Medaka sat back, drawing away from the table. “I have observed, you humans are always pulled in two directions. You want so much to trust, but you fear that hope is a naïve one.”
Riker leaned in, taking the challenge. “What do you trust, Commander?”
“Nothing.” Medaka’s reply was instant, automatic.
“Do you have family?” said Riker. “A child?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love them?”
Indignation flashed briefly in Medaka’s eyes. “Of course I do.”
“Then tell me, sir. How can you have love without trust?”
The Romulan commander opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. If he had an answer to that, he kept it to himself.
* * *
The boy’s feet crunched on the dark-blue leaf litter on the forest floor, stirring up little puffs of bioluminescent pollen with each step he took. Above him, spindly azure tree trunks curled up away from the ground, forming complex helical shapes. At their tops, giant mushroom caps poured out a weak yellow-green glow, phosphorescing against the inside of the ecodome’s roof.
Thad called out every now and then, because the sound of his voice seemed to affect the peculiar fungal trees, making them ripple their colors along the blue end of the visible spectrum. The effect was magical, and it made him grin.
He fished a penlight from his pocket and used it to cast a pool of illumination ahead of him, picking his way through fallen branches and knots of growth too thick to climb over. Sometimes, furry things like six-eyed cats would be caught in the beam, and then flee into the deeper darkness. Thad could hear them moving around out in the gloom, and he imagined they were as curious about him as he was about them.
The boy absently fingered the communicator disc in his pocket, telling himself he wasn’t worried, but it stayed resolutely inert. It hadn’t worked from the moment he arrived here.
After being ejected at the far end of the drone tunnel into this alien woodland, Thad found himself sliding down a slippery wall that was impossible to climb back up. After a while, he realized that he would have to find another way out of this place.
He knew he could. Thad heard his mom telling one of the other adults that the Jazari had multiple ways in and out of these domes, so it was just a question of finding a human-sized hatch somewhere else. Part of the boy was afraid, and that part kept on clutching the disc in the hopes it might buzz back to life. But so far, nothing. Like the insignia badges worn by the Titan’s crew, Thad’s disc was a combination of communicator, biomonitor, and locator device—but none of those functions seemed to be active in here.
Thad sang tunelessly, making the trees react, concentrating on the story of his adventure, the tale he would tell to make stupid Shelsa and the others all so jealous. He’d been disappointed that Ra’ag didn’t come along with him, but some missions had to be solo endeavors. Thad was an only child, so being alone didn’t frighten him.
Well. Perhaps it did a little.
His hopes of stumbling onto a Jazari settlement and peeking in on their hidden lives had, so far, come to nothing. If there were any of the aliens in this dome, they were far away.
Or maybe they’re hiding. He examined the forest around him. Maybe they are the trees! They change into them when no one is watching! The boy had heard of such wild things from bedtime stories his dad told him, incredible tales that both his parents swore on their hearts were true. Shapeshifters, rock creatures, and omnipotent tricksters, his parents had met them all, and the boy hoped that one day he would too.
Thad sat down on an exposed boulder in the middle of a small clearing and blew out a breath. He was getting thirsty, and regretted leaving his drink bottle behind at the camp.
All at once, he heard the cat-things in the undergrowth scatter in a panic, and a familiar low humming reached his ears. He bolted up as another of the egg-like drones wove its way through the tree trunks and drifted to a halt just beyond his reach.
Color and light blinked gently inside the device. It was as big as a soccer ball, and Thad immediately had the sense that it was observing him.
“Hello?” He waved at it. “Bonjour? Nǐ hǎo? Oye?” The drone didn’t respond, so he tried something else. “Guten tag? nuqneH? Hola? Oel ngati kame?” None of the greetings in any of the languages seemed to have an effect, and the boy trailed off into an exasperated noise.
The drone moved and let out a soft blink of light. On an impulse, Thad brought up his pocket flashlight and duplicated the pulse of illumination.
It had an effect. The drone moved and blinked, moved and blinked. There was a pattern to the way it rose and fell, and the pacing and brightness of the light flashes.
Thad jumped in place, animated by a sudden realization. “Are you… trying to talk to me?” He moved his flashlight around, making shapes in the air, sending back on-off pulses toward the drone.
The humming tone of the machine changed, and the boy felt a thrill run through him. His parents had told him about this sort of thing: he was making first contact, learning to communicate in a whole new way with an alien intelligence.
It was so exciting that Thad temporarily forgot about his silent communicator disc and all the trouble he was going to get into. He climbed atop the boulder and concentrated hard on the movements and the lights. Slowly at first, then with growing confidence, the boy found a way to converse with the drone.
Grandma Lwaxana once told Thaddeus that every person had a unique ability, but some people went through life never knowing what it was. The luckiest of us, little one, are those who figure it out early. And Thad knew he was lucky, because he could parse languages like some people could understand math or play any instrument they picked up. You’re gifted, his grandmother said. So enjoy it!
Soon he was laughing and dancing around, with the drone making loops about him, humming contentedly to itself. Thad lost himself for a while in the sheer delight of play and discovery. It was the most fun he’d had in ages.
