Ad Astra :: Star Trek Fanfiction Archive ^{Beam me up, Scotty.}

Chapter Text

They’re back on the planet, because of course they are. Captain Chester looks through the field goggles. 

This is stupid. Gull pings him through his cybernetics; being practically on top of him, the comms blocking didn’t matter. He didn’t say ‘this is stupid’ in Federation Standard, or in anything that really fits into the context of a universal translator as they exist, but Piper was used to sort of - interpreting the impressions and outputs. What kind of ploy do you think this possibly could be? Tell her it’s not an invasion camp and let us get out of here before we all get shot to bits. 

“Hawthorne,” Chester says, her voice promising trouble, and Piper finds himself freezing. “You didn’t see much combat during the war, did you. Or many Jem’Hadar, for that matter.”

“No,” he says. Why bring that up now?

“Well, I did,” she says, “and I’m seeing Jem’Hadar like I’ve never seen them before.” She lowers the field glasses, frowning intently. “I’m seeing unarmed Jem’Hadar.”

He can’t say he noticed that, but at this distance, it would be hard to tell one way or another. 

“And I’m pretty certain I see Starfleet Medical insignia on some of those crates,” she says. She tucks the field glasses back on her hip, then thinks better of it and hands them to him. “I don’t need someone getting jumpy and mistaking them for a weapon.”

“Mistaking them for a weapon? Why would anyone–what do you mean?”

Her chin juts, determined, the Perfect Starfleet Officer once again. “I’m going down to talk to them,” she says. “We’re less than a kilometer from what looks like their front gate. You stay here.” And she starts down the slope. 

It takes Piper a moment to actually parse what she’s doing, and then a moment longer of flat confusion. He’s given her everything her murderous handlers are looking for, he’s played the good little spy, why the hell is she striding determinedly into a camp full of Jem’Hadar, armed or not. It’s so completely stupid it makes no sense.

Unless it’s not a trick.

The only reason the Captain would go to talk to the Jem’Hadar–who do not need to be armed to pull her limb from limb–is if she genuinely cares that this isn’t a staging camp. If she genuinely doesn’t want to kill them. If she trusts DeWinter just as much as she’s been saying she does–that is, not at all. 

If she’s not secret police. 

“Shit,” says Piper, which really isn’t enough to cover the situation, and goes scrambling after her. 

It takes him a while to catch up with her, given her head start and the way she’s navigating the rocky, unpleasant terrain like it’s a level flat corridor. “Hawthorne,” she says, “I told you to stay put. I feel like I’m saying this a lot today.”

“They might be unarmed, but so are you!”

She doesn’t look up from finding her footing. “Frankly, a phaser wouldn’t do me much good if they decided to kill me,” she says. “So I’ll just have to make sure they don’t want to kill me. Turn around , Hawthorne.”

“Captain!” The camp is getting closer. He grabs at her sleeve to stop her for one moment, so they can talk about this, before she goes and gets herself killed, which he suddenly gives a shit about. She stops, her eyebrows raised. “Okay, look. You don’t need to go down there, it’s not an invasion camp.”

“You lied to me?” she asks, that perfect mask still in place. Her voice gives her away; there’s an edge under it, a suggestion of fangs and claws. 

“Of course I did!” he says. “I thought you were Secret Police! I wasn’t going to run my head into the noose you were oh so helpfully holding out for me! I wasn’t going to let you and DeWinter know that I saw through both of you! Only… I’m guessing you’re not. Erm. Actually Secret Police.”

“Hawthorne,” she says, as even and businesslike as if they’re around the briefing room table on the Interpreter, “I’m pretty sure that’s a hospital. If I hadn’t checked, we could have destroyed a hospital.”

“That’s the point of me trying to stay alive. I wouldn’t have let you,” he says, which, admittedly, sounds a lot dumber and more improbable spoken aloud than in his head. “I was going to stop you.”

She just stares at him a long moment, then starts walking. “Last chance to turn around,” she says. “I was going to trust you to get back to the ship and warn J’etris if this got me killed, but I think trust is not something I should be expecting today.”

