Progenitor - Michael Jan Friedman [63]
He swallowed. “Taking that test was the worst kind of torture. But I got through it somehow, shakes and all. And I earned a passing grade, while half the other first-year students flunked.”
“So you came through,” Wu observed.
“Yes,” said Paris, “but that’s not the point. It was just an exam, and not even a particularly important one. It wasn’t as if my whole career was hanging in the balance.”
“In other words,” the commander translated, “you shouldn’t have reacted that way.”
“That’s right,” he said. “And if I were someone else, maybe I wouldn‘t have. But as I’ve been reminded all my life, I’m not just anybody.” The muscles worked in the ensign’s jaw. “I’m a Paris.”
Wu was beginning to understand the problem.
“In the years that followed,” he went on, “the same problem surfaced over and over again. Most of the time I was fine, as calm and controlled as anybody. But when I was under pressure, when I felt there was a chance I might fail, my hands shook and my stomach clenched and I had to struggle to conceal it.”
The ensign paused, his nostrils flaring with emotion. He seemed to be staring not at Wu but through her.
“But I always found a way to hide it,” he said softly, “because I was a Paris. Because I had a standard to live up to. Because I had inherited a reputation for courage and dedication and grace under fire.”
“Ensign,” said Wu, seeing how much it hurt him to talk about it, “you don’t have to—”
But Paris was like a dam that had finally burst. Obviously, he felt the need to get this out in the open. And if that’s what he needed, she was willing to listen.
“First,” he told her, smiling bitterly, “there was my grandfather, Daniel Paris. You may have heard of him at the Academy. He distinguished himself on the Potemkin and the Excalibur before he came back to Earth, where he was asked to assist Admiral Kirk during the admiral’s stint as head of Starfleet operations.”
In fact, Wu had heard of Daniel Paris—even before she had read the ensign’s personnel file.
“Then,” said Paris, “my grandfather became an admiral himself. His plaque at Starfleet Headquarters says he earned a reputation for wisdom and courage unmatched by any of his peers.”
Wu had never seen it. But then, there were lots of plaques at headquarters, lots of officers who had been honored.
“Next came my father, Iron Mike Paris. He was decorated no less than seven times as second officer and then executive officer of the Agamemnon.” The ensign’s voice dropped. “Unfortunately, his career was cut short when his ship was obliterated by the Romulans in what’s become known as the Tomed Incident.”
The run-in with the Romulans that precipitated fifty years of Romulan isolationism. Wu knew it as well as anyone.
“I never knew my father,” Paris told her. “I was just an infant when he died. All I had were holograms and my mother’s stories, all of which made him seem bigger than life.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wu.
The ensign acknowledged her sympathy with a nod. But there was more, apparently.
“Then there’s my Aunt Patricia, who’s five years younger than my father. She was on the Maryland at the Battle of Ankaata, where she lost an arm saving two of her fellow officers. She retired about the time I entered the Academy.”
The commander grunted. “Quite a pedigree.”
“Yes,” the ensign confirmed sardonically. “A lot to live up to. But my brother Owen never seemed to have any trouble with it. He’s always been the brainy type, you know? The type who’s going places? People say he’ll be the best Paris of all.”
Wu was familiar with Owen Paris. Who wasn’t?
In the eleven years he had spent wearing Starfleet crimson, the man had risen through the ranks like a shooting star. He had impressed commanding officers from one end of Federation space to the other.
And though he had been named first officer on one of the most prestigious vessels in the fleet, it seemed unlikely that Owen Paris would stop there. The smart money said