Elbow Room

a novella By BEKi

Character codes: R/T, Crew, Tom, several Maquis

Timeline Note: The prologue takes place directly after the events detailed in the DS9 episode Defiant. For those of you keeping track, the story proper begins approximately nine months after the Defiant Incident and two weeks before the events detailed in the opening sequence of the Voyager pilot, Caretaker.
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Author's Note: This story is a sequel to "The Last Goodbye," a short-short story (originally published in NumberOne 2, posted on the TNG website) I wrote to suggest a plausible explanation for the glaring Riker character inconsistencies that occurred in the DS9 episode Defiant. As it pre-supposes a certain level of knowledge of the "explanation" (which more or less turns cannon on its ear), I've tacked that vignette on the front of the story in the form of a prologue. If you've already read "The Last Goodbye," feel free to skip the prologue and begin reading "Elbow Room" at its original start point: "You must be very bitter ..." Special thanks to Greg Lash and Randall Landers. Without their extensive input and treknical expertise, this story would never have happened.
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PROLOGUE

Deanna Troi sat very still, her eyes misted with tears she was trying her best not to show. After what seemed an eternity, the Cardassian emblem on the screen faded to a familiar face.

"Counselor Troi," Gul Dukat greeted, smiling his most ingratiating smile. "You're looking well."

She didn't bother responding, for she knew she looked nearly as devastated as she felt. Instead, she waited, staring dully into the small desktop monitor, until he chose to continue.

"I understand your distress," Dukat allowed after a beat. "It must be difficult to accept that a lover could turn traitor to all you believe in. I extend my sympathies."

With an effort, Troi gathered her voice. "Commander Sisko said I would be allowed to speak with him."

"It was his last request," Dukat agreed. "And although the sentence wasn't death, it was somewhat of a ... final ... determination. We thought it only decent to honor the petition." Dukat smiled. "You see, we aren't the barbarians you make us out to be."

"May I speak with him then?" Troi asked, her voice tight with pain.

"Yes, of course."

Dukat stepped aside, and after a moment, the familiar bearded countenance of William T. Riker dominated the screen. He looked good: well treated and only a little gaunt around the eyes for his ordeal. He smiled when he saw her, an expression that lit the deepest recesses of his eyes.

"Deanna."

For a moment, neither of them said anything more.

It was Troi who finally broke the silence. "I wish I could say I understand, Tom," she whispered, her voice breaking.

His smile became forced, pained. Only years of poker kept the agony in his eyes from bleeding into his expression. "I wish I could explain," he returned gently. "But they haven't allowed me much time. I don't want to waste it expounding on political treatises, or justifying things that don't seem all that important any more. I'd rather spend it looking at you. I'd rather spend it saying goodbye."

"I don't want to say goodbye."

Riker drew a long, slow breath and released it. "I love you, Deanna," he said calmly. "I always have, and I always will. Someday - someday soon - you'll understand exactly how much."

"You loved me so much you wanted to spend the rest of your life in a Cardassian work camp?" she demanded bitterly.

He shrugged slightly. "That wasn't the plan," he allowed. "That's just the way it worked out."

Behind him, a Cardassian barked a curt warning.

"They're telling me we've wasted enough of the rest of my life," Riker told her wryly. "I guess they have some big rocks waiting for me to break into a bunch of little rocks." He squared his shoulders, braced himself to lose the transcomm signal. "My father always said I'd end up dead or in prison," he allowed. "The worst part of all of this is proving him right. Tell Jean-Luc goodbye for me, and tell Wes I expect great things from him." There were tears in his eyes, but his chin was lifted in defiant pride. "Goodbye, Imzadi," he whispered as the screen faded to black.

She sat where she was for almost a full minute, too devastated to cry. Her thoughts were a tangle in her mind, her emotions a whirlpool of grief.

The call button to her quarters buzzed quietly. She didn't answer, but the door opened anyway.

"Imzadi?" Riker called from the doorway.

She stood and turned. He came to the pain in her eyes because it wasn't in him to stay away. For minute upon minute he held her in silence, his arms a safe haven from the storm. When she could, she stepped back.

"I don't understand," she whispered, sinking to the edge of the couch. "He had so much to live for, and he threw it all away."

Riker took a seat at her side. "Imzadi ..."

"Don't call me that, Will," she interrupted. Her eyes lifted, found his. "I know that for years, imzadi has been a term of endearment between us. A term of friendship. But that isn't what it means. It means beloved. It means -" her voice broke. "Just, please don't call me that," she finished.

He drew a deep breath and released it.

"I don't mean to hurt you, Will -" she started.

"I'm not Will," Riker told her quietly. "At least, not to you."

Troi froze. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

"I mean that the man you're speaking to when you say Will is in a Cardassian prison."

Troi's eyes lifted slowly. She stared at him as if he were a ghost.

"He was on a mission, Deanna," he explained quietly. "A mission to expose the Obsidian Order's secret fleet. Starfleet asked me to do it: He volunteered instead."

"Tom?" was all she could manage.

He smiled at her, the reflection in his eyes a veiled apprehension Will Riker could not have managed. "Disappointed?" he asked.

She began to tremble. Tear welled in her eyes, tracking wet rivers down her face. "Why?" she murmured.

"He said I'd lost enough of my life."

"And you ..." her voice quavered "... you let him go?"

The question cut him, but he didn't look away. "He outranks me, Deanna," he reminded her quietly instead. "And it wasn't a request. Someone had to go, and he made it clear to Starfleet that he wanted that someone to be him."

"But they said it was you -"

"Starfleet couldn't allow an officer of Will's stature to take such a visible role. It had to be someone expendable: Someone who'd be an embarrassment, but not an intergalactic incident." His eyes flickered bitter. "Someone like me. That's why they contacted me in the first place. I guess they figured Will had everything I might want to live for."

She stared at him for a long moment in silence, then whispered, "So what happens now?"

"I take his place," Riker answered just as quietly. "As he once took mine."

"Here? On the Enterprise."

"And with you," he agreed. "If you'll have me."

"We were friends," she noted.

"You and I?"

"Will and I," she corrected. "We were friends, not lovers."

"He told me that," Riker allowed. "He said that was why it had to be him: Because you and he were friends, and because you and I weren't."

"He went for me?"

"He went because he felt it was his duty. And because he felt he was more qualified to keep the other members of the team alive long enough for Sisko to do his part with Dukat. I don't have any command experience: He does."

"But you're going to take over here? As the first officer of the Federation flagship?"

"Starfleet feels I can handle it. Will did, too."

"Does the captain know?"

"Yes. The captain, Commander Sisko, maybe three others in Starfleet's top echelon of command."

"What will happen to Will? Are they just going to leave him to rot on Lazon II?"

Riker sighed. "It wasn't part of the plan for him to get captured. He made a tactical error - under-estimated someone he shouldn't have under-estimated - and it was the best Sisko could salvage out of the situation."

"What about a rescue attempt?"

"It has to look like Starfleet wasn't involved. If he were to be rescued now ..."

Troi put a hand over her mouth. She turned away for a moment, her shoulders trembling.

"Imza -" Riker stopped himself and re-phrased, "Deanna ..."

"No." Troi turned. Tears ran freely down her face; but her lips trembled to a smile, and mingled with the agony in her eyes, was something else. "No, Tom," she whispered, placing a hand on the side of his face. "Not Deanna. Imzadi."

NINE MONTHS LATER

"You must be very bitter," Grellel Tabias noted, shifting uncomfortably on the narrow slab of stone that served as his sleeping palette in the dark, cramped cell.

"Bitter?" Riker repeated.

"Bitter," Grellel agreed. "Angry ... outraged. He usurped your life, your woman, your career, your very self. Everything you once had is his, and all he left you was this cursed fate: rotting in a Cardassian mine with the rest of us."

Will Riker smiled slightly in the impenetrable darkness. "You're not so bad, Grellel," he demurred. "A little ripe, but otherwise tolerable."

"You know what I mean," Grellel insisted. "If he had given you a chance - split your birthright with you as would only have been fair - you would never have been driven to join the Maquis in the first place. You would have served your destiny in Starfleet and shared in the glory that he stole as his own."

"You seem to have a relatively low opinion of me," Riker mused.

"Not of you," Grellel countered. "Of the other one ... of Commander Riker, the infamous hero of the Borg Wars and stealer of other men's lives."

Riker sighed. "It's really not that black and white. It was his life as much as mine ... perhaps even more so. After all, he lived the seven years that promoted him from a lieutenant to a commander. He put in the time to heal the wounds of broken promises with Troi. Maybe he deserves his happiness. Maybe he shouldn't have to pay penance for something that was never his fault in the first place."

"Maybe he should have realized that it wasn't your fault either," Grellel snapped. "Maybe he should have lent you a helping hand instead of blocking your every move. Maybe he should have shared his life with you instead of trying to live it regardless of whether or not it was his to live."

"He got me the commission on the Ghandi," Riker noted.

"A scientific vessel," Grellel retorted. "Why not a starship? Why not the Enterprise? Was he afraid you'd show him up? Was he afraid you'd climb through the ranks faster, or perhaps get a command before him? Or maybe he just knew that you'd get bored on a scientific vessel and do something destructive. Maybe he understood himself well enough to know that if he took enough away from you, you'd do exactly what you did."

"Maybe the Ghandi was the only posting available," Riker muttered.

Grellel snorted derisively. "You're an odd duck, my friend," he announced. "If a man took from me what Commander Will Riker took from you, I wouldn't make excuses for him. I'd pass every hour of every day plotting my revenge. I'd picture him in my head and imagine the horrible ways I would desecrate him if and when I ever escaped this miserable rock."

Riker shifted slightly on his own stone pallet. He was still hungry, as was usually the case, and his throat was parched raw. Despite the discomfort of talking, however, he continued the conversation because the sound of his cellmate's voice in the darkness was more often than not the only difference between sanity and insanity in this God-forsaken place.

"Placing blame at this late stage of the game would be nothing more than an exercise in futility," he muttered. "I got myself into this knowing what it would entail. I can't see any use wasting my energy hating a man for living a life to which he's rightfully entitled."

Grellel laughed quietly. "What else are you going to waste your energy on, Tom?" he asked.

Will Riker closed his eyes. The darkness was no different, no more or less dense. He opened them, closed them, opened them again. He tried to remember her face and failed. "I don't know," he said finally, "but I'll think of something."

*****

She wasn't speaking to him again. It wasn't an obvious thing - she didn't refuse to answer if he spoke, or look a hole through him if he made a passing comment - but it was something he'd experienced enough to recognize it for what it was when the cabin got unnaturally quiet and she took far too much interest in a book she'd just yesterday pronounced weepy-eyed crap.

Tom Riker sighed. He watched her pretend she didn't notice him watching her and sighed again.

"Can't we talk about this?" he asked finally.

Troi closed her book and set it aside. "Talk about what, Tom?" she asked, fixing him with that irritating look she had that was half condescending, half sneer and half down right disgust and screw the fact that three halves did not make a whole. "What would you like to talk about? What exactly do you think we have enough common ground on to discuss?"

The muscles along the back of his neck tensed with irritation. "You know," he said tightly, "for a professional counselor, you can be ... " he struggled not to say what he wanted to say, " ... real irritating," he finished finally. "Damned irritating."

Troi just looked at him. "Well that was insightful," she commented after a moment. "Anything else?"

Tom thrust to his feet. "No," he snapped. "Nothing else, Deanna. I'll be in Ten Forward if you need me. Or if you want to talk. Or if you just feel like being pissy with somebody, and I'm the only guy that comes to mind." Without another word, he stalked from the room.

