NEW: Loyalty (PG) VOY AU [P/T, various TNG/DS9/VOY]

Title: Loyalty
Series: VOY AU (Virtues series, 8/8)
Author: Dave Rogers
Part: 1/1
Date: 15th July 1999
Rating: PG
Codes: P/T, various TNG/DS9/VOY
Summary: A conflict of loyalties proves to be Tom Paris' undoing.

Disclaimer: The loyal minions of Paramount have better things to do 
than complain about me borrowing their characters.

Acknowledgements: Jeri Taylor's "Pathways" started all this off; Jim 
Wright's Delta Blues site helped along the way.



Loyalty


"I was three years old, and we were on holiday. The whole family, Dad 
and all, for a month in Mallorca. There's a landlocked bay, at Porta 
Polensa, and the water's warm and clear, and the beaches are smooth 
and sandy and go on forever. We spent all day, every day on the beach, 
just playing and relaxing. Dad went water-skiing once. He'd never 
tried it before, but he got up on those skis, and went off round the 
bay, like he'd been doing it all his life. He fell once, then got 
straight back up again, and he was off again round the bay. Then, when 
he got back, it was like, okay, I've done that, no need to do it 
again. It was brilliant.

"I'd been reading this padd about the history of helicopters - you've 
heard of helicopters, right? Kind of like a late twentieth, early 
twenty-first century equivalent of a shuttle? - and there was this 
film clip of the beach safety patrol, and there was this helicopter 
with a big door in the side flying along the beach, and the man was 
sat in the doorway waving, and all the children waved back. And if 
anyone got in trouble swimming, the helicopter would come and save 
them.

"So I started to get worried, like kids do, that if I got in trouble 
in the water, there weren't any helicopters any more, and there'd be 
nobody to save me. So my Dad said he'd be there, that the Dadicopter 
would save me if anything bad happened, and he gave me this great big 
smile.

"When we'd been there a couple of weeks, I was out paddling, I hadn't
learned to swim, and I trod on something - might have been a jellyfish. 
Are there any jellyfish in the Mediterranean?"

B'Elanna Torres managed to indicate, with a simple but eloquent raising 
of the eyebrows, that while she was prepared to listen to the rest of 
Tom's increasingly long and rambling story, the geographical 
distribution of the family of scopelidae was a matter of supreme 
indifference to her. As for her tolerance, it might have been personal 
interest, or just the fact that the two-day shuttle flight from the 
Enterprise's patrol zone near the Cardassian border to Deep Space Nine 
offered little else in the way of diversions.

"Anyway, one moment I was fine, and the next I'd fallen, and I was 
completely submerged. I didn't even know which way was up, and my 
mouth was full of water. I was convinced I was going to die."

B'Elanna gave Tom a look of sympathy that very nearly conveyed the 
impression that him dying twenty-two years before starting this story 
would have been a bad thing to happen.

"Then suddenly I was flying through the air, and my Dad was shouting, 
'Dadicopter, Dadicopter,' holding me in the air and smiling at me. As 
soon as I was out of the water, as soon as I was flying, I felt 
completely safe. I don't think I've ever really wanted to do anything 
but fly since then.

"And that smile... he left after three weeks, and we stayed on alone. 
As soon as we got back to San Francisco, I started playing on shuttle 
simulator programs, trying to learn how to fly, because I thought he'd 
smile like that if I showed him I could fly a shuttle. I'd have done 
anything to see that smile again."

Tom's voice became quieter, and his face fell. "Dad was away on a 
mission for about two years. When he came back, I showed him how good
I was on the shuttle simulator. When I was five, I could fly better 
than most sixteen year olds."

B'Elanna spoke for the first time in what seemed like hours. "And was 
he pleased?"

The words seemed to be difficult to produce. "It wasn't enough. From 
then on, it was never enough. I'd have done anything to see that smile 
again. But I never did." Then, realising quite how far he'd opened up, 
Tom brightened and said, "I'm sorry, I must be boring you senseless."

"No, no, I don't mind. I just don't have too many stories to tell 
about my own father. He left when I was five."

"That's terrible. I can't imagine how that must have felt. Did you see 
him much afterwards?"

"Never." She turned to look at the controls. "Let's talk about 
something else, okay? We'll be there in a couple of hours, and I've 
got to think what I'm going to say to this court of enquiry."

