Fist Full of Silver

Tasked with tracking down the rogue Doctor T'Halla Shreln, Atlantis deploys Silver Team aboard a New Maquis facility to infiltrate and discover whatever they can.

Fist Full of Silver – 1

USS Atlants, Deep Space 47
October 2401

“And the last order of business we have is the handover of this New Maquis situation from Captain MacIntyre.” Vilo Kendris didn’t even look at the padd in her lap as she spoke, addressing the last of her fifteen points that she had walked in to Tikva’s ready room to discuss nearly an hour ago. In fact, she had only ever looked at the padd three times throughout the entire meeting, no doubt just to refresh her memory of the next few points.

“Oh, that,” Tikva grumbled, looking out the small window of her office and straight at the bright arc of Deep Space 47’s dorsal surface, the ends of Republic’s nacelles just peaking over that artificial horizon. “Disgraced Andorian doctor turned bioterrorist with a penchant for going after Romulans and Mac wants to hand it over to us, yeah?”

“Correct. My conversation with Commander Sadovu outlined the reasons for his request pretty well. She is…to close to the issue.” Kendris kept her cool as she spoke, though Tikva could sense the ratcheting of tension behind the façade. The notes from Mac had highlighted the extent of T’Halla Shreln’s crimes and it couldn’t be easy on the Romulan exchange officer. “Doctor Shreln’s presence amongst the New Maquis is a problem as well after her actions against the Cardassian Union. And I must admit, I would relish in bringing someone like this Doctor Shreln to justice.”

“Federation justice,” Tikva warned.

“Of course,” Kendris answered with a nod of her head. “Which is why I am not volunteering to lead any such mission to bring her in, so as to eliminate the possibility of any blame should something untoward happen.”

Tikva couldn’t help the snort or the smirk. Kendris’ dry response was just ‘oh so perfect’. And her response drew a slight smile from Kendris too. They were getting to know each other’s boundaries better and better such that it was a shame their working career was on a limited lifespan.

“Alright then Commander,” Tikva’s attention shifted from the window back to her executive officer, “I want you to brief Lieutenant Ch’tkk’va on everything we have. Go through everything, find something we can tug at to get our investigation underway.”

“Understood. I was also going to suggest we depart for the Badlands immediately and start patrolling along the Expanse edge, ranging inwards as need be. Perhaps we may get lucky and apprehend someone from the New Maquis, or we scare some sufficiently that they run without covering their tracks too well.”

“Lot of luck in there. Put a request in with 47’s people and with Starfleet Intelligence for everything they can share about the New Maquis.” Tikva stared at Kendris for a moment, trying to read the woman’s expression, then shook her head in defeat. It was like trying to read Lin when she was on duty. “And yes, give the order for all hands to return to the ship. It’s about time we push off and get back into space.”

“Especially after that particularly embarrassing defeat to the Sagan’s volleyball team?” Kendris asked as she stood.

“That game was unfair and you know it,” Tikva protested.

The squadron had been at DS47 for nearly two weeks now, making repairs, taking on supplies, having some well-deserved R&R. Inter-ship events had been encouraged to help the crews build up contacts and camaraderie. But the latest event, a volleyball tournament with numerous teams from each ship, had more than a few voices crying foul at the antics of the crew of the USS Sagan.

“I wouldn’t call it unfair, Captain. Suspicious perhaps, but not unfair. How an entire Academy championship volleyball team ended up on one starship is certainly a question worth asking. But credit where it is due, they did play remarkably well.”

“That’s it. I’m calling in favours with Starfleet Intelligence. I want to know just how in the various hells Stenz pulled this off. This is a conspiracy of the highest order!”

 


 

It was bound to happen that Deep Space 47 was going to eventually end up with a locale that didn’t meet the clean, pristine and sophisticated vibe that the rest of the relatively new starbase had going for it. Though really the nightclub that had opened on the Galleria sometime over the last few months was being compared to everything else around it and usually by people who experienced the Galleria during the peak ‘day’ hours and less so the ‘night’ hours.

Station night was marked by a dimming of the lights across the Galleria, a general slowing of most business with some still plying their trade at all hours to account for all folks. But anyone within sight of the club Badlands couldn’t ignore it at night. The gaudy neon light over the entrance, the closed door, the actual bouncer who was having an amicable conversation with a couple of station security while giving everyone a once over as they passed – the club didn’t blend in at all with the daytime restaurants, coffee shops or the growing bewildering array of shop fronts and civil infrastructure a small township in space needed.

In a testament to the technology in place not a sound escaped the club unless the door was open and even then sounded muted and warped. If it wasn’t for the flickering orange light above the door, Badlands could have just been another particularly swanky joint found across Federation starbases the galaxy over. Everything that could be reasonably done to make the place unobtrusive to the casual passerby had been done.

Inside was another matter.

The general ambiance was dark, broken up by a variety of lights going through a random series of motions. Loud music dominated the air, bass thumping through the air and patrons alike in an effort to try to unify everyone’s heartbeats with near brutal insistence. Conversations were shouted directly into someone’s ear if you wanted them to have a chance of hearing what you had to say, or held entirely by body language alone.

Badlands most certainly did not fit the village aesthetic.

It was packed with the younger populace of Deep Space 47 and the visiting ships. A mass of people dancing, singing, shouting and talking. It was teeming with life and vibrancy.

And in all of this, drowned out by the noise, a quiet chirping was taking place. The faint whistle of commbadges overpowered by the raw noise of Badlands and its patrons. Attempts by outside parties to reach those inside made futility against the roaring mass.

“Amber!”

The shout sounded like it was half a kilometre away, but was barely a couple of steps in reality.

“Amber!”

The repetition got Amber’s attention and she turned, breaking away from the man she was dancing with to see who was calling her name. A waving hand trying to get her attention was a lost cause amongst the dance floor. Instead, the beckoner had opted for something a touch more direct – pushing people out of the way with little regard.

In the flickering, pulsing lights, Rosa Mackeson’s green skin merely faded to a dark hue. But the glitter makeup she’d adorned herself with caught the various lights and cast her in a prismatic spray as the lights passed over her. Rose pushed the last person between the two of them out of the way and leaned in to shout into Amber’s ear.

“We gotta go!”

“Hell no!” Amber shouted back, pulling the man who she’d been dancing with close by his shirt. “We just got here!”

Rosa rolled her eyes in exasperation before she produced her comm badge, flashing it at Amber and her boy-toy, before she held it up to Amber’s ear, where the chirping could be heard. Then a tap with her thumb and the recorded message played once more. It was a struggle to hear, only possible because it was right up against her ear and Rosa’s hand cupped both for a modicum of shelter.

“All crew of the Atlantis are ordered to return to the ship immediately. Departure is set for 0300.” Lieutenant Ch’tkk’va’s voice was unmistakable in the pronouncement.

Then, to drive the point home, there was a slight pause before a purely artificial feminine voice spoke from the commbadge. “The time is 0217 hours.”

“Oh come on!” Amber shouted in exasperation, her head rolling to the side and away from Rosa. She sucked in a breath and then released the man she had been dancing with, shrugging her shoulders and throwing a thumb over her shoulder at Rosa. “I gotta go!”

Whatever was said in response was drowned out by the music and the attempts at conversations around them. Rosa had to watch as Amber stretched up and kissed the man, time slipping along before intervention was mandated and she had to pull the shorter woman away, offering the Amber’s partner for the evening an apologetic shrug as they slipped through the crowd.

“Seriously,” Amber protested as the two slipped out of the club and onto a near-deserted Galleria, starting their trek towards the docking lounge that Atlantis was berthed at. “Couldn’t wait just a few more hours?”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Rosa countered. “I don’t set the schedule. You’re lucky I even heard my commbadge at all in there.”

“And lucky I didn’t have to go in there after you both,” a voice spoke up from behind them.

“Ah! Stirling! What the fuck?” Amber exclaimed as she jumped, clutching at her own chest in shock at Stirling Fightmaster’s sudden appearance behind them.

Where Rosa and Amber had dressed up and made themselves ready for a night out, fully intending on not coming back until Badlands started kicking patrons out, Stirling was as ever a professional, standing there on the Galleria in an immaculate uniform. But where they were used to seeing him with either a padd in hand, or hands clasped behind his back, he was instead holding a carry tray with three large cups sitting in recesses and a non-descript brown bag in the other, both of which he held up to the two women.

“Caramel latte, two sugar, almond milk,” he said to Rosa, using a nod of his head to indicate which cup. “Black, no sugar,” he said to Amber, repeating the order she often growled at a replicator first thing in the morning. “And a bearclaw each.”

“Why?” Rosa asked as both she and Amber descended on the offerings, leaving Stirling with his own cup and the tray, dutifully tucked under an arm.

“How?” Amber asked. “How’d you know where we were?”

Stirling tilted his head at Amber, the unspoken question of ‘Really?’ not needing to be said aloud. But he answered her anyway. “It is my duty to know where everyone of the crew is at all times should the Fleet Captain have need of your presence. As such, I have access to interrogate your commbadges for your location.”

“Of course you do,” Amber muttered, then sipped at her coffee, sighing afterwards. “Okay Three, this isn’t bad.”

Beans’d It I understand is the best coffee place on the station,” Stirling commented, then looked to Rosa. “As to why am I here – Lieutenant Ch’tkk’va wants Silver Team to assemble for a briefing at 0800. I came to retrieve you both to make sure you were on the ship, but also had a chance to rest before the briefing.”

“Rest? And you brought us coffee?” Amber challenged.

“You’re a nurse, I’m sure you can deal with it,” Stirling responded flatly, then stepped around both women, continuing the trek they had started before he interrupted them. “Shall we ladies?”

They both watched Stirling walk away, sipping idly at his own drink as he went. “Did he just tell me to deal with it?” Amber asked.

“Yup,” Rosa answered. “Our boy is getting growing up. Getting snarky. I love it.”

“I hate it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will too when he tries it on me someday,” Rosa responded after a brief laugh. “Right, come on Amber. Don’t want to get left behind.”

