NEW STORY; REPRIEVE Veronica Jane Williams xkhoi@iafrica.com DISCLAIMER The characters are the property of Paramount. I have borrowed them to write this story. They will be returned. Some characters I have created, therefore I would like to take credit for them. Most notably Elizabeth Rowena Paris (Tom's mother). ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: For this story, I have used references in Jeri Taylor's MOSAIC and expanded on those incidents. The reference to Tom at the age of two years, five years, fifteen years, and as an Academy senior. Other acknowledgements: This story forms one in a story arc which I would like to refer to as my own canon of P/T stories. Therefore there will be plot threads and continuity threads running through these stories. It also means that the characterisation will remain for each of the characters sketched, unless I write outside of this canon series, which I hope to do soon. Of the characters created in this series are: Elizabeth Rowena Paris (Tom's mother) Elizabeth Rowena Paris (the younger - you guessed: Tom's daughter) Caitlin Elizabeth Paris-McClaren (Tom's eldest sister) Larissa Joy Paris-Hager (Tom's other sister) Lieutenant-Commander (later Commander) James Greyville : Aide to Admrial Owen McKenzie Paris. Diego Torres (B'Elanna's Father) Kor'ena Torres (B'Elanna's mother) Admiral Adam Gordon Rating: G MY CANON OF STORIES: IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER: 1. DESIDERATUM 8. CATHARSIS 2. WHO COMFORTS THE COMFORTER? 9. REFLECTIONS 3. B'ELANNA, B'ELANNA 10. HIS FATHER'S SON (alpha 4. B'ELANNA, B'ELANNA: EPILOGUE quadrant) 5. REPRIEVE (alpha quadrant) 6. A MATTER OF TRUST 7. THORNS AND THISTLES Music: Chopin: Fantasie-Impromptu - Impromptu no. 4 in C sharp minor (Remember the song: I'M ALWAYS CHASING RAINBOWS?) Nocturne No. 2 in E Flat Major Nocturne No. 8 in D Flat Major REPRIEVE The early morning San Francisco lies bathed in the red glow of daybreak. The city still sleeps, awakening slowly to the noises of the gulls over the Bay. Here and there a brave early riser walks along the beautifully architectured pavements on their way to work. The walkways pleasing even to the most discerning of critics. They are not the only ones already up. Not unless one does happen to count the gulls with their noisy squawking, and the odd individual who might happen to suffer from insomnia. Not all those in their present state of being awake, do suffer from this rather irritating affliction. A certain degree of excitement, fear, worry, oftentimes could be said to lead to this particular malaise. In a large apartment Owen McKenzie Paris shares with his wife Elizabeth, that gentleman groans, slowly shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, although it is still only 0500. He is careful not to wake Elizabeth, slipping out of bed as lithely as a man of his years can do. He had lain awake most of the night, only falling asleep about an hour ago. Now, restless and drained, he walks to the replicator, and gets for himself the strongest cup of coffee. He still has a full day at his office at Starfleet Headquarters, and means to be as alert as he can be for a full day's work. Not that James wouldn't notice, his aide for the past few years. Owen walks to the living room, where one entire wall is constructed of glass, giving the Parises a magnificent view of the city. But Owen Paris is oblivous of the view. Not even thinking of Palings, the family home, where he had spent happier days, is enough to rouse him from his present state of melancholy. He sits, slumped in a huge easy chair, his head bowed, as if he is afraid to face the morning. The first thing one notices about Admiral Owen McKenzie Paris, is his shock of white hair. If he had been blonde in his youth, surely age had whitened his hair. It does however, give him a graceful bearing and dignity which right now, Owen Paris shows very little sign of. The other very noticible thing is his eyes. Blue as sapphires, he has inherited the distinctive family trait, as did all his children. Elizabeth once remarked in mock resentment, at being the odd one out with her own light brown eyes. He would always remark that though the children may not look like her, they all take after her. He sits there, deeply imprisoned by his musings. He does not notice Elizabeth until she is standing right next to him. Elizabeth Rowena Paris felt the empty space beside her almost as soon as her husband rose from the bed. Sighing, she lay there a few minutes before she too, rose. She could see as she approached him, a certain despondency in the way his shoulders drooped. It distressed her to see him like this, particularly of late. He appeared to neglect himself, not that anyone but she herself would notice, and almost never ate. So at variance with the disciplined military man who would never brook from his charges the demeanour he is now displaying. "There is no place in this Academy for public displays of emotion. I expect you all to exert a great degree of self-control," were words that used to form part of his arsenal of customary lectures to his cadets. She remembered how hard he would come down on those who showed any weakness. His criticism would be harsh, unsympathetic, merciless. Owen rose at this ungodly hour every day for the past