Chapter Text
“Can I watch?”
Geordi turned, his VISOR calibrating. The heat signature was Tritate: young, barefoot, probably no more than eight years old. No harm in it, he decided. He stepped back from the broken heating unit and gestured for the kid to take a look.
“My name’s Geordi,” he said as the boy knelt in the snow.
“Kal.” Little fingers inspected the heating unit’s internal works. Useful, Geordi decided, to have someone that small to help you out. He handed Kal a screwdriver.
“You know what you’re doing?” he asked.
“No.”
“I’ll show you, then.”
They repaired the unit one little piece at a time. It wasn’t really damaged; just old, with what appeared to be a bird’s nest caught up in its gears. Kal removed dry pieces of straw one by one while Geordi ran a diagnostic. The kid was focused, a little line between his eyebrows where his family crest was tattooed, and he listened to Geordi’s instructions with the kind of laser concentration that indicated a young engineer.
“You got a family?” Geordi asked, nodding to the kid’s crest. “Parents?”
Kal’s eyes flickered. “No,” he muttered.
“Siblings?”
Kal ignored him.
“Here,” Geordi said, smacking the cover panel into place. “Screw that in for me. I’ll go find another unit for us to work on.”
“Okay.” Kal struggled with the panel, clumsily working the screwdriver while he held it up with his knee. Good kid, Geordi decided. He cycled through the mechanical debris that had been delivered to him for a civilian workshop in repair, searching for something simple – something challenging for a boy Kal’s age, but do-able. He had just seized on a broken clothing template when a mighty crash made him jump out of his skin.
He turned. Distant, over the roofs of nearby houses – there. A plume of smoke. Another crash. A mushroom cloud of dirt and snow. Kal dropped to his knees, screwdriver still in hand, neck craned. Waiting for the next bomb.
“Shit,” Geordi muttered, and he slapped his combadge. “LaForge to–”
Another crash. The ground dipped beneath Geordi’s feet and slammed back up into his soles, nearly knocking him over. He wobbled forward. With every explosion, the broken units bounced and fell, and Geordi had to kick his way through them to get to the kid. To Kal. Careful, he shielded the boy with his body and tapped his combadge again.
“LaForge to Security–”
Gentle hands wrapped around his shoulders. Geordi jumped. The next explosion stole all sound; he saw the old woman’s lips move, but couldn’t hear her. Then his eardrums popped and the thin unreal sound of her voice threaded in.
“--can take him,” she was saying, and she shifted her grip from Geordi to Kal. He slid sideways, giving her full access to the kid. “--keep him–”
Geordi’s knees shifted a few degrees south as another explosion hit.
“--shelter–” Ruth was saying.
“Yes! Go!” Geordi roared. He gestured wildly, urging both of them away. His combadge vibrated against his chest; someone was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear who. He grabbed handfuls of dirt, pushed himself to his knees, to his feet, stayed standing as a building to the south of him evaporated, a spray of dust and splintered wood. Now, through the empty lot, the haze of smoke, he could see the Yannite militia peeling through the streets. Geordi ducked behind the nearest shack and calibrated his VISOR, searching for signatures he recognized, people he knew.
There. Worf first, a phaser flaring brilliant-white. Riker next, cutting sideways, arm raised as he shouted orders. Geordi jogged to meet them, ran right into a civilian – stranger – Human? – Kyle Riker, who grabbed him by the elbows and steered him to the nearest alleyway.
“Who is it?” Commander Riker shouted, too busy stunning militiamen to glance away.
“It’s LaForge!” Kyle shouted back, and he shoved Geordi aside. Geordi didn’t have time to feel offended. That was when he noticed Councilor Medgard and Captain Picard, face bloodied and eyes grim, and he understood: there was no time to catch him up when they had an insurgence to put down – and a captain to protect. He veered through the throng of security men, past Beverly Crusher tending to the wounded, past Deanna Troi shepherding the civilians to safety, and ducked behind Commander Riker’s tall frame.
