The BLTS Archive - Blood Red to Grey by JanK (jan.k1@virgin.net) --- Disclaimer: Paramount owns all things that are Star Trek. I claim the story. Summary: Alternate Universe. Set in the same point in time as "Thirty Days" but branching off after Tom and Riga fire their missile. This story is based on the assumption that Voyager was not entirely successful in deflecting the missile from the Refinery, and that the Moneans reached the Delta Flyer first. This idea was inspired by a member of the PTFever list who said that Tom had to fail in his mission or the Captain would have possibly been forced to leave him behind to face Monean justice. Note:Thanks as usual to my beta reader and perpetual inspiration Monica. This is the first in an AU series of stories that will follow Paris' return to Voyager. --- The Captain had no choice. They had made that plain. The Moneans had reached the Delta Flyer first and had taken both Tom and Riga away before the Flyer had been salvaged. He was theirs to keep and do with as they wished. He had broken their laws. Taken the lives of their citizens. Encouraged and aided one of their own to commit terrorism against his people. He was theirs and they would not give him up. She had questioned them about the deaths. She had queried how it had happened and why they had not mentioned it earlier. She had pointed out that even though the Refinery walls had breached there should have been no injuries or deaths. She had reminded them of the evacuation warning and the agreement that it could be done. They had countered with their facts. There had been an explosion after the missile had been destroyed. Their investigator, Consul Greven, had linked it to the actions of Riga and Lieutenant Paris. Three were now dead. Did she dispute this? Did she doubt their veracity on top of allowing one of her highest ranking officers to run amok on their planet. Did she add insult to injury? She had backed down. She had tried a different tack. She had offered to discipline him severely if they would but let her take him with them. She had tried everything to no avail. Even her offer to incarcerate him for life on Voyager had gone unheeded. He was theirs and they were keeping him. They had become threatening. They had lost patience they said. They had launched their ships. They had threatened an all out war against Voyager unless she left and left now. She had no answers for her crew. She had no answers for her errant Lieutenant. Her visit had been harrowing. He had been so pleased to see her. So hopeful of her being there. Her anger against him had stilled and died as she had looked at him in the cold grey room. Her quiet words had left him stunned and speechless. His eyes had closed and he had swayed slightly as she had told of her choices. "You have to leave," he had said when she finished. He had been hard to hear, his voice just a whisper. The anguish had been so clear in his eyes though he had stood tall before her. "I knew what I was doing. It was my choice. You have to leave. Take Voyager to safety. Leave me." She had moved to hold him then, her heart breaking, but they had stepped between them with raised weapons and anger glinting in cold eyes. She saw him take a sharp breath, saw him control his emotions, saw the mask slip so easily back into place and felt part of her own heart crumble and fall away. At that moment she had thought to use all of Voyager's fire power to take him back. To stuff the Prime Directive and be damned. But as they led him away she knew she couldn't do it. She knew he had been right. She had to leave him. She had no real choice. He had broken the laws governing both Voyager and the Monean society. He had taken the lives of others. He deserved to face this punishment. Her anger returned five-fold as she thought of the heartache that this would cause on Voyager. Her anger at his actions, at his thoughtlessness, at his stupid, principled, passionate, but misguided attempt to be a hero. --- The Captain had returned to face a barrage of questions about what had happened; how he was; when he would be returning. Her voice had wavered only slightly as she told them of her decision. "I have no choice in the matter. He broke the rules. He has to pay the price." She had heard herself say the words. Her anger at him still with her enough to carry this through. But one look at Harry Kim's face had nearly been her undoing. He was ashen, mouthing silent words, eyes shocked and inward looking. She felt like wrapping him in a hug to end all hugs. To take away the pain. Her anger at Tom increased as she saw the sorrow that his actions had caused. She turned to B'Elanna. Her outrage and sorrow had taken a more vocal escape. "You can't be serious! How can we leave him! You can't do this! We have to fight them, tell them they can't do this to us! We have the weapons, Captain. It wouldn't take much to get him out of there. Captain! Please?!" She had stood as she spoke and now paced angrily up and down the Conference room, radiating suppressed rage and despair. "So you would have me blow up half a planet to rescue a man who tried to destroy their way of life. Who has supposedly killed three of their citizens. Because that is what I would have to do, B'Elanna! They won't give him up! They have made that plain to me and to Tom! He has agreed. He knows that we would do everything we could to get him out of there, but my hands are tied!" "Oh yes! The almighty Prime Directive! I hate those words! Let me do it on my own then, Captain. Just give me the Delta Flyer and I will come back and get him. Voyager can leave. It will be my actions, not Voyager's." "I'd stay with you, B'Elanna" Harry spoke with a quiet conviction. "No one is staying! No one is rescuing him! Did I not make myself clear on this? He's to face trial by the Moneans. We'll stay to see their verdict. If they will allow him to leave then we'll take him and go. If they sentence him to be kept there, we will concur," she spoke with steel in her voice, noting Chakotay's hard look at her as she said the last words. "I won't let you do this, Captain. I won't leave him behind." B'Elanna's threat was evident, but her sorrow was also showing. The Captain moved to stand directly in the path of her pacing, pulling her up short. "You are