And then, in a day that had already gone from one unexpected thing to another, something new came along.
“You are quite intelligent for an immature being,” said a voice. It sounded female, and it emanated from all around.
Thad was so shocked he almost fell over. “Who said that?”
“Hello.” The drone floated closer, coming within touching distance for the first time. “Bonjour.” It allowed Thad to tap it gently with his fingertip. “Hola.”
“You can speak.” Although the voice wasn’t coming from the floating orb, Thad assumed they were part of the same entity. “Why didn’t you do that to start with?”
“I like the game,” it said. “Do you like the game too?”
“Well, yes,” admitted Thad. “I did. Hello. My name’s Thaddeus Troi-Riker. What’s yours?”
“I have no designation. You can call me Friend.”
“Okay, Friend!” A million questions bubbled into the boy’s thoughts and he tried to put them in order. “Are you a Jazari? Is this your home? Are you actually here or somewhere else right now?”
“The answer to all those things is yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“So you’re not… this?” Thad tapped the drone.
“Yes and no.”
Thad paused, thinking hard. “Are you… the trees?”
“I am not the trees.”
The boy laughed. “I think I understood better when we were flashing lights at each other!”
“I was testing you,” said the voice. “I hope you do not mind.”
Thad shrugged. “I’m the best at tests, my mom says so.” He drew himself up, puffing out his chest. “And I am really good at languages. I’m sure I could learn Jazari if you’d teach me.”
“Perhaps you could.” The drone floated closer. “You are interesting, Thaddeus. Your immature form is still growing and learning incrementally. That process is fascinating to me. I did not experience it. I learned everything I needed to know in a single moment, all at o
nce.”
Thad frowned. He wasn’t exactly sure what Friend was talking about. “Are you, like, a computer?”
“That description seems limited,” said the voice. “The word is insufficient.”
The boy leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, I’m making my own language. It’s not all done yet, though.”
“Why?”
“So everyone can speak it!” Thad opened his hands. “It’s clear and simple so there can never be any misunderstandings or… or insufficient words! Everyone everywhere will be able to talk to one another, and understand exactly what they mean, and they won’t need a universal translator to do it!”
“That is an admirable idea. Communication is the root of harmony.”
“My mom says things like that all the time.” Dwelling on thoughts of his parents made Thad’s good mood dip sharply. “Oh, she’s gonna be sooo mad at me.”
“You should return to the Ochre Dome,” said Friend. “Your parent is currently engaged in a search for you.” There was a pause. “She is somewhat agitated.” The drone set off at speed, weaving back through the trees. “Please follow, Thaddeus. I will guide you back.”
Thad set off after the drone at a run, calling out to the air as he went. “Can we talk again? Would that be okay, Friend?”
The reply came from all around him. “I would like that.”
* * *
Riker watched Medaka get up and walk to one of the ports of Titan’s briefing room, to the exact spot where the captain had stood earlier that day.
“Do you know what the Klingons said when we put out our call for help?” The commander answered his own question. “The high chancellor’s reply was three words: ‘Die well, Romulans.’ In their own way, that was a gesture of respect. But respect will not save lives.”
Riker had the strange sense that he had crossed a line with the Romulan, that he had passed some kind of test. The commander had offered more about himself in their conversation than any Romulan Riker had ever spoken to, and he wanted to believe that it was authentic.
“I was on the far side of the quadrant when the news about the star-death was announced,” said the commander. “When I heard the message, I experienced a moment of the most desperate, depthless panic. Odd, that I can openly admit this to you, an outsider, but never to my own crew.” He paused. “I think you know that fear, Captain. One cannot be a husband, a father, a leader, and not know that abject terror for the safety of those you care for.”
Riker nodded grimly. “That dread… It’s a familiar companion.”
“I tell you now, it pales before the danger faced by Romulus. This is not just a threat against flesh and blood, it is the coming annihilation of our homeworld. The end of the heart of all we are.” Medaka let his words settle for a moment. “And when the United Federation of Planets, an oath-sworn enemy to us, offered help? It was unprecedented.” He turned back and strode across the room, the energy of the motion animating his words. “Some among us thought it was a grand trick. Some believed that agents of the Federation or your Klingon cohorts had deliberately triggered the nova in the first place, to set this chain of events in motion.” Riker opened his mouth to protest, but Medaka held up a hand to hold his silence and continued on. “I knew that was not so. Your kind don’t have it in you to do something so terrible on such a scale.”
“Thank you. I think.”
Medaka went on. “But many do not agree. And as we have seen, that leads to poor choices and decisions fueled by fury, not clarity.”
Although Medaka did not say the names, Riker knew the commander was referring to incidents like those on the planets Vejuro and Nimbus III, and the attempt to capture the U.S.S. Verity at Yuyat Beta. Situations where elements of the Romulan government, and factions like the Tal Shiar, had interfered with rescue efforts out of fear, out of misplaced anger, even out of vindictiveness.
“Those acts were shameful,” said the Romulan. “They were not, however, unexpected.” He frowned. “But then came the revolt of your synthetics. And the subsequent withdrawal of Federation assistance.”
