The BLTS Archive - In The Shadows Of The Heart
by VoyagerBabe (voyagerbabe2000@hotmail.com)

---

DISCLAIMER: Voyager belongs to Paramount. Story belongs to me.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have posted this story on the ASC once before, but I
don't consider this a re- post, because it has been edited, all the
typos I could find fixed, and the sexual escapades of part 17 have
been added.  Please tell me what you think of the new and improved
version.

---

Her memory was perfect. She could see, hear, feel every moment of that
wonderful afternoon as thought it were still happening.

The gentle breeze, vaguely scented with wildflowers and the sweet
aroma of the grass crushed under their bodies. The warm sun beating
down on her naked back. The whisper of rustling leaves and the hum of
insects.

It was rather odd, she mused, that she could recall these things now,
considering that she had been utterly oblivious to them at the time.
Her mind and senses had been fully occupied with enjoying her shore
leave. And enjoying her shore leave companion.

She remembered every nuance of his lanky, muscular body, every
delicious sensation he had elicited in her. She could almost feel it
again, his hands playing, teasing over her body. . .so strong, so
satisfying to her Klingon half, but holding back just enough to keep
her begging for more.

The way that she would whimper like a child when that talented mouth
suckled her breasts, or scream like a warrior when those long,
beautiful fingers pulsed inside her, playing her pleasure as expertly
as they did the helm. The bliss when he had entered her. How she had
dug red, oozing trenches in his back as they had rolled and wrestled
sensuously beneath that alien sun. How he had fed off the pain as
surely as any Klingon lover. The ecstasy when he had brought her to
her peak, then let her go to fall and fly and scream his name in a
mindless blur of pleasure.

Yes, she could remember it all.

And it was a good thing, indeed, the only thing that was retaining her
sanity.

"One more time, Lieutenant. . .Voyager's shield variance and her full
armaments."

B'Elanna glared defiantly into the mottled, rippling features of the
alien interrogator, but it took a long moment for the words to be able
to form beneath her cracked ribs and pass through her swollen,
bleeding mouth. "Fuck you." Gathering her own blood from her dry mouth
in absence of spittle, she spat at him.

He wiped the crimson smear from his face and stepped back, taking a
moment to collect himself before turning again to his assistant. "She
does not seem to be feeling reasonable today."

Silently, the second alien--she didn't know their name, nor did she
care-- stepped forward, and B'Elanna steeled herself for what was to
come. She could see her own reflection in the burnished panels of the
metal box that served as the interrogation chamber.

Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres, Chief Engineer of the Starship Voyager.
Maquis renegade, Starfleet Officer. Proud Klingon warrior. Brilliant
Human scientist. She was all these, but one would never guess to look
at her.

Her dark brown hair had once hung to her shoulders, glossy and thick.
Now it was stringy and filthy, parts sawn off to start the fires that
had kept her from freezing to death, and what remained hanging limply
several centimeters past her shoulders. That meant she had been here
how long? Weeks? Months? She didn't know. Her full lips were swollen
and cracked, golden skin now mottled with burns and bruises. The
cheekbones that had always been prominent in her features were now
emphasized further by her emaciated condition, standing out even
sharper beneath the dark hollows of her eyes.

*Tom wouldn't take a second look at me now* she thought.

Tom. She didn't even want to think about him, other than the memory of
their happiness together. The way they had treated him. . .the way he
had looked when she had seen him last.

Only his cry of pain when they had dumped him unceremoniously back in
their cell had assured her that such a battered body could possibly
still be alive. There had been no chance for B'Elanna to ascertain
more than that. It had been her turn.

And now here she was, strapped helplessly to what Tom had nicknamed
"The Throne" as the alien slowly attached the feeds to her breasts,
the sensitive skin over her ridges, and her genitals. He was taking
the opportunity to fondle her, adding humiliation and violation to
pain, and prolong the agony of waiting.

Then he had attached them all, and he stood back. B'Elanna shut her
eyes. A strange smell came to her attention with the absence of visual
stimulus, and she abruptly realized that the foul, musty stench was
emanating from her.

*Gods, I need a bath!* The incongruity of her own thoughts struck her,
and her lips parted to laugh. But what emerged was the shriek of the
damned.

Once more, B'Elanna Torres was screaming, falling, flying as her body
exploded in a paroxysm of sensation. Only this time, it was not in
rapture.

It was agony.

---

Water.

She felt a drop of warm water fall on her lips, and even in her
semi-conscious state, she recognized the importance of that precious
resource. Her tongue lapped out and stole the bead of liquid, and as
it disappeared, she heard a faint, raspy chuckle.

Opening her eyes, she saw Tom leaning over her as she lay on the cold
stone floor of their cell. How had she gotten here? The last thing she
remembered was the fire in her blood as they had tortured her, asking
their questions again and again, shouting to be heard over her
tormented screams. And now it was over. They were done with her.

For now.

"How. . .how bad?" She managed. Her voice was all but gone after hours
of screaming, and her tongue felt thick and foreign, an alien
appendage belonging to someone else entirely. To the unpracticed ear,
her words would have been unintelligible, but Tom had gotten plenty of
practice interpreting post-torture- B'Elanna. She felt him trace a
gentle finger across her cheek.

Tom's voice was also hoarse from thirst and his own sessions of
agonized screaming, but he had had time to rest while she was being
tortured, and it was a bit better when he spoke. "The burns from the
feeds are still compounding with each session. . .severe second
degree, a few spots of almost third degree. They managed to crack a
few more ribs, added some more color to your face and arms, and
severely exacerbated that sprained ankle. Might even have broken it.
And they put another split in those lovely lips of yours."

She almost smiled, then grimaced with fresh pain as she hoisted
herself up to a half-sitting position, propped up on her elbows.
"Great." Her eyes flickered towards the small pottery bowl that held
their water ration, and Tom saw the unspoken longing. He held it to
her lips. Resisting the temptation to drink the sour liquid in one
thirsty gulp, she instead took only a minuscule sip.

"Thank you." She paused, gasping as he helped her to sit up entirely.
"Take off your clothes, Tom."

Tom gave her an expression of mock scandal. "You just want my body, is
that it, B'Elanna?"

Despite the conditions and pain, she had to laugh. This had been a
daily ritual since the interrogations and beatings had started,
examining each other's wounds and providing whatever rudimentary
first-aid they could. More often than not, that was limited to kisses
and kind words.

"Yes, my handsome figure of a man," she teased back, "I want your
body. . .now off with that shirt!"

He did as she commanded, but his motions were slow and hampered by
pain. No hint of his discomfort crossed his lips, but B'Elanna saw it
clearly written on his face as he drew the filthy remains of his
uniform turtleneck up over his head, moving like a man of ninety
instead of someone barely a third that age.

She felt the same boiling rage watching him that she always did, the
Klingon urge to rip her captors limb from bloody limb. Tom was such a
handsome man, boyishly good-looking, with perfectly sculpted and
balanced features that seemed almost delicate, yet utterly masculine.
The aliens had seemed to recognize the appeal of that face, and it had
been brutalized mercilessly.

Pale skin was now rainbow-hued with bruises in various stages of
healing, and those sculpted features were distorted by swelling. His
finely chiseled nose had been broken twice already, and one blue eye
was swollen shut and crusted over with blood.

As the bare skin his torso came into view, B'Elanna couldn't help but
gasp. "Oh, Tom. . ." she whispered. "Lay down."

She helped him ease down to the floor as gently as possible, then
began to carefully probe his injuries, regretting each hiss of protest
her examination caused. "They kicked you after your session. Here, and
here." It was not a question.

One side of Tom's body was relatively unmarked, some almost-healed
bruises the only distortions of the pale flesh and fine scattering of
golden curls across his chest. The other side was a different story
altogether.

Well-defined abdominal muscles had vanished entirely along his left
side, due to the massive, angrily reddened swelling there. From his
moans of pain as she examined it, B'Elanna began to worry that the
guards might have done internal damage as well as the extensive
soft-tissue damage that she could see.

"How many times?"

"Lost. . .I lost count after. . .Ah! Shit, B'Elanna, that hurts!"

"Sorry." And she was. Sorry that he was hurt. Sorry that she couldn't
get them out of there. Sorry that they had been captured. Because she
knew that their capture, and thus their subsequent ordeal, was
entirely her fault.

---

"I think I could just lay here like this forever. . .forget the damn
Alpha Quadrant. There's nothing there for us anyway."

"Ever the rebel, aren't you, B'Elanna?" Tom chuckled, and she felt his
breath on her hair, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath
her cheek. His heart was a soothing rhythm, combining with the sounds
of nature and the contented warmth still rippling through her body to
lull her towards sleep. She had never felt so happy.

They lay together on the grass, her body still stretched languidly
over his tall form, fingers swirling lightly over his chest, tangling
in the golden curls. She traced the line of an old scar across one
firm pectoral, wondering how he had gotten it. They both had so many
scars, physical and emotional, but at least now, in one another's
arms, some of those scars were on their way to healing.

She lowered her mouth to his again, tongue probing between his lips to
tease the inside of his mouth, swirling around his teeth and tongue
until he responded. It didn't take long. And then his arms were around
hers, rolling her over so that she was beneath him.

His biceps tensed under her hands, and his close proximity enabled her
to feel a definite reaction from other parts of his body as well. She
smiled ferally. Good. He wasn't too tired for another round of fun and
games.

B'Elanna pulled her mouth away from his for a moment, nipping him on
the cheek before continuing her dental evaluation down the line of his
jaw. She felt the rising heat between her legs, and growled to let Tom
know how thoroughly she was enjoying his attentions.

From the pile of clothing beside them, twin commbadges chirped.
"Ignrum."

B'Elanna's mouth was full of earlobe, but Tom understood. Ignore them.
It was probably Harry. He was a good kid and mutual friend, but had an
uncanny sense of timing when it came to interrupting their romantic
pursuits.

The only response was his tongue teasing her nipples, blowing and
nipping them into unbearable tightness. She took that as agreement and
arched her back to give him more of her breasts, sighing in pleasure.
Her hands began a slow, methodical journey down his firm body,
massaging every centimeter of his back, down to that perfect ass. She
had just begun to knead his ass, mirroring his actions on her, when
the badges chirped again.

This time, she didn't say anything. Without even thinking, her arm
shot out and her fingers closed over the two tiny bits of metal,
ripping them from the cloth. A flick of the wrist hurled them away,
glittering in the sunlight as they arced almost fifteen meters from
the lovers.

As the devices reached the height of the arc, a woman's voice emerged
from them. A distinctive voice, husky and rich as old velvet, and
thick with the timbre of command. Kathryn Janeway.

Even through her building passion, B'Elanna's Klingon hearing picked
up the words, and her reaction told Tom plenty about what they were.
She squirmed out from under him in a matter of seconds, eyes wide. "We
have to. . ."

It was too late. The badges shimmered and vanished, erroneously
assuming that they were still attached to the clothing, and that the
clothing was still attached to the officers.

Less than a minute later, Tom and B'Elanna had gotten to their feet,
romantic mood completely gone as they dressed like two teenagers who
have just heard their parents pull into the driveway. B'Elanna, more
accustomed as the Chief Engineer and long-time Maquis to high-speed
dressing, managed to get her entire uniform on, if not fastened. Tom
was not so lucky. He had the trousers and turtleneck, but the
red-and-black tunic still lay in the grass as the faintly
lavender-hued mist swirled around them, whisking them off to hell.

---

"B'Elanna. . .wake up, B'Elanna. They're coming." The urgent tone to
Tom's voice helped dispel the last misty shrouds of unconsciousness,
and she groaned as she awoke.

Gods, she hurt. Every fiber of her being cried out to her brain in
anger, fighting for the title of "body-part-that-hurts-the-most." She
declared it a tie as she slowly raised her head, becoming aware of the
continued hollow gnawing of hunger in the pit of her stomach, and the
dry agony of thirst that parched her shriveled mouth.

"Wa", she croaked. She was appalled at how her voice sounded, the
once-rich contralto now more like the groaning of a mis-aligned
engine.

"I'm sorry, there is no water. Can you stand, or should I hold you?"

"I 'tand." With Tom's arm around her waist to assist her, she pushed
herself to her feet. Her broken ankle throbbed wickedly, and she
sobbed aloud as it touched the floor. How she longed to fall back to
the heap of filthy straw that served as their bed, to try for a few
more seconds of blessed oblivion.

But she couldn't. She drew herself as tall as possible, her face a
defiant mask over the pain. The guards had never found Tom Paris and
B'Elanna Torres on the floor like cowering animals. No matter how
severe the beatings, they had always stood upright to face their
tormentors. Some days, that meant the Tom had to virtually carry her,
and some days it had been she that supported him, but they always
managed it. Standing proud. Standing together.

She glanced towards Tom, and was surprised to see him looking back at
her, his one visible eye glittering, his lips quirked in that famous
Paris grin.

Although how he could possibly smile at a time like this was beyond
her. "You fell asleep tending me, Florence Nightingale," he whispered,
and the glitter in that one, lovely eye grew brighter, "That has got
to be the first time the sight of my naked body has put a woman to
sleep. . .I must be losing my touch."

A tiny smile touched B'Elanna's lips at this. "Must be," she teased
back.

Just then, the door opened, and a guard they had never seen before was
outlined in the light. He was massive. Almost three meters tall, and
easily a meter across the shoulders, his head squatting on a thickly
muscled torso without apparent benefit of a neck. His arms were as big
around as Tom's thighs, while his legs could have easily passed for
small trees.

Other than his size, however, B'Elanna realized he was a fairly
typical example of their alien captors. The hide of some hapless
animal had been tanned and wedded with metal to create a costume that
looked, to her eye, to be an unholy union of Hirogen and Klingon body
armor. Feet were shod in studded boots that were particularly hard and
vicious when applied to the body--as they both had learned--and the
leather gloves were likewise enhanced.

The face was like a roast that had been subjected to an hour in
Neelix's kitchen, dark and leathery, and sprinkled with warty growths
that traced a colorful path across his jawbone and above his brow.
Eyes burned an even orange without iris or pupil, and his teeth were
mostly small and needle-like, though two large tusks curled his lips
up in a permanent sneer.

