NEW Discretion [PG-13] VOY AU (P/f)

Title: Discretion
Author: Dave Rogers (daverogers@geocities.com)
Series: VOY AU, "Virtues" series, 6/?
Part: NEW 1/1
Date: 9th July 1999
Rating: [PG-13]
Codes: P/f
Summary: Sixth in the "Virtues" series. 

Disclaimer: It's within Paramount's discretion to object to this.

Acknowledgements: Jeri Taylor, for leaving an unanswered question in 
"Pathways" that started me on this particular pathway.



Discretion


For the first half hour at least, Tom Paris had to admit that chasing 
a Romulan warbird through the most dangerous asteroid belt in known 
space was the best fun he'd ever had with his clothes on. The warbird 
in question was the sole survivor of the three that had come out of 
nowhere, not much more than an hour before, to try to destroy the USS 
Bohr and take Kennar III. But it was no longer in the best of 
conditions, having presumably collided with something rather smaller 
than the asteroid that had destroyed its consort when both were flying 
blind, and now its captain had decided on discretion as the better 
part of valour. As his pilot tried to thread a way out of the Kennar 
IV asteroid belt, the Bohr dogged the warbird's every step, poking her 
rather ungainly nose from behind a tumbling mass of rock every now and 
then to lob a photon torpedo or fire a brief phaser blast. And every 
time the Romulan's shields lit up, Tom stifled a whoop of excitement, 
knowing that it wouldn't give quite the cool, professional image he 
was trying to project to his increasingly confident bridge crew.

"Direct hit. Warbird's rear shields appear to be down to 58%," the 
calm voice of Petty Officer Roberts announced from the science 
station. But there was the problem; at this rate, the warbird would 
be out of the asteroid belt before the Bohr could do any real damage, 
and in open interplanetary space the larger ship's superior speed and 
firepower would be decisive. There had been no opportunity to contact 
the seventeen officers and crew left on Kennar III, no way to tell 
whether they had encountered the Romulan away team, or whether they 
had survived the meeting, but one thing was certain: if the third 
warbird returned to Kennar III, they would be overwhelmed. The only 
hope was that something would change the situation; and, with only a 
few minutes' flight time to the edge of the asteroid belt, something 
did.

It was one of those incidents that happened from time to time, but 
that Starfleet preferred not to publicise; and premature detonation 
of a photon torpedo often leaves no witnesses to blow the whistle. 
But this time, the torpedo had passed the Bohr's front shields by the 
time it had detonated, and apart from some bruises and lacerations 
there were no casualties among the crew. Paris, though, suddenly saw 
a chance, and took it.

"Paris to engineering. Tomak, give me a five second warp plasma vent 
from the port nacelle, then flood the living areas with a low 
intensity thorion field." It was the oldest trick in the book, playing 
possum, but it would buy no more than time. There had to be another 
element. "Shut down all power systems except impulse engines, phasers 
offline, drop shields. And Tomak, I want three photon torpedoes fitted 
with remote control detonators, set to trigger on a subspace 
transmission on band alpha seven, and electrostatic attraction 
modules. How long before I get them?"

"Three minutes, Mr. Paris." The young Vulcan ensign on watch in 
Engineering was technically senior to Paris, but he had long ago 
deemed it logical to defer to the younger man's command status.

"What now, Captain," asked Andri, then amended the salutation to 
"sir," as Paris gave her an amused look.

"We wait. And try not to move round too much. We want to look like 
we've taken heavy casualties. The thorion field should confuse our 
life signs enough."

The warbird had stopped at a safe distance, and was somehow giving the 
appearance of a terrier sniffing at a rathole. Clearly the Romulan 
captain didn't want to investigate too boldly, having seen what should 
have been a sitting target destroy two ships identical to his own. 
Tom just hoped his curiosity would overcome his caution; if the Bohr 
was indeed dead in space, then capture might be a far more profitable 
move than destruction.

"Enemy is charging main disrupter array," reported Roberts. "Firing - 
raise shields!"

"No!" shouted Paris. "Sit tight." The disrupter bolt blazed towards 
the Bohr, then the ship spun on its axis as it struck home. "Damage 
report?"

