Chapter 7 - Arrêt
"You've got to tell her." The tone in B'Elanna's voice was urgent, bordering on exasperation, as she stood in front of her husband and Harry Kim, hands on her hips and dark eyes on fire.
"Tell her what, Commander?"
There was no need to demand clarification who 'she' was, nor any mistaking the annoyance in Tom's rather pointed reply. Being challenged by his wife in front of a witness – even if it was his best friend - wasn't his idea of fun, nor was having been summoned to her office in Main Engineering on what was evidently a pretext. He may not feel much like a Captain all that often yet, but there were times when pulling rank was more than a temptation, when it was a necessity.
B'Elanna just as obviously didn't care. She had a point to make to both men; as far as she was concerned, the fact that they happened to be Voyager's Command team was part of the problem, not a reason for circumspection.
"You've got to tell her that this is no longer her ship. It's your ship, Captain. And yours, too, Commander. From what I hear, both of you seem to have forgotten that."
"Hear what, exactly, and from whom?"
Tom's arms were crossed in front of his chest now, in the classic defensive pose he often assumed when an argument with his mate was inevitable – one he was pretty certain he would probably lose. If he had learned one thing in over three years of marriage to B'Elanna Torres and the stormy years before that, it was that trying to forestall the inevitable was a lost cause. Best to go in swinging.
She ignored the second half of Tom's question, but was only too happy to respond to the first. Especially since he hadn't actually denied her accusation.
"You let her stop Mike from firing on a ship that was about to do to us what they did to the Gettysburg; you let her issue course commands to Baytart; and then you let her stop you from calling a briefing, for those of us who'd really like to know what the hell is happening and help figure out what to do about it. All of which leads me to ask: just who is running this ship, you or Janeway?"
B'Elanna turned her fiery gaze on Harry, who was twitching uncomfortably where he stood. This discussion had considerable potential for turning from a disagreement among senior officers into a marital dispute, and Harry had watched enough spats between his two friends over the years not to be keen on witnessing another. He withered a little under the heat.
"And you ... Starfleet … you've got to remember you're no longer an ensign. Or an Ops officer, for that matter. We have one of those, and she's very good at her job. You're a First Officer, Harry. Tom's First Officer. For seven years we heard you whinge about not getting a promotion. Now you've got finally got not two pips but three, so for Kahless' sake, sit on that damn chair and act like you belong there."
Harry found a spot on one of his fingernails and started to examine it, far more closely that it probably deserved. If there was anything to say in response to B'Elanna's unexpected attack, he couldn't put it into words, and the silence began to stretch uncomfortably. He looked up when he heard the sigh that escaped Tom's lips, relieved that he wouldn't be expected to say something immediately.
"All considerations of rank aside, Commander. And I won't, for the moment, get into how it's somehow not okay for an Admiral to issue orders to a Captain, but perfectly okay for the Chief Engineer to do that to the First Officer. What I want to know is, how exactly did you hear about what went on on the bridge that makes you so sure you can just drag us down here and yell at us? You've been busy in engineering."
Tom asked softly. He didn't bother refuting what she had said; the at times excessively brutal honesty he had learned to apply to his own actions over the years no longer allowed for the luxury of self-denial. But he could, and would, try and create a tactical diversion.
"I have my sources," B'Elanna replied, clenching her jaw a little and lifting her chin.
"Sources …?" Enlightenment dawned on Tom. "Let me guess. Ayala?"
The former Maquis was the closest friend B'Elanna had on the bridge apart from himself and Harry, and it didn't take a mathematical genius to arrive at the conclusion that if anyone had been talking to her about anything that went on there, it would have been him. Bowing to the inevitable, she conceded the point.
"Mike happens to think that you're selling yourself short as a Captain, and that you should be more … robust about asserting your proper role on this ship. Tom, you were basically telling Janeway and Chakotay what they could do with their orders when you were a Lieutenant and an Ensign, for Kahless' sake. So what's got into you now, that you just let her take over control of your ship? She commands the mission, but she doesn't control Voyager. Nacheyev made that clear, didn't she?"
