Title: Guerdon.
Part: IX: Departures. Onto other things.
Author: D'Alaire M.
IX. Departures
The lawn was so green it almost hurt her eyes. The air was wet and cool, the sun, warm. With tightly crossed arms, she strode across the grass, her eyes fixed on her destination. She was busy. She had business. Her feet crunched against the blades; she sped herself, made good time across.
"Give me that!"
"Come on, you're better than that!"
"We're too busy!"
"You want it, you'll have to catch me!"
Looking over, she stilled. Tom stood not a meter away from her, gazing down at her. Not Starfleet. He had his usual brown coat on, flung open and hanging long over his slim hips.
"You'll have to catch me," he said again, a little smile turning his mouth.
Taking the PADDs from her hands and slipping them into his coat pocket, he wrapped his fingers around hers and drew her out onto the grass with him. She followed, reluctantly at first, then gaining speed until she felt herself smiling, even laughing. The cool air brushed her warm cheeks as he led her around the yards.
Then she stopped. His hand still holding hers, he drew her close and slid his hands around her hips. Her breath caught as suddenly as he'd changed their course. She felt his warmth on her bare throat, felt his soft breath on her cheek. His long, warm fingers easily found the waist seam in her jumpsuit.
"Catch me," he whispered to her ear....
B'Elanna jolted awake, hot and half numb from the leap into consciousness. Her sheets felt stuck to her body, though she was dry. She could almost feel where she'd pressed against him, where his hands had gone, and her response... For a moment, she didn't know whether or not she should be annoyed, but then, it was Tom she'd just been dreaming about.
You always pick the convenient ones, she frowned, meanwhile beginning the process of telling herself it was just her subconscious playing around with her day, and it didn't mean anything. Indeed, she knew she didn't have feelings for the man--not romantic ones, anyway. He'd proved himself a friend and had welcomed her friendship, too, back on Ulinas. That was a month ago, though, and now, heading towards a Maquis base in the heart of the DMZ, they'd all been quiet and busy without excuse. It wasn't like anything was--
"*B'Elanna?*"
She jolted again. It was Tom.
"Yes!" she responded, then blew a breath. You can be so incredibly stupid, she cursed herself. "Yes, I'm here."
The comm crackled lightly. Ridge had taken to calling it "Mesler's Revenge." B'Elanna made a mental note to remind Nadrev to poke at the EM junctions yet again.
"You mind coming on a little early? We're twelve hours to Sygra-Two and the subspace transceiver just started twitching again. We might need that when we get there."
B'Elanna snorted. The man did enjoy understatement. "We might. Ten minutes okay?"
"That'll be fine."
Putting her feet on the floor, B'Elanna leaned over and blew a long sigh through her lips.
"Out of the freezer and into the fryer."
Tom's eyes narrowed on the environmental readouts as he muttered the words to himself. Forty Celsius, high humidity, no clouds, no wind. This was reported to be normal weather at this colony site. Better still, instead of dropping off at a convenient landing pad, Maryl was told at Sicira that setup assistance was required with that shipment. They were to deliver and install five internal power generators to replace the old units and install one industrial replicator. The colony's technicians were off with the Maquis, Tom figured, or Captain Chakotay had designed an up close and personal look at what the Maquis was fighting for.
Either way, Tom found himself grumbling even while he knew he didn't have a choice. Unfortunately, the person who'd want even less to do with the drop-off was probably the best choice to help with the installs.
Leaning back in his seat, Tom thought about that. B'Elanna had been through a lot in that last month, between the surprise meeting with her estranged father and the EPS manifold disaster, on top of continuing to work overtime and some to keep them held together on the run to Deep Space Nine. The ODN and main computer were her primary concerns again, power failures her chief fear again, along with a warp drive needing a full retuning with their long, fast runs of late. It was always something, but ever since the Ligaran deal had been literally blasted apart, it was always something major; being unable to fix the problem for good was starting to really tick her off on the bad days.
Tom scrolled through the readouts again and sighed. Might as well ask, he decided. Getting it done and being paid at Deep Space Nine for their legitimate work sooner rather than later would have to win the day. With any luck, B'Elanna wouldn't mind a distraction from the presently unfixable things. Since Ulinas, Tom had gratefully learned that she was capable of enjoying some distraction. Pissed off and tired as hell, they still had a pretty good time sailing on that choppy water, Tom remembered with a little grin. They even managed to keep the boat upright, though barely at times. She seemed equally in her element there as in the engine room, on fire about her latest project or repair. Indeed, he learned a lot about B'Elanna Torres that week.
"Tom, we have another ship coming up on us--fast," Maryl reported, scowling at her panel.
Savan was already on it. "It is Captain Chakotay's ship," she informed him.
"Guess we need a babysitter now, too," he muttered and glanced back at Maryl. "Are they just following, or do they want to chat again?"
"It looks like they're following for now."
"Just how I remember them best--on our tail." He looked at his monitor. Their ETA to Sygra-Two was nine hours, and the status column looked manageable. B'Elanna was probably not too busy...not much busier than usual, as it were. Pushing himself to his feet, he looked at Maryl again. "I'll be on deck two. Let me know when they feel like talking."
Savan stared at him. "Are you certain it is wise to leave the bridge now?"
"We're carrying their contraband," he reminded her. "They're probably making sure we go where we're supposed to go. --And it's not like we could do much if the case were otherwise. Anyway, I won't be long."
Setting himself into a steady pace down the center corridor, Tom rolled his head around, loosening his tense shoulders. Bad enough they were there in the first place.... Then again, the Federation was starting to gear up against the Maquis factions, get better intelligence and make some key arrests. The Guerdon's run-in with the Berlin made Chakotay and his people nervous for good reason. But the Guerdon's deradiative holds were too good to resist and its captain was too easy a prey--a reminder that made Tom roll his eyes. The Maquis captain knew exactly what he was doing, choosing him to make those runs. Now that they had the crates and had flown past the sensor nets, Chakotay could swoop in and see about the rest of the job.
"Rope and hook...son of a bitch," Tom muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He needed to refresh that coat...easily done while he worked on Sygra-Two. He sure wouldn't need it there.
"I need the thirty-two line," came B'Elanna's commanding voice from below. It was a staple sound around the engine room's main control panels, so much so that the place didn't seem right when she wasn't there. Ridge and Nadrev had to admit from time to time that it certainly was more relaxed when their "boss" was off, but even they said it felt empty. Tom shook his head for the umpteenth time to think more on it. She didn't even have a proper engineering degree, but going through the motions of getting a degree would probably bore her to tears at that point. He wondered if she'd ever considered trying to place in an advanced program anywhere, but knew with a sigh she probably hadn't. The Guerdon kept her too busy for any of that. Then again, he could be working far more to his expertise, too.
He shrugged away the old nag, though. He wasn't going anywhere, either.
Coming onto the deck overlook, Tom caught but a glimpse of her as she passed behind the main panels towards the ODN. So she's back on that again, Tom noted. Her small tweaks had been working, though. The main computer had stabilized and some of the compensation issues had been solved. They still needed an overhaul that wouldn't happen for some time yet.
"Want me to bring them?" asked Ridge from the supply room.
"No," she called back. "I'm coming back."
Tom took that opportunity. Descending to deck two, he strode across to meet the engineer just as she made her way back around. "B'Elanna," he said.
She glanced at him. "What do you need?"
Seeing and feeling the chill in her greeting, he shrugged. "You're busy. It can wait."
"I'll be busy later, too," she told him, stopping in the middle of the deck. "Tell me now."
He relented with a nod. "Aside from the materials drop off, this next delivery requires installation work inside the colony itself. I have to go, but I was wondering if you could help set up the units."
She stared at him. "Set up the units," she said tonelessly.
"You have every right to say no and I'll respect it. But I thought I should ask."
She exhaled a breath slowly through her nostrils, considering all over again the chunks of machinery they had strapped to the bulkheads in deck three's beta-seven forward hold, then considering the look in the captain's eyes. He wouldn't have come to her unless he felt he had to. "I'd be lying if I said I wanted to do it...but I will."
"Really, B'Elanna, you can send Ridge with me," Tom assured her, "if you're really against it. I know how you feel about these people. Just that he'll need to know how to do it."
"No, it's probably better I set them up," she conceded, shaking her head. "I have a lot more experience with them. It'll be done more quickly, which is what I really want."
"Quicker is good," Tom said, glad she'd come to the same conclusion on her own. Offering her a small but genuine smile, he added, "Thanks, B'Elanna."
The engineer gave him a nod and continued to the supply room without looking back, her fingers wrapped firmly around her PADD.
"Standard orbit," Tom announced, more to himself than anyone else on the bridge. Savan appreciated hearing it, at least, and somehow, the old habit had become easier on him, as well. He still wondered why he bothered.
"The Maquis ship has set itself into a synchronous orbit," Savan reported.
"And he's opening a secure channel," Maryl added dourly.
"At last, he speaks." Tom leaned back fully in his seat and crossed a leg at the knee.
