Anyway, Kyle Riker had long ago fallen into the habit of compartmentalizing his life. Recovery was in one compartment, work in another. Family was in another one, by itself. And that one, he didn’t go into often.

Not often at all.

Chapter 2

“You might want to do some strategizing,” Admiral Paris told the class. “No cheating, no going into the city ahead of time and planting supplies or anything. It won’t help anyway, because you won’t know what you’re looking for until tomorrow morning, when you get out there. But you can talk amongst yourselves, figure out how you’re going to approach the teamwork aspect of the project. As an away team on a starship, you would prep for a mission in that way before you left the relative safety of the ship. And, of course, you would gather as much intelligence as you could about your destination. In this case, we’re assuming that intelligence is very limited. So that’s your assignment for tonight—think strategy.”

He turned away from the class and returned to the podium in the front of the room, his standard signal that the lecture was over for today. Will Riker quickly scanned the notes he’d typed into his padd, making sure he had caught all the major points and could understand his own shorthand. Dennis Haynes, whose room neighbored Will’s, tossed him a cheerful grin. “This sounds like fun, doesn’t it? At least, it resembles fun more than most assignments do.”

Will was already almost to the classroom door, but he paused to let Dennis catch up. Before his friend reached him, Admiral Paris wagged a finger at him. “Mr. Riker, if you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you before you go.”

Dennis shrugged and Will said, “I’ll see you a little later.” Felicia Mendoza, another member of their Zeta Squadron, had joined Dennis for the trek across campus, back to their quarters. Will cast a brief, longing glance at their retreating forms, then turned back to the admiral.

“Yes, sir?”

Admiral Paris leaned against the podium. Will hoped that didn’t mean he was making himself comfortable for a long conversation—he really wanted to get back to his room and get started on some of the homework. It seemed to get more and more difficult as the year went on. He was only in his second year at the Academy, which meant he still had a lot of struggling to look forward to. “I saw your father earlier, Will,” the admiral said. His tone was sympathetic, not accusatory, Will noted. “Have you talked to him lately?”

“Not real recently, no sir.”

“I get the impression that you two aren’t particularly close.”

“Not terribly, sir.”

“Nonetheless, today, as you might be aware, is Father’s Day. It’s a custom on this planet, a day on which people honor their fathers, without whom they wouldn’t be here. You’ve heard of it?”

“Yes, sir.” Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Where’s the anvil?he wondered. This felt like one of those times, as in the old Earth cartoons his squadron member Estresor Fil watched incessantly, when an anvil was surely going to fall on his head.

“So I thought that perhaps it would be a good idea for you to maybe go see him, give him a call. You know. Honor your father.”

“Yes, sir,” Will said again. “I’ll try to do that, sir.”

The expression on Admiral Paris’s face showed that he understood just how little truth there was in Will’s promise. He even started to shake his head sadly, but then caught himself and turned it into some other head motion, as if he were looking around the room to see if any of the cadets had forgotten anything.

I guess that’s the anvil,Will thought. The old man’s disapproval. I can live with that.

“Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.

“That’s it, Mr. Riker. Good day.”

“Thank you, sir.” Will turned and hurried from the room, which had become suddenly hot and oppressive.

Will didn’t talk to Kyle Riker. He didn’t, on those rare occasions when he thought of him at all, think of him with any special fondness, and he certainly didn’t think of him as “Dad” or “Pop” or any of the other endearing nicknames people had for their fathers. Kyle Riker was a person his mom had known once, a genetic donor, a man with whom he’d shared a few pleasant moments of his childhood, and a whole lot of stiff, awkward times. When he thought about those days, he thought mostly of the long silences, or of times when Kyle Riker would stare at him, as if trying to fathom how his young brain worked. The connection between them was biological, not emotional.

Father’s Day.Will let out a bitter laugh, then glanced about quickly to see if anyone in the spectacular garden had noticed. Coast clear, though. There were a couple of cadets coming toward him, but they were engaged in conversation, and far enough away that they probably couldn’t have heard him.

Kyle Riker had raised Will from infancy, if “raised” was the word for it. Will tended to doubt it. “Tolerated,” maybe. Certainly, he had fed and sheltered the boy. But he was never cut out for parenthood. Having to do it by himself, after Will’s mother had died during his second year, had proven far too difficult a task for him. Finally, during Will’s fifteenth year, he had given up altogether. His work for Starfleet had been taking him away more and more anyway, and at that point he took an extended off-world posting, leaving Will behind for good.

So Father’s Day, while it might mean something to others, was pretty much a nonoccasion to Will. There had been times when he’d even considered losing the Riker name. He’d decided against that—what else would he call himself? He’d have to make something up, and that wasn’t the kind of thing he believed himself to be good at. If raising myself taught me anything,he’d tell people, it’s pragmatism. I don’t like to waste my time with a lot of foolish nonsense.

Ignoring the sky overhead, pink bruising into indigo, ignoring the fresh, sweet scent of dozens of trees, grasses, and flowering plants, ignoring even the gentle breeze that blew in off the bay, fluttering leaves and flags alike, Will Riker turned his focus away from all extraneous distractions and headed for home. Tomorrow was his final project in Admiral Paris’s survival class, and it would be demanding, challenging, and crucial. The whole squadron succeeded or failed together. And there were plenty of stresses in the squadron that would work against them if they weren’t careful. Paris was right; strategy would be key. Strategy and teamwork.

When he got back to the dorm, he went to Dennis’s room. The redheaded, ruddy-faced cadet kept a worktable and chairs directly in front of his bay window, and he and Felicia Mendoza were sitting in them. On the couch sat Estresor Fil, a petite green Zimonian female, about the color of a fir tree, who barely passed the minimum height and weight requirements for Starfleet duty. Boon, a Coridanian, the lanky, laconic son of two miners from that underpopulated world, squatted on the floor at the foot of the couch. His skin color, common among some Coridanians, always reminded Will of an old brick storefront he had seen in Valdez, during his youth, both in texture and color. McGill’s Hardware, he remembered. He’d loved the smell inside there.

“Come on in, Will,” Dennis Haynes said. He was a gregarious fellow, every bit as sociable as Will was reserved. They seemed, at a glance, like polar opposites in almost every way, but had become fast friends in spite of that. Or because of it—Will had never been able to decide for sure.

“Sorry if I’m late,” Will said, entering the room and helping himself to one of the chairs scooted up near the worktable. The sky had gone dark outside, and the lights of the Academy grounds and the city beyond twinkled in the distance.

“How could you be late?” Estresor Fil asked. “There was no particular meeting time scheduled.”