Chapter 3 – Trade Winds

Deep Space

Tom strode into Sickbay with the unthinking, unconscious grace bestowed by a body that remembered walking the same steps, taking the same turns, a thousand times. Sometimes he wondered whether that was how an android felt, or a standard hologram – implementing hard-wired, routine motions without need for sensory or emotional input, reactions and choices dictated by internal decision trees that depended solely on turns in the corridor.

The part of his mind that was freed up in this manner considered idly whether he could eliminate from those same internal subroutines the slight feeling of … wariness that he still felt whenever he was heading towards Sickbay. Was there a switch he could throw, to change his internal operating mode from that of Lieutenant/Ensign Paris, Mere Medic to that of Captain Thomas E. Paris? He sure hoped that one of these days he'd locate it.

He nodded politely at the Betazoid nurse, Mylana Tval, whose own Fleet-bred response caused her to stand a little straighter at her Captain's approach, and headed for the station where the EMH was bent over an electro-microscope aimed at a small dish. Given the substance the Doctor was working with, the section was cut off from the rest of the room by the sparkle of a containment field that Tom was careful not to approach too closely.

"How're you making out, Doc?" he asked by way of greeting. The EMH had taken to his tasking rather eagerly, despite the fact that it had come from Tom Paris. He had been gratifyingly indignant at the thought that medical supplies might be withheld from those who would use them for their personal profit; the challenge of finding new and innovative was to use nanoprobes had been a bonus.

The EMH looked up at the sound of his voice, fixed him with the brief, principled glare he reserved for anyone who interrupted him, regardless of rank, but pride in his accomplishment quickly outweighed his indignation.

"I am pleased to announce that we appear to have been successful, Mr. Par… Captain."

Tom suppressed a grin. Apparently he wasn't the only one with difficulties to let go of old subroutines. The Doc frowned a little, but it was impossible to tell whether it was due to his slip, or the fact that his former assistant's sudden and meteoric rise through Starfleet ranks had made the correction necessary.

"Here, let me show you."

The EMH asked the computer to transmit the image from the microscope onto the larger view screen on the wall, which filled with a heaving mass of individual cells. The cells resolved into even a higher magnification that Tom recognized as simple DNA strands.

"I was inspired by the technology used by those alien so-called scientists we met in the Delta Quadrant. You will doubtless remember them for their rather successful stimulation of certain human hormones … Captain."

The Doctor gave a brief, smug smile, which only intensified when his keen visual receptors detected evidence of Tom's facial capillaries widening. He took considerable pleasure watching the new Captain's treacherously fair skin start to glow in a slight flush, occasioned by a flood of memories that were as embarrassing as they were doubtlessly pleasant.

"You will recall that at the time we determined that Starfleet technology lacked the sophistication to duplicate the tags these aliens placed on the DNA sequences of Voyager's crew members. But thanks to my extensive studies of Borg nanoprobes since that time, I was able to mark the antigen in a similar manner. The tag can be detected with multi-phasic scans, at a frequency that we should be able to encrypt against outside discovery."

"That's great, Doc, Ensign." Tom's appreciative smile included Ensign Tval, who had doubtlessly done a great deal of the spadework in her own quiet, unobtrusive manner. Tom had found her the perfect foil for the EMH, effective and efficient and - thanks to her endlessly patient Betazoid heritage - quite possibly the only organic being besides Kes and Seven of Nine who had ever been able to spend extended periods of time in the Doc's presence without feeling the overwhelming urge to decompile his matrix, or at the very least turn him off. No matter how happy Tom was to have the EMH back on Voyager, that particular impulse still kicked in after, oh, about ten minutes in the hologram's presence.

Tval nodded her acknowledgement of the shared credit with a warm smile. "We should be ready to mark all the containers before we enter the Narov system, sir," she responded. "With your permission, I will request Commander Tervellyan to detail personnel to this task."

