~#~#~#~

Photonic Dreams : A sequel to Looking Glass Milk

(this is set shortly after Pathfinder though the events from then on bear no relation to canon)

~#~#~#~

Part Five:

Erko hesitated in the doorway of the Admiral's office. The lighting of the room had been dimmed so much that it had taken his eyes a few seconds to identify the dark shadow slumped behind the desk. The posture of the occupant was so unlike Erko's previous experience of the proud and inflexible Owen Paris that his first thought had been that an imposter was sitting in the Admiral's chair.  It was only the occasional flare of light that burst from the muted vid-cast screen in one corner of the office that flashed enough illumination to reveal the Admiral's features.

Erko's eyes slid uncomfortably from their inspection of Owen's face. As much as he lived in constant dread of feeling his superior's wrath, his awe of the man had always been anchored more in respect and admiration than in fear. Owen Paris was a ruthless and powerful man who had both a legendary temper and yet also a reputation for generosity. He accepted nothing less than perfection from his subordinates and people in his direct chain of command rose and fell through the ranks with meteoric speed. If the Admiral approved of someone, they were assured a swift rise up the command structure. Owen rewarded loyalty with complete and generous support. Yet his retribution for a perceived failure was meted out with cold, efficient ruthlessness.

Owen had a heart. Erko had never doubted that. No one could be so vengeful against those who failed him unless they felt personally hurt by that failure. Owen cared about his subordinates, nurturing and protecting them, easing their careers, supporting them in their goals, until the day they disappointed him in some fashion. Then, the best thing they could do was pack their bags and run like hell because Owen *never* forgave human frailty.

Owen's heart was capable of love, but it wasn't capable of compassion. He had no empathy for failure because he'd never failed. He had no sympathy for weakness because he'd never been weak. He had no understanding of mistakes because he was incapable of seeing *any* of his own actions as being mistaken.

At least, that *had* always been Erko's judgment of his superior.

Yet seeing him now, sitting alone in near darkness as the re-runs of Voyager's triumphant return played silently in the corner, Erko's own heart ached.  No matter that this was the man who was about to destroy his career, Erko couldn't prevent himself from feeling some compassion for him.  He seemed so old suddenly. So frail and confused as he sat in his chair, eyes blank with some inner torment, while his hands ceaselessly played with a tiny data cube.

Erko's eyes fixed onto that cube, transfixed by the way Owen was rolling it between the fingers of first one hand and then the other as though the Admiral found the item too painful to touch and yet impossible to put down.

He cleared his throat noisily.

"Um.....Admiral Paris, Sir?"

It took a moment for his words to break through Owen's reverie and, even then, the only answer was a slow blink of eyes shadowed with unspoken grief.

Erko shuffled uncertainly, hating himself for identifying with the obvious pain of the diminished man in front of him when he was in no doubt that his next words would unleash the man's normal, relentless fury. He wanted to hate the Admiral, wanted to retain the resentment he had carried to this office, not sympathize with the man who was about to strip him of rank.

"I regret to report that our attempts to prevent the Maquis leader, Chakotay, from absconding from Voyager failed," he stated stiffly.  "Although he was at the helm when the ship emerged from the wormhole, he apparently slipped away from the Bridge while the rest of the crew were celebrating their return home and although Captain Janeway *claims* she fully intended to place him under arrest immediately, as per your instructions, she says he must have been transported directly off the ship within minutes of their arrival in the Alpha Quadrant. We searched all of the vessels we already suspected might harbor him, and over two dozen more of the unofficial ships that were in the area, but without success. The only explanation I have for our failure is that Chakotay arranged transport for himself on an Ambassadorial vessel and that the private ships he contacted were always intended as a red herring.   My formal requests to search the vessels with diplomatic immunity met with universal failure, except for the Ferengi Ambassador who didn't wait to be asked. He contacted me himself and offered to let us come on board to search as long as we paid enough for the privilege," Erko finished with a sneer of derision, then stiffened as he waited for the Admiral to explode.

"I take it that you didn't take the Ferengi Ambassador up on his offer?" Owen asked mildly.

Erko blinked uncertainly. "Um...no. He obviously just wanted to take advantage of the situation."

To his surprise, the Admiral gave a wry smile.

"Whatever I personally feel about Commander Chakotay's recent actions in regard to my son, the more I deal with him the more I am beginning to understand why Tom loved him," he murmured. "He's a sly dog. Under different circumstances it might have been a pleasure to have him as a son-in-law. If nothing else, I suspect he would have played a mean game of chess."