Deanna Troi sat without moving for over a minute. When she did move, it was to once again pick up her book.

*****

"Screw it," Tom Riker announced, taking a deeper drink of his synthehol and glaring a little harder at the wall. "It doesn't matter what I say, or what I do, all I get is grief."

"Women are difficult by nature," Worf agreed, trying to be helpful. "I have found them to be consistently more trouble than they are worth."

"Amen to that," Tom agreed. Swinging his eyes like a battle ax around the room, he studied the crowd gathering in the lounge to celebrate the end of their shift and the beginning of someone else's. The noise spawned by their communal joviality was a source of constant irritation to him. After so many years with only his own voice to keep him company, the maddening drone of four or five dozen crewmen chatting and laughing about God knows what was almost enough to drive him from Ten Forward to a quieter refuge.

Almost, but not quite.

Synthehol made the difference. Blandly watered-down fraudulent synthetic imitation of an intoxicant that it was, it was still the only game in town; and Ten Forward was still the only place on the ship that imbibing it wasn't a direct violation of Starfleet regulations. So as long as Troi was bent on making his life a living hell, and as long as he was determined to let her do so; Tom Riker would grit his teeth, set aside his intolerances and put up with the damned noise for whatever anemic solace the synthehol might actually offer.

"A hell of a lot more trouble," Tom growled after a beat. "And too damned much work, if you ask me. What was I thinking? How could I have ever deluded myself into thinking I could make this work?"

"Come on, Commander," LaForge said quietly from across the table. "It's not that bad. You're just in a rough spot right now. Every relationship hits the rapids now and again. It's part of the game."

"This isn't a game, Geordi," Tom countered darkly. "It's a blood sport." He drained his glass of synthescotch in one long draw and then began tapping it loudly on the table. Already well aware of the first officer's foul mood, Silla Coom, the waiter on duty, had another glass waiting. He appeared out of nowhere and exchanged Tom's empty for a Surian sunrise.

"What is this crap?" Tom demanded of the young man. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for fruit juice and sugar?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Coom said. "I thought Torrie told me she was serving you Surian sunrises."

"Salurian scotch," Tom corrected acidly. He held up his shot glass by the base and shook it under the waiter's nose. "A real drink, Silla. The kind that comes in a real glass. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, sir. I'll get one right away." Coom retrieved the Surian Sunrise and scurried away.

"And hurry up," Tom called after him.

"Ease off, Commander," LaForge said quietly. "He's doing the best he can."

Tom swung his glare on the chief engineer. "You the conflict intervention delegate this week, Geordi?" he challenged. "Or'd you just get tired of walking and decide to hitch a ride on the nag Riker bandwagon?"

LaForge frowned. Letting the challenge pass, he said instead, "Maybe something's bothering her."

"Something's bothering her all right," Tom grumbled, staring into his empty glass. "Me."

"Something other than you," LaForge pressed.

Tom grunted, but didn't answer.

"Perhaps she is not getting enough chocolate," Worf suggested. "When we spent time together, I found chocolate to be very helpful."

Tom shook his head. "This is a little beyond chocolate, Worf," he muttered.

"Nothing is beyond chocolate," Worf returned firmly. "At least, that was never my experience with Counselor Troi."

"You guys dated for six months, Worf," LaForge chided. "I think you can call her Deanna."

"Counselor Troi and I have a professional relationship, now," Worf returned a little testily.

"Now maybe," LaForge pressed, "but not then."

"Then, I did not call her Counselor Troi," Worf reasoned.

"Where in the hell's my drink?" Tom demanded. He ran a quick but fruitless recon of the lounge in search of Coom, then asked Worf, "Why did the two of you stop dating anyway?"

Worf's brow ridge flexed to a frown. "I found her very ... irritating," he allowed. "And she found me very ... inflexible. In addition, my inability to develop a liking for chocolate was a consideration."

Tom snorted. "Well at least that's a reason." He pushed his chair back from the table as if to rise. "I think Silla ran away. I'm going to the bar and get my own damned - uh, oh."

Both LaForge and Worf glanced up. Following the line of Tom's gaze, they found Guinan walking toward them, her expression one of utter calm. Already half way to his feet, Tom Riker sank back into his chair.

"Hello, Commander," Guinan greeted serenely. "I'll be your new waiter." She set a glass of orange juice on the table before him. "And this is what you'll be drinking."

"Orange juice?" Tom challenged.

Guinan smiled. "Yes."

Tom sighed. "Is this your way of saying I'm not playing well with others today?" he asked.

"You're a very perceptive man," Guinan allowed.

Tom sighed again, more heavily and with greater emotion. "Damn it, Guinan," he said wearily. "I don't want orange juice. I've had a hard day, and I'm in a bad mood."

"Really?" Guinan returned unflappably. "I would have never guessed."

"All right, all right. I get the message. I'll behave myself. Now can I get another drink?"

"No," Guinan said, "but if you behave yourself, I'll let you stay and drink your orange juice."

"I don't want orange juice," Tom repeated snappishly.

"Then I suggest you try the holodeck," Guinan countered. "The waiters there are programmed with six centimeter duranium skins, and holographic synthehol doesn't influence the psychological state in even a diminished capacity."

Tom rubbed at his forehead. "Duranium skin, huh?" he muttered. "Am I really being that much of a terror?"

"Worse," Guinan assured him. "Try the orange juice. You'll feel better." She moved gracefully away, her full skirts whispering like a dozen naughty boys in church.

Staring disconsolately at the glass before him, Tom Riker considered the complex web of deceits that had brought him to this moment in time. Across the table, Geordi LaForge watched him watch the juice for almost a minute before he said what he'd been trying not to say since Tom strode into Ten Forward looking for all the world like a bull in search of a china shop.

"You're not thinking about calling it quits, are you, Commander?"

Tom sighed, shaking his head. "Haven't you been listening, Geordi?" he muttered. "I'm well past thinking and half way into doing."

LaForge's expression hardened subtly. "Maybe you should give it some more thought," he suggested.

"What's there to think about? I am so sick of this shit. Whatever I thought we'd have, this isn't it."

"You've sacrificed a lot to be with Counselor Troi," LaForge insisted. "It would be stupid to throw it away over a simple argument."

"Not a simple argument," Tom countered. "It's a whole bunch of simple arguments. Every hour of every day: stupid, moronic, meaningless arguments over absolutely nothing. All we ever do is argue. I can't open my mouth any more without getting my head bitten off."

"It takes two to argue," LaForge pointed out.

Tom snorted. "You've obviously never lived with a Betazoid," he grunted. "They can argue with a tree, if they take a mind to it."

"You knew that about her before you got into this."

"Maybe so, but I gotta say it's nothing like I thought it would be. I'm not sure it's worth the effort. I don't even enjoy being around her any more. And she sure as hell doesn't enjoy being around me. It's not like I thought it would be. Not at all."

"So you just give up?"

"Give up?" Tom repeated sharply. He glared at the engineer over the glass of untouched orange juice. "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

LaForge's features flexed. He swung his visor away, taking a sudden interest in the Ten Forward crowd. "Never mind," he muttered, taking a draw on his drink.

"Never mind, my ass." Tom leaned into the table between them. "You said it: you obviously meant something by it. What are you trying to say, Geordi?"

"I'm just trying to remind you what's at stake," LaForge muttered.

"I know what's at stake," Tom assured the engineer. "But - not to put too fine a point on it - it is my life; and if Dee and I aren't working out, that's between me and her, don't you think?"

"Then don't ask my opinion," LaForge snapped.

"I didn't ask your opinion," Tom retorted. "I asked if I could join you and Worf for a drink. I didn't realize that was the same thing as making an appointment for co-habitation counseling."

LaForge thrust to his feet. Even behind the VISOR, the anger in his dark features was palpable. "I've got things to do," he announced, and then he stalked away, leaving his half-empty drink where it sat.

Tom looked to Worf. "What in the hell's gotten into him?" he demanded.

Worf met Tom Riker's gaze for a long moment, studiously fierce in the way he maintained absolutely no expression at all. After a long beat, he stood as well. "I, too, have duties to attend," he said. Then, like LaForge, he walked away.

*****

Troi laughing. Troi crying. Troi eating a chocolate sundae.

Will Riker staggered slightly, nearly overcome with exhaustion and the overbearing weight of the sun on his burned red skin. The surface of Lazon II was a blast furnace made of solid stone. Though the thick cloud of asteroidal debris orbiting the penal colony defused much of the planet's direct light, it did little to shield them from the punishing heat. Atmosphere so thin it barely served a man at rest seemed utterly devoid of oxygen under the duress of hard labor. Fearing he would pass out if he didn't, Riker paused in the task of breaking rocks to catch his breath.

Troi basking in the healing waters of a Risan public bath. Troi standing utterly nude beneath the Veholoan falls on Betazed. Troi whispering his name in the hollows of his brain.

A Cardassian overseer prodded him with the end of a sanction wand, then struck him when he didn't respond quickly enough. The blow knocked him off balance. He fell to one knee, the flesh of his lower leg opening to the bone in a jagged line that ran from knee to ankle. Blood seeped from the wound, sizzling audibly on the seared surface of a nearby rock.

Troi bluffing with two of a kind. Troi cupping a baby wingersling protectively in her hands as the mother swooped them repeatedly with her razor-edged beak. Troi throwing a snowball at the back of an unsuspecting Beverly Crusher's head.

Grellel caught Riker by one elbow. The Bajoran helped him to his feet and stabilized him there, taking his own blow from the sanction wand for the effort. Riker muttered a grunt of appreciation, then struggled the mining tool in his hands to one shoulder.

Troi breathing. Troi moaning. Troi whispering.

The rock-cracker fell without intent. Though it fractured the shale-like surface of the rock, it opened no fissure that might lead to a successful break. He hoisted the tool again.

Troi playing Dabo. Troi inhaling the aromatic vapors of Therusian Six. Troi ....

*****

"You look distressed," Guinan observed gently.

Deanna Troi glanced up, forcing a smile she didn't mean. "It's been a hard week."

"I have three remedies for a hard week," Guinan offered, "and all three of them are chocolate."

Again, Troi smiled. Again, she didn't mean it. "No thanks," she demurred. "I'm not really in the mood."

"You? Not in the mood for chocolate?" Guinan slid gracefully into a chair at the counselor's side. "This is more serious than I thought. Tell me about it."

Troi's eyes slipped the contact Guinan tried to establish and wandered to the vast viewing portal that predominated one wall of the Ten Forward lounge. "It's nothing really," she repeated.

Guinan watched her for almost a minute. "Tom was here earlier," she said finally, her voice very quiet. "He seemed upset, too."

Troi look up, startled.

Guinan met the other woman's astonishment with calm implacability.

"I'm sorry; would you prefer I call him Will?"

Troi blinked. Tears sprang to her eyes. "How long have you known?" she whispered.

Guinan smiled gently. "Since the beginning." She reached out to lay a palm over the counselor's hand. "They may look somewhat alike, but their auras are very different."

Troi closed her eyes. She began to tremble. Tears overran the barrier of her will to trickle silently down her face. She opened her eyes again and met the dark gaze that waited for her confession from across the table.

"I think I've made a mistake, Guinan," she whispered. "I think I've made a terrible, terrible mistake."

*****

"Geordi. Wait up."

Geordi LaForge hesitated, entertaining for a fraction of a second the idea that if he pretended not to hear, he might make it to the turbolift before Tom Riker made it to him. The notion faded as he turned to wait for the man trotting down the corridor toward him.

"Listen, Commander," he said before Tom could broach any subject at all. "I was out of line in Ten Forward. I'm tired, and I guess I took it out on you. I apologize. I didn't mean to come off sounding like a jerk."

