“Afternoon Boss,” Gaeda Ruiz said as he vacated the command chair. “Just coming up on Meltek II now. Dropped cloak an hour ago so Sumesh’s people would see us coming, as they dictated last time.”

“Half a mind to put a torpedo up his backside,” Sidda muttered, just loud enough for it to carry to all on the bridge of the Vondem Rose. “But Magistrate Krin doesn’t need that mess.” She hadn’t settled down yet, just watching the green and purple marble on the viewscreen before her, the white banding around the landmasses hinting at mountain ranges and dominant wind patterns and just cresting the terminator was the baleful mass of a cyclonic storm. Thankfully far from the northern settlements.

Meltek II wasn’t the most populous of Romulan colony worlds, settled late in the Star Empire’s history thanks to better candidates near the shining jewel of Romulus or its proximity to the Neutral Zone. But pressures won out in the end and the world was settled just in time for the Star Empire to collapse, then collapse again just recently after an abortive attempt at reforming. The little world, with barely a few million people spread across two large landmasses in the northern hemisphere, suddenly found itself involuntarily independent.

Its placement between the so-called Free State and the Republic doomed it to remain so for now as the two powers circled each other, each waiting for the other to make the first mistake. And as such, it had fallen under the ‘protection’ of a band of Romulan Rebirth prats who were only too happy to tax any trade going in or out of the colony. Meltek II wasn’t known for much, but for a few discerning customers back on Kyban, some of the planet’s game had become quite the delicacy.

And if you desperately wanted to trade with a world that had found itself with such dubious protectors, who better to hire than an armed merchantman? One that was capable of convincing the local bullies to just let her pay the ‘taxes’ and do her business. It hadn’t been the smoothest of relationships, but in this line of work, you learned sometimes you had to deal with unsavoury types.

“No, he does not,” Gaeda replied with a slight chuckle.

“Any hails?” she asked as she finally sat down, crossing her left leg over her right, then idly tapped at one of the controls in her ‘salvaged’ chair’s control panel, the chair adjusting from Gaeda’s preferred settings to default she’d had R’tin program in for her.

“Not a peep,” Orelia answered from Ops. “But I am getting something odd in orbit. Indeterminate sensor readings. Duranium alloys, other metals, crystallised gasses…debris,” she finally declared, punching in a few controls and bringing her findings up on the main viewscreen.

A box appeared in orbit, expanding to fill a good portion of the screen, zooming in on a scattering of debris tumbling through the void. The dull green of Romulan construction couldn’t be missed as the trail of debris slowly passed out from the planet’s shadow and into the glaring light of the system’s primary. “Enough debris for three Romulan frigates spread across a large orbital arc. Signs of weapons fire. Assuming what’s on-screen was just one ship and how far it’s spread about in orbit, I’d say this took place nearly two weeks ago.”

“Closer inspection of the debris would help to narrow that estimation.” Tavol’s calm tones floated across the bridge. Sidda wasn’t sure how that man managed to sound so calm and quiet yet project his voice so well. Vulcans must have voice projection as a primary school subject, or else Tavol had a history in the theatre she desperately needed to know about.

“Or we can simply ask the locals,” Orelia challenged.

Mulling her options, she looked up at Gaeda, still just standing there beside her. His shrug was less than helpful and a glare in response just earned her a playful smile from him. “Your call boss, but Sumesh did warn us last time that if we call the magistrate before speaking with him it wouldn’t end well.”

“Yeah, and so have a lot of bigger prats in the last year or so and look where I am now.”

“All hail the pirate queen and my rescuer?” he asked.

“Pre-emptive nautical salvage merchant queen. And it’s all totally legitimate.”

“Oh yes, my bad,” he replied. “Orelia, hail the magistrate’s office, please. Let’s check in with the locals.”

It took nearly fifteen minutes before Magistrate Krin finally appeared on screen, by which time his lovely little town was just coming into a new day and the Vondem Rose was just entering orbit after nudging debris aside as it approached Meltek II. “Oh, Captain Sidda, what a pleasure,” he said, his grandfatherly tone not an act he put on, just how he was. “I was worried another band of Rebirthers had shown up.” Dawn’s light was just spilling through the window behind him and over the township. He’d clearly been woken, opting for a fluffy bright blue dressing gown which looked completely fitting on a man in his twilight years.

“Sorry for calling in on you so early Magistrate,” Sidda apologised. “Just with the debris in orbit, we thought to call and check all was well.” She made a mental note to have words with Krin’s handlers when she could. They could have just told her to call back in a few hours, not wake up an elderly man early to deal with her. But some down below were still Romulans of old, not wanting to delay warning their superiors for fear of getting in trouble, or inversely not wanting to disturb them. There was it seemed a very fine line between the two and unfortunately Krin’s minders hadn’t learned to walk it.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that my dear,” he said. “I was already up, tending to my granddaughter. She’s been unwell you see, so Mirel and I have been helping out.” He suddenly sat up straighter, a smile on his face. “Oh! Why don’t you come and have breakfast with the family? Bring that charming fiancé of yours and Mr Kevak as well. I have a recipe I want to share with him.”

“I…” She had started to say something, then stopped. They’d visited Meltek II exactly three times now, stayed a few days each time and gotten to know some of the locals but she just couldn’t figure out then and there how her chef had somehow made acquittance with the planetary leader.

“Go on,” Gaeda said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “We’ll keep watch, you find out what happened and score Kevak a new recipe.”

And like any kindly grandfather that Sidda had experienced, mostly via some form of media or another, Krin smiled and clapped his hands, having heard Gaeda through whatever deal with dark powers he had made that granted him exceptional hearing. “Excellent. Breakfast is in an hour. Beam down to the same place as last time and Mr Jellik will see you to us.” And then to make sure no further argument could be made or had, the line went dead.

“But it’s afternoon,” Sidda complained to the viewscreen, once more showing the planet. “This is going to ruin my dinner.”

“Oh boohoo,” Gaeda chided gently. “Now get going.”

“So let me get this straight,” Sidda started, the pleasantries of introductions long past and a recounting of recent events over the start of breakfast just gone by. “Two weeks ago a gaggle of Starfleet ships swoop in, smash up Sumesh’s ships, take him and his people off as prisoners and then just leave?”

“Efficient,” came Kevak’s growl around a sweet bread that Krin had introduced him to, challenging the Klingon chef to work out all the ingredients over breakfast. Not a roll, not a slice, not a torn-off piece of the loaf, but the whole thing was gripped in one hand while his other roamed from dish to dish on the table, sampling all that was on offer with breakfast. His enthusiasm was met by Krin’s broad smile, the elderly Romulan discarding the near-racial dislike for Klingons in favour of appreciation for someone who enjoyed his cooking.

“Fff ow!” Sidda had barely gotten the first sound past her lips before Riven had jabbed her hard in the side, then nodded her head down the length of the table where Krin’s visiting family were seated. His wife, daughter and son-in-law were entertaining three children, none of them older than ten and seemingly happy, if not just a little off colour for one of them. The sick grandkid he’d mentioned earlier.

“Language,” Riven muttered, staring at her. “I know what you were going to say.”

“Sorry,” Sidda sheepishly acknowledged, then turned back to Krin. “That’s very unlike Starfleet. Didn’t stick around for a day or two, lend out some engineers to clean out the gutters or polish the floors? Rescue cats from trees, build a school or six? A brand new aqueduct you didn’t need or want?”

“Nothing. They just hailed us to let us know that Sumesh was in custody and wouldn’t bother us again. I was going to ask for help with our long-range communications tower, what with Sumesh being gone, but never got the chance before they moved on to whatever you young people are doing these days.”

She just watched Krin for a moment, his attention down the table at his grandkids while having this conversation. “Usually they’d stick around at least for a bit. They just can’t help but be helpful. Or put you in contact with someone nearby who could help. That whole building communities schtick they used to do. But they just…let you know they’d taken out the riffraff and then left?”

“Calling Sumesh riffraff is an insult to riffraff,” Krin said. “He was a bully and an Imperial patriot. But he was at least good to his word about keeping Meltek safe.” The old man had finished his small breakfast awhile back and was now chasing it down with the local preferred hot drink, something red and sweet and just a little too thick for Sidda’s liking, but which Riven had developed a taste for.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Sidda said and to which Kevak grumbled his agreement, before jotting down something on a piece of paper he’d produced from a pocket after he’d started eating. She couldn’t read Klingon but was certain he was merely taking notes to discuss with Krin afterwards when they could discuss real business – recipes.

“It is about what my people have come to expect,” Krin replied.

“It’s not who Starfleet are supposed to be though. Supposed to be annoyingly helpful busybodies who can’t help but get into people’s business. Your maintenance people should be complaining about how there’s nothing to do because those uniform stuffers fixed everything before they left.” She looked down, noticing she’d been idly moving things around her plate with a fork while talking. “Your long-range comms tower still needs looking at?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on you my dear,” Krin answered. That polite initial refusal that would give way after a few more offers and insistence it wouldn’t be a bother, they were staying a few days anyway. But then turn into a laundry list of other things her people could help out with.

A few days had passed, filled with unloading what they’d brought with them and then loading up on chilled produce. It kept a rotating number of the crew busy, the rest taking time on the surface when they could. There was only one fight she’d heard about and Telin hadn’t even started the bar brawl. He’d finished it at least. Him, Orin, Orelia and Kevak’s assistant chefs. Why anyone would pick a fight with three muscular Orions and two Klingons was beyond her, but no one was seriously injured at least.

The engineers had found themselves spread thin across Meltek II, supporting local engineers with critical infrastructure support. Power and communications primarily – enough to let the locals work and talk with each other better and then get on with everything else themselves. Most of it wasn’t arduous work, just work that had been slowed by a lack of spare parts – parts which Vondem Rose’s replicators had been able to assist with.

Parts that had her calling Na’roq and getting her to arrange a couple of industrial and medical replicators for eventual delivery to Meltek. Totally Legitimate Salvage Operators after all did have an outreach program and more than a few of the crew supported efforts to make them all look good and embarrass the do-gooders running around the local area.

Settling down in her office, an older Kolar Blight album blaring through the sound system just below a level that would cause hearing damage, Sidda had prepared herself for the unfortunate tasks of running a business – paperwork. It had to be done, demanded to be done least Na’roq or Gaeda chase after her. But she’d barely started when she’d been rescued by the chirping of her comm system, immediately muting her music.

“Sidda,” she announced as she pressed the blinking white button on the side of her low desk.

“Captain, there’s an Adjutant Velkir from the Vulcan Security Bureau wanting to talk to you.” Trid’s voice conveyed with it the confusion she now felt. Why would the VSB be calling the Vondem Rose at all?

“One moment.” She tapped at the padd in front of her, saving her current work, before switching to comms. “Put them through.”

The officious-looking man that popped up on her screen could have been any Vulcan she’d ever seen. Bland expression, boring clothing, same haircut. All perfectly ‘logical’ no doubt. “Captain Sidda Sadovu, I am Adjutant Velkir of the VSB.”

“Yes, I was informed,” she replied. “What can I do for the VSB? Business enquires do need to go through our corporate office on Kyban.”

“I am aware of that, but this is a personal matter,” he replied. As he spoke his face maintained that bland look. No lines or creases. He could have been anywhere between twenty and a hundred and twenty for all she knew. “T’Rev of P’Jem, son of Geltrin and Hilta, also known in less savoury circles as The Last Pirate King, has passed away.”

That took some of the wind out of her as she sat back. She’d kept him her prisoner for a while, trying to pry secrets from the man, before relenting and handing him over to Starfleet for the kudos. She could have done without the metaphorical pat on the end and the gold star next to her name, but if it made life easier for her and her business to be in the good books.

She’d kept the treasure for now though. Let the minor betazoid houses keep their centuries-old feud, she needed a desk ornament anyway.

“And I should care why?”

Velkir raised a single eyebrow at that, before continuing. “He had time enough to sort out a new will while he was in our rehabilitation program.” A program she knew he was never going to leave after the judge had passed sentence on him at his trial. But Vulcan’s didn’t have jails, just rehabilitation centres. Just jails with more group therapy and arts and crafts. “You are a named recipient of a package and a later.”

“What?”

“T’Rev has left you the contents of a deposit box from the Bank of Bolius and a letter to be delivered to you in the event of his passing. We have verified the box is not dangerous.”

“That’s not the same as safe,” she said.

“I fail to see the distinction.” Velkir waited just a moment more. “I was calling to inform you of this development as well as where you would like us to ship everything to. We are aware your ship does have a large theatre of operations and would like to expedite the receipt of your new belongings.”

“Send it to my corporate office and I’ll pick it up from there.”

