NEW: Friendship (VOY AU) PG [P/T, TNG crew]


Title: Friendship
Author: Dave Rogers
Series: VOY AU (Virtues series 7/8)
Part: 1/1
Rating: PG
Codes: P/T, TNG crew
Summary: Tom Paris finds a new home and new friends aboard the 
Enterprise.

Disclaimer: I hope Paramount are friendly enough to let me borrow 
their characters again. The story, I would love to take full credit 
for; but in fact, the confrontation between Picard and Gul Tancret 
is lifted, almost verbatim, from C. S. Forester's short story "The 
Guns of Carabobo", from "Hornblower in the West Indies".



Friendship



The Enterprise was certainly different. Compared to the long periods 
of boredom punctuated by brief moments of terror Tom had experienced 
on the USS Bohr, life was quite a wild ride. He'd been aboard for a 
week, still finding his way around, when Picard and almost all the 
rest of the crew had disappeared in a search for Lieutenant-Commander 
Data, and he'd found himself working a double shift on an undermanned 
bridge, flying a ship whose controls he barely recognised, under the 
command of the ship's Chief Medical Officer. No, life here wasn't 
going to be dull.

In general, though, the most junior pilot aboard tended not to get 
involved in much of the action, and though he tried to involve himself 
in the social life of the ship, the family atmosphere made it rather 
difficult for a young single man to find friends. He was starting to 
sink into the withdrawn solitude that had captured him a year ago, 
when a chance encounter in a corridor changed his life a little. As he
was returning to his quarters after a duty shift, the holodeck door in 
front of him opened, and he was confronted by a massive Klingon in 
full battle armour. He'd seen Worf, of course, but hadn't felt it 
necessary, or perhaps even wise, to speak to him; but now Worf spoke 
first.

"Excuse me, Ensign." Then, noticing Tom's stare, "Do you require 
assistance?"

"No, sir, er, thanks," answered Paris, slightly nervously. The sight 
of Worf after a holodeck workout - and, more specifically, the smell 
of Worf after a holodeck workout - was enough to take anyone aback, 
but Tom's interest was drawn by the bat'leth over the Klingon's 
shoulder. "Actually, yes, sir," he corrected himself. Then he gave 
what he hoped was a friendly smile. "I've always wondered how you use 
one of those."

Worf stared straight into his eyes for a moment, frowning and, Paris 
thought, growling under his breath. Then he seemed to reach a 
decision. "Meet me here in one hour. Dress for battle." Without 
another word, he was gone, striding off with arrogant calm.

An hour later, wondering what the hell he had let himself in for, Tom 
was back, and explaining himself to Worf. "I don't know, sir, there's 
always been something about Klingon culture that's fascinated me. I'd 
like to learn more, and using a bat'leth seems to be a good place to 
start."

Worf considered this briefly. "It is the only place to start," he 
eventually replied. "Have you a bat'leth?"

"Uh, can I replicate one? Or borrow one?" Of course he didn't have a 
bat'leth; he'd arrived so recently he barely had a change of clothes.

"A warrior's bat'leth is his most prized, most personal possession," 
Worf replied, his voice taking on a reverent tone. "A replicated 
weapon would have no soul. The blade must be forged by a craftsman 
with at least twenty years' training, the handle..."

"I get the picture," interrupted Paris, rather unwisely; but Worf's 
glare didn't raise too many blisters, so he carried on, "Where's the 
best place to get hold of one?"

"Here." Worf placed a second, rather lighter bat'leth in Paris' 
surprised hands. "This was my training weapon when I was a young man. 
It is a more suitable weight for your," his lip curled slightly, 
"rather lighter build. Computer, begin Klingon callisthenics program, 
level one. Ensign, let us enter."

