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

Chapter Text

Captain’s Log, Stardate 43063.4

The Enterprise has received an urgent request for aid from an unusual source: Kyle Riker. In his capacity as a Federation consultant, Mr. Riker has urged us toward the Onias Sector in the Beta Quadrant, near Romulan territory. Here, with the help of a colonizing species from within the quadrant, the Federation has established a strategic outpost colony called Denali II. This so-called “science base” is of utmost importance in case of future hostilities from the Romulans – but if Mr. Riker is to be believed, Starfleet may have underestimated the existant racial biases between the Tritates and Yannites. 

Denali II has broken out into war.

“Look’s like the fighting’s already over,” Riker noted. 

“A temporary stay, I’m sure,” said Picard. It was rare for the captain to join the away team, and Riker wasn’t happy about it; he had insisted they take a shuttle, rather than the transporter, so they have an extra means of escape just in case. Now he angled the shuttle over the outpost and squinted through the windshield at the rubble far below. 

“I hope you like it cold, sir,” Riker said cheerfully. “They don’t call it Denali for nothing. Check out all that snow!”

Troi made eye contact with Picard, and it didn’t take an empath to feel the amused exasperation coming off her. Riker’s eyes had lit up as soon as he heard the colony’s name, and now, with the snow-crusted tundra actually in sight, he was practically bouncing in his seat.

“Will your father be meeting us, Number One?” asked Picard.

“No, sir. He’s not here.” Riker tore his eyes away from the landscape reluctantly. “I checked with him before we left.”

“He’s not here?” Picard raised his eyebrows.

“Never been to Denali II in his life,” Riker confirmed. “But he did call in the request. Called it a personal favor.”

“Interesting.” Picard adjusted his safety harness as the shuttle lowered, a push of energy scraping the bottom of the hull. It skimmed over the snow until it reached a cleared field, and then Riker set it down. The city was close by, melted snow turning dark earth into mud where the fires had taken place. A burnt-out ruin marked the entrance into town — the old schoolhouse. Picard eyed it as Riker popped the shuttle hatch and jumped down into the snow.

“It’s freezing!” Troi complained. She held out her hand, expecting Riker to help her down, and sure enough, Riker was already waiting. He swung her down by the waist and offered a hand to the captain.

Picard just gave him a look.

“Wouldn’t want to risk a sprained ankle, sir,” said Riker, his eyes twinkling. Worf leaned past Picard and took the offered hand. “Worf—?” said Riker, surprised.

Worf leapt down from the shuttle and turned his grip on Riker into a perfectly-executed sunset flip.

“Never lower your guard, Commander,” said Worf solemnly.

Riker sat up, spitting snow out of his mouth. “Noted.” Picard barely noticed him; he had turned to graciously offer Dr. Crusher a hand down, and never mind that she was taller than him. When he released her, he pretended not to notice Riker’s knowing stare. 

“I propose we break into squads,” said Picard. 

“Agreed.” Voice clipped, Riker gestured for Worf to side with the captain. “Beverly, with me. Counselor Troi, Mr. Worf—“

“Mr. Worf will go with you, Commander,” said Picard firmly. “Counselor Troi, with me.”

Riker raised an eyebrow. “Sir, security—“

“—will be far more useful in your project than in mine,” Picard concluded.

Worf’s face spasmed. “Captain, I protest—“

But Riker, sighing, was already on the line with the Enterprise. “Riker to Security,” he said. “Can I get a two-man guard down here for Captain Picard?”

Worf whirled on Picard, his eyes gleaming with triumph. Picard waved his hand dismissively. “Do what you will, Number One—“

“I will.”

“—but have them meet me at the town hall. I wouldn’t want to delay our mission any further.”

Riker shook his head at Troi. She clasped his forearm affectionately as she strode past, pushing through heavy drifts of snow to catch up with Picard. Neither of them knew how to walk on snow without sinking, and they hadn’t made it far before Worf and Riker made beleaguered eye contact. 

“If they are hunted,” Worf rumbled, “they will surely die.”

“They’re not being hunted,” Beverly said, rolling her eyes. She clapped each man on the shoulder and steered them toward town. “Let’s go.”

Their first mission was hopefully the hardest they would ever have to do. But Beverly doubted it. She walked behind Riker, with Worf at her back, and her medikit clutched tight. 

“We doubt there are any survivors,” said their guide, eyeing Beverly almost apologetically.

“Well,” said Riker, “if there are, we’ll be prepared.”

He met Beverly’s gaze over the guide’s shoulder and his eyes softened. Both of them knew that the bombed ruins of the hospital needed to be searched; and neither of them were very optimistic about what they’d find. 

The first bodies weren’t worth checking. Beverly walked past, her eyes averted, searching the rubble for signs of life. Behind her, Riker crouched and checked the temperature of an arm trapped beneath a slab of duracrete. “Cold,” he muttered to Worf. And, with cool professionalism, he tugged a pair of sani-gloves over his hands and scooped the puddles of organic matter into a body bag. 

“Lift the slab for me, Worf?” he requested.

Worf bent at the knees. He caught a slab by the edge and hurled it sideways with a grunt. Underneath, Beverly caught sight of three former patients, hopefully dead before the explosion. The slab had crushed them flat, rib cages splintered, skulls cracked. Riker eased the first one up as carefully as he could and met Beverly’s eyes.

He nodded for her to move on. But there was little point in being here. The more she crept through the ruins, tricorder sweeping for life signs, the clearer it became: no one here needed medical attention. Everyone was dead. 

“Doctor Crusher!” Riker called.

Beverly turned on her heel. She’d wandered far from the squad, and now she has to pick her way through the rubble to find them again. Riker crouched near a spate of dead bodies, his elbows on his knees. Snowflakes stood out in his dark hair.

“Alive?” Beverly asked, her heart rate kicking up.

Riker glanced down at the dead. “No,” he said, “but a kid just came by—“ He gestured to the right, where a boy of about nine was shifting from foot to foot. “—and said they’ve got some injured in Sector Three.”

Beverly looked the boy up and down. “Tritate?” she asked Riker in a low voice.

He nodded, eyes strained, studying the clan marking on the boy’s head. Although the local politicians claimed there were clear ethnic differences, that clan marking was the only way you could tell. This hospital was Tritate too; the dead bodies on the floor, for the most part, were Tritate, just like that boy. So maybe they could trust him. Or maybe he was trying to lure Beverly away. Riker rubbed sweat from the tip of his nose, using the exposed skin on his wrist rather than his dirty gloves, and went back to work.

“I should go…” said Beverly, hesitating.

“Not alone,” Riker muttered. 

“But—“

“Do you have the comm code for the local council?” Riker asked.

Beverly shook her head. When he had the last body in a bag, Riker stood, working his gloves off and angling his shoulders so Beverly could access his badge. She tapped it for him.

“This is Commander Riker of the USS Enterprise,” he said flatly. “Current location: Tellum Med Center. Requesting a Tritate escort to Sector 3.”

“Copy,” said an unfamiliar voice. The boy edged closer, testing his bravery, while Riker swapped for a new pair of gloves and went back to work. 

“What’s your name?” Beverly asked as the boy stepped closer.

He shied away immediately, staring down at his feet.

“Kal,” Riker supplied, eyes sparkling. “He told me earlier.” He tossed a pair of auto-seal gloves to Kal. “Put those on and hold the bag for me, kid.”

“Commander,” Beverly hissed.

“It’s fine.” And something in Riker’s eyes shifted, softened. “He’s seen plenty of dead.”

Something sharp lodged in Beverly’s gut and twisted there. The boy put the gloves on and flexed his fingers, delighted by the way the fabric shrunk to fit his hands. He stepped over the dead and their fluids like they weren’t there and crouched, barefoot, in the dirt, holding a body bag open for Riker. Riker and Beverly noticed the boy’s lack of shoes at the same time, too late to do anything about it. 

“Where are your parents?” asked Beverly, her voice gentle, but the boy pretended not to hear. On the other side of the collapsed hospital, there was a crash of stone and wood as Worf cleared out another section, and a muffled grunt of disgust as he stepped in something that squelched. 

“You know this area, Kal?” Riker said conversationally as he scooped up body parts.

“Uh-huh.”

“You want to show me around? Help me get the lay of the land?”

Kal twitched the body bag a little wider. “Sure,” he said. “What’ll you pay me?”

“Warm meals,” Riker said. “Place to sleep.”

Kal gave him a narrow-eyed look. 

“Teach you some card games,” Riker said with a one-shouldered shrug. 

“No thanks,” said Kal with clear disdain. Then he glanced up, over Riker’s shoulder, and dropped the body bag entirely. He scuttled into the shadows of the hospital as a group of Humans and Tritates came into view. Beverly stood up straight, her hand going to her hip holster. Riker pretended not to see them, but she knew he could. While he steadily continued work, he studied the newcomers from the corner of his eye, fingers dancing over the handle of his phaser.

“Commander Riker?” called a clear, Human voice. 

Riker turned.

Introductions lasted forever. Captain Picard fixed a twinkle in his eye and forced a smile onto his lips as he shook hands. Troi trailed behind him, planting every name into her memory. She sampled their emotions as she went. It was good to get a preliminary taste, before tensions got high: see who was predisposed to each other, and who was too set in their ways to change. 

As she reached the Federation liaison, she smiled a little wider and started to say her name.

“Counselor–”

And that was when it hit her. 