"Hull breach to starboard nacelle, sir," replied Roberts. "Starboard 
engines offline, warp and impulse. No casualties. It looks like they 
fired a low energy burst."

"Okay, everyone, stay cool," said Tom in a tone rather more confident 
than he felt. "They're just feeling us out. They won't fire again."
And as he said it, the warbird slowly moved closer.

"Engineering to bridge." Tomak's cool, dry tones seemed to enhance the 
unnatural atmosphere of calm. "Modified torpedoes ready."

"Great. Now I want you to get them in a transporter lock, energise the 
beam and hold them in the pattern buffer."

"Understood, sir." The Vulcan didn't, of course, ask the obvious 
question. Tom could tell the bridge crew all wanted to know, though.

"Paris to crew. Listen carefully, everyone. As soon as the warbird 
drops shields to transport a boarding party, we're going to beam the 
torpedoes to just outside their hull, then raise shields and get the 
hell out of here. With the torpedoes already in the beam, we'll be 
able to complete the transport first, then we can get the shields up 
before their away team materialises, but it'll take careful timing. 
Everybody look sharp."

"Sir, the warbird is hailing us," said Akell with some confusion.

"Don't answer," replied Tom quickly. Whatever this meant, it could 
only complicate matters. "Put his signal on audio."

"Federation vessel, you appear to be damaged," came the voice of the 
Romulan captain. "Do you require assistance?"

Tom looked round at the rest of the bridge crew, a finger to his 
smiling lips. The Romulans appeared to have taken the bait.

"Federation vessel, we are preparing to transport a medical team. 
Please acknowledge if you hear us."

"Sir, if they're trying to help us..." started Andri.

"Then they wouldn't have been shooting," finished Paris. "It's a 
trick. That medical team won't be carrying tricorders."

Suddenly three voices sounded in quick succession.

"Enemy is dropping shields." Roberts.

"Photon torpedoes beamed out." Tomak, over the commlink.

"Shields up." Andri.

And then the Bohr was hurled backwards by the remaining impulse 
engine, and the warbird's shields were back up. But within them were 
Tom's limpet mines, held there briefly by electrostatic attraction, 
and awaiting the signal for the Romulan ship's destruction."

"Plasma torpedoes incoming, sir," reported Roberts.

Avoiding a spread of four plasma torpedoes, in reverse thrust, using 
only the port impulse engine, was perhaps the most difficult thing Tom 
had had to do that whole day. But his confidence was at its height by 
now, and as the Bohr swung behind one final shielding asteroid and 
four bright points of light shot by them, he gave the final order.

"Akell, send out a subspace transmission on band alpha seven, carrier 
wave only." And then, quietly, "One for you, Odile."

In the viewscreen in front of them, the asteroid became a dark shadow 
in a universe of light.



It took three hours to limp back to Kennar III on the port impulse 
engine only, and by the time the Bohr arrived there was little to do 
but clean up. Alerted by Akell's warning, Culbertson had for once 
shown why he wore the uniform by rallying all the planetside crew into 
a superb defensive position in a limestone cave system, and a fierce 
defensive battle had wiped out the Romulan landing party. Ali 
Shabeer's post had been overrun, and the gentle, polite little man lay
dead, surrounded by three Romulan corpses who gave testimony that he 
was not as harmless as he looked; but Dr. Kovek was convinced he could
be resuscitated with the help of a proper sickbay, and confirmed his 
opinion within minutes of the Bohr's arrival by doing so. Mulholland's
left arm hung uselessly at his side, but his right still held a 
phaser. And Nasir...

Nasir was a mess. In the Romulans' final desperate assault, when it 
had become clear that no help was coming from the warbirds, he had 
taken the centre of the Bohr crew's defensive line and fought four at 
once, first with phasers and then hand to hand, until Culbertson and 
T'Kon could relieve him. Paris counted seven visible phaser burns and 
nearly as many stab wounds as he tried to make the Lieutenant 
comfortable while Kovek was busy with Shabeer. Yet despite his obvious 
pain, Nasir opened his eyes, saw Tom, smiled and croaked, "A pleasure 
to see you again, Mr. Paris. I trust you have disposed of our rather 
tiresome visitors?"

