by Jeri Taylor
He stood, stock-still, as Odile hurled Gaelic invective at him, trying to follow any train of what she was saying, which seemed mostly to involve his ancestry. “Odile,” he said, trying to put on his most charming smile, “you don’t understand—”
“Putain!” she hurled at him, and then spun around and marched out the door. Tom felt as though he had been drawn into an antimatter chamber during the annihilation process, churned about by forces he didn’t understand and couldn’t control, and then spat out again after the reaction had consumed every atom.
Every eye in the room was on him. Most, he realized subliminally, were amused and tolerant, but that only made the experience more humiliating to him. He was aware of Sandrine next to him, breathing deeply, moist with unfulfilled anger, still muttering small invectives under her breath.
“I’m sorry,” stammered Tom, and Sandrine immediately came to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Mon cher, pauvre petit, how awful for you. She is a vicious cat, this Odile—you are well rid of her.”
Tom carefully untwined her arms from him, shock now sobering him, knowing he had to get to Odile quickly. “Thank you for everything, Sandrine, I mean it, you’re terrific. And the stew was great. Loved it.” He babbled like this as he backed toward the door, then was out into the raw waterfront night, where a cold rain drizzled down, and began calling for Odile. Passersby gave him curious looks, but paid no other attention. A man calling out a woman’s name along the passageways of the waterfront bespoke a timeworn drama that was all too familiar to them.
He found her twenty minutes later, sitting on one of the antiquated docks that still lined the seawall, even though they hadn’t been used by ships for a hundred years. She was huddled miserably, arms around her knees, sodden with the rain, hair matted wetly around her face, and sobbing pitifully.
He approached her gingerly. “Odile . . .” he began, and she turned her tear-streaked face toward him.
“Go away. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Instinct told him she didn’t mean that, and he walked slowly toward her, as though she were a volatile compound that might explode if he made any unexpected move. Presently he was at her side, and sat down beside her, not touching her, taking it one step at a time.
“Odile, I swear, it wasn’t what you think . . .”
He thought he’d blown the moment already, because her head snapped toward him and her eyes blazed once more. “Oh? Be honest, Tommy—it was exactly what I think, wasn’t it?”
He tried to confront the question honestly and, yes, he had to agree. It was.
“It was flirtation, yes. Sandrine is very . . . alluring. But it was nothing more.”
“How do you think that made me feel, to come in and see you draped over her like that? With everyone in the room watching you?”
He burned with embarrassment. He blamed the wine, which had effectively removed his inhibitions and his awareness that the spectacle he had participated in was public. The twenty-minute hunt in the rain had sobered him somewhat, and he now saw the entire incident with other eyes.
“It must have been awful. I’m so sorry.” He put his hand tentatively on her shoulder, and was gratified when she turned to him and put her arms around his neck.
“If I didn’t love you so much, it wouldn’t hurt,” she cried, and he whispered and murmured tenderly to her, reassuring her, rubbing her back and her wet hair until she was calm again. Then, she began shuddering from the cold.
He took her back to his quarters, which were part of the old city and boasted a bathtub. He bathed her gently in warm water until she stopped shaking, and then he carried her to bed, where their bodies continued to warm each other, sweetly.
In their senior year, Tom, Odile, Bruno, and Charlie Day competed for, and won, many different honors. Odile and Bruno won sports awards for their contributions to making the ski team a viable contender after just three years of existence. Charlie Day won top honors for his independent engineering project, to which Tom was a close second. Tom and Charlie vied for the highly prized positions on the Grissom aerial squad, the highest pinnacle to which pilots could strive. Odile and Bruno distinguished themselves as pilots, as well. The four friends went through the year like this, working hard, excelling and achieving, enjoying life and the camaraderie that came from richly nurtured friendships.
One of their favorite pastimes was off-world skiing. Charlie, though still not at a competitive level, was more than up to deep powder runs, and it became a game with them to seek out the freshest and most pristine snows on the most obscure planets. The Academy would have frowned on such extracurricular activity, of course, but the officers didn’t think to scrutinize too carefully the behavior of four of its most stellar students.
