Part 1: 
PRIORITIES

PART 2:
DECISIONS

PART 3:
LOOSE ENDS
 

SEGMENT 2

PART 4:
BY ANY MEANS 
NECESSARY

PART 5:
SACRIFICE

PART 6:
CONSEQUENCES
 
 

SEGMENT 3

PART 7:
THE FIVE STAGES 
OF GRIEF

PART 7 (continued)
Appended 3/11/01

PART 8:
ABSENT FRIENDS
(added 3/11/01)
 
 

SEGMENT 4

PART 9:
HOMECOMING
(added 3/26/01)

EPILOGUE
(added 3/26/01)

by Barbara Watson (samzmom@aol.com)

Segment 2 of 4. (If you missed Segment 1, click here or none of this will make sense.)

RATING: R for some mature and graphic situations. 

CODES: P/T, J/C, 7/D, 7&T, P&K, P&J 

SPOILERS: Serious Season 7 spoilers and guesses

PART 4--BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY: 

Harry was holding onto the ops console for dear life. "Twenty-thousand light years and closing." 

B'Elanna's voice was shouting over the open comlink. "We're starting to show fluctuations in the core pressure." 

Now it was Seven's voice they heard, "Attempting to compensate." 

Tom's fingers worked furiously trying to translate his thoughts into action as quickly as possible to keep up with the ever-changing shape of the conduit before them. "I'm reading gravimetric shear directly ahead. Attempting to maneuver around the wake." 

Tuvok: "Power fluctuations are increasing. The deflector wedge is destabilizing." 

Kim was shouting now, "Hull breach on Deck 11! It's decompressed the entire deck!" 

There was the sudden sound of metal tearing and violent crashing over the com before it went silent. Tom could only shake off the horrible thoughts running through his mind. He had to stay in the moment. The bridge began to undulate violently. Seconds later it was over. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

This was their sixth simulation of the day (the seventeenth in thirty-six hours), and the third time they'd risen from the dead since breakfast. Each time, it seemed, a different key system failed not long into their trip. Sometimes they'd lose helm control and fly into the 'wall' of the singularity. Once, the ship developed a harmonic vibration, which shook the starboard nacelle right off. And now, their most common foe had risen to defeat them--the collapse of their structural integrity field. This morning they were well below the 62% success rate predicted by their initial projections. Things seemed to get worse the more they practiced. 

"Janeway to Holodeck 1." 

"Torres here, Captain." Tom was relieved to hear her voice, even if her recent death had been only theoretical. 

"What now, B'Elanna?" their captain asked. 

"Looks like we developed another pin-hole coolant leak. Not enough to set off the alarms, but enough to destabilize the pressure. I've asked Carey to run some more scans, but the leaks seem to develop randomly inside the plasma conduits. We might not be able to do anything except be aware of the potential problem and monitor it as we go." 

"That's not good enough, B'Elanna," Janeway shot back. They were all getting tired. 

It was Seven who replied. "It will have to be, Captain. Lieutenant Torres cannot repair a malfunction that has not yet occurred, and there's no way to anticipate where a rupture will form until it's opened." Everyone expected the chief engineer to respond in some way that indicated she could fight her own battles, but--whether out of exhaustion or gratitude--she let Seven's comments stand. 

"Captain," Chakotay interrupted, "I'm more concerned about the gravimetric disturbance Tom reported just before we broke up." 

The pilot agreed, "Me, too. That's the first time we've seen one that size. It was hard to avoid." 

Janeway took a deep breath and sighed. "Computer," she called out. "Reset simulations in Holodecks 1 and 2 and synchronize." She spoke to her exhausted crew. "Let's try this one more time...." 

~*~*~*~*~ 

The mess hall was unusually quiet for 1900 hours as the bridge crew--minus their captain--practically crawled through the doors. Collectively, they had been burned, frozen, dismembered, imploded and exploded several times in the course of this workday, and the 'projected damage,' was causing real physical side effects. The good news: the last three simulations had them reach the Alpha Quadrant a bit bruised and battered but alive. Janeway had decided to call it a night while they were on a roll. 

Neelix was turning down the flame on the leftovers from dinner when they arrived. Since the captain had restored their rations, fewer of the crew were eating his cooking. He supposed that was understandable, but it did make him more aware of how little he had to do these days. Everyone else on board (besides Naomi Wildman) had a specific role to play in readying the ship for their mission. Neelix was feeling a little unnecessary. He was glad to see his friends--his first customers in over an hour--come in and sit down. 

Harry draped himself over an empty chair and Chakotay stretched out the tired muscles in his neck and shoulders. Tom walked to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee; his first officer indicated he'd like one as well. Tuvok, Mister 'I can go a week without sleep,' was dragging his feet less than the rest of the men, but even he would have admitted to being less than his best. 

As Tom turned to head for their table, Neelix couldn't help but notice he hadn't asked for anything to eat. "I'm just heating up the leftover pleeka rind casserole! Let me get you some." 

Tom was too tired to hold back the nauseous impulse he felt at the thought of this particular dish, but he didn't want to hurt his friend's feelings. "Gee, thanks, Neelix, but B'Elanna's expecting me for dinner in about an hour." He forced himself to sniff the air deeply. He was instantly sorry. "Smells great, though." Neelix's face fell, but he understood. Another customer lost to the replicators. Tom could sense the chef's disappointment, and decided to turn Neelix's attentions to a more willing victim. 

"Harry," he called over to the table, "didn't you just tell me you had a craving for some pleeka rind casserole?" 

Amazingly enough, the ensign perked up at the thought. "Hey, great--I'd love some." Even Chakotay rolled his eyes at Harry's enthusiasm for this very...pungent dish. Yet the much-maligned leola roots and pleeka rinds had kept this crew fed and healthy for most of their journey. He had to admit, though, he was looking forward to eliminating them from his diet permanently. But if Tom could pawn some off on Harry... 

"Neelix, bring Mr. Tuvok a tray, too," the commander said with an evil look in his eye. Vulcan mental powers were known across the galaxy, but Chakotay was now glad they didn't extend to telekinesis. If they had, he would certainly be receiving a mental neck pinch from across the table. 

"Don't bother yourself, Mr. Neelix," Tuvok tried to decline. 

"Oh, it's no bother at all," the cook was glad to oblige. Chakotay had to pull his coffee cup to his mouth to hide his smile. He was coming to appreciate what Harry and Tom had always seen in tormenting the Vulcan. He was such an easy target. 

Neelix filled two trays and, before walking to sit them before Kim and Tuvok, picked up a bottle and five cups. He sat the trays before the diners, and put a cup at every chair. "Gentlemen, while the Ensign and Commander enjoy their dinners, I was wondering if you would join me for a little Irenic Brandy. I've been saving four bottles for a special occasion, but--I guess I'm feeling like I need a little cheering up tonight." 

"What's wrong, Neelix?" Chakotay wondered sincerely. 

The Talaxian sat down and began to pour as he answered. "Everyone just seemed to be in such a melancholy mood today. You know, the captain reminded the crew this morning to get their letters ready for the datastream. I think it reminded everyone of how little time we have left. On Voyager, I mean. Before we get to Earth." His attempted recovery was unnecessary and too late, but no one pressed the issue. He tried to change the subject anyway. "You know, a lot of people seem to find this a good place to think or write." 

"Particularly those with inside cabins, I'd bet," Harry interjected. This was more than a little pointed at the three senior officers surrounding him. As the second and third in command, Chakotay and Tuvok had very spacious quarters, each with several windows. And, while Tom and B'Elanna's original rooms had been interior cabins, their new 'home', while small, had a view of space as well. 

"Yes I'm sure that might have something to do with it," Neelix thought. "I've seen more than a few members of the crew wander in late at night just to stare out those windows." 

While they were talking, Tom took a gulp of the deep red liquid his friend had just poured and almost spit it back into his cup. He had been an experienced drinker in his day--more than a few years ago--but he wasn't prepared for the kick this spirit carried. "What did you call this?" he asked.

"Irenic Brandy. I had a few bottles stowed away on my ship before I came aboard. It's made by a cooperative of tall, slender women on an artists colony on Calvert 7. They're very talented, apparently--and absolutely insane. Some say their brandy has psychotropic properties, but that's just a rumor." 

This time, Tom sipped the drink, which made it easier to appreciate. It also made his vision almost instantly blurry. The room, he noticed, also seemed to begin a barely-perceptible counterclockwise spin. The others were joining him in sampling the beverage, and each in turn noticed how quickly their bad day was beginning to feel like a good evening. After one swallow, each of the men was feeling in a bit of an altered state of mind, including Tuvok whose Vulcan physiology normally protected him from the effects of alcohol. 

"I'd like to make a toast," the security chief suddenly said out of nowhere. Even though they were all feeling a little strange, his friends realized this was way out of character. His speech was perfectly coherent and not at all slurred, but everyone knew the Vulcan would be the last person to offer a toast to this group in this setting. 

Neelix asked, "A toast? To..." 

"...to Captain Kathryn Janeway." The men looked at each other as Tuvok continued. "My old friend. If it weren't for her..." 

"I'd be in jail right now." Clearly Tom was just as disoriented, from the twisted construction of his next sentence, though his speech wasn't slurred, either. "Or I would have used to have still been in jail. Before. Or I'd be drunk somewhere." 

"You sound like you're drunk right now," Chakotay chimed in, "Neelix, I feel like I've been drugged. Are you sure this stuff is safe?" 

Neelix looked the commander in the eye and guaranteed, "Perfectly safe. I've been assured it is...probably safe, and I...I have no idea how safe it is. But here's to Captain Janeway." The men raised their cups, then took another sip. 

"Let's vote," Tom interjected. "Favorite hairstyle." They all looked askance, but that didn't stop them from playing the game. Her 'personal reclamation project' continued, "I always liked it straight, curled under a little at the bottom, just touching her shoulders, you know?" Harry now wasn't sure whose hair they were discussing, since he could think of two women in Tom's life who had worn that style, both of whom held Tom's affections. Tuvok seemed to solve the mystery, however, and disagreed with Mr. Paris's preference. 

"Up. Definitely up." This was a startling admission. 

The two men were now alone on this limb, so Tom decided to drag Kim out with them. "Harry?" 

"Short, right after she cut it. Curled behind her ears. That was my favorite." 

Neelix was now calling up a memory. "I have to admit that I always liked it long and pulled behind her neck with that little...I don't know what it's called." 

"A barrette." Tom, Harry and Tuvok said in unison. That style seemed like a second runner-up for all of them. Only one of the group had failed to cast a ballot. He wasn't impaired enough to walk into this conversation. He decided to change the subject instead. 

"I'd like to offer my own toast," the commander interjected. "To B'Elanna Torres... Paris... Torres." 

This brought Tom to attention pretty quickly. "Hey!" 

But Chakotay continued. "A great engineer, great friend..." 

"Great gams." Tom looked lost in thought. A happy thought. 

"Gams?" Tuvok asked. 

"Legs," Harry translated. 

Tom continued, "And she has this spot at the base of her..."--eyes were raising--"...neck. Drives me crazy." The men were all looking a little wistful at this point. Tom shook his head to try and clear it. He never spoke this way about his wife to anyone, not even Harry. "Neelix, I think we should have the Doc check this stuff out. I feel...I don't think I can't feel my feet!" 

Neelix, who was definitely a little...relaxed, was less affected than the others and made the call. "Neelix to sickbay." The doctor was on his way in less than a minute. 
 
 

When he walked in, the tribute to the noble women of Voyager was continuing. 

"To Sue Nicoletti," Harry said, raising his near-empty glass. 

"Nicoletti?" Chakotay asked. 

Harry continued. "Great with a hyperspanner. Talented musician. And I think she has a crush on me." The look that passed between Chakotay and Tom said they thought Harry might be engaging in some wishful thinking. 

"What is going on here?" The Doctor asked, pulling out a medical tricorder and scanning each man in turn. 

"I think we're drunk, Doc," Tom offered, standing and putting his hand across his medical mentor's shoulders. 

"Actually, Mr. Paris, you have no traces of alcohol in your system. However, your seratonin levels are all unnaturally high. And it looks as if the centers of your brain that inhibit behavior have been chemically suppressed." He noticed Neelix's elixir on the table and scanned the bottle. 

"This beverage contains a synthetic barbiturate. Gentlemen, I'd say you've all been drugged." They looked at Neelix a little suspiciously. He could only shrug his shoulders. 

"How could I know?" he asked. "I traded for it over seven years ago. I was looking for water, but this was all they had. All I can remember was needing..." his sentence drifted away as he remembered why water had been so important to him all those years ago. It was all he could think of to offer the Kazon in place of their Ocampan hostage. 

"To Kes," Tom offered, stepping away from the Doctor to pick up his cup. 

They all nodded solemnly as they echoed his toast. "To Kes." Even the doctor looked touched at the memory of his first pupil. They were quiet for a moment. 

"And to Annika Seven of Hansen Nine," Harry now offered. "And to smart, strong women everywhere." 

"Here-here!" they chimed in, clinking their cups. It was Harry who suggested the next vote. "Favorite jumpsuit color." He obviously wasn't finished saluting Seven. "I always liked the blue, shimmery..." 