A few moments later, Captain Chakotay appeared on his screen again, not so angry as the last time but just as looming. His dark eyes knew exactly where to point. "Captain Paris."
"Captain Chakotay. What a surprise."
"Are you ready for transport?" he asked.
"We were assembling our bathing gear before taking the plunge," Tom replied.
The sarcasm played a frown across his face before he realized what the younger captain was saying. "With a shuttle?"
"No," Tom said slowly. "Is it different this time?"
"There isn't a landing site for a ship your size."
Tom's brow drew down. "Why weren't we told about this? Our transporters aren't bio-safe, and we don't have a shuttle. How the hell can we help with an install when we can't land?"
Chakotay paused, looked to his side a moment, but then returned his attention to the younger man. "I apologize. That must have been lost in the details. The colony has no convenient landing site for your ship. However..." Pausing again, he weighed a few options in his eyes as he looked down to tap on his panel. Finally, a little grin touched his lips, then melted. "I have a small shuttle that can take one generator at a time. You're welcome to it for this job."
Tom tilted his head. "Why not just take the generators," he suggested, "and bring them yourselves? You seem to be here for a purpose."
"We need to be here," Chakotay admitted, "but I have no one to spare. Our technicians are busy with repairs."
Like mine aren't, Tom frowned, but let it slide. He knew he would never come close to winning that discussion. "Do you need me to pick up the shuttle, too?"
"We can transport you to our shuttle bay," said the other captain, enjoying that easy victory for what it was worth.
Tom glanced at his status monitor, then looked once again at the other captain. "Let me arrange it with my person on this end, and I'll get back to you. Give me a few minutes."
"You have thirty," Chakotay told him, nodding to his side, then cutting the comm.
"What do you know? The Maquis don't have an anti-grav, either."
B'Elanna pursed her lips for want of a smile. "Guess you can't even steal one out here."
Tom hopped up and grabbed the control arm of the magnetic flat. Thankfully, it came instantly to life and rolled easily down from the gangway hatch and toward the main aft bay access corridor, where Ridge waited with the first generator.
Their transport over to the Maquis ship had been oddly quiet. No one was there to welcome them but the captain's voice over the comm telling them what to do. Tom suddenly understood that Chakotay was in fact low on techs and likely had come to Sygra to recruit some personnel. B'Elanna showed no sympathy for the man's plight--not that Tom had expected any or felt much different, even as a fellow captain. Slipping into the side hatch, Tom immediately walked forward and checked out the controls. B'Elanna ran a couple of quick diagnostics on the engine, just in case the Maquis had something else in mind for the Guerdon's captain. They both had suspected it in vain. The systems all checked out. Tom popped on the thrusters and sailed them out of the Liberty--as they finally learned the Maquis ship was called--to the Guerdon's deck three landing bay in but a couple minutes.
"You sure I shouldn't go instead, B'Elanna?" Ridge asked plaintively as he prepared to push the big machine aboard the cart. "I could learn the install."
"I'd like this to be over with as soon as possible," she told him. "And you won't learn the procedure in ten minutes."
"Don't let that Maquis captain get on your nerves, Tom," Ridge warned.
Tom snorted. "I think I've read the memo, Ridge."
"I'm just saying it," Ridge insisted miserably. "And those roughnecks, too. I don't trust hot colony people."
"You don't like letting your boss out of the kitchen," Tom grinned back at him.
"I thought about that, too." Coming around the flat, Ridge knelt down and punched the extenders. They slid out of their bearings and crawled under the generator with only a few squeaks. When Tom pushed the rest of the unit under, Ridge hit the lift and the big metal box rumbled up onto the base.
B'Elanna immediately examined the unit, checking to make sure the move went well on the inside, too. Generators could take phasers hits to their shells, but the machinery inside was annoyingly sensitive. Units were not designed for mobility. Satisfied, she gave Tom a nod and grabbed her tool pouch. "See you later," she said to her tech and walked up the gangway.
"I'll be waiting for you when you get back," Ridge told them both.
"Yes, Mother," Tom grinned as he locked the generator into place. Giving his friend another look, though, he added, "We'll see you soon."
With that, Tom slapped the hatch control and moved up into the shuttle. Taking his seat in the pilot's couch, his checked the controls again. He'd flown over without a problem, but there was a difference between a ship jump and a planetary landing. More, the shuttle was Bajoran in origin, very old--pre-occupation, in fact--though it would get them where they needed to go and back. The panels had been refitted to Federation standard, so that most ordinary Maquis could read it. For Tom, it'd just been a while since he'd seen a Bajoran configuration. To him, it was a little counterintuitive. It didn't take but a minute to get his bearings, though, and plot in a landing solution.
He looked over at B'Elanna. "Ready?"
"Let's get this over with," she answered.
"Gladly," he replied and tapped the engines into action. Seconds later, they lifted from the Guerdon's aft cargo bay and turned. With a tap, they slid through the forcefield and entered the space just above Sygra-Two. He checked the environmental readouts as it scrolled up and nodded. "Weather's good--for this colony, anyway. Should be smooth going in."
"Just as long as we get there in one piece," she replied. Realizing what she'd said even as she finished the sentence, though, she drew a deep breath and tried to bury it with, "It'll be a long day no matter what the weather is."
Though it stung, Tom knew better than to take it personally. He didn't quite need the reminder just then, though. "We'll land in about eight minutes," he said and angled the shuttle down.
Feeling their descent into the atmosphere begin, B'Elanna leaned back and closed her eyes.
Three generators later, Tom was wiping sweat away from his brow. It'd been a long time since he'd been on such a fireball of a planet, not to mention work on one. He'd probably gulped ten liters of water between trips to hydrate himself, and he'd had to request a sunscreen from Savan to keep his skin from burning. Even B'Elanna was a little uncomfortable by the end of the second run.
"No, I like heat," she told him when he asked. "It's the humidity I can do without."
"Isn't the Klingon Homeworld kind of wet?" Tom asked.
"I couldn't get off that planet fast enough, either," she returned.
Considering how he felt just then, Tom didn't question it.
"So what'd Chakotay contract you to?" queried a tan, strong-armed woman as she helped him and B'Elanna maneuver the big box around to the next installation site.
"We're not on his payroll."
She crooked her head around the edge of the generator to give him a look. "You're not Maquis?"
"That's right," Tom replied coolly. "Just unlucky."
The woman snorted. "Guess so if you're not here for the goodness of your heart."
B'Elanna blew a breath. "The goodness of anyone's heart really doesn't have anything to do with what we're doing right now," she snapped.
"No need to get testy about it," the woman sniffed. "I was just trying to make some conversation."
"Help us get this thing in place and stop asking questions," Tom told her. "You probably don't want to know too much about us as it is."
That silenced the woman more effectively than Tom had expected. Snorting to himself, he wished he'd come up with the line that morning. Cut off from the Federation and not being supplied by anyone not in a rush, the colonists were itching for news and information. For their sake alone, Tom had copied what news feeds they had archived. That didn't take care of their nosiness on the spot, though, and he was having an increasingly difficult time responding with charming repartee when he felt like his skin had been set on a slow boil.
Kicking into the cement to keep some control of the flat cart as they moved down a slight slope, Tom swung the control bar around so they would turn the contraption before getting to the unit housing. The open pit sat just inside the main control building's outer wall, flanked by an array of signal and seismic equipment that kept them from transporting the generator closer. Thankfully, the others were in more convenient positions. "B'Elanna? You got it?" he puffed as he grabbed a corner pylon for balance.
"I've got it. Try to slow it down."
Tom coughed. "Yeah, okay."
Suddenly, another set of hands appeared on the corner. "Let me help you, there," came Captain Chakotay's voice soon after.
Tom brushed off the assistance. "We've got it," he told him and brought the unit around to the housing with a grunt. The thing seemed to get heavier every time he breathed against it. Glancing over, he saw the dark, tattooed man a couple meters away, having indeed let go and watching them finish. He looked a little put off, but Tom didn't care. He was more concerned about securing his grip again and making sure he didn't slip and make an ass of himself in the bargain. "How are we?"
"Just another couple meters, Tom," B'Elanna said. She also could see the Maquis captain waiting there and stifled a growl. "We don't need an audience," she announced. "Isalda, one more push and you're done, too."
"Good!" she huffed and did just that--gave the unit one more push as Tom did, finally easing the unit up almost against the port.
"That's it. Let's get it connected." B'Elanna grabbed her laser wrench as Tom shook out his arms. Kneeling, she popped open the input shield, just like before.
Loosening his shoulders, too, Tom made himself ready to hand her what she needed. Glancing back at the Maquis Captain, he asked, "Come to make sure we didn't install popcorn poppers?"
"Yes," the man answered honestly.
Tom shook his head. "Sixty-two other independent freighters working the border right now. If we're so untrustworthy, why not pick them up instead?"
"Many of them we have," Chakotay replied.
"And the others?" Tom queried. "Are they still operational?"
"I don't keep track of those numbers."