“As you wish. I’ll make arrangements to have a courier vessel underway as soon as possible. Good day Captain.” The screen blanked, replaced with a maroon background and the symbol of the VSB for a good five seconds before it went completely blank.

She sat there for a few minutes, just staring into nothing before rising. T’Rev was dead. She hadn’t asked how or why, but it didn’t matter. The king was dead. Long live the queen. She’d orchestrated his downfall and ended him. His vizier had pulled off the deception for a while, but the open trial of T’Rev had ended that pantomime and Starfleet had cleaned up operations in and around the Paulson Nebula months ago.

She’d won.

So why did it feel like something was just on the horizon?

“Trid, call everyone back to the ship,” she ordered as she returned to the bridge, sparsely populated since they were just sitting in orbit. “I want to be underway in thirty minutes. We’re heading back to Kyban right away.”

“Uh, sure thing boss,” the Bajoran woman sputtered before she sent out the message. “Are we in a hurry or a hurry-hurry?”

“Once everyone is back, I want us underway as fast as you can and don’t bother with the cloak.”

“Geez, someone die?” Trid asked.

“T’Rev.”

“Seriously, a full office?” Sidda asked as Na’roq guided her and Revin into the conference room of the Totally Legitimate Salvage Operations offices in Banksy City. 

It wasn’t a massive office mind you, but larger than the hole in the wall she was expecting. It had grown from a mere face for her legitimate enterprises into a full-fledged enterprise, handling the operational aspects of salvage, freight and the new outreach program that she’d talked Na’roq into months ago. It wasn’t even that prestigious a space, sharing the third floor of a moderate high-rise with three other groups. But it did mean the conference room could have a balcony overlooking the nearby park.

“You told me to make this work and I have,” the Ferengi woman said as she followed Sidda and Revin in, the glass door closing behind them. “This a private conversation?” she asked, indicating the entirely glass wall between the conference room and the open-plan office.

“Nah,” Sidda answered, claiming a chair at the closest end of the table and giving it a quick twirl once seated. “Dammit, I’m going to have to cut you in on a larger share, aren’t I?”

And unlike every male Ferengi that Sidda knew, Na’roq didn’t jump at the chance to talk business and connive for a better deal. She was willing to wait for the right time to strike. The toothy grin she offered spelt trouble, trouble of the expensive kind, but ultimately good for business. If Na’roq was going to drive a hard bargain with her, Sidda knew the woman was doing the same for everyone else she negotiated with. A Ferengi with ethics was still a Ferengi and profit was above all else – just not at the detriment of that which earned you that profit.

“Well, I’m absolutely pleased with what you’ve done. I didn’t want to be as hands-off with this venture as I am, but hey, let talent do what it’s good at.” Sidda leaned back in the seat and popped her boots up on the table, earning a disapproving look from Revin, but not Na’roq. The boss after all was still always right.

“No boorish, floppy-lobed men telling me what to do or spreading rumours this far from the Alliance. People here are totally unprepared for superior business acumen. It’s like stealing profit from a Klingon.” Na’roq’s grin went from toothy to downright predatory. Then it shifted back to something approaching professional. “I have those industrial and medical replicators ready for shipping out as well. It’ll turn Meltek into a bit of a commercial hub in their area. Ripe for a cut of the business.”

“Trust you’ve got fair contracts written up?” Revin interjected.

“Ten per cent on profit only with a promise to reinvest at least half of it into local ventures.” Na’roq’s dismissing hand gesture conveyed her displeasure at the prospect.

“We’re not trying to make too much profit on this,” Sidda added. “Just enough to show we’re not bad people to work with. We’ll take them for what they’re worth with later ventures.” She could feel the glare from Revin, something the formerly blind woman was getting dangerously good at. “Within reason dear, I promise.”

“A topic for another day.” Na’roq’s key phrase for ‘I’m done talking about this for now’. Which suited both her and Revin. “Got a few other outreach program points I want to talk about before the courier arrives from the secure depot with your package.”

A few other points turned into an impromptu twenty-minute meeting before being interrupted. And soon enough it was just Sidda and Revin alone with a footlocker that was completely out of time and place. The privacy wall had been engaged, leaving them with no onlookers from the office staff.

“Lieutenant Commander T’Rev, USS T’plan-M’ruk,” Revin read out loud, reaching out for the latches, hesitating briefly with a glance back before popping them open and slowly lifting the lid. “He kept all of this?”

“This is new at least.” Sidda reached out to collect the datapad sitting on top of the pile of neatly folded clothing. It was from at least the last quarter century and snapped to life as soon as she picked it up. “The letter I was promised I presume.” Sitting back down she pulled up the only file on the padd and waited for it to open, taking a moment to decrypt after she provided her thumbprint to unlock it.

“Seriously, people wore these?” Revin dived into the container, pulling out items onto the table as she explored the artefacts of a man’s former life before turning to a life of piracy. Sidda looked up briefly, seeing her lover holding up the blue Starfleet tunic from around the 2270s, examining it before holding it up to herself with a questioning look. “Maybe?”

“If you ever wear that I will rip it off of you so fast.” Sidda’s tone wasn’t a friendly or flirty sort, but a serious one before her eyes went back down to the padd.

“Promises promises,” Revin replied before folding it carefully and setting it down, continuing her explorations.

“Captain Sidda Sadovu,” Sidda started, reading the letter out loud. She caught the smile on Revin’s face, a reminder of before she got cybernetic eyes and Sidda would spend hours just reading letters and paperwork to her back on the Vondem Thorn. “If you are reading this, then I am dead and you are still very much alive.”

“Stating the obvious there,” Revin quipped.

“I have bequeathed to you a reminder of my former life in order to remind you of yours as well.” She stopped for just a moment. “During the years I have known you, admittedly intermittently, I have learned a great many things about you that I know you don’t want the galaxy at large to know and hope the contents of this container serve to elaborate on the extent of the secrets I possess.”

“What is he talking about love?” Revin asked, still shuffling through the contents of the crate. The trinkets one collected and took from place to place now littered the table. A Vulcan incense burner, some candles, a collection of books – all that would have helped a Commander T’Rev claim a space as their own wherever they went.

“If you wish for these secrets to remain unsaid, then you will complete one last task for me. Once it is complete, then your secrets will be safe. If it is not done within two months of my passing, then I shall release all I have learned to quiet a few associates of mine. Enough to ruin you in your chosen field of expertise. Enough to earn you powerful enemies.” Sidda went quiet at that and set the padd down, looking to Revin, worry on her face. “And to make it interesting he’s hired Manfred to exact revenge and kill me for being the instrument of his downfall.”

“You did rob his vault, capture him, drag him around for a few months and then hand him over to Starfleet. What’s the job? And who’s Manfred?”

“Manfred is a psychotic killer who wants to die himself on the job but has become a bit too…proficient. Spent five minutes in a room with him once. Deadest eyes I’ve ever seen. As for the job, he didn’t say.” Sidda stood and stepped up beside Revin. “Must be a clue in here. He might be a cryptic old jerk, but he was always at least fair. Giving me a job and no hint wouldn’t be fair.”

“What secrets is he talking about?” Revin asked.

“No idea.”

“How about then love, you just start telling me your secrets?” The Romulan woman smiled, truly, heart-warmingly smiled. “I can be your secret keeper and you mine.”

“I…isn’t that…”

“A rather intimate thing for a Romulan? Certainly.” Revin’s rummaging stopped and she carefully pulled out a garment from the bottom of the foot locker, raising it to let it unfold itself. “But I have a feeling before we’re married, we’re about to become a bit more intimate, yes?”

What she pulled up was a Starfleet uniform, bright red with a splash of white piping and black shoulders, of a design retired nearly a decade ago with lieutenant junior grade pips on the collar and a commbadge still on the tunic. The cut was not the broad-shouldered cut of T’Rev’s own uniform, but a feminine one more in line with anything that Sidda herself wore.

Or might have done a decade or so ago.

“Oh fuck me,” Sidda uttered. “Fucking fuckity fuck!” She collapsed into the nearest chair, slouching straight away.

“Fuck.”

April 6th, 2385

USS Sarubaya

“With the Martian colonies burning and the near total destruction of all Martian orbital infrastructure, relief efforts for the Martian population continue around the clock. Surviving vessels meant for the Romulan relief task force are being repurposed for this effort as well as more and more Starfleet vessels arriving in system as we speak. With multiple transport liners and almost every warp-capable starship in the Sol system in Mars orbit currently, conditions are becoming chaotic amongst the rescuers.”

The reporter’s tone was clear, precise, and emotionless. It was as Vulcan as you could get without being a Vulcan. Behind them was an expansive window on some starship in orbit of the red planet, the space between filled with hundreds, possibly thousands of starships. Large Starfleet cruisers tractoring broken pieces of scaffolding or space station to higher orbits, and smaller ships were surrounded by a misting of lights as shuttles flitted in and out of bays conducting rescue operations. And more and more just taking up orbit, acting as dumping grounds for transporters plucking people from wherever and putting them in a ship that is nominally much safer.

“And roughly an hour ago, Captain Caldwell, Starfleet’s media liaison with FNN, confirmed that the entirety of 1st Fleet is being recalled to the Sol system at haste to assist with continuing search and rescue operations.”

“Thank you, Cindy,” a masculine voice cut in before the feed shifted to a news studio that could have been anywhere in the Federation. “We’re going live to Xiao Wei in San Francisco with a breaking development.”

“Thank you, Samuel. Yes, I’m standing outside the Federation Council Chambers where –“

“Computer, off,” came the barking order of Captain Eric Ortega, cutting over the deathly silence of the bar, and bringing the news report to a halt as the sound cut out and the holographic display instantly disappeared. Over fifty faces suddenly turned to face him. Some were shocked, others were ruddy-faced from crying, and others were just blank at the situation.

“We’re two hours behind on the news out here folks unless it’s come across a priority channel,” Ortega stepped in enough that the door started to close behind him. A hand grabbed a chair, pulled it out from under a table, and then stepped up on it to be seen by all. “And I promised all of you that if we heard anything I’d let you all know.”

“But captain-“

“But nothing Cobb. I know that at least half of you are supposed to be on duty right now and the other half should be sleeping.” His gaze swept over the masses before him. “Until I hear otherwise we’re going to continue with our assigned duties. And that means in six hours we’re dropping out of warp around Trellor and joining the USS Costa Rica in helping Romulan families pack up and ship out to Navinor. Am I understood?”

There was a murmur of agreement and understanding, but nothing that carried very far or with much enthusiasm. Then a clearing cough near the windows of the bar before a voice barked out for all to hear. “Is he understood?” It was phrased as a question but carried command with it.

“Yes sir!” came more than a few responses immediately, the second prompting getting the response Captain Ortega had sought.

“Right then, dismissed all of you. I don’t want to catch anyone just standing around watching the news again. Those not on duty get some sleep, you’re going to need it.” The captain stepped off the chair as the crew who’d gathered to watch the news together all started filing out of the bar, a few acknowledging the commanding officer as they shuffled out. And then as an Orion junior officer approached, consoling a couple of women about the same age, he held up a hand. “Hold up Sadovu.”

It was only a few more moments, a hug between the three women, one of the humans breaking into a sob before a young Sidda Sadovu passed her on to the other and sent them both on their way. “Yes, Captain?”

“Where did you learn to bark a question like an order?”

“My grandmother. And then my trainers in the Guard.”

“Hmm.” Ortega looked at the now empty bar, which looked fairly clean, everyone having been too focused on the non-stop news reporting instead of eating or drinking or socialising as they would have just over a day ago. “Honestly Lieutenant, I’m surprised you volunteered for this when you did. Cushy roll in a mostly ceremonial planetary force and then you volunteer for Starfleet duty just as we’re ramping up into a multi-year refugee crisis.”

“All part of my plan sir.” She smiled. “This is step three.”

With a flick of his head to a table, he sat himself down with the implicit invitation for her to do the same. “I should have asked this six months ago when you joined us.” He waited for her to sit before continuing. “I keep hearing about this plan of yours. What’s it for?”

“To get into Starfleet without my mother interfering in my career and make a name for myself.” Sidda sat, hands folded on the tabletop, posture perfect. “Captain Tisa Sadovu, USS Atreus.”

“Never heard of her,” he admitted. “But I take it overbearing, hovering parental figure who’d have been a shadow over your studies and career?”

“Yes sir. So I studied hard and convinced my grandmother to let me join the Vondem Republican Guard when I was just sixteen. Trainers there were expecting some dilettante who just wanted to wear a fancy uniform and filt around. Attend balls, official functions, that sort of thing. And with my grandmother’s pull on Vondem, they let me join thinking it would be easy work and would satisfy a well-to-do patron.”

