Chapter Text
Eons ago, when the Great Rings were still in their bright infancy, reflecting and intensifying all light that came their way, tall ships skimmed their glittering surface, bearing the races of the Twin Planets and their many moons across the vast reaches of space…
“We need a pilot.”
“We have a pilot. He’s standing in front of you.”
“A real pilot, Chakotay.” B’Elanna doesn’t bother to scowl, her captain notices. Probably a bad sign.
“We’re not a merchant ship. We can’t just pick up some ex-Fleeter.”
Now she does scowl: the ‘Fleet is a sore point. “No, we’re a pirate ship. Can’t we just pick up a pirate pilot…or ex-pirate pilot…or whatever?”
Chakotay’s eyebrows climb. “You’d trust a space pirate to fly your ship?”
“It’s your ship, not mine,” she returns, less than pleased with his banter. “And isn’t it currently being flown by a space pirate pilot?”
“Not a real one apparently.”
“Chakotay…”
“My point,” and he holds up his hands in a peace offering, “is that ‘real’ pilots don’t grow on trees. And,” he adds, “they usually don’t come cheap.”
“Still, we need one.”
Chakotay scratches his salt and peppered hair. “You really think I won’t cut it?”
“In atmosphere, sure. But we’re heading back out to the Rings.”
“Bendera?” The captain twists back to the man lounging amidst the small mountain of supply crates littering the ship’s main deck, his ostensive focus on feeding crackers to the ship’s parrot, Neelix. “A little help here?”
Tossing Neelix a final offering, Bendera reluctantly turns toward where his captain and the ship’s engineer continue to face off. “Sorry, Captain. For one,” he grimaces, “she’s right. And for two,” the grimace morphs into a lopsided grin, “she’s scarier.”
The engineer snorts but crosses her arms and raises a brow in challenge to her captain. Standing on the Val Jean’s deck in her pirate leathers and with her ridged Klingon profile, Chakotay admits that Bendera likely has a point: she is scarier.
He concedes defeat. “There is one possibility that has been mentioned to me.”
“One is all we need.”
“You’re not going to like him.”
“I don’t need to like him. I just need him to…”
“…fly the ship,” Chakotay finishes as, satisfied that she has won her point, his engineer turns to head back below decks to her engine room. He stands watching her go, his teeth gritted.
Bendera rises from his crates and moves to his captain’s shoulder. “What is it?”
Chakotay shrugs, then sighs.
“I’m not going to like him either.”
…
The Rings loop around the Twin Planets like an immense serpent, crossing above and below the barycenter of the two bodies before winding around the planets themselves in a great, unending figure eight. The two planets, Earth and Cardassia, are twins in mass as well as name, orbiting that barycenter in a near perfect circle.
Caught up in the dance between the Twin Planets are many moons.
Some circle loyally around one planet or the other, perhaps pulled toward the sister planet at their apogee, but always returning home. With these steadfast moons, each Twin claims those in orbit as their own.
Others are shepherd moons, embedded with the Rings and following their swift loops between the two worlds. For expediency, these relatively small bodies are politically neutral, a favorite stop off for ships of both worlds as they traverse the Rings.
And then there are the Tortoises: the five great moons orbiting in wide, slow ellipses around the outside of the Twin Planets and their bright Rings. Each of the five are a rich source of minerals and resources and an even richer source of conflict and strife.
When the new pilot arrives aboard a day later, the Val Jean’s chief engineer indeed does not like him. Though, for what consolation it might be, Chakotay likes him even less.
Tom Paris is an arrogant, self-absorbed pig.
B’Elanna had not been privy to the details of where Chakotay had dug the ex-’Fleeter up from, nor how he had known to find him there, but by the aromas emanating from Paris’s person and garments when Chakotay delivers him onboard the Val Jean, she can guess at some of the generalities.
She ignores the pilot’s outstretched hand, as well as his drawled greeting and accompanying leer.
“Couldn’t you have at least sobered him up first?” B’Elanna growls at Chakotay.
He shrugs. “You said we needed a pilot. I’ve brought us a pilot.”
Bought us a pilot was probably more accurate, with funds that would no doubt go towards an extensive bar bill at their next port, but B’Elanna had been the one to suggest a mercenary so she can hardly argue that point.
“He’s not going to be much help if he’s too drunk to do anything but crash into a ring chunk and kill us all.”
“That won’t happen.”
B’Elanna blinks as she realizes that the words – without slur and entirely sober – have come from Paris.