"I'm sure you don't," B'Elanna snipped. "Tom, give me the hyperinverter."
Chakotay looked down at her, then back to Tom. "I don't think we've met."
"That's right," Tom told him as he set the tool in his engineer's waiting hand, "and you won't for a while yet. She's working."
"That beside the fact I'd rather not meet any of you," B'Elanna muttered. Looking back to catch the other captain's eyes straight on, she added, "We're doing your bloodwork. Leave us alone so we can finish this deal and move on, would you?"
Chakotay looked at Tom again. "That's what I came to discuss."
Tom swore between his teeth. Catching B'Elanna's eyes as her head whipped around, he gave her a look. Her stare melted into a glare, but she said nothing that time. Tom knelt by her and pushed her tool kit closer. "I know. Let me handle it."
"You're the captain," she said dourly, turning back to her work.
Tom stood again and moved a couple meters away, leading the Maquis captain as he ran his sweaty arm across his dripping face. "It's not like we didn't think the third run would be the charm," Tom said.
"You didn't trust us, either," Chakotay observed.
Tom laughed. "Well, what you're fighting for aside, you're terrorists and turncoats, and at least a few people on my ship consider you murderers, too. Trust is not exactly on my list of feelings for the Maquis right now."
Captain Chakotay nodded shortly. "I understand."
"Yeah. So what do you need?"
"I need you to run some quick supplies to a series of smaller bases. Most are temporary ports, but they need supplies to get moving and regroup."
"What supplies?" Tom asked.
"Do you need to know?"
"It'll be in my holds. I have a crew to think about. What supplies, Captain?"
"Weapons, power sources, standard provisions."
"How do they get to where they need to go?"
"I'm working those details out. You'll know before you get out of the DMZ." Then, Chakotay lowered his voice. "I believe you now, by the way, about the Starship Berlin. We checked their course records and some of the open communiqués, and so we know the Guerdon was a random find after your power failure. I hope you can understand why we're paranoid."
"It's not that hard to figure out," Tom replied.
"You've done good work for us," the Maquis continued, frank and friendly that time. "And the way you fly that old shuttle proves you're still as good a pilot as your record boasts. You can't blame me for wanting to keep you on a while longer."
Tom's blood cooled the moment the comment and his ego and made contact with his better senses. To his shame, his ego put up one hell of a fight in those few seconds. "No, we all knew you'd wring us for all we're worth when you snagged me the first time."
"You did."
His eyes narrowing, Tom crossed his arms. "My question stands, Captain: How long do we have to hang on your rope?"
The coldness worked. Captain Chakotay's facade resumed its former firmness, with a touch of insult that time. "As long as I need you to."
Tom said nothing, but did not divert his attention. It was what he'd expected to hear. Four years and over the border and he still couldn't change his bad luck with other people's politics.
"You'll get your orders when you resume course," the other captain continued. "We're still watching--you and your ship."
When the Maquis turned away, Tom backed off to return to B'Elanna's side. Falling to a knee, he poked through her tools to see what she hadn't picked up yet. She hadn't gotten far. Feeling her eyes turn to him, he paused, sighing. "I'm screwed."
"Is that going to take care of everything I need?"
"It'll have to. I'm not rebuilding anything else for this space until it's on the top of my list."
B'Elanna found herself in much better spirits after they finally plowed through the last install and got the Sygran systems linked up again. Both she and Tom stayed only long enough to accept the thanks of a couple colonists and arrange for a small pick up. She did not ask what it was. They were in the shuttle and back to the Maquis ship within ten minutes. A minute after that, they were looking at Ridge's unabashed relief. She couldn't help but smile to see it, and then to thank him as she and Tom moved off the transport pad.
Not so happy in months to get clean, B'Elanna forgot about her power restrictions and indulged in a long, warm sonic shower and a night off in comfortable pajamas with a real book. It'd been ages since she'd enjoyed a novel. The one she downloaded wasn't very good, but it was a mindless diversion that did what she needed it to do. She was fast asleep within an hour.
She was up the next morning ready to get back to her job, right down to installing an independent subspace comm panel next to Maryl's station. The former unit, a geological scanner, was not only useless to the contract liaison, but also long broken. The "new" comm station, collected at the Migan scrap yards, would allow Maryl to make contacts outside the ship's general communications grid--"Her own phone line," Tom had called it when he requested the side job. While they wasted their time on Sygra, Nadrev finished setting up the spare subspace transceiver and running the lines through the access ports to Maryl's station within the day.
Popping the old unit loose with a photonic wedge, B'Elanna yanked it out, disconnected its cables and set it on the floor. Then, digging into the hole, she quickly found the new connection rods. Pulling them up and setting them aside, she went to work on closing out all the old cables.
She almost ignored the beep that sounded at the station, but then Maryl acknowledged it. "Captain Chakotay's on the comm," she reported glumly.
B'Elanna looked up from her work to see Tom, who had just sat down, draw a breath and lean forward. He'd gotten some sun on Sygra, tinting his skin enough to make him look healthy--robust, even. B'Elanna noticed his improved diet and increased activity had helped him everywhere else, as well...though she tried not to think too much about that. For that matter, his discouragement and growing disgust easily marred his features there. Clearly, he knew what was coming.
"Let's have it," he finally said.
A few seconds later, the captains had greeted each other. The Maquis looked upbeat, probably for the sustained state of getting what he wanted from them. In his turn, Tom did not bother to hide his contempt for the man.
"Where is your next shipment taking you?" Chakotay asked.
"Gimol station," Tom answered.
"Then?"
"DS-Nine."
"That's what I was hoping to hear," Chakotay told him, another brush of pleasure crossing his face. "Go through with your Gimol drop-off and pick up. You'll get our signal before you get there. En route to DS-Nine, you'll find a runabout. It'll be bigger than the pod you flew here. Pull it into your bay and transport the cargo into its hold. You'll find an itinerary in the main control panel with all your coordinates preset. There are four drop offs. At the second to last location, you'll have another pickup. You'll drop that load of cargo at the last colony base, then beam a stack of flats into the holds, drop the runabout where you found it. Transport the flats into your holds and deliver the shipment to our contact at DS-Nine."
"Can't wait," Tom muttered and waited for the other man to show some hint of mercy. He did: The comm was cut a few seconds later. Tom closed his eyes. "I'm going to get nailed for this and that son of a bitch'll be flying free."
Still standing with the comm station board in her hands, B'Elanna watched Tom lean back in his seat, his eyes still shut, breathing through his frustration. He tried to pass it off a lot, she knew, but he did not lack pride. The Maquis captain ordering him around like a subordinate, despite where Tom had been and what he'd done, couldn't be anything less than humiliating. As he leaned back again and willfully relaxed into whatever appeared on his private viewscreen, she felt sincerely glad there was no chance of her ever becoming a captain.
"More tinker toys," he said to himself as he stepped into the dark and stripped down runabout that might have echoed his heartbeat if he'd stand still, it was so hollowed out. Not that decoration was anyone's priority there. The stats showed it could go fast, get between the close colonies around Solosos in little time. It was even faster than the Guerdon--though Tom was certain the rig wasn't safe at its top speed. He'd need to use it to get the runs done in time, though.
He knew the wise-eyed Maquis captain would get him behind a conn of his choosing eventually. Now he'd done it twice.
"Damnit," he hissed to himself, but blew the rest out through his teeth. There wasn't anything else he could do but get it done, and he'd start doing that sooner than he wanted, too.
Sinking into the pilot's seat, Tom felt his face fall further when he tapped on the itinerary. The Guerdon would indeed be coming in close this time, only a light year from Fidalis-Two, then running along the anterior territory line to two light years away from Solosos, where Tom would meet them again. It was a far safer trajectory than what he'd have to fly, he noted, seeing the updated sensor net data. The Maquis' galvanizing enemies were obviously on the hunt inside the colony route. He would need to pull some tricks to get around them.
Yet another reason he needed a Starfleet expatriate, Tom grumbled, rethinking his dislike of dealing with stupid people. Worse was the plain fact that he was being played, along with his crew. In the end, they meant nothing to the Maquis. And I'll bet I haven't even begun to hang.
Tom shook his head briskly and got up. Getting pissed off even more over things he mulled over a hundred times already wasn't going to make his week any easier. Going aft, he ducked down into the little bay and found B'Elanna and Nadrev still at work on the shields.
She only glanced at him. "We'll be able to boost your signal disbursement with a few more tweaks, but you'll have to manually rotate your emission pattern. After a couple hits, they'll figure you out. The same applies to your shields when you use them."
"Better than nothing," Tom nodded. "Thanks."
Nadrev sat back as B'Elanna dug into another node column. Looking up at his captain, he rubbed his neck and asked, "How long are we out here again?"
"Eight days," Tom frowned, unhappier still to be reminded. Getting pulled off the route was also bad for business. For all their supplying the colonies, they needed parts and supplies as well; they wouldn't be able to afford half of them even with a few moderate deals. Nadrev seemed to understand, though he could offer no reply but a resigned nod. Tom didn't have anything more to add, either.
