3. January
She was fuming. Livid. And disappointed. And, very shortly, Tom Paris was going to know all about it.
Today being the first time in nearly three weeks she'd permitted herself to take a break for a meal, she'd been looking forward to a solid hour sitting at a table. An hour to eat and actually digest her food with the hope of foregoing the perpetual indigestion she'd suffered lately, brought on from stuffing whatever one of her team had fetched her to eat while she worked.
But, the promised respite had held a spark which lit the powder keg that was her temper.
She'd joined Harry at an otherwise empty table and tucked into her food. After checking how he was feeling after his recent ordeal with the Captain's pet Borg, the conversation was light and free-flowing. Until he'd asked her about "the new Klingon program".
The "Klingon program" had not been a priority for B'Elanna in the recent weeks. Between Species 8472, the Borg, and some residual damage to Voyager's hull integrity caused by Kes' transformation, B'Elanna had had very little time to think about anything other than work. She'd hardly seen Tom since Christmas Day, the day before the telemetry from the long-range probe had shown them that Voyager was about to encounter the Borg. It certainly wasn't intentional avoidance, it was just how things had gone.
Now that life had quietened down, at least for the non-engineers on the crew, she'd been half expecting a reminder about the program from Tom.
She had not been expecting to hear about it from Harry.
Her knife and fork left indents in the table top as she reacted to his question. Young Gerron, passing by on his way to the counter, was nearly bowled off his feet as her chair shot backwards. Neelix gawked across from the galley with wide eyes, perhaps fearing he was in line for a complaint about the food. Harry was dumbstruck. And had turned very pale. None of that concerned B'Elanna as she pounded out of the mess hall to the turbolift.
Just to rub salt in the wound, the plate of fried 'chicken' she'd left unfinished on the table, had actually been fairly edible.
She strode into the turbolift, cursing out loud with the realisation that her destination was a mystery. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Paris," she growled.
"Lieutenant Paris is in the shuttle bay."
Which was good news. If he'd been on the bridge, her intentions would be undergoing a serious re-think.
Screw the damn Klingon program. What the hell had she been thinking trusting Tom Paris?
The lift took an eon to reach deck ten. Rather than calming her down, the wait only exacerbated her anger, as did the fact that the shuttle bay was crowded, though she should have expected that. After all, one of the reasons she'd been pulling double shifts in engineering, was that a quarter of her team were down here on construction duty, building from parts a new type-9 shuttle to replace the one Kes had left with.
Despite her blinding rage, B'Elanna still had enough sense to realise that it was not in her own interests to make a public spectacle of giving Tom Paris a piece of her mind. So, it was fortuitous that he was inside the new shuttle, leaning over the helm controls with Nicoletti and Vorik flanking him. The instrument panel was in an intermediate state of completion with exposed power lines and ODN relays. The trio were discussing the configuration of the subspace sensors, with Tom encouraging a deviation from the Starfleet schematics to improve navigational accuracy.
"Lieutenant Paris, I need a word," B'Elanna said, her tone clipped but controlled, before any of the three had noticed her presence behind them. Tom turned the fastest, his warm smile soon vanishing as he took in her demeanour.
Nicoletti made a swift exit. Vorik took a little more persuading; a curt "take a break" from B'Elanna was contested as, evidently, an environmental controls diagnostic was still only halfway through. B'Elanna ripped the cable connecting the diagnostic equipment from its socket on the auxiliary ops console, resetting the timer, and, with a raise of one eyebrow and a slight sigh, the Vulcan took his leave. In an unexpected but astute move, he pushed the hatch closure control on his way out of the shuttle.
"You told Harry about the Day of Honour program," B'Elanna snarled, her pulse thundering in her ears, her fists bunching and a toxic surge of stress hormones flooding her bloodstream.
Tom recoiled into the instrument panel, raising his hands in surrender. "Hey, take it easy. I –"
"Don't try to deny it. He just asked me when he could give it a try!"
Tom frowned. "I mentioned that we were working on a Klingon program. I didn't go into specifics. He –"
"I thought it was just our thing, and now I find out you've been blabbing about it as if it's some … novelty, and –"
"Hey!" It was his turn to interrupt, his voice calmer than her own, but with a definite edge to it. "It was only Harry, and he must have misunderstood because I never said it was going to be for public access, and I didn't tell him anything about the Day of Honour."
