Disclaimers:  All characters (minus Maria Paris, Justine 
Paris, Marcie Paris, Admiral Craig Douglas, Walker, Nichola, 
Conel, Christophe, Grayson and Commander Parker) and 
everything that is Trek, belongs to Paramount and Viacom.  I 
am merely borrowing them to have a little fun.  This is set 
after 'Message in a Bottle' and takes on the premise that 
the crew of Voyager received letters after sending some out 
with the Doc.  I wrote this during a period of two weeks 
while on the commuter train after "Message in a Bottle' 
first aired, and it's taken me a while to re-read and make 
corrections, while working on a poli.sci. paper, at the same 
time. This story is copyright 1998.  Thanks go towards Khan 
and Nick for beta-reading this (Thanks guys, I appreciate 
it!).

Revelations

"Owen." 

Admiral Owen Paris looked up upon hearing his name.  He saw 
Admiral Craig Douglas walk into his office.  "Craig, what 
can I do for you?" Owen asked as he motioned for his friend 
to sit in front of him.  Craig seated himself and remained 
quiet for a while.  Owen could sense that something was up, 
and Craig seemed…nervous.

"Craig?"

"Yes, Owen?"

Paris repeated his question.  "What can I do for you?"

"I have something to tell you Owen, and I'm not sure how 
you're going to take it,"  Craig answered slowly.

In the forty plus years that Owen knew Douglas, he had never 
known his friend to be so nervous or deliberate in his 
phrasing.  "Craig, what's wrong?"

Craig took a deep breath.  "Well, to begin with, we got the 
Prometheus back."

Owen brightened.  "That's great news!  Did we have any 
complications?"

"Nothing that we couldn't handle," replied Douglas.  "But we 
did get a surprise onboard."

Paris looked intrigued.  "Oh?"

"Two Emergency Medical Holograms were activated, and *they* 
took back control of the ship."

Owen's eyebrows furrowed.  "Yes, but how could two 
holograms…" He broke off in thought.  "Two?  But wasn't only 
one installed?"

"Yes," Craig confirmed nodding his head.

"Then where did the second one come from?"

"The Delta Quadrant," announced Craig.

"Who in the Delta Quadrant would want to send us a 
hologram?" asked Owen.

"Voyager."

Owen dropped the PADD he had in his hand, and lifted his 
head in shock.  "What?"

"It came from Voyager," Douglas repeated.

Owen paused, trying to say something.  "How?" he managed to 
sputter.

"Voyager found a sensor network of some kind in the Delta 
Quadrant.  They found that they were able to send  the EMH 
through the array, and he landed on the Prometheus."  Owen 
remained silent.

Voyager.

Voyager was alive.  And in the Delta Quadrant?  He looked at 
Craig for an explanation.  

Douglas sensed this and continued.  "Apparently, an advanced 
being called the 'Caretaker,' through some means, brought 
her there.  However, in the process of doing so, roughly a 
third was killed or mortally wounded.  The same goes for the 
Maquis ship that they were after."  He glanced at Owen.  
Paris was silent.  No emotions showed, his face a blank.  
There was nothing to read.

Nothing.

However, Craig had a feeling that he knew what was on his 
friend's mind.

Tom.

The Admiral and his son never got along—everyone knew that.  
Douglas also knew that the two Paris' had not been on 
speaking terms before Voyager disappeared.  Come to think of 
it, they had not spoken to each other since the trial.  Or 
was it Caldik Prime?  He could not be sure, and Owen seldom 
spoke of his son.  When Voyager disappeared, all that Owen 
said was that it was a shame for Starfleet to lose such 
valuable commodities of both ship and crew.  He did admit 
that he had a soft spot for Janeway.  She was one of the 
finest officers he had ever commanded.  When asked about 
Tom, Owen just shrugged and responded: "Does it really 
matter?", before changing the subject.  That happened every 
time.  Some interpreted this as being cold, callous and 
indifferent.  In fact, many did—especially the cadets.  They 
suggested that if the 'Great' Admiral Paris could act like 
that towards his own flesh and blood, than he would have no 
hesitations about doing the same to them.  Owen overheard 
this one day, when walking with Craig and another colleague.  
Both men noticed Owen's eyes darken and show a bit of 
regret.  Before, he had a reputation for being hard.  

Now, it was for being impossible, and his courses to be 
taken only for academic suicide.  

Unfortunately this worked only so far.

Owen taught a required course.

"The two crews then combined." Owen looked at his friend as 
Craig continued.  "They had no choice.  They destroyed the 
array to protect an alien race, ending their chances for a 
quick way home.  The Maquis sacrificed their ship to help 
protect Voyager.  Besides, to operate Voyager, the two crews 
needed to combine—and it was only fair!  Plus, it's under 
Starfleet orders."

"Oh," was all Owen managed to say.

"Tom's still alive,"  Craig announced, looking for any 
reaction in his friend but seeing none.  "He's the primary 
pilot, and a damn fine one too according to the EMH." Paris' 
eyes now showed shock.  "The EMH said that he was amazed 
with Tom's good health, especially with the way he is.  
Apparently, he has no hesitations about putting himself in 
danger.  The Doctor said that with all the times that Tom's 
been in Sickbay, he may as well have his own biobed!"  Craig 
chuckled at this.  Craig Douglas had been on one of the 
Starships that went after the Prometheus, and had actually 
talked to the EMH.  He had found it cute that the hologram 
actually had a personality.  It was a bit on the strange 
side, but nonetheless, one was present.  He was also  
amazed, to find that not only was the Doctor learning on his 
own initiative, but was also considered to be a full-fledged 
member of the crew.

"Tom's alive," said a shocked Owen.

"Yes, he is," confirmed Craig.

A bit of concern that he quickly hid, showed in Owen's eyes.  
"How…?"

"He's fine.  He's been through a few scrapes, died…"

"What?" cried Owen.  Owen knew that he could be himself 
around Craig.  The two of them had been  friends since grade 
school.  Craig knew Owen well, and would not repeat this 
conversation to anyone.  
"He died after going Warp 10," Craig explained.  He saw 
Owen's look of incredulous.  "Yes, Warp 10,"  he repeated.  
Craig felt like laughing.  "How's that for the history 
books?"

Owen cracked a smile.  "My wife will certainly love it.  But 
if Tom died, how come he's still alive?"

"He came back to life a few hours after his death, and then 
proceeded to mutate into another being.  They reversed it 
with anti-proton bursts."  Owen only nodded.  "Here," Craig 
said, holding something in his hand.

Owen took the items.  "What are they?"

"Letters.  One is from Janeway, the other is from Tom," 
Craig explained.  Owen's eyes darkened.  "You don't have to 
read them if you don't want too."

"I'll read Janeway's," Paris said.

"And Tom's?" Douglas asked, as he put three other chips onto 
the desk.  Owen assumed that these were for his wife and 
daughters.

"Give me some time, Craig.  Give me some time," Owen 
answered.

"Okay," Craig relented, getting up and walking to the door 
to leave.  "But you will only have until 06:30 tomorrow—
that's when we're taking the replies to a certain 
designation.  From there, we'll send them."

"Why so soon?" asked Owen.

"They ran into a race who claimed the network.  We have to 
send any replies quickly so that we know that they'll get 
them.  Think about it Owen, but don't think too long," 
Douglas said as he left the room.  As the doors closed, Owen 
fingered the letters, including the ones that Craig put onto 
the desk.  There were five of them.  One for his wife, his 
daughters, and two for him.

Tom wrote a letter to him.
How's that for small wonders?
But did he want to read it?
He did not know.

Owen looked at the PADD on the desk.  He still had work to 
do, so he pushed the chips aside and lifted the PADD off the 
desk.  As he continued his work, he found his eyes and 
thoughts drifting towards the letters.  Each time he caught 
himself doing so, he quickly focused on his work—only for 
his focus to lapse.  Around 16:30, he gave up and left his 
office, the chips in a briefcase.  No one bothered him as he 
left Starfleet Headquarters for home.  All had noticed the 
blank look on his face.  A mask.  The same one that his son 
inherited from him.  

As he approached his house, he felt a chill go down his 
back.   He remembered using this same route when his 
children were younger—when he taught full time, at the 
Academy.  Owen remembered how Tom's face brightened, when he 
came home; of how Tom rushed over to him, insisting on 
carrying his father's briefcase.  He remembered giving Tom a 
pat on the head for what he did, for being a good boy.  The 
look on the child's face was priceless, full of love and 
worship.

'A pat on the head,' he scoffed as he walked up to the front 
door.  'Just like a dog.'  He took a deep breath and turned 
the doorknob.  "Maria, I'm home," he called out.  

A blond lady with blue eyes, in her late 50's, early 60's, 
came out into the hallway.  "Owen," Maria Paris said in 
surprise. "You're home early."

"Is that a problem?" he asked a bit defensively.

She shook her head.  "Of course not, don't be ridiculous!  
Justine and Marcie are in the kitchen.  I'm teaching them to 
make a soufflé.  The old fashioned way,"            

"That's the best way to make it," he commented, giving her a 
quick kiss.  He then followed his wife into the kitchen.  He 
saw his daughters grumbling at what they had to do.

"Girls, if you don't want to do the work, replicate one," 
Maria said.  Both girls looked at her in mock horror.

"Mother!  You know very well, that a soufflé is just not 
soufflé, unless it's baked properly!" exclaimed Justine, the 
eldest.

"Besides," chimed in Marcie, "Aren't you the one who keeps 
saying that if we're to do something, that it has to be done 
properly?"

Maria joined her daughters at the table.  "No, that's your 
father."  Owen winced at that.  He knew that it was true, 
but he did not like the tone of his daughter's or wife's 
voice.  The latter sounded a bit too harsh for his tastes.  
He walked to the table, opened his briefcase, and pulled out 
the chips.  After looking to whom they were addressed to, he 
handed one to each of the women. 

"What's this?" asked Maria quizzically.

"A letter."

"From whom?" furthered Marcie.

"Tom."  That produced surprised, shocked expressions on 
their faces.

"Thomas?" asked Maria, her voice hoarse from the hope she 
felt.  "But how?"

Owen Paris took a deep breath.  "A new ship on a shakedown 
run, got a visit from Voyager's Emergency Medical Hologram," 
he began to explain.  "Using an alien relay sensor network 
in the Delta Quadrant, she was able to send him to the Alpha 
Quadrant.  After a while, he was able to tell us 
everything."

"The Delta Quadrant?  How did they get there?" inquired 
Justine, as she fingered the chip she was just given.

"A being called the Caretaker, brought them there from the 
badlands," he answered, and continued to relate the events 
that were given to him.  

When he got to the part of Tom being the ship's chief pilot, 
Marcie's eyes gleamed.  "Just where he belongs."  He nodded 
at this and went to his wife.

He put his hands on her shoulders.  "He went Warp 10," he 
said with pride.  

Her eyes widened.  "What?"

"He went Warp 10," Owen repeated.  "The first person to do 
so."

"I should have known," Justine put in.  "If there was a way 
to go faster, Tom would have to be the one to do it."

"But why can't they come back using Warp 10?  I mean, if 
they have it, they would be home right now.  Right?" asked 
Marcie.

"It was found that by going Warp 10, some…side effects 
cropped up.  They may have found Warp 10, but with their 
information, I think all attempts to duplicate it will be 
off—for a while at least.  Knowing Grayson, he'll have 
halted his research by now." 

Maria looked at her husband.  "Oh?"  The look was returned, 
so she let the matter drop.  He then went back to his 
briefcase.  "I have to get some work done, so I'll be in the 
den," he announced, snapping the case together.  "If you 
want to reply to him, it has to be done before 06:30, as 
they have to be sent from a certain place.  It seems that 
the sensor network has been claimed by some race, and they 
appear to be a bit hostile."  The three women nodded their 
understanding.

As he was leaving, Justine called out, "Dad?  Didn't Tom 
send you one too?"  

