Chapter 8 – Turn, Turn, Turn
The bridge of the Enterprise was quiet, but even the most indifferent observer would have been able to tell the tension that could be cut with a laser beam. Voices were heard infrequently, and never raised. It was as if a pall had been cast over what was normally a bustling centre of frenetic activity, with the crew awaiting events that they were hoping would not come.
Once Lieutenant Marc O'Reilly had maneuvered the ship into position, holding her in a geostationary orbit over Mokan - precisely positioned amid an array of small cloaking satellites - was mostly a job for the computer. Nonetheless, here he was, in position at the helm, ready to take her out of orbit at the drop of an emergency command.
But the state of constant readiness for disaster, some twenty-four hours into the XO's crazy mission, combined with absolutely nothing happening onboard and no way to obtain information from the surface, was beginning to fray the pilot's nerves. A coffee break in Ten Forward had confirmed to him that this edginess was shared by staff in the transporter room, where Paris would arrive if and when he pushed that magic button. Security staff were standing by with phasers in case he brought unintended company, given the range of the gizmo Kim and Torres had built.
O'Reilly strummed his console with his fingers. He was still trying to figure out what might possibly motivate a guy to say 'yes' to a mission so obviously insane and dangerous, not to mention objectively unnecessary by all accounts. The ship's grapevine – greatly helped by first-hand testimony of the unobtrusive but very observant Nurse Ogawa and some equally sharp-eared staff in Engineering – had been very clear on that last point. The whole operation smacked of a personal frolic of the Captain's, based on the gods knew what hunch he was acting on this time. Maybe there was something to the stories about the guy's time on the Enterprise D and the XO's time on Voyager having turned them both into adrenaline junkies?
On the lower decks, opinion was sharply divided between those who considered Paris a selfless hero and those who thought he was a complete nutcase, with only a slight numeric advantage given to the former (likely because the Commander was still basking in the afterglow of his performance during the Andorian incident). Personally, O'Reilly figured the two possibilities were not mutually exclusive. Maybe you had to be one, to be the other?
He turned around to check on the other officers. Harry Kim was busy at the Ops console, still trying to find ways of busting his sensors through the cloak so they could locate Paris if he didn't come back on his own accord. Should have done that before sending the guy down there, O'Reilly thought a little uncharitably. Still, the Lieutenant's dedication and tenacity were admirable.
Jorak, Acting XO in Paris' absence and currently in charge of the bridge, was in a serious – and mostly one-sided - discussion with Ayala, commanding him in clipped tones to keep the transporter security crew sharp. He'd walked in on them earlier to find one having gone to the head without calling for a replacement; clearly that would not do, given the XO's one-way shot back to the ship would directed into that transporter room, and no one knew under what conditions he might return.
The Captain, for his part, was cloistered in the ready room with the ship's Counselor. Deanna Troi had been Very, Very Unhappy with the boss when she had found Paris gone without her having been given an opportunity to see him before he left. Between her and the Chief Engineer, the atmosphere during morning briefing had been like an arctic wind blowing towards the Captain's seat. It would be especially hard for Riker to keep the Counselor's wrath at bay when it followed him right into his quarters, O'Reilly thought. The time that had passed did not seem to have appeased her one iota, judging by the frown she had still been wearing when she entered the ready room …
A sudden beep drew Marc's attention back to the conn. Shit. He punched in a few commands to verify his instruments' findings. "Commander," he called out to Jorak, "Vessel approaching, I think. High orbit, above the cloaking net, but close enough for the fish finder to register something."
"Captain to the Bridge, urgent," Jorak said in his usual clipped tone. "Mr. Kim …"
"I'm on it," Harry said, his fingers flying over his console. "But the cloaks make it hard to see what's above. Something bigger, like a war bird, maybe would register – but this seems to be fairly small. If we want to get more information we'd have to leave our present position and go above the cloak, but then we risk being seen."
