NEW VOY: The Quest (1/1) PG (Nasir)
Title: The Quest
Author: Dave Rogers
Email Address: daverogers@geocities.com
Series: VOY
Rating: PG
Codes: Nasir
Part: 1/1
Date Posted: 20 August 1999
Summary: Lost in the Delta Quadrant, a familiar face is the
beginning of hope.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns the entire Delta Quadrant, but they
might be able to spare a bit for me.
Author's note: This is the beginning of a new series, based on
characters from the "Virtues" AU series, which can be found on my
website; see .sig for address.
The Quest
The tall, dark-skinned Terran fought, as usual, to control the
trembling of his scarred and twisted hand as he reached out for the
drink in front of him. "I am a trader, mostly," he continued to the
barman. "After I escaped, I picked up some plants for food. I did not
even realise they had medicinal properties on the next planet." The
shaking under control again, he took a sip of the drink. "I spent the
next six months shuttling back and forth, harvesting and selling. By
the time some rival traders tracked me there, I had enough capital to
move on, and we came to an amicable agreement." The few tense hours
when things hadn't been quite so amicable were nobody's business but
his own; and after a while, both sides had realised the
unprofitability of trading explosive bullets for phaser bolts. He
hoped those two Kazon were rich now, not so much from any fellow
feeling as from respect for their sheer common sense, a rare commodity
in that suspicious, long-abused race. "So here I am, looking for
business. I do not break any laws, so do not ask me to. Apart from
that, I will gladly take on whatever I can turn my hand to." His
voice, though at times as shaky as his hands, had a deep, resonant
ring to it, reminiscent of, rather than arising from, a deep self-
confidence, and the Benari barman found himself wondering how this
wreck of a man must have looked and sounded before - before whatever
had brought him this low.
"Where are you from originally, Mr..."
"Nasir. And I still flatter myself with the title of Lieutenant,
though it means little now. I am from Earth, a planet on the far side
of the galaxy. And I very much doubt," he added with ironic humour,
looking up at the barman with dull, lifeless eyes, "whether I shall
see it again."
"Earth. Sounds familiar," mused the barman. "Where have I heard that
before? And that title - Lieutenant -" Suddenly it struck him. "The
Federation. Are you something to do with the Federation?"
"I was." The words seemed to struggle out of a deep pit, and the
Terran's head bowed slightly, as if in deep and secret sorrow.
"Stay here, Lieutenant Nasir." The barman was suddenly overcome with a
rush of sympathy, something that he'd always found to be an
occupational hazard; but perhaps there was something he could do, if
not to help this lost soul, perhaps to give him a little hope. "I'll
be back in a minute or two."
There was an information terminal in the back room - the barman had
found it useful to settle bar arguments with less violence than the
usual approach. A few minutes searching the planetary news archives
produced the cuttings he was looking for, and he rapidly downloaded
them to a data tablet.
The Terran hadn't moved when the barman returned, and indeed he seemed
to have no better place to go. Maybe this would give him, at least, a
suggestion.
"I found it, Lieutenant." It seemed to help calling him that; each
time he used the word, the stranger's back seemed to straighten a
little, his head to rise. "There was a big scandal three, four years
ago, a murder mystery. This man was convicted of murdering Tolen Ren,
the Head of Military Science. I think he got off on appeal; it was
just before the Battle of Haranben, so the appeal probably didn't
make the national news. He was a Lieutenant, though, from the
Federation, like you." He realised that he seemed to be keeping up
both ends of the conversation here. "Four years ago. He was from a
ship, called Voyager. They were heading for home. I think it might
have been Earth." The words seemed to be washing over the Terran, who
seemed transfixed by something on the tablet. "This is all I could
find on the main database. I think it even mentions which way they
were headed." Still no response. "Does this mean anything to you?"
Suddenly the Terran looked up, his face bearing the slightest hint of
a smile, and, for the first time, there was some suggestion of life
behind his eyes. His head tilted slightly in a suggestion of a nod,
then he reached for his drink, his hand steady now, and threw it down
his throat in a single motion. "I must thank you, sir. Your house
dispenses more than hospitality." He stood up, straight and tall, and
the barman realised for the first time that this man towered over
everyone else in the room; why hadn't he seen that when he came in?
