MU story - not-a-contest-entry

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by RevdKathy, Sep 22, 2007.

  1. RevdKathy

    RevdKathy How scared are you? Moderator

    Joined:
    Oct 9, 2000
    Location:
    being Rev'dKathy
    Well, I said I'd written a MU story. I finally borrowed a floppy disk drive and dug around in the attic.

    I can't in all honesty submit this: it was written years ago. But while people were exploring the MU, I'd like to include my 'take'.

    Sticking my Mod-Hat on, I should warn you this story is 'adultish'. I originally rated it 'R' - though on reflection and after years in this job, it's probably nearer 'pg-13'. Torchwood rather than Dr Who, but still BBC rather than Channel 4, which will mean something to other Brits. ;)

    So here it is. Grimy little story of a 'what if' of the Voyager pilot. And the Voyager Pilot, as it were.

    Paid, with Interest

    This is a "what if" story, an A/U. What if Tom hadn't been arrested while working for the Maquis, but had dropped out from them too. Where might he have ended up? And what might Kathryn have had to do to recruit him?

    Disclaimers: Yes, all the characters, all the plots in the world belong to Paramount. But these words are mine, ok?


    Captain Kathryn Janeway sat perched on a bar stool, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. This seedy little dump was hardly the venue of her choice. A small station bar, run by a rather unattractive Ferengi halfbreed. Dim lighting, dirty tables, and a collection of sleazy professional 'entertainers', to give them a euphemistic title they probably didn't deserve.

    Kathryn reflected that if she'd known as a cadet that Starfleet would end her up here trying to recruit a whore she'd have chosen a different career path. But that was what she was here for. The finest pilot to graduate Academy in the last couple of decades had been cashiered out of Starfleet a few years later. He'd served a time or two with the Maquis. And now he was a Working Boy in a hole like this. She needed his Maquis expertise, and his piloting skills. What he was selling tonight was another matter.

    She pulled nervously at her skirt, cursing herself for being so conscientious about dressing the part. People who knew where this man came from had assured her he'd refuse point blank if she made an approach from Starfleet. She'd have to angle for him. But she didn't have to choose something quite so tight and short. Her legs felt exposed after the comfort of Starfleet uniform pants.

    Tom stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath before entering the bar. It was part of the nightly routine. First check the room, in case it was needed for customers: he preferred being taken off the premises, but you couldn't count on that, so the room had to be passable. Then tidy himself, and head downstairs. He reflected that the last couple of nights had been particularly unpleasant. Not all clients were terribly considerate towards their purchases: he still had bruises from the last two.

    The trouble was it was a vicious circle. He paid for his bed and board with Pag by 'looking after' the customers. Alcohol and other mind-numbing substances had to be paid for over and above that. Lousy clientele meant he needed more drink. And he was already sufficiently in debt that he'd never be allowed to leave alive.

    He hoisted the back of his jeans, pulling the denim tighter against his backside and accentuating the firm flesh. Might as well show off the merchandise. Actually, he preferred women to men, but there were few of them looking for a pickup in a trashy outfit like this.

    He exhaled audibly and opened the door.

    Kathryn Janeway halted in her flow of conversation with the barman. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her quarry. God, he looked young. Somehow she'd expected him to look older and dirtier; as if the depravity and degradation of his lifestyle ought to show in his face. He looked much as he had the day he graduated: she'd been in the audience then, as a gesture to her former Captain, now Admiral Paris. She seen how Paris had glowed with pride at his son's achievements. Now here was that same son touting his body.

    Tom paused in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dingy lighting of the bar. He swept a glance around the room, trying to make out any potential 'hits'. And then he saw her. Sitting at the bar, a Dame. His eyes hungrily took in her frame: neat ankles, crossed where her feet rested on the crossbar of the stool. Long shapely legs, well revealed by a short, tight green skirt. Narrow waist, firm bust. And auburn hair. Beautiful, long auburn hair; tied loosely in a pony tail cascading down her back. What a dame! What was her sort doing in a joint like this? His eyes narrowed, as he looked about. Had anyone else moved in on her? Hell, he'd kill for this one. She had Class.

    The man moved across the room, as if drawn by an invisible magnetic attraction. He wasn't aware of praying, as his brain pounded over and over the mantra "let her be buying". Pag would kill him if he offered a free sample - but she might even be worth it.

    Janeway turned slightly on her stool, trying not to hitch the damned skirt any higher. She looked at the man approaching and smiled.

    The smile hit Paris like a charge of energy. Like putting your hand into an open warp plasma conduit. Her eyes reached into his.

    Janeway lost her concentration as she made eye contact with her prey. Blue eyes. Bluer even than Owen's, if that were possible. Eyes that contained such promise, and such pain. Momentarily she was lost for words. She pulled herself together briskly.

    "Can I buy you a drink, Mister?"

