Summary: "Following an encounter with an unexplained phenomenon, Tom 
Paris relives the past six years of his life, while B'Elanna and the 
Doctor race against time to save his mind from irreparable damage." 
Rated PG

BY MALCOLM REEVE - 106625.3210@compuserve.com 

This is the first of a two part story set somewhere in the middle of 
season four.

Acknowledgment:  Many thanks to Jan for her continuing 
encouragement, constructive comments, and for previewing this story 
for me!  Thank you!

"INSTANT REPLAY" BY MALCOLM REEVE

PART ONE

If traveling through empty space was boring, Tom Paris reflected, 
then traveling through a nebula was much, much worse.  A bunch of 
dust particles floating aimlessly about, nowhere to go, nothing to 
say for themselves.  Frankly, they were dull.  He yawned, flopped 
back into his seat and put his feet up on the helm control.  Well, 
who was watching?  After five days alone on the shuttle, Tom was 
suffering from a near terminal case of cabin fever.  There really 
were only a limited number of ways to amuse yourself on a shuttle, 
for five days, with no one but the computer for company and nothing 
to see but dust.  And Tom had tried them all, at least twice.  But 
the real problem, the thing that was really making him itch, was that 
he was missing B'Elanna, body and soul.  But especially body.

He'd suggested that she come along, of course, but his pleas had 
fallen on deaf ears.  "Why would I want to spend five days collecting 
dilithium in the middle of some boring nebula?" she'd asked him over 
lunch.  "It's your idea, you go."

He'd played his ace card then; he'd smiled his wickedest, most 
charmingly seductive smile.  It never failed.  Never.  "But how will 
I fill all those empty hours without you?" he'd asked her.

And for a moment, he'd thought she was his.  She'd leaned closer, her 
eyes smoldering with what he'd fondly assumed was passion.  Beneath 
the table, her hand had touched his leg, nimble fingers tracing 
higher and higher....  He'd smiled.  Must have looked like an idiot.  

"I suggest," she'd murmured, her warm breath tickling his ear, "that 
you bring a good book."  And with that she was gone.  

He sighed at the memory, and the sigh quickly turned into a yawn.  
Bored; he was interminably bored.  And Tom hated being bored.  Things 
always seemed to go wrong when he was bored.

"Computer," he said out loud, "play Paris Fourteen."  The computer 
obliged, and the shuttle filled with what B'Elanna would have called 
an 'obscure twentieth-century ditty'.  

"Computer," he asked, not for the fist time, "How long until we reach 
the rendezvous point?"

"Two hours thirty five minutes and fifteen seconds," it rattled off, 
seemingly not irritated by Tom's repeated request for the same piece of 
information.  He half expected it to reply, "Get yourself a clock."

The music changed track, and Tom smiled.  This was his current 
favorite;  B'Elanna didn't see the joke - her sense of humor was 
sometimes disturbingly Klingon - but HE thought it was amusing.  He 
sang along for a while.

"Can you hear me Major Tom?  Can you hear me Major Tom?  Can you...  
For here am I sitting in a tin-can, far above the world.  Planet 
Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."

He wasn't exactly sure what a tin-can was, but he suspected that it 
felt a lot like the inside of a shuttle, after five days, alone, in 
the middle of the galaxy's most boring nebula.

"Computer, do you know what a tin-can is?" he asked, for want of a 
better conversation.

"Please specify the parameters of...."

A brilliant white light suddenly flashed towards the shuttle.  
"Computer, darken the windows!" Tom barked.  This was more like it!

"Windows are at maximum opacity," the computer told him smoothly.  
Tom swore under his breath.  And then, since he was alone, he swore 
loudly too.  The light was blinding; he could see nothing.

"Computer, analyze the source of the light."

"The source of the light is a sub-temporal distortion field."

"Is it heading this way?" he snapped, blind fingers fumbling 
uselessly at the controls.  Perhaps boring wasn't so bad.

"Please re-phrase the question."

The brightness intensified, and Tom screwed his eyes shut against the 
glare.  But it made little difference.  All he could see was red 
through the thin veil of his eyelids.  "Is the distortion field 
approaching the shuttle?"

"The distortion field is approaching the shuttle."

"Take evasive action."

"Unable to comply."

"What?"   

"Incomplete question."

The light was painful now, and he crushed his eyes into the palms of 
his hands in an attempt to dim the glare.  But it was useless; his 
whole body felt translucent.  

"Why are you unable to take evasive action?" he snapped.  If only he 
could see to fly the shuttle himself!

"The velocity of the sub-temporal field exceeds the maximum velocity 
of the shuttle."

"Then go around it!"

"The dimensions of the sub-temporal field exceed the maximum distance 
traversal by the shuttle prior to impact."

"It's too big and too fast," Tom paraphrased, thinking as quickly as 
the mind-numbing brightness would allow.  "Estimate time to impact."

"Impact in twenty-five seconds."

"Estimate damage to the shuttle and the cargo."

"No damage to the shuttle or its cargo is anticipated."

That was good.  "Estimate damage to me," he asked.

The computer paused before answering:  "Unable to determine."

"Great," he muttered.   "Down-load all logs and sensor readings into 
the ship's main data-base, maintain course to rendezvous point with 
Voyager, broadcast a hail on all frequencies, and...."

The sub-temporal field hit with the crushing weight of a tidal wave.  
Tom felt himself hit the floor with a heavy thud as the white-light 
flooded into his body, lifting his mind free and carrying it away 
like so much flotsam.  He could feel memories blinking out of 
existence, his life contracting and reducing with each thud of his 
rapidly beating heart.  He had to stop it.  He had to stop the flood 
washing his mind away while there was still something left of 
himself.  Instinctively, he knew he had to grab hold of something in 
the flood, some part of himself....  Dimly, through the rushing of 
the white-light, he thought he heard himself scream; it was hard to 
tell in that all-consuming brilliance, but it was enough.  It was 
something to hold onto.  And so he screamed, and screamed and clung 
to that shred of himself against the almost overwhelming ferocity of 
the force that battered at the remnants of his mind.

***

B'Elanna Torres tapped her foot impatiently as the turbo-lift stopped 
on its way to engineering.  The door hissed open and Neelix stepped 
inside, his enthusiastic grin warning her to keep a firm grip on her 
temper.  

"Good morning, Lieutenant," he began cheerily.

"Neelix," she replied, hoping to keep the conversation short.  She 
had enough on her mind this morning.

"And I'm sure it IS a good morning for you!" he carried on, ignoring 
her frosty response.

"Really?  Why's that?" She knew exactly why, but was unable to 
control her tongue.  Neelix wasn't the first person to make a similar 
comment this morning.  It was beginning to grate.

"Why, because Lieutenant Paris will be back this morning!" Neelix 
replied.  

"He will?" she asked dryly.  "I'd forgotten."

"Oh, I'm sure you hadn't!" Neelix persisted, oblivious to her 
sarcasm.  "And I thought I'd prepare a little romantic dinner for the 
two of you this evening..."

"Neelix," Torres interrupted, struggling to keep her temper.  "I 
appreciate the thought, but really, don't bother." 

"Oh, it's not a bother!  I'll set up a little table near the window, 
some low lighting..."

Mercifully, the turbolift stopped.  "Good-bye Neelix," Torres said 
without a backward glance, as she stalked into Engineering. Watching 
her staff scurry out of her way, she guessed that the irritation was 
showing on her face.  She stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to 
smooth the tension from her features. She just couldn't stand 
everyone watching her, waiting for a reaction.  What did they expect?   
That she'd swoon at the feet of the returning hero?  Some chance, 
after volunteering for that idiotic mission.  Five days, out of 
contact and alone in the middle of an unchartable nebula?  He'd be 
lucky if she even spoke to him once he got back.  IF he got back.  
She scowled again; woe betide the next person who mentioned the name 
Tom Paris within her hearing.

***  

"Approaching the rendezvous point," Kim reported.

"No sign of the shuttle," Tuvok added.

Janeway nodded in acknowledgment. She wasn't concerned.  She had a 
lot of faith in her one-time wayward pilot.  He'd be there.  Instead 
of worrying she gazed out at the rainbow-hued nebula drifting in 
endless swirls of slow, lazy color.  It's beautiful, she thought to 
herself, and fascinating.  Ceaselessly fascinating.  Tom's lucky, 
having five whole days to explore it in depth, up close.  I'll have 
to ask him for a full report, once he...

"I'm picking up something coming out of the nebula," Kim said, right 
on cue.  "It's the shuttle."

Janeway smiled and rose to her feet,  "Hail him."

"No need," Kim replied, then he frowned.  "The shuttle's hailing us, 
but it's an automated hail.  Just a standard greeting."

"Reply," Janeway ordered, suddenly uneasy.

"No response.  Trying all frequencies.  Still no response."

"Tuvok; life signs?"

"Scanning...."

Janeway tensed as she waited, hoping that Torres wasn't listening in 
on this exchange.  Knowing her Chief Engineer, she probably was.

"...one life sign," Tuvok reported after what seemed like an age.  
"But very weak."

Janeway's heart sank.  "Mr. Kim," she barked,  "can you get a lock?"

"Aye, Captain," Kim replied immediately.  "It's Tom."

"Transport him directly to sickbay."  She tapped her comm badge as she 
headed for the turbolift, "Doctor, prepare for an incoming casualty.  
Lieutenant Torres meet me in..."

"On my way, Captain," Torres' voice cut across hers, brittle with 
tension.  Janeway set her jaw grimly as the turbolift started 
speeding her towards sickbay; whatever she was to find there, her 
instinct told her it wasn't going to be good.

***

The brilliant light lasted so long that Tom found it hard to remember 
what had been there before.  It tore at his mind, but he hung on 
determinedly, and at last the light dimmed and subsided into 
darkness.  His memory of the light faded with its brilliance, and 
soon all he remembered was darkness, soft and silent.  And then he 
was falling; lights - memories - flashed past him, a face, a feeling, 
a touch, speeding so fast he couldn't reach them.  And then they 
slowed, came into focus and...

"Hey, Paris, I'm with you today!"  

Tom stared at Mitch in bewilderment.  

"Hey, wake-up Lieutenant!" his friend grinned at him.

"Sorry," Tom shook his head, "I just had a really odd sensation."

Mitch raised a skeptical eyebrow.  "Yeah, well, so did I when I saw 
the duty schedule - you seen what we got today?"

Tom turned back to the screen he'd been scanning.  His heart sank: 
"Supplies Duty.  Are they kidding?"

"Someone has to do it," Mitch told him, with a parsimonious voice 
designed to irritate.  "Even fly-boys like you."

Tom shook his head.  "I'll die of boredom in Starfleet before they 
let me near anything remotely interesting," he complained.  It was 
bad enough being stuck in the Caldik system, but assigned to Supplies 
Duty?  It was too much.  

"You know why they're doing this don't you?" he asked Mitch, as they 
made their way to the transporters.

"No," Mitch replied, his attention suddenly caught by a pretty young 
ensign, who gave them a wink as she passed.  Mitch grinned back at 
her, but Paris just scowled.  He wasn't in the mood.

"It's because of dear old Dad," he grumbled.  "Can't be seen to be 
favoring the Admiral's son.  Oh no.  Better give him all the really 
crummy jobs, just in case."

"You reckon?" Mitch asked, glancing at him sideways.  "It's not 
because of that stunt you pulled last week, over Caldik V?"

"No one saw that," Tom replied.  "And anyway, what do they expect?  
If they gave me something more challenging...."

"You only just made Lieutenant!  What do you expect to be doing?"

"When my Dad was my age, he was..."

Mitch held up a warning hand.  "I don't want to hear it Paris!" he 
said with a grin.  "I don't care what he was doing.  You're not him.  
Quit trying to be."

"I'm not!" Tom objected, feeling angrier than the comment deserved.  
"That's the last thing I want to be, believe me."

Mitch shrugged.  "Right.  Then let's forget about what the Admiral 
was doing, and start figuring out how we're going to make this 
supplies run a little more interesting!"

"You got any ideas?"

"One or two," Mitch admitted, grinning dangerously.   "One or two."

***

B'Elanna burst into sickbay, barely pausing to allow the doors to 
open in front of her.  Looking around, she saw the Doctor and the 
Captain standing over a bio-bed, talking quietly.

"What happened?" she asked as she approached them.

"He's alive," Janeway told her immediately.  

"But?" Torres asked, hearing the reservation in the Captain's voice.

"But he's in a coma," the Doctor replied.  

"Then get him out of it," Torres snapped, looking down at Tom.  He 
was pale, but aside from that he looked like he was sleeping.  She 
stared at him, willing him to open his eyes and smile at her, but he 
didn't move.  

"That WAS my intention, Lieutenant," the Doctor sniffed.  "However, 
there are complications."

B'Elanna's head snapped up.  "What complications?"

"That's the problem," the Doctor frowned.  "I don't understand the 
readings I'm getting."

"It seems that Tom's condition is somewhat unusual," Janeway 
explained gently.  "Doctor, can you explain the problem again?"

"Very well.  Lieutenant Paris's brain activity is not compatible with 
his comatose state.  In fact, when I conducted a level ten neural 
scan, it revealed conscious brain activity."

"You mean he's aware of what's going on?" B'Elanna asked, reaching 
down and taking Tom's hand in her own.

"No," the Doctor shook his head.  "The neural pathways that are 
active are those set down a number of years ago - they're memories."

"Then he's dreaming?" the Captain guessed.

"It's more than dreaming.  The neural scan revealed extensive damage 
to the cerebral cortex..."

Brain damage!  Torres felt suddenly cold, and clutched tighter to 
Tom's hand as the doctor continued.

"...the cerebral pathways containing his memories have been 
disconnected from the normal brain functions, and are not operative."

"He's lost his memory," Janeway concluded.  "But what about the 
active neural pathways you've detected?"

"That's what I don't understand," the Doctor replied.  "Some of the 
memory pathways are beginning to reconnect themselves."

The Captain frowned.  "How's that possible?"  

"With this degree of damage, it's not." 

"So what's happening to him?" Torres asked, cold fear squirming in 
the pit of her belly.

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted, "but I do have a theory."

"Which is...?"

"I believe that Lieutenant Paris is re-experiencing his memories, in 
real time, and that as he does so, the memory pathways are 
reconnecting."

"Then he's re-living his past experiences?" the Captain asked.

"Essentially, yes.  And as he does so, the neural pathways reconnect, 
leading onto the next memory, and so on."

"Then he'll be okay?" B'Elanna asked hopefully.

"Given enough time, the memory pathways should all reconnect," the 
Doctor agreed.

"How much time?" the Captain asked sharply.

The Doctor pursed his lips.  "The neural pathways that are currently 
reconnecting were originally laid down six years ago.  He is reliving 
those experiences, in real time."

Torres understood immediately.  "Then he won't recover all his 
memories for six years," she said in a hollow voice.

"I'm afraid not."

"And if you wake him up now?" the Captain asked.

"If I wake him up now, he won't remember anything that has happened 
in the last six years."

"Then we have to wait until all the memory pathways are reconnected," 
B'Elanna insisted.  If they woke him now, he wouldn't even know her 
name; the thought sent her stomach twisting toward her toes.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but that's not possible," the Doctor replied.  
"The damage to the cerebral cortex was not limited to his memory 
pathways; there was also some damage to his higher brain functions.  
At the moment the damage is minor, but the longer he is comatose, the 
greater the disintegration of his higher cerebral functionality.  I'm 
afraid there will be little left of Lieutenant Paris in six years."

"How long do we have?" the Captain asked.

"Maybe a week," the Doctor replied.  "If I don't wake him then, there 
will be permanent brain damage."

B'Elanna felt suddenly sick.  "Can you help him?" she asked through a 
mouth turned to sawdust.

"I'll try, Lieutenant," the Doctor replied.  "But at this stage, I 
don't even know what caused his condition."

"Then it's not a medical problem?" Janeway asked, suddenly eager.

"I can find no record of any similar case," the Doctor told her.  "My 
guess would be that something did this to Mr. Paris.  Something, or 
someone."

The Captain placed a hand on B'Elanna's arm.  "Lieutenant," she said 
quietly.  "I understand if you want to stay with Tom, but we need 
someone to investigate his shuttle, to see if we can determine what 
caused this."

"On my way, Captain," Torres replied, laying Tom's hand by his side, 
and with a final squeeze, releasing her hold.  "I'd rather do 
something useful."

Janeway nodded, understanding.  "The shuttle's been transported to 
shuttle bay three."

"I'll keep you posted on my progress," Torres told her, turning on 
her heel and heading out of sickbay.  She had a week to find the 
solution.  She'd do it; she had to.  And when Tom had recovered...?  
Well, then she'd probably kill him for putting her through this.

***

"Lieutenant Paris reporting Sir," Tom said, standing to attention 
before the thick-set Commander.  

"At ease, Paris," Commander Dail replied, scanning the roster before 
him.  "Ah.  This should be good for you - give you some practice at 
keeping your speed in check, eh?"  He flashed Tom a grin.  "There's a 
cargo of dibase hyrolium to be transported through the Baleric 
debris-zone to Caldik Prime."

"Thank you sir," Tom replied, not attempting to keep the sarcasm out 
of his voice.
  
Dail looked up, one eyebrow raised.  "Is there a problem, 
Lieutenant?"

Paris shrugged.  "It's boring, that's all."

"Boring?" Commander Dail leaned back in his seat, and looked at Tom 
speculatively.  "You think you should be doing something more 
interesting?"

Tom chose his words carefully.  "I think that my skills could be put 
to better use, Sir.  Yes."

