Title: Guerdon.
Part: VI. Beggars and Choosers. Everyone's a little bit of both.
Author: D'Alaire M.
VI. Beggars and Choosers
"*B'Elanna, I am reading a power loss in the secondary field conduits.*"
It took the engineer a few seconds to figure out where that was going. She grabbed her tricorder and jumped away from her console. "Warp drive's failing!" she responded. "Nadrev! Shut down the reactors--now! I'm on my way back!"
Instantly, the technician threw his hands up to the main board and manually locked down the matter-antimatter unit. The ship lurched to a stop, throwing the diminutive engineer forward a few steps as she arrived.
One deck above, Tom closed his eyes and sighed. "Not again." The little failures had been so common since they left Andal, they were doing everything but boring him. He brought them back up to full impulse and dragged himself out of his seat. "Savan, get Maryl out of bed, then give us a hand," he said on his way out. Jogging back to the engine room and down into the port corridor to the warp core, he was greeted with a flying lockbox. It clanked against his chest as his engineer came around the access grate she'd already opened on the other side of the propulsion system.
"Ridge is in port relay control!" she shouted over the coolant steam. The contents of her toolbox scattered across the deck, she was half buried in the drive control grid before he could make the turn.
Tom disappeared into the cold mist, emerging inside another grate cell packed full of half-functional drive units. There, he found the technician up to his arms in soot, reconnecting the secondary plasma relay t-junction manually. Tom cursed and jumped around it, then dug his heels in the grate to get the housing lined up. Blowing a breath, he heaved forward and snapped it in. Ridge nodded quickly as Tom yanked his hands away then tested the unit with a jolt of plasma.
"Port secondaries are ready to go, B'Elanna!" Ridge called toward the comm.
"*Install the new regulator bearings before switching over!*" she called back.
Tom came back around and picked the parts up off the deck. "Remember which is which?" he asked, popping open the nearby access hatch.
"Guess we'll find out," Ridge grinned and reordered the pieces.
"*The warp drive is still unstable,*" B'Elanna said over the comm from her station a few days later. "*I'm locking it down before we land.*"
"Good thing we don't need it," Tom muttered, not caring if B'Elanna caught it or not.
"*Our fusion reactors aren't responding well to the deuterium mix, either. --Ridge! Keep your eye on those field output levels. We can't have them fail as we enter orbit.*"
"Good idea," Tom said, also under his breath. He wished he'd brought his coffee forward, lousy as it was. The cut-rate replicator they'd managed to install seriously needed reprogramming, but neither he or B'Elanna had the time to commit to it. Though maybe just start with the coffee, he mused. The bitterness seemed to have permanently coated his dry tongue.
Insisting he be on the bridge in case anything else happened on the rest of the leg, too, he hadn't slept in over a day--not that he'd enjoyed a good rest since the second leg of the Ligaran deal started over two months ago.
"*What was that?*" asked the engineer sharply.
Four light years from Ibaten to here and I've never been as glad to see a ball of dirt, Tom thought as he managed the Guerdon into orbit over a large, greenish ocean. "Do we have thrusters?" he asked over the growing racket in the engine room.
"*We have that much!*" B'Elanna responded.
"That's all I need," he replied and cut off the noise to patch in with the waiting station. "Guerdon to Minjau Base Four, requesting secondary flatdock."
"*Please stand by, Guerdon. --Is that you, Tom?*"
"Yeah, Toogar, it's me."
"*News on the line says you were hit by the Maquis out near Andal. You all okay?*"
"No," answered Tom simply. They'd get the details soon enough, once the ship's stats, including the crew manifest, was uploaded and reconfirmed at the control center. Tom wouldn't put a foot on the planet before half the base knew about it and only needed the gory details. He just hoped that a large part of those who cared wouldn't be stupid enough to ask him for any.
"*Sad to say you're in good company,*" the Minjan sighed. "*They look to be stocking up.*"
"Yeah," Tom said, snorting silently, "in more ways than one."
"*Are you very much set back?*"
"You know we are if you had to ask. Hopefully, we'll get what we need without cracking a debt."
"*I'm off after you land. Contact me when you're ready to go looking. I'll pull up the vendor list and see who's willing to work with you.*"
Tom's lips turned up. Such cheerful eagerness was a welcome change. "Maryl's going to transmit our list to you." He turned a nod her way, but she was already sending it.
"Toogar," Maryl said, "I'll like to know if the vendors need any items to ship. We have space and a few weeks layover."
"*Received. I believe there might be a few, Maryl. I'll ask them.*"
"Thanks."
"*Guerdon, you have clearance to land at Agarlinik Pad, slot one-six.*"
"Copy, Minjau Base Four. Entering atmosphere on steady approach."
"*We are monitoring, Guerdon; the beacon is set. Welcome to Minjau.*"
With that, Tom set his fingers onto the thruster controls, flipped on his guidance control, read his console once more, then cautiously pressed into Minjau's outer atmosphere.
As the unmistakable tug on their bad side forced him to compensate, he couldn't help but grin. The first time he landed a freighter, it'd been at Minjau, and he thought he knew all he needed to know about bringing a vessel in. He'd landed countless times in small crafts and shuttles, after all, in every manner and direction. With big ships, Tom quickly learned it was the difference between a dive and a belly flop. When that much mass and uneven weight suddenly met gravity, it took every puff of torque to keep a freighter straight, even on auto. The Guerdon still listing at the starboard, Tom had to compensate all the more carefully. It was very easy to flip a ship like that one with too much push in any direction, much less with one side's thrusters still twitching.
He managed it despite the drag, though he knew he'd be catching hell in the bar later. Any half decent pilot looking up would have spotted the tilt. "Couldn't wait to get that drink, eh, Paris?" rolled between his ears, but he shrugged it off a minute later. Even that would be a welcome change of topic, and in the end, he really didn't give a damn as long as he had the credits for the ale. Better still, Minjau did work on credits. He'd be able to afford more there.
"Stable dock at slot one-six achieved," Tom reported for the Minjan record alone. That anyone got down without incident was obvious at that point. "Shutting down, thrusters. Powering down systems to land mode. Minjau Base Four, Guerdon is down and signing off."
"Acknowledged," Toogar told them. "See you base-side."
Hana gave up her station as soon as the comm crackled off. "I'll be dealing," she told Tom and Savan, grabbing the PADD the latter held out to her as she passed.
Tom let her go without more than a nod. He didn't blame her for wanting off the ship as soon as possible. Not a technician, Maryl had been stuck on the bridge scanning and coordinating for most of their journey while everyone else was committed to repairs, which was stressful and boring in the same stand. Tom picked up his PADD and leaned back in his seat. "You going to be here a while?" he asked Savan, not looking up from his work.
"I would like to begin the clearance protocols with Nadrev, if he is available."
"I'll let him know."
He continued tapping into the PADD several minutes after they fell silent. After so much excitement about getting there, from warp drive failures to network outages, he expected something else to pop up, something else to get him running. His foot bounced--nervous energy, spare adrenaline not yet spent. He needed to sleep. He wouldn't for quite a while yet. The first thing on his Minjau to-do list would go quickly.
"I'll be in the lounge, then. I'll take a trip through the station when I'm done, find Hana and get in some trouble."
"I will be here," the Vulcan replied, continuing her diagnostics.
Tom wasn't nearly ready to ask her what they were showing her. They couldn't afford to fix much of it, anyway.
The small-boned twenty-one year-old Bajoran was sitting at the center table in the lounge, sipping his coffee, a taste he'd acquired in the past year to nearly the degree Hana had over ten. His brown hair hung precariously near his same-colored eyes as he turned his stare the captain's way, offered a diffident nod rather than speak his greeting, very much not like Jerod had been. It made what Tom was doing a lot easier in at least one sense. Taking the seat across, he pushed the PADD across the table.
He didn't have to say much more, except, "Look it over, see if there's anything you need to know."
Nadrev was ready for the offer. Everyone around him except the captain had assured him he'd be the only sensible replacement, and Paris would be an idiot not to hire him. More, he had been part-timing on the Guerdon long enough to know the captain's particularly offhand way about things. That Tom hadn't been talking about the position gave Nadrev some indication that he was going to replace their friend. When Tom asked to see him in the lounge once they got to Minjau, he had only to remember to be there promptly.
Reading over the contract, Nadrev nodded quietly to confirm that in taking that full share, his position title would be the same as Jerod's: Communications Technician. Not quite what he set out to specialize in, he consoled himself to know that Jerod likely wouldn't have minded his replacement, rather than have a total stranger assume all that he'd done there. For that matter, it wasn't the last thing he could end up with.
"I was going to hire you before," Tom told him, "after the Ligaran deal, because I wanted to and could. Now, we need another man. The spot is yours if you want to stay on and train into it."
Nadrev nodded again, glad the captain had echoed his suspicions. "I accept, s--Tom. Thank you."
Tom motioned toward the PADD. "You have to sign, Nadrev."
"That's right. Sorry." The new comm tech scrolled down a little more and pressed him thumb in the allotted square. Looking up to make sure they were done that time, Nadrev grinned and reached out to shake Tom's hand. "Thanks again."
"I'm glad you're staying," Tom told him truthfully. "I was half afraid you wouldn't. Things aren't going to be easy for a while, the way it looks out there."
"It's not going to be easy anywhere I could go right now," Nadrev shrugged.
"Good point."
"It isn't very different for me, anyway."