Fist Full of Silver – 2

USS Atlantis
October 2401

“Well, if everyone is here in one piece, then I guess I have Mr Fightmaster to thank for that.” Gavin Mitchell’s volume was loud enough to cause both Amber and Rosa to wince in pain, despite a few hours of sleep, breakfast, and a visit to sickbay. The latter of which was mostly useless as Dr Terax was once more in a ‘suffer your self-imposed agonies’ state of being.

“So thank you, Stirling,” Mitchell continued as he entered into the small briefing room. It resembled a lecture hall, with seating enough for thirty, ranks of seats rising slightly so those behind could see forward easily enough. Every other member of Silver Team sat in the front row nursing a drink of some variety save for Brek. “This is going to be a bit of a long one. I just came out of a two-hour meeting with Commanders Kendris and Gantzmann and Lieutenant Ch’tkk’va going over a collection of rather interesting New Maquis intelligence and we’ve got ourselves a mission courtesy of our friends over on the Republic.”

“The New Maquis are primarily an issue in the former DMZ,” Brek stated. “Have they extended operations into the Expanse?”

“They did,” Mitchell answered as he took the podium, setting a padd down with a slight clatter. “It looks like their one and only operation in the Expanse so far was for a specific reason, and that reason is why we’re going to go and say hello. Specifically us.” He cast his gaze over the other four members assembled. “It would appear our good work on Handl Dryf has earned us this assignment.”

“Do good work, get rewarded with more work,” Rosa muttered.

“If you can’t handle a joke, Rosa, the door is over there.” Mitchell smirked as he waited for the Orion woman with her thick Australian accent to chuckle, nod in concession and then continued. “Besides, aside from that dance with the Borg, we haven’t done much else lately besides training.”

“Could we not mention the Borg, please?” pleaded Amber. “Or goddamn cleaning robots.”

“If Republic was handling the matter previously, why are we now on it?” Stirling asked. “Would it not make more sense for them to continue?”

“Normally yes,” Mitchell answered. “But from what I was told, Republic is too close to this. The New Maquis are likely pretty familiar with standard Starfleet doctrine and our target has a bodyguard that’s familiar with the Republic’s XO’s way of doing things. So we’re going to switch things up a bit.”

“By following standard doctrine?” Rosa asked.

Mitchell nodded his head, made a point of picking up his padd, examining it for a second and then tossing it gently away. It spun as it flew, hitting the floor and sliding into the wall opposite the door into the briefing room. “Think of the rules and regulations as more…guidelines.”

“Oh ho!” Rosa exclaimed.

“That is to say,” Mitchell continued, “we’ll be following the spirit of the rules. The letter of them too when we can. The New Maquis may very well be looking for Starfleet. I’ve been told this bodyguard is definitely looking for anything Commander Sadovu might attempt. So, in that light, we’re subbing in.”

“And if things go wrong, we’ve got Captain Theodoras’ typical stubbornness and Atlantis to come bail us out,” Amber added. “So, is this information gathering? Extraction?”

“Information primarily, but seize opportunities as they arise.” Mitchell sighed as he went to retrieve his padd, the display of throwing the rules away a little too in the moment and now coming back to bite him. A tap as he walked back caused the wall behind the podium to come to life with a map of the Badlands. “Starfleet Intelligence is aware of a New Maquis base in the Badlands called New Barataria. They’re not entirely sure what it entails, but have deduced it’s acting as a hub for cells. New recruits, ship repairs, trade and R&R all in one place. We’re going to go in and see if we can’t learn anything about the whereabouts of a Doctor T’Halla Shreln. Anything else we learn is brownie points with SI.”

“Get in, rub shoulders, steal secrets, get out?” Rosa asked. “Certainly beats playing escort for the captain.”

“That and it is likely the New Maquis would have better information on a ship’s senior officers than anyone else,” Stirling added. “We are, no insult to anyone, likely to be unknowns to the New Maquis.”

“Ouch,” Amber responded.

“It’s a logical supposition to make,” Brek said, reinforcing Stirling’s point. “Unless they have an agent within Starfleet and are able to do background checks, we should be relatively unknown to them.”

“Well, that cheery thought aside, let’s get into the briefing. I want everyone to know what I’m allowed to share and we’ve got a bit to cover.” Mitchell zoomed the map of the Badlands in closer, a single blue blip appearing in the sea of roiling orange. “This is New Barataria…”

First Full of Silver – 3

USS Atlantis, en route to the Badlands
October 2401

Being outnumbered was not something that Tikva Theodoras liked at all. She never liked it as a kid growing up. Never liked it in sports, or exercises at the Academy. And she certainly didn’t like it at Leonis. Deneb, only a few short days later, was a turn of the tables and she did like outnumbering the enemy in isolated packets.

And despite the myriad of Others, and their protests in the contrary, she was outnumbered right now.

“I don’t like it,” she said, countering the most recent round of infuriatingly well-reasoned and cogent arguments that were being presented to her.

Lin’s preparing another argument!

She’d look good in red. Admit it!

She’d look good in –

NO! No. Stop that. This is serious.

They have a point though.

“Liking something, Fleet Captain, and accepting it are two separate things.” Lieutenant Commander Adelinde Gantzmann and Lin might as well be two separate people. At least from outwards presentations. And right now, Commander Gantzmann was making a rather audacious career move. She was presenting it as ‘just a logical move’, supported with reasoned arguments, support from fellow crew members and most damning of all a recorded message from that vile traitor MacIntyre.

The real telling would come in finding out who the idea originated from—Lin herself, or one of the other conspirators arrayed before her in the conference room. Vilo sat to her left, Gabs to her right. Lin was next to Vilo while Ra had vacated his seat to perch on a windowsill, back to the vastness of the cosmos as it warped past them. Terax had excused himself from the meeting a while ago, when the normal business had come to an end.

Ra was all cheerful amusement, finding the situation hilarious and wanting to distance himself from any potential fallout. But Vilo, Gabs and Lin were presenting a rather unified front on this matter. Gabs was likely not part of any coordination, but she recognised a good idea when she saw one and jumped on it immediately.

“And you have to admit Captain,” Gabs interceded, “we’re not just one ship out and about any more. We’re starting to form a right gaggle of ships.”

“This is one more step on the path to someone putting me behind a desk somewhere watching blips on a board,” Tikva grumbled. “Strategic Operations. Pah. We’re explorers.”

Vilo cleared her throat, a smirk forming before she spoke. “As the odd woman out in this discussion, I can’t help but notice that Starfleet has been forced to undertake numerous operations in the last few years of, shall we say, strategic importance. You are no longer merely receiving orders to action from now on, Fleet Captain, but are likely to be tasked with shaping orders and issuing them. You will need someone on your staff whose job it is to have a holistic view of events and be able to advise you as need be.”

“Staff?” Tikva asked, stressing the singular word.

You could just taste the brass implications on that word, couldn’t you?

Fleet Captain, then Commodore, then some dusty Admiral’s office where you get knifed by a Tal Shiar agent or a Changeling, or end up forming some conspiracy.

Please…we couldn’t form a conspiracy if we wanted to.

No one spoke, not even to answer the question. Vilo just smiled infuriatingly at her. The woman was becoming imminently punchable right now. A staff meeting turned ambush that damned if it wasn’t a good idea.

“I’m not agreeing to anything just yet.” Those words caused both Vilo and Lin to explode in that mental taste of lemon essence that she always associated with self-satisfaction. She wasn’t surrendering to their point, but seemingly just agreeing to step on the path was the victory they were willing to settle for. “But I will agree to review the full proposal and I will agree to a limited trial to see if such a position is merited in my command structure.”

“Thank you, Fleet Captain,” Gantzmann replied.

“But you’ll still primarily be the tactical officer of this ship,” Tikva continued.

“So still in yellow,” Ra quipped. “Congrats on talking yourself into more work, Gantzmann.”

With a final round to ensure there were no other points to raise or discuss, dismissal was granted and everyone filed out of the conference room, save for Gantzmann. As the door closed, just the two of them left, Lin reached up and removed her commbadge, setting it down on the table before her. Her posture relaxed and the faint smile grew in magnitude.

“Happy?” Tikva asked once she had repeated the little ritual herself.

“Please,” Lin chided. “It was going to happen, eventually. Either you’d have realised it yourself, or someone would have assigned a strategic operations officer to you. At least this way you know who it is you’re getting. And can use me as a way of fighting off any attempts at assigning someone to the crew.”

“Still don’t like it.”

“Of course not,” Lin said as she stood, walked the few paces that separated them, then leaned in to plant a kiss on Tikva’s forehead. “Besides, I’ve basically been doing the job for a while now. It’ll look good for me to have the title, no?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, dinner tonight, my quarters.”

“Want me to bring anything?”

“Something to drink and the last of those Cassiopeian chocolates I know you’re hiding.”

“Oh…” was all the response Tikva gave.

The delay in returning to the bridge after Lin herself had was just enough for Tikva to catch her breath, recenter herself and get out any residual grumbling about having been outmanoeuvred by her senior staff. She could still grumble, it was her right. Even if they were right, and she’d ultimately have to admit it.

“Message for you Fleet Captain,” Stirling Fightmaster said as the door from the conference room to the bridge slid open.

“How long have you been waiting there for?” she asked, accepting the padd he was offering her.

“Not long ma’am. I didn’t want to intrude.”

Seriously, he is too proper.

Nonsense.

Yeah, he’s useful.

“Thank you,” she offered finally, then turned her attention to the padd, reading, then rereading the message. “I’m going to guess you’ve already pulled Captain Escribano’s profile for me? And whatever you can find on this Sundiver?”

“Did someone say Sundiver?” came a question from the bridge, Tikva’s eyes flicking up to see Samantha Michaels turning in her seat at Ops.

“I did Lieutenant,” Tikva answered. “What do you know?”

“Oh, um, well, my mother served on the Sundiver shortly after it was first built. Lamarr-class, ma’am. Beautiful ship.”

