DOUBLE DEALING - PART 2: "WITCH HUNT" BY MALCOLM REEVE 
(e-mail: 106625.3210@compuserve.com) 

This is the continuation of Part one of Double Dealing: "Sisperia" 

Summary: (PG-13) Tom and B'Elanna are torn apart by an unexpected 
inquisition. 


******


"Shields at thirty-seven percent," Harry yelled, as the spatial 
displacement wave shook Voyager to her bones. 

"The rift is still closing," Tuvok reported, bracing himself as the 
ship was buffeted again. 

"Tom," Janeway called urgently, "can you get us through?" 

Tom glanced up at the view screen, fuzzy with interference, and saw 
the point of calmness that marked the opening in the rift.  It was 
even smaller than the last time he'd looked, and was almost directly 
above them; it was like looking up from the bottom of a well. 

"I'm trying," he told them, as he frantically worked the controls. 

"It's closing too fast," Tuvok warned.  "The spatial distortion waves 
are hindering our progress.  At this speed we won't make it before it 
closes." 

"Can we go to warp?" Janeway asked. 

"Not in these plasma fields," Paris told her, scanning his controls 
and making a series of rapid calculations.  "The warp bubble would 
collapse almost immediately." 

"I believe that a tactical withdrawal would be prudent," Tuvok 
observed.  "If we get caught in the rift as it collapses...." 

"I can make it!" Tom insisted, his mind working frantically; he 
refused to fail them in this.  

"Inertial dampers at sixty percent," Kim warned.  

"Compensating," Paris replied. 

"Tom, we can't risk the ship...," Janeway called, staggering against 
the heaving deck as she made her way to stand behind him. 

"Captain, I can do it," he told her, his eyes never leaving the 
controls.  "I've got an idea." 

"What idea?" 

"Captain, the rift will collapse in one minute and thirty-five 
seconds," Tuvok warned.   

"We can use the spatial distortion waves to push us through the 
rift..." 

"How?" Janeway asked. 

"If we extend the warp bubble BEHIND the ship, the action of the 
distortion waves breaking against the warp field would push us 
through." 

"But won't the bubble collapse?" Janeway asked. 

"Captain, you're right," B'Elanna interjected from engineering. "But 
as the bubble collapses, it will release an energy pulse ahead of the 
wave, and we can use that to force us through the rift." 

"Kind of like surfing...?" Janeway smiled.  "I like it!" 

"The only problem is staying far enough ahead of the wave," Tom 
pointed out. "If it catches up with us, we'll wipe out!" 

"Captain," it was B'Elanna again.  "I calculate that with our 
remaining dilithium reserves, we can project a warp bubble only ten 
kilometers behind Voyager." 

Janeway looked grim. "Then let's hope that's enough," she said, 
returning to her seat. "Mr. Paris, Ms. Torres, when you're ready..." 

"Yes, Ma'am." Tom started adjusting the controls.  "Torres, divert 
all power to the warp nacelles." 

"Shields down, all power diverted," B'Elanna replied. 

"Okay," Tom took a deep breath.  "Standby," he studied his controls 
again, searching for the next spatial distortion wave; yes, right on 
cue.  He turned the ship away from the wave, and towards the 
collapsing gateway home, and then punched the engines.  If his 
calculations were correct, he'd have to hit 1000 kps just as the 
spatial distortion wave surged in behind them, and... "Initiate warp 
bubble," he told them. "Surf's up!" 

"The inertial dampers won't fully compensate," Kim called from Ops, 
"so everyone hang onto something." 

"All hands, brace for impact," Chakotay's voice rang throughout the 
ship. 

"Here goes!"  The spatial distortion wave rippled under the warp 
bubble, lifting it and the ship, carrying Voyager faster than her 
impulse engines could ever manage.   

"Distortion wave 9.8 kilometers and closing fast, Captain," Tuvok 
reported.  "Hull temperature rising." 

"Twenty-seven seconds to total warp bubble collapse," B'Elanna added. 

"That long?!" Tom muttered, as he fought to maintain Voyager's 
heading through the rift. 

Plasma flares scorched the ship's hull, swamping the view screen. 
"Captain," Kim called, "we're getting plasma fires along the edge of 
the wave." 

"Noted," Janeway replied, her attention fixed on the view screen. 

"Hull temperature approaching safety parameters," the ship's computer 
informed them calmly. 

"The rift will collapse in 15 seconds," Tuvok warned, sounding 
slightly less concerned than the computer. "Distortion wave 5.3 
kilometers behind, and closing at 350 meters per second." 

"C'mon!" Tom quietly urged Voyager, struggling to keep her heading in 
the right direction. 

The ship began shuddering alarmingly. "Inertial dampers failing," Kim 
warned. 

"Hull temperature has exceeded safety parameters." 

"Almost there..." Even as the words left Tom's lips, the rift spat 
Voyager into cool, calm space.  "Yes!" he yelled, slapping his hand 
against the console in triumph. 

"All stop," Janeway ordered, standing up.  "Good job, Mr. Paris.  I 
don't ever want to do that again, but, good job." 

"Thank-you Captain," Paris replied, allowing himself a small smile of 
relief.  "Piece of cake." 

Janeway smiled, and turned to her other officers.  "Now, Ensign Kim, 
let's see where we are." 

"Some of the sensors were burned out...re-routing the subsystems," 
Kim paused for a moment.  "Captain, if our sensors are working 
correctly, we're 70000 light years from out last known position...on 
the other side of the galaxy!" 

"Can you get the view screen working?" 

"Standby, Captain.  There, got it." 

They all watched as the view screen hesitantly flickered back into 
life.  At first the image was fuzzy, but slowly it began to clear, 
and the whole crew watched in astonishment.  A planet hung in the 
stars before them, glittering like a turquoise gem in the heavens. 

"I'd say that was an M-class planet, Captain," Paris quipped. 

"Earth!" Janeway breathed, her eyes wide.  "Tuvok, can you confirm?" 

"Confirming location now Captain," he studied his console for a 
moment.  "Location confirmed.  We are in the Alpha Quadrant." 

"Is the chronology correct?" Janeway asked, holding her breath. 

The bridge was silent as Tuvok worked.  "Chronology confirmed," he 
said at last, looking up. 

The Captain let out a deep breath.  "Then we made it.  We're home." 

No one spoke; it took a moment for the truth to sink in.  After three 
years of traveling they had made it back; they had been away longer 
than any of them had expected, and had come home sooner than any had 
dared hope. 

A soft bleeping sounded on the bridge broke the silence.  Harry was 
the first to rouse himself.  "Captain," he reported, "we're being 
hailed." 

Janeway smiled.  "On screen." 

A squat, close-set face filled the view screen; it's owner looked 
startled.  "This is Lieutenant Brouden, of Terran Defense Perimeter 
Station three, please identify yourself immediately." 

"Lieutenant Brouden, this is Captain Kathryn Janeway, of the 
Federation Starship Voyager." 

Brouden looked closer, his piggy eyes narrowing with suspicion.  
"Voyager?" he said at last, looking down and scanning his records.  
His eyebrows rose, and he looked up at them again.  "You were lost 
over three years ago!" 

"Not lost, just far from home, Lieutenant," Janeway told him.  "It's 
a long story, and I'm sure that Starfleet will be very interested to 
hear it, but right now, we just want to get home.  May we have 
permission to dock?" 

"Standby, Captain," Brouden told them, and the screen flicked onto 
the Starfleet logo. 

"Captain," Kim reported, a tone of surprise in his voice, "We're 
being scanned." 

"Well they seem VERY pleased to see us," Paris noted, failing to keep 
a touch of bitterness from his voice. 

"Considering the sudden, and somewhat violent, nature of our arrival, 
a degree of suspicion is understandable," Tuvok commented. 

"I agree," Janeway replied, returning to her seat. 

"We're being hailed again," Kim reported, transferring the image 
directly onto the screen. 

"Captain," Lieutenant Brouden appeared again.  "You are cleared to 
dock at McKinley Station.  I am transmitting a flight path through 
the defense perimeter, please do not deviate from the specified path, 
and proceed directly to McKinley Station.  The perimeter will be 
deactivated in 10 seconds." 

"Defense perimeter?" Janeway asked.  "Since when has Earth needed a 
defense perimeter?" 

Brouden smiled sourly.  "Since the war started, Captain." 

"What war?" 

"With the Klingons." 

"The Klingons?!" Janeway was astonished, and automatically thought of 
B'Elanna.   

In engineering, Torres' face was like stone as she listened to the 
exchange. 

"Much has changed since you've been gone," Brouden told them, looking 
down at his controls again.  "Perimeter deactivated.  Please proceed 
to McKinley Station.  Oh, and Captain," the lieutenant said, finally 
cracking a smile.  "Welcome home." 


*** 


Janeway gazed out of her quarters' picture window, as Voyager, docked 
at McKinley Station, lazily orbited the beautiful azure globe below.  
Home.  At last.  It hardly seemed possible. 

She sighed.  In idle moments, and in her dreams, she had often 
imagined their homecoming.  It had always been full of exuberant 
celebration, irrepressible relief and joy, and yet she felt none of 
these emotions as she sat there watching the Earth slowly revolve 
beneath them.  Instead she felt a little melancholic, regretful of 
everything that she would lose; never again would she have a command 
like Voyager, and she knew now that she would miss it terribly. 

A gentle bleep announced the presence of someone outside her 
quarters. "Come," she called, not taking her eyes away from the 
window.  The door hissed open. 

"Beautiful isn't it?" a familiar voice commented. 

She turned around and smiled; it was Chakotay. 

"Very. Yet," she paused, "somehow it looks a little distant.  Does 
that sound strange?" 

