Chapter Text
“Have you heard the scuttlebutt?”
They weren’t talking to him, but Geordi kept his head down and his ears pricked. The folks in engineering often forgot he was their manager, not their friend, so their tongues got loose. He didn’t mind most of the time, but if they crossed any lines, it was Geordi’s job to set them straight.
“I’ve heard all kinds of scuttlebutt,” said Petty Officer Roe. “What’ve you heard?”
The first crewman lowered his voice. “About the XO’s dad.”
Geordi’s fingers went still on the keyboard. He turned his head slightly to take in the gossipers at hand, both of them so young that they should have been significantly more worried about being overheard by an officer. Gossip about Riker was common enough, but usually it centered around who’d been sharing his bed lately, not his family. And if Geordi knew Riker, he probably preferred it that way.
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Roe. “Is he dead?”
“No,” said Petty Officer Xax. “I mean, he will be.” He didn’t notice Geordi turning to face him fully. “He’s been accused of—”
“Xax,” said Geordi sharply, and both petty officers jumped out of their skin. “Are you working, or are you talking?”
“Sir.” Xax turned back to his console, face flushing an ugly red. Roe looked properly scolded as well, so Geordi left it at that. He returned to his work automatically, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. It was all muscle memory and instinct keeping him afloat while his chest tightened and his heart ran cold. So Kyle Riker had been accused of something, something bad enough to warrant a death penalty? Normally Geordi would dismiss it as wild rumor. But today, even though he’d personally heard nothing from command, he had a feeling it might be true.
Because their course had changed today — from the Neutral Zone to Risa — and it was quite possible these gossiping petty officers knew more than Geordi about why.
“Come in, Number One.”
The doors slid open and Riker stepped inside, standing with his hands folded behind his back until the doors hissed shut again and Picard nodded for him to come forward. Picard’s eyes were on his padd, and when he finally looked up, Riker knew his first fleeting micro-expression would indicate the tone of this conversation — so he paid close attention.
And Picard’s expression was pained.
“Sir,” said Riker, his heart sinking.
“Sit, Number One.”
Something terrible had happened. Riker sank into the nearest chair, not breathing. Someone had died. His poker face was firmly in place, his shoulders squared. Mentally, he ticked through the Enterprise’s departments with a quickness that rivaled Data’s computations; if anything had happened aboard his ship, it had been hidden from him somehow. So most likely, the issue lay outside: troubling orders from the admiralty, a new war brewing in Federation space, an old friend lost too soon … the possibilities whirled in Riker’s head, but he kept his back straight and his expression politely inquisitive, ready to listen. Across from him, Picard shifted uneasily in his seat and clasped his hands on the desk.
“As you know, we recently changed course,” he said, lowering his chin.
“To Risa,” said Riker. He’d practically felt his own face lighting up when he saw the orders, before confusion set in and his combadge beeped. Before Picard summoned him here.
“To Risa, yes.” Picard’s chest expanded in a slow breath. He scraped his thumbnail over his own knuckles, head down.
“Sir,” said Riker firmly, because Picard wouldn’t meet his eyes, “we’re wasting valuable time. Whatever you need to tell me—”
“I won’t tell you,” said Picard, his voice rough. “I’ll show you.”
He pressed a button on his padd and turned it so Riker could see the screen.
His father’s face stared back at him.
“Kyle Riker has been accused of the unspeakable.” Picard’s voice trickled through Riker’s skull and left his nerves prickling even as his face stayed frozen. “You may scroll through the news coverage yourself.”
With numb hands, Riker did exactly that. Every word he read made sense to him individually. But as a whole … the letters stamped themselves onto his brain in whatever jumbled order they wanted, nonsensical and strange. He dragged his eyes down the entire story three times before he sat back in his seat, hyper-aware of Picard’s stare burning into his head.
“What was he doing on Risa?” asked Riker finally. His gaze had drifted to a spot on the far wall and gotten stuck there. His voice was calm and dull.
“Is that your first question?” said Picard, head tilted to the side. His voice was so mild Riker couldn’t tell what he meant by that. Judgment? Concern?
Riker just waited for an answer.