Apparently, there was some critical question concerning the status of 
the Vixlat, and Torres was needed to determine whether her course had 
strayed into the demilitarised zone. Picard had detailed Paris to fly 
her to DS9 in the El-Baz, with an amusement that Paris suspected must 
have something to do with the rumours that had circulated about him 
and Torres over the past month. Totally groundless rumours, he felt; 
he and Torres were good friends, but he was sure neither of them had 
any idea of taking things further than that. Well, she didn't seem to 
have any ideas, anyway. But he still remembered Picard's smile, as he 
finished giving his orders for the journey.

"It'll be a two day flight, Mr. Paris, but don't try to hurry. We can 
manage without you for that long."

"Yes sir. Anything else?"

"Just make sure you bring the shuttle back, Mr. Paris." And Picard's 
smile of fatherly approval had blazed like a beacon, reminding Tom 
that here on the Enterprise he could at last be good enough.

 

"Shuttle El-Baz to Deep Space Nine. Request permission to dock."

"Permission granted," replied an Irish brogue. "Docking bay three."

As they left the shuttle, Tom was struck by the odd appearance of 
its clearly Cardassian architecture in Federation lighting levels. 
But he had little time for aesthetic reflections, as he and Torres 
found themselves faced by three men in Starfleet security uniform, 
all wielding hand phasers. The leader stepped forward, a tallish 
man with a hairline receding from a face that looked like it had 
once been quite friendly.

"Eddington, Starfleet security. I'm here to take custody of your 
prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Tom was stunned. "There must be some mistake. She's 
here to talk to a court of enquiry."

"No mistake," replied Eddington briefly. "She's to come with us. 
You've been assigned temporary quarters; I'll brief you at 1400 hours, 
main security office."

"But..." It was too late. The two other men hustled Torres away, her 
backward glance of shock and betrayal leaving itself imprinted on 
Tom's retina like a blinding light. As Tom tried to follow, he ran 
into Eddington's outstretched arm, and the security man simply 
repeated, "1400 hours, main security office."

A little later, Tom was sitting in Quark's bar, engaged in the futile 
activity of trying to drink enough synthale for everything to make 
sense, when a familiar voice emerged above the hum of conversation.

"It may be a bar, my friend, but a bar without a pool table is no bar 
at all." There was no mistaking those ringing tones; he looked round, 
and there, in civilian clothes but otherwise unchanged, was Nasir, 
arguing good-naturedly with the owner. Tom was about to call him, but 
Nasir was quicker. "Thomas! Well met, my friend. Or not so well," as 
he came closer and saw that Tom's face was lined with concern. 
"Trouble?"

Glad of a friendly ear, Tom decided to confide in his old shipmate. 
"There's this woman - no, it's not what you think," he quickly said 
as Nasir began to smile. "She was aboard a freighter that was," he 
lowered his voice, "running guns to the Maquis, but she didn't know 
about it. Now she's been arrested, and I want to know what the hell's 
going on."

It was remarkable how quietly Nasir could speak when he wanted to. 
"The Klingon woman in the Starfleet uniform?" At Tom's look of 
surprise, he added, "This is a small station. Like the Bohr, there are 
no secrets here."

"Look, she's just a friend, but she shouldn't be treated like this. 
She was supposed to be reporting to some court of enquiry, not getting 
arrested."

"I will make enquiries, Thomas. But I hear that Starfleet is most 
concerned at the number of its people the Maquis are recruiting. There 
are rumours that Admiral Nechayev is coming here to make an example of 
someone. I hope, for your friend's sake, it will not be her."

"Thanks, Nasir. I guess I'd better go see Eddington, and see what he's 
got to say."

It was a little before 1400 hours when Tom strolled round to the main 
security office, and as yet the place was empty and locked up. Within 
a few minutes, though, he heard angry voices approaching, and stood 
back quietly to listen.

"It's a Starfleet matter." That sounded like Eddington.

"Nevertheless, I should have been told." A dryish, rather rasping 
voice answered him, and a moment later its owner came into view. He 
was a tall, thin man in a Bajoran police uniform, and his face seemed 
to have been designed by someone who had heard faces described but 
never actually seen one. "After all, these are my cells." Seeing Tom, 
he stopped talking, unlocked the office, and entered silently.

"Mr. Paris, I'm glad you could make it," began Eddington. "Come with 
me and I'll fill you in." They walked to another, smaller office, 
where Eddington continued. "I'm sorry about the surprise at the 
docking ring, but we wanted to get Torres here without any fuss. 
Starfleet's lost some good people to the Maquis, and she's the first 
one we've managed to catch. We don't want to let her go now; we can 
use her to give a message to anyone else who's thinking of jumping 
ship."

Tom felt a sense of dull horror; this was not the Starfleet he'd 
believed in all his life, but rather the one he'd begun to know over 
the past year and a half. Eddington's words echoed Nasir's so closely 
that there was little room for doubt. He just needed to know the full 
extent of it all.

