Chapter 14 – The Winds That Would Blow

Tom watched with restrained satisfaction as the "C&B" logo, artfully carved into the genuine wood paneling over the heads of the near frantic former councilors, blossomed into a blackened, smoking ruin. The stain left by the blast of his phaser continued to spread a little as the heat dispersed further through the wood; an entirely different stain was now spreading in front of Councilor Chomyn's trousers. The man's legs were shaking as he sank to the floor, his back against the desk, the request for a chair forgotten. Burton, too, pressed himself deep into his chair, white as a sheet, his fingers holding the arm rest in an iron grip. Neither seemed able or willing to speak anymore, nor did they look at one another.

Tom sucked back a sobbing breath and wiped the sleeve of his uniform across his eyes before fixing their two captives with a slightly regretful glare. "This is your lucky day, gentlemen. Consider yourselves under provisional arrest. I'll leave it to the Sector Attorney to figure out the charges after they've gotten my deposition, and the evidence we gathered on Mokan. But I would highly recommend that for the rest of the trip, you keep your mouths shut. First, so that you don't incriminate yourselves further, and second, because I can't guarantee that I won't point that phaser a little lower the next time."

He turned his back on them and walked into the front of the cabin to rejoin his fellow officers, pausing briefly to see his face reflected in the glass of one of the photographic images on the cabin wall. He shook his head and touched the mark on his neck. "Shit," he muttered to himself, looking into blue eyes that were rimmed with red but looked more tired than angry now, "that was a close call," and turned away.

More loudly, he added, "Harry, how much longer before we reach our rendezvous point with the Enterprise?"

Harry, still stunned by what had just transpired and trying to assess his own response to it, stared sightlessly at his instruments for a few seconds before being able to muster a response. "Approximately two hours," he said.

"Good," Tom replied. "Because I think I really need to do some flying right now. Get this crap out of my system. You mind if I take the helm?"

"No, no – of course not. She's all yours, Tom." Glad to be able to speak of normal, uncontroversial things, Harry added, "The port nacelle's response time is a bit sluggish. Whoever's been handling this shuttle doesn't know what they're doing, and they've been overcompensating for the normal vacillations in the gravimetric field." He got up and headed for the ops console, sparing only a cursory glance for the two men behind the force field as he did so.

Mike Ayala gave Tom one of his inscrutable looks as the Commander passed him on his way to the conn. Tom cracked his knuckles, sighed ostentatiously over a couple of minor personal modifications the Cardassian pilot had made to the console, and adjusted the seat for his own height. When everything was to his satisfaction and the Ares' course towards the rendezvous point confirmed, he turned around in his seat.

"Disappointed I didn't just vaporize them, Mike?" he asked, looking the big Lieutenant in the eyes. His voice was curiously flat, as if he had just stepped off a shuttle that had been caught in a tailspin without the inertial dampeners being on, and was doing all he could to keep his insides from spilling out.

The ex-Maquis shrugged, then nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said. "Kind of. I'd have done it. If you'd asked me to. Or just left it to me."

"Believe me, I'd have liked to," Tom said huskily, before shaking his head. "Been dreaming about it for years, in fact - even before I knew who these guys were, or that people like them existed. Just had that fantasy of getting at somebody, anybody responsible for some of the shit that happened to me in Auckland. Exorcising demons, I always thought, had to come with a blast of some kind."

He unselfconsciously wiped his eyes again. When he spoke, it was almost as if he was addressing himself, not his fellow officers.

"But you know what? I finally get these guys in my sights - the embodiment of everything I went through at Auckland and been chewing on ever since. Not to mention the last few days, when the stuff I saw and heard on Mokan brought it all back. And they are smug, righteous and completely oblivious to what they've done to people all over this Quadrant. And all I have to do is pull the trigger, and my fantasies come true. Plus I'd score one for the crew of the Hiroshima, for all those people on Mokan, you, B'Elanna, Chakotay and the rest of the Maquis. Thomas Riker, whose transfer to the Cardassians they probably okayed personally. My Dad, and how and why he ended his career."