Owen looked at her.  "Yes," he answered, and left for the 
security of his den.  He entered the room and closed the 
door behind him.  He then went to the wooden desk by the 
window, pulled out the chair and sat down.  When he opened 
the case, he took out a few PADDs and the chips.  As he held 
the chips in his hand, he closed his eyes.  When he thought 
of the rocky relationship that he had with his son, his 
emotions turned from confusion of what do, to that of anger.

Anger from the stunts Tom pulled at the Academy.
Anger from Caldik Prime.
Anger from the trial.
Anger for discrediting the Paris name.

He opened his eyes, full of flame.  He set Tom's letter 
aside and put Janeway's chip into a PADD.  After the 
information was entered, he pressed a button and began to 
read.

	Admiral Paris; it began,
	              I thought that I may never say those 
words to you again.  I'm glad that I am.  I wanted to tell 
you how thankful I am with the fact that you were not only 
my teacher, but also my mentor and my friend.  I learned a 
lot under your tutelage.  Many of your lessons I have had to 
use—either in part, in whole, or in some strange roundabout 
way.  However, I think that you have not listened to 
yourself entirely.  This is regarding the part where if one 
has to find the answer, to understand a person's actions, 
you must delve below the surface, into their being.  The 
reason why I am saying this, is because of Tom.
	Tom is a fine officer—one of the best that I have had 
the pleasure of working with.   He is also one of the best 
pilots in history (in my humble opinion).  I also consider 
him to be a close friend.  I have given him numerable 
commendations, each well deserved and not to be taken 
lightly.  He has gone Warp 10, helped track down a spy, 
helps in Sickbay as a part-time assistant to the Doctor, and 
once after the ship was taken over by a race called the 
Kazon (he escaped in a shuttlecraft), formulated a plan, got 
help and retook the ship.  I can tell you that most of us on 
the planet which we were stranded on, thought that we would 
never see him again.  But I've learned not to underestimate 
your son.  He is the last person to give up hope, and the 
first to volunteer for what some may call 'suicidal' away 
missions.  And he usually comes out on top.  Of course, he 
has a knack for finding trouble and sometimes getting into 
it (unintentionally of course), but he has always survived 
with his quick wit intact.
	I remember my dislike of Tom when I first met him.  I 
did not like him because of the embarrassment he had caused 
you.  But once we got to the Delta Quadrant, he wanted to 
help out any way he could.  Apparently, he had made a friend 
out of an ensign fresh from the Academy; and when Ensign Kim 
had disappeared, Tom wanted to make sure that he was all 
right.  Then it hit me: there was more to Thomas Eugene 
Paris, then met the eye.  I assigned him to Conn and gave 
him the rank of lieutenant junior grade.  Please trust me 
when I say that he has deserved it.  In fact, I am going to 
give him a promotion hopefully not to far from now (if all 
goes according to plan).
	He has not only earned my respect, but also those of 
the crew—Maquis and Starfleet in origin.  He helps everyone 
out in anyway that he can.  Tom helps by boosting morale 
(usually by holding parties and creating holodeck programs), 
gives shuttlecraft lessons on the holodeck, and can come up 
with some of the craziest ideas due to his warped sense of 
humour (no pun intended).  But we would not have it any 
other way (though the Doctor would like it if he did not go 
into dangerous situations as often as he has in the past.  I 
know that B'Elanna would agree).
	Looking back on this, I have to say that the Thomas 
Eugene Paris of today, has always been there.  He has only 
been hiding, not letting anyone know him for who he was, for 
who he is.  It seemed that for a while, he was afraid of 
letting people in, of letting others become close to him.  
But he got over it, eventually, with the love, patience and 
unconditional friendships of his friends.  No one on this 
ship can imagine what their life would be like without Tom.  
Frankly, neither can I.
	I wanted to thank-you for having a fine son.  He can be 
a bit stubborn and it may take him awhile to admit that he's 
wrong at times, or to see things a bit clearly, but he is a 
good person.  He is capable of so much in so many ways, that 
he has only begun to reach his potential.  What you and 
Maria have taught him, has helped to make him the man he is 
today.  He has made mistakes, however, so have we all.
	Let bygones be bygones.
				Love from your student,
				Kathryn Janeway

Owen looked up from the PADD, after reading the letter.  He 
was shaken.  For once in his life, he actually doubted 
himself.  Was this the same Tom who was responsible for 
Caldik Prime?  Was this the same young man with whom he had 
always argued with?  The same person who went to prison for 
treason?  With a shake of his head, he decided that no, it 
was not.

It was a facade.
Not real.
He would soon show his true colours.

And then he stopped.

He had to reluctantly admit that Janeway was right.

He only saw what was on the surface, what Tom wanted him to 
see.  He did not— would not—look beneath the many layers of 
his own son.  Tom had developed and used the art of the 
'Paris Mask'.  Only show what you want them to see; not who 
you are.

He became troubled by this.
Had he really misjudged his own son that much?
His own flesh and blood?
Evidently Janeway thought so.
He knew that his family did.

With a sigh and troubling thoughts, he put down the PADD and 
rubbed his eyes.  He starred outside the window into the 
backyard.  The den was on the ground floor and with the 
architecture of the house, at this angle, he could see the 
entire backyard.  With a smile, he remembered seeing his 
children playing in the pool.  Swimming, splashing, 
torturing each other.

***

*Tommy!  Stop splashing me!*
*I am not!*
*Are too!*
*Are not!*
*Are too!  Dad, tell him to stop splashing me!*
*Thomas, stop splashing your sister.*
*But Dad, you can't play water-polo without any splashing!*
*Really?  Who are you playing water-polo with?*
*Justine.*
*I am not!*
*Yes, you are!*
*I am not!*
*Are too!*
*Thomas, your sister is not playing water-polo with you, so 
stop splashing her.*
*But who will I play with?*
*You have better things to do with your time.*
*Like what?*
*Study.*
*But it's Saturday!*
*It doesn't matter!  You are a Paris!  You have to be the 
best!*


***

"Have to be the best."

"Pardon me?  Owen?"  Owen Paris turned in surprise at 
hearing an unexpected voice.  Maria looked at her husband 
with concern.  "Are you all right?"

"Yes, why?" he quickly asked, recovering from the memory.

"You scared me.  For a moment, you looked haunted—almost the 
same as you were after the war," she answered, putting down 
a mug of coffee on the desk.  "Distant even."

He shrugged and brought the mug to his lips.  "Just 
thinking."

"Do I even have to ask about what?" He smiled at this.  His 
wife knew him even better than he knew himself, at times.  
He shook his head.  Maria smiled and gave her husband a kiss 
on the forehead.  "You know where to find me if you want to 
talk," she said, then left the room.

Owen looked back out the window.  Hard as he tried, he could 
not hear any more children antics.  He looked at the PADDS 
he brought home with him.  Who was he kidding?  He could not 
do any work!  He swung his chair 180 degrees to face the 
rest of the room.  His gaze roamed until finally settling 
down on a wall of shelves, filled with books.  His wife 
insisted that it would provide an ambiance that would be 
more conducive for work.  At the time he had protested 
against it, but he had to admit that she was right.  He gave 
a small smile as he noticed the oversized chair by the wall 
of shelves.  Owen went over and sat down in the chair, and 
fingered the books.  This was Tom's chair, and his little 
section of the shelves.  Sure he had a bookcase in his room, 
but Tom had said that these books would be better off in 
here.  Whatever that meant.

He gently took a hardback out, and saw that the it had a 
place saved.  He turned to that page, and came across the 
poem 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion' by Dylan Thomas.  He 
did not know that Tom liked poetry.  He saw another saved 
place in the same book and found Samuel Taylor Coleridge's 
'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner'.  'Insensibility' by 
Wilfrid Owen was next.  All had feeling to them—if you 
allowed yourself to feel.  He could understand how Tom could 
spend hours in here reading books of poetry—and plays he 
added, as he noticed Shakespeare.  He got off the chair, the 
book of poetry still clutched in his hand and noticed the 
literary selection.  Bronte, Dumas, Dostoyevsky, Fielding.  
He then squinted his eyes.  Tom Clancy?  Robert Ludlum?  He 
grabbed another book.  'The Hunt for Red October.'  He took 
both books with him and sat down at his desk.  

Owen opened Red October and began to read.  It started off a 
bit slow in his opinion, but he soon got into the plotline.  
He was at the part where Mancuso was thinking of the 
submariners motto in that there were two kinds of ships; 
submarines and targets.  Admiral Paris gave a laugh in 
appreciation of this.  He was sure that he could turn this 
analogy into something he could presently use (since there 
were no longer submarines in usage today).

"Dad."

Ryan is now with Greer in CIA Headquarters at 4:45 am.  He 
certainly could relate to that.

"Dad."

Five and a half hours of sleep in the past thirty?  Ha!  He 
had survived on less!  But still, Ryan was a civilian.  
Though one would think that a former Marine would…

"Dad!"  

Owen dropped the book that he was reading.  "What?!" he 
cried out in a cross between a state of irritation and 
alarm.  He turned his head and saw Justine peering through 
the doorway.  She gave him an impish smile.  She had never 
seen her father so engrossed in something not related to 
work, let alone a piece of late-twentieth century fiction!  
That was one of Tom's favourite books, and area of 
interests.  

"Having fun?" she asked mischievously.

He looked at her ruefully.  "I suppose."

"You *suppose*."

"Yes, I like it.  It's a surprisingly good read." 

Justine pushed the door and leaned against the doorway.  
"You may be interested to hear that the President of the 
United States of America at the time, also liked it."

The Admiral brightened.  "Really?"  His daughter nodded.  
"So, what can I do for you?"

"I have to go now," Justine announced.  "Walker will be home 
soon, and I want to surprise him with my soufflé."

"Justine, can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Have I been a good father?" Owen asked.

"What?" she exclaimed, barely believing her ears.  "Yes, you 
have."  'I guess,' she thought.

"Have I always been there for you?" he persisted.

Justine looked uncomfortable, put the soufflé on the desk 
and sank into a nearby chair.  "Permission to speak freely, 
Admiral?"

'Oh boy'.  "Permission granted."  *I don't want to hear 
this!* his mind screamed.

"You have been a good father—in your own way.  But…,"

"I was not there for you, was I?"  She shook her head sadly.  
Owen closed his eyes with a shaky breath.  

Justine went over to her dad and hugged him from behind.  
"But you had other things on your mind to worry about.  
Grading papers, the war with Cardassia, dealing with…what 
happened."

"The torture," he stated.

"The torture," she affirmed.  "You went through a lot and 
kept it bottled up inside.  You wouldn't let anyone near 
you.  And you sometimes took it out on us."

Owen looked at her in horror.  "I never hit any of you!"

"No, you didn't.  At least, not physically."

"Then how did I take it out on you?"

"Mentally.  Emotionally.  Psychologically."  She paused for 
a moment.  "I know that…" she trailed as she took a deep 
breath.  She tried, but she could not go on. 

Owen could see this, how it affected her.  "I'm sorry.  I 
know that it's not enough, but I don't know what else to 
say."

"It's okay.  We understood—or at least I did," she consoled 
as she sat back down.  

"But what of Tom and Marcie?" he asked.

"I don't know.  They never talked about it with me.  Dad, I 
take after you.  Marcie takes after Mom, and  Tom takes 
after the two of you.  You control yourself.   Rigidly.  
Mom's Italian, and when she feels, you know it.  I control 
myself, that's why I'm a good lawyer.  Marcie lets herself 
feel and that's why she a good artist," Justine explained.

And Tom?"

"Tom feels.  It's just that, he's learned how to mask those 
feelings.  He tries to control them the best that he can.  
However, sometimes in order to do so—in order to push them 
away— he uses humour, cockiness, or tries to get someone 
else mad at him."

"What?  Why?" asked the Admiral, interested in how his son 
was being explained.

"A way to release those emotions, a way to try to get out of 
there.  It really depends on the context.  Have you noticed 
that he never gets mad?"  Justine asked her father.

"No.  No, I never have," Owen said slowly.

"He's a bit of a control freak in that area.  According to 
him, he has one hell of a temper.  And one time, he let out 
that he nearly lost control once—when he was a teenager.  
And it scared him.  And Marcie too.  I don't know what 
happened, or how she was involved, but she said that she 
didn't know that he was capable of that."

"Of what?" Owen asked.

"I don't know," Justine responded.  "She wouldn't tell me.  
Neither would he.  In fact, Marcie still won't."  Owen only 
nodded.

"Do you think that I treated…misjudged your brother?" he 
inquired.

With a lump in her throat and seeing the inner pain, she 
only answered truthfully.  "You should have gone lighter on 
him, especially as a kid.  I mean that there is more to life 
than studying.  You could have been a bit more 
understanding, and yes, you did grossly misjudge him.  There 
is a lot more to your son than meets the eye."

He gave a small smile.  "That's what Janeway said in her 
letter."

"She's right," agreed Justine.  "Tom is very complex; even 
more so than you or me."

"We can blame your mother for that."

Justine laughed.  "Maybe.  Tom may be a Paris, but he's 
still human.  He's not infallible, or omnipotent, or a Q."

"Thank god for that."

Justine looked at the clock on the wall.  She was 
uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.  "I 
have to go now.  I wrote a reply to Tom and I want to stop 
by Starfleet Headquarters on the way home to drop it off.  
Who do I give this to?"

"Craig."

"Uncle Craig?"  Owen nodded.  Justine got up and gave him a 
quick kiss on the cheek.  "Good-night," she said, as she 
scooped up her pastry and left.

"Good-night," her father called out after her.  'Tom feels.  
That may explain this poetry,' he thought, as he picked up 
that book and opened it.  It seemed to open to a page on its 
own.  'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.'  He noticed that 
some of the passages were marked by a pencil.  One being:

	'Ah!  Well-a-day!  What evil looks
	Had I from old and young!
	Instead of the cross, the Albatross
	About my neck was hung.'

According to something written beside it, it meant: 'The 
shipmates in their distress, would fain throw the whole 
guilt on the ancient mariner: in sign whereof they hang the 
dead sea-bird round his neck.'

The next passage that was also marked was:

	'The pang, the curse, with which they died,
	Had never passed away.
	I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
	Nor turn them up to pray.'

The 'curse' he understood.  It was Caldik Prime, Owen 
thought.  He thought about that day, being informed that his 
only son was in an accident.  

An accident which killed three others.
Three of Tom's friends.
The accident to which Tom admitted being responsible for.

Did he not teach his son better than that?  Apparently not.  
But as Justine said, Tom was only human, and not infallible.  
So why did he expect Tom to be perfect?  Why was he harder 
on Tom in every aspect of his life?  Why did he push so 
much?  He thought of every conversation that he ever had 
with his son from being a young child, to a young man after 
graduating from the academy.  For the majority of these 
talks, they were not pleasant.  There was something always 
wrong with Tom back then.  It was either 'You should be 
doing this,' or 'You should be doing that', or 'You ought to 
know this already—or are you that stupid?'  The Admiral 
winced at this.

Stupid.

He had basically called his son stupid.  No child should 
ever be called stupid.  He also remembered several 
other…words which he shot at Tom, which he called Tom, in 
the heat of various arguments.  He thought that his kids 
would know that he did not really mean them.  Evidently they 
didn't, and he had a feeling that they took them to heart.  
At least, Marcie and Tom.  Justine too, he felt, but he 
could not tell.  She was too good at hiding her feelings.  
But so was Tom.  Owen closed the book and put it on top of 
Red October.  He sat there, remembering, not liking what he 
was seeing.  Not liking himself at all.  For a moment, he 
thought that he saw himself and Tom inside this room.  After 
Caldik Prime.

***

*I made a mistake!*
*You made a mistake?!?  Paris' do not make mistakes!!!  What 
you did was inexcusable!  Do you know how you made me look?  
In front of all of Starfleet?  You are a disgrace to me, 
this family, and the Paris name!*
*I made a mistake, Dad.  I know that nothing I can ever say 
or do will change things, or make amends…*
*Amends?  Oh, that's rich!  Listen now you snot-nosed, no-
good spawn, you are not fit to be my son!*

***

Owen's eyes widened as he remembered this—basically for the 
first time.  He did not know what he had said when he spoke 
those words to his son.  But he knew that Tom did.  He could 
see Tom's eyes widen in fear, shock.

***

*You don't mean that.*
*The hell I don't!  Now get out of my house and out of my 
sight!*

***

As his eyes started tearing up, Owen had to get out of 
there, out of the room.  It was too constrictive.  He 
quickly moved his chair and left.  The Admiral found himself 
in the living room, and noticed the baby grand piano.  He 
went over to it and sat on the bench, after pulling it out.  
As he opened the lid and skimmed the keys, he remembered Tom 
playing it.  Actually, playing very good for a lad so young.

***

*Thomas, it's time to stop playing around.  Go upstairs and 
study.*
*But Dad, I'm done my homework.  Besides, I'm practicing, 
not playing around.*
*No Thomas, you are playing around.  What will this bring 
you?  How will this help you with a job?*
*Maybe I'll be a pianist.*
*No!  You will not be a pianist!  You will be in Starfleet!  
We have a family tradition to uphold, and I will not allow 
you or any frivolous activities get in the way!  Do you 
understand?!*
*Yes sir.*
*Now go upstairs and study.*

***

Owen could see the fear in Tom's eyes at the time.  He was 
only seven, and had never heard his father talk with such 
venom in his voice before.  Owen realised that he should 
never have done that.

"Dad, are you okay?" A voice brought him back to the 
present.

"Hmm?"  He turned around and saw Marcie.  "Yes, Sweetheart.  
Why?" 

She sat down beside him.  "You look lost, distant."  She 
turned her attention to the piano.  "When was the last time 
that Mom played this thing?"

" A few years.  Maybe more."

"I bet that this hasn't had a proper tuning since Tom was 
here."  Marcie mentally kicked herself.  Her mother had told 
her and Justine of what had happened when she was in the 
den.  He was distant and uncomfortable.  A man with a lot on 
his mind.

"Maybe we should get it tuned."

"Why?  Who would play it?"

"Your brother," he answered softly.  

Marcie looked at surprise at her father.  "I was under the 
impression that he was no longer welcomed here."

"Maybe I was wrong." 

Marcie peered at Owen.  "What brought this on?"

"He was good, wasn't he?  Playing the piano, I mean."

She smiled wistfully.  "Yeah, he sure was.  Mom once said 
that if he had kept up with the practice, and with his 
potential, he could have probably made it to Juillard.  Or 
something like that." She knew how her father felt about 
that.  For his only son, it was to be Starfleet and nothing 
else.

"Maybe he was meant for the Arts," he mulled softly.

"Oh, I don't know about that.  He always said that flying to 
him, was an art.  'A good pilot feels as though he's one 
with the ship that he's flying'.  He used to say that, until 
Caldik Prime."

Owen turned to his daughter.  "Have I been a good father?"

"In your own way."

He harumphed.  "That's what your sister said."

"She's right," agreed Marcie.

"But was I there for you?  The way a father is supposed to 
be?" he asked.  His eyes were pleading for the truth.  

Even though she wanted to, Marcie was like Tom.  She could 
not live with a lie.  Not with her own father pleading with 
her.  "No."

Owen Paris closed his eyes, and tried to control the myriad 
of emotions he felt inside.  Anger.  Sadness.  Regret.  "You 
and Tom are a lot alike, aren't you?"

Marcie smiled.  "In a way, yes, I guess we are.  I could 
relate to him better than I could with Justine," she 
confirmed.

Owen nodded his head.  "That's what your sister said."

"Oh?  And what else did my dear sibling say?"

"That she takes after me, you take after your Mom, and Tom 
takes after both of us," he answered, referring to him and 
Maria.

"That sounds about right," Marcie confirmed.

"She also said that while I may not have hit you physically, 
I did do you emotional and psychological harm, after the 
war."

"She said what?" cried out Marcie in disbelief.  What on 
earth could have possessed her sister to say something like 
that to their father—even if it was true!

"You heard me.  And she was right too, wasn't she?"

Marcie tried to disentangle herself from answering.  "Gee, 
look at the time…"

"Marcie, the truth!"

"Fine!  Okay, you did!  And it hurt!  It hurt back then, and 
it hurts now whenever I think about it!  There, happy?" she 
cried out.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have listened?" she asked with tears welling up 
in her eyes.  That stopped him.

"No.  No, I would not have listened," he admitted.  
Painfully.  

"So why should we have told you, when you would have 
disbelieved us, and not listened?" she pointed out.  The 
Admiral was at a loss for words.

"How did you deal with it—all of you?"

"Promise that it goes no further between us?" she asked 
shakily.

"I promise."

"No, I mean *PROMISE*, promise."

"Yes," he said, exasperated.

"Justine dealt with it by studying and sex.  I dealt with it 
by music, writing and sex.  And Tom dealt with it by closing 
himself off, playing the piano when you were not here, and 
by sex," she answered candidly.

"I guess I should not have done that."

"No.  No, you shouldn't have," she agreed.

"Justine said that Tom feels.  How much left did he feel 
after I got through with him, with that last blow before 
prison; when I kicked him out?  Or did he feel anything at 
all?" Owen asked his daughter with hurt, regret and sorrow 
filling up his eyes, along with unshed tears.  Marcie 
noticed how much this was affecting her father.  She could 
see that he was remembering the past, and that made her 
remember too.

"He tried to bury all of his feelings.  He felt guilt for 
what he did to his friends.  To you.  If he could have gone 
back through time to change what he did, he would have.  But 
he couldn't.  Then he lost your..." and stopped short.  She 
swallowed before continuing, "Then he lost you.  He tried to 
replace all feelings he had with anger and indifference.  
And it worked!  It worked so well that he became a part of 
it—actually, I should say that it became a part of him.  In 
some respects, you didn't know if the 'real' Tom was still 
alive, or if this 'new' Tom took over.  Completely.  And 
that maybe the real one was dead," Marcie explained, as 
tears ran down her face.

Owen closed his eyes and clutched his daughter's hand.  
"What did you mean by 'your' Marcie?  Before you broke off, 
you were going to say something else.  What was it?  And 
please don't lie to me.  What else did Tom lose?"  

"Dad, please.  Don't"  Marcie pleaded.

"Please.  I have to know," Owen begged softly, his eyes 
welling with tears.

"Your love.  Tom said that when he lost you, he lost your 
love as well.  Or maybe he never had your love before, and 
on that day, he knew for sure that he didn't.  He also said, 
that he knew your true feelings about him."

"No."  He tried to deny it but could not.  "Mary Mother of 
God, what have I done?  What did I do?" he ground out, tears 
spilling onto his cheeks.  He wanted to force his daughter 
to admit that she was lying.  

But he couldn't.

Because he knew that she was right.
And he hated himself for it.

Marcie put her arms around her father to comfort him.  
Maria, wondering what had happened to her daughter and 
husband, came into the living room unnoticed.  She did not 
want to intrude, hid by the entrance, and stayed there due 
to curiosity.  She had overheard most of the conversation 
and made herself  stay put.  It was not for her to 
interrupt; this was something that Owen had to do on his 
own.  However, she had never seen or heard her husband open 
up so much to his children before.  She did not like the 
fact, that her husband made his children feel what they did 
as youngsters.  She knew that it affected them, but did not 
know how much so.  When she heard what it did to Tom—
especially with regards to Caldik Prime, she felt her heart 
break.  Still, she did not like to see her husband hurting 
like this.  Then again, maybe some good could come out of 
this yet.  Maria heard her daughter trying to comfort Owen; 
the latter holding on for deal life.  Crying.

"Feel better?"  Marcie asked her father.  

Owen sniffled.  "No," he answered flatly, as he let go of 
her.  "I grossly misjudged my own son and never gave him a 
chance.  I don't suppose you know if he really wanted to be 
in Starfleet?"

Marcie shook her head.  "I don't know.  I know that he 
wanted to join because you were in it."

"And also because I pushed him into it." 

She shrugged at her father's answer.  "I don't know about 
that.  I suppose that's partly true.  I know that he wanted 
to please you.  He  didn't like the Academy too much—too 
many snobs—but he liked the fact that he got to see new 
places.  Adventure.  Excitement.  He had always craved them.  
Being in Starfleet delivered that."

