Chapter 14 – Ghosts

Voyager's briefing room was more crowded than usual, with three of the Enterprise's senior staff having beamed over for an after-action conference or, in the language of Earth's old navies, the "hot wash-up". Captain William Riker, his wife and Counselor, Deanna Troi, and Harry Kim had beamed over from the Enterprise to join with Tom, Asil, B'Elanna, Ayala, the Doctor and Baytart, taking advantage of the two ships hanging in space side by side.

The Doctor was his usual self again, having gotten the last of the Narovian kinks out of his system by excoriating Tom for his lack of caution and his propensity for getting himself damaged, and complaining about his treatment by the Enterprise's away team. The hapless recipient of his tirade had only been relieved by the timely arrival of his daughter, hand in hand with her mother, Toby the Targ in tow. Miral's excited report that she could see the Enterprise through her bedroom window and would be visiting with her friends for a bit effectively wrecked the Doctor's sour mood, and he was smiling by the time he watched her hugging her 'idiot' Daddy.

B'Elanna, for her part, had said little in Sickbay, but briefly touched her forehead to Tom's before helping him off the biobed. Words were not always needed, and there would be time to talk, later. Including, he suspected, about the wisdom about transporting alone into a room full of armed criminals.

The EMH's had made his usual pro forma protest at the speed with which his patient insisted on leaving Sickbay, knowing they would be ignored and contenting himself with a mere disapproving glare as he looked around the briefing room. Riker declined Tom's offer to let him, as the most senior officer onboard, have the head of the table. "Your ship," he said with a wolfish grin as he lowered his considerable bulk into the chair normally reserved for the First Officer. "Don't ever forget that, Captain Paris."

Upon entering the familiar space, Harry's feet automatically carried him to the seat he had occupied for seven years, a move that brought a fleeting smile to B'Elanna's eyes and a raised eyebrow from Asil, who normally sat there now. She silently took another seat, logic indicating that a chair was, after all, just a chair.

Troi kept shooting not-so-surreptitious glances in Tom's direction, which he studiously ignored. Maybe at some point down the road he might be willing to talk to her, but not now. Not yet.

Starfleet operations in the Narov system were almost complete, and the progress reports from Headquarters were promising. The USS Roddenberry had intercepted a shuttle on course from Kalpak Station, carrying one Darmoth Krall – unfortunately for him, his vessel had strayed into Federation space, and he would soon find himself before a court on a multiplicity of charges.

While no one was under any illusion that all of the Syndicate's agents in the Snowflakes had been flushed out, Nacheyev's orders to ignore the quarantine and beam personnel onto the surface unannounced to seize those they could locate had netted enough operatives to disrupt its operations for the foreseeable future. The protests from the authorities about violation of Narovian sovereignty and space had faded quickly when the Federation followed its unilateral actions with more medical supplies, properly distributed this time. Starfleet had also turned the suspects over to the local justice system, together with all relevant evidence, a move that went a long way to smooth things over.

But the diplomatic fallout would no doubt continue, including on Rigel, where some serious internal house-cleaning would need to be done on an urgent basis. The Enterprises mission to that system had acquired a sudden urgency and new sense of purpose, and Riker was eager to get going.

But first things first.

The mood around the table was generally somber, although Tom's description of the Doctor's escape from Kalpak provided a brief moment of levity. There were still questions, the obvious one – the precise nature and extent of Jarod Tervellyan's involvement with the Orion Crime Syndicate – being the elephant in the room no one wanted to touch, at least for now. By silent agreement, they stuck to other things, and the discussion ranged freely.

"Why would the freighter go back to Alnitak, though?" B'Elanna's voice betrayed her puzzlement. "I mean, if that woman wanted to get away, she could presumably have made them head straight for Orion, once they got out of that Snowflake mess."

"Didn't you say that asteroid was a way station, Tom?" Harry asked. "Maybe they were going to drop that … Syndicate officer off, to be picked up by someone else."

"Possibly. But why use a freighter for that? Surely there were other, faster ships on Kalpak that she could have commandeered."

"Maybe the freighter was coming back here anyway? They'd gotten rid of most of the medication they picked up from us on Nemoth II, and when we took the rest, they'd have been ready to pick up new … cargo. They're into profit," Ayala opined, "so why waste an extra trip?"

Tom inclined his head. "True. Coulthard detected some relatively recent, undecayed warp trails around the asteroid. They did have what looked like a cargo section off to the side of the station."

Something in his own words struck him then, like a direct punch to the gut. His mouth opened slightly and his face turned ashen. Troi's head shot up from whatever blast of emotion she was receiving from him even as Tom hit his comm badge.

"Paris to Nicoletti and Coulthard. Either of you guys ever check that cargo facility beside the station … for bio signs? Or did you just check the station?"

The two-fold 'no' – gasping from Nicoletti, drawn out from Coulthard as they realized why he was asking - echoed around the suddenly silent briefing table. Ayala was already out of his seat.

"I'll go?"

Tom nodded his consent. "Take Coulthard. He's familiar with the asteroids surrounding the station." Tom's voice was raw, and Deanna Troi gave him a concerned look.

"You couldn't have known," her eyes whispered to him.

"I should have thought to check," his own, suddenly dark, answered back.

With but a breath, she said, out loud, "There's time. It will be fine."

