Chapter Text
Arms dealers, Picard called them.
It was in the mission briefing, too, and when Donovan pulled back from the away team to check his PADD, it was written there in glowing capital letters: ARMS DEALERS.
There were few words Donovan hated more.
Anyone who dealt in weaponry signified a hard mission for the Enterprise’s away team. It was a heavily-populated planet, Taurus, with a mix of humanoid species flooding the city streets. Hygiene was low, for a Federation world, and Donovan had to stop twice to scrape rain-soaked garbage from the sole of his shoe. Most of the trash was biodegradable food wrappers, he noted, that weren’t degrading fast enough.
“Head up, Donovan,” Riker murmured. At Donovan’s side, he stood undaunted, glass-blue eyes squinting through the rain. He’d had his left hand sculpted into a false plaster cast, to convince any enemies that he was wounded. In reality, beneath that cast was a phaser wedged tight in Riker’s hand.
“What do you see?” asked Donovan out the side of his mouth.
“Nothing.” Riker flicked him an amused glance and tilted his head slightly, leaning his ear against the wall. “But I hear something.”
Donovan’s eyes widened. Casually, so passersby wouldn’t see him, he ducked behind Riker and used the other man for cover. Sure enough, when he pressed his ear against the wall, he could hear the whir of electronics inside.
“A hidden door?” he asked.
Riker bent one knee, letting his shoe scuff the bricks. He checked his chrono, a gesture that angled his left wrist up and pointed the secret phaser right at an oncoming tough who was trying to look inconspicuous.
“Can you break in?” asked Riker in a drawl.
“Is that a good idea?” Donovan countered.
Silence. The street tough took another meandering step their way. His effort to blend into the crowd was admirable, but pointless, and in that pause, Riker’s jaw tightened.
“Didn’t you hear the voices in there?” he asked.
Voices? Donovan just stared at Riker’s back, where the muscles were knotted in tension beneath his cloak.
“Listen again,” said Riker, his voice low, “and break the damn lock.”
Donovan lowered his ear to the wall. It took him a moment to hear it. But there, beneath the electronic hum, voices murmured in the dark. Female voices, high-pitched, tight.
The street tough picked up his pace. Riker affected a yawn, covering his mouth with his left hand so the stun beam would go high when he pulled the trigger. Donovan punched his scrambler against the wall and heard the lock click open.
And as a door materialized out of nowhere, as the street tough burst into a run, Riker fired a single stun beam. It went right over the heads of innocent passersby and hit the tall thug right in the head.
“I’ll take lead,” Riker announced, side-stepping around Donovan before the street tough even his the ground. He ducked through the doorway, phaser raised, and squinted into the darkness. Behind him, Donovan slipped in a foul-smelling puddle and grabbed onto Riker’s robes to balance himself. They clutched each other in the darkness, Riker supporting him, until their eyes adjusted.
That was when they saw the slaves.
The oldest was thirty. The youngest was only five. Naked, or barely dressed, they huddled in the center of the room and stared at Donovan and Riker in silence. Stuncuffs circled their wrists, designed like dainty bracelets. Here, dirty-haired and bruised, was a girl who hadn’t seen a shower in at least a week. And there, clean and groomed, was a girl with fresh bruises on her thighs. Riker swallowed audibly, his face tight, and scanned the room with a dark expression that made the nearest slaves shrink away.
“Commander,” said Donovan softly, tugging on Riker’s sleeve.
He meant to offer a retreat. Go back to the Enterprise, he might have said. Fetch Counselor Troi. But before he could get the words out, Riker had taken a step forward, his face and posture transforming into gentle affability.
“Hey,” he said quietly to the nearest woman, the universal translator ordering his words into syllables she could understand. “Are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”
Shocked mute, she shook her head. Riker stood up straighter, addressing the room at large.
“Does anyone need medical attention?” he called. Again, no answer, but a woman nearby clutched her knees to her chest, and a child at the back of the room started to cry. “My name is Commander William Riker with the U.S.S. Enterprise,” Riker said, formal but non-aggressive. “On my ship, we have three thousand able men armed with advanced technology and medical equipment. As of right now, you are all under our protection. Do you understand?”
There was a whisper of movement as the women drew closer to each other, their eyes bright. Riker pointed his cast at the wall.
“Do you mind if I break this down?” he asked mildly.
He didn’t give them time to answer. With a blast from his hidden phaser, the brick wall crumbled away. About half of the women sat up straight, conscious now that there were two potential exits, and only one of them was blocked by Donovan. Those nearest the hole in the wall edged closer, peeking outside at the rain.
“He’s down!” one called, spotting the street tough. Her voice ripped out over the crowd like a clarion call. “He’s down! Look!”
The women closest to her scrambled to look. Whoops of triumph spread over them as they saw the street tough’s prone body abandoned in the rain. Donovan shifted his feet uneasily, scanning the crowd, noting their brands, their broken bones, the sick women tucked against the wall.
“You know who did that?” asked Riker conversationally, his eyes crinkling. He raised his cast, and the laughing women near the hole quietened a little, their gazes falling on his weapon with respect. Slowly, they eased back into the center of the room and huddled there, waiting for Riker to speak. Not frightened, Donovan thought – not exactly. But very careful to show that they were obedient.
“What do you think?” Riker asked the slaves. “Is it alright if I beam down some medical staff now?”
No answer.
“Well, I think I might as well,” said Riker cheerfully. Like Donovan, he darted a glance at the sick and injured while he commed the Enterprise. One brisk request for back-up later, and Riker and Donovan had been shunted to guard the doors and look for more members of the arms-dealing gang. Riker went out to check on the street tough while Beverly’s team saw to the slaves, and Donovan watched him – a lone, tall figure in the rain, nudging an unconscious body with his foot. Hyper-aware of the phaser in Riker’s hand, Donovan waited for the red killing beam to lance out, to disintegrate the slave-trader while he slept.