"I don't understand," Erko gulped, half-wondering whether the Admiral had been replaced by a changeling.

"Obviously not, otherwise you *would* have taken the Ferengi up on his offer."

"You're saying Chakotay *was* on the Ferengi vessel?"

"I suspect so," Owen replied, still in the same mild tone. "Hiding in plain sight. The irony would appeal to him, I think. It's his way of sending me a message about prejudice.  He *knew* you wouldn't accept the Ferengi offer simply because of your preconceived ideas about Ferengi greed."

"I'll inform my men," Erko offered eagerly. "We can still intercept the vessel. It wasn't heading back to Ferengi. As far as I could tell it was on course for Talaria."

"Why Talaria?" Owen murmured, then shrugged. "No matter. It's irrelevant now. I've cancelled the warrant for Chakotay's arrest."

"You have?" Erko gulped hopefully.

"The important thing was always to retrieve the hologram," Owen explained. "It's done."

And finally Erko realized what it was that Owen was holding in his restless fingers.

"I don't understand...how?" he asked, gesturing at the data cube. 

"It came down the data stream, just before Voyager entered the worm hole," Owen explained, his eyes dull with pain. "It was trying to escape. I tricked it into thinking it would be safer leaving the ship before Voyager reached the Alpha Quadrant."

"How? Why would it have believed you?" Erko demanded, then flushed as he realized how offensive that question would sound.

Again, instead of exploding into anger, Owen just looked saddened and old.

"It didn't. It believed a message supposedly from Tom's mother."

"Ah. Clever," Erko commented awkwardly.

"I thought so at the time," Owen agreed. "Now I'm not so sure. I thought I was tricking a hologram, yet the weapon I used to trap it was Tom's trust in his mother and now I find that difficult to reconcile. I believed it would act like Tom, think like Tom, *feel* like Tom, and yet I used that knowledge so I could trap and destroy it for not *being* Tom."

"But it's just a hologram, Sir."

"I know that," Owen agreed, twisting the data cube in his hands. "It's just a hologram and I should destroy it. I can just throw this piece of metal and plastic into the recycler and it's over."

He looked up and met Erko's eyes.

"But I can't do it," he admitted, with a bitter laugh. "I've been sitting here for four hours trying to make myself rise from this chair and end the nightmare for good, but I can't do it." He looked down at the data cube once more.

"I'll lock it away. Perhaps I'll even bury it. I know it's not really Tom, but it's *something* I can lay to rest, something I can visit when I need to be near to him. The hologram will never be activated again. I'm determined about that. But I can't actually bring myself to destroy it."

He gave Erko a wry, self-depreciating smile.

"So perhaps now you see why I cancelled the warrant for Chakotay's arrest."

"Because you finally understand him," Erko suggested. "You don't approve of what he did but you empathize with his actions."

Owen nodded reluctantly.

"What he did was a desecration of my son," he stated clearly. "I haven't changed my mind about that. I have, however, come to the belief that it wasn't his intention. My wife said he just loved Tom too much to let him go and I said she was a fool. Only..." He paused and stared at the data cube thoughtfully. "Only, perhaps it's been I who's been the fool."

He opened the top drawer of his desk, placed the cube inside gently, slammed the drawer shut and locked it. Then he raised his head, straightened his shoulders and visibly regained control of his emotions before staring Erko in the face once more.

"It's over," he said firmly. "The matter is now closed."

Erko nodded nervously, wondering if this also meant he and his team *weren't* going to spend the rest of their lives on the Romulan Border.

"What's the update on the Bezantan situation?" Owen demanded. "Have we gotten any closer to a settlement with the new government?"

Erko blinked again. It was as though the earlier conversation hadn't happened. As though the whole hologram incident hadn't happened. Admiral Paris was back to business as normal.

Yet, although he couldn't deny his relief at his own reprieve, Erko couldn't help thinking the Admiral was fooling himself.

Owen might *think* the incident was over and forgotten, but the very fact that he'd decided not to punish Erko for his failure proved that the Admiral had been changed at a fundamental level by what had happened.  

Perhaps the hologram *didn't* have a soul, but it seemed strange that in being forced to confront the hologram's existence, Admiral Owen Paris appeared to have finally found a soul of his own.

~#~#~#~

"Commander..."

"It's just Chakotay now."

The Doctor looked at him dubiously. Chakotay didn't look like *just* anything to him. 