Riker studied the chief engineer for a moment, wishing the man had visible eyes for him to read. "What you came off like," he said after a three beat, "is a man in the know."

LaForge's expression froze. "In the know?" he repeated coldly. He shook his head, shouldering the assumption aside. "Got the wrong man, Commander. I'm so far out of the loop, I get lapped every third duty rotation." LaForge resumed his trek down the corridor, and Tom fell in step at his side.

"Out of the loop, my ass," Tom announced grimly. "You know. I can tell you know."

"Know what?"

"Know about the switch."

"The switch. Binary device, right? Works both ways? My dad used to say that when I left lights on in the house ... like I could tell when the lights were on -"

"I know that you know, Geordi," Tom interrupted. "It's the only explanation ... the only reason you could possibly have to be mad about Dee and me."

"I'm not mad about you and Counselor Troi," Geordi returned grimly. "I just think it's a shame to give up on something that cost as much as that relationship cost."

"He had other reasons for going," Tom said.

They reached engineering. "I've got a lot to do," LaForge said. "I'll see you Tuesday night at the game."

"Is that what gave me away? The fact that I lose when he wouldn't?"

"You're just in a slump, Commander. I'm sure you'll pull out of it sooner or later."

"Geordi."

"What?"

"I need someone to talk to about this."

"I hear the ship's counselor is available."

"Give me ten minutes to try and make you understand."

"There's nothing to understand."

"This wasn't my idea," Tom insisted doggedly. "I was under orders, too."

"You're not making much sense, Commander. Maybe you should stay away from the synthehol for a while."

Tom exploded. "Damn it, Geordi," he snarled, "you know damned well what I'm talking about."

"No, Commander," LaForge countered coldly. "I don't know what you're talking about. Furthermore, I don't want to know what you're talking about." He stared at Tom, his VISOR a tangible barrier to the interpretation of his emotions. His posture, however, had no such qualms about communicating an unmistakable animosity.

"I can't keep doing this," Tom said, trying hard to ignore the other man's overt hostility. "I can't keep pretending I'm someone I'm not."

"Maybe you should have thought of that earlier."

The statement was a blow. Tom stepped back, more hurt than he had any intention of admitting. "Maybe you should kiss my ass, LaForge," he said after a long beat. "You know ... out of all the people on this ship, I thought you'd be the one I could talk to. I thought you'd be the one who might try to understand." He shook his head, his eyes dark with angry frustration. "I guess I was wrong again," he muttered tersely. "I guess I was wrong about a lot of things." He turned and walked away.

LaForge let him get to the juncture of corridors before he spoke again. "All right," he said grudgingly. "You want to talk, I guess we can talk."

Tom hesitated. Shoulders tense, spine stiff with resentment, he said, "Holodeck three? Sixteen hundred?"

"All right," LaForge repeated. And then he turned and walked away.

*****

"I don't love him."

Troi and Beverly Crusher sat together in a half dark room, drinking tea and watching the stars roll by. Crusher didn't react immediately to the Counselor's quiet confession. Instead, she continued watching the stars as if they held some answer to the eternal mysteries of the universe.

"You don't love him?" Crusher said finally. "Or you don't think that you should love him?"

Troi laughed quietly. It was a teary laugh, a laugh that bordered on heartbreak. "For an excellent doctor," she allowed, "you make a lousy therapist, Beverly. Of course I think I should love him. Will gave up everything so Tom and I could be together. If for no other reason than that, I should love him because if I hadn't thought I would - if we hadn't both thought I would - it would be Tom and not Will rotting on a Cardassian penal colony."

"Do you resent Tom for that?"

Troi sighed. "No," she murmured. "I resent Will for that."

Crusher sipped at her tea. "You realize, of course," she offered after several long moments of silence, "that you weren't Will's only consideration. There were a number of other factors involved."

"Tom told me the justifications," Troi assured her. "That Will, with his command experience, would have a better chance of succeeding; that he'd have a better chance of not only completing the mission, but of bringing the other operatives back alive."

"There was also Will's sense of guilt over Tom's lost life," Crusher added. "He felt he owed Tom in many ways."

"He didn't strand Tom on Nervala IV," Troi said.

"Maybe not," Crusher allowed. "but Will still felt a certain responsibility to Tom: a responsibility to replace the life he wasn't willing to give up with another life ... one that would make Tom happy."

"Me," Troi murmured.

"You were a part of it," Crusher agreed. "But I think you're missing something, Deanna. You're missing the fact that Will thought Tom was - in a very odd, very paradoxical way - his second chance to find happiness with you. In so many ways, they were the same man. I think he thought that if you found love with Tom, you - in a way - found love with him. I know it sounds strange, but that's the way he looked at it."

"He looked at it wrong."

"You were very much in love with Tom when he left for the Ghandi," Crusher reminded her.

"I was in love with an illusion. For two weeks, we lived in a world that didn't exist: a simulation of reality: a holodeck of emotion. Based on that, I thought I was in love; but the man I loved wasn't Tom Riker. The man I loved was Will Riker ten years ago; and the man who left for the Ghandi and then came back to take Will's place here on the Enterprise is not that man."

"It was easy to see Tom as a younger version of Will," Crusher agreed. "I think we all fell into that trap. He still possessed the fire, the enthusiasm of unrealized ambition that Will used to have. He was undisciplined, a loose cannon, but he was also full of raw potential. I imagine he seemed very much the same dashing man you fell in love with on Betazed."

"He may have seemed that way," Troi murmured. "But he wasn't."

"No," Crusher agreed. "He wasn't. He'd spent seven years in utter isolation. That he's sane after that kind of ordeal is a testament to his strength of character, but I'm sure it changed him. I'm sure there are residual effects we can't begin to know ... things that make him as different from the Will Riker of ten years ago as Will is."

"He's less disciplined than Will was," Troi said quietly. "Less able to cope with authority. He's ferociously sure of himself ... overly so, in many ways. I doubt very seriously if he would have ever accomplished what Will accomplished in Starfleet. He doesn't have the maturity, doesn't have the capacity for self analysis or change."

"Those are very professional opinions," Crusher pointed out. "You sound like you're evaluating an officer candidate, not the man you love."

Troi smiled. Tears trickled down her face. She brushed them away. "He isn't the man I love," she said quietly. "It only took me seven years to see it, but the man I love is serving a life term on Lazon II."

Crusher blinked, stunned to silence.

"Don't you see, Beverly?" Troi whispered. "Tom is everything about Will I couldn't stand. Everything about him that made me question my capacity to care for him so deeply: the arrogance, the ambition, the lack of discipline ... even that bold, dashing charm. His ability to woo a woman was intoxicating, but it always made me distrust him ... doubt him. I forgot that for a while, but I remember it now. I remember that when Will Riker tried every trick in the book to thaw me on Betazed, I had no trouble at all resisting his charms. It was only when he gave up - when he lost the fixation of the hunt and eased down into the gentle, funny, warm man he is - that I lost the battle."

Troi stood. She wandered the doctor's dimly lit cabin and found herself standing before the transparent viewing portal, watching the stars as he so often did when he was thinking.

"But even then, I couldn't truly love him," she went on. "Even then, there was too much edge, too many things I didn't trust. If he'd met me on Risa all those years ago, we still wouldn't have worked. Not then, not being the people we were." She was crying again. "But now. Now he's different. Now I'm different. I was starting to see that when he left for Deep Space Nine. I was starting to realize that he'd grown into the man I wanted, a man I could trust with my heart, a man I could grow old with and love every hour of every day."

Troi fell silent, staring dully into the bejeweled black of endless space.

"He doesn't know," Crusher surmised finally.

"I didn't know," Troi returned. "Not until he was gone. Not until the emptiness in me found a name, and I realized what that name was." She shook her head. "I find myself lying awake at night," she murmured, "Tom's breath on my skin as he sleeps, his arm across my waist. I know he's a good man, a gentle man ..." her voice trailed off. She shook her head again. "I lay in the darkness," she whispered, "and I ache for him. For Will. For the intangibles of what Will is that Tom is not. For his depth and his courage and his sense of duty. For his gentleness and his wiseness and the texture of seven years together, learning to trust, learning to love." She turned from the viewing portal and met Beverly Crusher's eyes. "Will gave his life so Tom and I could be happy together," she said. "And I can't even do him the simple honor of accepting the gift. I can't love Tom. I don't love Tom. I love Will."

Beverly Crusher stared at her best friend, unable to think of a single thing to say.

*****

Troi up to her chin in a down sleeping bag, the flawless moonlight of Terrellia Prime dazzling on her flawless skin. Troi holding El as they watched the Aurora Borealis together for the first time. Troi eating fresh trout and doing her best to like it.

Riker coughed raggedly, his breathing coarse as it rattled in and out of his gaunt body.

"You're getting worse," Grellel observed in the pitch black of their cell. "The infection must have spread to your respiratory system."

Riker coughed again. "Just a frog in my throat," he muttered wearily. "Nothing to worry about."

"A frog?" Grellel repeated. "Really? Who's prompt rod did you kiss to rate meat?"

Riker chuckled, then coughed again. His fingers clenched to fists.

"Tell me about her again," Grellel suggested after some time. "Tell me what she smells like. Tell me what she tastes like."

Riker smiled.

Troi drenched in Betazoid oils, her toenails painted Burilean green.

*****

Geordi LaForge and Tom Riker sat like opposing factions on either side of a red-checkered arbitration table in a New Orleans bistro, the awkward silence between them softened only marginally by three quarters of a quartet jamming bluesily in a corner three meters away. Wailing plaintively, the saxophone told tales of woe as the trumpet and piano commiserated. Laid almost reverently across the piano's scarred wood cabinet, a holographic 'bone waited in vain for the familiar attentions of a man in no mood to play.

"So I'm here," LaForge announced. "What is it you want to talk about?"

"I want to talk about the biggest scam in Starfleet history," Tom answered grimly.

LaForge's expression flickered. "If you're referring to the Defiant Incident," he said, "that's classified. Pick another subject."

"There is no other subject," Tom retorted. "You and I both know what's going on, but in deference to your obvious desire to cling to your culpable deniability in good conscience, let's pretend you're hearing this for the first time: I'm not William T. Riker. William T. Riker is doing time on Lazon II. I am Thomas William Riker, and I'm masquerading as the jester in this ludicrous farce under direct orders from Starfleet Command."

LaForge turned away, studying the holo-bistro with an interest that bordered on evasion. "So you told me," he said quietly. "Anything else?"

Tom leaned into the tabletop. "That's all you've got to say?" he challenged.

"What do you expect me to say?" LaForge countered. "That I'm shocked? That never once, in nine months and sixteen days, did I suspect that you weren't exactly what you claimed to be?"

"If you knew, why didn't you say something?"

LaForge snorted. "Because I was told to keep my mouth shut. My orders were to play along, so I played along."

"I thought we were friends."

LaForge shook his head. "We were friends," he said, his voice low and specific with the meaning of words that might otherwise have seemed ambiguous. "You and I play poker together. Sometimes we have a drink in ten forward, and you talk about your problems."

Tom looked down at his hands. He didn't speak for a long time.

"Is that all?" LaForge asked finally.

"No," Tom said. "There's something else." He looked up. His eyes were cold, indifferent. He said it as if it didn't matter: "Deanna Troi and I are through."

"Congratulations," LaForge said.

"Not that our relationship is any of your business," Tom went on calmly, "but considering the circumstances, I felt you should know that this wasn't my choice. I'm not the one who gave up."

LaForge looked up, surprised. "She called it off?" he ventured cautiously.

"She called it off months ago," Tom said. "It's just taken her this long to push me far enough to put it into words."

