Icestorm (part 7) written by Maddie Mumford

Note :
This story was originally printed in the 'We'll Always Have Paris', Vol. 2 fanzine available through Unicorn Press

Working with quick efficiency, the Kazon youth had stripped her of her medical kit, tricorder, phaser and commbadge. She stood for several moments, stunned by this sudden turn of events. She felt her hands ball into fists, clenched rigidly at her sides. How could she have been so foolish to believe Melchor. Why should she have had any reason not to? She wasn't sure which hurt more, that Melchor had betrayed them both, or that she had fallen for his duplicity and placed herself and Paris in greater danger. That they were in danger, was not in doubt. Melchor, who in one moment had been a welcome ally, had transformed suddenly into the guise of a demon. The change in his demeanor and facial expression, rattled her, deeply and thoroughly. More unsettling was the knowledge that she had suspected nothing since meeting with him at the shuttle hours before. Completely focused on rescuing Paris, she had never sensed anything but compliance from her comrade. Now all her confidence lay shattered at her feet. She had completely misread Melchor and his motives. Yes, he had wanted to help her gain access to the Kazon camp, but not to rescue Paris. He had betrayed them both and her foolishness blinded her to his true intentions.

"Why?" she asked quietly.

"Why?" Melchor laughed, a twittering cackle. "Ask Paris. He knows."

Kes glanced toward Paris. Voyager's helmsman had said nothing since Melchor had stepped into the cave. His face now wore a familiar mask, his eyes dark, his mouth a cynical grin, challenge written in every ounce of his rigidly held body.

"Ask Paris," Paris mimicked, his voice low, "and he'll tell you Melchor has finally slipped over the edge."

Melchor laughed again, loudly, a raucous belly laugh that hinted of madness.

"Over the edge. Round the bend. Fruitier than a fruitcake. Quaint phrases, but not quite true. I know exactly what I'm doing, Paris. We've all been dragged along on this joyride to the Delta Quadrant, but none of us really want to be here. Except perhaps you. We'll never get home. Not like this. Tippy-toeing from one planet to the next. Always mindful of Starfleet's rules and regulations."

"Rules and regs you've always been glad to follow." Paris cut in.

"You're a poor one to talk rules, Paris. You've always gotten away with breaking the rules."

"Not always." Paris amended quietly, but Melchor didn't appear to hear or respond.

"Rules. Starfleet rules. What have they gotten us. Trapped here by Janeway's misguided loyalty to the prime directive. We could have been home. We didn't need to protect the Ocampa homeworld. They were doomed one way or the other."

Melchor's voice had risen as he spoke, tinged with twisted rage, and misguided sense of self-righteousness. He took a deep breath and when he continued his voice was steadier, his words more frightening in their calmness than in hysteria.

"What did it get us?" he asked again. "So many dead. My good friend, Cavit. Doctor Fitzgerald. All the ones who knew the truth about you, Paris. They knew what you really were. If they'd lived, you would be spending this voyage in the brig. They knew. They might be alive if it weren't for you."

Kes knew there was little truth in Melchor's words. His thoughts were disjointed, wandering randomly from accusation to accusation. She knew quite well the power of the Caretaker and knew that he, not Paris, had caused the deaths of Melchor's friends, but that bit of knowledge would never sway Melchor. No bit of logic could sway him. He had drawn his own conclusions, created his own reality, and through the Kazon, found the power to back his madness, to give him strength.

"I always thought of myself as a loyal Starfleet officer," Melchor went on, "but after a while I began to question if my loyalty was misplaced. All I had to do was look around me, and ask who I could find on the bridge of this 'Starfleet' ship. Janeway, who trapped us here. Maquis traitors. And you. Tom Paris, loyal to none. Trusted by none. YOU had the nerve to accept a position that placed you above the rest of us. None of it made sense. Until I met Michael."

"Jonas." Kes said flatly, glancing from Melchor to Paris.

There was nothing else she could do but watch as the drama played itself out. Melchor swung from livid rage to matter of fact calmness with alarming sharpness, his words logical in their twisted way. And Paris said nothing.

"Yes, Jonas. My good friend Michael. He knew. He knew the only way to regain our rightful place was to place his loyalty and trust with Seska. He knew. But he was afraid to act."

"We know he sent transmissions to Seska on several occasions," Kes edged closer to Melchor as she spoke.

"Yes. But he wasn't working alone."

Kes stopped. "You?"

"Yes," Melchor burst. "Yes. Jonas was too timid. He had the dream, I had the will. We worked together. We were inseparable. You ended that union, Paris. Because of you and that spotted hyena, *she* calls a lover, Jonas is dead. But the dream is not crushed."

"Tom didn't kill Jonas." Kes said quietly, attempting to draw Melchor's attention away from Paris.

He spun on her, addressing her as though noticing her presence for the first time.