“We’ll see about getting you a tour then, Lieutenant.” Tikva turned to Stirling, who answered her earlier question with a nod of his head, indicating the padd she held. “As for you Lieutenant,” she tapped Stirling in the chest with the padd. “Have you arranged someone to cover while you’re away?”

“Lieutenant Tabaaha expressed interest and will cover my normal duties while I’m away.”

“Damn good pilot, starting to volunteer for all sorts of duty assignments. This should be interesting.”

“I believe she’s taking inspiration from your own career, ma’am,” Stirling responded.

“Hmm. I’d hate to see her leave Atlantis, but it’ll happen eventually, won’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, let’s make sure she’s as well rounded an officer as we can before then. Now, when is Silver Team departing?”

“As soon as we enter the Badlands and Engineering finishes modifying Laurentia for us. Still need to make the runabout look like an older version while maintaining our rigorous maintenance standards.”

Tikva’s eyes went to the viewscreen, blank with streaks of stars whistling past with an orange smear spread across the middle, growing with each second. Soon enough they’d slow, soon enough they’d be in amongst the plasma storms of the Badlands.

Soon enough, she’d be sending a team of her people off on a mission while she sat back and waited.

“Go get ready then,” she told Stirling. “And call me before you leave. I want to come and see you all off.”

She didn’t wait for a response as she stalked across the bridge to her ready room, sparing one more glance at the storm ahead of them. Both the literal Badlands, the mission ahead and the future her career seemed to taking.

Hey, modern Starfleet can’t afford to take good folks out of the captain’s seat right now.

Besides, you only just got promoted in the grand scheme. You’ll be a Fleet Captain for years. Nothing to worry about.

So why are we so worried then?

Fist Full of Silver – 4

Runabout Laurentia, Badlands
October 2401

As the runabout Laurentia was tossed once more amidst the tempest that raged outside, violent heaving could be heard from the rear compartment. The craft had been subjected to gentle rocking and occasional shakes ever since entering the Badlands, but as they neared their target, the storm had picked up to such an extent that even modern anti-nausea medication was tried and in one particular case found wanting.

“I honestly don’t know how T’Val and her people stomached this in those fighters of theirs,” Gavin Mitchell said as he wrestled the controls of the runabout, adding his own human touch to the automatics, the combined effort mostly keeping them on an even course. “But I’m glad they found this place instead of us having to search for it.”

“Think about Atlantis if they run into this,” Rosa Mackeson responded. “You still alive back there Stirling?” she shouted over her shoulder, past Brek, who was sitting at one of the secondary stations and looking like the storm was something other people experienced. Or suffered as it may be.

“He’s giving it a fair go,” Amber Leckie’s reply came from the rear compartment, where she was nursing the yeoman Stirling Fightmaster and keeping him in a perpetual state of agony versus letting him slip the mortal coil like he no doubt would have preferred. “We can’t be that far away from this place, right?”

“Not far babe,” Rosa shouted back, then looked to Mitchell and quietly asked, “Right?”

“Shouldn’t be too far and we’ll be in the eye of the storm.”

“Technically, it is not an eye.” Brek’s interjection sounded bored as he corrected their team leader. “It is merely a pocket carved out of the plasma storm by the gas giant’s magnetic field.”

New Barataria, so they’d learned, was carved into an asteroid that technically qualified as a captured moon of a particularly large gas giant in the Badlands. The entire star system was far off the few shipping lanes through the plasma fields, wreathed in storms and generally regarded as a bad neighbourhood. Perfect for hiding a New Maquis, or an Old Maquis for that matter, base in. The asteroid weathered the plasma storms but had brief windows where it dipped inside the magnetic field of the gas giant, making approaches possible.

“It’s close enough.” Mitchell’s reply wasn’t snappy, just informative, and he wouldn’t have seen Brek’s head tilt to one side before a brief nod in acceptance and understanding. “As for Atlantis, I doubt they’d even notice all this crap.”

“What? Sailing a big fat lady like her through this and they wouldn’t notice?” Rosa asked.

It was Brek who responded. “Atlantis is a larger mass for the storm to effect. And she also has a larger inertial compensator field. The more violent shakes we are experiencing may…upset the captain’s coffee.”

“Oh, couldn’t have that,” Rosa said. “Best not get in a situation where we have to activate the emergency beacon and summon them for a rescue.”

“Let’s.” The single-word answer from Mitchell was all she was getting.

It took nearly another twenty minutes before the runabout eased out of the storms wreathing the gas giant that only had a designation on starcharts, not even the dignity of a foul-mouthed moniker. The interaction of the Badlands’ plasma wakes and the planet’s magnetic field gave rise to a wash of colours around the planet as aurora nearly fully enveloped the planet and even lit up the ion flux tubes between a handful of the inner moons.

“Oh, now that’s pretty,” Mitchell said quietly, a rare moment that he shared with a smile to Rosa. “Bit of a hike, but the views are killer.”

“Excessive cyclotron radiation, thermal emissions and a variety of other radiation threats from the Badlands themselves certainly to make the views ‘killer’,” Brek added from his station. “I have identified our destination and we are being hailed.”

Rosa chuckled. “For a bunch of terrorists, they’re pretty on the ball.”

“Remember now, we’re freedom fighters.” Mitchell ruffled his hair for a second, turned to Rosa for a quick appraisal and then tapped at a key, bringing to life one of the small monitors to his right. “New Barataria, right?”

The man on the other stammered a reply, obviously ready to say something, or demand it, and a little taken aback by Mitchell getting the first word in. “Yeah, New Barataria. Who the hell are you and how’d you find this place?”

 


 

“A week ago Starfleet Security picked up a New Maquis courier, Darius Mackey. In exchange for a more lenient prison sentence and to not be turned over to the Cardassian Union for crimes against Cardassian civilians, Mr Mackey provided up-to-date coordinates, orbital data and entry phrases for new Barataria.” Commander Gantzmann slid a padd across the conference room table to Mitchell. “Turns out Mr Mackey is also a recruiter and sends new recruits along to help bolster the ranks.”

“And we know this information is truthful?” Mitchell asked.

“I trust the debriefing that Starfleet Intelligence gave him to be through. He was also made aware that should anything happen to any agents acting on his information, he’d be reconsidered for extradition to the Union where he’s already been found guilty and sentenced to eighty years in a forced labour camp.”

“So highly motivated to provide accurate and actionable information,” Mitchell concluded as he lifted the padd to review. “Seriously? This is the entirety of the security protocols?”

What he had before him on the padd was exactly two bullet points, to accompany a collection of math that would allow them to get close enough to New Barataria to stumble around in the Badlands and eventually find it.

“We’ve already resolved point two and had it loaded aboard the Laurentia for your departure.” Gantzmann smiled as she continued. “From what I understand, if they hold a party while you are there, avoid it.”

“No kidding.”

 


 

“I’m waiting,” the increasingly irate man on the other end of the comm line said.

“Folks call me Gav,” Mitchell answered, giving a name he told people not to use when talking to him normally. “Darius sent us after a few drinks on DS9. Said we could find some like-minded folks.”

‘Drinks’ and ‘like-minded’ had been the code phrases Mackey had provided to Intelligence. The next part would likely have gotten them on the station anyway.

“Asked us to help clear his tab.” The man on the comms expression instantly changed from irate to intrigued. “We’ve got a pallet of Orion delaq as a party favour.”

“One moment,” the man said before the screen went blank.

“Wait…that’s delaq back there?” Rosa asked. “Like actual delaq? Real, not replicated delaq?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Damn….” Despite being Orion by virtue of genetics, Rosa was as Australian as they came and her accent was on full display as she dragged the single word out.

The comms screen snapped back, the man from earlier replaced by a woman who looked half again older than Mitchell. “Where’s Darius?”

“Said he needed to head to Orion to make contact with an old friend to repay him for the delaq,” Mitchell answered.

The woman snorted in frustration. “Yeah, that tracks. Right, we’re drinking all that stuff before that ass comes asking for it back to stop some punk from beating his head in. Bay two and make it snappy. Reports of some Starfleet and Cardassian ships plying the Badlands.” And with that, the comms line went silent.

“‘Ah geez, thanks for bringing us the fancy booze.’ ‘Oh no worries.’” Rosa’s mocking even came with different voices for both sides of the conversation—a really bad imitation of the woman who had just hung up on them and an overly cheerful version of her own normally cheerful tone. “But hey, we got past the front door.”

“And onto a station full of people hoping to provoke armed conflict along the Union border,” Brek reminded her. “They have transmitted coordinates for their docking bay.”

“Right, taking us in. Game faces people,” Mitchell said.

“Arrrr,” Rosa answered. “Avast.”

“New Maquis, Rosa, not the Syndicate.”

“You, boss, should look up the history of Old Barataria. Though, really, I should have said avast with a French accent.”

Fist Full of Silver – 5

New Barataria
October 2401

The landing bay of New Barataria was huge. It had to be really. A handful of converted courier ships sat in the bay, all seemingly ready to go save for one, which was swarmed by a small army of people working on it. A couple of light freighters were parked next to each other, far away from everyone else. And shuttles of various makes and models took up whatever space wasn’t occupied by cargo pallets, work tools, equipment stations and the other infrastructure minutiae that a landing bay turned cargo port that offered repairs required.

All of which also meant the bay was a raucous den of noise assaulting the hearing of anyone present. That then made the relative silence of the immediate area around the recently landed runabout Laurentia all the more ominous.

Silver Team, decked out in their finest Space Rogue couture, as advised by people who actually knew what the modern terrorist was wearing, were squared off against the New Maquis welcoming committee. Two-to-one odds and the home team were armed and waiting for them. They did at least allow them to unload the pallet of delaq while waiting for The Boss, said in such a way that everyone could just sense the capitalisation.

“You could park a whole starship in here,” Rosa said quietly, eyes flitting around at what she could see. Her pacing had garnered some responses from the locals, giving them all an idea of what acceptable distance was with this lot.

