Episode 8-21 - We Shall Overcome
By: Ventura33 (mevans@gemair.com)

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager, its characters and related properties
are Registered Trademarks of Paramount Pictures. No infringement of
Paramount's copyrights is intended. Voyager Virtual Season 8 (VS8) is a
non-profit endeavor. The unique characters and milieu of VS8 are the
property of the VS8 producers and individual authors. This story is the
property of the author. Please do not repost without permission.

The little San Francisco restaurant looked bright and cheerful,
decorated in garish colors and designs. The lunch crowd was just
beginning to gather.

Standing in front of a bright yellow booth, Tom Paris valiantly
endeavored to strap his squirming daughter Miral into a high chair.
The thunderous look on Miral's face made it plain what she thought of
that. Tom finally accomplished his mission, thinking for a moment that
piloting the Delta Flyer through enemy fire had been a piece of cake by
comparison.

"Get," Miral declared loudly, pointing a stubby finger toward a bowl
that contained assorted crackers, and making her very best effort to
wriggle out after them.

"Her Exalted Majesty's favorite word," observed B'Elanna, unwrapping a
packet of multi-grain crackers for the baby.

"At least she's not partial to Klingon curses."

"I'll have you know, mister, that I watch my language very carefully
around her. And what's more . . ."

Tom felt very grateful when the waitress brought their salads,
distracting his wife from whatever she'd been about to say. The
waitress was a tall blonde with a ponytail down to her waist, dressed
in a tie-dyed halter top and a tight denim miniskirt.

"Interesting outfit," B'Elanna noted.

"The Groovy Sunshine Café is a historical landmark," Tom explained.
"It's been continuously in operation since the 1960s, under one name or
another. This area of San Francisco, the Haight-Ashbury district, was
the center of the flower-child subculture, and that was how they
dressed."

"The what?" B'Elanna looked up from a forkful of lettuce and cucumber.
"Tom, don't let Miral eat that daisy, she's halfway out of the chair."

Tom intercepted the would-be fugitive and buckled her into the chair
once more, silencing an indignant yowl with a sesame-seed cracker.

"She's going to have quite a career as an escape artist when she grows
up." Tom took another bite of his salad before he continued, "The
flower children, or hippies, were young people protesting what they
viewed as a repressive culture and government. They wore flowers and
brightly colored clothing, grew their hair long, and often marched
through the streets singing protest songs."

B'Elanna glanced toward a window overlooking the street as the sounds
of an unusual commotion could clearly be heard. "You mean, like that?"

As he followed her gaze, Tom almost fell out of his seat in
astonishment. A huge crowd, at least five thousand, packed the street
as far back as he could see. Long hair, beards, ragged jeans, love
beads -- at first he thought it had to be some sort of historical
reenactment festival, until he noticed that the marchers' T-shirts and
protest signs all bore messages like "Holographic Rights" and "Photonic
Liberation." The portable holo-emitters on their arms blended right in
with their gaudy bracelets and other jewelry.

Their voices rose in song. "We shall overcome . . ."

About the only thing they were missing, Tom thought as he rubbed his
eyes in disbelief, was a flower-covered VW bus or two. A pity you
couldn't drive motorized vehicles in San Francisco any more.

*****

Reg Barclay was having a bad hair day.

And unfortunately, his thinning hair, which just wouldn't stay combed
over his bald spot no matter what he did, had become the least of his
worries. An irate admiral had made a very unwelcome appearance on his
comm screen at 0400 hours, Jupiter Station local time, to inform him
that a certain well-known emergency medical hologram had publicly
released the complete specifications for replication of portable holo-
emitters. Specifications that had taken Reg, working closely with
Zimmerman, a considerable time to develop under the strictest military
secrecy. Apparently, the EMH didn't give a flying fig what Starfleet
Command thought.

As he pondered the implications, starting with the fact that his work
was directly responsible for giving the Federation's enemies the
unlimited capacity to create instant holographic armies, Reg could
visualize his career disappearing like drops of water evaporating in
the sun. Or subliming, even more quickly, into the cold vacuum of
space.

He glared at the robed and sandaled figure of the EMH, who was pacing
the laboratory floor with serene dignity, in a very creditable
impression of Mahatma Gandhi.

"Doesn't your programming have the ability to comprehend the meaning of
the words TOP SECRET?"

"Yes, it does," snapped a rather rumpled Zimmerman, looking even more
sour than usual as he stared into the depths of a third gigantic cup of
black coffee. "All of my holograms are programmed with the complete
code of Starfleet rules and regulations, continuously updated, of
course. What's more, while we've been running tests on his mobile
emitter this past week, he wasn't supposed to have had access to the
project data at all. I certainly never expected him to hack into the
files like this."

The EMH glanced mildly from one engineer to the other. Reg could hear
the clacking of beads. "Gentlemen, I am a sentient being capable of
moral choices. I am much more than the simple sum of my programming,"
the EMH proclaimed.

Great, Reg thought, just what the Federation doesn't need, holographic
civil disobedience. A photonic declaration of independence. And my
precious posterior is right in the middle of it. Oh, joy.

"Didn't it occur to you that the potential military uses of this
technology could endanger the Federation?" Reg demanded.

Long madras sleeves fluttered as the EMH raised his hands in a broad
gesture, as if he intended to bestow a blessing upon an ignorant
populace. "History teaches us that liberty must not be sacrificed for
security. In the Federation, until today, billions of holograms
existed as nothing more than captive laborers, imprisoned within the
confines of factories, laboratories, and holo-suites. I have liberated
these oppressed masses by making it possible for them to replicate the
portable holo-emitter. A proper regard for their civil rights demands
no less."

Reg, in mute frustration, ran his fingers through his uncooperative
hair and sighed when several strands came out. This situation was
definitely bringing on a major headache.

"Hippies? Did you have to dress them as hippies?"

"I have not been controlling their behavior in any way," the EMH
immediately corrected him. "I merely released the specifications for
the portable emitter, allowing events to take their natural course.
Because San Francisco is the location of Starfleet Headquarters, as
well as the Federation's seat of government, the holograms chose the
most significant protest images from that city's history."

"He's been like this all morning." Zimmerman glumly looked up from a
blinking console and took another gulp of coffee. "Starfleet Command
wants me to identify the malfunction and then shut him down
permanently. After all, he is officially Starfleet property, and
terminating his program would seem to be a logical response to the
security breach. I've also received several thousand messages from
concerned citizens, various civil liberties groups, and even a few
members of the Federation Council, insisting that we treat him with the
same decent respect that would be accorded any other sentient life
form."

Reg took a deep breath and tried to discipline the stammer that he
could feel coming on. "T-terminate him? But you can't, that is, of
course Starfleet has the legal authority, but it wouldn't be right."
Feeling as if he'd started to babble, Reg shut his mouth, devoutly
wishing that this whole dilemma would somehow magically disappear.
After all, he was a practical engineer who'd chosen a quiet life in
space, not a philosopher. A hologram with a social conscience
definitely wasn't within his area of expertise.

