Chapter 13

"I'm Beverly Crusher," announced the woman sweeping down on 
them, blue lab coat waving behind her.

Tom had watched her move towards them, sensing that the red-
headed woman had been aware of them from the moment they 
entered, and was staking her territory by hurrying to meet them.  
The name didn't ring a bell, though, and he wondered if it should.

Janeway extended a hand to return the greeting.  "Kathryn Janeway.  
This is Tom Paris." 

"Admiral." Crusher assigned rank, then looked down to smile at Tom 
in his ground chair.  Her smile seemed shy.  He was annoyed when 
she said, "I hadn't heard of you before, but a glance through your 
dossier tells me I should have."

Tom raised his eyebrows.  "Well, if they assigned you to me, I 
suppose I should have heard of you, but they didn't give me the 
benefit of a dossier."

Janeway cut in, smoothly defusing any budding tension.  "Dr. Crusher 
is CMO of the Enterprise.  She removed Captain Picard's Borg 
implants.  She's Starfleet's best in that area."

"Starfleet's best human," Tom corrected.  This part was crucial.  He 
had to get them to activate Voyager's EMH.

Crusher looked a bit nonplussed.  The expression of amused tolerance 
on Janeway's face reminded Tom of times back on Voyager, and his 
old captain was waiting once again for an explanation.

"I would guess that Voyager's emergency medical hologram knows 
more about Borg implants, especially the Borg that gave me these."  
Tom indicated his legs.  "Where is the Doc, Kathryn?"

Paris could feel Crusher and Janeway exchange glances over his head.  
He could see a curious mix of polite confusion covering distaste on 
Crusher's face.

"Tom," Janeway began hesitantly.  "Starfleet considered the issue of 
the Doctor to be one that could wait until after the current war."

"Besides, he's just a hologram," Crusher said, dismissively.  "I'm sure 
I can get any data I need from the EMH logs."

"I'm not sure you can."  The suppressed smile in Janeway's tone was 
obvious to Tom.  "Last I heard, his ethical subroutines put a very 
effective security lock on all files pertaining to Seven of Nine or any 
Borg technology.  If you want to know something, you'll just have to 
ask him."

Crusher's confusion only deepened at the admiral's explanation.  "I'm 
afraid I don't understand.  It's just a program, and subroutines can 
be bypassed."

"Our EMH became sentient while we were in the Delta Quadrant," 
Janeway said.  "Tampering with his program is inadvisable.  He's got 
a mind of his own, you might say, but he's very good."

"Surely not as good as a real doctor?  Those holograms are just for 
triage, for emergencies.  I never put much faith in them."

Tom finally spoke up.  He hadn't expected to encounter resistance to 
the EMH as a medical professional.  "Oh he's a real doctor.  Better 
than most.  Tell me, Dr. Crusher, didn't the android Data spend a lot 
of time on the Enterprise? You must have served with him?"

"Yes."

"Was he a person?"

"Yes, of course."  Tom watched the doctor realize where he was going.

"And is Data better at some things than a human?"

"I see your point," Crusher conceded with determined grace.  "I'll see 
if we can have him activated."

"You'll need to talk to an Ensign Straepin in Medical Engineering," 
Janeway said.  "Last I heard, she's the engineer in charge of 
Voyager's EMH."

"Well."  The Enterprise's CMO gave her shy smile again, though Tom 
thought the smile was shy while it's owner was not.  "If you'll wait a 
few minutes, I'll make arrangements."  She stepped away from them 
toward a panel on the far wall of the open atrium that served as the 
entrance to Starfleet Medical.

Tom twisted his neck to look at Janeway.  "So what's up with the 
Doc?"  He knew the answer.  He just wondered what she would say, 
and to his relief, her words echoed Seven's.

