A/N: Some readers may find parts of this Chapter disturbing.
Chapter 13 – The Quality of Mercy
The sight that presented itself to the three officers as they materialized on the Ares was stunning in its sheer banality. The immediate impression given by the shuttle's interior was that of a comfortable corporate home-away-from-home, a state-of-the-art conveyance fully equipped to permit its high-flying owners to keep on top of their business interests in a relaxed, club-style atmosphere.
The shuttle's walls and many of its normally gleaming metal surfaces had been covered in what looked like genuine wood paneling; the aft areas were carpeted in a pleasant shade of dark green, likely decreed suitably 'masculine' by a highly-paid interior designer. Holographic pictures of its two human occupants shaking hands with numerous recognizable personalities from a number of worlds, including the President of the Federation, decorated the walls. Through the open hatch leading into the aft cabin could be seen a posh seating arrangement in dark leather; it did not require a great deal of imagination to picture the comfortable sleeping cabins that likely replaced the regular bunks.
One of the wooden panels in the rear of the cockpit sported a beautifully carved corporate symbol: the letter 'B' nestled within a larger 'C', the word "Inc." discreetly tucked underneath.
Slightly revolted by the opulence before him, Tom briefly wondered whether as the ship's designer he could lodge a formal complaint against this utter perversion of his artistic vision, but the shuttle's two remaining occupants claimed his attention instead. They were sitting underneath the corporate logo, in the space normally occupied by the tactical console, which had been converted into an office area. One, a man in his late sixties with a shock of white hair, had evidently been half-dozing over a PADD in a comfortable lounger - complete with footrest and drink holder - that was most definitely not Starfleet issue. The other, balding and displaying the body of someone whose enjoyment of the good life did not include an appreciation for exercise, was working at a mahogany-clad computer station.
At the sound of the transporter's tingling, both looked up in surprise. "Dolak?' the balding man asked, looking to the suddenly empty conn and ops console, and an empty lounge chair on the opposite wall. His eyes widened in something that should have been fear, but came rather closer to irritation at the disruption of his routine and comfort; the reaction of someone supremely confident that no harm could possibly befall him.
Tom motioned to Harry to take the conn. First rule of space flight: never leave the helm unattended. Kathryn Janeway had once told him that it had been his own instinctive response after Voyager had been hurled into the Delta Quadrant, when he had pulled himself out of the rubble past the dead pilot to reach for the controls, which had convinced her that he had retained his officer's mettle despite everything that had gone before.
"Set course for our rendezvous point, Harry, Warp six point five," he said. The Lieutenant nodded his acknowledgment and started entering the new coordinates.
Ayala needed no instruction. Standing comfortably and relaxed in combat-ready position, legs slightly spread, he pointed his phaser squarely at the two men, from a position where he had both in his sights with minimal movement of the muzzle. His face, as usual, betrayed no emotion. When he was satisfied that his XO's phaser was also trained on the subjects of his professional interest, he proceeded to pat them down, not gently, before hauling the white-haired man out of his chair, pushing him unceremoniously into the corner where the other had been working.
A few practiced commands later, a semi-circular force field cut the two men off from the rest of the cockpit; it was evident that this feature of their cozy ship came as a surprise to both of them. If this ship had been involved in any prisoner transports they had likely not been present onboard; more likely, previous visits to Mokan had been carried out by somewhat less well-appointed sister vessels of the Ares.
Throughout the takeover of their shuttle, the two men's sputtering protests and imperious demands for explanations had met nothing but silence from the three officers. Finally, content that their captives were secured and the course set, Tom spoke.
"Gentlemen," he intoned coolly, "I am Commander Tom Paris, First Officer of the USS Enterprise. Your vessel is being interdicted and taken into custody by Starfleet under suspicion of a serious violation of interplanetary movement protocol, namely unlawful incursion into the Neutral Zone. Feel free to explain yourselves at any time." Better stick with the obvious and unquestionable for now, Tom figured. We'll get to the rest.
The white-haired man, who had flinched just a little at hearing Tom's name, mustered what ire he could. "What is the meaning of this? Do you have any idea to whom you are speaking, young man?"
Tom gave him a sharp look, and nodded once. Oh yes. The final piece of the puzzle.
"Indeed I do, although I wish I didn't. Harry, Mike - meet former Federation Councilors Noam Chomyn and James Burton. The driving forces behind the Cardassian Treaty, owners of Utopia Planitia's shuttlecraft division and, so it would appear, C&B Incorporated in the flesh."
