IV.
The unmistakeable aroma emanating from the steaming mug that is placed beside her right hand pulls Kathryn's attention from the screen in front of her.
"Vulcan spice tea," she comments with a smile, lifting the tea and inhaling deeply. "Did I look in need of some counsel, Tuvok?" she teases gently, sipping at the beverage.
"You did appear to be preoccupied by your studies of the Olian Rifts and not pleasantly so," Tuvok admits and, at her gesture, takes the seat next to her at the science console of the Delta Flyer's lower deck.
She sighs, rubbing at her temples with the fingers of her free hand. "I've been over the data that Rennon and the First Minister gave to us a dozen times looking for some other explanation, but the similarities are unmistakeable."
"You are hypothesizing that the frequent warp traffic through the passage is causing instabilities similar to those created in the Alpha Quadrant's Hekaras Corridor?"
Kathryn nods, indicating the screen in front of her. "It seems likely that the rifts were originally a natural phenomenon but, yes, their sudden, unexpected appearance is almost certainly the result of the steadily increasing frequency of interstellar travel through the Passage. The subspace distortions from the engines of the Yosians and their allies are slowly tearing subspace apart in the region. In all likelihood, if the traffic remains at its current rates, the occurrence of the rifts will become more and more frequent until they are permanent."
Tuvok raises an eyebrow. "The Yosians will, no doubt, be less than pleased with those conclusions."
Taking another sip of her tea, Kathryn gives a wry smile. "We finally encounter a truly friendly race of people, with aspirations so similar to our own, and, in return for their hospitality, we offer them news that they must virtually abandon one of their key shipping routes." She sighs wearily. "For once, I would just like a first contact that was...uneventful."
Tuvok is about to respond when Culhane's voice interrupts via comm from the Flyer's bridge. :Captain? Lieutenant Paris is hailing from Voyager:
"Thank you, Ensign. Patch him through down here," Kathryn responds, setting down her tea and sitting forward.
This time, Seven and B'Elanna appear with Tom on the small screen – Tom and B'Elanna both clearly showing the toll of the last few hours; Seven looking as composed as always. Kathryn greets them briefly and asks for a status report.
"We've done everything possible to extend our power reserves, Captain," B'Elanna responds. "At this point, we have about two hours of minimal life-support with comms on standby."
"We've shut down sensors since we have no way to deal with any potential threat that they might detect anyway," Tom adds, his discomfort with the decision clear.
Kathryn nods, checking the Flyer's progress. "We should still arrive at your position with time to spare. Our current ETA puts us there within ninety minutes."
"At this point, our most efficient course of action," here Tom glances back at Seven, "would seem to be to do nothing."
"Any further exertions by the crew will simply use up breathable atmosphere more quickly without positively affecting the reserve power remaining," Seven clarifies coolly.
Even across the comm line, B'Elanna's visceral reaction to the idea of doing nothing while her ship slowly dies around her is obvious; nonetheless she nods grimly in agreement with Seven's assessment. For the most part, Tom's expression rivals Seven's for impassivity, but the tightness of his jaw suggests that he's no more comfortable with the idea of simple waiting around than is B'Elanna. Kathryn has abundant sympathy for both of her officers.
"You've done what you can," Kathryn assures them. "We'll take it from here. We'll comm you when we arrive." And then, with one final nod to each of them, she signs off.
Full impulse has never felt so slow.
.
Having resumed his medic duties a half-hour earlier when the holoprojector reserves ran out, Tom returns from one final check on each crew member, medical tricorder still in hand. He lowers himself down beside B'Elanna, careful to sit on her right side away from her still healing left wrist and rib, and she throws that half of the blanket over him, inviting the long arm that wraps around her. They might be sitting on the floor of engineering, but it's damn cold and besides, with the power cells of the floodlights and about half of the wrist-lights depleted and emergency lights set at minimum, no one can see them anyway.
"Everyone okay?" she asks, following with her eyes the path from huddled group to huddled group that Tom just walked. It's impossible to pick out individuals amongst the dark masses.
"For now, yes. Nicoletti and Swinn both have symptoms of mild hypothermia, but Seven and Mendez are keeping an eye on them in case we need to break out the environmental suits."
She nods, knowing that the check he has just finished has been as much about offering a calming presence and emotional reassurance as checking physical well-being, but, if there was anything else she needed to know about, Tom would tell her. "You know you're good at this, right?"
"Being a part-time medic?"
"No. Yes," she amends and then clarifies: "Taking care of a crew. Command. You're good at it."
In the darkness, she feels rather than sees him flinch. "Look, about before..." he begins.