Tom nodded. "Ridge and Savan are taking over your training," he then informed him, pushing himself to stand. "Actually, Savan's expecting you on the bridge to start you on the clearance codes right now, since we'll need you under the panels as soon as possible."
"What about B'Elanna?" Nadrev asked.
"What about her?"
"Well, she's pretty particular about how things are done."
"Ridge is getting the hang of her," Tom said. "You can follow his lead and be on the safe side. Besides, she's too busy with primary repairs right now. I'm sure she'll take over again when she's able."
"Okay. Thanks again, Tom."
He was already halfway out of the lounge, but he looked back to see the slight young man standing, looking to him with gratitude, almost admiration. Unlike the others, save B'Elanna, Nadrev had never known anyone else in charge of the Guerdon, and though he'd very likely heard all the stories by then, he hadn't been a part of the experiences. However, he had been part timing with them for ten months, had lost a friend with whom he'd worked more closely than anyone and had appeared in need of a sure voice since the attacks.
Nadrev looked at him as one really would a captain, Tom understood and breathed against the lurch in his chest.
"You're welcome," he quietly returned, then left the room.
The worst thing about coming to a station empty handed was knowing that every dealer on the base could smell your poverty.
The best thing about having a Bajoran contract liaison was that they had been poor from birth, but could look like they didn't need a damned thing from the dealers, the other liaisons or anyone else. Tom and Maryl didn't always get on well, but he never underestimated her ability to kick the station vultures in the teeth when it counted and could get them a break.
He was thankful for her skills yet again at Minjau.
Heading to Podala after a boronite pickup at Betazed, the crew enjoyed a relative quiet for a couple weeks. Though both Minjau and Betazed could not supply many of the parts they needed, they'd managed to find enough compatible replacements to keep the warp drive going steady, the power ports functional and the deflector online. They'd called ahead and already arranged for more of the same at Podala, fixing their price ahead of time, as well.
Meanwhile, Maryl began to work on the potentially lucrative Tagran license, wanting the full pay they weren't getting as middleman shippers. Ridge and Savan continued working to get Nadrev up to par in his new concentration. Though not as intuitive as Jerod had been, Nadrev was a ready student, anxious to learn. B'Elanna maintained her semi-permanent stay in engineering as she cursed and coaxed the twitchy systems back to some stable order. Tom honestly had to wonder how long she could hold a grudge. Sure, she threw herself into her work with gusto and he was used to that now, but he'd not seen her at dinner since they left Andal six weeks ago. Ridge assured him she was taking breaks, though, just not when Tom was, and she barely spoke to Tom whenever he needed to work in the engine room.
Apparently, she could hold a grudge a very long time.
What made him forget to care was learning that other factions had just as stubborn a train of thought--and a better network.
"Tom, I am reading a small ship on approach," Savan told him.
He furrowed his brow. "Where? --Oh." He scowled, then his eyes flew open. "What the hell are Maquis doing here? --Savan, shields up! Maryl, contact Starbase 211!"
"We will need to reduce our speed to impulse to maintain shields," said Savan.
"Yeah!" Knocking the ship down to full impulse, Tom drove them off their course and took them straight toward the starbase.
"*What's going on?*" B'Elanna demanded from below. "*Why did we drop from warp?*"
"Another Maquis visit," Tom responded, grimacing for having forgotten to hit the shipwide comm. "Get Ridge out of wherever he is and seal the decks."
B'Elanna's yell down the center of the engine room was her only response.
"The USS Rissar is on its way," Maryl said.
"How long?"
Maryl blew a breath. "Forgot to ask. Damnit!"
"Not like it matters," Tom smirked, watching the small cruiser zoom in on their tail.
"I'm contacting them again. What are they doing this far out?"
"Shopping!" Tom yanked the Guerdon up just in time to miss the first shot, but was not surprised to see them compensate by lining up again directly afterwards. Bracing himself, he let the proximity alarm say the rest as their aft shields took a clean hit and threw out main power for a second. Without Jerod's help and taking care of so many other pressing issues, Torres had only been able to patch the ODN until they could afford new wiring. "Another hit like that..." he said to himself, trying to line up some evasion patterns. Completely useless, he knew, but he figured he should have something to occupy himself while his ship was blown to bits again.
"They are coming around to the starboard," Savan informed them.
"We're still weak over there," Tom nodded and struggled to swerve his freighter out of the Maquis ship's way.
He was not successful. The thinly-angled craft veered over and around the Guerdon's hull and lined up the shot with a casual flourish. A beat, and they fired directly into their soft spot.
Klaxons blared and the computer began its warning list, but he slapped them all over. Another hit and shards of sparks flew from the panel behind Maryl. "Ahh!" she yelled and jumped away from the onslaught.
Tom jerked a look back. "Okay?"
"I need a new coat!" she huffed as the fire control did its work in that corner. She ran to the other comm control and patched in. "This one wants to beam from the bays, Tom," she said. "They're putting a hole in our lower starboard shields, where we're holding the boronite."
"We're so popular," he muttered and continued to duck them in and out of their own wake. Unlike their first attacker, that Maquis ship wasn't falling for any of his tricks the first time and was more maneuverable. The Guerdon was far from one hundred percent. He wouldn't hold them off nearly as long as he had their Hugora Nebula friends.
Thankfully, they were not so far away from civilization, either: "The Rissar's on approach!" Maryl announced. "One minute!"
The Maquis wasn't leaving without another poke, however. They threw another shot directly at their aft deflector then finally ducked away.
Tom was left to stare at their shield output level as it dropped to zero. His heart thrumming, sweating, he shut down the impulse engine as the small Starfleet cruiser passed, turned and jumped to warp after the Maquis ship.
"A repair vessel is on the way," Maryl read from her board, "if we need it."
"Think we might?" Tom retorted, then hit the switch to hear what was happening below.
Fifteen minutes later, he descended into the engine room yet again. Tom was beginning to think that he'd not been there so often in his near two and a half years there as he had been since they left Andal. The pleasant trip to Betazed easily spoiled him again, and he actually thought that maybe the Maquis were pulling back a little. Boy, do I know how to be wrong, he grumbled to himself as he came upon a now familiar sight: An engine-smeared Torres prowled around from station to station, tricorder in hand, listing off orders to Ridge or Nadrev over the comm as she prepared to get back to what she chose to tend to herself.
As usual, she had Tom's assignment ready for him, too, when he got there. "You can replace the starboard sensor relay control grid," she told him, grabbing a tray of charge bolts with one hand and slapping a portion of her hair off her face with her other thumb. "When is Savan coming down?"
"As soon as Nadrev's done and she's run the diagnostic."
"Good."
With that, Tom turned.
"You'll need the bolts," she told him.
He stopped, grinded his teeth, then doubled back to the shelves to load a tool kit.
"And a wrench. --And I have the bolts right here."
Tom pulled a long breath. Torres in a snotty mood was one thing, but it looked like someone had taken the tool reserve cabinet, rolled it down a hill and broke the light. "Thanks so much. You know, I'd have had to wing it without your careful guidance. Now, can you tell me which screwdriver I should use? Or maybe I should try a disruptor?"
"If you can't handle the repair--"
"I can handle the repair," he responded. "If you'd find the damned laser wrench, I think I can figure it out."
"It's in there--and I don't want you 'figuring' anything. I mean it, Tom. If you don't know what you're doing, then just leave it. I'll get to it myself. That is my job."
"You don't need to tell me what your job is," Tom snapped, digging into the shelf again. "I wrote your contract, remember?"
"Yes, I remember it well," B'Elanna replied, trying for more bite than she felt at the memory of that day, when she'd expected the worst and came out with the keys to the ship. But she recovered a moment later to note he'd taken the pains to remind her about her contract--and the coming end of it.
Yanking out the tool he needed, he straightened and grabbed the bolt set from his engineer's hands. Staring down into her hot glare, he added, "By the way, you can show me a little common courtesy any time it's convenient, B'Elanna. I'm not an idiot and I'm not the one who shot holes through your department. Aim it where it needs to go--or just aim it somewhere useful. Get off my case."
Her eyes narrowed and her body did not move a millimeter as she faced him down. "Yes, Sir."
Tom pivoted on a heel to leave.
"And don't leave your bottles lying around this time," B'Elanna continued, turning to get her kit. "They don't belong in the access tubes."
He made a mental note to leave coffee and a half-eaten jelly doughnut instead as he made good time aft.
Three days later, Tom leaned back in his seat as he tapped idly at the thrusters, too tired and too angry to do anything but sit still. He looked back to see Maryl's equally annoyed nod then closed his eyes as they continued to crawl forward. "Come on Gil," he mumbled. "Get off your ass."
The comm hissed on. "Are we there yet?" asked Ridge with mock complaint.
"Waiting for confirmation," Maryl returned. "Don't clog the line, Ridge."
"I'm not. B'Elanna really wants to know when."
"It's the usual delay," she told him. "You'll know when we dock. There'll be a big bump and a sucking sound." With that, she slapped off the comm. "Tom, you've got to talk to her. Now she won't even call up here herself."
He eyes remained on his panel. "You have a problem with someone here, you go have a talk."
"It's not my problem to deal with," she shot back.
"Either deal with it yourself or drop it, Maryl." He punched the hail himself that time. "Damnit, Gil, finish your puff digu and let us in."
"So that's where he gets the grease," Maryl grumbled, silently relenting on the other issue.