In the hour that followed, both men learned a great deal. Paris 
learned that the skills he applied to piloting could be just as well 
applied to Klingon martial arts, as he learned to anticipate his 
holographic opponents' moves, and give himself time to swing the 
bat'leth so as to use its full killing power. And Worf learned that a 
lighter build, used with speed and precision, could be just as 
effective as raw power in overwhelming a foe. Standing wordlessly back 
to back, beset on all sides by implacable enemies, their only sounds 
the occasional grunt or exhalation of extreme physical exertion, the 
two warriors worked their way from level one to level three, and from 
acquaintances to friends.

Passing the holodeck entrance at the end of the hour, Will Riker was 
surprised to hear booming Klingon laughter as the holodeck door 
opened, harmonised with a lighter human laugh, and between the laughs 
a few words escaped.

"You were not... supposed to kill... the bearer of the blood wine!"

"I though it was a d'k'tahg!"

"It was a ceremonial drinking vessel. We do not use them as weapons,"
the deeper voice suffered another convulsion of laughter, "often."

"He surprised me." Paris, sheepishly.

Worf went onto another fit of noisy hysterics before he was able to 
say, "Not as much as you surprised him!"

Paris flew into the corridor and hit the opposite wall, propelled by 
a mighty slap between the shoulder blades, and Worf emerged a moment 
later. Both managed to subdue their laughter at the sight of Riker's 
eyebrows practically colliding with his hairline, and with a brief 
"Commander," practically in unison, they were gone.

Riker grinned. Worf finally seemed to have found a friend with some 
common ground. As for young Paris, the First Officer resolved to keep 
an eye on him. And it was with a view to keeping an eye that he later 
persuaded the senior staff - with the notable exception of Worf, who 
needed very little persuasion - to invite the Ensign to fill in, just 
this once, for Dr. Crusher's absence from their weekly poker game.

This was a situation much more calculated to make Tom Paris feel at 
home. Surrounded by Starfleet's finest since early childhood, he felt 
little sense of intimidation from the fact that he was surrounded by 
Lieutenant-Commanders, and for all the comments of his former First 
Officer, he was well able to play his cards close to his chest. Data 
having chosen seven card stud, he soon found himself with the two and 
four of spades, the five of hearts and the seven of diamonds showing, 
and asked innocently, "Can someone remind me - does a straight beat a 
flush?" Soon after Data had set him straight, he then showed the 
three, five and six of hearts, and scooped in an unusually large pot. 
What followed was short, sweet and savage; and Commander Riker, along 
with the rest of the senior staff, was left very much poorer  - in 
theory, anyway - and with a growing respect for the new junior pilot.

There were other changes too, inner changes. Tom had, as a matter of 
course, visited the ship's counsellor within his first month aboard, 
hoping to introduce himself quickly and get out. People prying into 
the workings of his mind made him feel extremely uncomfortable. On 
meeting Deanna Troi, though, he had felt very much at ease, and had 
agreed - still somewhat reluctantly - to see her for some more formal 
counselling sessions, mainly aimed at clearing up any residual trauma 
from the aftermath of the Romulan attack on Kennar III. In his third 
session, though, a chance remark struck gold.

"Did you feel you could have handled the situation better?" asked 
Troi, referring to Culbertson's admonition about treaty violations.

Tom laughed, more bitterly than he intended. "Always."

Troi seemed to seize on the throwaway comment. "You always feel you 
could do better?"

"Well, I guess anyone can always handle anything better, can't they?" 
faltered Tom defensively.

"Let's talk about you, Tom. Have you ever done anything that you could 
look back on, and think, 'I couldn't have done better'? Anything at 
all."

"That's crazy. There's always a better way." Tom found an irrational 
anger rising inside him, and stopped in confusion; everything seemed 
to have changed in a few seconds, and he wasn't quite sure where he 
was now.

"Did somebody tell you that?"

Tom felt truly annoyed now, and retorted, "I guess this is the bit 
where you ask me about my father."

"Not if you're not comfortable with that, no." She paused a moment, 
then continued, "Maybe we could just talk about parents in general."

That seemed safer, somehow, although he wasn't sure what her next 
remark had to do with him.

