The BLTS Archive - The Darkest Hour
third in the Lines in The Sand universe
by Seema (seemag1@yahoo.com)

---

Feedback: Constructive feedback always welcome.

Note: This is AU after "Unimatrix Zero, part I."

Disclaimer: No profit/infringement intended. Characters & places
belong to Paramount.

Author’s Notes: Thanks to Maud, for information, insight, betas, and
saintly patience in dealing with a slightly hysterical author. Thanks
to Kim for his clear explanations on how things work (and explode) in
space. Finally, thanks to the JEWEL mailing list for filling in those
all important canon details.

For Liz, my long suffering beta. After three years of the good, the
bad, the silly and the unmentionable, there's still no one else I'd
rather be redundant with. Thank you.

---

"Get us out of here!" Janeway calls as Voyager lurches yet again. The
view screens show the minor explosions on the outer hull of the
Starbase and to our horror, we see four or five of the EVA-suited
technicians floating away. "Harry, see if you can beam them in!
Tom..."

"I'm on it!" I yell back. "We're cleared to evacuate, docking clamps
released... damn, there's something wrong -"

"What is it?" Janeway is at my shoulder.

"The deuterium exchange filter," I slam my fist against the console.
"I'm unable to go to warp."

"Seven, get down to Engineering," Janeway says. "Tom, try impulse."

We can see a flurry of shuttles leaving the Starbase and I hope that
B'Elanna is on one of them.

"We're good here," I say. "We've got impulse."

"I hope that's good enough."

"It's going to have to be," I answer. I chart a temporary course away
from the Starbase, hoping that even though we're crawling at impulse,
we'll have enough time to get away. That's going to be a hell of an
explosion, one worth noting for prosperity, but I sure don't want to
be around when the place actually blows.

"Harry?" Janeway asks. "What's the status on the transport?"

"Got them but the Doc says they were already dead," Harry reports.
"Apparently the explosion which propelled them off of the station
killed them. Blew out their oxygen supply."

I shudder, remembering the time when B'Elanna and I were drifting in
space, basically waiting to die. It's a terrible way to go; you get
dizzy from lack of oxygen, your head begins to ache, and each breath
drawn in grows increasingly painful as your lungs begin to gasp for
oxygen. Eventually, you lose consciousness, knowing in those last
lucid moments that you are going to die.

Janeway sighs and then looks at Tuvok who is sitting where Chakotay
normally would be.

"Any indication of what happened?" she asks.

"No," Tuvok says flatly. "I am still running an analysis-"

"Captain!" Harry exclaims. "I'm picking up a wave - Tom, do you see
that on sensors?"

"Got it," I yell back. "Compensating now. Diverting power to the
inertial dampers."

"What is it?" Janeway asks. Voyager rolls and we all struggle back to
our feet. I dust myself off before returning to my seat.

"Status!" Janeway bark.

"Shock wave," Tuvok says. "Apparently quite a large one."

"The station is gone," Harry reports.

There is silence on the bridge as we digest this information.

"Only a reactor meltdown could cause some damage," Janeway muses. "It
must have been highly unstable from the beginning."

"Makes you wonder why they wanted us to stop here," Harry says.

"Harry, did you get any scans prior to the explosion?" Janeway asks.

"No, sorry," Harry says.

Voyager shudders as the another shock waves hits us.

"Harry, open all hailing frequencies. I want to talk to Admiral
McArthur," Janeway says.

"Opening all frequencies."

It seems like eternity but only a few minutes pass before a wane
Admiral McArthur appears on the view screen. He looks old, his brow
furrowed with concern.

"Captain Janeway," he says. "You escaped."

"What happened?" she asks.

"Reactor meltdown," McArthur sighs. "I'm sorry about that, Kathryn."

"What about my people?" she asks. "The Maquis?"

"I believe there were orders to safely evacuate them."

"You believe? You don't know?" Janeway asks.

"It is my understanding that all prisoners were to be evacuated,"
McArthur says carefully.

"Were they evacuated?" Janeway persists.

"Unfortunately I won't know until the final count is tallied," he
says. "We will rendezvous at Starbase 91. Is your crew all accounted
for?"

"Except for those on the station, yes," Janeway says.

"Then you may proceed to Deep Space Nine for your new assignments.
McArthur out."

The blue and white Federation logo replaces McArthur's face. I twist
around to face Janeway, who is standing in the middle of the bridge,
arms akimbo.

"Captain?" I ask.

She shakes her head, taking deep breaths.

"I can't help but think..." her voice drifts off. "Tuvok, is there any
way we can find out whether Lieutenant Torres and Commander Chakotay
were evacuated?"

"I will try to find a way," Tuvok says. "But I am not optimistic."

"New assignments?" Harry asks. "What is he talking about? Are we being
reassigned?"

"Just me," the Captain says. "I'll be captaining the Dauntless."

"When?" I ask sharply.

"Effective when I get to Deep Space Nine."

"Don't you get any time off?" I ask.

"They needed someone right away. It's a deep space mission, two to
five years."

"Haven't you already spent enough time in deep space?" Harry asks
without a hint of irony.

"Yes," Janeway settles back into her chair. "How long until we reach
Deep Space Nine?"

"Looks to be about five days," I report. "At warp five."

"Not enough time," Janeway says.

"Captain?" I question.

"There's something going on, Lieutenant, and I'm not sure what," she
says. "We need time to investigate."

I look at Tuvok, who is nodding his head.

"If I take this commission on the Dauntless as scheduled, I'm afraid
that the Maquis will be forgotten," she says. "Tom, what does it look
like out there?"

"There is a solar radiation storm, magnitude several thousand
kilometers," I say. "Going around it will add three to four days to
our journey."

"Is that the best you can do?"

"Warp three adds another day or two," I say.

"Good. Do that," Janeway says. "Tuvok, any indication on whether
Chakotay, B'Elanna and the others made it off safely?"

Her voice is crisp and clear, but it sends shivers of fear through me.
What if B'Elanna did not get off of the station? What if she was there
in the Brig, unable to get out? And I can only imagine her fear -
seeing her in my mind, pacing back and forth, maybe even trying to
disrupt the force field with her own body.

Things have not been exactly smooth for B'Elanna and me. Some of the
fault lies with me, but blame also belongs to her; we're too busy
fighting each other and we don't stop until it's too late. There have
been times when I've wanted to throw in the towel, just walk away from
her. But the good outweighs the bad and the moments we share are
entirely too precious to let go of.

I want her back.

"Would my father know?" I ask, twisting around. "Could he tell us?"

"Hail him," Janeway says to Harry.

To our dismay, the view screen remains blank. My heart is nearly
beating itself right out of my ribcage.

"Looks like we're experiencing some difficulties with communications,"
Harry says. "Our communications array was slightly damaged in that
last shock wave."

"Send an engineering team to work on it," Janeway orders. "Tom, keep
trying to hail Admiral Paris, anyone. I need to know what happened
back there."

Then she chuckles lightly, "I don't suppose this was the homecoming
any of us expected, was it?"

No one else laughs.

---

Cold. That is the first thing I feel as my eyes open. I'm lying on the
bench, my hands still handcuffed behind my back. I sit up, notice the
pilots up front, both talking in low voices. Chakotay is awake, but
lying down, also on his side.

"Hi," he says softly.

"How long?" I whisper.

"I've lost track of time," he says.

"Where are they taking us?"

"I don't know. I asked again. They won't tell me."

I struggle to sit up. There are only two pilots. If somehow we can
release our hands...

Chakotay glances at me.

"Don't even think it, B'Elanna," he warns. "It won't work."

"I'm going crazy!" I burst out.

One of the pilots turns around.

"Problem back there?" he asks.

"We're fine," Chakotay answers. "B'Elanna, don't."

His voice is calm, soothing. I grudgingly admit that he is right; no
need to start anything here and now. I settle back against the wall.

"What about Voyager?" I ask.

"They tell me only that there were many casualties."

I close my eyes, bite lip, try hard to keep my emotion from bubbling
up into something audible. I'm not used to crying. It's not something
I do. When I'm upset or angry or sad, I grab my bat'leth and proceed
to knock famed Klingon warriors into the next quadrant. I fight until
I'm exhausted and too tired for tears to even squeeze from behind my
eyelids.

"B'Elanna," Chakotay says. "They made it. I know they did."

I bend my head forward, still not opening my eyes. My stomach churns.
I'll be damned if I'm going to be sick.

"I'm cold," I say instead.

"Hey, can one of you get her a blanket?" Chakotay calls out.

To our surprise, the request is actually granted and a blanket is
tossed back to me. I lay down and awkwardly gyrate on the bench,
trying to spread it over me. Finally, I pull the hem to my chin with
my teeth. I look over at Chakotay, who is actually smiling as he
watches my gymnastics routine. I finally settle on my side, since it's
impossible to sleep on my back with my hands handcuffed.

"Better?" he asks.

"Yes."

"I know you're upset," he says. "But-"

"Upset doesn't begin to cover it," I tell him. "If Tom didn't make it,
he'll never know-"

"He knows."

"No, he doesn't. All I do is fight him," I say. "We even fought on our
wedding night."

"You fight because you're afraid to open up."

"I don't want it to be that way," I say. "I was going to change. Now
that we were back, I was going to change for him. I might not get that
chance now."

"Don't think that way."

"It might be better this way," I say. "He would have left eventually.
You even think so."

"Tom wouldn't have left you, B'Elanna."

"Yes, he would have," I retort. "That's why you warned me away from
him in the beginning because you know what kind of person he is."

"I see what you're doing," Chakotay says gently. "You're hardening
your heart so that if he is dead, it won't hurt as much. You'll think
he would have left anyway, and that makes it a little better, doesn't
it?"

I think of my father, the man who forms the basis of most of my
knowledge of human men. When I was little, I adored him. I loved the
way he would pick me up, swing me in his arms and throw me up. I was
never afraid of hitting the ground because I knew he would catch me
again. Sometimes, he would run his fingers through my curls and
whisper, "Who loves the Little Bee?"

And I would clap my little hands together and squeal out, "Daddy!
Daddy!"

I remember other moments like the last time he took me for an
ice-cream cone.

"Things change, Little Bee," he said very seriously.

"Like what?" I asked with all of the solemnity a five-year old can
muster. At that point in my life, the biggest conflict was whether I
should have strawberry or chocolate ice cream. In the end, I picked
vanilla.

"Your mother and I," he said. "We both love you very much, but we
don't love each other."

I remember just staring at Daddy, not really comprehending what he was
telling me. He said something about moving to another city, that he
had already picked out a new house.

"What does my room look like?" I asked.

"Well, you won't be coming with me," he said. "But I'll come and visit
often. I won't be far. I'll take you to the zoo," he promised. "And
when it's warmer, we will go to the beach."

My mother wasn't there the day my father left. I don't know where she
went during those few hours when my father was packing up his worldly
goods. I was his little helper, and every now and then, he would smile
at me and say, "You're so good, Little Bee."

So I asked, "If I'm good, you'll stay, right?"

"I'll come back, Little Bee," he said as he gently disentangled me
from his leg. "I promise."

And then he walked out the door, his suitcase in one hand and he only
turned once to wave good-bye. I remember standing there in the
doorframe, watching him leave and even when I could no longer see him,
I stood there.

"B'Elanna?" Chakotay asks. "What is it?"

"Just thinking," I say. "About my father."

"Why?"

"I don't know," I confess. "Actually, I do. He and my mother, they
must have been happy together once, right?"

"Yes."

"But he left. I don't understand how that can happen. How can you love
someone enough to marry that person and to have a child and then
suddenly you're not in love anymore?"

"You have to understand what was like for them," Chakotay says. "The
political climate didn't favor anything Klingon and for your father to
have married one, that was an enormous risk he took."

"I'm afraid that will happen to Tom and me," I say. "I'm afraid that
one day we'll wake up and realize we're not in love anymore."

"That doesn't just happen, B'Elanna."

"It did to my parents."

Chakotay sighs and leans forward. If he could, I'm sure he would
cradle his head in his hands.

"Are you in love with the Captain?" I whisper.

He lifts his head, "Why would you ask that?"

"I just have to know."

"I respect her."

"And?"

"Admire her?"

"And?"

"That's all."

"That's all?"

"What do you want, B'Elanna?" he says in an exasperated tone. "My
feelings for the Captain are irrelevant."

"Now you sound like Seven."

"I don't know why you're asking the question."

"Would you leave her?" I persist.

Chakotay shakes his head. He smiles, wistfully, I think.

"Not willingly," he answers and then he laughs.

"That's what I thought," I say quietly.

"Not all men are like your father," Chakotay says. "It's unfair for
you to think so. In fact, you don't even know the whole story about
why your father left. You have drawn conclusions but you could be so
wrong. Has that ever occurred to you?"

I take a deep breath.

"I wrote him a letter," I say. "Before we ended up in the Delta
Quadrant, I wrote him. He was in Mexico and I wanted so much to find
out what had happened and if I was still his Little Bee. I wonder if
he got it."

"When this is all over, we can find out," Chakotay promises.

The pilot on the left turns back to look at us.

"We're going down," he says. "Should be down on the planet in about
twenty minutes."

"What planet?" Chakotay asks. "Aren't we going to a starbase?"

"No," the pilot responds. "This is where we were ordered to bring you.
Alonius Prime."

Chakotay and I glance at each other; we know Alonius Prime well. It is
an irony, maybe a planned one, that seven years after we launched our
last raid from this planet, they have brought us back here.

"Welcome home," the pilot tells us.

---

 It's funny. We spend seven years in the Delta Quadrant longing for
the Alpha and when we get back here, the stars look exactly the same.
Sure, there are differences. Constellations and galaxies are arranged
differently and for the most part, we know where we are. There are few
surprises here for us and the lack thereof is amazingly refreshing. It
is, in fact, almost a bit boring.

"I almost miss the Hirogen," Harry says as he carries his tray over to
the table. "It might be nice to see a Krenim or two."

"You're sick," I tell him. I put my hand to his forehead. "Primitive,
but effective. You're running a fever. You can't be blamed for wanting
to break bread with the Hirogen."

"You don't have sickbay duty anymore," Harry says. "So don't try to
play doctor, okay?"

"Thank God for small favors," I answer. I pick at my food; it's all
fresh. Since coming home, we've been blessed with an endless stream of
replicator rations. I can have tomato soup, pizza and beer three times
a day and not think about it twice.

"Not hungry?" Harry asks.

"Actually, I wouldn't mind a bit of leola root."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"I never thought I'd say it either."

I push my plate aside, trying not to look at the congealing cheese
oozing out of my grilled-cheese sandwich.

"I wonder where they are," I say.

"B'Elanna and Chakotay?"

"Yes," I look around. "It's been almost a day. You'd think we'd know
by now."

"I'd like to think they got away."

"The whole thing feels funny," I say. "You know, I didn't even get to
talk to my father."

"The Captain said he was proud of you."

"It's not the same. I want to hear him say it. I want him to tell me
to my face that he is proud of me."

"Yeah," Harry says. "I heard from Libby."

"How is she?"

"Good. Not married."

"That's good. You think...?"

"No," Harry shakes his head. "Too much time. It wouldn't feel right."

"You're not going to try?"

"It wouldn't work."

"How do you know?"

"She doesn't even sound the same in her letter."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," Harry sighs. "But I'm okay with it, mostly because I wasn't
expecting her to wait for me. A year or two, maybe, but certainly not
seven."

"Seven years is a long time," I agree. "It took me, what, two years to
get used to being on Voyager? A year, almost two for B'Elanna to warm
up to me? And then two or three years to get used to being with
B'Elanna? It's funny. We're sitting here and it's almost like we're
right back where we started. We're going back to Deep Space Nine and
there are no Maquis on board. In another couple days, we could head
into the Badlands and run into the Caretaker again. Then you'd get
your wish. You'd see the Hirogen again."

"That was a joke."

"Not a very good one," I say. "Damn. I miss her."

We sit in silence for a long time. I'm thinking about the last time I
saw B'Elanna. She was in the interrogation room back on Starbase 87,
looking pale and a bit thin. I wondered then if she had been sleeping
or eating properly. I knew she wanted to talk to me, could tell it by
the look in her eyes, but they wouldn't let me go near her.

"She's my wife!" I yelled at the guards restraining me. "You have to
let me talk to her. I just want to make sure she's all right."

As they dragged me out, I saw B'Elanna mouth three words to me and I
hope that she saw me say them back.

"They got out," Harry, perpetual optimist that he is, says.

"Yeah, well, I can't think about that," I look back down at my food,
now cold. "I've got to go, Harry."

Without waiting for his response, I get up and deposit my tray back
into the replicator. The trip back to my quarters seems endlessly
long, and on my way, I pass the quarters, which used to belong to
B'Elanna.

Knowing she won't be in there waiting for me, I let myself in. The
rooms still smell like B'Elanna and all of her possessions, including
all of her Starfleet uniforms, remain where she left them.

The bed is neatly made and I note the absence of Toby the Targ.
Flowers droop in the vase next to the bed; I had given them to her not
long before we arrived in the Alpha Quadrant. Most of her cosmetics
are still on the dresser and when I open the drawers, I find them
mostly full.

The top drawer holds an odd assortment of objects, from rarely used
barrettes to isolinear chips. In the back, I find a small black box. A
holoimager. I pull it out and set it on the dresser, pressing a switch
in the back to turn it on. To my surprise, it's a holoimage of me. I'm
sitting on a rock, leaning forward, my elbows resting on my knees.
There is a bit of a breeze ruffling my hair. The holoimage of me turns
slightly towards the filmer and says her name.

B'Elanna.

I do not remember B'Elanna taking this image and I certainly did not
think that my unsentimental half-Klingon would keep a holoimage of me.
Yet, here it is, tucked away with the other possession dearest to her
heart - a phaselink coupler.

A pair of shoes, kicked off in a hurry, lie next to the bed. I put
them in the closet, not really looking at the uniforms and nightgowns
still hanging there. There are one or two off-duty outfits in there
too, including the flowered sundress she had worn once to a holodeck
party. I touch the soft cotton material lightly with my fingers and
then shut the doors. Wherever B'Elanna is now, she won't need these.
I'm on my way out when I notice the PADD lying on the table. My heart
beats faster. With my luck and knowing B'Elanna, it's probably nothing
but schematics on improving the warp nacelles, but I have to think -
want to believe - that she would leave a message for me.

I'm not disappointed.

"Dear Tom, I knew you couldn't stay out of my quarters. I know that
because whenever you were gone on away missions, sometimes I would
visit your quarters just to remember what you smelled like. Silly,
isn't it? I don't know what's going to happen and it scares me. I've
spent the last fifteen minutes packing necessities and it's so hard
not to take everything with me. I feel like I'm leaving an important
part of my life behind, including you. I have to believe that
everything happens for a reason and whatever happens now, well, we'll
just deal with it. And we'll deal with it the way we should have in
the past - together. Tom, I don't have much time. Chakotay is on his
way and I want you to know that I'm thinking about you. I love you.
B'Elanna."

I sit down in the chair and rewind the letter and reread it. Again and
again and again until the PADD squeals in protest. I look up at the
ceiling and the back down at the PADD, my eyes blurring on the last
four words.

"I love you. B'Elanna."

I rub my hand across my eyes. My throat feels scratchy, almost as if
I'm been singing endlessly for hours.

I look around B'Elanna's quarters one more time. It feels like her,
smells like and even has her style, but B'Elanna's not coming back.

I get up, PADD in hand, and leave.

---

I don't know whose idea it was to pick to Alonius Prime as the primary
center for Maquis operations, but at the time, we had thought it
inspired, as if its sole reason to be in the cosmos was to serve as
the launch point for terrorists like us. Land covers most of Alonius,
with only about forty-seven percent water. Tall mountains cover much
of the northern landmasses and because of the strong electromagnetic
fields generated by the highly polar north and south poles, it was
easy to create a dampening field to mask life signs on the planet.

Alonius is also famous for its bitterly cold winters and ferocious
storms, all of which contribute to its inhospitable aura.

The shuttlecraft lands on one of the northern continents and as the
back hatch opens, we see that we're at a settlement of some kind. The
prefabricated buildings are Starfleet-issue, the supplies we see are
also Starfleet.

"Welcome to the Maquis settlement," one of the pilots says to us as he
releases our handcuffs. I rub my red wrists gratefully. Chakotay
swings his arms back and forth in an attempt to loosen his stiff
shoulders. I note the pilot's hand on the phaser on his hip; I have no
doubt that the setting is on "kill." My tentative plan to grab the
pilot around the neck and aim a knee to the groin has been put on
hold. There's not much I can do against a phaser and I like being
alive, thank you very much.

"The Maquis settlement?" I ask.

The pilot nods, indicating the buildings in front of us.

"All of the surviving Maquis are here," he says. "I've got fresh
supplies, so if you'll give us a hand, we can be on our way."

"You're leaving us here?" I ask.

"Those are my orders," he says easily. "Come on, give me a hand."

I notice Chakotay staring at a trio approaching us.

"Chakotay?"

"It's them," he says in a soft voice. "It's Deres, Camden and Kadian."

"Are you going to help or not?" the pilot is growing impatient.

"One minute," I snap. I take a step forward. The other three are
approaching at a quickening pace.