week. Imagining her to be unaware of his state of mind or the one thing that occupied his thoughts to the exclusion of all else. But today, she knew, was different. A woman who had been rather beautiful in her younger days, she was blessed with that rare quality of growing gracefully with age. She had that aspect of youth which belied her years. Owen had a healthy respect for Elizabeth's quiet strength. He may have been the provider, but she was the primary caregiver where the children were concerned. In her own way she could, with just a stare, crumble their youthful obstinacy and rebelliousness. Being the wife of Owen Paris, an admiral at that, had taught her to cope with him with the greatest degree of patience and love. He had his flaws, serious ones, she was inclined to think. But she loved him, and it was her love for him which carried both of them through the last few years of trial. He had become well nigh impossible in the last three and a half years, but she never wavered, showering him unfailingly with love and caring. Reminding him that with her, he need not mask his pain, he need not pretend. Denying perhaps her own needs, her own unhappiness, the luxury of grieving, for the sake of letting her husband show his, his private torment only she can see. This morning, she thinks, he really needs me. So she knelt beside him, stroking the back of his hand in a distracted manner. "What's troubling you, Owen?" she asked. She was not unaware of the anguished look on his face. He placed his hand gently over hers, and looked at her. He knew he must answer. She never faltered from looking at him, and somewhere in her heart, an answering chord sounded; it rose suddenly so fiercely, she almost gave up waiting for him to speak. His haunted look awakened her own fervent yearning, and for a very brief moment, she saw in his piercing blue eyes, the face of another. "Today would have been his birthday, you know." A single tear rolled down his weathered cheek. "I know, dear," she said brokenly. "I know..." He sat there, his hand in a caressing gesture on his wife's head, and wiped a tear from her face. It was no use, he thought forlornly. How can I forget? For a moment his son's face flashed before him, and with it, a thousand memories came crashing from the past as the years rolled away. ***** Two year old Thomas Eugene Paris was the apple of his father's eye, if indeed that gentleman, the admiral, could be said to have favourites. Little Tom was, after all, the baby. It being human nature to shower all affection on a youngest, or an eldest, for that matter. Woe the one who suffers the middle child syndrome. He had two older siblings, Caitlin and Larissa, who were forever Mama's darlings. Although they happened to fight all the time, giving poor Mama some real mother headaches, they showered their collective love on him. Especially when Daddy was in a bad mood and they invoked his displeasure, it seemed they folded him under their wings. Letting him play with them in their rooms that had a message on their doors which said: No Boys! He was not jealous that they were Mama's favourites, after all, they were girls. He tended to think, that he was his father's son, who would follow in that man's footsteps. His Mama did make the best chololate chip cookies from scratch, however, and she didn't use the replicator half as much as his friend Freyne Detroit's mother did. In his young mind, if Mamas were good for anything, it was to make the best cookies in the whole universe. And wipe their tears when they were unhappy. And patch the scrapes on their knees. And chase away the monsters under their beds. And give them the evil eye when they've done something wrong. And make them apologise to their friends. And hold them when they were afraid. And kiss them on the forehead and say: "Don't worry, child, he won't hurt you..." What he liked best of all, was to ride with Daddy in his shuttle whenever his father had to go on business to Mars, or Marseilles or visit his friend Vice-Admiral Pryce, who lived with his family on Earth's moon. Daddy would then strap him in the co-pilot's seat, while he was clutching with fierce possession, a scale model of Zephram Cochrane's Phoenix. Next to flying with Daddy in his shuttle, this was his very best toy. Daddy wanted to give him a present for his second birthday, and showed him the Academy's database of all kinds of craft, aircraft, spacecraft, sea vessels, everything. He just took one look at the Phoenix, and knew and it was to be his very best toy. He didn't know why, but he thought it was going to have great meaning in his life. Daddy tried to explain to him about warp drive and the Vulcans who came to visit because of it. He didn't understand much of it, but he was sure going to, one day. "When you are a flyer one day, you'll know exactly who Zephram Cochrane was," Daddy told him. No doubt, he could easily leave his Harrier Jump Jet and his Stealth Bomber at home. Daddy told him they were fighter aircraft of the late 20th century. Not that he understood, naturally. As long as it was something that could fly, he was happiest. And if he could fly with Daddy, why, then his life was complete! Everytime he flew with Daddy, he would stare intently (after promising to sit very quietly) at the control panels, watching how