"Imagine a small child showing a painting to his father, and the 
father saying, 'That's wonderful'. Imagine that's what the father 
always says, every time the child shows him something."

"O-kay. Sounds real cute." He tried to disguise his sarcasm, but 
frankly this seemed a bit boring.

"Imagine the same child showing his father the painting, and the 
father ignores it."

"Sounds more likely."

"Now imagine," she said, leaning forward slightly, "the child showing 
the father the painting, and the father saying, 'That's good, but 
here's how you could have done it better'." Her voice slowed on the 
last few words, separating and emphasising each one.

Tom felt his throat tighten, and the temperature rise. His breaths 
shortened, as he croaked, "Go on."

"How do you think that child would grow up to feel about himself?"

Tom tried to answer, but no words would come. The room faded for a 
moment, and he felt he saw the walls of a shuttle simulator around 
him, felt a five year old child's pride in the clever thing he'd just 
done, and heard his father's voice saying, "That's very good, Thomas, 
but I know you can do better. We'll have to arrange some lessons for 
you." And he remembered how the pride had faded, to be replaced with a 
fierce determination to do better, to do well enough for his father. 

Troi was speaking again. "Do you think he might be dissatisfied with 
everything he did? That he'd always be trying to do better, and never
accept himself as good enough?"

Tom tried to nod, but couldn't even do that. He felt like she'd laid 
him out neatly on an operating table and opened him up, and shown him 
what was inside. Time after time, he remembered his father encouraging 
him, gently urging him to do better, try harder, achieve just that 
little bit more. And he'd tried, and there was always one step further 
to go, and it was never quite enough. After a while, it had seemed 
that all that was left of him was the drive to do better.

At last he found his voice. "Is it really that simple?"

Deanna smiled. "Aren't most things, once you understand them?"

There was much further still to go, but from then on Tom had a sense 
that they had named the demon that drove him, and from then on its 
power would never be quite the same.

What was to be the biggest change in his life came, though, as a 
result of what appeared to start out as a rather routine mission. 
Paris was on shift when Captain Picard left the bridge, while the 
Enterprise was en route to a rather uninteresting diplomatic mission, 
to receive an eyes-only transmission from Starfleet Command. Returning 
a few minutes later, he addressed Riker in the artificially loud voice 
that Paris had come to recognise; he used it when he wanted everyone 
in earshot to pass on his words, relying on a very efficient rumour 
mill to take the place of a formal shipwide briefing.

"There's been a change of plan, Number One," announced Picard. "There 
are reports of more Cardassian incursions across the demilitarised 
zone. As the nearest major Starfleet unit, we've been ordered to 
investigate."

A silent alarm flashed on Paris' panel as Lieutenant-Commander Data 
fed course co-ordinates across from the navigational station. He gave 
the android a conspiratorial glance and a half-smile, and Data 
inclined his head slightly in response.

"I doubt we'll find very much, though," continued Picard. "Starfleet 
believes these are just probing moves to test our resolve. The arrival 
of a starship ought to discourage them."

Paris had the course laid in by now, his fingers flying over the 
control pads almost as fast as Data's, and he waited quietly for 
Riker's reply.

"Let's hope so, sir. Mr. Paris, lay in a course for the..."

Paris choked back an automatic "Laid in, sir" as he realised that 
Riker's words were slowing, and he immediately recognised the game 
Number One was playing. Twice, recently, Riker had ordered a course 
change, and he'd laid it in so fast that he'd almost interrupted the 
Commander with his reply. Now Riker was trying to make him do just 
that, trying to catch him out; so he waited as Riker slurred out the 
words, "demilitarised zone."

Paris glanced back at Riker as he gave his delayed reply, and caught a 
smile of gracious defeat in return. Both knew what the game was, 
apparently, and both knew who'd won. But there wasn't time to savour 
the small victory; he turned back to the conn as Picard ordered, 
"Warp seven, Mr. Paris. Engage!", and felt a familiar thrill as a 
mighty starship responded to his will. Then there was the quiet calm 
of routine, monitoring the proximity sensors and trying to minimise 
the need for course corrections, while Picard and Riker quietly made 
plans for various contingencies behind him.