Chakotay shook his head.  "I know what you mean, and I heard Kim 
saying the same thing earlier." He shrugged, "Voyager's been our home 
for the past three years, and we've had only one objective in our 
lives: getting home.  Now we're here, and we're leaving Voyager, 
everyone's bound to feel a little unsettled.  I know I do." 

He put a peculiar emphasis on those last words, making Janeway look 
sharply into his face.  "How are the Maquis crew doing?" she asked. 

Chakotay sighed.  "We're nervous," he replied at last.  "I don't 
think any of us expected to reappear right in the middle of the 
Terran system - some of us would probably rather be in the Delta 
Quadrant!" He laughed darkly as he spoke, but Janeway doubted he was 
joking. 

"I'm going to recommend amnesty for all the Maquis on board Voyager," 
she told him.  "And if any want to stay with Starfleet, I'll be more 
than happy to sponsor their applications." 

"Thank you, Captain", Chakotay said.  "I'll pass that along."  

There was a long silence.  At last Janeway voiced the question that 
she knew they were both thinking.  "And what about you, Chakotay?  
Will you stay?" 

He frowned, staring out the window towards Earth.  "I haven't decided 
yet, Captain," he told her honestly.  "I'll need to see how things 
have changed since we've been gone.  I know I've changed," he told 
her with a smile, "but has the Federation, and have the Cardassians?" 

Janeway didn't reply immediately.  What could she say?  It was his 
choice.  "I'd hate to lose you," she said at last.  "I've never 
served with a better First Officer." 

Chakotay returned his gaze to her.  "Thank-you," he said quietly.  
"That means a lot to me." 


*** 


Tom's quarters were dark.  He liked it that way.  Gazing out of the 
window, he watched Earth pass overhead, as Voyager slowly orbited the 
planet.  He wondered if he was the only one on the ship who thought 
that Earth's pale blue iridescence was cold and unwelcoming.  They'd 
been in orbit for almost twelve hours now, and still nothing; no 
contact from Starfleet, and no contact from his father.  The latter 
didn't surprise him, but Starfleet?  Why were they so silent? 

Closing his eyes again, Tom tried to relax.  But it was impossible.  
His life was about to change completely, and he had no idea what was 
going to happen.  How could he relax?  He wished he could talk to 
someone about it, but even that was out of the question.  B'Elanna 
was the only person who would really understand, and she....  Well, 
she was out of the picture.  {You've betrayed everyone else in your 
life.  Why not us?}  He clenched his teeth, and stood up, forcing her 
words out of his head.   

"Computer, lights," he ordered, squinting against the sudden 
brilliance.  Moping around in the dark wasn't doing him any good.  {I 
need company}, he thought, and headed out the door. 

As he entered the mess hall, something struck him as odd.  It took a 
moment to figure out exactly what it was, but suddenly it became 
clear.  One side of the room was full of Starfleet crew, smiling, 
joking and laughing, the other held none but Maquis, who sat grouped 
together, talking in low, serious tones.  {Now this is interesting, he 
thought to himself, smiling bitterly.  Where do } 

As he stood at the door, taking in the situation, he noticed B'Elanna 
watching him from the group of Maquis.  That made his decision; 
"Harry," he called, striding towards his friend amid the Starfleet 
crowd.  "What's up?" 

"Hey, Tom," Harry called.  "Where've you been?  You're missing the 
party!" 

"Party?" he asked, flopping into a chair, and casting a look towards 
the Maquis.  "Doesn't look like everyone's in the mood for 
celebrating." 

Harry frowned.  "I guess it's hard for them," he conceded, "but the 
Captain will sort everything out." 

Tom had his doubts about that, but didn't bother arguing.  Whatever 
happened, they'd find out soon enough. 

"So, have you talked to Libby yet?" he asked instead. 

Harry smiled self-consciously.  "Not yet.  No one knows we're back - 
they want to inform the families of those who didn't make it 
first...." 

Tom frowned.  "How long can that take?" he asked.  "Don't you think 
it's a bit odd that we haven't heard anything from Starfleet - it's 
been over twelve hours!" 

"C'mon Tom, you sound like the Maquis!" 

"Really?  Well, maybe they have a point.  We don't know exactly what 
the..." 

"This is the Captain." Janeway's voice cut across every conversation 
in the room.  "I have just spoken with Admiral Cabot at Starfleet 
Command.  He has officially welcomed us home and has opened comm 
links to the surface relays.  Those of you who wish to contact your 
families may now do so." 

An excited thrill buzzed through the room at her announcement, and 
Harry grinned at Tom with an I-told-you-so look in his eyes.  Tom 
ignored him. 

"Before you all rush off," Janeway continued, "I can also announce 
that representatives of Starfleet command will be meeting with our 
senior officers tomorrow, to arrange for the debriefing of the crew.  
We hope to have you ALL at home with your families as soon as 
possible." 

Harry grinned broadly.  "Still worried?" he asked Tom. 

Tom shrugged in response.  "If I were YOU, I wouldn't worry about a 
thing - apart from where you'll be posted after your promotion." 

"Promotion?" Harry asked, surprised. 

It was Tom's turn to grin.  "If you're not a lieutenant by the end of 
the week, I'll be..." 

"Janeway to Paris," the Captain interrupted them again. 

"Paris here," Tom replied. 

"Please see me in my ready-room, Lieutenant." 

"On my way, Captain," Tom replied, a sinking feeling in his stomach 
turning him suddenly cold.  It must have shown on his face, because 
Harry's smile faded.   

"What's that about?" he asked. 

"I'll find out," Tom replied, standing up and forcing a smile.  "I'll 
catch up with you later.  I want to hear all about your conversation 
with Libby!" 

Harry smiled again.  "You got it." 

As he left the room, Tom glanced towards B'Elanna.  She watched him 
go in silence. 


*** 


"Come in," Janeway called.   

"You wanted to see me, Captain?" Lieutenant Paris asked as he stepped 
through the door.   

He looked apprehensive, so she smiled encouragingly.  "Sit down Tom," 
she offered, waving him towards a chair.  "How are you?" 

Tom raised an eyebrow.  "Fine, Captain," he replied, seeing through 
her pleasantries immediately.    

She smiled grimly, and got straight to the point.  "Tom, your father 
will be one of the Starfleet delegation arriving on board Voyager 
tomorrow." 

He didn't speak at first, but she saw his jaw clench and his eyes go 
hard.  "Thanks for the warning," he said at last. 

"I know that you've not always seen eye to eye with him Tom, but 
perhaps things will change now."  She smiled again.  "You're a very 
different person from the man I met in the New Zealand Penal 
Settlement." 

"Perhaps," Paris replied.  "But that won't make any difference to 
him." 

Janeway turned to her console.  "I've written performance appraisals 
for all the senior officers," she told him.  "And I've transmitted 
them to Starfleet for their inspection."  She turned her screen to 
face him.  "This is yours." 

Paris leaned forward to read the report, and she was pleased to see 
it produce a tight smile.  "It's very flattering," he said at last, 
"But it won't make any difference.  He won't read it." 

"I was asked to transmit the reports by Admiral Cabot," Janeway 
began.  "I'm sure your father..." 

"'I don't need anyone else's report to tell me about my own son.'"  
Tom shrugged, "His words."  

Janeway was silent.  She knew Tom was probably right; her service 
with his father had not been easy.  He was a difficult man.   

"If there's anything else I can do, Tom," she offered, "just let me 
know." 

Paris got to his feet.  "Thanks, Captain, but it's fine.  He can 
think what he likes about me.  I don't care." He smiled, but there 
was no warmth in the expression. "I've got nothing to prove to him 
now." 

She knew that wasn't true, and so did he.  As he turned to leave, she 
spoke again.  "I've been lucky enough to serve with two members of 
the Paris family now," she said.  "And if there were a choice, I'd 
rather serve with the Lieutenant than the Admiral, any day." 

Tom turned towards her, a genuine smile on his face this time.  
"Captain, that's..." he stopped, shaking his head, not quite sure 
what to say.  "Thank you," he said eventually. 

"See you at 10.00 hours in the briefing room, Lieutenant," she said 
with a smile.  "We'll see if we can knock some of the stuffing out of 
Admiral Paris." 

Tom grinned, "Yes, Ma'am." 


**** 


Engineering was silent.  The engines were off-line, cold and 
lifeless, and the dim lights only added to the feeling of emptiness.  
B'Elanna sat at one of the consoles, staring moodily at the 
unresponsive screen. 

She should have been happy.  They were home! After all the 
difficulties, hardships and dangers they had faced, they were home.  
Yet she wasn't happy.  She was worried.  The future, so long an 
endless journey, had suddenly rushed towards her, and it was 
frighteningly empty.  She had no plans, she had no idea what she 
would do.  She wasn't even the same person who had left the Alpha 
quadrant.  And then there was Tom.  The possibility, no, she 
corrected herself, the fact, that they would part forever turned her 
cold. 

Standing up, she walked once more around the empty room.  It was 
late, her body ached and she knew she should get some sleep.  In the 
morning she would know what her future might hold; Maquis? Starfleet?  
She dared not even contemplate what war with the Klingon Empire might 
mean for her. 

With a sigh, she turned and strode out of engineering, {Probably}, she 
thought to herself, {for the last time}.     


*** 


Janeway was only half way through her first cup of coffee of the day 
- and was enjoying the luxury immensely - when she was hailed from 
the bridge. 

 "Captain," the voice of Ensign Eddings said, "Admiral Cabot's office 
is hailing you." 

Janeway sighed.  "Thank-you ensign, put it through." 

Putting down her coffee, Janeway sat down in front of her console and 
flicked on the screen. 

"Good morning Admiral," she greeted him. 

"Good morning Captain, I apologize for the early hour, but I would 
like to talk to you prior to this morning's briefing." 

Janeway smiled. "Well, how can I help you?" 

