Title: Guerdon.
Part: II. Orientation. How he got all he got.
Author: D'Alaire M.
II. Orientation
Dark and quiet, save his own breathing and a small spotlight to keep him from squinting at his reading, the room held a heavy silence that he had somehow grown accustomed to. Only sometimes did that strike him as strange. He once was social, liked to be among the throng, making himself an object of attention in one way or another. He liked music, diversions.
He couldn't tell when that had changed. Maybe it was when he finally accepted being on a freighter with only five other people, plus the part-timers when they had them. Maybe when he stopped counting the long hours he worked, when he started making repairs alongside everyone else without need for levity or distraction; when he made deals wherever he could, found the bar eventually and usually had to be transported back from wherever he ended up after that. At some point in the past couple years, he'd stopped craving the light.
Maybe he was just tired of the show. Maybe he was just tired, period.
It wasn't that comfortable, but he'd somehow adopted the oddly shaped chair that faced the viewport. His legs were a little too long for the seat. Bolians were generally a little shorter than humans were. It was a little too hard, but Bolians also had more natural cushioning, too.
I could stand to put on a few kilos, Tom reminded himself, seeing too well the veins in his hand as it lifted the tumbler from the table. Pulling a full swallow, drawing a slow breath after it, he knew there were a lot of things he could stand to do if he felt like those things were more worth what was already going on in his life.
He wasn't doing nearly as badly as he could, he knew, though it wasn't much.
He blinked, shook his head at his thoughts, set aside the PADD with their updated inventory on it aside for another. The oblong datapad clicked to life a moment later and he let his eyes fall down the lengthy list. He'd seen it probably a thousand times before: The inventory of needed materials, parts and upgrades--a wish list of sorts that he'd been collecting since he got there.
Every time he knew they would be coming upon some money, he tried to pick up something he could afford--or try to deal for things they couldn't. It was a piecemeal job, and the ship would always be a twenty-something year old b-grade freighter with a long reputation, but it was something he could look forward to.
Much as he tried not to, he could still remember times when he didn't have to make such lists.
He remembered the day he left to transport up to the Copernicus. He'd forgotten all about his "officer's posture" and played on the Headquarters lawn with his friends, full of himself and his assured fortune in his second run with the science vessel. He was already slotted for a promotion to lieutenant and chief conn officer, and he'd already secured his place as squadron leader at the Caldik Prime starbase. It was the best he could have wished for in a Starfleet career. His father would leave him alone about his lackadaisical sense of ambition, and he'd meanwhile be doing what he enjoyed. It was all set.
Three months later, it all came apart.
Not two years after running around like a kid on his virtual backyard, his bright eyes had dimmed, his fortune was null and void, and he dropped his duffel on a Minjau drydock to behold what was before him: His ship...such as it was. Staring up at the boxy freighter, he still didn't understand how he'd managed himself into that situation. Pieces of the night before were starting to come back to him, though, despite his lack of effort. What met him was hardly surprising, considering.
He had been drinking, naturally, which made retrospect a tricky thing at best. He did recall the hot, dark corner of the rag-tag station, which sat on an otherwise misused ball of crabgrass called Minjau--a popular station on the route because it was in Federation space but still ignored by Starfleet and a happy nine light years from the Cardassian border, a little farther out than other stations. Tom had been unceremoniously dumped there when his hire was up and the ship's regular pilot was finally released from the brig there.
Getting back the devil they knew, Tom figured. He found the unofficial business end of the station only ten minutes after registering on the "for hire" logs with the station manager and got his drink about two minutes after that. He came to know the lounge better than the meager bunkroom he'd rented during his time at the station. But then, he didn't have much with him, and he wasn't much for sleeping.
Despite its being the most popular place there most nights, the lounge was just big enough for a bar, a couple rows of bistro tables and, of course, dabo. He recalled the properly over-proportioned and skillfully underdressed female at the wheel, her happy cry and the hearty whirr when she spun the wheel. He also remembered giving her a wink and slipping her a nice tip before the night's round began.
The gesture wasn't as much for her personally, however. His sense with money wasn't really trained from birth; being buzzed on top of that, he simply turned a few slips of latinum her way without actually asking what he owed. Downing another gulp of the noxious ale he'd been enjoying that week, he felt a crawl upon his slightly sticky skin that centered to his spine and then his head, swirling there...
It tasted like poison, but it did the job rather well--just the way he wanted.
How the night turned into a job interview with an equally drunk and thrice as old Bolian was a little less distinct--though Tom could guess that the stocky, bad-tempered Bolian captain had probably bullied a few bets in his life. The old man swooped in after the swerving pilot had boasted about one of the "famous" maneuvers in his resume--though not as much for any potential employers in earshot, but because the drink really had made him stupid.
The Bolian seemed interested enough despite the swagger and doubtless exaggeration.
"Think you're a hot target, Feddie boy," the old man taunted. "How about a friendly wager between friends with nothing to lose, then?"
"Find me a couple friends in this hellhole and maybe I'll consider it," Tom replied, not glancing over at the man a second time. Rather, he'd tried not to look at him. The Bolian wore an expression that picked at his nerves; something the very former Starfleet officer didn't need help with. The stocky old man wanted something.
"Yeah, when I came in," the Bolian sneered. "I got the impression you had more dick than balls."
"I'm not selling either."
Snorting to himself, the older man laid a portion of latinum on the table. "I'm after someone who's able to fly. You're after a job, right?"
"You could say that."
"I just did, Feddie boy."
Peering his way again, Tom shook his head. "Just what I wanted, another opportunity to fly around an asshole. Biggest commodity around here." Tom took another drink, let his head roll a little with the rush of the liquor and the cheers of the onlookers, who neared at the whiff of a rivalry. With half-dead senses, it was somehow even more worth the trouble he'd likely get into if he didn't win a couple rounds.
"Say it like you care, Feddie."
"The name's Paris," he muttered and met the ante, dropping his credits on the table. "Call it."
He did, and Tom returned his own bet. The dabo wheel spun.
Some people gathered behind the captain to watch the action, but the pilot didn't share the same interest, even with his so-called money and maybe even a job on the line. Rather, he was increasingly bothered by the feeling of his clothes, damp and heavy against his prickly skin. He pulled at his sleeves and collar in a futile attempt to relieve the feeling, arched his back uselessly only to note he smelled like he'd spent the last month in a mine.
"Dabo!"
"Bastard!"
Realizing a moment after the fact that he'd somehow won the round, Tom coughed a laugh and pulled his doubled worth towards his end of the table. Maybe there was something to be had in tipping the hand at the wheel.
"Place your bets, gentlemen."
Tom did just that and the captain followed suit. As the wheel's whirr filled the lounge, he found his stare starting to lock on the old Bolian's steely one.
"You think you can manage a freighter?" the captain asked, ignoring the wheel for the moment.
