Chapter Text
A message from the ship’s counselor on his Padd wasn’t the very last thing Piper needed as ‘Pret was finishing departure preparations, but it had to be pretty far down the list.
Counselor Rala would be the person on the ship most likely to hear crewmember’s concerns, troubles, doubts and suspicions - well, most likely as long as the ship didn’t have a functioning bar. Regardless, he and Marbog had agreed that any half-functioning Secret Police would have a way to make sure they were getting all of that information. And now that it seemed that Operation Watch Hawthorne was getting higher priority - well.
There were a few possibilities for Counselor Rala. It wasn’t necessarily the case that he was a secret police agent, or knowingly complicit like his old boss, who went along for fear of the secret police. He might have gotten orders he decided were reasonable, ‘due to the concerns about Lt. Commander Hawthorne’s mental state and the stability of his cybernetics, we want all recordings and notes from his sessions run by a few additional experts, we trust your judgment, obviously, but as this case is novel, in the interest of ensuring Lt. Commander Hawthorne gets the best care and’ - etc etc.
He may not even know that his computers or records or bugged - Piper’s doing his best to sweep for bugs in the ship and have ‘Pret check, and he’s found some, but he doesn’t want to know the secret police know all of what he’s found, and he’s sure he hasn’t caught them all. Taps in the Counselor’s computer systems are something it would be hard to find an excuse to go digging to find.
He’s looked at Counselor Rala’s files; the records stated that during the war, the Betazoid had been experimented on by Cardassian allies of the Dominion, part of a broad project of experimentation on individuals with telepathic abilities. Of course, the story in Piper’s file said that he had been experimented on by Changeling infiltrators from the Dominion, so that record could be just as much bullshit. When he’d discussed it with Marbog, they’d considered a few possibilities -
- one, that like what Piper suspected with Captain Chester, the horrific incident during the war had been leverage for the Secret Police to say ‘shouldn’t you help us do anything necessary to fight the Federation’s enemies to prevent this happening again’?
Two, that whatever orders had been given to a knowing or unknowing Counselor Rala, they’d leveraged what had happened to him to assure his collaboration - potentially through the connection to the public-facing story about Lt Commander Hawthorne’s own experiences.
Three, that the whole story had been cover for whatever already-secret police ‘Counselor’ Rala had actually been doing during the war.
Four, the whole story was cover in the same way that blaming Dominion Changelings was cover for what the Secret Police had done to Piper.
But what the Secret Police had done to Rala had worked.
Piper rubs at the back of his neck, around one of the pieces of cybernetics running down his upper spine. Thinking that Rala might be puppeteered - or might be activated unknowingly - drags him right back to his conversation with Marbog, to the possibility that he might be activated by some deeply-buried piece of hardware, something stuck in his own brain that all the scans and all of the doctors and Marbog hadn’t been able to root out. Something that was too deeply buried, integral to his brain’s functioning, that they thought they had taken back, had given control of back to Piper, but that secretly had a trap waiting to turn him from a ‘failed mind control experiment’ into a very successful one.
What the actual story was didn’t matter. Whatever was said to Rala, whatever he noted down, Piper had to assume it would get back to the Secret Police. If Rala knew - if he suspected - that Piper knew the Secret Police existed, Piper - and Marbog - would be in immediate danger.
So getting word that before they started their mission, Counselor Rala would like to make up for not doing an initial appointment during the days ‘Pret was meant to still be at Deep Space Nine in preparation by doing a short ‘getting to know you’ visit with the Chief Engineer - well, it wasn’t exactly reassuring. He’d considered insisting that he was too busy with the work to keep the ship running, but he second guessed himself - it might raise red flags.
That put him here, on his way to Counselor Rala’s office.
It was fine. He’d had a Betazoid counselor as part of the Starfleet Recovery process before, and he’d been certified to return to duty. It was a patient’s right to refuse mental probes except for cases of emergency need, and as he’d told Marbog, picking up on emotions didn’t have to give you their full story.
He was angry because of the rush job done in getting ‘Pret underway. He was intensely anxious about the possibility of systems failure. He had frustrations about feeling Starfleet had failed him and his team, he had some fears related to bodily autonomy and was determined to reassert control.
All of these things were true. Counselor Rala didn’t - wouldn’t pick up on anything more to those emotions than that. Attribute oddities to the cybernetics. Let the Counselor think that he could connect to Hawthorne on the basis of related traumas, that he had a point of leverage for Hawthorne’s sympathy, that he would be winning Hawthorne over - Piper grits his teeth at the thought - that they had a shared enemy in the Dominion.
He could do this. He’s done it before. He can manage it for fifteen minutes. Be Piper Hawthorne, survivor of Dominion experiments.
Just fifteen minutes.
