Second Chances  
By Lanna (liztai@hotmail.com)
Codes: P, All
Summary: Voyager becomes the center of an inter-dimensional battle when 
two alternate versions of Tom Paris appear onboard the starship. Takes 
place after Season 7's "Drive".

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters on Voyager. This story was written
because I love the show, not because I want to make a buck.

Notes: Some spoilers for Jeri Taylor's novel, "Pathways". No, make it 
*lots* of spoilers. You will need to read my AU story "Assassin" first 
to understand one of the characters -  You can get the story here: 
http://www.geocities.com/lanna2.geo/assasin.txt. Try not to skip this 
step as it'll enhance this story further. 

Recently, I discovered that Lisa A. Browning wrote a story with the same title. 
This was a mere coincidence, and after much thought (and after trying 
fruitlessly to come up with another title), I decided to stick with this one.  As 
you read the story, you'd understand why. Thanks to Sian for her careful
corrections, wise remarks and great patience! Thanks a mil! And of course I love feedback - 
write to me at liztai@hotmail.com. Chiao!

__________________
Prologue

Dimension 14790
Shima Territory,
Rugad Arilius.



	He lit his chuntpah. 
	Beneath his hood, the smoke wafted out, temporarily masking the 
putrid odour of rotten foodstuffs left at the side of the roads. Rain 
had pounded the Shima Territory relentlessly these past weeks, and it 
had only let up yesterday, leaving the streets muddy.
 	Cold blue eyes accessed the Romulan general dispassionately, 
watching out for weaknesses - they noticed a slight limp on the left 
leg and a tendency to favour the left hand for tasks. Also, the general 
did not go anywhere without an escort. And that escort was a very 
capable Tal Shiar agent.
	Anger simmered in his eyes.  
      Petty squabbles among Romulan ranks were a waste of his time and 
talents. But his employer thought that a hired assassin would be better 
than a hired hand from the Romulan empire. Untraceable, they thought.
	Perhaps, if his patience ran thin, he would leave some traces for 
these backstabbing Romulans to find. The Tal Shiar would be very 
interested to know that Praetor Zoles was intent on murdering the Right 
Hand of the Romulan Empress.
 	It was a foolish wish and a potentially deadly move for the 
Praetor. However, Zoles was intent on winning the Empress' favour, and 
without General Vitak in the way, he would do anything - even risk 
death.
	On schedule, he noticed the Tal Shiar escort stumble and look 
bewildered; then pained. He clutched his stomach and looked ashamed as 
he whispered something in the General's ear.
	General Vitak frowned in anger and whispered something harshly to 
the agent, which in turn made the agent blush a deep green.
	
	The mild poison that he had released into the agent's room was 
potent enough to cause acute pain. A lesser Romulan would have been 
rolling on the floor in agony by now - but the Tal Shiar had trained 
the agent well. At least, well enough to mask acute agony. 
	Both Romulans turned back, following the trail that would lead 
them to their official residence on this Romulan protectorate planet. 
There, the Tal Shiar agent would leave the general for a moment, a 
chance for *him* to do his job.
	He walked quietly behind them, pulling his muddied cloak around 
him. When the Tal Shiar agent looked back suspiciously, he turned down 
an alley. The maneuver would have made the Tal Shiar agent more 
suspicious, and if he was as good as they reported him to be - he would 
follow their shadow, corner it and rid them of the nuisance. But the 
Tal Shiar agent was in poor condition and would not risk a fight.
	He counted on that.
	As he rounded the corner that would bring him to the Praetor's 
temporary residence, he heard something that he never imagined he would 
hear again.
	"Tom Paris," called a voice.
	Only his induction into the ways of the Sharbokh, the ancient 
guild of Romulan Assassins, prevented him from freezing and turning 
around. Instead, he continued his normal pace. Only his hand sneaked 
into his cloak pocket to remove a concealed laser blade.
	"Tom Paris."
	This time, he stopped in shock.
	The voice was *too* close, as if whispered into his ear.
	He recoiled, but it was only a fraction of a second later that he 
struck out with the activated weapon to slice the neck of the intruder.
	The blade met nothing.
	His eyes widened and he whirled to the front, his pose defensive. 
The one that called his name stood before him, studying him with golden 
eyes. 
	The alien's skin was an ebony so deep that it seem to absorb 
light. It wore a black cloak that trailed on the muddy floor, but 
strangely enough, he realized, the alien was not wet from the rain, nor 
was his cloak stained from the mud.
 	The golden eyes flickererd in the dim evening light. They seemed 
to glow.	
 	"I have come to ease your pain," the alien said, its voice deep 
and resonant. It reached out a hand.  
	Tom knew better than to sit back and wait. With a flick of his 
hand, he threw the blade at the creature's neck. The weapon sank into 
the alien's throat with a wet sound, slowed before emerging from the 
other side to land heavily on the muddy ground below. The hole in the 
alien's neck began to close.
	Tom could only stare in shock as the wound began to seal as the 
alien stood there, not bleeding, still breathing.
	"Do not fight," it chastised. "I have come to correct the 
failure," it replied. Then the hand touched his forehead.
	Tom wanted to flinch away, strike the creature, but he could not 
move. Paralysing pain gripped his body and he began to shake. 
	Then there was a bright light, and everything went away.


___________________
Chapter 1


Dimension 20895
Marseilles, France.
Earth.


 	Moira Paris hated the bar, so she had to remind herself why she 
was here, and how important it was to her.
	
 	The rough and scruffy customers of the bar studied her with mild 
curiosity. Most were nursing a drink. Moira Paris certainly looked out 
of place in this establishment; what with her elegant white pant suite 
and her straight, long blonde hair in a neat ponytail. Tom had once 
described her colourfully: "a classy lady that would make a seedy hovel 
cry out in shame". This hovel was screaming now. She did not understand 
why Tom would want to stay *here*. 
 	She brushed a stray lock from her eyes and scanned the room 
anxiously, hoping he would be here.
	She had searched for him for so long. If not for the sporadic 
messages their mother received, they couldn't be sure if Tom was dead 
or alive. Then six months ago, the messages stopped. Moira and Kathleen 
had pleaded to their father to do something, anything. After all, they 
had argued, he was a Starfleet Admiral. He could pull strings, send 
someone to look for him.
	But Owen Paris would always give them a steely glare and say the 
same thing: "If he wants to be found, he will tell us where he is."
	After nearly two years - two years after the terrible trial where 
Tom revealed that he had lied about the shuttle accident that killed 
three people - Admiral Owen Paris had still not forgiven his son.
	They knew their father well. He was not the sort to tolerate 
flaws or weaknesses in his cadets, much less his son.
 	"Give him time," Elizabeth Paris would say in her soft, level 
voice. "Your father needs time. So does Tom. Things will be alright."
	Only their mother had sounded defeated, not hopeful. And each 
time she received a missive from Tom - usually a dismissive "Hi Mom. 
Having a great time. Will write soon." - she would lock herself in her 
room and cry. 
	So the sisters decided to take things into their own hands. It 
took some poking and the liberal use of the Paris name, but they found 
him. He had been staying in a bar in Marseilles, France for the past 
six months.
	"Can I help you?" asked a French-accented voice.
	Moira jumped, but composed her face in time to face the blonde 
woman behind the bar. When she did that, the woman's face changed from 
mild curiosity to surprise.
	"You are looking for Tom, oui?"
	Surprised, Moira could only blink. Then she said, "Yes! I heard 
he was staying here-"
	"Yes he is," the woman said gravely. "I'm Sandrine. You must be 
his sister. The resemblance is strong," she nodded, as if confirming a 
fact.
	Moira only returned the nod, feeling impatient. She cared only 
for Tom. "Please, can you take me to him? I need-"
	Sandrine came to her side so quickly, Moira did not have time to 
finish her sentence.
	"Oui, I will bring you to him. He needs you. If you had not come, 
I thought of contacting his family. Come, this way."

	Sandrine led her behind the bar to a flight of stairs that looked 
rickety but seemed sturdy enough to be climbed. As they walked up the 
stairs, Sandrine spoke in a low, hushed voice.
	"He spoke often about your family. Especially about an elegant 
and beautiful sister he adored," Sandrine threw her a knowing smile. "I 
can see that he misses his family, so I do not know why he does not 
return." Sandrine gave her a pointed look that was a question in 
itself.
	Moira did not know how to answer her. She just looked away.
 	Sandrine took her silence in stride, continuing: "I heard about 
the accident. I can understand why he is this way. But your brother, he 
is not well," Sandrine said worriedly, confirming what Moira had 
suspected. 
	Moira was immediately anxious. "In what way?"
	"He sometimes spends days in the room - does not come out. 
Sometimes, he forgets to eat - but don't worry, I force him to eat. Tom 
and I, we are old friends, you can say. He is a shadow of his old self 
- back when he was here with his Odilee, he was life itself! But now...I 
tried to ask him once why he was this way, but he looked...terrified." 
Sandrine gave her a look that was a cross between puzzlement and worry.
	"Terrified?"
	"Oui. I think...sometimes, he looks beyond my shoulder, and his 
face becomes white, his eyes large. He looks, frightened! I look 
behind, but there's nothing there. This has happened many times. I have 
tried to ask why but he just waves me away. He doesn't want to talk 
about it, he says," Sandrine's French accent became more pronounced as 
she became agitated.
	Moira frowned. What Sandrine was telling her...it sounded like Tom 
was suffering from depression. Or something worse. Moira blanched, 
thinking about Sandrine's statement about him being frightened by 
something unseen. "How long has he been this way?" she whispered.
	"I think it has happened a long time before he came to my bar six 
months ago. Although he fears what he sees, he does not appear to be 
surprised by them."
	Was it true then? Were the rumours she heard two years ago from 
the USS Copernicus crewmen true? 
 	She had been treating some members of the crew for wounds 
sustained in a violent plasma storm when they docked at Deep Space 5, 
where she had performed her residency. They had commented that Tom had 
"lost it" before the trial where he confessed his lies. 
	"He crawled on his hands and knees to sickbay. Saw him myself," 
the ensign from Astrometrics had said.
	"Really?" asked his female crewman curiously. 
	"Shame, really. He was had a good pedigree," the ensign had said 
morosely - as if he cared, which Moira seriously doubted.
	By that time, she had exited the sickbay in a fit of rage, and 
nothing could bring her back to treat the crewmen, not even Dr. Zolan's 
threat to have her residency cancelled.
	"I'm glad you came, Moira. I am so worried for him."
	Moira blinked, brought back to the present by Sandrine's voice. 
	They finally landed on the first floor. There appeared to be only 
one room on the level, and as Sandrine rapped on the single brown door, 
Moira clenched her fists in fear and anxiety. 
	"Tom? There's someone here to see you," Sandrine said gently.
	No answer.
	Sandrine knocked again. "Tom? Please open the door."
	Moira heard a faint shuffling behind the door. Sandrine gave her 
a hopeful look before she stopped away, giving Moira full view of the 
door. 
 	She steeled herself when the door opened a crack and a blue eye 
peered through. It scanned Sandrine, then shifted to her and widened. 
She smiled at it hesitantly, hoping the smile looked natural, not as 
strained as she felt now. The eye lingered on her for a while, then the 
door creaked open slowly.
	Despite telling herself to expect the worse, nothing prepared her 
for Tom's condition. He was thinner, his face gaunt and unshaven. His 
blond hair, usually cut according to Starfleet standard now fell in 
unruly waves almost to his shoulders. His pale features were made worse 
by the brown shirt he wore over his scruffy black pants. But what 
shocked her were his deadened eyes, and the furtive look he cast about 
them; as if he expected someone to jump out from the shadows any 
moment.
	"What...what are you doing here?" he rasped. His voice was weak and 
unsteady.
	Moira's chin trembled, and it was difficult not to let her tears 
fall. She brushed a hand brusquely over an escaping tear and looked up, 
forcing a smile.
	"Why, I came to take you home, Tommy," her voice sounded strained 
to her ears, but she didn't want Tom to see how distraught she was over 
his condition. Not until she ran a medical tricorder over him to find 
out what was wrong with him.
	Tom's shoulders slumped - not the reaction she expected. She 
expected outrage, some sulking - or even some sarcastic tongue-lashing 
- but not this defeated look he gave hher.
	"Tom...please," she pleaded, not knowing what she pleaded for. She 
reached out hesitantly to touch his shoulders. "You're obviously not 
well. I can't...you can't go on like this. Please come home - Mom is 
worried sick. Dad...dad is too," she pleaded, all pretence of happiness 
gone.
	"You're lying," he said almost immediately, his eyes narrowing. 
Some spark returned to the blue eyes. Moira recognized it as anger. 
Good. Good. Let him be angry. Anything but this depressed shell of a 
man.
	She was, indeed, lying. Admiral Paris had been dismissive and 
aloof about his only son. As far as he was concerned, he had no son. 
When their father became angry, he stayed angry for a long time.
	Her mother had tried to explain it away, saying that that was her 
father's way- he loved his son so much that anger was the only reaction 
he would naturally have when Tom threw his life away. And Kathleen had 
agreed with Elizabeth Paris, which secretly angered Moira - though she 
knew that her sister took after their patient mother and would not even 
blame a fly if it caused a Denebian plague. 
 	"Anger at himself, more than anything else, Moira," Elizabeth had 
told her once. "He's mad at himself, at Starfleet, even at Caldik 
Prime. He's confused and he needs time to sort things out."  
	
	"It doesn't matter," she told Tom forcefully, pulling herself 
from the memories. "I'm taking you home, whether you like it or not. 
Then I'm going to make you well again, do you understand me?" her voice 
became a plea towards the end, and she reached out to touch his hand.
	He touched hers tentatively. They were cold. To her surprise, she 
saw tears in her brother's eyes. He had stopped crying when he was six 
- a Paris did not cry, went the sayingg  in the family. Tom had not even 
cried after the accident, nor after the trial when his life seemed 
absolutely ruined. She rushed to him immediately, desperate to comfort 
her little brother the way she did when he was small, anything to take 
the pain away. She wrapped her arms around him as sobs shook his body.
	 she pleaded silently, but Tom did 
something she never though he'd do, and it terrified her more. 
 	He begged.
	"Please help me, Moira. I'm so scared," he whispered. 
	Moira wrapped her arms tightly around her brother biting her 
bottom lip to stop the tears. She wanted to protect him from the demons 
that haunted him, but she knew that no matter how hard she tried, they 
would never go away with her strength alone.

	
	For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating again. So he waited 
for it to pass, and when Moira smiled at him, something sparked and he 
realized she was real.
 	She stood there in the dark corridor, looking so serene and 
peaceful in her elegant beauty. She radiated the confidence and 
stability that he craved, and when she smiled, he felt safe for a 
little while. 
 	Moira's smile assured him the way it had when he had left the big 
doors of the Academy courtroom, effectively cashiered from Starfleet. 
"You're still my brother, Tommy. Nothing can change that," and she had 
smiled that smile and had taken his hand, leading him away from that 
horrible place that left him without a reason to live.
 	For a while, her bright presence made him forget about *them*.
	Sometimes they would creep up behind him, terrifying him when he 
happened to glance at a mirror or look behind. Sometimes they appeared 
behind the shoulders of people he spoke to. Most of the time, they 
appeared to him when he was alone, usually on the verge of sleep.
	They - Odile, Charlie...Bruno - never left him alone.
	He thought he would get used to them, perhaps be less afraid as 
time went, but the terror was fresh after each encounter. The guilt, 
worse. They were still unappeased; despite his life being irrevocably 
ruined. The spirits of his slain friends and lover were not satisfied. 
They wanted something more from him.
	And as time passed, they grew more and more disfigured by decay. 
Sometimes he could smell their rot. They stared at him with milky eyes, 
and the accusation in them left him in torment.
	He thought of going to Betazed - to search for Lissine, the 
Betazoid who had awakened the darkness within him. But he never made it 
past the shuttleport - because Odile would always block his path, 
staring at him with sad, listless eyes.
	They didn't want him to leave.
	When he slept, his sleep was haunted by nightmares - 
usually of something chasing him, or worse, memories of their happy 
times together. Those hurt him more than the chasing dreams because the 
dreams alluded to the fact that these things would happen again. But 
that could not be. When the nightmares became worse, he found his mind 
trapping him in inexplicable mazes in which he found himself trying to 
correct the wrong, trying to prevent it. Trying to avoid all the voices 
and faces that accused him. People he knew, like his father, his 
mother. The captain. Charlie's mother. A priest he had met as a child. 
A stranger on the street. There was no escape. 
	The only escape he found was through alcohol, which deadened him 
and threw him into dreamless sleep. For a time. Then that, too, did not 
work. *They* had found a way to break through. Soon, he discovered  
sleeping medications - sleep, but no dreams. He was safe at night. But 
it did not stop them from visiting him during the day. So, he often 
took the medication during the day. But, he could not always be asleep.
	Sometimes he tried speaking to them, but their decaying 
appearance unnerved him too much for him to try. And the guilt. It was 
the guilt that stopped him the most. And the fear of what they would 
say. What they would demand. 
 	He was pulled back into the present. Saw Moira looking at him 
anxiously and he turned away, fixing his eyes on the fast moving 
scenery outside, wishing everything would just go away.
	Everything happened in a blur after they left Sandrine. Moira had 
wrapped some sort of coat around him and had bundled him into a 
transport. She spoke to him, but he didn't understand what she was 
saying - all he could do was close his eyes and wish the exhaustion 
that had plagued him these past two years would go away. He knew she 
was worried about him, and a part of him that still cared wondered how 
his mother and Kathleen - he didn't care much about what his father 
thought  - would react to his condition.
	Admiral Owen Paris. Did he care that his son was alive? Did he 
care that his son was on the verge of insanity? Did he care beyond the 
fact that the Paris name had been sullied by his apparent heir? Did he 
love his son?
	Once, Tom was sure of the answer. But now, torn apart by years of 
strained silence between them, he was no longer sure. Not that he 
cared, he quickly thought.
Their last conversation - two years ago - had been disastrous.
	"All that effort, all that training, all that investment in 
Starfleet! After all I've done for you, after all I've taught you - you 
lied! You did the thing I taught you never to do. A Starfleet officer 
upholds his fellow officers, he does not frame them for pilot error!! 
Do you know what this means, Tom? You can never fly again! Not in 
Starfleet, not out there. What kind of life are you going to have? 
Spinning the dabo wheel in some Ferengi bar? You threw your life away, 
Tom! Damn it-" his father clenched his teeth in an effort to control 
himself.
	Tom had always feared his father. He wanted his approval so badly 
that his whole life was spent as if he walked on a tight rope; taking 
one false step would have led to disaster. And did he ever fall.
	And he reacted the way he always did when his father showed his 
disapproval. With anger.
	"You mean *your* life, Dad? What, you lost your trophy son? No 
one to brag about to your admiral friends anymore? Well, if that's so, 
I'm glad I've *thrown away my life*! I'm glad to see you disgraced! And 
I'm glad to be the one to do it!!" his voice had risen a notch with 
each word until he had screamed the last word.
	"You idiot," Owen Paris said in a harsh, low voice. He looked as 
if he wanted to strike his son. "You damn idiot! Get out of my sight. 
Get out of my sight, and don't you ever come back to this house again!" 
his voice rose in fury.
	Each word had cut into his heart like a knife, but he somehow 
forced a smug grin on his face. "Gladly, Dad. Gladly. You won't see me 
again. I promise that much."
	It took ten minutes to gather what he needed - and he was gone.
	And now...he was crawling back again. He felt humiliated, but at 
the same time he wanted so desperately to return to the comfort of the 
familiar - to Kathleen, who sat by the lake to paint every Sunday 
evening. To his mother, who baked the best apple pie. To Moira, who 
made Medical school the most exciting topic at the dinner table. He 
wanted all that like a man dying of thirst wanted water. Something 
normal, something that protected him from the ghosts that would never 
leave him alone.
	
	Even as he thought that, he knew how frail the hope sounded. And 
how very empty the promise was.
	Exhausted, Tom could only curl his body closer to his corner. 
Finally, he lost the battle and fell asleep.

	Moira looked at her brother anxiously when he finally slumped in 
his corner. Gently, she took out her medical tricorder - she never left 
home without it - and scanned him. She was afraid that the beeping 
noise it made would wake him, so she cut the sound and watched the 
instrument intently. He slept on, apparently exhausted from whatever 
ordeal he had gone through.
	She frowned at the readings. Dangerously low glucose levels. Some 
signs of malnutrition. Exhaustion...and she read slightly elevated 
dopamine levels. Moira's heart fluttered. Could it be true? Was Tom 
hallucinating?
	She toyed with the idea of sending him to the hospital 
immediately - but she remembered his eyes lighting up at the mention of 
home and thought against it. No, Tom needed something reassuring right 
now, not the cold, sterile confines of a hospital.
	They arrived at the transport area in Paris half an hour later. 
With the help of the driver - a Starfleet ensign who had assisted her 
in her search - they supported Tom as he alighted the transport. He 
looked dazed and confused and paid no attention to his surroundings as 
she spoke to the Ensign to arrange the transport to San Francisco.
	Gently, she guided her brother to the assigned transporter bay, 
trying to get a response from him through empty banter. She tried to 
keep her fear in check when she realized how weak and disoriented he 
was. So she continued her banter, hoping he would come to life a little 
or, at least, be assured by her voice. Tom didn't seem to react until 
she mentioned her mom baking him his favourite dessert.
	He looked at her slowly and smiled a faint smile. "Apple pie?" he 
asked.
	Moira nodded. "Apple pie," she replied, blinking tears.


	When they rematerialized at the lakeside, she felt Tom tense 
beside her. Quickly, Moira shot him a look and was relieved to see a 
smile on his face.
	"The gardens...they're beautiful. Mom - I forgot how much she loved 
the lake and the gardens," he said quietly.
	Moira smiled and patted him on the shoulder. Before the 
transport, she had given Kathleen a call - telling her to tell Mom to 
expect them. Elizabeth had grabbed the communicator from her daughter 
and demanded, in a breathless voice, whether Tom was alright. Moira 
didn't know how to answer her, but she finally said: "Please don't 
expect much, Mom. But please don't make him feel bad either."
  	She finally saw them. Kathleen and Elizabeth Paris stood at the 
end of the garden. Elizabeth had her hands clenched, while Kathleen - 
calm Kathleen - was rubbing her shoulders as if she was cold.
	"Tom..." she motioned towards them. 
	Tom's eyes lit up and he smiled hesitantly. That did it - 
Kathleen and Elizabeth ran towards him and enveloped him in a hug, 
crying and laughing at the same time.