As the Enterprise approached the demilitarised zone, some hours later, 
Data announced, "Long range sensors indicate three ships ahead, 
Captain, just within Federation space."

"Mr. Paris, lay in a course to intercept," responded Picard, well aware 
that Paris had already done just that. "Engage."

"Two of the ships are moving off, Captain," continued Data. "The 
leading ship shows a Cardassian signature. I am unable to determine the 
type of the trailing vessel; it may be a heavily modified Federation 
freighter."

"Or a Maquis vessel?" asked Riker, sitting forward.

"That is possible, yes, sir," replied Data. "The third ship appears to 
be disabled, and I am picking up a Federation distress signal. The 
ship is identifying it as the Bolian freighter Vixlat."

Tom quickly entered two courses on the conn, one to intercept the two 
fleeing ships; he quickly engaged the other as Picard ordered, "Lay us 
alongside the freighter, Mr. Paris. Hail them, Mr. Data."

A roar of static issued from the main communicator, and interference 
blanked out the main viewscreen; but on the sound channel, a woman's 
voice could be heard shouting, "Keep away!"

"This is the Federation starship Enterprise," announced Picard. "Please 
lower your shields and allow us to beam over an away team."

The woman's voice was heard a little more clearly now, as Data 
struggled to compensate for the fading strength of the freighter's 
transmissions. "No way, Enterprise. I'm not dropping shields with those 
stinking lizards round here."

"Mr. Worf, can we extend our shields to protect the freighter?" Picard 
sounded a little impatient now, and barely waited for Worf's reply 
before he spoke again. "Vixlat, we have extended our shields around 
you. You can drop yours in complete safety."

A pause, then, "Forget it, Enterprise. Here come the reptiles again."

"Cardassian warship approaching, Captain, Galor class," reported Data. 
"It appears to have sustained heavy battle damage. It is hailing us."

"On screen, Mr. Data."

The face and shoulders of a thick-set Cardassian appeared on the screen,
who immediately said angrily, "This is Gul Tancret, of the Naktor. I 
demand that you surrender that Maquis vessel to me."

"This is Captain Picard of the USS Enterprise. You are in Federation 
space, Gul Tancret, and you have no jurisdiction here."

This seemed only to infuriate Tancret further. "I demand that you 
deliver those criminals into my custody immediately!"

Picard took on a more conciliatory tone. "I would be reluctant to do 
so without evidence of wrongdoing, Gul Tancret. Perhaps you would like 
to beam over to the Enterprise, and we could discuss this matter?"

"Very well, Picard." The Cardassian seemed to calm down a little. 
"Prepare to beam over three."

"Mr. Worf, please provide an honour guard at Transporter Room three 
immediately."

"Aye, Captain." 

A few minutes later, Tom Paris looked round to see Gul Tancret, 
flanked by two aides and escorted by an unusually heavily armed honour 
guard, stride on to the bridge and look around condescendingly.

"You have a fine ship here, Captain Picard," the Cardassian began. "I 
regret very much to find you in company with a terrorist."

"You mean the freighter, Gul Tancret?"

"Naturally, Captain."

Paris saw a trap opening before Picard, but was impressed at how 
easily he avoided it.

"You call her a terrorist?"

"What do you call her, Captain?"

"I am waiting to hear your opinion, Tancret." Picard clearly wasn't 
committing himself.

"Her actions call for explanation, Captain. She is carrying arms to 
the demilitarised zone. That can be interpreted as an act of 
smuggling. On the other hand it might be said she is operating under 
a so-called commission issued by the rebel Maquis in the demilitarised 
zone. In the one case I will seize her as a smuggler. In the other, she 
is a terrorist, and I will seize her as an enemy of Cardassia."

