Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"No." Una stared at the readout on the tiny screen in her hand. "No. No. No. No. No." She dropped the tricorder back into the drawer and spun on her heels, hoping to exit SIckbay before being spotted. She had no such luck.
Nurse Chapel stood in the door behind her. "Something wrong?"
It was the understatement of the century.
Una didn't know how to respond. She froze, standing slack-jawed, hoping her brain would catch up with her mouth and she'd be able to say something. Anything.
Instead, she watched wide-eyed as Christine stepped around her and opened the drawer, pulling out the offending instrument that had just upended Una's life.
It took only a moment for Christine to pull the results from the history. The young woman's eyes widened and she looked up at Una with shock plastered on her face. "You? Pregnant?"
"Oh, come on. It's not that hard to believe." Una defended herself. All the while knowing it was even worse than Christine could imagine.
Christine's eyebrow remained raised in disbelief.
Una couldn't blame her. She was probably trying to imagine how the woman who swallowed fun like an appetizer could possibly have gotten laid. It was inconceivable that she, as second in command, would sleep with someone she had power over. And it was equally inconceivable that the captain would sleep with her for the same reason. Not to mention he was in another relationship. Una's options were nonexistent. And it wasn't like they'd had shore leave lately. Unless she counted her brief stint in a Federation prison.
Oh, gads. That's what Christine was imagining! She'd gotten it on with someone in prison. Ew.
"It's not what you think." The words were out of Una's mouth before she had time to stop herself.
"Really?" Christine leaned against the counter, a cocky smirk on her face. "And what do I think?"
Fudge. She'd stepped in it.
Una pulled a stool out from under the counter, knowing this wouldn't be a short conversation. "It's the Illyrian modifications."
"You haven't been back to Illyria since you were a child. How could they have possibly done more genetic manipulation on you?"
"This was done generations ago." Una looked down at her hands, wondering not for the first time what her ancestors had been thinking. "I thought I had more time."
"Time for what?"
"If an Illyrian woman hasn't born a child prior to her 60th year, our bodies are designed to do whatever is necessary to change that."
"What does that mean? Cloning?"
"Possibly." Una hoped that was what happened. Begged whatever gods might exist to make it so. But she feared the other alternative.
"What other option is there?" Christine asked.
Una did not want to think about it. She blew out a puff of air and gave the nurse a pleading look, her eyes begging her to take back the question.
"Are you okay?" Christine pushed away from the counter.
Una held out her hand to stop her from approaching. "I don't want to think about this."
"Do you have a choice?"
Una looked down and shook her head. She didn't. She had to face it. The truth of the matter was plain as the readout on the tricorder in Christine's hands. She took a breath and began reluctantly. "My body can obtain DNA through any contact and split the cells thus picked up with meiosis. Literally, anyone I touched could be the genetic parent of this..." She waved her hand at her abdomen, unwilling to speak the words.
Christine fiddled with the tricorder momentarily before tossing it back in the drawer. "I've erased the results."
Una looked up, surprised.
"It will give you time to process and decide what to do."
"Thank you." Una stood to leave, shocked to notice her hands trembling. Her knees felt like gelatin. This was not going to be easy. As she reached the door she heard Christine speak.
"But aren't you too young? You aren't 60. Are you?"
Her words were like a dagger. The exact same thought had been rattling around in her own head. How was this possible? What had gone wrong? She was terrified. And fear made her angry. "Of course not," she snapped.
Christine flinched at Una's harsh tone.
"I'm sorry, I just..." Una turned back to the nurse and rubbed a hand over her face. "I have no idea how or why this happened."
"Could it have been..." Christine turned pink. "The old-fashioned way?"
Wouldn't that have made things easier? "Nope."
Christine nodded, not needing Una to spell out her abstinence.
"Could I be dying?"
Christine looked up sharply, clearly startled by Una's question. "You're in perfect health."
"Why else would the failsafe be triggered?"
"How the heck would I know?"
"Can you check? Maybe something went wrong when I was on Earth. Your last medical exam was months ago. Maybe you and Dr. M'benga missed something." Una's voice quivered, and if it had been anyone other than the nurse sitting across from her, she would have ran. But she needed to know. Something was terribly wrong. She needed to figure out what.
"Sure. Hop up on the bed." Christine patted a nearby examination table and Una sat down, her long legs reaching the floor despite the height.
"Gads, you're tall."
"Thanks, detective obvious."
"Shut up and lay down."
Una rolled her eyes as she swung her legs up and leaned back. Secretly grateful for the nurse's salty manner. She couldn't handle sympathy right now.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later, Una was no closer to discovering why the failsafe had been triggered. She and Christine had collected what information they could find on the Illyrians and this particular genetic modification, but the information was sparse. Likely due to the Illyrian tendency to keep their past secret from Starfleet's judgmental gaze. The only theory she had was that the emotional stress of the trial may have heightened her adrenaline to a critical level, thus activating the predetermined drive for motherhood.
It was a nightmare from which Una couldn't wake. She was used to being strong. Pain and injuries didn't phase her. After nearly dying from a broken leg in childhood, she'd learned that all suffering was temporary.
Illness, on the other hand...
Una had never been sick a day in her life. Within minutes of contracting any bug, her immune system burnt it out. Therefore, she had no experience with nausea. Or bone numbing fatigue. She glanced down at her still flat stomach, wishing for a miracle to end this disaster. Unable to believe women did this willingly.
Since the Illyrians had built-in a self-destruct feature, ensuring that any attempts at termination would result in her own death, she knew she would have to carry the child to term. She was already crafting a plan to send the child to a colony on Mars, but she hadn't yet worked out how to hide the pregnancy. She couldn't afford for anyone else to know about the parasite growing in her womb.
She shook her head, staring at the console in front of her. What was she supposed to be doing? She glanced around Engineering for a clue, accidentally making eye contact with the new chief.
Pelia's eyes grew wide, and a grin stretched across her face as she paced toward Una. Like the Chesire Cat stalking its prey.
Una turned back to the console, tapping frantically, hoping against hope that the annoying chief would walk past.
Luck was not in her favor.
Pelia stopped directly behind her, a gentle sigh escaping.
Una swallowed and turned, pasting on a kind smile. "How can I help you?"
"Ah," the older woman's irritating voice practically screeched, "I believe you may have the question reversed. How can I help you?"
Una waved her hand at the display. "That's okay, I'm good." She turned back, praying that Pelia would move on.
"Even so..." The chief leaned against the bulkhead. "How far along are you?"
"Hmmm?" Una didn't turn back, only half listening to the Lanthanite.
"I'm guessing six to eight weeks, give or take?"
A lead balloon crash-landed in Una's gut. "What did you just say?" She turned slowly, afraid to face the woman talking so casually about something she ought to know nothing about.
"Sweetie." Pelia waved her hand in the air as if oblivious to Una's distress. "When you've lived as long as I have, you've seen a few pregnancies. So..." She scanned her eyes down Una's frame and back up. "Certainly no more than ten weeks."
"That's absurd." Una's voice hissed as it skittered past her teeth.
"Is it now? You're legendary for lack of weakness, but I've seen you yawn twice this morning, and just now, you were off in your own little world. Your posture has changed in the last few weeks, and your reaction time is slower. Clear signs of fatigue."
"Maybe I'm--"
Pelia spoke over Una's objection. "And you're more emotional. Easier to read. I've seen more facial expressions on you this month than in the entire time I've known you. And talk about irritable!"
Una practically growled. "I'm not irritable. I just don't like you."
"Nonsense, you're just mad that I'm not Helmer. But it isn't just me you're snapping at."
The woman’s high-pitched voice was beginning to drive Una crazy, justifying her snappiness. But she wasn’t snapping at anyone else, was she? "Who?"
"You yelled at La'an for updating you this morning."
"I did not!"
"You're yelling again."
"Okay, so maybe I'm sleep deprived and a bit snappy, that's hardly--"
"Plus, you're nauseous. I've seen you grimace and swallow as if fighting back reflux, you've cut back on your meal sizes, and you give others a wide berth when they eat."
The nausea was making her miserable, but she hadn't realized she'd been avoiding others.
"But perhaps most telling, your hand is, even now, resting on your lower abdomen."
Una pulled her hand away from her body as if it had been burnt. She could not let her secret out. Not until she had a plan. Her only recourse was to lie.
“You’re crazy,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Pelia smiled. “But I’m not wrong.”

Chapter Text

Christine tapped a few commands into the console, eyes flicking between the tricorder in her hand and the secure medical terminal she’d jury-rigged into “offline” mode. “Okay… first batch is in.”
Una sat perched on the edge of the biobed, arms crossed, trying to keep her breathing even. Her uniform collar suddenly felt too tight.
She told herself this was just the beginning— a narrowing of the field. No reason for her stomach to be twisting itself into knots.
Christine’s brow furrowed.
“That’s a bad face,” Una said.
“It’s… not a bad face. It’s an I-need-you-to-stay-calm face.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
Christine turned the display toward her. “Partial match. High percentage.”
Una’s eyes scanned the line of text until they caught on the name.
Her heart stopped.
Christopher Pike.
Una’s body went cold. For a heartbeat, Sickbay seemed to tilt under her. She gripped the edge of the bed. “That’s…” Her throat tightened around the word. “Impossible.”
Christine glanced toward the door, lowering her voice. “The database says otherwise. Forty-two percent probability based on shared markers. That’s really high for casual DNA transfer.”
The room pressed in. The hiss of environmental controls, the bite of antiseptic.
“He hugged me,” Una said, her voice brittle. “After the tribunal. He was there when I stepped off that transporter pad. Everyone was watching, and—” She swallowed. “I let him.”
Christine’s expression softened. “He wanted to hug you, Una.”
“But what if this gets out?” The words tore from her before she could stop them. Her pulse was hammering now, not just from fear but from the realization of what Starfleet would think.
Her commanding officer. Her oldest friend. A scandal tailor-made for the rumor mill.
Images flickered through her mind — the tribunal chamber fading into the transporter room, Pike striding forward, pulling her into his arms in front of the crew. She’d felt the warmth of his hand against the back of her neck, the brief squeeze before he let go. She hadn’t thought about it since. She hadn’t dared. It had felt like safety. Like home.
Now it felt like a crime.
What had her body taken from him?
Christine started to speak, but Una cut her off. “If Starfleet Medical sees this, they’ll think we—” She shook her head sharply. “And I’ll become the first officer who got there by sleeping with the captain. His career will end in infamy. Even if we prove the truth, the whispers won’t ever stop.”
Christine set the tricorder down with exaggerated care. “We’re the only ones who’ve seen this. We can test again, narrow it down, maybe find an explanation. Contamination, maybe—”
“You think I want to gamble his life on maybe?” Una snapped. Her voice was too loud. She glanced toward the Sickbay doors, forcing it down to a whisper. “We can’t test him. If he knows, he’ll insist on reporting it. That’s who he is.”
Christine met her eyes. “Then what do you want to do?”
Una pressed her palms into her knees, grounding herself. She could still feel the echo of Pike’s arms around her, uninvited in her memory now, tangled with the weight of this impossible result.
“We keep looking,” she said. “Quietly. No one breathes a word. And if we find the real match, this—” she tapped the display with two fingers, “—never happened.”
Christine nodded, but her gaze lingered on the readout before she shut it down, sealing the file. Counting down the days until the fetus was big enough to draw a blood sample and identify the true parent. But knowing it would be too late for Una’s condition to stay secret. She did not envy the first officer.
As Una left Sickbay, the corridor seemed suddenly full of eyes. Every passing crew member felt like a threat. And when she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with Pike.
“Hey.” His hand came up automatically, fingers brushing her arm to steady her.
She flinched. Just a fraction, but enough.
His smile faded. “You okay?”
“Fine, captain.” She stepped back, forcing her arms to her sides as her pulse stuttered.
His eyes flicked over her shoulder, toward Sickbay. But he didn’t say anything. He studied her for a beat and then said “Alright.”
She mumbled something about systems checks and moved past him, resisting the urge to run.
Later, in his ready room, Pike called M’Benga. “Did Una come through Sickbay this morning?”
“Not according to the logs.”
Pike frowned. “Could the logs be wrong?”
“Unlikely.” A pause. “Why?”
Pike shook his head. “I don’t know.”
When the call ended, he sat back in his chair, staring at the stars outside. Una had always been the one person on board he could read without effort. Today, she’d been a locked door.
Pike hated locked doors.

Chapter Text

Christine was already in Sickbay when Una arrived, sleeves rolled up, tricorder open. No pleasantries — just, “We’ve got another hit.”
The pit in Una’s stomach deepened. She hadn’t stopped feeling Pike’s hand on her arm all night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face in the transporter room — and now the idea of that moment being the one made her skin crawl.
Christine turned the display toward her. “Captain Batel. Thirty-eight percent match.”
Una blinked. “Batel?”
“From your escort into the tribunal chamber. You were cuffed — she steadied you on the steps.” Christine’s tone was clinical, but her eyes were sharp. “Another high percentage. Not quite as high as Pike, but close.”
Two commanding officers. Two career-ending disasters. Una swore under her breath.
“This is worse,” she muttered.
Christine frowned. “Worse than Pike?”
“Pike is…” She stopped, searching for a word that wouldn’t give too much away. “He’s a friend. Loyal. If it were him, at least—” She shook her head. “Batel’s not. Not to me. And she’s in a relationship with him.”
Christine leaned back, arms folded. “Which means if it’s her, Pike will find out. If it’s him, Batel will find out. Either way—”
“They both find out,” Una finished grimly.
For a moment neither spoke, the weight of it pressing in. The ship felt smaller, corridors tighter.
An hour later, Una found herself in the transporter bay, waiting for a systems check to clear. The hum of the pads filled the air.
Batel stepped in. Not striding — gliding, like she always did, with the unhurried confidence of someone who never doubted their place. Her eyes landed on Una. “Commander.”
“Captain.” Una kept her tone neutral.
Batel’s gaze flicked over her, reading her stance, her face. “You look tired.”
“I’ve been busy.”
A faint smile. “We all have. But I’m glad to see you back on duty. Starfleet needs more officers who… persevere.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Especially after what you went through.”
The memory hit: Batel’s hand on her arm that day, firm and steadying as she guided her up the tribunal steps. Her grip warm through the cuffed metal of the restraints. Una had hated needing the help. Now, she hated knowing it might have been enough.
Batel straightened. “Well. Don’t overdo it.” She nodded once and left, the scent of her soap — sharp, clean — lingering in the air.
Later, Christine cornered Una in a quiet corner of the mess. “We need to decide which one to focus on testing next. We can’t risk drawing attention to both.”
Una stirred her untouched coffee, eyes on the swirling surface. “If we go after Pike, he’ll report it the second he knows. If we go after Batel, she might take it straight to him.”
Christine tilted her head. “So who’s the bigger risk?”
“They’re both the bigger risk,” Una said flatly.
Across the mess hall, Pike stepped in, Batel just behind him. They spoke easily, laughing at some private joke as they crossed to the replicator.
Una’s pulse spiked. Watching them side by side, she felt the trap closing.
If it was Pike, Batel would see betrayal.
If it was Batel, Pike would see betrayal.
And either way, it would be her fault.
Christine closed the meeting room door behind them, checking that no one was inside. “You’re wound tighter than a warp coil,” she said.
Una paced the length of the small private room. “Because I’m picturing every headline, every comm chatter feed, every whispered conversation on every starbase from here to the Neutral Zone.”
“About?”
“If it’s Pike.” She said his name like it was dangerous to touch. “I’m his first officer. That alone is enough to end both our careers. Throw in the tribunal, the publicity around it — it’s a perfect storm.”
Christine leaned against the table. “So if it’s Batel, that’s… better?”
Una stopped pacing. “Marginally.”
“Why?”
Her mouth twisted. “Because she’s not my commanding officer. Because it won’t read like some tawdry abuse-of-power scandal. And…” She hesitated, glancing away. “Because she’s a woman. There won’t be speculation about—” She gestured vaguely, unwilling to say sex.
Christine’s brows rose. “So no one can spin it as ‘caught in the act.’”
“Exactly. They can’t make me out to be some desperate subordinate trading favors for protection. It’ll still be a scandal, but not that kind.”
Christine folded her arms. “You really think Starfleet’s that enlightened? That no one will whisper about how you ‘ended up’ with another woman’s DNA?”
Una’s laugh was humorless. “Oh, they’ll still whisper. But the narrative will be different. And right now, I’ll take different over career-ending.”
She sat heavily in one of the chairs. “If it’s Batel, Pike’s life stays intact. He gets to keep his command. And I…” She exhaled, pressing her palms flat on the tabletop. “I can survive that. I can’t survive being the reason they destroy him.”
The door chime startled them both. Christine moved to answer it, but Pike stepped in before she could stop him.
“Am I interrupting?” he asked, looking between them.
“No,” Una said quickly. Too quickly.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve been trying to track you down. You missed the morning briefing.”
“I sent my notes.”
“That’s not the same.” He stepped closer, voice gentling. “You’ve been off since you came back from Medical yesterday. You want to tell me why?”
Her throat tightened. “Just a routine check-in. Nothing urgent.”
He looked like he didn’t believe her — again. She hated that look.
“I’ll expect you at the next briefing,” he said finally, and left, the scent of his aftershave trailing behind him.
When the door closed, Christine gave her a long, slow look. “So… Batel, huh?”
Una swallowed. “Batel.”
It was safer. It had to be.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.

Chapter Text

The turbolift ride felt longer than it should have. Una kept her hand pressed against the inside pocket of her uniform, feeling the reassuring weight of the micro-tricorder. It was set to silent, calibrated to pick up more than the transporter logs ever could.
Because Christine had proven transporter buffers insufficient in this case. Apparently, molecular perfection wasn’t enough. The epigenetic context was what mattered during meiosis. Methylation patterns and protein expressions… it made Una’s head spin. But not because of the science. Una was smart. She understood the science.
It was the reason it mattered. Christine was convinced the failsafe did more than grab random DNA. She thinks it chose based on compatibility at the moment of contact. Which meant Una had to try to recreate the conditions in which they had touched her by finding them in the same headspace. And get close enough to scan their microbiome and epigenetic expressions without getting caught.
Easy peasy.
Or not.
Christine’s analysis had been blunt. Batel was glowing from Una’s win, even if it meant her loss, adrenaline high, laced with pride and satisfaction. And Pike was awash with relief, affection, and pride when he’d hugged her. Those would not be easy conditions to replicate.
Which was how Una found herself crouching in the shadow of a half-open conference room door, listening to voices she was never meant to overhear. Inside, Pike and Batel stood close to the viewport, Pike’s head bent toward hers, her arm around his waist and head against his chest.
She felt invasive. Especially when their foreheads touched and Batel lifted her head, brushing her lips against his in a slow, unhurried kiss.
She felt the tricorder hum to life and glanced at the screen. Scanning Batel, match processing. As soon as it was done, she planned to leave. Find another way to catch Pike’s relief.
But then the kiss deepened and Pike’s hand slid lower, pulling Batel against him. The sound of their breathing changed and the tricorder hummed again. Scanning Pike, match processing.
Oh. Oh… Una did not want to think about that. She willed herself to star at the seam of the bulkhead inches from her face, willing her mind to be anywhere else. She wasn’t supposed to hear Pike’s rough exhale or Batel’s answering moan.
The microtricorder went dark and she let out a silent breath. She eased one foot back.
The door slid fully open with a hiss.
She was on her knees in the doorway, caught in the light like a thief. “I was just looking…” She couldn’t think of what she might be looking for. “I’ll leave you…”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Chris stepped away from Batel. “You’ve been avoiding me for two days, Una. What’s going on?”
Batel’s brows drew together.
Una said the only thing she could think of. “Engineering sent me to clarify…um… warp diagnostics on the…”
“Warp diagnostics?” Pike’s skepticism cut through her stammer. “Since when do you handle engineering reports in person?”
Batel glanced between them, eyes narrowing slightly. “SInce it gave her an excuse to drop in?”
Una’s stomach clenched. The device in her pocket felt heavy. She could swear Pike’s eyes flicked toward it.
“You okay Una?”
There it was. The real danger. The concern in his voice. One more second and he’d cross the room, close the space, maybe touch her again, and she couldn’t risk it.
“I’m fine.” She turned away to race down the corridor as the door hissed shut behind her, sealing the two captains in their private little world.
Once around the corner, she leaned against the bulkhead and wiped the tears that she couldn’t explain from her cheeks. She’d done it. She had the data. But now it wasn’t just numbers. It was Pike’s rough moans, Batel’s fingers in his hair, the sloppy sounds of their kiss.
A reminder that whoever’s name matched, it would blow a hole through all their lives.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Chapter Text