"You were right," she quickly cuts him off. "If I hadn't been in such a foul mood already, I would have seen that from the beginning."
He shifts awkwardly against her and she knows that he isn't going to take the easy out she's just offered. "But it wasn't about me being right."
She's quiet for a moment and then concedes, "No, it wasn't."
He tightens his hold around her and she turns to face him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. "Do you think we can do this?" he asks.
"Do what?" She's pretty sure that she knows but needs to hear him articulate it.
"Be married. And be senior officers on the same ship." He fingers his collar. "With this pip back...issues...may – will probably – come up more frequently."
The last part remains unvoiced: Can you serve under my command when needed?
She doesn't answer immediately, contemplating the question from its many angles. It's a question – maybe the question – that they've been able to skirt until now.
Or have they? How many times has she trusted Tom's judgment and his instincts in critical situations – even before she fully trusted him as a person? How often has one of them conceded the lead of a mission to the other, based on the particular expertise of each?
This isn't quite the same as she very well knows, but her answer, when it finally comes, is surprisingly simple. "I think we can, yes."
Tom relaxes against her then, accepting her assurance at least for now. But she gives him a curious look. "What would we have done if the answer was 'no' anyway?"
He gives her a smile and shrugs, his answer as simple as her own: "I seem to have a talent for losing pips. It probably wouldn't have been that hard to get rid of another one or two again."
"You're serious?" She stares at him, taken aback.
He shrugs again, fingering his collar. "I probably would be less colorful about it this time around. People have been known to simply resign commissions, you know. But, if nothing else, the life story of Tom Paris shows that these things can definitely be less than permanent." Then, he pulls his left hand up from around her and out from under the blanket so that they both can contemplate the gold ring there. "This, on the other hand, I've been told is here to stay."
Not that she ever really doubted that Tom had taken their vows seriously, but something in his simple statement leaves B'Elanna speechless. Wishing that they were somewhere, anywhere other than sitting on the floor of engineering in order to give a better, fuller response, she finally settles for lightly teasing, "Well, I'm rather glad that you'll be keeping both."
"You know, so am I," and there is no little surprise in Tom's voice. B'Elanna shifts her head slightly to look up at him and sees his eyes still on his ring. "I've always been terrified of it, you know."
"Command? Or marriage?" she asks.
"The combination." His thoughts have clearly wandered a quadrant away. "Dad didn't do so well with it – the combination."
"Were they unhappy? Your parents?"
He considers the question. "Not unhappy exactly. It was just always clear that duty came first. That could have been Dad's personal motto: 'Duty comes first.'" He frowns, still contemplating the gold band around his finger. "I'm not sure how Mom put up with it."
"Maybe she knew that about him and accepted it before they married," B'Elanna suggests quietly. Tom seldom speaks about his family – even more rarely about his mother.
"Maybe," Tom concedes, pulling his gaze and his attention back to her. "Anyway, even as a kid, I knew that wasn't that sort of husband that I wanted to be – or the kind of marriage I wanted to have."
"You're not and it's not," B'Elanna assures him, surprising herself with the fierceness of her response.
"I know," he agrees. And then, he's quiet for a moment before continuing, "It's beginning to make me reconsider if I might even pull off being a decent father." His pause is now deliberate before he adds carefully, "What about you? Have you thought about it?"
Reflexively, she snorts. "Having a child? You know I didn't exactly have the best role models for parenting on either side."
Tom gives an equally reflexive smile at that, shifting his gaze down and away from her, and she knows that he'll leave it there if she wants him to. They've been at this careful dance of exorcizing each other's demons for long enough that each knows when to take a step back. However, she finds that, unexpectedly, that's not what she wants right now. Before she has a chance to change her mind, she rushes on, "Still, I have been thinking about what your child...our child... might be like."
Turning back to her, the corner of his mouth curls up and his eyes spark despite the low lighting. "She – or he – would have a hell of a temper," he teases.
Unable to stop herself, she grins in response and cocks her head to the side. "And a definite talent for getting into trouble."
Tom's brows raise. "Sounds like someone I'd like to meet."
And because she realizes it is one more simple truth even if saying the words feels like the equivalent to leaping from a cliff into unknown waters, she answers, "Me too."
Somewhere, a comm panel beeps for attention, but neither of them react. It takes Seven's strident, "Lieutenant Paris?" before they register the meaning behind the sound and even then B'Elanna knows that Tom is sorely tempted to tell Seven to acknowledge the cavalry's arrival.
"Go," she urges, pushing him gently up. "You're in command. It should be you."
He nods and stands, squeezing her good hand before moving to open the channel.