    Not daring to trust his luck, the man nodded. Her voice was dusty and dry. Erotic in a soft, turn-on sort of way. He found his own voice:

    "Gin and tonic, with a twist of lime" he gave her his most charming, most ingratiating smile.

    "It's Paris, isn't it?" she enquired. Clearly Pag had been talking.

    "That's right." he murmured in his best sexy voice. "Pag's been extolling my virtues?" Sometimes the ferengi went overboard on the hard sell.

    "He says you play a mean game a pool." There was amusement in the eyes. She lifted her own glass to her perfectly shaped lips and took a tiny sip of her drink.

    "Sure do" Great, something he was actually good at. "What's the stake?" he challenged playfully.

    "If I win, you walk me home" Sure. Hell, he'd walk her home anyway. All the way home.

    "Pag doesn't like me leaving without paying my debts" he said slyly. Make sure she paid up front.

    "You set up the table, while I have a word with our friend Pag" she replied dryly.

    Paris walked to the pool table in a bit of a daze. He simply couldn't believe his luck. Once, maybe twice in a life time came a chance like this: a chance to really enjoy your work. She wanted him, and was paying up front.

    The balls set out on the table, he returned to the bar. She was retrieving her payment card from the ferengi. She was quick, almost snatched it out of Pag's hand. But not quick enough. Paris spotted the Starfleet symbol on the card, even as she tried to conceal it with her thumb. He should have know this was too good to be true. That she wasn't what she seemed. Damn. Probably some social worker on an errand from his father.

    Janeway eased herself off the stool, trying not to lose her skirt altogether. The high heels weren't going to make this an easy game, but she had a feeling that Mr Paris wouldn't put up much of a fight.

    He didn't. Mind, even without trying he could give her a fair run for her money. Nobody would have said that he lost deliberately. Not unless they knew how he could play when he tried. Janeway found she was concentrating more on how to lean over the table without exposing her knickers in the short skirt than on the flow of the balls. They played in silence. He lost.

    The game over, he knocked back the last of his gin, and smirked. "So, where's home?"

    Janeway's mouth smiled, but her eyes were grim. "Get your coat, and you'll find out."

    A tingle of anxiety made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Where was she coming from? What was her angle? But he kept the smile in place, and reached for his jacket. She didn't look the type to be a psychopathic murderer. And few of them carried Starfleet credit cards.

    "See you later, Pag" he called over his shoulder. And offered the mysterious lady his arm in mock gallantry. "I don't even know your name" he hinted. She didn't reply. Which only added to his uncertainty.

    They stepped out into a quiet boulevard. The space station was not busy at present, and even when it was, Pag's Hotel was hardly in the centre of things. Paris found himself wishing this could have been a planetary setting. It would be nice to walk down the road under a real starlit sky with a Dame like this one on your arm.

    The walk proved a short one. Straight into the station's transporter bay. The woman set the co-ordinates herself, and nodded to him to step onto the pad.

    "Hang on." he protested, "How do I know where you're taking me? You might not return me in the morning and Pag wouldn't like that" It was the only threat he could think of.

    "After what I've just paid Mr Pag, I don't think he'll be bothering much whether you show up tomorrow or not." she replied, rather harshly. "I settled your debts. Which at your present rate of pay means you owe me a couple of years."

    Tom swallowed hard. He didn't know what the hell was going on. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But somehow, he just got free from Pag's clutches. He looked at the woman standing in front of him and wondered if she was going to be worse than what he'd escaped.

    She pulled a small hand phaser from her purse and waved it without much conviction. "Don't make this difficult, Mr Paris. Just step on the pad, ok?"

    The space station and his life there fizzled out in a sparkle of transporter waves.

    They were in a shuttle. A brand spanking new class one starfleet shuttle. The gorgeous dame in the tight green skirt was trying to settle into the co-pilot's seat without hitching the skirt up.

    She looked at him, waiting for him to react to his surroundings.

    "I assume you do know how to pilot one of these?" Her voice was still a shade grim.

    "Yes Ma'am" he replied. Piloting. A shuttle. A real starfleet shuttle. God, it was like a dream come true. One day Goldilocks walks into your life, pays all your debts and asks you to do the things you love doing best in the universe. Pool. Now flying. That just left the rest of the evening, when they got 'home' wherever 'home' was. And he knew he was damned good at that.

    She pushed the panels in front of her, setting their course. He went through the routines of preflight, then released them from the station's docking bay. And out into open space. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this. How much flying was a part of him.

    He cast her a sideways glance; she was watching him. Watching his ease and skill in the pilot's chair. Watching him become so much more than just a whore in a sleazy bar. She flashed him another of those smiles. And he got the feeling that this one was for real.

    Minutes later a ship appeared in the viewscreen. A big, new starship. Just out of spacedock by the look of her.