“Sir–” he shouted, formulating a plan.
“The power network!” Riker shouted back, understanding. And approving. “Go!”
Geordi had to crawl. By now, most of the insurgents were flat on their backs, and it was Tritate fire he had to worry about. He avoided locals at all costs. Near the Grand Dukha, tucked away into an alley, was the master PADD that controlled the shields, the power network, everything. The council said Yannites were susceptible to flashing lights. Now was the time to test that theory out, see if it was real or simple prejudice.
He coded in a pattern. He keyed it to go. He waited. If there were flashes, he couldn’t see them. Protected by his VISOR, Geordi watched the streetlights, counted down a minute and a half, and turned the PADD off.
When he stood, all around him, Tritates and Yannites alike lay clutching their heads.
Geordi took off. The ground seemed stable underneath him for the first time since the explosions started. He weaved through groaning bodies until he found the Enterprise crew again, their positions significantly changed – Picard waving Beverly off, sniping at her to see to the truly wounded first; Beverly sniping back that if she didn’t seal his eardrum, he’d go permanently deaf; Riker kneeling by a downed Tritate, taking his pulse; Kyle Riker nudging an adolescent with his shoe to see if she was still alive. Troi helped a woozy Councilor Medgard to his feet.
“They won’t be down much longer,” said Worf in a growl as he handcuffed the insurgents.
Riker slapped a maglock on what looked to be the leader – and on a couple of downed Tritates too, for good measure. “Some insurgency,” he said. “Beverly, were there any casualties?”
Beverly was busy sticking something translucent and sticky-looking into Picard’s ear. “Not among the locals,” she said grimly. “It appears they were mostly targeting us.”
“Not each other,” Picard murmured.
Worf rolled a militiaman over and snatched the cloth mask from his face to see his clan marking. Yannite. But the one next to him, once the mask was removed, was Tritate through and through; Geordi recognized the crest. He joined Worf, removing the masks one by one, until they had a mixed group of Yannites and Tritates lying prone between them, slowly coming to.
“It appears they’ve found a uniting cause,” said Picard dryly. “But why call us here only to drive us away?”
Kyle grunted. “Teens,” he said, exposing one fighter’s baby-cheeked face. “Manual laborers.” He held up a limp hand, exposing its calluses and scars. “These aren’t exactly Denali’s finest.”
The kid he was manhandling woke up with a gasp and jerked his hand away. Eyes squeezed closed, he rolled over just enough to hide his face in the snow, and let Kyle cuff him.
“He’s Tritate,” Worf said. He cast an accusing look at Councilor Medgard. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Councilor. I believe you said flashing lights affect only Yannites.”
With a dignified sniff, Medgard brushed the dust from his robes. “Anyone would be affected by strobing lights that strong,” he claimed.
“Oh, for–” Troi muttered. Captain Picard held a warning hand out in front of her; if the locals didn’t want to acknowledge that they had the same DNA, then it wasn’t worth convincing them. On the other side of Councilor Medgard, Commander Riker crouched down in the snow and examined the boy Kyle had been prodding.
“What’s your name?” Commander Riker asked.
The boy muttered something into the dirt. Riker brushed his hair back, exposing the clan marking on his forehead, just between his brows.
Geordi recognized it. He caught his breath – and Commander Riker met his eyes.
“Have you seen a boy named Kal?” Riker asked.
His pupils were pinpricks. His heart rate spiked, creating a flare of color in Geordi’s VISOR.
“I saw him,” said Geordi uneasily. “He was helping me with the repair shop. You don’t think he has anything to do with this…?”
The adolescent on the ground, Kal’s brother, shook Riker’s hand off his shoulder with a growl.
“He’s been staying in a Federation orphanage,” said Riker, his eyes flashing, “and this militia just attacked Federation men. Where’s Kal at now?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Federation orphanages,” said Councilor Medgard sourly. “These malcontents are just determined to keep the war going until we’re all destitute–”
Riker interrupted him, eyes like ice, boring into Geordi’s soul. “Kal,” he said firmly.