The world tilted sharply to the left.
Una caught herself against the console, fingers gripping the edge hard enough to whiten her knuckles. The readout on the screen blurred, her stomach roiling with a slow, relentless churn.
“Commander?” Ensign Thorne’s voice sounded distant. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, straighter than she felt. But her knees betrayed her, buckling just enough for the ensign to grab her arm.
A moment later she was in Sickbay, perched on a biobed while M’Benga adjusted a diagnostic wand over her midsection.
“You’re not fine,” he said evenly, eyes on the display.
“I’m just tired.”
“Tired doesn’t cause this.” He turned the monitor toward her. Even without training, she recognized the shape pulsing in the image — tiny, unmistakable.
Her throat closed.
“I take it you weren’t aware?” he asked, his tone still neutral.
“I was aware,” she said quietly.
M’Benga’s brows rose. “And you didn’t come to me because…?”
“It’s complicated.” She sat straighter. “And it’s not a discussion we’re having.”
“Una—”
“Doctor, I’m not asking for your opinion or your clearance. I’m asking for your discretion.”
His lips thinned, but after a beat he reached over and powered down the monitor. “As chief medical officer, I have to record what I know. But I’ll seal the record.”
She nodded, sliding off the biobed—only to freeze as the Sickbay doors hissed open.
“Sorry I’m late,” Batel’s voice floated in ahead of her. She was halfway through pulling off her gloves when her eyes landed on the device M’Benga was tucking into a drawer.
A fetal monitor.
Her gaze flicked to Una, sharp and assessing. Something unreadable passed across her face before she smiled thinly at M’Benga. “Give us a minute?”
Una tried to get away. She didn’t want to talk about what she’d seen yesterday. She didn’t want to do anything but take a nap. And maybe throw up. Being pregnant was horrible.
Batel leaned against the biobed. “I know what this looks like.” She tapped her fingers lightly against her own abdomen.
Una’s jaw tightened. “…What are you talking about?”
Batel leaned forward, voice low. “Relax. I’m not going to shout it from the bridge. I’m telling you because… I’m in the same situation.”
That got Una’s attention. “You’re—”
“Pregnant.” The word came with a humorless smile. “And hiding it. Starfleet doesn’t exactly hand out commendations for expectant mothers in the middle of deep-space assignments.”
“Congratulations,” Una said, keeping her tone even.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
“I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
“I thought maybe you’d understand,” Batel said, studying her. “Two women in uniform, carrying something we can’t talk about. You can tell me, Una. Whatever it is… it stays between us.”
Una held her gaze. “Maybe I do understand.”
Batel’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “So?”
“So nothing.” Una pushed away from the table. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Batel watched her go, her expression unreadable — but in her mind, the pieces were clicking into place, and the questions with them.
Una leaned against the wall outside SIckbay, her Illyrian hearing giving her the ability to hear more than she should. She heard Batel climb onto the biobed. Heard her small talk with M’Benga. Then she heard something that froze her blood.
“Is Una pregnant?”
“You know I can’t answer that.”
“She looked… pale. Has she been in here much since she got back from Earth?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because Chris and I are concerned. She hasn’t been herself. And if there’s something wrong…” She hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s my fault. If something happened during her detention…”
The words hit Una like a blow to the sternum. Sure, detention was dark and lonely, but nothing untoward happened. The image Batel’s mind was painting, of violation and helplessness, made her stomach turn for reasons that had nothing to do with morning sickness.
Batel was blaming herself. Not blaming Una. Not suspecting the truth. Blaming herself.
Shame pricked at her skin. She should set the record straight. Tell Batel it wasn’t on her. But if she did, Batel might ask questions that would get too close to the truth. The truth that Una didn’t yet understand.
She heard M’Benga’s sharp intake of breath. “That’s a serious assumption, Captain.”
“I’m aware. I just… I know what’s it like to be in custody. People think you’re safe in Federation hands, but…”
Una pressed her hand against the bulkhead. The implication, that she’d been harmed in custody, made her want to storm in and shout the truth. Instead, she stayed rooted in place, jaw locked.
Inside, she heard Marie. “You can’t even tell me if she’s been examined since she got back?”
“That would be discussing another patient’s details.”
“So you won’t say yes.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
But the pause was enough for Una to confirm what Batel was thinking.
Fear clawed alongside Una’s shame, icy and heavy. If Batel told Pike her suspicions, he’d never let it go. He’d dig in until he found the truth.
And then? Una didn’t know. But her secret wasn’t likely to stay secret for long.

Chapter Text

The doors had barely shut behind her when she heard his voice.
“Una. A word.”

She stopped, hand still on the padd she’d been pretending to read.
Pike stood a few paces away, his stance deceptively casual. But the look in his eyes wasn’t casual at all.

“Of course, Captain.”

He waited until the corridor was empty before stepping closer.
“I’m not going to dance around this,” he said, voice low but steady. “Marie told me she’s worried something happened to you on Earth. And… I’ve noticed some things myself.”

Her stomach clenched. She forced her features into something neutral. “What kind of things?”

“Fatigue. Nausea. The way you’ve been avoiding Sickbay.” His gaze held hers — not accusing, but unbearably gentle. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

The air left her lungs in a rush. For a heartbeat she thought about denying it, but the certainty in his face told her he’d already decided.

“Chris—”

“I don’t need you to explain everything,” he cut in, the softness in his tone sharper now. “But if someone hurt you, I have to know. I can’t let it go. You were in custody. Anything could have—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “I should have been there.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. He believed it — believed she’d been assaulted. And worse, that he was somehow responsible for not stopping it.

“Nothing happened,” she said, sharper than she intended.

His brows pulled together. “Una, I’m not blind. And I’m not going to pretend this is something it’s not just because you think it’ll protect me or the crew.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “This isn’t what you think it is.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

She hesitated a second too long, and she could see the decision harden behind his eyes — the one that said I’ll find out myself if I have to.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Both.”

His silence felt heavier than shouting. Finally, he said, “Alright. But understand something — if I find out you’re protecting someone who hurt you, I will burn every inch of space between here and Earth to bring them down.”

And then he was gone, leaving her in the corridor with her hands shaking and the terrible knowledge that he thought he was saving her… while he was walking straight toward the truth she couldn’t let him touch.

Chapter Text

The lights were dimmed, just enough to see the outlines of the biobeds. The air was cool, sharp with antiseptic.
Christine was already there, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, a console on the far wall running in “maintenance” mode — which was their code for no logs.
The doors hissed shut behind Una, sealing them in.
“You’re late,” Christine said without looking up.
“I was detained.” She tried for dry humor, but the words scraped her throat.
Christine’s eyes flicked up. “Pike?”
“Not here to talk about him,” Una said quickly. She didn’t want to feel the way her stomach had dropped when he’d looked at her like she was broken. “What do you have?”
Christine tapped a command, and two columns of data scrolled across the screen. “Preliminary results from the Batel/Pike scans. It’s… not what I hoped for.”
“Inconclusive?”
Christine’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “That’s the generous way to put it. There are markers from both that could be contributing… but… they aren’t. I don’t think it’s either of them.”
The words sat heavy between them. No relief. No closure. Just the same narrowing corridor, the same trap.
“That’s it?” Una asked.
“No. That’s not it.” Christine’s tone shifted — careful now, like she was picking her way through a minefield. “I’ve been cross-referencing the embryo’s methylation patterns with Illyrian failsafe records from every archive I could access.”
“And?”
Christine turned fully to face her. “In every recorded case, the failsafe triggers within a year of turning sixty. Give or take a few months.”
“I’m years away from that.” Una’s voice was flat, because this part she’d already known.
“Right. But I kept going. Looked deeper. The methylation patterns in your embryo… they don’t match the standard Illyrian failsafe signature.”
A chill slid down Una’s spine. “Meaning?”
Christine hesitated, eyes locked on hers. “Meaning it’s not showing the same biological ‘switch’ we’d expect if the failsafe had activated. It looks more like…” She trailed off, jaw tightening.
“Like what?”
Christine’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Una… what if it’s not the failsafe?”
The room tilted — not the slow, creeping imbalance of exhaustion, but a sudden, gut-lurching shift. She braced a hand on the console.
“No.” It came out sharper than she intended. “That’s not— it is the failsafe. It has to be.”
Christine didn’t speak.
Una’s breath came fast, her mind clawing at the thought like it could shove it back into the dark. An alternative explanation — one she’d been certain was impossible — yawned open at her feet.
For the first time since the tricorder had lit up with that first impossible result, she felt cold all the way through.
Christine was calm, trying to ground Una. “I’ve gone over the data a dozen ways. If Pike or Batel were the source, we’d be seeing specific allelic markers in the embryo’s sequences — they’re not there. Whatever their contact contributed, it wasn’t enough to be the origin. I’m certain.”
The words should have been a relief. Instead, they punched a deeper hole in her chest. “Then who?”
Christine shook her head. “I don’t know. But I’m telling you — stop looking at Pike and Batel like they’re the problem. They aren’t. This is something else.”
“Something else,” Una repeated, her voice faint. The edges of the room blurred.
“I wish I could give you better news,” Christine said quietly. “But this… whatever it is… it’s not following Illyrian rules.”
Una stepped back, needing the extra air between them. “I need to think.”
Christine didn’t stop her when she turned and walked out.
Una paced the hall. The ship was quiet in the late cycle, the hum of the EPS conduits like a low heartbeat under her boots.
Not Pike. Not Batel.
But they were the only explanations that didn’t destroy her. Now that rope had been cut clean.
Her mind reached automatically for the failsafe — the comfort of believing it was an impersonal mechanism, a genetic inevitability she could blame on long-dead ancestors. But Christine’s voice came back, clinical and certain: the methylation patterns don’t match.
So what was left?
Her thoughts skittered to Earth, to the tribunal, to the weeks before. The transport from Illyria. The holding cells. Every guard, every escort. The sound of boots in the corridor outside her cell. The brief physical checks during intake.
She’d been sure there was nothing to fear. She’d believed Federation custody was clean, by-the-book, safe.
But Christine’s question — what if it’s not the failsafe? — rattled in her chest like loose metal.
Her stomach turned, but this time it wasn’t morning sickness. It was the realization that if Christine was right, then there was someone out there — someone she had no memory of — who had left a mark on her down to the cellular level.
And she didn’t know who they were.
Or how they did it.

Chapter Text

The conduit panel swam in and out of focus. Una blinked hard, willing the readouts to steady. She had to finish the calibration before the systems check in twenty minutes.
Her hands moved over the controls with their usual precision, but each keystroke felt like it took twice as long. The recycled air was too warm, pressing against her skin. Sweat pricked under her collar.
Focus.
A ripple of nausea coiled in her gut — not a wave she could breathe through, but a slow, relentless churn that climbed into her chest. She swallowed hard, tasted metal.
Not now. Not here.
She straightened, forcing her shoulders square, but the shift sent a jolt through her head. The corridor tilted. She gripped the panel’s edge, fingers digging in.
“Commander?” an ensign’s voice called from farther down the corridor.
“I’m fine,” she said, sharper than intended. “Get back to your station.”
The footfalls retreated, but the nausea didn’t. It twisted tighter, until she could feel the sweat rolling between her shoulder blades. Her vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges. She took one step back from the panel and her knees unlocked without her permission.
Her shoulder hit the bulkhead with a dull thud.
“Easy—” A new voice, closer, steadier. Hands caught her elbows, firm but careful.
She didn’t have to look up to know it was Batel. The faint scent of her soap — sharp, clean — cut through the metallic tang in Una’s mouth.
“You’re pale as a warp ghost,” Batel said quietly. “And if you’re going to keel over, I suggest somewhere less public.”
Una tried to pull away. “I said I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” Batel’s tone didn’t leave room for argument. She glanced down the corridor, then shifted her grip, tucking herself close to Una’s side as if they were just walking together. “Jefferies access six. Now.”
It took all of Una’s focus to walk in a straight line. The narrow hatch sealed behind them with a hiss, muting the ship’s hum.
Batel let go just enough to steady her against the wall. “Alright. Either you tell me what’s going on, or I drag you to Medical myself.”
Una shook her head. “You can’t—”
“I can. And I will.”
The flush of heat in Una’s face had nothing to do with fever. She still refused to talk, the bile in the back of her throat burning.
“You’re pregnant.” Marie said it, not as a question. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Una shook her head, tears threatening to fall. “If you tell anyone—”
Batel rested her hand on her own abdomen and raised an eyebrow, reminding Una that she was hiding a similar situation.
The silence stretched as Una took gulping breaths, trying to ease the churn in her gut and stop herself from vomiting on the visiting captain.
Marie’s eyes softened with pity, and Una could not abide that.
“It’s not— it’s not what you think,” she said quickly.
“You mean it’s not because of what happened on Earth?” Batel’s voice was quieter now, careful.
“Nothing happened on Earth.” Una kept her gaze fixed on the deck plating between them. “I wasn’t….”
But the moment she said it, the certainty wavered.
The memory gaps — blurred edges after the longer interrogations, when her head felt full of wool and her body heavy, like she’d slept without meaning to. The sound of boots fading down the corridor when she woke on the bench. She’d told herself they were tricks of exhaustion, that the sedation in transport had lingered.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
She felt Batel’s eyes on her, weighing every flicker of hesitation. The air in the narrow space seemed thinner. Una crossed her arms, holding herself together. “This is a medical complication. That’s all.”
Batel didn’t push, but she didn’t step away either. “If you need help hiding it until you’re ready… I can do that.”
Una nodded once, a curt jerk of her chin. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Batel shifted, opening the hatch. “Then let’s get you somewhere you can breathe.”
The corridor’s cool air hit her face, but it didn’t wash away the sticky unease under her skin. The gaps in her memory lingered, silent and accusing, no matter how fast she walked away.
Batel kept pace beside her, eyes flicking to passing crew before dropping her voice. “You’ve thought about ending it?”
Una stopped dead. “What?”
“I’m not judging,” Batel said quickly. “Just… if this is unwanted, you don’t have to go through with it. There are people who can make it quiet, safe—”
“It’s not possible,” Una cut in.
Marie’s brow furrowed. “Not possible? What do you—”
“I’m Illyrian.” The words came out clipped, precise. “Our reproductive failsafe isn’t just a trigger to conceive. It’s a lock. Once it activates, the embryo is integrated into every major system in the body. Remove it, and…” She let the rest hang in the air.
Batel’s eyes widened. “Fatal?”
“Almost certainly,” Una said flatly. “If not immediately, then close enough to make the distinction irrelevant.”
They stood there in the low hum of the corridor, Batel’s expression shifting from surprise to something darker — comprehension, maybe, or the weight of realizing that what she saw as a choice was, for Una, a death sentence.
“So you carry it,” Batel said quietly.
“I carry it,” Una confirmed, and started walking again.
Batel didn’t argue. She didn’t offer pity this time either, and for that Una was grateful. But the question — if you could, would you? — seemed to hang between them all the way to the turbolift.
The door sealed behind her with a soft hiss when she arrived at her quarters, and the quiet settled like a weight. She leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed, letting the cooler air wash over her. Her legs still felt hollow, her hands unsteady.
She hated the weakness most of all. Weakness was for people who didn’t know better.
The uniform felt like it was choking her. She peeled it off in sharp, jerking motions, leaving it pooled on the deck, and crossed to the sink in just her undershirt. A splash of cold water across her face eased the heat in her cheeks, but did nothing for the roil in her stomach.
If this is unwanted, you don’t have to go through with it.
The words sat like a stone in her chest.
She’d been raised to believe this was just another quirk of Illyrian genetics — inconvenient, perhaps, but controllable with planning. But once triggered, it was absolute. An embryo wasn’t just in the womb; it was in the blood, the marrow, woven into the fabric of the body’s systems. Remove it, and those systems collapsed.
It was the kind of engineering that made sense in a lab and sounded like a curse in the real world.
Una sat back, hands drifting to rest over her still-flat abdomen. If she could… would she?
She braced her hands on the counter and stared at her reflection. The woman looking back seemed the same — hair neatly tied back, expression composed — but the lines around her eyes were deeper, the set of her mouth tighter.
Her mind drifted — unwilling, but unstoppable — back to the detention block.
The narrow benches. The steel sink in the corner. The sharp chemical bite of the recycled air. The low hum that made it impossible to tell how much time had passed.
The long interrogations, where the questions came in steady, clinical waves until her thoughts blurred at the edges. The weight in her limbs afterward, like she’d been drugged. The moments she couldn’t quite place, where she’d blink and find herself in a different position than she remembered, the faint tang of antiseptic clinging to her skin.
She told herself — had told herself a dozen times — that it was nothing. That she’d just been exhausted, disoriented by confinement. That she would know if something had been done to her.
But Batel’s careful voice had cracked something open.
What if she didn’t know?
She pushed away from the counter, pacing the small space. The movement helped keep the questions at bay, for a moment at a time. But each time she stopped, they surged back.
She caught sight of the uniform still crumpled near the door. Batel had promised to help her hide it. A tactical alliance, nothing more. But even that made her skin prickle — because now Batel’s eyes, too, held the same quiet suspicion as Pike’s.
And sooner or later, one of them would push too far.
Una sank into the desk chair, elbows on her knees, pressing her palms to her eyes. The image that came unbidden was not of a face, but of a closed door in a long, gray corridor.
She had no memory of what was on the other side.
But her body, now, was carrying the proof that something had been. And she had no recourse but to wait it out.
The next morning, after barely sleeping, the main viewscreen glared too bright for the hour. Una squinted against it, ignoring the faint throb at the base of her skull. Her chair felt wrong under her — too upright, too close to the console — but adjusting it would mean drawing attention, and attention was the last thing she could afford.
Her stomach was a tight knot of protest. The coffee in her hand had gone cold twenty minutes ago, untouched.
Focus.
She scanned the incoming data from the outer sensor sweep, parsing numbers that seemed to crawl across the screen. Normally she’d have had the whole thing memorized by now. Today it was like trying to read through glass.
“Commander.”
Pike’s voice. Calm, even. She looked up, expecting the usual easy half-smile. Instead, his eyes were sharp, measuring.
“You good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Fine.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like he didn’t believe her, but he didn’t press. “If you need to step off the bridge for any reason, just say so.”
She blinked at him. Pike didn’t say things like that. If you were at your station, you were expected to be at your station. “I’m fine,” she repeated.
Across the bridge, Batel glanced over from the auxiliary console, her gaze flicking between them before she bent back to her screen.
Pike’s attention lingered a heartbeat too long. Then he moved back to the command chair, but not before she caught the faint, silent exchange — Batel’s eyes meeting his for just a second, his small, almost imperceptible nod.
Her stomach sank. They’d talked.
Her hands tightened on the console edge. Batel had promised to help her hide it, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t share what she knew. The way Pike’s gaze kept skimming in her direction now felt different — not suspicion, but something worse.
He knows I can’t terminate.
The thought was like ice water down her spine. If he’d only suspected an assault before, now he believed she was trapped with the evidence — and that would light a fire under him.
The knot in her stomach twisted again, hard. She locked her jaw, keeping her breathing even. She’d hold out until the end of her shift if it killed her.
By the third hour, the glare from the viewscreen had sunk behind her eyes. Each status update from helm or ops felt like it was coming from the far end of a tunnel.
The nausea had settled low, a slow churn that made her skin feel too tight.
She kept her focus pinned to the tactical readouts, willing the words and numbers to line up, to make sense.
When her vision wavered again, she pushed to her feet a fraction too fast. The deck shifted under her, just enough for her to grip the back of her chair.
“I need to check on something in Engineering,” she said, not waiting for Pike’s answer before crossing to the turbolift.
“Commander,” Batel’s voice followed, “I’ll come with you.”
Una didn’t have the energy to argue.
The doors slid shut, sealing them in with the quiet thrum of the lift. The movement pressed a little more weight into her gut.
“You told him,” Una said flatly.
Batel didn’t feign ignorance. “He cares about you.”
“That’s not your call.”
Batel’s chin lifted, not defiant but steady. “He asked. I didn’t tell him everything—”
“You told him enough.” Una braced a hand against the wall as the lift shifted speed. “Now he knows I can’t…” She trailed off, the word terminate sticking like glass in her throat.
“He needed to understand why you might be pushing yourself harder than you should,” Batel said quietly. “So he can protect you.”
Una’s laugh was humorless. “Protect me? From what? The ship’s schedule?”
Batel’s gaze didn’t waver. “From yourself.”
The lift slowed, the deck indicator ticking down the last few levels. Una forced herself upright, even though her stomach gave another slow twist. “Don’t do it again. Whatever you think you’re helping, you’re not.”
The doors opened, and she stepped out without looking back. She needed air, space — and the impossible luxury of one moment where she wasn’t someone else’s problem to solve.
The warp core’s steady pulse filled the room, a deep, resonant hum she usually found grounding. Today it just seemed to throb in time with her headache.
She moved through the diagnostics station with practiced efficiency, logging into the systems check as though the earlier exchange in the turbolift had never happened. If she kept her hands busy, kept her eyes on the readouts, maybe her body would get the hint and stop betraying her.
The recycled air here was cooler, but it carried the tang of plasma residue — sharp enough to make her stomach pitch. She forced herself to focus on the screen, swallowing hard.
“Commander.”
She didn’t need to look up to know that voice. Pelia.
Perfect.
“I’m in the middle of something,” Una said, eyes fixed on the scrolling diagnostics.
Pelia’s boots clicked slowly across the deck plates, stopping just at Una’s shoulder. “You’re paler than you were yesterday. Which was already pale enough to make me wonder if you’d been living on moonlight.”
“I’m fine,” Una said, her jaw tight.
“Mm-hmm.” Pelia’s gaze slid over her workstation. “You’ve rerun the same diagnostic loop twice now.”
The numbers swam again. Una gripped the edge of the console, willing them to settle. But the pressure in her gut surged upward in a hot, sour wave.
She took a step back, meaning to walk it off — and her knees gave.
Pelia’s arm shot out, catching her elbow. “Easy, there.”
“I said I’m fine.” The words rasped, unconvincing even to her own ears.
“Of course you are,” Pelia said mildly, steering her toward a nearby workbench stool. “You’re the very picture of robust health.”
Una sat because her legs didn’t give her a choice. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, breathing through the lingering churn. Pelia didn’t press, just stood nearby with that infuriatingly knowing look.
When Una finally straightened, Pelia’s smile was small but unmistakably smug. “You’re not going to tell me what’s wrong. But you might want to start thinking about who you do want knowing — before someone less discreet than me figures it out.”
Una’s spine stiffened. “No one’s figuring out anything.”
Pelia only hummed and wandered off toward the upper catwalks, leaving Una with the warp core’s relentless hum and the unwelcome truth that she couldn’t keep white-knuckling her way through every shift.