Riker had entered the bridge during his last statement. "Hold orbit. I'm not tipping our hand and let it be known that we haven't left while Commander Paris is still down there. Hold her steady in our present position, Mr. O'Reilly, but do try and track that vessel for as long as you can. With any luck you'll be able to extrapolate its course, whoever they are, and we'll have an idea where they'll be when we need to know."
"Acknowledged, sir. Wonder if it's the Ares." O'Reilly sighed deeply. "I wish we could track signatures properly. This looks like one for a Flyer model shuttlecraft but because of the cloaking distortions I can't tell for sure. But the vessel does appear to be leaving orbit and heading for the surface. Course extrapolation suggests … yes, destination is definitely the prison camp, sir."
The bridge lapsed back into silence, the tension even greater than before. They hadn't been able to track the registration of a Flyer-model shuttle named Ares to any known Federation database; yet, the spectre of its existence now hung in the air like a cold breath.
Will Riker and Harry Kim exchanged uneasy glances. The incoming ship - whether it was the mysterious Ares or another Federation ship - represented a clear threat to Tom Paris, who had supposedly been dropped off (for a price) by a Starfleet Captain concerned about political pressure and career implications. Whoever was onboard that ship might well be in a position to confirm that the present Captain of the USS Enterprise was among the least likely individuals in the Federation to do any such thing.
And they had no way of warning Tom. Moreover, the one thing Harry and B'Elanna, despite their technical prowess, had not been able to accomplish was to rig the one-way transporter to respond to an external trigger.
Deanna Troi, who had followed her husband out of the ready room, raised her head slightly, listening to the low-voiced exchanges. Her empathic senses could taste her fellow officers' concerns, like a cloud of acrid smoke hanging over the bridge. She drew a deep breath and headed towards the turbolift and Engineering. No one stopped her.
O'Reilly rolled his shoulders and his neck to try and relax them as he'd seen the Commander do many times during their training sims, ready to fly the ship like a bat out of hell if and when instructed to do so.
But by all the gods, he hated having to fly blind.
…..
Tom returned to the hut from his shower to find his four human companions back in essentially the same positions they had occupied the day before, and likely every day before that for several years. Toller and Schmidt lay prone on their respective bunks, Karsgaard was busy fidgeting with the auto-heater and his teapot, while Nyere was pacing up and down the centre of the hut.
Karsgaard wordlessly handed him a cup of 'mint' tea, which Tom accepted with a grateful nod and a small smile before stowing his shower box at the foot of his bunk and sitting down. Nyere stopped his pacing, and looked at him with a challenge in his dark eyes.
"You really the son of an admiral, like Toller says?"
"Last time I looked. Retired admiral, now. Mostly."
"Then, won't he miss you and start asking questions in Starfleet when you don't come back with the Enterprise?"
Bloody hell. No easy answer to that one, not within earshot of the listening devices. It certainly would not do to mention the lengths to which Owen Paris had gone to get Starfleet to establish contact with Voyager when he had learned that his only son was not dead but stranded in the Delta Quadrant, nor the fuss he had kicked up with Nacheyev's office only a week ago, at mere suspicious movements in Tom's bank accounts.
"Who knows? The old man stopped looking over my shoulder over ten years ago." Technically true, but the denial of what he and his father had found again came at a price to his conscience that Tom knew he'd have to pay later. He hoped that his father would understand. "In other words, don't count on it."
"Shit." Nyere lapsed into a brooding silence.
"Shouldn't come as a surprise," Toller opined. "Who'd want to come rescue a killer and a liar, who did everything he could to discredit the uniform he was wearing?"
Toller had revived considerably overnight and following the shower; at the sound of his spiteful, reedy voice, Tom found himself wishing rather uncharitably that he'd just go back outside and get on with killing himself, maybe with better success this time around. But it wasn't hot enough for suicide attempts yet, not even half-assed ones, and so Toller stayed inside, trying instead to externalize his demons by spreading his venom to a largely disinterested audience. Nyere ignored him completely, while Karsgaard merely tut-tutted over his teapot, which had apparently developed an unexpected stain that held his interest to the exclusion of almost anything else.