“A small one perhaps,” Stirling Fightmaster answered. “Could probably get an Intrepid in here if it was empty.”

“Sideways and carefully,” Gavin Mitchell answered. “Would just need to steal one first.” A throwaway comment for anyone listening. “And Starfleet isn’t as lax as people think with their boneyards.”

Silence fell over all assembled once more while they waited, two groups just staring at each other as time passed. Five minutes stretched into ten before another group of New Maquis members crossed the bay, the middle-aged woman who had spoken to Mitchell over the comms leading the group of three. One of the men flanking her looked familial, while the other was a ragged, mauled mess of a man who likely bore no resemblance to any of his family any more.

The woman stepped through her fellows’ cordon and approached the delaq pallet, examining it for a moment before looking at Mitchell. “Well, you weren’t lying about the quantity, at least.”

“Nor the quality,” Mitchell answered.

The woman nodded a few times, then took a bottle in hand, uncorking it and running a finger along the rim before sampling the pink liquid. It took her a moment before she nodded in affirmation. The bottle was corked once more and then held out, the man who looked like her son stepping forth to collect it. “Alright, so, genuine delaq. You’ve got my attention.”

“Gav Mitchell.” Mitchell stepped forward and then indicated his team. “Rose, Am, Stir and Brek.” It wasn’t the most imaginative of name changes, but did the job for now. Close, but not spot on. “Darius said we could find you, and by you he meant the New Maquis, here. Always looking for new recruits, especially those with an axe to grind against the Cardassians.”

“And those who can clearly lift Starfleet surplus.” The woman indicated the Laurentia with a tilt of her chin. “Where’d you steal that from?”

“Didn’t.” Gav smirked as the woman’s eyes narrowed on him. “Legitimate procurement nearly five years ago.”

“So it’s legally registered and everything? That could be a problem.”

“Not necessarily.” It was Stirling who stepped forward with a faint, disarming smile. “Everyone needs supplies and errands need to be run. So far, our ship isn’t on anyone’s watch list.”

The woman waited a moment, then pointed at Stirling while talking to Mitchell. “I like him. He raises good points.” She then stepped forward and offered a handshake. “Lillian Hoyt. Welcome to New Barataria.”

 


 

“Mr Herbert.” The name was drawled out, each syllable stretched as far as it could handle before breaking. “I understand we have new visitors to our humble abode.”

The cantina furthest from the docks, deep in the bowels of New Barataria, had something the other establishments didn’t have – a view. A large, expansive open space had been carved into the rock many years ago and shaped by many idle handles to be a slice of home away from home. Holoprojectors lined the roof of the cavern, giving a near-perfect rendition of azure blue skies. The floor of the cavern was given over to fields, mostly for growing crops to sustain the insurgencies that had called this place home, but some set aside to provide that welcome green space so many people wanted.

Herbs, as the crooked sign over the wide door proclaimed the establishment to be, was raised above the cavern floor, giving patrons a view out across the green space. The other side was only a kilometre away, but more holotrickery extended the horizon, making distance out of nothing by distortion fields and artificial haze. And with a bit of careful decoration, the establishment felt like a frontier hitching post that would match the man who had just stepped in and was making his way to his claimed seat at the bar.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d hear about it till you got here, Manfred.” Herbert, a man in his early-ancients to late-methuselahs, was already pouring out the shot of a bright orange liquor he knew Manfred wanted. “Guess there’s no reason for you to stay longer than you have to tonight.”

Manfred, no other names to go with it, swept his black trench coat to one side as he settled himself down on the stool opposite Herbert, setting the hat he’d removed earlier down on the bar and offering the barkeep a warm smile. “Now now, Mr Herbert, that’s no way to treat a paying customer.” And with that a few slips of latnium, a wonderfully quadrant-wide accepted currency, were set on the bar top.

Herbert took a moment, considered the payment, then snatched it up before sliding the shot glass towards Manfred and setting the bottle back behind the bar. “What else do you want?” he asked.

“I heard there was an Orion woman amongst the newcomers,” Manfred said, taking his time with each word. “And I have yet to be graced with the name of our new friends. Would you perhaps be able to supply me with such information?”

Herbert huffed, then stalked away from Manfred, leaving him with his drink. A few minutes later, the first drink a distant memory, a few generous top-ups from the bottle and more slips on the counter as payment, Herbert returned. Another huff as he swept up the payment, moved the bottle to the back of the bar, then sat a rather tired-looking padd down in front of Manfred.

Scraps and knicks framed the screen of the device, clearly replaced a time or two. It spoke of decades of use and abuse, time as an impromptu weapon and likely more than a few years as a coaster before its current task of relaying a single photo.

“Well now,” Manfred commented as he looked over the crowd of figures on screen, taken without any of the subjects aware. Lillian Hoyt speaking with someone who looked in charge, another man who was doing a good job of looking bored but out played by the Vulcan at his side. And then there was the Orion woman, accompanied by another woman with purple hair, but seen by the rogue photographer from behind.

“Don’t suppose there is a more flattering photo perchance?” he asked.

Herbert snorted, then swiped at the display, this time with the two women facing the camera.

“And here I was thinking Sidda had misplayed herself.” He tapped at the screen, at the two women on it. “But this…this feels too coincidental for my liking.”

“What, the universe can’t have more than one Orion woman in it who hates you?”

It was Manfred’s turn to snort as he made to stand. “Alas, there is just the one as far as I know, but she hates with such a passion to make up for all the fairer sex of her people.” He collected his hat, nodded his head to Herbert, and turned for the door. “Same time tomorrow, Mr Herbert.”

Fist Full of Silver – 6

New Barataria
October 2401

While New Barataria sported a handful of places to eat, to gathering and most importantly socialise, it also featured a smattering of replimats, typical around the perimeter of the farms. Small areas for New Maquis members to sit down for a quick bite to eat, or meet up with friends from different work areas for a quick break.

“I have not been able to conduct an accurate scan so far,” Brek informed everyone as he sat down, setting a tray down before him with a bowl of broth and a glass of juice, both of which were not replicated and actually local produce. “There is a transport jammer in place over the asteroid. However, I have spoken with several workers in life support who have hinted that the local population is upwards of eight thousand.”

“Eight thousand?” Amber’s question was asked around a sandwich, warranting a repeat before she continued. “Alright then, Stirling, you take the seven thousand, nine hundred and ninety on the left. We’ll handle the rest.”

“Seems a might unfair,” Stirling stated with his usual aplomb. “Making the rest of you work so much.”

Their conversation switched to more mundane matters, like discussing the work assignments they’d all been given, while locals passed them by, one of them waving to Rosa with a mention of ‘See you after lunch, Rose’.

“Field hand,” Rosa explained. “Honestly, I think pretending to farm is the most dangerous activity I’ve undertaken in this team so far.”

“Changeling? Borg?” Amber half-hissed her questions.

“Well, the former, it wasn’t me pretending to be tied up now, was it?” Rosa answered back, earning a withering glare. “As for the Borg, we had Gantzmann with us. Honestly, who fights Borg with a spear?”

“Anyway,” Stirling interrupted, trying to return the conversation back to task and away from anything that overheard would be difficult to explain. “We still need to find Dr Shreln. We also need to find this transporter jammer and either disable it or procure its scramble key so we can beam through it.”

“Sorry, I think I missed the reason why we need to take the jammer out again.” Amber looked to Rosa for answers, being after all the next in line after Mitchell for command of the team.

“You want to lug an unconscious Andorian through the entire station?”

“No need to be rude.”

“Sorry babe.” Rosa’s apology was just as quick as her question had been. “Oh, has anyone else seen like an old cowboy walking around by any chance?”

Before any answers could be given, heavy footfalls closed on the group’s table, and a tray was dropped on the table, followed by Gavin Mitchell practically throwing himself into the one empty chair with a huff. The entire display did not look a ploy at all. “They just locked down the landing bays.”

“What? Why?” Rosa asked.

“That courier ship we saw getting work on it when we arrived.” Everyone nodded, recalling the landing bay as they all saw it a few days ago. “They found a Cardassian transponder on it. Not strong enough to pierce the Badlands, but would give them up as soon as they left. Hoyt wants to do full inspections of every ship here.”

“If they inspect the Laurentia, her disguise will not last long.” Brek’s delivery of the obvious did not help Mitchell’s mood at all. “I shall endeavour to ingratiate myself further with the engineering teams and delay inspection of the runabout.”

“Good.” Mitchell’s grumbling was only halted momentarily as he bit into a sandwich, then eyes turned to Rosa. “Manfred.”

“The cowboy? Ah shit, I should have remembered that.”

“Yes, you should have.” He had after all spent hours briefing the entire team after his own hours-long briefing. “I’ve met friendlier Nausicaans.”

“Really?” Amber asked.

“Yes. He might be all manners and politeness folks, but there is something not quite right about him.”

Amber sucked in a breath before asking her next question. “Not to sound like a party pooper, but what do we do if Brek can’t delay the inspection? They check Laurentia, we’re either done for or under extremely serious suspicion.”

“Bug out,” Mitchell answered. “The Old Lady would prefer us safe and sound after all. We take the Laurentia if we can, otherwise we steal whatever we can, punch out of the bay and run as fast as we can, screaming on the emergency channel the whole way until we either get to DS47 or someone picks us up.”

“But,” he continued, “we still need to confirm if Shreln is here. The intel is good, but if we have to run, I want to have at least something to show for our time.”

 


 

The lab was poorly lit, illumination provided more by a handful of monitors and readouts than any central lighting. Coloured lights through coloured vials and liquids cast the entire space into a myriad of colours to assault the senses of any inside, save that the only occupant was sat directly in front of one of those monitors, muttering as she read information on the screen, tapped and pieces here and there and scribbled notes on another.

“Computer, lights to half,” came a drawling command as a door hissed open, the lights coming up as requested and banishing the kaleidoscope of colours. “My dear doctor, you’ve missed another meal.”

T’Halla Shreln didn’t even look up, just raised a hand for Manfred to see from across the lab, then pointed at the bench space beside her. “I’m busy Manfred.”