his father's fingers would dance nimbly around. It fascinated him. How the panels would light up, and do everything Daddy wanted the ship to do. Already he sensed you had to know which was which of course. So he would stare for what seemed like forever to him. Boy, he thought, Daddy makes it look so easy. He must watch carefully, he promised himself. He already memorised the whole pre-flight sequence. When he told his Mama that, she gave him her evil eye, then gave Daddy the same evil eye: "Owen, dearest, what are you teaching this child? He's only two years old, for heaven's sake, and already so precocious." He couldn't even say the word pre-pre-precocious, much less understand it's meaning. But he could see how his Daddy was just beaming from ear to ear and kissed his Mama on her mouth. He thought if Daddy couldn't make Mama mad, then he'll also beam from ear to ear. That's when Mama gave him the eye, and threatened to clout his ear. He must just remember to ask Daddy what thrusters and impulse engines and propulsion systems and inertial dampers are. He knows already that when Daddy engages warp drive, they go very, very fast. He likes it when they they go so fast. He can see the stars flying by. Daddy would look at him and ask: "Are you enjoying the ride, son?" He would just shake his head vigorously up and down. One day I want to fly, young Tom promised himself. One day I want to be the best pilot in the whole universe. ***** Owen Paris always marvelled at the solemn way in which Thomas would sit quietly next to him and watch him handle the controls. The child would stare like that for hours, not even fidgeting with his precious Phoenix. He was obsessed with anything that could fly. His toys made for an impressive collection of craft through the centuries. Strangely enough, besides his Phoenix, most of his other toys were crafts of the twentieth century. He saw even at so early an age, the great potential lurking in Tom. His prodigious ability manifest in the way he could memorise, assimilate information. Like the pre-flight sequence, and even put his hands on those controls. It awed Owen Paris. And he wondered just how far he could stretch this young child to achieve things so far beyond his age. He thought it was possible to expand the mind of a gifted child, to offer all possible stimuli which he knew the child could grasp very quickly and spontaneously. They often had an intuition, an instinctive ability to understand concepts other children of the same age and older would take naturally years to develop. Owen thought himself the ideal person to be on hand to cultivate Tom's fledgeling expertise, and mould him on the model of all the great flyers before him, clone him on the epitome of his forebears - the great Parises. Admiral Paris often had little tolerance for his Academy cadets who weren't fast enough, quick enough or even talented enough to snap things this child, at the age of two was already getting a sense of. He honestly believed that some people were born with an affinity for certain things. And he believed Tom had it. Smart kid. "Say, Tom, would you go through the pre-flight sequence for Daddy? I could use your assistance here," he asked one day when Tom was three. Tom beamed, shook his head up and down and said: "Affirmative!" It shocked him a little that Tom could respond so well, way ahead of his years. He felt the pride swell in him, the prospect of another admiral in the making, the prospect of seeing what could become Starfleet's greatest pilot sending shivers through him. He had his hopes. He had his dreams. He had accomplished most of that for himself, through sheer hard work and guts, always in the shadow of his own father, the great Argonne Paris. But now they were all centred one person, his youngest son. This child who inherited his father's looks and his mother's sunny disposition and who looked so at home behind the controls. ***** Elizabeth Paris looked over her spacious grounds at Palings and spotted five year old Thomas playing with his best friend Freyne Detroit. With motherly pride she watched the two of them. She had long accepted that Tom is being bred as it were for "greater things", as Owen would put it, but she tried as much as possible to tone down his father's obsession with the child's achievements. To her, he was just her little boy, who still had so much growing to do. And the way he played, why, he was just all boy. She saw her son, curiously brilliant, yet still able to want to enjoy all boyish exploits. Looking at them, she prayed fervently that they would make it to manhood, as balanced and well-adjusted as they could be. The two boys were locked in what to her seemed like some serious conversation. She doubted it would last long. She was raising two daughters who seemed to redefine sibling rivalry. And, as friend- ships go between two buddies, five years old and all, they were really no better than the girls. She just wondered at what moment Tom and Freyne would end their convivial discussion. Not a moment too soon, she realised, when Tom suddenly jumped up and pounded Freyne with his small fists. Freyne needed no invitation as he hit back. She just knew they would both have some bruises tomorrow. "I did!" Tom screamed, his face red with childish anger. "No, you did not!" came Freyne's