"Starfleet considers him a computer virus.  His program is in an 
isolated system, and he's rarely activated."  She sighed and folded 
her arms, her eyes following the red-headed doctor.  "I couldn't even 
get them to hold a hearing on his sentience, but at least he wasn't 
taken apart.  They might have been willing to hold a hearing for 
you," she added, looking pointedly at Tom, "if I could have presented 
them with a body."

Tom winced, visibly and a bit dramatically.  "I was wondering how 
long it would take you to bring that up."

"Do you have any idea how worried we were?"

"I've been told," he answered wryly.

"Tom, why did you disappear as soon as we got back?  And why 
wouldn't you even look at me at you father's funeral?"

He looked away.  He was being asked to justify his behavior of over 
three years ago, and it sounded as self-indulgent now as it had the 
first time. "When Starfleet denied my commission I didn't want you 
to fight for a lost cause," he answered quietly. Tom couldn't keep the 
old bitterness completely out of his voice as he continued.  "When my 
record in the Delta Quadrant wasn't good enough for them, I felt like 
everything I'd ever done on Voyager didn't matter.  Gone.  
Worthless.  I was back to square one."

"More like minus one."

"Yeah, well, I wised up."

"That doesn't tell me why you avoided me."

She was not going to make this easy.  "Kathryn," he began, looking 
away from her, "I couldn't face you knowing how much I'd let you 
down."  He paused, and when she didn't fill the gap he swallowed 
and said, "I'm sorry.  I owe you, Kathryn."

"For what?"

"For being willing to fight for me.  For being here.  For your almost 
anonymous help to the Runners."  The last he said with a wry smile, 
wondering whether she knew he knew it had been her all along 
supplying him with information and crucial technology through back 
channels.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze, but said nothing.

Crusher made her way back to them.  "It's all arranged.  Are you 
ready to get started right away, Mr. Paris?"

"Sure."  He glanced up at Janeway.  "You don't need to hold my hand, 
Captain."

She smiled at the appellation.  "I'm sure I don't.  Can we meet for 
dinner, Tom?"

"I don't know where I'll be, but I'd like that."

Crusher said, "You'll be staying in the rehab wing, if that's all right."

"Sounds fine by me.  You'll find me, Kathryn?"

"Of course.  Nineteen hundred?"

"Sounds great," he answered, and she squeezed his shoulder again 
before walking away.

The trip through the corridor was thankfully short.  Crusher tried to 
make small talk, which Tom squelched by responding with pointed 
questions about the Enterprise's battle tactics.  By the time they 
arrived at the examining room, Tom knew he had her flustered.  He 
was pleased.  The more he could keep her off balance, the easier it 
would be to do what he needed with the EMH.

Tom assumed the ensign awaiting them was Straepin, and he was 
right.  The woman looked like a standard-issue Starfleet engineer, 
cut from the same generic mold as the security team at the shuttle 
landing pad.  The realization hit Tom with surprising force that he 
was now entirely an outsider.  He looked harder at the ensign, trying 
to find some way to distinguish her, but other than the mildly 
unusual combination of golden hair over defined dark features, she 
looked as pre-packaged as the others.

Crusher was talking to the ensign as Tom mused on his changed self-
image.  They seemed to reach some agreement before the doctor 
turned back to Tom.  "We're ready to activate the program," she 
announced, and nodded to the engineer.

The familiar back of the Doctor appeared, along with his usual 
abortive greeting.  "Please state the nature --  Oh, it's you," he said, 
addressing his last remark acerbicly to Straepin.  "To what do I owe 
the honor?"

The engineer seemed unaffected by the hologram's sarcastic 
demeanor.  "You have guests."

The Doctor turned to face Tom and Crusher, clearly surprised to see 
the one member of Voyager's crew he knew best.  "Mr. Paris!"  He 
didn't smile, but Tom could see the pleasure in his eyes.  Tom 
wondered whether Crusher could see it, too.

"Good to see you, Doc.  It's been a long time."

"Exactly how long?"

"I'm not sure.  I think about three years."

A grimace passed over the Doctor's face.  "So I've been off line for 
several months.  Well, I can assume this isn't a social call."