	He was home.
	He felt Kathleen and his mother's arms around him, and how happy 
they were. He felt glad, but he still felt strangely hollow - and that 
alarmed him a little. He had been hoping to feel more when he set foot 
on his home soil. When he pulled away, he wanted to smile, but then his 
eyes shifted to the lake - just to see what it was like, that favourite 
spot of his mom's - when he saw *her*.
	He paled, and he began to shake. He wanted to scream in terror, 
but he did not have the strength. 
 	His legs shook as he stared at Odile. Her condition had worsened 
since the last time she had appeared to him. Her flesh had long turned 
blue. Her eyes were no longer a vibrant green as they had been in life. 
They were filmed over in death, and flakes of skin peeled around the 
eye sockets.
 	She was suffering, he thought. And he imagined her body, lost in 
space - deprived of the peace it sought on home soil. 
 	She stared fixedly at him - reminding him that he was the one 
that condemned her to a life of the living dead.  
 	 Odile whispered in 
his mind. He had stopped debating whether the voice was real. It was 
real. It was just...real.
	Faintly, he heard his mother calling out to him as if from a 
great distance. Someone shook his shoulders. With great effort, he 
pulled his gaze from Odile to fix it on his mother's.
	She was afraid. Her blue eyes were wide, and her mouth moved. She 
was saying something, but he found it too difficult to concentrate on 
the words.
	He only shook his head and pulled away from them, walking 
woodenly towards the house - afraid that they would see his tears.


___________________
Chapter 2

	"Why do you want to be a scientist, Kathleen?"
	Kathleen remembered raising an eyebrow at her then pesky 12-year-
old brother, wondering why she had to answer his question, knowing that 
he'd use the answer to annoy her.
	"Because I like exo-biology," she replied simply, returning her 
gaze at the complex equations before her. Declared a prodigy, her tutor 
had recommended her entrance to Oxford University at age 9, the oldest, 
and most prestigious university on Earth. She was to start on her PhD 
next semester. 
	Tom, thin and gawky, as boys his age were, was relentless. "Why 
do you like exo-biology?"
	"Because aliens are fascinating."
	"Why?"
	"Because they're not my irritating brother, that's why," replied 
18-year-old Kathleen, wishing earnestly that he would shut up.
	"He's trying to needle you, Kath," Moira had said from her seat, 
looking extremely amused. 
	"Why doesn't he needle you?" Kathleen accused, honestly wondering 
herself.           
	"Because I'm never patient like you are, so he doesn't bother," 
Moira had answered, returning her gaze to her textbook. At 16, Moira 
was already preparing for her medical entrance exams, and by the looks 
of her scores, she was going to gain an easy entrance to the 
prestigious medical university in Iowa she had set her eyes on.
	Tom shook her arms again, "Why not piloting, Kath? Like me? Do 
you like flying like me? When I grow up, I'm going to fly a starship 
like Dad-"
	"Daddy's a Captain," she had replied patiently, correcting his 
mistake.
	"Yeah, well, it's better than exo-biology," he had taunted. And 
when Kathleen reached out to smack him with her PADD, he had skipped 
away, laughing gleefully.

	Kathleen could still hear that gleeful laugh as she gazed at the 
sleeping form on the bed. But it was a mocking memory of a time where 
their lives were more predictable, and their futures secure.
	After stumbling into the house, Tom had suddenly collapsed on his 
knees in the living room, apparently too weak to climb up the stairs to 
his room. His condition frightened them; it sent their mother into a 
frenzy of anxiety, where she rushed to the communicator to contact 
their father. She and Moira had helped Tom to his old room, where he 
promptly collapsed on his bed, fast asleep.
	 Kathleen reached out to touch his brow. No fever. Somehow, she 
had expected some physical symptoms, but Moira had said that 
physically, he was fine except for some signs of malnutrition and 
exhaustion, both easily rectified. It was his depression that made him 
so exhausted.
 	Tom was sleeping on his side, his face almost buried beneath the 
blankets that came up to his chin. He slept the sleep of a man who has 
not known real rest for a long time.
	 she wondered, feeling an 
old familiar sorrow in her heart. 
	It pained her when he had left hastily two years ago. Part of her 
felt guilty that she had not stopped him. If she had, perhaps he would 
not be in this state now.
	But the look in his eyes had stopped her. It was full of pain and 
anger; and Kathleen instinctively knew that he had to go away to deal 
with those issues.
	But perhaps, that had not been the way.
 	To be honest, *she* had not known how to deal with the loss of 
his bright future. She did not know what to say to him, and worse, when 
he had the trial that would effectively cashier him out of Starfleet, 
she had not attended. She regretted her decision till this day.
 	Especially *this* day.  
	She brushed stray locks that fell from his forehead.
	"Dr. Peterson is coming soon."
	Kathleen jumped a little. She turned to look at the shadowed form 
at the door of her brother's room.
	"Moira, you scared me."
	Moira walked straight to Tom, pulling out her medical tricorder. 
She was silent as she studied the readings.
	"Any word from Dad?" Kathleen asked for perhaps the twelfth time.
 	"No," Moira replied curtly. "Damn it," she cursed suddenly. She 
turned away, rubbing her forehead with her right hand. Kathleen could 
see her clenching the tricorder tightly.
	"Moira," she said softly, going to her. "What is it?"  
	Moira turned to face her and blinked away tears. "I can cure 
physical illnesses, Kath. But...this is not my area! I feel so *damn* 
useless!" 
	Kathleen nodded, understanding. Tom and Moira...they were more like 
their father than they would ever admit. All three wanted control in 
every situation, and when they had no control, they could not accept 
it.
	Kathleen put her arms around her sister, and felt Moira sniffing 
over her shoulder. "He's going to be okay, Moira. He's back home now, 
and we're going to make it okay for him again," she promised.
	Moira pulled back and brusquely wiped her tears away.
	"We have to get Dad," she announced. With that, she marched away 
from the room, her shoulders stiff with determination.
	Kathleen could only watch her go and return to Tom's bedside. 
Settling into her chair, she watched the placid lake through the 
window, wondering how the setting sun could make such a beautiful place 
gloomy. Then she turned back to her brother, hoping he'd wake up to 
drink some water.


*	*	*


 	"Do you think it'll be a girl?"
	Tom opened his eyes, the question still ringing in his ears.
	Odile had visited his dreams again, and this time, she became the 
future they'd hoped to have. Pregnant with his child, flushed with the 
first bloom of motherhood.
	It tortured him.
	"Tom, do you want some water?"
	He blinked, and his eyes focused on the woman beside his bed. 
	"Kathy," he murmured. 
	Kathleen smiled, and helped him sit up. He sipped at the water 
cautiously and shook his head to indicate he had enough. Kathleen 
merely nodded. 
	"Your hair. You cut it," he remarked.
	Kathleen touched her hair in reaction, smiling. 
	Like Moira, Kathleen was stunningly beautiful. But unlike Moira's 
icy and perfect beauty, Kathleen was a gentler version which reminded 
him of their mother. Her hair had always cascaded around her shoulders 
in gentle waves, not tied up in the recent style like Moira's and her 
blue eyes always held humour and understanding.
	He had missed her.
	"You've been asleep for almost eight hours. Do you want to eat 
something?" Kathleen asked gently, helping him lie down.
	"No," he murmured, averting his eyes. "I want to be alone," he 
said hoarsely. He saw something flicker in Kathleen's gentle eyes 
before she nodded. It made him feel guilty.
	After a few seconds, he opened his eyes a little and saw that 
Kathleen was walking towards the door. When the doors slid quietly 
behind her, he sank into the bedclothes, shivering and staring at the 
darkness.
	But he didn't want to be alone, not really.
 	But he couldn't deal with Kathleen, or Moira, or even his mother 
now. He could see the questions in their eyes and now, he was just too 
exhausted to answer them all. So he stared into the darkness for a long 
time, trembling in fear, waiting for *them* to visit him again.
 	He always thought of his sins - what he had done, the crimes he 
had committed, the crimes to which he had confessed. It was a vicious 
cycle that kept repeating itself in his mind over and over again, 
tormenting him with questions of What If?
 	And from the start of his nightmare with the phantoms that 
haunted his dreams and waking moments, he had confided in no one. Not 
to the Doctors, not to his family, and especially not to Starfleet 
Medical.
 	The 'Fleet was only interested in culpability of the resulting 
accident. Such an organization could not worry about the anger 
generated by the actions of a selfish father that drove his selfish son 
into completely disregarding the responsibility he had for his fellow 
officers. They had branded him as a coward, a liar - worse, a traitor. 
Starfleet had casted him away like a worn out warp core. 
 	But he had been selfish, so very selfish. And his selfishness 
caused the innocent to die. So, in essence, maybe it had not been an 
accident that they died. 
	But the accident was just waiting to happen.
 	Tom shifted in his bed, closing his eyes, willing his turbulent 
mind to stop debating and jabbering, but it went on, and he heard his 
voice, so calm and rational, speaking out in defense of his actions.
 	
 	But he was guilty. He lived and they died. Where was their 
justice?   
 	  
 	Was he to be punished forever? What more could he do to appease 
them? 
 	Images of their exploding spacecrafts crept into his mind. He 
imagined Odile crying out in terror as she was burnt alive-
	Tears escaped his eyes, and he turned his face aside, letting 
them fall. Then he began to sob his fear and grief in earnest, ashamed 
of his weakness.
 	His days were filled with these thoughts and more. Over and over 
and over. Analyzing. Reanalyzing. It never ended. Except when he slept.  
 	Tom burrowed deeper into his covers, willing himself to sleep.
	If he slept, he would be at peace.
 
*	*	*

	He spent the next few days asleep in his old room - nothing had 
been touched there. Everything was where it had been when he left it 
two years ago, but it brought no comfort to him. He downed the sleeping 
pills discreetly, afraid that Moira would discover them and throw them 
away. On the fourth day, after their cajoling and talking failed to 
rouse him from his sleep, Moira had appeared by his bedside with a 
hypospray. He blinked at it lazily, wondering what she would do with 
it.
	"I'm administering an anti-depressant, Tom. It will help you," 
she whispered as she injected the medication. 
	Did that mean she was a Doctor now? When he left home two years 
ago, Moira had been in her last year in Medical school. Had she made it 
already? Was she Dr. Paris now? Vaguely he heard a strange, male voice 
in the room. Who was it? Why couldn't he recognize it? The answers to 
these questions seemed too difficult to contemplate, so he slipped into 
sleep once more.
 
*	*	*

	"I'm so afraid for him, Moira," her mother whispered, listlessly 
pounding the dough on the kitchen counter.
	"Dr. Peterson did say he would recover, didn't he?" Kathleen 
asked, her voice strained with worry.
	"Yes he will. He *must*," Moira answered, her eyes narrowing. She 
was seated near the kitchen table, studying Dr. Peterson's reports on 
Tom's condition. So far they confirmed her diagnosis. Dr. Peterson 
recommended transfer to Starfleet Medical once he was more stable - 
perhaps in two days.
	"Have you called your father?" Elizabeth asked, her expression 
tight. For days they had tried to contact the Admiral, but it had been 
the same message: He was `engaged' and there was a `communications 
black out'. This time, Moira had an answer for them.
	"He was in the Donari Sector with the Enterprise. They were 
searching for some damn Maquis base. They said he is on the way back," 
Moira replied bitterly.
	"When he transports back, I'll have a word with him," Elizabeth 
said.
	"No," Moira said quickly. "I will."
	"Moira-"
	"Mom. I found Tom. I know what's wrong with him."
	Elizabeth knew it was more than that, and she wondered whether it 
was wrong of her to dissuade her daughter from doing it.
	"Alright, Moira. Alright."

*	*	*


	"Kathleen...do you believe in ghosts?"
	Kathleen stopped her knitting to look at his bundled form before 
the fireplace. It was evening, and because of the cool autumn air, they 
had lit the fireplace early.
 	 She forced a smile. It had been five days since he had returned 
home, and this was the first time he had initiated a conversation. 
Perhaps this was a good sign.
 	"Not particularly. Scientists don't usually indulge in 
superstition," she answered, giving him a small smile.
	That was obviously not the right answer. Tom turned away from 
her, fixing his eyes on the flickering of the fire.
 	Inwardly, Kathleen cringed, dismayed by his reaction to her 
answer. Frantically, she tried to understand what she had said wrong, 
but she could not come up with an answer. 
 	She put aside her knitting and knelt beside his armchair, taking 
his hand in hers. He stirred, turning to look at her. She wanted so 
desperately for him to smile a genuine smile, or for him to tease her 
the way he had in the past, even if the jibes made her mad most of the 
time.
	"Tom, you can talk to me," she said softly.
	"Can I?" he whispered, his voice flat.
	Kathleen blinked, and remembered how she had been so stunned by 
his trial that she couldn't bear to attend. But she had apologized to 
him later, although he did not acknowledge her. Sometimes Kathleen felt 
that she was no better than their father; that in some way she had 
betrayed him. 
	"I'm sorry I've never been there for you. But you know I love 
you, Tom. Please, tell me what...what I can do for you?" she wanted to 
ask him what was wrong with him, what made him this way, but she didn't 
want to remind him of his condition.
	"I want you to make the ghosts leave," he said, lines of pain 
forming beneath his pale eyes. "I want to stop being afraid."
	Kathleen was frightened by his answer, but she pushed on, 
desperate to understand what was happening to him. She bit her lower 
lip and gripped his hand. Moira had told her that he was possibly 
seeing things. She had not welcomed that possibility, but Tom was 
trying to tell her something, and she was not going to let it pass - 
even if it terrified her that her brother could be losing his mind.
 	"Do you know these ghosts? Can you tell me what they do?" 
 	He looked at her as if he was deciding if she could or would 
understand or if he would be wasting his time. 
 	"Please, Tom. I want to help you and I can't do that if you don't 
tell me what's happening."
	 He stared at her a little more, seeming to make a decision. He 
took a deep breath. "Odile. Bruno. Charlie."  
 	Kathleen felt her heart pound harder. In as calm a voice as she 
could muster, she asked: 
	"Are they here now, Tom?"
 	Eerily, his eyes shifted somewhere behind her left shoulder.  
	"Yes," he said in a curiously flat voice, still staring at that 
imaginary spot.
	"What are they doing?"
	His lower lip trembled and he squeezed her hand in a sudden vise-
like grip. He rubbed his temples with his other hand, as if to will 
something terrible away.  He closed his eyes, his breath coming in 
harsh gasps.
	She could guess what was running through his tormented mind, and 
she ached from the knowledge.
 	"Tom, it was an accident," she said, her voice firm. She hoped 
she didn't sound as frightened as she felt, because she was terrified 
now. "You confessed and you were punished accordingly. It's in the past 
now."
 	"Oh God, how can it be in the past if they're here?" he said in a 
pathetically small voice, his eyes still closed, his hand still to his 
head. His body shook like a reed. "They hate me, they hate me, they 
hate me-" he whispered monotonously.
 	"Tommy, don't say that!" she cried, desperate now. "Don't think 
that. They were your friends. They would understand it was an accident. 
They would understand you were afraid and they would be relieved you 
finally told the truth-"
	He continued to tremble violently, caught in his private torment. 
He looked as if he was trying to suppress his tears, but doing it 
unsuccessfully. Even in the most dire straits, he still refused to cry 
- a Paris to the last.
	"Tom!" she reached out for him.
	He jerked his hand away from her touch as if it was acid. He got 
to his feet and stumbled away from the chair.
	"Tom, please-" she rose, going after him.
	He only looked at her with dazed blue eyes, his expression slack.
	"I need to sleep now," he whispered, walking unsteadily away.

		  
 

*	*	*

 
	Moira looked up from Dr. Peterson's reports to see Moira standing 
at the doorway to the study. Kathleen looked strange.
 	"What's wrong, Kathy?"
	Kathleen's eyes were red from recently shed tears. She was the 
only one in the family that was not shy about her tears, Moira noted 
absently. 
	Kathleen sighed and turned her head away for a while.
	"Tommy-" she closed her eyes for a few seconds, her face 
contorting in pain. "I checked up on him, and he's asleep in his room. 
He just told me- God, I wish I knew what was going through his mind! He 
has to go to Starfleet Medical *today* Moira," she said with 
uncharacteristic sternness.
	Moira thought the same, but somehow, she knew that wasn't the 
issue now. "What's wrong?" she insisted, her brows coming together in a 
frown.
	Kathleen fixed her with a look that made her pause for a while. 
It was a frank, somber look - something Kathleen reserved for big 
revelations.
 	"I never seem to say the right things to him, Moira. I want to 
reach out so much to him but..." she paused to take a deep breath, then 
returned her gaze to Moira. It was steadier, calmer now. "I love him so 
much, but he loves you more," she said softly.
	Moira felt a mix of emotions - hurt, at Kathleen's assumption. 
Anger, which she quickly smothered - at Tom who made Kathleen feel that 
way, and guilt, because secretly, she had known it all along - and had 
enjoyed the privilege of being the favourite sister. 
 	Moira fixed her eyes on the PADDs before her, not sure how to 
answer Kathleen.
	"I'm sorry, Moira," Kathleen said after a brief silence. She 
looked embarrassed by her outburst. "I didn't want to bring this up."
 	Moira could only give her older sister a small smile. "Kathy...I 
want to prove you wrong one day," she could only say.
 	Suddenly, the communicator in the study beeped. Kathleen walked 
to it, and saw the message on the screen. She looked uncertain.
	"What? What is it?" Moira asked, half rising from her seat. She 
wondered if Dr. Peterson had discovered something else about Tom's 
condition...
	"Daddy's home," Kathleen responded, her eyes shadowed. "I'll be 
with Mom," and she left Moira alone.
 	
*	*	*
 
 	Tom had left the room after Moira checked on him. He thought then 
that he had to get away from the house full of people, to be alone to 
figure things out. So he had left his suddenly claustrophobic room to 
wander by the lakeside, hoping that happy memories of that place would 
bring some comfort to him.
	But the ghosts came to him anyway - the place he thought he was 
safest: the lakeside, where he had spent many peaceful evenings with 
his family in the past.
 	She had appeared behind him, and had laid a hand on his shoulder. 
It shocked him of course, terrified him as usual - was he never going 
to be rid of this exhausting fear?
	He was so tired. Tired of being afraid all the time.
	Odile stared at him with her filmy eyes. He shrank away from her, 
stumbling into the lake, feeling his bare feet sinking, muddy into the 
shore.
	He looked at Odile. Then stiffened when he felt something behind 
him. He turned - it was Charlie. He stumbled away, only to collide with 
something else. He didn't have to look to see that it was Bruno.
	"Why are you doing this to me?" he pleaded to the apparitions. 
"Haven't I done enough? Haven't I cleared your names? What else do you 
want from me?!" he asked desperately, shivering miserably.
	 taunted his own voice in his head.
	Tom clamped his hands over his ears to stifle the voice, but it 
droned on. This time it was Charlie's voice that taunted him.
	
	"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" but it was more of a plea than 
anything else.
	And they did. After so long - he didn't know exactly how long - 
he looked up. Odile was still there, only she was staring at him with 
some sympathy in her filmy eyes.
	"What do you want from me, Odile?"
	But she had disappeared.
	Exhausted, he sank to his knees, then lay on the mud, too tired 
to care.
	Water lapped to the shore. He stretched his arm to touch the 
water, just an inch from his face.  
	He was tired, so very tired. 
	He could not pull himself up again if his life depended on it. 
Nor could he endure another day. Another day of living in his own head. 
Never able to sleep. Never able to rest. 
	He closed his eyes.
 	It all had to end somehow.
	

	Admiral Owen Paris was clearly exhausted. It was clear had not 
changed from his uniform, because it was smudged from what appeared to 
be soot or burns. 
	"Now, what's the emergency, Moira? I don't appreciate being 
recalled from the Enterprise in the middle of a Maquis raid."
	"Oh, you will appreciate it, Dad. You have to," Moira replied, 
her voice harsh and angry.
 	Owen was not used to Moira speaking to him this way. But then 
again, their relationship, although loving, had not always been easy. 
His wife had secretly called Moira his "female twin", because despite 
the differences in careers, she was very much like him. She held people 
at a distance with her icy and unapproachable beauty, and she was 
fiercely dedicated to her career and would not hesitate to sacrifice 
family time for it. For these similarities, they had interesting 
debates, and intense shouting matches,  especially since his son-
	No. He had no son. Not when he had not bothered to talk to him 
for two years. He threw away his career and future for what?
 	He felt the anger buffer him from his confusion.
	 "What are you talking about?" he almost barked.

 	Her father. In his I-will-not-tolerate-any-nonsense tone.
	He was still angry with Tom, Moira thought. And that made her 
furious. Until now, she had never thought herself capable of hating 
Owen Paris, but she hated her father now.
	"Tom is home," she said shortly, studying his features for 
reaction.
	Surprise, then worry - then the steely mask that she was 
accustomed to appeared in quick succession. "Is he?" the voice was 
cool.
	Moira reminded herself to be cool, that any angry altercation 
would do no one any good, especially Tom. Moira had agreed with Dr. 
Peterson's decision to allow Tom to recuperate at home, but after 
seeing Kathleen so distraught, she thought better. Tom would go to 
Starfleet Medical today, and Owen Paris was going to pull every string 
he could.  
	She needed to tell her father about Tom, and she knew that 
somewhere underneath all that anger and self-condemnation was the 
father who loved his son. 
	"Yes. And he needs you, Dad. He needs you to help him," she said, 
forcing calm into her voice.
	"Help him?" Owen snorted. "He doesn't need my help. He told me 
that quite clearly two years ago. Or is he out of credits? Is it money 
that he wants? Just give him some and send him on his way."
	Moira felt the fury flame in her heart at his cruel words. If Tom 
had been there to hear him say this, he would have been shattered. 
	 she thought.
 	But despite her fury, she registered the dismay in her father's 
face as the words stumbled out. Moira, the part of her that was 
rational, knew that her father was relieved, even happy that Tom was 
back. But he was so used to the anger he felt for his son that he did 
not know how to react any other way. Like her mother had said, "He 
needed time". Only this time, Moira was not going to give him any.
	"Tom is sick, Dad. When I found him in some seedy bar in 
Marseilles, he could barely stand! How can you- How can you still be 
angry with him after all this time?" tears misted her eyes. "Or was Tom 
right? Don't you care anymore?" she whispered.
	"What...what do you mean?" he asked, stunned; his voice gruff and 
low. But despite his concern, he still frowned, though his eyes were 
sharp with anxiety.
	"He's suffering from severe depression, but I'm afraid it's 
something more. Dr. Peterson recommends that we bring him to Starfleet 
Medical once he's able. He's done nothing but sleep for the past five 
days, and he barely has the strength to walk. *That's* what I mean."
	Owen's face crumpled and he sank to the chair slowly.
 	"All he ever wanted from you was your approval. Just give it to 
him for once," she said bitterly. Then she turned and left him alone...to 
work things out. 