Her dark eyes bored into his blue ones - challenging, waiting, wanting. They had discussed this even before Voyager left McKinley, the dynamics that would unfold with an Admiral onboard. Clearly, Janeway couldn't be both the neutral envoy and the one giving the orders to the ships sent to safeguard the negotiations. And just as clearly, Tom had agreed only a few weeks ago, Starfleet rules on command and control in the field gave precedence to the Captain in operational matters.
Finally, Tom let out a sigh. He could of course have defended himself, argued that the decision to fire on the alien vessel was one affecting the peace mission and hence Janeway's to make. But he also knew B'Elanna would spot the cop-out in a nanosecond
.
"I guess you're right," he said, with a sideways glance at Harry. "No - I know you're right. It's just so … so damned easy to fall back into those old patterns. You know, since I got that fourth pip, I've never really stopped asking myself, what would Janeway do? And now … now, I don't even have to ask. I can just watch her do it."
"Yeah, and watch your crew do the same thing, from the First Officer on down." B'Elanna had started pacing now. "Your crew. What kind of message does that send to them, that their Captain allows his authority to be taken away, like that?"
She snapped her fingers.
"You guys … you're the Command team on this ship. And you, Tom Paris, are a damn good Captain, in case you hadn't noticed. With damn good instincts. I happen to agree with Mike on that. You showed that on the Snowflakes mission and now, too, running all those drills, getting the crew ready, and then managing to transport out as many of the Gettysburg's people as you did. Others would have wasted valuable seconds putting up shields when they went in. I mean, dammit, Tom – that was smart. And a hard decision, under any circumstance."
Three lives on Voyager, in exchange for sixty-five from the Gettysburg …
She held up her hand to forestall any comment about how it had been the transporter crew that had achieved the nearly impossible.
"Your preparations. Your decisions. Your orders. And Kathryn Janeway, Admiral or not, former Captain or not – she may have taught you most of what you know, but for all intents and purposes, when it comes to running this ship today, she's just a passenger. She can command you where to go to advance the negotiations, but she doesn't control the ship."
B'Elanna stopped briefly in her tirade, looking for the right words to drive her point home.
"Remember just before we came home, and that … that other Admiral Janeway came on board, ready to take over everything? Well, Captain Janeway wouldn't let her. And neither would you, then. When that Admiral gave you an order, you looked to the Captain for confirmation before you moved so much as a finger. Everyone did. Harry should be doing that now, as should Baytart and everybody else, and you, Captain Paris, should do what Janeway did then. Not what she tells you to do today."
More softly, she added, "Stand up to her, Tom. Put down your foot. For the ship's sake, for the mission's sake, for the crew's, and for your own. And you, too, Harry. Stop being the eternal sidekicks, both of you. Just … just grow up."
And with that, B'Elanna turned on her heels and left her office with her usual graceful stride, ostensibly to inspect the patch-up job her crew had done on a hairline fracture in the casing of the matter-antimatter conversion chamber.
Both men stared after her retreating small form for a while, equally glad – and not for the first time - that compression doors didn't have a mode for slamming. Finally, Tom let out a sharp breath.
"Well," he said, looking at Harry ruefully, "I guess we've been told. And now that we've established who's really the boss on this ship …"
He let the thought trail off; they sat together for several minutes longer, as the silence between them changed from stunned to thoughtful.
"You know, she kind of has a point, Har. I gotta admit, after the Gettysburg evac … having to decide in what order … " Tom's voice cracked for a moment. "That whole decision-making shtick rather lost its appeal just then. Awfully tempting to just let someone else take responsibility. Especially someone you're used to trusting with that kind of thing, and who's so damn good at it."
Harry nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I know how you feel. That first time I was supposed to be running things, on the Nightingale … I mean … Yeah."