Turning, he left the runabout through the hatch and strode out of the bay. He had six hours until the Guerdon was in position and he would need to take off. He needed some coffee, some dinner, a shower and maybe a quick shot of sleep--all and anything to prepare for a lousy week ahead of him and perhaps temporarily distract him from the very certain feeling of two hands firmly grasped around his neck...and twisting.
"Code two-two-theta-nine-epsilon!"
A crackle came back first. "Didn't get that! Say again!"
Tom continued to wrestle the controls as he sat in a tremulous hover above the stormy colony site. "Two-two-theta-nine-epsilon--damnit!"
"The beacon's set!"
Tom found it immediately and pulled the runabout's thrust pattern forward to fight the winds. Tipping and buffeting around, he rattled the small ship down through the atmosphere and shakily onto the landing pad.
He slapped off the controls, blowing his breath and checking his nerves. Bad enough that so-called runabout drove like a truck without shock absorbers--or a wheel alignment--but the flight to Solosos from Bakkach was spent mostly veering away from Starfleet and Cardassian sensor nets, which had easily spotted the craft and tuned in to track it. To say he'd taken the long way around barely touched his procedure that week.
At least he didn't have to deal with the Maquis themselves that time. He just needed to wait for the people on the ground to get the supplies, then take off again. No questions, no stares, no having to repeat security codes or help with cargo. All of those extra duties had been expected of him at all but one of the stops, and all of them proceeded with a phaser pointed at his side. This time was just the drop off, then a quick pickup before leaving.
He'd be back to the Guerdon in forty hours, given the engines didn't putter out with that last burst of speed. Finally on the ground, he was watching the clock again.
"Open your hatch!" came an order over the comm.
Tom hit the controls. A minute later, the thudding boots and cargo flats scraping echoed up into the cubicle bridge. He waited, tapping a foot, piecing out the sounds as they pulled their wares out the hole in the back. There was enough firepower to blow up a moon, Tom knew; enough provisions to hold out a year, sensor equipment and medical supplies. Everything he didn't want to support or get involved with even before he got the Guerdon.
Guess I thought too soon that I'd stay clear of this mess, he smirked to himself. Dad was right: I can't walk out of the house without attracting trouble. At the same time and on another note, he had to admit he was impressed with himself. That landing was not an easy one, and he'd managed to set that alien bucket down on the buffers without any warnings. He still had that much going for him, just in case he would ever give up his glamorous job, shark a slobbering drunk at the next base bar and plunge full throttle into a life of crime.
Those lighter thoughts sank, however, when a set of boots sounded in the upper corridor, then pounded up to the bridge and stopped behind him. There goes that. Tom didn't move. "Yeah?"
"You're Captain Paris?"
Tom did not stand for the person who'd come in behind him, but finally glanced around to see a typically angry-looking Maquis, with brown skin and a canvas vest buckled tightly against his muscular body. Shouldn't have hoped I wouldn't get company, either. "Yeah, that's me."
The presence did not move.
Blowing a breath, Tom stood and turned to face the Maquis who'd entered. He was about his height and even broader up close. The man's brow seemed permanently knitted into his nose bridge. "Do you need something?" Tom asked him.
"So you're Paris," the man said, looking him up and down. "I wanted to see if it really was who I thought."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Seen enough yet?"
"Not yet." Pulling out a tricorder, he gestured toward the bulkhead. "Turn around. Hands on the wall, Captain."
"What the hell is this about?"
"Do it or you're not getting back to your piece of crap freighter in less than three pieces," the man growled.
Staring at the Maquis' tricorder--a medical scanner, he identified--Tom warily did as told. The scan took over a minute for the Maquis' thoroughness, and it hit Tom that the man was probably looking for implants. Done, the man grabbed Tom by the shoulder. Tom slapped his hand away as he was whirled back around to face him. "Done?" he snapped.
In a beat, the Maquis' fist flew around and caught Tom in the cheek, instantly sending the young captain flying back around and onto the pilot's couch with an "Umph!"
"Chakotay wants you alive," the man spat, "but you'd be a pool of blood hosed into our gutters if I had my way about it, coward."
"Rodrigo, we're done," said a woman as she came forward. She snorted at the sight she found. "Guess our welcoming committee's had their turn," she grinned.
"Just taking care of some old business," the man told her, backing off from his prey.
Oh hell, was he at Caldik, too? Tom thought muzzily, feeling his eye and jaw and everything in between swelling and pounding in time with his increased pulse. The taste of blood swirled over his stinging tongue. Slowly pulling himself back to his feet, he watched the other man and disturbingly amused woman back off to the access corridor.
"Let's not have any more run-ins with friendly starships, either," the Maquis warned, looking back from the door. "We know where to blow a hole that can't get fixed by that cute little mechanic of yours. And we will."
"Slap me around all you like," Tom snapped, with an effort now that half his face felt like a hot water balloon, "but leave her and the rest of my crew the hell out of it!"
"You might get away with slippery loyalty with Starfleet, but the Maquis handle those kinds of problems head-on. We'll have your ship and whatever crew we like. Do your job right this time, Paris, and you won't have either of us to worry about."
Tom did everything he could to keep his mouth shut and his eyes on the other man's glare until the Maquis had no choice but to break it first for better things to do.
"Jeez, Tom, what'd you say this time?" Ridge queried only moments after his friend materialized on the deck four transport pad.
Tom immediately began a steady stride across the bay to the ladders. "Another fan of my last gig," he slurred, frowning below his bruised jaw and eye, the latter he couldn't open since the day before, when the swelling really set in. "I need to see Savan before my damned head explodes. All the medical equipment I had on board they took off at Solosos."
"I'll comm her," Ridge offered and doubled back for the unit in the transport base.
Coming to the access ladders, Tom took the opportunity to make a call, too. "Maryl, I'm on. Transport the material flats to hold four-nine-beta per the plan and get us the hell out of here--preset coordinates and speed."
"Got it."
He punched the comm off and began to climb, stopping only to let B'Elanna and Nadrev get by with their iso-junction sheet on deck two. Following them forward to the main deck, they moved aside to a table, allowing him to pass and giving them a good view.
"Don't ask," he muttered. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he stomped across to the stairs.
Deep Space Nine was the station the crew generally loved to hate.
Inaccessible when the Cardassians had control of it due to Maryl's "fugitive" status, it now boasted a complement of not only Bajoran ranks, but also Starfleet officers and Cardassian expatriates, among many others. Excellent parts, repairs and provisions could be gotten there at an enviable price--and there were ways to get other items under the table when needed; however, its supply was notoriously inconsistent and simple deals could turn dangerous. Tom blamed it on the Starfleet presence. "Anything coming out of San Francisco is bound to precede some kind of insanity," he told them after losing a deal for deuterium to a group who insisted at the other end of their disruptors that they'd paid first. The Starfleet people could do nothing about the matter but see that Tom was reimbursed and send him along his way. He, Maryl and B'Elanna grumbled about it for three more legs before they managed to get what they needed and at a far higher price.
Worse than the rest, Maquis, Cardassian and Bajoran terrorists now crawled all over the ringed station, making it impossible to trust any dealers there lately.
Now, another black mark could be added to the list.
"Nothing. Just nothing."
Maryl leaned forward, her cheek on a fist as she scrolled grumpily through the contents of the latest blue PADD, which she'd picked up from B'Elanna before joining her husband and their recently returned captain at the murky little bar off the station's promenade. She'd asked for the newsfeed so she might sniff out some deals around the area. She needn't have bothered. It was only another reminder of the reality setting in for ships like theirs. When she got a refill on her drink, she sucked down nearly half of it to see the next news topic.
"Oh great, and now the Tagrans have locked up all new licenses due to the instability in the region." She snorted derisively and set the PADD on the table. "I just wasted three months in arrangements with that idiot Liodris."
Pushing his cold coffee around on the glossy little table, Tom exhaled. The happy thought of the Tagran license always did seem too good to be true, much as their reasoning for closing shop made perfect sense. He'd still wanted it, almost as much as Maryl had. It easily would have set them up for the next year, allowing them to make the repairs they needed on the ODN and warp drive. "Did you hear back from the Fidlor Group?"
"They're pausing operations for the same reasons. They have enough to maintain the study for a couple months, then they'll get back to us."
Tom frowned. "Did you tell them we'd be back on the Hidirin route then?"
"I did, though it doesn't really matter right now. No Ulinas run right now means we've got nothing to do."
"We have nothing?" Tom asked.
"Just a couple parts relays to Miga," Maryl told him. "Nothing worth the dilithium, but it'll keep us out there. --And it's not for lack of trying, Tom. I've been at it all week. No one's touching independent freighters right now. Too much liability and suspicion."
