Spirit Walk_ Old Wounds (Book 1) - Christie Golden [47]
Tom stared at it for a while. Then, plopping down the open book in front of B’Elanna, he said, “Look at what they use for paper on Boreth.”
Her eyes widened and a hand went to her mouth to cover a smile. Softly, so as not to be overheard by the librarians, she muttered, “Oh my God, it’s so cute!”
Klingon creatures were usually, to Tom’s eyes, as fierce and bristly as Klingons themselves, but paagrats were the exception. Looking like miniature gazelles, they had great big eyes and soft, fluffy fur.
“I feel terrible,” Tom said. “I’m writing on this little guy.”
“You’ve been eating it, too,” she said. “We’ve had it here a couple of times. It’s considered a delicacy.”
She returned to her research without another blink while Tom stared at the picture of the cute little fellow.
It seemed to stare mournfully back.
“It’s enough to make you want to go vegetarian,” he said.
“Tom,” she said, her tone a warning.
“Sorry, it’s just…We’re finding nothing.”
She looked up at him. “Which is pretty much what I predicted we’d find. How’s that for prophesying?”
Tom shook his head. “I still can’t help but believe that there’s something there. This is just far too clumsy and archaic a method for anyone to do anything resembling proper research.”
He closed the book, unwilling to meet the illustrated paagrat’s big-eyed, accusing gaze any longer. “I can’t help you, I can’t write with this stupid thing, and I’m starting to have doubts about the ethics of scribbling on the skins of really cute little animals.”
Her eyes blazed for a moment, then she softened.
“I know. This is pretty frustrating, isn’t it?”
“ ‘Frustrating’ is far too nice a word, but I don’t want to say what I really think in front of the paagrat,” he said, pointing to the parchment.
“It’s not just the research, is it?”
He met her gaze. There was no lying to her. Softly he said, “For a Klingon, you’re a pretty good empath.”
“For a Klingon, I’m a pretty good wife,” she replied. She regarded him intently. “I’m sorry I asked you to come here. This is my calling, not yours.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Hey,” he said softly, “I asked you to marry me, remember? For better or for worse and all that. I’m more than happy to be here, to be with my wife and child.”
“I know you mean that, and I love you for it.” She squeezed his hand. “But you’re miserable and you won’t admit it. You don’t belong here. I just—I just don’t know what to do about it.”
If only I’d gotten that first officer position with Chakotay, Tom thought. It had been a bitter blow to him and to B’Elanna when Starfleet’s “permission denied” message had come through. He’d fumed at the injustice even as he understood the reasoning. Sure, they didn’t want former Maquis in the positions of both captain and first officer.
But damn it, how many times was he going to have to prove himself?
Tom straightened and took a deep breath. He squeezed B’Elanna’s hand one last time and then picked up the pen.
“Well, I’m here now, and the least I can do is overcome my squeamishness and see to it that this poor paagrat didn’t die in vain. Read me the next thing that has any pertinence.”
She looked at him searchingly, then smiled. He grinned back.
Sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, he thought, and began to take dictation.
Another large blot formed on the paper.
“Paris,” came a rough voice. “You have a message.”
Tom looked up from the rapidly spreading pool of black ink to see Commander Logt hovering over him. “A message?”
“Are you deaf as well as foolish?” growled Logt. “A message. From Admiral Janeway.”
Chapter
13
“ADMIRAL JANEWAY,” said Paris, as he stood in the one room of the monastery that permitted modern technology, “you have absolutely no idea how great it is to see you.”
Janeway raised an eyebrow at the comment.
“My, my,” she said, smothering a smile. “In that case, I’ll have to see to it that you get back to Boreth quite frequently.”
His heart leaped. Was she implying…
“Admiral, if