waved the worst of it away. “So I confessed,” he finished, somewhat lamely. “Worst mistake I ever made. But not the last. After they cashiered me out of Starfleet, I went out looking for a fight, and I found the Maquis.
…” He snorted at the memory. “And on my first assignment, I was caught.”
Kim played with his own food for a while, his dark eyes thoughtful.
“Must have been especially tough for you,” he said at last, then added, “Being the son of an admiral.”
Without wanting to, Paris pictured his father the way he’d looked toward the end of the hearing, and couldn’t help wondering why he seemed to have no memories of his father from any happier times.
“Frankly, I think it was tougher on my father than it was on me.”
Standing, he picked up his useless soup and carried it back to the replicator to throw it out. Why should soup get more credit for being what it wasn’t than he did?
“Look,” he told Kim as he slid the bowl into the slot, “I know those guys told you to stay away from me.” He looked over his shoulder.
“And you know what? You ought to listen to them. I’m not exactly a good-luck charm.”
Kim shook his head, a frown settling in between his eyes. “I don’t need anyone to choose my friends for me.” And he smiled, as though proud of his decision.
Paris laughed to himself and rubbed at his eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to have some help, he thought. Especially if your choice in friends doesn’t get any better than me. But before he could make himself say as much out loud, his comm badge chirped and made him jump. He hadn’t realized until then how long it had been since he’d lived with that sound.
“Janeway to Paris.”
Paris tapped his badge, liking the feel of being part of a network again. “Go ahead.”
“Report to the bridge,” Janeway told him. “We’re approaching the Badlands.”
Paris recognized the Badlands the minute he stepped onto the bridge.
Not the configuration of the stars and nebulae so much as the ribbons and flashes of plasma anger lashing and flaring against that blackness like so much wildfire. It had given him a chill in the pit of his stomach when he’d first piloted into the mess with Chakotay, no matter how smug the big Indian sounded when he promised that no Maquis ship had been torn apart by the storms—at least not recently. Then, Paris had consoled himself with the knowledge that Starfleet didn’t have any ships both small enough and weaponed enough to come after the Maquis while they were inside the Badlands protection. Now, standing on the bridge of the very ship built to terrier them out, he felt foolish for that earlier confidence, and worried that his current feelings of safety were just as poorly founded.
Janeway glanced up from the tactical station at the whoosh of the opening doors, her face the same mask of welded neutrality it had been since Paris first laid eyes on her in Auckland. He had to give her credit for that—it was pretty clear she didn’t like him, but at least she didn’t feel the need to broadcast her opinion to the rest of the crew. Unlike Cavit, who moved only grudgingly away from the captain’s shoulder to give Paris access to the console when Janeway waved him over.
And good morning to you, too, Mr. Cavit, Paris thought at him with what he knew was an annoying cordial grin. The first officer must be setting some kind of personal record today for making a pest of himself on someone else’s time.
“The Cardassians gave us the last known heading of the Maquis ship.”
Janeway gathered Paris’s attention by reaching over the security officer’s shoulder to tap at one of his tactical displays. Whether she was oblivious of Cavit’s silent harassment or simply choosing to ignore it, Paris couldn’t tell “And we have charts of the plasma-storm activity the day it disappeared. With a little help, we might be able to approximate its course.”
Following her lead—whatever it was—Paris
…” He snorted at the memory. “And on my first assignment, I was caught.”
Kim played with his own food for a while, his dark eyes thoughtful.
“Must have been especially tough for you,” he said at last, then added, “Being the son of an admiral.”
Without wanting to, Paris pictured his father the way he’d looked toward the end of the hearing, and couldn’t help wondering why he seemed to have no memories of his father from any happier times.
“Frankly, I think it was tougher on my father than it was on me.”
Standing, he picked up his useless soup and carried it back to the replicator to throw it out. Why should soup get more credit for being what it wasn’t than he did?
“Look,” he told Kim as he slid the bowl into the slot, “I know those guys told you to stay away from me.” He looked over his shoulder.
“And you know what? You ought to listen to them. I’m not exactly a good-luck charm.”
Kim shook his head, a frown settling in between his eyes. “I don’t need anyone to choose my friends for me.” And he smiled, as though proud of his decision.
Paris laughed to himself and rubbed at his eyes. It wouldn’t hurt to have some help, he thought. Especially if your choice in friends doesn’t get any better than me. But before he could make himself say as much out loud, his comm badge chirped and made him jump. He hadn’t realized until then how long it had been since he’d lived with that sound.
“Janeway to Paris.”
Paris tapped his badge, liking the feel of being part of a network again. “Go ahead.”
“Report to the bridge,” Janeway told him. “We’re approaching the Badlands.”
Paris recognized the Badlands the minute he stepped onto the bridge.
Not the configuration of the stars and nebulae so much as the ribbons and flashes of plasma anger lashing and flaring against that blackness like so much wildfire. It had given him a chill in the pit of his stomach when he’d first piloted into the mess with Chakotay, no matter how smug the big Indian sounded when he promised that no Maquis ship had been torn apart by the storms—at least not recently. Then, Paris had consoled himself with the knowledge that Starfleet didn’t have any ships both small enough and weaponed enough to come after the Maquis while they were inside the Badlands protection. Now, standing on the bridge of the very ship built to terrier them out, he felt foolish for that earlier confidence, and worried that his current feelings of safety were just as poorly founded.
Janeway glanced up from the tactical station at the whoosh of the opening doors, her face the same mask of welded neutrality it had been since Paris first laid eyes on her in Auckland. He had to give her credit for that—it was pretty clear she didn’t like him, but at least she didn’t feel the need to broadcast her opinion to the rest of the crew. Unlike Cavit, who moved only grudgingly away from the captain’s shoulder to give Paris access to the console when Janeway waved him over.
And good morning to you, too, Mr. Cavit, Paris thought at him with what he knew was an annoying cordial grin. The first officer must be setting some kind of personal record today for making a pest of himself on someone else’s time.
“The Cardassians gave us the last known heading of the Maquis ship.”
Janeway gathered Paris’s attention by reaching over the security officer’s shoulder to tap at one of his tactical displays. Whether she was oblivious of Cavit’s silent harassment or simply choosing to ignore it, Paris couldn’t tell “And we have charts of the plasma-storm activity the day it disappeared. With a little help, we might be able to approximate its course.”
Following her lead—whatever it was—Paris
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