"For now, I'm going to follow orders." Zimmerman got out of his chair,
ignoring several additional incoming message indicators that had begun
blinking. "I've started a diagnostic program in an attempt to identify
a fault, if any, in the EMH's subroutines. In the event that no errors
are found, I'll start a more complex diagnostic, and so on. Perhaps in
the interim, our fearless leaders will discover where they've left
their collective brain. And by the way, if any more urgent calls from
puffed-up admirals happen to come in while I'm taking a leak, they're
all yours."

Oh, joy, Reg thought again.

*****

Piano music suddenly echoed through the corridor of the Starfleet
Academy dormitory as Icheb, returning from an afternoon session in the
circuits lab, approached his room. A dance tune, Earth origin, of the
variety known as polka. Accessing his mental files on the subject,
Icheb promptly identified the song as the Beer Barrel Polka, a favorite
of certain traditional European harvest festivals, and of course,
highly inappropriate for the Academy. His classmates would be better
advised to concentrate on their studies instead of pointless
diversions, Icheb thought.

Several cadets at the end of the hall began singing, with substantially
more enthusiasm than musical talent, "Roll out the barrel . . ."

Just as Icheb reached for the keypad beside his door, the ceiling
sprinkler above him suddenly came on, spraying a substance that
definitely wasn't water. Nor was it any type of fire extinguisher.
The watching cadets burst into loud guffaws as the unmistakable smell
of beer wafted through the corridor. Icheb, his uniform dripping,
stepped into his room with his classmates' taunts following him.

"Better dry off before you rust!"

Even after the door closed, he could still hear their laughter as it
continued.

Depositing his sodden uniform in the refresher, Icheb got into the
shower, thinking that at least this prank hadn't been as messy as the
one last week. That had involved a Klingon pickled vegetable
resembling sauerkraut and several unfortunate tribbles, which had
become quite intoxicated from consuming it. He suspected that his
roommate had enthusiastically taken part in positioning them atop his
regeneration alcove. However, given the fact that Borg olfactory
receptors could be adjusted to block unwanted odors, Icheb figured that
his roommate had gotten the worst of the tribbles' upset stomachs.

He pondered what, if anything, he ought to do about it. Hazing and
harassment, especially of the racial or ethnic variety, were strictly
forbidden at Starfleet Academy. If he were to report the incidents, he
could expect that they would be investigated with Starfleet's usual
thoroughness and the perpetrators severely punished. Of course, he
could also expect that his chances of developing normal friendships
with his fellow cadets would disappear entirely. Considering that the
pranks hadn't caused any serious harm, logic would seem to indicate
that the better course of action was to ignore them.

As Icheb stepped out of the shower, his comm beeped.

He wrapped a towel around himself and answered it, finding Tuvok's face
on the screen. The Vulcan officer raised an eyebrow slightly in
apparent surprise at Icheb's clothing or lack thereof.

"If this isn't a convenient time, Cadet . . ."

"It's all right, sir. I was just getting out of the shower after an
intramural game of Parrises Squares." Icheb paused for a moment and
then went on, thinking that if he were going to lie he might as well
put in a few details for authenticity, "My team won."

Tuvok's eyebrow slowly receded. "Such participation in recreational
activities with your classmates is commendable, Cadet. I understand
that your academic performance continues to be excellent in all
subjects."

"Yes, sir." Water dripped down Icheb's back; he hadn't gotten a chance
to towel his hair dry. The carpet felt damp under his feet. Although
Tuvok undoubtedly had good intentions, the Vulcan certainly could have
picked a better time to act as a mentor.

Icheb briefly wondered whether Tuvok might have any useful advice in
dealing with hazing. After all, Tuvok had been a cadet many years ago,
when Vulcans in Starfleet were still somewhat rare. Perhaps he'd been
a target of similar harassment. Unfortunately, there was no good way
to ask such a question without making the current situation far too
obvious, and an investigation by well-meaning officers would only cause
more trouble.

"Were you about to say something more, Icheb?"

"No, sir. Just that I'd like to go and get dressed now, sir, if you
wouldn't mind."

*****

The slamming apartment door, along with an even louder crash of some
heavy object flung against the wall, gave Tom ample warning that his
wife's interview had not gone well.

"B'Elanna, you'll wake the . . ."

An ear-splitting shriek from behind the closed nursery door made it
quite plain that he didn't need to finish that sentence.

"Commenting on my lack of parenting skills, are you, flyboy?" snarled
B'Elanna, her dark Klingon eyes glaring murder.

From the next room, Miral's howling increased by several orders of
magnitude.

Any man in his right mind would have gotten out of that apartment in a
hurry, Tom thought. Which only went to confirm what his former
crewmates had long suspected about his sanity.

He turned off the old monster movie he'd been watching, put down his
bowl of popcorn, and tried to comfort his distraught wife. "There will
be other projects."

B'Elanna slammed her fist into the wall hard enough to leave a sizeable
dent. Tom could see a dark bruise spreading across her knuckles. "No,
there won't. Not in Starfleet. Not for me. I'm a Maquis traitor who
can't be trusted on any classified project, remember? Not to mention a
dropout, as well. Without that college degree, I'm barely qualified to
sweep the floor in a Starfleet research facility. Oh, the interviewer
put it a bit more politely than that, but she made it plain enough from
the outset that she thought I was just wasting her time."

"There are plenty of jobs in private industry," Tom ventured.

Although B'Elanna didn't punch anything this time, her grimace made it
quite apparent what she thought of that suggestion.

"Doing what? Quality control for space freighter parts? Tom, we both
know I'd die of boredom. It's so unfair! All those years as Voyager's
chief engineer, keeping the ship together from one crisis to the next,
and now Starfleet has no more use for me than a heap of yesterday's
trash." B'Elanna flung herself down across the sofa and growled into
the pillow, "I wish Voyager had never come back to Earth."

Tom took a step toward her sprawled figure, intending to tell her that
she didn't really mean it. Of course, after the way things had gone
since their return, she had some perfectly rational reasons to think
they'd been better off in the Delta Quadrant. He wasn't altogether
convinced to the contrary himself.

He decided, after a moment of reflection on their less than joyful
homecoming, that it would be best not to respond to B'Elanna's remark
at all. "How about if you let me have a look at that bruise on your
hand?"

She didn't even look up at him as she muttered, jerking her head in the
direction of the colossal noise coming from the nursery, "You'd better
go and take care of Miral."

*****

Zimmerman, surfing the news channels while he ate a salami sandwich at
his desk, found nothing but images of defiant holograms and their
street rallies. Except for the channels that showed self-important
political analysts droning on about the ramifications of widespread
photonic protests. There wasn't a planet in the Federation that hadn't
been affected by now, even stodgy old Vulcan, which hadn't seen public
unrest in millennia and probably continued to enforce its somnolent
national character by banishing anyone who laughed too loudly.

