Summary: "Following an encounter with an unexplained phenomenon, Tom Paris relives the past six years of his life, while B'Elanna and the Doctor race against time to save his mind from irreparable damage." Rated PGBY MALCOLM REEVE - 106625.3210@compuserve.com This is the first of a two part story set somewhere in the middle of series four.Acknowledgement: Many thanks to Jan for her continuing encouragement, constructive comments, and for previewing this story for me! Thank you!"INSTANT REPLAY" BY MALCOLM REEVEPART ONEIf travelling through empty space was boring, Tom Paris reflected, then travelling through a nebula was much, much worse. A bunch of dust particles floating aimlessly about, nowhere to go, nothing to say for themselves. Frankly, they were dull. He yawned, flopped back into his seat and put his feet up on the helm control. Well, who was watching? After five days alone on the shuttle, Tom was suffering from a near terminal case of cabin fever. There really were only a limited number of ways to amuse yourself on a shuttle, for five days, with no one but the computer for company and nothing to see but dust. And Tom had tried them all, at least twice. But the real problem, the thing that was really making him itch, was that he was missing B'Elanna, body and soul. But especially body.He'd suggested that she come along, of course, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. "Why would I want to spend five days collecting dilithium in the middle of some boring nebula?" she'd asked him over lunch. "It's your idea, you go."He'd played his ace card then; he'd smiled his wickedest, most charmingly seductive smile. It never failed. Never. "But how will I fill all those empty hours without you?" he'd asked her.And for a moment, he'd thought she was his. She'd leaned closer, her eyes smouldering with what he'd fondly assumed was passion. Beneath the table, her hand had touched his leg, nimble fingers tracing higher and higher.... He'd smiled. Must have looked like an idiot. "I suggest," she'd murmured, her warm breath tickling his ear, "that you bring a good book." And with that she was gone. He sighed at the memory, and the sigh quickly turned into a yawn. Bored; he was interminably bored. And Tom hated being bored. Things always seemed to go wrong when he was bored."Computer," he said out loud, "play Paris Fourteen." The computer obliged, and the shuttle filled with what B'Elanna would have called an 'obscure twentieth-century ditty'. "Computer," he asked, not for the fist time, "How long until we reach the rendezvous point?""Two hours thirty five minutes and fifteen seconds," it rattled off, seemingly unirritated by Tom's repeated request for the same piece of information. He half expected it to reply, "Get yourself a clock."The music changed track, and Tom smiled. This was his current favorite; B'Elanna didn't see the joke - her sense of humour was sometimes disturbingly Klingon - but HE thought it was amusing. He sang along for a while."Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you... For here am I sitting in a tin-can, far above the world. Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."He wasn't exactly sure what a tin-can was, but he suspected that it felt a lot like the inside of a shuttle, after five days, alone, in the middle of the galaxy's most boring nebula."Computer, do you know what a tin-can is?" he asked, for want of a better conversation."Please specify the parameters of...."A brilliant white light suddenly flashed towards the shuttle. "Computer, darken the windows!" Tom barked. This was more like it!"Windows are at maximum opacity," the computer told him smoothly. Tom swore under his breath. And then, since he was alone, he swore loudly too. The light was blinding; he could see nothing."Computer, analyse the source of the light.""The source of the light is a sub-temporal distortion field.""Is it heading this way?" he snapped, blind fingers fumbling uselessly at the controls. Perhaps boring wasn't so bad."Please re-phrase the question."The brightness intensified, and Tom screwed his eyes shut against the glare. But it made little difference. All he could see was red through the thin veil of his eyelids. "Is the distortion field approaching the shuttle?""The distortion field is approaching the shuttle.""Take evasive action.""Unable to comply.""What?" "Incomplete question."The light was painful now, and he crushed his eyes into the palms of his hands in an attempt to dim the glare. But it was useless; his whole body felt translucent. "Why are you unable to take evasive action?" he snapped. If only he could see to fly the shuttle himself!"The velocity of the sub-temporal field exceeds the maximum velocity of the shuttle.""Then go around it!""The dimensions of the sub-temporal field exceed the maximum distance traversable by the shuttle prior to impact.""It's too big and too fast," Tom paraphrased, thinking as quickly as the mind-numbing brightness would allow. "Estimate time to impact.""Impact in twenty-five seconds.""Estimate damage to the shuttle and the cargo.""No damage to the shuttle or its cargo is anticipated."That was good. "Estimate damage to me," he asked.The computer paused before answering: "Unable to determine.""Great," he muttered. "Down-load all logs and sensor readings into the ship's main data-base, maintain course to rendezvous point with Voyager, broadcast a hail on all frequencies, and...."The sub-temporal field hit with the crushing weight of a tidal wave. Tom felt himself hit the floor with a heavy thud as the white-light flooded into his body, lifting his mind free and carrying it away like so much flotsam. He could feel memories blinking out of existence, his life contracting and reducing with each thud of his rapidly beating heart. He had to stop it. He had to stop the flood washing his mind away while there was still something left of himself. Instinctively, he knew he had to grab hold of something in the flood, some part of himself.... Dimly, through the rushing of the white-light, he thought he heard himself scream; it was hard to tell in that all-consuming brilliance, but it was enough. It was something to hold onto. And so he screamed, and screamed and clung to that shred of himself against the almost overwhelming ferocity of the force that battered at the remnants of his mind.***B'Elanna Torres tapped her foot impatiently as the turbo-lift stopped on its way to engineering. The door hissed open and Neelix stepped inside, his enthusiastic grin warning her to keep a firm grip on her temper. "Good morning, Lieutenant," he began cheerily."Neelix," she replied, hoping to keep the conversation short. She had enough on her mind this morning."And I'm sure it IS a good morning for you!" he carried on, ignoring her frosty response."Really? Why's that?" She knew exactly why, but was unable to control her tongue. Neelix wasn't the first person to make a similar comment this morning. It was beginning to grate."Why, because Lieutenant Paris will be back this morning!" Neelix replied. "He will?" she asked dryly. "I'd forgotten.""Oh, I'm sure you hadn't!" Neelix persisted, oblivious to her sarcasm. "And I thought I'd prepare a little romantic dinner for the two of you this evening...""Neelix," Torres interrupted, struggling to keep her temper. "I appreciate the thought, but really, don't bother." "Oh, it's not a bother! I'll set up a little table near the window, some low lighting..."Mercifully, the turbolift stopped. "Good-bye Neelix," Torres said without a backward glance, as she stalked into Engineering. Watching her staff scurry out of her way, she guessed that the irritation was showing on her face. She stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to smooth the tension from her features. She just couldn't stand everyone watching her, waiting for a reaction. What did they expect? That she'd swoon at the feet of the returning hero? Some chance, after volunteering for that idiotic mission. Five days, out of contact and alone in the middle of an unchartable nebula? He'd be lucky if she even spoke to him once he got back. IF he got back. She scowled again; woe betide the next person who mentioned the name Tom Paris within her hearing.