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Chapter Text

Captain’s log, stardate 50693.2. After nearly two and a half months, we’ve completed our trek through the Nekrit Expanse, and arrived at the Mikhal Traveler outpost Ensign Moore learned about during our time on Nekratis Station. They’re explorers by nature, and have granted us permission for some well-needed shore leave while Lieutenant Honigsberg works on nacelle maintenance after so long in the Expanse. The Travelers have also been willing to share information on what space they’ve explored, and it’s an opportunity I’m grateful to have.

In some ways, the Traveler lodge reminded Cavit of his own family cabin—cozy, warm, and filled with mementos that lined the walls. Much larger, obviously, and with mementos that seemed to be gathered from all over local space, but still, it felt homey in a way he couldn’t help but enjoy and felt somewhat familiar, like the times he spent with his parents on their rare joint shore leaves together at the cabin. 

And just like his time on Earth, the Traveler lodge came with campfire stories, he was learning.

“I landed my ship on the nearest of those twenty one moons,” the man across from him, Nakahn, was saying. Like every Mikhal Traveler they’d met so far, the intense paleness of his blue eyes added a striking effect to his performance, which included using both hands while he spoke. “My navigator and I disembarked to start repairs. Damage was extensive. More than we'd anticipated. The hours past, the air grew cold, and with our weapons we started a fire to keep warm. Later, in the night, we awoke with a shudder. The ground was shaking. A moon quake. What could have been worse? We leapt into the ship, hoping the tremor would pass, but it was no tremor and it did not pass.” Nakahn leaned forward, lowering his voice. “For it was no moon we had landed on.”

Cavit barely fought off a smile, not wanting to insult the man, but also doubting the veracity of the story. Nakahn’s tales had grown all the more interesting the more they’d shared the ale he’d poured for Cavit while they waited for their company. “It wasn’t?”

“No, it was a creature.” Nakahn said, spreading his fingers out across the table. “A living being so massive it generated it's own gravitational field. So immense it supported it's own ecosystem.”

Cavit couldn’t wait to tell Jeff this story. 

“There you are,” came a voice, and Cavit turned to see the man in question—Doctor Jeff Fitzgerald—approaching with another of the other Mikhal Travelers, and Crewman Gara. 

Cavit gestured to the other seats around the table, and the three sat, Fitzgerald giving him a small eyebrow-raise of ‘what’s up?’ that Cavit returned with a hand-squeeze.

If being interrupted bothered Nakahn, it didn’t show. “How long had it been lying there, dormant, slumbering, until wakened by our fire.” He leaned forward, over the table, those nearly iridescent eyes locked on Cavit’s. “Years? Centuries?”

“Perhaps even millennia?” The Mikhal Traveler Fitzgerald and Gara had arrived with spoke up, and his tone was less then genial. 

“Perhaps,” Nakahn said, aiming a quick frown the man’s way.

Uh-oh.

“This is Zahir,” Gara said, showing her usual talent for disarming tension, and gesturing to the Traveler who she and Fitzgerald had arrived with. The man was younger than Nakahn, and objectively stunning, with long dark hair worn back in a simple tie and those same Mikhal Traveler eyes, this time partnered with wonderful bone structure. “Zahir, this is Captain Aaron Cavit.” 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Cavit said, offering his hand. Zahir, after a second, took it and shook.

“Returned,” Zahir said, and yeah, when he wasn’t being brusque with someone, it turned out he had a very nice voice, too. 

“Zahir requested some medical supplies,” Fitzgerald said. “So Gara made sure we connected.”

“Most of the trades are arranged, Captain,” Gara said. “Basil and I should have everything finalized in the morning.”

“Gara has been most helpful,” Zahir said, aiming a smile Gara’s way that made Fitzgerald raise some meaningful eyebrows in Cavit’s direction. Ah. Well then. 

“I’m glad,” Cavit said, taking another sip of his ale. 

“I’m curious,” Zahir said, turning back to Nakahn, who still looked like he’d smelled something sour since Zahir’s arrival. “I was just visiting the system you spoke of only a few months ago. My ship's sensors picked up no such monster.”

“Perhaps your sensors were faulty,” Nakahn said, with the air of a man unused to being challenged. “Or too busy gazing at your own reflection to bother looking out the window.”

Cavit winced. Okay, Zahir was gorgeous, but that seemed a bit uncalled for. He opened his mouth to speak, but Zahir beat him to it.

“Our guests are offering us supplies we need. In exchange we Travelers are giving them a look at what lies ahead of them,” Zahir said, in a tone one might reserve for an unruly teenager. “We should keep that view as clear as possible.”

“This is my Lodge,” Nakahn spat. “I say what I want. And you can go elsewhere.”

Zahir rose from his seat. The man was tall, too. “I’ve journeyed to the corners of known space and beyond. I've earned the right to come and go as I please, where and when and how I please. Do you challenge that right?”

A second passed, then another. “No,” Nakahn said, then abruptly rose and left the table.

Cavit exhaled. 

“Forgive my display, Captain,” Zahir said, taking his seat again. “My people consider outposts such as this to be necessary evils. Places to refuel, repair, exchange information and leave as quickly as possible.” He glanced at Fitzgerald and Gara. “If I've observed anything working with your crew, you all share a quality of tolerance. I regret not being able to demonstrate the same.”

“No harm done,” Cavit said. “And I promise, I was enjoying the story for what it was—a story.”

Zahir seemed to relax at that. “When Travelers retired to run a Lodge, stories seem to grow.” 

“That’s the same in most cultures, I believe,” Gara said, and Zahir’s smile at her words was definitely more than relaxed. 

Fitzgerald cleared his throat. “Aaron, if you’re ready to officially begin our shore leave, Zahir’s recommended a place we could stay for our two days, and it sounds lovely.”

“As lovely as anything can be on a planet,” Zahir said, and this time he didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t talking about the Ocampa woman he was looking at. 

Gara, for her part, returned the gaze in kind. 

“That sounds great,” Cavit said, meeting Fitzgerald’s gaze and nodding. “Gara, when are you on rotation for shore leave?”

“I’m with the second group, Captain,” Gara said, turning back to him. “I’ll make sure the trades are all finalized beforehand.” 

“Do you have time to talk an evening walk before you return to your ship?” Zahir said, offering his hand.

“I believe I can squeeze that in,” Gara said, taking it. She gave a small nod of goodbye to Cavit and Fitzgerald and the Ocampa and Mikhal Traveler left together.

“Have they been like that the whole time?” Cavit said, facing at the man he loved.

“It took them about an hour to really hit their stride,” Fitzgerald said. His steely-blue eyes danced with amusement. “At one point, he said her ears reminded him of the shells of a particular ocean-going creature he’d encountered on some world somewhere, only far more delicate and beautiful.”

“That’s some quality complimenting.” Cavit shook his head. “I will never be that smooth.” 

Fitzgerald laughed, and leaned in for a quick kiss. “Good thing I prefer you a little rough around the edges, then, isn’t it?” He pulled back, eyes dancing again. “Come on. I want to see if this hospitality place Zahir mentioned meets your expectations. It sounded… quaint. I’m pretty sure it has a fireplace.”

“Oh, if it has a fireplace,” Cavit said, rubbing his hands together. “You know I’m game.”

*

Lieutenant Sam Stiles shouldered a well-worn backpack as he came into the Mess Hall. He had everything he needed for his overnight camping on the Mikhal planet and he was looking forward to it. He aimed a glance through the Mess Hall windows and smiled. From this angle, there were no signs of the Nekrit Expanse nebula gasses, and it was so damned nice to see stars.

And it would be even nicer to see them at night, in front of a campfire.

But first, some provisions.

He smiled when he saw Eru had already arrived in the kitchen. Behind her, Cir was placing a few cartons of what looked like Arde calçots to him. Eru looked up at him and smiled.

“You’re moving quickly,” she said. Eru was the smallest of the Ocampa, fey-like and blond, with an easy smile and an outgoing demeanour. It always amused him that of all the Ocampa, she was the one who had partnered with not only another Ocampa, but with Cir, who was a wall of a man who was polite enough, but certainly didn’t qualify as “outgoing” unless he’d bumped into a new language he wanted to master. 

Then again, opposites attract, he supposed. A brief thought of his wife intruded, and he allowed the bittersweetness only a moment in his mind’s eye.

“I have shore leave,” Stiles said. “One of the Travellers pointed me to a lakeside that is apparently brilliant for camping.” He hefted the backpack. “I intend to make the most of it. But I was wondering if I could scavenge some supplies from whatever was left over from the night shift?”

“Of course you can,” she said, raising one hand in a “just-a-minute” gesture and stepping to the side. “Cir and I are going to be beaming down with some of the trading goods soon, so we were just bringing up supplies from the Garden for Tal and Gus. But…” She reached under one of the cupboards and pulled out one of the serving trays the Mess Hall used for “grab-and-go” food options. “There are half a dozen wraps left, including two Tal made—not Bajoran-spicy-hot, but they have a kick—and four Gara made, which are savoury. If you took a couple of each and alternated, it shouldn’t feel too much like eating the same thing.”

“You are magical,” Stiles said. 

“I keep telling her,” Cir said, through the window to the kitchen. “There’s firenut coffee brewing—want a flask, Sam?” 

“You’re both magical,” Stiles said. The Trabe coffee would be perfect.

Cir laughed.

“I owe you both. I didn’t have time to plan too much for this, and I got approved for the first round of shore leave.” He swallowed. “I camped all the time with my boys, and I haven’t had an opportunity since…” He shook his head, thinking. “Sikaris, I think?”

Eru had folded the wraps into a wrapper for him, and he slid his backpack off to tuck them in an inside compartment. 

When he straightened, Eru had the coffee in hand, but she paused, not handing it to him. “Sam, you’re friends with Lieutenant Russell, right?” Her voice had dropped to something very soft.

Stiles nodded. “I am,” he matched her tone, not sure where this was going. Dennis Russell had been the first of the Starfleet crew to really trust him—and the other Maquis—to be competent at their jobs during the night shift, which Russell often sat as a Bridge Officer. Dennis had also been the reason Stiles himself was now a junior-grade lieutenant as well, doing the same job. 

He owed the man a great deal.

“Could you check up on him?” Eru said, nodding to the side of the Mess Hall where some sunken couches formed a small square. “If I ask him if he’s okay one more time, I’m fairly sure he’s going to leave.” 

Stiles looked, and saw Russell was sitting on the couch, a PADD in hand, still in his uniform—he’d had the Bridge night shift last night. He had a mug with him, too, but from here, it looked full, like he hadn’t touched it. Something about the way he was sitting, so very still, caught his attention, and he glanced back at Eru, who was frowning at Russell like she could practically feel the man wasn’t right.

Then again, given what he’d seen Kes and Abol and Daggin do during his time training with them under Doctor Fitzgerald, he knew full well it was perfectly possible Eru absolutely did feel something wrong with Dennis Russell.

“Can I leave this here?” Stiles said, nodding to his backpack.

She nodded, and he crossed the Mess Hall, sitting down in the couch at a corner to the one Russell was seated in. The man didn’t even look his way. 

“Everything all right, Lieutenant?” Stiles said.

Russell blinked, and for just a second, Stiles noticed the look in Dennis Russell’s face was—what? Anger? Frustration? Or maybe fear? He couldn’t pin it down, having never seen it before. It was gone in a blink, and he was back to his genial, easy smile, and the little lines that formed beside his eyes when he did so. Russell had a kind face. They were both greying a bit at their temples, but where on Stiles it looked—how had Sveta put it? “Intimidatingly severe”—on Russell it gave him the air of a compassionate uncle or something.

“You look ready for some time off,” Russell said, nodding at the trousers, tunic, and jacket Stiles was wearing. “Let me guess, camping?” He put his PADD down and picked up his mug, taking a sip and not-quite disguising his grimace when it hit his lips. 

