Communist Star Trek
By T.J. Swoboda
This text may be freely distributed, unaltered and credited.  Based on intellectual property owned solely by CBS Studios, Inc.

Prologue
	Beverly Crusher stood in solitude on the shuttledeck, clad in an orange jumpsuit, her People's Starfleet uniform forfeit shortly before what was supposed to be her final journey.  All her life, into middle age, Dr. Crusher had believed that whatever good traits she thought someone possessed, if a Party court martial convicted them of sabotage it was never a mistake.  Individually, Party members make mistakes. Collectively, the Party is infallible and impeccable.
	Until now.  Twenty-four hours ago, Political Officer Jellico had directed the court martial, as its chair, to convict Beverly as a “wrecker.”  I couldn't save that Klingon's life.  I know Jean-Luc and the PPRP needed him, but I didn't know his anatomy.  There was nothing I could do.  Yet there were no “buts,” no excuses when the Party gave you a directive, a job to do.  You either did it, or you were a reactionary saboteur, a class traitor...
	be-BEE-be-BEE!  Be-BEE-be-BEE!  The klaxon started.  Dr. Crusher began hyperventilating, purposely, though it was a only small exaggeration of what she'd be doing naturally anyway.  As the mechanical door whirred down along with the shrill be-BEE-be-BEE! sound, revealing space beyond the invisible shield behind it, the look of heartbreak on Jean-Luc's face came back to Beverly's mind's eye, as he'd complied with the directed verdict from the chairperson.  He had little choice in that, although...  Well, if death were a certainty I don't think I'd be afraid. Death in the next minute is a “probably,” and I'm fucking terrified.  She almost reproved herself for the profane thought, then remembered her regret at how she'd treated Wesley when he was seven and thought his mother was out of earshot when he'd said “damn it”...
	Don't think of regrets, Crusher steeled herself.  I can do this. The klaxon continued be-BEE-be-BEE!  be-BEE.  A firm cut-off left the disgraced ship's surgeon in silence.  One last inhale, then she forced all the air from her lungs.  Oh please Jean-Luc, look after Wesley.  The shield dropping would make no sound, and Beverly would barely hear air rushing before she was pul...

I
	“Robespierre and Stalin both had to make hard decisions,” Captain Jellico said from his side of the table head in the ready room, ship Captain Picard seated next to his left, or the right from where Wesley Crusher sat at the opposite end of the table.  “You're not a class traitor for cringing at what was necessary, not at all,” Jellico said with passion.  “But your revulsion at the brutality, then and now, needs to be redirected to those who make it necessary.  The wreckers, your brother and sister workers who give in to their latent greed, they personally betray you when they throw a wrench into our machinery.  They're no better than Ferengi, seeking to use their abilities to acquire more comfort than someone with less ability...”
	Wesley felt at peace, and had no trouble paying attention as Edward Jellico continued.  Every Sunday morning of Wesley's life, since the age of five, political awareness meetings had been a fixture for him.  Their content reminded him of what he was living for, fighting for, that the pain of life was all to some purpose.  Superstitious religion used to serve the same purpose, but whitenoisenothoughtnothoughtnothought...  he repressed the comparison he'd started to make.
	“We don't have to repeat the failings and traitorous deeds of those who came before us.”  Jellico wrapped up.  “Isn't that right, Comrade Ensign?” The zampolit smiled across the table at Wesley.
	A wave of nausea hit, Wesley felt dizzy, suddenly sweating, I'll never see her again whitenoisenothoughtnothoughtnothought...
	“Of course, Comrade Captain Jellico.”  Wesley swallowed, forcing the panic to the back of his mind.
	Jellico smiled again to the table of officers, as did Picard at his side.  “Very good.  Dismissed.”
	Picard: “Report to your stations, Comrades.”
	Wesley fell in a step behind Picard and to his left, as they walked to the turbolift.  Other crew passing in uniform bore the same communicator badge as Wesley, reminding him of his own: The hammer and sickle, symbol of the workers and their struggle.  Our struggle.
	“Bridge, please.”  Picard said in the elevator.  The door whooshed shut, and their short journey began.  “I'll tell you momentarily on the bridge,” the captain said, eyes fixed straight ahead.  “But I want you on the away team in a few hours, Wesley.”  Picard used Ensign Crusher's given name in private, as he had before the field promotion; the young junior officer felt briefly at ease, then a spike of adrenaline at the news.  “Comrades Riker, Yar, and Worf will need a sharp pair of eyes to back them up.  Most starship captains would send someone more senior without a second thought, but anyone else I could send has more duties on the ship than you.  You'll move up to those duties sooner rather than later, and I know you well enough to know that you'll manage quite well down there.  So does Will, Comrade Riker.”
	Wesley swelled with pride, just as the turbolift door opened.  He stepped off behind the captain with a spring, beaming as he walked to the helm position to relieve a young woman, a lieutenant junior grade who looked even younger than Ensign Crusher, but had to be a few years his senior.  The captain and First Officer Riker sat behind him.  The elevator whooshed again, and political officer Jellico stepped off to assume his post off to one side.  The pale-skinned positronic android, nameless and mute per Politburo directive, manned the weapons console next to Wesley.
	Wesley's fingers ran across his screen, as he familiarized himself with the ship's course and what he'd need to do for the foreseeable future.  Following procedure, he updated his chain of command.  “On course to Sanders Two, Comrade First Officer.  ETA fifty minutes.”  In the reflection on his control screen, Ensign Crusher saw Commander Riker nod in satisfaction.