"I see," Dail said.  "Well, Paris, you're a good pilot, I won't deny 
it."  He leaned forward, meeting Tom's gaze with shrewd, dark eyes.  
"So why do you think you're here in the Caldik system, doing supply 
runs to Caldik Prime?"

Paris pursed his lips, but didn't reply.

"Come on," Dail said with a smile.  "It's not like you to be at a 
loss for words, Paris.  Say what you think - speak freely."

"Well, if you really want to know," Tom replied, "I think it has to 
do with my father."

Dail raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

"No one wants to show me any favors, in case they're accused of 
sucking-up to the Admiral.  So instead, I get all the worst 
assignments."

"I see," Dail replied.  "So it has nothing to do with you, or your 
abilities?"

"I'm one of the best pilots in Starfleet," Tom told him boldly; it 
was the truth, and everyone knew it.  Why hide it?  "I can't think of 
any other reason I'd be stuck out here," then almost as an 
afterthought he added, "Sir."

"Can't you?" Dail replied, leaning back in his seat and folding his 
hands across his belly.  "I can.  There's more to being a good pilot 
that handling a few smart maneuvers, and winning a couple of 
competitions.  You need discipline and patience.  And that's why 
you're here."

Tom clenched his jaw together, refusing to reply.  Discipline, 
patience.  Dail sounded just like his father.  What he needed was 
something to DO.

"I see you don't agree," Dail observed.  "And that's another reason 
you're here.  A pilot who is too arrogant to recognize his own 
failings is a dangerous pilot; until you learn your own limitations 
you won't be going anywhere near a Starship, Mr. Paris.  The sooner 
you realize that the better.  The better for your career, and the 
better for Starfleet."

"Yes sir," Paris replied through gritted teeth.

Dail smiled at him, and shook his head slightly.  "Don't be too 
disheartened, Tom," he said.  "You're an excellent pilot, and have 
all the Paris potential, believe me.  You'll be following right in 
your father's footsteps, I have no doubt.  You have the mettle, it 
just needs a little tempering; a dash of humility is all you need."  
Dail gave him a serious look:  "And one day, believe it or not, even 
you will make a mistake.  And then you'll realize that you're as 
mortal as the rest of us, and when that day comes, you, and your 
career, will really start to fly."

Tom smiled coldly.  "Yes Sir," he said again.  He wasn't going to 
argue.  What did Dail know about humility?  Dail had his own life, he 
wasn't living in anyone's shadow.  Dail's triumphs and failures were 
his own; he had no expectations to fulfill, no expectations to 
disappoint.  Humility?  Tom had been weaned on the stuff.  It was the 
last thing he wanted.  He could fly better than anyone, even better 
than his father.  Why shouldn't he be arrogant?  He was the best and 
he had a right to be arrogant about it; heaven knows, he failed at 
everything else.

Commander Dail handed him a padd, with a small shake of his head.  
"These are your orders, Paris.  Take the Trafalgar.  Your crew should 
be waiting in the shuttle bay."

"Aye Sir," Tom replied, taking the padd and turning to leave.

"And Paris," Dail called after him, "try and stay out of trouble on 
this one."

***

"So, where're we going?" Mitch asked as soon as Tom left Dail's 
office.    

Paris handed him the padd.  "Caldik Prime," he said.  "Delivering 
dibase hyrolium."

"Ooh, boy," Mitch replied.  "Exciting.  All the way through the 
Baleric debris-zone at quarter impulse.  I can hardly wait."

"Dail said it would make me practice keeping my speed down," Tom 
grumbled.

Mitch laughed.  "I can see his point.  You are a bit of a speed 
demon."

"Only because I can handle it," Tom told him with a quick grin.

"So what else did he say?" Mitch asked.  "You were in there ages."

Tom shrugged.  "Nothing interesting," he muttered, taking the padd 
out of Mitch's hand and changing the subject.  "So, who've we got 
today?"  

Before he could scan the crew list, Mitch reeled off the names: 
"Borella, Castile and De Almo."

"Not 'Boring Borella'," Paris groaned.  "This trip's getting worse 
and worse."

"It won't be so bad," Mitch told him.

"Oh?" Tom replied, a gleam in his eye.  "So, what's the plan?"

"You ever made the Baleric run at full impulse?" Mitch asked.

"FULL impulse?" Tom repeated, eyes wide.  "No one has," he paused, 
giving his friend a shrewd look, "have they?"

Mitch grinned.  "Not yet.  But it sounds like fun."

"It sounds crazy."

Mitch shrugged.  "Suit yourself, but Harrison took the record last 
week."

"He beat Bedi's time?" Tom asked in surprise.  

"By a full second."

Tom did a quick calculation.  "Then he didn't hit full impulse the 
whole way."

Mitch grinned at him: "No.  But I bet you could."

Tom considered.  It was crazy, and if they got caught, they'd be in 
deep trouble.  But he could already feel the adrenaline surging; it 
would be a real test of his abilities, better than any simulation.  
And at least it would relieve the boredom.  He returned Mitch's grin 
with one of his own.

"So let's go break some records!"

***

The computer bleeped an alert.  "We're approaching the Baleric 
debris-zone, Lieutenant," Borella reported in her softly accented 
voice.

"Thank you Ensign," Paris replied, returning to the helm and dropping 
out of warp.

"Estimated time of arrival on Caldik Prime, two hours and thirteen 
minutes, Sir," Castile added.

"We'll see," Tom replied with a small smile.  He saw Castile and 
Borella exchange a hasty glance, and his smile broadened; they knew 
his reputation, and he planned to live up to it on this trip.  These 
new graduates needed a little shaking up from time to time.

"You got plans tonight?" he called over his shoulder to De Almo.  
Ensign De Almo was a little older than the others, and shared some of 
the same - interests - as Tom.

"It depends what time we get back," De Almo told him.  "There's this 
girl in engineering...."

Tom grinned.  "Stay away from engineers," he warned him.  "They're 
always trouble."

"Then you don't know Mari Capriccio," De Almo told him, a wicked tone 
to his voice.

OH YES I DO, Tom thought, VERY, VERY WELL.  But he kept it to 
himself;  Mari Capriccio had a reputation almost as bad as his 
own....  He smiled.  "Well then, we'd better see what we can do to 
get you home in time, Ensign De Almo."

"Hey Paris," Mitch chirped, "You ever heard of a Commander Chakotay?"

Tom shook his head.  "No.  Why?"

"I know him," Castile interrupted.  "He taught for a term at the 
Academy when I was there; tactical strategy, I think.  He was pretty 
good."

"I bet," Mitch replied, scanning a screen in front of him.  "They've 
just issued a warrant for his arrest; he's defected to the Maquis, 
and they think he might be trying to use his Starfleet contacts to 
get at information about the de-militarized zone."

"I doubt it," Tom replied, turning around in his chair.  "Who'd help 
him?  If he was smart, he accessed all the information he needed 
before he left.  That's what I'd do."

Borella stared at him in astonishment.  "You'd leave Starfleet?" she 
asked.

Tom rolled his eyes.  "Of course not," he said, irritated by the 
stupid question. 

De Almo shook his head.  "I can't understand it.  Why would anyone 
leave Starfleet to go and live with a bunch of outlaws?"

"Maybe because he's fighting for a cause?" Mitch suggested.  
"Something he believes in?"

Tom laughed.  "I never had you pegged as a romantic, Mitch."

"Romantic?" his friend objected.  "Hardly.  I'm just not as cynical 
as you, Paris.  Some people DO devote their lives to more than fast 
ships and promotion."

Tom frowned, and turned back to the helm controls.  Fast ships and 
promotion?  Those were his father's ambitions, not his.  Weren't 
they?  He pushed the thought aside.  What did it matter?  Starfleet 
was his life, and always would be.  He'd never throw his career away 
for an ideal, be it the Maquis or anything else.  That was a fool's 
game, and Tom Paris, whatever else he might be, was no fool.

"Talking of fast ships," he said lightly, changing the subject, "I 
heard that Harrison made the Baleric run in fourteen minutes last 
week."

"Thirteen-point-six," De Almo corrected him.

"That's fast," Castile commented.  "Harrison's pretty good."

"Not that good," Paris replied.  "I bet we could do it faster."

"No way," Borella interrupted, glancing down at her controls.  "You'd 
have to be at full impulse almost the whole way.  You'd never be able 
to navigate the debris field at that speed.  It's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," Tom told her, flashing her his best smile.  
She returned it with a blush and a small, self-conscious, smile of 
her own.  She's quite pretty really, Tom mused, I wonder what her 
first name is?  Maybe I'll find out later....  He grinned to himself; 
it was always so easy.

"Harrison will be really pissed if we beat his record so soon," 
Castile laughed. "Haminda Bedi held it for three months before him."

"Oh, I can't wait to see his face when we tell him," De Almo agreed.  

"All right," Tom squared himself to the controls.  "Then let's do 
it."

"Aye Sir," Mitch replied eagerly, dropping into the co-pilot's seat.

"Castile, keep an eye on the shields," Paris ordered, "Ensign 
Borella," he deliberately softened his voice when he said her name,  
"start the chronometer on my mark."

"Aye Sir."

"Okay, everyone just find someplace to sit down and hang on.  We're 
going to have some fun!"

***

It was late.  Her body told her it was late, that she should be 
sleeping, but she ignored its complaints and forced herself to work 
on.  She dreaded the thought of going back to her quarters, of trying 
to sleep in the empty darkness.  While she was working she could keep 
the fears at bay; ignore them, bury them.  But the night was their 
time, when they came creeping out of the darkness, tugging at her 
mind, stabbing at her guts with sharp, cruel barbs.  YOU'VE LOST HIM, 
they said.  HE'S AS GOOD AS DEAD TO YOU NOW.  

B'Elanna shook her head sharply against the waking dream, and tried 
to refocus her eyes on her work.  But it was useless.  Despite 
herself her eyelids drooped, heavy with fatigue, her normally nimble 
fingers grew clumsy and awkward.  She needed to sleep, however 
painful the dreams.  Straightening, she yawned, stretched her cramped 
muscles, and turned her back on Tom's shuttle.  

The corridors outside the shuttle bay were deserted, her own 
footfalls the only sound in the night's deep silence.  She should 
sleep, she knew, but not yet.  Not quite yet.

"Sickbay," she said as she stepped into the turbolift.  

When the doors to sickbay opened, she saw the Doctor leaning over 
Tom, a tricorder in one hand and a worried frown on his face.

"It's a little late for visiting, Lieutenant," he told her sharply, 
without looking up.

"I couldn't sleep," she lied, walking quickly towards Tom.  "How's he 
doing?"

"Funny you should ask," the Doctor replied, not taking his eyes from 
his patient.  "His adrenaline level has risen alarmingly over the 
last few minutes; he's under considerable stress."

That much was clear.  Tom no longer lay peacefully sleeping; his head 
jerked from side to side, he muttered unintelligibly, and beneath his 
eyelids she could see his eyes darting wildly.  B'Elanna reached out 
a hand and smoothed the hair from his face.  His skin felt warm under 
her fingers, familiar and reassuring.  

"Will it hurt him?" she asked the Doctor, curiously calm.

"I doubt it," he replied, looking up at last and closing his 
tricorder.  "Mr. Paris has already experienced this event once.  If it 
didn't kill him then, I see no reason why it should now.  But 
whatever it is he's remembering, I doubt if it's pleasant."

So did B'Elanna.  And she had a good idea what it might be; six years 
ago was not a good point in Tom's life.  Not good at all.  Her heart 
went out to him: "Hang on Tom," she whispered, "I'll get you out of 
this.  I promise."

***

"Whoa, that was close!" Tom muttered as he swung the shuttle around a 
large chunk of debris that loomed out of nowhere.

"Ten minutes!" Borella called from behind him, her voice tense and 
excited.  "We're going to do it!"

Tom's heart was racing as fast as his ship.  It was hard.  Harder 
than they knew and much harder than he'd expected.  But pride forbade 
him to back down; if Harrison could do it, he could do it better.  
But there were so many calculations, and at this speed...

"Watch out!" Mitch shrieked, half laughing as Tom twitched the ship 
aside, just in time.  Something large and deadly sailed past, close, 
much too close.  He should slow down; he was barely in control.  But 
they were so close...

"Two thousand kilometers," Castile reported.  "Almost there!"

"Ten minutes thirty seconds."

"C'mon Tom," Mitch urged.  "We're over three minutes ahead of him!"

The debris was coming fast now, and the shuttle jolted violently as 
something hit them.  Tom cursed.  He'd have to explain THAT to 
someone.

"Shields at seventy percent," Castile told them.  "Holding."

This is crazy!  Slow down!  The voice in his head was loud and 
insistent.  But there were other voices too; Mitch and the crew, 
urging him on.  He couldn't let them down.  And he could see the end 
of the debris zone now, they were almost there.  He could see the 
green haze of the planet's atmosphere, they were so close, when....  
A hammer blow crunched into the ship with a terrifying force, sending 
them all sprawling in sudden, shocking blackness.

"Paris!" he heard Mitch yell, as Tom cut the engines and fumbled for 
the emergency power.  "What the hell was that?"

"We've got no power," Castile shouted, panic creeping into his voice.  
"The warp nacelles have been sheared right off!"

Tom struggled to breath as the impact of the words hit him.  What had 
he done?  A thousand curses came to his lips, but he could find 
breath for none.

"Engage the emergency back-up power!" Mitch was yelling, Caldik 
Prime's atmosphere casting his face in a sickly green light.

"I'm trying," Tom snapped, just as his shaking fingers closed over 
the manual release.  The emergency power came on-line, it's gentle 
hum vastly reassuring.

"Is everyone okay?" Tom asked shakily, looking over his shoulder.

"Borella's injured," De Almo told him, from where he knelt before the 
young Ensign.  "She'll be okay."

"Shield status?"  

"Gone," Castile reported in a shaky voice.

"Transporter?"  

"Off line."

"Communications?"

"Off line."

"Damn it," Paris muttered to himself.  How could this be happening?  
How could he have let this happen?  Idiot!  He felt a cold kernel of 
fear freeze in the depths of his stomach.  This was bad, really bad.  
This would be a huge black mark on his far from pristine record.  
Perhaps the last?  THAT thought frightened him more than the vacuum 
outside his wounded shuttle.  His mind began to whir.  Perhaps he 
could convince them it was an accident?  Anyone could get clobbered 
in the Baleric debris-zone, no matter how fast - or slow - they were 
traveling.  If he could just...but then he had no more time to 
think.  It all happened at once; Mitch screamed out to his right, 
alarms started wailing and...

"No!"

The rock that hit them was huge; had it given them more than a 
glancing blow, they would have died right there.  But the blow was 
hard enough, sending the little shuttle spinning out of the debris 
zone, on a direct course for Caldik Prime.

"We're entering the planet's gravitational field," Mitch shrieked as 
he struggled to stay in the co-pilot's seat.  "Pull up!  PULL UP!"

"I've got no engines," Paris yelled, working frantically at the 
controls, willing them to do his bidding, to pull them out of the 
merciless grasp of the planet below.  "Damn it!"

Violent tremors shook the shuttle, as the first tendrils of Caldik 
Prime's emerald atmosphere brushed at the ship's underbelly.  

"Warning, hull temperature exceeding safety parameters."

"Divert all power to the shields," Paris yelled at Castile; he could 
already feel the heat building.  "Castile - the shields!"

"Shields at fifteen percent," the young ensign replied in a terror-
drenched voice.  "It's all we've got!"

Deeper and deeper into the atmosphere they plunged, shields burning 
red, buffeted by turbulence that dropped the ship hard and fast, 
leaving Tom's stomach thousands of meters above.  Dimly, from behind 
him he heard De Almo muttering an incantation over and over; a 
prayer?  God knew they needed one.

At last they came out of the cloud layer, and Tom saw trees and water 
speeding below them.  They were coming in way too fast, he knew, and 
without the engines it was impossible to slow their descent.  All he 
could do was keep the shuttle's nose up, and hope.  He left the 
praying to De Almo.

"Impact in thirty seconds," Mitch told him, his voice shaking.  

Tom concentrated on the controls, there was no room in his mind for 
anything more; hold her steady, keep her nose up, aim for that 
stretch of water ahead.  Hold her steady, keep her nose up.  Hold her 
steady...

"Twenty seconds."

Hold her steady...

"Fifteen seconds."

Too fast.  They were coming in too fast!

"Ten seconds."  

"God have mercy," De Almo called out suddenly.  

"Five seconds!"

"Brace, brace, brace!" Tom yelled as the ground rushed up to meet 
them with a bone shattering impact that turned the air to fire.  And 
then he knew no more.

***

"He's still sleeping," the voice said.  "Do you want me to wake him?"

"No," said another.  "He'll have enough to deal with.  Let him rest 
for now."

"It's a real tragedy," the first voice said, heavy with sadness.  
"All of them so young."

"I just wish we knew what happened, but there's not much left of the 
shuttle..."

"It's a miracle any of them survived."

"Well, you can take the credit for that Doctor....  Let me know when 
he's awake.  I have a visitor for him."

"Aye sir."

***

Slowly, Tom became aware of his body, heavy and still.  He was lying 
down.  Soft covers touched his skin, something cushioned his head.  
He curled his fingers by his side, feeling them slide over smooth 
sheets.  Opening his mouth slightly he licked at lips gone dry and 
sticky, and tried to swallow the nasty taste that clung to his teeth.  
With an effort he lifted his eyelids, but they were heavy, and the 
light was bright.  He let them fall shut again.  But someone had 
noticed.

"Doctor, he's waking up."

