Pathways - Jeri Taylor [91]
“He’s a very good actor. Better than you.”
A bright flush appeared on Seska’s cheeks and her eyes glittered in a way that made B’Elanna unaccountably afraid. There’s a lot going on inside this woman, she thought, and decided to stay alert in her dealings with the Bajoran.
“Chakotay’s able to hide his feelings well. That’s just the way he is. But . . . Bajorans are very passionate people.” She paused to let that assessment sink in, then continued. “It’s harder for us to hold in our emotions.”
“Seska . . . why are you telling me all this?”
Seska busied herself with one of the six toroids of the driver coil assembly. “It seemed only fair to let you know the situation. In case there were any doubts.”
A droplet of anger was beginning to boil in B’Elanna, but she willed herself not to reveal it. That’s what Seska wanted, and to give her that satisfaction would be intolerable. She maintained a studied coolness. “Frankly, I’ve never thought about it one way or the other. What you and Chakotay do in your spare time isn’t of any interest to me. I can’t imagine that you thought it might be.”
She felt Seska’s eyes on her, but didn’t look back. “Have you aligned the toroids?” B’Elanna asked casually. “We’re never going to get this shuttle operational if we don’t stop talking.”
And the rest of the afternoon passed in silence.
Six months later, Chakotay returned from a hurried and secret visit to Earth with a sullen young human in tow. His sandy blond hair was wayward and his blue-gray eyes frankly assessed every woman he saw.
B’Elanna disliked him on sight.
Chakotay had recruited him to replace Setonak, their Vulcan pilot, who had been injured during a fracas with the Cardassians and who was recuperating in a medical facility on Vulcan. B’Elanna missed Setonak, whose stoic restraint was calming to her. She wondered if she could ever learn to control her emotions in the way that Vulcans had. She’d often thought of talking to Setonak about his mental discipline, but that very discipline made him impervious to approach.
And now, in his place, was this arrogant whelp, this Tom Paris. What could Chakotay have been thinking?
They clashed right from the first. She resented his appraising look at her, as though she were an ornament whose value he was deciding. She disliked the seductive timbre of his voice, which seemed to imply that they were in a bedroom rather than an engine room. And most of all, she hated the fact that he was trying to tell her her business.
“All I’m saying,” he drawled, “is that if you’d just keep the vectored exhaust director at its narrowest setting, I could probably increase my maneuverability by about thirty percent.”
“And if you knew anything about venting exhaust, you’d know that would cause a buildup that would not only start producing toxic fumes in Engineering, but might overload the reaction chamber and cause a nasty little explosion. Why don’t you stick to piloting, and let me handle the engines.”
He grinned at her, which nettled her further. He seemed coated in some defensive shield, deflecting any comment or criticism. It was impossible ever to know what was really going on inside him, for he presented only this surface self, carefree and impervious.
“Torres, what say we call a truce? I won’t try to tell you your business, you don’t try to tell me mine—and maybe we can be friends. You might like me if you get to know me.”
“A truce is fine. But I’ll pass on the friendship part.”
He shrugged and moved away. If he was disappointed, or wounded, he didn’t show it. She found herself unaccountably irritated by that trait, without realizing that it was one she wished she could develop as well.
It was because of Tom’s skill as a pilot that they began to explore a region of space known as the Badlands.
It was a violent, churning, dangerous region, full of plasma storms that could destroy a ship in an instant. Many of the crew disliked entering it, even though it provided protection from both