The cell was eight feet by eight feet, with a Level Five security shield in front of it; just strong enough to cause the cell's occupant to think twice before trying to escape. But the occupant of this particular cell was not interested in escaping. He was more interested in trying to figure out what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. The memories were blurred, unfocused.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not piece together more than a rough sketch of the day's events. It was enough to fill him with a deep sense of dread. If his memory served him, and it had never deceived him before, then he was responsible for the death of the only person in the entire universe he had ever cared about; a Lieutenant by the name of...

"Thomas Paris," the Admiral finished, grimly. He looked across the table of the deserted conference room, obviously waiting for a reply.

Harry Kim was too dazed to reply. His memory remained uncooperative, telling him nothing, revealing no clue. He only had this vague sense of uneasiness, barely noticeable underneath the layers of numbness he was feeling now.

"Well, Ensign?" the Admiral asked, obviously impatient.

Harry could not
ing himself to look up. He was utterly lost, hopelessly confused. And now, he was alone. And it was all his doing...

"I--I don't know, sir," Harry finally mumbled.

The Admiral looked at him with some degree of incredulity. "You don't know?"

Harry shook his head. "No, sir. I--it's all confused. I--don't know." He wracked his mind for anything important, but nothing came to him. Helplessly, Harry looked up. "I can't remember."

The Admiral sat back, massaging his forehead vigorously, making no attempt to mask the tension in his voice. "You're telling me you don't remember what you did?" Harry shook his head; felt his cheeks grow hot with his own frustration.

"You don't remember a thing," the Admiral was saying, "despite the fact that what you did violates everything that Starfleet stands for? Despite the fact that you committed the worst crime any human being can commit?"

Harry had to fight to keep his despair from showing. He could never have killed Tom... could he? No! His mind rejected the thought. He loved Tom more than he had ever loved anyone in his whole life. He would never even dream of hurting him. Still, there was this nagging doubt in the back of his mind, and he had to fight it off, lest it consume him and reduce him to tears.

"No, sir," he replied, his voice breaking slightly. He hoped his eyes didn't betray what was happening inside of him.

The Admiral looked at him carefully. "Tell me, Ensign," he began slowly, "have you been consuming any alcohol recently?"

He stared blankly at the Admiral for a moment, wondering what the question had to do with...it came to him like a slap in the face. Anger began to surge inside of him at what the Admiral was implying. "No, sir," he replied, the tone in his voice wavering between the decorum he wanted to display and the anger he was feeling. "Captain Janeway is very strict on that matter."

The Admiral nodded thoughtfully, picking up a PADD from in front of him. "So she reported," he stated.

"Admiral," Harry began, "I don't remember exactly what happened, but I could never have killed Tom." He looked away, hoping the Admiral wouldn't ask him for further information.

The Admiral did, looking at him dryly. "Really, Ensign? What makes you so sure you could never have killed Lieutenant Paris?"

Harry felt acutely embarrassed. Without looking up, he replied, "B-because I love him." He blushed hotly. Saying so to his crewmates on Voyager was one thing, but an Admiral...

The Admiral did not even blink. "Yes, I'm aware of the...relationship between you two. However, even couples get into fights, Ensign. Surely you're aware of this?"

Harry nodded, looking down. Of course, he should have realized the Admiral already knew; everyone on Voyager and the entire known universe had known.

"Would you like to see him?"

Harry blinked. What had the Admiral just asked him? He looked up, and for an instant, saw a flash of sympathy in the other man's eyes.

"Would you like to see him?" the Admiral repeated.

"Can I?" Harry breathed, all control of himself nearly collapsing underneath the emotional weight he was carrying.

Even in death, Tom's face was beautiful. Harry felt the tears burn themselves into his eyes. That face could be so expressive. He remembered the devious smile it had once held; the warmth and love the blue eyes had once contained; the soft voice whispering to him at night...He longed to hold Tom, but the Admiral would not allow it. The glass barrier would remain in place, he had said, pending Tom's funeral. So all Harry could do was look, and it tore him up inside. At that point the dam broke, and Harry crumpled against the coffin, choking with sobs. It couldn't be true, it couldn't, and yet there was Tom, and he was dead, and Harry didn't know how, except that he thought he did, but he didn't like the thought, and oh, Tom why didn't I tell you while I could, why did I wait, and now it's too late...

A hand placed itself on his shoulder. Harry turned to see the Admiral's sympathetic face looking back. "Come on," the Admiral said, and his voice conveyed his sympathy, but also firmness. Harry went with him, weeping quietly, and hating himself for doing it so publicly.

Presently, they arrived at the conference room. After guiding Harry to his seat, the Admiral took his across from him. By then, Harry had regained some control over himself, and was able to ask, albeit unsteadily: "What happened?"

The Admiral looked at him carefully. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"No, sir."

