Chapter 2 - Challenges

"So you claim that you had really no idea what you were getting into when you set out?"

"You may recall Starfleet's recruitment line, Sir: 'To boldly go where no one has gone before'. And that's exactly what we did. So no, no one had been there before, and no, we didn't know what we were getting into. It's called 'exploration.' Seeking out the unknown."

"Mr. McFaddyen, kindly advise your client to refrain from patronizing the bench."

"A moment please, your honour. Tom …"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop being a smart-ass, Paris. But whatever you can do to stop HIM from being – well – an ass …"

"Shh. Don't dig yourself in deeper. Let me handle this."

"Your honour, my client apologizes. However, it must also be clearly understood, and perhaps I have not made this clear, my own failing obviously, that the Enterprise's mission to the Trifid was based on very little first-hand information. The ship was the first Federation vessel in this area of space, and no one onboard or back in San Francisco had any idea what to expect. I am prepared to submit evidence from Starfleet Headquarters on this point, if required, although with all due respect, I do question the relevance that any advance knowledge would have had for the issues before you in these proceedings."

"Thank you counsel, I take your point. The jury may disregard any suggestion that the defendants and their crew should have known more about what to expect in the nebula. Session is in recess for ten minutes."

"The 'smartass' evidently made his point. Good work, Commander."

"Captain, please don't encourage him. We need to take the high road here. Tom …"

"Yes, I know, I know. Stick to the script. It's just so damned hard when some geriatric moron who's pushed paper all his life as - what, was he, the Head of Non-Military Supplies, in charge of buying furniture and replicators? – who's never been out there and doesn't know the basics, is put in charge of ruling on why the basics no longer work."

"It's not the judge we need to convince, Tom. It's the jury. And it's not the judge we want to make them feel sorry for, nor is it you they should be getting annoyed with."

Tom Paris entered his family's quarters at lunchtime, ready to have his knees assaulted by the enthusiastic hug of a small but energetic toddler. Picking up Miral and tossing her in the air until she squealed with glee, he looked around the place he had dubbed "the Palace" immediately upon entering it for the first time.

The First Officer's quarters (family configuration) were substantial. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms – one with an actual tub - a large dining area suitable for formal entertaining, an enormous living room with a corner office area, a kitchenette with a replicator and a counter with an antique-looking toaster; and two large observation windows, through which the streaky lights of warp flight were currently visible. B'Elanna was busy at one of the computer consoles finishing up a report on the latest systems diagnostics. She tossed a casual "hey" over her shoulder as her husband and XO came over to kiss her on the head.

"How's engineering today?" Tom asked, and kicked a few colourful toys into a corner before someone would break their ankle tripping over them. "Personal or professional question?" "Both. Either."

"Warp core is at 94 percent efficiency, we fixed a minor fluctuation in the EPS conduit between Decks 14 and 15 that may or may not have caused the sonic showers in three different quarters to play Bolian cacophonies at odd hours, and Vorik may finally be getting over the Vulcan measles. Bad news is, now Kal and Talas have it. Otherwise, we're as ready as we can be."

Tom chuckled appreciatively at her recitation of the minor ailments affecting vessel and crew. The Enterprise was a vastly different ship from Voyager; nearly ten times the size, with normally eight times his old ship's crew complement – reduced for this mission - and with facilities that they could only have dreamt of in the Delta Quadrant: Functioning replicators and unlimited water for showers; no rations. Food you could name, recognize and digest. Six holodecks, although time slots were just as hard to book as they were on Voyager. A school and a nursery, complete with teachers and more than one kid. But the best thing – certainly as far as B'Elanna was concerned – were engines and systems that didn't require maintenance 24/7 just because they hadn't seen a dry dock in six years, or that were held together with alien string and Delta Quadrant bubblegum.

The major drawback in Tom's view was the – hopefully temporary - absence of a trustworthy Chief Medical Officer. "I told our so-called medical expert that Vulcan measles can spread to Bajorans under certain circumstances." No need to explain who the 'so-called expert' was.

"Yeah, well, Doctor Fincher is still in denial about the whole thing, according to Vorik. Maybe you could have a look at the records, Tom, and figure out how the contagion happened?"

"I bet he'd just love that," Tom snorted contemptuously. Dr. Crusher's sudden appointment as Head of Starfleet Medical had taken the Captain and crew by surprise, although no one begrudged her the speed with which she had accepted the offer, especially given the impending mission to the Trifid. It was, after all, a tremendous opportunity - the apex of a medical career with Starfleet, plus it came with the rank of Captain.