"Gentlemen!" The doctor interrupted. He grabbed the half-empty bottle off the table before they could stop him. His next words weren't to them. "Doctor to transporter room. Six to beam directly to sickbay." They shimmered into nothingness, and the party was over. 

The doctor was easily able to counteract the affects of Neelix's bad brew, and the officers had been released to their quarters with only a slight case of embarrassment as their hangover. Truth be told, however, they had come away from the experience more relaxed than they would have thought possible after such a grueling day. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

The next morning, the captain surprised them by canceling their scheduled simulations. Instead, she called for meticulous checks of the ship's key systems, to be followed by light-duty shifts for her key people on the bridge and in engineering. They would be sending and receiving their final Starfleet datastream at 1600 hours, after making their final preparations for the mission. Twenty-four hours from now they would make the attempt. 

The schedule she issued also included a gathering to be held for the entire crew at 1830 hours in Holodeck 2. Tonight, they would celebrate together their last evening in the Delta Quadrant. 

Her plans were both compassionate and practical. She knew what was on the line, and had been especially careful in allowing her crew time to spend making peace with their choice. She also knew that a well-rested and focused crew was going to have a better chance to succeed under the enormous pressures they would be facing. Plus, there was something she needed to tell them. 

 ~*~*~*~*~

B'Elanna was still in engineering when Tom returned to their quarters at the end of his abbreviated shift. He was glad for a little time alone. He had been meaning to write his final messages for the datastream for days, yet he couldn't seem to figure out what he wanted to say or to whom. Finally, he decided to send only one letter. He sat at the desk and opened a datafile. 
"Dear B'Elanna," he began... 
 
 

At her console on the upper level of Engineering, B'Elanna was just finishing her final checks on the warp core. Everything looked fine. She knew she could keeping reviewing their findings for hours without seeing what she really needed to know: would this ship hold up to the stress? Would her knack for coming up with the last-minute inspiration get them through this most important of challenges? Would they make it home? As daunting as these questions were, in a way they offered her the reason to stop working for the night. Only time and the fates held the answers she was seeking. The PADDs didn't have a clue. She stacked the reports neatly and left them on the console. 

She took the open lift down to the first level and glanced around her engine room. Like so many of her relationships, she had a love/hate affair going on with this warp core. But she definitely loved this room. It was her proof that she was capable and competent and needed. She wondered, even if they survived the trip, how long it would continue to be hers. 

With most of her crew on light duty, she was practically alone in the huge space. Remembering the one chore she hadn't completed that day, she walked to a quiet alcove and opened a datafile. Unlike her husband, B'Elanna had always known to whom she would write in this final stream. She, too, would write only one letter. 

"Dear Mother..." 
 
 

Tom couldn't help but think of the first time he had dictated a 'final message' to B'Elanna. Looking back, he had many reasons to be grateful that it was never delivered. He had crashed the Flyer in an ion storm while he, Tuvok, and Samantha Wildman had been on their way back from an away mission. It was a difficult time between Tom and B'Elanna--they were only just recovering from a series of relationship-testing experiences, and things were still unsettled between them. When he thought he would die, buried in that shuttle, Tom knew he wanted his last message to be for her. Yet he couldn't bring himself to say what he really meant. That he was sorry things had gotten out of hand between them. That their time together had been the best of his life. That he loved her. Instead, in typical Paris fashion, he had made a joke about her not having to put up with his cold pizza left lying around. Only when he heard Sam's heartfelt message to Naomi did Tom realize the opportunity he had wasted. He wouldn't make that mistake again. 

He spent the next five minutes detailing the ways in which he had come to love his wife, reminding her of the things they had shared and what they had meant to him. He assured her that the worst of the last six years had been better than the best of those before. He left a message for B'Elanna to pass on to their daughter, and a reassurance that he would never, truly, leave her. And he told her that he would be waiting for her. In Sto-Vo-Kor. 

Finally, he encoded the message for transmission to Admiral Owen Paris, with instructions for its delivery should he not make it back alive. His most important affairs in order, he started getting ready for the party. 
 
 

B'Elanna wasn't sure why she was sending this message to Miral, nor did she know if her mother was even alive to receive it. She did know there was unfinished business between them, and she knew that finding and speaking with her mother would be one of her first priorities if they did make it back. More importantly, if they didn't survive the trip, there were many things she needed her mother to know. She struggled with how to begin. 

She started by acknowledging the distance between them--the more than eleven years since they had last spoken. She talked about the reasons she felt she had to leave Kessick 4 to join Starfleet, and the reasons why she quit the Academy two years later. B'Elanna discussed her decision to join the Maquis, the ways in which their struggle had been noble, and her pride in her service to their cause. She wanted her mother to know about her time on Voyager, about her reintroduction to Starfleet life, and the ways in which she had grown as a woman and as an officer. The ways in which she had reclaimed her honor. 

The next part was both easier and harder. For the first time, she told her mother about Tom, a human man who had become her mate. About them falling in love and their long fight to build a relationship. She knew her mother might be disappointed--though not surprised--to hear her daughter had married a human. Afraid she had repeated Miral's mistake. But B'Elanna explained something she had only recently come to believe herself: that Tom was not like B'Elanna's father, a man who knew in his heart he wasn't strong enough to make a life with a Klingon. In some ways, B'Elanna truly felt, Tom was more Klingon than she was. And he was an honorable man, a good husband, and would be a wonderful father to their child. Miral's granddaughter.

B'Elanna spent a moment trying to imagine her mother as a grandparent. The thought made her sad. She had defended her mother against her father's criticism before he had left, then spent the rest of her life blaming her mother, herself, and their Klingon heritage for forcing him away. Maybe her own baby might be the key to reconnecting her to her family. Let's hope we get to find out, she thought sadly. 

Lastly, B'Elanna struggled to say what she had struggled to face: that, while she had a long way to go, she was trying to learn to appreciate her Klingon heritage. With Tom's help and encouragement, she was slowly embracing the side of herself she had rejected her entire life. And that, perhaps, when they saw each other again, they might talk about B'Elanna's near-death experience on the Barge of the Dead, her less-than-successful celebration of the Day of Honor, Voyager's encounter with the Klingon generational ship, and the road B'Elanna was taking to make peace with that part of her background. "I've missed you, Mother," she closed the letter. "I'll see you soon." 

She sat quietly for a moment before she spoke again. "Computer, encode file for delivery to Miral Torres, in care of the Federation science station on Kessick 4." Just hope, she said to herself, that there's someone there to receive it. 
 
 

Similar scenes were repeating all over the ship, as members of the crew decided how to write what were probably the most important letters of their lives. Some found it easier than others. Harry, still supremely confident they would be home safely in just a few days, had written four letters, finishing them hours ago. He was spending his afternoon practicing a saxophone piece he had written a few months earlier. 

Tuvok, on the other hand, was carefully considering the words he chose to send home to his wife and children. The Doctor was putting the finishing touches on a paper he had written on the medical advances he had made in the Delta Quadrant for delivery to his 'father,' Dr. Louis Zimmerman. And Neelix, ever the caring soul, was writing short messages to the families of those crewmembers who had died during their journey. He didn't want their loved-ones to go unremembered in this emotional time. 

Even Icheb had a message for their final transmission, though his contained only an official request to transfer to Starfleet Academy in San Francisco should their mission be successful. 

Only Seven of Nine had no plans to correspond with Earth. If she had any family there, she was unaware of them. Not that they would have held any significance for her. Her 'real family,' her mother and father, had been the only humans she remembered before being rescued by Voyager. Her new family was with her now, on this ship she had come to know as her home. Instead, Seven accessed her personal log. What messages she would write would stay imbedded in the computer core until they reached their destination. 
 
 

Kathryn Janeway had recorded only one letter, probably the most important of her life. 

In it, she recapped the events of the past seven years though her own personal perspective. Tales of bravery and heroics bordering on the mythical. Of the people she had come to know and love, and of how they came together under the most difficult circumstances not only in the name of peaceful exploration, but in the best Starfleet and Federation traditions. 

She put her soul into that letter--she needed to if it were to accomplish its task. In her time in the Delta Quadrant, she had honed her powers of persuasion to the point that she was now confident in her ability to talk almost anyone into almost anything. The evidence backed her up: she had talked Chakotay into merging their crews, Maquis and Starfleet, into one. She had forged an unheard of alliance with the Borg. She had talked Species 8472 out of invading Earth. She had even convinced Seven of Nine to explore her humanity. Surely, she had one more win left in her. 

In some ways, all of her other victories would be meaningless without this last one. She ended the datafile and marked it to upload. Attention: Starfleet Headquarters. Now she could only wait. 

~*~*~*~*~

Chakotay's one datafile was a formal letter of inquiry to the Goodall Center for Anthropology; he had completed it several days ago, soon after his evening on the beach. He was reviewing their final preparations for the mission when his door chime sounded. "Come in." 

Kathryn Janeway walked though the door wearing a deep burgundy velvet dress with a geometric plunge at the neckline. He had seen it only once before, but it had been memorable. "Care to escort a lady to a party?" she asked provocatively. 

He didn't realize it was that late. "I'd love to," he said, picking up his jacket from the chair next to him. They walked together into the corridor. 

"Just where are you holding this little get-together of yours?" he asked as they walked. 

"Holodeck 2, of course," she answered knowing that wasn't what he met. He knew better than to ask again. Her secret was revealed soon enough, however, as the massive doors to the deck slid open to reveal her choice of settings for this final celebration. 

He didn't recognize the room, but the view was unmistakable. The San Francisco skyline looked beautiful at night, with the fog rolling in off the bay. 

"I considered Sandrine's briefly," Janeway smiled, "But it's a little too small to hold most of the crew." She was referring to a holographic replica of Tom Paris's favorite Marseilles hide out--their first public holoprogram. It had become a favorite 'neighborhood bar' for the entire crew for much of their trip. She had other reasons, however, for avoiding that setting, though she didn't share them with Chakotay. 

Recently, she noticed, its author had seemed to move on, away from his need for the bar and what it had symbolized for him. She couldn't help but notice that Tom's loss of interest in his sanctuary seemed to coincide with the serious turn in his relationship with B'Elanna. Somehow, Janeway supposed, he was making some kind of choice to leave behind that part of himself and the memories it represented. Or maybe he no longer needed somewhere to hide. In any case, she didn't want to share their final family gathering in a setting with such ambiguous meaning. 

"Besides," she said, "I thought this might help everyone remember why we've been working so hard. If all goes according to plan, we'll be having our next party in the real San Francisco, when they welcome us home." Her eyes were far away, and--while he didn't doubt her sincerity--Chakotay also knew that her personal motivations went even deeper. She wanted, he realized, to ensure herself of one evening--at home on Earth--with a crew she could imagine she'd led safely there. She had earned this bit of wishful thinking. 

"Where are we?" he asked, indicating the large airy room with vaulted ceilings and an uninterrupted view of the Golden Gate Bridge. They were standing on the upper level, just inside the door, on an elevated landing. Before them were several steps down to a large area that resembled a ski lodge, full of couches and chairs, all carefully clustered to allow for intimate conversations among small groups. Further beyond them and slightly elevated from the seating area was a full bar next to an expanse he could only describe as a dance floor. The back wall was all glass--the source of the incredible view--interrupted only by the occasional pair of French doors leading out to a stone terrace. One wall held a massive fireplace, which was already glowing with flames. The setting looked as much like a grand hotel as it did a residence, though he could tell from the architecture that it was, in fact, a home. 

"Admiral Stewart's 'Palace.'" She said jokingly. "Well, that's what I used to call it--when the Admiral was out of earshot." She looked around and said slyly, "I suppose rank does have its privileges.... I had the 'honor' of attending several formal Starfleet receptions here, and--though the company occasionally left something to be desired--I always loved this room." 

She grabbed his hand and led him into the heart of the space. "What do you think?" 

He was smiling at her eagerness to show off her handiwork. "I think you're very pleased with yourself," he kidded. "And you deserve to be--it's a great idea." 

With that, the crew began to arrive. "Computer," she said softly, "initiate subroutine Janeway Reception Omega 1." With her command, holographic waiters began to appear, carrying trays of replicated hors d'oeuvres and champagne, and the room was filled with festive party music. No doubt about it, Chakotay thought to himself, she wants this night to be perfect. He started to move away to allow her to greet her guests, but she took his arm and pulled him along. They took their place at the entrance, where they could welcome their crew. Their guests. 

Surprisingly, the engineering staff was among the first to arrive. They had put in a tough week, Janeway knew, and they would be critical to the success of tomorrow's flight. She was surprised B'Elanna had let them off duty so early. "Mr. Carey, welcome," she greeted him warmly. 

"Thank you, Captain," Joe answered, a little flattered by the personal reception. 

"I'm looking forward to finally meeting your boys when we get home," she said sincerely. 

It was the kind of welcome she would repeat over a hundred times this evening, greeting each guest as they arrived, sharing a few words about their lives, making a personal connection to this crew she had cared for so deeply. Not once did she stumble over a name. This was a different Kathryn Janeway than the woman who had first taken command of this vessel so long ago. Then, it had been about her career in Starfleet; now, it was about her bond with her people. She was a better officer for it--and a better person. 