"I know," Tom said, following it with a hard sigh. The call of dabo echoed behind him and he wondered if he had it in him to run the back tables that night, but knew he was too angry and distracted--Hell, probably too sober--to do any good there. Rather, the opposite would probably be more like it. Unnerving as it had been, he wished he still had that post-treatment glow. His energy level was the same and better managed now that he had some physical routines back in his daily schedule, but once it'd been killed on Ulinas, the upbeat mood that came with a sudden return to health could not be resuscitated. Reality had a way of doing that. "Maybe we need to move our concentration back to the Mingauan region," he mused aloud. "I can't see this area getting better in the next few years at least. Once our obligations are up here, maybe start looking in that direction?"
Maryl shrugged. "I'm not sure which side of the border's going to be worse at this point. I'm reading news from every end of the DMZ, and as you know, we're usually picking up on that end of the region and bringing it here. There's just not enough there to trade for exclusively now that Tagra's off our list."
Ridge gave Tom a look. "Maybe thinking about licensing with the Federation would...?" He left it open. It wasn't his arena, though he'd heard Maryl mention it offhand.
"Even if I didn't think that was a last resort," Tom answered, "with our current obligations and all the pots Trusket dipped into, I'd be an idiot to invite a full investigation of the Guerdon's trade practices for the last five years. This beside the fact that Starfleet's generally not fond of me... Hell, it seems I have all kinds of people waiting to beat the crap out of me. Starfleet just likes to do it officially. I'd hate to give them another excuse."
"Yeah, probably wouldn't be a good idea, then," Ridge nodded.
"It was worth asking," Tom said, half felt but still honest. "I'd thought about it, too."
Looking up, Tom saw Savan approaching the table, her smooth gait swishing the hem of her ruddy tunic against her thighs with machinelike accuracy. The Vulcan moved to the fourth seat and gestured to the bartender. He instantly turned for her usual. "I have left Nadrev with the Guerdon," she reported, looking at Maryl. "You are expected there in fifteen minutes."
"It's as good a place as any to scrape the bottom of the ocean," Maryl said, then lifted her drink to finish it.
Savan looked at Tom. "Our 'contractor' has left another set of coordinates for a pickup. I will need to review the materials list with you before we leave, Tom."
"Yeah, whenever that'll happen," he grumbled.
"It will need to happen soon. He requested our pickup be scheduled in five days."
"Not that he'd let us enjoy the suspense."
With that, Tom pushed himself to stand and turned to leave. He wasn't enjoying being in a bar without a tumbler in his hand, anyway, and there was only so much more gloom he could take without wanting to crawl into one. Making his way from the back tables to exit via the bar, he stopped to pay the tab. The bartender instantly slid up to collect it.
"Leaving already? But it looks like you could use a break, Captain."
Tom peered at the Ferengi bartender askance, then shook his head as he slid the latinum across the slate. "Not tonight, thanks."
"Well, if you're not up for sleep, the game tables are always open. --Ah, but you're a discerning customer. Pity dabo's not your taste."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Not for a long while, Quark. Let me know when someone's wandering around the back room, though. I might be able to make that worth your while."
"Always a pleasure, Captain," replied Quark, showing his teeth. "But why not take some leave right now? You've never been one to part without trying my newest imports."
"Unfortunately, they've had to leave me."
The Ferengi was not deterred. "Come on. You look not nearly like yourself. Why not try this new Devanian ale? Try one on the house, just a taste to see if you like it. Let me know if it's worth my investment."
Furrowing his brow, Tom looked over the bar to the cask on display. The symbols looked all too familiar, but the container did not. "I didn't know Devanians made ale."
"It's a new process," said the bartender, well pleased and swinging around to a separate tap. "They take the sap from sargor tree and ferment that into the finest nectar..."
The words faded. They didn't really matter. Rather, Tom watched the ale fill the tall glass, falling into a sudden daze as the familiar whispers echoed within him. What would a touch hurt? Suddenly, he couldn't move, and honestly didn't want to. It was attractive ale, in what ways it could be. The deep red liquid boasted hardly a spray of foam, just a few bubbles from the force of the tap. He could probably guess what it tasted like. Devanian liqueur was strong and heady. And good. Quark knew how much he liked it.
And it's not like it'll matter when Starfleet buries me under the most convenient penal resort. If they don't, the Maquis'll take care of it. God knows they want to.
"Tom?"
And it wouldn't change the fact that I'm trapped--again and sixty light years away. Why would it matter in the end, getting some relief from these damned walls, always closing in--
"Tom!"
He blinked and turned to see B'Elanna standing right next to him, staring up into his eyes with some urgency. "What?" he blurted.
She started a bit, suddenly seeming to forget what she needed to say. Recovering quickly, she said, "You need to come with me."
"Something wrong with the ship?"
She rolled her eyes. "There's always something wrong with the ship."
He coughed a laugh. Watching her lips turn up, too, he barely heard the clink of the glass as it was set on the bar behind him. "Yeah. But you've got that, right?"
"I'm getting there," she returned, straightening.
The bartender sniffed, trying to regain Tom's attention. "Here you go, Captain."
Tom glanced back.
"I need you out here," B'Elanna pressed again, purposefully ignoring the troll behind them.
"Why?" he asked, but her stare did not waver, her boots remained planted in their spot. Then, she tilted her head, pressing her meaning with a breath, the tiniest gesture toward the promenade. Finally, his lips fell open, and he realized where he'd almost gone--again. For the second time in as many visits to that station, he'd been tempted to relapse. Just a bundle of bad luck, this place, he grumbled to himself, making a mental note to stay on the Guerdon next time they had to dock there.
For the mean time, though, he dumbly followed B'Elanna out of the bar and into the corridor despite the protests of the bartender about a wasted drink.
"Damnit, how do I do that?" he reproached himself. "How do I keep letting that happen?"
"Force of habit?" she offered.
"Maybe," he admitted. Sighing, he peered over at her. "Are you training to be my guardian angel now?"
B'Elanna colored slightly at the question, playing it off successfully by fussing open her jacket. "Is that what you call being a friend?"
"I appreciate it, B'Elanna," he told her quietly, wishing he didn't have to say it, to thank anyone for something like that. "It's been a long time since anyone's looked out for me like that, and now you've done it twice."
"Savan and Dejin look out for you."
"Savan doesn't follow me and Dejin's not here," he pointed out, then tried again. "Thank you for helping. Really, I don't know why my brain keeps doing that, like it's on autopilot to get me screwed up again every time I hit a bump or get bored."
"Everyone has something they're trying not to do." She shrugged. "And, you're welcome."
Looking down into her eyes that time, he grinned, nodded and continued to stare at her until she turned her gaze elsewhere. Drawing a deep breath, then blowing it out as if to start the entire day anew, Tom cast his stare down the promenade. "Let's get something to eat. Food helps sometimes, too. You hungry?"
"That's what I came here for in the first place," was her ready reply.
He needed no more to set them off towards the food kiosks. "Great. What are you up for?"
"Anything," B'Elanna said, then remembered the venue she saw when she first stepped off the lift and corrected herself: "But not Klingon food."
He snorted. "Yeah, I didn't think you were much for it."
"Why do you assume that?" she demanded.
Her sudden defensiveness made him frown at first, but then he relaxed, remembering what demons she had been forced to deal with. "If I haven't judged you yet, B'Elanna, I won't now," he told her. "I've never seen bloodworms programmed in the replicator. The rest was guesswork."
She rolled her eyes at herself. "Sorry."
"It's okay," he said easily, steering them around a collection of tables to the next section, picking up his pace and scanning the venues. "What's to eat, then? You're just up, aren't you? How about breakfast? Waffles and coffee?"
"I haven't had waffles in years," B'Elanna smiled.
An hour later, they were three quarters through their servings, his with butter and a pool of syrup, hers with raspberry jam; each was on their third cup of coffee, which was surprisingly good. They credited it to the station actually being a Starfleet base. Alien attempts at replicated coffee were usually awful. They both had finished their eggs--or at least what had doubled for them. They agreed their waffles were far better.
"Replicated eggs just aren't the same after you've had the real thing," she commented upon completing her serving.
"They aren't," Tom agreed. "Then again, not many things are."
"What's the food with the biggest difference to you?"
He thought about that for a moment. "Probably minestrone--tomato anything, really, just doesn't taste right from a replicator. Good bread and brie, too. I won't replicate them."
"Brie cheese?" B'Elanna grinned. "That's a little surprising for someone with a love of pizza and popcorn."
"I got a taste for it when I lived in France," Tom told her. Not to mention wine, he added to himself with an inward smile. "What about you?"
"Fruit--almost any kind of fruit. My grandmother used to bring us oranges from Earth when I was little. I could eat a crate of them in a sitting."
Tom sighed. "You had to remind me of oranges."
"Grapefruit, bananas, pears--you name it, she brought it. I refused to eat replicated fruit, except applesauce. Mother would get so frustrated..." She stopped at that, leaving the rest of her thought to a wedge of waffle, which she smeared in the compote and popped into her mouth.