"What sort of message are we talking about?" He struggled to keep his 
voice steady.

"Five years, maximum security, hard labour, would be my guess. It's 
not up to me, there's supposed to be some bigwig arriving in a couple 
of days." If he meant Admiral Nechayev, then Tom had heard of her from 
acquaintances on the Enterprise, and her reputation seemed to back up 
Eddington's guess.

"But she didn't have anything to do with the Maquis!" exclaimed Tom. 
"You can't let them do this to her. She's innocent!"

"Then she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," replied 
Eddington simply. But the way he looked at Tom, the way he responded 
to his outburst, gave a disturbing impression of deviousness; and 
Tom, not wanting to know what this twisted mind might be planning for 
him, decided the best thing he could do would be to get out of there 
fast.

"I understand, sir," he said, trying to strike the right blend of 
reluctant acceptance in his tone of voice. "Is there anything I should 
report back to Captain Picard?"

"That'll be taken care of," replied Eddington. "You can go now, 
Ensign. Get some sleep, and you can get back to the Enterprise in the 
morning."

Two hours later, Nasir found Tom in his quarters, and entered quietly.
"We can speak safely here," he began. "Things do not look good for 
your friend. It seems that..."

"I know," interrupted Tom. "Eddington was more than happy to fill me 
in." Suddenly he slammed a fist into the wall. "Damn it! She's my 
friend, and I feel like I betrayed her. If I could just do something."

"That may be possible," replied Nasir.

Tom spun round to look him in the eye, hope warring with suspicion in 
his mind. "What do you mean?"

"I know some people. We could arrange for your friend to leave."

"Nasir, that's crazy! You could get thrown out of Starfleet for that - 
hell, you could go to prison yourself, and so could I."

"Look at me, Thomas. Is this a Starfleet uniform? Technically, I may 
be on leave of absence; but there are higher causes."

"The Maquis?"

Nasir waved a hand dismissively. "Let us not name demons, Thomas. Let 
us just say that I can help your friend, if she wants to be helped. 
Try to see her, find out if you can. Then give me your answer."

Suspicion took the upper hand for a moment. "You talk like a card 
sharp."

Nasir looked hurt, but simply said, "This treaty makes card players of 
us all, Thomas."



Seeing Torres was simpler than Tom expected, almost suspiciously so. 
When he stopped by the main security office, the thin man in Bajoran 
uniform admitted him to the visiting area with hardly a word, then 
left; although Tom was sure that whatever was said in the cells would 
be heard somewhere else.

Torres was, understandably, furious. "Come to gloat, Mr. Starfleet 
Officer?" she said with quiet rage. "So you fooled me, you and your 
Captain. I hope you're proud of yourselves."

"B'Elanna, it wasn't anything to do with me. I didn't know a thing 
about this. And I can't believe Captain Picard did either."

She wasn't convinced. "Does it matter? You're Starfleet, and as far as 
Starfleet's concerned, I'm Maquis now." 

"B'Elanna, I know you're not, and I'll do anything I can to get you 
out of this. I tried talking to Eddington, but he's no help. Maybe if 
I got in touch with the Enterprise..."

"Why the hell should they bother with me?" Her voice dropped, and she 
added bitterly, "I'd be better off if I really *was* Maquis."

She went silent as Tom fixed her with an intense look, praying that 
somehow, whether by telepathy or body language, he could get across to 
her the message that he had to convey but dared not speak. And it 
seemed that, somehow, he succeeded; after a few long seconds her 
eyebrows raised in shocked understanding. Then, gently, almost 
invisibly to any casual observer, she inclined her head in the 
slightest indication of a nod.



Nasir's friends, whoever they were, were quick and effective. In the 
middle of the sleep period, he and Torres met Tom in his quarters. 
"Go to your shuttle, Thomas, and leave now. I will arrange for the 
docking clamps to be removed. Here is a flight plan for the Maquis 
base."

Tom studied the padd. "This is in the badlands. Nobody's ever got 
through the plasma storms."

Nasir smiled. "But I know you would love to try, Thomas. It can be 
done, believe me. I may see you there one day."

Or not, thought Tom; he had other obligations. But it was best not to 
voice those now; he had to help B'Elanna, and he needed Nasir's 
unquestioning support. "Give me five minutes to get away, Nasir. Once 
we've made it to warp, nobody'll catch us."

A quick dash to the docking ring for Paris and Torres, and the El-Baz 
was away. From a viewport on the upper promenade, two men watched the 
shuttle depart.