"Give him five mils of quortrozine."

Something cool was pressed to the side of his neck, a small hiss, and 
then his mind began to clear.  His eyes flickered open again, and he 
found himself staring at a white ceiling.  

"Lieutenant Paris?" a voice said to one side.  He turned his head 
slowly in the direction of the sound, and saw a serious face 
regarding him.  "How do you feel?"

Tom opened his mouth, swallowed, licked at his lips: "What...?" he 
croaked.  

"You were in a shuttle accident," the man said slowly, emphasizing 
each word.  "Do you remember?"

Tom shut his eyes against the memories that crashed down upon him; 
the ground rushing towards them, De Almo screaming out, the impact, 
fire....  "The others," he said thickly, fear making him sick.  "What 
happened to the others?"

The doctor put a hand on his arm.  "Ensign Mitchell will recover from 
his injuries," he said gently.  Tom held his breath; there was more, 
he could tell from the sadness in doctor's voice.  "I'm sorry 
Lieutenant, but Ensigns Borella, Castile and De Almo died of their 
injuries.  There was nothing we could do for them.  I'm sorry."  

Tom felt his world shatter.  Dead?  All dead?  Because of him.  He'd 
killed them.  His blood turned to ice and fire and he wanted to 
scream....  He screwed his eyes shut, but it wouldn't dim the pain or 
the cold guilt that froze his heart.  He was to blame.  He should 
have died.  He should be dead, not them.  Through the chaos of his 
mind he dimly heard the doctor's voice, heard words but failed to 
grasp their meaning.  What did it matter what he said?  There were no 
words.  Nothing could be said...  Hot tears leaked from beneath his 
tightly shut eyes, trailing down the side of his face.   Why hadn't 
he died?  He should be dead. 

"...not your fault, Lieutenant."

Somehow those words reached him.  He opened his eyes, letting more 
tears spill.

"It was a terrible accident," the doctor repeated,  "No one blames 
you Lieutenant.  You did your best."

Tom stared at him through a veil of tears.  What was he saying?  
Didn't he understand?  He'd killed them.  His recklessness, his 
arrogance, his pride...

"You were struck by a piece of debris in the Baleric debris-zone.  Do 
you remember?  It wasn't your fault."

Tom just stared as realization dawned.  They didn't know.  They 
didn't know what he'd been doing.

"But I..." he started, but the doctor interrupted him.  

"Get some rest," he advised, patting him comfortingly on the arm.  
"And when you wake up, there's someone here who wants to speak to 
you."

Words still refused to come to him.  He had killed them, and no one 
knew.  No one knew.  He felt the cool of the hypo-spray on his neck, 
and then darkness claimed him once more.

*** 

The next time he woke, his head was clearer, and so was the pain.  It 
jabbed at him, sharp and insistent; he was guilty, his life would 
never be the same again.  Clarity brought other thoughts too; 
thoughts that frightened him even more than the guilt.  He'd be 
disciplined, busted down.  It might even end his career.  And in the 
corner of his mind, a nasty little seed planted itself; NO ONE KNEW.  
Somehow, they didn't know the speed he'd been flying.  All he had to 
do was keep his mouth shut. Castile, De Almo and Borella were dead.  
It was terrible, but it wasn't as if he'd been the only one 
responsible.  They'd all encouraged him, they'd all wanted to beat 
Harrison's record...

"No," he said out loud, his voice startling the empty room.  No, it 
was wrong.  He should take the blame. He was the pilot.  But...

The door hissed open, interrupting his thoughts.  Tom's jaw dropped 
when he saw who entered.  It was the last person he'd expected to see 
here.  The last person he wanted to see:

"Dad?  What are you doing here?"

"Visiting my son," the Admiral replied gruffly, stepping into the 
room.  "How are you Thomas?  The doctor told me it was touch and go 
for a while."

Tom shrugged.  "He says I should be fine."

His father nodded, moving closer, but not too close.  Never too 
close.  "You were lucky.  I saw the crash site.  There wasn't much 
left."

"I guess not.  I don't really remember."

"No.  Well, that's probably for the best," the Admiral nodded, 
lapsing into the awkward silence that so often fell between them.  He 
stood, hands folded neatly behind his back, gazing out of the window.   
"It's a shame you didn't manage to reach the Tagar Lake," he said 
after a while, "it would have made a softer landing."

"There wasn't much time," Tom retorted, instantly defensive.  "And I 
had no engines.  I did my best."

"Yes.  Yes, I'm sure you did."  Silence again.

"So, how long are you staying?"

"A few days.  I thought I'd stay for the inquiry."

"The inquiry?"  Tom felt the blood drain from his face.  His father 
must have noticed, because his brow creased into a frown.

"What's the matter?  You've got nothing to worry about.  It was just 
an accident..." he stopped suddenly, and fixed Tom with those 
piercing eyes he remembered so well from his childhood.  "It WAS an 
accident, wasn't it Thomas?" Tom remembered that voice too; tell me 
it wasn't your fault, it said.  Tell me you didn't screw up.

"It was an accident."  The lie came instinctively to his lips.  
"Something hit us."

His father's gaze didn't let up.  "Good," he said. "And I assume you 
followed all the correct procedures?"

"Of course," Tom replied, dropping his gaze to his fingers, balled 
into a fist by his side.  "But there wasn't much I could do without 
power to the engines."

"Did you try diverting the emergency power system?" his father asked.

"No.  We needed all power for the shields during re-entry.  There 
wasn't enough for both."

"Hmmmm. Obviously the transporters were off-line?"

"Dad, trust me.  We were dead in the water.  And then we were hit 
again, and knocked into the gravitational field of Caldik Prime.  
There was nothing I could do.  Nothing." 

"No, of course not," his father replied.  "Still, it's a shame about 
missing the lake though."

"It's a shame for Borella, Castile and De Almo."

"And for you.  This won't look good on your record, even if it was an 
accident.  And you should have been up for promotion at the next 
board."

"Promotion?" Was that all he ever thought about?  "Dad, three people 
are dead."  

"No one joined Starfleet without knowing the risks, son.  Space is a 
dangerous place.  They were unlucky, that's all.  You're going to 
have to get used to it.  When you have your own command..."

"If..." Tom corrected, sullen as an adolescent.

"When.  Then you'll have to deal with fatalities on a regular basis.  
It's never easy, but I find...."

Tom tuned out.  He wasn't in the mood for a lecture.  And anyway, it 
didn't apply.  The only bad luck Borella, Castile and De Almo had run 
into was having him as a pilot.  Luck, on the other hand, had been 
with him the whole way.  Not only had he survived the crash, but he'd 
escaped all blame too; he was home free.  All he had to do was keep 
his mouth shut, and luckily for him,  he didn't have a problem with 
that.  Not a real problem.  Not the kind of problem that would force 
him to brave the displeasure of Starfleet, and worse, the 
disappointment of his father.  No, he wasn't that brave.  The truth 
wasn't that important.  Not when it wouldn't change anything.  They 
were dead, and truth or lies, they'd stay that way.

"...Are you listening to me?"

"I'm sorry.  I must've drifted off...I'm pretty tired."  Lies again.  
So easy once you start.

"Of course," his father drew closer and patted him awkwardly on the 
shoulder.  "I'll let you rest now.  I'll stop by again tomorrow."

And with that he left.  But within those few minutes, the ugly little 
seed of deception had rooted itself firmly in the corner of Tom's 
mind, and watered by his own fears, it had already grown into a tree 
of lies.  And Tom was trapped firmly within its branches.  His 
decision had been made for him.  He would keep his mouth shut and 
ride the storm.  He had no choice now.

***

B'Elanna lay awake, staring at the stars streaming past her window.  
They reminded her of Tom.  Voyager in motion was his somehow, just 
like the humming engines were hers.  But he wasn't at the helm now.  
He was fighting old battles in sick-bay, reliving the darkest parts 
of his life, and there was nothing she could do to help him.

If the Doctor has to wake him, she mused, what will he be like?  
Young, she realised, and arrogant, she guessed.  Would she love him?  
Could she?  He wouldn't be the man she knew now, tempered by his 
mistakes, valuing the second chance he'd been given.  

Tom had once wished they'd known each other at the Academy.  It 
wasn't a wish B'Elanna could share.  "You'd have hated me," she'd 
told him then.  And I'd have hated you - she'd kept that to herself.  
Timing.  It was all in the timing.  And now that timing was all 
screwed up.

She was never meant to meet the Tom Paris of six years ago.  It 
wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't work, and she couldn't let it happen.  
He needed those six years, and so did she.

Sitting up, B'Elanna slid out of bed and padded towards the bathroom.  
May as well get an early start, she thought.  Three days to go, and 
six years to save.   

***

It should have been raining, Tom thought.  The brilliant sunshine 
didn't seem to fit the somber scene, it jarred against the black 
clothes, made the poignant flowers too festive, too bright.  His own 
offering lay among them, resting near the memorial to his three dead 
colleagues, but he didn't get close enough to see the flowers he'd 
sent.  He hung back, not wanting to intrude, afraid that he might be 
seen, afraid that he might be recognized and not welcomed.

He had forced himself to come; it was a kind of punishment.  The pain 
was a scourge against the guilt that was destroying his sleep; he'd 
face the consequences of his failure, even if it was only privately.  
Everyone else thought he was a hero, of sorts.  The brave Lieutenant 
who had managed to get the shuttle down against the odds; it was salt 
in the wound, guilt piled on guilt.  And he wasn't so blind to 
responsibility that he didn't feel it.  But he didn't feel it 
strongly enough to risk his career with the truth.  Perhaps he was 
more like his father than he liked to admit?  Fast ships and 
promotion.  Was that all he wanted?  Was that more important to him 
than the truth?  

As he watched the mourners he saw two figures break away from the 
group and head towards him.  Squinting in the morning sunshine, Tom 
strained to recognize them, but they were strangers and he turned 
away.  He was about to leave when someone called his name:  
"Lieutenant Paris?"

He looked round to see a middle-aged couple approach him, dressed in 
black, eyes red and puffy with grief.  Sudden panic drove his heart 
into his throat; who were they?  What did they want?

The woman smiled a tremulous smile and held out her hand to him.  
"Lieutenant Paris?  I'm Clara Borella, and this is my husband Will; 
we're Alana's parents."  Her voice caught as she mentioned her 
daughter's name, and her husband put a comforting hand on her 
shoulder.

"We're glad you came," he told Tom in a voice as gentle and lilting 
as his daughter's.

Tom stared at them, his mind frozen.  Alana?  Alana Borella?  He 
hadn't even known her first name.  "I...," he started.  What could he 
say?  I'm sorry I got your daughter killed?

"It must be hard for you," Clara said, reaching out and touching his 
arm.  "We wanted you to know that...that we don't blame you at all.  
They explained what happened.  How it could have happened to anyone."

Tom felt sick to his stomach, his mouth tasting the bitter guilt that 
churned in his guts.  "I'm very sorry," he said at last, sure that 
they could see the truth in his face.  Clara nodded, fresh tears 
springing to her eyes.  

"Alana spoke about you," Will said with a smile.  "She said you were 
the best pilot in Starfleet."

"No.  She was wrong," Tom muttered, looking away.  He'd hardly ever 
spoken to the girl!  He hadn't even known her first name.  He felt 
tears of his own, but they were trapped inside now, trapped by the 
lie that he was living, and he could not shed them.  

"I'm sure she was right," Clara added, smiling almost shyly.  "She 
said you had pretty eyes too - and she was right about that."

Tom turned to look at them, the confession burning on his lips.  But 
Will Borella spoke first; "Commander Dail told us that no one could 
have piloted the shuttle better than you - it's good to know she had 
the best possible chance.  It's a comfort, of sorts."

And with a final, tearful smile, they turned and walked slowly back 
to the rest of the mourners.  Tom watched them go in agony, his dry 
eyes burning with tears that refused to fall.

***

"Computer, play Paris fourteen," B'Elanna asked as she sank into the 
chair by the console in her quarters.

The computer obliged and the strains of some obscure twentieth-
century ditty played into the room.  It wasn't really her style, but 
it made her feel closer to Tom.  

"Computer, access shuttle logs, audio and visual display."

She had spent the whole day in the shuttle-bay and come up with 
nothing useful.  Sure, she'd figured out that some kind of sub-
temporal flux had passed through the ship, but so what?  Nothing had 
been effected.  Nothing but Tom. So she'd turned to the logs in 
desperation, hoping that they might inspire her.  She started with 
the mission logs.  Her heart jumped painfully when she heard Tom 
speak, even if he was just reeling off the day's activities.  It was 
comforting to see him though, to hear his familiar voice, even see 
him smile occasionally.  But there were five days worth of logs, and 
she didn't have much time.  

"Computer, forward by seventy-two hours."

The images before her rushed ahead as the computer scanned for the 
right date; a blur of activity, pictures, sounds....  And that was 
when the solution hit her.

"Of course!" she yelled, jumping to her feet and heading for the 
door, leaving Tom to report the day's events to an empty room.

***

"After this we'll be home free," Mitch murmured as they walked 
together towards the inquiry chamber.  

"Will we?" Tom asked.  He couldn't get Clara Borella out of his head.

"Of course," Mitch replied, tension straining his voice.  "What's the 
matter with you?"

"Nothing," Tom muttered, staring ahead.  "I'm all right."  All he had 
to do was keep his mouth shut.  But it wasn't so easy.  He couldn't 
sleep, he couldn't eat.  The guilt was with him every moment, 
compounded by the lie.  What was it all for?  For his career?  For 
his father's career?  He didn't know anymore.  He just didn't know.  

"Lieutenant," he recognized his father's voice immediately, and 
turned.

"Admiral." By his side he sensed Mitch spring to attention, but Tom 
didn't bother.  He never did anymore, and it drove his father wild.  
Mitch received a cursory nod from Admiral Paris; "Go inside, Ensign.  
I want to talk to my son."

"Aye Sir," Mitch replied, leaving them hurriedly.  Tom didn't blame 
him. 

"Checking up on me?" he asked when they were alone.

His father ignored the tone in his voice.  "I've come to give you 
some good news actually.  I thought you could do with cheering up 
before the hearing."

"Good news?" Tom was dubious.

"A new posting. Commander Dail is releasing you to the "The Victory" 
- Chief Con Officer.  You leave in two weeks."

Tom just stared.  This was it.  This was what he'd always wanted.  At 
last.  But now?  After the accident?  It was impossible.  Suspicion 
narrowed his eyes: "How?"  

His father smiled.  "There's no point in being an Admiral if you 
can't pull a few strings."

"No favors," Tom insisted, reviving an old argument.

The Admiral's lips compressed into a frustrated line: "You don't need 
favors.  Dail was impressed with the way you handled the accident.  
He thinks you're ready, and so do I."

"The way I handled the accident."  Tom's voice was as empty as his 
soul.  

"Not many people could have landed that shuttle Tom.  You did well, 
and you deserve the reward."

"No..."  It was wrong.  It was terribly wrong.

"Lieutenant," steel crept into his father's voice.  "This is not an 
invitation to dinner; you have your orders.  I don't expect to argue 
with you about it."

"I'm not arguing, I'm just..."

"Enough."

"But..."

"I said enough." His voice cracked like a whip, as he grappled with a 
temper that sought to elude him.  After a pause he spoke again.  "I 
don't understand you, Thomas.  I thought this would be good news.  I 
thought it was what you wanted."

"It is," Tom confessed.  "It's just...the accident..." he struggled 
with the words.  "It's not right."

"Accidents happen, Tom.  Deal with it."

"Aye, sir," the words came out without thought.  His mind was 
elsewhere.  How could he explain?  He was alone, trapped in the lies 
he had spun, and with every twitch, they held him tighter.  What to 
do now?  Accept the reward?  It was blood money; his career taking 
off on the backs of his dead colleagues.  Colleagues his pride, 
arrogance and stupidity had killed.  But how could he not accept?  
The only way out was to admit the truth.  Admit his part in the 
accident, and worse, admit that his reports and testimony were lies.

He was trapped.  Stuck fast.  And so he had a choice; live the lie 
and prosper, or live the truth and perish.  

"Tom?" his father's voice brought him back to himself.  "Are you 
well?  You've gone very pale."

"I'm fine," he muttered, turning towards the hearing room.  "Let's 
just get this over with."

His father patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.  "You'll be all 
right Tom," he told him as they walked into the chamber.  "You'll 
see."

But Tom barely heard his words. Before his eyes danced the tearful 
face of Clara Borella, while a single phrase spun in his head; damned 
if you do, damned if you don't.  

***

"So, you see we have to speed up the process," B'Elanna explained to 
the Doctor.

"Like fast-forwarding a shuttle log?" he sounded skeptical.

"Exactly - if we could play his memories a hundred times faster than 
real time...."

"Then we could wake him up much sooner.  I agree."

"Can you do it?"

The doctor frowned.  "We'll need to stimulate the cerebral cortex 
quite substantially, without causing any further damage to the 
hypothalamic region....  Let me think."

As the doctor walked away, B'Elanna turned back to Tom.  He was 
resting peacefully now, something that looked like a smile touching 
his lips.  Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him.  "Hang on 
Tom," she murmured.  "We're getting there."

***

Tom sat at the front of the chamber, aware of the weight of people 
sitting behind him.  Adjudicator T'Kara presided at the bench, his 
elderly face creased by many years, but his eyes, sunk into his 
hollow face, glittered with an intelligence as bright as the stars.  
He swept the crowded chamber with his shrewd gaze before he spoke.

"The evidence in this case seems conclusive, and I am prepared to 
disclose my findings.  Before I do so, does anyone have anything 
further to add?"