Each was laying plans for the future, which seemed limitless. On a crisp and sparkling day in early spring, one in which San Francisco relented and allowed the sun to shine, the four sprawled in Tom and Charlie’s quarters, munching apples and anticipating graduation.
“Guess I’m a glutton for school,” mused Bruno. “I figure I’m looking at three more years for a graduate degree in astrophysics. But I’ll get more piloting experience at the same time, and then be qualified for deep-space exploration.”
“I’m hoping for a posting to a ship right away,” said Odile. “Any ship, big or small, just as long as I get into space and have the opportunity to fly.”
Tom’s heart constricted a bit. They’d definitely be going separate ways in a few months and he wasn’t sure how he’d stand it. But they had realized their careers might keep them apart for a while, and agreed that each must do what would best advance those careers. In a few years they’d reevaluate the situation and see if they wanted to change it. Tom believed that Odile was actually more comfortable with those arrangements than he was, which made him vaguely uneasy.
“Tommy and I are going head-to-head for the same post. May the best man win,” said Charlie with a grin.
“What’s that?” asked Bruno with curiosity, chewing the last fleck of fruit from an apple eaten nearly to the core.
“The Enterprise,” replied Charlie, casting a glance at Tom, who smiled in return.
“The Enterprise? You think the flagship will take on an ensign right out of the Academy?”
“They’ve been known to take one. They’ve never taken two,” explained Tom.
“Since Tom is more qualified than I am, I’m counting on his family name to work against him,” said Charlie affably. “Starfleet wouldn’t want to be accused of favoritism.”
Tom cuffed Charlie good-naturedly, but secretly thought his friend was absolutely right. The illustrious name of Paris mustn’t be thought to be an influence in garnering a plum assignment aboard Starfleet’s flagship. He would have to be such an outstanding candidate that his name wouldn’t get in his way.
Of course, Charlie was as qualified as he was. Tom was the more experienced pilot, but Charlie had the edge in engineering. Tom often found himself overcome with self-doubt, able only to see Charlie’s excellent qualifications and his own abundant failings. He worked consciously at purging those doubts.
This discussion was making him uncomfortable, and he looked to change the subject. “I heard of a great new planet for skiing,” he told the group.
“What is it?” queried Bruno, eyeing another apple from the nearly depleted bowl.
“It’s in the Epsilon Eridani system, twelve light-years away. It’d take us three or four days to get there, so we’d need a couple of weeks to do it right.”
“Isn’t that system under some dispute now?” asked Odile.
“That’s been resolved,” replied Tom. “I heard about it from one of my father’s attachés.” This wasn’t precisely true. The Epsilon Eridani system was at the moment unofficially “off limits” to Starfleet. Apparently this was because of some obscure and poorly understood situation that had occurred in the last century, and Tom frankly felt this wasn’t reason enough to pass up good skii
ng. But he didn’t want to make the others wary, so he coated his reasoning just slightly.
“It’s the eighth planet of the system, with weather conditions perfect for producing snow. And not just any snow— pure crystallized water vapor, free of mineral contaminants, powdery and pristine.”
All the others were intrigued, as Tom knew they would be. They’d become almost addicted to the hunt for new ski worlds, spending every moment they could flying to planets where snow conditions prevailed. Nothing was as exhilarating as careering down a mountain of fresh powder no one had ever skied before.
Two months later, the four sat in a shuttlecraft, flashing toward the Epsilon Eridani system, three of them anticipating the thrill of the ski quest, Tom churning inside from playing and replaying the recent discussion he’d had with his father.
“You did what?” he’d asked the admiral, incredulous.
His father had regarded him with firm determination from behind his desk—the picture of authority—while the wall of pictures of the Paris lineage seemed to watch as well, mocking. “I asked that your name be removed from consideration for a posting to the Enterprise.”
Tom had flushed with anger and surprise; his throat had constricted as though a band encircled it, tightening. He drew a breath before he spoke. “May I ask why?”