"We shouldn't be seen together," murmured Eddington.

"I had to see them go. I had to know I'd done the right thing," 
replied Nasir in a low voice.

"It was a stroke of luck Paris wanting to spring her. The Maquis needs 
pilots as well as engineers. And we can keep your cover for another 
time."

"Not so lucky for Paris, perhaps," mused Nasir.

"As long as he believed you, he probably won't feel too bad."

Something in his tone aroused Nasir's suspicions. "Should he not have 
believed me?"

Eddington looked round apologetically. "I needed you to believe it, 
Nasir. You're not a good liar."

"So Admiral Nechayev..."

"Has no intention of coming anywhere near DS9, as far as I know. We 
need them, Nasir, any way we can get them."

Nasir did not reply. The Maquis may have gained a pilot today, he 
thought, but they had lost another. He'd thought the Maquis was a 
higher cause than Starfleet, but he couldn't work with people like 
this. He was still on leave of absence, and he hadn't actually 
done anything illegal, especially if Torres' arrest had been no more 
than Eddington's recruitment ploy. Starfleet might well take him back.



Tom Paris was under no such illusion. The Maquis had been suspicious 
at first, but not in the least surprised at his and Torres' arrival; 
Nasir, or his unknown friends, must have been in touch. The man in 
charge, a heavily built, angry looking man by the name of Chakotay, 
distinguished by a complex tattoo over his left eye, had spoken to 
them briefly; he and Tom had taken an instant dislike to each other, 
and Tom was now trying to avoid him. Not just for personal reasons, 
though; he had a difficult decision to make, and he knew that Chakotay 
would never give him a free choice.

After a simple meal - no replicators here, clearly - he and Torres 
were given what the Bajoran showing them round referred to as quarters, 
but which were actually little more than tents. They hadn't bothered 
to disarm Tom; he recalled Chakotay's words. "You're here, and you're 
staying here. There's nowhere else to go." Now, before anyone could 
react, was the time to leave. So, when the yellow disk of the local 
sun was replaced by the dim, flickering glow of the plasma storms, he 
crept quietly out of the back of the tent and made softly for the 
El-Baz.

"Just where do you think you're going, Paris?" Chakotay, it seemed, 
was a light sleeper.

"Just taking a walk, admiring the local scenery," Paris retorted
angrily. "Like you said, where am I going to go?"

"I'll show you round," countered Chakotay. "Not that there's much to 
see. There's some desert over there, over there is some desert, and 
over that way you can see..."

Turning away from Tom at that moment had been a bad move. A phaser on 
heavy stun cut short Chakotay's guided tour, and Tom ran for the 
El-Baz, hoping that nobody had been woken by the sound. As it turned 
out, though, one person had. 

"Tom?"

"B'Elanna, just walk away. Pretend you didn't see me. I can't stay 
here."

"But where are you going to go?"

"Back to the Enterprise. I made a promise I have to keep."

"Why? I don't understand."

"It's complicated. I have to go back because..." He tried to tell her 
about truth, and loyalty, and most of all honour, and the pain he had 
felt when he thought he had lost his. But he only got as far as saying, 
"Look, this Klingon woman I met in San Francisco..." when she 
interrupted him.

"Spare me the details, Paris. I understand." Her voice was cold now, 
all feeling shut out. "I thought..." She looked away. "I don't know 
what I thought. I guess I made a mistake."

He wanted to run to her and hold her in his arms, and say no, you 
didn't make a mistake. He wanted to stay, and take whatever life he 
could get with her; and maybe, he thought later, when there was time 
to think, if she'd shown him any kind of sign, it might have been 
enough. But he couldn't be sure, and there was a promise he had to 
keep.

"Goodbye, B'Elanna." There was nothing else to say.

And then his shuttle was flying, and he was fighting with the plasma 
storms. Once he'd made it clear of the Maquis solar system, he knew 
they'd never catch him. And so he steeled himself to face the 
consequences of his own loyalty. If Picard had just told him to bring 
back the shuttle, he might have resisted; but it was that smile, the 
smile he'd never see again from his father but had seen from Picard, 
that was his beacon, his hope, and in the end his ruin.



EPILOGUE: Federation Penal Colony, Auckland, a year later.

The price of loyalty had been everything, and nothing. Physically, 
there were few better places to be than Auckland. The sky was blue, 
the air clean, the food good and the accommodation comfortable. There 
was even interesting work to be done, and Tom found a quiet 
satisfaction in building things with his own hands. If he could forget 
the walls around him, life was good. But he might never fly again, 
which was hard to live with; and he was sure he would never see 
B'Elanna again. Worst of all, he had time; time to think, time to 
reflect, time to wonder what might have been.

