Rule #10: Always Keep Your Game Face On
"Diplomacy is the art of saying 'nice doggy' until you can find a rock." Will Rogers
…..
The Starlight Lounge, however ludicrously named, was quite a different proposition from Finnegan's. Where the latter was a gathering place for the lost and desperate, the former drew those that were looking at the world with sharp and hungry eyes - the hunters, not the prey. Authorities were not popular here; Fleeters crossed the threshold at their peril.
Tom knew this place as surely as he knew his name and the number tattooed on his neck; he'd been in dozens like it, both drunk and sober. Looking for the chance to fly, or to drown if it did not come his way. Searching for ways to silence the sounds of screaming metal, to cover the smell of charred flesh of Caldik Prime. Suppressing the fear that had filled him the day he found out he was human. Denying the loss he had suffered when he found that restoring his honour came with a price.
It had been in a place like this that he had first met Chakotay, the Maquis captain searching for a pilot to take a ship into the Badlands. Chakotay had apportioned his contempt equally between the man he had found and the place where he had found him, not bothered to hide either.
Tom felt it now like a physical thing, that contempt, as he looked around and tried to project the image of a man who might be at home in this place; finding instead the man who had been. Grinding his teeth against the rising bile of his memories and letting his eyes grow cold, he squared his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately he allowed the foul air to fill his lungs – putting on the room like he would another jacket. Tried to graft the images of the past onto his face, without letting the memories drip their venom back into his soul. Failing.
Old habits that had died hard came back surprisingly easy; some had never left. He scanned the place with hard, keen eyes, registering the wide variety and categories of scum with detached calculation. Three exits; one bolted shut. The bar would offer shelter in a phaser fight, if he could jump over it. Big if, that; it was rather massive, perhaps a piece of salvage.
Tom found himself irrationally wishing to have Harry by his side. Or Riker. The Captain was getting a bit squidgy around the edges, but looked like he could still throw his weight around in a fight. I must be going soft. Never used to wish for company … then. Back when he didn't care whether he lived another day, or another minute.
Slowly, deliberately, Tom Paris walked across the bar, memories dragging on his feet like Jacob Marley's chain, making sure that the clientele got a good look at the mark on his neck, the disdain in his eyes – for what, they need not know - and the phaser on his belt.
He'd walked alive out of Auckland, the Akritirian Chute, a Kazon ship, the Mokra dungeons and a Borg vessel or three; he could bloody well walk across a bar on a third-rate space station without buckling.
The two Nausicaans were hard to miss. Shit. I hate Nausicaans. Took up half the bar, looking professionally nasty. Wait a minute. One of them looked familiar. It came to him quickly – that decrepit Pallarian freighter, running who knew what cargo past the Cardassians and to the far side of Bajor, just before he'd hooked up with Chakotay and the Maquis.
The Nausicaan, Koltek something, had been hired to guard the transfer. He had grumbled something vaguely complimentary about Tom's flying after the ion storm that could have dislodged and possibly blown up their cargo. Perhaps the Nausicaan version of a "thanks for saving my butt, buddy?" Maybe he'd remember?
The Andorian. There she was, at the bar, presumably waiting for her so-called pilot, who unbeknownst to her was now snoring underneath a different bar.
She was staring at him.
Oh yes, blue eyes. They like blue eyes. That should help. Open wide, Tommy boy.
Her feelers started to sway in his direction. Tom almost grinned when he remembered Riker's little tale and his own panicky reaction to Edora; he managed to turn the grin into a smirk at the tall, lithe Andorian beauty before him.
Target acquired. Tactic determined. Play it, Paris.
He stared at her, practically undressing her with his eyes.
Now that's not so hard, is it? Kind of fun, actually.
Tom shoved an obnoxious Ferengi out of the way, nodded at the Nausicaans as he went past. "Koltek," he said with a voice pitched somewhere between casually dismissive and sort of respectful. Nausicaans, too, were distant cousins to Goldilocks; you had to get things just right with them or you got eaten alive. Koltek raised a furry eyebrow. Recognition? Good. Acquaintance improved your chances they wouldn't kill you, at least not for purely gratuitous reasons. Let the rest of the low-life think he and the Nausicaans were buddies. Couldn't hurt.