By his side, Tom saw Mitch's fingers twisting together in his lap as 
the ensign held his breath, waiting for the dread voice of an 
accuser.  Tom's father sat near the bench, his hands folded across 
his spreading belly, his face the face of an Admiral; concerned, 
intelligent...and complacent.  He had no idea.  No idea.

Inside, Tom's heart raced as the moment lengthened before him in a 
silence that was absolute.  He saw the adjudicator's eyes take in the 
whole room, pausing to rest momentarily on Tom, piercing him like 
needles of fire.  And as he gazed into those ancient eyes, he saw his 
own life expand before him.  He saw himself in twenty years time, as 
fat and complacent as his father, his life built on a lie, his career 
built on the graves of the three dead officers.  And he knew, with a 
certainty he had rarely known, that he could never live that life, 
never live that lie.

The moment was almost past.  T'Kara opened his mouth to speak...and 
Tom stood up.  His knees and his guts felt like water, his clammy 
hands tingled with tension as he smoothed them nervously against his 
trousers, trying to swallow the nerves that crowded his throat.  
Trying to find his voice.

"Paris!" he heard Mitch hiss in a strangled whisper.  His father just 
stared, motionless, waiting; his gaze as eloquent as any words - 
don't you fail me now, it said.  Don't you dare.

T'Kara turned his bright eyes back towards Tom.  "Lieutenant Paris, 
do you have something further to add to your testimony?"

Despite his sand-dry mouth, Tom's voice was strong.  "Yes Sir."

"Then proceed."

"Before I start, I would like to say, for the record, that I alone am 
responsible for my actions.  No other officer was involved with what 
happened either on board the Trafalgar or," the briefest of glances 
at his father, "afterward."

"Very well," T'Kara replied carefully, his interest piqued.  

Tom's heart raced wildly as he licked at dry lips.  The words were on 
his tongue, all he needed was the courage to utter them.  And at last 
he found it.  Staring straight ahead, looking at no one, he said: "I 
lied in my testimony to the inquiry, Sir."  Shocked gasps whispered 
around the chamber at his words.  

"Lied?"  The adjudicator's eyes turned hard as agate.  "That is a 
serious offense, Lieutenant."

"Yes Sir."

"And what was the nature of your lie?"

"When the accident happened I was not traveling at the recommended 
safe speed for the Baleric debris-zone."

"I see," the adjudicator replied, glancing down at the console before 
him.  "In your testimony, you stated that you were traveling at one 
quarter impulse.  Are you saying that is untrue?"

"Yes Sir.  I was traveling at full impulse."

"FULL impulse?"  Mutters from the spectators interrupted T'Kara, 
until he quieted them with a swift motion of his hand.  "And in your 
opinion, Lieutenant Paris, did your excessive speed contribute to the 
accident?"

Tom licked his lips.  This was it.  This was the moment.  "Yes Sir, 
it did.  It was the cause of the accident.  I'm responsible."

Disbelieving cries echoed through the chamber behind him, and through 
the noise he thought he heard a woman sobbing.  Clenching his jaw Tom 
stared straight ahead and watched as his father stood up and left the 
room, giving his son one final glance, a glance full of such deep 
disappointment that Tom knew he would remember it for the rest of his 
life. 

***

"Will it work?" Janeway asked looking dubiously at the contraption 
B'Elanna and the Doctor had created.  

"There's no way of knowing until we try," B'Elanna told her.  

"I'll be monitoring Mr. Paris' neural activity the whole time, 
Captain," the Doctor assured her.  "We can abort if it seems to be 
doing more harm than good."

Janeway considered, looking down at her young pilot.  He WAS young, 
she realised, watching him sleep.  Too young to risk damaging 
further?  Perhaps, but this time, at least, it wasn't her choice.  
She had become so used to making these life or death decisions for 
her crew, her family, that she'd forgotten that in this case, she 
didn't have to.  Unlike many of her crew, Tom had next of kin here in 
the Delta Quadrant.  Well, practically, anyway.  She turned to 
B'Elanna.

"It's your decision, Lieutenant."

Torres nodded in understanding and thanks.  "I think it's worth a try 
Captain.  I have to try and bring him back."

"I know," Janeway replied. "I understand."

***

Eyes front, Tom marched along the endless corridor, trying to ignore 
the security team that escorted him.  The door at the end was small, 
seemingly innocuous, but behind it lay his fate; the verdict of 
Starfleet Command.  As they approached, their shoes click-clicking on 
the hard polished floor, the door hissed open and his father emerged 
into the corridor.  The Admiral's face was flushed with anger.

Suddenly light-headed, Tom felt the blood drain from his face.  He 
knew what this meant.  He knew why his father had come here, and he 
knew instinctively that he had failed.  The Admiral could do no more 
for his wayward son, and Tom knew how much he must have hated trying.

His father walked towards them, white hair glinting in the bright 
light, eyes mere chips of ice.  Tom watched him, his gaze locked on 
the Admiral's face, looking for...what?  Forgiveness?  

The Admiral stopped as they passed in the corridor, and gazed at his 
son with eyes full of injured pride.  Tom trailed to a halt, the 
security team hanging back, unsure.

For a long moment, they said nothing, father and son looking at each 
other over a chasm grown immeasurably wide.  In the end the Admiral 
spoke first:  "No favors."

Tom nodded, understanding.  "No favors."  He wanted to say more, to 
apologize, explain...but he couldn't find the words.  What his father 
thought, he could only imagine.  

"I'll tell your mother," was all he said before he turned and walked 
away, leaving Tom to face his fate alone.  

Alone.  For the first time in his life he understood the word's 
meaning, and it terrified him; chilled him to the core, clamped a 
fist of ice around his mind.  Feeling himself start to shake, Tom 
screwed stiff fingers into fists by his side and clamped his teeth 
together.  

"Let's go," a voice prompted him from a distance, and somehow his 
legs carried him forward once more.

He had never felt so empty, so cold, so utterly abandoned. So afraid.  
And in that moment he realised that he had a choice; fight it, or 
succumb to the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him.  Tom chose 
to fight.  And so he forced a smirk to touch his lips, made a glint 
of careless arrogance brighten his eyes; Lieutenant Thomas Eugene 
Paris, the sucker, was dead.  He'd died with his crew on the 
Trafalgar.  Welcome to the new world.  Welcome to the new Tom Paris, 
the screw-up, the loser, the nobody.  Welcome, and beware.

After that, the proceedings streamed past in a blur, as if he was 
watching it happen to someone else.  Who was that poor schmuck in the 
uniform?  Why did he look so pale when they told him to hand over his 
Starfleet insignia?  Why was his hand shaking when he signed his 
resignation papers?  It wasn't him.  It wasn't the new Tom Paris.  He 
would never look that scared, that lost.  Never.

And then it was over, and he was standing outside, blinking in the 
sunlight, stripped of his rank, his uniform, his life.  A nobody.  
And as he looked around him, at this new world, he had a curious 
sensation.  For the world, it seemed, was beginning to accelerate, to 
rush towards him, around him, through him - images, people, 
sounds....  It was too much, too much to take in.  And then the 
darkness was upon him and he was falling again, too fast, much too 
fast....

END OF PART ONE

***


"INSTANT REPLAY" BY MALCOLM REEVE
PART TWO: CONCLUSION

Summary: "Things go from bad to worse for Tom.  Will B'Elanna's 
skills be enough to bring him back to her?"  Rated PG.

BY MALCOLM REEVE (e-mail: 106625.3210@compuserve.com)
This is the second of a two part story set at some point in the 
middle of season four.



"It's too fast!" the Doctor called out, "shut it down!  Shut it 
down!"

Torres hit the abort button with such ferocity that Janeway was 
convinced she must have broken it.

"What happened?" B'Elanna asked, breathing heavily.  

"The neural pathways were reforming too fast for his cerebral cortex 
to process the information," the Doctor rattled off, eyes fixed on 
his instruments.  "We were overloading him."

"Is he all right?" the concern in Torres' voice was mixed in equal 
part with frustration.

"Yes, I think so.  But we're going to have to give this some more 
thought."

"Perhaps if you got some rest?" Janeway suggested to B'Elanna.  
"Gathered your thoughts?  It's late, and...."

Torres was ignoring her.  She had an idea, the Captain could 
practically see it forming in those dark, fiery eyes.  "We need to 
upgrade him," her Chief Engineer said.

"What?"

"Upgrade his memory."

"I'm a doctor, not a computer engineer," the Doctor snapped.

Torres ignored him as she tapped her comm badge: "Torres to Seven-of-
Nine."    

"This is Seven-of-Nine."

"Come to sickbay immediately," and then, almost as an afterthought, 
"please."

"I am on my way, Lieutenant Torres."

Janeway raised an inquisitive eyebrow.  Torres shook her head: "It's 
a long shot, but I've done crazier things."

***

The sound of the docking clamps engaging jolted Tom from his drowsy 
reverie.  They'd arrived.  Around him the other passengers were 
gathering their possessions, yawning, stretching their legs, pleased 
that the journey was over, eager to see loved ones.  Tom felt 
nothing, but that was no surprise.  He'd felt nothing for a long time 
now.  How long had it been?  Two months?  Three?  He'd lost track, 
but it didn't matter.  Time had no meaning for a nobody.  

Over the comm system an automated information broadcast droned, 
explaining arrival procedures, security procedures...  Tom tuned out.  
That oh-so-proper Starfleet voice irritated him, reminded him of 
things past, things lost forever.  Hoisting his hold-all over one 
shoulder, he headed for the exit, joining the end of a long line of 
passengers waiting to leave the ship.  

"Not so fast Paris," a low, female voice called.  Tom turned, a smile 
touching his lips.

"Kyel," he said smoothly, watching her slink through the milling 
crowd towards him.  Her long legs, shock of red hair, and almost 
indecent attire attracted a number of stares.  "Looking for a goodbye 
kiss?" he asked with a grin.

Her delicate eyebrows arched over violet eyes:  "A kiss?" she rolled 
the words over her tongue, deliberating.  "Perhaps.  After."

"After what?" Tom asked his eyes drifting down from her eyes, 
lingering over her...

"You owe me money, Paris," Kyel murmured, stepping closer.  She was 
tall, as tall as Tom, and it unnerved him a little.

"Didn't I pay you?" he asked, his blue eyes full of innocence.  "Must 
have forgotten."

"Forgetting can be dangerous," she told him, her breath warm on his 
face as she stepped closer and pressed something cold and hard into 
his belly.  A disrupter; illegal and very nasty.  Tom smiled.  

"Good job you reminded me then," he replied easily, reaching slowly, 
carefully, into his pocket.  "Two bars I believe...?"

Kyel eyed the latinum in his hand, greed making her violet eyes 
smolder a deep, dark blue.  When she spoke, her rich voice was 
regretful: "Two bars."

Swiftly, Tom reached an arm around her waist, and pulled her close.  
She tensed in his embrace, the disrupter jabbing hard into his ribs, 
but he ignored it.  Leaning close, brushing her neck with his lips, 
he whispered: "I'll give you five for the weapon."
 
"I could kill you right here and take your money," she purred, 
nuzzling closer.  

He didn't thing she meant it.  "This close to Starfleet security?" he 
murmured.  "I doubt it."

"You'll never get it off the ship," she told him, her own lips doing 
interesting things to his left ear.  

"I'll take my chances."

"Mmmmmmmm," she breathed, "why don't we discuss this in private?"

He was tempted.  Very tempted.  But not stupid.  "It's now or never," 
he told her pushing away slightly and favoring her with his most 
seductive smile; it never failed.  Never.  

Desire flashed in her eyes; "No tricks," she promised him as her lips 
danced over his, and he almost believed her.  Almost, but not quite.

"You want the latinum, we trade right here.  Right now."

Kyel glared, pouted, and then decided.  "Show me the money," she 
demanded.  Tom obliged, just as he reached down between them and lay 
hands on the disrupter.  Their eyes locked as she reached for the 
latinum, and in a split second, the trade was made.  Hurriedly, Tom 
slipped the weapon beneath his long coat, while Kyel counted her 
reward.

She looked up at him, tossing her long red hair over one shoulder.  
"It's been nice doing business with you, Paris."

He inclined his head.  "Kyel - it's been nice doing...everything with 
you."

She smiled then, a slow enticing smile that reminded him of long, hot 
nights.  "I've had better," she told him, her violet eyes glowing, 
"but not many." And then she turned and left, her hair and hips 
swaying with each step.  

***

Janeway watched the doctor raise an eyebrow, and glance warily at 
B'Elanna.  

"How is he?" Torres asked impatiently.

"Urm, fine." The doctor said.  "Actually, he seems to be quite 
enjoying himself."

Torres scowled.  "Well I'm glad someone is," she snapped.  "Have you 
figured out how far forward we brought him?"

The doctor returned his attention to the tricorder.  "About three 
months," he said at last.

B'Elanna sighed as the doors to sickbay slid open, and Seven-of-Nine 
stalked in.

"Lieutenant Torres.  You asked me to come here."

"Yes.  I need..."  B'Elanna was clearly struggling with the words.  
"I need your help."

When she had finished explaining the problem, Seven stood in silence, 
staring down at Tom.  After a moment she spoke.  

"His mind is too small."

Janeway couldn't help smiling at her choice of words.

Even B'Elanna raised an amused eyebrow; "That's one way of putting 
it," she admitted.

"We need to expand his capacity to process information.  If he were 
part of the collective..."

"Well he's not," Torres interrupted, "But I think I have a way to 
expand his processing capacity.  Tell me how you were linked to the 
Borg collective mind..."

***

The disrupter, wedged in the small of his back, seemed to burn 
against his skin as Tom sauntered past the station's security 
personnel.  A group of drunk, and rather rowdy, Klingons were 
attracting a lot of attention ahead of him, and Tom was grateful that 
no one seemed to be paying  him much attention.  No one except one 
man.  Or was he a man?  A penetrating, relentless gaze peered out of 
a not-quite-human face; a half formed face.  The man, or whatever he 
was, stood perfectly still, hands behind his back, watching Tom 
intently.  Tom returned the stare, coming to a halt a few meters in 
front of the creature.

"Odo.  Chief of Security," it said at last, in a short, clipped 
voice.  "Welcome to Deep Space Nine, Mr. Paris."

"How nice.  A personal welcoming committee.  I'm touched," his voiced 
dripped contempt.  "A present from my father?"

Odo's eyes narrowed.  "I don't know your father," he replied stepping 
closer.  "But I know all about you.  And I want to know why you're on 
my station."

Tom shrugged:  "I'm on vacation."

"I can think of nicer destinations."

"But this has the advantage of distance - I needed to get away from 
Earth for a while."

Odo grunted.  "Earth?  I thought it was Caldik Prime you were running 
from?"

Tom felt his whole body tense at those words, but he kept the smirk 
on his face nonetheless: "News travels fast."

"This is a Starfleet operation.  You won't be welcome here Paris."

"That'll make a change."

Odo stared at him, and to Tom it seemed as if those strange hollow 
eyes could read his very soul; could see the color of his heart.  
After a long moment, Odo flicked his head in a gesture of dismissal:  
"I've got my eye on you," he warned as Tom started walking.  "Oh, and 
Mr. Paris," his voice dropped as Tom moved past him, "cause any 
trouble on my station and I'll be mailing your molecules back to your 
father, whoever he is."

Tom smiled despite himself, and moved on quickly.  He had someplace 
to be, and little time to spare.  Besides, with the station's Chief 
of Security on his tail, he didn't plan to be staying long.

The bar was easy to find.  Well, it WAS the only one on the station.  
Tom ordered a drink, waved away the Ferengi's offer of the holo-
suites, found a dark corner, and sat down.  Then he waited, and 
watched, and waited.  He watched the patrons come and go, assessing 
them, trying to guess which one would be his contact.  That Vulcan 
over there?  The one with half an ear missing?  Or that human woman, 
who swaggered with the gait of a warrior and drank like a parched 
Klingon?  Perhaps the young human lad sitting on his own, tall and 
lanky, his face as serious as only the very young can be?  Yeah, he's 
just the sort to risk his life for the romance of a cause, Tom 
thought, just the sort.  A shadow fell across his table:

"Need another drink?" the Ferengi asked him, tray in hand.

"No."  

"How about some conversation then?"  He sat down.  

"Get out of here," Tom snapped.  "I'm waiting for someone."

"Oh?" a toothy smile broke his face, "Is she pretty?"

"I have no idea," Tom told him, "just leave me alone, will you?"

The Ferengi sat up, affronted.  "You really DO have an attitude 
problem, don't you?" he asked.  "I can see why Starfleet threw you 
out."

Tom scowled, rapidly loosing his temper.  "What do you WANT, 
Ferengi?"

"Want?  Me?  Why nothing, I'm just here to provide a service."

Tom glared at him for a moment, and then realization dawned: "YOU'RE 
my contact?"

"Let's just say I'm a messenger," he replied.  "They'll be in room 
8794 in the habitat ring, for the next, oh, fifteen minutes."  He 
grinned.  "You'd better run."

Tom stood slowly, towering over the little Ferengi.  "Thanks for your 
help," he said as coldly as he could manage, "I'll be sure to 
remember it."  He got a brief flash of satisfaction from seeing the 
bar-keeper swallow nervously, before he turned and sauntered from the 
bar.  It wasn't until he was well out of sight that he started to 
sprint.

The room was at the far side of the habitat ring, a quiet and 
virtually deserted section, and by the time Tom reached it he was 
breathing hard.  Leaning over, hands on knees, he struggled to gather 
his composure and catch his breath.  But he stopped breathing 
altogether when he felt the cold metal of a phaser against his neck.  

