Title: To Kathryn, Somewhere in my Heart

Part: 1/2

Author: Magida (magida@my_deja.com)

Series: Voyager

Rating: PG-13

Codes: J/C, J/P, C/T, AU

Archive: Sure, why not . . .

Disclaimer: Viacom owns a truly scary portion of everything you read,

hear and think. I own a 5-year-old SUV that's currently waiting for me

to quit typing and change its flat left rear . . . figure out who would

win. Paramount, of course they're yours.

*OK, you guys inspired me, but be forewarned, it's my first story-posted.

Apologizes offered in advance for any screw ups.*

Summary: When the Voyager crew demands Q return the Tom Paris he stole

off their bridge, he replaces him with a Tom from an alternate universe

where the human race was minutes from Borg assimilation.

~oOo~

        "I can barely hear you . . ."

        Spirits, were those explosions he heard crackling?

        " . . . there won't be much choice for me . . .  But you . . .

I can't tell you what to do . . . they say if you're assimilated you

share . . . collective mind . . . but I don't know if we'll know."

        Her voice broke and he tried hard to control the look on his

face, knowing she could see the calm of the afternoon bar, the slanting

afternoon sun warming his back, framing him.

        "I don't understand." He grasped the counter to steady himself,

his voice more a plea than an accusation. "You said you could stop

them."

        "Too strong . . . I don't want to find you there . . . the

children . . ."

~oOo~

        "Captain! No!"

        Tom Paris was on his feet and in another second had placed

himself between his captain and the omnificent Q who rolled his eyes at

the delay.

        "You realize if it were up to me, Kathy," Q drawled.

        "It's not," snapped Kathryn Janeway, moving her well-meaning

helmsman out of the way. "No one is going anywhere."

        "I thought I explained this before. There's been a small

mistake."

        "By the Q." she finished drily.

        "By the Q," conceded the frowning figure before her. "We admit

it."

        "In a parallel universe," continued the captain.

        "Universe 2Ax54-to-the-1726 to be exact." He noted the pained

looks of the bridge crew. "We have to call them something," he

explained irritably. "They are infinite, you know."

        "We realize that," muttered Harry Kim, his normally warm

expression drawn into a frown.

        "Then what part of this do you not understand?"

        "Mostly," ventured Chakotay, "why it has anything to do with

us."

        "I told you. In that universe there was a shuttlecraft piloted

by `helmboy' over there, ferrying Kathy to a confab with a new and

unknown race. It will be the first contact between humans and a race

called the Ni'ivians. It's very important that at least one of them

gets there."

        "And they don't because . . ."

        "There was an error." Q looked around and found only glaring

eyes encircling him. "Just a small one. When I sent little Q out to

play I sent him to Universe 2Ax54-to-the-1276 - or at least that was

where I was supposed to send him. It was just a transposition error.

I'd been up late the night before what with little Q2."

        "Little Q2?" echoed the captain.

        "My beloved Q wanted a daughter."

        "So what happened?" inquired Paris.

        "I don't know. It could have been anything - bump the wrong

atom and all kinds of unforeseen consequences occur."

        "So this shuttle . . ." prodded the first officer, crossing his

arms in defiance.

        "Imploded," admitted the irritated, normally superior, being,

"Helmboy and Kathy, I'm afraid, were reduced to their constituent

molecular components. They are now literally one with the cosmos."

        "They're dead . . ." stated Kathryn flatly.

        "In a manner of speaking," conceded Q. "Yes."

        After a brief pause for propriety he continued. "I'm not asking

that much, Captain. I just need one of you to switch universes."

        "Just send someone else from that Voyager to meet these Ni . .

Ni . . ."

        "Ni'ivians."

        "Ni'ivians," repeated Kathryn, gesturing him on.

        "I can't."

        "Why not?"

        "You and Helmsman Paris were the only humans left in that

universe."

        She noticed Chakotay had raised his head sharply, a gesture she

ignored.

        "How can that be?"

        "Captain, I don't have time to explain the history of Universe

2Ax54-to-the-1726 to you."

        "Could you at least call it something else," demanded Tom

equally irritably.

        "Like what?" inquired Q.

        "I don't know - what do you call this universe?"

        "Universe 2 . . . ."

        "Never mind," cut off the pilot.

        Janeway gripped her forehead in her left hand, trying to push

back the growing headache.

        "Q, just go find some other solution. Tom and I are not going

anywhere."

        Q graced her with a benevolent smile that made her want to use

her something sharp and heavy to remove it from his face.

        "Of course you are, Captain. The future of an entire universe

is at stake. I know your kind, you're not going to let an entire

universe die."

        Kathryn frowned at her loss of control.

        "If he's going to insist on taking someone . . ." began Tom,

before he stumbled a bit, ". . . it should be me."

        *God, what was he saying? Why didn't someone talk him out of

it? And B'Elanna. Oh shit, B'Elanna.*

        The captain's frown deepened as a look of surprise at the offer

crossed even her pilot's face.

        "Tom," she began, knowing too well her helmsman's tendency to

not think the consequences through before he opened his mouth.

        "I wholeheartedly agree Captain," concurred Q, the annoying

smile still plastered on his face. "He will be the better choice. Did I

mention the shuttle crashes on the Ni'ivian homeworld?"

        "No," responded Janeway, either to his question or to the

Ensign's offer. "Tom, you're not going anywhere. That's an order."

        "Luckily, I don't take them," observed Q. "Kathy . . . Captain.

I'm running out of time. I have two votes for Tom." He looked around

the bridge, his eyes avoiding Harry Kim's, then locking for a split

second with Chakotay's and Tuvok's before moving on. "Three. Sold!"

        Before the afterimage of the brilliant flash that accompanied

Q's exclamation could fade from the bridge crew's stunned eyes, Q and

Tom Paris were gone.

~oOo~

        "Gone? What do you mean `gone'?"

        The chief engineer swung around from the repair of the console,

her spanner waving menacingly near the senior officers.

        "Q . . . took him."

        "*Took* him *where*?" she grated out, resolidifying her grip on

the heavy tool.

        "Take it easy, B'Elanna," soothed Chakotay. "We'll get Tom

back."

        "How?" she snapped, her eyes meeting not Chakotay's fierce

gaze, but Harry's pained stare.

        "Q will be back," said Janeway firmly. "I'll make sure of that."

        Despite their assurances to her chief engineer, Kathryn could

feel an unaccustomed sense of desperation enveloping the three officers

as they made their way back to the bridge. As if the daily struggle

against the Delta quadrant wasn't enough there were Q's drop-in

torments and then there was Tom, their ill-charmed pilot - what he

didn't do to himself, it seemed the universe did for him.

        Harry forced himself back to the Ops console, for appearances

sake if nothing else, though God knows his mind wasn't on the flashing

data readouts. A wormhole could probably open up directly under the

ship and he wouldn't notice. He ran a hand through his raven black

hair. He should trust Tom could take care of himself but the pilot was

more fragile than you'd first expect. The memory of his friend lying

bleeding on the filthy floor of the Akritarian prison sent a shiver

down his broad back.