As Tom had whispered on first seeing them, they were "Uglier than
shit." He had since taken the liberty of naming their captors. So far,
there was "Boss Ugly", "Ugly Two", "Chef Ugly," and "Big Ugly."

And this one was the worst yet.

She heard Tom's gentle tenor in her ear, barely audible as he tried to
shield his comment from their visitor. "Meet Really Big Ugly."

THWACK!!! Really Big Ugly's fist lashed out, slamming Tom in the jaw
with such force as to lift the young pilot off his feet and toss him
across the cell and into the opposite wall. B'Elanna gasped as he slid
down the wall, his head canted limply to the side. Blood was coming
from his mouth at an alarming rate, and he wasn't moving.

Was his neck broken? Was he dead?

Her broken ankle forgotten, B'Elanna began to rush to his side, but an
iron band clamped over her upper arm. The alien's fist. Before she
could fight, he was picking her up, bundled like a parcel under his
arm.

His voice was harsh, sounding as though he made a regular habit of
gargling with razor blades. "You will leave that one. Come."

She tried to fight, but he held her tighter. The awkward, bundled
position, the pressure on her injuries, the emotional turmoil, and the
creeping starvation all compounded to override even her iron-clad
will, and B'Elanna Torres fell into blackness.

---

It seemed impossible, but she could swear she smelled it. Chicken
soup. Real, old-fashioned chicken soup, like her father used to make
her as a girl. The aroma was thick in the air, heady and rich with
spices, onion, celery, and the meaty scent of chicken.

And that wasn't the only smell, though it was only the most familiar.
There were fresh-baked rolls, stews, thick slabs of meat, large
platters of vegetables, Terran and otherwise. Even a few moving,
crawling Klingon dishes. Tom would be pleased to find the large tureen
of thick red liquid that smelled definitely like tomato soup, and the
flat piece of bread next to it, oozing with cheese and a pungent red
sauce. . ."pizza", if she recalled correctly.

A veritable feast.

As her eyes followed her nose in adjusting to this much darker--if
aromatic-- environment, she saw only darkness in front of her, though
there seemed to be light to her sides and behind her.

B'Elanna puzzled over this a while, then her finely developed
engineer's mind suggested a solution to the problem. Roll over. She
was on her face on the floor.

She did so, crying out in pain as her myriad injuries reasserted
themselves. As B'Elanna lay there on her back, trying to catch her
breath, she remembered something. Something that brought tears to her
eyes, and stole the air from the room.

The image of her lover. Of Tom, lying here, insensate against the wall
where he had been thrown. She didn't know how he had fared, if he was
dead, or alive and wounded. Her Klingon half suggested that it would
be better for him to be dead than to be captive here, tortured for
information he could never give.

Neither of them could, and they knew it. In Starfleet, they had been
told to tell, to sing like a nightingale rather than let your bodies
and spirits be broken. Starfleet is vast, with hundreds of ships and
tens of thousands of officers. It can survive the loss of the
information held in one officer. But Voyager couldn't.

If Tom and B'Elanna talked, they knew they would be signing the death
warrants for every soul on the ship that had been their salvation.
They couldn't do that. They wouldn't do that. So instead, they had
suffered, beaten and starved, their bodies ravaged but their spirits
unbowed. They had remained honorable through it all, and that was
something that gave the Klingon half of her great pride.

The human half of her had other ideas. Find the food, and find Tom.

The former was accomplished by the simple act of sitting up. One wall
of this new cell was missing, in its place, a brightly lit room, as
sumptuous as the formal dining room of any five-star hotel. Silks and
art covered the walls, and the carpet was nearly ankle-deep plush.
Fine art hung around the room, and magnificent sculpture stood at
strategic places. Gentle, elegant music was piped in, adding to the
aura of sheer luxury.

But what dominated the room was the table. Almost ten meters long,
with a throne-like chair at the head and foot, it was a beautifully
carved work of art in itself. It was also markedly sagging under the
weight of all the food. Everything she had smelled and more covered
the table. Trays heaped high with fruits, vegetables, pastries, and
rolls, artfully arranged to please the eye as they promised to satiate
the palate. Massive roasts and whole fowl. Cakes and pies next to
crusty loves of bread. Pasta dishes next to seafood, salads in crystal
serving bowls, and even. . .was that what she thought it was? Yes!
Leola root casserole.

Even in her current, famished condition, B'Elanna decided that was a
dish she would definitely pass on.

But the rest. . . .uncaring of the pain erupting from every motion,
B'Elanna moved towards the dining room as if drawn by an unseen
tether, her empty stomachs audibly rejoicing at the prospect of eating
something other than the thin, lumpy gruel that had been their
only--and occasional--sustenance for the last however-many weeks.
Hell, her stomachs informed her, we'll even eat the damn leola root
about now! Some tiny corner of her mind wondered why, all of a sudden,
she was being treated to this feast, but there was an old human saying
she had heard Tom use, "never look a gift horse in the mouth." The
worst it could be was poison, in which case her troubles would be
over, or an illusion, in which case she would be stark raving mad, and
a gain, her troubles would be over.

As if in a dream, she moved closer, and soon she was a meter from the
table. Her eyes fixed on a large, golden roll. Better not shock her
system with a thick, juicy porterhouse steak right now, no matter how
good it looked. She would start off slow, with the rolls and fruit,
and then move on to something richer. Once she was rejuvenated by a
good meal, she would go look for Tom.

The roll beckoned, the tiny grains of unmilled wheat clear amongst the
tender, spongy white surface where the flaky golden-brown crust had
been ripped open. Wisps of steam rose from the roll, and a creamy,
pale-yellow pat of butter melted slowly into the bread.

Her fingers reached, trembling in anticipation, and when she was but a
half- meter away, they suddenly came into jolting contact with a
forcefield.

Weeks of agony, both physical and mental, heaped upon B'Elanna in that
one shattered dream. She snapped.

Screaming curses from every world she had ever encountered, she fell
to her knees, shaking with the pain she was causing herself as she
slammed her fists into the forcefield. Again and again she beat her
hands against the uncaring wall of energy, sobbing with rage as the
tears poured hotly down her cheeks. She cursed their captors, the
forcefield, her hunger, fate, and whatever natural law it was that
declared that true happiness, like the roll, could be promised and
brought ever-so-close, but never given. Not to her.

"'Lanna. . .dn't. . . .pls dnt." The voice was the weakest rasp, the
sighing of a distant wind, but it had an effect on her as electric as
the forcefield. That was Tom's voice!

She whirled quickly, nearly blacking out again from the pain and shock
of the sudden motion, but she didn't care. There, in the far corner of
the cell, a dark shape lay crumpled in the shadows. It didn't move,
but she knew it was him, and as quickly as her battered body would
allow, she went to him.

As her eyes adjusted anew to the darkness, the tears began to once
more stream down her face. The bastards. The filthy bastards hadn't
been content to leave him as she had seen him before being dragged
away. He had been in for at least one other session, and from the
looks of things, it had been the worst yet. He was almost
unrecognizable. His face was a pulpy mass of bruised, swollen flesh
and broken bones, smeared over with blood, while his body was equally,
if not more, damaged. Limbs bent at unnatural angles, and every
exposed centimeter of skin bore some mark of brutality, be it a
laceration, bruise, or abrasion. Only one eye, clear, crystal blue and
perfect, shone unmarred to remind her that this was not some pitiful
monster, but the man she loved.

His mouth was crusted in dried blood, and B'Elanna looked around for
their water ration. It would be his today. Her half-Klingon physiology
allowed her to go as much as a week without water, while Tom wouldn't
last more than three or four days, especially in his current state.
She would use a tiny amount of their ration to wash his face, but the
rest he would drink. And both their food rations as well.

But the small pottery bowls were nowhere to be found. With the
exception of two half-dead Starfleet officers, and one elegant torture
that was the cruelest yet, the cell was utterly bare. not even the
insect-ridden straw that had served as bedding in their previous
domicile. At least with that, they had been able to eat the roach-like
creatures when the guards decreased the food rations.

Pulling herself to the door, she began to pound on it with her fists,
calling out as loud as she could, "Hey! What the hell's going on
here?! We need water! Dammit, can't you show a little compassion for
once in your fucking lives? He'll die if he doesn't have water!"

For nearly an hour, she wept, begged, demanded, and pleaded with the
impassive door. Finally, the pain was too great, and she collapsed,
lying like a puppet with severed strings in a heap at the door. "I'm
sorry," she sobbed, her voice almost totally gone, "I tried, Tom. .
.oh, God, I tried. . . .I'm so sorry. . . . . "

"Actually, it was a most remarkable display. Our Doctor was quite
amazed you could keep it up that long." Weakly, B'Elanna lifted her
head from the floor, only to find herself staring at the studded boots
of Boss Ugly. Though her mouth was dryer than the sands of Vulcan,
somewhere, defiance allowed her to come up with one, feeble wad of
saliva which she promptly projected onto Boss Ugly's boots.

"Yet you *still* have spirit. . .incredible."

"Wha. . .what's it matter to you, you son of a bitch." She hoped her
voice sounded a little stronger to him, because it didn't do much good
to insult someone who couldn't hear you.

He did. "It doesn't matter, really," she could hear the creaking of
leather as he shrugged, and his voice was as coolly regal as ever.
"I'm just here to inform you of the new circumstances. There will be
no more interrogations, no more beatings, no more sessions."

"What's the catch?"

"The 'catch', my dear lady, is that your food and water rations have
also ceased." Her eyes narrowed.

"You're going to starve us to death." She tried to laugh, but it came
out a weak, raspy cough. "Won't take too damn long."

"Whether you starve is up to you," came the reply. "The forcefield is
coded so that it will remain active as long as there are two or more
lifesigns in this room. If, at any point, there is only one set of
lifesigns in this room, the field will drop, permitting access to all
the lovely food in there. . .food, if I may add, that has been
specially selected for the culinary pleasures of you and your
companion. But if you wish, you may starve. Or he may starve. Or you
both may. Either way, one of you will not be leaving here alive."

Her body was trembling like a leaf in a gale, both from the pain, and
from the livid rage that set her blood boiling at the pure, casual
sadism she was witnessing. She wanted to leap to her feet and tear the
beast's throat out with her teeth, but she couldn't so much as raise
her arm.

She listened as Boss Ugly opened the door and left, but his heavy
footfalls hadn't moved far beyond the door when they stopped and
turned back. The door opened a few centimeters, and she heard his cold
voice again. "Here, you may want this for your friend." And object
sailed into the cell, landing with a thud only a few centimeters in
front of B'Elanna's face.

She wearily opened her eyes to see what he had given her. Had there
truly been a spark of compassion somewhere in that monstrous heart?
Was it food? Water? Bandages? Medicine?

No. There, its tip buried almost a centimeter in the wooden floor of
this cell, was a beautifully carved, yet utterly evil-looking dagger.

---

It had been two days. Two days of agonizing thirst, two days they had
been tormented by the smell of food from across the barrier. And in
those two days, they had both deteriorated badly.

Only an hour ago, Tom had been pleading with her, begging her to give
him some food, asking why she wouldn't give it to him when he could
smell that she had it. She had tried to reason with him, but he was
delirious from thirst, and she had finally had no choice but to turn
away, listening to his accusations with tears in her eyes. Now,
thankfully he had fallen into unconsciousness, and from the irregular
rhythm of his breathing, B'Elanna wondered if this time he might never
wake up.

They had both suffered so much, but he had suffered more, and because
of her.

There was no way out, no hope of rescue. What's worse, even if the
guards opened the cell door and offered to escort them out, they were
both too weak to take them up on it.

Boss Ugly had been right: one or both of them were going to die here.

But she still had some control over their destiny. She could control
who lived and who died. The knife seemed to call her, and she went to
it, picking it up, and turning the blade over in her hands as if
caressing it. The knife was an honorable weapon, and this knife was
particularly beautiful. It's metal blade was finely honed and bright
as a mirror, carved with intricate scrollwork up to the well-crafted
hilt, which was made of leather and inlaid with fine gemstones. Her
mother would be proud she had chosen this way to kill someone.

It was heavy to her weakened hands, but that was as it should be. This
was a heavy burden, a very heavy burden. She had killed before, of
course, but always, it had been in her own defense or the defense of
others. A mercy killing would be so much harder.

As she looked at Tom's sleeping form, she nearly threw the knife away.
He looked so angelic, like a small, innocent boy instead of a brutally
beaten man.

But she remained strong. This would hurt for a while, but then it
would be over. The survivor could go on, knowing her actions had been
the only honorable thing to do. The loss of love would hurt the most,
that she knew, and the prospect of the agony of loss was chilling to
her.

But she was strong, she could do it. . .feelings be damned, this was a
life-or- death situation here!

And in her hands, she held death.

*No more thoughts, B'Elanna! No more philosophy! Just do it!*

The blade flashed as it plunged down, slicing through tender flesh and
the bone beneath as easily as if it were carving that roast that had
been aromatically teasing them. Blood, crimson and hot, poured up over
her hands and the hilt of her knife, but she just let it come. In a
way, this was the most cleansing thing she had ever done. And the most
painful.

Her heart was torn apart, and she screamed in agony as she watched the
river of guilt pour forth. Then her scream died away and she fell
limply forward over the knife and Tom's motionless body, oblivious to
the release of paradise as the forcefield dropped.

It was a pity neither lover was able to appreciate that. Or appreciate
the utter relief as moments later, the welcome blue shimmer of a
Federation transporter beam whisked them both up and away to the
waiting arms of a tritanium angel orbiting the planet.

---

A blonde woman in a blue uniform lurched through, staggering a few
drunken paces down the hallway before falling to her knees. Samantha
Wildman's body convulsed harshly as she vomited into the corner.

"Sam? Sam, are you all right?" Janeway rushed to the woman's side,
putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. She chose to use her given
name instead of rank. This should be between Kathryn and Sam, not
Captain Janeway and Ensign Wildman.

The younger woman was still trembling, her face brightly flushed from
embarrassment as she looked at the mess she had made. "I. . .I'm so
sorry, Captain. . .I didn't. . .I didn't mean to. . ."