“Your father was recently hired as a consultant in the Granicus system,” Picard said. “His role there was to monitor and potentially aid local strategy against Sindareen raiders. By all reports, the action went well for Starfleet. Your father was granted passage with his ship to its next stop-over — Risa — and from there, Kyle Riker would make his own way back to Earth.”
“Customary for consultants,” said Riker, his mind far away. “Most ships can’t alter their course just to deliver a single crewmember back home.”
“Number One,” said Picard gravely, “eyes on me.”
Slowly, Riker forced his gaze back to Picard. Normally he was quick to read people’s faces, but for a split second, he felt he was looking at an alien. Picard’s features were scrambled, incomprehensible. Then they resolved into a look of both reproval and concern. Alarm sizzled in Riker’s chest. He hadn’t realized how far away he went, and how quick.
“Sir,” said Riker.
“Thank you, Number One.” Picard swung his padd back around to stare at the screen. “Your father’s trial will start next week. Starfleet has ordered us to Risa to offer our full cooperation with the investigation, as representatives of the Federation.” His sharp eyes nailed Riker to the wall. “You may be called to testify.”
“On his behalf?” Riker asked. “Or against him?”
Picard searched his face. Riker stayed relaxed, confident there was nothing in his expression that Picard could read.
“I suppose that, Number One, is up to you,” said Picard.
It was a beautiful planet. Not as beautiful as Betazed — though of course Counselor Troi was biased — but when she felt the balmy air against her skin and smelled the fragrant sea, she understood the appeal. All around her a crowd of native Risians and tourists of all types milled together, sampling the finest silks and local delicacies at the market. Sharp-boned men and women leaned against the walls of their respective brothels, keeping their eyes sultry and their smiles appropriately beckoning in case one of the tourists glanced their way.
The mood was good. But Troi had been to Risa before, and she’d sensed better. Now, beneath the excitement and open pleasure, there was an undercurrent, a tension and anger that touched the minds of perhaps 70% of the people around her.
And all of it was directed at Starfleet. At Kyle Riker.
At the Federation consultant who raped a child.
Troi glanced sideways at Commander Riker. He was a good actor; anyone looking at him would see an average Starfleet tourist, curious about the local customs and eager to dive in, but too dignified, too reserved, to go chasing through the streets. He kept his head on a swivel, lingering to inhale the sizzling fish and vegetables at local food stands or returning courtesans’ stares with an impish smile of his own, just to see the false flirtatious look in their eyes give way to something genuine.
Was this a facade? Did he genuinely not care about the accusation? Troi tried once more to dip into his mind. He’d always given her blanket permission to do so in the past, but ever since he got the news, all Troi got was a blank stone wall. At the same time, she got the sense he was avoiding her. Avoiding everyone. In the evenings, you could still find him in Ten-Forward. He still socialized and played with his band. He greeted the crewmembers he passed in the corridors the same way he always did — asked after their families — casually touched their shoulders or the small of their back as he passed by. But his smile had changed, stretched too far, too wide. The twinkle in his eyes seemed artificial.
She couldn’t blame him. But she watched him closely as they passed another brothel, where a group of Risian boys played the local version of football in the streets. They were shirtless, their bodies lithe and tan, their teeth flashing white as they jostled each other. All of them were fine-boned, unblemished, pleasing to the eye — too pretty to be just ordinary children who didn’t know where they were playing. These were child prostitutes snatching a moment of fun in between clients.
And when Commander Riker glanced their way, his mask slipped. Not just the feigned curiosity or plastic smile. The walls that kept his mind closed off from her fell, too. A blast of emotion burst through, all of it so mixed up it would take Troi hours to pick through. She could practically see him boxing up the broken pieces of his skull, gluing them together until no more emotion leaked out, until the wall was back in place. The whole time, his expression never changed; it stayed in the strange blank weary state that it had settled into when he saw the boys at play.
Troi pushed a little closer to him and hooked her arm in his.
“It’ll be okay,” she murmured.
Riker didn’t say a word.
“Through here, sir.”
The security officers dwarfed Picard as they led him to the evidence room … but he kept a close eye on them, on the subtle twitching of their expressions, and got the sense that his natural authority made them feel small. That was for the best. Picard’s talks with the local authorities had made it abundantly clear that Starfleet was not welcome on Risa, at least not among the government servants and law enforcement muscle who knew what Kyle Riker had done. It took all of Picard’s menace and bluster to get his men into this room.
