"Is Crewman Shadow alone? Who's with her?"
"Please restate a single question."
Paris sighed his exasperation with the computer's single-mindedness.
"Is Crewman Shadow alone?"
"No."
Tom frowned. "Computer, list all occupants of Crewman Shadow's
quarters."
"Crewman Malista Shadow and Ensign Harry Kim."
Tom thought for a moment. He didn't want to interrupt anything.
"Computer, notify me when Crewman Shadow leaves her quarters."
"Confirmed."
The pilot proceeded to Holodeck Two to run his flight sims.
Simulations were exciting and challenging---without risking death or
injury to others in case something didn't go as planned. He loved
increasing the level of difficulty. Most of the time when he got to do
any challenging piloting, there was too much going on to really take
time to enjoy the thrill of it. This was going to be fun!
****************
Malista Shadow was no more than five feet from the door to her
quarters when her commbadge signaled.
"Paris to Shadow."
She froze for a moment. It was almost 0100. Why would Tom be calling
her now? An emergency? "Shadow here," she replied cautiously.
"Malista, come to Holodeck One, will you?" He didn't seem upset.
"Why? It's late, Tom. I was just going to bed," she said and tried to
do a convincing yawn.
"Really? And where were you going to sleep? I know you're not in your
quarters," he stated flatly. "Or Harry's."
She didn't have an answer. "I'll be right there." She turned back to
her cabin to leave her toolkit before making her way to the holodeck.
Sandrine's was running. The holodeck characters were the only ones
keeping Tom Paris company. He was sitting at the piano, idly picking
out a tune when she came in. He took one look at her face and knew her
shields were up---full strength.
There was no point in a frontal assault. He'd have to find another
approach. Maybe a sneak attack? A flanking maneuver?
"Malista, come look at this," he invited, keeping his tone light and
pretending there was nothing unusual about his summoning her to the
holodeck in what was essentially the wee hours of the morning for
them. He gestured to the sheet music on the piano.
She approached slowly and seated herself on the bench next to him. "I
thought you didn't read music," she commented as she scanned the
sheet.
"I don't. The Delaneys played the recording of the music for me. I
learned it by ear. The sheet music is so I can learn the words. You
want to try it?" he asked casually. He began to play.
She listened, following the up and down pattern of the notes on the
music to give her eyes something to focus on. She didn't read music
either. She would have said she 'read at' music. She began to hum the
tune. Malista frowned as she read the words. "What is this, Tom?"
He smiled wryly. "It's from a musical play. Rodgers and Hammerstein's
Cinderella."
"Cinderella? The fairy tale? What are you doing with this? And why
would the Delaneys---"
Tom paused and grinned at her. "Actually---"
"Oh, no," she said quickly.
"What?" he replied with faux innocence.
"They want *you* to sing it with them?" Hopefully.
He shook his head, still grinning.
"Then I don't---" She broke off at the glint in his blue eyes.
He nodded.
"Oh, no," she repeated.
Paris turned his attention back to the keys and started playing once
more.
"I don't sing in public."
He slid a sidelong glance at her.
"I don't," she said more emphatically. "I do *not* sing in public."
He kept playing. "This is where you come in."
"Except I'm not going to." The tune was catchy. She knew she'd be
humming it for days. "I won't sing at one of Harry's concerts either."
He said nothing. He kept playing.
After a few moments, she said. "Tom."
He turned his head. "Yes, Malista?"
"Why? Why Cinderella?"
He grinned once more. "I was waiting for you to ask."
She swatted his arm lightly. "So tell me."
"It seems the members of Voyager Drama Company want to try their hand
at a musical. This is one of the simplest to produce. And the music is
surprisingly easy to sing," he added. "IF you have a voice---and an
ear."
"I don't sing in public," she reiterated.
"You said that."
"I got the feeling you weren't listening," she replied tartly.
Tom winked at her. "Gosh, Malista, you don't think they're offering
you the lead, do you? What an ego!"
She frowned. "That song is Cinderella's. If they aren't offering me
the lead, why are you bothering me with this?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Have you ever heard the Delaneys sing?"
Her frown deepened at the apparent non sequitur. "No, not really.
Well, sort of. But we were all so drunk at the time---"
"The blue stuff?"