"It's all right, Sam. What happened?" Suddenly abandoning any
semblance of protocol, Wildman collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

"Oh, Captain! It's. . ." The rest was lost in tears, but Janeway still
managed to catch "Tom", "B'Elanna", "monsters", "inhumane", and
"strangle them with my bare hands." Gently stroking Wildman's hair,
Janeway felt tears tease her own eyes. She had been told of the
condition her helmsman and Chief Engineer had arrived in, but this was
far more poignant than any medical report. That gentle Samantha
Wildman would want to strangle anyone. . .she was beginning to fear
going in herself.

But she couldn't delay it forever. Making sure Wildman was all right,
she stood, and taking a deep breath, walked through the doors into
Sickbay.

The first thing she noticed was the stench. Blood, unwashed bodies,
and from the looks of the mess in the corner, Sam had brought the
leola root casserole for at least one repeat appearance before running
out into the corridor. And Janeway could certainly see why. Her own
throat was growing tight, her stomach churning as she looked at the
figure on the biobed that had once been an officer.

Only six weeks ago, they had stood before her in her office, a
picture-perfect image of young love. So different physically--Tom
being tall and fair-skinned, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes,
while B'Elanna was petite and dusky, a darkly exotic beauty--yet alike
at heart. Both had turned their lives around under her watchful eyes,
and she had enjoyed watching them mature and find each other.

They had been requesting shoreleave, glancing nervously at each other
as they detailed why they could be spared for just one day. At first,
she had been reluctant to grant shoreleave to her Chief Engineer when
they would be so soon taking on new supplies and components, but the
world where they were to wait for the trader seemed a veritable Eden,
and B'Elanna hadn't made a personal request in as long as Janeway
could remember.

In the end, it had been the love in the young woman's eyes that had
won her over. It was so rare and refreshing to see B'Elanna Torres
smile that she just couldn't say no.

Now, she wished she had. The planet had indeed been Eden, and the
trader was the serpent that lurked in paradise. They had barely had
time to beam their people off the planet before he struck, wrapping
Voyager in a field that had completely immobilized them. People sat
helpless at their posts, unable to move their fingers to key the
commands. Systems froze. Even the pots of soup bubbling on Neelix's
stove held their breath.

When Voyager was released, a head count quickly revealed that while
Tom and B'Elanna's commbadges had been beamed up, the officers
themselves had not.

It had taken weeks of searching, Janeway driving her crew so hard that
Tuvok approached her at one point about it. Slanted brows knitted over
his broad nose in concern, he had reported that several crewmembers
had taken to calling her "Captain Kathryn Bligh." But they were in the
minority, the vast minority.

Most saw the dark circles forming under Janeway's eyes, the exhaustion
in her posture, and knew that for every gram the Captain asked of
them, she asked a kilogram from herself. Twice, the Doctor had to slip
a sedative into her coffee to get her to sleep, and more times than
she cared to think about, she had been approached by a First Officer
deeply worried about her. But it had been worth it. They had traced
their missing children to Telvari VI, and there, found horror beyond
their wildest dreams.

The Telvari were evil. To make such a pronouncement against an alien
culture went against everything Starfleet had ever taught her, but she
did it without hesitation. They were evil. The most popular form of
entertainment on their planet was much like the Roman Coliseums,
except instead of simply fighting and animal blood sports, they had
raised torture to a fine art and entertainment.

Unlucky Telvari--or, for variety, abducted aliens like Tom and
B'Elanna--would be slowly and cruelly tortured. Each session would be
recorded and broadcast, with the population placing bets on how long
the victims would last before talking. If they never talked, the
method of torture would shift, and bets would be placed anew on which
prisoner would kill the other, or if they would both starve. When that
was found out, the game was over, and they were released. Callous, but
simple.

The sacrifices of her officers had been meaningless. The Telvari never
wanted the information. They could have talked on day one, and been
set free without further consequence. It was all an evil, bloody game.
The thought of how those two young people must have suffered, thinking
they were saving the lives of their comrades by doing so, brought a
painful warmth to Janeway's heart.

Whether or not it was real, they had been real heroes.

Now it was only a question of whether those heroes would live.

Stepping up to the first biobed, Janeway extended a hand, gently
brushing a stray lock of blonde hair out of Tom's eyes. It came away
in her hand. *Malnutrition*, she realized. She guessed that he had
plummeted from a healthful 180 pounds to around 145, his tall body
little more than skin and bones beneath the sickbay coveralls. Bruises
discolored his skin, and his features were puffy and distorted, though
he was deathly pale beneath the discoloration. He looked like a Borg
almost, several dozen of the Doctor's medical devices humming over his
body, repairing the damage the aliens had inflicted.

She heard the Doctor enter the room, and looked up. "How is he?" For
some reason, she whispered, though she knew Tom's sleep was medically
induced and that she stood no chance of waking him.

"Burns, lacerations, abrasions, contusions, hematomas, broken bones,
torn ligaments, ripped cartilage. . . those are all healing nicely,
thanks to me. There's been serious weight loss and malnutrition, but I
have him on a nutrient solution, and a few weeks of Mr. Neelix's
attention combined with time in the gym should fill out his uniform
again. From a medical perspective, Mr. Paris should be good as new
inside six weeks." The Doctor's words were curt, but in his projected
eyes, she saw into the hologram's programmed soul. . .and what she saw
bothered her.

"But. . ." she prompted.

"But, I cannot say anything about the psychological damage, which will
probably be extreme. . .especially when he learns it was all a game. I
don't need to tell you that prisons in general are very hard for Mr.
Paris., and Starfleet did not see fit to give us a ship's counselor."

She sighed, "An extraneous, annoying officer in most cases. . .but if
ever a ship needed one. . . ." Her voice trailed off as she looked
around sickbay. There was someone missing. B'Elanna Torres. Her Chief
Engineer. Her friend. She looked up, her eyes like blue steel.
"Where's B'Elanna, Doctor?"

He looked away for a moment, then his eyes met hers, and he took a
deep, simulated breath. "Captain, I won't lie to you. Lieutenant
Torres was in even worse base condition than Lieutenant Paris, only
her Klingon physiology and adrenaline had kept her alive as long as
she did. And, of course, there's the stab wound to her chest that was
exacerbated when she fell on Mr. Paris, driving the knife deeper.
Three of her eight chambers in her heart were virtually destroyed, and
her right lung was perforated. The wound. . .the blood loss. . .her
emaciated, weakened state. . .even with my medical brilliance, I fear
Ms. Torres may die."

---

"Do you want me to sedate you again!?" If the holographic Doctor had
actually possessed a heart, Tom Paris might have had a reason to
worry. As it was, the Doctor was merely a projection of light and
magnetic fields, and thus devoid of internal organs. A good thing,
because from the apoplectic look on his face, his holographic blood
pressure was through the roof.

"Relax, Doc. . .I'm not exactly out to play Paresis Squares. I'm just
gonna. . .Ow! Shit, Doc, why didn't you warn me?!!"

Tom froze, halfway off the biobed, unsure of his next move. He knew he
was sore and badly weakened, and it didn't take a Doctor to tell he
was in no shape for the Academy Marathon, but he hadn't expected the
simple act of trying to get up would produce this much pain. It
erupted from every muscle, and every joint seemed suddenly filled with
hot acid. Thus the decision: keep trying to get up, or get back in
bed.

"I did warn you! I told you to stay in bed!! But does anyone listen to
me?. . ." He shut out the rest of the Doctor's rant. Decision made:
Get up. Get up for no other reason than to see a holographic heart
attack in action. . .a much- anticipated sight after the last two
days.

He was no stranger to sickbay, that was true, but that didn't mean he
liked it, and these last two days had been worse than most. He had
been haunted by hellish nightmares, even in the deep sleep of
sedation, and when he was awake, it was only for Dr. Holo-Mengale's
procedures. He didn't even get the 'luxury' of the sickbay food to
break the monotony by making jokes over. . .the Doc had deemed his
condition "too delicate" to eat anything solid yet.

A load of bullshit in his opinion.

He felt fine. All right, maybe not fine. The Doctor had healed most of
the injuries the Uglies had bestowed on him, but there was still a
lingering soreness, and he could easily count his ribs beneath a
sickbay coverall that fit a lot more loosely than he was used to. But
he didn't need to be treated like he was made of glass. . .did he?

*Hell, Tom, admit it to yourself. The Doc's right. . .those aliens
beat the shit out of you, and you're lucky to be alive. Besides, you
know that's not what's really bugging you, is it?* What bothered him
was that since he had woken up, he hadn't gotten answers to any of his
questions about B'Elanna. Even a simple "is she alive" brought evasive
non-answers.

Was he deemed "too delicate" to know the bitter truth there, as well?

He was going to find out for himself. And if the Doctor was right, and
he was too delicate to know. . . . Well, he'd had thirty-one pretty
good years, hadn't he?

Wincing in pain from each movement, he very slowly eased himself off
the bed. The cautious way he moved suddenly reminded him of his
namesake. Great-Grandpa Tom Paris had been almost one hundred and
fourteen by the time he had a great- grandson to carry the name, and
had always struck young Tom as being terribly fragile-looking and
slow. He almost laughed aloud at the memory of a young boy impatiently
tapping his foot as he waited for the aging patriarch, but changed his
mind.

Laughing would hurt right now.

Something else hurt too, more than he would like to admit. It wasn't
his body, either. It was his heart, sick and heavy with the memory of
B'Elanna, and the anxiety over her fate. As he had all his life, he
had tried to cover his aching heart with levity, but it wasn't working
this time.

He remembered the long, terrible nights when they had turned off the
heat in their cell block. B'Elanna had lain trembling on the straw,
lips blue and skin pale as she huddled up as tightly as her broken
body would allow. He had wrapped himself around her as much as his
lanky, long-limbed frame would let him, but it hadn't been enough.
Those nights had been a torture in themselves, burning straw from
their bed, or even B'Elanna's hair in hopes of keeping her warm as he
prayed for morning.

He remembered watching her beautiful body slowly deteriorate, the lush
curves becoming harsh angles, bones gradually appearing to jut against
bruised flesh. The hollows in her cheeks and the darkness under her
eyes when she looked at him, and how desperately he had longed to save
her from that hell.

He remembered lying in their cell alone, unable even to lift his head
no matter how much he wanted to charge to her rescue. He had to just
listen. Listen to the woman he loved as she screamed and screamed and
screamed. . . . .

Oh God! He felt the hot wetness of tears on his cheeks as his legs
betrayed him. Tom fell to the deck in heap, the world spinning around
him. The Doctor rushed to his side, but he shook him off, cursing his
own weakness as he pushed to his feet again, biting his lip until it
bled to prevent the pain from escaping audibly.

Not again. The weakness of his body would not keep him away from her
again. This time, it would be different, even if it was too late to
mean anything. Even if she could never forgive him for what he'd
allowed her to endure.

It took almost a quarter-hour to make the ten meters to the intensive
care ward of Sickbay, the Doctor pleading, ranting, cajoling,
ordering, and threatening him back to bed the entire time. It didn't
work. Silent and grim faced, he pressed on until he was there.

Sagging against the biobed in exhaustion, he looked down at the face
of his lover. His mate.

B'Elanna always looked so serene when she slept. After they made love,
he would often just watch her sleep, marveling at how all the cares
would drain from that beautiful face, leaving her looking like a
Klingon angel. She looked that way now.

He was oddly relieved to see that Jenny Delaney, the ship's de-facto
hairdresser, had stopped by, washing and trimming B'Elanna's dark
hair, and treating it with a nutrient solution to restore it's healthy
luster. He had promised to arrange that when they had cut it off in
the cell, sawing harshly at it on the stone corner until it came away
in ugly chunks. Somehow, he felt better to see that promise fulfilled
in he glossy locks that haloed around her now.

Unfortunately, her hair was the only healthy-looking thing about her
right now.

Tom had been hoping he was wrong, that guilt was playing tricks on his
memory, but he had been horrifyingly accurate in his recollections.
B'Elanna looked every bit as pale and gaunt as he remembered, and the
monitors beeped feebly as they stood guard, testifying to her struggle
for survival. His practiced field medic's eye traveled over the
readouts, and his hands gripped the side of the biobed so hard that if
he had been at full strength, he would have left five finger-sized
indentations in the metal.

They had stabbed her. Stabbed her through that big, brave heart in an
attempt to finally kill her. The damage had been extreme, and though
the surgery appeared to have been successful, the prognosis was still
hazy.

Ignoring his own weakness and pain, he took her limp white hand in
his, flinching. "Come back to me, B'Elanna," he whispered. Tears were
coursing freely down his cheeks now, and the desperation in his voice
as he begged her to live was heartbreaking. "I don't care if you
forgive me, or even if you hate me after what I let happen to you. .
.but don't die. You have so much to live for, my love. . .please. . .
."

It was very faint. It could have been an involuntary muscle spasm. It
could have been a figment of his imagination. But he knew it wasn't.
He knew what he had felt. Ever-so-slightly, ever-so-weakly, her hand
squeezed his in answer.

---

"C'mon, B'Elanna, open those beautiful eyes. The Doctor says I can
only be here another hour, then I'll have to recruit Harry for another
shift of watching you. . .and you know I'll never forgive you if you
wake up on his shift!"

Nothing.

Tom sighed, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. He was so
tired. It seemed ridiculous, but simply sitting at her bedside for an
hour and a half had drained him badly. Every muscle ached, and the
inside of his head had begun a slow performance of "Kahless And
Lukara" by the Imperial Klingon Drum Orchestra.

"Tom! You're up! Well, that's good news, good news indeed!" The
bubbling tones were unmistakable, and he didn't even bother to open
his eyes, only lifting one leaden hand to wave vaguely in the
direction of the voice.

"Hey, Neelix." He could hear the little Talaxian bustling over. From
the sound of things, he was trying to juggle a number of things that
clanged and clashed in disharmony with the drum orchestra still
beating vigorously in his skull.

One blue eye opened a crack, and Tom had to suppress a groan as sight
confirmed what his nose had warned him against. Neelix had brought
food, a rather large covered bowl of food that fought for space on a
tray already loaded down with a soup plate, small case of flowers,
glass of water, and a spoon resting on an artfully folded napkin.

A very thoughtful gesture, but his stomach was not sure it would be a
welcome one. A disastrous attempt to sneak food from the replicator
had been violently rejected by his fragile digestive system already,
and for the first time he could remember, the bland sickbay food was
actually appetizing.

