Chapter Text
“You’re certain?” Captain Picard asked.
First Officer Lieutenant Commander Donovan nodded, and that nod punched the wind out of Picard’s lungs. He circled his desk like a sleepwalker, one hand trailing the wood grain for support, and then he sank into his seat. Like a man lost, he searched his room. His eyes lit on the fish tank and stayed there.
“It’s been more than a year,” Picard said softly.
Donovan remained silent, awaiting orders. Light from the fish tank reflected off Picard’s eyes in an unreliable flicker. Finally, Picard consulted his padd.
“You said the signal comes from an Ensign Marv Wheeler, of Space Station 115,” Picard said. “According to our records, Wheeler was found dead three months after his disappearance on a scouting mission. His combadge was missing.”
“Whoever is transmitting this signal, sir, might be laying a trap,” Donovan pointed out.
“Or it may be a genuine call for help.”
That went without saying. Picard’s features hardened as he studied the padd.
“You say the signal comes from a Ferengi ship?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Assemble an away team, Number–” Donovan closed his eyes against the stumble. Picard corrected himself with a sharp cough. “—Commander. Take Lieutenant Worf and anyone else you may need. The discretion is yours.”
“We’re storming the ship, sir?” Donovan asked, a hard glint in his eye.
Picard lifted his chin. Softly, he corrected Donovan.
“We’re finding our missing officer.”
It wasn’t the first time Picard had accidentally called him “Number One” – or started to. “Number One” was, after all, a standard nickname for any first officer. Donovan was not the type of man to receive permanent assignments – he flitted, stolid and expressionless, from one temporary posting to the next, as Starfleet saw fit. But he’d been on enough ships to know that the first officer, his position, was almost always called “Number One.”
It didn’t sting him. It didn’t concern him, either – his assessment of Picard was of a steady, ruthlessly professional man. But it did indicate perhaps an inordinate amount of care for the missing officer, and Donovan liked to keep track of such inordinacies. He glanced around at his away team – Mr. Worf towered over him – and gave them a smile.
“No casualties,” he reminded Worf. “We are boarding their ship, so some hostility is natural, but we can’t take it as automatic evidence of wrongdoing. It’s our duty to de-escalate. Understand?”
Worf, as ever, pretended not to see Donovan looking up at him. His answer was a surly, “Aye, sir.” He made a big show of setting his phaser to ‘stun’. Donovan let it slide and stepped up onto the transporter pad, taking his place among the team. He was slighter, shorter, than all of them, with close-cropped blonde hair that made him look like a child, especially at Worf’s side – but it was his pale, sun-strained eyes that the transporter chief looked into for confirmation.
“Energize,” Donovan said.
There were three shivering Ferengi in the hold, and one stolen Starfleet combadge, still transmitting a signal. Donovan turned it off with a swipe of the thumb. These were backwater Ferengi, low-level traders. They wore the tribal patterns of the Ferum clan, exiled centuries ago to a system of resource-dry planets. Donovan paced before them, noting the scabs of disease on their lips, the slack mouth on their leader, the confused eyes and constant fidgeting. He tossed the combadge onto the table before them.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
The leader jolted in his seat. True anger crossed his face. “That!” he spat. “You came for that?”
Donovan tapped his own combadge. “It’s Starfleet property, and we are Starfleet. Yes, we came for it.”
The leader spat at Donovan’s feet. “It isn’t even gold,” he said derisively. “We were tricked.”
“Tricked? By whom?”
They exchanged stubborn glances. They would withhold the information just to spite him. Donovan considered his options, running a finger over the edge of Wheeler’s combadge.
“You know,” he said, “the ensign who owned this combadge was murdered–” (Well, by a poisonous plant, which he willingly ingested because he thought it looked like parsley) “—and my guess is, he set this combadge to transmit before he died. That’s how we found you.” He shook the combadge and watched a shade of fury fall over the leader’s eyes. “Either you’re the murderer, or you got this combadge from the murderer,” Donovan said. “Tell me which.”
A low growl escaped from the Ferengi’s throat.
“Lowlife,” he muttered, and at first Donovan thought he was being insulted. “Some Human lowlife. A sick man, an addict in search of painkillers. Drugs. He robbed us blind.”
“Robbed you of what?” asked Donovan, his interest wilting.
“Dryhaxalyn,” one of the leader’s companions replied.
Dryhaxalyn. It was an old drug, illegal throughout the Federation, a sort of performance enhancement drug used to lower inhibitions and make unwilling partners more pliable. The likelihood that this thief was their missing officer had just become incredibly slim, but it was still possible – the dryhaxalyn could have been stolen to barter for supplies, and the thief might not even know what he had taken. Donovan boxed up his disappointment.
“Where was this?” he asked. “Which planet?”
“Backwater,” said the leader with a shake of the head.
“Tell me.”
They conferred with each other, as if they couldn’t recall. Donovan caught a whisper or two as they argued over the name. Ispland? Prysand?
