The BLTS Archive - Tapestry One
Snowblind
by Unzadi (unzadi@aol.com)

---

Archives:  ASC, please.  Anyone else, please ask.

Disclaimers:  Paramount owns Star Trek, but everything else is mine,
mine, mine, and they can't have it.  Their sandbox, my toys, yada yada
yada...

---

*It was cold, so cold, too cold.   Too cold to sleep, which was good.
Where was it?  Control panel should be...so cold...right
about...weak...there.  Dialect.  The cursed thing was in dialect.  No
matter.  Just remember the sequence.  Red first, then purple.  No
purple, but there was green.  Try green.  Cold, so cold. Could blood
freeze?*

*No time for that.  Green, then blue, orange, or white?  Cold, so
cold, cold and weak.  Orange, definitely orange.  Green again, now
yellow, now red once more.  Now white.  That was in dialect, too?
Verify?  Ridiculous.  Too easy to imitate something so familiar....*

*There!  Shudder, lights, then the hum of engine.  Up, up, higher,
faster, no going back now.  Forget the pain.  Stay awake.  Plot
course?  Ridiculous.  Straight ahead was wisest.   Beeline.  So cold,
so tired, so weak.  No.  Stay awake, sleep later.  Time later for
everything, for anything.  Only stay awake now. Put some distance
behind...cold, so cold...no, no, up, not down.  Not down,
not...sleep.*

---

"We are being hailed, sir."

Riker shifted in the command seat and scowled.  "Hailed?  From where?"

Worf consulted the panel in front of him.  "The planet's surface," he
growled, less than pleased at this interruption so close to the end of
his shift.

Riker was merely surprised.  "Philemon Three?  Mr. Worf, are you
sure?"

"Quite certain, sir."

Riker repositioned himself in the command chair.  "I wonder what they
want, " he mused aloud. "We're going to be there soon enough."

"Seven hours, thirty-six minutes, and twenty-eight seconds to be
exact," Data put in helpfully, not looking up from his console.

"Still hailing, sir."

"On viewer," Riker commanded.

The main viewscreen flickered to life with the image of an older,
human male, with a dirt-streaked face, his body swathed in a grey fur
parka.  "Try again, Mendez.  They should be in range.  Wait, I think
we're getting something."  The man squinted at his own screen, cupping
gloved hands around his goggled eyes.  "Hello?"

Despite feeling it inappropriate, Riker couldn't help smiling.  *At
least it isn't going to be anything hostile.*    "Hello yourself.
Commander William Riker at your service.  What  can we do for you?"

The man visibly relaxed, an exhale of relief fluttering the fur trim
of his parka's hood.   "Governor Eric Anderson here, Commander.  Don't
worry, we're fine, I think."

"Glad to hear it, Governor.  We'll be in orbit around your planet in
just over seven hours."

"Seven hours, thirty-five minutes and four seconds at current speed,"
Data supplied, again not looking up from his work.

The governor's brow furrowed.  "Could you get here any sooner?"

"Sooner?"  Riker crossed his arms in front of him.  He didn't have the
patience for games.  "Do you require additional supplies?"  He had no
idea what the tiny settlement could have run out of in just six
months.  When Starfleet had planted the mining settlement, they had
left more than enough supplies for eight months.   Unless the miners
had been throwing one hell of a party, there was no reasonable
explanation for running out so soon.

"Not exactly, Commander.  As I said, we're fine, I think.  Nothing's
gone wrong with any of the mining equipment, or anything like that."
He paused, pulling at the fingers of his left glove.  "About an hour
ago, we heard something crash; a vehicle of some sort.  We can't spare
any of our people to investigate, and none of the native workers will
even go near the mountains.  That's about where the object went down."

Riker cursed silently.  *There goes the poker game.*   "Could it have
been one of your own transport vehicles?"

Anderson shook his head.  The hood remained in place.  "That's what I
thought at first.  All of our pods are accounted for, and our native
workers don't use any form of machinery, as you know.   We'll all feel
a lot better if you could..."  His voice trailed off, the hope in his
eyes saying the rest.

Riker didn't need to hear anything else.  "Understood, Governor.  Do
you think there might be any survivors?"

Anderson cast about before answering.  "Possibly," he allowed.  "But
it's cold, even for here.  I've got everyone but the natives indoors.
Plus, we're due for another ice storm before long.  If anyone survived
that crash, they couldn't make it to us.  Besides," he added, "you're
bringing our medical staff."

Riker's voice was clipped as he assessed the situation.  "What  have
you got now?"

"One medic with a medikit.  He can only do so much.  I'm afraid the
poor man didn't get much training.  The doctor Starfleet provided us
with went ice climbing two weeks ago, and was killed in a fall. He
took his nurse with him, and she didn't make it back, either. "
Anderson paused for a long, pitiful sigh. "Of course, the natives
won't have anything to do with the medic anyway, so it's only
Federation people he has to..."

"We'll have a medical team ready," Riker cut in.  "As soon as we size
up your situation, I'll let you know when to expect us.  In the
meantime, keep us abreast of any new developments on your end."

Anderson smiled uneasily.  "Good.  We'll do that.  Hope to see you
soon."  With that, the image winked out, leaving only the starfield on
the viewscreen.

Riker's fingers drummed against the armrests.  "Recommendations?"

Looking up from his station, Data blinked and stretched rather
artificially, which he did at regular intervals on double shifts like
this one.  "Surface temperature is minus forty-three point two five
six degrees Celsius and dropping.  Any unprotected lifeform would be
extremely susceptible to exposure."

*That,*  thought Riker,  *is an understatement.*

From the rear of the bridge, Worf dissented.  "I would proceed with
caution.  Governor Anderson did not say what the vehicle might be.  It
or its occupants may be armed.  The natives," he summed up, pointedly,
"are reluctant to approach the area.  That does not inspire
confidence."

Riker looked to Data.  "Why?"

"The Dega are a group of natives similar to the Amish people of
Earth's America.  Like their Terran counterparts, the Dega shun
technology and modern lifestyles.  They live in a separate community
and do only manual labour in the mines.  They have a long-standing
cultural taboo about going near the mountain range."  He would have
elaborated on the taboo's origins, but a sharp look from Riker
convinced him to save it for another time.

"Thank you, Data.  Mr. Worf, begin a sensor sweep of the mountain
range.  Scan for life signs and keep an eye out for vessels in orbit
or on the planet's surface.  Check to see what's been coming and going
in the past few days."  His fingers wanted to go to his communicator
and inform the captain of this new development, but he remembered Dr.
Crusher's insistence that Picard have an extra, undisturbed sleep
period.

Worf's low grunt announced that he had a report already.  "Two alien
ships have entered Philemon Three's orbit in the past seven days.  A
Caitian freighter came four days ago, and left the next day. "  He
paused, his lips curling back at the next bit of information.  "A
Ferengi merchant arrived two days ago, and is still in the capital
city.  No shuttles."

Riker tapped a button on the arm of his chair.  "Riker to Crusher."

There was a metallic chirp, then, "Crusher here."

"How close is the medical staff for Philemon Three to being ready?"

"Everything's right on schedule," Beverly Crusher answered warily.

Riker made his decision.  "Get them ahead of schedule.  We'll need two
medics for a landing party the minute we make orbit.  You and your
best med-tech.  Riker out."  He stood.  "Data, assemble an away team,
then notify Geordi.  He'll want to get a look at whatever we find.  On
second thought, put him on the team."  He paused to catch his breath.
It didn't take a Betazoid to know this wasn't going to be the easy
mission they'd been expecting.  "Warp eight."

---

The away team materialised in a hazy blue shimmer.  Geordi La Forge
surveyed the crash site, VISOR and tricorder readings telling him to
hurry.

"Ouch.  Good thing I don't have to repair that, Geordi thought aloud,
with a low whistle.  "Okay, let's get a move on, people.  No telling
what this thing's going to do."

"I'm still reading life signs," Beverly Crusher reported, sweeping her
medical scanner around the general area.  "But I can't tell how
strong.  Can we open the hatch?"

Worf gestured impatiently at the other security officer, Jeffrey
Taylor, a  muscle-bound human male of medium height.   He wished that
Data had been on the team, but Riker had decided at the last minute
that the android would be more useful on board.  "Reading no weapons,
sir," the Klingon rumbled as he plowed through knee-high snow to reach
the downed shuttle.

Rohit Sabu, a young East Indian engineer, cleared his throat, scowling
at his instrument. "Commander La Forge?"

"Getting something, Sabu?"

Sabu nodded.  "It's the shuttle, sir.  My tricorder says it's of
Romulan origin, at least partly."

Geordi sighed.  Ensign Sabu was a good engineer, but timid around his
superiors.  "Romulan it is," he confirmed, just to make sure.  "Mr.
Sabu, give Worf and Taylor a hand with that hatch.  We'll assume
hostility."

The East Indian joined the security team in pulling at the entry
hatch.  The three men stopped, conferred, then Worf aimed a light
phaser blast until a large enough hole appeared.  He entered quickly,
followed by Beverly and an Andorian med-tech.

Beverly and her assistant wasted no time in reaching the shuttle's
lone occupant, a child-sized human slumped over the pilot's seat.  The
still form looked more dead than alive. Fur robes that had once been
as white as everything else on the planet were now stained various
shades of red, from bright crimson to dull brick.   Wisps of long,
fair hair hung out from under the torn hood, falling forward over the
controls. The pilot's left arm dangled limply in its socket,
dislocated, fingers poised as if reaching for something.

"Human, female."   The Andorian's voice still delivered the typical
mid-sentence pause, though she spoke quickly.

Beverly frowned at her tricorder.  "Whatever else she's got, she's
lost too much blood to stay here."  She slapped the communicator on
her parka.  "Three to beam directly to Sickbay."

As soon as the doctors and patient were gone, Geordi and Sabu piled
in.  The shuttle might  be of Romulan design, Geordi thought, but
someone else had been using it.  No Romulan would ever let a shuttle
get that run down.

"Mr. Sabu, check the climate control.  I've got the..."  Geordi
stopped in mid-sentence as his VISOR gave him the most important
information.  "Out!  The reactor's going to blow any second!"

On his own, Sabu might have hesitated, but Worf's bulk propelled him
though the hatch, with Geordi right behind.  Worf ordered Taylor away
from the shuttle as soon as the Klingon's head cleared the hatch.
Mere seconds after they had gotten a safe distance away, the craft
quaked, hissed, and blew.

"Four to beam up."

---

Beverly hit the ground running.  Shrugging out of her heavy parka, she
rattled off medical readings as fast as she could get them.  "Three
broken ribs, two cracked.  One pierced lung, internal bleeding.
Cranial hemorrhage.  Disruptor burns."  The next reading brought a
twinge of sadness to her voice.   "She had a miscarriage roughly
forty-eight hours ago."  Beverly forced herself to go on,  as she
quickly donned her red operating gown over her uniform.   "Multiple
contusions, abrasions and lacerations. Left arm dislocated at
shoulder.  We'll fix that manually."

Medical technician Eliva Riss, a slender young Andorian female whose
skin nearly matched the blue of her uniform, lowered the patient onto
the waiting diagnostic bed.  With no time to waste, her agile blue
hands brushed long blonde hair away from the patient's chest, seeking
the outer garment's opening. Stripping it off, the Andorian's eyes
noticed something glimmering against the rough fabric of the patient's
clothes.   Her antennae twitched at the sight of the familiar metallic
shape.  "Doctor?"

Beverly removed the communicator from the smaller woman's clothes.
"Get this down to Engineering," she ordered, handing it off to a
waiting med-tech.  "Eliva, get the rest of those clothes off her and
watch out for any more surprises."  With only enough pause for a
resigned sigh, Beverly tapped her own communicator.  "Crusher to
Riker."

"Riker here."

"Will, you'd better get down here.  Our shuttle pilot is in possession
of a Starfleet communicator. I'm going to see if we can find out
whose.   Right now -" She glanced over at the diagnostic bed, where
Eliva was busily cutting away at the blood-soaked cloth that covered
the woman.  "We've got to get her stabilized, and that's not going to
be easy."

Rough and impatient, Riker's voice cut in.  "Her?"  He could feel
conflicting senses of hope and fear rising within him.  * Maybe...*
In the background, he could hear the rushed chatter of the medical
staff going about the business of caring for the nameless patient.

Beverly's exasperated sigh cut through the rest of the noise.  "Yes,
her.  The patient is human, female..."  She paused, trying to get an
accurate estimate of the woman's age.  "Early to mid-twenties, I'd
say,  Caucasian..."

For half a second, Riker could feel his own heart stop.  Please...
"About one point five meters tall, blonde, purple eyes?"

Beverly ground out a growl of irritation.  "This is hardly the time to
check her out for dating potential.  I didn't see a wedding ring on
her, either.  I'm trying to save the woman's life.  Right now, her
physical attributes are the least of my concern."

There was a brief pause before Riker answered, his voice choked out
around carefully chosen words.  He didn't want to make any mistakes.
This was too important.  "Doctor, I believe I can identify your
patient.  I'm on my way.  Riker out."

Beverly let out a long breath.  "Okay, he's on his way.  We'll need
blood, human, type A..."

Surgery was already under way when Riker strode into Sickbay, his
steps longer and faster than usual, but not quite at a run.  Beverly
and Eliva were working furiously, blood-red operating gowns unsettling
him, as they always did.  He could never shake the feeling that the
gowns had been white when they began the surgeries, and were only red
because the patient didn't have a prayer.   This one, though, had all
of his.

If he was right, if the woman on the operating table was who he
suspected, there was going to be one hell of a lot more than a simple
report to make.  He caught a few of the words tossed back and forth
between Beverly and her assistant - words like blood, pseudo-skin,
hypo, suture, close.

When Beverly finally pronounced her patient stable, she turned away
from the table, looking weary, but relieved.  The dark circles under
her drooping eyelids stood out in stark relief against her pale skin,
the usually invisible fine lines at the corners of her eyes showing
like spiderwebs against glass.  "How long have you been there?"

"Since I got here," Riker said, looking past Beverly at the still form
on the bed.  "I'll have a look at her now."  Without waiting for
permission, he moved toward the patient.

Beverly pulled off her hood and ran an unsteady hand through her
sweat-damp hair.  "I don't suppose you asked for the time before you
got here."  She punctuated her sentence with a weary smile. "Never
mind.  She's stable, for now.  I wouldn't try to ask her anything for
quite some time, though.  She's got enough to do just staying alive.
I'd like to get Deanna down here and see if she can..."

Riker stopped listening.  One look at the woman's face blocked out
everything else.  He'd been right.  "Sarah."

Beverly snapped alert at the tenderness in Riker's voice.   "You can
make a positive identification?"

Riker's mouth curved into a half-smile.  The other half could come
when he was sure he was awake.  "Absolutely.  Beverly Crusher, allow
me to introduce you to Lieutenant Sarah Elizabeth Anne Mary Catherine
Cromwell."

"You know her?"

"I know her," he stated.  *Better than I can tell you.*    He hovered
around her bed, not daring to touch her.  The porcelain features he
remembered fondly were now misshapen, swollen from injury, surgery and
medication.  What skin he could see was either pink with pseudo-skin
or violently black and blue.   "How long before she comes to?"  He
didn't dare ask whether there was an *if*  connected to her regaining
consciousness.

Beverly shrugged, peeling off the operating gown and letting it drop
to the floor.  Her own posture sagged as well.  "I can't say, Will.
Eliva, call up the medical records for Lieutenant Sarah Cromwell.
Hopefully, we won't need to enter all those middle names."  She turned
to Riker.  "I suppose you know her last posting."

Riker nodded, not taking his eyes off Sarah.  "USS *Hoyle.*   She held
the position of second officer.  I can save you the rest of the
questions," he offered.  "She was born on  April ninth, 2342, in
Devon, England, on Earth."

If Beverly felt any surprise over just how much Riker knew about Sarah
Cromwell, she didn't show it.  Instead, she looked toward Eliva.
"How's it coming?"

The Andorian's fingers flew over the keypad, entering in the
information as fast as  Riker had given it.  "I've got it, Doctor."

Beverly turned her attention to the computer display.  "I suppose we'd
best notify the *Hoyle* that we've found their MIA.  That is, if these
readings match up," she said, mostly to herself, as she compared the
figures in her tricorder to the stored records.  "Which they do.
Thank you, Commander.  You've made our job a lot easier.  Relatively,
that is.  You can go back to the bridge, Will," she added softly.
"She's going to be out for some time."

"Call me when she comes out of it," he instructed, pulling the sheet
covering Sarah just a tad higher on her shoulders.  *I'll be back,* he
promised silently.  *Don't go anywhere.*

---

*Light.  Too much light.  Voices.  Hands.  Warm.  Pain?  No, not
anymore.  Good.  Better that way. Easier.*

*Enough sleep.  No, want more.  No time.  Voices.  Get away from
voices.  Different voices this time, but no time to listen.  Have to
get started again.  Have to get away.  Or is this it?  Take time to
listen. Could make all the difference.  Listen.  Different language.
Different, familiar...what was it?  Remember. Just a few words.  Just
enough to understand.*

*Voices finished?  Already?  Touch.  Metal.  Hiss.  From where?
Warmer now.  Better.  What touched?  Who touched?  Comfort.  Safe.*

*Lying down?  That's not right.  Should be sitting.  Try to sit.
Can't get up.  Want to, need to.  Body doesn't understand.*

*Find...have to find...find what?  Panel.  Not here!  Not here?  Not
here.  Impossible! Unless...unless already there.*

*Voices calm, soft.  Hands steady, strong, but gentle.  Never gentle
before.  No harm here.  Safety.  Must be already there.  How to know?
Think.  That's it.  Ask.  No, wrong words.  They don't understand. Try
Standard...*

"Lieutenant Cromwell?"

*Must be there.  They must have seen it.  It was worth saving, hiding.
They know...*

Lieutenant Sarah Elizabeth Anne Mary Catherine Cromwell, lately of the
USS *Hoyle*, tried to sit up.

"You're in restraints," a soft, female voice informed her.  "Do you
know where you are, Lieutenant?"

Violet eyes opened slowly, then blinked shut at the glare of the
lighting.  The tenseness of her features eased as she slipped back
into the welcoming  darkness, allowing herself to drink in the
symphony of sounds and voices.  *Made it, thank God.*  For the first
time in months, she smiled.

Beverly regarded her patient with motherly concern.  "Go ahead, sleep.
You'll need it."  She tapped her communicator.  "Crusher to Riker.
Sleeping Beauty is trying to wake up."