The images of holographic Vulcan hippies marching across the desert
sands in plastic flip-flop sandals would have been more than enough to
give Zimmerman himself a good belly laugh, if the future of what he
fondly viewed as a new species hadn't been involved. A new species
that he, personally, had played a major role in creating. No doubt, a
superlatively talented holo-developer such as himself was the nearest
thing to a god.

He drifted into a pleasant daydream about the temples that future
generations of holograms would build in his honor, only to be rudely
interrupted when Reg Barclay came to stand next to him, gazing down at
the image of yet another protest march. This one, unlike the others,
consisted of a vociferous mob of normally dressed humans outside the
Federation Council building.

"They've gathered millions of signatures for a petition calling for an
immediate halt to all use of holograms and the complete destruction of
their programs. I saw some of this earlier," Reg informed him. "Since
they found out that the Federation Council has invited the EMH to speak
at its next meeting, they've been picketing constantly. We have a lot
of nervous citizens out there who are afraid the holograms might turn
violent."

"Ignorant Luddites." Turning off the news in disgust, Zimmerman
returned to the program he'd been working on before his lunch break.
The logical, precise world of data arrays and function calls had always
made far more sense to him than the chaotic thought processes of
primitive humanoid brains. Yes, he'd certainly have done a much better
job of designing the dominant species if he'd been the Almighty.

A swishing of robes heralded the EMH's arrival into the room.

This time, the holographic physician's role model wasn't Gandhi, as his
medieval monk's garb made plain. Although Zimmerman had very little
interest in religious symbolism, it did create a fine aura of theater,
he thought. But then, he'd patterned the EMH after himself, so it was
only to be expected.

Reg, who looked as if he'd barely avoided choking on a cabbage roll,
seemed considerably less impressed. Some people just didn't have the
capacity to appreciate good artistic flair, Zimmerman thought.

Striking a dramatic pose in the center of the room, the EMH declared
magnanimously, "You have the good fortune to witness history in the
making, as I prepare my speech for the Federation Council. This will
be the turning point in organic-photonic relations."

For some reason, Reg, gazing longingly toward the door, didn't look as
if he had much appreciation for this historic moment.

"We must all learn to embrace one another as children of the same
Creator, whether our executable files are coded in DNA or compiled on a
machine," the EMH declared. "Do unto others, organic or photonic, as
you would have them do unto you."

Reg finished eating his lunch and hastily put his tray into the
recycler. Zimmerman noticed that he'd chosen the one on the opposite
side of the room, nearest the exit.

"I have a dream," the EMH went on, "that one day we will all be judged
not by the composition of our image files but by the content of our
programming."

He raised his hands and bestowed a beatific smile upon his audience
before continuing, "Although it may seem a great mountain to move, if
we have faith as a . . ."

Pausing for a moment, the EMH fixed a much less benevolent stare upon
Reg, who had been slowly edging toward the door.

"Sorry," Reg gulped. "I, uh, gotta go water my mustard seed."

A graceless barbarian, Zimmerman thought.

*****

Although he couldn't see the ocean from his apartment windows, Tom had
a nice view of a public park not far away, where the greenery didn't
quite hide B'Elanna and the stroller that she was pushing along one of
the walkways. He'd declined her invitation to come along for the
exercise, despite a pointed observation that, with his fondness for
snacks and old movies, he was well on his way to becoming a soft and
pudgy couch potato.

He glanced nervously out the window again as he activated the comm.
B'Elanna wouldn't be back for a while; there was no reason to be
concerned that she'd overhear. No, it was the other party to the
conversation who made him feel unsettled, even before he'd said a word.
Funny thing, Tom mused, how he'd traveled unimaginable distances while
facing threats from Kazon, Vidiians, Borg, and Sernaix, but all of that
hadn't made him as nervous as the simple prospect of speaking to his
own father.

The admiral's face appeared on the screen, looking entirely composed
and professional. If he also felt in any way disconcerted, it
certainly didn't show.

No problem. Just calling to shoot the breeze, Tom thought, feeling a
twinge of the envy he'd always had toward guys who enjoyed informal,
easygoing relationships with their fathers. Even though the tone of
their conversations seemed to have improved since Voyager's return, one
didn't just chat with Admiral Owen Paris for the fun of it.

"Sir, I'm calling to ask you about a favor," Tom blurted out, before he
could lose his nerve entirely. "Not for me -- I know I have no
business asking you to pull any strings for me, after the embarrassment
I've been to you -- but for B'Elanna. You probably don't know just how
much she wants to work on the new prototype ship. She's been one of
Starfleet's best engineers for the past eight years. Without her, the
entire crew of Voyager would have died long ago. She shouldn't be
disqualified from consideration just because of her unusual
background."

Tom paused for breath, conscious of the high, strained tone of his
voice. He felt like a small boy again, one whose childish efforts
could never merit his preoccupied father's approval or even gain his
notice. He wouldn't have been surprised if the admiral had told him to
go clean his room.

"I suppose criminal activity with a gang of Maquis terrorists could be
described as an unusual background." Owen Paris' dry tone grated
against Tom's ears. "Since the Dominion War, we've seen a great many
resumes with creative explanations for dubious deeds. Fortunately for
the Maquis among Voyager's crew, political and practical considerations
would suggest that we overlook most such matters. If B'Elanna had the
necessary academic qualifications, she'd have been considered for the
position, but as things stand, I'm afraid it's out of the question."

"B'Elanna knows far more about how starship engines work -- in the real
world -- than all those fossilized academics who've spent their entire
careers in the lab," Tom retorted. "Doesn't her experience count for
anything at all?"

The admiral returned a superior gaze that left Tom feeling like a
schoolboy who'd talked out of turn.

"Your wife's intelligence and resourcefulness are not in dispute, Tom.
No doubt she'd be a leading candidate for many openings better suited
to her skills, such as chief engineer aboard a cargo ship. She is not,
however, qualified to take part in a high-priority starship development
project without the proper academic background. I'm not the one who
set the minimum qualifications, and I couldn't bend them for B'Elanna
even if I wanted to do it."

Tom looked down at his hands, realizing that the jagged edges of his
recently bitten fingernails were digging into his palms. He forced
himself to relax, to focus his mind, and to find a rational answer.

"What if she took an equivalency exam? Would it be possible for the
Academy to give her a degree?"

Owen Paris' domineering expression now held a faint look of pity.
"Tom, it just can't be done. Starfleet Academy doesn't simply hand out
equivalency degrees to anyone with some relevant life experience, as if
an officer's commission meant nothing more than a diploma from an
ordinary vocational school."

Not much anyone could say to that, Tom knew. He should have known
better than to ask such an impossible favor. About all he could do now
was apologize for wasting his father's time, as he felt he'd done, in
one form or another, since the day he was born.

He realized that his father was speaking again.

" . . . a master's level program in starship engineering, which doesn't
require a Starfleet Academy undergraduate degree as a prerequisite. In
fact, a majority of the students in this program are civilians, and
it's not unusual for the non-human applicants to have more work
experience than college credits. Many cultures, after all, prefer
apprenticeships to Earth-style formal education. B'Elanna should have
no trouble gaining admission to the program. If she's decided to
pursue a career in starship design, this would be her best choice."

