You don't think about me outside of this bed, do you?"
"What?"
"You don't think about me. You rely on me to be there when you need me, but it doesn't matter to
you how I feel, does it?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Why do you ignore my advice?"
"I don't. I listen."
"You pretend my opinion counts. I don't know what hurts more: knowing you're going to ignore what I have to say or asking what I think and pretending it counts."
"That's not true."
"I suppose it's too much to ask how you really feel."
"You know how I feel," I told him. "That's never been a secret."
"You want to let me in on it?"
"Chakotay, I don't have time for this."
I stood up and took a quick look in the mirror. I noted that my cheeks were still slightly flushed and my eyes sparkled just a bit more than usual. I straightened my clothes, fluffed my hair lightly, and then turned to look back at Chakotay.
"You're wrong," I told him. "I can't believe you'd even say such things."
"You know it's true, Kathryn. Even when we returned from New Earth, you wouldn't talk to me about what happened between us there."
"For heaven's sake," I said. "I need to be on the Bridge. We'll talk about this later."
Chakotay shook his head.
"No, we won't," he said. "We won't ever talk because you don't want to say certain things out-loud. You're afraid to."
"Do you have an ancient warrior story about that?" I asked snidely. "Maybe you can come up with one between now and dinner."
"This is why I should never try to have a meaningful conversation with you," Chakotay said. He got out of bed and grabbed his clothes. "You're an impossible woman. Sometimes, I don't even know if you're real."
He stalked off into the bathroom and a few seconds later, I heard the hiss of the sonic shower.
I sighed and left my quarters at a brisk pace.
Now I barely recall the way Mark looked when he stood here in my quarters. I do remember Chakotay though and the way his features would soften when he looked across the table at me and I would shiver, knowing that the emotions on his face were not a trick of candlelight.
I curl up on the sofa, pulling a shawl over my shoulders. I focus on the endless starscape outside my window, thinking how a nice walk out an airlock would surely cure all that ails me now - and forever.
Chakotay was right. I'm a statue, a goddamned marble masterpiece. I can't risk emotion for I will crack, and I can't risk motion for surely I would fall and surrender to a passion greater than me.
And maybe it wouldn't have been bad to say those three little words - just once.
~ end part XI ~
****
I wake with a gasp.
The logs, they're over. God, those logs...
They sounded just like my father - overly formal, stilted, and occasionally vague. I marvel at the fact that he even recorded his thoughts for prosperity, knowing how incriminating this information could be.
But then he never intended to return home from Starbase 87.
My father's logs show me a piece of the father I've always wanted: the father who missed and loved me desperately. But then, there was also the cold, calculating ruthless Starfleet officer and that's what I'm having difficulty with.
I hate to have such a schizophrenic view of my father.
I'm hungry, so I replicate some oatmeal and peanut butter toast. I'm halfway through eating when
the door chimes.
"Come," I call.
Harry walks in.
"You doing okay?" he asks.
"Now that I have food, yeah."
"I tried to comm you a couple times. You didn't respond."
"I was busy. Sorry."
"Sure you're okay?" Harry grabs the chair opposite me and sits down. He raps his fingers gently on the table. "The Captain hasn't been on the Bridge in hours. Tuvok recommended she get some rest. I think she's wandering around the ship."
"I see," I answer neutrally. At this moment, I don't care what Captain Janeway is doing. If she feels the need to take a look around a ship that won't be hers in a few days, by all means, she should go ahead. She's more sentimental about this ship than some mothers are about their children.
"I thought I'd let you know we're only a couple hours away now," Harry says. "Everyone is getting more excited now. Even Seven received some letters from relatives." Harry's broad face lights up with a smile. "She is... unsure as to how to respond."
"Is that a direct quote?"
"Yes," Harry answers. "I don't suppose you would help her out?"
"Why not you? It would be some good, quality bonding time with Seven. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
"Come on, Tom," Harry says. "Help her out, okay?"
"Why not you?" I ask again.
"Why not you?" he counters.
"Because I don't feel like it."
Harry relaxes back in his chair. His finger tapping gets on my nerves.
"You're not okay, Tom," he says. "Stop lying to me, to yourself, to everyone around you."
"I just need time alone."
"I bet you didn't even tell B'Elanna. I bet you acted like everything was just fine. She probably doesn't have the first clue."
"I told B'Elanna."
Harry doesn't look convinced. He shrugs.
"Have it your way," he says. "I'm just trying to help."