Unfortunately, the Morale Officer was not known for bland. .
.especially not when he was cooking native Talaxian food. And from the
smell of things. . . . "Mixi Soup!", Neelix enthused brightly, "My
mother always made it when I wasn't feeling well. . .it has remarkable
healing properties."

Opening both eyes, Tom pulled himself up as straight as possible,
managing to call up a fairly decent smile in an attempt to assure the
rotund alien that he didn't need the healing properties of Mixi Soup.
"Really, I'm fine, Neelix. Just a little tired."

"Nonsense! I know you're naturally a bit on the whitish side, but
right now you look as pale as the white sands of Verax!" One mottled
paw reached out, experimentally squeezing his upper arm through the
blue fabric of the sickbay coverall. Tom quickly pulled his arm away,
but it was too late. "And skinny as a Grixle kitten! No, it's
definitely Mixi soup for you."

The lid of the tureen was lifted, and as the aroma rose on a thick
cloud of steam, Tom paled even further, scrambling back away from the
tray so desperately that he knocked over the chair in his haste.

*

It looked like something Neelix would make. . .if Neelix ever used
week-old fish as an ingredient. It was gray and lumpy, with flecks of
dirt clearly visible from the small, filthy pottery bowl it was held
in. Tom looked at it in disgust, then back to the alien who had given
it to him.

"No thanks."

The next thing he knew, the alien's thick fingers had grabbed hold of
his close- cropped blonde hair, yanking his head back. Another alien
he hadn't even noticed grabbed his face, forcing two strong,
leather-clad fingers into his mouth and prying his jaw open.

The scalding-hot gruel was poured into his mouth, and he was forced to
swallow it, gagging on the noxious liquid, feeling it burn his lips
and tongue as he tried desperately not to choke. It smelled utterly
foul, and tasted worse. His body tried several times to reject it, but
the harshly bent position of his neck wouldn't let it come up.

Finally, the bowl was empty, his face and turtleneck smeared with a
generous coating of the disgusting substance.

The aliens released him, tossing him brutally to the floor, leaving
his there on his knees, retching helplessly as they walked away in
cold indifference.

---

"Tom!! What's going on? Should I call the Doctor?!" The terrified tone
in Neelix's voice brought him back to reality, and he took a deep
breath, trying to subdue his trembling. He was on Voyager. Safe. They
couldn't hurt him. They couldn't hurt B'Elanna.

Looking around, hands still shaking, he realized he was on the floor,
having apparently tripped when he toppled the chair next to him. Gray,
lumpy Mixi Soup dribbled down Neelix's apron, adding a new pattern to
the garish, multi-colored extravaganza of the print. Had he done that,
too?

"I'm sorry. . ." He wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow,
"I just. . .damn, I don't know why I flipped out like that." Pulling
himself back to his feet, Tom reached for the napkin still on the
tray, trying to help clean up the spilled soup. "I'm so sorry about
this, Neelix, I. . . ."

Her hand.

As he had turned to get the napkin, he had seen something different
about B'Elanna's hand. He stopped, unconsciously dropping the napkin
as he examined that pale, delicate hand. Before, the fingers had lain
flat on the biobed. Now they were curled under just a bit. As he
watched, they went flat again. A definite, deliberate motion. There
was a faint whisper of movement, and Tom looked up to the head of the
biobed.

And into the most beautiful dark eyes he had ever seen.

Tom's face broke into a huge grin, and he grabbed her hand, softly
kissing each finger as he murmured his thanks that she was alive,
tears of relief streaming down his face. Then he realized something
about those dark brown orbs. Eyes that looked back at him.

But eyes that were utterly blank.

Gray lips parted slightly, and a hoarse, barely audible whisper
emanated from them. "Tom?"

"Yes, B'Elanna, I'm here. We're on Voyager, we're safe, and you're
going to be all right. . ." His voice caught, but he swallowed hard
past the lump in his throat and went on, "We're both going to be all
right. . .it's over."

Weakly, she shook her head. "No." Her next words were like the sigh of
a distant dream, they were so faint, but Tom heard them plainly, and
they hurt him more deeply than anything the aliens had done. "Don't
touch me. . . Go away."

With that, she allowed her head to sag to the side so that she was no
longer looking at him.

She would not look at him again, nor say another word to him the
entire time they were recuperating in sickbay. In fact, the only sign
he had that she even acknowledged his existence came ten days later,
after the Doctor had released them both. In front of his door, he
found a box, unlabeled, left there without so much as a knock to
inform him of its presence.

Inside was everything of his that had been in B'Elanna's quarters,
along with a short message requesting that he return her things in a
similar manner and not attempt to contact her on any non-job-related
topic until such time as she would decide. That message had stabbed
his heart as surely as the knife had stabbed B'Elanna's.

It was over. Their love had been to hell and back, and now she had
coldly and completely cut him off. But his heart refused to cut her
off, and he found himself obsessing over her, and one question in
particular.

Had the aliens destroyed her ability to love forever?

---

*It is really amazing*, Tom mused, *how long a man can live without a
heart.*

Of course, not that what he had been doing the last two weeks--since
B'Elanna awoke and closed her heart to him--could be considered
living. It was actually more like existing. Eat, sleep, work out,
report for light duty, socialize just enough to keep the Doc off his
back. All the necessary tasks of a functioning human being, but all
performed on emotional auto-pilot.

The pain had all but left him by now. Sure, a few movements prompted a
twinge of soreness, he tired more easily than he was accustomed to,
and his uniform was still definitely on the loose side, but there was
no more pain. Not in his body, not in his heart.

Old defense mechanisms had kicked in, and for the first time in years,
he was beginning to feel the horrible, heavy numbness that had haunted
him after the accident. That sense that life was being buried with the
pain, that he would never feel anything again. That all his happiness
would be the shallow, manufactured type found in the bottom of a shot
glass, or the ego-building gratification when a pretty girl responded
to his charms.

Never again, the rich down-to-the-bottom-of-your-soul happiness and
contentment he had found with B'Elanna. Never again the sight of her
precious smile at the and of a long day. Never again the feeling of
holding her in his arms, protecting her from all the cares of the
world with the shield of his love.

He had failed to protect her when it had really mattered, and the
punishment had been unmerciful. He had lost her.

Never again to know love.

But he had to keep existing. Tom Paris the robot had a job to do, and
in order to get back onto full duty--and to be able to spend a full
shift with the helm to distract him from the emptiness inside--he had
to get back in peak condition.

Neelix had been plying him relentlessly with various dishes, and his
replicator account had done well thanks to the compassion of the crew.
But even without the Doctor's help, he knew that coming back from
near-starvation meant more than just an extra afternoon snack. Without
time spent in the gym, his uniform would be filled out again, all
right . . .just not in the manner he wanted.

Which was why even though he wanted nothing more than to crawl into
bed and hide, he was on his way to exercise now.

Quickly shedding his Starfleet uniform, he grabbed a pair of baggy
sweat pant and an oversize tee shirt. Before Telvari, he had usually
worked out in a tanktop--if any shirt at all--but now it was
different.

He had taken to wearing the large tee shirts after his first trip to
the gym had resulted in stares and comments, both to his face and
behind his back. The tee shirt served to hide the things that reminded
people of Telvari. . .the faintly pink hue of the deep-tissue
regeneration that had not yet completely faded; and, though he had
improved greatly, the way his ribs, shoulderblades, and spine were
still more clearly outlined than usual after the weeks of near-
starvation. He wasn't ashamed. Just tired.

Tired of everyone telling him how brave he had been. Tired of hearing
what an incredible thing he had done. Tired of the sympathetic looks.
Tired of being treated like a returning war hero, or like he was made
of glass. Tired of people offering assistance with the little things,
things he could do very well himself. And most of all, tired of people
asking how B'Elanna was doing.

He didn't know how B'Elanna was doing. . .hell, he didn't know what
was going on in that damn gorgeous head of hers. And he sure wasn't
any hero.

Tom Paris was a coward. A coward who had been unable to do anything
for anyone. Who was now being held judgment for his failings by the
only other person who had been there. A coward and a failure, just
like he knew, in his heart of hearts, he had always been.

But coward or not, he had places to go. Snatching a towel from the
bathroom, he headed out into the corridor.

---

What he found when he entered the gym stopped him dead in his tracks.

A single figure was on the mat in front of him, back turned, unaware
of his presence. It was B'Elanna Torres, deeply involved in an
exercise routine of her own.

She was doing one-armed pushups, and from the looks of things, she'd
been doing them for a while. Sweat poured in salty rivers down her
ridged forehead, collecting at the tip of her pert nose before falling
in fat drops to the mat. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath,
and he could see her pulse pounding fiercely in her neck as the
muscles of her arms quivered violently with each repetition.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Switch. Up. Down. Up. Down. Switch.

At first, he was almost fascinated by the slightly morbid realization
that he could very well be watching a young woman work herself to
death. Then he realized that he could very well be watching B'Elanna
work herself to death.

Tom rushed forward, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her up to
her knees. She tried to struggle, but she was too exhausted, yet she
still continued to pull against his grip. He didn't care. He was hurt,
confused, worried, furious, in love, and a thousand other emotions
that swirled through his mind and heart.

"What the hell are you doing, Torres!! You're going to kill
yourself!!" He didn't realize he was shaking her, or that tears were
pooling in her eyes, but if he had, it wouldn't have mattered. He
wanted answers. "Why, B'Elanna?!" he was shouting the question, but it
was truly begging, and they both knew it. "Why?! Tell me, why?!!!"

At first, she did not answer, only twisted in his grip, teeth bared in
Klingon frustration. "Let me go, Tom!!"

"No! I won't let you keep hurting yourself!"

"It's my business what I do! Now let me go, or I'll scream for
security!"

"You do that. The Doctor will lock your ass in sickbay when he finds
out you've lost your goddamn mind!! And it's not 'your business',
because I love you! I don't care if you hate me for what happened in
that prison, but I love you like crazy, B'Elanna Torres, and I will
never let anything happen to you again!!" Tom took a deep breath, only
just then realizing that they had both been screaming at the top of
their lungs. Only then realizing that B'Elanna had stopped fighting
him, and was instead looking deeply into his eyes. . .was that guilt
he saw there?

"I do love you, Tom," she whispered. "I love you very much."

"Then why did you cut me off?"

"Look at me."

He frowned. "What?"

"Look at me," she repeated, more forcefully this time. "Look at me and
tell me what you see."

"I see a beautiful woman who is tormented by demons that she will
share with no one. . .not even me. Demons who are pushing her until
she is too weak to--"

Her eyes hardened. "Stop right there. Too weak. Too weak. Too weak."
B'Elanna's voice began to fade away until she seemed to be whispering
to herself, and there was an almost maddened glint in her eyes that
frightened him. "Too weak." Suddenly she exploded, wrenching out of
his grip in a violent motion and pushing away.

"Too fucking *weak*!" B'Elanna screamed the words, hooking her fingers
in the collar of her tank top, ripping it open to expose her chest.
She wore no bra beneath.

But it was not a sensual gesture, her breasts were not the focus of
her display. It was the ribs, outlined even more deeply on her chest
than his own, ribs that were marked by red slashes from where her
nails had gouged her own flesh as she ripped the shirt open. "Look at
me, Tom!! Look what they've done to me!! Two months ago, I could do a
hundred single pushups without hardly breaking a sweat. Now, I do
fifty-three. . .*fifty-three*. . .and I'm half dead! Because I'm too
weak!"

He started towards her, but she pulled away, beginning to pace on
trembling legs like a caged animal. "Too weak to save you. Too weak to
save myself. Too weak to stop them. Too weak to even die like a
warrior. Too weak!" She stopped, turning to him, eyes pleading. "Don't
you see? I have to get strong again. I have to get it back, and I have
to make them pay!! Then I can love you again, Tom. . .after I make
every one of those alien bastards pay for what they did to us!!"

At that moment, without warning, her eyes rolled back, and exhaustion
overtook her. Tom barely caught her before she hit the mat, and as he
knelt there holding her limp form, brushing the sodden hair from her
fevered face, he made a vow.

"You won't make them pay, B'Elanna. Not alone. We will make them pay
together."

---
From: The Emergency Medical Hologram
To: Captain Kathryn Janeway
CC: First Officer Commander Chakotay; Flight Controller Lieutenant Tom
Paris; Chief Engineer Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres.
Subject: Medical Release


Based on a thorough medical and psychological evaluation, I have
cleared Lieutenants Paris and Torres for return to the full duties
indicated by their rank and titles. They have demonstrated physical
health and mental competence in compliance with Starfleet regulations.
I hereby judge them fit for duty, and medically responsible for their
actions henceforth.

I would also like to add a commendation for the Lieutenants. When they
returned from Telvari, their condition was such that I fully expected
the recovery process to be very slow, and was prepared for the
possibility that they might never be the same. They underwent extreme
physical and emotional hardship for a prolonged period of time, yet
their recovery has been nothing short of miraculous.

They have complied beyond reproach to all of my medical requests, and
based on their rapid return to health, I speculate that they have been
putting in many hours of their own time in therapy and exercise.
Remarkably, their physical condition is now superior to their
condition before their ordeal.

Based on this, I would like to ask the Captain for a most unusual
notation to be made in their permanent records: a commendation for
"Recovery Above And Beyond The Call Of Duty."


Emergency Medical Hologram

---

Tom's blue eyes skimmed over the document quickly, and his face glowed
with triumph as he looked up at B'Elanna. "He cleared us! We're back
on full active duty!"

She chuckled and pointed to the last line before the Doctor's
signature. "And with a commendation, no less. 'Recovery above and
beyond the call of duty.'" Tom was seated on the couch in her
quarters, and she leaned over his shoulder to get a better look at the
PADD. "Not that we don't deserve it. . ." She squeezed Tom's thick,
muscular arm. "We've been training like Olympic athletes for the last
month."

"Or like Kahless at K'Berra Gorge," he added, and B'Elanna's eyes
widened in disbelief.

"How do you know about Kahless at K'Berra? My mother used to tell me
that story!"