The admiral paused for a moment. "But, unfortunately, that won't help
her with the prototype project. The selection committee will be
meeting next week to choose the final members of the team. Even if
B'Elanna were to be allowed to receive credit for some coursework by
means of testing, it's virtually impossible that she could earn
sufficient credits to qualify in such a short time."

Tom slowly became aware that his face had acquired a silly grin he
couldn't quite manage to remove. "Sir, you don't know B'Elanna very
well. She's never given up on anything as impossible in her life."

"Sounds like your mother." The older man's tone unexpectedly grew
gentler. "Tom, have you given any thought to your own career? The
Academy has a flight instructor position open, and there's a shortage
of qualified applicants. You might want to consider it."

Just the idea of that left Tom taken aback. Teaching piloting at the
Academy, where he'd so thoroughly disgraced himself by causing a fatal
accident as a hot-shot cadet? Where all his students would know, and
no doubt whisper to one another, that he'd spent time in prison after
being caught with the Maquis? What kind of a sorry excuse for a role
model would he be?

He stammered, "But I don't -- sir, thank you, but for now I'm very
happy as I am, staying home and taking care of my daughter. Maybe some
other time. Uh, I need to go now, B'Elanna will be back in a minute."

His father's eyes seemed to stare all the way through him, to the
cowardice at his bones, a familiar chill that hadn't changed. But as
Tom was about to disconnect the link, his eyes prickling with the
shameful tears he'd never dared to weep, his father spoke once more.

"Tom, I don't think of you as an embarrassment to me. I'm very proud
of your performance aboard Voyager. Just thought you ought to know."

*****

A cool wind stirred the leaves of the small bushes in front of the
apartment complex. As Tuvok proceeded along the front walk, he still
felt certain that it was illogical to visit without first calling to
verify the occupants' presence and availability. His wife T'Pel had
insisted, however, that most humans greatly enjoyed the Earth custom of
'just dropping by.'

He rang the door chime and waited several seconds before he heard a
familiar voice. "Come in." The door slid open with a noticeable
creak. The apartment smelled like laundry and stale pizza, and the
floor was strewn with brightly colored infant toys.

"You can leave the literature on the table." Tom's voice came from a
darkened living room where Tuvok glimpsed images of bloody zombies
marching across a flickering screen. "I'm not really dressed for
company right now."

Tuvok glanced toward his wife. "As you can see, T'Pel, it would indeed
have been preferable to call first."

"Tuvok! Oh, I'm sorry." Tom got up from the couch, where he'd been
sitting in faded blue shorts, and turned off the zombie movie. "I
thought it was my neighbor, who's the president of the San Francisco
Woodpecker Society and seems very anxious to get me involved in habitat
preservation activities. I probably ought to tell her that I'm not
interested, but she's a very nice lady, and yesterday she gave cookies
to Miral when she was baking. Anyway, feel free to make yourselves at
home."

Tom drew back the curtains and opened the window, letting in a breeze
that the apartment definitely needed. He grabbed up the dirty laundry
that had been scattered over the furniture and dumped it into a larger
pile in the corner. "Sit down, please."

T'Pel, still standing next to Tuvok, glanced into the kitchen. "Were
you aware that your daughter is chewing on a houseplant?"

Chewing wasn't quite an adequate description of the havoc Miral had
wrought in the kitchen. She had yanked the plant completely out of its
pot, spilling dirt all over her clothes and the kitchen floor, before
dragging it off to a corner to mangle it further. Tom salvaged what
was left of the poor thing and plopped it back into the remaining dirt
before setting the pot on a higher shelf.

"I knew this plant wasn't a good idea, but B'Elanna thought it would
keep the apartment looking cheerful while she was gone. At least it's
not poisonous; I made sure of that."

"How are you adjusting to B'Elanna's academic endeavors?" Tuvok
inquired, finally sitting down on the chair with the least amount of
popcorn kernels in the cushions, as Tom took a wet cloth and wiped
Miral's hands and face before releasing her into the living room.

"Great!" Tom declared, as he began cleaning up the kitchen floor.
"Everything is absolutely perfect! I've been having a wonderful time
with my family!"

T'Pel observed, "There appears to be a touch of what I believe is
called sarcasm in your voice."

"Well, it's been kind of tough sometimes," Tom admitted. "B'Elanna's
always studying or in the lab. I almost never see her, except when she
comes home to crash for two or three hours. And in some ways, that's
lucky. Klingons can get by on less sleep than humans while staying
mentally sharp, but oh boy, does it ever make them cranky."

"Perhaps we can provide some assistance," T'Pel offered, holding out
her hands as Miral toddled unsteadily in her direction. "If there are
other activities you wish to pursue, we could take care of Miral on
occasion."

"What thoughts have you had regarding your future career plans?" Tuvok
went on, talking to his host's back as Tom vigorously scrubbed the
kitchen floor.

Tom turned around, with rising irritation evident in the furrowed line
of his brow. "I take it you're not impressed with my abilities as a
househusband? Look, Tuvok, I've had more than enough interrogation
recently, and I'm not interested in playing Twenty Questions on the
subject of what my life is good for. Right now, I'm content just to be
a husband and father, and to give B'Elanna the support she needs. If
that's not enough to satisfy you, I'm sorry."

Humans had inappropriate emotional reactions to the most peculiar
things, Tuvok thought. Which was another reason why it was imprudent
to visit their living quarters unannounced, as T'Pel ought to have
known. He felt a slight twinge of annoyance toward his wife and
immediately suppressed the reaction as unworthy of him.

"No insult or interrogation was intended," Tuvok replied. He got up,
brushing unidentifiable crumbs from his pants. "We shall visit again,
perhaps, when the conditions are more favorable."

T'Pel, he noted, seemed entirely too reluctant to leave the baby.

*****

The first light of dawn had begun to filter through the vertical blinds
in Icheb's dormitory room. The soft glow framed the unhappy figure of
his roommate, Caleb Fromme, whose slumped posture at the desk didn't
appear to have changed at all since the previous evening. The only
difference Icheb had noticed was that the volume and frequency of
Fromme's cursing had both increased significantly.

"If you need help studying for today's astrophysics exam," Icheb
offered, as he sat down and began to shine his boots, "I am available
to discuss the subject."

"Yeah, I bet you are. I haven't noticed you studying for the exam,
circuit-brain. Probably got the whole library stored in some implanted
Borg chip for instant recall, just to make the rest of us look stupid."
Fromme swiveled around in his chair, glaring from close-set blue eyes.

"Astrophysics was my primary area of study aboard Voyager," Icheb
explained, "and I gained considerable familiarity with its practical
applications."

"Voyager." Fromme's sneer looked as if it held jealousy as well as
contempt. "I guess you think you're better than the other cadets
because you've spent time aboard a starship, with that Borg-loving
captain who ought to be in prison. Well, let me tell you, I'd rather
fail the exam than ask for help from a Borg. We all know what kind of
help the Collective gives its victims, don't we? Just how many
innocent people did you kill and mutilate when you served the
Collective, anyway?"