Snorting a little contemptuously, Tom added, "Now I know how Miral felt when she took her first steps. She always ended up either clutching my legs, or B'Elanna's. You were on the Enterprise then, so you missed that phase. At first we thought it was great – here our kid is up and walking, at nine months. Genius, right? But then she never took more than three steps at a time, for several weeks. Three steps – and clutch. Every time. Until I finally got the idea that I should just be moving back when she came for the grab. And – bam – she took six steps, then ten, and the next day she was chasing me around my parents' backyard."
Like Harry before him, Tom inspected his fingernails for a moment, looking for an answer – or at the very least, a temporary spine-stiffening agent. It must have been there somewhere, as his voice was much firmer when he asked, "So - you up for a spot of repositioning, Commander?"
Still shell-shocked into silence by B'Elanna's outburst, Harry could only nod at first. Finally, he admitted, "You know, Libby's been hinting at pretty much the same thing. When I told her that I let Janeway have my chair on the bridge. Said I just got there, and shouldn't give it up so quickly. You think they talked to each other?"
"I'm not sure women need to talk. Some stuff they seem to just know … by osmosis, or something. It's gotta be a gender thing."
Tom went over to the small replicator B'Elanna kept in her office and called for a cup of Earl Grey. He felt like asking for something stronger, but there were still too many hours in the working day, and if he was back in the decision-making game, he'd better do it sober.
"So," Harry asked. "What are you gonna do? Talk to her? Confront her?"
"Nope. Don't see the point in that. I'll cross that bridge – literally – when we come to it. I'll just need you to back me up if and when we do get there. I assume I can count on my First Officer?"
"Yes, sir," came the clipped answer. And a smile, small, but determined, blossomed on Harry Kim's face as together they headed out of Engineering, contemplating the costs - and the occasional benefits - of emancipation.
…..
Putting down your foot tended to be a lot easier in theory than in practice, Tom knew from long, exasperating experience - especially when it came to admirals. As it turned out, though, a quick call was all it took to confirm that Admiral Janeway was quite prepared to have Tom participate in her discussions with the Denarians and Talari, so that he would be able to brief his own team afterwards.
His argument that the war had now touched Starfleet, despite its neutrality status, and that she could not represent that interest and stay neutral as mediator, was convincing even to him. But her ready acceptance of his gentle reminder that he would then call the briefing for his senior staff afterwards confirmed to him at least one thing: Janeway's temporary 'takeover' of the bridge had probably been just as unconscious and reflexive as his surrender of it had been. He and Harry exchanged a "that was easy" look when he switched off the comm link.
Tom was replaying the little scene in his mind as he headed towards the holodeck, where the discussions with the Parties had been called. Maybe – just maybe – B'Elanna and Mike had overreacted?
But deep down he knew that they hadn't. He and Harry had been all too ready to hand over the reins to Janeway; Kathryn had just as readily re-assumed the Captain's role and only Ayala, who had silently observed them all throughout the years, had apparently thought to question this development.
In other words, the signs of a potential problem had all been there, and he'd simply been too frazzled to notice it.
His earlier discussion with Janeway on conflict prevention came back to Tom, unbidden. She had been right; prevention was where you made sure something wouldn't happen, or nipped something in the bud before it got out of hand. But it was devilish hard to verify when it succeeded - much easier to assign blame for failure to pay attention. People smart enough to flush at the right time would never get the credit when there was no shit available to hit the fan. He'd have to make sure to have a chat with Ayala when he got the chance, and thank the man.
And stay on his toes himself.
He shook off this self-indulgent line of thinking as soon as the turbolift doors opened on Deck 5. With Holodeck One reserved as a children's recreation area for the time being, Holodeck Two had been designated as the negotiating facility. Chell had called up tables in a rectangular arrangement ("diplomatic configuration Delta"), which would enable the Denarian and Talari delegations to face one another, with enough space in between to make throttling impracticable if not impossible. Janeway would be presiding at the one of the short ends, with Tom across from her at the other.
Tom rolled his distaste for what was to come around his mouth, almost savouring its bitterness. The room was Spartan, with minimal decorations; somehow, giving a nod to beauty here seemed inappropriate. Then an idea struck him, and he went about its execution with grim efficiency.