"Chakotay?" Deres, a Bajoran, asks. "Is it really you?"

"Tag, it's good to see you," Chakotay says. "Anna, Leo, I didn't think
I'd see you again."

"Nor did we," Anna Camden says. "B'Elanna, how are you?"

"I'm good, Anna," I say. "How... how long have you been here?"

"Since the destruction of the Maquis," Leo Kadian puts in. "Those of
us who survived, they put us in a Federation prison for a few months
and then sent us out here. It's not a bad life. We can't leave, but
we're basically free to pursue our own lives."

"We'd better help with the supplies," Deres Tag says. He moves past me
and begins to help the pilots unload.

"You must be tired," Anna says to me. "It must have been a long
journey."

"Very long," I agree.

"I'm amazed to see you, B'Elanna," Anna propels me towards the village
in front of us. "We heard you were all lost in the Badlands and hadn't
gotten any news since. We gave you up for dead."

"I heard about what happened," I tell her. "About the... you know."

"It's been hard," Anna says, knowing exactly what I was referring to -
the wholesale slaughter of our friends and comrades. "My goodness,
you're shivering. I forgot how cold you get. Come inside and get
warm."

"Shouldn't we help out?" I look back at the shuttlecraft. "Don't they
need help carrying the supplies back?"

"No, it will be all right. There are plenty of people to help out,"
Anna says. "Come inside."

She stops in front of the first little building and opens the door.

Inside, there are two rooms - a common living area with a replicator
in the far corner and a fireplace on the long wall. The second room is
a bedroom. The furniture is all standard Starfleet modular -
utilitarian and not necessarily attractive. Anna heads to the
replicator.

"Welcome to my home," she says with a smile. "Beats a cave or crowded
living quarters on the Liberty, doesn't it?"

I look around. Anna has done her best to add a personal touch to her
small home. There are small wooden sculptures and arrangements of
dried flowers. A small rug in warm burgundy lies in front of the
fireplace. There are two or three pictures on the small end table.
Burgundy pillows add color to the otherwise gray room.

"It's nice," I say. "You've done well with the place."

"Raktajino?" she asks. "The replicator, out-dated as it is, actually
does a good job."

"Sure," I rub my hands together in an effort to get warm. "Thanks. I
appreciate it."

"The ground is frozen," Anna says. "It may take some time to get your
shelter up, so you're welcome to stay here with me."

"Thanks."

Anna hands me a mug of the Klingon coffee and watches intently as I
take the first sip.

"How is it?" she asks anxiously.

"It's good," I say.

She smiles. "I'm glad. You know, when Chell and Gerron showed up, they
told us about Voyager, about the Delta Quadrant. It seems like you had
a lot of adventures out there."

"That's putting it mildly," I answer.

"Have a seat, B'Elanna," Anna indicates one of two high-backed chairs.
"It's not comfortable, but it could be worse. We could still be
rotting in a Starfleet brig. At least here, we can forget that we are
prisoners. Supplies come every two or three months and we've learned
how to make a life here. At least we understand each other. Popular
feeling against the Maquis is still fairly high. There are many that
still consider us traitors. They never had to fight for their homes,
so I can forgive them for that sentiment."

"You're more forgiving than I would be."

"Always the hard one, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"No room for sentimentality. God, B'Elanna, it's good to see you
again. There are so few of us left now that..." Anna pauses. "I'm
sorry, it still hurts."

"I know," I tell her quietly. "I feel so guilty sometimes that I'm
still alive. I used to dream up ways to kill myself so then I would
know what it would feel like to bleed."

"You don't feel that way anymore, do you?"

I shake my head, "Sometimes I do."

Anna says, "It's hard to forget. I replay some of the scenes over and
over again. I think about the battles and I keep thinking that if
there was something I could have done differently to prevent it, but I
come back to one truth and that is that there was nothing I could do.
We were fighting a losing battle from the day we began, B'Elanna."

"I know."

Anna rouses herself and looks out the window.

"Looks like the supplies are in the storehouse," she says. "If you're
warmed up, we can reintroduce you to everyone."

"I'd like that," I tell her.

---

 The mood is gloomy as we all sit around the conference room table.
Janeway, as usual, occupies the head seat, swiveled so she sits
perpendicular to the table. She strokes her chin pensively with one
hand and her other hand taps a staccato rhythm on the table.

"I've filed a formal complaint with Starfleet Headquarters regarding
the treatment of the Maquis," she begins. "I haven't heard anything.
I'm starting to think that there is no one in San Francisco. No one
with any kind of moral fortitude, that is."

"That's a bit harsh," I observe, even though I secretly agree.

"Our reception has been a bit lacking," Janeway says crisply. "A few
answers, I don't think that's too much to ask for."

Harry nods in agreement while Seven looks bored by Janeway's
irritation.

"Have we heard anything about the explosion? What about survivors?" I
demand.

"Still nothing," she says. "Casualty lists have yet to be compiled."

"What's taking so long?" I demand. "It's been over twenty-six hours.
First they delay us back on the station and then they take this long
to compile a list of who made it and who didn't? Don't they have a
rough estimate by now?"

"Admiral McArthur has promised me that he will make the information
available to me as soon as possible," Janeway says calmly. She looks
at Tuvok who shakes his head slightly.

"I've been unable to find any signs that Commander Chakotay,
Lieutenant Torres and the others escaped the station," he says. "And I
have yet to contact Admiral Paris."

"Was everyone meeting at the same rendezvous point?" Harry asks.
"Starbase 91, right?"

"Yes," Janeway nods. "But it is possible that some shuttles were
diverted due to crowded shipping lanes or inclement conditions."

"It is not yet time to give up hope," Tuvok says. "It is possible that
Commander Chakotay and the others survived."

Seven cocks her head to the side. "Was Starbase 87 the closest base to
the Delta Quadrant?" she asks. Janeway looks at me and I clear my
throat.

"Actually, no," I say. "Admiral McArthur requested we dock there, but
there were several stations closer."

Seven nods, but I can see that she is not completely satisfied with my
answer and that questions lurk just below that placid expression.

"What is it?" Janeway asks sharply.

"It seems peculiar to me that we would arrive at a starbase completely
unsuited for a starship of Voyager's size," Seven comments. "In
addition, after the length of time Voyager has been absent from the
Alpha Quadrant, the welcome you received was not appropriate."

`Not appropriate' is an understatement, perhaps the greatest one Seven
has made in quite a while. There is silence in the room. Finally the
Doctor nods.

"I did think it odd that no one was interested in our experiences in
the Delta Quadrant," he says. "I myself made many contributions to
medicine and no one was interested in hearing about them."

Janeway whirls herself around, faces us straight on, her forearms on
the table, and fingers knit together. She leans forward, her
expression eager.

"You think there is something going on?" she asks.

"It would seem likely," Tuvok says. "I did find the questioning of
Commander Chakotay to be... fairly unusual in its format."

"Anything else?" Janeway asks. "You were on the station the longest
and had the most contact with both Commander Chakotay and Lieutenant
Torres, as well as Admiral McArthur and the others."

Tuvok strokes his chin with two fingers and then puts his hands down.

"They did not question Commander Chakotay about his Maquis
activities," Tuvok says thoughtfully.

"That's odd," Harry comments.

"Precisely," Tuvok says. "Rather, they questioned him mainly on
Voyager with some emphasis on his relationship with you, Captain."

I lift my head to look across the table; the Captain's cheeks have
flushed pink and her eyes are bright, but steady.

"What are you saying, Commander?" Janeway's voice is low, but carries
firmly the distance between herself and Tuvok.

"It seems to me that the questioning was not about the Maquis," he
says. "The verdict was already decided in their case."

"That's not fair!" the words burst out before I can help myself.

Janeway glares at me.

"That's enough, Tom," she says. "Then what was the questioning about?"

"You," he says.

"I already talked to Admiral McArthur about that. Apparently, my many
violations of the Prime Directive were a popular subject," Janeway
says. "He did offer me the Dauntless, though, in return for my
cooperation regarding the Maquis."

"Two contradictions," Seven observes. "They are not interested in the
Maquis, but they are interested in you. They offer you a command where
the General Orders specifically say that any violation of the Prime
Directive could result in a loss of a command. This command is offered
and you agree to remain silent about a terrorist organization which
the Federation is not interested in."

"Very succinctly put," Tuvok compliments the former Borg drone. She
tips her head in acknowledgment.

"There's more," Janeway says. "It has to do with your father, Tom."

I perk up immediately. "What?"

"He says that in the beginning, maybe between the years 2367 and 2369,
there were some promises made to colonists living in the DMZ," she
says. "Protection from the Cardassians in return for monetary
compensation."

"Who made those promises?" I ask.

Janeway shrugs. "He wouldn't say. He does know that high-ranking
Starfleet officials were involved in the conspiracy and that they were
not supporters of the Maquis, but rather out for their own gain."

"What happened? Were the promises kept?" Harry asks.

"No," Janeway says. "Hence, the birth of the Maquis."

Silence descends upon us once again. Harry suddenly becomes interested
in his fingernails; Janeway's face takes on a faraway look while Seven
and Tuvok both appear deep in thought.

"Let me try something," I say. "Aiding the Maquis would have been a
blatant violation of the Federation's stance towards the border
colonists, right?"

"That is correct," Tuvok nods.

"And demanding money for something that was a violation in the first
place, that would go against Starfleet principles, right?" I continue.

"Also correct," Tuvok says.

"We could be looking at a court martial," Harry realizes. "If we knew
who these people were, they could stand to lose a lot."

"Especially if they are high up in Starfleet and Federation
officiating circles," I add.

"Tuvok, Seven, I want you to investigate the destruction of the
starbase," Janeway's voice is full of energy. "Tom, I'm in no hurry to
get to the Dauntless. Perhaps, you could engineer a solution. Harry,
give him a hand."

"Aye, Captain," I exchange a look with Harry; he grins back at me.

"You have your orders," Janeway says. "Dismissed."

---

The settlement doesn't have a name. Apparently, when the Federation
first dropped the former Maquis on Alonius Prime, assembling the
prefabricated buildings, finding sources of food and energy took
precedence over the naming the damn place.

I damn it already because I want to go home.

Home, I realize, is Voyager.

But according to Anna, here on Alonius Prime in a nameless little
settlement, this is home.

"You'll get used to it," she says as we walk down the dirt-packed main
thoroughfare. "It's hard, but you know, we don't have anywhere else to
go. No one else wants us. Even after all this time, we're still pariah
to ninety percent of the known universe."

"That's a comforting thought," I comment. "Is it always this cold
here?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Anna nods. "Dack calculated that the sun shines
only twenty-two percent of the time."

"I don't suppose we could be rescued," I say hopefully.

"Don't count on it," Anna responds. "Remember the dampening field? The
Federation put it to good use. Short-range scanners won't pick us up.
Life signs are completely masked. We thought about building a ship,
but we don't have the right supplies and without more robust
replicators, we can't replicate the parts we need. Eventually, you get
used to it. Over there, that's the main meeting hall. We eat many of
our meals there, actually. It's nice to spend time with each other."

"I am looking forward to seeing everyone again," I admit.

Anna grins. "It's nice to have you back, B'Elanna."

We enter the meeting hall and I see Chakotay talking with a few of our
former comrades. Henley, Jackson, Ayala, McKenzie, and Gerron are
already here. Anna tugs on my arm.

"Come talk to Jessup," she urges. I give her a look. "No, really,
B'Elanna. Come say hello."

"If you insist," I say in a low voice.

Herid Jessup, a Ktarian, offers up a wide smile as we approach him.

"B'Elanna Torres," he extends his hand and then his arm, enveloping me
in a massive bear hug.

"It's good to see you, Jessup," I say. He pushes me an arm's length
away, evaluating me with his beady black eyes.

"You look good," he says. "Have you lost some weight?"

"A bit. The last few months haven't been exactly easy," I say.

"Chakotay was telling us," Jessup replies. "I'm sorry to hear that. I
guess it shouldn't surprise us that the Federation hasn't changed a
bit."

"We don't get much news," Anna confides. "Being cut off as we are."

"I think I've had enough of politicking for a lifetime," Jessup grins.
"What have you been up to, B'Elanna?"

I shrug, "A bit of this and that. Seven years in the Delta Quadrant,
actually."

"You got married," Jessup is holding my hands and staring down at the
gold band on my ring finger.

"Yeah," I say uncomfortably. "I was going to tell you."

Jessup drops my hand.

"Things change, I understand," he says. "It's been a long time."

"Anyone we know?" Anna asks.

"Actually, yes," I shift from foot to foot. "Tom Paris."

Anna and Jessup stare at me. I bite my lip.

"Tom Paris," Jessup says finally.

"Wasn't he...?" Anna's voice drifts off.

"B'Elanna," Chakotay joins us, his hand lingering briefly on my
shoulder. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing," Jessup says. He looks at me, his expression hardening. "I
find it hard to believe you married Tom Paris."

"It's true," I look at Chakotay.

"He betrayed us," Anna burst out.

"No, it wasn't like that," I insist. "He told me all about it. Said he
was captured on the mission, but he managed to save the crew. The
Federation sent him to the New Zealand penal colony and he was there
until Captain Janeway asked him to serve on Voyager as an observer."

"Probably an excuse," Jessup says. "Never liked that guy. Always
looking for the easy way out. Heavy drinker and always one for the
ladies."

"That's not true," I'm nearly nose to nose with Jessup now. Tom once
observed that when I got angry, my cheeks flushed, my nostrils flared
and my voice would crack ever so slightly. And he had said then in a
softly lustful voice, his hands gentle on my face, "You're beautiful
when you're angry. Impossible to resist."

"I thought you had better taste," Jessup scoffs now.

"Like you?" I shoot back.

"Hey," Chakotay says, grabbing my arm. "It's not important, okay?
B'Elanna's personal life shouldn't be an issue, not now."

"What is this, the trademark Chakotay teamwork speech?" Jessup asks.

"Your attitude certainly hasn't improved over the years," Chakotay
remarks calmly. Jessup shrugs.

"I have a reason to be angry," he says. "You guys had it good for
seven years, living on a Federation starship instead of having to muck
it out on a godforsaken planet."

"Oh right," I say. "Being lost in the Delta Quadrant was a picnic. If
you were poked, prodded and shot by the Hirogen for days, I wonder if
you would say the same. Or maybe you should experience the joys of
assimilation."

"B'Elanna," Chakotay says in a warning tone. "This isn't the time."

"I don't appreciate his tone," I say.

"You weren't here when we needed you," Jessup says. "We were
slaughtered and where were you?"

"Oh hell with you," I tell him. "We did not choose to be in the Delta
Quadrant. Don't you think we thought about you? Don't you think we
hurt when we found out what happened? Don't trivialize our
experiences, Herid, and certainly, don't blame us for not being there.
We wanted to be and circumstances conspired against us. Was it fair?
No, but there wasn't a single moment when we didn't want to fight with
all of you for what we believed in. I'm sorry if you can't understand
that."

"Jessup," Chakotay says. "B'Elanna, both of you. It's been a long time
since we've seen each other and we've all been through a lot. There's
no need to compare stories. It's been a rough few years and let's
leave it at that."

Jessup and I eye each other, each daring the other to be the first to
back down. Chakotay's expression is unreadable, but I know he is on
the brink of exasperation. And the last thing I want to do is
contribute to the stress of our current situation.

"I'm sorry," I extend my hand. "I guess my temper is a bit on edge."

"Some things don't change," Jessup answers. "I'm sorry too, though I
did mean what I said about Tom Paris."

I shrug. "He's changed, but I don't expect you to know that."

"Why don't we get something to eat?" Anna jumps in. "Chakotay and
B'Elanna must be starving."

"You're right," I tell her. "It's been hours since we've eaten
anything."

"Good," Anna takes Chakotay's arm. Jessup holds me back.

"I'm just looking out for you, B'Elanna," he says. "Don't take it the
wrong way. We're all friends here."

"I know."

"Tom Paris didn't do a damn thing when he was with us. You know that
too. You couldn't even stand him and now you married him? What
happened? Did you get a brain transplant?"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand, Jessup."

His face softens a bit and he reaches out to stroke my cheek.

"I'm being irrational, I know. I'm overprotective, maybe even a bit
jealous. Jealous that he succeeded where I failed," Jessup says. "I
just don't want to see someone I care about get hurt."

I clasp my hand around Jessup's and push his away.

"I know," I tell him. "And I appreciate your concern, but you don't
have to worry about me."

There is a moment of silence as Jessup evaluates my remark. He then
smiles at me.

"I really am glad to see you again," Jessup says. "Now, how about some
food?"

---

Even after all this time, Astrometrics manages to thrill on an
atavistic level. I love gazing out at the vast expanse of star maps,
each of them unique and different. When I was a boy, I would pour over
the maps, memorizing galaxy after galaxy, imagining the day I would
take a shuttle up there myself to see for myself.

Now I stand in front of a familiar star system, noting the various
constellations once used for guidance by pre-warp civilizations. A
touch of a key and a second later, a replica of a fully functioning
Starbase 87 spinning slowly on its axis.

We are all here: Seven, Harry, Janeway and Tuvok. The Doctor, who is
still attending to some minor injuries from the shock waves, has
chosen not to attend this meeting.

"Looks good," I tell Seven, who acknowledges my praise with a slight
tilt of her head and an inscrutable expression. I'm guessing she has
yet to enroll in the Doctor's self-admiration course.

"It is exact in every detail," Seven says. "I have examined sensor
logs leading up to the explosion and have recreated those events as
precisely as possible."

"I wouldn't expect anything less," I tell her.

"So what happened?" Janeway's gravely voice asks from behind us.

"I begin with the premise that the main reactor core did indeed
experience a meltdown of phenomenal proportions," Seven says.

"Good place to begin," Janeway nods approvingly. "Then what?"

Tuvok takes a step forward. "In order to cause an explosion of that
particular magnitude, it is necessary to superheat the reactor core.
We speculate that the reaction actually began here -" Tuvok indicates
a red spot on the Starbase 87 model - "in the injector relays. If the
trigger is placed correctly here, it will cause a cascade reaction
which would eventually result in an overload of the core."

"What sort of trigger are we looking at?" Janeway queries.

"Could be anything," this is from Harry who has been sitting quietly
in the back. "My guess is that the phase matrix converter was
overloaded, probably with a high-density supercharged substance. I
would imagine that the molecular reaction was helped a bit by a pulse
compression wave. Given the acceleration, the kinetic energy of the
reaction caused the cascade, leading to an over pressurization of the
reactor module."

"A massive chemical reaction," I translate.

"The starbase was in poor condition to begin with," Janeway points
out. "Couldn't this explosion be a result of the damage already
sustained during the Dominion War?"

"Possibly," Harry says. "But I doubt it. If the core was that
unstable, the base would have been inoperable. A core meltdown does
not suddenly manifest itself without warning."

"Explain," Janeway says. "I seemed to remember a completely opposite
scenario."

"The multiphasic shielding on the core would prevent such a meltdown
unless it began within the injector relays," Seven says. "In which
case, the shielding would crack."

"What if the shielding was brittle to begin with?" I ask. "What if it
was already cracking and no one noticed?"

"Then the repair crews were not doing their jobs," Tuvok says.

"But it's not an unreasonable hypothesis," Janeway points out.

There is a moment of silence as Harry and Seven trade looks; their
expressions, if communicated verbally, would indicate that they wanted
the other person to talk. In the end, it's the former Borg drone who
speaks.

"If the shielding had cracked prior to this incident, the core would
have produced a slow leak. There would have been noticeable
discrepancies in energy output," Seven says.

"So you agree with Harry's analysis?" Janeway asks. "There is no way
this explosion could have been an accident?"

"We have run several scenarios," Seven says primly. "None of them are
consistent with the massive explosion we witnessed."

"Humor me," Janeway says. "We have to be sure before we make
accusations."

"Agreed," Tuvok says.

Seven takes us through several scenarios, including a textbook example
of a starbase reactor core meltdown.

"They could have vented the plasma," I say as I watch Starbase 87
disintegrate once again. "That would have cooled the core, right?
Perhaps slowed the reaction?"

"Cooling it would have slowed the reaction, yes," Harry says. "Any
first-year engineer would have known that."

"There are several solutions to this particular solution," Seven says.
"Running coolant through the injection module is an option."

"Example," Janeway orders. Seven complies and we see a more restrained
explosion, which leaves the starbase crippled, but not destroyed.

"The easiest way to reduce the temperature is to turn off the fusion
relays," Harry points.

"Rerun that scenario," Janeway says.

Again, we see the results: minor explosions, but nothing the size of
what we had witnessed earlier.

"That's fairly easy to do," Harry says. "Turning off the fusion
relays, that's not even a manual process."

"This was a preventable accident," Janeway says in a low voice. "I
refuse to believe they did not have people or systems available to
prevent the destruction of a starbase."

"It may not have been an accident," Tuvok voices the thought we have
all had in the back of our minds.

"For what purpose?" I can't help but ask. "It doesn't make sense to
blow up a starbase, especially one that they were in the process of
reconstructing?"

"It would make sense if someone was trying to hide something," Janeway
says. Her jaw tightens visibly. "Now we just have to find out what and
who."