angry rejoinder. "Did too!" Elizabeth decided this was the point at which she would intervene, knowing they would soon be rolling down the short embankment and into the little brook, if she didn't stop them. So she quickly rushed to where they were about to tear each other apart, grabbed Tom by his favourite shirt, packed Freyne off home and walked with Tom to their front porch. Elizabeth looked at Tom, looking every inch outraged at whatever had been the source of their argument. "Now, Thomas Eugene, would you explain to Mama what that was all about?" Uh-oh... Tom thought, if Mama calls him Thomas, she means business. She never called him by his full name. He looked at her, already half ashamed, then he studied the toe of his shoe with great interest. If he looked at her now, he'll surely start bawling. They have that effect on a person, he thought. Talk about looks that could kill. And if he didn't explain now, Mama won't let Daddy take him in his shuttle tomorrow to Marseilles. Oh, his Mama can be so cruel sometimes. He wondered if all mothers were like that. He knew if he didn't say anything now, she'll carry out her promise. Marseilles! He was already practicing asking Daddy to allow him to start up a shuttle simulation. And he can practice doing so all the way to Marseilles. The truth, Tom decided, would be the only thing to satisfy his dear Mama. "I told Freyne I could fly a shuttle," he said, carefully looking at her from under his long eyelashes to gauge her reaction. "And Thomas," Mama asked, "can you fly a shuttle?" Young Tom sighed. "It's only a simulation! I know I can do it, Mama! If Daddy will allow me. Pleasssse! Let me go with him to Marseilles! I promise I'll be good, Mama." "And you told Freyne you can actually *fly* a shuttle? Shame on you Thomas Eugene Paris. I do not raise my children to speak untruths," Elizabeth spoke in her most pedantic and censorious way. "And you promise you'll be good? For how long, I wonder?" It is really difficult Elizabeth decided, to censure your son when he looks at you with such innocence in his puppy-dog blue eyes so like his father. I do love them so! She sometimes wondered though, whether Owen wasn't pushing Tom too fast too soon. Already now she could see Tom trying everything to impress Owen. To impress your father would probably be less damaging, she thought, than trying to please him. For she had a sense of foreboding that that was what Tom's hero-worship of his father would lead to. Particularly if the object of your idolatry is so difficult to please. She sighed. "Fine, son. You can go with Daddy tomorrow. But I expect you to go to Freyne now and apologise to him." "Ah-h-h ... Mo-o-m!!" ****** (the present) Elizabeth Paris took her husband's hands in hers and looked up at him. He had that faraway look in his eyes, and she wondered if she would ever see the hauntedness that was his constant companion these days replaced by perhaps a sparkle of the old Owen. Anything, anything, she mused, but this soul's torment. She knew how he suffered. She knew his many regrets. His remorse. How he crucified himself. But my husband, can't you see that I suffer too? Am I not reminded every minute of every day of our son when I look upon his father's eyes? she cried wordlessly. "We do have good memories of him, Owen. Good memories. We must hold on to that. But Owen dearest, we must accept that he is dead. That we will never see him again. And if Kathryn Janeway had enough faith in him to have him on that mission, we must take comfort that he did not die in vain." "Oh, Elizabeth, the faith you have for both of us!" But if only you knew. If only you knew. God forgive me, because somewhere along the way I lost sight that I was dealing with a human being, that I forgot he was my son, that he had feelings and passion for life that I ignored. I wanted him to be man too soon, when he was only really a child. I was consumed with ambition for him, robbed him of that precious commodity of an unfettered childhood, free of the chains of obsessive parental expectations. More than ever now, the realisation that I knowingly, deliberately destroyed a human being. Rob him of the opportunity to be his own person, to see him develop naturally, be sunny and outgoing. Laugh. I have never seen that in Tom. Never after I had my hand in him. How I miss that clear laughter, those eyes that could sparkle with humour. If anything can haunt me more than words, it is in your eyes. That accuse... Dear God, how this knowledge comes to a stupid old man too late. Too late to make restitution. Too late to turn back the clock. Too late to plea for clemency. A stupid old man who let pride stand in the way of redemption. If I could live my life over, I would have my son with me. If I could live my life over, my son would not hate me. ***** Owen Paris remembered the day young Tom completed the shuttle start up progam and simulation when he was five years old. He begged his father to allow him the attempt at Starfleet Academy. If he had any doubts or apprehension as to Tom's prowess, these were obliterated by the child's complete mastery and intuitive grasp of what he was doing. With no help from his father, who sat in the co-pilot's seat. Tom entered the pre-flight sequence then proceeded to enter his own parameters and degree