Sipping sparingly of the holodrink in front of him, Geordi LaForge considered the other man's words. "I spoke to her less than a week ago," he said finally. "She told me then that she wanted it to work. That she'd keep trying for as long as it took."

"She lied to you, Geordi. She knows as well as I do - maybe even better - that what's wrong with our relationship can't be worked out."

"Anything can be worked out if you want it badly enough."

"Not this," Tom said quietly. He started not to say it, then went ahead and said it anyway: "She doesn't love me. She loves him."

LaForge tensed. Tom shrugged. "It took me a while to figure it out," he admitted, "but we both know it now, so there's no use in going on with something that's a pale imitation of the original." Tom shook his head and took a long holo-drink. "I can't compete with a memory," he muttered more to himself than to LaForge. "I won't compete with a memory."

LaForge didn't have to say what he was thinking. Even through the obscuring shield of the VISOR, it came through loud and clear.

"You think I don't know I can't fill his shoes?" Tom demanded, reading the engineer's expression. "You think I don't see the way Picard flanks me with every order he issues? The way he makes sure that you or Worf or Data tag along every time I command an away mission?" He snorted, looked away. "You think I don't feel it when she touches me and remembers him?" he asked quietly. "You think I don't catch it when you fold flushes knowing I've got two of a kind? You think I don't notice when Bishop or Morrison or Jaxx glance to Worf for verification every time I issue an order?" He swung his gaze back to LaForge. "Well, I've got news for you Geordi: I know I'm not any William T. Riker - I know that - but I'm also not a first year cadet who can't take a galaxy class vessel through a routine mapping expedition without a God damned android looking over my shoulder to make sure I don't screw anything up. And I may not be the man that Deanna Troi loves, but I'm not so damned different from the man who ten years ago was more a stranger to you than I am."

LaForge sighed. He sipped again from the frosted mug growing warm against his palm. "You're right," he said finally. "You're not that different."

"No," Tom agreed sharply. "I'm not. And you might want to consider the fact that if it had been him who got reflected back to Nervala IV, it might have been you and me who became friends."

"Maybe," LaForge allowed quietly.

"Not maybe, damn it," Tom snapped. "We're the same man. The difference between us is a nanosecond in a transporter console's failsafe circuitry." He glared at the engineer, frustration etched into every line of his expression.

When LaForge didn't answer, Tom went on: "I know we're different now, but then - back when you first began your friendship - we were the same man. You and I would have been friends, Geordi. We would have been friends the same way you and he became friends."

"Maybe we would have," LaForge said quietly. "But we aren't."

Tom sighed. "No," he agreed quietly. "We aren't. We're pity poker on Tuesday night and conversations of obligation over drinks."

LaForge sighed. "It isn't you, Tom," he offered after a long minute. "It's ..." he hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's more what he and I've been through together. We've run the gauntlet over the years. We took on Q; we faced the Borg. He was there when I got word that my mother was MIA. He hung in with me on Tarchannen III when my DNA whacked out and tried to turn me into a glowworm. He's the one who got me out of that mess with the Klingon ambassador. He ...." LaForge shook his head. "He's been my best friend for ten years. I guess it's just harder watching you live his life than I thought it would be."

"You mean watching me screw up his life," Tom corrected.

LaForge shrugged. "He did this so you and Troi could be together. It's hard watching that sacrifice go up in smoke."

"He didn't do this for either me or Troi," Tom retorted. "He did this because Nechayev ordered him to do it. His sacrifice was for Starfleet, not for us."

LaForge shook his head again. Rather than argue, though, he said, "When Worf and I worked up the nerve to go to the captain with our suspicions about you, he wouldn't tell us anything, but he gave us an encode to access a holoprogram embedded in Will's Curtis Creek program. I guess Will knew we'd figure it out sooner or later, and he wanted us to know why he decided to do what he did and why we had to respect his decision. So less than two weeks after my best friend went on a kamikaze mission without ever even saying goodbye, I sat there with my feet dangling in forty degree water and listened to him tell me that Picard made it clear the mission was voluntary, but he took it because he felt you were his second chance with Counselor Troi. I listened to him say that whatever happened to him, it would be worth it as long as you made her happy." LaForge took a long draw of his holo-drink. "That was the hardest thing I've ever done," he said quietly. "Listening to him tell me that and trying to make myself accept it."

"As long as I make her happy," Tom murmured. He put his head in one hand, rubbing slowly at his temples.

"He told Worf and me to try and be your friends," LaForge added quietly, his VISOR focused on nothing. "He told us you were what she wanted, and what she wanted was what he wanted."

"I'm not making her happy," Tom muttered. "I'm making her miserable." They sat in silence for a long moment. "How long have you known?" Tom asked finally.

"Since day one," LaForge answered. "The two of you may look alike, but once you get past the beard, you're about as similar as a pea and a polyurathane peanut in a pod. I started noticing things right away. Worf wasn't far behind."

"Guess I'm not very good at being myself," Tom noted wryly. "When did you go to Picard?"

"About two weeks in."

"Does the rest of the crew know?"

"A few," LaForge allowed. "Owgawa ... Crusher ... Bishop. I don't think anybody else was close enough to him to notice the differences, or to give them any weight, at least. I guess it was so glaring to Worf and I because - other than Troi and the Captain - we're his best friends."

"Glaring," Tom mused. "In what way?"

"In half a dozen ways."

"Such as?"

LaForge shrugged. "Well ... for one thing, you stink at poker. That's what tipped Bishop: he started asking questions the night you folded on three of a kind. For another, you're pretty green when it comes to command, and it shows." Warming to his subject, LaForge went on, "And you're paranoid. You wear authority like a hat instead of a suit, and you're always ramming your hat down somebody else's throat. You jump to conclusions. You always assume the worst. You never ask for opinions, you just make your own decision and to hell with whatever your crew might have to say about it."

One corner of Tom Riker's mouth pulled into a wry grin. "But other than that," he said, "how do you feel about me as a first officer?"

The intensity of LaForge's expression eased a bit. "I'm not saying you're a bad first officer," he demurred. "I'm saying your command style is different than his was."

"Aaaaah." Tom nodded, his voice taking on a self-depreciating tone that didn't quite clear bitterness. "I see the difference: He was a secure, confident, optimistic leader of men and I'm an arrogant jerk in a tight, red uniform."

"He's had a little more practice," LaForge countered in a way that softened the comparison, but didn't refute it. "And he's had most of that practice under the best in the fleet. Captain Picard was his mentor. He taught Riker a lot."

"Didn't teach him how to say no to Nechayev."

LaForge's features clouded. "You've never met Nechayev," he said darkly. "She doesn't take no for an answer. When Nechayev wants something, Nechayev gets it."

"You're assuming I've never met Nechayev," Tom corrected quietly.

LaForge frowned. "If you have met her," he allowed after a beat, "then you know what I'm talking about."

"I know she gets what she wants because nobody ever tells her no," Tom countered. "And I know that telling her no will not - despite all rumors to the contrary - result in the end of the known universe. All it will do is piss off one very short, very cold woman and maybe teach her a thing or two about that God complex she's got going."

"In Starfleet terms," LaForge muttered, "she is God."

"No, Geordi," Tom returned. "She's not. About six years into my stint on Nervala IV, I met God; and I can tell you for a fact, that He's not her."

LaForge shook his head dismissively. "Whatever," he allowed.

"And since she's not God," Tom went on, "I can't see it as sacrilege to undercut her delusions the same way I'd undercut any other megalomaniac bent on turning the world to their own ends."

LaForge's expression took on a guarded cast. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked after a beat.

"It means I'm tired of the whole quadrant taking her dictates as scripture. Maybe it's time for somebody to draw a line in the sand and tell her that just because she decides to designate Will Riker as her own personal sacrificial lamb doesn't mean we have to go along with it."

"I don't like where you're going with this," LaForge warned.

"I'm not going anywhere, Geordi. I'm already there."

"Already where?"

"Lazon II."

"No." LaForge shook his head, his tone unequivocal stone.

"You said you were his friend," Tom challenged.

"I am his friend," LaForge countered. "And I'm also a Starfleet officer. What you're talking about is treason."

"What I'm talking about is justice. Will should have never been surrendered to the Cardassians in the first place. He was under orders - Nechayev's orders - but she played him like a trump card, and Picard let her. All I'm suggesting is that we reshuffle the deck and deal a new hand."

"No," LaForge repeated.

"Why not? Standing pat with two of a kind will get you nowhere but broke."

"In the holoprogram he left," LaForge said, "Will specifically ordered us not to mount any kind of rescue attempt if he was captured. He said that no matter how well planned it might seem, no matter how well conceived, the risk was too much."

"He said that before he'd spent nine months doing hard time," Tom pointed out. "I'll bet a month's pay he's changed his mind by now."

"You'd lose."

Tom snorted. "You underestimate how much damage incarceration does to the Riker mind set. Take it from a man who spent eight years in a cave: we don't do well in confined spaces."

"He's not you."

"He's close enough," Tom snapped.

"He's not close at all," LaForge retorted. "Will Riker is fiercely loyal to Starfleet. He believes in duty and in sacrifice and in doing whatever it takes to accomplish the mission. It's essential that the Cardassians continue to believe that you hijacked the Defiant. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that belief, and neither will I."

"A rescue operation wouldn't have to tip our hand," Tom insisted. "If it was done right - if it was planned out and executed in such a way as to appear that the Maquis was retrieving Tom Riker - it wouldn't be any more risk than the original operation."

"No," LaForge repeated for the third time. He pushed to his feet. "Will would never forgive me if I turned a successful mission to failure because I was too selfish to accept his right to choose his own destiny."

"Destiny," Tom scoffed. "Is that what you call it? You think the infamous Will Riker's destiny was to rot in a Cardassian prison under an assumed identity?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what he thought."

Tom shook his head and leaned back in his chair. "His destiny is here, Geordi, with Troi and the Enterprise. That was my destiny once, but it's his now. He belongs here and, one way or another, I intend to see that he gets back here."

"Are you doing this for him or for you?"

"I'm doing it for both of us. And for Dee. And in a way, for you and Worf and all the other people on this ship that might die some day because I make a choice he wouldn't have."

"You can't live your life second-guessing yourself."

Tom snorted. He looked away. "I can't live his life any other way," he murmured.

LaForge watched the other man for a long moment through the unblinking sensors of the VISOR. "A word of advise, Tom," he said finally. "What you're suggesting is treason. It's not self sacrifice, it's not a hero's death, and it's certainly not a frat prank against a button-up headmistress. It's treason. If you discuss this with the captain, or with Worf, or with anyone else on this ship, you're liable to end up in the brig."

Tom took a long draw of a holo-whiskey sour. "Are you saying you're going to turn me in?" he inquired calmly.

"I'm saying you'd better learn the value of discretion, and you'd better learn it fast," LaForge countered. "As far as I'm concerned, you and I had a few drinks and talked about what a damned shame it was the way things turned out for Tom Riker. We kicked around a few hypothetical scenarios, and I convinced you that any sort of rescue mission would be a fool's gambit. Since we both know Will Riker is no fool - and the whole of Starfleet knows you're Will Riker - I'm considering the matter closed."

Tom hoisted the nearly empty glass in a toast. "Then the matter is closed," he agreed, his eyes explicit with the declaration that it was anything but closed.

LaForge nodded and turned away. He reached the holodeck exit before Tom spoke again.

"Thank you, Geordi," he said as a command arch opened in the bistro wall to reveal the holochamber's door. "If not for your help, at least for the ten minutes."