Ipsand. He’d seen it in the starmap. Populated but impoverished, low-tech, not yet a Federation member. Donovan sucked in a breath.
“Give me the exact coordinates of where you met this man,” he said.
The leader looked up at him, sharp-eyed. “And what will you give us as payment?”
Donovan tossed him the scratched old combadge.
“Gold,” he said.
“It is a lie,” said Worf firmly.
Worf was not one for small talk, especially when Donovan was around. Donovan couldn’t say why, for certain – but he’d heard Worf was close to the missing officer, not just as friends, but in terms of physicality and prowess. They were the same height, a good match on the dojo floor; and the Enterprise’s former first officer had served on Klingon vessels, had a taste for Klingon food. To trade someone like that for Donovan, pale and slight, sedate and spotlight-shy, must have been jarring.
This was the first Worf had spoken since they entered the shuttle.
“What’s a lie?” Donovan asked, his voice mild. In the copilot’s seat, he kept his eyes on the sensors, searching for Human life-signs.
“The Ferengi,” Worf growled.
“The Ferengi didn’t lead us here,” Donovan reminded him. He called up a map of Ipsand and set his search for the uninhabited fields to the north. “That combadge did. You watched Mr. La Forge access its broadcast history. This is where the signal ends.”
Worf made a dismissive sound deep in his throat. “Not this,” he said in a grunt. His shoulders bristled, but like any good Starfleet officer, he made an effort to rein his emotions in. “He said the man who sold this combadge was an addict and a thief.” Now he met Donovan’s eyes, and the firmness there made Donovan catch his breath. “Commander Riker is neither,” Worf said. There was so much certainty in his voice that Donovan didn’t bother to respond. A dim surge of affection warmed his chest as he turned back to the scans.
What he saw there made the affection flatten out.
“Life signs,” he said calmly – so calmly that Worf seemed not to hear him at first. Donovan put in the coordinates and set them to flash across the windshield. “Life signs,” he said again, and this time the numbers on the screen plus the sound of Donovan’s voice combined to break through. Worf jolted in his seat. He corrected his course immediately, swinging the steering stick so sharply that Donovan clutched at his arm rests.
“A village?” Worf asked, his voice a little too steady to be convincing.
Donovan did a quick check. “No other life signs in the area. Just one Human in the middle of a field.”
Worf’s jaw tightened. He kicked up the speed until the roar of atmosphere against the shuttle’s hull was deafening. Donovan swayed in his seat but kept his eyes laser-focused on the tracker. Only when the blinking white dot on the screen lined up with their shuttle did he glance out the windshield.
A farmhouse loomed before them.
It was low and domed to protect it from the vicious local winds, and at the apex of that dome, part of the roof had caved in to reveal the wooden latticework rafters underneath. A tattered screen door swung on its hinges, leaving the entrance to the farmhouse unguarded.
And outside, with a broken hatch and weeds growing up around its buffers, was a Romulan shuttle.
“Scrapped,” Worf said, his voice tight. He brought their shuttle down and kept his eyes on the Romulan craft like he expected an army to burst out of it, disruptor pistols blasting. But he was right. Donovan climbed out of the shuttle, the wind blowing his hair back and bringing water to his eyes, and saw that the shuttle had been gutted, its power cells harvested, its protective paneling unscrewed and lugged away.
Donovan jumped down, sending up a puff of pale chaff when he landed. Behind him, he could hear the low rumble of Worf’s voice communicating with the Enterprise – but it was Donovan who entered the decrepit house and tested his weight on the warped wooden floors. He avoided a spot where the boards had fallen through, deadly-looking splinters jutting toward the sky. Fresh animal droppings littered the kitchen floor, and Donovan assumed they’d entered through the open crawlspace and rifled through the food – only on closer look, there was no food. An old, broken replicator lay in pieces on the counter; the cupboards were empty.
And in the next room, there came a hoarse gasp for air.
Donovan put one hand on his phaser. He edged through the bedroom door on silent feet. The bed was filthy, its mattress gutted, and atop it lay a tall thin figure Donovan almost didn’t recognize. The naked body was covered in scars; ribs stuck through the sweat-slick flesh like alien ridges; weakened ab muscles tensed and bunched as the Human arched his back – a convulsion, but without any strength.
Donovan passed a hand over the Human’s forehead. Stubble stood out on an otherwise clean-shaven face. Long, greasy hair clung to the ruined mattress. But when the Human’s eyes opened, feverish and pale blue, Donovan recognized him.
“I’m Lieutenant Commander Donovan of the U.S.S. Enterprise,” Donovan said. “Do you hear me?”
The eyelids dipped. Cracked lips parted. No sound came out. Behind Donovan, there was a careful slide of boots over the rotten floor as Worf joined him and drew up short.
“Beam us straight to sickbay,” Donovan whispered, keeping his voice soothing, calm. Worf tapped his combadge viciously enough to leave a bruise. While he gave the order, Donovan pushed back the dying man’s hair, offering him a little comfort.
“We’ve been looking for you, Commander Riker,” he said softly. “Welcome home.”