The Admiral looked serious.  "In person, if we may Captain." 

"Of course," Janeway replied, suddenly curious.  "May I ask what the 
matter concerns?" 

"It's a sensitive issue, Captain," he told her.  "We'll discuss it 
when I come aboard in, say, twenty minutes?" 

"Very well," Janeway agreed.   

Cabot nodded once, and the communication ended.  Turning away from 
the screen, Janeway frowned to herself; something about this felt 
wrong.  She finished her coffee without tasting it, and headed for 
the shower.  But try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling 
that something wasn't quite right. 


*** 


The transporter beam shimmered, and the figure of Admiral Cabot 
materialized on the transporter pad. 

Janeway stepped forward to meet him, Chakotay by her side. "Welcome 
aboard, Admiral," she said. "May I present my First Officer, 
Commander Chakotay?" 

"Captain, Commander," the Admiral greeted them.  "It's a pleasure to 
be aboard." 

Admiral Cabot was a man of middle years, his graying hair receding 
from a round, fleshy face that held watery blue eyes.  His middle had 
grown heavy with the passage of the years, and something about the 
way he walked gave Janeway the feeling that he was nervous.  Perhaps 
it was the way he kept his hands folded behind his back, as if he 
were hiding something from them.  Or perhaps it was the way his eyes 
seemed to slide from hers whenever she looked towards him.  
Nevertheless, he was amiable, and they exchanged the usual empty 
chatter as they walked towards her ready-room. 

This early in the morning the Bridge was still manned by the skeleton 
night crew, who stood to attention as Janeway, Chakotay and the 
Admiral made their way through.  When they reached the door to her 
ready-room, Cabot stopped.  "Captain," he said, glancing at her First 
Officer, "I need to talk to you in private." 

Janeway frowned. "Admiral, I can assure you that..." 

"It is no reflection on your officer, Captain," Cabot told her.  
"It's a question of Starfleet protocol." 

"Starfleet protocol?" The words felt strange in her mouth, and she 
smiled. "I'm sorry Admiral, I guess we've been gone so long we've 
started to develop our own protocol." 

The Admiral did not return her smile.  "So I understand," was all he 
said. 

Chakotay exchanged a brief, expressive, look with her, which she 
understood immediately; he didn't like this anymore than she did, but 
he wasn't going to make an issue of it.  "Thank-you Commander," was 
all she said.  He nodded once, and left them. 

"Can I offer you some coffee, Admiral?" Janeway asked, when the doors 
to her ready-room had closed behind them.  "Tea?" 

"No, thank-you," Cabot replied, lowering his bulky frame into a 
chair.  "I'll get straight down to business, if I may." 

Janeway sat at her desk.  "That suits me," she told him, leaning 
slightly forward, and waiting for him to begin. 

He folded his hands across his belly, and stared out of the window.  
"I received your officer's reports yesterday," he began.  "Starfleet 
have some...issues that need to be addressed." 

"Issues?" Janeway replied, keeping her tone calm.  For now. 

"Although we understand your reasons, Captain," he said, "Some among 
us have reservations about the wisdom of appointing known terrorists 
into positions of authority upon this vessel." 

"All my officers have given exemplary service to this ship," she told 
him in a tone her crew would have recognized as dangerous. 

Cabot raised a hand.  "We're not disputing that, Captain," he told 
her, "Or your decision, given the circumstances."  He sighed, and 
turned his watery eyes on her.  "However, the political situation 
here is very different now, and it makes this situation rather more 
delicate." 

"You mean the war with the Klingons?" 

Cabot nodded.  "That's part of it," he agreed.  "It was our alliance 
with the Cardassians that forced us into war with the Klingon Empire, 
when they attacked Cardassia."  He sighed again.  "You can imagine 
how the Maquis have reacted - they think this is their chance to get 
Cardassia out of the demilitarized zone for good.  We even have 
reports that the Klingon High Command are supplying the Maquis with 
weapons, perhaps even cloaking technology." 

Janeway let out a deep breath.  "This is serious, of course, but how 
does it affect my crew?" she asked.  "We've been out of the entire 
quadrant for over three years!" 

"If it were just the Klingons, perhaps it would be easier," Cabot 
told her.  "But in truth, that's just a side show.  We have bigger 
fish to fry." 

"Admiral...?" 

Cabot leaned forward, and lowered his voice, as if he was reluctant 
to speak the words.  "I can tell you this much, Captain," he said.  
"The Federation is expecting war.  A war the likes of which we have 
never seen." 

Janeway felt her stomach twist down towards her toes.  "War with 
who?" she asked. 

Cabot's face was grim.  "With the Dominion." 

"The Dominion?" Janeway asked, stunned.  "How do you know?  What 
preparations have we...?" 

Cabot cut her off.  "I don't know much more myself Captain," he told 
her.  "No one knows the extent of Dominion penetration into 
Starfleet, so all intelligence information is restricted.  No one 
knows more than necessary.  And I can tell you nothing more than I 
already have." 

Janeway shook her head, trying to collect her thoughts.  She had 
never imagined, even in her worst nightmares, that they would return 
to find the  Federation at war!  And such a war as this promised to 
be! 

"Admiral," she said at last, breaking the silence that had fallen 
between them.  "How exactly does this affect my crew?" 

Cabot sat back in his chair, which creaked slightly under his weight.  
"Captain, your ship disappeared near the worm hole that leads to the 
Gamma quadrant.  You now appear, three years later, without warning, 
at the heart of the Terran defensive perimeter.  And to make matters 
worse, half your crew are known terrorists, sympathetic with the 
enemy with whom we are currently at war.  It would seem suspicious at 
the best of times.  And these, Captain, are far from the best of 
times." 

"Are you saying that we're accused of being...what?  Klingon spies?  
Agents of the Dominion?" 

"You're not being accused of anything, Captain," Cabot told her.  "I 
just wanted you to be aware of the full situation, before we de-brief 
your officers." 

"I thank you for the warning Admiral," Janeway told him.  "And I can 
assure you that my crew have had no contact with either the Klingon 
Empire or the Dominion at any time during the past three years." 

Cabot smiled, a smile as thin and watery as his eyes.  "I'm sure 
you're right Captain."   

"I AM right," Janeway replied, a defiant tone in her voice.  "And we 
will do everything in our power to prove that to you, and to anyone 
else in Starfleet who suspects our loyalty." 


*** 


There was tension in the air as the officers assembled for the 
morning briefing.  B'Elanna could sense it the moment she walked into 
the room.  Her eyes immediately sought Chakotay.  As the only other 
Maquis present, he was the only one who understood her trepidation.  
He gave her a small smile, and a reassuring nod.  Next to him, Harry 
was grinning as he gave Paris an animated account of his conversation 
with Libby.  Apparently, all had gone well on that front.  Tom was 
smiling too, as he listened to his friend, but B'Elanna knew him well 
enough to see the tension behind his eyes, and the worry evident in 
the set of his jaw.  Taking her seat opposite them, B'Elanna remained 
silent until the door opened again, and Tuvok entered.   

"You look happy," B'Elanna commented, seeing an unusual lightness in 
his step. 

Tuvok raised an eyebrow.  "That would not be an accurate 
observation," he told her.   

"Did you contact T'Pel?" Harry asked, breaking off his conversation 
with Paris. 

"I did," Tuvok confirmed, sitting down next to B'Elanna. 

"Then he IS happy," Harry agreed, a twinkle of excitement in his 
eyes.   

"I am content," Tuvok corrected him. 

"C'mon, Tuvok," Paris joined in, "admit it.  You're happy!" 

"Lieutenant," Tuvok responded, "I will admit this much: I will find 
it restful to spend some time with my family, where I am not 
continually pestered..." 

"Pestered?!"   

Tuvok ignored him  "...pestered to express emotions which I do not 
feel." 

Tom laughed, and B'Elanna found herself smiling.  But the smile soon 
faded; it just made her realize how much she was going to miss him, 
to miss them all. 

The door swished open, and Captain Janeway entered, closely followed 
by two men.  Everyone around the table stood to attention, and as she 
stood, face front, B'Elanna found herself looking directly at Tom.  
His eyes were fixed at some point on the wall behind her, but she saw 
his face drain of color, and if she hadn't known him better, she 
would have sworn that there was panic in his eyes. 

"At ease," Janeway said.  "Admiral Cabot and Admiral Paris are here 
to talk to us about the debriefing procedure the crew will follow." 

{Admiral Paris!}  B'Elanna looked over at the portly white-haired man 
who was Tom's father; she couldn't see a family resemblance.  Tom, 
she noticed, didn't move his gaze from the wall behind her. 

"Please sit down," Cabot said, as he took a seat at the head of the 
table.   

B'Elanna kept her eyes on Tom as she sat, but he didn't look at her, 
he didn't look at anyone.  Everyone else, however, was watching him.  
Everyone, including his father. 

"I would like to begin with congratulations, if I may," Cabot 
started, turning towards the Captain.  "You have done a fine job 
bringing your ship home," he told her. 

Janeway smiled, but B'Elanna thought there was an undercurrent of 
frost in her expression.  "Without the men and women in this room, 
Admiral, we would have never made it." 

"Of course," Cabot continued, until he was interrupted by a snort 
from Admiral Paris. 

"You forget," the Admiral said, "that if you had not been in pursuit 
of some of the men and women in this room, you would never have found 
yourself stranded in the Delta Quadrant to begin with." 

B'Elanna felt her hackles rise at the comment, but forced herself to 
remain silent.  She glanced at Chakotay, whose face was hard and 
dark, and then she noticed Paris.  His face was flushed an angry 
shade of red, and his fists were clenched together where they rested 
on the table before him. 

Janeway was silent a moment.  When she spoke, her voice was decidedly 
cool. "Admiral," she said, "when you have had time to read my report, 
you will see that no one here had..." 