“I’m very much afraid that, if you were chosen, there would be the appearance of favoritism.”
“Starfleet doesn’t operate like that.”
“You know that, and I know that. We’re talking about appearances. It would be unseemly for you to receive such a privilege.”
“You don’t receive a posting like that—you have to earn it. And that’s what I would have done.”
Admiral Paris looked pained. “Tom, I’m not trying to denigrate your efforts. I’m terribly proud of your accomplishments in the Academy. Your mother and I know how hard you’ve worked. And in a few years, with some experience on another starship, posting you to the Enterprise wouldn’t cause a ripple. It just looks suspect to go there directly from the Academy.”
Tom had glared at him, furious but impotent. A dozen retorts swirled in his mind, each more bitter than the other, their venom seductive, tantalizing. But he knew such utterances wouldn’t prove satisfying in the long run; his father would be lordly and condescending, chastising him for losing control.
So without a word, he turned on his heel and left, not even nodding to Commander Klenman on the way out.
Now, as his friends chattered animatedly, Tom sat enveloped in gloom, constructing alternate endings for the encounter, each of which was predicated on a brilliant argument he might have made, something so incisive and scathing that his father, taken aback, would have seen the muddiness of his own thinking and rescinded his judgment.
But he hadn’t done that. He’d let his father overpower him again, and gone creeping away like a chastised toddler instead of facing the admiral like a man. Self-loathing rose in Tom like a miasma, acid and vaporous. He was tempted to turn the shuttle around and return to San Francisco, but that wouldn’t be fair to the others, who’d looked forward to this outing, their final trip together before separating.
Odile was the most jubilant of the group. Tom’s black mood lifted a bit when he tuned in to her excitement.
“I couldn’t find out much about the ship before we left, but Commander Harrison said the Hera is the perfect ship for me. Captain La Forge is well respected and apparently a wonderful officer for a new ensign to serve under.”
“Her son’s on the Enterprise,” offered Charlie, who was still hoping for that post.
“Right. And the size of the ship is ideal, too—big enough to draw deep-space assignments, but not huge and impersonal. Like the Enterprise,” she added with a sidelong glance at Tom. She was the only one he’d told of his father’s interference in his plans, and he believed she was trying to make him feel better.
Which only made him feel worse, reminded again of his lost opportunity. He had a sudden picture of himself standing on skis at the top of a tall and dangerous mountain, flinging himself into the powder, headlong and reckless, heart pounding and legs churning, racing breakneck all the way to the bottom.
It seemed the only thing that might clear his mind of his noxious disposition, and he reached for the controls to put the shuttle into highest warp. It was suddenly important to get to Epsilon Eridani IV as soon as possible.
They achieved orbit four hours later, and spent two more studying the planet, its weather conditions, and topography. They determined a location for their first day’s outing, and then settled in for a night’s sleep until daylight came to the mountain they’d chosen.
But sleep was hard for Tom to come by, his mind smoldering like a volcano that was nearing eruption. Again and again he told himself there was no point in dwelling on the disappointment, that he should let it go and move ahead. But it was as though a tiny black hole had lodged in his mind, dense and powerful, pulling every stray thought into its event horizon.
It was his father’s voice that rumbled through his mind, strident, determined. It was a voice that had the power to flay him, strip him of every shred of dignity and leave him emotionally naked and shivering.
How had it come to this? He was twenty-two years old, ready to graduate from Starfleet Academy, an outstanding student and pilot, and yet his father had this capacity to make him feel helpless and unworthy. How could he continue to let it happen?
Even as he vowed not to grant the admiral this crippling power, his mind churned with fury and resentment, and he didn’t fall asleep until it was nearly time to get up.
The morning on Epsilon Eridani IV dawned crisp and golden. The foursome transported down to a mountain that was part of a large transverse range. Pure powder snow lay silken on the undulating slopes, inviting them to plunge into their untrammeled depths.
They stood for several moments, drawing in the cold, sweet air, reveling in the majestic sight of the endless mountain range that lay before them. “This is incredible,” breathed Odile, her voice tinged with awe. “And just think—no one has ever skied this snow before.”