"You don't believe me."
"Of course not. You're a first class escapist, Tom. Even before you commit yourself to anything, you're looking for a way out. Just once and I really mean, just once, can't you be honest? With me, if no one else?"
I look around my quarters, focusing on everything except for Harry. I can't deal with his concern and care right now for the pure fact that I don't believe he can help me; no one can help because no one else on the damn ship knows what I'm going through.
I hate when people tell me they understand because damn it, they don't. They simply look at you with wide eyes, thin lipped expression, and they nod at you in a sympathetic manner. Somehow, you feel that they really aren't listening when you speak; you imagine that they are thinking about a dinner date or maybe what they plan to wear tomorrow. And then, they all cluck at you, pet you gently on the shoulder and say, "I'm sorry. I understand how you feel."
Occasionally, my father would come into my room during the turbulent teen years. He would stand at the foot of the bed, stare down at me and in his most dignified voice, he would say, "Thomas, I understand what you're going through. If we discuss this, we can arrive at a solution together."
Hell, I hated that. I never wanted to arrive anywhere; I was already where I wanted to be and not for a single minute did I believe my father could understand me or anything in my life. So when he came, I would roll onto my stomach and pull the covers over my head, hoping to block out the irritating sound of his voice. And invariably, my father would say, "Dammit! Would you just talk to me?" and I wouldn't respond; eventually, he would leave, and I would feel like I had won a small victory.
I sigh and look back at Harry.
"I've been listening to my father's logs," I tell him. "I- I don't know what to make of them."
Because I feel the need to talk to someone, I quickly tell Harry about my father's activities.
"I don't understand, Tom," he says.
"I don't either," I tell him. "I've listened to some of the logs over again but even that doesn't help."
"Why would your father do such a thing? The land he's talking about, why should that matter? It's not like it would be of any value to anyone who is not Cardassian."
"Maybe he planned to sell it to the Cardassians," I say. "Maybe he wanted to auction it off to the Ferengi, I don't know."
"There's got to be a mistake."
I look up at Harry.
"Yeah," I say very softly. "I wish I'd gotten the chance to talk to him. Really talk to him."
Harry nods.
"I thought you might feel that way," he says. "Regardless of anything else. Are you going to say something to the Captain?"
"I haven't thought about it."
"Seven's tests indicated that the explosion wasn't an accident. The Captain believes that Admiral McArthur is responsible."
"Sounds like McArthur did everything to convince my father not to go through with it," I answer bitterly. "Wish he'd listen. I don't understand why my father thought he was at the point of no return. I don't get why he didn't pull back when he had second thoughts. It's beyond my comprehension."
"Does he explain himself in the logs?"
"Not very well."
"So are you going to tell the Captain?"
I look down at my hands.
"I- I don't know," I answer. "I suppose if she asks..."
"That's an easy one. She won't ask," Harry says. "You're off the hook. Another decision avoided."
"Very funny, Harry. Nice of you to kick me when I'm down."
"I'm not kicking you, Tom, at least not intentionally. I'm trying to figure out what's going on with you. Hell, I don't know why I even try."
There's something in his tone that reminds of the way I used to speak to B'Elanna during my unrequited love phase in an attempt to get her to see me as more than an arrogant pig.
"Because you're a good person, Harry," I tell him. "And I do appreciate it."
Harry allows himself a tiny smile.
"Glad to hear it," he says.
I lean back in my chair, turning my body sideways, so I can see out of the windows.
"It wasn't all bad, Harry. I also learned some things about my family from Dad's logs," I say. "I can't wait to meet Linsey, my sister Julia's daughter. She sounds like a handful, a bit like me."
"That's what we need, another Tom Paris," Harry says with a laugh. "Mind if I get something from the replicator?"
"Help yourself."
A few seconds later, Harry returns with a cup of coffee. He inhales deeply.
"I missed this stuff," he says. "Back at the Academy, I swear, I had more coffee than blood running through me. Insane. Made me jittery all night, but I didn't want to try those drugs. You know which ones I'm talking about."
"Yeah."
Harry's eyes narrow.
"You tried those stimulants, didn't you?" he asks. "The ones that keep you awake all night?"
"And into the next, yeah," I answer. I push my empty plate away. "Kept you wide-eyed and active, let me tell you."
"Did you use them often?"
"What is this?" I ask him. "Why are you interrogating me?"
Harry shrugs.
"I've never asked before and I don't know what kind of time we've got left."