“And weren’t ready for you.” He chuckled. “I’ve seen your training records, your VRG duty records and your testing scores upon your commission transfer to Starfleet. You’d have made an impression at the Academy that’s for sure.”

“The Academy notifies next of kin upon entrance. Especially when that next of kin is a respected officer. But as part of the transfer I was able to negotiate no notification. And I’d have had to wait an extra couple of years as well before I could even join.”

“So, step one is joining the VRG, step two was actually graduating, step three is sidestep into Starfleet. All in all, you’re about a year ahead of everyone else your rank.” He nodded in understanding as she nodded in the affirmative. “Many more steps to your plan of galactic domination Lieutenant?”

“Nothing so dramatic sir. Just want to get out there and help people. The next few steps are just working my way up the ranks until I get my own ship. Centre seat gets to do a lot of good things, sir.”

“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth.”

“Sir?”

“It’s… never mind Lieutenant.” Ortega stood, tugging on his uniform tunic as he got to his feet. “This attack on Mars has hit a lot of your crewmates pretty hard. The Friedman’s especially, but you know that already.” He looked at her shoulder where damp spots were still staining the black shoulders of her uniform a slightly darker shade. “No one thought something like this could happen to the Federation.”

“I just feel bad because I don’t feel bad about it directly. Sorry sir but I just don’t have the same emotional connection I guess with Earth and Mars. And now with all those ships destroyed our evacuation efforts with the Romulans are going to be hampered. The Sarubaya is going to be run ragged over the next few years with all the work ahead of us.”

“That she is Lieutenant, that she is.” He chuckled, then stepped towards the door, triggering the sensor and causing it to hiss open. “Plenty of opportunities for you to take those steps on your plan. Captain Sidda Sadovu has a nice ring to it.”

Late April, 2385

“Pardon sir, but this is bull shit.” Commander Brett Gavalore’s outburst had taken a rather dour staff meeting and turned it on its head. And more than a few other officers all nodded along, including a Lieutenant Junior Grade Sidda Sadovu. “We’re to just stop what we’re going and report to Starbase 318 immediately? Piss on that, we’re a day away from getting this convoy underway.”

“And it’s only a six-day escort to get them to Navinor safely too,” Sidda spoke up.

“And then it’s two months helping them unpack, get all the shelters built, make sure all the prefabricated infrastructure is in place.” Ortega raised a hand, cutting off the deluge of complaints his entire senior staff were about to throw at him. “I agree, which is why I spent an hour arguing with Admiral Sh’tuk. But Navinor is inside Romulan space and we’ve been ordered to remove ourselves from Romulan territory immediately.”

“This is rank cowardice on behalf of Command,” Gavalore spat out. “Screw them! We came here to do a job and I say we finish it.”

“A single Parliament-class cruiser, ill-equipped I might add, staying behind isn’t going to make much of a difference,” Doctor Shreln stated, her voice as always lyrical sounding. “And besides, the Federation Council has made its decision and the Romulans are giving us time to leave before they take over.”

“You mean the Star Navy steals whatever it can to help the aristocrats on Romulus retreat while they can once we’re not around to stop them.” Lieutenant Commander Duncan wasn’t the most skilled engineer in Starfleet, but he was committed and always saw a job through to completion. “Captain we should at least see this convoy on its way.”

“We’ve got orders, Frank,” Ortega answered. “Though I hear we’ve had some issues with our engines lately. May be best to run a level one diagnostic on all warp systems before a long haul back to 318 don’t you think?”

“There’s nothing wrong with -“

“Navigational sensors have been spotty too Captain,” Sidda interrupted Duncan, having caught on before the engineer, whose mouth and eyes opened in sudden understanding. “I’m going to need at least twenty hours to get the entire navigational team to finish off a level one diagnostic. Wouldn’t want to go warping off into the depths of the Star Empire on accident.”

“Engines and navigation you say.” Ortega smiled and then turned to face his XO. “Well since we’re stuck here until we can finish making repairs, perhaps you can entertain yourself and the rest of the crew Brett by helping out the good folks of Trellor for a few more hours?”

Early May, 2385

“Sarubaya, this is Costa Rica, please respond.” The voice over the comms was one the bridge crew was getting very familiar with – Captain Brandon Davids.

“How far out are they?” Ortega asked.

“At their current speed about an hour. And they’ve got a warbird riding shotgun with them too.” Gavalore didn’t sound pleased at all as he announced that piece of news to the bridge.

“Guess the jig is up then folks. No more delaying it any longer. Right, answer Brandon’s call before he starts spouting regs again.” That brought a single chuckle from most on the bridge before it passed, and then the viewscreen switched from the green and blue marble of Navinor to the bridge of USS Costa Rica.

“Captain Davids, nice to see you. Was wondering when someone might notice we’re missing. Wondering if you could give us a hand with a spot of engine trouble –“

“Save it Eric,” the other man cut in. “You’re disobeying orders. You all are. I’m here to escort the Surabaya back into Federation space immediately.”

“We’re busy,” Ortega countered.

“Not any more. The IRW Talon Sweep is taking over the Navinor relief work.”

“I’ve got people on the ground Brandon. So should you dammit. So should all of Starfleet. But instead, you’re here – “

“Here to arrest you.” Captain Davids’ interruption killed Ortega’s speech before it started. “I’ve got orders to arrest you and your entire senior staff for violating orders.” There was silence for a moment. “Dammit Eric, I don’t want to do this, but I’ve got orders.”

Both men looked at each other over the open channel for half a minute before Ortega spoke. “We should save face in front of the Romulans.”

“That’s what I was thinking too. Get everyone back aboard. Once we arrive we’ll escort you over the border before I send officers aboard. I can at least let you bring Surabaya home first.”

“Thanks, Eric. Just…tell me this is all bullshit.”

“It is old friend. We’ll be with you in an hour.” And then the channel closed.

“What now?” Gavalore asked.

“We do what we’re told. Costa Rica can force us if need be. Brett, start getting our people back. And beam down everything we can to those refugees. Sadovu, plot a course to the nearest part of the border you can.” The XO merely nodded and then stalked across the bridge to the turbolift, disappearing quickly.

“We did the right thing, Captain,” Sidda said.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions Lieutenant. Remember that.” Ortega stood as well, heading for his ready room. “You have the conn, Lieutenant.”

Early May 2385

“Sidda Sadovu, provisionally commissioned as a junior grade lieutenant in Starfleet after transferring over from the Vondem Republic Guard.” The man sitting opposite her in the bare room was the definition of bland. Average height and build, light brown hair, dark brown eyes, somewhere in the range of mid-thirties to forties. Yellow-shouldered uniform placed him most likely within the near all-encompassing sphere of Operations. No features that jumped out she could use if she had to describe the man. Probably ideal features for an interrogator sense his features would slip from her mind with time.

“A position in the guard which was secured by your grandmother, Senator Treka Sadovu, at your request and at a young age.” She’d gotten used to most people covering those details with a tone of contempt at the idea of naked nepotism. “But surprised your instructors with dedication and commitment to your task and studies, graduating forth in your class and being assigned to the guard ship Matron of the Stars.”

“Assigned to the USS Sarubaya as a helm officer upon your transfer and selected for the alpha shift by Captain Ortega in short order.” He was reading from a padd before him, idly flicking at it to progress the information though she suspected it was more to remind him of information he’d read already, or prompting him to bring up points in hopes of getting a response.

“Two commendations on record for meritorious service.” The man finished and then set the padd down in his lap, folding his hands one over the other on top of the padd. “A promising start to a career ruined by going along with your commanding officer’s decision to ignore orders issued by Command.”

“Sorry Commander, I missed your name when you entered.” It was a polite fiction she made up, placing the lack of an introduction on her and not on his simply walking into the room, sitting down, taking a minute of silence while looking at his padd before starting to talk. It was how she’d been taught by her grandmother, to be polite, and let others be the ‘better’ people in a conversation.

“No, you didn’t.” He wasn’t having any of it and that was his way of saying so. “Please don’t fabricate statements with me Lieutenant. And speak plainly and honestly.”

“Then how should I address you, sir?”

He hummed briefly; lips pressed flat in thought for a moment as he considered his answer. “Commander Carter Lynch.”

“And is there a question you’d like to ask me Commander Lynch, or further readings from my personnel jacket you’d like to read aloud for me?” She couldn’t help but smile as she crossed one knee over the other and set her hands down on her knee.

“Why did you go along with Captain Ortega’s plan to defy orders to return to Federation space?”

“It was the right thing to do,” she answered.

“The right thing to do was to return Surabaya to the right side of the border.”

“We had a convoy only a few hours short of shipping out. And then they needed help at their destination. We couldn’t just abandon them when they needed us.” She stopped to take a calming breath. No point spouting the fiction of engine issues, then sensor issues so deciding to go with the convoy to let them guide Surabaya. By now all the logs had been read anyway.

“You had orders.” He hadn’t changed his tone at all. She might as well have been speaking with a computer for all the emotions he displayed.

“We had principles.” That got a response from Lynch – an eyebrow raising a fraction.

“Interesting.”

After a few more days, a few more interrogations in featureless rooms with featureless individuals and eventually Sidda found herself reunited with fellow officers. At least those who had gone along with the captain’s plan without objection. Captain Ortega, Commander Gavalore, Doctor Shreln and Commander Duncan were all present, even given the honour of still wearing their uniform, sans a commbadge.

“Lieutenant, good to see you,” Ortega said at her admission through the room’s only door, standing to shake her hand. “Don’t suppose you know anything more about this meeting?”

“Wish I did sir,” she answered and took one of the two remaining seats when she could, Shreln offering her a smile as she sat down next to the Andorian woman. “Last few interviews were exceedingly random as well.”

“Nothing, Lieutenant Junior Grade Sadovu,” a new voice announced as the door opened to let in a grandfatherly man, his voice however crisp and clear, “is truly random within the walls of this facility.” The man walked as best as his age allowed him and sat himself down in the last seat in the room. “My people ask questions because they serve a purpose.”

“Starfleet Intelligence,” Captain Ortega grumbled. “Confirming we aren’t Romulan spies sent to bring down the Federation from within? Or that we hadn’t gone bush and sympathised with the ancient enemy?”

“But you and your senior officer had Captain,” the old man said with a smile. “Now, now, I don’t blame you. People in need, dire circumstances, the ability to help and the stereotypical Starfleet mindset of ‘do what we can where we can and then a little bit more’ meant the retreat order was always going to have problems. But the Council were thinking of the greater good of the Federation in light of recent events.”

“What do you want?” Gavalore asked. Blunt as always.

“I want to help a band of patriots keep doing what they want to do.” The old man’s smile was a weapon and from the looks something he’d perfected no doubt with a gaggle of grandchildren. He managed to radiate that helpful, friendly energy Sidda had only ever seen from her grandmother when she was busy manipulating someone into doing something they didn’t want to do.

“What are the conditions?” Doctor Shreln asked. Both of her antennae had flattened backwards against her skull.

“We have a list of assets and sources within the Star Empire still needing extraction. The cancellation of the evacuation by the Federation Council has hindered operations, but your situation presents me with an opportunity to rectify the problem and honour agreements Intelligence made in years past.”

“You want us to run extraction operations for you?” Shreln continued.

“I want you to run freelance, independent aid relief missions into the Star Empire and extract individuals of interest. Starfleet and the Federation ministries have all pulled back, but there will be efforts to help nonetheless. Medecins Sans Frontieres is already organising ships out of Kyban. A dozen other groups are springing up.” The old man then looked at Sidda. “I understand the Orion Syndicate have already run the border too.”

“I do not take kindly to insults,” she replied to him.

“Ah yes, you’re a Vondem Orion, I apologise.” He didn’t sound like he was. It was an intentional jab. “The offer also comes with a few perks to assist in your work. Your Starfleet dossiers will be scrubbed or made irrelevant as circumstances allow so you won’t run afoul of border patrols more so than anyone else running the border will. Unless you run into someone who actually recognises you that is. You’ll be granted a vessel and as much medical relief cargo as you can carry each run.”

He stood, with some effort, but still smiling. “No prison. No court-martial. You’ll be allowed to help people who truly need it, both the people that I want helped as well as those in proximity to them as you deliver aid supplies to refugee camps or however you deem fit.”

The room went quiet for a moment, then another, the officers of the Surabaya all staring each other down but not saying a word out loud. “How about I let you think about this offer and I’ll come back in a few hours. Any preferences for dinner perhaps?”

February 2401

“Wait, how old were you then?” Revin asked. She had sat herself down in Revin’s lap when the storytelling had started, keeping the bright red uniform in hand. Her eyes had closed, and she was listening, but her fingers had worked over the fabric, taking in the texture as she went.

