Pathways - Jeri Taylor [119]
All the others were intrigued, as Tom knew they would be. They’d become almost addicted to the hunt for new ski worlds, spending every moment they could flying to planets where snow conditions prevailed. Nothing was as exhilarating as careering down a mountain of fresh powder no one had ever skied before.
Two months later, the four sat in a shuttlecraft, flashing toward the Epsilon Eridani system, three of them anticipating the thrill of the ski quest, Tom churning inside from playing and replaying the recent discussion he’d had with his father.
“You did what?” he’d asked the admiral, incredulous.
His father had regarded him with firm determination from behind his desk—the picture of authority—while the wall of pictures of the Paris lineage seemed to watch as well, mocking. “I asked that your name be removed from consideration for a posting to the Enterprise.”
Tom had flushed with anger and surprise; his throat had constricted as though a band encircled it, tightening. He drew a breath before he spoke. “May I ask why?”
“I’m very much afraid that, if you were chosen, there would be the appearance of favoritism.”
“Starfleet doesn’t operate like that.”
“You know that, and I know that. We’re talking about appearances. It would be unseemly for you to receive such a privilege.”
“You don’t receive a posting like that—you have to earn it. And that’s what I would have done.”
Admiral Paris looked pained. “Tom, I’m not trying to denigrate your efforts. I’m terribly proud of your accomplishments in the Academy. Your mother and I know how hard you’ve worked. And in a few years, with some experience on another starship, posting you to the Enterprise wouldn’t cause a ripple. It just looks suspect to go there directly from the Academy.”
Tom had glared at him, furious but impotent. A dozen retorts swirled in his mind, each more bitter than the other, their venom seductive, tantalizing. But he knew such utterances wouldn’t prove satisfying in the long run; his father would be lordly and condescending, chastising him for losing control.
So without a word, he turned on his heel and left, not even nodding to Commander Klenman on the way out.
Now, as his friends chattered animatedly, Tom sat enveloped in gloom, constructing alternate endings for the encounter, each of which was predicated on a brilliant argument he might have made, something so incisive and scathing that his father, taken aback, would have seen the muddiness of his own thinking and rescinded his judgment.
But he hadn’t done that. He’d let his father overpower him again, and gone creeping away like a chastised toddler instead of facing the admiral like a man. Self-loathing rose in Tom like a miasma, acid and vaporous. He was tempted to turn the shuttle around and return to San Francisco, but that wouldn’t be fair to the others, who’d looked forward to this outing, their final trip together before separating.
Odile was the most jubilant of the group. Tom’s black mood lifted a bit when he tuned in to her excitement.
“I couldn’t find out much about the ship before we left, but Commander Harrison said the Hera is the perfect ship for me. Captain La Forge is well respected and apparently a wonderful officer for a new ensign to serve under.”
“Her son’s on the Enterprise,” offered Charlie, who was still hoping for that post.
“Right. And the size of the ship is ideal, too—big enough to draw deep-space assignments, but not huge and impersonal. Like the Enterprise,” she added with a sidelong glance at Tom. She was the only one he’d told of his father’s interference in his plans, and he believed she was trying to make him feel better.
Which only made him feel worse, reminded again of his lost opportunity. He had a sudden picture of himself standing on skis at the top of a tall and dangerous mountain, flinging himself into the powder, headlong and reckless, heart pounding and legs churning, racing breakneck all the way to the bottom.
It seemed the