Footsteps in the Rain, a Knock at the Door
Nyr Nordhavn
Season 01 — Episode 07
Written by Alan Tripp
2412
The Sollace Cottage — Ulfrvik
Operations Group Baston
Hell’s Gate Nebula
“The hearth is not sacred because of the fire. The fire is sacred because people gather around it.”
— Beatress O’Lancy
Chapter Two
The embers had burned low by the time either of them finally considered leaving the blanket beside the hearth.
Neither seemed particularly eager to do so.
The evening had settled into that rare and precious state where conversation no longer felt necessary. The fire continued to burn softly within the stone hearth while the Silver Tide drifted beyond the windows, painting the walls of the cottage with shifting bands of silver and violet light. Somewhere beyond the cliffs the fjord whispered against the shoreline, and the distant forests of Nýr Norðhavn slept beneath the artificial heavens of the Belt.
For a little while the galaxy had felt very far away.
No admirals.
No fleet reports.
No emergencies.
No responsibilities.
Just a warm fire, a quiet cottage, and two people who had survived enough storms to appreciate the value of peace when they found it.
Alan had just risen to place another log upon the fire when the knock came.
The sound struck the cottage like a phaser blast.
Three solid impacts against the front door.
Not hesitant.
Not uncertain.
Not the casual knock of a neighbor.
The sound carried purpose.
Authority.
Official business.
Both of them froze.
Alan slowly turned his head toward the entrance.
Across the room, Lyara blinked once.
Then she looked toward the windows.
Then toward the wall chronometer.
Then back toward him.
“Please tell me that wasn’t the door.”
Before Alan could answer, three more knocks echoed through the cottage.
The expression on Lyara’s face shifted from disbelief to amusement.
Not because the situation was funny.
Because it was absurd.
The village had gone to sleep hours ago.
The Silver Tide hung high above the fjord.
The hour belonged exclusively to emergencies, disasters, and people making extraordinarily questionable decisions.
Alan closed his eyes briefly.
“I was afraid of that.”
Lyara folded her arms.
“You’re getting it.”
“That wasn’t even a discussion.”
“It wasn’t.”
The amusement followed him across the room.
Another knock sounded before he reached the door.
Whoever stood outside was clearly operating under the assumption that persistence solved most problems.
Alan opened the door.
Cold rain-scented air swept immediately into the cottage.
Standing beneath the weather canopy was a young Starfleet ensign wearing a soaked frontier cloak that appeared to have lost a prolonged battle against Norðhavn weather. Rainwater dripped steadily from the edge of his hood. His hair looked as though it had surrendered completely.
In one hand he carried a sealed data cylinder.
The expression on his face radiated determination.
Unfortunately, it also radiated complete confusion.
“Captain Sollace?”
Alan stared at him.
The ensign smiled.
Apparently pleased he had found the correct address.
“Depends.”
The young officer immediately consulted a padd.
Then he looked at the cottage.
Then at Alan.
Then back to the padd.
Then brightened visibly.
“Excellent.”
His smile somehow became larger.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“I gathered.”
The ensign nodded enthusiastically.
“Priority delivery.”
Alan accepted the cylinder automatically.
The ensign remained standing there.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Rain continued falling.
The wind pushed sheets of mist across the hillside beyond the cottage.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Finally Alan raised an eyebrow.
“Was there something else?”
The ensign frowned.
His eyes drifted toward the surrounding darkness.
For the first time he seemed to notice the complete absence of activity.
No lights.
No movement.
No awake civilization.
Only sleeping cottages, distant forests, and a fjord illuminated beneath the Silver Tide.
“Oh.”
The realization arrived slowly.
Painfully.
“Oh no.”
Alan’s other eyebrow joined the first.
The ensign checked his padd.
Then looked at the sky.
Then the padd.
Then the sky again.
“Oh no.”
Behind Alan, Lyara had reached the point where she was visibly struggling not to laugh.
The ensign pointed desperately at the padd.
“This says immediate delivery.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t mention local time.”
“No.”
The young man’s shoulders visibly sagged.
“I think I may have accidentally woken you.”
From somewhere inside the cottage came a sound remarkably similar to Lyara attempting—and failing—to suppress laughter.
The ensign froze.
His eyes widened.
Then widened further.
“Oh stars.”
Alan already knew what was coming.
The young officer looked past him into the cottage.
“Oh stars, there are two of you.”
Behind him, Lyara lost the battle entirely.
Laughter erupted from somewhere near the hearth.
Warm.
Bright.
Completely unrestrained.
The ensign looked as though he wanted the ground to open and swallow him.
Immediately.
“Sir, I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“I originated from Rhya’thor.”
“I suspected as much.”
“The station operates on standard command scheduling.”
“Yes.”
“The dispatcher marked this immediate.”
“Yes.”
“So I delivered it immediately.”
Rain continued falling.
The wind howled softly across the hillside.
Alan stared at him.
The ensign stared back.
The poor kid genuinely had no idea what he had done.
He had been given an order.
He had followed that order exactly.
With catastrophic precision.
For a moment Alan remembered being young enough to think regulations explained everything.
Not often.
But occasionally.
Finally he sighed.
“It’s fine, Ensign.”
The relief that crossed the young man’s face was almost comical.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re not filing a complaint?”
“No.”
“Requesting reassignment?”
“No.”
“Spacing me?”
Alan blinked.
“No.”
The ensign nodded seriously.
“Good.”
Then he paused.
“I wasn’t entirely sure how frontier commands handled situations like this.”
That finally broke Alan.
He laughed.
Only a little.
But enough.
The absurdity of the situation had become impossible to ignore.
The ensign visibly relaxed.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, “I should probably leave before I make this worse.”
“A wise decision.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The young officer turned and started down the path.
Then abruptly stopped.
Turned around.
And smiled.
“Congratulations on the Sam Houston, by the way.”
The silence that followed was magnificent.
Alan stared.
The ensign froze.
His smile vanished.
“Oh.”
A pause.
Then another.
“Oh no.”
The horror on his face deepened.
“I wasn’t supposed to know that yet, was I?”
Alan slowly raised one hand and pointed toward the road.
The ensign nodded immediately.
“Understood.”
Then he disappeared into the rain with surprising speed.
The door closed.
Silence returned to the cottage.
For perhaps three seconds.
Then Lyara began laughing again.
Alan leaned against the door, still holding the data cylinder, still staring at it as though it might somehow explain the evening.
“He is going to spend the next month convinced I hate him.”
Lyara crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him.
“No.”
She smiled against his shoulder.
“Only the next week.”
Alan laughed despite himself.
Then his gaze settled upon the cylinder.
The amusement faded slightly.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Because the messenger was gone.
The joke was over.
And the reason he had come remained.
The future had arrived at Alan Sollace’s door.