"You sound like San Francisco is the end of the road."
"You don't think so?"
"I told you already I don't know what to think. I certainly don't expect that San Francisco is where it's all going to end for us."
"You're an optimist," Harry says.
"Look who's talking," I lean forward. "Harry, I've got too many questions. I need to know why."
"You know I'll help you."
I shake my head.
"No," I tell him.
"Tom..."
"Look," I say. "I appreciate what you're trying to do. I want to do this alone. I need to."
Harry looks doubtful but after a moment, he nods his head.
"Yeah," he says. "I get that."
I gaze at my friend. I allow myself a smile, even if it doesn't seem to fit on my face right now.
"Thanks," I tell him. "For everything."
"Don't mention it."
"Yeah."
He leans back in his chair.
"I don't have anywhere to be," he says. "And I checked the holodeck before I came down. It should be free. What do you say?"
I look down at the PADD, which contains my father's last words, and back at Harry. Taking aim at some of the bad guys in the Captain Proton simulation seems like brilliant idea right now; if I can't shoot my father, disrespectful as that sounds, I might as well take this pent-up anger everyone insists I have and put it to good use.
"Yeah," I say. "The holodeck, that sounds like a good idea."
****
I roll over in bed, and stare up at the ceiling in a moment of disorientation. Then I remember everything and a second later, I'm on my feet, heading into the bathroom. I dry heave a few times, but bile continues to burn in my esophagus. I slump to the floor, nearly banging my head on the toilet.
I'm pathetic.
Damn pathetic.
For seven years, I stared down aliens and called their bluffs.
Even took a few risks myself.
Won most of the gambles I took.
Thought I did a pretty good job with Voyager too.
Now, one conversation with an admiral and I've reduced myself to a sniveling mess.
Lovely.
I draw my knees to my chest, hugging them close to me. I'm suddenly aware of the cold and wonder about the environmental controls. And then I remember that B'Elanna's not here to monitor to the systems and thinking about B'Elanna naturally leads me to thinking about Chakotay.
Neelix said that Chakotay must have a plan; he wouldn't leave me.
Neelix knows the crew better than anyone. Hurts me to admit it, but it's true, very true. He spent the time getting to know them; I just dished out orders, watched the crew follow my directives, and occasionally, one of them would question me. Most of the time though, out of a sense of propriety, I would stay in my quarters when not on duty, waiting for Chakotay to arrive on whatever pretense he had concocted for that day. Some nights he would show up with a duty roster and a formal, "Captain, I thought you would want to review my changes for this week
In some ways, I enjoyed the subterfuge but I also resented the invisible barrier that kept me from socializing more informally with crew.
Sometimes, I wanted to do more than lean towards Chakotay; I wanted to grab his hand right there in front of everyone. I wanted to brush my lips against his cheeks lightly the way B'Elanna does to Tom when she thinks no one is looking.
If that's love... God, what am I saying? It must be, right? I don't even know. I hate that I don't know.
When we spent time in the void, I allowed only Chakotay to visit. He would hand me the duty rosters, give a general state of the ship ("Everything is operating at peak efficiency, Captain.") and then he would gently massage my shoulders and back. He would tell me stories, and soon, I found myself looking forward together. In a way that made me uncomfortable and exited at the same time, I anticipated his arrival, sometimes with shaking hands and flushed cheeks.
And other moments, when I felt our relationship growing too close, frighteningly close to the point where Mark and I had been, I would draw back. I relied heavily on my sense of guilt as a convenient excuse and Chakotay, hesitantly, would agree and withdraw.
Once, I wandered the corridors of Voyager, keeping close to the walls, and ducking into storage rooms if I heard voices. That night, I saw Tom and B'Elanna. They were in front of his quarters and his hands rested on her hips lightly. I could barely make out their conversation, but it was something about breakfast plans and then B'Elanna broke away. A second later, Tom turned down the corridor and saw me there.
"I thought I heard something," he said. "It's usually B'Elanna who suspects someone's around, but this time... it's good to see you, Captain."
"Hello, Tom. I- I didn't mean to intrude."
"You didn't," Tom said easily. "It's your ship."
He laid special emphasis on the word `your' and I didn't particularly care to correct him; hell, at that moment, I didn't care much about anything but getting the crew home in one piece and these days, the possibilities of that seemed to be next to nothing.
"Is- is everything all right?" Tom asked carefully. "We've been worried about you."