“You can trust me with your ship. I promise you that.” Still taken aback by the pilot’s metamorphosis, B’Elanna is about to clarify that the Val Jean is not her ship, when the pilot’s smirk returns: “But I’m happy to give my services to anything else of yours that wants attention as well, tIqoy.”
“petaQ,” B’Elanna spits back, turning on her heel and heading down to her engine room, leaving Chakotay to deal with his pilot.
The rub is that, for all his abrasiveness, his promiscuity – the rumor mill has him rapidly sleeping his way through the more willing members of the Val Jean’s crew – and his unfailing arrogance, Tom Paris’s skills as a pilot turn out to be beyond reproach.
And she and Paris, as much as she is loath to admit it, work well together.
“That Cardi sloop is still gaining on us, Paris,” B’Elanna barks into the comm tube between the engine room and the helm, pushing away the overhead ‘scope as she does so.
“I can evade her, but there’s not much I can do about the distance without more power.”
B’Elanna curses. “The reserves are shot.”
There’s a pause and then, “What if we go into the ridges?”
“Into the ridges?” With ever changing peaks rising a half-league or more above the Ring’s surface, the ridges are to be avoided, not sought out.
“We’re sun-side of them; we’d be able to catch some extra photons –” if by ‘some’ you mean massive amounts; they’ll be lucky if they aren’t all blinded – “and they’d be crazy to follow us.”
It bothers her that she can clearly picture the feral grin accompanying that. “Crazy is one word for it.” The Val Jean shudders as a Cardi shot strikes home. She sighs. “You really think you can navigate those ice mountains?”
“If you can keep the engines from blowing out from the photon influx, I’ll handle the mountains.”
Which is a not insignificant “if”, but they’re out of options. “Fine. Take her in.”
Five minutes later, the engines have not flooded, the ship has not crashed into an ice ridge, the Cardi sloop – whose helmsman’s insanity apparently does not match Paris’s – has been shed and the Val Jean is making ready to set down on the Jeraddo moonlet for repairs and restocking.
Proceeded by a whoop of triumph, Kurt Bendera slides down the ladder into the engine room. “That was some fancy sailing there, Chief.”
“I wasn’t the one at the helm,” she points out.
Bendera just grins. “I’d say this one was a team effort.” She tries to scowl but suspects the effort fails: it had been a team effort and a good one. Kurt’s grin widens. “Come have a drink with me tonight to celebrate.”
B’Elanna hesitates: “I should really start in on the repairs…”
Kurt steps around the hanging ‘scope to grip her shoulders. “B’Elanna, we haven’t been dirtside in weeks. Come out and have a drink. It’ll be good for you.”
She’s still half-reluctant, but Kurt’s enthusiasm is infectious and she could use a break from the ship.
Bendera gives a second whoop of triumph at her nod of assent.
Even by Outer Rim standards, Quark’s is a dive. Dark, sticky, crowded – not the sort of place B’Elanna would normally choose to spend an evening. But, Kurt is good company and the closest thing she’s had to a friend in a while – unless you count Seska and B’Elanna is never entirely sure if she should. So she settles into a table in a relatively quiet corner of the bar with a clear view of the door – Jeraddo is officially neutral territory but you can never be too careful – while Bendera goes in search of his promised round of drinks.
Which is why, when Chakotay’s mercenary pilot walks into the bar, B’Elanna has a clear view of his wincing reaction to the scene before him. For a moment, something in his expression reminds her of that initial meeting on the Val Jean’s deck: he’d said she could trust him with the ship and hasn’t he made good on that promise?
Impulsively, B’Elanna rises from her seat, ready to invite the pilot to join her and Bendera in their celebratory drink when another figure breaks from the crowd to greet Paris where he still stands in the entryway. The dabo girl expertly twines herself around the pilot with obvious familiarity.
Idiot, B’Elanna chides herself, retaking her seat.
“Everything okay?” Bendera asks, returning with a drink in each hand. He follows her line of sight to the entryway, but Paris and his companion have melted into the crowd.
“Absolutely.” The lie is thin but Kurt won’t call her on it. She gratefully takes the drink he offers. “To narrow escapes,” she intones before taking a long swallow.
…
It takes Tom a good hour to shed Krella: she can be persistent when she wants something and tonight she wants him. More than likely that’s because word has gotten around that he has somehow landed a paying gig, but with Krella you never know. That’s one of the things Tom actually rather likes about her, but tonight he isn’t in the mood.