LaForge hesitated. He glanced back. "No one on this ship can help you," he said. "No one in Starfleet can. The only person who might have tried was Ro, and she's with the Maquis now."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "The Maquis?" he repeated cautiously.

LaForge nodded. "You never met Ro, did you?" he asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on, "She was a Bajoran: Ro Laren. She and Will got pretty close. She served at the helm for a little over a year, then transferred back to Fleet for covert training. She defected to the Maquis a couple of months before you came back on board. I hear she ranks in their command structure now ... a commander or something."

"Really," Tom muttered.

"Yes," LaForge agreed quietly. "Really." Then, without another word, he left the holodeck.

Slowly, Tom Riker smiled. "I supposed," he told no one in particular, "that in a round-about way, I have to be proud of myself. It stands a man in good stead to know he could have been worthy of the kind of friends he seems to have." He rapped his glass sharply on the table top. A bartender materialized from thin air. "Bring me another whiskey," Tom announced. "I have a toast to make ... a toast to friends I might have had."

The bartender glanced around the empty bistro. "Your friends, they are coming, yes?"

"Whiskey," Tom repeated in lieu of an answer. "Jim Beam, circa whatever year you think best."

"Ahhhh." The bartender nodded knowingly. "You drink alone," he observed.

"I never drink alone," Tom countered. "He's always here, like a big, black shadow I can never quite step beyond. Even now, when I finally have what the both of us aspired to, he's here, casting the specter of his omnipresence over me." Tom clacked the glass on the table again. "Whiskey," he repeated for the third time. "In fact, make it a double."

*****

Deanna Troi struggled through her last appointment for the day and returned to their quarters. He was packing when she rounded the corner to the bedroom. For a moment, the sight of the small travel duff on the bed stopped her dead in her tracks.

Tom glanced up, nearly missing the open bag with the pair of socks he tossed. "Hey, Dee." He flashed her a familiar grin, then stuffed a shirt and into the soft-sided duffle with an abandon that would render it unwearable by the time he reached his destination.

"You're leaving?" she asked, her voice steadier than it felt.

"Just a week or so. Got a communique from my dad. He was doing whatever it is he does on Challa Three when Alturian Brain Fever hit him. Doctor says he'll pull through, but it set me to thinking. It's been more than twenty years since I've seen him, and I thought, What the hell? If Will's a big enough man, so am I. Maybe it's time to do some fence mending, maybe it's time to lay some groundwork for the future before the future becomes the past and we all rot to space dust in the interim."

Troi took a careful seat on the chair near her vanity. "That's a cheery outlook," she observed.

Tom flashed her another grin. "I'm a cheery kind of guy."

"You certainly are today," she agreed.

"Look," he shoved another shirt in, then a pair of pants, "I'm sorry about last night. I slept on it, and I realize that you were right, and I was wrong."

Troi sighed. "No one was wrong, Tom," she murmured. "We just see things very differently."

"Yes," Tom agreed, placing a final item in the bag and snapping it shut. "We do see things differently. But I'm still sorry. Sorry for a lot of things, not the least of which is not being what you thought I'd be."

Troi stood as he slung the duffle over his shoulder. "Tom ..." she started.

He smiled, stopping what she had to say with a single finger on her lips. "I do love you, you know," he told her. "It's just not what either of us thought it would be."

Tears glistened in her eyes. "You're leaving, aren't you?" she whispered.

"My dad ..." He hesitated, then let the lie fall away. "Yes," he agreed after a beat. "I'm leaving."

"Will you be back?"

He glanced away, evading. Troi closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them.

"Don't go, Tom," she said. "We can make this work."

"No," he corrected quietly. "We can't. We've tried, and we've failed. This wasn't meant to be." He smiled at her, a painful expression on his handsome features. "Maybe that's why, all those years ago, he didn't show on Risa. You and I weren't supposed to be together. Not then ... not the way he was ... the way I still am." He smiled slightly. "You grew up without me, Dee," he said, one finger tracing the side of her face. "You went on, and I didn't." He touched her lips, then drew his hand away. "We can't change that. It's time to stop trying."

"I love you," she said.

Tom shook his head. "I know you've tried," he allowed. He studied her for a moment, his eyes memorizing her face. "We made a mistake, Dee," he said finally. "Both of us ... all three of us. I know it. You know it. And I'm sure that wherever he is, he knows it, too." He kissed her then: tenderly, passionately. It was the first time in a month they'd shared anything worth sharing. "If something happens," he said when their lips separated. "Remember me the way I was. Remember me on Betazed, when we first fell in love. Remember me in my lieutenant's uniform - twenty pounds lighter and ten years younger. Remember me looking at you the way I used to look at you."

"Please don't go, Tom," she whispered.

"I have to go." He kissed her again, then stepped back. "Remember that I loved you," he said quietly. "If you don't remember anything else, remember that."

"I'll remember," she agreed.

He nodded. "Goodbye, Deanna."

"Goodbye, Tom."

The word imzadi hung unspoken between them, no longer a piece of the puzzle they had become. After a long moment of silent regret, Tom Riker turned away.

*****

"Imzadi," Will Riker whispered, his voice dry and cracked and barely more than a whisper in the darkness. He twisted slightly, his body resistant to the fire that crawled under his skin and through his vital organs.

Grellel watched the younger man sleep, wondering what it was that made him cling so stubbornly to the last vestiges of life in a place as forsaken as this. The infection in his system was comprehensive now; it had been for more than a week. He grew weaker each day, less aware of his surroundings, less aware of even the pain of his sickness.

For a while, they'd dragged him to the mines, prodding him with prompt rods that made less than no impression on a man too delirious to manage more than a mindless stagger in whatever direction he was pointed. When pain ceased to serve as motivation, even the guards began to see the futility of their routine. They left him to his filth when they came at daybreak for Grellel, left him to rot in the cell's eternal solitude and darkness, expecting each night when they returned to find him dead.

Grellel shook his head. Such a waste ... such a needless waste.

Riker shivered, spiked with a chill born of fever, not the cloying humidity of their cell. Grellel adjusted the blanket that lay around the younger man's gaunt shoulders and continued to watch him sleep.

It was a feverish sleep, filled with dreams of the woman Troi and nightmares of the Borg.

He wasn't what Grellel had expected ... not what he had been told this Starfleet castoff would be. The compassion he maintained for the man who stole his life was impressive, as was his intense love for the woman whose affections they'd shared. He spoke of her often, and at length; and since the onset of the fever, his words concerning her were more willing to tell the unguarded truth.

"Imzadi," Riker whispered.

He'd been strong when he arrived: arrogant, defiant. Now, less than a year later, he was little more than bones and skin. He wouldn't survive as many of them had. He would die in this cell and move on to whatever place his race considered a just reward for a life well lived.

For that, Grellel found himself oddly grateful.

The Human Riker was a good man. He deserved more than to rot in this place until his mind was as broken as his body. He deserved more than to share his secrets with a man he thought was his friend.

Grellel sighed, shifting slightly in the darkness.

"Captain?" Riker muttered, his voice slurred.

"Rest, Number One," Grellel told his restless cellmate. He patted Riker's shoulder. "The ship is safe. You've done well, my friend. You've done well."

Riker muttered something unintelligible, but settled back to the subtle twists of his feverish dreams. Still in the darkness, one hand on the younger man's shoulder in a gesture less exploitive than sincere, Grellel sat in silence and listened.

*****

Dead Lazlow's was smokey and noisy and every other cliche embraced by the popular colloquialism Rat Hole Dive. Tom spotted Ro Laren almost immediately. Sitting rather conspicuously for a woman who was wanted by the largest police force in the galaxy, she was obviously waiting for him and just as obviously unconcerned that she might be recognized.

"You must be Laren," Tom said to the cold-eyed evaluation she ran over him.

He used her first name in case any of the dozens of drinkers within earshot were Federation spies. She countered with a blunt, "You can call me Ro. This way." Moving like an eel through Jell-O, she led him deeper into the crowded bar.

They approached the corner table by way of every other table in the joint. Of the three people sitting around it, he recognized only one.

Though they'd never met personally, Tom had done enough research on the Maquis movement to recognize its most notorious rebel by more than just the cultural tatoo engraved into the flesh of his right temple. A big man with angular features, short black hair, and piercing black eyes, Chakotay of Dorvan was every inch his reputation. Once considered by the Starfleet elite as the most promising officer to rise through the ranks since Jean Luc Picard, he'd spent the better part of the past three years proving a dangerous embarrassment to the Federation and more than a passing annoyance to Cardassia Prime. In defense of Dorvan V, his homeworld and the most hotly disputed of the colonies sacrificed to the diplomacies of the de-militarized zone, he'd honed the Maquis mainstay of deep-territory penetration and target elimination to a virtual art form. As far as the Cardassian empire was concerned, the ex-Starfleet Dorvanian turned Maquis was Public Enemy Number One.

"This is him," Ro announced by way of introduction, taking a seat to the left of a woman who lacked enough Klingon influence to her predominantly Human features to be anything more than a fifty-fifty hybrid.

"I'm Chakotay," the rebel with the tatoo announced as if he hadn't noticed the flash of recognition in Tom Riker's eyes. He nodded to the Klingon woman, "This is B'Elanna ..." and then to the third man, a Vulcan as utterly implacable and without expression as Vulcan's invariably tended to be, "... and Tuvok. They'll help me decide if we have any interest in what you have to say."

"I think you'll find what I have to say interesting," Tom allowed.

"That may be optimistic," Chakotay countered. Although his voice was level and without malice, the Maquis captain's eyes didn't share in the charade of ambivalence. They watched Tom with calculated enmity, as hostile as the Vulcan Tuvok's were indifferent. Chakotay gestured to the last remaining chair. "Have a seat, Commander."

"Call me Tom," Tom corrected, accepting the seat despite the fact that it left his back to the crowded bar.

Posture coldly distant, Chakotay laced both hands together on the table top. "We're busy people," he announced without further preamble. "Say what you have to say."

Thrown by overt hostility where he'd anticipated mutual interest, Tom hesitated. "Where do you want me to start?" he asked after a beat.

"Why don't you start with why you think the Maquis would have any interest in any plan Commander William T. Riker might have to offer?"

Where hostility had thrown him, a direct challenge knocked Tom completely off the tracks. He glanced at Ro. "I thought you explained things," he said.
Ro shrugged.

"You explain it," Chakotay ordered.

Tom's hackles rose. Chafed by the assumption of authority in the Maquis rebel's tone, he worked to undermine the resentment that threatened the diplomacy of his expression. "All right," he allowed after a beat, "I'm not Commander William T. Riker. At least, not the one you mean. As far as the galaxy's concerned, I'm the other one."

"The one serving time on Lazon II," Torres clarified.

"That would be the one," Tom agreed.

Chakotay studied him for several seconds. "I don't believe you," he said suddenly.

Tom's features flared with equal parts surprise and resentment. "You don't believe me?" he repeated angrily. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

"I don't really care what you say, Commander. I think we're through here." Chakotay started to stand.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" Tom glanced around the bar furtively. "Just sit down a minute, will you? Let me explain. Ten years ago there was a transporter acci-"

"We know about Nervala IV," Chakotay interrupted. He stared at Tom for several seconds, then noted, almost derisively, "Convenient." Despite the flavor of scorn to his tone, however, he did settle back to his seat.

"Convenient," Tom repeated. His eyes worked to keep themselves civil. "Listen. The incident at Nervala IV is a matter of official Starfleet record. If you check the facts, you'll see that there are two of us: Me and him. As a direct result of that duplication, diagnosis of, and compensation for, reflexion duplication syndrome is now part of the required curriculum in transporter studies at the academy. If you need more proof than that, talk to any of the several hundred people who've seen us together. It isn't done with mirrors, Chakotay. I do exist."