    "Well, Tom" the dame studied him enquiringly, "there she is: Voyager. Your new home."

    He swallowed. His mouth seemed uncharacteristically dry. He shook his head.

    "I think you got the wrong man, lady. She's Starfleet, and starfleet and I came adrift a long time ago."

    The woman stood up, and tugged her blouse down sharply. Paris grinned: the Picard maneover.

    "Well, Mr Paris, Starfleet needs you. Or to be more accurate, I need you. I need your piloting skills, and I need your experience with the Maquis. I'm employing you as a consultant."

    Tom thought for a moment. "That's not what I trade" he objected bluntly.

    "Look, Mister. I just bought you out." she wasn't in the mood for arguing. All she could think of was getting back on the ship and into a long hot bath to get the slime of that hellhole out of her skin. "As of now, you're a consultant. And you answer to me, right."

    "I don't even know you are, lady." Tom could be stubborn when he wanted to.

    "Kathryn Janeway, Captain of that vessel which you refuse to dock with."

    "Captain?" since when did Captains wear skirts that short?

    Janeway leaned across him to initiate the docking sequence. At this awkward angle she miss hit a panel, and the little ship shuddered. The beautiful woman crashed into his lap. Tom was suddenly acutely aware of how she'd affected him in the short time of their acquaintance. Presumably so was she now, given the care she took in placing her elbows as she pushed herself out of his arms.

    "Captain?" he asked again, still disbelieving it.

    "Listen, Mister. Stop sitting there like a Tarkanian Goldfish and dock this shuttle, will you? I want to get out of this damned skirt."

    His grin told her that he'd misinterpreted her remark. She'd meant she wanted to get back into uniform.

    "Yes Ma'am" he declared with enthusiasm.

    Minutes later Janeway was tottering in her heels down the main corridor of her new vessel. She was glad few of the other crew members were aboard yet. Bringing home a whore was hardly the sort of example a Captain ought to set, even if this was in the course of duty.

    She dropped Paris off at what were to become his own quarters and headed for her own deck. Once alone she shook off the heels, peeled down the offensively tight skirt and threw off the blouse. The door chimed. She swore softly. Who the hell was about at this time of night?

    She pulled a robe tightly about her body, feeling she'd been exposed enough for one night.

    Paris leaned against the doorpost. His face was grave.

    "Two questions" he muttered, without being asked why he was there. He stepped into the room uninvited too.

    "You're the Kathryn Janeway that served with my father, right?"

    She nodded. There wasn't anything else to say.

    "So this is about him. Not about me. You're doing this as a favour to him. You don't want me, not even in that bar tonight." He looked forlorn. The whore's bravado had evaporated.

    "No" she said quietly, "This is about you. About your piloting skills and experience." She paused. "Your father was against the idea. But a few of us in Starfleet think you're worth another try. And I need you"

    He wandered around the room. Trying to take in the changes that had happened in his life in just a few short hours.

    "And tonight?" he looked into her eyes. "You bought a whore, remember?"

    "No" her voice was firm. "I bought a pilot. I don't need a whore. You can leave those skills behind."

    "Even if I wanted to?"

    "Sorry Tom." And she actually sounded it. "I've got a man of my own. I don't need to buy one."

    He shook his head and headed for the door. Vowing as he went that some day, somewhere in the universe he'd find a way to repay her. And give her what she'd paid for, with interest.
     
  2. DebbieBiv

    DebbieBiv Lieutenant Junior Grade Red Shirt

    Joined:
    Apr 19, 2006
    Oh I liked this story very much. Pity it's not a contest entry.
     
  3. captcalhoun

    captcalhoun Admiral Admiral

    Joined:
    Apr 29, 2005
    Location:
    everywhere
    i'm sincerely disappointed. that's not PG-13. that's barely PG!
     
  4. CeJay

    CeJay Rear Admiral Rear Admiral

    Joined:
    Feb 5, 2006
    Interesting story and well told too.

    Definitely a more gritty and dirty interpretation of the Trek-verse and an interisting switch of stereotypes.

    Didn't really feel like a Mirror universe story though. (eg. No mention of the Terran Empire) But a heck of a alternative universe tale!
     
  5. RevdKathy

    RevdKathy How scared are you? Moderator

    Joined:
    Oct 9, 2000
    Location:
    being Rev'dKathy
    Thanks Debbie. I don't think it quite fits the challenge parameters, so no entry. But the compliment is appreciated.

    Sorry to disappoint you Calhoun! Trust me, I did write some very nasty stuff back then. This was fairly mild, but somehow felt 'dirty' (grimy) enough to merit the rating. I'm afrid you'll never get that time back. :(

    Thanks Cejay. I think you're probably right about it being A/U rather than M/U. I just wanted to go find it again in the light of the challenge theme. Most of my old writings, I'd rather not find again. :evil: