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Goddamn. Seven years and he’s still in the same office. The last time we met here I got orders to go to the Badlands and I was planning my wedding. Now, I’m preparing for a level-one review board and my personal life ... well, that’s a mess, too.
He’s saying something.
“... Noah Lessing ...”
Fuck.
“... holodeck technology to the Hirogen ...”
Bigger fuck.
”... reanimating a long-dead warrior species ....”
Cluster fuck.
“... certain fraternization concerns ...”
What the fuck?
“Excuse me, sir?”
Admiral Paris shifts in his chair as he says something about a planet and a breach in protocol and possible extenuating circumstances.
Oh, hell no.
I didn’t spend two years wondering what that tattoo would feel like under my fingers and then another five years trying to forget to have to go through this bullshit. Does Starfleet also care that my now-former first officer looks through me, my mother flinches at my every word, and Mark wouldn’t even come in the front door when he came by with Mollie? At least my dog seems happy.
Admiral Paris is talking again, but I’m realizing the Bailey’s I’ve been putting in my coffee means I can’t focus. My eyes feel heavy and my chest hurts.
I ask to be excused for a moment. His eyebrows shoot up, but I’m already headed toward the door.
By the time I’m splashing water on my face so I can dry it and the tears at the same time, the counselor they assigned me walks into the washroom. I grab a towel and breathe into it. I hear her boots click against the floor.
“Admiral Paris asked me to check on you,” Deanna says. “He believes you’re exhibiting unusual behavior and —”
“Unusual behavior!” The towel falls into the recycler and dissolves. Deanna looks at me through the mirror and I glimpse my own face — red and raw. “I’ve been back in this quadrant for two weeks and he thinks he knows what’s ‘usual’? Even I don’t know what’s ‘usual,’ anymore.”
I cringe as my too-loud voice echoes off the tiled walls.
Deanna asks if I want to talk in the washroom or in her office. When I attempt to decline both options, she stares me down. I’m the one who stares people down. I’m the one who —
We’re walking to her office. What the hell?
She knows I prefer the chair, not the couch, so she doesn’t bother to ask. I sit and hammock my forehead in my hands as I sink into the soft cushions.
She’s talking. She wants to know if my sleeping is improving, if I’ve been eating better, if I’m cutting down on the Bailey’s. That would be no, no, and no. Wait. What’s she saying about Admiral Paris?
“I’m sorry, Counselor,” I lift my head. “Would you mind repeating that?”
She smiles. I think she’s trying to emanate patience and kindness.
I’m just so damn tired.
I brace myself against the sides of the chair so I can sit up straight and listen.
“I was saying, Captain, that Admiral Paris has been working since you first sent logs back more than 18 months ago to ensure your mandatory review board will run as smoothly as possible. With every datastream, he earmarked anything he felt could be even slightly controversial, and then took it upon himself to clarify the unique circumstances and to stress your consistent strength of character. With all seven years accounted for, he wanted to share various preliminary determinations on matters for which you may have had concerns as well as the one item where he was unable to help you.”
Right: Fraternization. Planet. Protocol.
It was 12 goddamn weeks and I held out for six of them. What the hell does Starfleet expect?
My chin rises. “And just why was he unable to help me?”
Deanna holds my hands. Her hands are warm. How is she so warm?
“Captain,” her dark eyes meet mine, “Admiral Paris hardly could have been expected to be impartial. His grandchildren were involved.”
What?
Oh my God.
From somewhere deep inside my chest, it explodes out. I laugh so hard, my eyes water.
My equilibrium gets shot to hell and I slide off my chair and end up on the floor of Deanna’s office with my legs sticking out and my entire body shaking with gales of laughter. My cheeks and jaw cramp and my abs are on fire and I can’t get enough air. I lived through the Kazon, the Hirogen, and the Borg, but I’m going to die of the ridiculous hilarity of salamander sex with Tom Paris.
If I don’t get this under control, what will Starfleet log as my cause of death? Lizard-induced laughter?
I peek at Deanna. She looks both concerned at my reaction and pleased I’m registering some sort of emotional response to something. She’s been patient with me, I admit that.
Wiping my eyes, I choke back a stray chortle and pull myself back onto the chair.