"On my way."

---

"She doesn't take to light very well," Beverly explained as she led
Riker into the small recovery room.  "So we're keeping things at this
illumination for now.  My guess is that it's what she's used to. When
she knows where she is, we'll try making it a little brighter."  The
doctor paused to flash Riker what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
By the tight, thin line between his eyes, she could tell there was a
lot more going on in his mind than mere professional concern.
"Whatever the lighting, I'm sure she'll appreciate a friendly face."

"I'm sure," Riker said, as if he'd been paying attention.  All his
thoughts were on the figure on the diagnostic bed, dressed now in the
standard issue Sickbay gown.  "How is she?"

Beverly hesitated, worrying her chapped lower lip between her teeth.
"For someone in her condition, not too bad.  Deanna's with a regular
appointment now, but she'll take a look at the lieutenant in about an
hour."

Riker stepped up to the bed.  For a moment, all he did was look at
her.  As a surprising tenderness overtook his reason, he felt as
though he ought to be doing something, but wasn't sure what.  The
dimness of the lighting was an added blessing.  He'd seen cases like
this before,  but when it was someone close, someone who had been...he
just didn't want to see all of it.  Behind him, he could hear
Beverly's breathing.  Of course she would stay in the room to monitor
Sarah's responses.  He chose to ignore her.

Someone, he saw, had been thoughtful enough to braid Sarah's long hair.
He wondered if they'd known she liked it that way; so did he.  One of
his fingers toyed with a sweat-damp wisp.  That was when he noticed
just how cold the room was.  Of course it was cold.  That was another
thing Sarah would be used to, after all that time in the deep-freeze.
Riker wondered exactly how much of her the Romulans had allowed to
escape.  Romulan torture was known for its thoroughness.  If they'd
destroyed *her*...

Riker's free hand clenched into a fist at his side, the fingernails
digging into his palm.  He didn't feel it.  The slight flutter of
Sarah's pale, wet lashes demanded all of his attention.  "I think
she's coming to."

"Talk to her," Beverly urged, not moving from where she was.  "See if
she remembers you."

Riker's finger wound itself again in the damp wisp, as he recalled,
inexplicably, a time on the *Hood* when he'd had to ask Sarah to wear
her hair up.  The long fall of pale silver-blonde hair  had been
termed too distracting on duty.  He could vouch for that.  Taking a
deep breath, he brought himself back to the present.  "Hey, Brit."

Misty violet eyes slid open and looked at him quizzically, as though
she were trying to find him in a crowd.  Her lips formed each word
silently before she spoke it.  "Willie?  Is that you?"  She still
looked at him, eyes searching.

"It's me."

She managed a weak smile of relief, one a stranger wouldn't have
noticed.

"Is it the beard?"

Sarah regarded him for only a second, her eyes taking in the length of
his body as well as his face.  "No."  She paused long enough for a
coquettish glance at his midsection.  "You've got your trousers on."

Involuntarily, Beverly laughed, an absolute guffaw that echoed off the
Sickbay walls.

Riker, not nearly as amused, released Sarah's hair.   "She'll be
fine," he pronounced, in a grumble, running a hand over his beard to
hide the grin he didn't want either woman to see.

Beverly bit back a smile of her own.  "If you say so."  She stepped
forward, sweeping the diagnostic wand over Sarah.  "Just as I thought,"
she observed, taking note of the readings.  "Your being here has
brought her heart rate down considerably.  Better than the medication,
in fact.  It's nearly normal. I'd keep this guy around if I were you,"
she advised Sarah, who slipped back into sleep before the sentence was
finished.  "Is she always like that?"  Beverly cast a pointed glance
at Riker's uniform.

"Most of the time," Riker admitted, not willing to let Beverly know
she'd heard one of Sarah's more gentle jibes.

"Poor Romulans."  Beverly adjusted her instrument, taking a second
reading, partly for good measure, but mostly to fill the silence.
"Will, she's going to need that sense of humour to get over this.  I
know you're going to want to debrief her and all, but please remember
that she's been through some serious physical trauma.  That's going to
affect the rest of her."

A thin, tense line appeared between Riker's eyes.  "You don't have to
remind me, Doctor."

Beverly winced at the sharpness of Riker's tone, the words hitting her
ears like hypodermic needles.  "I didn't mean to patronize you.   It's
just that Sarah is going to be healing for quite some time.  Six
months of Romulan torture is a serious thing.  They don't just settle
for bruising the body; it goes deeper than that.  There are some
things I'll need to know that aren't in here."  She held up the
instrument and tapped it for emphasis.  "You're the best one to tell
me.  What is Lieutenant Sarah Cromwell like?"

*A  miracle.*    Riker's expression eased, a cloud passing behind his
eyes before he broke into a roguish grin.  "Doctor, do I need to
remind you that I once took an oath to always comport myself as an
officer and a gentleman?"

"I'm serious."

"So am I," Riker responded, stepping slightly away from the table,
crossing his arms in front of him.  "So is she, for that matter.   She
loves Chopin and painting.  She hates short jokes.  Don't let her size
fool you.  She has a command presence that can make a Klingon soil
himself, as she'd put it."  He paused, a hand going up to press
against his temple.  It had been one hell of a long day, and it didn't
seem to be getting any shorter.  "I'd trust her brain over a
computer's memory banks any day.  She remembers everything.  Even the
things everybody else would rather forget.  Especially those," he
added, more to himself than for Beverly's benefit.  "Trust me, if
she's decided to survive, she will."


---

The senior staff of the USS Enterprise  sat around the conference
table, eyes intent on the viewscreen as Beverly explained the images.
"These are more disruptor burns," she said unnecessarily, her voice
weary.  All present had seen Romulan disruptor burns before, and
Beverly had shown them more than enough on this particular patient.
Those crewmembers who had experienced disruptor burns themselves
couldn't help feeling them again now.

The screen only showed small areas at a time, but the extent of the
injuries was readily apparent. The woman's body looked as though it
had hosted a battle.

"There is no doubt in my mind that Lieutenant Sarah Cromwell was
systematically tortured. Whoever had her wanted something very badly.
From the looks of her, she didn't give them any of it."

Captain Jean-Luc Picard looked at Beverly over the steeple of his
fingers.  "You have verified the woman's identity?"

Riker cleared his throat and ran a hand over his beard before
speaking.  "I've been...previously acquainted with Lieutenant
Cromwell, sir.  I identified her in Sickbay.  After that, we ran a
check with her records from the *Hoyle.*  We got a positive match."

Satisfied, Picard leaned back in his chair, still thoughtful.  "Have
we received anything from the *Hoyle*  besides that?"

Data, who had been waiting rather patiently, spoke up.  "Six months,
two weeks, and four days ago, the *Hoyle* was assigned to station the
mining settlement on Philemon Three.  Lieutenant Cromwell was leading
an away team to survey the site of the settlement.  The area was hit
by an unexpected ice storm. Captain Nesmith recalled the away team,
but the storm made multiple transports inadvisable.

"According to standard procedure, Lieutenant Cromwell sent up the
members of her team, starting with those of lowest rank.  When
Lieutenant Cromwell herself was the only crewmember still planetside,
conditions had rendered transport impossible.  Her last recorded
transmission stated that she would take shelter in a nearby cave, and
return to the beam-up site when the storm had ended.  When she failed
to report to the coordinates, an extensive search was instigated, but
neither life signs nor remains were located.  Until today," he added,
looking as pleased with himself as an android could.  "If you would
care to see a map of the area, I would be glad to provide one."

"Thank you, Data," Picard put in too hastily to maintain his calm.
"I'm certain  we will be drawing on your vast wealth of information
later."  He sighed, his green eyes darting from Data to Riker and then
the gruesome image on the viewscreen, turning at last to Geordi.  "Mr.
La Forge, what were you able to get from the craft?"

Geordi's brow furrowed above his VISOR.  "Not much.  Ensign Sabu only
had a chance to do a preliminary scan of the thing.  It's a
shuttlepod, just a two-passenger, and it's mostly Romulan."

Picard's arched brows shot up in surprise.  "Mostly Romulan? Explain."

"There were extensive modifications made, but she blew before we could
get anything really substantial to go on."  Geordi began his
explanation by arcing the fingers of one hand over the other,
demonstrating the shape of the shuttle's hull, then pushing both hands
up and out in separate directions.  "I have some people going over the
debris, but there really isn't too much to work with.  What I am sure
of is that the shuttle wasn't started by traditional methods."

Picard leaned forward.  "Meaning?"

Geordi's hands stilled.  "Meaning that it was, well, I guess the best
term for it is hotwired."

Data's head cocked.  "Hotwired...as in juryrigged, jump started..."

"Thanks, Data," Geordi cut in, ending the android's list of synonyms.
Every face around the table registered silent thanks.  "Anyway, I'm
fairly sure Lieutenant Cromwell wasn't supposed to have access to the
shuttle."

Worf's gravelly voice protested.  "She was able to operate the craft.
We have not located any Romulan activity on the surface.  Even if
there were a Romulan presence, *prisoners*," he stressed the word,
"are not generally allowed access to transportation."

Riker sat up, attention-straight.  What Worf suggested was impossible.
Another Klingon would have killed him for it.  "Sarah Cromwell would
never aid the Romulans.  Never," he repeated, the word heavy with
certainty.  "I trained her myself on her cadet cruise.  She'd have let
them torture her to death before she told them as much as how to
operate a food slot."  Riker noticed Deanna looking at him, her eyes
nearly black with concern.   He looked away.  There was uncertainty in
Deanna's eyes.

"She had to have taken off from the surface, "Geordi said after a
moment of uneasy silence.  "If there were any Romulan ships in the
area, we'd have known about them by now.  Even if they were cloaked,"
he went on, "the cloaks would have had to come down to launch a
shuttle."  He shook his head, dismissing the possibility.  "A
planetside launch is the only explanation.  Of course, the snow and
ice have covered the shuttle by now, and we don't have any idea how
far she'd travelled.  Just trust me.  That shuttle hadn't been
off-planet in a long time."

"Then where did it come from?" the Klingon demanded.

"That," Picard decided, aiming a glance of his own at Riker.  "We will
have to learn from Lieutenant Cromwell herself.  How soon do you think
we'll be able to speak with her, Counsellor?"  Picard turned to
Deanna, who had been unusually quiet throughout the meeting.

The Betazoid's eyes were hooded with the tension of the staff.
"Lieutenant Cromwell is in a great deal of pain," she began slowly.
"Emotionally as well as physically.  She is most likely aware that she
miscarried, and she is still a little frightened.  There may also be
some guilt over the miscarriage.  She is confused, but that will pass
as soon as she accepts her surroundings as reality.  Commander Riker's
presence should help that.  I think he is the best person to ask her
any questions."  The long diagnosis over, Troi's shoulders drooped.

Riker nodded.  "Sarah...I mean, Lieutenant Cromwell does recognise
me."

Deanna's mouth smiled, but her eyes still focused concern on Riker.
"She knows she has a friend here, a reason to return to consciousness.
I sense no form of  Romulan mind control in her.  Anything she may say
will be her own thoughts.  The hardest part of this for her will be
adjusting to her new freedom."

Riker's shoulders tensed, his posture mirroring the worry in his
voice.  "New freedom?  Does that mean she was held captive all this
time?"  *No, idiot.  She was sunning on the beach until last week.*
"You're sure she's escaped this recently; it wasn't earlier?"

"I don't think so."  Riker didn't miss the glance Deanna cast in
Beverly's direction as she answered.

Beverly nodded, and tucked a strand of coppery hair behind her ear.
"There is one thing I didn't mention.  When we were checking on her
after the surgery, she tried to talk to us in a mixture of Romulan and
Philemite.  She only tried Standard when nobody answered her the first
time."

Worf scowled.  "Prisoners have been known to identify with their
captors over long periods of time."

"Stockholm Syndrome," Deanna said, naming the theory.  "It is a
possibility in cases like this. When there is more than one captor,
the prisoner is given special or softer treatment by a particular
person. The prisoner then sees their benefactor as less threatening
than the others, and feels more comfortable around them.  In time,
they may form an allegiance which may then extend to the rest of the
captors." Deanna stopped, noting the clenched set of Riker's jaw.  "It
doesn't always happen," she added hastily, "but in extended
captivities, it is possible."

Picard considered Deanna's explanation, tenting one hand over his nose
and mouth.  "Do you believe Lieutenant Cromwell may have become
sympathetic to her captors?"  He folded his hands in front of him,
waiting for answers from his staff at large.

"She speaks their language," Worf put in immediately.

Beverly lifted a hand in protest.  "A mixture of Romulan and
Philemite.  I'd say it's a dialect of some sort.  The Romulans could
be working in tandem with the natives."

"That does not explain why she was pregnant with a Romulan child,"
Worf  fired back, his lips curling into a near snarl as he voiced the
one part of Beverly's report that concerned him the most.

"It does if she was raped," Riker returned.  "It would fit in with the
general torture."   He noticed that Worf seemed to be satisfied with
that possibility.  So was he.  "The Sarah Cromwell I know wouldn't
willingly mate with a Romulan.  From what I've seen of her physical
state, I don't think she received any special treatment.  I think she
fought them all the way to that shuttlepod."

"But she did get to it, and was able to operate it without help,
despite her injuries," Worf pressed.

Across from him, Deanna shifted nervously.  She couldn't ignore the
anger that Worf's comments brought out in Riker.  "Perhaps we should
wait until Lieutenant Cromwell can answer that for herself." Deanna's
uneasy smile prompted Picard to change the subject.

"Whatever the reason for, or means of, her escape, Lieutenant Cromwell
is going to have some valuable information for us.  While we do have
an obligation to protect the miners from any real or perceived threat,
we don't want to act rashly.  The best thing to do is to continue to
investigate the situation. Then, when Lieutenant Cromwell is able to
assist us, we can investigate it further."  He stood, ending the
meeting.  "Dismissed."

Deanna watched her fellow officers, save one, file out of the room.
Will Riker still sat at his place, deep in thought.  Both hands were
clasped on the table in front of him, his eyes fixed straight ahead,
but focused inward.  He had no intention of leaving soon.  Sliding
gracefully into the chair next to his, Deanna placed a hand on his
arm.

"Do you want to talk?"

Riker didn't look at her.  "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Because of your feelings for Lieutenant Cromwell?"  She could feel
his muscles tense, his pulse hammering steadily faster.

"I really don't think it's a good idea," he repeated, his voice
deliberately dry.  "This is no time for psychology...no, I didn't
mean...it's just not a good idea," he finished, removing Deanna's hand
from his sleeve.  Sparing her only a brief glance, he stood and strode
from the room with his best military bearing.

For at least the hundredth time in the last few hours, Will Riker
reminded himself that the person he was going to debrief wasn't just
anyone.  If it had been any other Starfleet officer, or even any
civilian they had found in that crashed shuttle, he would have been
able to sit calmly at his desk, assess the situation, and formulate a
list of questions, carefully phrased and rephrased, to get the most
thorough and accurate information about what they had found on
Philemon Three, and what, if anything, the Romulans had to do with it.

If it were anyone but Sarah Cromwell, that was.  He still felt a rush
of relief every time he reminded himself she was there, on the
*Enterprise*, and not lost in the frozen desert.

Six months earlier, he had tried to contact her on subspace, planning
to charm her out of being angry at him for missing her birthday by a
week.    Even then, he'd known he would deserve any reprimand she'd
give him; not only was he a week late, but  with no present yet.  He'd
planned on  getting back into her good graces by virtue of a roguish
smile and a few jokes.  That always worked, if given the opportunity.
This time, however, his signal had been rerouted to the *Hoyle*'s
counsellor, a middle-aged Bajoran male who informed him that Sarah had
been reported missing in action and presumed dead on Philemon Three.

Riker had thought of her that way for a long time.  He'd sat in the
dark of his quarters for hours after switching off the screen, the
image of the Bajoran counsellor's face still before him, superimposed
over a field of blinding white.  He had called up the date of his last
contact with Sarah, and cursed himself over how much time he'd allowed
to lapse.  They'd been good friends, shared some good times.  The
thought that there wouldn't be any more had worn heavily on him.

Now, however, there was a chance.  *This is hardly the time to check
her out for dating potential,* Beverly had said.  The doctor was
right, Riker knew, but still...  There were images he couldn't get out
of his mind, and didn't want to.

He had tried to avoid this mission to Philemon Three for that very
reason.  He hadn't wanted to be there, knowing it was where Sarah had
been lost, just like he'd refused to visit the spot where his boyhood
friend, Dud, had died in a grav-bike accident, or where his mother had
died on her way back from San Francisco.  Some places were just closed
after a death, or ought to be.

He'd tried to console himself, telling himself that someone of Sarah's
size couldn't have suffered long in the arctic cold, that she'd have
gone quickly before feeling anything.  Still, it wasn't the kind of
death she deserved.  As Worf might have said, there was no honour in
that.  He didn't want to have to look at every snowflake and wonder if
it was falling on top of  Sarah.  Every time he thought of what might
have happened to her, his mind played out simulations of every
possible eventuality.  Without fail, it was a grisly little show.

Riker had actually put in for leave, which had pleased Deanna,
although the only reason he'd given her was that he deserved a break.
Almighty Starfleet Command, however, had decided that the
*Enterprise*'s first officer was absolutely necessary to make sure all
the miners were tucked in nice and cozy in their insulated homes.  In
reality, anyone could do that.  Sitting on the bridge, glaring at
ensigns and reading requisition forms didn't require much.

Still, Riker supposed it was a good thing that he was on the mission
after all.  With whatever Sarah had been through in the last six
months, she wouldn't need some impersonal interrogation.  She needed a
friend.

Sarah had only been twelve years old when he'd first met her, Riker
recalled as he rounded the corner, passing right by a ready turbolift
without noticing it was there.  He probably wouldn't have met her at
all if she hadn't been his Academy roommate's kid sister.  He hadn't
particularly liked Arthur Cromwell all that much at the time, and
still didn't now.  Even so, Arthur's invitation to spend the winter
break with him in England was better than hanging around the dorm.  It
also beat spending the holiday with his own father.

Never having been off-planet before, Riker had found the very British
Cromwell household to be the next best thing.  For an hour or so, he
even thought he'd made a mistake in coming.  That lasted until
Arthur's mother had insisted that Will meet the rest of the family.
Out of Arthur's nine siblings, Sarah was the only one interesting
enough to spend time with.  It was hard for Riker to believe she was
only twelve, since she'd looked sixteen, with her blossoming figure
and long-lashed purple eyes.  *Pansy eyes,* he remembered calling them
once.

