The BLTS Archive - 100 Days
by Seema (seemag1@yahoo.com)

---

Archiving Information: ASC yes, everyone else please ask.

Disclaimer: Characters and places belong to the Paramount. This is
based on the episode "Unimatrix Zero."

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a short scene expansion, but it
has grown into something else completely. I hope it works. If not, it
was fun to write anyway :-)

---

If the Borg don't kill her, I most certainly will.

If she survives, that is.

I can't imagine Voyager without her but I cannot imagine how she will
survive the Borg either.

But then, my darling half-Klingon doesn't seem concerned about life
with the Collective; rather, her lips turn upward in a curl of
anticipation.

I suspect the Borg don't stand a chance; one wrong word and they will
end up on the wrong end of the bat'leth. I should know -- I've been
there many times myself.

Of course, I know when I'm licked, know when I ought to give up; once
B'Elanna has made up her mind, my stubborn darling is intractable. Her
jaw grows tight, her eyes hard and glassy, and you can almost smell the
fire in her nostrils.

Telling her what to do is about as easy as convincing a Hirogen that
the hunt is a dead-end, a biological and cultural suicide.

Janeway looks perfectly calm as if deciding to become one with the Borg
is as easy to decide between Colombian black or a French roast. She is
leaning back in her chair, slightly turned towards Chakotay, her
fingers rapping gently on the table.

"Are we clear?" she asks in that gravely voice. Her gaze sweeps over
us, her eyes asking not only for obedience but also for understanding.

"Crystal," I offer helpfully when no one else speaks. Kim is looking at
some spot over Seven's shoulder while Chakotay is looking down at his
hands. Only Tuvok and B'Elanna seem alert, almost as if in a state of
over-excitement.

"Good," Janeway stands. "B'Elanna, Tuvok, we meet in the shuttlebay in
three hours. Tom, go over the Delta Flyer. Make sure it's ready. I
don't want to take any chances."

"Yes, ma'am," I give her jaunty little salute and she smiles back at
me.

"Dismissed," Janeway says, but this time her voice is softer, a bit
more gentle. I wonder if she is regretting her decision, wonder if she
wants to go back; but I know Kathryn Janeway. She makes her decisions,
sticks by them, and then takes no time for regrets.

Of course, there is a first time for everything.

We spill out into the hall and I pause for B'Elanna. She offers me a
cautious half-smile, almost as if she is afraid to speak.

"You want to check out the Flyer with me?" I ask. She nods. Her hand
brushes mine, a casual yet intimate gesture. I want to grab her hand,
intertwine my fingers with hers and beg her to stay; if I bow to the
impulse though, she will most probably rip out my heart and eat it in
front of me.

No surprise there; she does that on a daily basis.

B'Elanna cocks her head slightly to one side, her eyes bright.

"I suppose," she says. "I have a little time before we go."

We walk shoulder to shoulder down the corridor; I want to put my arm
around her waist, but propriety constrains me.

"It's not fair," I say. "You get to go to all the best vacation spots."

"A Borg cube is hardly a vacation spot, Tom," she says in her best
preachy tone. She moves slightly away from me, her gaze straight ahead;
if I didn't know better, I would think she was trying to avoid me. But
I do know B'Elanna and know she has trouble saying those things she
wants to say at the right time. And I know from experience that she has
to be at death's door before her heart gets into the action.

"I've never been on a Borg cube," she says. "I imagine it would be
exciting."

"That's one way to put it but not the way I would describe it," I
answer, remembering my recent excursion on a Borg vessel.

We continue on, a comfortable silence settling over us. I get the
feeling sometimes we are an old married couple, as broken in as a pair
of favorite shoes. Words aren't necessary; we have moved past the stage
where we need to fill every space of silence with words, useful or
otherwise. There is no more shyness; we say what we need to when we
need to.

B'Elanna clears her throat and I turn to look at her, but sure enough,
her gaze is everywhere but on me.

"Don't watch too much television while I'm gone," B'Elanna says in an
authoritative voice. "Especially not those 'I Love Lucy' episodes."

"Of course not."

"And don't spend too much time in the holodeck playing Captain Proton,"
her voice softens. "Or maybe..."

She stops, bites her lip, and looks at me. I lean against the opposite
wall of the corridor, not even measuring the rapidly growing distance
between us. It seems, in some ways, she is already gone, already
assimilated, already one of them.

"Any more instructions?" I tease her.

Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare slightly.

"No," her voice is barely audible. I cross over to her, take her elbow
in my palm, and point down the hall.

"The Flyer?" I remind her. B'Elanna takes a deep breath and nods. She
lets me lead her down the corridors, onto the turbo lift, and finally
into the shuttle bay.

The Delta Flyer shines in the dim lighting; it should, I went over
every inch of her in my last break. Of course B'Elanna had been upset,
throwing a temper tantrum every bit worthy of her. Damn if the woman
wasn't jealous of the Flyer. I tried to explain, tell her that every
man needed his toys, and the Flyer happened to be mine. Her retort went
along the lines of hadn't I learned my lesson with Alice? Or what about
Steth? Then she threw in that she was tired of my "do first, ask
forgiveness later" type attitude. On and on she went, endlessly, it
seemed and all of my blood drained to my feet. By the time I stumbled
out of her quarters, I was numb from the waist down.

Twelve long-stemmed roses ended that argument plus an exotic dinner in
the holodeck, using rations begged, borrowed, and um, stolen, from
various members of the crew who had it in their best interests to keep
B'Elanna in a good mood.

Now, B'Elanna circles the Flyer with a contemplative eye. Her fingers
brush the hull lightly, stroking it absent-mindedly. I watch her,
seeing her petite figure turn the corner and she is lost from view.

"B'Elanna?" I call out.

She comes around the other side of the Flyer, her expression serious.

"Yes?" she queries, leaning one shoulder against the shuttle.

"Are you sure?" I ask. "You know what you're doing?"

"This won't succeed without me," she answers.

"Janeway's plan means you'll be assimilated."

"I know that."

There are about a thousand things I could say now, but none of them
would mean quite the right thing. I could tell her I don't want her to
go, but she would arch an eyebrow at me, fix me with that piercing
glance and sneer.

And I suppose I would prefer that sort of reaction; sentimentality does
not become B'Elanna. She likes to be hard to reach, emotionally
distant, and only in those rare moments we share, she softens beneath
my touch. She wears her temper like a mystique, keeping those who might
care at an arm's length distance. She says everything on her mind but
confesses nothing.

If I cared less, this might bother me, but I've come to know B'Elanna
and to truly love her is to accept who she is, no more, no less. There
are no expectations and no guarantees. I take what I can, give what she
will accept.

"The Flyer?" she asks with a smile. "By the way, it looks really nice.
You did good."

"Thanks," I answer.

She punches in the codes and the door opens. B'Elanna enters, crouching
to avoid bumping her head on the frame. I stand there for a moment,
contemplating all those things I could do to keep B'Elanna with me and
then she calls for me.

"Sorry," I say. Inside the cockpit, she has already taken one of the
chairs and is absorbed in her work. She complains about my toys, but I
have a thing or two to say about her engines. Beneath her skillful
hands, they purr and hum; I know the feeling.

"I'm aligning the plasma manifolds," she mutters under her
breath. "Tom, if you could recalibrate the main relays, then I can set
the upper levels here."

"Your wish is my command," I tell her gallantly. She doesn't look at
me. My fingers fly across the console and I revel in the instinct that
allows me to manipulate the innermost workings of the Flyer; I know
every inch of this ship, every little circuit, ever isolinear chip. I
know its moods, good and bad, and I love them all without question.

I run the diagnostic, primary first, giving me the overall snapshot of
the Flyer's condition; the secondary diagnostic is a little more
specific, producing more detailed information.

"Watch the starboard plasma injectors," I say. "They tend to run a
little hot at high impulse."

"I'll keep an eye on it," B'Elanna says.

"And the warp matrix is out of alignment."

"By 0.3 microns. Since when are you so meticulous?" A note of disbelief
creeps into B'Elanna's voice.

"Since you volunteered for this insane mission," I answer. "You
know...I could sabotage the helm. You'd never make it out the launch
doors."

"Then I'd have to put you on report. You might lose that new pip of
yours," she says in a smug tone of voice.

I take what I can get and B'Elanna's sense of humor prompts me to leave
my seat to whisper in her ear, "It'd be a small price to pay."

I wait only a second, pausing to inhale her musky scent, and then I
retreat to my own seat, watching and waiting.

B'Elanna waits only a moment more before turning around. She is
smiling, revealing two rows of sharp, slightly-crooked teeth; teeth
which have broken my skin at the shoulder, arm, thigh, and countless
other places where she has left her mark. Bruises on my wrists, my
stomach and neck, and the scratches on my back -- they all proclaim me
as hers. I wonder if she ever looks across the table during a senior
staff meeting knowing what she has done to me.

I know I remember every mark I put on her body, memorizing each detail
of her, from the curve of her hip to the swell of her breast, and of
course, that gentle little dip at the base of her neck.

---

"You understand, don't you, Tom?" she pleads.

I take a deep breath.

"I don't want you to go."

"I got that," she smiles. "Loud and clear. But I outrank you still."

"This has nothing to do with rank," I tell her. "Don't you understand
that?"

"I know you're worried, but I can't let the captain go without me. She
needs me to help spread the virus."

"Do you realize how crazy this plan is?"

"Yes, I do."

"You want to be assimilated?"

"It's the only way," she reclines in her chair, her hand running
through her hair. "Think about it, Tom."

"I have been thinking about it," I argue back. I lean forward, my hands
on my knees. "Have you even thought about what assimilation means?"

"I talked to Seven about it. She says it's not very painful."

I laugh bitterly.

"Seven would say that. She used to assimilate people before breakfast."

"That's not a fair thing to say."

I sigh, "I just want you to understand what's going on. What if we
don't get to you in time? What if you're a drone forever?"

"Then that's my decision, isn't it?"

"Are you running away?"

She laughs at me, baring those teeth once again. She squares her
shoulders back, drawing herself to her full height. No slouching for my
lady, no indeed.

"Running away? To the Borg? Really, Tom. This isn't the circus."

"That's not I mean."

"I know what you mean and you're wrong."

"I'm worried. I think this plan is crazy. I think you're crazy."

B'Elanna stands up.

"You won't change my mind."

"I know," I rise and cross over to her in two strides. "I've known that
from the beginning."

I cup her jaw in my hand and she leans into me, her forehead nearly
resting on my chin. She is pliant in my embrace. I let out a breath. A
truce then. When words fail us, physical contact always restores us.
It's a sad but undeniable truth.

"I will miss you," I whisper.

B'Elanna sighs and presses herself closer against me; my arms snake
around her slender body, my hands resting on the small of her back.

"Don't," she says.

"I'll be waiting for you."

"I hope so," she says. "Keep the light on for me, okay?"

I pull away and put my fingers beneath her chin, forcing her to look at
me.

"If Seven says it's not so bad, then she must be right," I say,
mentally apologizing to Seven of Nine for my earlier denigration of her
previous occupation as a Borg drone.

"It is a little crazy," B'Elanna admits. "I'm half out of my mind
thinking about it."

I don't blame her for her trepidation. The whole plan is sketchy, at
best. Infiltrate the Borg cube, get assimilated, spread the virus,
communicate through Unimatrix Zero, Voyager to the rescue and then the
Doctor can make history by "de-assimilating" Janeway, Tuvok and
B'Elanna. At least that's the plan in a nutshell; there are details,
but I can't be bothered with those details. The detail I'm most
concerned about stands in front of me, evidently unperturbed by the
thought of giant steel tubules piercing her neck.

I try not to think of all the things that can -- and will -- go wrong.
What if the Borg Queen instead orders their execution? What if they
cannot communicate with Voyager?

There is no doubt in my mind that B'Elanna will be different if -- when --
 they return. How that will affect our relationship certainly bothers
me in an incredibly selfish way.

"Just come back in one piece," I tell her. "We'll work on the rest when
you're back, okay?"

She nods in relief; apparently she is thinking the same thing.

"Don't spend too much time with Harry on the holodeck," she says. She
closes her eyes and presses her cheek against my chin. I brush the top
of her head with my lips.

"I won't," I tell her.

"Promise?" her voice is barely above a whisper now.

"Yes, of course," my hand reaches to intertwine my fingers with hers.
She lifts her head and I take the opportunity to kiss her. B'Elanna
smiles and touches my cheek with her fingers.

"I don't regret what I'm doing," she says. "No matter what happens, I
don't regret it."

"I know."

"Assimilation can't be that bad, can't it?" she asks shakily. "Seven
says... and I know what you think, but she says it was very comforting to
have those other voices in her head, to think as a whole rather than as
a part. To belong to something unconditionally."

"Sounds like you're looking forward to it?"

"I wouldn't quite put it that way," she says with a smile. Her fingers
trail down my cheek, down my neck, before resting on my shoulder. "I
will be glad when we finally come home."

I lean in for another kiss and this time, she wraps her arms around my
neck.

"Wait for me," she says between kisses.

"I will," I answer. Our lips part and she breaks away, returning to her
seat.

"Where were we?" she asks casually as if these last five minutes never
happened. Her face is completely composed, though she does rub a fist
across her cheek. I don't point this gesture out; any observation of
weakness is automatically grounds for skewering on the end of her
ceremonial mek'leth.

"I was telling you to watch the warp matrix," I say, sliding back into
my chair.

"Oh yes," she says briskly. "I appreciate the alert, thanks."

After a few minutes of silent working, B'Elanna turns around.

"Done?" I ask her.

"Done," she affirms, nodding her head. She tips her head to one side,
her eyes unusually bright. "Tom, I don't think I told you, but I'm
proud of you. You really earned the promotion and, uh, you've come a
long way."

The sentiment is nicely expressed without bite, without a hint of
sarcasm. Just plain and simple, purely B'Elanna. The B'Elanna only I'm
allowed to see; the one who is quiet and gentle, shy and demure. If I
told anyone about this B'Elanna, they would never believe me and she
would eat me alive without any remorse. In fact, she would probably ask
Neelix to whip up a blood pie to eat afterwards.

But that is giving my heartless darling too little credit. Most likely,
she would simply turn her back to me, ignoring me, until I came to my
senses and begged for her forgiveness on no less than bended knee.

"Not quite a pig anymore?" I ask.

B'Elanna offers me a shy smile, "Did I call you that? No, certainly
not."

I nod, swallowing hard. B'Elanna brushes her palm across her face,
rises and stretches.

"I should get ready to go," she says.

"I imagine you don't have much to pack," I say in jest. "I hear the
Borg pack light."

She gives me a withering look. I try to imagine her lithe frame encased
in the black stiff armor favored by the Borg and of course, those tubes
which sprout out of all orifices for God only knows what reasons. I
think of her hot-tempered blood swimming with nanoprobes and wonder
what a thousand voices in her head will do to her.

"Tom," she says reproachfully. She exits the Delta Flyer and stands
there, waiting for me, her arms crossed on her chest.

I take one more look at the Delta Flyer; she is a beautiful ship.
Reflexively, I touch the hull before B'Elanna pulls me away.

"Don't think about it too much," she whispers. "We'll build another
ship when I return. I promise."

I want to tell her that the Delta Flyer doesn't matter; that its
destruction makes no difference to me. It's a toy, nothing more,
nothing less. I think about telling B'Elanna this, but I know she won't
believe me; there's nothing B'Elanna hates more than facing the truth.

Sometimes I look at her when she is sleeping, curled up, her knees
almost to her chest, her palm against her lips. It's almost as if she
is closing herself off to me even in those moments when we should be
most intimate. On occasion, she rolls over and places her palm lightly
on my hip, but I doubt she knows what she is doing. Once, I woke up and
found her staring up at the ceiling, her hands behind her head. I
propped myself up on one elbow and asked her what she was thinking.

"Nothing," she said. "Just a million things and all of them are jumbled
together."

I traced my finger down her jaw, "Could you focus one thing?"

She turned to face me, "You, I suppose?"

"That would be nice."

She sighed, pushed off the covers, and got out of bed.

"Not everything is about you, Tom," she said quietly. She put on her
robe and sat down on the chair, watching me. "Don't you ever think
about what's going to happen to us?"

"All the time. I imagine mostly good things."

"You would," scorn dripped from her voice. "But I think about all the
bad things."

"Like what?"

She shrugged, "You know... all the things that could possibly go wrong. I
imagine what I would feel like if they actually happened."

"Why?" I couldn't help asking.

B'Elanna's eyes, always luminous and opaque, shined back at me. She
blinked a couple times.

"Does it make me a terrible person?" she asked.

"No, it just makes me worried about you."

"Good," she sighed as if my concern was necessary to her well-being.
She ran a hand through her hair and then leaned her head against the
seat back. "I just want to be prepared for the worst case scenario.
Whatever happens, I want to be prepared. It won't hurt as much that
way."

Now I place my fingers beneath B'Elanna's chin and gently lift so her
eyes meet mine.

"Is this a worst case scenario?" I whisper.

"It's one of them," she admits. "But not quite the way I expected."

"No?"

"No," she says. She takes my arm and nearly pulls me out of the shuttle
bay. Out in the corridor, we collide with a couple crewmen; we make
quick apologies and B'Elanna is pushing me into another corridor.

"I'm only going to say this once, Helmboy," her lower jaw is trembling
now. "I intend to come back."

Our faces are inches apart and I place my hands on her cheeks.

"The Borg don't stand a chance," I whisper, wishing, hoping, praying I
can believe my own words.

Our lips meet. She clings to me, pressing tighter against until I can
feel her permeating every pore of my body.

After a minute, she releases me.

"I have to go," she mumbles. She turns and flees, leaving me there in
the corridor, rubbing my lips.

---

It has been six days, seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes since we
last recorded life signs for Janeway, Tuvok and B'Elanna.

Sometimes I stand next to the windows in the mess hall, looking out at
the great expanse of space and wondering where in the Delta Quadrant
are our missing people?

Chakotay is grim; he sits in the Captain's Ready Room, his shoulders
slumping, his hair sometimes flipping over his forehead, nearly
obscuring his tattoo. I take this unusual unkempt appearance to mean
that the acting Captain is not sleeping.

Seven confirms this theory when she appears suddenly at my side in the
mess hall.

"I have not yet seen the Captain and the others," she says. "Everyday,
there are fewer drones at Unimatrix Zero."

"I wish you wouldn't call them drones," I answer shortly.

"You sound like Commander Chakotay," she says. "He has developed a new
respect for the Borg."

I give a snort.

"Only because of the Captain and the others," I say.

"He is in the cargo bay nearly every night," Seven's forehead
creases. "Should I alert the Doctor?"

"No," I say.

Seven shrugs her slender shoulders in a fluid gesture. I turn to her,
wondering what she is thinking behind those impassive features. Except
for the occasional sneer in her voice, the quirk of an eyebrow, it is
impossible to ever truly read Seven of Nine. She remains as cryptic to
me today as she did that first day when she boarded Voyager as a drone.

"What does it feel like to be Borg?" I ask abruptly. Seven lifts her
eyebrow.

"Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious."

"You are concerned about Lieutenant Torres."

"That is true," I admit.

Seven cocks her head slightly to the side. We make an odd reflection in
the glass, the two of us, former Borg and human. I shake my head,
trying to erase the abrupt image of B'Elanna in full Borg regalia.

"It is peaceful," Seven says finally.

"Even with all those voices?"

"Yes. It is safe."

"I can see how that would be," I tell her bitterly.

"It is calm," Seven continues as if I had never spoken.

"Sounds like Risa."

Seven's eyes open wide.

"Lieutenant, you are mistaken. It is nothing like Risa," she says
without a trace of irony. I still have not learned yet, after all these
years, that my sense of humor is completely wasted on Seven. She does
turn her head slightly towards me and say in her most reassuring
tone, "But it is not unpleasant."

We stand there in silence for a couple more minutes and then I summon
the courage to ask yet another question.

"Does it hurt to be assimilated?"

"I do not recall my assimilation," Seven says thoughtfully. "I remember
being frightened but that is all. There was no pain that I can recall."

It is only then that I realize I have been holding my breath.

"When you assimilated people, how did it feel?"

"I had a similar conversation with Lieutenant Torres before she
departed," Seven says.

"She mentioned something about that," I answer.

"Lieutenant Torres was intrigued by assimilation. She wondered if she
would have to assimilate anyone."

Ah B'Elanna, the things you don't share with me.

"What did you say?"

"I answered in the affirmative. It is the duty of every drone to
contribute to the overall perfection of the Collective. Once she was
assimilated, she would be expected to fulfill those obligations."

"That sounds like a lot of propaganda to me," I say.

"You are entitled to your opinion, Lieutenant," she says the last word
with obvious condescension.

"Thank you for that," I say, irritation creeping into my voice. "You
never answered my question about what it felt like to assimilate
someone."

"It is difficult to separate duty from emotion," she says. "Individuals
focus too much on emotion. As a drone, I did not have that burden."

"Well?" I ask impatiently. I have this nightmarish vision of B'Elanna,
in black armor and metallic accessories, extending those long tubules
into the neck of another being. I can't imagine B'Elanna, who
experiences a different emotion for every moment of the day, to
mindlessly subjugate species without feeling a slight tinge of pity,
anger, compassion -- anything at all but certainly not this brisk
efficiency that characterizes Seven.