        Tuvok watched as the captain and first officer exited the lift.

He started to address them but the captain hurried past him to her

ready room, the commander at her heels, both looking deeply distressed.

An expression not unexpected from his emotional captain but a curious

reaction from the normally steady first officer. Determining that now

would not be the appropriate time for his report, the Vulcan returned

to his duties. He would present himself for proper discipline at a

later time.

        "Chakotay," Kathryn sighed as her first followed her through

the ready room door. "I really need to . . ."

        "It's my fault," he blurted out, coming almost to attention

before her.

        "What?"

        "Q, he looked at me right before he took Tom."

        Her forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember exactly what had

taken place, what her first officer was talking about. Q had looked at

all of them.

        "I think he was reading my thoughts," finished Chakotay.

        Standing before her, hands clasped behind him, shoulders rigid,

he looked oddly like a young cadet called in for some academy violation.

        "What was it you were thinking?"

        "That Tom was right. That he should be the one to go."

        Kathryn sighed again and moved to her desk chair, wondering,

not for the first time, what it was about Tom Paris that brought forth

such irritation then such overwhelming guilt.

        "Chakotay, wherever Tom is, it's Q doing. There's very little

we could do either to stop him or influence him. He took who he wanted.

It's a surprise he even bothered to involve the rest of us at all. He

could have simply snatched Tom off the bridge just as easily. There's

no resistance we could put up."

        Finally he sat down.

        "Doesn't matter." His dark eyes flicked momentarily toward her.

"I still thought it and Q knew it."

        "All right. You thought it. What exactly do you expect me to

do, punish you for your unvoiced opinions? If you need your conscience

absolved, you'll have to do it yourself. Forgive me, but I have bigger

problems here. I have to get Tom back. Nobody kidnaps my crew off my

bridge."

        Kathryn was grateful when Chakotay nodded, taking a deep breath.

        "So, how does one get the attention of a Q?"

~oOo~

        Now what? No sooner had she convinced her first officer that

she needed some time to ponder the morning's disturbing events than the

door chime rang out, disrupting what little coherent thought she'd

managed to gather.

        "Come," she said, salvaging what was left of her captain's

manner.

        Fortunately it was only Tuvok. She slumped back, visibly

relaxing.

        "I was afraid you were Harry."

        Her old friend drew an eyebrow up, thankfully not innocently

questioning why his captain would fear an ensign.

        "What can I do for you?"

        "I have come to place myself on report."

        Momentarily Kathryn closed her eyes. Had Q done more than just

taken her helm officer? Had he done something to her second and third-

in-command as well?

        "For what reason?"

        "I am responsible for Q's choosing Ensign Paris."

        "You?"

        "I am afraid so, Captain. Immediately before Q took the Ensign

I could feel him probing my thoughts."

        "And you were thinking that you would prefer Tom be taken than

me."

        "Yes." replied the Vulcan, his slight pause before speaking the

only outward sign that he was surprised at her insight.

        "Join the club. Chakotay was just in here, confessing the same

thing."

        "I have endangered another crewman's life," restated the

Vulcan, clearly confused by her dismissive tone.

        "Oh no, this blame stays where it clearly deserves to stay - on

Q. Whatever you thought. Whatever Chakotay thought. I don't care if it

was the unanimous conclusion of the entire crew."

        Tuvok continued to stand rigidly.

        "Tuvok, Tom volunteered to go. If I thought it had been under

any of our control I would have considered it his decision, however

poorly made. If you want do something useful you can start by figuring

out how we get Q back here. I intend to have a talk with him."

~oOo~

        He looked like . . . well none of the bridge crew was exactly

sure what this spangled version of Q's human form was supposed to be

this time. Whatever it was, Q looked in annoyance from multicolored and

shining eyes.

        "Well Captain, you have managed to prove the theory - the

squeaking human gets the Q's attention. So what is it you want?"

        "Tom Paris," Chakotay answered sharply, drawing his well-

muscled arms against his chest.

        "The wooden Indian with the tattoo speaks," retorted Q. No

laughter greeted his repartee. "Really Kathy, I've already explained

this to you more than once."

        "Is he all right, you petaQ?" spat B'Elanna, undeterred by the

minor inconvenience of testy omnipotence.

        "Well, let's see," said Q, momentarily distracted by some

unseen point halfway between the helm and the viewscreen. "Life in

Universe 2Ax54-to-the-1726 seems to now survive past the

Ni'ivian/dkt'kgi War. I'd say he's just fine."

        "Good, he saved the universe," observed the Captain. "Now bring

him back!"

        "I can't," protested Q. "Didn't I explain this to you last

time? A human has to remain in that universe."

        "So you keep saying. Maybe if you tell us *why* we can figure

out some other way . . ."

        "There *is* no other way. If I try to explain it to you it will

take me 3.2 millennia just to catch you up on the underlying

temporal/quantum theory. Just trust me."

        "Trust *you*."

        "Kathy, your tone hurts me to the quick, but all this tinkering

of yours, trying to get my attention, it's disrupting the Continuum.

We're at an important stage in our negotiations."

        "What negotiations?"

        Q sighed and twirled a hand lethargically.

        "Ever since the civil war, there are always negotiations . . .

which Q gets to design the next new virus, who moves the atom that

starts the next supernovae."

        "Q," she sighed, not really wanting to know what the Q was

doing, "just get Tom back."

        "Captain, really, he's not that valuable. Do you know how many

Tom Parises there are? We're talking multiverses here. Every time a

decision is made. Every time someone says `yes' a twin is spun who says

`no.' As I said, trust me, Captain. It is only you that's short

Helmboy."

        She gave him a look from her non-spangled eyes that sparked

just as well if they'd been the alien's currently neon irises.

        "Don't you have some kind of tribunal Q? Someone who might care

that you're letting your child loose to play in unsuspecting universes?"

        "Captain . . . please, let's not lower ourselves to threats. If

you insist, I suppose there's a simple enough solution. You want a Tom

Paris? I can practically assure you that somewhere there's one who

won't be around tomorrow. You wouldn't believe how trying it is to keep

up. Multiple copies of everyone dropping like flies. Why don't I just

save one of those poor souls from meeting his timely end? You'll get a

Tom Paris and no one in that universe will be ever the wiser. Just give

me a second."

        "Q!" protested Kathryn, but she was yelling at empty air.

~oOo~

        "Here . . ." Q's voice echoed off the bulkheads like the voice

of God in those old 2-D entertainment holographics Tom liked so well.

"He may not be quite what you were expecting but since in that universe

the Earth would have been assimilated by the Borg in 2.6 minutes, I

thought no one would miss him."

        A beam of light coalesced into a familiar figure, a little

tanner than their pilot, with his gold hair a bit too long for

regulations and the uniform of a Carib tourist - loose shorts and

shirt, sandals.

        "Well, I'm off Kathy. I look forward to not hearing from you."

        "Q!" roared the Captain in the direction of the deflector

array, which seemed as good an area as any for her protests against the

disembodied voice.

