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

Chapter Text

“I can’t say I’m looking forward to sending this report,” says Chester, leaning back and rubbing her eyes. “It doesn’t exactly make us look good, getting jumped by our mirrorverse counterparts.”

“That might be your bruised pride speaking,” J’etris suggests. They’re in the ready room, and Chester can’t help but appreciate just how mercifully uncluttered it is. The memory of her alternate’s ready room makes the back of her brain itch. “Though I can’t say either Fult or I aren’t licking similar wounds. Having the Captain kidnapped out of the brig by a prisoner doesn’t make us look good, either.”

“And all this after the debacle with Tanek,” says Chester. “We’re going to seem like the comic relief of the fleet.”

“Don’t forget the voles.”

“Ah, yes, this is what I need your keen skills as executive officer for. I was in danger of forgetting our vole infestation.” Chester scrubs her palms down her face. “Well, we still have our ship, our crew, and our lives, which is some compensation for a thoroughly discouraging week.”

“And your alternate self vowing revenge on you,” says J’etris. “Let’s look at it another way, Diane. We were attacked with a hitherto unknown method, one specifically adapted for the Interpreter , by a power that hasn’t shown up on anyone’s threat assessment lists—or not any serious ones, at least. We conducted a successful if unplanned reconnaissance of the enemy and their capabilities, including key personnel details. And then we got out with our skins intact and the ship only marginally more broken,” she pauses as Chester reflexively pats a bulkhead in apology, “than it usually is. We have an updated assessment of the mirror universe, its current political situation, and the likelihood it will try something like this again. Frankly, if it weren’t for this thing about Tanek, this wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, and I think we all handled it rather well. Especially Hawthorne and Tanek.”

Chester thinks about those last few minutes on the Bridge. “Yes. Especially Hawthorne and Tanek.” The two crewmembers with whom she has the most trouble, and the two who pulled their fat out of the fire. It seems their irascibility doesn’t impede their ability to work together. They may even be getting better at it. 

“It’s still early days,” says J’etris. “Only a few months into our commission. Any ship would still be struggling to form a cohesive whole, even if we weren’t freshly out of wartime, even if the ship worked perfectly. We’re getting there, and this incident was significant progress.”

She’s right. Chester smiles. It’ll be much easier to write the report with that in mind. “Thank you, J’etris.”

It’s much later that evening, and Chester is just settling down on the too-big couch with a book when her door chimes. She unfolds herself, wincing a little as she jolts a muscle sore from all the adventures of the last few days, and keys it open. Then she blinks at her visitor, startled.

“Captain.” 

It’s Tanek standing outside her door, and he has a bottle and two glasses in hand, and a carefully bland expression on his face. She eyes him, the bottle, the glasses, and decides a poisoning this obvious would be really out of character for him. “What’s the occasion, Mr. Tanek?”

“It is… an old remedy, I believe humans would say. We,” and she’s guessing he means the Tal Shiar rather than Romulans in general, “recommend it to clear a bad taste from the mouth.”

That’s… one way to put it. Sympathy drinks for the embarrassment of everything that went on with her alternate, including her own only quasi-successful attempt at seduction? A strange thing for him to pick, but she’ll be the first to admit her pride is bruised.

Sotek’s words ring in her ears, a warning not to trust him, but Chester steps back to invite him in after only a moment of consideration. He’s never made a gesture like this before, and besides, she’s curious.

Also, they do need to talk about their accidental engagement, as embarrassing as it is.

He makes his way to the couch and coffee table under the window, the ones that still gleam with newness. She’s not exactly spent a lot of time in here, or had a lot of guests sitting on them. He glances around as he does—not like someone familiarizing themselves with new surroundings, but like someone checking nothing’s changed. Then he places the glasses on the coffee table and pours, as adroit as a professional bartender, and looks up at him.

If that’s not an expectant expression, it’s a good imitation of one. She crosses to the table, settles on the couch and waits for him to do the same, then leans forward to take a glass.

It smells like professional-grade solvent. “So,” she says, “Subcommander. What’s the occasion?”

He stiffens slightly, a very faint flush appearing on his cheeks. She just looks at him with her eyebrows raised. He is a big man, built almost entirely for intimidation, and to see him this close to flustered is a strange experience. “I am glad you returned from your sojourn in the alternate universe unharmed. Having now had an encounter with it, I can say I have little desire to repeat the experience.”