out of line, Lieutenant!" She placed her hand on B'Elanna's arm. "B'Elanna, there is nothing to be done. They say he killed three of their people. In their eyes he is a terrorist! If we break him out what does that say about us to anyone else in this Quadrant. That we have no principles. That we will respect no one's laws but our own, and even those we'll dispense with if they become too painful? You will do nothing, Lieutenant! That is a direct order! You will obey me or you will find yourself in the brig! Is that clear, Lieutenant?" Her words sounded hauntingly familiar to her. The Captain watched as B'Elanna's passion faded to be replaced with a deep sadness that drew her features down, drained away her vitality. She nodded at the Captain as she sat once again. Harry's hand reaching for hers across the table. She looked up at the Captain and in a voice now deadened, she said, "You had better put me in the brig now, Captain, because I won't leave him without a fight. I know you're right Captain, but I can't just leave him. I won't." The Captain nodded at Tuvok who stood impassively and took hold of the Lieutenant's arm guiding her from her seat to walk to the brig. As she passed the Captain, B'Elanna heard her whisper, "I'm sorry" and felt her hand briefly touch hers in silent support. "How about you, Ensign? Do you feel the same way? Do you have to join Lieutenant Torres?" the Captain asked. She wondered for the hundredth time if she was doing the right or the only thing she could. Harry looked up at her and she could see that his eyes were too bright, too moist. She swallowed, waited. "I won't go against you, Captain. I don't want to leave him, but I know that you've done everything that you could." He hesitated, unsure of whether he should say more. "I want to see him though, Captain, before we go, before the trial. If that's possible." He saw her shake her head. She had already asked and been refused. Harry saw her answer and swallowed fighting to stay in control. "Also, Captain, the deaths. They never mentioned any deaths yesterday. Why now, why all of a sudden. We asked at the time if they had any casualties and they said no. I don't believe Burkus. I think he's doing this to save his own skin from the Council." "I agree with Harry. Why has Burkus started to claim these casualties now?" Chakotay asked. "I asked him. He said that they keep their injured to themselves. That it was custom." She flicked a dismissive hand. "Of course I don't believe him. But when I called him on it he became offended and aggressive. I asked if Tuvok could beam down and investigate. I offered all sorts of compromises but Burkus was quite adamant. They have him and they are keeping him." She sighed as she finished speaking. She had not slept since the incident thirty-six hours ago. She was tired and depressed. She had had enough of all of this. All she wanted was to take her crew home. Now she would fail in a spectacular way with one of them. How many more would she let down before they reached home. If they ever did. "There is nothing more to be said. The trial is in two days time. We just have to hope that they'll accede to my request to take him on Voyager to complete whatever sentence they pass. They will find him guilty, that much is certain. All we have is hope." --- "Thomas Eugene Paris, Junior Lieutenant, USS Voyager, I hereby find you guilty on all charges. That you did conspire to and carry out an act of terrorism against this planet. That you did willfully and with prior intent fire upon and destroy Monean state property. That you did willfully and with prior intent take the lives of three citizens of this state." "Captain. Do you wish to say anything else on his behalf before sentence is passed?" "Only that we ask once more that any sentence that is passed is served aboard Voyager. We give you our word that it will be adhered to." She glanced at Tom, but his eyes were fixed on some point on the wall opposite him. "Paris, do you wish to say anything in mitigation of your crimes before sentence is passed?" He shakes his head, unable to speak, not even sure he would know what to say. "Thomas Eugene Paris, Junior Lieutenant, USS Voyager, I hereby sentence you to life, with no prospect of release. Sentence to begin immediately. While we have listened to the plea of your Captain to allow you to complete your sentence aboard your ship and while we understand the reasons behind her request we find that we must refuse." The Captain's sharp intake of breath was audible to all. "You committed the crime on Monea and you will serve your sentence here. We do not wish to appear cruel, but we have no guarantee that once you are free of Monean influence you would not be immediately released. Our loss is such that in deference to the families of those who died we require the sentence be served on our world. You will remain on Monea when Voyager leaves. Take him down." A guard takes hold of each arm and pulls him from the stand. He resists slightly, his eyes seeking contact with his Captain now. She sees his desperation showing through. She holds her head high, willing her strength to him. He sees her unspoken support, lifts his chin and straightens his back, but can not bring himself to willingly walk away. They take hold with more force and begin to drag him from the room. Still holding her gaze he shrugs them from him, breaking from her only briefly to glare defiantly at his guards. Turning back to her. he keeps eye contact as he walks slowly from the room. She almost can't bear to keep silent and controlled but she does it for him, to give him the strength to do this with dignity. As the door closes behind him she feels the cold of the room, feels the emptiness, feels the loss. "Voyager. One to beam up." --- Grey walls, there is only that. The color of steel, a dull sheen over every inch, cold to touch, smooth beneath his fingers. Grey, he never liked grey. Too dull, no interest for him. Everything is grey now. Looking around he notices one small patch of brown hard in the corner. He slips off the hard bunk and kneels down. Reaching out he touches a finger to the patch, feeling wetness. The brown of old rust. Brown, now that color he likes. B'Elanna's eyes are brown. He closes his own as he kneels there and thinks of her. Brown eyes. He squeezes his blue eyes shut, tighter still. Her face swims before him, hazy and indistinct. He concentrates. Grey, he can only see grey. He knows he will not see her again. He feels the pain tug at his heart. Closing his eyes he thinks of her and struggles to remember her touch, the feel of her, anything. "Damn!" He smacks a hand against the cold wall, wincing as the pain lances through. Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he walks the few feet to his bunk and flops down in misery. Visions of her float through his mind. B'Elanna in his arms, full space suit, declaring her love. B'Elanna as she had kissed him outside Tuvok's promotion party. The sweetness of her lips, the scent of her. B'Elanna smiling at him in the Camaro as she drew closer. As he thinks of her the images tumble into one, blurring and fading, even as he struggles to remember. Her eyes, they stay. Such dark, expressive eyes. He closes his and tries to picture her before him. Her image drifts from him to be replaced with grey walls. Her face lost to him. He remembers the Doctor's visit. How he came to see him only moments before Voyager had left. The only one, he had said, that they would allow to see him and only then after Janeway had held out in defiance of all their demands that Voyager leave. "I'm here in a medical capacity only," the Doc had said out loud, then whispered the messages so desperate in their intensity, so heartbreaking to him. B'Elanna's "Love you forever"; Harry's "Always think of you and hope"; the Captain's "Have faith". At that he had scoffed and the Doc had frowned at him and berated him for his scorn even in his last moments of contact. A small gift the Doc had left, from B'Elanna he had said. An unusual gift. A chain with a pendant of strange design, almost a cross, though she had never professed religion. He had started to ask about it but the guards had grown suspicious and the Doctor had been forced to cut short his stay. As Tom had slipped it quickly beneath his jacket the Doctor had stood to leave. His last words so clear even now, when all else was beginning to fade and blend in his mind. "Keep it close to your heart. When there is no hope you may find it to be useful. Wait, don't give up, look for Madifa." He was still waiting. He had been hopeful at first. "Madifa." A name? A place? He had no idea. But as the days passed him by his hope had died. As his existence blurred in time, he lost his belief. As the longing took hold, his expectancy of rescue lowered. Now as each day leaves him in this hell, he grows more forlorn and disconsolate. Now he dreams of his life before and deems it unattainable. His dejection and melancholy are complete. Fingering the pendant, he thinks of them, flying further from him with every breath that he takes. He picks idly at the grey blanket, pulling the thread through, not caring if it stays together. It gives little warmth anyway. He rubs a hand over his tired face and wonders yet again what time it is. No windows in his world, only a small flickering light high up behind a grill. His day is broken only by the infrequent arrival of the spartan meals; he has no way to tell the passing of the hours. To him they go by painfully slow. He stands again, wrapping his arms tight about his chilled body, feeling the rough fabric. , he grimaces. He walks to the door; it is sealed tight. He holds his face against the line where it closes. To feel a draft? To feel some stirring in the air where there is none? Leaning against the cold grey door, he shivers, not only with the cold. His life is this. Grey, nothing, empty. --- His sleeping hours are no comfort to him. They have told him of the deaths. His shock had been genuine. He had thought they had all been evacuated. He barely trusts them, yet even so his mind plays tricks on him now. In his sleep he sees their eyes, he sees their fear - though none of this is possible. Nameless faces running, eyes cast back to see the wall of water now fast descending. Screams of lost souls blending with the roar of liquid death that now engulfs them. The swirling blackness fills his mind. Their screams are his... He wakes to hear his voice fading. Sweat soaked, yet cold. Mind still seeing a distant horror. Their voices, their accusations, relentless in their pursuit of him. He pushes them away. No idea of how long he's slept, that in itself adding to his confusion and deepening despair. This is torture of new found depths for him. No interest, no relief, just time to think. A thing he does not wish to do. Blood red his thoughts are now, washed away unceasingly with dark, unforgiving waters. His nightmare is his life. His waking hours no better. The darkness filled with anger and with strife. Standing, pacing, he knows only a few hours have passed now, only a few days since they are gone. He cannot think of them, closing out the image, shutting down the sight. He swallows deep, the pain of his existence a knot low down within his gut. No tears have filled his eyes, no sobs escaped, All quashed and buried. His jaw locked tight. They think him hard, those that he has seen. They look at him with distaste; he stares back at them, chin held high, blue eyes bright and cold, glinting with his bitterness, ready now to fight. It is his only way to deal with this. A way to keep the light. ---. Long hours pass, no change of light within his cell, no movement now, all still. He sleeps, restless, hands clenched to fists, a frown still visible upon his features. Tormented still by unknown deaths. He had not known his action would wreak havoc for the innocent. They tell him constantly of the pain the families feel. They tell him with deep satisfaction that these deaths will mean his stay with them will be long and unpleasant. He tries to find out how, tries to find out where they met their end. They too, never to see family and friends again. He had thought no harm would fall on the people of this world. He had only thought to help. His dreams turning into a living nightmare. So real to him. Endless hours, the unending march of time. Not for him now any change in life. No life left to look for. His life a winter with no hope of spring. The days are passing slow and sure. --- They bring his food. "What meal is this?" he