As the Vondem Rose lurched out of warp, Sidda sighed as she slumped back into her chair. “Well, how far out are we?”

“Not far at all actually. Looks like we were riding the storm front pretty well,” Orelia replied from Ops, a few keystrokes changing the mainviewer to bring up a few enhancements. The roiling blue mists of the ion storm suddenly overlapped with a model of a sphere, a single large green data point and then a gathering swarm of other green pinpricks. “Nicely done Trid, looks like we’re about an hour out at impulse from Rosalie and Royal Station.”

“We’d have been closer if that damn storm hadn’t collapsed the warp field early. Only needed two more seconds,” the bajoran woman replied.

Sidda shook her head at that. She’d swapped Lewis for Trid again with Gaeda when she sent him off on legitimate business and was already starting to regret the decision. The woman had started to become more and more impatient and snappish lately and it was wearing on her nerves. “Well, it gives us more time to size up the other party guests Trid, so don’t worry about.”

“If you say so boss.”

She rolled her eyes with none to witness, then stood and walked around the bridge to stand beside her fellow orion. “What we looking at? Please tell me Handsome Steve isn’t here.”

“Usual band of miscreants,” came the reply. “But sensors are having a hard time figuring out who is who. I’ll tell you more when we’re deeper into Rosalie’s magnetosphere but from what I can see, storm must be driving every pirate, grifter, thief and low-life in the sector here. LPK really is going to have an auction in all of this?”

“Chance to throw the social event of the season without the possibility of Starfleet showing up to ruin things just couldn’t be ignored, even if short notice.” She smiled, one that hide a plan that her crew knew, bringing a smile to a few faces around. “Senior crew briefing, mess hall, twenty minutes. Get the word out. And bring a list of who’s here. If we just snuck in, no one else is coming in behind us.”

Twenty minutes later and she found herself walking into the mess hall with the senior crew all present and accounted for, conversation dying as she walked in with Revin on her six. Revin had become the shadow they all expected to see nowadays, as glances were made not to watch her but just confirm she was there, then on the holoproject she threw on the table, the jolt activating it. It’s Klingon design went for the classic deep red colouration when projecting a three-dimensional schematic of Royal Station, the hideaway of the self-proclaimed Last Pirate King.

“What do you get when you combine hubris, a bunch of pirates, treasure befitting a king and this crew?” she asked and was answered with hungry smiles and grins that would frighten the weak of heart. “Right then, let’s get planning.”

After nearly an hour of briefing her crew on her grand plan, of people offering suggestions and improvements and a notification they’d arrived in the area around Royal Station, Sidda had called quits on briefing and dismissed them so they could start preparations for all of their parts.

“Bold plan,” came the gruff klingon baritone as Kevak took an empty seat as the doors to the corridors finally closed. A hand set three glasses down on the table, the other sloshed a dark amber liquor into all three, setting the bottle on the table. It was just opened. “Last of that human swill you bought after that fleeter gave you some.”

“Yah, but I don’t do things without some idea of what I’m doing,” she replied, took a glass and pulled it towards herself, then a second and held it aloft for Revin to collect in her aimless wanderings around the room, having remained on her feet the whole briefing.

“She’s going to sell it back to it’s last legitimate possessor’s ancestors,” Revin offered. Walking behind her chair, she couldn’t see where her lover was going, but could tell not far from the sound of bare feet on metal. “All so they can return it and end a century old feud.”

“We’re good guys now?” Kevak asked before downing his whole glass, then pouring himself another.

“Profitteers,” she replied. “Who are going to extort them for everything we can.”

“Sounds like that ferengi has been talking to you to much.”

“Maybe,” she said, sipping at her own whiskey. “But I’m going to turn it around and use what’s due to help out a few more refugee camps and colonies, grow the company. Do something honourable.”

“And gain a reputation with the local pirates as well as kudos with Starfleet if it all goes well,” Revin supplied.

Kevak’s eyes narrowed, then he leaned forward. “You like to find your own weird source of honour in the galaxy, don’t you?” He waited for her nod of agreement. “What can I do to help?”

“Never thought you’d ask old man. Tell me, still got your old uniform?”

****

The old vulcan male standing at the window wore impeccable stately vermillion robes, a band in black around his waist and as his custom, hands clasped behind his back. He watched the last of his expected guests to appear through the aurora that had completely engulfed the dark blue gas giant known only as Rosalie, the light reflecting off of his expertly maintained black hair that reached his shoulders but for which not a strand was out of place.

For one Jamal al-Jabir, the raising of an eyebrow was not expected. “Something the matter sir?”

“When Operations had reported a klingon K’tinga approaching, I had not expected it to be painted in such a fetching shade of purple.”

Jamal stepped up to the window beside her liege and looked out the window for himself. He stood a head shorter then the impressively tall vulcan, his suit fine and tailor, but not in the same realm as the vermillion robes. “Where…oh, there.” The vessel had cleared the bright red and green aurora, the last of the charged plasma sloughing off its own shields as it settled into gathering formation of ships. “That purple looks familiar.”

“The human name for that shade is Royal Purple.”

“The Vondem Thorn? Well, Captain Sadovu has certainly had some success these last few months then.”

“It would appear so Jamal. Make enquiries with our other guests. I would like to know current events since we so rarely get proper news here. And send my regards to Captain Sadovu and request that she maintain her vessel at the outer most marker. Its substantial size might upset some of our other guests.”

Jamal stepped back to his rightful spot as he tapped in a few notes on his padd, previously tucked under this left arm. “Captain Sadovu’s transponder has flagged the ship as the SS Vondem Rose. Ops believes it to be a legitimate signal even. They can’t tell if it’s block four or five but that would mean it masses roughly half of all other vessels here sir.”

The vulcan turned away from the window, the swish of his robes a silent whisper as he then set off towards the door out of his office, Jamal quickly in tow. “Have security watch Ms Sadovu with a closer eye this visit. A ship like that she could have weathered the storm anywhere she felt like. She would only come here if she had a reason outside of my invitation to all in the area. I want to know why Mr al-Jabir.”

“Yes sir.”

****

“He’s going to have security watching me more then usual. The whole crew even, but more so me. We use this to our advantage. Make a spectacle of things.” She leaned forward; her green skin tinged with the red glow from the hologram swirling over the table.

“So, more people are watching you so when you do something, everyone turns your way. You’re the distraction,” Deidrick said, his head nodding in understanding. “You’re going to want to start bold though.”

“That my dear,” Revin said as she walked around the table, a hand landing on Deidrick’s shoulder and running along to his other, “is where I come in.”

****

“He’s done it again,” Orelia spoke aloud as she read the message that had been sent to the Rose. Not the perfunctory messages for a ship arriving from station operations, but from the hallowed office of the Last Pirate King.

T’Ael, who had come up to the bridge merely to check a few things, looked up from the engineering console. “Called her Captain Sadovu?”

“What’s so bad about that?” Trid asked from helm, though not much she’d had to do the last twenty minutes after the Rose settled into it’s assigned orbit. “It’s her name, right?”

“No, it’s the name of her mother,” Orelia replied. “Yikes, it’s in here like three times.”

“What, her mother some other pirate out there and the boss wants her own reputation?” Trid followed up.

“No. Her mother’s Starfleet. Disappointed in her daughter for not following in her rules following footsteps.”

T’Ael chuckled, then made her way to Orelia. “Give me the message, I’ll give it to Revin. She can deliver it. You know he only does it to anger her right? Put her off guard and all that.”

“Fucking Vulcans.”

“No argument here,” T’Ael said as she accepted a padd, one of the Federation ones aboard ship and headed for the door. “Have pity for Revin, she’s going to get both barrels once the boss reads this.”

When one makes an entrance, one should make a spectacular entrance, or so Sidda had been told once, years ago when she was a member of a crew, not the crew boss. Or the Captain. Or Queen Bitch.

So, when her party had finally arrived at the Grand Hall, as The Last Pirate King called what was essentially the hotel and casino portion of his private space station, Royal Station to further lend credence to his self-granted title, they attempted to do so in style. She hadn’t just come over with a few people, but as many as could comfortably fit on a couple of shuttles, thanks to the local transporter inhibitors. After all, an entourage was a symbol of power.

She herself had opted for a dark blue backless number, slit up her left leg ending at a fashionable height and then went ahead, much to Revin’s chagrin, accessorising with a gunbelt and her trust disruptor. On her arm, stunning as always, Revin had an emerald green dress that looked haphazardly draped across one shoulder and a moment from indiscretion.

To their credit every single member of the crew she had brought over had dressed to the nines as well, even going so far as to polish leather, shiny buckles and clean themselves up. Orelia and the klingon couple, K’tah and Lern, whom she stood in the middle of her, arms linked together. That was definitely something for braver folks, which Orelia seemed to be willing to try. Then Deidrick and a handful of newer recruits he vouched for, looking like a gang of young men with coin to lose and expectations of winning someone’s company for the evening. T’Ael had even managed to convince Trid to come along with her, for a ‘girl’s night out’, but only after she had spoke with the Romulan woman. She hadn’t confirmed Trid’s background, but had suspicions and what harm could come from actually getting her in some trouble?

But the pièce de resistance hadn’t been her and Revin, but convincing Kevak himself to join her little stunt. While her crew’s entrance had certainly drawn some attention, people urging their companions to look their way, the room had noticeably gone quieter when Kevak, decked in full klingon uniform had entered in behind them, followed a moment later by Bones who was taking a swig from a hip flask.

Of course, his uniform had been augmented, far beyond any station he had admitted to. A stole, bedecked with ornamentation fitting a colonel, a sash with a great houses emblem all accompanied by expected weapons of a d’k tahg and a pistol. But the uniform was only half of it, the other half was the performance as he stepped through the door, back straight, chest puffed up, as if he was ideal klingon commander who conquered a room by mere presence alone.

“And now they’re watching Kevak and Bones too,” she whispered, just loud enough for a few around her to hear.

For his part, Kevak stopped, held out his hand, which Bones in her finely tailor pant-suit filled with the hip flask, sipped from it, handed it back then held his arm crooked for her to rest her hand inside of before pushing past everyone else to head to the gaming floor.

“Geez, give a cook a sash and he thinks he’s in charge,” Orelia chipped in with mirth dripping from her words.

“You all know what to do. Get to it,” she said and with that pulled Revin in close for a squeeze before following in the wake of Colonel Chef Kevak, slayer of hunger, conqueror of bloodwine barrels and undefeated chilli champion of the Archanis Sector.