*** "Approaching the rendezvous point," Kim reported."No sign of the shuttle," Tuvok added.Janeway nodded in acknowledgement. She wasn't concerned. She had a lot of faith in her one-time wayward pilot. He'd be there. Instead of worrying she gazed out at the rainbow-hued nebula drifting in endless swirls of slow, lazy color. It's beautiful, she thought to herself, and fascinating. Ceaselessly fascinating. Tom's lucky, having five whole days to explore it in depth, up close. I'll have to ask him for a full report, once he..."I'm picking up something coming out of the nebula," Kim said, right on cue. "It's the shuttle."Janeway smiled and rose to her feet, "Hail him.""No need," Kim replied, then he frowned. "The shuttle's hailing us, but it's an automated hail. Just a standard greeting.""Reply," Janeway ordered, suddenly uneasy."No response. Trying all frequencies. Still no response.""Tuvok; life signs?""Scanning...."Janeway tensed as she waited, hoping that Torres wasn't listening in on this exchange. Knowing her Chief Engineer, she probably was."...one life sign," Tuvok reported after what seemed like an age. "But very weak."Janeway's heart sank. "Mr Kim," she barked, "can you get a lock?""Aye, Captain," Kim replied immediately. "It's Tom.""Transport him directly to sickbay." She tapped her com badge as she headed for the turbolift, "Doctor, prepare for an incoming casualty. Lieutenant Torres meet me in...""On my way, Captain," Torres' voice cut across hers, brittle with tension. Janeway set her jaw grimly as the turbolift started speeding her towards sickbay; whatever she was to find there, her instinct told her it wasn't going to be good.***The brilliant light lasted so long that Tom found it hard to remember what had been there before. It tore at his mind, but he hung on determinedly, and at last the light dimmed and subsided into darkness. His memory of the light faded with its brilliance, and soon all he remembered was darkness, soft and silent. And then he was falling; lights - memories - flashed past him, a face, a feeling, a touch, speeding so fast he couldn't reach them. And then they slowed, came into focus and..."Hey, Paris, I'm with you today!" Tom stared at Mitch in bewilderment. "Hey, wake-up Lieutenant!" his friend grinned at him."Sorry," Tom shook his head, "I just had a really odd sensation."Mitch raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Yeah, well, so did I when I saw the duty schedule - you seen what we got today?"Tom turned back to the screen he'd been scanning. His heart sank: "Supplies Duty. Are they kidding?""Someone has to do it," Mitch told him, with a parsimonious voice designed to irritate. "Even fly-boys like you."Tom shook his head. "I'll die of boredom in Starfleet before they let me near anything remotely interesting," he complained. It was bad enough being stuck in the Caldik system, but assigned to Supplies Duty? It was too much. "You know why they're doing this don't you?" he asked Mitch, as they made their way to the transporters."No," Mitch replied, his attention suddenly caught by a pretty young ensign, who gave them a wink as she passed. Mitch grinned back at her, but Paris just scowled. He wasn't in the mood."It's because of dear old Dad," he grumbled. "Can't be seen to be favoring the Admiral's son. Oh no. Better give him all the really crummy jobs, just in case.""You reckon?" Mitch asked, glancing at him sideways. "It's not because of that stunt you pulled last week, over Caldik V?""No one saw that," Tom replied. "And anyway, what do they expect? If they gave me something more challenging....""You only just made Lieutenant! What do you expect to be doing?""When my Dad was my age, he was..."Mitch held up a warning hand. "I don't want to hear it Paris!" he said with a grin. "I don't care what he was doing. You're not him. Quit trying to be.""I'm not!" Tom objected, feeling angrier than the comment deserved. "That's the last thing I want to be, believe me."Mitch shrugged. "Right. Then let's forget about what the Admiral was doing, and start figuring out how we're going to make this supplies run a little more interesting!""You got any ideas?""One or two," Mitch admitted, grinning dangerously. "One or two."***B'Elanna burst into sickbay, barely pausing to allow the doors to open in front of her. Looking around, she saw the Doctor and the Captain standing over a bio-bed, talking quietly."What happened?" she asked as she approached them."He's alive," Janeway told her immediately. "But?" Torres asked, hearing the reservation in the Captain's voice."But he's in a coma," the Doctor replied. "Then get him out of it," Torres snapped, looking down at Tom. He was pale, but aside from that he looked like he was sleeping. She stared at him, willing him to open his eyes and smile at her, but he didn't move. "That WAS my intention, Lieutenant," the Doctor sniffed. "However, there are complications."B'Elanna's head snapped up. "What complications?""That's the problem," the Doctor frowned. "I don't understand the readings I'm getting.""It seems that Tom's condition is somewhat unusual," Janeway explained gently. "Doctor, can you explain the problem again?""Very well. Lieutenant Paris's brain activity is not compatible with his comatose state. In fact, when I conducted a level ten neural scan, it revealed conscious brain activity.""You mean he's aware of what's going on?" B'Elanna asked, reaching down and taking Tom's hand in her own."No," the Doctor shook his head. "The neural pathways that are active are those set down a number of years ago - they're memories.""Then he's dreaming?" the Captain guessed."It's more than dreaming. The neural scan revealed extensive damage to the cerebral cortex..."Brain damage! Torres felt suddenly cold, and clutched tighter to Tom's hand as the doctor continued."...the cerebral pathways containing his memories have been disconnected from the normal brain functions, and are not operative.""He's lost his memory," Janeway concluded. "But what about the active neural pathways you've detected?""That's what I don't understand," the Doctor replied. "Some of the memory pathways are beginning to reconnect themselves."The Captain frowned. "How's that possible?" "With this degree of damage, it's not." "So what's happening to him?" Torres asked, cold fear squirming in the pit of her belly."I don't know," the Doctor admitted, "but I do have a theory.""Which is...?""I believe that Lieutenant Paris is re-experiencing his memories, in real time, and that as he does so, the memory pathways are reconnecting.""Then he's re-living his past experiences?" the Captain asked."Essentially, yes. And as he does so, the neural pathways reconnect, leading onto the next memory, and so on.""Then he'll be okay?" B'Elanna asked hopefully."Given enough time, the memory pathways should all reconnect," the Doctor agreed."How much time?" the Captain asked sharply.The Doctor pursed his lips. "The neural pathways that are currently reconnecting were originally laid down six years ago. He is reliving those experiences, in real time."Torres understood immediately. "Then he won't recover all his memories for six years," she said in a hollow voice."I'm afraid not.""And if you wake him up now?" the Captain asked."If I wake him up now, he won't remember anything that has happened in the last six years.""Then we have to wait until all