The cabin was completely silent as both Ayala and Harry watched Tom Paris, who was usually as loquacious as he was reluctant to share his feelings, struggle to give voice to his innermost thoughts. His tear-stained face was wide open, even vulnerable now, a range of emotions playing across it as he fought to come to terms with what he had just done. What he had not done.

"And suddenly, I get this great big epiphany, telling me that if I pull the trigger I'll be just like them, deciding over people's lives like that," he snapped his fingers, "just because it gives me something I want. And make no mistake, blasting them out of the airlock would have given me considerable satisfaction. But I suppose if I want to be on the high horse about truth and justice, I gotta let them have a crack at it to. Them, the Guls, everybody. Not just people I think deserve it."

He sighed deeply, his eyes far away. "My lawyer gave me this play to read after we came back from the Delta Quadrant, after my sentence review, about Sir Thomas More. We'd had this discussion about when it should be okay to ignore the rules, you see. In it, this weaselly guy, whose name I forget, says he'd happily cut down all the laws of England, just to get at the Devil. And More says - I can't remember the whole thing, but it's something like, 'And when the last law was down, do you think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then?'"

Shrugging, Tom turned his eyes back to the console, but his attention remained elsewhere as his voice gained confidence. "I suppose that's the problem with genuine, meaningful principles - you can't just ditch them when they're inconvenient, or when people would prefer fireworks. And mine, as I found out, include not condemning people without a proper hearing. Guess that's happened to me a few too many times to seem like a viable idea. So yeah, I'm with Thomas More. I'd give the Devil the benefit of the law. Even if I'd much rather give him a shot in the head."

He sighed. "So there it is, guys – no Neutral Zone for Thomas Eugene Paris, no matter how convenient or tempting. But I'll be able to look in the mirror tonight, and look my daughter in the eyes. I'm sorry, Mike. I suppose some people will say that makes me an idiot, or soft in the head."

Harry let out a long breath. "No," he said. "It doesn't. What it does, is make you a Starfleet officer." He hesitated for a moment, then got up, walked over to the conn and gripped Tom's shoulders with both hands. "Hey, I'm proud of you, man."

Tom patted one of Harry's hands with his own in grateful acknowledgement before turning to look at him. "Yeah, thanks, but what happened to you back there, Harry? You're supposed to be my conscience, remember? Keep the Black Sheep on the straight and narrow?" He spoke in a low voice now; this was only for the ears of his best friend. His half smile was devoid of its usual ironic touch.

"I think you did just fine there on your own," Harry replied equally softly. "It wasn't you that I turned my back on. I've been trying to figure out what went through my head there, and I think what I realized was that this was your moment, not mine. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what I'd have done if I'd been you. I'm glad I wasn't, in a great, great many ways. But you needed to find your way, and no one could make that choice for you. And I guess I knew whatever you'd do, would be the right thing."

Tom nodded in acknowledgement, his ears echoing with words spoken and heard long ago: I don't need anybody to pick my friends for me. A trust that he'd always quietly wondered whether he deserved; maybe he did. It always came down to choices.

Still, he hesitated for a moment. "And … and what I said …? About what happened … in Auckland?" He looked at Harry, the open question written across his face now, an element of uncertainty, even fear in his eyes. There were some things …

Harry shook his head slowly, gripping his friends shoulders more tightly. "Changes nothing, Tom. I just wish you'd told me before," he said simply. "Some things you shouldn't carry by yourself. And I'm here to talk anytime you want … or need."

He held his breath for a while, before continuing, his voice barely audible now. "We never really talked about Akritiri either, you know. I'm still chewing on some stuff over that one, too, that maybe I should air out and have a look at."

Tom's smile reached his eyes for the first time. "No, we never really did talk about that, did we. Thanks, Har. We will. Soon. That's a promise."

He turned his attention back to the helm. "And now let's get the hell out of here and home to our ship."

"Yeah," Harry said. "All I want to do right now is close the door to my quarters, put my head on Libby's stomach and tell Baby Tommy that as of today, there are two fewer monsters running free in this world."