"Yeah." She winced as she remembered the aftereffects of the alien
hard liquor from a planet called Dynos Six. "My first and last drunk.
So what about the Delaneys and their singing?"
Tom considered his words. "Let's just say---you don't want to hear
them sing when you're sober."
"What?" She chuckled. "They can't be that bad."
Paris rounded his eyes. "Oh, yeah, they can. I mean, they start out
all right, but then they sort of---lose the tune? Or maybe it's that
they change keys----without warning. And singing is one of the few
things they *don't* seem to do in unison. Unfortunately."
"And they want to do a *musical*?"
Tom threw his hands in the air then dropped them to his knees. "The
way they explain it---it almost starts to make sense."
Malista half smiled. She'd begun to relax, intrigued by the twins'
latest ploy to relieve the tedium of the voyage home. "I can't wait to
hear this."
"They want to play Cinderella. Both of them," he added to forestall
her next question. "It's supposed to save time for costume changes.
Jenny will play the peasant Cinderella and Megan will play Cinderella
at the ball. Or vice-versa. I think they're still fighting that one
out."
Malista bit her lip. She could almost hear that argument raging. "They
want to play the lead in a musical, but neither of them can sing?"
"Their latest brainstorm is that you'll stand backstage and sing and
they'll be in front of the audience lip-synching." Tom tried to hide
his own amusement and make the sisters' argument sound convincing.
"Why not use a recording?" she inquired skeptically.
"You know, that's just what I said," Paris replied with exaggerated
sweetness. "They said it would be more authentic to have live music."
"More *authentic*? When they're *pretending* to sing?" Shadow gasped,
trying not to succumb to hilarity. "Are they planning on keeping this
a secret?"
"I think that's the idea," Tom sniggered. "And guess who they want to
play Prince Charming's part?"
Malista's smile widened. "You? I told you that you looked like a
prince in a fairy tale!" she crowed.
"Uh-huh. But I'm not going to do it! And since I wouldn't agree to
*play* the prince, I'll be singing for---Freddie Bristow."
Shadow began to giggle. "Freddie? Do they realize that the one who
plays Cinderella at the ball has to kiss him?"
Paris raised one eyebrow. "That may be another reason why they're
still arguing over who will play which part," he said thoughtfully.
"Why can't he sing for himself?"
"Totally tone-deaf. Couldn't carry a tune with an antigrav unit."
Paris began to laugh.
She joined him for a moment. As her giggles subsided, she shook her
head. "I can't believe those two. Are you going to do it?"
Tom waggled his eyebrows at her. "That depends on you, Sis."
"Why?"
"I told them I would---if you would."
She punched his shoulder, less lightly this time. "You rat! You know
they'll be positively pestiferous until I agree to do it."
"And no one can be more persistent than those redheads," Tom agreed
amiably. "Besides it's partly your fault. You're the one who called
them off before Jenny got to implement her full plan to get revenge on
George Natwick. All the synergy of scheming and plotting had to be
invested in something. Just be grateful it's something as harmless as
performing in a play. Pardon me, a 'musical' play."
"Do they really think they can keep my singing for them a secret?" She
couldn't believe that anyone would seriously believe a secret of that
nature could be kept private on a ship as small as Voyager, especially
during a performance.
"Naw. They don't care. They've dragged me into listening to the score
of every musical they've ever fantasized about performing. Now they've
made up their minds and want to do this play in the worst way. And
heaven help anyone who interferes! I think it's a childhood fantasy or
something." Tom began to play once more. "So you might as well give in
gracefully right now and learn the songs."
"Songs? How many?"
"Four. They cut one for the sake of time. Come on, try this one!"
After a couple of false starts, the two of them managed a satisfactory
duet performance of 'Ten Minutes Ago', the waltz number from the
scene in the ballroom.
"See, that wasn't so bad," Tom stated. "It's easily in your range and
it's catchy."
"I still don't think it will work," Shadow complained, then was caught
off guard by a tremendous yawn.
"You've lost weight. You have circles under your eyes. You have to be
on duty in less than six hours. Sis, why aren't you sleeping?" he
asked gently.
"Why aren't you?" she asked defensively.
Tom shrugged and played a sad sounding tune. "I'm worried about you."
Her eyes dropped. "I'm okay."
"I want you to be better than okay," he said, gently tugging on her
wrist and bringing her into the circle of his arms for a hug.