"In neither case, Gul Tancret, has a court of law determined her 
status. In the meantime, she is in my possession."

Hats were in the ring now. Picard met the eyes of the Cardassian 
without expression. Of one thing Tom was certain, that whatever might 
be eventually decided regarding the freighter, Starfleet would not 
approve of Picard's tamely allowing her to be taken out of his hands.

"Captain, you may be assured that other Cardassian ships will be 
arriving within hours."

As Picard paused for thought, Paris reflected that this meant odds 
that the Enterprise could not hope to face. "Then I hope, Gul Tancret,"
continued Picard, "I hope very sincerely indeed, that you decide upon 
approving my course of action." It was the politest way of defying the 
Cardassian that Tom could imagine.

"I find it very hard to believe, Captain, that you extend the 
protection of Starfleet to smugglers, or terrorists in a time of 
peace."

"You may have noticed, Gul Tancret, that the freighter has already 
been taken under Starfleet protection. Of course, you understand that 
as a Starfleet officer I cannot permit her to be handed over."

There it was, the ultimate defiance. Ten minutes from now and the 
phasers might be firing. Ten minutes from now and this bridge might be 
littered with dead and wounded. Paris might be dead himself. The 
Cardassian looked around the bridge and back to Picard.

"We would very much regret taking strong action, Captain."

"I am delighted to hear that, Gul Tancret. That confirms me in my 
decision. We can part the best of friends."

"But - "

The Cardassian had not intended his last sentence to be interpreted as 
a sign of yielding. He had been uttering, he thought, a further threat.
Picard's interpretation of it left him speechless for a moment.

"I am overjoyed to find that we are in agreement, Gul Tancret.  Mr. 
Worf, our guest will be departing now. Please assemble the honour 
guard." 

By taking his withdrawal for granted he was giving the Cardassian a 
chance of withdrawing gracefully. The bitter moment of admitting that 
he had been outfaced had come and gone before he had realised it.

"This has been a delightful visit, Gul Tancret," finished Picard. "But 
I expect that you have many duties calling for your attention. Mr. 
Worf, kindly escort our guest to Transporter Room Three."

A wave of relief swept round the bridge as the turbolift door closed. 
But the moment of relaxation was short-lived, as Picard began issuing 
orders once more.

"Number One, get an away team over to that freighter as soon as I can 
get that woman to drop her shields. Mr. Data, keep me informed of the 
Naktor's movements."

"The Naktor is moving away towards Cardassian space at full impulse, 
sir," replied Data. "Shall I hail the freighter again?"

"Go ahead, Mr. Data," Picard responded. Then, when the channel was 
open, he continued, "Vixlat, the Cardassian vessel has withdrawn. Drop 
your shields now or we may be forced to disable your ship."

"You couldn't make it much worse than it is already," replied the 
woman's voice angrily. "Okay, dropping shields."

"Geordi, Paris, you're with me," ordered Riker as he turned towards the 
turbolift. "Mr. Worf, send a security detail to meet me in transporter 
room two." Within minutes, Paris saw the rusty interior of the Bolian 
freighter's bridge materialise around him, and winced at what he saw 
there. Laid beside the conn was the body of a Bolian, clearly very 
dead, but, far more distressingly, partly skinned. Tom choked down the 
bile in his throat as Riker commented in disgust to LaForge, 
"Cardassians." They'd all heard rumours, of how Bolian skin was prized 
on Cardassia, but Tom had tried not to believe it. Then, to all of them, 
Riker ordered, "Spread out and search the ship for survivors. We know 
there's someone here. Geordi, McKenzie, Jones, Osman, take the cargo 
bays. Paris, try the engine room. I'll stay up here and try to get the 
navigation systems online. Let's go."

Tom had furthest to go, as engineering was at the far end of the ship. 
Alone, and with a sense of trepidation, he stood aside as the doors 
opened, and then leapt backwards as a phaser blast blistered the 
bulkhead opposite, and a woman's voice shouted, "Keep your distance!"