Unfortunately, Dr. Jeremiah Fincher, the short-term locum the Enterprise had been assigned and whom they had picked up at Deep Space Six, was about as far removed from the apex of his profession as one could be and still retain a licence to practice medicine in Starfleet. Clearly, not everyone could graduate at the top of his class – Lord knew he himself was a prime example - but Tom had quickly realized just why the man was so readily available for short-term assignments: A deadly combination of arrogance, professional incompetence and unwillingness to consider other perspectives. Although Tom was usually prepared to give someone the benefit of his doubt, that only went up to a point, and he was rapidly reaching his. At least they would only have to put up with Fincher for another couple of weeks; the Captain was reviewing files of potential candidates already and would contact them the minute the Enterprise was back in Federation space.

Fincher, despite his own shortcomings as a physician, in turn had made no secret of his belief that a First Officer who claimed to have a medical background had to be suffering from delusions of grandeur. Tom for his part had resolved not to let anyone he cared about be treated by someone he considered to be mere steps removed from a snake oil salesman, and had quietly allowed the senior officers to spread the word that he was available for "second opinions" after hours.

It was Tom who had diagnosed and treated poor, embarrassed Vorik's Vulcan childhood illness, after Fincher had sent him to his quarters with an anti-itch hypospray and a cream for eczema. It had been Fincher who had lifted the Lieutenant's quarantine, recommended by Tom, on the basis that the disease was not contagious. So much for that notion now, Tom thought vindictively.

"Maybe I'll transmit the files to the Doc, and he can have a look and figure out why it spread this time. There could be all sorts of environmental factors in play, but I don't have the time to do the research. Too busy with the Trifid project, I'm afraid." Again, no need to explain who 'the Doc' was to his wife.

Tom deposited Miral on her high chair at the dining table, and went over to the replicator. "Pizza, plain, warm, child-size. Pizza, pepperoni, hot, adult size." Miral squealed with delight when he put her plate in front of her. "Here you go, munchkin. Our favourite." He whispered conspiratorially. "Yummy, isn't it. Mommy just doesn't get it."

"I have a better idea," B'Elanna continued her earlier train of thought as she watched, with a fond headshake, her husband and daughter dig into their respective pizzas. It was amazing what things seemed to be passed on through the human DNA. She replicated a chicken salad for herself.

"I can't afford to have all the Bajorans and Vulcans in my department out with some idiotic childhood disease just now. Who knows what the nebula's radiation and stray particles will do to my engines. I need all hands ready, just in case."

"All right, I'm listening. What's your idea?" Tom asked between mouthfuls of pizza. B'Elanna put down her own fork for a moment. Unlike her at times exasperatingly well-mannered husband, she did not hesitate to speak with her mouth full when she was keen to get information out.

"We bring the Doc to the files. I mean, why not? We sent him all the way to the Alpha Quadrant through a teeny wormhole before. Now we have secure long-range subspace comm links. If he agrees, it'll be a cinch getting him onboard."

Tom considered the matter briefly. Very briefly. A nanosecond, tops. A gleam stole into his eyes, followed by a full-on, super-nova caliber grin.

"And with any luck, Fincher will be so pissed off at us calling in the holographic cavalry that he'll retreat to his quarters and pout. Bee, you're brilliant. I never thought I'd say this out loud, but having the Doc running sickbay here would be just great, even if it's just for a while."

Then something occurred to him. "What makes you think he'll come, though? He's being feted by Starfleet Medical because of all the new diseases, cures and 'Delta Quadrant special techniques' he brought back, and Stan says his human rights case was as good as in the bag with the Supreme Court. Last we saw him, he was as happy as a clam, gearing up for a teaching spot at the Academy as soon as the bureaucrats give the green light that he can be hired."

B'Elanna smiled, a little evilly. "You forget something. He hasn't had a tune-up in five months, the last time we saw him at McKinley to be exact. I'm the only one he trusts to do that, and he does respond to blackmail. And if that fails, I'll just make him feel guilty again about the time he kidnapped me. That, and the prospect of seeing his goddaughter should turn the trick."

Tom grinned at his wife in appreciation. He was about to congratulate her on the thoroughness of her planning, when he was interrupted by a beep from his comm badge.