And then fifteen minutes again. And then an hour. And with every other member of the crew - couldn’t trust any of them.
Just that, until he died or he rooted the parasite out.
Gull beeps. He forces himself to take a deep breath.
“‘Pret, how are things in engineering?”
“Engineering operations are within appropriate parameters.”
He sighs. “Thank you for telling me, ‘Pret.”
No excuses then.
He is annoyed at being dragged away from engineering. He is so annoyed. He is Piper Hawthorne, uptight, disagreeable, abrasive all-round bastard.
Alright. That is true.
No need to know anything else.
He pings the counselor’s door. It opens almost instantly, and a small man - probably not much taller than Piper - looks up from his perch on the edge of the desk, where he’s been reading with one leg tucked under him.
Counselor Rala has a sharp, elfin face, a mane of curly reddish-brown hair tied loosely back, and wide, guileless black eyes with the usual disconcerting lack of distinction between pupil and iris. He’s also dressed like a pirate, or the romantic lead from the worst kind of vampire romance holonovel, and the welcoming smile he turns on Piper as he hops down quickly fades into a sort of resigned amusement as he picks up on the sheer force of Piper’s annoyance.
“And what, exactly, was so important you needed me to take a quarter of an hour away from keeping this behemoth running on our priority mission?”
“Schedule maintenance for your equipment, or your equipment will schedule it for you,” says Rala. “I’m pretty sure I heard you saying just that to one of your ensigns shortly after I beamed aboard. Unfortunately, that maxim is just as true about your brain as the warp core. Devvoni Rala, chief counselor–though of course you knew that. I’m happy with Dev, or Counselor Rala; only my mother calls me Devvoni.”
The room is comfortable and only partly unpacked. There are plants and bookshelves and multiple small tables with things on them, all well-worn, like people have been fidgeting with them; a wall with musical instruments, more in crates. The standard issue desk and computer console are almost invisible under plants, old fashioned books, and knickknacks. There’s a colorful mug with a collection of flags in it—on closer examination, Piper recognizes them as pride flags, from Earth. There are several of the pale blue, pink, and white of trans pride flags - flags he’s particularly familiar with, they match the ones in his own office.
Rala catches him looking. “I went to San Francisco Pride every year I was in the Academy,” he says. “Betazed didn’t have the same difficult path to acceptance for its queer community, but defying oppression by celebrating openly, and making something so joyful out of so much suffering—it struck a chord with me.”
“Yes, I was there.” His favorite comic book library had a great view of the parade. He looks away from the trans pride flags, keeping his arms folded. “And I have had maintenance on my brain, the cybernetics engineer triple-checked all of my systems before departure.”
He regrets the jibe as soon as he says it. He could have filled the rest of the fifteen minutes with useless-to-secret-police conversations about which years they had been at San Francisco Pride, and first experiences of Pride celebrations on Earth, and whatever else.
An eyebrow goes up. “Your brain’s a lot more than just your cybernetics.”
“But my cybernetics replace, support, or connect to just about every component of my brain. If something was wrong, I’m more likely to be able to see it than someone without cybernetics, obviously.” He tosses it off, as arrogant and offhanded as possible. If the report is he’s got more arrogance than sense, maybe he’ll be less suspicious.
“Right,” says Rala, and that’s not the tone of someone who’s convinced Piper has more arrogance than sense. It’s neutral to evaluating, and he doesn’t seem particularly surprised.
“Is there anything else?”
“Your return-to-duty medical clearance stipulates regular mental health appointments and support. I recognize this is likely disruptive, but it’s better we make the arrangements as soon as possible to establish a routine. I have two junior counselors; you may select any of us as your care provider, but cybernetics or not, you will be seeing one of us on a regular basis.” He leans back against the desk, gives Piper a wry look. “Don’t feel singled out, either; we’re giving this lecture a lot this morning, and I had it from my own medical team a few days ago. A postwar fleet has a high trauma morbidity. Do you have any questions for me?”
Are you acting under duress? Blink twice for yes. He lifts one hand out of his folded arms and waves it dismissively. “Yes, I know what was in my return-to-duty clearance. I assume you have access to my medical and recovery files, I can’t imagine there’s anything to add.”
Rala regards him evenly for a moment longer than is comfortable, not really blinking, either.
“My shift assignments are available for reference with Counseling’s scheduling. Is there anything else before I return to Engineering?”
“No,” says Rala, in a way that makes Piper sinkingly certain he’s done everything but allay the possibly secret police agent’s suspicions. “No, there isn’t. Thank you, Lt. Commander.”
Walking into the briefing room feels strange, especially taking the seat at the head of the table. It would feel stranger yet, but the Interpreter’s room is almost twice as large as the Bedivere’s was, and still smells of curing adhesives and fresh carpet. They’d never gotten the ozone smell out of Bedivere’s after the electrical fire.