asks, not expecting a reply. He's not disappointed. They leave without a backward glance. Small release from long endured monotony. The food itself no joy. A sickly stew, flat uninviting bread of sorts, though it's taste defies description. His staple fare, not changed in days. The tedium of his existence stretches out beyond his comprehension. Loneliness, his heart already broken, his horror at not remembering her face now fades as he loses thought and just exists. No hope. No life is his. More time has passed. His heartbreak now complete. Without her he has no life to live. Without thought the blanket rips easily into strips. The knots are tied with trembling fingers, they have to hold. He tests its strength against his weight. Listening now. Left alone too long, he knows his luck could change and the guard appear. One chance to end this. If found before the end, he fears what they would do. He cannot live without her. He knows she feels this too. Eyes search to find a place to end his days. Scraped fingers ease the light holder out a fraction, slip the blanket in, secure, tested. Standing, just thinking. Is this right? He hears his father's voice clearly, holding contempt still. Finish this he will. His luck holds as he steps towards the edge of the bunk, his resolve is still there. Reaching up he pulls the makeshift rope towards him. It slips easily over his head. Feeling the roughness against his neck he pulls it tight. This would not be his chosen path. He had never thought he would be drawn to leave his life of his own volition. But he can stand it no more. To face such a future without friends, family and hope. Brutalized and denigrated by all around him. He can think for a brief time of no other way. But as he stands on the edge of life he thinks of her, of Harry, of the words that Doc spoke. He can't believe his actions. His heart is pounding, sweat breaking through. He feels real terror. Stepping back, trembling, his fingers grapple with the knot, releasing the ligature he fought so hard to tie. He knows this now; he's not ready yet to die. "B'Elanna," he whispers her name, a savior from the darkness. No tears fall from his eyes though crying deep inside. What can the fates have planned for him, a coward in his own thoughts now. A plan so ill conceived and failed to complete. Like so many things in his life. The one thing he carried through, the one he should feel proud of, tainted in such a disastrous way. A cause to give new life to the planet that, unknown to him, took life he didn't care to take. Sullied now, failed too in such a way. Three times lost, three times been made to pay. His luck then, such as it is, runs out. They enter to see the sorry scene before them. Their prisoner supposedly intent on death. They had been warned of his past and of his present loss. The Captain had asked that they take care. But they don't agree with this. "No easy way out," they tell him. "You're here to serve your time." He fights them as they hold him. He watches others as they enter, sees their intent. He struggles as they bind him tight. From him now tears are rent. ---. In troubled sleep he lays, his body often racked and twisted by his pain. His cries are quiet now. He lays immobile, suffering endless days of silence and of loneliness. He hears her voice, "I'm sorry Tom, there is no other way." In his mind he sees only the grey of prison cells, The days stretching out, no friends, no love. He has forfeited all. In his mind he has failed in all he's tried. Even the strength to die on his own terms. He is tossed on tempest stirred waves. Thrown from safety, thrown from love to drift alone and helpless. He falls and never stops, the world slips away, spinning and turning... --- A small voice breaks through his self-inflicted misery. A dream of happier times and love still held for him. "Tom, Tom. I need you," he hears her soft lilting tone, her love for him still lives. He struggles from the depths of his despair. Aware of his surroundings once more. No change from day to day, but his heart has new resolve. His inner strength breaking through. The ocean loses containment in five years if they do nothing. Maybe when this disaster strikes they will remember one who tried to help. Maybe then they will give heed to the message that he tried to bring. He clings to this hope as a drowning man to driftwood. Holds it close to his heart, uses it to survive another day. --- A visit breaks the monotony of his life. Since he had failed to end his misery they watch him endlessly and guard him well. His existence one long round of inspection and brutality. No comfort to be had, No blanket even, since his use for it was discovered. He has hardened to his spartan life. Deputy Consul Burkus. His entry to the room a shock. They pull Tom roughly to his feet and shackle his hands. Six weeks since the departure of Voyager, the first time he has seen anyone but the guards. He is taken to a small room and placed in a chair, hands are unshackled, then refastened to the chair arms. His feet also are locked into place. His fear grows at the silence with which all this is carried out. Obviously practiced and usual to them. Burkus stands before him and one other who he has not seen before. They smile in unison. The *other* speaks. "So this is your salvation' Burkus. Not much to look at. The Council was most pleased with your resolution of this matter. The Regional Sovereigns though require a written confession as I said before." He reaches out and, grasping Tom by the chin, turns his face from side to side. "He looks thin and unhealthy. You know that the Prison Board are visiting tomorrow. I suggest that you clean him up and give him a decent meal. You wouldn't want to invite an investigation." He sits down in a chair placed directly in front of Tom, scrutinizes him and stays looking for several long minutes. Tom stares back, chin up, the challenge faced, his fear hidden. "Do you know who I am?" Tom shakes his head. "He has not been told?" the *other* turns to look at Burkus. "No. I didn't think it was necessary." "Well, it's necessary now." He turns his attention back to Tom who has been listening with undisguised curiosity. "I am Consul Greven. It is my responsibility to ensure the safety and continuity of all forty seven