Riker had followed the exchange with interest. His wife had mentioned to him several times that for a person who could be so closed off to others, Tom Paris seemed to be able to communicate extremely effectively with her, without words. Perhaps he had some latent empathic abilities? It would certainly explain his susceptibility to certain forms of alien mental manipulation in the past. No matter.

"I'll put our two Flyers on standby, in case you need … transportation space. Assuming your team finds what you seem to think they will. Deanna …?"

She nodded, and Tom shot both her and Riker a grateful look. If his gut was correct and the 'cargo' the Rigellian may have come to pick up when dropping off Tervellyan's murderer were more Orion slaves, the counselor's presence would be invaluable.

Riker issued brief orders to Jorak, who was holding the bridge on the Enterprise, and added, "Even if you don't find what you think may be there, it'll be interesting to see what kind of goods they're dealing with out here, beside slaves and medication."

With a new tasking already underway, the wrap-up session came to a quick end. Will Riker stayed behind, though, motioning Harry and Deanna to give him some private time with his former Number One.

"Finding a good First Officer isn't easy," he said, almost conversationally.

Tom let out a breath, unsure of what to say, or where this was headed. He came back with a tentative, "You're not kidding."

"Ultimately it's a matter of trust," Riker continued. "And I've found that when it comes to my senior staff, I can't trust anyone they just give me. I have to meet them for myself, get a feel. I mean, would you have picked Tervellyan, if you'd had the choice?"

Tom chewed on that thought, as he had over the last few hours - the last couple of days, if he were honest with himself.

"I was happy enough when Nacheyev assigned him; at least I knew the guy. Or thought I did. But …" He was fishing for the right words. "If I'd had a choice, I probably would have picked someone else. B'Elanna didn't take to him at all, and her instincts are as good as mine, if not better."

He sighed. "I guess you're right, Will. When it comes to finding someone who you can always turn your back on, or whom would hand your child to in a crisis … I'm not sure anyone can do that for you. You're lucky they let you have Jorak."

"And you, before that," Riker said, almost gently. Tom shot him a surprised but grateful look. "Who would you have picked, if they'd let you?"

Tom couldn't help letting a little bitterness creep into his voice. "You know who, Will. I asked you before, and you turned me down flat. Something about over your decomposing corpse, as I recall. So I didn't bother to pursue it with Starfleet. I even found myself a good rationalization as to why we'd be better off serving on different ships for a while."

Riker stilled for a moment, one part of him not really wanting to say what his conscience dictated. He had been serious when he had told Tom – and Starfleet – that he would not accept any further poaching of his senior staff, after losing Tom and B'Elanna in one fell swoop. But now …

"Given the smell in the air, you may want to ask me again. Of course, I can't vouch for the bureaucrats in personnel letting you have a mere Lieutenant Commander for the job. You'll have to do the convincing yourself. Maybe you could hire that miracle worker that keeps your father in line – what's her name again? Nicole? Scary, that one."

Tom was momentarily speechless, but Riker's rising out of his chair deprived him of the necessity to make an answer. Gratitude was not something Will Riker was fond of accepting – a trait he shared with the man before him.

"Let me know. Meantime, I'll head back to my ship, and get ready to read the Rigellians the riot act about their commercial fleet and some general vigilance issues. I also have to make sure our various guests are properly accommodated in the brig. By the way that was pretty sneaky, Paris, dumping those low lifes on me just because yours is smaller."

"Actually, the reason I stuck you with them is, I'm sentimentally attached to our brig. I won't just let anyone in there," Tom replied, grateful for the ability to return to their normal banter.

Riker snorted and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, if those shuttles come back with what you think they might, you take the passengers and we have a deal."

…..

The rescue of twelve Orion dancers - frightened, cold and hungry by the time the shuttles reached them - from the asteroid's cargo space, and watching Lemarr Valon introduce them, her voice fearless and clear, to a world in which there were choices, had been a bright, bright light in a day that Tom Paris would otherwise have considered among the darkest he could remember.

Step by step …

But now he could no longer postpone what Kathryn Janeway had once told him - quite unnecessarily - would be the hardest thing he would ever have to do as a commanding officer. His face was taut with tension as he entered his ready room, for once not an oasis of calm but a trap, snapping shut.

"Computer, call up personnel file of … Commander Jarod Vazhken Tervellyan." Jarod's face, a small smile creasing the corners of his eyes, filled the screen before him, above the line of biostatistics that made up his basic Starfleet record. Tom took a deep breath.

"Let the record reflect that Commander Tervellyan, First Officer of USS Voyager, passed away earlier this day, Stardate 57836.15." He paused briefly, and resumed.

"He was murdered by a senior member of the Orion Crime Syndicate, who in turn died by her own hand in the presence of Captain Thomas Eugene Paris, USS Voyager and Lieutenant Commander Harry Kim of the USS Enterprise, of a lethal dose of myco-anzid. Details of the … operation that led to these events are reported separately. Computer, close personnel file Jarod Tervellyan, restricted access. Authorization Paris Epsilon-Lambda-Five."

He watched the picture fade out and the file close, superimposed with the "classified" symbol that would ensure that access to Tervellyan's entire personnel record would be limited to Starfleet investigators for the time being.

For a moment, the screen remained dark. Done.

Another death on his watch.

Tom blinked in surprise when the screen lit up again, unbidden, flashing a personal message addressed to him, by name and rank. He tapped a command into the console to determine its source, and sucked in a breath when he took in the sender's name.