the memory pathways are reconnected," B'Elanna insisted. If they woke him now, he wouldn't even know her name; the thought sent her stomach twisting toward her toes."I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but that's not possible," the Doctor replied. "The damage to the cerebral cortex was not limited to his memory pathways; there was also some damage to his higher brain functions. At the moment the damage is minor, but the longer he is comatose, the greater the disintegration of his higher cerebral functionality. I'm afraid there will be little left of Lieutenant Paris in six years.""How long do we have?" the Captain asked."Maybe a week," the Doctor replied. "If I don't wake him then, there will be permanent brain damage."B'Elanna felt suddenly sick. "Can you help him?" she asked through a mouth turned to sawdust."I'll try, Lieutenant," the Doctor replied. "But at this stage, I don't even know what caused his condition.""Then it's not a medical problem?" Janeway asked, suddenly eager."I can find no record of any similar case," the Doctor told her. "My guess would be that something did this to Mr Paris. Something, or someone."The Captain placed a hand on B'Elanna's arm. "Lieutenant," she said quietly. "I understand if you want to stay with Tom, but we need someone to investigate his shuttle, to see if we can determine what caused this.""On my way, Captain," Torres replied, laying Tom's hand by his side, and with a final squeeze, releasing her hold. "I'd rather do something useful."Janeway nodded, understanding. "The shuttle's been transported to shuttle bay three.""I'll keep you posted on my progress," Torres told her, turning on her heel and heading out of sickbay. She had a week to find the solution. She'd do it; she had to. And when Tom had recovered...? Well, then she'd probably kill him for putting her through this.***"Lieutenant Paris reporting Sir," Tom said, standing to attention before the thick-set Commander. "At ease, Paris," Commander Dail replied, scanning the roster before him. "Ah. This should be good for you - give you some practice at keeping your speed in check, eh?" He flashed Tom a grin. "There's a cargo of dibase hyrolium to be transported through the Baleric debris-zone to Caldik Prime.""Thank you sir," Tom replied, not attempting to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Dail looked up, one eyebrow raised. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant?"Paris shrugged. "It's boring, that's all.""Boring?" Commander Dail leaned back in his seat, and looked at Tom speculatively. "You think you should be doing something more interesting?"Tom chose his words carefully. "I think that my skills could be put to better use, Sir. Yes.""I see," Dail said. "Well, Paris, you're a good pilot, I won't deny it." He leaned forward, meeting Tom's gaze with shrewd, dark eyes. "So why do you think you're here in the Caldik system, doing supply runs to Caldik Prime?"Paris pursed his lips, but didn't reply."Come on," Dail said with a smile. "It's not like you to be at a loss for words, Paris. Say what you think - speak freely.""Well, if you really want to know," Tom replied, "I think it has to do with my father."Dail raised an eyebrow. "Oh?""No one wants to show me any favors, in case they're accused of sucking-up to the Admiral. So instead, I get all the worst assignments.""I see," Dail replied. "So it has nothing to do with you, or your abilities?""I'm one of the best pilots in Starfleet," Tom told him boldly; it was the truth, and everyone knew it. Why hide it? "I can't think of any other reason I'd be stuck out here," then almost as an afterthought he added, "Sir.""Can't you?" Dail replied, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands across his belly. "I can. There's more to being a good pilot that handling a few smart manoeuvres, and winning a couple of competitions. You need discipline and patience. And that's why you're here."Tom clenched his jaw together, refusing to reply. Discipline, patience. Dail sounded just like his father. What he needed was something to DO."I see you don't agree," Dail observed. "And that's another reason you're here. A pilot who is too arrogant to recognise his own failings is a dangerous pilot; until you learn your own limitations you won't be going anywhere near a Starship, Mr Paris. The sooner you realise that the better. The better for your career, and the better for Starfleet.""Yes Sir," Paris replied through gritted teeth.Dail smiled at him, and shook his head slightly. "Don't be too disheartened, Tom," he said. "You're an excellent pilot, and have all the Paris potential, believe me. You'll be following right in your father's footsteps, I have no doubt. You have the mettle, it just needs a little tempering; a dash of humility is all you need." Dail gave him a serious look: "And one day, believe it or not, even you will make a mistake. And then you'll realise that you're as mortal as the rest of us, and when that day comes, you, and your career, will really start to fly."Tom smiled coldly. "Yes Sir," he said again. He wasn't going to argue. What did Dail know about humility? Dail had his own life, he wasn't living in anyone's shadow. Dail's triumphs and failures were his own; he had no expectations to fulfil, no expectations to disappoint. Humility? Tom had been weaned on the stuff. It was the last thing he wanted. He could fly better than anyone, even better than his father. Why shouldn't he be arrogant? He was the best and he had a right to be arrogant about it; heaven knows, he failed at everything else.Commander Dail handed him a padd, with a small shake of his head. "These are your orders, Paris. Take the Trafalgar. Your crew should be waiting in the shuttle bay.""Aye Sir," Tom replied, taking the padd and turning to leave."And Paris," Dail called after him, "try and stay out of trouble on this one."***"So, where're we going?" Mitch asked as soon as Tom left Dail's office. Paris handed him the padd. "Caldik Prime," he said. "Delivering dibase hyrolium.""Ooh, boy," Mitch replied. "Exciting. All the way through the Baleric debris-zone at quarter impulse. I can hardly wait.""Dail said it would make me practice keeping my speed down," Tom grumbled.Mitch laughed. "I can see his point. You are a bit of a speed demon.""Only because I can handle it," Tom told him with a quick grin."So what else did he say?" Mitch asked. "You were in there ages."Tom shrugged. "Nothing interesting," he muttered, taking the padd out of Mitch's hand and changing the subject. "So, who've we got today?" Before he could scan the crew list, Mitch reeled off the names: "Borella, Castile and De Almo.""Not 'Boring Borella'," Paris groaned. "This trip's getting worse and worse.""It won't be so bad," Mitch told him."Oh?" Tom replied, a gleam in his eye. "So, what's the plan?""You ever made the Baleric run at full impulse?" Mitch asked."FULL impulse?" Tom repeated, eyes wide. "No one has," he paused, giving his friend a shrewd look, "have they?"Mitch grinned. "Not yet. But it sounds like fun.""It sounds crazy."Mitch shrugged. "Suit yourself, but Harrison took the record last week.""He beat Bedi's time?" Tom asked in surprise. "By a full second."Tom did a quick calculation. "Then he didn't hit full impulse the whole way."Mitch grinned at him: "No. But I bet you could."Tom considered. It was crazy, and if they got caught, they'd be in deep trouble. But he could already feel the adrenaline surging; it would be a real test of his abilities, better than any simulation. And at least it would relieve the boredom. He returned Mitch's grin with one of his own."So let's go break some records!"