More than her body, it was Sarah's mind that had thrown him.  Already,
Sarah had been several levels ahead of where any twelve-year-old
should have been.  Her project for the holidays was to translate a
popular novel from English into Klingon, by way of Vulcan.  For fun,
Riker recalled.  Nobody had assigned her that.

Given the choice of spending time with her, or with Arthur, who had a
thing about hanging his socks on little hangers, Will had chosen to
get to know Sarah.  They'd had long talks over that holiday: talks
about space and spaceships, and Starfleet in particular.  Even then,
Sarah had radiated a maturity Riker hadn't seen in many of the girls
in his classes at the Academy.  It was scary.  Even scarier was the
fact that he had very nearly forgotten she was only twelve.

Riker approached the turbolift, vaguely recalling that he'd gone by
another one.  Stepping inside, he chided himself before instructing
the lift to Sickbay.  What did he mean, *very nearly*?  He *had*
forgotten, enough that on his next trip to Cromwell Manor, he had
started to think of her as a young woman.  A very, very attractive
young woman, he recalled, touching a hand to his mouth, remembering as
well the sweetness of the wild tanga fruit on Sarah's lips.  He'd
never been anybody's first kiss before.

Maybe that was why he couldn't remember any of the questions he was
supposed to ask her in debriefing.  He had decided, by the time he
reached Sickbay, that he was just going to talk to her, the way they'd
always talked, make sure that she was still there.  Deanna was an
excellent counsellor, and a fairly reliable empath, but she didn't
know Sarah Cromwell.  When Riker thought of Sarah being held by the
Romulans, he saw past the trained officer, to the twelve-year-old girl
whose eyes had glowed at the mention of the word *starship*, and who
had listened to his Academy exploits as though he were relating
Homeric epics.

Then she'd had to go and turn into a woman.  He'd felt an attraction
right from the start, but she'd been a child.  Twelve.  They'd
communicated a bit during the rest of his time at the Academy, mostly
about studies and such, but she had still been too young.  At least to
Riker.

He'd gone on to Betazed, and Deanna Troi, while Sarah had gotten into
Academy early, the year after Will graduated.  She'd zipped right
through everything, it seemed, taking basic courses on examination,
and spending her fourth year working on a master's degree.  He'd heard
about a few social problems, but that was to be expected.  Sarah had
brushed them off and graduated at the top of her class, as she'd
determined to do, and had done it well enough to be assigned to the
USS *Hood* for her cadet cruise.

Midshipman Sarah Cromwell had been no child.  Even though she was only
eighteen when she reported for her cruise, when most of her classmates
were already in their early twenties, she had learned to compensate
for her lack of age and stature with a natural command presence.
Captain DeSoto  had asked Riker to watch Sarah; give her special
attention.  See that she didn't get bored and slack off.  She was one
of the exceptional cadets, DeSoto had said, and Riker agreed, although
*he* hadn't been thinking purely about Starfleet.

Riker hadn't been thinking about Starfleet then, and he couldn't now.
No amount of training could make him forget the individual inside the
uniform.  He'd get what Starfleet wanted, but he'd take care of Sarah
first.  He owed her that much.  She'd risked her life once, on the
*Hood*, to save his sorry behind.  It was time to return the favour.

Sickbay was surprisingly quiet, he thought, scanning the general area
for Beverly, but seeing nobody.  After a moment, he spotted a flash of
red hair poking out from behind the nurses' station.  "Doctor?"

Beverly straightened up, a sheepish smile on her face as she held up a
diagnostic wand.  "Dropped it," she sighed, her eyes closing for only
a second as her free hand kneaded at the small of her back.  "Just
tired, I guess, like everyone else.  Eliva's running a few more tests
on the lieutenant, but I'll take you in to see her in a minute.  It
shouldn't be much longer."

Riker folded his arms over his chest and scowled.  Like Beverly, he
was exhausted, but he couldn't rest just yet.  "Testing for what?"

Beverly yawned behind her hand.  "Excuse me.  It's routine," she
assured him.  "Completely routine.  We have to play catch-up with her
medical history.  I feel privileged that we were able to wrest her
records from the *Hoyle*'s CMO.   It's easier to get Deanna to give up
a box of chocolates.   Now that we've got the records, I'm finding
that Sarah Cromwell is a very interesting patient," she added, letting
the observation dangle.

The hint of a smile played about Riker's mouth as he took the bait.
"How interesting?"

"Very interesting," Beverly said, waging her auburn brows
mischievously.  "There are a few questions the medical records don't
cover.  Think you could help with some of them?"  She waited for
Riker's no, a slight inclination of his head.  He looked twice as
tired as she felt, the dark circles underneath his eyes giving him a
slightly raccoon-ish look.  "There's a scar on the palm of her left
hand, for one," she continued, after deciding it was better not to
comment on her observation.  "It's pretty old, at least ten years,
maybe twelve.  She's a good clotter, so I can't be sure.  Most people
would have had a scar like that removed years ago.  I offered, but she
wouldn't let me."

Riker took in a slow breath, debating saying anything at all.  He knew
the reason, and it was personal enough for Sarah to decide how much to
share.  He remembered bandaging her hand with strips of fabric torn
from his shirt, soothing her fears...  "I'd hazard that it had
something to do with one of her brothers.  You know kids.  I think Wes
would like her," he hinted, changing the subject.  "It isn't every day
he gets the chance to meet another egghead.  He could probably get
some good ideas from her."  Riker's expression grew devious, brows
slanting as his mouth widened into a wicked grin.

Beverly rewarded him with an exaggerated cringe.  "Why do I think I
don't want him getting those sorts of ideas?  We're still recovering
from his so-called improvements to our replicator last week. Nobody
likes Tarellian pound cake *that* much."  She picked up a padd from
the gleaming black surface of the nurses' station desk and handed it
to Riker.  "Here are Lieutenant Cromwell's charts.  They should tell
you what we have so far."

Riker grunted his thanks as he took the padd, scanning the information
for its surface content. Miscarriage?  They'd mentioned that, but
seeing it on the official chart was still a wrench, causing his gut to
tense in anger. "How many months?"

"How many months?  Oh, the miscarriage."  Beverly keyed up the file
for him, easily finding the requested information.  "Four.  The child
was conceived during the second month of Lieutenant Cromwell's
captivity.  I know she looks a little large for a four-month fetus,
but the Romulan DNA accounts for that."

"Second month.  I see." Riker went on to other parts of the report,
registering little.  His face remained impassive, even though he felt
like every drop of blood he had was draining down to the knot in his
stomach.  *The child was conceived during the second month
of...captivity.*  He didn't like the implication.  Two months was a
long time, especially in close quarters.  Two months of Romulan
torture could wear anyone down.  He'd read enough similar reports that
the Starfleet training in him couldn't discount the possibility that
the child had been conceived through a consensual union, one that the
officer in question may  even have instigated.  The human part of him,
the part that knew Sarah Cromwell, protested vehemently.  He forced
himself to pay attention to the information on the padd, focusing on
the light letters displayed on the dark background.  "That's a lot of
blood you replaced.  Are you sure she's up to a debriefing just yet?"
*Because I'm not entirely sure I am.*

The doctor's slender fingers adjusted the setting on the diagnostic
wand before she pointed it at Riker.  "Hold still," she instructed,
eyes steady on the readout.  "I'm just testing the instrument.
There's no damage to it," she explained, checking the data it
reported.  "And you don't have Judreba syndrome."

Riker looked at her warily, saving his position on the padd.  "I
assume that's good."

"Very good.  If you had what it affects, you'd be one for the medical
journals.  Believe me, I don't need the extra work today."  She
cleared the data from the wand, and replaced it on the desk.  "There's
one more question that needs an immediate answer."  Her green eyes
twinkled with mischief, despite the dark rings beneath them.  "She
called you Willie."

Riker coughed and returned his attention to the padd.  "That's a
statement, not a question."

Beverly shrugged.  "I was just curious.  You don't have to explain
anything.  It's just that I've never heard anybody call you *Willie*
before."

"Nobody has," Riker answered.  "Except for Sarah.  She has a little
problem with names.  There's so much going on inside that head of hers
that something has to give. You'll see," he warned, thinking of all
the ways Sarah could possibly mangle the doctor's name.  "When can
I..."  His voice trailed off as he noticed the Andorian technician
approach Beverly.

Eliva's antennae were drooping slightly, the only sign of fatigue she
ever allowed herself to expose.  "Doctor.  Commander Riker.
Lieutenant Cromwell isss," she paused, as all Andorians did, in mid-
sentence.  Riker knew he should be used to it by now, but this time it
annoyed him.

*Get on with it, Ensign.*

"Ready to ssspeak with you, sssir," she finished.  The sibilant S,
also common to Andorian speech, was slightly less annoying.  "Ssshe
isss conssssious," pause, "and lucid."

Beverly took the tricorder Eliva extended to her, and scanned the
readings.  "Very good, Eliva. That's excellent progress.  How is our
patient coming along with the climate?"

Eliva's antennae twitched as she phrased her reply.  "I am comfortable
with thisss," she tugged on the shoulder of her light parka to
indicate its warmth.  "A longer visssit," this time, her pause was
barely noticeable; she'd been working on it.  "Might call for
sssomething warmer."

"That probably means back into the insulation," Beverly clarified,
with a slight shiver.  "The lieutenant still likes things on the cool
side."  She turned her attention back to Eliva.  The pupils of the
Andorian's unblinking black eyes were widening slowly, from narrow
slits.  "I take it she still prefers it dark?"

Seeing Eliva's nod, Riker cut in.  "It doesn't matter.  There's plenty
of time for her to assimilate. All we need to do right now is talk.
Besides," he added, forcing a lighter tone into his voice, "she won't
be able to see how rotten any of us look."

"Don't remind me."  Beverly grimaced and tucked a limp lock of hair
behind one ear before punching a few buttons on the tricorder and
handing it back to Eliva.  "All right, then, I suppose we can get you
ready."  She motioned to a nearby replicator.  "You can get a parka,
and..."

"I'm from Alaska," he reminded her dryly.  "I can take a little cold."

"Sssir, you may wisssh to take a parka with you," Eliva suggested, her
antennae perking as she realised she'd gotten through an entire
sentence without a single pause.

Beverly didn't wait for Riker's reply, and called up the parka.  "Wear
this," she commanded, thrusting the bulkily folded garment at him.
"If Eliva says it's cold, it's cold.  The temperature we had before
was a compromise.  For where Lieutenant Cromwell has been for the past
six months, our standard temperature is pretty warm.  You did notice
that she was perspiring, didn't you?"

Riker nodded, shaking the parka out of its folds.

"What's normal for us right now is practically a sauna for her."  At
Riker's reaction, Beverly grew more serious as she steered him around
the nurses' station.  "Will, I wouldn't expect her to be exactly as
you remember her.  She's adjusted to a different way of life, for
whatever reason.  I'm not saying that Worf was right, but the Sarah
Cromwell you knew is going to be..."

Riker stopped in mid-motion, his arms halfway into the padded sleeves.
"Is going to be what?"

"There are just certain things to expect.  Nothing to be worried
about," Beverly assured him, tugging the parka up to fit across the
breadth of Riker's shoulders.  "But enough that you should be ready.
For one thing, her voice is going to be hoarse.  My guess is that she
hasn't done much talking in the past few months."

Riker's fingers froze in the middle of closing the parka.  For some
reason he couldn't name, he heard everything Beverly said as if it
were for the first time.  Maybe it was just because he'd been trying
to think of some generic Starfleet officer, the one they'd always
trained him to think of back in the Academy.  Instead, the reality was
that it was Sarah in there, and that fact made it a lot harder to take
as just part of the job.  Still, he had to try.  "Do you mean she's
been silent voluntarily, or that she was prevented from speaking?"
*Of course it's voluntarily, you idiot.  They'd want her to talk.*

"Probably voluntarily, but you'll have to ask her."

Riker recognised the look in Beverly's eyes - the combination of
concern and authority.  Like any good doctor, Beverly Crusher knew the
importance of giving the right answer: not overly optimistic or
pessimistic, but somewhere in the middle.  Doubts and hopes, at times,
had to be kept quiet, just in case there was enough of a chance for a
change in either direction.  It was, at time, as much of a performance
as anything her theatre troupe put on.  Riker wondered how much of
Beverly's manner now was an act.  "I'll do that," he promised.
"Anything else I should know?"

Beverly bit down on the inside of her lower lip.  Everything about
Riker indicated that he wasn't going to treat the next few minutes as
a standard debriefing, no matter what he might want her to think.  The
slight outthrust of bearded jaw, the icy intensity of his eyes,and the
attention-perfect posture spoke louder than his words.  Oddly, he
reminded her of Wesley when he was trying his best not to show he was
petrified to the bone.  She wanted to hug him, but figured it wouldn't
look good on the report that would surely follow such behaviour.  In
the end, she settled for a friendly pat on the arm and an unconvincing
smile.  "Just be..." she sighed.  The hug didn't really seem all that
bad, on second thought.  "She'll probably tire easily," she finished
lamely.  "Ready?"

---

Was he?  Riker took a deep breath and a final, securing tug upwards on
the neck closing of the parka that was beginning to get just a scootch
too warm in the climate-controlled Sickbay.  "Ready."

"Then let's go."  Beverly was completely silent as she led Riker
through noisy, crowded labs filled with personnel and equipment being
readied for Philemon Three.  She stopped in front of the door to the
isolation lab, balling her hands into fists to prevent herself from
throwing her arms around the little boy inside the big man and telling
him it would be all right.  Wes wouldn't have appreciated it, and Will
Riker would like it even less.

"We'll be monitoring the lieutenant's condition from out here.  If she
gets too agitated, I'll have to call a stop to things for a while.
Just take it easy, and be realistic in your expectations, okay?"
Beverly realised that all of her talking was only making Riker more
nervous.  His expression was frighteningly close to the same one Wes
had before a mid-term exam at school.  "Her prognosis is very good,"
she offered, hoping to restore some balance.

Riker's only acknowledgement of Beverly's words was a forced cough and
a slight inclination of his head.  He'd see what Sarah was like for
himself before holding out any kind of prognosis.  He took a last
moment to compose himself, blinking to shake way the image of a young
Midshipman Cromwell at her station on the *Hood*.  He realised
Beverly was waiting for something, but her concerned expression didn't
give him any clues.  "Is there something else?"

She hesitated, then shook her head and smiled.  "No."  With a touch of
her hand to the access panel, the doors to the isolation lab whisked
open, admitting Riker.  Beverly remained outside.  "I'll leave you two
alone.  If you need me, just..."  She brushed a finger across the
surface of her communicator and headed back through the lab.

Riker's eyes took a moment to adjust to the near-darkness of the room.
He didn't hurry the time it took to distinguish shapes and shadows.
Just being in the room this time was harder than the last.  This time,
Sarah was going to be able to talk, to confirm his worst fears about
what she'd been through.  She was going to make his nightmares of the
past six months come true.  *It's not too late to have Data do this,*
he thought, immediately calling himself a coward for entertaining the
notion.

He listened to the silence.  He heard nothing, but saw the ethereal
white puffs of breath that came from the slight figure propped up
against a sizeable pillow. *Maybe she's asleep.  We can do this
later.*  It wasn't such an outlandish idea.  He could remember a time
on the *Hood*, during Sarah's cadet cruise, when he'd found her nearly
asleep at a transporter station.  She'd spent hours poring over a
theoretical transporter exercise, determined to prove her point.  If
she could have fallen asleep standing at a transporter station, she
certainly could have done the same thing in a bed.

"Willie?"

*No such luck.*  Sarah's voice was only a whisper, Riker noted, and he
could hear the hoarseness he'd been warned to expect.  He stepped up
to the bed, his eyes picking out the light colour of her hair.
"Sarah."

He didn't want to do this, didn't want to be Commander Riker with her.
Couldn't he just be Willie?  Nobody else had ever used that particular
nickname with him.  Not anybody who he hadn't punched for it, really,
but it was different coming from Sarah.  From her, he wanted to hear
it.  Wearily, he lowered his frame into the chair that had been
provided for him, not bothering to turn it backwards.

"Feeling up to talking?"

Sarah took her time in answering.  When she did, her voice was quivery
and faint, as though her tongue were trying out new sounds.  "If it's
with you."

Riker reached out to take the small hand that was much paler than he
remembered.  The meticulously manicured nails he'd always teased her
about were broken and ragged, torn down to the quick.  He didn't want
to think about how they'd gotten that way.  "If you'd rather have some
more time to rest, I could come back later."

Sarah pulled herself up into a full sitting position.  "No.  Now.
Now," she repeated, her voice stronger as she reminded herself that
she was safe.  There was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.  The
warmth of the hand that grasped hers was strong and welcome and alive.
And Willie.

"How are you feeling?"  *Well, that was intelligent, Riker.*  "If
you're not up to talking, we can work out some code for yes and no."

Her fingers curled tightly around his, broken nails digging into warm
flesh.  "I can talk.  You need to..." she paused, trying to remember
the Standard word.  "Debrief me."

"You sound like an Andorian," he observed with a glimmer of humour.
One Andorian in particular came to mind, instantly sobering him.
"Which reminds me, I can open up a subspace channel to...what was his
name?  Drel?  Derl?"  He shook his head.  "Some friend I am; can't
even remember your fiance's name. Congratulations, by the way."

With his eyes now used to the dark lighting, Riker could see Sarah's
lips press into a thin white line, her eyes blinking away a sudden
moistness.

"He's not..."  Sarah choked around the words, running her tongue over
dry, cracked lips.  "Derl died three months before Philemon Three.  We
were mates, as in chums, friends," she added, trying to laugh at
Riker's assumption.  It came out as more of a muffled sob.  "At least
that's how I saw things.  Derl did ask me, but I didn't have time to
answer him before the accident.  It was a transporter malfunction."

"You weren't..." The words leapt to Riker's mouth without thinking.

Sarah shook her head.  "No, I wasn't at the controls.  It was some
poor ensign, but I was waiting there to meet Derl.  It was supposed to
be our secret; his asking, until I'd decided one way or the other.
Discretion never was his strong point."

Riker squeezed Sarah's hand in both of his.  "You know how scuttlebutt
is.  Anyway, I'm sorry.  If I'd known, I'd have..." he let the thought
trail off.  He had no idea what he would have done, but it would have
been something.  "Is there anyone else you'd like me to get on
subspace?"

Her response was quick, her voice brighter.  "Mum and Da?"