She gathered herself, blinking, adjusting her breathing, and, beginning to feel more than a little foolish. "Just Harry?"
Tom nodded, scratching his chin. "He saw me looking over some specs at breakfast yesterday and he asked me what I was … It must have been the holograms."
"What?"
"It probably looked like another Klingon martial arts program. Like the one we use from the ship's hololibrary."
B'Elanna stared blankly, prompting him to elaborate.
"With all that's happened, we've not had a chance to get together and start on the Day of Honour interface. So, I thought I'd do some of the groundwork myself."
The more rational part of her brain gradually asserted its dominance through the fog of overreaction. She swallowed hard. "I see." And, fixing her gaze at a point on the floor, she conceded, "Sorry. I might have jumped to conclusions."
"Might have?" was his hasty but level response. His frown deepened. "Did you really think I'd go telling everyone about the program? And I certainly don't think of it as –"
"I said sorry!" she snapped, instantly regretting it. Why did a red alert never happen when she needed one? Or a sinkhole open up under her feet?
Tom took a slow breath and looked her up and down with concern, pronouncing, "You're exhausted. You need a day off."
She huffed. "Like that's going to happen any time soon. We're still finding residual damage from all the crap the Borg installed, deck eight lost artificial gravity this morning and we've yet to find the cause," she gestured out the cockpit window, "and, with all the personnel I've had to assign to building this shuttle, we're weeks behind on the regular maintenance schedule, and …" She threw her hands up in the air. The hard work didn't bother her, but the fatigue that resulted did have a deleterious effect on her ability to rein in her temper. And it was clouding her judgement.
"A few hours off then, at least," Tom said. "The Captain can't begrudge you that."
It wasn't a case of the Captain begrudging it. There was simply work to do that required the chief engineer's personal involvement. She could delegate some of the management to Carey or Nicoletti, and Vorik had been strategically appointed to head up the team in the shuttle bay, but, very often, if one wanted a job doing right, it was best to do it one's self. Her brain caught up to words her ears had heard a moment ago. "Ground work and holograms?"
Tom nodded. "Just basic scenery composition and environmental elements. And a couple of interactive characters. For realism. I haven't tried running it on the holodeck yet. I wanted to wait until you were free to join me, but …"
B'Elanna sighed. "I've been kind of busy." Though she didn't tell him so, when she finally got a few spare hours, her idea of recreation would be a game of velocity or a few drinks by the pool in the Paxau resort. Not hanging out with Klingon holograms. But, if Tom was making all this effort on her behalf, it was wrong of her not show more interest. Then again …
She slumped down into the co-pilot's seat, running a hand across the back of her neck whose taut muscles vied for attention with the burning pain in her chest that had just come on.
"Listen," she said tentatively. "I appreciate all the help you're giving me with the Day of Honour, but … I don't know when I'll next get the time to contribute anything to the program myself, so … maybe we should just call it a loss for this year."
Tom shook his head emphatically. "But we have another six weeks to finish it. I'm happy to carry on with the design element, and then when you do get some free time, we can look at integrating the ceremony aspects. In the meantime, you could be thinking about which rituals you want to include. That doesn't require a lot of time expenditure. You already read through the rest of the files, right?"
"I … have a few left to read," she understated.
He raised an eyebrow, not fooled by the lie. "This was your idea, remember? You want to do this."
One minute she did, the next she didn't. The cycle back and forth was exasperating. But, if she gave up on the idea without seeing it through to completion, she'd be missing out on seeing what Tom Paris would come up with given free rein - well, plenty of leeway at least - to indulge his fascination in all things Klingon. And he was clearly still enthusiastic enough that even her temper tantrum hadn't discouraged him. Exhausted she might be, but it wasn't a good enough excuse for her behaviour. He was letting her off the hook more easily than she deserved.
Curiosity, pride – and an unwillingness to disappoint him unnecessarily - were powerful motivators. She met his gaze. "I get the final say. If I don't like something …"
"Then we change it," he insisted, sitting down in the pilot's seat. "But I think you'll like what I have in mind." He smiled. "It's atmospheric."