"You're different," he commented warily. "You *look* different somehow."

"Old? Tired?" Chakotay demanded, self-consciously rubbing the side of his head where a trail of silver now merged with the fine lines that creased the skin at the corner of his eyes.

The Doctor gave him a typically acerbic frown.

"Actually the description that came to mind was 'desperate, dangerous and piratical',"  he sniffed. "I find myself feeling relieved that I'm working for you, rather than against you."

"For Tom," Chakotay reminded him firmly, although he was secretly rather pleased at the Doctor's perception of him. "Speaking of whom, is the clone ready?"

"Yes and no," the Doctor replied.  

"What do you mean?" Chakotay demanded, his voice such a feral snarl that the Doctor felt his matrix glitch in response.

"I'm a Doctor, not a miracle-worker..." the Doctor began pompously.

"Lose the fucking attitude," Chakotay growled.

The Doctor gulped heavily and carefully amended his supercilious expression into one of regret although his tone was a defensive whine. 

"You haven't given me enough time. I've done my best. Do you have any idea of how difficult it is to grow a clone to full maturity in a matter of weeks? First I had to..."

"Forget the explanation," Chakotay interrupted impatiently. "I'm not interested in *how* you did it. I just want to know how much you achieved."

"Eighteen, give or take a year."

"WHAT?"

"I needed another week, at least," the Doctor complained. "It's the best I could do. He's an adult at least."

"Barely," Chakotay snapped, although he was honest enough to admit to himself that a large part of his horror at the thought of Tom's new body being so *young* was that he himself felt so damned old.

"I left him in the growth-tank until the last possible minute," the Doctor pointed out defensively. "As it is, you're not going to find the journey to Vulcan easy. He's been awake for less than 15 hours. You've effectively got to look after a fully-grown man with the mind of a baby."

Chakotay's expression was stunned as he looked at the hologram.

"But he's eighteen. You said so."

"He has the brain capacity of an eighteen-year old and 'brain' of Tom Paris. However, that brain is an empty slate. Although he's learning at an exponential rate, all things considered, all we've achieved so far is the recognition of his name, the ability to feed himself if a spoon is put in his mouth and he's *almost* toilet-trained."

The Doctor sounded so indecently smug about his final comment that Chakotay actually enjoyed announcing, "Good. You'll be able to cope with him while I fly the shuttle."

"Me? Cope? Shuttle?" the Doctor gasped.

"You don't honestly think Tom and I are going to Vulcan on a Ferengi Vessel, do you?" Chakotay asked, with considerable satisfaction.

"But I don't *want* to go to Vulcan," the Doctor announced firmly. "We had a deal, Commander. You got me safely off Voyager and arranged my permanent sanctuary on Talaria and I created the clone. You never mentioned anything about me going to Vulcan with you."

"Tom needs you," Chakotay replied. "Not just to look after his clone. Tom needs *you*. He trusts you, Doc, and although the two of you have always bickered like a pair of five-year olds, I know that deep-down you're as fond of him as he is of you. He's terrified of going through with the fal-tor-pan and your presence at the ceremony will..." He paused and took a deep breath before continuing.  "If the fal-tor-pan fails, if Tom *is* only a hologram after all, then he's going to need you there."

"To transfer his mind electronically to the clone?"

"To convince him that it would even be worthwhile to try," Chakotay admitted. "Even if he *is* only a hologram he has as much right to existence as you do, Doctor. Maybe life's all just a matter of perception. When Tom's Captain Proton program inadvertently threw us into the middle of a war, the photonic beings we met there considered *you* to be the only member of our crew who was *alive*."

"And what about you, Commander? Will you accept he's alive? Will you even be able to try to love him if he *is* just a hologram?"

"No," Chakotay admitted. "I accept the possibility of a hologram being alive but, at the risk of hurting your feelings, Doctor, I don't accept that any man-made artifact can possibly have a  *soul*.  Besides, whether I'm right or wrong about the existence of a soul, I can't *love* a hologram of Tom."

"You're saying that a hologram isn't worthy of human love?" The Doctor asked resentfully.

"Not at all," Chakotay replied softly. "I'm saying that it's worthy of being loved in its own right. If *you* are alive, Doctor, if a hologram *can* be alive, then your life is that of a separate and unique being. You aren't just the product of the memories used to create you. You exist as a separate being. A *new* individual. And, by that same definition, a hologram of Tom is a new individual also. He isn't *Tom*."