        "Kath?"

        Tom Paris' voice was quieter, but it froze the startled Captain

and crew in place. *What had he just called her?*

        "Where are we Kath? What's going on . . ."

        He started toward the center of the bridge and somehow missed

the step down to the lower decking, a path Tom had taken a thousand

times without even looking. He landed with a thud on his knees, his

hands swinging across the carpeted deck while the crew looked on, even

B'Elanna too momentarily stunned to react.

        It was Chakotay who gathered his thoughts enough to respond,

kneeling down to take the reaching hands and pull the man to his feet.

        "You can't see," he said, not really questioning what was

already too apparent in the fall, even the way the man stood.

        "No," he replied calmly, allowing the first officer to steer

him to the nearest seat. "I thought I heard . . ."

        Kathryn stepped forward.

        "I'm afraid this is going to take some time to sort out."

        To her surprise, this Tom Paris rose to his feet, away from

Chakotay's steadying hand, and stepped eagerly in her direction. A

familiar look on his face, but one previously reserved only for her

chief engineer, who looked painfully at the proceedings, a hand pressed

to her open mouth.

        "Kath,  it is you."

        She stepped back without thinking, letting Chakotay catch the

man -- *Tom* -- from behind.

        "I'm Kathryn Janeway. You're on the starship Voyager. That

being, we call him Q, he claims he brought you here against your will

-  and ours - from another universe."

        "Universe? But I was just talking to you. You were on the vid-

link. The Borg were closing in." His face paled and Chakotay had to

tighten the grip he again held on his arm to keep him upright. "Oh

Great Spirit, the children . . ."

        "Children?" repeated the Captain, exchanging a painful look of

dawning understanding with her chief engineer.

        "Owen, Miranda and `Lissa. *Our children.* What the hell's

wrong with you Kath? What did those bastards do to you?"

        Not knowing if it would do more harm than good, Kathryn touched

his arm lightly.

        "Take it easy . . . Tom. We're going to try and find out what

happened." She palmed her commbadge. "Sickbay."

~oOo~

        "Well?"

        The Doctor, she noticed, took time to escort her into the CMO's

clear-glassed office.

        "His hearing is quite acute."

        "And his sight?" she asked, matching his lowered voice.

        "From my examination and his oral history it appears he was

born completely blind. Normally I could easily repair such a genetic

miscoding, retrain him to use the new visual stimuli. However the

genetic defect is not just in the DNA sequence. There's an odd sequence

in the RNA as well. Apparently in his version of the universe, the

genes have been artificially encoded to be self-repairing. The down

side is that once a genetic mutation occurs - correcting it becomes

impossible. The good news is, aside from that and the obvious shock

he's experienced, he's a completely healthy duplicate of Ensign

Paris."

        "Does he understand what's happened?"

        "As well as can be expected at the moment for a man who's lost

his family to Borg assimilation. I assume you realize his `Kathryn

Janeway' was his wife."

~oOo~

        "Tom . . ."

        It was moment before he raised his head, his expression masked

by the Doctor's tranquilizers and the motionless eyes.

        "You sound just like her. It's hard to believe . . ." his voice

was barely above a whisper.

        She looked at his fine features, twisted with unfamiliar pain,

and the protective instincts that he had always brought out in her

rose, making her want to take him in her arms. Where command protocol

had always held her back before, now a new wariness took its place.

Somewhere, in some other reality, she was this man's *wife*, the mother

of his children. The sudden return of the surreal embarrassment of

waking in sickbay to find the Doctor explaining the hyper-evolutionary

effects of travel at Warp 10, the memory of telling Tom Paris that

she'd always thought of having children *but not with him*, turned that

thought rapidly on end. She *had* been the mother of his children, in

*this* reality. Was it so extraordinary that in some other place the

decision had been made under saner circumstances?

        Drawing a conscious breath, she forced herself to continue.

        "I'm so sorry. We didn't ask to bring you here. It's

complicated story, one which I don't fully understand myself, but we

would have never taken you from your family . . ."

        "I have no family. They are Borg now."

        She reached a hand to clasp his and this time he was the one

who drew away.

        "Please," he requested numbly. "You only make it worse."

        To her relief, the Doctor appeared from somewhere, dialing a

new hypo setting and the Captain backed away from the bed. She stood

there, watching, until the man's, *Tom's*, breathing quieted and slowed

and some point past it. The point she knew he was no longer troubled by

the distant and distracting starship captain who had the voice of his

wife.

~oOo~

        "These are Ensign Paris' quarters, such as they are," observed

the holographic physician drily, scooping up a crumpled robe from the

cabin's floor to fold it over a chair. "Had I come here sooner I

perhaps would have had an explanation for the deplorable condition of

the Sickbay each time the ensign went off duty."

        The silent man beside him remained so and the EMH's retrieved

collection of cross-universal information from the available databases

gave him no further insight on what course of action should be taken

next.

        "Mr. Paris?" he inquired.

        The man hadn't said much of anything since waking from the drug-

induced sleep he'd inflicted and the request to go to `his quarters'

had taken the doctor by surprise. No doubt those `quarters' would have

been the Captain's. Hastily he had considered and discarded other

possibilities: Harry Kim - too shaken, from the look of distress

marring his young face as he and his new patient had passed the ensign

walking from the bridge. B'Elanna Torres - the first person he would

have turned to had Ensign Paris needed a helping hand - but her name

had provoked no recognition from Kathryn Janeway's grieving husband.

Chakotay? It was no ship's secret that there'd been no real

relationship between the pilot and first officer before, no need having

this man bear the remnants of a conflict he'd never been a part of.

Neelix? His emotional protocol program shuddered at the thought.

Finally he'd settled on Tom's cabin itself. This man was visually

disabled, not incapacitated.

        "Shall I show you . . ."

        "No."

        The abrupt reply brought forth a barrage of warning

subroutines.

        "I'll find my own way. I need to . . . if I can . . . and I'd

like to meditate."

        "I see," the physician replied dubiously. *And you don't*, some

sarcastic programming algorithm, probably from one of the physician

engrams, pressed to point out. Another politeness protocol overtook the

stray inappropriate observation and kept it from being voiced. Pressing

a comm badge against this Tom Paris' printed shirt he led the knowing

fingers. "Contact me if you need anything. I will be monitoring this

channel continuously. If you require assistance, you need only ask."

        "Thank you."

        The reply came out in the false smoothness of Paris' insolence,

but with a deeper darkness. As the Doctor dissolved away he saw the man

sink to the floor, not falling, but sitting in a modified Kthea

posture, his eyes closed, and his thoughts, no doubt, several universes

away.

~oOo~

        "Commander."

        The Doctor had been just about to contact the first officer

himself when he appeared at the sickbay door, his dark eyes scanning

the empty bay.

        "Where's Tom?"

        The holographic physician catalogued the commander's use of the

man's first name, noting the ease of the question, so unlike the

Captain's strained conversation.

        "He requested to be released to his quarters. As I had no

medical reason to confine him to Sickbay, I transported with him to

Ensign Paris' cabin."