*	*	*
 	 
	Moira turned to see her father coming into the dining room. She 
had waited for him here, knowing that he would come to her once he 
"sorted things out". And he took quite a while to sort things out - 
almost an hour; and she wondered what went on in that quiet living 
room. Perhaps he struggled with his own demons, she thought. 
	Moira merely studied the Admiral at the mention of her name, her 
face impassive.
	"I'm sorry," he breathed. Gone was the steely mask, the Admiral 
of Starfleet. This was the most vulnerable she had seen him - not even 
after the Cardassian torture had he looked so pained. 
 	"Why have things gone so wrong?" he asked her -or rather, 
himself, sighing as he sat beside her.
	Moira was quiet for a while. Then she shook her head. "It's 
called pride, Dad. And that damned Paris name."
	Owen clenched his fists. "We will need the best doctors in 
Starfleet. I don't care if we have to ship them in from Vulcan. He'll 
have the best care," he said in his full Admiral mode again. "He will 
be better again, Moira," he promised.
	Moira sighed a small sigh. It was as far as he would go to admit 
that she was right. 
	"And then, once, when he is well, maybe he can fly again." He 
gave her a small smile.
	But she never had a chance to react to that smile.
	"TOM! OH MY GOD! TOM!!!"
	And she knew that they would never see her father's secret dream 
come true.

*	*	*

	He was a failure, like the one before him.
	The being clenched his fists, the obsidian skin rippling. Anguish 
filled his heart as he studied the life in this dimension. How painful 
it was to see this version fail, like the one before.
	The previous version had spiraled away from despair to violence. 
This one had given in to despair. They were both failures.
	He would right the failure. He would.
	He stretched out his hand and his golden eyes glowed.

___________________
Chapter 3

Dimension 20895
San Francisco,
Earth.
Two years later.


	Owen made sure that Tom stayed in his sight. Tom tended to 
disappear sometimes - wandering where he shouldn't, ending up in places 
that Owen would rather he not be. 
 	Tom was still in the garden, making cooing noises to Buster. He 
looked happy and content in the sunny area, sitting cross-legged on the 
warm grass, surrounded by colourful Rokalian tulips. And as he stroked 
the golden retriever, a big, indulgent smile lit up his features. Tom's 
blue eyes practically twinkled.
	The sight should please him, Owen reminded himself. But it 
didn't. It stabbed him each time.
	Tom laughed, a childish laughter devoid of any adult worries. 
"Dog!" he cooed, hugging the dog. Buster gave him a sloppy kiss. Tom 
laughed and shot Owen a delighted look and laughed happily again.
	He returned the smile, albeit forcefully.
	And he was reminded again, about his failure. His stupidity, and 
the pride that had destroyed his son.
	He closed his eyes, and once again saw himself running with Moira 
towards the direction of his wife's screams... 
	"HELP! OH MY GOD, SOMEONE HELP HIM!!"
	He arrived only to see what he didn't think he'd ever see: his 
son, floating face down in the middle of the lake, lifeless; his wife, 
swimming desperately towards him. 
He did not think, he dove - and perhaps it was because of his 
desperation and mindless fear, but he got to Tom first.
"Oh my god, Owen!" Elizabeth gasped, shivering beside him as she 
tried to pull her son away from him.
"I've got him, Elizabeth! I've got him!"
Tom's skin was a pasty grey and his lips were blue. He was cold 
to the touch. And so still. Frighteningly still.
"Owen? Is he-? Oh my God, Owen! He's not breathing!" his wife 
whimpered and shrieked at the same time.
And he swam faster, trying desperately to reach the shore. It 
seemed to take forever to reach it. When they got there, Moira ran to 
them, her face white with fear, medical tricorder in her shaking hands. 
She paled further when she saw the readings.
 	She threw the tricorder aside and immediately initiated mouth to 
mouth resuscitation. Owen could only stare helplessly as Moira tried to 
breathe life into her brother. He heard Kathleen running towards them 
and faintly registered Elizabeth telling Kathleen what had happened 
between hysterical sobs. And Kathleen saying that she would get the 
medical emergency unit, her usually calm demeanor shaken by fear. Then 
everything began to slow down, and he saw things in slow motion.
	When the medical unit arrived, they had immediately placed Tom on 
minimal life support, but as Moira shone light into his eyes, Tom's 
pupils had not reacted, but had remained dilated. The medical personnel 
exchanged grave glances.
 	 "No, no," Moira moaned, denying what their looks said. "No, Tom. 
Don't do this, Tom!" she shook his limp body.
	"Ma'am, we have to take him now. Ma'am-"
	"What is it?" Elizabeth had demanded. "What's wrong?" her voice 
rose in panic.
	"I'm a doctor," Moira said shakily. "Please, let me go with him."
	One of the medical personnel nodded and the emergency team had to 
take Tom away.
 	"Oh, God," he heard Elizabeth moan in anguish. "I should have 
checked on him sooner...I should have..."
	They were too late. *He* was too late.
	Owen walked towards his son, holding his son's favourite food: 
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
	"Time for lunch, Tom. Since you're not going inside like you 
should, you'll have to eat it here, not that you mind."
	Tom looked up and stared at him blankly. The pale blue eyes held 
neither recognition nor understanding at what he had said, but when 
they shifted to the sandwiches, he gurgled with delight and reached for 
them.
	Owen let him take it, watching Tom sadly as he wolfed down the 
sandwich, sharing a few morsels with Buster.
	The doctors had speculated that his son had been without oxygen 
for almost forty minutes. By rights, he should not even be alive. 
 	Later, it was discovered that Tom had ingested high amounts of 
sleeping pills before his drowning. The doctors theorised that his 
"accident" may not have been an accident after all. The report by Dr. 
Peterson about his severe depression managed to seal their suspicions 
that it was indeed, an attempt at suicide. 
 	Owen kept imagining that scene in his mind. He could see his son 
walking unsteadily deeper into the lake, perhaps unaware of his 
surroundings as the drugs dulled his mind. Perhaps he had walked to the 
middle of the lake before he had tripped on a stone at the floor of the 
lake. He would have sank into the water, and would have been too tired 
- or too ill - to swim to the surface..
	Or perhaps, Tom had taken the drugs on purpose, and had walked 
into the lake, each step calculated, each step determined. Until the 
drugs took over and he sank into the water, pulled under by sleep. 
 	No one could determine what had actually happened, but the 
doctors assured them that Tom had not suffered. He had simply fallen 
asleep...and drowned-
	-while he argued with his daughter, Moira. And while he sat on 
the armchair in the hall, struggling to break the pride that kept him 
from seeing his son.
	He had never forgiven himself for that damning pride. Neither had 
Moira, whom he had not seen in two years.
	His family had never been the same after Tom's...accident. Moira 
had distanced herself, and Owen knew her enough to know that she blamed 
herself for not discovering the sleeping medication. The occasional 
communiqué he received from her was always about Tom, and she had asked 
her questions brusquely and without much emotion. The last he had 
heard, Moira had posted herself to Deep Space 11, putting as much 
distance away from them as possible. Kathleen, on the other hand, had 
gotten married. She visited them often, and hers was the only name Tom 
remembered. 
	Elizabeth had been devastated. She had the lake drained.  
  	"I'm going now."
	Elizabeth's voice brought him to the present. He turned towards 
her and she returned his gaze impassively. She had lost a lot of weight 
since the accident, and looked almost gaunt. Her once long, blonde hair 
was now cut short to her shoulders, and it had more white than blonde 
these days.
 	"When will you be back?" he asked in response.
	She shrugged. "In an hour. I need to take Tom for his 
physiotherapy."
	He nodded.
	They stared at each other mutely for a while, then Elizabeth 
broke the silence. "I've signed the documents," she said shortly.
	"I see," he could only say.
 	"Don't hold me back," she said accusingly, fixing him a steely 
glare. Then her chin trembled, and she looked away. "I'll be back in an 
hour," she said again. 
 	With that, Elizabeth walked into the garden.
	He watched her kneel next to Tom, speaking to him in her gentle, 
lilting voice. Tom paid her little attention, his gaze on the dog. Owen 
knew that Tom's obliviousness to the people around him was what hurt 
her the most. 
	 He didn't blame her for divorcing him. He had caused her enough 
pain. He would leave her this house, and he will shift to an apartment 
near the Bay so he could visit Tom often.
	Ironically, the only thing that still kept his family remotely 
tied together was Tom.
	Owen sighed, walking towards the study doors that faced the 
garden. 
 	The doctors had managed to save Tom's life, but large portions of 
his brain had been damaged by oxygen deprivation. The vital parts that 
controlled motor and automatic functions were repaired, but the 
surgeons were unable to save the areas that gave him speech, memories, 
understanding...	
	In essence, his son, once a boy infatuated with all things 20th 
century and a piloting prodigy with a bright future in Starfleet had 
been reduced to a shadow of his former self, barely aware of the world 
around him. The Doctors had likened his condition to a now easily 
corrected condition called autism, though for Tom, his impairment was 
incurable. 
 	Tom was gone. His body was alive, yes - but *he* was gone, 
drowned in the lake behind his house.
	The man in the garden with the dog was a faint shadow of the 
past. His only joy was the dog, and when he uttered his first word 
since the accident, it had also been "dog". In a way, Owen resented 
Buster. Buster was the only creature Tom was aware of.
 	Yet, it had taken them a year to get him this far. Until Buster - 
the dog - Tom had isolated himself from all physical contact, screaming 
whenever anyone touched him. The simplest tasks eluded him. It had 
taken him a month to learn how to use a spoon, more than half a year to 
relearn how to walk. Starfleet Medical had almost given up on him until 
Kathleen brought him that puppy. Tom's blue eyes - which had been blank 
for so long - lit up with delight, and he did something no one thought 
he would ever do again. He *reached out* for the puppy. 
 	He started to improve immediately, and his growth had pleased the 
Doctors.  He would never be the same Tom Paris, the doctors said, but 
he could live a marginally independent life in time.
	
	He entered the study, keeping a watchful eye on his son through 
an open French door. He gathered his lecture notes absently, wondering 
why he still lectured at the Academy when his spirit was not in it 
anymore. He had resigned his commission two years ago, and only at the urging of 
Admiral Shawn did he take up the lecturing post at the Academy. 
 	His eye caught a note on his table. Written in Kathleen's neat 
cursive, the note read: Will be here for dinner. Bringing Alex along. 
Says he's heard of a new treatment. Moira called - her return will be 
delayed by a week. Don't be sad, Daddy.
	He felt a mix of emotions at the simple note. Alex was Kathleen's 
husband, a doctor she had met at Tom's rehabilitation center. Owen 
liked him immediately - perhaps because of his dedication to cure Tom. 
 	And the mention of Moira made him sad - despite Kathleen's gentle 
reminder. "She's in pain, Daddy. And she's dealing with it in her own 
way. Don't hate her for it," Kathleen had told him. Owen did not hate 
Moira for it. He was merely grieved.
  As he shuffled the PADDs, his eyes caught Tom's picture at the side 
of the table. Tom was dressed in his Academy uniform. He beamed 
proudly, as proudly as Moira who had her arm slung around his 
shoulders.
	Owen sighed, knowing what he'd do next but helpless to resist the 
urge. He opened his drawer and stared at the holoprojector, wondering 
what good it would do to stare at old pictures.
	He activated it.
	There was Tom, looking sullen in his Holloween costume - a bunny 
costume that Elizabeth said he simply looked adorable in. He had been 
eight, and when Owen had taken the picture, Tom had just finished 
saying: "This is a stupid Earth tradition, Dad!"
	Next picture.
	Tom, on top of a snowy slope, resting on his skis. He had thrown 
Elizabeth - for Owen had never been in any of his ski competitions - a 
cocky grin boys that age wore.
	Tom, standing proudly beside his first light shuttle, looking 
very pleased with himself for having qualified for the best piloting 
team in the Academy.
	Owen shut the holoprojector, feeling both saddened and resigned.
	Owen was glad that despite his condition, Tom was now happy, 
blissfully unaware of what he had lost. Thank goodness for small 
mercies-
	The burst of light caught him by surprise. Decades of Starfleet 
training made him fling himself down on the floor, thinking it was a 
detonating device. When the thought came to him, Owen opened his eyes 
in panic.
	TOM!
	He got up, heedless of the blinding light - but the light was 
normal. He scanned the garden desperately, and he felt fear gnaw at his 
heart.
	Tom was gone.

___________________________
Chapter 4

Dimension 53623
USS Voyager,
Sector 456, Delta Quadrant.


	"I swear, Harry! Somehow the Doc did it on purpose!"
	"Oh? And why would he do that?"
	Lieutenant Tom Paris rolled his eyes and stopped walking to face 
his best friend.
	"Because he's in his `golf phase'!"
	Harry Kim lifted a speculative eyebrow. "His golf phase?"
	They resumed walking, with Paris gesturing wildly all the way.
	"He doesn't care if that hour is the only time B'Elanna and I can 
get off. It's like his photography phase, his opera phase - and when 
he's in a phase, he holds on to his holodeck time like a mynak cat on 
its prey." 
	"That's a colourful metaphor, Tom," Harry grinned.
	"Harry! This is serious! And you're the only person who has the 
time slot B'Elanna and I need." Tom put on the face he usually wore 
when he was about to ask Harry a big favour. Like Harry knew he would.
	"Oh, no, Tom. You're *not* going to get any help from me."
	"Oh come on, Harry. I just need two hours. I promise I'll pay you 
back. Double the holodeck time!"
	Now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. "That's what you said 
the *last* time."
	"This time it'll be different. I will remember. Promise!" Tom 
shot him an all too innocent grin.
	Harry sighed. "Why me?" More to himself than Tom.
	Tom placed an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Because, my wife and 
I will thank you for the rest of our lives for this."
	Harry merely sighed.


	He waited for the voices to pass before he allowed himself the 
luxury of groaning in pain. The bright lights blinded him. The pain in 
his head made him nauseous, and left him dangerously vulnerable to any 
attack.
	Tom lifted himself on shaky legs and cracked his eyes open. 
Everything was still blurry and spinning, so he closed them again, 
taking deep breaths to clear his head.
	 Rage boiled inside him and he gripped 
his fists in fury. 
	 He 
opened his eyes again and willed the world around him to be steady.
	It worked, at least for a while. But the effort drained him. He 
leaned against the padded wall in exhaustion.
	He frowned.
	Padded wall?
	He turned, staring in amazement at the turquoise wall. And when 
he looked down, he was more amazed to see the floor carpeted. 
	He was definitely not in the muddy streets of the Shima 
Territory. But he still wore his cloak, and it was still wet and muddy 
from the rain of that forsaken place, so he had been there.
	Instinctively, he reached for his laser sword beneath his cloak. 
Deactivated, it was an innocent looking stick eight inches long. When 
activated, it became a double-edged sword, capable of creating a small 
weak shield around him when needed. It was cursed luck that he left 
behind Kelly, his favourite disruptor back home.
	He studied his surroundings closely. He caught a glowing panel 
further down the corridor. He walked carefully towards it, glancing up 
and down the corridor for people. When he finally got a good look at 
it, he sucked in an angry breath.
	The language and symbols were too familiar to him.
	He growled.
	He was in a Federation facility of some sort. Somehow, the 
Federation had caught up with him. 
 	Or could this be a trick from that alien creature? But for what 
purpose?
	No matter.
	He activated the blade.
	He was not going to let the Federation or the alien have him so 
easily.
	He heard his opportunity coming down the corridor a second later, 
and he readied himself. He was exposed in the corridor, but his target 
would not be able to react quickly.
	The blonde woman walked towards him, her eyes fixed on a PADD, 
muttering to herself.
	She looked up in surprise, but by then it was too late.


*	*	*

	Neelix was annoyed. "Forgetfulness is a common sign of aging, Mr. 
Neelix. I have more important things to do than to cure forgetfulness 
at 4 am in the morning," Neelix mimicked the Doctor's dry voice as he 
walked into the darkened messhall to prepare for the Breakfast crowd.
	So he had been a little worried! One of Merlot's Syndrome - a 
common disease among Talaxians - most common symptoms was 
forgetfulness, and he *had* to be sure.
	"Hmph. What if I forget to turn off the stove one day and burn 
down the messhall? Maybe *that* will change his mind!" Neelix 
complained to himself as he activated the lights of the kitchen.
	He reached for the apron that hung on the wall and hummed a 
Talaxian folk song.
	Neelix blinked when he heard a sound.
	He frowned. Sometimes a crewman or two would end up sleeping in 
the Mess hall for some strange reason or another. And most of the time, 
they ended up giving him a heart attack when they jumped out from the 
darkness to demand breakfast.
	"Hello? Is anyone there?" He called out.
	Again, the scuttling sound. This time accompanied with a whimper 
of fear.
	Neelix raised his eyebrows. His voice did not usually frighten 
crewmen.
	"Naomi?" he called out. Honestly, if this was another of the 
Ktarian girl's idea of a prank...
	. "Computer. Lights on."
	This time the voice shrieked in fear. Neelix had to blink away 
the spots that formed from the sudden transition from darkness to light 
before he could make out the huddled form in the corner of the 
messhall.
	His eyes widened.
	Tom Paris was huddled behind a table, his knees drawn up to his 
chest. He was shivering violently, as if he was in a grip of some 
sickness. Tom peered at Neelix with wide, frightened eyes. Furthermore, 
he was out of uniform, something that struck Neelix as curious as he 
knew Tom would be on the early morning shift today.
	"Tom? Are you alright?" Neelix was truly concerned now. He knew 
Tom was a prankster, but surely he couldn't imitate that blind fear 
Neelix saw in those eyes.
	He walked closer. Tom shrank further into his corner, whimpering.
	"I won't hurt you. It's alright. It's Neelix...remember?"
	Tom only stared at him blankly.
 	There was only one thing to do. He activated his commbadge.
	"Neelix to the Doctor."
	"What is it now, Mr. Neelix?" the Doctor's grumpy voice was loud 
in the messhall. Neelix saw Tom look around in surprise then shrink 
even further into his corner.
	Something was definitely wrong.
	"I think you better come down to the messhall. Now."

*	*	*

	"Tom! What are you doing?!" his hostage shrieked.
	He had not expected that. She knew his name! It angered him even 
more.
	"Be quiet, or I will kill you," he hissed, tightening the 
chokehold he had around her neck. She made a small sound of surprise. 
	"Tom, it's me, Samantha Wildman. Don't you recognize me?" the 
calm in her voice was forced, but Tom could see the fear in her eyes.
	He did not bother answering her, but instead dragged her down the 
corridor with him. He pulled her into a small nook in the corridor and 
lifted the glowing sword to her neck. She flinched.
	"This facility. The name," he demanded.
	"You're on Voyager," she said in a puzzled tone.
	"A ship?"
	She tried to turn her head to look at him, but he would not allow 
her that.
	"Answer me!" he growled.
	"You're on a ship!" Samantha answered, her voice high from 
anxiety.
	He frowned, thinking on her answer. They must have transported 
him off the planet. How did they know he was there? Better, how did 
they know about his real identity?
	"Shuttlecrafts. Where do you keep them?" 
	Samantha Wildman gave him a puzzled look. "Where do you want to 
go?"
	Tom glared at the Starfleet Officer, confused at the intimate way 
she spoke to him. As if she knew him...
	"You will answer my question!" he snapped, bringing the sword 
closer to her face.
	Wildman flinched, trying to back away from the sword. "It's in 
the docking bay. You know where they are," she answered, her voice 
sounding more confused than frightened.
	Her answer puzzled him even more. "Lead me to it."
	"But-"
	He pulled her forcibly to him, the blade so close to her fair 
skin that it began to burn a light line across her neck. She shrieked 
in fear.
	"I do not know you, Starfleet. Now you will lead me to the 
shuttlecrafts, or you will die."
	

	Samantha could only think of Naomi when she felt the searing pain 
on her neck. She pictured her daughter asleep in her room, with her 
favourite doll, Flotter, curled up beside her. 
	
	So she led Tom to the shuttlebay as he asked. There was enough 
time to puzzle out his strange, no, frightening behaviour later when 
Tuvok caught him, like she hoped he would do when she had discreetly 
activated her commbadge. Tom was too distracted by her screams to 
realize, and she was glad for it.
	Tom pushed her away from him and she looked at him, surprised at 
her sudden freedom.   
	"Do not think you can run from me, Federation. The sword will be 
in your back before you finish your thoughts of escape," he said, his 
blue eyes flat.
	Samantha would not risk it. But for the first time she caught a 
good look at Tom.
	And realized that it couldn't be Tom.
	Or at least, not *her* Tom.
	His hair flowed to his shoulders, some of it tied in thin braids. 
He stared at her from eyes that seemed carved out of chipped ice. It 
held none of the gentleness and humour she was familiar with. The cold 
eyes that stared piercingly at her held rage and hatred.
 	He wore a muddy cloak and he was leaner, more muscular than the 
Tom she knew. And there was a look about him that unsettled her. It was 
almost as if he was wild and uncontrollable, an untamed Creature that 
was dangerous to be near.  
 	She should have realized it by the way he spoke to her. His voice 
was flat and icy, even when he threatened her. She knew instinctively, 
that this Tom had no qualms about ending her life.
	"Now," he said.
	She nodded, willing herself to walk steadily to the shuttlebay.


	Whizzing stars can be so dull, Tom thought.
	The graveyard shift was the most boring and painful shift ever 
created - in his humble opinion. That, and the fact that he had only 
three hours of sleep because of an emergency at sickbay. Lieutenant 
Le'ana had gone into labour, and he had spent two hours trying to 
placate her nervous Bajoran husband Toban. That and in between rushing 
to the Doctor with this instrument or that each time he yelled.
 	 Tom sighed in contentment. Who would've 
thought that Toban - the angry and bitter Bajoran who thought 
Federation folks were scum second only to the Cardassians would marry a 
Starfleet crewman and have a former Maquis/Starfleet traitor hand him 
his first child?
	 Tom mused. For one, 
he was now married. Married! The feel of that golden ring on his finger 
still amazed him, yet it felt strangely comforting. It was the evidence 
that his life had changed so much from the pit it had been seven years 
ago, when his only future was to spend life at the fringes of 
Starfleet, an outsider forever.
 	"Tom. Tom? Voyager calling Tom?"
	He blinked, and realized that Chakotay was calling him. Sheesh. 
To be caught daydreaming at the helm by Chakotay of all people was 
worse than embarrassing - it meant he was in for a word or two from the 
first officer after his shift.
 	There was a scattering of giggles from the bridge.
	Oh yeah, life just started getting better.
	"Uh...yes sir?" he turned, knowing that his pale skin did nothing 
to hide the blush creeping up his face.
	Chakotay did not look annoyed though. He looked rather amused - 
in that quiet way of his. Maybe it was his lucky day today after all.	
	"Long night?" the first officer asked.
	Tom turned back, grinning. "Well you know what it's is like being 
married..."
	A chuckle from Janeway. 
	"Or when you deliver babies at three in the morning," Janeway 
added, dry amusement in her voice. "How *is* Mr. Toban?" she asked. Tom 
could sense her giving him an amused look.
	"Well," he made some quick adjustments to Voyager's route to make 
it smoother- "-aside from fainting when Le'ana had her twelfth 
contraction, pretty overjoyed, all things considered," he drawled.
	"What are they naming the baby?" Chakotay asked.
	Tom smiled to himself. He could almost feel the whole bridge 
perking up in attention. Babies were a big affair on Voyager - the 
arrival of a new life, such a rare occurrence on the ship, gave its 
crewmembers hope and a renewed sense of being a family. He fully expect 
Neelix to do a special "Good Morning with Neelix" episode on Toban's 
kid tomorrow.
	"Well, he has a choice of 40 names. And a choice of a dozen crew 
members vying to be godfather or godmother to his kid. I would say the 
name will be a long time in coming," he quipped.
	There were good-natured groans from around the bridge.
	Perhaps the graveyard shift wasn't that bad, Tom mused. Sometimes 
the dead dullness of it all led to some casual talk - and if he was 
lucky: gossip.