"Riker to Paris. Commander, please report to the bridge." Tom sighed and shrugged. "No rest for the wicked." He tickled Miral behind the ear and kissed her on her curly head. "See you later, munchkin. Have fun with Aunt Libby, Baby Tommy and the other kids this afternoon."

"Bye, Daddy. Love you!" His daughter had none of his compunctions about speaking around mouthfuls of pizza, and he had to pick a piece of cheese off his uniform. "Me too, munchkin, me too."

The Enterprise's First Officer bounded out the door, while B'Elanna prepared to deposit Miral in the "safe zone" – the reinforced nursery the crew had set up on Deck 10, in the centre of the ship. Designed to provide the children with extra shielding from the effects of expected and unknown radiation, the new location had proven extremely popular with the ship's youngest members and everyone loved the camping-out spirit. The older children delighted in imparting novel ideas of mischief to unsuspecting pre-schoolers, while the little ones basked in the attention of their older idols and mothering the three babies. Miral was particularly fond of "Baby Tommy", Harry and Libby's two-month old little boy (named after her own Daddy!) and loved pretending she was his Big Sister.

When Tom got to the bridge, the view screen was filled with the image of a gaseous ball. Although the size of a planet, it was acting more like a young star – moving on its own in an independent eccentric orbit which the sensors had determined to be loosely connected to, but not apparently dependent on, the central axis of the nebula. Several enormous weather systems in shades of blue, white and green swirled across a surface that looked about as hospitable as the inside of the warp core.

Tom looked at Harry Kim, who was manning Ops. "Bring me up to date?" Neither of them usually could quite get themselves to call the other by their rank, and professionalism required that they – or at least Harry - limit the use of each other's first names while on the bridge. The fact that Harry at times added an automatic "sir" to his responses had bothered Tom at first, but he was getting used to it.

Harry was still, even after nearly a year, slightly in awe at the changes the stint at the James T. Kirk Centre for Advanced Tactical and Strategic Command had wrought in his best friend, and had found it surprisingly easy to accept him as his XO. Luckily though, their off-duty friendship had not been overly affected by their new roles. Tom's ability to compartmentalize in particular had enabled him to draw a thin but clear line between his best friend and the Chief of Operations – although his reliance on the latter definitely benefited from the implicit faith he had in the former. It was "just that name thing," as Tom had put it early on, but since they were both aware of it, hiccups were rare and caused no difficulties.

Captain Riker, for his part, was happy to put up with the occasional breach of protocol as a small price to pay for having what he privately called "the best tag team in Starfleet". Of course, in Riker's mind, no one would ever surpass his friend Data at Ops. His loss was still painfully felt, and Riker looked forward to the regular progress reports of Geordi's attempts to reconstitute Data's memories and core personality algorithms within the B-4 prototype. But in the meantime, Harry Kim was as good as they came, and nearly unbeatable in combination with his Number One. Paris would supply the unorthodox ideas, and Kim – often in combination with the Chief Engineer - the technical expertise to carry them out.

Harry delivered his summary of the object on the view screen in clipped tones. "Class Y planet, sir. Demon class. If we can call it a planet, since it's not presenting much like one. But then again, it doesn't really act like a star either. Best I can label it is a 'rogue celestial body'. Atmosphere a mixture of methane, ammonia and hydrogen sulfide; barometric pressure approximately 850 percent above Earth standard; quadruple Terran gravity; surface temperature 1,375 degrees Kelvin."

Tom whistled. "Nice place for a picnic." He and Harry exchanged a private smile.

"Care to share the joke?" Captain Riker asked. Tom chuckled. "Well, Captain, Harry … Lieutenant Kim and I did have something like a picnic on a place very much like this one once, when Voyager ran out of deuterium. We had no choice but to go down there, and it didn't go over so well. In fact, we kind of became the picnic. Let's just say, I wouldn't recommend an away mission."

Harry cleared his throat. "The interesting thing here is not the planet, though, Captain, it's the moons. There are several dozen, ranging in size from half Luna to small asteroid. Some are capable of sustaining a rudimentary atmosphere. This one here …" he magnified a view of something that looked like an overgrown rock, "… even shows a partial oxygen atmosphere, although it's only the size of Ceres in our solar system's asteroid belt. Hard to say what keeps it in place, let alone how it got there."

Harry paused briefly. "And then there are the … asteroids, again, if that's what you can call them. Just rocks, really. Shards. Almost as if some of the bigger moons blew up, or hit each other and cracked. No atmospheric residue on those, although they may have held one before they were shattered."