***The computer bleeped an alert. "We're approaching the Baleric debris-zone, Lieutenant," Borella reported in her softly accented voice."Thank you Ensign," Paris replied, returning to the helm and dropping out of warp."Estimated time of arrival on Caldik Prime, two hours and thirteen minutes, Sir," Castile added."We'll see," Tom replied with a small smile. He saw Castile and Borella exchange a hasty glance, and his smile broadened; they knew his reputation, and he planned to live up to it on this trip. These new graduates needed a little shaking up from time to time."You got plans tonight?" he called over his shoulder to De Almo. Ensign De Almo was a little older than the others, and shared some of the same - interests - as Tom."It depends what time we get back," De Almo told him. "There's this girl in engineering...."Tom grinned. "Stay away from engineers," he warned him. "They're always trouble.""Then you don't know Mari Capriccio," De Almo told him, a wicked tone to his voice.OH YES I DO, Tom thought, VERY, VERY WELL. But he kept it to himself; Mari Capriccio had a reputation almost as bad as his own.... He smiled. "Well then, we'd better see what we can do to get you home in time, Ensign De Almo.""Hey Paris," Mitch chirped, "You ever heard of a Commander Chakotay?"Tom shook his head. "No. Why?""I know him," Castile interrupted. "He taught for a term at the Academy when I was there; tactical strategy, I think. He was pretty good.""I bet," Mitch replied, scanning a screen in front of him. "They've just issued a warrant for his arrest; he's defected to the Maquis, and they think he might be trying to use his Starfleet contacts to get at information about the de-militarised zone.""I doubt it," Tom replied, turning around in his chair. "Who'd help him? If he was smart, he accessed all the information he needed before he left. That's what I'd do."Borella stared at him in astonishment. "You'd leave Starfleet?" she asked.Tom rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he said, irritated by the stupid question. De Almo shook his head. "I can't understand it. Why would anyone leave Starfleet to go and live with a bunch of outlaws?""Maybe because he's fighting for a cause?" Mitch suggested. "Something he believes in?"Tom laughed. "I never had you pegged as a romantic, Mitch.""Romantic?" his friend objected. "Hardly. I'm just not as cynical as you, Paris. Some people DO devote their lives to more than fast ships and promotion."Tom frowned, and turned back to the helm controls. Fast ships and promotion? Those were his father's ambitions, not his. Weren't they? He pushed the thought aside. What did it matter? Starfleet was his life, and always would be. He'd never throw his career away for an ideal, be it the Maquis or anything else. That was a fool's game, and Tom Paris, whatever else he might be, was no fool."Talking of fast ships," he said lightly, changing the subject, "I heard that Harrison made the Baleric run in fourteen minutes last week.""Thirteen-point-six," De Almo corrected him."That's fast," Castile commented. "Harrison's pretty good.""Not that good," Paris replied. "I bet we could do it faster.""No way," Borella interrupted, glancing down at her controls. "You'd have to be at full impulse almost the whole way. You'd never be able to navigate the debris field at that speed. It's impossible.""Nothing's impossible," Tom told her, flashing her his best smile. She returned it with a blush and a small, self-conscious, smile of her own. She's quite pretty really, Tom mused, I wonder what her first name is? Maybe I'll find out later.... He grinned to himself; it was always so easy."Harrison will be really pissed if we beat his record so soon," Castile laughed. "Haminda Bedi held it for three months before him.""Oh, I can't wait to see his face when we tell him," De Almo agreed. "All right," Tom squared himself to the controls. "Then let's do it.""Aye Sir," Mitch replied eagerly, dropping into the co-pilot's seat."Castile, keep an eye on the shields," Paris ordered, "Ensign Borella," he deliberately softened his voice when he said her name, "start the chronometer on my mark.""Aye Sir.""Okay, everyone just find someplace to sit down and hang on. We're going to have some fun!"***It was late. Her body told her it was late, that she should be sleeping, but she ignored its complaints and forced herself to work on. She dreaded the thought of going back to her quarters, of trying to sleep in the empty darkness. While she was working she could keep the fears at bay; ignore them, bury them. But the night was their time, when they came creeping out of the darkness, tugging at her mind, stabbing at her guts with sharp, cruel barbs. YOU'VE LOST HIM, they said. HE'S AS GOOD AS DEAD TO YOU NOW. B'Elanna shook her head sharply against the waking dream, and tried to refocus her eyes on her work. But it was useless. Despite herself her eyelids drooped, heavy with fatigue, her normally nimble fingers grew clumsy and awkward. She needed to sleep, however painful the dreams. Straightening, she yawned, stretched her cramped muscles, and turned her back on Tom's shuttle. The corridors outside the shuttle bay were deserted, her own footfalls the only sound in the night's deep silence. She should sleep, she knew, but not yet. Not quite yet."Sickbay," she said as she stepped into the turbolift. When the doors to sickbay opened, she saw the Doctor leaning over Tom, a tricorder in one hand and a worried frown on his face."It's a little late for visiting, Lieutenant," he told her sharply, without looking up."I couldn't sleep," she lied, walking quickly towards Tom. "How's he doing?""Funny you should ask," the Doctor replied, not taking his eyes from his patient. "His adrenaline level has risen alarmingly over the last few minutes; he's under considerable stress."That much was clear. Tom no longer lay peacefully sleeping; his head jerked from side to side, he muttered unintelligibly, and beneath his eyelids she could see his eyes darting wildly. B'Elanna reached out a hand and smoothed the hair from his face. His skin felt warm under her fingers, familiar and reassuring. "Will it hurt him?" she asked the Doctor, curiously calm."I doubt it," he replied, looking up at last and closing his tricorder. "Mr Paris has already experienced this event once. If it didn't kill him then, I see no reason why it should now. But whatever it is he's remembering, I doubt if it's pleasant."So did B'Elanna. And she had a good idea what it might be; six years ago was not a good point in Tom's life. Not good at all. Her heart went out to him: "Hang on Tom," she whispered, "I'll get you out of this. I promise."***"Whoa, that was close!" Tom muttered as he swung the shuttle around a large chunk of debris that loomed out of nowhere."Ten minutes!" Borella called from behind him, her voice tense and excited. "We're going to do it!"Tom's heart was racing as fast as his ship. It was hard. Harder than they knew and much harder than he'd expected. But pride forbade him to back down; if Harrison could do it, he could do it better. But there were so many calculations, and at this speed..."Watch out!" Mitch shrieked, half laughing as Tom twitched the ship aside, just in time. Something large and deadly sailed past, close, much too close. He should slow down; he was barely in control. But they were so close..."Two thousand kilometres," Castile reported. "Almost there!""Ten minutes thirty seconds.""C'mon Tom," Mitch urged. "We're over three minutes ahead of him!"The debris was coming fast now, and the shuttle jolted violently as something hit them. Tom cursed. He'd have to explain THAT to someone."Shields at seventy percent," Castile told them. "Holding."This is crazy! Slow down! The voice in his head was loud and insistent. But there were other voices too; Mitch and the crew, urging him on. He couldn't let them down. And he could see the end of the debris zone now, they