---

The meeting hall has cleared out, with the exception of Chakotay and
me. We face each other across the table. Chakotay is looking down at
his hands as if his cuticles are suddenly the most interesting objects
in the known universe.

"What is it?" I ask.

Chakotay raises his head. "I don't have a good feeling about this,
B'Elanna."

"I'm listening."

"A colony of former Maquis? It doesn't make sense."

"I know," I nod. "But Anna explained it many times. There's nowhere
for them to go. We're stuck here."

"If I know the Captain, she's already looking for us."

"If they got away."

"I know they got away." Chakotay sighs. "Everything that has happened
to us since our arrival in the Alpha Quadrant has been suspicious. I
talked to Leo and he said that every single person here had a trial
conducted in the Federation courts. We had, what? I don't even know
what to call that."

"What did that Admiral call it? A conversation?"

"A euphemism for something else, B'Elanna, that's what that was. He
was stalling."

"Why? Why would he do that? You know the cards are stacked against us
and I don't know what they would have to be afraid of. We have no
friends, Chakotay, and our relatives are few and scattered. There are
no powerful people to speak for us. The only friend we could count on
was Captain Janeway and see where that connection landed us."

"That's not fair. Don't take your anger out on her. She did everything
she could."

"It wasn't enough," I get up, my abrupt movement knocking over my
bench. It crashes to the floor loudly and I trip over it, landing flat
on my rear. Chakotay comes over to help me up.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Just clumsy. Thanks."

Chakotay pulls me up with one smooth motion.

"You should watch your step," he says. "And your mouth."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Jessup still has feelings for you, that much is obvious."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm telling you what I see."

"It was a long time ago," I twist the ring on my finger. "He'll get
used to it."

"I want you to be careful, B'Elanna. I don't have a good feeling about
any of this."

Together, we right the bench. It wobbles a bit and then we sit down.

"You think the Captain is looking for us?" I ask wistfully. "You think
they survived?"

"I'm counting on it."

Silence again. I'm contemplating an existence in which none of my
friends from Voyager are alive. The thought of never seeing them again
- it's as if a hand is clenching my heart - the pain is that intense.

If you had asked me seven years ago if I could feel this way about
Voyager and its crew, I would have laughed in your face. But in some
ways, they have all grown on me. Neelix with his gentle philosophies,
Harry and his goofy smile, Tuvok and his adherence to principle,
Janeway's compassion and determination, Seven and her lack of sense of
humor, and of course Tom and the devil in him - somehow, all of these
people have managed to get under my skin.

I miss them.

And I don't want to remember them as cellular residue spread halfway
across the Alpha Quadrant.

So I silently agree with Chakotay; Voyager got away and everyone on
board is safe and sound.

The other option is too sterile.

"It's really too cold here," I remark. "I'd hate to be here forever."

"I don't suppose you could modify the dampening field, could you?"

"I'd have to take a look at it," I say. "But I don't see why not. I
could use a polar graviton burst to disperse the ions and that might
give us a bit of time to send a message out."

"Provided you could create the polar graviton burst," Chakotay says
glumly. I look at him and feel a smile forming on my lips. I squeeze
his knee. Chakotay glances at me sideways.

"What's that for?" he asks.

"For once, you're the pessimist," I tell him. "It's amusing."

"I'm glad you're having fun at my expense."

"You had a good idea," I say. "And the theory works. I just need to
figure out a way to implement it. Let me think about it. All we need
is thirty seconds."

"And a communications array."

"I have my communicator," I tell him. Chakotay raises an eyebrow.

"I thought I would need it," I explain. "I tried to raise Tom on it
once."

"And?"

"Nothing."

"The communicator signal wouldn't be that strong without the booster,"
Chakotay points out.

"Let me worry about that," I pat him on the knee again. "Where are you
sleeping tonight?"

"Leo suggested I stay with him."

"I'm staying with Anna."

We both sit in silence and then I look at Chakotay.

"You're right," I tell him. "It is odd. Sharing with someone, that is.
Remember?"

"How can I forget? Some days we were stacked on top of each other,"
Chakotay says. "Damn uncomfortable. I remember sleeping on the floor
once and thinking myself lucky for even having a place to sleep."

"I suppose we ought to start building our own places as soon as the
ground softens."

He offers me the first smile I've seen from him in days.

"I don't plan on it," he says. "We're getting out of here."

---

Harry and I crawl through the narrow conduits that house the
kilometers of warp nacelle circuitry. The space is barely wide enough
for us to crawl through in a single file, dragging our tool kits
behind us. The tube echoes with our voices and with other noises -
hums, bangs, and clanks - attributed to starship operation.

"Damn, it's hot down here," Harry says. Perspiration drips from my
forehead as I grunt in agreement. Both of us left our jackets behind
two junctions ago, but still, it's unbearably warm.

"I hope B'Elanna forgives me for what I'm about to do," I tell Harry
as I pause in front of the relevant power junction.

"I'm sure she will," Harry says. We take a few moments to adjust
ourselves in the corridor, our legs bent awkwardly against the
opposite wall, our necks bending so we don't accidentally give
ourselves concussions. We have learned, many times, the hard way how
cruel a mistress Voyager can be to the physically inept.

I loosen the screws and the metal panel falls to the floor with a
clank. I contort my body a little more in order to open up the tool
kit and remove the link coupler. A couple passes of the coupler and a
circuit is irretrievably damaged. Next to me, Harry pulls out an
isolinear chip and replaces it with another one.

"One down, five to go," Harry says cheerfully.

"Talk less, work more," I grunt.

"Yes, sir," Harry answers, but he is smiling as he clips and fuses
wires expertly. "Now just switch those two, Tom, and we should be in
business."

"Or out of business, as the case might be." I do as he asks and then
scoot over another meter to start on the second panel.

"You think this is going to work?" Harry asks. "If there really is a
conspiracy, wouldn't someone figure out what's happening?"

"I could crash land Voyager," I say. "Expertly, of course."

"Of course."

We work in companionable silence for another half-hour or so and then
I shut my tool kit with a satisfying bang.

"Now if that works," I say. "We should lose warp drive in oh, thirty
seconds?"

"Let's get out of here," Harry advises. "It'll get damn hot once that
plasma starts venting."

I wrinkle my nose, "As if it isn't hot enough already."

We scramble through the conduit as fast as we possibly can. Already,
the metal walls are heating up, making our progress uncomfortable. We
drop out of the conduit into Engineering, right in front of Seven of
Nine.

"Your modifications were successful," she reports. "We no longer have
warp capabilities. We will be forced to slow to one half-impulse."

"That's good to hear," Harry says, rubbing the back of his hand across
his forehead. His face is smudged and glistening with sweat. His hair
stands rakishly up on end, giving him a rather mischievous look.

"Lieutenant Paris, the Captain would like to see you," Seven says.

I look first at Harry and then Seven. Seven, not known for
experiencing or acknowledging discomfort, looks the other way.

"Do you know why?" I ask.

Seven fidgets again but says in that clear, monotone voice of hers,
"She did not inform me of her reason."

"Thanks," I say.

I'm on my way to the Bridge when Janeway comms me.

"Janeway to Paris." Her voice betrays no emotion, no hint of what
might be coming. For all I know, there might be another promotion
waiting for me or she might be ready to light into me for some as of
yet unacknowledged misdemeanor. Or it could be B'Elanna...

"Paris here."

"I need to see you in my Ready Room."

"Already on my way."

"Good."

When I enter the Bridge, Janeway nods to Tuvok and indicates her Ready
Room. I follow her in, and watch as she sits behind her desk,
obviously troubled. She folds her hands in front of her and leans
slightly forward.

"Tom," she says, her voice cracking slightly.

"Something wrong?" I ask easily.

"I don't know how to tell you this," she says.

"Tell me what?" I try not to panic, but the very tone of her voice
gives me heart palpitations.

"The casualty lists finally came out," Janeway sits and motions for me
to take the seat in front of her. "Tom, I'm sorry."

"What?" I ask. My heart is pounding hard enough to jump out of my
ribcage. Breathe, Tom, breathe. I inhale deeply and then I nod to
Janeway. "Okay, okay."

She pushes a PADD towards me.

"Your father is presumed dead, Tom."

The mustard colored type seems unusually bright against the black
background. Some of the words towards the edge of the PADD are
blurred, running off into the margins - unreadable.

"Admiral Owen Paris, presumed dead," I read it out-loud. Janeway has
already turned away, but I can see her jaw tighten.

"Are you all right, Tom?"

I touch the words with my fingers. In most cases, my thumb obliterates
the stark sans serif text.

"Yeah," I say finally.

"Sure?"

I don't have the words I need. So many times, I'm quick with the joke,
always racing to be the first one to the punch line. This time, I have
nothing to say. The closest approximation to how I feel is the time
when Bobby Chandler kicked me in the stomach when I was nine years
old. I remember lying in a fetal position on the soccer field,
clutching at my abdomen, rivers of tears pouring from my eyes. My
father had been there that day and he dried my eyes and carried me off
the field.

"You played the game well, son," my father said that day. "But you
need to stick up for yourself. You need to fight like a man. I'm not
always going to be able to be there for you."

That moment with my father had been one of the few good ones we had
shared. The years that followed had been rebellious and headstrong,
with the two of us clashing on more occasions than I could count. The
problem was evident: he wanted a son who would follow in his footsteps
and I wanted a father who could give me the support I needed.

In retrospect, the animosity which existed between my father and I
seems relatively petty. Whatever our differences, I loved - love -
him, and I never had the chance to tell him.

"Tom," the Captain says. "If you need time, I understand."

"No," I tell her clearly. "I, I need to do something, anything."

"I know you and your father did not always see eye to eye, Tom, but he
was a good man. He had some good things to say about you and I know he
was proud of you."

"I'm sure."

"Please," she reaches across the table. "Don't shut us out now, Tom.
You need us."

"I'm not," I tell her. I look down at the PADD. "What about B'Elanna?"

Janeway shrugs. "Presumed missing, I imagine."

"What does that mean?" my voice raises in frustration. "Presumed
missing?"

"There is a record of Chakotay and B'Elanna's release from the brig
about twenty minutes before the explosion," Janeway says. "They may
have been evacuated."

"Or not."

"Tom."

"Sorry," I hold up a hand. "I just want answers, Captain."

"I know," her voice is soft and sympathetic. "I understand."

Janeway gets up and rounds the corner of the desk. She sits on the
edge, almost in front of me. She lifts my chin with her hand.

"We haven't seen eye to eye lately, Tom," she says. "But if you need
to talk about this, I'm here."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

"It's all right to feel some kind of emotion."

I look down at the PADD, now growing moist from my sweaty palms.

"I was looking forward to seeing him again," I tell her. "I wanted to
show him that I'd changed, that I'd become more responsible -
responsible enough to pilot a starship anyway. I wanted him to be
proud of me."

"He was, Tom, you have to believe me," Janeway says earnestly. "He did
want to see you. Circumstances conspired against you, but I think he
would be pleased with you. Proud, even."

I take a deep breath.

"I need to know about B'Elanna," I tell her. "I can't sit here. I need
to keep busy."

"I understand."

"If she's out there, I have to find her."

"We will find them, Tom, don't worry."

"I don't want it to be too late, Captain. Not this time."

Janeway nods, her expression growing cloudy. "I know, Tom."

I'm halfway to the door, when I turn back to look at the Captain. She
is standing in front of the window, one hand against the wall as if to
support herself.

For the first time in months, I see her differently, human, frail and
emotional like the rest of us. Misguided judgment aside, she still
bleeds and cries as I do.

"Captain?"

"What is it, Tom?"

"Was it... awful?"

"What?" her voice is uncommonly sharp.

"The Borg cube. Was it as terrifying to you as it was to B'Elanna?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I want to know."

Janeway sighs, turns to face me, still leaning back against the wall.
She crosses her arms across her chest and nods.

"It doesn't matter, Tom," she says. "It's over now."

"Do you regret anything at all?" I ask, my voice again reaching into
the attic of pitches. "I know that I have a lengthy list of things I'd
like to do over. Don't you?"

"Tom," she says. "I can't have this conversation right now. The horse
isn't getting up, Lieutenant."

There is finality to Janeway's voice and she emphasizes her point by
turning her back to me.

"Your father is dead, Tom," she says in a low voice. "That is one
truth you can't run away from."

Your father is dead.

Your father is dead.

Your father is dead.

"Oh God," I whisper. "Oh my God."

---

 "You can have the bed," Anna says, handing me a pair of flannel
pajamas. "I'll bunk out on the sofa."

"Are you sure?" I ask. "I can sleep out there."

"I wouldn't feel right about it," Anna answers. "Uh, clean towels in
this drawer and there's an extra blanket in the closet. It gets cold
here at night - amazingly cold, sometimes, and the heat generators
cannot compensate. I know how cold you get, so I just want you to be
prepared."

"I'm sure I'll be fine."

"You'll let me know if you need anything?"

"Sure."

"Don't be shy, please."

"I won't be."

Anna leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I strip off my
clothes, shivering slightly as I hurriedly pull on the pajamas. The
pajamas are blue.

Blue, like Tom's pajamas.

I sit on the edge of the bed, hunched over as an unfamiliar ache
invades my stomach, spreading up through my ribcage.

Tom.

I didn't think I'd miss him.

Didn't think I'd need him.

I hate it when I'm wrong.

Those blue pajamas. The first time I saw him wearing them, Tom was
half- asleep, and he rolled over sleepily when I curled up on the bed
next to him.

"B'Elanna?" he whispered.

"Hi."

"Didn't think you were coming."

"Got off early," I whispered. I touched his cheek with my fingers, and
then let my fingers run down his jaw, neck, shoulder. "I see you
weren't expecting me."

He pulled my head down, his lips grazing my forehead and then more,
hungrily, my lips.

"I'm glad you're here."

I started unbuttoning his shirt. "Nice color. New?"

"Replicated them yesterday. The other ones were... unusable."

Unusable because I had ripped them, unwittingly, in a moment of
aggressive passion. Had leaped on him, bitten his neck, ignored his
"B'Elanna!" before pushing him down onto the bed, unwilling to wait a
moment more.

"I like them," I leaned over, planting a line of kisses down his
chest. His fingers tangled in my hair, his big hand splayed on my
back. "Nice choice."

He grunted as my fingers moved beneath the elastic waistband.

"But I like what's under them better," I whispered. Tom groaned, his
grip on my upper arm tightening as my fingers moved gradually
downward.

"B'Elanna?"

I jump at the sound of Anna's voice.

"Are you okay?" she asks, coming in. "Sorry to bother you, but I
wanted to know if you needed a glass of milk or something else before
bed."

"No," I answer hoarsely.

Anna stares down at me, her gray-blue eyes large with concern.

"You look sick," she says.

"It's nothing."

"You sure?"

"Positive," I straighten and lean back to turn down the comforter.
"Thanks, though."

"You'll get used to it," Anna says for the millionth time. "I promise.
You forget about old allegiances, old relationships - you build new
ones."

"I don't intend to," I tell her furiously. "I'm not planning to stay
here."

"Don't fight it, B'Elanna, it just makes things worse."

I scoot under the covers, rolling over onto my side purposely to avoid
looking at Anna. She sighs audibly.

"He doesn't know how lucky he is," she says quietly. "You're throwing
yourself away on Tom Paris, B'Elanna. Herid, he adores you, and he
would take care of you."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," my temper flares up and I
sit up. "And I'm not interested in Herid Jessup or anyone else for
that matter. I've made a commitment, Anna, and I intend to honor that
commitment."

"You make it sound like a business arrangement."

"I don't expect you to understand," I tell her. "You don't know Tom
and you don't know anything about what we've - I've - been through in
the last seven years. You, Herid, the others, you wouldn't say things
like that if you knew."

Anna sits on the side of the bed, covering my hand with hers.

"Look, I only want what's best for you and I'm sorry we keep covering
the same ground over and over. I want you to understand that I'm only
looking out for you."

"Then you'll help me get out of here," I say softly. Anna looks off
into the distance.

"There are some things you just have to accept," she says. "You think
your Tom Paris can protect you when people find out you were a former
Maquis fighter? I take that back. You are Maquis, you always will be.
In the Federation's eyes, that will never change."

"Is that enough for you?"

Anna shakes her head.

"No," she says softly. "I just accepted it because... because I don't
have any other options."

"I thought so," I roll over onto my back. "Anna, you have to help me.
It's good to see everyone here again. I never thought that I would any
of you, but my life has changed, diverged from yours, and I can't live
like a prisoner. I know what you say about having freedom here, but
that's not true."

"The Federation will hunt you down if you ever leave here."

"That doesn't matter."

Anna pats my hand. "Think about it, B'Elanna. Seriously. And whatever
you decide, I will support you. You helped me once when I needed a
friend, and I'll do the same for you."

"Thank you."

Anna gets up and leaves, softly shutting the door behind her.

I stretch out, letting the tension ease from my tight muscles. I roll
over, stare out at the silhouette of trees visible through the
windows.

A chill hangs in the air, working its way beneath my skin and down to
the bones.

The bed is large.

Empty. Cold.

I have slept alone before, but not like this, never like this.

It was always something. His shift, my shift. Away missions, petty
arguments, differing plans or sometimes, too tired to even think about
making the trip to the other's quarters.

But I knew, always knew, that he would be back, that I would be back.

I wrap my arms around the other pillow, knowing that cotton and
feathers are poor substitutes for a warm body.

---

It's amazing where you find yourself when you're looking for comfort.

I'll be honest; I never willingly seek comfort. Hell, I love to
suffer. If I could, I would hold everything inside of me, letting
problems fester until acidity burned through my stomach lining.

It's easier to be quiet than to let someone else in.

So I end up here, on the holodeck, mourning a man whom I never really
knew.

I could make a list about my father, a list of adjectives, and that
wouldn't help.

Authoritative. Stern. Cold. Unforgiving. Aggressive. Dedicated. Proud.
Arrogant.

My heart wants to believe that he did love me, did care for me;
Janeway said that he did.

And now, I will never know.

I didn't really think, when I picked the program. My fingers punched
in the code absently and I was here, suddenly, on the beaches of St.
Thomas, Virgin Islands - B'Elanna's one and only attempt at creating a
holodeck fantasy world for the two of us.

B'Elanna.

Oh God, B'Elanna.

Presumed missing.

We've been in this situation before. Back when she and Harry were
missing, yeah, I ached for them then. I had spent hours just staring
out of the windows, wondering where in space were B'Elanna Torres and
Harry Kim. And even when I knew I should give up, when the Captain and
Chakotay had all but given up, I couldn't.

I knew they were out there.

Stories, even ones staring Tom Paris, have happy endings. I imagine
I'm going to ride off into the sunset, with B'Elanna of course, and
we'll have our beautiful castle up on a mountain. Night will bleed
into day, sun melting and fading with each passing moment; and we
would be there, to admire it all.

Of course, that's the story I tell myself.

And some days, I believe that "happily ever after" will happen.

It's just a matter of believing and caring enough.

I'm sitting about five or six meters from the water, my pant cuffs
rolled up past the ankle, my boots and socks to the side.

The doors swish open behind me but I don't turn.

"Interesting," Harry says. "I thought I'd find you here, but didn't
quite think I'd find you at the beach."

"I wanted to be somewhere warm."

"Is that right?" Harry drags a lawn chair over to me. "This is
B'Elanna's program, isn't it?"

"Yeah, how do you know?"

"She showed it to me when she was designing it. She needed help with
some of the parameters," he says. "It's a great program, really
authentic."

"Take your shoes off," I say. "It's okay to get sand between your
toes."

"I'm going on duty in twenty minutes."

I pull my knees up my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. Harry
places a light hand on my shoulder. A slight squeeze and then he pulls
his hand away.

"You okay? You walked off the Bridge, almost as if you'd seen a
ghost."

"I suppose the Captain told you."

"She told all of us. Are you all right?"

"Fine."

"This isn't the time to be brave, Tom."

I release my legs, stretch them in front of me, and lean back on my
hands. The wind is soft, warm, a breath upon my sweaty skin.

"It's okay to feel something," Harry continues. "Your father is dead."

"You don't have to tell me, I know."

"Well?"

"What do you want?"

"Maybe some emotion?" Harry asks. "Maybe some indication that you care
beneath all of that bravado? Are you even alive in there?"

I hold out my hand. "Take my pulse."

"I don't know why I try," Harry says. "You're my friend and I care
about you, care about what happens to you, even if you don't."

I pick up a handful of sand and let it flow between my fingers.

"I appreciate it, Harry. Really. I just can't talk about it right
now."

"The way you left, Tom, I wasn't sure that you were going to be okay."

"I'm fine," I repeat. "Everything is fine."

"Great."

Harry gets up. I only look up when I sense Harry is really leaving.

"Harry?"

"What is it?"

"I don't know what to say because I don't know what to feel."

"That's all right."

"What do you do when your father dies?"

"I don't know."

"It's not real, Harry. In some ways, I feel like we're still in the
Delta Quadrant and that opportunities to talk to him still exist."

"It's only been an hour, Tom. Let it sink in."

"I don't want it to sink in!" I slam my fist into the palm of my right
hand. "Harry, it wasn't supposed to happen like this."