The Andorian. She was clearly interested; Riker had definitely been right about those feelers. Sexy as hell she was, and knew it. He knew it, too. Sheesh, watch her stroking that dagger like it's your … Play it, #0766.
"So," Tom said, his voice a husky drawl that he knew would have B'Elanna dissolved into giggles in ten seconds flat, and on his lap in fifteen, "I hear you need a pilot."
It didn't take long to convince the Andorian that the man she had hired was permanently indisposed; the story he gave was entirely plausible in a place like this. It took even less time to convince her to hire him instead. She was … keen. In more ways than one. Not to mention stuck, if what the dispatcher had said about her own vessel was accurate.
"One, I'm the best you're likely to find in these parts." Her body language made it pretty clear that she was interested in more than his shuttle and flying skills; between her tongue and her antennae, no words were needed.
"Two, I'm willing and available." Hadn't he offered more than his piloting skills before? Then.
This is now. Whatever it takes. Claw back after. Seal the deal, Thomas.
"Three. You want me. I can tell." Touching her, smelling her, in that bar … She felt good …
The job was his. Mission accomplished.
Taste that mouth. Gods, Riker was right.
Riker... Captain Riker. Starfleet. Enterprise. Wake up call. B'Elanna...
Oh, hell. B'Elanna's gonna kill me.
…..
Tom gently pushed the Andorian away, allowing an apologetic smile to touch his eyes, even as his hand grazed and briefly lingered over the ring under his shirt.
"Would love to get better acquainted, but I make it a rule never to mess with clients, once they're clients. No matter how … charming. Company policy. Trust you can adapt?" His eyes quickly scanned the room to see if their little interlude had drawn any attention. One of the Nausicaans turned back to his drink.
She gave him a long, lingering look, feelers still dancing, tongue brushing where his lips had just been, still tasting him, her breath coming slower now. "I do need a pilot more than I need … a nice time," she said. "I guess I can. Adapt, I mean. Maybe later?"
"Maybe."
Tom extended his hand. "Name's Tom. At your service." The Andorian raised an eyebrow at the deliberate omission of a last name, stared meaningfully at the mark on his neck that included his initials.
She took his hand, siding her nails along his palm slowly, sensuously as she did so, brushing the back of his hand with her thumb. Bitch. "Ramara. Ramara Erdilev."
Tom had heard that name before. "Erdilev? Any relation to the Chancellor?"
"The Erdilev are a large clan on Andoria, Mr. … Tom. When can you leave? Three day round trip to Nadoo IV, possibly another hire at the end to take us home. My own ship … seems to be missing a few parts. Ciccone told us he could leave tomorrow. Any sooner possible?"
Tom gave a graceful wave of his hand, and took a deep sip of his synthale, all mercenary now. "Let me finish this drink, m'lady, and I am all yours. Ready to go, ready to fly. Only thing is …" She cocked her head, antennae flattening. "We haven't come to … terms yet. Not sure what you agreed with …. Ciccone, you said his name was? And I don't care, frankly. My price is half a bar of latinum now, another half when we get back. Neutral Zone rate, no deals. Plus any damage to my ship if the Romulans give us any grief. Or the Feds, for that matter."
Ramara nodded curtly. She gripped her dagger and sheathed it in the ornate holster that slung diagonally across her chest; it separated and accentuated the breasts she continued to push towards Tom in an unsubtle tease. The Andorian was clearly paying him back for his earlier come-on; he found himself liking her for it.
"Fine. If we can leave tonight. My companion wants to get out of here. She's not used to … places like this."
Tom could readily believe that. "And you're going to Nadoo IV why, exactly?"
"Spot of tourism. To see the Great Gorge. You can come if you like, or just beam us down if you wish. Up to you."
"And what's wrong with the Grand Canyon on Earth? Very attractive, no legal complications, fewer Romulans?"
Ramara's eyes narrowed. "You ask too many questions, pilot. Let's just say my companion wants to get away from it all for a few days, and Earth is not 'away' enough."
