BLOODLINE

Chapter 3

Tom fidgeted yet again and then stilled automatically when he sensed his father's displeasure. It wasn't much of a gesture, just an almost imperceptible stiffening of his large frame, but then the Admiral didn't have to utter a single word or make eye contact for a member of the Paris family, or one of his personal staff at Starfleet Command to recognize the warning signs.

Owen Paris was taking his own sweet time scrolling through the contents of the data padd, and with mounting unease Tom realized that his father was deliberately stalling, drawing out the tension as always, prolonging the misery. It was a game he played well and often.

The facts were all there right in front of him. Tom had done all the research and even had some professional input from Yves Lefevre and glowing endorsements from a couple of his favorite tutors at the Academy. All he needed now was the Admiral's approval and the summer was his…one last chance before graduation from Starfleet Academy, for a tantalizing glimpse at what under different circumstances could very well have been the path he might have chosen for himself.

After another almost tortuous stretch of time the Admiral tossed the padd on to his desk dismissively, barely glancing up at his son before speaking..

"The answer is no Thomas. It's out of the question," he advised brusquely. Never one to stand on ceremony or skirt round the issues.

Not even trying to hide his shock and disappointment, Tom wavered for a moment under the glare of those piercing gray-blue eyes that just dared him to question the mighty Admiral's decision. Only for a moment though. He'd spent too many years doing exactly what he was told , never really wanting something enough to go up against the old man and fight for it…until now.

"But it's just one summer, Dad," he started cautiously, keen not to sound whiney. He gestured at the discarded data padd. "You read the report from Commander T'Elko. He says that if anything the experience of piloting the submersibles will enhance my flying skills and can actually go on my Academy grades."

"What part of 'no' don't you understand…exactly? " came the snapped rebuttal. " I have my own plans for you this summer, which don't entail you getting your stupid ass wet or allowing you to follow that little French bitch half-way across the globe like some targ on heat." The Admiral gave a derisive snort before continuing. "You have important exams coming up and a graduation next year, or have you conveniently forgotten that little fact!"

Pure desperation and the first stirrings of real anger spurred Tom on now and he was up and out of his chair, facing down his father. "And I swear to you, I'll study hard and pass every damn one of them and graduate like a good obedient little Paris if you just cut me loose and let me do this one thing… for myself."

"Who do you think you're talking to, boy?" came the growled warning. The Admiral slowly and deliberately pushed himself to his feet, his eyes blazing.

Undeterred and exasperated by his father's show of alpha dominance, Tom wasn't about to give an inch. "Okay, so what plans, huh?" he spat out, squaring up to confront the elder Paris. "Hmm, lemme guess. Another frickin' survival course? Where to this time, Dad? The Antarctic? An Amazonian rainforest, or maybe a desert wasteland on some distant godforsaken shit hole planetoid?. Well, been there, seen it, done that. Story of my whole sorry fucking existence…"

Blinded by frustration and anger, Tom was only vaguely aware of his father moving from behind his desk until, with a speed surprising for such a big man, he was all over his son in seconds - backhanding him savagely. The heavy blow caught Tom on the left side of his face and sent him reeling across the room, to crash into one of the floor to ceiling antique oak bookcases that lined the walls of the study.

Although the same height as his father and with a lean frame toned to perfection by the demanding academy fitness regime, bitter experience had taught Tom that he was no match for the stockier heavily-muscled admiral, so self-preservation instincts took hold as he tried to scramble away from the man. But before he could get very far, Owen Paris leaned down to grab a handful of the boys sweater, hauling him unceremoniously to his feet and holding him upright, their faces just inches apart.

"Don't you ever…ever…use profanity in my house again. Do you understand?" he shook his son violently. "And you should know by now that I won't tolerate insolence or disobedience."

Without waiting for a response, the Admiral shoved Tom painfully hard against the bookshelves and then released his grip, watching dispassionately as the youngster sagged to his knees.

"Do you understand, boy?"

This time he was rewarded by a slight nod of a blond head and a whispered. "Yes, sir."

"Good." He reached down to grasp Tom's jaw, tilting his head this way and that to study his handiwork; a split lip and a nasty bruise already forming across his cheekbone. "Now get out of my sight and clean yourself up," he ordered calmly. "We can't have your mother seeing you in this state can we."

Tom nodded, reaching out a shaking hand and using the shelves of the bookcase as leverage to climb unsteadily to his feet. He then moved slowly to the door, an arm folded across his chest to protect ribs that he thought might actually be cracked.

"Oh , and Thomas."

Tom halted and turned to his father with a sense of dread. The man was tidying his desk almost as if nothing had happened. He spoke without looking up.

"Have your gear packed and be ready to leave by midday tomorrow. You're shipping out to DS6," his hard tone brooked no argument. "You've been temporarily assigned to the USS Exeter. It's a huge honor." Owen Paris sounded very pleased with himself. "Think how that's going to look on your record," He paused briefly to allow the good news to sink in. Inordinately satisfied as he studied the forlorn figure hovering in the doorway.

"Don't let me down, boy."

Feeling suffocated by this man and his obsessive need to dominate every part of his life and this blatant attempt to separate him from Ricki once again, Tom fought the overwhelming urge to bolt right there and then, to get as far away from this life as possible. Instead, he took a deep controlling breath and nodded again, before saying the only thing that was really required of him at that moment.

"No sir, I won't."

In the early hours of the morning, Tom moved quickly around his room. Grabbing items of clothing, toiletries and a couple of data padds and cramming them into his backpack. He left a quick encrypted message for his mother - with a time-delayed transmission - on her personal comm, explaining his actions as best he could. She was bound to be worried and upset and he deeply regretted that, but even if she understood, he knew the same definitely wouldn't apply to his father. All hell would break loose the moment Tom's absence was discovered and the man would move heaven and hell to find him and bring him back. No-one went against the Admiral's orders - ever!.

Which was why Tom hoped to put as much distance between himself, San Francisco and Starfleet as humanly possible in the next few crucial hours. It wouldn't take someone with Vulcan logic to work out exactly where he was headed or his intentions, but at least he would have a head start.