“You know that different species mature at different rates, love. We’re not all the same.” Sidda had admitted defeat when Revin sat down, leaning the chair back just enough to kick one foot up on the table, then wrapped an arm around her lover’s waist. “But I was twenty-two standard years old.”

“And that was sixteen years ago,” the Romulan woman said aloud before turning her head to face Sidda, eyes open barely. “And your birthday…thirty-seven.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Genetics, dear. And I’m sucking the youth out of a gorgeous younger woman.”

“Promises.” Revin squealed at the pinch to her thigh but was then faced with silence, which she waited out and then spoke just over a minute later. “So, you were in Starfleet.”

“Provisionally. It was a trial period if you will. Was a single review away from making it permanent. My mother never found out. Then Old Man Higgins purged my records. Mother knows I was in the Guard, then left. Grandmama won’t spill the beans either. She’s pissed at both of us for not going into the family business and trying to run off into Starfleet.”

“And what’s the family business?” Revin’s question was genuine, with no prejudgement, or asking with an idea already in mind as to the answer.

“Politics. Mercantile business is what we have people for on Vondem. And how mother and father were introduced to each other. Grandmama arranged the marriage in order to secure father’s rather extensive business under her umbrella and tie it all together with me. Vondem might be a democracy, but oh boy are there power players pulling strings all the time.” She sighed, then dropped her foot off the table and gave Revin a gentle push to tell her to get up. “We need to go see Ardot. I need him to put some feelers out.”

“Manfried? Are you going to try and deal with him before he deals with you?” Revin asked as she started to pack the crate up, taking care with each article though with Sidda’s old uniform set aside, not packed first like it would have been the last time the crate was opened.

“No. Manfried’s a beast. Honestly seen him die more times than I care to think about. More times than me even!” She smiled at Revin’s shocked look. “I’m kidding. About me at least. No, I need Ardot to do some digging. We need to find Brett Gavalore and I need to settle things with that two-timing, backstabbing bastard and get some long-overdue vengeance. And this,” she pointed at the uniform, “is T’Rev’s way of telling me Gavalore pissed him off too.”

“Stabbing with a sword or shooting him with your disruptor?” Revin asked, finally lifting the red tunic off the table and starting to fold it.

“I’ll see how I feel when I find him,” Sidda answered. “Goddesses, those uniforms were so bright.”

“Why does Starfleet have so many uniforms?”

“Keeping fashion designers employed. Also, I heard a great theory from some lower-deckers once – it’s for the time travellers. They can tell where they are pretty quickly by what everyone is wearing. If they’re fashion historians at least. Those uniforms were common on California and Parliament-class starships in the early to mid-80s. Honestly think the newer ones are better if a bit dark.”

“I like the high-cut tunic some officers are wearing.” Revin set the uniform on top of the crate’s contents and then closed the lid. “Think you’d look good in one, to be honest.” She smiled, lopsided as her lips pursed to one side and that mischievous glint came to her eyes. “Maybe later?”

“We’d need to steal one. Or a replicator pattern for one.”

“You stole a captain’s chair from a supply depot without getting caught, love. You can steal some computer codes.” Revin checked the latches one last time, then turned around and reached out gently for Sidda, arms slipping under the taller woman’s jacket. “Of course, there is always a uniform waiting for you,” she continued with a glance at the crate. “We should get that back to the ship and secure it first, shouldn’t we?”

“Yeah. Then we can see Ardot. And yes, we’ll get dumplings, as long as it’s not targ meat again. Honestly, I don’t know what people see in targ meat.”

“It was tasty!”

“It was disgusting,” Sidda said, taking one side of the crate and waiting for Revin to grab the other handle. “But if you want targ dumplings you go right ahead. I’m just hoping he’s doing those magnificent chicken and pork ones.”

“Think I can get Ardot to give me the recipe?”

“Love, with a smile from you I’m sure you could convince Ardot to give you his restaurant.” She then turned to face Revin who was smiling ear to ear. “No.”

“But what if I really want to?” she asked as they walked out of the conference room.

“No.”

“But like really, really want to?”

“No.”

“Brett Gavalore?” Ardot asked as he set the plates of steaming dumplings down in front of Sidda and Revin. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a very, very long time.”

Ardot’s Café was as per usual a pretty busy place for the time of day, helped by the clear blue skies and the warm breeze coming in off of the Dai Sea. It meant that people tended to opt for taking lunch out and about on the city and for those who knew of Ardot’s it was where you went if you could get in.

No matter how busy the place was, there was also a table for three kept free towards the back of the establishment, such that snooping eyes and ears from the street wouldn’t be able to tell anything other than who was seated there. And it was at that table that Sidda and Revin had been shown to, at which Ardot had served them himself and to which he was now sitting himself down at. The large Bolian then picked at two sauces on the table, considered them, and then set one each in front of his two guests.

It might have been a suggestion of which sauce to use on the dumplings, but if the chef insisted and you wanted to stay on his good side, you complied, as both Revin and Sidda did so, Revin rather enthusiastically splashing the dark red sauce she’d been provided over her dumplings as compared to Sidda’s rather moderate amount of a dark brown liquid.

“In fact, the last person who asked after Brett Gavalore would have been…” Ardot trailed off as he looked up at the ceiling, clearly working to recall details. “Jamil al-Jabar. Worked for and I believe is now The Last Pirate King, after a recent change in management.” Ardot leaned forward, grinning. “And a man on the run as well. Apparently, someone told Starfleet about Royal Station and they sent in a squadron of door kickers to have a word with him.”

Sidda nodded, a mouth full of dumpling that she made sure to swallow before speaking. She’d had manners beaten into her as a child, sculpted as a cadet and polished off by her fiancé. “Dammit to hell. That means they’ll have seized his horde of latnium. Could have used that.”

“I’m sure you could have,” Ardot grinned. “Nevermind that though. It was years and years ago he asked.”

“What was it you told him anyway?” Revin asked.

“Just where I thought he was hiding and causing trouble. I figured he’d annoyed the Pirate King some and a carefully worded response was being sent his way. Never heard anything at all about any follow-up or Gavalore turning up dead anywhere so figured nothing came of it.” Ardot then scrunched his eyes a little. “You’re not thinking of going after Gavalore now are you?”

“Maybe,” Sidda answered.

“Yes,” Revin answered. “T’Rev is blackmailing Sidda from beyond the grave and a condition is to track down this Brett Gavalore.” She then turned to Sidda, whose glare had been weaponised. “Ardot can’t help us if he doesn’t know what is going on.”

“It’s this insightfulness that makes you my favourite,” Ardot said with genuine affection in his voice. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve only told me just enough to give context.” He winked at Revin, then turned to Sidda. “You shouldn’t go after Gavalore. He’s done enough. Just let it be.”

“If I do, T’Rev ruins me.”

“Oh pish!” Ardot said, waving the concept away. “You’ll bounce back. Or reinvent. You’re a survivor Sidda and you don’t need anyone telling you otherwise.”

Silence sat at the table for a moment as Sidda considered her options. “I want to. It’s about time Gavalore ate crow. He’s killed too many and done too much to just be allowed to live.”

“All right then,” Ardot said, hands on the table to support his weight as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll put out some feelers, see what I can dig up for you. But promise me Sidda you aren’t going to make this some fool’s errand? If you’re going after Gavalore, take your crew with you.”

“I’m crazy Ardot, not stupid,” Sidda answered.

“Good. Just go about your business, I’ll call as soon as I have something. Now, enjoy those dumplings you two and may I suggest a walk along the eastern promenade afterwards? It’s a lovely day and a shame to miss it.”

“So?” asked Revin, her hand in the crook of Sidda’s arm as they walked along one of Banksy’s many promenades, this one looking out to the west across the Dai Sea. The sun was low, the sky cast in shades of orange to red, the lights of Banksy already signalling the start of the nightlife.

“So what?”

“So, when are you going to brief the crew?”

“Can I do it in the morning?” Sidda asked, smiling as the answer she got was Revin giving her arm a squeeze before leaning into her. “Thanks.”

“One condition though,” Revin said, this time a near whisper.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the Romulan woman asked. “I want to see you in that uniform of yours.”

Sidda stopped, an expression on her face that could only be called neutral. “Revin, sweetie –“

“It’s that or you brief everyone as soon as we beam back. Either way, it’s going to be an uncomfortable evening tonight. But one of them has me ripping a uniform off of you.” And with that, Revin unhooked her hand from Revin’s arm and continued down the promenade. “Your choice.”

“Lieutenant Jenu, it’s been some time since your last check-in,” the old man who opened the door into the debriefing room said. He walked with a pronounced limp supported by a cane as he crossed the few steps from the closed door to the chair opposite her, sitting himself down. There was no table dividing them in this room, just little circular ones beside the two chairs, both seemingly part of the floor.

He didn’t wear a uniform, and looked to be the best part of ancient but otherwise kept himself clean, tidy, like a man who took pride in his appearance. The only way of identifying him as even part of Starfleet was the commbadge on the outside of his jacket.

“The Rose keeps an odd schedule,” Trid answered. “And we’ve been busy. The Cap is busy trying to build bridges along the Republic’s border and into some of the former Imperial territories.”

“The Cap?” the old man asked before waving it away as if not important. “How is your cover with Captain Sadovu?”

“She doesn’t like being called that,” Trid supplied. “She prefers to just be called Sidda. Sadovu is her mother.”

“How is your cover with Captain Sidda?” the old man repeated.

“She still thinks I’m a Starfleet dropout,” Trid lied, having heard Sidda’s suspicions, even pretty sure she was made but hadn’t been thrown over the side just yet.

“Good,” the old man said. “While I’m sure that Captain Holmstead would prefer we fully debrief you, I have it on good authority that the Vondem Rose is going to be departing tomorrow morning for Meltex II once more. So instead we’ll skip the formalities.” He’d gone from a kindly grandfather to a ruthless operator and in doing so had made Trid feel more comfortable. She at least could predict what he might say or do more so than before. “Has Captain Sidda done anything illegal inside Federation territory since your last report?”

“No.”

“Has she done anything illegal within claimed or policed territory of a Federation ally since your last report?”

“No,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Explain,” the old man said.

“Extortion at best, with no proof as the other party would never admit to anything happening,” she said. “Embarrassment at being pirated. And primarily because they themselves are pirates.”

“Hmm.” He looked at her, studying her for a moment. “Small-time activity not really worth our time. I feel your talents might be wasted, what with her seeming intent to build a legitimate business on the back of her former piracy. I do need you to deliver a message to Captain Sadovu for me,” he said, purposefully using Sidda’s last name.

Reaching into a pocket, fishing around, he produced a dark red datarod, clearly of Cardassian origin. He examined it for a moment, then offered it to her. “Ensure this gets to Captain Sadovu. I’m sure she’ll find the information contained within to be of great interest.”

For her own part, she merely accepted and pocketed the datarod straight away, not even looking at the thing. “And just how will I explain I got this?”

“Tell her you were accosted by two goons in black suits. They insisted you relay a message to your captain. Tell her it comes from Higgins. She’ll understand.”

“This may blow my cover,” she said.

“A possibility. But you’re resourceful. I’m sure you’ll find a way to escape and make your way back to us here at the Rookery.” He leaned on his cane as he pushed himself to his feet, clearly struggling. “If she asks before checking the datarod, tell her it contains the whereabouts of Doctor Shreln.”

As he finished rising to his feet, he looked at her and smiled, that grandfatherly masquerade once more at play. “Do yourself a favour young one, exercise regularly, take care of yourself and don’t live as long as I have. Even modern medicine has problems with arthritis at a hundred and twenty years old.”

“So, what’s all this about?” Orelia asked as she stepped into the briefing room, bringing up the rear of the last batch to arrive. “Got some clever plan to upset Starfleet even more?”

“Geez, what more could we do? We’re already stretching ourselves, aren’t we?” T’Ael asked as she sat down opposite her brother at the table. “You finished reading those user manuals like I asked?”

With his arms folded on the table and his head resting on them, R’tin’s response was somewhat muffled. “Yeah yeah. It’s a Federation new colony fusion reactor. It’s the next best thing to set it down, fuel it up and turn it on.”

“I’d hope it’s a bit more complex than that,” Gaeda commented from his spot at Sidda’s left. “I remember taking a day or three to set those beasts up.”

“Easy doesn’t mean quick,” R’tin quipped. “But we’ll be ready. Set up power, the long-range comms and the two industrial replicators. They’ll be mostly self-sufficient within a week of us arriving. Doing what Starfleet should have done when they took out those Rebirthers.”