Regional Sovereigns. I ensure that what the Sovereigns want, the Sovereigns get. Now I have a problem. Riga has unfortunately died and that leaves you as the only one who can provide a written confession of guilt. Riga, rather unfortunately, didn't see the necessity for this. I think it was that which might have led to his untimely death." He pauses to let the significance of his words sink in. "You do understand Paris, don't you?" Tom had felt an empty feeling grow within him as Greven had spoken. He understands only too well exactly what it is that Greven wants from him. He just doesn't think he can give it to him. He thinks of Riga, such a quiet and unassuming man. Has he, Thomas Eugene Paris, brought Riga to this end? Part of him screams out that it is true. That he alone had forced Riga's hand in this and now he has died for his actions. Tom determines that he will not let Riga down, that he too will pay the ultimate price in memory of a small man's stand against an unheeding society. Greven repeats his last sentence, holding on to Tom's face with bruising force to emphasize his point. "Do you understand?" Tom remains silent. His defiance growing. The open handed slap rocks him. "You will answer. You will sign the confession. That much I promise you. I will fulfill my promise to the Council . You will not stop me." Another blow; this time blood is drawn. "Is this necessary?" Burkus is nervous and unsettled. "Can we not just fake his mark? No one will know." "The Sovereigns demand to see him sign. Do you think that I would have gone through all this once already and now started anew if I could achieve my aim as easily? You must think me truly ignorant, Burkus." He slaps Tom again and then follows it with a hard punch to the gut . Leaving his prisoner dazed and gasping for breath, he turns his attention to the visibly cringing Burkus. "Deputy Consul Burkus, I really do not know how you ever came to be in such a high position. Pull yourself together. Unless you want to be the one who explains the lack of a confession to the Sovereigns. I have already had them questioning why one of our own people felt the need to try and destroy the Refinery. They believed my story about Paris corrupting Riga, but without the confession you know they will start to ask questions. Once that happens, you and I are finished." Quieter now to hide his words from the prisoner he speaks with satisfaction and with pride. "I've dealt with those that came with us on Voyager. This fool just served to give us cover for their deaths. Riga is silent now, that just leaves this one to break. I will not give up. You have no idea what I had to do to lay the blame for the deaths on him. We have the technology that the Starship gave us. Working together, we can develop it as our own and sell it to the Council. If we do this, then we will be feted and lauded amongst our people. Nothing will be far from our reach. But if it is ever found out that we knew of this and did nothing..." His voice turns threatening at the end, rising in intensity and filled with ill- concealed greed. "I can send the report to the Sub Committees on Life Support and Agriculture; we would be covered then. That would take years to go through. But what will we do if he doesn't sign? What will we do if we can't get the Technology to work, if he won't help us? Did you even think that he might not help? You don't think we ought to tell them anyway. Just keep the replicator schematics quiet?" Burkus whines, his voice clearly heard. Tom looks up then and though struggling for breath, speaks, "They don't know? You haven't told them? How can you keep this from the people? What will you do in.." He says no more for Greven backhands him viciously. Straightening his tunic and adjusting his head covering, Greven grits his teeth and turns back to Burkus. "Don't worry. It is even now all under control and working perfectly. You'll see. We will not have to wait long before this one has no hope left in him to defy me." His hand whips out and grabs the pilot by the hair, pulling his head far back, his intention to show his control, his command, his ability to subjugate. He runs a finger across Tom's neck, his eyes icy with their evil intent. Tom glares back, his own resolve to defy no less definite. "He will sign and he will help. He just doesn't realize it yet. He will be so eager to help once I'm finished with him. For him I will be his only hope." Letting go abruptly, he summons the guards. "Clean him up, see to his injuries and make sure that he looks respectable. For twenty-four hours at least." He dismisses them with an imperious wave and starts to prevail upon the ignorance of Burkus to pull him into his plan to keep the Sovereigns in the dark. --- Issued with clean clothes, a blanket, washed, shaved and fed well, Tom stands as ordered when the Prison Board tours the facility. It will not take them long. There are few prisoners to see. They pay him little attention, all barely acknowledging his existence, save for one. The body brushes against him as he stands, fearful of doing anything wrong. He does not get a good look at who it is, as he has kept his eyes resolutely forward, but he has felt the pressing of the paper into his hand and has curled his fist tightly over the note. He is almost discovered after they have left. The guards return and remove with rough carelessness all that he has been given, throwing his old clothes at him and pushing him with unnecessary force back on to his bunk. He raises his hands to ward off the blows he expects and belatedly remembers the note tightly held. Lowering his hands, he suffers the blows as best he can without protection. His hopes are raised by the receiving of the note and yet he is almost afraid to read it lest it shouldn't be good news. He holds the folded piece of paper and stares at it, imagining all sorts of things. He slowly opens the note, trepidation flaring within him. He reads: He reads it many times that night, folding and refolding, opening it to read again, not quite believing. His hopes begin to rise. --- He can barely allow himself to believe that the note has told the truth and his wariness seems well founded the next morning when he finds himself taken before Consul Greven once more. Of Burkus there is no