"Disarm him," a voice said from behind, and Tom felt someone pull the 
disrupter from beneath his coat.

"That's a nasty weapon," the voice said again.

"I'm a nasty person," Tom replied.

"So I've heard.  Stand up and put your hands where I can see them."

Tom did as he was told.

"Darian, tell the others he's here," the voice said.  A slim young 
man, practically a boy, Tom realised, stepped out from behind him, 
dressed in the dull, inconspicuous clothing of those who want to be 
forgotten.  He cast a quick look at Tom as he passed, a look of 
contempt mixed with curiosity; a look Tom had come to recognize.  He 
returned the stare with one of his own; hard and bleak.  The boy 
looked away and Tom smiled to himself.  Green, the boy was as green 
as grass.  As green as the atmosphere on Caldik Prime.  His smile 
faded.

Darian slipped into a room to Tom's left - not the room the Ferengi 
had told him, of course - and after a few moments he poked his head 
out again.

"The commander says bring him in," he chirped in a voice that 
betrayed his age.  Just a child.  A firm hand grasped Tom's shoulder, 
and the phaser pressed against the back of his neck: "All right 
Paris, move it."

He was ushered into a dark room full of whispers.  There were people 
in the darkness, behind him and to his side, but he could only see 
one man.  One man who stood leaning against an internal doorway, a 
dim light illuminating a square face that would have been blank but 
for the tattoo that decorated it.

"My name is Chakotay," the man said in a slow, quiet voice.  "I hear 
you wanted to talk to me?"

Tom inclined his head.  "I'm here to offer my services to the 
Maquis," he replied smoothly.  

"And why would you want to do a thing like that?"

"For the money," Tom lied.

Chakotay's face darkened.  "Money?"

"The Maquis need pilot's.  I'm a pilot," he forced a grin.  "I'm the 
best pilot you'll ever get - and I don't work for free."

"We don't hire mercenaries," Chakotay snapped, but there was 
something bordering on doubt in his voice.  

Tom took a gamble, rolling the dice in his head: "That's not what 
I've heard."  

Chakotay glared at him, but didn't answer. Instead he said, "Why 
should I trust you?  You could be a Starfleet plant."

"I could be," Tom admitted, "if you think Starfleet would kill three 
of its officers just to give me a good cover story."

"Faked."

"No," Tom shook his head, unexpected emotions surging.  "Not faked.  
I went to their funerals, I ...."  He clamped his jaw shut, furious 
at himself for revealing so much.

"You killed them," Chakotay finished his sentence, skewering him with 
serious, dark eyes.

Tom held his silence for a moment, marshaling control.  "Yes I did," 
he replied eventually.  "It was an accident."

"Starfleet don't usually throw you out for having an accident," 
Chakotay observed.  Tom felt the muscles in his neck tense.  He was 
being tested.  Chakotay knew what had happened, Tom was sure of it.  
They all knew.  This was some stupid test of his honor: the man was 
more Starfleet Commander than Maquis rebel.  He could imagine him in 
command red.  Tom smiled, but kept the smile internal; he decided to 
play the game.

"They threw me out because I lied about what happened," he replied, 
lacing his voice with the appropriate level of contrition.

"Why would I want to recruit a liar?" Chakotay asked.

"How many lies did you tell before you left Starfleet?" Tom shot 
back.  "Did you lie to your Captain, to your crew...?"

The Maquis leader stopped him with a sharp gesture of his hand.  "I'm 
not here to answer your questions, Paris," he snapped.  "I made my 
decisions and I'm living with them."

Tom smiled.  "Then we're in the same situation.  We understand each 
other."

Chakotay shook his head, his eyes dark and unfathomable.  "I don't 
think you and I will ever do that Paris," he said slowly.  Tom 
shrugged.  He had to agree; this Maquis leader was not what he had 
expected.  He was no reckless maverick, but neither was he a misty-
eyed idealist; he was as straight and solid as any Starfleet officer, 
and more so than most.  Deep down, Tom felt a grudging respect for 
the man, a respect that irritated like a bee sting; it only pointed 
up his own inadequacies.  Arrogant, foolish, cowardly, dishonest....

"If you want to join us, you leave with us now," Chakotay told him, 
interrupting his gloomy thoughts.

"I'm all yours," Tom replied, masking his feelings with the flippant 
manner he knew irritated all those stiff Starfleet types.  He was 
pleased to see that it worked just as well on Chakotay.

The Maquis leader glared at him, before speaking; "Go with Darian.  
He'll take you to his cell.  You will follow his orders until you 
arrive there.  If not, he's ordered to kill you.  Do you understand?"  
Tom glanced over at the boy, who was watching him with a kind of 
terrified fascination.  

"I understand."

"Good," the commander turned away, toward the dark room behind him.  
But at the last moment he paused and looked back at Tom: "Oh, and 
Paris," he added,  "If you betray us, I'll kill you."

Tom opened his mouth, a witty comment on his lips, but Chakotay's 
attention was already caught by someone in the room beyond.  Tom saw 
the glint of a Bajoran earring and heard a husky female voice; 
"Torres just reported in," it said, "and she's brought someone with 
her; a Vulcan."

"A Vulcan...?" The rest of Chakotay's words were lost, as he 
disappeared into the darkness.

"Let's go," a high-pitched voice piped at Tom's elbow.  Looking down 
he saw Darian watching him warily, his hand hovering close to his 
hip, presumably where his phaser was hidden.

"Lead the way, boss," Tom replied, giving Darian what he hoped was a 
friendly smile.  The boy turned without a word, and led him out of 
the darkness and into the future, whatever it might be.

***

"Let me get this straight," the Doctor said.  "You want me to remove 
a Borg implant from Seven's cerebellum and implant it in Lieutenant 
Paris' head?"

"It's only temporary," B'Elanna explained, trying to remain calm; 
time was running out!  "We'll use the Borg implant as an interface 
between Tom's mind and a section of your holo-matrix.  We can 
accelerate the memory feed and use the processing power of the ship's 
computer to enable Tom to assimilate the information faster."

"You mean, he'll be inside my head?  Able to access my most private 
thoughts?  I don't know if I like that idea."

"If it makes you feel any better, you'll be inside his head too."

"Unsurprisingly, that does NOT make me feel better."

"Look Doctor, this is our best chance to get him back..."

"Aren't you forgetting one other thing?"

"What?"

"Seven.  I can't predict how removing the Borg implant from her 
cerebral cortex will effect her.  It could be dangerous."

Torres bit her lip, swallowing frustration.  They were so close!  She 
turned to Seven.  "Well?" she asked.  Hearing the sharpness in her 
voice, she tried to soften it.  "Will you do it?"

"Damaging one individual to repair the non-essential systems of 
another is not efficient."

Torres felt her anger rising, and noticed the Captain preparing to 
step between her and Seven.

"But Lieutenant Paris was kind to me once," Seven continued.  "And 
that was not essential or efficient.  I will help him."

It took a moment for B'Elanna to swallow the emotions that churned 
inside; anger and relief, tinged with grinding anxiety.  "Thank you," 
she managed at last.  "Doctor?"

"Very well," he replied.   "Come this way Seven - it won't hurt a 
bit."

***

"So, where are we going?" Tom asked, as the little ship headed out 
from DS9.

"You'll see when we get there," Darian replied.

"Okay."

Tom watched the kid flying the ship.  He was how old?  Sixteen maybe?  
He wondered what his story was, what had brought him to the far ends 
of the galaxy at such a young age.

"How long 'till we get there?" Tom asked him.

"Couple of minutes to the Badlands.  Then...as long as it takes."

"The Badlands?  Sounds like fun."

"You're not frightened are you?"  

Tom wasn't, but he could sense the fear beneath the boy's bravado.  
"I'm sure you can handle it."

"Of course I can," Darian snapped.  "I've done it a million times."

"Right."

Silence descended.  Tom gazed out of the window, watching the 
familiar blur of warped space.  It felt good to be back out in it, 
and soon he would be flying again.  He could hardly wait.  That was 
the real reason he was here.  Not the money.  That had been a lie.  
Another lie.  But it didn't matter.  All he really wanted to do was 
fly.  It was all he'd ever wanted to do, and they'd taken it away 
from him.  Outside Starfleet, what chance did he have?  A freighter 
pilot?  Even they wanted to see a license.  And the thought of being 
grounded for the rest of his life - it was unimaginable.  

So, after drifting for a couple of months, he'd remembered the story 
Mitch had told him the day of the accident; the story of a Starfleet 
Commander who'd defected to the Maquis.  And the idea had been born.  
If he couldn't fly with Starfleet, he'd fly against them.  So long as 
he was flying, he didn't care who it was for.  Besides, the Maquis 
had a good cause.  Life, liberty...that kind of thing.  And if they 
killed a few Cardassians, who cared?  They were only Cardassians.  
They probably deserved it.

And so here he was, as far away from Starfleet Command as he would 
ever get, sitting in a ship that had definitely seen better days, 
watching a child fly him to his new home.  A year ago, hell, six 
months ago, no - THREE months ago - he would have laughed out loud if 
someone had suggested that his future would lie here.  Yet here he 
was.  

"The commander said you were a good pilot."  Darian's words startled 
him.  

"Did he?"

"He said you're one of the best, but you've got an attitude problem."

Tom smiled.  "My reputation precedes me then.  I've never met 
Chakotay before."

"He's the best."

"Why's that?"

"He just is." 

Tom recognized hero-worship when he saw it.  "Do you know why he left 
Starfleet?"

"Because they sold us out, that's why."

"I see."

"So, why are you here?"

"Like I told your Commander - for the money."

Darian glanced at him, his young face suddenly shrewd.  "What do you 
need money for?"

"Why do you care?"

The boy shrugged.  "I don't."

Tom considered for a moment.  "So, why are YOU here?"

"To win."

"You think you have a chance - against the Federation and the 
Cardassians?"

"Why else would we be fighting?"  The reasoning of a child.  Tom 
suddenly felt very old - had he ever seen the world that clearly?  
Had he ever had that much faith in anything?  Even in himself?

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

"Younger than you," Darian replied, an impish grin brightening his 
eyes.

"You look about twelve," Tom told him.  It got the desired response.

"I'm seventeen!"

"Ah.  So why aren't you in school or something?"

The smile faded.  "Because it's not there anymore.  The Cardassians 
destroyed it, and most of the colony."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, everyone is.  They don't do anything about it though."

A soft bleep alerted Darian to the controls.  He made a few 
adjustments and they dropped out of warp with a force that almost 
flung Tom from his seat.  Darian shot him a sideways grin.

"Oops.  Should've warned you about that I guess."

"Problem with the inertial dampers?"

"They don't like slowing down."  

"No kidding."

"Okay.  This is where things start getting a little crazy."

The Badlands.  An apt name, Tom mused as he watched the swirling mess 
on the view screen.  He glanced over at Darian; the boy was studying 
the controls intently, chewing nervously on his lower lip.  It didn't 
bode well for a safe passage.

"Need a hand?" Tom offered, knowing it was a mistake the instant the 
words left his lips.

"No.  I'm fine.  I told you."

"Okay." Tom let it drop, but maneuvered himself into a position where 
he could see the controls for himself.  The kid was plotting an 
intricate course, avoiding the bulk of the plasma storms, heading for 
a small planetoid at the heart of the territory.  So far so good.

"So is it true?" Darian asked, his eyes never leaving the controls.  
"What they said about you?"

"I don't know," Tom told him.  "What did they say?"

"That you murdered three people because they were getting promoted 
and you weren't."

Tom couldn't repress a bleak laugh.  "Who told you that?"

"I just heard it.  Is it true?"

"No."

"But you did murder three people?"

"No.  It was a...WATCH OUT!"  The little ship passed dangerously 
close to a plasma flare, its concussion wave knocking her off course 
- and into the path of another flare.  "Starboard, Starboard!"  Tom 
yelled.

"I'm trying," Darian yelped.  "It's not responding."

"You have to compensate - reverse the port thrusters."

"What?"

"The port thrusters!"

Darian was in a panic now, his fingers flying, making more mistakes.  
The ship was listing badly to port, drifting closer to the center of 
the storm.  A warning light started flashing on the console; shields 
were failing.

"The damn ship's barely spaceworthy!" Tom muttered.  In another few 
minutes they'd be caught in the middle of the storm and without the 
shields, he knew they wouldn't last long.  So Tom made a decision: 
"Give me the controls."

"No - I can do it."

"Darian," for a moment he was an officer again, "that's an order."

It worked.  The boy relinquished the controls, and with a few deft 
touches, Tom had them back on a level heading.  

He took a deep breath: "That was tricky," he lied.

But the kid saw right through him.  "Not for you."

"Maybe not," Tom smiled.  "But I've got a few years on you.  It's 
just experience."

"I panicked," Darian told him, glumly-honest.  "I could've got us 
killed."

"Well, you didn't.  You knew when you were out of your depth - that's 
important."

"Is it?"

"Trust me on that one," Tom told him.  "I know all about it."

***

"So, we're ready to try?" B'Elanna persisted.

"Yes, yes all right," the Doctor snapped, still fussing over Seven.  
She lay on a nearby bio-bed, recovering from the procedure to remove 
the Borg implant from her brain.  To Torres' impatient eyes, the 
Doctor seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time with her.  
At last he looked up, folded away his tricorder, and left her 
bedside.

"I want to take it slow to start with," he warned her.  "We'll just 
try a moderate increase in the data flow.  After last time, I don't 
want to take any chances."

"Whatever you say," B'Elanna agreed.  "Let's just get started!"

"Very well," he moved to the device that surrounded Tom's head, and 
B'Elanna turned to the nearby computer console.

"Let's start with a point-five percent increase," the Doctor said.  

"Point-five," B'Elanna echoed, adjusting the controls.  The Doctor 
was right, she knew.  Take it slow, assess the results.  But she was 
so impatient - she wanted it to work NOW.  She wanted him back so 
badly, that she could hardly wait.  It had to work.  It absolutely 
had to.  They were almost out of time, and if this failed she knew 
that the doctor would have no choice but to wake him up - and he 
would be lost to her.  This was his last chance; their last chance.  
She held her breath and waited as the Doctor silently monitored the 
results.

***

Tom had gained a shadow.  It had started the moment he'd arrived in 
this desolate place that, he guessed, he had to call home.  The 
shadow was a little shorter than him, with dark hair, dark eyes and a 
serious face, and it had a name: Darian.  After the incident in the 
plasma storm, Darian had forgotten all the stories of murder and 
mayhem that surrounded Tom, and proudly boasted of him as a friend 
and comrade.  Tom didn't really mind; he needed all the friends he 
could get.  But sometimes he just wanted to be left alone.  And this 
was one of those times.  So, he'd lost his shadow in the camp, and 
hiked a short way up one of the hills that surrounded them.  He had a 
good view over the ragged settlement, he could see the tattered array 
of ships the Maquis wryly called their 'fleet' - they had a sense of 
humor, at least - and he watched the plasma scarred sky glowing a 
dull red in the painfully thin atmosphere.  It was what passed for a 
sunset in this God-forsaken place.

He shouldn't have come so far on his own.  It was against camp policy 
- not something that bothered him - but it was also stupid.  The air 
was thin, almost too thin to breath; hypoxia was an ever present 
danger, and if he passed out up here he'd be brain damaged for life 
before anyone came looking.  He'd brought some air with him, of 
course, so he figured it was worth the risk.  Worth the risk to lose 
his shadow for a while, to escape the whispers that followed him 
around the camp.  To be wonderfully, mercifully alone.  Especially 
today.

Today was his birthday.  Traditionally the day for some of the 
wildest, most outrageous parties Starfleet had seen.  He smiled at 
the memory; boy, had he got himself into trouble at the Academy!  But 
back then he'd had reason to celebrate; another year older, another 
year closer to graduating, another rung on the ladder.  But this year 
was different.  What was there to celebrate?  Stranded in the middle 
of - well - nowhere, literally.  On a rock that tried to pass itself 
off as a planet, flying ships that would have been antiquated when 
his father was a boy.  No cause for a party.  Not that anyone here 
would want to celebrate with him anyway.  Darian was the only one who 
considered him a friend.  The others just watched, and whispered.  
They didn't trust him, and he couldn't really blame them.  He 
wondered how many birthdays he'd spend among these people; all of 
them perhaps, or none.  Maybe he'd get lucky; go out in a blaze of 
glory before he had to endure another one this lonely, another one 
this far from home.

Resting his chin on his hands, he glared moodily at the ramshackle 
Maquis settlement below.  And as he did so a lone figure emerged from 
one of the prefab shelters, scanned the horizon, and set out 
purposefully towards Tom.  He didn't need to look any closer to know 
who it was; his shadow had found him.  Probably a good job - his 
thoughts were definitely drifting toward the morbid.

Standing up, Tom took a couple of breaths of the air he carried, and 
started down towards Darian.  The kid seemed in a hurry, so Tom 
guessed he'd been sent to fetch him.  He hoped it meant some action 
at last.  He'd been here two weeks already, but the cell leader, 
Anya, didn't seem to trust him enough to let him fly.  Not yet.  

"Paris," Darian called.  "Come on!"  Although he'd only walked a 
short distance, the boy was already breathless.

"You should've brought some air," Tom told him as he drew near.

"I'm okay," he replied, grinning.  "Chakotay just contacted Anya - 
we've got a target."

Tom smiled.  At last!  "What kind?"