Tom glared at the station in the viewscreen, watching it rotate in the vacuum of space. It seemed every time he got to Podala, their fortunes had changed. The last time they were there, B'Elanna had been on their bridge, newly hired and ready to go, already one of the crew. Took only a few months to kill that enthusiasm, he mused. She'd really wanted to do something for the ship and had started on the list he'd given her just to have that and more blown to hell and a new friend killed.
Maybe I'll drop by anyway, he sighed to himself. He knew from his initial conversations with her that she wasn't a Livich. She was smart and quick but didn't shortcut quality to save a second. She could be brusque and angry, but so could they all, save Ridge. She earned her pay and everyone liked her. So though they were pissed at each other, he knew it wouldn't kill him to be a man and make some kind of effort that time, level the playing field...even if it couldn't be level at the moment.
After we've gotten through our payment, he decided again, when we're clear on the debt, then I'll drop in and have a talk.
He began to consider their upcoming pay and the shares it would become versus the seventy-six bars she'd choked out for compatible initiators at Andal--way too much, but he could forgive that... He'd had some of that secondary pot diverted into her share at Minjau, but a large debt remained. He drew a long breath, running the numbers through his head again. Then he frowned. Their conversation might be put off a few stops longer still, unless... Tom glanced back at his science technician.
"Not again!" Maryl snapped. "I'm reading a malfunction in life support systems on deck four."
"Nadrev has sealed the section," Savan reported. "However, we are now experiencing a power failure throughout the forward section of the deck."
Tom groaned, then turned a glare towards his viewscreen. "Get off your ass Gil, or I'm driving us through your goddamned station."
"Savan," Tom said, speeding his pace to match hers as she swiftly made her way down Podala's main thoroughfare, "I need a favor."
"You may not have it," she coolly replied.
He blinked. "Why not?"
"You broke your word with me."
He rolled his eyes. "Guess my day's not been bad enough." It'd already been an interesting game of "let's not talk to each other over business" with Torres in Gil's office as they signed off on a series of dumps and collections. Gil, naturally, was both curious about their behavior and as solicitous as ever. Tom couldn't get away from them both fast enough. Now his science tech was as close as a Vulcan could be to annoyed. Not quite something he needed, particularly just then. "How did I manage to get on your wrong side?"
"You have once again avoided having your condition treated," she informed him. "You promised you would see a physician at Minjau, but failed to follow through."
"Oh come on, Savan!" Tom retorted. "Even if I'd had the time, I wouldn't have had the money to go through the base clinic."
"There is a Federation facility off base, of which you are well aware, which would have seen you without requirement of payment."
"I didn't have the time to go all the way out there. We were in and out in only two and a half days."
"You did not obey my request," she returned plainly, "and readily endanger your health more each day."
Tom coughed a laugh. "What are you, in love with me? Why are you taking this personally?"
Savan stopped in her tracks to stare long into his heavily shadowed eyes. "I assure you, Tom, my feelings for you at this moment are far from affection. When I am not disappointed with you, however, I consider you a friend as well as a patient. As both, it is disturbing to watch your behavior go unchecked and the results untreated. It puts the crew in an insecure position, not knowing if we will need to find a new captain and when. Moreover, to see you disrespect my every suggestion shows your lack of consideration for our friendship. Therefore, you deserve no favors until you show yourself worthy of them."
Crossing his arms, he nodded. "Okay, then, I have an order for you."
It was the Vulcan's turn to blink.
"I need you to divvy out my pay and reserve funds into B'Elanna's share plus whatever from the ship's pot to repay her in full for the initiators, in addition to her regular share."
"That would overpay her."
"I meant that part of my share plus only enough from the ship's share to pay her back, plus her normal pay. I don't want the pot to bottom out on funds because of this," he told her. "It's not much, but I need those extra bars there for B'Elanna and Maryl to get what we need and get us back on our feet without having to ask me for advances. Meanwhile, I'll be working with the little I've got left in my reserve funds."
Savan didn't have to ask how, but she did continue to eye the young captain. "You require medical treatment by a physician trained in Human medicine--preferably Federation."
He nodded. "I need you to divert my share to B'Elanna's payment so we don't bottom out the pot--and I need her not to know about it."
Her brow rose. "That is the favor--falsifying the record."
"I'll write and sign a correction for the file. She won't take it if she knows it's mine. As far as she's concerned, it's a back payment that went into the pot--or whatever, if she bothers to ask. I need this issue off my back, Savan. --And really, I didn't mean to forget about the docs. It just wasn't on my mind, and when it came back, I just couldn't get to it. If it means anything, I apologize. Really."
Savan held a long pause, and then finally assented. "I will follow your 'order;' however, I will expect if and when the route takes us to Deep Space-Nine or back to Minjau, you will follow through with mine--immediately."
"You have my word," Tom told her. "I'll even program a reminder."
"My trust is not one you want to lose, Tom," Savan warned him.
That one, he felt, in his gut and in his tight chest. "The one thing I have left to lose," he acknowledged.
"Nor do I care for disappointment."
He set them off on their pace again, and his hand rustled around in his coat pocket for latinum strips. "Yeah, I'll try not to do that again, too," he said, turning back to hit the bar and whoever happened to be waiting by the gaming tables. He'd be heading for treatment soon enough, he figured. A hearty mug of ale and a few rounds over a deck of cards wouldn't hurt in the mean time. For that matter, he was certain he'd earned the break.
Several hours later, B'Elanna accepted the case, somewhat larger than the others', and she nodded before speaking for the record. "Torres, B'Elanna, sixty-one bars, nineteen strips." Stepping away, her eyes caught the captain's. They were securely fixed on her.
"Good?" he asked quietly as she passed.
"Yeah," she responded tonelessly and reclaimed her seat.
Hearing her chair slide and her case find the floor, Tom pulled another long sip of his drink. "Yeah, that's much better," he muttered.
"Captain Paris, nine bars, eight strips."
Setting his glass down on the table with a clink, he stood, went forward and accepted it. "Captain Paris, Thomas, nine bars, eight strips."
"*Firing again!*"
"Shut it down, Ridge! Shut it down!"
Running into the control unit, the bulky technician knew he'd never get past the hissing sparks at the main control. He wrapped his large hands around the power coupling itself and yanked with all his weight.
A flow of bolts and plates began to rain down.
"Whoops!" He jumped back as the bracing shaft followed the coupling and rattled against the sooty floor. Peering in, he saw nothing else making its way behind it. Shrugging, he jumped into the access corridor.
"It's down!" he yelled forward.
B'Elanna watched the secondary systems flicker to life as she hastily whacked in a new control node. The impulse engine whirred back to life. The captain put it to use immediately, throwing her off her footing briefly before the systems compensated again. The inertial dampers would have to be reinitialized--right alongside the rest of the ship.
"*They're firing again!*" came Maryl's report from two decks above.
The statement was so common B'Elanna all but ignored it. What she couldn't ignore was an engine room slowly coming to look like a smoking junk pile, pitifully few spare parts to work with and her overworked staff of two with no end in sight. Finally en route to Irtrin to drop off their regular shipment of building supplies, they were on their fourth Maquis attack; half functional with a working warp drive was looking good.
A five-minute sonic shower looks even better.
Crawling on the deck beneath the smoke layer to an access station, B'Elanna pulled herself up as the ship rocked and sparked with another hit. Shields were somehow holding; Tom was managing to keep the attacking ship on their port side that time. They were moving at a snail's page toward Irtri space--which at impulse would take a few years.
The warp drive remained offline. They simply couldn't get warp and full shields to work together anymore. Once the Maquis ship had knocked out their bubble, there was no way to reinitialize until defensive shields could be taken down again.
So B'Elanna held onto the station and worked the deflector instead with quick but aching fingers, cursing as she heard each phaser strike take another chunk out of their defenses and blow another system in the bargain. Death, help, holding on: Any choice would have suited her at that moment as long as it came about. She had grown too tired and too annoyed to care.
Her eyes narrowed on another line of relays and she turned to call behind her again. "Ridge, open up that power shunt and reroute the secondary controls through there before primaries go down!"
"I like your confidence!" he returned.
She couldn't help but snort. Ridge really was a piece of work. Better still, within a few seconds, he'd diverted power as she'd directed--and just in time, too, as his wife's voice sounded yet again from above...
"*They're lining up...Prophets! A torpedo!*"
"*Trying to evade!*" Tom shouted. "*Hold on! --Damnit! Everyone hold on!*"
Suddenly, a boom echoed through the lower hull, throwing B'Elanna loose of her station, up into the air and tossing her back onto the deck like a sack of parts as a new round of coolant sprayed through the air. Her head smacked the grate a split second after her body did. The computer gravely warned them of the hull instability even as it sealed it. The torpedo had knocked out their aft shields and damaged their lower cargo bay. Thankfully--so to speak--it was empty on that leg.
"B'Elanna!" It was Ridge. "You okay?"
Looking up, the swirling spots in B'Elanna's vision dissipated in time for her to see her station fizzle out.
"Damn," she hissed, pulling herself up to her hands. She felt the quick trickle of blood from her forehead, running down the side of her face just as the sting of it began. "I'm..." She coughed, tried for a stronger voice, but then gave it up. She knew she wouldn't get above the steam and klaxons. He'd run up soon enough.
Stumbling to her feet, she made her way back to another console. Wiping the condensation from the viewscreen, she tried to patch back in to the engine stats just as an Irtri border patrol zoomed in to their proximity. As Ridge jogged over to her, she pointed.