"It's okay, this is Starfleet," shouted Tom in reply. "The Cardassians 
are gone. Come on out, you're safe now."

He looked carefully round the door, then showed himself in the doorway, 
reassured by the absence of any more phaser fire. On the far side of 
the room, a ridged forehead emerged from behind a control console, and 
he found himself face to face with a young Klingon woman. Part Klingon, 
he corrected himself; she looked like she might be half human. He held
both hands out to show that he was unarmed, then decided to introduce 
himself. "I'm Tom Paris, from the USS Enterprise. We're here to help."

She stepped out from behind the console. Tom found his eyes drawn to 
the pattern of ridges on her forehead, fanning out in a strangely 
familiar way; to the smudges of dirt and blood on her face and clothes, 
and the small tears in her uniform, that spoke of recent and bitter 
hand-to-hand fighting. Standing there, battered but undefeated, he felt 
she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He took a deep 
breath, trying to regain control of his thoughts; the Cardassians might 
be back at any moment.

"Torres, chief engineer," she replied nervously. "Sorry about that," 
she motioned towards the burnt bulkhead behind him, "we were boarded. 
I had to hole up in here. How's Mesler?" Seeing his blank look, she 
clarified. "The owner. There's only the two of us."

Tom looked down, still a little shaken by the memory of seeing the 
Bolian. "He's... the Cardassians killed him. I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Too bad. He was a pain, but he meant well. Did 
they get the cargo?"

Tom suddenly realised that the rest of the away team were still searching
for a non-existent crew. He quickly said, "Excuse me," then activated 
his commbadge. "Paris to Riker. One survivor here in engineering, and 
she says there were only the two of them."

"Bring her to cargo bay one, Mr. Paris. We need to talk to her."

In answer to Torres' suspicious look, Paris just shrugged his shoulders 
and gestured towards the doorway. Torres strode out at a furious pace, 
and Tom had to run to keep up. They entered the cargo bay to find Riker, 
his face set in a frown, standing by an open container.

"Can you tell me what cargo you were carrying, Miss..."

"Torres," she snapped. "Humanitarian supplies for the colonists in the 
demilitarised zone. Medicines up here, clothes in bay two, food 
concentrate..." Her voice trailed away as Riker produced a compression 
phaser rifle, clearly of Federation design, from the container.

"Rather an unusual kind of medicine." Paris, watching Torres' face, saw 
that Riker's sarcasm was wasted; the look of shock when she first saw 
the weapon couldn't possibly have been faked, unless she was an 
extraordinarily good actress. And her continued reaction seemed 
genuine, too.

"Filthy, stinking, lying Pe'taQ!" she shouted. "He told me it was all 
legal!" Then she seemed to realise the position she was in, and turned 
to Riker with a pleading look on her face. "You have to believe me, I 
didn't know anything about this! I'm just signed on for the trip, I can 
show you the contract..."

"Save it for Captain Picard," retorted Riker curtly. "Right now we have 
to get this ship out of here before we're overrun with Cardassians. 
Geordi, you'd better get down to engineering and check out those warp 
engines."

"I'm coming with you," asserted Torres. McKenzie briefly blocked her 
way, then stood aside at a meaningful inclination of Riker's head and 
a furious glare from the half-Klingon. "I've been nursing those 
engines half way across Federation space. Believe me, I can get them 
back on line before you've finished reading the maker's plate." She 
stormed out of the cargo bay, and LaForge followed with a brief shrug.

"Mr. Paris," finished Riker, "let's get up to the bridge and get this 
heap out of here."

"Aye, sir."



"There's no doubt that Mesler was aiding the Maquis," pronounced 
Picard. "Starfleet security has had him on their files for some time, 
but there's never been any concrete evidence until now; and, of course, 
it's too late to prosecute him." The remainder of the senior staff all
registered some form of agreement. "Which brings us to the problem of 
Cadet Torres." As eyebrows raised all round, he continued, "It turns 
out that until two months ago she was in her second year at Starfleet 
Academy, making very good progress on the engineering track. Even if 
she is Maquis, this would have to be her first mission. The question 
is, was she aware of the nature of the cargo?" He turned to the one 
unusual face in the room. "That's why I've asked you here, Mr. Paris. 
Commander Riker tells me you were watching her when he produced the 
phaser rifle. How would you describe her reaction?"