B'Elanna's blood runs hot as Seven runs cold. I wonder how much of a
temper young Annika Hansen would have developed and then it occurs to
me that the B'Elanna who comes back to Voyager may be cool and utterly
inaccessible.

"Lieutenant?" Seven says.

In the background, the volume of conversation rises as one shift ends
and another begins. In general, it has been quiet since Janeway left;
waiting is painful for those left behind.

"You asked how I felt about assimilation," she says. "Specifically, how
I felt."

"Yes."

"I have an answer for you."

I look at Seven and if I did not know better, I would think she was
uncomfortable, perturbed, disturbed -- call it what you will -- but it's
Seven as I've never seen her before.

"We led individuals to a level of perfection otherwise unavailable to
them. It was... an honor."

"Do you still think it's an honor?"

Seven takes a deep breath. I watch in fascination as a shadow ripples
over her face as she struggles to hold in her emotions. Composed and
serene once again, Seven says flatly, "I am no longer a drone yet I
believe there is value to a collective existence."

"But not in the Borg?"

Seven says, "I do not know the answer to that question."

Her tone is that of surprise, as if she did not expect such difficult
questioning from me. I imagine I asked the questions she has been
dreading, the ones whose answers are elusive, since being Borg is an
integral part of her existence.

Seven of Nine has come a long way, but there is still a distance she
needs to cover.

"I will report to the cargo bay now for regeneration," she says. "And I
will attempt to contact Unimatrix Zero again. Tonight, perhaps, we will
talk to the Captain."

She spins around and exits the mess hall, her swan neck held high. I
place my hand on the glass, pressing my weight against the window until
my forehead nearly touches it.

At times like this you can't help but feel a little crazy. With her,
without her, the result is still the same. I hate that she has this
effect on me, that my every waking moment is consumed by B'Elanna
Torres. I wish I could say she thinks of me in the same way but
sometimes I get the feeling she regards me with the same neutrality one
would view a limb. Yes, that is me, Tom Paris, appendage of B'Elanna
Torres, nothing more, nothing less.

---

//She always knows how to show off her best side. It looks casual, but
I know it is  practiced and all for my benefit. And after all these
years, she still manages to surprise me.

I take in the shimmering red material of her bathing suit and then my
eyes drop down to her waist where a gold tissue shawl is wrapped around
her.

"This isn't what I expected," I tell her as sand squishes up between my
toes.

"I told you to come prepared for the sun," she replies.

"But this," I wave my hand to indicate our surroundings. B'Elanna is an
engineer first and foremost; her devotion is to engines, not to
holodeck program design. Her programs, in general, are very straight-
forward, rarely without complication and intrigue. But this, this beach
with its lightly swaying palm trees, white sand, and the crash of waves
on the shore, is unusual for B'Elanna; it is softer, more romantic than
anything I've seen her produce before.

"Are you surprised?" she asks coyly.

"Very much so," I admit. I look around, my hands akimbo on my
hips. "This is great, B'Elanna. Did Harry help you?"

Her nostrils flare slightly as she shakes her head.

"No, I did it all," she says. "Took a long time, but I got it just the
way I imagined it."

"It's the Virgin Islands," I realize.

She nods, heat rising in her cheeks, "Do you like it? I got it from
those pictures in your personal database."

"You did this for me?"

"Don't get carried away, Tom. You deserve a vacation, somewhere nice to
relax after all you have been through."

"I appreciate it," I say.

"Who is the girl?" she asks. "The one in the pictures?"

I try to recall the name. Mary, Marie, Miriam. Sweet girl, nice smile,
great legs.

"Miriam," I say. "She was a classmate of mine at the Academy. Her idea
to go to the Virgin Islands."

"You look very happy together."

Jealousy? B'Elanna? I shake my head. Doesn't suit her at all. But it
surprises me, yes, that B'Elanna could feel threatened by someone whose
last name I can't even remember.

"We broke up when we came back," I say. "Bad idea in the first place."

B'Elanna looks relieved and I wonder how much of my past is going to
come back to haunt us.

B'Elanna covers the distance between us in quick strides and then
pushes me down onto one of the lawn chairs.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

"Don't be sorry," she says as she straddles my hips, her hands on my
shoulder, her mouth tantalizingly close to mine.

"I shouldn't have pushed you away. You were right."

"It's all right, Tom. Really, it is."

"It seemed so real... you understand, right?"

"I understand about the Memorial, Tom. You don't have to explain," her
breath flutters over my skin. I inhale deeply, sucking in her scent. My
hands move to the small of her back as she settles herself down on my
upper thighs.

"I really thought I was responsible for the deaths of those people, for
starting the whole thing. I just couldn't explain, B'Elanna, and I'm
sorry about that."

Her hand moves up my neck, to my cheek, and finally, her fingers are in
my hair. My breath catches in my throat.

"I appreciate this," I say hoarsely.

She kisses me, "You're welcome."

I tighten my grip on her as she leans into me, her head neatly resting
on my shoulder, her hand now back down to the nape of my neck.

This is how it should be, I muse as I trail my fingers through her
hair. I feel the silky strands against my skin, her steady breathing as
her chest rises and falls against mine.

"Do you think we did the right thing by not shutting down the
Memorial?" I ask.

B'Elanna lifts her head and looks me squarely in the eye. She puts a
finger to my lips and smiles seductively as she rearranges her limbs
across my body.

"Let's not talk about that," she whispers. Her lips brush my jaw bone,
my neck, my shoulder...

"B'Elanna," I say, trying to shift her weight. She looks at me again
and then her lips meet mine.

In between kisses, she gasps out, "Let me in, Tom. Please."//

---

I wake with a shudder, my heart racing. I sit up, leaning back on my
palms. It was all so real, the dream that is. I look over to the side
of the bed knowing that B'Elanna is not there and it has been twenty-
four days since B'Elanna slept here.

Oh yes. B'Elanna doesn't live here anymore. She moved, left no
forwarding address.

I calm myself, trying to recall some of Tuvok's meditation exercises.

One, breathe, two, breathe, three, breathe, four...

"Computer, time," my mouth is dry and gritty. The glass of water,
always by my bedside, is empty. Oh yes, B'Elanna is the one who fills
it, B'Elanna who never forgets little things like this.

"The time is 0213 hours," the computer voice informs me.

I lay back, my hands behind my neck. I wonder what B'Elanna is doing
right now. I try not to think of the possibility that scares me the
most: the thought that she might actually participate in an
assimilation.

Tuvok. I smile at the thought that the Vulcan might be imparting his
meditation techniques on the Borg -- a species which certainly does not
need such measures to maintain their equanimity; if they were any more
calm, they would be catatonic.

Janeway, I have no doubt, is trying her best to antagonize the Borg
Queen; that is, if Janeway remembers who she is, who she was.

I shiver, roll over on to my side and grab the other pillow, hugging it
close to me.

//"I can't believe how into this holodeck program you are," she speaks
quietly, but her tone is that of restrained fury; I know when I'm
licked. B'Elanna, for all her attributes, lacks the gene for humor and
fun. Her seriousness, while well-matched with my frivolity, tends to
cloud our relationship at time; which is why I tend to act out my
holodeck capers without her.

But I should have known, should have known I was in trouble even before
I walked into her quarters. The atmosphere is positively calm, and
B'Elanna is unusually tranquil. For other people, this would be good;
for me, it's a sign of bad things to come.

At least she is not yelling. Her voice levels are carefully modulated
as she enunciates with pinpoint clarity. Forgiveness is a real
possibility here.

"This is the best thing Harry and I have ever done," I say. "It's a
real village with real characters. Do you know how complicated it was
to write?"

"I know," she says. "Writing it ate up all your free time. I've hardly
seen you in the last two weeks, Tom. I hate it when you do this. You
find something new and amusing and you leave me out of it."

"I am sorry, B'Elanna. You're welcome to come to Fair Haven tonight."

I might as well have mentioned another trip to Grethor; the look she
gives me is positively crippling.

"At least see what it's about," I plead. "Even the Captain comes."

"I have other things to do," she says as she starts piling up the PADDs
scattered on the table. "There are a million things that need to be
done in Engineering..."

"But are they things *you* need to do?" I ask.

She whips her head up so fast that I'm afraid she might have cracked a
neck vertebra.

"I take my responsibilities on this ship very seriously, Tom," she
says.

"As do I. All I'm asking is that you spend some time with me in Fair
Haven. I think you would like it."

"I don't know," she purses her lips in what I jokingly refer to as
her "school ma'rm expression."

"Come on, B'Elanna," I pull her close to me and I take it as a good
sign that she doesn't pull away. Amazingly enough, she is soft and
relaxed. I lift her chin and kiss her.

"Tom, you can't always weasel your way out of situations like this,"
she murmurs. I push her up against the table; she sits on the edge and
the PADDs clatter to the floor. "Tom, look what you did."

My hands are everywhere, my lips against hers.

"We'll clean up later," I whisper.//

I wake, the blankets are tangled up in my legs. Perspiration beads on
my forehead, shoulders and back. I sniff the air and decide I need a
shower. I push the covers aside and strip my clothes off as I make my
way into the sonic shower. I active it, letting the pulsating beam
massage every cell of my body. In my dreams -- the "when we return to
the Alpha Quadrant dreams" -- I long for a real shower, a water
shoulder. I love the pressure of water against my skin, brushing away
the grime, relaxing me through and through. Of course that is a luxury
on starships and starbases, but once back on Earth, it is the first
thing I want.

//"I've been thinking about what we should do once we get back to the
Alpha Quadrant," I tell B'Elanna one evening at dinner. "We can get a
house in San Francisco. It's a great city."

"I hated it," she says. "Everyone is Starfleet there. Too many rules."

"We can get something outside of the city."

"That's provided we don't get sent to separate penal colonies."

"I don't expect that to happen."

B'Elanna stirs her food with her fork and then put it down.

"So you expect this to be a... long-term thing?"

After all this time, I cannot believe she would ask such a question.
Doesn't she know? Doesn't she feel like I feel?

"I just assumed..." I mutter.

She reaches across the table to cover my hand with hers.

"A house in San Francisco with a real water shower..." she says
quietly. "It sounds like a plan."//

The sonic shower turns itself off with a slight squeal and whimper. I
reach for my uniform.

"Computer, time?"

"The time is 0532 hours."

Sleep is not an option; B'Elanna, temptress that she is, will be back
to haunt me again. Night after night, she is there in my mind, and
during the day, she is never far from my thoughts.

Even the holodeck cannot remove the gnawing in my stomach; I cannot
swallow because I think of B'Elanna who cannot eat now.

Dressed and with my hair fairly tamed, I walk down the corridors of
Voyager. At this time, it is fairly quiet. All faces are familiar, but
are not the ones I would share my deepest thoughts and feelings with.

The mess hall is softly illuminated; only about four or five people are
there, sipping warm beverages and talking in low voices. I turn on my
foot and head towards the Bridge.

Everything is calm on the Bridge as I survey it with what I hope is a
professional, competent look. No one really takes note of my presence
and I notice with a bit of trepidation that Chakotay is not here and
neither is Kim.

Back in the turbolift, I lean against the curved wall.

I don't know where I'm going or who I'm looking for. It sounds crazy,
but it's true. It's not like I can open a door on Voyager and erupt
into space and find all the answers there, so I've got to do my seeking
here.

Quiet perturbs me. It reaches within me and stirs up emotions that
something is not quite right. And the answer to what's wrong with
Voyager is so obvious that it does not merit mentioning; it is unspoken
but universal.

The cargo bay is dark except for the green glow above the Borg alcoves.
I find a seat on a crate and watch them -- Seven and the children --
regenerating. I wonder if Janeway, Tuvok and B'Elanna will sleep
standing up when they return.

For my own selfish reasons, I certainly hope not.

At precisely 0700 hours, the former Borg drones awaken and step out of
their alcoves, fully awake and ready to attack -- or rather, face -- the
new day.

"Lieutenant Paris," Seven says.

"Good morning, Seven," I inject a note of cheerfulness into my voice;
no one wants to see a sourpuss first thing in the morning. Seven turns
to the children and in that weird unspoken connection they posses, the
children filter out of the cargo bay.

"Is something wrong, Lieutenant?" Seven asks.

"I couldn't sleep," I say.

"You should see the Doctor," Seven says firmly.

"I'm afraid of dreaming."

She arches an eyebrow at me, questioning without words.

"I think about B'Elanna all the time. I can't help myself. I'm worried
about her," I feel silly telling all this to Seven, but for once she
appears approachable and concerned. "It goes beyond worry, Seven. I
can't put a word on it or a description of what it's like, but it
plagues me."

"Do you feel the same for the others? For Captain Janeway? Commander
Tuvok?"

"Yes, of course. I am worried about them."

"But not in the same way as Lieutenant Torres."

"No," I admit. "I love B'Elanna, Seven. I can't help myself, but I do.
And it makes me crazy that she is somewhere I can't protect her."

"What makes you think B'Elanna needs protecting?" the voice comes from
behind. I whirl around to see Chakotay, his face drawn, bags beneath
his eyes.

"We have a job to do, Tom, and that's to get the Captain and the others
back as soon as possible," Chakotay says. "I promise, B'Elanna will be
back."

B'Elanna said the same thing the day she left. "I intend to come back,"
she said.

I swallow hard. Chakotay looks at Seven and she instinctively knows the
answer to his question.

"No," she says. "They were not at Unimatrix Zero last night."

"Keep trying," Chakotay says. "They're bound to make contact soon."

He hopes, I hope, she hopes; we all hope. If we chant it all at once,
all together, all day, maybe it will work. Hope turns to reality and we
all live happily ever after.

"If not?" I can't help but ask. What if they did not accomplish their
mission? What if they did not spread the virus? What if... fill in the
blank yourself -- the possibilities are endless and none are good.

"Then we attack," Chakotay says grimly. "I intend to get them all back.
Alive."

Terrific. Voyager versus the Borg cube and even on a good day, I would
put my money on the cube.

---

The choice is not good: leola root stew or leola root burgers. I do not
question Neelix, only allow him to load my place with both options.

"Sorry," he says. "We're running short on rations lately and leola is
all I have."

I lean forward, "If you don't fix that, you will have a mutiny soon."

"I know," Neelix looks sad, a bit downtrodden. His facial expression
mimics that of everyone else on board. Apparently frowns are cheap but
smiles are available at a premium.

I take my plate and sit down with Harry who is picking at his leola
root concoctions.

"Interesting," he says.

"You're too kind," I say, wrinkling my nose. It smells foul, to be
completely honest.

"I can't eat this stuff," Harry's fork clatters to his plate. "I try
but I can't."

"I know the feeling," but I make an attempt at it. In general, my
stomach churns and flips whenever I look or smell at food. The Doctor
assures me that the nausea will pass but I doubt it. Anxiety is eating
me up inside.

"What do you think of Chakotay's plan to attack the Borg?" Harry asks.
I put my fork down. Harry asks a good question but I don't have a good
answer to give him. To tell the truth, I cannot tell how serious
Chakotay is about attacking the Borg; it seems crazy to me.

Crazy or not, Janeway would hate the idea; of that I'm positive, but
she left Voyager in Chakotay's care so I suppose she trusts him to make
the right decisions.

At least he's made a decision about the carpets. All carpets ship-wide
are in the process of being cleaned. The cleaning solution smells
almost as bad as leola root and so many emerge from the newly treated
areas looking rather green in the face.

"I have no opinion," I say neutrally and this is true. I only want one
thing and that's B'Elanna. How we get her back is of no consequence to
me. Whatever the means, as long as they justify the ends, it does not
matter to me. Heartless, but true.

"Come on, Tom, you've got to have an opinion," Harry leans forward,
pushes his plate aside. "It has been thirty-seven days. You've got to
come up with something."

"You mean a better plan than Chakotay's? I actually liked the Captain's
plan. That was good but doesn't look like it's working, does it?" I
ask.

Harry is silent for a moment and then his brown eyes meet mine.

"I would really like to see the Alpha Quadrant again," he says.

"I know the feeling," I answer. And there is only one way that I'm
going home again.

With B'Elanna. There is no other option.

---

Day forty-three. Harry is depressed. I tell him to join the club; he
isn't amused. Our holodeck time has gone woefully unused. Instead, we
sit against the yellow-grided walls, our legs spread out in front of
us.

"Remember when we went through that dead space?" I say. "At least this
time, we get to see other planets, even talk to other species."

"Yeah, I guess."

Silence. Moment after moment. We're getting good at these pregnant
pauses. I speak and then ten minutes later he responds. It's great,
superficial type of stuff. We're too scared to talk about what we're
feeling. Don't ask if you don't want to know and to be honest, who
really cares? Just answer you're fine and move on. No one wants a song-
and-dance about how you really feel. As Seven would say, feelings and
emotions are rapidly becoming irrelevant.

Ennui, in its best form, is still debilitating.

"I have this great idea for another Captain Proton adventure," Harry
says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he doesn't extrapolate and I don't ask for clarification. I
figure if he is enthused about the story, he will go ahead and program
it. Do now if you are going to do it all and then tell someone about it
later. That's Voyager's latest motto. Do what you like because no one
really cares. You can ask all you want, explain until your throat is
hoarse, but then you discover that no one is really listening.

"Sensors picked up a planet with dilithium reserves," I say. "Close to
the surface too, minimal work required to extract it. I volunteered to
be part of the away mission."

"Terrific," Harry says. "Extra dilithium, always good."

"Yeah," I say.

"I really enjoyed our last stop at Caligula," Harry says. "Picked up
some things to take back to the Alpha Quadrant. Souvenirs."

"Don't you have enough of those already?"

"Just something to remember this place."

"Believe me," I say. "I'm never going to forget the Delta Quadrant."

I close my eyes and tip my head back.

Lately, I've been designing that house in San Francisco in my head. I
have placed all the rooms and then started furnishing it. I even have
plans for terraforming the land to my exact specifications. The only
thing missing is B'Elanna and these days, I'm having a hard time of
visualizing her anywhere.

Two months ago, a future without B'Elanna was unthinkable, but now it
is turning into a grim reality.

"Tom?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I say. "Fine."

"Okay, just checking."

I hear Harry getting to his feet and I open my eyes.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"I have a lunch date with Megan," he says. "She chewed me out royally
the last time I was late."

"Don't be late then," I say callously.

"Hey," Harry holds up his hands. "You asked me to meet you here and
what do we do? We just sit here. Tom, you've got to snap out of it.
We're all under pressure here but you can't just let yourself go like
this."

"That sounds like a challenge," I say, standing up.

"Well, maybe it is. Don't you think about anyone other than yourself?
You've got to stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself," I snap.

"Yes, you are, and it's not fair to the others. It's especially not
fair to the Commander."

"Don't bring Chakotay into this," I say. "If you have a problem with
me, deal with me."

"We all have a problem with you, Tom, and the problem is that you are
vanishing on us. You are somewhere the rest of us can't follow. We
understand why, but you're not letting us help."

"I don't need help. I just need..." I cannot finish the sentence.

"It's all right, Tom," Harry lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It
will be all right. Don't worry."

Easier said than done and probably not too much of a stretch for Harry,
perpetually optimistic guy that he is.

"Enjoy your lunch with Megan," I say. "I'm going to sit here for a
while."

"All right," Harry says. The doors swoosh closed behind him, leaving me
alone in my black-and-yellow box of misery.

What I don't understand about my relationship with B'Elanna, now that I
have the time to mull things over, is the reset button. Sometimes, I
think that we have settled too much, that some days are tumultuous and
passionate and then nothing. Extreme nothing, and we pass as mere
acquaintances rather than as lovers. And then something happens,
something life-threatening, and we snap back together until the next
lull. It's almost as if we drift apart, courtesy of this button that
one of us is constantly pressing.

If I could, I would reset us back to that moment before B'Elanna left.
I would have pleaded more, would have told her I loved her, would have
done a million things differently. And this time if I could reset it
all, I would not have let her go.

Sure, she would have hated me, despised me, but she would be here and
safe. I could take a cold shoulder for a week or two. It would be
better than this waiting game.

I think about Seven's constant refrain. The Doctor, the Doctor, the
Doctor... it's been weeks since I last was in sickbay. Occasionally, the
Doctor pops up in a variety of places on Voyager, usually in search of
the never-sleeping Chakotay, but in general, the Doctor confines
himself to sickbay.

I exit the holodeck and within minutes, I'm in the presence of the
Doctor himself. He is tinkering, which is not unusual, since the
sickbay is empty.

"Ah, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says gleefully.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Enhancing my drawing subroutine. I am attempting to refine it in order
to capture exactly the visual acuity and detail of some of the great
masters. For example, T'Lok of Vulcan could draw the veins of a flower
petal in such detail, it looked like a holoimage."

"I have seen some of T'Lok's work."

"I did not know you were a fan of art, Mr. Paris."

"It was a required course at the Academy," I say. "'Alien Species
History through Art' or something to that extent."

"Sounds fascinating. I will have to see if it's offered once we return
to the Alpha Quadrant."

"I'm sure you will enjoy it."

The Doctor leans back in his chair, props his feet up on the desk, and
eyes me keenly.

"Do you need something, Mr. Paris?"

"Actually, I wanted to see if you needed some help. I'm off duty, so I
thought I'd lend you some of my skills," I smile.