"The Admiral doesn't read reports," Tom's voice was bitter, and 
B'Elanna could see that he was trying, but failing, to control his 
anger.  "The truth gets in the way of his preconceptions..." 

"Lieutenant!" Janeway snapped. 

"Sorry Captain," Tom muttered, his fists balled so tightly that his 
knuckles were turning white. 

"I see that you've learned little in the way of discipline since 
you've been away, Thomas," the Admiral said, turning to face his son.  
"I can't say I'm surprised." 

B'Elanna could see the struggle as Tom clenched his jaw shut against 
his anger, and refused to respond. 

"I hope he hasn't caused you too much trouble, Kathryn," Admiral 
Paris continued.  "I know how difficult he can be." 

"Lieutenant Paris is an exemplary officer," Janeway replied 
immediately.  "If you had read my appraisal of his performance..." 

"I don't need anyone else's report to tell me about my own son," the 
Admiral interrupted. 

B'Elanna saw a bitter smile flicker across Tom's face as his father 
spoke, but he made no further attempt to reply. 

"Perhaps we're getting a little side-tracked," Cabot interjected 
smoothly.  Admiral Paris snorted again, but lapsed into silence.   

"It isn't our intention to keep you here for long," Cabot continued, 
"so I'll just run through the procedure.  Each member of the crew 
will be debriefed individually..." 
 "That's a lengthy process," Chakotay commented. 

Cabot shrugged apologetically.  "I'm afraid that we have no choice.  
We are at war, Commander.  Security is of the utmost importance." 

"With respect," Chakotay continued, "we have nothing to do with this 
war.  We've been out of the quadrant for over three years." 

"Commander," it was Janeway's turn to interrupt.  "There are 
reasons." 

{Reason's they're not telling us}, B'Elanna thought.  And from the look 
Chakotay gave the Captain, his thoughts were running in the same 
direction. 

"I see," was all he said, but his resentment was evident.  And she 
was sure that the Captain noticed it too; she looked unhappy, but 
said no more. 

"A de-briefing schedule has been established, starting with the 
senior officers," Cabot went on,  "You are to report to Ariane House 
at Starfleet HQ, ten minutes prior to your scheduled de-briefing 
session." 

"And what then?" Chakotay asked.   

Cabot's face was a blank, and B'Elanna couldn't help but notice the 
way his watery eyes seemed to avoid looking at any of them.  "That 
will be decided after you have been debriefed, Commander," he told 
them. 

"After...?" Chakotay replied.  "What exactly..." 

"This matter is not open for discussion, COMMANDER," Admiral Paris 
told him.  "You are under orders.  I assume, as you are wearing our 
uniform, that you are willing to obey our orders?" 

It was all B'Elanna could do to stop herself from leaping across the 
table and putting her hands around the throat of the arrogant 
bastard.  If she hadn't known that it would let the Captain down, she 
doubted that anything would have stopped her.  Chakotay's eyes burned 
with anger as he spoke, but he too owed his loyalty to the Captain.  
"Yes, Admiral," was all he said, yet somehow he managed to make the 
words sound like an insult. 

Admiral Paris got to his feet.  "That will be all," he said stiffly.  
They all stood to attention, as the Admirals and the Captain turned 
to leave the room.  Just as he reached the door, Paris turned to his 
son.  "I expect to see you later, Thomas," was all he said, before he 
strode out of the room. 

"Not if I see you first," B'Elanna heard Tom mutter under his breath.  
But the look of shame and hurt on his face killed the joke dead. 


*** 


"Tom!" B'Elanna called out, later that day, as she saw Paris leaving 
his quarters.  It had taken her long enough to decide to go talk to 
him, and she wasn't going to let the opportunity slip past now. 

He turned, surprised, at the sound of her voice. "B'Elanna," he 
greeted her cautiously.  He didn't look happy, but he did his best to 
force a smile.  "How are you?" 

"Fine," she paused.  "Look, I just wanted to say...those things your 
father said, he was wrong." 

Tom smiled bitterly. "I'm used to it," he said, staring down at his 
toes.  "I try to just ignore him." 

"Tom," B'Elanna began,  "we need to..." 

"I'm sorry," he interrupted her, "But I have to go - my debriefing is 
in twenty minutes, and I'd hate to be late!" 

She smiled.  "Sure.  Well, I'm scheduled for mine in an hour, so I 
guess I'm right after you." She hesitated for a moment, "Maybe we 
could..." 

"...meet up afterwards?" he finished. 

"Yeah, that'd be..." 

"...great!  I'll see you then."  With a brief smile, he turned and 
headed towards the turbolift.  B'Elanna watched him go with a lighter 
heart than she'd known since their return to the Alpha Quadrant.   


*** 


Tom Paris stood before three Starfleet officers who sat behind a 
long, curved table raised on a dais. Behind them was a window that 
stretched from floor to ceiling, overlooking San Francisco Bay. In 
the distance the Golden Gate Bridge could just barely be seen through 
the light morning mist.  

The three judges conferred for a moment before the most senior of 
them, Admiral Cabot, turned to Tom and spoke. "Thomas Eugene Paris, 
your parole is hereby revoked," he pronounced in a grim voice.   "You 
are stripped of your 'field' commission, and you will be removed 
immediately to the New Zealand Penal Settlement."  Looking sternly at 
him from across the tribunal hearing room, the admiral spoke again. 
"Do you have anything further to say, Paris?"  

"No.  What's the point?" Tom asked bitterly. "I was naive to expect 
anything better from Starfleet." 

"You received the verdict you deserved," Admiral Cabot replied 
coldly.  

"Verdict?  I thought this was supposed to be a debriefing, not a 
trial."  

Admiral Cabot leaned forward, a thin smile freezing his watery eyes. 
"Consider yourself debriefed, Mr. Paris." Waving a hand at a guard, 
the Admiral bellowed: "Now take him away."  


*** 


The Captain was drinking her morning coffee in her ready-room when 
her combadge bleeped. "Chakotay to Janeway. Can I have a word with 
you, Captain?"  

"Of course, Commander."  

Turning away from her console as the door slid open, the Captain 
beckoned him to take a seat. "How can I help you, Commander?"  

"Harry's just told me that B'Elanna and Tom have been missing since 
yesterday afternoon," Chakotay said, taking the offered chair.  

"Missing?" she asked, giving him a knowing smile.  

Chakotay shook his head. "They both had the early shift this morning, 
and they haven't reported for duty."  

Janeway's face darkened. "That's not like them, but given the 
circumstances, I think we can cut them a little slack, Commander."  
She smiled again.  "Still, we should make every effort to locate them 
and to ensure that they're okay."  

"Well, I'd stay and help you, but I've got my debriefing in twenty 
minutes," Chakotay told her.  

"Go ahead," Janeway waved him towards the door.  "I'll look into this 
while you're away." She gave him a serious glance: "I'm sure they'll 
have a perfectly reasonable explanation."  

Chakotay smiled his agreement, and got up to leave. "Oh, by the way, 
I know a wonderful restaurant down by the bay, if you'd care to join 
me later...?"  

Janeway's eyes lit up briefly, before other considerations clouded 
them.  She looked down at her desk.  "I'm sorry, Chakotay, I'd love 
to, but I'm meeting Mark later... we've got a lot to talk about."  

Chakotay looked away, nodding. "I understand. Well, I'll see you 
later then, Kathryn."  

"Yes," she smiled.  "See you later."  


*** 


By mid-morning, Janeway was very irritated.  "No, you don't 
understand," she explained to a bored looking official, who was doing 
his best to make her go away.  "I've already spoken to Starfleet 
Security and they transferred me back to you".  

"I see, Captain. Please wait a moment while I..."  

"No, wait, don't put me on..." Janeway said desperately, but before 
she could complete her sentence, he had disappeared from the screen.  

A few minutes later, the screen flared to life again. A toadish man 
with, slicked back hair and a wide, gleaming smile appeared: "Captain 
Janeway! I am Lieutenant Commander Rayscomb. I am so sorry that 
you've been getting the run-around today. There seems to have been a 
little misunderstanding." He smiled insincerely. "I DO have news of 
the crew members you were inquiring about: Thomas Eugene Paris and 
B'Elanna Torres." 

"That's right," Janeway replied.  At last she was getting somewhere! 

Rayscomb affected a serious expression, as insincere as his smile.  
"I'm afraid, Captain," he explained,  "that we have had to detain 
both of them." 

"What?!" Janeway exploded with anger: "Detain them? Why?"  

Lt. Commander Rayscomb smiled disingenuously. "I'm afraid I'm not at 
liberty to disclose that information."  

Janeway gritted her teeth.  "Where are they being held?"  

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose that information." 

"Then disclose this," Janeway fumed, her anger barely under control.  
"I want to know why I wasn't informed of this immediately." 

"There does appear to have been an oversight, Captain," Rayscomb 
replied smoothly.  "But please allow me to correct that immediately. 
If you wish, I will furnish you with a complete list of crew members 
detained so far..." 

"Detained so far...?!" she breathed, hardly believing what she was 
hearing. "How many?" 

"Fifteen, as of this morning, Captain." 
She was stunned.  {Fifteen!} "Give me the list," she demanded, her 
voice bleak.  {How could this be happening to her crew?} 

The list immediately flashed up on the screen and Janeway quickly 
scanned it; the conclusion was inescapable. She flicked the screen 
back to Rayscomb: "I demand to speak to Admiral Cabot immediately," 
she fumed.  

"I'm sorry, but the Admiral is currently attending a debriefing 
session," the Lieutenant Commander told her. 

"Then get him out of it!"   

Rayscomb smiled calmly.  "I'm sorry, but that's not possible." 

