Caretaker - L. A. Graf [19]
I don't know "true" anymore, he wanted to say, but heard his mouth answer, "Was the accident my fault? Yes. Pilot error.
But it took me a while to admit it." What little bravery he possessed failed him, and he found himself studying the surface of his soup just to have somewhere else to look. It looked more orange than red, and smelled vaguely like ginger. "Fourteen varieties, and they can't even get plain tomato soup right. ..."
"They said you falsified reports. ..."
Paris nudged his not-quite-soup with a spoon. "That's right."
Kim set his own utensils down to lean across the table. "Why?"
As if the idea would never even occur to him--as if he couldn't even imagine a situation where doing something so stupid would seem like an acceptable idea.
"What's the difference?" Paris said, feeling stupid now for expecting anyone as squeaky-clean as Kim to understand. "I lied."
"But then you came forward," Kim persisted, "and admitted it was your fault."
Paris looked up at him and shrugged. It was the most honest thing he could think to do, and even so it didn't mean much.
"I'll tell you the truth, Harry," he sighed, pushing his soup aside.
"All I had to do was keep my mouth shut, and I was home free But I couldn't. The ghosts of those three dead officers came to me in the middle of the night and taught me the true meaning of Christmas...."
Suddenly embarrassed by his own confession, he waved the worst of it away. "So I confessed," he finished, somewhat lamely. "Worst mistake I ever made. But not the last. After they cashiered me out of Starfleet, I went out looking for a fight, and I found the Maquis.
..." He snorted at the memory. "And on my first assignment, I was caught."
Kim played with his own food for a while, his dark eyes thoughtful.
"Must have been especially tough for you," he said at last, then added, "Being the son of an admiral."
Without wanting to, Paris pictured his father the way he'd looked toward the end of the hearing, and couldn't help wondering why he seemed to have no memories of his father from any happier times.
"Frankly, I think it was tougher on my father than it was on me."
Standing, he picked up his useless soup and carried it back to the replicator to throw it out. Why should soup get more credit for being what it wasn't than he did?
"Look," he told Kim as he slid the bowl into the slot, "I know those guys told you to stay away from me." He looked over his shoulder.
"And you know what? You ought to listen to them. I'm not exactly a good-luck charm."
Kim shook his head, a frown settling in between his eyes. "I don't need anyone to choose my friends for me." And he smiled, as though proud of his decision.
Paris laughed to himself and rubbed at his eyes. It wouldn't hurt to have some help, he thought. Especially if your choice in friends doesn't get any better than me. But before he could make himself say as much out loud, his comm badge chirped and made him jump. He hadn't realized until then how long it had been since he'd lived with that sound.
"Janeway to Paris."
Paris tapped his badge, liking the feel of being part of a network again. "Go ahead."
"Report to the bridge," Janeway told him. "We're approaching the Badlands."
* Paris recognized the Badlands the minute he stepped onto the bridge.
Not the configuration of the stars and nebulae so much as the ribbons and flashes of plasma anger lashing and flaring against that blackness like so much wildfire. It had given him a chill in the pit of his stomach when he'd first piloted into the mess with Chakotay, no matter how smug the big Indian sounded when he promised that no Maquis ship had been torn apart by the storms--at least not recently. Then, Paris had consoled himself with the knowledge that Starfleet didn't have any ships both small enough and weaponed enough to come after the Maquis while they were