One last pat on Tom's shoulders, and Harry headed back to the Ops station. Tom looked after him, stunned, as the words he had just heard sank in.

"Baby Tommy?"

Harry grinned at him broadly now. "Oh, didn't we tell you? That godfather thing means you have to share your name. Libby and I figure Thomas is a pretty good one. Goes with guys who aren't afraid to ask questions, and who come up with some pretty good, if not always convenient, answers."

He looked down at his console to check their current coordinates. One glance, and he whistled his relief.

"And on that note, I'm happy to report that we have left the Neutral Zone."

…..

The Ares docked in Shuttle Bay Eight a mere half hour after O'Reilly had brought in the Flyer. Tom reflected briefly on the Enterprise's ability to keep a shuttle bay empty for unforeseen circumstances; on Voyager, one or more bays were always empty because someone – usually Chakotay - had already had a run-in with … unforeseen circumstances.

He hit his comm badge. "Paris to Jorak."

"Jorak here, Commander."

"We have two additional inmates for the brig. One of them will need new pants and a shower before he goes in. How are accommodations holding out? If things are getting crowded down there, suggest we confine our Romulan guest to quarters; he was just doing his job. And I'm not sure whether the Cardassians broke any of their own laws. The two we just brought in, though, are a priority for formal confinement."

"Understood, sir. Arrangements will be made. Jorak out."

Tom turned to Ayala. "It's been a long day, Mike. I'll go brief the Captain; you're relieved. And … thanks, for everything you did today. And I mean, everything. Starting with the transporter room."

He flashed the big security officer a small, secretive smile, and his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "But before you turn in, could you have someone check whether we have access to Voyager's data files from here? I'm thinking we might want to program one of the replicators with some of Neelix' highly nutritious leola root recipes … While they're with us, I'd like our guests to have that full Starfleet brig experience I remember so well."

Ayala fixed his First Officer with a studiedly impassive stare. "I'll see to it, sir. And – thank you."

With that, the big Lieutenant turned on his heel to issue instructions to the two security officers, who had arrived in the Shuttle Bay with something almost approaching commendable speed.

Tom looked at Harry, who had witnessed the exchange and failed to suppress a snort. "What?" he asked innocently.

"You don't ever change, do you, Tom?" Harry said, shaking his head. "Good. Don't. Commander, sir."

…..

The faces of the two admirals on the small view screen in the Captain's ready room were a study in their respective personalities. Fleet Admiral Alynna Nacheyev fixed Riker and his First Officer with her usual cool, slightly aloof stare, although the tightness around her mouth betrayed her reaction to their report. Nacheyev had been walking the tightrope of interplanetary politics for a sufficiently long time to be more than familiar with the politics of expediency and appeasement, but what had transpired on Mokan concerned the lives of Starfleet officers, and as such was personal.

Admiral Kathryn Janeway, on the other hand, was focused almost entirely on her former helmsman, her face a mixture of pride and concern. "Thank you, Tom," she said simply. "I believe I have a good idea of what this mission cost you, personally. You can be assured though that I'll do my best to make sure it was worth it."

She sat back in her chair. "Your findings certainly give a completely different colouration to my mission. I was supposed to go to Cardassia first, but now it seems I'll be starting with Romulus. I leave right after the memorial service for the deceased officers and crewmembers of the Hiroshima."

"I concur," Nacheyev said. "Our first priority must be the remaining crew of the Hiroshima and the displaced colonists." She looked towards Riker. "And your … brother, Captain. I have asked the JAG to confirm that the general pardon issued to the Maquis does include him as well; a declaration to that effect has been prepared that will void the transfer agreement with the Cardassians."

"I should have thought their passing him over to the Romulans without so much as a by-your-leave would have done that automatically," Tom muttered darkly.

Janeway cast him a look somewhere between amusement and warning. Don't squander the good will you've just earned with smart remarks, Tom Paris, her mild scowl advised unequivocally, even as his jaw seemed ready to set in that stubborn defiance she knew only too well.