"I can assure you, Lt. Commander," Janeway growled, "that I will not 
let this matter rest here." Before he could respond, she terminated 
the link.  

She looked again at the list of names, everyone of them a former 
Maquis. Her heart sank: Cabot had double-crossed her, but her own 
sense of betrayal must pale beside that felt by her detained crew 
members. She was implicated in their betrayal and that was something 
she was not prepared to accept.  

{As soon as Cabot comes out of his debriefing, I'll}... Cold fear 
suddenly froze her heart, as she realized exactly who he was 
debriefing: "Chakotay!" His name came out a whisper.  


*** 


As he materialized on the prison transporter pad, Tom realized that 
this was not the Re-hab center he had been expecting. 

"Paris," the guard prodded him in the back with his phaser rifle. 
"Move it." 

The heavy shackles on his ankles made walking difficult, but he dared 
not complain.  A nasty bruise on the back of his head had been the 
reward for his first, and only, complaint.  As he shuffled along 
between the guards, he looked around him.  The walls were not the 
clinical steel he had been expecting, but were dark, cold, stone.  
Stone not in blocks, but carved out of the earth.  He glanced up, and 
felt the oppressive weight of stone above him.  He was, he realized, 
deep underground. 

"Keep walking," his guard snapped, and Tom returned his attention to 
his feet.  This was worse than he had ever imagined!  Ripped away 
from his friends without any time to say goodbye and sent to 
this...hole.  He knew he would never see them again; it was a bitter 
thought, but in a strange way it held some comfort.  At least he 
would be spared the ignominy of having them see him in this place.  
He could fade away in anonymous darkness. 

Heavy doors clanged shut behind him.  Tom looked up as a tall, hard 
looking man, with eyes as cold as steel, came to stand before him.  
"I am Governor Irving," he said in a voice as harsh as his face.  
"Welcome to the New Zealand Penal Settlement." 

"Thanks," Paris replied. "I appreciate the warm welcome." 

Irving's smile was bitterly cold.  "You are a traitor, Paris.  You 
will never leave this place.  You will never be released, and escape 
is impossible.  There are no doors, no windows, no visitors.  There's 
only one way out, and that's in a box." 

"Since when has Starfleet started ...?" A mind shattering blow struck 
him from behind.  He pitched forward, and found himself face first in 
the dirt.   

"Keep your mouth shut, Paris, or your stay will be shorter than you 
think." Irving's voice rang in his ears, as if coming from a 
distance.  "Tag him and take him to his cell." 

When his mind could focus again, Tom found himself lying on a narrow 
cot, staring at a barred ceiling.  The air felt cold, and he shivered 
in the thin, gray prison garb he'd been given to wear.  Sitting up, 
he gingerly touched the side of his head, and flinched immediately.  
Trying to distract himself from his pounding head, he looked about 
him.  He was in, well, it could best be described as a cage, about 
two meters wide and two meters high.  Above him, and to the side, 
were other cages, stretching as far as he could see, and below him 
the same.  The cage door was open, and a ladder by the side of the 
door led down to the floor ten meters below.  This was definitely not 
the Re-hab center he had expected.  As he swung his legs over the 
side of the bed Tom noticed that his shackles were gone.  In their 
place was an electronic ankle tag.  That at least was familiar; he 
remembered it from his previous incarceration. 

Suddenly, an alarm started ringing, very loud and very close to his 
cell.  He slapped his hands over his ears, but it was too late to 
protect his aching head.  When the alarm fell into silence, Tom 
noticed that people were pouring down the ladders, towards the floor.  
Peering out of his door, he grabbed the arm of a rough-shaven man who 
was sliding expertly down the ladder past his cage.   

"What's going on?" Tom asked. 

The man shook his arm loose irritably. "Chow's up," he said, and 
hurried on his way.   

Not feeling hungry, but with nothing better to do, Paris followed the 
man down the ladder and allowed himself to be swept along by the 
crowd towards what appeared to be the mess hall. 

The men and women formed a rough line, under the watchful gaze of 
armed wardens, and shuffled past the various food replicators.  Paris 
joined them, not caring what landed on his plate.  Everything seemed 
so unreal.  Only yesterday he'd been eating breakfast with Harry and 
hoping to have lunch with B'Elanna; he wondered if she'd waited for 
him after her debriefing session.  He would never know.  The thought 
turned his stomach sour, and he pursed his lips against the sadness 
that welled up in his throat.  But if he knew anything about prison, 
it was that you never showed weakness. 

"Lieutenant Paris?" the voice sounded disbelieving. 

Tom turned around in surprise.  He saw a thin young man sitting at 
one of the tables behind him.  "Lieutenant Paris!" he said again, 
standing up.  "It is you!"   

Looking closer Tom realized that he did recognize the man.  He left 
the food line and made his way over.  "Ensign Eddings?  What are you 
doing here?" Tom asked in astonishment.   

The man shrugged.  "Same as you, I guess," he replied.  "They're 
arresting all the Maquis." 

Tom stared.  "All of you...?"  Then he noticed the others at the 
table, about a dozen of them, all staring at him. 

"They just sent us straight from the so called debriefing sessions," 
Eddings told him. 

Tom suddenly felt the eyes of other prisoners on them, and realized 
they were attracting attention.  "Sit down," he ordered, acting the 
officer without realizing it.  He looked down the table, and nodded 
to the familiar faces.  "Something's not right here," he muttered to 
himself.  His own imprisonment had been unpleasant, but not a 
surprise.  But the detention of all the Maquis crew?  It seemed out 
of character for Starfleet, even for the unbending Starfleet he knew. 

"Are there any other officers here?" he asked Eddings.  "Torres or 
Chakotay?" 

"No, sir," Eddings replied slowly.  "Not Chakotay, but if Torres was 
detained, she won't be in here." 

Tom frowned, "Why not?" 

"They'll have put her on the other side." 

"The other side of what?" Paris asked, the Ensign's tone alarming 
him. 

"The other side of the prison, Sir," he replied.  "The Klingon side." 

Tom's stomach tightened at the thought.  He knew B'Elanna was well 
able to take care of herself, but in a place like this, full of 
Klingons?  "Is there any way we can find out if she's in there?" he 
asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. 

"You could go look through The Gate." 

Tom frowned again.  "What gate?" 

Eddings' eyes shifted to a point above Paris's head.  "That one," he 
answered. 

Turning around, Tom saw the massive iron gate, reaching from the 
stone ceiling to the floor.  It towered above the mess hall, and even 
above the banks of cages.  It was so huge that he hadn't noticed it 
before.   

"But I wouldn't recommend it, sir," Eddings continued,  "The Klingons 
don't like us getting too close..." 

"I'll take my chances," Tom told him.  If B'Elanna was in there, he 
had to find out.  He had to know if she was okay, and if not, well 
he'd just have to get her out of there.  Whatever it took. 

"Ensign," he said, starting to eat his food.  "Who knows we're in 
here?" 

Eddings shrugged.  "No one." 

"I doubt that," Paris told him.  "Sooner or later the captain's going 
to notice that half her crew is missing." 

"Huh," Eddings grunted.  "She's probably the one who put us here." 

Tom's head snapped up.  "That's not true, Ensign.  If the Captain 
knows we're here, you can be sure she's doing her best for us." 

"Aye, sir," Eddings replied, a little sullenly. 

"But in the meantime," Paris continued,  "we have to assume she isn't 
able to help us." 

"So..?" 

"So," Paris gave him a small smile.  "If we're going to get out of 
here, it's going to have to be a strictly Maquis operation." 

"Aye sir," Eddings replied, with a brighter gleam in his eye. 


*** 


The prison routine was not difficult to understand.  Each morning the 
cell doors swung open at the sound of the ear-piercing alarm.  And 
each morning Tom leaped out of bed at the sound, almost hitting his 
head on the barred ceiling.  Then, breakfast; replicated slop that 
was meant to be porridge, but which looked more like something a sick 
cat might produce - from which end of the cat, Tom couldn't be 
certain.  After breakfast, there was nothing to do until the next 
meal, and lock-down for the night.  Absolutely nothing; no work, no 
entertainment, no exercise.   

He'd been in a few prisons in his life; the Viidian mining colony, 
the God-awful place where he and Harry had nearly died.  But at least 
there had been something to DO in those places, even if it had just 
been struggling to survive.  Tom had the feeling that if he stayed 
here much longer he would die of boredom; there were certainly enough 
people who looked like they'd already gone past that point as they 
sat rocking, muttering inaudibly to themselves.  He'd rather die. 

If there was a focal point of entertainment in the place - aside from 
the frequent, bloody, fights that broke out - it was The Gate.  The 
massive iron portcullis that separated the Klingon and human inmates 
from each other stood at the heart of the complex, and could be seen 
from every point in the prison.  It was the focus of attention for 
most of the prisoners, Klingon and human alike, who amused themselves 
by trading insults with each other, while keeping far enough away 
from the gate to avoid some of the less literary missiles that were 
hurled through the heavy bars.      

It soon became clear to Tom that admitting he had a friend on the 
other side of The Gate would do neither of them any good.  He 
desperately wanted to know if B'Elanna was in there, but asking was 
impossible.  He hardly knew if he wanted to see her there or not; if 
she was there, then she was a prisoner.  He hated to think of her 
locked in this place, but he longed to see her again!  And if she 
wasn't there, then perhaps she was free.  He wanted her to be free, 
but then, he knew, he would never see her again.  So, he lurked with 
the rest of them, close to the gate, straining for a glimpse of her, 
and not knowing if the sight of her would fill him with joy or 
despair.  

After about a week, he was beginning to surrender any hope of finding 
her, and he tried to comfort himself with the idea that she had 
evaded capture.  Then one day, soon after breakfast, a commotion on 
the other side of The Gate attracted his attention.  Someone was 
yelling, and as he drew a little closer he could make out the words. 