Jarod Tervellyan.

It was standard practice for Starfleet personnel to record farewell messages for their loved ones, to be transmitted at confirmation of death. Tom had recorded such a message himself – once in the expectation of his imminent demise, later when he and B'Elanna had started their service on the Enterprise, with Miral onboard. But in both cases, the message was directed at his immediate family, not addressed to his Captain - no matter how close his relationship with Janeway and Riker, respectively.

He frowned a little, not sure how to proceed –whether Starfleet investigators should not be the first to hear it. It did not take him long to decide that he owed his former XO the time to listen, but precautions had to be taken.

"Computer, authenticate recipient - Captain Tom Paris."

"Voice print confirmed. Message standing by."

"Computer, record message."

"Message will be recorded on a secondary channel," the computer's diffidently pleasant voice reassured him.

"Activate." He took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, resisting the instinct to cross his arms protectively before his chest.

Tervellyan's face appeared on the screen, in the clothing he had worn for his and the EMH's away mission on Kalpak. Clearly, the message was new – it had been recorded just before his departure. He looked tired, resigned, the shadows on his face deepened by his deliberate failure to shave that day.

"Captain Paris - Tom. If you are listening to this, I assume they … got me. Inevitable at this stage, I guess. The Syndicate does not take kindly to failure, and I guess the writing was on the wall for me when I didn't – couldn't - warn them about the traceable antigen in time. I did tell them as soon as I found out, of course, but the damage was done."

"Of course, they sold that stuff right out of Starfleet boxes on Kalpak so it isn't like someone there didn't fuck up as well. But I suppose those nanoprobes will make all the other diversions traceable, and useless to them. I think – no, I know – they were counting on me being close enough to you to be in on everything on that mission. Why they asked me to volunteer to be your XO – leaking stuff out of Nacheyev's office was good, but the Snowflakes mattered to them in a big way, and they can always get someone else into Headquarters. Anyway, I guess the factthat I didn't, or couldn't, tell them about your plans for the meds would have marked me as a failure as a mole. Scared me shitless when I found out you'd done that behind my back."

He looked down at his fingernails briefly. Tom swallowed hard.

I didn't warn them about the traceable antigen in time.

Tervellyan's image continued, with a short, bitter laugh. "But now I'm about to do something even worse, as far as they're concerned – help you get information on them, like you asked. I suppose I should have said no. That's a heck of a lot worse than mere failure."

His eyes darkened momentarily, and Tom knew, without any doubt, that Jarod Tervellyan understood the price he would pay – did pay. At his Captain's command.

The recording had gone on, and Tom's conscious mind had to catch up with what his ears had absorbed in its absence.

"You're probably asking what the hell went through my head when I hooked up with them." Tervellyan shook his head, as if trying to clear it of a fog. "Thought I could do this, you know - shoot 'em a bit of information here and there, set myself up for a life after Starfleet. I mean here you were, making money hand over fist from those holovids of yours. And you don't even give a shit. Then you just … just turned your nose up at the patent profits from the Flyer, gave it all away to those colonists."

His voice took on a slightly accusatory tone. "Must be nice to come from a family where you don't have to think about what you can or can't afford. Where they serve you the opportunity to go to a place like the Kirk Centre up on a silver platter. Well, you know, Tom, some of us don't have that luxury."

Tervellyan stopped again, running a hand through his hair before looking straight at the camera.

"I guess I didn't really think what it all meant, just thought about the money. When I met Krall he told me they just wanted to crack the trade routes, throw a monkey wrench into Federation expansion plans - keep the Narov system nicely disorganized to allow their own line of business better access. That's just politics, right? No one gets hurt by politics. That's what I thought. No, I guess I didn't think. Didn't want to think. Then we found those women… But even then, I kind of rationalized that those weren't the people I was working with. Until Lemarr. …"

Another deep breath, and a look at the ceiling.

"Hell, Tom - I know now just how badly I screwed up getting into bed with those guys. But you fucked up too, didn't you? Didn't you? More than once, even. And you came out of it, smelling like roses. And so I'm thinking, if I help Starfleet get those files, maybe I can fix something. Make it right, you know. Do something right. But if you're hearing this, it probably didn't work. So anyway, I don't want you to think that I'm a complete fuck-up, like people used to think you were. So there it is. Truth is, I tried to ride the tiger, Tom. And I fell off. And I may be about to get bitten. And that's okay. I guess."

Tervellyan's hand reached for the console, then stopped. He frowned briefly, as if he had remembered something, like an afterthought. "Oh, and please tell Nadine … oh, hell. Nevermind. She divorced me, almost right after I hooked up with the Syndicate. Women. It's like they have a sixth sense for … Well, whatever. I gotta go. Beam-out to Kalpak is in … fifteen minutes."

He reached forward again, and the transmission cut out abruptly. For a few minutes, Tom stared, unseeing, at the dark screen.

I didn't warn them about the traceable antigen in time.

Must be nice to come from a family where you don't have to think about what you can or can't afford.

You fucked up too, didn't you?

"Stop it."

The voice startled him, and he turned around. He hadn't seen or heard her come in. Klingons were a thunderous people, by and large, but his half-human wife had always moved with the grace and silence of a cat.

"Stop what?"