“Look,” he says, and has to go scrambling gracelessly after her again. How is she doing it? He’s almost eaten shit and died three times on this awful rocky slope; she’s got some Legolas bullshit going on, not a single slip or grab at an– ow –sharp boulder to steady herself. “Look, this is exactly why I wasn’t going to just trust you! These assholes blow up hospitals , apparently, the only reason I’m here is to stop them, and I am going to help you stop them–can you slow down? This is stupid. You realize this is stupid . You’re on a list I could count on one hand if I wasn’t fond of all my fingers of people I trust to not be secret police. So if you could not die immediately after confirming that , that would be great. ”

“We can work out our interpersonal issues later, Commander,” she says. “Right now, we don’t fully understand the situation, and I mean to fix that. And that means talking to whoever is in charge of that camp.”

“That’s not–” he stops himself as they come around the last of the boulders and run almost directly into a group of Jem’Hadar.

They do not look friendly. “You are not authorized to be here,” says one, and even Piper with his limited experience can tell that’s a precursor to them just getting killed.

The Captain is supremely unfussed. She spreads her hands at waist level, showing she’s unarmed, and her voice is still just as steady. “I need to speak to the administrators of this hospital, please. It’s urgent.”

There’s a long, bad moment. Hawthorne, behind her, has completely frozen, which is the smartest thing he can do. Chester looks calmly up into the eyes of the Jem’Hadar in front of her, making it clear with every inch of her body that she is not a threat. Jem’Hadar take a refreshingly direct approach to threats; they kill them. 

Now, the question is whether the very fact of their presence is a threat, in which case they’re about to die, and DeWinter will have martyrs she was looking for. 

“Why are you here?” asks the Jem’Hadar.

“A security threat has come to my attention,” says Chester. “I will share the information with the hospital administration and your superiors.” 

The Jem’Hadar trade looks. Trading looks is not snapping anyone’s neck, so it’s good. 

“You will come with us,” says the one in front of her. 

The war is too close a memory not to send little creeping feet of terror up her spine when the Jem’Hadar close ranks around them, and she’s got no idea if she keeps it off her face or out of her body language, but they’re used to other sentients being scared of them. She’s not sure it even registers. A glance out of the corner of her eye shows Hawthorne following, wooden and stiff. Good. Just. Keep it that way. 

They’re being nice , by Jem’Hadar standards. All the same, the gate closing behind them sends a sick little lurch into her gut. If she’s fucked up, this is going to be a horrible way to die, and she’s going to feel stupid about it the whole time.

Except she’s certain she hasn’t fucked up. Even their escort isn’t armed. 

Not a threat. Not a threat. You don’t need to do anything about me. Just take me to where protocol says I ought to go. 

Even with all her certainty, the first Starfleet uniform she sees makes her breathe in sharply in relief. It’s a medical uniform, on a stocky middle aged human woman, graying black hair in a tight bun; she looks up at their approach and her mouth goes disapproving, a look more intimidating than those of the Jem’Hadar around her. Next to her, a willowy Vorta straightens up with an expression of utter disdain. 

“We found these two scouting the perimeter,” says the lead Jem’Hadar. 

“I wasn’t informed of any additional Starfleet presence,” says the Vorta, her voice cool. 

“Neither was I,” says the human. “Dr. Yvonne Graves. Who the hell are you?” She pauses, looking Chester over more thoroughly; a Lieutenant’s pips gleam at her throat. “Captain,” she adds, reluctantly.

“Doctor,” says Chester. “A security threat has come to my attention. I’d like to consult you on our best course of action. May I?”

“Well,” says Dr. Graves, “You’re here, I suppose.”

A few minutes later finds them in one of the temporary shelters, Graves plopping down a cup of tea in front of each of them without even asking. The Vorta–Amda, if Chester caught her name correctly–is stirring a concerning number of tapioca pearls into hers; Chester doesn’t miss the delicate shudder Graves produces as it catches her eye.

Amda smiles that unpleasant Vorta smile. “We have a very weak sense of taste,” she explains. “But a great appreciation for texture.”

And a great appreciation for horrifying the humans in your vicinity, thinks Chester, watching her apparently enjoy the chewiest tea in history. The tapioca is probably melting in the hot liquid. Chester is trying not to think too hard about the result. 

“So,” says Graves, “Captain. You’ll have to forgive our manners, but I’ve been juggling a political hot potato for the last eighteen months with a skeleton staff, and I’ve got no patience for ceremony. Who the hell are you and what’s this security threat?”