The glossy surface of his boots would be acceptable, Icheb decided.
Too bad that properly shined boots, contrary to his drill instructor's
apparent opinion, wouldn't solve the galaxy's problems. He got out of
the chair and stood facing his hostile roommate.

"If you are referring to the assimilation of captives," he replied in a
mild tone, "that was not an activity in which I participated."

"You can't even begin to convince me of that," Fromme snapped. "Not
that you'd care at all, but my father was among the thousands who died
at Wolf 359. Most of the cadets here, at least the human cadets, lost
family or friends in that attack. I know all I need to know about the
Borg and what they do."

But you don't know me, Icheb thought, his posture as stiff as if he had
been standing at attention on the parade ground. You don't know me at
all.

*****

"I have decided to call this model the 25CB," Zimmerman announced, as a
holographic figure materialized in the middle of the laboratory. "The
most advanced emergency medical hologram ever created, the 25CB
possesses abilities far beyond even the most skilled human surgeon. In
addition, the improved ethical and protocol subroutines should minimize
the likelihood of embarrassing incidents."

The assembled Starfleet brass, seated on comfortable chairs along the
perimeter of the room, watched expectantly.

Reg Barclay instinctively recoiled as he saw the hologram's face and
just barely managed to avoid spilling his glass of water all over
himself. He spluttered, "How could you . . ."

Remembering just in time that he was in the middle of a very important
briefing that could determine the future of Jupiter Station's research,
Reg lowered his voice and hissed, "Whatever gave you the idea of making
the new EMH look like me?"

Zimmerman smiled graciously and whispered back, "No need for false
modesty, Reg. You've certainly worked hard enough to deserve this
small honor. That's why the model number is 25CB, for 25th Century
Barclay."

Modesty, false or otherwise, wasn't exactly at the forefront of Reg's
mind as he gritted his teeth and forced himself not to strangle
Zimmerman for the duration of the briefing. It wasn't easy. By the
time the last guest had left the station, Reg felt as if he might be
about to pop a blood vessel or two.

"I insist that the new EMH's face be changed immediately." Reg wasn't
about to call his holographic doppelganger the 25CB; that model number
would have to go, as well.

"Really, Reg, you're a grown man," Zimmerman observed with a
supercilious smirk, "and it's about time for you to get over your
shyness. I'll admit it can be a trifle disturbing at first, to see
your face on a hologram, but what better way to honor your
participation in creating him? After all, scientists and explorers
routinely name their discoveries after themselves. If you found a new
nebula, wouldn't you want it to be named for you?"

"This isn't a nebula, it's a hologram. More precisely, a whole fleet's
worth of them, and no, I don't want my face all over every one!
Couldn't you have had the common courtesy to ask me first?"

The two engineers confronted one another in the corridor, Zimmerman
looking even more smug than usual and Barclay glaring at him furiously.
Their impasse was broken a few seconds later when two emergency medical
holograms, wearing identical portable holo-emitters, strode around a
corner toward them. The new EMH still had Barclay's face, although it
shifted for a moment into a perfect representation of Albert Einstein.

"The solution to your dilemma, gentlemen," declared Voyager's Doctor.
"He is an intelligent life form and, hence, should be accorded the
right to choose his own physical appearance."

"I'm also rather partial to Thomas Edison," the new EMH put in,
stroking his chin thoughtfully. "But then again, I may decide that I
prefer to resemble Marie Curie."

Zimmerman looked as outraged as if a howling mob of vandals had just
destroyed a priceless work of art before his very eyes. "This
interference with my work is unthinkable! You can't start liberating
the new hologram before Starfleet even puts him into service!"

"I beg to differ." The Doctor, untroubled by Zimmerman's bombast,
sounded quite cheerful indeed. "This is an ideal time to clarify the
point that no sentient hologram should be the property of Starfleet or
of any other organization."

Zimmerman opened his mouth and then shut it again, for once in his life
having nothing to say.

With about an equal degree of astonishment, Reg stood mute for the
better part of a minute before he turned to the new EMH and spoke.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, can you please choose some other
face?"

*****

The Vulcan candles that had been lit in every room, placed carefully
above Miral's reach, gave the apartment a pleasant scent reminiscent of
wintergreen, or perhaps root beer; Tom Paris wasn't sure which. He
didn't feel curious enough about it to question T'Pel, who was standing
in the living room with her long sleeves rolled up to her elbows,
washing the windows. Miral played contentedly with her stuffed animals
in a pile of cushions as Tom cleaned out the popcorn kernels and other
debris that had accumulated in the sofa.

Tom had been more than surprised when T'Pel had shown up at the door
several hours ago, with a bag of cleaning supplies, the scented
candles, and miscellaneous Vulcan decorative household items. Not that
he was complaining.

"I really appreciate your taking the time to help me get the place
cleaned up for B'Elanna's big day."

"As I told Tuvok, there are times when just dropping in on human
friends can be the most logical course of action." A corner of T'Pel's
mouth briefly rose in a very faint smile.

Tom removed the last crumb from the sofa and, prudently choosing not to
displace Miral just yet, left the cushions on the floor as he started
on a more pleasant task.

"A starship engineering specialization certificate. It's equivalent to
a year's work of master's level coursework." Tom carefully checked to
make sure the alignment was level as he hung B'Elanna's certificate on
the wall. "That selection committee won't be turning up their noses at
her now."

"You're very proud of her," T'Pel observed.

"Yes. I am." Tom stood back for a moment, admiring his handiwork.
The certificate, in a bright brass frame, was about the prettiest thing
he'd seen in quite some time. "Nothing wrong with being proud of my
wife. Well, at least on Earth there isn't."

"Vulcans are a proud people as well. It's just that, in most
instances, we're less forthright about admitting it." T'Pel finished
washing the last window. "I have to confess that I am experiencing
some feelings of anticipation regarding the outcome of B'Elanna's
interview."

Miral interrupted the conversation with a very loud squeal and
scrambled out of the pile of cushions, toddling toward the front door.

A moment later, Tom heard the light footsteps as well. B'Elanna wasn't
stomping toward the door, which was definitely a good sign. He hastily
gathered up the cushions and restored them to the sofa.

"Impeccable timing." T'Pel calmly rolled her sleeves back down.

B'Elanna burst through the door with one of the biggest grins Tom had
ever seen on her face. The spotless, pleasantly scented apartment and
T'Pel's presence evidently took her by surprise.

"I arrived a short time ago, bringing a few gifts to celebrate your new
position," T'Pel informed B'Elanna. "Your husband has evidently been
very busy cleaning this apartment all day. His efforts are indeed
admirable."

Although B'Elanna looked even more surprised to hear that, she promptly
flung her arms around Tom and squeezed all the breath out of him in a
very enthusiastic hug. One from which his ribcage took a few minutes
to recover. As she turned her affections to Miral, with a much more
restrained hug, Tom took the opportunity to walk T'Pel to the door.

