Some years later...


War had come to Thiaa Prime.

It was one of those things. There had been strenuous efforts made to avert it – even the Vulcans had sent mediators – but in the end, the hostility had exploded, enveloping both continents in a bloody civil war.

The level of technology meant that as conflicts go, it was short. Casualty numbers were astronomical, environmental damage severe. The survivors stared about them at what was left of their once-thriving civilisation, and came to the belated conclusion that 'jaw, jaw' really did have advantages over 'war, war'. A peace was patched up, mostly because there was enough land for everybody now and nobody had the energy left to fight any more. The two sides agreed to occupy separate continents for the foreseeable future.

A pity they hadn't been able to come to so peaceful and logical a conclusion before wiping out three quarters of their world's population, but that was war for you.

Enterprise was among the ships tasked with rendering humanitarian aid. The bridge officers gathered in the Situation Room for the briefing.

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed listened, unmoved, and studied the damage reports on the display. Mostly consistent with air-burst nuclear warheads; primitive, but effective. Anyone going down would have to wear EV suits to protect them from the radiation. Only the very few major centres of population had been targeted, but there would be atmospheric contamination planet-wide. Only time would tell if the Thiaans would be able to survive in their post-apocalyptic world, or if genetic mutation and irradiation would make an end of them.

"We need to be prepared for what it's going to be like down there," said Captain Archer grimly. "They'll need to spend a few months getting the towns cleaned up, just so disease doesn't get hold. Not that anyone'll be living there for a while."

Hardly, with the half-life of this kind of radiation. He moved the scans in closer. Whole cities, completely flattened as though some giant fist had slammed down on them from the sky. Parts of a few of the stronger structures had survived, but mostly the blast had obliterated everything. People, of course, had been wiped out in a single gasp of unimaginable heat, greater than the core of some stars; it was only in the outer-lying areas where a few had survived, burned and blinded and battered. Not to mention bathed in fallout.

"Vulcan has sent humanitarian aid," said T'Pol calmly. "The T'Veyr arrived two days ago and has brought a considerable quantity of medical equipment, but the casualties are too numerous for the limited number of medical staff readily available. Other ships are on their way, but it will take time for them to arrive."

"Phlox is standing by. I want anyone with any medical expertise to help out. Even a few willing volunteers who've been told what to do will be better than nothing." Archer stared sombrely at the scan of the city he intended to focus their efforts on, and then glanced at his Tactical Officer. "Any input from the tactical side of things?"

"We should take down engineers to check the structural integrity of any building we intend to enter," he replied. "There's evidence of recent seismic activity in the area. The blasts may have left what's left dangerously unstable, and even a slight earth-tremor could finish the job. And our people should be armed. It's possible there may be looters at work."

"This soon?" asked Trip incredulously.

"It's never too soon to try to secure your own survival," he pointed out, wondering if he'd ever been that naïve; he thought not, but then he'd never been as sweet-natured as the chief engineer. "People need food and water. If they don't have it, they'll steal it. They may not recognise us as rescuers before it's too late."

Predictably, the captain sighed. He never liked to believe the worst of people, but in this case at least he was willing to see the logic in it. "Okay. Assign one of your people to each of the away teams and tell them to keep watch. I want the first shuttle away in half an hour."

The officers nodded.

Trip and Phlox went down on the first shuttle, so in view of their value to the ship it made sense for the Head of Tactical to go down too, just to make sure no accident befell them. He left his second manning the station on the Bridge, and took over the co-pilot's seat. Trip took the helm. The medical team and a couple of volunteers were in the back, checking over the medical supplies.

As the small craft broke through the cloud cover, a soft, appalled gasp broke from the man beside him. "Oh, will you look at that!"

He said nothing. He'd seen such things before. Nevertheless, he remembered exactly how it felt – the shock of seeing the difference between a scan from orbit and the actual visual reality of the destruction of a city for the very first time. His left foot began tapping ever so softly. The team had used to joke about it – Hey, Jag's tail's twitching! He stilled it, with an effort.

They had plenty of landing spaces to choose from, though it took a bit of care to set down in a space where there wasn't any rubble. The shuttle's sensors flashed warnings of the radiation levels outside, and everyone took the usual care in making sure their EV suits were properly fastened. Six people suiting up in a pod was somewhat cramped, Malcolm noted wryly, as despite their efforts there was still a certain amount of accidental bumping, making everyone absurdly apologetic. When they were all done and ready to go he issued probably unnecessary warnings about making sure that they kept well clear of anything that could rip holes in the fabric; the landscape outside would be a wilderness of shattered brickwork and twisted metal, and exposure to radiation at this density could very quickly be fatal if not treated promptly.