A pause. Then, "I'll tell you what, Ensign. You've obviously had a hard day. So, I'm going to stop the interrogation for now." The Admiral paused, looking over to make sure Harry understood. "I'm also going to make an appointment with the doctor," he continued, "to see if there's a reason why you can't remember."

Harry nodded reflexively. He suddenly felt very tired, and very numb.

"Very good," the Admiral stated. "I'll have security escort you back to your cell."

He slept very fitfully that night. Nightmare after nightmare plagued his sleep, interspersed with moments of sadness so overpowering he felt as if they would suffocate him. Somewhere in his sleep, he dreamed.

He was on Voyager. Although 'day' and 'night' were relative terms in space, the ship's internal lighting cycled every eighteen hours to provide the atmosphere of 'night' for its passengers. It was 'night' now, the darkness adding to the surrealistic effects already provided by the dream. He was standing in the darkened corridors of the ship. He found himself moving to a place, though he knew not where. Every movement, every step was fluid. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he turned a corner.

He knew where he was. He was on his way to Tom's quarters. A thought entered his mind, and he looked down to see if the knife was in his hand. It was. In his right hand. He smiled malevolently at the cold steel. Crude. It was very crude by twenty-fourth century standards. And yet it was enough. More than enough. It would do its job. It would do its job bloodily and with a lot of screaming on the part of its victim. Good. That was very good. He felt a chill. A chill inside of him. He was evil. His thoughts were evil. He knew it. And it was good. A part of him wanted to run, run as far away from this scene as he could, but he could not. He pressed on. He was in no hurry. He was in no hurry because he knew. He knew that this artificial night would go on. For some time, it would go on. He would slay his victim, and it would feel so good. It would be better than the best orgasm, he thought. Why? Why fuck with Tom? He did not need that for pleasure. Tom was puny. He was a man. A man can be killed. It was interesting, wasn't it? How many ways you could kill a person? He could think of plenty.

Mechanically, he turned. Turned toward the door of Tom's quarters. Of their own accord, his feet stopped. His left hand reached out. Reached out toward the controls of the door. Reached out and typed in the code. The code to override the lock. The code Tom had given him when first they fell in love. Foolish, wasn't it? Yes. Emotions. Emotions were interesting. Interesting. Humans relied on them. Relied on them a lot. It was tragic. A tragic flaw, he thought, entering the darkened quarters. Lights. He did not call for the lights. He did not need them. He knew by instinct where Tom would be lying. He felt a thrill. Tom would be sleeping naked, underneath the covers. He always did. Covers. The covers were puny. They were insignificant. They could not protect the unclothed form underneath.

He reached down. Reached down to where he knew the covers were. Reached down and flung them away. Exposed. He liked his victims exposed. He again reached down. Reached down to where he knew Tom's face was. And smacked it. Smacked it hard. He wanted his victim to be awake. Now was the time for lights. Now. Now was the time. He called for them. The computer gave them to him. Foolish. Foolish how humans relied on computers. Tom woke up. Recognition. A look of recognition in his eyes. Good. Tom knew who he was. Smile. Tom smiled lovingly, surprised. Then his surprise turned to shock. Shock. Shock as he saw the knife. The knife in his upraised hand. The knife which was ready to plunge. Plunge into its victim. Scared. Tom was scared now. Good. He thrilled. He thrilled to the expression on Tom's face. He thrilled to the expression of horror on Tom's face. Tom called out for security. He let him. Security was irrelevant. He had beaten it. Beaten it by getting into Tom's quarters. With a thrill of pleasure, he let his arm drop. Down. Down the knife came, plunging into its target. Eliciting a scream from it. A scream. A blood-curdling scream. Then a convulsion. A violent convulsion. Then death. Death. Death by the knife.

The doors of the quarters opened. Tuvok. Tuvok was here. He turned. Turned toward them. Turned toward the puny beings with their puny weapons. Harry turned toward them. Harry turned toward the puny beings. And laughed. Mockingly. Harry laughed mockingly at them. Too late, he said. You are too late. And then he showed them. Showed them the knife. Showed them the dripping knife. Showed them the knife dripping with blood. Then they shot him. Shot him. Their puny weapons could not hurt him. So he stood. Stood there as they fired. Stood there as they fired and the beam slammed into them. Puny weapons, he thought. They could not hurt him. Puny weapons. He crumpled to the ground. Crumpled to the ground and blacked out. Maybe not so puny, he thought...

Harry screamed and shot bolt upright in his bed. He shivered uncontrollably. No. It couldn't be. That was not him. That could not have been him. That was a psychopath in the dream; he was not a psychopath. It wasn't him. It wasn't. It wasn't!

But he knew it was.

And he screamed.

It was the hum of the shield that finally awoke him. Not the nightmare, nor the horrifying images therein. The security shield in front of the opening to his cell is what finally did it. With a small cry, he sat up, soaked in perspiration. Already the phantasms of his dream were slipping away, just as ghostly as their name implied. All of the sensations, the sadistic grin on his face as he plunged the cold steel into its naked victim, the mocking laugh of one confident that no puny weapon could subdue him, it all disappeared. Only the sense of dread remained. The sense of doom.