 ~#~#~#~

Except for the raising of one eyebrow, Tuvok's expression didn't change but he still managed to convey enough irritation with the gesture for Tom to choke back his, admittedly hysterical, laughter and attempt a solemn expression of his own.

"I understand that you are dubious about the ceremony of fal-tor-pan," Tuvok stated, somewhat unnecessarily, "and that you have no *intent* to offend me with your obvious disbelief. However, should you display such uncontrolled emotions on Mt. Seleya, it is likely that the ceremony will not proceed."  

"To tell the truth, I don't understand why anyone's agreeing to the ceremony at all," Tom replied. "It doesn't seem to be a 'logical' response to the situation. I *am* a hologram and it seems unlikely that the Vulcan government would agree to your religious leaders performing the rite just to find out whether I'm *more* than just a hologram. When Starfleet find out and, let's face it, they will, what's going to be their excuse for going ahead with the ceremony?"

"Knowledge," Tuvok replied simply.

"Knowledge?"

"Your situation is interesting. The idea that a katra could be contained within a photonic matrix then later fused with a cloned body to again create the individual known as Tom Paris, is of great scientific interest to my people. Our society promotes the idea of infinite diversity in infinite combinations and you are, indeed, a unique and diverse individual. You seem to be laboring under a miscomprehension, Lieutenant. You seem to believe that there is a clear distinction between science and religion. Perhaps that is true in some human societies,  but it is not true on Vulcan.  We do not have 'religious leaders' and 'scientists'. We have a religion of science."

"Yeah, so you keep saying," Tom scoffed. "So why the hell do I and my clone have to stand buck-naked in a cave on some mountain while a group of people chant around us like some witches' coven? If this is so damned scientific, why do you use the props?"

Tuvok blinked.

"By 'props' I assume you mean the physical parameters of the ceremony?"

"Yeah. The guys in robes, and the guys without the fucking robes, namely *me*, and the fact the whole thing takes place on the edge of a fucking live volcano?"

"Your profanity suggests that you are still emotionally unprepared for the ceremony. I suggest we spend more time practicing the necessary state of meditation."  

"But *why*? Why is it necessary? Why is *any* of it necessary?" Tom demanded.

"Because the process of transferring your katra relies on the mental concentration of the participants," Tuvok explained. "The 'props' as you call them are merely tools by which we will all achieve that necessary mental state. The ceremony itself is no more than an advanced form of kash-nohv."

"The mind-meld."

Tuvok's mouth quirked minutely into the Vulcan equivalent of an approving smile.

"I am comforted to see that you have been paying attention to at least *some* of my attempts to prepare you adequately for the ceremony."

"I wish they'd agreed to let *you* do it," Tom muttered. "I hate the idea of a total stranger running around in my head."

"I am not the logical choice. Our previous experience of kash-nohv together should have prevented you from resisting my intrusion into your mind yet I have been unable to touch your katra. An older, more experienced Vulcan should succeed where I have failed."

"Unless the reason you can't find my 'katra' is because it simply isn't there."

"That is, regrettably, also a possible explanation for my failure," Tuvok admitted.

 ~#~#~#~

"Is that your full report?" Owen demanded emotionlessly.

The Ensign's adam's apple bobbed. "Yes, Sir," he confirmed nervously. Although his posture was ram-rod straight, the youngster was obviously struggling not to flinch. Owen had the strangest impulse to ask him how old he was. He looked barely old enough to enter the academy, let alone be a graduate of it. Unless he himself was reaching the age where anyone under 25 looked like a child.

"Then that will be all, Ensign. Dismissed."

He chuckled under his breath as the Ensign raced out of the room with the startled expression of a condemned man who had received an unexpected pardon. Then his chuckle turned into a genuine laugh as he turned his head towards his wife over their breakfast table. The twin of the youngster's expression was on Jacqueline's face, except that *her* startlement was even more dramatic.

"Owen?" she queried hesitantly, her huge blue eyes too frightened and confused to even allow for the possibility of relief too.

"Hmmm?" he asked innocently, reaching for his coffee cup and taking a deep draught of the liquid. "This is damned fine coffee, Jacqueline. Don't think I've mentioned that before, but I *do* think you buy a damned fine brand of coffee."

"I don't understand," she whispered. "Aren't you going to *do* anything?"

He deliberately gave her a blank look, before relenting enough to smile. It saddened him to see that his wife seemed to find the smile more terrifying than his silence.

