Chapter Text
The courtroom was beautiful, like everything on Risa. Crystal cave walls arced in heat-carved loops over the crowd’s heads, the smooth surface shining with a rainbow of reflected light. Outside, through glass-free windows, the sea rippled gently, the water turned a wine-purple color by the morning light. A breeze brought in the fragrance of summer flowers and street food, but even if she'd been led here unaware, even if no one told her where she was heading, Troi would know this was a courtroom. All around her, everyone she met, their stomachs were tied in knots.
Kyle Riker's team consisted of two Federation lawyers and one local counsel, a slim Risian with his hair dyed jet-black. He stood a head taller than Kyle, cancerously thin in his court robes, and his eyes were rheumy but his aura was needle-sharp. In the center of his legal team sat Kyle Riker, face set in a look of almost imperious boredom, not too different from the affectation Will had worn since the Enterprise arrived.
Two pits flanked the judge's chair. Witnesses for the defense and prosecution would take to either side. But in the center, in a lowered crater in the obsidian floor, there was a golden basin stained by years of use and filled with thick silver water. It would be cold to the touch, Troi guessed, and viscous but not unpleasant. Looking at it, she could almost taste the first meal she shared with Commander Riker and smell the flowers at her best friend Chandra's wedding, from the day she met him, the day he set eyes on her for the first time and unwittingly projected his infatuation and arousal to everyone in the room. This, then, must be the pool of memories. Even looking at it sent her rocketing back in time to more pleasant days.
Beside her, Riker was watching the Memory Pool too, and his face was creased.
"Headache," he whispered when he sensed she was watching him.
Troi nodded. They were in public, and not aboard the Enterprise, so it wouldn't be wise to take his hand. Instead she turned her attention to Kyle Riker, stretching out feelers for his emotions. He was as guarded as his son, without the benefit of Betazoid training. Beneath his tight veneer of control there was a swirl of negative emotion. Disdain. Impatience. Satisfaction.
Satisfaction?
Troi furrowed her eyebrows, trying to get a better hold on Kyle's emotions, but it was at that moment that the High Justice walked in. In the flurry of motion, as everyone rose and bowed their heads in deference, Troi lost her grip on Kyle's emotions entirely.
There was a rustle of clothing as the Justice took her seat. The rest of the courtroom followed. At Troi's side, Riker crossed and uncrossed his legs, unable to get comfortable on the cushioned bench. It had to be hell on his back, but Troi suspected he'd be uncomfortable here even if each witness was given the softest bed to lie flat on.
But there was no helping it now.
The trial had begun.
The child was like a ghost. He wasn’t present, but he haunted the courtroom. His photos cycled across the viewscreens for everyone to see, and Troi found a stalactite to look at instead. The evidence found on his clothes and body was listed in dry detail while Troi focused only on the steady drip of cold water from the mineral deposit’s tip. His testimony was read aloud by the security chief, his voice sometimes clinical, sometimes shaking. Sometimes Troi imagined the stalactite was shaking too, cracks appearing in its surface, ready to dislodge and shatter on the courtroom floor.
But the boy himself didn’t take the stand. Only Kyle Riker did, a cosmopolitan gentleman in a suit and scarf. He folded his hands politely and sat up straight, his posture refined. When he introduced himself, his voice was low, rolling, pleasant, the type of voice that wouldn’t be out of place in Betazed’s royal halls, where aristocracy rubbed elbows with the finest and most cultured of the working class. Like a country lord retreating to his estate for a spot of hunting, Kyle Riker leaned into the microphone and greeted the Justice.
And he called the child a whore.
“He was a whore in the strictest intellectual sense,” he said, his voice mild. “With so much training, he’s probably more experienced than any adult in this room.” At Picard’s side, Commander Riker had started to sweat, his fingers twisted in the fabric of his trousers. “But experienced or not, he is a courtesan and by Risian law, the courtesan cannot be violated so long as he is paid.”