 	An hour later, he reverted to his earlier opinion.
	 Tom thought groggily, wishing 
desperately for something - anything to happen right now.
	"Captain, we have a situation."
 	Tom blinked, glad at the break in the monotony.  he mused. He turned to look at the Captain. It had 
become a habit - looking at the Captain when a situation came up. Her 
steady gaze in the face of the direst of circumstances had a strangely 
calming effect on him.
	Janeway sat up straighter. In her hands was a steaming mug of 
coffee. Judging from her bleary expression, Tom guessed that she 
probably had the same opinion as he did about the graveyard shift. 
	"What is it, Tuvok?"
	"It's Lieutenant Paris, Captain. He has taken Ensign Wildman 
hostage and they are heading towards the shuttlebay."
	Instantly all eyes were on him. Harry had the strangest look on 
his face - as if he was about to laugh and cry out in astonishment at 
the same time. Megan Delaney had lifted her eyebrows. Tom was too 
surprised to even offer a wisecrack.
	The Captain was just as confused. "Tuvok. Lieutenant Paris is on 
the bridge. Clarify."
	The bridge was eerily silent as they waited for Tuvok's 
explanation. 
	 Tom thought. He half rose from his seat, but Janeway gestured 
for him to sit down.
	Tuvok seemed to be taking an unusually long time to answer. When 
he answered he sounded faintly puzzled.
	"Curious. But it is Lieutenant Paris that is standing before me 
now."
	Tom pinched himself to see if he was dreaming. Sometimes he had 
these strange dreams where there was more than one of him running 
around.  
	Before the Captain could reply, the Doctor's voice broke in.
	"Captain! I think you need to come down to the messhall right 
now," he said, his voice sharp with agitation. 
	Janeway frowned. "Now's not the time, Doctor. I have an 
emergency-"
	"It's Lieutenant Paris, Captain. He's hysterical, and I don't 
want to risk a transport, not right now."
	Again, all eyes shifted to Tom. He was beginning to think that he 
was the butt of a very elaborate joke. He shot Harry an accusing look. 
The operations officer shook his head violently in denial. 
	"I'm afraid you have to make do without me for now, Doctor. The 
other situation is more dire." The Captain gave Tom a pointed look when 
she got up.
	"Chakotay, you have the bridge. Ensign Delaney, assist the Doctor 
and call for security. Tom, you're coming with me."
	"Aye, aye Captain," he said, feeling all eyes on him.
	 he chided himself as he entered the turbolift with the 
Captain.

______________
Chapter 5


 	They had backed him into a cargo bay, but he still had his 
hostage.
	The Sharbokh in him felt an immediate revulsion at the sight of 
the Vulcan. He narrowed his eyes and growled, "Stay away from me, dung-
eater!"
	He had unconsciously spoken in Romulan. The Vulcan lifted an 
eyebrow and gestured for the other security officers to move away.
	"Surrender your hostage now, and you will not be harmed," the 
Vulcan replied coolly.
	Tom could only smile at him cynically. Who was this dung-eater to 
threaten him, an Assassin of the highest order? Romulan epithets sprang 
into his mind, and he found himself cursing the Vulcan with them.
	Tom reigned that part of him in, feeling annoyed and disturbed at 
the depth of his hatred. Sometimes the Romulan side that was implanted 
in him grew too strong to be controlled. Sometimes he became the 
Sharbokh of old *too* much.
	 "Give me a shuttlecraft. Do not think I will not kill this 
woman. You know I will, Vulcan," he said, this time in Federation 
English.
	"I am Tuvok. You are Tom Paris."
	Tom hissed in anger. Was his identity known to all?! "I am not 
interested in your name, *veruul*! You will order your guards away, or 
I shall kill her," he said in Romulan again. To demonstrate his 
sincerity, he lightly scraped the blade against Wildman's forearm.
	The material burned away, and she yelped in pain as the blade 
burnt a red line on her skin.
	"Stop!" Tuvok demanded, his brows drawn together.
	Tom threw him a malicious smile and took the blade away.
	Tuvok gestured at the Security Officers, and they backed away 
reluctantly. 
	And at that moment, Tom picked up a faint movement behind him. 
Without wasting a moment, he grabbed Samantha Wildman and pulled her to 
his chest as his shield as he threw a dagger in the direction of the 
sound. He saw a Security officer grip his chest in agony before he 
collapsed.
	He cast a quick look at Tuvok, his eyes narrow.
	"Perhaps you doubt my sincerity, Vulcan. Should I demonstrate 
more? Perhaps I should cut off a finger or one of her toes?" He brought 
the glowing double-edged sword to her face. "Or perhaps her nose?"
	Tuvok stiffened, Wildman whimpered.
	Just then, the cargo doors opened and two figures walked into the 
bay. One was a red-headed woman with an authoritative posture - the 
leader of this facility, he guessed.
	The other-
	He stiffened, locking his eyes with the man's shocked blue ones. 
He wore the uniform of a Starfleet Officer. The red of Command. It 
was...*him*.
	Yet, not him. This man was a softer version. There was no 
hardness in his eyes, or cynical twist to his mouth. His body was firm, 
but not strong or honed to perfection like his. 
	But the sight of his 'twin' in Starfleet uniform brought back 
confusing memories and needs, and he hesitated-
	It was all the hesitation Tuvok needed. Tuvok fired his phaser in 
a laser-quick motion.
 	Tom turned quickly, and the phaser bit a line into his arm 
instead of his shoulder. His arm flung the laser-sword away in a reflex 
reaction to the pain, and it also made him release his hostage, and she 
quickly ducked behind a few barrels a few feet away from him.
	It happened quickly then. But he had been `trained' to react best 
in these situations, and the Starfleet officers would pay badly for 
their deception.
	The Security officers that hid behind him attacked, running 
clumsily towards him - perhaps hoping to pin him down. Tom used that to 
his advantage, side-stepping the humans, delivering painful jabs with 
his fists. He took a hidden dagger from beneath his cloak and plunged a 
knife into an officer's back, and then ripped it out to slash the 
dagger across another's face. He somersaulted behind another and 
delivered a kick that would have snapped the man's neck if he had not 
been Vulcan.
	And then, he was left with the Vulcan called Tuvok, and the red-
headed woman and his dopplenganger. One of the security guards beside 
the Vulcan lifted his phaser as if to fire at him, but Tuvok gestured 
for him to put it away. He did so, albeit reluctantly fixing him a look 
of anger and strangely enough, puzzlement.
	"You have pathetic guards, *veruul*," Tom taunted in Romulan, 
returning the guard's glare. He twisted his mouth in a cynical smile.
 	 The sharbokh in him was too strong now, and Tom did not want to 
control it. He reveled in its hatred and anger.
	He saw Janeway stiffen in surprise and then shot the other Tom a 
confused look. The other Tom did not take his eyes away from him. 
Instead, he stared at him in open-mouthed fascination.
	He gave his twin a look of scorn.
	"Weak, weak like the humans he came from," he hissed, his Romulan 
accent coming strong through the Federation English. "If this is your 
trick to detain me, it is a weak ploy. I will not fall for it."
	"You are Romulan," Tuvok said, his phaser trained on him.
 	He felt a strong urge to say yes, despite the falsehood. 
 	"The human side of me died a long time ago. It did not deserve to 
live," he answered instead, glaring at the Vulcan.  
	Tuvok frowned. "How did you get here?"
	Tom frowned. "You brought me here," he accused.
	"We did not."
	"Do not think you can trick me, *veruul*! Do not think this 
elaborate holographic trick-" he pointed at his double "-will make me 
say anything. And do not think you can take me so easily either!" He 
lifted the bloody dagger, ready for the last strike that would surely 
mean his death-
	Then the pain hit him again.
	It flared from his temple and shot through his body like an 
electric bolt, paralyzing him and filling his vision with bright sparks 
of light.
	He felt his body fall bonelessly to the floor.
	
	And his thoughts died.


	Janeway reacted immediately when the other Tom collapsed. She 
took out her phaser and walked quickly towards the man.
	"Captain-" Tuvok began.
	Janeway motioned for him to follow her, and he gladly did, 
bending beside the still body.
	"He spoke Romulan," she said while Tuvok checked for a pulse.
	"He is unconscious," Tuvok confirmed. "And yes, he indeed, spoke 
Romulan."
	"A Romulan made to look human? If that's so, what is he doing on 
Voyager, ten thousands of light years from the Alpha Quadrant?"
	Then something seemed to occur to her. She tapped her commbadge.
	"Janeway to the Doctor. Your situation," she barked.
	"It's controlled now, Captain. Tom seems to be content playing 
with a ball I replicated for him. He's quiet now."
	Tuvok lifted an eyebrow, looking at the fallen Tom, then to the 
one standing dumbly at the entrance.
	"Me too, Tuvok. Me too," Janeway sighed and counted the number of 
fallen security officers. "Doctor, prepare for six more patients-"
	Just then, they heard a thud behind them. When Tuvok and Janeway 
turned to look, they saw that *their* Tom had collapsed. Samantha 
Wildman emerged from her hiding place to kneel beside him.
	"-make that seven," Janeway corrected.
 

*	*	*
Sickbay
1100 hours

	It wasn't everyday that you got to see three versions of the same 
person in the same room, the Doctor mused. 
	Lieutenant V'tar, the Vulcan security officer had been released 
together with Ensign Lynd who had a deep facial cut, but their two 
colleagues had not been as lucky. Ensign Kennedy had a torn back muscle 
and some damaged nerves, not to mention severe blood loss due to a 
severed artery, while Ensign Toban - the proud father of a healthy baby 
girl - was still recuperating from a punctured lung. Whoever that 
version of Tom was, he was a very efficient fighter.
 	The Doctor shivered - he had added that new subroutine just 
recently - when he looked at the unconscious man. His muddy cloak had 
been removed, and he now wore the black pants and shirt that were 
beneath the cloak. The Doctor had placed him under a force field and 
added some restraints to that. His medical condition had been 
perplexing and fascinating.
	And the *other* Tom was rolling the colourful ball the Doctor had 
replicated out of desperation back and forth. As he had been doing for 
the past two hours. The Doctor peered at him curiously.
 	When he got to the Messhall, he steeled himself for anything - 
from the Rokalian plague to an ensign with a burnt finger (with Neelix, 
you could never know *what* was an emergency). But he certainly had not 
been prepared for the sight of his medical assistant cowering behind a 
chair.
	He had stared dumbly at the sight, thinking -  before Tom suddenly let out a loud shriek and 
crawled beneath the table.
	Prank or not, he knew Tom Paris would not resort to these strange 
measures for a joke.
 	It had taken Megan Delaney's gentle coaxing - it took her about 
20 minutes - to get him from beneath the table.
	By then, the Doctor realized that something was seriously wrong. 
He chucked all medical theories from his database when Megan told him 
that there was *another* Tom onboard.
	 he mused as he activated the 
biobed. He heard a gurgling sound from the Tom on the floor. He gave 
him another look.
	 the Doctor thought.
 	 The 
Doctor thought sadly, returning to his latest patient. He sighed as he 
scanned the patient on the biobed. By all accounts, he was incredibly 
healthy, just like his last medical checkup had revealed.
 	But still, *their* Tom lay on one of the biobeds, in a deep coma. 

*	*	*

	"What do you mean he's in a coma?"
 	"Exactly what I said, Captain. He's in a coma."	
 	The Captain shot him a look that seemed to say: Doctor, this is 
not the time for smart-assed remarks.
	"Because?" she asked, her tone warned him off further sarcasm.
	"I'm uncertain, Captain, but it's as if someone switched him 
off," the Doctor felt sheepish at his answer. Now, he honestly wasn't 
trying to be sarcastic this time.
	"Switched him off?" That was B'Elanna, sounding quite annoyed. 
B'Elanna certainly didn't believe that his remark was sarcasm free.
	"Yes. That's the best explanation I can give you," he replied, 
getting slightly exasperated. He hmphed.
	"You're saying that there's an external influence to his 
condition?" the Captain asked, her brows knitting together, possibly 
forming a theory in her brain already.
	The Doctor looked at the three Paris' in a row and then back at 
the Captain. "Wouldn't you?" he asked her incredulously.
	Just then, they heard a groan coming from one of the biobeds. 
B'Elanna froze, staring at the black clad Paris. He could see that she 
was uncomfortable with the situation. 
   	It shocked her to find out that the black-clad Tom had seriously 
injured some crewmen. It unnerved her to watch the other Tom, looking 
so helpless and lost. To think of him cut down so young, and in such an 
ignoble way...
 	B'Elanna turned away, banishing the thoughts from her head. They 
were not *her* Tom. For now, that would do.
	Tuvok moved from the side of the Tom that played with the ball to 
stand beside the biobed that contained the black-clad version.
	Janeway did the same, flanked by Chakotay. B'Elanna kept her 
distance, watching from her husband's bedside.


	Tom opened bleary eyes to see a circle of human - and Vulcan - 
faces staring down at him. He instantly struggled to sit up, but found 
himself restrained.
	He cursed and glared at the red-headed woman balefully.
	"The Doctor has run some tests on you and discovered that you are 
fully human," she said in a steely voice.
	"However, you have some inexplicable readings that I want you to 
confirm," said a balding man in a medical uniform. The Doctor, he 
presumed. Tom knew what he was going to say.
	"There is an implant, and even nannites in certain areas of your 
brain. Our engineer has discovered that it is a technology allegedly 
used by the Romulan Tal-Shiar, who use it to extract information from 
their prisoners."
	Tom glared at the Doctor. "So you know what it is. There's 
nothing to be discussed."
	"Oh yes there is," the woman said, frowning at him.
	"Release me," he demanded, narrowing his eyes in anger.
	She lifted an eyebrow. "I don't think so. Not after what you did 
to my security officers. You will answer my questions or I will *make* 
you."
	"You are threatening me. How foolish."
	Her eyebrows knitted in annoyance. "I am Captain Kathryn Janeway, 
and you're onboard my vessel. I want to know how you got here." 
 	"You obviously brought me here!" he snapped.
	"No, we did not," it was the Vulcan, Tuvok. "We did not register 
a transport beam at the time of your appearance, which was impossible 
since the ship was shielded. It will do both you and the crew good if 
you tell us the last thing you remember before you appeared on 
Voyager."
	Tom studied the sea of faces above him and thought about it. Very 
well, he would tell them only what they needed to know. If this was a 
trick...
	"Raise me up. I feel nauseated with all of you looking at me," he 
demanded.
	Something flickered in the tattooed man's face - annoyance, 
irritability? No matter. Tom smiled, feeling strangely pleased that he 
had affected that stony man.
	Janeway nodded at the Doctor and he raised the biobed to a 
relatively comfortable position. He sighed in relief, feeling better 
than he admitted, but threw them a glare to prevent them from thinking 
him weak.
	So he told them about the strange alien that cornered him at the 
muddy alley in Shima Territory, the pain and the burst of light. It was 
short and clipped. As the three senior officers and Doctor pondered on 
the information, Tom's eyes shifted to the other biobeds. He froze, 
looking at the unconscious lieutenant and the half-Klingon woman beside 
him. She looked at him uncomfortably and turned away. But it wasn't 
them that caught his attention. It was *the other* version of him. 
	He sat on the floor, rolling a colourful ball back and forth, 
humming to himself. The twin seem to realize he was being watched. He 
looked up and stared at him blankly, his blue eyes seeing him, yet 
looking *through* him as well. Drool escaped his lips to fall on his 
shirt. 
  	Tom grimaced. It disturbed him more than he would admit.
	He glared at the officers once more. "What sort of trick is 
this?" he demanded, his anger making him slip back into Romulan.
	Janeway frowned. "A trick that we hope you can explain."
	"I will explain nothing until you tell me *what* they are!" he 
snapped.
	"*They* are *you*," the Doctor said. "At least, DNA wise. The one 
on the biobed is *our* version. Lieutenant Tom Paris. The one on the 
floor...we don't know where he's from, but he appears to be Tom as well. 
He recognizes his name, even if he does not recognize anything else."
	"He is...defective," he said in scorn.
	The Doctor frowned at his words. "He has severe brain damage, but 
as far as I can tell, he was born normal. His brain was damaged from 
some kind of accident. This type of injury can occur from any number of 
possibilities, including asphyxiation," he said. 
	A flicker of concern traveled across Janeway's features before 
she turned towards him. Then she sighed heavily and straightened.
	"This is getting us no where. Tuvok, have a full security escort 
bring Mr. Paris-" she gave Tom a pointed look, "-to the brig. Doctor, 
keep me posted on Lieutenant Paris' condition. Chakotay, Tuvok, a word 
with both of you."
	Tom watched them all leave, his mind working furiously on escape.  


*	*	*

 	He could sense their curiosity.
 	But the crewmen moved out of their way, giving them a wide berth, 
some casting him puzzled looks. Others averted their eyes as if they 
were embarrassed at his predicament. It made him wonder if Janeway's 
story was true, that somehow he was in another dimension. A dimension 
where he had not been cashiered out of Starfleet and led a life he once 
dreamt of-
	 the thought came so sharply it seemed like a shout. 
 He glowered at the backs of the two security 
men before him. Two more were behind him, each holding a phaser in a 
hand. 
 	The later corridors to the brig was emptied specifically for him. 
Apparently, security wasn't taking too many chances with him.
	His hands were bound securely behind, his left leg tagged with 
the tracking device they used on prison inmates. All of it made him 
furious.
	He didn't think that the Federation would resort to such 
elaborate methods to obtain information from him. Never mind how they 
knew about his real identity - this complicating story of dimensions 
and alternate realities did not seem like Starfleet's style.
 	It was more Romulan.
	
	His eyes widened at the thought, suddenly alarmed. He pushed the 
feeling back when he realized that it was an echo of a memory the 
implant had given him.
 	The Sharbokh was once the elite Guard of the Emperor of the 
Churag Dynasty. But when the last emperor of the dynasty was 
overthrown, the Sharbokh was hunted down to the last man- and although 
it took many decades, and many lives, the Empire got rid of most of 
them.
	Or so they thought.
 	The descendents of the very few Sharbokh that survived lived on 
in Romulus, blending into the Romulan way of life, yet secretly fearing 
- and loathing - the new Emperor they  apparently served. After so many 
centuries, these negative sentiments remained largely unchanged, which 
was why the Tal Shiar was still actively keeping an eye out for any 
hint of Sharbokh activity.
 	He saw flashes of memories flicker before his eyes. A Sharbokh, 
fighting to the death - in the background, he heard the whimpers of a 
frightened child. And then a woman's terrified face as she breathed her 
last. More images of violence-
	Tom closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get rid of the 
memories. They were not his. Not his! 
	
	"Move."
	He felt something nudge the small of his back. Tom opened his 
eyes, and realised that he had stopped walking. The show of weakness 
alarmed him.
 	Sometimes the Sharbokh in him grew too strong.
	He continued his even pace, pushing aside the uncertainties and 
vague worries of losing control and having something else take over.
	
	He lowered his eyelids, concentrating as he was thought. In his 
mind, he pictured them moving from his spine - where they were 
carefully implanted by a physician from a non-Federation planet in the 
Metar Sector. To ensure that the doctor cooperated, Tom had shackled a 
nano-bomb around the physicians' neck. If he had died, the Doctor would 
die with him. Simple. He was awake during the operation. It had 
been...uncomfortable. 
 	All it took to control them was a thought, said the physician, 
who went on to explain how the nannites would react to specific thought 
patterns. 
 	It was something he never thought he would use; something he 
reserved only for desperate situations. Capture was not something he 
entertained. He would rather kill himself than be captured.
 	He pictured them moving up his shoulders, then down both arms. 
Sweat beaded on his forehead. This time, he could *feel* them crawling 
underneath his skin to pool in the middle of his forearms. Thousands of 
them perhaps. He never really knew how many of them the physician had 
placed in his bloodstream. The nannites were built in such a way that 
they would be undetectable to scanners. He had no way of knowing.
 	This time, he felt a burning sensation shoot up his wrists. He 
bit his tongue from the pain, but he kept his pace steady. He could not 
give a hint of what he was to do.
	There were more now. Any time now it would be visible.
	The pain was unbearable.
	And Tom realized it was time.
	 he commanded the nannites.
	He felt a piercing pain as the nannites erupted from underneath 
the skin of his forearms.
	He couldn't stop it - he cried out in pain.

 	
	Ensign Rollins did not know what to think of the man walking 
before him. He was Paris. Yet not Paris. It was weird, then again, what 
was the Captain's favourite saying about life on Voyager? Weird is part 
of the job? 
	 This was certainly strange.
	But Tuvok cautioned the four of them, saying that this version of 
Tom was deadly. Nearly killed Toban and Kennedy and would've done the 
rest in if it weren't for Tuvok distracting him.
 	So Rollins was not taking any chances with this guy.
 	When he had stopped suddenly, he was immediately on the alert. He 
could sense Diana beside him take a defensive posture. It was a common 
trick they had learnt to anticipate - the token stumble before the 
attack.
	But surprisingly, it never came. `Tom' had continued walking as 
if nothing out of the ordinary was on his mind.
 	But he didn't relax his guard. He kept a close eye on the man's 
back - so close it made his head pound. 
	
	His eyes caught unexpected movement.
	He gaped.
	Beneath the man's skin?
	Before he could cry out a warning, blood splattered on his face 
and he saw a dozen black particles shooting to his face. They landed on 
his face-
 	-he gasped in shock-
 	Diana screamed.
	And then he felt them crawling on his face and burrow beneath his 
skin.
	His screaming began then.