He squeezed her hand again, taking strength from the warmth his touch
was giving her.  At least he could do that much.  "Already working on
it. With your family, deciding which is next-of-kin is a mission all
in itself.  We're a little far from Earth, so it may take a while."

Sarah let the new information sink in.  The reality of her
surroundings hit her anew.  She was out of that frozen hellhole, and
on board a Galaxy class cruiser.  From the looks of things, she was in
an..."Isolation lab?"

"Just for now," Riker assured her.  "You'll be issued temporary
quarters as soon as Doctor Crusher gets some test results.  We have to
figure out where you've been and if you've brought anything with you."

Sarah nodded, the thought of the any*body* she'd almost brought
tightening her insides with a phantom contraction.  Willie was right,
though.  She was still feeling stiff and sore. Having Willie there
made up for some of it.  It really was him, and not some Rom psych
trick. She had to be sure.  There had been too many mirages to take
any chances now.  Besides, the lights were casting the most intriguing
shadows.   She reached out a hand to touch the familiar face,
registering surprise as her fingertips came in contact with a feature
she hadn't encountered before.

Her touch was soft, feather-light, her fingers searching the way
Geordi had told Riker the blind used to do.  God...had it been that
long since they'd been together?  New Orleans had been right before
Farpoint.  Farpoint.  That was only what?  Three years ago?  Barely
that.  It seemed like forever.

"There's a lot for you to catch up on, Brit."  Sarah was stroking his
beard with the backs of her fingers now, more sure.  Riker thought he
saw her smile.  "So, you like that?  I see your innate good taste
survived intact."

She did smile.  This really was Willie.  "How long was I there?"  Her
voice sounded stronger now, more steady.  She passed a finger over the
dark fringe of his mustache, lingering for a second before moving away
so he could speak.

"Data could probably tell you exactly how many seconds it was since
you were reported missing," Riker joked, pausing to let Sarah's finger
make it round the curve of  his jaw.  "But it was roughly six months."

"Six months," she whispered, her hand dropping from Riker's beard to
rest on her own flat stomach.  "If you're trying to find a gentle way
to tell me, you don't have to.  I already know."

"I'm sorry."  Riker lowered his face to his hands, needing a moment to
gather himself for what had to come next.  He could still feel the
slight residual warmth of Sarah's hand on his whiskers.  It made the
words harder to say.  As much as he hated to ask, he had to know.
"The father?"

Sarah's expression immediately hardened, her lips dropping into a
cold, forbidding line. "Romulan.  Any one of four."  Despite the dark,
her eyes found Riker's and locked, intensely.  "And before you ask,
yes, I was forced."

The words froze Riker's hands where they were, palm to palm in front
of his mouth, looking as though they were clasped in prayer.  That
might, he thought fleetingly, be a good idea.  He bit back a word that
Sarah didn't need to hear just then.  "Was it only once?"

She shook her head, with a short, sad laugh.  "It was a part of their
routine.  It started..."  She closed her eyes to concentrate.  All the
time seemed to blend together into one long nightmare, without
specific days or hours.  *Think, Cromwell.  It had to be before you
knew about Stephanie.  You knew pregnancy was possible from the first
time.  When was that?*  "About a month into things," she said after a
minute.  "They thought it would help when the other things didn't
work."

*Other things.    Torture.*  Riker's hands, pressed together in silent
supplication, also reminded him to keep down the bile he could feel
rising from his stomach, hot and acid.  "What other things?"

"Disruptors, additives in the food."  She stopped, a shrug that sent
the covers creeping down her torso saying all that needed to be said.
"You know the rest.  They're Roms."

Riker rubbed at his tired eyes and nodded in understanding.  Romulan
torture was rather consistent.  They liked to stay with what worked,
which had elevated their torture to the level of a science; or art,
depending on who was being asked.  "Was it only Romulans?   You were
wearing native clothing when we found you."

"There were some Philemites," Sarah allowed, pulling the blanket back
up to her collarbone to calm the shivers.  "Only one clan, though.  I
used to know which clan it was; they said it once.  Right now, I can't
recall..."  She shook her head, as though the motion would knock all
the pieces into place.  It didn't. "They were Klevv," she finished.

Riker vaguely remembered going over the sociology of the natives on
Philemon Three, but he clearly remembered that he hadn't given it much
attention.  He wished he had.  There were the Merb, he recalled, who
lived in the cities; the Dega, whom he thought of as Amish; and the
Klevv, who were nomadic.  One clan might have members spread
throughout the three groups, whose differences were philosophical, but
all adult members could be identified by the clan tattoo, which was a
part of their rite of adulthood.  "Don't worry," he said, folding his
fingers around one of Sarah's hands again.  "I know how your brain
works.  It's in there.  Try remembering something else.  How about the
colour of the markings?"

Sarah closed her eyes, seeing again the vivid orange tattoos against
albino skin, clashing with the true pink of their eyes.  She knew then
that she'd remember every second of the past six months, no matter how
much time had passed. "Orange.  True orange; equal parts yellow and
red."

"Orange."  At least they'd be easy to identify.  "You're tired," Riker
observed, seeing that Sarah's eyes were still closed.  "Get some rest.
We can talk more later."

She held onto his hand, the amount of pressure she was able to use
surprising him.  "No.  I was just picturing them.  The Klevv, I mean.
I didn't think to count them; I should have, though.  They look alike,
for the most part, all those fur hoods and robes.  Everything is white
on white, except for the tattoos.  They're beautiful, really.  All
graceful swoops and swirls, but arranged in geometric lines.  I'd love
to draw them."

Riker patted her hand.  "I'll get you some art supplies as soon as I
can.  Just let me know what you want."

Broken nails dug into Riker's palm, scratching the skin.  "Pastels
would be best, but later.  The place where I was...the Roms have..."

*You're just debriefing a fellow officer, Riker.*    "Take your time."

Sarah thanked God it was Willie she was talking to.  She would rest,
and soon, but not before telling him about the compound.  "They didn't
know I speak Romulan, so they were rather free around me. They're
building something.  With the Klevv.  At least that one clan."

Riker could feel Sarah's pulse speeding as she talked. "Rest.  We'll
see what we can do with what you've given us so far.  I'll get your
pastels.  When you've drawn the tattoos, I'll show them to Governor
Anderson.  Right now, I'd better leave you alone.  You don't want
Beverly Crusher angry at you, believe me.  We'll talk later."  He
released her hand and stood, but instead of turning and leaving
immediately, Riker bent and planted a quick kiss on Sarah's lips.
"Get some sleep, Brit.  That's an order."

Sarah, for once, obeyed without question.

He strode out of the isolation lab quickly, pulling off his parka and
shoving it unceremoniously into the nearest recycler.  He left Sickbay
without more than a glance or nod to anyone he encountered on the way.
Stepping out into the night-darkened corridor, he stood there outside
the doors to Sickbay for what seemed like hours.

By rights, he should have been heading for his own bed.  His body
voted for that, every bone and muscle making its protest known.  It
would only take a few minutes to transcribe what Sarah had told him,
and then he could grab a hot shower and some well-deserved sleep.

No, he couldn't.  How could he sleep when Sarah Cromwell was in an
isolation lab, recovering from Romulan torture?  *She* was the one who
needed all the comforts of home, not him.

Riker shook his head to clear it.  Maybe he should pass the rest of
the investigation on to Data.  Data could be objective about it.  Data
would be able to conduct a standard debriefing without being
distracted by images of what he imagined had happened to her.  Data
wouldn't be taken on a guided tour of rape and torture, wouldn't feel
it along with her, wouldn't' think there was something he might have
done to prevent it.  Then again, Data wouldn't see anyone but
Lieutenant Cromwell in that lab.  He wouldn't see Sarah.  Riker *did*
see Sarah, and he knew that she didn't need a Starfleet officer.  She
needed Willie.

Riker started walking, telling himself it still wasn't a good idea to
be going where he was going. Maybe it wasn't a good idea, but it was
the only one he had at the moment.  If it didn't work out, he could
always leave.  At worst, he'd be slightly embarrassed.  At best, he'd
find a way to satisfy personal concern while carrying out a
professional debriefing.

He walked to the turbolift with purpose, and waited for it
impatiently, counting the seconds and rapping his fingertips
impatiently against his thigh.  When the lift finally arrived, he
stepped in, greeting the other occupant, a gold-uniformed Vulcan,
politely, but made no further attempts at conversation.  The Vulcan
got out two decks before Riker did, but Riker didn't  notice.  When the
lift reached his deck, Riker murmured a disinterested "good evening"
as he left the empty unit.

He was surprised to find the door he sought already open.  "Expecting
me?"

Deanna Troi adjusted the belt on her flowing aqua silk robe.  "Come
in," she invited, her voice shadowed with concern.  "Sit down."

Riker noticed that the lighting in Deanna's quarters was at full
illumination.  It seemed too bright, so he squinted against it.  He
was grateful when Deanna picked up on the cue and instructed the
computer to dim the lights.  "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"
Riker asked, looking around the spacious quarters for signs of
company.  He didn't find any.  "Did I wake you?"

"No."  Deanna moved to the computer console, the crystal-pleated
skirts of her robe billowing about her legs with the motion.  "I was
catching up on some reading,' she explained, the stroke of one finger
on the touchpad turning the display from text to the idling UFP
symbol.  "It is Lieutenant Cromwell, isn't it?"

"Yeah."  Riker dropped into a chair that was too small to be
comfortable.  He found himself sitting directly on something small and
soft.  Extracting it form the base of his spine, he spared only a
cursory glance at the Betazoid writing on the small rectangular pillow
before letting it drop from his weary fingers to the floor.

"You are worried about her."

Riker kept his eyes on the pillow.  He didn't recognise any of the
words.  He nudged it to one side with the toe of his boot.  "Beverly
says her prognosis is very good."

Deanna took a seat opposite him, taking care to arrange her robe to
cover her legs.  "But that's not good enough for you."

"No, it isn't."  The pillow out of reach, Riker stared past Deanna, at
the stars.

Deanna pushed a long black curl back over her shoulder.  "What are you
looking for?"

Riker didn't move.  "What do you mean, what am I looking for?"

"I can feel an intensity in you."

"I'm under orders, " he snapped, shifting in the too-small chair, a
quarter-turn away from Deanna.

"Will, I don't mean to offend you," she began with a sigh.  "You came
to see me.  Why?"

He slowly turned and focused on her.  Wide onyx eyes looked back at
him, not probing as they could, but he suspected they wanted to.  That
was part of who she was, what she did.  Just as he'd had to ask Sarah
the tough questions, Deanna had to ask them of him.  She was ship's
counsellor.  She was, before that, he hoped, his friend.

"I can't just ask her what happened," he began, fishing the words from
the pool of pain and confusion that all his thoughts had become.  "How
can I ask her to describe the torture?  How she was raped?  What they
did to her to cause her to miscarry?"  There weren't any more words,
so he merely shook his head, looking at Deanna with mute appeal.

Deanna put a comforting hand on Riker's arm.  She noticed that he
reacted as though her touch brought an electrical shock with it.  "You
could pass the debriefing on to Data if it troubles you too much."

Riker fidgeted, the armrests of the chair cutting into his ribs.  "You
don't know Sarah Cromwell.  She's responding to me, talking to me."

"And she will talk to Data, or whoever else questions her."  Deanna
started to reach out for Riker again, but sensed his opposition.  She
drew her hand back.

"I thought about that," he confessed, casting a glance at the small
pillow just out of his reach. There wasn't anything else readily
available to fidget with.  "But they don't know her.  I do, or at
least I did."

Deanna nodded her understanding. "Before her captivity."

Riker looked out at the stars again.  "They had her for six months,
Deanna.  She can barely talk, she can't stand bright light or warm
rooms.  She's more bruised than not.  She seems eager to tell me
everything, but I'm not so sure I want to hear it."  His shoulders
slumped with the weight of his dilemma. "Officially, I have to, but I
never expected to have to go through this with..."  He spread his
hands, at a loss for words.

"With a friend?"  Deanna ventured.  "More than a friend?"

He considered for a moment.  "With Sarah."  *Don't ask me to put a
name to it.*

Deanna's fingers plucked nervously at the skirt of her robe.  It had
fallen open to reveal a slender expanse of calf.  "Imzadi..."

He looked away from her.  "Not now, Deanna, okay?"

She realised her disarray, and adjusted the fabric.  "I was only
trying to..."

Riker kept his gaze steady on the starfield.  "I know.  You were only
trying to help me, or make me feel more comfortable talking about
this.  You didn't.  I don't need to hear that now, and I don't need a
psychologist.  At least I think I don't," he added, the hardness of
his voice cracking.  He didn't have the energy to disguise anything
more.   "I have to go back in there tomorrow and ask her more
questions."  He turned in his seat, staring now at a potted plant.  It
needed water.  "She wants to draw the natives she saw."

Deanna checked the front wrap of her robe, sensing Riker's discomfort.
"And you don't want to see them."

"No."

She cocked her head, knowing the set of her mouth would inform Riker
she was about to play devil's advocate.  "Why?  I would think that you
would want to know as much as possible about Lieutenant Cromwell's
experience.  The more information you have, the easier it will be to
discover what is happening on Philemon Three."  She settled back in
her own chair, ready to wait however long it took Riker to think of
his answer.

He sprang from his chair with a suddenness that surprised her and
began to pace.  "They tortured her.  They raped her.  She conceived a
child and then lost it, maybe in trying to escape.  They kept her
prisoner for six months, and Philemites helped her do it.  You're
right.  I don't want to see them."

Deanna remained where she was, her eyes following Riker's
ramrod-straight form as he paced the length of the room with long,
angry strides.   "You are very angry," she observed.  "Angry, and also
frightened."

He stopped pacing.  "Frightened?  Of what?  Romulans?  Philemites?  I
don't think so."

Deanna shook her head, black curls swishing against the aqua silk.
"No.  Lieutenant Cromwell."

Riker's expression mirrored the incredulity in his voice.  "What?"

"Not afraid *of*  her," Deanna clarified.  "Afraid *for*  her."

Riker turned his back to Deanna.  "You couldn't be more wrong.  Sarah
is going to be fine.  She's safe."

Deanna refused to give up.  "That isn't what I'm getting from you.
You are afraid that some part of her has been destroyed."

He gave no response at all, remaining as still as though he hadn't
heard a word she'd said.

She knew otherwise.  "How do you feel about Sarah's miscarriage?"

"This isn't what I came here to talk about."  He bit each word out,
but wasn't able to keep them free of emotion.

"Isn't it?"  Deanna rose and padded up behind Riker on silent bare
feet.  "Will, let me help."  Even without touching him, she could feel
his stiffness radiating out from him like heat.  "You obviously care
very much about Lieutenant Cromwell.  You feel her pain, or at least
you want to.  You wish you could take it away from her."

This time, he allowed Deanna's hand to remain on his arm.  "She
shouldn't have to go through it."

Deanna winced.  Riker was actually grieving for the child.
"Lieutenant Cromwell is very special to you."

"Old friends."  *And if you buy that, I've got some beachfront
property on Vulcan you might be interested in.*

"She is very strong.  To survive six months in Romulan captivity is no
small feat.  She has decided to survive," Deanna paused, forcing
herself past the barrier of Riker's pain.  "She is going to need a
good friend to help her recover."

Riker's response was a short, sarcastic laugh.  "By reopening old
wounds?  I don't think that's going to help much."

Deanna gently kneaded at his arm.  The tense muscles refused to yield
to her ministrations.  "Sharing your pain with her could help both of
you."

He turned to face her, pulling away from her touch.  "Share my pain
with her?"  She's got enough pain already.  I think you should have
picked up on that."

"What I meant was that sometimes helping someone else is the best
therapy there is.  If I were you, I wouldn't try to pretend this is
just another mission.  You're a very poor liar, Bill."  Deanna's hand
flew to her lips when she heard how she'd addressed him. "I'm sorry.
I don't know why I called you that.  I know you hate it."

For the first time since he'd arrived in Deanna's quarters, Riker
allowed his mood to soften. "That's all right.  You're allowed a few
mistakes.  Maybe Sarah's contagious."

Deanna's eyes widened with alarm.  She glanced back at the computer
console, displaying its calm blue-on-black symbol.  "There was nothing
in Beverly's reports about a virus."

"No, no virus."  Riker allowed himself half a smile.  "Sarah has a
problem with names.  She'll mangle yours soon enough."  He punctuated
his statement with a wide yawn behind one hand.  "Sorry about that,"
he apologised.  "And thanks."

"For what?"

Riker stifled another yawn, but allowed himself  a small stretch.
"Good advice.  Being a friend."

Deanna smiled her acceptance of the compliment.  "You're welcome.  I
can see you're feeling much better, but you looke exhausted, so I'll
say goodnight now."

"Then I'll leave you to your reading.  Good night, Counsellor."

"Good night, Commander."  Deanna escorted him to the door, then sat at
her console and resumed her reading of Lieutenant Sarah Cromwell's
service record.

---

Just over an hour later, Riker lay down to sleep.  He'd updated his
log entries and checked on the message he'd sent to Sarah's
next-of-kin.  Commodore Lady Madeline Cromwell should be receiving the
message by the start of her ship's next day cycle.  Admiral Lord Edgar
Cromwell was listed as deceased.  The news hit Riker hard.

Riker remembered Admiral Lord Cromwell as more than the exceptional
officer whose exploits he had studied at the Academy.  Edgar Cromwell
had taken time for Arthur's roommate, time to listen and advise, time
to find out who his guest was other than the guy who hadn't killed
Arthur for his persnickety habits.   Best of all, Riker remembered,
Edgar Cromwell had allowed the young cadet free run of  Cromwell
Manor's music room, and had even requested that Riker play for him.
Piano as well as trombone.  More than any of it, though, Edgar
Cromwell had been Sarah's father.

Riker knew he had to be the one to tell Sarah.  Normally, the ship's
counsellor would get that job, but this was far from normal.  Besides
Sarah's grief, Riker had his own to express.

The computer screen offered more information on the Cromwell family,
most of it inconsequential.  Of one member, Sarah's brother Charlie,
there was nothing, which Riker had expected.   A free trader, the man
was hard to track.  He scanned what there was with a modicum of
interest.    There was good news as well.  Sarah had a nephew now,
Spencer Edgar Crispin Eugene Cromwell, now two months old.  Arthur and
Alice's child.  Riker found it impossible to picture Arthur and Alice
Cromwell as anybody's parents.  He offered little Lord Spencer his
sincerest condolences.

