Chapter 5 Tom could recall little about the procedure. Once the biobed's arching restraints were in place he was disconnected from his body's sensation, or even from the thought of what might be happening. A small part of his medical training came to mind, and it comforted him slightly to think, "Anesthesia by dissociatives and neural suppression." He didn't realize he was chanting a mantra he recited each time he'd undergone any serious procedure. This time, as with every time, it was a new thought. When it was over he regained consciousness quickly, and immediately tried to move his legs. To his relief, the hip flexors worked, and he could actually feel the weight of his thighs and buttocks on the bed. He could bend his knees slightly, but there was no response when he tried to flex his ankles or move his toes. Even so, this was progress that he had expected to take almost a year, and only now did he realize how much fear he'd been suppressing. A casual brush over his groin reassured him that he had sensation there as well. That was a particular relief. Bashir noticed his movements, and hurried over to the side of the bed. "Ah, you're with us," he said delightedly. "We were waiting for you to recover. Seven of Nine insisted on testing your voluntary movements before adding her, uh, 'additions'." Paris' eyes scanned for Seven, and found her several meters away ostensibly staring at a padd. Her eyes were unfocused, though, and he suspected she was doing some internal re-programming. As if feeling his gaze she looked up, and Tom thought he saw a hesitancy in her face. He had the distinct impression that she had qualms, and that she was mentally cursing the lack of 'efficient Borg communication' with him. He nodded at her slowly, trying to convey that he knew something might be wrong, then raised his brows in a flicker of question. "Well, what do you feel?" Bashir's question took Tom's attention from any response Seven might have made. "Um, just like you said: Everything," he paused for emphasis, "down to my knees pretty much, just where you'd expect the dermatomes to be. Funny to apply neuroanatomy on yourself." Tom tried to look pleased -- he was -- but Seven's expression had him worried. He looked over to her. "Ready to assimilate me?" She walked toward them, and held out her hand to Bashir. "Medical tricorder," she demanded in the tone that had made B'Elanna want to hit her in the early days. The doctor handed her the instrument, seemingly not bothered by her rudeness. He was more interested in the exoskeleton of the hand holding the probe. Seven looked at the data, and ran Tom through a short series of tests. Finally she said, "I am ready. Are you?" Tom tried to find some hidden meaning, some sense of the source of her concern, but failed. Obliquely pressing for more, he said, "I guess this time Captain Proton needs rescuing, huh?" Seven nearly smiled, catching his reference to the holodeck serial Tom had played back on Voyager. Still, she kept a guarded face as she answered, "But who knows what evil machinations are plotted around our hero this time?" "Excuse me?" Bashir was clearly surprised. Seven had only spoken in rather Borg tones until now. "Voyager joke. They're an inside thing," Tom reassured him smoothly, still convinced that Seven was trying to tell him there was something was going on. To Seven he said, "Well, can the beautiful assistant save the day?" "Of course." She returned to her formal, emotionless demeanor. "You are ready?" "Go to it." Tom's voice was heartier than he felt. He suddenly wished Chakotay had not left. Seven had Bashir clear the room of assistants, then folded the blanket up from Tom's feet, exposing his legs as far as the knees. She looked at him again, as if assessing his willingness. He nodded. She held her fist out, pointed at Tom's legs, and the assimilation tubules snaked out from the back of her exoskeleton. They separated, and buried themselves in the outside walls of each of Tom's knees. Bashir gasped outloud. Tom's own stomach quailed for all that he could feel nothing. The tubules withdrew within a few seconds, and Seven said dispassionately, "It will take a few minutes." They waited in tense silence until suddenly dark pieces of biomachinery erupted with a small whirring noise from the tubules' entry site, first on one leg, then the other. This was worse than the tubes going in. The machines formed into bands that stretched half way around the upper calf. Tom watched as his toes started to twitch of their own volition. It was a stranger thing than the old brace, which had grossly stimulated his muscles in an uncontrolled series of twitches. These movements were fine, delicate. His ankles flexed his feet around in slow circles. "It is testing itself," Seven remarked. "You should begin to have conscious control soon." Bashir reached for the medical tricorder, but Seven moved it out of his reach. "No." "But this is amazing!" Tom agreed, but thought the doctor tended to overstate things. His attention, though, was on his feet, and the fleeting sensation of movement that was coming into his awareness. He hadn't bargained on feeling; he'd only hoped for control. He reached down to pinch his calf, and whooped when it hurt. The noise interrupted the silent argument glaring over his head, and the Borg and the doctor looked at him. "Pain!" he exclaimed happily, and returned to