Chapter Text

She’d made it three days with incident. Three days avoiding the stares and whispers. But now, the overhead lighting seemed sharper than usual, every voice around her a little too loud. She’d been ignoring the creeping ache behind her eyes since she came on shift, pushing through the sluggish drag in her limbs.
The mission clock said she had another hour before relief. She told herself she could make it.
But when her vision blurred mid-sentence during a systems handoff to ops, the floor shifted under her. She reached for the railing beside her chair, missed, and the last thing she registered was Pike’s voice — low, urgent — before the world tilted into black.
She woke to the soft hiss of the biobed’s monitors and the muted murmur of voices beyond the curtain.
“…I’m saying it’s not a simple fatigue issue,” Batel was saying. Her voice was sharp around the edges, the way it got when she thought someone was being too slow to act.
“She’s stable,” M’Benga answered, calm but firm. “And as I’ve told you both — repeatedly — I can’t disclose the details of her condition without her consent.”
“She’s my first officer,” Pike said, and his voice was quieter than she’d expected, but loaded with something heavier than rank. “I know she’s pregnant, even if she won’t say so. If this is related to Earth—”
“Stop questioning,” M’Benga interrupted.
Batel pressed, “If she’s carrying—”
“That’s enough.” M’Benga’s voice was firm. “Speculation helps no one.”
There was a pause, the kind of silence where you could feel people looking at each other.
Pike spoke again, and this time there was no quiet about it. “If she’s not talking because she thinks it’ll hurt her career, she needs to know that ship has sailed. She could’ve died on my bridge today.”
The weight in those words pressed against Una’s ribs.
“I’m not asking for details,” Pike added, softer now, “but if there’s a risk to her health, or if something happened to her—”
“You’ll be the first to know,” M’Benga said.
Another pause, then the sound of footsteps retreating. The Sickbay doors hissed open, then shut.
The curtain rustled. M’Benga stepped into view, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Welcome back.”
Una pushed up on her elbows, ignoring the faint dizziness. “I’m fine.”
He gave her a look that said he’d heard that too many times this week. “Fine people don’t lose consciousness at their station.”
“I skipped breakfast.”
“And last night’s dinner?”
She didn’t answer.
He pulled up the stool beside her bed. “Una, I can’t force you to tell me what’s going on. But I can offer you resources — counseling, trauma specialists who work with Starfleet officers, people you can speak to off the record.”
The word trauma lodged like a stone in her chest.
She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wanted to tell him it was the failsafe, that it was a biological inevitability and nothing more. But Christine’s voice still echoed in her head: What if it’s not the failsafe?
And the truth was, she didn’t know.
If she said yes to counseling, they’d ask questions. They’d dig. And if they found answers she couldn’t face…
Her throat tightened. “I appreciate the offer,” she said finally, each word measured. “But no.”
His gaze held hers for a moment longer, then he nodded once and rose. “Then you’ll remain here under observation until I’m satisfied you’re fit for duty.”
As he left, the biobed’s hum seemed louder, the Sickbay walls closer. The curtain swayed faintly in the recycled air, like it was waiting to close in all the way.
She’d thought she was already trapped. But now she could feel the circle tightening — and she still didn’t know what was in the center.
The steady beeps of the biobed were starting to grate. Una had been awake for hours, the thin blanket drawn over her legs more for something to do with her hands than for warmth.
M’Benga had taken up a quiet post at his desk, charting something with the kind of focus that made it impossible to tell if he was watching her or not.
The Sickbay doors hissed open.
“Hey, Boss.”
Ortegas’ voice carried the same easy swagger it always did, but when she came into view, her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Uhura was right behind her, a padd in hand like she’d brought an excuse for the visit.
Una sat up straighter. “Shouldn’t you both be on shift?”
“We’re on break,” Uhura said. “And when we heard you’d been benched, we figured you might need something to read that isn’t a mission log.” She held up the padd. “Whole archive of Andorian adventure serials.”
“I’m not benched,” Una said.
“Really?” Ortega leaned against the foot of the biobed. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re horizontal, hooked up to monitors, and under the watchful glare of our good doctor over there.”
M’Benga didn’t look up. “Accurate assessment.”
Una’s mouth twitched, but she kept her voice even. “I appreciate the visit, but this is a medical matter. Commanding officers aren’t obliged to share—”
“Oh, we’re calling the ‘commanding officer’ card?” Ortega cut in. “I didn’t realize that applied to people who’ve been your friends for years.”
Uhura’s brows drew together. “We’re not here to dig for gossip. We just want to know if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” The words came out sharper than she intended.
Uhura set the padd on the side table. “With respect, Commander… you don’t look fine.”
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hiss of the environmental controls.
Christine emerged from the supply alcove, arms folded. “You have two choices, Una — you can keep stonewalling the people who actually give a damn about you, or you can let them be part of the solution.”
Una glanced at her, caught between irritation and gratitude.
“We’re not going to run to the captain with whatever you tell us,” Ortega added. “We’re your crew. Your friends. That means we’ve got your back.”
Uhura nodded. “Even if we don’t know what we’re protecting you from yet.”
Una looked from one face to the next — Uhura’s quiet steadiness, Ortega’s stubborn warmth, Christine’s steady pressure.
The wall she’d been holding up all week felt heavier than usual.
She let out a slow breath. “It’s… complicated.”
Ortega smirked faintly. “We’re Starfleet. Complicated’s in the job description.”
Christine stepped closer. “Then start where you can, and we’ll take it from there.”
For the first time in days, Una felt the faintest shift — not relief, not safety, but the edge of something that might lead there.
Ortega’s smirk faded into something gentler. “Complicated is fine. Silence isn’t.”
Una shifted against the pillows, the blanket bunching in her lap. She could feel M’Benga’s quiet presence behind them, Christine’s steady gaze at her side.
“I collapsed on the bridge,” she said finally. “M’Benga’s keeping me under observation until he’s satisfied I’m fit for duty.”
Uhura tilted her head. “That’s the official version.”
“It’s also the accurate one.”
“Accurate,” Ortega said slowly, “but not complete.”
Una’s jaw tightened. “There are details I can’t discuss. Not because I don’t trust you — I do — but because they’re… personal. And they involve matters outside the scope of ship’s operations.”
Ortega frowned. “That’s a lot of words for ‘mind your own business.’”
Christine cut in before Una could respond. “She’s not wrong about the personal part. But that doesn’t mean you can’t keep an eye out. Which is exactly what I’d like you both to do.”
Uhura’s gaze softened. “We already do.”
Ortega crossed her arms. “You can’t stop us from worrying, Boss. You can order us to shut up about it on duty, but that’s about it.”
Una almost smiled, but the knot in her chest kept it from landing. “I don’t want you to worry.”
“Too late,” Ortega said.
Uhura stepped a little closer to the bed. “If you need to get out of Sickbay without the captain noticing, I can run interference. Or if you need someone in the room for… whatever… I’ll be there.”
The offer hit harder than Una expected. She glanced between them, searching for any hint of pity. There was none — just the kind of steady loyalty that had kept crews alive through worse than this.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Always,” Uhura replied.
Ortega tapped the side of the biobed. “We’ll leave you to your ‘observation,’ but don’t think this conversation’s over.”
Una lifted an eyebrow. “That a threat, Lieutenant?”
“A promise.”
They left with a nod to Christine, who stayed where she was, arms still folded, watching Una with the faintest curve of a smile.
The doors had barely hissed shut behind Ortega and Uhura when Christine stepped closer to the biobed, her folded arms easing down to her sides.
“They’re good friends,” she said.
“They’re persistent,” Una countered, but there was no heat in it.
Christine pulled the stool over and sat. “They’re worried. And they’re not wrong to be.”
“I’m under observation, not dying.”
Christine tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You collapsed. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks. And you’re carrying something you won’t talk about to anyone but me — and even with me, you’ve been dancing around it.”
Una looked away, the blanket’s edge between her fingers giving her something to hold onto. “I’m not dancing. I’m… stalling.”
“Why?”
The word hung between them. Una’s throat tightened. She thought about deflecting, about claiming command discretion again. But the truth rose like water pressing against a dam, too heavy to hold back.
“Because I don’t know,” she said finally.
Christine’s brow furrowed. “Don’t know what?”
“The truth.” Una’s voice was low, but it carried. “If this—” she gestured briefly toward her abdomen, “—is what I’ve always believed it was. If it’s the failsafe. If it’s… something else.”
Christine didn’t speak right away, and Una was grateful. Silence meant space to breathe.
“I was so sure,” Una went on. “It was easier to believe it was a genetic inevitability. That I could blame the people who designed me. But now…” She shook her head. “Now there are gaps. And if those gaps mean what Batel thinks they mean—”
Her hands tightened in the blanket until her knuckles ached. “I don’t know if I can live with that. And I can’t live with not knowing, either.”
Christine reached out, resting a hand lightly on her wrist. “Then we keep looking. No matter what it is, you won’t face it alone.”
Una’s eyes closed briefly, the contact grounding her. When she opened them, the Sickbay felt a little less like a cage — though the fear was still there, coiled low and tight, waiting.
The next morning, M’Benga’s voice broke through her light doze. “Vitals are steady. No recurrence of yesterday’s episode. You’re cleared for light duty.”
Una sat up, smoothing the blanket over her legs as if she could smooth over the tension still under her skin. “Light duty?”
He gave her a look. “Don’t push it, Commander. And don’t make me regret letting you out of here.”
Christine handed her a padd with the discharge notes. “I’ll check in on you tonight.”
“You don’t need to—”
Christine arched a brow. “Tonight,” she repeated, and went back to the supply alcove.
M’Benga keyed the release, and the biobed’s monitors went dark. “You’re free to go.”
She slid off the bed, tugged her uniform jacket straight, and headed for the doors.
She didn’t even have time to take a full breath before Pike was there, leaning against the bulkhead like he’d been waiting.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, keeping her tone even.
“Just happened to be passing by,” he replied. But his eyes told a different story — sharp, searching, as if he could read the truth if he stared long enough.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“That’s the third time you’ve said that to me this week.”
“And it’s been true every time.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Una, I know you think you’re protecting yourself — maybe even protecting me — but you’ve been off for weeks. I’m not imagining it.”
Her pulse kicked harder, but she kept her arms loose at her sides. “I’m cleared for duty.”
“Light duty,” he said, his mouth tightening around the word. “You collapse again, it’s not just you who gets hurt. We need you at a hundred percent.”
She met his gaze evenly. “Then trust me to get there.”
For a moment, neither moved. Then he nodded once, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. “Bridge briefing at 1400. Don’t be late.”
He stepped aside, but she could feel his eyes on her back until the turbolift doors closed between them.

Chapter Text

The conference room was warm enough to make Una’s collar feel tight. Pike stood at the head of the table, gesturing toward the glowing sector charts. Una sat three seats down, opposite Batel. The discussion had settled into a steady rhythm — report, confirm, move on — when she caught a flicker of movement from the other side of the table.
Batel’s hand shifted under the table, pressing flat against her midsection. The corners of her mouth tightened. It was subtle, but Una’s gaze sharpened instantly.
Pike droned on about patrol schedules. Batel’s other hand gripped the table’s edge like she needed the anchor.
Una’s chest tightened. They’d had an unspoken agreement since the Jefferies access incident: she wouldn’t expose Batel’s condition, Batel wouldn’t expose hers. If Pike saw Batel falter now — and realized it wasn’t just fatigue — they’d both be finished. Two pregnant command officers on the same ship, both in the captain’s immediate orbit? The Fleet gossip mill wouldn’t even need to make anything up.
When Pike asked Batel a direct question about sector coverage, Una jumped in before Batel could answer. “Sector 14 is still experiencing interference from the pulsar. Tactical recommends adjusting the patrol route.”
Pike turned to her, brow faintly creased. “That’s not the next item—”
“Already ran it past tactical and science this morning,” she said, adding just enough authority to make him set it aside.
It bought Batel a few seconds. But the reprieve didn’t last. When Pike’s gaze swung back to her again minutes later, Batel’s skin had gone pale, her lips pressed thin.
Una tried another diversion, directing a supply logistics question to Sam. Heads turned down the table. Pike gave them thirty seconds before coming back to his point.
Batel shifted, a breath catching just loud enough for Una to hear.
Una leaned forward slightly, pitching her voice toward Pike. “Medical’s been running routine bioscans on senior officers after the last away mission,” she said. “We might want to delay assigning—”
Pike’s eyes flicked to her. “Routine bioscans?”
“Yes. Viral markers. Nothing serious.”
From the corner of her eye, Una saw M’Benga step quietly through the door, medkit in hand. He wasn’t looking at her — he was looking at Batel. And he was close enough now to draw a hypospray from his kit.
Pike followed M’Benga’s movement. “Doctor?” His gaze shifted to Batel.
Una’s pulse thudded in her ears. If he saw M’Benga administer anything to Batel, he’d start connecting dots — to her, to them, to the tribunal fallout. And once suspicion started, there’d be no stopping it.
She didn’t want to play this card. She told herself she could still find another way — but Pike was opening his mouth, and M’Benga was a step from Batel.
She straightened. “Since Medical’s here, I should tell you something before the rumor mill does.” Her voice was steady, though her chest felt tight. “I’m pregnant.”
The room went still.
Ortegas froze mid-fidget. “You’re what?”
Uhura blinked. “Now? You’re telling us now?”
Sam made a strangled sound and sat there, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
M’Benga slid the hypospray back into his kit and moved to a side console as if nothing had happened. Batel’s color was already creeping back.
“It’s being monitored,” Una said evenly. “I’m fit for duty. I’d prefer you hear it directly rather than through speculation.”
“You think this’ll stop speculation?” Ortegas muttered, earning a sharp glance from Pike.
He didn’t comment further, but his gaze stayed on Una a fraction too long before he moved on with the agenda.
Across the table, Batel gave her the smallest nod — a private acknowledgment.
Una kept her own eyes forward, telling herself she’d done what was necessary. She didn’t let herself dwell on the weight in her gut whispering that maybe, this time, she’d moved too soon.
After the meeting, the doors slid shut behind her, and Una fell into the natural flow of officers heading back to their stations. She’d almost reached the turbolift when she heard Batel’s voice.
“Commander.”
Una slowed just enough for Batel to catch up. Her stride was steady now, color back in her face, but her eyes were sharp.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Batel said.
“I think I did,” Una replied without looking at her.
They moved together down the corridor, just out of earshot of the others.
Batel lowered her voice. “Now everyone’s staring at you. You’ve just painted a bigger target on yourself.”
“I was already the target.” Una met her eyes. “But if Pike had seen M’Benga about to treat you in front of the whole table, he’d have asked why. And if anyone starts thinking too hard about your pregnancy and mine at the same time, they’ll start connecting dots that don’t exist.”
Batel’s brow furrowed. “You mean—”
“I mean they’d see you, see me, see him, and spin a story about betrayal. About him and me behind your back. And we both know how fast that would spread.” Una’s voice was tight, her throat dry. “I’m not letting that happen.”
Batel exhaled slowly, her expression easing just enough to show she understood. Then she asked, “Do you want to know why I’m not telling him?”
Una hesitated. “Not my business.”
“Maybe not,” Batel said, “but you’re in it now.”
They turned down a side corridor.
“I found out the week before I had to arrest you.” Marie leaned against the nearby bulkhead. “We weren’t in a good place. Fraying at the edges. And that… didn’t help.” Her voice dropped. “You know what it’s like to carry out orders that hurt someone you…”
Una frowned. “But he’d want to know.”
“We’re trying to patch things up. I don’t want him to accept me back because of the baby. I need him to trust me for me.”
Una nodded. “Pregnancy sucks.”
The deadpan comment, seemingly out of the blue, sent Marie into a laughing fit. Once she had her breath under control, she pushed off from the wall and headed down the main corridor. Then she stopped. “Una… now the story is you,” she said. “Your pregnancy, your mystery partner, your tribunal. You’ve just given them a scandal with your name on it.”
Una’s mouth twisted in something like a smile. “Better mine than yours. Or his.”
Batel looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. “So this was about protecting him.”
“It was about protecting all of us,” Una said. “But yes — mostly him. You know as well as I do what that story would do to his career. If the choice is Fleet gossip about me or Fleet-wide scandal with his name on it? That’s not even a choice.”
Batel let out a slow breath, some of the sharpness leaving her gaze. “You might’ve just made yourself the center of every whisper on this ship.”
Una gave a small, humorless smile. “Better me than him.”
The lift doors opened. Una stepped inside without waiting for Batel, leaving her standing in the corridor as the doors closed.
Two decks up, the doors slid open and Ortegas and Uhura stepped in, talking about something tactical. Then they saw her.
Ortegas licked her lips. “That wasn’t a joke back there?”
Uhura crossed her arms. “Didn’t sound like one.”
Una kept her gaze on the floor. “I said what I needed to say to keep the meeting moving.”
“Pretty sure ‘I’m Pregnant’ did more to stop the flow than keep it.” Ortegas leaned against the wall. “Unless the point was to knock the rest of us flat for the day.”
Uhura grasped the rail. “You dropped that like you were reporting a hull break, and now you’re pretending like it’s no big deal.”
“It isn’t a big deal,” Una insisted. “I’m fine. I’m being monitored. That’s all you need to know.”
“See, that’s where you lose me.” Ortegas stepped into the middle of the small space. “Because I want to know. I want to know if my XO is in trouble. I want to know if my friend needs help.”
“I said--”
“You said you’re fine.” Uhura rolled her eyes. “And I call BS. I’ve seen you look greener than warp plasma the last few mornings. You’ve been skipping meals, ducking out early, passing out on the bridge. Either you let us in, or we start making noise until someone else does.”
The lift doors opened and Christine stepped in. Ortegas and Uhura turned to her. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Una put her hand on Ortegas’s shoulder. “Leave her alone. She was sworn to secrecy.”
Christine’s eyes widened. “You told them?”
“She told everybody,” Uhura said.
Christine sighed deeply. “It’s about time. You’ve been carrying way more than you should. You’re not alone in this.”
Uhura nodded. “We’ve got your back. Whether you want us or not.”
Ortegas grinned. “So, you gonna talk, or do we start guessing the mystery partner?”
The words hit like a shockwave. Una’s breath caught, vision narrowing. The walls of the lift seemed to press inward. The steady hum turned into a roar in her ears. Her knees wobbled.
“Whoa,” Christine’s hands were at her elbows, steadying her. “Easy. Deep breaths, Una. Right here, look at me.”
Uhura stepped forward, eyes wide. “We didn’t mean--”
“Don’t,” Christine said sharply, still holding Una upright. “We don’t ask about that right now, understood?”
Ortegas’s grin vanished. “Yeah. Understood.”
The silence in the cab stretched.
Christine kept her grip until Una’s breathing evened, then quietly moved to stand at her side, shoulder to shoulder. The lift chimed, and Una stepped out, still a little unsteady, but holding her head high. No one followed her, but the air in the lift stayed tense long after the doors closed.