The rest of the brothers had done nothing worth telling Sarah about.
Maybe news about Spencer would help ease the grief she'd feel over her
father's death.  What did the Vulcans say?  I grieve with thee? Was
that what Deanna had meant?  Maybe.

Riker punched the pillow and pulled up the covers, flopping over onto
his side.  His last thought before falling asleep was that he had
pulled the forbidden triple shift.  It didn't matter.

---

Lieutenant Sarah Cromwell woke with a start.  Instinct told her to
feign sleep, but reason intruded.  She was on board the USS
*Enterprise*.  Willie's ship, and far above the compound.  Things
couldn't get much safer.  Cautiously lowering her legs over the side
of the bed, she took a minute to make sure she was steady on her feet.
When she was certain she wouldn't crumple, she began to pace off the
room, investigating the panels on the walls.  Apparently, she was
alive.  She tried the door.

Naturally, it didn't open.  "Come now, Cromwell," she chided herself.
"What did you expect?"

She spun herself about for the sheer joy of freedom.  When she stopped
spinning, the lab continued to do so, giddily.  The ceiling, Sarah
soon observed, was rather interesting when viewed from the floor.  She
winced as she slowly regained her footing, grabbing onto a nearby
railing for support.  "Best not try that again," she noted aloud.

One of the panels nearby had to be alerting the medical staff that she
was conscious again.  "Must have discovered there's a centimeter of
skin they haven't pressurized," she muttered, rubbing a sore spot on
her upper left arm.  She'd lived through worse than a doctor's visit,
but much more attention from those blasted hypos, and she'd likely end
up smaller than she already was.  "Body can only take so much
pressure."  She glared at the door, shuddering at the thought of
another examination.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her how long it had been since she had
last eaten.   There had to be a food dispenser somewhere.  She'd yet
to see a laboratory without one.  Medical technicians, she remembered,
were a hungry lot.   Closely examining the panels one by one, it
didn't take long to find the one she wanted.  Six months, she decided,
when the question of what to select found its way to the front of her
mind, was far too long to go without a decent tea.

"Prince of Wales tea, please," she told the computer, reminding
herself that she'd have to start with small quantities of food, and
bland stuff at that.  It didn't matter how longingly she'd been
dreaming of an especially fiery curry.  The fact that she didn't
currently have any ulcers made the curry all the more appealing.

After settling for a plain buttered scone, Sarah thanked the computer,
falling back into her old habit easily.  She watched the cup and dish,
standard issue never seeming more beautiful, shimmer into place.  Her
hand instinctively darted out to pick up the cup.  She'd barely taken
it off the surface of the dispenser when she yelped at the pain from
the heat searing against her tender flesh.

The cup turned over as it fell, splattering hot tea over the lower
walls and floor.  A few drops splashed against Sarah's bare legs, but
didn't register in her mind.  *Should have known that would happen,
Cromwell.  Try it again, and this time, don't be an idiot.*

"Computer, let's try that tea bit once more.  Prince of Wales, milk
and sugar.  Milk first," she specified.  No matter what anyone said,
Sarah had always been able to tell if the milk or the tea had been
poured first, and it *did* matter.  "Also, please decrease the
container's surface temperature to an unheated state."

When the new cup materialised, she tested its temperature with her
fingertips first.  This one would do.  Thanking the computer, she took
the cup and waited a few seconds before taking her first sip.  She
inhaled the scent she'd missed terribly all those months.  Even the
aroma was perfect - exactly as she remembered it.  *...And all the
world in a teacup,* she thought, the comfort settling around her as
the line from a favourite novel drifted into her mind with the old,
familiar fragrance.  Closing her eyes for a short moment, she could
almost hear the crackling fire in the hearth in her father's ancient
study, the voices of her brothers breaking in through strains of
Chopin.  *Soon enough,* she thought.

Lifting the cup to her lips, she sipped gingerly.  The tea went down
her throat as if it were burning her.  It probably was, she thought
detachedly, on some low level, but it wasn't anything to worry about.
She willed herself to ignore the sensation and focus on the taste.
"Back in the land of the living, Cromwell. Best to live in it.  You're
too big for coddling."  *All out of cod,* she could almost hear her
mother add.  With a fond smile, she took another sip.  This one went
down a bit easier.

Her stomach rumbled again, drawing her eyes back to the scone.  Aside
from a few drops of the first tea on its surface, the scone was
undamaged, so there was no need to replace that.  Sarah set the cup
down gently, making sure it was fully on a firm surface before taking
her hand away from it.  She didn't need any more broken cups to step
around in her bare feet.

Breaking off a piece of scone with her fingers, she forced herself to
nibble it slowly, fighting the impulse to consume the entire thing in
a few hurried gulps.  There was plenty of food, and nothing harmful in
any of it.  Nobody was going to take it away from her when she didn't
do what they wanted.

*"Are you hungry, Lieutenant?  I do so hate combining meal times with
work, but then you know the burdens of command. Our native friends can
be terribly generous, can't they?  Look at all of this, just for me.
The native meat is so rich that I couldn't possibly finish it all by
myself.  Would you like some?  The root vegetables are especially
tender today."*

Sarah could still see the slow, fluid motion of the bowl the Romulan
man had slid across the table to her.  The scent of the roasted meat
had told her it wasn't dunf, for once.  Instead, it was something that
might not taste like warmed-over petroleum jelly and sit in her gut
like a stone.  She remembered how the smell told her it had been
carefully prepared, a spice rather like curry used to baste it in some
form of butter.  Even the memory caused her saliva to flow.

She'd sat on her hands to keep from taking that bowl; sat on them
until she couldn't feel her fingers anymore.  To drown out the
detailed description of how the delectable repast had been prepared,
she'd run the words to favourite songs through her head.  *God Save
The King; White Cliffs Of Dover; Even Knees Up, Mother Brown* when her
captor had dangled a succulent strip of meat right under her nose, so
close that a drop of the tantalising sauce had fallen on her lower
lip.  She could remember the agonizing second of thinking over whether
or not she ought to spit it away.

*"You know,"*  he'd said, his voice dripping with kindness exactly the
way sauce dripped from the meat, carrying one bit of red herb down the
long tendril of gravy. *"It really isn't right to keep you so long
without a decent meal.  Three days is more than enough, don't you
think?"*

Her eyes had followed that herb in its agonizing slowness, watching it
as she felt her stomach rumble, the sound seeming to echo off the
walls.  She'd known what was next, though.  *Give no aid.  Give no
aid.*  They'd sat there until she could no longer see the steam rising
from the meat, until the sauce formed a sickly white skin on its top.

*'Wasteful human,"* he'd called her.  *"If you'd only told me you
didn't want it, I could have had it saved for tomorrow.  Now it's
spoiled."*  He'd thrown the bowl in her face after that, striding from
the room with such strong steps that even now the sound of his boots
hitting the stone and metal floor echoed in Sarah's ears.  Hot tears
coursed down her cheeks then, as they did now, landing with explosions
of vivid salty taste on her deprived tongue.

She wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, forcing herself to
focus on the computer display that monitored her heartbeat to draw the
line between past and present.  There would be nothing like that
again, she vowed to herself.  *Certainly not here.*  She could ask the
computer for an entire suckling pig if she wanted one, and nobody
would make her share it, nor would she end up picking pieces of it out
of her hair before the horrid little insects could come sniffing
about.

Pinching off another bit of scone, Sarah resolved that the next item
on her agenda after getting some proper nourishment was finding some
decent clothing.  The standard-issue hospital gown she was currently
wearing wouldn't be entirely suitable for public viewing, no matter
how useful it might be in distracting any male security posted
outside.  She fully intended to see more of  Starfleet's flagship than
the isolation lab.  As far as she could tell, she didn't have anything
contagious, and so wouldn't be isolated much longer.  With any luck,
she'd be out and about soon.  It couldn't, in her estimation, be soon
enough.

Comfortable now with the cup in her hands, Sarah picked up the plate
and settled into the lone chair in the room as easily as though it
were her duty station.  She thought about getting back up to ask the
computer for some orange marmalade or lime curd for her scone, as she
would normally do, but the current circumstances were far from normal.
Whatever circumstances might be, her choice of condiment was extremely
low on the list of priorities.

Briefing herself was much, much higher.  Knowledge of her exact
medical status, gathered in a rational manner rather than a desperate
hodgepodge would be helpful, for a start.  Looking down at the hands
that were wrapped around the shiny black teacup, she could see by the
long, tapered fingers that they were hers, but she stared at the
pinkish patches of healing burns as though they belonged to somebody
else.  *Bloody marvellous, this modern medicine.*  She raised the cup
in a silent toast to the surgical team.  She offered another one to
the away team that had found her, and, concentrating on the emptiness
she could feel inside, one for the child she'd never know.

"Sorry we couldn't get to you, too, sweetheart.  Here's to you,
lovedy."

Sarah finished the tea and scone in silence, her eyes surveying the
lighted panels with their flickering data.  She wasn't doing anybody
any good by sitting in an isolation lab.  There was no use in wasting
time.  God knew the Romulans didn't.  "Lost time is never found
again," she voiced her mother's oft-quoted proverb as she placed the
plate and cup in the recycler.  There would be time for ruminating
later.  For now, she was assigning herself a new duty.

"Computer, please increase room temperature by twenty degrees
Celsius."  The computer complied immediately, and Sarah found herself
strongly identifying with the roast suckling pig she'd thought of
earlier.  "Too much, I'm afraid.  Let's try decreasing that by five,
please."

That was more than enough adjustment, but she pressed on.  "Thank you,
that's very good.  Now, please increase lighting by one-third."  She
squinted against the brightness.  It hurt to see that much light.
"It's a start, Cromwell.  Get used to it.  Find something to pass the
time until that doctor returns."  She drummed her fingertips together.
"Ah.  Computer, could you please tell me the current assignment of the
USS *Hoyle*?"

"The USS *Hoyle* is currently assigned to deep space exploration."

So what else was new?  "And who is in command of the *Hoyle*, please?"

"Captain Graham Nesmith."

Sarah grimaced, her thanks to the computer this time sounding
decidedly flat.  Graham Nesmith wasn't the easiest captain to serve
under.  Not only was Nesmith condescending, overbearing, and treated
her like a child half of the time, but he bore a distinct resemblance
to a weasel.  An especially unattractive, underweight weasel, for that
matter.  Even so, he did have a brilliant tactical mind, which was one
of the reasons Sarah had accepted the posting to his ship in the first
place, and certainly the reason she'd stayed.  She resigned herself to
the fact that she'd have to speak with him soon.  *As if being held
prisoner by the bloody Romulans wasn't enough...*

---

"Riker out."

Will Riker watched the image of the weaselly-looking man who had just
given him a monstrous headache fade from his viewscreen.  Any other
Starfleet captain, Picard, for example, would have been pleased upon
hearing that a missing crewmember had been found alive and relatively
well.  Not Captain Lord Graham Nesmith.  No, this guy kept
interrupting Riker to receive periodic reports from his science
officer that nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  Of course, he
would speak with Lieutenant Cromwell at his earliest convenience.

*Yeah, right.*  Exasperated with the man, Riker raked a hand through
his hair.  Had Nesmith even noticed that Sarah had been missing?  A
little more concern would have been nice.  So would a long shore leave
on Risa, but he wasn't going to get that any time soon, either.  He
pushed the small viewscreen so that it faced away from him, and picked
up the padd he'd been studying earlier.

Despite his weary prayer, the notes he'd taken on his conference with
Governor Anderson were no more coherent than they'd been the last time
he looked at them.  His hand went through his hair and over his beard
again as he decided that his first year Academy astrophysics notes
made more sense than these did.  They'd probably be just as helpful,
too.

The Klevv were a problem, all right.  The list of complaints the
Federation miners had logged against them scrolled on and on in an
endless flow of the same old thing.  Vandalism, petty and not so
petty thievery, and periodic raids on the mining settlements were the
most common.  They seemed to like making off with pieces of the mining
equipment the best, which made Riker wonder what they did with it all,
since nomads wouldn't have much use for machinery.  Another popular
diversion was setting loose the local all-purpose animal, which the
miners used as beasts of burden.  What did they call them again?
Dunfs.  Stupid name for an animal, especially one so popular.

Dunfs were essentially larger-than-average wolves with double rows of
fangs.  The animals were used by the Klevv for just about everything
from transportation - both riding and pulling sleds - to food.

Riker turned the viewscreen back around and requested a visual of an
adult dunf.  Now, *those* things could pull a dogsled.  They'd
probably love Alaska, he thought, trying to picture one of the furry
monsters curled up on a plaid cushion in front of the fireplace at his
family's cabin.

Dunfs were a large part of the problem on Philemon Three.  Before
Federation contact, approximately eighty years ago, dunfs roamed the
planet in large packs, with only a few taken from their number each
year for domestication by the city-dwelling Merb.  The Dega had taken
enough for their own purposes when they had first split off into their
own culture, and had used that number to breed a private stock.
Naturally, the Klevv didn't like that.

The Klevv didn't seem to like much of anything that didn't conform to
their particular philosophy. According to Governor Anderson, every
pair of dunfs either of the other two groups owned meant lots of
little dunfs the Klevv couldn't have.  The Merb's dunfs now enjoyed
the status of pampered pets and would stand about as much chance in
the wild as a Pomeranian.  With the Dega, dunfs were used as farm
animals, and, while not exactly pampered, were highly valued.  The
Dega even made a distinction between dunfs used for work, and those
raised for their meat and fur.

Taking a moment to call up the time, Riker chastised himself for
requesting that Data supply him with a thorough report on Philemon
Three's current socio-political status.  He should have learned by now
that Data's thorough could be excruciatingly boring.

"How many more files are there?"

The computer, unable to deal with the concept of rhetorical questions,
told him.

Riker groaned.  There was a reason why he was slogging through all of
this, but he'd forgotten it hours ago.  It was time for a break.  He
tapped his communicator.

"Riker to Sickbay."

"Sickbay.  Crusher here.  What can I do for you?"

Riker took another look at the dunf display, and grumbled his
irritation.  "How about a two-week rest leave?"

"Only if I can have one of my own," Beverly's voice replied.  "Would
you prefer to start your leave before or after you escort Lieutenant
Cromwell to her quarters?"

Riker straightened up from his slouch, his frustration fading.  "Are
you discharging the patient?"

There was a half-second pause before Beverly answered.  "Something
like that.  She's making  a speedy recovery."

"Exactly what I was hoping to hear."  Riker reached across the desk to
turn off the viewscreen.  The dunfs could wait.  "On my way," he
informed Beverly, the grin that began to shape his mouth showing up in
his voice.  "Riker out."  He fairly sprinted out of the room, slowing
to a trot as he reached the corridor.  In all honesty, no matter how
pleased he was with Sarah's recovery, he would have likely welcomed a
visit from Q with the same enthusiasm.  There was only so much
research one man could do.

Riker felt absolutely no guilt at all in pretending not to hear the
quartermaster calling to him as he passed her in the corridor.  He
knew it was going to be about the Emerson quarters again.  Let Picard
sign the permit for another room change.  Either that, or transfer
Lieutenant Emerson and his expanding family to another ship.  He
didn't care which.

It occurred to him that if Sarah were released from Sickbay, she would
be up to a more detailed debriefing.  Knowing her, she'd retained as
much as was humanly possible.  Maybe even a bit more. They'd need it.

Rounding a corner, Riker narrowly missed colliding with a giggling
ensign and her civilian companion.  The couple's merriment reminded
him of the hint of suppressed laughter in Beverly's voice. Most
likely, Sarah had made some remark at his expense.  For now, he'd take
it as a good sign.  As soon as this mess was figured out, he'd see
that she got as good as she'd given.

As he reached Sickbay, he pulled himself into his best professional
Starfleet officer persona, which vanished the second he got past the
nurse's station.  He'd been heading to the isolation lab, out of
habit, but...he blinked. She was still there.

Lieutenant Sarah Cromwell, in full duty uniform, was perched on the
desk, regaling a small circle of medical personnel with an anecdote
that she cut off in mid-sentence the moment she saw him.  Hopping down
off the desk, she snapped to perfect attention.  "Lieutenant Sarah
Cromwell reporting for duty, sir."  The effect was spoiled by the
mischievous glint in her violet eyes.

Riker made a mental note to find out what she'd been telling them, how
much of it, and who else she'd told.  He had the distinct impression
that several pairs of eyes were glued to his boots.

"At ease, Lieutenant.  I see you're feeling better."

"To put it mildly," Beverly agreed, controlled mirth evident in the
tilt of her lips.  "This young lady has been rather busy for the past
few hours."

Riker folded his arms in front of him, hoping it was only his boots
the ladies were looking at. "Busy?"

"When I went in to run some final tests on our critical patient,"
Beverly delivered the last two words with a heavy dose of sarcasm,
inclining her head toward Sarah, "I found her reviewing our current
mission status on the computer, with the room almost at full
illumination, and much too warm for someone in arctic gear.  She was
also having tea."

Riker looked to Sarah, the smug expression on her delicate features
telling him the doctor hadn't exaggerated.  "Tea."

Sarah returned the look, her eyes dancing.  "It's thirsty work, sir.
I can give you a bit more information at your earliest convenience."

She reminded Riker of Tasha Yar, the way she stood there so straight
and eager.  He thought that it might have been Tasha's job to debrief
Sarah, if this had happened just a year or so earlier, when Tasha was
still alive.  He would have trusted her.  As it was now, there was
just him.  "It's convenient now.  If you're done with her for the
moment, Doctor?"  At Beverly's nod, Riker gestured to the door.
"After you, Lieutenant."

To a casual observer, and that would include the group clustered
around the nurses' station, Sarah's walk seemed deliberately
provocative as she preceded Riker out of Sickbay.  Riker knew better.
That was just the way Sarah walked.  He thanked God that Standard Duty
Option Two had been phased out. She'd probably told everyone in
Sickbay about the time on the *Hood* when he'd had to request that she
stick to SD1.  Sarah was no respecter of persons when it came to
embarrassing incidents.  It was one of the things he liked about her
the most.

"It was the dance lesson."  Sarah's words cut into his thoughts.

"Dance lesson?"

Sarah nodded.  "That's what I was talking about when you came into
Sickbay."

So they *had* been staring at his boots.  "That was uncalled for."
Although Riker said it with mock severity, he remembered the lesson
fondly.  So, he gauged from Sarah's cat-with-the-canary smile, did
she.

"As I recall, Commander, you taught me well enough that the Ralnan
ambassador offered to buy me."