“Diane Chester, USS Interpreter . This is my chief engineer, Lt. Commander Piper Hawthorne. We became aware of Respite’s existence a little over a day ago, when a member of an extremist group approached me, seeking an accomplice to tamper with the ketrecel white supply.” She’s ready to step on Hawthorne’s foot if he tries to say anything. She knows he suspects Section 31 is Starfleet, but she herself isn’t sure, and like hell is she airing that kind of dirty laundry in front of a Vorta. 

Besides, even if they have some kind of official sanction, ‘domestic extremist group’ is a hell of a lot more accurate to the kinds of things they’re trying to do. 

Amda laughs condescendingly. “Of course,” she says, “the Federation is having difficulty keeping its house in order.”

Chester looks at Graves, sympathetic. Tanek is bad enough. She can’t imagine being stuck on a remote planetoid with him for eighteen months. 

The sympathy is lost on the other woman. “So what are you here to do, Captain?” she asks. “Inform us of the danger before going on your merry way?”

Chester folds her arms and leans back in the rickety chair, eyeing both of you. “No,” she says. “I’m here to consult you on our course of action. It’s clear enough to me, whatever you’re doing here, Command has hung you out to dry, and even if I turn this group down flat, they’ll find someone else to do the dirty work for me. They’ll probably succeed; they were remarkably convincing, in large part because no one knows what’s going on here. So first things first, what the hell are you doing?”

“She’s probably not cleared for this,” says Amda, in a tone of such smugness that Chester is surprised when Graves actually hesitates before responding; that kind of tone would make her want to spill her guts out of spite alone. 

“You’re almost definitely not cleared for this,” Graves says, reluctant. 

“And that almost got you killed,” Chester says flatly, “because to someone not looking closely and being briefed by someone claiming to be a Starfleet Intelligence operative, this looks like a staging camp for an invasion. Please let me help you, Doctor.”

Graves looks down. Amda sips her tea, which is slowly congealing in a very upsetting way, with the air of someone watching a play. Chester makes eye contact with her. “Perhaps you can shed some light on the situation?” she asks. 

“She won’t,” says Graves. “It’d be admitting a mistake. You recall that during the war the Dominion began to produce Jem’Hadar in the Alpha Quadrant, tailored to the environment?” 

Chester nods. It would be hard to forget; they were arrogant bastards, and they weren’t quiet about their superiority over the previous generation.

“Well, it seems they tailored them a bit too well,” says Graves. “Something like 0.01% of them are incapable of processing trace elements prevalent in the Gamma Quadrant. They can’t go home.”

“Standard procedure would have been to cull them,” says Amda, “but your people are such a sentimental species, and in the midst of treaty negotiations, it seemed a trivial concession. We were perfectly happy to let you take care of them, as long as you didn’t get too interested in their genetics.” She smiles over her cup like she thinks she’s being clever. “Inok Nor wasn’t the only illicit medical research going on during the war, you know.”

Chester isn’t sure she does know, and the idea settles a lead ball in her guts. She puts it aside to worry about later. 

“So I am here to observe,” Amda says, “and sample the wide variety of your replicator menu. You really do value the little luxuries, don’t you?”

“We can’t send them to the Gamma Quadrant with the rest of the evacuated Dominion personnel,” says Graves, “because they’ll die. We can’t turn them over to the Dominion at all, because they’ll be killed. We can’t just let them go off merrily into unaffiliated space, because the treaty terms forbid any Alpha Quadrant signatory from allowing the Dominion to transit its space on its way to any other part of the quadrant. And for obvious political reasons, Command hasn’t been real eager to let them run around in our space in general. So they’re stuck here. And so are we.”

“For another seven years or so,” says Amda, “until they die of old age.” She makes a delicate face. “Not the way I envisioned spending my career.”

“As you can see, Captain, our options are limited.”

“It would seem so,” says Chester, frowning into her tea. “I can make sure they don’t succeed this time. But not next, or the time after that. We can’t keep kicking this can down the road, that’s clear enough.”

Graves sighs heavily. “Absent a way to remove the dependence on the white, I don’t see a way to do anything but kick the can down the road.”

“Evacuate all Starfleet personnel,” says Amda, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And civilian observers, of course. It’s not like the Jem’Hadar aren’t self-sufficient. And if something goes wrong–”

“When,” says Graves, her voice sharp.

“There will be no embarrassing extra casualties,” Amda finishes, and meets all of their glares, horribly smug. “What? Jem’Hadar want to die in battle. It’s not like these ones have value to us anymore.”