Their post-shower morning meal had been delivered the same way as dinner had been, in boxes, accompanied by listless guards with disruptors at the more-or-less ready. Only Tom looked up at their entrance, cataloguing their movements and calculating the state of their attention to what they were doing. Monotony has a way of taking the edge of vigilance, he had learned quite some time ago, and response times could be counted on as including a crucial moment of hesitation born of momentary disorientation. He filed that thought for future reference.
The food was similar to what the prisoners had been given for dinner: hard rations, reconstituted juice - a bright orange liquid in which floated the undissolved, dehydrated crystals of something that might at some point have had remote contact with a citrus-like fruit - some fruit and another one of the carrot-like things, plus a container of what could be yoghurt or another dairy product. Tom was suddenly struck by the surreal thought that the Romulans were hiding a herd of six-legged cows along with a detention facility here in the Neutral Zone, and he grinned despite himself.
"Whadd're ya smirkin' at, Admiral's brat? Find something funny here?" Toller immediately demanded to know. The man seemed to be focused on him for some reason – perhaps to convince himself that there was someone lower than himself. It was a familiar tune, one Tom Paris had heard many times in Auckland and elsewhere, but to his surprise he found that he was no longer interested in listening. Perhaps that meant he had made some kind of progress somewhere along the line? It certainly didn't mean that he wasn't getting annoyed.
He shot Toller a dirty look, but otherwise refused to engage. The story of what happened to Massoud reverberated in his mind, and he had no wish to experience the more unpleasant aspects of Romulan detention policy during his - hopefully - temporary stay. Certainly not for some rat like Toller. It occurred to Tom that this particular calculus probably explained how the Hiroshima's officers had managed to live with the guy for nearly ten years without killing him; that said, he gave himself another twenty-four hours, tops, all sympathy for Toller's circumstances aside and potential consequences be damned. He sighed heavily and examined his 'breakfast'.
As a die-hard aficionado of peanut-butter-and-jelly toast, Tom Paris generally found anything else unworthy of his nutritional attention in the morning. He had gotten out of the habit of trying alternatives on Voyager, where Neelix' multi-coloured attempts at reproducing crew 'favourites' had taught him early on that it was wiser to stick to just tea or coffee (or whatever the little Talaxian had served as a substitute). Any deviation usually resulted in a rather uncomfortable day at the helm, or found him bouncing around spatial anomalies trying to keep quasi-French toast from splattering all over the console. Besides, the events of last night and this morning had affected his appetite, and so he stuck to the liquids, the fruit and the yoghurt-like substance, which was surprisingly palatable. The carrot-thing he put in his pocket for later; nobody took up his offer of the extra ration bar.
The empty time after breakfast brought, if nothing else, the opportunity to take another turn around the yard with Nyere, the only one among the four survivors of the Hiroshima with whom it seemed possible to carry on an intelligent conversation. Moreover, Tom's discovery of the Terran script in the shower gnawed on him, and the Cardassian's report on Gorman's possible success – however cryptic – suggested that he might need to disclose the true nature of his mission to the Lieutenant sooner rather than later. When, was a question he was not yet ready to answer.
"Walk with me before it gets too hot?" he asked in a voice that he hoped held at least some promise of an interesting discussion. Nyere shrugged and nodded. Tom could follow the calculation on his face almost to the last decimal: even if the newcomer was the 'scum' that Toller had claimed he was, the mere prospect of fresh conversation, news from home and a temporary absence from the Lieutenant's companions of ten years must have looked like a pretty attractive option.
As it turned out, Nyere actually seemed to regard Toller's venomous attacks on Tom more as a badge of honour than cause for condemnation; the man rose even higher in his estimation as a result.
"Sorry about Toller," Nyere said as soon as they got outside, his tone sincerely apologetic. "He's getting worse. One of these days …" He let the thought dangle, but drew his finger across his neck in a universal gesture.