B'Elanna was about to ask just what that meant when he raised a pertinent point.
"So, did you leave poor Harry in one piece? Should I be taking flowers and grapes to him in sickbay?"
Shit. Harry. She'd left him in a state of shock in the mess hall. Her already tormented stomachs churned. "Actually," she allowed herself a small smile, "he might be headed down there to look for you. I'm surprised he didn't comm you to warn I was on my way here."
Tom frowned theatrically. "Yeah. A good friend would have done that. I'll have to have words with him."
B'Elanna sprang to her feet. "I should go and find him. He did look a little … worried when I left him." Terrified. And, it was strange that Harry hadn't given Tom a warning. Of course, even Harry would have the life experience to know it was usually best not to involve oneself in arguments between … Surely Harry didn't think of she and Tom as … a couple? Did he?
Tom stood politely as she edged back towards the exit. "Try and get that day off planned in," he called. "And when you do, let me know when it is. I'll see if I can get mine to coincide."
She turned and nodded, offered another matter-of-fact apology for her overreaction, and popped the hatch. Vorik stood sentry outside. B'Elanna ignored him. The sight of the irritating little petaQ still triggered confusing memories and emotions that she should have sorted through, but had preferred to bury. Though her feelings towards the Vulcan himself were crystal clear. Nicoletti was in a hushed conversation with Golwat that ceased abruptly when they noticed B'Elanna pass by. Shit. More fodder for the ship's gossips, and she had no one to blame but herself and her trust issues.
She traipsed back up to the mess hall, her hour of respite self-sabotaged. With plenty to think about.
It was another two weeks before B'Elanna got a day off. She'd managed to find a few snatches of recreational time in the interim, but those had been spent in more relaxing pastimes than immersing herself in Klingon culture: a quick game of Parrises squares with Harry, hoverball with Chakotay. She and Tom had shared a few meals in the mess hall and quick chats in the corridors. Often, those brief encounters with Tom were the highlight of her day. He was, quite simply, good company. He hadn't pushed her about the holoprogram and she hadn't brought it up. But she knew he was working on it; she'd checked the HRL's access logs. The lab's primary user for off-duty purposes was recorded as Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Thomas Eugene Paris.
Now, the new shuttle was finally ready for flight testing, repair teams had finished scouring Voyager's hull reinforcing microfractures, and, barring what Janeway had decreed should stay, all the Borg 'enhancements' were extracted from the ship's innards.
Even with such progress, B'Elanna's day off had nearly been thwarted. It had started with a visit to airponics. Henley and Chell had managed to clog the nutrient mist supply lines by using the wrong formulation of fertilizer in the reservoir tank. The pair had commed their old Maquis comrade in a state of panic. It turned out they were happier to face the predictable wrath of the chief engineer than seek help through regular channels and risk the captain finding out about their negligence. They also held out hope that the incident could remain off record. Old loyalties were important to B'Elanna, but procedures had to be followed up to a point. As much as she didn't need more reports to file, she'd have to record it somewhere. But, there were ways for the chief engineer to log such incidents yet make them difficult for the command officers to spot.
As planned, Tom had made sure he got his off duty time to coincide with her own. So, a little later in the day than expected, B'Elanna found herself outside holodeck two, intrigued but apprehensive about what she was going to find in there. Tom had engaged the privacy function to stop any curious passers-by from wandering in, but her own authorisation codes unlocked the door.
Her first thought was that if he were expecting to re-enact a scene from Women Warriors at the River of Blood – or any of its spin-offs - he was going to be disappointed.
Just because she'd allowed herself to be manoeuvred into spending time with him, alone, in a locked holodeck, in the confines of a cave lit only with 'mood lighting', that was not going to happen. They weren't on a date. It would just sure as hell look like it to a casual observer - at least a casual observer familiar with the literary works of LurSa, daughter of Ja'roD.
Tom could flirt until all the stars went out - and he'd been in good form on that front lately – but, did he seriously think a smoky cave was going to make her 'heart quicken'? It just so happened she was getting tachycardia, but more from annoyance than excitement.