Some of the greetings were more personal than others, of course. She had made good friends aboard this ship. She lit up each time one arrived. The first was Harry, with one--which one?--of the Delaney sisters on his arm. The captain shot her first officer a look of panic that silently said, 'Megan or Jenny?' 

He understood her confusion. 'Make her smile,' Chakotay thought. Luckily, as she took a step toward the captain, the young woman grinned widely. Ah-ha! "Megan, nice to see you," Chakotay greeted her. "Is the stellar cartography lab all ready for tomorrow?" Kathryn was marveling at his coming to her rescue, the Delaney sisters being the only members of the crew their captain regularly confused. 

"All set, sir," Megan offered. 

"Don't let Harry keep you out too late," the first officer kidded. A little embarrassed, Harry grinned and led his date into the room. 

"One day you're going to have to tell me how you know which is which," Kathryn whispered to him as the couple left. 

"It's in the dimples," Chakotay laughed, remembering an argument he had once overheard between Harry and Tom. Kathryn raised her eyebrows in a rather Vulcan fashion, as she turned to greet Harry's companions on this obvious double-date. 

"B'Elanna, you look wonderful," Janeway gushed as she took in her friend, also in velvet, but of midnight blue--and perfectly sized for her very pregnant body. "I'm guessing that's a new dress?" 

Embarrassed, but grateful, B'Elanna smiled back at her. "Thank you for the extra replicator rations--and don't try to tell me you weren't behind them!" 

Kathryn pleaded ignorance, truthfully. She suspected, however, that the guilty party was standing right behind her. "You do look lovely," Chakotay agreed, trying to look innocent. 

"Admiral Stewart's Palace!" Tom said as he looked around the room. 

"How do you know about that?" his captain asked with some shock.

"My father dragged me to a stuffy party here once when I was in high school. I overheard one of his ensigns call it that when she thought nobody was listening." Janeway's eyes widened, as she wondered just how often she and Tom had been in the same room without knowing it, and what other secrets of hers he didn't know he knew. "I hated that party, but I always loved this view!" He took B'Elanna's arm and led her down the steps, anxious to show her around. 

Ensign Tabor and Crewman Jor were the next to arrive. They had come to Voyager as part of Chakotay's crew, comrades in battle, but not close friends. Tabor, a Bajoran, had lost his entire family under brutal circumstances in the Cardassian War. His outrage had driven him to join the Maquis, and he wore his pain like a badge. Jor had always been reserved, Chakotay remembered, and he never quite knew her story. Each had made friends on Voyager, and they were both well-liked, but they seemed to prefer each other's company. Over the years, the commander had seen the two sharing dinner, private jokes, and deep conversations in the mess hall. They were very reserved people, however, and Chakotay never pried into their relationship. He hoped they had found some peace in each othert. There was a good chance they and the other former-Maquis might need it when they got home. The couple greeted the captain and first officer warmly before heading to a quiet corner of the room. 

Janeway was a little surprised when Seven arrived with Icheb as her escort, then she noticed the Doctor enter only a few steps behind. She smiled, suspecting this new relationship might resemble the first dates of a single parent and her new beau--one always had to be careful with the child's feelings. Not that Icheb was truly a child any longer; but he had a kind of innocence about him that Kathryn wouldn't have expected in most seventeen year-olds. Ironic that growing up Borg had been, in its own way, a sheltered existence. 

"Welcome to San Francisco, Icheb," the captain offered. 

"Thank you, Captain. I'm looking forward to seeing the real thing." Janeway smiled. If everything went as planned, the young man would be spending a long time in this city. 

She stood with Chakotay at the top of the stairs another thirty minutes, until the last of their guests had arrived. Only then did she grab a glass of champagne and something to eat. She started thinking about the timing of her announcement. It was too early. 'Let them have some fun,' she thought. 'They've earned it.' 
 
 
 

An hour later, and the party was in full swing. Literally. Tom had taken control of the mood music, and they had been dancing for twenty minutes to something he called the 'Big Band Sound'. Kathryn had to admit it set a nice atmosphere for the party, alternating between up-tempo dance tunes and romantic ballads. It was the kind of music that lured out the good dancers, and their captain was surprised to find some hidden talents in many of her crew. 

Perhaps the biggest surprises were the Doctor and Seven, who looked like they had been practicing ballroom dancing for quite a while. They 'turned a few heads,' as Tom said. Because of his wife's condition, Voyager's pilot was limited to dancing to the slower numbers, though Kathryn did see B'Elanna twirled gently a few times with a grace that looked practiced. Harry was another story. He and Megan were practically flinging one another through the air during something called a 'jitterbug'. Kathryn knew Harry and the twins had spent a lot of time with Tom in the holodeck. They had clearly done more than just battle monochromatic villains from the Fifth Dimension. 

The captain was so enthralled at the scenes playing out in front of her that she barely noticed him come up behind her. "Care to dance?" he asked. 

She smiled. "I don't know," she kidded, "the competition is pretty good. Think we can keep up?" 

Chakotay grinned slyly, "If your Fox Trot is as good as your 'dying swan' ballet, they won't stand a chance." That was an invitation she couldn't refuse. 

He walked her to the dance floor and took her in his arms, just as the song changed. The soft strains of 'Moonlight Becomes You' filled the room, and he looked with great affection at the woman standing before him. "It does, you know," Chakotay said mischievously. 

"Excuse me?" she asked softly. 

"Moonlight," he whispered, remembering their evening on the beach. 

"You know our agreement," she reminded, scolding him gently. 

"How could I forget? I'm counting the days," he replied, his tone equal parts anticipation and affection. "You're not going to back out on me, are you Kathryn?" 

She tightened her grip on his shoulder and leaned in so only her dance partner could hear. "Chakotay, if we make it home safely, I'll kiss you in the middle of Admiral Stewart's real living room in front of every admiral in Starfleet." 

He couldn't help but laugh out loud, drawing more attention than she would have preferred. Chakotay couldn't care less. He was holding his future in his arms, and he was happier than he had ever been. In a few days--a few weeks at most--this fantasy would be real. It was all he needed to know. 
 
 
 

Tom and B'Elanna were sitting this one out while she got something to eat. Her appetite had been ravenous the last few weeks, and Tom suspected this was a sign of some kind of turning point in her pregnancy. They found a table just off the dance floor and were watching their friends enjoy the music Tom had programmed. 

B'Elanna smiled as she saw Samantha Wildman spin Naomi around the room. There was a kind of irony, she realized, at how easily the human Sam took in stride her daughter's Ktarian features. The child's mixed heritage was clearly unimportant to them. If anything, her daughter's forehead spikes were a happy reminder of the husband Sam loved and missed so much. And Torres knew how much everyone on Voyager loved Naomi. If there were a better-adjusted child in the galaxy, B'Elanna had never met her. She thought about how soon--maybe as early as their real homecoming party--she might be enjoying a similar celebration, holding her own child in her arms. She couldn't wait. 

Tom was more interested in the couple off to one side. Something had changed between the captain and her first officer, he was sure of it. None of their friends ever pried into the relationship, but Tom knew things had been tense only a few weeks ago. The two seemed to have resolved their problems; he couldn't remember having seen Chakotay so happy. Tom was smiling in their general direction when B'Elanna noticed him staring at the couple. 

"Hey," she kicked him under the table. 

"Ow...what was that for?" He usually knew when he was breaking one of their rules. 

B'Elanna smiled, but scolded him anyway. "Stop looking at them! They deserve some privacy. Or don't you remember how much we hated people staring at us when we were--" she stopped herself. 

Tom eyed her suspiciously, "You know something, don't you?!" 

B'Elanna was mentally kicking herself now. She promised Chakotay she wouldn't say anything, but she did know the basic details of her friends' 'agreement,' and she was sworn to secrecy. "I don't know what you're talking about," she tried to cover. She was a terrible liar, and Tom knew her too well. 

"You were going to say, 'when we first started dating,' weren't you?" 

B'Elanna was having trouble keeping a straight face. She decided a threat might be more effective than a lie. "Thomas Eugene Paris, if you breathe a word of this..." 

Her husband just laughed and put his arm around her. "I'm happy for them, B'Elanna. It's about time! And I promise I won't say a word." Of course, that was the moment Harry decided to join them. 

"Say a word about what?" he asked. 

Tom didn't miss a beat. "About the captain and Chakotay dating." B'Elanna kicked him again. "Hey!" he tried to look indignant, though he knew very well why his leg hurt this time. "You didn't say not to tell Harry. You know the rule, B'Elanna: if 'don't tell anybody' means 'don't tell Harry' you have to say so." 

She could only shake her head, since that was, in fact, their rule. "Harry Kim," she moved to aim at a new target, "if you tell anyone..." 

Her friend laughed. "I know, I know." The only difference was that Harry really was a little afraid of what B'Elanna would do to him. He had to admit, though, he was happy for the captain and Chakotay, too. Why was it, he wondered, that everyone seemed to be pairing off in the final days of their trip--except him? 

"Where's Megan?" Tom inquired, as if reading his mind. Harry's hangdog expression was answer enough. Tom scanned the dance floor, catching a glimpse of his friend's date looking longingly at Mike Ayala as the tall, muscular security guard swayed gently back and forth with her in his arms. "Geeze, Harry, what happened?" 

Good question, Harry thought. "I went to get us something to drink, and when I came back they were dancing. Like that. For six songs--even the fast ones." 

Tom forced himself not to laugh. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why Harry had such terrible luck with women. Maybe his old girlfriend Libby had put some kind of curse on him before he left Earth. 

B'Elanna took pity on their friend, stood up, and extended her hand. "Come on, Harry," she said, inviting him to dance. "Let's make my husband jealous." 

Tom smiled and watched them go, his two best friends in the world. The three had been inseparable for much of their seven years on Voyager, long before he and B'Elanna were a couple. Tom had even wondered at one point early on if Harry wasn't secretly interested in B'Elanna romantically. Lucky for them all the answer was no. Harry was just a nice person--the 'normal' guy who liked to seek out the misfits and make them friends. And Tom and B'Elanna were certainly misfits when they came aboard. Looking back, Tom wondered how different his and B'Elanna's lives might have been if Harry hadn't taken a chance on getting to know them. 

He also knew things couldn't stay this way forever. When Voyager got back to Earth, even if he and B'Elanna were able to stay in Starfleet, the chances of the three of them serving together were slim. Harry had been very clear about his ambitions, and moving up in the ranks meant taking dangerous, high-profile assignments, never staying too long on one ship, and being ready to impress the right people. Even if Tom weren't starting a family, he had no interest in the politics of that kind of life. In fact, he'd been rebelling against it since his childhood. And, while he knew he and Harry would always be friends, their days as constant companions were coming to an end. 

As he watched his pregnant wife and his best friend laughing and dancing, Tom forced himself to take a mental picture of the scene in front of him. He wanted to remember this night for the rest of his life. 
 
 
 

Kathryn took another moment to enjoy the view. Not of the San Francisco Bay, but of her crew, happy, laughing, and home. Chakotay was dancing with B'Elanna now, and it seemed to be Neelix's turn to twirl Naomi. Janeway especially enjoyed watching Icheb, awkwardly dancing with Samantha Wildman. Particle physics was a breeze for the young man; a simple slow dance seemed to elude him. Harry and Tom, perhaps inspired by the view, were swapping Academy stories, and the Doctor was regaling everyone within earshot of his experiences during two previous trips to the Alpha Quadrant. Their captain just stood there for a moment, soaking it in. 

Out of necessity, the party would be over soon. She wanted everyone well-rested for the most important mission of their lives. But she couldn't bring herself to end it. Still, she needed to make her announcement before anyone drifted away. She moved to the top of the landing, champagne glass and spoon in her hand. "Computer, end music." The song was replaced by the distinctive ping of metal tapping glass, and the conversations around her slowly stopped. 

"What's with the speech?" B'Elanna leaned over to ask Chakotay. 

"I have no idea," he answered honestly. 

Kathryn took a deep breath before beginning. "I want to thank everyone for coming, tonight. I hope Admiral Stewart doesn't mind us borrowing his home for our celebration." She smiled as her crew chuckled. "I want to thank Commander Chakotay for co-hosting this little party with me, and Lieutenant Paris for deciding that my taste in music could use some work." This drew some unsolicited applause, and Tom faked a little bow. "And my apologies to Mr. Neelix for not letting him cater this event." Thankfully, no one was cruel enough to applaud at that, though there were a few chuckles, including from Neelix. The captain's expression turned more serious. 

"I wanted you all to know that your letters were successfully transmitted in the datastream this afternoon. With any luck, the next communication you have with your loved ones will be face-to-face." She couldn't help but notice the wistful looks surrounding her. "Now, the nature of our individual communication with the Alpha Quadrant has always been private, but I wanted to share with you the contents of the letters I sent and received today." 

"Many months ago, when we first came into regular contact with Starfleet, I submitted my complete logs, along with all of the data we collected over the last seven years. I also submitted several petitions to the Federation Council and to Starfleet Command. Included in those petitions was a request that all charges against the former-Maquis crewmembers be formally dropped. Another asked that the provisional and field commissions issued during our journey be permanently instated. I received a response to those requests this afternoon." 