The Maquis was clearly unprepared for company, for they hadn't even broken off their attack when the Irtri cruiser opened up its torpedo bays and threw a volley directly into the Maquis ships' nacelles. A simple matter to them, it seemed, as they gracefully pulled back and waited for the result.
The Maquis ship burst from the inside out but a couple seconds later, filling the black field with dazzling blue fireworks.
No celebratory responses met the view. They all just stared at their nemesis sizzled away.
Finally, the captain spoke. "Shields down," he said, almost a whisper in a dry throat.
B'Elanna found herself descending to her knees. "Over again," she mumbled.
Ridge bent down beside her. "You okay, there, B'Elanna? You need me to call Savan?"
"No," she answered. "Just let me get my breath back, okay?"
"Okay." Straightening, he tapped into the engine specs again, checked their power diversions. "Tom, we can probably manage warp four-point-six, a little more when we get back on our primary PTC online again. --That okay, B'Elanna?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Yeah, four-point-six," Ridge reiterated.
Immediately, the warp drive reactivated in the bay behind them. A few seconds later, the thrumming core stabilized and sped. "*Okay, we're on,*" Tom announced. "*Going to warp four-point-six.*"
"I could use help on the drive, too, if you can get away," Ridge added.
A pause. "*Yeah. The Irtri are leading us in. Nadrev should be there in a second. Savan can take the conn.*"
"Umm, actually, I think I'll need her in the lab for a minute."
The engineer had passed out against his leg.
Tom rounded into the lab just as Ridge laid B'Elanna on the table. As Savan opened her tricorder, he briefly examined the knot on her head himself, then all that surrounded it. Her hair was matted up with blood, half-smashed against her dirty face. Pulling the dark curls away from the injury, he drew a deep breath through his nostrils. "Let me know if you need anything," he said quietly. "I'll ask the Irtri if they can spare it."
"I will give you an assessment momentarily," Savan told him.
"How long to Irtrin?" Ridge asked.
"More than ten days at this rate," Tom told him, nodding to himself as he took a step back from the engineer. He looked up at Ridge. "We need to get back up to six-point-anything if we're to make our deadline."
"Got it," the other man acknowledged.
"She has a concussion," Savan reported, "and has lost some blood in addition to several contusions. I believe I can treat her without outside assistance." She looked at them. "I will contact you when her treatment is completed."
Tom took it for all she meant and led Ridge into the corridor. Heading straight back to the smoky hole at the midship, he looked up at his friend. "You think I'll ever manage not to have the female staff pissed off at me?"
"Probably not," Ridge gamely replied. "But I'm sure, if you try really hard, you can make me and Nadrev want to kick the crap out of you, too."
Tom laughed, barely feeling it but needing a little release.
The onset of the Maquis troubles had left far more than the Guerdon vulnerable. While they knew that some freighters were willingly shipping for the different sects, they also knew those ships weren't getting them everything they needed, so certain bands of the Maquis had begun to spread out their hunting parties, apparently figuring that if the tradeships weren't with them, they might as well be the enemy. Affiliated and unaffiliated alike had been targeted; who would be hit depended merely on what was being carried and if they had any protection.
The Guerdon's regular shipment of building materials and general housing supplies for the Irtrin colonies was a tasty morsel. Thankfully, the Irtri wanted their shipment more and were willing to blow a Maquis bug out of the sky for it with no more than a suggestion that the Guerdon follow them back to the station.
Had they a well armed and defensible ship, they'd have gladly reaped the benefits of dealing in such an insecure area: Almost immediately, rates along the border were rising. The downside was that most independent freighters were not well defended and fewer people were willing to chance their cargo on such a ship. Even the Cardassians had cancelled all alien licenses, suspicious of Maquis working within their borders. Only their old contacts remained willing to trust Tom and his crew. This left them with just enough to get by, but not nearly enough to commit to the massive repairs the Guerdon increasingly needed.
Most of his winnings at Podala had vanished into suppliers' hands before they broke dock. He honestly didn't know where he was going to scrounge up enough to fix their deflector again, much less repair their power transfer assembly properly.
He'd considered once or twice investigating another trade zone. The rebellion was only beginning and Starfleet would eventually lose their stolid stance and Cardassia would drop their polite façade and pull out the guns. Any idiot could see where it was going. Unfortunately, closer into the Federation and their staid regulations was not something he was comfortable with, and Maryl, much as she so rarely visited them, resisted being too far from her family on Bajor. He couldn't afford to lose her and Ridge even if he was willing to. The other end of the Cardassian border past the Rolor Nebula was rather bleak in the way of trade. On the other side, the space past the Beloti sector offered nearly nothing. So, he resolved to bear it out, make what he could of it. Honestly, he would have cared far less if he didn't like his crew so much.
Hard times had come again to the border region.
Rubbing at his back as he grabbed a tool kit, Tom wondered what took it so long.
"What's first?" he asked, following Ridge into the steam.
It wasn't the first time she'd woken to that view, the greenish walls and cubbies of plants and parts. The sounds were different, though. In fact, none but an engine rumble greeted her that time. B'Elanna could tell immediately that it was the warp drive and it was running hard. Not a minute awake and knew where she'd be and what she'd be doing as soon as she was released. Without having to wonder why, she suddenly wanted to get to it.
She looked over. Savan stood at her worktable, setting away equipment and a box of medicine. The room was slightly darkened. Taking a breath, she felt her head lighten, some relief in her swollen eyes. Another, and then her eyes drifted shut. She remembered what happened--and how it happened. She sighed to herself.
Opening her eyes again, she turned her head the other way and saw the captain in the door. Leaning on the jamb, he stared steadily at her. B'Elanna blinked at his appearance. Head to toe, he was filthy and clearly exhausted. Still, he held her gaze for several long seconds, seeming to ask the questions and find the answers silently with a few sweeps over her. Were there questions outside the obvious, she couldn't tell, but he looked like he had more on his mind.
His attention moved to Savan. "We're at Irtrin Station in six hours," he said.
The Vulcan merely nodded.
B'Elanna didn't. "Six hours?" she asked, a loud whisper for her dry throat. She looked at Savan. "How long have I been in here?"
"Thirty-one hours."
B'Elanna growled at the information, not what she wanted to hear.
"We're back up to warp six-point-two," Tom said.
"Who managed that?"
"Ridge and I. Nadrev's been working on the deflector with Ridge's help. The drive's still twitchy, but it's holding together for now. Besides, it's the least of our problems with the major equipment." He pushed himself off the jamb. "Good news is that an Irtrin patrol is escorting us in, so we don't have to worry about any more company for now."
"*Tom?*" It was Maryl.
He looked up at the comm speaker. "Yeah, I'm on my way. --I've got to get up there. I'll be down later to finish helping Ridge with the starboard power relay switches. They were toasted."
With that, he set off into the corridor.
B'Elanna slumped back on the pillow. "God, I almost don't want to see that."
Savan peered at her over her tricorder. "Certainly they could not have left the engine room in any worse condition than you were forced to."
Frowning, B'Elanna grudgingly let her have that one. "When can I go see if you're right?"
A few hours later, B'Elanna strode into the engine room just as Nadrev was carting out the last of the rubble. She stopped and stared as she realized the extent of their efforts. They'd even taken the extra steps to clean off the deck and get everything organized again. Her toolkit was back in its hole; the parts stores had been refilled where they could be, and even her station on the main control board was functioning for the most part. The display still had a heat crack in it, but it ticked off all her usual information without so much as a blink.
"We had some time since getting the drive back up," Nadrev told her, not waiting for her to ask. "We can't do much else after Ridge and Tom finish the relays until we get the new ODN rods and power couplings."
"How many did we lose?"
"Fourteen couplings, half the rods."
B'Elanna cursed under her breath. That was not the repair she wanted to concentrate on, but it was sure to be once they docked. Shaking her head, she started tapping into her station to catch up on all she missed.
"Is there anything you need me to get to right now?" Nadrev asked.
"Not until I know what we're dealing with this time," she replied. Seeing him nod and turn in the corner of her eye, she looked over at him and said, "But thanks for..."
She stopped. He was already out of earshot.
Sighing, she returned to the report she'd requested, mentally prepared herself for what she'd find there. ODN problems tended to cause as much havoc as the mismatched connections, if not more. The ship's basic systems being lined up into the rods, and then the rods into the trunk, which fed into the main computer, if that network wasn't clicking right, then entire series of systems--and the ability to control them remotely--would simply fail. Having only half the rods functioning meant the ship's computer was running almost entirely on backups. One wrong spark and they could be dead in space.
A few meters behind her, Tom leaned against the railing, waiting for her to finish that particular page of readouts. He knew what they were telling her, and he could probably expect what she thought about it. When she reached to tap the screen down, he said, "It'll get worse as you move in on the primary EPS distributor. It's burnt out. Secondary is working, but obviously, we'd rather have two of those, too."
She barely glanced back. "I'll rebuild it."
"I know."
That time, she looked, but he was already crossing for the supply shelf. "The relay switches are the last thing we can do down there, by the way," he explained. "We should have that done before we get to Irtrin."
Pursing her lips, B'Elanna tapped on her screen. "Will it be offline for long?"
"Only a few seconds as we turn over to primaries again. Savan's ready for it."
"Okay. Let me know when you're about to do it so I'm not surprised."
"Yeah, that'd be a good idea," he replied and moved to collect another bundle of toggles without another word.
