comfortable than the bed had. Deprived of even such harmless illusions, Paris finally had to admit that he couldn’t sleep because he was nervous, and uncertain, and desperate to impress somebody, anybody, on this mission.
And now this.
Kim was the first to look up from the little coffee klatch, and the only one with the grace to look embarrassed. Cavit and Fitzgerald didn’t even bother to avert their eyes when Paris looked directly at them, as though they had a right to be here talking about him and he wasn’t even fit to breathe the same air.
Painfully aware that they were probably right, Paris made his way to the bank of food replicators even though he didn’t feel very hungry anymore.
“Tomato soup.”
The machine whirred to itself for a moment, but no food appeared on its open pad. “There are fourteen varieties of tomato soup available from this replicator,” a polite female voice informed him. “With rice.
With vegetables. Bolian-style—” “Plain.” He was a purist.
“Specify hot or chilled.”
Paris thumped his forehead against the wall and contemplated the likelihood of even the computers on board this ship conspiring against him as a worthless example of the species that created them. “Hot,” he said with some vehemence. “Hot, plain tomato soup.” It seemed nothing in his life was ever as easy as it ought to be.
By the time the replicator had worked out all the refinements and produced a single bowl of plain tomato soup, Cavit and Fitzgerald were gone and Paris was left with the too-hot bowl in both hands, staring across the room at Kim as the ensign suddenly found himself both fascinated by and utterly disinterested in his food.
Paris tried not to be angry with the kid. Hey, he told himself, you knew it couldn’t last. And yet, just as he’d hoped Janeway really meant to give him a second chance on board Voyager, he’d also hoped his past would leave him be long enough to choose his own direction for a change. I guess even warp 9.9 isn’t fast enough for that.
He slipped into the seat across from Kim and ducked forward a little to catch the younger man’s eye when Kim wouldn’t look up from his food.
“There, you see?” Paris said, trotting out his best carefree smile to try and drive away the discomfort between them. “I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Kim stared at his tray a moment longer, then seemed to make some powerful decision and lifted his eyes to meet Paris’s smile with grim sincerity. “Is it true?”
I don’t know “true” anymore, he wanted to say, but heard his mouth answer, “Was the accident my fault? Yes. Pilot error.
But it took me a while to admit it.” What little bravery he possessed failed him, and he found himself studying the surface of his soup just to have somewhere else to look. It looked more orange than red, and smelled vaguely like ginger. “Fourteen varieties, and they can’t even get plain tomato soup right. …”
“They said you falsified reports. …”
Paris nudged his not-quite-soup with a spoon. “That’s right.”
Kim set his own utensils down to lean across the table. “Why?”
As if the idea would never even occur to him—as if he couldn’t even imagine a situation where doing something so stupid would seem like an acceptable idea.
“What’s the difference?” Paris said, feeling stupid now for expecting anyone as squeaky-clean as Kim to understand. “I lied.”
“But then you came forward,” Kim persisted, “and admitted it was your fault.”
Paris looked up at him and shrugged. It was the most honest thing he could think to do, and even so it didn’t mean much.
“I’ll tell you the truth, Harry,” he sighed, pushing his soup aside.
“All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, and I was home free But I couldn’t. The ghosts of those three dead officers came to me in the middle of the night and taught me the true meaning of Christmas. …”
Suddenly embarrassed by his own confession, he
And now this.
Kim was the first to look up from the little coffee klatch, and the only one with the grace to look embarrassed. Cavit and Fitzgerald didn’t even bother to avert their eyes when Paris looked directly at them, as though they had a right to be here talking about him and he wasn’t even fit to breathe the same air.
Painfully aware that they were probably right, Paris made his way to the bank of food replicators even though he didn’t feel very hungry anymore.
“Tomato soup.”
The machine whirred to itself for a moment, but no food appeared on its open pad. “There are fourteen varieties of tomato soup available from this replicator,” a polite female voice informed him. “With rice.
With vegetables. Bolian-style—” “Plain.” He was a purist.
“Specify hot or chilled.”
Paris thumped his forehead against the wall and contemplated the likelihood of even the computers on board this ship conspiring against him as a worthless example of the species that created them. “Hot,” he said with some vehemence. “Hot, plain tomato soup.” It seemed nothing in his life was ever as easy as it ought to be.
By the time the replicator had worked out all the refinements and produced a single bowl of plain tomato soup, Cavit and Fitzgerald were gone and Paris was left with the too-hot bowl in both hands, staring across the room at Kim as the ensign suddenly found himself both fascinated by and utterly disinterested in his food.
Paris tried not to be angry with the kid. Hey, he told himself, you knew it couldn’t last. And yet, just as he’d hoped Janeway really meant to give him a second chance on board Voyager, he’d also hoped his past would leave him be long enough to choose his own direction for a change. I guess even warp 9.9 isn’t fast enough for that.
He slipped into the seat across from Kim and ducked forward a little to catch the younger man’s eye when Kim wouldn’t look up from his food.
“There, you see?” Paris said, trotting out his best carefree smile to try and drive away the discomfort between them. “I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Kim stared at his tray a moment longer, then seemed to make some powerful decision and lifted his eyes to meet Paris’s smile with grim sincerity. “Is it true?”
I don’t know “true” anymore, he wanted to say, but heard his mouth answer, “Was the accident my fault? Yes. Pilot error.
But it took me a while to admit it.” What little bravery he possessed failed him, and he found himself studying the surface of his soup just to have somewhere else to look. It looked more orange than red, and smelled vaguely like ginger. “Fourteen varieties, and they can’t even get plain tomato soup right. …”
“They said you falsified reports. …”
Paris nudged his not-quite-soup with a spoon. “That’s right.”
Kim set his own utensils down to lean across the table. “Why?”
As if the idea would never even occur to him—as if he couldn’t even imagine a situation where doing something so stupid would seem like an acceptable idea.
“What’s the difference?” Paris said, feeling stupid now for expecting anyone as squeaky-clean as Kim to understand. “I lied.”
“But then you came forward,” Kim persisted, “and admitted it was your fault.”
Paris looked up at him and shrugged. It was the most honest thing he could think to do, and even so it didn’t mean much.
“I’ll tell you the truth, Harry,” he sighed, pushing his soup aside.
“All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, and I was home free But I couldn’t. The ghosts of those three dead officers came to me in the middle of the night and taught me the true meaning of Christmas. …”
Suddenly embarrassed by his own confession, he
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