Owen nodded, then stopped short.  He looked at Marcie.  
"Snobs?  At the Academy?"

"Yes, Dad.  And they were usually Fleet brats too.  He 
didn't like their superiority complexes.  In fact, that's 
one thing he—or I—didn't like about Starfleet.  And to a 
certain degree, I still don't,"  Marcie voiced.

Owen felt that he had to defend the institution he both grew 
up with, and now worked for.  "Starfleet does not have a 
superiority complex!"

"Most of the officers do.  Whenever someone makes a mistake, 
how many are willing to give that person a second chance—or 
look beyond that mistake?  If Tom had not falsified reports, 
would you have?" Marcie asked her father piercingly.  Owen 
had to admit that he would have had a hard time.  He also 
remembered a friend of Tom's--Ro Laren.  She had made a 
mistake.  Some were willing to let her prove herself again, 
and gave her a second chance.  People like Jean-Luc Picard.  
But what of people like him?  It had taken him a long time, 
but eventually he had come around.  Then she had joined the 
Maquis.  They were good friends, Tom and Ro.  He wondered if 
Ro Laren was just as complex, as his son was.  He then 
remembered what Justine mentioned.

"Marcie, just how bad of a temper does Tom have?"  

Marcie sobered up immediately, guarded.  "Why?" she asked, 
knowing that something was up.

"Something that Justine said, that's all."

Marcie measured her words.  "Let me guess: she asked you if 
you've ever seen Tom mad or lose control, right?"

Owen nodded.  "She said that Tom once mentioned that he had 
a temper, and that you once said that you did not know that 
he was capable of something.   What was it?  Did he get 
violent?" he fished.

'Violent?' Marcie thought.  'Baby, you go straight to 'Go' 
and collect $200!'    


It was when Tom was 18, and in Marseilles.  He had brought 
her to his favorite watering-hole called Sandrines.  
Sandrine liked Marcie, and commented on how fresh-looking 
and innocent she looked.  She remembered smiling at this, 
because she was in a hot and heavy relationship with her 
boyfriend at the time.  Sandrine also mentioned how 
different the two sisters were (Justine had visited their 
brother beforehand).  Marcie had a fun time.  It was the 
afterwards, that she did not like.

A few guys in the bar were interested in her, but backed off 
when she said Conel's name repeatedly.  But one guy did not.  
It seemed that when Justine had visited two months 
previously, she had made a…friend out of him (AKA, the one-
night-stand).  Apparently, he wanted the same type of 
'friendship' from her.  He just kept hitting on her, making 
lewd suggestions and groped her a few times.  Each time she 
ignored him, took his hands off of her rear, and finally—and 
in polite terms too— told him to take a hike.  Tom was 
getting angry and tried to confront  Christophe, but 
Sandrine intervened and told Christophe to leave.  He 
protested saying that he still had his drink to finish off.  
Sandrine relented, but warned him that Marcie was a guest of 
hers and Tom's sister, so please, keep his hands off of her 
friends.  Christophe looked surprised to hear that, but 
nodded.  Sandrine then turned to Nichola (a friend/bouncer) 
and nodded.  *Keep an eye out on him*.  The latter nodded 
back.  

Tom was steamed.  And the looks that he was giving 
Christophe, could have burned a hole in the Frenchman's 
chest.  The Frenchman just sneered.  Finally, Sandrine 
brought the siblings into the back until Christophe left, as 
Tom was scaring away some of her customers.  When Tom had 
later seen that Christophe was gone, he loosened up.  
Sandrine smiled at this.  Many cadets had frequented her 
establishment before Tom came, and she knew that more would 
come afterwards, but she had a soft spot for him.  He may 
have come from Starfleet 'royalty', but he was a down to 
earth fellow.  There were so many facets, and despite his 
tough, easy going exterior, he had a vulnerable side to him.  
She only saw a glimpse of it once before, she admitted to 
Marcie after the 'incident', but she saw it nonetheless.

The 'incident' in question, occurred after they left the 
tavern.  They were outside when Marcie mentioned that she 
left her book in the back.  Tom had said that he would get 
it, and left her by the door.  He had only been gone for 
less than a minute, when Christophe came out from the 
shadows of the streets, of nighttime Marseilles.  To say 
that he was not too pleased, was putting it mildly.  She had 
little reaction time as he was in front of her with a few 
strides and grabbed her arm.  When she asked him to let go, 
he only laughed and pulled her closer to him.  Marcie 
struggled and Christophe seemed to enjoy it.  It seemed 
to…turn him on.  This…enjoyment, only increased when she hit 
him.  He made a moan and hit her back.  He then grabbed her 
other arm, took her around the corner, backed her against a 
wall and began to neck her.

*Let me go!  Please let me go!*
*Non, non.  You must be taught how to accept a man's 
company, and what to do to please him.*
*No thanks, I'm not interested!  Now, let me go!*
 
Marcie at this point, tried to knee him in the groin.  
However, Christophe expected it, and went to the side.  
Still, he did not like the fact that she tried to hurt him, 
so he retaliated by taking a knife out, and put it at her 
throat.  It was at this moment, that Tom came back outside.  
When he did not find his sister by the entrance, he went 
around the corner and froze at the activity before him.  He 
did not like anyone to manhandle his sisters, and was 
protective of them.  He was almost behind Christophe when 
the latter took out the knife.  Tom, at this moment, was 
almost at the point of no return.  As he explained to 
Sandrine and Marcie later on, he did not know what he was 
going to do next.  He only knew that he had to help his 
sister at any cost.  Tom had said that he remembered taking 
one arm and putting it around Christophe's neck, while his 
hand tried to grab the knife.  When he saw that there was 
blood on Marcie's neck and realised that Christophe had cut 
her, he blanked out.

Marcie had never seen her brother so mad before.  Or 
violent.  He had taken Christophe off of her and slammed him 
into the wall face first.  Tom then applied pressure onto 
the arm and repeatedly slammed it against the wall, until 
the knife dropped.  Christophe retaliated by elbowing Tom in 
the stomach, forcing Tom to release him.  As he scrambled 
away, he took out another knife from his pant leg.  Tom 
picked up the sweater that he had dropped (evidently she had 
also left that behind too), and wrapped it around his arm.  
He had a dangerous look on his face, with cold blank eyes.  
He was in a ready-for-anything stance when Christophe 
charged.  Tom sidestepped and gave a back kick to 
Christophe's back.  He fell to his knees and could not do 
anything, as Tom was on top of him.  He grabbed Christophe's 
hair, forced him up, turned him around, and gave a head-
butt.  Christophe was stunned momentarily, but recovered and 
kicked Tom in the leg.  As Tom's leg wobbled a bit, 
Christophe tripped him and down went Tom.  He was on his 
back when Christophe tried to stomp on his chest, but rolled 
to the side.  Then Tom did something that Marcie had never 
heard him do.

He growled.  

Just like an animal would do when threatened (she thought).  
She did not know what to make of this.  Clearly, neither did 
Christophe, as he stood there with a questioning expression 
upon his face.  This enabled enough time for Tom to get up 
and give off several side kicks, followed by a roundhouse 
kick.  Christophe was on the ground now.  He did not have 
time to react before Tom picked him up, and rammed his head 
into the wall several times.  When that was done, Tom threw 
Christophe across the alley and caught up to him.  He gave 
the Frenchman several punches and jabs, along with more 
kicks.  Christophe than said something to Tom in French, 
which infuriated the latter even more.  Tom threw Christophe 
to the other side of the alley, the side they had just left.  

Christophe put his hands down on the ground, and reached for 
a fallen knife.  Tom saw this and rushed to prevent this, 
but was unable to.  Christophe waved the knife around like a 
crazed maniac.  Her brother had tried as best he could to 
avoid getting cut, but was unsuccessful at one point.  The 
wound on his leg was not serious, it was only a flesh wound.  
But it still hurt.  Or at least, it should have.  Using his 
wounded leg, Tom kicked the knife out of Christophe's hand 
(actually, he kicked Christophe's arm).  Afterwards, he used 
a front kick which made contact with Christophe's face, who 
then went down.  Tom went over to the downed body, knelt 
down, and elbowed the Frenchman, in the face.  He then 
picked up the discarded knife and was going to do Christophe 
even more bodily harm, when Marcie started yelling his name; 
calling for him to stop.  After the third time, he looked at 
her, with concern in his eyes.

*I'm all right.  I'm all right.*
*Are you sure?*
*I'm a lot better than he is.  I don't think that he'll try 
to mess with you again.  Not with you as my protector.*

That was when Tom noticed the knife in his hand.  He glanced 
in surprise at Christophe's condition.  As he got up, he 
felt a twinge of pain in his leg.  He put his hand on top of 
the pain and felt something liquidy.  He brought up his hand 
and noticed blood.   He looked at the knife again, then 
dropped it, then backed away from the unconscious body.  He 
looked at Marcie, confusion in his eyes.

*Marcie, who did this?*
*You did.*
*What ?!?*

Marcie could only nod at Tom's expression of disbelief.  But 
then he remembered the cut on Marcie's neck.

*C'mon, let's go back to Sandrine's.  She'll have something 
to heal that.*
*What about your leg?*
*We'll fix that too.*

With that, he picked up the knife he dropped, and put it 
into the sweater he unfolded from his arm.  It had a few 
cuts in it due to when Christophe was waving the knife 
around, but other than that it was okay.  However, Marcie 
would have to remember to recycle it and replicate a new 
one.  As Tom picked up the other knife, she was about to ask 
why, but he interrupted her.

*I don't want to give him the opportunity to use them again 
tonight.*
*I think that he'll be out for a while.*
*He will.  Come on now.*

They went back to Sandrines.  When Tom opened the door, he 
motioned for Nichola to join him.  When the latter came 
over, Tom spoke French rapidly to him.  The Frenchman looked 
in surprise and nodded, then went back inside.  Tom guided 
Marcie to the back door of the building where Sandrine met 
them.  She gave a sigh of relief at seeing them, then 
hurried the siblings inside.  She gave both of them a hug.  
As she did so for Marcie, she gave a small cry at noticing 
Marcie's neck, and Tom noticed for the first time at how big 
the cut was.  His eyes darkened and looked deadly.  Sandrine 
noticed this.

*I have seen worse Thomas.*
*But Sandrine, this is--*
*Yes, I know that she is your sister and is special to you, 
but I am telling you that I have seen worse.  Can you please 
get the medkit?  You know where it is.*

Tom only nodded and left.  Marcie looked at Sandrine 
quizzically.  Sandrine only smiled.

*How often is he hurt?*
*This is your brother we are talking about; someone who is 
accident-prone.*

Marcie could only laugh at this too true remark.  Tom had 
returned with the medkit, and wordlessly gave it to the 
older woman.  She opened it, cleaned Marcie's wound and used 
a thermal regenerator to repair the tissue.  When Marcie 
told her about Tom's leg, she was insistent on healing that 
too.  Tom had protested about removing his pants, but his 
sister soon learned what it was like with Sandrine.  Looking 
back, she realised that dealing with Sandrine, was like 
dealing with the Borg: Resistance was futile.  He finally 
relented when Sandrine said that he could use a blanket to 
cover himself.  As he tried to take his pants off under the 
blanket (a very amusing sight), Sandrine asked them to 
explain what had happened.  Tom however, could only go so 
far, so Marcie had to take over.  Both Sandrine's and Tom's 
eyes widened as she described the fight—especially when she 
came to the part about the knife. He only stared at her in 
disbelief.

*No.  I didn't do that.  I couldn't have.*

But he did.  Nichola came in as this was happening.  He cast 
an eye when he saw the state that Tom was in, and tried not 
to chuckle.  He had a few of Christophe's friends take the 
defeated fighter home.  Many of them had given a rough time 
to various cadets—including Tom, but now re-thought this at 
seeing Christophe's condition.  One man—one teenager—did 
this.  Christophe had been one of the toughest fighters in 
the back alleys, too.


"Marcie?" questioned Owen Paris, bringing his daughter back 
to the present.  She glanced at her father, seeing concern 
in his eyes.