Left again to the background pulse of the warp drive, B'Elanna growled out a breath. She didn't like feeling three steps behind, which she plainly was and a little useless to boot. The older, more accustomed crew had gotten the Guerdon back on its feet and well into its repairs without her. The EPS and warp drive were disasters waiting to happen, but they were moving and would make their deadline if nothing else impeded them. Seeing flags blinking beside the deflector, long-range sensors, navigation control and the EPS core Tom had mentioned, she could feel her shoulders tightening.
This is endless, she knew.
Then again, she'd felt a need to regroup since they lost Jerod. On top of losing someone she was quickly coming to call a friend, the team she'd so quickly built was cut and everything felt like it was limping a step. His skills and banter had been such a part of the ship she was just getting to know. She couldn't train Nadrev yet; she had far too many other priorities, more with every phaser shot. Though Ridge was careful to consult her, she didn't feel like she had a handle on where the new comm tech was. Then there was the ship, which seemed to be falling through her fingers even as she tried to string it together. There was just so much damage, an impossibly slim budget and only a few hands.
Not that it'd matter in a few months. Paris clearly hadn't changed his mind, had made every effort to clear the field between them. She'd taken care of any hopes he'd had in hiring her by coming down on him as she had. The Maquis attacks had made that technically impossible, too.
No, it didn't really matter if she got anything upgraded again. But she'd be damned if whoever replaced her would think her a fraction as incompetent as her predecessor had been.
Looking at the hole where the captain had disappeared, she just wished she wanted to leave that time.
The gleaming white and cream corridors of the Irtrin Trade Station were almost an insult to Tom's eyes. The Irtri's kindly efforts to make their visitors calm and comfortable in fact produced the opposite effect on him. Clean but disheveled, he could do everything but feel at ease before the well-placed kiosks and long-boned locals, neat and peaceful and relatively unbothered. He ignored the "natural" light coming down from the fake sunroofs and barely bothered to acknowledge the quick greetings of other captains as they crossed. He felt their curious stares in their address, though.
The Guerdon had come in under escort. Like at Podala, everyone knew they'd been kicked and were weak for having to be led. Pricing would be adjusted accordingly. Fellow traders who hadn't been targeted looked at him and knew they'd probably get a dose of the same. They seemed to walk around him, almost as if his bad fortune was contagious. That much was a good thing, Tom thought, stepping up his pace a little. He wasn't in the mood to chat. Rather, with four hours before the next expected sign-off, he knew he'd have time for at least a few rounds--both at the bar and at the tables.
Driving himself directly to the lounge, he signaled Ptliani, the bartender, before he got to the lounge. She immediately turned and poured his usual ale, a local spiced variety he'd enjoyed since his first taste of it two years ago. Tom fished in his pockets for the credits and dropped a few on the bar, dredging up a small grin as well before turning for the back room. Clean-lined and neutral as the rest of the place, it was well equipped with every form of diversion and regrettably empty, save a few veterans he knew were probably looking for the same sort of customer he was.
Not that I expected my luck to turn around today, Tom frowned to himself. He'd been hoping to supplement their supply of ODN rods. They'd only been able to buy what they needed from the Irtri supply master when they arrived. They needed another full flat for stock.
They glanced over after several seconds, a couple offering a slight nod of greeting, then returned to their self-made game, smoothly unsettled forms in coats either to wide or too long. Most of the tradeship captains Tom knew adopted a coat eventually. He'd had his when he came out to the DMZ region, but started wearing it regularly after getting the Guerdon. For no real reason, it felt right to wear it.
He made his way over to one of the captains, who idly poked around the dom-jot table, intermittently sipping at a greenish ale.
"Netor," Tom said quietly, coming around the table to take up a stick.
The man looked up and blinked at what he saw. "Paris," he said slowly, then shook off his impression.
"Slow in here lately?"
"Wrong shift," Netor told him. "Playing was good on the other side of day, I was told."
"Hmm. I might be back for that, then." Paris leaned on his cue and looked the table over. "Care for a friendly game? Winner takes the first dupe in the door?"
"Sounds good. The terik's yours."
Tom leaned down and struck the first corner, almost casually as he geared himself up for a little play. Really, he needed the money and would have much preferred to be playing a challenge, but there was no chance of betting with Captain Netor, who was historically broke and therefore a great dom-jot player. Tom also knew he'd have to lose to Netor, just to look like he was in a slump--though that wasn't as all far from the truth. As it was, it'd be a nice warm up after a couple weeks largely under the grates.
"Three," Tom said, moving around to the inner corner, taking his shot. It missed by a fractional margin, just as he wanted it to.
"Two in," Netor said, moving in as Tom backed out.
It was by no means a diversion, however. Aside from his beat-to-hell ship waiting for a parts delivery fifty levels below, he couldn't get Savan's warnings out of his head. His body was starting to hear them, too. He'd been having trouble urinating lately and the pain in his back had become more than a nagging muscle to rub. He didn't have time for some Irtri doc to "research the necessary information" and get back to him. They'd have to break dock before the requests even filtered through a Human specialist's request list--if the Irtri actually wanted to go that route in the first place. He wasn't so sure he wanted them to take another route, when he thought about it.
Tom steadily drank his ale, waved back at Ptliani for another as he reached the bottom quarter. Finishing the first and setting the glass aside, he moved up for his turn.
"Ones out," he said quietly and struck the terik.
"You hear if Dejin's made her way here, yet?" Netor asked after the shot was completed.
"I did," Tom nodded. "She'll make dock in, oh, about sixteen hours."
He hoped he could make it back to Minjau. They weren't expected at Deep Space Nine, where a Human doctor was assigned, for another couple months. He suddenly wondered what might happen in the worst-case scenario.
"Out a bit much, there," he commented, forcing a little lightness into his tone as he swung away from the table.
"Nines center," Netor said, taking the move.
Just another massive disappointment heaped out on top of another, Tom thought, his eyes losing focus as he stared at the table. Were it not for his mother, he might have cared less. Were it not for her and his crew, he wondered if he'd have cared at all...on a bad day. It'd have to be a bad day. Despite his taste for moderate self-destruction, the thought of death wasn't appealing.
Then what *am* I doing with all of this? Rolling on without end? --Not without end if things continue on this route, though. I might get this over with without even trying for it.
"She's carrying duranium again?" Netor asked.
"Her favorite," Tom replied.
The other trader moved around the table, running his thick hand along his cue. "She' won't have fun coming in with that sort of fare."
"She requested an Irtri patrol well ahead of time."
"I hear they do good work," Netor commented, then promptly missed his shot. He backed off, reached for his drink.
"When it's in their interest to, yes, they do."
He really needed to write his mother again. He still hadn't gotten around to that. But as it was, he knew it would kill a part of her, especially in that situation and in his shame, rotting away on the DMZ. More guilt upon that shame, that time doled out on the one person who'd always kept him in line and loved him no matter what. He could see her bitterly crying at the dining room table, her slim, pretty hands knotted into fists against her forehead, her back shaking with sobs as she wailed out for her boy....
Feeling his chest tighten, blinking heavily, Tom moved swiftly around the table, struck the terik and rolled it into the nines without thinking. "Damn!" he hissed first, then lied on impulse, "I haven't done that in a while."
By his silence, Netor was hardly convinced, but Tom decided not to be bothered. They weren't wagering. And Tom probably wouldn't catch up at that station. So, he just shrugged and took the next turn.
His back began to hurt. He swished down half of his second ale and lined up his shot again.
He'd finished his fourth when a neat man of about thirty strode into the back room, carrying his assignment inventory in a hand, activated and in full view of anyone with decent vision. Tom peered over at Netor. "All yours."
The other man grinned generously. "But you're ahead, Paris. Not by much, but--"
"Don't worry about it," Tom cut in with a wave of his hand. "I'm a little off and too tired to wheedle anyone right now. I need some sleep. Have fun."
"Thank you," Netor accepted.
Tom took his glass up into his unsteady fingers and, nodding to the new captain passing in, took it to the bar. Netor was offering the young supplier a game before Tom's tip met Ptliani's side purse.
Digging his hands into his pockets, warming them there, he set off down the corridor to the lift. His eyes weighted as he tried to point them ahead, feeling the buzz form the ale more than he should have. But then, he hadn't lied. He really was tired--more tired than he wanted to admit at that point for all they'd had to do in PTC control on the way in. He got a few hours about fifteen hours ago, but a few hours sleep just wasn't doing what it had for him a year or so ago--even a few months ago.
He wondered if Maryl might manage to deal them into Deep Space Nine. Despite the danger, he knew the medical facility there was a very good one.
He'd made the turn into the center corridor and spotted the docks lift when he heard another person turn into the corridor behind him. Heavy steps--booted, and thus not Irtri. Long and slim-footed, even their military preferred a sort of tight slipper that was designed to not impede their natural agility. The pace behind Tom was steady, slowing slightly when he slowed, becoming quieter, too. He could barely hear the person breathing.
Shit, was his first thought, followed by a series of options. He wasn't up for any of them.
So, Tom decided to just stop and turn around to see who it was. Doing just that, a square-set, crop-haired man in a brown leather vest kept on his pace and passed him. Tom saw the tattoo on his forehead and a quick glance his way as the man crossed. Tom cursed under his breath, drew another, then slowly turned to follow the man to the lift.