Surely this wasn't the environment he had planned for the Day of Honour program? Was it?
At least beyond the entrance the roof of the chamber was high, perhaps a concession to Tom's reputed dislike of enclosed spaces. The cave walls disappeared into darkness five or six metres up; the warm light given off by burning torches that jutted out of the rock failed to penetrate any higher. Her footsteps echoed disconcertingly as she crossed the floor and the sound seemed unnatural given the physical properties of the environment.
Caves. Her first misadventure in a cave had been in the Maquis, when after mistaking mineral deposits for Cardassian weapons signatures, she and her team had been trapped underground for three days by a rock fall. Then, there was the cave system outside the Vidiian base where she and Tom had been held captive. No happy memories there. Poor Hogan had been eaten by a troglodytic serpent on Hanon IV, and, last but certainly not least, was the cave system on the Sakari planet where she, Tom and Neelix had gone searching for gallicite. And chaos had ensued. Caves were not high on her list of geological features to spend time in. Craters, crevices, fine. But, caves...
Tom stood waiting for her, rosy-cheeked, a PADD in one hand and his sweater slung over the other shoulder. B'Elanna was, on the contrary, more than comfortable to keep all her clothes on, even if she had dressed for standard shipboard conditions.
Once polite greetings were over, she kept her voice level and enquired, "Why a cave?"
"Some of the most sacred places in the Klingon Empire are caves," he explained excitedly. "No'Mat, vaHbo'Dis on Boreth, Hurgh'och. I thought it would be fitting. I was going to use the actual dimensions of one of the caverns at No'Mat, but I wasn't sure if that would be in some way disrespectful. So, I took a generic cave template and went from there."
Unable to find fault with his reasoning, B'Elanna moved to explore the rest of the cavern. And found her nose overpowered by an acrid, eye-watering odour as she reached the furthest recesses. "What the hell is that smell?" she demanded. Torches were replaced by candles back here, the light even dimmer than in the main chamber.
Tom caught up to her. "Incense," he said from the shadows. As if it should be obvious.
B'Elanna shook her head. "No. I mean, yes, there's the incense," though the source of that she had yet to find, "but there's something else." She sniffed the air a couple more times. "It smells like … burnt targ."
"Oh. The candles," he said proudly. "They still make them on Qo'noS by rendering targ fat into tallow, so I chose that rather than paraffin- or beeswax-based versions."
"Lovely," was B'Elanna's sarcastic response. Then she realised: the smell wouldn't be so offensive to his less sensitive, fully human olfactory sense. Lucky him.
"I can always swap out some of the candles for coal burners, but what do you think on the whole? Do you like it?" Tom asked, oozing an enthusiasm that B'Elanna was trying gamely to match.
"I like the temperature, but could we reduce the artificial echo effect?" she said diplomatically, edging past him back to where the walls were wider apart. "It's a little hard on the ears."
"Computer, decrease echo effect by 50%." He turned to B'Elanna. "Better?" The reverberation of sound was noticeably diminished.
She nodded. "Much." The smoke effect got the same treatment. Tom fussed over the placement of the burning torches and fine-tuned their luminosity. B'Elanna asked the computer to moderate the level of aromatic compounds in the now much clearer air.
Tom was as much at home here tinkering with the holoprogram as he was at Voyager's helm. She watched him fixate on the specs on his PADD for a long moment, until he noticed her out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and flashed her a quizzical smile.
"What about the Klingon holograms?" she asked quickly, gesturing to the scenery currently devoid of any holodeck characters.
"Well, I programmed one to guide you through the rituals - a master of ceremonies, if you like." He scrolled through some files on his PADD. "He's not perfected yet, but I think I can load him into the matrix, and … there."
A surly Klingon male materialised to B'Elanna's immediate left. She sidestepped hastily. The armour-clad hologram stood motionless barring a faint rise and fall of his chest in simulated breathing.
"Computer load personality subroutines Paris one three seven," Tom called.
The hologram remained stationary, its gaze still blank. Tom frowned and tapped at the PADD again. "There must be a glitch somewhere."