"Don't know - Anya's going to brief us, and she told me to go get 
you," he gasped for a breath, but waved away Tom's offer of air.  
"Hurry!"

Darian led him to the prefab shelter that served as both mess hall 
and general meeting room.  As the door hissed shut behind him, Tom 
sucked in a couple of deep breaths; the air was stale and recycled, 
but it felt rich and strong compared with the thin atmosphere 
outside.  He felt quite light headed for a moment.

When he looked around, he saw that the room was full, and that all 
eyes were on him.  Silent, dark, suspicious eyes.  He smiled at them, 
"Good evening."

"Paris,"  Anya's voice was as short and hard as the woman who owned 
it.  Tom turned towards her, his smile freezing on her cold gray 
eyes, their color matching the short hair that framed her thin 
features.  He didn't like her; she was the sort of woman over whom 
his smiles held no power.  It made him feel unusually vulnerable, and 
that wasn't a feeling he enjoyed.  "You shouldn't leave the camp on 
your own," she told him.

"I'm very sorry," Tom replied, not meaning it and not caring that it 
showed.  "So, what's up?"

Anya's eyes narrowed.  "We have new orders.  Sit down, I'm about to 
start the briefing."

Tom slouched into a seat, stretching his long legs out in front of 
him.  Darian perched nearby, eyes bright with anticipation.

"Chakotay has learned that a Cardassian convoy is heading into the 
demilitarized zone.  Ostensibly, it's carrying medical supplies and 
food for the Cardassian colonists..."

This was met with bitter laughter.  Anya held up a thin hand, 
demanding silence.

"Of course, we know better.  We believe that the convoy contains 
vital components for nucleogenic weapons."

Tom, along with the rest of the room, sucked in a deep breath.  
Nucleogenic weapons?  Surely Starfleet wouldn't allow it?

"The convoy has to be stopped, and we're going to hit it with 
everything we've got.  We've managed to obtain a copy of its flight 
plan, and we know it's going to come close to the edge of the 
Badlands."  A smile as thin as the rest of her touched Anya's lips.  
"And that's where we're going to take them out."

"How big's the convoy?" asked a tall man, sitting to Tom's right.

"Pretty big, but our orders are to deal with the escort, not the 
convoy itself.  Others will take them on, once we've neutralized the 
out-riders.  I want Gamma and Delta crews to provide heavy covering 
fire while we use the HKs to take out the escort; Turner and Wells, 
Rapkin and West will take two HKs, and I want a volunteer to fly with 
Paris in the third."

The silence was absolute.  Tom glanced to left and right; no one 
spoke, no one looked at him.  Inside his heart a small voice cried 
out in dismay, but he ruthlessly shut the door on its distress, and 
allowed bitterness to take away that particular pain.  "I can fly 
alone," he told Anya, his voice loud in the silence.

"No." It was Darian.  "I'll fly with him."

Tom shook his head, smiling slightly.  He could guess exactly what 
Anya's response to THAT suggestion would be.

"Very well," she said.  "If you're sure."

Tom's jaw dropped.  "But.." he exclaimed, shooting to his feet.  
"He's too..."

"Too young?" Anya finished.  "Yes.  He is.  But kids grow up quickly 
out here, Paris.  He's too young to have had his parents murdered 
too, isn't he?  But they were, and Darian has a right to exact some 
justice for that, don't you think?"

"What justice is there in getting himself killed?"

"It's his choice, Paris, not yours.  You're here on our terms.  You 
have no choice in this."

Tom could feel the tension in the room, the angry stares and 
mutterings.  He knew that further argument was useless, and 
reluctantly sat down.  

"Your target coordinates will be transmitted by Chakotay once you're 
clear of the planet," Anya continued.  "Let the heavy fighters go 
first, and wait for his mark before engaging the escort."  She swept 
the room with a determined stare.  "Any questions?"

There were none.  

"Very well.  Then let's go!"

The Maquis spilled from the shelter, excited yells penetrating the 
thin walls of the hut.  But before Tom could leave, Anya called his 
name.  He turned to face her, the shelter emptying around him.  Anya 
walked over to where he stood, looking up at him as the room fell 
into empty silence.  "I'm taking a risk on you," she said.  "I 
could've sent Eddings in the HK."

"I'm a better pilot," Tom told her.  "What's the risk?"

Her eyes narrowed.  "I don't trust you, Starfleet.  That's the risk.  
But I figure I have to test you some time, and this will be as good a 
test as any."

Tom shrugged and turned away.  "So test me.  I'm not going anywhere.  
Like it or not, I'm here to stay."  Tom wasn't sure if he was 
directing those words at Anya or himself; both, he decided.

"We'll see," was her only reply.  And there was a cold laughter in 
her voice that made Tom shiver.

***

Darian was waiting for him outside. 

"What did she want?" he asked as they made their way towards the 
scrambling ships.  

"To wish me luck." 

Darian glanced at him, not sure whether to believe him or not.

"So, which is ours?" Tom asked, changing the subject.  

Darian grinned and pointed.  "That one!"  

Tom's heart sank so far he could feel it oozing out the toes of his 
boots.  Their ship was a little two-person fighter of very dubious 
origin; dented, battle scarred and OLD.  Under any other 
circumstances Tom would have refused to fly it.  But this was a 
Maquis outfit and he knew they couldn't afford to be fussy.  Darian 
had assured him that there was some hot-shot engineer in Chakotay's 
cell who ensured that all the ships were spaceworthy, but looking at 
this, he had his doubts about her competence.  As they approached, he 
ran his eyes over the hull, looking for any obvious failures.  It 
appeared more or less okay, for what that was worth.

"Come on!" Darian urged, climbing inside.

I must be mad.  The thought circled around his head as he looked at 
the decrepit ship; it span in his mind until the moment he touched 
her.  The hull was cool under his hand as he pulled himself into the 
ship and slid easily into the pilot's seat.  The pilot's seat.  And 
then he began to smile.  This was what it was all about.  He glanced 
over the controls, saw the pre-flight sequence lights blinking at 
him, and took a deep breath.  It even smelled right; that combination 
of static and recycled air that always reminded him of flying.

"What's she called?" he asked.

"Who?"

"The ship.  What's her name?"

"Oh.  I don't think she has one."

"She has to have a name."

"How about - Victory?"

Tom shook his head.  "Deliverance."

Darian shrugged.  "Whatever."

It was a good name.  It certainly felt like his deliverance; to be 
sitting at last where he belonged.  To be getting off that wretched 
rock.

"Okay," he hit the comm panel.  "This is Paris to control.  Are we 
cleared to go?"

"You're cleared Paris," it was Anya's voice.  "Set course five point 
nine mark six."

"Copy five point nine mark six," Tom replied.  "See you out there."

"Copy that.  And Paris - I'll be watching you."

"I'm touched," he told her, and terminated the comm line.  Turning to 
Darian, his smile widened into a grin.  "Ready?"

Darian grinned back.  "Ready."

Tom gunned the engines, feeling them respond with the usual throbbing 
resonance.  It would be loud on the ground, but he didn't care.  With 
a skill he knew would impress even Anya, he lifted the ship slightly 
from the ground, spun her on her axis and opened up the engines.  The 
little rock disappeared beneath them in the blink of an eye, and Tom 
whooped with pure exhilaration.

"I bet that shook'em up!" Darian laughed.

"Anya's going kill me when we get back, isn't she?"

"Yeah."

Tom shrugged.  "You know what?  I don't care."

They were leaving the atmosphere now, and dull red was suddenly 
replaced by the swirling mass of the Badlands.  Tom's sensors came 
alive as he joined the other Maquis ships, weaving their way through 
the plasma storms.

"So, what's the plan?" Tom asked.  "I assume there is one?"

"Of course there is.  We have to wait for the Commander to tell us, 
remember?"

"Chakotay?"

"Who else?"

As if responding to a cue, the comm crackled into life.  "Chakotay to 
Paris.  Respond please."

"Paris here.  Go ahead Chakotay."

"I'm down-loading your target data and your mission objective.  Go 
in, do it, and get out.  Understand?"

"Aye Sir," Tom replied.  And then bit his tongue.  That was a 
Starfleet response; he could imagine the smile on Chakotay's face.

"Proceed, Mr. Paris."  If he was smiling, there was no evidence of it 
in his voice.  "And good luck.  Chakotay out."

Darian called up the information excitedly.  "Wow," he breathed.

"Wow?  Wow what?"

"The convoy has a HUGE escort: we have to take out THREE outriders!"

"Three?  Are they kidding?"

"We can do it."

"Sure.  If we had a Starship!  But in this rust bucket...?"

"What are you afraid of?"

Tom gave him a hard look.  "Dying.  What are you afraid of?"

"Failing."  Darian's eyes were at least as hard as Tom's.  

"Give me the coordinates," Tom said, looking away.

Darian obliged, and Tom plotted the course.  The convoy would arrive 
in a matter of minutes; the Maquis would strike like lightening, and 
disappear just as fast into the anonymity of the Badlands.  That was 
the theory.  Reality, Tom suspected, might not be so smooth.

When they reached the ambush point he dropped the engines, damped the 
power signature, and waited.  Darian sat in silence by his side, his 
young eyes eager with anticipation.  Tom looked away, suddenly 
unenthusiastic for the fight.  What am I doing this for?  It wasn't 
the first time he'd asked himself that question since joining the 
Maquis.  The only problem was, try as he might, he could think of no 
alternative.  And so he waited.

***

"It's working."

The doctor's words were like cool rain in the desert.  Joy reached up 
and swelled her heart so that she felt like she would have to scream 
or let it burst.  But B'Elanna kept her elation in check, as she did 
with all her emotions.  In public at least.  A smile, that was all, 
touched her lips.  "Shall we increase the speed of the data-flow?"

"Yes.  In a moment.  How is my holo-matrix coping with the input?"

Torres glanced at the controls in front of her.  "It's holding up 
well.  Are you aware of the process?"

The doctor considered for a moment.  "Yes," he said at last.  And 
raised an eyebrow.

Curiosity suddenly set her on fire!  She knew she shouldn't ask.  It 
was private.  It would be a terrible intrusion...but she just 
couldn't resist.  "So, what's he doing?"

The doctor gave her a sideways glance.  "He's flying a ship.  A 
Maquis ship.  And thinking about...a woman..."

B'Elanna's eyes narrowed.

"...Anya.  Her name is Anya."

"Anya?!" Torres almost laughed.  

"Doctor," the Captain interrupted.  "I think it would be better if 
you kept Mr. Paris's thoughts to yourself."

"Ah.  Yes, sorry Captain.  It's just - it's almost like they're my 
memories too.  It's hard to differentiate them - it's very real."

"I'll try isolating that section of your holo-matrix - make the 
memories less intrusive."

"Very well," the Doctor agreed.  "Although, it's really quite 
enlightening.  I would never have guessed that so much actually went 
on inside Lieutenant Paris's head."

"Doctor."  

B'Elanna could hear the note of warning in the Captain's voice.  The 
Doctor gave Janeway a quick smile, and returned his attention to Tom.  

B'Elanna shook her head.  Being jealous of a hologram was an unusual 
situation to be in, but at that moment she was.  She wished she could 
plug herself into Tom's thoughts, to see, just for a moment, the 
world through his eyes.  She wondered what he saw when he looked at 
her.  No.  Best not to go there.  Definitely not.

***
  
The sensors lit up:  "Here they come," Darian breathed.

"Lock on phasers," Tom told him.  "I want this to be nice and clean - 
no hanging around out there."

"There's too much interference to get a lock."

"Okay - then we'll wait.  Can you ID the targets yet?"

"No.  I've got a location fix but I can't get an ID...hang on."

Tom could see nothing beyond the plasma field, but he was almost sure 
he could hear the thrum of the engines as the convoy lumbered past.  
It was impossible of course - just his imagination playing games.  
But for some reason he felt unaccountably nervous.  It wasn't as if 
this was his first combat situation; he'd been in countless 
simulations, and not a few real battles.  But this was different.  
This time he didn't have the weight of Starfleet behind him.  This 
was his first act as a...what?  Freedom fighter?  Hardly that.  How 
about as a mercenary then?  Maybe.  Or perhaps criminal was more 
appropriate?  His first intentionally criminal act; it was enough to 
make anyone nervous.

"The IDs are coming through...." Darian frowned.  "They're not 
Cardassian."

"What do you mean?  It's a Cardassian convoy isn't it?"

"Yes.  I mean, IT is.  The convoy is, but it's got an escort," Darian 
glanced up at Tom.  "A Starfleet escort."

Shit!  Tom felt his heart thudding hard and painful in his chest.  
This was bad.  Really bad.  The shock must have shown on his face, 
because Darian started to chew anxiously at his lower lip.  

"Who are they?" Tom managed after a long, silent, moment.

Darian was confused.  "I don't know..."

"Let me see," Tom leaned over and scanned the readings.  A couple of 
runabouts from DS9 by the look of it.  No one he would know, 
probably, but still - Starfleet!  Could he really fire on Starfleet 
ships?

The comm crackled into life:  "Chakotay to Paris.  You're not in 
position.  What's the problem?"

"No problem, Commander," Darian answered for him.  "We're on our 
way."  The expression on his face asked the question:  Aren't we?

"Then move it," Chakotay snapped, his voice distant behind the plasma 
induced static.  "We need you.  Now."

"Yes Sir."

Tom's heart was racing.  How did he keep getting himself into these 
situations?  It was wrong, but there was no way out.  If he backed 
down now, he knew what the Maquis would do to him; IF YOU BETRAY US, 
I'LL KILL YOU. He remembered Chakotay's words and he didn't doubt 
them for a moment.

"All right, let's do it," he said, letting out a slow breath, trying 
to control the sick feeling that clawed at his belly.  Nudging the 
engines into motion, Tom maneuvered the ship into position, 
ready to pounce.  "I want you to target their shields and weapons; 
disable them  - that's all."

"Disable?  But we...."

"That's an order."

"You're not in Starfleet anymore," Darian retorted,  "You can't give 
me orders."

Anger - at himself, at the situation, and at the kid - bubbled to the 
surface; he didn't have time to argue.  "Listen," he grabbed the 
front of Darian's tunic, yanking him close.  "This is NOT a game.  We 
could die out here.  You do what I say, or you do nothing?  
Understand?"

"Yes."  Darian was a sullen child, and Tom felt a momentary pang of 
guilt at his harshness.  But it was for the boy's own good; the kid 
had no discipline, no patience....  A faint smile touched his lips - 
where had he heard that before?  He shook his head.

"Get ready," his voice reminded him of his father.  "I need to be 
able to rely on you; no mistakes.  Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Chakotay to all ships: on my mark...MARK!"

This was it.  The ship sprung to life under his hands, and Tom had 
enough time for a brief, grudging, thank-you to the anonymous 
engineer who maintained it.  The ship looked rough, put it ran as 
smooth as silk.

As the Maquis fleet spat out of the Badlands, Tom could almost see 
the runabouts go to red alert.  He knew, without a doubt, that their 
shields were raised, their weapons locked-on, and that help was 
probably already on its way from DS9.  The Cardassian convoy they 
protected was huge and ugly - Cardassian's never built anything for 
its aesthetic value, and their ships were no exception.  Big, gray, 
ugly and well armed.  But they were Chakotay's business; he had to 
deal with the runabouts.  No coincidence there; this was another 
test.  He remembered the cold laughter in Anya's voice, and 
understood the joke.  Only he wasn't laughing.

A streak of phaser fire scorched past them, clipping the shields.  
"Report!"  Tom snapped.

"Holding.  No damage."

"Which one's ours?" Tom asked, as they swarmed into the convoy's 
space, phaser fire from the runabouts' crackling against their 
shields.  

"That one.  Two-nine-mark-eight-seven."

"I see him.  Lock on phasers."

"Phasers locked."

Tom had to swallow hard before he gave the next command: "Fire."

"Firing all weapons."

The runabout shuddered under the impact of their phasers, and Tom 
twisted their little fighter away before the runabout's weapons could 
lock-on.  He sent her into a dive, dropping beneath the Starfleet 
ship, and then spun her one-hundred and eighty degrees, coming up 
under the runabout's belly.  "Fire", he ordered again, hating himself 
even as the words left his lips.

Darian obeyed.  "Their shields are failing!" 

"Target their weapons."

A small explosion breached the runabout's hull and Darian whooped for 
joy.  Tom just felt sick.  His hands were shaking on the controls, 
and a cold sweat trickled down his back.  How had he ever fallen this 
low?  In his mind he was inside the runabout - he'd flown a thousand 
of them, every detail was as clear as day.  What would happen when 
the weapons array blew?  He knew.  He knew exactly.  Someone would be 
standing at tactical.  An Ensign probably.  And then the console 
would explode - if they had a medic on board, the officer might 
survive.  Maybe.  A year ago, that could have been him.  Or Mitch.  
Or Castile, or any of a hundred people he knew.  Perhaps it was.  
That thought turned him so cold he thought his blood would freeze in 
his veins.

"Paris.  Paris!  Hey - what's up?"

"Nothing..." Tom shook himself.  It was done.  He had other 
responsibilities now; he had to get Darian back in one piece.  
"Where's the next target?"

"Four-zero-mark-two-ten."

"Setting course.  Get ready with phasers..."

Slipping around the disabled runabout, Tom ducked the ship beneath 
the huge Cardassian freighter, hugging her hull close to avoid any 
danger from her ugly looking weapons array.  The next target was 
below him, and he knew he was already registering on their sensors.  
But he also knew Starfleet tactical protocols; he was too close to 
the Cardassian freighter.  They wouldn't risk a friendly fire 
incident - especially not with the Cardassians.  So long as he kept 
close to the massive freighter, he was safe.  But the runabout 
wasn't.  His stomach nearly crawled into his throat when he spoke:

"Fire."  Tom's order was bleak, but Darian didn't seem to notice.