Chapter Text

The stars spilled across the viewport in long, slow arcs as the ship drifted on autopilot. The place was empty except for Una, sitting in the corner with a mug between her hands. The steam had long since faded.
The door hissed open and La’an stepped in, glancing around before crossing the room. She didn’t ask if the seat was taken — just sat down.
“You’re not as good at hiding things as you think,” La’an said.
Una’s brow arched. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been watching you,” La’an replied matter-of-factly, leaning back in her chair. “You’re pale, you flinch when people touch you, your gait’s different. And the way Christine hovers around you? That’s not nothing.”
Una stared at her for a beat. “If you’re about to speculate—”
“I’m not,” La’an cut in. “I already know.”
Something in Una’s stomach dropped. “Know what, exactly?”
“You already told everyone you’re pregnant. But it’s more than that. You didn’t chose this, did you?”
Una’s fingers tightened around the mug, knuckles pale. “You don’t—”
“I do,” La’an said, quieter now. “I know you can’t terminate. Illyrian genetic safeguards, right? I read enough classified case studies after Majalis to recognize the signs.”
Una looked away, jaw tense. “It isn’t just a quirk of biology. It’s an override. It’s like… my body has a standing order it will execute whether I consent or not.” Her voice was tight, almost brittle. “If an Illyrian woman reaches a certain age without bearing a child, her physiology will adapt to make it happen. Doesn’t matter if she’s partnered. Doesn’t matter if she wants it. It will find compatible DNA from any contact — and make it work.”
La’an didn’t speak, letting the words hang.
“I always thought I had decades before I’d have to deal with it,” Una went on. “It’s supposed to trigger after sixty. And yet here I am.”
Her eyes fixed on the stars. “When it triggered, I thought, ‘okay, it’s horrible, but at least I know why.’ And now Christine’s telling me… maybe it’s not the failsafe at all.”
La’an’s tone was steady, not pitying. “And if it’s not, then someone took that choice from you another way.”
Una swallowed hard. “I have gaps, from detention. Foggy stretches after interrogations where I woke up groggy. I told myself it was just fatigue. Sedation wearing off.” She let out a slow breath. “I don’t know anymore.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the ship’s hum filling the space between them.
La’an’s gaze stayed on her, unblinking. “When your own biology is a weapon against you, people can’t understand unless they’ve lived it.”
Una glanced at her. “Khan?”
La’an’s mouth twitched — not a smile, but something close. “Every day I walk into a room and wonder what they see first — me, or him. My DNA was decided centuries before I was born, and I’ll never be free of it.” She shrugged lightly. “We both live in bodies that don’t always answer to us.”
Una looked down into her empty mug. “I’m used to controlling everything. My work. My body. And now… I can’t stop this. I can’t get rid of it without killing myself. And I can’t stop wondering whose DNA my body decided to take. Or why.”
La’an leaned forward slightly, voice low but firm. “Whoever’s DNA it is — that’s not the same as who you are. And it’s not the same as the choice you didn’t get. You’re still you, Una. Even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
For the first time all day, Una’s throat loosened. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”
“Never saw the point,” La’an said. “Especially when someone’s already been hit hard enough.”
They sat in companionable silence after that, neither pushing the other to speak. Just two women staring out at the stars, each carrying something they hadn’t asked for — but carrying it anyway.
Later, after she’d fallen asleep, the chime sounded, low and even. Una swung her legs out of her bed. “Come.”
The doors parted to reveal Ortegas and Uhura. Neither wore duty-shift casualness — their stances were too deliberate, their expressions tight but not unfriendly.
Una raised a brow. “This a social call?”
Ortegas stepped in first. “Sorry if we woke you. We thought you should hear it from us before you overhear it elsewhere.”
Uhura gave her a small, steady nod. “The ship’s talking. About… why you’re pregnant.”
Una didn’t move. “And what are they saying?”
“That you were assaulted on Earth,” Ortegas said without hesitation. “That you’re keeping the baby on a starship because you don’t trust Starfleet to handle it if you report it.”
“And that it’s an Illyrian augment you don’t want to abort,” Uhura added.
The words landed like a blow to the sternum. Una kept her face still, but behind her ribs something clenched hard.
“And you believe this?” she asked.
Uhura’s gaze didn’t waver. “It could be true. And if it is — it doesn’t change who you are. You’re still our XO.”
Ortegas crossed her arms, leaning a shoulder into the bulkhead. “People survive bad things. They keep going. If that’s what happened to you, it’s not gonna make us look at you any differently.”
Una looked at them both, searching for judgment and finding only a quiet certainty that was somehow harder to face. “I can’t tell you you’re wrong,” she said finally.
Something flickered in Uhura’s expression — a quick shadow of empathy. “Then what can you tell us?”
She exhaled slowly. “There’s… another possibility. Illyrians have a genetic failsafe. If a woman hasn’t had a child by sixty, her body triggers a mechanism to make it happen. My age makes it unlikely, but… not impossible.”
Ortegas frowned. “So you’re saying this could be… some kind of science-baby?”
“It’s possible,” Una said. “I don’t know yet.”
Uhura tilted her head. “But until you do, you can’t actually say what happened.”
“No,” Una admitted. “And I won’t speculate in front of the crew.”
They exchanged a glance. Ortegas gave a quick nod toward the door. “Fair enough. Just… don’t hole up in here like you’ve got something to be ashamed of. You don’t.”
Uhura lingered just long enough to add, “Whatever the truth is, it doesn’t define you, Commander. Don’t let it.”
The doors slid shut behind them.
The silence pressed in immediately. Una sat down, staring at the edge of her desk.
If they were right — if this wasn’t the failsafe — then someone had taken her body without her consent. Someone had made this decision for her, carved its consequences into her womb.
She thought of the gaps in her memory during detention. Of the leaden weight in her limbs, the groggy disorientation after certain “interviews.” She had written it off as exhaustion, dehydration, the cold concrete reality of a Federation holding cell. Now those blank spaces felt darker, edged with threat.
Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Would she even know who had done it? Would she recognize their face if it stood in front of her? Or had it been some faceless functionary, slipping in under the guise of procedure, leaving her with nothing but absence in her mind and a permanent reminder growing inside?
The thought made her chest feel tight, her throat dry. If it was true, there was no reclaiming the hours she’d lost — no undoing what had been done.
And if it wasn’t true… the doubt would still remain, whispering in the spaces between her thoughts.
She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing herself back to the steady, unshakable officer everyone expected to see. Because whether the child inside her was the result of Illyrian biology or human violation, the reality was the same: she was carrying it. On this ship. In front of them all.
And she couldn’t afford to come apart.
At some point, she returned to bed. The dream began without edges — just a grey-walled room. The air was cold. A chair sat in the middle under a single light.
She was in it. Restraints across her wrists. Something metal under her palms. Her head thick with fog.
A man’s silhouette shifted at the edge of the light. She couldn’t see his face, only the shape of his shoulders.
He spoke, but the words were muffled, like she was underwater. Her pulse thundered louder than his voice.
A gloved hand touched her arm. The restraint came loose.
“No,” she tried to say, but her jaw wouldn’t move properly.
Another hand pressed against her shoulder, pushing her back. The cold metal beneath her seemed to tilt. Her breath came in shallow bursts.
She felt the weight of someone over her — faceless, featureless. He pressed her down, and then he was inside of her. Pain tore her in half. The light flared too bright to look at. The fog in her head thickened until all she could do was scream.
She woke with a choked scream, bolting upright in the dark. Her skin was clammy, her nightshirt plastered to her back.
Her door chime sounded once, sharp. Before she could answer, the door slid open.
Pike stepped in first, hair mussed from sleep, barefoot in a t-shirt and sweats. Batel was right behind him, in a similar state of disarray.
“Una?” Pike’s voice was low, urgent. “We heard—”
“You were screaming,” Batel said, eyes scanning her like she was taking a medical readout.
Una’s hands gripped the blanket so hard the fabric strained. She forced her breathing to slow, but her chest still felt like a cage too small for her lungs.
“It was nothing,” she said hoarsely.
Pike crouched beside the bed, trying to catch her gaze. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
She looked at him — and in that moment, the dream and the man kneeling beside her collided in her mind. Not because she believed it was him, but because she couldn’t stop her brain from putting a familiar face on a faceless threat.
Her throat tightened. “Just a bad dream. I’m fine.”
Batel’s gaze flicked to Pike, and something unspoken passed between them. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, her voice softer. “Una… if you need to talk about it—”
“I said I’m fine.” Sharper this time, enough to make them both back off slightly.
Pike stood slowly. “Alright. But if it happens again—”
“It won’t.” She lied without thinking.
They left reluctantly, the door closing behind them. Alone again, Una sat with her back against the wall, knees drawn up, the shadows in her quarters too close.
She knew it had just been a dream — a scenario her mind had stitched together from blanks and fear.
But that didn’t stop it from feeling real.
And it didn’t stop her from wondering if somewhere, buried in those missing hours, it had been.

Chapter Text

Una felt good.
Not perfect, not her old self — but good enough that Christine had stopped giving her that hawk-eyed “you’re about to keel over” look. The med officer had even signed off on light-duty away travel, with the explicit instruction that she was to sit down if she so much as thought about getting dizzy.
She’d changed her uniform twice before reaching the shuttle bay, trying to find one that fit right. Pike and Batel were already there, mid-discussion over the nav readouts. Both looked up when they saw her.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Pike asked, hands loose on his hips, but his gaze sharper than the casual stance suggested.
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Una brushed past him into the cabin.
Batel, from the systems console, offered a faint smile. “Christine actually cleared you?”
“Just try to keep me from doing my job,” Una said, sliding into the diagnostics station. The words were lighter than she felt.
The mission was simple enough — a run to deliver urgently needed antiviral stabilizers to a research outpost orbiting a gas giant near the edge of the sector. Batel had been making these runs since she’d come on board. Pike often went with her. The third was usually a junior officer.
Una’s presence was… not standard.
She had been half-expecting awkward silences. So far, it was just the quiet hum of preflight checks.
They launched cleanly, the shuttle’s inertial dampeners smoothing the break from the hangar. Her stomach only rolled slightly before Una let herself settle into the rhythm of system monitoring.
They were thirty minutes out when the first shudder hit.
The deck plates trembled under her boots; the lights flickered.
“Inertial dampeners just dropped to sixty percent,” Una said, scanning the panel.
“Got it,” Pike replied, already coaxing the manual controls. “Compensating thrusters—”
The second jolt hit harder, and the console in front of Una spat a warning tone. “Nav thrusters aren’t compensating, they’re fighting each other.”
“Noted,” Pike said through clenched teeth. His hands stayed tight on the controls, eyes on the forward screen where a glinting scatter of asteroid fragments loomed much closer than Una liked.
Batel was already on her knees under the starboard systems panel, voice muffled as she worked. “Looks like a cascade in the guidance relays. I’ll isolate the feed—”
Another lurch sent Una bracing a hand against the bulkhead. The aisle between her and Batel was narrow enough that every time they moved to adjust or check a readout, they had to angle past each other — quick, efficient, practiced.
The next jolt wasn’t quick enough to dodge. Batel’s shoulder brushed Una’s hip as she reached for a stabilizing handle, and Pike’s head snapped briefly toward them at the contact before returning to the controls.
“Hold on to something,” he said.
The shuttle shuddered again, hard enough that the forward viewport rattled in its housing.
“Inertial dampeners holding at fifty,” Una called, fingers moving over the diagnostics panel in a steady rhythm. The numbers blurred once, but she blinked through it. “Guidance relays are still cross-feeding. If we don’t clear it in the next two minutes, you’ll lose helm authority entirely.”
“I’m aware,” Pike said, keeping his voice calm but tight.
Batel’s muffled reply floated up from under the systems panel. “Almost got the bypass—”
The deck jerked sideways, forcing Una to catch herself on the edge of the console. The metallic taste she’d been ignoring since launch surged again, and she swallowed hard, forcing her focus back to the readings.
“Starboard feed’s clean,” Batel reported. “Port still fighting me.”
“Feed’s drawing phantom input from secondary nav,” Una said, scrolling fast. Her vision doubled for half a heartbeat before she forced it to line up again. “If I kill power to the secondary interface, it should clear the feedback loop.”
“Do it,” Pike ordered.
She keyed the command. The shuttle bucked once, then steadied into a smooth, cautious drift.
“Guidance is stable,” Batel said, straightening with a wince. “Nav thrusters responding.”
Pike eased back on the manual controls, adjusting their vector just enough to skirt the trailing edge of the asteroid cluster. The stars beyond the viewport stopped spinning.
Only then did Una realize how tightly her own hands were gripping the console. She eased her fingers open, flexing them to chase away the pins and needles. Her skin felt clammy under the uniform cuff.
Pike glanced over his shoulder. His eyes skimmed from her face to the hand still braced on the console, then lower to the subtle set of her shoulders — the kind of assessment she’d seen him give injured crew on away missions.
She looked away first, pretending to run another scan. The console chimed confirmation, but her stomach still felt like it was trying to fold in on itself.
Batel pushed to her feet from under the systems panel, brushing her knees off. The aisle between her and the systems console was tight; Una shifted to stand, meaning to let her pass.
The deck felt steady now, but the motion sent a rush of heat up Una’s neck. Her vision tilted for a second — too quick to catch herself — and she swayed.
“Whoa—” Batel’s hand shot out, catching her elbow and steering her back into the seat. “Easy. You’re white as a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” Una said, but her voice came out thinner than she liked.
Pike’s head turned at the sound. His gaze flicked from Una’s pale face to Batel’s steadying grip, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly.
“Sit,” Batel ordered, not looking at him. “That’s not a suggestion.”
Una sank back, forcing her breathing into even counts. The cabin was too warm all of a sudden, the recycled air tasting faintly metallic.
Batel straightened — and froze. Her hand went to her own midsection, her mouth tightening in a way Una recognized immediately.
Pike did too. “Marie?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, turning toward the small storage cabinet at the rear bulkhead. She didn’t make it. The next breath hitched, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, fumbling for the emergency waste unit bolted under the bench.
The sound of retching filled the shuttle’s small cabin. Una stared at the diagnostic screen like it could make the moment disappear.
When it didn’t, she glanced at Pike. His hands were still on the controls, but his eyes were locked on Batel, sharp with confusion that was already sliding into something heavier.
Batel wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grimacing.
“Marie, what’s wrong?” Pike’s voice cut across the small cabin — still calm, but underpinned with a note that made Una’s pulse jump.
“Nothing,” Batel said quickly, shaking her head. “Just— same nausea as before—”
Before? Pike’s eyebrows lifted, sharp and assessing.
Una jumped in, too fast. “She’s just tired—” The faint crack in her voice betrayed her, and Pike’s gaze landed on her like a weight.
He studied them both, eyes narrowing slightly. “Same as before? How would you know?” His attention shifted fully to Una. “Is there something else I should know?”
Batel’s breathing was still uneven. Una could see the debate playing out in her eyes — say it, or hold the line.
She tried for the technical escape hatch. “We still need to check the secondary nav feed; it could be—”
“Don’t,” Pike said, cutting her off without raising his voice.
He looked from one woman to the other, steady and unblinking. “You’re both hiding something. From me. Why?”
Una opened her mouth to try again — something about guidance relays, anything to get Pike off the scent — but Batel’s hand landed on her shoulder. Firm.
“It’s time,” she said quietly.
Una froze.
Batel straightened, still pale but steady enough to meet Pike’s eyes. “I didn’t tell you because I was trying to protect you. If things went south with the tribunal… if there was fallout… I didn’t want the Fleet to think I’d been compromised, or that you had. I thought the less you knew, the safer you’d be.”
From her seat, Una watched the words land. Pike’s expression didn’t change all at once — it shifted in small, tightening lines around his eyes, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth. She’d seen that look before in debriefings, when the casualty reports came in. Not anger. Not yet. Something deeper.
Hurt.
He held her gaze for a long moment, and Una could almost see the calculation: what to say in front of her, what to hold until later. His jaw worked once before he spoke.
“You thought not telling me was protecting me?” His voice was quiet, even, but there was no warmth in it now.
“Yes,” Batel said, matching his tone.
Pike’s fingers tightened on the manual controls, knuckles whitening.
Marie’s eyes flashed, and the edge in her voice sharpened. “How the hell do you think I felt, finding out I was pregnant when you were angrier than I’ve ever seen you because I had to arrest Una?”
The words hung in the small cabin, the shuttle’s hum suddenly too loud in Una’s ears. Pike didn’t answer right away — didn’t look at either of them. His gaze stayed fixed on the stars beyond the viewport, as though he could find the right words somewhere out there.
“Pregnant?” He didn’t turn, but Una could hear the pain in his voice. His hands stayed on the controls, but his voice was low, steady. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me. That’s what hurts.”
Batel’s chin lifted, her own tone cool but tight. “And now that you do know, I’ll never know if you’re staying with me because you want to — or because of the kid.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
Una fixed her eyes on the diagnostic panel, scrolling through system checks she’d already run twice, pretending she couldn’t feel the heat of their voices closing in. She’d been in cramped shuttles before, but never had the walls felt this close, the air this thin.
“I would’ve stayed,” Pike said finally, the quiet force of it pulling her attention despite herself.
“You don’t know that,” Batel shot back. “Not when you were still furious about the arrest. Not when you could barely look at me without seeing her in cuffs.”
Una’s stomach turned, and it had nothing to do with her own condition. She wished she could phase through the bulkhead and out into the black, leave them to hash it out without a witness. Instead she sat still, hands folded on the console, as if stillness could make her invisible.
Pike exhaled slowly, shoulders tight. “You should’ve trusted me enough to give me the choice.”
“And you should’ve trusted me to know what I could handle,” Batel said.
Another silence — heavier this time. The shuttle’s hum seemed to press against her skin. Una kept her gaze fixed on the glowing lines of the readout until the comm crackled with a proximity alert, breaking the moment.
When the transport settled into the Enterprise’s landing bay, Pike turned to the two women. “Sickbay. Now. I want you both checked out. That was a bumpy ride.” Then he strode out and away without another word.

Chapter Text

Pike’s silence followed Una all the way to Sickbay. She could still hear the quiet finality of the shuttle bay doors closing behind him, still feel the weight in his eyes before he’d turned away.
The lights in Sickbay were brighter than she wanted them to be. Christine was already at the main console, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back, the screen casting pale blue across her face. She didn’t look up when Una stepped in with Batel half a stride behind.
“On the biobed,” Christine said, her tone brisk enough to preempt argument.
“I told you—” Una began.
“You look like hell,” Christine cut in. “Sit.”
Una sat. Batel leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded.
Christine picked up a hand scanner and started a slow pass from Una’s temple to her sternum. Una kept her gaze fixed on the far wall, counting the seconds. The scanner hummed quietly, too quiet to cover the sound of Christine’s low exhale.
“What?” Una asked.
Christine frowned at the display. “Your cortisol’s still elevated. Adrenaline’s borderline. But that’s not what’s bothering me.” She turned the scanner toward Batel. “Your turn.”
Batel’s brows rose. “I’m fine.”
“You threw up in a shuttle less than an hour ago,” Christine said flatly. “Up.”
With a put-upon sigh, Batel took Una’s place. Christine ran the same scan, this time her frown deepening halfway through.
“What?” Batel asked.
Christine angled the screen away from both of them. “Your blood pressure’s unstable. And there’s a mild electrolyte imbalance.”
Batel shrugged. “I’ve been working long hours.”
“And you’re pregnant,” Christine said.
Batel’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t deny it.
Una looked down at her hands. The thought of Pike hearing that in this room instead of the shuttle made her stomach twist tighter.
Christine set the scanner aside. “Neither of you should have been on that flight. Stress isn’t doing either of you any favors.” She prepped two rehydration cartridges and a hypospray.
Batel opened her mouth, but Christine held up a hand and administered the meds. “You,” she pointed to Marie, “out.”
Then she turned to Una. “Now for the good news — or what passes for it.” She tapped the console, bringing up a spiking graph overlaid with a genetic schematic. “I think I know why your failsafe triggered early, Una.”
Una’s head came up. “Early?”
Christine nodded. “There are three documented cases in the Illyrian archives of activation before sixty. All three had one thing in common — rare biochemical stress profiles. Sustained adrenaline and cortisol at extreme levels for days.” She flicked to another chart, this one clearly Una’s. “Your tribunal hit every mark.”
Una exhaled slowly, but the relief was thin and shaky. “So it wasn’t—”
“Not necessarily external,” Christine said.
Batel stepped forward. “And not necessarily not external. You didn’t see her after the interrogations.”
Christine didn’t look away from Una. “You aren’t supposed to be here. Her biochemistry tells me enough.”
“It doesn’t tell you what happened in that room,” Batel countered.
Una pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m right here.”
They both stopped.
“I’m not saying Christine’s wrong,” Batel said, voice softer but no less determined. “I’m saying I want proof. One way or the other.”
Una dropped her hand and met her eyes. “And you think you’ll find that where?”
Batel’s answer was immediate. “In the holding cell footage.”
Una blinked. “That’s classified.”
“La’an can get it,” Batel said. She didn’t mention the risk. That if caught, La’an could be court martialed.
Una’s stomach tightened. “Marie—”
“It’s not like we haven’t bent rules before,” Batel went on, already pulling out her communicator. “And she’ll want to help.”
“That’s not the point,” Una said, sharper than she intended. “It’s my life, my tribunal, my record. You don’t get to—”
“I get to make sure nothing happened to you on my watch,” Batel interrupted, her tone steady but edged. “If that means pushing boundaries, then that’s what we do.”
Christine glanced between them but didn’t step in. Her silence felt deliberate, like she was letting the argument play out to see where it landed.
“Marie.” Una tried to keep her voice even. “You are talking about pulling classified prison surveillance without clearance. You are talking about putting La’an’s career on the line for a theory you can’t prove.”
Batel didn’t flinch. “If I’m right, I won’t need to prove it to you. You’ll see it for yourself.” She tapped her badge. “Batel to La’an.”
The channel clicked open. “La’an here.”
“Need to talk,” Batel said. “Sickbay. It’s urgent.”
“On my way.”
Batel closed the channel and slipped the communicator back into her jacket. “There. She’ll be here in five minutes.”
Una stared at her. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“You don’t have to,” Batel said simply.
It was the simplicity of the answer that made Una’s chest feel tight — as though somewhere in the last ten minutes, she’d lost control of her own story and couldn’t get it back.
La’an’s arrival shifted the air in Sickbay, all clipped efficiency and focus. She didn’t waste time on greetings — just crossed to the console Christine vacated and brought up a secure channel.
“Detention center logs,” she said, fingers already flying over the keys. “I’ll need your cell number, block assignment, and dates.”
Batel gave them.
The words burned like acid in Una’s chest.
It started clinical enough. Timestamped entries scrolled down the screen: prisoner intake, daily meal rotations, interrogations, brief medical checks. Each line was its own needle, pricking at memories she’d tried not to touch.
She forced herself to keep looking. Saw the door open and shut. She could picture the morning — the guard’s curt nod, the scrape of boots on the floor. Routine.
Another page.
Another memory. She’d been cuffed, escorted under two guards. The walk had been short, the air heavy with the scent of old disinfectant.
La’an pulled up the transporter logs for the same dates, cross-referencing personnel rosters. Names flickered past: guards she barely remembered, medical staff who’d taken vitals without looking her in the eye.
Una kept her arms folded tight across her chest, watching for any gap, any deviation.
The longer she stared, the more her brain replayed it all — not just the logs, but the physical reality of those days. The guard who’d brushed her arm taking her to interrogation. The medic’s cool fingers on her pulse. The tribunal officer’s palm between her shoulder blades, guiding her toward the chair. Pike’s hug after the verdict. Batel’s grip, firm and warm through the metal cuffs.
Hours of her life condensed into lines of data. All accounted for.
Until… Security feed offline — Security feed restored
Five minutes gone. No explanation.
The playback stuttered around the break, flickering from her sitting on the cot to reclining minutes later. Nothing in between. No notation in the log about a power fluctuation. No scheduled maintenance.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
La’an leaned closer to the screen. “Could be a glitch.”
“Could be,” Una said. But her stomach was a knot.
Then La'an's eyes widened with a gasp. She reversed the tape, back and forth a few times while Una's head spun. "What is it?" "I don't know," La'an whispered. "But it's possible..." Batel leaned over La'ans shoulder. "It could be on a loop." "Meaning?" La'an shook her head. "There might be a lot more time unaccounted for." Una could account for every moment of her tribunal, every escort in and out — except for that evening. Those five minutes had vanished as cleanly as if someone had cut them out with a blade, and the surrounding missing time disappeared with it.
Ice squeezed her chest and the room darkened. The room tilted, just slightly. The edges of the display blurred.
Christine’s head came up sharply. “Una—”
But the Sickbay lights seemed to flare, and the cold spike of fear in her chest was followed by a wash of heat. She tried to step back from the console, but her knees buckled before she could take a full breath.
The last thing she saw was La’an’s hand reaching for her before the deck rushed up to meet her.