He had recognized them instantly, from the holovids that were practically looped on the news channels at the time of the Maquis trial: The two former Councilors who had been forced to resign their office, when their critical and decisive support for the Cardassian peace treaty had been revealed as motivated solely by corruption and personal business interests. The result of the discovery of this conflict of interest, the invalidation of the Federation's recognition of the treaty as binding law, had led to the finding that colonists in the DMZ had acted lawfully in the defence of their homes, and the review and, in most cases, dismissal of any related charges against members of the Maquis.
He turned back to their two captives, at least some of whose puzzlement seemed genuine. "Perhaps Commander Talar, despite the lovely hostess gift you brought for his son, neglected to enlighten you about what transpired while you were on Mokan. That's the problem with entering into alliances with the paranoid and secretive: they don't tell you stuff you may actually need to know. Suffice it to say, your business dealings in the Neutral Zone have been pretty comprehensively de-cloaked."
There was a momentary silence in the Ares' cabin. Tom was painfully aware that he was not an experienced interrogator; what training he had received during his time at the Kirk Centre had focused on resistance and self-preservation should students themselves become the subjects of questioning. While some of what he had learned might be of assistance in a circuitous way, he knew this would be strictly amateur hour. He also hoped rather fervently that Jorak was right concerning the non-applicability of Federation procedure out here; a wrong step could be prejudicial down the line. With all that in mind, Tom figured that if he was going to get anything out of his captives, he would have to use some of the things they had found out already to allow them to think he knew it all.
"C&B. Interesting company you are heading. Military procurement, based on how hard it is to find out anything about it. But from what I 've seen, you also specialize in technology that's illegal in the Federation, and sell it to a Government with which trade in everything except humanitarian supplies has been unlawful for centuries. You really do have interesting friends, gentlemen – first Cardassia, now Romulus. Wide open, unexplored markets for sure, but what's next? Selling spare parts to the Borg? Blotting paper to the Dominion? And to top it off, you're coming from a place where no private Federation citizen has any business being. Things do not look good, gentlemen, so kindly refrain from trying to rely on your importance to impress me."
It had not escaped Tom's notice that following his introduction of the two Councilors, and for the first time since he learned of Tuvok's 'betrayal' of Chakotay's Maquis cell, Mike Ayala's usually stoic face had started to show something close to undisguised fury. The big Lieutenant's hand moved to his phaser.
"Easy, Mike," Tom whispered, to the man whose family had been forced off their hard-won homestead to make way for the Cardassian interests these men had espoused, men who had been instrumental in ensuring that any defence of the colonies would be considered a criminal act. Ayala squared his shoulders and nodded slowly, but his fingers kept strumming his phaser like a musical instrument.
"So," Tom said conversationally, noticing with slightly malicious satisfaction that Chomyn, chairless now, was uncomfortably shifting his balance on his feet, "I gotta say, I'm surprised to find you here personally. I thought people like you would use minions for your dirty work."
"We have no need to explain our presence to a Starfleet Commander," Burton huffed indignantly, making sure to inject an appropriate level of contempt for Tom's lowly position on the ladder of political relevance into his statement. "Your presumptuousness will be brought to the attention of the Admiralty and, I trust, dealt with appropriately."
Tom eyed him coldly in turn. "You know what? I don't really give a shit what you think … Councilor," he grated, mimicking the man's contemptuous inflection so pitch-perfectly that Harry couldn't suppress a smirk. "So feel free to keep your mouth shut until we figure out what to do with you."
He motioned Ayala to take Ops, and himself took the chair formerly occupied by Chomyn. Harry cast him a puzzled look, and asked in a low voice, "You're not going to question them?"
Tom shrugged, and responded in an equally low tone. "They're politicians. They hate being ignored - best way to get them to talk, and I've planted the seed for the topics I'd like to hear about. Not sure whether I can formally question them anyway without prejudicing a prosecution. So let's see what happens when they start talking. In the meantime I'll do some homework."
He punched a few commands into the computer attached to his chair, and asked the computer for information relating to an individual named Dolak. That was the name Burton had called out earlier, when his Cardassian cabin mates had disappeared off the shuttle. Dolak is a common name in Cardassia. Please narrow search parameters, the computer's voice advised briskly. A few select additional key words later, and Tom nodded with satisfaction at the display on his screen.