“Not so self-sufficient that they still don’t need us,” Sidda said with a smirk. “Na’roq is keen to get her fingers into new and developing markets. But no, this meeting isn’t any clever plan to upset Starfleet.” She drew in a deep breath, rolled her shoulders, and rocked her head from side to side. All delaying actions, buying her time. “No, this meeting is about me actually.”

Sidda glanced around the table, looking at the faces arrayed around her. Gaeda on her left, Orelia on her right. R’tin and T’Ael sat opposite each other, her two chief engineers that kept the Vondem Rose operating despite the lack of a proper KDF repair yard and the increasingly blended tech throughout the ship. Orelia and Orin, her two cousins, after a fashion, and in the case of the former an unofficial bodyguard sent by her grandmother. Tavol, the Vulcan science officer who had left Starfleet a handful of years ago in protest of the then-in-vogue isolationist policies. Though on the Rose he wasn’t so much a science officer as a ‘weird shit explainer’. The last person, who had dragged herself up from a deck below and the other end of the ship was Bones, her ship’s doctor and another former Starfleet officer. Bones had opted to set herself down at the end of the table, directly opposite Sidda.

“You’re in some sort of trouble huh?” Bones asked over the lip of her coffee cup. She was somewhere between crotchety and ancient in age, having seen everything, done everything. Her reasons for staying on the Rose were her own, but Sidda suspected had something to do increasingly with her Klingon chef, Kevak.

“Blackmail from beyond the grave,” Sidda answered. Now she had spoken, there was no point in staying silent. “T’Rev has arranged for some rather unpleasant information to be released unless I do something. His way of exacting revenge on someone who has pissed him off by siccing me on them as well as putting me in danger since I did hand him over to Starfleet to throw in jail.”

“Bastard,” Orelia cursed.

“What’s the dirt?” Gaeda asked after shooting a look at Orelia.

“I’d rather not say,” Sidda answered. “It’s not important if it doesn’t get released,” she clarified after seeing the looks of her crew. “We do what he wants, we make noise that we have, and his surviving lieutenants make the information disappear.”

“You trust they will?” Bones leaned forward, setting her cup down. “And don’t tell me you can trust him because he was a Vulcan. He was cracked.”

“He was indeed mentally impaired,” Tavol said with classic Vulcan calm and directness. “But the doctor’s concerns I feel are more merited when asked about who will be executing his orders in regards to the information.”

“I have no idea who that would be,” Sidda answered. “But whoever they are, they have hired Manfred to ensure I do what T’Rev wants. Or kill the target should I fail. I either do what he wants, the information disappears and nothing happens, or in two months, the information is released and Manfred catches up with us. Well, me specifically. If he doesn’t take a shot beforehand, that is.”

“Wait, who’s Manfred?” R’tin asked, finally looking up for the first time. His eyes were sunken, dark green bags under them. Clear signs he’d been burning the candle at both ends and possibly in the middle as well.

“Paid fucking psychopath,” Orelia and Gaeda both said at the same time. Gaeda with a nod of his head ceded the floor to Orelia. “Mercenary with absolutely no qualms about taking jobs. Worse is he has a reputation for succeeding no matter the odds. Want to assassinate the head of a Klingon house? Hire Manfred. Want someone to go with you on a raid against the Borg? Hire Manfred. Want to picnic on a Gorn breeding world? Hire Manfred.”

“Yeah right,” R’tin replied, rolled his eyes and then set his head back down. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Gaeda replied. “I’ve met him once.” That got everyone’s attention. “I couldn’t leave the room fast enough.”

“Same,” Sidda said. “If I never run into him again it’ll be too soon.”

“Great,” Orelia dragged out. “Just great. All right then, what does a dead pirate bastard want you to do then?”

“Kill an absolute bastard of a man who likely pissed him off and most certainly has pissed me off.” The look on Sidda’s face was enough to tell her crew the last bit was the truth. “We’re looking for and going to kill a man named Brett Gavalore. And if I get my choice in the matter, we’re going to make it hurt.”

“Sounds personal, Boss. You good to take the lead on this?” Gaeda asked.

“I’m still deciding if I’m going to shoot him, stab him, or stuff him into a torpedo and fire him into a star,” Sidda answered. There was no humour in that statement. “T’Rev didn’t provide any details but I bet he knew more. And I bet he’s provided that to Manfred already.”

“So we’re starting on the back foot and possibly set up to fail. Fun. When do we start?” Gaeda continued.

“We continue to Meltex II and do what we originally planned. Ardot is doing some digging to find any information about Gavalore he can and will get back to us. Until then we do what we were going to do and we keep an eye out for dead-eyed crazy human killers.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to do at Meltex,” T’Ael said. “No traffic in and out aside from us and half-assed Starfleeters. We should see anyone new so we’re good there.”

“We do have some long-duration probes aboard,” Tavol added. “Perhaps with some modifications to fit them with extended solar panels, we could also deploy them around the Meltex system to act as a limited system-wide sensor platform. While the Vondem Rose’s sensors are sufficient for observing light years around, once we depart we won’t have visibility. The probes could report if someone is perhaps following us.”

“Not a bad idea T,” T’Ael said. “What do you think R’tin?” Her his part R’tin merely gave a thumbs up.

“Likely Manfred is moving on T’Rev’s target and is going to wait for you there,” Orelia said to Sidda. “But we’ll keep an eye out, right Orin?”

The largest man at the table, a giant of an Orion, merely nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Right, well, it’s a few days to Meltex, so let’s get ourselves ready for what we’ll be getting up to there.” Sidda sat back in her chair, trying to pass off as relaxed. “And R’tin, go get some sleep, will you? The rest of you, piss off.”

“Right, you heard the lady, back to work,” Gaeda said as he stood, then started to shoo everyone along. Only two people remained seated – Orelia and Bones. And as the last left the room, Gaeda stopped in the door, before stepping aside to let a newcomer enter.

Jenu Trid looked like someone had given her a light working over, with a black eye, light bruising on her right cheek and rips and tears in her clothing that would correspond with an alleyway fight. She walked straight in, a limp as she moved, holding out a datarod to Sidda as she crossed the briefing room. “For you,” the Bajoran woman said. Blood could be seen in her mouth, but not so much as to paint everything red.

“Who the fuck did this?” Sidda growled, the voice of someone ready to commit violence on those who touched her crew.

“Couple of goons who wanted me to deliver this,” Trid answered, waving the rod around to emphasise it. “They told me Higgins wanted you to have it.”

Sidda’s hand stopped halfway to accepting the rod and her eyes locked on Trid. “Higgins?” she asked, answered with a nod. With that she snatched the rod, getting to her feet and made straight for the large screen in the briefing room and the multi-inputs directly underneath it. 

Bones had risen, approaching Trid, grabbing the younger woman’s chin, and turning her head side to side as she looked the wounds over. “Nothing serious. Roughed you up to make sure you actually brought the rod, eh?”

“Yes ma’am,” Trid answered. “Insisted I get it to the boss straight away.”

“Uh huh,” Bones followed up. “Right, come with me. We’ll fix you up.” Tossing a glance to Sidda, who merely waved over her shoulder, Bones led Trid out of the briefing room. “I need to speak with you young lady,” Bones tossed over her shoulder at Sidda before the door closed.

“Who’s Higgins?” Gaeda asked after Bones and Trid had left, the door sealing behind them. He and Orelia had both come to join Sidda at the monitor, waiting for the data to finish decompressing and decrypting.

“Information broker,” Sidda answered. “And a sonofabitch.”

Orelia harrumphed. “I’ve learned who all the brokers on Kyban are. Never heard of him.”

“Lucky you,” Sidda replied curtly. “Trust me, you don’t want to. Man ruins everything he touches. He’s got this zeal to him that…lets him do what he does in the name of something greater than him.”

Just then the information decrypt finished and began to display on the screen, window after window blooming into life. Screeds of technical information, testimonials, and a dozen video windows of gruesome scenes of carnage popped into existence. And then right on top of it all blossomed a single document – a Starfleet Intelligence dossier.

There was a picture of an Andorian woman, middle-aged, wearing the bright blue of Starfleet Medical from the mid-2380s. It was then joined by another picture, the same woman with just over a decade of extra wear on her and most certainly not in a Starfleet uniform anymore.

Doctor T’Halla Shreln.

“Fuck off,” Sidda cursed.

“Boss?” Gaeda asked.

“Fuck right off,” Sidda continued, stalking away from the monitor, starting to pace in the space between the long table and the monitor. “I saw her die. I saw Gavalore kill her.” She was pointing at the monitor vigorously as she spoke.

“Who is this T’Halla?” Orelia asked.

“She was a good friend,” Sidda answered.

“You sure about that?” Orelia asked as she highlighted a piece of text and expanded it to be easily readable from across the room. “Suspected responsible for the lethal outbreak on Corbel IV. Blackmarket trader in biomimetic gel. Wanted by the Federation and the Free State for multiple acts of terrorism. Goddesses, even the Klingons have a death warrant out for her. Last seen six months ago.”

Orelia then brought up a short video of a docking port somewhere in the galaxy. It looked like any ten-penny pirate holdout, carved into a cave or asteroid somewhere in the vast void. It showed Shreln clearly in view, standing over a kneeling man, his hands up in surrender, then shooting him in cold blood before boarding a shuttle with a handful of goons in her wake.

“I saw her die,” Sidda repeated. “That’s no T’Halla. She couldn’t do that.”

“You know,” Gaeda said, trying to inject some levity into his tone, “seems folks around you don’t stay as dead as you say, boss.”

“Fucking Higgins. He found out I’m asking about Gavalore and drops this on me. This…this…collection of lies.” Sidda stalked over and pulled the datarod from the console. “T’Halla wouldn’t do any of this. Gavalore killed her in cold blood. I know what I saw.”

“Maybe,” Gaeda said. “But, well, did you see the body boss?”

“Honestly didn’t expect you lot to come back so quickly,” the older Romulan woman said.  She was standing some distance from R’tin, watching him as he manipulated the controls at the base of the new comms tower. She was leaning against one of the main beams of said tower, arms crossed, with a perpetual scowl on her face that reminded him of his mother, a few aunts and pretty much any mother of any girl he fancied.

“Well Merbel, when the boss says we’re going to help, we help. And when the boss sees a chance to one-up Starfleet, she takes it. So you get a brand new comms tower since the Rebirthers blew up your last one and even the comm frequencies of a bunch of nearby worlds we’ve helped out recently too. Even a few Republic worlds that might like to be your friends.”

“We’ll see about that,” Merbel grumbled. “The Republic is just as bad as the Federation – only interested in taking care of their own.”

“Well that’s not fair,” he countered. “The Republic is just skint broke. Well maybe not completely, but they are a bit tight on ships, resources, and manpower. And they’ve got warlords for neighbours, Klingons, occasionally the Free State. What I’m saying is –“

“They’ve got a reason to be tight-fisted bastards while the Federation doesn’t,” Merbel finished, a cutting tone to her voice. “At least they aren’t trying to harp on about being the galactic moral authority.”

“No argument there,” he had to concede. “But hey, talking to your interstellar neighbours can’t hurt. And being able to call for help might come in handy.”

“Hrumpf,” Merbel replied. “Not my call. I’m just the repair woman after all.”

“And a magnificent one you are,” he said, laying on the charm and a smile to a woman easily twice his age. And the response he got from her was another ‘hrumpf’. She could tell he was being charming for the sake of being charming and wasn’t buying it at all.

“I managed to sneak you a little gift as well to help with all of this new-fangled and twitchy Federation comms gear.” He pointed at a container near her with his chin while he continued with the setup. “I wouldn’t dream of making you climb all the way up this mast to do repairs or even some of the more interesting parts on the fusion reactor we’re building in the valley over. In fact, it should be able to take care of the fusion reactor most of the time anyway.”

“This better not be some automated replacement. I’ll break it if it is.” Merbel pushed off from the pillar and approached the container, expertly flicking at the two latches with her foot before lifting the lid, at no point uncrossing her arms. “What in the green hells is this?”

“Well it is automated, but it’s not a replacement.” R’tin fished out a controller from a pocket and tossed it at Merbel, forcing her to catch it. “It’s a civilian DOT. Designed primarily for regular maintenance of dangerous locales, like up fifty-meter subspace masts, or around fusion reactors.”

“Huh,” she replied, before pocketing the controller, dropping the lid and securing the latches. “I’ll take it apart later.”

“Just give it a try will you?” he pleaded. “It’s not going to replace you. It’s a civilian model, which means it’s pretty damn good, has a lot of modability and takes instructions very, very well.” He’d argued for getting the best the market offered for Meltex II and Na’roq had agreed. If just to help maintain their investment. “And no, it isn’t sentient, it won’t lead a revolution to overthrow organic life and yes it will prioritise rescuing people over itself or other equipment. Apparently, the human who sold it to me said it was Three Laws Safe, whatever that means.”