Their phaser fire washed off the runabout; the Starfleet crew knew he 
was there and had adapted their shields to compensate.  Tom smiled 
with an unexpected sense of relief; they were good, of course.  An 
alarm suddenly started bleeping: "What's that?"

"Photon torpedoes!"

"Where?"

"There's a Cardassian fighter!  One-eight-mark-three-zero."

"I see it.  Damn it!"

Tom tried to twist out of the way, but he was stuck; too close to the 
freighter and too close to the runabout beneath.  The meat in the 
sandwich.  Two direct hits; Tom thought the reverberations would 
rattle the teeth from his skull.

"Shields?" he yelled through the turmoil.

"Forty-five percent - falling.  We're losing power..."

Beneath him, Tom saw the runabout start listing.  One of the 
torpedoes had hit her too; the Cardassian weren't too fastidious 
about friendly fire it seemed.  But they WERE stupid.  

"The runabout's engines are off line."  

Tom didn't need Darian to tell him that.  He knew what a ship adrift 
looked like; "She's still armed.  Target her..."

Their ship shuddered.

"What was that?"

"No!" Tom hissed, flinging the engines into full reverse.

"What is it?" Darian asked.  "Why are we heading for the Cardasian 
ship?"

"They've got us in a tractor beam - target it."

"I can't get a lock.  They're doing something to their shields."

"What?"

"I don't know.  It's like they're slippery or something - I can't get 
a fix."

"Shit!"  The engines were beginning to protest as they fought against 
the relentless force pulling them in.  "Just fire anywhere!"  Tom was 
desperate now; he was NOT going to become a Cardassian prisoner.  
He'd rather die.

"Firing."

Another jolt, and the tractor beam loosened its hold.  Almost, but 
not enough.  Then Tom had an idea; "All power to the forward shields, 
and hold on," he yelled, thrusting the engines forward, and driving 
their ship hard and fast, on a direct collision course with the 
Cardasian ship.  He heard Darian scream, just as the tractor beam 
disengaged; with a violent tug, he wrenched the ship from its 
suicidal path, just in time.  Despite himself, despite what he was 
doing, Tom found himself grinning.  "They blinked first," he said, 
breathless with adrenaline.

Darian just stared at him, his eyes wide and terrified.

The torpedo alarm sounded again, and Tom stood the ship on end, 
cutting around in a tight circle beneath the enemy vessel.  The 
photon torpedoes hissed past, impacting harmlessly against the 
shields of the huge freighter.  Chakotay's never going to get near 
that thing, Tom realised.  The whole mission was impossible.

"We're being hailed," Darian told him, his voice shaking.

"By who?"

"One of the Starfleet ships."

"Ignore it.  Target the third runabout..."

"I can't see it.  No, wait.  It's on the other side of the 
freighter...one-two-mark-seven-zero."

"I'm on it.  How are the shields?"

"Forty percent - still falling.  There's a power drain somewhere."

"See if you can locate it," Tom told him, concentrating on dodging 
the deadly phaser blasts from the Cardassian fighter that was in 
pursuit.

Ducking their little fighter under the freighter again, Tom passed 
the disabled runabout.  He gunned the engines, trying to outmaneuver 
the lumbering Cardassian fighter.  But there was no response.

"I'm losing power to the engines!"  Panic fired his blood, but his 
training kept all trace of it from his voice.  Darian was less 
disciplined.

"I know," he snapped.  "I'm trying to lock it down...  Give me five 
minutes."

Tom almost laughed.  Five minutes!  The Cardassians were practically 
on top of them.  The comm crackled into life:  "Maquis ship.  This is 
the USS Endurance.  You have a power leak in your aft plasma relay.  
You'll lose all power to your engines in three minutes.  Drop your 
shields and prepare to be boarded."

"Darian?"

"They're right - the plasma conduit in the power relay's totally 
fried," he looked up with serious dark eyes.  "But three minutes is 
long enough."

"Long enough for what?"  

"To get back to the Badlands."

Tom only considered for a moment.  "We'll never make it past the 
Cardassians," he decided, turning the ship around, dropping closer to 
the disabled runabut.  

"It's worth a try!"

"Really?" Tom asked.  "You want to be a Cardassian prisoner?"

The boy paled.  "No.  I'll never be that.  But it's better to go out 
fighting."

Tom shook his head.  If it was just him, perhaps it would be worth 
the risk.  But Darian was just a kid.  What did he really know about 
fighting or dying?  Or living.  

He cut the engines.  "No.  It's better to live."

"What're you doing?" Darian yelled, frantically trying to re-engage 
the engines.  "Turn us around - get us out of here!"

"We don't stand a chance," Tom snapped, pushing him away.  

"Coward!" the boy cried, tears in his eyes.  "Traitor!"

Tom ignored him and hit the communicator panel.  "USS Endurance.  
This is the Maquis ship - Deliverance." His lips twisted in a bitter 
smile.  "We surrender to the Federation.  Repeat: we surrender to the 
Federation."

"This is Endurance.  We accept your surrender, Maquis.  Stand by to 
be boarded."

"No," Darian's voice was a disbelieving whisper.  "What have you 
done?"

"Saved your life," Tom told him.  "Believe me, this is going to be a 
lot worse for me than it is for you."

Darian stood up, his face streaked with tears and betrayal.  "They 
were right about you.  You're a coward, and a loser.  I should never 
have trusted you."

Tom returned his gaze in silence for a moment.  Then he too stood up, 
turning to face the spot where he knew the Starfleet team would beam 
in.  "Don't let them see you crying," he said in a soft voice.  His 
own tears of shame were locked so deep inside he doubted they would 
ever fall.

Now he could only wish for one thing; that no one he knew would be 
involved in this mess.  But the moment the transporter shimmered into 
solidity, Tom knew that the gods had abandoned him completely.

"Paris?" the young ensign gaped, phaser drawn, his face a picture of 
astonishment.

"Mitch."  Shame washed through him in a wave that was almost 
overwhelming.  But he refused to succumb to it.  Instead he twisted 
his lips into a smirk, and hoped it didn't look too sickly.  "I guess 
you'd better arrest me then."

***

The Doctor sat down heavily, his head in his hands.  

"What is it?" Janeway asked, dashing to his side.

"It's..."

"Is there something wrong with the program?" B'Elanna asked, scanning 
the readings before her.  They all looked fine.

"No.  It's just...awful."

"What is?" The Captain spoke softly, concerned.

"I feel - HE feels - so, so terrible.  Worthless.  It's 
indescribable.  I never realised...."  His head sank into his hands 
again.

Janeway looked up.  "Can you isolate the Doctor's program further?"

"I'm trying," Torres replied, her mind and fingers whirring.  "How's 
that?"

The Doctor raised his head, some of the pain easing from his face.  
"Better," he told her.  "Thank you."

"This must be difficult for you," the Captain said gently.  "Is there 
anything I can do?"

"No.  Thank you Captain.  It's just that I'm not used to the," he 
paused, considering, "to the intensity of the emotions Mr. Paris is 
experiencing.  It's really quite powerful."

As the Doctor spoke, Torres glanced at Tom.  Perhaps it was her 
imagination, but she thought he looked paler than usual, his lips 
thin and colorless.  She didn't doubt the doctor's words; she knew 
how powerful his feelings could be.  In that respect, he wasn't so 
different from herself.  They were both capable of powerful emotions, 
and both afraid of expressing them to anyone.  To anyone but each 
other.

"Are you ready to continue?" the Captain asked.

"Yes," the Doctor sighed.  "Let's get this over with - I just hope 
Lieutenant Paris has some fun soon!"

B'Elanna allowed a small smile to touch her lips.  "He will," she 
said quietly.  Once she entered his life, the Doctor would notice...  
Her face suddenly flushed scarlet, and she sucked in a shocked 
breath.  The Doctor understood immediately, a smug smile creeping 
across his face:

"Needless to say, everything I witness - if that's the right word - 
will be subject to the strictest patient-doctor confidentiality."

B'Elanna's eyes narrowed, just as the Captain's widened in 
understanding.  If Tom's life hadn't been at stake, she would 
probably have ripped the Doctor's stupid holo-emitter from his stupid 
holographic arm and stamped on it.  Instead she made do with a stare 
that would have sent any of her engineers running for cover.  The 
Doctor merely raised an eyebrow.

"Shall we proceed?  This should prove highly - enlightening.  From a 
strictly medical point of view, of course."

***

Tom lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.  It was gray.  They 
always seemed to be gray.  Well, always was probably an exaggeration.  
His experience of prison cells was, admittedly, rather narrow.  In 
total, three.  There'd been the one on DS9, dark, and distinctly 
Cardassian despite the Starfleet uniform standing in the corner.  
Then the cramped brig aboard the USS Williamsburg, and finally the 
holding cell in which he now lay, awaiting the sentencing hearing 
that would condemn him to some other cold, gray cell.  

He smiled.  It was astounding how calmly he could contemplate that 
now; prison - Tom Paris the convict.  But it hadn't always been so 
easy.  Oh no.  That first day, in that first prison, on that dank, 
dark space station, had been very different.  Very different indeed.

Manhandled from the runabout by two security officers, with Mitch 
marching ahead, refusing to even look at him, Tom had been given over 
to Chief of Security Odo.  The Changeling had spared him one quick, 
disappointed, glance and then sent him to the cells.  

Up until then, Tom had been in control; he'd met the contemptuous 
mutterings of the Starfleet crew with scorn of his own, he'd returned 
their curses with insolent smiles.  He was Tom Paris after all; he 
had a reputation to maintain.  But when they had left him alone in 
that cold, dark cell, when the security field had shimmered across 
the door, then reality had hit with a vengeance.  Blind, unreasoning 
panic, fueled by bitter anger, had overpowered his reason.  There 
was no way out; he was trapped.  He'd shouted, yelled for attention, 
demanded to be released, demanded to talk to his father, to the 
Commander of the station, screamed curses at anyone who had tried to 
reason with him, even thrown himself against the security field until 
the pain and anger had driven him to his knees in exhaustion.  And 
then he'd cried.  Cried like a child; months of tears that had gone 
unshed - guilt, fear, loss, shame, betrayal and anger.  Bitter, 
bitter anger.

Why had they driven him to this?  Why had they all abandoned him - 
his friends, his father, his colleagues - washed their hands of him 
and condemned him to this hell of his own creation?  Why didn't they 
help him?  He had cursed them then, loudly and bitterly.  Every 
single one of them.  Cursed them for making him who he was, cursed 
them for abandoning him to his fate, and cursed them because he was 
alone.  So utterly alone.

And he had known, as he sat shivering on the cold floor of that bleak 
Cardassian cell, that this was the end.  His life was over.  And in a 
single moment of terrifying clarity, Tom had understood that he would 
be better off dead.  He had lost everything; his career, his family, 
his friends, and now his freedom.  But worst of all, he had lost 
himself, his purpose and his reason.

Looking back, as he lay staring up at the ceiling, Tom knew without a 
doubt that, had he possessed the means, he would have ended it there.  
The panic would have driven him into the pitiless chasm that had 
yawned beneath him, and he would have welcomed its embrace with 
relief.  

But he'd lacked the means, or perhaps the courage, and another 
blackness had overtaken him.  Sleep, heavy and dreamless, had stolen 
away his exhausted mind, and when he awoke the panic had subsided.  
In its place sat a curiously cold detachment, a detachment that had 
remained with him ever since.  It allowed him to function, dimmed the 
pain and the fear, put him back in control.  But it didn't stop the 
anger.  No, that was still there, no longer wild and uncontrolled, 
but focused, precise and clinical; cold slivers of hatred directed at 
those who had reduced him to this state.  Mitch, for suggesting the 
stupid stunt.  Dail, for boring him into recklessness.  But most of 
all his father; it was HIS cold disapproval, his eyes, hard as winter 
ice, that had started the lie.  And for that, Tom would never forgive 
him.  Never.

Yes, that first day had been the hardest.  But he had survived.  Just 
as he had survived the long, tedious voyage back to Earth, learning 
the whole while to harden his heart against the contempt of his one-
time colleagues.  And he would survive the future, the countless 
other gray days spent in other gray cells, much like the one in which 
he now lay.

He'd been here a week, going through the formalities of the trial, 
cutting a deal with the authorities.  He had no compunctions about 
trading his limited knowledge of the Maquis - specifically about how 
Starfleet could lay their hands on Chakotay - for a commuted 
sentence.  Why not?  What did he owe the Maquis?  If they hadn't sent 
him out in a barely spaceworthy ship, with a kid as a co-pilot, he 
might not be lying here now, staring at that dull gray ceiling.

The memories of the Maquis reminded him of Darian.  He'd lost sight 
of the kid as soon as they'd reached DS9; Tom had no idea where he 
was.  Not that it mattered.  The boy had just stared at him in silent 
contempt during the whole trip back to DS9.  Much like Mitch had.  
Well, he didn't care anymore.  They could think what they liked about 
him; he was closed to them, their disapproval no longer hurt.

A noise returned him to the present, as the security field guarding 
his cell crackled and dropped.  Tom turned his head, not bothering to 
stand.

"On your feet Paris.  Time to go."

"So soon?  But I'm having such fun."

"Just move it.  The court's waiting."

Tom pushed himself upright with a sigh, "Guess they can't start 
without the guest of honor."  Getting to his feet he yawned, 
stretched, and straightened the ugly gray prison uniform he wore.  
"Lead the way."

As he entered the court, Tom's advocate, Jonus Taylor, half rose to 
greet him.  He was a small, nervous looking man, with a nose that 
twitched like a mouse, and little dark eyes that blinked too often.  
Tom hated him, which was no reflection on the man; he hated everyone 
and everything right now.  As he was escorted into the dock, Tom just 
nodded towards his advocate.  There was nothing to say to him, the 
deal had already been struck.  He would have no surprises today.

Or so he thought.

From the vantage point of the dock, Tom had a good view of the 
courtroom.  It was small and warmly intimate in a Federation kind of 
a way.  Everything was quiet and orderly, seamlessly efficient and 
dressed with a smile.  And at this moment, Tom hated it.  The 
coziness made him want to scream.

Casting his eyes about the room, Tom's gaze rested on the judge.  She 
was young and serious looking, with a long elegant face marred only 
by a frown of concentration.  She noticed his gaze and looked up, 
nodded once in his direction, and returned her attention to the Padd 
she was studying.  Tom looked away, his eyes wondering the room until 
they were arrested by something shockingly familiar.  Another pair of 
eyes, as blue as his own, were staring back at him.  Tom had thought 
he was prepared for anything, that nothing could disturb him now.  
But he was wrong.  The one thing he had never expected, had never 
even thought of, was that his father would turn up to witness this 
final humiliation.

Tom gripped the steel railing in front of him, his face flushing an 
angry red as he met his father's unreadable gaze.  Now he saw him 
there, Tom understood the horrible inevitability of it.  He had to 
come, he realised sourly, he just had to rub my nose in it.

A movement caught Tom's attention as the Clerk of the Court came to 
stand before him:  "Please state your name for the record."

"Thomas Eugene Paris."  He spoke quietly, struggling to control the 
bitter anger that raged against his father; why can't he just stay 
out of my life?

"Thomas Eugene Paris," the judge's voice was soft, reasonable.  "The 
Clerk will read out each of the charges that have been brought 
against you.  At the end of each charge you will enter a plea of 
guilty or not guilty.  Do you understand?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Very well," she nodded to the Clerk, "Proceed."

"Thomas Eugene Paris," the clerk began, "you are accused by the 
United Federation of Planets of the following crimes: one, that you 
were a member of a militant organization known as the Maquis with the 
stated objective of undermining a legal treaty negotiated between the 
Federation and the Cardassian Empire.  How do you plead?"

"Guilty."  He could feel his father's stare, feel the disapproval in 
it, the anger. 

"Two, that as a member of the Maquis you did knowingly fire upon a 
registered vessel of the United Federation of Planets, the USS 
Endurance.  How do you plead?"

Tom paused, glancing at his father; this time he met his eyes.  They 
were sad.  Sad and angry.  "Guilty," Tom said, his voice loud and 
sour with anger of his own.  

His father just closed his eyes and looked away.

"Three, that during this assault you committed actual bodily harm to 
one Ensign Ulanov, a crew member of the aforementioned ship.  How do 
you plead?"

"Guilty."  Tom remembered his father's words; "no one joined 
Starfleet without knowing the risks, son.  Space is a dangerous 
place".  Ensign Ulanov had been unlucky.  That was all.  It was a war 
and people got hurt.  That was life.  That was a Starfleet life.

Tom's advocate approached the bench, murmured a few words to the 
judge, and returned to his seat.

"Thomas Paris," she began in her soft voice, "you have entered a plea 
of guilty against all charges.  I am advised by Mr. Taylor that you 
have provided assistance to Starfleet regarding the location of 
certain Maquis cells, and I have taken this into account in 
determining your sentence."  She paused, turning to look at him; he 
found her intense gaze disturbing, but refused to drop his eyes.

"Nevertheless, your crimes are serious," she continued, "especially 
in light of your previous career as a Starfleet Officer.  The use of 
terror as a political tool will always be looked upon with disgust by 
those peoples who consider themselves civilized.  That you have 
committed these acts of violence against your own people, your former 
colleagues and comrades in arms, only makes your crimes more 
despicable."

