Homecoming - Christie Golden [72]
Tom Paris opened the door and sighed when he saw who was standing there.
“You know, you guys really ought to give a fellow warning,” he said, stepping back and grandly sweeping his arms to invite Starfleet Security inside. “I’d have replicated some tea and cookies for you. In the meantime, I do have a pot of hot coffee at the ready. It’s been a long night.”
Their faces were as impassive as Tuvok’s. No wonder the Vulcan had been such a great security chief; apparently a poker face was part of the uniform.
“We’re going to have to ask you to come with us, Lieutenant Commander,” one of them said.
“Not this again,” Paris said, his voice rising. Miral was having a bad bout of colic tonight, and he was irascible and exhausted from sitting up with her. “I’ve answered all your questions and you’ve got the Doc himself in custody.”
“This isn’t about the HoloStrike, sir,” the commanding officer said. They had sent out a new batch, Tom observed. He didn’t recognize any of the men standing in his apartment.
[214] “What is it about?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it, sir. Please, sir.”
He looked from one inscrutable face to the next, and he realized that they weren’t kidding. As if on cue, Miral began to squall in the back room.
“As you can hear, gentlemen, I’ve got a little one to take care of. I’m not about to—”
“Understood, sir. We’ll take the child with us. She’ll be well looked after while you are undergoing questioning.”
“No. Oh, no. I’m not about to hand my little girl over to some stranger from Starfleet Security.” Even as he spoke, he hurried to the nursery and picked up his crying daughter.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.” The three men had followed him into the nursery, where their formal stance and gray, mustard, and black uniforms were sharply at odds with the twirling mobile and soft pastel hues of the walls and ceiling. Their commanding officer moved his hand, ever so slightly, to the phaser on his hip. Tom didn’t miss the gesture.
He held Miral closer to him. “At least let me contact someone I know to take care of her while I’m gone,” he said, almost pleading. The leader seemed to consider it but didn’t answer right away.
“Oh, come on!” Tom said, exasperated and starting to get just a little bit frightened.
“Very well.”
Paris went to the computer. “Computer, contact Admiral Owen Paris. Message is urgent.”
[215] It seemed to take forever for his father’s face to appear. The elder Paris looked groggy, but he brightened at the sight of his son and granddaughter.
“Hi, Dad. Sorry to wake you at this hour.”
“Is everything all right?”
Tom glanced over at the emotionless face of the head of the little party that had shown up on his doorstep. “That remains to be seen,” he said. “Seems that I’m wanted for questioning about something and it apparently can’t wait until a decent hour.”
Admiral Paris looked grave, but not surprised. He nodded and sighed. “I was hoping you’d be kept out of it,” he said, “but I suppose they need to talk to everyone.”
“You know what this is all about?” Tom asked, startled.
“Not entirely, but I have an inkling. You’ll need to go with them, Tom.”
“Well, yeah, but I’ve got a cute little problem with going with them right now,” he said. “Can you—will you and Mom look after her?” His voice faltered. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Of course, son. You won’t be gone long.”
“Thank you, Dad.” Tom looked down at his daughter, felt his throat tighten, and hoped his father was right.
The ritual baths, chanting, meditation, and preparation were finally over. Torres was about to depart, finally, for the Challenge of Spirit. She knew she had a few minutes of privacy left before Logt was to come [216] and get her, so she quickly unfolded the note her mother had left her and read it one last time, trying to memorize it:
My dearest ’Lanna,
As I write this, they are waiting outside for me. They think I am embarking on the Challenge of Spirit in the usual manner, and that, if I survive the proper length of time, I will return. If I do not return, I will