"It's something my father used to tell me. He was big on parables,
didn't matter what world they came from as long as the message was
right. Kahless training without food, water, or sleep for eighty days
to defeat the monster of K'Berra Gorge fit quite nicely into a lot of
Dad's lectures." Tom's face was somber, and they were both quiet a
long moment. Neither of them liked to think of their parents.

Finally, B'Elanna spoke, her voice hushed. "The Captain will be pissed
when she finds out what we've been training for."

"I know," Tom replied, "I don't like it." The way he said it surprised
her, and she frowned, wrinkling her ridged forehead further.

They had both agreed that this was a situation that called for
something out of the ordinary, something sacred, something that would
bind their lives to the cause of vengeance. That something was the
Klingon Blood Oath, which they had taken together in the gym the day
they had finally re-united. An oath not to rest, and not to fulfill
their desires with one another until they had wiped their tormentors
from the galaxy.

Blood had run from their veins, mingling together as they had recited
the words of the Blood Oath. Much to her surprise, B'Elanna had found
she liked the concept, despite its Klingon origins. It just seemed
right, and it gave a tangible factor to their passionate need for
revenge. It was that need that had driven them. Driven them to work
their bodies until they collapsed in a heap of contented exhaustion.
Driven them to comply with every one of the Doctor's invasive,
annoying procedures. Driven them to addictive heights of commitment
they had never before imagined as possible.

And now, the look in Tom's bright blue eyes suggested that he was
having second thoughts.

"What are you saying?" she challenged. "Did you forget the oath?"

"Of course not!" He paused, and she could feel his shoulders tighten
uncomfortably beneath her hands. "But still. . . .I don't feel right
about lying to Janeway. She's done so much for us."

B'Elanna winced. She had tried to avoid thinking about this aspect of
things. Tom was right. . .they owed Captain Janeway everything. Their
commissions, their freedom, even their love for each other. She had
taken a bitter terrorist and a cynical parolee and turned them into
people who could, for the first time in their lives, be proud of what
they saw in the mirror.

Now they were going to use that trust, use their positions as senior
officers to betray her. "I know," she admitted reluctantly, "but what
else can we do? Go into her ready room and say 'Oh, by the way,
Captain, we're going to borrow a shuttle and go play commando to blow
the shit out of some alien race?' She'd take that really well."

Tom didn't reply, just stood, walking over to the window to stare at
the stars. As she looked at him, she became aware of something that
her obsessive yearning for revenge had buried.

He was wearing only his boots and black uniform trousers. The pale
starlight outlined his sculpted body, the light coating of golden hair
on his arms catching the silver light and accenting the contours of
the muscles. He looked so handsome, and she felt the rising desire of
a woman who had been denied for almost three months: six weeks in the
alien prison, and five weeks while they trained and recovered. She
wanted to go to him, lose her mind in his embrace, forget the
vendetta. Forget the moral dilemmas.

But she couldn't.

It would be wrong. A betrayal of everything she was, everything she
valued. She had to make them pay. Then, and only then, could she allow
herself to live beyond the vendetta.

Walking up to the window, she stood next to him, her hands laced
behind her. "I know it's hard, Tom. It goes against everything we've
learned in the last four years. But we can't forget!" She turned to
him, her eyes boring into his, dark as space, but burning like hot
coals.

"We. Must. Not. Forget. If we forget, if we just move on with our
lives as if nothing had happened, they win. And what about the people
who are still there? How long are we going to let them hurt innocent
men and women the way they hurt us?!! How long, Tom?!!"

His response was simple, only two words. But they were two words that
affirmed everything she loved about Tom. A man who could always be
counted on to do the right thing, even when it would hurt him. A
brave, good man who was every bit the warrior she was, even if it
didn't show the same way. He met her eyes, and his own were the deep
blue of the ocean before a storm. "No longer."

With that, he turned away from the window and went into the bedroom.
B'Elanna waited, wondering what he was up to, but she knew soon
enough. He emerged from the room fully dressed in his Starfleet
uniform, two duffel bags crammed with supplies slung over his
shoulder, carrying his med kit and her engineering kit.

She didn't think she had ever seen such cold determination in his face
and manner, such dark fury in his eyes. It was almost frightening,
and, though she hated to admit it, arousing as all hell. It was
Klingon rage she saw. Klingon rage that would utterly destroy every
Telvari.

He tossed her the engineering kit and one of the duffel bags. "Let's
go. . .it's time to handle something Ugly."

B'Elanna smiled ferally as she slung the bag over her shoulder and
followed him out to the shuttlebay. This was why she loved him.

Now, all she had to do was survive this mission so she could express
that.

---

"Come on, you beautiful pile of goo, believe this load of bull shit
for Mommy." B'Elanna purred sweetly at the computer as she keyed in
the final code sequence.

Voyager's computer was difficult to fool, even for her, and she had to
convince the transporter that it hadn't really sent survival gear down
to the shuttlebay, and that it really didn't need to relay that
information up to Tuvok's console. One more line of code. . . she hit
the activation button and closed her eyes.

Nothing happened.

Well, nothing bad at least. No calls from irate Vulcans, no warning
beeps from the console, no engineers asking about the unplanned
transport. She'd done it! Turning to Tom, she gave a triumphant grin
and a thumbs up sign.

He grinned back. "You did it?"

"Yep. Do you have the special communicators?" Tom reached into his
pocket and removed two communicators that he had gotten, removing all
the circuitry and components to leave only the silver-and-gold
casings. "Right here. Are you ready?"

She nodded, and they started towards the Airponics bay, where they
were going to plant the real communicators. That way, ships sensors
would send back the information that the officers were there instead
of on their way to the shuttlebay. They had chosen a dark, secluded
corner of the Airponics bay that was a notorious make-out location,
hoping that it would prompt a few giggles and raised eyebrows when the
two signals were seen together there, but that their 'privacy' would
be respected.

As they walked through the corridors, B'Elanna felt a tight knot of
apprehension growing in her stomach, mixed with the almost lightheaded
excitement of the forbidden. She hadn't felt this keyed up, this
utterly alive with danger since her days as a Maquis.

Looking at the sparks dancing behind Tom's blue eyes, she knew he was
feeling the same way. It wasn't every day two senior officers
conspired to steal a shuttle and escape their own ship.

That's when B'Elanna realized they had forgotten an important detail
of the plan.

No sooner had the doors to the turbolift doors closed, than she turned
to face Tom. "We need witnesses," she blurted.

He looked at her oddly. "Computer, halt turbolift." With a subservient
beep, the computer did as it was told. "Witnesses, B'Elanna?"

She nodded. "We need to be seen somewhere public together, make sure a
lot of people notice us, but more importantly, notice that everything
is completely normal with us. If we can, we should also spread the
word that we are on the way to the Airponics bay and want to be
alone."

For a moment, he seemed to be considering this, then smiled.
"Computer, resume lift, but redirect to deck two: the mess hall."
There was a mischievous light to his eyes as he looked at her. "Gossip
central. Is that good enough for you?"

"Perfect." Her brain was running too quickly for her to care for
amusement right now. It considered this new plan of action, and
realized that she needed Tom's particular talents. . .and not at the
helm. Smiling sweetly, she looked up at him. "I need you to do your
social butterfly routine."

"My what?," Tom frowned, utterly confused.

"That thing you do with people. . .like at parties. You manage to talk
and charm half the room before I get past the door."

"I have a better idea. Walk into the middle of the room and kiss you
passionately. That would get their attention."

B'Elanna rolled her eyes. "Right." She sighed deeply, "I'm not looking
to make a spectacle here, Tom. I want to attract attention, but I want
it to seem normal. We've never done that kind of thing in public
before. . ." She paused, remembering an incident almost a year before,
involving a Vulcan and an engineering console. "Not on purpose,
anyway", she amended.

"We could fight. . .that's normal enough, and it would get attention
from any engineer in the room who values his hide."

A good suggestion, but one big flaw. "What about the Airponics bay?"

"Simple. We make up."

"What will we fight about?"

An utterly wicked smile quirked Tom's lips. "I could go in there and
passionately kiss Megan Delaney. . .I've done that before, just not
anytime recently."

The doors to the turbolift whisked open, and B'Elanna stepped out
ahead of him, shaking her head in exasperation. "Tom, the entire crew
knows we wouldn't fight over something like that."

He frowned, confused. "We wouldn't."

"No. Because the whole crew knows I would just kill you."

Tom chuckled as they walked into the mess hall. "Too right."

It turned out that they had absolutely no problem attracting
attention. A copy of their medical release had found it's way into
Neelix's hands, and so, of course, the entire crew knew about their
commendation and re-instatement.

B'Elanna felt choked by the number of well-wishers, and quickly
learned to just nod and smile as each crewmember clapped her on the
back or shook her hand in congratulations. Perhaps it was her guilt
over what they were about to do, but the sincerity was almost cloying
in it's intensity. By the eighth person who congratulated her on her
bravery and perseverance, she was ready to forget the little social
smile and teach them a thing or two about hardship with her fists.

She was nearly in awe of the ease with which Tom handled the endless,
cliched platitudes, responding to each with a bright smile and ready
wit. He even managed to let slip the 'secret' or how they were
planning to 'celebrate' in the Airponics bay. Her respect for his
social skills went up another notch when she realized that these leaks
had been brilliantly planned. Michael Ayala. Chell. Neelix. Susan
Nicholas. Megan Delaney. Harry Kim. The biggest gossips on the ship!

By the time they finally escaped the friendly horde, B'Elanna was
practically bursting with curiosity. "Where did you learn to work a
crowd like that, Tom Paris?"

Surprisingly, he didn't smile as she would have expected, and his
voice was solemn. "Being on display at Admirals banquets. 'Owen Paris'
boy wonder.' This was no different. You smile, you thank them, you
tell them what they want to hear. You get the hell out of there."

There was a marked air of bitterness there, and B'Elanna understood.
Too many times, during her brief stint at the Academy, she had been
called out to one function or another to be shown off to a crowd of
Admirals or diplomats. They had claimed it was because she was one of
the best in her engineering class, but she had known better. She was a
symbol, Starfleet's way of saying "look at us, aren't we wonderfully
multi-cultural. . .we've got a little pet Klingon!"

It must have been far worse for Tom, for while she had only needed to
tolerate two years of being a trophy, he had been one all his life. A
boy who could pilot a Starship as well as a full-grown man. The next
in the famed line of Paris Admirals. Owen Paris' only son and legacy.
The difference was, he had adapted to his trophy status, learning how
to be exactly what people expected, while she had learned to be their
worst nightmare.

She didn't know who too feel sorrier for.

She didn't know how to tell him how deeply she understood through
mere, hopelessly inadequate words, so she slipped her hand into his
and squeezed lightly, communicating volumes through that touch.

They were silent the rest of the long walk to the Airponics bay,
silent as they planted the communicators, and silent until they
reached the shuttlebay.

Tom stood guard as she opened the panel in the bulkhead outside the
shuttle bay, her fingers a blur as they bypassed sensors and re-wrote
circuits. She had to do so much. . .fix things so that Voyager's
systems would not notice a shuttle being launched, yet still open the
doors and manipulate the forcefields to allow them to escape safely,
incapacitate the weapons, and sabotage the engines. And all without
alerting Tuvok at Security or Harry at Ops. . .two damn watchful
officers.

Even in the heat of battle or the frenzied activity of a Maquis raid,
she had never worked this fast or this brilliantly in her life. It was
as though the passion of her lust for revenge were a lens through
which she could focus all her intellect and experience with pinpoint
accuracy. Within the space of two minutes, she was down to her final
task. Sabotaging the warp drive.

B'Elanna took a deep breath, forcing her fingers to slow for this
final task. She had to be absolutely perfect here. No room for error.

Tom noticed her sudden caution and smiled. "I've never seen such a
meticulous saboteur, B'Elanna. Were you this careful in the Maquis?"

She didn't look up, her hands never paused. "Shut up and keep watch,
Tom. And no, I wasn't this careful in the Maquis. . .it's a lot easier
to break things when you don't have to worry about fixing them again
later."

"That's assuming Janeway will let us keep our jobs when we get back."

"If we get back."

"That too."

Slipping the last chip into it's new housing, B'Elanna wrestled the
bulkhead cover back in place and stood, dusting her hands on her
uniform trousers. "That should do it. . .but we have to hurry. The
sensors won't be fooled long."

Trying not to look like they were about to steal a shuttle, Tom and
B'Elanna walked casually into the shuttlebay. Ensign Golwat was on
duty. Seeing them, her round blue face broke into a bright grin and
she rushed forward to shake their hands.

"Lieutenants! I just wanted to say congratulations on your--" Her
voice cut off abruptly as she discovered that Tom's handshake hid a
hypospray which hissed into her palm. She gazed almost curiously at
her hand for a moment, as if the appendage belonged to someone else,
then the sedative took effect and she slipped bonelessly to the floor.

Within moments, they were in the shuttle, B'Elanna quickly
double-checking their gear as Tom slid into the pilot's seat. "Strap
in," he warned, "this could get a little rough."

Grinning foolishly with the heady adrenaline rush of risk, she did so,
fastening the combat harness around her lithe body as she took the
co-pilot's station. With the grace of a ballet dancer, Tom lifted the
shuttle, taking it smoothly towards the doors.

Which did not open.

Neither of them panicked, but there was long moment when they did not
breath, B'Elanna suddenly realizing with utter clarity the one, tiny
circuit she had forgotten. But there was an answer to that. "Seven of
Nine," she blurted, and thankfully, Tom understood.

Neon orange phaser fire lanced out from the nose of the shuttle,
burning through the doors. In a shower of bright sparks and droplets
of molten duranium, the shuttle Defiance, newly re-named by it's
occupants, burst through into the dark of space. Their consoles were
alight with furious messages from Voyager, mostly of the
"What-The-Hell-Do-You-Think-You-Are-Doing-Come-Back-Here- Right-Now"
variety. They studiously ignored them, preparing the ion field that
would mask the direction of their warp jump, even as Voyager's own
engines flared blue and then abruptly died.

Tom tapped the final button, and the Defiance flashed into warp,
leaving her parent vessel far behind as she raced back towards Telvari
VI. As soon as they were safely in warp, he looked at his co-pilot
with a smile as bright as a supernova. "We did it! Goddamn, B'Elanna,
we actually did it!"