****

“Come on,” T’Ael said to the bajoran woman, clasping her hand and dragging her into the mass of people that populated the Grand Hall. “It’s not all high society crap.” Though call this high society was a stretch. She was after all Romulan, she knew high society when they decided to descend upon the peasantry and enact their sick wills.

Supernova was the best thing for damn sizable portion of the population.

“If you’re dragging me into another club,” Trid protested as she was yanked through crowds, brushing past people with some force thanks to her efforts. She could hear the woman throwing apologies behind her as they went, seeking towards the sound of music and even thumping bass.

Oh yes there was a club and a club meant fun.

“Prophets,” was all the protest she heard as she pulled Trid through the doors that portioned the club off from the other guest parts of the station.

The dark was vividly and rapidly illuminated by a mixture of lights and lasers through fog, timed with the beat of the music so loud that hearing oneself think was difficult, which in her own expert opinion was the point. Not even a minute in, having dragged Trid onto the dance floor, she let go of the woman’s hand and disappeared into the mass, the sound of people around her and the music drowning out any possible protest or pleas for her attention.

Hands drifted upwards, hips and shoulders started to sway with the music, head lolling from side to side. The press of the crowd, the pulse of the music, the atmosphere of the place, oh how she missed such! She knew her job however, had built in time enough to enjoy the dance floor, maybe find a dance partner for a bit, promises to meet up later.

He was tall, half a head taller than her, human, or close enough, strong and well built. He found her as they both moved with the flow of the crowd and anchored himself against it, his hands resting on her hips enough to stop her, gain her attention. Oh, now this would do. A few seconds, maybe an eternity, but more like five minutes passed before she was rudely interrupted.

Some woman, light pink skin tone, burst through the crowd and slapped her unnamed dance partner, shouting something at him she barely caught. The moment died as he turned to confront his assailant, then pursue her.

“Well shit,” she said to herself.

“You know how to pick him,” Trid practically had to shout in her ear to be heard. “Check for girlfriends next time.” Then the bajoran pointed at a door, occasionally visible through the crowd. “There’s our target.”

With a sigh, she took a moment to let everything flow away, then started through the crowd with Trid in tow. Past the people gathered around the outside trying to have conversations, or drinks with friends, past the lucky few who had found someone or the squabbling couples. Then through the door, which closed behind them and demonstrated remarkable soundproofing, drowning out most of the noise, just the bass that could be felt through the deckplates.

“We were told we could dance once we did out job,” Trid stated, pushed past her and continued down the brightly lit service corridor, deeper into the station.

“What, couldn’t find anyone?” she retorted, not even thinking about it till the words left her lips.

“Not until our part of the mission is over, then…then I’ll find someone.”

“Oh that I have to see.”

****

“T’Ael, it shouldn’t be to hard for you to find a computer terminal somewhere on the station. I want you to perform your magic and add all of our biometrics to the security whitelist.” Sidda produced an isolinear chip, dark red, darker still in the light of the klingon hologram, and slid it across the table. “It’ll get you into the security database. Cost a fortune, don’t lose it.”

“These schematics show the vault and station have separate security systems,” R’tin commented. “Whitelist won’t help us get into the vault, or even approach it.”

“No, you’re right there as always, but…”

“It’ll let us do all the other prep,” T’Ael finished for Sidda as she picked up the chip, inspected it and put it away. “I’ll need someone to watching my back while I do this.”

“Trid.”

“Why her?”

“We’ll talk about it later T’Ael, but trust me, Trid will do the job. Make a thing of it. Right, what’s next?”

“Believe that’s my team?” Deidrick spoke up.

****

The mezzanine looked down over the main floor from a fair distance. Enough to break a man’s legs in fact, though he’d only had to demonstrate that point twice. It had afforded him quiet the view as Captain Sadovu’s entourage had strutted into through the doors. As always, the orion woman had that air of arrogant invulnerability about it, that she couldn’t, wouldn’t fail. And this time however she had herself and escort for the duration of their stay.

“Mr al-Jabir, who is that young woman accompanying Captain Sadovu?”

Jamal stepped closer to the railing and looked, then stepped back. “She’s on the manifest as Verin, a romulan woman. Ocular implants were detected, but allowed as purely commercial models.”

“Perhaps with some company, the young captain may behave herself better this time.” Just then the quiet settled over the floor and he spotted the klingon colonel, with human companion, stepping in behind and through Sidda’s party. “Colonel?”

“Colonel Kevak sir,” Jamal provided. “He’s apparently travelling with Captain Sadovu. She’s vouched for his behaviour while here.”

“How interesting.” He watched a moment more, then turned and stepped away from the railing, stopping by a serving boy with a tray of wine glasses and for the stairs that would lead down to the main floor. “Take some of those watching Captain Sadovu’s people and reassign them to watching the Colonel. Should he become…intoxicated, perhaps he might spill some secrets?”

“I shall arrange for complementary blood wine sir.”

“Mr al-Jabir, ensure only the best we have in stock for the dear colonel.”

Orelia wasn’t terribly concerned with the rules of the game she was currently playing, just that whatever the game was she was beating K’tah at it, which was earning her a deathly glare she’d bear the brunt of later. After all, she had talked the klingon woman into coming and playing. Lern for this part had opted merely to stand behind his wife and watch but also to keep an eye out for any tails they might have gained since coming aboard the station.

With a well-played hand, an incredible amount of luck and stubbornness needed for any bluffing game, it was down to just K’tah and Orelia after nearly an hour of play. A small crowd had surrounded the gaming table, the dealer was forced to repeat a call for quiet on multiple occasions, the last however when the last player had been wiped out. Some nausicaan who vowed he’d get his revenge. Or was it a her? Who could tell with nausicaans anyway, right?

“Fifty thousand,” K’tah muttered before forcing a pile of chits towards the middle of the table.

It was a considerable total, nearly K’tah’s entire winnings, only a third of her own. She’d had a more successful evening though she was pretty sure it was Lady Luck smiling on her than anything. Some human game about matching sets or suits, numbers in order and such. A bluffing game was a bluffing game, right?

She nodded, looked back at her cards, then set them down so she could make an exaggerated display of counting out fifty thousand in house chits, push it forward, then reach down and pull a knife from her boot, setting it on the table. “Call.”

“Ma’am,” the dealer spoke, “we can’t appraise such a blade here at the table. I’m going to insist you remove it for now.”

K’tah’s blade met the table surface, point driving into the tabletop and that got the dealers attention. “I accept,” she growled.

Right now she couldn’t tell if K’tah was putting on a performance or actually pissed at her. She’d called with her knife knowing K’tah would as well, honour demanded it after all. Lern rolled his eyes in a very non-klingon fashion while shaking his head. When he tried to speak his wife waved him off, fire smouldering in her eyes as she challenged Orelia.

“This is,” the dealer started, but stopped when both she and K’tah turned on him. She with a ‘yes you will dear’ smile, K’tah with near murderous intent. No wonder ferengi typically didn’t like klingons in their gambling establishments. “The house accepts the added call.”

“Oh hells, let’s make it interesting, shall we?” she added, pushing her stack of chits all in, a further challenge to Kedah. But money was just money and the challenge was accepted easily enough. Not like it was their money to start with anyway, right?

With all settled, the entire pot of six players not up for grabs by a single person, be she orion or klingon, as well as two exquisite knives, cards finally got flipped to reveal just who one. First cards meant nothing, then second, then third. The fourth appeared and drew gasps as both had pursued different combinations to win. Then the last card eliciting cheers, anguish, joy and sadness from the crowd.

She shrugged, the loss just another in her life, but that was what games were for right? To lose in a controlled environment? “Alas, such a beautiful knife. Guess I’ll have to just borrow it from you now,” she said to K’tah who was smiling like a grish’ka cat, fangs bared, eyes wild and filled with the win.

K’tah reached for her knife, then Orelia’s, bringing them both to her before the dealer started to pool the chits together so a counting machine could total and sort. Then she reached up, grabbed Lern’s tunic front and pulled him down for a deep kiss which left him with a slight bleeding lip.

“Maybe,” K’tah finally said as she examined the blade after sheathing her own. “We can discuss the terms in our room.” She then turned on the dealer. “Credit that to my account. Anything less comes out of your worthless hide.”

****

“Why do we get the shit job? Just some idiot likely opened the wrong door.” The nausicaan male was built like most people expected of his species thanks to a very vocal and substantial portion of their population. Tall, muscle-bound, beady-eyed. But unlike so many others he didn’t think with his fists but tried to use his brain first.

Which hadn’t exactly endeared him to his common patrol partner, a tellarite of advanced years, colossal superiority complex and belief that he was the smartest man in the sector, their employer included.

“Because you’re an idiot who said such, so of course, Gremta is going to send you to check it out. And where you go, I go. So, this is all your fault.”

“I don’t see how pointing out the most logical situation is my fault.”

“Because doors don’t open themselves! The sensors showed nothing, didn’t they? Bloody nausicaans, good for nothing but hitting things.”

As they both rounded the last corner of the back corridors to the door that had raised the alarm in Ops, they came face to face with a scene they weren’t expecting. A klingon male with both a female of his species as well an orion woman, pushed up against a wall as the women were working at undressing him.

“Ugh, not again,” the tellarite muttered as he stepped forward. “Oi! You lot! You can’t do that here! This is a restricted area.”

For his part, the young man followed his diminutive superior at a few steps, as trained to avoid getting caught up in any ambushes as well. And well he had. As the tellarite had neared the orion suddenly turned her attention from her klingon compatriots and slugged the man in the jaw, then a knee that would have caught most in an unpleasant location caught the man squarely in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. Another punch and he was down.

Then all three were looking at him as his hand hovered over the phaser on his hip. Their state of undress was a ploy, he could see that. They could easily fight as they were. He’d get one, maybe two if he was lucky before the third would get him. And the klingon woman was now wielding a pair of knives.

“Wait!” he shouted, raising his hands, his exclamation seemingly effective in stopping an assault on his personage right now. “I…I can call this in, nothing to see here. False alarm. You go about your business; I go about mine.”

“Now see, that’s a reasonable offer, but how do I know you won’t tell on us straight away?” the orion asked. “Counteroffer, you call it in, then we knock you out, but you get to choose how, we make it look good, you get to be a hero afterwards when this all blows over?”

