The Contractor: Chapter 1

A/U: Hello, all! First of all, thank you to whoever gave the suggestion to do a story about Paris not getting caught while he was flying in the Maquis. Second... this is my last story on FFN. I discovered Archive of Our Own much later than I should have. It's easier to post there, and I'm not going to be able to maintain double postings. Check it out; there are a lot of great authors. I have the same pen name there.

As always, I own none of this and post for my own pleasure.

They said the answer was never found in the bottom of a glass, but Tom Paris figured it wouldn't hurt to look anyway. There were no answers anywhere else he checked, after all.

No, he determined as he tipped the last of the terrible whiskey into his mouth and glanced at the empty glass. No answers there.

Like most people born on Earth or Federation homeworlds, Paris had only a rudimentary understanding of how currency worked. He knew this particular backwater colony close to the Cardassian border—but not close enough to have been handed over to the Cardassians—used Federation credits, but he wasn't exactly sure what a credit was or how much one could buy with a credit. For all he knew, the bartender was in the process of ripping him off.

Well, the bartender was definitely in the process of ripping him off. Terrible or not, he knew when whiskey had been watered down.

But most importantly, he had no idea if he could afford the glass of whiskey he had just had. Or the one he was likely to consume next. Or if he would be able to find a place to stay the night, or however long he was here. Or how one managed to get off remote colony worlds close to the Cardassian border and how much that would cost him.

All the fanciest schools from primary school through Starfleet Academy, and not one of them bothered to teach him how currency worked. He would demand a refund if said education had involved the exchange of any currency in the first place.

He was about to bite the bullet and order another round when a man sat in the barstool next to him. The newcomer signaled to the bartender, then pointed at Paris' now-empty glass—still with no answers to be found—and signaled for two. An entire exchange without a single word; Tom doubted he had managed that once in the course of his life.

The newcomer remained silent as he waited for his drinks, and Paris had to bite his cheek to follow suit. It wasn't that he wanted to talk to the man—he didn't really want to talk to anybody—but that he had a hard time sitting next to somebody and not talking to them.

The bartender placed two new glasses of the whiskey in front of the newcomer, who immediately slid one over to Paris. His eyes narrowed, but he certainly wasn't going to argue about free alcohol, and picked up the glass. "I heard you're a pilot," the man said, his eyes down on the glass in his own hand. He didn't raise it to his lips, just studied it as if it was the whiskey's piloting skills he was questioning.

Paris breathed out a laugh that was more of a wheeze. "Who wants to know?" he asked. That apparently amused the man, because he finally tore his eyes away from his glass of whiskey and looked over at Paris. He was a big man, solidly built, with a square face and some strange tattoo over his eye.

"I need a pilot for a job," he said in lieu of an explanation. "Interested?"

This time, the laugh was real, but filled with the cynicism that had been making up Paris' life for the last seven months. "In a job without any sort of description?" he asked sarcastically. "Sure, why not. I've made a lot of terrible decisions recently, let's just add that to the list." The nameless man seemed uninterested in Paris' sarcasm and stared at him for a long minute, until Paris felt himself begin to squirm. He took a sip of the terrible whiskey to give him something to focus on. "What's in it for me?" he finally asked.

"Your bar tab, for one," the man said dryly. "A ship to sleep on for the 15-day trip. Has a replicator, too. And you get to fly again. For at least 15 days."

He had Paris with that last one, but he tried hard not to show it. Flying. It's what brought him out to this backwater colony in the first place. He certainly wasn't going to find a flying job on Earth or any other respectable planet in the Federation, not after Caldik Prime, which left him seeking such work on places where people didn't ask to see a resume. He hadn't had much luck thus far. To be fair, most of his search had involved the bottoms of various glasses and bottles. "I want credits, too," Paris said.

The man seemed amused at Paris' negotiation. "How much?" he asked. Paris had no idea what the going rate was for a 15-day trip.

"What's your opening offer?" Paris countered, hoping the man didn't know he was bluffing. The scoff of laughter the man emitted told him that hope was for naught.

"Fifteen hundred," he said. "That's a hundred credits a day. And I'm taking out whatever your bar tab is. Considering you're getting free room and board for the entirety, I think that's fair. I'll pay you upon return."

"Hundred credits a day, plus the bar tab," Paris countered. "And you pay for my lodging until departure."

"Hoping to get the ship off the ground tomorrow morning. You can sleep on the ship tonight."

"I want to be paid up front."

The man shook his head, not even a chuckle this time. "You'll be paid upon return," he said. "That way, I know you'll return. And no drinking while you work for me. I don't pay for sloppy pilots. Replicator's not programmed for it, anyway."

Paris narrowed his eyes again as he considered this. He could probably hack the replicator to produce some synthale, but the man would find out and withhold his pay. He didn't like drinking while flying, anyway. He had done a lot of stupid and reckless things with his life, but that was unnecessarily stupid and reckless. "What's the mission?" he asked, which he knew was tantamount to agreeing to take it.

The man took a PADD from his pocket and slid it over. "Deliver the cargo to Golana. They'll have another shipment for you to bring back here. Don't get caught in the DMZ."

"What's the cargo?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters if I get caught."

The man shrugged. "So don't get caught. You come back in one piece with the return cargo from Golana, you'll get your credits. You do a good job, maybe we've got another for you."

"And if I don't do a good job?"

The man shrugged again. "You probably won't be our problem anymore. Or anyone else's."