of difficulty for his flight. He remembered his complete stupefaction that what Tom was doing, first year Academy cadets usually had problems with. This boy could, Owen realised with awe, pilot my own shuttle all the way to Marseilles, or to the moon and Mars. With fierce parental pride he gathered his colleagues to see what this precocious child was doing. They were certainly sceptical, declaring that Owen could have preset the auto-pilot. Which outraged young Tom so, he astounded them by repeating the simulation, and to add insult to injury, entered a new set of parameters. Owen Paris knew then, without a doubt that young Tom was headed for greater things, and he, Owen Paris was on hand to see that Tom achieve this in the quickest way possible. ***** Elizabeth Paris always thought that that fateful day Tom surprised everybody with his shuttle start-up program and simulation, was the day Tom lost his childhood. For he became no longer her sweet, funny, well-adjusted smiling son who could with such engaging innocence overturn any attempt to censure him, even as she did so with gentle firmness. She imagined that most parents had ambitions for their children; most parents wanted what they thought was best for them; most parents guided their childen without putting undue pressure on them, letting the children determine what their own limits were. In that respect, Owen Paris was no different from any other parent. But, Owen Paris the man, was austere, implacable, had a biting humour, and Owen Paris the Admiral, was forged from generations of Parises in the 'Fleet - for whom attributes like discipline, correctness, dignity, and above all, a certain intolerance for weaknesses formed fundamental components of their character. Combine this disposition with an already obsessive ambition for your youngest and only son, and you will have lost him long before you could enjoy the child developing naturally to adolescence and manhood. Her son now lived to please his stern father. Tom would be unhappy for days if he thought he made any mistakes or failed, for he didn't want to see his father's disapprobation and disappointment. It seemed suddenly as if Owen was expecting him to achieve so far beyond his tender years and level that nothing that Tom did, appeared to be good enough. It could always have been better, according to his father. It was an uneven competition in which Owen determined the rules and changed them. Set the goal posts and moved them further. She remembered on one occasion at the end of a school semester that Tom disappeared. They found him a few days later, debilitated and sick, because he thought he had a bad report. He began spending his days locked in his bedroom. Once she thought she heard a sniffing, and knocked on his door. It was perhaps fifteen minutes later he opened the door. She could see his eyes were red, but like a brave boy he tried to hide it. "Tom, what's wrong, sweetheart?" "Nothing, Mama," came his answer. "Yes, something's the matter. Look at me, Tommy." He was sitting on his bed, his legs tucked under him. When he looked at her, she could see the unhappiness so clearly in his eyes. "You can tell me, you know, Tommy" "I didn't get full score for my last test in geometry." "Who says you have to, your teacher?" "Dad." Elizabeth sighed. Tom's woes began and ended with his father. "Come here, child." Elizabeth sat on the bed and hugged her son to her. The tears he had tried so bravely to keep away, rolled warmly down his cheeks. His little body stiffened, he was angry with a child-like resentment. "Tommy, you know what you are capable of, don't you? And you know you can do it, not so?" Tom nodded his head. "But I guess you don't want someone telling you all the time you can, or you could have done better." No one likes that, I can tell you. You feel the pressure all the time, it makes you nervous, isn't it so?" Tom nodded his head again. Vigorously this time. She stroked his hair, his face comfortingly. Dear God, she thought, how can I convince a nine year old child his dad means well? When he himself is beginning to think his best isn't good enough? When he starts cowering as soon as his father voices his disapproval at Tom's schoolboy pursuits, like playing soccer, playing hoverball, tennis, doing art, anything that might take his attention away from his ultimate goal? To attend Academy as the son of Owen Paris, be the best? "Come, child, let's go to the kitchen. I've made some of your favourite cookies. Then you can tell me what you did at school today. Or what you and Freyne got up to this time." She tweaked his ear playfully, saying that. Yes, overnight Tom's sunny disposition changed to one of fear. The kind of fear that he would fail and his father would remind him of his military heritage and discipline. Owen made obvious attempts to prepare Tom for the Academy. He was drilled by his father to think that mistakes were failures. That fears were weaknessess. That to be a failure, was not something a Paris included in his resumè. Tom had to be the best at the Academy. So while still at school, he was instructed in the ways of Starfleet discipline. He would stand on attention when his father addressed him, his arms stiff as ramrods by his sides, back straight, shoulders erect, chin up. Tom took to calling his