watching his feet. The apparent systems check was winding down, so Tom made a few experimental attempts to flex voluntarily, and his extremities responded. He swung his legs to the side, and made as if to hop down. The doctor, from the far side, tried to stop him, but Seven offered her hand in assistance. "It will take a bit of practice, but you and the implants should be communicating perfectly in a matter of hours." Tom found balancing to be fairly easy, and took a step. It was no more awkward than Ba'ruq and Dahl's brace had been, and was improving by the second. "No dancing yet, but this is just great, Seven." He turned his head to Bashir. "Nice job on the top half, doc. You two made a good team." "My part was simple," Bashir answered. "Her's was fascinating." Irritation could be heard; he clearly wanted to know more about the implants than simple observations by eye could tell him. Seven and Paris ignored the obvious hint. Harry Kim's voice came from the next room. "I'm looking for Tom Paris." "In here," Paris called out. Harry came into the doorway, stopped and folded his arms. "Well, you're the right height again, but you've still got to get a better tailor." Tom plucked at the fabric of the infirmary gown. "It's the latest thing in assimilation wear." "Let me see 'em?" "Sure. Stay and help me get dressed if I need it." Tom looked pointedly at Bashir and Seven, and they stepped through the door of the room, leaving him with Harry. Tom told his friend where to find his clothes, and spent his next few minutes alone testing his legs. His control felt nearly complete, and he wondered what the hell Dahl had been thinking to leave him paralyzed. Spinal shock, Bashir had said. Tom could have taken care of that himself. As he flexed, balanced, and brooded, he was distracted by an awkward conversation from the next room. It sounded like the doctor was trying to ask the Borg on a date. "If you like holoprograms, we've got quite an interesting one at Quark's," Bashir was saying. "It's a recreation of a lounge from Earth's twentieth century with the best entertainment in the quadrant." "Is that an overstatement, doctor, or do you have data to that effect?" "Well, I, uh, guess it's an opinion." The voice pressed on, "It's really quite entertaining." Seven's voice dead-panned, "Entertainment is irrelevant." Bashir didn't give up easily. "Don't you ever need any R and R?" "I regenerate as necessary. Relaxation is irrelevant." "Ah, well. Too bad then." Tom heard Bashir cover his embarrassment by moving away. Harry entered seconds after, barely containing his laughter. "You hear that?" he asked, handing over the bundle of clothing. Tom nodded, and bit his lip to keep from laughing. Before he put his pants on, they stopped to look at the external curves of the Borg implants. "How long will you need these?" Harry asked. "Not sure. Seven thinks she's set it up so the old nerves will re-grow on top of the nanoprobes, but if the body thinks everything is functioning it may not bother to do repairs. If it ain't broke..." Tom ran his fingers over the curving bands, intricately marked with Borg circuitry. He found them strangely attractive. "Bashir wants to send me to Starfleet Medical, but maybe I'll just keep these as another token of galactic unity." Harry laughed at him, but shook his head. "You'll need more than that. Klingon clothing, Betazoid decorations, Bajoran earrings," he said, handing that last to Tom. "How about a ketrecel white tube in the neck so you can show your solidarity with the Jem'Hadar?" Tom threw his pants at Harry, and Harry threw them back, still laughing. He couldn't yet balance to put on his pants standing up, but even sitting down to put his feet into the legs was a welcome contrast to man-handling his extremities into the leggings of his old prosthesis. The humor of Bashir hitting on Seven and the pleasure in simple control of his body pushed Tom toward a good mood. The company didn't hurt, either. He put his thoughts of the Betazoid's failure aside entirely and looked up at Harry. "What brought you down here? Playing hookey from Captain Chakotay?" "I thought I'd like to see you without the big man around." "Something on your mind, Har'?" He affected casualness. Harry wasn't one to come looking for a shoulder if things were bad, and Tom wasn't really in the mood for any heavy conversation. "Nothing really. I just don't get to see you much." "So you're seeing me." Tom stood with his arms out, dressed again in the loose trousers and the long vest. "Lunch?" "Sure. You going barefoot?" Tom hadn't needed shoes with the brace, and he looked down at his toes. "I guess we can go shopping first?" They stepped out into the main room where Seven was waiting patiently, and Bashir busied himself at a console. Seven watched Tom's progress. "How are they functioning?" "Adequately." He flashed a brief smile. Bashir turned at the sound of the voices and walked over to them. The doctor looked at Tom's covered legs as if he'd invented walking himself. "That's just splendid! You should have no trouble until you get full repairs at Starfleet. As I, uh, mentioned, they have some equipment I can't get out here, and it should be able to restore full function for the extremities." Tom eyed the doctor. "The Borg implant seems to be doing the trick." "Ah. Well," Bashir back pedaled. "I hope you'll consider it. I took the liberty of