“Some stupid human robotics idea no doubt,” Merbel complained. “How much longer?”

“Just finishing the setup now. Just hacking through all the licensing and registration software. Not a crime since we’re, well, not in the Federation.” He grinned. “Yarrr.”

“Yarrr?” Merbel asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

“Human pirate thing. Gaeda taught it to me. Honestly, human fascination with pirates is weird. They hate them, chase them down, but then even the goodie-two-shoes amongst them love a good pirate story.”

“Back in the day, I’d have said you and your crew should face an airlock and be done with it.” Merbel shrugged her shoulders as she looked up straight at the comms tower. “In fact, I participated in more than a few spacings while in the fleet. But now?” Her gaze went from the tower, perched on a small rise, to the township off to the west. “I’d still space any pirates I met. But vigilantes are a different story.”

“Oof, a vigilante? Really? That hurts,” he said, hand to heart, feigning pain. But his act was cut short by the control panel chirping at him in a delighted little ditty. Then a solid ‘clunk’ somewhere in the electronics box behind the panel followed by the reassuring hum of high-power systems coming online. “Meltex II is once more back in the interstellar community. Not bad for three days’ work.”

And just as he finished the panel chirped a few more times, drawing his attention. “And the first bit of routed communications have just passed through. Congratulations.” Closing up the access panel, securing it against the elements and the curious, he handed the tool over to Merbel. “I’ve made sure the tool’s pattern is in the replicators just in case you lose this. And with that, I’m done.”

“About time,” Merbel responded. “Now help me with this,” she indicated the box with the DOT still inside of it. “There better be charging ports or whatever over at the fusion reactor for these things.”

“Four ports, four DOTs,” he answered as he picked up one end of the crate. “Trust me, you’ll come to love these things, they’re good for…”

“Sidda my dear,” Ardot’s voice was cheerful, as always. “I haven’t managed to track down Gavalore, but I have managed to find out that Mr al-Jabar did indeed speak with him not too long ago. As in the last few months. And I happen to know where he is. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more direct, but since your little escapade against The Last Pirate King, the new one is less responsive to my requests for information.”

Sidda watched the recorded message from behind a cup of tea in her office, sitting on the floor cushion cross-legged. She hadn’t expected an update from Ardot so quickly, but he had come through, at least somewhat.

“Coordinates are attached.  The bolt hole he’s decided to hide in doesn’t even have a name. It’s located in that rather odd patch of space between the Republic, Federation and Free State. Not far from that Meltex system I hear you’ve been favouring lately.” Ardot leaned closer to the recorder, the light changing as it compensated for him blocking the window that was behind him. “I’m also sending along some information about al-Jabar I’ve learned recently. It would seem he’s somewhat desperate to rebuild a powerbase and is engaging in some…less than savoury practices I know you’ll want to know about. I’m sure you’ll lodge your displeasure with him when you catch up with him.”

She huffed at that. Ardot had learned something he knew she’d object to and instead of learning it on the fly, he thought to warn her about it ahead of time, to let her digest it before confronting it and making a rational choice. Or let it really stew and make a rash choice but with internalised rationalisation.

“Oh, and I asked around about your new friend Manfred. Last I heard he had procured a ship at Argelius and was last seen heading into the Republic. So he is in the area as well. Be careful Sidda. Avoid him if you can. But if you end up running into him, do me a favour – use the biggest weapon you have as often as you can. I wish you the best of luck, my dear.”

And with that the image on the screen disappeared, replaced with the purple background and black rose she’d had set as the Rose’s default idle screen. It took her only a few moments to bring up the attached coordinates, compare them against a star chart, and then flick them along to the helm.

The Vondem Rose was going hunting.

“Well that’s inconvenient,” muttered Gaeda as he stepped onto the bridge, still cradling his coffee, to find the viewscreen dominated by the bulk of a California-class starship. Trid had flown the cloaked Vondem Rose close enough, and carefully enough, that he could read the ship’s name off the back of the engineering section.

USS Alturas.

“Stop playing with them Trid,” he continued as he walked around the bridge, glancing over shoulders as he went, getting a quick overview of the status of the ship as he went.

“These Cali junkers are half-blind already,” Trid answered. “And besides, I’ve got us settled right up in the driver coil wake. They’ll never see us here.”

“Unless they suddenly accelerate or turn, causing us to fall out of the wake. Then they’ll see the driver fluctuate like a bell and know someone was sitting right on them. Ease us back nice a careful like.” He stopped right next to the helm, settling his cup on the back of Trid’s chair but still in his grip, then leaning forward to look at her displays. “Back us off by three light seconds. There’s no need to show off and be fancy.”

As Trid began the delicate process of undoing all the good work showing off her skill, he turned and looked to Orelia at Ops before making his way over to her, standing opposite her at her station. “What are they doing here anyway?”

“It looks like survey work,” she grumbled. “They’ve got a flock of shuttles dispatched across the system, probes too. Generic follow-up work.”

“We’re outside the Federation. Shouldn’t they be nice and safe over the border hiding under someone’s skirt?”

She simply glared at him as an answer, head tilting to the side mockingly, before inviting him around to see what she pulled up. A regional map, it showed the Federation border clearly and their current whereabouts – a star system that barely counted as over the border. One could be sleeping on Starbase 23, roll out of bed on the wrong side and end up in this system purely by accident. Any rapid responder from there could be here within a few hours if it pushed hard.

“Some sneaky Cali captain getting in some ‘deep space’ exploration while barely leaving the shallow end of the pool,” he said with a scoff.

“What?” Orelia challenged.

“Nothing, nothing,” he answered, punctuated with a sip of coffee. “Those ships barely leave Federation space, yet this captain is here. They’re just trying to get some exploration hours under their belt while being perfectly safe.”

“Or Starfleet is still looking for al-Jabar and this is just a ruse,” Orelia countered. “Some cruiser or something hiding around here in a powered-down state, waiting for something suspicious before pouncing.”

“How suitably paranoid of you,” he replied. “Keep an eye out then, will you? And monitor the Alturas’ comms. Maybe they’ll call this hidden cruiser and we’ll learn its position.”

“This is going to make getting to al-Jabar’s hideout more difficult,” Orelia said.

“Yeah, but what’s life without some challenges, yes?” He smiled, shooting his fellow ship master a grin and nudging her elbow with his own, which slowly brought one to Orelia’s face. “Besides, we’ve stolen a chair out from a Starfleet depot once. Visiting a pirate from under a surveyor has gotta be easier than that.”

“Fucking pirates,” the gruff human freighter captain said as he was pushed into the cargo hold. “You’ll reap what you sow you know.”

“That’s the plan,” Brett Gavalore shot back as he scanned over the crates in the cargo hold with his tricorder. It was an older model, reminiscent of the Dominion War, but it still served its purpose. “There are folks that need these supplies more than a bunch of well-off colonists that’ll get Starfleet’s help if things go south.”

“Like who? A bunch of stupid Romulans? Fuck ‘em! They deserve everything –“ the man was cut off by a slap to the face from Sidda, his face blanking then masked with fury at what she had done, but he held his tongue.

“Suffering refugees,” she said to him, pointing straight into his face with the hand she’d just slapped him with. “Now shut up and be quiet. The sooner we tag what we need, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Fucking Orions,” the freighter captain cursed. “Whole race are pirates. Never gonna amount to anything.”

“Geez, really selling me on the Federation moral high ground,” Sidda shot back. “G, how much longer?”

“Just about done S,” Gavalore answered as he slapped a transporter beacon on another couple of crates. “Did you hear that?” he asked, turning to the door Sidda and the freighter captain has just come in through.

“No,” she answered before letting out a cry as the freighter captain tackled her, her phaser scattering across the floor.

Outside in the hall more weapons fire could be heard, booted feet and shouted cries coming closer before Eric Ortega, formerly the captain of the USS Surabaya, and Fred Duncan, the same’s former chief engineer, stumbled into the hold.

But Sidda’s attention wasn’t focused on that, but on the large man scrambling over her, going for her weapon. His weight pinning her down, an elbow into her shoulder, a knee into her side. But she was wrestling with him in return, slipping sideways, out from under him, then onto his back, scrambling over him and across the floor to her weapon. A hand on her leg, pulling her back. A kick backwards, a cry of pain, a loosening of grip.

Then a hand clamped on her ankle, pulling her back. She rolled onto her back, looked the freighter captain square in the eyes, saw the broken nose she’d already given him, the anger mixed with glee on his face. He thought he was winning. Then she smiled and saw his face twist before two rapid kicks to his face sent him backwards, hands going to his own face as he cried out again.

A few heartbeats later she had her phaser in her hands, turned on him and without hesitation fired, the shot going wide. But before she could fire again another blast took the freighter captain between the shoulder blades, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Get up!” Gavalore barked at her, turning to face the door where a squad of the freighter’s crew were pouring in, diving for cover where they could over the fallen forms of a few unlucky fellows who’d already been stunned.

“Oh fuck!” she screamed, then scrambled behind a container, then onto her feet. She tapped at her commbadge, a paltry round little civilian pin. “S to Subi, get us out of here!”

“Cargo first!” Ortega shouted as he fired at an advancing Andorian. “We get the cargo first!”

“Understood,” came a calm voice on the other end as Doctor Shreln, safe aboard the Subi started transporting containers out of the hold.

It was an interminable delay, the wait while containers in the hold disappeared, whisked away in whirling blue lights. Cover started to disappear for both sides, but the freighter crew had numbers on their side, using the opportunity to advance under fire as they could.

“Kill them!” a shout came out across the bay from the safety of the door frame. “Kill the pirates!”

Fire stopped from the ship’s defenders momentarily before it resumed. Obviously, weapons had been adjusted. “Subi, now!” Sidda shouted into her comm once more. “Fuck the cargo.”

“Ten seconds,” Shreln answered as more crates were whisked away. “Right, let’s go,” she finally said.

As the transporter gripped Sidda, lights forming around all of her crewmembers, she saw two of the freighter guards close on Ortega and Duncan’s position, rising and firing into them as the transporter lights filled her vision.

She never heard their screams, but what her imagination gifted her would stick with her forever.

Her captain killed. A good friend executed beside him.

All just to steal some supplies that refugees across the border needed far, far more than a bunch of fat, comfortable, self-indulgent colonists who wouldn’t even let the Romulans settle on their world when the border was open, let alone now.

“New contact,” shouted Trid from the helm. “It’s a big one too.”

Gaeda turned to look at the tactical plot on the mainscreen, still nursing his coffee as a new contact blossomed to life. It wasn’t hiding behind an asteroid as Orelia had suspected, but in the magnetic pole of a gas giant’s moon on the far side of the system from where the Vondem Rose was.

The ship’s computer was still trying to identify the target, but it had a good idea of the power curve as it ramped up, climbing to absurd levels. Then the computer tagged it – an Inquiry-class cruiser. “Santa Maria,” he muttered. “Battle stations,” he said and the computer dutifully responded by warbling out the alarm throughout the ship, loud enough to rouse the dead.

“Wait,” Trid said. “Look.”

On the display the Inquiry hadn’t looked like it had moved, the scale not being enough to show such details, but suddenly showed it moving at full impulse away from the gas giant it had been hiding nearby. Directly away from it and most importantly not in their direction. And then just as suddenly it jumped to warp. High warp.

Emergency warp speeds.

And the plot was rapidly updating as all the Alturas’ shuttles were making their way to their mother ship, some of them at impulse, others now at low warp speeds to cross the vastness of a star system in a respectable time.

“What in the actual fuck?” Gaeda asked, spinning to look at Orelia at Ops, who shrugged, then around all the other bridge stations, getting a similar response.

“Well, stand down Battlestations,” he said. “And let’s wait till these fine folks leave as well before we go and visit The New Last Pirate King.”

“The Last Last Pirate King,” Orelia said.

“The Last-est Pirate King,” Trid supplied.

“Target practice,” came Sidda’s response from the bridge door, wrapped in a duvet as she padded across the deck barefoot. “Now, why the hell am I awake at this ungodly hour?”

Perched on the edge of the command chair, stolen from an Endeavour of old, Sidda pulled the duvet around her again to maintain her modesty, not for her sake but for the bridge crews, as she watched the tactical plot on the viewscreen while Gaeda and Orelia had brought her up to speed. Trid had dutifully backed the cloaked Vondem Rose away from Alturas like she’d been ordered to and they’d started towards the asteroid that Ardot had advised them held al-Jabar’s current bolthole.