"It has been slow," he admits. "But I could use your help in
replicating some medicines."

"Sure," I say. "Anything in particular?"

"Camezin, Alathrop, Mernazin, Capioze," the Doctor recites. Tension
tightens my shoulder muscles, extends through my neck, and finally
culminates in a pounding headache. Amazing what a simple string of
obscure medical drugs can do to an individual.

"De-assimilation drugs," I state flatly.

"Very good, Mr. Paris," the Doctor beams. "I want a full supply on hand
for when the Captain, Tuvok and Torres return."

"I'll get right on it," I promise. "Are the formulas available in the
database?"

"Of course. And you'll find that I created the formula for Capioze
myself," he grins from ear to ear. "With help from Seven, of course."

"Of course," I say.

I head towards the computer and call up the formulas for the drugs
mentioned. I do not know them well, except for the purpose they serve.

The words "documented side-effects" catch my eyes. I frown; I do not
recall Seven suffering from any complications due to these drugs, but
then again, she has mastered the art of hiding anything and everything
from us. In that sense, she and B'Elanna are so similar.

I read through the fields as fast as I can. Side effects could possibly
include headaches, nausea, dizziness, fainting, elevated white blood
cell count, liver failure, sensitivity to light, irregular heartbeat,
vertigo, mental lapses or death.

I begin to replicate the drugs.

---

Chakotay stares around the table. His eye is twitching; I wonder if he
knows. Up down up down up down...

Harry is to his right, Neelix to the left. The Doctor sits opposite me,
ecstatic at being called to this meeting. Then Seven and finally me.

We have nothing to say except for those items related to business. Back
when Janeway was here commanding, these meetings would start with snide
comments, discussion of off-duty plans, follow-ups on other things. Now
we sit here in silence, watching Chakotay search for words in his head --
words that ultimately mean nothing to any of us.

"When should we give up?" Chakotay finally asks. "It has been sixty-two
days now."

He doesn't need to tell us how long it has been; we all know to the
minute how long it has been. Seven shifts in her chair looking
distinctly uncomfortable. She had said, not too long ago, that she
wished it had been her who had gone aboard the Borg cube; at least she
knew what to expect and she did not fear renewing her ties to the
Collective as the rest of us would.

"Give up?" disbelief is evident in Harry's voice. "You're not serious."

"I did not mean to imply that we would leave them with the Borg,"
Chakotay's voice is sharp. "I simply asked how long should we wait
before we prepare a full frontal assault?"

"We do not have the weapons necessary to defeat the Borg," Seven says
icily.

"If we start planning now, we could," Chakotay says reasonably. Yes, of
course. We could plan from now until the year 7250 and we still would
not prepared to meet the Borg head on. Unlike the Borg, we have no
friends we could invite to this particular party. We haven't exactly
parted on good terms with about ninety percent of the alien species we
have come across here in the Delta Quadrant.

"It would be suicide mission," the Doctor, the one of us who cannot
truly die, points out. We all turn to look at him.

"We know that," Harry says snidely. "Any encounter with any species in
the Delta Quadrant is never pleasant."

"Please," Chakotay says. He turns to face Seven. "How are repairs
progressing?"

"Repairs to Voyager are complete," Seven says.

"Efficient," the Doctor says. Evidently even the Doctor is not immune
from this contagion of sarcasm. Seven nods at him, one eyebrow nearly
reaching to her hairline.

"Tom? Do you have anything?" Chakotay asks.

"No," I say. "Just tell me where you want Voyager to go and I'll get
you there."

Neelix takes this moment to bring up his weekly concern about morale.

"The crew is terribly depressed, Commander," he tells Chakotay. "You
need to tell everyone what is going on. Either the Captain is coming
back or she's not."

I want to tell Neelix that morale will improve if only he would stop
serving leola root but one look at Chakotay keeps my mouth shut.

Chakotay sets his jaw, looking as defiant as I've ever seen him. At
this moment, if Chakotay were facing twenty Cardassians, armed only
with a dagger, I would put the odds on Chakotay. He wears his
determination well; whether he can follow through is another story
entirely.

"She's coming back," he says. "Seven, Harry, get this ship ready. We're
going after the Borg."

//"Do you ever think about the Alpha Quadrant?" B'Elanna asks. We are
lying in bed, both of us flat on our backs, staring up at the
ceiling. "Or is that a stupid question?"

"It's a stupid question," I say. "I think about it daily."

"What do you think about? Other than a shower?"

"My family."

"Your father?"

"Definitely my father."

She sighs a little sigh.

"I don't think about it much," she admits. "I don't have anything to go
back to. Isn't that sad?"

"You have me," I say in a teasing voice.

"Is it enough?" she asks sadly.

"I'd like to think it's enough," I tell her. I prop myself up on my
elbow to look down at her. She turns her head slightly towards me. "I
know what you mean though."

"I'm glad. I don't want you to be angry with me for anything."

"That's hard, B'Elanna. You know that."

I'm joking and she knows it, but her expression remains serious.

"What if we don't make it?" she whispers.

"I don't like to think like that."

"I mean, honestly. We might not make it. We could die out here, Tom,"
her voice grows high-pitched and her fingers clutch at my shirt. "So
many times we've come close and what if our luck runs out?"

I smooth her hair away from her face. This is the B'Elanna who gets me
every time -- the one who is afraid and vulnerable. In times like this,
I want to fold her into my arms and assure her that nothing -- nobody --
will ever hurt her. Promises like those are hard to keep so I don't
make them. The last thing I want is to join the elite club of people
who have let B'Elanna Torres down.

"I intend to see my family again," I tell her. "I have to believe it's
going to happen."

"I don't know if I'm that strong."

"You are."

She is silent, her skin cold and clammy beneath my palm.

"B'Elanna? It's all right," I say. "I can believe for both of us.//

Chakotay believes enough for all of us; it's not his fault that morale
is deteriorating and it's not his fault that the rest of us cannot
summon up enough courage to face the Borg yet again. The Kazon maybe,
Hirogen we can handle, but the Borg? No. None of us want to go there
again. We know we have to, but we don't have to like it.

I can feel Chakotay's gaze on me.

"Tom," he says. "I will want you at helm."

"Of course," I answer.

By now, Chakotay is standing, hands akimbo to hips. He regards us
dispassionately, probably wondering if he should ask the Doctor to give
us some kind of stimulant.

We can't help it. We all possess a healthy sense of self-preservation.
It is only, um, human, I suppose to feel this type of trepidation.

"We'll do it," Harry drags himself to his feet. Good old Harry. Maybe
he will earn that combat promotion yet. God knows he deserves it after
all this time. If taking out a Borg cube doesn't do it, then I don't
know what will.

"I will run scans from Astrometrics to locate the cube," Seven offers.
Downright generous of her, I suppose.

"This will work," Chakotay says. He sounds like he's trying to convince
himself, that he's not betting the house against something that is a
sure loser.

"Or we'll die trying," I crack but no one laughs. Harry is looking at
his hands, examining his nails in minutia. Seven skewers me with her
eyes. Really need to work on that sense of humor, Seven.

"Enough, Tom," Chakotay says. "Dismissed."

We're halfway out of the room when Chakotay calls my name again. I
turn. Chakotay is standing with his back to me, staring out into space.

"Tom, I understand what you're trying to do," he says. "I'm afraid all
of our nerves are fried right now. The tension is getting to us."

"I understand."

"There is a time for everything-"

I hold up my hand though Chakotay can't see me.

"I got it," I said. "I'm sorry. I can't help myself."

"See that you do," Chakotay says sharply. He turns around. "I'm not any
more enthusiastic about going after the Borg than you are but I'm not
willing to wait anymore. The longer we delay the inevitable, the harder
it will be to get the Captain, Tuvok and B'Elanna back."

"I understand," I say.

"Good. Dismissed."

Out in the corridor, Harry is waiting for me, wearing his typical eager
beaver expression.

"What did he want?" Harry practically pants in my face.

"Levity is not allowed. All jokes are banned."

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

Harry's face breaks into a broad grin -- the first genuine smile I've
seen from him in weeks.

"I've got to get to Engineering," he says. "Seven told me not to keep
her waiting. It would decrease... efficiency."

I nod, "See you later then. I'm going to take a look at the helm, see
if there are any modifications or realignments that need to be taken
care of."

We part ways and I head back to the Bridge.

//"Have you always wanted to fly?" she asks. She looks cute like this,
her curly hair streaming down past her cheek, as she lays half across
my chest, her chin propped on her hands.

"Always," I say sleepily.

The sun is warm, caressing. Yes, B'Elanna did this one well. She won't
accept the praise for recreating the Virgin Islands, but I intend to
thank her best as I can. This beach program is rapidly becoming my
favorite, far surpassing Fair Haven and Captain Proton; this is a
program for just B'Elanna and me.

"I always wanted to be an engineer," she mumbles. "I used to take
things apart because I was so mad. Especially when they didn't work and
then my mother would be angry. I would be so afraid of her anger, I
would try to put them back together before she found out. I reassembled
my first replicator when I was ten."

"A child prodigy."

She laughs, a gentle laugh, sweet and loving.

"You could say that," B'Elanna says. "But I think my mother would have
preferred that I learned how to hunt targ or make a blood pie or even
engage in ritual bat'leth competitions."

"Sounds rather... bloody."

"It is," B'Elanna rests her head on my chest, turning so her eyes are
focused on the water. "Would your father have wanted something else?"
"You know what my father wanted. A diehard Starfleet officer who could
carry on the legacy with honor and glory."

"Sounds like he's Klingon."

"Some ways, yes. Very attached to duty and honor and responsibility. No
sense of humor. None at all."

B'Elanna sighs and wraps her arms around my chest.

"I could stay like this forever," she whispers. "Right here, it feels
just perfect."

"Hmmm.."

"Are you ever afraid it will change?"

"No," I laugh and then try to sit up, no mean task when you have a half-
Klingon draped across you. B'Elanna nicely shifts position and I settle
back into a reclining position and she leans against me.

"Sometimes I'm very afraid," she admits.

"I know that."

"Do you think anyone else knows?"

"Nah, just you and me."

"That's good," her fingers find her way to mine. Intertwine and
squeeze. Then she tips her head back against my shoulder and I tilt
mine towards her.

"Looks like neither of our parents got what they wanted, did they?" she
whispers.

"No," I say in the second before my lips meet hers.//

---

"Damn!"

Nothing can go right on this ship. Day seventy-four and we're here,
hanging out in space, almost dead, but not quite.

We haven't even seen the Borg yet. No, we met the enemy, a nebula, and
in the space of six minutes, we were conquered.

Chakotay is furious. I think. I can never tell any more with him. I
sense a lot of frustration, anger, impatience, all of this jumbled up
within him. It all manifests itself in periodic outbursts and Chakotay
is subjecting the Bridge crew to a fine display now.

Janeway would never throw a temper tantrum on her bridge. No, ma'am,
she wouldn't ever think of losing her composure like this. But then
this is Chakotay, usually calm and unruffled, and now completely
unnerved. I wonder if there is something else going on with Chakotay,
something else that we don't know about.

//"What do you think of the Captain and Chakotay?" B'Elanna is
whispering across the table, her hands flat in front of her, her chin
nearly in her food.

"What?" I ask.

"The Captain and Chakotay," B'Elanna smiles. "You know..."

I shrug, "Maybe. Maybe not."

"You should listen to gossip a little more," B'Elanna says.

"And you should listen a little less."

"I still think there is something there."

"You ought to think a little less too."

"You're in dangerous territory, Helmboy."

"When am I not?" I ask.

She grins then, full and wide, ear to ear.

"Good comeback," she whispers back. "But I'm right. You wait and see."//

Janeway and Chakotay. Could they? I'm sure there about a thousand
Starfleet regulations against a relationship between captain and first
officer and Janeway is the last person to go against Starfleet. But
then, this whole situation is not exactly normal and I bet we could
throw the regulation book right out the airlock. No one except Tuvok
would really care, I imagine.

Janeway and Chakotay. Now that would explain everything.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Chakotay exclaims again.

It would be amusing if the situation wasn't so serious.

"Harry, report!" Chakotay barks as I rapidly try to evaluate the damage
done to the helm.

"Looks like there is a power drain on deck fifteen," Harry says.

"Get down there," Chakotay says. Harry looks less than enthused but
disappears into the turbolift.

Now Chakotay looks like a madman, pacing back and forth, wringing his
hands like some spurned heroine in a bad romance novel. Dramatics
become our first officer and fascinates me. Before today, I had seen
more emotion from a rock than from Chakotay.

"How is helm?" Chakotay is now breathing down my neck. I imagine that
he can read minds and he must know that my thoughts, these days, are
never good.

"Looks good. No systems compromised that I can see," I report.

"Good. Get down to Engineering and give Seven a hand."

I swing around and head for the turbolift. Already the ship is
shifting, lurching, giving way to a new realization: we have lost
inertial dampers.

I jog to Engineering, nearly running over Naomi Wildman, who is
anxiously standing against the corridor as a console spits sparks above
her head. I would move her but there is no time.

It's either Naomi's hair or Voyager.

I settle for a quick, "Naomi, move! Go back to your quarters!"

Whether she obeys, I don't know; I'm already turning the corner.

Seven is dictating orders efficiently; she is a master at multitasking.

Thankfully, she is no longer running Engineering as her own little
collective; she stays away from renaming personnel, finally
understanding that designations are less efficient than calling someone
by his or her given names.

"Seven," I say.

"Lieutenant Paris," she acknowledges me coldly. It amazes me how her
hair is completely in place, not a bit of her ruffled in any way.
Voyager could explode around her but Seven would manage to escape
without a single spot on her clothing. "There is a problem with the
plasma relay in conduit thirteen."

Great. Harry gets to vacation down on deck fifteen and I get to cool my
heels in conduit thirteen. But I offer Seven my cheekiest smile and
take the data PADD from her.

Toolkit in hand, I crawl through conduit thirteen. It's the narrowest
of the Engineering conduits, stuffy and hot also. I strip my jacket at
the entrance and crawl through, feeling the perspiration running down
my back.

The ship lurches again, not at all good for the stomach. I hope Seven
gets right on those inertial dampers.

I find the offending relay by its bluish-orange sparks. I roll onto my
back and remove the metallic plating, already hot.

"Ouch!" I drop the cover behind me and then reach for the toolkit.

Immediately, I can see the problem. Two of the wires are burned, fused
together. The short-circuit blew out at least six of the isolinear
chips in the relay, causing the backup in plasma, which continues to
eat through the rest of the wires in this section.

I work as quickly as I can, muffling my groans as the heat burns at my
fingers.

//"I dream about this stuff," B'Elanna says. She is leaning against the
console, relatively at ease despite us being on view for the entire
Engineering department.

"I thought you dreamed about me," I tease in a low voice, leaning
forward for a kiss but she dodges me.

"Tom," B'Elanna says in her best schoolteacher voice. "Behave."

"Sorry. So what were you saying?"

"This," she jabs a finger at a schematic. "You see how I did the wiring
through here? It's all in parallel instead of serial."

"I see that," I answer noting the white lines in the diagram.

"That way when one goes out, they all don't go out," she looks
enormously proud. "It's so simple but it took me forever to figure out.
Last night, it just came to me, in a dream. I had to come right down
and implement it."

"So that's where you were."

"Tom," again that reproachful tone.

"It's great work, B'Elanna," I say sincerely. "Congratulations."

She beams at me, "Really?"

"Are you fishing for compliments? You know how good you are."

"Do I?" she is deadly serious.

"Hey," I say softly.

"You're right," she smiles. "I am good."//

The wiring in this section is exactly how I remember it. Parallel wires
running the full-length of the conduit. I clip the two that are burned
and yank them out. The panel hisses at me and throws sparks. I wait a
second before removing the damaged isolinear chips and then quickly
replace them.

The ship rocks again and I knock my head against the sidewall.
"Great," I say, taking stock of my injuries. Six burned fingers, one
concussion. None of this was in the job description when I signed up.

Hell, the Delta Quadrant wasn't even in there.

Or maybe it was in the section under "get out of jail free." Yeah,
right next to the "all expenses paid" fine print.

I'm going to have sit down with Janeway when she gets back, take
another look at that job description.

I put the panel back in; replacing the burned wires will have to be
done at another time.

I crawl back out the conduit and back into Engineering. By now, Harry
has emerged from the bowels of Deck Fifteen, sooty, dusty and a bit
rumpled, but triumphant all the same.

"Inertial dampers are back on line," Seven says. Even in that monotone
voice, her words are music to my ears.

Around us, there are frantic shouts as sparks erupt around us. Panic
mode is what we do best; we're so used to be in trouble that calm is
what gets us every time.

"I've got the plasma relays patched," I say. "They're good for now."

"Power drain patched and rerouted," Harry says. "We should be good to
go."

Seven nods. I smile. God, we're good.

The three of us troop back to the Bridge where an anxious Chakotay is
waiting for us.

"Report," he barks.

"Primary repairs completed," Seven says. "There are still some areas
needing attention but impulse power is now possible."

"Good work," Chakotay nods towards the helm. "Tom, start scanning for
the Borg. Seven, Harry, continue repairs as necessary."

I tap my replacement on the shoulder and he slides out. I take a quick
look at our bearing and tap in a new speed at impulse.

I have been scanning for the Borg for twelve days now. Hide and seek in
the Delta Quadrant and Voyager is it. I don't know where the Borg are;
they are better at this game than we are.

The Borg haven't even left behind their usual breadcrumb trail of
destroyed and assimilated colonies. They have simply taken our people
and vanished.

Chakotay is now relatively calm and has settled into the Captain's
chair. He sits rather uncomfortably, shifting from side to side. After
seventy-four days, I would think he was used to sitting there.

My guess is that Chakotay likes command if it's his ship to command,
but this is Janeway's baby, Janeway's crew and he would like nothing
better to turn us all back over to her. He is, in a word, a glorified
babysitter, and we follow him numbly because we don't know what else to
do.

But to be fair to Chakotay, he does have a lot on his mind and it's
evident in the new creases beneath his eyes and the perpetual
downturned corners of his mouth.

Seven says he still comes to the cargo bay to check if there has been
any contact and it disturbs her to respond in the negative.

"No sign of them, sir," I say turning around.

"Keep trying..."

"If I might," I face Chakotay. "Shouldn't we wait until the repairs are
finished before searching out the Borg?"

"Keep scanning, Lieutenant."

I turn back to the console. My instincts are right; Chakotay can't wait
to get rid of us.

---

I find Seven in the cargo bay examining a painting.

"The Doctor did this," she says. "I find it quite a good use of color."

I stare at it. Three squares, yellow, red and blue, against a white
background. Geometric, angular, modern, precise, call it what you will,
but beautiful it's not.

"It is... interesting," I tell Seven.

"That is all?" she looks disappointed.

I sigh; I do not particularly want to get into a discussion about the
merits of the Doctor's artwork right now. It is possible, after all, to
hurt this particular hologram's feelings and I have a feeling we will
need him well-disposed to all of us when it comes to getting our people
de-assimilated.

"The Doctor said you were at Unimatrix Zero last night," I say getting
right to the point. Seven nods.

"Yes," she says. "I see no sign that the virus has been spread. They do
not remember being there once they leave. I continue to give them
instructions to find the Captain and the others, but it is useless and
not an efficient method of retrieving them."

"What do you suggest?" I ask, as if we have the power to make these
command decisions.

Seven contemplates my question as she places the painting aside.

"Commander Chakotay is correct. We must face the Borg. Now that our
ship repairs are completed, we must devote all of our resources to that
task."

She says it so dispassionately and it surprises me. Extermination of
the Borg is not in Seven's make-up and it's certainly not what we're
after, but for once, she is completely in agreement with all of us: we
must attack and we must do it soon.

It is, as the ancient saying goes, a true Kodak moment.

Our renewed sense of vigor has come in the aftermath of the repairs.

After all, if we can survive an ionic storm in the midst of a nebula
and emerge fairly unscathed, why not play those odds against the Borg
Queen and her minions?

"We are on day eighty-three," Seven says. An acute awareness of the
obvious and of stating it, that is Seven's special talent; one of her
more endearing traits, actually. "Time is running out."

She's right. I figure by now B'Elanna is completely assimilated, her
temper now positively glacial and her movements jerky instead of fluid.

//"I'm cold," she whispers. I rub her hands together, clasping them
between mine.

"It won't be long," I say.

She glances down the vast expanse of mountain.

"This isn't like skiing in the holodeck," she says shivering. "It's
colder."

I pull her towards me and wrap her in my arms.

"It was a bad idea," I whisper into her ear. "I'm sorry."

"I just want to get ... warm," her eyes are closing.

"B'Elanna, wake up! Stay with me, B'Elanna. Voyager will be here soon...
B'Elanna..."//

"Lieutenant," Seven is looking at me oddly. I shake my head, rubbing my
hand against my eyes.

"I'm sorry, just tired," I smile. "Double shifts, you know."

"I see," she says in that tone of voice that clearly means that she
does not. I sigh. I think about telling her about some of my thoughts,
about how memories of B'Elanna now have that quality of a fond
reminiscence. I don't claim not to bleed over the loss of B'Elanna
Torres; I doubt I will ever get over losing her. But now, I've gotten
used to her being gone, used to waking up in the middle of the night
alone.