"I've survived worse," Tom answered blandly. It was a stupid question. "What the contract?"
"One year term with shares."
"Dabo!"
"Damn!"
The shrill cheers from a growing crowd echoed as the captain growled and scratched in his pockets, offering up another cube, another strip, as others wagered around the table.
"Half-year term," the pilot said, then added to the table. "Double down."
The captain shrugged. "Fine. Whatever you want."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Sound pretty desperate."
"I wouldn't be here soliciting a slob if I didn't need what I'm asking for."
Tom pushed his winnings back into the pot--taking back a few strips, just in case.
He wasn't all that inebriated--yet. Then he wondered why he wasn't.
They placed their bets. The wheel spun. The pilot slugged down the last in his mug and waved an arm behind him for another before looking at his new employer.
"When do you need me?"
"I'll send my tech for you tomorrow morning. He'll take care of your papers."
"Afternoon," Tom told him. "I sleep in."
"Very well," the captain grinned.
"Dabo!"
Tom barely caught the dabo girl's returning wink as the Bolian took back a large share of his previous losses. He slid a meager two strips of latinum into the ante. Tom watched in a pleasant sort of dizziness as the wheel spun...
"Dabo!"
Tom pulled four back.
"So what's your answer?" the captain sneered, his hard eyes pinned on Paris.
The pilot blinked wearily, though a sloppy grin creased his sweat-flushed face to see the old man patting the flattened openings in his coat. "Guess it's nothing or nothing now?"
"Watch it, Feddie--"
Tom's hand shot out for the other man's collar and he ripped the old man up close to his face. "I told you before, the name's Paris," he told him, dangerously quiet as the room suddenly became. Seeing in the corner of his eye the curious stares around them, he released his grip. "You want a pilot, you'd better remember that."
The Bolian grinned. "Paris, then," he said, mocking sincerity as best he could, then shaking off Tom's grip. "How about one more round?"
Tom snorted, barely glancing at the ante. If he knew what it was at the time, he wouldn't remember later that he did. "Yeah, fine," he chuckled, swallowing the aftertaste of his drink behind it.
"Triple over, Nija."
"Your choice, Trusket," she smiled back at him.
"You're nuts," Tom muttered.
"No worse than you." He fished into his pocket for a small credit PADD and a loop of data chips. "All for nothing...Feddie boy?"
The pilot growled and gave the girl at the wheel a nod. "He's got a bet."
The wheel whined into its final spin, and it seemed like half the station had crammed into that dank corner, throwing wagers and latinum across and around the table in a fashion only a Ferengi could adore. Tom drew up his mug and took five concerted swallows.
"Oh God," he groaned, feeling that wash into his head--and rise in his throat. He could smell the sickened backwash already...
"Dabo!" cried the crowd, and the pilot felt a few hands shaking him by the shoulders with congratulations. He forced the ale to stay down, feeling it swoosh around in his belly, feeling his eyes roll back and his body numb...
"Karjinko, Trusket," the Nija mewed with a saccharine smile. "Payoff time. All bets are honored at this table--though you can take your own chances later." "Take it!" the old man barked, shoving his losses into the younger pilot's jacket pockets even as he swapped the money. "Paid in full!"
He'd spat the capitulation, but didn't seem too bothered by it as he filled his waist pouch and emptied his glass in a single swallow. Then he turned his stared back over at the swaying pilot. "Enjoy your ride, Paris."
With that, he jerked on his coat and pushed through the crowd.
Tom hardly registered it. He was still trying to figure out what in the world he'd won in place of his money, why the dabo girl's laugh was suddenly so annoying and how the hell he'd get back to his bunk that night. In the end, he didn't remember anything past stumbling away with his PADD and chips in an honest attempt to transport himself, and the view of the corridor deck from between his outstretched hands. How he got back to his bunk would remain a mystery, too.
What he did recall with painful clarity was a husky man about ten years his senior greeting his morning with a throaty laugh that was about sixty decibels too loud.
"Kid's alive after all! --Up, Paris! Time to collect and get us the hell out of here."
Tom's eyes opened only enough to note that at that angle, the bear of a human looming above was somewhat frightening. Dark-skinned, bald and packed into an enormous pair of coveralls, his shoulders appeared twice the breadth of Tom's own. One of his hands might have plucked the pilot from the floor by his head.
Turning, Tom saw a tall but slight Bajoran with blonde hair and arched eyebrows. The dark eyes beneath them narrowed into slits as she examined the groggy man still mostly under his blanket.
"We're dead, you know," she stated.
"No deadder than we were with Trusket," the man returned. "Besides, this is a Starfleet boy we've got, though he doesn't look like much yet."
"Yes, but there's probably a good reason why he's not in Starfleet now," she pointed out. "We don't know anything about him."
"We didn't know much about Trusket, either, when we signed on."
"Mm hmm. And look what happened--took the ship's repair money, his own and this idiot drunk's too. He's retiring in style somewhere and we're stuck with worse than we ever had."
"Well he's already gone, Hana," he sighed, "so there's not much we can do now. Anyway, I've got a good feeling about this one."
A moment of silence, then, "You'd better."
With that, the pilot felt the man's large hand on his shoulder, peeling him up from the sweat-soaked sheets. Tom groaned aloud and screwed his eyes shut. "Look," he croaked, "you can have it, okay? Take it and go. Just let me sleep."
"Don't know as much about navigating as your resume says you do, kid," the man grinned. "Besides, you said yourself you needed work. Well, we have that, and it comes with a profit for the one who knows how to get around."
That got Tom's attention.
The large man noticed it. "Sorry, but Trusket won you the deed on his freighter," he told him, "and we're needing that deal to go through. You'll be doing us all--and yourself--a favor by getting up and getting what is yours. Considering the dust Trusket left behind getting out of here this morning, you've got no chance for a rematch."
Tom shook his head, breathing a laugh without feeling it--but feeling his head start to pound behind his eyes with the continued threat of waking up. "This can't be happening."
"It's real enough, kid. Now, come on. What do you have to lose?"
"Good question," Tom whispered as his eyes focused again. Though, for a moment, he couldn't help but think it might be wiser not to collect, considering that the "lucky winner" wasn't in enough shape to walk, much less fly.
Pilot's ego or no, Tom did know when he wasn't capable of simple functions. For the past seven months, since arriving in that part of space, in fact, he'd been wandering into and out of one-leg jobs, from spaceport to trade station, drunk more than sober and...well, not much of anything, really. For the same amount of time, and though he'd been soliciting that work, he hadn't been anywhere near his capacity as a pilot.
He did need the money, though, especially after giving that dabo girl way too big a tip after a week of binging in an open bar...
"Fine," he muttered, daring another glance at the unmoved Bajoran woman. "I'll give it a shot."