Tom shrugged and drained his synthale. "Works for me. Let's go." He followed Ramara out the bar, taking careful note of any movement behind his back.
The two Nausicaans were setting down their drinks.
…..
The 'guest accommodations' adjacent to the Starlight Lounge were not much better than the bar itself. A dingy hallway, metal doors, and odd smells characterized what was billed – and probably rightly so – as the most luxurious quarters on the station. After Ramara identified herself over a small communicator to the tenant inside, it took the latter a good three minutes to disengage various security locks, before the door would open.
Tom hadn't known what to expect, but what he saw almost caused him to drop his carefully constructed mask. Lissan Shran was a slip of a girl, maybe the Earth equivalent of somewhere between sixteen and eighteen – slender, delicate and beautiful, with intelligent but frightened eyes. And so very young. Tom figured that if he had feelers, they'd be waving in paternal protection mode about now.
Her skin was a deep blue that shone like a polished gemstone in the garish light of the corridor. Despite her obvious nervousness she carried herself with a defiant set to her shoulders that instantly appealed to him.
"This is our pilot, Lissan, his name is Tom. He says we can go right away. Are you ready?" Ramara asked, with just a hint of impatience in her voice. It was pretty clear to Tom that despite her tough exterior she was as uncomfortable in their present environment as she had said her 'companion' was, and he couldn't blame her. Not exactly the place to take the heir of a planetary Imperium, especially if you were in charge of her physical protection.
He'd be personally more than happy to close the hatch on the Flyer and put Nardik Station and demons it had loosened in his head behind him; there'd be time to figure out next steps when he didn't have to look over his shoulder or pat down his psyche every minute or so.
It took Lissan only a few moments to gather her belongings; Tom recognized her small duffle as being of a brand his sisters had drooled over when they were teenagers. Some things obviously didn't change. He waited with his back to the wall beside the door, hands in his jacket pockets, calculating the fastest way back to the Flyer based on the station schematic on the opposite side of the hallway. "This way," he said, nodding towards the corridor that would take them to the turbolift for the Alpha North spoke.
The same corridor that was now blocked by two very large and very hairy Nausicaans, coming towards them with their phasers drawn.
"Sorry, Paris," drawled the one he had earlier recognized as Koltek. "No hard feelings. Business is business. Gotta take these lovely ladies off your hand. Easy come, easy go. Gimme that pretty phaser of yours, and be on your way. Debt paid."
Nausicaans were rumoured to have a code of honour – of sorts – and apparently it entailed not killing or eviscerating someone who they figured had saved their neck once. Tom smiled his most smarmily ingratiating smile, and inclined his head in appreciation for the unexpected generosity.
Ramara glared at him contemptuously as he took the phaser off his belt, but handed over her own without attempting to make a move. She too knew what Nausicaans were capable of. Lissan, for her part, stood stock-still, eyes wide, antennae flattened to her glossy white hair.
"Way it goes, I guess," Tom said lightly. "You owe me a good fare though, Koltek. Need a pilot? Assuming you're being paid well, of course?"
"None of your business, Paris, but yes we are. Fine Andorian ice diamonds, for two fine Andorian ladies. Plus whatever fun we get to have with them before we finish the job. And no, we don't need a pilot. Not going anywhere. Now be a good boy and piss off before I regret letting you live."
Tom shrugged, and casually stuck his hands back into his jacket. "Sure, whatever you say, Koltek ol' buddy," he muttered as he fired off two quick shots from the small phaser in his pocket, right through the leather. Set on heavy stun, the blasts knocked the two Nausicaans off their feet and into the opposite wall.
Nausicaans. No subtlety. Trust those oversized nitwits to fall for the bright, shiny object in his belt and overlook the small, utilitarian one in his pocket. He had to remember to thank Admiral Picard for that particularly helpful insight into their character.
Like a cat, Ramara was on the fallen mercenaries and retrieved both her and Tom's weapon, using hers to give each of the Nausicaans another shot in the head for good measure. It did not look like her weapon had a stun setting.