Among the rest of the crew there were no more than superficial wounds, 
so with Shabeer and Mulholland resting in sickbay and Nasir under the 
care of Kovek, Tom was able to place the Bohr in a parking orbit and 
start work on his report. Not that there was anything new about 
writing reports, of course, but somehow this one took an extraordinary 
amount of effort. He tried hard not to give the impression of having 
exaggerated his achievements. He could hear his father's voice, 
warning him about being boastful, and about the dislike that senior 
officers had for anyone too keen to blow his own trumpet. He ended up, 
he felt, going too far in the opposite direction, giving the 
impression that small science vessels destroyed entire Romulan 
squadrons every other day. It was important, though, he knew, to 
maintain some sense of modesty. There might be promotion here, or 
medals. It was not unknown for reports like this to be made public, 
and he might be judged for the rest of his life on what he wrote now.

It seemed, a few days later, though, that the report would not reach 
outside the innermost Starfleet circles. Just after the USS Warspite 
had joined the Bohr to aid her repairs, Captain Culbertson summoned 
Tom to his ready room, where he sat, with a copy of the report on a 
padd in front of him.

"I see, Mr. Paris, that your report and the logs show that the third 
Romulan vessel offered to assist you and your crew before lowering 
their shields."

Tom smiled. "Yes, sir. Very generous of them, really."

"I don't think you realise the gravity of this matter, Mr. Paris," 
continued Culbertson slowly. "You fired upon a vessel offering 
humanitarian aid. Technically, that is a violation of Federation law, 
not to mention the Treaty of Algeron, which I must remind you is still 
in effect between the Federation and the Romulan..."

"Sir, they fired on us without warning! They invaded Federation space, 
attacked a Starfleet vessel..." interrupted Paris, and regretted it 
instantly as Culbertson raised his voice.

"None of which changes the fact that you fired on a vessel that had 
offered assistance! We are not at war, Mr. Paris, so your act was 
technically a crime."

Technically, I didn't fire anything, thought Paris. But the words 
stuck in his throat as, for a moment, Culbertson vanished and he saw 
his father in front of him. "Not good enough, Thomas. You've let me 
down again." He could almost hear the words. He only knew one way to 
deal with this sort of situation. He choked down his protests, 
composed his face in a mask of indifference, and replied simply, 
"Understood, sir. What action do you intend to take?"

"In the circumstances, it seems unlikely that any complaint will be 
made. This report is to be classified secret, and its contents must 
not be discussed with anyone having less than a level five security 
clearance. Is that clear?"

Tom had no idea how high a level five clearance was for the moment, 
but it hardly seemed important right now. "Clear, sir." No medals, no 
promotion, but at least he wouldn't be prosecuted. "Just one question 
though, sir."

"Go on, Mr. Paris."

"Did any of the Romulan landing party offer," he slurred his words 
insolently, "humanitarian aid?"

"Dismissed, Mr. Paris."



It seemed, though, that victory was not entirely without rewards. That 
evening, his door chimed, and opened to reveal Andri, wearing a 
flowing, elegant purple dress that looked likely to fall off at any 
moment. "I just came to say thank you," she said with a smile. 

"Come in," replied Paris. "Did you have someone special on the 
surface, then?" She must have just looked in on the way to somewhere 
else. Must have.

"I know most Starfleet ships aren't like this, Mr. Paris..."

"Tom."

"...Tom, but you've probably noticed the officers and crew don't mix 
much. What you don't see is how close the crew all are. Some of us 
have been friends for nearly ten years now. We look after each other. 
You young ensigns come and go, but we're all still here."

"So everyone on the surface was someone special?" Roberts' thanks made 
sense now.

"Nearly everyone." She stepped forward, and the door closed behind 
her. "Most of the crew think you deserve a promotion or a medal."

Tom's smile faded. "That's not going to happen. I can't really talk 
about it."

"I know." How, Tom wondered? Secrets must be hard to keep on a small 
ship. "Personally, I think you got screwed."

He smiled again, but bitterly, without warmth. "Maybe I just screwed 
up. Maybe I could have, I don't know, negotiated, or warned them off, 
or something." Then a thought struck him. "You trusted me all along, 
didn't you? How come?"

