Futility
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
"You've got to help him," the woman said. Her voice was low, urgent.
"I can't help him," the man answered, his own voice gruff.
"The hell you can't!" She strode the few steps to his desk and leaned over it, locking eyes with him. Twenty years ago (the man remembered distantly), she had been pretty, her red-blonde hair perpetually tousled and her bright blue eyes perpetually laughing. She might have been pretty still, were her face not so haggard, her eyes not so disconcertingly intense. "You're a Starfleet admiral, damn you! You can get him reinstated. Don't tell me you can't."
"I can't." He tried to keep the bitter weariness from his voice. He had never imagined that even once would he have to endure such pain, such frustration; he had been so certain that any son of his would be a son to be proud of. "I had nothing to do with the trial or the sentencing." After all, that would hardly have been allowed. He hadn't even been in the courtroom; he had watched the proceedings on closed-circuit vid, as if he were a stranger and did not care. "Besides, do you honestly think anyone I talked to wouldn't realize I have a vested interest here? Even if they didn't know – and they do – the boy looks so much like—" He didn't finish.
Deny it who would (deny it who had), the boy was every inch a Paris. If the admiral tried to intervene, tried to spare the younger man his fate, it would accomplish nothing except to make the admiral himself a defendant, for misuse of his authority. Could she not see that? Or, in her frantic need to save her son, did she simply not care?
"For God's sake, Owen!" she cried. "You don't have to risk your own precious rank and station." She had always hated that "rank and station," had looked upon it as a liability to their relationship. Little wonder that she mocked it even now, when she hoped to use it. "It's not like I'm telling you to go and order them to give him another chance. Just talk to some of your friends, and have them talk to some of theirs. Use that influence of yours. Just get him back in.You know all he ever wanted was to be a Starfleet pilot."
"Did I? Did I know that?" he asked roughly. "Did I know him at all?" You didn't want me to know him, he thought but did not say. You never wanted him to be a 'Paris of the Parises.' And I was so busy with my career, I let you have your way. If only he'd insisted on the prerogatives of his paternity; if only he had demanded a greater role in shaping the boy's character...he snorted silently. The evidence thus far argued that that would have made no difference.
She continued as if he had not spoken. "And he's so good at it, so gifted; it's what he was meant to do. How can you let those stiff-necked old bastards take it away from him?"
The admiral had had entirely enough of her delusions, about himself and about the child they had made. "Because he doesn't deserve it," he answered harshly.
She stopped, staring, as if he'd slapped her. "What?" Her voice was incredulous. "What did you say?"
"I said he doesn't deserve it." The admiral shoved himself up from his own chair, and bowed over the desk until his own blue eyes were on a level with the woman's. "You don't seem to realize it, Justine, but what he did was wrong."
"It was an accident!" she protested. "He never meant to kill anyone!"
"It doesn't matter what he meant," the admiral answered, blunt. "He didn't have to want to kill anyone, to do it. And he did do it. And then he covered it up, and tried to make someone else take the responsibility for his mistake. He fucked up all the way around, Justine. He doesn't deserve to be a Starfleet pilot. He doesn't deserve to be a Starfleet officer." He pulled back from her, crossing his arms as he glared. "He's damned lucky he's not in jail now."
"What are you saying?" she said shakily. "He admitted the truth."
"That's the only reason he isn't in jail. If he'd hung onto his lies, he would have been in a penal colony the minute the truth came out."
"If it ever did." She sounded ragged, desperate. "He didn't have to admit anything. He—"
"Justine, just how much credit do you think Starfleet should give him, for finally doing what he should have done all along?" Arms still crossed, the admiral turned away and paced to the office window, looking out. All about Starfleet Headquarters, ships and shuttles, runabouts and hovercars filled the air, each with its own flight path, its own pilot....He pressed his lips together tightly, denying the stab of pain.
His son did not deserve to be a Starfleet pilot. His son would not be a Starfleet pilot.
And he was helpless to change that, as helpless as he'd been before. "Give up, Justine," he said to his reflection in the transparent aluminum. "It's over."
"Damn it." The woman's voice broke. "Damn it, Owen, you have to do something. He's your son."
He did not turn, did not look at her. "So was Tom," he said softly.
With a muffled sob, the woman turned and walked away, the office door whooshing open and closed behind her as she left Admiral Owen Paris alone with his futility. Alone with the memory of his sons.
His sons, one born of his first wife, the other born of the woman who had (briefly) shared his bed after that beloved spouse had died.
His sons, both bright, gifted, and willful.
His sons, who'd been court-martialed and cashiered within months of each other, whose futures had been destroyed by their own hands.
His sons: Tom Paris and Nicholas Locarno.
--END--
Author's Notes: You probably already know this, but...in TNG's "The First Duty," Nick Locarno – court-martialed captain of Nova Squadron – was played by Robert Duncan McNeill, which would certainly explain any family resemblance he has to Tom Paris.
Special thanks to "Gold Grizzly," who suggested the Paris-Locarno connection in a recent thread on the Trek BBS. Thanks also to Kathy Speck, for helping me develop this version of Nick's personal history.
And yes, I know that this doesn't dovetail with the back story Jeri Taylor presented for Tom Paris in Pathways. I don't care, mind you, but I know....