Stiles would have bet latinum it was stone cold.

“That’s right,” Stiles said, not sure what else to say. This wasn’t really his thing. He didn’t do emotions very well, unless you counted directed anger. But Eru was right. Something was seriously wrong with Dennis Russell, and apart from some of the former Maquis who’d saved his life, Dennis Russell was the person on Voyager he owed the most to. “Aren’t you on leave now, too?”

“Hm?” Russell looked at him, then nodded a second later. “Yes. Right. I am.” 

Stiles leaned forward. “I have a spot reserved by a lake. If you wanted to come along, I can wait for you to get what you need together. You said you’d camped some when you were younger, right?”

“Some,” Russell smiled again, and just like last time, it looked—for the first time—forced. “But that’s okay. I’m intending to catch up on some sleep, mostly.”

Stiles took a breath, and did something he hated having done to him. He pushed. “Dennis, what’s wrong?” 

Russell froze, took a deep breath, and started to protest. “Sam, it’s—“

“Don’t say it’s fine,” Stiles said, forcing himself to be direct and feeling more awkward and uncomfortable than he’d felt in years. “Not when it isn’t. I owe you. You know that. I consider you a friend, and although I guarantee I will have zero useful advice unless you need something punched, shot, or detonated, I’m happy to listen.” He lifted one shoulder. “Or buy the drinks until we’re still not fine, but happy about it. There’s a lot of lodges down on the planet, and from what I can tell, they’re basically taverns, and you look like a man in need of a drink.” 

Russell looked at him, and a small, defeated smile crept onto his face. “What gave me away?”

“I’ve never seen you waste a cup of coffee before,” Stiles said, going with his secondary proof, not wanting to aim any potential ire from Russell Eru’s way. “Not once in the last two years.”

Russell chuckled. “Guilty.” He took a deep breath, and picked up the PADD. “The same lodge where the Captain has been meeting with the Travellers?”

“That’s the one.”

“I’ll go have a quick shower, and I’ll meet you there.” Russell rose. Then he paused. “Thank you, Sam. I… appreciate it.” 

Stiles nodded, wondering just what it might be that had his friend quite so off-balance, and hoping like hell he’d have the slightest idea what to say or do about it once he knew. 

Given his history with handling feelings, though, he doubted it.

Ah well. There was always ale.

Chapter Text

Sam Stiles looked across the table at Li-Paz and Kes Aren and did his best not to feel too much like a third nacelle. When he’d arrived at the Lodge and seen them at one one of the tables, he’d intended just to pause long enough to say hello, but Kes had asked him to sit, and he’d joined them. It seemed like ages ago now the three of them had been in Fitzgerald’s “boot camp,” and with Kes working on her residency and Li-Paz in Main Engineering most of the time as one of Lieutenant Honigsberg’s best systems engineers, Stiles hadn’t had a lot of time to talk to either of them.

And, he knew full well, what free time the two did have tended to go to each other. 

Which probably explained the invitation to sit with them while he waited for Russell.

Li-Paz wore the well-worn dark burgundy jacket Stiles he’d been wearing the first time Stiles had met him, when they’d both been assigned to the same Maquis cell, along with black trousers and a black undershirt, and looked happier and more content than Stiles had ever seen him. Beside him, in a deep red long-sleeved sweater and light tan pants, Kes leaned her head against Li-Paz’s shoulder in the booth, tucking her own arm over the one he’d wrapped around her. Her hair had gotten quite a bit longer over the last few months, and it fell in curls down to her shoulders. 

“I’m sure Dennis will be here any second,” Stiles said, because he needed to say something.

“It’s fine, Sam,” Kes said, her soft voice accompanied by a smile. 

“You’re really not intruding,” Li-Paz said, but Stiles wondered just how much Paz meant it. The man’s expression gave nothing away, but still, Stiles was relieved when he saw Dennis Russell enter the lodge, looking around.

“Dennis,” Stiles called, raising his hand. 

Russell saw him, nodded, and headed over. He’d changed as well, into a simple long-sleeved grey shirt and a white vest, along with simple black trousers. He had a pack slung over one shoulder that looked to be well-used as well, all of which struck Stiles as just shy of perfect for the hike and camping they intended. 

“Hello Dennis,” Kes said, when Russell got to the table. 

“Hi,” Russell said, nodding to Kes and Li-Paz both. “Are you coming camping as well?”

Li-Paz made a snorting, laughing sound, and shook his head as Russell sat, and Russell paused, glancing at the Bajoran man, one eyebrow rising.

“I do not camp,” Li-Paz said. “The human enjoyment of poor accommodation makes zero sense to me.” He held up his free hand, like he was trying to physically ward off the very notion of sleeping in a tent, and Kes gave him a little shove against his shoulder. 

“Being out in nature sounds lovely,” Kes said. “But I have to admit, I’m not sure I could sleep very well on the ground.” 

“That’s where the right gear comes into play,” Stiles said, patting his own pack, which was tucked beside the table.

“I already had a sleeping bag,” Russell said. “But I had to replicate a few other things.” 

Li-Paz shook his head, but he grinned while he did it. “They have hospitality rooms here. There are even fireplaces, if you need to get all manual. You could be sleeping in a comfortable bed.”

“Don’t mind him,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “He whined the entire time we were in the mine, back when our Maquis cell first moved there.”

“To be fair,” Russell said. “I wouldn’t want to camp in a mine, either.”

Li-Paz lifted his glass of ale. “See?” he said, and took a sip.

“Did you want an ale before we go?” Stiles said, glancing at Russell. 

“Better not,” Russell said, shaking his head. “It’s already getting late. I did stop by the Mess Hall, and got us some of Gus’s mushroom noodle soup. He said it should reheat up fine over a fire, and claims it’s almost as good as his grandmothers ya-ka-mein.” 

“Ya-ka-mein?” Li-Paz said, frowning slightly.

“I think it’s made with beef instead of mushrooms,” Russell said. “But I’m not sure.” 

“It sounds great,” Stiles said, lifting his own mug of ale and finishing it off. He nodded to Kes and Li-Paz. “You two have a great shore leave. Thanks for letting me crash your table.”

“You two have fun as well,” Kes said. 

“In the dirt. Rubbing sticks together to make sparks,” Li-Paz said. 

Kes shoved him again, and Stiles laughed, rising and picking up his pack. Russell joined him.

“The trail to the campsite is only about two kilometres,” Stiles said. “Do you need anything before we go?”

“No, I’m fine,” Russell said, nodding, and though he smiled and seemed eager to go, Stiles couldn’t help but think Russell wasn’t fine. Not really. That same, sort-of-distant look was still there in his eyes. 

Maybe he should have gotten some ale to go, too. 

*

Lieutenant Alexander Honigsberg could honestly say he loved everything about Voyager, but after two hours maneuvering himself in nacelle access catwalks and making his way back and forth through the variable geometry struts, he was willing to admit there were parts of the Intrepid-class starship he loved a little less than others.

Ideally, every three years or so, the warp coils would get a complete overhaul, but that required a Federation starbase—not something they were going to bump into in the Delta Quadrant—or planetfall, in a pinch. What maintenance they’d managed on the fly, however, had been impressive, and due in no small part to the individual working with him in the port nacelle access room right now, running a full scan of the warp-coils and finding much, much less wear and tear than he’d expected after their time in the Nekrit Expanse. 

“For the record, the only reason this is going so well is because we’ve had you on board,” Honigsberg said, not wanting to miss the opportunity to give credit where it was due.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” 1106 said. The Automated Personnel Unit turned it’s gold, mask-like face in Honigsberg’s direction. “I am glad I am useful.” The robot handed him the scanner and PADD it had brought back from its latest trek through the nacelle. “The results for the last portside warp coil.”

“Thank you,” Honigsberg took the PADD, then paused, looking at the robot. “You’re more then useful, One.” Honigsberg slipped into the nickname he and some of the other Engineers had started using with 1106. “You’re a valued member of my team.”

“I do believe a significant portion of that value is derived from my ability to be present in spaces where organic humanoids cannot always go.” 1106’s head tilted again. “But I appreciate you saying so.”

“It doesn’t hurt, but you’re also an incredible maintenance specialist, One.” Honigsberg chuckled. “And you might be the only engineer I know without an ego.”

“My training with Doctor Fitzgerald and Lieutenant Cing’ta has made it clear that my lack of creativity limits my ability to adapt to many situations, especially those including social dynamics, but I believe I am improving.” 1106 paused. “But I certainly do think think I will develop an… ego.”

Honigsberg snorted. “Probably not.” He finished looking at the latest warp coil. “Okay, we’ll need to do the same scans on the starboard nacelle first, but if it’s in as good a condition as this one, we should have what we need to restore the coils back up to spec.”

“I estimate the remaining gallicite will cover restoration to eighty-nine percent equivalency of a standard refit,” 1106 said. 

“And I am not going to argue with your math,” Honigsberg said. He glanced at the robot. “Are you finding your training courses difficult?” It was next to impossible to tell with the robot’s consistent, calm voice whether or not something was bothering it, but now and then, Honigsberg thought he could detect a trace of something in 1106’s voice that bordered on a tell.

“Only my deficits in social interactions,” 1106 said. “I do not always predict how proven interactions with Cadet Jal Karden, Cadet Yareth, or Cadet Setok do not translate to interactions with Cadet Velar or Cadet Kaurit. The same can be said with my interpersonal discourses with Crewman Thomas. He and I interact positively, and it is not difficult. But I notice signs of discomfort among other crew, including Ensign Bennett and Crewman Platt.”

Honigsberg took a breath, considering. “Well, what works with one person doesn’t work with another, even before you take into account cultural differences between humans and Vulcans.” He tapped the PADD against his open palm. “When it comes down to it, One, I think you have to consider every relationship as individually distinct.” 

“I see,” 1106 said. “That is similar to the advice Doctor Fitzgerald has dispensed.” 

“Well, he’s much better with people than I’ll ever be,” Honigsberg said, and was about to suggest they take a break—not that 1106 needed one—when the door to the nacelle access control room opened. 

Surprised, he turned, and was even more surprised to see Lieutenant Scott Rollins more-or-less looming in the small doorway. The man was big, broad, and definitely didn’t fit in the smaller spaces designated for engineering maintenance access.

“Scott,” Honigsberg said, raising one eyebrow. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Rollins said, ducking to step into the room, and then sort of pressing himself against the furthest corner of the space almost apologetically. “I noticed you two had been down here for most of the day, and I thought you might need some fuel.” He lifted a thermos, and held it out to Honigsberg. 

Honigsberg took it, unscrewing the cap and inhaling the warm scent of Trabe Firenut coffee. “Oh, bless you,” he said, then frowned. “Wait. You left the Bridge to deliver coffee?” 

“Standard orbit isn’t very exciting,” Rollins said, with a small shrug. 

Honigsberg tilted his head, doing some mental math and considering what he remembered from the duty roster. “And Lieutenant Arkinson had the watch, didn’t she?”

Rollins sighed. “Maybe.”

Honigsberg laughed. “Coward.”

1106, which had been silent thus far, turned its head at that. “I have never known Lieutenant Scott Rollins to display that characteristic before, Lieutenant. Please explain.”

“Yeah, Alex,” Rollins said, crossing his arms. “Do explain. Or maybe I’ll just take that back with me?”

“I surrender.” Honigsberg shook his head, pouring a cup of the coffee into the lid-cup and taking a swallow before he cleared his throat. “One, he’s not being a coward, exactly, he’s just avoiding the fallout of the draw.”

“The draw,” 1106 said, with a slight head-tilt. “Ah. Yes. You recently drew names at random for the homes of the domesticated feline’s offspring, correct?”

“Jewell’s kittens,” Rollins said. “Yes. I had over two dozen people who wanted one, which meant most people were disappointed.” 

“Including Lieutenant Dee Arkinson,” 1106 said.