Terror. Rage. Shame. A wave of emotion so staggering it inverted the oxygen in her lungs. She sucked in a breath, or tried to, but nothing came. Her chest was frozen; her face went pale. She felt a hand tight on her arm, heard a muddied voice from far away– “Counselor?” –and then the cold hard clink of stone beneath her knees. 

“Counselor?” said Picard again, and Troi blinked.

Her vision cleared. The captain knelt before her, his hands on her biceps to steady her, his dark eyes scanning her face. 

“Captain,” said Troi, breathless. Her voice shook. “I–”

He must have sensed her hesitation, because he turned to the diplomats with a smile. “Just the thin air,” he assured them. “If you’d give us a moment?”

They moved off, murmuring among themselves. A headache descended on Troi’s temples, pressing straight through her skull into her brain. The after-effects of terror seized her rib cage. Her pulse was through the roof. 

“One of ours,” she whispered, so just Picard could hear.

He went eerily still. “Injured?” he asked, voice clipped.

Troi furrowed her eyebrows. “No. I sensed no pain. Just…” She forced herself to take a breath, to drive a wall between herself and the other party. With careful, slow movements, she stood, and Picard supported her all the way. “Captain,” she said firmly, “let me recoup for a moment. I need some fresh air.”

He eyed her closely. “Of course, Counselor. All the time you need.”

He let her go. Unsteadily, Troi pushed through the dim hallway of the Grand Dukha and out into the light. In the distance, a transport engine thrummed across snow-rails, and just down the alley, a child’s rubber ball made a hollow thumping noise as it dribbled on the pavement. She stumbled on wavering feet through the streets, past the smell of burning trash, children throwing shards of ice at a fat heating unit that hung out of a window, supported only by a two-by-four that had wedged between the bottom of the unit and the unforgiving concrete underneath. Tarps fluttered over broken windows, a harsh wind jerking at their corners. 

And there, at the hospital, she found the source of all that terror, rage, and shame. He stood with his hands in his pockets, laughing at a stranger’s jokes. How could he still be standing? Laughing? Just a taste of his emotion had driven Troi to her knees; she had never seen someone exude so much distress without crying, and here he was, returning jokes of his own, shaking hands.

But when he felt Troi coming, he froze. 

“Deanna?” he said, slipping up. He turned and found her staggering toward him, and his face turned pale. Will rushed to steady her, warm hands closing around her arms. “Counselor!” he said, remembering himself. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Imzadi, Deanna pushed at him, and Will went still. His eyes darted over her face, understanding now. His lips went thin. Just briefly, one of his broad hands cupped her cheek, and then he let her go. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and even though she’d known from the start that it was him, it hurt her heart to hear him say it. “You should go back to the ship.”

“Will–”

He squeezed her hand and turned back to the Humans and Tritates assembled before him. “Counselor Troi,” he said, “this is Commander Havelock Urdu, Doctor Ruth Galvan, and civilian scientist Elissa Edwards. They’re serving as our guides.”

Troi managed a weak hello. She clutched at Will’s arm as soon as the others turned away again. 

“Will–” she murmured.

“I’m fine,” he said, quieter than before. He did his best to project an emotion at her. Reassurance. Calm. “Go back to your post, Counselor,” he said.

But he couldn’t hide the sense of shame that curled around his organs, leaking into his skin. Deanna could feel it thrumming in her own pulse. It was in her headache, it was sinking into the sensitive nerve endings of her teeth.

He squeezed her hand one last time, his face composed and businesslike, and turned away. For a long moment, Troi just stood there, gathering her breath. She probed Beverly and Worf as unobtrusively as she could; both of them had noticed something , she could tell. Lingering touches of concern still tinged their auras. Troi focused on the local squad, on Urdu, Galvan, and Edwards. 

They had noticed, too. From Urdu: a hint of wariness, contempt. Whatever he had seen – a sudden paleness, a tremor in Riker’s hands – it hadn’t endeared him to the commander. From Edwards, it was mostly disgust; she assumed Riker was sick, and she didn’t want him to get too close, but the longer she talked to him, the more the disgust faded. And from grandmotherly Ruth Galvan, there was nothing but concern. 

So it was Ruth that Troi gravitated to. As Riker and the others set off, she caught Ruth’s arm. 

“Not used to war, is he?” Ruth said, reading Troi’s mind. Troi’s face softened; she waited a little, to let the others get farther away. 

“Will you keep an eye on him for me?” she asked. “I have to get back to Captain Picard, but…”

“Of course.” Ruth squeezed her hand: palm callused, nails dirty and clipped short. A weary smile tugged at her lips. “We humans have to stick together, no?”

Troi wasn’t human, of course. But she didn’t get the chance to correct Ruth, and she didn’t bother to set her right on Riker’s experience with war, either. She watched the old woman catch up with her colleagues. She should feel better, knowing that there was someone here to look after him while Beverly and Worf saw to their duties.

But somehow, it didn’t comfort her. She wished it were her instead.