“A sharp mind is sharper yet, ma’am, when it is fed and well rested.” He stepped through the lab, around various machines doing their work, to set a tray down with various covered plates, going through the process of uncovering the meal he had brought to his employer. “All fresh ingredients, or so I have been told, at least.”

Shreln stopped, looked over the plates, and then looked up to Manfred. She might have been born into the Federation’s New Economy, but she’d learned over the years the value of currency. And with enough of it, she could hire one of the most fearsome and deadly underworld havoc makers as a personal bodyguard.

Even after having seen him die once before.

And heard about two other occurrences of Manfred’s untimely demise.

But while money bought her seemingly undying devotion, while it lasted, it didn’t do to upset his previous decorum.

“Thank you, Manfred,” she said after a few heartbeats, to which he tipped his hat to her in reply.

“My pleasure, Doctor.” Then he produced a padd and set it down next to the food. “I’ve been holding on to this the last few days, but thought I might bring it to your attention now. I know you’ve been busy, after all.”

Shreln took up the padd and looked it over. “Don’t see terribly many folks with purple hair. Very mid-80s of her.”

“And the woman beside her?” Manfred asked.

“Orion,” Shreln answered, an eyebrow rising. “Why?”

“I think it might suspicious.”

“Again, why? Orions are everywhere and tend to fall into less than legal lines of work.”

“That’s a tired stereotype, Doctor, and you know it.” Manfred, for his faults and his anachronistic manner, wasn’t a complete throwback to centuries of old. “But being the first Orion to arrive here, I can’t help but think our old friend Commander Sadovu has something to do with this.”

“Sidda? Do this? She’s a glory hound who’d have swaggered aboard this station with either the worst fake name in existence, or announcing herself with a song and dance number.” Shreln rolled her eyes. “She can’t stand letting someone else take the credit. No, no, Manfred, this isn’t her work. You’re being paranoid.”

“That, ma’am, is what you pay me for, I should remind you.”

“Well, it can’t be her work, anyway. I’ve arranged a distraction that should have her half-way across the Federation right about now.”

“Still don’t like this,” Manfred continued. “I’m going to continue looking into this. In the meantime, Doctor, I suggest you prepare in case we need to rapidly depart this station.”

“I think I’m safe enough,” Shreln replied as she turned back to her work. “There’s eight thousand New Maquis here, and you to protect me. You’d need a veritable fleet to take me away from here.”

Fist Full of Silver – 7

USS Atlantis, somewhere in the Badlands
October 2401

What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

At least that’s the justification that was repeated numerous times in the briefings held prior to Atlantis slipping into the Badlands and far, far from scouted, surveyed and monitored shipping lanes.

It also formed the primary argument to convince Captain Garland of the Perseus to do much the same, opting to stumble in the plasma storms and rendezvous with Atlantis far from prying eyes than attempt a much saner and standard meeting in open space.

It was after all hard to hide two large starships in open space, especially close to the Badlands where the New Maquis could be running patrols, looking for a buildup of Starfleet or Cardassian ships that might be coming for them. But hiding in the Badlands itself was taking a page from the Maquis of old’s playbook, and if it was good enough for the New Maquis, it was good enough for Starfleet.

And it had the advantage of being unorthodox, which meant the New Maquis who might know the current Starfleet playbook wouldn’t be expecting it.

“Another lovely holiday destination you’ve led me to Fleet Captain,” Rachel Garland said as she stepped into the conference room aboard Atlantis, trailed by her XO, Jasper Riggs.

“We’re still finding that glittery dust stuff on the hull after that Underspace excursion,” Riggs added as he shook hands with Tikva Theodoras, then Vilo Kendris. “Though not complaining. Gives me something to use as a punishment detail when required.”

“Behave or clean the outer hull?” Kendris asked, answered with an affirmative nod from Riggs. “Does Federation glitter obey the universal glitter constant?”

“Throw out a kilo, vacuum up a kilo, find another kilo of it over the next year and it happens to get everywhere anyway? Oh yeah. Honestly, glitter is proof there is a supreme being in the universe and it hates us all.” Tikva waved a hand towards the seats at the table waiting for them and the two other people from her own senior staff.

Both Adelinde and Ra stood briefly to shake hands with Riggs, he and Ra exchanging brief banter about something that had happened during the squadron’s meet and greet only a week ago.

“Right, well, we’re here.” Rachel had sat herself down at Tikva’s right-hand side, opposite Kendris. “And we followed your orders about looking like we were escorting some freighters along the shipping lane before detouring. So, what’s with all the cloak and dagger?”

“Oh please, this is just basic obfuscation.” Tikva shook her head, not wanting to be associated with anything cloak and dagger.

But it is kinda cloak and dagger-like.

Shut up. We’re not doing that. We’re just being crafty.

Skulking around, planning in storm-wreathed star systems.

‘It was a stormy night when the Galaxy-class starship wandered in.’

“Okay, so what’s with all the basic obfuscation?” Rachel asked, repeating with a quick rewording.

“We’re going to be disrupting New Maquis operations in a nearby system as soon as an away team returns or signals for assistance.” Tikva smiled, then nodded to Gantzmann.

“New Maquis operations in the region are based out of an old Maquis pre-war facility. They’ve taken to calling it New Barataria. We currently have a team there on a priority matter, but once they return, the Fleet Captain wants to disrupt their operations there and make it unappealing for them to continue.” Gantzmann tapped at the controls in front of her, a holographic window popping into existence above the table. It continued silhouettes of both Atlantis and Perseus with a single key metric highlighted beside them – the power output of the two ships’ deflector dish.

Perseus’ deflector was multiple times larger than Atlantis’ in size and power, though not by the same number. Advances in technology meant the newer ship did more per square meter, but by virtue of size alone, Perseus had Atlantis beat.

“And to do that, you need Perseus. I’m a little loath to go around pushing moons into gas giants.” Garland looked to Gantzmann, studied the woman’s face, and then smiled. “But that’s not the plan, is it?”

“No. We’re going to be taking a page from the Echelon-class starships and tag New Barataria with an ionic charge. It will make the entire asteroid much easier to locate and far more likely to draw Cardassian attention. And the Badlands will make the discharge time for the effect considerably longer as well, upwards of a year for New Barataria itself.”

“And with a large enough deflector, you could catch any docked ships with the same effect.” Jasper Riggs was smiling like a wolf. “We basically paint them for the Cardassian Union, without calling them in specifically, so the New Maquis have a chance to at least run away and think before the Union shows up on their door. And we make it so any of their ships that suddenly show up outside the Badlands have a fair bit of explaining to do when a patrol ship sees them pop up on sensors.”

“And while Atlantis could do the job herself,” Ra interjected, speaking up finally, “it would either take longer, or we risk burning out the deflector and being stuck until repairs could be done. No offence Captain Garland, but I’d like it if we could avoid needing to be rescued by you and your crew again. At least for another few months while my ego recovers.”

“All well and good and happy to do this,” Garland replied, “but Perseus isn’t exactly a spring chicken and her last sensor upgrade is nearing five years old now. You want us to keep flying in this soup, we’re going to need a guide.”

Tikva smiled as she leaned back confidently in her chair. “Which is why we’re both going in. Atlantis will lead the way, playing escort to Perseus. We’ll weather any fire the locals summon and cover you while you ionise the asteroid. Once done, we’ll turn around and disappear back into the storm, then make our way back to –”

There was an interrupting whistle over the comms and then Rrr’s voice emanated from no specific location but filled the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Captain, but you may wish to look out the window.”

All heads in the conference room turned at Rrr’s warning, some merely looking up, others swivelling chairs. A flash in the far distance was followed by a streak of light and then another starship came into being. It was close enough to recognise the general design aesthetic, the hull colours and other key giveaways that said ‘I am a Federation starship’ but not much else. But one key detail was obvious though – the ship’s large deflector, more reminiscent of Perseus’ than Atlantis’.

It was Garland who was the first to respond, turning to face Tikva with that friendly, joking grin as she prepared to rib her long-time friend. “Bug, are you cheating on me?”

“Can’t a girl have two starships with large deflectors in her life?” Tikva answered, Rachel barking a quick laugh and Riggs a snort at the joke. “Ladies and gentlemen, meet the USS Sundiver. Captain Lorena Escribano and her XO will be over shortly. We’re going to do wonderful things together, folks.”

Fist Full of Silver – 8

New Barataria
October 2401

Stirling Fightmaster was a stark comparison to his assigned work companion for the day. Simi Tupua stood, a man of Polynesian descent and claiming to hail from New Samoa, was a head taller, twice as wide and likely three times as Stirling’s own weight. He was also all smiles, seemingly knew everyone on New Barataria and was incapable of working without conversing.

“So, okay, I have to ask,” Simi said as they pushed the hover platform laden with supplies down a wide corridor into the depths of the station. “Your name is Stir? As in to stir something? Like soup?”

“Or to send someone stir-crazy,” Stirling offered. Simi’s snorting at the response drew a smile from Stirling. Simi, he had to admit, wasn’t a bad individual. Genuine, wore his heart on his sleeve, had even explained why he joined the New Maquis within about five minutes of the two of them starting work over six hours ago.

“But no,” Stirling continued, “it’s just a nickname. And a touch better than Stirling.”

“Stirling? Like the silver?” Simi didn’t laugh, just nodded in contemplation. “You should be proud of your name. It obviously meant something if your folks named you that. And dude, Stirling…that’s unique man. Around here, you need something to stand out.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well, take ole Simi for example.” Simi straightened his spine, presenting a mountain of a man with chin held high. Simi cut the figure of a very large and very scary rugby player, a man able to anchor a scrum and never let it move. “Everyone knows Simi. Why?”

“Because you’re hard to miss?” Stirling joked.

“And loud!” Simi added. “I’ve got a unique name, and a personality big enough for ten other folks.” Then Simi smacked his own belly, which barely moved, hinting at the solid muscle and not fat the man sported. “Appetite of last two folks too.”