"Hmm?  Yes, Dad.  Tom does have a temper," she answered, and 
left it at that.  Her father had seen the far away look she 
had in her eyes, on her face.  He knew that she was 
remembering something and wanted to know more.  Marcie, 
however, noticed this.  "I have seen his temper.  It was not 
directed at me, but at someone else.  It's a bit scary."

Owen just looked at her with wide eyes, not knowing what to 
say.  Even Maria who was hidden by the entrance was 
speechless.  She wondered what her son was capable of doing.  
What affected them the most was not what was said, but how 
it was said.  It left them, unnerved.  Owen gave his 
daughter another questioning look which she ignored.  What 
happened that night was between her, Tom and Sandrine.  
Christophe would never tell.  According to Sandrine, after 
that night, he never showed his face around the tavern 
again.  Besides, Tom had frightened him, and the Frenchman 
would not speak of the younger man (or so she was told).  He 
was not the only one.  Tom had frightened himself, and was 
embarrassed over the incident.  He did not want their 
parents to know.  After that night, he did his best not to 
lose control or get mad, and used humour to defuse 
situations.  She hoped that he still did that.  She smiled. 

"I'm leaving for a few hours—but don't worry, I'm still 
staying here for my vacation.  I told Sandrine that Tom 
added a letter for her, with mine.  She's on her way here 
with a message to send to him.  I'll put it with mine."

"You still chum with her?" he asked.

"Yes, Dad," she answered.  "She's a good friend of mine—and 
of Tom's.  We would do anything for her, and she would do 
anything for us."

"Really?" a skeptical Owen commented.

"She has before.  She's always been there for us, whenever 
we needed her.  Please don't make comments like that about 
my friends again, okay?" Marcie pressed.

"We'll see."

"Uh-huh.  Yeah.  Right.  Well, I won't be home for supper.  
We're eating out.  And afterwards, we'll drop off our 
messages at Starfleet Headquarters.  Who do we give them 
to?"

"Craig."

"Uncle Craig?"  Once again, Owen nodded.  Marcie looked at 
her father.  She gave him a kiss on the cheek as she got up, 
and put a hand on his shoulder.  "Write dad.  You need to.  
For yourself."  

Owen looked up in surprise.  He smiled at her ruefully.  
"Maybe you should have gone into psychology."     

"No.  I'm an artist.  I feel people's moods, their inner 
turmoil.  That, is how I can tell that you need to write to 
him.  Remember that the two of you are only human, and are 
subject to make mistakes.  You are not perfect.  Even if you 
want to be."

"Maybe I will."  Marcie, now off the bench, began to move.  
"Marcie?"

She turned around.  "Yes?"

"I know that I was not there for you, but was Tom?"

"Yes.  Yes, he was always there for me.  Even if I didn't 
want him to be."

"I'm glad."

"So am I," she replied, and left for the hallway.  As she 
got there, she saw her mother running the other way to the 
kitchen.  She smiled and shook her head resignedly.  Some 
things just never changed.  She then took a light jacket 
from the closet and went out the door.

Owen remained seated at the piano after Marcie left, 
thinking.  His daughter was right in that he should write to 
Tom, he knew that.  He could admit that.  But what should he 
say?  What could he say?

He did not know.

What should he do, apologise for what happened between them 
in the past?  For how he treated his kids?   For how he 
treated Tom?  Especially with regards to what happened after 
Caldik Prime and the trial?  He could do that.  He could 
swallow his pride.  For once.  But would Tom believe it?  
Believe him?  Once again, he did not know.  If the positions 
were reversed, Owen knew that he would have a hard time 
believing it.  But he was not his son.  Even though he did 
not know who his son really was, Owen suspected that Tom was 
a better person than the Admiral gave him credit for, or 
that he himself was.  He had expected so much from his son, 
that maybe it was too much.  As Marcie pointed out, he 
himself was not perfect.  No, he just expected his son to be 
that.  He mentally recalled Janeway's letter.  'A fine 
officer…One of the best that I've had the pleasure working 
with…A close friend…Tom of today, has always been there…only 
hiding…only begun  to reach potential…Learned not to 
underestimate your son…'  Not like him.  He definitely 
underestimated his son.  Not only underestimated, but also 
misjudged and mistreated him.  Owen was ashamed of himself.  
Today had been…confusing, interesting and a real eye opener 
to say the least.

"Owen?" He looked up, and saw his wife at the side of the 
piano.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Marcie's right.  Write to him," Maria cajoled.

Owen seemed a bit annoyed.  "Tell me that you did not 
eavesdrop, in my conversation with my daughter," he ordered.

"Owen!  I did not eavesdrop!" she exclaimed, as she sat down 
bedside.  "I merely overheard."

"Merely overheard," he repeated.  "Yeah.  Right."

"All right, all right.  I eavesdropped.  Guilty as charged.  
But your daughter is right; you do need to write to him.  If 
it's not because he's your son and you love him, then do it 
for your own peace of mind."

"Yes, Mother," he retorted.

Maria got up and went behind him.  She draped her arms 
around his shoulders, and put her head on top of his.  
"Dinner will be served to you in five minutes.  This is how 
we will proceed:  you will go back to your den and I will 
bring you supper.  You will then eat that said dinner in the 
said den, and read your son's letter.  You will then reply 
to him, getting whatever needs to be said off your chest.  I 
will be in my domain—the family room to refresh your memory—
writing my own letter.  After you are done, you will then 
proceed to the family room and get me.  Together, we will 
bring our letters to Starfleet Headquarters where tomorrow, 
they will be whisked away to lord knows where, to our son.  
How does that sound?"

The Admiral mulled this over.  "Can we go out for ice cream 
later on?"

Maria shrugged.  "Why not?"

"Even if I protest, you'll just ignore me, right?"

"How well you know me."

Owen held up his hands.  "Okay, okay.  I know enough to 
listen to the boss," he said, as he got up.  He had a 
genuine smile on his face now.  "What's for supper?"

"Halibut steak with baked seasoned potatoes, mixed 
vegetables, green beans and a small garden salad with 
Italian dressing."

"I'm salivating already."

"Go!" ordered Maria, as she swatted his behind lovingly.

Owen went back to the den with renewed vigor, at having made 
up his mind to write to his son.  At least he was, until he 
was seated at his desk again, with Tom's chip in his hand.  
He remembered the argument he had with Tom in here.  That 
was the last time that he spoke to his son, but not the last 
that he saw of Tom.  That was at the hearing.  Actually, he 
did say something to Tom at the hearing.  He must have 
blocked it out, because he could not remember what he said.

And that bothered him.  He figured that it was not very nice 
at all.       

But the one in here—in the den— was the same argument that 
he thought he saw earlier.  It sort of spooked him, but he 
inserted the letter into a PADD to read.  At first, he put 
down the PADD, hesitant to read what his son had to say, and 
stared at it.  Maria came in through the opened door, with a 
tray of food for her husband.

"You do realise, that it won't bite you," she kidded, as she 
put the tray down.

"I'm afraid Maria," he confessed, in an almost whispered 
voice.

Maria kissed the top of her husband's head and rubbed his 
shoulders.  "I know Owen, I know.  But you have to take a 
chance.  You have to find the courage to read it—just as 
you've found the courage to question yourself today.  And 
don't say that you haven't, because you have.  I heard the 
conversation between you and Marcie, and I assume that you 
had a similar conversation with Justine."  Owen could only 
nod.  "Now I have no idea what made you do it—though in my 
humble opinion, it's long overdue—but you did it.  And what 
did you find out?"  she questioned.

Owen remained quiet until Maria thought that he would never 
answer her.  "I could have been a better father to my 
children.  I should have gotten to know them.  When it comes 
to Tom and  Marcie, I really don't know them.  Or Justine 
for that matter.  I guess I saw, what I wanted to see.  Or 
maybe what they wanted me to see."  He twisted around and 
looked up at his wife.  "Sex?  They coped with sex?  What 
kind of kids do we have?"

"The hormonal kind.  Remember, they're half-Irish and half-
Italian," Maria answered.

"So you're blaming this on their heritage; on what 
nationalities they are derived from?" Owen accused  
incredulously. 

Maria shook her head.  "No.  Well, maybe.  But we also have 
to consider the possibility of genetics."

Owen's eyes narrowed.  "Maria?"

Maria laughed.  "Well, you know very well when you married 
me, that I was not exactly a choir girl.  And I don't think 
that you were exactly an alter boy either." 

Owen could only blush at this, because it was true—
especially with the way that the two of them were, when they 
first got together.  "True," he conceded.

Maria became serious.  "How are you going to find a way to 
get them back?"

Owen leaned into her arms.  "I don't know.  And we still 
have the Dominion to deal with."

"When it rains, it pours."

"Yes, you certainly can say that," he agreed.  "This may be 
the only communication that we'll have with our son for a 
long time so…"

"So make every word count," Maria finished.  She reached 
with her hand, and put the PADD into his hands.  "Now read!"

"Yes, Master!" Owen called out, as she left the room.  Her 
reply was a stuck out tongue as she closed the door.  Owen 
chuckled as he shook his head resignedly.  His wife could 
certainly be a character at times, he thought as he pushed a 
key of the PADD.  He froze as Tom's letter came into view.  
He had not meant to read it so soon.  He at least wanted to 
eat his salad beforehand; but maybe it would be better this 
way.  He would only have picked at his food anyway, only to 
abandon it for the PADD.