"Yes. Paris and Neelix, working together, accomplished that. What an unlikely pair. Who would have thought they would have ruined so neat a scheme. But now I can avenge my friends, quite possibly repair the damage *you've* done and achieve my original goal. Because I happened to be in the right place at the right time. Isn't it ironic how fate sometimes hands us the means to an end when we least expect it or plan for it. Paris thinks I'm mad. But I'm just playing with the hand fate dealt me. Taking advantage of the circumstances. The storm, the Kazon, being on this away team with you, and him. None of this was planned, but it all fits so well into my needs. I'm playing this by ear, as they say. But I do play so well."

"What are you going to do with us?" Kes asked, trying very hard to sound blandly disinterested, though her heart pounded with fear. She dared not show Melchor the slightest anxiety. Dared not reinforce his superior air.

Melchor shrugged, smiling. "At first I thought I would simply kill you. I certainly don't need you to bargain with Seska. The technology I'll be handing her and the Kazon when I hand over the shuttle, should be enough to buy me a seat on their ruling council."

"Or to get you shot."

The same taunting smirk Kes had seen in the glade more than a day ago, quirked the corners of Paris' mouth. He was baiting Melchor intentionally. And Melchor didn't take the bait. Instead he nodded.

"Probably," he agreed unexpectedly, foiling Paris' attempt to goad him. "I'm not as valuable as Federation technology. Not to Seska. But to this little gathering of Kazon, I'm so much more. You see, this is a splinter group. Belonging to no particular Maj. They have left their own kind to seek out Seska, to join her, to master Federation technology. To them, I am indispensable, because, through me, they will give Seska the one thing she craves most besides Voyager herself, and that is the Alpha quadrant's most advanced technological wizardry."

"There's still no guarantee you won't be killed," Kes persisted.

"True. And these Kazon have the same thought, but they are convinced you and Paris, are the extra they need to win Seska over."

"Convinced, by you I'm sure. Perhaps we should convince them that we would be of more value to Seska whole. Give me back my medical kit. Let me treat the Lieutenant's injuries.'

"Oh," cooed Melchor, "is it 'The Lieutenant' now? What happened to 'Tom'? You think I'm foolish enough to release him, much less let you treat him. I'm no more stupid than I am insane, Kes. Besides, a little pain never hurt anyone. Paris' has caused enough others pain. In fact, I have something different in mind, Paris. Just causing pain isn't enough. The Kazon need to be confident that they have completely subdued you, and The Golden Boy needs to be brought down a few notches."

Kes was startled to hear Paris chuckle, softly, as though in disbelief, or, she thought, as though the threat was not new to him.

"You know, Tom." Melchor placed a snide emphasis on Paris' first name. "I haven't been with these Kazon much more than a day, but in that short time I've realized they are a one dimensional race. Even more so than the Klingons. The Kazon are limited by their struggle for existence and everything about them is unimaginative, including their attitudes about dominance. They dominate their females, and they try to dominate one another, but they haven't truly begun to understand how thoroughly one male can subjugate another."

"What are you getting at Melchor?"

Beneath the outward belligerence of his tone, Kes could hear the tiredness in Paris' voice, see it in the drawn whiteness of his face, and in the slump of his shoulders. He was not beaten, but he was loosing the need to resist, slipping into the passivity of simply not caring, as though he were anxious to get on with whatever Melchor had planned and be done with it.

"To put it simply, I've convinced them that, in order to impress Seska, they must be more Cardassian than she is and that a truly powerful Cardassian male must dominate, totally, all other males. That controlling a male is the ultimate authority. I've also convinced them that you are a very well ranked Human, in the Cardassian sense. Possessing you, forcing you to submit totally to their will, then offering you to her, will in turn, give them great power and credence in any dealings with Seska."

Melchor seemed to come alive as he spoke, pacing the confines of the small cave, his hands a manic comedy of gestures manipulating the air to emphasize his words. In the soft light of the torch, his hands sent grotesque shadows dancing across the darkness in a macabre waltz as threatening as his words. He laughed softly, an eerie cackle, and Kes began to believe, for the first time, that he was truly deranged. He believed what he was saying even though the reasoning was hopelessly flawed.

"I've even made up a ritual of sorts. A rite of passage. Its funny how easily they can be convinced, how eagerly they accept this fantasy, how desperate they are to have an 'in' with Seska. They've decided that tomorrow, they will each force you to submit to them. It seems to have become quite the challenge."

"Submit?" Kes said. She knew how naive the question sounded. She also knew full well what Melchor was threatening. "Merritt, you can't do that. Tom has done nothing to harm you. You know none of this will mean anything to Seska."

Melchor laughed, louder, a frightening sound that twisted like a claw in Kes' heart.

"You're right. It won't mean anything to *her*. But they don't know that, and, maybe, it will mean something to me."

His eyes glittered from the shadows, and she could hear the rasp of his breathing, elevated by anticipation.

"Kes, don't." Paris voice was low, but the command was undeniable.

"Yes, Kes, don't interfere," Melchor mimicked Paris voice. "Your turn will come. But for tomorrow, Tom Paris will be center stage, and I will watch, as will you. And if he doesn't perform to my satisfaction, *you* will take his place."