“Including Dee,” Rollins said, blue eyes flashing with amusement.

“I see,” 1106 said. “I am also familiar with withdrawing myself from awkward discourse.” 

“See? 1106 gets it,” Rollins said. “I’m not a coward. I tactically withdrew.”

Honigsberg laughed around some coffee. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, I should—ow!” Rollins pushed off from the wall to leave, and gave his head a good bump on one of the overhead transfer conduits. He sighed. 

“Are you damaged?” 1106 said.

“Just my pride,” Rollins said, and a moment later, he was gone.

Honigsberg drank some more coffee to cover his amusement, then took a deep breath. “Okay. Ready for the starboard nacelle?”

“I am, Lieutenant,” 1106 said. 

*

Lieutenant Veronica Stadi had a room booked in one of the hospitality buildings of the Mikhal Traveler Outpost, but she’d found herself drawn to the main lodge, which afforded her the best opportunity to simply sit and relax, and watch as people came and went. The Lodge seemed to attract more than just the Mikhal Travelers themselves—she’d spotted three different alien species she didn’t have a name for already—and while Doctor Fitzgerald had suggested the crew bring their own foodstuffs with them, the local ale, and a few other pieces on the menu were biologically compatible, and Stadi had found herself remembering some of the dinners she’d shared with her Aunt and namesake, back in her Academy days. 

When another group arrived from Voyager, she smiled, spotting Setok, Yareth, and Karden coming inside. Setok was sneezing, and Yareth and Karden seemed quite amused by the half-Ocampa, half-Vulcan man’s explosive sneezes, which died off once they’d taken a table.

She’d enjoyed the air outside was fragrant with tree blossoms herself, but clearly it didn’t agree as much with Setok’s nose as it did hers. Setok was fighting off the urge to sneeze even more—her Betazoid senses picked up Setok’s emotional state quite easily, though his actual thoughts most often didn’t broadcast these days—and Karden and Yareth’s relationship seemed to have reached the point where they touched each other in passing now, though Karden’s hesitancy when Yareth took his hand on the table-top struck Stadi as rather charming. 

For all the young Kazon’s bluster, she could sense his disbelief at successfully achieving her attention.

She took a sip of ale, and let the warmth of the room ease some of the tightness in her shoulders. Weeks of piloting Voyager or the Aeroshuttle through the Nekrit Expanse at low-warp, constantly making micro-adjustments, hadn’t been pleasant, and she was so glad they’d be leaving it behind them. 

The door to the lodge opened again, and Stadi spotted Gara and one of the Mikhal Travelers, Zahir, coming in together. Gara noticed her, and led Zahir toward her. 

“Lieutenant,” Gara said. “You’re on the first rotation?”

“I am,” Stadi said, nodding. “Please, join me. I’ve got a room booked, but honestly, I got this far, and decided to people watch.” 

“People watch?” Zahir said, though he smiled as he sat down. Gara sat beside him, and Stadi noticed they were hand-in-hand as well. 

“It’s a human habit I picked up from an Aunt,” Stadi said. “Watching people come and go. It’s very relaxing.”

“But you are not human, correct?” Zahir said, his voice soft and his thoughts genuinely interested. “Gara tells me there are a dozen species on board your vessel?” 

Stadi took a second to consider that—Vulcan, Bolian, Bajoran, Ocampa, Trill, Kazon, Rakhari, Ferengi…—her own count came up short of a dozen, but Gara leaned forward. 

“Including one hologram and one robot,” Gara said, and Stadi realized it was true. 

“That’s right,” Stadi said, then turned back to Zahir. “I’m a Betazoid.”

“Ah,” Zahir said. “You’re Gara’s mentor. You’re the one that helped her and her people develop her incredible abilities. I’m honoured to meet you.”

Okay, that was charming as hell. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Stadi said. “And I’d say I share that role with Nurse T’Prena, but I’ll definitely accept any accolades.”

Gara smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “The Mikhal aren’t telepathic,” she said. “But they have fascinating minds, don’t you find?”

Stadi had to agree. “I’ve rarely felt such a drive in a people.” 

“We do enjoy being on the move,” Zahir said. “And exploration is an inseparable part of our heritage and culture.” 

“I can tell,” Stadi said, looking around the lodge at the various pieces on display. “Is your homeworld nearby? I don’t think I’ve heard anyone mention it.” 

Zahir shook his head. “I’m a fourth-generation Traveler,” he said. “And we rarely go back to places we’ve been. From my understanding of how your people map the galaxy, our homeworld would be rimward from here, and a rather isolated sector of space. Most of my people tended to head coreward, given the density of stars to explore in that direction, but I believe it would take us twenty years to see our homeworld again.” He looked at Gara gain as he spoke. “Like you, Gara, we don’t look back at where we came from very often.” He didn’t sound broken up about it, or even that particularly interested in seeing the place his people had come from. He wanted to see things none of his people had seen before.

He also wanted to take Gara out for a long walk under the stars, and kiss her, and then take her to his bed.

Stadi caught the flush that rose on Gara’s face, and knew she’d picked up on Zahir’s mood—of all the Ocampa, Gara had the strongest facility with empathic awareness—and Stadi eyed her drink. A few more swallows, and she could politely exit for her temporary lodgings. 

Her gaze traveled the room while Gara and Zahir smiled at each other, and she spotted more non-Mikhal Travelers. “You seem to get a lot of non-Mikhal here, too,” she said, nodding at a trio of dark-haired aliens with pronounced and spiked ridges over and around their eyes, and bifurcated with a ridge down their foreheads, noses and chins. 

“They’re Nezu,” Zahir said, lowering his voice. “They have a few colony worlds nearby, and their homeworld is spinward of here. They’re a good people, fair traders, even if they don’t travel much and tend to settle down easily.” He said this last with a small smile, like he couldn’t imagine their lifestyle, but tried not to judge them too harshly. 

 Stadi finished the last of her ale while Zahir told her of a few of the nearby planets he’d visited, and of a rift he wished to explore next, and then she rose, bidding them a good night and sensing that both were definitely ready for exactly that. 

She left the Lodge, walking along one of the paths toward the hospitality building and enjoying both the cooler night air and the scent of the tree blossoms.

Just as she got to the door of the building where she’d find her room for the night, though, a wave of… something… washed over her senses, and she paused, turning and looking out into the night. She saw a few other people on the pathways between the hospitality buildings and the lodges, but nothing suspicious.

Stadi let her hand drop from the door, and opened her senses. The various minds of the trading outpost around her were a series of soft whispers, for the most part, but among the susurrus, she caught it again—something darker, something anticipatory, something…

She lost it. 

Stadi stood outside the building for a few minutes more, closing her eyes and trying to ride the thoughts of those around her again in an effort to locate whatever it was that had been so disquieting, without success.

Finally, she turned and went inside, a shiver running up her spine. Her Aunt would have said someone had “walked on her grave.” 

As human sayings went, it wasn’t a favourite. 

Chapter Text

The fourth time Marble leapt from the floor to the serving counter of the Mess Hall, Crewman Celes Tal realized she was going to have to figure out a way to dissuade the mottled black-and-white kitten from her antics, but before she could so much as take a step, Crewman Andreas Murphy was there, scooping her up in one hand and looking down at her face.

“No, Marble. Not on the counter,” he said, in his sternest Serious Murphy voice, aiming one finger at her face with his other hand.

Marble purred, and batted at his finger with her front paws. 

“Neither of you have ever had a cat, have you?” Crewman Augustin Emmanuel said, regarding them both with a wide, amused grin on his face.

“No,” Celes said, glancing at Gus and wondering what, exactly, was so funny. “Why?” 

“He’s trying to reason with it,” Gus said pointing a ladle at Murphy. 

“My uncle had dogs,” Murphy said. “I helped train them. We’ll do the same for Marble.” 

“Oh wow, this is going to be even better than the holodeck,” Emmanuel said, shaking his head.

Celes went back to chopping calçots, deciding that she’d search the library computer for feline training manuals once she was off shift. Right now, she and Gus needed to get the smaller range of options ready for the crew still aboard Voyager, which was running in a standard orbit and with much shut down thanks to the rotations of shore leave. 

“Why don’t we go visit with some friends, hm?” Murphy said, talking reasonably to Marble like he would a precocious child, and then carrying the kitten over to where a trio of crew were sitting and chatting in the low couch area of the Mess Hall. Celes had put Marble’s basket under the middle window of the Mess Hall, and she’d slept there for a little while today, but mostly she’d been exploring the room and bopping her head against the legs of any crew who were seated, or jumping up onto tables to let out one of her little trilling meows for attention.

Which the crew lavished on the loving little feline. 

Marble happily settled in the company of three people paying her all of their attention, Murphy returned, and leaned against the counter. “So, I was wondering if we should ask Billy if he’s free,” he said, and while he said it in his usual Andreas Murphy voice—she loved how everything he said sounded so confident and self-assured—she knew from the way his lovely brown eyes narrowed and crinkled and his chin rising up that he wasn’t as sure as he sounded.

And that, in turn, made her stomach do a few flips. Because if her Murphy wasn’t sure, then she was immediately so very much unsure, that every thought she’d ever had decided to flee her mind.

“Uh,” she said. “Maybe?” They'd talked about this. About having talks. With Billy. Which both of them knew they needed to talk about. Was it time to talk?

Beside her, Emmanuel sighed. “Okay you two, I adore you, but please, please just tell him.”

Celes stared at Emmanuel in shock. Gus looked back at her, with his dark brown eyes, and carefully trimmed black hair, his handsome, light-brown features looking… what?

Frustrated?

“What?” she said. On the other side of the counter, Murphy’s face was turning pinker by the second. 

Emmanuel’s expression softened, and that almost melodious drawling way he had of talking grew more pronounced. “I get that the two of you are still trying to figure it all out, but it’ll be much easier to do that if you include Billy in the discussion, given it's... sur lui.” He lifted the ladle when they blinked. “About him. Because if he’s fine the way things are, and doesn’t want to fold himself into the two of you? Then you’re just wasting time and effort overthinking everything, when you could be happier knowing how things stand.”

Murphy’s mouth opened and closed, and he cleared his throat, but he didn’t say anything.

Celes, for her part, was completely stunned too, but she'd had far, far more practice with the state of being, and recovered faster. “How did you…?” 

Emmanuel reached out and took her by the shoulder. “Tal, like I said, I adore you both, but neither of you has what I’d call a poker face when it comes to your feelings.” He glanced at Murphy, who was moving past pink into something approaching crimson. “You look at her, and I know you love her. And when you look at Billy, there’s some of that going on there, too.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “And you’re the same,” he said, looking back at Celes.

“It’s not quite like that,” Murphy said, finally finding his voice, which made Celes grateful. 

“I know,” Emmanuel said. “But it’s like something.” He took a breath. “Look, Tal. Do you know how Joel and I finally got started?”

Crewman Joel Swift and Emmanuel had been dating for a while now, Celes knew, though she realized she didn’t know the story of how they’d gotten together. They’d been an odd pairing, to her eyes—Joel was so quiet and sedate, other than when he was playing the double bass, and Gus seemed to approach everything in life with enthusiasm and energy. 

“How?” she said.

“He asked me,” Emmanuel said. He lifted both hands, as though that settled everything.

Celes took a breath, and looked at Murphy. He looked back, his smile a little lopsided. He nodded.

Behind him, the doors to the Mess Hall opened, and Billy Telfer walked in.

*

“Okay, those moons are gorgeous,” Jeff Fitzgerald said, looking up at the sky, which shimmered with stars as well as the three moons in question. The Mikhal seemed to have put in real work to ensure their settlement didn’t create much in the way of light pollution, and he could see why.

Beside him, Aaron Cavit looked up into the sky, but reached out and took his hand, squeezing once in silent agreement. They’d found their room in the hospitality building, which hadn’t been ornate, but did indeed have a fireplace across from a raised sleeping platform made up with simple, but comfortable blankets and pillows. A small fresher rounded out the space, and honestly Fitzgerald didn’t mind a bit that it was just the two of them and little else.