Tom let her have it by forking off another wedge of his own. It easily weakened his determination not to come stationside again. Maybe he should just remember to go right instead of left. He mad a mental note of that place, which had been geared to the human contingent now living there with the intention of making them miss home less... And it occurred to him that he missed Earth fare. But then, he had also forgotten what it was like to have a brunch for no reason but to eat, with a smart, good-looking woman he genuinely liked and trusted, and with whom he enjoyed working. It made the food even better.
"It's good when they get the edges crispy like that."
"Mm, yes. That is good."
Tom spun another piece in the syrup. "So, do I need to make some runs on the station for you?"
"I think I've got it this time," B'Elanna said, not looking up. "I'll let you know."
"But bring Maryl if you see Treg. Aside from security, he owes her a couple favors. With the lack of business, we're going to be shaving it really thin until we're back to Hidirin."
"We need a few of my list items if we're making it back to Ulinas within a year, Tom."
He laughed quietly, nodding. "I'll have to warm up my dom-jot stick, after all, then. Can I bet the tricorders?"
She snickered at the memory, then flatly said, "No."
An hour ago, he was very close to ditching everything he'd achieved, had maintained and finally had come to really want. Indeed, he wanted to be healthy. He wanted to move forward in what ways he could. He'd even pulled out his wish list after months of being unable to stomach looking at it, started looking ahead again, hoping for something again. He did not want to go back to the haze and stench he'd been living in for nearly four years--all the more reason he just could not understand why he still could lose himself at the sight of a drink. Bad mood and vulnerability couldn't be all of it. Maybe it was a force of habit--the temptation to shirk off his unwanted burdens and worries. He hadn't been doing badly, though, dealing with his issues. He'd been getting better....
And now he was sitting across from B'Elanna Torres, talking at random and eating waffles, like any other person having a meal out with a friend and he felt fine...aside from his musing about it. He almost wished the temptation still nagged at him, bothered him more. He was so used to abnormal that normal felt foreign now. Or maybe he really did just need to keep busy...or at least diverted. B'Elanna had always been capable of being that, in one way or another....
"Still, a couple more trips and we'll be on the other side of the border for a while, between Hidirin and Irtrin," he noted, picking up the carafe and swirling around its remains. There were a few cups left. He poured himself another. "I have to admit, it'll be good to get away from the uniforms again."
B'Elanna nodded her agreement, then said, "I think there are more Starfleet here than at the Academy."
Tom snorted. "You're probably right."
And I thought I should avoid him, B'Elanna thought as he offered to refill her cup. She gave him a nod. It's not impossible to be a friend, especially when he really seems to need one stationside.
She knew it was just her romantic tendency getting to her again, her dreams and imaginings. All the crew worked very hard, around the clock--and worked even when they weren't working, like she and Tom did on that old shuttle, still half in pieces but just something to be done. So, she really couldn't blame herself for a bit of subconscious fluff rising from time to time. It didn't mean anything. She'd come to enjoy spending time with him, now that he was neither a drunk nor a basket case. Rather, since their experiences on Ulinas, he'd really settled down, even while he could be silly with Ridge and still enjoyed poking at Maryl. Her imagination didn't have to mean anything more than that.
She still felt like what she saw wasn't all of him, though. For all she'd gotten to know, she couldn't help but wonder what he was holding back. There was always something there, something he kept tucked away, put aside, but didn't forget. It wasn't the accident and expulsion. That threw different shadows upon his face. It was something...deeper.
And she stopped herself there. Yet again, that romantic tendency was getting the better of her.
She remained curious, however.
"Ridge said your father was a high ranking Starfleet officer."
Tom gave her a look. She glanced briefly up from her work on the last bits of her waffle, checking his reaction. "He's an admiral," he confirmed, thinking she probably already knew that, but wanted to ease into a topic. B'Elanna could be forthright on reflex--but wasn't always.
"That must have been interesting."
"I think it's more interesting to him," Tom replied coolly, then blew his bitterness out in a sigh. Leaning back in his seat, he continued, "No, I'm not being fair. You see, I was supposed to follow along in his footsteps, be the next Paris in a long line, all that." He shrugged. "My cousin should take the honor in another decade, the way he's moving along. He's fit for the part. I never wanted it, and I couldn't have lived up to any of that."
"Couldn't have been easy," B'Elanna ventured.
"It wasn't," Tom admitted, adding in a second thought, "I mean, I can't complain about what I had. I had a lot, growing up, maybe too much. I didn't know what it was like to struggle for anything until I had to start over."
"Out here."
"Yeah," Tom said softly, gazing back at her inquisitive stare. "All the way out here, stuck with nothing and consigned to be nobody, and I finally got the point. The irony's great, isn't it?" Chuckling, he set down his coffee, rolled his shoulders to let out the remaining tension. "Anyway, if he knows what I'm doing, my dad's probably not too happy about it."
She peered at him askance for that one. "You don't talk to yours, either?"
"I write sometimes," he said, reaching out to stir some sugar into his coffee. "I write Mom, tell her about the sights, tell her I'm okay. Not much else. She's great and I miss her, but...it's easier to write, keep it simple."
"It is," B'Elanna agreed and leaned back, too. She laughed a little at his responsive look. "Yes, I have. He even wrote back."
He was glad to hear it. "Any progress?"
"A little. It's communication."
"Yeah," Tom said softly, smiling to himself. As always, he owed his mother another letter. Maybe he'd get around to opening up to her that time, tell her exactly what he was doing instead of sliding around the topic, tell her how much better he was doing--though not about his illness. If she knew he'd been very ill, she would be all over him. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled out his PADD and quickly tapped in a reminder to write when he got back to the bridge--and told himself to follow through on it this time.
For a time after, the two finished their meal in silence, finally clearing their plates, taking the last of the coffee, watching the people pass by. Tom gave a nod to a few he knew. B'Elanna watched him do it, glanced at the person to see if she knew them yet. She'd dealt with a couple, had seen a few more in passing elsewhere. Most of them remained complete strangers to her.
From time to time, Tom felt B'Elanna's eyes drift back his way, trying to see what he might be looking at. Since she'd diverted him at Ulinas...but it had started before then. On the Berlin, she'd looked out for him, too, going as far out of her way as Dokaru's ready room. It was such a departure from how she'd apparently thought about him, he hardly knew what to make of it at first. Only a few months ago, when she seemed determined to rip him apart at every convenience, he'd have gladly dumped her stationside if he had anything resembling a replacement. Now he could honestly count her among his very good friends--and not just for the save. When her resentment faded, and when he sobered, he started to know her better. The more time they spent together, to more they worked well together, could talk and joke and even relax...
Not for the first time, he was glad for the change.
Especially today, Tom mused, glancing her way once again and catching her stare that time. For several seconds, he held onto it, allowing himself the luxury of a full appreciation of her features, her wide, brown eyes and full mouth. She really was a beautiful woman; he rarely was able to notice it as much as he thought he should. To his surprise, however, when a small grin touched his lips, she reddened, frowned and pushed her empty plate away.
"I need to get back," she said abruptly. She got to her feet and threw a couple credits on the table. "I left the sensor manifold diagnostic running without a solution index, and Nadrev doesn't know how to code that yet on the main deflector. I'll contact you later about how much of the parts list we'll still need fulfilled."
"Uh, yeah, see you later," Tom said, quickly trying to catch up with the fact that she was going away, much less why and what her excuse was. Within seconds, she left with a brisk nod back to him. Her determined stride was just the same, though, and her tone wasn't anything but businesslike. If he'd been too intrusive by looking at her as he had, she'd have called him on it, or at least asked him why he was doing it. So, he simply shrugged and leaned back to let his meal digest.
"How many cartons?"
"Twenty six hundred forty-two," came the answer.
Maryl added it quickly and matched it up on another panel, which B'Elanna had upgraded while preparing the new subspace console. "Prophets, this was worth the wait," she whispered, promising herself to do their engineer a favor sometime. Looking at a blinking rectangle in her results, she saw that the units fit perfectly in their deck four center environmentally controlled hold. "We have the perfect space for it, Rua Oggalor. It's center ship and has its inspection seal, updated at DS-Nine only a few months ago."
"And you travel back to the converted station directly?"
Maryl looked over at Tom, who spun a finger in the air as he continued to adjust their heading. "We have one stop before returning to DS-Nine, Rua Oggalor, but it's not a long overlay. It will easily clear the window."
A pause, then, "I will expect your contact at Miga tomorrow morning, Maryl Hana."
"Thank you, Rua Oggalor." At his click and the closing of the channel, Maryl blew a breath. "Just a bunch of lousy eggs, but six bars of latinum is six bars of latinum."
"It'll buy deuterium," Tom nodded.
"You assume we won't need anything else," Maryl scoffed.
"I know we need 'anything else,'" he responded, "but we already ordered the deuterium for pickup on our return, and we can't flip on the lights without that."
"Tom, I was joking."
He put his head in a hand, rubbed his temples. "Yeah, I know." Standing, he stretched his arms forward. "I didn't sleep last night. I'll be getting some coffee if--"
"You have an incoming message," Maryl interrupted, shrugging when she looked back at him. "Sorry."