"Did you remember to load the motor function operations?" B'Elanna asked, moving to his side and peering at the device in his hand. "Here," she said, indicating a discrepancy with a pointed finger. "The environmental awareness algorithm doesn't link up with the character's primary matrix. And this file is corrupted. Look."
Tom cursed quietly. "Sorry. I'll have to go into the core settings and reconfigure the coding sequence to fix it. I'll do it now. It should only take me ten minutes."
"It's fine," she reassured him, gesturing to the immobile hologram. "He's a standard, stereotypical Klingon male, right?"
Tom nodded absently. "But, I wanted you to see the initial interactive experience." He wandered over to where a wide ledge jutted out from the wall at chest height. Setting down the PADD and his discarded sweater, he hauled himself up backwards to sit, careful to avoid placing himself directly under one of the flaming torches. His fingers began to work frantically on the PADD as he corrected his programming error.
B'Elanna was not particularly let down, though she did feel bad for Tom seeing the disappointment clear on his face. The sight of the holographic Klingon, still and functionless beside her, made the impending Day of Honour seem more real; no longer was it just a date on the calendar, far in the future. She'd gone and roped Tom into the crazy scheme and he'd run with it. It was getting too involved now to easily back out of.
Despite the smouldering heat of the cave, she shivered. It was absurd. She enjoyed reading about fictional Klingons well enough. But, the thought of interacting with one was not a prospect she relished, even though it made sense to have someone – something – to guide her through the Day of Honour ceremony. And with no other Klingons in the Quadrant (well, excepting those former Borg drones in the Nekrit Expanse) a hologram was the only logical option.
If she really was to go through with it.
Subconsciously, she ran a hand across her forehead, stopping abruptly as soon as she grew aware of the gesture. The pattern of cranial ridges her fingers traced was unchanged, except in scale, from her earliest weeks of pre-natal development. Those few days she'd had a smooth forehead – it was over two years ago, now - had been a strange, but insightful experience, least of all because of her appearance. Without her Klingon DNA and resultant physiology she'd felt peaceful, even if incomplete. As the Doctor had gradually reintegrated the Klingon genes into her cellular structure, she'd felt stronger, more alert. And back to being constantly conflicted over something or other.
Tom was clearing his throat. Deliberately. Loudly. Whatever he'd been saying, she'd not heard it in her introspective daze.
"What's on your mind?" he asked, dropping the PADD into his lap for the moment.
Her brain kicked into gear. Fumbling for an answer that didn't entail sharing some of her innermost insecurities, she resorted to a vague, "I was just thinking about something." Which only led to a more quizzical glance from Tom.
B'Elanna wandered over to the ledge. Tom's long legs dangled over the side, not meeting the floor. She tried to pull herself up to sit beside him and failed clumsily on the first attempt; the rock was slippery, her feet could get no purchase, and, for an engineer, she really wasn't tackling the problem scientifically. Before she could try again, Tom jumped down beside her.
"Here, I'll lift you up," he offered, with his hands heading purposefully for her shoulders.
She jolted away from him, a surge of wounded pride mixed with something less immediately discernable coursing through her. "I can manage," she said stubbornly. Futilely. Resorting quickly to, "Computer, lower the height of this ledge by thirty centimetres."
In a shimmer of photons and force fields (and thanks to a surprising amount of intuition from the often obtuse ship's computer) the rock deformed and reshaped. B'Elanna put on a triumphant smile and hauled herself up. Tom rolled his eyes and did likewise, maintaining an exaggerated distance. When B'Elanna failed to expand on her earlier answer, he resumed his work in silence.
She pondered her attitude. She wouldn't have been so quick to refuse hands on help from most others – from Chakotay, or Harry, for example. Her height wasn't a sensitive issue; most people were short in comparison to Tom, so it wasn't that. But, when he'd moved to touch her … her unease, she concluded, wasn't from anticipating that she wouldn't like the sensation, but from envisaging that she would.
Who was she trying to kid? – knowing from experience that she would.