Making no effort now to keep his voice down, in fact pitching it carefully to be audible throughout the cabin, he summarized the findings for his two fellow officers. "I think I found him, the guy we evaporated off this ship. Gul Dolak. Former bigwig with the Cardassian High Command, went into private enterprise some years before the Dominion War, around the time of the Treaty with the Federation. Excellent contacts in both military establishment and industry; involved in transport, construction and duranium mining on certain planets within the demilitarized zone, including in the Terikof belt."
He whistled, as he scanned another document. "Shit. One of the hits I got off the database is to my father's testimony from the Maquis trial. Guy has had close business connection to you-know-who, and for quite some time." He pointed his chin towards their captives.
"Since the Dominion War, Gul Dolak's been doing – wait for it – military procurement for the new Cardassian government, sourcing unspecified goods and services, apparently from both Romulus and the Federation. The former has not been reliably confirmed." He slammed his hand on his thigh.
"My guess would be that these guys went to Mokan to show their Cardassian partner some of their samples, fully operationalized in the field. At a guess, that would be the cloaking net. As any Ferengi trader will tell you, there's nothing like personal engagement to make large-scale deals work, and these guys would make Grand Nagus Zek bow his head in shame. Or admiration."
Tom was in the process of saving the information he had found onto a PADD, when an imperious voice was heard from the aft section. "Officer. There is only one chair here. Councilor Chomyn requires a chair."
Tom exchanged looks with Ayala, before getting up and walking leisurely to the back of the cabin where Burton was still seated in his swivel chair. Chomyn was trying to find a perch on the desk, which was just that much too high to accommodate his centre of gravity. Clearly, Burton's expressed concern for his colleague's discomfort did not extend to letting him have a turn on his own chair.
Tom took in the scene without a trace of amusement.
"The men of the Hiroshima had no chairs in their hut," he stated flatly. "The only time inmates get to sit on something like a chair is when they are forced into one of the Romulan punishment cells, which I am told are about five by five feet in diameter, made of metal. They get left out in the sun for however long the Commander sees fit. The Hiroshima's pilot died this way. The former colonists your company's ships dumped on Mokan sit, eat and sleep on woven mats on the dirt floor. In the rainy season, that dirt turns to mud, a perfect breeding ground for tuberculosis. All the children in the camp and most of the adults have it. So imagine my sympathy for your plight. Sit on the fucking floor for all I care. At least it's dry, and we have climate control." He turned on his heel and stalked away.
"I will have you know, we saved those people's lives," Chomyn sputtered at Tom's retreating back, no longer able to keep quiet. "A Romulan envoy asked me and Councilor Burton to resolve the potentially explosive – explosive! -political problem caused by the Hiroshima's unlawful entry into the Neutral Zone. We convinced the Romulans to be merciful. The senior officers were sequestered in a purpose-built detention facility, simply to avoid escape attempts that would surely have caused the Romulans to kill everyone. This was for everyone's protection, including their own. The crew members less likely to prejudice the arrangement were given arable land on which to settle; this included the women officers, who of course require extra consideration. And we ensured that everyone was comfortable and well-cared for."
While Harry found himself briefly distracted by the thought whether Chomyn had ever met Kathryn Janeway, or any other female Starfleet officer of his acquaintance, Tom turned back and fixed the man with a stare hot enough to trigger a dilithium reaction. Nonetheless, he managed to keep his voice soft, infused with but a hint of menace. He was getting information now – and he hadn't asked for it. All admissions just made had been completely voluntary. Now if he could only keep hold of his rising temper …
"By 2370, the year the Hiroshima was lost, the Romulans had already suffered heavy losses at the hand of the Borg. Surely there was room for negotiation."
Chomyn's silence spoke volumes and Tom Paris, who had always been as good at reading other people's emotions as he was at concealing his own, was beginning to see a truth emerging on the other man's face.
"The Romulans may have been posturing, but you would have seen through that in no time. You're a politician and a war profiteer; you sell lies for a living, for crying out loud. It figures you'd recognize one from ten parsecs away." Tom was pacing up and down now before the force field, his thoughts gathering speed as the strategic picture formed in his mind.
"I suppose the … overly zealous actions of the Romulan commanders who seized the Hiroshima forced the Empire into a difficult situation: They could either let the crew go and show themselves as weak to the Federation, or they could destroy the ship and kill the crew, ruining any chance of rapprochement in the face of the greater Borg threat. I would guess the Romulans were over a barrel, and wanted the Hiroshima incident to go away quietly."
Ayala and Harry exchanged glances in the front part of the cabin. Tom's exegesis of the political situation at the beginning of the decade made considerable sense. But he wasn't done. It was all so clear now.