She returned the smile, but then the sight of Voyager, helpless and
bleeding from the wounds they had inflicted, invaded on her sense of
victory. "Tom," she said quietly, "remember how I said Janeway would
be pissed by what we did?"

"Yeah."

"I was wrong. . . she is going to be very, very pissed. And we are
going to be very, very dead."

---

"One hour to Telvari. . .we really should start getting ready."

B'Elanna looked up from the phaser she was modifying. The metal that
studded Telvari armor had caught her engineer's eye, and in hindsight,
she realized that it had been a duranium tri-composite alloy, nearly
impervious to phaser fire. Unless one had experience with Cardassian
strike force armor and knew how to modify your phasers against it.
Which she did.

Soldering the final circuit into it's new position, she snapped the
case shut and tossed it up to the cockpit. She had meant to surprise
Tom with the proof that she had already been preparing by literally
dropping it in his lap; but much to her surprise, he reached up and
snatched it out of the air without even turning to look at it as it
sailed up from behind him.

She jumped to her feet and spun his chair around so that she was
looking him straight in the eyes. He looked slightly surprised at the
chair maneuver, but otherwise totally innocent. She didn't believe him
for a second. "All right, Tom," she demanded, "how the hell did you do
that?"

"Do what?"

"Catch that phaser so cleanly. . .it was behind you! There was no
possible way you could have seen it coming!"

He shrugged, then smiled slightly as he raised his hand, flexing the
fingers in front of her face. "Good reflexes. . .kinda crucial for a
pilot." There was a brief pause, then he laughed as he saw the
can-I-actually-believe-that look on her face. "And I saw it reflected
in the cockpit windows."

For a split second, she felt a rush of frustrated anger at his
audacity, then smiled. She'd give him this little victory. . .he'd
earned it. "Pig," she whispered affectionately. She leaned forward to
plant a kiss on his cheek, then suddenly, the words they had spoken
resounded through her memory.


"Our blood runs together
A river of honor
And oath of revenge
To drink the blood of our enemies
To light the fires of their destruction
To seek no pleasure
Never to find rest
Until we have tasted their blood
Or seen the eyes of death"


Tom seemed to sense what she was thinking, and his voice was soft.
"B'Elanna, a kiss on the cheek won't break the oath. . .we just swore
off sex, remember?"

She pulled away, her cheeks hot. How could she tell him that it
*would* break the oath for her, and not because of any technicality.
She wanted him so badly. . .the fire of lust in her blood had grown to
the point where a kiss would most certainly break the oath. Any
contact between her lips and his skin, and her tenuous control would
snap, she would surely make passionate love to him right there in the
pilot's chair!

Her hands had balled into fists so tight that the nails had dug into
her skin, releasing thin rivulets of crimson. Thinking about making
love in the pilot's chair is NOT helping, B'Elanna!!!, she chastised
herself.

"We need to get suited up," she said tersely. Quickly, she strode back
into the shuttle's tiny sleeping quarters--little more than a bunk and
a bathroom--and grabbed the first duffel bag. Unzipping it, she
withdrew two black jumpsuits, all-terrain utility boots, and combat
vests that served as body armor in addition to the practicality of
their many pockets and compartments.

"Hand me mine and I'll get dressed." Tom's voice startled her, and she
whirled, her nose bumping his. He'd snuck up on her, the pig. He
grinned at the look of shock on her face, and held out a hand for the
suit. Growling slightly, she pushed the black fabric into his hands.

"You dress up front. I get the bedroom. And don't you dare peek!!"

He looked at her oddly. "B'Elanna, it's me. Tom Paris. I have seen you
naked before. . . and you've seen me. Besides, you'll still be wearing
underwear. Why the sudden attack of modesty?"

"Please, Tom. . . ." Her voice was almost a whisper, and as Tom looked
in her eyes, he seemed to understand. Wordlessly collecting his gear,
he stepped out into the shuttle's main area and closed the door.

Five minutes later, she snapped the last fastener on her utility boots
and called out, "Are you dressed?"

The answer was the doors opening, and a black-jumpsuit-clad Tom Paris
smiled back at her. "All ready to go here."

"No you're not."

He frowned. "I'm not?"

B'Elanna smiled as she held up a small, round container of black
paint, "Our faces. Especially you, my fair skinned friend."

Tom would never know how many mathematical equations it took her to
get through the experience of gently rubbing the black paint over that
handsome face. Or how many times she re-designed the warp core in her
mind as he did the same for her, his touch making her blush crimson
beneath the inky paint.

Finally, just as the computer announced that they were only a
half-hour away from their goal, they were both geared-up, painted and
otherwise dressed for battle. B'Elanna smiled slightly as she looked
at her lover. The only parts of Tom not coal black was a single lock
of blonde hair that had escaped the hood, and this blue eyes, even
more radiant in the darkened face.

"You look like a black hole," she teased, "A blue-eyed black hole."

He laughed. "That's kind of the objective, B'Elanna. . .and you're one
to talk. Even your eyes are black! Well, dark brown anyway," he
quickly amended.

The computer beeped again to warn them that they had passed the point
of no return. They were in Telvari space, visible on Telvari detection
grids. From now on, the clock was ticking. They had to get in, perform
their raid, and get their butts out of there in under six hours. After
that, their craft would no longer be considered 'just passing through'
and they would have to submit for inspection or attempt to fight past
the entire Telvari fleet. Of course, they could just turn back now.

Blue eyes met dark brown, and an unspoken communication passed between
them. They were not backing down. They were going to fulfill the oath,
make the Telvari sorry they had ever heard of Tom Paris and B'Elanna
Torres.

There was a long moment while they just looked into each other's eyes,
a moment of clarity such as they had never experienced in the year
they had been together. Seeing into the deepest regions of one
another's hearts, sharing a lifetime of joy and pain, knowing the
infinite depth of their mutual love. Knowing that there would be a
unspoken rule to this mission.

Two survivors or none.

The next twenty minutes were spend studying their plans, making sure
no detail was overlooked, no flaw left unfound to destroy them later.
They double and triple-checked every piece of equipment, B'Elanna even
going so far as to replace the brand-new power packs on their phasers
and personally check the charge on the four spare power packs each
would carry.

Neither said much, and everything they did say was completely related
to the mission. The important things didn't need to be said. They had
already been spoken by their hearts.

Finally, the clock had ticked down to five minutes, and B'Elanna
settled into the co-pilot's seat to watch Tom slip the Defiance into
orbit over the planet's magnetic pole. This would shield them from
most sensors and buy them a few extra minutes in their escape, but it
would also make sensing their enemies from orbit impossible.

She went over the plans of the torture facility again, trying to
remember where the guards had been posted. There was one outside each
cell, one outside the torture chamber. . .or had their been two? Her
memory was hazy on that point, as every time she had passed there, she
had either been sick with pain, or the anticipation of it.

Think. . .you have got to remember how many guards!! She closed her
eyes, remembering her last session.

They had dragged her out, bloodied and half-dead from pain, and she
remembered coughing up a sour mouthful of blood which had landed on
the boots of a guard to her right. The guard had punched her fiercely
in the stomach for her transgression, and she had doubled over in
agony, released by the two guards holding her to fall painfully to the
floor. She could see the one who had punched her. . .and now she
remembered something else.

A second set of boots. Clean boots. She knew her punishment was for
spitting blood on the boots of one guard, and none of them ever left
the torture chamber without blood from their victims, so that meant a
fourth guard!!

Her face grim from the memories, she entered the coordinates of their
beam-in site. They would come in just a little outside the torture
facility and fight their way in, Tom killing or stunning the guards as
she disabled the security systems.

Once inside, they had decided to stun for the most part, although
there were a few guards and prison officials they had agreed deserved
nothing less than death. Tom didn't know it, but she had an old
Cardassian disrupter she had kept from her time as a Maquis. . .a
weapon that, unlike a Federation phaser, slowly ripped apart the
molecular bonds of the victim. A very painful way to die.

Despite her Klingon heritage, B'Elanna did not consider herself, as a
rule, a cruel or violet person. She enjoyed pounding holodeck enemies
as a release of tension, but she did not see this as any different
than the full-blooded human who practiced martial arts or boxed. She
did not enjoy the suffering of real people.

Most of the time. There were some people who did not deserve a clean,
painless death, in her opinion, and the overseers of the Telvari
torture center were those kind of people. They deserved to experience
some shadow of the pain they had caused their victims. The pain they
had caused Tom. The pain they had caused her.

Her fingers reached into her pocket and closed over the thick grip of
the Cardassian weapon for a moment, reassuring her of it's presence as
she stood. She picked up her field pack, loaded with climbing
supplies, reconnaissance gear, and explosives. Somewhat awkwardly, she
maneuvered the ungainly ten-kilo knapsack onto her back and began to
cinch the straps tight. Tom reached to stabilize the pack as she did
so, holding it square over her shoulders. "You still sure about this,
B'Elanna?," he asked, "It's awfully heavy for someone your size."

Fastening the last strap around her slim waist, she turned to him.
"Tom, Starfleet weight regs were not written with half-Klingons in
mind. You know I go by a man's load allotment, not a woman's."

He still looked at her in concern, aware that her pack was a mere two
kilos lighter than his, though she was only a little more than half
his weight and a head shorter. But one minute to beam-down was not the
time to argue, and they both knew it.

Tom keyed in the transport sequence, and they stepped onto the pad,
watching the red numbers on the console count down towards zero.
Suddenly, Tom's blue eyes flashed with a look she recognized. . .he
had made some kind of decision.

She did not have time to wonder what that was, before he wrapped his
arms around her, kissing her deeply on the mouth, months of restrained
passion clear in a kiss that was meant to possibly be their last.
Hungrily, she returned it, her hands holding his face tightly to hers,
never wanting to let him go.

By the time they pulled apart, the counter was down to five, and
B'Elanna forced her mind back to the mission. Drawing her phaser, she
dropped to a wary fighting stance, her peripheral vision allowing her
to see Tom doing the same.

Then the tingle of the transporter, a moment of blackness as her
molecules were encoded, transformed into energy, beamed across space,
and re-assembled. The world begin to form around her again, and what
she saw caused her hand to tighten on the phaser even before it was
fully formed.

A pair of eyes. Pure orange, without iris or pupil. Only a meter from
her own. Telvari eyes.

---

Almost before she had fully formed, B'Elanna surged forward, pressing
the tip of her phaser against the leathery flesh she found between
those glowing eyes. Her weight was not in itself very significant, but
it was propelled forward by a pair of very powerful legs, and a heart
that burned white-hot with hatred.

She slammed the alien up against the wall of the alley, her forearm
pressed against it's throat to hold it helpless as her other hand held
the phaser evenly to it's forehead. "Move. Say something. Give me an
excuse to kill you!!"

The alien seemed almost afraid, it's bulky form trembling under her
hold, the orange eyes impossibly wide. The fear fed her Klingon
instincts, and she smiled like a wolf, teeth bared, her own dark eyes
blazing with the fire of a supernova. "Are you afraid, alien?" She
pressed in tighter, her words hissing between clenched teeth, her
blood singing with adrenaline as the alien began to make tiny, gagging
noises. "Are you afraid of me?!!"

She felt Tom's hand on her arm, trying to pull her back. "B'Elanna. .
."

"No! I want this alien bastard to know fear...fear like we felt!! Then
I'm going to blow it's fucking head off!!" At this, the alien began to
make a low keening noise, barely audible, but clearly terrified.

Tom's voice was only a whisper, but it cut through her like a knife.
"B'Elanna. . .look at who you're holding. She's a child, B'Elanna. A
child!"

The bright fires of hate began to clear from her vision, and she
realized that the size of this alien did indeed support Tom's theory.
It. . .now a she, B'Elanna saw, was not much taller than herself.
Every Telvari they had met was at least as tall as Tom, and most were
taller. The expression, even on an alien visage, was one of mindless
terror, and instead of body armor, the clothing was a soft, shapeless
tunic of brightly colored cloth over tan leggings.

Orange eyes pleaded with her for mercy, and, as if in a dream, she saw
her arm move away, the phaser drop slightly. She was here to take
revenge on her captors. Not murder innocent children, though they may
belong to the same vile species.

Tom stepped forward, his black-gloved hand gently wiping away the
tears that had seeped from the girl's eyes. "What's your name?", he
asked, "What are you doing outside a place like this?"

"M-M-M'Tera", she stammered. "I came...I came to...to see the
portrayers."

"The portrayers?"

At that moment, the large yellow moon came out from behind the clouds,
casting a bright beam down the alley to illuminate Tom's blackened
features. M'Tera's jaw dropped, and a good bit of the fear fled from
her expression, replaced by confusion and a little bit of awe. "Tom?,"
she whispered, "Tom Paris?"

B'Elanna pushed forward, causing M'Tera to pull in close to the wall
in fear, but he didn't care. "How do you know his name?", she
demanded.

"B'Elanna? Are you really B'Elanna Torres?" M'Tera began to pull away
from the wall, excitement beginning to build in her voice. "On the
Holy Sands, I never dreamed I would get to meet you!! You're the best
portrayers who ever lived!!"

She started to reach for the girl again, but again Tom's more
diplomatic personality stepped in, and through a series of gentle
questions B'Elanna knew she never could have managed, he proceeded to
discover the amazing--and infuriating--story behind young M'Tera's
presence in the back alley behind that house of nightmares.

The tale was so unimaginable, that B'Elanna found herself leaning
against the wall slightly for support, her mouth open in disbelief as
she looked at the girl. "You thought it was all pretend...that all our
suffering...all our pain...that it was an act?!!"

M'Tera nodded, a faint look of something resembling nausea on her
warty features. "That's what they told us. That's what they told us
all. That the Sagas were all just simulated. It was all done with
make-up, illusions, and portrayers who acted it all out. . .we were
placing bets on something that was all a work of fiction. A lot of
people thought it was too bloody, but most thought there was no harm
as long as it wasn't real."

"Oh, believe me," B'Elanna's voice was icy, her hate beginning to find
new purchase, "it was real."

M'Tera's looked at her for a long moment, orange eyes first probing
deep brown, then turning to seek out blue. What she saw there caused a
rapid barrage of emotions to cascade across her face, and finally, her
expression held tentative belief. She opened her mouth, paused, then
softly asked a question. "Can I feel it?"