"As I recall, Lieutenant, you broke two of my toes in the process."
He didn't add that he'd always thought the small injury was well worth
it.  "And you don't know how close I came to taking him up on his
offer," he finished, picking up his pace.

She fell into step beside him easily, despite the difference in their
strides.  "You never did tell me the 'official' cause of your injury."

Riker recalled his excuse with a chuckle he didn't try to disguise.
"Almost the truth.  I told them I was supervising you in a training
exercise."

"Did they ask what you were training me to do?"

"*Not* to injure your commanding officer," Riker answered with a
rueful laugh.  Masculine pride didn't easily want to admit that
someone of Sarah's size could actually have done such damage.

"Did they leave it at that?"

Riker shook his head, not wanting to discuss the matter further.
"No."  They stopped in front of a numbered door, with Sarah's name and
rank printed on the nameplate, under the words *guest quarters*.  "If
you'll place your hand on the panel..."

Sarah did so, relishing the familiar cool smoothness beneath her palm.
The door slid open, revealing standard quarters.  She stepped in,
feeling a sense of home envelop her.  This was much better than the
lab.  *Thank God for the uniformity of Starfleet.*

Riker cleared his throat.  "Your climate controls are over here.  The
food dispenser is on that wall. It operates by..."

Sarah's voice held more than a hint of amusement as she interrupted
him with a gentle touch on his arm.  "Excuse my impertinence, but I
have seen similar quarters before, Commander."

It was only then that Riker realised he'd been showing her around as
he would a visitor.  "Of course.  The *Hoyle* is Galaxy class.  This
is probably just like your quarters there."  He punctuated his apology
with a self-deprecating grin.  "I do have a name, you know."

"I know." She paused.  "Willie."

After a silent second had passed between them, Sarah popped in and out
of the washroom and closet, the bedroom and the small work corner with
its computer console, reacquainting herself with the rooms and their
furnishings.  She didn't feel all that different from the day she had
first set foot in her quarters on the *Hoyle*, except for the fact
that Willie's company was far preferable to that of the Alpha
Centauran quartermaster, who had insisted on addressing her as
'Crowell.'

"You can call up whatever personal touches you'd like from ship's
stores," Riker explained needlessly, feeling that he should say
something.  He was going to have to tell her sooner or later.  "I know
you hate bare walls."

"I think the ferret cage went about here," Sarah thought aloud,
passing a hand over the smooth surface of an empty table near the
entrance.  "Monty is what really makes it feel like home.  Do you know
what's happened to him?"

*Okay, Riker, it's going to be sooner.  Try not to lose it.*  "He's
fine.  I'm sure Admiral Clairmont has forgiven you for naming your
ferret after her by now."

"Actually, she didn't mind that much," Sarah demurred.  "It's going to
be good to see Monty again. I've missed him.  He always makes me
laugh, especially the way he begs for those pellets I got from that
shop in New Orleans.  Do you remember the one?  It had that horrible
band playing outside, the one with the Tellerite trying to play
saxophone?  I might try going back and see if he got any better after
that lesson you gave him.  Anything, in his case, would be an
improvement, so I'd really like to see.  There'll be time for it, I'm
sure," she supposed, her voice glum as she tested the texture of
the upholstery on a low couch.

"I know I'm going to be given a nice long leave to recover, whether I
like it or not.  I won't, so I could use Monty's company to make it
bearable.  Do you know who's got him?  I hope it's not Arthur.  Monty
can't seem to tell the difference between Arthur's finger and a
carrot.  Did I ever tell you that?  No," she considered, "I don't
think I did."  Her light mood cracked with that observation.  She
turned to face Riker, her eyes pinning his.  "I wasn't able to access
my family record.  Why?"

Riker took Sarah gently by the shoulders.  "Brit, sit down.  I have to
tell you something."  He could tell by the way she was physically
bracing herself, her muscles growing taut beneath his hands, that she
knew something both important and unpleasant was coming.

"Who is it, Willie?"  She was still standing.

"Brit..."

"Willie, I know you don't like having to tell me whatever it is, but
believe me, you're the one I want to hear it from.  Please don't sugar
coat it.  I don't know if I could forgive you for that."

*Don't cry, Brit,* he begged her silently, although he could see her
eyes moistening, resembling the pansies he'd likened them to all those
years ago the last time he held her this way.  "Your father."

Riker felt Sarah's slight weight go limp against his chest as her arms
wrapped around him, her knees buckling.  Holding her close, he settled
them both on the couch.  He should have waited for a better time,
should have prepared her better, more gently.  He'd known that Sarah
and her father had been close -- had been friends as well as parent
and child.  Seeing that had almost made him jealous of the
relationship.  For all Edgar Cromwell's fairness, Riker knew that the
admiral had a special soft spot for his only daughter.

Riker kissed the top of Sarah's head, the soft,clean scent of her hair
making him angrier than ever at the Romulans.  Sarah, he knew, would
have given anything to have been able to say goodbye to her father.
If it hadn't been for the Romulans, she would have.

Sarah clung to him, quiet tears flowing freely down her face.  She'd
been told from earliest childhood that either one of her parents
could...  She wasn't able to complete the thought.  It wasn't fair.
She'd never thought of six months as a long time before, but now she
knew differently.  Six months could be a lifetime.  Or the end of one.
"How?"

Riker had never thought that his heart could break by hearing a single
word.  He pressed his face into the softness of Sarah's hair, dimly
registering that it was damp where he touched it, and tasted of salt.
*Damn thieving Romulans...*

"I want to know how," Sarah insisted, her words clear and resolute,
although Riker could still feel her shaking against him.

He had the words ready to tell her when the hiss of the opening door
pulled his attention to it.  Deanna Troi stood in the doorway, her
hair and dress settling from her run down the corridors.  Her face
bore a pained look, brows knit together in concerned confusion as she
looked from Sarah to Riker.

Deanna had expected Sarah's upset, had felt drawn to the room because
of it.  She had felt Riker's concern as well, but not the intensity
that she now saw.  As close as they had been, she had never seen him
cry before.

Pulling herself back together, she started walking slowly toward the
couch, centering herself on Sarah, who still hadn't acknowledged the
counsellor's presence.  "I understand you've had some bad news."

"You are dismissed, Counsellor."

Riker's words hit Deanna like a slap.  The icy blue of his eyes stood
out against the redness that surrounded the irises.  It was the
emotions that startled her.  His voice had been raw and ragged, his
eyes, holding distinct anger, some of it directed at her.  She didn't
know what to do with that.

"We can talk," she continued, now sitting next to Sarah.  "I
understand what you're feeling."

Riker drew Sarah closer to him, widening the space between her and
Deanna by scant, but important millimeters.  "No, Counsellor, you
don't understand what she's feeling.  She doesn't need to talk to
you."

*You should have called me before you told her,* Deanna thought to
Riker.  *You knew that.  I could have made it easier for her.*
"Sarah?  May I call you Sarah?"  She lay a hand on Sarah's shoulder,
just beneath Riker's sleeve.  Sarah's body shook with quiet sobs,
waves of guilt and pain washing over confusion.  Sarah's muscles were
tense beneath Deanna's touch, and she could feel the Englishwoman
flinch away from her, burying her face into Riker's chest.

"I said you are dismissed, Counsellor."  Riker glared at Deanna over
Sarah's head, his voice and gaze as cold as the arctic planet below
them.  "I'm willing to pretend you didn't hear me the first time.  You
have been given a direct order, and I expect you to obey it."

By now, Deanna wasn't hearing him at all, the undiluted, overpowering
emotions overriding any words he could say.  There were too many
intense feelings all hurtling themselves at her; grief, sorrow, anger,
and a strong sense of protective instinct combining to make Deanna
feel as though she were receiving an empathic beating.

"Later," she whispered, rising on shaking legs to dart from the room
in search of some peace.

With Deanna gone, Riker held Sarah even closer, the tight embrace
serving to lock her into as much safety as he could provide.  "I'm
sorry, Brit," he breathed into the damp softness of her hair.  "I'm
sorry.  That won't happen again.  It's all right."  He rocked her
gently in his arms, making soft, calming sounds to soothe her.  *God,
she's small...*

After long moments, Sarah's shaking stilled, and she looked up at
Riker, her eyes clearing.  "How did it happen?"

Riker took a deep breath to calm himself before answering.  He hadn't
counted on being this deeply affected, either by Edgar Cromwell's
death, or by seeing Sarah again. "He... he just... natural causes," he
told her, his hand gently stroking the coils of her hair, clumsily
trying to replace dislodged hairpins.

"Natural causes," Sarah repeated, allowing the fact to register in her
mind.  "Had he been ill?"

Riker opened his mouth to answer her, but found it too hard to make
the words come.  He hadn't wanted to look into all the details of
Edgar Cromwell's death; for him, the fact of it had been enough.
Still, for Sarah, he'd read the file, not wanting anyone else to have
to tell her of the alien virus.  "He... he just..."  *Here I go again.
I can't even pronounce the thing.  Nobody saw it coming until it was
too late.  I'm sorry.*  He stroked Sarah's hair as he worked his
thoughts into clumsy words.  "I don't think he was in any pain."

"It was sudden, then?"  She could remember too well the last time
she'd seen her father, still hear his off-key rendition of "Happy
Birthday," with highly original lyrics.  That had only been two days
before Philemon Three.  "It was while I was gone, then?"

"Yes."  Riker raised a finger to Sarah's face, wiping away a tear that
was winding its way down her cheek.  "There's a message from him when
you're ready for it.  He left it after you were reported MIA."

All Sarah could do was nod her thanks.  She had often told herself
that her parents wouldn't have given up on her, even entertained
fantasies that they'd find her somehow.  Having proof that they'd had
such faith in her made the pain a little easier to take.  If all was
right with the world, there was one of Da's wonderful, stupid songs
somewhere in the message, no matter who might have been around when he
recorded it.  "Is there anything else?"

"There is," he told her, "but I promise it's good, Aunt Sarah."

She blinked, not quite understanding.  "Aunt?"

"Some poor, innocent child had Arthur and Alice for parents.  I was
thinking of sending some tiny sock hangers, but I figured Arthur would
have started on that already."

"It's a boy, then?  I'd forgotten all about Arthur and Alice.  I
suppose Arthur should have liked that," she added, more to herself
than to Riker.

He heard it anyway, and it still made the same old nerve tighten
inside him.  In an instant, his hand and hers had reversed positions,
the tightness of his grip echoing the earnestness of his words.
"Don't say that.  It was garbage then, and it's garbage now.  You
don't need that.  What you need is a good briefing on your first
nephew."  Riker released Sarah's hand, sat back just far enough to
straighten his shoulders.  "Spencer Edgar Crispin Eugene Cromwell
turned two months old three days ago.  I'm sure you'll be seeing him
soon.  Let's hope he looks like Alice.  It'll make life a lot easier
for the poor little guy."

Sarah had to smile at that.  "Nobody consulted me, but I'd rather he
resemble Da.  Did my father get to see him?"

Riker swallowed.  "He did.  Seeing his first grandson had been one of
the last things Edgar Cromwell had done, but Sarah didn't need to know
that at the moment.  "Your mother knows you're all right," he assured
her.  "I sent a personal message, and she should be contacting the
*Enterprise* any time now.  She's at home," he added, seeing the
unasked question in Sarah's eyes.  "A lot of the family is there, or
on their way, so you can count on being one popular lady."

The ghost of a smile settled on Sarah's lips as she disengaged herself
from Riker's arms, not a bit embarrassed by the display of emotion
she'd just shared with him.  She never would have allowed her
composure to slip so with anyone else, but the wet redness around her
eyes reminded her that this was Willie.  There could be no secrets
from him.  If there were, then there would be something impossibly
wrong with the universe.

She took a moment to pat a hand over her hair, imagining the damage
the last few minutes had done to it, then dashed the back of one
sleeve across her eyes to banish the last of the tears.  When she was
done, there was no sign that she'd just been grieving.  "I'd like to
see Da's message now."


For some reason, Riker wasn't encouraged by how easily Sarah's poise
had returned.  "Take some time to rest.  You've had a lot to take in.
Nobody expects you to be at your best right now.  You probably want to
sleep for a few weeks.  It wouldn't be a bad idea."

Sarah shook her head, tucking a fallen strand of hair back behind her
ear.  "Willie, please.  I know what I can handle.  I'm not a child
that needs cosseting.  My nephew might be two months old, but I'm not.
This is the first time in six bloody months that I get to do what I
want to do, and I want to see my father's message."  She drew herself
up straight where she sat, then rose from the couch the way Riker
remembered her rising from her conn station on the *Hood*'s bridge.
She hesitated for a moment, then pleaded with a heavy whisper,
"Willie, I've been halfway through hell, and I want my Da."

Riker couldn't argue with that.  "All right.  Do you want me to leave
you alone to view it?"

Sarah reached a hand down to grasp Riker's as he stood.  "No."

He went with her to the console, standing back far enough to give her
a bit of privacy.  "Do you need any help setting things up?"

"Thank you, no.  Computer, please display communique from Edgar
Cromwell."  Instantly, the screen filled up with her father's image.
As always, his black-and-red admiral's uniform fit too loose over the
shoulders and too tight in the midsection.  His full head of thick
white hair needed combing, and his violet eyes, the same colour as
Sarah's own, looked directly into her instead of the holocam he'd been
addressing.

She'd only registered a few words of his message.  He'd called her his
Sarahpuss, as he always had.  He knew she was alive, and he was proud
of her.  He loved her.  He'd see her soon.  He sang a few bars of "The
White Cliffs Of Dover," off-key and off-beat.  Anything else, she
would listen to later.

"Computer, please save this message as Cromwell One."  She waited for
the computer's voice to announce its compliance.  "Thank you."

Riker was about to ask if Sarah's thanks was for him or the computer
when his communicator chirped.

"Worf to Commander Riker."

With a growl that would have made the Klingon proud, Riker slapped the
badge in answer.  "Riker here."

"Governor Anderson wishes to speak with you.  He is quite..." there
was a pause as Worf searched for the right word.  "Insistent."

"Understood.  I'm on my way.  Riker out."  *Could Anderson possibly
have picked a worse time to insist on a conference?*  He put a hand on
Sarah's shoulder, giving it an apologetic squeeze.  "I'm sorry, Brit.
Duty calls."

"Can it wait a bit?  Only five minutes or so?"  She nibbled at her
lower lip.

"I wish it could.  I'll be back as soon as I can."

"That's not it," she insisted, her voice solidifying.  "I can give you
the pictures of the native I saw."

Riker exhaled, a long, slow breath.  "All right."

---

"They've done it again, I'm afraid," Anderson announced after a
perfunctory greeting.

Riker didn't have to ask who *they* were.  "The Klevv."

Anderson nodded, the first sign of life Riker had noticed in the man.
"Who else?"

"Of course," Riker said, more out of politeness than understanding.
"What was the problem this time?"  *As if I have to ask...*

Anderson's fatigue and frustration were evident in his expression,
eyes and mouth drooping like a Basset hound's.  The hood of his parka,
which Riker now recognised as being made of dunf fur, was encrusted
with ice and snow.  "They switched crystals in the main generator with
spent ones.  It's more of a nuisance than anything else, but it's
going to take a while to get the thing running again."

Out of range of the viewscreen, Riker drummed his fingers impatiently
against the desktop.  "I take it none of the essential systems have
been damaged."  Anderson answered immediately with a curt nod.  "I can
send down an engineering team to help you repair the generator."

Anderson nodded again, this time more vigorously, send a chunk of snow
flying off his hood's trim.  "Thank you.  Thank you.  We do appreciate
that, but there's more."

Riker closed his eyes and silently counted to ten, so Anderson
wouldn't get the impression that the *Enterprise*'s first officer
would dearly love to strangle him.  The next option was to inform the
man that there were other officers on the ship.  Picard could handle
this, or maybe Data.  Besides, engineering matters were Geordi's
problem.

"Do you require additional security personnel?" Riker asked,
marshalling his dwindling reserve of tact.  Anderson had pulled him
away from Sarah for this?

"That would be most appreciated, Commander."  Anderson's image wavered
and nearly disappeared before returning to full, if somewhat fuzzy,
power.  "Auxiliary generator," he explained, an annoying tone of
petty pride accompanying the words.  "There's not going to be any
problem setting the main one up again, especially with your help,
but..."  The shrug Anderson gave as his voice trailed off didn't
exactly fill Riker with confidence.  "Did I hear you say you suspect
Romulan involvement?"

Riker's fingers stopped drumming and clenched into a fist.  "You did
and we do.  What do you know about it?"

Anderson's shoulders tensed, making Riker wonder if there wasn't a
difference between what the man knew and what he was telling.
"Apparently, our saboteurs were injured in their exploit.  There were
traces of blood found on the ground near the generator.  Philemite, of
course, and also," he paused, a heavy sigh signalling that he hated
the fact, "Romulan.  We can't make any further investigation due to
the ice storm, but when it passes, any assistance you can give would
be appreciated."

*Romulan blood.*  Riker thought that if he were a dog, his ears would
have pricked up.  Luckily, he was able to restrain his physical
reaction to a slight straightening of his spine as he leaned in closer
to the screen.  "You're certain."  It was a statement, not a question.

Anderson nodded once.  "I've had our medical staff go over it
thoroughly.  I just don't know what Romulans could be doing here, or
how they could even stand the climate.  That's why we rely so heavily
on the native workers; they're the only ones who are really
comfortable here."

Riker reached for the package he'd kept just far enough away that it
was out of Anderson's sight.  "Governor," he began, with deceptive
smoothness, "I have something to show you."  He inserted the small
chip Sarah had given him into the slot next to the screen.  "Our
Lieutenant Cromwell says she only saw one clan of Philemites during
her captivity.  Is this tattoo familiar?"

Anderson put a hand to his forehead, his fingers moving as if he were
trying to manipulate the proper brain cells into position.  "Cromwell.
That's her name, isn't it?  I was going to ask you how she was doing.
She'll be all right, I hope."

*No thanks to you.*  "She's recovered enough to duplicate the clan
markings she saw.  Are they familiar to you?"

Anderson squinted at the representation that now filled his screen.
"I'll have to study it further.  Clan markings are very intricate, you
know.  Each mark has its own meaning.  An individual's pedigree can be
read right there on his face.  Or her face," he added, with a
self-deprecating laugh.  It sounded forced.  "We have some workers
from most of the clans," he allowed, "but they're all Dega."

"Do any of them bear this tattoo?"

There was a long moment of silence as Anderson squinted at the image.
"Yes."