He should have known they would find him eventually. They obviously knew the ship for all the holes they'd poked into it. They'd wanted something beside their cargo. They'd gone well out of their way to get the Guerdon's attention and had been willing to tempt the attentions of Starfleet to make that happen. Time to finally find out what, Tom scowled, catching up with the other man, who had stopped at their destination.
They silently waited for the lift doors to open. Long minutes passed, and the computer quietly apologized for the delay, promising the next pod would be there to take them soon. As far as Tom was concerned, it could take its damn sweet time. Unfortunately, it didn't.
The men stepped inside. Tom moved forward enough to allow the other man in, leaned a shoulder against the wall. When the door swished shut behind him, he turned and looked at the Maquis captain in full view as he commanded the computer, "Delta one fifty-two, no stop."
The lift whirred to life and committed to its command, lowering them into the pit of the station.
"What do you want?" Tom asked at last.
"A few minutes of your time," the Maquis answered, almost friendly in his frankness.
"You've had that."
"I want a little more."
Tom held the man's plain gaze for several seconds, then waved a hand at him. "You probably already know it takes a few minutes to get to the delta one fifty-two."
"I'd like to request your services for a few runs into the DMZ," said the Maquis, his tone unchanged. His stare did not waver but to blink. "I know you're an excellent pilot who knows what he's dealing with, which is what we need. From our past dealings, I know I can trust you to be honest and quiet, for the good of all involved."
"The way I remember it, we had one deal and I had no choice but to keep my mouth shut," Tom pointed out. "As for fair, I got what you were willing to give up. So let's try again, Captain: What do you want?"
"I need you to run three shipments of supplies, two to colonies in need of provisions; one to a community we're setting up."
A base Tom translated. Food and weapons. Sympathy and business. The man's technique was obvious but impressive. His voice was quiet, slightly yearning and yet upfront. His even stance remained non-threatening, his face was alert but unreadable. Being aware of all this did little to mollify Tom.
"I know deals have been thin for you and others in your classification," the Maquis continued. "It's going to get worse."
Tom coughed an ironic laugh that felt better than it should have. It's been so long since the impulse had grabbed him, he almost couldn't stop. But he did calm, eyeing the other man. "You really have balls to requisition me after what you and others in your 'classification' have done to us."
"Yes, I noticed you had a long supply list. I'm sorry for your trouble."
"I'm sure you are."
"We can help you with that."
"You haven't done enough for us already?"
"Obviously not. Moreover, we can help you--not only get the parts you need, but guarantee you're not put in your present position again."
"Oh, well, that's a comfort."
"You're not interested?"
Tom laughed again. "Sure, I'm interested in keeping my crew alive and my ship in one piece, Captain," he replied condescendingly. "Should I be anything otherwise, or am I just reading you wrong?"
The other captain stilled, his façade momentarily hardening as he took in the younger man's tone. But a moment after that, he nodded, regarded him again. "It's been rough for everyone out here lately," he conceded, "and I hope you believe me when I tell you I wish it didn't have to be like this. But it is, and the truth of the matter is that I need someone with your skills and trustworthiness to get some badly needed supplies where I need them to go. You will be paid--not much, but the safety insurance afterwards will pay for itself and some for all the parts you won't need to replace."
Sighing a hard breath, Tom turned to shake his head to himself. "I should've known it'd catch up with me," he said, more to himself, then, releasing a breath, continued, "If you know my record, you know what got me out here. You're more willing to deal with me because you know I'll want to cover my ass all the more. You know Starfleet would love to crucify me again."
"Probably, yes."
"Because you were one of them."
The man paused, then decided to admit to it. "I gave up my commission for the cause, yes."
"Nobility that knows no bounds," Tom muttered. "I'm surprised you'd be seen in the same room with the likes of me."
A silence sat between them as the turbolift changed directions. The Maquis captain wisely did not justify nor try to deny the younger captain's remark. After several seconds, however, he said, "Computer: Correction. Beta ninety." The lift slowed, turned, then began again to its new destination.
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Tom understood, grinding his teeth. His bloody boots appeared before his tired eyes, accompanying the pains growing in his tight chest. It'd taken days to get the stains out of the bottom edges and toes, Jerod's blood, and their reclamators weren't functioning. He'd settled on just scrubbing them, over and over, until it looked like ordinary grime. Memories of their last couple of months filed through, all the malfunctions, the attacks, the thin deals: Jerod was gone, and now the Guerdon was dying. Unable to recover fully after the Hugora attack, the ship was starting to come apart at the seams. His engineer had been knocked around badly a few times now, and his contract liaison was about to kill something when she wasn't being set on fire; they were broke and tired and needed a break. The Maquis were anxious to provide it after a few months of doling out the need. Tom never hated anyone so much as he did just then. Were he any stronger...
"You have a choice," the Maquis told him. "Accepting my offer is simply the better one."
"And how long will these errands of mercy occupy my ship?"
"I can't see it being too--"
"Come off it!" Tom shot a glare back at the man. "You think I haven't put up with enough of your games already? We haven't done anything to you and wouldn't have touched your business if you hadn't come after us. The least you can do is answer me straight the first time. How long would we be tied to your chain?"
"I don't know," he answered. "I can tell you we never use anyone too long. But the protection is permanent, as long as our dealings stay between us."
"Naturally," replied Tom sourly.
"Your shipments would be double-loaded with your regular cargo. We'll be lending you a small craft for the second and third transfers. According to our scans, your lower bay can house a large shuttle."
Tom smirked. "The one place on my ship left in fine shape."
He ignored that. "The shuttle will be equipped with everything you need to navigate through our territory and evade people you don't want to meet. Your payment will be waiting for you upon delivery. After the third shipment is completed, we may or may not call you again."
The younger captain closed his eyes as he leaned against the bulkhead. Drawing a deep breath, he stuffed down the insult and the rage. He knew he was beat without having raised a finger. With his luck, he'd get caught his first time out and tossed under a brig as an example to all, and that plain-mannered Maquis captain wouldn't care a jot but for what little information Tom might have on him. Once again, he was at the mercy of fortune and could do nothing else but play the round.
The turbolift reached its destination and, with a soft ding, slowed to a stop. Tom opened his eyes. "This involves my crew, too," Tom quietly told him as the doors opened. "They'll have to agree to put themselves on the line before I make any decision."
The other captain shrugged, stepping out of the lift. "That's fine. It's your ship--for now. I'll meet you here tomorrow, same time."
Tom let the hard silence of the lounge press upon him as he drew on his whiskey. He could feel every eye boring into him, but he didn't meet a one. He swished the numbing liquid around in his mouth a little and swallowed. It was tasteless, but it did the job otherwise. It'd been cheap, but he was pleasantly surprised to discover it was good stuff--and effective. He'd needed that to deliver that most recent job offer to his crew.
"This time, I don't have my mind made up," he added quietly. "If we do this and get caught, we all could wind up in a Federation penal facility and possibly have the Guerdon recalled. You have to make up your own minds, and if you want out, you can have a vacation while this is being done. I won't blame you and I promise we'll pick you up when it's over. In any case, you choose."
With that, he finished his glass, set it down with a light clink, then reached over to pour himself another. He knew he wouldn't sleep that night otherwise, his liver be damned. He was more tired than sick just then.
"I guess I'm out, then," said B'Elanna. Her dark, sharp eyes found everyone there, accusing them all for their lack of protest. "That Maquis and his people killed Jerod, and they've been laying waste to the ship ever since. You're damned right I want nothing to do with this captain or any part of their 'cause.'"
"You won't get any argument from me," Tom told her, finally glancing up.
"But you're considering it," B'Elanna said.
"I have to," he replied. "I'd be a fool not to, the shape we're in. Besides, two of those runs are ones that won't make me sleep any less at night. That part I don't mind, even when I know he stuck it in to sweeten the bargain. The last run, yeah, I'd rather not do."
"You don't actually think they'll leave us at that, though," Maryl stated.
"No way," Tom said, shaking his head. "They'll use us as much as they can before it's a security risk for them. He's in this for more than he's saying, no question about it. They won't care about us as long as we wipe our records, either. We'll never see them come to our defense if we're caught."
"But then," Ridge reiterated, "we'll be insured against attacks later on."
"Which will be our primary means of attracting business in the foreseeable future," Savan noted.
B'Elanna reared her head in disgust. "I can't believe what I'm hearing here," she declared. "Those people killed Jerod! And we're going to work with them?"
"Jerod's death," Savan stated, "while most unfortunate, was not their aim. The Maquis wished to damage us and bring us to a state of desperation so we would desire a solution. We are at this point now, and must make a decision that will help us to continue with our only means of income and maintain those among us who were not killed."
"Got to give them credit for being obvious," Tom said quietly.
Nadrev hummed a little to himself at that. "Did he specify what the third run would contain?"
"No," Tom admitted. "But I won't be surprised if it's similar to the containers Mesler was carrying." Tom blinked slowly, remembering the Maquis anxiously digging into them on Mesler's ruined barge. "Power, weapons, maybe some building or ship supplies."
"Are they paying us at all?" Maryl asked.
"Paying us?" B'Elanna coughed.
"Actually, yeah," Tom told them both, "we'll get a little for our troubles. Enough for a jolt of deuterium, I'd guess."
B'Elanna rolled her eyes. "That'll come in use when Starfleet catches up with us."
Maryl sighed at her response. "Look, I know where you're going with this, what you're thinking." Glancing over at Nadrev, she could see his face reflecting her own. She returned her attention to the engineer. "But idealism's not going to save anyone out here."
"I never said it should," she returned.