"Computer, create holographic images of Starfleet vessels, as follows: The Farragut. The Enterprise C. The Melbourne. The Yamaguchi. The Hiroshima. The Gettysburg. Place the last one on the wall behind where I'll be sitting, at the South end. The rest random distribution."
He watched the images pop into existence, one by one. "Now place the Denarian state insignia on the starboard table, the Talari sigil on the port. Federation flag on the North end, and Starfleet flag opposite."
The symbolism would probably be lost to their 'guests', of course, who had no knowledge of Starfleet sacrifice past or present. But sometimes a point was worth making just for one's own sake. Every time one of the aliens would look in his direction, they'd have to look at the image of the Gettysburg over his head, in direct line of sight with the Starfleet flag. You want diplomatic theatre? You got it … Tom nodded slowly to himself, just short of satisfaction.
"Efficient layout. Interesting choice of decoration." The familiar, gravelly voice disrupted his thinking. He swung around.
"Yeah, well." There really wasn't much else he felt like saying about the matter, and he was fresh out of the energy necessary to make something up. "Seem okay for what you need?"
"Just fine, thanks, Tom. And … just thanks. I haven't had the chance to say that since you pulled us out. That was not an easy choice to make."
He shrugged. "We do what we can, I guess. Do what we have to. You know that better than most."
She tried to catch and hold his eyes, frowning a little when he made it hard, for reasons she couldn't quite understand.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course, Admiral."
She let out a slow breath at the deliberate formality; it was clear that the question she was about to ask did not come easily. "When you decided to evacuate the Gettysburg, why did you choose the negotiations as your first target? Via my comm badge? I checked the logs. You saved my life before all the others."
Finally, he looked at her, bright blue eyes locking into grey with something akin to a challenge.
"The mission," he said curtly. "Why else? We're here supposedly to make peace in this sector. For that, you need the peace makers."
"Ah. Good thinking, Captain."
"Glad you concur. One thing I learned from you, I guess. The mission comes first."
A wordless glance passed between them, an understanding. One officer to another. Words spoken now, and long ago.
You saved my life before all the others.
I would have shot you down.
Executive decision-making – it always cut both ways in Starfleet. Nothing personal, really. No favours. Never.
Never?
Kathryn swallowed then, her eyes blinking rapidly for a moment. More words. Well then, I guess I'm yours …
"Its good you got the children, at least."
"Not all of them. A couple of the older ones were working on an assignment in engineering."
There he was, the old Tom - deflecting praise, however oblique, yet again. But whatever Kathryn might have said in response (if there was a response to be made) was lost in the opening whoosh of the door. Two members of the security team appeared, positioning themselves on either side of the door to admit the Talari delegation.
The Supreme Talon, Naldar, strode in, conveying a sense of confidence the man couldn't possibly feel, Tom was convinced - given that only a very short while before he had been called a traitor and almost turned into ash by one of his own people. He wore a flowing gown, gathered and heightened around his shoulders, in a manner that forcibly reminded Tom of the Romulans' ridiculous attempts to look more imposing by inserting curtain rods into their uniforms.
Naldar's dark grey, almost charcoal eyes flitted from one side of the table to the other, no doubt prepared to find fault with the arrangements. He turned to his sidekick whispering urgently in his ear; the man nodded furiously and obsequiously in response.
But it was the next three delegates to enter the room that drew Tom's interest. They were of similar height and athletic built, clearly identifiable as military despite the lack of obvious – to him, at least - rank insignia. The two males slowed down slightly, in step, to permit the female to enter before them, readily establishing both the hierarchy between them and the discipline that bound them together.
Talith, Marshall of the Talari Expeditionary Forces, also known as the Scourge of Kyven, was not physically imposing, but it was clear by her posture that she would be ready to respond to any attack. She carried herself like a fencer, Tom thought unexpectedly: shoulders deliberately relaxed, stance perfectly balanced and her centre still and tight; she would be able to uncoil into a surprise attack with lightning speed.