It didn’t take long for his brain to process that, the possibility of spinning a tale and making himself look good. The site was clear, called it in, then they got ambushed. His fellow guard took a head hit which is why he can’t remember. He fought valiantly but was ultimately overpowered. Why just look at the injuries. “Okay.”

With the threat of violence, it didn’t take him long to call back and say exactly what was asked of him, that the hall was clear, nothing to report. They were going to go on a full circuit, they’d report back in a couple of hours after walking the station. Then his communicator was taken off him by the orion, all three of this group having had a chance to fix their clothing.

“So, I was thinking the leg.” He surrendered his phaser to the klingon male. “It’ll bleed plenty if done right, but not vital. Then a few punches to the ribs, then a good one to the jaw and I’m out.”

“I can’t promise to knock you out with one punch,” the big man said.

“Don’t need to. You throw him and me into a storage closet, lock it from the outside and I lie down and have a nap.”

The klingon male turned to his companions, both shook their heads, then he stepped back as the klingon woman stepped forward, brandishing both knives, one klingon and one orion design. “Your choice.”

“Uh, that one,” he said, pointing to the orion blade. “It looks sharper…” And then he realised he had made a mistake as the d’k tahg was slashed viciously across his upper thigh, bringing forth a cry of pain as he went down.

****

“Orelia, you and a couple of people of your choosing are going to get into the back corridors of the station. Wait for T’Ael’s signal that she’s compromised station security before you go. I don’t know, enjoy the casino for a bit. Once there, however, you’re to find your way to LPK’s assistant’s office.”

“What for boss?”

“Steal his credentials. Of course, that’s not the real purpose. You’re acting as another layer of distraction. They’ll have to come after you, can’t let such an intrusion stand. And yes, they’ll know. I bet the offices are all on separate security systems we can’t access. Then they have to change Jamal’s access details because of course you’re going to send them to someone, not me by the way. And they’ll have to redivert security to the vault since until Jamal’s codes are changed, the vault is at risk.”

“How many layers of distraction are in this plan?” Deidrick asked.

“A few more. But, with all of this going on Deidrick, we can get to your part.”

****

Not fifteen minutes later, after the last few questions to their nausicaan friend, the three of them had made their way around the station’s back corridors and found the office of one Jamil al-Jabar. To Orelia’s surprise, it turned out that K’tah was pretty apt with electronic locks, the door opening in quick succession.

“Learned how to do that watching videos. This whole series about how to pick locks,” she offered as they stepped into the office.

They were in and out in under three minutes, raiding Jamal’s desk, stealing an isolinear rod with his vault access credentials, a few files off of his computer, then scanning the door and sending all the information on it to parts unknown. They dropped the names of a few different pirate captains as well, the rather thin ruse of a coalition working together for this heist.

And just as they stepped outside, a whole bevvy of station security was waiting for them.

“Well, there is just an entire shutteload of you boys and girls isn’t there?” she quipped. “Well go quietly.”

****

The alert had gone off on his device, followed by another to attend to his superior’s office immediately. While a breach of his own office was dire, the displeasure of the Last Pirate King was worse and so Jamal made his way immediately, passing the bodyguard outside the door without so much as a customary salutation.

The vulcan was standing watching a security feed of Jamal’s own office and with an idle hand gesture invited Jamal to step up beside him to watch. “Security is already on their way. I’m curious as to what they think they are doing though. Surely Ms Sadovu knows I’ll have them made examples of once they talk.”

“I’m certain she does sir.”

They both watched as they rummaged his desk, finding the information they so clearly wanted. It was a raid for the keys to the kingdom after all. Keycodes that should have been safe behind automated and manned security which failed and a door lock which didn’t live up to its hype.

“Contact Mr Gremta, have security around the vault doubled. Do not pull it from those watching Ms Sadovu or her people already under watch. This could just be a rogue element. Then head to the vault and change all your details. They clearly have those codes now.”

“Yes sir.” He bowed, took two steps back before turning and was halfway to the door before he stopped. “I’m sorry I’ve failed you, sir.”

“You haven’t failed me yet Mr al-Jabar. Captain Sadovu is just…a worthy foe.”

“This,” Rogers said over the short-range comms, “has got to be the stupidest plan I’ve ever been involved in.”

For his part, Deidrick rolled his eyes, thankfully with the rest of his team at his back. All of them had thanks to T’Ael’s earlier workings been able to make their way to an airlock, abscond with EV suits intended for servicing the outside of the station and then made their way outside.

Hacking biometrics, granting them all authorisation to be a majority of the station, was good, but not good enough. There were still the good old fashion security personnel wandering the halls that could ruin the plan and for that, a sojourn outside was called for.

“Rogers, you’re new. You didn’t see what we got up to in Romulan space,” one of the others spoke up. “We, I fucking kid you not, smuggled maple syrup.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Stow it you two,” Deidrick finally said. “Speak only when needed.”

No affirmatives were given, which was what he wanted. No unnecessary comms, no tripping over the external sensor arrays, no peeking through windows. They were supposed to just be ghosts right now, out of sight, out of mind, but definitely not out of trouble.

Royal Station’s sensors were designed to watch for space-suited people after all, since The Last Pirate King was the paranoid sort who ran transporter inhibitors constantly. The flaw however was you had to do service work on the hull from time to time and you didn’t want to irradiate your works, at least not terribly often, so most of those same said sensors weren’t actually watching the hull itself. Yes they’d see you approaching, but once down you’re invisible, until you open an airlock, or blow a window.

It took nearly an hour of careful progress to walk the length of the station down to the engineering module. Another ten to find an airlock, five more to cycle everyone through. They all knew they’d gone for the walk to avoid security, now they just had to work quietly to take out whatever staff were down here, pretend to be them and then wait for the signal.

“Rogers, Bernstein, T’shon, go starboard. Grell, Sh’lok, with me to port. Remember, keep it quiet. Better to let people walk away than fuck it up.” A series of head nods and the group split up to sweep engineering. They’d practised, they’d worked with the best plans they had, they could do this.

And to their credit Deidrick was impressed. Within five minutes they had found the three engineers they had expected and knocked them out.

Now they were Royal Station Engineering. Oh, this was going to get interesting.

****

“We’ve lost track of Captain Sadovu’s team of six. The men that all came in together.” Jamil admitted as he stood once more in his boss’s office.

His employer was once more standing, hands behind his back, watching the main casino floor out a window. “Mr al-Jabar, I grow weary of Captain Sadovu’s machinations, or her inability to control her personnel. Summon her to my office. No one may accompany her. Anyone tries, have them shot and thrown overboard.”

“Sir, would it not just be easier to have her escorted off the station?”

“She has a warship Mr al-Jabar. I would prefer to keep her as a guest until the storm passes and I can call in some favours to neutralise that particular threat. Returning her to her ship would encourage her to try something far more rash.” He turned around and walked to his desk, sitting carefully in his chair. “Bring me the good captain.”

“Yes sir.”

****

The whole time that her crew had been undertaking their pieces of the plan, Sidda had taken it upon herself to weather the trials and tribulations of running into her fellow societal misfits. Fellow pre-emptive salvage merchants, free-market protection cooperatives and fee-based astrogation assistant services all populated the casino, restaurants and bars of Royal Station. At least the slavers who dared to make their presence known knew enough to keep their distance. Her last visit here had after all been cut short when she’d shot three of them.

Some say cold blood, others say self-defence, but in the end, she walked away and the universe had three fewer scumbags using up valuable oxygen. Yes she’d been banned from the station for a year, but the rumour mill clearly kept working and those slavers she saw kept their distance, despite death glares. The sort that suggests if they ran into her in a dark alley, it wouldn’t end well.

Old acquaintances, erstwhile friends and rivals alike, had come over to talk, to inquire about her ship, where she’d gotten it from, in case they were in the market after all. Few actually believed the truth about stealing it out from under the D’Ghor Hunters, insisting she must have raided it from a klingon depot yard, or traded some sort of favour with a border house. Some even had less than savoury theories that didn’t come to her directly, but via the rumour mill.

“Is it true with Kevlor is saying, that you sold a Romulan senator into slavery for the ship?”

“I happened to hear captain that congratulations are in order. You and Lord Grelk will make a lovely couple.”

“So the klingons just let you flush the whole crew off their own ship?”

She entertained them, tried to over the truth, then just started bullshitting more and more grandiose stories, which seemingly a number of them wanted to hear. The taller the tale, the more they could repeat it themselves, how they met Captain Sidda, pillager of klingon warships!

Eventually, with Revin at her side, she found her way back to the casino floor and a couple of dice games where she’d been holding court with those who wanted to hear more, all the while watching their piles of chits disappear and her own pile grow, with the interspersed loss when she forgot to give her good luck charm a kiss or have her blow on the dice.

And it was here that she was eventually interrupted by a human man, middle-aged, nice enough suit, with two large walking slabs of muscle at his back. “Our sovereign, the Last Pirate King, summons you Captain Sidda,” the man said.

“Did he summon Captain Sidda, or Captain Sadovu?” she asked cheekily, presenting the dice once more to Revin before throwing the dice on the table.

“Your presence is required Captain Sidda Sadovu,” the man insisted.

She sighed as the table manager called the result of her dice roll, a loss for her, a win for a gangly tellerite, if such a thing could truly exist. “Come along love,” she said pushing back from the table.

“Just you,” the man said firmly. “I would suggest you don’t insist ma’am, our sovereign is not in a joking mood tonight.”

That had a chilling effect on the crowd around them, people making a bit more space in case something went down.

They stared at each other for a few moments before she turned to give Revin a kiss on the cheek and whisper quietly in her ear, then turned back to her escort. “Lead the way.”

****

“You’ll proceed over the hull to engineering where you’ll take control of the station. Well, power and life support, not the whole station. But it’ll be enough.”

“We turning off the lights when you want boss?” Deidrick asked.

“Nope, only one single system. Transporter inhibitors large enough to cover the station and five thousand kilometers around it draw a lot of power. Right T’Ael?” Sidda asked.

“Uh…yah. They’d have to be powered by the main reactor. No way you could power it with backup generators. A system like what we think he’s got would also take twenty, thirty minutes to reconfigure to a smaller field and bring online with another, smaller, generator.”

“So, we’re turning off the transporter inhibitor? But the vault is transport shielded physically as well. Won’t do us any good but to get to the front door.”

“Not doing that either,” Sidda replied with a grin. “You’ll love this next part.”

When invited into an enemy’s home, have a plan to make it your own.