"Then you'll know that sometimes you have to deal with these kinds of people," Maryl pressed. "It's not right or noble, I know. But look at my face. --B'Elanna, look at my eyes. I know it's not what we should do. But this deal will keep us going until the Federation makes a move, one way or another, and it will keep the Maquis off our backs until this all gets straightened out. Plus, it's helping people like Jerod's family, which I personally have no problem with. The Maquis are assholes who got Jerod killed and are ripping us apart. No one's forgetting that. But the colonists are the real victims, having to stick it out in a bad place because of some damned line drawn in the sky. We're just uncomfortable compared to them."
"But we'll be helping the Maquis, too."
"Yes. And helping ourselves while we're at it. It's a bad trade, but we can't choose that right now."
"We're dead in the water if we get hit again," Ridge said, uncharacteristically sedate. The big man sat slumped back in his seat next to his wife, rubbing his sore hands together. "We can't afford another attack."
"Which will happen as soon as we leave Irtri territory if we don't agree," Nadrev added.
"You still have the right to opt out, B'Elanna," Tom told her. "You don't have to be on board when this happens; I'll document that."
Her stare darted back to him. "Yes, I do have to be here," she snapped. "I'm the engineer. I don't have to like your decisions, but that doesn't mean I need to abandon ship every time that happens."
A pause. Tom didn't fill it but to hold her glare a few seconds before looking at his crew again. "Anyone else?"
No one spoke.
"I'm assuming you're all willing to go through with this, then?"
"We need to," Maryl said, none too pleased about it, but equally resigned.
Tom snorted softly. "I'd hoped I'd have more fight, actually," he said and finished his drink in several long swallows. With that, he pushed himself to stand. "I'm off for the night."
He left his glass and bottle on the table, not looking back.
They took that as their cue to break it off, too. Ridge dutifully took Tom's glassware to the reclamator; Nadrev and Savan left for the bridge. Maryl began to wait for Ridge, but saw B'Elanna striding out, turning right for the engine room. Wordlessly, the Bajoran slipped out to catch up. Glancing up at her, the engineer blew a short breath and looked forward again.
"What?" she asked.
"I think you need to give Tom a break," Maryl said.
"A break? For helping the people that killed Jerod?" She shook her head bitterly. "I can't believe he gave that captain his time."
"I really doubt it was Tom's choice."
"He did have a choice not to betray someone I thought was his friend."
"Yes, he was his friend," Maryl returned. "Ridge and I knew Jerod the longest, but he and Tom were good friends. Jerod being blown to pieces wasn't something Tom needed to have happen. Really, B'Elanna, it's the last thing he needed to see. Tom's also lost a good chunk of his dignity trying to protect us, making this deal. He's going to hate cooperating with those people more than you ever will, and he won't feel better about it even after it's over."
B'Elanna shrugged. "I'll admit he's getting us out of the rut we've been stuck in."
Maryl scowled at her. "What's wrong with you, B'Elanna? Did you and Jerod have something going on that I didn't know about? You wish Tom got it instead?"
"No!" she responded, then drove her stare away as she blew a breath. "It's not...We had a disagreement at Andal."
"I remember. You've been sore about it since."
"And he hasn't," she scoffed.
"No," Maryl countered, "he's been busy trying to keep us in one piece. He's got you paid back, too, right? Do the math and you'll know he had to have called in some debts to do it so soon. However he did it, he's honored his promise, so it's over with in his book."
"Yeah, I'll bet it is."
Turning into her office, Maryl was glad to see the engineer follow. So young, she reminded herself, not for the first time that day. B'Elanna's talents and confidence in her expertise made it easy to forget she wasn't halfway through her twenties yet. Reading people obviously was not the woman's forte. Turning in the middle of the room, Maryl squarely held her stare. "Look, I'm usually the last one to take pity on Paris, but I know he'll always blame himself for Jerod--for considering the deal in the first place. He doesn't need our help feeling like crap about it, especially when it wasn't his fault and we all agreed to it."
B'Elanna frowned at the truth of that. "Everyone but you."
"I said yes in the end," Maryl pointed out, "and gladly took my share of the earnings. Tom did the best he could to follow through, B'Elanna. Now he's doing all he can to keep it from happening again. I can't say I'd give up so much pride to protect this lousy rig, so I have to respect that he will. Give him a break and get past whatever your problem is, trust him to keep us alive out here."
With that, Maryl connected with the Irtrin contract delegate. The engineer left her to her work.
Rubbing uselessly at his aching back with a thumb, Tom looked the Maquis in the eyes as soon as the turbolift doors opened. The other man's brow rose. The rest of his face seemed set in stone.
"Yes," Tom said simply.
Relaxing slightly, the other man tried not to look too pleased. "My name is Chakotay. I'll transmit the codes and directions you'll need. Have your engineer prepare your computer for some dumps."
"Yeah, I don't want any tracks either," Tom said.
"We'll contact you as soon as you're ready. Where is your route taking you?"
"We're headed back to Kytrel by way of Miga."
Chakotay nodded. "Good. You'll have a week to rendezvous with us after we confirm contact."
With that, the Maquis captain turned and disappeared into the first cross-corridor.
"I never thought I'd wish a man dead," Tom muttered as the lift doors closed again.
"I almost wish I had a god to damn," remarked Dejin as she strode into the wrecked midsection of the engine room and stopped at the edge of a steaming pit.
Halfway into the deck's plasma control assembly, B'Elanna wiped her wet brow with a filthy hand then turned to see the trader. "I heard you were coming through today."
"I just transported a flat of parts to your main bay," she told her. "Tom grabbed me two minutes after I got here."
"I hope he got what we need."
"He said it was Ridge's list, some of the items he couldn't get through the usual routes here." There, Dejin shrugged for what it was worth. "I'm sorry you've been picked apart so readily."
B'Elanna nodded her thanks, not wanting to discuss it further. "Maryl says she's only dealing with what the Maquis won't be looking for so we can have a break. I don't know that'll be possible for long."
"I'll be surprised if it is," Dejin admitted. "But if you can, head out to the outer Migan scrap yards. You might find something useful, collect some of the larger items you might need and refurbish them. You might buy yourself a better break later on."
"That's a good idea. Thanks." The engineer pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the deck. Reaching out to her kit, she ran a sonic wand over each hand and her face, removing most of the grime with a few concerted sweeps. A neat little device, she'd picked it up from a Lasaran vendor on Podala after signing off on their waste dump. She knew she needed to conserve her funds, but couldn't resist the promise of getting suitably clean in seconds and without having to go any further than her tool kit. After using it the first time, she wondered what she'd ever done without one and how she'd managed not to hear about it before.
"Are you off?" Dejin queried.
"No. We need these systems online before we break dock at twenty-two hundred. But I want to see what you've brought."
With a nod, the other woman backed up enough to give B'Elanna room to fall in by her side. Together, they started walking towards the port ladder. Glancing over, Dejin commented, "Tom's looking pretty rough."
B'Elanna shrugged. "Is he?"
"You're here every day; maybe you don't see it. He looks sick." Pausing, she tried again. "His mood wasn't much better. Being targeted isn't much fun, but I think he's trying to make up for something here now, too."
That managed to pique B'Elanna's curiosity. "What do you mean?"
"I mean it's interesting that you hoped he'd bought the right parts. He seemed especially concerned that you got what you needed."
"What's so wrong with that?"
"Nothing, but Tom usually doesn't care whom he's getting the parts for, just that they get to the right place--and don't tell him I told you that."
"Then why tell me at all?"
Dejin managed a grin at that. "You've really been riding him, haven't you?"
B'Elanna colored at the truth of it and hoped the wily trader couldn't see it in the dim lights as she tuned to get on the ladder. Climbing down, she waited for the other woman to come down before answering. "We've had some disagreements, but I wouldn't say it's been an all-out war. I hardly even talk to him right now."
"Hmm." Waving her ahead, Dejin let B'Elanna set the pace that time. "Look, I wouldn't bother if I wasn't concerned about him and about what could happen to all of you. The Federation not taking care of the Maquis and jumping on the Cardassian problem is only going to exacerbate the problem in the end. We're all at risk because of it."
"Things will get resolved eventually," B'Elanna told her, "there and here." She didn't bother telling how it would be resolved on her end, at least, in only a couple more months. As for the other matter, she wouldn't have to worry about it after the first was done with.
Dejin didn't ask for details on it, either, but said, "The Maquis are a pretty tough group. Tom had a bad feeling about the colonies when we talked here last year, so it only figures he'd be a magnet now. He's not alone."
They passed into the aft loading bay, where a neat flat of equipment and parts sat just off the loading dock, waiting to be inventoried. Coming around it, B'Elanna could tell someone had begun to--likely Ridge. He had a habit of leaving his tricorder on top of the next thing he needed to get to, like a bookmark. Respectful of his work, B'Elanna passed it to tap into the central console for the input list.
"So how do you see it playing out?" she asked as she worked, correctly assuming Dejin wanted to tell her.
"Money's tight, and it'll only get worse all around the region," the trader said, leaning back against an adjacent support pylon, "especially for us politically unaffiliated traders. Worse than that, without affiliation and as unremarkable as it is, you can bet the Guerdon will eventually be a target for persuasion."
B'Elanna hid her response behind a concerted scrolling effort.
"One of these days," Dejin continued, "Tom will have to decide what's more important, his living or his pride. He captains your ship, but he has a pilot's sensibility. That's going to be a tough choice for him, not to mention the rest of you."