Stirling let the snort come naturally, not bothering to suppress it like it might normally have. “Alright then, what about some of the other folks around here then? Who should I know about before we meet them during rounds?” They’d been put together and tasked with making deliveries today, which served the dual purpose of checking up on a few folks and picking up packages for further delivery. And while most stops had been quick, there had been plenty of characters so far.

“Let’s see.” Simi started counting off on one hand as they walked. “Old Liz, Drullo, Mad Mads, Bill.” Bill, from what Stirling had been able to tell, was unique by virtue of just being named Bill. No character trait or personality really, just Bill, who minded his manners and offered friendly banter while Stirling had unloaded his delivery. “Oh yeah, we’re about to meet two of the most unique folks. Uh…mind your manners, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Stirling asked.

“Yeah,” Simi repeated. “Doc and her bodyguard, Manfred.”

“Did you say Manfred?” Stirling tried to keep the impatience from his voice. This was possibly the break the team was looking for. After all, how common could a name like Manfred really be, outside of holostories needing a villain the heroes wouldn’t feel bad about shooting?

“Oh yeah, Manfred. Real character.” Simi stopped, looked one way, then the other, then back again. The coast clear, he still leaned in, whispering. “Dude is stone-cold man. Something not right with him. But if you stay all polite and such, nothing will come of it.”

Simi waited, then stood up, smiling once more. “But hey, my man Stirling, he’s all manners, right?”

“Of course, Simi,” Stirling answered. “Of course.”

As they rounded the last corner to their next destination, Simi advised they stop talking, then continued to do so anyway. The corridor was notably empty of people or property. The lights all worked, casting the entire space into brilliance that banished all shadows and gave nowhere to hide or sneak up on the one door of significance.

It was significant because next to it was placed a chair and in that chair sat a man, dressed in black, the long coat touching the floor. His wide brim hat was pulled down slightly, covering his eyes and giving the impression he was sleeping, or not paying attention.

“Good afternoon, Mr Simi,” the man said immediately, dispelling the illusion.

“Afternoon, Mr Manfred sir,” Simi half-stuttered out, his tone quite different from his confident and jovial nature that had been on display throughout the day. “Uh, I have a new work friend who’s helping out today. Mr…uh…”

“Duncan. Stirling Duncan.” There was no attempt to step forward or offer a hand in greeting, just offering his name in place of Simi’s stumble, though he’d never asked for Stirling’s last name. “At your service.”

“At my service, huh?” Manfred asked, pushing the brim of his hat up, appraising Stirling before slowly rising to his feet. “Accent like that, Mr Duncan, I have to assume you’re from England, or from one of the worlds that takes its cultural heritage from the English.”

“Oxford, sir.”

Manfred snorted. “No one is from Oxford. You go to Oxford, you don’t come from there.”

“I’ll have to disappoint you there then, unfortunately.” Stirling kept his tone civil, much like Simi had warned, and much more like he normally would. Pretending was easy when you weren’t.

Manfred’s eyes squinted momentarily. “I saw your picture when you first arrived, but now I see you in person, I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

“We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before now,” Stirling answered. “I would recall someone of such fine sartorial sense.”

Another snort, then the start of a smirk. “Alright, you must be from Oxford if you’re casually throwing words like sartorial around.” Then he stepped aside, triggering the sensor for the door next to him. “The Doc is waiting for her supplies. I would suggest, gentleman, you make it quick and keep it quiet.”

Simi didn’t need any further encouragement and Stirling didn’t need to be told twice to follow Simi’s actions. They slipped into the darkened lab, brought to full illumination by Manfred’s barked orders to the computer, and started unloading. Nothing else was said between any of them, but Manfred had stepped to block Simi and Stirling from going further into the lab.

But not enough to stop Stirling from catching sight of blue skin and white-going-grey hair. He didn’t see the figure’s face, but was confident of who it was – T’Halla Shreln.

“Stop,” Manfred ordered as the door to the lab closed once they were all back in the corridor. “I really do think I have seen you somewhere before, Mr Duncan.”

This got Stirling’s attention more than anything else. A nice easy exit had been his plan, not a follow-up interrogation. “Again, Mr Manfred, I must profess, we haven’t met until today.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you somewhere before.” The glare from Manfred was ominous. It was calculating and studious, taking in every measure of Stirling. “I’ll do you the honour of warning you, Mr Duncan. I shall be watching you.”

“Then I hope it brings you a level of comfort, sir.”

It would be nearly six hours later before Stirling was free of Simi, free of any responsibilities as a newcomer to New Barataria. He didn’t rush to report to Mitchell, or anyone else. He waited, socialised with a few other people, made idle conversation, then caught up with his team for drinks late in the station’s evening. “I know where Doctor Shreln is.”

“Fortuitous,” Brek responded. “Because the engineering teams are planning to start the inspection of our runabout tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right then,” Mitchell said. “So, we either need to find the transporter jammer, or a way to smuggle a person across this entire facility without getting caught.”

“Actually, I might have a way around that.” Amber reached out and set down two pendants on the table between all of them. “But you’re not going to like it, I suspect.”

Fist Full of Silver – 9

New Barataria
October 2401

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold up there, ladies.”

Amber and Rosa hadn’t expected a clear run to the Laurentia, but they’d planned on one or two guards, not a whole picket line of them. Brek’s information, gathered from the last few days, had clearly gone stale, or something had caused the local New Maquis officials to consider the Laurentia with a bit more suspicion than they had their own ships previously.

The plan for getting the runabout ready for flight had so far gone without a hitch, Brek having managed to sneak aboard hours ago before the guards had obviously shown up. And that he hadn’t been found out meant the search teams hadn’t started either, so at least that had kept true. But now they needed to get aboard and couldn’t rely on anyone else to help them.

“Uh, what’s the holdup?” Rosa asked, coming to a stop with hands on hips and going for ‘casually confident’ in the face of unexpected hurdles.

“Your ship is gonna get searched in an hour,” one of the two Maquis security goons who closed on them said. “So, no visitors till it’s done.”

“We were told we could come and go from our ship as we wanted,” Amber stated, trying to copy Rosa but missing the mark, nervous energy coming through in posture, her tone of voice. “We uh…”

“We were looking for somewhere a touch private,” Rosa interrupted, wrapping an arm around Amber’s waist and giving her a slight, possessive tug. “But failing that, could we just get a few things? In and out?”

“No.” The second guard’s rejection sounded bored and pro forma, conviction lacking as they looked over the two women.

“Oh, come on,” Rosa pleaded. “You can escort us in, watch us grab our things, then scan everything and make sure we’re not smuggling anything off the ship, yeah?”

The two guards looked at each other, the second of them shrugging. “Your funeral,” he said before shaking his head and walking away. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Let’s make it quick,” the remaining one said, leading them to the runabout. “Honestly all a bit silly this anyway. I mean, what, are we expecting Cardassian infiltrators?”

They had barely stepped aboard the runabout, and the door closed behind them before Brek came around the corner as silent as a mouse, a hand settling on the man’s neck with exacting pressure, the other reaching out to catch him as he suddenly went limp. “I was not expecting guards,” he said by way of an apology as he dumped the Maquis guard into a chair. “This is going to complicate matters.”

“No shit.” Rosa threw herself into the co-pilot’s seat, bringing up a diagnostic of the runabout’s systems. “Good, good. Right, I’m going to do everything I can without bringing up the main power.”

“And I’ll do everything I can to find out people,” Amber stated as she sat herself down at the operations console. “Assuming I’m right.”

“Assuming?” Rosa shot back. “Assuming?”

“The Ensign’s plan is sound,” Brek said. “I am confident it will work.”

 


 

It hadn’t been hard for Stirling to retrace his steps through New Barataria, back to where Doctor T’Halla Shreln’s lab was buried in the ancient labyrinth of tunnels that marked the oldest part of the asteroid base. He and Gavin Mitchell had moved together with just enough presence and speed to not draw too much attention, or get waylaid by more mundane matters despite a few people who tried.

“I’m sorry, Bill, somewhat busy. Try Simi.”

“Tomorrow morning Mads. Just in the middle of something.”

Variations of a theme had deflected those who had engaged them.

A stop at an old tunnel map and Stirling was by himself, counting time until he proceeded. Mitchell wanted to split up and come at the door from either end of the corridor, now that he was aware of Manfred’s confirmed presence and duty as the doctor’s protector. A minute turned into two, then three, and then Stirling took a step forward. A slow steady pace and he’d turn the corner into the corridor, hopefully within seconds of Mitchell at the far end.

And right into a waiting Manfred.

The man was standing about fifteen meters away, in the middle of the corridor and looking straight at Stirling. The right-hand side of his duster was brushed back, revealing the holster strapped to his thigh and the rather slick-looking weapon it held. A moment of disappointment gripped Stirling that it wasn’t some spaghetti western six-shooter waiting for him, but something a touch more modern.

Manfred’s smile wouldn’t be amiss on a crocodile. “I knew I had seen you somewhere before,” he drawled as his right hand went to hover over his weapon. “It might take me a moment to get there with the little people, but I do have an excellent memory for faces.”

“I will have to repeat myself, sir. We have never had the pleasure of meeting before yesterday.” Now was a time for manners and exacting actions. His own hands came out from his body, hands splayed out and palms to Manfred as he showed that he wasn’t armed or of any danger to the man.

“That may be so, but I still have seen you somewhere and now I know.”

Down the far end of the corridor, Stirling could see movement. That movement quickly resolved itself into Mitchell, who stopped at the scene before him, then proceeded to move slowly and quietly, drawing his own weapon as he closed with Manfred from behind, opting to ensure he got the best shot off he could.

Which meant buying time and keeping Manfred talking and distracted for just a few more seconds.

“Please, enlighten me,” he said.

“I try to keep up with the news as best I can, but it ain’t always easy, you see. But not too terribly long ago there was this little kerfuffle out in the Deneb Sector. And afterwards, there was the usual media circus, as reporters, journalists and infotainers want to meet the heroes of the hour, ask questions and make their own imprint on history, despite being the second lowest form of life in the universe.”