That Orion proverb kept waltzing through Sidda’s brain as she was escorted through the casino of Royal Station on a somewhat circuitous route. It was as if someone was wanting to show off that they could summon her before them in front of the literal rogue’s gallery. She for her part walked like she owned the place, like she wanted to be escorted, that if there was a true power to be had, it was her.

Not that she’d want any respect from this lot anymore anyway. They thought too small, only cared about themselves and ultimately would try and snatch power whenever and wherever they could get it without thinking of the long-term consequences. That train of thought cracked her façade however. She realised she was…maturing? Goddesses no! Seeking stability maybe?

Were Revin and a larger crew really impacting her that much? Gone were the days of extortion on freighters, playing cat and mouse with Starfleet or the KDF, always just staying on the ‘interesting’ side of the law. But now she had a company, she was responsible not just to her crews but the contractors, sub-contractors and actual blue-collar folks working day-to-day jobs in the Archanis Sector still cleaning up after the D’Ghor.

“Fuck me,” she whispered to herself out loud as she was finally escorted off the floor and into a lift.

“Sorry Captain, did you say something?” the man who introduced himself eventually as Mr al-Jabir asked as the doors closed. “Offices,” the commanded the computer, which responded with a sweet little chime.

“Nothing important Mr al-Jabir. Just realised I’m likely not in this game for much longer.”

“I would be careful what you say to our liege Captain, for that could be a self-fulling prophecy.” He turned to face the door with perfect timing, stepping forward just as they opened and leading the way, Sidda next and the two thugs in suits behind her.

“Is that a threat Mr al-Jabir, or a promise?”

“A friendly warning Captain. I do hate the complaints from the cleaners when they have to get the blood out of the carpets.” With that warning, he stopped in front of the door at the end of the hall and tapped at a call button, waiting a moment before the door opened by itself.

She could immediately smell the faint incense that had been burning or still was somewhere in the room. Some floral noted wood, giving hints of ash as it burned and something oh so familiar but that she couldn’t place.

Mr al-Jabir had stepped aside and she noted gone to a small cabinet to pour drinks it seemed, not that she’d drink anything without seeing it poured from the bottle and sipped at by someone else first. The muscle had remained outside, likely because she knew they wouldn’t be needed. If the Last Pirate King wanted to kill her himself he was more than able to, especially since she was unarmed, which once more she confirmed for herself with a reflexive pat of the empty holster on her thigh.

Her eyes finally settled on the tall gentleman in the robes by the window, back turned to her as he watched those below, like a solitary king watching his court. She smirked, her plan had seemingly gone off without a hitch so far, which placed her as the usurper about to strike. Oh, the havoc she was going to cause, especially when she threw the crown to the wolves.

“Captain Sadovu, would you join me please?” the Last Pirate King asked, though his tone was clear in its demand, the implication of displeasure should she not.

“It’s Captain Sidda, T’rev of the house Sh’rel of P’Jem.” She stood her ground and waited as the vulcan slowly turned around to face her, one eyebrow raised as he inspected her. It had been years since she’d seen this man up close and he didn’t look like he’d aged a single day.

“I was wondering who would be the first of this generation to ever use my name,” T’rev, the Last Pirate King, spoke, his voice a carefully modulated stoic tone. “Do you think knowing my name means your special Sidda?”

“No, just means you aren’t. You’re just another man. A man who when you do a bit of digging and investigating happens to have led an interesting life, including a few escapades not told around any bars or campfires.” She finally stepped forward under his gaze and approached the window, though out of arm’s reach, looking down while he looked at her. “Or gaming tables even.”

“What do you want orion?” he asked, though she caught a tinge of anger in his voice. Like she’d hit a nerve perhaps? “I know you’re up to something and I can assure you, you aren’t stealing anything off of my station.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied. “What is that incense?” she asked as she turned her back to the window and leaned against it.

“Vondem rosewood,” al-Jabir supplied helpfully.

“Some metaphor, about burning my ship?” she challenged, though both men refused to answer that quip. “As I said, I have no intention of stealing anything from your station. Not your money, not the contents of your vault, not even the coatroom just after the shuttle bay. What I want is going to be given to me, freely.” Her attention drifted to the ceiling briefly as a flicker of light from below shone, apparently unseen by the two men. “I want the Star of Galur. I know you have it and I want it.”

If T’rev’s eyebrow had been high before, it rose further now. As for al-Jabir, the man seemed to tense as she stopped pouring drinks and turned around, a look of shock on his face. The expression that said ‘you didn’t just say that’.

“The Star of Galur has been missing for eighty years. What makes you think I have it?” T’rev asked.

“Rumours, research and a pattern of high-profile raids all about the time you started to make a name for yourself. Most of the other items stolen eventually reappeared on the market, but not the Star. I bet because the political friction it’s caused between a couple of minor betazoid noble houses makes it worth more than its cost as a fancy hunk of crystal.”

“That is a surprisingly logical supposition from you Captain, but just that – a supposition. You have no evidence.”

She laughed at that. “Oh course not! That’s our whole deal! Crime with minimal to no evidence. But I just have this gut feeling you see and I’m always being told to go with my gut. Admittedly that is from my cook,” she admitted. “But either way, you have it, I want it. Hand it over and I’ll leave. I’ll even promise never to come back.”

“And what makes you think I’m just going to give you the Star of Galur, even if I did have it?” T’rev asked as he turned his attention back to the window. “You’re alone up here, your people are all being watched. You have no leverage on me whatsoever.”

“Oh, I never said you were going to give it to me. Just that it would be given to me,” she replied with a smirk on her face that could have powered a warp core. She felt so alive making such a cocky move as this. “See, Mr al-Jabir is going to give it to me.”

“And what makes you think that he’s going to betray me and give you a gem which you can’t ever confirm I have?” T’rev asked, anger back in his voice, though she had to give credit to vulcan emotional control for keeping it so well hidden.

“This,” she said and raised her hand, fingers ready to snap. She waited till T’rev turned again to face her, his confusion at her hand gesture, then she snapped her fingers.

She thought it was dramatic at least.

Everyone’s attention was on her, a snap of her fingers, then everything started to play out.

“What was…” the rest of T’rev’s words were cut off by a soft gentle alarm coming from his desk, like a songbird seeking attention, then the shrill whine of a klingon transporter washed over the room as the ethereal red light snatched the vulcan away, leaving just Sidda and Mr al-Jabir alone in the room.

“Now Mr al-Jabir, how about we talk?” She walked over to what could only be T’rev’s chair and proceeded to settle herself in it, fixed her dress and kicked her feet up on the table, making sure to remain modest of course, as much as she could be in this thing. “And bring that blue bottle over would you?”

****

“Communicators are generally frowned upon on Royal Station. Too many possibilities for coordinating plans of action and such. But we’re not going to use a traditional communicator. Bones is going to bring a modified flask with her since no one is going to part a doctor from her liqueur, especially not at a casino. Inside T’Ael and R’tin will have hidden very basic communication device, basically only able to give a signal pulse.”

“A go signal?” Deidrick asked.

“Precisely. We’ll eventually do something to piss off LPK when we’re ready. Hopefully not before you’ve taken engineering. Once I’m in his office I’ll take a spot by the window. Bones will flash something shiny near a light to put a spot on the light when she’s ready.”

“Mirror, easy,” the old doctor said, having been in the back of things this whole time.

“Spot on. When you see me Bones, get your transmitter ready, flash some light when you’re good to go, then wait for my signal. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Mind detailing that a bit more boss?” she asked.

“And ruin the moment? Trust me. You see it, you hit the signal. You’ll have a receiver Deidrick on you and when it goes off you kill the power to the transporter inhibitors.”

“And then what?” R’tin asked

“Then we beam LPK right off of his own station and into a brig where he can rot. That done, I then negotiate with his lieutenant. Bing bang boom, he opens the safe, we take a few things we want, then we leave.”

“Boss,” Orelia chimed in, “what if his lieutenant proves to be…disagreeable to the terms of his promotion?”

“Well…guess we’ll need a plan B then, won’t we?”

“What do you propose?” al-Jabir asked as he sat the bottle of romulan ale down on his boss’s desk, then carefully sat himself down in his customary seat.

Sidda smiled, reached over to grab the bottle, tossed the stopper back to al-Jabir and took a swig straight from the bottle. “All the goddesses in heaven how old is this?” she wheezed out after the ship, inspected the label with a whistle and set the bottle down like it was the most fragile thing in the universe.

Oh, she was going to be keeping that. And any other bottles lying around.

“Simple enough Mr al-Jabir. Give me the Star of Galur, a ring that I know is in the vault because it’s very public knowledge that T’rev bought it at auction, ten per cent of the hard cash reserves, every slaving asshole on the station and I’ll give you the keys to the kingdom.”

She watched the man for any sign of emotion, his mask regained after his earlier display and saw none. He was a blank slate as he stared at her for a full twenty seconds. “And our Sovereign, what will become of him?”

“Oh, he’s mine. Figure I’ll drop him off with Starfleet, they can send him to whatever penal colony senile old Vulcans go off to. Of course, he pisses me off he gets to go for a long walk outside.” She watched again for any emotion, any tells whatsoever and saw none. “That going to be a problem?”

“I’d prefer the latter option. It’s easier to sell the story of him going into seclusion after your brazen sacking of his station.” His tone was well-modulated. Clearly working for a vulcan had rubbed off on him.

“Mr al-Jabir, how duplicitous of you. Pretend to be the Last Pirate King, is it?” She rose to her feet and walked over to the window, the same spot that T’rev had been in before being whisked off to one of her brigs. “I can’t promise that, but if he happens to get to Starfleet, I’ll ask them to keep it quiet.”

“I can work with that. And what of the slavers?”

“Most I’ll deliver to Starfleet, a handful to the KDF and the Free State. Need to build some goodwill with respective parties. Two of them I regret will succumb to injuries, likely complications from previous injuries escaping jails before.” She spun around to face al-Jabir, still in his seat. “So sad.”

“Indeed.” Again, he stared at her for nearly ten seconds, clearly studying her as well. “And if I refuse this offer?”

“I beam out, my people too, and then I indiscriminately start firing. Shame your primary power generator will explode shortly after my saboteurs depart.” She grinned confidently, then sauntered forward to sit on the edge of the desk. “But that won’t happen because you’re a practical man. You’ll go fetch me my prizes and then take the throne.”

He nodded, then slowly stood. “Would you like your closer acquaintances seen here m’lady while I fetch your fee for services rendered?”