"Hey!" Harry's back at my side, his wide face etched with concern. His
hair lops crazily over his brow, like it always does when he is
stressed. He gives me a hand and I pull myself up.

"It's okay, Tom."

"There were things I wanted to say," I say. "Things I wanted to know."

"I know."

The sun is a horizontal sliver in the distance, its golden hues
running into lavender and periwinkle. The waves lap gently at the
beach, each time inching closer to where we stand.

"High tide," I say.

"Looks like it."

More silence; Harry shifts from foot to foot.

"What?" I turn to face him.

"You're a mess," Harry observes. "I hope you don't plan to track sand
all over the ship. Commander Chakotay had the carpets cleaned."

I laugh. So like Harry to be so fastidious, so anally neat and
conscientious. As it is, he is already inspecting his uniform for
traces of sand.

"Wasn't planning on it," I say.

"I'm due on the Bridge," he says. "If you need to talk, I'm here for
you."

His voice is so earnest, so filled with care and a drop of anxiety,
that I can't help but feel a bit of tenderness for my friend; he means
well even if I don't want to be comforted.

"I appreciate that."

With Harry gone, I sit myself on the edge of the lawn chair.

Memories blur together, fading and phasing into each other, colliding
into a patchwork of crazy images. My father taking me to the aerospace
museum, my father teaching me to how to ride a bicycle, my father
helping me with homework, my father talking about Starfleet...

I cover my face with my hands and inhale deeply. My shoulders hunch up
and then lower as I exhale.

"It's all right, Tom," I say out loud. "It's all right.

---

I lie in bed, my eyes closed against the sunlight streaming
mercilessly into the room. I hear Anna in the other room, moving
around, but I don't have the effort to leave my warm bed. I curl up
tighter into a ball, wrapping myself around the pillow.

I don't know what I'm waiting for.

Seems like I'm perpetually waiting.

Waiting for my father who never came back.

Waiting for my mother to love me back.

Waiting for Chakotay to look at me the way I would sometimes catch him
looking at Seska, and then later, Janeway.

Waiting for Tom to care for me the way I cared for him.

Waiting to be a priority for someone, anyone.

When I asked Tom to marry me, I was issuing a challenge. For three
years, I had let him do the things he wanted to do, let him spend
hours in that Fair Haven program or the Captain Proton program or
working on that damned car of his.

Once, he asked me to come to Fair Haven with him and he even brought
the costume: a maroon calico-patterned dress, complete with corset,
parasol and petticoats. He sat on the edge of the bed as I yanked on
the stiff black boots that completed the outfit.

"How do I fasten these?" I demanded, staring down at the metal
buckles.

"With this," Tom handed me a thin metal object with a hook at the end
of it. "It's called a buttonhook."

I struggled for a bit and then hurled the contraption across the room.

"I'm an engineer," I said crossly. "Not some fashion model from the
1800s."

"Humor me." Tom retrieved the buttonhook. "Here, let me do those for
you."

He expertly fastened my boots and then helped me to my feet.

"You look cute," Tom said. He brushed my hair behind my ears and then
kissed me lightly.

"This better be worth it," I told him. "The shoes hurt."

"You'll love it."

We walked down to the holosuite together and I was profoundly annoyed
by my hoop skirts knocking against the corridor walls. In fact, there
was barely enough room in the turbolift for Tom, me and the skirt.

"For what it's worth, thank you," Tom reached over and grabbed my
hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Thank you for what?"

"For coming with me," he hesitated. "I know you wanted to work on that
new shielding alignment project, and this puts you off schedule. So,
thank you."

"You're welcome."

I admit; I saw the genius in Fair Haven, saw the carefully crafted
details from the smell of freshly turned earth to the buttons on Miss
Molly's dress, and I could see, from the energy in his step, that Tom
was perfectly and wonderfully at ease here. He grabbed my arm, pulling
me in all directions, gesturing wildly, and his voice would rise and
fall in excitement every time he noticed something, like the geraniums
blooming outside the church or the rank smell of fermenting hops.

There was a sparkle in his eyes, a joy that I had not noticed before.
And when he was staring at the bartender, Michael Sullivan, I suddenly
became aware of Tom's sense of accomplishment, his proprietary
feelings towards this particular program. With each gulp of beer, Tom
seemed to be proclaiming, with body language and facial expressions,
"I made this, this is mine."

And even when the music started and Tom led me out onto the narrow
dance floor, his arms securely around my waist, I got the feeling that
it didn't matter who Tom was dancing with that night; I could be Miss
Molly and he wouldn't know the difference.

We spent the night, or part of it, in Fair Haven, at the hotel above
Michael Sullivan's bar. Tom undressed me with an expertise that both
thrilled and shocked me; his cool fingertips ran down my spinal cord
as he slowly pushed the dress off of my shoulders. I stood there, in
petticoats and boots, feeling woefully unclothed. My mind flashed back
to the image of Tom fastening my stiff, black leather boots expertly,
and more importantly, the skill with which he wielded that confounded
buttonhook.

"Have you done this before?" my voice trembled in anticipation of his
response. Tom's fingers, working the strings of the corset loose,
stopped.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. His voice sounded distant,
very far away, and it made me wonder if I really wanted to hear his
answer.

"Nothing."

A few moments more and then he released my body from the offending
garment. I took in a deep breath, and then Tom's hands were against my
stomach and then moving up to breasts and finally, he turned me around
so that I was facing him.

"Isn't this perfect?" he whispered and then his lips claimed mine.

Tom loved me that night, I'm sure of it.

I didn't go back to Fair Haven after that one time, but Tom, Harry and
the Captain continued to go. Other crewmembers, including Seven, would
visit from time to time, but Tom never asked me again and I never
volunteered.

Sometimes, when Tom was working on the Camaro, I'd sit on a lopsided
stool and watch him. He would talk about concepts I dimly understood -
catalytic converter, fuel gauges - while my eyes would glaze over.
Sometimes, we would cuddle in the back of the car and invariably, his
eyes would meet mine, our lips would glue together, and our bodies
would join; and just like so many times before, we would not talk.
There were only brief words, phrases - "More," "Harder," "That's
right," "Please."

As for the Captain Proton simulation, he only asked me to come once. I
reviewed the storyline for that day and got dressed. On my way to the
holodeck though, I caught a glimpse of Jenny and Megan Delaney, both
dressed in form fitting black leather; their outfits left nothing,
from curves to the length of leg, to imagination. They were laughing
and talking about a previous Captain Proton adventure where Jenny's
character had had Captain Proton.

"He does kiss wonderfully, doesn't he?" Jenny giggled.

"Tom, you mean? Or Harry?" Megan asked.

"Tom, of course," Jenny replied as the two of them entered the
turbolift.

I didn't need to know more. I went back to my quarters, put my uniform
back on and headed to Engineering.

Tom never asked why I didn't come and painfully, it occurred to me
that he had not missed me.

Had not missed me because he had enjoyed the company of the leather
encased Delaney Twins.

Lest it seem like Tom and I were completely at odds with each other,
we did have our good times, truly we did. It would be wrong to say
otherwise.

I think our moments of true synergy were on the Delta Flyer; Tom loved
that little ship, truly did, and it was an enormous sacrifice for him
to give it up during our little trip over to the Borg cube. When it
came to the Flyer, it was always, "B'Elanna, what do you think
about...?" or "B'Elanna, is it possible...?"

And when he forgot about dinner because he was busy saving the world
in the Captain Proton universe, I bit my lip, blinked several times,
and then put my tray away, knowing that that this episode of
forgetfulness symbolized Tom's nature - unreliable and single-minded.
Sometimes, he would remember that he had stood me up and would arrive
bearing roses; other times, he would crawl into bed with me, pleading
in that soft, seductive voice of his until I gave in.

The times when he did not remember, that was what wounded the most. I
would lie in bed, wondering if he was coming, or I would throw myself
into the most terrible of romance novels because I could not face
going out, knowing that the crew would look at me knowingly and say in
their soft, pitying tones: "Tom forgot... again."

There wasn't a moment when I didn't love Tom. And it didn't
necessarily bother me when I knew he was being insensitive or remote,
cutting himself off from me and hiding what he should have been
sharing.

Maybe I should have said something, but I was so afraid of losing Tom,
so afraid that one cross word from me would send him back into the
arms of the Delaney twins or some holographic beauty, that I kept my
jealousy from ever taking verbal form.

So I said nothing and hoped, desperately, that he would see me, love
me, the way I did him.

The intensity of my feelings for him scared me on occasion, sometimes
knocking me right off of my feet, and forcing me to turn away from
him; I knew it was wrong to shut him out, but I couldn't help myself.

And when he would pilot the Delta Flyer, or walk the streets of Fair
Haven, there was this expression on his face - one of utter
contentment - and I never saw him look at me quite the same way.

One night, maybe a day or two before I left for the Borg cube, I
watched Tom sleep. He was on his side, his body facing mine, face
flushed slightly. His hair was rumpled and the top two buttons of his
shirt had come undone. I smoothed away the hair from his brow, feeling
a slight dampness on my palm and then very gently, buttoned up his
shirt. I leaned over and kissed his cheek lightly.

"I love you," I whispered.

I said those words even though I knew he wouldn't say them back to me.

I didn't know what he would say when I proposed, didn't know if he
would agree; I saw the doubt in his eyes and wondered if I had been
wrong all along. Maybe this was all a game to Tom. Maybe it was just
sex and I, I just happened to be convenient.

But he said yes.

That moment, that singular moment, changed everything. We were stuck
with each other; he with my engines and schematics, and I with his
Fair Haven program.

In sickness and health, in richer or poorer, 'til the Federation do us
part.

The sunlight presses against my eyelids and I reluctantly open them,
finally ready to face the day. I roll onto my back, and a second
later, Anna comes in.

"Good morning," she says cheerfully. "I brought you a sweater; it's
cold today."

"Thank you."

"Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you."

"No need to thank me, B'Elanna," Anna says. "We'll be here a long time
and the gratitude routine will get repetitious after a while."

"Sorry."

"No need to apologize. Listen, I'm going to go down to the meeting
hall and get some breakfast. You can join us there when you're ready.
Shower is through that door, if you need to. I'll warn you though, the
hot water tends to run cold after more than five or six minutes."

"I won't need more time than that."

"All right. I'll see you in a bit."

I sit up, swing my legs over to the side of the bed and walk to the
windows; already, the colony is bustling with activity. There is
purpose and energy to movements, a briskness and a lightness of step
that perplexes and satisfies me both.

I let the curtain fall and pick up the clothes Anna left for me on the
dresser. The shower is small, barely big enough to turn around in, but
the pressure feels good against my skin and the water warms me.

When I last saw Tom, he was fighting with a Starfleet security guard;
he wanted to see me, that much I could understand. And I watched as
they dragged him unceremoniously out of the room, but not before I
caught the last words he had for me.

I love you, he mouthed.

The water turns tepid, just as Anna predicted. I linger beneath the
cooling water for only a moment more before turning off the shower.

I love you, he said.

I wrap myself in a towel.

It's amazing how three one-syllable words can make all of those things
- those little irritants - that bothered me about Tom disappear.

I had always suspected, but had never been sure.

And now, now I know.

---

Seven has spent the last twelve hours in Astrometrics, long enough to
bring her own pup tent and sleeping bag, according to the Doctor who
is put off sufficiently by Seven's stubbornness in not regenerating.

I enter Astrometrics, note that Seven is running explosions, dozens of
them at once, and they fill the room with an orange-red glow.

Damn if she isn't a pyromaniac.

It is late, nearly 0300 hours and sleep doesn't come easily. I tried,
but my eyes would flutter open and once again, I would be staring up
at that damned paneled ceiling.

You can feel sorry for yourself only for so long before the self-pity
becomes suffocating and stomach turning.

I thought about the Mess Hall or the Bridge - Harry's on duty tonight
- but not having the desire to see or hear muted expressions of
sympathy, I head straight for the Ice Queen's lair.

Seven barely turns at my entrance, so intent is she on the continuous
explosions of the late, dearly lamented Starbase 87.

I notice something different this time though - Voyager is included as
a blip on the map as are twenty or thirty assorted spacecraft of
varying classes and alien configuration.

"Having fun?" I ask casually.

Seven eyes me narrowly.

"Lieutenant. Your arrival is... unexpected."

"Not an unwelcome though, I hope."

"I do not have an opinion."

I sigh. Of course she has an opinion, but thanks to her lessons with
the good Doctor, Seven has managed to assimilate tact as her latest
accomplishment. Truly, to be free from that biting tongue of hers and
that superior attitude, is on the same level as a revelation.

"The Doctor is worried about you," I persist. "He says you will harm
yourself if you do not regenerate soon."

"This is not the time to regenerate."

I stand about two meters away from Seven, hands behind my back.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I am conducting an investigation," she says.

"It's an investigation now?" I ask. "Who says? Tuvok?"

"It is suspicious."

"What?"

"The destruction of a starbase is inherently suspicious."

"So you're doing this on your own?" I ask.

"Don't you want to find out what happened?" she asks. "I am sorry
about your father."

I sigh heavily, lean forward onto the railing that separates us from
the view screen.

"It's all right," I say.

"I do not imagine it is all right," Seven says. "You have lost a
parent. My research on individuals leads me to believe that one
becomes extremely attached to a parent and that the loss of parent is
very traumatic. I believe, I believe Annika missed her parents greatly
at first."

There is kindness in Seven's voice, a kindness I do not want to
acknowledge or accept. I clench the railing a bit tighter and watch as
Starbase 87 explodes yet again, and those many space vessels fly off
in different directions, some in a desperate but futile attempt to
out-run the shock waves. The debris floats in space and then the
screen is refreshed and Starbase 87, in all of its decrepit glory, is
back.

"Let me see what you are doing," I say. I peer on her console and note
the lines of trajectory she is programming. "Ah, displacement waves."

"Precisely," Seven's voice is crisp. "Providing that the shuttle craft
survived the explosion, I'm plotting their most likely course, given
the force of the radiating displacement waves. The magnitude of the
waves will have an impact-"

"Any good pilot knows that," I cut in. "Some of these ships never
stood a chance; there was no way to out-run the explosion."

"According to the latest reports, out of thirty ships, Voyager
included, twenty-two ships survived the explosion," Seven says. "The
other eight are unaccounted for."

"Those are good odds," I say.

"Some ships were asked to leave approximately three hours prior to the
explosion," Seven hands me a PADD. "Here are the orders. These are all
Federation allied races."

"I see," I scroll down a bit further. "Merchants and some cargo and
supply ships. Vulcan, one Klingon, three Cardassian... they were
lucky, weren't they?"

"That is one way of stating the situation," Seven says. "But I believe
someone knew that the explosion was imminent and hence asked them to
depart."

"You're gaining some good old-fashioned human mistrust," I say. "I
didn't know the Doctor added that to the curriculum."

"I do not believe that mistrust, or suspicion, is a good trait."

"It's not a bad characteristic to have. I, myself, possess a healthy
dose of suspicion and mistrust. That's what's kept me alive all of
these years. That and a good sense of cynicism," I say.

"This conversation is irrelevant to my investigation."

"Point taken," I grin. I look up at the screen. "Which ship were
B'Elanna and Chakotay on?"

"Unknown," Seven's fingers tap madly across the console and a second
later, an order appears on the screen. "An order was issued sixty
minutes prior to the explosion to evacuate all prisoners. Since this
was the final backup, I do not have a record of whether Commander
Chakotay, Lieutenant Torres and the others were actually released."

"It's Starfleet," I say. "They follow orders. Trust me on this one.
You said eight ships were unaccounted for. So those ships were either
destroyed or were diverted. Anything in the database you can pull on
that?"

"The missing ships include the Yah'Vong, Rice, Travis, Hephaestus,
Intrepid, Sam Houston, Bowie and the Atalanta," Sevens says.

I quickly tap into the database and bring up all reports on ship
activity in the sector; the latest reports include more casualty lists
and a newly formed missing persons list.

It is significant to me that Chakotay, B'Elanna and the others are not
noted on either list. I voice this thought to Seven.

"Why would that be suspicious?" she asks.

"Because someone somewhere knows that they are not dead and they are
not missing," I say with certainty. "Who asked for them to be
released?"

"Unknown," Seven brings the release order back up on the screen.
"There is no name."

"But there is a routing number," I point. "Follow that data stream
backwards. It may have expired already, but it's worth a chance to see
if we can't recover the data."

Five minutes pass and then the computer brings up a series of records
onto the screen. Behind us, the doors open.

"Any progress?" Janeway asks.

"Some," Seven says. "Nothing of significance."

"I had trouble sleeping. Figured I might try to get some work done
instead of trying to count sheep," Janeway pauses long enough to
gesture at the screen. "Who is this?"

She is holding a mug of steaming coffee in her hand and I smile; most
people, stricken with insomnia, would turn to hot milk, but not
Kathryn Janeway; only the finest French Roast will do for her.

"Lieutenant Eric Sullivan," I nod at the image. "Starfleet security.
Graduated the Academy in 2372 - with full honors, if I may add - and
apparently, until three days ago, had an exemplary service record."

"Why the interest?"

"Because he issued the order to release Chakotay, B'Elanna and the
other Maquis from prison sixty minutes prior to the explosion," I
explain. "But what's more interesting is that Sullivan was never on
Starbase 87. According to this file, he was severely wounded in a
training skirmish and died of those injuries three days ago."

"Are you sure we have the right man?"

"The routing data leads back to the terminal assigned to Lieutenant
Sullivan," Seven says. "The encryption subroutine is an exact
duplicate of the one on file. There is no mistake."

"So we have a dead man issuing orders?" Janeway asks.

"Apparently so. It's a neat trick, if you want my opinion," I put in.

The three of us stare at Sullivan and his neatly white-typed biography
next to his picture. Married 2374 to one Martha Ambrose, father to
Jacob, born 2378, assigned to current position in late 2378. He is -
was - a good-looking man, athletic-build, dark-skinned, full head of
hair and perfect teeth. He was probably good at poker, and given his
background, had some experience with holodeck programming. He smiles
back at us. Next to me, Janeway shivers.

"Find out everything," she orders. "Keep me informed."

Seven and I nod; I suppose I'll need a sleeping bag also.

---

The third day on Alonius Prime dawns like all others - gray and
utterly dismal.

I hate it here.

It's almost as dreary as Kessik.

Silvery frost covers the ground as I make my way to the meeting hall.
The air is brisk, the type that burns your lungs when you inhale, but
the freshness of it is something I appreciate after seven years of
breathing recycled oxygen.

Low, modular buildings - all of them single story - line either side
of the packed dirt path.

One or two even have small porches in the front, and most have some
kind of shrubbery (now brown from the cold) on either side of the
door. There are touches of home sweet home too - curtains at windows,
tools lying in the yard, decorations on the door.

The neatness of this settlement, the very nature of it, gives a
semblance of normalcy. For some reason, it is difficult to imagine my
Maquis comrades giving up their arms and fierce personalities in
exchange for some land and a few gardening tools. Yet their little
attempts to make this forced resettlement more bearable are soothing.
It is a curious but settling, sensation - one of comfort, of peace - a
feeling, that at this particular moment, very welcome.

I recall Tom's fantasy of a house of his own, one that he would design
and build from foundation to ceiling. Once you pour the cement, that's
it - you have decided to stay. And then the frame is assembled, and
sheetrock is hammered to the wooden beams. Soon, the house takes shape
and you move in to begin this new life of yours, starting fresh from
the placement of furniture to the memories you will make there.

A house is permanent, built to withstand almost anything. More than
that, it belongs to you and you belong to it.

You belong.

More than anything, I want to be able to put my bag down in a hallway
and know that no one will move it, and more importantly, no one will
ask me to leave. It is not such a bad thought to begin anew and
Kahless knows, there is so much I regret, so much I want to forget.

When I see Tom next, I will agree to the new house; I will accept his
dreams, pleasures and wishes, and embrace them - and him - to my
heart.

The sudden image of Tom - the way I like to remember him - hair
windswept, lips turned up cockily, his eyes sweeping my body, makes me
smile, and makes the distance to the meeting hall seem much shorter.

I ascend the three steps to the door, pause for a moment, my hand on
the railing. For a moment, I'm absolutely terrified.

If I go in that door, they will be there.

They - the friends, companions, family - whom I mourned mostly in
silence for years. They are the survivors; their blood pulsating
through arteries and veins, lips forming words, chests rising and
falling with each breath.

Alive.

I can imagine the conversations with no effort because we seem to
rehash the same dialogue over and over. We will talk about Voyager,
talk about the Delta Quadrant. Chakotay will grow misty-eyed, his gaze
focusing on some distant point, and he will wax nostalgic about
Kathryn Janeway.

At some point, we'll talk about the various aliens we ran into. I'll
tell them about the Vidiians and how they "salvaged" body parts in an
attempt to fight off of the phage. Somehow the conversation will turn
to Tom, how he betrayed us all, and how I married him. We'll talk
about the people we left behind - Suder, Seska, and Bandera - in muted
voices. Then it will grow quiet as we think - but don't mention - the
ones who died during the Dominion War.

That's when the ghosts come and take their seats among us. We remember
them with bated breath and in low voices.