Tom snorted in double appreciation. "Thanks. He's not entirely wrong, you know; I fucked up big time when I was young. But that's a long time ago, and a few things have happened since."
"I dare say," Nyere replied, looking at Tom's sweat-damp neck meaningfully. Tom rolled his eyes mentally, before remembering the guard tower. Now was not the time to explain the origins of the mark, and he was not particularly interested in regurgitating, or further elaborating on, the story Riker had fed to the Romulan Commander. So he just shrugged.
Turn. Their back was to the tower. "Hey listen, I heard mention of Ulak Six when I arrived. Any idea what that is, and who's in it? Based on what you told me, I've only gotten up to five – this one, two for the Cardassians, one for the Romulans and the lesser Remans, and … the Reman interrogation facility."
Nyere stared at him thoughtfully. "We don't know. We've heard it mentioned once or twice by the guards, but it doesn't seem to be here. Why are you so interested? Ulak One not good enough for you?"
Tom snorted. "I'm just a curious guy."
Turn. "So, where are you from on Terra?"
"California, San Francisco. Father the Admiral, remember. You?"
"South Africa. Parents have a winery near Capetown. Idiot that I am, I had to go into Starfleet. See the galaxy, have adventures." He shook his head. "I could be on a porch overlooking our the vineyards right now, glass of our award-winning merlot in hand. You're not the only one who fucked up."
Tom paused, momentarily distracted. "That Nyere? Man, that's good stuff your family is making. The 2372 Reserve in particular. As good as the Chateau Picard pinot from that year. Better, if you like your wines nice and fat. Which I do."
Nyere sighed. "You know your wines, I gather. 2372, eh. Good to hear my folks are still at it, even with me gone." His eyes focused on a point far beyond the guard tower as they walked, his family's presence suddenly, painfully, almost within his grasp, through a glass remembered.
Turn. "I assume you've noticed the little mark on the ceiling tiles? The thing Schmidt keeps staring at when he's not observing the wildlife?"
Nyere, pulled from his reverie, nodded his surprise. "Yeah. Some kind of Romulan trademark. It's all over the place here."
"I noticed it on the shower head this morning. Where else have you seen it?"
"The perimeter fence and the generators in the guard towers." Tom drew a sharp breath at that. B'Elanna's readings had been right.
"The auto-heater Karsgaard loves so much. Some of the med equipment in the infirmary. Why do you care?" Tom shrugged, shook his head as the tower came back into view.
Turn. A topic the Romulans would expect him to discuss, even in view of the guard tower. "One of the Cardassians chatted me up this morning. Big guy. Said he knew Gorman."
"That'll be Pokat. He always talks to us when he's in the yard. Decent guy for a snake and a good source of gossip, once you get past the posturing. And yeah, he would know Gorman; guy was over on that side often enough, punishment for his smart mouth." They walked in silence to the end of the yard, Nyere's jaw clenching in memory of the fallen engineer.
Turn. Before Tom could speak again, Nyere volunteered additional information. "As I said yesterday, for the last several months, Gorman went over to Three to work with some of the Cardassians on a transmitter. Did it based on some bits that blew off the perimeter fence, some stuff the Cardassians managed to scrounge in the med lab plus my Romulan shaver. The thing operates with some resonating frequencies that apparently are quite useful. The guards never figured out that I don't really need one, and so never noticed it missing. The Romulans also never expected collaboration, and the Cardassians always made it look like Gorman was getting the punishment they thought he was. Took him several times to get through to them, get them to listen. Pokat was one of the ones who helped him early on."
"Makes sense, given some of the other stuff the guy said."
Turn. They walked in silence, Nyere lost in thought; Tom shaking his head at the sacrifices Gorman had made, ending with his life. What Gorman must have gone through, before he managed to find allies among the men to whom he had been sent as a sentient toy … Tom's throat constricted, and he found himself touching the mark on his neck even as he swallowed hard. What kind of man would willingly risk his life, his physical and mental integrity like that for the sake of others?
Turn. Focus. "That trademark. It's not Romulan. It's Terran."