Tom found himself suddenly hesitant. Did he really want other crewmembers to know about this? What if it didn't work? Novice Captain's First Bright Idea A Complete Dud! He could hear the mess hall chatter now …

He swallowed and shook his head, frantically casting about for an excuse that did not involve exposing his own … Fine, call a spade a spade, Paris: Your fear of failure.

"Thank you, Tval, but I think I'd like to keep this one just between us medical types, for now. Nanoprobe technology is still pretty sensitive for most people. No need to squick anyone, so I'd be grateful if you could do the dispersal of tagged antigens yourself. I assume you'll only need to mark a few antigens per container to enable tracking, so the volume shouldn't be too daunting."

The EMH looked at him curiously, but shrugged and said nothing. His own experience at Starfleet Medical certainly had confirmed that many people, including highly-trained and forward-looking medical professionals, reacted with ill-disguised horror when he described some of the uses to which he had put nanoprobes in past treatments. In fact, it had been a source of considerable disappointment to him when the innovations on which he had hoped to build his own monument in the medical profession had received little applause, meeting instead with uncomfortable silence and stares. Clearly, the idea of introducing Borg technology into the medical vocabulary and toolkit of the Federation was doomed to face as many challenges as the introduction of genetically modified foods had in the twentieth century, until the latter's use had become a matter of worldwide food security.

Tom, in turn, had counted on the Doctor's silence. Glad his diversion tactic had worked and that the ship's medical staff would not second-guess his hesitation to advertise their little plan, he smiled in relief.

"So that's settled then. Carry on, and thanks."

He turned on his heel, suffused by a momentary sense of pure, juvenile pleasure at being able to simply walk out on the Doc without so much as a by-your-leave.

There were, in fact, moments when it was nice to be the Captain.

…..

"Well, so far so good," Tom said nonchalantly as he crawled into bed beside his not-quite-comatose mate. It was clear from his tone that he hoped for an answer, even if he had not exactly posed a question.

"Hmmm?" B'Elanna mumbled sleepily and rolled over, opening one of her eyes. "Finally decided to come to bed, Captain, sir?"

Tom punched his pillow into just the right shape, doubling it up to raise his head, so he could observe her better. He never did tire of looking at her face, awake or asleep; halfway in between, as she was now, was another favourite view.

"Engines are running as smoothly as a baby's bottom; Baytart managed not to crash us into Jupiter Station and went to warp almost on the dot; the Doc has only pissed off two crewmembers so far and the experiment I asked him to do before we headed out is going well; Ayala and Schmidt are getting on like a house on fire; Tervellyan already got an eyebrow rise out of Asil – it took me months to get one of those out of her father - and Chell actually served real coffee. Life … is good, I think."

This time it was clear to even a semi-conscious B'Elanna that she was expected to provide a substantive response, and that it would be useless to pretend she was falling asleep again when her husband was going a parsec a minute. She opened her eyes, and quirked her lips at the intensity of his stare, the expectant sparkle in his blue eyes – not unlike Miral, when she had successfully put her puzzle back together.

"You forgot to add that our offspring only escaped the nursery once, and was stopped before she got all the way to the bridge. I thought that was pretty good, too."

"Oh yes, how could I forget. She seems to like Emily well enough though, and is probably just testing what she can get away with." He paused a little. "Like me, I guess."

Ah. There it was. B'Elanna was fully awake now. "You're still having doubts about that Captain thing? Let me tell you, you are getting away with it, Tom Paris." She grinned at him evilly. "You have the engineering team fooled, anyway."

The right answer, or as close to it as anyone could reasonably come.

Tom flipped himself on top of his mate with practiced ease, bracing his weight on his elbows. "Hey. I'm allowed to be horribly insecure. It's my trademark. You, on the other hand, are supposed to be supportive and reassuring. You'll pay for that remark, Commander."

She reached up to cradle his neck, and ran her fingers through his hair. "Seems I'm supporting you now, Captain," she purred as she pulled his head down for a deep kiss, and an effective end to any further conversation.

…..