Though, how did she know that her attraction to Tom Paris was genuine and not a residual effect of the neurochemical imbalance brought on by Vorik? If the feelings she was trying to suppress were artificial, then it was right to ignore them and hope they'd eventually go away. But, that was another self-deception. Although more powerful since the blood fever, the attraction had definitely been there before. Since the Sakari planet, the consequences of the bite on the face - autonomic responses, pheromonal or otherwise – could have been at play, amplifying her feelings. But, more significantly, the incident had shown her a side of Tom she hadn't previously considered: that he could be depended upon not to take advantage when she was at her most vulnerable. Reliability wasn't the most exciting prospect in a potential mate, but for any long-term relationship it was essential.
How the hell had she let her thoughts wander to this topic with him sitting right there beside her? With her mind occupied with tangible, practical problems for much of the past month, a backlog of unprocessed thoughts had accumulated, and they were now vying for her attention.
Now she allowed herself to think on the issue, her feelings towards Tom Paris were not like those she had experienced towards other men. Not Max Burke, with whom she'd had the longest romantic relationship; she'd never bitten him on the face. Not Chakotay, on whom she'd undoubtedly had a crush at first. When he'd recruited her into the Maquis, saving her from who knew what at the hands of marauding Cardassians, she'd been star struck. Gratitude and admiration combined, it turned out, were a powerful aphrodisiac. But, those feelings had resolved into more of a fraternal bond. The thought of Chakotay as anything more than that now, just felt plain weird.
Tom had changed so much from the obnoxious, narcissistic pig he'd been when they'd first met (and still appeared to be at the start of Voyager's journey). In hindsight, his arrogance had been a front: a defence mechanism. Her feelings for him now leaned more towards the powerful emotion she'd experienced in the Enaran memories: emotion that hadn't been her own, but that, in her dreams, she had still felt the full force of. With that epiphany, her legs, thankfully which she was not presently relying on to carry her, suddenly felt like they were made of Neelix's fruit cocktail Jell-O. Oh hell …
It had been some minutes now since either she or Tom had spoken. His body language screamed 'exasperated', and as much to divert her thoughts as to appease him, she felt compelled to offer something. Anything.
"I appreciate the research you've done," she said sincerely.
"You're welcome," he answered, cordially, but without looking up.
Now what? She scratched her head. "My grandmother went to No'Mat once. I remember her telling me about it." At that Tom did look up, his eyes wide with curiosity, which dampened when she added a necessary addendum, "But I didn't pay much attention. I used to switch off when she started on one of her tales." B'Elanna shrugged. "Bad of me, I guess. Especially given that I only saw her a dozen times before she died."
Tom took the self-criticism to warrant a response. "It just sounds like you were a typical kid. I once fell asleep on the table during a family wedding. I got stuck with my grandfather's one hundred year old uncle. Literally bored me to sleep."
His anecdote was well meaning, but irked her. "It's not the same. Klingon children are supposed to be enthralled by old people spinning stories. My cousins all loved it. Half of what she said was exaggerated. From listening to her, you'd have thought she was a Dahar Master."
Tom had that same aura her young cousins had displayed back then, right now. "She was a warrior?"
B'Elanna snorted. "Not exactly. She was on the maintenance crew of a troop transport. Saw just enough action to fuel her imagination."
"Oh."
It might be wise to get back to talking about technical details on the program.
"Did your mother never take you to No'Mat?" Tom pressed, before B'Elanna could change the subject. "When you were on Qo'noS?"
"No. We spent most of the time visiting relatives." And B'Elanna had been treated as a curiosity in every household, on every visit: the fragile 'half-breed', slow and stunted when compared with her similarly-aged Klingon cousins. It had made her exceedingly grateful that her mother had taught her the Klingon language. Better to know what was being said about you in that situation than, in ignorance, conjure up worse. In fairness, the innumerable uncles, aunts, and cousins hadn't been directly unkind. Not by Klingon standards of insensitivity. Not cruel as many humans in her experience, the kids in school whose 'teasing' had at times made her wish she could take an industrial sander and plane the ridges right off her face. Even later at the Academy, she'd toyed with the idea of cosmetic surgery. Removing her cranial ridges and adjusting her hairline would be a relatively simple medical procedure, though for ethical reasons most Federation doctors would be unlikely to agree to carry it out. More probably, they would instead refer her to psychiatric help.