"It's all we ask," the man smiled and clapped the pilot's shoulder with a seemingly sadistic enthusiasm. "Hana, go take care of his contracts and bills--we'll dock it from his share later--and I'll shove him into the shower. --Just a little alliteration, Paris. But you really do reek of that nasty Mizarian ale. How'd you drink that slime, anyway?"
"Can't taste it after the first sip," Tom replied, a little gamer without the woman's glare tearing holes into his side.
The man snorted, nodded and helped his new friend up from the bunk. "I'll see about getting you something to detox it. And cheer up! Your luck's not that bad--just that you don't know it yet."
"Yeah, that makes it better."
"The devil's advocate that just walked out is my wife, believe it or not, Maryl Hana. My name's Eldridge McCauley--but everyone calls me Ridge. We've been with Trusket for three years--and though Hana doesn't show it, trust me, we're all glad he's finally spending our shares elsewhere."
Nodding absently, Tom eyed the passageway to the bathroom and an awaiting shower. The thought of sloughing off the layer of slime from his day-after body was actually looking more and more worth standing up. Getting off that station had always been the plan, too, as was a job.
Finally bringing himself out into the painful sunshine of that station's drydocks, however, and coming around the corner to squint at his "prize," Tom knew exactly why he'd "won." That crusty, old Bolian just wanted to get rid of the damned thing, and the crew left in a lurch by that outbound captain was plainly desperate for someone, anyone, who could keep it moving.
Still, having nothing else to do just then--though for no more reason than that--Tom shrugged, picked up his duffel and walked up the cargo ramp after Ridge.
Tom poured another glass, still pondering his list. Since the moment he first saw the Guerdon, he knew what it needed--a complete rebuild, if it was worth it at all. Still, not all of it was bad; with a little extra attention, some of the systems had improved nicely. When it managed its potential velocity, however, flying that collection of odd angles was like swimming in lard--nothing like the swift fighters he still missed when he felt like torturing himself and let himself remember how it was all in his hands once.
He wondered more often than not why he bothered keeping the list--adding to it. Maybe it was some twisted remnant of the optimism he wanted for but didn't dare put too much stock in to save his disappointment.
"You can give up whenever you want--but don't do it at our expense."
Tom could hear Maryl's snarl so clearly, see her fury-stained face as she pulled together their few remaining supplies into the deck four bay.
"I never asked for this," he shot back, not bothering to help the Bajoran move the cases, "and I never wanted it, either. Find someone to replace me and trust me, I'll go."
He hadn't lied about that. Worse than how he had been tricked so easily, he'd never asked to be responsible for people again. Unfortunately, he did everything to show them why once he realized what that crew needed--a captain, a leader, especially in the sense of representing their interests, on top of flying the ship.
He still felt the lurch in his heart when he remembered what he'd done to them.
When he first walked on board, and even though they all knew that Trusket had robbed and abandoned them, they gave him a long look and didn't ask him any questions. They just went back to business as if it was all understood.
"Oh no," Tom said immediately when he saw the seat he was to take: The main couch with the swing-arm control board, dead center in the bridge, slightly elevated. He knew Bolian layouts. It was the captain's chair. "This is not what I dealt for."
"How the hell would you know?" Maryl snapped. "I just paid your bills--out of our pockets--you worthless ass. The least you can do is pretend while we complete our deals. You can even have a relaxing drink while we underlings work. You don't have to do a damn thing--and it'd probably be better if you didn't."
Her sarcasm stiffened him, but considering the rest of what she'd said, he managed to take a breath and step up to the helm. Without a doubt, he knew how to pretend.
There was no way he was willing to captain a freighter, however. Ridge had convinced him in the bunkroom that he had nothing to lose by taking the ownership and being the pilot, but learning he would actually be in command--even in a figurehead capacity--of that piece of junk was too much, both a responsibility and a dead end he just couldn't, wouldn't, walk into. As he inspected the ship's rusty, outdated systems, the more he knew it. Everything he'd known about the trade circuit reinforced the urge to make his escape as soon as he got a few assignments and enough share money for transport elsewhere.
Sold on that plan, he steered them to the next station without a word, then spent the bulk of his time at Dirud station asking questions about opportunities, advertising as usual and looking for another pilot stupid, drunk or desperate enough to fill in for him. Not surprisingly, they weren't forthcoming. He must have been the only pilot on that side of the Federation who hadn't heard of the Guerdon. No one would touch it.
During that time, he shared a few drinks with another pilot he'd met when he first arrived on the border, a Corian named Limar, who'd helped him find his first assignment. As they grazed through their recent histories and news of the day, Tom meanwhile learned a little more about "his" ship's reputation.
"Trusket?" Limar snorted. "A pain in the ass we're all glad to see off the circuit. He's managed to make an enemy of half the unaffiliated traders and most of the syndicates with his backhanded deals and under the table so-called agreements. Cheap old bastard probably spent only a fifth of his net profit on his crew and that ship--which kept them on and kept them going, but it wasn't near to democratic, if you know what I mean."
"It shows--in more ways than one."
"That mechanic of yours, Livich? --Yeah, she's not much help. She and Trusket didn't argue about all things commercial. I'd unload her when you can. Just a thought." Limar swirled his drink in the glass, waving off the waiter with his other hand. "Anyway, word has it that Trusket bought into a small colony five light years away from Bolarus, a part shared with the rest of his greedy little clan."
Tom bit his lip, pulled it loose then downed his drink.
"So I guess he took you for a ride, too," Limar smirked, "and netted himself a cozy retirement package in the bargain. A last hoorah after thirty years of pissing people off, off to sip drinks on the beach."
"Thanks for the clarification."
"Hey, nothing out of the ordinary, here, Paris. Just all the more obvious when you're the one who's gotten taken." The other man eyed him. "So, what're your plans if you can't break out of the contract?"
Tom shrugged. "Guess we're off for Podala next, then taking the back circle to Velir-Prime, following up on a few deals. That's not my job, though."
"Going for taresium this route?"
Tom shook his head, pouring another glass for himself and topping off his companion's. "Pre-mined salicite ore."
"Why the hell are you guys wasting your time on salicite? Nobody buys that radioactive crap."
"We have the facilities to transport it, amazingly enough. Trusket used to trade heavily in it during the border wars, so the Guerdon's got three ready bays. In any case, some freelance geologists are building a small science station outside the Betreka Nebula, so I guess they need the resistant hull shell. In any case, we'll be picking up the salicite on the way around the Kalandra-Bajor route, then back to Ulinas."
"That's a long trip in a mid-warp freighter."
"Got nothing better to do."
The other man nodded with a snort. "You can say it, Paris--it's boring as a Vulcan symposium. But it does pay the bills." He shrugged. "Maybe you'll get a vacation at the end of it all. Ulinas has a good share of well-off scientists and it's got some nice resorts." For the first time in a while, Tom smiled. "Yeah, they do. That's something to look forward to. Thanks."