were almost there. He could see the green haze of the planet's atmosphere, they were so close, when.... A hammer blow crunched into the ship with a terrifying force, sending them all sprawling in sudden, shocking blackness."Paris!" he heard Mitch yell, as Tom cut the engines and fumbled for the emergency power. "What the hell was that?""We've got no power," Castile shouted, panic creeping into his voice. "The warp nacelles have been sheared right off!"Tom struggled to breath as the impact of the words hit him. What had he done? A thousand curses came to his lips, but he could find breath for none."Engage the emergency back-up power!" Mitch was yelling, Caldik Prime's atmosphere casting his face in a sickly green light."I'm trying," Tom snapped, just as his shaking fingers closed over the manual release. The emergency power came on-line, it's gentle hum vastly reassuring."Is everyone okay?" Tom asked shakily, looking over his shoulder."Borella's injured," De Almo told him, from where he knelt before the young Ensign. "She'll be okay.""Shield status?" "Gone," Castile reported in a shaky voice."Transporter?" "Off line.""Communications?""Off line.""Damn it," Paris muttered to himself. How could this be happening? How could he have let this happen? Idiot! He felt a cold kernel of fear freeze in the depths of his stomach. This was bad, really bad. This would be a huge black mark on his far from pristine record. Perhaps the last? THAT thought frightened him more than the vacuum outside his wounded shuttle. His mind began to whirr. Perhaps he could convince them it was an accident? Anyone could get clobbered in the Baleric debris-zone, no matter how fast - or slow - they were travelling. If he could just...but then he had no more time to think. It all happened at once; Mitch screamed out to his right, alarms started wailing and..."No!"The rock that hit them was huge; had it given them more than a glancing blow, they would have died right there. But the blow was hard enough, sending the little shuttle spinning out of the debris zone, on a direct course for Cladik Prime."We're entering the planet's gravitational field," Mitch shrieked as he struggled to stay in the co-pilot's seat. "Pull up! PULL UP!""I've got no engines," Paris yelled, working frantically at the controls, willing them to do his bidding, to pull them out of the merciless grasp of the planet below. "Damn it!"Violent tremors shook the shuttle, as the first tendrils of Caldik Prime's emerald atmosphere brushed at the ship's underbelly. "Warning, hull temperature exceeding safety parameters.""Divert all power to the shields," Paris yelled at Castile; he could already feel the heat building. "Castile - the shields!""Shields at fifteen percent," the young ensign replied in a terror-drenched voice. "It's all we've got!"Deeper and deeper into the atmosphere they plunged, shields burning red, buffeted by turbulence that dropped the ship hard and fast, leaving Tom's stomach thousands of meters above. Dimly, from behind him he heard De Almo muttering an incantation over and over; a prayer? God knew they needed one.At last they came out of the cloud layer, and Tom saw trees and water speeding below them. They were coming in way too fast, he knew, and without the engines it was impossible to slow their descent. All he could do was keep the shuttle's nose up, and hope. He left the praying to De Almo."Impact in thirty seconds," Mitch told him, his voice shaking. Tom concentrated on the controls, there was no room in his mind for anything more; hold her steady, keep her nose up, aim for that stretch of water ahead. Hold her steady, keep her nose up. Hold her steady..."Twenty seconds."Hold her steady..."Fifteen seconds."Too fast. They were coming in too fast!"Ten seconds." "God have mercy," De Almo called out suddenly. "Five seconds!""Brace, brace, brace!" Tom yelled as the ground rushed up to meet them with a bone shattering impact that turned the air to fire. And then he knew no more.***"He's still sleeping," the voice said. "Do you want me to wake him?""No," said another. "He'll have enough to deal with. Let him rest for now.""It's a real tragedy," the first voice said, heavy with sadness. "All of them so young.""I just wish we knew what happened, but there's not much left of the shuttle...""It's a miracle any of them survived.""Well, you can take the credit for that Doctor.... Let me know when he's awake. I have a visitor for him.""Aye sir."***Slowly, Tom became aware of his body, heavy and still. He was lying down. Soft covers touched his skin, something cushioned his head. He curled his fingers by his side, feeling them slide over smooth sheets. Opening his mouth slightly he licked at lips gone dry and sticky, and tried to swallow the nasty taste that clung to his teeth. With an effort he lifted his eyelids, but they were heavy, and the light was bright. He let them fall shut again. But someone had noticed."Doctor, he's waking up.""Give him five mils of quortrozine."Something cool was pressed to the side of his neck, a small hiss, and then his mind began to clear. His eyes flickered open again, and he found himself staring at a white ceiling. "Lieutenant Paris?" a voice said to one side. He turned his head slowly in the direction of the sound, and saw a serious face regarding him. "How do you feel?"Tom opened his mouth, swallowed, licked at his lips: "What...?" he croaked. "You were in a shuttle accident," the man said slowly, emphasising each word. "Do you remember?"Tom shut his eyes against the memories that crashed down upon him; the ground rushing towards them, De Almo screaming out, the impact, fire.... "The others," he said thickly, fear making him sick. "What happened to the others?"The doctor put a hand on his arm. "Ensign Mitchell will recover from his injuries," he said gently. Tom held his breath; there was more, he could tell from the sadness in doctor's voice. "I'm sorry Lieutenant, but Ensigns Borella, Castile and De Almo died of their injuries. There was nothing we could do for them. I'm sorry." Tom felt his world shatter. Dead? All dead? Because of him. He'd killed them. His blood turned to ice and fire and he wanted to scream.... He screwed his eyes shut, but it wouldn't dim the pain or the cold guilt that froze his heart. He was to blame. He should have died. He should be dead, not them. Through the chaos of his mind he dimly heard the doctor's voice, heard words but failed to grasp their meaning. What did it matter what he said? There were no words. Nothing could be said... Hot tears leaked from beneath his tightly shut eyes, trailing down the side of his face. Why hadn't he died? He should be dead. "...not your fault, Lieutenant."Somehow those words reached him. He opened his eyes, letting more tears spill."It was a terrible accident," the doctor repeated, "No one blames you Lieutenant. You did your best."Tom stared at him through a veil of tears. What was he saying? Didn't he understand? He'd killed them. His recklessness, his arrogance, his pride..."You were struck by a piece of debris in the Baleric debris-zone. Do you remember? It wasn't your fault."Tom just stared as realisation dawned. They didn't know. They didn't know what he'd been doing."But I..." he started, but the doctor interrupted him. "Get some rest," he advised, patting him comfortingly on the arm. "And when you wake up, there's someone here who wants to speak to you."Words still refused to come to him. He had killed them, and no one knew. No one knew. He felt the cool of the hypo-spray on his neck, and then darkness claimed him once more.