Tom couldn’t fully appreciate the grandeur of the moment. He was edgy from lack of sleep, and his eyes felt welded to millions of tiny grains of sand. His throat ached vaguely and he realized with irritation that he might be catching a cold and hadn’t brought any antivirals along. He’d made coffee before they left the shuttle, which rested securely in synchronous orbit some thirty thousand kilometers above the planet, but it had had an acrid, sour taste and he didn’t finish it. He hadn’t been hungry when the others had breakfast, but now his stomach was rumbling to protest its emptiness.
All in all, not a great way to start the day they’d looked forward to for so long. Yesterday he had longed to throw himself full speed down the mountain, but today it hardly seemed to matter. Nothing was going to make him lose this black mood.
Charlie was scanning the slopes with a tricorder, a safety precaution they always took, scanning the snow pack for instabilities that might indicate the threat of avalanche. “Looks good,” he announced finally, and snapped it shut.
“Let me check it out,” Tom said, and he realized his voice was harsh. Charlie’s eyes betrayed the slightest surprise at his friend’s surly tone, but he handed over the tricorder. Tom scanned swiftly, verifying what Charlie had said: he could detect no instabilities. Stuffing the tricorder in his pack, he nodded his approval. The four made final checks of their skis, goggles, and poles. When they were ready, they turned to Bruno, who would lead the first descent, a task they rotated among themselves.
Bruno drove forward with a whoop that echoed endlessly through the mountains, skis plunging into the deep powder, snow spray kicking up around his body. Odile followed, then Charlie, and finally Tom.
Within minutes his mood began to lighten. The raptures of the day were irresistible—cobalt sky, virgin snow, the glorious sensation of plunging headlong down the slopes, powder spraying a fine exha
ust, the exquisite silence of the mountains—and for the first time in days his mind began to quiet and its dark bile subside. He relaxed into the particular pleasure of powder skiing, which required one to navigate by feel since skis disappeared into the powder and couldn’t be seen. It was perfect for focusing the mind, for squeezing out all thoughts of his father.
Fifteen minutes into the run, Charlie, ahead of him, caught the edge of his shoe and went sprawling; Tom braked but couldn’t avoid him, and together they tumbled into the soft pack of snow. Neither took a bad fall, and they laughed like children, Tom grabbing a handful of snow and washing Charlie’s face with it as they wrestled, cublike, the way they had when they were four or five. Odile and Bruno waited patiently for them a little farther down the mountain, and soon they collected themselves, found their poles, and started off again.
Another half hour passed and Tom realized Bruno and Odile had pulled up adjacent to a bowl-shaped formation. Clearly they were concerned about the possibility of avalanche, and as he and Charlie pulled up to them, he reached for his pack.
Reacting to the expression on his face, Odile asked, “What’s wrong?”
“My pack is gone. I must have lost it when Charlie and I tumbled.” He peered back up the slopes, from whence they’d come, and decided there was no way he could backtrack. And he had no coordinates to give the transporter to put him back at the site of the fall.
“I’m a little worried about this formation,” said Bruno. “If the snow is unstable, we could be asking for trouble.”
“Well, way back when they didn’t have tricorders, people were still able to avoid instabilities,” offered Tom. He was determined not to stop now, not when he was feeling buoyed for the first time in days. The exhilarating plummet down the mountain had whipped him clean of rage, and even now, confronting the possibility of truncating their expedition, he could feel it bubbling back. He was damned if he was going to stop now.
“Give me your shovel,” he said to Bruno, who handed him the compact, short-handled digging implement. Tom began shoveling out a snow pit, working steadily until it was about a meter and a half deep and a meter wide. Then he used the shovel to shave the uphill wall until it was smooth and vertical. He blew gently to clear away loose particles, and then began to study the snow pack. This was something Henri Islicker had taught him to do long ago. “You might not have fancy technology to help you,” the old man had stated firmly. “You have to be able to rely on yourself.”