The sacrifice will be acknowledged, lamented, and then we will blink a
few times, clear our throats and continue. We'll dwell on the mundane,
the day's chores, the pleasantries, the weather - we won't talk about
what really matters; we have enough excuses to hide behind and it's
safer to live firmly in the past and not explore what is and what will
be.

I place my hand on the doorknob and turn it clockwise.

"B'Elanna!" Chakotay rises to his feet as I walk in. "Good morning."

"Good morning," I take a look around. "Where is everyone?"

"Jessup said something about needing to get some kind of filtration
system online before noon. I was going to go with them but Anna told
me you were on your way, so I thought I'd wait for you so you wouldn't
be alone," Chakotay says. "Here, let me get you a cup of coffee."

"That sounds good, thank you. Thanks for waiting."

"You're welcome."

I sit down opposite Chakotay's chair. A second later, he returns with
a steaming silver mug.

"It's decent," he says. "Kathryn would kill for coffee like this. At
the very least, risk the Prime Directive."

"Well, she has all the fresh coffee she could possibly want now."

"True," Chakotay knits his hands together, pressing his palms flat
against the table's wooden slats. He looks over my shoulder, and I
twist to see what he is looking at. There is a view, one I did not
notice last night. Through the window, we can see the snow covered
peaks of the Northern Range and the tall trees extending up to the
skies.

"I want to send a message to Voyager," I say. "Do you know where the
generators are? The ones creating the dampening field?"

"We can ask one of the others," Chakotay says, his gaze still fixed on
those faraway mountains.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing," he shrugs.

"If something's bothering you, we should talk about it."

"Nothing's bothering me."

"You're worried about the Captain, about Voyager..."

"You don't have to state the obvious, B'Elanna."

I turn around to face the mountains again.

"I wouldn't mind staying here, B'Elanna," Chakotay says in a low
voice. "Regardless of what happens, I don't think I'd mind it at all."

"What about Starfleet?" I ask.

"What about it? You seem to have forgotten that I left Starfleet
almost fifteen years ago."

"I assumed you'd go back."

"I don't have the stomach for it." Chakotay gets up from his seat and
wanders to the window.

"It's quiet here, B'Elanna, and I think I would enjoy that."

"You just got here. It hasn't even been a week. How do you know you
would like it here?"

"It's just a feeling."

"It's cold, miserable," I point out. "Light years from anywhere."

"You see the attraction then?" Chakotay grins. "Breakfast?"

"No, I'm not hungry."

"You've got to eat, B'Elanna."

"I told you I'm not hungry," I push back the empty cup of coffee.

Chakotay folds his arms across his chest and pushes back in his chair.

"No reason for you to be upset," he says in his annoying "let's be
reasonable" tone. "I just made a statement about what I'd like; no
reason for it to bother you."

"You've given up," I hiss back. "You don't think the Captain and the
others are out there looking for us. You're ready to give up and spend
the rest of your life on this iceberg. That's what infuriates me.
You're like the others, like Anna and Jessup, giving up."

"I'm not giving up," Chakotay says. "I'm just ready to settle down.
Aren't you?"

"The other day, you were lecturing me on how you had a bad feeling
about this situation and now you're ready to unpack and move right in?
What's the matter with you?"

"I've had some time to think," Chakotay says. "You know, when the
Captain and I were left on New Earth, it wasn't so bad. It was nice,
actually. Relaxing, lovely, a nice change of pace."

I get up from my seat.

"I'm going to look for that field generator."

Outside, the air nips at my cheeks. I take a couple steps, and then
realize I have no idea where the generator is; damn, I'd kill for a
tricorder now. I'd even trade the lukewarm coffee for a tricorder.

"Looking for someone?" Jessup asks. I whirl around.

"You scared me," I answer. "Actually I wanted to know where the
generators were, the ones that amplify the dampening field."

"Up there," Jessup points towards some hills in the distance. "About
five kilometers out. The station is there. What are you planning to
do?"

"Disrupt the field long enough to send a message to Voyager."

"Are you crazy?" Jessup asks. "If you do that, the Federation will
take away one of our privileges."

"Oh please," I say. "That's juvenile."

"Don't mistake your surroundings for anything but a prison, B'Elanna."

"I seem to be the only one who remembers that," I shoot back. "Now, do
you have a tricorder? I can modify a medical one, if need be. I also
need a phase link coupler; I seem to have left mine behind on
Voyager."

Jessup sighs. "I'll come with you. At least, that way I'll know you
won't get lost."

"Thanks."

Jessup puts his hand on the small of my back and gently propels me
toward the Infirmary. No one is inside, but that is no surprise; we
Maquis didn't have much patience for sitting around waiting for
wounded and if you were wounded, you treated yourself, gritting your
teeth and hoping that you had prescribed the right treatment for
yourself. I put my hands on the single biobed, leaning all my weight
forward. For a scary moment, I actually do miss the EMH. I miss his
constant nagging, his questions, that annoying baritone in my ear.

"Here you go," Jessup hands me a medkit. "Everything you want should
be in there."

"Including the coupler?"

"Yes."

I open the medkit just to be sure. Most of the instruments -
tricorder, scalpel, and hypospray - can be easily modified for other
uses. I remove one of the regenerators to make room for the coupler
and a couple of data chips.

"Let's go," I say.

I swing the medkit onto my shoulder and head out. I hear Jessup behind
me, his feet crunching gravel beneath his shoes. After a second, he
catches up to me, slightly out of breath.

"I forgot how fast you walk when you're angry," he observes. "It's too
early to be angry, B'Elanna."

"You sound like Tom."

"Well, it is true. It's not even lunch time."

"I'm surprised you care; you seemed ready to cut me up and serve me up
to the Maquis tribunal the other day."

"Sorry, that was uncalled for," Jessup says. "Truce?"

I pause for a moment and look into those dark eyes. Jessup and I, we
did have a minor fling years ago, shortly after I joined the Maquis. I
had no real feelings for him, only my own wounded self-confidence that
propelled me from on relationship to another; unfortunately, he did
take our relationship more seriously. Our breakup wasn't particularly
violent or hysterical; it ended like most, quietly, when both of us
were too tired to fight for it anymore. Soon after our breakup, Jessup
went to another cell, ostensibly because they needed a qualified
engineer, but I knew better; truth be told, I was grateful that he was
gone.

Because I was falling in love again and it would have been hard to
hide it from Jessup.

"Truce," I hold out my hand.

"You want me to carry that?"

"No."

"That's right, I forgot," Jessup laughs easily. "You haven't changed,
B'Elanna Torres. You're still as feisty as I remember. I figured
living on a Starfleet ship for seven years would have made you soft,
but apparently I was mistaken."

"You're mistaken about a lot."

"Including Tom Paris?"

"Especially Tom Paris."

"Forgive me if I'm still surprised."

"Get over it."

"I thought it would be Chakotay."

I stop in my tracks, noticing for the first time that we have cleared
the settlement and we are nearly knee-deep in grass.

"What are you saying?" I try to keep my voice completely even, but
even so, the faintest of tremors slips in.

"You know what I'm talking about, B'Elanna. It was obvious."

"That was a long time ago."

"You sure?"

"Look, would you stop? Yesterday you were going on about Tom and
today, today it's Chakotay? Do you have anything better to talk
about?" I start moving again, annoyed at the weeds, annoyed at the
cold and most of all, annoyed with Jessup.

"He cares for you," Jessup says softly. "You could do worse."

"Like Tom."

"Like Tom," he affirms.

"I'm not having this conversation," I tell him. "It's over, we're
done. End of subject."

"Right," Jessup says unconvincingly. "Whatever you say."

---

Seven has the energy of a warp core matrix; at least, that's the only
analogy I can come up with. Her fingers move briskly, but her mind
moves faster, at warp speed at the very least. She punches in
algorithms without taking a second to ruminate over them. Lack of
sleep does not bother her - she is just as quick without as I am with.
I am truly, in a word, amazed. She also does not have the need to
think out loud, like I do.

"Lieutenant," she says crisply. "I need silence."

"Sorry," I tell her for the umpteenth time. "I'm trying to see how
everything fits together. Why would you cause a starbase to explode?
Even a crippled starbase is worth something."

"There is no purpose in trying to understand an illogical action,"
Seven says.

I turn back to my PADD, trying to understand - in a bleary-eyed sort
of way - why a dead man would issue an order to release the Maquis
prisoners. The only thing I find remotely interesting is that at one
time, Lieutenant Eric Sullivan served briefly on Deep Space Nine while
Michael Eddington served as Chief of Security.

"Look," Seven points at the screen. She has finished the painstaking
work of plotting every possible course every ship leaving Starbase 87
could have possibly taken. "I have overlaid these with the known
routes."

"The ships that have returned?" I ask.

"Yes," she nods, giving me that "here's a gold star for you" look. I
think sometimes Seven thinks I have the intelligence of an Andorian
flea. Give her credit though, she has been trying lately to be more
understanding, more human. "Only two ships are unaccounted for: the
Atalanta and the Travis."

"Hmm," I look up at the screen. The green lines denote the proposed
courses of the Atalanta and the red ones mark the Travis. "So how do
we pick one? How do we even know either survived the explosion?"

"Good question," Janeway says from behind us. I turn. Janeway is not
smiling and she has brought Harry along, whether for moral support or
for immoral purposes, I have no idea. "I talked to McArthur and told
him that our warp drive is offline. He was rather offended by the very
notion that anything could be wrong with Voyager."

"He took our chief engineer," I point out. "We wouldn't have this
issue if he hadn't taken B'Elanna."

"That is irrelevant," Seven says perfunctorily. "We can fix the warp
core problem without Lieutenant Torres."

This is true; Harry and I are responsible for the warp core problem,
so we obviously have the capability of fixing it too.

"McArthur wants me to report to Deep Space Nine immediately," Janeway
goes on as if Seven never opened her mouth; this is amazing to me. In
the past, Janeway would hang onto Seven's every word; in some
instances, it would have been appropriate to build a temple to the
collected sayings of Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix One,
so that we all might worship at her altar. "The Campbell is going to
rendezvous with us."

Janeway's expression is pensive; I've never seen her like this. Either
she is violently protective, staring down aliens with that acutely
focused glare of hers, or she is smiling, almost coquettishly, her
voice syrupy as she loads on the platitudes.

"We have a change in plans," Janeway says. "There's no point in trying
to figure out what shuttle Chakotay and Torres might have been and
where it may have gone; there is no time for that now."

"What do you propose?" Harry asks.

"We take the Delta Flyer and go find the Maquis," Janeway says.
"McArthur told me back on Starbase 87 that all of the surviving Maquis
had been resettled on Alonius Prime."

I brighten immediately. "I launched my last raid from there."

"Your only raid," Harry puts in. I glare at him. No need to relive
past ignominies, but Harry is especially good at putting salt in long
festering wounds.

"Tom, you and Tuvok will be with me," Janeway says.

"What about the Campbell?" Harry asks.

"You'll think of something," Janeway answers. "I'm leaving you in
command, Harry."

Harry blanches; being on gamma shift when the Captain is just a comm
signal away is one thing, but now, he'll be alone on Voyager with
merely the Borg drone to back him up. It's the opportunity - and the
anxiety attack - of his career. At this point, Harry is probably the
highest-ranking ensign in all of Starfleet.

"Why are you looking for the Maquis?" Seven asks. Janeway looks up at
her with that indulgent grin that is usually reserved for Seven and
Seven alone.

"Something Admiral Paris said to me," Janeway says. "I want to find
out if it's true. If there is indeed some kind of cover-up and that's
the reason why the Federation and Starfleet are both so eager to
prosecute the Maquis, then I need to know."

"You saw the records. The Maquis are guilty of many crimes," Seven
points out. We all stare at her in disbelief. She offers me a small,
rare smile. "I am merely pointing out the facts. The Commander and
Lieutenant Torres are guilty of many crimes. They should be subjected
to the same laws as everyone else. Reformation of character cannot be
a valid defense."

"Remind me not to bring you into the court room with us," Janeway
responds.

"Captain," Harry says. "What if...?"

"What?" she is impatient, ready to get going. Once adrenaline starts
pumping through Kathryn Janeway's body, it's impossible to slow her
down. She'll roll right over you if you don't jump out of the way
quickly enough. Poor Harry. Even after seven years, this is one lesson
he has yet to absorb.

"What if there is no cover up?" Harry asks.

"I don't think that is the case," Janeway says.

Translation: Janeway refuses to believe that our current situation
could be anything but legitimate. I don't blame her. If the odd
sequence of events since our return were, in fact, reasonable and
lawful, then I think I'd prefer the Delta Quadrant in a heartbeat.

"Tom, get the Flyer ready. I'll meet you and Tuvok in one hour."

She leaves, and Seven, Harry and I exchange uneasy looks.

"Have fun," Harry says weakly.

"This is just what I'm looking forward to," I say. The last time I saw
the Maquis, they were ready to sink their teeth into me; hell, some of
them would have shot at me without a second thought. In their minds, I
ranked just above Cardassians but below the Federation on the totem
pole of hatred. "Making friends with the Maquis. Terrific."

"I will continue our work," Seven says, as if there was any doubt at
all to her steadfastness and eagerness. I bet she'd go weeks without
regenerating, if need be.

I admire her dedication. A couple years ago, we'd have lynched her
right out of an airlock for her annoying detachment and cool demeanor.
Now, we think differently and even she thinks of us as more than an
annoying collective of individuals bent on thwarting her every move.

"Great," I say. "Good luck."

Harry and I exit Astrometrics. Out in the corridor, Harry keeps
looking at me furtively, but I don't call him on it. He has something
to say, I know, but I'm not sure that I want to hear it. We stop by my
quarters and I throw a few things into an overnight pack and then look
at Harry. He offers me a baleful look.

"Be careful out there," he says. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I don't plan on it," I answer. "But circumstances, you never know."

"You never know," Harry agrees. "Especially when someone blows up a
starbase on purpose."

I stare at him; the thought has been in the back of my mind from the
beginning and I'm sure everyone else has the same suspicion, but has
yet to voice it. I swallow hard.

"It could be murder," Harry continues, his voice soft. "Something to
do with Chakotay and B'Elanna, you know - murder them before they have
the chance to speak and do it so spectacularly that there are no
questions."

I clear my throat.

"They're not dead, Harry."

"I'm just telling you how I see it."

"I hope you're wrong."

"You know I'm not."

We walk in silence to the shuttlebay. Once there, Harry punches my
shoulder good ol' boy fashioned in a gesture of support.

"Good luck," he says blandly. He offers me a weak smile, but it does
little to ease the tension already manifesting in my muscles. The
prior mention of murder makes me uneasy and I'm wondering if Harry's
right, that if inadvertently, the pieces are already there. A scheme
from years ago, the key players either dead or missing, and an
elaborate murder plot masked as a reactor core meltdown. I bite my
lip.

There is hope though; someone knew what was happening, someone had
asked that the Maquis be evacuated - someone who did not want to be
identified because...

I look at Harry.

"It's in the order," I tell him urgently. "Tell Seven to forget about
possible routes of shuttlecraft, it's not important. Whoever ordered
the release of the Maquis knew that the station was going to explode,
knew that they wouldn't be evacuated..."

Harry's eyes are wide with comprehension and I know he's thinking
about those white-suited workers who lost their lives in the
explosion. My thoughts drift to my father and I wonder if anyone had
taken the time to notify him or whether he decided to play the hero to
the very last moment, staying until the station had been evacuated to
his satisfaction.

"I'll tell Seven," Harry promises. By now Janeway and Tuvok have
joined us. Janeway gives Harry the once over, her lips quirking up in
a mixture of sadness and pride; it is doubtful she will return to
Voyager after this trip. Hell, after this, it's doubtful any of us
will still have careers in Starfleet.

There's sure to be a court martial waiting for us with open arms in
San Francisco.

At the risk of sinking deeper into cynicism, what's another court
martial? Really, once you've got one under your belt, the novelty
wears off.

Of course, I can't say the same for Harry or the others, but it's no
matter – I'll help them through it, if it ever comes to that. I'm a
pro at handling trouble.

"I'll take care of Voyager," Harry tells the Captain in his most
sincere and earnest tone. She nods.

"I know you will," she clutches at his shoulder briefly and then looks
at Tuvok and me. "Let's go, gentlemen. We don't have a lot of time."

---

We're halfway up the hill when I realize Jessup is breathing heavily.
I turn to look at him directly, noting that he is quite red in the
face.

"You're tired," I observe.

"I can keep up," he pants. "You're not even winded."

"I tried to keep in shape. Klingon exercise programs."

"That's surprising. Didn't think you liked that stuff."

"I don't, but somehow, no matter what I did, it'd come back to haunt
me."

"Yeah?" Jessup pauses and leans against a tree. "Want some water?"

"No thanks."

It is almost midday. The sun is a distant, fuzzy halo in the
gray-white sky and there is the barest hint of a breeze. It's not
unpleasant weather if you keep moving, I realize, and the peacefulness
of the scenery, the cleanness of the air - in some ways, I can
understand what Chakotay was saying earlier.

"How did you get used to being here?" I ask as Jessup takes a swig of
his water bottle.

"I guess each day you wake up and go to sleep, it grows on you."

"Chakotay was talking about wanting to stay here forever."

"Yeah, we were talking about that at breakfast." Jessup puts the
bottle back into his pack and nods, indicating we can keep going.
Instead of powering up ahead of him, I drift by his side.

"What specifically?" I ask.

"I think it was all of us," Jessup shrugs. "Nostalgia has a way of
acting on people sometimes. You know, B'Elanna, we all went through
some tough times as Maquis and there are things that happened that no
one else could possibly understand except for another Maquis. When you
find that instant understanding, it's hard to let go."

I nod. "I know what you mean."

Jessup says, "We're a family."

Ah, the familiar refrain - the one where we all sit around and moan
about how no one wants us. It gets tiring after a while.

I slap my arm as a bug sinks its teeth, or whatever they are called,
into my sink.

"Your insects are the size of small shuttles," I observe.

"Lovely, aren't they?" Jessup says. "Some of them are infectious."

"Terrific."

Jessup looks at my forearm; already a red welt is forming on the skin.
It's a beauty, if I say so myself.

"Let me put something on that," he says. He opens up the medkit and
quickly applies a salve to my skin. "This should help with the itch."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I push some branches aside and wait for Jessup to pass me.

"It's nice for the Federation to make a path for us," I note
sardonically.

"Actually, it's a stream bed," Jessup says. "There's nothing nice
about it. B'Elanna, tell me about the Borg."

I stiffen, and he notices.

"Of course you don't have to if you don't want to," he says hastily.
"I was just curious."

"I assimilated people," I wait for him to react but he simply nods.

"I don't suppose that's any worse then pointing a phaser at someone
and shooting," he says. "We did that a lot in the Maquis and I don't
think either of us lost any sleep over it."

"That was different."

"How?"

"They weren't innocent."

"How do you know?" Jessup puts his hand on my forearm. "B'Elanna, we
hit military outposts, but we also hit quite a few settlements.
Innocent people died. You know that as well as I do."

"You're wrong," I say stubbornly, shaking my arm free of his grip.
"You don't know what you're saying."

"It's true," Jessup says. "I remember the B'Elanna Torres of seven
years ago. You could walk into any Cardassian outpost and take on five
soldiers without even blinking. That's the kind of person you were,
B'Elanna. I saw you; you would step over the bodies and not even
notice what you were doing. And when we analyzed the raids, we always
did it in terms of body count and that didn't seem to bother you."

"Maybe it should have," I say.

"Why?" Jessup is now two steps ahead of me, so he twists around
slightly to aim the question back at me. "You had a cause, believed
what you were doing. How was that any different when you were
assimilated? I assume you believed in something when you volunteered
to go along."

"We had to release a virus," I say. "It would mean ending the Borg
dominance in the Delta Quadrant as we knew it; perhaps, eradicate the
threat all together."

"How is that any more or less honorable than what we did as Maquis?"

He has a point, much as I hate to concede it. And he is right; during
some of our raids, we did go hand to hand with Cardassians and on one
occasion, with Starfleet personnel. These memories are rose-tinged in
my mind, merely triumphs to be remembered with no cause to recall my
bloody hands or the muscles spasms that came when a phaser rifle
fired.

"Remember the Malinche?" Jessup's voice is low. "I do."

Distorted images come immediately to mind; smoke everywhere, faces
blurred, lips moving, but the sounds coming from somewhere else. And
then I recall turning a corner and seeing an ensign, young, a fresh
graduate, dressed in blue. Science. He looked at me, his eyes wide
with fear, his hands up, palms facing me. And he said my name, softly,
"B'Elanna Torres?"

And because it was not a time to stop and reminiscence, not a time to
think who he might be or where we might have met, I raised my rifle
and fired. He fell to the ground, his eyes still open, fixated on me.
I stopped only to close his eyelids and then stepped over his body,
not even contemplating what I had just done. I had only one thought
and that was to get to Engineering, sabotage the warp core, and get
the hell out of there.

"Yes," I whisper. "I remember."

"How about Nerok Tor?"

Nerok Tor, that Cardassian hell hole; a thickly walled compound,
surrounded by the very latest in Cardassian death technology. Damn
those reptiles were good at killing, maiming; their singular methods
of dispatchment were sterile, relatively painless and entirely too
tidy, leaving no blood or cellular residue behind.