"I'm afraid not.  Doc, meet Dr. Crusher."

"It's an honor," the hologram addressed her with some sincerity.  "I 
relied heavily on your work when I was converting Seven of Nine."  
He paused while Crusher made a polite acknowledgement, which he 
appeared to ignore.  "Seven's given you some implants which you 
need removed," he said to Tom.  It was not a question.

Crusher seemed startled by the conclusion.  "How did you know?"

The Doctor shot her the superior look Tom remembered from 
Voyager.  "Starfleet's top physician on Borg-related matters is here 
with a non-Starfleet ex-member of Voyager's crew.  Mr. Paris is in a 
ground chair, which leads me to assume that the implants are leg- or 
spine-related."  He paused to smile smugly.  "And your continued 
look of astonishment leads me to believe I am correct."

Tom was grinning.  "I told you he was good.  Doc, I've missed you."

"I'm sure I would have missed you too if I'd been left active long 
enough to think about it.  That's a nasty cut on your head."  He 
turned to pick up a dermal regenerator, and ran it over the partly 
healed scab over Tom's eye.  "So why have I been brought out from 
my cloven pine?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's a literary reference, Dr. Crusher," the hologram explained.  "And 
didst imprison him within a cloven pine."

"Oh."  There was an awkward pause.  "I'm more interested in theater 
than poetry," she continued.

"Hmm."  The Doctor gestured with the regenerator.  "But with opera 
you have theater, poetry, *and* music  And that was theater.  
Shakespeare," he added archly, "from one of the plays."

She blinked at him.  "Oh yes, well, of course."

Tom's eyes met the hologram's, watched them roll slightly upward in 
a sarcasm they shared.  "Of course," the Doctor repeated.

Tom changed the subject.  "So do you want to look at Seven's 
hardware, or what?"

"Of course."  The Doctor's mouth tensed with a repressed smile.  He 
was mocking Crusher by repeating her words.  "What kind of 
implants did she give you, Mr. Paris, and how did you come to need 
them?"

"Doctor," Straepin interrupted.

"Yes," both Crusher and the hologram answered.

The engineer shook her head, amused, but addressed herself to 
Crusher.  "I have the report from Deep Space Nine's infirmary.  Do 
you want me to download it to the EMH memory banks?"

"Please, go ahead."

Tom watched the hologram's face carefully.  The expression changed 
as he incorporated the data from DS9, and he ended up with a 
furrowed brow and a questioning look.  It was clear to Tom that the 
hologram knew the information was not complete.  Before any 
questions could be asked, Tom said, "So I guess that takes you up to 
Seven's implants."

He held the EMH's eyes, praying that the Doctor would just follow his 
lead.

"Yes," the hologram said carefully, "but clearly these implants have 
failed."

Tom nodded, not moving his eyes.  "I guess she rigged them to go if 
they were scanned.  The med scanners at the shuttle port triggered a 
shutdown."

"I'm not going to ask why there are medical scanners in the shuttle 
port.  I'll assume they're to check for Changelings."  The hologram's 
eyebrows went up.  "So, what do you need me for?"

"Well, I was hoping..." Tom paused and lifted his own eyebrows.  "I 
was thinking you could try that diagnostic trick you used to do on 
Seven."

"Which one?"  The Doctor seemed to brighten, and Tom could almost 
swear his eyes twinkled.  The EMH had figured out that Tom was up 
to something, and seemed happy to play along.

"Remember how you used to use your holomatrix to feel interference 
patterns in the circuitry?"

"You mean the one where I relax the forcefields for my fingers and 
reach into her implants?"  Tom nodded, and the Doctor continued, 
"That was never very accurate, and I wouldn't dream of including 
my impressions in formal reports."