"Whether or not two William T. Rikers exist is not a matter of contention," Tuvok announced calmly. "Whether or not you are the William T. Riker of the Borg Wars is."

"And even if you aren't," Torres added, "whether or not you're working for Starfleet to bring down the Maquis."

Tom leaned into the table, staring hard into the reflective distance of Chakotay's eyes. "Starfleet has nothing to do with this," he insisted grimly.

"I believe that less than anything you've said," Chakotay countered.

"I don't give a damn whether you believe me or not," Tom snapped. "Rescuing Will Riker is my idea. If I manage to pull it off, I'll be facing a court marshal, not a commendation panel."

Chakotay watched him for a long beat. "You're knee-deep in quite a career, Commander," he said finally. "It seems a shame to scully it over a hundred kilograms of transporter replicate matter."

Outrage resonated in Tom Riker's bones. It lit his eyes and washed his features like blood staining milk. "That transporter replicate matter would be me," he hissed, "and the career I'm knee-deep in is his. All in all, I consider it a fair trade." He calmed himself with a visible effort. "Listen, Chakotay, I'm telling you the truth. No matter what Starfleet claims, I am not Commander William Riker. Commander William Riker is serving time on Lazon II. I am Lieutenant Tom Riker, formerly of the USS Ghandi."

"Commander ... Lieutenant ..." Chakotay shook his head. "Either way, you're still Starfleet."

"I resigned my commission three days ago," Tom announced.

"Commander William T. Riker resigned his commission three days ago," Tuvok corrected.

"Whatever. The point being, none of the Rikers currently available are on active duty in Starfleet."

"That doesn't mean anything," Torres said. "You resign your commission ... get thrown out of the corps ... kill an Admiral ... it's all Nechayev's idea of a cover. Once you've completed your mission, all is forgiven and they re-instate you in full."

"We deal with infiltrators every day," Chakotay elaborated drily. "And as shills go, you're not even particularly convincing."

Tom sighed. "Tell me what you want from me," he said wearily. "Tell me what it will take to convince you that I am who I say I am, and that the only reason I'm here is for your help."

"You can't convince me," Chakotay answered. "But you can tell me about the Defiant Incident."

"The Defiant Incident was a scam from the get-go. It was a top secret, fully-sanctioned operation designed by the Starfleet Advisory Board to ferret out the Obsidian Orders secret fleet."

"Tell us something we don't know," Torres grunted.

"The CO of the mission was always Commander William T. Riker," Tom went on doggedly. "He spearheaded the operation under direct orders from Admiral Nechayev."

"General perception is that the mission was commanded by Tom Riker," Chakotay observed quietly, "under the direct authority of the Maquis."

"That should be proof in and of itself. You know I'm not with the Maquis ... that I've never been with the Maquis."

Chakotay shook his head. "Starfleet lies are proof of only two things: that Nechayev is still Nechayev and that Starfleet hasn't changed since they sacrificed Bajor to the Cardassians a dozen years ago."

"They're proof that what I'm telling you is the truth," Tom said.

"Or that what you're telling us is just another tangle in a thick web of Starfleet treachery," Chakotay returned.

"Where were you while Will Riker was in the Orius system?" Ro asked quietly.

The implication of the question was unmistakable. Such a direct assertation of faith in even the most basic tenement of his story bolstered Tom's confidence and gave him footing to continue the struggle.

"I was re-assigned to the Enterprise to serve as cover in case the mission failed," he answered, speaking more to her now than to Chakotay. "I was there the whole time: very visible, very indisputable should it come to the need for an alibi to serve testament to Starfleet's uninvolvement."

"Then you were never on Deep Space Nine?" Ro surmised.

"Never set foot one on the station," he agreed. "Never set foot on the Defiant, either. When the mission ran aground at Omekla III, it was Will Riker who surrendered to Gul Mavec. It was Will Riker who was tried on Cardassia Prime, and it is Will Riker doing life on Lazon II. By default, that leaves only me to be him, which I've been doing for the past nine months."

For a long moment, no one said a word. "It would be quite a charade to put yourself over as the XO of the Federation flagship," Ro commented finally. "Are you saying Captain Picard didn't notice?"

"Picard was in on it," Tom answered. "Sisko, too. Will's orders were to lay as subtle a trail as possible to the secret fleet: Sisko's were to make sure Dukat didn't get lost following it."

"And Picard's were to send his Number One on a suicide mission?" Ro asked.

"It wasn't supposed to be a suicide mission. He wasn't supposed to get caught. He was supposed to make the run on Omekla III, scan the Orius system and hightail it to the badlands. Once there, Kira would have 'overpowered' the crew, and they would have been surrendered to Federation authorities - Nechayev, in specific. It was all planned out. It would have worked if Will hadn't screwed up, if he hadn't underestimated Kira Nerys."

"But when he did," Torres noted, "you were conveniently available to take his place."

"Convenience had nothing to do with it. I was the political escape hatch. If Will got caught, or killed, the Federation had to distance itself from the plan. The only way to do that was to have Will Riker still aboard the Enterprise as if he'd never left. That way, Nechayev could disavow all knowledge of the operation and validate the authenticity of the claim by the Federation's willingness to leave the rebel Tom Riker to the wolves - something they would never do were he really the infamous Commander William T. Riker."

Chakotay shifted in his chair. He took a drink of pajuta from the mug grown cold near his left elbow.

"What?" Tom demanded, reading dismissal in the rebel's posture.

Chakotay shrugged. Studying Tom over the rim of the mug, he noted, "You seem to have an answer for everything. All the pieces fit together rather nicely for my taste."

"And that's a problem?" Tom prompted.

"It's convenient," Chakotay agreed.

"You think I'm making this up? You really think I'm capable of subterfuge on this level?"

"I don't know what you're capable of," Chakotay allowed, "but I do know what Starfleet is capable of, and I know to what lengths they are willing to go to bring the Maquis down."

Tom studied the other man's eyes. "Your mind was made up before I ever sat down, wasn't it?" he asked finally. Chakotay didn't answer: he didn't have to. "If you thought this was a trap," Tom pressed. "Then why agree to meet with me at all?"

"Better the enemy you know, than the enemy you don't."

Tom shook his head. "If I were truly your enemy," he said, "I would have had Starfleet security planted all over this bar. I could have the whole place surrounded, but I don't. Doesn't that prove anything?"

"It proves you are unfamiliar with the clientele of Dead Laslow's," Tuvok said.

Tom frowned, and Ro elaborated: "Dead Laslow's is Maquis territory. Everyone here is known to the cause. It would be hard enough to smuggle in a comm badge, let alone infiltrating jarheads. One red shirt - even a red shirt in civvies - and the place would drain like a depressurized shuttle bay."

Tom blinked. "Oh," he said, trying to look as if the information wasn't a revelation. He failed, so he said it again, more convincingly this time: "Oh."

Torres rolled her eyes. Chakotay smiled without smiling. Tuvok merely looked bored. Only Ro was uncondemning of his ignorance, watching him carefully, her eyes making judgements in his favor.

One out of four was better than he had expected.

"If you are indeed a transporter duplication of Commander Riker -" Tuvok said after a beat.

"Or he is of me," Tom interjected.

Tuvok arched one eyebrow. "Or he, of you," the Vulcan allowed blandly, "then it would be logical to assume that you are identical in every way."

"For the sake of argument," Tom said quietly, "I won't disagree yet."

"There is an obvious similarity of appearance," Tuvok went on, "and identical retinal patterns, if the Defiant's security logs are to be assumed accurate."

"Never assume," Tom quipped.

Tuvok frowned.

"Makes an ass out of u and me," Tom elaborated to the Vulcan's pause.

Tuvok's stern features turned slightly with distaste. "You would appear to be attempting to make a point," he noted. "Perhaps clarity would assist you to such an end."

Tom shrugged. "The Defiant's security logs have a retinal scan of the man who stole the Defiant," he explained. "If I had been that man, assuming our retinal patterns are identical would be a pretty safe bet since the computer didn't deny me access. Catch is: I didn't steal the Defiant. William T. Riker stole the Defiant. The security computer compared William T. Riker's retinal scan to William T. Riker's service record: it only follows that they'd match." Tom shrugged. "But that doesn't mean mine would. Or at least, it means you can't assume that it would based on the Defiant's security logs."

"Are you saying that it wouldn't?" Ro prompted.

Tom shrugged. "Don't know. Never tried it."

"Why not?" Torres demanded.

Tom glanced at the half Klingon Maquis. "To tell the truth," he admitted. "I've never had enough reason to access anything classified beyond my own clearance to risk the fallout."

Torres snorted derisively.

"You are genetic identicals," Tuvok pointed out. "It is only logical that you share identical retinal patterns."

"We were genetic identicals ten years ago," Tom countered. "We've lived significantly different lives since then."

"Experience is not a dictating factor in retinal identification," Tuvok returned.

Tom smiled. "He's gone blind twice in that space of time," he noted, "and I spent eight years in a cave. Tell me that wouldn't make some sort of difference."

"I am not certain," Tuvok allowed.

"Neither am I," Tom agreed, "but I can tell you our fingerprints don't match any more. We've got the same whorl patterns, but we've scarred up differently over the years. I have a partial wipe on my left index ... burned it off scoring shale with a laser on Nervala IV. And a hand scanner won't pass me either. I put a duranium spike connector through my right palm about seven years ago. I was repairing a suspension bridge in the caverns and a tension rod slipped." Tom held out his hand, displaying a small, round indentation near the middle of his hand more than a centimeter deep. "Didn't have much in the way of medical facilities on Nervala," he noted, "so I've got one hell of a scar that he doesn't." He met Tuvok's eyes. "So you see, Tuvok, we may have been the same man ten years ago, but we're not really that much alike any more."

"I see," Tuvok noted calmly. "In what other ways do you consider yourself different?"

Tom saw the trap in the question, but answered it anyway: "In every way."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Among other things, he's good at being the first officer of the Federation flagship, and I'm not."

"I would be interested to know how your views of right and wrong differ," Tuvok said.

"And loyalty," Chakotay added quietly.

"And honor," Torres said.

They watched him expectantly; again, only Ro abstaining from the assumption of impending failure.

"In some ways," he allowed after a long beat, "I suppose you could say we have a similar code of ethics. I don't give my word unless I intend to keep it. I try not to lie any more than I have to, and once I pick a friend, I keep them."

"Do you have friends in Starfleet?" Tuvok asked calmly.

Tom glanced away. "He has friends in Starfleet," he said without inflection. "I have acquaintances."

Chakotay leaned forward. "How do you feel about betraying those acquaintances, Riker?" he asked.

"I'm not betraying them. If this works, I'll be giving them back their friend."

"What about your oath?" Chakotay pressed.

Tom met the Maquis rebel's gaze squarely. "I resigned my commission, remember?"

"Resigning a commission does not necessarily equate to a relinquishing of loyalty to either the organization or its agendas," Tuvok pointed out.

"What have I got to be loyal to Starfleet for?" Tom snapped. "Starfleet left me on a rock for eight years, and then when they found me, they brushed me off because the man who'd lived my life in my absence had done it so damned well."

"If you resent Starfleet so much," Chakotay asked, "why did you join them after the Enterprise rescued you from Nervala IV?"

"I didn't seem to have many options."

"There are a lot of things for a man to do in the universe besides play flyboy for the regime du jour."

"I accepted a scientific posting."

"You accepted the only posting you were offered."