“Sounds lovely. Oh, and if there are more bottles of this fine vintage in the vault, I’d love a couple more.”

“For you m’lady, I shall make all the romulan ale available.” With that al-Jabir bowed respectfully and then departed the room.

As soon he left she was around to the computer console and bringing up station comms, hailing the Rose. “My gun, now, please. And how’s our guest?”

Naroq was the one to answer her call. At least she hadn’t taken to sitting in her chair. With a wave of her hand, someone was calling down to the transporter room. “His Pointy Earedness is meditating. Hasn’t said a word outside of ‘indeed’.”

Her disruptor, not the one sitting in the cloakroom, but her actual favoured weapon materialised on the desk and was quickly back where it belonged at her side. “Keep a lock on everyone. I still expect a double-cross.”

“Wouldn’t be profitable to lose you, captain.” Which was the closest thing a ferengi could say to ‘you’re irreplaceable’ Sidda thought to herself.

Not five minutes later her team, save those six down in engineering, were shown through to the office. The casino floor looked no different, clearly, the news wasn’t spreading outside of these walls. A testament to T’rev’s people not asking questions and al-Jabir’s seeming willingness to take a promotion being offered to him from outside.

Revin approached, glared at the weapon on Sidda’s side and closed for a kiss. “I was worried.”

“I know love. But hey, it’s all working out better than I could hope.”

“Beware the flawless plan, for you’ve fallen into someone’s trap.” Revin hugged her tight, another kiss on the cheek, then stepped behind Sidda to place someone between her and the door.

“You know, Romulan idioms always seem sinister,” Orelia quipped as she started to inspect the office. “Don’t you have any cheerful ones?”

“Fear not the confident man, for he has a plan and can be predicted. Fear the fool, because how can you predict what he’ll do when he doesn’t know himself,” Revin offered with a shrug. “I’m sure our engineers know some, but alas, my father insisted on the philosophy of statecraft.”

They whiled another ten minutes before the office door opened and in came Mr al-Jabir with a small cart. One large crate occupied the cart, with two small beautiful wooden boxes on top. One was larger than Sidda’s hand, made of a fine dark redwood and emblazoned with the crest of a betazoid noble family on it. The other was small, easily able to hit in her hand, a cube in shape and its pitch-black wood was marred only by the dark grey veins through it, the separation line across the middle and the crest of one of the finest jewellers of Old Romulus across the top.

“Ten per cent of the physical latnium reserves, one Star of Galur, authentication papers,” he indicated the box while handing an actual envelope over to Orelia as she approached, “and one Ring of Chula, as requested. Sadly, no authentication papers to support that this is the legitimate Ring of Chula m’lady.”

“Oh, we’ll make do Mr al-Jabir, don’t you worry about that.” She stepped forward and took the ring box, popped it open briefly to ensure contents, then walked over to Revin. “Hold this and don’t open love. It’s important.”

Her response was Revin grabbing the front of her dress and pulling her in for a kiss before turning her loose to try and regain her bearings. “A yes would have done,” she whispered.

“That was more fun.” She couldn’t argue with Revin’s answer.

A blink, then a wink to her lover and she turned back to then inspect the other case. Best to make sure the goods were there before leaving. The cash they could count later and she had to trust al-Jabir to give them something but to try and swindle them whatever he could.

The case was beautiful but plain, not a piece of art, merely the vessel of such. Inside, sitting on a black velvet mat was an absolutely stunning necklace, its platinum links studded with their own gorgeous gemstones, all paled however by a blue diamond nearly three centimetres across as its centrepiece, cut in the single most perfect ball cut that Sidda had ever seen in her life.

She couldn’t help but whistle, then show it off to her crew briefly before snapping the case shut and setting it back down. “And the romulan ale?” After all, the gem was going elsewhere, the ale was for her. Priorities had to be maintained.

“In the case with the latnium. Four bottles, none less than eighty years old, none aged for less than thirty years.” al-Jabir’s tone was flat like a waiter just reading off the wine selection at a restaurant. “I trust then Captain that this concludes our arrangement?”

“The slavers,” she reminded him.

“Oh yes.” He produced an isolinear chip. “All their biometrics. You should be able to isolate them upon returning to your ship and remove them from the premises.”

“This doesn’t contain some sort of computer virus that will disable my ship and leave me defenceless, would it?”

“I find their sort equally distasteful m’lady and would prefer not to hinder your removing them.”

That didn’t answer the question directly, she mused to herself before holding it up. “T’ael, mind checking this for me on that computer over there?”

“Aye ma’am,” the romulan woman replied. Less than a minute later she pulled the chip out. “All good. We’re good to go.”

“In that case, it has been good doing business with you Mr al-Jabir, may the crown rest firmly on your head. We’ll need a few minutes to help with your slaver problem before we depart.”

All she got was a head nod from the man before she communicated back to her own ship to begin transport. First the loot, then Revin and a handful of others, then her and those left. She stepped off the padd just in time for Deidrick’s team to reappear. “Start transporting the prisoners to the brig,” she ordered to the transporter chief before leaving, marching with most of her team to the bridge.

Just a few meters short of the bridge door an all-ship’s whistle got her attention. “All prisoner’s accounted for captain,” her chief announced for the entire crew to hear.

Before she could get a word in however the entire ship was rocked, everyone stumbling to stay on their feet. “That was weapons fire,” Orelia announced and broke into a sprint, doors parting for her with Sidda and the others in her wake.

“…Rose has stolen from our liege and kidnapped your fellows,” came al-Jabir’s voice from speakers around the bridge, obviously an open-comms coming from the station. The ship rocked again. “Our liege has levelled a bounty of one thousand bricks of latnium for the destruction of the Vondem Rose for this insult on his personage.” The comms then went dead.

“Helm, zero nine zero mark zero, full impulse. Get us into that storm,” she shouted as she bounced across the bridge as more weapons fire rocked the sturdy klingon ship. “Shields to maximum!”

“Aye ma’am!” repeated acknowledges echoed as people took over stations from juniors as Vondem Rose spun and moved away, leaving the safety of the gas giant’s magnetosphere and into the raging ion storm outside.

“He betrayed us,” Revin whispered as she came up alongside Sidda.

“Bound to happen.” More fire rocked the ship and she reached out to steady Revin, then pulled her into her lap. “Fucking pirates!”

“Fucking pirates!” It rang out across the bridge, hung in the air, then was rudely broken up by another crash and wail of sirens as the ship lurched from another hit.

“Shields at eighty per cent,” Orelia announced from Ops.

“Storm in three,” Trid announced as the dark blue angry maelstrom of the ion storm surrounding the gas giant Rosalie consume the entire view screen.

Whereas the shots that had ravaged the ship had a firm, solid feel to each hit, the storm was somehow softer yet more insistent at the same time. There was no feeling of a firm pressure applied somewhere on the ship forcing it to buck but a pressure against the whole ship instead.

First came a solid wall, the ship hitting the boundary between the safety of the inner magnetosphere and the boundary layer where both forces fought. Soon this gave way to a constant rumbling, the ship buffeting constantly as the magnetosphere gave way completely and the ship was at the mercy of the storm. A crackle of lighting, static of the storm’s charge interacting with the Rose, lashed at the ship’s shields.

Sidda took a moment to think while she held Revin tight in her lap. They weren’t being shot at, so that meant either no one was following or no one could see them. Shields wouldn’t last long in the storm, but longer than if they were getting shot at as well. They needed a plan and a safe harbour till the storm faded before they could make a break at warp and get out of the system. Or even get the cloak online to skulk away.

“Quarters,” she said, helping Revin to her feet now that the ship had calmed somewhat. Inertial dampers had taken their time learning the current rhythms of the storm, and likely would lose it, but best make use of it. “Now.”

“Love,” Revin started to protest.

“Now,” she cut the romulan woman off and pointed to the bridge door. No doubt she’d have to answer for her tone later, but she had more than Revin’s feelings to worry about. Nearly 300 other people’s lives to be precise. The prisoners didn’t factor into it, they were just profit right now.

Revin stared her down for a mere moment, something months ago she’d not have been able to do, then relented, leaving the bridge with haste and like anyone walking around at the moment, with a hand firmly on a wall or other solid object.

As the door to the bridge closed, she was on her feet and beside her helmswoman in quick order. “Trid, check the sensor readings from when we arrived, plus any stellar catalogues we have. I want to know where the planets in this system were and where they should be right now. Then pick the closest with a decent magnetic field and get us moving in that direction.”

The bajoran woman looked confused. “How am I supposed to navigate in this mess?”

“Math, dead reckoning and the inertial log.” She had heard about the device somewhere in her life but never studied navigation though. Some sort of device for recording the ship’s movement by inertial moments. It wouldn’t be as precise as navigating by sensors, but in a storm, it would tell you if the ship was hit by x force for y time so you had some idea of how a ship’s course was impacted.

“Prophets, easier said than done,” Trid complained, but Sidda watched her pull up records on her console and start figuring out where the other planets in the system were in comparison to Rosalie at any given time.

Hopefully, that would work.

“Orelia,” she spoke, softer now after she’d crossed the bridge and was speaking to someone she knew she could trust implicitly. “Evac the crew from all outer compartments, get them into the core of the ship. If shields fail, I want them as safe as possible. Heck, blast doors and decompress outer compartments slowly as well, that way a breach doesn’t blow anything in a compartment right out either.”

“We need to talk too,” Orelia whispered. “About this heist.”

“It can wait.”

“Yeah, but once we’re safe you and me. I’d take this to Gaeda if he was here and not off on some errand.” Orelia’s eyes told her that this was serious, but that she knew priorities.

“Work with Trid once done. Find us a port in a storm and we’ll talk.”

“Could turn around and blast ourselves a safe harbour,” Orelia offered as she turned her gaze back to her console and started to bring up the evacuation procedures, thankfully in a decent language and not in klingon.

“Fucking tempting, but not every pirate in the sector was there. I want them to spread out, then we’ll throw the kebrin amongst the voles and watch as every pirate in the sector goes to war with each other. Starfleet is going to have a fucking field day.”

Orelia’s unhappy utterance told her that was probably part of what she wanted to talk about. Was it her plans for the pirate society in general? Her working tangentially with Starfleet? The utter chaos that was the ensure? Guess she’d find out sooner or later.