It's amazing how much time has passed since I last saw B'Elanna and I
can't say it hurts any less; time, however, has taught me to deal with
her absence.

//"Tom, I don't know how much I can hold on..."

"You can. I'm sorry. I promise to make it up to you."

"No, I'm sorry," her eyes flutter open. "I know how much this trip
meant to you..."

Her eyes close and she is deadweight in my arms. I rub her arms, her
hands, her cheeks, and even pinch the side of her neck. She is cold,
through and through.

In that moment, I think I have killed her. Because I wanted to go
skiing on a real mountain instead of in the holodeck, I killed her.

"B'Elanna..."//

Seven and I, shoulder to shoulder, head to the turbolift. She is going
to Astrometrics to run yet another long-range scan to locate the Borg.
I am going to the Bridge to take my place at the helm, to point Voyager
somewhere in the vicinity of the Borg.

The atmosphere on the Bridge is calm, almost light-hearted. Even

Chakotay looks fairly relaxed.

"Good morning, Tom," he says in a cheerful tone.

I nod my greeting and then cast a look back at Harry. What's up? Harry
shrugs.

I slide into my seat, check on our heading. Chakotay doesn't seem to be
inclined to change. Why bother? One direction is as good as any other.

"I have a good feeling about this," Chakotay says to no one in
particular.

"Gut feeling?" I ask.

"Something like that," I can hear the grin in Chakotay's voice. "We're
getting closer."

I shiver. In my mind, I can see armies of drones, stiff-legged and
unsmiling, streaming out of their alcoves and into the eerie glow that
permeates Borg cubes. I see them with their weapons, all of them aimed
directly at Voyager.

I hope Chakotay has a plan; I hope it's a good one.

//"Are you mad at me?"

"No," she says in mid-shiver as we sit in the sickbay, getting
thoroughly fussed over by the Doctor. He won't admit it, but B'Elanna
is his favorite. He tolerates me, but loves B'Elanna. No doubt I will
hear about this outing for the rest of my sickbay career. Another
incentive to get home quickly.

"At the very least, I owe you a trip to Fair Haven," I smile.

"Anything but that," she says. "I'd like to see your Captain Proton
program."

"Superheroes!" the Doctor scoffs as he waves a tricorder over
B'Elanna. "If you ask me, I don't understand your fascination with
such... juvenilia."

I raise an eyebrow and B'Elanna smiles in spite of her raging fever and
chills.

"If you have to ask," I say in what I hope is a dignified voice, "you
will never understand."

The Doctor gives B'Elanna this look as if to say, what are you doing
with this guy?

She shrugs and squeezes my hand tightly. I don't need much more
reassurance than this. I nearly kill her on a mountaintop and yet she
still loves me. //

She loves me.

I turn to face Chakotay, banishing the millions of Delta Quadrant
butterflies that have chosen this very moment to congregate in my
stomach.

She loves me. I've never been more sure of this fact as I am as this
very moment.

"I'm ready," I tell Chakotay, but I'm thinking of B'Elanna. Thinking of
how I promised to wait for her and how she promised to come back. No
matter what has happened between us, no matter will happen, she loves
me and I am confident, beneath that Borg technology, she still loves me.
And I would do anything for her. This I'm sure of. I once said I was
confident of getting back to the Alpha Quadrant, that it was sure to
happen, and nothing bad would happen to us on the way.

I now know that I was wrong, so wrong, and that was what B'Elanna was
trying to tell me all along.

I will bring her home or die in the attempt.

---

Seven is optimistic at our daily staff meeting. She is downright giddy,
I think, almost like a schoolgirl in love.

"Yesterday," she says. "I was at Unimatrix Zero. There is good news."
I look at her.

"Yes?" I ask, holding my breath.

"The virus has been spread through the Borg cube," Seven's lips turn up
into a semblance of a smile.

"They've succeeded," Harry says. "They did it."

"The drones have agreed to incite a rebellion," Seven says. "They will
lower shields at a precise time which will allow us to retrieve our
people without further battle."

"They remember, right?" Chakotay asks. "They remember once they leave
Unimatrix Zero?"

"Yes," Seven nods. "They remember everything I tell them. They remember
who they once were."

We all sit in stunned silence. After all this time - one hundred days -
we have finally succeeded.

"There are some who are asking for assistance from Voyager," Seven
says.

"What sort of assistance?" Harry asks.

"They would like to be returned to their homeworlds," she says.

"If possible, we will accommodate them or find some way for them to
return home," Chakotay promises. "Is Janeway...?"

"Yes," Seven says. "She was not present but the others remember her.
They say they will ask her to come to Unimatrix Zero next time."

I want to ask about B'Elanna but I don't. Seven senses my tension
because she turns to me.

"Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres are alive," she says. "And are
functioning as part of the Collective."

"Where is the cube now?" Chakotay asks.

"I have the coordinates downloaded," she passes a PADD to me. "We will
rendezvous with the cube at the precise time on the PADD. At that time,
the Queen will be incapacitated and the shields will be dropped. We can
then beam out the Captain, Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres. I
have asked that the drones that wish to come to Voyager meet in a
specific location so we can transport them out. Questions?"

She surveys the room, but we are all too stunned to respond. Finally, I
clear my throat.

"What are we waiting for?"

Chakotay nods.

"Dismissed. You have your orders."

We file out. I do not know about the others, but my heart is in my
throat, throbbing.

What will we find when we actually get there? Nothing, I've discovered,
in the Delta Quadrant is easy or straightforward. There is always a
twist in the plot, always some new way to torture us.

I slide into my chair at the helm, my fingers already flying over the
console.

"Sending the coordinates to you now," Chakotay says, his voice
unnaturally high-pitched.

"Got them," I say. "Course laid in. Warp six."

"I'm still not detecting the Borg," Harry says in a worried
tone. "Seven, are you sure they will be there?"

I can almost see Seven's face given the icy precision of her voice.
Eyebrows arched all the way to her hairline, her jaw tight, and her
head tipped slightly to the side.

"They will be there," she says. I imagine Harry shriveling up there on
the spot in the face of Seven's anger. I doubt that he will ever
question Seven again. In the world inhabited solely by Seven and the
mini-collective made entirely up of minors, inaccuracy is highly
inefficient. Damn if Harry didn't know that already.

"Try the scanners in Astrometrics," Chakotay says helpfully.

I can only imagine the look Seven is bestowing on our First Officer.
Remembering my earlier reprimand from Chakotay, I keep my eyes squarely
on the viewscreen that is nothing but blackness and blurred stars.

//"How long have we been out here?" B'Elanna asks as she leans over the
edge of the railing, staring down into the rushing water below.

"A couple hours," I say, cupping her elbow in my hand.

"No, I meant out here in the Delta Quadrant."

"Eternity," I say.

"No, really, Tom," she says. "Do you ever think it might be better out
here?"

"No."

"Just no?" she turns her head sideways to look at me. "You look at this
gorgeous waterfall and you say that it might not better out here?"

"This is one planet out of millions, B'Elanna. There are gorges on
Earth too."

She sets her jaw firmly.

"Are you saying you don't want to go back?" I ask. "Is that what you're
trying to tell me?"

She leans forward so far that I grab her around the waist.

"B'Elanna," I say. "This is crazy. You can't do things like this. It
scares me when you're reckless."

"I'm not reckless," she turns around and puts her hands on my
shoulders. "You don't have to worry about that."

"You just nearly threw yourself off of a cliff and you're asking me not
to worry?" I nearly yelling.

I hate this. We take a short vacation on one of the million planets
that we are always passing by and inevitably, it deteriorates into
something less than vacation-like. Sometimes when we go to places like
this, we see other couples who are able to converse with each other
civilly and actually don't mind spending time together.

"I'm just saying that the Delta Quadrant is not such a bad place to
be," B'Elanna offers me a smile. "I wouldn't mind it at all."

She is wearing that brave look; the one that says she hurts in ways I
can't imagine but somehow, she will make it through. Damn if it doesn't
get me every time.

"I suppose it wouldn't be so bad," I concede reluctantly and am
rewarded with a grin and a kiss. We stand there for a few more minutes,
listening to the water rushing below us. The bridge sways gently as
people pass us by. I let B'Elanna go and she takes my hand as we make
our way back to the transport site where the others are waiting to
return to Voyager.

"You know," B'Elanna says as she looks up at the sky. "Starships are
overrated as is exploring."

"How do you figure?"

"Don't you just want to stay in one place?" she asks. "Instead of
watching the stars go by, don't you want to watch them come out and
then fade away again in the morning?"

There, she does it again. My unsentimental darling getting downright
teary-eyed on me. And when she puts it like that, watching the same
skyscape every night, I know she is right and I can't help but feel
that same urge for constancy myself.

Damned if she hasn't crawled into my skin and knows me, my desires,
even better than I do.\\

Hours pass slowly when you are hunting Borg. In the background, the
familiar argument goes on. Harry insists that nothing is coming up on
long-range scanners and Seven argues the opposite. I finally twist
around to join in.

"Either they stood us up or not," I say. "We won't be in a worse
position than we were two hours ago."

Chakotay says warningly, "Tom."

"It's true," I say. "Either we find them or we don't."

"We will find them," Seven says stiffly. She looks at Chakotay and asks
to be dismissed. He gladly lets her go.

"Harry," I say. "Don't go head to head with a Borg. It's not worth it."

Silence falls over the Bridge and I realize the significance of what I
just said. Having done enough damage for the day, I turn back to my
console.

Score one for Harry and Seven, zero for Tom Paris.

---

Neelix is all aflutter. I have twenty minutes before I go back to the
Bridge and while I quickly swallow down leola root left-overs.

"Is it true that the Borg have been located?" Neelix asks anxiously,
his eyes darting back and forth.

"It is true," I say between bites.

"So we're going after them?" Neelix says.

"Yup."

"And we're getting the Captain, Tuvok and B'Elanna back?"

I meet Neelix's eyes for the first time since he sat down at the table
with me.

"Yes, definitely," I say.

Neelix lowers his voice, "Will they be like... Seven?"

I push back in my chair. This is the question I've been contemplating
from the moment B'Elanna volunteered to go on this insane mission.
Admittedly, her moods drive me absolutely crazy. I can't keep up with
that mercurial temper, and I certainly can never tell what she wants
from me at any given second. But despite all of that, I would not
change her for anything. It is who B'Elanna is and if she was anything
less, I do not know if I could love her the same.

"Your guess is as good as mine," I say. "It's only been one hundred
days. For Seven, it was considerably longer. We'll just have to wait
and see."

"I wonder what Mr. Vulcan will be like," Neelix says in that strangely
childlike manner of his. He tips his head back and forth in the same
way Tuvok does when he is thinking.

I did not know that Neelix was so fond of Tuvok.

I doubt Tuvok would find much honor in the adoration of one culinary-
challenged Talaxian, but then what do I know?

Either Tuvok will come back from the Borg party ship with a sense of
humor and a real smile or he will come back completely unaffected by
his ordeal.

Extremes, yes, but that's Tuvok. He either feels nothing or feels it
completely.

But I'd rather not get Neelix's hopes up; the chances that the dessert-
baking Tuvok will return are very slim.

"He probably won't be as much fun," I say as I clean up the gravy on my
plate with a slice of bread.

"True, true," Neelix says excitedly. "But it will be nice to have them
back, won't it, Mr. Paris?"

"I'm looking forward to it."

"The ship feels empty without them, doesn't it?"

I sigh. I like Neelix, really I do, but sometimes his insistent
questioning gets on my nerves, especially when I want peace and quiet.
But then Neelix surprises me.

"Are you nervous?" Neelix asks. His voice is very calm and gentle; for
the first time since B'Elanna left, someone is asking the question I
dread answering. And because it's Neelix, always so open and
straightforward, I know I have to be honest.

But in my true fashion, I have to sidestep the question. Why give out
more than I have to?

"About?"

"B'Elanna."

So simple a thought and one that I keep pushing away, but Neelix is
right. I have to hand it to him; he managed to zero in on the one
emotion that I have keep at arm's length, much as I keep B'Elanna.

"Let me in, let me in," her voice whispers in my head, but I don't know
if I can. If - when she comes back, whom will I be letting in?

"Yes," I confess. "Very nervous."

---

Nine hours, thirteen minutes, twelve seconds. That's how long we have
been waiting and still no sign of the Borg. Seven has retreated to her
alcove to regenerate and somehow, both Chakotay and I have made our way
there too. We sit on crates opposite Seven's alcove. Chakotay is
leaning forward, both elbows on his thighs, his chin cradled in his
hands. I lean back against the packing boxes directly behind me.

"How do they do that?" Chakotay says finally.

"Do what?"

"Sleep standing up," he says. "I wonder about that."

I regard Seven's slender silhouette spotlighted by green light. Her
eyes are closed but I imagine that they are rippling the surface of her
eyelids as she moves deeper into REM sleep or whatever the Borg
equivalent is.

"I don't know," I say. "Cows sleep stand up, don't they?"

"You're must be thinking about horses," Chakotay answers. "Anyway, it's
not quite the same thing."

Horses, cows, Borg... oh my. Sometimes I can't help myself. Ever since
B'Elanna downloaded that old movie, The Wizard of Oz, I have been
fascinated with this concept of a yellow brick road that ultimately
leads you to your inner most desire or the theory goes. I still haven't
got the concept of the man behind the curtain yet, but B'Elanna does.
She always smiles at me when that part comes as if to say, "Do you
understand?" and I never do.

And it's odd that I don't get it and mostly because it's a fantasy; a
great, big, giant fantasy about the things you already posses - you
just don't know it yet. I sometimes think B'Elanna is like that;
doubting herself and never quite sure of where she is going at any
moment in her life.

I suppose that's why she's always running to the next best thing.
Or the next Borg cube, that is.

It defies explanation and I probably should not even try to understand
B'Elanna or the little man behind the curtain. Some things are best
left a mystery.

My attention drifts back to Seven. She is absolutely stationary, erect
and tense. I wonder if she wakes with muscle soreness in the morning; I
don't see how she would avoid it. But then again, she has those magical
nanoprobes that apparently can fix just about any problem.

I suppose if B'Elanna now has her own supply of such things, we may cut
our dermal regenerator use in half.

"Why so quiet, Tom?" Chakotay ask.

I shake my head, "Just thinking."

"Anything in particular."

"You think she's there? Unimatrix Zero?" I ask. I nod towards Seven as
if there could be anyone else here on Voyager who could possibly take a
jaunt over to the Borg's version of the land of Oz.

"Who knows?" Chakotay shrugs his shoulders. He sounds exhausted.

"I wonder what it's like," I muse. "I should ask Seven..."

"Kathryn told me about it," Chakotay says. My ears perk up. Kathryn?

Chakotay continues on and I can tell his eyes are glazing over as he
stares at Seven. "She says that it's a wilderness of type. Lots of
species congregating, interacting. They have relationships,
friendships. It's very much like us except when they... wake up, they
are drones again, unable to remember what they have experienced."

"But what does it feel like?" I ask. "Is it like Malnia Gorge?"

Chakotay shakes his head, "No, I don't think so. Not like that. It's
not as peaceful, not as tranquil. She said she experienced a sense of
urgency there, but that could have been because of the particular
circumstances."

"I suppose if the Borg Queen was hunting me down, I would be a little
on edge too," I point out.

Chakotay knits his fingers together. I realize that this is the longest
amount of time the two of us have spent alone together. In the past,
I've always avoided direct contact with Chakotay and I think he feels
the same. There is too much unsaid between us to start communicating
now.

B'Elanna always wanted us - Chakotay and I, that is - to talk more, get
to know each other, but I always put it off, always finding some other
excuse. So she would spend time with Chakotay and I would spend time
with B'Elanna. Ne'er the two worlds would meet.

Irony now that B'Elanna, who wanted for Chakotay and I to trust each
other, is not here to witness it.

"Are you afraid?" Chakotay asks in a very low voice as if he is afraid
of disturbing Seven and the children. "It's okay if you are. I am."

Fear, unfortunately, is one of those overwhelming, all-encompassing
human emotions. It grabs you and won't let go. Fear can either empower
you or paralyze you where you stand.

"Assimilation isn't so bad," I say.

"That's what I hear," Chakotay cracks a smile, the first I've seen from
him in days.

"I imagine we would all be near each other. We could visit."

"Compare nanoprobes," Chakotay says. "Who has more, who has the
biggest, you know."

"Sounds like fun," I agree. "We could hold assimilation contests. See
who can assimilate the most people."

"We probably would get to the Alpha Quadrant faster on a Borg cube,"
Chakotay says.

"Good point," I nod. Our eyes meet and Chakotay is the first to break
away. Already I feel better.

"We should do this more often," I say.

"Hang out in the cargo bay?"

"Talk," I say.

Chakotay glances at me, "Don't push your luck, Lieutenant."

At some point during the night, Seven's eyes snap open; both Chakotay
and I leap to our feet. It's rare that Borg awake during their
regeneration cycles; they are not prone to the caprices of human nature
which keep us tossing and turning throughout the night. I suppose
sleeping standing up would have something to do with that.

"Something is wrong," Seven says without preamble. "Axum has been
deactivated."

"Axum?" I ask.

"Her friend," Chakotay lays extra stress on this last word.

"He is the one who was leading the rebellion," Seven steps out of her
alcove. She tosses a maternal look back at the Borg children and
indicates the cargo bay doors. "The message was not communicated."

We wait until the doors close behind us and then Chakotay faces Seven
in his very best hands-on-hip pose. His face, earlier relaxed, has now
turned grim as he digests the meaning of Seven's words.

"So it did not work," he says in a low hiss.

"No," Seven says. "I did see Captain Janeway today."

Chakotay straightens, "How is she?"

"She is well. I have communicated to her."

"What now?" Chakotay urges.

"The plan proceeds," Seven says coolly. "Only it has been delayed by
twelve hours. Janeway has promised to see it through."

Of course. Kathryn Janeway would never make a promise she could not
carry through. She would rather die first and I think that she might
get her wish this time.

Not for the first time, I wonder what the whole point of this exercise
is. Why is it our duty to rescue the Borg from themselves? Do we really
need to be the superheroes of the Delta Quadrant? If you ask Janeway,
she would nod her head in the affirmative most emphatically; we are
Starfleet, we have a mission to accomplish and our duty is to help
those in need. Repeat ad nauseum.

I think courage is admirable but recklessness isn't and sometimes, it's
hard to differentiate the two. Janeway is sometimes so gung ho that she
loses sight of what is really important. I suppose if she could, she
would be dragging all of the poor orphans of the Delta Quadrant back
with us.

Of course, I would never say these things to Janeway or even to
Chakotay. It would be career suicide to even voice some of the thoughts
I've been having lately and I intend very much to keep the new pip.

At least until B'Elanna comes back so she can see I didn't go ruin
myself in her absence by watching nothing but "I Love Lucy" reruns and
playing mindless comic book scenarios out in the holodeck.
See? I can be good. I can follow directions. She says stay out of the
holodeck and I obey.

I am not entirely innocent in this respect though. The holodeck has
lost its charm and even Fair Haven, my favorite program, lies unused;
it is too painful to wander into Fair Haven and hear Michael Sullivan
whimper after his Katie O'Clare. And I wonder, if somewhere in
Unimatrix Zero, Janeway has found her own soul-mate drone to swap
stories of the Delta Quadrant with.

"So we just wait here?" Chakotay demands. Evidently our first officer
is not concerned about what Janeway might be doing with her free time
in Unimatrix Zero, only what she will do. But his tone is more
petulant, more of a "what do we do now?" type of attitude. This
surprises me about Chakotay but then again, I don't know why I bother
to understand anything anymore.

"Yes," Seven tilts her head towards me. "We wait."

Chakotay looks at me, "Any ideas, Lieutenant?"

I shrug. What does he want from me? What kind of question is that
anyway? But then I should have known that the good times with Chakotay
could last only so long. Now it's back to business, brusque and
authoritative again. I like the other Chakotay much better.

"Sounds good," I say. What else is there possibly to say? "Twelve
hours. What's another twelve hours anyway?"

We affirm this quietly and go our separate ways. On my way back to my
quarters, I pass B'Elanna's and the scene of our last argument. I say
the last argument because I do not count our conversation prior to her
departure as an argument; that was more of a spirited discussion.

//"I can't believe you would volunteer for this mission!" I yell. Thank
goodness there is a table separating us or I would surely lunge across
and grab her by the neck. My pretty little darling doesn't blink in the
face of my anger; I imagine she has battled holographic Klingons more
frightening than yours truly.

But I want her to understand, want her to understand the consequences
of what she is doing. And more than anything, I want her, for once, to
look before leaping.

"The Captain needs me," she says flatly. "If the mission is going to
succeed..."

"I heard all of that," I answer. "You can say it all you like but you
have to understand that it still makes no sense for you to go on this
mission."

"I don't want to fight you, Tom. Not now, now about this."

She puts her hands flat on the table.

"Please support me in this decision, Tom. It's not easy."

"I know," I say. "But only if you let me try to change your mind."

"It won't work," she sets her jaw and I can see the one vein which runs
down the side of her neck throbbing with fury. I pace because nervous
energy has taken control of my body and I don't know what else to do.
Back forth back forth back forth...

"You're making me dizzy," B'Elanna says. "Stop that."