“It’s not an option,” says Graves. “If there’s anything we can do for them to get them home…”

Amda snorts, disdainful. 

“It’s not going to happen in the time it’ll take for your erstwhile murderers to realize I’m not the sweet gullible thing they thought I was,” says Chester. “We need a third option.”

“Or fifteenth,” mutters Graves.

Chester looks at Hawthorne. “You have experience with this group, Commander,” she says, hoping he’s wise enough not to divulge exactly what that is right here. She wishes there was a way to convey please don’t tell the Dominion representative this attempted act of terrorism might have had official sponsorship, even if you really believe it in just meaningful looks, but she’s going to take the chance anyway. Hawthorne needs to be brought in on this, and know she’s bringing him in on this, because he’ll go behind her back otherwise. She can’t trust him to do that. “Your analysis?”

He stares at her. She looks steadily back. He’s an absolutely awful actor; Graves and Amda very likely can tell something’s up, and she’s not looking forward to answering their questions. 

“Well,” he says, his voice full of disdain, “if keeping then under the influence of the white is really more important than their lives– ”

“It is,” says Amda, and gives his indignation a cool, unruffled smile. Chester very gently bumps his knee under the table, in lieu of stepping on his foot. Not the fight to pick, Hawthorne. 

He jolts, glares at her, spreads the glare around the table to cover for it. Then he quite obviously ignores Amda and looks at Graves. “What’s the leeway in your supplies for the white? If you reported a problem with these supplies when they arrived -”

Graves shakes her head. “We’re operating - if you can call it that - on a shoestring. Replacement supplies would never get here in time. Unless you have an option you’re not sharing,” she adds, to Amda.

Amda shakes her head. “Not having supplies on the next run would very quickly lead to the Jem’Hadar going into withdrawal - just as quickly leading to their death and the death of anyone else unfortunate enough to be left on this moon.” Her tone suggests that she has no intention of being among that number.

“And tampered supplies in the white leads to their death…” Hawthorne is frowning, but more thoughtfully - looking like he’s less angry than focused on the problem.

“I wasn’t planning on tampering with the supplies at all, and telling the recruiter to–ah–get lost.” Chester is thinking of telling DeWinter something a great deal ruder, but now’s not the time to explain the vulgar points of human idiom, even if it’s likely Graves already beat her to it. “We could make it look like we’d tampered, but I’m pretty sure they’d notice the lack of results.” 

“That’s what I -” she nudges Hawthorne’s foot before he can say ‘was planning’ “- was thinking. How I - we could reverse the tampering.” His frown deepens.

“Hawthorne has experience dealing with this extremist group,” she explains to the others, and turns back to him. “If it just looks like we made an error, do you think they’d try again?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding lost in thought. Then his head snaps up and he looks at her. “They were recruiting you. Now, I mean, this is their recruitment of you.”

“Yes…” It sounds like he just readjusted his thinking to realize that.

“They might have someone further down the supply chain checking whether you - whether you modified the supplies, and doing it themselves if you don’t. If they’re smart - which they might not be - they won’t just wait to see dead Jem’Hadar to determine whether you’re onboard.”

“That would be a problem.”

 “I’m not sure though. I don’t understand anything about what they’re planning here.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand their endgame. Even assuming that a bunch of dead Jem’Hadar is what they want - is this operation - an operation involving Starfleet personnel - really being kept so secret that if every Jem'Hadar here died, nothing would come out about it? And you -” he adds, looking at her. “- they think they'd be able to tell you you got rid of a staging ground, without you finding out that you'd killed a hospital? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does rather rely on me being stunningly uninquisitive and rather amoral.” 

“Well, they clearly underestimated that.”

Is that an olive branch? She’ll take it. “I believe the goal is to make it clear how dangerous it is to offer the Dominion so much as a toehold in the Alpha Quadrant, even on humanitarian grounds.”

“And anyone we could ask for help is back on Earth,” says Graves. “This whole venture is incredibly classified. I don’t envy you the footwork you’re going to have to do once you make your official report, Captain.”

“Incredibly classified,” murmurs Chester. It’s damning that DeWinter knew about it, then. And because she knows about it, the protection that that level of classification should confer is instead a vulnerability. 

That’s it. The one thing in their power to do, to take the situation completely out of Section 31’s hands. She looks up sharply. “Well, something about this situation has to change,” she says. “That might as well be it.”