*** The next time he woke, his head was clearer, and so was the pain. It jabbed at him, sharp and insistent; he was guilty, his life would never be the same again. Clarity brought other thoughts too; thoughts that frightened him even more than the guilt. He'd be disciplined, busted down. It might even end his career. And in the corner of his mind, a nasty little seed planted itself; NO ONE KNEW. Somehow, they didn't know the speed he'd been flying. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut. Castile, De Almo and Borella were dead. It was terrible, but it wasn't as if he'd been the only one responsible. They'd all encouraged him, they'd all wanted to beat Harrison's record..."No," he said out loud, his voice startling the empty room. No, it was wrong. He should take the blame. He was the pilot. But...The door hissed open, interrupting his thoughts. Tom's jaw dropped when he saw who entered. It was the last person he'd expected to see here. The last person he wanted to see:"Dad? What are you doing here?""Visiting my son," the Admiral replied gruffly, stepping into the room. "How are you Thomas? The doctor told me it was touch and go for a while."Tom shrugged. "He says I should be fine."His father nodded, moving closer, but not too close. Never too close. "You were lucky. I saw the crash site. There wasn't much left.""I guess not. I don't really remember.""No. Well, that's probably for the best," the Admiral nodded, lapsing into the awkward silence that so often fell between them. He stood, hands folded neatly behind his back, gazing out of the window. "It's a shame you didn't manage to reach the Tagar Lake," he said after a while, "it would have made a softer landing.""There wasn't much time," Tom retorted, instantly defensive. "And I had no engines. I did my best.""Yes. Yes, I'm sure you did." Silence again."So, how long are you staying?""A few days. I thought I'd stay for the inquiry.""The inquiry?" Tom felt the blood drain from his face. His father must have noticed, because his brow creased into a frown."What's the matter? You've got nothing to worry about. It was just an accident..." he stopped suddenly, and fixed Tom with those piercing eyes he remembered so well from his childhood. "It WAS an accident, wasn't it Thomas?" Tom remembered that voice too; tell me it wasn't your fault, it said. Tell me you didn't screw up."It was an accident." The lie came instinctively to his lips. "Something hit us."His father's gaze didn't let up. "Good," he said. "And I assume you followed all the correct procedures?""Of course," Tom replied, dropping his gaze to his fingers, balled into a fist by his side. "But there wasn't much I could do without power to the engines.""Did you try diverting the emergency power system?" his father asked."No. We needed all power for the shields during re-entry. There wasn't enough for both.""Hmmmm. Obviously the transporters were off-line?""Dad, trust me. We were dead in the water. And then we were hit again, and knocked into the gravitational field of Caldik Prime. There was nothing I could do. Nothing." "No, of course not," his father replied. "Still, it's a shame about missing the lake though.""It's a shame for Borella, Castile and De Almo.""And for you. This won't look good on your record, even if it was an accident. And you should have been up for promotion at the next board.""Promotion?" Was that all he ever thought about? "Dad, three people are dead." "No one joined Starfleet without knowing the risks, son. Space is a dangerous place. They were unlucky, that's all. You're going to have to get used to it. When you have your own command...""If..." Tom corrected, sullen as an adolescent."When. Then you'll have to deal with fatalities on a regular basis. It's never easy, but I find...."Tom tuned out. He wasn't in the mood for a lecture. And anyway, it didn't apply. The only bad luck Borella, Castile and De Almo had run into was having him as a pilot. Luck, on the other hand, had been with him the whole way. Not only had he survived the crash, but he'd escaped all blame too; he was home free. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut, and luckily for him, he didn't have a problem with that. Not a real problem. Not the kind of problem that would force him to brave the displeasure of Starfleet, and worse, the disappointment of his father. No, he wasn't that brave. The truth wasn't that important. Not when it wouldn't change anything. They were dead, and truth or lies, they'd stay that way."...Are you listening to me?""I'm sorry. I must've drifted off...I'm pretty tired." Lies again. So easy once you start."Of course," his father drew closer and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "I'll let you rest now. I'll stop by again tomorrow."And with that he left. But within those few minutes, the ugly little seed of deception had rooted itself firmly in the corner of Tom's mind, and watered by his own fears, it had already grown into a tree of lies. And Tom was trapped firmly within its branches. His decision had been made for him. He would keep his mouth shut and ride the storm. He had no choice now.***B'Elanna lay awake, staring at the stars streaming past her window. They reminded her of Tom. Voyager in motion was his somehow, just like the humming engines were hers. But he wasn't at the helm now. He was fighting old battles in sick-bay, reliving the darkest parts of his life, and there was nothing she could do to help him.If the Doctor has to wake him, she mused, what will he be like? Young, she realised, and arrogant, she guessed. Would she love him? Could she? He wouldn't be the man she knew now, tempered by his mistakes, valuing the second chance he'd been given. Tom had once wished they'd known each other at the Academy. It wasn't a wish B'Elanna could share. "You'd have hated me," she'd told him then. And I'd have hated you - she'd kept that to herself. Timing. It was all in the timing. And now that timing was all screwed up.She was never meant to meet the Tom Paris of six years ago. It wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't work, and she couldn't let it happen. He needed those six years, and so did she.Sitting up, B'Elanna slid out of bed and padded towards the bathroom. May as well get an early start, she thought. Three days to go, and six years to save. ***It should have been raining, Tom thought. The brilliant sunshine didn't seem to fit the sombre scene, it jarred against the black clothes, made the poignant flowers too festive, too bright. His own offering lay among them, resting near the memorial to his three dead colleagues, but he didn't get close enough to see the flowers he'd sent. He hung back, not wanting to intrude, afraid that he might be seen, afraid that he might be recognised and not welcomed.He had forced himself to come; it was a kind of punishment. The pain was a scourge against the guilt that was destroying his sleep; he'd face the consequences of his failure, even if it was only privately. Everyone else thought he was a hero, of sorts. The brave Lieutenant who had managed to get the shuttle down against the odds; it was salt in the wound, guilt piled on guilt. And he wasn't so blind to responsibility that he didn't feel it. But he didn't feel it strongly enough to risk his career with the truth. Perhaps he was more like his father than he liked to admit? Fast ships and promotion. Was that all he wanted? Was that more important to him than the truth? As he watched the mourners he saw two figures break away from the group and head towards him. Squinting in the morning sunshine, Tom strained to recognise them, but they were strangers and he turned away. He was about to leave when someone called his name: "Lieutenant Paris?"He looked round to see a middle-aged couple approach him, dressed in black, eyes red and puffy with grief. Sudden panic drove his heart into his throat; who were they? What did they want?The woman smiled a tremulous smile and held out her hand to him. "Lieutenant