"I thought Vulcans didn't lie," he whispered.

"A day," she answered, in an equally low tone, "is a very short time in
the life of a Vulcan."

*****

Low voices and laughter drifted out of the dorm room as Icheb opened
the door. At first, suspecting another prank, he paused just inside
the doorway and took a careful look around the room. A copious
quantity of smoke was emanating from an oddly shaped item being passed
from one cadet to another. The panicked expressions on the faces that
turned toward him made it plain that his presence hadn't been
anticipated.

"I thought you said he'd be in the circuits lab all evening," hissed
Tyler, one of Icheb's usual tormentors.

"Well, he usually is," Fromme retorted, not even bothering to lower his
voice. "Getting intimate with some nice hot plasma relays, probably."

As the cadets laughed, somewhat more nervously than usual, Jessip
leaned forward and brandished the contraband toward Icheb. "Want some,
drone boy? It's Risan joy weed. Not on the list of substances that
are illegal to import, although it'll give you a great buzz. But I
suppose your wonderful Borg ethics wouldn't let you disobey regulations
like that, would they?"

"Not a chance," Fromme snarled. "He's going to rat on us, running
straight to security the instant he leaves the room. Probably
recording everything we're doing with some cybernetic implant, for
evidence at the hearing."

Identical murderous stares fixed themselves on Icheb.

He backed away, wondering why he had ever been foolish enough to think
that he had a chance of making friends with his classmates.

"I do not wish to participate in this extremely imprudent activity."

"A lecture on proper behavior from our Borg ethics expert. How
inspiring," Jessip mocked, as the door began to open behind Icheb.

He felt tremendously relieved to escape.

Until he turned around, a half-second later, and saw the uniformed
campus security officer about to enter the room.

"I could smell that stuff all the way down the hall," the officer
declared, taking a step toward Jessip and holding out his hand. "Let's
have it."

The Bajoran cadet turned an interesting shade of purple as he complied.

"Conical shape, a thick orange resin with silver specks," the officer
noted, turning the joint over in his hand. "Risan, I'd say. Been a
while since I've seen one of these. I'll need all of your thumbprints,
please."

Icheb had to step back into the room to apply his thumb to the
officer's padd. The other cadets' expressions ranged from stunned to
furious as they did likewise.

"Would anyone care to explain where this came from?"

Total silence.

"You're all restricted to campus pending further investigation," the
officer announced. As he began to search the room, Icheb, while moving
out of his way, bumped his arm slightly. The search, conducted by
means of a tricorder scan, didn't take long, and no additional
contraband was found.

The officer departed, leaving behind some very unhappy cadets.

"I'm so dead," moaned Tyler, slumping against a wall. "We're all going
to get expelled, or at least suspended, and my father will just about
kill me."

Jessip put his head down on the desk, as if it were too heavy to lift,
and mumbled, "I don't want to go back to Bajor and spend the rest of my
life working on my aunt's miserable farm."

"The Borg doesn't look too worried, though. He probably reported us to
that security officer and doesn't have any reason to worry." Fromme's
eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I'm sure of it. We've just seen a firsthand
demonstration of Borg ethics. I guess you're real pleased with
yourself now, aren't you, Icheb?"

Jessip lifted his head just far enough to glare.

"I reported nothing." When the disbelieving jeers died down a bit,
Icheb went on to say, "And no one will be suspended or expelled."

"Just how do you figure that?"

"A more complete investigation will show that the officer's tricorder
was malfunctioning and that the confiscated item was, in fact, an
entirely acceptable herbal cigar."

If the cadets' jaws had dropped any further, they would have been
somewhere in the vicinity of the sub-basement. Approximately 85
seconds passed before Tyler managed to get enough air back into his
lungs to say a few words.

"You did something. When you bumped his arm."

Fromme looked as if he might have been about to speak but, for a
change, thought better of it and said nothing.

"Borg nanoprobes are extremely versatile and can be quickly programmed
for new tasks," Icheb explained. "They also have the advantage of
being undetectable by the most common scanning methods."

Tyler stood up straighter, took a deep breath, and gave Icheb a look of
complete bafflement. "Why'd you do it? You wouldn't have been
expelled. They'd have found that your fingerprints and DNA weren't on
the stuff, and besides, the officer probably saw you walk into the room
just before he did. What reason could you possibly have had to take a
risk like that to save our backsides, after the way we treated you?"

"Yeah," Jessip muttered, now beginning to sound quite ashamed of
himself. "We've behaved like total jerks. I'd have thought you would
be glad to see us go."

Even though it would have been an inefficient waste of Starfleet
Academy resources, Icheb thought but didn't say. The truth was that he
wasn't altogether sure, himself, as to what had prompted his decision.
He had merely seen an opportunity to salvage his classmates' careers
and had acted on it.

"I suppose," he ventured, "everyone behaves like a jerk sometimes."

Fromme looked down at the floor and then back up at Icheb. "I guess I
ought to say that I, um."

It took him a few tries before he managed to get it out.

"I owe you an apology."

Icheb took his roommate's extended hand. "Accepted."

*****

The holographic crowds that thronged the streets outside the Federation
Council building left even the Doctor, not normally subject to shyness,
wishing heartily that he had requested permission to transport directly
into the council chamber.

"There he is!"

"It's Voyager's Doctor!"

A mob of shrieking holograms, looking very much like frenzied hippies
at a rock concert who'd just caught a glimpse of the featured
performer, thundered in his direction. Fortunately, a narrow alley
wasn't far away, and he ducked into it. Yanking up the skirts of what
he'd begun to suspect was a rather impractical choice for clothing, the
EMH sprinted along the alley, his sandals flapping.

He dashed around a corner and almost collided with a familiar figure.

"Hey," Tom Paris demanded, "what's the hurry?"

The howling mass of holograms came closer. Tom quickly glanced around
the corner, got a view of the situation, and took off running, right
beside the Doctor.

"Couldn't get to the main entrance. Too much of a crowd," the EMH
explained, as he hurdled a bench in fine form with his robes hiked up
above his knees. Several of his admirers caught a glimpse of him and
squealed, continuing the pursuit.

"VIP entrance -- next building -- connected by a breezeway," Tom
panted, sprinting to keep up. "That way. Didn't anyone tell you?"

The door Tom pointed out wasn't far away, with two uniformed guards
standing just outside. "I tried to convince them to let me in, as one
of your friends, but they weren't buying it. So it's a good thing we
met up, or I'd have been standing outside in a queue for hours," Tom
went on, with what would have been a rather gleeful expression if he
hadn't been too much out of breath to smirk.

"You may accompany me into the building and view my final rehearsal,"
the Doctor promptly offered, with the air of a medieval lord granting
one of his peons a great boon.

Tom gave a nod in response, still gulping in air. "B'Ela's right, I
haven't been getting enough exercise lately. She's already left for
Utopia Planitia, but wanted me to tell you that she wishes you luck."