Her eyes, light-grey and as translucent and as sharp as shards of moonstone, scanned the room - slowly, methodically, comprehensively. Unfamiliar with holodeck simulations, Talith was clearly assessing the location's tactical vulnerabilities and possible advantages, before she would consider entering more deeply into the space.
Tom recognized the process; it was one he had perfected during the years he had spent frequenting shady bars. Immediately, the mere idea that he might have something in common with this woman repulsed him with a ferocity he found surprising. And yet … something in the dispassionate manner in which she took her seat, once she had satisfied herself that there were no secret openings from which sudden assassins could spring forth, made him recall Janeway's comment how much Marshall Talith reminded her of Fleet Admiral Nacheyev. He shook off the thought in favour of his deep resentment of her presence on his ship.
Naldar and Talith took the central seats at the Talari side of the table, while their respective assistants spread note PADDs – or something close – in front of them. Both made a show of not looking up when the door opened again.
Schmidt entered the room with another member of the security squad; the look of distaste on the Ensign's face would have been almost comical had it not been for Tom's recognition of the man who followed the ensign in, boots heavy on the holodeck floor.
Supreme Marshall Qorath had obviously no compunction about entering ahead of the notional Head of the Denarian delegation; he practically shouldered President Karon aside on his way into the room. The man's eyes were cold and unblinking, and pure malice exuded from a face that appeared frozen in a perpetual sneer. When he had first encountered Qorath on Denaros, Tom had considered his to be the kind of visage he might program into future installments of Captain Proton, but had almost immediately rejected the idea. Some things were too clichéd for even the trashiest of adolescent fantasies...
Once the Denarians were seated – not without vociferous complaints about the lack of space between chairs and the level of lighting in the room – Janeway opened the meeting. Almost immediately, Qorath, accompanied by vigorous nodding from his aides, demanded to know why there was a uniformed Starfleet officer at the table. Captain Gallagher had entered only on invitation and only for select sessions, or to answer logistical questions, he thundered; Captain Paris was a stranger to the proceedings and had no business seated in the discussions. He glared at the image of the Gettysburg over Tom's head, and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest in the apparently universal gesture of finality and inflexibility.
Talith slightly lifted two fingers of her hand to request the floor, which Janeway gave her with a simple nod. Clearly, Tom figured, it paid to let both sides have their say on any given point before responding to either. Tit for tat. Tac-tac-tac, like the song of the blades in the fencing salle. Then make the call.
Tom waited for Talith's attack; it never came.
"Before you address the Supreme Marshall's complaint" – Talith's stress on her counterpart's title was just enough to infuse it with her evident contempt for the man – "allow me, on behalf of the military component of the Talari delegation, to express our sincere thanks for the … beam-out following the terrorist attack on the Gettysburg, and to express my equally sincere condolences on the loss of your colleagues."
She turned to Tom, addressing him directly now, in a voice that rang clear and firm. "It cannot have been an easy decision, Captain, to choose our delegations over your own Starfleet comrades, in the limited time you had to effect a rescue. We appreciate the professionalism and the dedication of your crew to their mission. I am also personally grateful for the arrangements you have made for myself and my men onboard your ship, at such short notice."
With these words Talith inclined her head towards Tom, allowing her eyes to rest on his for as long as he permitted it, and folded her hands on the table in front of her. Almost against his will he found himself returning her token bow, wondering as he did so whether it was to acknowledge her gracious manners, or out of admiration for the ease with which she had seized the high ground from her Denarian counterpart. Naldar remained grimly silent, but nodded his assent.
Karon, the Denarian president, was no fool; a consummate politician, he immediately and fastidiously echoed Talith's comments, all the while ignoring Qorath's insolent stare. It was clear to Tom that there was little love lost between the two lead Denarian representatives, although their respective subordinates seemed to have no such issues. The three of them, two military and one civilian, were whispering animatedly to one another, as if ignorant of – or deliberately disregarding - the importance of the discussions that were about to begin.