The shuttle door hissed open. The outside world was grey: grey with dust and despair. Not so much as a finger of sunlight made it through the contaminated clouds above. The prospect of nuclear winter loomed.

Phlox was already studying his scanner, searching for the life signs the ship had picked up. They were weak, but the Denobulan wouldn't ignore them for that.

"That way." He pointed.

The escalating tensions had prompted a few visionaries to build shelters, or at least do something towards reinforcing existing buildings with that in mind. The odd shape in the ground the doctor indicated suggested something like the battered shell of a giant tortoise. It had achieved some of its purpose, in that the softly rounded shape of it had succeeded in deflecting part of the violence of the pressure wave, but the reinforced doors had given way. They'd been sunk back to start with, but unfortunately they'd been directly facing the blast.

Everyone was carrying medical equipment. There were a number of survivors in here, and there was no saying what treatment they would need, apart from that for the inevitable radiation burns.

It was difficult for Malcolm to concentrate on holding the phase pistol steady when the heavy medikit on its strap was slipping down the smooth fabric of the EV suit's shoulder. Irritably he picked up the handle to carry it by instead. He fully understood Phlox's concerns, but he had his own concerns. Among which was the possibility that anyone inside this place could mistake them for looters, and shoot first and ask questions later.

Trip activated his scanner as soon as they reached the shelter. "Seems sound enough. And I'm not gettin' any readin's on seismic activity."

"Yet."

"I'm on it, Lieutenant." The attempt at humour was unsuccessful, and didn't conceal Tucker's unease.

"If you have no further objections..." Anxiety to get started was making Phlox waspish.

His own scanner showed no weapons in ready mode. That was really all he could do from out here. Whether they liked it or not, the safety of the landing party was his priority. Only now that he'd taken what were to him the obvious and sensible precautions would he give the go-ahead to proceed. That was the good part about not having Captain Archer along; everyone else was prepared to let him do his job.

Most of the bio-signs inside were concentrated in one room. That was good, as Phlox would be able to do an immediate triage on who was still alive and who needed treatment most urgently if they were to stand any chance whatsoever of surviving. Still, it was important to make sure there really was no hostile welcome waiting for them – the electromagnetic pulse of the warhead might have fried the circuits on any standard weapons that were exposed to it, but that wouldn't prevent someone with a little ingenuity from preparing a reception with things that wouldn't show up on a scanner.

He was aware of the doctor breathing impatiently at his shoulder as he led the way inside. He didn't let it affect his concentration in the slightest. If I was in here, I'd set up an ambush just ... here...

His caution was needless, however. None of the forty or so people who were in the room were in any condition to mount any resistance. Although the EV suits naturally circulated their own air, he could imagine the smell: burned flesh, blood, vomit, excrement, all overlaid with the smell of the ubiquitous grey dust that coated everything and stirred up in little clouds at every footfall.

The Thiaans were humanoid. Phlox had already downloaded and studied their physiological data. The Denobulan hurried to the nearest, who stirred sluggishly and moaned; Trip was already opening the hypospray case, waiting to be told which to hand over.

It wouldn't pay to assume that just because this room was safe, the whole place was. Once he was sure of that, he could drop his guard ever so slightly – at least far enough to help out with the First Aid. After all, it wasn't as though he didn't know how to treat wounds, though he'd better not let on exactly how much he knew. On all counts it was best to avoid inconvenient curiosity about his past.

Leaving Trip, Phlox, Crewman Cutler and the two volunteers from Hydroponics to continue the work in the main room, he stole almost soundlessly back into the corridor. There were two other, smaller rooms that needed to be checked as safe before any rescue was attempted.

The first had only corpses inside. Some people in this area might have survived the initial blast, but the days that had elapsed would have weeded out all but the very strongest of the survivors. He quickly placed incendiary charges ready for use when DNA samples had been taken. Leaving the bodies would only breed disease; in a catastrophe of this magnitude there was no conceivable chance of the authorities having either the will or the resources to organise formal burials. The samples would be handed over to assist in indentifying the fate of individuals later, if and when attempts should be made to do so.

The second had two life-signs. One was weak, and fading; the other was slightly stronger. He glanced for a second time at the readings, frowning a little.

One of them was Human.