"Finding a way of blaming yourself for what he did. Don't you see that's what he's doing? You had more money and more opportunities than he did, and that gives him an excuse to join the Syndicate? Typical criminal rationalization – offloading responsibility on the nearest handy target."

Tom was a little taken aback by the sharpness in B'Elanna's tone, even if he knew she was not generally the forgiving type. Why was she being so … aggressive? For some reason he could not fathom, he felt as if he needed to take Tervellyan's part.

"At least we know he had second thoughts, once he learned about the slave trade."

"Sure, yeah, that was big. Woo-hoo. The whole idea of organized crime sucking the life out of people, or more immediately, the potential death of hundreds of thousands of Narovians who couldn't get our meds – all that was probably … too abstract for him to contemplate. I suppose to some people death and wrongdoing on a grand scale is just a statistic; they can feel sympathy only in small doses. So he had a sudden attack of conscience when he was forced to look Lemarr in the eye? Big deal. That doesn't give him a free pass in my book. And it shouldn't in yours, either, Tom."

Tom shook his head. "I don't know, B'Elanna. I honestly don't know what to think. It's all a bit too … raw right now. Can we deal with this later?"

B'Elanna took a deep breath and gave her husband a long look, took in the tired eyes – a clouded grey, rather than their usual sparkling blue - the tightness around his jaw. After nearly seven years of studying the enigmatic bundle of contradictions that was Tom Paris, she knew – however confident and gregarious a face he showed to the world - that if there was a way he could find evidence of personal failure in a sea of success, he would. He would, unfailingly, hone in on whatever he perceived as his own shortcomings; like seeking out a poisoned needle in a haystack, looking for the sting as a form of vindication.

And at no time was this trait more pronounced than when someone had been injured or killed on what he considered 'his watch'.

"I don't know, Tom. Can we?"

But she had also learned when to push, and when to leave things be for a while, and she sighed in resignation.

"Fine. But you won't escape me that easily. You know that, flyboy. Whatever Jarod Tervellyan was – do not try and pretend you had anything to do with what he did or why he died, or by Kahless' bat'leth, I will kill you. Father of my child or not. Do you hear me?"

If he had learned anything from his long, painful discussions with Deanna Troi, it was that not dealing with unpleasant things – eventually – was more problematic in the long run, but for now he didn't have any fight left in him.

"Fine, Chief," he said, flashing a relieved and grateful grin at being temporarily let off the hook. "Just let me come to some conclusions first, okay?"

But there were some things he was perfectly happy to discuss, and if it allowed his wife the illusion of having gained something from this discussion, so much the better.

"Guess Starfleet will have to figure a number things out," he said. "Who knows what else he passed to the Syndicate while he was in Nacheyev's office. I actually feel sorry for her. She'll have some major cleaning up to do."

B'Elanna played along, if not happily. "I also wonder how he hooked up with Krall, if what he seemed to suggest is true. Picard may have to have a close look at who is sniffing around the Kirk Centre, to recruit high-value targets."

She grinned a little. "Wonder what it says about you, Tom Paris, that they didn't go after you, given your … record?"

Tom flashed a return smile to acknowledge her effort. "What record? I was pardoned, remember, Ms Almost-Terrorist?"

Neither of them bothered to hide their relief when the door chimed, and Asil strode into the ready room.

"I thought, Captain, that you would be interested to learn that we have successfully determined the nature of the unauthorized calls made from Crewman Cor Zelis' quarters."

Tom was, but only vaguely so; he hadn't really given the matter much thought after recent events. Asil did, however, provide a welcome distraction, and so he schooled his features into concerned personnel management mode and invited the Vulcan to make her report.

"Yes?" he asked politely, noticing that B'Elanna was hanging around to hear. He knew he should probably ask her to leave, but since she'd wheedle the details out of him later anyway, he couldn't see a cogent reason why.

"Apparently Crewman Cor is in a dispute with her former husband over custody of their child, Algor. He does not believe that life on a starship provides a suitable upbringing for a young child, and wishes to raise the child on Bajor."

Tom put a restraining hand on B'Elanna's arm, before she could take issue with this patently unreasonable assumption, and nodded to Asil to continue.

"As a result of his application to a family mediator, she has been ordered to make daily reports to a Bajoran vedek about the child's progress and routine for a period of three months, after which the case will be assessed. Failure to make these reports could result in her losing the child to her husband."

Asil raised an eyebrow and permitted herself a rare editorial comment. "Clearly the authorities involved, in making this order, failed to take into consideration the operational constraints under which a Starfleet vessel must operate from time to time, and which may prevent such reporting."

Tom rolled his eyes, recalling the time when he had come close to being returned to Auckland, for failing to file the weekly reports that had been a condition of his temporary release. From the Delta Quadrant…

"Yeah, I've heard that before. And I assume she didn't want to bring this to our attention because she was afraid we might refuse to let her serve onboard, with her boy, under those conditions?"

"Precisely," Asil replied. "Shall I enter a reprimand into the Crewman's record, for violating the order on non-communication?"

Tom shook his head. There were infractions, and then there was … betrayal.

"I'm not a great believer in swatting flies with a photon cannon," he said. "She's new to Starfleet, and people's judgment tends to fly out the airlock when their kid is concerned. I'm not going to prove to this poor woman that her lack of confidence in us was justified. She's got enough to deal with, and she's a promising officer, willing to learn. Have a good chat with her about Starfleet regulations, and when exceptions to them can be asked for and will probably be granted."