"And you saw an opportunity to strike a deal, which really had very little to do with the Hiroshima. Because you were having problems of your own by then, problems that you wanted to make go away, didn't you? Those colonists who got in the way of your business dealings with the Cardassians, whom you had told you could get rid of them. Promises that you couldn't keep, despite all the might of the Federation Council behind you and that blasted treaty. You must have thought you'd died and gone to heaven: you would allow the Romulans to disappear the Hiroshima crew, and in exchange they would give you a place to stash problematic colonists. And you were able to pat yourself on the back for your humanitarian approach to resolving two problems for the price of one."
Ayala was starting to stir in his seat again. The big former Maquis rarely lost his temper, but his dark eyes were beginning to spray fire. His hand was twitching over his phaser again.
Burton chimed in, eager now to defend his record. "We saved the crew's lives, and made the Romulans give us the strongest possible assurances that the Hiroshima's officers would be treated humanely. We even provided climate control technology for the officers in the POW facility, specially made by my company at considerable expense, as well as showers and on-site beverage facilities. None of this is standard equipment in Romulan detention camps, let me assure you, and not things our company ordinarily produces. The equipment was purpose-created, at considerable expense, to ensure, as Councilor Chomyn said, that everyone was comfortable and well-cared for."
Tom shook his head as if in disbelief. "Comfortable?" he spat. "Well-cared for? Nice catch phrase, that. Do you seriously believe that giving Janne Karsgaard a teapot on which to focus his narrowing world makes up for the mind he lost, thanks to your idea of what's good for business, or what constitutes comfort? Or that the CMO who died of malnutrition and dehydration in Ulak Six felt the warmth of your idea of 'special consideration' for female officers?"
Ayala, unable to hold back, snarled in turn, "And that giving those colonists hand rakes and shovels made up for the homes and terra-forming equipment you forced them to leave behind?"
Burton was indignant. "You Starfleet types just don't see the wider picture, do you? Our actions saved Federation lives. The Cardassians would have killed the colonists as surely as the Romulans would have the Hiroshima crew, and might have reignited the war with the Federation, causing more loss of life, including Starfleet lives. Moving those people to Mokan was an appropriate and effective solution that ensured ongoing peace."
Tom's voice dripped with sarcasm now. "Congratulations. You just admitted that you knew your precious Treaty was basically worthless as a means to stop the Cardassians from massacring people. And those trapped on Mokan were the price that would keep it alive for you - except it wasn't you who paid it."
Harry couldn't remain quiet anymore. If this wasn't a formal questioning, he felt perfectly entitled to join the discussion. "And what about the Cardassians that are down there? How many of the Guls did you offer to take off the hands of the new Government, to get the reconstruction contracts you wanted for C&B? And how many Cardassian civilians who got in the way of that work also ended up here? Whom did you save there? And just where will your … humanitarian impulses stop?"
He had done his own analysis based on what he had heard, and it followed Tom's closely. "I suppose you also paid the Romulans well in exchange for taking the Guls off the hands of the Union – bit like a business tax, keeping your Cardassian clients happy, I suppose. Even with Cardassian ideas of what constitutes a trial, their stories would no doubt have been … inconvenient for the new government. But what was it you gave the Romulans in exchange for helping you stash them on Mokan – holo-technology? Those lethal force fields? The ability to create the cloaking net, with Federation replicator technology? Where else are they using those nets now, I wonder? And of course they also got to use the facility for their own purposes, as a bonus. What a great, three-way deal. You must be so proud."
Chomyn, sensing the increasing level of hostility in the cabin, turned to Tom Paris. Despite his colleague's earlier contempt for Tom's rank, it was clear that this was the senior officer onboard, and therefore the man to be dealt with.
And he knew just how to deal with someone like him.
"Commander Paris," he said imperiously, "I demand that you leave this ship and return its crew immediately. If you fail to do so, I will personally see to it that you face a court martial, or worse. Based on what I recall of your personal history and what I see on your neck, you already have a rather intimate acquaintance with the consequences of unlawful actions."
Tom froze momentarily, his head slightly cocked, as if he were listening to the sounds of distant, whispered voices, a symphony of silent screams.
"Oh yes," he said softly. "I am indeed very familiar with the consequences of unlawful action. Others I know of are, as well." He stared at Burton evenly, eyes narrowing, his jaw grinding silently as he fought a rising flood of rage.