Then it occurred to her – the best way to pre-empt the newly-minted Commander's tendency to let his mouth run away with him was just to let him have his say. Especially since she had long since learned, to her initial surprise, that his seemingly off-the-cuff views often provided a much-needed straightforward perspective, at times when people got hung up on side issues or lost sight of the bigger picture.

With a sideways glance at the Fleet Admiral, she asked him, "Do you have any suggestions for me, Tom? Things you think I should put on the negotiating table?"

Riker lifted an eyebrow, and given the glare he had just gotten from his former Captain, Tom hesitated briefly. Nacheyev made the decision for him, her razor-sharp mind easily recalling that the last time this particular officer had been let off the protocol leash, Starfleet had regained its strategic foothold in Andoria. She gave him an encouraging nod.

"Well," Tom said, "I've been thinking. My guess is that the remaining survivors of the Hiroshima and the Cardassians in Ulak Three, like Pokat and the others who helped Gorman and Captain Patel, they'll be wanting to go home, as soon as possible. And I can't see the Romulans objecting to that. Now that the camp's existence is known, they'll be keen to clear out all the people that aren't theirs, take the technology they got in exchange, and call it a day. The stakes are too high for them to do otherwise, and given Chomyn and Burton's involvement they can easily claim that they believed they were acting with Federation consent. I'd encourage that thinking."

"That sounds right, based on my experience with the Romulans," Riker chimed in. "For them, it'll be all about saving face. Give them a plausible out, and they'll deal."

"But you only mentioned the Hiroshima crew, Tom." Janeway pursued. "What's your sense of the others, the displaced colonists? You're the only one here who has met them, talked with them. Do you have any reason to think they might feel differently?"

Tom chewed his lower lip for a minute, then fixed his eyes squarely on his Captain as he responded. "The others – they're colonists, as you said. They made what they could out of a rotten situation, and survived, because that's what they do. I can't see them wanting to stay on Mokan, but I also, frankly, can't see them wanting to rush back into the welcoming arms of the Federation, let alone Cardassian space."

There was a catch in his voice when he went on. "For people like them, people like Thomas Riker, there've been too many … betrayals. Just … too many."

"So what would you suggest, Commander?" Nacheyev asked crisply. She saw the merits in the point he was making and once that box had been ticked in her mind, she was keen to move on to suggestions that could be operationalized.

Tom took a deep breath. "I think we should convince the Romulans to let them stay in the Neutral Zone. Not on Mokan, but someplace more suited to actual colonization. Like Nadoo IV. It's uninhabited, but it's supposed to have a great climate, lots of vegetation that suggests fertile soil. The only reason it hasn't been colonized yet is its location, and my guess is the Romulans didn't use it for their little joint venture with C&B and the Cardassians because they ultimately had other plans for it."

He grinned a little insouciantly, remembering Princess Lissan of Andoria and how close he had come to visiting the place himself. "Not to mention, it seems to be enjoying a budding tourism industry. Allows for early economic diversification, and all that." He turned serious again.

"Basically, the idea would be to turn the Neutral Zone into something other than a place that's just an … an absence of things – a place where anything can be shoved under a rug, from politics and armed conflict to human rights and basic decency. We should turn it into a beginning, which seems to be something that the Romulans should want too. A place that's truly neutral, for both them and the Federation, but open to both- for trade, for settlement …"

His voice took on a slightly uncertain tone when he noticed the silence that had met his comments. "Well, anyway, I think that might be worth a try, and with proper equipment and support a settlement there would probably work. Some of the other displaced colonists from the DMZ, the ones that came back to the Federation, might also want to go to such a place and maybe the Romulan dissidents could be given a place there, although that's probably hopelessly naïve. And your brother, Captain – he'd be the perfect man to lead a new colony."

Nacheyev nodded slowly, even as Janeway's face broke into a broad smile. "I think this is worth developing as a serious proposal," the Fleet Admiral said, her tone as impassive as ever. "Your views, Admiral Janeway?"