	 Terrak's voice cautioned him.
	He was right. No time for pain. Only escape. He opened his eyes 
just in time to see the two security personnel turn around in alarm at 
the sound of their crewmen's screams.
	He lashed out a foot and caught one in the face with the heel of 
his boot. The man grunted in pain and fell, dazed.
	The other man did not hesitate. Tom could see in his eyes that 
this was a man that was experienced in his work, and had seen many 
battles and has defeated most of his foes. 
	But not me. Not today.
 	The man raised his phaser and fired.
	Tom had anticipated that. He quickly slammed himself against the 
side of the corridor, but the shot grazed his arm. He hissed in pain, 
but did not allow himself the pleasure of experiencing it for too long. 
He ducked and rolled, nearly getting shot again by his clumsy 
movements. He slammed into the man's knees, knocking him off balance. 
The next shot went awry.
	The man landed on his back with a grunt, and Tom did not give him 
time to recover. He got to his feet quickly and slammed his right foot 
on the man's sternum.
	He heard an audible crack above the man's screams and the screams 
of the others. With another violent kick, he slammed his boot into the 
side of the man's head. He fell abruptly silent.
	Suddenly, he was knocked forward. Caught off balance, he fell and 
rolled to his back just in time to see the man that he had stunned 
point a phaser at him.
	"Stay down" the man wheezed, his eyes round with alarm and anger. 
"Don't move!" he snapped.
	Tom merely gave the man a malicious smile. "You rely too much on 
your fancy weapons, Federation."
	"Well - I like it that way," the man growled, tightening his grip 
on his phaser. The temptation to fire flickered on the man's face. Tom 
did not give him time to entertain the thought.
	The man suddenly screamed, toppling to the ground, his left foot 
nearly severed at the ankle from the blade protruding from Tom's right 
boot. 
 	Tom gave the man a vicious smile. "So do I."
	The man made one more valiant attempt to fire at him, but Tom was 
faster. With one quick kick to the head, the security man slumped to 
the floor unconscious.  
	Working quickly, he searched the guards for the key to unlock his 
bonds. He found it on the nannite infested male security officer and 
quickly inserted the key into the bonds. It gave a soft sound before 
releasing its grip and falling to the floor. Relieved, grabbed a fallen 
phaser next to the man and quickly fired it at the bonds. He had half-
expected the bonds to blow up when he inserted the key and was 
immeasurably relieved when it didn't. Still, it was better to be safe.
	Next, he focused his attention on the tracking device around his 
ankles. It seemed standard Federation issue. And the Federations did 
not plant bombs in their tracking device.
	Unless they were Romulans.
	He pointed the phaser uncertainly at the device.
	He had to take the chance.
	He aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.
	With a loud flash, the device broke apart.
	He froze, waiting for the explosion. When it didn't come, he felt 
strangely disappointed. He didn't seem to be dealing with the Romulans. 
Could the Captain be right?
	He snarled. 
	He quickly surveyed the carnage he had caused. The two security 
guards behind him were silent now, their faces disfigured from the 
nannite infestation. It would only take a few minutes for the nannites 
to infest their brains completely. Soon, they would have no brain to 
speak of. The other two lay in a pool of blood, one, his face nearly 
obscured by the blood flowing from his scalp. They too, would not 
survive long. He stepped over their bodies and casually toed his right 
boot. The blade slid back in place, an innocent looking sole once more.
 	Only four security men? They had seriously underestimated him. Or 
have overestimated these men's abilities.
 	He turned.
      It was time to go.

	  

 	Ensign Croden swam up desperately to consciousness. The moment he 
felt a tiny flicker of control over his limbs, he ordered his heavy 
hand to move up to his commbadge. It took such great effort - but he 
managed to tap it.
	It activated with a tiny beep and he took a shuddering breath to 
speak into it.
	"Tuvok," he croaked, hoping his voice was strong enough for the 
commbadge to pick up.
	Stupid, he cursed himself. He had been too shocked by the sight 
of Rollins' and Detal's disfigured faces to shoot the bastard down. He 
should have done it when the man seemed defenseless, lying on his back 
with his hands behind his back. But Starfleet didn't teach you to fire 
on a defenseless man...
 	"Ensign Croden. We detected weapons fire. Security is on their 
way," Tuvok said coolly, his level voice coming out soft and loud in 
waves.
	Stupid, Croden. You should know better. You should've fired on 
that man. He was dangerous. He was an animal. Nearly killed Kennedy 
with that knife. What were you thinking?
	His vision was beginning to blur.
	"Escaped," he managed to grate out. "Sickbay..." he slurred.
	"We're on our way, Ensign."
	Tuvok said something else - something that was meant to be 
reassuring. But Croden felt very cold suddenly, and decided to give in 
to the blackness that was determined to drag him down.
	

________________________
Chapter 6


	He crept into the Jeffries tube, wincing as the rough floor 
grazed his now-bandaged arms. 
 	An access panel on the corridor told him that the weapons locker 
was ahead of him, but somehow he sensed that they were waiting for him 
on the other side.
 	He frowned, knowing that his choices were limited. 
	Perhaps he would die here after all.
	 he chided himself. 
 	Then he would go where they did not expect.

*	*	*

The Weapons Locker

	If Tuvok could hiss in frustration, he would have.
	"They're dead," said one officer in a tremulous voice. 
"Their...their necks were broken...it was quick," Lieutenant Marr said in a 
whispery voice. Tuvok could see the man's hands shaking.
 	Their deaths had been brutal - a man who grew up sheltered from 
the horrors of war, Marr, a petty officer, was more accustomed to 
phaser burns than the more brutal forms of injury meted out by the more 
uncivilized part of their universe. Even after Borg, Kazon, and a host 
of other alien attacks, Marr was still shocked. 
	They were too late. It was inconceivable. Even now, the ship was 
crawling with security personnel. It would have been difficult for the 
man to evade them. Yet the intruder had managed to creep into the 
weapons locker and kill two crewmen.
	Tuvok looked up. He frowned. He should have realized it a long 
time ago.
	"The Jeffries tubes," he said.

*	*	*

 	"It is bad, Captain," came Tuvok's voice.
 	Janeway paced on the bridge, her brow wrinkled in a frown. A 
dangerous man was loose on her ship. A man that was a trained killer. A 
man that looked like one of their own.
 	Just another day on Voyager.
  	"B'Elanna. Can you detect him?"
	"No ma'am," came B'Elanna's voice. She sounded embarrassed. "I 
should be able to by using Tom's biological readings, but the computer 
is not picking him up. I think he has somehow managed to disguise his 
readings," she said.
 	 Janeway let out a 
loud sigh. She wanted to wring the man's neck. And more. 
	Four men down. The best of her security team. Two of them dying 
from nannite infestation. Another two dead. Also security personnel.
 	"Red alert," she commanded. Amber lights appeared, and the crew 
looked expectantly at her. 
 	"Tuvok, send your team out. Be careful," as she said so, she 
stalked towards the turbolifts.
 	"Captain?" Chakotay enquired. 
	"I have an idea," Janeway said, pausing in mid stride. "I'm going 
to bring our man down without any weapons exchanged," she said, a 
twinkle in her eye.
  	Chakotay had always been impressed by the Captain's `ideas'. But 
more often than not, it involved high-risk endeavors - like driving the 
ship towards a sun.
 	The Captain read his mind. She gave him a reassuring smile. "Wish 
I could explain in greater detail, Chakotay, but you have the bridge," 
she said.
	Before the doors to the turbolift closed, she saw Chakotay 
regarding her with a puzzled frown. She felt guilty for not explaining 
things to Chakotay, but she simply did not have the time.
	"Sickbay," she told the computer.    


*	*	*
Sickbay


	He never thought anyone could be so violent. So vicious. So 
cruel. So merciless.
	More words ran in the Doctor's head as he frantically worked to 
save the four additions to his sickbay. Lieutenant Travis' skull was 
cracked and so was his sternum. Ensign Croden got off the lightest - 
relatively speaking - his nearly severed ankle was easy to reattach, 
his serious concussion easily rectified.
	But Ensign Rollins and Ensign Detal?
 	He didn't think technology could be this perverted - even the 
Borg did not use nannites in such a manner. Somehow, these nannites 
were programmed to destroy tissues.
	It was a race against time to remove the nannites infesting the 
victims' brain. And thanks to the Doctor's abilities - and the fact 
that he could work at a much faster pace than a human doctor - he was 
able to remove the nannites before any serious damage could be done. 
	
	He sighed. Time to think about it later.
	He looked grimly at Lieutenant Paris on the next biobed, looking 
as if he was in a deep, but pleasant sleep.
	 he 
wondered.
 	"Doctor. I need the data you have on the assassin," said a flat 
and commanding voice.
 	"The `who'?" the Doctor looked up briefly from his patients - 
still twitching from pain in their unconscious state - to regard Seven.
	"The intruder," she explained briefly.
 	The Doctor scowled. "Can this wait, Seven? As you can see, I'm in 
the middle of something here!" he barked. 
 	Seven lifted a pale eyebrow. She did not look the least bit 
perturbed. The Doctor wondered whether she even knew how.
 	"Unless you wish to see more patients like these, I would 
recommend you to comply now," the former Borg commanded in her no-
nonsense tone.
	The Doctor heaved a great sigh and impatiently walked over to his 
medical console to key in the necessary encryption to unlock the former 
patient's medical files. A brief glance to his right - his office - and 
he saw the Captain bent over his terminal, her eyes squinted in 
concentration. Somehow, in the middle of all that hustle-bustle trying 
to save the crewmen's lives, he had not noticed the Captain come in.
	"What are you both up to?" he asked as Seven took over his spot 
at the console.
	"We are building a micro-tetrion device," Seven said without 
taking her eyes off the readings before her.
	"Oh?" the Doctor remarked as he returned to his patients. He 
noted with satisfaction that his pain medication was finally working. 
Rollins and Detal appeared to have slid into a more peaceful form of 
sleep. Of course he had no idea what Seven's device was supposed to do, 
but something told him that it would not bode well for the `assassin'.
 	"His neural implants may be the keys to bringing him down," said 
the Captain as she walked to Seven's side. 
 	A sliver of insight crept into the Doctor's program. 
	"You can't!" he said, horrified.
	The Captain paused in the midst her work. The Doctor continued 
before she had a chance to say anything.
	"The implants are connected to his main functions-" he began.
	"Exactly," the Captain said.
	"It could kill him!" the Doctor protested.
	The Captain sighed, braced a hand on the console and gave him a 
look she normally reserved for Chakotay when he argued against some of 
her ethically suspect decisions.
 	"Would you prefer him kill more of our crew? Perhaps mutilate a 
few while he's at it?"
	"I see your logic in this but-"
	"The device will not kill him. It will merely incapacitate him," 
Seven interrupted smoothly.
 	The Captain returned to her work. "Unlike this Tom, we're not in 
the killing business. But he needs to be stopped." 
	She tapped her commbadge. "Tuvok, get your team ready. We're 
going in for the kill," she said.


*	*	*
The Bridge


	The news was not good.
	"B'Elanna?" he asked.
	"We're scanning the Jeffries tube now. It's tough going with the 
interference-" Carey muttered through his commlink.
	"Any sign of him?" Chakotay cut through, impatient.
	"No sir," Carey said sheepishly.
	Chakotay frowned and placed his hands on his hips, staring at the 
streaks of stars before him. He felt eyes staring at him, and Chakotay 
knew what they were thinking.
	
	Though, as a former Maquis, Chakotay realised that Starfleet was 
not used to guerilla tactics, though they may have wizened up with the 
Maquis. Starfleet did not play hide and seek. This man excelled in it.
	As Maquis, he had encountered assassins before. Usually of the 
Cardassian kind. They were good. This one was better.
 	Since the trouble began, the turbo lift doors swished open and 
shut endlessly as personnel hurried from station to station. He heard 
them again and did not bother to turn to regard the new arrival as he 
did earlier.
	It was his mistake.
	He heard a loud thud and a startled exclamation.
	When he turned in surprise, he was in time to see two officers 
shot down. The lieutenant at the conn managed to get his phaser out, 
but was shot down just as quickly. He crumpled to the ground 
bonelessly, hopefully stunned.
	Chakotay was surprised. Actually, he was amazed.	
	"How did you-" 
	"Tricks of the trade, Commander," replied the doppleganger of Tom 
Paris as he pointed the phaser at him with one hand, and held Ensign 
Kim in a chokehold with his other arm. Kim's expression was stony, but 
he kept perfectly still, knowing that the knife held at his throat 
could end his life in a moment.	
	"And it does help when your men are so incompetent," the man 
continued smugly.
	Chakotay noticed that the assassin's wrists were bleeding.
	"What do you want?" he finally grated out.
	"What I've demanded. A shuttlecraft," the man replied. The blue 
eyes, so different from their Paris, bored into his, full of 
calculating menace.
	"And go where?" Chakotay challenged. "Voyager's in the Delta 
Quadrant. We're decades away from Earth."
	The assassin frowned, fury crept into his eyes and his lips 
thinned into a cruel line. Kim gasped as the man drew the knife lightly 
across his throat. A thin red line trailed after the blade. 
 	Chakotay did not need to hear the assassin speak the meaning 
behind the gesture. *You lie* - the blade seemed to say.
	Chakatoy did not betray the nervousness he felt, but instead went 
on determinedly.
	"If you insist, go ahead. But I warn you, the Borg do not make 
good flying companions."
	"You lie!" the assassin snarled.
	Suddenly, there was the familiar hum of a transporter beam. 
Chakotay reacted instinctively. He reached for his phaser-
	But Harry beat him to it. Distracted by the beam, the assassin 
lost hold of Harry when he drove his elbow into the man's gut. The 
assassin doubled over in surprise, but recovered in time to slash Harry 
at the shoulders. Harry grunted in pain and flinched when he saw a 
phaser trained on his face-
-	Chakotay fired.
 	It caught the assassin on the shoulder. He flew backward, the 
phaser and knife flying from his grasp.
	But the man was not stunned. He rolled to his feet and prepared 
to duck into the turbolift.
	But he wasn't quick enough. 
	Something flew in the air and landed on the man's neck.
	Chakotay realized that it was a dart. He grimaced when he saw the 
familiar grey mottling of the veins around the wound. The dart had been 
filled with nannites.
	The assassin's eyes widened. Then he slumped to the ground, 
unconscious.
	"Incompetent indeed," he heard Janeway mutter. 
	Tuvok appeared on the bridge via the turbolift. Behind him were 
more security personnel. Quickly, they restrained the assassin.
	
______________________
Chapter 7
	 
The Captain's Quarters
1245 hours

	Janeway sighed and then stretched, feeling the tiredness of her 
muscles. For once, she was glad that the Doctor ordered her to her 
quarters. The alternate Paris' vicious escape attempt had drained her. 
The thought of four more of her crewmen lying seriously wounded - two 
of them from nannite poisoning (a condition she had not known was 
possible until now) in sickbay made her furious and anxious at the same 
time. Two of her crewmen lay dead in the morgue. She wanted to punish 
him for depriving them of their lives, but the shady nature of the 
assassin gave her pause. 
 	The implants must have been forcibly placed in him, the Doctor 
had reasoned. Surely no one would have allowed the implant to be 
embedded in their head. He had gone on to explain how the implant was 
so intricately connected to his brain that to remove it would have have 
adverse effects.
 	Plus, how it got there wasn't pleasant. It had been injected 
through the temple. They couldn't know how it had happened, because the 
Assassin refused to divulge anything about that.
	
 	With all this going on, frankly, she wasn't sure how long she 
could have stayed awake.
	Just what the hell was going on?
	A theory had been forming in her mind, and it sounded plausible 
when she discussed it with Chakotay and Tuvok. 
 	After further grilling with the black-clad Tom, they discovered 
that his world was slightly different from theirs. In his dimension, he 
had not joined the Maquis - this information he gave out in extreme 
reluctance - and had gone `his own way'. Historical events differed 
slightly as well. Admiral Paris was in the Badlands fighting a war with 
the shady Dominion, while *their* Admiral Paris was heading the 
Pathfinder Project. Again, the information about the Admiral was given 
out reluctantly.
 	It seemed reasonable to conclude that he and the other Paris had 
come from different dimensions, where history had turned out 
differently for both. For the other Paris, his fate had been an 
accident that had reduced him to the mentality of a child, while the 
other became a warrior, or if her suspicions were correct - an 
assassin.
 	 And for some reason, they had ended up on her ship. 
 	They had gone to Astrometrics, and Seven offered the possibility 
of an inter-dimensional anomaly, something the Borg had encountered 
before. 
	They scanned for that anomaly but came up empty.
	She was frankly, at a loss.
	She sat at the edge of her bed, rubbing her aching forehead.
	Somehow, emergencies mostly happened when she was tired and wrung 
out, not when she was happy and chirpy. She huffed in amusement.
	Her thoughts returned to the Assassin Tom.
	That was what they called him now, because that was what he was. 
Tuvok said that his fighting techniques were reminiscent of Ancient 
Vulcan martial arts, something Romulans and Vulcans inherited from 
their common ancestors. The arts were lost on Vulcan, because it was 
deemed too violent. Now they were subjects of Academic study, real life 
admonishments and a reason to comply with the dictates of Logic. On 
Romulus, it was rumoured to have been the exclusive fighting technique 
of a class of Assassins loyal to the Emperor, now long extinct. 
 	Theoretically, *shar-bokku* (as the art was known) was extinct.
 	How he came upon that knowledge was another matter. 
 	As for Thomas- how had the accident happened? Was he aware of his 
limitations, of what he had lost?
	Despite them coming from different dimensions, she was concerned 
for them, just as she was concerned for the one that was in a coma. 
What she saw in *them* disturbed her because they were possibilities of 
how *her* Tom would have turned out.
 	And now, Lieutenant Paris was in a coma. The list of troubles 
went on and on.
	"I'm sorry, Kathryn, but I had to put him to sleep."
	Janeway turned around in alarm and tapped her commbadge 
instinctively. "Janeway to Security, intruder alert!"
	Immediately red alert rang throughout the ship.
	She detected a movement to her right.
	"Computer! Lights on!"
	The computer obeyed immediately, and Janeway saw her visitor 
clearly.
	The alien was obsidian in colour, it's skin so black that it 
seemed to absorb light. Golden, pupil-less eyes regarded her.
	"Who are you?" she demanded, reaching for the phaser that was 
tucked in the uniform draped across her bed.
	"There is no need for that," the alien said, its voice high and 
resonant. "I will bring you no danger."
	Now that she thought about it, this alien did fit the Assassin's 
description of the creature that had attacked him.
	"I don't think so," she said, whipping out her phaser to train it 
on the alien.
 	"I am not the one that attacked Tom Paris. I am looking for him, 
actually," the alien said, as if reading her mind.
	"Tom Paris?" Janeway asked, her hand tightening on the phaser.
	"No," the alien said, shaking her head, sending red curls 
tumbling about. "Lyssiss. The one who nearly killed the one you call 
Assassin."
	"You read my mind?" Janeway demanded.
	The alien shrugged. "In a manner of speaking."
	Just then, the doors to her quarters burst open, but Janeway 
gestured to the security officers to stand down.
	"So I take it that you're responsible for bringing him and the 
other one on board my ship."
	"That is correct," the alien inclined her head.
	"Why?"
	"To trap Lyssiss. To save them."
 	"Is that why you put Tom in a coma?" it didn't make sense. None 
of it did.
	"I'm sorry I had to do that, but it is for your protection, to 
bide time. With this dimension's Tom Paris in a coma, Lyssiss would not 
be able to detect his presence. It will take time for him to find the 
others, and I have to be ready for him. We need to talk, Captain."
	

*	*	*

	The senior members of her crew stared at the alien in suspicion 
and fascination. `She' - for her name was Jorel, sat in the middle 
seat, blinking her golden eyes lazily as she looked around.
	"I am from a Dimension where all dimensions meet. It is in this 
place that we live, and observe the lives of other dimensions.
	"You believe that there are other dimensions, separate yet 
slightly similar to yours?" Jorel asked.
	Janeway nodded. "Yes. Universes with different possibilities 
existing together. That's a part of temporal theory."
	Jorel nodded. "Oversimplified, but it will do. There are millions 
of dimensions, Kathryn. Some are so similar that the difference could 
be very minute - different colour for eyes, a smile instead of a frown. 
My people plot these dimensions in a series of lines. The further one 
dimension is from another, the more different the dimension is from the 
other. You understand, yes?" she asked. 
	Jorel did not ask it in a condescending manner, but asked it in a 
way a teacher taught his student. From the beginning, Jorel had not 
called her Captain, instead, preferring to use her first name. But she 
said it in a respectful manner, as if her first name meant more than 
her station.
	Janeway nodded and Jorel continued.
	"Lyssiss became obsessed with failure. All of us were assigned an 
individual to `watch'. We patrol the dimensions like you patrol your 
`outer space'."
	Again Jorel waited for her to acknowledge that she understood. 
Janeway nodded impatiently.
	"Lyssiss watched Tom Paris. And he was disturbed by what he saw. 
In some dimensions like this one, Tom Paris had retribution, and was 
`saved'. But there were other dimensions - Thomas' and the 
Assassin's...that he considered failures."
	The senior members of the crew exchanged puzzled glances.
	"Failures in destiny," Jorel explained, fixing her golden eyes on 
some members of the senior crew. "With Thomas he gave in to his despair 
and attempted suicide, only to survive and live out his life as a 
quarter of what he was. With the Assassin, he led a life of violence, 
coming close to killing his father. Do you understand?" Again Jorel 
asked.
	Janeway nodded, feeling sickened at the revelation of the Assasin 
and Thomas' past.
	"So he considers them failures because they led their lives in a 
less...pleasing way? Because they didn't live up to *his* expectations on 
what a `successful' destiny was?!" B'Elanna demanded angrily. 
	Jorel looked pained - she bowed her head. "It is indeed true. It 
is painful and shameful that he would use his powers to manipulate the 
Dimensions...and kill. Lyssis had already killed two alternate versions 
of Tom Paris before he tried to take Thomas and the Assassin. He will 
not stop until he has killed them. And many more."
	"Why is he doing this?" Janeway asked. "Why Tom?"
	Jorel gave her a small smile. "I cannot tell you more, Kathryn. 
My very presence here is a violation of everything we stand for. The 
Prime Directive?" Jorel gave her a smile.
	So these beings have their own version of non-interference with 
alien cultures. Only with them, it was dimensions. Janeway nodded.
	"But we realized that we had to stop Lyssiss. I had snatched the 
Assassin and Thomas before he could kill them and have brought them 
here, on `neutral ground', where he will not harm this dimension's Tom 
Paris. Lyssiss has followed me to this dimension, and he will be here 
soon."
	Janeway stood up, alarmed. "You said you placed Tom in a coma to 
prevent that!"
	"Not prevent, delay," Jorel said. "The confrontation will come, 
Captain. He knew that to find the other Paris', he had to find the Tom 
Paris in this dimension. Kind leads to kind," Jorel said, nodding.
	"These different versions of Tom...they're bound together some 
way?"
	"In a manner of speaking, yes."
 	"And what happens once Lyssiss find him?" Janeway asked.
	Jorel seem to consider before answering. "Before he comes, he 
will send out...`beings' to search for them. This will signal that his 
approach is near."
	"Beings?" Chakotay asked, his tone saying that he didn't really 
like the sound of it.
	Jorel shifted her gaze to the First Officer. "Creatures that you 
will never find in this world. They scour the dimensions for us. They 
serve us, unfortunately, mindlessly, without thought of right and 
wrong."
 	"Are these beings dangerous?"
	"No. Unless..." Jorel did a good imitation of a frown.
	"Unless?" Harry prompted, leaning forward.
	"Unless he altered them someway. It can be done. But to that...no, 
he *would* never do that."
	"What makes you so sure?" Janeway demanded, leaning back with a 
heavy frown on her brow. "He has bent the rules before, what makes you 
think he'll stop at this one?"
 	Jorel looked disturbed at her argument. "I will protect them. 
Until then, do not separate them. They must be together at all times."
 	There was silence for a while.
 	"So what should we do before Lyssiss comes? Wait?" Chakotay 
asked, breaking the tense silence.
	"Indeed. We wait," Jorel answered matter-of-factly. 


