Pathways - Jeri Taylor [132]
“My name’s Chakotay,” he began, but Tom waved a hand at him blearily. He wouldn’t remember the name, so there was no need for formalities. He didn’t offer his in return.
“I understand you’re a pilot,” Chakotay continued. “We might be able to help each other out.”
Tom was silent, not encouraging the man, but finding himself unaccountably curious. He felt Chakotay assessing him, and for the first time in a long time, he wondered if he was measuring up.
“I’m part of a group that’s always looking for good pilots.”
“What kind of group is this?” The whole thing had a suspect quality to it. Federation planets weren’t known to be home to groups who solicited pilots in waterfront bars.
Chakotay’s eyes flickered around the room, checking on their privacy. Tom noted briefly that the woman had disappeared, and felt a sense of relief. “Do you know what’s happening in the demilitarized zone near the Cardassian border?” asked the man.
Tom shrugged. He’d heard muttered comments here and there, but had no real interest in events that were so far away. Now, he found himself wishing he’d paid more attention; something made him want to impress this man as a knowledgeable person.
He struggled to follow as Chakotay unfolded the tale, and wished he’d had less to drink that day. He forced himself to concentrate as the man told him of an abortive treaty the Federation had made with Cardassia, effectively putting a long conflict to an end, but stranding a number of colonists in the newly created demilitarized zone between the two areas of space. The colonists were supposed to evacuate, but many of them—Chakotay’s people included—refused to abandon their homes, and opted to remain in the zone without the promise of Federation protection.
And of course the Cardassians were exploiting that fact, harassing them, raiding them, hoping to make things so miserable they’d leave their colonies to the Cardassians.
A growing number of people—humans, Vulcans, Bolians, Ktarians, a virtual melting pot of Federation species—were banding together in a loosely knit group to protect themselves. They called themselves Maquis, after ancient Earth freedom fighters of the twentieth century. Chakotay was part of that group, and had heard that a skilled Starfleet pilot was unoccupied at the moment, spending his days in drinking and playing pool in Marseilles.
“We could use you,” he said simply. “And you’d get to fly again.”
Something vaguely remembered began to stir in Tom, a quickening, a response that he’d thought dead. Suddenly he wanted nothing more in the world than to fly again, to serve with this powerful man whose sense of purpose was so profound. Chakotay cared deeply, passionately for his cause, and that fervor had touched Tom. For the first time in years, he wanted to care about something—anything—and feel alive again.
He started to speak, felt his voice catch as it did long ago whenever he feared his father, and coughed. He pushed the glass of whiskey away from him and looked into Chakotay’s eyes, which were black and impenetrable. “Count me in,” he said, trying for a studied nonchalance that he didn’t feel. A silence fell between them, and Tom spoke once more, this time with sincerity. “Thanks,” he said, and felt like a small child once more when Chakotay smiled in response.
Flying again gave him more satisfaction than he would ever admit. His fingers were awkward at first; they had lost their alacrity. But the skills came back rapidly, and he felt a resuscitation of purpose that made him feel almost giddy.
As his former self was revived, however, so were his former demons. He hadn’t hit it off well with their chief engineer, a half-human Klingon woman named Torres. She struck him as a passionate, driven woman, completely focused on her work and uninterested in developing friendships. It was exactly the assessment he would want people to make of him, but something in Torres’s rejection of him had piqued him and left him somewhat unsettled.