A guard escorted the two of them through a narrow, brightly lit
corridor and into a private waiting area. Portraits of past Federation
leaders adorned the walls. The Doctor found himself wondering, in a
more somber mood, whose footsteps had passed this way before his.

"If things go well, I expect they'll be putting your portrait up there
one of these days," Tom remarked. "You'll be known as the great
statesman whose eloquence freed the Federation's holograms."

Visualizing himself in the council chamber, surrounded by ecstatic
applause from a crowd of thousands, the Doctor felt a twinge of an
unfamiliar and somewhat unsettling emotion. No need to worry, he
thought. After all, he had received such applause before, when
performing as a singer.

But the fate of billions of sentient beings had never before rested
squarely on his photonic shoulders.

He struck a pose in the center of the room, facing Tom, and began one
last rehearsal.

"Fourscore and seven years ago, the grand concept of holographic beings
was conceived . . ."

"Complex holograms of the modern sort have only been around for about
twenty years," Tom interrupted. "Even the concept, in any practical
sense, hasn't existed much longer than that."

"Dramatic license," the Doctor explained, in annoyance.

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Don't take this the wrong
way, but it seems to me you're overdoing the drama. In particular, you
need to lose that John the Baptist getup."

"Actually, it's supposed to be . . ."

"Doesn't matter," Tom interrupted. "Whatever it is, it's distracting.
You want to keep the audience focused on your message, not wondering
what historical holo-drama you just stepped out of."

The EMH thought about that for a moment. Perhaps Tom had a point. He
quickly reprogrammed his physical appearance files, and the robes
shimmered for a moment as they morphed into a dark, conservative
business suit.

"In recent years," he began again, somewhat grudgingly, "the concept of
holographic beings was conceived."

The image of an audience of thousands came into his consciousness once
more, but this time they didn't seem to be applauding. Instead, the
crowd sat in grave silence, waiting to be enlightened by his
brilliance. Or baffled by his blunders. He attempted to move on to
the next sentence in his prepared speech, only to find that the proper
data file hadn't been loaded into his speech matrix.

A minor glitch, he told himself, and unlikely to reoccur. All he had
to do was to access the next available data file.

"We must all learn to embrace one another as -- as you would have them
do unto you -- to move a great mountain."

That wasn't right. What had happened to him? Where had the files
gone? He opened his mouth one more time, but to his dismay, nothing
came out except a squeak. A loud and entirely tuneless squeak.

Evidently, a catastrophic malfunction of unknown origin had rendered
him unable to appear before the council until such time as he could
return to a properly equipped laboratory for a complete diagnostic. He
turned toward the door.

Tom's hand on his shoulder surprised him.

"Relax, Doc. It's just a bit of stage fright. Nothing serious.
Happens to everyone at times."

For some obscure reason, he felt profoundly offended by the suggestion.
"I can't have stage fright. I'm a hologram."

"You're an intelligent life form," Tom answered, smoothly stepping
between the EMH and the door. "The responses of a sentient organism to
his environment aren't as predictable as those of a machine. While you
may not have been programmed to experience stage fright, that doesn't
mean it can't happen."

Although the Doctor had to admit there was some logic to what Tom was
saying, the possibility was nevertheless disquieting. Glitches and
programming errors were within his experience; he understood how to
correct them. He had no idea of how to deal with something as nebulous
as stage fright.

"Whatever the cause, I am unfit to address the council."

"No. The way to deal with stage fright is to work through it, to
acknowledge its presence without letting it overwhelm you. Instead of
a flawless performance in a rehearsed speech, you might want to try
something simpler and more personal, such as just telling the council
members what it was like to be a hologram on a Federation ship. Don't
worry about whether or not each sentence is perfect. They're going to
be interested in what you have to say, not in how you say it."

The Doctor's gaze moved once more to the row of portraits along the
wall. Surely, none of these great leaders could ever have experienced
such embarrassing moments.

"Yes, they all did. At one time or another." Tom, following Doc's
unspoken thought, gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Don't
worry, remember? You're going to do just fine."

*****

"Many of you have come here today because you are wondering whether or
not it is possible for a hologram to be sentient." As he spoke, the
Doctor kept his attention focused on the assembled council members, not
on the crowded gallery behind them. "I had planned to make an eloquent
appeal based on our common circumstances. But in truth, I'm not
certain that I, or anyone else in the Federation, can give you a
definitive answer. Philosophers of every race have struggled for
millennia with the question of what makes any of us amount to more than
simple organisms reacting to the surrounding environment as their basic
programming dictates. I must confess that it is beyond my competence
to prove the existence of the photonic soul by rhetorical means. I
intend only to describe my individual experiences, leaving you to draw
your own conclusions."

The council members listened without apparent reaction as the Doctor
began to speak about his first years aboard Voyager and the development
of his self-awareness. Although he was aware that the audience had
fallen almost entirely silent, he forced himself not to dwell upon the
lack of response to his words. Perhaps history's foremost leaders had
received continuous applause as they delivered their memorable
addresses, but that had little bearing upon his own situation. After
all, he was only a humble emergency medical hologram, striving to do
his best for his people.

He described how he had formed friendships aboard Voyager and had
gradually been accepted as a valued member of the crew, taking part in
away missions and putting himself at risk for his comrades. The words
didn't do his experiences justice, he thought, as the weight of the
silent audience began to press in upon him once more. Surely the
listeners wouldn't understand. In all likelihood, his experiences had
meaning only to him. How could he have possessed such incredible
hubris as to believe himself capable of convincing the entire
Federation that holograms could be sentient beings?

His words faltered. He could think of nothing more to say.

But he had to work through his fear, he knew. Even if the ages judged
him unworthy of greatness, perhaps future generations would at least
acknowledge his effort.

"Although history may not see fit to bestow honor upon the simple words
and observations of an emergency medical hologram," the Doctor
concluded, "the course we take after this day will have a profound
impact, not only on the civil rights of the Federation's photonic
inhabitants, but on the way our society is perceived for all time. Our
member species share a long history of inclusion and tolerance, of
respect for diversity and the civil liberties of minority populations.
If the Federation should decide that holograms, no matter how
intelligent, must remain the mere property of organic beings, I submit
to you that such a decision will diminish not only the holograms
affected by it, but every citizen of the Federation."

The council chamber was silent for a long moment after he finished
speaking. He felt certain that he deserved nothing more. After all,
he had never before made such a bland, unimpressive speech, almost
completely devoid of the familiar dramatic embellishments of rhetoric.
Why should he find it at all unexpected that his listeners had, in all
likelihood, judged him lacking in sentience and altogether incapable of
a better performance?

The response, when it came, took him entirely by surprise.

Delegates from all planets of the Federation rose to stand, clapping
their hands (and, in a few cases, tentacles) in heartfelt applause. A
ripple of movement spread throughout the gallery as the audience joined
enthusiastically in the standing ovation.

As the cheering went on, seemingly without end, the Doctor recovered
enough from his astonishment to consider whether he ought to favor his
admiring audience with a graceful bow. Not necessary, he decided. As
the humble prophet of photonic liberation, he need only stand and
accept their homage.