“Unfortunately, I think my counterpart may have other ideas.” Chester steels herself and tries a sip of the drink before remembering that while Tanek is unlikely to so blatantly poison her, so too is he unlikely to have checked whether this is physiologically compatible with a human digestive system. Oh well. That will be a problem she’ll deal with as it arises. “She doesn’t take defeat well.”

“Yes. Your counterpart.” He leans back, making a blatant attempt to seem at ease. He usually manages this easily. It is strange to see him have to try. After a moment he leans forward again. “I have, on occasion,” he says, looking anywhere but her, “had missions that required me to employ similar techniques as you did with your counterpart. They are seldom pleasant. I sympathize, and I…respect your dedication to your crew and to our assignment to be willing to employ them.”

Chester takes a long sip of the Romulan drink she hopes isn’t going to melt her stomach, and simply says nothing. Is he breaking up with her? Or simply stating how much he respects her for sleeping with her alternate self? Softening her up for future manipulations?

Whatever this is, it’s weird as hell and he doesn’t seem to be comfortable with it. Or he’s acting like he’s uncomfortable to put her at ease. 

At a certain point in any negotiation, you have to simply go with it; too much hesitation and analysis may just cause offense, and it’s unlikely to be accurate. She leans back and looks at him. “I appreciate that,” she says. “It seemed like the simplest way to gain her confidence, in the short term, at least, without compromising something more significant. The safety of this ship, for example.”

“Given human cultural views of these affairs, I did not expect you to be so… ruthless in your approach.” 

“That sounds suspiciously like a compliment, Subcommander.”

“It is meant to be. It is also meant to be an expression of sympathy. I have little enjoyed these duties when my assignments required them; I doubt your reaction differs substantially.”

In short, he’s checking in to see if she’s all right after a very unwise one night stand. She wonders what an expert in Romulan culture would make of this. “I can’t say I don’t have regrets. Especially since it wasn’t nearly as effective as I’d hoped.” She lifts and drops a shoulder, making a face. She feels like an idiot, and since this is him offering an olive branch—a very strange one—she lets it show. “A slightly more conservative approach might have been warranted.”

“Had you taken that approach, I am sure you would be questioning if a more aggressive one would have succeeded where it failed. The time you bought with it was substantial.”

“Thank you.” She takes another sip. Either her tastebuds have died in protest, or the drink is getting smoother and more pleasant. He’s been drinking his as well with a dedicated focus. She wonders how much of a resistance he has to traditional inebriates; it’s probably substantial. 

“The Romulan Senate is as full of intrigues as any governing body in the Quadrant,” he says. “The Tal Shiar monitors them, of course. And sometimes, this requires…”

“A hands on approach?” she says dryly.

He makes a subtle face at that. “The pun is atrocious, but accurate. And the powerful are rarely considerate.” 

That provokes a stab of sympathy. As unwise as her… liaison with her alternate self was, at least she was the one to make the call. “I’m sorry.” She means it, too.

He glances at her, then settles himself on the couch with an air of assumed relaxation. It’s a little threadbare, like all of his gestures of ease since he came into the room. “I will recommend against any such approaches to compromise you,” he says. “I believe I have ample evidence they will not work.”

It catches her mid-sip and she inhales sharply, sending it up the back of her nose where it feels just as horrible as might be expected. If he meant to incapacitate her, he’s throughly succeeded. It takes her a while to recover herself and a glass of water—he smugly declines one for himself as she orders it from the replicator. 

“All right,” she says at last, her dignity bruised and her eyes still streaming. “Glad to hear it. I think. But what the hell has the whole formal engagement thing been about, then?”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” he says, frowning. She thinks she’s got enough experience with these frowns to identify this one as confusion, instead of annoyance. “You do not do things without a reason, Captain. I have had ample demonstration of that over the last day.”

“Sometimes that reason is that I’m stupid and make bad decisions.” 

He stares , openly shocked. “Stupid is not a word I would find appropriate to apply to you.” 

Careful, Tanek, that’s verging on a compliment. “It was unintentional. I believed you were in danger—genuinely so—and intervened to save Starfleet the embarrassment of you dying on our watch. Your people haven’t exactly been open about your cultural traditions, you know. I had no intention of proposing. Or of embarrassing you in the way I have been assured my proposal did.”