Tom smiled, pleased to see the Judge's eyes narrow in anger.  What 
did she know about it?  Comrades in arms?  They'd been only too happy 
to wash their hands of him, why should he owe Starfleet any more than 
he owed the Maquis?  If there was one thing he had learned in all 
this, it was that only one person would look after Tom Paris.  And 
that person was Tom Paris.  Not learning that lesson sooner was his 
biggest regret; had he known it on Caldik Prime he would never have 
made that stupid confession.  That was his one, big mistake.  But it 
was one he'd never repeat.  Never.

"You clearly show no remorse for your acts," the Judge said, the 
softness gone out of her voice, "and I see no option but to award you 
a custodial sentence.  You will be taken from this court to a place 
of detention where you will be held for a period of three years, with 
parole not eligible before the end of the first year.  Do you 
understand this sentence?"

"Yes, I understand."

The deal had already been explained to him, it wasn't a surprise, but 
there was an icy finality to the words when they were spoken by the 
judge; it made him shiver.  It was real, he was going to prison, and 
a sudden, cold, fear turned his blood to ice-water.  Instinctively he 
looked to his father then, but got no comfort there; the Admiral sat 
with his head in his hands, his face hidden.  

***

Sometime later, Tom sat in his cell, numbly staring through the 
security field at the Security Officer beyond.  It was over.  It was 
real.  He was going to prison.  In a few hours he would be sent there 
by secure transport: the New Zealand Penal Settlement.  He was a 
convicted criminal.  Him, Tom Paris, the golden boy, the Admiral's 
son, the best pilot in Starfleet.  

"Paris."  The Security Officer's voice startled him.  "You have a 
visitor."

The door hissed open to admit his father.  This time Tom wasn't 
surprised.  He'd known he would come, to have his say, to absolve 
himself of the responsibility.  Tom smiled.  He didn't plan to let 
him off easily this time.

The Admiral stood before the cell, hands behind his back.  Tom 
remained seated, watching him, matching his silence.

"Why Tom?" his father said at last, more in sadness than in anger.

"I don't know."  That was the truth, at least.  

But his father's brows shot together in a sudden frown:  "That's not 
good enough."

"No.  I don't suppose it is," Tom replied, feeling the anger 
building.  "But then again, nothing ever is, is it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about.  Nothing I've ever done has 
ever been good enough, has it?"  

"Good enough?" his father spat the words.  "How dare you speak to me 
like that, after what you've done?!  Do you have any idea how this 
will effect your family?  Have you ever thought about that?  Eh?  
Even once in your selfish little life?"

Tom shot to his feet.  "Selfish?  Oh that's rich coming from you!  A 
man too busy to raise his own son, too busy to realize that his 
wife's...."

"Leave your mother out of it," the Admiral warned darkly.  

"She used to say you were married to Starfleet, not..."

"I said leave her out of it!" he snapped.  "I'm not the one who's 
kept her up crying all night for the last three months!"

Tom was silenced for a moment, genuine regret piercing his anger.  

His father stepped closer, lowering his voice.  "We just what to know 
what went wrong."

"What went wrong?" Tom shook his head.  "I don't know.  I can't tell 
you."

"But you had everything.  We GAVE you everything, didn't we?  
Everything that you needed."

"Ha!"  Tom almost laughed.  "Everything?  All you ever gave me was 
what you wanted me to have.  You never even asked what I wanted, did 
you?"

"I don't understand what...."

"No.  And that's just the point, isn't it?  You don't understand.  
You never have."

His father's eyes narrowed.  "Then why don't you explain it to me?"

"Now?" Tom shook his head, retreating from his father's suggestion.  
"It's a bit late, don't you think?"

"Just tell me what it is you wanted.  What it is I didn't give you."

Tom clamped his lips shut, unwilling to go where his father was 
leading.  It hurt too much, it had gone too long unsaid.  But this 
might be his last chance, he knew, to say the things he had wanted to 
say for so many years.  And so, with a courage he had begun to doubt 
that he possessed, he began to talk.

"You gave me everything except one thing: myself.  I could be what I 
wanted, as long as it was what you wanted.  I could do what I wanted, 
as long as you approved.  I could live my life as I wanted, as long 
as it was how you lived your life.  Don't you understand?  I want to 
be myself.  To live my own life, my way, to be ME, not you."

"I see," his father replied.  "Well, now you have what you want; 
you're living life YOUR way.  And look what a mess you've made of it 
so far."

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but realised he had nothing to say.  

His father fixed him with eyes grown cold and hard.  "You will always 
be my son, Thomas, although I can't say that's something that gives 
me any pride," he shook his head, not dropping his gaze.  "I will 
always love you as a son, but I doubt that I will ever respect you as 
a man."

And with that he turned on his heel and left the room.  Tom watched 
him go in a kind of numb daze.  The pain was so sharp, so deadly, 
that he was afraid it would destroy him, and so he buried it deep, 
piled anger and hatred upon it, and did his best to forget those 
cruel words.  

After a few moments he sat down, and stretched out, returning to his 
contemplation of the gray ceiling.  

***

An urgent bleeping startled B'Elanna Torres.

"What's that?"

The Doctor frowned.  "His higher brain functions are beginning to 
deteriorate.  We don't have long."

"Can we increase the data-flow?"

"He's stable at the moment.  I think we can risk it."

"Good.  Increasing to forty percent."

"Forty percent."

B'Elanna watched as the data streamed through her fingers - Tom's 
life digitized, reduced to its essentials.  The data flow was 
mesmerizing to her tired eyes.  How long had she stood there, 
watching over his memories?  Hours, days?  The Captain had come and 
gone, and come again.  Other friends had drifted in and out, some 
concerned for her, others for Tom.  But she had remained, the 
guardian of Tom's life.  Why?  Because somewhere in that electronic 
stream, she knew she existed.  And those memories were, to her, the 
most precious.  It was selfish, she knew, but it couldn't be helped.

"Increase to fifty percent," the Doctor ordered, eyes fixed on his 
tricorder.

"How far have we brought him?"  

"Almost a year."

"How's he holding up?"

"Actually, very well," the doctor told her.

"Shall I increase the flow to sixty percent?"

"Not yet," he looked up  "I want to pause here to assess.  If 
everything checks out, then I think we can finish the job tonight."

B'Elanna didn't risk a smile.  It might be premature.  She just 
nodded in acknowledgment, and tried not to think about Tom opening 
his blue eyes and smiling at her.  No.  Don't go there.  Think about 
the job.  That's all.  Just think about the job...

***

Just think about the job, Tom told himself.  Focus on the now, don't 
think about the past, don't think about the future.

A few sparks crackled near his fingers as he worked, and the spring 
sun shone warm on his back.  Life wasn't so bad; as long as he 
focused on the job, and didn't think too much about anything.  Of 
course, that wasn't easy in this place.  Thinking was something they 
positively encouraged here.  Councilors came two a penny, popping 
out from behind trees when you least expected them, probing, 
constantly wanting to talk about the past, wanting to explore the 
future.  The talking was the worst thing, really.  That and the ankle 
tag.  He hated the damn thing, flashing at him, reminding him of what 
he was; prisoner, it flashed, cast-out, unclean.

He shook his head.  There he went, thinking again.  It didn't do him 
any good.  None at all.  He concentrated harder on the job at hand.  
It wasn't difficult.  Just some simple engineering.  A child could 
have done it.  But it kept the thoughts away.  He concentrated on the 
sparks, the play of the tiny laser.  So hard was he concentrating, 
that he was startled when he heard someone speak his name.

"Tom Paris?"

It was a woman's voice, one he didn't recognize.  Tom looked up.  He 
saw Starfleet boots, and a uniform in command red, with a Captain's 
pips on the collar.  The woman watched him closely, measuring him, a 
smile playing near her lips....


***

"Sixty percent," B'Elanna reported, eyes fixed on the medical 
console.

"Vital signs stable."

"Increasing to sixty five percent," her fingers made the small 
adjustment.

"Holding."

"Seventy percent."  It was working!  She felt her heart start to beat 
faster, her stomach squirming with nervous tension.  She was 
beginning to dare to hope.

"We've brought him forward another eighteen months."  The Doctor 
raised an eyebrow.  "I believe that life is starting to improve for 
Lieutenant Paris....  Increase to eighty percent."

"Eighty percent."

"Three years."

The doors to sickbay hissed open and the Captain entered, closely 
followed by her First Officer.  "How's he doing?" Janeway asked as 
she approached the bio-bed.

"Very well," the Doctor told her.  With a half glance at B'Elanna, he 
dropped his voice.  "I hate to admit it, but Lieutenant Torres' 
solution appears to be working quite well."

The Captain smiled.  "I'm glad.  When will you be able to wake him?"

The Doctor glanced at his tricorder.  "At this rate - another few 
minutes should do it."

Janeway and Chakotay exchanged a brief glance.  "We'll stay," the 
Captain said.

B'Elanna couldn't help frowning.  The Doctor, the Captain and 
Chakotay?  The whole ship would be turning up to watch.  But the 
gripe was a selfish one.  Tom was their friend too, they had a right.  
And she'd have her time alone with him.  That thought brought a 
smile; oh yes, she'd make sure she had plenty of time!  He owed her 
now.  Big time.  She hadn't forgotten how he'd gotten into this mess 
- volunteering for that stupid mission into the nebula.  Her smile 
broadened.  She'd make him pay all right!

"Four point five years," the Doctor reported, casting a suddenly 
amused glance at B'Elanna.  She tried to ignore it, but felt her 
cheeks flush nonetheless.  

"Begin slowing the data flow," the Doctor told her, still smiling.  
"We're almost at the present."

"Decreasing data flow to ten percent."

"Neural pathways are almost fully reconnected.  Lieutenant, terminate 
the data link."

"Terminating link...now." Torres looked up.  "How do you feel?"

The Doctor cocked his head, considering.  "I'm still aware of 
Lieutenant Paris's mind."

"That's because the Borg implant is still in place," B'Elanna told 
him, leaving her station and moving to the bio-bed.  The Captain and 
Chakotay stepped aside to let her get close.  "Can you wake him up 
now?" she asked, hoping her voice sounded less desperate than she 
felt.

"We'll see."  

B'Elanna held her breath while the Doctor considered the results of 
his tricorder scan.  

"His neural pathways appear to have fully reconnected."

"Then he'll have all his memories back?" Chakotay asked quietly, from 
where he stood behind B'Elanna.

"I can't say for sure," the Doctor replied, his words turning 
B'Elanna suddenly cold.  "But there's only one way to find out."  
Without further warning, he held a hypospray against Tom's neck and 
pressed.

The small hiss sounded loud in the suddenly quiet room.  Everyone 
held their breath for what seemed like an eternity.  Torres' fingers 
crept down and entangled themselves with Tom's, giving them a 
reassuring squeeze.  But her eyes remained fixed on his pale face, 
willing his eyes to open.

Nothing.

She squeezed his fingers tighter, her whole body rigid with tension.  
She heard the Captain shift uncomfortably behind her, and was dimly 
aware of Chakotay placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

Nothing. 

***

The images rushed past too fast to see, yet somehow he could 
understand them.  People he knew; people he loved, and people he 
hated.  Moments of despair and moments of pure joy.  Each one flashed 
past in an instant that lasted forever, but passed so fast that he 
could barely see it.  And above the images, he heard voices, 
indistinct, garbled words, fractured sentences.  

"...data flow to ten percent..."

"...neural pathways...Lieutenant..."

They were familiar, somehow, those voices.  They matched the images 
that flashed in his mind; a face, a smile, a laugh, a touch.  

"...memories back...?"

Yes.  Memories.  That's what they were.  The voices were memories.  
Just like the images.  Or were they?  Something else intruded into 
the darkness.  A new sensation.  It was cold.  It touched his neck, 
and drove back the darkness.  And then something warm touched his 
hand, squeezed his fingers as the images trailed slowly to an end.  
And then there was nothing.  It was over.  And his mind was left 
frighteningly empty, barren of the images that had bombarded it 
for...how long?  Forever perhaps.

But in that aching emptiness, a new awareness dawned; new, or long 
forgotten?  He suddenly became aware of his own breathing, in and 
out, slow and steady.  And then he remembered his legs.  He could 
feel them, draped in something cool and soft.  And there was a smell.  
It was familiar, it reminded him of somewhere...sickbay.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness.  
Everything looked white, which was curious; he was expecting gray.

He opened his mouth.  "What...?" he croaked feebly, trying to order 
his scattered thoughts.  Where was he?  Caldik Prime?  No.  Prison?  
No.  Somewhere else...

A man was watching him.  He looked familiar, but Tom couldn't place 
him.  He looked like a doctor, but...

And then he saw HER.  Her face chimed a joyous chorus in his heart, 
and he knew that, where ever he was, he was home.  Her name was on 
his lips before his fog-bound mind struggled to understand it's 
meaning; "B'Elanna!"

And when he said her name she smiled, and it was like sunshine; 
"Welcome back Tom."

"Where've I been?" he asked, not taking his eyes from her face.

"A long way," she told him, leaning close, brushing his lips with her 
own.  "But we brought you home."

***

The noise in the mess hall bubbled pleasantly around him, as Tom 
cradled a drink in his hand and gazed out at the stars.  It had been 
three days since the Doctor had released him from sickbay, and his 
mind was still a little fuddled.  His memories were all jumbled, 
events from yesterday and events from six years past collided in 
confusion; it was hard to sort them out, to put things in the right 
order.  He glanced down at his uniform; today was the first day he'd 
been able to wear it, so fresh was the memory of his disgrace.  He'd 
felt like a fraud each time he'd picked it up.

The last few days had not been easy, but at least they'd given him 
the chance to think, to approach a new understanding of himself and 
his life.  Revisiting those years had allowed him to place them in a 
new perspective.  He had regrets, of course, bitter regrets, and a 
new sense of shame for some of the things he'd done, and for the man 
he'd once been.  But he was starting to accept those feelings now, to 
accept that they were part of him.

"Penny for them," B'Elanna offered, smiling as she slid into a seat 
opposite him.  She's so beautiful, he thought, her smile igniting a 
warmth in her dark eyes that set his pulse racing.

"I was thinking about you," he told her.

"Good answer," she approved.  "But I don't believe you."

His eyes widened in wounded innocence: "I'm hurt."

"You're brooding," she accused, sipping at her drink.

"Just thinking."  He paused, watching her watch him.  "Do you ever 
wonder how your life would've turned out if things had been 
different?  If you'd made different choices?"

She shrugged.  "Sometimes.  But there's not much point, is there?  I 
can't change anything."

"I know, but I can't help wondering.  If I hadn't..." he stopped, 
surprised at how difficult it still was to talk about.  Even now.  
Even to B'Elanna, the one person in his life that he truly trusted.  
He took a steadying breath.  "If I hadn't pulled that stupid stunt at 
Caldik Prime...if I hadn't lied about it...everything would be 
different."

B'Elanna nodded in silence, giving him space to talk.

"And if I'd never joined the Maquis, never fired on those Starfleet 
ships..."

"You wouldn't be here," she finished for him, and there was an 
emotion in her voice that caught his attention.  She smiled when he 
looked at her then, an unspoken question in his eyes.  "I'm a pretty 
selfish person," she explained.  "I can't help it, but I'm glad you 
did what you did.  I can't imagine being stranded out here without 
you."

He reached across the table and took her hand; it felt warm and 
delicate in his fingers.  "There are a lot of things I regret," he 
told her, "but being here isn't one of them.  It's just HOW I got 
here that I regret.  I messed up a lot of lives on the way."

She squeezed his hand.  "And you've saved a lot too - remember that."

"But I still wish..."  Clara Borella's face danced before his eyes 
again.  "I wish the accident had never happened."

"I know.  But you can't change that.  It's part of you now, it's part 
of what you are," she paused and leaned back in her chair, watching 
him speculatively.  "What sort of person do you think you'd be if it 
hadn't happened?"

Tom thought back, remembering the Tom Paris of all those years ago; 
only interested in fast ships and promotion, Mitch had said.  He 
shook his head.  "I guess I'd be a lot like my father," he admitted, 
and then smiled.  "But at least I'd have gotten promoted by now!"

B'Elanna raised an eyebrow, catching his changing mood.  "You'd 
probably be a Captain at least."

"At least."

"With your own ship?"

"Of course."

"Probably spending your time ferrying squabbling diplomats around 
Federation space.  Boldly going where everyone's been before."

"Undoubtedly."

She shrugged.  "Sounds kind of dull."

"Very," he agreed.

"So...?"

"So, you're right," he admitted.  "Life is strange and unpredictable; 
just when I thought it was dragging me down to the very bottom, it 
was actually leading me up here - to the top."  He shook his head, 
marveling at the revelation.  "I once told my father that all I 
wanted to so was be myself, to live my own life," he smiled as he 
understood a new truth, "but I'd never have been able to do that in 
the Alpha Quadrant.  It's only here that I've ever really been 
myself.  I guess I'm luckier that I realised."

"Chakotay would call it fate."

Tom smiled.  "Written in the stars?"

"Maybe."  She grinned, leaning over the table and kissing him lightly 
on the lips.  "It sounds nice."

"You're not getting all romantic on me are you?"

She raised an eyebrow.  "It's not unheard of."

"Well, if the stars brought ME here," he said, reaching out to touch 
her face, "do you think they had a hand in your fate?"

B'Elanna smiled slowly, and took another sip of her drink.  "Ah, 
well," she replied, "that's another story altogether, isn't it?"


THE END

***

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And if you liked it, and haven't already read it, check out "Double 
Dealing" also on the PT Collective Archive!

Thanks for reading!




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