	Dad; it began,
	       Dad.  I don't know if I'm allowed to call you 
that anymore.  When we last talked, I was under the 
impression that I was not.  Maybe for the rest of this 
letter, I will call you Admiral.
	Admiral, I know that there is a good possibility that 
you will not read this, and throw it away.  If that's so, 
then what on earth am I doing by writing this thing?  Maybe 
I am doing it, because I hope, that you may read it.
	I screwed up.
	I bet that you have been waiting for me to say those 
words, for a long time now.  And it's true.
	I screwed up.
	I screwed up not only my career, but also my life after 
Caldik Prime.  I totally admit this.  I don't know what was 
worse, losing out on a promising career that was already 
planned out for me;
	Or losing you.
	The day I admitted that I falsified reports and was 
later on court-martialled, I not only lost your respect, but 
I also lost you.
	Would you like to know why I falsified the report?  As 
I once told Captain Janeway: 'My father only accepts the 
best and the brightest.'  But I was neither. Not in your 
eyes.  Do you know how many years I lived under your scorn?  
How it made me feel?  What it helped me turn into?
	I am totally responsible for my actions, all those 
years ago.  I know and admit this.  But I remember seeing 
that look of concern on your face in Sickbay, when I 
regained consciousness.  I also remember seeing your look of 
relief, when you saw that I was all right.  I then suspected 
that maybe Mom was right, that you did care for me in your 
own way.  It was the first time that I had ever seen you 
worried, or care, about my welfare.
	I liked it.
	I remember praying as a kid, for you to care about me, 
to give some signal that you did care.  And when I was asked 
to give a statement of what happened, I did not know what to 
do.  You always had high hopes that I was better than most 
people, that I could not make a mistake.
	But I did.
	And I lied about it.
	I could not bear you looking at me, as though I were 
beneath you.  
Inferior.  
A disappointment.
	So I lied.
	But I found that I could not live with that lie.  I 
found that I had a conscience that actually worked!  Can you 
beat that?  So I told the truth.  And then everything that I 
was afraid of happening, came true.
	I lost my career.
	I lost my self-respect.
	I lost Ricki.
	I lost you.
	You did not want to speak to me.  You did not want to 
be near me.  You did not want to see me.  You did not want 
to be associated with me.  In other words, you cut yourself 
off from me.
	The last time that I saw you, was during the sentencing 
hearing.  You never came to the trial, just the hearing.  As 
I was being led from the courtroom, you gave me a cold harsh 
look and said: "Good-bye Maquis."
	Not Tom.
	Not son.
	Not even Mr. Paris.
	Just *Maquis*.
	For a while, I could not quite accept the fact that you 
did not want me.  It was hard for me to accept that in the 
beginning (and in the beginning, I mean Caldik Prime).  But 
then it soon sank in.  You no longer considered me to be 
your son.  I was no longer a Paris.  Not in your eyes.  I 
was a disgrace to you and the family.  Maybe it was best if 
I did not exist.  After the argument in the den, I became 
self-destructive, and did not care about anything or anyone.  
It was as if everything that was inside of me had died.  
Then came the trial.  The one that you did not show up for.  
You were present at the hearing, though.  Just the hearing.  
When you said, what you said, it was with so much hatred and 
venom that what I had thought was dead previously, did die 
that day.  For good.  Okay, so maybe not dead, just buried 
so deep inside that even now, a lot of it is still not up.  
And I don't know if they will come out again.  I'm not 
explaining myself clearly, am I?  To tell you the truth, I 
don't know how to explain it.  Maybe one day, I will be able 
to.  But not now.        
But do you know what?  I actually like being here in 
the Delta Quadrant.  Of course, I miss Mom, Justine and 
Marcie, don't get me wrong about that!  However, I found 
several things while out here.
	My career.
	Friends.
	I'm getting my self-confidence back.
	I'm getting my self-respect back.
	I'm learning how to trust again.
	And love.
	Yes, you read right.  Love.  I finally found someone 
with whom I would not mind (okay, I want to), spending the 
rest of my life with.  I had always thought that I would 
not—or could not—love another being, as I loved Ricki.  I 
was wrong.  Before, piloting was my life.  It was who I was; 
it was the definition of Tom Paris.  But somehow, B'Elanna 
slipped in.  It's come to the point that I don't know what I 
would do without her.  We've had some pretty harried moments 
(i.e. An almost engramatic purge, a crazed isomorph), but 
we've gotten through them.  Together.  We've got some 
baggage to take care of, but hopefully we won't drive each 
other away with them.  Lord knows that it will be a 
challenge with regards to me.  She's seen me—the person I am 
inside, and is still with me.  Most would have run the other 
way by now, but not her.  At least, not yet.  If you're 
wondering about B'Elanna and what kind of woman she is to 
make a 'playboy' like me sort of settle down, don't.
	She's the best kind.
	She is half-human and half-Klingon, and I don't care of 
whether or not you approve—though I'm sure that you'll 
disapprove more when I say that she used to be Maquis.  Once 
more, I don't care.  It's my life, and for once, I'm living 
it for *me*.  She went to the Academy, but dropped out.  She 
could not handle what I grew up with, with what I made 
myself immune to (Do you know something?  A lot of Fleeters 
and Fleet brats are real snobs!).  She is chief engineer and 
is a damn fine one too.  She has brought out feelings in me 
which were dead for a long time, and increased them.  I love 
her with all my heart, with all my soul, and would give up 
my life for hers in an instant.  I cannot explain the 
intensity of my feelings or choose what I love most; her 
eyes, her face, her intelligence, her sense of humour, the 
way she gets mad at me (I was always teased about this by my 
dear sisters, but I realise that it is probably true.  I'm 
an masochist) etc.…   My love for her is total and makes me 
feel complete.
	*She* completes me.
	Now, I just have to find a way to tell her that.  I 
know that it seems a bit…cowardly (especially when she has 
admitted that she loves me), but I've been hurt before.  
When I say those three words out loud, there will be no 
going back.  I tell her in so many ways that I love her 
without actually saying them, but I know what it's like to 
hear the words.  I just have to work up the courage.  But I 
will do it.  There are times that I wonder, 'How did I ever 
get so lucky?  Do I really deserve all this?'
	I don't know.
	Do you know how long I had prayed for a second chance?  
And I got it too.  Well, what do you know, something finally 
went my way.  
	For the longest time, I had blamed you for most of how 
I turned out.  I am in the process of confronting myself (it 
actually started in prison), and while you did have some say 
in my thinking back then, it was *I* who was responsible.  
It was *my* actions that I carried out.  Not yours.  I want 
you to know, that I don't blame you for what I did, for what 
I've done.  It's my past, my ghosts, my demons.  I thought 
that I could get rid of most of them by going Warp 10 (yes, 
you read right.  Warp 10.  But I would not advise anyone 
else doing so.  Not unless you want to mutate into an alien, 
salamander-like being), but I couldn't.  I guess that I will 
have to deal with them for the rest of my life—along with 
the nightmares that accompany them.
	According to Captain Janeway, I'm one of her finest 
officers (how's that for small miracles?).  She has given 
almost everyone on the ship, a commendation of some kind.  
But more than that, she has given all of us a chance to 
prove ourselves (or to the Maquis and myself, a second 
chance).  She has always been there for us, giving us her 
all (sometimes I wonder if she ever sleeps).  And we will 
never let her down (well, not as long as we can help it).  
Basically, for all intensive purposes, we are one crew.  No 
one really considers themselves to be either Starfleet or 
Maquis anymore .  We are all Starfleet.  Sure we may have 
the odd squabble due to our backgrounds, but they get sorted 
out quickly.  However, it was the Captain who made this 
possible.  Everyone on this ship, will do anything for her.  
Or die trying.  She has given complete faith and trust in us 
that…Well, you get the picture.
	I better check off now.  We're only allowed a certain 
amount of space for letters.  I've written ones to Mom, 
Justine, Marcie and Sandrine.  Admiral, please look out on 
my mother for me and give everyone my love.  I just wanted 
you to know that I still consider you to be my father—even 
if you don't.  But I hope that you do.  If you don't write 
back, I'll understand.  Please take care of yourself, and 
listen to Mom when she says not to overdue it.  The Doctor 
(the EMH) has told us about the war against the Dominion, 
and everyone on the ship wishes you the best.  We hope that 
you defeat them.  And this time, please don't relinquish 
anything to the Cardassians/Dominion, because remember what 
happened last time.  
	Also, don't be afraid of the Maquis' help—or really, 
let them help out!  Does it really matter now, that they 
were 'traitors' to the Federation?  I would not to think so.  
'The Enemy of my Enemy, is my Friend.'  Both you and the 
Maquis are the Dominion's enemy, use that!  Besides, the 
Maquis have done what they did, because they believed in it.  
And if you decide to go out to the front, try to stay alive, 
okay?  At least do it for Mom's sake.
			Love from your son,
				Thomas.

After Owen was done reading Tom's letter, he just blinked 
his eyes a few times.  He put down the PADD and munched on 
his salad, as he contemplated what he just read.  A mixture 
of emotions flooded him.  So much was said, that he did not 
know what to think.  

'Why could he not call me 'Dad,' throughout the letter? And 
not just Admiral either?'  But then again, Owen could not 
really blame him.  Not with the way he, Owen, was like back 
then.  Maquis?  Did he really say that to Tom with hatred 
and venom?  Apparently so.  How long had he wanted his son 
to say—to admit—that he screwed up?  Too long.  Far too 
long.  He was ashamed of himself to admit this fact.  Any 
other time in the past, he would have reveled at his son's 
admission of this.  But not now.  Not anymore. 

'Or losing you.'  Dear God, Tom did lose Owen's respect and 
to a great extent, the Admiral himself.  But not his love.

Never his love.

Tom would forever be his son.  Owen supposed that he should 
have been more expressive and more open with his praise, and 
with the fact that he loved his kids.  He now knew why Tom 
had falsified reports, what drove him to do so.  Part of the 
answer, most of the answer, was because of him, Owen Paris.  
But it was true.  Between Tom's letter, his talk with 
Marcie, and his memory, he realised that he had certain 
expectations of his children.  Ones, which were too high.  
Especially those concerning his son.  Come to think of it, 
he was most annoyed and displeased with Tom when he failed 
to get above a certain grade or  level, or whatever else, 
Owen demanded of his son.  That should not have happened.  
He should not have done that.  What kind of a father was he, 
to put his kids through that…mistreatment?  Or should he say 
'abuse?'  He had trusted himself with the thought, that he 
was a better father than that.  Evidently he was wrong.  It 
all came into focus now, the way his daughters tried to 
avoid giving a definitive answer to "Was I a good father?", 
with the answer "In your own way."  What kind of answer was 
that?  You either were or were not—it was simple as that!  
He definitely needed an in-depth talk with his daughters.   
Self-destructive?  Part of him felt dead?  That would 
probably explain the cocky attitude Tom showed at both  
trial, and hearing.  No, that was wrong.  Tom had that 
attitude throughout the Academy.  Owen put down the empty 
bowl, brought the plate near him, and attacked his fish.  He 
was glad that things were looking up for Tom though, even if 
it was in the Delta Quadrant.

B'Elanna, hmm?

Kathryn also mentioned a 'B'Elanna' in her letter.  Half-
Klingon?  That he had no problems with.  Maquis?  That he 
had a problem with.  Still, Janeway had appointed her Chief 
Engineer.  She was most likely extremely capable, and very 
good.  He could always check out her Academy record.

An almost engramatic purge?
A crazed isomorph?
What the hell was going on over there?
Hopefully, Janeway had the foresight to include a complete 
report of Voyager's encounters and activities.  He would 
inquire about this tomorrow.

Emotional baggage?  Yes, from what he had read and heard 
from his kids, they certainly had emotional baggage.  He 
still did not want it to sink in that sex had helped them 
deal with it though.  When it came to his kids, he knew that 
they were not exactly angels, but he did not even want to 
think of them doing…that activity, while growing up.  After 
all, he was still a father.  What father wanted to 
hear…this?  He wanted to be oblivious to this!  

From what Tom had written, he certainly loved B'Elanna very 
much, and she seemingly returned his love.  Now, if Tom 
could only return the words.  He had said that he did not 
blame Owen for what happened; that it was his actions alone, 
that were enacted.  But while Owen knew that this was 
correct, he knew that he did his part, played his piece.  
Nevertheless, a part of him felt content at this.  Tom did 
not blame him.  Maybe because he was on the path of 
forgiveness.  He did not know.  Perhaps one day, it would be 
possible for Tom to forgive Owen, completely.  Now, if Owen 
could only forgive himself.

He did not know if he could.
He wanted to, felt like it.
But he did not know.

He scrunched his eyebrows.  'Alien salamander?' he thought, 
as he picked up the PADD and put some green beans into his 
mouth.  Yes, it did say alien salamander.  That was 
definitely an unwanted side-effect to going Warp 10—at least 
in his opinion.  Owen smiled a wicked grin.  Maybe he should 
tell Grayson what the exact side-effects were; after all, 
his colleague would be terribly upset at being ordered to 
halt Warp 10 research for the time being.  He could not wait 
to see Grayson's reaction, to this tidbit.  

He was happy that Tom had gotten a second chance.  The 
Admiral was also glad that Janeway had the insight, to grant 
him that second chance.  It was certainly a lot more that 
what Owen would have done.  
A chance to prove himself.  Somehow, he was not surprised 
that his protégé had proven herself to have good judgment 
regarding the Maquis—if not better.  Two crews working 
together as one?  She certainly pulled off a miracle.  Of 
course, being stranded in the Delta Quadrant had helped to 
pull off this feat; but still, not everyone would give their 
complete loyalty to their Captain as Voyager's did.   It was 
nice to know that Voyager and her crew were behind Starfleet 
in the war.  Maybe they would get things right this time.  
Even he had to admit, that having the Maquis join 
Starfleet's side, was sound advice.  However, he did not 
think that many in Command would appreciate this.  

He was thrilled that Tom still considered him to be his 
father.  Owen did not like it that Tom added 'even if you 
don't.'  He supposed that he did give that impression.  All 
right, all right, he did give that impression.   Yet, he 
still thought of Tom as his son.  Because it was true.  
Thomas Eugene Paris was the son of Owen Paris, and it would 
forever be that way.  No matter how many fights, 
disagreements, or arguments that they had, or whatever it 
was about, Tom was his son.

He just had to find a way to convey this.

As Owen put the PADD down for a second time, he realised 
that he had eaten most of his food.  What to say, what to 
say.  What could he say?  How should he start?  He opened a 
drawer of the desk and took out a new PADD.  He took a chip 
and inserted it, pressed a button and was ready to write.  