But the display was a web of lines still as shuttles and even the odd runabout was still making their way towards the Alturas from across the system. And while she would bet a near-modern Klingon cloak could defeat a mere shuttle’s sensors, there was no point in risking it if, so the ordered route had been set to avoid the shuttles as best they could.

Gaeda was just finishing off about how the Inquiry they’d detected had been the cause of the call to battle stations, how he’d been the one to so rudely wake her, fearing that they’d been detected and likely Starfleet was going to want to have some pointed words with them. There after all could really only be one reason for a support ship to be surveying an entire star system with a battlecruiser hiding nearby – they were hunting al-Jabar as well.

And finding a cloaked Klingon ship, even a duly registered ‘armed merchantman’ like the Vondem Rose would no doubt force any Inquiry-class captain to want to force some sort of answer out of them. Doubly so for a ship with their admittedly well-deserved reputation.

“…but something obviously spooked them because that Inquiry-class is booking it,” Gaeda continued. The tactical plot hadn’t followed the departing ship, but a small information box had been opened to show details they could get while it was still in range. The ship was travelling at a speed greater than the Klingon computers had on file as the class’s maximum rated speed, which said something about whatever emergency had called it away. “She showed up, moved away from the planet as quick as she could, then went to warp and hasn’t slowed down. And only a minute later every shuttle in the system starts heading back for Alturas.”

“Course?” she finally asked. She pulled her feet off the floor, rubbing them against each other. The metal decking was cold and adrenaline from the alarm sounding was wearing off, letting small matters like cold feet come to mind.

“Nothing I can think of,” Orelia said from Ops, before switching the display to a local galaxy map with a bright yellow line across it. The battlecruiser wasn’t heading for Starbase 23, but somewhere far to the galactic anti-spinward. “Nothing important out there that someone else couldn’t get to quicker than they could.”

“Zoom it out,” she said and was rewarded with a much more pulled-out view of the major Alpha and Beta Quadrant powers. “There,” she pointed at a spot on the viewscreen, standing to walk over and tap at a blue dot that the yellow line intersected. “Barzan.”

“Starbase 38?” Gaeda asked. “That’s the other side of the Federation core. There have to be other ships nearby.”

“Who the hell knows,” she answered him, turning to him with a shrug. “Starfleet being Starfleet, could be something as simple as an admiral wanting a specific coffee.”

“Been there,” Gaeda said. “But they’re out of our hair now and soon Alturas will be as well.”

“And then we can go say hello to Mr al-Jabar without any interruption,” she added. “I should go get dressed.”

“If you want to lead an assault, probably for the best,” Gaeda agreed with her. “Don’t think Revin would appreciate you getting her duvet shot up.”

“She doesn’t appreciate me stealing her duvet either,” she said, then started for the door off the bridge. “If I don’t come back, I’ve been murdered for stealing a blanket. Avenge me.”

“What’s that?” Orelia said jokingly. “Totally justified cause for murder? Think we can let that fly.”

“Think so,” Gaeda added. “Timeshare who runs the ship afterwards?” he asked Orelia.

“Works for me,” Orelia answered. “Love you cousin,” Orelia then said to Sidda as she crossed the threshold into the corridor outside, holding the duvet closed around her with one hand and offering her bridge crew a single upheld finger with the other hand.

By the time she got back to her quarters her feet were aching with the cold. The thick pile rugs she’d thrown over the floor were a welcome relief, as was the gloomy lighting she’d walked into. It meant that a certain someone hadn’t woken, or gotten out of bed, triggering the lights to raise further. Carefully making her way to the small side room that Klingons had afforded their captains as a separate bedroom, she could see Revin still laying there, the bedsheet still drawn over her.

She stopped, admiring, a smile growing on her face before she padded over and unslung the duvet from her shoulders, gently laying it back on the bed and over Revin, who stirred somewhat before snatching her wrist. “Hello love,” she said as Revin’s eyes remained firmly shut, but she turned to face her as she spoke.

“Come back to bed,” the Romulan woman drawled, pulling lightly on her wrist. “Some fiend left me with just a sheet and now I’m cold.”

“It’s warm enough in here that you shouldn’t be cold,” she countered.

Revin’s response wasn’t a further argument, just a tightening of her grip and a more insistent pull before she rolled away, pulling Sidda down towards the bed.

With a sigh, she climbed back into bed, curling up behind her fiancée, arm draped over her and tightly held by Revin. “I can’t stay long,” she warned. “Be a couple of hours before we get to –“

“Plenty of time,” Revin countered.

“I’ve got to get dressed, have something to eat, check my –“

“Plenty of time,” Revin repeated. “Just…cuddle.” It wasn’t a request, but an order. “Please,” Revin added to soften the statement.

“Yes ma’am,” she answered happily, then kissed the back of Revin’s neck before pulling both of them together tightly, earning a contented sigh from Revin.

“I guess it’s true what they say, you can’t actually be late to your own party,” Deidrick Osterman quipped as Sidda entered the large transporter room. The space was large enough for a pad that could double as a cargo transporter, but in this case, served its original purpose of transporting large boarding parties in a single go.

Deidrick, Orin, Telin and a dozen other men and women were milling around, totting a variety of weapons from across the Federation, Klingon and Romulan Empires and a dozen other smaller entities making trade in weapons across the galaxy. And only a handful of the weapons were modern as well, with the oldest being an old yet serviceable phaser rifle that looked like it came from the first Federation-Klingon War.

And all of the people and their collected weapons were waiting on her.

“Just confirming something on the bridge,” she informed Deidrick. “Namely that those Starfleet ships weren’t turning back around once we decloaked.”

I told you that already, Orin signed at her, an exasperated look on his face. But did you even read your messages?

“No,” she answered him. “I was busy.” Busy rushing about getting dressed, fending off Revin’s insistence on climbing back into bed, and finding something, anything to eat before launching an assault. And in the end, all Kevak had allowed her was some toast and jam. Something about not having to heavy a meal before fighting, but needing something at least.

At least he’d let her have a second piece.

“Busy,” Telin said, his deep and gruff voice a poor echo of what Orin had lost. “Busy getting –“ he shut up when Orin slapped his chest with the back of his hand and then withered him down with a glare.

Manners, the larger of the two Orions signed.

“Sorry,” Telin said meekly, then looked directly at her. “Sorry, that was rude.”

She and Orin both just stared at him for a moment. Telin, apologising for being rude? The universe could only handle so much change. “Uh, thank you. But maybe you should apologise to Revin later as well?” she said, knowing where his crass statement was going to go. She owed Bones a great deal if she was whipping Telin into shape.

“Yes ma’am,” Telin answered.

“Now, the bolthole is blockaded, and their defences have been neutralised, but we could still be facing a stiff resistance once we beam over. We beam over, we secure the whole place, we capture Jamal al-Jabar and we get some answers,” she said, briefing her people.

“Which means,” Deidrick spoke up, nice and loud to be heard by all, “we don’t kill anyone until we are certain we have our target. So that means weapons on stun.” Immediately a few hands went up. “And if your weapon doesn’t have a stun, then get another,” he pointed at the armoury lockers setup in the transporter room.

With grumbling protests, weapons swapped and a shooing of people onto the transporter pad, she surrounded herself with her two cousins, Orin and Telin, with Deidrick at her back. A few deep breaths, she drew her disruptor from her holster, adjusted a setting dial on it, and then looked to the transporter operator, giving a curt nod.

Red baubles of light immediately formed around her, joined by a shimmering curtain of crimson that parted into all-encompassing red, before another parting revealed the shuttle bay on the asteroid base that her precious Vondem Rose was hovering over. The whole base had been dug into the asteroid, the walls of the bay bare rock and metal for the most part.

The landing pad that had been constructed was empty save for a handful of stacked containers to one side and a single individual waiting a mere ten metres from her. Jamal al-Jabar was seated at a small table, an empty seat opposite him. A teapot, a couple of cups and saucers, and even a plate of biscuits was set on the table.

No defenders. No barricades. Just her target, sitting, waiting for her with tea.

The new Last Pirate King was certainly a lot more courteous than the last.

She held up a fist, her people staying where they were, but poised to strike, looking around for any traps or hidden defenders. Deidrick sent two people to check the crates, taking a wide path to do so. And with that she then approached the table by herself, raising the disruptor in her hand as she did, levelling it at al-Jabar and depressing the firing stud just enough for it to start charging. Deidrick had ordered her people to stun anyone they found. She however had a reputation to uphold of firing weapons at ruinous power settings.

“I surrender,” al-Jabar said in his smooth, calming and well-enunciated voice. It sounded well educated, or trained to be as such. As did everything about him really. “I do not have the manpower to resist the mighty Kingslayer or her band of vigilantes. And especially not a Klingon battlecruiser since Starfleet dutifully scared off my space-based defenders. So I’ve elected to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

She stepped right up behind the empty chair, facing him directly. The weapon in her hand finished charging, the noise gone, but the threat was obvious.

“Do you take your tea with or without sugar?” he asked, leaning forward to pick up the teapot, unconcerned with the weapon pointed at him. As he poured both cups out, he looked up at her. “Vondem rose tea,” he said. “I figured I should have some on hand should I find myself in a position to entertain you once again.”

“Where is Brett Gavalore?” she finally asked, giving her disruptor a slight wiggle to draw attention to it. “And where the hell is T’Halla Shreln?”

al-Jabar set the teapot down, sat back in his chair and held out a hand to indicate the empty chair. “Perhaps you would care to sit while I answer your questions?

“With or without sugar?” Jamal al-Jabar asked once more as he held the tongs over the sugar bowl, having already dropped a single cube into his own tea cup.

Formerly the chief steward to The Last Pirate King, his right-hand man, her accomplice in deposing him, heir to his fortunes and standing, victim to Starfleet’s rather well-informed and targeted anti-piracy campaign around the Paulson Nebula and most presently a man on the run, host to the boarding party from the Vondem Rose and prisoner held at the end of a disruptor was, Sidda had to admit, a consummate host.

The teapot was glass, exposing its simple workings to the world at large. No poisoner’s pot was this. Just like Revin had taught her to watch out for. The sugar could have been anything, but if it was Vondem rose tea as he’d said, she’d rather stab herself than sully it with sugar. So, while still threatening him with her weapon, her elbow resting on the table after she sat down, she shook her head gently.

“No, thank you,” she answered finally, letting her own voice drip with cultured training. Grandmother would have been so proud of how she had managed to sound polite and disgusted all at the same time. Just as she’d taught her.

“You must allow me to apologise for adding sugar to my own cup, but I have quite the sweet tooth and rose tea from your homeworld is a rather refined taste.” He set the sugar bowl down, waved at the plate of biscuits as a way of saying ‘help yourself’ then picked up his cup after a brief stir. “I see we’re rather incessant on getting to the point Kingslayer.”

“I didn’t kill him,” she retorted, “but I do like the nickname. Please, do tell, have you been spreading it far?”

“No, thought I’d wait for your return. I figured that T’Rev had other helpers set up his final acts of revenge and that I’d be the target of one of them. But that you’re asking me questions instead of merely shooting me tells me that you haven’t been sent after me specifically.” He sipped at his tea, as if this was just a happy little conversation, as if she wasn’t armed.

It was, she reflected, starting to get to her.

“Brett Gavalore. Where is he? Now.” She waved the disruptor a little. “Before I decide to simply start rummaging through your computers without you.”

“I would advise against that,” he said. “They’re set to wipe upon my untimely demise. Or my departure from this facility. You can’t expect me to sit down with you without making some minor arrangements to ensure my safety, can you?” He sighed. “I want reassurances from you, that when you have the information you desire, you’ll depart this place without harming me, leave this system without harming this facility and be on your way.”

She glared at him as he did a passable impression of his former master. Keeping emotion from his face – a poker face as Gaeda had educated her. He had the information she wanted and had set the terms for the trade. But more importantly, was willing the rely on her very well-established reputation for keeping her word.

“I promise, not a shot fired,” she answered after nearly half a minute of drawn-out silence. The charge stud was released, the pistol whined as capacitors were discharged back into the power cell. She waited for the indicator light to change colour before flicking another control with her thumb, then holstering the weapon with just a bit of flourish to show off.

“I’m so glad we can be civil about this,” al-Jabar said as he set his cup of tea down. “Now, Brett Gavalore and T’Halla Shreln. Two very interesting names to be asked about. Ms Shreln I can only advise about who might know where she is at this time. Mass murdering bio-terrorists after all like to keep their heads down. Especially after negatively impacting my predecessor’s business interests as she did.”

“Get to the point,” she growled, the mask of civility and trained politeness slipping as he beseeched the Dr Shreln’s name before her. “I don’t have all day.”