Tom looked away. "For eight years," he said quietly, "I lived every day in isolation. I ate alone, I slept alone, I worked alone ... the only thing that kept me sane was regimentation. I was a Starfleet officer and I conducted myself accordingly. I saluted stalagmites I assigned rank. I ran surprise inspections on my work areas, on my living quarters. I configured new tacticals on a dozen historic battles and then let the stalagmites grade me on my solutions." He shook his head. "That may sound crazy now, but it was the only toe hold I could find in a world where the only sound I heard day in and day out was the sound of my own voice." He looked up, met Chakotay's eyes again. "I took the posting on the Ghandi," he said quietly, "because Starfleet was my life and because you're right, it was the only posting I was offered. I spent eight years in hell being grimly, determinedly Starfleet; and they promoted me from second officer of the Potemkin to a helm position on a scientific vessel."

For a long moment, Chakotay didn't comment. When he did speak, his voice was indifferent, but there was a tangible lessening in the hostility of his posture. "Why did you agree to Nechayev's plan? If Riker had been successful, they would have had to put one of you in a penal colony for consorting with the Maquis."

"I'd already tendered my resignation from the Ghandi. In return for participation in her plan, Nechayev would have set me up with a new identity. After a very public court martial, Tom Riker would have been incarcerated and died, and I would have had a new life somewhere far enough away from the contested territories to keep out of Cardassian sight."

"So you did it for money," Chakotay surmised coldly.

"I did it for a chance at a life that wasn't a bad remake of his," Tom countered.

"And when the plan fell apart? When Riker was captured and it became obvious you were expected to take on the part for the long run?"

"That was always a possibility. When it happened, I didn't have the option to back out."

"Are you saying you would have?"

"No. Not then."

"Even though you resent Starfleet to such a deep, unbroachable degree?" Chakotay pressed derisively.

Tom's features tighten. "I agreed to take Will's place," he said calmly, "because, at the time, it seemed like an equitable trade. It seemed like I'd been given a chance to live the life I was supposed to live."

"But it didn't work out," Chakotay noted.

Tom shook his head. "Serving as the XO of the Enterprise may have been my destiny ten years ago, but it isn't any more. The people on that ship are his friends, not mine. I didn't fit in: didn't do things the way they were supposed to be done, didn't say things the way they were supposed to be said, didn't stick to regulations the way they were supposed to be stuck to."

"I've had that problem," Ro allowed quietly.

"Me, too," Torres agreed.

"Starfleet is a very specific organization," Tuvok observed. "Their rules and regulations address very specific circumstances and are, consequently, understandably inflexible."

"Starfleet has a stick up its butt," B'Elanna Torres countered matter-of-factly. "They're more interested in regulations than in results."

"That's only half the rub," Tom muttered. "Try playing under those rules with everybody thinking you're someone you're not. They all have expectations - unrealistic expectations. I couldn't ask questions, but I was still expected to know the answers. Picard and Will were simpatico, but I can't get the bastard to say more than 'make it so' to me. His friends expect me to enjoy the things he enjoyed, to be good at the things he was good at. They talk about experiences they have in common that I don't know the first thing about." Tom shook his head. "To put it bluntly," he said, "I just wasn't up to the charade any more. And worse than that, I came to realize that I'm really not qualified. Will Riker spent the bulk of his career being mentored by Jean Luc Picard on how best to be the next Captain of the Century. I, meanwhile, spent my career counting time in on a rock, cutting pretty pictures into shale and daydreaming about something I was too naive to realize didn't exist."

"Troi," Ro surmised quietly.

Tom's eyes snapped to the Bajoran rebel. "That's none of your damned business," he told her definitively.

"If you're not qualified to do your job on the Enterprise," Chakotay said, drawing what had become a conversation back into the realm of an interrogation, "what makes you think you're qualified to lead a raid on a Cardassian stronghold?"

Tom smiled slightly. "I never said I wasn't good," he assured the dark-eyed rebel with the cultural tatoo. "Just that I wasn't good at playing by the rules. From what I understand, that makes me a lot like you."

It was the wrong thing to say. Chakotay's eyes went native. For a long moment, he stared at Tom like a Klingon whose honor had been challenged.

"You're nothing like me, Riker," Chakotay said finally, his voice calmly neutral despite the razor edge to his gaze, "so don't presume that you are." Then, coldly and definitively: "I've heard enough. We'll think about it and get back to you." He stood, ending the discussion.

"That's it?" Tom demanded, standing as well. "Your answer's no?"

"I said we'll think about it and get back to you," Chakotay repeated calmly. He stared to turn away, but Tom grabbed his arm.

"If he hadn't exposed that fleet," Tom insisted, "the Maquis would be a blood stain on Cardassian history by now."

"Let go of me," Chakotay said quietly. "Now."

"He's rotting on Lazon II for doing your job," Tom pressed doggedly. "For exposing the Obsidian Order's Secret fleet and saving your collective ass!"

Tom didn't see the rebel move. He didn't see it, but he felt it, and felt it hard - first in his jaw, and then in his lower back where a table splintered under his weight, and then in his shoulders and his head where they slammed to the barroom floor.

Dazed, he blinked up at the swarm of unfamiliar faces that swam in and out of focus. Chakotay crouched near his left shoulder.

"Unlawful detention of a Maquis officer," he said, patting Tom's shoulder. "Next time, I'll kill you." He rose and started away.

Tom scrambled to his feet to follow. Still dazed, he managed nonetheless to get a hand on Chakotay's arm again. "Wait," he mumbled, staggering slightly. Chakotay regarded him coldly, his eyes a deadly warning that Tom chose to ignore. "I heard you were fair, Chakotay. I heard you had a code of honor."

"Did you also hear I make idle threats?" Chakotay asked quietly.

"Let him go, Tom," Ro said, stepping in. "You made your case, now let it rest." She broke his grip and pushed him back.

Chakotay studied the other man for a long moment, then said, "You might want to listen to her, Starfleet. She knows the lay of the mine field better than you do." Then he walked away. Torres and Tuvok followed.

"Are you going to pass, too?" Tom demanded as Ro moved to join them.

"This isn't just my decision," she answered calmly.

"I thought the two of you were friends."

"We were never friends," Ro corrected. "We came to a mutual understanding."

"Are you with him or us, Laren?" Chakotay asked from three meters away.

"I'm with you," Ro answered, but her eyes stayed on Tom.

Chakotay let a beat pass, and then another. "Not to rush you," he said after a third, "but we're leaving."

Ro nodded. She held Tom's eyes a moment longer, then turned away. Chakotay waited for her to join them; then, like leopards in the jungle, they vanished, melting into the landscape of the bar as if it were their natural habitat.

Ever the outsider, Tom Riker remained conspicuously behind.

*****

"Does it matter what I think?" Ro asked quietly.

"It always matters what you think, Laren," Chakotay returned.

Sitting in council chambers, waiting for Rheger Kha's security escort to finish combing the room for potential threats, the members of Chakotay's strike team passed the time for the most part by sleeping. Slumped side by side at the end of the table, Ayala and Torres exemplified the Maquis capacity to take full advantage of every opportunity to refuel. In a rebellion where sleep was often a casualty of necessity; and exhaustion, a tool in the enemy's hands, both rebels stoked their coffers in anticipation of the unanticipatible. Similarly, Tuvok was either asleep or meditating, and six of the seven guards that would stand security for the meeting dozed at their posts.

Chakotay, himself, had been going over the Shalla Nor simulation in his head, flexing and twisting the holographic training program in search of any contingency that might come up that he had failed to adequately address. With the extensive Cardassian forces dedicated to protecting the contested outpost, even the smallest omission in training could prove fatal to the strike team assigned to take it out for the third time this year.

"I think we should help him," Ro announced.

Chakotay spared her a glance. "I know you think that," he said.

"But that's not what you're going to advise, is it?"

"No, it's not."

Ro leaned closer, lowering her voice. "He did expose the Obsidian Order's fleet," she reminded him.

"Yes. He did."

"And he's a good man. A brave man."

"A lot of good men have died in this war, Laren. A lot more will die before it's over."

"Then you've made your decision?"

"My decision was made before I ever spoke with your friend. He didn't say anything that changed my mind."

Ro frowned. "Tom Riker isn't my friend," she informed the Maquis captain a little tersely.

Chakotay's expression cornered itself with the implication of a smile. "He would be, given time."

Ro shrugged the statement off. "Is there anything I can say to change your mind?"

"Not unless you can guarantee me it's not a trap. And that even if it's not a trap, that I won't loose any of my team."

"You've never required a guarantee before."

"I've never planned a strike I didn't feel benefited the cause sufficiently to justify casualties."

Ro sighed. "Nothing in life is a guarantee," she said. "It's all risk and profit: you weigh one against the other and make your choices accordingly."

"Is that a Ferengi Rule of Acquisition," he asked, "or did you just make it up?"

"This isn't a joke, Chakotay," she snapped. "You've planned strikes on munitions caches ... on surveillance outposts. This is a man's life we're talking about. Are you saying that he isn't as important as one of twelve dozen iridium mines?"

"Shalla Nor supplies the Cardys with more than fifty percent of their iridium," Chakotay reminded her. "More than that, every time we take it out, they dedicate more troops to re-building it and then to protecting it. The drain on their patrolling manpower alone is worth the risk. The degree to which it pisses them off is pure frosting."

"A man's life," Ro insisted. "Will Riker's life."

"Riker's Starfleet," Chakotay returned quietly. "In case you haven't been keeping up, Laren, that makes him one of them."

"Will Riker's not the enemy. He saved the whole quadrant from the Borg."

"And the quadrant thanks him," Chakotay said. "When he starts taking on Cardassians, you be sure and let me know."

Ro leaned forward. "Riker may be Starfleet," she said grimly, "but like a dozen others, he's a borderline contingency for us. He's well respected, highly placed in their command hierarchy, and - most importantly - morally conscientious enough to stand up and be counted if the Maquis ever manages to get the border wars on the table as a viable issue. His sense of right and wrong is stronger than his loyalty to any given institution - he's broken regulations before because they got in the way of his moral code -and he's dealt with the Cardassians enough to see them for what they are. He could be a valuable ally if and when we try to split the Federation council at the Jellico line, but he won't be anything more than a wasted asset if we leave him to rot on some Cardy penal colony. We need him in the system, Chakotay. We need the influence he wields, the opinions he can sway."

Finally satisfied with the council chamber's integrity, the Kha's security escort retreated. Chakotay kicked Torres's chair, stirring her awake. She, in turn, woke Ayala. Tuvok opened his eyes of his own accord, and the team as a whole assumed a more formal configuration around the stone-hewn table.

"Can't consider him much of an influence if they're willing to sacrifice him on a point of politics," Chakotay noted, folding his hands on the table and adopting a specific posture he assumed only in the presence of the Kha: a deferential posture that ceded its natural authority to the only man he would consider ceding it to. "He's not our problem, Laren. If Starfleet wants him rescued, let them rescue him themselves."

"He is our problem," Ro retorted as guards posted at intervals along the walls took their cue from Chakotay's change of posture and became bastions of stoic soldierliness. "And I think he's worth risking our lives for."

The Kha's personal entourage entered the room in a rustle of feathers and fur. They fanned out, setting up a protective perimeter around the council chamber's circumference. With the keenest senses in the known galaxy and the fiercest reputation, the Avarians that made up the Kha's honor guard could smell chemical volatiles at less than one part per ten million and could hear the rush of Human blood through Human veins at fifty paces. Eyes capable of using body heat as a light source watched every move made in the large stone room that served the Maquis stronghold as council chambers.

"Then we see it differently," Chakotay told her, ending the conversation with his tone. The air in the room densified, and the smell of it changed. With the exception of the members of the Kha's honor guard, every Maquis present fell silent, averting his or her eyes in a show of respect.