Chapter Text

Sound came back first — a low, steady beeping, the faint hiss of the environmental systems. Then light, too bright against her eyelids.
Una tried to shift, but something cool pressed against the inside of her wrist. Restraint? No — a biosensor cuff.
“She’s coming around,” Christine’s voice said, pitched low.
“Good,” came Pike’s. Closer than she expected.
Her eyes opened to the ceiling of Sickbay and the shadow of him at her side. He was still in his duty jacket from the shuttle run, shoulders squared, but his face was set in that unreadable, command-mask expression she hated.
“You were supposed to be on light duty,” he said. Not a question.
She pushed herself up on her elbows. “I’m fine—”
“You were unconscious on the deck, Una.” His voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened, each word deliberate. “That is the opposite of fine.”
Christine stepped in before she could argue. “Low blood pressure from a combination of stress, cortisol spike, and what I suspect was a minor adrenal crash. She’s stable now.”
Pike’s gaze stayed on Una, as if daring her to contradict the diagnosis.
“What were you doing before you collapsed?” he asked.
It was such a simple question. But with Batel in the next bed, La’an at the far console, and Christine glancing between them, it might as well have been an accusation.
Una felt the weight of the missing five minutes like a stone in her throat.
“Research,” she said finally.
“On what?”
Her eyes flicked to Batel, who met her gaze without speaking. The air between them was thick with the argument from the shuttle, unspoken but still there.
Pike caught the look and straightened. “If I have to dig this out of the logs myself, I will.”
Christine shifted uncomfortably. La’an didn’t turn from her screen.
Una swallowed. “It’s complicated.”
“That’s fine,” Pike said. “I’ve got time.” He didn’t move, didn’t blink. It wasn’t the look he used in command briefings or negotiations — it was the one that came out in the aftermath of a mission gone wrong, when he was piecing together exactly where it had all started to fall apart.
La’an finally turned from her console, as if sensing the temperature shift. “Sir—”
He held up a hand. “Not yet.” His eyes stayed on Una. “Whatever this is, you’re not handling it alone. Not anymore.”
The words should have been a lifeline. Instead, they felt like a noose.
Una’s gaze dropped to her hands, fingers curling against the biobed sheet. She thought of the playback stuttering, the gap swallowing five minutes whole. Of how easy it would be for him to open that file and see the same blank space — and start asking the wrong questions.
“I’m handling it,” she said. It came out sharper than she meant.
Pike stepped closer, close enough that she had to look up. “If you were, you wouldn’t be here hooked up to half the monitors in Sickbay.”
Batel shifted on the next bed, voice low but carrying. “Chris—”
His head turned, just enough to catch her in his peripheral vision. “You knew?”
Batel’s jaw tightened. “Not everything.”
His attention snapped back to Una. “Then start with what she doesn’t know.”
Christine busied herself with a hypospray, but Una could feel the weight of her listening. La’an didn’t even pretend not to be.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. If she told him about the missing minutes, she’d be handing him the one thread that could unravel everything. But if she didn’t…
“You’ve got that look,” Pike said, quieter now. “The one you get right before you do something reckless.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Five minutes,” she said.
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“In the detention logs,” she went on, forcing the words out. “The security feed went dark for five minutes. No record, no explanation. I was alone in the cell before and after, but… there’s no telling what happened in between. And the missing time might have been much longer.”
Silence pooled in the space between them.
Pike’s eyes searched hers, sharp enough to make her want to look away. “And you think that’s when—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of it pressed between them.
Una’s throat felt tight. “I don’t know what to think.”
Something in his face shifted — not anger, not exactly — but the set of his jaw made her stomach turn. He looked like a man already running down every possible scenario, every name that could have walked into that cell.
“Then we find out,” he said. And this time it wasn’t a suggestion.
Una opened her mouth to answer Pike, but the words caught halfway up her throat. Not on hesitation this time — on something else.
A tightness curled low in her chest, at first like she’d just taken too deep a breath. But it didn’t fade. It spread upward, pressing under her breastbone, stealing the easy rhythm of her lungs.
She shifted on the biobed, trying to inhale past it. The room tilted, and the steady beep from the biosensor cuff jumped into a faster rhythm.
Christine’s head snapped up. “Una?”
“I’m—” The word dissolved into a cough. Not harsh, but enough to leave her gasping for the next breath.
Her fingers went numb. Heat rolled down her back in a slow, sick wave.
Christine was already at her side, tricorder open. “Pulse ox dropping. Seventy-eight and falling.”
Pike moved instinctively toward the bed, but M’Benga emerged from his office like he’d been summoned by the monitors themselves.
“What happened?”
“She was fine—” Pike started.
“She is not fine,” Christine cut him off, scanning fast. “Oxygenation is tanking. Heart rate unstable. She’s in multi-system distress.”
M’Benga’s gaze flicked to Una, then the readout. “Every major organ system’s showing stress.” His tone stayed calm, but his hands moved quickly, loading a hypospray. “Illyrian physiology— the placental interface could be pulling energy from her own systems faster than she can compensate.”
“I’m right here,” Una managed, though her voice was barely more than air.
Her vision was narrowing at the edges now, black creeping in. The beeping in the background climbed higher, faster.
Pike’s voice was somewhere near her ear. “Stay with us, Una.”
Christine’s tone sharpened. “We’re losing her saturation. Forty-two and dropping—”
“Move,” M’Benga said, snapping open a sterile kit. “We need to oxygenate directly into the blood before she crashes completely.”
Christine was already running through antishock protocols, hypospray in one hand and tricorder in the other. “Nothing’s stabilizing her sats—why isn’t this working?”
“Because it’s not hypoxia,” M’Benga said, stripping open another kit. “It’s systemic depletion. Every major organ is competing for oxygenated blood, and the fetus is still taking its share. The fetus is distressed, and dragging Una down with it.”
Pike hovered at the head of the biobed, jaw tight, his eyes locked on Una’s paling face. “So stop it.”
“If I cut the placental interface, we risk killing both,” M’Benga said, not looking up. “Illyrian fetal medicine is complex. Too complex.”
Christine’s mind was already chasing possibilities, pulling half-remembered protocols from the back of her brain. “What about a fetal placental transfusion?”
M’Benga glanced at her, and for half a second there was something dangerous in his eyes — not at her, but at the risk in the idea. “That could kill the host.”
The room went still for a heartbeat. Then Batel stepped forward from where she’d been half-shadowed at the bulkhead. “Me.”
“No,” Una croaked.
“Yes,” Batel said, already shoving off her jacket. “You said the fetus needs a transfusion. If my placenta can shoulder part of the load—”
“You don’t know what it’ll do to you,” Christine snapped.
“I’m not watching her die when I can help,” Batel fired back, planting herself next to the bed.
Pike’s voice cut through, low and tight. “Marie—”
“She’s my friend too,” Batel said, softer now but no less certain. “Do it.”
Christine hesitated, hands flexing over the sterile kit. “I can’t guarantee you won’t—”
“Do it,” Batel repeated.
M’Benga’s hands were already moving, pulling the right tubing and connectors. “Christine, prep biobed 2.”
Christine’s jaw clenched, but she worked fast, setting the interface at Batel’s side while M’Benga did the same for Una. The equipment looked wrong here — improvised, cobbled together from transfusion and fetal monitor components, but the readouts were already syncing.
“Ready,” Christine said.
“On my mark,” M’Benga replied. “Three, two—”
The hiss of the coupling was followed by a soft chime as the transfer engaged.
For a moment, nothing changed. Then Una’s monitor flickered from red to amber, heart rate edging upward. Her breaths came easier, the tightness in her chest loosening.
Batel winced, bracing herself with one hand on the biobed rail, but stayed upright.
Christine kept her eyes on the readings. “Sats at sixty-five… seventy-two… eighty-four. She’s stabilizing.”
Only when Una’s oxygenation passed ninety did M’Benga let out a breath. “That will hold. For now.”
Una’s eyes snapped open wider as her breathing steadied enough to speak. “Disconnect her. Now.”
Batel didn’t even flinch. “Not happening.”
“Marie—” Una’s voice was rough but fierce, the sound scraping out of her like it cost her everything. “This could kill you.”
Batel’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your life is more important than mine. And more important than my fetus’s.”
The word hit Pike like a blow, his eyes cutting sharply to her. In the space of a breath, his whole posture changed — like the deck had tilted under him and he was trying to find his footing.
He looked between them — Batel pale but steady, Una braced on the bed, both tethered together by the line of tubing and the blinking interface — and for once, the man who always had an answer didn’t seem to know which way to turn.
“If this goes wrong,” Una said, heat in every word, “it risks you. And the baby. Both.”
“I’m aware,” Batel said. “And I’m still here.”
“That’s not your call—”
“It is,” Batel cut in, quiet but unshakable. “Because you’ll die without this. And I am not burying you because I hesitated.”
Pike scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes closed for a second too long. His head was full of spinning points: the child he hadn’t even known about, the first officer he trusted with his life, the captain he shared his quarters with — all tangled together by a line of blood and biology.
He didn’t move to stop either of them. He didn’t move at all.
Christine’s voice broke through the static. “Vitals are holding steady, but we can’t keep this up forever.”
M’Benga stepped back from the monitors, pulling Christine aside but not far enough that Pike couldn’t hear. “Neither of them leaves Sickbay. The fetus is drawing from both now — shared load or not, it’s a constant drain.”
Christine’s brow creased. “And when Batel’s reserves run out?”
“Then they both crash,” M’Benga said flatly. “This is a stopgap, nothing more. Without an Illyrian doctor who understands the genetic engineering at work here, Una will not survive this pregnancy.”
Christine’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “And Batel?”
M’Benga’s eyes flicked to her. “If we push this interface too far, she might not survive the week.”
Pike had been standing just far enough back to keep out of the way, but M’Benga’s last words landed like a phaser shot.
He stepped forward. “Run that by me again.”
M’Benga didn’t soften it. “If we keep this shared load much longer, we’ll lose one or both of them.” His gaze flicked to Batel, then Una. “And if we remove it without a proper alternative, we’ll lose Una and the child.”
The words seemed to echo in the air between them, too heavy to vanish.
Pike’s jaw worked, but nothing came out at first. The captain’s mask was still there, but it was cracked — just enough to see the man underneath, the one who was processing the fact that the child he hadn’t even known existed was now the most fragile piece of a chain holding together two women he couldn’t afford to lose.
He looked at Una, pale but still glaring faintly at Batel as if she could will her to back down. At Batel, steady but starting to tremble just slightly in her shoulders from the effort of staying upright.
He took a slow breath, trying to force clarity into the fog in his head. It didn’t work.
“Then get me the name of an Illyrian doctor,” he said finally, voice low but edged like steel. “And tell me where to find them.”
He turned toward the door before anyone could see the rest — the flicker in his eyes that wasn’t just command, but fear.

Chapter Text

Pike didn’t leave.
She expected him to — to turn on his heel, bark something to the bridge about course adjustments, and disappear into captain-mode. But instead, he planted himself in the chair between her bed and Batel’s, elbows on his knees, as if sheer stubborn presence could hold the two of them together.
“You should be on the bridge,” Una said, her voice still rough.
“I should be right here,” Pike countered without looking up from the padd in his hands.
“Chris—”
“We’re already on a direct path to Illyria,” he said, still scanning the padd. “I don’t need to be at the helm to make sure we get there.”
She wanted to argue, but her body betrayed her with another wave of bone-crushing pain. She let her head fall back against the pillow. Once she could unclasp her jaw, she tried again. “You hovering won’t change anything.”
“Maybe not,” he said, and there was something in his tone that made her glance over. His jaw was set, but not in anger — in that grim, immovable way that meant he’d made up his mind about something.
He tapped the comm controls built into the wall panel beside her bed. “Computer, patch a subspace call to Neera Ketoul, priority one.”
Una blinked. “Why?”
“Because.”
The comm panel chirped, and for a few seconds, all she heard was the faint carrier hum. Then Neera’s face appeared — all sharp lines and sharper eyes.
“Captain Pike,” she said, and the frost in her tone could have frozen a warp core. “I thought I made it clear my obligations to Starfleet are complete.”
“Then consider this a personal call,” Pike said evenly.
Neera’s mouth flattened. “I don’t take personal calls from people who keep trying to drag me back into—”
He shifted his chair slightly, and her gaze, almost in spite of herself, flicked past him.
To Una.
The moment Neera saw her on the biobed, pale and tethered to monitors, the lawyer’s posture changed in an instant. Her eyes widened, the frost cracking clean through into something else — recognition, and fear.
“What happened?” Neera demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut.
Pike didn’t answer right away. He looked at Una, silently asking if she wanted to explain.
But Neera’s voice came again, tighter now. “Tell me you’re not on your way to Illyria for the reason I think you are.”
Una met her gaze on the screen, the weight of it pressing across light-years. “We are,” she said quietly.
Neera exhaled once, long and slow, and when she looked up again, her expression was already shifting into something calculating. “Then listen very carefully. There are things you need to know before you get here.”
Neera’s gaze stayed locked on Una. “Before I waste breath, I need to know exactly what we’re talking about. Is it a pregnancy… or tumors?”
For a heartbeat, the question didn’t make sense. Then Una realized what she meant — what the failsafe sometimes did when something went wrong.
“It’s pregnancy,” Una said. “Confirmed. I’m—” She glanced at Christine. “Ten weeks?”
Christine shook her head. “Twelve.”
“Twelve weeks,” Una said.
The lines around Neera’s mouth deepened. “And you didn’t come to Illyria the moment you knew?”
Una blinked at the vehemence in her voice. “I was… dealing with the tribunal. Then the mission—”
Neera’s tone rose, cutting over her. “The moment you knew, Una. You should have been under Illyrian care before the first week was out.”
Something in Una’s chest tightened — defensiveness, frustration, shame all tangled together. “No one told me—”
“No one told you?” Neera leaned closer to the screen, incredulous. “You mean to say you’ve reached your fourth month without any of the protocols? Without a shield matrix? Without blood-oxygen cycling? Without regulated nutrient infusion?”
Una stared at her. “I don’t even know what half those things are.”
On the edge of her vision, she saw Pike’s brow furrow.
Neera’s hands flattened on her desk, the movement sharp enough that the screen jittered. “Illyrian pregnancies aren’t like Human ones, Una. The fetal-placental interface doesn’t just feed from you — it rewrites organ priority. Your heart, lungs, kidneys — every system is secondary to the developing genetic code. Without support tech, you will burn yourself out before the second trimester.”
The clinical bluntness of it made Una’s stomach turn. “No one ever told me,” she repeated, quieter now.
Neera’s gaze softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “Then you start listening now. And you do exactly what I say until you set foot on Illyria, or you will not survive to see this child born.”
By the time Neera had briefed Christine and M’Benga on what she knew — and handed over the contact codes for an Illyrian doctor who could meet them by tomorrow — Batel was sound asleep, and Una’s head was ringing.
The Sickbay had gone oddly still, the bustle replaced by the low hum of monitors and the occasional hiss of a circulator. Pike had finally stepped out, muttering something about coordinating with the bridge, though Una suspected it was as much to keep from hovering as it was to give her space.
Christine was at her bedside, scanning Batel one last time before setting the tricorder down. She didn’t leave.
“You should get some rest,” Una said.
“I’ll rest when you do,” Christine replied, leaning against the counter. Her eyes stayed on Una, not in the professional way she looked at patients, but in the way you looked at someone you’d known long enough to read past the mask.
Una tried for a wry smile. “Afraid I’m going to keel over again?”
Christine didn’t smile back. “I’m afraid of a lot of things right now.”
That pulled the humor out of Una’s chest before it could take root. “Like what?”
“Like the fact you’ve been carrying something that’s literally rewiring your body without the tech or protocols meant to keep you alive. Like the fact that the only reason you’re stable right now is because Batel’s feeding you part of her reserves. Like the fact that if this Illyrian doctor doesn’t make it here in time…” She let the sentence trail off, but the weight of it still landed.
Una looked away, tracing the faint seam in the biobed sheet with her fingers. “I didn’t… I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought I could just… get through it. Like any other injury or illness. Keep my head down, keep working, and it would resolve.”
“You can’t treat this like a broken bone, Una.” Christine’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “This is your body re-prioritizing itself to keep something else alive. That’s not temporary damage. That’s an ongoing war inside you.”
Una’s throat tightened. “And if I lose?”
Christine stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on Una’s forearm — careful of the monitor leads. “Then we make damn sure you don’t. Whatever it takes.”
For a moment neither spoke. The monitors hummed softly, Batel shifted in her sleep, and somewhere down the corridor, a turbolift door opened and closed.
“Christine?” Una asked finally.
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
Christine didn’t flinch. “Good. That means you’re still fighting.”
She stepped away, the soft pad of her boots fading toward the back of Sickbay. A door whispered shut.
Una was left with the monitors’ quiet rhythm and the steady rise and fall of Batel’s breathing in the next bed.
She stared at the ceiling, willing her body to feel as stable as the readouts claimed. Her mind wouldn’t cooperate.
Twelve weeks. No shield matrix. No nutrient infusion. Every system in her body re-prioritized for something she hadn’t chosen.
She turned her head toward the darkened viewport at the far wall, but all she saw was her own reflection, pale and drawn, looking back at her.
That was when she realized — she’d been holding herself so rigid she couldn’t feel anything fully. Now that she let her shoulders ease, the truth hit in a wave: the ache in her chest with every breath, the constant low throb in her back, the strange, hollow pull in her abdomen that seemed to reach up into her spine and down into her legs.
It was pain that didn’t fit into any neat category — not sharp enough to scream, not dull enough to ignore. Just there. Always there.
She pressed her palms flat against the biobed sheet and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The air felt thick.
For weeks she’d told herself she could handle it, that if she didn’t name it, it couldn’t beat her. But now… there was no one in the room to hear if she broke.
Her vision blurred, and she didn’t fight it. Hot, quiet tears slid down her temples into her hairline as she stared at the ceiling. No sobs, no noise — just the release of everything she’d been holding tight.
The monitors kept their steady rhythm, oblivious. Batel’s breathing stayed even in the next bed.
And Una lay still, letting the tears fall until her eyes stung, because for once she didn’t have to be the strongest person in the room.
There was a soft rustle of sheets, then Batel’s voice — low, a little rough. “Hey.”
Una blinked quickly, swiping at her eyes before she turned her head. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
Batel pushed herself up on one elbow, still pale but more awake than Una expected. “Hard to sleep when I can feel you shaking over there.”
“I’m fine,” Una said automatically.
Batel gave her a look that made the word sound as thin as it felt. “I’ve pulled you out of enough scrapes to know the difference between ‘fine’ and… this.”
Una hesitated, the effort of holding herself together suddenly feeling heavier than the tears themselves. “It just… hurts,” she admitted. “All of it. And I can’t seem to stop thinking about how much worse it could get.”
Batel’s expression softened, the hard edges smoothing. She eased herself to sit fully upright, swinging her legs over the side of her bed despite the monitor leads. “Then you don’t think about that part right now.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Una murmured.
“Not really,” Batel said. “Believe me — I’ve had my share of staring at the ceiling at three in the morning wondering what fresh hell tomorrow’s going to bring. But you and I?” She tipped her head toward the tubing between them. “We’re in this together. Literally. And as long as I’ve got something left to give, you’re getting it.”
Una met her gaze, something in her chest loosening despite the pain. “Even if it costs you?”
Batel’s answer was quiet but certain. “Even if it costs me.”
For a moment they just looked at each other, the hum of Sickbay wrapping around the space between their beds.
Finally, Batel reached out, resting her hand lightly over Una’s where it lay on the sheet. “We’ll get to Illyria. We’ll get you the help you need. And until then… I’ve got you.”
Una swallowed hard, the ache in her throat different from the one in her chest. “Thanks, Marie.”
Batel gave her hand a brief squeeze before leaning back against her pillows. “Try to get some rest. We’ve both got a big day tomorrow.”
Una nodded, but didn’t let go of her hand right away.
For the first time since the failsafe triggered, the dark didn’t feel quite so cold.
Una woke to the low murmur of voices and the faint ache in her joints that told her she’d actually slept — deeply enough that for a second, she didn’t recognize the ceiling above her.
Then the monitors came into focus, the weight of the biosensor cuff on her wrist, and the faint warmth still lingering in her palm from Batel’s hand in hers. And the pain. She swallowed a groan, keeping her discomfort hidden.
Between them, in a chair dragged close enough to touch either bed, sat Pike. Elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched in a way she rarely saw. He wasn’t dozing; his eyes were on the deck, fixed and far away.
“You’re still here,” she rasped.
His head came up immediately. “You’re awake.”
“So are you,” Batel’s voice added, drier than Una expected. She must have woken a few minutes earlier.
Pike gave them both a look that was half frustration, half something softer. “Where else would I be?”
“On the bridge. Running the ship,” Una said.
“Ship’s fine,” Pike replied. “You two aren’t.” He leaned back slightly, looking from one bed to the other. “And in case it hasn’t occurred to you, that means neither am I.”
The words sat heavy between them. Una shifted against her pillow. “We were trying to protect you.”
His jaw tightened. “By keeping me in the dark about two of the most important things in my life?”
Batel’s eyes flicked away. “It wasn’t about shutting you out. It was about… damage control. If the tribunal had gone badly—”
“If it had gone badly, I still would have been standing here,” Pike said, his voice sharper now. “But instead, I’m finding out you’re both tied together in a way that could kill one or both of you, and my child.”
The silence after that was long enough that Una could hear the soft whoosh of the circulators.
“We thought we were protecting you from fallout,” Una said quietly. “From looking compromised. From people thinking you’d played favorites, or worse. But in doing that…” She exhaled. “We’ve put you in a position where no matter what happens, you’re going to take the hit.”
“And where I can’t fix it,” he added. There was no anger in it now, just the flat honesty of someone used to having options and finding none. “That’s the part I hate most — I can’t helm you out of this, I can’t talk it down in a negotiation. I just have to watch.”
Batel leaned forward slightly, her expression gentler. “You’re not powerless, Chris. You’re keeping us on course. You’re making sure that Illyrian doctor gets here. That’s more than—”
“It’s not enough,” Pike cut in, softer now but no less certain. He looked at Una again, something raw flickering in his eyes. “I’m supposed to keep my crew safe. That’s the job. And I couldn’t do it for either of you.”
Una wanted to argue, to tell him that wasn’t true, but the words caught in her throat. Because part of her knew he was right.
Pike pushed a hand through his hair, letting out a breath that sounded like it came from somewhere deep. “So here’s the reality — we stop keeping secrets. All of us. No more deciding what’s ‘better’ for someone else to know. We’re past that point.”
Batel gave a small nod. Una followed a moment later.
“Alright,” Pike said. “Then we deal with this together.” He hesitated, eyes holding hers. “And Una?”
“Yes?”
“Stop pretending you’re fine.”
The words landed like a hand on a pressure seal — and something in her gave way. Her shoulders dropped, the tension snapping out of her muscles all at once. Pain surged in to fill the space, hot and relentless, breaking past the walls she’d been holding.
The tears came before she could fight them, hard and fast, blurring Pike and Batel into nothing more than shapes beside her.
The Illyrian doctor couldn’t arrive fast enough.