father "sir". Like the cadets at the Academy. After all, wasn't that what Owen Paris called his own father, the great Admiral Argonne Paris? It broke her heart. So, from an early age, Tom learned first hand what Academy cadets had always known over the years: that Admiral Owen Paris was a man who exacted extreme obedience; was a hard taskmaster; very, very few people could measure up to his standards, they were so rigid and high; his reputation was legendary; he didn't suffer fools and failures. Young Tom, his own son, not yet a cadet, was at the receiving and of his father's tough treatment of his charges. Isn't it a wonder, she thought, that Tom would become a rebellious teenager who took every opportunity to anger and embarrass his father? For sure, he did everything Owen wanted of him to do. He was accepted by the Academy while still at school. He excelled, but he did so many other things she knew was a way to get at Owen. Tom knew where to pierce his father's armour. Even as a child, with no encouragement, negative or positive, Tom had been a risk-taker. He would beat Freyne at any game they played; he had to climb that extra higher branch, stay longer than anybody she knew of his age, underwater; lived, so to speak, in typical boyish exploits, on the wild side. Once he even borrowed a shuttle, took Freyne to Switserland, and the two of them spent days climbing the Eiger. The North face of the Eiger! He was only sixteen! But she knew it was always tempered with that extra care, that growing sense of responsibility she could see was present in Tom. Now, he took the kind of risks no teenager should take. The kind where it became easy to make mistakes. He buckled under the weight of his father's unrelenting pressure to perform. He lived so close to the edge of danger that she herself feared for his life. She tried to caution him. To her Tom would listen. But when cautioned by his father, it was like oil on fire. They would engage in heated disagreements. Tom would taunt him by getting more and more into trouble. And the more Tom rebelled, the harder Owen came down on him. In Owen's books, there was simply no margin for error. Her husband was in that respect intolerant. He saw mistakes as failures. It fascinated her in a way, to see father and son so often at loggerheads. More so as she could see Tom was still trying desperately to gain approval, acceptance. She thought that there was no way these two could ever recapture that simple, loving father and son relationship she knew existed between them when Tom was much younger. "Owen," she asked him one day, "You told me not to tell the children that you were tortured by the Cardassians when you spent that year in deep space." She knew she was treading on sensitive ground, but she felt it was important if the children were to understand, and particularly Tom, why he was so much more difficult to live with. Owen looked at her, a thunderous expression on his face. She wasn't fazed by that. "Elizabeth," he groaned, "how can I tell Tom, of all people that there was a time that I was scared? That I expierenced fear? He'll laugh at me. Me, Owen Paris, who told him fear is weakness? That for a few hours I didn't know who I was?" "But Owen, that's exactly my point. Tom is very empathic, you know. You've been so busy training him to your hand, you missed seeing what he is really capable of. I think you underestimate him. Certainly he'll understand if he knew you were tortured, that those are just some of the risks anyone who wants to enter the Academy, must be prepared for. I think you want to make him so strong, so invincible, you want to protect him that way." Elizabeth knew, as soon she said it, she struck home, when she saw the look of capitulation on her husband's face. "How can I, Elizabeth? Admit to my own son I was weak?" "Owen, dearest, our son would just think that you are human, like the rest of us. That there are times people give in to their fears. It would make him love you more, not less, for he would think he's not the only one afraid. There is something about the community of pain, despair, hope, that makes us stronger. Because of that, we can draw on each other's strengths." How can I convince this stubborn man his son would not reject him? She knew in her heart of hearts that Tom loved his father, that Owen loved his son. She knew that Owen wished things could have been different between them. Alas, too late, the self-recriminations and regrets. When Tom was alive, albeit still missing on a starship lost somewhere, there was still that hope that Owen could attempt to regain what was lost between him and Tom. And that hope was still a tangible one. Now, after Voyager was declared missing and its crew dead, even that last glimmer of hope that Owen had of trying to find a way to Tom's heart again, died forever. Sighing, she wondered if Owen hadn't realised that he was to a great extent responsible for the direction Tom's life had taken. ****** Admiral Owen Paris, resplendent in his uniform, the very essence of Starfleet Command discipline and bearing, entered his office with the usual dread he had been having the past three and a half years. By nature and discipline he would not show any emotion, although today he felt the pang of loss so acute, it registered as a physical pain in