Voyager's former Captain said. "It would also fit with the Captain's comment about allowing the Romulans to save face and the sense of moving forward. In negotiations, psychology is everything. Even the Borg Queen understood that. And if we are looking at ways to dissolve the Neutral Zone in its current incarnation, this seems like an excellent approach. Nobody gives up anything, and nobody gains an advantage. I like it, Tom. I like it a lot."

Nacheyev nodded her agreement. While the top-ranking officer in Starfleet was not ordinarily in the habit of developing political strategy with a committee of subordinates, she found herself caught up in the spirit of the moment; Janeway and Paris as a team, she found to her own bemusement, were difficult to resist.

With that, the Ice Queen decided to pitch in. "And the Guls – it's up to the Cardassian government to deal with their crimes. Inconvenient and ugly as the truth may be, the Cardassians do need to come to terms with what happened under military rule. And this is a good opportunity to make them look. They have just come back with a big resource ask for their restoration efforts – tying that to the development of the rule of law on Cardassia would be a worthwhile price. Maybe we can even introduce them to the concept of the presumption of innocence."

Riker asked softly, "And what about the Romulan dissidents? And the Remans?"

Janeway's eyes hardened against a truth she did not like to contemplate, let alone voice. "I'm less confident that the Romulans will allow us to go there, Will. Just like they cannot be expected to return any of the technology they got as their part of the bargain with Burton and Chomyn."

Tom closed his eyes briefly, the memory of an insect-loud night shattered by a scream echoing in his ears. "Should we not at least ask them to stop torturing people? Even if the Romulans ignore the request, we owe it to those inmates to ask. Don't we, Cap … Admiral?"

Nacheyev and Janeway exchanged glances. Any progress with the Romulan Empire had to date been incremental, a gradual breaking of hundreds of years of mutual suspicion and fear. Janeway knew that discussions on the treatment given to the Remans would, if anything, be a bargaining chip, likely to be dropped off the table relatively early on.

But it would be raised; they owed Riker and Paris that much. And who knew what the result might be? Perhaps not now, but down the road?

"I'll try, Tom, I'll try. But I can't promise success."

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat, seemingly ready to say more on the topic, but Riker gripped his arm lightly to stop him from arguing further. "That's all we ask," he said softly. "That you try."

"Anything else, Captain, Commander?" Nacheyev asked, ready to end a conversation that had already gone well over the one-hour maximum that she was wont to allot to any one issue.

"Yes," Tom said, ignoring his former Captain's demonstrative wince. "If you have the chance to discuss charges with the Sector Attorney, do mention tax evasion. I'm sure these guys didn't declare whatever direct or indirect benefits they derived from their transactions with the Romulans."

"Tax evasion?" Riker asked incredulously.

"Yes," Tom replied firmly. "Ask Admiral Picard. He's an expert in 20th century crime, and he said that's how they got one of the major kingpins in Chicago. He mentioned it once, in a session on holodeck malfunctions."

Nacheyev nodded curtly. It made sense; it would be done. She reached for the disconnect pad. But Tom wasn't satisfied, not yet. "One more thing, while we have you both here." Janeway cocked an eyebrow at that, and Riker suppressed a snort, halfway between amusement and exasperation.

"How fast can we establish formal contact with Ulak Six on Mokan? I mean, Federation citizens in Romulan custody or at least under Romulan control – doesn't the Treaty of Algeron have something to say about our ability to provide assistance?"

This time, Nacheyev actually broke into a genuine smile, one that touched her eyes as she exchanged glances with Janeway. "Rest assured, Commander, the necessary steps were set into motion at the first preliminary report from the Enterprise, while you were still in the Neutral Zone … entertaining the good councilors. We called in the Romulan ambassador and filed a formal protest, together with a request to deliver humanitarian assistance to the colonists on an urgent basis. I'm happy to advise the request was granted just a few hours ago, in an exchange of diplomatic notes that also settled the return of the guard you … inadvertently brought with you. The Romulans, it appears, are interested in cooperating, at least as their opening posture."

Tom finally allowed a small smile to curl his lips at that, the best news yet. Thomas Riker would know soon that his visitors had kept their word to him – even if no one else ever had.

…..