Visits had been few, but significant. There had been a brief interview 
with his father, just after he had received his sentence; it was hard 
to say which of them had found the experience more painful. His mother 
and sisters had been to see him a few times, and at the very least he 
knew that when his eighteen months were over he would have somewhere 
to go. But the visit that had come as the most pleasant surprise - at 
first, anyway - was Nasir's.

Pride had carried Tom through the first three months of his sentence. 
After all, whatever else he had got wrong, however badly he might have 
wrecked his own life, at least B'Elanna was free; at least he had saved 
her. So, when Nasir came to see him, much of his fragile self-
confidence still remained intact, and he had become the cocky, good- 
humoured, cynical rebel of the colony. But Nasir - back in uniform now, 
after who knew what tortuous moral path - had been talking for five 
minutes about a series of mutual friends whose very existence was news 
to Tom, when gradually his meaning became clear. In a way that no 
casual listener could decipher, he had sketchily outlined Eddington's 
subterfuge.

"So, let me try to get this straight," mused Tom. "When Edward invited 
Barbara to Natasha's party, there wasn't really a party; he just 
wanted to talk her into seeing his friend Mark?"

"And then Barbara took Timothy with her, and they both ended up in 
Mark's house," finished Nasir. "But Timothy left in the night, and 
ended up out in the cold."

"And Nigel?"

"Nigel fell out with Mark after that. He couldn't live with Edward's 
lies. He felt bad about Timothy, but there was nothing he could do."

Tom laughed bitterly. "Sometimes life just sounds like a cheap holo-
novel, don't you think?"

"Sadly, Thomas, it is rarely cheap."

Nasir, no doubt, had meant well by bringing Tom the truth, and Tom was 
grateful, at least, to know. But the realisation that the Maquis had 
been to blame for his fall, and that Starfleet was innocent, turned 
his world on its head. He felt duped, and used, and most of all he 
felt that he had been stupid, and all his misfortunes were his own 
fault. The cockiness disappeared, to be replaced by a hopeless sense 
of remorse; and from then on, he stopped trying to fight the routine 
of the penal colony, tried instead to become the model prisoner. And 
by giving in to it, he started to learn some of the lessons the penal 
colony set out to teach.

And at last, there came a day when it seemed his longed-for chance at 
redemption might have arrived, as he looked up from his work at the 
sound of a woman's voice, a harsh voice that told of too many late 
nights and cups of coffee, but also of an iron will that held 
everything together.

"Tom Paris? Kathryn Janeway. I served with your father on the Al-
Batani."

At first, she was just another Starfleet officer to Tom, and he failed 
completely to keep the sarcasm out of his voice as he replied, "You 
must be good. My father only accepts the best and the brightest."

"I was wondering if we could go somewhere and talk." Whatever armour 
she was wearing, his words had just bounced off it. He shrugged 
silently; at the very least it was a few minutes out of the sun.

As they walked together through the woods, Janeway continued. "The 
Rehab Commission's very pleased with your work. They've given approval 
for a proposal I have for you--an assignment you may be able to help 
with."

"I guess I'm yours," replied Tom without enthusiasm. In truth, he was; 
he probably couldn't afford to turn down whatever she had to offer.

"I'm going to search for a Maquis ship that disappeared into the 
Badlands a week ago."

"I wouldn't advise it," replied Tom. "I've never seen a Federation 
Starship that can manoeuvre through the plasma storms." 

And then it happened. "You've never seen Voyager," Janeway said with 
pride. And she smiled, and everything changed. It was the smile, 
again, that defeated Tom Paris, the smile he remembered from his 
father's face all those years ago. I can follow this woman, he thought. 
He'd find a way, somehow, to make her smile that smile at him, and it 
would be like having his father back. He barely heard her continue, 
"We'd like you to come along. If you help us find the ship, I'll put 
in a good word for you. You'll be onboard as an observer."

"Observer? Hell, I'd be the best pilot you could have!" The words came 
out with more passion than he felt. He knew they were true, and he'd 
find a way, somehow, to prove them. In the meantime, though, whether 
he was pilot, observer or head cleaner, he'd find a way to make himself 
useful to Janeway.

"You'll be an observer," Janeway said with an air of finality. "When 
it's over, you're cut loose." 

Paris relaxed. "Story of my life," he said.

But it wouldn't be like that, he knew somehow. She'd need him for 
something, somewhere, some day. And he'd be happy to follow her, he 
knew that too. If she asked him, he'd follow this woman right across 
the galaxy and back.



THE END