Rather than waste time allowing for more posturing - and remembering his wife's lecture on asserting himself - Tom took the floor with an apologetic side glance at Janeway, and a considerably frostier one at Qorath.
"Since Starfleet's presence appears to be questioned here, I'll respond to Qorath's challenge, for ruling by Admiral Janeway in her role as mediator."
He squared his shoulders at Janeway's imperceptible nod. Whatever his intentions, she appeared willing to give him some leeway, and he felt himself heartened by her trust. When it came to inter-planetary diplomacy, Tom couldn't really pretend to be a virgin anymore – certainly no more than Harry Kim could claim to have been a green ensign beyond his first four weeks or so in the Delta Quadrant – even if staring down the Andorian emperor hadn't been diplomacy so much as a stylized form of blackmail.
And just how's what you're about to do any different? Oh, hell. Whatever. Focus, Tom.
He cleared his throat.
"Starfleet may not have had a role in these negotiations before now, and frankly we didn't want one. We still have no interest in the settlement between your two peoples, beyond advancing the cause of peace. But there seems to be a new player in the game, with interests we haven't quite determined yet, and Starfleet has just been attacked by them. So now we do have an interest – both to make sure we can still fulfill our mission to protect these negotiations, and to make sure that no such attack happens again."
He paused, not for impact but because he was painfully aware that he should probably have cleared his next point with Janeway in advance, and had no idea how she would react.
"I also intend to ensure that the perpetrators of the murderous attack on the Gettysburg are brought to justice." He paused again, this time, he had to admit, to allow his next words to register.
"There is no justification for attacks on those not involved in a conflict, whether they're innocent civilians, or people sent to keep the peace as a neutral party."
The protection of civilians and non-combatants: Principles forged in the blood and the pain of five-hundred-year-old wars on his home planet; part of the founding values of the Federation.
Take that maxim and swallow it whole, and I don't care who feels threatened by it …
Janeway shot Tom an inscrutable look through narrowed eyes, one he avoided by studying a PADD in front of him. Qorath and the Supreme Talon, in an unprecedented show of consensus, both leaned back in their seats, as if what they had heard had nothing to do with them. Qorath continued to glare at Tom while Talith, for her part, seemed focused on the image of the Gettysburg behind him, but gave nothing else away.
That woman would make a great poker player, Tom thought briefly. Not that he ever planned to find out.
Karon broke the silence, a little sourly and after some very obvious, very careful calculation.
"Captain Paris was present on Denaros when we agreed to having these negotiations on a Starfleet vessel. He was not disruptive, as I recall. I have no objections to his presence. As to his ambitions … that is another matter. Doubtless there will be some discussion."
Kathryn turned to Naldar. Like President Karon before him, the Supreme Talon visibly weighed the benefits of keeping the number of witnesses to the negotiations to a minimum, against offending the man on whose ship they were currently housed. There followed fifteen or so minutes of painful, exhaustive exegesis of historical precedent and pompous speculation on the imaginary repercussions of breaking with same. Tom found himself just about ready to succumb to the urge to send a message to Kathryn via his PADD, on hot air and the need for environmental controls, when Naldar – surprisingly - conceded the point.
Janeway wasted no time seizing on the fragile tendrils of consensus, and ruled that Captain Paris could remain in the room as an observer. She did not, however, mention Tom's rather more substantive comment. His lips twitched and he took a deep breath, ready to remind her, but caught her warning glare and desisted. His statement was on the table, and there it would remain until someone expressly took it off.
"Before we continue the discussion, though, I would like to hear what you know of these so-called 'Children of Talasar'. They are not Denarian, so I am directing my questions first to the Talari delegation."
She directed the computer to dim the lights and to project a holopgraphic replay of the transmission into the centre of the table arrangement. When it had run its course she looked around for volunteers to comment. Her eyes stopped at Talith.
"You seem to be the only person in this room of whom he has a reasonably high opinion, Marshall. Do you know this man?"
The Talari soldier's eyes narrowed with concentration as she looked again at the frozen image. Tom detected no prevarication in her voice when she spoke.
