Pathways - Jeri Taylor [104]
Admiral Paris scrutinized his son, a gaze Tom knew well. He held his father’s eye levelly, trying not to succumb to the impulse to keep talking. That’s what his father did: intimidated people into giving themselves away with that unrelenting stare of his. Finally the admiral spoke, and Tom felt a small twinge of triumph that he hadn’t yielded first.
“You’re required to participate in a sport. If not Parrises Squares, what will it be?”
Well, his father knew how to cut to the point. Just as well, it had to come out some time. Tom inhaled.
“I’m going out for a new sport. Well, an old one, actually, but the Academy’s never competed. Downhill skiing.”
Tom admired his father’s self-control. Not a twinge, not a blink indicated his attitude about this statement. He just kept his neutral gaze bearing down. “Skiing. Didn’t realize you had any interest. Never even mentioned it.”
Tom knew his father was upset. He always spoke in that terse, clipped way, dropping the subjects of sentences, when something had gotten to him.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about. The chance to be on the Academy’s first team ever, kind of help build it from the ground up—it appeals to me.”
“You’ve never even been on skis.”
“As a matter of fact, I have. Quite a few times, when Mom took us on vacations to Lake Tahoe.” A small pause, and then Tom couldn’t resist adding, “You were never able to make it. Too busy.”
His father’s eyes took on a flat look. “I see. And you’re pretty good, are you?”
Tom shrugged. “Not as good as I’ll be with more practice. We’re transporting to the Andes this weekend to start the regimen.”
“Is there a young woman involved?”
Tom desperately wanted to smile at this—as though this insane decision could only be motivated by his attraction to a female—but he employed his own self-control and remained stoic. “No, sir. That is, there are women, as well as men, who are joining the team, but there’s no one I’m especially interested in.”
“I see,” his father repeated.
A faint and ineffable sensation of something he couldn’t identify began to glow in Tom. His father was flummoxed. He was repeating himself with nonphrases because he didn’t know how to contend with this unexpected rebellion.
Admiral Paris rose and walked to the wall of pictures on his wall—the one with the lineage of Starfleet Parises, the veritable nobility of the Federation. He stared briefly at one of them, then turned to face his son. “Well, your mother will be disappointed. She was your biggest fan at the Institute, and I know she was looking forward to cheering you on at the Academy.”
Liar, thought Tom. You’re the one who’s disappointed, and you can’t even admit it. “I’ll talk to Mom,” he said. “She’ll understand.”
“Of course. She cares about your happiness. No matter what it costs her. As you mature, maybe you’ll develop that kind of compassion.”
“I’m sure I will, sir,” said Tom. He wasn’t impervious to the idea that his mother might be disappointed by his choice, but he also felt sure she would be just as proud of his downhill racing as she would be of his playing left flank. His father was just using every ploy he could come up with to affect his decision. The warm feeling, still unidentified, glowed brighter in Tom.
“I’ll just ask you to think carefully before making a final decision. It’s a tremendous honor to be on the P.S. team as a first-termer. You don’t want to discard that offer lightly.”
It would have been easy to acquiesce to this simple request. But the small flame that burned in Tom was inextinguishable. “I’ve thought very carefully, sir,” he said with what he hoped was quiet dignity. “My decision is made.”
A heavy silence for a moment, and finally Admiral Paris said, “Then I’ll respect it.”
The flame burst into a veritable conflagration. Tom couldn’t quite understand the feeling: he had clearly disappointed his father, whose opinion of him had determined most of the course of his life, and he had fully expected to leave this meeting