"Of course I am," he announced, and saw Jacqueline wince in anticipation of the eruption of temper she obviously expected to follow. "I'm going to get both of us flown over to Vulcan in time for the ceremony."

"To stop it?"

"Hell, no. It would cause a major diplomatic incident if I charged in there and started throwing my weight around."

His wife nodded miserably.

"Besides," Owen added. "I have a deep and abiding respect for Vulcans."

Jacqueline raised her eyes cautiously to his face, her fingers fluttering nervously in front of her breastbone as the first tendrils of hope began to flicker through her heart.

Owen smiled at her gently.

"I'm not a complete fool, Jackie," he murmured. "I know it's a long-shot, the kind of desperate trick I'm beginning to expect from Chakotay, but I can't even *imagine* the Vulcan government agreeing to it if it's completely hopeless.  And if there's a chance, even the slightest chance, that Tom's alive...well...then we owe it to him to be there."

 ~#~#~#~

"I can't do it, Chak. I'm too god-damned scared," Tom whispered into Chakotay's neck.

"It's okay, babe," Chakotay soothed, his right hand carding through Tom's hair while his left clung tightly to Tom's denim-sheathed buttocks. "I couldn't do it either," he admitted, with a strained laugh of embarrassment.

Tom reared his head back enough to stare Chakotay in the face, his eyes incredulous.

"You couldn't?"

"He's not *you*," Chakotay groaned. "I've spent the last week desperate to touch you, to hold you, to just *look* at you, but I couldn't even bring myself to meet the clone."

"But tomorrow, if it..." Tom's voice trailed off uncertainly.

"I know," Chakotay agreed sheepishly. "Tomorrow you'll be in that body and I'll spend the rest of my life looking like a cradle-snatcher as I proudly parade you on my arm but until tomorrow I don't even want to *imagine* you looking any different than you do right now."

"I don't understand you," Tom sighed. "You are one seriously fucked-up man. You can't face the clone today because he doesn't 'look' like me, but you'll *love* him tomorrow, just because a Vulcan says a few mystic words over our heads. Then suddenly it won't even worry you that I look like a teenager again, will it? Do you even care what I look like at all?"

"No," Chakotay admitted. "Not really. Although I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I think you are the most beautiful man I've ever known, it's my *heart* that sees your beauty not my eyes."

"So if the Doc had *really* fucked up and accidentally matured the clone to say 70 or something, you'd still want my ass tomorrow?" Tom challenged with a grin.

"I'd still want it if you were 170," Chakotay replied sincerely, then he grinned wickedly. "Of course I can't wait to find out how you looked with a full head of hair."

"A full head of hair?" Tom screeched in mock outrage. "I'll have you know that my hair is NOT receding, you bastard. I just have a high forehead due to the need to contain my extremely well-endowed brain." 

"It's not your well-endowed brain that I'm thinking about at the moment," Chakotay purred, rocking his hips to brush meaningfully against Tom's crotch.

"Damn. I hope the Doc remembered to do the adjustment to my clone."

"What adjustment?" Chakotay demanded, thrusting Tom away from him enough to glare suspiciously into his husband's face.

"Oh, nothing much," Tom replied airily. "Just an inch here, an inch there."

He waited until Chakotay's eyes flared with shock, then dissolved into hysterical laughter, collapsing against Chakotay's chest once more so that his warm breath blew across his neck.

Except it *wasn't* breath, Chakotay reminded himself. It was just a trick of light. Like all of Tom's body. This warm body that felt like flesh and blood in his arms wasn't *real*.

But *Tom* was.

"Well, that's good really," he said, as Tom sniggered in his arms. "Because I never wanted to bring the subject up myself."

"What subject?" Tom asked, stiffening suspiciously.

"The fact that you're not quite....well....you know," Chakotay teased. "I mean, a guy gets taken that way he prefers it to *feel* it."

"FEEL IT? That's it, you bastard. You've done it now. You won't even be at the fucking fal-tor-pan tomorrow," Tom promised.

"You saying I'll be too sore to walk up that mountain?" Chakotay leered.

"By the time I've finished with you, lover, you'll be shitting as you walk."

Chakotay blinked in disbelief at the crudeness of the comment, then smirked.

"Spirits, Tom. I love it when you talk dirty," he chuckled. 

 ~#~#~#~

"Oh my god," Jacqueline gasped. The shock made her head spin and her knees give way beneath her. If Owen hadn't leapt forwards to throw his arms around her, she was sure she'd have actually fainted.