Tom breathed a quiet sigh of relief.  The EMH was as devious as he 
was, picking up exactly what Tom wanted him to do, and even giving 
a reason that the technique wouldn't have been in Voyager's records.  
"Still, you learned something from it that led you to choose better 
specific diagnostic tools," Tom added, supporting the hologram's lie.  
The point, really, was that Seven had embedded a message and a 
small program which had been protected from the general blowout 
on the shuttle field.  The Doctor could pick up the program if he tried 
the trick on Tom's implants.  

The program would allow the EMH to remain minimally online when 
he was shut off by the engineer.  He was to use the time to re-
structure his files so that they could be stored efficiently in a Borg 
device -- not Tom's mostly-destroyed implants, but a specialized 
system that Seven was constructing with the help of Ba'ruq.  The 
message buried in Tom's implants gave the details of the plan:  The 
Doctor was to prepare to leave behind a basic version of the program, 
a copy with certain overt personality traits.  The whole, the core that 
made him unique, was to be ready to download at the first 
opportunity.

"Well, let's have a look, shall we?"  The Doctor helped Tom out of his 
ground chair and onto the diagnostic bed.

"I thought we were supposed to remove these implants, not repair 
them?" Crusher asked during the awkward procedure.

The EMH arched an eyebrow at her.  "Isn't it worth knowing why 
they failed?"

"Of course," she conceded.

Tom swung his legs onto the biobed and raised the legs of his loose 
trousers to expose the visible portion of the Borg implants.  That got 
the attention of both the doctors and the medical engineer.  

"I didn't expect them to be pretty," Crusher said with a slight tone of 
wonder.

"Under my tutelage Seven did develop a certain sense of style," came 
the smug answer.  "Now," he continued, "I'll do my diagnostics, and 
then we can remove the implants."  

What about the -- " Crusher began, then paused glancing at Straepen.

"Nanoprobes?" Tom finished.  At the red-headed doctor's answering 
glare he said, "Hey, I'm not bound by Starfleet security protocols."

"Could you step outside, ensign?"  Crusher made it an order.  It was 
the most commanding thing Tom had heard her say.

They waited while the engineer left the examination room.

"What about the nanoprobes, doctor?" the EMH asked archly.  "Did 
you remove Picard's?  It's hard to know, since those details were left 
out of your report.  Your work was most helpful on the larger 
implants but the nanoprobes gave me great trouble."

Crusher gave a tight smile.  "They gave me trouble, too.  Censored.  I 
did originally report them."

"I see.  Since I never removed the nanoprobes from Seven, you'll 
have to fill in that gap.  But later.  Right now I'd like to get to these 
diagnostics."

The smile tightened further on Crusher's face.  "Then we can remove 
the implants and begin acceleration of the regeneration of his own 
nerves."  There was no trace of question in her voice.  She was trying 
to exert her authority.  Tom didn't blame her, and guessed the 
session so far had been nothing like she would have expected, 
particularly the small talk about theater and opera.

"Of course," said the hologram dryly, but he looked to Tom for 
confirmation.  When Tom nodded slightly, the Doctor continued, "Let 
me just see what I can learn from the circuitry first."

*--*

Dinner with Janeway had gone late, and Tom had finally retired with 
the help of faceless orderlies, but his sleep was never deep.  He was 
so used to the constant hum of a ship's engine, of a station's power 
plant, that the quiet of a planetside building bothered him.  The same 
faceless orderlies came to help him up again in the morning.  They 
had come early, waking him from one of the few stretches of true 
unconsciousness he'd been able to enjoy.

The orderlies bathed and dressed him impersonally, but at least let 
him eat breakfast in solitude. Tom thought about his former Captain, 
replaying the evening in his mind.  He wanted to trust her, but he 
would compromise neither his position nor hers.  She had felt the 
constraint in him, and let him lead the conversation until he'd run 
out of stories of life as a Runner.

Then she moved in.  "I hear you saw Chakotay on DS9.  How is he?"

Tom started to answer, paused, then stopped.  Janeway waited, and 
he finally said, "He's different."

"Good different?"