Frankly, he’d enjoyed his time at the lodge, and when Aaron had suggested a moonlight walk, he’d been more than willing. The pathways were lit with dim lights near the footpaths, and a cool breeze carried a hint of some sort of floral scent. 

And honestly, Aaron Cavit looked as good as those moons, frankly. He’d always had nice shoulders, but the light tunic he was wearing really emphasized them, and the breeze was stirring his dark-grey-and-silver hair in a way that made Fitzgerald want to run his hands through it. 

Fitzgerald squeezed Cavit’s hand back, and Cavit looked at him. 

“What’s that look for?” he said, his smile wide and his soft blue eyes shining in the moonlight.

“You’re a handsome man,” Fitzgerald said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

Cavit grinned. “I’ve heard it once or twice, but I definitely like hearing it from you.” He leaned in, and placed a soft, lingering kiss on Fitzgerald’s lips. “Maybe we should head back?” he said, once he’d pulled back, a sly smile tilting his lips to one side.

“I think so,” Fitzgerald said, enjoying this rarely seen playful side of the man he loved.

But Cavit’s eyes skipped over his shoulder, and while the playfulness didn’t vanish, exactly, it faded a little, and something more like Captain Cavit returned.

Fitzgerald turned around, and saw Gara and the Mikhal Traveler, Zahir, on the path heading up towards them. He had one arm around her shoulder, and she lay tucked against him while they walked. He almost didn't resent their arrival, they looked so good together. 

Almost.

“Captain,” Zahir said, once they were closer, and unless Fitzgerald was mistaken, he looked a little bit like a man interrupted, too. “I hope the room was to your liking? We don’t tend to stay planetside for long, but we do try to sleep comfortably when we do.”

“It’s fine,” Cavit said, nodding to him. “In fact, it reminds me a bit of my family cabin, back on Earth.” He gestured up at the sky. “We were just taking a walk and enjoying the light of the moons.”

“Ah, yes,” Zahir said, and Gara slid out from his arm as he pointed. “The first moon is Elash, the second is Ekath, and the third is Onath.” He gestured, and Fitzgerald tried not to sigh at his obvious shift into "host" mode. Darn it. Now they'd be here while Zahir and Cavit tried to out-polite each other. “And do you see that star, there, a little to the left of them, very bright?”

“I do,” Cavit said.

“There is a story about that system,” Zahir said, and Cavit smiled at him, apparently patient and happy to hear it. Fitzgerald took a step back, moving beside Gara, who was watching them both, smiling and looking lovely in a long, wine-red dress and head-scarf, paired with a tan wrap Fitzgerald would have bet she hadn’t beamed down with, given how it mirrored the deep green Mikhal Traveler coat Zahir was wearing.

“Hello Doctor,” she said, lowering her voice. “Zahir loves to tell stories of the places he’s been, and the places he hasn’t.” 

“And Aaron likes to hear them,” Fitzgerald said. “We could be here a while.” He did his best to keep the amused regret out of his voice, but no doubt Gara could feel it. She was just that gifted an empath.

Sure enough, Gara’s eyes dimpled with pleasure. Then she sobered a bit, looking at him, and unless he was mistaken, she was trying to decide whether or not to say something to him.

“What is it?” he said. 

She bit her bottom lip, then nodded, as though making up her mind. “I wanted to ask,” she said, her voice lower now. “About leave.”

“Leave?” Fitzgerald wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but that hadn’t been on the list.

“Zahir intends to explore the Sylleran Rift once his ship’s maintenance is done. The Mikhal Traveler ships travel at high warp, and he’s asked me to join him, to be his navigator. We’d be able to rendezvous with Voyager after, before you're too far away. In fact, when I asked, he admitted he hasn’t been in the direction Voyager plans to head, and I think he’d be open to coming along with us—for a while—if I were to ask.”

Fitzgerald looked at Gara, and there was a flush to her warm brown skin, and a light behind her deep brown eyes he hadn’t seen there before. This request wasn’t come lightly. 

“You like him,” Fitzgerald said. 

“I’m nearly four, doctor, and I’m starting to realize that I don’t have a long time before I’ll need to make life-long decisions.” Gara took a deep breath. “My course is as elusive as a shadow across the sky.” 

Fitzgerald blinked. “That’s poetic.” She wasn’t usually prone to poetry, in his experience.

“It’s something an ancient Mikhal Traveler wrote. Zahir showed it to me just now on the trail, and…” Gara paused. “I enjoy my time and my role on Voyager, Doctor, I do. I’ve seen more of the Galaxy and met more species than any Ocampa in history, I imagine, but… Lately, I’ve been aware that there are things I’d have by now on Ocampa I don’t have here.” Her gaze slipped to Zahir.

“Like a partner.” Fitzgerald didn’t often state the obvious, but thought it needed to be said. 

She nodded. “Like a partner.”

“Well,” Fitzgerald said, realizing that when it came to the Ocampa, he’d gotten into the habit of not really dwelling on their lifespan—probably as a sort of defense mechanism—which had become easier now Setok had grown into a young man and he wasn’t face-to-face with a reminder of their growth on a daily basis. Kes had Li-Paz. Eru and Cir had each other. Abol had Taitt, Daggin T’Prena, but Gara hadn’t seemed to find anyone on Voyager to connect with on that level. He’d sort of assumed it might not matter to her—a lot of people were perfectly content and just as fulfilled with friendships or different relationships of value—but he realized now it was something she wanted, so of course it would weigh on her. He felt a little like he’d missed something important by not seeing it before now. “We haven’t been in a position to grant official leave, given our situation, but we’re going to be in orbit here for most of the week, and I don’t see a reason why your request shouldn’t be considered, Gara.” 

Gara smiled, in obvious relief. “Thank you, doctor. I know I need to speak to Commander Ro and the Captain, but I wanted to discuss it with you, first.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ll put in a good word with Aaron.” He winked. “I have some influence there.”

That made her laugh.

*

Stadi couldn’t sleep. 

She sat up, nudging the admittedly soft blanket aside and giving up. When her mind wouldn’t slow down enough for sleep, staying in bed was pointless. She’d brought a simple robe to wear over her sleeping shirt and shorts, and tugged it around her shoulders, then crossed the small room to where a single door led to the small balconies each of the rooms sported around the edge of the round hospitality building.

Outside, the cool air and the floral scent were just as pleasant as before, and the sight of three moons heading for the horizon added beauty to the night. She was never happier than when she was flying, but she had to admit, these Mikhal Travelers knew how to pick a stopover spot.

On the pathways below, she saw people, mostly in pairs, walking, and got the impression that this small outpost didn’t really stop at any time of day, what with people coming and going and the trade to be done. In the distance, she could just make out the shipyard, though the Mikhal had planted more of those blossom-growing trees between there and here. 

Maybe tomorrow she’d go take a look at their ships. Small, exploratory vessels not much larger than the size of Voyager’s Aeroshuttle, they nevertheless had high-warp capabilities, and seemed to serve these people well. Maybe there was something there she and Alex could use for her “glimpse of the future” project, trying to turn the ship she’d seen under construction during a prescient, temporal event—not that they’d had much time to work on it during their trek through the Expanse. 

Stadi closed her eyes, and let the background noise of the people on the outpost float past her senses. Perhaps the level of activity here was part of why she couldn’t sleep—she often didn’t have trouble on Voyager, as she usually slept when the majority of her crew were also sleeping, and telepathically, that was like having a warm blanket over her mind. 

She felt some attention turn her way a moment before a voice inquired “Can’t sleep?” 

She turned, and spotted a woman—a Mikhal Traveler, given her green cloak, the ridges on her nose, and those incredible blue eyes—was out on the balcony of the room next door. 

“No,” Stadi said. “But I don’t have anything pressing to accomplish tomorrow, so it’s not the end of the world.” 

The woman smiled. “You’re from the ship in orbit, the one from the other side of the galaxy?”

“That’s right,” Stadi said. “Voyager.”

“Voyager,” the woman’s smile grew, and Stadi had to admit, she was pretty. She wore her long, nearly-black hair tied back simply enough, but she had particularly pleasant cheekbones. And, like all Mikhal Travelers, her mind seemed to thrum with extra verve. “A wonderful name for a ship.” 

Stadi smiled back, not surprised the woman thought so. “You’re a Traveler,” she said. 

The woman nodded. “A navigator,” she said. “My pilot and I are here for supplies, but then we’ll head off again.” She faced her. “You crossed the Nekrit Expanse, I’m told?”

“We did,” Stadi said, nodding. “In fact, we had some help from another of your people on the opposite side. She gave us some star charts we used to make our way—the Expanse did quite a number on our sensors and navigational systems.” 

“We’re planning on following the leading edge of the Expanse, see how far coreward it goes.” She stepped forward, and put her hands on the railing of her balcony. “Experience tells us there are more likely to be stations along the edges of phenomenon like these, so we might not need to stop at another Lodge for quite a while.” 

Which, Stadi could tell, mattered to her. This was a woman who wanted to be in motion.

“I’m Veronica,” Stadi said. 

“I’m Dimaro,” the Mikhal said. 

“I was actually wondering if I’d get the chance to look at any of your ships while I was here,” Stadi said. “Is that possible?” 

“Our ships are a source of pride, Veronica,” Dimaro said. “I’d be happy to give you a tour, though they’re quite a bit smaller than your own vessel.” 

“I’m Voyager’s pilot,” Stadi said. “But I happen to love flying smaller ships, too.” 

“Well, in the morning, if you’d like, I’ll meet you at the Lodge, after the morning meal? They ring a chime twice.” 

“That would be great,” Stadi said, nodding. “Thank you.”

Dimaro nodded, and pushed off from her balcony, heading back inside.

Stadi turned to do the same, and then shivered. 

She turned, looking at the paths below. Two aliens with flared skull structures that reminded her of hammerhead sharks she'd once seen in the San Francisco aquarium were walking close to the building, and a couple of lone Mikhal were on other paths within view, and she tried to get a sense of them all, but…

No.

Not them.

Wherever that dark, worrisome sense was coming from, it wasn’t anyone she could see right now.

She tightened her robe and went back inside.

She didn’t sleep this time, either.

*

Stiles jolted awake at the strangled cry, and had his phaser in hand before he’d grasped where the sound had come from, and who’d made it. Other details filtered in behind the adrenaline. He was in his tent, which he had pitched in a beautiful clearing overlooking the edge of a lake, and he’d gone camping with—

“Sorry,” Dennis Russell said, little more than a shadowy outline sitting up along other side of the tent. 

Stiles put down the phaser, and tapped the small camp light, which lit the interior with a dim, orange-red light designed not to ruin night vision. Russell was sitting up in his sleeping bag, his arms wrapped around his knees, and it looked like he was panting for breath.

“Dennis?” Stiles said.

“It’s nothing, really,” Russell said. “Bad dream. Sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep.”

Stiles frowned, nodding. He was no stranger to bad dreams himself, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t heard any number of people waking up from nightmares during his time in the mines with the Maquis. Maquis habit was to leave people to their own pain, but…

“It’s none of my business,” Stiles said. “But if…” He had to clear his throat to continue. “But if you want to talk about…” He trailed off again, and winced in the dim light. Why was he so terrible at this?

His wife’s amused voice came to him, after he’d completely messed up dealing with their sons after his eldest had broken his left arm playing Pareses Squares without permission. He’d grounded Sammy, and Sammy had exploded that his father didn’t even care why he’d done it in the first place, and Stiles had been completely dumbfounded at the response. 

I love you, honey, but if you can’t fix something, break something, or move something, you don’t really know how to deal with it.

“Lance,” Russell said, and Stiles tucked the memory of his wife’s entirely valid criticism of his parenting skills aside.