Chapter Text

The Illyrian doctor didn’t wait for an introduction. His long, elegant fingers were already on the bioscanner before the Sickbay doors had fully hissed shut.
“I need both of you on the same bed,” he said, voice clipped, accent as sharp as glass.
Batel shot Una a look. “That’s not—”
“Now,” the doctor snapped, without looking up.
M’Benga, standing at the foot of the bed, folded his arms. “You’re a guest here, Doctor. You don’t give orders in my Sickbay.”
The Illyrian ignored him, the scanner humming as he circled them. Una felt the sweep of it along her skin like the touch of cold air.
After a long moment, he stopped. His gaze locked on hers, and for the first time there was no detachment in his tone. “You are linked.”
Batel frowned. “Linked how?”
“Intra-gestational exchange.” His words came slowly now, like each one cost something. “Your pregnancies are sharing a vascular matrix. Any attempt to sever the connection will destabilize both fetuses. And both of you.”
Una’s stomach went cold. “You’re saying—”
“I am saying separation means death,” he interrupted. “For one. Possibly both.”
M’Benga’s jaw tightened. “Then we find another way.”
The Illyrian shook his head. “There is no other way. The failsafe has already integrated the pairing. The only path forward is to carry both to term—together.”
The room seemed to contract around them. Batel’s hand slid to her abdomen, slow and instinctive. Una forced her arms to remain at her sides.
The Illyrian glanced between them, his eyes narrowing. “You did not know.”
“No,” Una said, her voice flat.
The silence that followed was heavier than anything Una had heard in Sickbay before — heavier than the hum of the biobeds, heavier than Pike’s footsteps in the corridor outside.
The Sickbay doors hissed open.
Pike stopped just inside, taking in the scene: Batel and Una on the same biobed, the Illyrian’s scanner still humming between them, M’Benga’s face unreadable. His eyes moved from Una’s expression to Batel’s hand on her stomach — and back again.
“What’s going on?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge under it.
No one answered immediately. The hum of the scanner filled the space.
“Captain,” M’Benga began, “this is—”
“Medical,” Una cut in, sharper than she meant. “Private.”
Pike’s gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, the muscles in his jaw shifting. “Right.” His eyes flicked once more to Batel before he stepped back, the doors hissing shut behind him.
The silence he left behind seemed heavier than before.
Marie broke it first, turning to M’Benga. “He has to know.”
“Now is not the time,” M’Benga said evenly.
“It’s his child,” she pressed. “You can’t expect me to—”
“I expect you both to stay alive,” M’Benga cut in, his voice sharp enough to still her.
The warning tone from the biobed was sharp enough to make Una’s stomach lurch.
Marie’s skin had gone pale, her breathing quick and shallow. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead.
“Talk to me,” M’Benga said, already pressing a hypospray to her neck.
Marie tried to answer, but the words dissolved into a low moan. Her hands curled instinctively toward her abdomen.
“Vascular flow’s unstable,” the Illyrian doctor said, his voice all precision, no bedside warmth. He moved around to the head of the bed, fingers tapping a sequence into the diagnostic array with such speed Una almost couldn’t follow.
“Do something!” Una’s voice came out sharper than she intended, her boots planted at the foot of the bed like she could hold Marie in place by sheer will.
“We are,” M’Benga said, his tone steady enough to anchor her even as he reached for another hypo.
The Illyrian doctor adjusted the biobed’s settings, and a low hum filled the air — some kind of vascular stabilizer Una had never seen before. Gradually, the warning tone softened. Marie’s breathing began to even out.
Una exhaled only when the monitors dipped back into safe ranges.
“She’s stable,” M’Benga said, glancing at Una without looking away from the readouts.
Una’s shoulders dropped a fraction. “For how long?”
“That depends,” the Illyrian doctor said, straightening. “This was not random. The link between you is delicate. Her body is reacting to environmental stress, and any severe fluctuation could destabilize you both again.”
Una stepped closer to him. “So what’s the plan?”
His expression didn’t change. “My original intent was to transport you to a medical facility on Illyria. There, we could monitor your gestation with full planetary resources.”
“And now?”
He looked toward Marie, whose eyelids fluttered but did not open. “She will not survive Illyria’s atmosphere. Her lungs would fail before we reached the transport site.”
Una’s throat tightened. “Then we find another plan.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “We will need to bring the necessary equipment aboard the Enterprise. That is… politically complicated.”
M’Benga’s brows drew together. “Meaning?”
“The Illyrian government will not approve advanced reproductive technology leaving the surface,” the doctor said. “Not for any reason. They will view it as a security breach.”
Una folded her arms. “Then we don’t tell them.”
His gaze slid to her, unreadable. “That is… one approach. But it will require discretion. If we are caught, there will be consequences for this ship — and for you.”
“I’ve dealt with consequences before,” Una said flatly.
The Illyrian’s mouth curved just slightly, though whether in respect or warning, she couldn’t tell. He didn’t agree to her plan, but he didn’t fight her. He simply said, “You must be ready. If she destabilizes again, I may not be able to stop it.”
Una’s eyes went back to Marie — to the faint rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremor still in her hands. “Then we don’t let that happen.”
Some time later, while M’Benga and the Illyrian continued to whisper in the corner of the room and Marie slept fitfully beside her, Una tried to practice mindful breathing.
The comm chime startled her — sharper than usual in the quiet.
“Call for Commander Chin-Riley,” the computer intoned.
“Put it through,” Una said, rubbing the throbbing space between her eyes.
Neera’s face filled the screen, her dark eyes steady but not without a trace of irritation. “I just had a very interesting call from your Illyrian doctor.”
Una sat up straighter. “What did he tell you?”
“That he needs my help arranging ‘off-record transport of sensitive medical equipment’ from the surface to your ship.” Neera arched a brow. “Care to explain why you’ve apparently enlisted me in a smuggling operation?”
Una hesitated, then said, “Because the equipment he needs isn’t allowed off Illyria — and Marie can’t survive the atmosphere down there long enough for treatment.”
“Why would Batel need to come?”
Una’s cheeks filled with air as she turned to the woman asleep beside her. “It’s hard to explain. Somehow, we’ve become linked.”
Neera raised an eyebrow.
“Her systems are keeping us alive, but the Illyrian modifications are changing her internal processes. In effect, my fetus has taken over her body, too.”
“That’s a new one.”
“Neera, we’ll all die if we don’t get what we need.”
Neera’s expression shifted, the edge of irritation giving way to calculation. “So you want me to find a way to slip this equipment past three layers of planetary security and two layers of Federation oversight. Without anyone noticing.”
“Pretty much.”
Neera leaned back in her chair. “And what happens if they do notice?”
“They’ll call it a security breach,” Una said. “And the Enterprise will be in the middle of a diplomatic incident.”
Neera tilted her head. “Which means Pike will be in the middle of it.”
The silence between them stretched.
“You still haven’t told him,” Neera said finally.
“That’s not your call,” Una replied, sharper than she meant.
Neera’s gaze softened just enough to let the steel in her voice land without cutting. “Maybe not. But it is my call whether I risk my own standing with the Illyrian government to help you.” She paused. “You’re asking me to commit treason, Una. Against my own people.”
“I’m asking you to save four lives,” Una said, her voice low but certain.
Neera studied her for a long moment. “I’ll need the full specs. Dimensions, power requirements, anything that might set off a transport scan.”
“I’ll get them to you.”
“And you’ll owe me,” Neera added.
“I already do.”
For the first time, Neera smiled — not warmly, but with the faint satisfaction of a lawyer who’s just secured favorable terms. “I’ll be in touch when I have a plan. Keep your doctor from doing anything stupid in the meantime.”
The channel closed, leaving Una staring at her own reflection in the darkened screen.
“What haven’t you told him?”
Marie’s voice startled Una. She turned to find Batel leaning against her pillows, arms folded, watching her with that unsettling calm that meant she’d already put pieces together.
Una glanced down. “About the link.”
Marie’s brow furrowed. “He doesn’t know we’re connected? That what happens to one of us happens to both?”
“No,” Una said flatly. “And I’m not going to tell him.”
“Why?”
“Because the second he knows, he’ll put himself in the middle of it. He’ll go through official channels, try to force the Illyrian government to cooperate.” Una’s jaw tightened. “And when they refuse — which they will — he’ll push harder, until it turns into a diplomatic brawl with his name all over it.”
Marie’s eyes narrowed. “And you think that’s worse than him being kept in the dark about his child?”
Una flinched but kept her voice steady. “If this blows up, he loses his command. We both know how the Fleet works. The rumor mill will make sure it doesn’t matter what the truth was— the scandal alone will sink him.”
Marie looked away for a moment, jaw working. “So what’s your plan?”
Una took a breath. “The Illyrian doctor was going to take me down to a facility planetside. Full monitoring, proper equipment — the works. But you can’t survive the atmosphere long enough to get there. So instead, we’re bringing the equipment here.”
Batel’s gaze snapped back to her. “You mean steal it.”
“Borrow,” Una corrected, though they both knew it was a fiction. “Long enough to stabilize the link and get us both past the critical stage.”
“And Illyrian security just… lets you beam their tech aboard?”
“They won’t,” Una admitted. “That’s why I’m working with Neera to slip it past their scans. Quietly. No one outside of Sickbay knows. Not even Pike.”
Marie’s eyes searched hers for a long moment. “And you think you can pull that off?”
“I have to.” Una’s voice was quiet but certain. “Because if this gets out… We lose the babies. We lose our lives. We lose him.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The low hum of the ship filled the silence between them.
Finally Marie said, “Then I guess we’d better hope your lawyer’s as good as her reputation.”
Una was drifting in and out of shallow sleep when Marie’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Una?”
She blinked, the dim Sickbay lighting a soft blur above her. “Hmm?”
“Can we talk about that… missing time?”
Ice splintered through her chest. “I’d rather not.”
“Would you mind terribly if I did?”
Una’s gaze stayed on the ceiling. “What do you need to talk about? It’s not like you’re the one staring down the possibility of—” She couldn’t say it, couldn’t wrap her mouth around the word.
“I’m the one who locked you up,” Marie said. “I’m the one who made it possible.”
“No.” Una’s voice was flat. “I’m the one who turned myself in. If it’s on anyone, it’s on me.”
“That’s bull.” The biobed creaked as Marie shifted, grunting as she turned to face her.
Una didn’t move. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of meeting her eyes.
“If I hadn’t been… preoccupied with my own mistake,” Marie went on, “I might have seen what was going on. I might have been paying better attention.” Her mouth twisted. “I never meant to get pregnant, Una.”
“Your pregnancy. Your mistake. At least you had a choice.” The bitterness in Una’s voice was sharper than she meant, the product of months of forcing herself to be fine.
“I know.” Marie’s tone dropped, the defensive edge gone. “I’m sorry.”
Una exhaled slowly. “You didn’t cause this. Sometimes life hands you lemons.”
Marie gave a humorless little huff. “Yeah. But they don’t usually leave two senior officers on the brink of death.”
“You weren’t in the war, were you?” Una asked.
Batel blew out a puff of air. “Okay, fine. But they usually weren’t pregnant.”
The moment’s fragile levity shattered as a sharp cramp tore through Una’s abdomen. She gasped, doubling forward, one hand clutching her midsection.
The biobed’s monitor spiked into an urgent alarm.
Christine burst in, hair askew, the creases of her uniform telling Una she’d been asleep at her desk. “What’s going on?”
“I’m fine,” Una gritted out.
“Shut up,” Christine snapped, already at the controls. She pulled up the readouts, eyes flicking over them with quick, practiced sweeps. “You’re not fine. You’re in vascular distress again.”
Marie pushed herself up on her elbows. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Christine said, fingers flying over the console, “if we don’t stabilize her right now, you’re both in trouble.”
The Illyrian doctor’s voice came from the doorway, calm but urgent. “Then we stabilize them.”