Paris? I'm Clara Borella, and this is my husband Will; we're Alana's parents." Her voice caught as she mentioned her daughter's name, and her husband put a comforting hand on her shoulder."We're glad you came," he told Tom in a voice as gentle and lilting as his daughter's.Tom stared at them, his mind frozen. Alana? Alana Borella? He hadn't even known her first name. "I...," he started. What could he say? I'm sorry I got your daughter killed?"It must be hard for you," Clara said, reaching out and touching his arm. "We wanted you to know that...that we don't blame you at all. They explained what happened. How it could have happened to anyone."Tom felt sick to his stomach, his mouth tasting the bitter guilt that churned in his guts. "I'm very sorry," he said at last, sure that they could see the truth in his face. Clara nodded, fresh tears springing to her eyes. "Alana spoke about you," Will said with a smile. "She said you were the best pilot in Starfleet.""No. She was wrong," Tom muttered, looking away. He'd hardly ever spoken to the girl! He hadn't even known her first name. He felt tears of his own, but they were trapped inside now, trapped by the lie that he was living, and he could not shed them. "I'm sure she was right," Clara added, smiling almost shyly. "She said you had pretty eyes too - and she was right about that."Tom turned to look at them, the confession burning on his lips. But Will Borella spoke first; "Commander Dail told us that no one could have piloted the shuttle better than you - it's good to know she had the best possible chance. It's a comfort, of sorts."And with a final, tearful smile, they turned and walked slowly back to the rest of the mourners. Tom watched them go in agony, his dry eyes burning with tears that refused to fall.***"Computer, play Paris fourteen," B'Elanna asked as she sank into the chair by the console in her quarters.The computer obliged and the strains of some obscure twentieth-century ditty played into the room. It wasn't really her style, but it made her feel closer to Tom. "Computer, access shuttle logs, audio and visual display."She had spent the whole day in the shuttle-bay and come up with nothing useful. Sure, she'd figured out that some kind of sub-temporal flux had passed through the ship, but so what? Nothing had been effected. Nothing but Tom. So she'd turned to the logs in desperation, hoping that they might inspire her. She started with the mission logs. Her heart jumped painfully when she heard Tom speak, even if he was just reeling off the day's activities. It was comforting to see him though, to hear his familiar voice, even see him smile occasionally. But there were five days worth of logs, and she didn't have much time. "Computer, forward by seventy-two hours."The images before her rushed ahead as the computer scanned for the right date; a blur of activity, pictures, sounds.... And that was when the solution hit her."Of course!" she yelled, jumping to her feet and heading for the door, leaving Tom to report the day's events to an empty room.***"After this we'll be home free," Mitch murmured as they walked together towards the enquiry chamber. "Will we?" Tom asked. He couldn't get Clara Borella out of his head."Of course," Mitch replied, tension straining his voice. "What's the matter with you?""Nothing," Tom muttered, staring ahead. "I'm all right." All he had to do was keep his mouth shut. But it wasn't so easy. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat. The guilt was with him every moment, compounded by the lie. What was it all for? For his career? For his father's career? He didn't know anymore. He just didn't know. "Lieutenant," he recognised his father's voice immediately, and turned."Admiral." By his side he sensed Mitch spring to attention, but Tom didn't bother. He never did anymore, and it drove his father wild. Mitch received a cursory nod from Admiral Paris; "Go inside, Ensign. I want to talk to my son.""Aye Sir," Mitch replied, leaving them hurriedly. Tom didn't blame him. "Checking up on me?" he asked when they were alone.His father ignored the tone in his voice. "I've come to give you some good news actually. I thought you could do with cheering up before the hearing.""Good news?" Tom was dubious."A new posting. Commander Dail is releasing you to the "The Victory" - Chief Con Officer. You leave in two weeks."Tom just stared. This was it. This was what he'd always wanted. At last. But now? After the accident? It was impossible. Suspicion narrowed his eyes: "How?" His father smiled. "There's no point in being an Admiral if you can't pull a few strings.""No favors," Tom insisted, reviving an old argument.The Admiral's lips compressed into a frustrated line: "You don't need favors. Dail was impressed with the way you handled the accident. He thinks you're ready, and so do I.""The way I handled the accident." Tom's voice was as empty as his soul. "Not many people could have landed that shuttle Tom. You did well, and you deserve the reward.""No..." It was wrong. It was terribly wrong."Lieutenant," steel crept into his father's voice. "This is not an invitation to dinner; you have your orders. I don't expect to argue with you about it.""I'm not arguing, I'm just...""Enough.""But...""I said enough." His voice cracked like a whip, as he grappled with a temper that sought to elude him. After a pause he spoke again. "I don't understand you, Thomas. I thought this would be good news. I thought it was what you wanted.""It is," Tom confessed. "It's just...the accident..." he struggled with the words. "It's not right.""Accidents happen, Tom. Deal with it.""Aye Sir," the words came out without thought. His mind was elsewhere. How could he explain? He was alone, trapped in the lies he had spun, and with every twitch, they held him tighter. What to do now? Accept the reward? It was blood money; his career taking off on the backs of his dead colleagues. Colleagues his pride, arrogance and stupidity had killed. But how could he not accept? The only way out was to admit the truth. Admit his part in the accident, and worse, admit that his reports and testimony were lies.He was trapped. Stuck fast. And so he had a choice; live the lie and prosper, or live the truth and perish. "Tom?" his father's voice brought him back to himself. "Are you well? You've gone very pale.""I'm fine," he muttered, turning towards the hearing room. "Let's just get this over with."His father patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "You'll be all right Tom," he told him as they walked into the chamber. "You'll see."But Tom barely heard his words. Before his eyes danced the tearful face of Clara Borella, while a single phrase spun in his head; damned if you do, damned if you don't. ***"So, you see we have to speed up the process," B'Elanna explained to the Doctor."Like fast-forwarding a shuttle log?" he sounded sceptical."Exactly - if we could play his memories a hundred times faster than real time....""Then we could wake him up much sooner. I agree.""Can you do it?"The doctor frowned. "We'll need to stimulate the cerebral cortex quite substantially, without causing any further damage to the hypothalamic region.... Let me think."As the doctor walked away, B'Elanna turned back to Tom. He was resting peacefully now, something that looked like a smile touching his lips. Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed him. "Hang on Tom," she murmured. "We're getting there."