Epilogue

Seven Days Later

Through the observation window in the Captain's ready room Earth was rising, a shining blue diamond underneath one of the duranium arches of McKinley station. The ostensible reason for the ship's unscheduled return to Earth had been the handover of two indignant, if somewhat subdued, captives and the return of the Hiroshima survivors to their families, as well as extended investigations and depositions with the Sector Attorney's office for some of its senior officers and the formal, physical handing over of the PADD with the witness statements from Mokan.

As a positive side benefit, and at the express recommendation of Counselor Deanna Troi, the layover also afforded the crew a couple of days of welcome respite from a tense few weeks.

Tom entered the ready room in civilian clothing – jeans and a tight-fitting black T-shirt - a sign that his shore leave had started, at least in his own mind. Riker himself was still in uniform and reading a report on a PADD, but his jacket was open and his feet were up on his desk; he did not bother to take them down when he saw who his visitor was.

"Hey Tom," he said with a welcoming grin. "I thought you'd beamed down already. Isn't your father waiting for you?"

"He is, but he can wait a little longer. Last time I was gone on mission he waited seven years, so an extra couple of hours won't kill him. Besides, B'Elanna and Miral have already gone down, and with his only granddaughter to fuss over he wont even miss me."

As Tom crossed the room, Riker eyed his XO's lithe form with ill-disguised envy. "You lose weight in that jail? Maybe I should have gone instead of you, and stayed for a week. Deanna's getting on my case again."

Tom snorted. "Mostly water loss, I think, plus an aversion to abdominal surgery. Not recommended as a weight loss regime. Besides, most of what I lost is back on already, actually, and my mother's cooking will take care of the rest, and then some. Her non-replicated breakfasts are deadly. We can get on the spin bikes together when I get back. Done that before, and that kind of misery sure loves company."

He lifted his hands, to show Riker what he was carrying: a bottle in one hand, two long-stemmed glasses in the other. "Anyway, I thought we needed to put a suitable closing stamp on this latest … adventure."

"Wine?"

"Yep, a 2372 Nyere Vineyards Merlot Reserve. Mbako's folks insisted on sending me a dozen cases, assorted vintages. Couldn't talk them out of it. I'm cellaring most of it at my parents', but B'Elanna and I decided to keep some in our quarters. And I thought you and I should crack the first bottle. After all, the whole thing was your idea."

Tom pulled a traditional corkscrew out of his pocket, and opened the bottle with practiced ease, sniffing the cork almost reverently. Riker's mouth quirked in quiet amusement at his XO's breezy assumption that it was perfectly acceptable to consume genuine alcohol in the Captain's ready room, and shook his head. Picard would appreciate this …

Tom put the two glasses on the Captain's desk. He poured the deep, red liquid, and swirled the liquid around in both glasses. "It really should breathe a little first," he said, "but I have a date with Dr. Crusher in half an hour, before I go down. And besides, I just had a two-hour session with your lovely wife and can really use a drink."

Riker swung his feet of his desk. He had noticed a slightly reddish tinge in Tom's eyes, but wisely chose not to comment. Instead, he asked simply, "I assume Deanna was in her usual form?"

"Yeah," Tom replied, his eyes far away for a moment. "She's pretty amazing, you know. Wish I'd run into her sooner, instead of all those idiots who kept trying to remake me in my father's image. I think we'll be seeing more of each other." He handed Riker his glass, and looked him straight in the eye.

"I told Deanna she was free to answer any of your questions about … what we discussed. Seems only fair – you should know just what you got yourself into when you brought me aboard. Damaged goods, and all that."

Riker inhaled the rich bouquet of his wine with an appreciative smile, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, before turning his sharp, clear gaze back on his First Officer over the rim of his glass.

"You know, I think I got a pretty good idea what I was getting, from Janeway and Picard. And just based on what I've seen in the last few weeks, I can safely say I got exactly what I bargained for. Better. No further explanations required."

The Captain raised his glass. "Quv," he said, in guttural Klingon.

Honour, earned.

Tom inclined his head in thanks, raised his own glass in response. "vItHay," he replied.