“Lance?” Stiles said, when Russell didn’t immediately go on. He shifted in his bag so he could better face Russell in the dim light. That was a thing, right? It was better to look at someone when they were talking to you?

Or did that make things worse?

Russell took a deep breath. “Captain Cavit asked me to put together everything I can remember about the Borg,” Russell said. “I’m pretty sure he reached out to Ensign Martin, too, and Lieutenant Taitt and Commander Ro, but…” Russell took another breath. “He said he was most interested in what I had to say, because I was there the first time the Federation encountered the Borg.”

Shit. “I didn’t know that,” Stiles said, genuinely taken aback. The Borg. 

“It doesn’t often come up in conversation,” Russell said with a soft chuckle, then sobered. “I was an ensign, a warp engine and power systems expert on the Enterprise D, and literally a few steps away when the first Borg beamed itself into Main Engineering.” He turned to look at Stiles, shaking his head. “We didn’t really know how dangerous they were yet. It was…” He shook his head. “Well. Anyway. The Captain’s request brought up memories. Of Lance.”

Stiles got it then, because he’d woken up from dreams like that, too. Dreams about his wife.

“And Lance is dead,” Stiles said. 

Russell nodded. “Lance is dead. The Borg killed him.” 

Chapter Text

The morning had dawned bright and just the right side of cool, and the trail along the lakeside looped up and around a series of wooded hills, just steep enough to get Stiles’s heart going enough to tell him it would suit for exercise. 

Russell had been in a comfortable quiet for most of the morning, and though they walked side-by-side, Stiles could tell Russell’s attention wasn’t really taking in much of what was around him. 

Still, Stiles didn’t press.

“Thank you,” Russell said, breaking the silence and aiming an oddly grateful look Stiles’s way.

“For?” Stiles said.

“For not asking questions,” Russell said. He took a deep breath, and stopped walking, turning in a slow circle. “What do you think about stopping here for lunch?” 

Stiles had to agree the view was nice, and there were enough rocks here to make for somewhere to sit while they had one of the wraps each. He nodded. “Sounds good.”

They each took up a spot, and Stiles slipped off his pack and pulled out their meal, handing it to Russell, who took it with a little nod of thanks. 

“I didn’t ask,” Stiles said, after they’d both taken a bite, “but if you’d like to talk, I’ll listen. But don’t feel pressure.” There. That sounded almost like his regular voice, even.

Russell chuckled, and Stiles glanced at him. The little smile lines were back beside Russell’s eyes, and he swallowed a bite of wrap before he spoke again.

“At first, everyone on Enterprise wanted me to talk about Lance, all the time.” Russell’s tone softened. “Counsellor Troi and I worked through the loss, of course…” He lifted his chin and one eyebrow. “Which is what she called it, whatever it actually means.”

That made Stiles snort a semi-amused noise of his own, which earned him another little nod from Russell. 

“Counselor Troi was half-Betazoid,” Russell said. “She was an empath. Which meant she knew when I was working through things, or just avoiding them. But honestly?” Russell shook his head. “I was never the sort to talk about pain—not when I couldn’t see a point to the discussion—but other people seemed to think that meant…”

“That you weren’t feeling any, or that you weren’t dealing with it right, or that you hadn’t processed anything had happened?” Stiles said. “And my personal favourite, not honouring the memory.”

Russell looked at him, eyes widening a bit. “Exactly.”

“I’m the same,” Stiles said. “About my wife.” Then he chuckled, surprising himself. “Though I didn’t have an empath helping me through it, I had Atara Ram, who told me repeatedly I was an angry fool, and I was going to lose my sons if I didn’t give them access to the memory of their mother.”

Russell looked at him for a moment. “I’m trying to picture Atara telling you you’re a fool.”

“That’s actually a more polite word than the one he used,” Stiles said. “Though in fairness, he had some anger issues of his own when we first met.” He looked up at the sky, biting off more of his wrap, chewing, and swallowing. “It was practically a requirement, among the Maquis.”

“I can imagine.” Russell took a breath. “I’m sorry about your wife. I don’t know if I’ve ever said that before.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry about your partner, too,” Stiles said. They shared a brief glance, and then Stiles found himself uncharacteristically wanting to say more. “I sent my sons to live with their aunt—even though I knew Ram was right, I couldn’t bring myself to share my memories of their mother with them, but I knew her sister would—and selfishly, I thought it would also help me not worry about them so much, since I’d joined the Maquis.”

“Did that work?” Russell said. “Not worrying, I mean.”

“Not even slightly,” Stiles said. “But they were safer. Are safer.” He took another bite. “And at least I know they got our letters.” He looked at Russell. “How long were you two together?”

“For about a year and a half,” Russell said. “It started with a call from the Transporter Room—Ensign Herbert to Main Engineering.” Russell deepened his voice. “Can you spare someone to come run a diagnostic on the pattern buffer?”

“I take it you were the person spared?” Stiles said, pleased to see a smile on Russell’s face in the telling of the story.

“I was, and by the time we tracked down a faulty relay, we’d been talking for three hours and I was completely smitten.” Russell snorted. “And he knew it. He asked me out to dinner the next day.” His smile faded. “And then, fifteen months later, the Borg sliced a section of the hull away and…” He shook his head. “Just unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time, along with seventeen other people.” 

Silence fell between them again, and again it wasn’t uncomfortable. 

They finished their meal, and set out on the trail again.

*

The sleeping chamber in the Zahir-Amar—Zahir’s Mikhal Traveler ship, which Gara had learned were always named for whichever pilot and Navigator team happened to be in charge of them at any given time—was surprisingly comfortable for a two-person vessel. The interior volume of livable space was at least triple what she’d expected, and reminded her much more of the Aeroshuttle than one of Voyager’s other shuttles. 

Not that she’d had much time to explore. 

She turned her head on the delightfully comfortably pillow. She’d known Zahir was already awake—alert minds felt different to her than sleeping ones—but she’d not realized he was watching her sleep. His striking, overbright blue eyes seemed to roam her face, never settling anywhere for long, though they did linger on her lips more than anywhere else.

“Good morning,” he said. With his hair loose, and that easy smile, and the heat of their bodies beneath the incredibly soft blankets, Gara decided his voice was the final point on some geometrical construct that amounted to the height of decadency in her life.

She didn’t normally act like this. Other men had asked her on dates. There’d been Doug Bronowski at first, though she’d quickly learned her relationship with Doug was destined for a stable, enjoyable friendship. Crewman Clifton Biddle had taken her dancing on the holodeck, but she could sense a happy-go-lucky nature in the man that she knew didn’t compliment her own desire to explore: they’d over-encourage each other, not complement.

She said, waking up in bed with a Mikhal Traveler who is the very definition of happy-go-lucky.

“Your mind is still,” he said, reaching out one finger to trace her cheek. “Tell me.”

“My mind is anything but still,” Gara said, turning into his palm and kissing it.

“It’s one of our sayings,” Zahir rose onto one elbow, facing her and letting the sheet slide down to reveal more of his lean, smooth chest. They’d had a very enjoyable evening exploring each other’s bodies, and the memory of that rose easily now at the sight of more of him. “It means your journey has stopped because your mind isn’t letting you move forward.”

“Ah,” Gara said, sliding her own arm beneath her head, looking up at him. “Well in that case, yes. My mind is still.” She allowed herself to smile indulgently. “I am trying to understand my own feelings. I think I’ve realized I spent more time understanding the feelings of other people.”

“Because of your incredible gift,” Zahir said, with a little nod. “What is it you don’t understand?”

“Why I’m here with you,” she said. “When normally, I tend to look for people who will help ground me.” 

His eyes widened, and his smile grew wider. “Dear Gara, I would never ground anyone.”

“Exactly,” she said. 

He leaned down over her, moving slow enough to bridge the distance that she could have stopped him with even the slightest gesture. 

She didn’t, and that made those blue eyes of his shine all the brighter.

“Good,” he said, just before kissing her again. “As long as we’re clear about that.” He lowered himself on top of her, and the way their bodies fit together reminded her, again, of their night before, and she initiated a kiss of her own this time, allowing her hands to slide up his back and stroke his long, dark hair. 

“You will come with me, won’t you?” he said, kissing her neck close to the curve of her sensitive Ocampan ears. “To the rift? Be my navigator on the Zahir-Gara? Amar is ready to retire, and I would rather travel with no one else.”

The realization the name of the ship itself would change threatened to make her mind still again, but was soon followed by grasping another certainty. 

She wanted this. It was possible this was wrong for her, that this wasn’t her future, but she wanted to explore this, from every point and angle and surface, because if this was her future, then she didn’t want to waste one more moment not living it.

*

Mikhal Traveler ships were sleek. Stadi circled round the rear to the vessel, looking at the four warp nacelles, and considering the H-shaped struts, which also housed what appeared to be an impulse array with gimble-mounting that she couldn’t help but imagine would give grand sublight thrust. 

“You enjoy speed,” Dimaro said. 

Stadi turned, with a wry twist of the lips giving her away she was sure. “I do.”

“Well, the Asla-Dimaro might not be up to give Voyager a run for her money, but we can maintain warp five-point-five for up to a week at a time,” Dimaro said. She’d tied her hair back today, and her earthy-green cloak-like coat was belted at the waist. “It gets us where we want to go.”

“Warp five-point-five out of a ship this size, for a week?” Stadi laid one hand against the side of the ship’s hull. It wasn’t even as large as the Aeroshuttle, and could definitely out-run it. She eyed the blue-eyed Traveler again. “The nacelles aren’t running hot the whole time, are they? You alternate them.” 

Dimaro grinned. “Exactly that. Two run, the other two cool, and then rotate. Warp field repeaters keep the warp-field in place during the transition, and there’s no loss in the transfer between pairs.”

“Starfleet has some ships designed that way,” Stadi said, looking at the nacelles again, now with more of an idea what she was looking at. “Constellation and Cheyenne class ships do something similar, but we’ve never managed it on this smaller scale. Both need a lot of power to handle the quad-nacelle set-up.” She turned back to Dimaro. “I don’t suppose you’d give me a look at the power transfer system? I’d be curious how you—”

The feeling returned, without warning and much shaper than before. She stammered to a halt, and for a second, her vision greyed out around the edges. She tried to blink away the awful sense of anticipatory…

What? Malice? Antipathy? 

None of the words felt right.

“Veronica?” Dimaro’s voice, edged with concern now, and Stadi blinked, coming out of it. “I’m… I’m sorry, I just had a sense of something unpleasant.” She took a breath, settling herself, tapping behind one ear with her fingertips. “It keeps happening,” she admitted.

“Not from me, I hope?” Dimaro said, with a trace of humour Stadi could read was intended to lighten the mood. Her thoughts—and her sense of drive and curiosity—were still as easy to read as ever.

“No, no,” Stadi shook her head, smiling. “Definitely not. In fact, I can’t figure out where it’s coming from, or if it’s real. Betazoid telepathy is better at thoughts than feelings, and there’s every chance what I’m picking us the emotional equivalent of background static, and it’s having the same effect on my telepathy that radiation would have on sensors.” She gave herself another few seconds of plexing, and then lowered her hand. “And it’s gone. Again.” 

Dimaro, though, regarded her carefully. “What is it you sense?”

“I’m not sure I can put it to words,” Stadi said. “My aunt would said someone ‘walked over her grave,’ which is a human saying that basically means something feels off and strange and made you shiver.”

Dimano’s blue eyes shone with amusement. “That’s… evocative. Though I know the feeling.”

“But there’s this… anticipation to it,” Stadi said. She glanced around the various landing pads, and the veritable fleet of ships—most Mikhal Traveler ships like the Asla-Dimaro, but a few other small shuttles of various types. Figures moved around. One group of the aliens she was still thinking of as “hammerheads” were loading cargo onto one of the larger ships present, though even it didn’t match the Aeroshuttle’s size. “I can’t pinpoint where, or who, though. It’s…” She shook her head. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Well,” Dimano said, and the light tone in her voice had faded now. She was looking at one of the non-Mikhal Traveler ships. “There are Etanians on the planet.”