“Captain?” Deanna says.
“Counselor,” I reply, wishing I could read her emotions as clearly as she can mine. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s confused. She hesitates, then speaks again.
“Although Lieutenant Paris declined to file a complaint and, in fact, said he had limited memory of the incident, certain members of the admiralty were concerned regarding the suggestion the liaison with a subordinate was your idea.”
Could I lose my commission over this?
Holy shit.
I’m suddenly the most sober I’ve been in days.
“When we were in sickbay, Lieutenant Paris seemed upset by what had happened,” I explain. “I wanted to smooth over the whole thing so he could focus on his duties. Honestly, I don’t remember much about the ‘liaison,’ either.”
Deanna gives me another “patience and kindness” smile and says, “With your permission, I’ll enter your ‘crewman support’ motivation into the review board files. With your memory matching Lieutenant Paris’, I’m confident the entire review will conclude quickly and in your favor.”
I gratefully give permission and Deanna asks if I think about the salamander babies. I tell her the truth. When I found out Voyager had left the planet, I presumed the creatures were either self-sufficient or dead. After that, the whole thing was so dream-like and bizarre that I put it out of my mind.
“Well,” she says. “Admiral Paris asked me to ensure you knew he didn’t blame either you or Tom, but the admiral did find it all rather repugnant.”
“That makes three of us.” I can’t help but grin.
“We can discuss this further or anything else you’d like at your next session.”
I nod and tell Deanna I’d better head back to Admiral Paris’ office.
“Captain.” He stands as I enter. “I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“On the contrary, sir. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I apologize for leaving abruptly.”
He still looks unsettled.
”Admiral,” I add, a touch tentatively. “I also apologize for anything that bothered you regarding the warp ten flights. I assure you everyone involved has nothing but regret and revulsion regarding the unintended consequences of Tom’s piloting achievement.”
“Thank you,” he says.
He’s staring at me. I’ve gotten used to people looking at me in you’re-supposed-to-be-dead wonderment, so I wait for him to finish so he can restart discussion about the review.
Instead, Admiral Paris walks around his desk and squeezes my shoulder.
Oh, no.
The last time he did that he talked about my father and I absolutely cannot handle that any better now than I did then. I fight the urge to flee his office again. My heart hammers and my toes curl in my boots.
“I need to tell you something and I hope you’ll consider it classified information,” he says.
“All right.”
He does that thing where he tries to sound gruff. “I was more worried about you.”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“I love my son,” he says. “But when I thought the Cardassians had you again or we’d missed a critical flaw in Voyager’s design or the Maquis had somehow captured your ship —”
Tears are leaking from Admiral Paris’ eyes. Holy hell, what am I supposed to do?
He goes to his replicator and comes back with two strawberry ice cream cones. I don’t understand, but I take one. He sits at his desk and I sit across from him and we lick our ice cream cones in silence and this isn’t one of the stranger days of my life but it’s certainly making its way up the list.
Admiral Paris finishes his cone first. He waits until I’m done to start talking again. He looks me in the eyes as only he can, and I feel calm for the first time in ... years. I feel muscles unclench that I didn’t even know were clenched. I shift my weight in the chair and my back pops and it feels amazing. I don’t even have a headache. It’s like everything is clear and I didn’t even know it was muddy.
“Kathryn,” he says. “You’re going to be all right. Not just with the review board — with everything. Do you believe me?”
I think about his advice to improve my junior thesis, his steady leadership on the Al-Batani, his recommendation I apply for the command track. I remember how hearing his voice on Voyager’s comm system made home feel the closest it ever had, how seeing his face on the Astrometrics screen practically put the San Francisco humidity into the room, how his handshake at McKinley Station was the “mission accomplished” I’d been working toward for seven years. Learning he’s been watching over my review process wasn’t a surprise. I would never tell him, but Admiral Paris has been more like a father to me than my own dad.
“I do believe you, sir,” I say. “Thank you.”
He orders me to knock it off with the Bailey’s and I agree. Then, he says he’ll see me at the review tomorrow but he expects it to be perfunctory.
My belly full of strawberry ice cream and my smile so wide it almost hurts, I stride out of Admiral Paris’ office and into the rest of my life.