“Payment does not cover damaged goods,” said the prosecution levelly. “On Risa, our courtesans enjoy several protections not written into Earth laws. Damaging the boy … that in itself is a violation. Turn your attention to the exhibit on display.”
Picard lowered his eyes. He had already seen the photographic evidence of the child’s injuries. He had no desire to see them again, especially not with the too-clinical voice of the law filling the courtroom air. But Riker lifted his chin and forced himself to look, his jaw tight and his hair glittering with sweat. On the stand, his father took a more leisurely glance at the screen.
His face creased. His proud posture fractured.
“Yes,” said Kyle Riker, heavily now. Like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
“You admit he is damaged?”
“Yes,” said Kyle Riker, barely audible. “Of course. And I regret the damage, the entire encounter, more deeply than you can ever know.” At Picard’s side, Commander Riker let out a long, slow breath. “But a charge for damaged goods is very different from a charge of rape. And a man under the influence of an unknown alien substance cannot be held responsible.”
Responsible, he said. Picard forced himself to stay calm.
Something told him this would be far from the most infuriating excuse he heard as the trial went on.
There were witnesses, of course, to testify to what Kyle Riker had done.
Normally demure, the Risian courtesans let their sultry personas drop. If it weren’t for the circumstances that brought them here, Picard would find it fascinating to watch. While they waited to testify, the courtesans maintained their neutral facade. But when they took the stand, flashing eyes and brazen voices bounced off the beautiful cavern walls and echoed all around the audience, loud enough to pierce their eardrums.
They’d made it through three witnesses when Commander Riker stood. His tall form would have stood out anyway, even if no one knew who he was. The fourth witness’s testimony continued as Riker pushed to the end of the row. With his head bowed and one hand pressed to his temple, he wove through the crowd and exited the courtroom.
He didn’t come back for hours.
Troi went looking for him; Picard, eventually, took his turn, grateful to be away from the gruesome details and Kyle Riker’s ceaseless justifications. He passed a severe-looking gaggle of paralegals organizing the state’s evidence — bags of the alien powder known as Risa, sheets of medscans showing the exact effect this substance could have on both humans and Risians. Picard pushed past them to the low sea wall outside.
It was here, in an alcove cut into the cliff face by years of erosion, that he found his first officer. Riker sat with his chin resting on his knee, his legs pulled up to his chest. His face was peaceful. His eyes, dry and distant, were focused on the sea.
“It’s almost time,” Picard informed him.
Riker’s eyes crinkled. His lips twisted into a smile. “My fifteen minutes of fame,” he said.
The humor fell flat. Together they braved the crowd, back into the musical cavern where the accused waited. Picard had to pass the Memory Pool to take his seat, and as he glanced down into it, he noticed for the first time that the rainbow colors reflecting off the cave walls did not show on the silver water. Not in the slightest.
“Answer the question, Mr. Riker,” the prosecution was saying. Picard took his seat and cast a questioning glance at Troi; her eyes were tight. “If these medical reports do not indicate abuse, then what do they indicate?”
“They indicate a very rowdy child,” said Kyle Riker, his voice flat. Picard searched for the nearest viewscreen and raised his eyebrows. The medical report shown was several pages deep, but the few details he saw made it clear to him that this wasn’t the Risian boy on display.
Providence Valdez Medical Center, Alaska. That was the hospital listed on these records. And the date … William Riker would have been seven years old.
“A very rowdy child, indeed,” the prosecution said. He clicked through the medical file one page at a time. “Over the course of three years he suffered a broken collar bone… two broken ribs … a severe head injury with skull fracture… a broken femur… multiple compound fractures to his hand…”
“My son was involved in baseball, anbo-jytsu, judo, Parrises Squares, and handball,” said Kyle Riker. “Outside of organized sports and martial arts he ran off excess energy by exploring the woods and mountains. Adventurous boys do tend to get hurt in Alaska, Mr. Inez. Are you familiar with Alaska? With Earth?”