"Well, sure, it looks a bit Terran but it can't be. It can't be. I mean, how the hell would you know? You read Romulan?"
"Yes I do, as a matter of fact. Enough to know that this isn't Romulan script. You said the Cardassians mentioned something about Federation involvement, but you didn't believe them. What exactly did they say?"
"Pokat or one of his buddies hollered at us at some point that a new lot of inmates had just been delivered to Mokan by a Federation vessel. I mean, that's just bullshit. Right?"
Turn. Kahless. Tom walked the length of the yard in silence. More pieces were sliding into place. Talar, expecting a Federation vessel that looked like the Flyer, mentioning his expectations of a 'drop-off' to Riker. Happy to take a prisoner from him, very few questions asked, confessing disconcertingly little surprise that Starfleet might be aware of their operation. The Cardassians' claim. Federation energy signatures. Now this mark, practically confirming Federation sourcing of some of the very building blocks of this prison.
The Enterprise's mission, at the request of Admiral Nacheyev, had been to verify or dispel rumours of Federation vessels breaching the Neutral Zone.
Pieces of a puzzle, but still no picture. Starfleet could not be possibly be involved, he figured, or the Enterprise would not have been sent here by the Admiralty to investigate. And surely the Fleet would not leave some of their own to rot in a prison like this, for over a decade, without trying to get them out? Or would they … ?
One thing was certain though: if there was Federation complicity in this place in the middle of nowhere, and if the ship called Ares was close to due, Commander Tom Paris would not be able to stick around in this camp much longer without someone figuring out that he was not a part of this cozy relationship.
The sound of a shuttle screaming in over the hills, just outside of their view of the high fence and guard towers, tipped the balance. Tom weighed his options, made his call. He'd probably had gotten all the useful intel out of the camp that he could already, and if the extraction succeeded, Nyere would have all the time in the world to provide whatever else he might have.
Turn. "Mbako." He used the Lieutenant's first name deliberately, to get his attention. "Let's slow down, and whatever you hear me say next, keep walking. Same pace. Keep your hands relaxed. No facial twitches when we turn. Think you can do that?"
Nyere looked up at Tom questioningly, and with a slight air of superiority sneaking into his voice. "Certainly. I'm a Starfleet officer. I can handle whatever you can throw at me, Crewman."
Tom smiled grimly at the attempted put-down, and took a deep breath. "I'm not a crewman, but I'll let that pass. Now hear me. Gorman's message got through. I'm here hoping to get you out. Keep the fuck walking, Lieutenant!"
Nyere had halted involuntarily, but at the sudden sharp command his feet automatically resumed their course, even as his head was clearly spinning in several directions at once. At least he managed to await their next turn before stating his conclusion.
"Bullshit," he stated flatly. "Toller was right. You're a fucking liar. No one, no one gets that prison mark on their neck for no reason. Certainly no Starfleet officer. So why the hell should I believe you?"
Tom sighed heavily. There we go again. "Because I'm telling the truth. The mark is from shortly after you guys were captured. A long time ago. What it's for is not relevant; someday I may tell you, hopefully over a glass of your family's merlot." He looked down at the shorter man, injected his voice with the command authority that he had once thought belonged exclusively to his father, but that he found ever more frequently – and increasingly easily - coming out of his own mouth.
"But now listen up, Lieutenant, this is important. I may – and that's an important may because we didn't have time to actually test the technology properly – be able to get as many as all four of you out of here. We'd have to get really close together though, about an eight-foot radius I'm told. And you only get one shot."
Turn. Time for deep breathing, and deeper silence. No point making idle conversation now. Tom slowly, deliberately, placed one foot before the other, hoping Nyere would fall into the pattern and just follow, keep up the rhythm, not raise suspicion.
Tom couldn't help but be fascinated by the emotions he saw playing across the shorter man's face as he looked down on him, and hoped they would be lost on any Romulan observers. Scepticism. Fear and anger. Disbelief. Slowly, a gleam of something new, a stranger to these features: Hope. Quickly suppressed, replaced by an attempt at impassivity. It did not quite succeed; Nyere's forehead kept twitching slightly as he began to imagine possibilities he had once thought lost.