Rheger Kha of Avari Prime, the founder of the Maquis movement and the Commander-in-Chief of its multi-ethnic fighting forces, stepped into council chambers. Greeted by the submissive postures of a predominance of the most dangerous men and women in the galaxy, he made his way slowly across the room.

*****

Though every member of the Maquis ruling council was present in deference to the Kha's rare presence in-chambers, they watched the proceedings from ancillary posts along the chamber walls. Because the meeting was called as a specific address of Chakotay's meeting with the Starfleet Riker and his intentions concerning the proposal of a raid on Lazon II, it was only he and his strike team who sat quietly around the circular table itself, eyes respectfully averted as Rheger Kha settled himself into place and preened his resplendent array of colorful feathers until they lay exactly as they were supposed to lay. Only when the Avarian was situated and satisfied with his appearance, did the meeting commence.

"Chakotay of Dorvan," Rheger Kha said, his strident voice clickish with consonants unfamiliar to his native tongue. "Tell you what has come to be. This Riker Tom is as he presents?"

Acknowledged by the Kha's direct inquiry, Chakotay's posture changed. Submission bled from his shoulders, deference faded from his eyes. As was the Maquis custom, he became the equal of the man he faced: a reflection of the Maquis belief that in life and in death, all men were the same. It was only in matters of custom and of war that rank held bearing.

"He seems sincere enough," Chakotay allowed, "and his story holds up in the wash. There are two Rikers on record as of 2369 - Commander William Riker of the USS Enterprise and Lieutenant Tom Riker formerly of the SS Ghandi." He indicated Ro with a subtle nod. "Ro served with Will Riker on the Enterprise and assures me that the man we met at Dead Lazlows isn't the same man who defeated the Borg. She also vouches for the transporter accident story. Though she was on Mellis Prime completing her covert operations training when the Enterprise discovered Tom Riker on Nervala IV, the incident is a matter of ship's record. She's seen the mission logs and verifies their authenticity. That doesn't leave us much room to maneuver: either we accept his story or we roast Ro as a Starfleet operative planted to feed us disinformation." He glanced at the Bajoran national. She met his gaze without the slightest indication that his comment had any effect at all. "Personally," Chakotay deadpanned, "my money's on Ro."

"Ro of Bajor is known well to us," the Kha agreed easily. "We doubt no words of her speaking."

Chakotay nodded as if the gesture was somewhat of a concession.

"I concur," he allowed, his eyes sparking with an amusement that didn't share itself with his expression or his tone. "Ro is an acceptable source of reliable intelligence."

To Chakotay's left, Ro shifted. She brushed her hair back from her face with a gesture implicit with its message for Chakotay of Dorvan. Though both Torres and Tuvok picked up on the exchange, Rheger Kha missed it, as he was intended to.

"Then this man is as claimed the imposter and Riker William is of now Lazon II?" the Kha surmised.

"Looks that way," Chakotay agreed.

"Interesting," the Kha murmured. "Interesting much. Then wish you to pursue?"

"No, I don't," Chakotay said firmly. "The man we met may not be Will Riker, but I'm still not convinced he isn't fronting another Starfleet flyby. And on the basest level, even if he is dealing straight off the top of the deck, I don't see that we have anything to gain from throwing in with his plan."

"Riker William is nothing gainful?" the Kha asked, surprised. "He is prime of Enterprise. His tactical worth singular is envious to me, and there would be great power of swaying value in his joining to us."

"That's not going to happen," Chakotay said with unequivocal certainty. "Will Riker is Starfleet to the bone. Even if we were to rescue him, he wouldn't throw in with the Maquis."

"You know this how?" Rheger Kha demanded.

"Let's just say I'm an acceptable source of reliable intelligence on the matter," Chakotay said. "Riker won't betray his oath. He won't give us tactical information, and he won't join the cause."

"Choice we will not give him," the Kha countered. "If save we his life from Lazon, then gives he in return to us, his life the cause for serving."

"He's not bound by Avarian reciprocals," Chakotay explained patiently. "His oath is to Starfleet. His loyalty is to Starfleet. He'll die before he does anything he views as treasonous, and it would do irreparable damage to the cause to be the delivering hand of such a death." Chakotay leaned forward, tensing several of the Avarian guards with his proximity to their Kha. "If we rescue him," he said firmly, "we'll have no choice but to return him to Starfleet, no strings attached. Granted it would be one hell of a PR coop, but I don't see the return outweighing the price. Even if we succeeded, it would be a dangerous raid, and most likely a costly one in terms of casualties. All other considerations aside, I can't say I'm anxious to put my people's lives on the line to mount a rescue operation for a man who's hunted us in the past and will no doubt hunt us again in the future."

"He may be Starfleet," Ro ventured quietly, "but Riker did us all a big favor in exposing the Obsidian Order's plans. He saved a lot of Maquis lives, not to mention the lives of civilians in contested territories."

Rheger Kha's quick eyes skipped to Ro. His surprise that she would speak in opposition to Chakotay was obvious.

Chakotay, on the other hand, took the challenge in stride. "Riker did what he did for his own reasons," he said, neither angry nor insulted by a dissenter among his own people. "Just because we happened to benefit as well doesn't mean we're obligated to run salvage on him."

Rheger Kha glanced around the table, noting each member of Chakotay's team. He studied Ro the longest, impressed that she would speak, impressed that Chakotay would listen.

"We have surprise for Chakotay of Dorvan," he announced finally, his piercing gaze settling back to the Maquis captain. "Thought we that he would hunt this mission much willingly. His ways of honor inconsistent to Rheger Kha seem."

"This isn't a matter of honor," Chakotay said. "And, in a practical sense, I don't see any advantage to the situation. We take all the risks but aren't in line for any of the profits."

"Profit all from Riker William's return," the Kha said.

Chakotay's expression flickered. "No," he said quietly. "I don't think we particularly profit from William Riker's repatriation. In fact, I think we very well might suffer from it in the long run." He folded his hands carefully on the table. "You, however, sound like you're in favor of it. Am I speaking to the wind on this matter?"

Rheger Kha smiled slightly. It was an odd turn of expression on his stark, Avarian features, but unmistakable nonetheless. "Chakotay of Dorvan is speaking never to the wind," he assured the Maquis captain. "You are proven well to us, and it is never of our thoughts to small walk those of proving to decisions made." He glanced around the circular chamber, meeting the eyes of the other members of the Maquis ruling council still standing their inconspicuous stances near the chamber walls. "But believe we still that Riker William profited us much," he added after a beat.

"Regrettable that he alone should be in paying. If without great cost we may bring change to this, be it would consideration worthy, think you not?"

Chakotay considered it. "I'm not convinced this kind of raid could be accomplished without substantial risk," he said finally.

"Think this also those of your command?" glanced to Ro. "Ro thinks the risk is worth taking," he allowed.

The Kha nodded. "We are of hearing such thoughts," he agreed.

Taking her cue from Chakotay's almost imperceptible nod rather than the easily mis-understood invitation of an Avarian straining the limits of his universal translator's syntax extrapolation programming, Ro said, "A small team with specific goals might be able to infiltrate cleanly. The advantage of surprise would be on our side. Given the right tools, the right intelligence, we could be in and out again before they realize we're there."

"And they wouldn't be looking for a strike that far in-territory," B'Elanna Torres added. "After Starfleet's disavowal of Riker, they won't be looking for a rescue of any kind."

Chakotay arched an eyebrow at his chief engineer. "You, too?" he asked, mildly surprised.

Torres shrugged a one-shoulder shrug. "Sounds like an interesting fight," she allowed defectively.

Chakotay sighed. He looked to Ayala, who shook off the implication that he had any thoughts at all on the matter, and then to Tuvok, the last remaining member of his own advisory council.

Unconcerned that their deliberations had stalled his conversation with the most powerful member of the Maquis, he asked, "What about you, Tuvok? Any thoughts?"

"It may be prudent to consider," Tuvok pointed out cautiously, "that Starfleet does not wish Commander Riker repatriated and would not, in all probability, be receptive to our generosity in returning him."

Torres frowned. "It's not like we'd be asking them to lend a hand, Tuvok," she pointed out. "They have nothing to lose. All they have to do is sit on their butts and wait. For them its a win-win scenario."

"I don't think that's what Tuvok's saying," Chakotay countered quietly, his eyes dark with the thought. "I think what he's saying - correct me if I'm wrong, Tuvok - is that Starfleet is satisfied with things the way they are. A rescue at this point might prove an embarrassment to them."

"An accurate assessment," Tuvok agreed. "Starfleet went to great lengths to successfully perpetrate their elaborate subterfuge. At this time, the Cardassians believe themselves to be in possession of Tom Riker, a Starfleet traitor. Any attempt on our part to alter the outcome of what Starfleet no doubt views as a successfully completed mission may well be met with considerable resistance."

"Say you that Starfleet of Federation try and stop us would?" Kha asked.

Tuvok met the Avarian's gaze directly. "If they were to view our intentions as unacceptably disruptive to their continued diplomatic accord with the Cardassian empire," he allowed, "they may well indeed take steps to preclude success in our endeavor."

Rheger Kha clicked quietly to himself. He glanced around the table, his clicks escalating in both timber and tone. "Seska of Bajor has to her Prophets passed?" he asked suddenly.

When Chakotay didn't answer, Ro stepped in. "Seska's been temporarily re-assigned," she explained, glancing sideways at Chakotay. "She'll be making the next Shalla Nor run with Jovikaan."

Rheger Kha nodded, but his attention had already shifted to Chakotay. Watching the subtle play of emotions working the Maquis captain's aquiline features, the Kha found himself in the unique position of being utterly ignored. One by one, each participant in the conversation followed the Kha's gaze. Within half a minute, they were all watching the pre-occupied rebel, but Chakotay was too captivated by his own contemplations to notice.

"Think you deep of this, Chakotay of Dorvan," the Avarian leader noted finally.

Chakotay glanced up. Realizing that the conversation had drained to him, he reacted by squaring his shoulders slightly and meeting Rheger Kha's hugely-pupilled eyes. "I have a few thoughts on it," he allowed.

"Being they?" the Kha prompted.

"Being they," Chakotay returned quietly, "that maybe I was a bit hasty in my evaluation. I can see a few advantages now that didn't occur to me earlier. As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to take a liking to the whole notion."

B'Elanna Torres leaned into the table, her Klingonoid features suddenly sharp with predatory anticipation. "What are you thinking, Chakotay?" she demanded.

"I'm thinking," he allowed, a smile creeping into his stark features and turning them with an expression markedly similar to that of his chief engineer, "that catching Starfleet with its pants down around its ankles is the best idea I've heard all millennium."

Ro leaned forward as well, Torres and Chakotay's predatory enthusiasm pulling her in like the gravity field of a red dwarf. "Exposing Riker's involvement could cause an intergalactic incident," she said. "The Cardassian Empire and the Federation could well go head-to-head over it."

"And if they go to war, the Maquis stands to inherit the benefits of an invaluable, if reluctant, ally," Chakotay finished for her. "Whether Starfleet likes it or not, we would finally be on the same side." He grinned, turning his eyes back to Rheger Kha. "I'm beginning to like the idea," he told the Avarian. "I'm beginning to like it a lot."

"Amaze you me," the Kha muttered, shaking his head. "Mind of yours is much gaming of pawn to king. Thinking we that lucky the Cause is calling the Son of Kolopak comrade. Would not I wishing to enemy of you be."

Chakotay inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the Avarian's praise. Across the table, Tuvok had no expression at all.

*****

"Oh my God," Riker whispered, his voice deep with horror and shock. "What have they done to you? What in God's name have they