The Mercenary

By the time Ro reentered the dingy boarding house and ascended the steps to her room, the double sun had moved to the other side of the building, no longer bathing the bed with its harshly bright light. Dropping off the old chair she carried by the door and walking over to check on Tom, Ro was struck by how young he looked asleep. All tensions smoothed away from his face, he appeared no more than twelve years old and as sweet as -- she had to grope for the Terran word for it -- an angel, that was it. It was hard to believe that such a beautiful face could belong to a man who had messed up his life as badly as Tom had; but, then again, Ro sometimes still had trouble believing how badly she'd screwed up her own.

Satisfied that he was sleeping easily and pleased to see that the water bottle was half empty, Ro deposited the bundle she was carrying on the table. The "vedek" had had no trouble scrounging up donations of clothing for a poor, injured man. His own had been ripped so badly by his attackers in their vain search for something worth stealing that the decision to throw most of them out rather than salvage them had been an easy one to make. His briefs, socks, and boots were all she had retained. Ro had hand laundered the socks and briefs in the morning, before Tom had first awakened, but they were still damp when she checked them.

Ro wondered if he had a bag of his own stashed away somewhere. As down on his luck as he obviously was, Tom should have at least some other garments and belongings to his name. She resolved to ask him when he returned to consciousness and to fetch whatever he might have later. He needed his sleep more now.

Before removing her vestments, Ro moved to a battered chest of drawers standing against the wall near the curtained alcove that housed the water closet. Taking three large votive candles out of the top drawer, she kneeled down on the middle of the floor and carefully arranged them in a perfect triangle. Lighting them and steepling her fingers before her, Ro silently chanted her prayers: for those who were oppressed, for Bajor, for the continued safety of her colleagues in the Maquis, for the repose of the souls of her long-dead parents, and, finally, for the healing of the injured friend in her care.

Lost when she had been raped repeatedly as an adolescent in the camps run by Cardassian overseers and largely ignored during her days at Starfleet Academy, Ro's religious feelings had returned with a vengeance during her imprisonment on Jaros II for disobeying orders at the massacre on Garon II. Deliberately downplaying them during her time with Picard, Ro had kept her devotions strictly private and simple on the Enterprise. Lately, however, she seemed much more drawn to the rituals of her faith than she ever had before.

Perhaps it was the vedek's robes she wore. There was something about acting the part of a vedek that make Ro wish to perform the devotions one would as part of their everyday life's work. The people who had given her clothing for Tom looked upon her as the real thing. She may have "borrowed" the clerical role as cover, but the people who did her honor as a vedek deserved her prayers.

It never ceased to amaze her. Ro Laren, member of a religious order? Hysterical. Yet as she leaned back on her heels at the conclusion of her prayers, not knowing if any of the Prophets could hear her -- but not particularly feeling that she needed confirmation that they did, anymore, either -- Ro thought sardonically that this was not the first time she had "entered" a religious order. For many, Starfleet was a sort of religious order, not that any of the 'Fleeters were likely to acknowledge that.

Pulling off the robes and returning them to their peg, Ro Laren spared a moment to look at Tom again. He was still asleep, although he had begun to snore lightly, his head thrown back and his mouth agape. Maybe the noise would wake him -- it had once when they had been out on their Survival Test together.

Bringing the second chair, not any sturdier than the first, over to the table, Ro sat down and remembered: that first day at the Academy, her belligerent self, and Golden Boy, the admiral's son whom she had disliked intensely on first sight. It did not help that they were placed in the same platoon and had been assigned to the same study group of eight cadets in the dorms. They found themselves following the exact same schedule of classes, too, as both were in the command track.

Those first days in San Francisco, she had wanted to quit, but she had had no idea what a 19-year-old Bajoran orphan would do with her life if she did. Desperately struggling to adjust, Ro had found what others might feel to be a simple irritation soon became an intolerable insult: every single person she met butchered her name.

For decades, a name was about all any Bajoran could call her own. At the Academy, everyone, from instructors to commandant to fellow students, had persisted in calling her "Cadet Laren." She corrected them, of course, but after the first week of roll calls during orientation and by the beginning of her third class of the term, she was royally sick of hearing the litany. "H'a-La'Vet, Kovara, Laren . . . "

Having to say, "Sorry, sir. I am Cadet Ro. The Bajoran custom is to put the family name first. Sir."

"Oh, well, then. Mabar'Ral, Novotny, Paris . . . Paris, are you the son of Admiral Paris . . . " And having to see that smirk appear on his face as he nodded his head in assent. The insufferable snob. She thought.

Before the fourth class, she had seen Cadet Paris talking to the professor. He wasn't even going to wait for the roll call to rub it in about being the admiral's son this time.

And then the roll call: "H'a-La'Vet, Kovara, Mabar'Ral, Novotny, Paris, Ro . . . " She had already opened her mouth to correct the instructor before realizing that there was nothing to correct.

Cadet Ro cornered Cadet Paris as they left class. "Are you responsible for the roll call? For them getting my name right, I mean?"