contacting them. I just thought you might want to have your own nerves restored." "That's very thoughtful of you," Paris replied smoothly, wondering why the hell Bashir thought Runner Tom Paris be welcome at Starfleet Headquarters. "I'll let you know. Thanks for your help." "Not at all." The doctor's smile never reached his eyes. "Glad to be of service. What shall we do with the old brace?" Tom wanted to ask for a phaser and just melt the thing, but if he knew Ba'ruq, there was a tricorder needing a control panel and slots waiting for the EPS backups that had been cobbled together to make the damn thing. "Can you have it taken to the Logan?" "Certainly. Now if you'll excuse me?" Kim, Paris and Seven stepped out onto the Promenade, and Harry leaned into Seven. "'Entertainment is irrelevant'? You haven't talked like that in years." She chuckled softly in response. "It is sometimes useful to recall my former responses to such queries." She shot an arch look at Harry, and he laughed, remembering his early attempts to talk to her Tom elbowed her from the other side. "But you didn't brush off that Ferengi ensign, huh?" "He has a good technical mind." Her voice was dead-pan. Tom and Harry's eyes caught each other before they rolled in opposite directions. "Seh-vin?" Harry drawled in teasing threat. "What?" she answered. "Give it up, Har'," Tom laughed. "I doubt you'll ever get a straight answer out of her about sex." "Who was talking about sex?" Kim protested innocently. Tom gave a bark of laughter, but Seven of Nine continued walking serenely. Harry changed the subject. "So what's for lunch? Hasparat?" "I must regenerate," Seven said. Looking pointedly at Tom she continued, "My cycle will be complete in only three hours. Please join me afterward so we can asses your implants' integration. I will have a few... pointers for you." "All right." Tom looked at her wide blue eyes carefully, and they blinked slowly. "How about at the holosuites at that bar, Quark's?. Maybe they have Captain Proton." "The holosuites will be acceptable, but I have brought my own program." To Harry she said, "Commander Kim, would you join me for dinner? I would like to discuss Ensign Nog's ideas with you." "Sure, I'd like that." Harry smiled, genuinely pleased. "Come find me on Wolf Raider when you're done with Tom." She bent in that slight bow of hers, and turned to leave them. Tom caught up with her after a few steps. "What's really going on?" he whispered, looking to see that Harry was out of earshot. "It is..." she paused, then found her word: "complicated. I will tell you everything I know in three hours." Tom let her go, and rejoined Harry. "What's going on, Tom?" Paris pretended the question was general. "Oh the usual. I got my feet back, and the best part is now I'll actually know when I want to take a piss." Harry laughed obligingly, but this time he was not to be deflected. "Everything okay with you and the big man?" "Why the sudden interest?" "Tom, nothing personal, but every time you two have seen each other the last few years, he's a serious pain in the ass for weeks after. This morning he's smiling, whistling even. What'd you do different?" Tom shrugged. He wasn't sure what had brought the change, and he wasn't willing to discuss what had happened yesterday. "I don't know. He was in full Crazy Indian mode this morning, grinning like Coyote in one of his stories." Harry looked at Tom. "Never thought of it that way. I guess I don't ever get to see that side of him, but then, I didn't live with him." A fine-boned finger ran up around the swinging earing, in a new gesture of thoughtfullness. "I haven't seen him like that in years." "Since we got back," Harry qualified. It was not a question. "Yeah." "So Tom," Harry began, then hesitated. "So what?" "So what's for lunch?" That hadn't been Harry's true thought, but Tom let it go. "I don't know. How about that hasparat stuff?" Harry grinned. "How hot can you take it, helm boy?" "Hotter'n you, Ensign." Tom stopped to comm Chakotay, to show off his new mobility and to ask after Ba'ruq. They'd made it to the Logan without incident, and Tom was relieved. He was kicking himself for putting his friend at risk, but he was still confused and angry that they'd lied to him about his injury. Ba'ruq was forgiven, but if Treyn Dahl, the Betazoid medic, ever showed up, he'd have to answer to Tom. Tom ended the call by making dinner plans. Chakotay's eyes were still teasing, happy, and Tom wanted to find out why. He had a good mystery and a disturbing one each to solve. Now for shoes and food. He found a good pair of boots. They were the first he'd spotted, but out of a secret joy at having his legs back he had to try on several different styles. He made his purchase before Harry got truly annoyed with him, then they made their way to a Bajoran restaurant. Lunch was fiery, and the talk was good. Tom answered all of Harry's questions, and Harry confided that he'd turned down two promotion offers to stay on Wolf Raider. The offers hadn't been that great, but he would have made Captain while in his early thirties. He said he turned the offers down because they weren't good enough, but Tom suspected that life close to the front lines kept Harry from having to think about B'Elanna or their daughter. Harry spoke of them only glancingly, and Tom didn't pursue. When the conversation waned he brought up some old Voyager