Twelve Days Later

Nemoth II, one of the more outlying of the eleven habitable planets that circled the suns of the Narov System, loomed blueish-green in the viewscreen. Its two main continents were hidden under the massive weather systems that were typical for the planet during this part of its eccentric orbit, when the complicated dance of the Snowflakes wreaked its gravitational havoc most noticeably. Sensors had indicated strong interferences along the entirety of the EM spectrum, and transport of the immunogen that would prevent a further spread of the disease had been delayed by several hours already.

Both Narov quarantine rules and Starfleet protocol prevented the landing of shuttlecraft within the system – except in emergencies - while the pandemic remained active. In fact, the orbit around the planet was crowded with vessels, mostly commercial, awaiting their turn for transport slots to send their wares to the surface, and waiting for the quarantine to lift so they could pick up what goods they had come to load into their empty holds. Interplanetary commerce in the region had slowed to a trickle, and Tom was glad that humanitarian deliveries took precedence. This was one queue he was not sorry to jump.

"Lieutenant Asil," Tom said to his Ops officer, "Can we establish a comm link to the Central Medical Authorities now?"

The Lieutenant's ebony fingers flew over the instruments that had once been Harry Kim's domain. She nodded briskly. "Hailing frequency open, sir."

The face of a senior Narovian official hove into view; even to someone unfamiliar with her species' features and body language it was clear that the woman was under considerable stress. Her wide-set black eyes seemed curiously dull and flat, her hands incapable of holding still.

"This is Captain Tom Paris, USS Voyager. I believe you are expecting us, Doctor …?"

"Antal Faradh," she responded, the slight lisp that produced her last name showing a dark green tongue briefly emerging between her teeth. "Your presence is most welcome, Captain. Our need is great, and we are grateful."

"Thank you, Doctor Faradh. Starfleet Medical sends its greetings. We believe we have brought enough antigen for the entire population of Nemoth II, but cannot of course be sure. If you send us the coordinates for beam-down, we should be able to start almost immediately."

Curiously, the chief doctor did not seem as enthusiastic about this prospect as the occasion should, in Tom's view, have warranted. His interest was definitely piqued. Faradh's tongue came out again, wetting her lips, and she was casting nervous glances to someone or something off the screen.

Tom exchanged a questioning glance with his First Officer, then tapped the comm line again. He who delivers humanitarian assistance could make a few demands …

"Doctor, in order to ensure maximum efficiency of distribution, we'd be grateful if you could transmit the coordinates of all reception points and onward dissemination channels. We will be in the system for a few days, and our scientists would like to use the intervening time to carry out a distribution efficiency analysis. Our findings will enable us to be more effective in serving future pandemics."

"Yes, yes of course," she said. "Just give us a bit of time; as you can appreciate we are presently seriously understaffed. But we'll send you the information you require as soon as possible, as soon as we have freed someone up to collect it."

Tom suppressed a grim smile. Nacheyev had been right; there were problems here, and they were not even that well hidden. Even on a less-advanced non-Federation planet, the idea that local medical authorities would not have this kind of data at their fingertips at all times, let alone in the middle of a pandemic, was inconceivable. Something, or someone, was making the good doctor nervous, and was causing her to stall. He exchanged another glance with his First Officer.

"Well, I won't keep you from your important work, Doctor. We'll be in touch as soon as transport is complete, and look forward to receiving the data at your earliest convenience, together with confirmation whether the delivery has had the desired impact on your people. Paris out."

He cut the line unceremoniously; he had learned from Janeway that the worst thing you could do with people you wanted to impress with your authority was to allow them to have the last word. And it sure doesn't hurt when the way you're talking sounds more like your father than yourself …

With the screen now reflecting Narovian space again, Tervellyan turned to Baytart.

"Pablo, I take it you've plotted the most efficient course to the remaining planets in the system?" The pilot nodded. He had spent quite some time in the astrometrics lab with Icheb on the navigational problems created by the Snowflakes' intricate dance.