"This is crazy," I jab a finger at her and head towards the door.

"Don't you walk out on me!"

She's a fine one to talk; how many times has she walked out on me?

Mostly, she doesn't even justify her exit with anything but a toss of
her head and a snort. She is the queen of exits, managing to storm out
with more grace and elegance than any one person should possess.

I should look that good.

"Watch me!" I yell back.

I narrowly escape getting beaned in the head with a heavy pottery vase,
a souvenir of trip to Malnia Gorge.

So much for staying in one place for any length of time. B'Elanna has
mastered the art of running while I stay where I am.

And as I storm away from her quarters, I wish I had that kind of
courage, that kind of conviction. But as it is, I can only claim my own
special brand of cowardice.

At least I have charm, I think as I bestow a smile upon a female
crewmember exiting the turbolift. That is something.

But not enough. Never enough.\\

---

There's a misconception in the early days of Starfleet Academy that
life on a starship - your walking and standing life, that is - is very
smooth, almost like walking on level, firm ground. I beg to differ. Six
years on Voyager has taught me that it's more like taking your chances
on the San Andreas fault, which is rapidly inching towards the coast of
North America or is it the other way around? I can never keep it
straight in my head; only think of those puckered hills that hide the
ever-shifting tectonic plates beneath the continent.

You slip and slide your way through the ship and eventually, after a
few years, you get your ship legs and then it's not so bad. But still,
I want to set the record straight on that point: inertial dampers only
do so much. The rest you just have to manage on your own.
It would not be a stretch to think of life on Voyager as surviving an
earthquake. One big rumble and everything comes crashing down and then
we just sit back and ride aftershock and aftershock.

It's always something and after all this time, monotony does not sound
so terrible.

In my mind, I add a deck to the San Francisco house, complete with lawn
chairs, a glass-topped table and umbrella. Perfect for sipping lemonade
on a hot summer day.

And of course, like all other reveries on Voyager, I'm jerked back to
reality by the abrupt lurching of the ship. It rolls slightly to the
side and those of us in the corridor end up leaning against the wall,
trying to get our balance back.

The ship steadies and I continue on my way.

Things are fairly calm right now; the inevitable confrontation with the
Borg has been delayed and it's almost a momentous occasion. We will
live yet another day, rah, rah.

In the mess hall, volume levels are back. People actually feel like
talking again as if the secret is out of the bag and we're all able to
talk freely.

The solitary figure by the window catches my eye.

Seven of Nine.

It strikes me as an odd place for Seven to be; she rarely seeks out the
more crowded areas of the ship, preferring to be either in Astrometrics
or Engineering when not in the cargo bay.

I wave off Neelix who magically appears at my side.

"In a moment," I tell him.

I make my way to Seven and stand beside her, my hands clasped in back
of me. She does not acknowledge my presence, but instead remains stone-
faced as she looks out into the darkness of space.

"A penny for your thoughts," I offer as a conversation breaker.

"I do not understand," she answers. "What is a penny?"

"It is, uh, a monetary unit," I reply. "One out of a hundred."

"I do not understand why you offering me a penny for my thoughts," she
says the word "penny" as if it is something obscene. "Or what relevance
a monetary unit would have."

I give up before I start. It is impossible to use idioms on Seven of
Nine. Damn if she didn't question everything.

"Let's try this again," I say. "I just wanted to know what you were
thinking."

"Why?"

"I don't know. You were just standing here staring out into space. I'm
curious as to what fascinates you so much."

"I'm thinking about the Borg."

"Always a pleasant subject."

"We will make contact with only one cube," she says. "There are
approximately one million, five hundred drones per cube."

"Okay..."

"Only one in a million has the mutation," she says. "That means there
may be only two or three drones at most per cube who have the ability
to visit Unimatrix Zero."

I still don't see where she is going with this so I remain silent,
waiting for her to continue.

"In addition to the Captain, Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres, we
will only rescue two or three more drones," she says.

I understand now.

"And you want to save more?" I ask. Damn if this save the world
attitude isn't contagious.

"It would be a worthwhile endeavor," she says.

"Seven," I say. "How many Borg cubes are there in the Delta Quadrant?"

"When I was a drone, there were approximately two thousand three
hundred and eighty-nine Borg cubes in the Delta Quadrant."

I let out a low whistle.

"That's quite a party you have there," I comment. I am rewarded with an
arched eyebrow for a response.

"Borg cubes are manufactured at the rate of one every Borg standard
year," she continues.

"Which is?"

"Eight Standard Federation months."

"So there could be-" I do some quick mental gymnastics; my Academy math
professors would be proud. Hell, my father would be proud. "There could
four or five new cubes in addition?"

"That is correct. Of course, some cubes may have been destroyed in the
last three years but that is rare. It is very difficult to destroy a
cube."

"That's an understatement," I say.

"Do not underestimate the Borg, Lieutenant," Seven says firmly.

And here is yet another example of Seven's acute awareness of the
obvious. She knows the facts, yet is unable to draw the emotional
connection between those facts.

"I never have," I protest. "After Wolf 359, no one ever will again."

"Good," Seven bites down on her lip. "I am concerned. If the Queen
discovers what we have planned, she will certainly try to stop us."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from her Majesty."

Seven is slightly offended by this remark; I can tell by the subtle way
her nose twitches.

And then I ask the question I've been dying to ask all day.

"You mentioned that Axum had been deactivated," I say. "Are you okay?"

"I feel reasonable grief," she says. "He was a good friend."

"That's all? A good friend?"

Seven is quiet and then she nods.

"He was more to Annika, I believe, but to me, he was a good friend. I
will miss him."

Damn if she isn't cold. How she does it, I cannot imagine. You could
stick her on a demon class planet and she still wouldn't thaw. Rather,
the rest of us would lie there suffocating from the pure weight of the
atmospheric, boiling inside of our skins, and Seven would stand over
all of us, stately and triumphant.

"Do you have other questions?" she asks in a tone that clearly
indicates our conversation is over.

"No," I tap her on the shoulder lightly in a gesture of goodwill; she
jerks away. Tactilely defensive, I see. Evidently hugging is not
encouraged in the Collective. We'll have to work on that.

I think I have just the man for the job.

---

Harry is calibrating something. I say "something" because it seems to
me that all we do on this ship is calibrate. Calibrate this, calibrate
that. Who said you never do the same thing twice on a starship?

Obviously that person never served on a ship; he or she certainly never
set foot on Voyager or they would never have said something so inane.

"Hi," I come up behind Harry, my fingers brushing the back of his
shoulders.

"Hey," he responds.

"What are you doing?" I lean over the console.

"Just getting ready for the big fight," Harry offers up a grin.

"Still bucking for that combat promotion?"

"Well, now that you mention it..."

Harry's fingers are rather short and stubby. I never noticed this
before. It's amazing the things you notice about people after so much
time. It's like you think you know everything there is to know about
them and then they do something that totally surprises you.

B'Elanna does that daily.

Off kilter, that's how she likes me. I suppose it's not unlike walking
on Voyager.

//"I was worried about you," she says. "Don't do that again."

"Don't worry," I laugh, drawing her close. I love moments like this:
the two of us together, cuddling on the sofa. All of our traumas seem
so far away, complications disappear and we simply exist here within
the bubble that is Tom Paris and B'Elanna Torres.

"I can't believe you went on that mission," she goes on. "I was so
worried about you. I even asked Chakotay if I could come look for you."

"You did?" I look at her in amazement. "B'Elanna, it was a demon class
planet..."

"It doesn't matter," she says, that familiar fire lighting up her
eyes. "I wanted to make sure you were safe and the best way I could do
that was go after you myself."

"Chakotay didn't let you," I guess.

"No," she rests her head against my chest, her hand inching up to my
shoulder.

"I'm glad," I whisper as I cover her hand with mine. "But it's all
right now. All's well that ends well."

"Don't do it again, Paris," she says sleepily. "I don't think my hearts
could take it."

"Are you saying you love me?"

"Don't push it."

"Never," I kiss the top of her forehead. "And for your information, I
didn't exactly volunteer to go."

"No? It sounds like something you would jump to take on."

"Harry volunteered me."

"Oh Tom," she sighs. "I knew he was going to get back at you sometime."

I find myself chuckling as I tighten my grip on her. She lifts her
head, puckering her lips. I bend to meet her halfway. \\

"For what it's worth, Harry, you're a good friend," I say. Harry's
fingers stop abruptly.

"What?" he sounds shell-shocked.

"Yeah, you're a good friend," I repeat casually. I lean against the
wall facing him. Harry has stopped all semblance of work.

"Even if you did volunteer me for the demon planet," I wrinkle my
nose. "Damn unpleasant mission."

"If you hadn't made the crack about the bicycle..."

"Don't go there, Harry," I warn. "Why relive past ignominies?"

He shakes his head and then the grin disappears from his face.

"Tom," he clears his throat. "Um, yeah. You've been a good friend too.
Really good. My best friend."

Oh boy, serious stuff. Serious, serious drippy, mushy stuff. The type
that makes you squirm in your seat or that works best written out on a
greeting card.

But Harry's sentiment is nicely said and I understand why he's saying
it: for the same reason that I finally need to tell him how much I
value his friendship.

Tomorrow we face the Borg. It might be one cube or it could be two
thousand. It could be our greatest hour or it could be our last.

I'd hate for Harry not to know.

"Um, yeah," I say awkwardly. I shift from foot to foot. Tender moments
with someone other than B'Elanna are not exactly my strong suite. They
make me feel queasy inside mostly because I'm confessing how I feel.
Not something I'm real comfortable with; I've yet to say those three
all-important words to B'Elanna.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Harry has settled into his contemplative
mood. "We never usually think about things like this. Battle, I mean.
It just happens. Boom! All of sudden, there are the Hirogen or maybe
it's the Kazon or Species 8472... they just show up and we react with a
photo torpedo or two. This is different. This is planned."

"You mean we have time to think about what might happen?" I ask.

"Yeah. We knew the risks when we signed on, but did you really think it
would happen to you?"

"Not a million years," I say. I think back to the red-gold terrain of
the demon planet, its oppressive hot air, and then Harry and I,
staggering, finally falling to our knees and then flat on our faces.

There have been a million chances to die out here in the Delta
Quadrant; God knows, Voyager has left a trail of bodies behind, their
families blissfully unaware.

I don't know if the dead keep Janeway awake at night, wondering how
many of those deaths she could have prevented.

And I wonder now if she thinks about us, nervous and fidgety on
Voyager, trying to figure out a way to get her back. I wonder if she
ever considered the costs and if she did, why did she go ahead?

I suppose she is trying to forge a legacy. Something other than the
captain who got herself lost in the Delta Quadrant. Granted she didn't
misread the stellar cartography charts and our presence here was
completely unpredictable, but I can bet that's what the wags back at
Starfleet Headquarters are saying about Janeway. I can even hear the
jokes.

"Did you hear about the Captain who wandered around the Delta Quadrant
for six years because she wouldn't ask for directions?"

Ha ha.

I won't defend my loyalty; if anyone questions it, they are wrong.
Loyalty is one thing no one has ever been able to fault me for. I
agreed to serve Janeway and I will unquestioningly until I'm no longer
under her command.

Doesn't mean I have to like her orders.

There is a fine line there and I mean to walk it. It's not always easy -
hell, that's what got me demoted to ensign in the first place,
disobeying because I thought I knew better. And maybe I was right that
one time and she was wrong, but the truth of the matter is, I'm sworn
to obey and obey I must.

Even if my captain is a Borg drone.

"So how long?" Harry asks.

"Last time I checked, eight hours."

"I got to get going on this then," and those stubby fingers fly again.

Harry is oblivious to my presence, but I don't mind. I watch him for
another few moments and then I leave.

There is work to be done.

---

Two hours left to rendezvous. A date with the Queen.

Chakotay is back to his usual calm self, the quiet, authoritative
presence reminiscent of his Maquis days. He is sitting where Janeway
usually sits, slightly turned away from us, his fingers rapping gently
on the table. The PADD, showing the Borg on the periphery of our long
range sensors, is off to the side.

We are all here. Neelix, Seven, Harry, the Doctor and of course, me.

"We will remain in a state of red alert," Chakotay says. I don't know
what it is about red alert that brings not only a sense of urgency but
also forces you into feeling a supernatural type of courage. There are
things I have done in red alert that I would never even think of
attempting in any other situations.

I do my best creative thinking under pressure. New maneuvers, new ways
of stretching the limits of Voyager. There is nothing I can't make this
ship do; we understand each other perfectly.

"How is sickbay?" Chakotay says. "I anticipate many... casualties."

All eyes turn to the Doctor. He, thankfully, has left his usual bravado
back in sickbay. He is serious, to the point.

"I have spent the last twelve hours replicating necessary medical
supplies," he answers. His eyes graze over me. "I imagine Mr. Paris
will not be available."

"Find someone else," Chakotay orders. "Mr. Neelix, maybe, to help keep
calm."

Another moment of tense silence. Waiting hurts. I never thought about
it before because I have never waited like this before.

//"So two months, huh?" B'Elanna is curled up against me. I relish
feeling her bare skin against mine, and I'm enthralled, hopelessly so,
in the gentle stroking of her fingers.

"A very long two months," I say. "Think about being stranded on a
planet with Tuvok of all people."

"Tuvok has his moments," B'Elanna props herself up on her elbow; the
blanket slips away from her chest as she rolls on top of me. We are now
nose to nose. I reach up and run my hand through her hair, and then
pull her down for a kiss.

"What about Noss?" B'Elanna pulls away to my distress.

"She loves him and he... well, he is a Vulcan."

"Doesn't mean he's incapable of love."

"No, it doesn't, but it also means he won't surrender in the heat of
the moment."

"Unlike you?"

"Definitely unlike me," I grin. "I can't believe you didn't miss me at
all."

"Tom, it was two days for me. That's it. I wanted the vacation."

"I can't believe you'd say such a thing."

Her lips brush mine and then down to neck, chest, lower, lower and I am
lost. I can tell she is lying; my sweet darling is so good at half-
truths. But I have found her out now as she inches back up my chest.

"You did miss me," I accuse as I roll over, flipping her onto her back.
I pin her arms above her head.

"Maybe a little," she says.

"Admit it."

"Tom..."

I put my finger against her lips and she bites it, growling.

"One day," I tell her. "You'll admit. You'll admit that you actually
need me."

"You wish," she snarls. "Pig."

I laugh. Her leg curls up and around my waist as I lower myself down to
kiss the little hollow at her neck. Her hands reach around, gently
caressing the back of my neck and then to the base of my skull and
finally into my hair.

God, I missed this. Missed her.

Tuvok be damned; he doesn't know what he gave up.

And damn me for needing B'Elanna, wanting her, so much.\\

---

Chakotay is going through the checklist briskly; Seven is ought to be
proud of his efficiency though she keeps her comments to an absolute
nil. I wonder what is going on in that head of hers. Sometimes I think
she's a Greek statue, a Venus de Milo, if you will. A Janeway original,
absolutely stone-faced and exquisitely carved.

I can't help it. I'm a guy, I notice these things.

"Shields?" Chakotay says.

"Recalibrated," Harry answers, but before he can add more information,
Seven opens her mouth, contributing for the first time since we all
filed in here forty-five minutes ago.

"Commander, I suggest we turn off all non-essential systems to direct
maximum power to the shields," she says.

"Agreed," Chakotay nods. "Evacuate and close off non-essential parts of
ship also to conserve energy. Tom, how does helm and weapons look?"

"We have two hundred photon torpedoes," I say. "Hopefully we will not
need more."

"Amen," Harry mutters under his breath. "Two hundred should be enough
to light up the entire Delta Quadrant. They should be able to see this
battle from the Alpha Quadrant."

Seven gives him her "don't underestimate the Borg" look. Harry ignores
her. Good for him; he is starting, finally, not to pay much attention
to the former object of his affections.

"Helm is operating at highest efficiency," I say. "Vorik was up all
night working to fix some of the glitches in the system but everything
now should be A-OK."

Seven frowns at the colloquialism and for a moment, I have feeling she
is going to question the phrase. I should tell the Doctor to include
idioms in Seven's "learn to act like an individual" self-study course.

Chakotay nods and moves on to Neelix who reports that while there was
some earlier tension and fear among the crew, including a question from
Naomi about whether assimilation hurts, morale is relatively good now.

"I can only describe the feelings as 'patriotic,'" Neelix
says. "Everyone is eager to do a good job for the Captain."

"That's all I can ask. Seven, report to Astrometrics and keep tab on
the cube. Let us know if you pick up anything else on sensors. If we're
going to go up against an armada, I want to know about it."

I do not suppose this would be a good time to tell Chakotay exactly how
many Borg cubes are out there in the Delta Quadrant.

Seven tips her head in acknowledgement.

"Everyone else, take your stations," Chakotay says. "We go to red alert
immediately. Dismissed."

//"B'Elanna, are you okay?"

She sniffs, "Go away, Tom."

"Look, I want to help."

I feel ridiculous, standing outside of her bathroom door. It could be
worse; she could have left me in the hall.

"I'm sorry, really I am."

"You don't understand," she is crying again. Another myth debunked;
starship doors are not soundproof. Rather, they are thin but give the
semblance of solidity.

"B'Elanna, let me in," I say, meaning it in more than one way. Silence
and I wonder if I should leave. She'll come around in a bit and find me
and then we'll pick up exactly where we left off, as if this little
incident never happened.

Why is it that we allow scar tissue to accumulate around the edges of
wounds? Every time I promise not to do this again, every time she
promises not to, we go ahead and do it again. Hurting is what we do
best; without pain, we are nothing, nobody. Letting someone in to share
takes away what is wholly and entirely ours.

God we're both stubborn that way.

And sometimes I wonder why I bother. Why do I even try to reach her
when she is so closed off when I want her most? There's more to a
relationship than just physical contact and I want to move to a point
where we can settle into the type of relationship where we truly trust
each other.

"B'Elanna," I try one more time. "Look, it's bad, I know. Just let me
in, okay? You can talk to me or you can cry, but just let me be there."

More silence but I can hear her crying, muffled as if she is sobbing
into a towel. I pound the door in frustration and then she startles me
by opening the door. Her eyes are rimmed with red, the tracks of her
tears evident on her cheeks.

I take her in my arms immediately, and she rests her head on my
shoulder. I run my hand up and down her back as her body trembles. My
shoulder grows damp.

"I should have come sooner," I tell her. "I'm sorry."

She sputters as the intensity of her sobs grow.

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," I continue.

"What... am... I ..." she does not complete her sentence.

"Hey," I say softly. "It's all right."

"The Maquis," and she dissolves once again. I feel her going limp so I
half-carry half-drag her over to the sofa.

"Are gone," I say it firmly as I cradle her in my arms. She grabs my
arm, holding it in both of her hands.

"I... don't believe it," she gasps. "How... I don't... I... I..."

"Shhhh," I smooth her hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Quiet now.
It will be okay, B'Elanna. You'll get through this. It will be okay."

"They... everything, my family, oh God," she is shivering now and I
hold her tighter.

"You're strong, B'Elanna," I tell her. "You're a survivor. You'll
survive this."

"When we go back, they won't be there," she says.

I don't give her my usual spiel about the people who care about her
here on Voyager. To B'Elanna, her family is the Maquis, the people who
unconditionally accepted her and placed no burdens or demands on her.

To know that they are all gone, dead, wiped-out, is a devastating blow
to her.

"How could it happen?" she whispers. She is calm now, her voice hoarse
from endless tears.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But things like this happen..."

"Do you think it was a big battle?"

And because it's important to her, I agree.

"Honorable," she sniffles.

"Yes," I say.

"That's all that matters, right?"

"If it makes you feel a little better, yes."

"It doesn't," she admits. "But it helps."

In my mind, I see the wound healing cleanly. No scar tissue here. I
caress her cheek gently, rubbing one tear away with my thumb.

"B'Elanna?"

But she is sleeping now, worn out. We lay there together on the sofa
and I try to imagine this battle that wiped out the Maquis.

When she wakes, I will tell her all about it. \\

---

The Borg cube looms on the view screen. My earlier exhaustion, a result
of lack of sleep, is gone. I'm wide-awake now and if anyone else is
sleeping on the job, the klaxons and flashing red lights surely should
wake them up.

If I can look at a Borg cube without any emotion, I see it as a work of
art. Somehow, these boxy structures manage to move through space faster
than any other known vessel. The architecture is complex, rough and
unfinished, unlike the sleek, smooth surfaces of Starfleet vessels.

There is a secret there, one worth bringing back to the Alpha Quadrant;
somehow the Borg have managed to overturn the conventional theory of
aerodynamics. If Seven knows how, she has not shared that knowledge
with us and I don't blame her; it's not like we're going to redo
Voyager into a facsimile of a Borg cube and hence it would not be an
efficient use of resources to reveal that particular secret.

When this is all over, I would love to know.

Unless we're all assimilated, in which case the knowledge on how a cube
can move through space is completely irrelevant.

Living on a Borg cube, regardless of the fact of assimilation, is not a
pleasant thought.

Unlike the interiors of a Starfleet ship though, the Borg cubes are
less than luxurious. Inside, the narrow corridors are lined with wires
and steel beams, almost as if in a state of perpetual construction. But
it's the noise that gets me - that hum that is a low buzz in your ear.