"You scum sucking, no-good, double-crossing bastard!"  A raucous 
bellow of Klingon laughter followed the words.   

Peering through the crowd, Tom  watched a familiar figure step 
forward, her small frame tiny against the burly Klingon's who bulked 
around her. 

"I thought I recognized your stench, Paris," she yelled.  "I might 
have known you'd end up in a place like this!" 

"Torres!" he shouted back, understanding her game immediately, and 
hiding the overwhelming relief he felt at the sight of her.  "So they 
got you too?  Good.  I hope you're miserable in there." 

"I can handle it," she retorted.  "I see they've kept you alive this 
long - pity." 

"Make you nervous?" he asked, getting into the part, and stepping 
closer to the gate, trying to see her more clearly.  "You hoped 
they'd kill me, didn't you?  So that I wouldn't be able to come after 
you." 

"Hah!" B'Elanna laughed.  "I'm not afraid of you, Paris.  I look 
forward to the day when we can settle this, just the two of us - 
alone!" 

"For once we agree," he replied grinning, and meaning it.  "But I'm 
afraid we won't be alone.  I'm not the only one your little maneuver 
landed in here.  I'm sure the others will be - almost - as eager to 
get their hands on you as I will." 

"I'm not afraid of your friends either, human," she scoffed, taking 
another step closer to the gate, and into a murky pool of light.  "I 
look forward to the day when I can take you all on!" 

Paris could see her clearly now, and he forced himself not to react 
when he saw the large red welt that marred her beautiful face.  "That 
day may be closer than you think, Klingon P'tak," he retorted, 
stepping closer still.  

"Good," she replied.  "My hands itch to feel your blood!"   

"Then why wait?" Paris asked, reaching the gate and gripping its 
heavy bars.  "Or are you afraid of me?" 

"Pah," B'Elanna spat. "A Klingon child could rip out your beating 
heart, and hold it in his hands!" With that, she too rushed at the 
gate, her hands reaching for Tom's throat.  Her grasp was strong, and 
Tom began to see stars.  {A little too realistic}, he thought to 
himself. 

Sirens wailed throughout the prison.  Their little scene had 
attracted too much attention. 

Grabbing the front of B'Elanna's prison uniform, he pulled her close 
to him, their faces separated only by the bars of the gate. 
"Tonight," he whispered as quietly as possible.  "Oh-two-hundred 
hours."  Then he let her go. 

"Human dog," she spat, and kicked him sharply in the shins.   

He collapsed with a yell, just as the guards arrived.  He felt their 
batons smash over his head, and onto his back.  Curling up against 
their blows, he tried not to imagine the same thing happening to 
B'Elanna. 


*** 


Tom lowered himself gently down onto the bench next to Ensign 
Eddings, and pretended to eat his supper.  The pain from the beating 
he had suffered made him nauseous, but he didn't want to attracted 
any more attention. 

"I need your help, Ensign," he said in a low voice.  

Eddings nodded once, without looking up.   

"I'm going to meet Torres tonight," he said.  "I need a distraction 
ten minutes after lock down." 

"After?" Eddings asked.  "How are you going to get out of your cell?" 

"Leave that to me.  I just don't want them inspecting it too hard." 

"You think Torres can help us?" Eddings asked.  Paris understood his 
question.  The guards would be severe with anyone causing a 
disturbance after lock down; he was asking a lot from the young 
Ensign.  It was too much to ask for the sake of a mere romantic 
liaison. 

"The only way out of here is by transporter," Paris said quietly.  
"Prisons are always shielded against external transports, so if we're 
going to get out, we're going to have to rig the prison transport.  
And you can bet that circumventing their security won't be easy.  But 
if anyone can do it, it's B'Elanna." 

Eddings nodded, "I see," he said, and raised his eyes to Paris.  
"Then give her a kiss from me," he said with a sudden, mischievous 
grin. 

Tom shook his head, surprised at feeling a little self-conscious.  
"I'll bear that in mind Ensign," he said, returning his attention to 
his meal.       


*** 


Getting the ankle tag off was easy.  At least the design for that was 
still the same.  He left it, blinking quietly to itself, under the 
rumpled blankets in his cell.  Visual inspections were cursory at the 
best of times, electronic tagging was believed to be far more 
effective, and with Eddings' distraction, Tom hoped that his presence 
would not be missed. 

He found the darkest spot he could, between the mess hall and The 
Gate, and slid into the crevice between two stinking containers of 
leftover food.  He felt as if he had been there for hours when the 
lock-down signal sounded.  And he knew he had another four hours to 
wait.  Grimly he listened to Ensign Eddings begin shouting, he heard 
the thud, thud, thud, of the guards' running, booted feet, and the 
dull, fleshy thumps and stifled groans as they administered their 
punishment.  But it worked, the lights dimmed, the inspection ended, 
the night began, and Paris was free. 

His body cramped and re-cramped as he crouched in the dark, but he 
dared not move before the appointed time.  At length, the hours 
passed, as slowly and painfully as any he had yet lived; the only 
thing that kept him going was the thought of B'Elanna. 

A slight sound in the silent blackness of night alerted him.  It was 
time.  Forcing his cramped limbs to work, he crawled out of his 
hiding place, and edged his way slowly, cautiously, towards The Gate.  
When he reached its cold bars, he stopped, and strained to hear in 
the darkness.  Somewhere, to his left, he heard soft, gentle 
breathing. 

Barely daring to move, he stepped silently towards the sound.  When 
he was close enough he risked a whisper, expecting lights and a rain 
of hammer blows at any moment.  "B'Elanna?" his softest whisper 
sounded like a shout.  But he didn't care; soft hands met his on the 
bars of The Gate.   

"Tom," she breathed, her breath caressing his cheek. 

In the darkness he could barely make her out, but her eyes glimmered 
softly in the almost total dark, and her hands clutched at his. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, reaching through The Gate to touch her 
face.  "Have they hurt you?" his voice was barely more than a breath. 

"I'm fine," she replied.  "And you?" 

"Fine."  They were both lying, and they both knew it.  But it didn't 
matter; they were alive, and they were together.  Her face and hair 
felt deliciously soft under his fingers, and all he wanted to do was 
hold her.  But Ensign Eddings' sacrifice was fresh in his mind, and 
he knew he couldn't waste precious time. 

"We have to get out of here," he whispered. 

"The transporters are the only way," she replied, her fingers 
entwining themselves with his.   

"Can you break their access codes?" he asked. 

"If you can get me into the transporter room." 

"I'll work on it," he replied. 

"Who else is in there with you?" she asked him.   

"Twelve Maquis, but not Chakotay." 

He heard her sigh softly.  "I never expected this," she said quietly.  
"I had no idea you'd been in a place like this..." 

"I wasn't," he corrected her.  "It must have been built since we 
left.  Perhaps since the war started." 

B'Elanna didn't answer for a moment. "Tom," she whispered at last, 
forcing words through a throat thick with emotion.  "The other 
day...what I said..." 

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted her quickly.  "Not now." 

"No," she told him,  "I didn't mean..."  A loud clang interrupted 
their conversation.  They both froze.  Heavy booted footfalls echoed 
somewhere above them.   

"Two nights from now," Tom breathed, giving her fingers a final 
squeeze, before he crept quietly back towards his hiding place.   

As he crouched again in the darkness, he could still feel her breath, 
the softness of her face, her hair; he already knew that he loved 
her, but for the first time in days he felt that she might still love 
him.  If he hadn't been in prison, squashed between two stinking 
garbage cans, he might have been happy. 


***  


"I'm sorry Mark, I really can't talk right now," Janeway explained, 
doing her best to keep her temper.  "I'm just about to meet with 
Admiral Cabot." 

"But Kate," he protested, "you've been home over a week, and we've 
only seen each other once!" 

"I know," she sighed.  "But you must understand what's happening, 
Mark. I'm responsible for these people, and I can't rest until I find 
out exactly what's going on." 

"I'm sure that Starfleet knows what it's doing," he told her.  "You 
have to trust them." 

"Do I?" she replied quietly.  "I've spent the last three years 
trusting no one but this crew; suddenly, I don't feel like changing 
that very much." 

"You know what, Kate," he replied, an edge of bitterness creeping 
into his voice, "I've tried to be patient, but if you don't have any 
time for me, fine.  You go run after your Maquis friends.  You know 
where I am, if you want me."  With that, he ended the transmission. 

Janeway scowled at the blank screen; she didn't remember Mark being 
this unreasonable.  Perhaps he'd changed over the last three years, 
or perhaps she had.   

The bleep of the comm system interrupted her thoughts.  "Captain," 
Kim's voice announced, "Admiral Cabot has just arrived." 

"Thank you Ensign," she replied.  "Have him brought to my ready-
room." 

She stood up and left her quarters with a determined stride.  Perhaps 
now she would get some answers.  The Admiral was already waiting for 
her when she arrived, but she made no apology for not being there to 
greet him; she was in no mood for the niceties of Starfleet protocol. 

"Thank you for coming, Admiral," was all she said, as she sat down at 
her desk. 

"Of course, Captain," Cabot replied, smiling.  "I understand your 
concerns." 

"Let me be blunt," she told him.  "Unless you tell me, immediately, 
why my crew have been detained, where they are being held and on what 
charges, I will refuse to cooperate any further with this sham.  No 
one else will leave this ship." 

"Captain," Cabot said, his watery eyes turning suddenly icy.  "You 
know that you can't do that.  Unless you're thinking of disobeying a 
direct order."  He did nothing to disguise the threat in his voice, 
but she ignored it. 

"I will not abandon my crew," she insisted, her direct gaze not 
wavering for an instant. 