The buzz of a hundred separate whispers filled the room. She clinked her glass a second time to bring everyone back to attention. "I was informed today that a hearing on my petitions has been granted, and scheduled for exactly three weeks from today. While the Advocate General's office couldn't guarantee the outcome of the hearing, they indicated their belief that the Council would be favorably inclined to grant immunity to all of the former-Maquis." 

There was spontaneous applause from the floor below her. Tom was on his feet in seconds, and was holding his wife in his arms a moment later, one of several long embraces she could see around the room. The captain let this release go on for a moment before she brought them back to order. 

"Now, Starfleet has postponed any decision on making the provisional commissions permanent until the Council has finished its deliberations. But I made a rather impassioned plea today to have this issue resolved as quickly as possible. I want you all to know that I will make it my personal mission to keep fighting until each of you who wants to stay in Starfleet is given the opportunity. You're a remarkable crew, and, while I know most of you have dreamed of the day you could leave this ship for the last time, I hope that--after an extended and well-deserved personal leave--many of you will consider returning to Voyager. You've proven you're the finest crew in the Delta Quadrant. I'd love to see what adventures we could have together--a little closer to home." She raised her glass into the air. "Cheers!" Janeway saluted her crew, her voice cracking with emotion. Her crew returned the toast. 

"Tom, where's that music?!" she shouted across the room. 

"Computer, resume musical selection Paris Big Band Beta 3," he called out. The tune was lively to fit the collective mood. 

She didn't need to search for him in the crowd. By the time she reached the bottom step, Chakotay was waiting for her, stunned. "Why didn't you tell me?" he wondered. 

"And spoil the surprise?" she asked. Their 'deal' precluded any public displays of affection until they reached the Alpha Quadrant and he had officially resigned his post, but there was no way this could wait. He grabbed her tightly, practically lifting her off the floor. She returned the embrace, in full view of their crew. No one even seemed to notice. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

It was 0758 and the briefing room was still empty. Somehow, despite their excitement about the prospect of starting their final day in the Delta Quadrant, Voyager's crewmen were also mindful of the gravity of what they were going to attempt. Almost without exception, they had lingered a bit longer during their morning routines. And most chose to take their breakfast in the mess hall, seeming to need to be around their friends one last time before they began. Duty was calling, however, and it was almost time to start. 

Tuvok and Seven arrived at 0800 precisely, and Chakotay was only moments behind them. Harry, B'Elanna and Tom arrived together, having shared a turbolift up from the mess hall. Surprisingly, their captain was the last to arrive. "Good morning," she said more softly than she had intended. She wanted to project total confidence today. "What's our status?" 

Her first officer began, "All stations reporting ready for duty. All hands are at their posts." 

Tuvok was next, "The ship is secured. We are in lockdown mode Alpha One." He didn't say it, but his final comments acknowledged their anticipation of a bumpy ride. Lockdown required all non-essential equipment to be safely stowed, all shuttles (or what was left of them) to be moored to the bay floors, and all cargo bays to be evacuated. They would take as few risks as possible with accidental injuries. 

Harry interjected, "The spacial charge is armed and standing by." 

It was B'Elanna's turn. "All diagnostics have been completed. All three engineering duty shifts are standing by." 

Then Seven, "Deflector control has been rerouted to Main Engineering. The telemetry link with the probe has been verified." They all knew that their trip would be over in seconds if the deflectors and the probe lost synchronization. Oddly, it was comforting to know that Borg precision would be at their disposal for this most critical part of their plan. 

Tom was the only one left. "Helm diagnostics are complete, and we have verified the link with deflector control. We're all set." He tried to sound casual, yet he knew he and Seven would be doing a precisely choreographed tango from eleven decks apart, as she steered the deflector wedge and he followed her lead through the singularity. 

Actually, it was more like a ballet: Harry would launch the explosive charge and Tuvok would detonate it. At that exact moment, B'Elanna would initiate a tachyon burst forcing the explosion's energy to rip open the fabric of space, which Seven would wedge open into a pseudo-transwarp conduit using the deflector array. Tuvok would bring the enhanced shielding online at the precise moment Tom reached the opening of the singularity. From that time on, they would be looking at six hours of split-second calculations. Once they were inside, they would move from careful choreography to improvisation: no one could predict the steps they might need to complete this dance successfully. 

There was no reason not to begin. "Then, take your posts," Janeway said confidently. "And good luck." Her officers stood and headed for the doors. Janeway tapped Tom on the shoulder as she passed him. "You've got one minute." He nodded, gratefully, and indicated for B'Elanna to wait. 

She would be working from Main Engineering along with Seven, eleven decks away from the rest of the bridge crew. Neither she nor Tom wanted to think that they might be sharing their final moments together, but it was compassionate of the captain to allow them this private time, however brief. "We have a date tonight," Tom said softly. "I expect you to keep it." 

B'Elanna smiled sadly. "We'll be there," she said, placing his hand softly on her belly. "No pizza, okay?" she teased gently. 

"I promise," he answered in a tone that said he was promising more than just a different entrée. They kissed softly, then she headed for the door into the aft corridor. Tom waited to hear it close before moving onto the bridge and to his station. 
 
 

Seven was waiting for her in the corridor. B'Elanna wasn't sure why her colleague had lingered or why she was suddenly glad to have the company on the trip to their stations. They walked together to the turbolift. "Engineering," B'Elanna said, then after a moment, "Thank you for waiting." 

They avoided looking into each other's eyes. "I thought you might...I desired companionship," Seven finally admitted. 

"I'm glad you did," the engineer returned. They shared another quiet moment before Seven continued. 

"I am finding myself...unsettled at the prospect of achieving our goal," she admitted in a display of vulnerability and honesty Torres would never have anticipated considering the often-icy nature of their relationship. But she knew that everyone else had someone to share the nervousness with. Seven's self-imposed isolation had probably kept her from sharing her fears. 

B'Elanna found herself glad that Seven had confided in her. "Unsettled that we won't be successful? Or that we will?" There was only sincerity in her voice. 

Seven considered the question for a moment. "Both," she said, with the slightest hint of a smile. 

B'Elanna smiled sadly. "Me too," she admitted. "You know, I told you once that, if we did get back to Earth, we could be outcasts together. The offer still stands." 

Seven, remembering the conversation, was now equally skilled at using humor to deflect a tense situation. "Shall we form a collective?" she asked in mock-seriousness. 

B'Elanna pretended to consider it. "We could, with all the misfits on this ship." The engineer turned serious after a moment. "You have friends here, Seven. You won't be alone." They looked at each other briefly as the doors opened on Deck 11. "Let's get to work," B'Elanna said, leading the way. 
 
 

Once the call came from Engineering letting them know B'Elanna and Seven were in place, Janeway opened the comlink throughout the ship. "I know some of you may have doubted that this day would ever come, but we are about to bid a fond farewell to the Delta Quadrant, our home for almost seven years. With a little luck, we will be spending this evening safely in Federation space. Before we go, I wanted each of you to know that I have been proud to see you through this adventure. And, despite everything we have faced, I will never be sorry for the time we have shared together on this ship. You are an exemplary crew, and you have served with great distinction. I cherish you all." She took a deep breath, determined to keep her composure. "All hands go to alert condition blue. Let's go home." 
 

END PART 4 
 

 ~*~*~*~*~ 
 

PART 5--SACRIFICE: 

As had been true in their simulations, opening the conduit was the easy part. The kind of coordination it required was second nature to this crew by now, and was aided in great measure by all of their practice. Riding the expanding wave of fractured space, however, was as difficult as they knew it would be. 

They were two hours into the mission when Tom noticed the first signs of gravimetric shear. It started off as minor fluctuations in the deflector wedge, then became stronger--almost like piloting a small airplane in the wake of a large jet. Fortunately, Tom had flown ancient aircraft simulations as a teenager, and he used some of those old skills to help him navigate the turbulence. Still, if the shear increased, there was only so much good piloting could do. 

"Captain, the wake is increasing. Attempting to compensate..." 

She turned to Harry, as she had every time the simulation threw this particular problem their way. "Can you figure out what's causing it?" 

The one advantage the ensign now had was concrete data based on their first two hours of experience. He was seeing a pattern. "Looks like we encounter the shear every time the conduit passes near a densely-packed region of normal space. I suppose the intense gravity fluctuations could be affecting the shape of the singularity." 

"B'Elanna, Seven," the captain called over the open comlink, "do you agree?" 

They were focused on the tasks at hand and unable to review Harry's data. "Sounds possible," B'Elanna offered. 

"If that is the case," Seven interjected without taking her eyes off her console, "it may be possible to use the astrometric sensors to project the variances. We could use the data to remodulate the deflector as the gravimetric forces fluctuate." 

Normally, this would be a task best suited to Seven's skills, but she had her hands full literally and figuratively in steering the deflector wedge. "Commander," Janeway motioned to Chakotay, "take over at Operations. Harry, get down to Astrometrics. See what you can do." 

The first officer took the Ops station before nodding Kim away. Their plan had always called for Chakotay to act as what Tom called a "utility infielder," an obscure baseball reference that aptly described someone trained for a variety of tasks. Frankly, he was happy for the assignment. In tense maneuvers like these, he preferred to participate. It made the time pass faster, and helped relieve the feeling of being a mere observer in the most important trip of their lives. 

Harry, on the other hand, wasn't as thrilled. He knew he was the best person for this job, but he hated leaving the action on the bridge. He also left the comfort of maneuvers rehearsed and rehearsed again. Unlike Tom or even B'Elanna, Harry didn't like flying by the seat of his pants. He always believed that nothing beat preparation, and he had a lingering fear that he wouldn't be able to come up with the right inspiration in an unrehearsed situation. No use worrying about that now, he thought. The turbolift opened on Deck 8, and the ensign ran down the corridor to his new station. 
 
 

Kim was only slightly surprised to find Icheb there when he arrived. He was also slightly relieved. The cadet had an instinctual understanding of stellar geometry that rivaled only Seven's. Harry also saw a lot of himself in Icheb: raw talent mixed with a kind of inbred self-assurance and absolute naivety. Plus, Icheb made Harry feel less like the low man on the totem pole. He may once have been as raw as Seven's star pupil, but that was a long time ago. It made him feel good to see the view from the other side. 

"Do you know the assignment?" Harry asked as he took the station opposite the cadet.

"We're scanning for gravimetric distortions and plotting the variance." Harry smiled. "Good. Let's get started." 

~*~*~*~*~

One successful improvisation and counting. 

They were now in hour four, and struggling to fight off complacency. Harry's plan to map the turbulence was working, and--with that problem under control--they were almost surprised at how well it was going. So far they had traveled almost 20,000 light years. 

Without Chakotay available to relieve him, Tom's neck and arms were getting stiff. He had no choice but to continue, trying to focus only on the instantaneous calculations and subsequent course corrections necessary to stay behind the narrow wedge. He didn't say anything about the pain. What good would it do? 

They heard the turbolift doors open. Tom heard the familiar voice, though he couldn't deflect his attention to look up. "Doctor?" the captain was asking, the 'what are you doing here?' was implied. 

"I have been monitoring our progress from sickbay," he volunteered, only slightly concerned to be caught eavesdropping again. "I know there was a change in plans. I thought maybe I could help." He indicated his medkit, and Janeway was relieved. She had feared for a moment that he was offering to take the helm. 

"Thank you, Doctor," she nodded. "Start with Mr. Paris." 

The doctor ran a quick scan of the pilot, then pulled out a hypospray. "I'm giving you something for the muscle constriction in your neck. I'm also increasing the oxygenation of your blood. It should help with the fatigue." 

Tom tilted his head slightly to receive the hypo. He felt an improvement almost instantly. "Thanks, Doc," he said without breaking his concentration. 

Tuvok and Chakotay were next, followed in succession by Ayala, Ashmore, Tabor and Kyoto. Finally, the doctor administered one final prescription, this one gathered from inside the captain's ready room. "I also took the liberty of bringing you this," he said to her, indicating the tall mug in his hand. "Your drug of choice: coffee. Black." 

She smiled at her physician and marveled for a moment at how he had appeared out of the blue, with none of his usual puffery, doing exactly what was needed without being asked. He was every bit the Starfleet professional she needed him to be. She wasn't sure why she was surprised. 

"Can you check on Engineering, Doctor," she said before he left.

"Already on my way." 

~*~*~*~*~

They were well into hour five when the world began to crash down around them. 

It came suddenly, and not from any of the places the simulations predicted. Without warning, the major EPS conduits on decks 9 and 10 exploded, unleashing a fury of plasma, energy, and radiation. There was nothing they could do. The bridge erupted in chaos. 

"We're losing power!" Chakotay was shouting furiously. 

"The helm is sluggish! I can't hold her...!" Tom was practically standing, as if the extra force of his touch might make the ship respond. 

"The wedge is collapsing! Attempting to compensate!" It was Seven's voice on the open channel. They could hear B'Elanna frantically shouting orders to her repair crews. 

Tuvok interjected, "I am reading severe radiation leakage on deck 9. Casualty reports are coming in. Structural integrity is down to 53%." 

"Captain!" It was Seven's voice. "I think we may be able to adjust the termination point of the conduit." 