Yet, here we were in the middle of the night, lying on our stomachs as
rain pounded down on our backs. We were hungry, hadn't eaten in over
twenty-six hours, and we were cold. Yet, we lay there, waiting for the
inevitable change of guard, for those thirty seconds when Cardassian
backs were turned and we could make our move.

Chakotay gave the order to move out and slowly, we emerged from the
shadows, crawling forward. The first guard we took out with a quick
and quiet knife to the throat; I did not feel anything when red first
stained the Cardassian's dull gray skin. We entered the compound,
phaser rifles fully charged, sharpened knives in our boots, and an
additional hand phaser attached to our belts. We took each guard
quietly, using the knife when possible and occasionally, the phaser,
if need be.

According to the plans Chakotay had lifted from an inebriated
Cardassian guard, the medical supplies were in the building furthest
from the main gate. We donned our gas masks and Chakotay released the
biogenic bomb. We flattened ourselves against the wall, watching as
thick-bodied Cardassians fell, their eyes bleeding and all of them
screaming. We waited patiently until the courtyard filled with corpses
and then we moved. I led the way, leaving Chakotay and Chell to cover
for Ayala, McKenzie and myself.

"This way," I pointed, and we ran. Ayala and McKenzie entered the
storage room and began to stock their bags. I did not have to tell
them to hurry; it would only be a few minutes before Cardassian troops
caught wind of what was going on and then we would be as dead as those
Cardassians in the courtyard. It was then I saw the boy. He was small
for a Cardassian, but his eyes were enormous, intelligent, and he was
standing in the doorway, pointing a disrupter at me.

"B'Elanna," McKenzie said quietly, her hand on my shoulder. "He's just
a boy."

"He's one of them," my voice was shaking.

"Please," Ayala held up a hand. "Put your weapon down."

"We won't hurt you," I added.

The boy's hand trembled, but he aimed and fired. We ducked as debris
rained down from us. And without really thinking, I pointed my own
weapon. The boy fell, the disrupter falling from his lifeless hand.

"He would have killed us," I told Mariah.

"I know," McKenzie replied. "Let's go."

I suppose it was easy back then to become so jaded, to not care about
anything at all. We Maquis were so good at not feeling a thing, at
numbing our senses. We wore our disenchantment close to our skin,
flaunting our bitterness and reveling in our anger. We talked about
our families detachedly, alternating between sadness and smoldering
rage. We mourned our friends with passion and each time we moved into
position, aiming for that soft spot between a Cardassian's eye ridges,
we immortalized the sacrifices of our dead.

Jessup is right; there is no difference between what I did seven years
ago to what I did only five months ago.

More importantly, he is bringing me to an inevitable conclusion: you
can't choose to have a conscience after the fact.

---

 The thing I hate most about away missions is that eventually, you run
out of things to say. In fact, sometimes, you never had anything to
say in the first place, and then there is the awkward silence, as if
everyone's jaw is paralyzed into silence - afraid of saying the wrong
or stupid thing just to fill up the quiet so that it's not so obvious.

I've never had much to say to Tuvok; he's known for many things, but
his conversational skills are not among his career highlights. As for
Janeway, we are still in that fandango mode, triple time rhythmic
dancing around what needs to be said and what must be avoided at all
costs.

Tuvok doesn't mind the silence. He is uncommonly devoted to his PADD,
scrolling through the obscurities of Federation law; I imagine he will
get his day in court soon.

Janeway is sitting behind me, acting as co-pilot. I can imagine her
expression - thin-lipped, narrowed eyes, tight jawbone.

And because there is nothing in front of me but endless space with
nary a meteorite shower to spice things up, I put on the autopilot and
lean back in my chair. I close my eyes, a deliberate move to ward off
any conversation Janeway and Tuvok may start.

And in stillness, my thoughts drift, invariably, to B'Elanna.

The first time I met B'Elanna, she had this expression... as if she
had just eaten something very bad. Her lips curled up and her eyes
narrowed as she took my stock, and believe me, she raked me over the
coals with that look. We were in a cave, apparently, one of the nicer
ones available to the Maquis, I learned later, but at the time, I
thought it dismal: damp walls, musty smelling and chilly even for me.

"And you are?" she asked coolly as she circled around me.

"Tom Paris, at your service," I said, offering her my most pleasant,
most charming smile. "And you are?"

I learned then that B'Elanna didn't answer question; she asked them.

"And you came from where?" she asked.

"Depends on how literal you want to get."

"I'll settle for something close to the real story."

"Got drummed out of Starfleet," I said. "I had an incident."

"An incident?" she said the word as if it were four-lettered. "How did
you find us?"

"You Maquis aren't exactly the most subtle people in the galaxy, you
know," I said. "You might as well wear a klaxon on your back."

B'Elanna didn't like that answer; she slapped me. I rubbed my cheek
thoughtfully.

"Try again," she said. She curled her upper lip back, revealing the
sharpest row of teeth I'd ever seen before.

"I asked around," I shrugged. "Someone, I didn't get his name, said if
I waited out here, someone would be by shortly. I guess that's you?"

B'Elanna glared at me and for a moment I was afraid that she would
reduce me to a pile of ashes; at the very least, the fire in her eyes
had the potential to turn me into a soprano.

"What do you do?" she barked.

"Is this an interrogation?"

"You think we just let people walk right in? How do I know you're not
a spy?"

"Do I look like a spy?"

"You certainly don't look like much."

I looked at B'Elanna then, evaluating the half-Klingon for the first
time. She was tiny, but somehow her presence seemed to fill the cave,
her voice echoing through the caverns. I had no doubt that she could
easily kick me across the floor, leave me bruised and bloodied, and
not break a sweat.

"I could say the same about you," I said easily. I turned my brightest
smile on, just for her, but B'Elanna was singularly unappreciative.

"What do you do?" B'Elanna repeated.

"I'm a pilot. I fly."

"Are you any good?"

"I'm the best."

"Will there be room at the helm for both you and your ego?"

"I don't need this," I held up my hand. "Look, I know you guys have a
tough battle on your hands. I'm offering my help but I don't need
this. I can walk out of here and you lose a good pilot. Your choice."

B'Elanna crossed her arms across her chest.

"Is that so?" she asked. "That's your last word?"

"Yes."

"Fine," she shrugged. "Nice meeting you."

She turned on her heel and took a few steps forward into the darkness.
For a moment, I was tempted to run after her, grab her arm, because I
was truly amazed that she would not stop me.

"You're going?" I asked, trying to preserve at least a modicum of
dignity.

"You said yourself you didn't need this," B'Elanna replied smoothly.
"We're not in the business of attitudes, Mr. Paris. We need dedicated
fighters. We're not a charity for when you get kicked out of
Starfleet."

Later on, when we were on Voyager, I would call B'Elanna on this
statement of hers, asking if she hadn't done the same thing as me -
running away to the Maquis, but she protested, saying that because
Chakotay recruited her, it wasn't the same thing.

At least her motives had been semi-pure; I simply didn't have the
money to pay my bar tab and I wanted to fly.

And I was watching my last opportunity to resolve both situations walk
away from me.

"Fine," I said. "I don't have anywhere to go and I want to fly."

"At least now you're being honest," she walked back to me. "Come with
me."

She led me into the bowels of the cave, picking her way through the
darkness easily. I kept one hand on her shoulder the entire time,
wondering if we would get lost down here. I had nightmarish visions of
wandering beneath the surface of the planet forever and maybe one day,
someone would find our skeletons scattered among the smooth-faced
rocks.

"How do you know where we're going?" I asked.

"We have our ways," B'Elanna said.

"I get it. You don't trust me yet."

"I just met you thirty minutes ago. Give me a few years and then we'll
talk."

I noticed then that B'Elanna kept her hand on the walls and I assumed
that she was finding the correct path. After walking for what seemed
like an interminable time, I noted a faint golden glow.

"Don't speak," B'Elanna instructed. "If you want to live, you'll keep
your mouth shut."

"Terrific."

"Shut up."

We entered a large cavern, crowded with people, and the air thick with
sweat and other smells that were not so pleasant. Voices immediately
quieted as we entered and Chakotay, followed by Seska, was the first
to greet us.

"Who is this?" Chakotay asked.

"Tom Paris," B'Elanna said with a snort. "He's a pilot."

"Where did you find him?"

"On the surface. He was waiting by the cave entrance."

"Resourceful."

"I thought so."

I quirked a smile at Seska but she shot daggers in my direction.

"You Starfleet?" Chakotay asked me.

"You're talking to me now?" I queried.

"You can always find your own way now, can't you?" B'Elanna asked
silkily.

"Yes," I said to Chakotay, pointedly ignoring the petite woman at my
elbow. "Formerly Starfleet. I ran into a little problem."

"You said incident earlier. If you're going to stay, you better get
your story straight," B'Elanna said.

"Incident, problem, same thing," I told her. "It was a shuttle
accident."

"You just said you were the best pilot we could find."

"I am. It was a stupid accident, shouldn't have happened, but there
you have it. It did and I got cashiered out. Any questions?"

Chakotay looked at Seska and she shrugged. Even then, I noticed her
proprietary hand on Chakotay's forearm and the way she seemed to sneer
at B'Elanna; B'Elanna, for her part, barely looked at Seska.

"Where?" Chakotay asked in a low voice.

"Caldik Prime."

"Come with me," Seska said. She let go of Chakotay's arm to take mine.
"If you're lying, we'll do exactly what B'Elanna said earlier. You'll
find your own way out."

"You're not exactly the sympathetic kind, are you?" I asked. "You
or... B'Elanna?"

Seska stared at me, her expression one of utter disbelief.

"There aren't many who are sympathetic to us. Forgive us if you don't
find us reciprocating a sentiment that we don't necessarily get," she
said.

"Where are we going?"

"Back here," Seska nodded towards a quiet corner. "I'll get you a
blanket and then you can see Ayala for food. It gets cold down here so
we try to keep the fires going all night, but sometime they go out;
deal with it. We don't necessarily sleep regular hours and we move
fast. We've been here for two months, but the Federation is good at
sniffing us out. You dawdle, you get left behind. You don't help out,
you get left behind. Is that clear?"

"You don't mince words," I observed. "And neither does she."

I looked at B'Elanna and Chakotay, their heads tipped close together.
Once, B'Elanna motioned towards in our direction, so I knew they were
talking about me.

"So do I get to stay?" I asked.

"Depends on him," Seska said. "Chakotay. He leads this cell."

"They're close, aren't they?"

"Who?" Seska's tone was sharp as she pushed a blanket into my arms.
"Don't lose the blanket. It's the only one you're going to get. This
isn't Starfleet where irresponsibility is acceptable."

"So I'm learning."

Seska then brought me to Ayala who looked up at me with an expression
of lightly veiled disgust. "I know you," he said in a low voice. "Tom
Paris. You were at the Academy when I was there. Surprised they let
you stay after you got expelled. Did your father get you back in?"

"Who is your father?" Seska asked, her voice taut with dangerous
undertones.

"He's an admiral," Ayala said. "You'd better watch this one, Seska.
Wouldn't trust him a bit."

"Why do you say that?" Chakotay asked from behind us.

Ayala shrugged, not giving any weight to the accusation he had just
made. I offered him a scowl in return for his troubles. B'Elanna
circled behind Ayala so that we were looking directly at each other.

"Don't worry, Michael," B'Elanna said evenly. "This one is mine."

---

It happened because I was not paying attention. One misstep and I am
on the ground, clutching  my ankle. I curse, loudly and in Klingon, as
Jessup stands over me.

"Was lost in thought," I gasp. "Wasn't paying attention. Thinking
about that raid, the one on Nerok Tor."

Jessup kneels and opens up the medkit. The tricorder, rudimentary as
it is, shows I am now the proud owner of a broken ankle. The cause of
the fall? A shallow hole, obscured by soggy leaves.

"How are we from the generator?" I gasp as Jessup presses a hypospray
against my neck.

"Not far. Five hundred meters."

"I can do it."

"You'll cause more damage. Let me go back and get the osteo-
regengerator."

"There isn't one in there?" I ask.

"We took it out, remember? So you could put other tools you needed in
there?"

"Damn."

I look up at the sky, a small patch of it visible through the leafy
canopy. The ground is wet, moisture seeping through my clothing.

"B'Elanna, let me get help," Jessup says.

"Get me to the generator and then you can go."

"B'Elanna..."

"I'm serious," I tell him. "Help me up."

Jessup puts his arms beneath my armpits and I lean on him, putting
most of my weight on my good right leg. For a moment, I steady myself
against Jessup, and then I loop my arm around his shoulder.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Much better now that you gave me that painkiller," I answer. "Let's
move."

We hobble slowly through the forest and at point, Jessup chuckles.

"You haven't changed, B'Elanna, not a bit," he says.

"What are you talking about?" I gasp.

"I never knew anyone so contrary."

I tighten my grip on his shoulder as he helps me over a fallen log.

"We're almost there," Jessup says. "Yes, you have always been
contrary, always doing those things that put you most in danger, even
when better sense and experience would tell you otherwise."

"Give me an example," I challenge.

"There are so many, I don't know where to start."

"That's because you can't remember."

"Stubborn, that's what you are," Jessup laughs again. "But that's what
so wonderful about you, B'Elanna. You don't ever give up."

"jeghbe' tlhInganpu'," I say with feeling.

"What?" Jessup asks.

"Something my grandmother would say."

"Ah, your grandmother. A wise woman she was," Jessup says. "Honorary
mascot of the Maquis, wasn't she? Always one of her proverbs on the
tip of your tongue. What does that one mean?"

"'Klingons don't surrender'," I answer.

"Don't I know it," Jessup offers me his first grin of our rather
strenuous outing.

We see the small facility that the Federation has set up in front of
us. It consists of a low, pre-fabricated structure and several small
round cylinders.

"Force field?" I ask.

"No."

"Trusting, aren't they?"

"You could put it that way."

The door to the building is locked but I immediately remedy the
problem by taking a laser scalpel to the control panel and severing
the control mechanism. I reroute a couple wires and the doors slides
open.

"Nice trick," Jessup says.

"Tom taught me."

Jessup says nothing, but helps me into the building.

"I'm going to head back," he says. "I'll get the regenerator and get
someone else to help me bring you back. You should be fine here."

"Thanks."

"I'll be back in two hours."

"Great."

I'm secretly relieved that Jessup is gone. He seems friendly enough,
unambitious for anything more than friendship, but it is always
awkward to be reunited with someone you may have had feelings for
once. I use "may" as a disclaimer because I did not necessarily feel a
strong emotion for Jessup. I saw him mostly as a quick fix, someone I
could toss onto the bed and in five minutes, feel satisfied.
Heartless, yes, but believe me, when I saw Chakotay touch Seska's
cheek, my heartlessness towards Jessup was better than the despair and
anger I felt over Chakotay's relationship with Seska.

Call me jealous but that was how it was.

I haul myself over to the field generator, very glad that it is a
standard Starfleet design, uncomplicated and unburdened by various
modifications. It hums loudly, generating a rather annoying "zzz"
sound, but it makes no fuss as I pry open the front and start
examining the circuitry inside.

Initially, I had planned to use my communicator to send a voice
message, but now I feel that it will be too risky to do so; background
noise will be less noticeable.

It takes no time at all to disrupt the field and send the modulated
pulse. It's a quick burst, a Morse code signal that I know both Tom
and Harry - from their endless hours playing Captain Proton - will
recognize. Thirty seconds is all I allow before I remodulate dampening
field and bring it back online. And I fervently hope that the powers
that be, those almighty Federation authorities with their booming
voices and puffed-out chests, were not aiming their sensors in our
direction during those thirty seconds.

More importantly, I hope Voyager is out there, looking for us.

My arm throbs from the insect bite I had received earlier. I pull up
my sleeve and note the swelling with disinterest. I haul over the
medkit and put some more of the cream on the inflamed area in a futile
attempt to stop the allergic reaction.

I lean back against the wall, taking a quick survey of my
surroundings. There are two field generators in the room, all that are
necessary to power the Maquis colony and keep the dampening field
active. There are no communications panels, which makes me wonder how
the Federation authorities keep in touch with the Maquis.

Already my head spins and I feel hot, incredibly hot.

"Come on, B'Elanna," I say out-loud, trying to shake the overwhelming
sense of drowsiness that threatens to take over. I pack up the medkit
in an attempt to do anything.

I am tired, exhausted from the trek up here and feeling drowsy from
the painkillers Jessup injected into my system. I lay down on the
floor, resting my cheek on folded hands, and drift to sleep.

When I wake, it's dark. I shiver and drag myself to the open door. The
stars, in all of their pin-prick glory, are visible, and I can see the
crescent glow of Alonius' only moon. My eyes are heavy with sleep, and
exhaustion seems to be holding all of my muscles hostage. I close my
eyes, take a deep breath.

"Come on, B'Elanna," I say out-loud. "You can do it."

My ankle is throbbing but I haul myself up anyway, leaning on the wall
for support, and then I hop outside. It is sprinkling. I take a couple
tentative steps before I fall down, nearly landing on my face.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the sky, wondering where Jessup
is. He wouldn't leave me here, I'm sure of it, but his absence is
telling and I wonder, fearfully, if something happened while I was
sleeping.

There are all sorts of noises emitting from the forests, all sorts of
strange and wild creatures, all of them hungry, all of them passionate
for something.

Waiting is not something I'm good at. In fact, I chafe at sitting
around, and so I crawl back to the shelter and retrieve the medkit.
There is still some painkiller, so I inject myself, and then pull
myself to my feet.

The ankle hurts.

But it is nothing compared to the injuries I received when I would
throw myself out of a shuttlecraft or when I would fight endless
battle lines of Klingon heroes, legendary and epic both. I would bleed
then, and I would collapse, on the floor of the holodeck, reveling in
pain and wanting pain to stay with me, so that I could feel the very
life draining out of me.

I kept Tom out of the picture purposely because I knew he would try to
stop me and when he would plan dates, I would somehow have a Level
Five diagnostic already planned down in Engineering.

When he stopped by my quarters, I would pretend to sleep, and when he
booked holodeck time, I was recalibrating long-range scanners or
improving helm efficiency.

Once or twice, I went to Tom for help in healing the wounds I gave
myself and he would fix me up, his lips pressed into a tight line, and
always, he would admonish me to be careful the next time.

I can only guess at the direction of the settlement, so I plug a
relative direction into the tricorder, and follow its chirping
directions. Occasionally, it squeals loudly to prevent me from going
the wrong way.

But it's dark, raining, and the shadows are everywhere; the noises get
louder and my mind jumps to conclusions.

Here in the wilderness, I have nothing, not even a stick to hit a
curious animal over the head with.

I am truly alone.

And for the first time in years, I feel an emotion unsettlingly
similar to fear.

---

I can't remember a time when I didn't find B'Elanna utterly and
completely fascinating; I say that with the benefit of hindsight,
memories clouded by emotion.

Despite her threat to keep an eye on me, B'Elanna rarely spoke to me
during my short time in the Maquis, but that didn't mean I wasn't
watching her with something close to desperation.

She was a firebrand then, willful and fiery, and sparks seemed to fly
in her wake. She didn't make an attempt to spare feelings and her
orders were barked out efficiently and without regard to tone or
context.

I would watch B'Elanna, secretly envious of her relationship with
Chakotay, and at the same time, longing for her to even cast one look
in my direction. Don't think it was lust or romantic feeling back
then, because it wasn't; simply put, B'Elanna wasn't my type.

The women I'd been involved with in the past had all been tall, leggy,
blond, bubbling with charm, soft-spoken and overflowing with womanly
mystique; B'Elanna was petite, muscular, her wavy black hair chopped
haphazardly in an upside-down bowl shape, making those Klingon ridges
more prominent on her forehead.

But I wanted B'Elanna's attention for the pure reason that in her
eyes, I did not exist, and that... startled me. I'd never known a
woman who could walk past me and not look.

In a phrase, I was wounded, my manly pride devastated by a Maquis
engineer who seemed to lust more over mechanical parts than flesh and
blood.

And that's not to say the silent treatment I received was from
B'Elanna and B'Elanna only; the other Maquis seemed to place me on the
same level as the ubiquitous cockroach, occasionally talking to me,
but often in a snide tone.

I had only been with the Maquis three days before I started regretting
my decision to join up. I had hoped they would find my piloting skills
useful and that they would welcome me with open arms. Damn, reality
hurt.

There would be meetings, short huddles, invariably with Chakotay
leading in his calm, quiet voice with B'Elanna occasionally
interjecting a Klingon epithet or two. Seska was never quiet,
especially when B'Elanna had anything other than "yes" or "no" to say;
the fireworks between the two of them fascinated me and I often
wondered if B'Elanna's feelings for Chakotay extended to something
beyond friendship.

And of course, this was all speculation; the Maquis didn't, as a rule,
have much fun. I think they were too cold, too tired, too stressed - I
say that in retrospect - but at the time, I thought they were all
sanctimonious little prigs.

Chakotay seemed to be the only one with the patience to deal with me
and even then, he was wary, not really sharing much information with
me or asking my opinion. Once, he asked me to accompany him to the
surface.