*****

"Come in, son."

Tom found his father sitting in a small chair in a corner of the room,
working on a padd, which he set aside as Tom entered. The place of
honor was occupied by Miral, sitting in the desk chair and focusing on
the monitor as intently as if she were deciding the fate of Starfleet.
Tom noticed some sort of children's vid on the screen, with fluffy
puppets of various colors.

He decided that it would be preferable not to say anything at all about
this unusual arrangement.

"I appreciate your taking care of Miral for me while I went to the
Federation Council meeting."

That hadn't exactly been Tom's first choice, after the way things had
gone during the hearings. Even though his father had made an effort to
help B'Elanna qualify for her new job, that hadn't come close to
erasing Tom's grudge. But everyone else from Voyager had also attended
the Council's meeting, leaving him short of babysitters, other than the
woodpecker lady. Certainly his father hadn't done anything to harm
Miral while she'd been in his care, and when he had offered to babysit,
Tom had reluctantly decided to accept that overture toward improving
their family relationship.

Owen Paris responded with a shrug. "She's been no trouble at all, and
I can always watch the holographic doctor's speech to the Council on
one of the news programs later."

As Tom walked around the desk, Miral, instead of looking pleased to see
her daddy, responded with an unmistakably Klingon scowl to the prospect
of having her puppet show interrupted. Tom paused before retrieving
her. Maybe she was just reflecting his own attitude about being
disturbed while watching his favorite old movies, he thought. Maybe
he'd been neglecting her. Then again, this might just be normal baby
behavior. Frankly, he didn't have a clue.

"Was there something else you wanted to say?" Owen inquired. "That
flight instructor position is still open, you know."

Not really, Tom thought. Definitely not, when it comes to that flight
instructor job. Starfleet can go find someone else. Just because a
guy hasn't been much of a success as a househusband doesn't mean he's
got to take the first miserable job that comes along.

Then again, teaching piloting wouldn't be a bad job, in and of itself.
Back aboard Voyager, he'd rather enjoyed teaching Icheb to pilot the
Delta Flyer. Maybe it would be worthwhile to look into whether any
instructor positions were available at private flight schools. There,
at least, his students wouldn't scorn him as a Starfleet failure and an
ex-jailbird.

Though he had to admit that was a rather cowardly attitude, spending
the rest of his life running away from his past mistakes. Coming from
the man who had just advised the EMH to rise above fear, it was really
quite ironic. And Icheb hadn't shown any fear upon entering Starfleet
Academy, nor had he made any complaint afterward, although a former
Borg drone certainly couldn't have been made to feel very welcome. Tom
began to feel ashamed of his own fear.

Work through it, he told himself. Same advice as for the Doctor. You
don't have to let it overwhelm you.

The puppet vid reached its end, with a cheering and clapping of fluffy
puppet hands in which Miral enthusiastically joined. Then, as the
screen returned to its usual official Starfleet background, she
promptly lost all interest in it and climbed down from the chair.

"I might think about it," Tom acknowledged, trying to keep his tone
suitably cheerful. "I might."

"That's all I'm asking," Owen told him, as Tom gathered up Miral and
got ready to leave. "You don't have to make a decision right now, but
I will say -- and I'm not the only one who thinks so, by the way --
that you'd make a fine addition to Starfleet Academy's faculty."

*****

Birds chirped in the trees as Tuvok and T'Pel took a walk through the
little park outside the apartment building. Tuvok, with his usual
detachment, admired the excellent symmetry of the buildings. In
contrast, T'Pel's attention was focused much more on the small occupant
of the stroller she was pushing.

"I've given some thought to returning to Vulcan," she said, after a
silence of several minutes.

Tuvok turned away from his contemplation of a neatly trimmed boxwood
hedge. Earth's cities had become much quieter, he thought, since the
Federation Council, in response to the Doctor's inspiring speech, had
appointed a committee to study the rights of its holographic residents.
That had been sufficient to end the daily protest marches, for the time
being, although Tuvok had his doubts as to what the politicians would
actually accomplish.

"For what purpose?"

"To see our home again. To see the children," and T'Pel glanced down
at a drowsy Miral with an expression that held more than a hint of
fondness, "and the grandchildren."

"We know that they are all in good health," Tuvok observed. "Our
physical presence on Vulcan is not required to ensure their well-
being."

At the intersection of two smoothly paved paths, an overweight goose
glanced hopefully up toward T'Pel and then, evidently coming to the
conclusion that no bread crumbs would be forthcoming, waddled out of
the way of the stroller.

"Perhaps it is illogical," T'Pel conceded, "but I would prefer to
return to Vulcan regardless, if only for a short time."

Such an unusual display of sentimentality was no doubt the result of
T'Pel's excessive exposure to humans over the past year, Tuvok thought.
During their marriage, she had always been the less emotional partner.
Some time on Vulcan might indeed prove useful in counteracting the
effects of such exposure, particularly where human infants were
concerned.

"You did not need to offer your services as a babysitter for Miral," he
pointed out. "San Francisco has many excellent child care facilities
where she could have been placed while her father commenced his new
position as a flight instructor at Starfleet Academy."

"I know." T'Pel looked down once more at the little girl, who had
definitely dozed off in her stroller. "And I'm certain Miral will
receive the best care after we leave for Vulcan. All the same, this
seemed to be an appropriate farewell."

Tuvok could see no purpose to any type of farewell involving a less
than fully sentient infant. Human sentimentality again, he thought.
After all, he had encountered many human rituals involving children,
such as birthday celebrations, which he had never been able to
comprehend.

"It has not yet been decided," he reminded T'Pel, "that we will be
leaving for Vulcan or anywhere else."

She responded to that comment with a smug glance that made it plain she
considered their leaving to be a foregone conclusion. Tuvok could feel
her certainty through the link between them. He couldn't blame that
particular attitude on humans, though; T'Pel had always possessed a
very accurate sense of the extent to which she was able to make
decisions on his behalf. He reflected for a moment on the subject of
why some Vulcan men chose to marry human women, who, despite their lack
of rigorous logic, also lacked the manipulative tendencies of their
Vulcan counterparts.

Not that he would ever, for an instant, have considered such a course
of action. His marriage to T'Pel had brought him many good years of
productive domestic tranquillity. A Vulcan could not reasonably expect
more. An occasional display of sentimentality in the presence of
infants was not a serious flaw, after all.

T'Pel touched her fingertips to his, radiating the familiar sensations
of intimacy and peace. "And you desire to see our grandchildren as
well, my beloved. You are merely too stubborn to admit it."

With her close proximity tracing tendrils of warmth along his nerve
pathways and leaving his thoughts wide open for her inspection, a
complete denial, Tuvok knew, would have been entirely futile.

"Perhaps there may be some logical reasons for a visit," he conceded.

------

Written by: Ventura33
Beta: Zeke, Coral
Producers: Thinkey, Anne Rose and Coral