Turn. "The transporter is cloaked against detection and implanted in my gut. Here." He pointed to the place where the device was located, resisting the urge to feel for the comfort of the slight bulge that indicated the trigger.
"I don't know how I can get the others, especially Toller, to follow my command to come close enough to catch them. And you know better than I do, whether we can get them out of the hut to tell them what they need to know - without cluing in the Romulans. Neither Schmidt nor Karsgaard have gone outside since I've been here, except to shower. So I need to count on you, when the opportunity arises, to herd them towards me, in whichever way possible. Anyone who doesn't come close enough will be left behind. Is that clear, Lieutenant?"
Nyere nodded, numbly, seemingly incapable of speech for now. Just as well. Tom silently congratulated himself for having clued into the fact that the man didn't really enjoy being in charge; maybe to some extent he had even forgotten to think for himself. Clearly, he was craving instructions - a good officer, smart and diligent, every bit as tenacious and dedicated as any of Tom's crewmates on Voyager, but not really command material. Here was to hoping that he'd just follow orders when it came down to the crunch.
Turn. Time to go back in the hut, to think how to create the necessary opportunity without tipping off the Romulan observers, to rehydrate and rest. The heat was already getting unbearable.
…..
By early afternoon, none of the Hiroshima's officers had left the hut; even Toller had evidently decided that harassing Tom was more satisfying for now than courting another heat stroke. But they remained spread on their respective bunks.
One of the guards who had brought their midday meal had made a comment about Toller's constant attacks on the newcomer, clearly confirming that they were watching closely. Even as Tom marveled at the culture of paranoia that would generate this level of observation of the mundane existence of hapless prisoners, he had to admit that he had no idea what the Romulans' response time to an actual incident might be – minutes? Seconds?
He decided to make a move the moment when three of the officers were off their bunks at at the same time. Karsgaard was in mid-tea ceremony, Nyere was pacing, and Toller was standing in the middle of the room recounting for the umpteenth time what a disgrace to the Paris name the scum in their midst must have been. Only Schmidt remained prone on his back.
Tom unfolded his length from his own bunk and took a few steps towards Toller, even as he glared meaningfully at Nyere, mouthing the word "now". He took Toller's arm and yanked it behind his back, causing the man to yelp in surprised pain even as his other hand touched his stomach to look for the minute swelling that indicated the location of the transporter. As he had hoped, Schmidt – his old instincts as a security officer not that deeply buried - spat out a curse and rose from his bunk to separate the two antagonists before the Romulans would come and seize them.
Nyere, with a flash of initative that surprised even himself, grabbed Karsgaard's teapot out of the man's hand to get him to follow him into the middle of the room, towards Tom and possible freedom. With a yelp of indignation, the Ensign did just that.
And then, just as Tom's looked around once more to confirm whether the rest of the Hiroshima's officers were sufficiently close, three guards with disruptors drawn burst into the hut. They were followed by a Romulan whom he instantly knew – by the air of superiority the man carried around like a mantle, as much as by Will Riker's description - to be the camp's Commander, Talar.
…..
Toller unsuccessfully tried to twist out of Tom's grip, and shouted shrilly, "He started it! He attacked me! He's a criminal and must be punished …"
Talar nudged his head in silent command towards one of the guards, who stepped forward and, with a practiced chop, hit Toller squarely on the chin with the butt of his disruptor. The man went down like a sack of flour. Still in range. Tom's mind made the calculation with a curious detachment just as the same guard pointed the weapon at his midriff, right at the spot where Beverly Crusher had implanted the cloaked transporter. Tom's hand froze instantly in its journey towards the device.
Talar took a few steps in the room, before wrinkling his nose at the smell of unwashed clothing and thinking the better of it. He paused just inside the entrance, flanked by the other two guards. Tom noted that their armed presence had the effect of slowly herding Nyere and a distraught Karsgaard closer to the centre, ever closer to him. Good. Now about that disruptor …
Talar finally spoke. And directed himself at Tom.