“Etanians?” Stadi said. She wondered if that was the name of the hammerhead aliens. 

“The Etanian Order,” Dimano said. “They’re a species with a reputation for bad luck.” 

“Bad luck?” Stadi said, and she caught herself before she laughed, because Dimano’s thoughts weren’t fanciful or amused in the slightest. She was deadly serious, and there were events behind her thoughts. Multiple events. 

“Where they go, bad things follow,” Dimano said. “Or they follow bad things.” She stared at the ship. “Were it up to me, they’d not be allowed to land on any Mikhal Outpost, but…” She lifted one shoulder. “You can’t do that, really, can you? Operate a trading centre while saying ‘but not you.’” She crossed her arms. “No matter how many times they seem to chase ill fate, or invite it after them.”

The dark sensation returned, and this time, Stadi didn’t try to chase it away. She did her best to open her mind to it, to allow it to simply be. A staple of Betazoid philosophy—that feelings simple were—helped her to hold the feeling longer than she’d managed before. 

Anticipatory. That was the only part she was sure of, but when she opened her eyes—unaware she’d closed them—she found she’d changed her position beside Dimano, and was now facing the vessel Dimano had said was Etanian. 

She took a deep breath, then opened the jacket she was wearing to reveal her combadge and gave it a tap.

“Stadi to Daggin. Are you free at the moment?”

It was time to call in the Chorus.

Chapter Text

Abol Tay floated in the vacuum of open space, serenely quiet, with only the light of a relatively nearby star causing the tumbling, tilting rocks all around him to even reveal themselves as in motion. 

“Should I be offended you’re taking a side-trip when we’re on shore leave?” 

The voice brought him back to the comfortable bed where he lay beside his Zandra, the two of them having just woken up a few moments earlier, after their first night on the Mikhal Traveler world. 

It also made him flush with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, turning onto his side. His beautiful Zandra was on her side, facing him, her hair tied back beneath one of the sleeping cloths she tied it up in overnight, and her beautiful dark brown eyes full of a teasing sparkle. “I don’t know why it keeps happening.”

“Tay seems to find relaxing a problem,” Taitt said, reaching out and stroking his cheek. “Your symbiont is an action addict.”

“Except all Tay wants to look at are asteroids, for some reason,” Abol said. “I’d understand if it were that spatial rift Gara’s friend wants to explore, but…” He raised one eyebrow. “I keep finding myself looking at… rocks.” 

“Okay, now I am a little offended,” Taitt said.

Abol gathered her in his arms and pulled her against his chest, where she snuggled in. Neither of them were tall, and they fit each other so comfortably. Sometimes, when he looked at her or held her like this, the reminder of just how incredible she was—and how full and wonderful his life had become—would draw his breath up short. He closed his eyes against the swell of utter gratefulness…

…and felt Tay start to slide away again. 

No, he told himself, and the sensation stilled. 

Though Sahreen Lan had told both him and Kes that being joined to a symbiont with no previous host would most likely make them feel a desire to explore—something they already both had—the Tay symbiont had found a way to tap into Abol’s telepathic—or, technically, clairvoyant—gift of looking elsewhere. 

At first, it had frightened Abol. If it happened during a crisis moment, and his concentration was needed when his mind was quite literally elsewhere, what might happen? But Lieutenant Stadi had helped him realize it was only happening when he was tired, or—more often—bored. Since then, Abol had realized allowing Tay to take him on those mental journeys meant they happened less often, and at his own whim.

Until they’d arrived on this planet, that was. 

“You’re worried,” Taitt said. 

Abol squeezed her. It was impossible to hide things from his Zandra, and most of the time, he didn’t try. “Perhaps a little. I might ask Lieutenant Stadi it—”

On the simple bedside table, Abol’s combadge chirped. 

“Daggin to Abol.” 

Zandra smiled up at him, then reached up and past his shoulder to hand it to him.

Abol tapped it. “Abol here.”

“Ah, Abol,” Daggin’s voice said. “Could you meet the rest of us today?”

“The rest of us?” Abol said.

“Lieutenant Stadi would like some help with something, from the Chorus.”

Zandra lifted her chin to look up at him again, and gave him a little nod in answer to the question he was about to ask. 

“I can,” Abol said. 

*

Back at camp, Stiles and Russell sat side-by-side by the river, both holding steaming cups of Voyager-blend Kona coffee Russell had brought, from a supply Stiles thought hadn’t even existed of late—when the coffee trees produced, what bounty they created didn’t tend to last long, and in Stiles’s experience ended up mostly in the cups of the senior staff, most specifically Doctor Fitzgerald—but somehow Russell had a packet, and Stiles had decided to ask no questions. 

Stiles thought Russell’s shoulders seemed less slouched now, after their long hike. 

“Thank you,” Russell said now, and Stiles took a good look at the man. It wasn’t just his shoulders, it was the lines by his eyes, which were back alongside Dennis’s soft smile. 

“Any time,” Stiles said. “I meant that.” He took a swallow of coffee to cover the awkwardness of the whole talking thing.

Russell laughed.

“What?” Stiles said.

“I’m sorry,” Russell said, shaking his head with another chuckle. “Your face.”

Stiles shook his head. “I already told you. I’m crap at this… stuff.” 

Russell’s laugh at that was all the louder, and he drank coffee instead of replying.

“You know,” Russell said. “When we first got here, to the Delta Quadrant, I mean, Lieutenant Taitt spent an overnight shift on the Bridge, at the Science Station.” He glanced at Stiles. “This was when you were gone, actually. The Li Nalas was off looking for someone or something. It was before  we merged the crews.”

“A friend of Kes’s,” Stiles said. “A Talaxian. You didn’t miss much missing him, trust me. Said we looked like a bunch of scruffy pirates, and that she should run away from us as fast as possible.” He shook his head. “It was ugly, actually. She stood her ground, told him he’d disappointed her, and that she wasn’t going to leave the people who’d saved her life…” He let out a small snort, remembering. “You know, at the time, I was surprised. She seemed so small and kind of frail, but saying that now makes me laugh. Now I know her.” He looked up. “Sorry. Go on.”

“I had the night shift on the Bridge, and I saw Taitt the moment she’d finished the math,” Russell said.

“The math?” Stiles said.

“She’d done the work to figure out the distance between the Ocampa sector and the Idran system,” Russell said.

“Idran system,” Stiles said, frowning as he tried to place it, then realizing why he knew it. “The Bajoran wormhole.” The far end of the wormhole, in the Gamma Quadrant.

“Ninety-four years,” Russell said. “From Ocampa to the Gamma Quadrant terminus of the Bajoran Wormhole. Ninety-four years.” He took a long, deep breath. “Or, straight back to the Alpha Quadrant in seventy.” 

“You know, I never even thought of it,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “It never occurred to me not to just aim straight for home.”

“Taitt knew the danger of the Delta Quadrant,” Russell said. “Me, too. I saw the moment she realized it. She looked at me. We weren’t close or anything, on the Enterprise, but we knew each other’s face, and I was one of the forty-seven.”

“Forty-seven?” 

“Oh,” Russell shook his head, laughing. “During the Enterprise’s run-in with the Borg—the liberated Borg—the Enterprise had to get away from the Borg ship, and forty-seven of us were left behind, though thanks to Taitt, almost all of us were recovered, eventually.”

“That’s when she blew up the Borg ship with a star?” Stiles said. He’d heard the story, albeit without much in the way of details.

“Yep. Six weeks on board as a Science Officer and she destroyed a Borg ship,” Russell said, smiling. Then the smile faded. “Darian and I ended up hiding in a cave, mostly.”

“Darian?” Stiles raised an eyebrow, hearing something in the way Russell said the name.

“Darian Wallace. He’d been asking me to have dinner for weeks before that, and then after I said yes.” Russell lifted his chin. “Huddling in a cave with someone with the unknown hanging over your head does tend to lend one a different perspective.” 

“Sounds like life in the Maquis mine, frankly,” Stiles said. “Plenty of relationships started that way. Ram and Stephen, for one.”

“Really?” Russell said. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well, first they punched each other.”

Russell blinked, and Stiles laughed. “Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly like Starfleet officers would have done it.”

“Well,” Russell said. “After, we made a go of it, until I was transferred to Voyager, when we should have stopped, but tried to do the distance thing. I… sent him a letter, when we met that Romulan through the micro-wormhole. Told him to…” He waved a hand. “Well. Anyway.”

Stiles nodded. His letter had gone to his sons, and though he hoped they didn’t blame him for being so far away, he knew they’d be angry at him. Disappointed, also. And he imagined his words were poor comfort, even if he’d allowed himself to write words he’d never had spoken.

“The problem is,” Russell said. “Captain Cavit is still waiting for my report.”

“On the Borg,” Stiles said.

Russell nodded. “Thing is, Sam? All I want to do is pick up a PADD, an write the word ‘run,’ and hand it to him.” 

*

Veronica Stadi had never particularly leaned into the heritage granted to her people by the four gods—or, as she preferred to think of it, evolutionary science given four personified philosophical forms to her ancestors who didn’t quite yet understand such things as DNA—and it wasn’t the first time in the Delta Quadrant she wished she’d spent more time listening to her mother’s teacher as he droned on about Rixx or the others. 

Because something was wrong, and she’d be damned if she could quite put her finger on it. 

“Thank you for coming,” Stadi said, looking around the group she’d gathered, and realizing just how much she’d come to rely both on their ability and their friendship. 

Cir and Eru sat together at one corner of the large table where they’d all gathered in the Lodge, and their expressions were so typical it almost made her laugh; Cir serious, and protective, his arm around Eru, who aimed her open, concerned expression in Stadi’s way. 

Kes Aren and Abol Tay, who’d arrived with Li-Paz and Zandra Taitt, leaned forward, listening as she spoke of vague senses and odd feelings, and to their other side, Daggin, T’Prena, and Setok seemed to aim three identical gazes their way: logical curiosity, and—in T’Prena’s case, at least—a rather detached measure of what could pass for disbelief at most of what she was saying.

“I’m so sorry,” Gara said, striding in with Zahir beside her just as Stadi finished what was, even to her own ears, a rather slim assessment of a situation that really did come down to little more than just “something feels wrong.”

“Sounds like a darkling,” Cir said, once she’d finished speaking. His deep voice broke the silence that feel as she finished.

“I do not believe I am familiar with that reference,” T’Prena said.

“It’s an Ocampa story,” Kes said. “A spirit of ill fortune.”

Stadi remembered the words of Dimaro, about the aliens with the reputation for conjuring ill luck. 

“That seems unlikely,” T’Prena said, the Vulcan woman speaking with her usual splash of understatement.

“I didn’t mean literally,” Cir said, with a small smile. “But those stories, about our people, the comra, the spirits—they speak to our heritage and gifts and it sounds similar.”

“He’s right,” Eru said. “What our people called darklings is most likely latent, untrained telepathic ability.”

“The stories of darklings do align with some of what we’ve since learned about our own empathic ability to sense the emotional states of others,” Daggin said. “Among our own people, we simply ascribed it to a spirit, rather than someone else’s anxiety or worry or ill intent.”

“Your sense of anticipation could mean this is prescient,” Kes said, nodding. 

“But I’m a Betazoid. I’ve never had—” Stadi started to say, then paused as she realized she was wrong. “I was about to say I’ve never had premonitions before, but I have. When those other versions of you two, the ones displaced from the future, were on Voyager.” She looked at Abol and Kes. 

“How do you think the Chorus might help?” Setok said, surprising Stadi by speaking up. He’d been reticent for a while now about his abilities, ever since they’d been so abused by the death-defying Teiran, but her sense of T’Prena and Daggin’s son had more determination to it than anything else.