	Dear Son; he began,
  Today, Admiral Craig Douglas came by my office to see 
me.  He said that Voyager's EMH was sent through an alien 
relay network from the Delta Quadrant,  and ended up on the 
Prometheus.  I was surprised to hear that Voyager was all 
right.  I was even more surprised to hear that the Maquis 
had joined the Starfleet crew.  But that was nothing 
compared to the shock I felt, when I was given a letter from 
you addressed to me.  I gave your other letters to you 
mother and sisters, who probably read them as soon as I left 
the kitchen (they were making soufflés.  Before you ask, men 
are involved;  Marcie's latest 'boy-toy', and Walker.  Him 
and Justine married a year after Voyager disappeared).  
I read Captain Janeway's letter first (she also sent me 
one).  In it, she told me of the man that you have become—or 
maybe that you always were.  At first, I refused to believe 
this, and I will admit that I was not sure of whether or not 
I was going to read yours.  However, as you once said, 
'curiosity killed the cat'.  I also felt a need to know what 
you wrote, what you had to say.  I was troubled by Janeway's 
letter, or maybe disturbed is more like it.  Nevertheless, 
it forced me to realise that I only saw what was on the 
surface, not what was underneath.  And it hurt to 
acknowledge that I did not take the time to look at what was 
underneath that thick skin of yours.  So I did some 
searching of my own and talked to your sisters.  What can I 
say?  I'm sorry?  I am sorry, but I know that just saying 
those words are not enough.  I grossly misjudged you, and I 
never should have done that.  
Why is it so hard writing this letter?  Why can't I 
just say what I feel?  Is it because I feel so much inside?  
How can I convey that emotion?  Not until today, did I 
realise how hard I was on you; to be the best, better than I 
was.  Better than I could have ever been.  I never knew that 
you were interested in poetry.  Some of the classics yes, 
but I did not know that you had accumulated such a 
collection.  Most of the books that are in the study have 
not been read (at least mine), but you have read all of 
yours several times over (I can tell this from the wear and 
tear).
I'm sorry for misjudging you.
I'm sorry for being too hard on you and your sisters.  
According to Justine and Marcie, it was basically 
psychological abuse that I threw onto all of you.  Justine 
said that she understood that it was in part, due to the 
torture I suffered during the war.  I was never quite the 
same after that, was I?  Justine may have understood, but 
did you?  I can't explain what it was like, because even 
today, I still have a hard time with it.  I want to avoid 
talking about it.  I want to bury it in the past, where it 
belongs.
But I did not do a good job, did I?  Instead, I took it 
out on you.  And I was never there for all of you, not as a 
father should have been; what *I* should have been, and I'm 
sorry for that too.  I'm just thankful that you were there 
for your sisters, that you could rely on each other.  
According to Marcie, it still hurts for her.  And you, I 
would assume.  I ask one simple question "Have I been a good 
father", and I get "In your own way."  To me, that does not 
signify what a father should be.  I guess I failed you all 
in that aspect.
I love you son.
I never said that aloud enough, did I?  I kept 
accentuating the negative, not what you did right, but what 
you did wrong.  That was nice of me now, wasn't it?  I 
regret doing that to you.  I never should have done that.  I 
did not give you a chance, and I should have.  Marcie said 
that after Caldik Prime and our argument, you became a 
different person, one full of pain, anger and indifference.  
She also said that she did not know if this new one had 
completely taken over, or if the real you, still existed.  
She seemed afraid, scared, as she said this.  She was afraid 
for you.
You were right.
For a long time, I did want to hear you admit that you 
'screwed up.'  And that makes me ashamed of myself.  I felt 
a deep pit in my stomach when I read what you did not know 
what was worse; losing your career, or losing me.  And I 
have to admit, you did lose a part of me.  
But I never stopped loving you.
You are my son.  
You will always be my son.  
And I will always love you.
I guess, I should have made that clear.  No, I know 
that I should have made it clear.  
And I'm sorry that I did not.
I'm sorry for what I said to you at the hearing, and 
for the fact that I never showed up for the trial.  Remember 
the reputation I had at the Academy from before, for being 
too hard?  Now, it's for being the most impossible.  The 
cadets are scared of me.  They know how I treated you, what 
I thought about you for the longest time, and figured that 
if I could be that way to you, imagine what I could do to 
them.  And do you know what?  They were right.  
I never knew what had possessed you to falsify reports.  
I do now.  And I'm sorry.  I know what I expected of you.  I 
guess I did not realise how unreasonable these expectations 
were until now.
Am I explaining myself properly?
I don't know.  
How do you apologise to a son for making them feel 
useless and inadequate?  I know that there is more to it 
than that, but I never should have misjudged or mistreated 
you.  I should have gotten to know you—the real you—and 
lightened that upon you.  I should have praised you more, 
and told you that I loved you more often too; not belittle 
or ridicule you.  
I'm proud that you made Warp 10.  The first human to 
break the transwarp barrier.  That's quite an achievement, 
one not to be taken lightly.  I'm sorry that it did not 
prove to be safe.  Hopefully one day, we will be able to 
correct that.  I'm happy that you got another chance.  I'm 
also glad that Janeway saw fit to give it to you.  She 
certainly has surpassed what I taught her.  I'm pleased to 
hear that both Maquis and Starfleet are getting along.  I'm 
not sure of how some of my colleagues would react to your 
suggestion of working with the Maquis—or what's left of 
them.  They took quite a defeat against the 
Dominion/Cardassians.  I don't know how may died though.  
No, that's wrong.  Most of them did.  If you want, I can try 
to find out if your friend Ro Laren was one of the 
casualties.  But you do have a point of combining Starfleet 
and Maquis strengths.
B'Elanna.  I'm pleased that you found someone to love.  
Half-Klingon you say?  I can get used to that quite easily.  
However, about the Maquis part, give me some time to get 
used to that.  But I hope that it works out for you.  Tom, 
you have given her your heart, don't be afraid to tell her 
that.  She needs to hear it, and you need to say it.  Love 
is a two-way street.  You will get into arguments—that's a 
fact for anyone in a relationship—but don't let them, or any 
other kind of disagreement tear you apart.  It appears that 
you have found someone who can keep you on your toes, and 
keep you coming for more.
I remember when I first met your mother.  She hated my 
guts.  According to her, I was nothing but a snob who came 
from Starfleet royalty.  But I fell in love with her the 
moment I saw her.  It took me nine months to break through 
her defences, to even get her to agree to go out on a date 
with me!  I had also just graduated from the Academy.  By 
the time we got married, I had promotions to Lieutenant 
junior grade, and Lieutenant.  I'm not the easiest person to 
live with.  I never was, and I never will be, but your 
mother has stuck with me because of the love we share.  
Why am I saying this?
Because between your temper and hers (I assume that she 
has one), you will have blowouts—big ones.  But never lose 
sight of the fact that you love each other.  That is the key 
to saying together.  Also, don't be afraid to talk to her, 
to let her in.  Tell her what is on you mind, what you are 
feeling—but don't be an idiot about it either!  She may know 
that you love her, from all of the things you do (from what 
you say), but she still needs to hear the words.  Say them!  
Have I already said this?  Who cares?  I'll say it again!  
Once again, I hope that it works our for you—I want it to 
work out for the two of you.  Personally, I can't wait to 
meet her.  From what you wrote, it sounds as though it was 
the tip of the iceberg.
I guess, that it is time for me to go now.  For one 
thing, I want to drop this off early at Craig's office, so 
that you will get it.  For another, your mother promised me 
ice cream (she always goes straight for my weaknesses).  
Please take care of yourself, and try to stay alive.  Craig 
told me what the EMH had to say about you (he's thinking of 
giving you your own biobed?), and try not to get hurt so 
much.
But most of all, remember that you have a family who 
loves you, is greatly relieved to hear that you are alive 
and safe, and cannot wait for you to come home.
And yes, you do—and always will—have a home to come 
back too.       
Love Dad
                                                                                                                                                                                                             
P.S. A crazed isomorph?  An engramatic purge?  Geez, the two 
of you, upon your return, will have to tell me the details 
of what happened out there!  By the way, what's an isomorph?

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              
 The Admiral did not bother to re-read it.  What was 
written, was what he mainly wanted to say; what was from the 
heart.  Also, he did not want to give himself a chance to 
make any changes, because he did not know what they would 
be.  He saved the letter onto the chip, and took it out.  He 
then inserted a fresh chip, and took several minutes to 
write a few things onto it.  This one he re-read.  After 
saving this letter and removing the chip, he took both 
chips, got up and went to find his wife.  Contrary to what 
she had said, she was in the kitchen drinking tea, and not 
in the family room.  
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              
  Maria heard footsteps and looked up from the PADD she was 
reading.  "Are we done already?" she asked with a grin.

Owen smirked.  "I don't know about you, however, I am."

Maria looked insulted.  "Of course I'm done!  I have been 
for a while now."

"Oh?  Then what are you doing with that PADD then?" he 
challenged, pointing to the apparatus in her hand.

"This old thing?" she asked, waving it around.  "I'm just 
reading a little Jane Austin.  My letter is ready to go," 
she said, as she picked up a chip beside her.  "Are you 
ready?"

"Yes, I am," replied Owen, as Maria got off the chair.  She 
picked up a box, and put her chip inside.  She then passed 
it to her husband, who did likewise.  There was cotton 
inside, to cushion the chips.  It was apparent that Maria 
Paris, did not want her messages harmed.  Owen took the lid 
from underneath, put it on top, then gave the box back to 
her.  

She then looked at her husband.  "Great.  Let me get my 
sweater and we'll leave, or do you want to change?" Maria 
asked, looking at her uniformed husband.  

Owen bent his head, and looked down at himself.  "Why?  Is 
there anything wrong with what I'm wearing?" he inquired.

Maria sighed.  Her husband was certainly Starfleet, through 
and through.  "No, nothing is wrong," she answered, as she 
walked to the hallway closet.  She took out her sweater, and 
put the box in one of the pockets.  "Come on.  We have a few 
letters to deliver."

***

They decided to walk to Starfleet Headquarters, as it was a 
beautiful night.  However, both were silent on their way, 
each filled with their own thoughts and emotions.  Maria was 
thrilled to hear that her only son and baby (he may be an 
adult, but he was her youngest and she would always think of 
him in that manner), was still alive.  She went to the 
memorial service for those aboard the ship, with her 
daughters and Sandrine.  Owen went too, but only because she 
had pushed him into doing so.  It was the first time that 
she had met Sandrine, and had her stay over for the night.  
All four women stayed up late, laughing and crying.  Marcie 
and Justine had a hard time accepting the fact that their 
brother might be dead.  Sandrine, however, refused to accept 
it.  "Thomas is still alive.  I can feel it," the 
Frenchwoman had said, with unwavering conviction. And she 
was right.  And Maria was thankful for it.  She too, had 
said that Thomas was still alive—at least in the beginning.  
Before Tom's letter arrived, her faith had been dwindling.  
Now, if they could only find a quick way home…

She looked at her husband.  His mask was half up.  He was in 
a pensive mood, undoubtedly thinking of his son.  Maria 
remembered the conversation she that overheard,  between him 
and their daughter.  He had learned a little about himself; 
things that he did not like.  She hoped that his letter to 
Tom was at least, civil.  She smiled at remembering the 
letter she received.  She stifled a giggle at her next 
thought.  

Her husband felt the motion anyway.  "What is so amusing?"

"Our son.  He kept glowing about B'Elanna.  I think, that 
she may be the one," Maria responded.

Owen chuckled.  "Well, she will certainly keep him on his 
toes."

"I want to meet her," Maria said seriously.

"As do I," Owen agreed.  "A half-Human, half-Klingon."

Maria gave a hearty laugh.  "Well, Tom was never the one to 
take the easy route."  She looked at her husband.  "Owen, 
Starfleet will try to find a way to get them back, won't 
they?"