“What?” says Hawthorne, quickly echoed by Graves, and Amda simply looks blank. 

“This level of classification was intended to keep exactly this situation from arising,” says Chester. “Well, it’s arisen. It’s not helping you anymore, and the way our opponents are aiming to have this operation declassified will be a hell of a lot more damaging to both the Federation and Dominion than just blabbing it to the news services now. So that’s what we’ll do. Find the right reporter, one who will handle it sensibly, and make sure it gets blabbed. They can’t kill front page news.”

All of them stare at her. Amda’s mouth opens a little, then closes. Does the Dominion even have a news service? Certainly not an independent one.

“You…wouldn’t happen to have such a reporter in your back pocket, would you, Captain?” says Graves in a tone that implies she’s very much hoping the answer is no.

Chester simply smiles. 

Amda has gone from mildly amused to outright horror. “Freedom of the press,” she murmurs, utterly disgusted. “How barbaric.”

It’s sometime later and the actual shouting has subsided when Graves follows Chester out for a breath of fresh air. Respite is gray and cold, and fresh air about all it can offer, aside from some interesting lichen. Chester glances back over her shoulder at the temporary shelter. “I shouldn’t have left Hawthorne in there alone,” she says. “He’ll cause a diplomatic incident.”

“Let him,” says Graves. “Amda’s a walking diplomatic incident. At least she has been since she realized she’s not getting a promotion out of here.” A fresh cup of tea wavers steam into the chill air in her hand; she sips it and looks around the camp. “They’ll want your head for this, Captain.”

“I rather doubt that,” says Chester. “I became aware of an imminent threat to a delicate operation, and was forced to take extreme measures to head it off without loss of life.  Without loss of life will do a lot of heavy lifting there, as it ought to. Besides, I know Jake Sisko–he can be trusted to spin this as a demonstration of the Federation at its best. Largely because it is.” She smiles, a little crooked. “And all the extra attention might just embarrass the Dominion into actually doing something to help the soldiers stranded here. Within the realm of Federation ethical practices, too. They’re ever so determined to seem reasonable, even when they’re killing entire species.”

Graves tilts a curious look at her. “The Klingons, Romulans, and Cardassians are all going to throw an unholy fit about that.”

“I’m sure they will. Half the Federation will, too. But it’s hard to torch something everyone’s already talking about.” She glances at Graves. “As long as you and everyone else here are all right being the center of attention.”

Graves shrugs. “It’s been eighteen months. Like hell are they going to find someone to relieve me at this point; I knew I was ending my career, coming here.” She catches Chester’s curious look. “I was one of the personnel who picked up on the problem in the first place,” she said. “I filed a complaint. I kept following up on it. When I got assigned to supervise the result–well.”

Chester gives her a look of profound respect and she shuffles uncomfortably, then levels a sharp glare at Chester. “Your right eye is artificial,” she says. “A Terra Mark VII, I’m guessing. The holoprojection for iris pigmentation got better with that one. The Mark VI always looked a little flatter, and sometimes the veins didn’t load right. Surprisingly creepy. Lost during the war, I’m guessing?”

“Battle of Cardassia,” says Chester. “Jem’Hadar used my eyesocket as a handhold.”

“And here you are lighting your career on fire to save a planet of them,” says Graves.

“He pulled out my eye, not my conscience.”

Graves snorts. “You’re a good old-fashioned kind of insane, you know that, Captain?”

“It’s been mentioned a few times.” Chester leans against the nearby safety railing. “I like to think Command knew exactly what they were promoting. Speaking of, if either of us get out of this with our skins intact, and you’re willing to work with a CMO with all the bedside manner of a textbook, my Sickbay is still short-staffed. You seem like you’re a good old-fashioned kind of insane, too, Doctor.”

“It’s a big if,” says Graves. “I want to get this lot on their merry way, safe and sound, before I think about doing anything else.”

Chester raises her eyebrows. “They improve on longer contact?”

“They really don’t,” says Graves, “but that doesn’t make them any less people, as much as the Dominion would like us all to forget it, and as easy as it was to forget when I was patching your sort up during the war. Put a lot of eyeballs into a lot of skulls.”

They stare at the camp a little longer. “Do you think this debacle is going to get us any closer to a lasting peace?” wonders Chester.

“Oh absolutely not,” says Graves, “but that’s no excuse from doing the right thing.”