She fixed him with her deep black Betazoid eyes, and the rest of the 
cabin faded. "I'm an empath. I could sense your fear, even though you 
were hiding it so well you probably didn't notice it yourself. Anyone 
who's that scared of something, but does it anyway, must have a good 
reason for doing it. I knew you'd do the right thing, Tom, and you 
did. And I still think you got screwed."

Then she smiled, tipped her head back, and ran her hands through her 
long black hair. As it cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, 
she lowered her head and said, "Which brings me to exactly how I 
intended to say thank you."

As she moved closer, Tom, smiling without bitterness now, said, "Is 
this strictly in line with regulations, Crewman Andri?"

"Janell. Don't worry, Captain," she answered softly. "I can be 
discreet."

Soon afterwards, her dress fulfilled its earlier promise.



Later, in the small hours of the morning, he woke from a dream of 
Odile, and reached out for her, as he had so many times in the past 
months. This time, though, there was a soft, warm, feminine form 
beside him, and for a confused moment he wondered whether the 
accident, the enquiry and the Bohr had been the dream. Then, on the 
verge of calling out her name, his mind cleared enough to save him. 
For a while he lay still, fearing that he would wake Andri, and that 
her empathic sense would tell her his darkest thoughts; but she slept 
on, and he relaxed. Here, in the dark, unseen but with the comfort of 
a sleeping companion, he felt safe enough at last to begin grieving. 
Slowly, the pillow beneath him dampened with tears for dead friends 
and a lost lover, and the weight on his soul grew lighter with every 
one.



It was not only the crew who felt a sense of injustice. Ali Shabeer, 
emerging from sickbay two weeks later, was plunged into an agony of 
conciliatory remarks which he clearly could not believe himself when 
Mulholland remarked to Tom in Four Starboard, "I think the idle old 
sod just couldn't be bothered to fill in the paperwork. Lots of forms 
for medals and promotions, you know." Eventually, even Shabeer had to 
admit that, although he had "no wish to pass judgement on the Captain, 
who manages to do a very difficult job in what are not always the best 
of circumstances", there was certainly something "almost irregular" in 
his reasons for covering Tom's action up; nevertheless, typically, he 
still managed to explain away his own passing over for honours.

It was Nasir, after an even longer stay in sickbay, who maybe came 
closest to the truth, late one night, as he and Tom renewed their 
friendly rivalry over the pool table, alone in Four Starboard.

"He is a card player, Thomas." Tom wasn't sure exactly at what point 
he had reached first name terms with the Lieutenant, although Nasir, 
with a formality to rival Admiral Paris himself, could not go so far 
as to call him Tom. More perplexingly, he couldn't fathom why the use 
of his full forename by Nasir left him with a sense of warmth and 
friendship, when the same word from his father could cause a quite 
perceptible chilling of the air. 

"We are pool players," went on Nasir, "and all that we do is plain to 
be seen. The card player hides all he has for as long as is possible. 
The Captain knows more than he tells us, you may be sure."

"You could be right, Nasir." He still didn't know the enigmatic First 
Officer's forename, and wondered sometimes whether he even had one. 
"D'you think someone told him to keep this quiet?"

"It is possible. Politics are complicated, Thomas, and the career of 
one Ensign is of little account." The eleven ball negotiated an 
impossible path between its neighbours as he spoke, and Tom let out a 
whistle of appreciation as it dropped gently into the side pocket. 

"Nice shot. I couldn't have squeezed it through there."

"Why not? I hear you can do the same with a starship."

And so it went on for the next two months; friendship and support from 
his fellow officers, and, just as valuable, the respect of the crew. 
Janell Andri came to his quarters as often as duty and caution would 
allow, and Tom realised that a secret could indeed be kept on a small 
ship as long as the crew were united in their desire to keep it so. 
One morning, Janell mis-timed her exit as Roberts and Martelli were 
walking by; Martelli gave them a conspiratorial smile, and Roberts 
came over to Tom and quietly said, "Don't worry, sir. Nobody saw 
anything." But Tom realised, and Janell with her empathic sense knew, 
that what they had was everything to do with enjoyment and nothing to 
do with commitment, which saved Tom a small portion of his misgivings 
when at last he was summoned before the Captain.