He wanted to cry out, but his tongue was thick and rough, his mouth dry. He could not believe it; he would not. He could never kill, not anyone, especially not Tom. He loved Tom with all his heart, wanted to spend the rest of his life with him, follow him wherever he went. Even to the grave.

Yes. Even to the grave.

His mind shied away from the thought. What good would it do him to kill himself? If there were a Heaven, he would not go there, not after what it seemed he had done. Tom would be in Heaven. He was too wonderful to be anywhere else. Although he knew that Tom would have protested any such statement, citing his past prison time as an example. Harry did not know whether there was a Heaven, but he fervently believed that, if there were, that is where Tom would end up.

As for him... but no. For he was not a killer. Harry was stubborn with himself on this point, even though he knew it was a losing battle. His resolve was fast slipping away. The dream might have been just a nightmare, a product of a mind in shock; but wasn't there an equal chance that his subconscious was trying to tell him something? Like, "Surprise, Harry! You're a murderer!"

In any case, did it really matter? Tom was dead. Nothing mattered anymore. The tears began to burn hotly, overflowing his eyes, and he lay down, his back toward the doorway, and cried himself to sleep.

Like a spirit searching for eternal rest, the dream came back to haunt him.

He was on Voyager again. Somewhere, in what seemed to be another world, a thought tickled the back of his conscious mind. It was as if he knew this place; knew what was going to happen. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled involuntarily. Something bad was about to happen. Bad. Yes. He looked down and found the weapon in his hand. It was cold, like steel, but it was not. It was jagged and ornamental in style. It was the knife B'Elanna had given to him on his birthday. A Klingon t'arg smiled evilly up at him from the hilt. Yes. He felt the surge of excitement. This is what he wanted to do. More brutal than simply firing a phaser at Tom. Easier. The computer did not consider knives deadly weapons. Ironic, wasn't it? By twenty-fourth century standards, humans were too "civilized" to resort to such weapons. But he would prove them wrong.

With a start, Harry's semi-conscious mind realized what it was he was doing, and recoiled in horror. He faltered for a moment, evil battling good in his mind. Tom. It was Tom. He loved Tom, cherished Tom, never wanted to leave Tom. No! You want to kill him! Imagine how good it will feel, plunging that knife into him, almost like an orgasm in its intensity!

"What's the matter, Harry?" The unexpected sound of a voice in his dream caused him to whirl around, startled.

Whereupon he came face to face with the Admiral. Or at least it looked like the Admiral. But it seemed... different somehow. Colder. More calculated. Evil.

"What are you doing here?" Harry breathed.

A deadly smile crossed the other's lips. "Why, don't you know, Harry?" With a flash, the two were standing in Tom's quarters. Tom lay fast asleep on the bed, a sight for Harry's sore eyes, seemingly angelic. Harry was afraid to speak lest he shatter the moment.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?"

"Yes," Harry murmured, looking at his love.

"Too bad, really." There was something decidedly wrong in the way the "Admiral" spoke that sentence. With a sense of foreboding, Harry turned to face him. "What do you mean?"

The other looked at him ominously. "Didn't you know? He's been cheating on you."

The words at once both stung and repelled Harry. "Liar," he said, menace creeping into his own voice. "He would never do that."

"No?" the "Admiral" asked in a voice too calculated, too calm. With deliberate motions, he picked up a picture from Tom's nightstand and handed it to Harry. "Who's this?"

Harry turned pale upon seeing the picture. It couldn't be! It wasn't possible! Trembling, he sank to the floor, unable to come to grips with the present; unable to respond. The implications loomed before him, knocking the floor out from under him. Tears began to blur his vision, and he quickly wiped them away. There had to be a logical explanation for it. A picture in no way constituted a relationship.

Did it?

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" the "Admiral" asked. "But maybe this will convince you."

At first, nothing happened. Then Tom's voice came over the speakers, loud and clear. And Harry's heart broke at what he heard.

"Personal log of Lieutenant Tom Paris, stardate 51941.8. The encounters with Lieutenant Anderson have become more frequent and more enjoyable. [Small laugh] I have to admit, he's a very charming guy once you get to know him, and he's very handsome. He asked me over for dinner tomorrow, and I said 'yes'. Maybe it will turn out to be more than your average dinner. At least, if I'm lucky. [Sigh] I still haven't told Harry. I don't know how to break it to him. How do you tell this kind of thing to your best friend, not to mention your boyfriend? I have to tell him soon, though. He hasn't noticed anything yet, but he will."

The log went on to recount some of Tom's "encounters" with Nicholas Anderson--in the Jefferies tube, in the holodeck, in the turbolift, in the shuttlebay...

But Harry wasn't listening anymore. He was clutching his knees and sobbing uncontrollably.

end