	Captain Picard rose from the command chair.  “As the right of each sentient species to progress to a classless society is considered sacred, no Starfleet personnel may refrain from assisting with the class struggle and healthy development of alien life and culture,” he began quoting the Prime Directive verbatim.  Wesley swiveled his chair to look at the captain, his heart swelling with patriotic pride, as the android focused mindlessly on his console.  “Such assistance may include introducing superior knowledge, strength, or technology to a world whose society is otherwise incapable of seeing the need for class struggle. Starfleet personnel may not violate this Prime Directive, even to save their lives and/or their ship, unless they are acting to right an earlier violation or an accidental neglect of said culture. This directive takes precedence over any and all other considerations, and carries with it the highest moral obligation.
	“With the Prime Directive in mind,” Picard began pacing.  “The People's Progressive Republic of Planets has sent its flagship, the PRS Enterprise, to Sanders Two in order to see to the redistribution of wealth hoarded by its privileged class.  Comrade First Officer Riker will lead the away team, bringing along Comrade Lieutenants Yar and Worf, as well as Comrade Ensign Crusher.”  Wesley felt a palpable surprise among the bridge crew at that; Zampolit Jellico in particular arched his eyebrows, but then reclined slightly in his chair, obviously at ease.
	Wesley did his best to stay focused on his routine, mundane tasks for the next forty-five minutes.  When they came out of warp, a planet of desert and jungle filled the viewscreen; its red sun, dubbed Sanders by the Party's cosmocartographers, was dimmed for their eyes automatically, but the class M star shone noticeably on its second world.  “Standard orbit, Comrade Crusher.”  Picard ordered.  A Midshipman First Class, assigned to the Enterprise for training, relieved Crusher at the helm with a look of apprehension.  After riding the lift with his three betters, Wesley emerged with them onto the transporter deck.
	“Beaming down, Comrade First Officer?”  Chief O'Brien walked briskly from the bulkhead he'd been leaning against, to the transporter console.
	“Indeed, Comrade Chief.”  Riker replied.  With a wry grin, he added, “People's Starfleet isn't a military, but 'hurry up and wait' is alive and well isn't it?”
	O'Brien cracked a grin as he set the controls.  “Indeed it is, Comrade Commander.”  Wesley felt a little discomfort; he would have suppressed such a thought, but deferred to Commander Riker's superior political understanding.  Standing on the transporter dais, Crusher felt butterflies as he prepared himself.  He realized at this point that he'd received no formal briefing, whereas the others had to have received such from the captain.
     Wesley's thoughts were broken by Riker's order to O'Brien: “Energize.”
*
	Thunder clapped from an approaching storm, as lightning flashed against a sky turned purple by the setting red sun, aspects of the planet's surface, and the storm rolling in.  Wesley stood in silence by Tasha's side, Worf standing with Riker as he spoke with the planet's leaders.  Lieutenant Yar had been familiar with him since his mother's fall into disgrace and execution; a couple of drinks in Ten Forward two months ago had led to “You know what, just call me Tasha off duty,” and the ship's head of security was now as much a mentor to Ensign Crusher as the captain.  The present moment was all business, heads on a swivel, phasers put away but ready on a half second's notice.
	“We accept that the People's Republic is benevolent at present,” the chieftain said, though Wesley could tell he didn't believe the words himself.  Diplomatic niceties from a snake in the grass...  Gluttonous bourgeoisie scum.  The long and short of it was that they weren't parting with their dilithium crystals.  Well if the capitalists won't even sell us the rope to hang them...
	Riker wrapped up the business efficiently once it was evident they were getting nowhere with these gluttons.  Crusher hadn't spoken a word in three hours, had simply stood by as if he were muscle (he had no illusions about that, but that was what a phaser was for), and presently he and Yar waited some more while Riker tapped his hammer and sickle badge to speak with the captain.  As they gathered to beam back up, one of the locals, a page, minor functionary, or similar member of an oppressed class, brushed against Wesley.  He felt something soft in his hand...  Old fashioned paper?
	“Four to beam up.”  Riker intoned.  Wesley looked at the paper, but had his vision blur with the transport...  Standing back on the Enterprise, some instinct told him to conceal the message.
	Captain Picard stood with Chief O'Brien behind the control console.  “What are their military...” he pronounced it with three syllables rather than four.  “...capabilities?”
	“None.”  Worf answered in his baritone, as Riker shook his head in slight bewilderment.
	“They choose suicide.  I dropped enough hints.”  The first officer shrugged as he stepped off the dais.  Crusher, Yar, and the taciturn Klingon followed.
	Picard tapped his communicator badge.  “Android, lock phasers on their major cities and await further instructions.”  Tapping again, he looked up.  “We'll want to be on the bridge for this.  Comrades Yar, Crusher, I see your uniforms got a bit wet in the rain down there.  Take a half hour to change and refresh in your quarters, then I'll see you both on the bridge.  You'll be just in time for quite the patriotic light show.”  The captain grinned wryly.
	Wesley was soon alone in his quarters, his roommate on duty in engineering.  As he removed his damp uniform, Wesley produced the weird old paper that he'd been handed.  Unfolding it, he read:
This will be very hard to process, Wesley, but most of what we've believed
all of our lives is wrong.  The Party does not represent the needs of the People.
It does not advance class struggle.  The Communist Party itself is the very
entrenched bourgeoisie class it claims to oppose.  We're going to turn this
around.  We're going to make history, and end this tyranny.  I know this
sounds like treason, like betraying the Revolution, but the
Revolution was betrayed a long time ago.  I'm alive, I love you,
and the captain is on our side but you cannot tell anyone.  Destroy this
paper as soon as you've read it.  Drop it down the recycler right now, and
await further instructions.  I love you, Mom
	Wesley was soaked again, from sweat this time.  He made a couple of taps on the room's console to put himself on sick call.  He lay on his bunk, turned to the side, and vomited.