        "Are you sure that was wise?" worried Chakotay, still trying to

piece the events of the day together. Obviously things had not gone

smoothly down here. He would have come sooner, but Kathryn had insisted

on accompanying the Doctor, then returned with an odd look on her face,

heading straight for the ready room. He had met her eyes as she passed,

but received no invitation, no acknowledgment whatsoever.

        "I am monitoring the ensign's quarters. So far our visitor has

just been sitting there. I've given him something for the shock. It may

have made him a little drowsy."

        "Did the Captain leave you any instructions?"

        A portion of the Doctor's language subroutine recognized the

odd stress the commander had put on "you." Apparently the captain

hadn't supplied the first officer with any direction.

        "Only to make him as comfortable as possible," he replied

neutrally.

        "Someone should check on him."

        "In the morning. I will continue to observe him throughout the

night. I do not believe there is much help we can offer at the moment.

He'll need some time." He met the commander's troubled gaze. "I will

make sure no harm comes to him."

        Chakotay nodded silently, reading in the physician's words a

promise to make sure the distressed man did no harm to himself as well.

~oOo~

        At 0239 hours an instruction was issued from Tom Paris' cabin,

rousing the EMH from standby.

        /Computer. Begin letter. Thomas Paris Janeway to Kathryn,

location/ . . .  there was a worrying pause . . . /location, somewhere

in my heart./

~oOo~

        Having paced her quarters much of the night, B'Elanna took in

her reflection in the mirror, bared her teeth and growled.

        Damn Q. Damn Tom. Damn her stubborn Klingon soul. Damn the part

of her too Human to react to the confused man Q had appropriated to

take the place of the only other man besides her father she'd allowed

herself to love.

        She drew a surprisingly shaky hand through her disarrayed hair.

This couldn't go on. Too much of keeping this vessel alive depended on

her.

        God, she needed Tom.

        Needed him beside her to sleep soundly.

        For a moment in the first startling seconds on the Bridge,

before he'd whispered out another lover's name, she'd thought it might

all somehow make some sense. Q had assured them Tom was safe and even

if this wasn't the *right* Tom, it was still an illusion she would have

been satisfied to embrace.

        Looked so much like him. Sounded like the tone of concern he'd

used so many times. Only the first word out of his mouth . . .

        B'Elanna picked up a small box from the dresser and flung it at

the cabin's far wall. It hit the bulkhead with a chiming ring that

surprised her - until she realized it was the cabin's door and not the

shattering of glass that she'd heard.

        Wiping back an annoying brimming of tears, she winced as the

chime rang a second time.

        "Come in!"

        If Chakotay was offended by her tone, he didn't show it. She

put on her most ferocious frown, not caring what he thought - as long

as he didn't think she'd been up half the night pacing and crying. As

long as he didn't think the truth.

        The first officer's quiet presence acted like a balm in the

cabin's charged air. He silently surveyed the room and its equally

disheveled occupant, his gaze dropping momentarily to the jewel-tone

shards. He remembered Tom picking out that box - the little kiosk

bright with opalescent light as the rest of the landing party was

forced to wait while Tom carefully lifted each item.

        "I know I'm late," she sighed, taking the brush from the

dresser's top, trying to repair the night's damage.

        Chakotay opened his mouth to assure the engineer that wasn't

why he'd come, but she didn't give him the chance.

        "I'll have that report to you by 1200."

        "B'Elanna . . ."

        The half-Klingon gave a final tug to what he suspected was

yesterday's uniform.

        "I was just leaving."

        A broad hand prevented her from reaching the door.

        "What Chakotay?" she snapped.

        "I think you need to talk."

        B'Elanna held back the return of the tears' sting.

        "Chakotay, it's OK. I'll have that report to you before lunch."

        "B'Elanna . . ."

        But having released his grasp, the chief engineer had already

slipped away from him. He stared at the door sliding closed and

wondered if he'd just managed to fail at the easier of the two

conversations he need to have.

~oOo~

        "Tom?"

        The lights in the cabin were so low as to almost seem the mere

reflection of the stars drifting by the cabin's porthole. Harry

searched the dimness perplexedly.

        "Yes?"

        There was an unfamiliar timbre to his friend's voice. Not *his

friend*, he reminded himself. No matter how relieving it was just

seeing someone that looked like Tom, however much the face or the voice

was familiar, this was not the Tom who shared the rigors of Akritiria.

This was a man dragged more than light years from his dying family to

be dropped in the slow trek of an unknown ship.

        "My name's Harry Kim. The Commander wanted me to see how you

were doing."

        The Commander? Cavit? Was he here? Was Stadi? Great Spirit,

what the empath would sense in him now . . . the thought of sharing

such pain with the unsuspecting double of the Betazoid made him hope

wherever Stadi was in this universe, it was nowhere near here. He had

to stop thinking like this. He had to stop thinking at all. *You know

the drill, Tom.* Just walk. Just answer. Just react. He turned his

dulled attention to the owner of the shaky, young voice.

        "Well," he began in an achingly familiar tenor, "I suppose if

you could tell me where the closet is, it would be a start."

        "Sure." Harry took a hesitant step into the darkened quarters.

"Computer, increase illumination."

        It appeared nothing had been changed since Tom last left to

fill his duty shift twelve days ago.  His robe was still slung over the

chair, a pair of wine glasses he and B'Elanna had hastily discarded sat

undrained on the sideboard. Even the figure that had emerged half-

clothed from the bath seemed perfectly suited, except for the raised

palms seeking unsuspected obstacles.

        "Over here," Harry said, after an uneasy moment, capturing a

raised hand. After a second Tom settled at his side, a hand wrapped

around the Ensign's elbow. "Tom replicated a few civilian outfits."

        He pulled out a pair of pants and a tunic from among the red

and black uniforms.

        "Here. These should do . . . If you'd like, we can replicate

you something else later."

        The strong grip released his elbow and he delivered the offered

clothes into the waiting fingers.

        "What color is it?"

        Harry squinted at the material, doubting his descriptive

abilities.

        "Brown, rust, something like that."

        A strange expression twisted Tom's double's features.

        "That OK?"

        "Yeah - it doesn't make much difference to me." He tried to

smile at the ridiculously trivial thought that winked across his mind

and failed utterably. "It's just that Kath was always buying blue."

        He turned away from the young officer as the tears he'd managed

to hold back this long threatened again. Why was he doing this? Just

*don't think.* He'd always been a realist. Too much of one. The truth

was the truth. They were gone and he was . . . *here.* Not much you

could do about the past. About any past.

        Harry bowed his own head in anger at a universe - no universes

- that seemed to spare no incarnation of Tom Paris. When he finally

looked back up, it was to take in the surprising sight of the tattoo

covering Tom's bare left shoulder. An intricate geometric design

apparently of the same blue-black dye that formed the lines adorning

Chakotay's temple. He started to ask, then reconsidered as he helped

this Tom shrug into the tunic. Tom's roving hands deciphered the

fasteners then he turned toward him, his expression controlled now.