She patted her cousin on the shoulder, taking a moment to admire her muscles, gym life and a couple of klingons agreeing with her, then made her way to Orin who was studying his scopes like a hawk. “Cousin dearest,” she spoke, grabbing onto his console as the ship jolted once more from the storm. “Anything in this storm isn’t our friend, understood?” She waited for his head nod, then a quick hand sign of ‘Shoot first’. “Ask questions later,” she finished, grinning. “When this is all over, I want to speak with you and your girlfriend. Got an offer to make to her.”

The look on his face as concentration was broken and he looked straight at her with wonder was adorable. “Don’t you dare tell her,” she scolded, as best she could at her favourite cousin. “No! I forbid you telling her.” He grinned, shook his head side to side as he thought about it, then nodded in agreement with her.

“Good, now, back to those monitors. Anything looks odd out there, full disruptors till it stops looking odd.”

It took a few hours and more than a few bumps and bruises from the entire crew before the Vondem Rose settled into a very low orbit of a terrestrial world further into the system. It had no atmosphere worth mentioning but an incredibly large and active iron-nickel core, giving it an especially active magnetosphere. Not enough to completely deter the ion storm, but enough to allow the Rose to settle, lower her shields to let strained emitters recharge and more importantly not upset the galley staff while Kevak cooked hot meals for the whole crew.

And of course, meant that Orelia was able to drag Sidda off the bridge for a one on one. The conference room was free and nearby and so far, still a damn site cosier than Sidda’s ready room. Renovation budgets only go so far and it’s not like she used it very often anyway.

She settled into her chair and just waved to all the others for Orelia to take her pick, who opted to sit at her left as close as possible. “What the fuck is going on?”

She just blinked a few times at her XO, then tilted her head sideways. “About what?”

“I get the plan was to kidnap LPK, steal his loot too, but then you let the one guy who can rally that pack of bastards live. Goddess Sid, you could have shot him, waltzed off that station and they’d all still be playing at the tables till the storm passed.” Orelia’s right hand came down, finger jamming into the table. “We’d have slipped away unharmed, chaos on the station would ensue and they’d all be slaughtering each other since they couldn’t run away, trying to climb to the top of a pile of bodies.”

“Or,” she started, then stopped, eyes glancing to the trophy wall for a moment. “Or, I wasn’t out to get just get that pack of idiots back there, I’m trying to upset the entire criminal establishment in the sector here. The storm will pass, they’ll all go back to their holds, talk to those who weren’t here.”

“Exactly, then everyone in the sector will be after us. Not just them.” Orelia’s agitation was clear in her voice.

“Then we head back to the Archanis sector for a while. But think about it, once news of LPK in Federation custody breaks, what do you think will happen?”

“They’ll turn on…fuck me.” Orelia stopped, eyes going to the windows looking outside for a moment. “They’ll turn on Royal Station, but not as a whole, each either vying for the job or forming little fleets to get one of their own on top. They’ll pick each other off too.”

“Yup, then Starfleet will notice and step in. They’ll even find Royal Station once we tell them where it is, hiding in a magnetic eddy. And all the while, too busy to come after us. And those that do, well, we have a legitimate warship.”

Orelia’s grin was all-encompassing, her head nodding as she realised the chaos that Sidda was hoping for. “This all assumes the plan works.”

“Naturally.”

“Fuck bitch, you sure you’re not Starfleet Intelligence, or Tal Shiar, with a plan like this? Going pirate hunting, letting those same pirates do all the hard work for you before letting someone swoop in and clean up?”

“Take that back,” Sidda growled, but only able to hold it for a brief moment. “Could you imagine me in a uniform?”

“Don’t have to remember?” Orelia turned to point at the trophy wall, the picture of the USS Vondem on the wall, the stolen communicator with it too. “Damn that was a mind fuck.”

“Yah…” she agreed, trailing off.

They sat in silence for a few moments before being interrupted by a klaxon, one of the truly annoying, attention-grabbing klingon alarms. “Defence condition one,” a surly klingon voice announced for the crew before the klaxon resumed blaring.

“Fucking pirates,” Sidda said with a sigh.

“No argument here,” Orelia voiced as they both raced for the bridge.

“Talk to me,” Sidda said as she walked onto the bridge with Orelia at her back.

“Three raiders, two nausicaan, one orion.” The human at Ops said. “Few stray shots but guessing the magnetic interference is messing up their targeting.” He then stepped to the side as Orelia took station, then manned part of the console when she pointed at it for him to manage some aspect or another.

“Incoming hail,” Orelia then said before throwing it up on the main screen.

A brutish looking Nausicaan took up her screen, ugly even for an ugly species in her opinion. She recognised him as someone’s chief lieutenant, or head thug, whatever the day of the week was really, but couldn’t put a name to the face, though the name would probably scamper off given a choice.

“Captain Sidda,” the words worked past the spines and gnarled teeth of the man. “We’re here for our bounty. Surrender and I promise to ask my captain when I free him from your cells to only sell your crew into slavery versus spacing the lot of them.”

She rolled her eyes as she sat herself down in the command chair, turning to face Orin and holding up two fingers before looking back to the main viewer. “Our compliments on finding us. Give me a second to formulate a response.”

With a simple gesture of her hand, the confirmation sound of disruptor banks firing, followed by the thump-thump of two torpedoes rang out across the bridge and the viewscreen cleared. “Trid, evasive manoeuvres. Orelia, get Orin the best sensor lock you can. I want to end this fast.”

****

Everyone had a place to be during the midst of a battle aboard a warship save for Revin. She knew it was Sidda’s overprotectiveness, a holdover from when they first met and her condition up until recently. But she wasn’t as useless as she had been. Being sheltered, kept at arms distance in certain scenarios to protect her, was becoming starting to become something she resented. So, with nowhere else to go, save for her shared quarters as the ship traded shots with those out for blood, she instead made her way to the ship’s mess hall.

She’d never understood that term until she could actually see what a klingon mess hall looked like and scent alone had done the place justice. But Kevak had started to turn the place around and as she made her way to the recently rechristened dining hall, the door parting at her arrival, she was greeted by the sound of the large klingon man grumbling from the galley, along with the clanging of cookware, dominating over the sounds of the klaxon.

No door on the ship would deny her and that extended to the one leading into the galley itself as Kevak and his two assistants, and Orelia’s recent conquers if rumours were to be true, covered pots, secured cookware and cupboards, all while the ship rocked, sometimes violently as combat was had. She watched for only a moment before taking to the task at hand, avoiding the cookers, but attending to cupboards and cabinets, securing doors and drawers.

Kevak’s curse upon seeing her was short-lived as something heavy slammed into the ship and threatened a large pot, forcing the man to attend to it first. The klingon cooks all took to the matter with practised ease and secured everything in quick order before Kevak grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back out into the dining hall, the ante-chamber of his personal domain. “Princess,” he growled. “My kitchen.”

She rubbed at her arm when he let her go, to rub feeling back in and in disbelief that he had dared, a mere klingon male, to touch her. “My ship!” she hissed back at him quietly, defiance no doubt in her eyes, muted by their artificial nature.

“No, it’s Sidda’s,” he snapped back, but then seemed to deflate some as the name passed his lips. A jolt that nearly toppled Revin barely seemed to affect Kevak, a sturdy hand offered to help her balance, which she wasn’t too good to ignore. “What are you doing here? You should be in your quarters.”

“Room with a view,” she answered. The outer compartments had all been evacuated, including her and Sidda’s quarters. While a klingon captain took quarters near the heart of his ship, to be equally near everything, Sidda had opted for a compartment with magnificent windows and spent a fair bit of time and effort renovating it into a stunning suite, but alas with a flaw. “And the galley is far safer in combat, yes?”

Kevak chuckled at that, then indicated a seat for Revin to take as he leaned through the serving window into the galley, barking an order in klingon and getting a bottle of something blue in return, two glasses soon following. The colour of liqueurs was still something she was working on, but the smell hit her as soon as he opened it, just as another series of jolts gave pause to his pour.

“Kali-fal?” she asked, taking her glass and sampling the aroma. “How?”

“Your fiancé took a few bottles from the Last Pirate King and I bribed our local ferengi into giving me one.” His grin was downright predatory. “Now talk Princess or you’ll see no more of this bottle.”

She looked at him, trying to figure out this enigma before her. Klingons were brutes and warriors, honour bound with their primitive barbaric sense of honour, not true honour like her father had insisted her family followed. He bribed ferengi and cooked food, not picked up weapons and fought like some wild thing like she’d been taught.

And he was fat.

Not some muscle-bound, brain-dead threat like she’d been taught her whole life, but a fat, happy, wise, philosophical cook whom she’d come to at least admit knew his way around a kitchen. And gave counsel to Sidda as well. And if pushed could fight as she’d seen him do.

Her father clearly had never met a klingon she was beginning to realise.

And neither would she if he’d secluded her away as he had wanted, or that her life hadn’t taken a very interesting diversion a few years ago. Or more recently when he had finally taken Sidda’s offer up to get artificial eyes.

She stared into the glass, smelt the kali-fal, a drink she’d never actually tasted before, reserved for the men of the family she was always told, then downed it like she’d seen so many others do, swallowing it in a single gulp.

And instantly regretted it.

Her coughing had done nothing but give Kevak something to laugh at, a hearty, deep-rooted laugh that filled the room, bouncing off the walls and he took the chance to refill her glass before she could mount a protest. “You’re meant to sip it,” he said, the laugh still in his voice. “Stick with me Princess and I’ll get you drinking like a klingon. Now,” his voice returning to seriousness. “Talk.”

“I feel useless,” she offered as her throat burned. “More so than when I couldn’t see. Sidda treats me far better than my family ever would have, but still keeps me out of harm’s way, wanting to keep her prize safe.” She looked up at Kevak. “I’m still just a prize to her, aren’t I?”

“Foolish girls, both you,” he uttered before a sip of his own drink, then waited till she’d copied his action. The drink still burned, but not nearly as much. The aroma was overpowering, forcing its way into her nostrils and demanding to be paid attention to.

“You both love each other. I’m old enough to recognise it,” he continued, stopping her protest with a glare. “But you’ve had your eyes a few scant months. She’s still wanting to keep you safe in a hostile world. And you, you’re a prideful, stubborn, self-obsessed romulan.”

Her eyes went wide, her mouth may even have opened a little. How dare he? How dare he! And before she could demand an apology he started to chuckle, halting it with another ship of his own drink. “You want, need, demand to be important and of use. To take charge. Well, you’re not of use, you’re right. You’re a senator’s daughter and now a…vigilante’s love interest.” His last words just felt like a mask for others he’d wanted to use. “What skills do you have huh? Name them!” he challenged.