He looks even more genuinely startled, verging on bewildered. It’s a much better look on him than anything else she’s seen. 

“I apologize if this is a disappointment,” she says, and doesn’t bother hiding her grin. “Subcommander—have you spent the last five days trying to figure out my angle? It was a genuine accident. Especially as your people seem to regard it as an insult, given its source.”

“I…would not go so far as to call it an insult,” he says, like he’s still looking for the words. It makes her eyebrows go up again. “For my part, Captain, allow me to assure you that, despite the ongoing political reaction, I do not, and will not, view it as constituting any significant obligation on your part. An accident it was, and an accident it shall remain, at least between us.”

She raises her glass. “I’ll drink to that. Truce?”

The smile it earns her looks something close to genuine. “Yes. A truce.”

He then goes and ruins it in the next moment with a sly look and, “Though I shall make no promises regarding my mother.”

Being called into the Emperor’s presence is seldom a good thing. Even for the First Admiral.

Admiral Chester takes a long, deep breath, eyeing the length of the throne room on Imperial Deep Space One. It gleams in gold and silver, a tribute to better times. Then she swallows hard and starts down the long inlaid floor to the throne. 

The small, white-suited figure of the Emperor seems very far away. She does not think the Emperor will kill her, but it does not do to assume. In the Terran Empire, there are a great many things worse than death.

At the foot of the dais is the Emperor’s pet Borg, slumped like a broken doll, long pale hair disheveled and blue eyes staring blankly. The Emperor found it, rehabilitated it enough to make it useful, pruning its implants back to suit her own aesthetic preferences. The patch of metal that covers one eyebrow is all that remains on its face of what it was, metal on the backs of its hands and ridges under its jumpsuit. 

It is useful, but there is no more personality there than there was before it was reclaimed; it’s merely a puppet with a new master.

Chester wants to give it a wide berth, and restrains herself only with an effort. There is nothing at all broken about it; she has seen it move before. There are not a lot of things that someone who has lived through what she has fears, but that Borg is very close to the top of the list. 

“Admiral,” says the voice above her, and Chester drops immediately to one knee, partway up the many stairs to the throne, far, far too close to the Borg, “I hear your hunting expedition was a little less than successful.”

Chester bows her head. “This is true, my liege.”

“I hear, in fact, that a ship from the other universe made a fool of my flagship, and of my Admiral in particular. That you foolishly indulged yourself in swordplay with your alternate self,” the Emperor’s deep rich voice pauses and shades amused, lending a wealth of dirty possibilities to ‘swordplay’, “and while she distracted you, her crew got up to an impressive array of…shall we say, shenanigans , which have comprehensively disabled my flagship. Our technicians inform me they are still finding new things wrong with it.”

A rustle of fabric as the Emperor rises and descends to meet her. Chester swallows hard.

“I cannot afford to have my flagship or my First Admiral out of commission because you became overexcited about fighting yourself. ” The Emperor comes to a halt in front of her; Chester stares at the glossy boots on the glossy dais, and does not dare raise her head, her cheeks flaming hot with embarrassment. “I am extremely disappointed in you, Admiral. You are not the feckless carefree commander of the Bedivere anymore; there are some impulses you simply cannot indulge.”

Chester stays silent. 

“Diane. Look at me.”

It takes a moment to steel herself, dreading that disapproval more than any coming pain or humiliation. She looks up into the clear merciless blue eyes of the Emperor. 

“Do not do this again,” says the Emperor. “The next time you encounter your counterpart, kill her. Do not get fancy about it, do not get sentimental about it or try to make an example of her. I want her dead, and I want her ship. Is that understood, Diane?”

“Yes, my liege,” she says, quickly.

The Emperor’s mouth quirks, almost sympathetic. “Very good. Now, moving on to what you did secure… Accurate scans, security codes—useless now, I’m sure—basic specs and information. This has not been a dead loss. Direct Intelligence to continue their monitoring. Our shipyards tell me we should be ready within a year. Make sure your people are prepared.”

“Yes, my liege,” says Chester. 

“The Federation and its allies in the other universe have taken too much from us with its meddling; I mean to end that.” Emperor Kathryn Janeway of the Resurgent Terran Empire looks down at her First Admiral and smiles. “Get up, Chester. You have work to do.”