        "Don't take this as an insult, but I'd prefer to dress myself.

I've been doing it since I was five."

        Harry sighed.

        "I'll wait outside."

~oOo~

        "How is he?"

        Chakotay hadn't expected to find the ensign loitering beside

the pilot's cabin door. But then, he reminded himself,  that really

wasn't Tom Paris in there.

        "I'm not sure. It's like he's Tom, but he isn't Tom." Harry

suppressed the small groan of irritation building in his throat. "He

would have to have the damn Paris heroism act down pat."

        Harry unexpectedly met the Commander's eyes, hoping he would

see that Chakotay understood now what he'd never seemed to understand

before - that Tom's bravado was his way of convincing himself as much

as anyone else that he had what it would take to get through the next

day, the next hour, the next minute. But in the stolid, even gaze he

saw only his reflection.

        "There is something that's odd. He has a tattoo on his

shoulder. A double spiral . . ."

        At that Chakotay did raise a surprised brow, shifting the lines

of his own marking.

        "I'll take over, Harry. I'd like you to go check on B'Elanna,

see how she's doing." Harry noticed the first officer looked

unexpectedly weary. Tom's disappearance had taken its toll on all of

them. "She won't talk to me about anything but the weekly report."

~oOo~

        It was, Chakotay mused as he watched the interchange of the

Doctor and his newest patient, nature's way of giving a weapon to this

Tom Paris as well, the easy charm, the quick and sometimes reassuringly

self-mocking smile. Even with the weight of the events of the previous

day pressed into his features, he managed a small smile or two in the

exchange.

        And when the Doctor left to join him behind the office's

enclosing walls Chakotay noticed that the figure seated at the edge of

the biobed remained posed as if on display. Which, admitted Chakotay

contritely, he was.

        "Well?" he questioned the holographic physician.

        "There's not much I can add to the report I furnished the

Captain yesterday. It was quite complete."

        "And I'm sure the Captain was aware of that," soothed the first

officer, feeling oddly perplexed as always to be mollifying what was

essentially the visual embodiment of millions of lines of code. "I

think she is more interested in his psychological health."

        "I see," said the Doctor, brightening. "I did not realize she

was aware of my continued efforts to educate myself in the psychiatric

arts."

~oOo~

        The voice was steadier this time, the letter longer, and the

Doctor felt a growing hope that his sparsely-programmed skills would

not be needed, that this self-healing would suffice . . .

        /He didn't say anything, Kath, but in Sickbay I could feel his

hand, tracing the spirals on my  shoulder. Not touching me, just

following the circles that Kenat had fused from the Old One's sun mark

and the old Celtic-Earth symbol of healing that he thought would

protect me. That old trick that you used to such perfection . . .(You

see, even here Kath, you can make me smile.) The first officer's

tracing was more curious like in this universe I, or the Tom Paris who

belonged here, would never . . . I thought it meant it was taboo for

him as it was for my father and it would prove equally as wise here

that Kenat refused to place it on my temple like I was a true son of

the Old Ones. But when I asked, the first officer laughed and traced

his own temple with my fingers. Not a tribe I know. Maybe one that

doesn't exist where we were, but the mark of a Brother. I'm not sure

which one of us was more surprised. The holographic doctor shooed him

off then, but when he comes back I'm going to tell him what his people

meant to some of those in our world. I get the feeling they've not been

treated so well here./

        /As for the electronic doctor, he is an incredible feat of

engineering. I wish you could see him, Kath. There are already times I

also wish someone would re-code his personality. I learned today that

this Tom Paris, as well as being the ship's pilot, served as his

medical technician.  I'm not quite sure how he managed it. I have met

myself, Kathryn, and he is not me. Spirits, I am not me - without you.

There - I said it, Kath. I have thought . . . you can imagine what I've

thought . . . but I won't take the coward's way out. I want you to

live, the children to live, somewhere besides in the single thought of

the Borg collective. It's hard Kath, but I'm holding on./

        There was a choked pause, a series of ragged breaths that the

EMH cataloged with medical dexterity while algorithms fretted. Then a

broken grin was noted as his patient regained his composure.

        /The Doctor is as steadfastly stubborn about blindness as my

father. It is those days at Starfleet medical all over again. Wonder

where in this universe they would send me? Not that these people are

able to send even themselves home. From the young Harry Kim I got the

news today that we travel toward the Sol system at an average speed of

warp 7.2 and a distance of 60,000 light years to go. We should arrive

when young Ensign Kim is ready for grandfatherhood. That'll be what -

seventy years without you Kath? Oh Spirits, I miss you Love./

~oOo~

        Odd how they'd all abandoned Sandrine's and flocked to Neelix's

tropical resort, even Tom, though viewing the holodeck log, Harry could

see his friend had continued to come - at odd hours and mostly alone,

although a second occupant joined him from time to time.

        Maybe it was odd, too, how he'd wanted to bring this Tom here

as well.

        The "new" Tom accepted his guidance, his face turning slightly

from side to side as he searched the room for sound cues.

        "A bar?" he inquired, the faint stirrings of customers and

barkeep coaxing the ghost of a smile about his lips.

        "Thomas! Mon cher, it's been too long. Where is your lovely

lady?"

        "Sandrine," Harry interrupted before the blonde hologram could

draw her favorite son into a hug. "This isn't Tom."

        "Not Tom," Sandrine obligingly entered the game, "then what

other handsome creature is he?"

        Harry drew a sharp intake of breath.

        "Actually he is Tom. Another Tom. He's from a . . ." he

strained for a simplification of the tortuous physics that had brought

him here, "parallel universe."

        "Another path in the multiverse. Tom used to tell me of such

things when he was slightly," she smiled, "or not so slightly, drunk."

        The hologram's cheerful eyes scanned over this new denizen's

face as if she looked for some difference to mark this Tom Paris from

the one who had so lovingly recreated her to sooth the loneliness of

the Delta Quadrant. They turned believably moist as they took in, then

processed the meaning of the gaze fixed, unfocused, at the bar's dim

corner.

        "You cannot see?"

        "Ah . . . no," said Tom, still surprised to find that having a

double of someone appear from a distant universe was not nearly as

unexpected in this universe as finding that double was blind, "but it

isn't quite the rarity where I come from that it seems to be here." *If

even the holograms reacted so badly.*

~oOo~

        /Kath, I've been to Marseilles. Some times, some things seem

just an atom's bump from our world. He made a bar, this incredibly

detailed holographic recreation of the tavern he used to haunt in

France. It even smelled like de Gueslin's. And the pool table - you

could have had a good run there Sweetheart. Seems he fancied himself a

pool shark. Might have been worth some credits to you and I would have

loved the sound of those balls whispering into leather pockets. I would

have loved sweeping you into my arms and carrying you upstairs to the

hostel room, making love with the murmur from Gueslins's our music. I

would have never let you leave early to join the Saratoga, let you

leave our bed, if I'd known . . ./

~oOo~

        The chant filtering from the darkened observation portal

stopped Chakotay in his tracks, erasing the numbing weariness he'd

begun giving into walking back from his double-shift on the bridge. A

somewhat familiar voice, but giving melody to words so ancient he'd

last heard them from an old medicine man who stopped briefly to confer

with the elders on Dorvan. He'd viewed the proceedings with the disgust

of his youth, but the song had made some impact on him.  If he could

recognize it now. Recognize it *here.*

        Which of course made it all the stranger. Five years he'd been

on this ship. And in that whole time no one had ever approached him and

talked seriously about his beliefs. For a while it had been the latest

fad - animal guides in the Delta Quadrant, but the interest had quickly

faded. Even Kathryn, enthusiastic as she'd been, didn't have the time

or the inclination to pursue such esoteric mysteries.

        Not wanting to disturb the worshiper, but too curious to

resist, Chakotay leaned quietly in to the near blackness of the small

viewing room, the sweet haze of incense rising in the filtered air. A

figure was seated on the floor, too poorly illuminated by the dim

stars' passing light for him to make out more than its general form -

tall, with fair skin and light hair. The chant reached its climax then

was finished, leaving his ears still ringing with the echoes of years

long gone.

        "Was I disturbing you?"

        The sudden realization of who the seated figure was startled

him almost as much as the unexpected question.

        "No," answered the first officer, moving only a few steps into

the darkness. He waited for his eyes to adjust. "I was the one who

disturbed you. My apologies. I thought I recognized the chant."

        "The k'ak'kuch, the burning ritual, to ask for safe passage for

those traveling in foreign territory."

        "We could certainly use it," Chakotay observed quietly, though

he knew this Tom Paris' prayer for safe passage was not for the

Voyager's streak through the void.

        The utter blackness of the room's interior had resolved itself

into a ghostly gray. The room's low benches charcoal against the

lighter dimness. Chakotay moved to one carefully.

        "So, you are a brother." Tom turned in his direction. "I

suspected, even in this universe, Starfleet officers didn't routinely

sport tattoos."

        "It's a more recent development," admitted the not-entirely-

official commander.

        "And your Captain approves?"

        "She doesn't hinder."

        "Kath used to call it my `spiritual mumbo-jumbo.'"

        "Well, if it's any conciliation,  Kathryn Janeway didn't find

it too compelling in this universe either," Chakotay conceded and found

the smile he'd managed to coax from the new incarnation of Tom Paris

wavering.

        "How so much can be different when so much is alike," mused Tom

before seeming to draw up the same mask their pilot had been so adept

at throwing on. "Where I came from the name `Chakotay' would be

bestowed in honor of Ah Chak Wayib, the Great Dreamer, or maybe Xib

Chac, the Classical God of Rain and Earth."

        Tom could hear the soft whisper of fabric as the commander

shrugged.

        "I don't know why my parents chose it -- it was never revealed

to me. Or I was never interested enough to find out."

        "Surely you must know your tribe's history."

        "Yes, and no. When Dorvan was lost and my father murdered by

the Cardassians, I `rethought' a lot of the decisions I'd made. I found

myself comforted by my father's belief. I've tried to emulate it, but

the Maquis . . . we were a loose band, poor, fairly disorganized. It

didn't leave much time to spare for personal enlightenment and now,

I've continued my study but not with the fervor I had. When you're the

only one who believes . . . I've found the path to faith here . . .

difficult. There were so many questions I should have asked my father."

        Regret pulled once again at Tom's features.

        "I understand what it's like to be too late saying something,

Commander."

        Not knowing what else to say, Chakotay laid a hand on Tom's

shoulder, squeezing gently.

        "If you need anything. I'd like to help."

        Tom nodded, moisture seeping softly onto his pale cheeks.

        "Thank you Commander." He managed the reply in a steady voice

and Chakotay retreated back to the hall, leaving him to grieve in peace.

~oOo~

        /Kath,  I haven't told you, but . . .  there's a Kathryn

Janeway here too. Spirits help me. I'm . . . well, I'm not, he wasn't

hers. Maybe Chakotay is, the first officer. I hear it in his voice,

Kath, some kind of longing. But I think not that either. I think it may

be the ship who's her true lover. The goal of getting these people

home. I know you have that strength, that singlemindness. Why do you

think I never bunked in on one of your cruises? Better to have you to

myself briefly than to lose you to an ideal every morning.  I think

she's lost to hers. And I am lost to you. Don't worry Love, there's no

one who could take your place. . ./

~oOo~

        "I'm sorry to disturb you so late."

        The Captain ran a hand through her tousled auburn hair as she

motioned her first officer into her quarters. She straightened on the

cabin's sofa, pulling her robe tighter against her un-Captain-like

satin gown as Chakotay did a pretty good job, but only a pretty good

job, of pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. A hint of

appreciation flickered in his eyes and was, for an instant, returned by

her grey ones. Then, as always, the instant passed.

        "I just saw Tom in the observation lounge."

        "Is everything all right?" she asked, the sincerity of her

concern unhidden in the sudden question.

        Chakotay grinned in reply, immediately calming her fears.

        "He was chanting."

        "Tom . . ." she verified.

        "A chant I knew. A prayer for safe travel I heard once on

Dorvan."

        "That doesn't sound much like the Tom we knew."

        "You're right. I can't imagine Tom Paris being still long

enough to chant a cycle. He's definitely not our Tom. That's actually

why I'm here. I thought I'd ask if you could spare me tomorrow.  We're

all avoiding him because he's not exactly who he should be. I thought

it would be good if one of us found out who he really is." Chakotay

glanced down. "I didn't think you'd want the job."

        Kathryn, likewise, found she had an intense need to study the

edge of the satin robe, her hands, the table, anything to avoid meeting

Chakotay's eyes.

        "I'm the last person he needs to be spending time with right

now. If you'd like the job I think Harry would be grateful. He won't

say, but I think he's having problems adjusting. I'm not sure who was

actually the big brother, him or Tom, but there's no way he can just

replace that relationship with someone who never even met him before

last week."

        "I'd like to try. Odd as it is to imagine, we apparently come

from the same background."

        "That is ironic, isn't it? You and Tom . . . you were never

quite able to find . . . common ground."

        "I think I've worked out that a lot of that can be blamed on

me." Chakotay admitted. "I had a certain prejudice against sons of

wealthy Admirals. I let it color my judgements and once they were made,

I found them very hard to shake. Maybe this is the universe offering me

a chance at repentance. The least I can do is take up the offer."

        Kathryn smiled wearily at her first officer's explanation.

There were times she wished she could believe that the universe, or the

being who created it, had a part in all their futile wanderings, their

pains. But all she said was, "You'll keep me posted."

        "Of course Captain."

~oOo~

        Chakotay found their guest again in the mess hall the next

morning, a familiar grimace on his face as he picked at Neelix's

breakfast fare. Obviously it didn't help to not know the Xeifen eggs

were pink with orange yokes, something Chakotay wasn't going to tell

him if he could avoid it.

        "Tom," he greeted quietly, hoping he wouldn't startle the

obviously preoccupied man.

        "Commander." Tom put the fork down carefully beside the plate,

then pushed it all toward the center of the table.

        "I see you've been introduced to Neelix's cuisine."

        "Yeah. I can't tell if it's the cook or the produce, but

something tells me you people could do with a good five-star restaurant

on this tub."

        Chakotay looked toward the selection on the bar. Sometimes the

old days of vacuum-packed oatmeal didn't seem that bad.

        "Paris . . .Tom . . . had a habit of winning half the crew's

replicator rations and I know there's still quite a stash in his

account. Why don't we use some to get you something less . . .

flourescent to eat? I'm sure he'd appreciate us saving your palate."

~oOo~

        "If you don't mind me asking," braved Chakotay, sipping the

fragrant black tea as Tom paused from the plate of replicated pancakes

he'd been silently picking at, "do you speak to your guide often?"

        "Not since . . ." Tom's jaw muscles tensed, "not here."

        "May I ask why?" inquired Chakotay quietly, thinking of all

times when you could need direction, surely none would call out for

them more than the past weeks of this man's life.

        "Your replicator informed me that the making of psychotropic

agents was forbidden," Tom mimicked the computer's formal voice, "and

your `doctor' was not of the opinion I needed a prescription."

        Chakotay made a mental note to tell the EMH that the doctor

should have contacted him the minute the question was asked. Another

contingency that wouldn't have been dreamed of in the mind of the

hologram's programmer - a man from another universe requesting a

forbidden psychotrope.

        "Surely he told you there are other means . . ."

        "Kenat, our shaman, didn't believe in the modern ways. Too

safe. Too controlled. He took me on my first vision quest when I was

thirteen. I don't think you'd call an `easy' trip."

        "You used an active psychotropic agent?" In all of the Dorvan

colony's history, active psychotropes had never been sanctioned. Only

the very experienced or very foolhardy would have dared use such a

dangerous and unstable substance to draw open the mirror between this

universe and what lay beyond.

        "You've always used the neural stimulator?" Tom returned in the

same tone.

        "Yes. It's been proven . . ."

        " . . . to remove the resultant nausea, shut down when it

senses any neural overload and provide you with a safe conduit to the

Spirits," intoned Tom, in a voice that this time mimicked the shaman

who had been more father to him than his own. "As I said, Kenat wasn't

much impressed with technology."

        "At the moment, unless you can convince the doctor otherwise,

it may have to do."

        Chakotay  rose and retrieved his medicine bundle, clearing the

table then leading the pale hands to the wrapping. With a reverence he

would never have thought Tom Paris capable of, this Tom unwrapped the

skin, revealing its sacred contents to the searching fingertips.

        "Feathers," he said skimming delicately along the dark plumage.

        "A blackbird's wing," said Chakotay as the fingers found the

smoothness of the stone polished by the rush of water now thousands of

light years away.

        The pale hands moved on to caress the cool rock, tracing the

four bisected spirals that covered its side.

        "A saso'ob?"

        How long it had been since he'd heard that word spoken.

Chakotay studied again the familiar face before him. The man asking if

he held a `stone of light.'

        "My father said it spoke," he admitted, never having believed

it himself. Never having believed that his father believed it either.

        "Standard?" asked Tom as he rolled the flattened stone in his

nimble fingers.

        "Ancient Mayan," returned Chakotay.

        "Could be a problem," mused Tom, still not releasing his light

hold on the sacred stone.

        Chakotay gently moved his touch to the akoonah.

        "The tool of those who fear the true touch of the Spirits."

This time Tom smiled, but without the smirk that had once so enraged a

Maquis commander. "It would be nice to talk to Ometok again."

        "You speak his name?" asked Chakotay, surprised at a lapse that

would be akin to sacrilege on Dorvan.

        "He does not mind, sometimes he would have me relay messages to

Kath . . . to my children."

        Chakotay found he had moved his hand to cover the suddenly

still fingers.

        "I'm sure he waits to speak to you." He brought the stimulator

closer, placing it within Tom's grasp. "Put your hand here."

        He gave him no other instructions. Each had his own way of

preparing himself for the journey within, but he did begin the mantra

that was his own plea to the creator of the whole.

        "Akoo chee moya, we are far from the sacred places of our

grandfathers. We are far from the bones of our people . . ."

        He had watched as, for a brief moment, a look of peace slipped

over the tautly drawn brow. Then the pale hand on the stimulator's pad

clenched, Tom's body rocking from an invisible blow. Chakotay caught

him as he slid to one side, the waves of convulsion undampened by the

commander's hold. He could barely spare his hand for the second it took

to palm the commbadge.

        "Sickbay! Two for emergency beam-out!"

~oOo~

        The walls of his cabin dissolved then reappeared as the

reassuringly familiar brightness of Sickbay. Beside him the Doctor

crouched immediately, tricorder in hand.

        "What proceeded the convulsion," he asked, deftly flipping a

hypospray and eyeing its contents before hissing it against the swollen

veins of his patient's neck. Chakotay took a deep breath as the

horrible spasms slowed then finally ceased, leaving Tom a dead weight

in his arms.

        "He was using the akoonah to try and contact his Spirit guide."

        The Doctor rose, motioning Chakotay to as well, and between

them they lifted the limp form on the diagnostic bed. The status panel

lit up in dozens of data streams that the Doctor took in with a

rehearsed "hmph."

        "Interesting," he offered, switching the display to another

series. "Ensign Kim showed no anomalies in brain wave activity after he

arrived from the parallel Voyager and I thought I'd detected none in

this Tom Paris as well. Apparently even I can, rarely, be mistaken."

        "Doctor," growled Chakotay, wanting a diagnosis not the

hologram's usual self-absorbed repartee.

        "He is showing a slightly different resting brain wave pattern

than `our' Tom did. The difference is quite subtle but when you had him

use the device to alter it so he could enter your `spirit world' it was

apparently enough to disrupt the pattern and produce the seizure you

saw."

        "Will he be all right?"

        "Oh yes," the physician said brightly. "He should wake up

naturally in the next hour or so. He'll be a bit groggy, but there

should be no lingering aftereffects."

        The hologram failed to notice his cheery mood had not spread to

the first officer.

        "Can you make sure it doesn't happen again?"

        "Easily. Don't have him use the device."

        "He said you already refused his request for psychotropes,"

Chakotay reminded the doctor. "Now you're saying he can't use the

akoonah. How do you suggest he go about contacting his guide?"

        "I don't. I'm a doctor not a medicine man. I will not suggest

he participate in any ceremony that requires the use of either a

dangerous pharmacological or a neural stimulator. Perhaps meditation

will be sufficient."

        "It's not that simple, Doctor . . ."

        But, mid-sentence Chakotay was cut off by the voice of Harry

Kim.

        "Commander, I know the Captain ask you not be disturbed this

shift, but we've picked up a ship on long range sensors."

        "Understood," he replied, giving a quick glance to the figure

now still on the sensored bed. "I'll be there in a minute."

        "He'll be fine, Commander," soothed the Doctor, relying on the

latest modifications made to his program to convey a more caring

bedside manner.