"I don't know.  Different."  He stared at his water glass, unwilling to 
talk to her about wolves and hawks.

"Any chance you two could...?" she asked diffidently.

He knew what she was asking, and he didn't like the question.  "I 
don't know.  We're very different people now, Kathryn."  The words 
took on a note of finality that surprised him even as he spoke them.  
He hadn't heard a word after sending the bowl, and the silence 
bothered him.  Janeway had dropped it.  Instead, she went for 
deeper wounds.

"Can we talk about your father?  I'm not sure I ever told you what 
he meant to me."  She took a breath.  "I can't understand his 
disowning you, what he did to you after we got back, but there are 
things about him I respect.  Things I owe to him."

Tom had stiffened as she talked, refusing to meet her eye.

"You avenged his death, Tom." she said softly.  "Can't you forgive 
him?"

Tom ignored the question and sat back.  He ordered a bourbon in 
honor of Chakotay, and as they waited for it to arrive he said, "Tell 
me about this Owen Paris."

And she had.  The man she described was just as demanding as the 
one he remembered, just as rigorous, and just as difficult to please.  
There was one difference between the father he had known and the 
mentor she had admired.  The difference was that Janeway had 
measured up, and Tom had not.

He didn't tell her that.  He had let her think she was expanding his 
view of his father, giving him a clearer picture.  He also didn't tell 
her that he realized why Captain Janeway of Voyager had meant so 
much to him.  She was just as tough as Owen Paris had been, but in 
her eyes Tom Paris had, for the first time in his life, been good 
enough.

He might have been good enough for her, but on the other hand the 
breakfast in front of him now wasn't good enough for anyone.  As 
Tom mused about how replicators seemed to always work badly in a 
hospital, the comm unit blinked with a message from Mack.  He 
insisted on lunch.  Tom insisted on unreplicated food.  Mack agreed 
and arranged to meet Tom in the Medical building's atrium after his 
morning session with Doctor Crusher.

*--*

The hum of the regeneration field quickly lulled Tom into much 
needed sleep, and he woke hours later at the sudden quiet when it 
was turned off.  The first session seemed to be over.  Crusher, looking 
rather pleased, appeared beside him with a medical tricorder.  "Five 
centimeters, Mr. Paris," she reported.  

Tom sat up.  He couldn't tell a difference.

She was still talking.  "Since this therapy is routine, I'll be getting 
back to the Enterprise.  It was nice to meet you."

"Likewise, ma'am," Tom drawled.  Her politeness seemed more 
professional than genuine, but Tom didn't mind.  They appeared to 
have formed a gentle mutual dislike.  "Sorry you came all this way 
for nothing."

A sharp look crossed Crusher's face before she gave him her hesitant 
smile.  "I'm not sure what you mean."

"The implants.  They were totally fused, you said, and the 
nanoprobes inactive.  I'm sure you would have loved to have an 
isolated Borg subsystem to investigate."

The look she gave him was one of surprise, unguarded enough that 
Tom decided she was not in Section Thirty-one herself, probably 
didn't know that the original implants had been unnecessary.   
"Thank you, Dr. Crusher.  I'm sure everything will be fine now."

Her smile faded and returned alternately for a few seconds.  "Yes, 
well.  Good luck, Mr. Paris."

"Good-bye, Dr. Crusher."

He heard her exit the room, and one of the technicians helped him to 
dress.  They'd given him a ground chair that he could control, and he 
guided himself out to the large entry to the Medical complex.

Mack was waiting in the atrium for him as promised, dressed in 
civilian clothes which looked loose and comfortable.  Tom thought 
that, but for the size, the outfit could have been pulled from 
Chakotay's closet.

Best not to think about Chakotay.  Instead Tom asked, "What's for 
lunch?"

"Sushi," Mack announced.  "Real live just barely dead fish, right on 
the docks.  That unreplicated enough for you?"

"Sounds great."

