Bravo Fleet
New Sydney stank, but the Red Shade Docks stank more. Muller had hoped the meeting would happen someplace more central. Someplace with more people. Instead, he trudged down alleyways that time and neglect had hued crimson and gold with rust more than the setting sun, as if the district were a forest fading into autumnal death.
Nobody trusted anyone else on New Sydney; nobody looked a stranger in the eye. That the burly Orion stared him down as he approached the gates of the abandoned ship-breaking yard let Muller know he was in the right place.
‘Here for Barj.’ Muller’s voice stayed steady, discipline welding shut the cracks in his nerves, stopping fear flowing freely.
‘You alone?’
‘D’you see anyone else?’ Muller was a professional. He knew he’d been watched for two blocks. He wasn’t stupid enough to break the rules of the meeting.
Begrudgingly, the Orion guard let him through. Jerry-rigged strings of lights stretched between shipping containers gave enough illumination for Muller to find his way. Not enough to see much of what was going on in the yard. Barj ran a big operation. This was more than a meeting place. But he’d struggle to learn about anything that wasn’t right in front of him.
He found Barj set up in the hollowed-out husk of a grounded freighter. The remains of its hull gave little shelter from New Sydney’s terrible weather, but kept him hidden from sight. When Muller ducked through the shattered doorway, he was surprised to find they were alone.
‘You’re late.’ Most of the crew here were Orions, but Barj wasn’t. Infamously so. The Andorian gang leader sat on a packing crate like he’d been waiting. Scars of untold fights marred blue skin across his face, ancient wounds wreathed white. There should have been stories about those scars, Muller thought. Tales from the underworld. But he’d heard none.
Muller took a moment. Let the attitude he knew he’d need to get through this sink around him like a second skin, like raising shields. He straightened. ‘I’m not.’
‘I say if you’re late or not.’ Barj stood. He was tall. Taller than him. He looked Muller up and down, gaze impassive. ‘You got the crystals?’
‘I’ve got them stowed. I want to see the goods.’
‘Is my word not good enough? The word of the Orion Syndicate?’
‘These are big promises, Barj. Genesis nano-seeds? You don’t get an ounce before I see for myself.’
A beat. A stare. Barj grinned. Grinned like he’d swapped his mouth for a knife, but it was a grin nevertheless. ‘I like to know where I stand with a man.’ He stepped back and flipped the lid on the packing crate he’d been sat on, as easy as he might have opened a lunchbox.
Muller’s chest tightened. The only thing inside was a pair of canisters, foam-packed. Anything could have been in them. But he knew the signs and symbols on the side. Not just Starfleet property. Not just restricted. But where they’d come from.
Daystrom Station.
‘If you’ve the biochem expertise to check these, be my guest.’ Barj stepped back. ‘But the packaging speaks for itself.’
Muller advanced on the crate, hands placed reverently on the cold metal frame. ‘There’s an old Earth saying.’ This time his voice did creak. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’
Over his shoulder, Barj grunted thoughtfully. ‘I like that..’
Muller didn’t even hear the knife get drawn. The first he knew was when it was plunged into his back.
It was like Barj had dragged him to the frozen wastes of Andoria, then plunged him into its sun a heartbeat later. If there were heartbeats. If everything wasn’t fading fast, blurring fast. New Sydney, collapsing like dust and rust. The shipyard and the broken hulls, empty shells he’d soon join. The Daystrom Station seal swimming before him, stolen and secreted away, now in the worst hands.
‘You’re right.’ Barj could have been shouting in his ear and Muller, struggling and weakening in his tight grip, still would have only heard his voice as a whisper. ‘It’s what’s inside that counts. Starfleet.’
And the sun set on Lieutenant Jonas Muller, Starfleet Security, before the New Sydney day was done.
In November 2024, we will begin our latest stand-alone campaign: The Devil to Pay. Running for six weeks, this campaign will bring Bravo Fleet storytellers to the dark underbelly of the galaxy, and provide a final swan-song for story threads last tugged in Picard season 3.
It’s been a while since we ran a stand-alone campaign! For those who weren’t with us in 2023, these events are solely writing and storytelling events. They are the little brother of Fleet Actions: no competitions, and a less epic scope than those once-in-a-lifetime, galaxy-defining events. They’re still a great chance for writers to get stuck in on their own dramatic story that drags the whole fleet together against a common challenge. While there will be extensive canon and storytelling support from the Intelligence and Science Offices on the run-up to this campaign, this event will not feature any of the additional storytelling features such as Campaign Tables or individual Mission Briefings. This is a chance for members to stretch their own creativity, and bounce off Intelligence Office-produced prompts tell their own stories.
Keep your eyes peeled across October for more content, teases, and information ahead of the launch of The Devil to Pay, our ninth Bravo Fleet campaign!