"I almost wish we weren't heading the other way." Limar leaned back in his chair. "Captain...and your own ship. That's a change for you--though it can't be all bad. I'm surprised you're not feeling it."
"Barely," Tom replied with a laugh he didn't feel. "This ship needs a hell of a lot more than it'll ever afford. It's not that much of a prize...unless *you* want it."
"Ha! I'm not that drunk yet, Paris." Tom shook the bottle towards him and he laughed again. "--And I won't be that drunk tonight." Shaking his head, he leaned a little closer. "Come on, Paris. You've got a crew that'll do the work; all you have to do is steer and speak for them. That's not a bad way to get by, even if it is a relic."
"Well, that's not really what I was looking for, Limar." Tom pulled his stare up to meet the other man's, though doing so was getting a little tough. "You know about anything?"
"Nope," he said. "But I'll contact you if I hear." Glancing across at a chronometer, Limar grabbed his drink and finished it in a few swallows. He then stood up and gave Tom shoulder a firm pat, grinning. "Gotta run for inspection," he said apologetically. "Good luck, Paris. --And enjoy Ulinas."
Tom nodded and continued to nurse his drink.
The next morning, he barely remembered the conversation. He pulled himself from his bunk, got dressed and dragged himself up to the bridge, stopping en route to get a cup of coffee from a twitching replicator in what they with great charity called a lounge. Swallowing the hot, black liquid as quickly as he could to give his system a shock, he sat down at the conn and started checking out their route, all without a word to anyone save a groggy hello to Ridge in passing.
Three days later and arriving on the bridge in the same fashion, Tom steered them towards the Podala trade station and opened a channel to get docking instructions. Glancing up from his monitor, Tom was instantly uninterested. Just another space dock that he barely recalled passing through before.
The station manager's ridged brow drew up when Maryl transmitted their materials list to him. "Well, there's none of that here--none left since two days ago."
"Damn," she muttered, looking at Savan. "The Ulinian scientists must have shared out the deal."
"It appears so." Savan tapped calmly into the pads at her station. "We should dock, however, for supplies."
Haggling for a while on the station itself, Maryl managed to deal to transport a large stock of Risan berry wine instead, which was not very lucrative, but would be enough to support them through the next couple ports. Meanwhile, Savan carefully purchased their power stores and equipment.
"Since the ship's holdings got swiped by Trusket," Ridge told Tom while they made their way around the main promenade to the main holds, "even with the Ulinian deal, we'll be scraping by for a while. Hana knows better than to be too proud--even if you probably think that's surprising."
"You know her better than I do," was Tom's reply as he caught a glance of the tavern and made a mental note of where it was.
While the men were hauling up the supplies Savan had purchased, Livich bought some much needed dilithium, a difficult substance to procure of late with the Bajoran resistance snatching up resources as quickly as they could buy them--not to mention the traders buying up supplies to sell to those customers. For the Guerdon, the purchase drained the ship's pot. Rarity never failed to jack up the cost, Livich explained shortly to the new captain when she met him at the bar to get her purchase signed off.
"Bastards can't save a little for the people who're keeping them supplied in the first place," she spat, hands on her hips as she waited for the new captain to get up.
Tom pulled himself to his feet, dragging his bottle along with him as he tossed back a few slips to the waitress, then followed Livich to the upper decks to authorize the transactions. He set the empty bottle on a panel ledge before following her into the offices and registering a retinal ID with the station manager. Finally pressing his thumb to the PADD, he shoved his copy in his coat pocket and moved to leave.
"You're new," the manager grinned.
Tom scowled back at him. "Are you care because...?"
The other man's greasy grin didn't fade, though a spark lit his eye when he said, "Just an observation, Captain Paris."
Tom shook his head and turned back for the docks and to the Guerdon's cargo bay, pitifully quiet. There, he met Ridge and a young tech returning from a visit home, who introduced himself as Cameron Jerod. Tom acknowledged him briefly, handed Jerod the PADD for input and made his way back up to the bridge.
Jerod and Ridge shared a shrug and followed. "Look, don't let Gil get to you," Jerod told him. "All the managers are like that until they get to know you. They like to see if you squirm."
"Great," Tom replied. "Make me love this shit job even more."
"We gotta keep up the morale somehow," Ridge returned.
"You're a better technician," Tom replied and pressed the bridge door to open.
A week and a delivery later, the station at N-6 told them much the same thing as they'd heard at Podala: No salicite.
"So why even bother going through with the deal?" Tom asked. "Obviously, it's already been covered by someone else."
"Because we have a contract with Ulinas, you fool," Maryl told him. "Don't you know anything about the trade business?"
"I'm new here, remember? Besides, I'm just a pilot. The rest shouldn't be my concern."
"I know what I said--and maybe I still mean it." She leaned over the other side of the conn to try to catch his eyes. "That said, it's going to have to become your concern if you're going to stay here, Paris."
"Who said I was sticking around this bucket any longer than I had to?" Tom looked down at some incoming readings. "You were the one who suggested I pretend for the meanwhile, and that's just what I plan on doing. Don't let my charm convince you I care any more than I did the first day I came on board."
Maryl's eyes narrowed to slits. "I guess you have a point."
"Better get to work," Tom concluded, "else you won't even have Ferengi ear muffs to give away."
The Bajoran clenched her fingers around her satchel, visibly resisting several other courses of action.
Tom leaned back in his seat.
It wasn't the whole truth, what he'd said. He didn't want them to suffer. He wasn't that far gone. But it wasn't his problem, either--or at least it shouldn't have been made his. Nor should they have expected the loser of a con job to pop out of his shell and become some sterling captain.
Much the opposite: Maryl had guessed it right when she and Ridge invaded his quarters on Minjau.
"We can't keep going without another share of dilithium," Livich warned Paris, having come forward not long after Maryl had left. "We got a little, but it's not going to do the job we need. It'll break down faster than the last batch did."
"You shouldn't have let the supply get so drained in the first place," Tom said, not bothering to hide the fact he wished she'd have taken her complaints elsewhere--like to Maryl.
"I've been trying to keep the rest of that derelict engine in one piece!" she snapped, squeezing her hips with her hands. "Sorry, but it's hard to perform miracles when I'm stringing together that piece of shit warp reactor on a daily basis!"
"I didn't build the damned thing," he returned, "and I sure as hell didn't poke a hole in the reaction chamber. Besides, what do you expect me to do about it?"
"You're the captain," she told him. "I don't give a damn how you got it, but you can't just let the ship stop moving. You won't have much to fly at all if that happens."
With a heavy sigh, Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin case of latinum. Reserving enough to buy another bottle of rum before they left, he handed it to her. "Buy what you can and leave me alone," he said, then turned back to his monitor.
She snorted. "Yeah. Thanks a lot, Paris."
He whirled around and glared into the woman's steely eyes that time. "What do you want from me, Livich? I'm not getting paid as much as you aren't."