"Yes, sir. The nearest one is Parok IV, sir, three hour's flight at Warp 6. then Arren, an additional four hours at Warp 6. But Icheb's readings from astrometrics suggest that the interior systems will be even more affected by the gravitational disturbances than Nemoth II. In fact, the Snowflakes' current alignment is about as problematic for gravimetric distortions and EM disturbances as it could be, and we may not be able to maintain a stable warp field. Any travel through the cluster beyond Parok and Arren, we're looking at impulse all the way for the next two days. And at impulse we wouldn't even get halfway there in that time."

Tom sighed heavily and resisted rolling his eyes. Of course - just my luck. Great timing for the famous Dance of the Snowflakes to become an impenetrable blizzard… His First Officer's voice disrupted this rather unproductive line of thought.

"An alternative, Captain, is that once we've made our deliveries to Arren and Parok, we could go the long way. Through the edge of Federation space, rather than the Narov system itself. The new space station at Kalpak is just outside the system. We'll be able to travel there at warp and get close to at least the next two systems from outside the cluster, so we'll actually gaining rather than losing any time. Plus the plasma storms will have time to subside in the interim."

Baytart shuddered a little at the mention of plasma storms; the last time Voyager had tried to weather one of those, she had ended up rather a long way from home. But Tervellyan was not yet done. "In addition, if we want to pick up information, there's no better place to catch rumours than a space station. And sometimes those rumours are even true."

Tervellyan paused and looked at Tom, who grinned his appreciation in response. They both remembered their rather frantic conversations of about a year ago, when Jarod had been Admiral Nacheyev's newly-minted assistant while Tom had found himself forced to enter certain dens of iniquity on Nardik space station, in search of the missing heir of Andoria.

"We can spend a few hours reconnoitering, and still stay within the time frame we'd otherwise have. It's win-win, whichever way you turn."

"Good idea, Jarod. Spend the time we'd otherwise be doing nothing, or crawling along on impulse, learning something. I like it." It wasn't much, but a good deal better than hanging out in space waiting for the weather to improve.

Tom started rapping out orders. "Lieutenant Asil, please ensure the delivery coordinates are transmitted to Transporter Room One as soon as we've received them from Nemoth. Jarod, can you supervise the actual transport, and let me know when that's completed? Make sure the coordinates we're given are where they say they are. Pablo, plot in the course to Parok IV and Arren, and then to Kalpak Station at Warp 6.5."

…..

Their next two stops, accomplished within little more than a day given the proximity of the Narovian worlds to one another, were almost a carbon copy of the first. Welcoming noises from the authorities; dutiful, almost robotically expressed avowals of gratitude; reluctance to part with essential information. All underlaid by an apparent eagerness to ensure that Voyager's stopover would be a quick one.

There had been no overt signs anywhere of hostile seizure of the antigen, but neither had there been any indications from Nemoth of the pandemic abating, despite the fact that it had been their first stop. The comm silence from that planet had been deafening. To Tom's added frustration, a return to any of the planets where they had already made deliveries - to determine distribution patterns through nanoprobe tracing - would be impossible for nearly another three or four days, given the direction and size of the plasma storms currently coursing through the Snowflakes.

Tom shook his head as he rose from his chair. Only eight weeks into your captaincy and already ready to smash your fist into a wall because things aren't moving fast enough? Get a grip, Paris. Might as well spend the downtime doing some research into the next stop – Kalpak Station. It was not yet subject to the Snowflakes' quarantine, and would hopefully provide some excitement as well as information.

The smile he felt forming on his face as he entered the ready room told Tom that he no longer felt like an intruder into someone else's – okay, Janeway's – personal sanctum. At some point over the last couple of weeks this space had become … his. It had not taken him long to appreciate it as the sanctuary that it was: A place to think, to plan, to prepare for what lay ahead. Not to mention to get away from judging eyes for a bit, and maybe, just maybe, to be Tom Paris for a moment … Perhaps he could even sneak a quick vid link to the nursery, to check, unseen, on Miral for a moment?