Chapter Text

Sickbay hummed quietly, the biobed lights throwing pale reflections off the sterile surfaces. Una sat propped up, looking far too composed for someone with IV lines trailing toward a monitor and hoses connecting her to Batel, whol rested on another bed, her eyes closed but not asleep. Christine Chapel moved between them, tricorder in hand, the click-whir of its scans marking the seconds.
The doors parted with a hiss, and La’an strode in, padd in hand. She didn’t bother with greetings.
“I went through the Earth records,” La’an said. “Every door log, every minute of surveillance footage from the detention block.”
Una glanced up at her, careful and still.
“If someone got in that night,” La’an went on, “they’d have had to bypass the lock logs and edit the camera feed at exactly the same instant. Like, exactly. I don’t think it’s possible. Plus, the missing time was a power failure.”
Christine looked up from her scans. “Power failure?”
“Across all systems,” La’an said. “Not just the cameras—lighting, door controls, even the environmental readouts. It wasn’t localized.”
She hesitated, her gaze resting on Una. “Which means maybe… we weren’t seeing a looped feed at all. Maybe you just moved the same way in your sleep.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the soft rise and fall of the biobed’s vitals monitor.
“So,” La’an said finally. “If it wasn’t an intruder… is there another possibility?”
Christine exhaled through her nose. “We ruled out an Illyrian reproductive failsafe. The methylation patterns didn’t match.”
From the far side of the room, Dr. Yiven—tall, sharp-boned—let out a short, derisive sound.
“Humans and their pattern-matching,” he said. “This is exactly why Illyrians should stay on Illyria.”
Una’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“Those methylation changes do match early failsafe triggering—perfectly, in fact,” Yiven said. “The stress layering is textbook. Profound emotional upheaval overlaid with sustained anxiety? It would be remarkable not to see reproductive activation.”
Christine frowned. “We didn’t—”
“You didn’t recognize it because you are Human,” Yiven said. “This is Illyrian biology.”
He looked from La’an to Christine, then to Una, his voice dropping. “You were in a cage. You thought your life was about to end. Your genome responded accordingly.”
The air seemed to thicken in her lungs. She’d told herself for weeks that the timing was coincidence, that whatever had set this chain in motion was beyond her control. But now the pieces locked into place with brutal precision.
The cell. The tribunal. The pounding in her veins as she stared at the wall, willing herself not to think about endings. And somewhere deep in her marrow, Illyrian code had decided the only way forward was to ensure a future — by rewriting her present.
Her stomach turned. If that was true, then every tube tethering her to Batel, every spike on the monitors, every shallow breath Marie took was on her.
Panic scraped at the edges of her composure, but she shoved it down hard. She couldn’t afford to let it show — not with La’an here, not with Christine watching, and definitely not with Batel looking at her like that.
She fixed her gaze on a point just past Yiven’s shoulder, willing her expression into stillness. She didn’t flinch. Almost.
Then it slipped.
A small tightening at the corner of her mouth.
A flash of heat in her eyes, the sharp sting of guilt, the gut-deep echo of a moment she couldn’t take back.
It was gone almost as quickly as it came, shuttered behind the same steel she’d been wearing since the tribunal.
Batel saw it.
From her bed, she held Una’s gaze a fraction too long, eyes narrowing with quiet recognition. She didn’t say anything, not here, not with La’an and Christine still in the room, but her hand shifted slightly against the sheet, as if she was resisting the urge to reach across the space between them.
a’an’s gaze didn’t leave Una. She’d seen her friend sit through tribunal cross-examinations without blinking, seen her keep her cool while a deckplate was collapsing under her boots. But that—whatever just flickered across her face—wasn’t nothing.
“What was that?” La’an asked.
Una blinked, slow and deliberate. “What was what?”
“That look. Right after he said the failsafe triggered in your cell. You know something you’re not saying.”
The knot in Una’s chest pulled tighter. She opened her mouth—
—and a sharp twist tore through her abdomen, hot and sudden. The sound she made wasn’t rehearsed; it was pulled from somewhere deep, raw enough to break through the calm she’d been wearing.
Christine was already at the console. “Her vascular pressure just spiked.” She adjusted something on the biobed controls, the soft whine of the stabilizer rising a notch.
Una kept her eyes shut until the worst of the cramp eased. “It’s fine,” she murmured, breath still uneven. “Just… pain.”
Batel, watching from the other bed, didn’t miss the way Una’s voice caught—not just from the physical ache, but from something else caught in its undertow. The pain was real. So was the timing.
La’an’s frown deepened, suspicion tempered by the way Christine’s readings mirrored Una’s claim. She didn’t entirely buy it, but she wasn’t going to interrogate someone hooked to two monitors and another human being. Not here.
She took a step back, padd tucked under her arm. “We’ll talk later,” she said quietly.
When the doors hissed shut behind her, Batel’s eyes stayed on Una. She didn’t speak, but the look said it clearly enough: I know what you did. I know why you did it.
Una turned her head toward the ceiling, letting the silence swallow the moment.
Batel’s voice broke the quiet.
“You did that on purpose.”
Una glanced over. “What?”
“The cramp. You didn’t fake it — I could feel it — but you used it. To get La’an off your back.” Batel’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t want to answer her.”
Una’s jaw worked. “She was fishing.”
“She was fishing because she knows there’s more going on than anyone’s saying.” Batel shifted on her bed, the tubing between them tugging lightly. “Chris deserves to know that too.”
Una opened her mouth with the familiar argument — that looping him in would put him in the crosshairs — but the words didn’t come as quickly as they should have. For a moment she only saw him in the chair between their beds that night, jaw tight, eyes shadowed, hands useless in his lap because there was nothing to fix.
Batel’s voice softened. “He’s my lover, Una. He’s the father of my baby. And he cares about you. He’s already in this, whether you tell him or not.”
Una’s throat tightened. The reasons she’d built her wall on felt suddenly… flimsy. And then—
Her gaze slid past Batel to the Illyrian doctor, still bent over the console, murmuring in that quick, precise cadence to M’Benga. She remembered Neera’s voice over the comm, the careful language about off-record transport of sensitive medical equipment. She remembered the word treason in the same breath.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself back into the steel she knew she could wear. “If we tell him now, then he has to make a choice. He has to let us die, or commit treason. We can’t put that on him..”
Batel studied her for a long moment. “So you’d rather keep him in the dark than let him help us?”
“I’d rather keep him in command than have him court-martialed for aiding us in smuggling classified tech off a sovereign world.”
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the quiet hum of the ship. Finally Batel looked away, jaw tight. “You’d better be right.”
Una didn’t answer. She just closed her eyes, listening to the faint murmur of voices in the corner and the steady beep of the monitors, and tried not to think about how much harder the line she was holding might be to defend tomorrow.
The Sickbay was quiet except for the rhythmic hiss of the circulator and the faint hum of the stabilizer between their beds. Marie had dozed off, or at least closed her eyes to pretend she had, and Una was working on keeping her breathing slow and even under the monitor’s scrutiny.
The doors hissed open.
Pike stepped inside, still in uniform, still every inch the captain — except for the stiffness in his shoulders and the faint set of his jaw. He crossed the space between the doors and their beds without a word, pulling the same chair forward until it was halfway between them.
He sat, elbows on his knees, hands laced loosely in front of him. His eyes moved briefly from Una to Marie and back, but his expression didn’t shift.
The silence stretched.
Una felt the question gathering on her tongue — What happened? — but she bit it back. If he wanted to talk, he would. And if he didn’t… maybe it was better not to know right now.
Beside her, Marie shifted slightly, the tubing between them tugging faintly. Una could feel the way she was holding back the same question, her body as still as her voice.
Pike’s thumb brushed absently over the edge of the padd in his lap, the Illyrian government seal still faintly visible on the darkened display before he turned it facedown. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Whatever was sitting on his shoulders tonight, neither of them wanted to add to it.
So they sat there, the three of them, the steady hum of Sickbay wrapping around the unspoken. Pike’s gaze stayed fixed on some point between their beds, and his knuckles whitened briefly before he exhaled and leaned back, saying only:
“Get some rest.”
Neither woman answered.
Pike didn’t move right away. His “Get some rest” hung in the air for all of three seconds before he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees.
“What are you not telling me?”
The words weren’t sharp — Pike never needed to raise his voice to hit his mark — but they cut through the low hum of Sickbay all the same.
Una met his eyes for the briefest moment before looking away. “Chris—”
“No.” His voice stayed level, but there was a weight behind it now. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me the calm, senior-officer deflection. Not here.”
Batel’s eyes opened, slow and deliberate. “She’s trying to protect you.”
Pike’s gaze shifted to her, brow furrowing. “From what?”
From the corner of the room, Christine glanced up, the tricorder in her hand suddenly still. Yiven didn’t even look up from his console, though Una could feel his attention sharpen.
Una forced herself to meet Pike’s stare again. “It’s my job to protect you. To protect all of you.”
Pike’s jaw flexed. “It’s my job to protect you. That’s the deal we made the second you took that commission, and you damn well know it.”
Something in her chest twisted hard. “If you knew what I know, you’d have to choose between keeping your command and keeping us alive. And that is not a choice I’m going to put in your hands.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” His voice had dropped to something quieter, but sharper. The kind of quiet that only came from someone who’d spent years keeping people alive in impossible situations — and losing some anyway.
For a moment no one spoke. The monitor between Una and Batel beeped once, soft and regular.
Batel broke the silence. “She thinks if you’re in the dark, you can’t be charged with anything.”
Pike didn’t look away from Una. “I’m already guilty of caring what happens to you. You think Starfleet can’t make a court-martial out of that?”
The knot in Una’s stomach pulled tighter, but she said nothing.
He leaned in, just slightly. “Tell me. Let me carry this. Or one day I’m going to find out too late, and then the only thing I’ll be protecting is your name in the record.”
Una held his gaze, the air between them taut as a tripwire.
Pike exhaled once through his nose, then shifted his attention — not to Yiven, not to Christine, but to Batel.
“Marie,” he said quietly. “This isn’t just about you. Or Una. That—” He nodded toward the tubing connecting their beds. “—is keeping my child alive in there.”
The words landed like a physical weight in the room. Christine’s eyes flicked toward them, then away again, the tricorder in her hands suddenly an anchor she didn’t want to set down.
Batel’s mouth tightened. “I know.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.” His voice stayed even, but the undercurrent was there now — steel over worry, captain over friend, father over both.
Batel’s eyes slid to Una. It wasn’t subtle. “I need her permission.”
Una shook her head, just once.
“Una…” Marie’s voice softened to something she rarely used, almost pleading. “Please. Let me tell him. He’s already in this. He deserves to know what’s coming for us — for her—” her free hand moved instinctively toward her stomach “—before it hits.”
Una’s throat felt tight, her pulse loud in her ears. “If you tell him, you put a target on his back.”
“He’s a captain,” Marie said. “There’s already a target on his back. At least let it be for the right reason.”
Pike’s gaze moved between them. Batel’s urgency, Una’s restraint. And the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Una’s fingers flexed once, then stilled, her gaze fixed on some invisible point between the biobed lights.
“Permission,” Marie whispered again.
The silence teetered on the edge of something final.
And then the comm crackled to life overhead. “Bridge to Captain Pike. Incoming hail from Illyria’s orbital security. Priority one.”
Pike’s head turned fractionally toward the nearest wall speaker, but his eyes stayed on Batel. He didn’t miss the way she froze, just for an instant, the kind of stillness that didn’t come from surprise but from recognition.
He saw it in her eyes, fear. Sharp and unguarded. Not for herself. For Una. For the small lives dependent upon them. And for whatever waited on the other side of that hail.
He rose slowly, the chair scraping faintly against the deck. “We’re not finished,” he said. It wasn’t a threat, or even a promise. Just a fact, delivered with the certainty of a man who would circle back.
Pike’s gaze swept over Una, unreadable but steady, before he turned and strode for the doors. They hissed shut behind him, leaving the hum of Sickbay pressing in again, the interruption hanging in the air like an unspent charge.
Marie let out a slow breath she didn’t seem to realize she’d been holding. Una didn’t look at her.
When Yiven finally turned away to speak in low tones with M’Benga, she slid her hand toward the small comm panel built into the side of the biobed. Her fingers moved like she was adjusting the stabilizer settings, but instead she keyed in a sequence Neera had given her months ago — not a Starfleet encryption, but one that threaded itself through a dozen civilian relays before hitting a private receiver.
A heartbeat. Two. Then a low crackle, and Neera’s voice, compressed and faintly distorted. “You shouldn’t be calling me from Sickbay.”
Una kept her voice low, the words barely moving her lips. “Illyria just hailed Pike. Priority one.”
A pause. Too short to be surprise, too long to be nothing. “…When?”
“Thirty seconds ago. He’s on his way to the bridge.”
Another pause. “Then they’ve moved faster than I thought.”
That landed heavy in her gut. “So you do know what this is about.”
Neera’s tone sharpened. “I know what it could be about. And if I’m right, you need to keep Pike as far from it as possible. No matter what they say.”
Across the bed, Marie’s head lifted at the sound of Neera’s voice. She didn’t speak, but her eyes locked on Una, the silent question written there: What is it?
Una didn’t answer her. Not yet.
“Neera—”
“I’ll call you back in five minutes. If I don’t, assume the channel is compromised and do nothing until I tell you otherwise. Nothing.”
The line cut, leaving only the faint hiss of the ship’s air cycling through the vents.
Marie was still watching her. “She knows.”
Una kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “She suspects.”
“Which means you suspect too.”
Una didn’t answer.
The minutes ticked by, thick with the hum of machinery and the faint hiss of the circulator. Neera didn’t call back.
Una tried to count her own breaths, tried to keep her mind on the rhythm of the monitors instead of the fact that somewhere above, Pike was facing whatever Illyria had decided to throw at them.
The comm cut through the quiet. “Bridge to Sickbay.” Pike’s voice was clear, but there was an edge under it now — a sharpened undertone she knew too well. “Illyrian orbital security is demanding a full scan of all cargo and personnel before allowing orbit.”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. A full scan meant the crates in the forward hold that had just arrived. It meant the chain of relays Neera had promised would keep the shipment invisible was already fraying. It meant they’d find the Illyrian doctor. And her untenable position linked to Batel.
And it meant Pike, whether he knew it yet or not, was about to be standing directly in the crosshairs.
Beside her, Batel’s eyes were fixed on her face. “You’re going to have to tell him,” she said quietly.
Una said nothing. Her silence was heavier than any denial.
The comm crackled again, sharper this time, all captain. “Commander Chin-Riley, contact the bridge. Now.”
The line went dead.

Chapter Text

Sickbay hummed in its steady, antiseptic rhythm. The circulator between her bed and Batel’s gave off a faint pulse, like the ship’s own heartbeat.
The comm panel beside her bed chirped once, then Pike’s voice, “Commander Chin-Riley, stand by. Patching you through.”
A moment later, the wall display above her flickered, splitting into three panes. Her pale frame on the biobed, Pike on the bridge, jaw tight in the captain’s chair, and the insignia of Illyrian Orbital Security filling the third.
The seal dissolved into the face of a uniformed officer with immaculate posture. “Captain Pike,” the officer said, voice clipped. “Per Illyrian–Federation security protocols, and with the approval of Starfleet’s Illyrian liaison, your vessel will undergo immediate, full-spectrum cargo and personnel scanning before orbital clearance is granted.”
Pike leaned forward slightly. “I understand. My first officer…” He glanced toward the feed that showed her in Sickbay. “...has been patched in. She’s familiar with Illyrian procedure.”
“Commander Chin-Riley,” the officer acknowledged, giving nothing away in the flatness of his tone.
Una’s fingers flexed against the biobed. “Section fourteen, clause three of the Illyrian–Federation Transit Agreement provides exemption from full-spectrum scans for vessels under active medical quarantine,” she said, voice level.
The officer’s brow barely shifted. “That clause applies to planetary quarantine protocols, not orbital security.”
“It applies,” Una countered, “when the quarantined individuals are Illyrian citizens or legal equivalents under Federation treaty. Annex five, paragraph two.”
She didn’t look at Pike to see his reaction, but she didn’t have to. Years in close quarters meant she could feel it — the fractional stillness beside the breath, the way his jaw moved just once. Surprise first. Then something sharper.
The officer’s gaze sharpened. “That paragraph is superseded by security amendments instituted eighteen months ago.”
“Which are subject,” Una said smoothly, “to the arbitration guidelines of the Joint Security Commission, section seven. Those guidelines require written notice to the commanding officer of any vessel affected, and a seventy-two-hour review period before enforcement.”
Pike’s eyes were on her now, not the officer — a flicker of confusion tightening at the edges. She’d read him enough times to know exactly what he was thinking: What the hell are you doing, Una?
The Illyrian’s tone cooled further. “Commander, if you continue to… delay this process, the Enterprise will be noted in our security ledger as uncooperative. That notation is visible to all Illyrian ports and may result in your vessel being denied clearance in future, regardless of the cause.”
“Understood,” Una said, as if she hadn’t just been warned off.
Her mind was moving fast. Not toward Neera’s plan, not yet. This wasn’t about the crates; the officer’s language was too procedural. They weren’t hunting her. They weren’t even looking for anything in particular.
She let her gaze flick to Pike’s face on-screen again as realization crashed into her chest. They didn’t know about her or her plans. She sighed as she explained to the captain “Security’s just tighter than the last time I was here.”
Pike didn’t look reassured. If anything, his confusion was starting to give way to the kind of frustration that came from realizing she was playing a game and he didn’t know the rules.
Pike’s voice dropped into that steady, captain’s register. “Then what’s the play here, Una? Why are you stalling?”
She didn’t answer him directly. Her mind was already leaping ahead to the two sealed crates in forward storage — heavy, shielded, and containing restricted Illyrian tech. Not as much as they needed, but enough to justify a court-martial. And sentence her and Marie to death.
If the scan went through, the officer on the other end of this call wouldn’t just know they existed — they’d have the serials, the make, and a direct link back to Illyrian inventory.
“Stand by,” she said into the channel, her tone crisp enough to pass for procedure. She cut the feed from Sickbay, leaving Pike and the officer staring at each other.
She turned her head toward Yiven, who was still bent over the diagnostic console. “Could you claim them?”
His head came up slowly, the sharp lines of his face catching the biobed light. “Claim what?”
“The crates in forward storage. Say they’re yours. Medical research. Whatever it takes.”
A faint, incredulous sound escaped him. “And when they ask why my research requires offworld transit? Why I’m here, aboard a Federation ship, instead of in a planetary facility with full resources? Why you—” his eyes narrowed further “—are not on Illyria receiving treatment?”
Her mouth tightened. She didn’t answer.
Because Pike’s voice was already coming through a secondary channel from the bridge, firm enough to cut through: “Commander, what is going on?”
She flicked the comm open again, letting his question hang unanswered.
From the bed beside her, Batel shifted. “Chris, it’s—”
“Don’t,” Una said sharply, without taking her eyes off the screen.
Batel’s mouth closed, but the look she gave her was all frustration and defiance, simmering under the pale sheen of Sickbay lighting. She shifted again, like she might try to push herself upright—
—and then her expression froze.
A sharp, pained sound hit the silence between them. Batel’s hand jerked to her side, then lower, fingers coming away slick and dark.
“Christine—!” Una’s voice cracked.
Chapel was already moving, tricorder snapping open as she rounded the bed. “She’s hemorrhaging. Both of you, stay still.”
The biobed’s vitals monitor erupted in warning tones, two sets of readings spiking in near-perfect tandem. Una felt it hit her own body a second later… the rush of heat, the dizzy edge, the deep cramp that made her grip the bed’s frame until her knuckles ached.
“Breathe,” Christine said, her voice cutting through the alarm. “Slow it down, Commander. Now.”
Una forced her gaze to Marie’s, not to the blood, not to the medics closing in, and matched her breathing to hers, pulling both of them back from the brink one measured inhale at a time.
Somewhere above the noise, Pike’s voice came in over the channel again, sharper now. “Una, I need an answer.”
“Not now,” she ground out.
A shadow passed at the corner of her vision. Yiven, moving with clipped precision, hypospray in hand. “We stabilize them, or we lose them,” he told Christine without looking up.
The alarms began to soften, the biobed’s readouts inching back toward safety. Una’s grip on the frame loosened, but she didn’t take her eyes off Marie until her color started to return.
Only then did she look back toward the screen, her breath still uneven.
Pike’s image was there, eyes locked on hers. “We’re out of time. I’m authorizing the scan.”
Her stomach dropped.
The Illyrian officer’s feed came alive again, acknowledging the order. Una didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. She cut the channel herself.
The channel cut, leaving only the hum of the circulator and the faint hiss of the stabilizer between their beds.
Una let out a slow breath, willing the adrenaline to bleed off before it spiked both their vitals again. Marie’s eyes were still closed, but Una could feel her watching.
The comm panel at her bedside chirped — three short, sharp tones. Neera.
Una keyed it open without thinking. “Tell me you have something.”
“I’ve got a partial workaround,” Neera said, her voice quick and low. “I can route the cargo through a scan-blind buffer window. You’ll still register mass, but the contents won’t profile.”
Una’s throat tightened. “Too late. He’s already agreed.”
A pause on the line. “Then you’ve just invited them to catalogue every crate you’re trying to hide. Including the one that could get him charged with smuggling classified Illyrian technology.”
Una closed her eyes. She could see Pike’s face on the bridge — the confusion when she’d stalled, the frustration when she wouldn’t explain, the line of his jaw when he’d given the order.
There was only one way to keep him clear of it now. Follow Neera’s plan anyway, but make it hers alone. If the Illyrians caught her moving the tech, she could claim it as her operation, her decision. She’d already survived a tribunal once. She could do it again.
“I’ll take the risk,” she said quietly.
“You take the fall, you mean,” Neera corrected. “That’s a choice. But once it’s made—”
“I’ve made it.”
Another pause. Then Neera’s voice softened, just slightly. “Then I’ll send you the timing window. Don’t miss it.”
The line went dead.
Una turned her head toward Marie. She was awake now, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping him in command,” Una said. It was the truth, but not all of it.
The Sickbay doors hissed open. Pike stepped inside, his fear nearly palpable.
Before Una could speak, the overhead comm cut in, Illyrian and Federation-standard layered together:
“Illyrian orbital security to Captain Pike — explain the presence of restricted Illyrian technology aboard your vessel.”
Silence. Pike’s eyes found hers.
And Una knew there was no more room to delay.
She exhaled once, steadying herself, and began to speak.
Una’s pulse was a steady thrum in her ears. She didn’t look at Pike, because if she did, she might hesitate.
“Illyrian orbital security,” she said evenly into the air, “those medical devices are here under my authority. We have an Illyrian specialist aboard, operating under Federation medical exchange protocols, treating a patient who cannot survive transport to the surface.”
The officer on the channel didn’t blink. “You are not listed as a medical transport vessel, Commander. Nor was this shipment declared at departure.”
From the far side of the room, Yiven straightened, the cool detachment in his voice matching the officer’s. “This shipment is mine. Federation logistics failed to file the amended manifest. If there is fault, it lies with your own customs liaison, not this crew.”
Una caught the flicker of surprise in Pike’s eyes. It was small, but it was there.
“Doctor,” the officer said, “explain the nature of the equipment.”
Yiven didn’t hesitate. “Vascular stabilization systems. Fetal monitoring arrays. Atmospheric filtration suitable for patients with compromised lung function.” He didn’t look at Marie; his voice stayed clinical, abstract. “My patient is Human. Exposure to Illyria’s atmosphere would be fatal.”
“Patient singular?” the officer pressed.
“Singular,” Yiven confirmed without a beat, and Una knew exactly why — because ‘plural’ would raise too many questions.
On the bridge feed, Pike’s posture didn’t change, but she could read the small tension drop in his shoulders.
The officer studied them both for a long moment, then inclined his head. “Proceed with the scan. Once verified, you will be cleared to orbit. Orbital security out.”
The channel closed. The Sickbay seemed to breathe again.
Yiven exhaled slowly, his gaze shifting from the comm panel back to her. “The final cargo crate has not arrived.”
“What does that mean?” Una was afraid to ask.
“That unit is restricted under Article Twelve. Had it been aboard, we would not be having this conversation.”
That landed heavy enough for Una to feel it in her gut.
Pike sat in the chair between the beds, display lighting catching the edge of his jaw. She could see him weighing the words he wanted to say against the ones he felt he should. Finally, he spoke. “Article Twelve?”

Yiven answered before she could. “A prohibition on certain reproductive technologies leaving Illyrian jurisdiction. Security theater, for the most part — but in this case, theater with teeth.”
Pike’s gaze shifted back to her. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning before I authorized a scan?”
Una opened her mouth, but Yiven cut in with a level, almost bored tone: “Captain, you were not briefed because it was safer that way. For you, for the vessel. Your ignorance was the most credible part of my defense. Orbital security believed me because you clearly had no idea what was on board.”
She saw Pike’s jaw tighten, just enough to register. “That’s your justification?”
“It’s the reason you’re still in orbit,” Yiven said flatly. “And the reason they didn’t ask for your logs.”
Pike didn’t answer him. His eyes stayed locked on Una. “You were playing a game I didn’t know I was in.”
She met his stare. “If you’d known, you’d have been in it too.”
His silence this time was longer, heavier.
From the next bed, Marie stirred. “Chris—” Her voice was thin, but it carried. “It’s not just the crate. It’s me. I’m—” She stopped, wincing, one hand curling against her abdomen. “We both are hanging by a thread.”
Christine was already glancing at the monitors. “She’s not exaggerating. Her vascular readings are unstable again. Any sustained stress could—”
“I know,” Una cut in, sharper than she meant.
Marie turned her head toward her. “Then stop acting like you’re the reason this happened. You didn’t put us here.”
“Yes, I did,” Una said. “The failsafe triggered because of me — because of that cell on Earth, because of—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “I thought someone… I thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Marie said quietly. “If we believe Yiven, it wasn’t an intruder. It was biology. No one touched you.”
The words should have lifted something off her shoulders. They didn’t.
The display’s glow still lit Pike’s face, but now the hard lines were softened by something else. He wasn’t looking at her like a captain addressing an officer anymore. He was looking at her like a man cataloguing every pallor in her skin, every line of strain around her eyes.
It was gone a moment later, replaced by command steel. “This conversation isn’t finished,” he said again, voice low and controlled, the kind of control that came from knowing exactly how much pressure the hull could take before something gave.
She knew that look. It meant he was holding back — not because he wanted to, but because if he pushed now, he might make things worse. For her. For Marie. For all of them.
Yiven turned back to his console, tone still clinical. “As I said, I will not share information you have not chosen to give. Not with the captain. Not with Illyria. That is your decision.”
Una didn’t thank him. She just nodded once. The only thing she could manage without unraveling.
The display went dark, leaving the low hum of Sickbay pressing in again. For a moment, the only sound was the circulator between the beds, a soft, mechanical reminder of how thin the line really was.