Janeway knew that would bring them home short of their target, but she didn't see another alternative. She didn't let herself think about the fact that their trajectory took them through the heart of Romulan space. They could be popping up in the middle of it in a matter of seconds. "Do it!" she shouted. The alarms continued to wail. 

"Hull stresses are increasing!" Chakotay warned. "Whatever you're going to do Seven, do it now!" 

Tom readied himself for the termination sequence. He could barely hold the course. "Come on, Seven," he said under his breath. "Give me the signal." 

It arrived only seconds later, and Tom and Tuvok began simultaneous, perfectly-timed adjustments to bring them back into normal space. Chakotay began the countdown, "Exiting the singularity in five. Four. Three..." 

It was the last thing any of them would remember hearing. 

Almost seven years of patchwork and bubblegum fixes, improvisation and inspiration, and a slow death born of deprivation, were all reaching their inevitable climax. This was the final straw. Bulkheads imploded as whole sections of the ship lost containment. And with their ship's screams and moans, her captain and officers found themselves bombarded with thoughts and images born of almost a decade of experiences, dreams and hopes. "Captain, if these readings are right we're over 70,000 light years..." "I have friends among species you don't even know exist..." "Captain, we both want very much to be a part of your journey..." "That's not who I am now; At least it's not who I want to be..." "I guess I have to resign myself to fighting with her for the rest of my life..." "Tell them the captain sends her regards..." "I have exceeded my original programming..." "We do not stand alone. We are in the arms of family..." "The Yankees in six games..." "Akoochimoyah, we are far away from the sacred places of our grandfathers. Far from the bones of our people..."

Then there was silence. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

She dreamed she was floating in space, nothing in sight but a field of stars. Yet it wasn't peaceful, like floating in the womb. She felt a little nauseous. She reached down to hold her churning stomachs. Something wasn't right. Her hand made contact too quickly, her abdomen was distended. Where was her environmental suit? And she had been tethered to...think...where was...Tom? 

Thinking his name was enough to jolt B'Elanna to consciousness. Her slowly-opening eyes soon told her that she was floating. About six meters off the main engineering deck. On Voyager. Ugh, now she was really nauseous. 

Her engineer's mind was kicking in, though. Okay...she was breathing, but floating: they had life support but no artificial gravity. Her engines were quiet. The ship was stopped. Reflexively she hit her combadge. "Engineering to the bridge." Nothing. "Torres to Paris...Torres to anyone." Her heart was beating faster, which seemed to make her head throb. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Paris." Silence. 

'Stay focused, B'Elanna.' She looked around for her crew, but the emergency lamps in this space weren't strong enough for her to see very far, and she could only make out a few shapes. She reached out and grabbed the railing of the upper engineering deck and pulled herself to a communications console. It lit up at her touch. 'Thank you. Something's working,' she thought. She steadied herself with one hand while she tapped out the instructions with the other. Her head was swimming in time with her stomachs now. 'Keep concentrating B'Elanna. You can do this.' Three more instructions and it was done. 'Someone will hear," she thought as she drifted back out. 'Someone has to hear...." 
 

END PART 5 

~*~*~*~*~ 

PART 6--CONSEQUENCES: 
 

"Admiral Paris," she said a little too softly, since his eyes didn't open. "Admiral Paris." She spoke more clearly, and touched his shoulder gently for good measure. 

The admiral looked back this time, raising his head off of the arm on which it had rested. "Yes, Yeoman." 

Gods he looked exhausted, she thought. "I'm sorry to wake you, sir, but you requested to be notified the second we got any news on Voyager." 

That was the key word; Owen Paris was wide awake, and standing up from his desk to reach out for the PADD in Yeoman Dawson's hands. Of course, that was why he was sleeping in his office. They had received the last datastream and knew that Janeway was going to attempt their plan. If it worked, Voyager should be back in the Alpha Quadrant in just a few hours. 

"Yes, what is it?" She decided to let him read the message for himself. Dawson suspected, had she spoken the words, he would have stopped hearing her after the first few. She stood silently as he learned the news. 

Owen had to blink the sleep from his eyes to focus on the message. Were they intentionally making this type smaller and smaller? "The deep space scout ship USS Resnick has picked up an automated distress call with a Starfleet signature fourteen light years inside the Beta Quadrant. Sensors indicate it is an Intrepid class cruiser with the designation USS Voyager. Heavy damage has been reported. With the permission of the Klingon government to pass through their space, two rescue ships have been dispatched, however all attempts to hail Voyager have failed. No other information is available at this time." 

The Admiral was famous for his composure in a crisis, and this time was no different. "Thank you, Dawson. Notify my ship to prepare for departure in four hours; I'll be heading for the Neutral Zone to rendezvous with any survivors." He began to gather up his PADDs--reports on the Voyager recovery project, mostly--and placed them in a travel case as he prepared to leave.

As he reached for one, his hand brushed the clear frame of the only picture on his desk. He stopped for a moment and let himself look once more at the face of his only son, a young man he hadn't seen or spoken with in over ten years. In a quick move, he added the picture, frame and all, to his case and latched it. As he stood up he said softly to his yeoman, "I'll be at my home for the next several hours." 

As he left Headquarters, he realized the sun was starting to rise. It looked to be another beautiful spring day in San Francisco. In a way, that made it harder. How was he going to tell his wife such grim news on such a lovely morning? 

~*~*~*~*~ 

As the commander of the USS Resnick, a Dresden-class scout ship on tactical patrol near the neutral zone, Captain Wheaton was used to living at a high state of alert. Every move held the potential for diplomatic incident, every unusual sensor reading could be the coming of a war. He wondered occasionally at the run of bad luck that put two of the Federation's oldest adversaries, the Klingons and Romulans, so close together and so near Federation space. Even in times of truce, Wheaton always suspected a full-blown battle was just one mistake away. 

So, when the call came, he couldn't believe it. It must be a trick. 

A civilian Federation science vessel, on deep exploration at the other side of Klingon space, had picked up an automated distress call from a ship that seemed to appear out of nowhere. A ship with the Starfleet signature of the long-missing USS Voyager. 

Wheaton had served on the USS Onizuko with Commander Cavit, Voyager's first officer, and he remembered the day he heard about his friend's ship disappearing into nothingness in the Badlands. Starfleet had immediately classified all information relating to Voyager's disappearance, but rumors were flying. The most popular was that Janeway's ship and crew had been captured by the Maquis using some unknown technology. Everyone knew she had taken Thomas Paris, an ex-Maquis traitor, on the mission as an observer. His capture had probably been some kind of set-up--he had probably tricked Janeway into taking Voyager right into the hands of the Maquis. 

Of course, that rumor was shot to hell over three years later when Voyager's EMH--a Mark One, of all things--suddenly appeared in the Alpha Quadrant with some tall story about Voyager being pulled into the Delta Quadrant by some kind of entity. The details were still hush-hush, but Wheaton got news that Cavit had died in the initial incident. Starfleet was also careful to spread the word that the Maquis rumors had been false. Not only had the ex-traitor been given a Starfleet field commission (he was apparently serving as Voyager's helmsman), all of the surviving Maquis were serving as provisional Starfleet officers. 

Wheaton supposed he was relieved to hear that Paris had been cleared, if only for the sake of the young man's father. Admiral Paris had been one of his favorite instructors at the Academy--almost like a second father to him--and Wheaton knew his son's transgressions were an embarrassment to the whole Paris family. He was less thrilled to hear the rumor that a Maquis was now serving as Voyager's first officer. What an insult to Cavit's memory, he thought. 

Now, deep in the Beta Quadrant, Voyager had appeared out of nowhere. Wheaton was suspicious, and contacted Starfleet Command on a secure channel. He was surprised when the word came: proceed immediately to the ship's last known coordinates and render all necessary aid and assistance. The mission had already been cleared with Klingon High Command, and Admiral Paris was on his way from Earth to rendezvous with them. It had to be true, he supposed. 
 
 

And it was. They came upon Voyager's wrecked hulk within eighteen hours. Wheaton was amazed when his sensors showed lifesigns aboard. He was even more surprised when he saw the damage first-hand.

He beamed to Voyager's bridge with a full security team in environmental suits. It had been hard to find a safe place to materialize; luckily, the area near the main viewscreen was mostly intact. Amazingly, life support was still online, though artificial gravity was down throughout the ship. The bridge was almost unrecognizable, and the bodies of the crew--in outdated uniforms, he noted--were alternately pinned under massive wreckage or floating at odd angles above the deck. 

Considering the devastation around him, Wheaton was amazed to find his first survivor wedged between a huge piece of debris and the conn, unconscious but with strong vital signs and without so much as a scratch. 'This guy must lead a charmed life,' he thought to himself. He had the young man beamed directly to the Resnick's sickbay. 

He didn't need to reach the starboard engineering station to see that the crewman stationed there hadn't been so fortunate. The young Bajoran had been struck by a support column and was clearly dead, a horrible volume of his blood now floating in the air around his lifeless body. 

He moved toward the bridge's command deck and motioned his team to check the science and tactical stations. Pulling away a large chunk of what had once been the illuminated ceiling, he found his primary target: a red-haired woman he recognized from the database as Kathryn Janeway. She had what looked like a massive head injury, and her lifesigns were very weak. Again, he summoned his transporter chief. 

He could see Phillips, his chief medic, scanning the floating body of a young brunette woman at the port science station, her dark hair drifting oddly around her burned and lifeless face. "She's dead, Captain," Phillips called, though Wheaton had suspected as much. 

The captain worked his way to the upper deck. He found another lifeless body just outside the turbolift doors, a tall, muscular man--either security or engineer--practically impaled on a damaged section of railing. 'This man is Maquis,' he thought, noticing the provisional rank insignia. Was Maquis. Another fatality. 

The port ops console itself was intact, but its operator seemed to have been thrown forward somehow, over the station, and was now pinned on top of the aft railing. His body was twisted at an unnatural angle facing the ceiling, and partially buried by a tangled mass of conduit. Oddly, the man wore the red colors of command; ops was usually manned by an engineer. When he moved his tricorder to scan the crewman, Wheaton noticed the tattoo on the man's left temple. He checked for bioreadings, and was surprised to find a faint pulse. "Get this man to sickbay," he called to Phillips. 

"Captain, give me a hand!" Burton, his chief engineer was motioning to the tactical station, or what was left of it. He could see their target, trapped under a pile of debris that had once been his console. A Vulcan. Wheaton knew from the crew logs that this would be Lieutenant--no Lt. Commander--Tuvok. "Don't bother," he ordered. "He's dead." 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Everyone always joked that working security detail was the worst. 'First to fly, first to die,' was the joke and he knew all the clichés about the 'gold shirts' being expendable. But Russ was proud of his work. He kept the rest of them safe, he thought to himself. Sure, he was on the front lines much of the time, but at least it never got boring. He couldn't imagine those poor suckers locked up in some lab during a crisis on board, with no clue what was going on and no power to impact it. Tactical work meant you were always in on the news, and might even be able to participate in your own rescue. Of course today he might have preferred to be babysitting a console. This wasn't his favorite kind of security assignment. 

His gravity boots sucked his feet down to the deck, making his progress slow, but he wasn't in any great hurry to get anywhere. They had long since transported the survivors off this floating scrap heap. Search and Recovery duty meant surrendering hope before you even left your ship. He hated having drawn Deck 8--it was among the most badly damaged--but he knew he would want someone to come looking for him if the time ever came. 

Finally he was at his target. He engaged the suction handle and pushed the doors apart. He steeled himself for whatever he would find, but the level of destruction was still a bit of a shock. If he hadn't read the designation on the door, he never would have recognized the room's function. This mess had been Astrometrics. He activated his tricorder and followed the beacon of the damaged combadge. The ping was coming from a semi-circular junk pile that looked like it had once been the main console. Splintered and jagged, it would have been almost impossible for him to lift alone if the artificial gravity were online. Without it, he could almost raise it with one finger. Russ half pulled, half floated the mess out of his way. 

He could see it now. The combadge was still firmly in place on the uniform of a young man whose legs were twisted grotesquely and wedged into a fissure in the deck plating. Asian decent. It looked like the bulkhead had erupted right underneath the man's feet. He didn't stand a chance. The single pip surprised Russ; this fellow looked a little old to still be an ensign. 

Gods, what a tragedy. He attached a transponder to the dead man's sleeve and signaled to his ship. "Russ to Resnick. I found another one. Ready to beam him over." The lieutenant wasn't a particularly religious man, but he found himself saying a silent prayer for the ensign, before pulling out his tricorder and moving to the next room. It was a ritual he would perform too often today. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

"Does that mean you're in the mood for some mushy stuff?"

Somehow she became aware that she was sleeping, but it was one of her favorite recurring dreams so she didn't try to wake herself too quickly. "It usually requires a proposal...." That was her cue. She moved her hand to her right side, but felt only the hard edge of the bed. Not their bed. 'Think, B'Elanna. Where are you?' Her eyes peered open, barely. They were crusty, like she hadn't opened them in a long, long, time. The lights in the room had been dimmed, but they still stung her eyes enough to make them water. A few blinks and she was starting to focus. The bioreadings scrolling above her head told her she was in sickbay. A sickbay--not Voyager's. She started to pull herself up on her elbows, but couldn't find the strength. The sigh her exertion forced out of her was loud enough to wake the man sleeping in the chair by her bed, however, and he was up and at her side instantly. 