B'Elanna eyed her. "You sound like someone who's having to make that decision, herself."
Dejin returned the attention in a glance. "Almost. But not yet."
"Yet?"
Dejin shrugged. "Starving people will eat live rats to survive, B'Elanna. When you know that as a fact, the last thing you'll do is let yourself get to that point--if you've got any sense, that is. They've put the pressure on my resources, been tracking me and my affiliates from inside the DMZ; their eyes are all over these stations and they know every deal, every opportunity. When they see something they want, I have no doubt they'll try for it, one way or another. If it comes down to making a deal or losing my ship and my crew...I'll make the deal." Dejin's eyes closed. "I'm not proud to admit it, but I refuse to deny what's more important to me." She opened her eyes again to stare directly at the young engineer. "Pride isn't worth a pile of crap when you're cleaning blood off your bulkheads."
"I guess not," B'Elanna whispered.
"Tom knows that better than anyone right now."
She sawed her molars together as she looked up again. Dejin seemed glad to see her point sink in.
"My whole life is on this route, B'Elanna. Like the colonists, I made everything I have out here, and I love it. Even Tom has more back on Earth than I do anywhere outside this region and I can't see him going back to that life, either."
Ridge and Nadrev came into the bay, the former detailing where they needed the duranium set screws presently and how much should be stowed. They both gave B'Elanna a nod as they picked up another tray each. Distractedly, she nodded back.
"Honestly, I don't care what they think they're fighting for," Dejin continued as her stare darted around at the loading bay. The back walls were still smeared with gray soot; blackened rubble in haphazard piles, yet to be sold for scrap. "I really don't anymore. I used to feel some sympathy for their plight; but that they'd track the circuit and gun freighters down, kill us as if we're the problem, rob us as if we'd been attacking their damned planets..." Dejin pushed herself off the wall, shaking her head. "I need to stop talking about this. I'm just getting pissed off."
B'Elanna nodded. "You can help me finish up the plasma control valves, if you want to work some of it out. We have the right rods now, if you want grab a box."
Dejin grinned. "It'd be my pleasure, B'Elanna. --And thank you."
"I didn't do anything," she dismissed.
"Yeah, you did. --It's okay. It doesn't always have to be on purpose." Patting the engineer's shoulder, Dejin started with B'Elanna back to the main engine room.
Leaning back in his uncomfortable chair, his robe tied lazily around his waist, Tom looked out at the stars as he blindly reached for his glass. Nothing was going to numb it that night, but maybe he could knock himself out. Then again, how could he sleep when he'd just destroyed everything he'd worked so hard to build on that rickety brick of a ship he'd not wanted in the first place?
Before the Ligaran deal, they'd been doing pretty well. Even when Livich left them in a lurch, they'd gotten by. They picked up B'Elanna--literally--they had some good, regular deals, and the crew was finally clicking all together, even with him. Naturally, the temptation of some excitement and a huge paycheck lived up to the "too good to be true" standard and they were paying for it in tenfold--and would continue to, now. Now, he'd dealt with the devil.
One possible result of that deal could send him as low as he could possibly get. He breathed a silent laugh. As if getting cashiered didn't make Dad mad enough. Getting thrown in jail for helping out terrorists would grab the gold.
He drank again. He could hardly feel the liquid go down.
He'd just taken a shower. Coming out of the stall, he had been startled at his appearance when he passed by the mirror. Why he hadn't noticed before the changes in his body, he couldn't figure. Why only Savan had bothered to point it out troubled him. The crew either didn't care, didn't notice, or didn't want to say anything about it to him. He generally didn't give a damn, and though he liked that they didn't either, it did sting a little. But then, he'd been feeling a tad insecure of late.
There was something ever comforting about staring at the stars, though. Always there, always before him, beautiful, clean, uncomplicated: They always reminded him that there was something else, somewhere else, more that what he had.
He ran his finger over the lip of his cool, moist glass, breathing into the steady haze in his head, which grew, circled then radiated out. His shoulders relaxed a little.
A chirp rang out behind him, but he didn't turn towards it. "Open," he commanded and heard a swish and footsteps a moment later.
"Letting it all hang out again, Paris?" queried Dejin quietly as she slid a chair across the room, stopping on the other side of his table. Coming around, she set a bottle of wine on the table and pulled out her own glass as she sat. Reaching over, she threw his robe over his opposite leg. "I don't need to be looking at all that."
He coughed a little laugh. "What's up?"
"I don't feel like drinking alone," she shrugged, pouring her glass, "and I'm not much for the lounge atmosphere. The Irtri have the best trade station in eight sectors, but I feel like I'm imbibing in a sickbay here." Leaning back with her drink, she shared his view of the stars. "I just left your little engineer... --In the engine room, Tom, but thanks."
His responding grin came and went within the same breath. "How's it going back there?"
"She's all done. I gave her a hand." She smiled. "Helps to keep in touch with our subordinates sometimes. Keeps us humble, doesn't it?"
"I'm getting the feeling you're trying to cheer me up," he said cautiously.
She got the point. "Are you sick?"
He drew a fresh sip, rolled it over his tongue before swallowing. "Yeah. Savan's insisting I see a Human specialist. We'll get to one in a few more stops."
"You're getting it taken care of, then?"
"Yeah. I need to."
Dejin nodded, leaned back. "Okay. Thanks for telling me."
Tom drew a slow breath, the corners of his mouth turning up again. That time, it stayed. "Thanks for asking."
It'd be ten days to Miga at warp six-point five; after their pickups there, they'd be off for Kytrel. Away from the border for a little while, the crew saw it almost like a vacation. Maryl, continued to press for the Tagran deal via some old contacts at Ulinas and Ridge was working almost full-time with Nadrev while they weren't doing their usual jobs. Savan continued to spend the bulk of her shift running constant checks on the systems, averting what she could from the bridge and alerting the engine room of failures of malfunctions she couldn't fix remotely. The malfunctions remained common, but without new sores in the side of the ship, they had been better able to focus on them.
For B'Elanna, the run would give her time for work she was anxious to start. Along with suggesting the scrap yards, Dejin had scrounged up some parts in her back room and sold them to B'Elanna at a cut rate. "No one else is going to buy them," Dejin dismissed. It wouldn't fix the bulk of their major problems, but they could hold stave off some of their symptoms, which in B'Elanna's book was half the battle.
They could relax to know the Maquis wouldn't bother them that time, going out or coming in. B'Elanna cursed her relief, cursed the quiet but busy atmosphere she'd enjoyed before the Ligaran deal and now had again. No one else seemed to feel guilty about it. She wondered why she did. She wondered why, every time she thought about their upcoming deal with the Maquis, she could hear the last thing Jerod had said to her, over the scratchy comm and the phaser blasts. "On my way!" he'd called. She believed he'd tried.
Then she wondered why she was being so bothered by it. She hadn't known him long...
Shaking her head at her spinning thoughts, B'Elanna wandered starboard. She'd heard Ridge tell his wife Tom was in the aft parts bay.
She hadn't seen him since the meeting and hadn't thought about it at first. Maryl's little lecture and Dejin's follow-up started playing on her mind, though. She didn't need to be so damned determined to leave when he'd spoken in anger, in an argument. He might reconsider, now that they weren't being blown to hell between stations. It was her mistake to blame him for Jerod's death and for the initiator malfunction, for the ship's bad timing... Then again, the timing wasn't actually that bad after all. Remembering that the same captain that'd met Tom on Mesler's barge was the one who'd attacked them on the DMZ border and now was exacting another advantage made her pity her captain a little. Indeed, Tom had been fighting as hard as anyone to keep them alive; there weren't many options if he wanted to keep doing that.
She was still angry with him, but she was coming to understand his feelings better.
Another half of a battle, she figured as she slowed, then peered inside the old parts room.
Much like the last time she'd found him there, he was kneeling on the bare deck, hunched over one side of a plasma injector, which sat alongside the impulse engine. The shell of the tiny shuttle had been moved to the back corner, and all the other systems remained in neat piles around the room. His coat was in a lump near the door. A flask lay at his ankle.
His breathing was barely audible; in the cool white light of the room, she noticed for the first time how ill he looked. From day one, he had a tendency to be a little rumpled and sometimes haggard after a hard night. This was different. His eyes were sunken and dark and his skin was sallow. He must have lost weight, as without his coat, she could see how his clothes hung upon him, the tendons in his hands. She wondered how long he'd been like that and she hadn't noticed. Certainly, she'd been busy and distracted, but he really did look like hell.
She could see the stress and his sadness in his automated movements, in his quiet, alone in the middle of the room. She stepped in quietly, but her boot heels gave her away. He stopped, but didn't look back. B'Elanna took a few more steps in.
"Mind some company?" she asked, poised to leave on his word. None came. "I happen to know something about shuttle engines. They can be twitchy."
Looking up, seeing an expression as quiet and plain as her tone, Tom blinked, shrugged then wordlessly slid the tools around so she could start on the other injector.
B'Elanna moved closer and knelt on the deck on the other side of the tray. Slowly, they began to work in tandem, pulling parts off the assembly, gradually revealing the smaller machinery within. B'Elanna reached over and wrapped her fingers around a microoptic driver.
"I'll bring my tools next time," she offered, her eyes on the upper valve as she set the end of the tool carefully into it, "if you want."
Stealing a glance her way, he reached down for another driver then continued his work. "Sure."
(c) D'Alaire M, 2007