Cabot sighed, almost regretfully.  "Kathryn," he said, in a softer 
voice, "I know that you consider these people to be members of your 
crew, but you must remember who they really are: our enemies, at war 
with the Federation." 

Janeway shook her head.  "You're talking about half my crew, and 
three of my best officers!" Her tone turned grim.  "They have risked 
their lives for me, and for this ship, countless times.  I will not 
abandon them." 

Cabot turned icy again: "They are terrorists and murderers." 

"They are my crew.  And they deserve better than this." 

"Do they?  Why?" Cabot's watery eyes narrowed.  "Why should we show 
mercy to the brave Maquis TERRORISTS who have left behind countless 
widows and orphans?" 

"I won't argue with you about their past," Janeway replied, not 
finding the subject a comfortable one.  "But the fact is, for the 
last three years they have been a good and loyal crew.  I owe them my 
life, several times over, and I will not allow this injustice to be 
perpetrated against them." 

"Injustice!" Cabot laughed.  "The Maquis abandoned all claim to 
Federation justice long ago." 

"I thought justice was blind, Admiral," Janeway observed.   

"Would you have us release them?" he asked, incredulous.  "Free them 
to return to the Maquis?  To continue aiding the Klingons in the war 
against us?"   

"If that is their choice," she replied. 

Cabot shook his head.  "That's not possible.  They pose too great a 
risk." 

"Admiral," she softened her tone, trying a different tack.  "Some of 
them may return to the Maquis, I agree.  But I think you'll find that 
many of them would seek to stay in Starfleet.  And I can assure you 
that Starfleet would only benefit from their presence." 

"Not as much as the Maquis would," Cabot replied.  "We could never 
trust them." 

Janeway scowled.  "I have trusted them for the last three years.  
With my life, and with my ship." 

"Voyager was their only way back from the Delta Quadrant.  Loyalty 
was in their own best interest." Cabot shrugged.  "What they will do 
now is anyone's guess." 

"But you can't imprison them on a guess!" she objected, outraged. 

"Of course not," Cabot agreed smoothly.  "But we don't need to. They 
were wanted for their crimes against the Federation long before they 
left the Alpha Quadrant. " 

Janeway was silent for a long time.  His logic was impeccable, yet 
she knew this was wrong.  It was unjust, and she expected better from 
Starfleet.  Something significant had changed here in the last three 
years, and she didn't like it.  

"And how about Tom Paris?" she asked at last.  "He's already served 
his sentence." 

"He was only on parole, Captain," Cabot reminded her with a cold 
smile.  "Considering the current situation, it was thought unwise to 
release him.  His loyalties have always been...unpredictable." 

Janeway nodded in silence, her thoughts running ahead of her.  "I 
want to see them," she demanded in a quiet voice.  "Where are they 
being held?" 

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," Cabot told her.  "But, I'll see 
if I can arrange a visit.  I believe that you're due to be debriefed 
tomorrow?" 

Janeway inclined her head in agreement.   

"I'll see what I can do about it then," he told her, standing to 
leave.  "Oh, and Captain, a word of advice, if I may?" 

"Go on," she replied, not liking the note of menace in his voice.   

"Your adamant defense of the Maquis has been noted," Cabot told her. 
"For your own good, Captain, you'd do well to distance yourself from 
them.  I'd hate to see your own loyalty put in doubt." 

"Noted, Admiral," was all she said in reply. 


*** 


"Did you see her?" Eddings asked the next morning, as he came and sat 
next to Tom at breakfast.  He made no mention of the split lip that 
slurred his speech, or the angry bruises that half closed one eye. 

Paris nodded, glancing up at his badly beaten colleague with a 
mixture of anger and guilt beating in his heart.  Eddings shrugged 
slightly, and struggled to smile.   

"If we can get her into the transporter bay, she can get us out," Tom 
murmured in a low voice, trying to sound more confident than he felt. 

"How do we get in there?" 

"I'm working on that," Tom replied.  Then, nodding towards The Gate, 
he continued.  "You see that patch of smooth gray rock, just to the 
left of The Gate?" 

Eddings glanced over, moving nothing more than his eyes,  "U-huh."  

"It's one-way plastisteel - a window.  I'd put good money on that 
being the transporter room." 

Eddings looked again, closer this time.   

"Don't stare!" Paris hissed. 

"Sorry Lieutenant," Eddings apologized, returning his attention to 
the unappetizing breakfast. 

"And don't call me that either," Tom added.  "It's hardly appropriate 
in here, and anyway I'm not a lieutenant anymore - they stripped me 
of my rank."  He hoped the words didn't sound as bitter as they 
tasted. 

An awkward silence settled around them, until Eddings spoke again: "I 
would've joined Starfleet, if they'd let me," he said, his young 
voice sounding sad.  "I never expected this." 

"Neither did I," Paris agreed.  {Although B'Elanna did - I should have 
listened to her.} 

"I never knew Starfleet were so...brutal," Eddings continued, one 
hand tracing the bruising around his eye.  "All those times Captain 
Janeway insisted on upholding Federation values, and when we get 
back...They're no better than the Kazon!" 

Eddings' words stopped Tom, spoon half way to his mouth.  He was 
right; this was all wrong.  Very wrong.  "The Federation ISN'T like 
this," he said slowly.  "Or they weren't.  For all the troubles I had 
with Starfleet, I was never treated like this.  Never.  Something's 
different." 

"Perhaps it's the war?" Eddings offered.   

Tom shrugged, pushing the spoon into his mouth.  "Perhaps," he said, 
around a mouthful of food, "but it..."  

"On your feet, Paris," a guard suddenly barked, jabbing him sharply 
in the back with a phaser-rifle.  Setting his spoon down, Tom slowly 
stood up, meeting Eddings' concerned gaze with what he hoped was a 
confident smile.   

"Move it," the guard snarled, shoving him roughly forward.  Tom found 
himself surrounded by six heavily armed men who watched the 
prisoners, and him, with undisguised malevolence.  He walked in 
silence, keeping his eyes on the floor, while inside adrenaline set 
his heart racing: {Last night!  They know!}  This meant trouble.  That 
was bad enough, but if they knew about him, then they might know 
about B'Elanna too.  And if they hurt her...his fingers curled into 
fists at his sides; he'd never felt so helpless. 

Ahead of him he heard the swish of an opening door, and looked up as 
the guards marched him into their control room.  Making the most of 
the opportunity, Tom glanced around.  He saw transporter controls to 
his right, and directly before him was a heavy steel door.  It must 
lead to the Klingon side of the prison, he guessed.  But it was 
closed, and there was no sign of B'Elanna.  {If we could break into 
this room}..., he mused, but his thoughts were interrupted: Governor 
Irving strode into the room.   

"Cuff him," he ordered in a brittle voice. 

"What's going on?" Tom asked, as a guard bound his wrists together. 

Irving's eyes were as cold as the stone that surrounded them.  "You 
have a visitor, Paris," the Governor replied, clearly displeased. 

Unexpected hope squirmed in the pit of Tom's stomach: the Captain!  
Irving stepped close, speaking softly, his breath hot against Tom's 
face.  "You might have friends in high places, Paris," he warned 
darkly, "but while you're in here you're mine.  Remember that!"  
Irving gestured toward a guard: "Take him down."  

He was escorted along a long, dimly lit corridor.  Another door 
hissed open at their approach, and the guard propelled Tom into a 
sterile, brightly lit room.  A Starfleet officer was waiting for him, 
sitting behind a small table, but it was not the Captain; it was his 
father.  Tom stared in astonishment.   

"Leave us alone," his father addressed the guard. 

"Sir, my orders are to maintain constant..." 

"I'm giving you new orders," the Admiral snapped.  "Out!"  
Discomfited, the guard left, the door hissing shut behind him.  "Sit 
down," the Admiral ordered Tom. 

"Why are you here?" Paris asked, not moving towards the offered 
chair. 

"I think you can guess," his father replied, staring at him with 
those cold blue eyes he remembered so well. 

"Not really," Tom answered. 

"I'm not in the mood for any of your nonsense," his father snapped.  
"Do you think I enjoy visiting you in these places?" 

"How should I know?  You never have." 

"Don't play games with me Thomas.  I'm here for the same reason I 
came last time - to offer you a deal." 

{Last time? } Tom's confusion kept him silent.  {What's he talking 
about?}

The Admiral misinterpreted his silence.  "I take it you're 
interested?" he asked. 

"What's the deal?" Tom replied, sitting down cautiously.  

"I want your name." 

"My name?" 

Admiral Paris leaned forward, "I need it on this."  He produced a 
PADD.  "Put your name to this, and you'll walk out of here with me.  
You can have your commission back, a posting of your choice..." 

"What does it say?" Tom interrupted. 

"It's a deposition - about Janeway's involvement with the Dominion." 

"The Dominion?  In the Gamma Quadrant?" Tom shook his head, baffled.  
"The Captain isn't involved with them - we've been in the Delta 
Quadrant for the past three years!" 

"All you have to do is sign it." 

"No," Tom told him.  "I won't." 

"Listen," his father snapped.  "This is your last chance.  Do you 
want to spend the rest of your life in here?" 

"You're asking me to lie - to betray my friends.  And I won't do it." 

"As I recall, you've never had a problem with that." 

Tom colored at the allusion, but refused to lower his gaze.  "Then I 
guess I've changed," he told his father.  "And so have you." 

"You're being an idiot," the Admiral hissed, "as usual.  You know 
what it's like here.  Have you forgotten what happened last time?  
They nearly killed you." 

"Last time?" Tom shook his head,  "What are you talking about?  I've 
never been here before." 

"Thomas!" his father's face reddened with anger.  "I've had enough of 
this.  I don't know what your game is, but it won't work.  I'm 
offering you the only chance you'll ever have to get out of here.  
Take it.  Like you did before." 