“Is it common for Earth fathers to fracture their children’s skulls?” asked the prosecution mildly.
Picard waited for an objection, but of course, there was none. Not in a Risian court.
“You accuse me of abuse,” said Kyle Riker, making himself comfortable in his seat. At Picard’s side, Commander Riker crossed his arms and leaned back, making himself comfortable too. He looked for all the world like he was observing a tight poker game, searching the faces around him for tells. But not like he had any stake in the pot.
“I am accusing you of just that, Mr. Riker,” said the prosecution. “A history of abuse dating back thirty years. A pattern, in fact, of harming the children in your care.”
“I disciplined my son,” said Kyle steadily. “Discipline does not equal abuse.”
His eyes found Riker’s in the audience and Picard glanced sideways, proud to see that Riker met his father’s gaze without being intimidated.
“My son had many qualities that made me proud of him,” said Kyle. “He was a strong boy, good at sports, adequate at martial arts. He was intelligent enough to get into Starfleet. But he lacked discipline .”
“Clarify,” said the counsel as he paced before the bench.
“I will.” Kyle shifted in his seat. There was a dark, calculating expression on his face, one that Picard recognized all too well from other men. Diplomats trying to find a polite way to say what was inherently impolite. “My son, who as many of you know is in the audience today in support of me, was argumentative,” said Kyle. “It started when his mother died, maybe as an attention-seeking method. When two parents become one parent, there is inevitably a certain loss of attention for the child, and I believe Will felt that keenly. If he was in an accelerated program at school, then he needed to argue about the curriculum. Why these classes? Wouldn’t these courses suit his career path better? And if my son wasn’t accelerated, then he needed to know why. He would argue over something as simple as what I served for lunch, what fishing gear was best, how to start a proper fire in the wood stove. Sometimes I believed he was arguing just for the sake of it.”
The High Justice, to Picard’s displeasure, made a note.
“In other ways, Will was simply … a trying child,” said Kyle. “He was confident. Confidence is good. But confidence in a child often leads to disrespect, not just of teachers, but of babysitters, elders in the village. His judo instructor. Once, I’m ashamed to say, he threw a temper tantrum at the dojo and physically assaulted his instructor. He was only eight at the time.” Kyle met Will’s eyes again, without expression. “Maybe younger.”
“Why did he attack?” the counsel asked.
Kyle gave a muted little shrug. “He was asked to instruct the younger children. To help, rather than show off his advanced skills. He liked the limelight, like most children do, and he wanted things exactly how he wanted them, no compromise. A lot of children are like that, but William … even up to age fifteen, he still threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way.”
Picard glanced sideways at Riker. There was no emotion on his face, only that steady, analytical look he sometimes got on the bridge. Eyes narrowed, head cocked, it was a look that gave away almost nothing. Picard tried to picture his first officer as a teenager, throwing fits. Then he wondered what Kyle Riker might consider a fit. An insubordinate tone, perhaps, or a rolling of the eyes, or…
Admittedly, he had seen the commander become violent. He had seen Riker’s temper, his occasional sullen moods, and without knowledge of his childhood, Picard had seen nothing to worry about. It was possible, however tenuously, that he had been wrong. That those were symptoms of a defiant, arrogant mindset. That nothing Kyle Riker said was a lie.
Possible, certainly. But for every singular incident of anger from Riker, there were a thousand examples of his gentleness. Picard forced himself to turn his attention back to the accused.
“That personality type would make him difficult for any parent,” Kyle said. “Imagine that burden transferred to a single father. And not only that, but a single father working for the Federation at odd hours, always pulled away from home. No doubt the majority of his temper issues came from me; he felt abandoned. But I did the best I could. I disciplined him, I ensured that he could live independently, and I filled our days together with adventures. Fishing and hiking, exploration. The sort of activity that sharpens a boy’s mind and hones his skills, and keeps his interest at the same time.”