They took a shuttle tube in companionable silence, then traveled a 
hundred meters or so on the surface, until they reached the 
waterfront.  They were not near the mooring slips for pleasure craft, 
an area that Tom knew well.  This place was one of fishing boats and 
warehouses -- clean, but devoted to work rather than play.

Mack led them to a wooden building that rose on pilings over the 
water, two small fishing craft tied up beneath it.  There was a 
discreet sign by a set of stairs, lettered in old Japanese, old Korean, 
and Standard:  "Suishaya."

Tom eyed the stairs, then lifted an eyebrow at Mack.

"I'll take you up. The chair'll be fine here."  

He pulled Tom to his feet, then caught him behind his shoulders and 
knees to carry him up the stairs.  When they reached the top, a tiny 
woman greeted Mack familiarly, then called into the back room, "Tell 
Dae Won to send the boat out again.  Mack's here."  Turning back to 
her guest she said, "Who's your broken friend?"

"Don't you watch the newsfeeds?  This is a genuine hero.  Mama Pak, 
meet Tom Paris."

Cradled in Mack's arms, Tom wasn't exactly in a position to shake 
hands.  He contented himself with a winning smile.  "Pleased to meet 
you, ma'am."

"Not ma'am -- Mama!" she answered emphatically.  "Mack, put him 
down."

Mack carried Tom into the room behind Mama Pak, which was 
furnished with several large tables and a bar.  He sat Tom in a chair 
next to a table made of thick wood, polished with age.  The whole 
room was made of silvered wood, and was either a well-preserved 
dockside building, or a very good reproduction.  A few bright cloth 
hangings added color, and huge open windows let in light and sea air.

"Nice place," Tom commented.

"Yep, and safe to talk.  I'll guess your chair is monitored."

"So what's up?"  Tom's question was guarded.  

Mack sighed.  "Bad news first, or food?"

"Food!" Mama Pak announced before Tom could speak, putting down 
bowls of soup.  "Anything you don't eat?" she asked Tom.

"Leola root."

"Never heard of it.  You eat, and I'll bring you food."

Lunch was wonderful.  It had been a long time since Tom had eaten 
planetside, eaten fresh food.  They were too busy with fish and rice 
to talk, and Tom was impressed once again by the sheer volume 
Mack could put away.  Send the boat out again, indeed.

After they finished and the tiny woman refilled their mugs with 
steaming tea, the two men sat back, looking out the window.

"Any trouble?" Tom asked Mack.

"No.  Not anything we can't handle.  Something got planted that 
would have implicated Mom, but she caught wind of it and un-
planted it."  

Tom was bothered that Admiral Rand had to watch her back, but 
Mack seemed unconcerned.  "So what's the bad news?"

In answer, Mack pulled a padd out of his pocket and pushed it 
toward Tom.  "Take a look at this."

It was a list of Betazoid names.  Tom looked questioningly up at 
Mack.

Without facing him Mack said, "Read 'em aloud."

"Gwanino Stehl.  Lwaxano Dohr.  Treyn Dahl.  Nwateo Sehm."  Tom 
gave the names the rolled tongue of Betazoid speech.

"Now read them with a Standard accent."

Before speaking, Tom stared at the names for a moment.  "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes."

"Going in to steal.  Locks on the door.  Trained doll.  Not what I seem."  
Tom looked up at Mack, who was still looking out the windows.  "I 
guess he's got a strange sense of humor."

"And a new posting," Mack added grimly.  "Page down."

Following the list of names was a Starfleet record for Ensign Nwateo 
Sehm, a Betazoid psychiatrist who had entered the Academy at the 
age of thirty-three, and only graduated a few months before.  The 
picture showed Dahl's face surrounded by a barely contained mass of 
curling red hair.  The last line made Tom's stomach hurt.

It read, "Current post: Temporary assignment to Wolf Raider.  
Commanding officer:  Captain Chakotay."

Tom let out his breath in a slow stream before he could speak.  
"Mack, can your mom get a message through for me?"  

"Soon as you can record it, buddy."