“Oh?” Stirling asked. “What is the lowest?”

“Lawyers,” Manfred answered quickly. “But you see, there was this one young woman who I understand was a bit of a hero who had a near-supernatural ability to avoid the press. Save for one instance where FNN managed to corner her for a few questions. And FNN, for all their faults, are decent researchers. Managed to identify almost everyone in the few photos they took. Including one Lieutenant Junior Grade Stirling Fightmaster.”

“Ah.” Stirling nodded his head, acknowledging the touché. “I see.”

“I wouldn’t feel too bad, son. I had to dig up the old press release to confirm and there is only one single image with you in it.”

“So, is this where you hand me over to the New Maquis?”

Manfred laughed briefly. “Heaven’s no. Least not yet. I owe them nothing. Your fate lies with the Doc. Now, you can come along peaceably like, give yourself another few minutes to think of some clever plan.”

“Or?”

“Or I shoot you here and now and then come up with some excuse for the Doc about why I created such a racket outside her lab.”

Mitchell had closed within a few meters of Manfred, close enough not to miss. A nod of his head was all the signal he gave to Stirling.

“There is just one small matter I feel I should bring to your attention,” Stirling said. “I’m not alone.”

Manfred’s eyebrows rose in sudden understanding. He spun on one heel, drawing his weapon while dropping his own stance in anticipation. Mitchell’s shot slammed into Manfred’s left shoulder, drawing forth a hiss of pain. It was enough to throw off his own shot, but barely.

“Ahhh!” screamed Mitchell as a searing bolt of crimson shot past him, clipping his ear and eliciting the cry of agony. But the scream helped. That Mitchell wasn’t spinning around, or having one side of his body suddenly go limp helped as well compared to Manfred. He retained his firing stance and fired a second time, the bolt of yellow light slamming straight into Manfred’s chest and sending the man to the floor.

A second shot rang out as Manfred’s weapon discharged into the ceiling, blowing out a light fixture as man and weapon crumpled to the floor, the weapon skittering along the deck.

And then Manfred moved, clawing across the deck for his weapon with little in the way of protest.

“Get him!” shouted Mitchell as he clasped at his ear.

Stirling needed no further impetus, closing the distance and giving the weapon a solid kick, sending it flying into the distance along the floor before he came to a stop looming over Manfred. “I would suggest you surrender now.”

“Ha,” Manfred choked out as he collapsed to the floor in defeat, rolling onto his back. “You aren’t getting off this rock. I’m going to enjoy our conversations later.” He sounded like someone had taken the wind out of him and he was having trouble getting it back, even after two heavy stun blasts.

“I shall have to take a rain check on that,” Stirling replied, then leaned down and relieved Manfred of his hat. “Sorry, sir, but someone has requested your hat.”

“That bitch.” Manfred said as he finally collapsed into unconsciousness.

 


 

Mitchell lifted one of the pendants up from the table, examining the blue stone in the middle. “What is this?”

“Vokaya,” Amber replied. “One of the merchants in the market was offloading a bunch of loot from a raid. My tricorder picked them up while I was scanning for the jammer.”

“That’s a Vulcan mineral.” Brek picked up the other pendant, his examination more thorough than Mitchell’s cursory gaze. “Remarkable specimens of the stone, I might add. I would be most intrigued to procure these after we’re done here.”

“So, how’s this going to help?” Mitchell continued.

“Vokaya emits a unique but harmless radioactive signature.” Amber’s shoulder shrug was the prelude to the part she warned they weren’t going to like. “Unique enough that I can get a lock on it even with the transport jammers in place. And then widen the confinement beam to just grab everything within a couple of meters of each vokaya signature I find.”

“We can filter out the floor panels and anything else once you’re in the pattern buffer,” Rosa added. “We can, right?”

“Oh definitely,” Amber answered.

“I hate it,” Mitchell said after a few seconds of contemplation. “But it’s a damn sight better than reenacting Cleopatra through the streets of New Barataria.”

“What?” Amber asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” Stirling said. “But it’s ancient, ancient history.”

 


 

“Doctor Shreln?” Mitchell asked as he and Stirling closed on the only person in the lab they could see. The blue skin and white-going-grey hair were exactly as Stirling had said, exactly as the biographical images of T’Halla Shreln depicted.

The woman turned, a look of perpetual dissatisfaction on her face. “What?” she asked, her voice croaky from lack of use. “You aren’t Manfred.”

“No, ma’am,” Mitchell said as he raised his phaser. “Starfleet Security, you’re under arrest.”

The shot that filled the lab wasn’t from Mitchell’s own weapon. It came from a shadowed corner, collecting Mitchell’s phaser perfectly and driving it from his hand, drawing forth another cry of pain as his hand seized violently at the energy that had whipped along his skin before his phaser went flying.

“Now now, gentlemen,” a second Manfred said as he stepped forth, “I believe you’ve made a rather easy-to-make mistake.”

“No one expects the second Manfred,” Stirling stated.

“Well done Lieutenant Fightmaster.” The second Manfred closed on them both, weapon pointed directly at the two of them. Then he closed on Stirling, reaching out with his free hand. “I’ll be taking that hat if you don’t mind. After all, you won’t be delivering it to Ms Sidda.”

“Mrs Sadovu,” Stirling corrected. “And I think I will.” Stirling stepped in quickly, one hand striking at Manfred’s weapon hand, forcing the barrel of the phaser down to the floor. His other hand, the one with the hat, slammed into Manfred’s chest, going for the solar plexus. Fist met chest, and the latter barely moved.

But it was all the distraction that Mitchell needed to rugby tackle Doctor Shreln, driving the woman to the floor and pinning her in place as he fumbled for his communicator. He never managed to make proper contact with the device in his pocket, but he heard the chirp of the device. “One to Five! Now!”

He heard Stirling go crashing to the floor, collecting a chair during the sprawling descent. Heard Manfred start to say something threatening before blue light snatched at his senses, overwhelming them as a darkened lab was suddenly replaced with a momentary bright nothingness, then the transporter padd of the runabout Laurentia.

“Rosa, get us out of here!” Mitchell barked, easing himself up as he surveyed Shreln, still wrestling with him. “Would you stop it!” he shouted at her.

“Get off of me! You have no right! You have no – ” Shreln’s protest was cut short by Amber’s sudden arrival and a hypospray to the Andorian woman’s arm.

“You’re hurt.” Amber’s statement of the obvious was her reverting to training as a hand went to examine his ear. But she stopped when he looked at her. “I’m putting on a bandage on what’s left of your ear before you even think of flying.”

“What’s left of my ear?” Mitchell got out, accepting Stirling’s help to his feet as Amber went to get a med kit. “How bad is it?” he asked the other man.

Stirling leaned to examine the injury. “Nothing I haven’t seen repaired after a rugby match.”

Laurentia lurched gently as Rosa brought the craft to life, skipping as much of the preflight as possible and then some, before flinging it forward and away from New Barataria at speed. “Boss, gonna need a hand up here real soon!” she shouted. “They had ships at the ready!”

Fist Full of Silver – 10

Runabout Laurentia; USS Atlantis
October 2401

“They’ve launched another ship,” Brek announced from his station with all the same emotion he’d use for telling someone the time.

“Hey, that only makes four of them, we still got this,” Rosa said with derision as the Laurentia rocked under another phaser blast from the increasingly accurate fire that was filling the space around them. “One minute till we hit that storm wall.”

“If we make it that long,” Mitchell growled, doing his best to wrestle the runabout on its course and around as much of the New Maquis fire as he could.

The space around New Barataria wasn’t calm to start with, but by comparison, was placid compared to the storm that raged just past the magnetic field of the gas giant the moon base orbited. The roiling orange, yellows and browns made it look like they were plunging towards a wall of fire, which wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Amber, tell me you’ve-” Mitchell stared.

“I’ve been broadcasting since I sat down,” the purple-haired woman snapped back. “Wait…I’ve got something! It’s Atlantis’ carrier signal. And some sort of transmission to go with it.”

“On speaker.”

There was a snap followed by demonic hissing. The wild electromagnetic tumult of the Badlands was impacting even subspace communications this deep into the storms and off the safe paths. “…we like…” A squeal washed out whatever was said next before a series of tones and beats, clearly unnatural compared to what else they were hearing but heavily garbled nonetheless.

“Repeat that Atlantis,” Amber shouted. “We like what?”

“…party…” Only the one word was made out over the static, another squeal punctuating comms as a phaser blast grazed Laurentia’s shields.

“Movement in the cloud ahead,” Rosa announced, causing Mitchell to look up from his controls and screens to see what was happening.

“…get ready…through…”

Three small disturbances could be seen on the cloud wall, all equidistant from each other. They looked like small vortexes. A few taps and one was brought up on a monitor, zoomed in and perfectly framing a Valkyrie-class starfighter bearing the Harpy Flight logo on the nose.

“Harpies? Then that means…” Rosa trailed off as a larger disturbance made itself known in the stormwall.

A long, flat disturbance this time, as the plasma clouds were forced to move by something pushing through. Slowly a curve appeared along the disturbance’s upper edge before it broke completely and the leading edge of Atlantis’ saucer, wreathed in gauzy azure as her shields shrugged off the Badlands’ plasma, pierced through as the mighty ship sailed into the calm around New Barataria.

“The Vengabus is coming!” blared forth from the open comm channel, crystal clear now that Atlantis was free of the storm.

“What in the name of-” Mitchell declared.

 


 

In contrast to the hectic and rushed atmosphere aboard Laurentia, Atlantis’ bridge was calm and collected, if filled with blaring, loud dance-pop from over four hundred years ago.

Tikva Theodoras couldn’t help but tap her left foot to the music, her right hand accompanying it, complimented by a grin on her face as Atlantis tore through the plasma shroud around New Barataria, summoned by Silver Team’s distress call. “Steady on the helm, Kelly,” she ordered.

“Aye ma’am, no traffic jams. Ahead full and steady on the helm.”