"So, Mr. Paris. Or do you prefer Captain Proton?" He threw something at Tom's feet. The article bounced off the hard dirt floor and came to rest just beside Toller's head.
A cold fist gripped Tom's stomach as he recognized it for what it was: a holovid, The Adventures of Captain Proton – Chapters XXXI – XXXVI ("The Final Chapters: Including the Long-Awaited 'Lair of the Vampire Worm!'"). The very latest release, scheduled to come out just after the Enterprise had left Andor. Prominently displayed on the package were his name and a short biography, noting his current assignment. The front sported a sharp, black-and-white animated holo-image – taken by the Doc - of himself as Proton, looking his leather-clad, gum-chewing, rakish best, ray gun in hand. The picture had been specially selected by Jenny Delaney, with B'Elanna's amused assistance, for 'that cute hunk factor that may help us crack the female market'.
"A gift for my son, delivered to me just a couple of hours ago. Fame can be a curse, can't it, Commander." Nyere's head flew up at the Romulan's use of Tom's rank, and his mouth opened slightly. Talar continued, unnoticing.
"Certainly your true background explains your remarkable lack of anxiety at being dropped here, as well as your unusual proclivity for Klingon curses." At Tom's narrowing eyes, he added superciliously, "Oh yes, Commander, we have been watching, and taking note. You are not nearly as good an actor as you would probably like to think you are."
Talar seemed to be drawing considerable pleasure of addressing Tom as his rank equal, now that he had him at his mercy. "I assume then, that the Enterprise has not gone very far, Commander? I doubt that they would leave without their First Officer now, would they?"
Schmidt, who had remained stock still behind Tom, afraid to take a step back in the face of the disruptor, let out a sharp curse – the first genuine emotional reaction Tom had witnessed from him yet, apart from his instinctive attempt to prevent the altercation between him and Toller. He might act apathetic most of the time, but he was clearly still all there, and the mention of Starfleet's flagship being nearby and its supposed First Officer within arm's reach had seemingly coaxed his long-suppressed spirit out of its hiding place.
Karsgaard, for his part, had grabbed his teapot back from Nyere's hands with a huffing sound and now bustled over to pick up the holovid from beside Toller's still unconscious body. In his single-minded concentration on what mattered to him, he appeared utterly unfazed by the guard with the disruptor standing right beside the box. "No littering in the hut," he muttered indignantly.
Tom looked down at the disruptor still pointed at his gut, feeling the nozzle press into his abdomen. If he moved his hand towards it to reach the transport device, the guard would fire without a doubt.
They'll send me to the Cardassians … I can't. Not again. Fighting down a rising panic and the dark veil that seemed to want to descend over his mind, he cast his eyes around the room.
And nearly froze again, as he remembered his purpose of only a few moments ago.
All in range.
Plus one Romulan. Shit. Can't be helped.
Think, Paris.
Coming to a decision, he snarled at Nyere, who was standing a few steps behind the guard, in his father's sharpest command voice: "Hit his arm – NOW!"
As if in slow motion, he watched the Lieutenant take one single step forward while swinging his arms back and bringing both fists together. And without any hesitation whatsoever Nyere aimed sharply for the elbow of the Romulan holding the disruptor, even as the other two guards lifted theirs and Talar yelled an unintelligible command of his own.
Tom felt the weapon's muzzle drive into his stomach, and with a curious lack of interest waited for it to discharge. Instead, he heard the Romulan guard gasp in surprise and felt him loosen his grip on his weapon, even as the familiar-but-different tingle of the one-way transporter caressed Tom's skin.
As the bile from the disruptor's hard impact on his gut rose in his throat and he started to double up with pain, Tom's last conscious thought was that whoever was in the transporter room of the Enterprise would probably not be ready for an armed Romulan – no more than that armed Romulan had been for the sudden attack from behind.