He isn’t in the mood to be here at all, but this is where a prodigal ex-’Fleet willing-to-fly-for-anyone-who-will-pay-his-bar-bill pilot will be expected to be when his ship comes to port for the first time in weeks. And so here he is.
Nine days out of ten, Tom can play his role easily enough. Today just happens to be the tenth day.
He had found a seat at the edge of the bar: the Ferengi bartender can be relied upon to leave him alone as long as Tom keeps his tab running hot. He isn’t really sure he feels like drinking any more than he feels like sitting in a crowded bar, but it’s all part of the game.
Actually, he’s been nursing this particular tumbler of Bajoran ale for longer than he would have expected to have gone unnoticed by his avaricious host. Curious, he scans down the long bar, wondering where the Ferengi has gone. Halfway through his scan, Tom finds his answer in the form of a gold and black ‘Fleet uniform.
Despite his better judgment, Tom edges around the corner of the bar for a closer look. This isn’t the usual ‘Fleeter bar, even on the relatively rare occasions that a ‘Fleet ship docks on this Outer Rim shepherd moonlet. The preferred ‘Fleeter bar is across town — cleaner, less sticky and with fewer enterprising locals in attendance.
How had mister gold-and-black found his way here?
The answer, as Tom gets a better look, is painfully obvious: this ‘Fleeter, an ensign now that Tom can see pips, looks greener than grass. His uniform has barely been worn long enough to have softened its creases.
And this same information has not escaped the notice of the Ferengi bartender.
The kid is clearly flustered and completely out of his depth. As Tom watches, the Ferengi says something sharply and Ensign Green-as-Grass hastily pulls out his purse with one hand while waving an apology with the other.
Tom shouldn’t get involved; this is exactly the sort of attention he wants to avoid. Nonetheless, he finds himself drawing up beside the hapless ensign, his eyes tracking down to the case full of shiny, iridescent rocks open on the bar.
Tom’s eyebrows shoot up: that’s audacious, even for a Ferengi. “Moon stones? You’re trying to sell him moon stones?”
Swinging around toward Tom, the Ferengi scowls, his mouthful of sharp pointy teeth on full display. “I don’t recall asking your opinion on this private transaction,” he growls, and, as best he can given his diminutive stature, the Ferengi leans across the bar, angling his body to cut between the two humans.
Rolling his eyes, Tom addresses the ‘Fleeter over the top of the large-lobed head. “You can find piles of these down by the river. They’re frog sh–”
“They are a byproduct of the digestive system of one of the indigenous amphibians,” the barkeeper interrupts, practically crawling on top of the bar to gain height. “A very exotic gift for your parents back home and a memento –”
“Ensign Kim!” The authoritative voice cuts through the general hubbub of the bar, followed by the owner of said voice, sporting command red and commander’s pips. “I thought it was made clear that junior officers were restricted to pre-designated locations while in port?”
Kim comes so sharply to attention that Tom honestly fears he might injure himself. “Sir, yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I must have gotten a little lost, sir.”
Apparently softened by the half-dozen or so ‘sirs’ Kim had managed to cram into his response, the commander smiles as he reaches the bar and claps the ensign on the shoulder. "No harm done, Kim, but you’d better come back with me." The commander doesn’t deign to give the Ferengi barkeeper so much as a glance, but his gaze does fall on Tom. His eyes narrow.
“Do I know you?”
And this is why he should never have gotten involved…
“I don’t think so,” Tom replies in a practiced drawl, shifting his posture just so. “But you could -- for the right price.” He quirks an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in tandem.
Flushing and growling something less than complimentary, the commander turns on his heel, barking at Kim to follow him. Kim tries to stammer some…thanks? apology? farewell? before racing after his CO, but Tom has already turned his attention back to the bar and his host.
“I’ll settle up: looks like I’m pretty much done here.”
...
The Val Jean leaves Jeraddo plus one more crew member: a Vulcan weapons expert.
Seska is less than pleased with the addition. “Those green blooded bastards have no feelings. How could he understand our cause?”
Chakotay shrugs, watching his recruit inspect the Val Jean’s armaments with Ayala across the deck. Given Vulcans’ purported auditory prowess, he’d likely heard Seska’s remark – which likely Seska had fully intended. “Maybe our cause is logical?”
Seska seethes in response and is about to reply when Chakotay cuts her off: “Look, he’s a Vulcan. Vulcans don’t lie. We can trust his word and, right now, that’s good enough for me.”
And so, when the Val Jean goes back out onto the rings, it’s with Tuvok manning her rail guns.