"You want a list? Captain Patel. Commander Kal. Lieutenants Gorman and Massoud. The four most senior officers of the USS Hiroshima. They faced the consequences of unlawful action, one and all. How did you put it? You 'saved their lives'?So that they could, respectively, be executed, tortured to death and blown up by those same Romulans you 'saved' them from. Or take Ensign Karsgaard and his beloved teapot, the centre of his universe. That man used to run the operations station of a Nova class starship, for Kahless' sake. I bet he feels like he's been saved. If he feels anything anymore at all."
Harry Kim's eyes narrowed at that. The Hiroshima's ops officer. Ten years on Mokan. He'd had three days in an Akritiri prison. There but for the grace of god …
"Lieutenant Nyere and his wife, who each lived for ten years believing the other was dead; the son who still has never yet seen his father. Thomas Riker and that small handful of remaining Maquis, who should have been released with those in Federation custody, but who were sent to Mokan so they couldn't embarrass you, or the Cardassians who'd been holding them with stories about illegal mobilization. All of them have faced the consequences of unlawful action. I guess we just have a different concept of what that actually means."
Tom started pacing in front of the force field now, his hand caressing his phaser as Harry and Ayala watched and listened in silence. Chomyn opened his mouth as if to speak, but was stilled by Burton who mutely pointed his chin at the weapon. In certain circumstances, even he, it appeared, could appreciate the need for circumspection.
Tom stared at the two former councilors evenly. "Then there's that 'comfortable' little colony you paid the Romulans to establish. Mike already mentioned them. I suppose you expect the people there to be grateful you didn't just have them killed – real big-hearted that was of you. Five thousand of them, trapped behind a curtain of death in an inhospitable climate, who've had to scrabble for their water supplies by hand, and died in their dozens doing so. More consequences of unlawful action. The real irony is, the Romulans showed them more compassion than you did, letting them keep their livestock and starting a bit of trade."
He drew a deep breath - or was it a shallow one, deeply felt? – as Burton drew himself out of his chair and, in a haughty tone intended to cover a nervousness that was belied by a tic on his temple, announced, "You understand nothing of the politics of war and peace, young man. But of course that can only be expected from someone who disgraced his family and the uniform he wore – someone who was convicted for the crimes he committed in a court of law. By rights, you should still be in jail. Auckland, was it?"
Harry shot a look at Tom at this. And froze at what he saw on his best friend's face. He had learned to read him pretty well over the last eight or so years, and was used to seeing him utterly impassive in the face of serious challenges; the only time Harry had ever seen his friend's demeanour reflect his inner turmoil was when B'Elanna was in danger, and even then he had mostly succeeded in keeping his professional poise.
Only once had Harry seen Tom Paris utterly undone: In Akritiri, asking – no, begging - not to be left to the other inmates, as he lay gravely wounded. And now.
When Harry Kim was twelve years old, his parents had taken him to Iceland for a holiday. There, atop a living, shifting Earth he had seen things he had never before imagined, among them a volcano located beneath a glacier, hundreds of meters beneath layers of ice that were finally starting to regrow after the warming of the industrial age. In its long history, he had been told, whenever this volcano would erupt, the fire would take days to burn through the glacier. But when it finally did, the ice it had melted on its way to the surface had built into a lake, which would be unleashed in a force so powerful that it would in a day cut canyons that it would take ordinary erosion thousands of years. The sand flats between the glaciated volcano and the sea were strewn with boulders the size of starships, tossed there by that force in successive eruptions.
This image was what came unbidden to Harry's mind as he looked at Tom Paris just then. His friend's normally pleasant facial features were frozen in an impassive mask, as they often were in times of conflict or stress, but his eyes were lit now by a liquid fury, a barely banked fire.
"Oh, we're getting personal now, are we Counselor?" Tom spoke almost conversationally, although Harry detected in his voice a small cracking sound, like slowly breaking ice.
"I can do personal, if you want. In fact, I can do it rather well. So let me just ask you this: Have you ever been raped?"
Harry Kim sucked in a hissing breath as he felt all colour drain from his face. His eyes briefly flashed over to Mike Ayala, whose fingers had stopped their strumming of his phaser. Mouth open slightly, the big ex-Maquis stared at his XO and erstwhile Voyager crewmate, first in shock, then something very like … acknowledgement, as Ayala finally understood the full extent of the price the presumed mercenary had paid in the name of his people's cause. The big former Maquis made a quiet vow then, acknowledging a debt he would some day repay.