sign. Instead there are two unknown men standing to the side of the room watching him intently as he is placed once more into the chair and the restraints fastened tightly. His fear rises despite his attempts to remain calm as one of the men comes forward and places a small case upon a table. He can clearly see the contents of the case as it is opened and he feels a chill descend on him. His breath catches in his throat and he hears himself almost involuntarily whisper "No." The unknown man smiles at him, thin-lipped, his smile does not reach his eyes. They are ice blue, cold and unfeeling. He removes an instrument from the many held within. Tools that Tom has recognized instantly for what they are. Seeing the direction of Tom's gaze, he nods. "The old ways are always the best," he says as if in conversation. He steps away, but indicates to Greven. "Consul Greven would like to ask you a question. You will answer him," the unknown man says quietly. Greven moves to stand in front of Tom and equally quiet asks, "Will you sign a confession that you did corrupt Riga and that your intent on blowing up the Refinery was an attempt at blackmail and extortion on your part?" He obviously does not expect Tom to agree for almost immediately he moves away and motions for the other men to proceed. Tom can no longer see the second unknown man. He assumes he is behind him somewhere but his eyes are transfixed by the first man and the brutal pincers that he holds in his hand. The man nods to someone and Tom finds himself gripped firmly around the throat by a strong arm while his left hand is held still in the restraints by the man's other hand. He struggles briefly but the hold is secure and the arm about his throat threatens to block him from breathing altogether. His eyes widen as the first man walks closer. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Greven staring, fascinated. The first man's hands drop to Tom's left hand and he feels something attach itself to his finger, a pull, slight pain, then agony that has him screaming as the nail is ripped from the finger. A pause, then the move to the next finger. One by one the nails are rent from three of his fingers and his thumb. The first man smiles down at his handiwork as the pressure around Tom's throat eases and disappears. He drops his head to his chest, pulling in great gasps of air. His hand throbs, every move he makes sending electric jolts of pain direct to his brain. He dares a look. It seems so inconsequential. Just a hand, just a few nails, small wounds. He's had worse. But he feels dizzy and sick. It is the way that it has been inflicted that edges the pain. It is not that torture is unknown to his era, but it is one thing to read of it and be amazed at how some had endured and still held fast to their beliefs or information, quite another to experience it. Sitting there he finds himself shaking uncontrollably and he knows that *he* can not resist. He is not made of such stern, resilient material as those heroes he has read about. He burns with shame at the thought that if they ask him now he might just agree to do as they say. But they do not ask. The arm comes around his throat again and he stiffens in expectation of their violence. The second hand again holds him still, as the first man advances towards him. A different tool now held. It resembles a clamp and he feels himself blanch and grow faint at the realization of their intent. He grits his teeth as each of his damaged fingers is encased in between the devices. But just the touch is enough to bring cries to his lips. Greven has been watching with detached interest but now moves in front of him. He flicks his hand and the second man stands back releasing Tom suddenly. Tom's eyes are riveted to his hand, he is gasping for breath, his chest a tight ball of agony as he struggles to deal with the raw sensations and electric pain that sizzles up through his arm. He can hear small quiet cries, like a frightened child in the dark, and realizes that they come from him. He tries to still his pounding heart, to control the fear and the pain, succeeding only to a small degree. Greven obviously likes what he has seen for he beams at the men standing around the prisoner. "Tighten them." Tom looks up in panic at Greven but can not speak, for, even as he looks, the first man has already seized his wrist and turned the screw to the side of one of the clamps. Tom tries to bite back the scream that emerges but the pain is too great. He yells in anger and frustration at the men who so casually do this to him. Greven leans down to be face to face. "We have only just started. There is so much more that Tredil can teach you about pain. Sign the confession. Sign it in full view of the Sovereigns and this stops now." Tom thinks of Riga, thinks of the note. He will hold out. He can't give in. He sees that the man named Tredil is now producing wires and connectors, setting up more equipment. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He shakes his head at the Consul and feels absurdly pleased to see the flash of surprise and annoyance upon Greven's face. He had obviously expected him to give in easily. Greven orders them to proceed further. --- The darkness begins to enfold him in its blessed release. As he drifts towards oblivion he sees her reaching out to him. She smiles as she walks slowly to him. Her hand outstretched, face clear, welcome in her eyes. Warmth surrounds him, enveloping him in her comforting embrace. He cries for her then. His tears falling freely as he feels her drift from him. Her form lost in the mists that overcome him His call to her unheeded. The darkness takes him. ---. The cold of the water brings him spluttering back to the light with painful clarity. They lean over him and hold his face firm as he gasps and struggles to breathe. "Sign!" Again, as he has done countless times already that day, he shakes his head, but this time spits full force in the face of his tormentor. Satisfaction is brief as the man takes full revenge for the slight with agonizing ease. "Why not? What harm will it do you?" Burkus shouts from the far side of the room. He had returned in the last hour, walking in as Tom's cries had just faded. Seeing the tools of Tredil's trade and Greven's obvious pleasure