"B'Elanna, are you awake?" His voice was soft and tired, but hopeful. "Can you open your eyes for me?" 

"Tom," she croaked as she looked up at him. Yikes, it sounded like she hadn't spoken in a while, either. "What's going on? Where are we?" 

He watched her struggling to rise and grabbed the pillow he had been resting on to elevate her, just enough to give her a glimpse of her surroundings. "Don't try to sit up yet," he said softly. "You've had a rough time." 

Absentmindedly, in what had become a habit for the past few months, she ran her hand across her belly, only to have her mind make ten instantaneous connections. Still fat, was the first thought, leading quickly to 'oh gods, the baby,' to 'we were in the transwarp conduit,' to 'something went wrong,' and on and on. Her husband struggled to anticipate the places her mind was wandering and began to answer her unspoken questions. 

"The baby's fine, B'Elanna. So are you." She breathed a little easier. "Engineering was protected from most of the structural collapse, but you had a pretty bad concussion. You'll be okay, though." He paused long enough to change his tone to kid her gently. "Looks like I'm not the only one in this family with a hard head," he gently joked, getting the smile he had been wanting to see for so long. He let himself enjoy her grin for a moment before he continued. After what he was about to say, it might be a while before he saw it again. "We made it most of the way home before the plasma relays blew and the singularity collapsed." He swallowed hard before going on. "The ship was practically torn apart." 

Tom was trying to figure out how much he should tell her. He wouldn't lie, he had promised himself. But how much to offer? He decided on a small diversion. "We were detected by the crew of a Federation vessel on a deep space scientific exploration. They called for help, and we were rescued by this Starfleet scout ship a few days later. We're in the Beta Quadrant, on our way to Starbase 32, with Voyager--or what's left of her--in tow." 

"Where is everyone else? What...." 

He gently put his finger over her lips. "I'll answer all of your questions. I promise. Just as soon as I have the doctor look you over." 

B'Elanna knew Tom wanted her to hold off on her questions, but there was one more thing she needed to know.  "How long have I been out?" she asked. "Five days," he said softly. "The five longest days of my life." He leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead, then went to find the doctor. 'Okay, Paris' he told himself. 'Now you can start breathing again.' 
 
 

Tom walked quickly to the adjacent bay, and found Dr. Ryan at Samantha Wildman's bedside. Sam had deep tissue burns across most of her back where she had bent over to shield Naomi from an exploding sickbay panel, and Dr. Ryan, the Resnick's short, blond CMO was tending her gently. Sam's skin and muscles were regenerated, but she would require monitoring for at least four more days to make sure her nerve pathways were reconnecting. 

When Voyager had entered the singularity, Naomi had been under the Doc's care for a mild case of the flu. The captain had assigned Ensign Wildman to sickbay duty both to assist the Doctor in Tom's absence and to be near her daughter in case the worst were to happen. It was good, Tom thought, that Sam had been there. As the ship's systems began to fail and before she lost consciousness, Samantha had the presence of mind to download the Doc's program into his mobile emitter and had shoved it into her uniform. He was beamed to the Resnick along with her when she was rescued. Tom was particularly grateful for that now. 

"Dr. Ryan," he interrupted. "My wife is awake." 

"That's good news, Lieutenant." She turned to smile at him as she entered the last notes in Sam's chart. "I'll be right there to examine her." 

"Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like our Doc to take a look at her first. With B'Elanna's unique physiology and his experience with her pregnancy, I'd just feel better...." 

"Of course," she offered. "I think you know where to find him." Her voice trailed off, and they exchanged a knowing look. 

"Thanks," Tom replied. "I'm sure I do." 
 
 

Tom wasn't the only Voyager crewmember keeping vigil in the Resnick's medical bays. Seven couldn't be pried from Icheb's side, even after she knew he would recover fully from his serious injuries. When they transferred the boy to quarters, Seven went with him. Tom hadn't seen her since, nor did he expect to. 

Neelix had taken custody of Naomi as soon as they were rescued, and was helping the child deal with the trauma she had witnessed too close up. Naomi was a smart girl, Tom knew, and she would get through this with enough love and some counseling. Too often with the rest of the crew, however, there was no one left to hover over, expectantly praying for a recovery. They had lost so many. The names started flooding his mind.... 'Stop it, Tom.' He forced himself to focus. 

As expected, the Doctor was standing his own kind of vigil next to those in the intensive care bay. He spent most of his time hovering over the unconscious woman in the first bed. The monitors above her head hadn't changed in days, yet the Doctor checked them meticulously every few seconds. Tom took some comfort in knowing that the captain would probably survive, a comfort that didn't seem to come so easily to his holographic friend. Her coma was induced, Tom knew from his medical training, to help heal her synaptic pathways as quickly as possible. 

Janeway was one of several survivors with catastrophic injuries. Chakotay was in even worse shape. He had suffered a crushing spinal injury, and was on the verge of systemic organ failure when he was found and rescued by the Resnick's captain. Key body systems had been deprived of blood and oxygen for long enough that the tissue damage was severe. The doctor had repaired the physical injuries, but there was some question about the commander's long-term prognosis. All they could do was provide life-support and wait. 

Still, the Doc never tired of standing by, waiting to come to the rescue. Perhaps because there was so little he had been able to do to save the others. Tom knocked on the doorframe so as not to startle him. 

"Doc, I've got some great news." Could a hologram look exhausted? This one did. "I could use some great news, Mr. Paris, though I'm a little surprised to see you here. What can I do for you?" 

"B'Elanna's awake." Ah-ha, the Doctor thought. That explains it. "She's asking me a lot of questions that I'm afraid to answer until you've checked her over." 

Impressed that his medic hadn't tried to evaluate his wife himself, the doctor placed the captain's chart down on the tray and indicated for the Resnick's nurse to take over. "Fine. Let's go check out my favorite patient." 

Tom quirked, "So now she's your favorite patient, Doc? That's a switch." 

Characteristically the Doctor retorted, "Not Lieutenant Torres, the little warrior she's carrying around with her." 

Tom smiled. Of course, Doc would be particularly protective of this little patient--though his choice of descriptives brought back some memories that Tom could have done without right now. They walked together back to the ward where the pilot's wife now slept again--this time slightly less peacefully. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Admiral Paris received the news thirty-nine hours after leaving Earth. There had been survivors, though the ship had taken heavy casualties. Half the bridge crew was dead before help arrived. Total losses had been almost fifty--a third of the complement--and there were many serious injuries, including Captain Janeway, who was in emergency surgery. The Maquis first officer had been gravely injured and was not expected to survive. Lt. Commander Tuvok was confirmed to be among the deceased. Names of survivors were being compiled as their status was determined and injuries triaged. 

Owen didn't ask--he knew he didn't have to. For reasons he'd rather forget, everyone in Starfleet was well aware that the Admiral's son was on that ship. They would tell him as soon as they knew. Still, he was sure Tom would have been on the bridge at the helm for this maneuver. Janeway would have needed her best pilot, and Owen understood too well that it had to be Tom. 

It had now been almost four days without an update. "Paris to the Bridge." The young officer on duty looked a little fearful; he couldn't pass along news he didn't have, and the Admiral was known for being less than patient when things weren't going his way. "I'd like to speak with Voyager's senior surviving officer as soon as we're in communications range." 

The young man nodded. "Yes, Admiral. I estimate achieving communications at 1930 hours." 

Owen switched off the display, after checking the time. 0916. The last ten years had gone by so quickly. He feared the next ten hours would last forever. He tried to keep focused as he turned back to his console. He wouldn't write her now. After all, there wasn't anything to say. Not yet. 

 ~*~*~*~*~

Tom was almost glad to see that his wife had drifted back to sleep. He hadn't liked leaving her alone, even for the few seconds it had taken him to get the Doctor. He was equally glad to see those dark eyes pop open as he took her hand. "B'Elanna, are you still with me?" 

She squinted her eyes in the 'what a dumb question' look he knew so well. "I'm afraid you may be stuck with me for a while longer," she sighed. She must be feeling better if she was teasing him, he thought, and she was. Seeing Tom's face the moment she awoke had spared her the anxious tension many of her crewmates had experienced, waiting to learn the status of their loved ones. Hers was walking and talking and--other than the dark circles under his eyes and the uncombed hair, he seemed unhurt. And he had already told her that their baby was fine. Part of her mind deliberately stopped her from thinking beyond these victories. There was bad news on its way, she could see it in Tom's eyes. For a moment, she was content to let him tell her in his own way, enjoying what she knew might be the last chance to imagine that the rest of her friends were alright. 

"Let's dispense with the most important information first, shall we," said the Doctor, running the scanner over B'Elanna's belly. "Fetal heart tones are strong and regular. Normal gestational development. Lieutenants, I'd say we should be welcoming my goddaughter in just a few weeks." He smiled the classic Doctor smile. He wished he felt as chipper as he had made himself sound. "Now, to the mother.... There is still some mild intracranial swelling. Nothing that won't resolve itself with some bed rest and excellent nursing care. Luckily, I know a skilled medic I can recommend." He glanced in Tom's direction. "I can release you in a few hours, assuming you agree to stay in bed and avoid excessive stress." 

"I don't seem to have anywhere to go," B'Elanna almost whispered. Gods, this was going to be hard. Keeping busy was how she coped with things. "But I need to know what happened...." 

"Doc," Tom asked, "maybe you could stick around for a minute while I try to answer some of her questions?" 

"Of course," the EMH replied softly, taking just a few steps back to give the couple some measure of privacy. He moved to get a better view of the biomonitor, and began to check her readings. He'd want to sedate her if the answers she received made her condition worsen.

"How many?" she asked. 

Tom knew and answered. "Forty-seven died in the accident. We lost three more during treatment. Almost everyone else had some kind of injury. Sixty were seriously wounded, including Captain Janeway. The Doc has been treating them here on the Resnick, and thinks they're going to pull through with time." 

He thought he'd tell her the good news next. "Almost everyone who was in engineering made it through just fine. Joe Carey, Sue, Seven." That was pretty much the extent of the good news. "Icheb was pretty bad off, but he's doing a lot better. Seven won't let him out of her sight, now." He took a breath and glanced at the Doctor. "Neelix is taking care of Naomi.... Sam was burned pretty badly, but she's in the next room and she's gonna be alright. She even rescued the Doc." He forced himself to smile. There was only so long he could put this off. 

"Chakotay...?" she whispered. 

Tom's eyes darted away, but he forced himself to look back to her. "When we were thrown out of the conduit, our structural integrity field destabilized and the bridge was crushed. It collapsed around us. I guess I was protected by a piece of the superstructure, but the conduits above it snapped and crashed onto the upper decks. The captain was pinned under a piece of the ceiling. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Chakotay diving over the railing, trying to get to her." He paused to let his wife take it in. "He's hurt pretty badly. We're not sure if he'll make it." 

B'Elanna's eyes had started to tear halfway through Tom's story. She knew it was bad news by the gentle way he was telling it. When she heard the words, though, she breathed a small sigh of relief. He was alive. Chakotay had been her friend, her mentor, her surrogate brother. He had stood with her on her wedding day, a little shocked from the sudden climax to what had been a four year mating dance, but still happy for her and Tom. He had saved her life once, many years ago, just before he recruited her into the Maquis--and had handed her a new one when he agreed to join Janeway's crew and demanded she be made chief engineer. Almost every good thing in her life had started with Chakotay. He would have to recover. She'd will him back to health. She looked back at Tom, who was squeezing her hands, only to realize there was more. 

Tom glanced up at the bioreadings then over to the doctor. The EMH nodded silently, giving him permission to go on. Better get this over with right away, Tom thought, so she could begin to work through it. He wiped a tear from B'Elanna's face before he began, and took a deep breath. 

"We lost a lot of friends, B'Elanna." His voice drifted off. Was he doing the right thing? 

"Tell, me," she insisted. 

There were almost too many to name. "Tabor. Mike Ayala. Megan and Jenny..." He forced himself to keep going. "Tuvok...." She closed her eyes. Tom's hesitated. Yet she knew he wasn't done. 

Suddenly, though she didn't know why, she knew what was coming before he said it--maybe from the tortured expression that was forming on her husband's face, maybe by process of elimination. She sucked in her breath. "Oh, gods, Tom--Harry?" 

Her husband's eyes closed tightly, and when they opened they were wet with tears. "Yeah," he forced out in a whisper. It was all he could say. He pulled her up into his arms, and they cried together over their losses. 

The Doctor glanced at the readings, and decided to let the couple mourn in private. While B'Elanna's adrenaline level was higher than he would have liked, neither she nor the baby were in any physical danger, and he knew that Tom wanted to avoid sedating his wife unless it became medically necessary. She had faced a similar loss only a few years ago, and had fallen into a severe depression at that time. Both Tom and the Doctor felt that shielding her from this pain might only trigger a similar reaction. She would have to feel and face up to it. It was a small measure of comfort that--this time--they wouldn't let her go through it alone. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Scattered throughout the Resnick, what was left of Voyager's crew practiced their own private grieving rituals. 