B'Elanna frowned. "Feel what?"

The girl ran her hand over her bald, warty head. "There is no word in
our language...but it is here. On you, it is like kerva wood...on him,
it is like the sands of the Chofra desert. So soft and supple...."

Tom's blue eyes widened in understanding, and he reached up, pulling
back his hood. "Our hair, B'Elanna. She wants to touch our hair...make
sure we're not Telvari in some kind of make-up." He knelt, allowing
her to reach out and brush her fingers across his blonde, wavy hair.
At first, she seemed afraid to touch this tall alien, but when he only
smiled at her, she became emboldened, finally getting up the courage
to gently tug at a strand.

"See," he assured her, "it's all mine. No make up. . .I'm a genuine,
red- blooded human."

"And her?", M'Tera asked.

In response, B'Elanna pulled off her own hood, shaking out the
nut-brown strands, then bowing her head to allow a similar inspection.
In her case, it ended with a soft exploration of the ridges on her
forehead. She almost balked as the girl leaned forward, her wide
nostrils flaring as oddly, she sniffed at the pattern of bone.
"They're Klingon," B'Elanna explained. "My father was human like Tom,
but my mother was another race called Klingon. That's why I have the
ridges."

"It is real." M'Tera finally announced confidently. "You are not
Telvari portrayers as they say you are. They lied." Her soft, melodic
voice hardened in betrayal. "They lied to all of us."

She began to mutter a series of words that the translator would not
interpret, but from the tone of her voice, the gist of things was
quite clear, even if the language was not. Finally, she stopped
cursing, and turned to face Tom and B'Elanna. "I must take you to the
others. You have to share your story. . .tell them that the Sagas are
real."

B'Elanna shook her head. "We can't. We have a mission... to seek
revenge on the people who abducted and tortured us. The people in
there." She pointed to the dark building. "We only have six hours to
do it all...there's not enough time to spread the gospel about these
Sagas."

Tom nodded, pulling his hood back into place as he moved closer to
B'Elanna. "She's right. This is something we pledged to do...you might
not understand right now, M'Tera, but we made a very special
promise...an oath, and--"

"And that oath must make you pretty stupid." M'Tera concluded. "You
seemed really smart in the Saga vids, but to think that the two of you
are going to make any difference by going in there and blowing things
up...that's stupid. They would kill you both, call the damage you did
an accident, and re-build to make more Sagas. The only way to make a
difference is to tell everyone what the Sagas really are."

There was a long silence, both commando's uncomfortably aware of how
right the child was. They had been perfectly willing to go in and die
for the sole reason of making sure their tormentors would follow them
into hell, but now there was something larger at stake. A population
unaware of the true nature of the heinous crimes being committed
inside the large, foreboding buildings. A chance to stop the crimes
once and for all, and give the planet a chance to wipe the evil from
their midst.

There was no need for discussion. A simple look into one another's
eyes made it clear that there was only one option here. And it would
still keep the oath, when they thought about it. The guilty would
still be punished, and possibly, they might still be the one's to
deliver both the figurative and literal death blows to those hated
creatures.

Knowing that M'Tera trusted him far more than the woman who had beamed
in and nearly killed her, Tom stepped forward and bowed slightly. "You
have won us over, my lady.", he smiled playfully, "What is it you
recommend?"

For a moment, she paused, scratching her head in puzzlement before
coming to a decision. "I'll take you to my brother, Kotris. He works
for the news vids." She took Tom's gloved hand and began to lead them
out of the alley.

Without warning, a familiar feeling gripped the pit of B'Elanna's
stomach, and she stood helpless as it grew to envelop her whole body.
The last time this sensation had pulled her from the surface of
Telvari, it had been a welcome relief. Now, it was a source of
unbelievable frustration. A howl of anger formed in her throat, but it
was unable to find voice for several seconds, until her lungs were
solid enough to take in oxygen and force it out through her mouth.

As the smooth walls of Voyager's transporter room formed around her,
the cry began to emerge, then abruptly died as she saw something else.

A commanding, auburn-haired woman, her petite form clothed in
Starfleet red and black, hands planted firmly on her hips, four bright
pips gleaming on her collar. Captain Janeway.

B'Elanna had been right that she would be displeased, but wrong as to
the degree of that displeasure.

Janeway did not seem pissed at their actions.

She seemed homicidal.

---

"Unprofessional. Inexcusable. Traitorous. Juvenile. Appalling.
Unbelievable. I know any number of words I could use for your actions,
a good portion of them of the sort that Captains are not supposed to
say to their subordinates, no matter how far out of line those
subordinates have stepped."

B'Elanna tried in vain to pull herself even more stiffly to attention,
but even still, the Captain's icy glare made her feel small and
sloppy. Think Tuvok. She told herself *Think Harry. Think Seven.

It didn't help.

Janeway's steely, deep blue gaze still bore into her, reaching down
into her heart and forcibly ripping it open to read it's contents. She
had no choice but to stand there next to Tom, not meeting her
captain's eyes, back ramrod- straight, thumbs aligned with the seams
of her pants, heels together. Full parade attention, something she had
not been called upon to do since her Academy days. She remembered now
how much she had hated it.

The physical discomfort of the rigorous posture only served to
heighten the soul-scorching intensity of Janeway's gaze and reprimand.
She stalked around them like a predator, slowly circling the two
younger officers, hands leisurely behind her back as though she had
all the time in the world.

Finally, she stopped, sitting down on the edge of her desk to regard
them. "I think the word for the two of you, however, is 'betrayal'."

The ice of that last word stabbed into B'Elanna with an almost
physical pain, and she nearly winced. Janeway shook her head slightly,
and her face softened, taking on a saddened, deeply wounded look that
was somehow worse than the anger.

"I had such pride in both of you. You were my greatest triumphs, a son
and daughter I had the pleasure to watch grow out here in this lonely
part of space. You were the ones that everyone thought were beyond
help, the ones no one wanted to take a chance on, but I trusted you
anyway. I saw something that said that these were young people who had
made mistakes, but had the chance to be something great if only
someone would give you the chance. I gave you that trust. I made you
my Chief Engineer, B'Elanna...and you, Tom, my Conn Officer. I.
Trusted. You. Both."

Her voice softened to nearly a whisper, and she reached out, about to
brush her fingers across Tom's cheek, then stopped, as if she couldn't
bear to touch them. B'Elanna felt her heart twist in shame. She had
thought of this, intellectually accepted what they were doing, but she
hadn't really imagined how this would hurt the Captain. That they were
emotionally, deeply wounding her with their actions. With--and Janeway
was all too right here--their betrayal of her trust.

"Sabotage. Going absent without official leave. Lying to a superior
officer. Taking a shuttle without permission. Wanton destruction of
ship's property. Failure to acknowledge an official hail. Disobeying a
direct order--several of them in fact. Intending to commit homicide.
Violating alien space. Assaulting a crewmember. Illegally using your
access codes. Illegally obtaining drugs from sickbay. Theft of ship's
equipment. Intentionally creating false sensor readings...I could go
on, but suffice it to say that I have enough here to plant your butts
in the brig so long that you'll be drawing pensions by the time you
get out."

She sighed deeply, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with a thumb and
forefinger. "But we all know I can't do that. Like it or not, you two
are the best damn officers I've ever known in your respective fields,
and you've flown and engineered this ship's ass out of the fire too
many times to count. I can't lock you up. I can't pull you from duty."

Janeway's eyes met theirs again and B'Elanna got the distinct
impression that she would not like what was coming next. "But I can
strip those pips from your collar, bust you down from your titles and
positions on the senior staff, and pull your replicator and holodeck
privileges. And I can make sure that if you so much as show up with
lint on your uniforms, I don't care how talented you are. . .you will
be chopping leola root for the next sixty years."

"Permission to speak in our defense, Captain?" Tom's voice sounded
steady, if humbled, and thought B'Elanna could not turn her head to
see his face, she could see it clearly in her mind's eye. He would be
wearing his mask. That cool non-expression that she so hated to see,
because it meant he was hurting underneath it.

He was surely hurting the same way she was, with deep shame eating at
his heart, the knowledge that they may well have squandered the best
chance life had ever given them. . .and without a single Telvari
corpse to show for it.

"Granted."

"Captain, Lieutenant Torres and Lieutenant Paris," *Why is he speaking
in the third person,* B'Elanna wondered. Then she realized *That's how
they do it in formal Starfleet legal proceedings...he's conforming to
chapter-and-verse protocol for her* "Felt there were extenuating
circumstances for their actions," he continued.

"They'd have to be pretty damn extenuating, Lieutenant."

"Lieutenant's Paris and Torres underwent conditions defined as
'torture' by the Starfleet Standards for Treatment and Interrogation
of Prisoners. These conditions were continued for forty-three standard
days, and marked by physical, psychological, and emotional abuse and
degradation. The tactical situation at the time, as well as the
physical conditions of the Lieutenants, did not allow any form of
retribution at the time. It was also known by the Lieutenants that to
attempt to affect retribution at the time of their recovery might well
result in the deaths of a number of their comrades. Therefore, they
chose to execute the necessary retribution in a method that would risk
no lives other than their own in fulfilling the requirements of their
consciences and cultures."

Janeway's brow furrowed slightly. "Cultures?"

Tom rolled up his sleeve, indicating with a nod that B'Elanna do the
same. Two thin, livid lines crossed pale and golden flesh alike on the
upper side of their arms. "The Lieutenants took the Blood Oath,
Captain, in accordance with Lieutenant Torres' Klingon heritage, and
Lieutenant Paris' respect for the same."

Janeway contemplated this for several long moments, then nodded to
them. "At ease." As they relaxed a little, she smiled, and this time,
her hand did touch them, placing a reassuring, yet sad, pat on first
Tom's, then B'Elanna's shoulder.

"I understand what you went through. If you remember, Tom, your father
and I were once captured by the Cardassians, so I know at least a
little what torture is like, though I must say that I have never been
forced to go through the type of thing you did." She took a deep
breath, looking in B'Elanna's eyes with compassion, yet absolute
command. "I saw the conditions you arrived in, and believe me, I
wanted nothing more than to fire a few photon torpedoes down their
collective throats. It was inhumane, it was brutal, it was
repulsive...I nearly was sick when I read the Doctor's reports. But
sometimes, you have to lick your wounds and leave, because anything
else would be suicide. You have to learn that. You cannot sacrifice
yourselves for simple revenge, any more than you can betray this ship.
We need you too much for that."

There were several long minutes when no one knew quite what to say,
then finally, Janeway spoke again. "You are both still young and
passionate, and you've done a lot towards tempering your fire, though
there is still a long road ahead of you. I understand what you must be
feeling--the absolute rage towards the Telvari--and I appreciate your
willingness to give up your own lives rather than ask the crew to aid
your quest for vengeance. I think you're right, Tom about the
extenuating circumstances, and for that, I will re-think your
punishment. You will still lose replicator and holodeck privileges for
six weeks, and you will be reduced in rank to Ensigns for the same
period, with an equal length of probationary time to follow. But you
will keep your titles, and your positions as members of my senior
staff, and your ranks will be restored at the end of the first six
weeks."

It was still harsh, but B'Elanna knew they had gotten off luckily, and
that she should be grateful. As if in a daze, she murmured her thanks
to the Captain, turned and left. The moment she passed through the
doors into the corridor, she felt her knees begin to tremble, and knew
she would have to reach her quarters in record time not to be caught
crying in public.

The worst punishment was one the Captain didn't even know she had
inflicted. It was the Oath, which would now burn, unfulfilled,
forever. There was no way now that they could possibly fulfill it, and
no way her Klingon honor could let her break it. Damn the Oath anyway!
Why had she been so stupid as to make a promise that would separate
her from the man she loved forever?!!

Always to hold the memory of how it had felt to love him. Always to
know that he still loved her, still burned for her as she burned for
him. Always to remember the touch of his hands, his lips on her skin.
The sight of his long, perfect body and handsome face. The unearthly
contentment when they had lain together after making love, knowing
absolute peace.

Never again.

Unsure of exactly how she got there, B'Elanna found herself in her
quarters, her back against the cold gray bulkhead as she slowly sank
to the deck. Her slim body shook with repressed sobs as she sat there,
silent tears streaming down her face as she cursed the foolishness of
her own heat in making that damn oath. The oath that was slowly,
painfully ripping her heart apart.

---

In her Ready Room, Janeway's eyes fell on a small chip on her desk. It
was a data chip, one that she knew for a fact had not been there
before her meeting with Tom and B'Elanna.

Out of curiosity, she slipped it into the reader, and a standard
Starfleet report appeared on the terminal's little screen. As she
scrolled down through the text, Janeway's blue eyes widened. It was a
report from Lieutenant Paris, on their aborted little raid on Telvari.
But it was not just an account of an interrupted terrorist activity,
but of a conversation with a young woman.

A conversation that changed everything.

---

B'Elanna took a deep breath. She was acting like a teary-eyed
adolescent. . .it was ridiculous! Here she was, a little under two
years away from being thirty years old, and she was sitting on the
floor of her quarters, sobbing about lost love. She had faced hardship
before, she had faced loss before. It shouldn't take much to pull the
old walls into place, to stop the bleeding of her heart.

Keeping an iron hold on her emotions, she stood, tugging her uniform
back in order. A few steps took her to the bathroom, where she
activated the cold water in her sink. Her hands cupped, she splashed
the icy liquid across her face, shaking her head to help the chill
disperse her tears.

Eyes the color of dark chocolate regarded their own reflection in the
mirror. "Come one, B'Elanna," she admonished herself, "he's just a
man. You can get along without him. . .hell, you got along without men
for twenty-six years. All you have to do is close your heart. Close it
tight, and harden it to stone like it was before. . .then you'll be
free again."

Free? A little voice teased at a corner of her mind, doubting the
brave words. Were you really free before? Was it freedom when you
couldn't even spell love? Was is freedom when you only knew
bitterness? Was it freedom you felt during those long, lonely nights
when you would stare at the ceiling and wonder what it would be like
to share your cold, empty bed with someone who gave a shit about
something other than your body?

No. She had to admit that this wasn't freedom. This was hiding. But it
was better to hide the hurt deep inside, to close up and feel no
warmth than to open and expose her heart to the cold wind of loss that
was biting at her now.