This was not the conversation she’d ever expected to have. Was this the type of counsel he gave to Sidda? Insults and challenges? The impertinence! She sat up straight, opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. Just what skills did she have? Her hearing was excellent, trained since a young age. Her memory was terribly sharp, her wit too when she felt like it. But what skills did she have that could be of use on the Vondem Rose.

With that revelation, the universe went quiet.

Though the klaxon ending might have had something to help with that, broken immediately by demands for damage control teams to move about the ship over the ship-wide comms.

“As I thought girl,” Kevak said, nodding triumphantly to himself. “Finish your drink. See to your woman,” he said, stoppering the bottle. “Be here tomorrow morning start of alpha shift.”

“Why?”

“You want skills, I’ll teach you. Cooking, cursing, fighting. Just enough to let you impress upon your fiancé that she should really find you a proper tutor in combat.” He finished his glass of Kali-fal with a final gulp. “Your people are insane to have ever made this drink,” he muttered with a shake of his head and then turned to curse back into the galley. The fight was done, now he had to return to the constant battle against empty bellies.

Start of alpha shift he had said. She nodded to herself, then took the last sip of her own drink.

She’d impress Sidda and horrify her father, a win-win.

She’d also need to brush up on her klingon too.

“Why!” A bang resounded throughout Engineering. “You!” Another bang, small place, same force. “Work!” A third bang, followed by the clatter of a dropped tool and a cry of frustration mixed with pain.

“I’ll get it,” R’tin said to the other engineers in Engineering as everyone looked in the direction of the yelling and the banging, none of them wanting to go and see why their chief was abusing a highly sensitive piece of equipment.

Ever since coming into possession of the Rose, Captain Sidda had granted dominion of the Fiefdom of Engineering over to her loyal subjects, T’Ael and R’tin, which meant the klingon Engine Pit had been rebranded rightfully as Engineering and been given the proper respect it deserved. That of course didn’t help with equipment aboard ship, which was still decidedly klingon and not something easier to work with, like Federation or Romulan engineering equipment.

Not that he or his sister had ever worked with romulan equipment, having been children when they were evacuated across the border into the Federation’s not-so-welcoming welcoming bosom. Neither of them had proper schooling or training in the field, both having picked things up when they managed to talk a freighter captain into letting them come aboard as new workers and from their entering an entirely new life.

T’Ael, far more than R’tin however, actually studied the manuals and processes for the equipment she worked on, versus R’tin’s more practical gut-feeling work. So finding his sister opting to bash a stubborn injector was a bit of a surprise to him. “Isn’t there a tool for that?” he asked of his twin who was now sitting with her back to the wall beside the open access panel and clenching her left hand.

“It’s fused,” she hissed at him, releasing her hand and checking the palm of her right, then showed him the green smear that was there. “Needs motivation to come out.”

He nodded in understanding and left her for just a moment, returning with a medkit and a standard engineering toolkit. “This fuse in that last firefight?” he asked he opened the medkit and threw a cloth at his sister so she could sop up some of the blood at least.

“Maybe,” she said. “We’ve never checked this one actually since we took the ship. It’s been working the whole time until that last fight. It could have fused in place when it was installed for all I know.” She threw the cloth down and took the offered dermal regenerator to the self-inflicted cut.

He wasn’t brave enough to ask how smashing a stuck injector with what looked like a hyper-spanner left her with a flesh wound, at least not where other ears could overhear her response. “I wouldn’t put it past the klingons to actually fuse them in place so they can’t easily be removed.”

That got a snort out of his sister, then he realised why – she was laughing at the stupidity that would have had to take place to come to that decision. And that then set him off with a slight chuckle. “This primary or secondary circuit?”

“Secondary,” she answered. “And yes, it’s shut off and purged.”

“Right. I’ll get a laser cutter then and cut this out, then slap in a spare.” He mulled over the engineering kit, selecting his tool of choice and looked over to his sister. “Go see Bones, she’ll patch you up proper.”

With some muttering T’Ael was on her way, taking the cloth to wrap her hand in just in case and a quick chance to muss up his hair. And a stop to tell off a couple of the new engineers about something. Most of the engineering crew might have been older, maybe even more experience, but they didn’t have the privilege of Sidda’s grace, at least not yet.

An hour’s job was rapidly turning into two, with a visit to stores, then the machine shop to make a modification to the new part because of course nothing would fit properly after a fusing incident, at least till there was a chance to shut it all down and properly rip the whole fixture out for a refurbishment. Just as he was finishing up, the door to the shop opened and a visitor he wasn’t expecting at all entered.

Jenu Trid, their chief helmswoman, wasn’t exactly who he’d expect to see here, let alone greater Engineering for that matter, but here she was. “Need to talk to you,” she stated, a tap to the door’s controls locking it too most at least.

“Uh, okay, but I don’t think we have time for confessions of unrequited love,” he quipped. The murderous look on her face was perhaps just worth it, but perhaps was pushing it? He’d try his luck later.

“Oh fuck off,” Trid said, then closed the distance, looking around the otherwise empty workshop. “What do you know about the prisoners we’re holding?”

“Slavers and murderers from all over the tri-sector area. And their chief financial backer for the last century or so.” He shrugged. “Captain has a good haul actually.”

“Yah yah, but I mean, what do you know about some of them specifically?” she asked in a near-whisper. “Just who have we got prisoner?”

“Slavers and murderers Trid, nothing more, nothing less. I’m surprised we even took them prisoner actually. Captain has a very dim view of slavers. Hostage-taking and asking for ransoms is fair play, slavery is right off her books.” He set the modified injector housing down and then looked her straight in the eyes. “Why you asking? You’ll get your share, don’t worry about that.”

“I’m not worried about my share,” she hissed, “I’m worried we might not actually have who we think we have. Can you get me the transporter logs? I’ll use them to check the public bounty notices biometric data and confirm all the details.”

“Trid, I think you’re worrying too much about it. Even if we caught a few that weren’t slavers, we took some nasty pirate folk out of business. Can’t you just be happy with that?” He knew he sounded exasperated, but he just wanted to get on with this task before his sister came down on him.

“Come on R’tin. Just this once?” She pleaded. “Prove me wrong. Prove I have nothing to worry about.”

He rolled his eyes, scooped up the injector and started for the door. “One condition,” he started as he unlocked the door.

“Name it.”

“Next civilized world we go to, buy me dinner. Just you and me.” Then he winked at her and left. He was pretty sure he could feel the daggers she stared back at him, but he’d check his back later for them.

The equivalent of yellow alert didn’t really exist on a Klingon warship. You were either ready for battle or you weren’t ready for battle. It was a rather simply duality of existence that seemed to work for the Klingons but was starting to annoy Sidda. Summoned to the bridge by blaring klaxons was she unashamedly dressed in a blue shirt, purple pyjama pants and fluffy pink rabbit slippers. “Shut that damn alarm off,” she ordered as the door behind her started to close. “And since we’re not getting shot at, what’s all the fuss about?”

Deidrick was sitting in the captain’s chair, she was guessing admittedly based on proximity to the vacant seat, and therefore the nominal one to report, which he dutifully did with a padd in hand, offered to her with the finer points. “Storm intensity is beginning to diminish and faster than the math says it should. There’s something else to it too.”

He guided her over to a console, the screens and interface set up in a manner she’d not seen before, but was quickly able to realise was a science setup of some sort. She’d need to find out which of her crew set this up and thank them for it later. “There’s this weird dekyon energy signature to the storm now, which seems to be having a dampening effect to the subspace energy signature we’ve been noticing.”

“Oil on stormy waters,” Sidda said as she rubbed at an eye, trying to wake herself up. A few blinks, then she leaned in closer to look at the data, not that it made much sense to her. She’d likely need to recruit someone that was gifted in this particular field of endeavour soon enough.

“An apt analogy,” Deidrick replied. “Starfleet?”

“Doubtful. No one lives in this system remember? It’s a pointless star with pointless planets, unremarkable in all the ways that aren’t important.” She stood up and offered him a faint smile. “Hence why it’s perfect for ne’er-do-wells to hide in because no one is keeping their attention focused here.” His head nod was all the agreement she needed. “Keep an eye on the storm and maintain combat alert for now. If we can see better, so can those ravenous assholes out there.”

“Aye, ma’am.” Deidrick started to turn away, then stopped and turned back. “If the storm lowers in intensity significantly, should we make a break for it at impulse and jump to warp as soon as we can?”

She nodded over a yawn, offered a thumbs up and waved him off before setting off for the door. The order was understood well enough. But now that she was awake, for only the best officers made the best decisions on five hours of sleep, she went in search of that glorious bitter life-essence that would let her think properly.

She knew that walking through the ship in her slippers would likely add to the rumour mill, but she didn’t care. Does the captain have rabbit slippers? Does the captain have clothing that isn’t leather or dark in colour? It’s true, pink as Karuvian seas! Fluffy as Lin’ru’s fur! Right Lin’ru? The crew could do with learning their captain wasn’t a hardass right? Not like she hadn’t run through the ship more than once while trying to dress anyway.

“Kevak! Coffee!” she shouted as she entered the mess hall, bereft of any patronage of any sort, though echoing with noise from the galley. A glance at the wall clock that had appeared one day above the serving stations told her it was an hour before anyone else would be here, which explained why no one was present. Then her brain reminded her that the alarm had likely sent everyone scrambling back to their quarters or duty stations after all. “Kevak!” she repeated, feet leading her towards the galley.

She was stopped however by a sight wholly unexpected, feet planting firm on the deck and her own eyes cycling through blinks. Blink enough and the scene would change, reality would reassert itself and all would be normal once more, yes? But that failed to happen and she was forced to face what was before her.

Revin, in perhaps the most casual clothes she owned, with an apron as stark white as fresh snow, standing in the door from the galley, with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a small plate with something she didn’t recognise on it.

It was honestly shocking. She tried to speak a couple of times, failing to give form to any words. Her Revin didn’t work in the kitchen. Her Revin was a princess, her princess, her love that didn’t need to work, but here she was, dressed and acting as a mere kitchen hand.

And bringing coffee.

“Sit down love before you fall over,” Revin said in that lovely tone of hers that sounded so much like a command wearing the guise of a suggestion. Soon enough both women were seated at the nearest table opposite each other, the cup and plate set before Sidda. “Kevak said you know the rules.”