"I expect you at least give a damn about our surviving out here!" she retorted.
"Now that's a problem: You're talking to the wrong person."
She shook her head in disgust as she backed off a couple steps. "I never thought I'd wish we had Trusket back."
"Well, you should've worked harder to keep your captain satisfied," he replied.
"Fuck you."
He shrugged as her heels clapped up the grate steps behind him. "I prefer brunettes."
Over the next few weeks, as the ship's systems slowly puttered and powered down, as Kytrel, Zarilar and Miga all reported the same lack of salicite ore, the dread of their situation finally started to sink in. Tom had thought like the others, that another station would surely have what they needed and hadn't invested in hauling. Instead, there was nothing--no salicite and nothing the Ulinian faction would find acceptable in a compromise. Worse, tensions at Bajor and beyond were causing a pause in the usual business the region enjoyed, so Maryl's work was triply difficult.
"This is a bad deal, Tom," Ridge told him as they fiddled with their rations--all the replicators could provide at that point. Sighing, he pushed his plate aside. "Hana and I, well, we've struggled before, especially in the beginning, when we were really young. She was still a fugitive and I didn't have the means to pay both our ways for a while. That was a rough time. Cardies like to keep their assets and their reputations in check, you know? Anyway, we'd have gotten out of here altogether, but she couldn't leave her family far behind. Yeah, that was rough--but this really isn't looking good, either. It's sad, but I like it here. I don't want to lose what we've managed to make."
Tom said nothing at first, staring at his water. Water. He hadn't had a drink in three days and he was really feeling it. For that alone, he wished he could reverse the situation. "I just don't know what to do," he admitted. "I know you took a chance on me and I appreciate you standing up and trying me out, but I've never been interested in command, and I don't have that many connections in this part of space--only bills."
"Not to mention you hate the fact you got bamboozled into this in the first place," Ridge grinned, shaking his large hand at Tom's response. "Nah, don't worry about it. You never asked for this. I don't blame you. --But if you get any snap ideas, trust me, I'll be willing to hear it. Anything's better than listening to Livich bitch and moan all day and night."
Tom snorted. "Yeah. Problem is, she's right. No juice, no go."
"Yeah." A moment later, he drew an affirmative breath. "We'll find a way out of this. Hana's good at what she does, knows darned well how to dig. We'll figure it out. You just keep us flying and we'll get through it. I just can't help but think sometimes about if worse comes to worse, you know?"
"Yeah, well I'm already there. If you need any pointers, I'll be glad to show you around."
Ridge tipped his head to reexamine him. "You really are in a bad space, aren't you, Tom?"
Tom paused, noting that the shakes had returned to his fingers. Worse, he didn't know how long it'd been like that. "Nothing more unqualifies a man to act with prudence than a misfortune that is attended with shame or guilt." He glanced up. "An old Earth saying. A friend of mine had a list of them tacked up in her quarters. She loved to read." He breathed a small laugh. "Can't get it out of my head today."
"I'm sorry," Ridge said, meaning it.
"You don't need to be," Tom told him. Reaching out, he started pushing the glass of water from side to side with a finger. "There's nothing that'll change it."
"But I am, anyway. You're too young to have to think like that."
"Well, there wasn't an age requirement. Just the way things turned out--not as if I didn't have it coming. Hell, I should have known I'd end up out here, the way I used to be."
"Why's that?" Ridge asked.
Tom snorted to think they hadn't even bothered to check him out--or at least Ridge seemed like the type who wouldn't ask if he knew already. Then again, the Federation news wire wasn't exactly a priority out there. "Look me up sometime. Trust me, they had no problem going public with it."
Pressing himself upwards, Tom left the table. If he had to give up his last pair of boots, he would recycle something for a drink.
"*Maryl to Paris.*"
Tom closed his eyes. "Yeah, Maryl. What?"
"*What do you mean, 'what'? I need to be signed off.*"
He met Ridge's attention. The larger man shrugged. "Well, at least she got something."
Ridge had assumed correctly. Maryl had put together a decent deal for a routing drop off at a mining station five light years away from the Velir system. It was quick latinum--not much, but enough to keep them going...again.
"I don't know how you do it," he admitted to her as they walked through the corridors of the station, back towards the docks and the Guerdon. Catching her hard eyes, Tom tried again. "I mean it, Maryl. I wasn't raised here, and as much as I used to hear about the trade circuit, I never understood how much went into it. Hell, all I've done here the past half year is fly people's stuff around. I didn't learn anything but how to fly really old ships."
"You're a pilot," she shrugged, relenting in her glare a little, "and you were born and raised on Earth. I guess we can't expect you to get used to the way it is out here right away. But if you stay --whether it's on our ship or somewhere else--you'll eventually have to. This isn't a playground. Life can be tough on the border, and it takes a lot of work to get us from place to place."
"I don't mind the work. I like that part of it, actually."
"Then what the hell's your problem?" Maryl asked him, stopping their quick pace for an answer.
Tom met her stare. "I've failed enough people already," he told her. "I don't want to be in the position to repeat that."
"In other words, you'd might as well be dead." Maryl nodded. "Sounds like you're no better than the rest of us."
She started off again. Tom looked after her, unable to follow as her words registered.
She had never sounded more welcoming.
They had come around to the Veliran mining station within another ten days to drop off their cargo and collect their meager eight bars for the deal--but even four bars of latinum would buy a cache of deuterium and another chunk of half-decent dilithium, Tom knew as the ship sputtered into communications range of the next station at Velir-Prime. He felt his pockets. The crew had agreed to put the bulk of payment into the ship's pot that time, leaving everyone with a meager thirty strips each. Tom had already decided he'd give half of that up as well. He'd sell his socks for power at that point, after not being able to replicate himself a cup of coffee for two mornings and being without a drink for even longer.
Steadying himself on the darkened bridge, he tried to straighten himself even as he heard what he fully expected--more of the same bad news, again.
"I'm afraid we hadn't stockpiled but a small amount of salicite, Captain. It's not common on this side of the route, after all. We've been out for a week and don't expect a shipment for another quarter."
Maybe it was being dry between stations, because before Maryl had a chance to curse it again, Tom suddenly felt a nag of curiosity flicker in him. "But you did have some, didn't you?" he asked and held his hand up to Maryl when her mouth opened.
"Last week," the station manager told him, then grinned a bit. "You're new, aren't you?"
Tom blew a slow breath through his nostrils, well beyond sick of that particular observation. "I've been a pilot, but not out this way," he said. "So let's play some catch up. You say you have no salicite ore, but you carried it. When did you run out?"
"A week ago," the manager told him, "as I already told you."
"Your whole stock?" Tom asked.
"Yes."
Maryl looked up from her station. "Paris, this isn't helping," she said. "Let's just dock and try to--"
"Shut up and let me talk," he cut in with another flick of his hand. Taking another step closer, he kept his eyes on the man in the viewscreen. "I'm new here, after all. Would it be too much to ask who was so interested in a whole store of salicite, since it's not a big commodity around here?"