"I need some time to think," I told him. "Everything is fine."
"Would you tell us if the situation was otherwise?"
"I've always been candid with the crew."
"In your way, yes."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I leaned back against the wall, folding my arms against my chest. "I've never lied to any of you, Tom."
"I didn't mean to imply that you did," Tom answered. "I think you tell us the truth the way you want to see it. But I suppose, you can say that of anyone. We all look at things from our own perspectives."
"When did you get so philosophical?"
In spite of myself, I was amused by Tom's comments. I did feel the sting of reproach underlying his words, but the sight of a pensive, serious Tom? Now that was a phenomenon rarely observed.
"I've had a lot of time to think also," he said. "B'Elanna and I've been fighting."
I blinked in surprise at his frankness; it wasn't like Tom to talk about his relationship to B'Elanna. I didn't even think he talked to B'Elanna about their relationship.
"I wouldn't have guessed," I answered finally.
"You've been in your quarters, with all due respect," Tom said. "Right now, we're okay, but I know we're due for an argument any time now. God, I hate it when we fight. It eats at my gut, you know? I'm always thinking of a million things I should have said. And then I think about how I can make it up to her. And it's odd, because no matter what the argument is about or who started it, I always think it's my fault. Even when she apologizes, I feel terrible, because I feel like I've failed her in some way. Sometimes, B'Elanna's got me so turned around, I don't know what to think."
Then Tom bit his lip, looked at me and said softly, "But I don't suppose you know how that all goes?"
I wanted to disagree with him, but I couldn't. After all, where do you start if you're already at the beginning? If Tom wanted to stand here and trade relationship tips, what could I say? The truth? And how exactly would that come out? Maybe something along the lines of: "I do understand what you're talking about, Tom. I don't know how to tell you this - hell, I'll just say it. Chakotay and I are sleeping together. We can't tell anyone because it's a breach of protocol, but yes, the rumors are true. And you must have noticed by now that Chakotay and I have a communication problem. At least that's what Chakotay thinks. He's always analyzing, reading too much into each situation. I know what the problem is and he's wrong. He likes to question my decisions and I don't like his solutions. The issue of command, it gets in the way. What do you think, Tom? How does that compare to your relationship with B'Elanna? Maybe we should trade notes."
But of course, I couldn't say all of that. I simply looked at Tom, swallowed hard, and said with sincerity, "I hope you and B'Elanna work things out. It's not easy, I know- but I think you can do it."
Not exactly a gung-ho speech there, but I couldn't rouse myself to the proper levels of enthusiasm when it came to B'Elanna and Tom. To me, they often acted like unruly children, fighting constantly because it was easier to trade insults than to confess to something real. Or maybe they didn't know how to be in love. And in that case, who was I to offer them any advice?
Tom nodded, said his goodnight, and disappeared into his quarters.
And because I didn't want to risk encountering anyone else, I headed back to mine. Once back in the privacy of my quarters, I poured myself a glass of Merlot, and sat down on the sofa. I thought about Tom and B'Elanna and the way Tom's eyes glazes over when he looks at B'Elanna.
When Chakotay came that night, I pulled him into the bedroom and put my hand on his chest. He covered my fingers with his and for a long time, we just stood there. At some point, I leaned forward, resting my cheek against his chest, and he held me.
"I'm here," he said very softly and that night, I felt safe from the blackness that threatened to engulf me.
The memory makes me want Chakotay even more at this moment for nothing more than his ability to keep the demons far away from me. Even in those moments when I hated him for contradicting me, I knew he stood behind me, no matter what I did, ready to protect me from myself.
Pathetic.
Damn.
Starfleet captains don't huddle on the floors of bathrooms, hugging their knees. They don't sit in dark rooms, brooding and ruminating over past foibles. Starfleet captains certainly don't allow for relationship issues to interfere with command.
There should be a class on this kind of thing because I don't know what do other than sit here and sulk on the bathroom floor. Truth be told, I'd rather not be a captain for a while. Being womanly, even for a few seconds, would be nice change of pace.
I would like to believe McArthur is responsible for my current state, but I'm gradually beginning to realize that Starfleet, in all of its schizophrenic glory, is only partially responsible for my current distress.
If my crew could see me now, what would they say?
~ end part XII ~
****
"What is it? Captain Proton?" I ask.
"You'll see," Harry says. He punches in some codes while I shift from foot to foot behind him. I try to peer over his shoulder, but Harry's not having it; he shifts his body so I can't see
what he's doing.
"Don't hold me in suspense," I say.
"Patience is a virtue, Tom," Harry says. "Good things come to those who wait."
"You sound like a grandmother."
"Seems to me you're coming back to normal. Same old carefree happy Tom Paris, eh?"
"If you say so."
"What are you doing?" Seven approaches us. She holds a PADD in her hand. "Ensign Kim, I was looking for you."
Harry turns around guiltily.
"Did we have a meeting, Seven?" he frowns. "I don't recall-"
"No," she holds the PADD out. "I require your assistance in responding to this letter."
Harry takes the PADD and scrolls through the content.
"It is of a conciliatory nature," Seven continues. "However, I am uncertain how to respond. I believe a reply is appropriate in this case."
"Depends," I say, thinking about some of the letters that I wrote to my father from New Zealand - letters that he never answered. "If you have something to say, that is. Or maybe, you don't, in which case, you don't write back. Whatever you want, Seven."
Seven looks at Harry, ignoring me smoothly.
"It's human nature, isn't it?" I ask. "Do what you want to do since you're going to do it anyway?"
Harry stares at me.
"What are you talking about?" he asks finally. "Seven needs advice, Tom, and you're not helping."
"It's her decision," I say. "Whatever she chooses to do. I don't know why you can't see that."
"I am unsure of how to draft a letter," Seven says. "I have never written a letter before. You offered your assistance earlier."
"Of course," Harry says. He shoots me a look with the intention of reducing me to a shriveling pile of guilt at Seven's feet; hell, he's not getting me this way. Seven and her letter, damn, they can fend for themselves.
"These individuals, Karin and Kristophe Hansen, have offered to meet me when we dock," Seven says. "Kristophe Hansen is my father's brother. My uncle."
"So the letter says."
"I must rehearse a speech."
I laugh.
"No speech necessary, Seven. Be yourself," I advise. "It's only family."
"Tom," Harry says agitatedly. "Would you stop it?"
"Look," I hold up a hand. "It's a letter, for God's sake. Just say or do something, but don't think about it."
I punch in a code to open the holodeck and the doors slide open. Instead, Harry has programmed a tropical jungle, complete with lemurs swinging from tree branch to tree branch and in the distance, I can hear the roar of a river. Brightly colored florae dot the verdant shrubbery while vines twist around tree trunks. Humidity hangs in the air, sticky and oppressive. I look at Harry in surprise; he shrugs.
"A rainforest?" I ask. "Of all things?"
"It is an interesting environment," Seven observes. She glances around. I hear the howl of a wild animal and a second later, I'm aware of a snake hanging discreetly from a tree branch.
"Harry!" I scream. I jump back, nearly knocking my friend over. Harry regains his balance.
"Something wrong, Tom?" he asks innocently.
"I thought gangsters, Harry. Captain Proton at the very least. Even the beach. But this? This is a rainforest. What are you thinking?"
"Look at the detail," Harry grabs my arm.
"I'm looking." I point to the snake whose tongue darts in and out of its straight-line of a mouth quickly. "I don't like this, Harry. God! You programmed a snake?"
A second later, something small and furry runs across my boot. I jump, earning me a look of disdain from Seven of Nine.
"There are mice in here? Good lord, Harry. What is this?" I exclaim.
"I believe it is an authentic recreation of a rainforest," Seven says. She takes a few steps and then glances up at the canopy of leaves above us. "The temperature, however, is uncomfortable."
"Sorry," Harry says. "Like you said, it's authentic. Do you like it, Tom?"
"Are you crazy? What is - damn it, Harry, something bit me!"
"You should be okay. I left out the poisonous species," Harry answers.
I stare at him in surprise.
"That was thoughtful," I retort as I rub the red welt on my ankle.
"I programmed this a while back," Harry says pensively. "Before we even got back to the Alpha Quadrant... I've been wanting to show it to you for a while, Tom. I'm - I'm proud of it. I think it's one of the best programs I've done."
Seven leans down to pluck a reddish-hued flower from a shrub. She holds it up, examining it - stamen, pistils and all.
"What species is this? I am unfamiliar with this flower."
"It is a Heliconia, commonly called lobster claws. See how the flower looks like a claw?" Harry leaves my side to talk to Seven. For a few minutes, they discuss this particular blossom in great detail. Seven seems satisfied and then she looks at me.
"Lieutenant," she says. "Are you not interested?"
"I was misled," I answer grumpily.