*	*	*
Sickbay


	They must be together at all times.
	It seemed easy, but with the Assassin, it was difficult to say. 
Six security men guarded the sickbay - two outside, four inside. They 
were taking no chances this time. The Assassin had been thoroughly 
checked for more hidden weapons, but even weaponless, no one could 
estimate how dangerous he could be. 
	He sat cross-legged on the floor behind a forcefield enclosed 
area of the sickbay, looking exhausted and pale.  
	He lifted his icy blue eyes to hers when she approached him.
	"What have you done to me?" he accused, his eyes blazing with 
hatred. 
	Janeway lifted her chin, staring at the mirror-copy of her 
helmsman dispassionately.
	"Only what you deserve," she answered coolly.
	In a burst of unexpected strength, Tom got to his feet and 
stepped to the edge of the forcefield, his face mere inches from hers.
	"Answer me!" he growled.
	The security guard behind her grew nervous, moving forward to 
protect her. She lifted a hand to assure him.
	"It is temporary," she answered. The Doctor had informed her that 
Seven's micro-tetrion nannites had worked perfectly and had blocked the 
implant's signals to the brain, effectively shutting it down. The 
deactivation would disorient him badly, and it would cause him to 
behave erratically.  
	But they could not deactivate the implant for too long. It would 
kill him. That much was clear - especially when she saw him suddenly 
swaying on his feet.
	She resisted the instinctive impulse to help him, instead, she 
watched him stumble to the biobed and grasp it for support.
  	After a while, he turned to look at her. What she saw there made 
her pause for a while. It was confusion. Then it was gone, replaced 
with resignation. Tom slumped to the floor, suddenly exhausted.
	Her face softened, and despite what he had done, she felt pity at 
his plight. What circumstance had driven him to such a condition, 
dependent on brain implants?
 	Whatever it was that drove him to talk was gone now. After a 
minute of his silence, Janeway left him with the guards. 

*	*	*

	"Jared, I told you not to go to that creek, didn't I?"
	His son looked upset, especially now when his cut had to be 
stitched up.
	"Hold still," he told him.
	"It hurts, daddy," his son whimpered, trying to pull his hand 
from his.
	"Just for a while." How he wished for a skin regenerator. 
Anything but this barbaric method of treatment.
	Mereen seemed unfazed though. "Listen to your papa, Jared. It 
will be over soon," she said as she handed him some gauze.
	"Jared, if you want to go to the creek, I'll take you there, how 
about that?" he said, hoping to distract his son as he lay in his first 
stitch.
	"Really?" Jared's eyes brightened. Then suddenly he yelped. "Ow!" 
Then he began to cry. Tom did his job quickly, cursing with every 
stitch. He hated hurting his son.
	"I'll take you fishing, youll like that won't you?" he said as he 
put in the last stich.
	Jared sniffed but tried to act brave. "You'll let me put in the 
bait?"
	He threw his son a gentle smile. "I'll even let you hold the rod, 
how about that?"
	Jared smiled brightly.

	He opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment. Had he fallen 
asleep after treating Jared? No...that didn't sound right. Something had 
happened. Something very wrong.
 	He was sitting up, lying against something on his right side. He 
was faintly aware that his body was shivering and that sweat beaded his 
forehead. He opened his bleary eyes and stared at the blinking lights 
around him. And as he took in his alien surroundings, he began to 
panic. Where was he? Where was Jared? Mereen?
 	Confusing memories flooded his brain. Scenes that didn't make 
sense - a Romulan woman weeping, his father glaring angrily at him. And 
Mereen hanging from a tree-
	He groaned, trying to make sense of the images.
	Slowly, his memories began to reorder themselves, and he 
remembered every painful detail. His wife's suicide. His son, cold in 
his lonely grave on that backwater planet. And then the neuro-syringe-
	He felt a sudden surge of hatred.
	
 	There was a movement to his left. He turned abruptly, glaring at 
the intruder with red rimmed eyes. But he wasn't fooling anybody. He 
had the strength of a day-old targ pup.
	It was a bald headed man in a blue uniform, and he held a 
hypospray in his hand.
	"This will help you," he said. "And don't try anything with me. 
I'm a hologram," the man said wryly.
	A hologram? He looked around in panic. Wasn't he in the Shima 
Territory? 
	He felt the man administer the hypospray to his neck. He barely 
reacted to it as he tried to make sense of his situation.	
	"You're disoriented. But it'll pass. Any improvements?"
	He blinked, and the man - obviously a Doctor - was right. Clarity 
was beginning to return. With it, the memories of the past few hours. 
Anger turned to bitterness at his failure. He felt shame burning so 
brightly in his heart that he wanted to die of it. He did not deserve 
to be Sharbokh.
	He glared at the Doctor, accusation in his eyes.
	"I see you're better already," the Doctor quipped.
	"What have you done to me?" he demanded. He had not received an 
answer from Janeway the last time, and was too disoriented to ask 
further.
	"That'll take too long to explain, and under the circumstances - 
especially after what you did to the eight security men that just went 
through my doors - a very foolish thing to do," the Doctor said dryly.
	He gave the Doctor a contemptuous glare. "*You* did this to me!" 
he accused.
	The Doctor sighed. "Leave it to the Romulans to suspect a 
hologram. Not that you are one, though I suspect the implant is 
responsible for that `pleasant' side of your personality," he rambled 
as he studied the tricorder on his left hand.
	Tom struggled to get to his feet, but everything swam wildly 
around him. He cursed.
	So did the Doctor. He felt firm hands grab his shoulders and help 
him sit on the biobed.
	"This can't go on for too long," he heard the Doctor mutter.
	Suddenly Tom was too tired to think further. He sank down on the 
biobed and curled on his side, disoriented again, dreaming once more of 
Shalak Nor and what he had left behind.  
 	
*	*	*
The Captain's Ready Room

	"Captain, we have to deactivate Seven's micro-tetrion device. 
It's killing him," the Doctor said.
	"I advise caution. It could be a ploy. Deactivating the device 
could be a serious error in judgement," Seven said, her eyes narrowing 
with disapproval.
	"Nevertheless," Tuvok broke in coolly. "It would also be a 
serious error in judgement if he were to perish. It could affect the 
stability of his dimension."
	Janeway sighed. "I have considered these arguments in my head 
myself," the Captain answered. "And I've made my decision long before 
you made yours, Doctor."
	The Doctor bent forward a little in anticipation. 
	She couldn't help but give him a tiny smile. "Deactivate Seven's 
device. Let this be a warning that if he tries to escape again or harm 
a hair on my crew, we can easily reactivate it and incapacitate him."
	"A Crosari Tracker," Seven commented, lifting an eyebrow.
	"Seven?" Janeway swiveled her chair to study the former Borg.
	"Species 879. They implanted a neuro-disruptor in the brains of 
their social deviants to control them. They were able to wander around 
freely, but were at the mercy of their controllers who activated the 
device whenever they pleased. Usually without cause," Seven informed 
them dispassionately.
	The Doctor looked sickened. "That's barbaric!" the Doctor cried.
 	"I agree," Janeway said, her voice flat. She knew what Seven was 
getting at, and the comparison did not please her. "But we're not 
...Species 879. We only do it *only* when it's necessary."
	"Of course," Seven answered coolly, as if thoughts to the 
contrary did not occur to her.
 	"Doctor, get on with it," she heaved a big sigh and looked at 
Tuvok as Seven and the Doctor exited her ready room. "Tuvok. I suggest 
you put in a full security watch 24/7 in the Sickbay."
	He only nodded. 
	
________________
Chapter 8
Sickbay
Day 4 1405 hours


	Thomas couldn't stop crying and wailing.
	"Shut him up, or I shall," growled the Assassin from his corner.
	The Doctor shot him a glare. "Say one more threatening word and 
I'll reactivate the micro-tetrion device. Gladly."
	The Assassin merely glared back.
	"Sour tempered Romulan wannabe..." the Doctor grumbled beneath his 
breath.
	Samantha Wildman was doing her best to soothe Thomas, but he 
batted her hands away as if her touch hurt him. The Doctor felt 
uncomfortable looking at Thomas - it reminded him too much of a child 
in a temper tantrum.
	"Now, Thomas! Here's the ball, play with the ball now!" he 
coaxed, showing Thomas the ball.
	Thomas howled louder, batting the ball from his hands. The Doctor 
sighed, growing desperate. Perhaps the Assassin was right. He should 
sedate him.
	Then he caught something from the series of howls and wails 
Thomas made. It was a word. Not very clear, but it was definite. 
Samantha watched him curiously as he squinted and listened. There it 
was! It was one word:
	"Dog!" he exclaimed.
	"Doctor?" Samantha wondered out loud.
	"He's asking for a dog. Maybe he had a pet back home that he was 
attached to. What dog did Lieutenant Paris have?"
	"Er...he had a few. His favourite was a Golden Retriever named 
Buster-"
	"Alright! Buster it is!" the Doctor walked determinedly to the 
medical station, calling up a series of commands. "Computer, build a 
holographic projection of a Golden Retriever, aged two years. Download 
the matrix at my command-"
	"Acknowledged."
	He entered a series of commands and told the computer to activate 
the projection. There was a mild hum, and then a Golden Retriever 
padded into the middle of the room.
	The doctor held his breath, watching the Golden Retriever and 
Thomas.
	Thomas stopped crying, staring at amazement at the dog. Then he 
said the word again, this time clearly: "Dog," he cooed.
	The dog wagged his tail and padded to Thomas. When it reached 
him, Thomas gave the dog a hug. It licked his cheek enthusiastically.
	Beside him, Samantha Wildman heaved a sigh of relief, throwing 
the Doctor a glad smile. The Doctor felt quite proud of himself, 
grinning broadly.
	The Assassin got up from the biobed on which he sat. He gave the 
Doctor a strange look and moved to another corner.
	The Doctor wondered what it meant, but the look the Assassin gave 
him filled him with a sudden determination to make things better for 
Thomas.
	He looked at the careful reports he had typed out on his PADD. 
Taking in a deep breath, he scooped them up and headed for the 
Captain's ready room.


	When Jorel said they should wait, she didn't tell them that it 
could take weeks, even months. Apparently, time had no meaning for 
their kind. Janeway was not amused.
	They had released the Assassin from his bonds, and he was allowed 
limited movement in the sickbay behind his forcefield. Meanwhile, the 
Doctor spent an inordinate amount of time with Thomas. And it soon 
became clear why.
	"Captain, I believe I can heal the damaged portions of his 
brain," the Doctor said in her ready room.
	Janeway suspected as much. Because of their time in the Delta 
Quadrant, the Doctor had picked up some advanced medical knowledge - 
especially from the Vidians and the Borg.
	"Denara Pel taught me some regenerative techniques when she was 
here. It's so simple, Captain. All I have to do is get some nanites 
from Seven-"
	Janeway sighed. "Out of the question."
	The Doctor was stumped. "But Captain-"
	"I know you're concerned about Thomas, Doctor. But we do not know 
what will happen to his Dimension if he returns home cured. We simply 
can't risk that."
	"But how about the other two dimensions, Captain? The Tom Paris' 
in those dimensions are dead, and somehow these `beings' are not 
running around in a panic!"
	Janeway was quiet. Part of her was very tempted to allow the 
Doctor to continue with his treatment. She had watched Thomas the other 
day and had seen him caressing the controls by his biobed the same way 
Tom had at the helm. He had noticed her studying him, and the look he 
had given her had haunted her - it was a look of sadness and confusion. 
Somehow he knew that there should be something more to his existence, 
but there was nothing he could do to find out what it was. Janeway was 
certain that Thomas remembered something of his old life.
	"We can't let him live out the rest of his life like this when we 
hold the cure! It's like denying a dying man his medicine!" the Doctor 
argued heatedly.
	Janeway glared at the Doctor. "It is not the same thing, Doctor. 
Thomas is not dying."
	"He deserves to be cured, Captain. It's his right."
	 Janeway sighed, knowing how right he was.
	"He is correct, Kathryn. He deserves to be cured."
	Janeway and the Doctor regarded Jorel in surprise. She had 
appeared out of nowhere. 
	"But the Dimensions-"
	"Will hold," Jorel said softly, her golden eyes regarding her 
seriously. Janeway frowned - she recognized that look. It was the same 
look she had when she bent the rules to save her crew.
	"You're breaking the rules, aren't you? Why?"
	Jorel merely inclined her head and said softly but clearly:
	"Everyone deserves a second chance."
	But the Captain did not let the matter go so easily. She demanded 
an explanation from Jorel, and soon their conversation lapsed into 
temporal-mechanic goobbledygook that the Doctor would have preferred 
not to hear. But after an hour of heated debate, the Captain finally 
said.
	"Alright, Doctor. You can proceed."
	He blinked, wondering whether his hearing subroutines were 
damaged - and decided to leave before the Captain changed her mind.
	"Alright, Jorel. You convinced me. Now, I want to know what we're 
going to do when Lyssiss makes his appearance."
	When Jorel explained, Janeway was furious.
	"You're using Thomas and the Assassin as bait?" Janeway asked 
furiously.
	"And Lieutenant Paris as well," added Jorel.
	"Not a member of my crew!" Janeway snapped.
	"He will find the others through your crew member, Kathryn. If 
you build the shield according to my parameters, then they will be 
safe. Lyssiss will not be able to enter the shield and kill them - and 
he needs to touch them to kill."
	"Alright. Say we build the shield to your parameters. What then?"
	"I will remove him."
	"Just you?"
	"I am enough."
	Janeway sighed. It didn't sound like a good plan, but it *was* a 
plan. "Alright we'll do it your way. I'll get Seven and B'Elanna to 
work on it immediately."
	"Good," Jorel nodded.



________________
Chapter 9
Sickbay
Day 6, 0200 hours

	
	He felt strange.
	Tom opened his eyes, and realized that he was looking at a 
biobed. The clarity of thought surprised him, and he wondered why he 
should be. 
	He heard humming in the background, and his ears picked up faint 
beeping noises of machines. He put two and two together and realized 
that the humming in the background was a warp engine, and that he was 
in a sickbay of some sort.
	Tom lifted himself up so that he sat on the bed. He looked around 
in the semi-darkness and wondered what in the world he was doing on a 
starship - a Federation starship at that - and in it's sickbay?
	He frowned, trying to remember.
	A faint memory stirred - confusing images of a lake, of being 
surrounded by water, panic as he tried to surface but couldn't.
	He shut his eyes, feeling dizzy suddenly.
	"Ah, you're awake!"
	The voice surprised him and he flinched away.
	A bald man in a Starfleet uniform - medical uniform, he realized 
- stood beside his bed, holding a mediical tricorder. Why hadn't he 
heard him coming? 
 	Everything was such a confusing blur.
	The Doctor looked grave. "Do you understand what I'm saying, 
Thomas?" he asked slowly, as if he was speaking to a child.
	Tom felt faintly annoyed at the condescending tone and the fact 
that he used `Thomas', something only his father called him. Not that 
he liked it much - Admiral Paris only used it when he was about to give 
his son some serious tongue-lashing.
	"I should think so," he said sarcastically. Only it came it out 
as `I shlld thk sss'. He raised his eyebrows in alarm.
	"Don't worry, Thomas- it'll improve in time." The Doctor sounded 
delighted.	
	"How is he?" came another voice. A woman's voice - soft and 
gravely.
	"The surgery was successful, Captain!" the Doctor said 
enthusiastically. 
	The woman looked at him, smiling. She looked familiar. "Thomas. 
I'm Captain Kathryn Janeway - how are you feeling?"
	Kathryn Janeway. Now he remembered. His father talked about her 
often. She was the star pupil that he had to measure up to.
	"Dnt cl me Tmas," he muttered, feeling annoyed at his lisp.
	But the Captain understood. "I'm sorry Thomas, but we need to - 
for simplicity's sake."
	Tom looked at her in confusion. Then another memory resurfaced. 
He remembered coming home - he was in San Francisco, with Moira. No...no, 
Moira had gone away and she hadn't come back for a long time. Tom was 
confused by the jangle of memories and lapsed into silence, trying to 
sort them out.
	"Captain, I think we need to let him rest," the Doctor said 
softly.
	Janeway nodded and left him alone. Tom settled down on biobed, 
trying to remember more.

*	*	*

	The `Assassin'...that's what they called him now, and he felt a 
taste of irony at the name. The Assassin...only in this world they knew 
his true identity.
	He had heard the conversation on the biobed between Thomas, 
Janeway and the Doctor and felt faintly...relieved. 
	Thomas had disturbed him. He was, in every way - a copy of him. 
Only this copy was frightening - instead of the illustrious Starfleet 
officer of this dimension, Thomas was a mentally disabled man who 
played with toys and cooed at holographic dogs. He wanted to strike 
Thomas dead - because he reminded him of how close he had come to that 
road.
	Before Terrak saved him, he had been an addict of Lintz, and if 
he had not saved him, he would have damaged his brain the same way 
Thomas had when he drowned or suffocated himself. Yet, each time he 
looked at Thomas, he felt no sympathy but fear and revulsion.
	So now Thomas was given back his mind. He was given a second 
chance at life.
	Suddenly, the Assassin was envious.

*	*	*


	"Elizabeth...we can settle things," said his father. Tom squinted 
to see the blurry shapes that moved before him, but everything appeared 
in a blur. 
	"Stop it, Owen. You've done enough. Do you want to destroy my 
life as well?" 
	Her voice startled him. Elizabeth Paris did not speak like that - 
so cold and angry. His mother was always warm and friendly, even when 
Dad was being his most difficult, Elizabeth Paris never sounded harsh. 
	He saw his father turn towards him.
	"Go play with Buster, Tom," Owen said gently - he hadn't spoken 
like that to him in years. "Go on..." he said.
	Tom opened his eyes, feeling disturbed by his dream.
	There were others as well. Kathleen, talking to him in low tones 
in words he did not understand. Dreams about suffocating, 
drowning...Moira - Moira shouting at his father and never coming back. 
And in the dreams, he felt sluggish and slow, as if he looked from 
beneath thick layers of gauze.
	
	He sat up.
	"You should lie down, Thomas."
	"Are we at Starfleet Medical?" he asked, ignoring the Doctor's 
advice.
	The Doctor paused. "No, we're on board USS Voyager. We're on a 
starship."
	"I suspected as much," he said. Then he realized that he was 
speaking normally. He smiled.
	The Doctor returned the smile. "You're coming along quite well, 
Thomas. Soon, you'll be fully recovered."
	Tom frowned. "Why did the Captain say that she had to call me 
Thomas for simplicity's sake?"
	The Doctor looked uncomfortable at the question.
	Then he decided on a more important question. "What happened to 
me?"
	The Doctor perked up, but he looked guarded still.
	"How much do you remember?"
	Tom shrugged. "I remember being in the Academy. I remember...the 
accident, Caldik Prime-" he gave the Doctor a pointed look, as if he 
expected him to react in surprise. The Doctor merely nodded. He knew 
that part of Tom Paris' history well enough. "And the trial. Leaving 
home. That's it. After that, everything is a blur. Sometimes, it's 
frightening."
	"Go on," the Doctor coaxed.
	Tom frowned. "I dreamt that I was drowning," he shook his head as 
if to clear the frightening images. "I wanted to swim up, but I had no 
strength. Is that what happened to me? Did I drown?"
	The Doctor sighed. "We're not sure, but we suspect something of 
that nature."
	"Didn't Starfleet Medical send you my medical records?" Tom 
asked, perplexed.
	"Well...we're not exactly near Starfleet Medical right now."
	"What do you mean?"
	"Maybe you should rest, Thomas."
	"I want to know, Doctor," he said firmly.
	The Doctor looked uncomfortable.
	"You tried to kill yourself," said a voice.
	Tom jumped and paled when he saw *himself*. 
 	*He* was behind a forcefield, an arm braced against the wall as 
he leaned casually against it. His hair was long, tied in braids which 
cascaded to his shoulders. It was his eyes that disturbed him the most. 
They were...cruel. 
	"Mr. Paris!" the Doctor barked.
	Tom could only stare in fascination at his double - he had a 
hard, steely look about him that unnerved him. But he was strong -that 
much he could see. The form before him was lithe and muscular. 
Everything about him spelt danger.
	"He asked a question, didn't he? I answered it," the man answered 
coolly. He gave the doctor a cynical smile. "And isn't my new name 
`Assassin' - for simplicity's sake?" he mocked.
	"I thought it was ridiculous," the Doctor muttered. "No one 
should be called by what they...do."
	"They named you the same way," the man said.
	The Doctor was about to retort when he was interrupted by another 
voice.
	"Say, Doc! I think you better do something with my vision because 
I'm seeing double here," said another voice.
	And all three turned to see a bleary-eyed Tom Paris in Starfleet 
uniform stumbling towards them.
	"Sleeping Beauty awakens," said the Assassin, a cynical grin on 
his face. 
	