The superficial alteration of her appearance without affecting the underlying genetics, the redundant organs, the hormones, and so on, only rarely crossed her mind now; the forehead did have its advantages. It served as a warning sign to those who might pick a fight. It was an excuse for her temper. Back in grammar school, and even in the first semester at the Academy, the obvious sign of her partial Klingon heritage had meant some people had made allowances, giving her leeway she wouldn't have had if perceived as fully human. Until they'd finally lost patience. And, excepting when she looked at her reflection or a holoimage, she didn't have to see the ridges herself.
She'd been a curiosity at the Academy, too. There'd been unsolicited attentions from a group of cadets hoping to put a tick next to 'Klingon' in their boorish freshman activity of getting lucky with a member of as many species as possible. That had been the provocation that led to her second disciplinary hearing: when she'd pushed one of those classmates into a fast-flowing river during subarctic survival training. She wondered if Tom would have been a member of that sort of crowd during his Academy days.
"B'Elanna?"
She started. "Sorry?"
"I said, did you decide yet what you want to include in the ceremony?"
"Right… yes," she stuttered, adding with conviction, "The rituals my mother taught me – the eating of heart of a sanctified targ and drinking mot'loch - they're essential. They should form the basis." They were far from the nicest of foodstuffs, but her previous hatred for the tradition had waned.
"That should be simple enough," Tom said, "though the targ heart will be replicated so –"
"Unsanctified," B'Elanna finished. "It will do."
"And after that? To … test your honour?"
That wasn't so easy. She crossed her arms, hands clenching around her biceps. "I haven't decided yet."
"OK …" Tom drawled, "but, until you decide ..."
"We still have another month."
"You know how hard it is to get together." He chewed his lip thoughtfully, eyes fixed on her face. "Do you want to spend another couple of hours in the hololab like we did before?"
She shook her head, matching his gaze defiantly. "I'll get around to it."
Tom looked sceptical, giving a slight shake of his own head. Then he picked up the PADD again and continued fixing the hologram.
B'Elanna fidgeted, knowing she should be making more effort. If roles were reversed, and she were in Tom's place, she would have quit helping long before now. He really must have a deep fascination with all things Klingon to tolerate her attitude – not to mention the temperature in the holodeck, which he had to be finding oppressive. Tipping her head back to rest against the hard stone she shut her eyes, trying to summon calm. The heat was wonderful, warmer than the Finnish sauna program in the ship's database. Maybe she should just decide on the hot springs of Ketha Province and go with that. Though there was bound to be something unpleasant hidden in the fine print of the ritual. The water probably stunk of hydrogen sulphide. Even though the holodeck safeties would keep the concentration of the noxious gas below the safety limit, it could still be nauseatingly pungent. And whilst altering the environment to make it less realistic would solve that little issue, where would the honour be in that? No, a Klingon ritual couldn't possibly be enjoyable.
Opening her eyes she turned to Tom, who looked like he was starting to melt. Intending to inform him of her decision, she instead found herself asking, "Have you always been interested in Klingons?" His mouth twitched as he snapped his gaze from the PADD to her face. She amended her question quickly. "In Klingon culture, I mean."
He nodded once, slowly. "A long time. Since I was a kid."
Long before meeting her, then. She didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
"Why exactly?" she asked. "Why Klingons, not … Vulcans, for example?"
He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at that in a fair imitation of Tuvok, and she rolled her eyes. "OK," she said, "Andorians, then? Or Betazoids?"
He smirked. "Well, Betazoids are interesting, too. They have a certain … reputation. But Klingons …" His brow creased and he set down the PADD, turning to face her squarely. "I think it started with my interest in the Vikings. They were a great seafaring people, and I always loved reading about old sailing ships and exploration. I see a lot of similarities between the Vikings and the Klingons - battle tactics, for example. And the honour concept."
Whilst Earth history had never been her best subject, B'Elanna did recall learning something about the ancient Norsemen and the first European exploration of North America.
Tom continued, appearing to choose his words carefully. "But, on Earth, perceptions of Klingons are a little coloured by stereotypes."
Didn't she know it. She nodded. "Most humans have never met a Klingon face to face, and can only go by what they see in the media."