The Captain had been speaking for a few seconds before Tom fully 
realised that his and Janell's secret was still undiscovered, and he 
had to recap the first few words. Something about Tom being an 
ambitious young man, being wasted aboard an aged science vessel, words 
Tom suspected were prompted less by concern and more by a desire to be 
rid of a loose cannon. But he knew how to deal with Culbertson now; 
much the same as dealing with his father. So he sat stiffly and said, 
"Yes sir," whenever it seemed required of him, and listened.

The one word, though, he had least expected to hear was a name. 
Picard.

"Captain Jean-Luc Picard wants to speak to me, sir?" He had to check 
that it wasn't some other Captain Picard that he'd never heard of.

"That is correct, Ensign. I have a subspace channel set up, so if you 
would like to speak to him now," he turned the display screen to face 
Tom's side of the desk, "I'll leave you in private."

"Mr. Paris," said the familiar face on the screen. "A pleasure to see 
you again. I understand Captain Culbertson might be prepared to do 
without your talents, and I happen to need a new junior pilot. I'll be 
passing Kennar III with a shuttle in two days, so I can give you a 
lift to the Enterprise if you accept."

So that explained why the Captain of the fleet flagship was dealing 
directly with a lowly ensign. But Tom remembered his last meeting with 
Picard, and knew that there were matters that must be cleared up.

"I'm curious, sir. Why me?"

"Well, apart from the way you handled your ship" - *your* ship, Paris 
noted with pride - "in the Kennar incident, I've been most impressed 
by the discretion you've shown since. If anything had got out, it 
would have severely compromised the Federation's bargaining position 
in last month's trade negotiations with the Romulans."

"Captain Culbertson explained to me that it might be in everyone's 
interests if I kept it quiet," replied Tom, being economical with the 
truth. So Culbertson had been playing his cards close to his chest; a 
shame he'd chosen to silence Tom by intimidation rather than by 
trusting him. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to leave.

"Well, it worked. I suppose you deserve to know; the Romulans made 
some major concessions in return for us keeping quiet about the whole 
incident. I can't say I follow the intricacies of Romulan politics, 
but apparently the ruling party needed to avoid being embarrassed."

There was still the enquiry, and that look of hatred he'd seen from 
Picard. "Sir, I didn't get a chance at the enquiry to explain..."

The image waved a hand dismissively. "No need to explain, Mr. Paris. 
If I needed an explanation I wouldn't be speaking to you now. Suffice 
it to say that I know exactly why your deposition contained certain... 
inaccuracies, and that I am sufficiently satisfied with the way you 
conducted yourself thereafter to overlook a potentially serious 
misdemeanour on your part."

The Captain of the Enterprise had to be some sort of superior being, 
Tom reflected. Half the words the man used, he barely even understood. 
But the overall tone was clear, and came as a breathtaking contrast to 
what he'd been used to all his life; this man, Picard, had weighed all 
his actions in the balance, knowing his faults, and judged him good 
enough. If Starfleet's greatest serving officer could believe in him, 
maybe Tom might learn to believe in himself. He knew he would agree, 
even before he raised one last objection.

"There's one other thing, sir. A lot of people know about my past, and
they're not too happy about it. I might have a problem fitting in."

"That's not the way we do things on the Enterprise, Mr. Paris." Picard 
smiled, and his voice became more animated and less formal. "I hear 
you're the best pilot in Starfleet. The Enterprise needs the best, and 
all I ask of you is that you *be* the best. We'll find a way to fit 
you in. After all," Picard's smile took on a look of fatherly pride, 
"we have some rather unusual types here already. We've managed to fit 
them all in somehow, and we'll manage with you too," pointing straight 
out of the screen at Tom, "you mark my words."

There were a few formalities to conclude, but in Tom's heart the 
decision was made; he was, after all, to serve on the flagship. And 
there were two days to pack his belongings, and say goodbye to 
everyone. First, though, he had to tell Janell. Ask Janell, he 
corrected himself; he knew she would be happy for him to go, but he 
owed it to her to ask, before he gave Picard a final answer.  She 
probably wouldn't miss him when he was gone. This was her home, her 
friends were around her, and he knew he'd been no more than a pleasant 
diversion. He'd miss her, but not too much; and because of her, he 
knew, he'd miss Odile, Bruno and Charlie a little less.




THE END