“Well,” Stadi said. “First I was wondering if any of the rest of you were having any issues, but it sounds like you’re not.” 

“I haven’t,” Cir said. “But I don’t tend to.” As always, he was as comfortable with his relative lack of telepathic ability as he was honest about it. He glanced at Eru. “Eru?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Now that you ask,” she said. “I thought I might have been simply imagining it, or that it was just a function of being around so many new minds—and new species, which can often be a bit jarring—but…” She took a moment, as though she was considering her words with real care. “I’ve wanted to leave.”

“Leave?” Stadi said.

“To get back to Voyager,” Eru said. “I thought I was just feeling an odd nostalgia or desire to be comfortable in our quarters, but…” She looked at Cir. “Now that I’m saying it out loud, I couldn’t say it wasn’t more.” 

Stadi felt Abol’s desire to speak a moment before he did so, adding in his own confession a moment later. “I’ve found myself elsewhere quite a bit,” he said, and the group shifted to look at him, knowing exactly what he meant by elsewhere.

Except for Zahir, who titled his head at Gara. She gave him a little nod that said she understood, and would explain later, and he seemed content with that. 

“You said something like that yesterday,” Li-Paz said, glancing at Kes. “That you liked the view, but preferred the sight of stars at warp.”

“You’re right,” Kes said, nodding slowly. “I don’t think I’d truly noticed, but you’re right.”

Stadi watched Gara, whose eyes widened somewhat, but her gaze met Stadi’s with a similar acknowledgment.

“The Mikhal are a people of travellers,” Eru said. “I wonder if their drive to move on is affecting us, on a metaconscious level.”

“You mean we’re influencing you?” Zahir said, and to his credit, he sounded upset by it. “I promise, we’d never intentionally—”

“No, no, Zahir,” Stadi said, holding up one hand. “When Eru says ‘metaconscious’ she means something like unconscious, but telepathically. Telepaths aren’t always aware of the influence other minds are having on them, and—as she pointed out—there are multiple new species on this planet.” She considered it. “It’s possible one or more of them are having his effect on us, unintentionally.”

“Perhaps working together, you might all find the root of this influence,” T’Prena said. 

“We can certainly try,” Daggin said to his mate, then turned to face the other Ocampa, including his son. “If you’re all willing?”

They agreed, and the relief Stadi felt must have been obvious to them—especially Gara, who aimed a small smile her way—and then, a moment later, Stadi felt them gather together telepathically, each one echoing each other. Stadi listened, passively taking part, but not intruding as each individual presence in front of her grew into a whole much greater than the sum of its parts. 

Only when the Chorus was fully formed did Stadi allow herself to be drawn into it, her thoughts joining those of her students alongside T’Prena. How much stronger they were these days, and how much more guided and focused they could be.

And, hovering at the core of their power, the minds of Eru, Abol, Kes, Cir, Daggin, Gara, and Setok circling around herself and T’Prena, Stadi felt it again: the darkling. 

The Chorus reached out and grasped it as though it were a thing alive, and it didn’t vanish. Stadi could feel her lips turn up in a smile, even as the odd, anticipatory sense of worry and trouble settled. 

Time to see just who was walking over her grave. 

*

Fires erupted in a series. First one, then another, then a third, each one with a massive detonation that shook the ground they stood on before spreading to the next…

Where are we? Stadi couldn’t see beyond the fires, and couldn’t even truly see what burned, let alone where she stood. 

Here, Abol’s thoughts took the lead, as they so often did when the Chorus needed to send itself elsewhere. The dim blackness that surrounded the flames brightened bit by bit as the next explosion, and then another, tore up more of the ground around them.

Ships. The explosions were ships. Larger than shuttles, but not much…

Mikhal Traveler ships, mostly.

The landing pads, Stadi thought.

The explosions picked up in pace and intensity, whole frames lifted and tossed as though they were made of tissue instead of tritanium alloys. And it wasn’t just the ships, Stadi realized with horror, as her gaze slid to the horizon and she saw multiple buildings aflame, including the hospitality towers were already ablaze.

The main Lodge erupted in a fireball followed by a thunderclap, and a thin line of smaller explosions ripped apart the street and pathways, moving between the Lodge and the next building, which exploded, and then the next and the next…

It’s some sort of cascade, Setok’s thoughts broke through. It’s like it’s following the power feeds between the buildings.

Is this is why we want to leave? Kes now. If this is coming…

The darkling twisted in their grasp. 

They sense us. Eru’s thought came with alarm. They know we’ve felt them. Know we’ve seen this.

A pulse of something dark and twisted lashed out from the darkling, and Stadi braced her mind for the impact, shoring up her mental defences in the ways she’d been taught since her telepathy had manifested as a young woman and—

Nothing happened. The explosions vanished, the view vanished, and now they were all simply thoughts and minds in a soft, echoing group once again. 

Setok? T’Prena’s voice was cool and calm, of course, but edged with curiosity.

I have it, Setok’s reply wasn’t quite as cool or calm, but a measured attempt to be. It won’t hurt any of you.

Stadi realized that somehow, even within the Chorus, Setok had managed to construct a kind of cage around the darkling, cutting off whatever it was they’d been seeing in the process, but keeping it away from their minds. 

It’s trying to leave, Setok reported.

Let it go, Stadi thought. 

The darkling vanished, and they were once again just a group of people sitting around a table. 

Zandra Taitt leaned forward. “What’s wrong?” she said. “You all look worried all of a sudden.”

“Zahir,” Stadi said. “What can you tell us about the power systems of this outpost?”

Chapter Text

Li-Paz knelt on one of the empty pads on the landing platform, aiming his tricorder at the ground and frowning. Beside him, Nakahn and Zahir waited, alongside Kes and Gara. Stadi had sent the others to spread out among the Outpost, asking them to do the same thing Li-Paz was doing—looking for signs of…

What? Impending disaster? Sabotage? 

Darklings?

Captain Cavit and Doctor Fitzgerald strode up, and she turned, sensing them before seeing them. Both wore civilian clothes, but their stride was all-business. 

“Captain,” she said, once he was within earshot.

“Have you found anything?” Cavit said. 

“Paz?” Stadi glanced at Li-Paz, and the Bajoran man rose, frowning. 

“I’m not sure, Captain.” He raised his tricorder. 

“Not sure?” Cavit said.

“The Mikhal use a fairly standard forced ion power network,” Li-Paz said. 

“That’s right,” Nakhan said. “It’s the system technology we use in our ship impulse drives.” He frowned, his overbright blue eyes flicking from Cavit to Stadi and back to Li-Paz. “There’s nothing on any of our terminals to say there’s a problem.”

“But you’re not sure,” Cavit said.

Li-Paz handed him the tricorder. “It’s well within tolerance, but it’s running just a little hot. I wouldn’t have given it a second glance, even if I’d seen something this small on a diagnostic on Voyager, but…” He lifted one shoulder. “It’s the only thing, and I can’t quite narrow down a cause.” 

White Cavit looked at the readings, Stadi cleared her mind and allowed herself to drift into Nakhan’s thoughts—he was worried, but it didn’t come from a sense of malice, and he was genuinely worried about this potential threat to the outpost where his lodge operated—and then into Zahir’s.

He, too, was worried, and again she didn’t get any sense of guilt from him. His thoughts were aimed mostly toward Gara, and how he hoped everything would not only turn out to be fine, but that she wasn’t going to ascribe her desire to be away with him to the same feelings that had come over the other Ocampa. 

“You’re right, there’s no cause,” Cavit said. He paused, then tapped his communicator. “Cavit to Voyager.”

“Rollins here. Having a nice time, Captain?” 

“Actually, Scott, there’s a potential problem planetside,” Cavit said. “I need you to scan the Outpost’s entire ion power system for problems. Just in case.” He faced Stadi, and she felt his confidence in her.

Which was more than she felt. Stadi took a short breath, wondering if she was going to end up having raised the alarm and interrupted everyone’s shore leave for nothing. The rest of the Ocampa had spread out to scan other parts of the power system and they’d come up with nothing, until Li-Paz’s slight temperature spike.

Stadi’s hands itched for a conn panel. She wanted to leave the planet, too, and this time, she didn’t think it had anything to do with a telepathic incident. She wanted to be back in a place of surety. Stadi at the helm was Stadi in control.

Stadi chasing darklings, on the other hand… 

“Captain,” Rollins’s voice over the comm didn’t have immediate alarm in it, which was good, but it did have a note of curiosity. “Lan says she’s picked up something of note.”

“Ensign?” Cavit said.

“The temperature isn’t a problem,” Sahreen Lan’s voice over the channel also didn’t have much in the way of alarm, which made Stadi relax another fraction. Maybe, even if this was some sort of problem, they’d be so far ahead of it it would border on routine. “It looks to me to be a symptom. There’s a resonance shift occurring, at one point in the power distribution network, and it’s slowly affecting the rest of the system. Alex is trying to determine exactly where it started, and once he does, we can—”

“Captain!” Honigsberg’s voice cut into the communication. “I hope I’m wrong, but that resonance shift? It looks like a stepping stone on the way to becoming a polaric ion.”

Stadi’s hope for anything routine vanished, ice racing up her spine. 

“What’s a polaric ion?” Zahir said, shaking his head. He didn’t know the term, or the technology.

“An extremely unstable power source… Captain, would this power system handle a polaric power flow?” Stadi said. She knew Captain Cavit had been an Ops officer in his past, and specifically worked with power systems as an engineer.

He shook his head. “Not for very long.” He turned to Nakhan. “Nakhan, Zahir. Does this Outpost have an evacuation plan?” 

Nakhan’s eyes widened. “You want us to evacuate?”

“Polaric energy is extremely unstable—if your power system tips over into a polaric state, even a slight subspace instability forming would vaporize every living thing on the surface of this planet.”

Nakhan stood there, frozen. Stadi felt the disbelief—willful disbelief, fuelled by fear—settling in, and glanced at Zahir, who met her gaze and nodded. 

“I’ll get it started,” Zahir said. “I’ll sound the alarm, and send the notice.”

“I’ll come with you,” Gara said.

“Alex,” Cavit said, raising his chin. “How do we stop this resonance from tipping over?”

“We’d need to find the source of the issue in the first place,” Honigsberg’s voice said. “It’s barely begun though, Captain. I’m not going to be able to detect something that specific from up here until it’s too late.” 

“I’ll try mapping the temperature changes,” Lan said. “That could give us a clue.”

“Captain,” Stadi said, stepping forward. “We have dozens of crew on the planet, and standard procedure…”

He was already nodding. He tapped his combadge. “Cavit to all crew. If you’re on the planet, grab your tricorders and head to the nearest node of the local power grid. Ops is going to send down a scan profile, and what you’re looking for. We need to find the source of a change in the Outpost’s power distribution network that could be catastrophic, before it’s catastrophic.”

An alarm sounded, followed by an voice announcing that all ships should prepare to leave the landing pads, in a timely and orderly fashion. Around them, foot traffic paused, and then picked up all around them at speed.

“How much time do we have?” Fitzgerald said, leaning in to keep his voice between himself, Stadi, and Cavit.

“Get back to the ship,” Cavit said, which was answer enough to make Fitzgerald clench his jaw before nodding. “They’ll need to co-ordinate beaming up the teams as they rule out any part of the network.”

Fitzgerald stepped away, calling to Voyager’s transporter room.

Stadi looked at the Captain, and he lifted one eyebrow. “Let’s start on the far side of the landing pad,” he said, handing the tricorder back to Li-Paz and pulling his own from his vest pocket. “We could be looking at days before this place goes critical, but…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

Stadi heard the words he was thinking anyway.

But it could be a matter of hours, for all we know.

*

Lieutenant Commander Ro strode onto the Bridge, and Rollins rose from the big chair. “We’ve got a third of the crew back aboard, just in case. The rest are spread out and scanning and uploading their findings to Main Engineering.”