She leaned into him for a moment, then straightened, keeping his arm
on her shoulder as she began toying with his long, slender fingers.
"You want to talk about it?" Tom asked. His free hand tinkered with
the piano keys.
"What?"
"Malista," he growled warningly.
"Talking about it won't help," she retorted.
"How do you know until you try it?" Paris replied reasonably. His eyes
were sincere and tender. He'd dropped his mask of unconcern for her.
She felt something cold that had taken up residence in her heart begin
to melt in the blue hot warmth of those eyes. She missed her older
brothers fiercely. She was so glad Tom had adopted her. "Talking can't
change facts, Tom. It can't change the past. But thank you...for
caring."
Tom scowled at her. "Come on, Malista. Don't shut me out! It might
help. Talk to me."
"How am I supposed to handle my own problems, when every time I turn
around you're looming over my shoulder? I don't want you getting in
trouble because of me."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Tom, I know you. If I tell you that someone hurt my feelings, you're
going to want to do something about it!"
"And what's wrong with that?" he demanded.
"Sometimes you'll just make the situation worse. There are some things
I need to work out. I need to learn how to stand up for myself. Not
hide behind you or Harry---as tempting as that thought might be."
Paris frowned and stuck his lower lip out in a dramatic pout. "Why
not?"
"Because I said so," she said, glowering at him.
"Is there anything I *can* help you with?!" he exclaimed with some
exasperation.
She eyed him askance for a moment. "Maybe. You have a lot of
experience with women, don't you?"
He stiffened, then consciously forced himself to relax. She wasn't
being judgmental. She must have a reason for asking. "I wouldn't say
'a lot', but I have some experience. Why?" He wasn't sure why it felt
funny to tell her even that much.
She sighed. "I'm worried about---sex." She peeked at him out of the
corner of her eye to read his reaction.
Tom blinked. "Oh. Uh....what about it?" He looked so discomfited she
almost felt like giggling.
"Harry and I haven't---you know. We've been working up to it---in
stages," she reported reluctantly.
"Malista!" Tom interrupted, his eyes widening as he suddenly
recognized why he felt so uncomfortable in this discussion. "I don't
think I can talk to you about this. About almost anything else---but
not this."
She stared at him blankly. She'd become accustomed to talking to him
about all kinds of disquieting topics. He'd always helped her. It had
never been a problem before. "Why not?" She was too surprised to feel
hurt or rejected.
"You're my *sister*!" Tom exclaimed. "It's just way too weird! I can't
talk with you about---*sex*! "
With the emphasis he gave the word, Malista half expected him to spell
it rather than say it. She stared at him with a befuddled frown. "Tom,
you *do* remember," she asked, "that I'm *not* actually your sister?"
His jaw dropped for a split second, but he recovered quickly. "Of
course," he replied nonchalantly as he regained his composure. "I
remember that."
She didn't believe him. She bit her upper lip to prevent a smile from
breaking free. "Are you sure?"
Paris winked at her. "Brat! Stop picking on me. Come on. Tell me the
problem. Just don't get too---specific, okay?" He shook his head. He
couldn't believe the situations he got himself into. The Paris luck?
She ducked her head. "I wasn't planning to. It's just---I want Harry.
Really, I do. And he wants me. I think. No, I know he does." She
blushed as she thought of the evidence he had given that led her to
that conclusion.
"So what's the problem?" Paris paused. When she didn't respond, he
ventured a guess. "Huldon III?" She nodded mutely. "Are you having
flashbacks?"
"N-no," she stammered. "Not exactly."
"Then what?"
"It's just that when we get to---this is embarras
sing. Don't look at
me," she commanded.
"Yes, ma'am." He obediently turned his gaze to the piano keys and
concentrated on trying not to say anything stupid that might drive her
back into her shell.
"Well, we start kissing and, uh...." She stopped to clear her throat.
"But when we get to a certain point....uh..."
"What point would that be?" Tom inquired, sneaking a peek at her.
She glowered at him, caught between anger and self-consciousness. "At
the point when articles of clothing start getting in the way," she
muttered.
"Oh. Go on." Paris tried not to let his imagination supply any
unwanted details. For a moment he honestly had forgotten that she
wasn't his younger sister and the idea of her with a man---even if the
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