"Fine, go," Harry says.
"What possessed you?" I can't resist asking. "This isn't exactly the ideal vacation spot. You could have left the mosquitoes out."
I slap at my arm and I'm irritated that Seven and Harry do not seem to be tasty prey for the insects of the rainforest.
"Next time," Harry says.
"Hell, even you think there won't be a next time. You choose this program for our last holodeck experience? Don't be ridiculous."
"Come with me," Harry says. His tone is firm, effectively cutting off any other complaints I must have. "I'm sorry that there aren't any fast cars or shuttlecraft for you to race, but this is important to me."
Properly chastened, I follow Harry and Seven.
The undergrowth is thick and in some places, still damp with morning dew. Harry, wielding a machete, cuts us a path expertly; I'm truly impressed at my friend's skill. I would have never guessed that trail blazing was a hobby of Harry's.
I step gingerly to avoid stepping on snakes, mice and other native fauna that Harry might have felt lent authenticity to the program. The trek is arduous since no path exists and the sounds of the jungle make me nervous.
Finally, we emerge on the bank of a river. The water is murky but fast flowing. On the other side, I see more trees.
"Well?" I question.
Harry points to a smooth-faced boulder jutting out of the bank.
"See that?" he asks.
"Yeah?"
"I almost proposed to Libby there," he says. "`Almost' being the operative word. I actually lost my footing and fell in. I lost the ring."
"That is unfortunate," Seven says.
"I've been thinking a lot, Tom," Harry says. "You asked about Libby and I told you that I didn't expect anything. But the other day, I came here to sit on that rock and I realized that I don't want any regrets. I don't want to look back for the rest of my life and wonder what would have happened if for a single moment, I had kept my balance."
"You did not propose again?" Seven asks.
"No. The Voyager posting came up and I thought that I had plenty of time. Libby never knew what I had intended. I needed to save up for another ring. Of course, I didn't think it seven years would pass before I could ask the question. And now... well, I was certain of her then. Hell, I was certain of me too."
I stare in fascination at the rock. I can almost see Harry and Libby standing there and Harry, in his enthusiasm, slipping on a wet spot and landing in the water. I imagine that he laughed nervously the way he does when he isn't sure what to do next. Maybe Libby extended her hand to help him out, maybe she jumped in after him or just maybe, she stood there and laughed. Harry doesn't seem inclined to fill in the blanks.
"You should write the letter, Seven," Harry says firmly. "But not the way Tom suggests. Write with your heart and tell them everything. Answer the questions they ask. Don't wait for another opportunity; take this one now."
This new philosophical Harry stuns me. In the past, I've always chided him on being wet behind the ears, but his present sincerity and serenity both reveal a side of Harry I've always ignored in favor of his more playful side.
"I'll help you," Harry says. Seven looks relieved.
"Harry?" I ask.
"What?"
"Why - why did you choose a rainforest?"
Harry shrugs.
"Like everything else," he says. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
He leads the way back through the forest. This time, our walk is much easier since we follow our original path. I think about making a joke about maps or even about programming nice trails into the scenario, but Harry doesn't seem inclined to humor at this moment.
Back in the corridor, Harry ends the program and then looks at me.
"I've wanted to show you that for a while," he says.
"I'm glad you did," I tell him. "Why didn't you ever say anything before?"
"I guess the longer we were away, the further away reality got. I started to forget Libby - the way she looked, walked, spoke, all of those things. And then, when you asked me about her the other day, I remembered this. In a way, it bothered me that I could forget so easily a moment that could have been the most important in my life."
"Do you intend to renew your acquaintance with this woman?" Seven asks. I look at her and for the first time, I think I detect a note of jealousy underlying Seven's tone. She keeps her expression even, but I wonder if there is something there. When Seven first came aboard Voyager, Harry had definite surge of testosterone whenever the former drone came within thirty meters of him. I teased him then, perhaps to the point where his attraction to her all but vanished. Yet, never for a second did I imagine Seven could have an interest in someone that went beyond efficiency and expediency.
"I wasn't going to," Harry answers. "Tom asked me a while ago and I said no, but I think - remembering this, I think I want to see her. It may not be the same, but I'll regret it if I don't. I don't want any regrets. Can you imagine us, Tom, at ninety years old and wondering what if we had done things differently? I don't want it to be like that. So I think I'm going to answer Libby's letter. I'll ask her to meet and there won't be any expectations, none. I think it's too much to ask, isn't it?"