Her senior officers are a larger group than the Bedivere’s were, but looking around at the empty table, Chester remembers that they’re still a lot fewer of them than this ship was built to carry. During the war, there would have been ground combat specialists and flight crews and a separate repair team for other ships–Bay 1 was designed to handle a Defiant- class ship–and two medical officers administering paired sickbays. Hawthorne’s department is the only one at its full staffing in peacetime.
During the war, she probably would have had an admiral underfoot as well. The fact she’s now in command of what would have been a flagship as a junior captain speaks volumes of what Command actually thinks of the utility of the Armistice- class.
Her officers filter in, and she focuses on them, not the empty spaces. J’etris almost goes for a spot a few chairs down from her, where she would have sat on the Bedivere, before course correcting at the last moment and settling in on her right hand. Tanek, immediately on J’etris’s heels, takes the left in a gesture that she’s sure would be tremendously psychologically illuminating had she the inclination to dissect it.
The security officer, Lt Fult, a Tellarite who looks every bit the part of security officer, follows shortly after J’etris and Tanek. The science officer, Lt. Commander Salera, is next to arrive. She’s a small, solid Vulcan with jaw-length pale brown hair–only joined Starfleet recently after a long and distinguished career as an agricultural specialist. She’s followed by ops officer Lt. T’Sandi, a tall, muscular Caitian with a slightly crooked smile on their face. Then Dr. Boz Tyrell, a dark-haired Trill of medium height and a deeply dissatisfied expression, and behind him, Lt. Commander Hawthorne, who’s gone right through dissatisfied and just looks pissed.
Counselor Rala comes in a bit later, and hesitates a moment before choosing a spot next to Dr. Tyrell. Chester represses the twinge of guilt at the back of her mind–she’s been ignoring one of his messages in the haste of getting the ship ready to go. She’ll apologize once the ship’s underway and the troubleshooting’s complete.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she says when the doors slide shut behind the last person on the list she’s been surreptitiously checking on her PADD. “I will forgo the usual platitudes to respect all of your doubtless heavily constrained time–let me simply say I am proud to be working with all of you, and glad of your experience and expertise in our pressing circumstances. As you are already aware, our departure has been moved up. You should have received the detailed mission materials this morning. This mission is in keeping with overall Federation aims in the Gamma Quadrant; we are here to provide assistance and stability in the wake of the Dominon’s withdrawal from their previously occupied spaces, and ensure that no predatory parties take advantage of the newly independent worlds they have left in their wake. This urgent case is the planet Chiron, a former Dominion colony until recently used for weapons manufacturing. Given their role, our concern about exploitation by third parties is particularly high, and the circumstances are already concerning.
“For one thing, we have yet to speak to any actual Chironians. Our sole contact has been through a Karemma representative.” There’s a pause, a few nods, and she adds, “The Karemma representative states the Chironians are interested in Federation membership. Our listening outposts have picked up a lot of activity in that area, and Command is concerned that this is a rapidly developing situation that could end badly for the Chironians.” Her mouth twists, and she adds, “Not everyone has our non-interference directives. The Interpreter is directed to assist in negotiations and to ensure that the planet isn’t coerced into a situation against its will and the interests of its people.”
“Heartening to know that Starfleet’s prioritizing picking up weapons manufacturing,” Hawthorne mutters.
Tyrell adds, equally sarcastic, “Yes. Soul affirming.”
Her senior staff are going to be an endless feedback loop of smartassery. She hides her own grim amusement–the thought had crossed her mind, despite the careful packaging of concern in her orders–and tugs everyone’s attention back to business. “Are your departments ready?”
There’s affirmatives from Commander Salera for the Science department, and Tyrell for Medical. Hawthorne just snorts and says, “Objectively not but technically we’ve gotten through everything on the top priority of the list - though the list would have been more useful if we had a few more mission details,” he waves the padd in the air. “Like whether or not ‘Pret will get shot at.”
Chester would like a few more mission details as well. Chiron is almost a complete mystery, protected during the war by a constant blockade–the Dominion was as chary about giving insight into its weapons manufacturing as any sane government might be. There’s no information on leaders, leadership, or what the Chironians themselves look like. The sole point of contact has been an individual Karemma.
From the Defiant’s logs, Chester isn’t sure that trusting him, or his assessment, is wise.
“Intelligence doesn’t think there’s a significant chance of combat.” She lets herself make a bit of a face to show what she thinks of that. “But we can all see exactly how much of that we’ve got on the situation.”
“So we’ll definitely be shot at,” Hawthorne says. “Well, ‘Pret will do their best.”
