Homecoming - Christie Golden [36]
So now he was standing outside, cradling a Miral who had finally decided to quiet down after two full hours of screaming until Tom felt certain her little lungs would pop right out of her throat. Now she snuggled against him and cooed softly. He felt her weight in his arms, a slight heaviness that felt good and pure and clean and simple as the stars twinkling above. He took a deep breath of the cool night air.
Behind him, he heard the door close, and then open. He didn’t turn around. Heavy steps crossed the back deck.
“Do you remember when you were six years old,” Owen Paris said, not looking at his son, “and we lay on the grass together and I pointed out the constellations to you?”
Tom smiled faintly in the darkness. “Yeah,” he said. It was the closest he and his father had ever gotten. In later years, he would look back on those summer nights and marvel at the thought of Admiral Paris lying on the lawn, looking at stars.
“Come on,” said Owen Paris, descending the stairs from the deck. He moved more slowly than he had when Tom was six; his tread was heavier, his body bulkier. Tom stared, thinking it was a bluff, until Owen actually sat down on the grass. Even then, he didn’t move until the elder Paris repeated, “Come on.”
Wondering what this was all about, Tom did so. He sat beside his father, and then when Owen stretched out on the rich green lawn, he followed suit. Miral coughed [105] softly, then adjusted her small warm body to lie comfortably on her father’s chest. Heart to heart they lay, father and daughter.
“The stars never change,” said Owen Paris. “Although we do. What’s really going on with you, Tom?”
“What do you mean?” Tom of course knew exactly what his father meant and was glad of the soft darkness so that Owen couldn’t see his face.
“B’Elanna’s doing something other than just taking a little time for herself, isn’t she?”
“Dad, I—”
“I’m a good judge of people, son, though you may find that hard to believe. She’s not the sort who would run off and leave her husband and daughter without a damn good reason.”
Tentatively, Tom said, “Would it make any difference if I said she did have a damn good reason? A reason I can’t tell you?”
“It would.”
“She does.”
“Thought so.”
They lapsed into silence, but for the first time in years, it was a comfortable one between father and son. Finally, Owen Paris said, “We’d love to have you stay, son. I’m tickled to death about that granddaughter of mine. But I don’t think you can.”
“No, Dad. I think you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’re a grown man, with a family. You’ve just come off of a remarkable journey. You’re not a child and you shouldn’t be treated like one.”
[106] Tom was surprised at his father’s frank talk. He couldn’t reply at once, so stayed silent.
“Where will you go?”
“All officers were offered an apartment in San Francisco. Think I’ll take Starfleet up on it. After seven years on Voyager I’m used to living in a small space.”
Owen chuckled. “You’ll miss our offer to get up and change Miral every few hours.”
“I’m sure I will. But you can always visit.”
“We will, son. We will.”
Again they were silent, and stayed on the grass looking at the twinkling points of light.
Captain Jean-Luc Picard moaned in his sleep.
They kept coming, mindless drones with red lasers for eyes and spikes and claws and pincers for hands. Their faces were gray with throbbing black veins snaking across them, and their bodies were encased in black armor. They had once been people, but now were nothing, all their humanity, their passion and fear and joy and love, as mercilessly severed as their various limbs had been.
He kept firing his phaser rifle, but they had adapted and the blast streamed across them like so much water. Despite his attack, they continued to bypass him, obviously not deeming him a threat. His ears strained for the voice of the queen, so that he could track her down and kill her,