his chest. Something he was wont to explain to Elizabeth, that he was developing heart problems. But Lieutenant-Commander James Greyville, his aide, knew differently. And he was concerned that his boss did not want to admit that his health was declining. He had seen his boss wither into a haunted, tormented being, a shell of his former self, although he took great pains not to let anyone, least of all his colleagues, see it. James felt the older man was seeking absolution. But the young aide could also see that none was forthcoming. Therefore the admiral could have no peace. He was driven, but he was driven by remorse, by guilt. James felt for the older man. His own relationship with his father had always been sound, not without it ups and downs, particularly during his adolescence. But they talked. And he wanted to carry on that tradition one day when he had children. After hurriedly apprising the admiral on the latest developments concerning the normal day to day running of his affairs, he left, leaving the admiral to his usual pastime these days: brooding. Admiral Owen Paris fingered the scale model of the Phoenix absently. It was Tom's favourite toy. It bears for him a special significance, symbolising the good relationship he and Tom had, an eternity ago. His glance shifted to the family picture, showing dear Elizabeth, flanked by Caitlin, Larissa and Tom. It was a happy picture, showing none of the turmoil that had strained family relations. For a while the girls avoided him, blaming him directly for what happened to their brother, that he showed so little tolerance and understanding. The accusation in their eyes all too clear for him to see and making him feel even more miserable. Larissa, in particular, had a very difficult time, the man she married three years ago, the brother to one of the officers who died at Caldik Prime. He knew there were many things he couln't protect Tom from, but if only he showed greater understanding. He was, as always, drawn to the framed photograph of Tom, whose eyes laughed, but whose smile appeared to taunt him. He closed his eyes at the sudden pain at Tom's expression when he stalked into his dormitory at the Academy. He thought Tom was one of the cadets killed. Getting angry for thinking that he might have led the other cadets to perform the Kolvoord Starburst, a banned maneuver that got another cadet expelled from the Academy. He thought Tom was dead. His heart was racing with that fear. But when he saw Tom... "What the hell were you thinking, Tom? This is Starfleet. You must learn that you will lose loved ones, people close to you. Show more spunk, man. You must take responsibility. Look at you!" "Dad, Freyne died, Dad. It's my fault. I couldn't save him," Tom said at length, distraught over the death of his best friend. Owen should have known then in those moments, how Tom had been affected by Freyne's death. He distress so great, he called Owen 'Dad' instead of 'sir' as he always did. "Tom, in this environment you learn, you must learn to accept loss. That you will lose those under your command. Let this be a lesson to you. You know I abhor such displays of emotion." He said that as if he hadn't heard Tom's words. As if he couldn't see Tom's pain, the way he sat hunched on his bed, head resting on his elbows. It didn't strike Owen Paris that Tom's closest friend, his childhood buddy died. He was himself too relieved that Tom was unhurt. That Tom didn't die. How wrong it came out. His response. He had seen Tom cringe. He never meant for his concern and relief to come out the way it did. But it did. And the damage of it irreparable. He never did sympathise with Tom over the death of his best friend. For that he was too proud. To admit to your own son you were sorry about your reaction. Oh my son. How often I wanted to make amends. I was angry and filled with shame at the things that happened to you. Of what happened at Caldik Prime. I saw your mistake first, and not your attempt to tell the truth. In that you showed that you took responsibility for your action. I failed to accept and understand that. Rather, I was too concerned about position, family name, reputation. Mine. I was the first to condemn your subsequent action, and the last to understand it, done out of anger more than anything else. When you needed me most to understand you, I failed you. For that, I seek forgiveness, but I cannot find the peace that forgiveness brings. How can I find that peace, when all I see every time, is the way you looked at me, that last time? Your eyes begging me to forgive you. You even took a step forward, and held out your hand to me in silent supplication. Asking me to forgive. Owen Paris closed his eyes at this memory. His response to Tom something he wished now he could wipe forever from his memory. God help me, Tom, for telling you not to call me your father. For telling you no one of such morals could be the son of an admiral. Because in that moment I saw the light go out of your eyes. Owen remembers the terrible sense of loss when Tom was led away, in manacles. That all the time Tom walked, he did not once look back. All attempts he made to see Tom, even for his mother's sake, was met with anger and rebuffing. Tom did not want to see any of them. He knew that as long as Tom had been alive, there