"He looks somewhat familiar, but I do not recall his name. I believe he is, or was, a mid-level officer in the unit tasked with defending the outer colonies. As you can see, he is no longer wearing our uniform."
Janeway looked to Naldar, whose posturing as early as their first meeting had been consistent with that of a man who was playing to an audience, rather than speaking from his own convictions. "Not everyone on your world wants you to make peace. Do these 'Children' belong to any opposition group you know of?"
Naldar started to huff himself up, presumably to assert that there was no opposition to his rule in any of the Talari worlds, but was stilled by the hand laid on his arm by Talith, who whispered something in his ear. He gave her what even with Talari features was clearly a dirty look, and clenched his jaw for a moment before speaking.
His answer, when it came, was uncustomarily short and to the point. "We have some intelligence about such a group forming in the outer colonies, but this is the first time we have come face to face with them."
Tom looked straight at Talith now, his revulsion set aside momentarily since she, more than anyone, seemed actually prepared to share substantive and tactically useful information.
"That ship was capable of going Warp 8, and its interior looked pretty sophisticated. My officers are analyzing it now. One of yours?"
The two officers stared at one another, Fleet Marshall and Captain, pale silver eyes boring into blue. Janeway pretended not to take too keen an interest, but Tom knew better; he noticed that she was holding herself very still in anticipation of the answer. He suppressed a smug smile.
Much depended on the answer, he knew. If Talith says yes and it was a Talari ship, they would not need to be here now, negotiating for peace. The Talari could dictate their terms for an unconditional surrender to the Denarians today, based on the superior mobile assets, combined with the Scourge.
But if she said no, that would raise a host of new questions, not the least of which the potential existence of a third party.
"No. We also had no knowledge that they had mobile assets."
Tom let out a slow breath. A game changer, indeed. Someone was providing ships to the 'Children of Talasar'. Who?
"Liar," Qorath roared, oblivious to the magnitude - and the implications - of his counterpart's concession, and banged the table in front of him with his fist.
Both Janeway and Tom ignored him, exchanging quick glances instead. If Talith was in a confessing mood …
It was Kathryn's turn to hold the Talari Marshall's eyes.
"The weapons. How many are missing from your arsenal? Assuming you have kept track?"
Clearly there was no point in asking Talith how many of the weapons her own forces had manufactured, or how many they had left. With this careful phrasing, they might actually get a response. Tom suppressed another smile; in the course of the events of the last day, he had almost forgotten how well he and Kathryn could play together when called upon.
Again, Talith responded, this time directly to the Admiral, pointedly ignoring an increasingly fidgety Naldar. Tom couldn't help but wonder whether the head of the Talari fleet had decided that the Supreme Talon was sufficiently weakened politically, that she could – or must - play her own game around this table. If so, what was it?
"We had a report that two of the weapons had been damaged in the manufacture and were not … sufficiently effective. They were removed for destruction. The possibility exists that were diverted instead."
Not sufficiently effective. Tom refused to allow his mind to dwell on what exactly that meant, and focused on the tactical implications of what they had been told. If there had been only two, that left one. Most likely aimed at Voyager now, out there, beyond the curtain. And an unknown arms dealer, somewhere in the shadows.
But before anyone had a chance to comment on what they had heard, Harry Kim's voice broke into the room, clear and calm but with that special timbre that it acquired only in serious emergencies.
"Kim to Paris. Captain to the bridge, please. There are signs that the anomaly is becoming unstable."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Without getting too deep into some of the more arcane rules of foil fencing (where some moves have priority over others), the "arrêt" is best described as a "stop hit".
At its most basic, a stop hit is a sudden counter move that catches a would-be attacker flat-footed, or in mid-preparation. In the hands of an expert, it is a deliberate exercise of exquisite timing that can leave the attacker impaled, like a butterfly on a pin, and feeling like an idiot.
Then again, it can just be the result of an accident, or someone completely ignorant of the rules of the game sticking out his or her arm and getting lucky.