“Did you ever hit him?” the counsel asked.
“I may have made some mistakes. In fact, I know I did. But I never abused him.”
Again, he sought out Riker’s eyes.
“I was grieving for my wife,” Kyle said. “He was grieving for his mother. We did the best we could — and I never ever hurt my son.”
The Memory Pool, when utilized, was as useless as Dr. Lophtus predicted. Kyle Riker’s memory of his night with the Risian ‘courtesan’ aligned perfectly with his version of events. With the alien powder on his hands, his pupils dilated, his skin grew feverish, his body moved instinctively, out of his control, in search of heat, of friction. A haze descended over his mind, over the memories. Like a soul cut free at the root, he watched his body move without him.
He was helpless to stop himself.
And the child, despite his injuries, despite his obvious pain, was afflicted by the powder too, and never said no. He reciprocated; he instigated; he looked at Will Riker with love-glazed eyes.
The Memory Pool did not stop there. It cycled back over the years to William Riker’s childhood, and the commander sat, stiff and still and expressionless, as a dozen petty half-forgotten arguments played out for the courtroom to see.
The child William Riker was tall for his age, athletic, charmingly handsome … and ill-tempered, as his father said. In one memory, he studied the meal his father had prepared for him and refused to eat it. He demanded use of the kitchen, too young to reach the stove. And when Kyle Riker hauled him away from the hot surface, William bucked against his father’s grasp and opened his mouth in a petulant scream.
In another memory, William stood in a white baseball uniform, his handsome features twisted in a scowl. He was a little older, perhaps eight, but when his teammate said something to him (the Memory Pool’s words came out as gibberish, affected by Kyle’s lack of knowledge or the erosion of time), William threw himself on the other boy, fists flying, bones snapping. The other boy came up with a broken nose.
And in the next scene, forbidden from playing baseball for his bad behavior, William batted his eyelashes at an elderly teacher and then played shy, showing her a bruise he’d given himself the night before. A younger Kyle Riker sat in the principal’s office, his cheeks burning with embarrassment, and studied the unfamiliar bruises on his son’s arms.
He was spoiled. He was angry. He was manipulative, reckless, and unwilling to take responsibility for his actions. Picard watched it all, his stomach tight. A sense of unease prickled the back of his neck. It was the most uncharitable picture he’d ever seen of William Riker … and it was all just plausible enough that even Picard struggled to come up with an alternate explanation. These, he reminded himself, were memories viewed from the lens of a perpetually unimpressed father, a man desperate to justify his harsh punishments and eventual abandonment of his own son. Picard forced himself not to glance, even once, at his first officer.
The Memory Pool deactivated. Kyle Riker abdicated his witness stand.
There was, for a change, no official call for the next witness. Everyone knew whose name it would be, so while the prosecution shuffled their papers and the defense team whispered to Kyle, Will Riker stood — moving slowly, with his head held high, as a Starfleet officer should— and settled himself into the same seat his father had just vacated.
As a witness for the defense.
“Were you abused as a child?” the legal team asked him.
And, voice steady and calm, Riker said, “No.”
“Did your father ever hurt you in any way?”
“He disciplined me,” said Riker. He affected a smile and cast a glance toward the Memory Pool. “I rather think I deserved it, from time to time.”
To Picard’s horror, a chuckle spread through the audience. Clipped, brief, but unforgettable. The smile on Riker’s lips strengthened into a rictus, his eyes no longer shining.
“Did he abuse you sexually?” the legal team asked.
“No,” said Riker, letting the smile drop. His voice was firm. “Never.”
On Picard’s left side, Counselor Troi took a shallow, shuddering breath — almost a gasp — as if whatever she sensed in Riker’s mind had stabbed her. He must have heard her; sensed her; but he kept his calm gaze fixed to the lawyers.
And Troi started to cry.