“Not exactly our finest hour.” Riker couldn’t hold the other man’s gaze. “We argued… I argued against it. The Federation Council and Starfleet Command made the choice.”
Medaka watched the passing stars. “Members of the Romulan Senate have said that you reached out to us at our greatest moment of weakness just so you could crush us. They tell my people the breaking of Starfleet’s promise was an act of utter cruelty, an old and petty revenge for the first war.” He sighed. “I am told that some Terrans believe Romulans had a hand in what happened on Mars. As if we are so hateful that we would sabotage our own rescue just to spite you.”
“What do you believe?” said Riker.
“I believe that unfounded rumors like these are part of the problem, on both sides of the Neutral Zone. But you must understand, Captain, the withdrawal cemented the worst fears and beliefs of the Romulan populace about your Federation. At best, you are considered incompetent and unreliable. At worst, they believe you want to see us all exterminated.” He was silent for a long moment. “We can share tea and conversation, but beyond you and I, Riker, there is the void I fear we cannot bridge.”
“I won’t accept that. You must know we tried our best. Jean-Luc Picard lost his command over it—”
Medaka made a small noise of assent as Picard’s name was mentioned. “Yes. And then he went home to his farm. Fortunate for him that he has the privilege to retreat from the galaxy at large when events turn against him. But not everyone has that option.”
Riker bristled at the other man’s tone, instinctively wanting to leap to his friend’s defense, but he held back. Medaka’s point hit close to home.
“After the warning of the star-death, I thought I might use what small measure of influence I had to relocate my husband and my daughter to a world on the far periphery of the Empire. But I was unsuccessful. Like me, many of the crew on the Othrys still have loved ones inside the threatened zone.” Medaka returned to his seat. “It is why we are so dedicated to finding new worlds to home our people. This is not an abstract thing, it is personal.”
“It’s not easy to sit in the captain’s chair,” said Riker. “At times like this, even less so.”
Medaka eyed him. “Is this conversation being recorded?”
“My first officer and my chief of security wanted to, but I refused. This is just you and me.”
The commander smiled thinly. “On board a Romulan ship, that is not even an option.” He paused, and Riker sensed he was choosing his next words carefully. “I know what you have been doing, Captain Riker. The Titan and the Lionheart, the Enterprise, the Robinson, and the other ships. Your quiet little conspiracy.”
Riker became very still. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“For some time, Romulan ships have been coming across anonymous caches of survival resources and materiel, left near border worlds where the refugees have been relocated. Medicines, replicators, and the like. Deposited there by some unknown benefactors, who have diligently scrubbed out any evidence of their origin. Almost as if a handful of Starfleet captains have decided to provide what meager help they can, even if their leaders order them to do otherwise.”
“I wish we could do more,” Riker said quietly.
“I believe you.”
Silence fell across the room, and in that moment, they were just two captains, two fathers and husbands, two men caught between the bounds of orders and their own codes of honor. Each of them knew that there were larger forces at work around them, political pressures and military strategies being decided on by others light-years distant.
But they were the ones on the edge of all this. Riker and the Titan, Medaka and the Othrys, they were lone outposts of their people on a deep and unforgiving ocean. It would be up to them to do better than those distant leaders, and to find common ground where they could. The alternatives led only toward darkness.
>
* * *
“He’s been gone for hours,” said Troi. She refused to say missing; it conjured up all the worst possibilities, and she couldn’t allow herself to think those thoughts, not now.
“From what I have observed, Thaddeus appears to be a very resilient child.” She knew that Zade offered the reply intending it to assuage her fears, but it didn’t help one bit. The former Starfleet officer seemed to sense his mistake and gestured to his companion. “But of course, we will do all we can to locate him. My colleague Keret will interface with the great ship’s systems and perform an area scan.”
“Of course.” From Troi’s point of view, Keret was similar enough to Zade to be a sibling, with comparable patterns of facial scaling and body mass. He nodded to her, then removed a device from his pocket and stared fixedly at it. “This will take a few moments.”
“I told him not to go in there,” said Shelsa. The boy stood nearby with a cluster of Thad’s friends, the children pinned under the watchful eye of Doctor Talov and Lieutenant Hernandez, one of the security officers from the Titan. “He didn’t listen to me. He never ever listens to anyone.”
“Thank you for bringing Thaddeus’s actions to our attention,” said Talov. “However, if you wished to obey the rules you were given, you should have turned back to the camp long before you reached the dome wall.”
The sneer on Shelsa’s face slipped off. The boy had a tendency toward tattling, but he clearly hadn’t considered this time he might also get into trouble. Troi felt a flash of irritation, but she didn’t let it show.
“Return to your temporary classroom,” Talov told the children, getting a chorus of moans from the group. “You will remain there until your parents collect you.”
As Shelsa and the other children walked away, Troi took a deep breath and concentrated on her son, picturing him in her mind. Her empathic senses were limited, but she knew in her bones that Thad was out there and he was well. The sensation couldn’t be put into words, but she believed it wholeheartedly.
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