"I won't lie to save myself." 

"Then you'll die here," his father told him, standing up.  "I should 
have let you die last time you landed yourself in this pit.  You were 
a waste of time then, and you still are." 

With that he stalked out of the door, leaving Tom staring after him 
in bewilderment.  {Last time?  There was no last time.  I've never 
been here before!} 


*** 


When the guards threw him back into the prison compound, Tom was 
still feeling shell-shocked.  What had his father meant?  Why did he 
want him to lie about the Captain, and why did he keep saying that 
he'd been in this place before?  Deep in thought, he wondered back to 
the mess hall. 

"Lieutenant," Eddings asked, rushing towards him.  "Are you all 
right?  What did they want?" 

"I'm fine," Tom assured him.  "But I've just had the strangest 
conversation..." 

 He was interrupted by a loud wail of sirens which abruptly filled the 
air.  "New prisoner," Eddings shouted over the racket. 

Standing on one of the mess-hall benches to get a better view, Tom 
watched as a squadron of eight wary and heavily armed guards dragged 
another inmate into the prison.  The man they escorted was barely 
conscious, and when they threw him into his cell he fell to the floor 
with a quiet groan.  Tom couldn't get a good view of his face, but he 
could see enough; a tattoo, dark against unhealthy pale skin.  It was 
Chakotay. 

Tom waited until the guards had retreated to their barracks before he 
pushed his way through the milling prisoners, and into Chakotay's 
cell.  The commander had made it to his hands and knees by the time 
Tom arrived, so he carefully helped him onto the narrow bunk.  By the 
look of him he was in pretty bad shape, although Tom couldn't see any 
obvious injuries. 

"Morning, Commander," he said with a grim smile, lifting Chakotay's 
feet onto the bunk. 

Chakotay opened his eyes.  "Paris?" he whispered through a sandpaper-
dry throat.   

"Is he okay?" Eddings asked from the doorway. 

Paris turned, "See if you can get some water, will you?" he asked the 
young ensign. 

"Where...?" Chakotay tried to sit up, but Paris pushed him firmly 
back down.   

"The New Zealand Penal Settlement, apparently," Tom told him.  "But 
they've changed the decor since I last visited." 

Chakotay smiled, but kept his eyes closed.  He looked exhausted.  
"What day is it?" he asked, his voice still a rasp. 

"Day?" Tom considered the question.  "I'm not exactly sure, but I 
think I've been in here nine days, so that makes it...." 

"Nine days!" Chakotay's eyes shot open, and then he covered his face 
with his hands.  "They questioned me for eight days.  Straight." 

Tom shook his head, and let out a low whistle.  This was definitely 
all wrong.   

"Lieutenant?" Eddings was back, and held out a flask which Tom took 
from him with a nod of thanks. 

"Here," he offered it to Chakotay, "you look like you need a stiff 
drink -  but I'm afraid it's only water." 

Helping the commander to sit up and rest against the barred walls of 
the cell, Paris handed him the flask.  He let him drink his fill 
before he asked the question.  The question that had become so 
blindingly clear:  

"So, Commander," Tom asked conversationally, "where the hell do you 
think we are we?  'Cause we sure aren't in Kansas anymore."  


*** 


The memory of sirens faded as darkness descended over the prison.  
B'Elanna lay on her back, staring up through the bars on the ceiling 
of her cage, her eyes blinking against the impenetrable gloom.  She 
didn't mind the dark. When the lights went off she could relax, cease 
the relentless vigilance that kept her alive.  The Klingons here 
didn't like her; she was half human, a weak, pitiful disgrace to her 
race.  She sighed.  It wasn't the first time she'd experienced this 
kind of prejudice.  Pushing the thought from her mind, she closed her 
eyes and remembered the previous night.  It brought a smile to her 
lips.   

Removing the ankle restraint had been easy, but the long hours 
waiting in the cold darkness had not.  She'd heard shouts and running 
feet from the other side of The Gate, and her heart had almost 
crawled its way up to her throat.  {It's Tom}, she'd thought to 
herself.  {Who else can it be?  They've found him sneaking out.  
they're killing him!}   

It had taken all her human reason to overcome the Klingon urge to 
batter at the iron gate until it let her through; the waiting had 
been agony, barely daring to hope that he would be there.  She'd lost 
track of time in the endless darkness, and at last could wait no 
longer. 

Creeping out of her hiding place, she had inched along the gate, 
barely daring to move.  And then she'd heard him whisper her name!  
The wave of relief that had rushed over her had almost driven her to 
her knees.  Almost.  She WAS half Klingon after all.   

Their conversation had been too brief, but, oh so sweet!  She 
remembered the warmth of his touch as his fingers had tangled in her 
hair, the concern and longing in his voice when he breathed her name.  
She could have torn the wretched gate from the wall!  And then the 
guards came, and they had to part before she could tell him that she 
still loved him.  That she always had.  {Two nights from now}, he'd 
whispered.  It wasn't long, but it felt like an age. 

B'Elanna opened her eyes and stared again into the darkness.  The 
bars above her head gleamed a dull gray in the blackness of the 
prison night.  She wondered how many nights she would have to lie 
there and look at them.  {Forever}, she told herself in irritation, {If 
you don't quit acting like a love-sick school girl and try to figure 
out how to get out of here!}

Forcing thoughts of Tom firmly from her mind, she turned her 
attention to the transporters.  She'd seen them briefly on the way 
in, and she was pretty sure they had a secure power supply lock-out, 
which would mean she'd have to rig an alternative power source.  That 
shouldn't be too hard if she could get her hands of a couple of the 
phaser rifles the guards carried, but she'd... 

Her attention was suddenly caught by a faint glitter on one of the 
bars above her head.  With her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness, 
she sat up to get a better look.  Someone had scratched something 
into the metal of the bar.  It was a name: Worf - a good Klingon 
name.  She peered closer.  There was something else too, a date.  She 
read it, and then read it again more closely.  It was still the same.  
A date ten years ago.  But this place wasn't here ten years ago. 

She lay back down.  {Okay}, she said to herself, {I reckon there are two 
alternatives.  Either Starfleet have been secretly imprisoning 
Klingons for the last ten years - unlikely, for all their faults, 
Or}...She paused before she finished the thought..{This isn't the 
Alpha quadrant we left behind.} 


*** 


"C'mon!" Tom urged, "It all adds up!" 

"The wrong Alpha Quadrant?" Chakotay asked, sounding dubious and 
stuffing another spoonful of food into his mouth.   

"Look," Tom continued,  "You were in Starfleet, did YOU ever see 
anything like this?" 

"No," Chakotay was forced to agree.  "But that was before the war 
started, obviously..." 

"Ah, the war," Tom interrupted.  "And how likely is THAT?  War with 
the Klingons, after decades of peace!  Doesn't it seem a little odd?" 

"It's politics," Chakotay shrugged.  "The alliance with Cardassia 
forced the Federation into war when the Klingons attacked the 
Cardassian home-world." 

"Oh, right," Tom seemed to be enjoying himself.  "And do you really 
think the Klingons would decide to launch an attack on Cardassia, 
just like that?  It doesn't make any sense!" 

"Paris," Chakotay put his spoon down, and leaned forward.  "None of 
that proves that this is the WRONG Alpha Quadrant."  

"And what about my father?" Tom asked.  "He told me he had visited me 
here before - that I had nearly died here - that he had offered me a 
deal to get out.  But none of that ever happened!" 

Chakotay stared at him for a moment.  "I can't explain that," he 
admitted. 

"C'mon, Chakotay," Tom persisted.  "Don't you see?  As stiff as 
Starfleet were, they were never..." he gestured around them, "like 
this." 

Chakotay remained silent for a long moment, considering.  "Perhaps 
you're right," he agreed at last.  "Things have certainly changed.  
But if you ARE right, then no one's coming to get us out of here." 

"You don't know that," Tom objected.  "If the Captain and the others 
have figured it out too..." 

"You don't think they're all in someplace like this?" Chakotay asked 
darkly. 

Tom froze.  "The Captain...?" he said, astonishment in his voice.  
"They wouldn't." 

Chakotay raised an eyebrow.  "They asked me a lot of questions about 
Kath...about the Captain.  They wanted to know what I thought of her 
decision to DELIBERATELY strand Voyager in the Delta Quadrant, when 
we could have used the Array to get home." 

"What did you tell them?" 

"The truth, of course, but that's not what they wanted to hear."  He 
leaned closer and lowered his voice.  "The Captain told me something 
before I left the ship.  Admiral Cabot more or less told her that 
they suspect us of being Klingon agents..." 

Tom barked a derisive laugh, but Chakotay silenced him.  "Or, worse, 
spies for the Dominion." 

"The Dominion...?" Tom's eyes widened in understanding.  "So that's 
my father's game." 

Chakotay nodded.  "They don't believe we were ever in the Delta 
Quadrant at all." 

"Then we're on our own," Paris replied grimly. "To this Starfleet, 
we're the enemy.  We can't rely on their justice, that's for sure." 

Chakotay smiled wryly. "Sounds familiar," he replied.  Tom gave a 
short, humorless laugh; each of them had received rough justice at 
the hands of the real Starfleet.   

"So, now what?" Tom asked.  "There's no Voyager coming to our rescue 
this time." 

"Well, I don't plan on spending the rest of my life in here," 
Chakotay told him, a spark of excitement in his dark eyes. "And I 
reckon if they're going to treat us like outlaws, we'd better start 
acting the part." 

Tom grinned.  "Then I guess we'll abandon Starfleet protocols on this 
one?" he guessed. 

"A strictly Maquis operation," Chakotay confirmed, smiling 
dangerously.  "No holds barred." 


...To be continued and concluded in Part Three: "No place like home"  

If you liked this, or even if you didn't but you read to the end 
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