At first, the buzz is innocuous but then it slowly drives you insane; a
Borg version of the Chinese water torture.

The Bridge is silent as we watch the ship approach us.

My heart beats faster. B'Elanna, B'Elanna, B'Elanna...

Chakotay is first to react.

"Shields up," he says.

"At one hundred percent," Harry answers.

"Chakotay to Seven."

"Yes, Commander?" her voice is slightly foggy over the com system.

"Any other Borg in the vicinity?"

"No," she replies.

Well, thank goodness for small favors.

"Cross your fingers," I pipe up. The phrase is lost on everyone but
Harry who offers back a painful smile.

"Dropping to impulse," I say. God, I wish we had a cloaking device. It
would have been wonderful to have dropped out warp right in front of
the cube. We could be done and on our way before the Borg even knew we
were there.

But the Romulans aren't known for sharing their technology and when we
left the Alpha Quadrant, things weren't so good with the Klingons now.

Hell, things could be a lot worse back home than they are now.

I'll be sure to point that out when this is all said and done.

After we win, of course.

Otherwise, it's irrelevant.

"Detecting low level radiation," I say. "Their shields are up."

"Seven!" Chakotay barks.

"Yes, Commander?" Seven asks.

"I thought you said they would lower their shields."

"I did," and typically Seven, she offers no more information.

Explanations take up too much time, in her opinion, and decrease
efficiency. She is exactly the type of person who will do something on
her own rather than delegate because it is easier to do it herself.

Chakotay's sigh is loud enough for the entire Bridge to hear. He is
pacing again, wearing a path in the newly cleaned carpets.

"We're being hailed," Harry says.

"On screen," Chakotay is back to attention.

It's the Borg Queen.

"Hello Harry," she purrs. I spin around to see Harry's reaction; he
blanches. Evidently, his last conversation with the Borg Queen was less
than pleasant or perhaps he cut that class at the Academy where they
teach you how to behave in front of alien royalty. Or maybe it's the
black metallic tubules on her fingers that have his attention. Whatever
it is, Harry is less than pleased to be in front of the Borg Queen.

I don't blame her; attractive in a black widow type way, it's hard to
get past the fact that this woman can, without remorse, destroy entire
civilizations and not think about it twice.

I imagine she and Janeway would have quite a lot to discuss, and while
I think Janeway has her points, this particular argument would have to
go to the Queen based on the pure evil quotient. The woman with the
nanoprobes is always right, no exceptions.

Plus it's difficult to argue morality when your opponent has no heart.

"It has been quite a while," the Queen goes on conversationally. The
tone of her voice indicates she could be at a tea party, sipping
delicately from a china cup. Hell, put a hat on her, a nicely coifed
wig and she could be at the horse races and fit in perfectly.

"One hundred and one days exactly," Chakotay says. Why he bothers, I
don't know. I imagine the Queen knows exactly how long it's been down
to the nanosecond.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to retrieve your people,"
the Queen comments. "They have served me well. Their performance has
been exemplary. My compliments to Starfleet."

Chakotay is visibly riled.

"We are not leaving without them," he says.

"You can't win, Commander. Your shields will never withstand a full
Borg assault."

"I wouldn't be so sure. We have had time to work on our shield
strength. You may be unpleasantly surprised."

"If you attack, you risk killing your own people," the Queen continues
on pleasant. "After detecting your presence here, I have ordered them
to the core. In order to destroy us, you will have to aim a direct hit
to the core. In addition, the multi-phasic shielding prevents you from
beaming them out. So you see, Commander Chakotay, it does not matter
what enhancements you have made to your shields, I still win."

Damn she's good.

I bet she plays a mean hand of poker too.

Chakotay is thinking. You can almost hear his thoughts. Attack or not?
So far, the Queen has not shown any direct hostility or aggression
towards us. We can leave now, cut our losses, send Christmas cards
every year to Janeway, Tuvok and Torres.

Janeway would not hesitate here. She would attack and she would do it
deliberately and quickly. Chakotay is more pensive; he understands the
costs and he can weigh the consequences.

Is it worth risking Voyager and its crew for the lives of three people?

---

// "I wrote a letter," I say. We are in the holodeck. I'm lying on my
back while B'Elanna sits next to me, rubbing lotion into her legs. It
has been some time since we have visited this program. Our conflicting
schedules have kept us away and some weeks, I find myself spending more
time with Harry than with B'Elanna. We have been reduced to hellos and
good-byes, nothing in between.

"A letter?" B'Elanna stops and looks down at me.

"Yes," I say. I sit up.

"You have to work on that stomach," B'Elanna says unkindly. I make a
face at her.

"You didn't hear what I said," I say. "When we were crashing, when I
thought I was going to do, I dictated a letter to you."

"That's sweet."

"Do you want to know what it said?"

"Not especially," she goes back to smoothing lotion over her legs. I am
irritated. Somehow her legs rank higher than my dying thoughts? It is
truly humbling.

"Why are you putting sun block on?" I ask. "This isn't even real sun.
You can't get burned with the holodeck safeties on."

B'Elanna tosses me a look of exasperation, "It's for effect, Tom. This
is what people do at the beach."

Ooohh, it's that voice again. Definitely sounds like my mother. Not a
good thing, definitely not a good think.

I reach out and trail my fingers up and down her leg and then up to her
thigh. The look B'Elanna gives me is positively lascivious; my mother
never looked at me that way.

"Do you do that?" I ask as B'Elanna smacks my hand away.

"Write letters?"

"Yes. Before going on an away mission. I mean, I thought I was going to
die when I wrote that letter."

"Sometimes," she says.

"To whom?" now I'm curious.

She arches an eyebrow at me, "Why the twenty questions, Tom?"

"I just want to know where I stand with you. You are the last person I
thought of when I was at death's door. I want to know if you feel the
same."

She smiles then and leans over to kiss me.

"I hope you never find out," she whispers.

I lay back down on my beach towel. Cryptic as always, but giving me
enough information to tell me what I want to know.

She's right. I don't want to know.

It wouldn't be worth it. \\

It's a classic western showdown. Who will blink first? The Borg Queen's
smooth white skin, stretched tightly over an extensive capillary
network of green-tinged veins, shows no sign of tension. Chakotay, on
the other hand, is flustered. He has never been terrific at staring
down the opposition. He is best at talking things out, bringing the
other person to see his point of view. Logically. Passively. Without
bloodshed. That's Chakotay's way. It's not the Queen's.

If the Queen has her way, we would send the Chakotay and some poor
automaton out to some planet and they would face each other, phasers on
kill. Aim, fire, and the one left standing gets custody of the three
drones: Janeway, Tuvok and Torres.

Chakotay makes the universal "cut the volume" sign by drawing his
finger across his neck. I'm sure they have a class at the Academy where
they teach such skills, along with great command poses and penetrating
stares. They probably teach inflection and enunciation in an advanced
class.

"Audio signal terminated," Harry reports. I look back up; the Borg
Queen is still there, not happy that we have cut her out of the loop.

Her lips moves but we hear nothing. It's rather comical, but I get the
feeling that one should not laugh at the Queen of Borg; rumor has it
she has quite the temper.

"Suggestions?" Chakotay asks.

The Borg Queen is still watching us; I wonder if she reads lips. I bet
she can and I bet she can read them in the seven million known
languages. She probably even knows pig Latin, a language I am fluent in.

The turbolift opens and Seven erupts, literally, out of it. She gazes
back at the offending lift and then turns back to face us. She visibly
recoils at the image of the Borg Queen, stretching from floor to
ceiling, in front of her.

"Seven," Chakotay recovers smoothly. "Something to report?"

"Our plan will succeed," she says quickly, never taking her eyes away
from the Queen. "The shields will be lowered in approximately three
minutes."

We don't ask how she knows this; with Seven, you can never tell. She
probably fashioned some kind of telepathic link out of one of her
neural implants, gave the Collective a piece of her mind and got them
back on track.

Who needs a Swiss Army knife when you have a Borg drone?

"Harry," Chakotay says urgently, his back now to the Queen. "In exactly
three minutes, send out a spread of torpedoes. Aim anywhere except the
core."

"Aye, sir," Harry says.

"Tom, be prepared to take evasive maneuvers quickly," Chakotay
says. "Seven, be prepared to drop shields to transport the Captain and
the others. Harry, turn audio back on."

By now the Queen is visibly agitated. We have been talking about her in
front of her face and she doesn't like it.

"Well?" her eyes are darting back and forth now.

"Let's discuss this," Chakotay steps forward, holding his hands out in
a gesture of reconciliation. "We can work this out."

"What do you suggest?" she is positively purring now.

"You beam to Voyager with a member of your... crew and we can hammer
out a deal. Something acceptable to you and also to us."

"Janeway," the Queen snarls, "committed an act of sabotage against the
Borg. This is not something we can easily forgive."

"They're powering weapons," Harry warns in a low voice.

Chakotay remains calm, almost as if Harry never even spoke.

"We understand how you feel," Chakotay continues. "I'm sure, if our
roles were reserved, we would experience some of the same emotions."

I am almost expecting him to burst into his "forgiveness is good for
the soul" speech. There's a quality about Chakotay's soliloquies that
provokes one to experience great emotion. A tearjerker of a speech, if
you will, and Chakotay's damn good at getting you in touch with your
innermost emotions. You can't help but want to stand up and give
everyone a hug when he is done speaking.

No wonder the Captain is so fond of him.

The Queen considers Chakotay's request. She doesn't trust him; if I
were she, I'd trust my instincts too and disregard Chakotay's plea. But
there is something so sincere and earnest about our First Officer, she
can't help but agree.

Plus, she holds all of the cards in her hand anyway. She's got Janeway
and we, well, we've got enhanced shields.

"You come here," she says. "You may bring one member of your crew."

Well, we'll take what we can.

Chakotay turns around and Harry gives him an almost imperceptible nod.
I love that. Love those silent communication signals. They are supposed
to be subtle but are really blatant in their obviousness. And I bet the
Borg Queen, with her enhanced vision, probably caught Harry's little
nod.

Chakotay directs his attention back at the Queen and strides forward.

"That won't be necessary," Chakotay says. "Harry?"

The Queen's image on the screen is replaced with that of the Borg cube
and the four torpedoes fanning out en route.

"Tom," Chakotay says urgently as the Borg return fire.

"Taking evasive maneuvers now, sir," I reply.

The ship shudders as one of the Borg torpedoes slams into our shields.

"Harry?" Chakotay steadies himself against the Captain's chair.

"We're holding steady. Eighty percent."

"Their shields are completely down," Seven reports. "We only have five
minutes before they will be repaired. We must act quickly."

"Start scanning for the Captain and the others," Chakotay answers.

"The Borg are hailing us," Harry reports.

"Ignore them," Chakotay says with a noticeable bite. "Seven, any luck
locating our people?"

"They are by the core as the Queen stated," Seven answers. "I'm locking
onto them now and also to two other drones."

"Energize when you're ready. Harry, fire at will."

Harry grins and fires off another round. The Borg don't like getting
shot at; they return fire, but once again our shields hold, but we are
all thrown to the floor. I get back into my seat, trying to steady the
ship from this latest impact.

"I have them," there is quiet triumph in Seven's voice.

"On Voyager?" Chakotay's voice trembles.

"In the transporter room," Seven confirms.

There's no time to think of what this mean; the Borg are out there and
damn, they are angry.

"Aim slightly to the left of the core, Harry," Chakotay orders. "Don't
destroy them but cripple them so they can't come after us."

"Aye, sir."

"Two minutes left," Seven says tensely. The ship rocks as the Borg cube
sends off another volley.

"Shields holding at fifty percent," Harry says. "I'm rerouting power
now... and firing... now!"

Eight torpedoes speed towards the cube and then a second later, a
massive explosion ripples through the cube.

Voyager rides the shockwave, drifting dangerously close to the cube.

"Tom!" Chakotay barks.

"I'm on it, I'm on it!" I yell back. I struggle to regain control of
the helm and we pass within twelve kilometers of the cube - too close
for comfort.

"Rerouting power," Seven announces. "Lieutenant, you have impulse."

"Thanks," I say, biting my lip. "Let's try this again."

This time, Voyager complies and we are able to escape the wreck of the
Borg cube.

Chakotay lets out his breath.

"Good work," he says but all eyes are on the view screen at the burnt
shell of the cube. "Get us out of here, Tom"

"With pleasure," I say.

---

I can barely restrain myself from heading to sickbay the moment Voyager
was out of direct danger from the Borg.

"I'm coming with you," Harry says as I head out into the turbolift.

"Why?"

"Because..." Harry says. "You are my friend, Tom, and there are some
things you don't let friends do alone."

I give Harry a questioning look. Harry shrugs.

"Good firing," I say. "Tuvok would be proud."

"I was holding my breath the whole time," Harry says. "What if Seven
was wrong? What if those shields were never coming down?"

"But they did."

"Thank God."

A truer sentiment was never said.

"Harry, I've been meaning to ask," I say. "Back then, back when all
this was starting, you talked to the Borg Queen..."

"Yeah," he looks distinctly uncomfortable. The turbolift doors open and
we spill out into the corridor. Voyager has sustained a considerable
amount of damage and the repair crews are already about. We pass
Vorik, Carey, Nicoletti and a few others on our way.

"What did you talk about?" I ask.

"You know, the usual."

"No, I don't know. You've got to be more detailed than that, Harry."

"She asked me how I was and I told her. She asked me what was new in my
life and I told her. You know, small talk."

"You small talked with the Borg Queen?"

"Well, it wasn't anything serious. We certainly did not discuss Borg
Federation relations at all."

We reach sickbay and Harry puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Tom, you know... you know what to expect right? I mean, it might not
be B'Elanna in there or it might be."

I take a deep breath.

"I appreciate your concern, Harry. Really, I do. But whatever it is,
we'll get through it, B'Elanna and I. We'll do it together."

---

// "You were really serious about learning Klingon?"  she asks.

"Yeah, whenever you want, we'll do it," I tell her. She is lying in
bed, curled up on her side. I am kneeling on the floor, her hand
clasped between mine. She looks peaceful, content, happy in a way I've
never seen before.

"It's sweet of you to offer," she murmurs.

"But?"

"This is something I've got to do on my own, Tom. I've spent my entire
life trying to be someone I'm not and now I've got to find the real
B'Elanna Torres and I'm afraid this is something I can't help with."
I sit back on my heels but don't release her hand.

"I don't understand," I tell her. "I want to help you. Your self-
destructive behavior, B'Elanna, it scares me."

"It's going to stop, I promise. I just need some time. I need to figure
this out and I need to do it alone."

"You're shutting me out again," I tell her coldly. "If you don't need
me, you should just say so. Tell me now so I can cut my losses."

"You're overreacting."

"Am I?" I get to my feet. "Do you need me for anything, B'Elanna?
Anything at all other than the obvious?"

"Tom, you're blowing this out of proportion."

"I don't think so. I offer to help you because God, you need the help
and I want to be there."

She sits up in bed, drawing her knees to her chest; she looks
vulnerable but I'm not moved.

"Answer my question," I plead. "Do you even need me?"

"You know the answer to that question," she says coolly.

I take a deep breath. God, it takes the patience of a thousand saints
to deal with this woman.

"There are some things we can do together," she says. "And when I need
you, and notice I said when, I will really need you. Do you understand,
Tom? I'm just so mixed up inside, I want to sort it all out before I
drag someone else in."

"I'm not someone else, B'Elanna. I care about you and if you're too
stubborn to see that..."

She is out of bed now, absolutely furious.

"I'm trying, Tom," she says in a controlled voice. With each word, she
advances a step towards. "Don't push me."

"You ask me to let you in; I'm only asking the same in return."

She is centimeters away from me and I grab her by the waist.

"B'Elanna, please. It scares me when you want to make a day trip to
Grethor. It frightens me when you practice orbital skydiving without
the safeties on and it terrifies me that you can't talk about any of
this with me."

She cups my jaw in her palm.

"I need you," she says it very softly. "That frightens me too."

"Terrifying, isn't it?"

She nods and I brush away a tear with my thumb.

"So let me help," I say. "Humor me, okay? And if I get annoying, you
can tell me to leave."

"And you will?"

"Without question."

She wraps her arms around my neck, leaning into me.

"I love you, Tom Paris," she whispers. "But you have to understand that
there are some things I can't share with you. I'm not shutting you out,
Tom, and I appreciate everything you've said and everything you want to
do. Please believe that."

She says this whole speech in that tiny little girl's voice; the one
that says she's trying so hard to be a grown-up.

I hold her close.

"Just promise me," I whisper into her ear. "We'll do most of this
together."

"I promise," she chokes into my shoulder.

We stand there, our arms wrapped around each other, neither willing to
let go.\\

There are times when you are mentally prepared, when you are even
willing to accept, but then you come face to face with reality and it's
like slamming into a brick wall at thirty kilometers an hour.

There are five of them and I can't help myself, but I think of them
as "them." Five drones, all in shiny black with matching silver
accessories. The latest in Delta Quadrant fashion.

None of them are facing us but it does not matter.

I know which one is B'Elanna immediately; I know those shoulders, that
back, that neck so intimately, even in this ribbed armor of hers.

The Doctor is in shock; I can tell because he can't even speak. He just
stares at his tricorder and then back at the drones.

"Doctor," I say gaily. He looks relieved to see me.

"Mr. Paris," he says. "I could use your help."

Harry is a couple steps behind me and he has stopped short. The drones
have taking this moment to turn around and there they are: Janeway,
Tuvok and B'Elanna. They offer us blank stares. My heart beats faster.

Do they not remember us?

It's only been one hundred and one days. How could they forget? How
could she forget?

I take a step forward.

Her hair is gone. That lovely, silky hair is gone and instead, her
scalp is the same color as her face: pasty white. Her eyes, still
brown, dart back and forth, trying desperately to absorb all she can.
Hoses of some sort jut out of her back and shoulders and microtubules
cover her hands. A flashing red light, embedded in a cone-shaped
object, covers her right eye.

The others look similar with minor variations in hardware and body
armor. I can't help myself; I shudder.

I turn to face the others and the Doctor offers me a shrug.

It is impossible to know where to start. I want to say I can get past
those Borg trappings, but I can't. My mind is trained to equate Borg
with assimilation and the death of millions.

I do not know what part these drones - I mean, B'Elanna, Tuvok, Janeway
and the others - had in the assimilations and I don't want to ask.

What you don't know doesn't hurt as much.

But she's here. After all this time, she's finally here and if it were
any other circumstances, I would grab her around the waist and kiss
her. But thought of those pasty greenish lips...

B'Elanna's eyes flicker. There is something there. I hold out my hand
timidly.

I have to think, have to believe, that B'Elanna is under there
somewhere, that she isn't really this machine I'm looking at.

"Mr. Paris," the Doctor says as Harry chimes in, "Tom!"

B'Elanna's metallic hand grabs mine and holds tightly. God, she still
has that death grip; some things never change.

"It's all right," I take a step closer. "B'Elanna, it's me. It's Tom."

Next to her, Janeway fidgets. Tuvok, not surprisingly, does not move;
his gaze is focused straight ahead of him. Borgified or not, some
things never change.

"You are Tom Paris," B'Elanna says in a mechanical voice. "Lieutenant,
chief helm officer on the starship Voyager, commanding officer Captain
Kathryn Janeway."

"That's me," I say. Janeway looks fascinated as fascinated as her
various implants will allow her by the mention of Captain Kathryn
Janeway. Somewhere, in that mechanized body of hers, she
remembers. "And you are Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres, chief engineer on
the starship Voyager, commanding officer Captain Kathryn Janeway."

The red light covering B'Elanna's eye starts to blink rapidly. I look
back at the Doctor questioningly.

"She is scanning you," the Doctor explains. "As are the others."

"Do they -" I indicate all of them, "do they remember us?"

"I think their memories are intact but are deeply recessed. We will
need to retrieve those memories as part of the de-assimilation process."

"When do we start?" I release B'Elanna's hand.

"Immediately," the Doctor says as Chakotay enters, followed by Seven of
Nine. "I will need your assistance, Mr. Paris."

"You have it."

Seven inspects each drone individually. They look at her questioningly.

"We know you," one of the new arrivals says.

"I am...," Seven is at a loss for words. "You know me as Annika, but
here, on Voyager, I am known as Seven of Nine. You are Two of Five,
known in Unimatrix Zero as Arundel."

Seven then turns to the other unknown Borg, "You are Three of Twelve,
known in Unimatrix Zero as Ennis."

Seven turns to face us - Chakotay, Harry, the Doctor and I - wearing a
proud expression.

"Arundel and Ennis," she says again. "He is from the homeworld of
Malnia."

"The gorges," I remember.

"And Ennis is from Cadera," Seven continues.

"Welcome aboard," Chakotay says. In a low voice, he asks the
Doctor, "How long will it be?"

"It will take... some time," the Doctor is obviously struggling with
the answer to this question.

"Well, get started," Chakotay says impatiently.

"I am going to sedate you all," the Doctor says.

"Be calm," Seven advises.

"Mr. Paris, prepare for surgery," the Doctor commands.

I nod and turn away. I know by heart where the drugs are, where the
instruments are; so many times I've come in late at night and imagined
laying them out, just as I am doing now.

Harry joins me.

"Well?" he whispers.