Tom continued, oblivious to his crewmates' reaction. "You're awfully quiet, Councilors. I take it that's a 'no', then? So let me put you in the picture as to what it can be like. First, you get arrested and tried for helping people defend against atrocities that you can only begin to imagine. Then you get thrown in jail, where thanks to your so-called privileged background some of the other inmates – real criminals, who actually deserve to be there - feel entitled to subject you to each and every kind of humiliation the psychopathic mind is capable of, culminating in throwing you in a closet, tying you down and … taking their turns with you. Again, and again, and again. Night after night."
Tom's voice broke, turned into a rasp. The fire behind his eyes had finally broken through the icy mask, and hot tears were streaming down his face. He seemed neither to notice, nor care.
"Some people claim that rape is worse for men than for women. Personally I doubt that. There are … certain things that are simply beyond comparison. But you could always ask the colonists in the DMZ, who ran into your Cardassian friends before they died, male or female alike. Rape is a favourite weapon of war in those parts, and the snakes don't discriminate." He took a deep breath, steadied his voice, but still made no move to stem the tears of rage that were now flowing freely.
"But there are other forms of rape. Ask those who were driven off their planets and were sent back to the Federation or, if they were really unlucky, to Mokan, the place where you just went on your little business recce. Take Thomas Riker, who exposed a conspiracy and was handed over to the conspirators for his troubles. Take Janne Karsgaard's mind. Nevermind – you did. My own experience just happens to be a particularly personal, physical one."
Tom's hand had stopped caressing the phaser, pulled it out of its holster, lifted it slowly, in a gesture almost without conscious thought. "So tell me again, of my intimate acquaintance with the consequences of unlawful action, Councilor Burton. Or instead, talk to me of the oath you took as elected officials of the Federation, to uphold the rule of law and protect the rights of all sentient beings under its jurisdiction. And then do give me one reason, just one, why I shouldn't fire this thing at you this very moment and flush your bodies out of this shuttle that I designed, and that you have been using to carry out your unholy business. A shuttle you so very aptly named after the God of War at whose feet you worship and make your money."
Harry had nearly forgotten to breathe while Ayala was observing the scene before him in grim silence, his own phaser still in its holster but ready, so ready to be drawn. Both seemed mesmerized by the weapon Tom now held pointed at their two captives, unwavering and true.
Then, suddenly, a sob. Whether it came from Burton or Chomyn, it was difficult to tell and really did not matter. "Lieutenant, or you, helmsman – do something! This … this man … Paris – he's a criminal. A crazed lunatic! He'll kill us both! Stop him!"
Ayala and Harry looked at each other, through the gibbering panic that followed the councilor's shrieked plea. Ayala shrugged, his face a study in calculated indifference. "We're in the Neutral Zone," he said simply. "So who the hell cares." And turned his back.
Harry swallowed in the face of the stunning truths revealed over the last three days, the last few minutes. The suffering these men had inflicted on thousands in the name of profit and the politics of convenience and the pain they had caused – by way of collateral damage, without a single thought spared - to his best friend.
Jorak's voice, his clipped tone, rang in Harry Kim's ears: Matters such as interdiction and arrest, or any action taken during arrest, are not subject to Federation jurisdiction.
"Not my call to make," he said tonelessly. "Outside the rules, and beyond my pay grade." He, too, turned his back, gritting his teeth, his eyes focused on the view screen, as his mind tried to grasp the reasons behind his inability to reach his own decision.
"Well, I guess that's it then, gentlemen. Now you know what it feels like to have no choices open to you. Your money, your position, none of it will help you out here." Tom chuckled without humour, the click of his phaser audible as he changed the setting with a flick of his thumb. His eyes narrowed as the thoughts that had clearly been racing through his mind reached a sudden conclusion.
"As my colleague said, this is the Neutral Zone. The place where anything goes: Arbitrary detention. Kidnapping. Forcible displacement. Murder. Torture. Rape. This place really is quite the perfect set-up for sweeping things under the rug – from Starfleet officers and Federation settlers to Romulan dissidents, Reman secessionists, Cardassian war criminals and ordinary civilians just trying to make their world a better place. Because the politics are so complicated and the decisions are made at such a high level that no one comes out here to look, and no one's law governs. Well, gentlemen, I've looked. I've had a really good look, and this is what I found. You, and the despicable, festering corruption that is your business."
And with those words, Tom Paris, tears of rage still streaming down his face in a flood held back far too long, lifted his phaser and fired.