Geordi stared helplessly at the boy in the snow. “He’s safe. Ruth took him–”
Across from him, Riker had lost all color, and in the distance, where she was speaking to a shaken civilian, Troi went still.
“Commander…?” Geordi started.
There was nothing he could say.
They found the child.
It was Worf who broke the door down. It was Kyle who encountered Ruth – caught her in the hallway, wide-eyed, playing innocent. It was Will who shouldered through the bedroom door and froze there, his tall frame blocking Kal from view. Troi followed slowly. Her small hand found its way to Riker’s back, between his shoulder blades.
No one was unclothed. Kal sat, obedient and clean, at Ruth’s desk, with a Federation PADD propped up in front of him. He studied his times tables with strained eyes; he barely glanced Commander Riker’s way: too still, too careful.
And Troi could feel the shame and fear rolling off him, the same way she could feel it piercing Will.
No other children came forward, but one was enough. In a closed chamber on the Enterprise, Kal gave his testimony. Outside, Will Riker leaned against the wall, his arms crossed tight. He was still too thin, with dark smudges underneath his eyes, and he stared at the floor unseeingly. His father paced before him, more agitated than Will had been since Ruth was taken into custody.
“They’ve got to let me testify,” Kyle said.
Worf, guarding the locked room where Ruth was being held, said nothing.
“She’s an upstanding Starfleet strategist,” Kyle said. “By God, she’s got a record longer than I do.”
“I know, Dad,” said Will dully, his eyes far away.
“She’s safe with kids, for God’s sake.” He stopped, his face red around the jowls, and whirled on Will. “You’re going to testify on her behalf,” he said, like an order.
Will shifted his gaze up from the floor and squinted at his father.
“Aren’t you?” Kyle asked.
Worf watched. Neither Riker seemed tense, but Worf could sense the possibility of a fight. He drew himself up, stood on the balls of his feet, ready to go. Just in case. But Will just folded over his crossed arms with a sigh.
“Aren’t you?” Kyle demanded.
“No, Dad,” said Will, his voice clipped. “I’m not going to testify on her behalf.”
Kyle stared at his son in disbelief – and something like disgust. “She babysat you,” he said. “That woman took you into her home while her own husband was dying, and you won’t lift a finger to help her in her time of need!”
Will’s face was closed off. He stared at the floor, pretending not to hear. There was no color to his face; nothing but a drained weariness.
“She watched you–” Kyle started. His voice faltered. He took a step closer, eyes darting over Will’s face. When he next spoke, it was with a gentle touch to Will’s arm and a quiet tremor in his voice. “She babysat you,” he said again, almost inaudible, “all the time…”
There was work to be done planetside. Possibly, there would be work for decades. In the Federation orphanage, Yannite caretakers and Human bureaucrats picked through the security system, switching access codes over to only those who had been newly screened and approved. Outside, capsule shelters popped up in the vacant lots where buildings had once stood, and Beverly Crusher was hard at work overseeing equipment transfers to the hospital.
Ruth Galvan was gone. She had left two nights ago, in maglocks, on a Federation security shuttle. Captain Picard declined to tell Will where her trial would take place; with his testimony already recorded, there was no need for him to attend.
Nor for Kal.
Nor for Kyle.
“It’s not a very friendly outpost, is it?” said Kyle gruffly. He and Will stood near the Grand Dukha, where a final round of negotiations were being hashed out. Tritates and Yannites, united against a Human enemy, had suddenly found peace.
“It doesn’t have much reason to be friendly to us,” Will said. He kept his arms crossed over his stomach; to Kyle, he looked young, almost teenage. It was the lack of food; it was the way he kept hugging himself to stave off the cold.
And it was the way he kept avoiding Kyle’s eyes.
“Will–” said Kyle, shuffling his feet.