“Anything yet?” Ro said.

“Not yet,” Lan said from Ops. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”

“I’ll live.” Ro’s small smile was there-and-gone as she sat. “Are we thinking this is an attack of some sort?”

“Right now it’s looking more like a technological failure,” Lan said. “Though we’ll know more once we can pinpoint a source of some kind. The problem is the temperature is painting a picture pretty far from where most of our people are, and I don’t think Captain Cavit is going to want us to start beaming people down to figure it out, rather than up. And there are a lot of ships lifting off right now, too.”

“We’re not beaming anyone down,” Ro said. “Not until we’ve got as many people out of harm’s way as possible.”

*

“Not exactly the hike we were planning for today,” Stiles said, as he and Russell jogged their way to the co-ordinates Voyager had sent them. 

“The power network runs along that pathway,” Russell said, pointing. “About a metre underground.” 

They made it to the top of the crest, and Russell pulled out his tricorder and started scanning, kneeling down on the ground to take a reading.

Stiles took a few breaths, watching Russell’s face. “Anything?”

“There’s definitely a shift happening here…” He reached up and tapped his communicator. “Russell to Voyager.”

“Go ahead.” It was Lieutenant Commander Ro.

“Commander,” Russell said. “I’m seeing an ongoing resonance shift in the juncture where Lieutenant Stiles and I are scanning. I’m uploading the readings, but I’m fairly certain this is it.”

*

“He’s right,” Lan said, looking up. “The density of polaric ions in these scans is the highest we’ve seen yet, and it’s having a cascade reaction.”

“What’s the cause?” Ro said, both to Lan and to Russell.

*

Stiles watched Russell work, knowing his own limited understanding of the theoreticals in play wasn’t likely to help, and instead focusing on what he could see. Nothing looked tampered with. The pathway was undisturbed. The plant life didn’t seem particularly disturbed. 

“I don’t know how this happened,” Russell said, after a few more moments of scanning. “The minerals in the nearby rock are refracting some of my scans. But we need to stop it, and soon. There’s a cascade effect, and it’s increasing exponentially, Commander.” Stiles saw him swallow, and realized they were in more trouble here than he’d thought they might be. “Any one of the ships at the landing site could create enough of a subspace disturbance to set off a polaric reaction if this spreads far enough.” 

“You’re not seeing a cause of any kind?” Lieutenant Honigsberg’s voice was clipped, all-business. 

“Only the rock,” Russell said. “The polaric ionization effect isn’t helping my scans, but this could be geological—mineral refraction—but I’m not sure how that would have taken this long and…” Russell paused. “It’s spiking, Lieutenant. I’m going to have to risk a counter-resonance now, or…” This time he trailed off without explaining.

Yeah, Stiles was more sure than ever this was bad. 

“How are you going to generate it?” Honigsberg said. “I’m not sure we can risk beaming anything down.”

Stiles knelt beside Russell, and Russell bit his lip. “Sam, do you have your phaser with you?”

Stiles nodded, and pulled it out of his pocket. 

“You brought a phaser on shore leave?” Honigsberg’s voice was incredulous.

“Lieutenant Stiles is very security conscious,” Russell said, already adjusting the settings and glancing back and forth between it and his tricorder. “Sir, you might want to beam up everyone you can.”

“We already are,” Commander Ro answered. 

“Do you have a clear enough reading for the counter-resonance?” Lan said.

“I might have to eyeball it a bit,” Russell said.

Stiles raised his eyebrows, and Russell shrugged with what looked like an apology.

“Do what you have to do, Lieutenant,” Ro said. 

“Should I stand back?” Stiles said, speaking low enough for his voice not to carry over Russell’s combadge, or at least he hoped so.

“No point,” Russell said, just as softly. “Either this will work, or…” He chewed his bottom lip.

“Right,” Stiles said. “Got it.” 

“Still glad you asked me to join you?” Russell said, checking the phaser against whatever his tricorder was telling him before looking at Stiles with a trace of gallows humour.

“Ask me again later,” Stiles said.

Russell laughed. He lifted his chin. “I’m ready, Commander. I’d like to give you more time for transport, but it needs to be sooner than later if I’m going to to stop the cascade.”

“Make it so, Lieutenant,” Ro said, and for some reason Stiles didn’t grasp, her wording seemed to make Russell smile. He glanced at Stiles, made one more adjustment to the phaser, then aimed it down at the ground beneath their feet and fired.

*

On Voyager, Ro forced herself not to pace, instead crossing her arms and waiting, facing Lan, who was watching her display with a tight jaw and her unblinking, dark brown eyes. 

“Anything?” Ro said quietly, when she couldn’t force herself to stay silent any longer.

“It’s hard to see from up here,” Lan said. “If I do see any signs of polaric ions, then…” She glanced up. “It wouldn’t be good news.”

“No sign of explosion,” Rollins said. “The shipyards is nearly two-thirds empty.”

“Away Teams?” Ro said.

“We’ve still got twenty people down there, including Stiles and Russell.” 

Ro waited.

She’d just about brought herself to hail Russell again when instead, his voice came over the comm.

“Russell to Voyager.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

“It worked. I’d suggest we send an engineering team down to make sure whatever set this off in the first place doesn’t start over, but I’ve got no signs of polaric resonance any more.”

“The temperature in the power network is already returning to normal,” Lan said.

“Good job, Lieutenant. Glad we had you nearby,” Ro said.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Bridge to Engineering. Alex, I’d like you to co-ordinate with Russell and the Travelers. Let’s find out how this happened and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“Aye, Commander.”

Ro turned back to the big chair and sat. She blew out a breath, then turned to Rollins. “I guess we should send people back down for the last of their shore leave before the second wave.” 

Rollins smiled. “I’ll handle it, Commander.”

*

Gara ran her hand along the navigational console of Zahir’s ship. Like everything else in the sleek vessel, it was well designed, and although it wasn’t as adaptable as a Federation interface, she was certain she could manage it. She sat in the chair, and closed her eyes for a moment, just getting a feel for the intimate Bridge, which seated two comfortably, but certainly closely. 

She felt Zahir approach, and as always her senses picked up his desires first: to leave, to travel, to explore, to be with her while he did so.

She turned in the chair, and Zahir regarded her with those exceptional blue eyes of his.

“Your Lieutenant Stadi says the others aren’t feeling their urge to leave any more,” he said. A wave of something unusual for Zahir—or at least in her admittedly short time with him—accompanied the words: hesitation, and worry.

“You’re wondering if I feel the same way,” she said. “Whether the influence of subconsciously something was wrong was the reason I was so willing to join you?” 

Zahir sat behind the pilot’s seat. “I was. I am.”

Gara regarded him frankly. So handsome, so full of a drive and joy and desire to see and explore. Moreso than anyone she’d really met, truly. “It’s possible it was influencing me,” she said. “I need to admit that. But it wasn’t the whole reason. I have been wondering what the next step of my life is for a while now, and…” She smiled. “Well. I don’t know if this is my next step in life, but I don’t have to know that to explore the option. Commander Ro approved my leave. If the offer still stands?”

Zahir’s broad smile—and the rush of warmth, affection, and, yes, attraction—was already answer enough, but he leaned forward and tapped on a small console in the space between their two stations.

“Landing control, this is the Zahir-Gara,” Zahir said, his eyes not leaving hers for even a moment. “Requesting permission to launch.”

*

At the largest table in the Lodge, Stadi sat with Nakhan, three other Mikhal Travelers, as well as Captain Cavit and Lieutenant Honigsberg. 

“You’re saying it was a fluke?” The oldest of the Travelers said, a woman named Illinne. “A quirk of mineralogy?” 

“That’s what it looks like,” Honigsberg said. “Polaric power systems can be initiated through a variety of methods, and one of them is by passing ions through certain crystalline mineral structures, and…” He waved a hand, seeming to understand he was losing his audience. “The point is, there was a small vein of that exact material embedded near the power transfer coils, and it was just enough for some of the ions to take on a polaric resonance.” 

“His team removed the mineral,” Stadi said. “And it doesn’t seem to appear anywhere else on your planet.”

“And it just happened to be where our power system was?” Nakhan said. 

“That’s what it looks like,” Honigsberg said. “It might have been the remnants of a meteoric impact, or…” He shook his head. “There’s no way to know.”

“And unchecked?” Illinne said.

“It would have exploded,” Cavit said.

“It was lucky you were here, then,” Illinne said, turning to Stadi. “Your sense of the imminent danger saved all our lives, Lieutenant.”

Stadi nodded politely. “I’m glad to have helped.” In truth, though, she was more convinced she’d picked up that sense from the Ocampa, but her Betazoid paraconscious had done a better job of letting her conscious mind know it had happened.

Their group broke up, and Cavit stayed with the Travelers, speaking quietly. Stadi moved away from the table, ready to beam up now her shore leave was officially over, but glanced up when Honigsberg approached. 

“You okay, Roni?” he said.

“I think so,” she said. Then she regarded him face-on. “You’re sure it was just bad luck? Because I feel like you maybe weren’t entirely convinced.”

He rubbed his goatee. “Because I wasn’t. Captain Cavit is handing over my full report to them, but…” He exhaled. “I’m not a fan of coincidence, but that rare mineral, in that density, beside the specific component necessary to cause that kind of reaction, on a planet that doesn’t otherwise have that mineral, and didn’t know anything about polaric power…” He shook his head. “I couldn’t find evidence of tampering. If someone had buried it there, it would have taken an incredible amount of time and effort to do it to leave no traces, but…”

“But?”

“If it was as simple as the mineral, I find it odd that it didn’t happen until now. That power transfer has been running through there for years.” He shrugged. “It’s possible the refraction only started recently, but it’s also unlikely. But when it comes down to it, what would be the point of purposefully setting up something so… unlikely?” He sighed. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Scott. I’m ascribing nefarious purposes.”

“Maybe,” Stadi said. The sense of anticipation she’d had made sense for her mind interpreting an Ocampan flash of the future. But there’d also been malice. Antipathy. “Maybe,” she said, again. She wasn’t sure she’d convinced herself, but the Captain would warn the Travelers, and that would have to be enough. If nothing else, they’d take precautions to make sure nothing else could happen to their power system.

“The important thing is no one got hurt,” Honigsberg said. “We were here doing some maintenance anyway, and caught it in time. If we’d already left, we’d never have even known it had happened.”

“Right,” Stadi said.

*

Stiles stowed his camping gear away, putting it back in the chest where it lived most of the time, and straightening. He’d just picked up a PADD when his door chimed.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened, and Russell stepped in, already back in uniform, clean-shaven and tidy. “I just wanted to stop by and say thank you,” Russell said. “I’ve got the night duty shift on the Bridge.”

“No rest for the hero of the hour?” Stiles said.

Russell laughed. “Hardly a hero.” 

“You stopped a planet-devastating explosion with my phaser, Dennis,” Stiles said. “I think you can call that one heroic.” 

Russell smiled. “Well.”

“I’m sure that’s how Pablo will think of it,” Stiles said, with a sly smile.

“Don’t start,” Russell said. “I get enough of that from Lyndsay.” 

“Fine, fine,” Stiles said. He paused, though, PADD in hand, regarding Russell. “Do you have any idea of what you’re going to write in your report, for the Captain?”

Russell nodded. “I do. I think I needed to take a step back from it to gain some perspective. Thanks to you, I did.”

“Any time,” Stiles said. “I mean it.”

Russell nodded. “Next shore leave, then. I enjoyed the hiking, and the camping. But I’ll bring my own phaser.”

Stiles laughed. “It’s a deal.”

Russell left him then, and the door closed behind him.

Stiles lifted the PADD, tapping on it to activate it.

Whether or not it would ever be delivered, he’d decided to write his sons another letter. But this time, it wasn’t going to be apologies, or requests for forgiveness.

This time, it was going to be every story he could remember about their mother.