Chapter Text

Sickbay hummed its same, steady rhythm. After five days, Una could tell the difference between the circulator’s pulse and the stabilizer’s hum without looking. She could also tell when Marie was actually asleep and when she was only pretending, which meant that right now, she was the only one awake.
And she needed the head.
There was no good way to phrase it. Not to the nurses, not to Christine, not even to Marie, whose quiet “again?” earned her nothing but a sharp glare in reply. Needing privacy was a joke by now. The tubing tethered between them had stripped that word of meaning.
She levered herself upright, wincing at the tug in her side. Marie shifted automatically, compensating. “If I trip,” Una muttered, “we go down together.”
“Romantic,” Marie said, voice dry with sleep.
They made it as far as the small, semi-partitioned alcove in Sickbay. Starfleet’s idea of discretion, which amounted to three flimsy panels and a curtain. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
She was just settling, tugging the line so it didn’t kink, when the Sickbay doors hissed open.
“Captain Pike,” came Christine’s too-bright voice. “And… honored guest.”
Perfect.
Una froze, every muscle clamping down on reflex. Marie did too, but for different reasons. Una could feel the silent laughter vibrating faintly across the line.
“Commander Chin-Riley?” a new voice asked. Male, clipped, official. Illyrian, by the cadence.
Of course. Of course this was the moment the diplomatic “tour” had chosen to arrive.
She shut her eyes. Somewhere in the corner of her mind, a dry, bitter amusement flickered: decorated officer, first officer of the Enterprise, former defendant in a Federation tribuna… and here she was, literally caught with her pants down.
Christine’s voice, too careful now: “She’s… occupied.”
Pike’s silence was the kind that meant he was pinching the bridge of his nose behind his padd.
Marie, ever helpful, leaned just far enough for her voice to carry. “Occupied is one word for it.”
Una hissed at her under her breath, “Shut up,” but it was too late.
The Illyrian’s tone sharpened. “Occupied with what?”
God help her, Una almost laughed. Almost. It stuck in her chest instead, coming out as the flattest thing she could manage, “Medical necessity.”
There was a pause. She imagined Pike’s face… that slow, strangled composure.
There was an awkward silence as the only sound in the room was her water hitting the plastic bottom of the tub. No denying what was happening behind that curtain. But when she was finished, she pulled up her pants and drew the curtain, expression schooled to iron. “Commander Chin-Riley, First Officer,” she said evenly, as though this introduction from a makeshift toilet was the most natural thing in the world.
The Illyrian official was tall, immaculate, the insignia on his collar polished enough to catch the biobed light. His eyes flicked to the tubing at her side, the faint tug that revealed Marie half-shielded behind the partition. His expression didn’t change, but his gaze lingered just long enough to make her skin crawl.
“Well,” he said finally. “That explains… something.”
Marie stifled a laugh behind the curtain. Una resisted the urge to throttle her.
Pike cleared his throat, voice clipped. “This isn’t part of the tour.”
But the Illyrian’s eyes were still on Una, sharp and assessing. And in that moment, she knew: the curtain, the tubes, the humiliation… none of it mattered. What mattered was that he’d seen her like this, raw and unarmored, and something in it had caught his attention.
Something he would not forget.
Pike’s jaw flexed, and he stepped squarely into the Illyrian’s line of sight. “This way,” he said, voice captain-level flat. “Engineering will be more to your interest.”
For half a second the official looked like he might argue. Then his gaze slid once more over Una, clinical, calculating, before he inclined his head. “Of course.”
The doors hissed shut behind them.
Silence.
Then Marie snorted, so hard it pulled at the tubing. “Well. That was dignified.”
“Shut up,” Una muttered, pulling the medical gown across her backside before sinking onto the bed.
Christine was biting the inside of her cheek, tricorder tucked under her arm. M’Benga wasn’t bothering to hide his amusement at all; his brows were arched, the corners of his mouth pulling upward. Yiven, naturally, looked unimpressed.
“Glad to see my humiliation entertains all of you,” Una said dryly.
“You handled it,” Christine said gently.
“You survived it,” M’Benga corrected.
Yiven made a short sound in his throat, neither laugh nor cough. “Illyrian orbital officials are not easily deterred. If he saw more than he should—”
“Then we make sure he didn’t,” Una cut in. “Which means tightening our story until it’s airtight.”
She glanced at Marie, who only lifted her brows.
“Pregnant Human. Complications. Illyrian stabilization protocol. That’s what they’re going to hear.”
Christine shifted, arms folding. “And when Starfleet wants the medical logs? When Command wants to know why I’ve requisitioned three different fetal monitors with no registry code?”
“Then,” Una said, “they’ll see the logs that say you requisitioned one fetal monitor. And Yiven requisitioned two circulator arrays for an Illyrian clinical trial.”
Christine frowned. “Forged entries?”
“Seeded in both databases,” Una said evenly. “Starfleet’s and Illyria’s. Neera can help us. It’s the only way this holds.”
Marie’s voice was quieter now, but iron-flat. “Because if they know the truth, if they ever connect the dots between you and me, we stop being patients. We start being specimens.”
That landed heavy. Even Yiven didn’t argue it.
M’Benga exhaled, slow and deliberate. “You understand what you’re suggesting. If this comes apart…”
“It won’t,” Una said.
He gave her a long look. Not disbelief exactly, but not trust either. “Then we all need to stay on the same page. No deviations.”
Yiven inclined his head once, sharp as a blade. “So. The Human carries a difficult pregnancy. The Illyrian provides stabilization. Commander Chin-Riley is a blood-compatibility donor. I am here to prevent Illyrian secrets being exposed. That is all.”
Una met each of their gazes in turn, the weight of the tubing pulling at her side like a reminder. “That is all.”
The hum of the circulator filled the space again, steady and artificial — like a heartbeat that didn’t quite belong to any of them.
Then Yiven leaned back from the console, arms folding. His voice, when it came, was cool as glass.
“And how do you plan to remain in Illyrian orbit for the next five months?”
Una’s gaze flicked to him. “What?”
“Gestation,” he said simply. “Even under stabilization, a Human reproductive cycle is not a matter of days. You will need months. Five, perhaps more.” His eyes moved from her to Marie and back. “Will the Enterprise simply… loiter here under quarantine, broadcasting its presence to every orbital scan until delivery?”
Christine stiffened. “We don’t have five months of cover. Starfleet will start asking questions in five days.”
Marie’s mouth tightened. “Then we leave once the tech is aboard. We don’t need Illyria anymore.”
“That,” Yiven said flatly, “is treason.”
The word dropped between them like a blade.
Una held his gaze. “Only if we get caught.”
“Leaving orbit with undeclared Illyrian technology is not a minor infraction,” he pressed. “It is not a clerical error to be erased with a forged requisition order. It is theft. It is smuggling. It is, by every definition in your law and ours, treason.”
Her jaw clenched. “So is letting Starfleet catalogue us as curiosities in a laboratory. Pick your crime.”
Christine looked between them, eyes wide with the weight of it. “You’re saying the only way to protect you is to lie to Illyria and Starfleet, and run before either of them notices.”
“Exactly,” Marie said quietly. Her hand shifted against the sheet, not quite reaching Una’s but close enough to feel the pull of the tubing between them. “We can’t stay here. Not in orbit. Not in anyone’s jurisdiction. The only way this ends with a child, not a specimen, is if we keep moving.”
For a long moment no one spoke. M’Benga’s expression was grim, Yiven’s cool, Christine’s torn between medical duty and command protocol.
Una stared at the ceiling, the weight of the plan pressing down like a deckplate about to buckle.
“Then we keep moving,” she said finally. “Because the alternative isn’t survivable.”
The others exchanged glances, but no one argued.
The doors hissed open.
Pike stepped back into Sickbay, the Illyrian official conspicuously absent. His shoulders were set, jaw tighter than when he’d left. He took in the room in a glance — Yiven at the console, M’Benga leaning against the bulkhead, Christine folded in on herself with her tricorder. And Una and Marie, still tethered like patients in a case file no one wanted to write.
He didn’t sit this time. He just planted himself at the foot of their beds, arms crossed.
“All right,” he said. “What did I just walk an Illyrian bureaucrat away from?”
Una met his stare, pulse kicking at her throat. Every instinct said deflect, stall, don’t give him more to carry. But the silence in the room was thick with what they’d just decided, and she knew if she hesitated, Marie would speak first.
So she pulled in a breath and put on the steel.
“Captain, Marie’s pregnancy isn’t standard.”
His gaze sharpened.
“She’s Human,” Una went on evenly, “but her vascular system can’t support gestation unaided. Illyrian stabilization protocols are the only reason she and the child are alive.” She shifted slightly, letting the tubing tug enough to make the point. “My blood markers are unusually compatible with the therapy. That’s why I’m here too. Donor, stabilizer, anchor.”
Christine’s tricorder clicked softly as if to punctuate the lie.
Pike’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes were searching hers. He’d seen her testify at a tribunal. He knew the tone she used when she was telling the truth, and the one she used when she couldn’t.
Finally, he said, “And the tech?”
“Circulator arrays. Fetal monitors. Atmospheric filtration for compromised lungs.” Yiven’s voice was crisp, detached. “All of it medically defensible. All of it already explained.”
Pike’s gaze slid to him, then back to Una. “And if Starfleet asks?”
“They’ll see the same thing,” Una said. She kept her tone level, unyielding. “A medical crisis. An experimental therapy. Nothing more.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the circulator’s steady pulse.
Pike exhaled through his nose, slow. “You’re telling me this isn’t going to blow up in my face.”
Una’s jaw tightened. “I’m telling you we don’t have another option.”
He studied her for another heartbeat, then turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “God help me, I believe you.”
But when he dropped his hand, his voice was sharper. “If you’re keeping something back, Una — if there’s more I’m going to find out the hard way — I need to know now.”
She held his gaze, the weight of the forged story pressing down like lead in her chest.
“This is the story,” she said.
The hum of Sickbay filled the silence after.
Pike didn’t call her a liar. He didn’t have to.
Pike lingered a moment longer at the foot of their beds, arms crossed tight. Then he shook his head once, sharp, and turned for the doors.
The hiss of them closing behind him left a vacuum in the room.
Marie let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-groan. “He doesn’t buy it.”
Una stared at the ceiling. “He doesn’t have to buy it. He just has to repeat it.”
Christine shifted by the console, eyes still on her tricorder like it might shield her. “That’s not going to hold. He’s your captain, not some bureaucrat you can snow with treaty language. He knows you.”
“He doesn’t know this,” Una said flatly.
“Yet,” Marie murmured.
The word hung there, sharp as glass.
Una rolled her head toward her. “You think I should’ve told him everything.”
“I think you wanted to.” Marie’s gaze held hers, steady. “The way you looked at him, Una—you wanted to hand it over. Let him carry it.”
Her throat tightened. She forced the words through anyway. “If I do that, he’s not carrying it as my friend. He’s carrying it as a captain. And the next time an Illyrian official asks, he’ll have to choose between lying to their face or watching us carted off as evidence. That’s not a choice I’m putting in his hands.”
Marie’s jaw worked. “So instead you lie to his face.”
“Better me than him,” Una said.
For a long moment the only sound was the circulator’s pulse, steady and mechanical.
Finally, Marie gave a dry little laugh. “Do you know what Starfleet would call this? Two officers hooked together by a circulator, both lying to their captain, one carrying a baby conceived under conditions that shouldn’t even exist?”
Una arched a brow, exhausted but unable to stop the edge of humor. “A line item in a tribunal docket?”
“Experimental Maternal Compatibility Protocol,” Marie said, voice sing-song with mock formality. “Filed under ‘Anomalous Reproductive Incidents, Cross-Species.’ With our names blacked out and our bodies archived in some vault.”
The laugh caught Una off guard, short and sharp enough to hurt. “Not inaccurate.”
Christine’s voice cut in, quieter now. “It won’t matter what they call it. If Starfleet ever sees the truth, they’ll study you. Both of you. And if Illyria sees it…” She trailed off, the silence filling in the rest.
Una let her eyes fall shut. She could still feel Pike’s stare, the weight of it. He’d wanted answers. She’d given him a lie dressed as procedure. And he’d taken it—for now.
But he would circle back. He always did.
And when he did, she wasn’t sure what she’d have left to give him.
A few days later, Una realized something. Marie’s color had come back, her breath steadier, her laughter louder. Even the stabilizer’s hum seemed less like a countdown and more like background noise now. They just might make it.
Marie rolled toward her on the bed, eyes glinting. “You know what I miss?” she whispered.
Una raised an eyebrow. “Showers? Actual food?”
“Sex,” Marie said plainly.
Una coughed once, sharply enough that it set the monitor beeping. “Marie—”
“What?” Marie’s smile was wicked now, the kind that used to make Una check over her shoulder for witnesses. “You think Chapel hasn’t heard worse in this room?”
Christine made a strangled sound from the console but didn’t look up.
Una pressed her lips together, trying for stern, failing fast. “We are literally tethered to a circulator.”
“Details.” Marie’s hand twitched against the sheet like she wanted to gesture at the line between them. “You’re creative. I’ve read the reports. Surely a decorated first officer can engineer a workaround.”
Despite herself, Una felt the laugh coming, low and reluctant. “You’re impossible.”
“Imaginative,” Marie corrected. Her grin widened. “Besides, if we’re going to be fused together for five more months, we might as well—”
The Sickbay doors hissed open.
The laugh died in Una’s throat.
Pike stepped in first, but it was the figure behind him that froze the air in her lungs: the Illyrian official, tall and immaculate, his eyes sharp as a scanner beam.
Marie went still beside her, her teasing expression collapsing so fast it hurt to watch.
“Commander,” the official said smoothly. “Apologies for the intrusion. I had… further questions.”
Una’s gaze flicked to Pike, searching for some sign this was expected. His jaw was tight, his eyes giving nothing away. Which meant it wasn’t expected at all.
And Una, still half-turned toward Marie, the tubing stretched between them, could feel the weight of what he was seeing — two officers, tethered together, intimate enough that whatever he’d just overheard would be more than enough to sharpen his suspicion.
Her pulse spiked, hard enough that the monitor caught it, and she knew with cold certainty:
This wasn’t just bad timing. This was disaster.
Her first instinct was to pull away from Marie, but the tubing made that impossible. Any motion she made only tugged them closer together.
So she sat up straighter, spine iron, face a mask she’d worn in enough courtrooms to know it fit.
“Of course, Officer,” she said evenly. “How can we assist you?”
He stepped farther into Sickbay, gaze flicking between her and Marie. Not leering — worse. Cataloguing.
“I was given to understand,” he said, “that this patient is undergoing Illyrian stabilization therapy.”
Marie cleared her throat, the sound too sharp, and said nothing.
Una’s jaw worked once. “She is.”
“Yet your… arrangement”—his eyes flicked to the circulator, the tethering, the way the beds had been dragged close together—“suggests something beyond protocol. Something experimental.”
Before Una could reply, Yiven’s voice cut in, cool and clinical from his console: “It is experimental. A Human pregnancy this unstable requires multiple donor inputs. Commander Chin-Riley’s blood markers are unusually compatible. It is why the therapy is working.”
The official’s eyes lingered on Una, sharp. “Unusual compatibility.”
Una met his gaze without blinking. “Correct. Documented in her file.”
Christine, bless her, tapped briskly at her tricorder like she’d just pulled up confirmation. “Logged under Federation–Illyrian exchange protocols. Section nine.”
The official tilted his head. “Convenient.”
“Necessary,” Una countered, her voice smooth enough to cut glass.
Silence stretched. The monitor between the beds beeped once, soft and steady. Una forced herself to keep her eyes on him, not Marie, not Pike, not the tubing that betrayed more intimacy than she could ever admit.
Finally the official inclined his head. “Very well. I will require access to those files before departure.”
“Of course,” Una said, because anything else would sound like guilt.
He turned neatly on his heel. “I expect them by tomorrow.”
The doors hissed shut behind him.
For three long seconds, Sickbay was silent.
Then Marie whispered, low and vicious: “He doesn’t believe a word of it.”
Una let out the breath she’d been holding. “He doesn’t have to. He just has to leave before he asks the wrong question.”
Days later, still under constant watch by the Illyrians and still in need of that final crate, Una was growing restless. As was Marie.
The Sickbay partition was barely more than a curtain, but it was the closest thing to privacy they could manage.
Una stood outside it, arms folded, trying not to listen to the quiet sounds that reminded her of just how little dignity either of them had left. She focused on the hum of the circulator instead, on keeping her face schooled to neutrality—
The doors hissed open.
“Commander Chin-Riley.”
She didn’t bother to hide the flicker of irritation before turning. The Illyrian official again, his posture immaculate, his gaze sharp as ever. Pike wasn’t with him this time. That fact alone made her stomach dip.
“Officer,” she said evenly.
His eyes flicked to the partition, then back to her. “Another transfusion?”
Her jaw tightened. “Routine.”
He stepped closer, gaze narrowing at the line of tubing disappearing beneath the curtain. “How many are required, exactly? I was told Illyrian compatibility therapy is supplementary. This appears… constant.”
Before Una could answer, Yiven’s voice came, clipped and disdainful from the console: “It is more frequent because the Human system rejects stability. It is a rare Human complication, one that has heretofore been fatal to fetus and often to mother as well. The Commander’s markers are uniquely suited to sustaining equilibrium.”
The official’s gaze sharpened. “Augmented Illyrian blood should not be transferable to Human systems. That is the foundation of our treaty restrictions.”
Yiven didn’t even look up. “The process clears the genome signatures. No Illyrian markers remain. What passes is no more than raw compatibility.”
“Convenient,” the man said, the same word as before, but heavier this time.
Yiven’s tone went glacial. “Necessary.”
The official’s eyes returned to Una. They lingered too long, and she felt heat crawl up the back of her neck.
A faint sound behind the curtain, Marie shifting with a low moan. The partition wasn’t thick enough to hide the glow that bled through for an instant, a faint, pulsing shimmer tracing the veins in her hand where it gripped the bedding.
Illyrian.
Una’s stomach dropped.
She moved before she thought, angling her body between the official and the curtain, folding her arms as if casual. “This isn’t a spectacle,” she said, voice sharp enough to draw his gaze back to her. “It’s a patient under medical care. If you have further questions, direct them to Doctor Yiven.”
Silence. The faint glow dimmed behind her, gone as quickly as it came.
Finally, the official inclined his head just enough to be polite. “I will. But I will also report irregularities to my superiors.” His eyes flicked once more toward the curtain. “And I will expect clarification in your files.”
He turned and strode out, the doors hissing shut behind him.
Una didn’t breathe until he was gone.
Then Marie pulled back the curtain. Her hand still glowed faintly, fading like embers under her skin. She met Una’s eyes, pale and shaken.
“He saw?”
“No,” Una said, more certain than she felt. “He didn’t.”
But she knew, deep in her marrow, that the cover story had just cracked.
Una eased the curtain fully shut, more for the illusion of privacy than anything else, and crouched at Marie’s bedside. The glow in her hand had already faded, veins retreating to something almost normal, but the memory of it was still burned behind Una’s eyes.
Marie looked pale, chest rising quick. “Was it obvious?”
Una shook her head, too fast. “He didn’t see.”
Marie let out a shaky laugh. “Figures. The one time I manage a good crap, and it makes me light up like a reactor.” Una’s mouth opened, then closed. She rubbed a hand over her face. “God, Marie.” Marie’s mouth turned up into a grin. “What? Pregnancy is unpredictable. Apparently constipation is now a tactical hazard.” That broke them both—Marie’s laugh bubbling out, Una’s slipping past her guard until the monitor actually registered the spike in her heart rate. “Fantastic,” Una said dryly, fighting a smile. Marie wiped at her eyes, still chuckling, then sobered. “Una… it wasn’t funny. Not really. If I glow again, and someone does see—”
“I know.” Una’s humor died as quickly as it had come. She glanced at the curtain, at the space the official had just occupied. “I covered it this time. But next time—”
Marie reached for her, tubing tugging faintly. “Next time, we don’t let there be a next time.”
Una looked down at her hand, still faintly warm from where the glow had been. It should have been impossible. But here they were.
Her throat tightened. “This isn’t going to hold much longer, Marie.”
Marie’s grip was steady, even through the tether. “Then we hold it together as long as we can. And when it breaks? We run.”
Una closed her eyes. It wasn’t a plan, not really. But it was all they had.