The eyes in the mirror seemed to deepen, saddened. She would live. She
would go on. But she would never be the same.

---

Staff meeting.

Her first day in over a year as a robot, as a woman without a heart.

It was also her first ever day as an ensign. The single pip--she had
chosen a circular Starfleet pip, as she decided that Ensign was her
Starfleet imposed rank, while she had been granted a Lieutenant's
brevet as a Maquis--weighed heavy on her collar. It had seemed, at
first, to drag her chin down, humbled. Then she realized that was
Janeway's intention, and it took on the opposite effect. She held
herself tall, unashamed, her proud stance and level chin letting the
light reflect brightly off that one gold circle.

She took her seat at the conference table, grinning at Harry as she
sat next to him. "Hey, Starfleet," she whispered, "we're on even
ground now."

He frowned a moment in confusion, then saw her collar, and his almond
eyes widened. "You got demoted!"

B'Elanna shrugged, trying to pretend it didn't matter. "Yea. The
Captain didn't take too kindly to our little excursion to Telvari. But
don't worry. . .Tom will be here any minute, and you'll see I'm not
the only new Ensign on board."

Harry shook his head ruefully. "Is it permanent?"

"Nope", She flashed a bright, evil grin at the young man. "I'll be
ordering you around again in six weeks."

Harry opened his mouth to answer her, eyes dancing, but just then, the
doors opened. Captain Janeway strode through, quickly scanning the
assembled officers. Her eyes lingered on B'Elanna's, then longer again
on the empty chair to her right, fine brows knitting in disapproval.
"Ensign Torres", she asked, "Where is Ensign Pa--"

She cut off as the doors whisked open, and Tom rushed through, running
his fingers quickly through blonde hair that had clearly not seen
benefit of a comb that morning.

"Sorry, Captain," he said quickly, "I overslept."

B'Elanna knew better. That was not how he looked when he overslept.
The dark circles that marred his fair skin beneath the blue eyes, the
strain on his handsome features, the faint hint of blonde stubble on
his face that spoke of a not-so-careful shave. He hadn't overslept. He
hadn't slept at all. They exchanged a small, quick smile as he took
his seat, then turned their attention to the Captain.

For a moment, she looked as though she was going to say something
about Paris being late, then changed her mind and turned to the small
viewscreen. At the tap of a button, a blue-green sphere appeared to
rotate on the screen, cut across with thin lines of latitude and
longitude. It was a planet, the sight of which made B'Elanna's blood
run cold. Janeway seemed to be speaking only to her and Tom as she
said, "I assume you know this place?"

Tom spoke for them both. "Telvari VI."

Janeway nodded in confirmation. "That's right. I'm sure all of you
know of this place from what happened to Tom and B'Elanna there, and
I'm sure you all thought we were finished in our dealings with the
Telvari." A brief pause confirmed her words, and she went on. "We're
not."

Had one of them dropped a pin at that moment, the sound of it bouncing
would have deafened them all. "We're not?" It was Seven of Nine who
spoke, her metallic eyebrow raised in question as she looked at her
commanding officer.

"No." As the Captain began to explain, B'Elanna's eyes widened in
wonder. She knew. Somehow, she knew about their conversation with
M'Tera, and was now telling the rest of the Senior Staff about it,
almost verbatim. She cast a quick look at Tom, intending to whisper a
question as to how she might possibly have found out, but the tiny
spark of a smile playing in his tired eyes told her everything. Tom
was the reason. He was the reason the Captain knew about M'Tera, and
the reason that even now, she was outlining a plan to go back to
Telvari and expose the truth about the Sagas to the general populace.

An hour later, B'Elanna practically floated out of the conference
room. This was better than she had ever dreamed! They would get to
fulfill the oath, and actually have a chance of survival to boot, what
with Voyager's remarkable fire power backing them up.

It was ten-hundred hours. The mission began at eighteen-hundred hours.

B'Elanna's eyes fixed on a pair of black trousers just ahead of her as
they headed towards the turbolift, her mind's eye slowly peeling away
the black fabric and the briefs beneath to imagine that glorious,
muscular ass. Tom's ass. An ass that, if all went well, she should be
able to get her hands on by twenty-hundred hours. She knew it would be
the longest ten hours of her life.

---

Once again outfitted in black reconnaissance gear and pain, Tom Paris
and B'Elanna Torres stood on the transporter pad side by side. Only
this time, it was different.

To either side of them stood security personnel, and with the
additional forces in the other two transporter rooms, their little
strike force numbered sixteen in all. Themselves, Tuvok, Seven, and
twelve of Tuvok's best security men and women, all armed to the teeth.
But all carrying a unique addition to the standard arms and equipment.
Strapped to their wrists, fully powered and nearly indestructible,
they all carried miniature holo-recorders.

That was their mission this time. They were not to destroy, not to
kill. Instead, their mission was two-fold: to free the Telvari still
held in the facility, providing medical care and escape to those too
weak to leave under their own power, and to record every evil detail
of the facility. Orders were to only stun the guards they encountered,
but B'Elanna smiled as she closed her hand over the hilt of her
phaser. She hoped no one would have time to check those who fell. Her
phaser was not set to stun.

She held her breath as the transporter took her, closing her eyes so
that the transition to the dark of the Telvari night would not be so
jarring. Her heart was pounding, her breathing harsh. This was more
exciting than it had been when it was just she and Tom, knowing that
they were not just seeking their own personal revenge, but preparing
to open the eyes of an entire race to an unspeakable evil that was
festering in their midst.

The hum and tingle of the transporter faded, and she opened her eyes,
squinting until she adjusted to the light. They were in the same alley
where they had found M'Tera, but it was empty this time, with the
exception of Voyager's team. The narrow road dead-ended only a few
meters to their right, but stretched out beyond sight to their left,
towards a main thoroughfare that would allow them their egress back
into the main part of the Telvari capital, and on to the next phase of
the mission: dissemination of the intelligence through M'Tera's
brother and his position in the news vids.

On a nod from Tuvok, she moved forward, the phasers of the other's
covering her as she examined the locking mechanism on the large door.
She took her time, using not only her tricorder for the inner
workings, but every trick of lock analysis she had learned in the
Maquis. Her delay soon unnerved the others, and she grinned as she
heard the sounds of nervous fidgeting behind her.

"Can you open it, Ensign?", Tuvok finally asked, and she could have
almost sworn that his cool Vulcan tones held a hint of annoyance. Her
grin widened, but she subdued it, adopting a studiously grim visage as
she looked back towards the team.

"Yes," She said simply. Taking a step back, she drew her phaser and
aimed it carefully at the lock. A quick motion of her thumb on the
trigger, and the orange beam lanced out into the small device. It
exploded violently in a shower of sparks and molten metal, and the
door creaked lazily open. She turned back to the others. "How's that?"

Barely visible in the darkness, one of Tuvok's eyebrows raised
slightly. "Sufficient." He led the formation, Tom and B'Elanna falling
in immediately behind, the others fanning out in a roughly
diamond-shaped pattern with Seven taking up the rear. Every nerve,
every fiber on high alert, they entered into the black pit, a darkness
which she knew to not only be absence of light, but an utter blackness
of spirit as well.

It was only seconds before the first Telvari guard came at them.
Screaming in anger at the intrusion into his domain, he shrieked an
alarm as he led his three men at the invading aliens. Phasers sang,
and a cry of absolute Klingon triumph was rent from B'Elanna's throat
as she saw her beam catch the lead Telvari squarely in the chest,
blowing a smoking hole through his armor and the flesh beneath.
Another beam caught him in the throat as he fell, but she didn't care.
She had been the one to deliver the death blow.

She had killed one of them.

Fulfilled the oath.

Now, all she had to do was live to enjoy it.

B'Elanna was like a madwoman, in a battle frenzy that would have put
any full- blooded Klingon to shame as she fought her way deeper and
deeper into the compound, the labyrinthine twist and turns of the
halls splitting the away team again and again, until finally, she and
Tom were alone. Back to back, heart to heart, not a word spoken
between them as they felled wave after wave of guards who came at
them.

She began to recognize corridors, oddities in the stone they passed,
and knew they were nearing the heart of the compound, where the
prisoners were kept and tortured. A moment's eye contact with Tom
confirmed that, and she could not restrain a shout of hot pleasure as
she drilled yet another Telvari straight through the breastplate. Then
there was a shout of another kind entirely, as hot agony lanced
through her shoulder.

B'Elanna went down, clutching at the burning injury, cursing
inarticulately as she fought the blackness creeping towards the edges
of her vision. The bastards!! It was as though the blood in her
shoulder had been replaced by acid, eating away at the flesh, sending
tears of agony down her cheeks as she fought not to scream again, not
to let them know how they had hurt her. She forced herself back to her
feet, switching the phaser to her other hand, as the only feeling left
in her right arm now, was blessedly that of the hot blood running
thickly down towards her wrist.

But she was nowhere near as good a shot with her left hand, and soon,
one of the guards seemed to sense her wound. An alien beam shot out,
blowing the phaser from her hand and sending it careening down and out
of sight in the dark corridor. The next shot took her in her upper
right leg, and it buckled beneath her, sending her to the stone floor
again as her hip was nearly destroyed by the blazing energy.

The guards sensed that the fire against them had cut by half, and
began to press in closer. Tom kept firing, again and again, but she
knew it was only a matter of time before the already-fading whine of
his phaser died entirely. Then the aliens would be upon them. Then
they would be dead.

The next thing she knew, the guard's fire had stopped, and she
furrowed her brow in puzzlement as Tom turned and knelt at her side.
"What. . .what happened?," she managed.

"They had bigger problems in the other direction," he explained. "My
guess is that Tuvok and Seven are giving them hell in another
corridor."

The light of her wrist recorder illuminated Tom's handsome features,
creased in worry as he examined her wounds. "Gods, B'Elanna. . .how
many times did they get you?"

"Twice. Only twice. . .I'll be okay."

"Like hell you will! We've got to get you back to the ship." He
hoisted her into his arms, his blue eyes clearly showing regret for
the cry of pain it caused her. Tom began to call for transport, but
B'Elanna stopped him, raising her good hand to cover his mouth.

"No! We've got to get one. . .just one, Tom!!"

He looked at her oddly. "We got one, B'Elanna. I'd say we each got
almost a dozen, in fact. The oath is satisfied. We can go home. .
.Tuvok and the others can finish this."

She shook her head vigorously, refusing to give in that easily. "I
know, but the others are still there. I have to free one of them. I
won't be too weak to stop the hell for someone this time!!" Trembling
with pain, she pushed herself out of Tom's arms, using his tall, solid
body as a crutch as she hobbled along, only one leg and one arm of any
use to her, the others insensible slabs of meat attached to her body.

Knowing that it was no use arguing, Tom merely helped her along,
moving slowly down the corridor, confronting and killing only two more
guards before they reached the first cell block. The stench from the
thick grate over the first door was overwhelming, and B'Elanna nodded
to Tom to indicate that it was to be the one they would rescue.

She sagged against the wall, freeing her lover to move forward on his
own, thick, powerful muscles propelling a kick that slammed the door
off it's hinges. It fell inward with a resounding crash, and his light
exposed the miserable inhabitant of the cell.

It was a single young Telvari man. . .more of a boy, actually, who
looked as they must have upon their rescue. His leathery skin hung
loosely from his bones, and his face and body were discolored and
bloody from the many beatings and sessions the poor creature must have
undergone. He looked at them in glazed disbelief, orange eyes not
seeming to hold the comprehension that the figure in the door was his
salvation.

Tom extended his hand back to B'Elanna, helping her forward to the
boy's side. She leaned down, extending her good hand to him as he
cringed on the filthy straw. "We're here to save you. . .can you get
up?" Orange eyes wide, he shook his head, unable to summon the words
to answer any other way.

She nodded back to Tom as she fell against the wall again, feeling a
wave of dizziness overwhelm her. "Can you. . .can you get him, Tom?"
Her voice sounded as a strange echo to her own ears, and her world
began to spin as the effects of her wounds began to call themselves to
her attention. "I think it's time to go. . . ."

She slumped to the floor, and the last things her conscious mind
registered were the sights of Tom lifting the unfortunate Telvari boy
into his arms, and the sweet sound of his voice calling to Voyager for
transport. The last thing she felt was a sense of giddy happiness.

You did it, B'Elanna!! her mind exalted, you did. . . .

Blackness.

---

Three hours later, B'Elanna sat in her quarters, looking out the
window at the planet below them as Voyager orbited Telvari's night
side. For the most part, the planet was black, but little yellow
pin-pricks dotted some of the cities, marking the massive fires raging
there.

Already, though it had only been two hours since the recordings from
the away team had been given to the news networks, the Telvari world
had been turned upside down. The people had been outraged to put it
mildly, and there was massive rioting in all the major cities, a
burgeoning coup on the brink of overthrowing the corrupt government
entirely, and the warehouses of death being burnt to the ground even
as they watched.

Normally, it was a terrible thing to see a planet in such turmoil, but
this time, it felt good. Almost as good as it felt to have Tom sitting
next to her right now, his arm draped casually around her waist. She
turned, looking deeply into his blue eyes, her own eyes even blacker
than usual with the wild desire that was burning hotter and hotter by
the moment within her. "Tom. . . .," she whispered.

"Yes, B'Elanna?" His voice was equally hushed.

"Do you think we fulfilled the oath? I mean, we didn't do it alone."

"Works for me." His lips brushed lightly against hers, but it was like
she had been shot all over again, only this time, instead of searing
pain, it was overwhelming pleasure that coursed through her body.

"Tom?"

"Yes?"

"Take off your shirt."

He pulled back a bit, smiling in amusement. "So it's my body you
want?" Her pulse was racing, her breath ragged as she fought the need
to throw him down and take him on the spot.

"Hell, yes!!", she growled, eyes passionately afire.

He reached for the fastener of his jacket, but it was not fast enough
for her tastes. She hooked her fingers in the gray fabric of his
turtleneck collar, growling lasciviously. There was a short contest
between the sturdy weave of a Starfleet uniform and the formidable
musculature of a sex-starved half-Klingon.

A very short contest that was really no contest at all.

---

The End