The Contractor: Chapter 2
Tom Paris was shocked as anyone to discover that the Maquis life suited him.
Well, not the Maquis life, per se. More like a contractor to the Maquis. Although given that nobody had actually told him that he was working for the Maquis, he could claim to still have plausible deniability.
Who was he kidding? Who was and was not Maquis in this area was the worst kept secret. He could claim to not know that he was working for the Maquis, but it would take a really good lawyer to convince any sort of jury that he actually didn't know. Although given his ignorance of most things out in the colonies, maybe it wouldn't be that much of a stretch of convince people that he really was that uninformed.
The work kept him occupied, if nothing else. Back in Starfleet, he had thought flights plans were the most boring part of his job, just a box that needed to be checked before he could get to his real job of actually flying. Out here, with Starfleet on one side, Cardassians on the other, rouge elements taking advantage of the lawlessness, not to mention the Badlands itself, plotting out his course was the difference not only between freedom and captivity, but life and death. Here, the flying was secondary. And both exhausting and boring. Given that he was the only person on the transport vessel, sleep was something that had to be carefully scheduled, and even then, often interrupted by proximity alarms.
But he was flying again, and for five to thirty days at a time, he had a purpose again. And a reason to stay sober. Between jobs was another story. Between jobs, when he didn't have the route to plan out or execute, when he didn't have the proximity alarms waking him from his brief naps, his mind filled in the blanks with the screams of his dying crewmates. And he tried to drown them out whatever alcohol or synthale he could get his hands on until it was time to put together the next flight plan.
When he returned from his first job to Golana, Chakotay had made good on his promise, handing over the 1500 credits. Paris confirmed by then that he was being stiffed—he found out from the dockhands at Golana that pilots started at 500 credits a day. Going in and out of the Badlands and the DMZ raised the price even further. But two weeks later, when Chakotay again found him in that same bar, in that same state of drunkenness, and offered him another job, he was so relieved for the opportunity to fly again that he didn't dare ask for more credits in fear that Chakotay would walk away and find another pilot. He couldn't keep this up. He knew that. But his demons apparently hadn't gotten the memo.
Ensign Al-Agba had been a persistent pain in the ass while alive. No surprise that his ghost was just as bad.
After the second job, the time between contracts shrunk further and further, until he was lining up the next before he finished the current one. Word had gotten around that he was capable, didn't ask questions, and hadn't gotten caught—yet—which were pretty much the only qualifications required for a pilot out there. Chakotay still got first dibs, even though he was paying the least, but Paris would fly for anyone with a ship and some credits or latinum.
He had been flying for Chakotay for over seven months before he had met any members of the man's crew. He knew that he had a crew; everybody knew that Chakotay was one of the more effective Maquis captains out there, but for as much as he missed being around other people while he was alone on his transport runs, he had no desire to socialize with Maquis. He didn't even like dealing with Chakotay or the other Maquis who contracted him. His plausible deniability decreased with every day he was hanging out along the DMZ, but he could still almost fool himself that he was just a pilot, doing piloting things. It wouldn't stand up in a court of law if it came to that, but maybe someday he'd be able to sleep through the night.
The introduction was unexpected. He had boarded Chakotay's transport shuttle to see a man with dark hair sitting in the never-occupied copilot's seat. "Uh…" Paris said, his voice trailing off. The man turned to glance at Paris, then turned back to his controls. "Did I get the wrong ship?" he finally asked.
"Nope," the man replied. "I'm going with you."
"Chakotay didn't say anything about a second pilot."
"Not a pilot," he said. Paris waited for more explanation, but didn't get one.
"Then why are you here?" he finally asked.
"Chakotay told me to."
