Caretaker - L. A. Graf [10]
"Intrepid-class," Stadi volunteered as she glided them closer.
"Sustainable cruise velocity of warp factor nine point nine-seven-five.
Fifteen decks, crew complement of one hundred forty-one, bioneural circuitry--" Paris glanced a question at her. "Bioneural?"
The Betazoid nodded, almost absently. "Some of the traditional circuitry has been replaced with gel packs that contain synthetic neural cells. They organize information more efficiently, speed up response time." The smile she flashed him was almost wicked with delight. "Want to take a closer look?"
Paris was certain he would have said yes, but Stadi didn't wait for his answer. Delicate fingers dancing across her helm, she swept them into a smooth arc lifting them over the top of the station and into an intimate flyby across Voyager's fine-tooled bow, along her flanks, beneath the flash of her belly. Paris drank in every promising line of that magnificent ship with a jealousy that made him both angry and afraid. The low-slung warp nacelles on their short, sturdy pylons hinted at a power that no ship before her had ever possessed, and the smooth blending of her primary and secondary hulls looked almost aerodynamic compared with the blissfully angelic craft who made up her direct ancestors. Paris wanted to fly her--wanted to serve on her--wanted to deserve her in a way he'd sacrificed forever when he drummed himself out of Starfleet on Caldik Prime. If someone had told him then that a few hours of stupid fear would eat all the years of his life worth living, he would have laughed and offered them another beer.
And now...
Now, he rode in silence behind a darkened panel, lusting after an existence no longer within his reach, an eternal observer in the whirlpool of his life as it dragged him ever downward, into nothing.
It was like being locked out of the circus. Everybody else hurried off into their bright and busy futures, while Paris got left behind like their empty houses, not even close enough to see the parade.
* The inside of DS9 didn't match the promise of her strangely alluring exterior. It looked unfinished, somehow--bare, arching struts visible against every unpainted ceiling and bulkhead, conduits thrumming beneath walkways made of mesh. Even the two civilian security types waiting with stiff-necked patience just beyond the docking bay's hatch looked colorless and undefined.
But they were security all the same--Paris had gotten pretty good at recognizing the type while putting in his hours down in Auckland. He was suddenly glad that Stadi had stayed behind to batten things down after docking.
"Mr. Thomas Paris?" The slimmer of the two officers glanced pointedly at the data padd in his hand, making it clear he was identifying Paris, not asking him. "Assigned to the scout ship Voyager?"
Paris tightened his grip on the duffel slung over his shoulder, but didn't move forward to meet the approaching pair. "Yeah, that's me."
The skinny spokesman didn't seem impressed by Paris's heartbreaker smile. "My name is Odo. I'm chief of security here on Deep Space Nine." He had a good face for the job--expressionless and inhuman, the skin stretched tight and shiny across nonexistent features, as though some surgeon hadn't been bothered to finish putting things right after a really bad burn. Paris could almost feel sorry for the guy if his presence here hadn't made Paris so angry.
"Can I do something for you, Officer Odo?" Paris didn't mean for the question to sound that sarcastic, but things always seemed to come out of him that way.
Odo tipped his head in a gesture queerly reminiscent of a raised eyebrow. "I just wanted to verify your arrival on the station, Mr. Paris," he said evenly. "And to tell you that if you have any trouble while you're here, you can be sure either myself or my staff will be nearby."
Damn Janeway. Was it really reasonable for her to trust him so little--to expect so much grief--that she thought it necessary to warn local security? And him