Vilo Kendris leaned over, an eyebrow arched. “You had a much better choice in music at Deneb. This music is…frivolous.”

“Serious music for serious foes. These clowns get the fun stuff.”

“Is the intent to insult them as we disable their ships?”

“I want them dazed and confused at just what they’re hearing before Gantzmann-” Tikva cut herself off as a lance of phaser fire filled the viewscreen, emanating from Atlantis and casually licking at one of the Ju’day-class couriers pursuing their wayward runabout. The courier’s shields flared briefly before breaking, the rest of the beam passing between the ship’s nacelles, causing the crew to choose the better part of valour and turn away from the coming fight.

“Does that,” Tikva finished after a couple of seconds, admiring the handwork of her tactical officer.

 


 

“Just keep running, just keep running,” Rosa was chanting as Laurentia sped towards its mothership, fire abating as the New Maquis were opting now to fire on the much larger threat.

“Working on it,” Mitchell answered. “Wait…is that…”

The roiling plasma front hadn’t had a chance to settle down in the wake of Atlantis’ passing before it frothed once more, something new and larger pushing it aside. Another azure front breached the clouds, parting them for the light grey hull of a Galaxy-class starship riding in Atlantis’ wake. First the saucer, then ominous red glowing paired with a blue light as the drive section of the starship Perseus pushed through, the mighty ship barely three hundred meters behind the squadron flagship.

“Amber, did you mean to call this much help?” Rosa joked over the music still blaring from the open comms with Atlantis.

“I think there’s still more,” Amber answered.

 


 

Brett Caplan was not having a good day. It had been a good day, even a great day. Then someone had to blast their way out of the New Barataria docking bay and wreck his day. Still, it hadn’t been bad, just not a good day anymore. He and his fellows outnumbered, outgunned and if their engineers had done their jobs right, could outrun their prey, even amid the Badlands.

But all of that had gone out the window with the all frequencies broadcast his comms tech had picked up and pipped through. It was confusing and wild. Someone trying to say something interspersed with tones and sounds no one recognised.

It was, to put it bluntly, distracting.

Distracting enough that instead of shooting at the fleeing runabout properly, he’d been trying to parse what was coming through over the static-filled comms. And any focus he did have was completely ruined with just four words.

“The Vengabus is coming!”

He looked up from his screens, out the window, to see the sleek, curved hull of a Sovereign-class starship slicing through the barrier of plasma around New Barataria with contemptuous ease. He watched as it idly slapped aside one of the other courier ships, not even bothering to damage it after smashing the shields away.

“Son of a-” he swore. “All ships, target that cruiser!” he ordered over the New Maquis channels.

The order went out just in time to see another ship on the heels of the first.

“Oh crap,” he muttered.

Normally he’d have said that was where his day was ruined. The first shoe drop was the runabout shooting out of the docking bay. The second was the Sovereign. But today of all days brought more than one pair of shoes. It turned out however that the Galaxy-class had merely been shoe number three.

The fourth shoe dropped, spelling the complete and utter ruination of his day.

He squinted as a third large cruiser arrived, following on the heels of the Galaxy-class with utmost precision. It looked somewhat similar to the Sovereign, but with just enough differences it had to be different. He’d never in all his years seen a ship quite like it though. “Is that some sort of Sovereign-class variant?” he asked.

The question distracted even more people, his pilot especially. In hindsight, he never should have asked it.

That was when his day was ruined completely. There wasn’t a screech of alarms, shouted reports or even time to try and figure out what was wrong. There was just a blinding light, a force slamming into the front of his ship, a single screaming alarm and then darkness as main power failed instantly, batteries kicking in straight away and bathing the bridge of his diminutive command in red light.

“Well,” the man next to Brett spoke up as that third Starfleet ship sailed closer to them, a tractor beam grabbing at their hull, “I’m pretty certain that’s not a Sovereign. Damn pretty ship, whatever this Sundiver is.”

Turns out, today wasn’t just wearing two pairs of shoes, they were also steel-capped size twelves.

Luckily he wasn’t going to be the only one to have them all dropped on him today.

Fist Full of Silver – 11

USS Atlantis
October 2401

“This report makes for some rather interesting reading.”

Fleet Captain Tikva Theodoras was the only person seated in her ready room, the others present all standing. Vilo Kendris and Kelly Tabaaha were at her back, the young acting yeoman doing an admirable job of controlling her emotional state. The five members of Silver Team were standing opposite her desk, all at rest while Lieutenant Ch’tkk’va was standing off to the side, the Xindi-Insectoid being the only one she couldn’t read.

“Ma’am,” Lieutenant Mitchell spoke up, cutting himself off as she raised a single hand.

“Just a moment, Lieutenant. Let me finish.” She could feel the worry radiating from Amber Leckie, the nervousness from Rosa Mackeson, the sheer nothingness from Brek. Mitchell himself was as calm and collected as Fightmaster, who she figured wasn’t worried because being her yeoman meant he had plenty of time to get a read on her as well.

“You were tasked with confirming Doctor Shreln’s position and then leaving so we could send a proper team in to arrest her. Instead, you opted to bring her in yourself.”

“It was an optional objective we were given.”

She waited a moment, then turned to Kendris, who nodded once in confirmation. “It would seem, then, that someone neglected to inform me of that. Or I forgot,” she admitted. “Regardless, your extraction under fire means someone in the New Maquis is going to eventually hear about this and your faces are going to be added to their lists of people to shoot on site, no doubt.”

“Fleet Captain, may I speak in defence of my team and their actions?” Ch’tkk’va’s clicks and snaps were just audible over the noise washing the universal translator did.

She sighed, shaking her head. “No need Lieutenant.” The grin couldn’t be held back any longer, the act of disciplinarian slipping. “You all did an admirable job. Honestly, better this than having to storm the place and fight through an entire New Maquis facility to arrest one mad woman. It does mean we can’t use you for covert operations with the New Maquis again, but I’ll take it over what could have been.”

“A commendation has been added to all of your records,” Kendris said. “And as a member of the Romulan Republic, which could very well have become a victim of one of Shreln’s schemes, I personally want to say thank you. Which is more than you’ll get from the Free State, mind you.”

“Now, that out of the way. I want all five of you to take a few days off and relax.” It was, after all, a captain’s prerogative to grant leave whenever she wanted. “We’re heading for DS9, then Betazed to ensure Doctor Shreln is handed over to Federation authorities. I won’t subject you to any media enquiries if they arise, but someone from Starfleet Security might want to talk with you when we get there.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Mitchell said for his team.

“Dismissed.”

She watched as the team filed out, save for Stirling, with Ch’tkk’va behind them. Kendris waited a second, then followed, giving a brief nod that said I’ll get us underway. As the door closed, it just left her with her yeoman and his temporary replacement.

“Mr Fightmaster?”

“I’m ready to resume my duties, ma’am,” he replied.

“Interesting.” She turned to face Kelly, the young woman’s emotions a mix still, but settling down now. “Ms Tabaaha, what did I just tell Silver Team to do?”

“Take a few days off,” Kelly answered.

“Has Mr Fightmaster done that?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Thought so.” She turned on Stirling once more. “Two days Stirling. Relax, catch up with W’a’le’ki. Read a book.”

“Ma’am,” he tried to protest.

“Do I need to make it an official order?”

He looked like he was going to protest for a second, then sighed, knowing when he was beat. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Two days. And if I see you in uniform, I’ll extend it.”

“You would punish him with more time off?” Kelly asked after Stirling had left.

“Certainly would,” she answered. “He needs a break, and this is just the perfect time to give it to him.”

“You would like me to stay on then until he returns to duty?” Kelly asked.

“Yes please,” she blurted. “Don’t I have a meeting with Ra soon?”

 


 

Port Royal was bustling at this hour, a shift change only having just passed and those newly off-duty taking advantage of the common space to socialise. But the Hazard Teams had, much like the pilots of Harpy Flight, or the ship’s senior staff, carved out a space for themselves that always seemed to empty when they arrived. The unspoken social rule meant when they had a booth to settle into and soon enough drinks had arrived, along with their wayward fifth who had stayed behind.

“Arguing for more work?” Rosa teased Stirling as he sat down. “Or telling…Kelly…where the Captain keeps her secret stash?”

“I have been reminded that Captain Theodoras has given us two days off,” Stirling answered. “And encouraged to relax.”

Amber laughed. “You? Relax? Honestly Stirling, the only time I ever see you relaxed is in uniform, carrying out the inscrutable will of the captain.”

“He does also appear relaxed when partaking in duets,” Brek said from behind a cup of tea freshly delivered.

“Oh yeah!” Amber slapped her hands on the table. “Should we go bust out the karaoke machine?”

“Please, no,” Mitchell answered. “No. Can’t we just sit and relax?” He surveyed his people, having also been forced to the back of the booth and surrounded by his team. “You all did good work.”

“Ah, thanks boss,” Rosa said. “Honestly though, Amber’s little trick with those Vulcan rocks, real win there.”

“Ah, was nothing. If it hadn’t been for those, I was just going to inject them with some radioactive isotopes and hope we could filter them out before it killed them.”

“Pardon?” Stirling asked.

“Joking!” Amber replied. “Or am I?”

“Barium Sulfate? Or iodine?” Brek asked, an eyebrow raised. “Or something more exotic?”

“People,” Mitchell interrupted. “No more work talk. We got into New Barataria, extracted a wanted bio-terrorist and got out without any major injuries.”

“Save Stirling’s stomach in the storm!” Rosa interrupted.

“Save Stirling’s stomach,” Mitchell conceded, “We did a damn fine job!”

“Hear hear!” Amber and Rosa both cheered. Brek and Stirling opting for a more reserved expression by raising their drinks of choice.

“Now,” Mitchell leaned forward, staring at Stirling and letting the airs of command slip now he was on leave, “Stirling, time to answer some questions. You and W’a’le’ki an actual item?”

“Oh yes!” Amber exclaimed. “Spill!”

“Well…”