Again, Paris waited for more—such as what Chakotay might have told the man to do while they were on a five-day run to Umoth VIII—but the man offered nothing further. "He didn't tell me," he said. The man shrugged as if that of no consequence to him, and Paris knew he had two choices: he could accept the passenger and carry on with the run, or he could walk away and probably never get another contract from Chakotay. Which in and of itself wouldn't necessarily be the worst thing, except for the fact that he knew how these things worked out here. If Chakotay burned him, the other Maquis would do so as well, until Paris was left right back where he started: sitting on a barstool, getting drunk off cheap whiskey.
At least he had the credits for it now.
He sighed and finally headed for his seat. "I'm Tom," he introduced. The man didn't offer his own name, and Paris sighed again.
This was going to be a long five days.
Tom Paris liked talking. His mother used to laugh about it, his sister teased him about it, and his father tried to train it out of him, but nothing changed the fact that, deep down, he was a people person, and he relished the opportunity to be around people. For the past seven months, the only people he had had to talk to were the dock hands at the various shipping ports and the drunks at the bars, and so he was not going to miss the opportunity to talk to another person, even if said other person displayed no interest in what he was saying and equally little interest in replying.
They were two days in the run before he found out his companion's name was Mike. And he had dropped him off at Umoth VIII without ever finding out why he was there. His two theories, equally likely in his mind, were either that Chakotay wanted a report back on Paris' activities and/or loyalties, or that Mike had some sort of business on Umoth VIII and he was essentially part of the cargo that Paris was hauling.
Two weeks later, Chakotay contacted him about another job that added more points in the column of the former: he asked him to fly his own ship, the Val Jean.
They were back at Paris' favorite bar—if one could have a favorite when all he cared about was whether or not they had alcohol and chairs—when Chakotay again took a seat next to him. "I've got a mission that pays ten times as much," was his introduction.
In other words, about what Paris should have been making anyway.
"What's that?" Paris asked cautiously.
"What do you know about Torros III?"
"I know it's on the wrong side of the Cardassian border for you to be dropping off 'equipment,'" Paris replied. The months he had spent studying star charts had taught him that. Chakotay smirked slightly.
"Can you fly there?"
Paris snorted. "Any idiot can plot a course," he replied. "You want to know if I can fly there without getting killed or captured."
"Can you fly there without getting killed or captured?" Chakotay asked, the glint in his eye telling Paris that he was enjoying playing along.
"Ah, I see why you're offering ten times my usual rate," Paris said dryly. "You don't think I'll be around to collect."
"I'm hoping you will be," he replied. "I need you to take the Val Jean."
"Take your ship," Paris echoed flatly, then gave a chuckle as he shook his head. "Despite evidence to the contrary, I don't have a death wish."
"The crew needs to get there."
"So take them."
"I'll be busy with something else."
"The deal has been flying cargo. That's all."
"There hasn't been a deal," Chakotay reminded him. "You've been operating under unofficial contracts and handshakes. If you're done with those…" his voice trailed off and he shrugged a shoulder. "I get it. The other captains will, too."
It didn't take a detective to read through the lines: take the job or there will be no more jobs. "I don't want your fight, Chakotay," Paris said. "Don't get me wrong; I get it. It's just not my fight and I already have a hard enough time sleeping at night."
"I just need you to fly the ship," Chakotay assured him. "You don't even need to fire phasers. I have people for that."
"How do your people feel about contractors flying them around? From what I've heard around here, a lot of crews would rather phaser a mercenary in the back than take the chance of getting sold out."
"They do what I tell them to do," Chakotay said. "If you get killed on this flight, it won't be from one of my people."
"Comforting."
"Space is a dangerous place."
"Especially out here, right?" Chakotay just tilted his head in acknowledgement of that. "When are we leaving, then?"
"Three days. My engineer is making some repairs." Chakotay rose from the barstool, his whiskey again untouched. Paris was pretty sure the man didn't drink, and didn't have the mental energy to figure out why he would keep paying for drinks he didn't consume. "I'll send you the coordinates of the docking port. Don't be late and don't be drunk."
"Yes, sir," Paris sarcastically.
He wasn't sure which he was dreading more: three days left to his own devices on the planet, or going into space with a ship full of Maquis.