Grounded: Star Trek: The Next Generation

Chapter One
One Week Before

Captain's Log, Stardate 45223.4:
The Enterprise has received a distress call from a remote scientific station upon the planet Phaedra in the Xerxes system. The message was from Mikal Tillstrom, son of Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom, a xenogeologist of note. The distress call was patchy and disrupted by some electromagnetic phenomenon, which is not surprising. Xerxes is known for its odd electromagnetic fields. Enough of the message came through, however, to establish that some sort of disaster has overtaken Science Station 146, and emergency aid is sought. Then the message was disrupted and ended.

I have ordered the Enterprise on a course and heading that will take us to Xerxes in a day and a half. Rescue operations are being prepared.

I know Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom, though I have not seen her in many years. She is a fine person as well as a brilliant scientist. I only hope that we can save her and her son from whatever catastrophe has occurred.

The sun shone down from a clear blue sky, pleasant and warm on Will Riker's back. In the near distance, breakers crashed on the shore, spume filling the air with a fine, salty tang. Sea gulls hovered above the sea, occasionally darting down for fish, and the breeze was just right to cool the players and not compromise the game.

"Here you go, Will," said Geordi, grinning in bathing suit and bare feet. He tossed his friend the white inflated ball, and Riker caught it easily. Geordi pointed at the net above the sand held up by two aluminum poles. "The idea is to boink the ball over that black mesh thing over there, but not past the tennis shoe markers."

Riker glared at the engineer. The last two times he'd served, he'd fouled out by hitting the ball too hard. As he was a fine-caliber sportsman of many games, the two foul-outs had been particularly galling.

"Yes, Will," said Deanna Troi, a laugh in her voice. "Just get the ball over and we'll cover for you the rest of the way."

"Cease the bickering, hit the ball, and accept the eventual defeat that we shall mete out!" growled Worf from the other side of the net amongst the opposition. Will Riker rued the day he'd suggested that the Klingon try his hand at volleyball. Reluctance had rapidly melted away, to be replaced with a flashing warrior in kneepads, shorts, and T-shirt.

"Right," said Riker.

He lobbed the ball up and then pounded it over the net. Clean, crisp, and deadly, the ball caught an ensign unawares, bounced off an outstretched palm, and rolled away toward the illusion of waves in the background.