Seven of Nine was exhausted and feeling more than a little queasy. Her regeneration chamber was likely one more piece of broken equipment on Voyager's devastated Deck 8, and the Resnick's captain had been dismissive of her request to salvage it from the damaged ship. Normally, she would have been more forceful and pressed the issue, but her priority now was tending to Icheb. Regeneration would have to wait. 

Since the very first day she had been stranded on Voyager and separated from the collective, Seven had experienced an enormous range of emotions. Her early days were lonely. She became combative, fighting Captain Janeway at every turn. She and Lieutenant Torres couldn't be in the same room for more than a minute without open warfare. She had even attacked Harry Kim in an attempt to contact and rejoin the collective. 

Over time, however, she found herself surprised at the compassion she was shown by most of the crew. Commander Chakotay had helped her adjust by giving her a regular duty shift and demanding the crew treat her with respect. Lieutenant Paris had gone out of his way to tell her he didn't hold her Borg past against her. She had the opportunity to work closely with Ensign Kim, and their relationship had progressed from awkward to intellectually stimulating to collegial. He had been her partner in constructing the astrometrics lab, and--in the process--helped her find a unique way to contribute her expertise to her new captain and crew. Commander Tuvok, perhaps the most like her in temperament, had become a role model for her, and as good a friend as Seven allowed herself aboard Voyager. Even her battles with Lieutenant Torres had cooled to a kind of friendly rivalry and mutual respect. 

And she couldn't even find the words to describe her debt to Captain Janeway. To say the captain saved her life several times over was true even if clichéd. Everything Seven had or might become she owed to this woman, who had been her mentor, surrogate mother, and friend. 

She had found herself enjoying the company of her crewmates, and had just begun exploring concepts like friendship, humor, and cooperation. It had been a long and painful adjustment process, and she knew it wasn't over. Yet she had come to appreciate and respect these individuals. 

And she had only just begun exploring deeper connections. After spending so much time in scientific study of courtship and mating practices--almost earning a bloody nose from Lieutenant Torres in the process--Seven had come to believe she would never understand the complexities of romantic relationships. The odd mix of attraction, affection, combat, and chemistry was illogical and confounding. Yet she was surprised to find herself mimicking many of the behaviors she observed during her Paris/Torres study in her own relationship with the Doctor. They shared a deep friendship, mutual interests, a sly sense of humor, and an outsider's view of the world. They knew the most and least attractive parts of the other's personality, yet they appreciated and accepted the whole of the other's character. They fought for and with each other in ways that caused them to examine their own beliefs and prejudices. And they found comfort and acceptance in each other's company. 

She had finally begun to feel some sense of stability, what anyone else might view as a normal life. Now Tuvok, Harry, and scores of others had been killed, Icheb and Lieutenant Torres had been seriously injured, and the captain and Commander Chakotay might not survive. 

Seven found herself pacing the room. Whatever she had expected to find at the end of Voyager's journey, she hadn't prepared herself for a scenario that left her alive but many of those she cared about dead or dying. She wasn't sure why, but she began to obsess about why she had come out of the accident almost untouched. The impact of these feelings was overwhelming. 

Exhaustion was gaining on her, and she knew she should attempt conventional sleep. Her mind wouldn't hear of it, though. Instead, she moved to watch Icheb as he rested--kept sedated by the Doctor to allow his injuries to heal, yet long ago out of any real danger. As she had every hour for the last five days, she opened the medical tricorder and scanned his lifesigns. His pulse was strong and steady, yet she couldn't allow herself to relax. 

She stood guard by her student as she had for so long. And the unending loop of memory and guilt began again. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Neelix was playing a similar game only--unlike Seven--he had the distraction of an alert and curious charge. In a roll he had played since her birth, godfather Neelix was tending to Naomi while her mother was away, in this case because she was recovering in sickbay. 

Naomi was only six years old, but her Ktarian physiology gave her the appearance, intellect and mental discipline of a human child of nine or ten. She was a bright and caring child, and she had thrived on Voyager, in no small part due to Neelix's love and attention. 

They'd had only one difficult time in their relationship, two years earlier when Naomi's mother was lost and feared dead after an accident in the Delta Flyer. Sam had been scheduled to check in with her daughter before the crash. When the call never came, Naomi began to suspect something was wrong. Remembering his own pain at learning of his parent's death in the Talaxian war, Neelix had chosen to mislead her into thinking her mother was in no danger. Of course, Voyager was too small a ship to keep news of the missing shuttle quiet. Naomi learned the truth, and forgave Neelix only after securing his promise that he would never lie to her again. It was a promise the last few days had made difficult to keep. 

When Voyager fell out of the conduit, Sam had been with her daughter in sickbay. She had been able to shield Naomi when the console above her biobed exploded, but Naomi was conscious long enough to know that her mother was badly injured. It was understandable that she would have questions about the mission, the accident, and what had happened to her mother and her friends. Neelix had to ride the difficult line of being truthful in his answers while protecting Naomi from the graphic details of her mother's recovery and the magnitude of Voyager's loss. 

It was made harder by Naomi's separation from the rest of her support structure. They had left Voyager, the only home the child had ever known, and the rest of her 'family' was occupied with matters of life and death in their own lives. Seven, probably Naomi's closest friend on the crew, was keeping a constant vigil at Icheb's bedside. Icheb himself had become almost a big-brother to Naomi, and she was without his comfort now, too. 

Neelix knew Naomi well enough to understand that keeping her mind occupied was the key to her coping. He devised a challenge for her to solve: use the Resnick's computer to track the ship's position and calculate the approximate time of their arrival at Starbase 32 if traveling at various speeds. So far it had worked: Naomi had been engrossed in her calculations for most of the afternoon. 

Now if only Neelix could find a way to keep his own mind occupied. The sense of uselessness he had begun to feel in their last weeks on Voyager was nothing compared to these days on the Resnick. As the ship's morale officer and head chef, Neelix had grown accustomed to taking care of Voyager's crew, providing for their physical and emotional needs wherever he could. Now, the crew was in desperate need of caretaking, and there was no appropriate outlet for his help. No celebration dinner or quiet conversation could fix what had gone so terribly wrong.

He couldn't help thinking the same thoughts so many of Voyager's survivors now wrestled with. As a group, they had prepared themselves to live or die together on this dangerous and ambitious mission. Few had prepared for an outcome that left them still far from Earth and at the whim of fates and duty assignments that had taken some lives while sparing others. 

Still Neelix knew he had to put on a brave face for Naomi. He forced a smile onto his face and went to check on her assignment. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Tom had settled B'Elanna into bed in their temporary quarters and was watching her breathe in and out when the call came through. "Carey to Lieutenant Paris." He moved quickly out of the sleeping area and over to the desk before replying. He didn't want to wake up B'Elanna now that she had finally rocked herself to sleep. He tapped the panel to lower the volume. "Paris here, Joe. What's up?" 

"Tom, the captain has an incoming transmission from the USS Scobee. Starfleet command is requesting to speak with Voyager's senior surviving officer in charge. With the captain and Commander Chakotay in sickbay, I'm guessing that would be you, sir, but Captain Wheaton didn't seem to know you were on board." 

Tom had been too busy working the medical triage and looking after B'Elanna to check in after he regained consciousness. He guessed he actually had forgotten to report in to the captain. He wondered, with the chaos of the recovery and the urgent transfer of the injured, if some others of the crew had gone unaccounted for as well. 

Tom also took a second to reflect on the irony facing him now. 'I left on this mission a parolee/observer, and now I'm the senior surviving officer. Weird.' "Sorry, Joe, it's been a little crazy. You can pipe the call down here." 

"Thanks, Tom. And...I'm glad to hear B'Elanna is feeling better."

Tom smiled. Her staff was almost as protective of his wife as he was. "I'll tell her you asked about her, Joe. Thanks." With that, Carey's face was replaced by the blue and white Starfleet logo, and the announcement screen for an incoming encoded transmission. When the Admiral's face appeared, it took Tom a split second to process what he was seeing. 

"Dad." He blurted it out, but quickly recovered. "Admiral Paris," he was stammering a bit. "It's...good to see you, sir." 

"Tom. I hadn't expected...." This was one for the books: both Paris men at a loss for words. "Thank God, you're alright, son." 

Wow. His father hadn't known. 'Stupid, Paris, you forgot to check in, remember.' Nobody knew to tell his father he was alive. 'And did he actually call me 'Tom'?' 

"I'm well, sir. Thank you." God, what was the protocol for this situation? He'd take his cue from his father's tone. 

"Lieutenant Torres and the--?" 

Tom wondered for a minute if the Admiral didn't know how to pronounce her first name. "B'Elanna and our baby are fine. She was pretty badly injured, but I've just brought her back from sickbay, and she's sleeping." 

He saw his father take in a deep breath, and exhale it slowly. "You must be so relieved, son." Tom's head was spinning. Who was this compassionate man, and what had they done with his father? 

"Yes, sir. Very relieved." 

Owen composed himself slightly, but tried to keep the gentle tone in his voice as he went on. "I'm afraid I need to ask you some questions, Lieutenant, as Voyager's senior officer." 

"Yes, sir," Tom replied, knowing that this part of their conversation was necessarily part of the official Starfleet record. Tom answered the Admiral's questions about the mission as best he could, describing what he knew about the transwarp conduit and how they had tried to collapse it after the EPS relays blew out. He reviewed the steps taken to prepare themselves, and what he had been told about the damage to the ship and her crew. The Admiral asked if Tom would oversee the preparation of a complete crew manifest and transmit it on a secure channel within twenty-four hours. Tom told him he would get on it right away. The Admiral then passed along an official message to Voyager's survivors from Starfleet, commending them on their brave service and courage in making this attempt. Tom stiffened a bit when he heard the Admiral give the order to end the official record of their conversation. 'Here we go,' he thought. 

His father's eyes narrowed, and Tom would have sworn they were misting over. "Son, I can't tell you how long I have waited to see you." Tom swallowed hard; it took him forever to figure out how to respond. This was not the kind of talk he was used to from his father. 

"Thank you, sir..." Time for him to speak out of character. He wished he'd been prepared for this conversation. "Dad, I want you to know...I've changed a lot since the last time we spoke." Tom's heart was in his stomach now, remembering the worst conversation of his life. 

"I know, son." Owen was equally contrite. "So have I." There. It was said. The closest either would likely come to a full-fledged apology. 'Don't lose this moment,' Owen thought to himself. 

"You know, Kathryn sent me quite a long letter in one of the first datastreams from Voyager. Set me straight about a few things. She told me how wrong I was about my son. She thinks quite highly of you, you know. She went into great detail about why." 

Wow, Tom thought. He couldn't say he was all that surprised considering the personal interest the captain had taken in his rehabilitation, but he was moved nonetheless. "The feeling is mutual, sir. She's a remarkable woman, and I've been proud to serve with her." He paused, "I consider her a close friend." His mind drifted down two decks to the sickbay where his captain lay unconscious. 

"Thomas, I hope you will give her my best when she wakes up," his father said softly. 

Their time was up soon enough, and Tom closed the channel after telling his father he would see him soon. He sat there for a minute processing what he had just experienced. 

"He loves you." B'Elanna's voice brought him back to reality. 

He got up and moved to the bed, noticing her wet eyes as she looked up at him. He climbed in beside her and pulled her into his arms. "I thought you were asleep," he said softly into her shoulder. 

"I'm glad I woke up for that," she said. "He really loves you, you know." She whispered again. 

"Yeah," Tom sighed, his own eyes welling up. "Looks like he really does." He pulled her as tight as he could without hurting her or their daughter and held her until they both fell soundly asleep. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

At 0800 hours, Tom checked in on his sleeping wife, then headed for the Resnick's bridge. He had made a promise to his father last night, and he needed to keep it. As he moved through the ship, he felt a bit conspicuous in his red and black singlet--they had known for a while that Starfleet uniforms had been redesigned, but he and the rest of Voyager's survivors didn't care to be issued new ones. In some way, these outmoded colors were a badge of honor, a reminder of what they had been through together. Besides, donning the new uniforms might imply a more permanent affiliation with Starfleet, one that many of them weren't guaranteed, himself included. No, they wouldn't make the change until they had made it home and the future of the entire crew was secured. 

Tom found Captain Wheaton in his ready room. "Captain, Lieutenant Tom Paris. It's good to finally meet you." 

Wheaton took a long glance at the young officer before him. Not more than ten years his junior, and looking very little like a rebel Maquis traitor. Still, he knew a little too much about this man's past. "At ease, Lieutenant. How is it that you've been aboard my ship for almost six days and this is the first time we're meeting?" 

Tom stiffened a little. It had been a long while since he had been treated with this much open suspicion by a senior Starfleet officer. It was familiar and awful all at once. 

"I'm sorry about that, sir. I'm Voyager's chief medic, and I was working the triage in sickbay the first three days. You probably also know that my wife..." 

Wheaton cut him off. "Bee-El-ana Torres," he interjected as if reading it from a dossier, totally garbling the pronunciation. 

Tom took a breath before answering. He wasn't looking for a fight. "B'Elanna," Tom corrected him, "yes. She's pregnant and was badly injured. I stayed with her in sickbay until she was released last night. I guess checking in just slipped my mind." 

"I'm not interested in your excuses, Lieutenant," Wheaton challenged, coldly. "You're Voyager's senior officer in charge. You should have taken a moment to report in."