The test of truth.

…..

Admiral (ret) Owen Paris was waiting by the private transporter pad on the Paris estate when Tom materialized there just over an hour later, his old battered duffle bag and a slightly singed leather jacket casually slung over his shoulder.

"Guess this time the mission was a bit shorter than last," Tom said after a quick embrace, from which Owen seemed loath to disengage. "Maybe I didn't need to send that letter after all."

His father gripped his arm, if anything, more tightly as he looked at his son with a mixture of love and respect that struck Tom far deeper in the gut than he would ever have thought possible. "I hope we've moved beyond the point where we need an excuse, like a long mission, to communicate or tell each other how we feel, Tom," he said simply. "And let me tell you right now, I'm proud – very proud – of all the things you achieved in the last few weeks, son."

They headed back to the main house side by side. "Oh," the Admiral said. "That stuff you ordered arrived yesterday. The tools are in the shuttle port, but I had them transport everything else straight to the edge of the woods, where you said you wanted to build that thing. It's all very … colourful."

"Well, if you want to attract kids, colour is the way to go." Tom grinned. He had cleared the construction of a toy castle on the park-like grounds with his mother, and was fully cognizant of the fact that, whatever Owen's reservations might be concerning the need to maintain the estate's landscaped dignity, his mother would authoritatively overrule them. The prospect of having her son create a play structure that would keep her three children's active brood out of the main house for hours at a time was one Julia Paris had gotten fully behind, the second he had mentioned the idea to her.

"You sure you want to build this yourself? And out of wood, yet?" Owen regarded his son with the mild curiosity one usually reserves for a slightly eccentric but not quite certifiable relative. "I mean, you can get these … things pre-assembled, you know, made out of nice, durable materials. Not to mention just using a holodeck. This is the twenty-fourth century, after all."

"Oh yes, I'm sure," Tom was firm on that point, as he shifted his duffle bag onto the other shoulder. Miral's toys and books weighed more than one would have thought; he couldn't remember his bag ever being that heavy before, even for two-week away missions.

"At this particular time in my life, I can think of nothing I need more than to spend a couple of days hammering a bunch of nails into planks of wood that have been stained in primary colours. I can always call in the pros if I run out of enthusiasm." He added judiciously, "Or when B'Elanna loses patience with my engineering skills."

His father shrugged his acceptance – perhaps the most telling evidence of how their relationship had changed in the course of the last few years. "Whatever. It's your thumbs that will need regeneration, not mine. Guess the kids will like the thing well enough when it's done, and won't particularly care whether it's square or not."

"Oh ye of little faith," Tom sighed dramatically, shaking his head. He'd designed a space shuttle on the holodeck and helped build it from scratch, and put together Kahless knew how many cars – how much more difficult could a wooden play structure be, even if mistakes couldn't be erased with a simple command?

They were approaching the main house when Owen changed the topic. "You won't have heard the news because it hasn't broken yet, Tom. But Alynna Nacheyev commed me half an hour ago; she thought we should hear this from her directly." His face broke out in a grin anyone on Voyager would have recognized instantly as belonging to their helmsman, after a particularly satisfying battle with the Kazon.

"The Sector Attorney is about to indict Chomyn, Burton and a number of senior executives of C&B Inc., as well as the company itself and some of their political aides from their time on the Council. They're facing a whole raft of charges, ranging from corruption, war profiteering and conspiracy to kidnap, to felony murder, reckless endangerment and negligent homicide. Not to mention unlawful production of prohibited weapons and devices, trading with the enemy and passing on sensitive Federation technology."

The Admiral chuckled darkly. "Oh – and my personal favourite, tax evasion. All their personal and the company's assets have been frozen and will be treated as proceeds of crime. If they're convicted on any of these charges, the money will be made available for restitution to victims on conviction."

He stopped for a moment, and turned to Tom, and his voice turned a little raspy. "You got those bastards, son," he said, "you got them good."