"Hey, I figured the rest of the class must be getting pretty bored hearing that same thing every time. Correct a name. That bull about an admiral. I thought I'd just get it out of the way beforehand. Isn't that OK with you?"

"Well, yeah, it's OK," she had said, trying to figure out what to make of Golden Boy. And every time after that, for the rest of her days at the Academy, whenever there was a new instructor and a new class, the "correct a name, that bull about an admiral" had never come up again.

Then there had been the holiday thing. A hard time for any one without a family, like Ro, let alone one from a different culture. Thanks to the chip on her shoulder that, she could now admit, was as big as a shingle and had prevented her from making any friends, Ro was the only cadet with no place to go. It had promised to be a very long, bitterly lonely three weeks, spent in the company of two proctors that were being forced to forego their own holiday plans to stay with her. They had made it very clear how they felt about her because of it.

Except the admiral's son refused to go to the admiral's home for the big "Holiday Season" school break if Ro would be the only cadet left on campus. Ro had been stunned. While his helpfulness in regards to her name had been appreciated and she felt more at ease around him than with anyone else, she'd never thought of Paris as anything other than another one of her classmates. For him to stand up for her like this was remarkable, something she had never before experienced.

It wasn't any secret, of course, that Cadet Paris carried a chip of his own on his shoulder. The privileged son of an admiral -- how could he have anything in common with the Bajoran orphan? Yet even that early in their first year at the Academy, snide remarks were being made about the "Attitude Twins."

She initially suspected that Tom's true purpose had been to harass the Academy "bigs," including his father, rather than because of any true feelings for Ro's predicament. Somewhere along the line, however, she realized that his motives were genuine. He could not stand by while his classmate was alone during a time of year that was as notable for the sharing of peace and good will towards others as it was for fun and feasting -- much like the Bajoran Gratitude Festival, as Ro came to find out. Cadet Paris was pressured intensely by his father to change his stance, she knew, although he would never tell her how much. She guessed it must have been a lot.

Cadet Paris was quite adept at putting the screws to his father's conscience, however, as he had had plenty of practice. In the end, Cadet Ro Laren had accepted the admiral's sincere invitation to spend the "Holiday Season" with his family.

It probably had been a difficult thing for the admiral to do, in retrospect. "The Bajoran Question" was much on everyone's minds in those days; the Cardassian Conflict was a hotly debated topic; battles were frequent and hard fought. For one of Starfleet's top admirals to invite a Bajoran refugee-turned-cadet into his home must have been less than politically correct, given the diplomatic situation that existed at that time.

The Paris family had been gracious to her, however. Tom's mother was an extremely warm and friendly person; his older sisters had asked intelligent, pointed, but not insulting questions about Bajor's situation and her life in the camps. The admiral had been nicer to her than he had been to his son, which she had thought surprising at the time. Later, Ro realized it was just part of the pattern. Tom Paris was going to do Great Things, by God, and being the best pilot he could be was not going to be good enough for his father. A demanding man, but a pleasant one -- as long as you were not his son.

Every "Holiday Season" after that first one, Cadet Ro had been a guest at the Paris residence. Ro and Tom had spent entire nights talking about anything and everything that came into their heads. The "acquaintance" and "fellow attitude case" would become the "good friend."

"Best Friend," after the Survival Training exercise. She had run from Tom, shaken by seeing him perform a harmless bodily function. He had chased after her and, as the team leader, demanded an explanation. It all came out in a frantic rush: the degradation of being sexually abused as a youngster by a Cardassian overlord at the camp who liked little children, the younger and more likely to scream, the better; the repeated rapes she had endured by other Cardassian guards when she was an adolescent and had gained a womanly form; her isolation even after her rescue from the camp by members of the Bajoran Resistance; and finally, her grief over the loss of her father, who had begged for life before her eyes even as the Cardassians killed him. She had not recognized until many years later that she would have been killed before his eyes if he had not begged as he had been ordered. When the realization had come, Ro had been shamed that she had ever doubted his courage and his love.

He had let her spill out the bitter memories, not touching her until she let him, and then only to hold her shaking hands. No comments of disbelief; no, "There, there, it can't have been that bad;" no attempts to cheer her with a joke. Just complete acceptance of the truth and a promise to always be her friend.

She had never forgiven the admiral, who had been their instructor for Survival Training, for giving Tom a "B-" for the course when the rest of their group, including Ro, had received an "A." Tom had not seemed surprised, even though no explanation for the curious grading had been given. Ro assumed that Admiral Paris wished to prove he would not "play favorites" when dealing with his own son. In Ro's opinion, however, since Tom had been their leader, he'd deserved the same grade the rest of the group had been given.

The unlikely friendship of the blunt-spoken Bajoran refugee and the cocky admiral's son soon became a constant in Ro's life. Their relationship had been a completely platonic one by mutual consent, and Tom was the only person she honored with the permission to call her by her given name of Laren. They soon found that women wanting to date Tom made a point of cozying up to Ro, as if by being friendly towards her, Tom would be more likely to notice them. It had made both of them laugh --"Laren, My Love Screener," he'd called her.