It only took Tom an instant to remember the last time he was treated this way: it was the day he came aboard Voyager at Deep Space 9. First the ship's doctor and then the first officer--what was his name?--Cavit, had spoken to Tom like he was beneath contempt, then took no time warning Harry to steer clear of him. He had shut up and taken it then. Pretended not to care. But he was out of practice; the infamous 'Paris mask' had been retired for a while now. He dug down deep to find it. Nothing. He'd have to fake it. What would Harry do? That thought only made it harder. 

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." There had been a reason for this visit, Tom remembered. "Captain, Starfleet Command has asked me to make a formal report on Voyager's survivors and casualties. With your permission." 

Wheaton paused before answering. "Fine. You'd better make it quick; we're about to release the remains of the deceased." 

Tom was shocked. "Release the remains? You plan to bury them in space?" 

The captain practically rolled his eyes. "We don't have enough stasis facilities to keep them on board until we reach Starbase 32. This isn't a medical transport." 

Tom was livid, but he knew he needed to keep his composure. There was no way he was going to let this bureaucrat shoot the bodies of his friends into the Beta Quadrant when they were so close to making it home. Their families deserved the chance to say goodbye, and he was determined they would have it. "Sir, am I correct that most of Voyager is still intact and pressurized?" 

Wheaton nodded, "All but decks 8 through 10. What's your point?" 

Tom pressed on, "We could convert one of Voyager's shuttle bays into a temporary morgue. The room can be made cold enough to preserve the remains until we can get them home." 

Unable to think of a reason why this wouldn't work, Wheaton nodded his approval. "Fine. You have three hours. Dismissed." 

Tom was more than happy to go. 'Welcome home,' he said softly to himself. 'Welcome home.' 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Tom had asked Seven, Joe Carey, and Sue Nicoletti to assist him with the preparations. They would beam over to Voyager and scope out the situation before assigning a crew to the detail. Seven was hesitant to leave Icheb, but B'Elanna agreed to stay with the boy. Of course, as chief engineer, she had wanted to come along, but even B'Elanna knew how impractical that was in her condition. She hated feeling like an invalid. At least staying with Icheb gave her something to do. 

The four officers donned environmental suits and materialized moments later in Voyager's engine room. Seven scanned with her tricorder. "Life support is still online," she noted. They each moved to stations and began taking the pulse of their dying ship, only to find there was still a little life in her yet. 

"The power grid has totally destabilized," Carey called out. "But emergency generators are still functioning." 

Nicoletti was next, "The warp core is stable. Radiation levels are only slightly elivated on decks one though seven and eleven through fourteen. We have minimal life support in those areas as well." 

Tom was inventorying the key systems, "The com system is down, artificial gravity is offline, and I can't check on propulsion until the power grid is repaired. Seven, how long do you think it will take to get...Seven?" He noticed his friend holding tightly to the railing of the warp core. She looked like she might faint. 

"Seven, are you alright?" He took her arm and moved her toward the bulkhead. While sitting down would be pointless in zero gravity, at least she could steady herself against the wall. 

"I am undamaged," Seven answered less than convincingly. "I have not regenerated in six days; I believe that, and the lack of normal gravity are making me a little..." having rarely experienced this sensation before, she wasn't sure how to describe it. 

"Dizzy?" Tom asked? 

"I suppose so," she answered. 

"Sue, are the internal sensors online?" Tom asked. They were, she confirmed. Tom moved to the closest panel and began to scan Deck 8. "Cargo Bay 2 looks like it's in pretty good shape." He turned to Seven. "Why didn't they move your alcove to the Resnick?" 

"I don't know," she answered. "My request was denied." Tom knew the answer to the next question before he asked it. "Denied by who?" 

Seven confirmed his suspicions. "Captain Wheaton," she answered. 

Tom shook his head. "I'll take care of this, Seven." He was resolute. "Joe, get repair crews suited up and over here right away. Start by reestablishing artificial gravity. We'll never get anything done like this. Then send a team to Cargo Bay 2. I want Seven and Icheb's alcoves prepped and ready for transport to the Resnick by 1400 hours. Get another crew working on that shuttle bay. I want that morgue ready by tonight." 

Tom turned back to Seven. "Are you alright? Do you want to come back with me?" 

She turned to face him. "I would like to continue. Where are you going?" she wondered. 

"I have a few things I need to discuss with Captain Wheaton," he answered sharply. "Joe, keep and eye on her." He shrugged at Seven before hitting his combadge. "Paris to Resnick. One to beam over." 
 
 

He found the captain right where he'd last seen him. Did this man ever leave his office? "Mr. Paris, I thought you were trying to meet a deadline." Wheaton wasn't smirking, but he might as well have been. 

"We're not going to make that deadline, sir. You're going to extend it." Tom was polite, but forceful.

"And what makes you think that?" was all he got in reply. 

Tom was doing his best to hold it together. It would take a lot more than this talking uniform to get him unnerved. "I've had to divert my crew to another project. They're transferring the regeneration alcoves from our cargo bay to the Resnick." 

Wheaton was furious. "I will not have that Borg technology installed on this ship." 

Tom was trying to keep cool. "Sir, we have two crewman who need those chambers in order to survive." Wheaton was unmoved. 

"We are a tactical vessel. I will not risk the safety of this ship and crew by bringing untested alien technology onboard. Your passengers will just have to wait until we reach Starbase 32," he spat. 

Tom didn't miss the subtle dig. "With all due respect, Captain, they're not passengers, they are members of my crew, and this technology has been used safely on Voyager for four years. There's no risk to the Resnick." 

Wheaton stood and walked around to the front of his desk. He was not a short man, but Tom still towered over him. If this move was meant to intimidate Paris, it was poorly chosen. "With all due respect," he mocked back to Tom, "the status of the Borg, the Maquis, and Voyager's other non-coms is undetermined. I'm willing to work with you because you've been given a field commission and because I have a lot of respect for your father, but--frankly--your status is just as tenuous. So I'd recommend you get back to work on that crew manifest and leave these decisions to me." 

Tom suddenly realized that Harry was the wrong role model in this situation. A serious dose of Kathryn Janeway was required here. "Captain, I understand your skepticism about me and the others. But, frankly, I can't let your fear get in the way of the health and safety of my crew. We've come too far and survived too much." 

He slapped his combadge with some force, "Paris to Carey." Joe responded right away. "Change of plans, Joe. Have those alcoves moved to Voyager's sickbay, and make Deck 5 your top priority. I want every able-bodied crewman working on getting the environmental controls back on line." Tom never moved his eyes off Wheaton as he spoke. 

"Sir?" Carey asked, not needing to finish the question. 

"We'll be moving back to Voyager as soon as conditions are safe," Tom explained. 

"Yes, sir!" A ringing show of support from one of Starfleet's finest. 

"Paris out." Wheaton started to speak, but Tom cut him off. "As you have been so careful to point out, I'm Voyager's senior officer in charge. And I'm taking my people home. We might not make it back under our own steam, but we'll do it on our own ship. Now if you'll excuse me, sir." Tom headed for the door. 

"Mr. Paris," Wheaton blurted out. "I'll be making a full report on your actions to Starfleet." 

Wrong way to threaten me, Tom thought. He said instead, "I take my orders from Captain Janeway. You're free to take it up with her as soon as she regains consciousness. Excuse me." With that, Tom was gone. 

Wheaton watched the doors close before moving back to his seat. He knew he had pushed Paris to disobey him, mostly to test this man he had reason to suspect. But he was surprised at Tom's response: forceful, protective of his people, yet not irreverent or disrespectful. The reality of this man didn't match his service record. Perhaps he was wrong about Tom Paris. Only time would tell. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

Twelve hours later Voyager's crew was home. Well, in what they had come to think of as home. Environmental controls and sickbay systems were restored first.  Captain Janeway, Commander Chakotay, and two other critical-but-stable patients were transported over, along with the Doctor, as soon as Tom was assured it was safe. Still in some pain, but mostly recovered from her injuries, Samantha Wildman was now well enough to fill in as a medic. 

Acting Commander Paris's first executive order might have seemed a bit controversial: to make Seven of Nine his first officer. He, B'Elanna, and Seven were the only surviving senior officers not on life-support, and B'Elanna was still recovering from her injuries. She was also too valuable in her own job as chief engineer. Seven's lack of even a provisional rank was immaterial. She had been Voyager's defacto science officer for the past few years, and the crew had grown accustomed to taking her orders. 

Tom was surprised when B'Elanna supported his decision. He figured she was just glad to be back on duty at all. Once they'd secured the ship, however, Tom never seriously considered relieving her. Not only did he know how therapeutic his wife found her work, there was no way they could make the ship habitable without her. With a strict agreement that she would supervise her crews while seated behind a console--a prenatal monitor firmly in place--Torres organized damage control parties and got to work on bringing the ship back from the dead. 

Icheb was now almost fully recovered, and he and Seven--after several hours of regeneration in their relocated sickbay alcoves--began a full systems check. They identified critical areas in need of repair, and issued each project a priority level. B'Elanna would then assign crews according to those priorities. Critical projects drew the most skilled crews, since--for the foreseeable future--every able-bodied crewman was a deputized engineer. 

Top priority was, of course, the power grid. The ship was operating on emergency power cells, but that was a stopgap measure at best. Equal weight was given to shoring up the emergency forcefields and reducing the radiation on the middle decks. The ship's habitable areas were currently cut off by this dead-zone. They couldn't keep wasting energy with site-to-site transports whenever they needed to cross that barrier. 

Their next priority was the morgue. Tom put Vorik in charge of the transfer and identification project, hoping that his Vulcan reserve would protect him from the overwhelming emotions others might endure seeing the faces of so many dead friends. It seemed to be the logical choice, even though he knew how close Vorik had been to Tuvok. Tom's guilt was relieved a bit when Vorik assured him this duty--an exercise in emotional control worthy of a Vulcan facing the deaths of friends and colleagues--would allow him to show his respect for his mentor. Soon, the deceased were all positively identified, and the young engineer joined the other repair teams. 

The compilation of the crew roster had taken most of Tom's time. The final tallies were gut wrenching: of the 148 who began the transwarp trip, 50 were dead, 56 had been seriously injured, and 42 were rescued with only minor injuries. Even with most of the wounded now treated and released, Voyager's working crew complement was just ninety-two. Ninety-two people now counting on him to make the right decisions for them. He hoped he was up to the job. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

She was sitting on a rocky beach looking out over a magnificent sunset. Behind her was a lush tropical forest. It was the place she felt most content, though she couldn't remember where it was or when she had last been there. She drew her knees up to her chest, and took it all in. 

From the corner of her eye, she caught a quick movement. A rustling from out of the trees and onto a felled log just behind her. She turned slowly--so as not to scare the creature off. She saw it--a small lizard, perhaps a chameleon, though she wasn't sure, perched silently on the branch. It seemed to be calling to her, without words. "What are you trying to tell me, my little friend?" she asked softly. Before the creature could answer, the world around her began to spin. What was happening? 

"Captain. Captain, can you hear me? Ensign, two cc's of cordrazine and call Mr. Paris to sickbay." 

She knew the voice, but couldn't place it. She felt a small tingle on her neck, and her body suddenly felt heavy, as if she were moving back into it after a long absence. She knew the person speaking wanted her to open her eyes. She wasn't ready. She had been happy there on that beach. At peace with herself for what she sensed had been the first time in a long while. 'Don't make me come back,' she thought. But the voice was persistent. 

"Captain, this is the Doctor. Can you hear my voice? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." She found her fingers ignoring her will and tightening involuntarily. "She's coming out of it," she heard him say. 

Suddenly there was another voice, also familiar, coming closer. 

"Is she waking up?" she heard it say. 

"Yes, according to her cortical monitor she should be conscious now, but I can't get her to respond." 

She felt pressure on her arm, a hand she realized. "Captain. It's Tom, can you hear me?" 

The other voice was next, "Cortical stimulator." The hand loosened its grip. She felt a buzzing at her temple. She was fighting the impulse to open her eyes. 'Leave me alone,' she thought. 

The second voice spoke again, "Captain Janeway." At the sound of her name, she came to consciousness, though everything around her was hazy, including her memory. 

Her eyes were open now, and she could see the three people surrounding her. "Captain, how are you feeling?" 

She tried to sit up, but was gently restrained by the two men on either side of her. "Not so fast," she recognized the first voice. 

"Doctor...what...?" She was startled at the sound of her own. Raspy didn't begin to describe it. 

It was the second voice this time, "Do you know where you are?" 

She tried to swallow, tried to get her body to respond to her commands. "Voyager," she eked out. 

She saw the men above her exchange glances. "She needs more time to recover now that the coma has broken." 

They looked back down at her. "Captain, you need some sleep. I'll come back when you've gotten some rest." 

She found herself grabbing his hand to stop him, "Tom." She wasn't about to let him go until she knew. "Where are we?" 

Again, a look passed between the two men. She saw Paris take a deep breath before answering her. "Home, Captain. We're almost home." 

That one word was enough to relax her. 'Home.' She let go of his arm and closed her eyes. Within seconds, she was asleep. 

~*~*~*~*~ 
END PART 6 of 9 
~*~*~*~*~