"We will.  It won't be easy, and we probably won't know 
where they are after tomorrow, but we will get them home.  
Even if it takes decades," he answered with a serious 
determination, as they came onto the grounds of Starfleet 
Headquarters.  Maria smiled as they went inside.  As she 
thought of her son and his girlfriend, her smile widened.  
Owen noticed her smile grow, and knew what she was thinking.  
Yes, his wife was right, Tom never took the easy way when it 
came to women.  He was truly a Paris in that aspect.  He 
smiled back as they passed some junior officers.  Maria 
tried to hide a snicker.  It was really quite amusing, she 
thought.  Several more officers had passed the couple and 
gave a polite hello to Owen, only to be greeted with a semi-
goofy grin.  This had shocked them, for they were used to 
her husband's quiet, serious demeanor.  As they got into the 
turbolift, she broke out into laughter.

"What is this for?" a suspicious Owen asked.

"Y..You.  Did…Did you see the loo..looks on their faces?" 
Maria managed to get out.  Owen contemplated this, and 
snickered too.  This set Maria off even more, and made her 
laugh harder.  Her husband soon joined in because her 
laughter was infectious.  When the turbolift doors opened, 
they faced a startled Commander Parker, aide to Admiral 
Douglas.

"Admiral," Parker greeted.

"Commander," Owen choked out, as he began to compose 
himself.  "I don't that suppose your boss is here?"

"Yes sir, he is.  It's going to be a long night," Parker 
replied.

"I'm sure that it will," Maria agreed.  

Parker smiled.  "Yes Ma'am, that's a fact.  I only hope that 
I get overtime for this," he grumbled as the couple got out 
of the lift, and he into it.  As the doors closed behind 
him, Owen and Maria looked at each other and started 
laughing again.

"I think that someone needs a cup of coffee," Maria said, as 
they headed for Craig's office.  They walked into the office 
and saw Sandrine and Marcie.

"Mom, Dad. Hi," Marcie said in surprise.  She knew that for 
sure her mother would send something, and after what 
happened earlier, she had a feeling that her father would 
follow suite.  Still, it was a surprise to see that he, 
himself came—he had to have passed Commander Parker, who 
would then tell his wife (one of the biggest gossips in San 
Francisco).  In other words, it would be all over Starfleet, 
and she was not sure how her father would take this.

"Hello Marcie, Sandrine," Owen greeted the younger women.

"Admiral," Sandrine returned.  Thomas had told her about his 
childhood, and of growing up under the Admiral once when he 
was drunk, after being cashiered out of Starfleet.  And she 
did not like what she heard.  Ever since, she had been weary 
of Owen Paris.  Marcie had told her that he was re-thinking 
a few things, regarding his son.  In her opinion, it was 
long overdue.  To say that Owen Paris was not one of her 
favourite people, was putting it mildly.  Sandrine had 
always been a bit protective of Tom ever since they first 
met, and he was a true friend.  He had always been there for 
her, and vice versa.  She was elated to hear that he was 
alive, well, and content.  Sandrine also mirrored the Paris' 
sentiments in wanting to meet B'Elanna.  She sounded very 
special to Thomas.  After Ricki, she had feared that her 
young friend would give up on love permanently, only 
settling for meaningless relationships and one-night stands.  
Now she was delighted to hear that this was not so.

Owen stood as Sandrine looked at him.  He felt uneasy, and 
not for the first time, wondered what she knew and who had 
told it to her.  He finally realised, that what his daughter 
had said was right: Sandrine was a good friend to her and 
Tom.  And protective.  "Did you drop off your letter yet?" 
he asked.

"Oui.  I just gave it to Admiral Douglas here.  Are you here 
to do the same?" she challenged.  Craig looked upon this 
amusingly.

"Yes, I have," Owen replied as Maria took out the box, 
opened it, and gave it to Craig.  

Sandrine looked upon this approvingly.  "Bien."

For some reason, Owen felt that he had passed a test; one 
that he wanted to pass.  "Have you eaten yet?"

"No.  We're going to Gilly's after this," Marcie answered, 
referring to a favourite restaurant of hers and that of her 
siblings.

"Well, just don't come home too late.  Sandrine, if you 
like, you're welcome to spend the night," Owen offered.

This surprised Sandrine greatly.  "Of course.  Thank-you 
very much Admiral," she accepted.  "It is more reasonable 
for me to spend the night over here, instead of catching a 
shuttle back to Marseilles."

Owen looked at his old friend, as the latter was holding the 
chips.  He pointed to them.  "Those are going out tomorrow, 
right?"

"Yes, Owen.  They are," Craig confirmed.

"Just checking.  Now if you excuse us, a butter pecan ice 
cream cone awaits my taste buds."

Sandrine cocked her head.  "That is Thomas' favourite," she 
mused.

"Butter Pecan?" Sandrine nodded.  "Live and learn.  Hey, how 
about we have a gab fest tonight?" he asked.

Maria looked at her husband.  "A *Gab* fest?"                    

"Isn't that what you women call it?" he asked innocently.  
Douglas snorted.

"I agree with him," Marcie said, referring to Craig.

Owen turned to Craig.  "You're supposed to be on my side!"

"When it comes to women and arguments, the person who on the 
receiving end, is on his own," Craig replied.  "Now if you 
excuse me, I have five messages to enter, so if you please?" 
he said, as he shooed them out with his hands.

"We can take a hint Craig," Maria joked, as they moved out 
into the corridor.

"Yeah, well, sometimes your dear hubby can't," Craig 
retorted, before the doors closed.

"How rude!" mocked Owen.  The three women smiled at this and 
headed for the turbolift.

Upon exiting the building, the two younger women left the 
couple.  That night, the four of them stayed up late, 
trading stories of the crazy and cute things that Tom did—
both as a child and as an adult.  The Admiral could trade 
few stories of his own (though Tom was usually on his best 
behaviour around Owen), but laughed at what he heard.  He 
began to learn more about his son, and what he was like.  
When discussing some of the good times (and some bad ones 
too), he became convinced that Janeway was right; that the 
Tom on Voyager, had always been like that.  But she was 
wrong about another thing.  Tom had not been hiding; he was 
always there.  It was just that no one ever bothered to 
look.

Especially Owen himself.

As they went to bed, Owen decided to have Sandrine, and his 
daughters come over again one night, so that they could do 
this again.  So that he could learn more about his son.

***

The next day, bright and early, the messages were delivered 
by the Prometheus and sent through the array, where it was 
picked up in time by Voyager before the Hirogens destroyed 
the network.  All crewmen received letters from loved ones, 
and eagerly read them.  Some had good news and some were not 
so good.  Tom and B'Elanna read theirs together in his 
quarters.  B'Elanna only received one letter, and that was 
from her mother.  She was on the Klingon homeworld and was 
fine.  B'Elanna was surprised and elated that she was 
called, 'Daughter'.  

"I never thought that she would ever call me that again.  It 
feels…great!" she had exclaimed snuggled up against Tom 
under the covers of the bed.  Tom smiled at his beloved's 
happiness.  He had just read letters from Sandrine, his 
sisters and mother.  He had read a little off each one, 
omitting the fun that they had poked at him regarding 
romance (always doing it the hard way).  When he came to his 
last letter, he was a bit afraid to read it.  He just 
starred at the PADD.  "What's wrong?" she asked.

"I'm a bit scared," came the answer.

"Of what your dad might have written?"  Tom nodded.  
B'Elanna gently kissed him on the neck.  "Remember what you 
told me in the Vidiian mines?" she asked.  

Tom thought for a moment.  "About what I said of courage?"

"Yes."

Tom looked at B'Elanna's face.  He gave a weak smile, and 
pressed the button to read.  Unlike the other letters, Tom 
read silently.  Every once in a while, he would close his 
eyes.  Even though patience was not one of her greatest 
virtues, B'Elanna remained silent.  This is something that 
he needed to do on his own, but she would be there for him.  
He finally lifted his head and grinned.

"So, I take it that it's something good?" asked an intrigued 
B'Elanna.  Tom wordlessly passed the PADD to her.  She was 
surprised that he was allowing her to read his father's 
letter.  She quickly read it, and a grin also appeared on 
her face.  "You told him about the isomorph?" 

"I just mentioned it," Tom replied, encircling her with his 
arms.

"I'm glad that you have a place to go back to.  I know how 
much that means to you."

"Well, I hope that I won't be going back alone."

"It sounds like you see a future in this," B'Elanna said, 
repeating the dialogue the couple had spoken in the 
turbolift months earlier, while stroking the side of her 
companion's face.

"I think, that I might want to be that presumptuous," Tom 
said slowly.

B'Elanna looked at him, with love in her eyes.  "Smooth 
recovery Lieutenant," she continued, as she raised her head 
to his.

"I thought so," Tom responded, as he lowered his mouth to 
hers.  They kissed for several minutes before breaking off.

"I love you, Thomas Eugene Paris," she murmured, as she 
nuzzled his neck.

Tom used his head to cuddle hers.  "I love you too, B'Elanna 
Torres."

He felt her smile.  "I was wondering when you would get 
around to saying that.  I mean, I knew it, but…"

"It's always nice to hear the words.  I know.  Believe me, I 
know.  It's just that the last person I told that to was…" 
Tom trailed.

"Was Ricki," she finished.  "Who then dumped you after 
Caldik Prime."

"Like a sack of potatoes."

B'Elanna gave Tom the PADD.  While he put it on the night 
table beside the bed, she put her arm around his chest.   He 
then brought her closer to him.  "You do know, that I will 
never do that to you, right?" she asked.

"Bella!  Of course I know that!  You're nothing like her!  
You don't have that pompous, airy, petty and conceited 
attitude that she did.  You're not a fake.  You don't put on 
an act on what you feel," Tom assured her.  "I love you for 
who you are—for everything that makes you…you."       

"Oh?  Such as?" she fished.  

Tom gets a tender look in his eyes, and lowers his mouth.  
"Your eyes, your intelligence, your sense of humour, your 
determination, the way you get mad at me…" he mumbled 
between kisses.

"The way I get mad at you?" she asked amusingly.

"Helps keep me on my toes," he said, as he nuzzled her ear.  
"Ready for anything."

B'Elanna smiled seductively.  "Really?  Anything else?"

"I'm sure that I can think of a few more.  Or if you want, I 
can show them to you," Tom answered, as he caressed the 
curve of her hip and kissed her.

"I think, that I'm going to like this."

"I know I am."

Meanwhile, Captain Janeway was in her quarters, reading the 
letters that she received.  Her mother and sister were well, 
and Mark had moved on with his life and married someone 
else.  Molly had her pups and was also fine.  The last 
letter was from Admiral Paris.

	Kathryn;
You have done a fine job.  From what I hear, you have 
brought the Maquis and Starfleet crews to work together as 
one.  One crew that will do anything for their Captain.  The 
student has surpassed her teacher.  We will do everything 
that we can to get you all home, safe and sound.  I'm not 
one to admit that he has been wrong very much, but this time 
I was.  You were right about Tom.  He is a good person, and 
I'm sure that he is a fine officer too.  It has taken me 
quite a while to see this, but I finally have.  Take care of 
him Kathryn.  Bring him—and the rest of your crew—home.  I 
would very much like to have a chance, to get to know my 
son.   

		Your friend,
			Owen

P.S. Please don't tell Tom that I asked you to look out for 
him.  He'll accuse me of asking you to 'baby-sit' him.  Then 
he'll kill me when he gets home!

Kathryn Janeway grinned widely at this.

"I will Admiral.  I promise."  



Author's notes:  

'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' by Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge, was used without permission, but is acknowledged 
by the author.  I got this poem from 'The Mentor Book of 
Major British Poets',  edited by Oscar Williams, and can be 
found on pgs.107-124.

The Admiral, at one point is reading Tom Clancy's 'The Hunt 
for Red October' (which is a very good book, I must say), 
and was also used without permission, and is also 
acknowledged.  I am not getting anything by having him think 
what Mancuso is saying, or anything at all for putting it 
into the story.

The part about Tom's temper, is an idea I got from Terri 
Zavaleta's 'Trials' series, as for how bad his temper could 
be.  I sincerely hope that she does not mind me using this 
concept, though, as I think it is a good way of explaining 
why Tom does not seem to get mad (has anyone seen him lose 
his temper?).  Also, Terri? Great work for Shadow's Trials!