"Why's it so young?" Owen demanded, sharing his wife's shock that the clone appeared no older than Tom had been on the day he'd left for Starfleet Academy.

"Please keep your tone pleasant," the holographic Doctor snapped at him, in a less than pleasant tone himself. "He may have an extremely limited understanding of language but he's very sensitive to emotions."

Owen was tempted to point out it hardly mattered whether the clone got upset since its week old memories would be extinguished the next day, either by being replaced by Tom's or by the destruction of its body if the fal-tor-pan failed. He couldn't utter the words though, because the sunshine smile of the clone *had* faded into a look of bewildered fear and the expression that now graced its face was far too reminiscent of Owen's memory of the real Tom's bewilderment when his innocent overtures of love towards his father had been so cruelly rejected.

"It's alright," he murmured at the clone, smiling uncertainly in its direction. "No one's angry."

And although he doubted it understood his words, his smile seemed to reassure it and it gave a brilliant, beaming smile once more.

"He's so innocent," Jacqueline choked. "So vulnerable."

"It's not a him," Owen corrected quietly. "It's just a strand of Tom's DNA. It has no more right to life than a cloned body part."

"He's right in a way," the Doctor confirmed. "I have been most careful not to nurture any true process of thought or understanding in the clone. Although, strictly speaking, it has an identical capacity for thought as Tom. However, since personality is a combination of genetics, upbringing and experience, it never would or could have become another Tom even if it had been created for that purpose."

"And that gives us the right to kill it?" Jacqueline asked.

"Please, Jacqueline. I'm struggling enough with the attempt to believe that Tom could be alive in the form of a hologram. Don't throw *another* moral dilemma in my face. Call me selfish or unfeeling, or anything else, but the only issue that concerns me is whether *our* son is alive. Our *real* son. The one you gave birth to. The one we both failed so badly. The one we so desperately want to come home to us."

"You're right," she replied, with a sad smile at the clone. "At this stage we're so far beyond any normal definition of what is or isn't life that we have to stop even trying to think with our minds and just listen to our hearts. That's what Chakotay has done and, perhaps, tomorrow he'll be proven right."

Since there was a part of Owen that still suspected Chakotay had actually done most of his thinking with his dick, he just acknowledged his wife's comment with a resigned nod.

Since the dick in question was at that same moment being crushed into a mattress by the weight of their son as he thrust inside Chakotay with the full tireless enthusiasm of his photonic body, it was probably better for their peace of mind that they were visiting the clone rather than the hologram. 

 ~#~#~#~

As Tom had promised, Chakotay found the climb up Mt. Seleya extremely uncomfortable. It wasn't just that Tom had taken full advantage of his photonic body's ability to maintain an indefinite erection, it was the fact that it had been a hell of a long time since he'd made love in that fashion.  By mutual agreement, their affection had almost always been expressed with Chakotay taking the top.

It wasn't a matter of dominance in bed, although Tom frequently teased him that that was the case. The truth, as Chakotay saw it, was that in the act of entering and pleasuring Tom, Chakotay was in the position to worship and cherish him. Every stroke of his cock inside Tom's ass was a caress, every moan and grunt and squeal that he wrested from Tom's throat by moving inside him was the only reward Chakotay aimed for as he turned his entire body into a tool for Tom's pleasure.

He knew that wasn't how everyone saw the act of topping. He knew that for some it was just an excuse to use another body for their *own* satisfaction. But Chakotay had always perceived Tom as the one in control of their relationship. It was Tom who granted him access, who gifted him with complete trust and, when they made love, Chakotay touched him with the reverence that such trust deserved.

So, perhaps it had been selfish of him to reverse the roles the night before. Instead of  comforting his husband, he'd allowed himself to give in to his own desire to be cherished. He'd *needed* that affection from Tom, that proof of Tom's love, and he'd even needed to demonstrate his trust in that way. It had been almost a desperate gesture, a way of saying 'Look how much I trust you, Tom. So you *must* be Tom. You MUST be,' as though using it as a strange subtle blackmail.

Yet in this, Tom, as in so many things, had a different perception. In Tom's mind, the reversal of roles would have been seen as a gift.  He would have *felt* cherished simply by the offer of Chakotay's ass.

Strange that they should both have so many differences and yet be so perfect for each other, he mused.