---

Walking briskly down the day-bright corridor, Sarah again thanked God
for the blessed uniformity of Starfleet.  There wasn't that much
difference between the *Hoyle* and the *Enterprise.*  Whether the fact
that she had the run of the ship was accidental or intentional, she
didn't care.  She was going to explore every delightful centimeter she
could before anyone else got any ideas.  Being on a ship with a
complement of over one thousand did have its advantages.  Nobody
questioned anybody in a uniform, especially when that uniform was
command red.  She relished the anonymity.

She slowed her pace when she reached her destination:  ship's lounge.
Ten-Forward, she'd heard it called.  She doubted if the *Hoyle's*
Captain Nesmith had come up with a name for their lounge in the past
six months.  In the time she'd served with him, she'd doubted if he
even knew the place existed.  He'd certainly never been there.

Stepping inside, she looked about at the soothing blue-grey walls and
the small groups of crew and civilians seated at tables of various
sizes.  Taking her time, she made her way to a table next to a
particularly panoramic view of the stars.  It was almost like home,
but not quite.  There was no sense in trying to pretend that it was.
She wasn't going to waste her time trying to imagine Derl seated
across the 3-D chess board from her.  He wouldn't be bringing her the
latest obscure alien drink he'd just discovered, either, or ever
deliver the punch line to the joke about the Horta and the parakeet.
Derl was gone.

To be honest, there would be several old friends gone and new faces in
their steads, were she back on the *Hoyle.*  She let her fingertips
trail over the  mirror-like surface of the table as she circled it
before sitting down.  For all she knew, this *could* be the *Hoyle's*
lounge.  Whatever her next assignment would be, odds were that she'd
have to start all over with names, faces and pecking orders.  More
short jokes from the humans, more battles proving she wasn't too young
for her rank... nothing to look forward to.

*Survived the bloody Roms, did you, Sarah?  Good show.  Have a
biscuit.  Excellent trick, that was.  Now that we know you can do
that, back to the old tricks.  You don't mind starting all over again,
do you?  Of course not.  You've jumped through all the hoops so far;
Only this time, we're setting it afire for you...*

She slumped in the chair, exhaling a long breath, closing her eyes in
exhaustion at the thought of doing it all bloody over again.  It was
going to be a particularly fiery hoop, indeed.

Wherever Starfleet decided to send her, it would be after a mandatory
rest leave, which would most likely be on Earth.  Ostensibly, the
leave would be for her comfort and psychological readjustment, if such
a thing were possible.  A cynical laugh escaped Sarah's lips.  What
re-adjustment?  She didn't need one.  She was fine, she was alive, and
according to almighty Starfleet itself, well enough to work on the
*Enterprise's* current mission.  Granted, it was unofficial, but it
still counted.  An immediate return to duty on a regular basis,
though?  Oh, no.  That was out of the question, no matter how much she
wanted or needed it.  No, there had to be some time in which she had
to devote herself to the impossible task of pretending that the last
six months had never happened.  *God forbid I'm not a
well-a-bloody-justed...*

Sarah stared out at the stars, hoping to find some encouragement
there.  She'd never had much patience with the powers that be, and now
she had even less.  It was like being five years old again, and just
because she could paint better than most adults, that meant other
people could decide her life for her.  All she was missing  was her
plush Paddington bear for company.  She could use one.

Just like then, she was only waiting for the time they'd send the
obligatory counsellor to help her sort out the ordeal.  The grief, as
well, she added to her thought.  No doubt the counsellor would find a
treasure trove of probing in the matter of the child.  If it ever
occurred to anyone to ask what *she* wanted, she'd tell them not to
bother.  Life went on.  It had been doing so for the entire human race
since the beginning of time, and it wouldn't come to a crashing halt
now.

God knew, she'd gotten through the past six months well enough; she
should do the same for the foreseeable future.  Try explaining that to
almighty Starfleet Command.  Wouldn't do, no, it wouldn't do at all.

"Hello."

Sarah turned around.

"Are you supposed to be here?"  The woman looked at Sarah with calm,
dark eyes, her hands folded in front of her.

"Are *you*?" Sarah's voice prickled.

The woman remained standing where she was, her expression pleasant
beneath one of the largest hats Sarah had ever seen.  It would fit in
perfectly at Ascot.  "I suppose *you* might call me the barkeep, but I
prefer Guinan.  That's my name.  Yours would be Lieutenant Cromwell,
unless I miss my guess.  I don't often miss my guesses."

Sarah seldom trusted women, and smiling women were even worse.  "How
did you know?"

Guinan shrugged.  "I know just about everybody on board, and I haven't
seen you in here before.  Besides, you match the descriptions.  You're
a popular topic of conversation around here."

Sarah didn't know if she liked that or not.  If this was the
counsellor, she wouldn't mind terribly.  Barkeeps were a different
matter from counsellors entirely.  Barkeeps, it had been her
experience, were often more honest in their appraisals and more
generous with their advice.  She propped one ankle over the knee,
grateful that Guinan didn't comment of what the gesture was doing to
Sarah's posture.  "What sort of descriptions?"

"Several different kinds," Guinan allowed.  "I always like to think it
depends on who's doing the describing.  Would you like something to
drink?"

Barkeeps were definitely a different species, and a highly superior
one at that, Sarah thought with a sense of satisfaction as she draped
one arm over the back of the chair.  "I thought you weren't certain I
was supposed to be here."

Guinan's hairless brows flashed upwards.  "Were you told you couldn't
be?"

"No."

The hat inclined slightly.  "Do you plan on starting any fights?"

Sarah shook her head.  "Not today.  I'm not exactly in the mood.
Actually, I've had my share of fighting for a bit."

"Glad to hear it.  I assume you won't be dancing on any of my
tables,either."

Getting into the spirit of things, Sarah pretended to consider doing
just that.  "No music," she finally decided.

Guinan nodded her approval.  "In that case, I suppose I can let you
stay for a while.  I should warn you, though."

*Drat it all.*  Just when Sarah had thought she'd finally found
someone she could have a decent conversation with, this had to come
up.  "Warn me of what?  I promise not to exert myself just sitting
here.  You have my word."

Guinan's hat bobbed.  "I believe you.  See that boy over there?"  She
waved an elegant dark hand toward a group of young people at a nearby
table.  "The one in the grey."

Sarah nodded.  "Cardassian agent in disguise?"

"No.  Wesley Crusher.  You might prefer the Cardassian, though.  He's,
shall we say, inquisitive, as well as being Beverly Crusher's son.
It's not going to take him long to figure out who you are, and he's
going to have questions."

"What sort of questions?"  Sarah stopped herself with a shake of her
head.  "No, I don't think I want to know."  Teenage boys, outside of
her own brothers, generally weren't interested in discussions of any
merit.  To top it all off, they also tended to address half of their
comments to her bosom.

Guinan immediately put Sarah's fears to rest.  "Knowing Wesley, he'll
have enough tact to avoid the past few months.  I think he'll mostly
want to know about your Academy days."

Sarah rolled her eyes.  He was one of *those.*  She should have known
things were going too well.  She raised an eyebrow.  "Academics or
social life?"  *Dear God, let it be academics.*

Guinan stole a quick glance at Wesley, who was now looking
none-too-subtly in Sarah's direction.  "Both."

Sarah groaned.  "Find one little error in the entrance examination,
and kiss anonymity goodbye.  I suppose I ran this risk when I left my
quarters."  She let out a tired sigh.  "There's not much difference
between a room and a cell if you can't leave."

Guinan nodded sagely.  "I can agree with that," she said softly, a
shadow of memory passing behind her ebony eyes.  "Would you like me to
tell him you'd rather be alone?"

*Alone?*  Sarah traced an invisible pattern of concentric circles on
the table with her fingertips.  "Thank you, no.  I could have stayed
in my quarters if I wanted to be alone.  If I can handle the Romulans,
what can one teenage boy do?"  It hadn't been all that long ago, she
recalled, when she had been the insatiable prodigy.  Willie hadn't
seemed to mind the endless questions.  He'd seemed to enjoy them, she
reflected, now abandoning her circles to trace his profile on the
table.  There had been no question of her enjoying his answers.  "To
be honest, I've had my fill of being alone.  I'd welcome the company."
She turned her eyes back to the starfield.  Philemon Three was clearly
visible, a nearly round white pearl.

Instead of Guinan's, the next voice Sarah heard was male,
deep-timbered, and graced with the cultured tones of Europe.
"Excellent.  would you care for *my* company, Lieutenant?"

Sarah didn't have to count the pips on the man's collar to know who
asked to join her.  There was comfort in the leaf-green eyes that were
younger than his face.  She needed that comfort.  "Captain Picard.
Yes, of course.  I'd be delighted.  Sir," she added hastily.

Picard took the seat opposite Sarah, giving his uniform tunic a quick
tug into place.  "I'm glad to see you up and about," he began.
"Doctor Crusher tells me you put your time in Sickbay to good use.
You make her normal patients look lazy."

The *Enterprise's* captain would make an excellent model for a
charcoal drawing, Sarah noted, taking in the patrician lines of his
nose and expressive mouth.  Maybe she'd have the chance later.  "Thank
you, sir."

"It's the Federation that should be thanking you," he corrected,
resting his arms on the table and leaning slightly towards her.
"Without the information you're providing, who knows how long the
Romulan presence might have gone undiscovered.  There's already talk
of a promotion for you."

Sarah looked out at the stars again,her eyes picking out the planet
immediately.  "With all due respect,sir, I'd rather not have been in a
position to know.  To be honest, I'd have preferred it if somebody
else could brief Command on all this muddle."

Guinan, whom neither Picard nor Sarah had noticed leaving, returned
with two steaming mugs of tea.  "Captain, Lieutenant.  May I get you
anything else?  Scones?  Tea bread?"

Sarah lifted her mug to her lips gratefully.  "Prince of Wales, milk
first.  How did you know?"

Picard took up his own mug.  "Guinan usually knows.  It's a gift of
hers, one of many special abilities.  Thank you, Guinan.  That will be
all."  He took a swallow of Earl Grey before posing his question.

"Lieutenant, there's going to be a meeting to discuss our options in
exploring the current situation.  I'd like you to attend, if you're
feeling up to it."

Sarah swallowed her mouthful of tea before she could spit it out in
her eagerness to accept.  Was she feeling up to it?  Were Tellerite s
up to a good argument?  Were Ferengi up for a bargain?  She wiped a
drop of milky tea from the corner of her mouth.  "Thank you, sir.  I'd
be honoured."

"Please understand," Picard stressed, his straight brows drawing
together.  "This is a request, not an order or an obligation.  You're
not officially on duty."

Sarah gave him a grateful smile.  "Frankly, sir, I'd gladly accept a
janitorial assignment if it would give me something to do."

Picard was fairly beaming as his fingers tapped against the outside of
the mug.  "Good.  Be in my conference room in one hour."

"I'll be there, sir."

Instead of getting up, Picard took a slow drink, and favoured Sarah
with a conspiratorial look.  "One more question, Lieutenant.  Please
tell me if it's too personal, but I've heard something about your
injuring Commander Riker during a..." he paused to make quotation
marks with his fingers, and lowered his voice to a whisper, "training
exercise on the *Hood?*

---

Riker switched off his viewscreen and sat back in his chair.
Thirty-seven of the native workers employed at the mine had the orange
tattoos, but they were all Dega, as Governor Anderson had told him at
least two dozen times.  Degan philosophy strictly forbade the use of
any modern technology, so none of them would have gone anywhere near
the generator.  He rubbed a sore muscle in the back of his neck and
let out a long breath.

The Merb, and he wasn't about to find out how many of *them* belonged
to the Berrek clan, were more than happy to let the Federation have
the mining area all to themselves.  Riker counted them as another
group of highly unlikely suspects.  That left the Klevv.  It was
obvious, but the mere thought of trying to track down nomads was
daunting.

He called up the time, regretting his request as soon as it was
granted.  There were only fifteen minutes left until the staff
meeting.  Running a hand through his already disheveled hair, he
stared at the padd containing his amended notes.  He wished he hadn't
looked at the pictures Sarah had given him.  Having a face, or in this
case, a tattoo, to put to the object of his anger didn't help.

Sarah was right, he thought, much as he hated to admit it.  The
intricate swirls and slanted lines of the tattoos did have an exotic
beauty to them.  They also looked to be extremely painful to obtain,
if the computer's description of the tattooing process was correct.
He didn't even want to know where they got the dye from.  The metallic
chirp of the door saved him from having to speculate.

"Come."  His relief vanished instantly upon the door's opening.  "What
can I do for you, Counsellor?"

Deanna Troi's red lips looked decidedly pouty, and not in an
attractive manner by any stretch of the imagination.  "You had no
right to inform Lieutenant Cromwell of her father's death without
having me there."

Riker crossed his arms in front of his chest.  "I thought you were the
one who said a familiar face would help her."

Deanna mimicked the posture.  "To come back to consciousness, yes."
Her words came out cold and clipped, a tone he'd heard from her very
few times before.

"And to help ease the confusion."  Riker turned his attention back to
his notes.  "If you're looking for an exact recording of the last
meeting, I would suggest trying Data."

She didn't take the hint.  "You're angry at me."

*No kidding.*  Riker set down the padd.  "No, Deanna, I'm thrilled
that you took it upon yourself to barge into private quarters when you
knew that Sarah, *your patient,* was upset.  Don't your Betazoid
empathic senses let you know when someone doesn't need your help?"

"It was my job as counsellor to inform Lieutenant Cromwell of her
father's death," she stated, her lower lip sticking out petulantly.
"I was doing my job."

Riker pretended to scan through his notes.  The pouty look wasn't a
good one for Deanna, and it wasn't a side of her he liked to see.
"I'm not disputing that."

Stubbornly pressing her point, Deanna placed a hand on the desk, just
within his vision.  "Yet you didn't allow me to stay and do the job
I'm supposed to do."

Riker met her gaze, his eyes narrowed.  "I thought I told you that
Sarah is a personal friend of mine.  She needed something more than
*ra beem.*"  He spat out the Betazoid phrase, like a piece of gristle
in an otherwise perfect steak.  "What were you going to say to her?
That you understood she'd had some bad news?  I don't call that
helping."

Deanna almost looked hurt.  Almost.  Riker knew her better than that.
Frustrated was more like it.  "I know what it's like to lose a
father," she contended.

Riker shook his head.  "You didn't know *her* father," he clarified,
his voice becoming momentarily softer.  "I did.  He meant something to
me.  If you were on top of things as you claim to be, you'd have
picked up on that.  Sarah needed someone who could really share her
pain.  *I* can do that, not you.  Honestly, Counsellor, I don't know
why we're having this conversation."  His eyes fixed hers with a
challenge to come up with a good answer.

"It is standard procedure to have the ship's counsellor present
when.."

Riker cut her off with an impatient huff.  "Don't quote standard
procedure to me.  It's also standard procedure to obey orders of any
senior officer.  I did dismiss you as soon as you entered Lieutenant
Cromwell's quarters.  Without her permission, I might add."

"I felt her grief.  I had to come."

"Did you also feel that she wasn't alone?"

Deanna nodded, unable to meet his eyes.  "Yes."

Beneath the desk, Riker's hands curled into fists.  "Then why did you
override the lock?  Did you sense that she was going to harm herself?
Did you think that *I* was going to hurt her?"

Deanna took a step back.  "You're upset."

"You're right.  I am upset," he agreed, standing.  "I'm upset that
someone as caring as you profess to be would behave in such a manner.
This isn't like you, and I don't appreciate that the one time your
patient is someone close to me is the one time you decide to turn into
the psychiatric commando."

Deanna spoke deliberately slower.  "That's an interesting term.  What
do you mean by that?"

Riker put the padd down with a sharp click, reining in the urge to
give full vent to his anger.  "An interesting term?  Come off it,
Deanna.  I don't have time for any of your psycho-analytic games.  I'm
not one of your patients."

"I never said you were."  Deanna's voice was still calm, but Riker
could see her mounting anxiety in the way her arched brows drew
together.

"You haven't answered my question, Counsellor.  Did you believe
Lieutenant Cromwell to be in any danger?"

*Bill, I felt your pain, too.  I couldn't ignore that.*

Riker's fingers gripped the edge of the desk until he could feel the
sharp edge cutting into his flesh.  "If you have something to say to
me, Counsellor," he bit out between clenched teeth, "I would
appreciate it if you would speak.  Need I remind you that you are not
among your fellow telepaths?"

Deanna fought the temptation to take another step back.  "Sometimes
words get in the way of true communication."

She paused for a second.  It gave Riker enough time to dart into the
awkwardly quiet space.  "Are you talking about Sarah?  She didn't need
your words, but you didn't seem too concerned about true communication
then."

Deanna took a decided step forward, but only a small one.  There was
still a comfortable buffer between her and the desk, and, more
importantly, the man behind it.  Riker was emitting a definite
hostility.  "Perhaps you and I should set aside a time to talk," she
ventured.  "I can tell Lieutenant Cromwell's ordeal has been very
traumatic for you."

"I don't want to talk.  I have a job to do," Riker reiterated, picking
up the padd for illustration and waving it at Deanna.  "So do you.
There are over one thousand other people on this ship, and several of
them are your patients.  I'm sure they'd be delighted to hear that
instead of looking after their well-being, you're in here wasting my
time."

Deanna stiffened defensively.  "Lieutenant Cromwell is my top
priority.  It isn't going to be easy for her, Bill.  She's lost a
child and a father in a very short period of time.  Whether you
approve of it or not, I *can* identify with both those losses.  You
can't."

When Riker spoke next, he made sure that Deanna could almost taste the
sarcasm in his voice.  "You can identify with both those losses?  How
convenient.  Can you also identify with being held prisoner by the
Romulans?  With losing six months of your life?  Have you ever been
tortured?  Do you know how those things affected the person I know she
is?"  Riker's chest heaved with the force of his anger.

"Bill..."

Riker slammed a fist on the desk, causing Deanna to jump.  "That's
another thing.  I asked you to stop that, but you don't seem to care
about anything I ask lately, do you?"

Deanna's eyes widened and her head ducked as she realised what she'd
called him.  Her hand flew to her mouth as if to ward off any more
blunders.  "It slipped out.  I don't know where it came from.  I'm
sorry."

Her answer was met with a contemptuous scoff.  "I'll bet.  We're not
talking about me."  A cynical smile settled on his mouth as he thought
for a second.  "Or are we?  Does it bother you that I care for Sarah
Cromwell?  Did I offend something other than your professional dignity
by helping her where you couldn't?"  For the first time during the
entire exchange, Riker felt awkward at being the only one seated.  He
pushed the chair back from the desk and stood, inserting the chair
back into its former place before going on.