__________________
Chapter 10
Sickbay
Day 8 1002 hours


	Talk about a weird day. Or rather, a weird week - since they told 
him that he had been in a coma - a coma! - for a week.
	All because some inter-dimensional being wanted alternate 
versions of him dead.
	It was weird, but he felt no satisfaction for passing the `test' 
and not being a `failure' to the being. When he looked at the Assassin 
and Thomas, he felt a stab of remembered self-revulsion and fear. He 
could've easily been either of them.
	B'Elanna had grabbed some free time to tell him about the two, 
and the story was not pleasant. Assassin was well, an assassin who had 
an implant in his head. When he had come onboard, he had taken Samantha 
Wildman hostage, nearly killed four of Tuvok's best men and killed two 
others. He thought he was a Romulan and worse, acted like one.
	Thomas, on the other hand was the complete opposite. Just a few 
days ago, he had been a child in a 28-year-old man's body until the 
Doctor healed the damaged portions of his brain. He had ended up 
disabled because he had drowned in the very lake behind his house in 
San Francisco.
	The thought unnerved him. 
	 He looked at Thomas' back, as he slept on his side.
	The Assassin in his corner, sat cross-legged in some kind of 
meditative pose. As he stared, the man's eyes shot open. They glared 
balefully at him. 
	"How long must we wait?" he suddenly growled.
	Tom looked for the Doc's reaction.
	"I don't know," the Doctor replied peevishly. It must have been 
the gazzilionth time the Assassin had asked him the question.
	"If the creature wants to kill me, release me so I can face him! 
I am not bait for that creature!" he spat. 
	"I thought we *were* bait." Tom just *had* to add that.
	The Assassin glared at him, his blue eyes staring piercingly at 
him as if he was doing an imaginary dissection on him right then.
	"Just wonderful," the Doctor muttered. "Three Parises in the same 
room. What did I do to deserve this?"
	Tom chuckled. The Assassin narrowed his eyes and looked away.
	He sighed. *That* version of him was one major grump.
	Just then, the sickbay doors slid open. Seven, B'Elanna and the 
Captain entered. 
	He signaled B'Elanna desperately. Get me out!" he mouthed to her.   
"I don't think so," his wife mouthed back, smiling. But beneath that 
smile he sensed worry. He wanted to tell her everything would be all 
right, but he wasn't sure himself. Especially when the obsidian 
coloured alien entered the Sickbay.
	"Whoa!" he jumped up from the biobed.
	"Easy, Lieutenant. She's alright," the Captain said.
	"I'm glad you're feeling better, Tom," said the alien. Tom 
thought that it was the most mysterious voice he had heard - it was 
high and resonant, like a musical instrument.
	"I feel like a million bars of latinum," he answered. "Only I 
feel a little weird because there's three of me."
	"Understandable," said the alien.
	"Tom, we have to move all of you to Cargo Bay 2 now," Janeway 
said, her eyes betraying her concern.
	Tom nodded. "Where we'll be the proverbial worm on the hook," he 
said.
	"Jorel-" Janeway nodded to the alien, "-awakened you because she 
wants Lyssiss to find you."
	"The bad guy."
	Janeway grinned. "Yes, the bad guy. Once in the cargo bay, you 
will be placed underneath a special force field which will prevent 
Lyssiss from physically touching you."
	Tom nodded and gave B'Elanna a grave look. "Don't worry B'Elanna, 
it's just another routine assignment where I wait for the bad guy and 
kill him in the end," he threw a devil-may-care grin, but his eyes 
betrayed his nervousness.
	"Maybe I'll get some dinner ready for you tonight after the job 
is done. Maybe bake a turkey or something," she said after a long 
pause. Her attempt at humour made Tom chuckle. Hanging around him has 
had more than one effect on B'Elanna after all.
  	"Don't forget the honey, dear," he said, throwing her a secretive 
smile.
	B'Elanna merely looked into his eyes and then slowly lowered her 
eyes suggestively. It made him look forward to getting into Jorel's 
trap so that he could get the whole thing done and over with as soon as 
possible.
	The Assassin gave him a mysterious look. A look which Tom 
completely ignored.
	

*	*	*

	The cargo bay was dark.
	The one called Thomas watched the Assassin and the lieutenant, 
feeling strangely envious of them. The lieutenant was humming to 
himself as he sat cross-legged on the floor. The assassin merely stood 
near the surface of the shield, staring at nothing, facing away from 
them.
	Somehow the lieutenant caught him staring at him and met his 
eyes. Tom was not unnerved. He stared back.
	"You are the person I've always dreamed I would be," he finally 
said, feeling the old hurt resurface as he said the words.
	The lieutenant looked surprised. "Little old me? Stuck here in 
the Delta Quadrant, away from the Federation?"
	"But you still have the nasty habit of using humour when you're 
nervous," Tom said, leaning back against the stack of barrels behind 
him.
	The Lieutenant sighed and shifted himself nearer to him. 
	"Look...Tom, I'm...I'm not a role model."
	"I didn't say you were," he replied.
	"I stand corrected then. The thing is, I know you - because you 
are *me*. You're feeling a whole sack of self-pity right now and I know 
what you've been through, because I've gone through Caldik Prime, the 
trial...and Odile's death," he said gravely.
	Tom studied his Starfleet counterpart; noticed the confident way 
he spoke, the happiness that was reflected in his eyes. *That* was what 
he wanted. Not some Starfleet rank.
	He remembered it all at last. The two terrifying years of fear 
and depression, and finally - the lake. 
	"Did they visit you then?" he asked.
	The Lieutenant looked puzzled. "Who?"
	"Odile. Bruno...Charlie," he blinked away tears. He felt so weak 
and useless.
	The Lieutenant paled and leaned back against the barrels.
	"It wasn't so long ago," he merely said, his voice subdued. And 
it was like looking into a mirror. Tom could see the same guilt and 
fear mirrored on the Lieutenant's face.  
	"Yes, they visited me. On board the USS Copernicus. I thought 
they'd come back to haunt me again and again, but after the trial, they 
never came back. They must have been satisfied that I confessed," he 
shook his head wryly. 
	"They visited me. For two years. They were *never* satisfied," 
Tom said softly, knowing that his eyes betrayed the pain and fear he 
felt. His voice sounded bitter to his ears.
	The Lieutenant look stricken. "I'm sorry. Nobody should live 
through that," he said softly. 
 	Tom had to continue. He was afraid that if he stopped, his 
cowardice would be with him forever.
	"Two years ago, Odile came to me at the place I thought I was the 
safest in the world. And I couldn't take it anymore. I lay on the muddy 
shore of Mom's lake, thinking that it all had to end. And then I 
realized, that *that* was what they wanted me to do. To end it. I was 
dragging them around with me, and I had to die so they could be free. 
So I did what I thought was right. I walked into the lake and drowned."
	He said it all in a frighteningly monotonous voice, devoid of all 
emotion. But his eyes became misty with tears - tears of his weakness. 
He hated himself for it. The assassin hid his pain with violence, the 
Lieutenant with humour, but he had nothing to hide under. He had been 
stripped of everything; his dignity, joy, even anger.
	"You think I'm a coward," he said.
	The Lieutenant shook his head. "No. I would have done the same 
thing. I *know.* My life wasn't a picnic - you think I'm some kind of 
model of `greatness' or perfection," he snorted. "Truth was, I was 
pretty much on my way to the pits of hell before I confessed. I joined 
the Maquis, worse, got myself captured on my first mission. It was a 
Dad-Oh-So-Proud moment," he muttered sarcastically. He was quiet for a 
while, then gave Thomas a hard look.
 "You aren't weak or a coward if you survive and grow strong again. You 
have to remember that," he said.
	Tom nodded. "You...have a good life, Lieutenant. Despite what 
you've been through, you have a wife, friends who love you and you can 
fly," he said the last word longingly. "Don't ever forget that."
	The Lieutenant nodded, his face grave. "I never have. Not for a 
minute."
	They sat in the cargo bay waiting for it happen.
	But Lyssis never came.

*	*	*
Captain's Ready Room


	"I do not understand," Jorel said.
	That was something Janeway did not want to hear from the inter-
dimensional alien. 
	"He must have been expecting you," Chakotay said.
	"The bait has been cast, but the fish is too wary to grab it," 
Janeway muttered, her eyes blazing with annoyance.
 	"What will he do next?" B'Elanna asked, her voice strained.
	Jorel did not reply.
	Janeway knew that that was not a good sign.
	"Will there be reinforcements?" she demanded. 
	Again, silence.
	Janeway wanted to rail against the alien. How could you let this 
happen? She wanted to scream. Jorel looked helpless, as if she had 
never been in this situation before.
	"He has grown unpredictable. He is more determined than I 
imagine," she said.
 	"I'll say," Janeway muttered sarcastically. "Don't you have 
security measures to prevent something like this?" 
	Jorel looked chagrined. "This has never happened before. My 
people do not even know the meaning of war, let alone...murder," she 
sounded pained. "We do not kill. Never," she said vehemently.
 	Janeway did not know what to say. Neither did any of the crew.
	Finally, Harry spoke up. "Isn't there anything to prevent him 
from entering this dimension?"
	Jorel look askance at Harry. "That would kill him. We do not 
kill."
	"Well, don't kill him then!" B'Elanna shot back. "Shackle him. 
Imprison him. Just stop him!" 
	"B'Elanna," Janeway admonished. The half-Klingon fell silent, but 
anger still simmered in her dark eyes. "Well?" she asked Jorel.
	Jorel stood up uncertainly. "There is a way...but it will cause him 
great pain. None of us has done it before. Theoretically, it is 
possible...but...it goes against everything we believe in!"
	Janeway frowned. "Jorel," she grated.
	"Alright, Captain," Jorel said before she could continue. "I 
shall-"
	The shimmer was barely perceptible at first. Then it became 
obvious that Jorel was...flickering.
	"Captain?" Harry asked, half rising from his seat.
 	"Jorel!" Janeway called out - reaching out for the alien.
	"No, Captain!" Tuvok restrained her hand. They watched helplessly 
as the flickering increased. Jorel disappeared and reappeared, and each 
time she became clear again, the pain in her features increased. Jorel 
looked shocked, and Janeway knew why. The `something that was not done 
before' was being done now. To *her*.
	There was a blast of light and a piercing scream. It felt as if 
the whole universe shook - then the universe shifted to normal.
	It left them disoriented and breathless.
	Chakotay was the first to regain his breath. "Looks like Jorel 
will not be the first to employ that little trick after all. Lysiss has 
beaten her to it," Chakotay wheezed.
	Janeway stared at the empty spot where Jorel was, her mind 
whirling. How could they stop something that could do *that*?
	

*	*	*
Sickbay

 	"You're kidding."
	"Wish I was," said the First Officer seriously, his arms folded.
	"You have a talent for understatement, Chakotay. Where's my 
wife?"
	Chakotay lifted an eyebrow at his abrupt change of subject. 
	"Here, Tom," B'Elanna said as she entered the sickbay. "I was 
studying the bipolar energy discharge Jorel left when-"
	"Enough of that," Tom muttered as he walked to his wife. He 
wrapped her in a hug.
	B'Elanna looked surprised, but she returned his hug, wrapping her 
arms securely around his.
	"I missed you," he said when he broke the embrace.
	B'Elanna, never one to show affection openly in public could only 
nod. Her eyes flickered to the Assassin who sat on the floor, his eyes 
closed, then to Thomas, who pretended not to notice their public 
display of affection. He wasn't pretending very well.
	"Now that we've got that out of the way, I want you to stay away 
from me," Tom said.
	"What?" B'Elanna's brown wrinkled in puzzlement. Her voice had a 
dangerous tone to it.
	"Uh-oh," he heard Chakotay mutter in the background.
	"I've got an inter-dimensional being on my tail!" Tom protested.
	"And you decided to play knight in shining armour and rescue your 
fair damsel from peril?" B'Elanna asked sarcastically.
	"Well-"
	B'Elanna gave him a shove. "That has never worked, helmboy. And 
if you think being gallant at a time like this is amusing-"
	"B'Elanna, I don't want anything to happen to you," Tom was 
deadpan serious.
	B'Elanna's expression softened. "I know. And I don't want 
anything to happen to you, either. So just shut up," she added gruffly.
	
	Thomas watched the exchange in fascination.
	
	And then he thought about what Chakotay said about Jorel.
	
	When they began to kiss, right in the middle of sickbay, Thomas 
turned away in embarrassment. 
 	He saw the Assassin studying the couple with a strange look. He 
looked almost...sad...as if he remembered something that hurt him.
	The man noticed his stare and returned it, his blue eyes flashing 
hotly. Thomas turned away again, annoyed and disturbed.
	"He is an assassin," he heard the Assassin speak up. Wondering if 
the man spoke to him, Thomas turned to look. But the man's eyes were 
centered on the first officer.
	B'Elanna and Tom broke from their intimate embrace. The half-
Klingon looked embarrassed. 
 	Chakotay walked to the Assassin's cell, regarding him silently. 
Tom got up and walked to the shield, so near to Chakotay that they were 
mere inches apart.
	"So he thinks like one. And he will strike when you least expect 
it, where you think you're the safest," he said. The Assassin looked 
up. "In fact, he is on the ship now, waiting for the right moment to 
strike."
	Then the assassin shifted his eyes to meet Chakotay's. His lips 
stretched to a cold smile.
	"That's what I would have done," he said.
	Thomas shivered.

 
*	*	*

	The lake was cold.
	But it was the right thing to do.
	He took a step. And then another. Odille was before him, gliding 
away from him, beckoning him to the right thing.
	Release us, she was saying. Release us from this hell you put us 
in.
	They were rotting, wasting away because he was still here. They 
were waiting for him to join them. He wasn't supposed to survive 
Chaldik Prime. Because of his error, they were condemned to live this 
living death.
	It all made sense now.
	He continued walking until he couldn't feel his feet anymore, 
then he tripped-
-	and sank like a stone.
 	Immediately, he began to panic. His survival instincts overrode 
his desire to do the right thing and he trashed in the frigid waters to 
break the surface.
	But he couldn't - his arms were like lead. His feet - he couldn't 
feel them.
	His vision began to cloud, then it turned red, like blood.
	And he opened his mouth to take a desperate breath.
	But there was only water.
	Cold, slimy water.

	Thomas cried out in terror and came awake, his body shivering 
violently.
	"Thomas are you alright?" A voice asked him frantically.
	It took him a moment to focus on the Doctor. Thomas was dismayed 
when he saw a troupe of security men behind the Doctor, all looking 
incredibly concerned. Amazingly, Lieutenant Paris was snoring on his 
biobed, totally oblivious of the commotion. 
	"I'm fine," he gulped. Then he glared at the security  men. "Stop 
staring," he muttered.
	The Doctor gave the men a nod, and they left the sickbay.
	The lights were dimmed again, and Thomas was left with the Doctor 
who scanned him with his medical tricorder.
	"I'm fine," he said peevishly.
	"Well, a little distressed, but that's understandable. Did you 
have a nightmare?"
	Thomas didn't really want to say yes, but he nodded anyway.
	When he didn't elaborate further, the Doctor nodded. "Alright. 
I'll be here if you need me. Just call." With that, the Doctor walked 
to his dimly lighted office. When he was sure that the Doctor was gone, 
Thomas let out the shuddery breath he had kept in. He covered his face 
with his hands, and released a sob. 
	 he scolded, but a tear escaped. "Damn 
you," he cursed himself between sobs.
	"Did you dream of drowning?"
 	He had forgotten about *him*.
 	The Assassin studied him, his cold eyes seemed to glow in the dim 
light.
	"What do you want?" he snapped. His patience was tapped. The man 
could go to hell for all he cared.
	The man moved forward.
	"You went willingly," he said, undeterred.
	"Shut up," Thomas snapped, then casting a look at the medical 
office to make sure the Doctor had not notice. He had not.
	"What drove you to do such a cowardly act?" the man prodded. 
Curiously, his voice held no disgust or malice. It was flat, almost 
neutral - as if he was curious to know why.
	But Thomas flinched, stung. He was not going to take this. Not 
from this aberration.
	"What drove you to be a butcher? Killing men as if they were 
nothing? And doing it for a living! And you dare judge me, you - you 
abomination!" he shot back. 	
  He was furious, but he also wanted to know why. The man was him 
after all - a man who was driven down a different road. A harsher, 
crueler road.
	The Assassin leaned against the wall, giving him a wry smile.
	"Men *are* nothing. That's something you should know- *Thomas*."
	He said his name as if it amused him.
	"They said you nearly killed...Dad. Would you even kill your own 
child, too?" Thomas prodded further. 
	The Assassin stiffened, his eyes widened in fury, his lips 
thinned into a grimace. Then he turned abruptly.
 	"You would, wouldn't you?" Tom goaded.
	"If I were free...you would pay for that remark with a knife in 
your gut," he said almost casually. He still faced away from him.
	"That's it, isn't it?" Thomas said, getting off the bed. "You 
killed your son!"
	The Assassin's shoulders stiffened.
	"Didn't you?" he goaded.
	The man turned, staring hotly at him. Then his expression 
changed. Pain flashed across his hard features.
	"You don't know what you're saying," he said, his voice a 
whisper. Then the pain was gone, replaced with cold indifference. 
	"Yes," he said after a moment, his expression unreadable once 
more. "I killed my son. And because of that, *I* am nothing."
	He turned away and walked into the darkness of his little cell.
	Thomas could only stare, wondering.
	
*	*	*

	You killed your son, didn't you?
	
	Tom leaned against the wall, thinking. Thinking about things he 
should not be thinking about. Life in the Paris home, with its ordinary 
lake and the ordinary gardens. With that ordinary Starfleet career 
stretched out expectantly before his young life. His sisters, his 
loving mother, his doting father. The perfect family.
 	Stop it Tom! He could hear Moira scolding him when he packed his 
bags. He had been furious, shoving clothes into the bag, not even 
bothering to check what he had packed. He was going to leave and never 
come back.
	Dad is just like that! She had said.
	And then he was pointing that gun in his face, ready to kill him.
	What do you think of your son now, Admiral?
	Jared, his neck broken, with his hands around his neck.
	You killed your son, didn't you?
	His heart was cold, a thing made of stone. Tom Paris died a long 
time ago.
 	Then he felt someone staring at him again.
	Thinking it was Thomas, he ignored it. But it was persistent, 
like a needle poking his back.
	He hissed in anger and turned.
	His eyes widened.
	


________________
Chapter 11


	Lieutenant JG Thomas Eugene Paris dreamed.
	He was in Auckland, the prison, and he was sitting at his 
favourite spot, staring.
	He did that a lot. Thinking was his worse fault in the idyllic 
prison of the New Zealand Corrections Facility. 
	It was a habit that the counselors took note of, and was the 
reason why they dragged him for counseling every once in a while to 
make sure he didn't do anything silly to himself, like slit his wrists 
or something.
	He stared at the stars above.
	He was thinking, Dad had not visited.
	 he chided himself. His Starfleet 
career, ruined, ruined. He was not a Cadet anymore. He was not part of 
Starfleet either. What was he now? 
	He gripped his hair in his fists, moaning in pain.
	Then his thoughts went still again. He lowered his hands and 
stared at the fluttering grass. He wasn't supposed to be here, he 
realized. He should have been in his quarters, asleep. His unlocked 
quarters - Starfleet had a laissez-faire policy with its prisoners. As 
long as you had that convenient tracking device strapped to your ankle, 
they're fine with you.
	"Tom?"
	He looked up. It was that Betazoid again. That half-Betazoid, 
that is. The one that liked to smile a lot. He frowned.
	"Isn't it a little late for a picnic?" she asked him. He hated 
her sense of humour. It never made him laugh.
	He looked away, keeping his eyes on the fluttering grass again.
	"Stop it, Tom."
	She had her hands on his face, forcing him to look away.
	"Tom, look at me. You must stop this. You don't have to die-" her 
voice trailed then she gasped.
	She held his hand, alarmed at the blood flowing heavily from his 
wrists.
	"Tom what did you do?" she cried out in shock, then lifted her 
hand to tap her commbadge.
	Then her eyes widened in pain.
	"You stop," he muttered, staring at the shard of glass that he 
plunged into her chest. "You talk too much."
	
	 He had walked away, 
stumbling to his bedroom, ashamed of the suicidal thoughts that were 
swimming in his head then. He knew Troi had sensed them. He did not 
kill her!

	He was in a padded cell, gazing with empty eyes at his father. 
The admiral was disappointed. The admiral was sad. 
	"Tom, can you hear me?" he said, his voice shaky. "For goodness 
sakes, answer me..."
	[He killed Counselor Troi. Then he returned to his quarters to 
kill four more inmates in their sleep. Then he went to bed, pulled the 
covers over himself and slept. Docs found him just in time. His bed was 
red with blood. Dripping, really. Now he's mad. Mad, mad, mad...]

	He was a Maquis, grinning and laughing as he shot Chakotay 
through the heart with his phaser.	"The Cardassians paid more, Indian 
man!" 

	"No," he said, horrified. "It didn't happen this way. This isn't 
me! They are not me!" 
	"Do you understand now, why I must kill them?"
	The voice startled him. He turned to see an obsidian skinned 
alien like Jorel looking at him. And he knew without a doubt that it 
was Lyssiss.
	"No..." he said. "They screwed up...but they deserved to live. Just 
like Thomas...and the Assassin. They could have had a second chance, but 
you took that away!"
	Lyssiss glided to him and whispered silkily as he placed a cold 
hand beneath his chin. "Say that again. This time, do not lie."

*	*	*

	Tom Paris, the man who killed people for a living, stared at his 
son. 
	"Hi, Daddy," Jared said. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Aren't 
we going fishing today?"
	Jared stood behind the force field, waiting for his response.
	He could only stare dumbly at the ghost.
	"Daddy? Aren't we?"
	"J-Jared," he stammered, his voice shaky. "Is that you?"
	Jared looked puzzled. "Of course it is, Daddy. 	
	He let out a tremulous breath. "No," he muttered. "He's dead."
	Jared waited. Then he stretched out his hand. It passed through 
the forcefield effortlessly. It hissed, then fizzled out.
	"Take my hand, Daddy, let's go fishing," Jared begged.
	He missed his son. He missed him so much. It hurt to think that 
his boy was decaying beneath alien soil, alone, so many light years 
away.
	"But I'm here, Daddy," Jared reassured him. "Just take my hand, 
and we'll leave this place-"
	He reached out. Just to make sure he was real.
	Then Jared screamed.
	A knife burst out from his chest and a mushroom of blood seeped 
through his nightclothes.
	"NO!" he screamed, reaching out for him.
	"Stop it!" he heard someone say. Someone was pulling him away. 
"He's not real!"
	He struggled violently in the man's grasp, in agony at the 
thought of losing his son again.
	Then his face snapped painfully to his right. He tasted blood 
from his cut lip.
	His head cleared abruptly.
	Thomas' was before him, shaking him. "He is not real!" he said 
again. Then he pointed to where Jared lay.
	Only it wasn't Jared.
	The creature was yellow in colour. It lay in a tangled heap, its 
many tentacles lying askew. It looked like an octopus.
	"How did you-"
	"The Doc's scalpel. I didn't think I could kill it - but, hey. 
We're not sticking around to find out, are we?"
 	The Assassin brushed Thomas' hands away and got up, looking 
around with a heavy frown.
	"Sticking around where?" he asked.
	It was then that Thomas realized that they were no longer in the 
infirmary.
	And from the looks of the black, empty space around them - they 
were probably not on Voyager either.