***Tom sat at the front of the chamber, aware of the weight of people sitting behind him. Adjudicator T'Kara presided at the bench, his elderly face creased by many years, but his eyes, sunk into his hollow face, glittered with an intelligence as bright as the stars. He swept the crowded chamber with his shrewd gaze before he spoke."The evidence in this case seems conclusive, and I am prepared to disclose my findings. Before I do so, does anyone have anything further to add?"By his side, Tom saw Mitch's fingers twisting together in his lap as the ensign held his breath, waiting for the dread voice of an accuser. Tom's father sat near the bench, his hands folded across his spreading belly, his face the face of an Admiral; concerned, intelligent...and complacent. He had no idea. No idea.Inside, Tom's heart raced as the moment lengthened before him in a silence that was absolute. He saw the adjudicator's eyes take in the whole room, pausing to rest momentarily on Tom, piercing him like needles of fire. And as he gazed into those ancient eyes, he saw his own life expand before him. He saw himself in twenty years time, as fat and complacent as his father, his life built on a lie, his career built on the graves of the three dead officers. And he knew, with a certainty he had rarely known, that he could never live that life, never live that lie.The moment was almost past. T'Kara opened his mouth to speak...and Tom stood up. His knees and his guts felt like water, his clammy hands tingled with tension as he smoothed them nervously against his trousers, trying to swallow the nerves that crowded his throat. Trying to find his voice."Paris!" he heard Mitch hiss in a strangled whisper. His father just stared, motionless, waiting; his gaze as eloquent as any words - don't you fail me now, it said. Don't you dare.T'Kara turned his bright eyes back towards Tom. "Lieutenant Paris, do you have something further to add to your testimony?"Despite his sand-dry mouth, Tom's voice was strong. "Yes Sir.""Then proceed.""Before I start, I would like to say, for the record, that I alone am responsible for my actions. No other officer was involved with what happened either on board the Trafalgar or," the briefest of glances at his father, "afterward.""Very well," T'Kara replied carefully, his interest piqued. Tom's heart raced wildly as he licked at dry lips. The words were on his tongue, all he needed was the courage to utter them. And at last he found it. Staring straight ahead, looking at no one, he said: "I lied in my testimony to the enquiry, Sir." Shocked gasps whispered around the chamber at his words. "Lied?" The adjudicator's eyes turned hard as agate. "That is a serious offence, Lieutenant.""Yes Sir.""And what was the nature of your lie?""When the accident happened I was not travelling at the recommended safe speed for the Baleric debris-zone.""I see," the adjudicator replied, glancing down at the console before him. "In your testimony, you stated that you were travelling at one quarter impulse. Are you saying that is untrue?""Yes Sir. I was travelling at full impulse.""FULL impulse?" Mutters from the spectators interrupted T'Kara, until he quieted them with a swift motion of his hand. "And in your opinion, Lieutenant Paris, did your excessive speed contribute to the accident?"Tom licked his lips. This was it. This was the moment. "Yes Sir, it did. It was the cause of the accident. I'm responsible."Disbelieving cries echoed through the chamber behind him, and through the noise he thought he heard a woman sobbing. Clenching his jaw Tom stared straight ahead and watched as his father stood up and left the room, giving his son one final glance, a glance full of such deep disappointment that Tom knew he would remember it for the rest of his life. ***"Will it work?" Janeway asked looking dubiously at the contraption B'Elanna and the Doctor had created. "There's no way of knowing until we try," B'Elanna told her. "I'll be monitoring Mr Paris' neural activity the whole time, Captain," the Doctor assured her. "We can abort if it seems to be doing more harm than good."Janeway considered, looking down at her young pilot. He WAS young, she realised, watching him sleep. Too young to risk damaging further? Perhaps, but this time, at least, it wasn't her choice. She had become so used to making these life or death decisions for her crew, her family, that she'd forgotten that in this case, she didn't have to. Unlike many of her crew, Tom had next of kin here in the Delta Quadrant. Well, practically, anyway. She turned to B'Elanna."It's your decision, Lieutenant."Torres nodded in understanding and thanks. "I think it's worth a try Captain. I have to try and bring him back.""I know," Janeway replied. "I understand."***Eyes front, Tom marched along the endless corridor, trying to ignore the security team that escorted him. The door at the end was small, seemingly innocuous, but behind it lay his fate; the verdict of Starfleet Command. As they approached, their shoes click-clicking on the hard polished floor, the door hissed open and his father emerged into the corridor. The Admiral's face was flushed with anger.Suddenly light-headed, Tom felt the blood drain from his face. He knew what this meant. He knew why his father had come here, and he knew instinctively that he had failed. The Admiral could do no more for his wayward son, and Tom knew how much he must have hated trying.His father walked towards them, white hair glinting in the bright light, eyes mere chips of ice. Tom watched him, his gaze locked on the Admiral's face, looking for...what? Forgiveness? The Admiral stopped as they passed in the corridor, and gazed at his son with eyes full of injured pride. Tom trailed to a halt, the security team hanging back, unsure.For a long moment, they said nothing, father and son looking at each other over a chasm grown immeasurably wide. In the end the Admiral spoke first: "No favors."Tom nodded, understanding. "No favors." He wanted to say more, to apologise, explain...but he couldn't find the words. What his father thought, he could only imagine. "I'll tell your mother," was all he said before he turned and walked away, leaving Tom to face his fate alone. Alone. For the first time in his life he understood the word's meaning, and it terrified him; chilled him to the core, clamped a fist of ice around his mind. Feeling himself start to shake, Tom screwed stiff fingers into fists by his side and clamped his teeth together. "Let's go," a voice prompted him from a distance, and somehow his legs carried him forward once more.He had never felt so empty, so cold, so utterly abandoned. So afraid. And in that moment he realised that he had a choice; fight it, or succumb to the emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him. Tom chose to fight. And so he forced a smirk to touch his lips, made a glint of careless arrogance brighten his eyes; Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris, the sucker, was dead. He'd died with his crew on the Trafalgar. Welcome to the new world. Welcome to the new Tom Paris, the screw-up, the loser, the nobody. Welcome, and beware.After that, the proceedings streamed past in a blur, as if he was watching it happen to someone else. Who was that poor schmuck in the uniform? Why did he look so pale when they told him to hand over his Starfleet insignia? Why was his hand shaking when he signed his resignation papers? It wasn't him. It wasn't the new Tom Paris. He would never look that scared, that lost. Never.And then it was over, and he was standing outside, blinking in the sunlight, stripped of his rank, his uniform, his life. A nobody. And as he looked around him, at this new world, he had a curious sensation. For the world, it seemed, was beginning to accelerate, to rush towards him, around him, through him - images, people, sounds.... It was too much, too much to take in. And then the darkness was upon him and he was falling again, too fast, much too fast....***Continued in Part Two of "Instant Replay"...now posted!Thanks for reading! I love to get email, so let me know what you think so far! 106625.3210@compuserve.com