The manager snorted. "Now you can't be so stupid to think I'd just tell you."
Tom reached into his pocket and moved to the ops station. Placing a few strips of latinum on the panel, he diverted a little power, tapped in some coordinates and beamed the strips over to him. "How stupid do I need to be?"
Seeing the pieces appear on his console, the manager shrugged. "Not like you wouldn't find out once you got here. The stock was transferred to the Zalista six days ago."
Maryl came out of her seat. "Higra's ship?" she demanded. "That fool couldn't seal a deal with Ulinas if he whored himself!"
Tom had paled upon hearing the name. When it clicked, a pool of dread spun around in the backwash. "The Zalista's pilot is Colian?"
"Limar? Yes, he's Colian."
Tom heard nothing for several seconds, save the sound of his teeth grinding between his clenched jaws. "Request for standard orbit," he muttered, walking back to the conn.
"Granted," the manager said graciously. Tom flicked off the screen before he could gratuitously welcome them.
Tom fell into his seat. "Shit."
Maryl didn't need an explanation. "You," she breathed, unable to voice anything else.
Tom's eyes closed. He felt that. He felt that a hell of a lot more than he was prepared for, or ever wanted to feel again.
All over again. It was happening all over again.
An hour later, he was packed. Back to square one after over two months of sheer, stupid uselessness, he was more than ready to end that unfortunate adventure and move the hell on. Leaving a few standby credits on the table for Maryl to find--he knew she'd rummage through the room after he left--he pulled the strap of his duffel onto his shoulder and strode out.
His only regret about ditching them was leaving them worse off than when they got him. Then again, Ridge should have listened to Maryl in the first place and not picked up a drunk already guilty of neglect and made him a captain.
"Oh no, you're not getting off that easily," came that same jovial voice just as he turned for the transporter.
Tom squeezed his eyes shut. If he didn't think the man could squash him like a bug, he would probably have barreled around and hit Ridge in the teeth. Instead, he growled, "Get off my back, Ridge."
With only a few quick steps, the man was beside him, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. Looking down at the younger man, he said, "You didn't know what you were dealing with. You pilots get to talking over drinks, just like anyone. You couldn't know your old buddy was ferreting you. It's not completely your fault."
Tom laughed bitterly. "Yeah, not completely my fault that I almost killed your ship because I was too stupid to keep my mouth shut. --And I do know better...or I should have. Now Maryl wants to kill me, Livich'll probably suck the air out of my cabin if I sleep there another night--"
"Livich traded off a full flat of warp coil casings for a bucket of pickles her first week on the job!" Ridge returned. "We've all made mistakes, Tom."
"None of you were expected to be a goddamned captain!" Tom retorted.
"Oh, that's just a formality."
"Not where I come from." His glare nailed Ridge's easy gaze at that, probably the first sure and solid look he'd given anyone in over a year. "Not where I come from," he repeated.
Ridge took that in with a slow nod. "Yeah, you were Starfleet, weren't you." He sighed. "You must have screwed up big time to run this far."
"I didn't run," Tom said. "I just didn't want the reminders. There was nothing left but that." Watching that register on the man's face, Tom secured his duffel strap. "You don't want me here," he assured the technician. "I'm nothing but bad luck for all of you, definitely not reliable, and you don't need me screwing up your deals even on an unofficial basis. You guys can send the Bolian lawyers after me if you want, but I won't stay here and kill you all off."
With that, he turned again and tapped his request for transport to Velir. Glancing back at Ridge, he gave a slow nod of goodbye. "Sorry."
"Dabo!" rolled the echo around the smoky lounge--but that time Tom was nowhere near it. He had dumped half of his few remaining credits on the bar and ordered them to fill it until the tab was up. They did just that, with Romulan ale and a bowl of salt sticks he didn't try to stomach.
Actually, he didn't want anything on his stomach but that ale. It'd been a long time coming and too much of a relief to feel his extremities lose a little sensation, his brain follow closely behind. He even sent the bar girls away. He meant to get drunk and he didn't want to pretend to enjoy it.
It was working well enough by the time he noticed in the corner of his eye someone sit by him. He didn't bother looking, though, and hoped whoever it was didn't want to talk.
"Konar," ordered the woman. It was Savan.
"Damn," Tom muttered and almost stood.
"You need not leave, Tom," she told him, then laid her credit down for the wine when it was handed to her. "I only want to make one request."
Tom's head sank. "What this time?"
"Will you remain long enough for us to find the Zalista?"
"We don't have the power to chase them," he told her, feeling the crawl in his chest to repeat it, knowing how he got them to that point. For a moment, he couldn't believe she was asking him to. "The ship's stores are all but gone. Time to give up, just try to get something else."
"Something else will not matter when we lack a pilot," Savan told him and caught his eyes before he could respond. "Your error was not unique, Paris. Maryl and Livich, I believe, forget that they have made similar ones. It is different in your position, I understand; however, we do need your skills."
"Or what's left of them."
"I believe you are a capable pilot, even in a state that Starfleet would never allow you on duty."
"You'd be surprised what I got away with," Tom replied and swallowed another gulp of ale. He looked over at the Vulcan woman, her cool brown eyes and straight posture. "Starfleet?"
Savan turned her head slightly. "The Academy. I lost interest in my studies and so chose not to complete the regimen. Thus, I sought another career." She blinked at his shock. "Because I am Vulcan does not guarantee that I will be exceptionally careered."
"But the trade circuit?"
"It offers...sufficient satisfaction," Savan answered without complication. "It would likewise bring me satisfaction to find the Zalista and...correct them for their neglecting what few rules are generally respected among our profession and status. Moreover, for their flouting of Federation regulations, I have already informed our Ulinian contractors that the ship bears no deradiative holds and that they will need to inspect the Zalista's cargo for flaws due to chemical breakdown; they should suspect what sound ore remains if they are going to use it for more than four years. I also suggested they might hold the Zalista for orbital inspections, as they are exposing themselves and all they come in contact with to hazardous conditions."
Without his wanting it, a grin pulled at the corner of Tom's mouth. "You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"I did not lie," she stated, then looked at the young man again. "Will you help us find the Zalista? Certainly, its pilot has served you an insult. Or are you, as they say, 'too dead' to desire recompense?"
Tom sighed, returned to his drink. "Even if I wanted to, we don't have the power."
Had her bloodlines been anything but Vulcan, she might have responded with a wicked smile. Instead, she merely blinked. "I still have some stores that will trade for enough deuterium and plasma to bring us up to full power for a time." She took another sip when Tom's eyes came up again. "I have been on the circuit long enough to learn frugality."
"Why the hell didn't you say so before?" Tom demanded, suddenly feeling something that time--the desire to knock the snotty Vulcan off her stool.