Glancing over at Tom's profile, he realized the one thing they *did* both have in common was their mutual ability to hide their emotions. Just as his own face was expressionless this morning, so was Tom's.  Even the blue eyes were like as flat and cold as ice in Tom's calm face. Considering the terror they were both feeling, it was almost comical that neither of them was displaying any more emotion than the Vulcans who were accompanying them on the climb.

They were both so busily pretending not to be scared that neither of them even noticed the two humans who discretely joined the procession to the mountain top.

 ~#~#~#~

"My mind to your mind," Dvarek repeated calmly, not even his voice betraying the amount of desperation he was beginning to feel.

There was nothing there.

Despite the seeming reality of Tom's face in front of him, regardless of the undeniable emotions in Tom's terrified eyes and in complete contradiction of his own perception of Tom Paris as being 'alive' when he had met and conversed with the young man the day before, when he reached inside Tom's mind he found nothing.

Just as Tuvok had reported.

Dvarek had touched the clone, just briefly, to be sure that the mindless creature wouldn't panic during the ceremony. And, in that fleeting touch, to be certain that the clone would realize that his touch was *not* something to fear, he had felt its katra. Touching the clone had been like touching a newborn infant. There had been no knowledge in its mind, no memories, no understanding of the things that its senses perceived.

But it was alive.

It was *alive*.

And this hologram was not.

In every legal and spiritual sense, Tom Paris was dead.

Dvarek turned his head slightly, until he could see the faces of the people who loved Tom Paris. The husband who had risked everything to save the man he loved. The parents. The mother who didn't seem to even care whether her son was 'alive' or not, as long as he came home to her and the father who pretended to be so aloof and self-contained, while a simple handshake had revealed all his secret longing to a touch-telepath like Dvarek.

The mother would accept the hologram. For their own different reasons, neither the husband nor the father could.

The holographic entity known as Tom Paris, the vessel that contained the heart and personality and memories and emotion of that man, a being in *all* other ways indistinguishable from a human being, would cease to be. Simply because he didn't have a 'soul'.

The clone, a blameless mindless creature, would have its 'life' terminated. Its katra extinguished before it even had a chance to learn its own memories or develop its own capacity to love. Simply because it didn't have any legal right to life.

It was illogical.

He stepped away from Tom and turned to the assembled spectators, human and Vulcan alike.

"You must all leave," he announced. "The process of transferring such a delicate katra requires my perfect concentration. I need to be alone with Tom and the clone."

"Then you *can* sense his spirit? He *is* alive?" Chakotay roared, his illusion of calm shattered not by grief but by desperate hope.

"Yes," Dvarek announced.

And since he knew Vulcans never lied, Admiral Owen Paris greeted the announcement by slipping to the floor in a dead faint.

Tuvok, who knew a little more about Vulcans than Owen, stepped forward and brushed his fingers against Dvarek's hand.

He froze, his dark eyes flickering, and then he nodded.

"It is the logical solution," he agreed quietly. "It saves them both. The katra of the clone, will survive but instead of learning his own memories, he will give a home to those of the original Tom. No one except Tom will ever know what you have done."

"Not even Tom," Dvarek corrected, equally quietly. "It would be illogical to save him only for him to live with guilty fear of his secret. I will render him unconscious before the transfer."

Tuvok nodded, and discretely passed him a small metal badge.

"I always suspected that this would be the finding of the fal-tor-pan," he admitted quietly. "My agreement to arrange this ceremony was not based upon the belief that you would find a katra in Tom Paris, but that you decide that he is *alive* regardless. In that hope, I brought the holographic doctor to assist with the remapping of the hologram over the brain of the clone."

"Life exists in infinite diversity in infinite combinations?"

"What could be more diverse than the combination of a hologram and a clone to preserve the existence of a personality as original as that of Thomas Eugene Paris?" Tuvok asked.

"And what of the husband? What of his beliefs?" Dvarek asked.

"He will never know what we have done," Tuvok replied. "Yet I do not feel that we are betraying him with this deception. If the Spirits that he believes in *do* indeed guide and protect him, then they must approve of what we are doing. Otherwise, he would not have succeeded in bringing Tom here for the ceremony. Perhaps the Spirits have *their* own perception of life and also wish to ensure the continuation of Tom Paris's current state of existence."

"Perhaps," Dvarek agreed, his mouth curving into something suspiciously like a knowing smile.

  ~#~#~#~

"I'M ALIVE!"