at the outcome of his actions, he had paled but stayed silent. But now the sight of such inflicted pain reaches him. His horror at the state of the young pilot and their casual disregard for his suffering prompts his outburst. He walks quickly to stand between Paris and the man who baits him. "Do this! You are here for the remainder of your life. If you sign you will be well treated. If you don't they will carry on. Sign!" "No." Burkus shakes his head at the stubbornness of the young man before him. Turning slowly he walks from the room, leaving the pilot to his fate. Tredil stands in front of Tom, also shaking his head. He holds no tools this time, instead he carelessly removes each clamp from the bloodied fingers, disconnecting the wires from his body and placing all neatly in his case, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of distress that his actions have caused. He lifts the pilot's chin and looks him straight in the eye. "Will you sign?" A shake of the head, Maybe with less conviction than before but still a shake nonetheless. Tredil sighs and reaches to hold the little finger of Tom's left hand. He almost gently forces the finger up and back while his other hand holds the other fingers still. The scream is slow to emerge, but come it does, as the crack of the bone breaks through the cry. "Sign." A shake of the head. Another finger gripped in the blunt unforgiving hand, another scream, another crack as the bone reaches the point of no return. "Sign." The sweat pours from Tom to mingle with his tears. But still he shakes his head. Third finger, then the fourth without a pause. "Sign." His cries are continuous now. He can not stop. He shakes his head, saying only one word with anger, still and deep, "NO!" Tredil reaches down and squeezes his hand. He sees red through blazing light. The pain is around him, burning through. Red, blood red before him. Then the blackness comes once more. --- Voyager flies on, its course for the Alpha Quadrant set. Culhane sits at the helm, thinking of the Pilot whom he has long tried to emulate. He thinks of him with sadness and regret. He glances back to the Command chairs. Chakotay is there as they have all come to expect. The man always seems to be sat there. As steady as a rock. Of the Captain there is, as usual, no sign. She is in her quarters, wrestling with her conscience. She is losing the battle. She wants it to end. This journey is beyond her. Beyond her strength. She can no longer do this. A pain lances through her heart at the thought of all that they have lost, of all that they may still lose. She cries out. Her hand flying to her mouth, then to her stomach. Her mouth stays open in a silent cry. Her eyes blur as the tears form, but she will not let them flow. She can not stand this agony. Wiping angrily at her eyes, she paces the room. An emptiness builds within her and she gasps as she feels the ache of her depression fill her truly for the first time. She can not go on. Looking out at the stars as they speed by, she is overwhelmed by the vastness of it all. Here they are, a small ship, alone, no friends, many light years from home, but at least they have each other. She is momentarily comforted by that thought until another intrudes. Tom has no one. That last thought leads her down another pathway of guilt. B'Elanna. She had remained in the brig, neither eating nor sleeping until they were many leagues from Monean Space. Steadfastly she had refused food, until virtual collapse had forced the Doctor to risk her wrath and tackle her on the issue. No one knew what had been said, but from that day she had begun to live again. She had emerged subdued and lacking in vitality though. No smiles or laughter passed her lips. She did her work, spoke with and ate with Harry, but did little else. Now each day she scans the stars behind them. Each day she speaks with the Doctor. Each day she fades before their eyes. The Captain worries and frets. She knows that only one thing will make B'Elanna smile again and that is a forlorn hope. And Voyager continues to fly at warp speed from Monea. From its former pilot. Leaving him far behind, but not forgotten. --- He wakes as he is being dragged back to his cell. This corridor is different though. A yellow line decorates the wall. His guards realize that their captive is awake and stop momentarily to force him to stand and take the weight from their arms. As he stands, dazed and swaying while the guards stretch, he sees what he had never thought to see. He is filled with sudden energy at the thought of freedom. Neither guard is watching him, so sure are they of his broken and debilitated state. He acts swiftly. The heel of his uninjured hand connecting squarely with the nose of the guard to his right, forcing his nasal bone back into his skull as the man drops to the floor. The second guard merely has time to look shocked as his supposedly acquiescent prisoner fells his companion. Tom turns his attention to the remaining guard, his elbow swinging straight to the man's windpipe. The gurgling sound cut short as he follows through with a heavy blow to the back of the collapsing man's neck. He spins round to the blue door. Trying it, he finds it locked and despair begins once more to build within him. The Doc's words come to him. . Pulling the chain from the folds of his shirt, he looks at an indentation in the panel and then at the strange pendant in his hand. Its real usage becomes clear to him in an instant. He smiles to himself despite his pain and fear. Carefully he clicks the *pendant* into place and heaves a sigh of relief as the door unlocks. He slips quickly through into a little used and foul smelling corridor. A tiny hand clamps over his mouth and the door is slammed shut behind him. The hand leaves his mouth, tugs at his sleeve, then leaves him. A dark shape flits to his right in the gloom and a small voice calls him on. As the rush of adrenaline fades slowly from him he becomes aware of the state of his left hand, of his burns, of his weakness. Fighting the urge to be sick, he follows the tiny shadow down steps and along bleak and damp corridors. Never stopping, they walk for what seems like hours. He feels the strength draining from him with every step that he takes and soon can go no further. He