Savan's brows rose. "So you are interested."
Tom gnashed his teeth, drew a breath. "I just want..." He shook his head. "I don't want to be a captain of anything. I go back on board, that title goes out the window."
Savan considered that. "As captain, as well as owner of the ship--regardless of how this came to be--you will be able to design the role as you please, while using the title when it is necessary. I think we all would like to develop a more egalitarian structure aboard the Guerdon. If you want to make those changes, then you will meet little resistance."
"Aside from Livich."
"Livich uses titles for what blame she desires to pass on," Savan informed him. "Regardless, your position's influence would be whatever you make of it."
"I don't want to 'make' anything, Savan," Tom told her.
"Then what precisely do you want, Tom? I would like to know."
He paused, swishing a sip over his tongue before swallowing it. "So would I."
"I believe you know, only it is something you believe you cannot obtain."
"If you're going to drink with me, don't psychoanalyze."
"My apologies." Savan sipped her wine; let the silence stand for a moment. "May I take you back to the ship when you are sufficiently intoxicated?"
Tom sucked down the remainder of his tumbler, then tapped it with the stirrer for another. "Just make sure Livich doesn't try to kill me when we get there, okay?"
"I will speak with Livich," Savan assured him.
Considering what else she had up her sleeve, Tom decided he didn't want to know.
As for the rest...
He blinked, focused. "I don't think we should catch up with the Zalista first, though. We should skip Kalandra-Nine Station. --That is the next planned stop, right?"
Savan turned her gaze to the pilot, intrigued. "It is."
"Okay. So we should go straight to Irtrin."
"Why would we go there? They do not regularly stock salicite ore. Would they have any, it would be minimal."
"But they deal in ore casings and a few other things the Zalista needs to take care of their stocks. If they don't have deradiative holds like you say, they'd have to make up for it by changing out their plating before they have a spill-out. Right? I know someone working on Irtrin who owes me an out from the brig and happens to work the stocks there. Meanwhile, we need to get ahead of the Zalista. If we get the power we need, do you think we can handle a short speed run?"
"I believe so." The Vulcan considered him anew. "You have a plan?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I'm more interested than I was before. --Just please take the credit for this, or else Maryl and Livich'll never go along with it."
Her eyes closed slowly, then opened again. "Let me hear what you propose."
"I still don't know why we're bothering wasting our power here," Maryl muttered as the Irtrin Station docking clamps popped and rumbled against the hull. "They don't have anything we need."
"You do not have to go into the station," Savan said, tapping on his console to acknowledge their secure hold.
"I will go," Maryl returned, clipped with annoyance. "It's my job, which I do whether or not it's a tough call."
"Nice to know that," Tom commented, then looked at Savan again. "Have a walk?"
The Vulcan moved from her seat. Before following the pilot, she leaned toward Maryl as she passed. "Only do not attempt to purchase any salicite."
"Like we can afford any at this point."
"For the first time in this run, that will be a good thing. I will make certain of that."
"You'd better. We can't keep on like this." Maryl watched them leave as she patched a line through to the station liaison. "Piece of crap Starfleet brat."
Jerod glanced down the hall from his place near the door, where the pilot and Vulcan shared a few quick, quiet words. "I dunno, Maryl. Savan's doing the talking, but I think they're both up to something."
"How relieving," the Bajoran mewed, turning back to her own work.
"Nice to see you again, Limar," Tom said, leaning on the side of the captain's seat as he regarded the other man through the viewscreen. He did not smile, his voice held no humor, but a small part of him was enjoying the angry look on the fellow pilot's face, not to mention the others' frustration. It was a pleasing irony to know his ship was enjoying adequate power while the Zalista didn't look too hot. Tom turned his attention to the captain. "Captain Higra."
"You must be Captain Paris," Higra mumbled, staring hard through the viewscreen. "I expected someone at least old enough to shave a full beard."
Tom resisted responding to the weak insult, but instead commented, "Looks like you're in need of some repairs."
The captain flinched. "We've had a full drive failure due to a radiation leak in our holds. Three quarters of the ship are sealed off."
"Radiation? That wouldn't happen to be salicite radiation, would it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I wonder what kind of dealer would trade out salicite without ore casings, unless there weren't any to be had. Need the casings to seal the cargo, right? Sure, they could get a few light years, maybe to the next station to see if they had some casings to spare, but without proper holds, they'd never get back to Ulinas with that much radioactivity melting through unprotected bulkheads. Even with the right holds, they'd have some damage. But everyone knows you don't have the right holds." Tom looked over at Maryl. "Do you remember picking up casings at Irtrin? Maybe we can lend them a few."
"I don't know," Maryl replied. "I'm not the one who controls the inventory."
"I'd have to look," Jerod supplied with a snort.
"I think you're aware of our cargo and our dealings," Higra cut in, "so let's quit the game. I'm trying to avert a core overload and as much as I don't want your help, I'm asking for it."
"I might spare my technician for a price."
"If you think you're going to get my cargo--"
"You can't carry it as it is, and even if you do make it to Ulinas, it's likely they won't take it because it'll be half rotted by the time you get there." Tom shrugged. "But if you want to breach on top of all that, that's your choice."
"You lousy bastard, when I catch up with you--"
"After you recompile yourselves," Tom cut in. Turning, he took his seat and checked their coordinates. "We're just far enough off to enjoy the show." He looked back at Jerod, ignoring the increasing commotion on the other ship. "How much does a half-smashed nacelle go for on the open market?"
"About ten bars if all the pieces are there," Jerod told him, notably more amused than Tom looked at that point, "but that's Maryl's department."
"Ten bars sounds about right," Maryl said.
"That's enough to buy some more deuterium and me a bottle of real scotch," Tom nodded. "Any way we look at it, we win. That'll be nice for a change."
"You are not getting my cargo!" Higra snapped across the comm.
Tom looked at him again. "Since I'm new in the circuit, you might need a hint at this point: I don't give a damn if you give me your cargo or not. I've got nothing left to lose in watching your ship blow to chunks and collecting debris when the sparks sizzle down. Nothing left to lose at all. So you can do whatever the hell you want. I'll still be flying away."
With that, he pulled his hand away from the keypad, leaned back and crossed his arms.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a broad grin form on Maryl's mouth.
He didn't share the expression, but it was good to see Higra blink.
Cool drinks were poured around the large mosaic table, which was nestled in the back corner of the leaf-canopied outdoor lounge. The city facilities could not be seen or heard from there, save the occasional hum of an ascending craft. The weather had grown mild at sunset and was pleasantly moist. The respite was almost as nice as the flatcase of latinum Maryl was resting her feet on.
She wasn't about to leave it on the ship with no one else there.
"God, I love Ulinas," Jerod grinned as a busty waitress bent over to set a folded napkin on the table before him.
"You'd love any block of soil we'd to land on after the last few months," Maryl returned.