"It's not as bad as I anticipated."

"You're lying. Tell the truth."

I take a deep breath. How to confess what I feel? That I look at that
Borg drone and even though I know it's B'Elanna, I still see Borg? And
when she spoke, her tone was clipped and mechanical, not the fiery
voice I'm used to.

"It's all right, Tom," Harry pats me on the shoulder as I lay out the
instruments.

I swallow hard.

"I've been doing some research," I say in a low voice. "In preparation
for this. I'm guessing that Janeway, Tuvok, B'Elanna - their
modifications are superficial, not quite a part of their systems yet. I
read up on Captain Picard's experience as Locutus of Borg and he was
completely de-assimilated by Dr. Beverly Crusher, with no lasting
effects."

"Other than psychological," Harry says.

"You've been reading too," I smile.

"I figure it didn't hurt to know what we're up against. So you think
they'll be back to normal?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I toss a look back at the drones. "I don't know
about Ennis and Arundel though. Don't know how long they have been with
the Collective."

We hear Seven explaining what is about to happen; her voice is soft and
gentle. I am impressed.

I always claim that when it comes to contradictions, B'Elanna takes the
cake, but I'm rapidly coming to see that Seven might prove worthy
competition for that particular title. Her recent openness, the concern
she displayed regarding the other drones on the Borg cube, and now, the
gentleness in her tone, it shows that she has come such a long way.

Janeway's science fair project has succeeded in becoming an individual.

"Let me help you," Harry steadies my hand. "You're going to drop those."

"Thanks," I let out my breath. "Harry, this isn't going to be easy. And
I'm not just talking about me. It's going to take some time for all us
to... adapt."

Harry offers me a crooked grin.

"Now you sound like Seven," he says.

"Now, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says loudly.

"We're all done here," I say cheerfully. I turn around to see the
biobeds covered with Borg.

Damn, I'm going to have to stop doing that. Think of them by name.
Think of them as Kathryn Janeway, Tuvok, B'Elanna Torres, Arundel and
Ennis. Not Borg.  Individuals.

"Ready," I say. I look at Chakotay who is once again wearing his tense
face.

"All right," the Doctor says. "Everyone out. Sickbay is closed."

"You will keep me informed?" Chakotay asks.

"Of course," the Doctor nods. "But for now, everyone out."

---

// "How do you feel?"

I stretch and roll over in bed. B'Elanna is sitting up, the strap of
her red nightgown falling slightly over one shoulder.

"Like a million elephants just pounded on my skull," I groan into the
pillow. She strokes my back lightly.

"This is what happens when you take your chances with neural
interfaces," she says. "I hope you learned your lesson."

"Believe me," I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. "I have
no desire to repeat that experience again."

"Good," she says. "I don't want to lecture you, Tom, but it was
irresponsible of you. You should have let me or Harry or even Seven
check it out before you hooked yourself up to Alice."

"I didn't think something like this would happen."

"You're not immortal, you know."

"I'm starting to get that feeling."

She laughs, deep and throaty.

"Are you going to sleep through your entire sick leave?"

"I feel like I could," I confess.

B'Elanna snuggles back down under the covers, draping her arm across my
chest. She props her chin up on the back of her hand and looks down at
me.

"I'll check on you," she says. "Do you need anything?"

"No, not for now," I rest my palm on the small of her back. "Do you
forgive me?"

She offers me a big smile, "Of course."

"No, really."

"As long as it doesn't happen again. I'm tired of watching over you in
sickbay-"

"You are tired? What about me? I'm constantly in sickbay because you've
taken an unnecessary risk or you've been attacked by some strange alien
entity. B'Elanna, I don't think you can really claim innocence on this
point."

"Maybe not," she says, reaching up to ruffle my hair. "Maybe we should
make a pact?"

"Yeah?"

"Neither of us in sickbay again for the duration of our time in the
Delta Quadrant."

"Sounds like a tall order," I chuckle.

"Do you agree?" she asks earnestly.

"You're serious?"

"Completely serious. Come on, Tom."

I think about all the times we have disagreed on things as simple as
what to eat for dinner or where to go on our holodeck vacations.
Mostly, we just take the easy way out by doing something neither of us
really cares for. Agreeing is not something we do particularly well.

But there is a first time for everything. Even silly promises like this
count for something.

"I promise. Do you promise?"

"With all my heart," she says with a cheeky grin.

"B'Elanna."

"I do," she giggles and stretches up to kiss my nose. "I promise." \\

It has been twenty-nine hours straight. One drone down, four to go.

Even drones have rank and we do Janeway first.

My research is correct; the assimilation is purely superficial - the
implants haven't had time to fully integrate into her system. But
still, it is painstaking work to remove what implants are there.

My neck hurts from bending over her prone figure; even my eyes are
starting to give out.

"Are you all right, Mr. Paris?" the Doctor asks in a low voice.

"Fine," I say sharply. I take a quick reading; her vitals are stable.

Slowly, Kathryn Janeway is becoming more recognizable.

"Are you tired? Do you need to rest?" the Doctor queries.

I want to say no but my body is saying something completely different.

"It does not help if you are tired," the Doctor goes on in his best
preachy tone. "I advise you get some rest immediately."

"I'll just, um, get on a biobed," I point.

"No. I order you to your quarters."

I give him a look as if to say, "huh?" but then I agree he's right. I
don't think I can sleep given the proximity of the drones - uh, and I
do it again.

"I've got to stop that," I say.

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking of them as drones, as Borg. I can't help it. I look at
them and I see Borg."

"It's B'Elanna," the Doctor drags me over to the biobed where B'Elanna
lies.

"I know that. Logically, I know that. That's not the problem," I argue.

The Doctor sighs, "Get some rest. I'll continue here. Report back in
eight hours."

"Will you be all right?"

"Yes," he says. "Do not worry about me, Mr. Paris. You need some rest."

I pause by B'Elanna's bio bed and hesitantly, I stretch out a finger to
touch her cheek. I wonder what it will feel like? Smooth? Slimy? Cold?

Turns out, the answer is all of the above. I pull my hand back and
stare down at her face.

"Something the matter?" the Doctor calls.

"Uh, I'm wondering if she is, um, dreaming," I say. I look down
fascinated. Back when B'Elanna had eyelashes, she dreamt. Now, I can't
tell. Her jaw is tight, her skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones
and there is that barely audible hum emanating from one or more of her
implants.

I shiver.

"Now, Mr. Paris," the Doctor points to the door.

I do not really notice the walk back my quarters. Chills run up and
down my spine and my eyelids feel vaguely itchy as if there is a dust
particle or two or three embedded within my eye.

Somehow, I end up in bed, fully dressed minus my boots; those made it
off of my feet by some supernatural force because I lack the energy. I
am sleeping before my head even hits the pillow.

//It's dark and smells like cleaning solution, not unlike the fluid
used so recently to clean the carpets on Voyager. Green light shines
everywhere throughout my hazy surroundings. It is cold here. Loud too.

The noise, God, it's impossible to escape. I cover my ears and I am
looking for a way out. There are no doors, just endless corridors of
metallic construct, girded and beamed, with wires hanging out of
orifices. Everything is angular and sharp; nothing smooth, nothing
pretty. My boots clatter against the duranium floor. I only stop once
to notice that the floor is a weave and between the spaces I can see
forever. If I fall, I fall forever.

The noise grows louder and I sink to my knees, my hands firmly over my
ears. I want to shriek for it all to stop but my teeth are chattering
and suddenly, every muscle in my body spasms.

And then the shadow comes. One, then two, and finally, the third. They
are there, huge hulking figures attired in sculpted black armor, their
one eye glowing red, and their fingers, hands, arms reaching outward.

"Resistance is futile," they intone in one voice. "You will be
assimilated."

"No!" I scream. "No!" \\

I sit up, gasping. A dream, Tom, only a dream. But some details felt
astonishingly real and it was almost if I was back on the Borg cube, a
science fair project for a bunch of kid drones to practice assimilation
technique on.

I calm my breathing and get out of bed.

"Computer, time?" I ask.

"The time is 0742 hours," she responds cheerfully.

Great thing about a computer is that it isn't made out of flesh and
blood; it doesn't need sleep and certainly doesn't need coffee to wake
it up. That voice is perpetually chipper and always helpful except for
when it doesn't want to be.

And that's when you are in trouble.

I look back at my bed, at the covers that have fallen to the floor.

"Deep breaths, Tom, deep breaths," I tell myself as I pace the length
of the room.

It's no use going back to sleep; my heart is pounding. So I dress and
head directly to sickbay, skipping breakfast; I don't think I can keep
anything down anyway.

The Doctor is off-line, but I notice immediately that Janeway is
completely restored and sleeping. Chakotay stands next to her. When he
notices my presence, he drops the Captain's hand immediately.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Chakotay says pleasantly. I make my way
over to Janeway and study her. Everything looks normal, all the right
parts in all the right places. No Borg hardware remaining that I can
see.

The Doctor does good work but it's best not to say these things aloud;
his ego is already well-inflated.

I grab the tricorder lying next to the bed and run a quick scan; she
looks good. Janeway will be back on her feet in a matter of days, once
again ready to run roughshod over anyone who dares even toss a dirty
look in the direction of her little Voyager collective.
Chakotay has returned to his usual reticent self and I let him be.

Instead I turn to look at B'Elanna. She is exactly as I left her but
her breath is raspy and strained.

"Uh," I grab the tricorder. Where to even start with a half-Klingon,
half-human and somewhat Borg individual? I run a diagnostic, checking
her heart and lungs and other parts of the pulmonary system, but find
nothing.

"It's the body armor," the Doctor says from behind me. "It is crushing
her chest."

"We've got to do something," I say desperately.

"Calm, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says.

"Calm? You want me to be calm? B'Elanna could be dying!"

"I assure you that she is not."

"You just said that the armor is crushing her chest," I remind him.

The Doctor presses a hypo against B'Elanna's neck.

"This should relieve some of the pressure," the Doctor says. He goes to
check on the others while I hover over B'Elanna.

After a moment, the Doctor returns and his expression is concerned.

"We do B'Elanna next," he says. "But they are all in critical
condition."

"What is going on?" Chakotay comes over, hands behind his back, his
shoulders leaning slightly forward. It is, in my humble opinion,
Chakotay's best pose and probably the one he uses to get all the girls.

But it also has the look of interest, of caring, and that's Chakotay's
strength is. He doesn't have to pretend to care because he honestly
does and he does not have to make up things because he is sincere. He
says what he means and when he acts, it is completely from the heart.

It is an admirable trait.

The Doctor explains quickly but at the same time, he is prepping
B'Elanna for surgery.

Without thinking about it at all, I grab her hand.

"It will be okay," I whisper in her ear, hoping she can hear me. "We're
going to get you out of there. I promise."

---

// I am five. The closet is dark, hot, stuffy. The smell of old leather
permeates the air and it's impossible to find a place to sit; the boots
and other odd items clutter the floor.

I pound on the door but Jenna doesn't hear. She has probably wandered
off somewhere with Kevin; he comes over a lot and they kiss. Sometimes

I wonder why she even wants to spend time here watching me if all she
really wants to do is be with Kevin.

It hurts my feelings; I'm at least as fun as Kevin but she never kisses
me the way she kisses him. She doesn't even really look at me and only
talks to me if I've done something terrible.

Sometimes she makes me lunch if she is in a good mood.

But today is different.

She is fidgety, nervous about something and won't tell me about it. And
that's how I ended up in the closet. She said, "You go hide, Tom, and
I'll find you, okay?"

So I went into the closet because it's such a good place to hide behind
all of the coats.

Jenna never comes.

I pound on the door but nothing. I scream, I cry, but no Jenna.

All around me, I see monsters. The lone mop becomes the medusa of
ancient mythology; the hangers with their metal clips are pinchers,
waiting to grab me around the neck.

And then the door opens.

Jenna.

She is crying.

"Oh Tom," she sobs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to leave you in there.
I just lost all track of time..."

I scramble out of the closet and slam the door behind me. Jenna kneels
and wipes my tears away.

"We won't say anything about this, right?" she whispers. "It's our
secret. Yours and mine, okay? Tom, promise."

I love Jenna so I promise.

But every time I walk pass the closet, I can't help but think of those
two hours when I lay there, alone and in the dark.

And I never want to be there again. \\

The Doctor moves briskly. There are advantages to being a hologram;
endless and boundless energy and enthusiasm, to name a couple. He even
hums Italian arias underneath his breath as he works on B'Elanna. I
mostly hover, handing him the necessary instruments and injecting her
with various drugs as the Doctor commands.

Chakotay comes in every now and then to check on our progress. At one
point, he grabs me by the shoulder and propels me into the Doc's office.

"When was the last time you slept, Tom?" he asks.

I lean back in my chair, "Last night."

"No, really, Tom," Chakotay seats himself on the edge of the desk.

I sigh and let my eyes drift to the Doctor, to B'Elanna and then to the
remaining Borg drones.

"I have nightmares," I say softly. "Of when I was on the Borg cube. It
makes it difficult to sleep."

"That's understandable, but you need to rest, Tom. The Doctor needs
you."

"He doesn't need me," I answer. "You could do what I'm doing, even
Seven. I'm here because I want to be."

"Could have fooled me."

Our eyes meet. I'm the first to blink.

"Don't hurt her, Tom," Chakotay says finally. "She's been through a lot
and the last thing she needs is your disgust."

"My what?" I am incredulous. "What are you talking about?"

"I have been watching you," he says. "The way you've been acting.
Frankly, I'm disappointed. I would have expected more from you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about B'Elanna. You need to look at her as B'Elanna
Torres, not as some kind of machine."

I swallow hard. He's right. Of course he's right. I've been telling
myself the same thing for the last three days. Think B'Elanna, not
Borg. She is not Borg, she is B'Elanna. She just looks like Borg but
beneath all of that hardware, she is B'Elanna.

I want to believe this so much, but until she opens her eyes and
speaks, I'm not going to know for sure.

Chakotay's face softens.

"I know what you're thinking, Tom," he says. "I had some of the same
thoughts. I still have them. I don't what the Captain's going to be
like. Will she be the same or will she be completely different? And
those are the most simplistic characterizations I can come up with but
I understand that it will be more complicated than that. We have a lot
of work to do, Tom, and I'm counting you to help B'Elanna and the
others to get through the transition. Can I count on you?"

Hell, you'd have to be a heartless bastard to turn down a plea like
that.

I was wrong earlier; the Borg queen didn't stand a chance.

"Yes," I say. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," he nods in the direction of B'Elanna.

I rub my hand across my eyes. Sleep threatens me, inching into every
corner of my brain until I can barely think. But there is a thought
that nags at me; something I have to know the answer to.

"Chakotay," I say. He turns around.

"What is it, Tom?"

"Before Seven came to the Bridge to tell us that the Borg would lower
their shields, what were you going to do?"

"I don't understand."

"During that moment of silence," I say. "When the Borg Queen and you
were negotiating, you knew that Voyager was no match for the cube. What
would you have done if Seven hadn't come in at that very moment?"

"Lucky for us, wasn't it?" Chakotay offers me his trademark crooked
smile.

"Dumb luck if you ask me," I answer. "Well?"

"To be frank, Tom, I don't know. I replay it in my head over and over
again but I do not know what I would have done."

"Would you have left them behind?"

Long silence. I can almost hear Chakotay's brain processing this
question. He can't answer this question and come out ahead; it's not
possible.

"I don't know," he says. "I can't tell you anything more than that."

By the tone of his voice, I know our conversation is over; he has
shared with me all that ever will. Now that the Captain is back, he has
no need to ever confide in Tom Paris again.

We can go back to disliking each other, tolerating each other only
because B'Elanna wants us to.

I love the status quo as much as the next man. There is something very
comforting in constancy; change stirs up the stomach, dredges up all
sorts of unpleasantness.

But I want this all to change. I want Chakotay to know that I respect
him.

I want him to respect me.

The very thought surprises me. Six years ago, the brash, stubborn pilot
that was Tom Paris wanted very little to do with the cool-headed Maquis
pilot. Our history together made for disaster and I was not willing to
extend him the courtesy he deserved.

And I did not care what he thought of me. In my mind, only Janeway's
opinion mattered; Chakotay, to quote a Borg friend of mine, was
irrelevant.

"Get some rest," Chakotay says over his shoulder. "I will assist the
Doctor."

---

Crisis comes at hour twenty-four of the operation.

"Something's wrong," the Doctor says as the machines began to beep
violently. I turn to the machines.

"Her heart," I say. "Erratic heartbeat. I'm also reading a decrease in
neural pathway activity."

"Ten milligrams of Jaxite," the Doctor is already halfway across the
room in search of something.

I find the Jaxite and inject it into the side of B'Elanna's neck. Her
body jerks.

"We've got to get this off of her," I pull violently at the various
hoses on her body. "It's suffocating her!"

"Mr. Paris, calm down!" the Doctor is back at my side. "Don't do
anything rash."

"It's killing her," I tell him desperately.

"Calm, Mr. Paris," the Doctor says. "Please."

I watch as he disengages some of the hoses and then injects B'Elanna
with another drug.

"This didn't happen with the Captain," I say.

"The Captain is human," the Doctor says. "The side-effects vary."

Oh yes, side effects. How could I possibly forget that long litany of
what might and what could possibly happen if one went through de-
assimilation?

I suppose you forget what you do not want to remember.

I grab her hand and wonder of wonders, her fingers curl around my hand.

The action may be completely reflexive, but it does not matter to me.

// "B'Elanna, stay with me."

It is cold, so cold. How long have we been here? The evergreen trees
are dripping with icicles, lightly coated with snow. Every now and
then, there is a crash, an avalanche of snow descending down the slope.

I imagine that one of those giant tidal waves might envelope us, sweep
us away and we would lie frozen within each other's arms.

I have lost track of time. It could be ten minutes or ten hours since
we stumbled off of the path.

B'Elanna's lips are blue and she is still in my arms. I lean down and
blow warm air - I hope it's warm - on her face. She looks almost
peaceful, her long lashes curling against her face.

I gather her close, thinking that this is a terrible way to end
everything. The only mercy is that eventually I too will drift off to
sleep and then it will be all over.

"B'Elanna," my voice is hoarse from screaming. She does not stir but my
hand on her chest assures me that she is breathing. I can also feel the
rhythm of her hearts beneath my palm and not for the first time, I
thank her Klingon genome for its study architecture.

She might despise that Klingon part of herself but I cherish it.

And then, "Voyager to Paris."

My frozen lips crack open, "Paris here."

"Prepare for transport."

I lean over B'Elanna, brushing my lips against those Klingon ridges.

"We're going home," I whisper. "We're going home." \\

"Are you going to just stand there and watch?" the Doctor snaps.

I jerk back into action. My body is blessed with supernatural
abilities; for once in my life, I am absolutely sure of what I am doing
and what needs to be done.

We work quickly and then the Doctor nods at me.

"It will be all right, Mr. Paris," he says. "Can you check on the
others?"

I nod and back away.

The other drones, Tuvok including, are stable. The Doctor says the
Vulcan chemistry has enormous capacity for healing and that his de-
assimilation process should take less time than that of B'Elanna's and
the Captain's.

I check on Janeway; her pulse is normal, her breathing even. Her skin
has flushed to a rosy pink, a welcome change after that unnatural pasty
white. Her chestnut hair curls against her cheek as she sleeps.

I watch the Doctor tend to B'Elanna and under his care, her life signs
return to normal or at least, normal for this potpourri of genetics she
has become.

---

In space, there is no differentiation between night and day, only an
arbitrary clock set to Federation standard time. I find it rather
amusing that we mark off the hours by a standard a quadrant away but
why change? We find comfort in that which we find familiar and time is
the true constant we can rely on, mostly because it is so arbitrary.

Time, however, does not relieve my anxiety as I stand over B'Elanna.
She has come through surgery well, or so the Doctor claims, but I won't
believe him until she wakes.

Open your eyes, B'Elanna. Open them. Just a slight muscle movement,
that's all.

Janeway is awake and alert; she is sitting up and drinking coffee, even
making a joke or two.

"I missed this on the Borg vessel," she tells Chakotay and me. "No
coffee for drones. No nothing for anyone, actually."

"Well, it's good to have you back," Chakotay comments.

She doesn't even know that half of it. I wonder how much Chakotay will
tell her. I suppose it doesn't matter; Janeway will want to know
everything in minutia. Every detail, everything, of the one hundred
days we were without her.

It would be easy to chronicle the passage of each day in terms of
events.

Woke up, reported to duty, went to sleep. Somewhere in there, there was
food and maybe good friends, the occasional excursion to the holodeck.

To me, it is all a pointless blur. None of it matters because the
infiltration of the Borg cube to spread a nanovirus to preserve the
integrity of Unimatrix Zero was an exercise in futility.

Others will argue with me on this particular opinion and I bet the
historians slated to write the biographies of Kathryn Janeway will hail
the mission as a grand success, her greatest triumph.

Other than, of course, the re-assimilation of the Borg drone, Seven of
Nine.

"You're quiet, Tom," Janeway says.

I offer her a smile. I have struggled for the last ten days about how
honest I should be with my Captain. Do I tell her how I feel? That I
resent that she put herself in danger and included Tuvok and Torres in
her escapade?