        "At least in body," retorted Chakotay, only postponing the

debate with the physician until the latest crisis had been sorted

through, until a certain Captain could be brought into the conversation.

~oOo~

        The ship, an amalgamation of a dozen world's crafts, was

piloted by a Uudi trader in Kazon garb, a sullen individual who seemed

more annoyed at being offered the chance to barter than pleased to find

a trading partner. The Captain had sent Neelix and Seven off to handle

the details, saying that if Neelix couldn't talk him out of the

necessary goods, the sight of Seven could probably persuade the members

of a hundred species. Chakotay had exchanged a laughing glance with her

at the assignment, then had gathered his courage to talk about less

amusing matters.

        "All right Commander, you wanted to see me in private . . ."

began Kathryn as the door to the ready room closed them off from the

bridge.

        "It's about Tom."

        From behind, he couldn't see her swallow painfully as her

throat tightened.

        "He's in sickbay."

        "What happened?" she asked, still not turning, guilt suddenly

adding itself to the swirling mix of emotions she was straining to keep

at bay.

        "I told you last night that Tom, this Tom, was raised on a

reservation-world, not too distant from Dorvan. He practices a native

religion that includes ritual communion with the Spirit world using

psychotropes to cross the bridge between that world and ours."

        She did turn at that, surprise overtaking the less used

emotions.

        "The Doctor gave him drugs?"

        "No." A look of relief swept over Kathryn's face. "He refused

Tom's request for the hallucinogen. I had hoped that the akoonah would

aid him as it does me, but when he used it he went into seizure. He's

down in Sickbay sleeping it off."

        She frowned at him, suspecting after this long, that her first

officer had come to do more than just inform her of the accident.

        "And you're asking me to . . ."

        "Back me up, if I need you to. Support my request to allow Tom

the necessary prescription."

        There was some comfort in being able to predict your senior

officers' behavior, except in circumstances where it so apparently

contrasted with the captain's own.

        "You know I can't do that. I just can't ask the Chief Medical

Officer to start passing out recreational pharmaceuticals."

        "This isn't like he's asking for Venus Blue. The psychotrope is

a necessary part of a religious ceremony."

        *God, who would have thought there'd be an incarnation of Tom

Paris anywhere in the multiverse that would end up the subject of this

conversation?*

        "But you don't use it," she protested. "You told me that most

of the time you simply meditate and your guide comes to you. Jungian

imaginary, if I remember right."

        "My people did not return to all the old ways and I . . . in

many ways, my faith has always been the same as yours. Science. Logic.

Reason. Perhaps my biggest flaw as a native Dorvan."

        *Tom Paris - a Tom Paris - and Chakotay finally united and it

would have to be against her and the chief medical officer's better

judgement.*

        "You approve of this chemically-induced worship?"

        "I respect it. I think he needs it, needs something to hold on

to."

        She tried to detect if there was a hint of accusation in that

statement, but Chakotay merely gazed steadily at her the way he would

whether he was reporting a minor engineering problem or that a Borg

cube was tractoring them in.

        "All right. You have my permission to speak to the Doctor, but

if he says no, remember even a captain has a hard time overruling the

chief medical officer."

~oOo~

        The turbolift was quiet when he entered, but not quiet enough

to keep him from realizing another occupant was present.

        "Hello," he greeted, knowing how disturbing the Voyager's crew

found him - looking too much like their lost pilot and being too far

from who the man had been.

        Pressed against the lift's back wall, B'Elanna observed this

Tom's careful movements and tried to breathe again.

        Tom could feel the other person staring as he gave the waiting

lift his destination. Finally a woman's voice returned the greeting,

but that was all. Tom kept silent as well, too tired from the ordeal of

arguing with the holographic physician to feel like overcoming whatever

nervousness he'd brought out in yet another of the crew.

        B'Elanna flicked her gaze over him, using the darkness as a

cover while she studied the body, too familiar, beside her. Found

herself staring at the pale neck, identical to the one she'd caressed

and bruised. Found herself thinking of the long, talented fingers . . .

how his tongue possessed and explored her mouth . . . how he moved

downward . . .

        The sudden jerking halt of the lift threw the other passenger

against him and for a second he steadied the petite, hard-muscled form.

        "Ah hell."

        The smaller body pushed away from him and there was the crack

of a panel being split from the lift wall.

        "Just give me a minute," the woman muttered, sounding like

something was clenched in her teeth. "Worthless aneodyne relays."

        "At least if I got trapped in a lift, it seems to be with an

engineer," he observed.

        "Yeah," replied the woman, sending the lift back into motion

with a tap that was a little more forceful than necessary. "Guess this

is just your lucky day."

        She didn't sound happy so Tom didn't continue. Too hard to tell

what the trouble might have been . . . him, the pilot he so resembled,

her.

        "Lt. Torres."

        "Torres, here."

        Of course she didn't sound too happy answering her hail, either.

        "B'Elanna, we just had another lift go out."

        "I'm aware of that Carey, I was on it."

        At least their overheard conversation was better than the

silence that had been pervading the short ride. They were still at it,

cursing aneodyne relay suppliers when the lift reached his destination.

~oOo~

        "Mon cher."

        Was this his imagination, too, or did the hologram sound

saddened by his appearance? Maybe she missed the pilot who had created

this establishment or maybe it was still the blindness disturbing her

as well. He resolidified his grip on the cane he'd replicated after

managing to escape from the clutches of the holographic physician. It

felt reassuringly steady in his hand, an antique he'd had to dig out of

a four-hundred year old database, and he swung it with the skill of

long practice as he made his way to the bar.

        "Sandrine," he returned, settling against the curved bartop.

        Before he could ask, the bartender's fingers wrapped his free

hand around a stout glass.

        "Kentucky bourbon. Tom's favorite."

        He took a sip, letting the fiery liquid burn down his throat.

Not just a holographic shot, damn fine synth. The pilot had been a

master at more than steering ships, to have tweaked out this liquor.

        "You miss him, don't you?"

        "Sometimes people are not what they seem. Tom was . . .

becoming. I wanted to see the transformation completed."

        "You said there was a `lovely lady.'"

        "B'Elanna Torres. Fire to his ice."

        *The engineer he'd met in the turbolift.* His heart now sank at

the memory of their exchange. To be to a woman who had loved *him* as

the captain had been to him. Cool. Polite. Distant.

        "But you. You have lost as well."

        Sandrine's hand clasped his arm with sympathetic pressure and

he could imagine why the pilot choose to recreate her instead of all

the possible lovers he could have designed to ease his loneliness.

~oOo~

        /My Love. I feel drained. As long as I didn't say it to anyone

else. As long as I only told you, I could pretend you were just on

another of your voyages. That in a few days I would wake with you by my

side and find, too soon, the bed invaded by our giggling octopuses, all

a tangle of limbs and squeals and demands only you make them breakfast.

Is it cold there? Do you feel them with you? Do you remember Sunday

mornings, Christmas winds blowing through the veranda doors? Spirits

help me Kath, if only I were there . . ./

TBC in part 2