But all Riker did was wrap his hands around the slave-trader’s ankles and drag him out of the street. He took up the guard at Donovan’s side, his eyes flat with disgust.
“Bad work,” Donovan said.
Riker pursed his lips.
“They let themselves be cowed like animals,” he said, watching the rain. “They didn’t even try to escape.”
Only then did Donovan realize that the disgust in Riker’s eyes was aimed at the slaves.
On their third day planet-side, with the arms dealers neutralized and the slave traders in local custody, Riker and Donovan were remanded to the food line. It was more than just a food line, of course. Riker had spent the last three days working tirelessly with the local government and religious houses to formulate a plan, and it was this line where former slaves could receive their new ident cards, their stipends, and the PADDs necessary for housing applications. Beneath the table, Donovan kept accidentally kicking boxes stuffed with replicators, all of which were to be handed out to whoever asked for them; and behind Riker, stacked against the wall, were emergency medikits, including a full range of pregnancy preventatives and STI cures.
“Do you have any dryhaxalyn?” asked a waxy-skinned girl standing in front of Riker.
His placid expression twitched. He handed her a PADD with the application loaded. “No,” he said. “But if you need any help filling this out, I’m right here. Can I get you a medikit?”
She slammed the PADD against the table and stormed away. Riker inspected the screen for cracks. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe her fingerprints off and then smiled at the next woman in line.
“Hi there,” he said. “Can I get your name? It doesn’t have to be your legal name; whatever you told the clerk is fine.”
“Samma V’as,” the woman said.
Riker sifted through the ident cards while Donovan unboxed another replicator. He set it down on the table with a clank of plastoid.
“There you are, Samma,” said Riker. His fingers brushed hers as he passed the ident card over, and Samma’s eyebrows raised – first surprised by the lack of caution re: disease, then touched by it. “Now, let’s see,” said Riker, examining the PADDs. “You have family in the east sector?” He peered at her over the PADD’s edge. “Did you want to relocate there?”
She hesitated.
“Anywhere you like,” said Riker gently. “And if you’re not sure of the pros and cons, I can take a minute to help you out.”
She nodded. Donovan waved the next woman forward while Riker called up an electronic map.
“The east sector is great for industry,” he was saying, “but it looks like you’re certified as a groomer, yes? The good news is, a groomer can find work anywhere…”
“I get my own?” the next girl said to Donovan, her eyes bright.
“Yes,” he said, pushing the replicator toward her. “Do you need a medikit? Or–?”
“Can I sell it?” she asked. “Anything good in it?”
“You don’t need to sell it,” said Donovan patiently. “Any credits you need, Starfleet will–”
But the girl had already snatched up the replicator and darted away. At Donovan’s side, Riker was highlighting the schools in the western sector, district three. He was so absorbed that only Donovan noticed the teenage girl who shuffled up to them. She was abnormally pretty, he thought – baby-faced, with feathery blonde hair that brought out green specks in her eyes. But she was wan and stick-thin, and she had the telltale pockmarks on her neck that indicated a dryhaxalyn user. What interested Donovan was that the marks seemed old – scarred, not fresh. He offered her a PADD and a replicator.
She didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes were on Riker, watching him with a strange expression. As he helped the other woman figure out where to live, Riker crossed his arms on the table and bowed his head over the map. Dark hair fell over sparkling eyes. When he smiled, a flash of white teeth made the blonde girl wince.
“Ma’am?” Donovan prodded, gently touching her fingertips with the corner of a PADD. She whisked her hand out of reach. “Ma’am–” Donovan started.
“It’s you,” the girl called, her voice hard and clear. Donovan sat back, surprised, but she wasn’t talking to him. She was staring at Riker with furious tears in her eyes. “You said you would come back for me.”
Riker glanced her way at last, and then away again. “Now, the advantage of North Sector–” he started.
The blonde girl pushed forward, shoving the other woman out of the way. “You remember me,” she said, her voice low and wobbling now. Riker’s eyes shuttered. Annoyed, he leaned around her to hand the other woman her PADD. “We put on shows together,” the blonde girl said. Her hand clenched over her stomach. “Twice, you made me–” Her knuckles turned white. “You made me a mother–”
Cold heat rushed to Donovan’s face. He made eye contact with Worf, across the way, and gestured for him to come quick.
“You never told me you were Starfleet,” the blonde girl was saying, sounding wounded. Then, eyes flashing, "I was a child!"
“Next,” Riker called, his tone bored.
“You made me a mother,” the girl repeated. “You said you would come back–”
Exasperated, Riker finally addressed her. “If you’re a mother, where are your kids?” he asked. The girl blanched. “I’ve never seen you before in my life. Now, do you want a PADD or not?”
The girl reached for him. Repulsed, Riker jolted back in his seat, out of her grasp. Worf was almost to them now, and angry tears were rolling down the blonde girl’s cheeks. She stopped reaching for Riker. Instead, with her jaw clenched tight, she rolled up her own sleeve and showed him the tattoo on her wrist.
A Ferengi hammer. The symbol of possession. Of love. She reached for Riker’s hand again, and this time he let her squeeze his fingers, let her turn his hand palm-up and expose his wrist, where his tattoo used to be.
There wasn’t one, now. Just clean, healthy skin, marred only by a pale, slight scar.
“See?” said Riker lightly, and he tipped his hand out of her grasp. By then, Worf had reached them, and he took the blonde girl by the shoulders and ushered her away. Security would see that she received the same items as everyone else – without touching another Starfleet officer, or accusing him of fathering her children. Beside Donovan, Riker adjusted his sleeve and glanced down the line of slaves, his eyes hooded.
“Next,” he said.