Tom sat down at his desk and called up the specs and background info for Kalpak Station. If they were going to look for intel there, he figured the more he knew about the place the better – its reputation in Starfleet, who owned it, where it sat with regard to the emerging politics of the sector, what kinds of people were likely to frequent it. Which bars to avoid. He wasn't planning on going onto the station himself, but you never knew; besides, he figured, his … rather rich experience in these matters could only help his team. If there was anything he liked about being a Captain, it was that he could now issue warnings and advice with a simple command, rather than first having to spend hours convincing people of the merits of his often rather gut-driven views.

What emerged from his research were bits and pieces that fitted into a picture he had first heard of while he was studying at the Kirk Centre. With the drain on Federation resources that had come with the hard-fought Dominion War, the building of new space stations had increasingly been taken over by private investors.

Despite initial objections from some quarters, that space infrastructure should not be left to entities for whom profit was rather more important than, say, public welfare, the Federation Council had started to issue permits for the construction of several stations inside its space. Any station outside Federation space; like Kalpak, that wanted to have the benefit of Federation-registered traffic had to comply with similarly strict licensing rules.

Licensing was done under complex legal arrangements that made Tom's head spin, and he thanked The Powers That Be that he was a pilot, not a lawyer. But the upshot was something that even he could understand: as a concession to the fear mongers, no one individual or entity was permitted to have more than a 49% share in any given station. The resulting ownership conglomerates tended to reflect regional interests, species and power structures.

Given his own personal experience with corporate ethics and motivation, Tom spent considerable time looking at the registered ownership of Kalpak, hoping for something to jump out at him. After several attempts and rather complicated negotiations of data bases that he only managed to crack thanks to his newly elevated security clearance and a few hacking tricks he had sought out after the Enterprise's research had failed to unmask the corrupt owners of C&B, Tom's eyes arrested on the Holy Grail of commercial secrecy: A list of the station's Board of Governors.

Judging by the names on the list, the Board reflected a roughly equal mixture of Narovian, Rigellian and Orion backers. And there it was - Tom was sure of it. Orions. The only things of note to ever have emerged from that still rather backward world was its exotic and sensuous dancers, and a penchant for organized crime. Orion was reportedly beginning to emerge from a century or so of self-imposed isolation, though, and the station was located on a direct vector from the Federation, through the Snowflakes, and towards Orion's sphere of influence.

Supposing Kalpak was seen by the Orion government as a stepping stone in its quest to join the Alpha Quadrant mainstream? Yeah, right. That and several ship loads of stolen antigen buys you all the influence and advancement you might want...

But even after a diligent search, none of the names of the Orion backers of Kalpak set off any alarm bells in the system; the Syndicate had always been good at covering its tracks. Then again, you couldn't simply profile someone as a criminal kingpin just because of the species he belonged to. Tom chewed his lower lip in mild frustration and ploughed on. What exactly had he expected? Signed Syndicate membership cards?

By comparison, Rigellian participation was logical, given the relative proximity of Kalpak to both that system and its closeness to Federation space. Rigel had been a member of the Federation almost since its inception, and its people were known for their business acumen. The file disclosed a fairly hotly contested bidding war for the construction rights between Rigellian and Ferengi interests; again this was not surprising, given that rapprochement between the Snowflakes and the Federation was hardly a secret and anyone with any entrepreneurial sense at all could smell the latinum rolling in.

Steeling himself for a stultifying and bone-dry education on the politics of inter-stellar and inter-planetary trade and sectoral economics, Tom took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and plonked his elbows on the desk. So much for the ready room being a sanctuary … He cursed and hoped for something to happen that would relieve him of the tedium.

Tervellyan's voice, when it came after an hour or so, was a welcome reprieve, but for the news it conveyed.

"Captain, to the bridge, please. Long-range sensors have detected a derelict vessel, adrift in space. Eighteen bio-signs. None alive."