Paris collected his thoughts carefully. What he said now could 
determine the entire future of a woman he barely knew, but hadn't for a 
moment stopped thinking about since she'd left the cargo bay. He would 
tell the truth, of course, but his choice of words mattered too.

"She was stunned, Captain. I'd swear she had no idea the guns were 
there. Then, when she realised she'd been fooled, she was angry. I'm 
not sure I'd have acted any differently myself, if I'd..."

"Thank you, Mr. Paris," Picard cut him off, and Tom realised gratefully 
that he'd been about to overplay his hand. Now he just had to hope, and 
trust Picard's judgement. Why it mattered so much to him that Torres 
was innocent, he didn't know; but it mattered.

"Mr. LaForge, what was your impression of her as an engineer?"

Geordi thought for a moment. "Undisciplined, but brilliant, sir. She 
did things I wouldn't have dared to try, but she got the engines going 
when the whole ship wasn't much more than scrap."

"Could you use her on your team? Just as a temporary measure. I know 
you're a man short right now."

Geordi gave a low whistle. "I guess we could find a place for her."

"Very well. Since Miss Torres is apparently still registered as a 
cadet, but she clearly prefers open space to Starfleet Academy, I 
suggest we offer her a place here as an acting Ensign while Starfleet 
decides what to do with her. Mr. Paris, perhaps you'd like to sound her 
out before we make anything definite?"

"Yes, sir!" replied Paris, wincing a moment later at the sound of his 
own over-enthusiastic words. Then, to Picard's "Dismissed," and some 
grins from various officers who should have known better, he almost 
ran from the room.

As the senior staff filed out, Riker stayed behind a moment. 
"Permission to speak freely, sir?" he asked with a half-smile.

"Granted as always, Will," replied Picard warmly.

"First Ensign Ro, then Sito Jaxa, then Paris, and now Torres? We seem 
to be building up quite a collection of waifs and strays, sir."

Picard sat back, pulled down his uniform jacket, and smiled. "Ro seems 
to have worked out well enough, Number One, and Paris looks like he'll 
be a fine officer." Then he leaned forward, and said with quiet 
intensity, "I want the best for the Enterprise, Will. I'm not too 
worried where I find them. I won't write off an officer for a single 
mistake, you know. We've all made our mistakes - yes, you and me too. 
It's how we deal with them that defines who we are."

"Amen to that, sir," replied Riker with a broad grin.



Notwithstanding Paris' obvious interest, Riker had also taken note of 
their half-Klingon guest, and marked her down half-seriously as a 
potential conquest. As he strolled into Ten Forward, though, he saw at 
once that he would be wasting his time. Paris and Torres sat at one of 
the centre tables, and although Paris' back was towards him, the look 
on Torres' face told him all he needed to know. He'd seen that sort of 
look directed at him often enough, and the consequences had usually 
been all he'd hoped for. Clearly Paris was going to prove an active 
source of competition in this area - as well as poker and piloting.

Changing his course, he ambled over to the bar, where LaForge sat 
nursing a quiet synthale. From here he could see Paris' face as well, 
and what he saw there caused him to draw Geordi's attention to the... 
well, "couple" was about the only word.

Geordi took a long look, his visor telling him the same story as 
Riker's eyes. He grinned, shook his head, and said quietly, "Oh, 
they've got it bad."

Guinan chose that moment - carefully as always - to come and join them.
Leaning over the bar, she said quietly to the two men, "You can see it, 
and I can see it, but if you asked them, I think they'd say they were 
just friends."

Geordi stifled a laugh. "I wonder how long it'll take them to find out?"



THE END