"Exactly. There's nothing better than personal experience when it comes to forming an opinion on people - or a group of people."
"How many Klingons have you actually met?" she asked, not recalling him ever mentioning a personal encounter.
"Only a handful," he admitted.
"After you left Starfleet? Or before?"
Tom seemed unfazed by her direct line of questioning. "We picked up a couple of Klingon diplomats once when I was on the Exeter. Then, before Chakotay signed me up, I ran into a few traders and freelance … security guards along the DMZ. But none of them made an impression on me like you have."
B'Elanna quirked an eyebrow. He'd better not be referring to the bite on his face. But, he'd sounded sincere, not just flirtatious. And his expression was … solemn, now, actually. And a little disconcerting. She turned away from him to stare purposefully at her hands twitching in her lap.
"So, living and working with a half-Klingon has been educational for you then?" she baited before glancing back up.
Tom's eyes narrowed.
"Given how much you like learning about Klingons," she explained.
"Well …" he faltered, seemingly perplexed. "I've discovered a few things I might not have if you weren't on board. I don't know if I'd have thought to try the Klingon martial arts program. Or read so much Klingon literature. Tried so much Klingon food."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "Women Warriors and Neelix's Klingon breakfast buffet?"
"I just re-read G'trok's The Fall of Kang," he countered. "It was required reading at the Academy, but I hadn't read it since. I enjoyed it even more this time, knowing that I wasn't going to be examined on it."
"Good for you," she grumbled. "I dropped out before getting to that class."
"The book's in the database if you want to read it. Both the standard translation and the original Klingon text."
"I'll pass, thanks."
Tom frowned and mopped his brow with the back of his hand, clearly uncomfortable yet uncomplaining. "I'm not doing all this purely to feed some obsession with Klingons, you know," he said, waving the PADD at her. "I'm showing an interest in the Klingon stuff because of you."
Spontaneously, she batted away the compliment. "You said you've always been interested in Klingons."
"Yes, to an extent, but … my interest has been rekindled. I've got added incentive, now."
Straight out of a trashy romance novel it might be, but there was an unmistakeable heat in his eyes. And it was making her pulse race.
"Janeway to all senior officers. Please report to the briefing room."
Both jumped at the sound of the Captain's voice over the comm channel, Tom uttering an expletive, which B'Elanna echoed less forcefully.
Maybe this program just wasn't meant to be. "I wonder what that's about," B'Elanna pondered aloud, gathering her thoughts.
"I assume Chakotay's finally back from his survey mission," Tom said, saving the updates they'd made to the program and grabbing his sweater and PADD.
"Or he's still not back and the Captain wants to start a search for him," B'Elanna said, with a sense of foreboding.
They exited the holodeck, heading for the turbolift at a brisk pace. "Why think the worst?" Tom said brightly.
"I'm allowed to be concerned, aren't I? You know Chakotay's track record with shuttles."
Tom nodded, his sunny demeanour darkening. "True. Maybe I should have gone with him, but he did insist he wanted to get some hours in at the helm. And if I had gone, I wouldn't have got to spend this time with you."
Striding into the awaiting turbolift, B'Elanna ordered, "Deck One," in lieu of responding to Tom's comment. He stepped in beside her as the doors began to close, seriously in need of a shower and a change of clothes, both of which would have to wait.
"I have a bad feeling about this," she muttered, poised to leap out of the lift as soon as it reached its destination.
"Chakotay can take care of himself," Tom asserted, lounging against the wall. "Don't worry about him."
B'Elanna peered up at him and unthinkingly uttered, "Why? Are you jealous?"
Tom grinned. "No. Do you want me to be?"
"That's your choice," she snapped, adding, "but Chakotay and I have never been anything more than friends, and we never will be."
"Good to know," Tom said, still smiling. "Not that I thought differently."
B'Elanna made a mental note to check the turbolift maintenance reports. Either some temporal anomaly was blighting the ship's internal transport system, or the damn things were getting slower.
They joined the rest of the senior staff in the briefing room, Janeway began to speak, and all B'Elanna's worries about the impending Day of Honour, and her emotional state with regard to Tom Paris were soon overtaken by more urgent concerns.