He hadn't had many opportunities to return the favor. Cadet Ro Laren avoided relationships like the plague. Most people attributed it to her nasty disposition. Only Tom knew the truth.

When a mandatory reception requiring a date was held, however, Cadets Paris and Ro went together, no matter whom Tom was dating at the moment. His girlfriends may not have been happy, but those that complained too loudly became ex-girlfriends.

There were few people that Ro Laren would trust with her life. Chakotay, perhaps. Torres was getting there. But even Picard, in the end, had betrayed her and she him. Thomas Eugene Paris, though, she would still trust, no matter what had happened to him, what he seemed to have become.

Somehow life had turned the admiral's son into a refugee, just like her. They had always felt a kinship; now, in an ironic way that would be unbelievable in a holonovel, they were kin. Years ago, they had agreed to be "like brother and sister." Their friendship would stay platonic. Sex might sully the purity of their bond, they had decided. Ro thought about that decision now and wondered what might have been.

The room was getting dark from the approaching evening when Ro yanked herself back from her reminiscences. She checked Tom again. Still asleep! She would have to shake him awake, apparently. First, though, Ro slipped her robes on long enough to go downstairs to the kitchen to fetch food for the two of them. Her landlady inquired after Vedek Larys' patient, and the vedek assured her that he was on the mend.

Returning to the room carrying a tray laden with covered dishes that exuded a pungent, mouth-watering aroma, Ro set her burden down on the table before picking up the med kit. She passed the tricorder over Tom to make sure that the "vedek" had not told a falsehood. As she had suspected, nothing serious was revealed, just extensive bruising and a constitution weakened by malnourishment. Too much liquor, too little food.

The beeping of the tricorder finally penetrated Tom's fatigued brain. His crystalline eyes fluttered open, filled with confusion for a few seconds before that dazzling smile lit up his face again when he recognized Ro.

"You sleep more than a hibernating lycitha. How's your headache?"

"Still there, but not so bad now. What's a lycitha?"

"A large omnivore on Bajor. Sleeps half the year away. Here, let me give you this for your pain, you poor, dear, sleepy lycitha." Ro gave him an analgesic. Rummaging around in the med kit, she found another hypospray filled with anesthetic to soothe the soreness of his bruises. Only time would heal them. "I've got some dinner here for you. You should eat something now, Tom. You haven't been eating enough good food lately. The tricorder doesn't lie!" she added, severely.

"Yes, Mother. It's a bit hard to eat regularly when you haven't any money."

She ignored his prevarication. Tom seemed to have had enough money to drink himself into a stupor. "I swiped another chair. Come over to the table."

"Laren, I don't feel like eating in the nude. You wouldn't mind giving me some of my clothing back, would you?"

"Clothing? Is that what you were calling those rags you were wearing? I had to throw them out," she teased.

"Laren! What am I going to do? I can't stay in this bed forever!"

"Relax, Tom. Vedek Larys, a very, very close friend of mine, scraped up some clothes for you today. Would you like to put on some briefs, at least? I wouldn't want you to expose your Orbs of the Descendants for all our dinner guests to see."

Tom tried to control his laughter, as every shake of his body caused his tender stomach to shriek at him to Stop, now, this second! "Is that what the Bajorans call them?"

"Among other things. The Glory of the Generations is another favorite. Then there's the Tower of Joy, or the Profound Shaft of Pleasure, if you prefer." As she listed the Bajoran euphemisms for the male parts, Ro brought a pair of clean briefs to the bed, slipped them over his feet and ankles, and helped him pull them up to cover the subject of their conversation.

Leaning against her as they walked, Tom made a stop in the alcove, inquiring on the way there, "So, just what is the equivalent term for where the Profound Shaft of Pleasure might want to . . . seek out a little pleasuring?" Tom leered. It was a friendly leer, but it definitely had a lecherous edge to it. She was a little surprised. Tom had always had an appreciation for women, but he'd been a gentleman about it, especially around her because of his knowledge of her history. Ro had been the one to introduce the subject, however, so she played along.

"Let's see. The Passage to Enlightenment, the Celestial Home of Delight, the Wellspring of the Prophets. Take your pick." She left him to his privacy in the alcove, and Tom managed the last few steps to the table under his own power. Ro pulled out the chair for him, which Tom plopped into with an audible grunt.

As she lifted the covers from the dishes and served up a little of each food onto their plates, he plowed on, "And those shapely twin mounds on your chest?"

Now she shot him a piercing look; he was really pushing it. Proceed along these lines any further at your own peril, Tom Paris, was the underlying message, but aloud, she merely said, "Breasts. Now SHUT UP and eat your dinner."

He sent her what he hoped was a chastened look. It was not a chaste one, though. Awake, he was incapable of that. "Sorry, Mother," he said.

She wanted to kick him but refrained. He already had enough bruises. If he kept it up, though, she would lose her scruples.

Tom glanced up at her to gauge Ro's mood. Time to retreat. Definitely. Their meal was consumed in silence.

*******