"Composition?" Tom asked as he settled in his chair. He switched on his console to select the same image that was on the view screen, overlaid with data.

"It varies," Harry responded. "Detecting several metals and minerals – titanium, deuterium, iron, zinc. The big one shows what could be a large dilithium deposit underground."

Riker whistled appreciatively, exchanged a look with Tom. Dilithium was still rare, and for the Enterprise to come back with a cargo hold full of the crystals would make their mission a success right there, regardless of what else they might find.

Apart from coming in handy to sustain warp for five years should the wormhole fail, but Riker kept that thought to himself.

"Any sign of habitation, life, past or present mining activity?" Harry's fingers flew over his console. He turned with a smile. "None, sir. Unless of course someone blew them up deliberately to get at what's inside."

"Well," Riker said, with a wolfish grin. "Let's have a look at that dilithium deposit then, shall we? Commander Paris, assemble an away team if you please."

Tom considered the matter. "I think I'll pilot Flyer One myself, so we can take an extra minerologist. Jansson of course, and whoever he thinks would be useful. Harry, given the odd operational environment." He nodded at his friend, then paused.

Engineering expertise was required; B'Elanna would ordinarily be his preferred choice given her expertise in dilithium conversion, but Tom himself had instituted a protocol for couples with children, which prevented both parents from being present – and at risk - on away missions at the same time. With the measles epidemic now rampant among the remainder of the non-human engineering staff, that rather limited his choices.

"Lieutenant Jones should be able to assess whether the dilithium is of sufficient quality to be of use in warp technology." Tom hit his comm badge and asked the team to assemble in Shuttle Bay Two in thirty minutes, with their kit.

"Tom, wait." Deanna Troi's voice sounded doubtful, hesitant. The Captain turned towards his wife, as did the First Officer.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure – just … a sense of unease. Fear. From outside the ship."

Tom looked at Riker, sharing in his puzzlement. "But there are no life signs. Harry – scan again please?"

"No life signs, sir. Expanding the sensor band to maximum range and adjusting search parameters to include non-carbon bands … no, nothing. Some energy fluctuations detectable inside the asteroid, but those are consistent with the dilithium deposit."

Tom chewed his lower lip thoughtfully, turned to Deanna who was seated, as was her habit, to the left of the Captain's chair. He had known her for just over a year but had learned very early on not to dismiss her perceptions, however unlikely they might seem to a non-empath.

"Could your senses be affected by the nebula? From what we've seen so far it's extremely high in omicron particles and radiation both above and below the theta band. I read in one of my medical textbooks that certain forms of radiation can interfere with empathic or telepathic receptors – maybe you're getting falsified readings?"

Deanna's frown deepened, as her mind reached out beyond the confines of the ship, searching, stretching the tendrils of her consciousness into the void outside. She shuddered a little, involuntarily. "Maybe. Possibly. I'm not sure. All I know is that there's a sense of dread there. I can't describe it any better than that."

"Well," Tom quipped, "if it's dread you feel, I sympathize. That planet out there gives me the creeps, especially given what happened to us the last time we landed on one like it. They're not called 'demon class' for nothing." He rose, inviting Harry to join him with an elegant sweep of his hand.

Then he remembered something. "Before we head out, Captain, I've been thinking of shoring up our strength in sickbay. B'Elanna believes she can get the EMH we had on Voyager to join us for a bit, if only to study the sudden outbreak of the Vulcan measles we seem to have in Engineering before it crawls out through the Jeffries tubes and infects the rest of the ship."

Tom's eyes gleamed a little, dropping his voice for just the Captain's ear. "And maybe we could convince the Doc to stay until … we get a permanent replacement for Dr. Crusher?"

Riker's responsive grin displayed his impressive canines to their best effect. He understood his Number One perfectly well. "By all means, let's try." More loudly, he said, "Tell the Chief to proceed. Can't let the measles get out of hand, can we?"

Tom turned away, heading off the bridge and towards the turbolift where Harry was already waiting. Punching his comm badge, he called out, "Paris to Torres. B'Elanna, feel free to initiate the EMH protocol we discussed, at your convenience."

Just as he left, Jorak spoke up. "Captain, Commander, while the tem is gone, we may want to have one of the smaller pieces tractored into Cargo Bay Three for on-site analysis. It might be useful to determine what caused the break-up." Riker nodded his assent, and Tom issued a quick order to Harry's relief at Ops before he left the bridge.

Deanna whispered after them, "Be careful. Please."