Two dozen Vulcans flinched as the ecstatic scream emerged from the mouth of the cave, and three humans forgot their differences as they stared at each other in disbelief, too stunned to move.

"CHAK! I'M ALIVE. I'M FUCKING ALIVE!" 

The sound of his name broke through Chakotay's shock, and he began to charge towards the cave with an answering scream of "TOMMY!" 

As a blond, blue-eyed man staggered out into the sunlight, on legs as rubbery and uncoordinated as a new-born colt's, with an expression of disbelieving joy on his face as his voice sang out "I told you NOT to call me Tommy!" in the moment before his husband grabbed him around the waist and swung him around in the air, several of the assembled Vulcans exchanged knowing glances.

The fal-tor-pan was a delicate process, the movement of the katra did not give the new body its memories back immediately. They came back with the progress of time. They didn't turn a mindless clone instantly into a living, breathing, laughing copy of the original.

The Vulcans knew this.

As they saw Tom stumbling down the mountainside in his husband's embrace, his movements awkward in the unfamiliar body, but his face glowing with the full personality of the holographic Tom, the assembled Vulcans understood why Dvarek had performed the 'ceremony' in private.

And as the young human slid to a disbelieving halt, with a gasp of "Mom? DAD?" and they saw his expression of fear, chased by tentative hope, followed by ecstatic joy as he tore himself apologetically away from his husband and half-ran, half-fell down the remaining distance until he could throw himself into the embrace of his weeping parents, even the Vulcans who were shuddering with distaste at the unseemly presence of such naked emotions on the side of their most sacred place, Mt Seleya, all silently agreed that Dvarek had made the *logical* choice under the circumstances.

 ~#~#~#~

Wiping away the furious tears that were stinging his eyes, not only from relief that Tom was alive but that, unbelievably, Tom actually seemed happy to see him, Owen stared sadly at the proud, angry expression on Chakotay's face. He had followed Tom down the mountainside, but had frozen at the periphery of the family reunion, his whole body rigid with the stress of keeping still when every instinct of the Dorvanian was obviously screaming at him to rip his husband away from the parents who had so erroneously declared him dead. 

Perhaps Tom was capable of forgiveness, but his husband clearly was not. Chakotay didn't forgive them. He didn't *want* to forgive them. Unlike Tom, he had no reason to even try and find somewhere in his heart for two people who didn't deserve their son's love but were desperately pleading for it anyway. 

If he'd still been in *any* doubt as to whether Tom's choice of husband had been right, seeing Chakotay in the flesh would have dispelled it. Chakotay didn't glow with love for his husband, he *burned*. 

Yet, despite that raging passion that so evidently heaved beneath Chakotay's still exterior, there was equally no mistaking the fact that this dangerous man was bone-weary and spiritually-drained. Owen had the strangest feeling that Chakotay had spent so long raging at the world in defense of Tom that there had been nothing spare inside that angry shell to defend his own needs.  He had burned himself out to save Tom's life and when he finally realized that Tom truly was safe now, it would be Chakotay who would need to be cared for, who would need some return on the investment of love he had made in his husband. 

Seeing the way that Tom was twisting in his mother's embrace, clearly torn between his need for her touch and his obvious desire to return to Chakotay's arms instead, Owen had no doubt that Tom would return Chakotay's investment ten-fold. 

Tom adored his husband. The truth of that shone in his sparkling eyes and his exuberant grin. And why wouldn't he? Owen asked himself. How many men would do what Chakotay had done? How many people's love was so strong that it defied death itself?

Yes. Tom loved Chakotay, and with good reason.

But would that be enough? Would even the adoration of his son be enough to restore what this experience had taken from Chakotay? Could a man as obviously proud and strong as Chakotay learn to lean instead of support, to ask for emotional protection rather than give it? Particularly now Tom had the external form of an 18-year-old boy? Was *Tom* strong enough to make Chakotay accept at least a temporary reversal of their roles?

Perhaps he was. Perhaps Tom had *always* been a stronger man than he himself had realized.  Yes. Tom *would* give Chakotay what he needed. Tom *would* protect the man he loved with no less passion and determination than Chakotay had given.

But, Owen decided abruptly, Tom wouldn't have to do it alone.

He ignored Chakotay's stiff, belligerent posture. His smile refused to slip despite Chakotay's unwelcoming snarl, and he ignored Chakotay's flinch as he threw his right arm across the younger man's shoulders.

"Come on, Son," he said. "It's time you both came home."

The End.