Caretaker - L. A. Graf [11]
"Hey, mister--!"
Odo raised a single long-fingered hand, and the young security type behind him fell silent, an offended frown rewrinkling his already ridged nose.
"You might want to do something about that attitude of yours, Mr. Paris," Odo commented dryly. "From what I've seen of Starfleet, they don't have much use for sarcasm from their junior officers."
A chime sounded from his padd, and Odo spared it only a flick of interest before acknowledging it with a nod. "Now, if you don't mind, there are some more of your shipmates arriving at Docking Ring Two that I'd like to go down and greet." Odo favored Paris with something caught between a disdainful sniff and a scowl.
"Welcome to the station."
Some more of your shipmates... Paris watched Odo stride purposefully away down the corridor, the young security man at his back spearing Paris with more than one disgusted look before they disappeared around the bend. They'd been greeting everyone, Paris realized suddenly, one at a time as they came in. A courtesy. A true act of professional respect, from members of the civilian constabulary to their Starfleet benefactors. And Paris had pretty much spit on their boots.
It had been a long time since he'd felt quite this humiliated.
My problem, Paris thought as he started his slow, solitary way down a corridor leading away from Odo's retreat, is that I don't know when to keep my mouth shut. Well, maybe that wasn't his primary problem, but it certainly exacerbated all the others. He could still hear his father's calm, cultured voice saying, "I'm ashamed of myself, Tom.
Ashamed that I've somehow managed to raise a son with so little sense of morality or basic judgment."
Yeah, Dad, I'm ashamed of you, too.
It wasn't hard to wander his way down to the station's main thoroughfare. Paris just let his feet guide him, confident they'd end up outside the nearest bar. He eventually found himself strolling a crowded, gaudy, almost embarrassingly mall-like promenade crammed full of shops, kiosks, and milling patrons. For one disjointed moment, Paris wasn't sure if he was on a Starfleet station or some low-tech planetoid's barter bazaar. At least he could read a good portion of these signs.
The tavern stood out from the rest of the establishments. A lot of the right kind of lights and ambience, none of the really expensive trappings that seemed to come with the low-threat places that liked to play at being bars without actually attracting that kind of clientele.
No, this was the real thing.
Paris recognized the sounds of pain muttering from a set of Dabo tables, the sturdy-but-just-one-credit-too-nice-to-be-tacky booths and barstools, and that particular blending of synthehol and sweat that meant lots of business, lots of bodies, lots of booze. Someone had told him once that the distinctive blue-gray lighting affected by most human drinking joints was a holdover from when bars on Earth had been filled to bursting with the smoke of burning paper cylinders, all stuffed with various species of nicotine-producing plants. People supposedly drew this smoke into their lungs and purposefully held it there before exhaling. Paris found the idea of this not only unbelievable, but kind of disgusting. Still, he thought of it now as he passed through the tavern's front entrance and was brushed in the face by a cloud of something sooty and stinging that smelled like mint.
Rubbing his nose to keep from sneezing, he walked beyond the two grinning goons who passed the burning glass between them, and found a seat at the farthest end of the bar.
"... and if I may say so, it's been my special pleasure to see many new officers like yourself come through these portals." The bartender--a toady little Ferengi with a vest too flashy and clashing to be worn by anyone but the