"I hear some Starfleet officers are here on shoreleave," he said. "I
know where they go and I'd like you to come."

"What do you plan to do? Set a bomb?"

"We don't work like that, Mr. Paris. We're not assassins."

"That would be a matter of perspective, of course."

Chakotay looked at me thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowing.

"Depends who you ask," I continued, not necessarily caring about
Chakotay's darkening mood. As you might guess, I didn't go much for
self-preservation in those days. Women, drink, flying - those were my
priorities and at this particular moment in time, I was getting none
of those.

"You're taking him?" B'Elanna's voice was shrill in my ear. I turned
to see an angry half-Klingon - though, in those days, B'Elanna was
always angry - arms akimbo.

"If his father's an admiral, it gives him a certain advantage,"
Chakotay explained. "He can make contact in a way that we cannot."

"How do you know he won't betray us?"

"You said yourself you'd make sure of it," Chakotay was smiling now,
but there was no warmth there.

"You could take Chell, Gerron, Mariah," B'Elanna said. "You don't need
him."

"If he's going to be any good to us, this is the time."

B'Elanna stared at me, and I could read her body language immediately;
mess this one up, she seemed to be saying, and you'll be wearing my
bat'leth as a belt - permanently. So I gave B'Elanna my best, my most
seductive and charming smile, the one I perfected at Sandrine's when I
was plying some gorgeous woman with alcohol. Maybe I expected B'Elanna
to melt in a pile of goo at my feet - that would have been nice - but
instead, she turned and marched away.

"Angry one, isn't she?" I asked a bit later when Chakotay and I
emerged into bright sunlight. I blinked a few times, trying to clear
the spots from my vision and adjust to the fresh air. It smelled
wonderful out here in the open, away from the musty gym-socks smell of
the Maquis cave.

"Angry is a relative state of being," Chakotay said with equanimity.
"Without anger, I doubt any of us would be here."

He then pointed me in the direction of the local hangout.

"You're sending me alone?" I asked.

"You want to be one of us, prove it," Chakotay said. He then turned
and left me there.

I walked into town, feeling very conspicuous. I wondered if this was
an elaborate set-up, one designed to leave me behind. In a way, it
would not have been unwelcome for the Maquis to simply turn their
backs on me.

In addition, Chakotay had not made clear what he wanted from me. But I
couldn't complain; he, at least, was talking to me, which was more
than I could say for the other members of the Maquis, including
B'Elanna.

The hangout was lousy with Starfleet; apparently, a transport with
medical supplies was in orbit, and the Captain had been kind enough to
give his space-sick claustrophobic minions a short vacation.

A group of crewmen were gathered around a table, playing a variation
of pool.

"Mind if I join in?" I asked one red-suited Bolian.

"You got the cash?" he asked. "We're playing for money."

"I've got some," I lied.

"Cue up then," the Bolian said. "I'm Reike."

"Tom Paris."

"Tom Paris." Reike handed me a stick. "Caldik Prime?"

"That would be me."

"What are you doing here?" Reike shuffled the balls on the table and
arranged them in a circle formation. "Seems a little far out of the
way, isn't it?"

"You land where you land," I answered carelessly.

"Ah."

We played in silence for the next ten minutes, each of us landing our
respective balls into the appropriate pockets. Reike was good, and for
a moment, I wondered if he too had taken advantage of lessons from the
proprietor of Sandrine's.

"What brings you to these parts?" I asked casually.

"Couple things," Reike said, never taking his eyes off of the ball.
"Medical supplies to a settlement. They've got an outbreak of the
ghasa virus."

"Rough."

"Terrible way to go. You bleed to death, literally. Your organs
disintegrate."

I shuddered.

"So which outpost?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"It's not often I get to talk to someone from home," I told him.
"Forgive my curiosity."

"Alonius Prime."

"Ah," I said.

We finished the game, with Reike the winner. I slapped him on the back
heartily and then indicated the bar. When I dug into my pockets for
money that I did not have, he shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, Paris," he said. "You've got more to worry
about than a gambling debt."

In a way, that left-handed way of letting me off the hook was probably
the nicest thing anyone had done for me in a really long time.

"Let me buy you a drink then," I said. "The real stuff. None of this
Starfleet synthesized stuff."

Reike grinned.

"I could like you, Tom Paris," he said.

I ordered two drinks and passed the glass, filled with amber colored
liquid, to Reike.

"You said you were here for something else too," I said. "Shoreleave?"

"No, the Maquis."

"The Maquis?" I feigned ignorance.

"We think they're here. Have you heard anything?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, no. I just got here myself and believe me, no
one wants to give me the time of day. I introduce myself and they turn
away. It's amazing how one's reputation gets around. And frankly, not
all of it is true."

"But Caldik Prime, that is true?"

"Yes," I stared into beverage. "It is."

Reike looked sympathetic, caring, and I was amazed at how much I
appreciated that. I hadn't talked about Caldik Prime with anyone
really, except for at the hearing, and even then it had been just the
facts, straight and unemotional. No one, including my father, had
looked me in the eye and asked, "How do you feel, Tom?"

Because they portrayed me in all of the news accounts as a carefree
daredevil pilot with absolutely no concerns, I did my best to live up
to that image; hell, that charming shiny veneer the press claimed I
had, well, it was a lot better than the tangle of nerves and stomach
acid I had become.

"That's tough," Reike said.

"Yeah."

We finished our drinks and I ordered more. I didn't think about how I
was going to pay for all of these drinks, only cared that I was
finally washing some warmth down my throat and the tension was easing
from muscles. It felt good to get that slightly fuzzy feeling, that
sense of distortion. I don't remember what Reike and I talked about,
only that I had forgotten why I had come in the first place.

"What are you doing out here?" Reike's words were slightly slurred,
his voice louder than necessary. "You never said."

"Taking odd jobs," I answered. "Pilot, you know. Always work
available. Hauling freight, running supplies to the border colonies -
there's always something."

"Must be fun. Beats Starfleet. I bet your father is upset."

"Yeah," I said, and suddenly this conversation wasn't fun anymore.
When I stared at the bottom of my glass, I saw my father's face - his
thinning white hair on a round, red-cheeked face with the blue eyes so
like my own. "Upset would be an understatement."

"Tough," Reike said, slamming his glass down for emphasis. "Glad I'm
not you."

I don't think he knew what he said and he certainly didn't know how
close I had been to crashing my own shuttle into the side of a
mountain in an attempt to find something in life that didn't revolve
around alcohol or women.

See? I wasn't so shallow. I knew I was washed up, knew I was
squandering my life away, knew all of that. Hell, everyone was hitting
me over the head with Caldik Prime and the millions of other mistakes
I had made during the quarter century I'd been alive; I might as well
validate their disappointment in me by ending my life as irresponsibly
as I had lived it.

And I might have actually done it that day if fate hadn't conspired
against me, if Chakotay hadn't shown up then.

He pulled me off of my chair, disgust very evident on his normally
calm face. Chakotay said nothing, but I had a feeling he paid off the
bar tab, and then, he took me by the arm and led me back outside.

We did not talk all the way back to the cave and I sensed that my
Maquis days were coming to an end. We descended into the darkness and
when we came into the main cavern, I noticed that everyone with the
exception of B'Elanna and Seska, were gone. Supplies, everything,
packed and efficiently hauled away during my absence.

There was one chair remaining and Chakotay pushed me down into it. My
head was spinning and I didn't particularly care; I supposed they were
going to leave me here and because I felt so sorry for myself, I would
just die here, rotting in my own sweat and vomit.

"He's drunk," B'Elanna's voice dripped with disgust.

"Get him some water," Chakotay ordered. Seska crouched in front of me,
cupping my chin in her cold hand.

"What did you tell them?" she whispered.

"Nothing, I swear."

"Alcohol loosens tongues. Tell me. Believe me, I will be kinder to you
than Chakotay or B'Elanna will be."

"I said nothing."

"Then what did you find out?"

"The ghasa virus is on Alonius Prime," I said. "Starfleet knows the
Maquis are here."

"You were right," Seska turned to face Chakotay. "We did overstay our
welcome."

"If Mr. Paris could find us so easily..." B'Elanna said. She handed me
a glass of water, and I was amazed that she didn't simply throw it in
my face; I knew by her expression that she certainly wanted to.

"Let's get out of here," Seska said. "We've waited too long."

"Right," B'Elanna concurred. It was a rare moment of agreement for
those two, and they both looked at Chakotay for confirmation. He
nodded.

"Go ahead," he said. "Give me a minute with Mr. Paris."

The two women slung packs over their shoulders - heavy, I could tell -
and disappeared into the darkness. Chakotay put his hand on my
shoulder as he stared down at me; there was something curiously
fatherly about his expression, but the parallels stopped there. He was
not happy with me, that much I could tell, and for the life of me, I
couldn't tell why.

"You do that again, Mr. Paris, and I will personally hand you over to
Starfleet," he said in a low voice. "There is no room for error. You
do not get drunk. The risks are too great. Do you understand?"

"Anything you say." My words were slurred. Chakotay glared at me and
then hauled me to my feet.

"Let's go," he said. "B'Elanna was right. I shouldn't have trusted
you."

---

It is a position not unfamiliar to me; cheek in mud, ankle throbbing
and cold biting down to the bone. I pull myself along the ground on my
elbows. My stomach growls; I haven't eaten since breakfast, and even
then, given my short fuse with Chakotay, I hadn't eaten much.

The sliver of moon, visible earlier, has now disappeared behind the
ever-shifting clouds. I am now convinced that something has happened
to Jessup; there is no way he would have left me here.

I haul myself to a sitting position and check the tricorder; I'm
headed in the right direction. In the distance, I hear the howls of
wild animals, the chirp of insects and the whistle of wind through the
leaves. The wind is sharp, biting, and I can't stop shivering. I get
to my feet, trying hard not to put weight on the hurt ankle, and
hobble forward, leaning on trees for support. I trip and land face
down in a puddle.

I don't have enough spirit to get to my feet. I can't feel my fingers
and my knees are sore from the falls. I curl into a fetal position on
the ground in an attempt to get warm and it's then, I hear the
footsteps. I push myself up.

"Tom?" I whisper.

"Hi," he says in that low purr of his. He kneels next to me. "What
have you gotten yourself into now, B'Elanna?"

"You got my message," I say.

"Of course I did. I came right away."

"I knew you'd come."

"No, you didn't. You didn't think I would, but you wanted to try
anyway. If I didn't show up, it would prove that you were right, that
Chakotay was right," Tom sighs heavily. He places his palms on his
thighs, but makes no move to help me out of my cold and wet misery.

"I never know with you, Tom. Sometimes you make me feel like I'm the
only person in your entire world and other times, I'm like a statue
you put up on a mantel, someone you take down on occasion to dust. I
never know where I stand with you."

"Don't doubt me. Not now, B'Elanna. Believe me when I tell you that I
would never leave you."

His face is in shadows and he does nothing to help me up, but I do not
care.

"How long have I been here?" I ask.

"A few days."

"Feels longer than that."

"You've been under a lot of stress."

"Do you know what's going on?"

Tom shakes his head. "Sorry, no. I'm in the dark, just like you."

"I want this to be over."

"I know."

I reach out a hand but he doesn't take it.

"I've missed you," I tell him. "There are things, things I haven't
told you."

"It's all right. I know."

"No, you don't. Now that you're here, we can have some time. Alone."

"That sounds nice."

"We didn't have a proper honeymoon. Maybe now?"

"A terrific idea," Tom's voice is enthusiastic. "I've already thought
of something."

"What is it?"

"Chicago, 1940s."

"Where?"

"In one of those old grand hotels. Think of it, B'Elanna. High ceiling
lobbies with brilliant red carpet. Curving staircases with finely
carved walnut banisters. When you come down the stairs, all eyes will
be on you."

"What will I be wearing?"

"Something red. It's already designed for you. You just need to put it
on."

"Sounds lovely. What else?"

"There will be a band. Big band, to be precise. We will swing the
night away."

"Swing?"

"A style of dancing. Don't worry, I'll teach you. You'll love it."

"What about my ankle?"

"You think we'd let a silly ankle injury get in the way of our
honeymoon? You forget whom you're talking to B'Elanna. I'm Tom Paris,
medical assistant extraordinaire."

"You're a nurse."

I can hear the smile in his voice. "It's all semantics, B'Elanna."

"I like our honeymoon already. Tell me about our room."

"It will be on the top floor so we'll have a view of the city. There
will be a fireplace and we'll keep it lit all night."

"That sounds wonderful."

"And the bed, it will be a canopy bed, big enough to spread out."

"That sounds cozy."

"Feather pillows, B'Elanna, and a soft comforter."

"I do like it."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"That's what I was thinking," Tom says in that soft voice that I love
so much. "But then I thought maybe you'd want to do something else."

I am surprised, pleasantly. I am used to Tom making the arrangements,
deciding what we're going to do; occasionally, I will choose a program
on the holodeck, but for the most part, he makes the decisions and I
go along with him.

"Like what?" I ask.

"Well," Tom says. "We could take a shuttle and see if we can't find a
nice M-class planet somewhere. One with a long strip of unspoiled
beach and plenty of warm sun."

"I like that."

"I thought you might. And the water, it would be a perfect twenty-two
degrees."

"You've thought of everything."

"Including a room on the water," Tom says sotto voce. "Doors open
right to the beach. There's plenty of fresh air. Plus, it's quiet and
secluded. The ideal spot for two people who haven't had a lot time to
spend together."

"That's sweet."

"You deserve this vacation, B'Elanna. I know things haven't been easy
for you lately and I know you've been under a lot of stress. This
vacation would be exactly what you - we - need."

I pull myself upright, leaning sideways against the tree. Tom's face
is blurry and I wish there were more light, something more than the
eerie halo of the moon.

"I've been studying star maps, B'Elanna, and I think I've found the
perfect spot," Tom goes on, his voice filled with enthusiasm.

"When do we leave?"

"You just need to get to your feet, B'Elanna. If you just get up, we
can go. I've already packed our bags."

"I'm trying, Tom, really, I am."

He sighs, heavily. I know that sigh, the one that says he's irritated
with me, the one he breathes when I'm being particularly difficult or
obtuse.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "Sorry for everything."

"It's all right. Don't worry. We'll get you out of here."

"You'll have to help me. I can't walk."

"I forgot the medkit. I'll have to go back and get it," Tom stands up.
I reach out, reach for his leg.

"Don't leave me," I say. "I'm so cold, so tired, don't leave me here."

"I'll be right back."

"No," I try to grab a handful of the black material of his pants in my
hand and come away with nothing.

He is gone.

"Tom?" I call. And then louder, "Tom! Tom!"

I get to my feet and I see a shadow disappearing into the trees. I hop
in that direction.

"Tom," I say.

The shadowy figure pauses only for a moment.

"Get up, B'Elanna," the figure with Tom's face and voice says. "Don't
give up, not this time, not ever."

And then he is gone.

---

"Tom."

Janeway's voice is a bucket of cold water, almost like your parents
intruding on you and your date on Lover's Lane. I jerk back and turn
my chair to face the Captain.

"Yes?" I ask.

"It's Harry," she says. I take a look at the small view screen; Harry
smiles back at me, wearing his very best "I'm in command now"
expression.

"Hi," I say to my friend.

"How are you?"

"Stir crazy. You know how it is to spend prolonged time on the Delta
Flyer."

"Don't remind me," Harry laughs. "Replicators down, sonic showers
offline, dirty dishes in the recycler..."

"Harry, what's going on?" Janeway interrupts, evidently not
appreciating the trip down memory lane.

"We received a transmission. Morse code," he says. "From B'Elanna."

"B'Elanna?" I look at Janeway. "Are you sure? She doesn't know Morse
code."

Hell, B'Elanna only visited the monochromatic world of Captain Proton
that one time to encourage me to take a stand for the Moneans. I
considered that one of our good periods, when we were actually making
time for each other and were making an effort to compromise; but even
then, B'Elanna had no use for role-playing games. I could tell from
the slight sneer of her lips, the flared nostrils, that she clearly
resented the time I spent on the holodeck and especially, she mocked
the idea of dressing up as an archaic hero from the comic books.

I'd given her the story line once, along with a role, given her a time
to meet, but she had placed the PADD aside, promising to look at it a
future time; she never showed up and I never asked.

But I've learned, many times over the past seven years, not to
underestimate B'Elanna Torres.

"Positive," Harry says. "It's her. Short, sweet, to the point."

"What does the message say?" Janeway asks.

"She and Chakotay are fine," Harry says. "They are on Alonius Prime."

Janeway, Tuvok and I exchange looks; lady luck is certainly shining on
us today.

"And we're only a few hours away," I note.

"This is indeed good news," Tuvok says in typical Vulcan neutrality.

"Anything else, Harry?" Janeway asks.

"Seven has been analyzing the logs from Starbase 87," Harry says. "I
think she has something to share with you."

A second later, Seven's aquiline features appear on the viewscreen.

"I have been working to decipher the origin of the Maquis release
order," she says.

"It's not important," I say. "We've found B'Elanna, Chakotay and the
others."

"Mr. Paris," Janeway says in a warning tone that I know oh too well.
Sometimes, my father would speak to me in that voice and I would
cringe, hearing only the tone, not the words. He could sing a song
using that tone and I would still believe myself to be in for dire
punishment.

"Sorry," I answer automatically.

"I used a recursive algorithm to trace the path of the original
message," Seven says.

"We already know that," I say. "It came from the console of a dead
man. So what?"

"Mr. Paris, some patience would benefit you greatly," Tuvok says.

Seven's sigh is audible as she glares at us.

"That is what someone intended for us to believe," Seven says. "The
encryption code identifying that particular workstation was forged.
That much is obvious. I have found the original workstation."

"How?" I ask. "I was working on that and it seemed to be an absolute
dead end."

"The solution is simple, Lieutenant," Seven says. "I simply traced the
route of the release order. When a message is rerouted through the
system, it is necessary to route the message through many different
hosts. In a normal circumstance, the packet of information would have
gone a direct route. However, in this case, the message did not follow
the proper protocols," Seven pauses. "The message was intentionally
sent through different hosts, with the instructions to mask its
presence at the previous host when it arrived at the new host.
However, each time the message arrived at its destination, the systems
automatically sent a notification back to the previous routing
machine."

"Like letting that machine know that it had arrived at the next
destination?" I ask.

"Very parental, if you ask me," Harry scoffs.

"That's Starfleet for you," I add in.

Seven ignores Harry and me and continues on her dissertation.

"Due to the randomly changing source addresses, each delivery
notification failed," Seven continues. "I simply collected all of
those failed notices, noted the addresses and composed an algorithm
that simply predicted the possible routing of this message, given the
address encryptions on the failure notifications. In this way, I was
able to reconstruct the original trail."

"Good work, Seven," Janeway says.

"What did you find?" Tuvok asks.

"The release order came from Admiral Paris."

I lean back in my chair.

"What are you saying, Seven?" Janeway's voice is sharp.

"I do not believe translation is necessary. Admiral Paris ordered the
release of the Maquis prisoners and for their removal to Alonius
Prime."

"How?" I ask. "Why?"

"I did ask him to help," Janeway muses.

I'm still in shock. My father, not known for his technological
aptitude, had somehow managed to route an order in such a way as to
appear to come from someone else. The question begs to be asked: why
the subterfuge?

"You asked him to intercede with the Federation," Tuvok points out.
"You did not ask him to release the Maquis, correct?"

"I asked him to make sure that the Maquis were treated fairly and
honorably, given their service on Voyager. You are sure this message
originated from Admiral Paris?" Janeway asks.

"I have retrieved all of Admiral Paris' logs," Seven responds, visibly
insulted that Janeway would doubt her work. "It was cleverly done, but
the binary signature of his logs are identical to those of the release
logs. The Admiral neglected to match that particular signature to that
of Lieutenant Sullivan's logs. In addition, I have found
correspondence from Lieutenant Sullivan in Admiral Paris' system."

I'm still unable to speak, unable to digest what Seven is saying.
Somehow, my proud, upstanding, morally uptight father is linked to
this whole sorry mess.

And I thought the Delta Quadrant was peculiar.

"How was this possible?" Tuvok asks.

"It appears that Admiral Paris used a simple client-server protocol to
log on to Lieutenant Sullivan's workstation," Seven continues. "With
his security clearance, he was able to feed it the proper protocols in
order to reroute the message. He disabled Lieutenant Sullivan's host
machine so he could impersonate that machine's identification number
to send the message. Leaving the lieutenant's machine online would
have made the subsequent forgery impossible to send."

I sit back in my chair, absolutely stunned. As a child, you understand
your parents to be simple people. It is difficult to understand that
they might have had a life before you and it's even more difficult to
see them as individuals with their own skills and personalities. You
don't see things about your parents because you are so engrossed in
your own life, your wants and needs.

And when something - something like this - comes up, you can only
wonder if you ever knew your parent. It's only now that I realize that
my father may have been someone more than the strict, authoritative
Starfleet "yes" man. And in a way, it hurts, hurts so much that he is
dead and there could have been so much more for me to discover about
him.

I inhale deeply.

"Is there anything else?" Janeway asks crisply.

