AN: Here we are, another piece to this one.
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
Jean-Luc sat straight in his chair—too straight, perhaps. He felt rigid. He was tense, and he was doing his best to hide it. He was doing his best to hold everything back, but he could feel the pressure inside him expanding.
"We are ordering the Enterprise to leave Merobi II."
Jean-Luc had sensed it would come, but thinking it might come and receiving the order were two different things entirely.
"With all due respect," Jean-Luc said. "I think the Enterprise is in a good position to help with the conflict on Merobi II."
"We are currently dealing with what they have decided to classify as a terrorist situation—a hostage situation."
"And those hostages are my crew," Jean-Luc said.
"Jean-Luc, don't take this personally, but you're too close to the problem. Yesterday, information was filed regarding a marriage…"
"We never got the chance to send our information to Starfleet," Jean-Luc said, already knowing it was best to simply come out with everything. "We married last night. We had full intention of informing Starfleet after the negotiations were done."
"Of course," Admiral Warren said. He smiled. "You were celebrating your nuptials. And Starfleet doesn't fault you for that. The problem remains that having your wife on the hostage list makes us think that, perhaps, you shouldn't be the lead ship as we move forward. We're going to do everything we can to get our people back, Jean-Luc, but some hard decisions may have to be made. I'm sorry. I know you understand."
Jean-Luc stared at the small screen in front of him. Jean-Luc Picard, the captain of the Enterprise, did understand. Beverly, too, would understand as a Starfleet officer.
Jean-Luc Picard, the man who had only just married the woman he'd been in love with his entire life, the man who was expecting a child with her that he hadn't ever imagined might come into creation, and the man who could still close his eyes and feel the sensation of her skin against his fingertips—that man—did not understand.
"The Enterprise will stand down unless needed," Jean-Luc said. "I respectfully request to remain in orbit to offer assistance should the Harbinger or the Apollo require said assistance. I also request to remain connected to communications, but I will not interfere."
"I've known you for a long time, Jean-Luc," Admiral Warren said. "I've known Beverly, too, for a long time."
Jean-Luc nodded his head.
"Then, you will grant my request," Jean-Luc pressed.
"You understand that we have no way of knowing which way this will go. In a lot of ways, my hands are tied."
Jean-Luc felt the melancholy smile on his lips. He did his best to make it more believable.
"You will understand that, one way or another, my crew and I would prefer to remain aware of how things are going," Jean-Luc said. "And if we can offer assistance to see our people home…"
Admiral Warren sighed and clearly considered things.
"Maintain orbit. Monitor communications. At this time, the Enterprise is under orders not to interfere in negotiations unless through direct order."
"Understood," Jean-Luc said. "And…thank you."
As soon as the screen went blank, Jean-Luc rested his head in his hands and did his best to steel himself for leaving the ready room and giving orders to his crew that they were, in essence, being relieved of active participation in this conflict. They could only watch what happened and hope for the best.
111
"Come here, Doctor."
Beverly knew that the soldier waving the weapon at her was speaking to her. She was the only actual doctor in this group, but she doubted he knew that. He was simply showing off. He was young, and cocky, and armed. He had been given the first taste of power, probably, that he'd ever known. She could practically smell the adrenaline. For better or for worse, too, she seemed to have captured his attention.
Without any means to do so, because she was limited to only the kits they brought, and nothing else, while they huddled in the corner, she'd at least stopped the bleeding from the recently-inflicted leg wound. It would need proper treatment, including removal of the projectile, but that would have to come later. At least she'd kept the woman from bleeding to death.
Unfortunately, she'd been able to do nothing when one of her people had thrown some Federation-related threat at one of the soldiers, high on adrenaline like they all were—and a well-placed projectile had shattered his skull. It had been so immediate, so shocking, and so senseless, that Beverly had been sick, along with a few of the others, before her body had been able to try to control its response. After that, she had communicated to her frightened team, in hushed whispers, that the best they could do right now was to try to remain quiet and still. And, at least to some degree, they should go along with what the Merobians wanted until they figured out what, exactly, could be done.
When the soldier beckoned to her, Beverly made her way to him as calmly as possible. She couldn't tell if he had empathic abilities, telepathic abilities, or if he was simply good at reading people. She wanted to keep her own feelings concealed as much as possible. He led her to the middle of the room and smirked at her. She held his eyes, refusing to look away. He touched her face a little too affectionately. He smiled when she didn't respond and didn't flinch.
"We are different," he said. Beverly didn't point out that such a statement could be taken numerous ways. "You are—put together—differently than Merobian women."
The statement wasn't entirely erroneous.
"Human and Merobian physiology differs," Beverly ceded, not giving him more than that.
"We have studied your—physiology—in anticipation of our negotiations. So that your precious Federation will know that we are tired of their conversations."
"They're going to want to negotiate," Beverly said. "But they'll be fair."
"Did you know that, for a little threat, we can shoot each of you twice? Right here…" He pointed the weapon at Beverly's thighs. "One. Two. And you can still work for us. You will still have your lives, and your hands."
"But if you miss," Beverly said, "and you hit an artery, then you're down a hostage. And you're already down to nine of us."
He seemed amused.
"Yes—if we only want to close your mouth, and rid ourselves of you, the fastest way is…" He brushed the barrel of the weapon against Beverly's face. She flinched to feel the cold metal touch her skin. She tried to control her breathing, but she knew that she wasn't capable of hiding her fear entirely. He smirked.
"But the most effective way of being listened to and respected, we think, is to use this area," he said. He pressed the barrel of the weapon hard into Beverly's stomach. She swallowed against her feelings, and she held his eyes. She didn't know if he knew that she was pregnant. Merobian physiology was different, and their women carried their babies differently. She suspected that he only meant that he'd learned about the particular effects of humans being "gut-shot."