“You’re heading out soon?” Will asked him. It was the same cold, professional tone he’d used the last time they met, when Will was offered command of the Aries.
“Yes,” said Kyle. “There’s nothing I can do here.” He studied Will, his face suddenly tight. “Is there?”
It ripped a wound in his chest just to ask. Eyes hooded, Will stared down the road at the orphanage, watching the children – Kal included – strike up a game of chase. Kyle glanced their way, but he couldn’t stand to look at Kal for very long. He’d watched the testimony footage. He knew what the boy had said, the strict set of rules Ruth had set out for him: how to be good; what would happen when he was bad.
Ruth, who wormed her way into his good graces because they both had to deal with a sick and dying spouse; Ruth, who was pretty, charming, intelligent, who loved camping and hiking, just like he did, who thrilled to the idea of living in Alaska. Ruth, who wrote up Kyle’s first favorable report as a consultant, who got him stationed on Ulna III, where his career really took off.
This was the woman who’d taken care of Will while Kyle was away.
He closed his eyes. He heard again the crunch of snow beneath his boots that year, when Will was ten, when he asked to stay alone. The tests Kyle put that boy through. He remembered standing in the winter cold, his hands tucked beneath his arms for warmth, watching Will scramble into the house’s crawlspace to tape up the frozen pipes – Test #1. And he remembered melting in the heat of the kitchen, coughing on the smell of burnt eggs, while a nervous Will proved that he could cook his own food – that he could drive the snow-skimmer in an emergency – that he could get the generator online and batten the house down for a storm – that he could even build a shelter in the woods and gut a fish and filter water, if need be.
It hadn’t made Kyle proud. It had pissed him off.
He remembered his temper rising; he could feel the phantom of it still, a stirring in his lungs, his stomach, that made him want to shout. If you’re so grown-up–
He’d torn Will’s bedroom open. He’d gathered up the starship models and the children’s books, the biographies Will loved on baseball stars and fighter pilots and explorers. He’d filled his arms with building sets and electric kits. He’d taken Will’s old, unused stuffed animals – the ones that Betty bought for him; the ones he never touched – and he’d hauled them all outside, to the burn pile, where last year’s brush clearing lay piled up beneath a layer of snow.
He remembered the scent of gasoline. The stinging heat of flames too close to his face. The wind blowing sparks into Will’s eyes and blowing his hair back as he watched, emotionless. Not crying. Not even sad. Just distant and cool.
Kyle blinked the memory away. Will stood next to him, leaning on the wall, that same distant expression on his face.
“Did you know?” Will asked suddenly.
Kyle’s eyes burned. He clenched his hands into useless fists. Staring at the ground was the only way he could speak.
“I had no idea,” he said. “Will… if I’d known…”
“If you’d known…” Will interrupted haltingly. “Would you have…?”
The end of that sentence dangled in front of Kyle’s eyes. Would you have stopped her? Would you have believed me? Would you have quit Starfleet, or would you have just found someone new to watch me? Would you have come home?
And all Kyle could say was, “I don’t know.”
Will nodded. He didn’t move as Kyle’s face crumpled – not into tears, exactly, but into something pained and raw, begging Will to look at him, without words. He didn’t move as Kyle edged closer, rough hands on Will’s shoulders, coaxing him to turn, to face his father. Stiff, ungiving, he allowed Kyle to pull him into a hug, but his arms stayed crossed.
He let his father hold him. He kept his eyes closed. The cold wind of Denali II ruffled their hair and pressed them closer together, into an embrace that should have been warm and comforting. But to Kyle, it was like hugging a stone: one that he had taken from the forest, scrubbed the dirt off of its surface, worked into a shape he liked a little better. One that he had carved, almost without realizing it, one clumsy chip of a knife blade at a time.
“I love you,” Kyle whispered, barely capable of saying it. Will shifted in his grasp, but didn’t break away.
“Goodbye, Dad,” he said.