"Yeah," I answer. "Like a lot of things, it's too much to ask."
"Do you plan to meet your family?" Seven asks.
"I don't know," I say. "My mother and sisters, they didn't say anything in their letters."
"Do they know about your father?" Harry asks softly.
I lean back against the wall and rub my hand across my eyes; suddenly, I'm very tired.
"I don't know. They must, right?"
Several crewmembers walk by us, talking in low voices. They nod a greeting at us, but pass by us without further conversation.
"Ensign Kim," Seven says. "You did not finish your story. What happened when you fell in the river?"
Harry's expression immediately brightens.
"I didn't? Oh, I landed in the water and it was maybe waist deep, but the current ran strong. Libby found a branch lying on the side of the bank and held it out to me. Pretty funny, isn't it?"
Seven tilts her head to the side.
"I fail to see the humor," she says. "But Libby sounds like a nice individual."
"Oh, she is," Harry answers wistfully.
"I didn't know going home would be this painful," I say. Harry looks at me in surprise.
"Think about it," I continue. "We've been hoping for home for years now and now that we are, I'd rather be back in the Delta Quadrant. What do we do now? We don't even know. God, I don't even know when I will see my mother. I don't even know when I'll see B'Elanna again. I don't like this, Harry."
"Tom, you've been through a lot in the last few days," Harry says kindly. "It's only natural you're having difficulty coping."
"Don't," I hold up a hand and then take a step away from Harry and Seven. "`Difficulty' is an understatement. I'm still trying to figure out what remains. Do you get that? You were talking about reality before, Harry. You were saying that you'd gotten away from reality for a while and yeah, we did. It's not just coming home to family and accolades. What we remember doesn't exist anymore and that's what's difficult. The rest, those are just details. Minor details."
"The death of a parent is not a minor detail," Seven retorts.
"I didn't say that," I answer. "I only pointed out what I felt. Don't think I have for one second forgotten my father. Believe me, I'm never going to forget him. Not after what he's done."
"What has he done?" Seven asks. I realize that she has little idea of my father's role with the Maquis and the subsequent destruction of the starbase. "I did not know your father, Lieutenant, but I believed him to be an honorable individual. Was I mistaken?"
Harry and I exchange a look. It's better, I think, that the memory of Owen Paris, distinguished Starfleet Admiral, remain a hazy vision of what was, rather than what is.
"No, Seven, you're not wrong," I say. "He- he was honorable in his way. And you know what? He was so proud of his granddaughter. The way he talked about her, God, I wish I could have seen the two of them together. When he talked about Linsey, he seemed less like an admiral, more like a human being. It was... nice."
"That's a good way to remember him," Harry says carefully.
"Perhaps I should recall my parents in a similar manner," Seven adds. She doesn't say anything else, but I know exactly what she means.
"I'll help you with that letter," I tell her in one of those heartfelt moments of dysfunctional solidarity. Kind of a "I'm okay, you're okay" moment, but without the hugging.
"Thank you," Seven says. "I am grateful for your assistance."
"Tuvok to Paris."
"Paris here."
"Report to the bridge. We have arrived."
He doesn't have to give us much more information. Seven's letter is going to have to wait.
"Understood," I reply. "Paris out."
Harry, Seven and I exchange a look and then, silently, we walk towards the bridge.
****
"Tuvok to Janeway."
"What is it?"
"We are in range to dock."
"Already?"
Deep breaths. Long and slow.
"Are you all right, Captain?"
"I'm fine. Thank you for letting me know. Janeway out."
I rise from the sofa, where I've been resting for the last hour or so, trying to convince myself that a good cup of coffee is all I really need to shake off my anxiety. The effect, I realize, is the exact opposite of what I'd hoped for; my hands shake as I reach for a clean uniform. I dress quickly and then take a look at myself in the mirror.
Outwardly, I look every inch the regulation Starfleet officer, from the arrangement of pips on my turtleneck to my gleaming boots. Hell, you can't even tell that just over five months ago, I was the epitome of perfection, dressed steel plated armor, complete with the accessories every well-dressed drone needs: various blinking lights, tubes of varying radii and glow-in-the-dark circuitry.
But the Doctor has done his work well, and there are no scars. Not any that you can see and I refuse to confess to any of the rest.
I run my hand over my hair, smoothing a few stray hairs back into place. A deep breath, a quick pinch to the cheeks for color, and I'm ready to step back into the persona of Kathryn Janeway, Captain.