Of course B'Elanna will argue with me - when she wakes up - that it was
her decision, and her decision only, to accompany Janeway on the
mission.

That's not the point.

It has never been the point.

When you are captain, you have an obligation to your people.

It's that simple.

There have been other enemies, other battles, but never one where we
could deliberately affect the outcome like this one.

We could have walked away this time and it would have been all right.
Our victory is luck. That's what is. Dumb luck but no one will admit it.

Kathryn Janeway certainly never will.

"What are you thinking about?" Chakotay looks over at me. He looks much
happier, definitely more at ease.

"I'm glad you're back," I say sincerely. At least that much is true.

---

B'Elanna is awake. Her eyes are alert as she scans the room. She even
tries to sit up, but winces. I am at her side immediately, pulling out
my tricorder.

"B'Elanna? Are you alive?" I ask her, half-jokingly, half-seriously.

She stares at me, her eyes wide with fear.

"Tom?" she asks uncertainly.

"That's me, Tom Paris, resident pig at your service," I tell her.

She doesn't look well, not half as well as Janeway did the first time
she woke. It worries me and I'm wondering if something has gone wrong.
Maybe we disconnected the wrong wire, flipped the wrong switch, used
the wrong drug, I don't know.

"The others?" she is trying to look for Tuvok and Janeway and looks
visibly distress when she doesn't see them.

"Released. Back in their quarters," I tell her.

She closes her eyes and the barest hint of water slips under the lid.

"It's so quiet," she whispers. "So quiet."

A hand - B'Elanna's hand, presumably - grabs my heart, squeezes and
won't let go. I stand there, my breath coming out unevenly. I am
waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to tell me that she wants
to return to the Collective.

And I'm so afraid, so afraid, that B'Elanna, the B'Elanna I remember,
is still back there on the Borg cube.

---

B'Elanna, Tuvok and Janeway make exceptional progress in their
recoveries. This is according to the Doctor who is now proclaiming
himself an expert in the de-assimilation process.

To our relief, none of them, including Arundel and Ennis, have
mentioned returning to the Collective, but the nagging fear remains.

It doesn't matter how many times you read a theory in a textbook; until
it is put into practice, you don't know how it's actually going to work
and that's the scary part.

Even though we have the shining examples of Seven of Nine and Captain
Jean-Luc Picard in front of us, how do we know that Janeway, Tuvok,
B'Elanna, Arundel and Ennis will do the same?

Wait and see, says the Doctor and much as I'm loathe to admit it, he is
right this time.

We can't know and we won't know. The damage is done and now we have to
face the consequences.

But the Doctor himself sees no consequences at all. Rather, he puffs
out his chest as much as a holographic being can and struts around his
sickbay, proud as a peacock.

"No one has performed the de-assimilation as many times as I have," the
Doctor says cheerfully as the two of us clean up the sickbay. "I should
write a book. Yes, this is my legacy. The de-assimilation of Borg
drones. I imagine they will want me to lecture once we get back to the
Alpha Quadrant."

I don't answer. I have a feeling he has already written that book he is
talking about is and imagines himself on the lecture circuit, receiving
thunderous applause and gratuitous praise.

I arrange the drugs back into their cabinet, organizing them in
alphabetical order and so that their labels face front.

I'm rapidly getting tired of this room. Everywhere I look, I see
residual signs of Borg even though the Borg are no longer among us.

Even the air, constantly refiltered, smells of Borg technology.

A medicine vial slips from my hand and I grab it a second after it
bounces up from the floor.

"Are you all right?" the Doctor asks.

I nod, handing him the remaining drugs.

"Of course," I say. "It's exhausting."

"Indeed, but it went well," the Doctor says. "I am hopeful they will
all be back to normal, though I do hope Lieutenant Torres left her
temper behind on the Borg cube."

My fists tighten around the hypospray I am about to hand over.

"Mr. Paris," the Doctor gently extricates the object from my clenched
fingers.

"Sorry," I say. "I- I must have drifted off."

"You really need to stop doing that. What if you were piloting Voyager?"

"I'm sorry," I apologize. "I think I'm just tired."

"Get some rest," he says.

This phrase, "get some rest," is becoming a habit with people. I do not
know why people feel the need to take care of me. I do not need
mothering. I want the strength to do what I want when I want,
regardless of consequences. I want the ability to accept the outcomes
of my decisions without having to answer to a higher authority.

I suppose I want to be the Captain.

But of course, I cannot say this to the Doctor so I give him a nod and
head to my quarters.

---

On my way, I stop in to see B'Elanna. I let myself into her quarters
quietly in case she is sleeping.

It has only been thirteen hours since the Doctor discharged B'Elanna
and even then, she did not seem quite herself to me. Her eyes flickered
back and forth. Disoriented, I suppose, though she did know who she was.

That, at least, was something.

I had offered to take her back to my quarters but she had seemed
resistant to the suggestion and I hadn't wanted to push her.

To be honest, I was relieved, not sure yet how I was going to deal with
her and what had happened.

Avoidance, again, is the best medicine for what ails you. If you ignore
something or someone long enough, the problem goes away.

I walk into her bedroom and she is lying in bed, the blankets up to her
waist, her short hair dark against the white pillow.

Sleeping like that, she looks like B'Elanna.

There is nothing Borg left in her except for the occasional nanoprobe
swimming in her bloodstream.

I sit in the armchair opposite her bed and watch her chest rise and
fall.

What if there had been something Borg left in her? Would I still be
able to...?

Of course these are thoughts I cannot possibly entertain and at the
beginning of this mission, I would never have thought my feelings would
have remained constant, Borg or not.

It's amazing how prejudices bleed to the surface, spilling over into
every aspect of life, clouding even the soundest of judgements.

B'Elanna stirs and then opens one eye.

"Tom?" she whispers.

I'm at her side, kneeling by the bed.

"Shh," I tell her. "Don't talk."

"It hurts," she whimpers.

"That's because we had to do a little rearranging," I let my fingers
brush against her skin. It's soft, smooth, and golden-colored - exactly
the way I remember. There are some rough patches of skin where the Borg
armor rubbed against her, but it's nothing some lotion can't take care.

"Rearranging?" she rasps.

"Borg implants, they have a way of moving things around," I
answer. "You may find at a routine Star Fleet physical that some of
your organs are a micrometer or so out of place."

She reaches out, her fingers weakly stretching for my cheek.

"You look... tired."

"You too?" I ask jokingly, but she doesn't get the comment. Her fingers
fall to her side and I cover the hand with mine.

She offers me only a tired and confused look in response.

"Tom, the pain," she whispers.

"I know," I stand up. "Let me get the hypospray, okay? Stay with me,
B'Elanna."

Her eyes are closed when I return, but they open as I press the cool
head of the hypospray against her neck. "Better?"

"Better," she says.

I resist the urge to crawl into bed with her and wrap my arms around
that suddenly frail body.

"You need to be careful," I tell her. "There is a chance that you might
experience hemorrhaging."

"Hemorrhaging?"

"Unfortunately that's a side-effect of the de-assimilation process."

"Tom..." she looks green and again, I leap to my feet to grab a bucket.

I make it back just in time and she retches before lying back down. I
go into the bathroom, clean the bucket and bring her back a towel,
soaked in warm water.

"Here," I help her sit up, and then gently wipe her lips, chin and
cheeks. "Do you want some water, B'Elanna?"

She nods, but holds my hand.

"You have to let me go," I say gently. "Let me get you some water."

I am half way out of the room when she says in a strong, clear
voice, "I remembered you, Tom."

I turn around, "What?"

"Some days, I remembered you," she smiles shyly. "Some days I was Borg
but other days, I was B'Elanna Torres and knew it. And those were the
best days. I remembered you."

I nod and go to the replicator.

"Glass of water, slightly warm and sweetened with a bit of honey," I
say. The glass materializes and I take it. My hand trembles slightly as
I go back into the bedroom.

"Here," I sit on the bed and place the glass next to her lips. B'Elanna
takes it in her shaking hands, nearly spilling most of the liquid on
herself.

"Let me get you another nightgown," I say.

"No," she puts her hand on my thigh. "Please, stay with me."

I have never been able to resist those eyes so I help her lie down and
then I curl up next to her, careful not to touch.

---

The captain's expression is that of someone who has just sucked on a
lemon. Her hand is curled around a mug of coffee as she sits in her
chair, still in robe and nightgown.

"You wanted to see me?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "Please sit."

I can tell this isn't a social call; she doesn't want to talk about
Fair Haven or even about our plans to trade with the Narsians in a
couple days.

Since returning from the Borg ship, she has remained in relative
isolation, recovering slowly and seeing only Chakotay and the Doctor.

I sit. Her expression doesn't change.

Definitely not the time to talk about a party in the mess hall.
Something is going on. And it's not going to be good.

"Tom, you had some misgivings about our recent mission to the Borg
cube," she begins.

"Some, yes," I admit. "Why?"

"I get the feeling, Tom, that you don't like me very much," Janeway
shifts position. "Is that right?"

Damn if she isn't perceptive. I've spent all of twenty minutes with her
since her return and she picks up on the one thing I don't want her to
know.

So much for hiding my real feelings.

At least when B'Elanna accuses me of deception, I can point out this
particular moment when Janeway read my mind and emotions completely.

I imagine mind reading is yet another course offered to those on the
command track and I also suppose Janeway got an A too.

"So what changed, Tom?" Janeway asks.

Where to start? I mean, honestly, questioning the decisions of your
commanding officer is one thing; telling her about it is another.

I take a deep breath.

"I'm waiting."

"I'm not sure that the Borg mission was entirely necessary," I blurt
out.

"So that's it? You think I put us and the ship in danger?"

"Yes."

"We face danger every day we're in the Delta Quadrant, Tom. God knows
things might not be much better in the Alpha Quadrant."

"Yes, but this was a choice you made," I tell her. "We didn't have to
do it. You, Tuvok and B'Elanna did not have to be assimilated. That was
a choice you made."

"I see," she pauses for a moment. "So it's B'Elanna then..."

"Not B'Elanna," I shake my head. "The crew, all of us. We all count,
Captain, and I sometimes wonder if you think we matter at all."

"How dare you question me like that?" she is furious. She slams the
empty coffee mug down on her table and stands with a little
difficulty. "My sole responsibility is, and always will be, this crew."

"Even when it means a direct confrontation with the Borg that could
have been avoided?"

Janeway is pale and I spring to my feet.

"You are tired," I tell her.

She pushes me away, some of the old fire returning to her eyes.

"Tom, you may not believe this, but I always act in the best interests
of this crew. You may not always agree with me, but believe me, I never
do anything without first thinking of every person on this ship," her
voice is low but firm.

"You weren't there when Chakotay was facing the Borg queen," I tell
her. "Those were probably the longest ten minutes of my life. They
certainly were for Harry and Chakotay. Chakotay doesn't even know what
he would have done if the plan hadn't succeeded at the last minute.
Likely, we would have all been assimilated and without the luxury of a
neural suppressant."

"I apologize," Janeway turns her back to me. "It could not have been
easy for you, but I stand by my decision, Tom, and I expect you to
respect my command."

"You never have to doubt my loyalty," I answer. "But I do have the
right to question an order if I think it is to the detriment of the
crew."

"Do you?" she turns back around, her eyes slightly amused. "It's all
right, Tom. I understand. If you ever have a problem with something I
say or do, you need to tell me. I will always listen."

"I suppose that's all I can ask."

Janeway finds her way back to her chair, sinks back, and closes her
eyes.

"You're dismissed," she says in a faint voice.

I stand up and head towards the door, but pause when Janeway
says, "Tom?"

"Yes, ma'am?" I turn. Her eyes are still closed, but her voice is much
stronger now.

"That pip, it looks good on you," she says.

The comment is unexpected and I have to wonder if it's a threat, but
Janeway's expression relaxes as her eyes open.
"You earned it, Tom," she says. "I appreciate what you are saying and
you may be right. You need to remember that there is only one captain
on this ship."

I swallow hard, "Understood."

"Good," she says. "Now get out of here."

---

B'Elanna is waiting. She sits on the sofa, dressed in a set of pajamas
I have never seen before: navy blue, long sleeves and long pants. Her
shirt is buttoned to her throat and I find this odd; B'Elanna has
always been one for less.

"Did you and the Captain have a good talk?" B'Elanna asks hoarsely as I
sit on the sofa next to her. I gently lift her legs and put them on my
lap, massaging her feet. She sighs.

"You could say that," I answer, not willing to reveal more information
than that. There is no need for B'Elanna to know how much I resented
the captain during their absence.

"Anything serious?"

"No," I reply.

We sit in silence for a moment. B'Elanna's jaw moves like she is trying
to find the words to speak.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask.

"Um, what was it like when I was gone?" she asks, running her hand
through her hair.

"The same," I answer carefully.

"Write any new holoprograms?"

"No. How could I? My inspiration was gone."

B'Elanna offers me a smile. Most people would never think that B'Elanna
would fall for the sappy stuff, but take it from me, she adores it as
much as the next woman.

"Honestly?"

I nod, "Honestly. Harry and I tried Captain Proton once, but our hearts
weren't in it. I guess playing hero didn't make a whole lot of sense."

"Did you do anything at all?" B'Elanna leans forward, resting her
elbows on her upper thighs.

"Well, it was business as usual. We found a planet with plenty of
dilithium close to the surface, so you shouldn't have to worry about a
shortage for quite a while."

"That's good to hear," B'Elanna reclines. Her eyes close and I notice
that her face is draining of color.

"B'Elanna, are you all right?"

"Just sleepy. Talk to me," she whispers.

"About what?"

"Anything," she mumbles.

So I start talking. I tell her about our days on Voyager while she, the
Captain and Tuvok were gone. I don't know if she hears me as I tell her
about the nightmares, the memories and then, I lightly touch upon my
fears. Her eyes open slightly.

"Are you all right?" I ask again.

"Just tired," she says. "Did you really think about me that much?"

"More."

"Good answer," a shadow of a smile crosses her face.

In some ways, this feels very much like a first date, this getting
reacquainted process. Our conversation has all the feelings of old
friends and some of the awkwardness of new romance. I can't help but
think I'm either trying too hard or not hard enough. No matter, from
whichever angle you look at the situation, it feels strained and
uncomfortable at random intervals. I am not sure where the tension
comes from, whether it is my uneasiness about the identity and
personality of the woman sitting in front of me or is it her, pushing
me away and not allowing me to share her experiences.

B'Elanna tips her head back against the sofa. Her hair is growing back
quickly, thanks to a growth hormone provided by the Doctor. Definitely,
she is looking more like B'Elanna, and when she is quiet like this, I
can forget the Borg drone with B'Elanna's eyes.

"That feels good," she says. "Relaxing."

"Glad you like it," I grin back as I move my hands up and down the
soles of her feet and then, gradually up to her calves. "Your muscles
are tight, B'Elanna."

"Anxiety, I suppose."

"You need to relax. A trip to the beach, maybe?"

B'Elanna's face darkens and she bites her lip; she looks away. I lean
forward and take her chin in my hand and turn her face towards me.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I don't...," she chokes.

"What?" more urgently, more distressed.

"You said the beach," she says. "But how can we? You can't even stand
the sight of me."

I recoil. Her tone is more sad and contemplative than angry, but she is
right. How many times have I averted my eyes because I'm afraid of
seeing the Borg? I can't help it even though I know it's wrong. Even
worse, I did not think B'Elanna would sense my aversion.

But once again, women have an uncanny second sense about things like
this; it's useless to hide and I am a fool for even trying.

"That's not true," I answer flatly.

"I saw it in sickbay," she says. "When I woke up and you were staring
at me, it was as if you didn't trust me, didn't know me."

It's no use lying to B'Elanna. She is right; we both know it.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"We do that a lot, don't we?" she doesn't sound sad, merely
contemplative. "We do our best to wound and then pretend nothing ever
happened."

Her sentiment is the same that has run through my head repeatedly
during the time she was away. For once, we're on the same wavelength
and from the tone of her voice, I know she wants to work towards
changing the situation.

"Yes," I say. "But I'd like to change that."

"Me too," her eyes flutter again.

I caress her feet a little more and then slip my hands up inside of her
pant legs. She nearly jumps out of her skin and I withdraw my hands.

"B'Elanna?"

"It's all right," she says quickly. "I'm sorry. I guess, I didn't
expect that."

Skin to skin, the feeling I most relish, and the way I feel closest to
B'Elanna, and she tells me she did not expect it.

I immediately push away my hurt feelings because B'Elanna is biting her
lip, looking uneasy. She still doesn't trust me.

I don't blame her. I don't trust me either.

"You want to talk about it?" I ask.

"About?"

"Your experience. We haven't even touched on it yet."

"The Borg, you mean. It's okay to say the word, Tom," there's an edge
to B'Elanna's voice. Her lip curls slightly, her nostrils flare; this
is all B'Elanna, no Borg influence in her flushed cheeks, hard eyes and
tense muscles. It is a slightly frightening thought - B'Elanna's temper
is now an integral part of what is Borg. At least you can take the Borg
out of B'Elanna but if I understand the process of assimilation
properly, it's not possible to take the B'Elanna out of the Borg.

"I'm sorry," I figure I can just make a recording of that phrase and
play it often. I have a feeling I'm going to need to use it on a
regular basis to get myself back into B'Elanna's good graces.

Because, damn, I want to be trusted, wanted, needed, loved - all of
these things - by B'Elanna.

B'Elanna rests her head on her palm, her expression growing more
meditative.

"It was different," she says with no trace of irony. "Different from
anything I've ever experienced before."

"Bad?"

"Sometimes," she says. "The actual assimilation process, that was
painful."

"So Seven was wrong?"

"Yes, Seven was wrong," B'Elanna answers. "During assimilation, it was
as if I was being squeezed and pulled in a million different directions
and sometimes, I was pulled and pushed at the same time. And it was
cold, Tom, so cold. I never thought about it before, but all those
wires, that... armor... it was not comfortable and never warm."

"I wouldn't imagine so," I answer.

"The neural suppressant the Doctor gave us before leaving... it worked
some days and sometimes not. Some days I would wake up as B'Elanna
Torres and I would know that I was B'Elanna. Those were the best days
because I remembered Voyager, remembered Janeway and Tuvok, and I knew
why I was on the cube. It was those other days, those when I was just a
drone, everything was so mechanical. I just did and I don't know why.
And I don't think I ever questioned; it was as if the thought of self-
will did not exist. Those were the most frightening days."

"Oh B'Elanna," I reach forward and take her hand.

"And we didn't always remember on the same day and that was tricky,"
B'Elanna says. "Sometimes I would remember, but Janeway and Tuvok would
not and I had to be very careful around them so they would not turn me
in to the Collective and then other days, it was the other way around.
You never could tell."

"But you're home now."

"Yes," B'Elanna says. "It is warm here."

"Really?"

"Yes."

I weave my fingers in between hers and hold them tightly. I let her go
once and damn if I do it again. Next time she decides to do something
foolish like getting assimilated, I'm going with her.

I was a coward the last time but never again.

"Tom, this is not going to be easy," she says. "Being back here, I
mean."

"I realize that."

"I'm going to need you," B'Elanna's voice is very soft. "Will you help
me?"

"Yes, of course," I tell her. As if there is any doubt at all. There
are still questions in my mind about her time on the Borg cube, things
I want the answers to, but it will all come in good time; when B'Elanna
is ready to share with me and not before then. I will not push this
time because for once, I know we're in something together.

"I'm sorry if you look at me and see Borg," B'Elanna says. "I
understand that it might take a while before you can..."

"No," I breathe. I lean forward and brush her lips with mine. "I'm
wrong, B'Elanna, and I know that."

"Are you sure?"

I slowly unbutton the top of her pajamas; she watches intently, her
eyes never straying from mine. I push the shirt off of her shoulders
and run my fingers over the patchwork of purple, green, blue and yellow
bruises which cover her throat, breasts, stomach and arms. I am careful
not to press too hard. My lips run up and down her torso; her fingers
find their way into my hair and then I inch my way back up to look her
in the eye.

"I love you, B'Elanna," I tell her. "All of you, Borg, Klingon, human,
I love all of you."

This time when I kiss her, she kisses back.

---

"I love sand between my toes," B'Elanna presses her foot deeper into
the sounds, watching as the sand squeezes up between the said toes. I
crouch down and pile sand on top of her foot.

"What are you doing?" she squeals.

"Don't move," I tell her. I grab the yellow plastic pail and fill it
with salty water.

"Tom," she says, half-warning and half-laughing.

I pour the water over her.

"Tom!" she is laughing now and lunges towards me. I grab her around the
waist. Holding B'Elanna. Feeling her body press against me, knowing
that nothing can touch us in this moment. Everything said and done in
the past has come to this point.

We are not perfect yet. God only knows when we'll get to the point
where we can trust and confide entirely in each other, but we have made
a start and that's all that really matters now.

"I saw the blueprints for the house," she says. "They look good."
"Thanks. They'll be even better now that you are back..."

Her arms snake around my neck. I can still feel the uncertainty in her,
the vulnerability that she hides beneath a red-hot temper. I kiss her
forehead, my lips tasting B'Elanna mixed with salt.

"I missed you," I tell her.

She cups my face in her warm, muddy hands.

"I missed you too," she whispers back.

---

The End

---

continued in the Lines in The Sand universe