After catching a slightly amused look from B'Elanna, he added judiciously, "Well, at least by this Captain."

Asil nodded, seemingly pleased in that inscrutable Vulcan way, and turned on her heel to leave. B'Elanna rose as well, but lingered for a moment.

"I'll leave you to your job now, Captain. But if I catch you flaying yourself over Tervellyan's betrayal, you have something coming."

Despite the fierceness of her words, the kiss she planted on his head as she left was tender, and the touch of her fingers lingered on his cheek long after the door had closed behind her.

Tom put his feet on his desk and stared at the ceiling - for what he later conceded to B'Elanna was an inordinately long time, for someone who had always claimed he didn't like deep thoughts. Swinging his feet down, he resorted to pacing. Finally, he came to a decision. He stopped abruptly, and his hand balled into a fist. Ignoring the pain inflicted on his palm by the nails digging into it, he looked at the ceiling and began to speak in an even, but firm tone.

"Computer, reopen personnel file Jarod Tervellyan, authorization Paris Epsilon-Lambda-Five. Amend recording, then reseal file." He took a long, slow breath, expelled the air again.

"Following the Stardate recorded for Commander Tervellyan's death, add these words: In the line of duty."

…..

Two days later

Tom stared at the screen before him, not sure what to make of the unexpected face, other than that perhaps it was not that unexpected after all.

"Captain … Admiral Janeway. What gives me the honour?"

Kathryn Janeway didn't bother to hide the gratified smile that flitted across her face at his little flub. She knew she would always be the Captain to her old crew, and that was just fine with her – Starfleet Protocol be damned.

"First off, I have some good news for you, Tom. Headquarters has confirmed the field promotion you gave to Icheb. He's now officially an Ensign, and eligible for assignment to Voyager as science officer, as you requested. Please give him my personal congratulations."

Tom smiled a little to himself; recognizing Icheb's contribution to their mission had given him disproportionate pleasure. My first official promotion. Won't Harry shit himself when he finds out.

But Janeway was not done yet.

"I also wanted to congratulate you on the completion of your first mission, Tom. That was … quite something. Even if it means I now have to go and do the diplomatic mopping up behind you. Again. It seems to be becoming a habit."

He chuckled ruefully. "Yeah, sorry about that. But personally, I can't think of anybody better suited than you for telling the Narovians that the Federation is a better bet than organized crime, when it comes to long-term peace and prosperity."

"Well, truth be told, I always wanted to see the Snowflakes. Now I'll get the chance, and in the middle of the dance, too, when Starfleet won't normally let non-essential missions go there." She smiled a little ruefully. "But I suppose they won't let me make a detour to explore. I'm headed straight for the Union capital on Arren; the Narovians want to deal with the Orion problem centrally, rather than on a member planet basis."

"That's probably wise," Tom said cautiously, beginning to wonder now what she was really after. For reasons he could not fathom, he had been included in all the follow-on reporting on the infiltration; she must have seen his name on the distribution list, and would know that he was familiar with the approach Starfleet and the Federation were taking. He had even injected the occasional unsolicited comment. So why comm to tell him about it?

He took in her clear, grey-blue gaze, those eyes that had followed his every step, his every misstep, for seven years. And he knew. This was not Admiral Janeway, contacting Captain Paris.

This was Kathryn, calling Tom.

Tom had always found that with Janeway, getting to the point was far more rewarding than any attempt at prevarication or humorous deflection. The trick was finding out what she was after.

"But I don't suppose you commed me to discuss the political parameters of your next mission. You have what views I have on the matter – for what they're worth. You want to know just how much I'm beating myself up over losing my First Officer, right?"

He was surprised by the vehemence of her response, and the absence of even pro forma denial.

"The First Officer who was an agent for the Orion Crime Syndicate, and who willingly betrayed everything you and I stand for, until his belated change of heart. Yes, I admit, I was concerned that you might flatter yourself into thinking you could have found him out sooner and prevented his death, if you'd only been clairvoyant, or had tried harder."

Well, that didn't take long. Tom shook his head, giving her his most reassuring smile.

"No reason to worry on that score, Captain. I mean, Chakotay slept with a Cardassian spy for the better part of a year, without having the slightest idea. As far as personal betrayals to beat yourself over the head with are concerned, Jarod Tervellyan registers at best a three on the Seska scale. And besides, B'Elanna has already talked me out of feeling responsible for his joining the Syndicate. So I'm okay."

She raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to hide her skepticism. "Really. I think we've all heard that from you before, Thomas Eugene Paris. The thing is, I know a bit about what it's like to be on your first mission as Captain, and have one of your officers or crewmembers die. It's not okay. It's never okay."

Of course she knew. Thirty-two, the day the Caretaker had flung Voyager into the Delta Quadrant. Everyone who had perished on the long journey home.

"I'm scheduled for psych detox as soon as we drop off the last of our meds on Pekal III and get back to Earth. Our schedule coincides with the Enterprise's return, so Deanna will be doing it herself. And yeah, there's some crap there I wouldn't mind discussing. With her."

The implicit dismissal in his tone was unmistakable, but Kathryn was nothing if not persistent – whether it came to dealing with the Borg Queen, or with a recalcitrant former helmsman.

"I'm not a counselor, Tom. I have no intention of trying to do what Deanna Troi can. And I'm sure as hell not going to push you. But I feel partly responsible for those pips being on your collar, and I want to ensure that they stay there."

"Ah. The mentor thing, is it. From Paris to Janeway, and now Janeway back to Paris. Paying advice forward, the Starfleet way. Tell me, did my father put you up to this?"

Janeway refused to be goaded by his provocatively sarcastic tone. She smiled, a little ruefully. "Your wife actually, if you must know. She thought I might be able to get through the proverbial Paris brick wall, before you rip those pips off and throw them out the nearest airlock. But don't hold it against her - I would have commed anyway, just to see how you were coping."

Shit. What was it with the women in his life that they insisted on trying to get him to shine a searchlight on his insides every chance they got? Tom sighed. And made a sudden decision. You want me to spill my guts? Fine. See what it gets you, Admiral. See if you still think I'm a worthy replacement for you on this ship, when I'm done.

"Fine. You want to know how I'm coping? Okay, here it is. What really bothers me, Kathryn, is not that I failed to twig to the fact that Jarod Tervellyan was playing for the other team, or that he died trying to rejoin ours. Or even that I ordered him to go on that mission on Kalpak, where he was captured. I suppose that sort of thing is what I'll have to get used to, if I want to play at being a Captain."

She breathed deeply. There it was – much faster than she had expected, the use of her first name signaling that he would be speaking the truth, at least the truth as he saw it.

"What bothers me, is that I set him up to die. By not telling Jarod that I asked the Doc to mark the antigen, I basically turned him into a sitting duck for the Syndicate's punishment. They don't take kindly to failure of any kind. I believe the line they use is, Failure has its price. They kill their members over it. Some of them kill themselves, rather than be … dealt with in the way the Syndicate usually does. Like that woman."

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "And the reason I didn't want to say anything to my First Officer about that rather ingenious Paris ploy? It was because I wasn't sure it would work. I didn't … I didn't want to look like an idiot."

With the words finally out, the admission that had withstood repeated attempts by B'Elanna and two comm conversations with Deanna Troi, was now clearly written across Tom's face. Kathryn wished, more than anything, that she could reach out to him and grab him by the shoulder, to provide the good shaking and the comforting touch that he clearly needed in equal measure.

"Tom, Jarod Tervellyan chose the path he embarked on in the full knowledge that the Syndicate is unforgiving. And your not telling anyone about the nanoprobes, even if you couldn't have known it at the time, probably ended up saving hundreds of thousands of lives. Your plan, and more particularly the fact that the Syndicate's anointed spy didn't know about it, made possible the eventual proper distribution of the antigen, and enabled Starfleet to break the Orion's hold over the Narov system."

She paused briefly, to fire up the right kind of glare to underscore her point. "I don't need to remind you that Tervellyan had acquiesced to the Syndicate's plans, which included the death of civilians for lack of medical assistance. What youmay not know is that investigators have also been able to trace transmissions to him that led to a number of Starfleet contacts in the Snowflakes being burnt. Eight of them died, six are still missing."

Tom shook his head in vigorous denial. "No, Captain, you don't understand. So, yeah, the guy did some despicable things, and I got lucky - keeping my mouth shut was the right thing in hindsight. But what I can't escape is the fact that I caused his death, Kathryn. I painted that target on his forehead."

His voice shook. "Because of my goddamn ego. Again."

She saw them then, clearly reflected in his eyes – felt their presence as a chill blast across the years, across the vastness of space. They had followed him to the Delta Quadrant and back, quieted at times, but never dispelled: The ghosts of Caldik Prime.

Kathryn swallowed, found herself searching for the right words. Words that would not reopen – or, worse, pretend to try and close - the wound in Tom Paris that would never heal. What she could offer, though, were words that might just allow him to move on.

"Tom, every human being, every Starfleet Captain has a weak spot. Mine has always been, and always will be, thinking that I couldn't possibly fail at anything I set my mind to. Yours is, and probably always will be, the fear that you might, or the belief that you did. Ego issues, yes, we both have them. And they're not that different, really – we both assume that we should be better than we actually are. Two sides of the same coin. We both got fed Starfleet lessons with our mother's milk, we just drew different conclusions from the same raw material."

She watched his face intently. His jaw seemed set in defiance – he had made his determination, pronounced himself guilty, but his eyes, fixed on hers with a burning stare, seemed open to her appeal.

"But you know what, Tom? Despite our various shortcomings, we both seem to be getting things done. Useful things. Important things. Things that matter, and that make a difference. Not many people can say that they helped save a whole star system from infiltration and corruption, Captain Paris."

She chuckled a little in self-deprecation. "Sometimes I think, you and I, we succeed more by good luck than good management. But succeed we do. And as long as we take each experience as an opportunity to learn something, and surround ourselves with good friends and people who have our back and prop us up when we stumble, we'll be okay, and our respective egos will get in the way only when we let them."

Tom knew she had delivered the message she had wanted him to hear, and he knew that what she had told him would be useful, eventually - even if it did not make him feel a whole lot better about himself this very instant. He would have to replay what she had told him in his mind a few times, and probably to B'Elanna, who would no doubt be grilling him about this discussion with Klingon subtlety as soon as Miral was asleep.

Maybe, eventually, some of what Janeway had just told him might even sink in.

Knowing also that the conversation would now best be returned to the light-hearted banter that had always made their heart-to-hearts go down so much easier, he flashed a grin, however tentative and short-lived.

"So what I take away from all that is that you want me to keep those pips. And that somewhere between you and me, between the most … secure and the most fragile ego in Starfleet, there's a perfect Captain." He paused for effect. "I hope I never meet him. Or her."

Her eyes warmed in a smile, knowing exactly what he was doing, and loving him for it, just a little.

"Picard?"

Tom picked up the ball easily, the grin staying on his face long enough this time to bring out the deepening creases around his eyes.

"Not on your life. He still thinks of his stint as Locutus of Borg as an instance of personal failure, and has vowed to spend the rest of his life making up for it, by drilling people in various forms of creative warfare. Will Riker and I both bear the scars of this particular devotion."

The mention of Riker easily deflected the discussion into a recounting of the Enterprise's role in Voyager's adventure, and about Harry Kim's impending reassignment. Nacheyev had rolled over almost instantly, Kathryn gleefully reported; whether it was because she felt she owed Tom a first officer of his choice or because she was too busy cleaning up her office to think about the matter, no one knew.

And all talk of beneficial mutual emancipation from one another had evaporated when Tom had popped the question to his best friend. "He didn't even have to ask Libby, he said. And Miral is ecstatic to have Baby Tommy back to carry around again and show stuff to."

Inquiries about her goddaughter, the Doc and other former crewmembers filled the remainder of the call. And when Kathryn Janeway signed off, she did so content in the knowledge that while Tom Paris would doubtlessly yet be facing a number of sleepless nights, the new Captain of Voyager was exactly where he needed to be, even if he did not, at times, realize it - in control of the ship that would forever bind them together.

…..

Earth: Three weeks later

In the cool and damp of a San Francisco winter afternoon, Voyager's surviving senior officers stood in silence for the second funeral of the day. While the first had been private at the request of the dead officer's family, holocameras whirred as eighteen identical urns were lowered, one by one, into a single grave, the headstone already in place. The authorities of their home planet had expressed no interest in the bodies' repatriation.

Tom and B'Elanna stood side by side, their arms touching, drawing strength from each other's presence as they were exchanging the occasional glance and whispered word. The EMH looked more grim-faced than ever; the lone Vulcan in the group betrayed no emotion, although to a discerning friend her absolute stillness might have suggested that she was exercising a deeper control than was usual.

Lieutenant Mike Ayala's left arm, for so long far more used to the smooth touch of a phaser than to the warmth of another body, was wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a young woman in the light-grey of non-Federation candidates for the Academy. Her skin glowed green in the pale light, and the fingers of her right hand curled lightly around Ayala's. She tentatively rested her head back against his shoulder, as if trying to listen and to determine whether, at some point in the future, her world might yet contain a heartbeat other than her own. The young Captain's eyes warmed briefly at the sight.

A lone piper stood off to the side. Orion III had no known musical tradition, and so the untamed, elemental music of the Scottish highlands floated over the small crowd, the elegiac strands of "Wild Mountain Thyme" melting into the wind like tears in the rain.

The voices of reporters could be heard, commenting on the stirring beauty of the simple service, as well as the unobtrusive but noticeable security presence. In hushed tones, they relayed to their audience such indignation and concern as their editors had deemed appropriate in response to what those coffins represented.

Starfleet's chief of communications, Eric Henderson, had pulled out all the stops to ensure that the occasion would be a memorable one - somberly choreographed, deeply affecting. "Awareness raising," he had called it, when a skeptical Tom Paris questioned the propriety of turning the burial of the women, now known as the Orion Eighteen, into a media event.

"Starfleet wants to make sure that their story is known. You said yourself that what's required is a change in attitudes to what these 'slave girls' really are, and we have to begin somewhere, Captain. Your name has resonance in the Quadrant. A public burial, with your picture attached, will draw attention, make people aware of the issues and – hopefully – serve to reduce … demand for their services."

Tom nodded briefly at Eric across the burial site. They had met a few times before - never in circumstances Tom cherished in memory – nor was this the first, or even the second, time his name had been used by Starfleet to make a public point. At least this time there were no judges involved, and his consent had been sought and given.

As they stood in the chill of that San Francisco afternoon, Tom knew as surely as he knew anything that a new front had just been opened; the first known victims of this war, a war that few yet knew was being fought, were being lowered into the ground this day. And so Tom straightened his shoulders as the holocams whirred, and stared his challenge into their lenses.

Voyager and her crew would be ready.

…..

Epilogue

In a mansion in the lush, bird-loud Kalaor hills of Orion III, under the fading but still warm light of the blue-white sun - known also as Bellatrix, or the Amazon star - a jeweled hand reaches for a holovid, transmitted across the light years from the heart of the Federation. Gently, almost with a caress, The Lady traces the face of the tall, sandy-haired man who stands ramrod straight by an open grave, seemingly looking directly at her through the lens of the vidcam.

"Is that him?" her sibilant voice asks softly as she taps the image lightly with a golden nail, before setting it down on the glass table beside her and reaching for her glass.

"Yes, my Lady. That is Captain Thomas Paris, of the Starship Voyager. Do you have Orders pertaining to him, my Lady?"

The silence stretches for minutes, the only sound now the silvery hum of a finger circling the rim of the fine Antarean crystal. There will be no interruption of the Lady's reflections, as she ponders the man who disrupted a promising operation in that very precious space close to - but not of - the Federation and its riches.

Who cost her the services of one of her most trusted lieutenants, even if she would have had to mete out punishment to that one herself in due course. That ship and its cargo should have been destroyed, not simply abandoned; a cascading error the woman had acknowledged, if not in sufficient time, in the proper manner.

Failure has its price.

Finally, a breath, and a verdict. "Not at this time. Seeking him out would be more costly to us than useful." She sets down her glass again, delicately, so it would not jar her thoughts with the dissonant sound of glass on glass.

"His actions have proven, though, that the time was not yet right for … the kind of expansion of Our operations that our advisors promised Us. One day We will rule whole star systems, but that day is not yet. Not yet."

Another delicate sip; a dark tongue slowly traces a drop of crystalline liquid that threatens to run down the side of the crystal chalice. The High Servant shivers a little at the sight, his mouth opening as he shudders his next breath.

"I do have Orders for you in respect of those whose planning and execution of Our hoped-for growth has failed us. Their excessive ambition has cost Us dearly, and they must be punished. First Orders in this respect are for … Darmoth Krall."

The name cracks from her tongue like the lash of a whip. Choosing to entrust the Syndicate's secrets and ambitions to one who would betray Her, then bringing diverted goods undisguised to a place frequented by Starfleet, had been … inexcusable errors in judgment. Krall's arrogance had cost the Syndicate dearly: Starfleet's raids on its cells and their holdings in the Narov system had been most effective.

She corrals her momentary fury, regains control. Showing anger before a Servant is weakness, unless that Servant is its object. Serenity settles over her once more, like the gossamer fabric that barely covers her body and is lifted and stirred by the breeze coming off the Kalaor hills.

"I trust Our reach into the Federation's prison system remains in place?"

The Lady takes a breath; her eyes acquire a glint of cold duranium as she takes the measure of the High Servant before her, appreciating the silent yet confident nod he gives in affirmation of her query. He inclines his head a little longer than necessary, an almost-bow, to show his supplication. It is nicely done, two gestures in one, but she does not acknowledge his response; it is, after all, given as her due.

She does, however, run her eyes over his lean body; naked to the waist and lightly oiled, he stands straight and with his legs a little apart, as she prefers. She moistens her lips a little in anticipation of the pleasures his readiness to serve may yet provide her that night. His nostrils flare as he catches her scent, and his eyes widen imperceptibly as he understands once again his place.

Ownership has its privileges.

"That said, this Captain Paris and his crew have been … inconvenient. He must not be given the opportunity to interfere with Our plans again."

"Understood, my lady. He will be dealt with swiftly and effectively the next time his path should cross that of your … desires."

The last word is drawn out, just a little. He is cheeky, this one, and her interest in teaching him her ways - and the errors of presumption - grows.

"It is well."

She nods her approval, just once, and the High Servant suppresses a shudder of relief and awe. It has been a difficult few days for all in the House, dancing on the knife's edge of The Lady's displeasure, waiting for the cut. Some bled. But he has been asked to pass on the Orders; this means they are not for him. That She has expressed Her pleasure in his presence, even dipped Her head to him ever so lightly, means that he will be permitted to continue to serve Her.

He will be ready for Her when She calls for him, later, as he now knows she will. Body and soul, he belongs to Her. Already, he quivers in anticipation; his senses are deliciously heightened by his ever-present fear, which he feels like the touch of her golden nails on his heated skin.

She knows, she sees, and her lips curl lightly. She waves her dismissal with four fingers that barely lift off her still-shapely thigh.

"There are other matters of business requiring Our attention, for now. Leave Us."

The many bracelets on the green hand tinkle lightly as The Lady reaches for another PADD, already turning her mind to the next shipment, and newer, more profitable destinations for her wares.

AUTHOR'S END NOTE:

As some of you have noted, I occasionally infuse my geeky fan fiction with a hint of realism. My abiding love of the Star Trek universe is, in fact, based to a large part on the shows' readiness to make us look at our own reality through the tempered, but nonetheless crystal clear, lens of speculative fiction. (Here's looking at you, Gene Roddenberry - thank you.)

The reality behind this story is that the trafficking of human beings, particularly of women and children, for the purposes of sexual or commercial exploitation remains one of the most lucrative endeavours for organized crime. According to the UN's Global Initiative to Fight Trafficking, an estimated 2.5 million people are held in forced labour, including in the sex trade, at any given time. Over forty percent of recruiters and traffickers are female.

This industry of human misery is made possible, in part, by the fact that very few jurisdictions on Earth expressly address, and even fewer prosecute, the fact that the victims' customers use their 'services' essentially without their consent – something that constitutes rape by any definition I know. As the US State Department's latest Report on Trafficking in Persons states, "A sophisticated understanding of the realities on the ground is necessary to ensure that sex trafficking victims are not wrongly discounted as consenting adults. Too often, police, prosecutors, judges, and policymakers assume a victim has free will if she has the physical ability to walk away. This assumption is wholly inconsistent with what is known about the nature of pimping and sex trafficking."

There are many aspects to the phenomenon of human trafficking, and I do not claim to have the answers. But it is clear that until demand is stemmed, the criminal organizations that supply and profit from the services trafficking victims provide will continue to do so.

And slavery will continue to thrive.