was a chance, even a remote one, that he could ask his son's forgivenss. Knowing that the Voyager was officially declared missing and its crew dead, made whatever hope he had of making restitution, impossible. Now it was too late. Tom is dead, and he, Owen Paris, will never have peace. Now more than three years later, there is still no reprieve, no lessening of the guilt and remorse that has corroded his soul. ***** Owen and Elizabeth Paris were enjoying a quiet evening three weeks later; they had just finished their dinner, and had retired to the lounge which overlooked the Bay. It was a togetherness between two old people where even the silences were comforting. Owen broke the silence first: "Do you remember, Elizabeth, how Tommy used to take his Phoenix everywhere with him? He wanted to know what happened to the real Phoenix." "And you had to take him to the Smithsonian, to see it. He knew everything about Zephram Cochrane before he started high school. Yes, I remember." She looked at her husband with kindly eyes. He was beginning to talk freer now of Tom. She was glad. "He used to say Zephram Cochrane was an unwilling hero. He wanted to emulate that; he was always fascinated with warp theory, always willing to show me his latest researches." Looking at him, she gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. He gave her a comforting smile. She thought she was beginning to see acceptance. At last. "Owen, I'm a mother. I know Tom was not the world's cutest angel. He was no saint. He had his faults too." Elizabeth sighed then. "And I want to believe he wanted to - to make amends. I want to believe he was sorry for the things that went wrong in his life. My dearest, if Tom were alive today, I know in my heart he would have wanted to make things right between you." "Elizabeth, I would like to believe that too. Believe that all the lessons he learnt at the heart of his mother, that some of it he retained. Yes, my heart, Tom learnt from you that telling the truth and being honest is one of the most important tenets of life. Only," and he sighed, "I didn't recognise it in him then." They were still talking when the familiar beep of their communications console interrupted their conversation. "Excuse me, Elizabeth. It's probably James with some odd items he wishes to talk to me about. You know how he is - always too precise and diligent. I like him. He reminds me a little of T---, I'm sorry," he said, seeing her pained expression. Stepping into the small home office, he seated himself at the console, the computer's voice informing him of an incoming message from Starfleet Command. Tapping the console, he saw James' face, as inscrutable as ever. "Sir, is your wife Elizabeth with you?" "James, I have no other wife," Owen replied with his rare flash of humour. Elizabeth had already followed her husband and stood in the doorway of the office. Owen beckoned her closer. "Yes, she is right here. Is there anything wrong?" "Sir," James started, "I have been given permission by Starfleet to relay this intelligence to you. At the moment the information is still classified, until a board meeting is convened tomorrow at which you too, must be present." "James," the Admiral said with a little of the old fire and impatience he usually reserved for cadets, "get on with it, man." "Admiral and Mrs Paris," James started loftily. "We have received news that the Federation Starship USS Voyager has been traced and is stranded 60000 lightyears away in the Delta Quadrant." Owen Paris felt the blood drain from his face, he felt a dizzying buzz and heard James' voice from a long way off, and his heart thudding erratically. "Message received...USS OHIO relayed through EMH of Voyager. Present crew complement... your son...Thomas Eugene Paris... lieutenant... Voyager's pilot ... bring Voyager home...hero..." "May I say sir, thank God, sir..." By the end of James' message, one single fact stood out, which Owen, while clutching Elizabeth to his side, repeated like a litany: Tom is alive. Alive...alive...alive... All the while Elizabeth looked at her husband, she watched how through the sheen of tears, Owen McKenzie Paris smiled again. DIE EINDE I would like some feedback. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Some may think I've gone a little over the top expounding Owen Paris' obsession with perfection, and his son's achievements. I'd like to account something, which, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed a parent's attitude and actions could be so damaging: I was watching a schools rugby match of under 10's at Cape Town's most prestigious rugby grounds: Newlands. I happened to sit near the dad of one of the boys playing. At the end of the match, this boy, all of about nine years old, and his friend, came to his father, his eyes shining with the enjoyment of having played and represented his school. He was patently seeking his father's good approbation. The father took one look at the child, smacked him in front of his friend and everybody who was watching and said: you missed that try (points scored), your team lost. I told you what to do, how to dummy around your opponents. The father's reaction and statement, needless to say, made me sick. V.J.W. Watch out for next story: A MATTER OF TRUST Veronica Jane Williams xkhoi@iafrica.com