"No way. This place beats the hell out of Minjau any day."
"It is hospitable," Savan agreed, taking in the view of the gardens. She glanced at the waitress. "Are there obtainable samples of this flora?"
"In the central arboretum," the woman answered as she finished her pouring.
Once the waitress was gone, Ridge picked up his glass and raised it for a toast. "To bad luck," he deadpanned.
Maryl whacked his arm. "To a good profit and a ship that moves!"
"That's more like it," Livich said assuredly. "Now if only we can actually get it to do that."
"That's your job, Livich," Jerod smirked.
"Up yours, Treevis," she returned and clinked her glass against Maryl's.
Tom shared the toast absently, then continued to look around.
"Hey, Tom," Ridge said. "Come on, enjoy yourself. It's not often we land on a planet with actual civilization."
"It's fine," Tom dismissed. "I was just thinking..." His voice drifted off as he brought his glass to his lips.
"About?" Savan asked.
"How little it's changed. My father brought me here once when I was a boy. My sisters and I played in that park over there when he was in the conference."
Jerod peered over. That late into the evening, all he saw were long shadows beyond a row of fluffy purplish trees. "Was your dad a scientist?" he asked.
"No. A Starfleet officer."
Maryl eyed him. "Little wonder you got into all that, because your father was in it, too."
Tom nodded and leaned back in his seat. "He still is," he said, looking back down to the oblong PADD in his hand. As the others went back to their conversations, he pulled a long sip of his wine and continued to tap a few more items into the list he'd begun to put together....
Two years after starting that list, Tom added what he remembered Torres rattling off in engineering that morning and clarified a few he had down already using her wording.
He still sometimes shook his head to recall how he'd been stupid enough to land himself in a captain's seat--and crazy enough to settle into it. On the other hand, he'd long stopped caring that Trusket barreled out as he had, particularly when he came to understand the nature of the contract that the crew had signed with him.
In return for their service, the crew agreed to share all portions of any gain--a true cooperative, with some leeway given for necessary repairs, which the captain had the authority to take. Unfortunately for Trusket, the cooperative's contract was Bolian--written by one of his many cousins, in fact, and ratified by the punctilious Jildwan Court, apparently at a time when he wanted to be a captain and to secure a motivated, long-term crew.
The Jildwan group was notoriously unswayable by offers of compensation or protection, so there was no way he could scam his way out of it with his own people, once he lost the taste for his career. Worse, Bolarus IX was a part of the Federation, so any matters involving other Federation citizens, and involving Federation trade laws, could be taken to one of their JAGs instead if need be.
Thus, if Trusket did not live up to his part of the agreement--finding himself a replacement to complete the contract he entered into--his crew members were perfectly justified in suing him--or his family if he was "unavailable"--for his net worth for damages incurred by his breach of contract. If the plaintiffs could not be satisfied, Trusket could be given a work-lease as punishment and to pay off the debt. All of Trusket's crew had long-term contracts, with several years left before resigning was necessary.
Apparently, Trusket didn't want to wait that long or fight the Jildwan court, so he had tried to get rid of his crew himself. He tried to induce them to take other positions with his ever-worsening temper and treatment, and then by openly sabotaging their deals by trading under the table on behalf of another ship. His efforts were useless. The captain simply hadn't anticipated that his five crewmembers liked the ship better than he did--or at least were comfortable where they were. Later, Ridge admitted they were indeed unwilling to start fresh again. This was coupled with Maryl's wise advice to hold out on Trusket until he gave in. She knew perfectly well that the man couldn't break his contract--and she and Ridge both had another four years left in theirs.
So, frustrated in his attempts, the captain kept setting aside his small fortune while he cheated on repairs and made some deals to secure his retirement, then set about finding himself a successor.
Per the contract, the prospective new captain would have to be capable of running the ship and carrying on the command, which would likewise be transferred. Looking over the PADD Trusket had shoved in his pocket after "losing" his ship, Tom discovered that the man had gotten his name, description and numbers from the "for hire" list. Likely, he'd been waiting a few days, checking Tom and his record out, finding the right moment to complete the transfer, such as it was. He forwarded the contract for approval before ever coming to the dabo table. While Tom was struggling to adjust to his new life and rank, the Jildwan Courts were ratifying his contact--and locking him into it with the assumption that he had agreed to it all.
The "witness" to the "agreement" was Nija--the dabo girl, who could truthfully attest to Tom's accepting the "deal." Being that the contract had weight in Federation courts in the absence of a Bolian citizen, the crew could sue him instead of Trusket for not obeying the terms of the contract and would probably win, particularly considering Tom's history. The Federation wouldn't show him much mercy, if any.
But again, it didn't matter. He'd already decided to stay before he learned the details.
What was curious sometimes was what his father would think, knowing his "gifted" son, whom he'd built up to be the next admiral in a long line of industrious admirals, was working on a beat-up tradeship somewhere between nowhere and Cardassia, dealing in low terms with low characters and running his life much on the same level. It was probably how he would see it. There was some truth in that.
Some, but it wasn't the whole story. Though Tom hadn't wanted or asked for it, he had earned some respect as a captain in that corner of space. Not one deal from the Guerdon since the Ulinas mess had ended up short--a big change from the last captain's reputation. For a politically unaligned freighter, which aroused suspicion as a rule and were more heavily inspected station-side, they had gained a good deal of trust and had built good connections along the border circuit. He and the crew didn't have to share their pay cuts with anyone but each other and could indeed make their own contracts now. Still, life could be hard going out there, especially of late, with the DMZ about to be lit on fire.
The work had paid off, though. They were getting by all right.
Even so, Tom knew there wasn't a chance in hell the admiral would be pleased with the command his son had been suckered into and eventually didn't try to escape. More correctly, the more time passed, the less Tom thought about his options. He got used to his position, got to know the crew, the business, the stations and the dealers, the routine at dock and the long, empty space between them. To stay put and not give a damn about what people thought otherwise was not a bad option at all, in the end. There, he was just another trader in the circuit trying to get by in a ship that'd seen better days itself.
It was a hell of a lot more than he deserved, he still thought, when he let himself think about it.
He sometimes asked himself why he kept that list. Maybe it was the want for an ounce of hope, of improvement, or fulfillment; the idea that he hadn't completely wasted what was left of his talents. Maybe he just needed something to do.
Little wonder he felt a lot older than he was.
Finishing off the rum, he set the PADD aside, pushed himself up from the uncomfortable chair. Turning a bit at the waist, he popped a few vertebrae back in place and moved to his bunk in the adjoining room. Pulling off his vest, toeing off his boots, he eased himself onto the mattress, leaned back and scooted up to the pillow.
He stared at the ceiling for a while before closing his eyes. Willfully concentrating on the heavy haze behind his lids, the rum finally took full effect. He was asleep within a few minutes.
© D'Alaire M, 2007