Tom frowned briefly at the ethics of the woman's move, although it probably made little difference to the Nausicaans, all things considered. As it was, they would have been left unconscious near a place full of people looking for easy profit; he sure didn't have the time to drag them someplace safe, even if there was one and he'd felt so inclined, which he was not. These were trained killers, would-be rapists, who had taken a professional risk that hadn't paid off. How had Koltek put it? Easy come, easy go.
He shrugged off and decided to postpone any internal debate on morality, necessity and proportionality before it got too complicated, and stuck out his hand for his expensive regenerative phaser. Ramara hesitated a bit, but thought the better of it when he glared at her and handed it over.
"Not bad," she said. "You just earned your fare."
"And a little extra, I should say," Tom smirked, fully back in character now. "I mean, look at what that did to my nice jacket. That sucker was expensive." The right pocket was still hot from the blast that had cut a hole straight through it, and he patted it a few times to make sure he wouldn't catch on fire. The smell was something else.
He turned to Lissan. "You okay, young lady?" She looked up at him, her sparkling eyes filled with what could only be described as Grade A hero worship. Oh shit. "Yes," she breathed, "You were wonderful, Tom. You saved my life. Our lives."
Based on what little Koltek had given away before his inglorious demise that was probably true, but Tom shrugged off the accolade. "All in a day's work," he said nonchalantly. The last thing he needed, really, was another Andorian female going gaga over his baby blues. Especially one who was barely older than Miral.
"Let's get to my ship before anyone comes to investigate," he said, picking up Lissan's dropped duffle and slinging it over his shoulder as he nudged her along. Ramara cocked an eyebrow and followed him, bringing up the rear with her phaser still in her hand. Tom's back itched a little at the thought, but he squared his shoulders and kept moving.
….
Captain William Riker was laying his one-hundred and fifty-eighth solitaire when Tored Paak came over to have a closer look. "Can you show me how to do this?" he asked, evidently getting as bored as his captive. "It must be a satisfying activity, if it holds your attention this long."
Riker shrugged. "Sure," he said, collecting the cards and shuffling the plastic deck with a practiced snap of his thumbs that still, after one-hundred and fifty-eight times, earned him an envious look from the protocol officer. "You familiar with the Terran deck of cards?"
"I believe I am. When I received my training, poker was a popular pastime. Somebody had brought it back from Earth. We don't have such games on Andoria."
I bet, Riker thought. People like Erdilev couldn't keep the smugness at a good hand off their face for more than three seconds. Feelers would be a problem, too.
"Now, the Royal Deck, which is what we have here, is a bit different. You play without the Jacks, but all the other cards are the same. Here, sit down. I'll show you."
Paak obediently sat in the chair the Captain had vacated. Standing beside and slightly behind him, Riker laid out a deck, and opened the first row. He patiently explained the rules, once, twice, until Paak declared himself ready to try on his own.
Taking another step behind him, Riker's hand closed around the four cards he had slipped up his sleeve quite some time ago. Playing without the Jacks had been a bit disconcerting at first, but he had gotten used to it after a few turns.
He put the four cards together in a little stack in the palm of his hand, tested the edge with his thumb, gripped them with three fingers around the sides, and bent them slightly for strength. Not great, but it would do. With a quick move he put Paak's head in a vise-like grip with his left arm, snapped it back and with his right hand drew the sharp edges of the cards across the man's throat like a blade.
Riker swallowed hard as his would-be guard's body slid onto the floor. No matter how many times he had caused a person's death, no matter how justifiable under the rules of self-defence, necessity or armed conflict, let alone his own personal code of honour, killing a sentient being would always left ashes in his mouth.
But he was the Captain of a starship that was under threat, with a duty to escape and to try to aid his crew. Riker looked at the still form of Tored Paak through hooded eyes as his former captor lay on the floor, blue blood pooling around his head. He knew he would be spending the next few nights recreating the list in his mind. Who had been the last…? Ah yes, the Reman Viceroy, on the Scimitar, the day Data died. And before that …
Riker shook his head to clear it; now was not the time. He headed for the door, a last glimpse at Paak, dimly registering that the card lying face up beside the dead man's body was the Jack of Hearts.