“Weren’t you in bed when I got up?” she asked, just the smell of the coffee was enough to kick her brain into a higher gear. “You were there when I went to bed.”

Revin’s smile was just delightful as she indicated the coffee, which Sidda lifted and sipped at with gusto. “I’ve been up for an hour now love. I’m Kevak’s new apprentice.” Revin’s posture went perfect, her chin even lifted slightly, taking pride in that announcement.

“But you don’t need to be,” she said after a sip. “Love…”

“I need to do something Sidda,” Revin cut her off. “I’m tired of just being a doll. Something you parade around when you need to and put away when required.” She met Sidda’s gaze firmly. “I love you but I need to do something.”

Sidda’s only response was to look Revin straight on, then set her cup down and reach for the other woman’s hands, collect them in her own and offer a slight kiss to the back of Revin’s hands. “I…I’m sorry. You aren’t some doll, you’re my heart. And if this makes you happy, then do it.”

“I also want to learn to fight,” Revin stated calmly. “Properly, and not from you. You’ll pull your punches.” She paused, then pulled her hands back slightly, to pull Sidda towards her, changing the dynamic of the table. “Orin can teach me.” Revin pulled again. “Deidrick will teach me to shoot.” Then once more, though tightening her grip so as not to lose her hands, forcing Sidda to lean forward slightly uncomfortably. “You can teach me to dance.”

“Uh,” was all she got out in a slight stammer before Revin silenced her with a kiss. The kiss lingered for a few blissful eternities before she broke it, sitting herself back down. “Yah, uh, okay Revin, if that’s what you want.”

Retreating to the coffee once more she took one whole sip before setting it down in a hurry. “Wait here!” She was on her feet and out the door in a hurry, through the corridors of the ship at a sprint and back again just as fast. However long it was, it was long enough for Revin to start eating one of the round bread things she’d brought out for her.

Avoiding skidding to a stop in front of Revin, she dropped to one knee beside the romulan woman and presented the ring box she’d taken from The Last Pirate King. The confused look on Revin’s face was priceless. She’d already proposed, what was she up to now? She couldn’t help but smirk at Revin, then open the box to reveal the contents inside.

The box itself was a masterpiece of simplistic design, a contrast to the contents. Nestled inside the black velvet sat an intertwined platinum band upon which rested a small but intricately wrought bird of prey, holding two emeralds in its claws and minuscule rubies for eyes. Diamonds rested on the tips of the feathers rendered in the same platinum. Truly a piece of art.

Shame it couldn’t be verified without either the papers or the original creator, a man dead over a century now.

“It’s beautiful,” Revin whispered. “But why?”

“Because that simple band doesn’t do you justice,” Revin indicated to the engagement ring she’d already given Revin. “But when I found out T’Rev also had the Ring of Chula I just knew I had to move up my plans.”

Revin studied the ring a few moments more than reached forth and quietly closed the box. “This is a wedding ring.”

“I’ll steal something grander for that.”

“No, you’ll give me this on that day.” Revin’s response was commanding, then followed with a smile. “You went to all this trouble, this plan to kidnap T’Rev and damage the criminal element in his sector all for a ring?”

“Sweetie, I’d rally a flotilla of warships and raze the quadrant like orion raiders of lore if I thought it’d make you happy.” And she meant it. But she shrugged, smiled. “Maybe another time.”

“Yes, maybe another time.” Revin leaned forward and kissed Sidda on the forehead. “Finish your coffee and split muffin, whatever that is. Put this back,” she indicated the ring box. “Then perhaps get us out of this system in one piece?”

“Yes ma’am,” Sidda said, stealing another kiss before she let Revin return to the galley. Kevak’s complaining about her absence was to be expected, but what caused her to spit her coffee across the mess hall was the string of klingon expletives she heard with Revin’s sweet voice.

“We should meet up.”

A simple enough message that could bring with it terribly or fortuitous news. The former the sort that was best said in person, delivered with the warmth of the messenger in the room as they break world-shattering news upon the recipient. The latter was in their line of work the sort best kept off of subspace and out of the prying ears of the local authorities, least they decide they too wanted to get involved and turn a spot of fun into a spot of bother.

Gaeda’s message had only reached them just as they managed to leave the system at high warp, having dumped a few probes to emulate their drive signature for a while yet. Best to leave those still seeking al-Jabir’s bounty looking where the Vondem Rose wasn’t a while longer. The message received, a rendezvous had been set, far from shipping lanes and prying eyes, though both ships had approached under cloak, only decloaking long enough for Gaeda to beam over from the Martian Thorn.

“I should get myself a bigger ship,” he said, throwing himself into what was his chair at the briefing room table, situated all the way at the far end from Sidda. Though it wasn’t that far, she did miss having Gaeda as her right hand but knew she’d made the right call to give him the Thorn after they’d salvaged her.

“We’re thinking of converting some of the unused compartments into a bar.” That got the expression she wanted out of him. Jealousy and contempt before Gaeda stuck to a truly childish follow-up – giving her the middle finger. A human expression she at least recognised. “Hey, just because the Rose has the space, doesn’t mean you should get mad.”

“I want a bar.”

“You can have a stool, all yours. Vaporise anyone you find sitting in it.”

He mulled it over for a moment, then accepted it with a head nod. “Might just settle for stunning and dragging them off my seat though.”

“Shame. Random vaporisation might be good for crew obedience,” she joked. “You said we should meet. What’s up?”

“Okay, so we ran that errand as you wanted. Got the intel on Senator Towh you wanted but got something else as well.” He slipped an isolinear chip on the tabletop from a pocket and sent it skittering down to her. “Turns out the Last Pirate King isn’t just some random pirate who’s been harassing the space lanes for eighty-odd years. Turns out there’s a very real possibility that he’s possibly ex-Starfleet.”

That got her attention and her attention went from the chip in her hand to then looking for the nearest port for the chip. The viewscreen she’d had put in contained an array of inputs under it, able to accept the preferred data media of all the major and minor powers of the galaxy for the last fifty years. No need to look for adaptors or hand it to someone to load into the computer when it could be done straight away.

Soon enough the data was displayed before a now standing Sidda and Gaeda, looking over what frankly looked the ravings of a madman. Conspiracy thinking, tenuous links between news articles, pictures, reports of pirate activity. A missing Starfleet ship, the vulcan XO never recovered, then piracy in the sector taking an upbeat.

“Goddesses and gods,” she said, trying to make sense of what was in front of her. “We need a better source if this is how he organises his information.”

“No argument, but I’ve spent the last few days reading it. It’s not iron-clad but compelling. I’d wager that Starfleet is going to give a better reward for LPK, especially once they know who he is, then anyone else will.” Gaeda held his hands up with a boyish smile. “Be nice to have more favours with our favourites. Maybe talk them into offsetting our maintenance costs going forward? After all, we’re armed merchants, yes? Need to respond when they say jump, can’t do it if we’re in trouble.”

The entire possibility was intriguing and one she’d have to give some more thought on, but Gaeda’s proposition had merit-a-plenty to it. Yanking the chip out she pocketed it and led Gaeda through the ship towards the brig, slowing once past the guards posted to let him take in the magnificent bounty they’d collected, evening going so far as to label some of the cells. Yes, it was a little zoo-like, but she’d specifically only kidnapped and imprisoned the slavers and murders. They deserved far worse than to be put in cages, but again, she was willing to use them as barter than just shove them out an airlock.

There was no internal debate if her actions amounted to little more than the slavery these fiends had practised. She wasn’t sending them to work to death or fight for the enjoyment of others or a variety of other far less pleasant scenarios, she was handing them over to the self-proclaimed moral authority in the region to let them sort it out as they’d no doubt relish in doing.

But in the end, they came to the centerpiece of the brig, a single cell with guards of its own, the only resident being an elderly Vulcan male, in the same robes he’d been taken in, sitting on the floor in meditation. “Captain Ruiz, I present to you T’rev, of the house Sh’rel of P’Jem.”

Her voice had broken the vulcan’s silence as he looked up and studied his visitors. “Your first visit to see me since taking me from my home is to show me as an exhibit to your underling. I think, Captain Sadovu, that speaks more for you than it does for me.” His gaze, emotionless and cold, turned to Gaeda. “Kill her, release me and I promise you can keep everything that is hers and be on your way.”

“Oooh, tempting,” Gaeda said, then cocked his head sideways. “Just kill you boss or vaporise you so the whole crew can breathe you in?”

“Oh, the latter of course. I want people to choke on me. Irritation in the eye, asthma, the whole lot,” she replied, closing her eyes and holding her arms out wide dramatically. “Just make it quick.” The scene lasted for only a moment before Gaeda chuckled and she joined him.

“Joke all you wish Captain Sadovu, but I will have my revenge,” T’rev said, then closed his eyes, returning to his meditation.

“I’ll let Starfleet know that when we hand you over. I’m sure they’ve got some extra deep holes they can throw you in.” Not even a twitch in response. Taunting Vulcans was never any fun.

Soon enough they were out of the brig and walking the corridors once more. “We’re still figuring out who’s paying the most for each of our guests,” she said with air quotes for the last word. “But when we do, we’ll start dolling them out and collecting bounties. Might be able to afford those salvage platforms and to hire actual salvagers for the truly legitimate side of the business.”

“You’re serious about this?” Gaeda asked. “Actually running a business instead of the thin cover everyone knows it is?”

“Yup. I’m thinking we relocate headquarters to one of the worlds with a large romulan refugee population, then hire locals to fill out the numbers under a corp of actual salvagers we recruit. Na’roq has the business plan all set and ready for a presentation to all the shareholders later today. We make some profit, spread it around a few refugee worlds and improve their quality of life.”

“And,” Gaeda continued, “end up with a sympathetic population willing to hide us or help us if things go a little sideways.”

“And embarrass the Federation while we’re at it.”

“Not bad, not bad. Though we’ll need that seed capital you were talking about. And which world are you thinking of? Because I know of one where they have actually built that statue you drunkenly asked for.”

Sidda stopped, reached out and spun Gaeda around. “Seriously? They built it? Is it five meters tall? How do you know?”

“Boss!” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I only found out yesterday. A friend there told me. I got photos. Let’s crack open a bottle of something and I’ll show you the pics.”

“Okay, but then I want to tell you about an idea I had this morning. See, I’ve been thinking I need a chair with lumbar support and I know just where to get it…”