Most of the Enterprise’s officers had been locked aboard the ship with strict orders not to step foot planet-side. Only two had accompanied Picard to the police station; Riker stayed close at Picard’s side while Troi hung back, trying to fade into the background.
“Has he given any statement?” Picard asked.
“See for yourself.” The security chief gestured for Picard to take his chair next to the holoscreens. He gave Riker a hard look, but let him pass, too; tense on the security officer’s part, but Riker scarcely seemed to notice the threat. He floated through the room with soft curiosity on his face, detached enough that part of Picard wanted to pull him aside. But he had to assume this was a facade, that his first officer was simply conforming to Starfleet protocol: stay calm, stay dignified, stay rational.
Picard settled himself before the display screens. They were already lit up and ready to go, pre-loaded with footage from the Risians’ investigation. Kyle Riker’s face stood stagnant on one; a child’s flickered on the other, cheeks swollen and eyes bruised.
“The child was not provided with medical treatment?” asked Picard, voice sharp.
“Of course he was,” said the security chief. He paused. “After the evidence was gathered.”
With a dark scowl, Picard navigated to Kyle Riker’s statement and pressed play. The image unfroze. Kyle Riker’s face creased in a perfect mimicry of pain — and was it ungenerous of Picard to think of it that way, as a mimicry? He watched with a hard glare as Kyle bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. There was no real tension in his hands: the knuckles, the bones, were all relaxed.
“So you admit to it?” said the security chief in the recording.
“I can’t deny the physical facts,” said Kyle, his voice rough. “But I— I don’t know what came over me. I don’t remember the details, you see…”
“You’re claiming memory loss?”
“Not memory loss.” Kyle raised his head, his face pinched. Tortured. “It was more comparable to a fog. Like…on Pillix…”
“Pillix,” Picard repeated. He recognized the name. It was the planet where Kyle Riker had been stationed most recently; his consultation work had largely centered on Pillix, where the Federation’s outreach had been delayed for decades due to dangerous solar winds. He hadn’t heard of any accusations from Pillix.
“Has there been more than one incident?” Picard asked.
Beside him, Commander Riker stiffened, but Picard was so focused on the security chief, he didn’t have time to check Riker’s expression.
“There was an incident, in a manner of speaking,” said the security chief. His lip curled. “But not with a child. Our intelligence tells us there was an internal report of sexual misconduct, with no charges leveled. Several members of a civilian team were affected.”
“By…?”
The security chief leaned past Picard and scrubbed forward in the recording. Kyle Riker spoke again.
“It’s called … well, we called it Risa,” he admitted. “An inside joke. Because we discovered it … it lowers one’s inhibitions. It throws its victims into this — this— insatiable lust. You can’t stop yourself. You—”
“You deny responsibility?” the security chief asked sharply.
“No,” said Kyle, and for a moment, he looked like he might cry. “No, but…”
Commander Riker turned away. Picard swiveled in his chair, lips parting — ready to call him back or dismiss him, whatever he needed — but then he saw that Riker was just studying the open files on the far counter, his expression closed-off and almost bored.
“Your evidence log says traces of alien powder were found on the accused’s clothes,” Riker said, reading from the files. “And his hands as well.”
“That’s correct.” The security chief’s face tightened. “And on the boy as well. On his lips.” He glanced sideways at Picard. “His tongue.”
“Does the powder work only by ingestion?” asked Picard.
“That’s unclear.”
“So he could have been drugged himself,” Riker said neutrally, “or he could have used this powder to drug the child.”
“That’s our thinking as well … sir.”
Riker cast Picard a hooded look.
“Let’s watch the rest of the statement,” Picard suggested.
They watched in silence, and he knew Riker was busy analyzing his father’s body language just as Picard was busy memorizing every word. Neither of them flinched when the details got gory. They kept their expressions professionally calm, devoid of either judgment or sympathy. Because as surely as they were watching Kyle Riker, the security chief was watching them.
And then, when Kyle Riker’s testimony was done, Picard switched over to the child’s. He took a deep breath before pressing play.
“Start with your name,” the security chief said.
The boy’s face was working. Already, a tear slipped down his cheek. He stared not at the camera, as Kyle Riker had done, but at the floor.
“He called me Billy,” he said.