"You'll lose your hostages that way," Beverly said. "We'll bleed out. Internal organs could be compromised beyond repair. We'll die. Corpses don't provide much leverage in negotiations. You should tell your commander that before you find yourself without any way to negotiate."
She did her best to ignore the fact that the weapon was still pressed into her belly. She tried to ignore the movement she felt within her and the nagging voice that wondered if the baby was disturbed or uncomfortable. She tried to push out of her mind the growing, clawing anxiety inside of her. If he pulled the trigger, she would die. Nobody here could save her, and those who could, wouldn't. She would die slowly, with plenty of time to think about Jean-Luc and Wesley, and the life she was leaving, and the hurt they would feel. She would have plenty of time to think about her baby—immediately dead or slowly dying with her, depending on the angle of the projectile as it entered her body.
She held the eyes of the overzealous young soldier. She didn't ask him what she wanted to ask him—who had convinced him that he was on the side of right? Who had convinced him that this was worth lives? He didn't value lives. The negotiations were, primarily, for more weapons that would be used for more killing.
Beverly knew that Jean-Luc would do what he could, but Starfleet would stop him from being too involved the moment that they knew she was here, in this building that was suffocatingly hot and smelled like vomit, blood, waste, and death. She knew that the Federation would try to negotiate, but there would likely be more death. She knew that if the sacrifice of the ten of them—nine of them now—saved more lives, they would all die here.
"We lose our hostages," the soldier said, "but you die slowly. Suffering. You live long enough that your Federation will negotiate to try to save you, knowing that you die if they don't."
Soldiers came, gathering up the body of her fallen crewmember. Others came for the woman who had been shot in the leg. She cried out for Beverly as though Beverly could save her from whatever fate was about to befall all of them. Beverly instinctively moved in that direction, but the soldier pressing the weapon's barrel into her abdomen grabbed her arm with his free hand.
Beverly closed her eyes for a moment and tried to will herself to relax.
"Where are they taking them?" She asked.
"I'm sure you'll find out soon enough. It's a pity, really—you're really quite attractive, for a human. From what I know, I'd say it's time to start negotiating," the soldier offered.
111
"We do not negotiate with terrorists."
Jean-Luc had excused from duty the few people who had expressed to him that, in light of the fact that there was nothing they could do, they could not mentally handle simply watching the conflict unfold with their hands tied. He allowed them to keep busy however they thought best, at least until they were needed. He had ordered Deanna to be available for anyone who needed her, and he'd waved her away when she'd tried to suggest that he might need to speak with her.
He had practically forbidden anyone to speak to him unless they were giving official reports. He needed so much more than to sit and share his feelings with anyone. He was, in truth, terrified of his own feelings at the moment, and he didn't want to risk uncorking the bottle.
The reports were clear, though the names and faces were blank for the time being. They always were, when possible, in situations like this. In theory, it allowed those making the decisions to do so without any emotional influence. It was tactical. People were, temporarily, faceless, nameless pieces in a game of strategy.
One person was dead. Another was injured and stable. The Federation was not going to negotiate with the terrorists. They intended, at this point, only to help subdue them. The active Merobian government, which wasn't affiliated with the faction that wanted to withdraw from the Federation, would be given support in subduing the domestic terrorists. Even those who had originally belonged to the political faction with which the terrorists claimed to be aligned were turning their backs on the group, saying that the militant group was representative of only a small fraction of their population, and they were acting on their own.
A third hostage was injured and in critical condition.
Jean-Luc felt a spreading numbness in his body. At the incoming communication that a third of their ten missing hostages was injured, dead, or might soon be dead, and the announcement that they would begin to try to subdue the terrorist group, hopefully being able to extract the hostages in the process and with minimal additional loss of life, Jean-Luc gave his best stoic command that everyone continue as they were, and he retreated to his ready room.
Despite his best efforts to think positively, all he could hear were the reports that they'd all heard. He should feel distraught, as did his crew, over the loss and suffering of some of their own—and he did—but in secret, he could admit to himself that his thoughts were really quite selfish.
His mind kept offering him horrific images. He imagined Beverly dead, dying, suffering. He imagined the long walk on what already felt like borrowed knees to the ship's morgue when Starfleet would recover the bodies, after helping secure the acting Merobian government and making sure the terrorists were imprisoned for their crimes according to Merobian law. He imagined trying to maintain the same kind of decorum, in the face of such unimaginable loss, as he'd seen her manage when the folded flag of the Federation had been placed into her hands at Jack Crusher's funeral.
Jean-Luc didn't want a flag to commemorate her service to Starfleet. He didn't want to witness a military salute for her, and he didn't want to hear a single admiral, or even the very President of the Federation, to say that they appreciated her service.
All he wanted was to hold her—warm and well, and fully alive—in his arms. He wanted to close his eyes, and bury his face in the crook of her neck, and smell her. He wanted them to have their home and their children. He wanted them to live the dream that they'd denied themselves for so long. He wanted them to have time to enjoy one another.
They had been given so little time—and they'd wasted so much.
And, Jean-Luc understood why he was being relieved of an active role in what was taking place now because, though he would never say it aloud, he would have traded, without hesitation, the lives of all the hostages—and the population of Merobi II, honestly—for that one life that was more precious to him than his own.
After releasing all he dared to release in his ready room, Jean-Luc swept up the proverbial pieces of himself, put them back together as best he could, washed his face, and straightened his uniform. It was time to go back to the bridge and wait for the new incoming reports that would likely start streaming in soon. It was time to go back and wait to see what would be demanded of the Enterprise as she stood by to assist those who were trying to put an end to this.