There was a clink of a credit slip on the bar, and then the Terran
concluded, "I must leave now. I hope that this covers the price of my
meal, and conveys my thanks as well." He turned, and strode towards
the exit, a sense of purpose driving his unsteady steps.
The barman looked down at the slip, and only a lifetime of practice
prevented him from shouting after the departing Terran. This was more
than he made in the average year; but if the man was too drunk to
count properly, that wasn't his problem.
Nasir clutched the data tablet like a holy book as he walked back to
the spaceport dock. He could have afforded a transporter, but the
exercise was good for his mind, and his thoughts needed a little
calming, and his head a little clearing, right now. He looked down
again at the familiar face, a face he'd last seen in another world,
seventy thousand light years away, in the Federation penal settlement
in New Zealand. Tom Paris had been here, and somehow he'd insinuated
his way back into Starfleet. But, more importantly, he'd had a ship,
and a crew, and a purpose; three things Nasir had lost since that day,
years ago, when the Caretaker had dragged him and the ship he was
visiting into hell. And Paris was going home. Maybe, he thought, Nasir
can go home as well.
His shuttlecraft was there in the dock, battered and worn from years
in hiding and more years of hard work, but still recognisably - to
someone from the far side of the galaxy, at least - a Starfleet Class
Two shuttlecraft, capable of interstellar flight provided the crew
were prepared to tolerate a little discomfort. Compared to his first
three years in the Delta Quadrant, of course, it was the height of
luxury, and as the rear hatch closed behind him he relaxed in the
safety of the only place, in the last four years, he had thought of
as home.
A familiar voice aroused him, some time later, as he slept in the
pilot's chair. "Did you find what you were looking for, Lieutenant?"
"You should have come with me, Crewman," he replied, half asleep
still.
"I needed to sleep too, you know."
"No, I do not know," he replied with a trace of amusement. "I am
still surprised to know that you need to. But you should have come
with me anyway."
"Why?"
"To tell me what I was looking for."
"That's simple, Lieutenant. You were looking for hope. I've told you
before, a bar isn't the place to look."
"Ah, that is where you are wrong, Crewman Andri. This bar sold hope as
well as alcohol. And I bought myself some while I was there."
The Betazoid's voice took on a tone of interest. "What kind of hope,
Nasir?"
"A name, Janell. One you may remember. Thomas Eugene Paris."
She giggled. "Better than you realise, Nasir."
"Ah. I had not realised." He smiled now, a full, deep, rich smile,
and felt the muscles of his face protest as they stretched themselves
into an expression that had been absent for years. "You were
remarkably discreet. You know that sort of thing is against
regulations."
"You'd better throw me in the brig then, Lieutenant."
"Not easy, Crewman, even if we had one." He looked around, for the
first time since the conversation had begun, and saw the empty
interior of the shuttlecraft all around him. "I will find him,
Janell. He has been here. He is in the Delta Quadrant, and he has a
ship. I will find him," he repeated, taking strength from the words.
Strength. He remembered being strong, a long time ago; being young,
ambitious and idealistic, knowing that his life had purpose. Maybe he
might find a way to be strong again.
"You won't need me any more, then," replied Andri sadly.
"Stay with me, Janell!" Nasir's voice was urgent, pleading. "You must
stay with me." He calmed down, and spoke more softly. "You are all I
have, since you died. I lost the others, and I lost you. Stay with me,
please."
"I'll stay," replied Andri, happier now. "Where else would I go?"
Nasir looked round again. She was always here, in the shuttlecraft,
though she hadn't yet accompanied him outside it, when anyone else
might be listening. He wasn't sure whether her spirit stayed with him
or the shuttle; he'd heard tales of hauntings both of people and of
objects, and he'd be quite interested to know which this was.
Nasir knew he was not, in the strictest sense of the word, sane. After
all he'd been through, it was hardly surprising. Having lost his home,
his career, his ship, his friends, his hope and his strength of will,
a little thing like sanity seemed such a minor detail. He hoped the
madness would not progress, though. So far it had been entirely
benign, giving him companionship and counsel when there was none to be
found in reality. His grip on reality would be tested, though, if he
was to achieve his quest. Somehow, some day, he would find his old
friend, and they would travel home together.
He repeated the words again, knowing that this faint hope must take
the place of genuine resolve. "I will find him."
THE END
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