"No Dad, we got them," Tom corrected, gently. "But not quite yet, I guess. There'll be a trial, and no doubt endless motions about the manner of their arrest, me firing a phaser over their heads and causing poor Chomyn to piss his pants, and all that stuff. I hope Jorak was right when he said all that was outside Federation jurisdiction. They can afford good lawyers – I just hope they don't hire Stan."

"Can't," Owen chuckled. "Conflict of interest. Happened to have him for dinner last night and he mentioned it, since their arrest has been all over the newsvids. He didn't seem to be too unhappy about it, either, and I've given him permission to turn over all of his notes from our discussions to the Sector Attorney. But whatever happens, C&B Inc. is dead in space. Starfleet has scrapped all its dealings with them. That's one empire crumbled into the dust of history."

"Well, I do hope they get a nice, juicy jail sentence on top of whatever financial disaster befalls them. I know just the perfect facility, where people of their pedigree and stature will be made more than welcome," Tom said, his voice carrying just a hint of venom. "And if they get off, well, I hope just airing out some of the Council's dirty laundry will help keep people on their toes in future."

Owen chuckled. "We know at least the tax evasion charge will stick. Those guys never give up."

Any further discussion was brought to a sudden end by a small figure that spilled out the front door and launched herself at Tom; he managed to drop his duffle bag and jacket just in time to catch her. Miral squealed with glee as he swung her around, tossed her up in the air and caught her again with practiced ease while the Admiral looked on with grandfatherly pride.

B'Elanna followed her daughter out the door at a slightly more measured pace. She raised a questioning eyebrow at Tom, who, smiling broadly, tilted and lifted his head slightly in response. Seeing his unblemished neck, still tanned from his time on Mokan but slightly paler now in a thickened line along the jugular vein, she broke into a small, approving smile of her own and nodded once.

Miral, happily sitting on her father's hip, started to report breathlessly on all the wonderful books and toys her grandparents had kept waiting for her in 'her' room, when she suddenly stopped squirming.

"Daddy, your number's gone," she breathed, her eyes wide in wonder.

She ran her stubby little fingers up and down Tom's neck where the mark of Auckland had been visible until just over an hour ago, tickling him and causing goose bumps to run up his arm. Tom turned his head away and half pulled up his shoulder in self-defense, unsuccessfully trying to suppress an utterly un-officer-like cackle. He ruffled Miral's dark hair affectionately as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and gave him a series of butterfly kisses.

"Yes, it is," he replied softly, when he had recovered his manly equilibrium. "Do you mind, munchkin?"

His daughter sat back on his hip and made a show of thinking hard, putting her finger on her lower lip like she had seen Flotter do so many times in her favourite holovids. She solemnly shook her head.

"No," she declared. "I know you're my Daddy without a number. ' Sides, no one else has one. Mommy doesn't and Grandpa and Gramma don't, Uncle Harry doesn't and Capt'n Will doesn't. So you don't need one either. You're still my Daddy. And I love you."

Tom hugged the little girl tightly, taking in the powdery scent that had become so much a part of his life over the last nearly two years, and blinking back the sudden moisture that seemed to want to spill out of his eyes. When he lifted his head, it was to find B'Elanna's smiling eyes on him, as well as his father's slightly puzzled ones. Julia Paris, who had emerged from the house to greet her son during the little scene, gave him a long, thoughtful gaze that told him there would be questions before long.

But right there, in that moment, on the front lawn of his childhood home, with his wife, his daughter and his parents looking on, Tom Paris came to a very definitive conclusion - one that had eluded him for many years.

"You're right, sweetheart," he said, a smile widening on his face as he planted a kiss on his daughter's softly ridged forehead.

"I don't need a number to know who I am anymore, either."

…..

No free man shall be taken, or imprisoned, or dispossessed, or outlawed, or exiled, or in any way harmed, nor will we proceed with force against him, save by the lawful judgment of his peers or by the law of the land.

To none will we sell, to none deny or delay, right or justice.

Magna Carta (A.D. 1215)

…..

For CDS, who held my hand through the tougher parts of this story, but frowns upon ticker tape parades.

And for Chris, who carries the torch - and wields the hammer when the day is done.