stories. When those failed, he suggested a game of pool. They went to Quark's, enquired about holosuites, and managed to secure a billiards program. Tom left word to tell the Borg where he was, and went up the stairs, data crystal in hand. They had an hour before Seven was expected. The program was the opposite of Sandrine's, their old, rundown holographic haunt. This was a formal, well-lit billiard parlor with plush carpet, good lighting, and no smell of old beer. They played two games in companionable silence, and it was the most relaxed time the two friends had spent together in years. Tom sat on a plush stool, resting his legs as he watched his friend. The illusion of the previous day, that Harry was the same old Harry, didn't hold up over time. Tom finally ventured, "Chakotay tells me you've picked up my old habits." Harry leaned over to line up a shot before answering, "Meaning what?" "I believe the phrase was 'casual affairs'." There was a crack as the younger man took his shot, and a grunt of annoyance when he missed. Tom stood, circled the table, picked his target and bent over to aim. Before he could strike the white cue ball, Harry said, "He doesn't have any room to criticize." Tom froze except for the pool cue sliding back and forth on the fingers of his left hand, and he was no longer thinking about practical Newtonian physics. He finally hit the ball, and the answering ricochet was simply random. He remained bent over with his hands on the edge of the table. "Men or women?" He wasn't sure why it mattered; he didn't have room to criticize either. "Women. You gonna let me take my shot?" Tom stood up, and picked up his cue, returning to his seat. "Sorry. Well, at least we've got women in common," he said, picking up the thread. "So is he a serious pain in the ass after he gets together with one of them?" Harry smiled up from his side of the table. "Nah. You're the only one that does that to him." A few more shots passed. Harry was winning this game as he had the first two. Tom hadn't played in a while, and he was still getting used to having control of his legs. He tried another subject. "So why haven't you taken a promotion? You like working for a pain in the ass?" Harry sank a ball, and circled for a winning shot. His reply was seemingly disjoint. "How many of Voyager's crew joined the Runners?" "A few. Ayala, some others. I don't see them, really. Why?" Harry didn't answer. The eight ball cracked sharply into a pocket. Tom watched him gather the balls and re-rack them, all with an expression as serious and as earnest as on his first green day out of the Academy. "Nobody else understands, Tom. Compared to being in the Delta Quadrant, this war is simple." Tom laughed softly, and Harry looked at him sharply. "Sorry. It's just that Chakotay and I had the opposite conversation last night. The Delta Quadrant seemed simpler to us." It took his friend a few moments to understand. Finally he said, "Oh. For you I guess it was." He seemed disappointed. "Harry, I think I know what you mean. When you're around non- 'Fleet people, they don't know what it's like to be 'Fleet, and they have all kinds of stupid assumptions." Tom leaned against the wall, bouncing his cue on the toe of his new boots. "People make stupid assumptions about Voyager, too." "Yeah. Your break." Tom leaned over, aimed, and scattered the packed triangle of solids and stripes with a well-aimed shot. Nothing landed in a pocket, though, and he turned the table over to Harry. Tom watched him sink two, complimenting him on the second, particularly tricky shot. Harry had become quite a good player, but he missed the third, and Tom stepped up to the table. As he looked for an opening he said, "Harry?" "Yeah." "He feels the same way about having you there, about being around someone from Voyager." Harry was quiet as Tom aimed, sunk a ball, then missed his followup. Finally he said, "I know, but thanks for saying it." The chime of someone requesting entrance punctuated Harry's words. Tom walked toward the holosuite door, and as he passed Harry he clapped him on the shoulder. At the door was Seven of Nine, not looking particularly regenerated, Tom thought. Tom conceded the game to Harry, and the commander took his leave. Seven stopped him at the door, ending the billiard program and handing him the crystal. "Please return this to that odious bartender." Harry's smile was lopsided and wry. "I'll tell him you said that." She snorted in a terse laugh. "Do that. I will see you for dinner," she reminded as he left. Seven had brought her own data crystal, and she inserted it in the holosuite control panel. "Computer run zeta two two seven." The walls of the holosuite dissolved into a pale white room, furnished with gym equipment. It was difficult to see the walls, or ceiling, and even the floor was defined only by their feet and the bases of the exercise machines. It was like a workout room from a bad holonovel about the afterlife. "Nice place. The perfect Borg workout?" "More than that," she answered. "This program also locks out all listening devices, whether in the main computer or running independently." "Seems a little extreme for just an exercise program." Seven looked at him. "This is not 'just' anything." Paris studied her more carefully, but it didn't take familiarity to know that she was deeply upset. "All right. What's going on?" "You have been used."