Pivoting back around on a heel, he resumed his seat. "Don't worry about it. --Savan?"
"I will require another minute," she answered. "Their protocols are difficult and change often."
Tom used that time to wish all over again he could make the Guerdon less trustworthy without being tossed in prison, and to wish yet again that he'd at least managed a few hours of sleep. The night tremors and memories were becoming less common, but now they were occasional enough to make him less used to them, thus more unnerving.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he glanced back to see Nadrev coming onto the bridge with his tool kit. His first real kit, Tom mused fondly. B'Elanna had helped him choose it when they were at Sicira a couple months ago. "Put that away for now," he told the younger man. "I don't want them to see anything we've got."
"They probably know already," Nadrev said, hardly a protest, but a little hesitant. Having just come from the engine room, he knew his schedule for the day.
"I don't want to confirm anything," Tom told him. "Stow it. It'll only be a minute. These never take long."
Slumping a little, Nadrev did as told, pushing the kit behind the console support beam with his foot as he slid into his station.
Tom leaned back and waited, wondering what they had for him this time. Unconsciously, he rubbed his jaw. Savan had fixed him up pretty easily, but he still was having headaches from the punch Captain Rodrigo had delivered him those couple of weeks ago.
Slowly, the signal drizzled onto the screen, scrambled, then cleared again. Captain Chakotay seemed to be working on the connection on his end, too, glancing into the monitor every few seconds. At last, his image popped into focus and he looked at Tom directly.
"Are you reading us now?" he asked.
"We have you," Tom answered. "What do you need this time?"
The Maquis paused, staring at Tom a moment, but let it pass. "Another setup run. I need you to plot a course from a particular entry point, land on a new base site, then setup equipment."
"Where?"
"It's not in the DMZ," Chakotay informed him, seemingly pleased to relay it. "It's an area of space called the Badlands.... I take it from the look on your face you've heard of it."
"Yeah." Tom was nowhere near as happy as the other man was. While stationed at Caldik, he and the other pilots used to look at probe data from the phenomenon and wonder what it would be like to fly through that naturally occurring minefield. They all were glad they didn't have to, too. "What region?"
"Not on the Cardassian side," the Maquis answered.
Tom grinded his teeth together. "I'm not taking my ship into that."
"I'm not asking you to. You and one of your techs will come aboard my ship; we'll take you as far as Nivoch, where you'll take another shuttle. It'll be a better model than the runabout; it'll get you where you need to go with your cargo, get you around the plasma flares and to the surface. You'll take the equipment and systems you need, plus all you'll need in the way of rations, to the site. It's been cleared and the shelters are erected. There's a small power generator there for basic equipment. We need systems installed quickly and a good course recorded so I can bring my ship in. You're the only one of my contacts I think could do this in the time I need it to be done."
Tom drew a slow breath. He felt his chest flutter and shrink at the same time, his blood chill as his skin warmed. Like on Sygra, he was prey to that subtle compliment, while that other addiction slid into notice yet again. Much as he didn't want to be on any deal with the Maquis, much as his thirst for a little excitement made him nervous thanks to Caldik and Hugora, he'd still have to be dead to deny he enjoyed considering that challenge before him. Problem was, Captain Chakotay probably figured that out with one glance at his personnel file.
I need another damned hobby out here, he frowned to himself; then he asked, "We go in, set up and rendezvous where?"
"Actually, we'll come in after you within three days, on the Liberty, following your flags--unless you're not as good as I've heard. In that case, we' won't have to worry about that part."
"Nice to have someone to walk into the fire for you, isn't it?" Tom smirked.
"I'm transmitting the meeting coordinates and equipment list. Make sure you and your person are prepared. Send the rest of your crew ahead on your planned route. The round trip will take about ten days on schedule."
"Too bad Risa's too far off." Glancing back at Savan, seeing her slow, cautious nod, Tom gave the Maquis a nod of his own. "We'll head towards Gimol after we're done at Miga."
"We'll be watching for you," Chakotay replied, then faded to black.
Tom just shook his head, then said, "Maryl, send a message down to Ridge for us all to meet in the lounge at twelve hundred."
"Done," she answered, already tapping the message.
That completed, Tom got back to his feet and wordlessly left the bridge.
Finishing reading the list, B'Elanna glanced up from the PADD she'd been given. Tom had not moved except to take a long swig of his coffee, patiently waiting for them to finish catching up. Ridge as usual took his time, not because he needed to as much as he liked to make sure he got it all. There was a lot to get.
She read the equipment list again. The Maquis' new "base" made the Guerdon look like a Vulcan science cruiser for precision of parts. They had Megran generators and Barolian flow regulators, Ferengi iso-junctions and Starfleet mobile core units--obviously stolen for the newness of those models, to force all the systems to merge. The rest was crows picking at seconds and what they could swipe. It was little wonder the scrap yards had been so bare of late. The Maquis were way ahead of them, there, and far less discerning.
"What do you think?" Tom finally asked, setting his coffee down.
"You'll need manually regulating tools for all these systems if you don't feel like carrying half a storage locker on your shoulder," B'Elanna replied as she traded the PADD for her lukewarm coffee. Looking over at her tech, she knew there was no way Ridge could get all of that hooked up without another year of preparation.
Did the Maquis guess that, too? she wondered. She didn't discount the idea. Maryl liked to remind her when they were stationside to send Ridge on the basic parts runs. No one would bother him, but someone like B'Elanna, with both what her looks implied and her obvious knowledge, was a tempting recruitment prospect. Savan, too, had begun to accompany both her and Maryl on errands, admittedly concerned about the growing unpredictability at the bases and elsewhere. Tom's experience on Solosos had put an entire sermon into the Vulcan's agenda before they got two light years away from his pickup. B'Elanna shrugged at the caution, but was privately glad she'd been too busy of late to spend much time on the stations. Now it looked like she'd have to make some time to get out of her department and jump straight into the thick of it.
She sighed a breath, resolving herself to just what she didn't want to do for more than one reason. There was only one person she could see setting that mess up with any success, though, and she didn't like the idea of Tom making do with a manual. She could easily seem him trying to; he'd never make the deadline...and then he wouldn't make it back. "When do you need to leave?"
"A few days, maybe four. We'll head towards Gimol and wait for their signal. Savan's agreed to take the Guerdon though on our planned route to DS-Nine. You'll go through with business, then head back toward the rendezvous point. If we're late, they've arranged for an 'emergency docking' at Gimol-Eight's outer station."
"Which, knowing this ship," Maryl grinned, "might actually be necessary."
"I've stabilized the ODN for now," B'Elanna corrected her. "The patched isolinear nodes should hold up another month or so, barring any phaser shots. And we're holding at warp six-point-eight without issue."
"Ridge and I will meanwhile take the shuttle in," Tom continued, "plot the course then do the setup planetside and wait for the Liberty to pick us up again."
"It sounds like a decent plan," Ridge grinned. "No way it'll work as well as he pitched it, though."
"Don't I know it. But it'll take care of both ends of business."
"For the present," Savan added.
"Yeah, I might need to talk to him about that," Tom said. "Not that I expect him to respect it, but I'd like to say I tried."
"But sometimes we just have to speak so we know we spoke," Ridge finished, then looked at B'Elanna. "So, can we get together before shift and go over the details?"
"You can't," B'Elanna told him outright. She set her coffee down. "I'll have to go."
Tom's gaze jumped over to her with that, and he held her stare for a few seconds, as if to be certain she meant what she said. "B'Elanna, this isn't a stop off at a colony. You'll have to come on board their ship with me and get through the Badlands in a shuttle I haven't even seen yet. Aside from the obvious problems with all that, it's something I know you're against, helping the Maquis."
"I know what it is," she replied. "It's also a setup operation that makes Sygra look like a first year orientation. --Ridge, you're a great technician, but you've just never worked on these kinds of systems before, and you've never seen one of these mobile converters. I have." Ignoring the man's facial protest, she looked at Tom again, focusing on his intent gaze. "You'll be there forever if you have to work from nothing. Like last time, it'll get done faster if I'm there--and I want this deal done and these people out our business as soon as possible."
"There is no guarantee this will be the last of their assignments," Savan reminded her. "This is the fifth of three missions initially requested."
"And this job might even get stretched out, if you know what I mean," Ridge warned them. "They seem to need a lot of help there."
"I understand the risks." Undeterred, B'Elanna watched Tom's eyes search her again. He was genuinely concerned. She had to wonder why he was having such a problem with the idea when he recruited her for the other job. "It's not like I haven't been on a ship with bad conditions, Tom."
Tom leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. The image of the engineer, filthy, broken and half-conscious, staring up from the floor of Mesler's ship, passed behind his eyes. For reasons he didn't have to wonder about, he never wanted to see her like that again. "I don't like bringing any of you in there," he said, not saying the rest. "Captain Chakotay obviously wanted me to bring a tech, though, and I'll bet he's hoping I bring you. In spite of what you told him on Sygra-Two, he's definitely interested in getting another engineer on board--if he has one to begin with."