There had been Humans on Thiaa, of course. It had been a thriving trade centre, and Starfleet had had its representatives there, though towards the end they'd issued a warning that the situation was becoming critical and all personnel were therefore being evacuated. Provision would have been made for any Earth citizen to be given transportation out of there in plenty of time. Therefore, strictly speaking, the only casualties should have been the luckless Thiaans themselves.

Somebody hadn't heard the warning – or had chosen not to heed it.

He pushed open the buckled door with extreme care, alert for any movement behind it.

There were seven bodies at the far side of the small room. The two life-signs were among them.

Phase pistol still at the ready, although he already suspected that he wouldn't need to use it, he advanced the few steps necessary.

Nobody here was going to offer resistance. Even as he came to a halt, the weaker life-sign flickered and died.

The external microphone picked up a moan. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose, though as yet he didn't understand why.

Settling the pistol back in its holster, he put the medicines case on the floor, well out of the way. Then he began moving the uppermost body, shutting his mind to the way the charred flesh split as he handled it. Luckily the Thiaans weren't generally heavily built, so even burdened by the additional weight of his EV suit he was able to shift it aside with relative ease.

Three more bodies had to be moved before he found the human.

He almost didn't recognize her. Though the people who'd been between her and the door had saved her from much of the heat blast that would have followed the pressure wave – that was why they were all heaped up against the far wall, where it would have hurled them – she'd still taken terrible damage. Her beautiful chestnut hair was all burned away, and the skin of her face was blistered to the bone.

It didn't need a glance at his radiation meter to know that she was finished. Even Phlox couldn't treat this degree of exposure; the best they could offer here was pain relief. And even he could do that.

One day, ma'am, I'll kill you with my bare hands for what you did to me.

His gloved fingers on the case were competent and steady. The microphone picked up her hitching breaths.

Hyposprays, pre-loaded with powerful analgesics.

He took hold of her wrist and moved her arm gently, to find an area of skin that wasn't scorched. The armpit was usually sheltered.

Her other arm was wedged under a smaller, Thiaan body. A child. She'd been trying to protect it.

He'd never know whether she was fully conscious. Her eyes would have been burned, and her mouth too, way past any attempt to speak.

He looked down at her for a long moment, the hypospray in his hand. Jag gave a long moan of rage and desire and hatred and longing, unassuaged by the years; Jag, who never forgot and never forgave, who killed without feeling and copulated without caring, and had been unfit to be any man's friend or any woman's lover.

The vow he'd made to kill her had been made in deadly earnest, but the opportunity had never presented itself. By the time he knew himself fully able to do it she was gone, deployed on some other business for the Section. He'd never seen her again, but the intention had remained deep in his soul, as cold and implacable as he was himself. Now, after all these years, he could finally take his revenge. There was no-one here to see him. It would only take the smallest pressure from one gloved hand to snuff out what remained of her life, and redeem his promise.

That promise had been made before Enterprise, however. Before the days when acceptance had first surprised and then slowly charmed and disarmed him; before the warmth of the crew among whom he found himself had begun to thaw out the terrible icy block of damaged humanity that had been taken on as the ship's Tactical Officer. Before he'd begun the transformation into the person he was now – Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

It was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, not Jag, who pressed the hypospray to the patch of unburned skin. Who listened to the hitching breath smooth out as she sank far below the awareness of pain or of the dead child she'd failed to save.

He straightened up. He was done here.

Slowly he walked back into the corridor. There were no life signs in any of the other rooms.

He went back to the main room, where Phlox was busy. Quietly he informed the doctor of the situation he'd found, and the steps he'd taken.

"I doubt in the circumstances whether there was anything more you could have done." The Denobulan was occupied with applying the last dose of medication to those found to be still breathing, who'd been salvaged from the pile of bodies. "I'll take a look at her, but if she's in the same condition as these poor people I doubt she'll survive long enough for us to transport her to the casualty units."

Why had she been here? Why had she disregarded the warning? Why hadn't she taken one of the Starfleet shuttles? He would never know.

As soon as Phlox had finished, the two of them went into the smaller room.

The microphone picked up only silence. The scanner returned no sign.

"Well, at least you tried, Lieutenant," said the doctor heavily. "For what it's worth, she died without pain."

He'd expected to feel anger, frustration, rage at himself for the chance he'd let slip through his hands. He'd neither saved her nor avenged himself. Instead, he felt only a curious lightness of spirit, as though a load that had been weighing him down had finally slid from him and vanished.

He hadn't saved her. In the circumstances, that wasn't possible.

But he'd saved himself, and that was something.

The End


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