I swallow hard as I walk down the empty corridors. You can imagine how you'll feel in a certain moment. I mean, I visualized for hours about what a homecoming would feel like. And I practiced that happy feeling. Then when I realized I wouldn't get my ticker tape parade and no one would be celebrating our return, then I practiced this homecoming - the one where I would walk alone, head held high, blinking back tears.
Still, my imagination did not feel like this. Not at all.
I hate reality.
I arrive on the bridge to see my crew working diligently at their stations. They are calm as if coming home is something we do regularly.
"Commander," I nod at Tuvok.
"Captain."
He gets up from my chair and moves slightly the left so I can sit down. I take a look around my bridge before settling down. They - Harry, Tuvok, Tom, and Seven - offer back nervous smiles. Moments like this need speeches, rousing Cicero-style orations guaranteed to bring everyone to a foot-stomping ovation. Yet, when I need them most, words fail me miserably.
"Okay, people," I say. "This is it. Take us in, Tom."
I sit down and cross my legs. Tuvok sits down next to me.
"You have fulfilled your promise to the crew," he says in a low voice.
"Two-thirds of them anyway."
Tuvok maintains his rigid posture.
"You must be looking forward to seeing your wife and children," I observe.
"I anticipate our meeting with considerable joy," Tuvok says.
"For what it's worth, I appreciated you. Very much."
"Captain?" Tom twists around. "We have permission to dock."
"Go ahead, Tom," I say. Then, in a low voice, I continue my conversation with Tuvok. "You always put logic into situations where none existed. Thank you for that clarity."
"You are welcome," Tuvok responds. "Captain, I do not intend to leave until the fate of the
Maquis is settled."
I look at him in surprise.
"What?"
"And if you are subjected to a court martial, I intend to represent you."
"Tuvok, thank you," I cover his hand with mine. "Your friendship has always meant so much to me, but I don't want to keep you from your family. Not after all this time."
"I will not abandon you."
"Thank you." I offer Tuvok a smile. "Are you adopting me as a reclamation project?"
He tips his head towards me slightly, but doesn't offer a response.
"Chakotay put you up to this, didn't he?" I lean over so that only a few centimeters separate me from Tuvok.
"We did discuss your situation briefly," Tuvok admits. "But he did not have to convince me. He only suggested that he felt some trepidation regarding our homecoming. We believe there is a plot out to discredit you."
"Tell me something I don't already know."
The ship lurches as the docking clamps slide into place. I look up at the viewscreen and see the vast steel framework of the station. I stand up. Tom turns to face me.
"Captain?" Harry asks. "Incoming message from Starfleet."
I stare at the viewscreen and then turn to look at Harry. Seven, who is sitting at B'Elanna's station, stares at me.
"Welcome home," I tell them.
Tom begins the applause. Slow and softly, but applause all the same.
It's definitely not what I imagined, but it will have to do.
"Captain?" There is definite tension and urgency in Harry's voice. I look at Tuvok and sigh.
"What is it, Harry?"
"Incoming message from Starfleet."
I sigh.
"I heard you the first time, Harry," I tell him.
"They're welcoming us home."
Tuvok and I glance at each other. I stand up and look at Harry.
"You're certain?" I ask.
Yes. And they are requesting permission to board."
"Requesting permission?" I frown.
Harry looks uncomfortable and he shifts side to side.
"Harry?"
"Actually, they are requesting to board and would like you to surrender command of the ship, effectively immediately."
"That's more like it," I say.
Tuvok nods.
"Indeed," my Vulcan friend says.
"Well." I look around at my crew. I note that their boots gleam, their pant creases are perfectly lined up, and all haircuts are regulation length. They look serious, the very epitome of Starfleet protocol. If nothing else, Starfleet can't fault me for not having a professional, well-dressed crew. "It- it has been a pleasure serving with all of you."
I bite my lip. I pace the bridge, very aware of the suffocating quiet around me.
"Whatever happens now," I continue. "I want you all to know that I commend you for your service and loyalty. You performed your duties with honor and distinction. If I can, I will recommend all of you very highly. I wish you all good luck."
I take a deep breath and then look up at Harry.
"Let them board," I tell him. I sit back down, clutching the arms of my chair one last time.
Tuvok looks at me.
"This is not over," he says in a low voice.
I smile at him.
"I know."
~ The End ~
(to be continued in "A Fugue in Blue Minor").