"I don't think you have anything to worry about on that score," she told him.
"Glad to hear it," Tom said, quiet but meaning it.
"I don't forget what they are," B'Elanna returned, "or what they did. I'll be there to help get you through this setup and get us back on time. That's all." She looked squarely at Ridge. "We'll be home before you know it."
Tom's expression remained unchanged, even as Ridge reached out and squeezed the engineer's shoulder affectionately.
The engineer pushed herself to stand. "I'll put together what we'll need. I doubt we can count on Captain Chakotay's people to supply anything that'll be useful to us."
"Just don't pack your good tools," Tom told her. "Don't take anything you'd rather bring back."
Nodding on that potentially heavy thought, she motioned to Ridge to follow along and left the room.
When they were gone down the hall, Tom's gaze turned to Maryl. "If for whatever reason we don't make it back," he told her quietly, "I've left the contract for you, Maryl."
The Bajoran breathed a little laugh. "You're just determined to punish me, aren't you?"
"You'd expect nothing less," he grinned, then finished his coffee. "In any case, it's time to get this over with."
"How do you mean?"
Tom snorted. "Shut up."
B'Elanna pressed the seam of her tunic together and slid on a jacket she didn't wear often anymore. Not that they all didn't look much the same, but the light gray one just didn't come out as often as the olive and blue. She brushed the hem over her hips, smoothing down the pockets on her loose brown jumpsuit. It wasn't the best looking outfit, but it was comfortable and warm. The generous pockets in both layers would probably be useful, too.
She opened the one thing she would be bringing: A tool case. The case was something she found in the upper storage when she first was hired, and the tools she picked out were probably as old. The choices were somewhat limited in comparison to her good case, but it would probably be more than she needed in the end, and she really didn't mind knowing she had backups. She had one change of clothes--a duplicate of what she was wearing--rolled up tightly and stuffed into the end of the kit. A toiletry bag was stuffed in right behind it. Sealing the latch on the case, she slung the strap over her shoulder and looked around for anything she might have forgotten.
Passing by a mirror, she caught herself frowning. She didn't try to correct it.
One more walk around, and she made certain everything was neat and put away. She hated coming back to her quarters when she was tired only to see things she needed to do. She hated waking up to that kind of thing, as well, so putting it off until the morning was also a bad option.
But she had made the bed, set away her clothes and PADDs, finished her notes for Ridge, Nadrev and Savan, locked away her good tools and personal belongings. She had only one thing left to do: leave.
She clenched her fists, feeling her back tighten.
You hopped right into this when you knew he'd need you. Yes, the setup will go a lot better, but you just had to be useful, didn't you? She shook her head bitterly, catching her reflection again. Her clothes, though clean, were wrinkled and her short brown hair was only cursorily brushed. She'd taken more pains with her lipstick, which she'd packed in her toiletry bag. You really can be stupid.
She spun from the mirror and set herself forward. Striding out of her quarters, finally focusing on what she needed to do instead of what she regretted doing, she turned the corner and almost smacked straight into Ridge.
"Hey, Kid!" Ridge sang out, smoothing down her shoulders as he let them go.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, a little surprised. She'd expected to see him in the deck four aft loading dock.
"Savan asked I hang onto the engines when we come alongside the Liberty, so I thought I'd at least walk you to the stairs."
B'Elanna couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Ridge." With that, they began walking toward the engine room.
"You watch yourself out there--and look out for Tom, too. That Captain Chakotay wants to use him, but everyone else on that ship's probably got other ideas, considering what Tom's from."
"We'll be careful." B'Elanna moved ahead then slowed after turning a corner, letting Ridge duck under a coolant pipe she had yet to redirect. "And keep your eye on that ODN output level we were talking about. The five-three-delta junction was giving me a little trouble last night again. I left notes on my main console."
Ridge chuckled. "I'll probably finish reading them after you're back." They got to the access stairs and he looked down at her, asking her one more time with his eyes, but settling on a smile a moment later. "You make sure that happens, okay?"
B'Elanna nodded. Reaching out to pat his arm, she gave him a nod of reassurance. "I will," she said and reached out for the rung. Her smile fell as quickly as her altitude.
Tom pulled on his old blue coat then grabbed the roll of tools B'Elanna prepared for him and an old comm bar. Yanking the strap onto his shoulder, he checked his coat pockets for his rolled up changes, nodded when he felt them all there and left his quarters without looking back.
All morning, he made himself look at it as the end: One more run out. One more go, and maybe then it'd be over at last. One more go, a dot of deuterium and they'd get back to Hidirin, run that route, get back to normal, as it were--business as usual.
Pausing, he scowled. His facility for self-deception had been seriously compromised by sobriety--and it hadn't been too good to begin with.
He did not take the forward access ladder often anymore, but knowing he was running a little behind, he did that time, cutting straight down the forward corridor from the door of his quarters and lowering himself to the chin of his ship within seconds. Jumping from the ladder into the deck three, section two corridor, Tom only glanced when he passed the cross junction where Jerod was killed, though his steps remained slow for several seconds longer as the memory distracted him. Jerod's arm wasn't the only thing that'd been torn off in the explosion, though his body otherwise remained in tact. Tom knew human physiology well enough to deduce that had he not been knocked unconscious right away, he would have suffered his last minutes away, as rapid blood loss would have been the cause of death.
Not particularly what Tom needed to know, but he couldn't help remembering it, either, especially on the bad days, and on that day, passing through deck three forward to the next access ladder. It was spotless now, all the holds repaired. The casual observer would never be able to point out the bulkheads that had been blown into open space, the new sections were set in so cleanly. Tom hardly saw them. He saw the coolant steam and the light beam shining through it, the sweat on the walls, and he heard the klaxons echoing far in the background before B'Elanna could shut them off again. He heard Maryl coming up behind him as he stared at Jerod's white, reaching hand.
Tom felt his heart pound a couple times, but he plunged ahead, forcing himself once again to not look back.
He moved into the next section and took the last ladder down with as cool a façade as he could muster, breathing deeply in the deck's cool air and speeding himself purposefully. Besides wanting to get away from deck three forward, their departure time was coming up fast. Swinging around the corridors, glancing at the hold doors, knowing how empty they were, he knew all over again exactly what he was doing by resting his neck on the block yet again: Surviving.
They all were out there. They all were.
This was just a little bit more of the same.
Tom sighed. "Nothing different there," he muttered. There was simply more now spinning in that hell.
Coming into the aft loading dock, he saw B'Elanna already at the transporter flat, punching buttons and tapping her heel against the pad. Reflexively, he straightened and wiped the effects of his thoughts from his face before he got across the bay.
"You're late," she told him shortly as she finished transferring the data.
"That anxious to go?" he lightly asked.
B'Elanna turned and looked at him, then damned him for looking as good as he did, in dark blue and brown, shaved and well tended...and lot better than she did. "Anxious to get this over with," she responded and stepped up onto the control center.
Tom shrugged and stepped up to where he'd need to be in another minute. He had expected the icy blast, or at least expected she'd reconsider her determination to join him on that job after having a few days to realize what doing so actually meant. He wished he hadn't slipped her into the plan at Sygra-Two, or that she'd said no, particularly so that Captain Chakotay had never seen her face. He almost wished she didn't have such a strict sense of responsibility. He wished he could tell her stay put and mean it.
"Savan, I'm sending the Maquis our coordinates now," B'Elanna said.
"*I will monitor it,*" answered the science tech over the comm.
"Good luck at DS-Nine," Tom told her sincerely, for all their sakes.
"*Luck will have little to do with our arrangements,*" Savan replied, "*while patience and a keen eye will. However, I should report that Ridge has produced an effigy for Maryl to incinerate to buoy their confidence in the same.*"
Tom laughed. Ridge had apparently replicated a s'mores grill for his pessimistic wife, who had easily become addicted to the decadent treat. Tom was still surprised Ridge knew anything about in the first place. Even Tom only had a passing knowledge of the ancient dessert until he saw Maryl succumbing to the ecstasy of a prepared morsel several months after he came aboard. Their resident Vulcan, not surprisingly, had abhorred the smell of toasted marshmallows from the first whiff, likened it to burning corpses and made a point to avoid the section until she could fully recycle the air.
"I'll look for your formal complaint when we get back," he grinned.
"*I will be gratified to compose it,*" Savan assured him.
"The Liberty is responding," B'Elanna quietly told them and rejoined Tom on the flat. She could feel him looking at her, but didn't look back. "They're ready."
"*Tom, B'Elanna, we will await the signal to rendezvous with the Liberty with great anticipation.*"
Tom's lips turned up again. In more than two and a half years knowing her, the Vulcan had many ways of showing her mind about things, but rarely so much sentiment in one sitting. It meant so much more when she did. "Thanks, Savan."
"*A safe journey to you both,*" Savan concluded and cut the comm.
They were gone a moment later.
(c) D'Alaire M, 2007