"Just the logs, Captain," Harry says. "We thought, um, that Tom would
like to, um, go through them. We noticed some personal logs, including
a message for Tom."

Janeway looks over at me. "Okay with you, Lieutenant?"

"Fine." There's a desert in my mouth, the Sahara, to be exact. I
swallow hard, but there is no saliva for moisture.

"Uploading to the Delta Flyer now," Seven says. While my console is
busy, I take the time to escape to the replicator and get a glass of
water. I gulp it down, trying to block out Tuvok and Janeway's
conversation. Seven inserts her own two cents every now and then, her
precise words tight and inflexible in the narrow confines of the Delta
Flyer. There is no room for anything with Seven, no emotion, no
judgement, no error. You get what you see with her and nothing more.

She could easily walk over a corpse and not feel a shiver up her
spine.

I take a deep breath and head back to my seat.

"Admiral McArthur has been trying to contact you. He's getting
impatient," Harry says. "And you also have some confidential messages
from Starfleet Headquarters. I'm transmitting them to you now."

"Thank you," Janeway says. Her tone implies that Admiral McArthur
deserves nothing less than her complete and total ignorance. If only
the rest of us could be so lucky. Anything else, Harry?"

"Not right now."

"Keep us informed. Delta Flyer out."

Harry and Seven disappear from our viewscreens. Janeway and Tuvok are
both profoundly quiet, their silence telling. I imagine they are
waiting for me to speak, maybe for me to reveal something about my
father and his odd connection to the Maquis. But the truth is, I don't
have any idea.

The last time I saw my father was right after the hearing about Caldik
Prime. He looked at me, his gaze steely and uncaring. We stood in the
hallway, right after it had been announced that my Starfleet career
was over, and even though we were only a meter apart, it might as well
have been a thousand light years. My father was wearing his dress
uniform as if he felt the need to be formal and dignified at the
unceremonious departure of his only son from Starfleet.

"Say something," I implored. For once in my life, I wanted my father
to be soft; I didn't want a hero, I wanted a father.

He looked right through me. Honestly. His gaze went through skin,
bones, heart, lungs, and right out the other side.

"I never expected this of you, Tom," my father said. "What you did, it
was a disgrace to the Paris name."

"It was an accident!" I nearly screamed the words. People in the
hallway stopped and stared, but I didn't care. I wanted everyone to
know that I hadn't meant Caldik Prime to happen; I only wanted to try
something new. Did they really think I meant for people to die? Did
everyone who had ever come in contact with me think so little of me?

"You disappoint me," my father said.

You disappoint me. Not "You disappointed me and now you're forgiven,"
but no, the words were coolly stated in the present tense. You
disappoint me.

With that, my father turned away from me and walked out of my life,
the heels of his shiny black Starfleet boots echoing with each step.

"Tom, I can take over," Janeway says kindly.

"Thanks," I get up from my seat. I appreciate her offer because I do
want to read my father's last words in private. Maybe there is
something there I can salvage.

I'd hate for my last memory of my father to be that encounter in the
hallway.

Janeway puts her hand on my arm.

"Something wrong, Tom?" she asks.

I think she knows. I offer a weak semblance of a smile.

"You're wrong," she says. "Trust me on this one."

"I hope you're right."

"I know I am. I saw him, Tom, and I talked to him."

"I would hate for him to have died thinking I'm a disappointment."

"He didn't. You've got to believe me. I wouldn't lie to you, Tom. Not
about this."

"But about other things?" I tease her because a lump is forming in my
throat. Another bit of kindness from her and I will probably start
bawling right there.

And that's one thing I learned from my father: Paris men don't cry.

---
Author's note: tlhIngan Hol conventions followed in this section,
so some sentences, written in tlhIngan Hol, are *not* capitalized at
the beginning. A big thank you to Maud for her help on this section.
---

The heat is oppressive. I roll over onto my back and stare up into
red- tinged sky. The orange clouds are raining, misting in hues of
pinks and mandarins. I get to my feet. Around me, the trees are
singed, the tops of them burned off. All around me, lava flows.

I take a step back; amazingly, my ankle is completely healed.

"B'Elanna Miral puqbe!"

I turn. A heavy set Klingon faces me, holding up a bat'leth.

"Daughter of Miral, defend yourself!" he yells.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"Kortar!"

"Very good."

"Where am I?"

"You've been here before."

I look around and recognize the flowing rivers of blood and lava. The
heat wraps itself around me, making it difficult to even breathe.
Under my feet, the ground heaves and I realize that the solid feeling
of earth is gone, replaced by metal grid flooring.

"gre'thor," I say. "Why did you bring me here? I have redeemed my
mother's honor."

"Who says we brought you here for your mother?"

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"Defend yourself!" Kortar twirls the bat'leth with amazing skill. He
lunges toward me, but I duck out of his way.

"Who is it?" I pant. "Please, tell me! Is it my mother? Did I not do
everything required?"

"Your mother? Ha!"

The voice comes from behind me; I turn. It's a Cardassian boy, his
facial ridges still soft and forming.

"Do you remember me, B'Elanna Torres?" he taunts. "You who deprived my
mother of her pride and joy? You who are responsible for the tears my
mother sheds each night? Do you remember me as my mother surely
remembers you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"You killed me without thinking twice," the boy continues. "Do you
think of me at night? Do I haunt your dreams? Do I disturb your
sleep?"

"Go away!" I scream. "Go!"

"Defend yourself!" the Cardassian raises a disrupter, but his hand is
sliced off with a clean sweep of the bat'leth. The Klingon laughs as
the Cardassian screams, as blood drips from the stub of his arm.

"Thank you," I say. "I think."

From my last visit to gre'thor, I know that death here is possible. At
least then, I knew what I was dying for; at this moment, I am
completely baffled.

"You are not finished, daughter of Miral," the Klingon growls. "You
have dishonored your family name. You are no warrior."

"I am a warrior!"

"quv Hutlh HoHbogh tlhIngan 'ach qabDaj 'angbe'bogh!"

My mind stumbles over the words as I mentally translate: A Klingon
does not kill without showing his face.

"That's not true!" I scream. "I never did that!"

"Do you remember this?"

A second later we are transported to a forest, lush and green. The
Cardassians are camped around a fire and a second later, an explosive
tears the reptilian humanoids apart at the cellular level.

"What do you say now, daughter of Miral?" Kortar taunts.

"They would have killed us! If we didn't strike first, if we didn't
hit them hard first, they would have taken us! The Cardassians showed
us no mercy!"

"You say that even as you struck down a defenseless boy!"

"He was not defenseless! He would have killed my friends! nIteb Qob
qaD jup 'e' chaw'be' SuvwI'!"

Kortar's fat lips turn up into a sneer.

"Well said, daughter of Miral. A warrior does not let a friend face
danger alone. So you call yourself a warrior now, do you? Have you
achieved the honor necessary? I doubt it!" he snarls.

"You know I did! I would have died for my mother!"

"And what about them?" Kortar waves his arm and all of a sudden, there
are hundreds of humanoids surrounding us. All of them wear the armor
of the Borg, but their faces, their faces are their own. They are all
holding their hands out to me, their voices rising and falling as one.

"B'Elanna Torres!" they chant my name. "Remember us?"

"Who are they?" I look desperately at Kortar. Sweat runs down my back
as I survey the group surrounding me. I turn around, nearly making
myself dizzy.

"We were individuals," the crowd chants.

"I didn't have control over my actions! I tried not to!" I scream at
Kortar. He shrugs and holds up the bat'leth again.

"B'Elanna, daughter of Miral, defend yourself!"

"No!" I scream. I drop to my knees. There are more people here now and
some of them are wearing Starfleet uniforms. A few of them are holding
glasses.

"Here's to B'Elanna Torres," one Starfleet officer holds up a glass.
"She talks about honor but does not know the meaning of the word."

"Hear, hear!" another voice chimes in. "She has left a trail of blood
in her wake and thinks nothing of it."

"Why are you doing this to me?" I yell.

A familiar figure rises up from the mists, standing much taller than
her 1.5 meters. Her straggly gray hair hangs past her shoulders, her
eyes narrow, and she takes a few strides towards me.

"Grandmother!" I scream.

"muHlIj DawIvpu', vaj yISuv!" my grandmother says severely. "You have
made your choice, now you must deal with the consequences of your
actions. Can you do that, B'Elanna? For me?"

"I accept what I have done, Grandmother," I say.

"Have you?" the Starfleet chorus chants as one. "B'Elanna Torres,
Maquis rebel, Borg drone, engineer, daughter, lover..."

"Or do you believe what you want to believe?" my grandmother's
question is soft, tender - much like she was, despite that tough
Klingon exterior. There were times when my mother was my only comfort,
the only one who truly loved me. But now, dressed all in black against
the backdrop of flames, she looks menacing.

"may'meyDajvo' Haw'be' tlhIngan," Kortar says. He drops his bloody
bat'leth and extends his hand. "A Klingon doesn't postpone a matter of
honor. B'Elanna Torres, will you let us help you?"

I take his hand and pull myself up. New faces have appeared in the
crowd. Chakotay, Janeway, Neelix, Tuvok, Harry, Tom and Seven. They
are all leering at me. Tuvok is shaking his head.

"If only you would meditate," he says.

"If only you would listen to me," Chakotay says.

"I can help you, B'Elanna," Neelix comments.

"You push me away," Tom says.

Seven shrugs. "This discussion is irrelevant. You are irrelevant."

"I'm your friend," Harry puts in.

I turn to Kortar.

"Make them stop," I tell him. "Please."

The Borgified individuals surge towards me, a wave of blinking lights
and body armor, their tubules extended in pre-assimilation mode. I
back away. Kortar spins his bat'leth.

"Defend yourself!"

"Stop saying that!"

"Defend yourself!"

"I can't! I'm tired! I don't want to do this anymore! Please!" I brace
myself against the railing. On the other side, the rivers of lava
flow; foul smelling steam drifts up to sting my nostrils. I lean over
the railing. All I have to do is sit on it and release my grip.

"What are you doing?" Tom screams as I heave myself up.

"There is only one B'Elanna Torres!" Janeway insists.

"Redeem your honor!" Kortar bellows. Beneath me, the railing is
unpleasantly warm.

"How? I don't know!"

""QaghmeylIj tIchID, yIyoH ," my grandmother puts in. "Admit your
mistakes!"

"Ask!" Tuvok adds.

"Ask what?" I look from face to face frantically. "What do you want of
me?"

"B'Elanna Torres cannot be redeemed. She is a violent personality,
prone to mood swings and temper tantrums," Seven says clinically. "She
refuses to accept help and will not ask for forgiveness to salve her
own burning conscience. She cannot be saved."

"meQtaHbogh qachDaq Suv qoH neH," Kortar adds. "Only a fool would
fight in a burning house. You must accept this, daughter of Miral."

"You don't need to fight it, B'Elanna," Tom yells. "Not anymore!"

"Ask!" Neelix pleads.

The Cardassian boy advances towards me.

"B'Elanna Torres is ruthless. She assimilates without conscience. She
kills without thought. She cannot be forgiven," Seven continues.

"Hear, hear!" Chakotay leers at me.

"No! That's not true!" I scream back. "It's not! Please!"

"Please what?" Tom asks.

"You!" I point my finger at Tom. "You never tell me what you want and
you never show that you need me! Tell me, please, what do you want?
What do you all want?"

"Lanna, it's not what we want," Janeway says in a soft voice. "What do
you want? What do you need?"

It is quiet, save for the splash of meteorites into the flames below.
Everyone drops their weapons, eyes trained on me. Perspiration drips
from my forehead and my throat is parched. I survey them all, from the
small children fingering their Borg implants to the haughty officers,
blood still staining their Starfleet uniforms, circa 2371.

"Say it!" Kortar breaks the silence.

"Please!" Tom pleads.

"Forgive me," I whisper. "Please... forgive me."

They all start laughing, advancing to me.

"Forgiveness, I want your forgiveness," I continue. "From all of you,
please."

All of them, with their blood expressions and detached expressions,
grin wickedly at me. My sweaty palms slip. I scream, but manage to
hold on with my legs. I pull myself upright.

"Why should we forgive you?" Chakotay asks.

"I never meant..." I start and then pause. Their eyes glow red at me,
their teeth shining in the golden-red glow that is gre'thor. "My
actions were - are - inexcusable."

"You killed me!" the Cardassian boy accuses.

"Here's to B'Elanna Torres!" the Starfleet officers hold up their
glasses to me.

"I'm asking now! Please forgive me!" I scream, but the mob of the dead
advances steadily, their eyes bright with revenge and hate.

"I meant to raise a warrior," my grandmother says mournfully. "Never
has there been dishonor such as this in my house."

"Murderer!" the half-assimilated drones yell.

"Murder, the unlawful killing of another human being with malice
afterthought," Tuvok says coolly.

I hold up my hands, which are now dripping with blood.

"Killer!" the Cardassian boy reappears, his hand now reattached to his
body.

"To deprive any living thing of life in any manner," Tuvok says.

"What do you want me to do?" I look at Tom, Harry, Seven, Neelix, all
of them, wanting just a hint of what is needed of me.

"There is only one B'Elanna Torres!" Janeway yells.

"What do I do?" I implore Kortar.

He advances towards me, his bat'leth in one hand, a mek'leth in the
other.

"There is only one option now for B'Elanna Miral puqbe," Kortar says
menacingly.

My grip loosens on the rail.

"B'Elanna!" Tom screams.

"Murderer!" the Starfleet officers chant.

I let myself fall.

---

We land the shuttle on Alonius Prime instead of beaming down because
the dampening field makes transporters unreliable.

The Maquis settlement is quiet, rather gray in appearance and
architecture, and for a moment, I wonder if anyone actually lives here
because it is so devoid of personality.

The land is fairly flat, brown, the few weeds swaying in the wind. In
the distance, I see a line of tall trees, nearly black against the
gray horizon.

"Quiet, isn't it?" I ask.

"I wonder..." Janeway bites her lip.

"You are considering the possibility that the Maquis have been
removed," Tuvok states.

But Tuvok's statement is discounted when a familiar figure comes out
of a building and walks towards us.

"Chakotay," Janeway breathes. I look at her curiously. There has been
speculation about her relationship with the first officer for years
and I have always been one to doubt that their feelings for each other
are anything more than platonic. But, as B'Elanna is so often fond of
pointing out to me, I have been wrong before.

There are a few others following Chakotay and we quicken our step
towards them.

"Captain," Chakotay says. "Commander, Lieutenant."

There is a formality in his tone that I have not heard in a long time.

"How are you?" Janeway stops just short of putting her hand on
Chakotay's chest. Instead, she puts it behind her back, a rather silly
way of covering up what she really wanted to do. I look at the people
behind Chakotay, recognizing some of them from my short stint with the
Maquis.

"We're good," Chakotay says.

I look around, still not seeing B'Elanna. Ayala, Chell, Gerron,
McKenzie, Tabor, they are all here and they are excited to see us.

"Tom Paris."

I turn to face Herid Jessup.

There are some people, no matter how many years pass, whom you would
recognize in a heartbeat; Jessup is one of those. I see that broad
Ktarian face, his large eyes and wide lips, and that familiar sense of
dislike bubbles up in my throat.

We never got along. I guess that would be an understatement, or
rather, the universal truth, of my time with the Maquis. But with
Jessup, the animosity was particularly strong. Once, he happened to
sit by me when we were eating and he said, "Just because your father
got you back into the Academy doesn't mean you have any pull here."

"I didn't say that I did," I told him.

"Just checking."

"Believe me, I have no illusions. And for your information, what
happened at the Academy is irrelevant. I'm not welcome in Starfleet
anymore so my Academy past shouldn't matter."

"As long as we're clear."

"We're clear," I told Jessup.

I did know that Jessup and B'Elanna were involved at that time, though
I thought the feelings were largely on his end, not hers. She tended
not to notice him except for when he happened to be glued to her side
and even then, she was short-tempered and irritated with him. It was,
I noted then, not a relationship made in heaven.

"I'm glad you're here," Jessup says to me. I look at him curiously.
Things have changed, yes, but as far I know, there hasn't been a
blizzard in hell for millennia. For a moment, my jealousy radar goes
online, wondering if maybe in the space of five short days, B'Elanna
and Herid have rekindled their soggy relationship. I dismiss the
thought, knowing that the two of them getting back together is like
setting a flame to green wood, all smoke and no spark.

"Good to see you too, Jessup," I say heartily, injecting false
enthusiasm into my voice. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Nor have you," Jessup looks me up and down. "Gained a little weight,
have you?"

I glare at him. "That must be a record for you, Herid. You waited all
of three minutes before insulting me. I'm impressed. Now where's
B'Elanna?"

Jessup's face drops its mask of scorn and takes on expression of
extreme concern.

"What's wrong?" I ask in alarm.

"B'Elanna's sick," Jessup says. He takes my arm. "She's been out for
the last twenty-eight hours."

"What do you mean?"

"Come with me. You have medical training, right?"

"Yes."

Jessup walks a step ahead of me, probably so we don't have to engage
in meaningless conversation. It doesn't matter to me; after all this
time, I still have nothing to say to these Maquis. Their expressions
of scorn still remain even after all of these years. I can only pray
that B'Elanna does not feel the same.

In the Infirmary, I find B'Elanna lying on a biobed, covered up to
mid- chest with an insulted blanket. I touch her cheek, which is pink
with fever.

"She's burning up," I say. "What happened?"

"We went to the generator complex to send the signal to Voyager and
she broke her ankle. I came back to get help and when Chakotay and I
went back, we found her lying passed out on the ground. We don't know
what happened."

I grab a tricorder and quickly evaluate B'Elanna. She is running an
unusually high fever, and her neural activity is rapid, neurons firing
at an incredibly fast rate. Light perspiration coats her face. I pick
up her hand and note the large red welt, which covers most of her
forearm.

"What is this?" I ask.

"She was bitten by a bug," Jessup says. "Looks like an allergic
reaction of some kind."

I turn my attention back to the tricorder. I have seen these readings
before, somewhere...

"I need something to bring down the fever," I say. Jessup nods. He
points to a cabinet.

"We've tried everything we know," he says. I open the cabinet and
survey the drugs available. Most of them are standard antibiotics and
a couple that have been deemed ineffective. I turn to look at Jessup
and he shrugs.

"Apparently the health of the Maquis is inconsequential to the
Federation," I note with a trace of bitterness.

"We've never seen anything like this before," Jessup continues. I
quickly take B'Elanna's readings once again. In some ways, they remind
of the time when B'Elanna decided to vacation in gre'thor to lift her
mother's dishonor.

We had almost lost her then and later when we were in my quarters,
B'Elanna had told me that she had been prepared to die for her mother.

"How can you say that?" I argued with her.

"It's the Klingon way, Tom. Dishonor, of any kind, it stays with you.
I didn't want to be responsible for that, not for my mother's
dishonor."

"So what about you? What if you had died?"

"It would not have mattered to me."

"I want to understand, B'Elanna, but sometimes I just can't," I told
her. "I almost lost you today and it scares me to think that we might
not have been sitting here, having this conversation."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," B'Elanna said. "But you have to
understand. Sometimes, I have to do things for me, for my culture, and
I can't always do or be what you want."

She got up from the sofa and went into the bedroom while I sat there,
head in hands, wondering what I was going to do with my headstrong
lover. More importantly, I wondered what I would do without her.

She was already under the covers when I came in and I could tell by
her rapid breathing that she was pretending to sleep. I slipped in
beside B'Elanna, wrapping my arms around her

"You're right, B'Elanna," I whispered to her. "It's not always about
me. I wish it could be, but I have to accept that you make your own
decisions and I don't necessarily have a say in them. I just want you
to know that... that I do care about what happens to you and I don't,
I really don't want to have to do this again."

She was silent for a moment and then rolled over onto her back so that
she was looking directly at me.

"Thank you," she said. She cupped my cheek in her warm palm. "But
don't hold me to promises I won't be able to keep."

"Tom?" Jessup's tone is urgent. He hovers over B'Elanna, an expression
of acute dismay crossing his face. "Can't you do anything?"

"I'm going to transmit these readings to Voyager," I say. "The Doctor
will be able to help."

I take B'Elanna's hot hand in mine and then lean over to brush my lips
over those Klingon ridges she despises so much. I'm very aware of
Jessup's eyes on us and I look up at him, still clutching B'Elanna's
hand to my chest.

"You hurt her, I'll hunt you down," Jessup says evenly.

"I don't doubt it," I tell him. "I'll be back."

Jessup holds up a hand. "Give me the tricorder. You stay with
B'Elanna."

We look at each other with a bit of suspicion but then I relent.
Whatever Jessup feels for me, he has never harbored any ill will
towards B'Elanna, even though she did not treat him well. Like me, he
only wants her to get well.

"I never thought I'd say this," he says. "But I'm glad you're here."

Jessup leaves. I pull up the lone chair in the Infirmary to B'Elanna's
bio-bed. She is absolutely still.

"B'Elanna," I say. "I'm here."

I lift her hand to my lips.

"Please," I whisper. "I don't want to have to beg."

Her only response is a raspy breath. It's not the answer I was hoping
for, but for now, it will have to do.

---

continued in the fourth story in the Lines in The Sand universe 'Dawn'