She chooses to ignore that pessimism in favor of the lurking presence behind her. Subcommander Tanek appears to be unsubtly looking for padds that were not the ones handed to him. “I believe,” she says loudly to the table at large, “you’ve all heard about our Romulan liaison officer. This is Subcommander Tanek,” she gestures to the Romulan behind her, “who will be accompanying us. Subcommander Tanek, looking forward to working with you,” she says directly to her Romulan shadow. “If there’s anything you’d like to know, please ask me.”
“If there’s anything I’d like to know, I wouldn’t ask you ,” Subcommander Tanek says, with no attempt at diplomacy.
Before she has to figure out an answer to that, Hawthorne butts in, “And if there’s anything you’d like to know about engineering, ask me instead of trying to find out yourself, I’d hate for you to blow anything up or,” he looks at all six foot eight and absurdly broad shoulders of Tanek, “try to fit yourself into a Jeffries tube.”
“Yes,” Tanek says, “I’ll be certain to listen to the poster child of Starfleet safety.”
“Subcommander,” starts Chester, quelling, but Hawthorne laughs.
“Goddamn right,” he says, with an emphatic nod and grin.
The rest of the table, who have fortunately not decided to be the most - let’s say combative people in the fleet, have been reviewing the data, and the table moves into a conversation about the nature of Chiron - whether the Chironians are at all involved in the request to the Federation, and whether the operations of the planet may be entirely automated. The discussion seems fairly civil, Subcommander Tanek’s disparaging comments about the quality of Starfleet Intelligence aside. There’s even a side conversation she catches, Hawthorne asking Salera for help with the matter synthesizers with regards to reviewing their ability to build biological products, to which she agrees, which - well, him reaching out to someone else on the crew has to be something of a good sign, right?
… Right?
The conversation wraps up, with plans in order to ensure they are ready for departure after the next full rotation.
“I suppose it would be too much to hope for that they need tubas.” Hawthorne snarks as he leaves.
She gets J’etris’s attention as her first officer is about to leave. “J’etris–a moment. Any other little emergencies I should be aware of?”
“None in the last two hours, Captain.” Chester makes a face. “We’re as ready as we’re going to be, under the circumstances.”
“Good. Good. And - make sure Hawthorne gets what he needs to stop the replicators making tubas, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m headed to Sickbay for a final review at Dr. Tyrell’s request. I’ll meet you on the Bridge for departure.”
“Yes sir,” says J’etris.
Chester gives her a tired smile as they part ways, J’etris headed for the Bridge and Chester to Sickbay. “Good job, Number One. Thank you.”
Of course, she gets only as far as the turbolift before someone else wants her attention; Counselor Rala steps in next to her before the doors close. “Good morning, Captain.”
Chester hesitates. Her conscience prickles guiltily. She turns to look down at the ship’s Counselor, who looks back up at her with the steady understanding gaze unique to psychological professionals and con artists. “Ah. Counselor Rala. I apologize; I haven’t had time to get to your message yet.”
“You and half the crew,” he says dryly. “You’re inspecting Sickbay next, I believe? I’ll come with you.”
“Certainly,” she says, while wishing dearly she could have put this off a little longer. “How are you settling in, Counselor? Any trouble with the ship’s systems or replicators?”
“Not yet,” he says, “though from the way Commander Hawthorne puts it, it’s very much an issue of yet. ”
“I’m glad to hear it–though very much with Commander Hawthorne’s assessment in mind. How are the crew dealing with our newly accelerated schedule?”
“As well as can be expected,” he says. “With the exception of certain officers missing their first appointments.” He tilts his head with a wry smile, making it clear it’s a joke. She smiles back.
“I apologize for that, Counselor. Our earlier departure date caused some… friction.” She makes a face. “I’d offer to reschedule now, but with the ship in its present condition, I’m concerned that I’ll have to cancel once again.”
“Understandable,” he says, “under the circumstances, but I do not see much of a likelihood of said circumstances changing anytime soon.” He stops walking, making her pause too; they’re temporarily alone in the corridor. “Captain, you are under a great deal of pressure right now, particularly that of living up to the expectations of your crew.” What expectations, Chester thinks, with the memory of that dismal briefing weighing on her, but now isn’t the time for that kind of humor. “I know it’s tempting to confront that with the same kind of work schedule you maintained during the war, but that’s unsustainable, and you will have to find something sustainable. Might I suggest scheduling the appointment and working around it? Neglecting your own health is not going to help.”
He is very kind, not mentioning the You’re less than a year out of one of the most traumatic things that can happen to an officer, and I need to make sure you’re not going to fly the ship into a supernova part of his concern. She can hear the warning all the same.
It’s not like he’s wrong, either.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” she says, darts an amused glance upward at the turbolift lights. “And I’ll hope that the ship cooperates.”
“So will we all,” he says, just as dryly amused. “And in the meantime–do remember to take some time for yourself, Captain. We’re not at war anymore.”