calls out and the tiny shadow falters and stops. "Wait" he gasps, bending over, his injured hand cradled in his good one and held close to his chest. Every step has been an agony of pain. "How much further?" "Not far," the voice whispers. he thinks, . His worry increases. He has no wish to cause any more pain to any one else. "Come," she calls, impatient to be moving. Tom forces himself to go on. He has no idea where they are headed, only that he has placed his trust in little more than a child. He feels humbled by her, that she would risk so much to save him. "Quick! We must hurry!" she calls. They emerge from the dark and dank corridor into the brightly lit waiting room of a shuttle docking facility. He could weep with joy as he sees the ship before him, doors open. He can see her clearly now, a young girl who beckons him inside, her eyes showing her fear and her excitement. He staggers on, the light half blinding him in its intensity. She is standing in the doorway calling, a smile on her delicate features as she waves him on. "Come on! You are nearly safe. We must hurry." His smile matches hers for one brief moment as her innocent excitement catches him. His smile falls and his hopes are shattered into tiny pieces as the figure appears behind her. She has not seen. "NO!" his cry is useless. The hand of the figure flashes before her and she is silent. Her hands reaching up, the thin red line that now crosses her throat the only sign of his action. Her eyes widen and the light in them fades as she looks at Tom without understanding. Bleakness and desolation fill him. He stops only a few feet from her as she holds her hand to him. The blood wells and runs freely down the front of her clothing. The innocence dying before him as he watches. His right hand reaches out and takes hold of her as she falls towards him, bringing him to his knees. He cries out in anguish at seeing such a life cut short. She mouths one word to him as he holds her, "Riga". The light in her eyes dies. He crushes her to him, rocking her gently, tears falling freely. He does not even know her name. Had she been Madifa? He will never know. Laying her gently to the floor, he raises his eyes to find Consul Greven standing over him, a smile twitching across his mouth at seeing the pilot on his knees before him. Greven reaches down, the knife still in his hand and places the point under Tom's chin, lifting it up he forces Tom to rise. He still feels in control, in complete mastery of the situation. He sees no need to call for help when the man before him is so obviously broken and grief stricken. "She trusted me, you know. I am a friend of the family. She thought that I would help. Shame. Now you are left with me as your savior or your denouncer. Which shall it be? This is your choice, Paris. Help me and I will take you to somewhere where you will be hidden and safe. Refuse and I place the call; escape is not looked upon kindly. I will make it my business to be in charge of your rehabilitation. Your choice. I guarantee I will take care of you, should you agree." He sees the young man before him look with longing towards the exit and to freedom. "Oh no. I don't offer escape from Monea. I offer only an end to the pain. Help me and Tredil will not return. Believe this though, whatever happens you are mine. There is no escape for you. Your people are so trusting, your Doctor so eager to save you, yet they leave." He laughs as he sees the anguish that the mention of the Doctor causes. "They are gone. Remember that. I am your only hope of escape from this existence." Tom's eyes are drawn to the still and bloody figure at his feet. "Why?" "Why? Why kill her? Why not. She would have been a liabilty. She was of no further use to me. So sad? You never knew her. She was nothing to you. I see no need for such remorse. Come with me. I will take care of you." With his free hand he traces a tear as it runs unchecked down the face of his prisoner. Fascinated by the evidence of such sorrow, Greven lets his guard drop. The hand that hits him moves so fast that he does not see the blow. He feels his knife sink into flesh as he falls and he hears a muted cry, but that is the last he ever hears as a strong, unforgiving arm comes around his neck from behind and brutally twists. A grim satisfied smile crosses Tom's lips as the crack of the bone resounds around the deserted Shuttle bay. ---. He enters the shuttlecraft with little joy. His happiness at his flight from Monea now tainted further by the death of yet another innocent. He wonders how many deaths will yet be laid at his door. He sits at the controls for many minutes, trying to decide if he should leave. He had said he would abide by their laws. He rests his broken hand inside the jacket of his prison uniform and feels the deep cut that the knife has scored down his chest as Greven had fallen. The Consul has made his decision for him. There is no justice here. Yet still he almost stays. His fear at causing further death paralyzing him. Then the memory of deep brown eyes come to him.The pendant also serves to drive him on. They might be waiting for him. At the very least it means he has not been abandoned completely. He sees out of the corner of his eye that many soldiers have now entered the docking area. He knows that Greven will be innocent in their eyes, that both deaths will be blamed on him. The futility of all his actions brought home to him in an instant. He knows now that it would have taken more than just him and Riga to change the way of this world. So entrenched in politics and corruption. As he casts a last look through the shuttle door at the young girl lying so still he decides not to waste the gift she has so selflessly given. He closes the shuttle door and fires up the engines. Initiating the command to open the bay doors, he lifts off and glides through into the waters. He feels his spirits lift. He will be free or die trying. Using only one hand he guides the shuttle around the great refinery that has been the cause of all this sorrow. Evading two Monean ships, he points the nose of the tiny craft towards the surface. He prays to whatever gods will have him and pushes the tiny craft to its limit. The shuttle bursts from the raging sea and heads towards the stars. --- The End