*	*	*

	Lieutenant Tom Paris froze.
	"Me? Lie?" he said nervously, giving the alien a plastic grin.
	Lyssiss frowned.
	"They must die," Lysiss said, as if it explained everything.
	"Why?" Tom demanded. "Because they're not perfect? I've screwed 
up spectacularly myself! Hell, kill me too while you're at it - I'm not 
exactly Mr. Perfect Destiny!"
	Tom gulped, realizing he had said too much.
	Lysiss stared at him, as if considering his words. Then he 
released him abruptly, turning away.
	"Hey, wait!" he called out, reaching out for the alien-
	The world around him evaporated and he found himself face to face 
with the Doctor.
	"Wait for what?" asked the Doctor, frowning heavily.
	He was on his biobed. In the infirmary. On Voyager. That was some 
dream, but somehow, Tom was quite sure that was not just a dream.
 	Tom took a deep breath before replying. "Lysiss is here," then he 
saw the security personnel around them and the empty cell and biobed 
beside him. His counterparts were missing.
	"But I bet you already knew that," he said.

*	*	*

	"Where are we?" Thomas asked.
	The Assassin did not reply. He stared at the darkness balefully. 
"He is a coward, killing us like this."
	Thomas shivered.
	The air was getting cold. If it was air around them, that is. 
Thomas wrapped his arms around himself.
	"Show yourself!" the Assassin demanded, whirling around. 
	"Hey, I'm not in ta hurry to die," Thomas muttered, shivering 
harder.
	Then he saw something moving in the inky darkness. It was a 
distortion of the darkness. And it was getting closer.
	Thomas heard the Assassin gasp in pain beside him. He saw 
Jorel...no, it must be Lyssiss, holding the Assassin by the neck. And the 
alien slowly turned his yellow eyes to him.
	You will be next, the eyes seem to say.
	"No," he hissed. "I will not die like this!" he reached out.
	There was a flash of light.

*	*	* 

	"Oomph!" Thomas landed heavily on his side. For a moment, stars 
swam in his vision.
	He heard a groan that sounded like his. No, it was the 
Assassin's. He looked up to see the Captain offering her hand to help 
him up. Thomas took it.
	"Are you alright?" she demanded.
	"Yes," he answered as he got up, but his voice was shaking. It 
was close, too close. 
 	"You disappeared for a while. Then reappeared again. Care to tell 
me what happened?"
	"It was L-Lyississ," he stammered. Why was it so cold?
 	"He was a coward!" the Assassin fumed at his side. Even now 
Security restrained him, placing him in shackles. They were not taking 
any chances with him at all.
	"He grows desperate," said a high and tremulous voice.
	The security personnel trained their phasers at the Obsidian 
skinned alien. Thomas froze.
	"Jorel..." Janeway said.
	"He tried to kill me," Jorel said. Her voice betrayed her 
distress and despair. But she did not dwell on that.
 	"We must bring them to the Cargo Bay now and set the trap once 
more."
 	

_____________
Chapter 12


	Lieutenant Tom Paris pitied worms. Because he understood now what 
it was like to hang from a hook while fish swam around you, waiting to 
eat you. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, really.
	Again, they were in the cargo bay. The Assassin standing on one 
side, armed to the hilt with goodness knows how many weapons. Thomas 
gave him a nervous look, clutching his canon phaser. He was afraid that 
he was rusty. After all, it had been almost five years since he held a 
weapon.
	Tom, on the other hand, hated to be the magnet that Lyssiss used 
to find these two.
	
	He gave Thomas a reassuring smile, which was returned with a 
hesitant one. Jorel had disappeared. Janeway and half the ship was 
hidden around the cargo bay area, waiting. Their nerves were strung 
tight.
	 Tom thought.

 	 Thomas 
thought to himself.
	He was afraid - he wasn't brave like the Lieutenant or the 
Assassin. He closed his eyes, thought about pleasant things like Peter 
Pan when he was about to fly.
	He thought about his father, how he sang to him while he tried to 
sleep. He had been eight then. He always did that - until his father's 
Captaincy took that away from him. Then it was those grey years, where 
he sang him to sleep again. And all Thomas could do was look at his 
father, his mind an empty husk.
	Then he felt the air around them dip into a chill.
	

*	*	*

	Lyssiss knew that it was a trap, but he had to finish what he had 
begun. He saw the two that were denied him standing with the other of 
this dimension. It was too easy. He was where Jorel wanted him to be.
	In a flash, he sped towards the two Tom Parises. They saw him, 
crying out in words he did not bother to decipher. His hands reached 
out towards the frail hearts that beat beneath their chest. Their 
suffering would end here. Now!
	Then he crashed into a wall.
 	It flung him across the cargo bay. He landed painfully on the 
wall and slid down. Furious, he glared at the three beings, feeling 
ashamed that he had not detected the shield in time. His limbs were 
resonating with pain, but he ignored it, lifting his hands to destroy 
the shield-
	"It's over, Lyssiss," Jorel said, appearing beside him. She 
knelt, looking at him plaintively with golden eyes. "Don't do this."
	"You have a shield around them," he accused.
	"To keep them from you," Jorel replied.
	"And to keep them trapped," he said. He acted immediately, 
drawing upon all his strength to summon what he needed and pointed at 
his targets.
	Jorel's eyes widened. "No! Don't do this!"
 	

	"Oh-oh, that doesn't look good," the Lieutenant muttered.
	The Assassin could sense a battle coming his way. But how could 
the two others protect themselves - especially Thomas?
	Bright light burst again, but this time it was different. This 
time it brought along something.
	The creatures stood there for a moment, looking perplexed. They 
were seven feet tall, ugly bipedal creatures with yellow skulls for 
heads and sharp fangs that were three inches long. Their legs were bent 
like a kangaroo's, and muscles rippled on their yellow bodies. The 
three creatures snarled at them, clawing the air around them as if 
their claws could carve marks in the air.
	"Friends of yours?" the Lieutenant asked.
	The assassin wished he would shut up. Unnecessary banter wasted 
energy.
	The first creature struck-
 	The assassin pulled out his laser-sword and activated it, 
catching the creature with a slash across its chest.
	The creature howled in pain, stumbling back to peer at its chest.
	The assasin's eyes widened in surprise. The creature should have 
been cleaved in half, but it stood there instead, with a light scratch 
across its wide chest. It snarled at him, bent and leapt-

	"Stop this Lyssiss!!" Jorel screamed. "You will kill this 
dimension's Tom Paris as well!"
	"Why are you stopping me?" Lyssiss said, his golden eyes burning 
with fury. "I am easing their pain!"
	Jorel turned to pull the creatures into their dimensions, but 
Lyssiss struck first, hurtling her across the cargo bay to land 
painfully on a stack of a barrels.
 	A flurry of phaser fire rained on him. It was the Voyager crew. 
Lyssiss waved his hand dismissively. Captain Janeway and her retinue of 
Starfleet officers disappeared.
	Jorel, on the other hand, did not stop for a breath. She 
disappeared and reappeared at his side, gripping Lyssiss' hands.
	"Don't make me do this, Lyssiss!"


	"He won't survive with that puny sword!" Lieutenant Paris yelled. 
Thank goodness the Captain had given them weapons in case anything went 
wrong, which it had done in a spectacular way.
	Thomas fired at the creature coming towards it. Each blast seemed 
to irritate it more, and did nothing but push it back a little. With 
shaking hands, he set it to kill - and fired.
	This time in yowled in pain, stumbling a few steps back. Its 
chest had a small, yellow hole.
	"Way to go, Tom!" the Lieutenant yelled as he fired his own 
phaser.
	The creature leapt towards the Lieutenant and ignored the blasts, 
knocking the man down. It straddled him, hissing into his face. 
Lieutenant Paris struggled to get its weight off- Then the creature 
brought its claws down to impale him with them-
	And a blast blew it away.
	It shrieked in pain.
	Thomas held the phaser, knowing that that precious second he used 
to save the Lieutenant was enough to send the other one on him. And it 
did, knocking him flat to the ground.

	
	Jorel gripped Lyssiss' hands, staring into his eyes, but she saw 
only madness, not reason.
	"Everyone makes mistakes, Lyssiss. But you do not punish those 
that fail!"
	"They are in pain, Jorel! I'm easing them of their suffering!"
	"You want to ease *your* suffering. You want to erase your 
mistakes, not theirs! Again, don't make me do this Lyssiss!"
	Jorel could sense him gathering his strength for another strike.
	She had no choice.


 	The weakness was in its hands!
	Bleeding from numerous cuts, the assassin leapt at the creature 
that pinned Thomas down. With two quick slashes, he lopped off the 
creatures hands. Yellow blood spurted out, staining his black shirt 
with filth. 
	Then he was thrown across the area to land painfully on the force 
field. 
	It stunned him for a while, but he gathered all his strength in a 
burst and reached for the dagger inside his shirt and rolled towards 
the creature, planting the dagger into its foot. It howled-
	But the assassin did not give it time. He reached for his fallen 
laser-sword and lopped off its feet.

	Thomas trembled violently, shocked by his near death. But he 
didn't give himself too much time to react. He pointed his phaser at 
the creature pinning the Lieutenant down. It hissed at him- and he 
pointed it at its mouth and fired.
	It shrieked, shuddered and fell.
	The Lieutenant gasped and tried to get up from beneath the 
corpse. Thomas helped him, dragging him from the creature.
	They looked up just in time to see the assassin stand on another 
monster - without hands or feet - and plunge the laser sword into its 
throat. It gurgled and lay still.
	But he was not out of danger.
	"Look out!" Thomas shouted. Another creature remained, it swung 
its claws-
 	-and stabbed the assassin through the back and lifted him.
	The assassin gasped in pain, but his eyes were determined as he 
bent his knees and kicked himself away from the creature. As he fell 
from the monster, Thomas and Lieutenant Paris fired their phaser at the 
creature's wide-open mouth. Its head exploded, and it fell in a bloody 
heap.
	
	Thomas ran to the assassin, gently turning him over.
	He was pale, and blood trickled from the side of his mouth. 
	"Just hang on, you're going to be alright."
	The assassin clutched his arm in a sudden fierce grip.
	"Promise me something...Tom!" he hissed.
	He nodded quickly, trying to push the man down on his back.  
	"When you return, do the...right thing-" he closed his eyes in 
pain. "-do what I will never have the chance to...do. Tell Dad..." he 
gasped, then his eyes rolled into his head and he went limp.
	"He should've taken the phasers," the lieutenant said as he came 
to his side. "Is he dead?" he asked, breathing heavily.
	"No. But he's hurt bad," Thomas replied, shaken.
	"What did he say to you?"
	Thomas lay the assassin gently on the floor. "What I've always 
thought I should do," he said softly.

	
	When Lyssiss died, Janeway and her crew reappeared at the cargo 
bay area in time to see Jorel gazing down at a charred spot on the 
floor. Janeway also saw the Tom Parises - two looking bruised, another 
looking dead. They were surrounded by the bodies of huge, yellow 
creatures.
	"Doctor, three to transport to sickbay," she snapped.
	They were transported immediately.
	She walked to Jorel, anger accentuated in each step. It had been 
over in a matter of minutes. Or more, since they were removed from the 
area by Lyssiss.
	"You said they would be safe," she accused.
"I am sorry. He did another grievous thing. He changed the 
creatures that served us."
 	Janeway didn't want to know what she meant.
	Jorel looked at the creatures in revulsion. With a dismissive 
wave of her hand, the creatures disappeared along with their blood and 
gore. 
 	Janeway looked down at the charred spot. "And this is...was 
Lyssiss?"
	Jorel nodded. "He would not listen. There was nothing I could 
do."


*	*	*
Two days later.
1835 hours.


 	He caressed the console, marveling at its beauty. Hesitantly, he 
took his seat, adjusting himself a little as he leaned back to enjoy 
the view of stationery stars.
 	He never thought he'd be behind the wheel of a starship. It 
filled with him with a sense of joy he didn't think he could feel once 
more. 
 	As he leaned forward to study the panel, he caught his reflection 
on its shiny surface. Funny, he realized that he had not seen how he 
looked since he woke up aware in sickbay almost two weeks ago. He 
touched his cheek, then ran his hand through his hair, which lay in 
unruly wavy locks slightly beneath his ears. He did not look at all 
like the lieutenant with his Starfleet standard haircut.
	Then again, he liked the hairstyle. Maybe he'd keep it.
 	He studied the panel again. It was new; there were new additions 
to the console that he did not recognize. The ship was probably 
commissioned some time after his fall from grace. 
	He touched the panel. It lit up, waiting for further 
instructions.
	Slowly, he entered the coordinates for the nearest star system. 
Then he slid his hand up the panel that controlled warp speed. His left 
hand turned in a circular motion on the panel that controlled the 
accelerator. 
	Then his fingers were dancing on the panel nimbly. Joyously, it 
seemed - they had never forgotten the feel of a starship. 
	"She's a beauty, isn't she?"
 	Thomas turned to see Lieutenant Paris studying him, his arms 
folded, a grin on his face.
	"Intrepid class. Sustainable cruise velocity of warp factor 
9.975, 15 decks, bioneural circuitry," he said. For a while, the 
lieutenant seemed lost in thought. "A Lieutenant Stadi once told me 
that.  I was being shuttled to Voyager, docked at Deep Space Nine. Back 
then, I was supposed to be just an `observer'. A man who peddled 
knowledge for his freedom."
 	Lieutenant Paris sighed and leaned against the console, staring 
at the streaking stars.
	"I didn't think I would have the chance to come near this," he 
said, caressing the console.
	Thomas nodded, understanding. They were both pilots, in love with 
being above ground. 
	"Ever thought of what you're going to do once you return?" 
Lieutenant Paris said after a moment of silence.
	Thomas thought for a while. "I think I'll buy a vineyard in 
France. Farming has always been an interest of mine," he said 
seriously.
	Lieutenant Paris stared at him uncertainly. Vineyards and 
piloting - it seemed miles away to the man.
	Thomas chuckled. "Of course, since I do not have a green thumb, 
and no interest in agriculture, that idea's scrap," he said.
	Lieutenant Paris chuckled along with him. "The old Paris humour," 
he said. "Seriously, what would you do?"
	Thomas shrugged. "Seriously, never thought about it." He paused 
then touched the panel. "I miss this. Yeah... I do. But I won't return to 
Starfleet."
	Lieutenant Paris nodded.
	"Maybe I'll get my doctorate in Astrophysics," he grinned. "Dr. 
Paris - how does that sound?"
	Lieutenant Paris only smiled.
	"No," he shook his head. "I don't know what I'll do. But what I 
want to do is call Moira back from Deep Space whatever and tell her 
that it's about time that she joined us for our annual Paris family 
dinner - one that she had neglected for the past two years. And then 
maybe bring Mom and Dad together again," he gave Lieutenant Paris a 
pointed look.
	"Think about them often?" he asked.
	Paris looked uncomfortable. "Sure. Even spoke to Dad once. Well, 
actually, he spoke to me...my mouth was hanging open - I supposed that 
didn't count for speaking."
	He told Thomas that Voyager had received several messages from 
home these past few years. And that he wrote back...once or twice. 
	"I don't know what I'll do if he calls again," he laughed 
suddenly. "Maybe I'll tell him I'm married just to give him a shock. 
Then lump in a `you're a grandfather' along with it," he chuckled.
	Thomas was surprised. He didn't know B'Elanna was pregnant.
 	He flew through a nebula, then through an asteroid belt for a 
challenge. It felt euphoric, but his holodeck time was almost up - and 
it was time to return to sickbay, his home for the past few days. The 
Assassin was recovering well, asleep most of the time. The injuries had 
been serious, but the Doctor had healed him well.
 	He wondered what would happen to the man. Despite what he did 
here - and his dimension, he found it difficult to dislike him. In a 
way, he understood why he did what he did.
	"Good luck, Tom Paris," he whispered to himself.

	


*	*	*

 	The one they called Assassin made a quick recovery while 
Lieutenant Paris returned to his duties on the bridge. After further 
evaluations from the Doctor, the Doctor declared Thomas fully 
recovered. And today, Jorel told her that they would return soon to 
their proper dimensions.
 	Janeway joined Jorel at Astrometrics, wondering what stars she 
gazed at.
	Jorel smiled when she entered.
	"You are seeing us off, Kathryn?"
	Janeway smiled. "And when you take them back, what's going to 
happen to them?" Especially the assassin. 
  Despite the fact that he had killed two of her crew members in cold 
blood, she couldn't help to feel concerned for him. His past was a 
carefully shrouded mystery - a mystery that was filled with so much 
pain that it drove him to kill.
	"They will live out their lives," Jorel answered evasively, 
giving her an amused smile.
	They gazed at the moving stars a while longer before Janeway 
couldn't stand it anymore. 
	"Why did you allow Tom to be healed? I never understood that. Why 
break a rule for one person? You could do the same for many. And you 
made it clear that you wouldn't. But why Tom?"
	Jorel gave Janeway a small smile.
	"Because...in a small way, I would be saving Lyssiss," she said in 
a small voice.
	Janeway frowned. "I don't understand," she said.
	Jorel sighed, gazing into the stars. "Lyssiss was the son of my 
teacher. I in turn, became his teacher...and one day, while probing the 
dimensions, he destroyed one in a fit of rage."
	Jorel did not bother explaining that. Instead, she looked down at 
her feet. "He was taken away from his post, and his father never 
forgave him for his crime. It haunted him, and eventually he could not 
take any reminders of his failures...he couldn't see those who failed 
because it reminded him of his own failure," she paused and looked at 
her pointedly.
 	"There are so many dimensions out there, Kathryn. Some so 
similar. Others so different they seemed like night and day. But there 
will always be a similarity between all these dimensions. With Tom 
Paris, it is always the same. He will commit a grave mistake, but 
whether he takes the path to retribution or damnation is another 
matter."
	Janeway's quick mind grasped Jorel's double meaning, but she 
could not believe it. It sounded too astounding.
	"Lyssiss...is another alternate version of Tom Paris?"
	Jorel nodded. "And in many ways, Kathryn. You are *me*."
	Janeway took a step back, amazed.
	"We always bend the rules - all the Kathryns in the dimensions," 
Jorel laughed. "And although in my dimension, humans have evolved 
beyond anything you are familiar with, we share a common destiny. To 
boldly go where no one has gone before."
	Jorel smiled and disappeared. Janeway knew then that the Assassin 
and Thomas were gone. She stared at the stars for a while afterwards, 
wondering what destiny lay ahead for them.


________________
Epilogue



	The smell of fresh flowers. Tulips in spring. The sound of birds 
chirping. They were all vivid now, not dull echoes heard from a damaged 
brain.
	Tom Paris looked at the spot where the lake had been, saddened by 
its disappearance, and feeling worse at the thought that his mother had 
done this.
	Something wet and cold touched his hand. He looked down and saw a 
Golden Retriever grinning up at him, wagging its tail furiously.
	"Hey, Buster. Was I gone long?"
	The dog grinned and wagged its tail more furiously.
	 he thought, closing his eyes and taking a deep 
breath of the fresh, spring air. 
	"Tom?! Tom! Where are you?"
	His father's voice made his heart hammer with nervousness and 
excitement.
	He could see Owen Paris running, looking around him desperately 
while calling out his name.
	He knew he should call out and tell his dad he was safe, but he 
didn't seem to have the nerve. The old familiar intimidation he felt 
for his father returned. But Tom tried to focus on the other admiral - 
the admiral that, in his hazy, dream-like recollections, fed him when 
he could barely pick up a spoon; who handed him his favourite 
sandwiches in a tender voice, and who had held him in his arms when he 
cried from nightmares.
	Owen finally saw him, and his anxious face broke into relief. He 
ran to him, breathing hard when he reached his side.
	"For a moment, I thought...doesn't matter what I thought." Owen 
Paris patted his shoulder. "Just don't scare me like that anymore, 
would you? Are you all right? Did the light scare you? Come inside," he 
took his hand, to guide him to the house.
	Tom pulled away uncertainly, feeling lost.
	Owen looked bad, his face concerned. "Damn it, it scared you, 
didn't it? Don't worry, Tom. Kathleen will be back, and she will make 
you feel better," Owen said gently.
	Tom shivered, feeling the pull of too many emotions. To him, it 
was only yesterday that he barely spoke to his father, and an 
unbridgeable gulf stood between them. And it was difficult to bridge 
that distance even now, but he had to try.
	"Come on, Buster," Owen called. The dog followed eagerly, heading 
towards the house. Tom faintly remembered that this was a common trick 
Owen used to get his son to follow him.
	"Dad!" he called out in the strongest voice he could muster.
	Owen froze in his tracks, then swung around. Disbelief coloured 
his features. The grey eyes held such painful hope that Tom felt guilty 
for causing it. He had to say it now, or not he would loose his nerve.
	"I'm..." he hesitated, then walked towards his father slowly. "I'm 
sorry, Dad," he finally said when he reached his father. "I'm sorry for 
the years of silence. I'm sorry for...the words I've said. I didn't mean 
them. I...I miss you, Dad," his voice trembled, and he felt overwhelmed 
as he looked into the grey eyes. 
	Silence stretched between them. Tom felt desperate for Owen to 
say anything. 
	"Aren't you going to say something, Dad?" he blurted out in 
desperation.
	Owen grabbed him suddenly, wrapping his arms around him in a 
vise-like hug. Tom realized that his father, the stern-faced Admiral 
that told him that crying was a weakness - was crying.
	"What are you talking about, Son?" Owen whispered tearfully as he 
pulled away to looked into his eyes. "*I* was the one who left you."
	The older man studied him for a long time, and he looked afraid - 
perhaps afraid that his son, who seemed so normal - was a dream. 
 	"I love you, Tom. And I've missed you so much," he finally said.
	Tom blinked back tears and smiled, returning his father's hug.
	He knew that they had finally crossed the bridge that divided 
them.


	On top of the steep hill that once overlooked the lake, the 
assassin looked as the father placed his arm around his son 
protectively and walked them to the house.
	"His sudden recovery will be questioned," he said.
	Jorel merely smiled.
	"They will call it a miracle," she turned her golden eyes towards 
his. Tom did not acknowledge her answer.
	"Where will your redemption come from, Tom Paris?"
	He did not react to her piercing question. The cool spring breeze 
whipped his long blond hair so that it obscured his vision for a 
moment. But he only remembered his wife, his dead son, the father he 
nearly killed...and the life he abandoned.
	"There will be no retribution for the likes of me. I only need to 
return home," he said flatly.
	Jorel smiled, as if she was privy to a delightful secret. "Then 
you shall return home."
	He stared at the departing figures until they disappeared from 
his vision.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
THE END
(C)Lanna 13 June 2001
Like it? Hate it? Give me a buzz! E-mail me at liztai@hotmail.com I 
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