"Counsellor, I'm not going to apologise, and I am not going to waste
any more time arguing with you.  If you wish to discuss your breach of
protocol, I have some free time tomorrow at 0900."

Deanna winced at the sharpness in his voice.  She knew she'd gone too
far, crossed over a boundary she'd never noticed before.  "All right.
Tomorrow. 0900 hours.  We'll talk then."

The computer reminded Riker, in its calm, quiet tones, that he had a
meeting to attend.  "After you, Counsellor," he invited, extending an
arm toward the door.  He let Deanna leave first, but once in the
corridor, his long strides soon overtook her.

She looked, he noted, like she might be thinking of apologising to
him, but he didn't want to hear it.  He didn't want to hear anything
she had to say at the moment, and the sooner she knew that, the
better.

He walked past her briskly, his posture perfectly straight.  He knew
he'd  calm down as soon as he reached the conference room; he'd have
to.  Anger was a luxury for an officer at a time like this; a luxury
he couldn't afford.  Maybe if it were anyone but Sarah, he could.

*Sarah.*

Riker quickened his step, which caused him to arrive at the conference
room a full minute ahead of Deanna.

---

Jean-Luc Picard sat at the head of the conference table, his
expression unusually animated as he looked up to see who had entered.
Riker found his irritation chased away by the captain's contagious
excitement.  Sarah was there, too, seated next to Picard, looking as
though it were her rightful place.  She looked comfortable and eager,
her straight posture and bright eyes an definite encouragement.

"Captain.  Lieutenant."  Maybe it was a tad unprofessional, but Riker
couldn't help giving Sarah's shoulder a light squeeze as he passed
her, taking the next seat.

The rest of the staff came in more or less in one group.  Geordi, Worf
and Beverly arrived together, Deanna only a few seconds behind,
followed by Miles O'Brien and Data.  Considering the circumstance, the
mood should have been more serious, but Picard's enthusiasm dispelled
any somberness.

He began without preamble.  "I have had a most fascinating
conversation with Lieutenant Cromwell."  He paused to tug at the
waistband of his uniform, casting a quick glance in the Englishwoman's
direction.  "And I must say that if she is any example of what the
Academy is turning out lately, we can look forward to a truly wondrous
future for Starfleet."  He was fairly beaming at Sarah, who was
turning a bright shade of red and staring intently at the tabletop.

Deanna rolled her eyes.

Riker faked a cough.

"As I was saying before I digressed," "Picard continued, flushing a
bit himself.  "We have had a most fascinating conversation, and
Lieutenant Cromwell has a very interesting proposal for us to
entertain.  We will, however, save it until after the preliminary
reports have been heard.  Mr LaForge, have you been able to discover
anything else about the shuttlecraft?"

Geordi's ebony brows rose above the silvery metal of his VISOR.  "Not
really," he hedged, disappointment weighing his words.  "We've been
trying to beam up whatever pieces we can find of the craft, but it's
not easy.  Trying is the operative word here.  The ice storms make
transport practically impossible."  He looked for O'Brien for
confirmation.

"Transport of any living organism *is* impossible," O'Brien put in,
with a nod of his head.  "Even without life signs to worry about, it's
risky at best.  The explosion didn't leave much."

Picard's expression turned pensive, his patrician features drawing
into an arrangement of straight lines.  "Then why beam up the
remains?"

O'Brien pounced on the question.  "There's a lot we can learn from
transporting the shuttle remains.  For one thing, even if we can't
retrieve the object, the way it behaves during transport gives us
something to work with."

"Absolutely," Geordi agreed, with an emphatic nod of his own.  "And if
transport is successful, whatever we retrieve gives us that much more
to go on.  If we'd been able to get a good look at the whole thing,
that would have been best, but we didn't get that chance.  The best we
can hope for now is to reconstruct what we can, and go on from there.
Of course, anything Lieutenant Cromwell remembers will be a tremendous
help."

"I'll do whatever I can," Sarah volunteered.  "I think I can safely
say that nobody wants to get to the bottom of this more than I do."
She gave the group a tentative half-smile, although her eyes were dead
serious.  "I'm afraid I didn't take the time to record any technical
data.  I had to improvise with the controls.  They were only somewhat
familiar."

Worf's lips drew back from his teeth, a controlled snarl accompanying
the change in expression.  "You are familiar with Romulan technology?"
Still, his voice held less suspicion than it had at a previous
meeting.  "Explain."

"All aboveboard, Lieutenant," Sarah assured him, her heart pounding
from the Klingon's aggressive stance.  "The *Hoyle* had the
opportunity to examine a Romulan derelict about..."  She stopped in
mid-sentence, mentally adding six months to the time she was about to
quote. "Two years ago.  Of course, what we got to see was decades old,
but even Romulans don't change their technology that radically.  Just
like us, they keep what works."

The explanation seemed to satisfy Worf.  He grunted his approval, and
launched into the next question without pause.  "How were you able to
reach the shuttle?"

Sarah hesitated, casting a quick glance at Riker.  It wasn't easy to
recover from being on the receiving end of a Klingon's suspicion.  At
Riker's reassuring nod, she was able to go on.  "They didn't think I
needed guarding, since I'd miscarried only two days earlier.  They
told me any further attempts would only result in more death.  They
didn't say whose."

Deanna flinched as a fresh wave of Sarah's grief swept over her.  "I'm
all right," she said hastily, waving Beverly back into her seat when
the doctor moved to come towards her.  "Please, continue."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment, gathering strength.  *Come on,
Cromwell.  Recite the facts.*  "I pretended to be weaker than I was.
They didn't think I was going to sit up on my own, much less attempt
another escape."  Sarah thought she saw a flicker of admiration in the
Klingon's eyes.  "The guard outside my door left his post to, ah,
relieve himself, and as soon as he was out of sight, I took my
chance."

Data cocked his head, processing the information.  "Are your captors
aware that your shuttle failed to make good its escape?"

"No."  Sarah looked at Picard.  "If I may, I believe this is as good a
time as any."

Picard inclined his head slightly, and gave his tunic an unnecessary
tug.  It was the only show of doubt he allowed.

"By now they'll have noticed that I'm gone, and that the shuttle is
missing."  Sarah began, her voice holding quiet authority.  "The place
where I was held is underground, and with the ice storms, they don't
venture out unless it's absolutely necessary.  I seriously doubt
they've gone looking yet."  She paused, trying to gauge the receptions
her idea would get.  It was difficult to tell, with unfamiliar faces,
not knowing how the various features usually sat, but they all seemed
to be with her so far.

"As soon as there's a break in the ice storms, I'd like to join the
away team at the crash site."

"Absolutely not!"  Riker almost jumped out of his chair.

All eyes turned to Riker.  Although a sudden silence had fallen over
the room, the force of his words remained.  He refused to be
embarrassed, despite the colour he could feel flooding his face.

"I apologise for my outburst, but clearly, Lieutenant Cromwell is in
no condition for active duty on an arctic planet."

Picard turned to Beverly, his face impassive.  "Doctor?"

Beverly took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully.  "Lieutenant
Cromwell's recovery has been unusually -- well, I'll call it
precocious, but she's not the first human to behave that way.  Other
than the speed of her recovery, I don't see any reason to keep her
from doing what she's able to do.  I'll need a little more information
before I give any sort of medical opinion.  What exactly *do* you plan
on doing, Lieutenant?"

Worf's shaggy brows shot upwards with interest as he leaned in Sarah's
direction.  "You have a plan?"

"I do," she confirmed, meeting his eyes.  "The only Philemites I saw
during my captivity were of a single clan, Berrek, although there were
many individuals.  All were Klevv.  Since Philemites are physically
identical to humans, except for their colouring, we could easily
disguise the away team." Sarah paused.  There were moments, and this
was one of them, when life seemed unreal, to say the least.  *Please
understand, Willie,* she pleaded silently.  "Since there were many
Klevv in the compound, I don't think it would be implausible for the
Roms to think another group of them found the shuttle."

Geordi caught on immediately, slapping a hand down on the table as
though he were a contestant in a holo-quiz programme.  "I get it!  You
think we can pass ourselves off as Klevv bringing you back to the
Romulans.  Once we're inside, we can figure out what they're up to,
without them even knowing we're in there.  I like it," he pronounced,
his wide ivory grin spreading slowly across his face.

Worf's expression came dangerously close to matching Geordi's.  Under
other circumstances, it would have been comical.  "It would require
that Lieutenant Cromwell be certified fit for duty."  His lips
remained parted in feral anticipation.  "How large would the landing
party be?"

"At least five, besides myself," Sarah informed him, mentally
assembling a group of the correct size.  "The Klevv usually travel in
moderately sized groups, large enough for mutual protection, but small
enough so that all of the procession can be easily fed and sheltered.
Small extended families are the most common, with at least five
adults, but rarely more than ten."

Data's bright yellow eyes flickered as he thought.  "How would you
recommend disguising the equipment and weapons.?"

The left corner of Sarah's mouth turned upward, betraying a trace of
amusement.  She spoke in clipped Philemite, then translated into
Standard.  "Never assume a dunf isn't hungry, never go hunting in a
storm, and never ask a Klevv what's in his pack."

Data cocked his head.  "Ah. An ancient Philemite philosophical saying,
commonly attributed to..."  He stopped abruptly, noticing Picard's
warning glare.  "An ancient Philemite philosopher."

"Veklad Rhu'gesh," Sarah supplied.  "Widely respected by the Klevv.  I
have given this plan a great deal of thought."  *Six months of it,*
she added to herself.  "I have every reason to believe we will be
successful.  There's obviously a cooperative relationship between the
Berrek clan and the Romulans.  The poor Roms do have some trouble
remembering faces."  The sound she made next was somewhere between a
chuckle and a derisive snort.  "Of course, the fur hoods help a great
deal in that respect.

"I know some of you may have your doubts as to the advisability of my
participating in this venture," she said evenly, looking at Riker.
"If I am found unfit, I will stay on board the *Enterprise* without
protest and help devise an alternate plan.  However, I do believe this
is our best chance of getting to the bottom of the matter."

Picard's fingers were steepled under his chin again, a sure sign that
he was taking the matter at hand very seriously.  "Comments?"

Worf's look of utter satisfaction and his ready posture said more than
his words could.  "I believe Lieutenant Cromwell's plan should be
effective, if she is found fit for duty."

Picard nodded.  "Doctor Crusher?"

"I would insist on sending at least one doctor and one med-tech."

Data looked as though he was trying very hard to keep quiet.

Riker stroked his beard thoughtfully, the motion slow and repetitive.
"This was your own idea, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir.  It is."

Riker hoped Deanna didn't pick up on the pang of disappointment that
stabbed him when Sarah spoke.  *You don't have to do this, Brit,* he
wanted to say.  *You fulfilled your duty by not cooperating and by
escaping.  Let someone else handle the rest.*  "Nobody suggested this
to you?"

Sarah bristled, drawing her small frame perfectly straight.
"Commander, with all due respect, I fail to see your point.  I've
already explained that this plan is my own."

Cautioned by a stern look from Picard, Riker swallowed his original
comment.  "I do have my reservations," he admitted, pausing for
another stroke of his beard.  He swivelled in Deanna's direction.
"Counsellor, you haven't said anything."

Deanna blinked.  There was more for her to deal with than just the
immediate discussion.  The strength and number of emotions she had to
sort through were things she hadn't counted on.  Hoping nobody had
noticed her distraction, she moistened her lips.

"I believe Lieutenant Cromwell is sincere.  Her thoughts and ideas are
entirely her own."

Picard pushed back from the table.  "Excellent.  Doctor, Lieutenant
Worf, Counsellor, I will expect you to examine Lieutenant Cromwell as
soon as possible.  Bend a few points if you have to.  I want this
investigation underway immediately.  Number One, assemble an away
team.  As soon as Lieutenant Cromwell is pronounced fit, weather
permitting, we can begin preparing the landing party."  Picard stood,
dismissing the meeting.

---

Six hours later, Riker scowled into the mirror, not quite believing
what he saw.  This was supposed to be attractive?  Still, Data had
assured him that he, as well as the rest of the away team, would pass
for Klevv, even at close scrutiny.  Not, of course, that he intended
to let anyone get that close.

His fingers traced the pattern of intricate swirls and  slashes that
started just below the hairline at his right temple and continued
diagonally down his face, disappearing into his beard on the left side
of his jaw.  The bright orange colour stood out against the albino
white of his skin and hair like a beacon.  There was never any doubt
about what clan a Philemite had been born into.

The features were still familiar, still his, but the change in
colouring, albeit temporary, unnerved him.  He wasn't quite used to
the extensions that had been added to lengthen his hair and beard, but
he could fake it if he could manage not to get them caught in the
robe's closing.  He pulled a beard extension away from his inner
robe's dunf-bone clasp with a muffled curse.  He hated the thought of
looking like one of *them.*  Even so, it was necessary.

He still didn't like the idea of Sarah going back down there, but, as
Data had convinced him while they were being fitted for their robes,
there was no other way.  She wasn't a little girl, and didn't need
protection.  *Right.*  He adjusted the white dunf fur robe so that it
closed completely, keeping it away from anything hair-related.  "Good
enough," he pronounced, turning to face the others.  "Is that it?"

Sarah walked around him in a slow circle, nodding her approval.  "Very
good.  Trust me, any Klevv patriarch would be proud to let your dunfs
feed with his."  She anticipated Data's question, and clarified.
"That's the first step in the Klevv marriage ritual.  There will be no
questions."

Riker took one last look in the mirror, and shook his abominable
snowman's head.  At least he knew he'd chosen the best people for the
job.  Data was still intently examining his own disguise.  Geordi was
busy pulling the furred hood lower over his face, trying to conceal his
VISOR.

Eliva had put her own hood on and off several times, trying to find
the most comfortable way to lay her antennae.  Next to her, Ensign
Sabu, Geordi's recommendation, was having more trouble with the
extensions than Riker had.  It was small comfort, but it did make
Riker feel less awkward.

Riker had left the choice of security personnel to Worf.  Although he
didn't know Jeffrey Taylor and Sabrina Sinclair personally, their
service records were enough.  As an added bonus, they both seemed to
be doing fine with the disguises.  He motioned them over to help Sabu,
who appeared to be tangled in a web of long white hair.

"Well, I suppose that does it," Beverly announced, pulling on her own
white robe, her fingers shaking as she secured the fastening.  "How do
I look?"

Sarah crossed to Beverly with quick steps.  "If you'll permit me,
Doctor," she said as she unfastened Beverly's clasp and refastened it,
this time with the opposite side overlapping.  "It's this way for
females.  Easier to nurse, I suppose."

She stepped back, surveying those around her.  She thanked God that
Willie was there.  His familiar features and the uncertain set of his
pale mouth encouraged her.  These were all her fellow Starfleet
officers, not really Klevv at all.  *Remember that, Cromwell.
There'll be a quiz later.*

Riker took a deep breath, hoping to gather some of the authority he
knew he'd have to project.  "Lieutenant Cromwell, remain with me for a
minute.  The rest of you, proceed to Transporter room two.  We'll meet
you there."  He watched the others file out, waiting until he and
Sarah were alone.  "Brit..."  What could he say?  "Are you sure about
this?"

Sarah looked directly into Riker's eyes, eyes that the artificial pink
colouring couldn't make any less troubled.  "Willie, it's going to
work.  You know it is.  Under all this," she indicated his costume as
well as her own, a re-creation of what she'd been wearing when she
escaped the compound, "nothing's changed.  We're still who we've
always been."  She paused.  "Well, almost.  I'm more than Arthur's
little sister now.  I'm a big girl.  You have to be out of nappies to
graduate Academy, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

Sarah's sigh weighed kilotons on Riker's ears.  "Don't you believe in
me anymore, Willie?  You did once.  Were you just humouring me in the
summerhouse the night Uncle Stephen died?"

Riker's shoulders slumped as the memory chastened him.  "No, I wasn't
humouring you. I meant every word, and I still do.  I always will."
He drew a hand down his face, stalling for time, stalling for the
right words.  "You're right.  You're no child.  Sometimes I wonder if
you ever were.  God, this is hard."

"Just say it."

Riker took a deep breath.  "Okay, I guess a part of me still thinks I
have to watch out for you.  You're not a kid, and you don't need a
babysitter.  I just don't want you to push yourself too far trying to
to prove that."  *Because we have some unfinished business.*

"Three of your senior staff don't think I'll be pushing myself," Sarah
challenged, fixing Riker with a determined stare.  "You did read their
reports, didn't you?"

Riker looked down at Sarah, seeing again the eager young girl who'd
pounced on his Academy texts; the dedicated midshipman who'd had to be
pried from her post at the end of every shift; the enchantingly
beautiful woman who'd danced barefoot on a sawdust floor under bayou
stars...

He forced his memories aside and really looked at her, past the artful
arrangement of simulated bruises and lacerations.  With or without his
approval, she was a Starfleet officer, and ready for the mission.  He
*had* read the reports carefully, over and over, hoping to find some
excuse to keep her out of active duty.

There hadn't been anything.  Riker could still recall bits and pieces
of each document.  Worf's mentioning that testing Lieutenant Cromwell
had reminded him that size and physical strength are not necessarily a
guarantee of victory, for example stood out clearly.  Under other
circumstances, Riker would have been proud of her for that.  Hell, he
was now.  It was just that...

He closed his eyes tightly, shutting out all but the facts.  There
would be time for talking later, time for questions later.  Now, there
was a job to be done, and Riker had to admit that Sarah Cromwell was
the best officer for that job.  Without thinking about it, he put his
hands on her shoulders and bent down, brushing his lips across hers,
just once.  *Just in case it's the last time...*

"Ready, Lieutenant?"

Still a bit stunned by Riker's action, Sarah could only stare at him.
He looked, she thought, like the rest of her life.  A mixture of the
familiar and strange, beloved and feared, all at the same time.  She
pulled the white fur hood over her head, taking minute care in
arranging it to look appropriately rumpled.  "Ready, Commander."
*Don't lie, Cromwell.*

"After you, then."

They walked to the transporter room in silence, and took their places
among the others on the platform.  Riker accepted a bulging pack from
a waiting ensign, and slung it over his shoulder.  The others followed
suit with their own burdens.  After that, there was nothing left to
stall with.  He looked at Sarah, her face impassive, her posture
inspection-straight.

"Mr O'Brien, energise."

---

to be continued in TAPESTRY TWO: SNOWBOUND