“Surely you do,” al-Jabar continued. “T’Rev after all wanted all of his acts of revenge from beyond the grave to succeed without the limits of time and space. Unless…oh, I take it he’s arranged for some sort of retribution to fall upon you for deposing him and handing him over to the Federation?”

“Something like that.”

“I wonder who it could be? Tomaz? Plek? The K’chalna Sisters?” He was watching her, eyes narrowing as he was looking for tells on her face.

“Manfred,” she answered and saw his own mask slip instead.

“Manfred?” he asked. She nodded in confirmation. “He promised me we would never brook with that…thing again.” al-Jabar actually looked shaken at the mention of the name. “You weren’t followed here, were you?”

“I have a cloaking device and two Romulan engineers who nurse it like a favoured pet, what do you think?”

He glared at her for a moment. “Dr Shreln, last I heard, had slipped back into the Federation. Smuggled herself in really. The Romulan states were becoming too hot for her after she’d started her campaign against the upper classes. And her former accomplices had grown disillusioned with her ‘acceptable collateral damages’ when she released a plague that killed two hundred thousand people. You’ll want to speak with a trader named Merrac on Qualor II. He’s the only Merrac operating in the trade business there, so shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“You keep talking like she’s a criminal. I know her, she wouldn’t do anything of the sort,” she said, softly, controlled.

“You know her?” al-Jabar asked, shaking his head. “Why am I not more surprised? Of course, you’d know someone as psychotic and paranoid as T’Halla Shreln.” He shook his head. “Brett Gavalore however is much, much easier to find. He’s been hiding under your nose for some time.”

“Where?” she growled.

“Ayer’s Rock,” al-Jabar answered. “Three days ride out of Landing. Sheriff Jacobs knows exactly where.”

“You’re kidding me,” she said, earning a shrug and a shake of his head from al-Jabar. “How long?”

“About five years now,” he answered her. “About the same time that you started to make quite the name for yourself. From what I learned he cashed in everything he had and left the association of fellow entrepreneurs such as ourselves, retiring to a cattle farm on a backwater on the Klingon border. So far from any major settlements even Klingon raiders would leave him alone. I never asked T’Rev why he wanted me to locate the man, but I guess it was related to you in some shape or form. Or something he did to T’Rev before my employment.”

“How do I know you’re not lying to me?” she asked him.

“I have never lied to you,” he replied. “I take pleasure in being an honest businessman. It is after all so rare to be a person of their word, that those such as you and myself stand out in this profession.”

“He who runs an operation that brooks in slavery, murder, extortion and wanton piracy.”

“Says the pirate,” he answered back. “I understand you have your limits and moral standings Sidda, but others don’t. Would you prefer chaos without restraint, or at least some form of regulation and limitation to ease the worst excesses of our fellows?”

“Merrac, Qualor. Ayer’s Rock, speak with Sheriff Jacobs.” He nodded in confirmation of her repetition of the essential facts. “Since I have no desire to discuss the morality of piracy with you then, I guess I should be on my way.”

“Preferably without doing something to alert Manfred to this location? At least until my associates return to finish evacuations.” He stood as she did, having set his tea down. At least he didn’t comment about her not even trying it. “I trust we won’t be speaking again, yes? Ever.”

“That is certainly true,” she said, offering him a smile. Another trained smile, one she had to practise in the mirror. The polite smile before revealing something to another party. “I will hold to my word,” she continued, reaching into her jacket and removing her old-fashioned and distinctly out-of-style folding communicator, giving it a practised flick to open. “Send over the ambassador,” she said after the device chirped happily at her.

As al-Jabar glared at her the sound of a transporter could be heard right behind him. He turned and found a single photon torpedo on a set of stands waiting for him. “You promised,” he hissed as he spun back to face her. “You wouldn’t harm me or this facility.”

“No,” she countered. “I said not a shot fired. That,” she pointed past him at the torpedo, “was transported.”

“Semantics!” he yelled.

“A trick both my mother and grandmother taught me will get me far.” She reached for the cup he’d poured for her on the table, lifting it from its saucer before speaking into her communicator. “Now please.”

“You duplicitous, traitorous – “ al-Jabar’s words were cut off by the whine of the transporter, redoubled as she rematerialized on the Vondem Rose and was surrounded by her people once more.

And that’s when she sipped at the cup of tea finally, just as the ship was rocked by a dull thump that was barely perceptible. Even across the vacuum of space, the detonation of a torpedo at maximum yield inside of an asteroid would produce a shock wave. Debris and plasma carried forth and at the distance the Rose was at, would gently caress the ship.

“Huh, not a bad cup of tea,” she quipped as she stepped off the transporter pad. “Not bad at all.”

“Well?” Kevak asked in his typical grumbling, brusk tone of voice. Punctuated by two mugs of coffee he set down on the table between himself and Sidda.

“Well, what?” she challenged back between spoonfuls of cereal. She’d come straight to the mess hall upon returning to the Rose, to seek a bit more breakfast than what she’d gotten earlier and had been given a bowl of cereal by Revin and a glass of orange juice to go with it. Not much, but sweet and filling.

“Did you learn what you wanted to?” Kevak pushed one of the cups across the table at her, grinning slightly as he did so. “Dash of cinnamon, as the princess informed me.”

“For a Romulan, she’s terrible at keeping secrets,” Sidda conceded as she set the spoon down in the mostly empty bowl and ignoring the orange juice, went for the coffee. “Goddesses this is good,” she said after a sip, her expression changing at Kevak’s look, a repetition of the question not needed.

“I know where Gavalore is and Shreln too,” she said, answering his query. “And al-Jabar’s comments just supported what Higgins’ data on her says. I just wanted to know where she was and he confirmed a few of the more damning details.”

“What are you going to do about it?” He had hidden half of his face behind his own cup of coffee. Knowing Klingons, it was likely his wind-down drink of choice – less potent than vile, disgusting raktijino, but still able to convey a nice earthy aroma and more importantly a conveyance for caffeine. She still couldn’t understand how such a wonderful-smelling drink was so vile and bitter as to be unbearable.

“If what everyone says is true, Shreln is a terrorist and is loose inside the Federation now. I’ve…I’ve got to find her and find out what the hell happened. But…” She trailed off, considering the depths of her mug for a few heartbeats. “I’m not going to find her by running off to Qualor. She’ll be long gone and I’ll just end up chasing ghosts and trails. I thought she was dead. I saw Gavalore shoot her and yet she’s alive? I haven’t seen her in ten years. Even heard about her!”

“We go to Gavalore and get this mark off of you then,” Kevak said. While everyone else would have said that as a question, his tone conveyed a statement. Klingons; what a wonderfully plain-spoken and direct people. You knew where you stood with most Klingons. Not all, but most.

“It’s a plan,” she replied. “We could still go to Qualor, find out what this Merrac has to say, then hand it over to Starfleet and see if the pyjama-wearing idiots will actually follow up on actionable intel.”

“Or hand it over to someone who will,” Kevak answered. “Like yourself.”

“I mean yeah, it would just be easier to keep pursuing her. But if she’s been some criminal mastermind that everyone is after but are busy keeping her off the public most-wanted lists and she’s survived this long without being caught by Starfleet Intelligence, Federation Intelligence Bureau, the Tal’Shiar, House Mokai, KDF Intelligence and probably even the Obsidian Order and a dozen other security apparatuses, what chances do I have?”

“Directness,” he answered.

 “She’s not going to stand forth and come out all honourably like if I lay out a challenge to her.”

“Then make her,” he stated.

“I just said she won’t,” she said with a shake of her head.

“Then make her,” he reiterated. “Find something precious and push. Force the coward to stand their ground and deal with them when they do.”

“She isn’t a coward,” she snapped, then stopped and took in a breath. “T’Halla Shreln isn’t a coward. She’s…she’s a mentor. A friend. And the last I saw her, Brett Gavalore put two shots into her while we were fleeing a pack of Nausicaans trying to kill us.”

“People change,” Kevak said. “You may have to accept that the woman you knew is indeed dead.”

“Then who is it that Higgins seemingly wants me to chase after? And how the hell would I find something precious I can even use to force her to come out and face me?”

“To the former, a monster who stole her skin,” he answered, then finished off his coffee in a single go. “Or which this Brett Gavalore unleashed. Finding something precious though, well, that’s part of the hunt, isn’t it? You are aware of the threat now though. Can you sit idly by, Princess?”

She looked up from her coffee, glaring at him for his use of that title once more. He’d used it only a few times, to either get her attention or slap her down when she tried such shenanigans with him in the past. This was the former. And he was right too.

“No.”

“And why is that?” he continued.

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

He leaned forward, speaking in a whisper so that the walls of the empty room couldn’t hear him. “The honourable thing to do, Lieutenant Sadovu.”

“How,” she said, her voice dropping equally to a whisper, leaning forward to add to the conspiratorial tone, “the fuck do you know that?” She couldn’t bring herself to assign blame to Revin for that. Revin might let slip a food or a beverage choice, but that – it was a secret. Her secret. It was too precious.

“I did my research before signing on with you all those years ago girl,” he answered with a slight chuckle. “KDF Intelligence is far more capable than people think, and we prefer it that way.”

“We?” she asked.

Kevak didn’t answer, just stood up, then nudged at her glass of orange juice, pushing it closer to her. “Drink it or we’ll both never hear the end of it from your woman,” he said, then started to walk back towards the doors back into the galley.

“She’s not my woman,” she shouted back at him.

“You’re right, you’re hers.” And with that he passed out of the mess, leaving her to stare at the door he passed through, daggers aimed at his back.

The landing bay was quiet, just her guarding the ship and a couple of guards at the large cargo doors that lead deeper into the asteroid base. They weren’t particularly attentive, busy playing a game of some sort between themselves on top of a crate. They’d seemed friendly enough, but for whatever species they were from but had insisted she wasn’t allowed in.

Just Commander Gavalore and Dr Shreln were allowed to go in.

It had been a rough year since losing the captain, and Starfleet Intelligence’s support was coming with more and more strings. And tighter and tighter limits on what they could give them. The Federation as a whole seemed to be turning its back on desperate people in need and even crafty accounting in a socialist utopia could only hide non-replicable supplies disappearing for so long. Getting supplies they needed to help refugees was getting harder and Gavalore’s attempts at supplementing SI’s paltry scraps had been growing harder as well.

They’d discussed a few times about calling it, packing up and heading home. But then they’d find another world abandoned by the Federation and the Romulan Star Empire alike, with desperate people making desperate plays at survival and those conversations just died. People were out there needing help and dammit they would.

So desperation led to a little bit of work on the wrong side of the tracks. Move some not-quite-legal cargo and get paid. Use that to keep the ship running, buy supplies for refugees, and then get those supplies where they needed to go. Rinse and repeat ad nauseam.

They’d continued with their acts of cargo liberation as well, keeping with the captain’s restriction of only stealing from the rich, or the pirates already out there, to give to the poor. And smuggling was helping, but things were still slowly falling apart. There was just too much to do.

It was the work of a federation, to be honest. And where was the Federation? Behind the border, citing its own injuries and political necessity for why it couldn’t help anymore.

She shook her head, clearing the maudlin thoughts before they could truly fester. She was the lookout after all. She couldn’t disappear into her own head.

“Hey Greenie,” a voice echoed from inside the ship. Jason Hurts, one of the newbies Brett had brought into the crew recently. “How much longer?”

Hurts and the handful of others now padding out the crew weren’t in it for the same reasons the original Surabaya crew had been. They were in it for the glory and the fame. The profit of it. They’d had to be whipped into a shape a few times for being too enthusiastic. If she’d still been in uniform she’d never have associated with the likes of Hurts, unless it was throwing his ass in a brig and letting him fester there.

“I told you not to call me there,” she grumbled at him. “Do it again, I’ll break your jaw.”

“Hey Sammie,” Jason’s voice sounded like he was shouting down a hall, but it still echoed out to her. “Are Orion pickup lines always so violent?”

“Nah mate,” Sammie’s response came from somewhere deeper in the ship. “She really means it. Stop being a dick.”

“Ah fuck you,” Jason shouted. Then back to her, “So, how much longer?”

“Fuck should I know?” she grumbled again from the open access door, looking out at the guards. “This is a good score if we can get it, so if the Commander wants to grease the wheels, he can take as long as he wants.”

“Should have just sent you to -” Jason started before a loud smack interrupted him, eliciting a howl of pain. “What the hell was that for?”

“Being a dick,” Sammie answered. Footsteps announced Sammie’s arrival behind her. “You want, I’ll kick his ass.”

“He’s a pig,” she said to Sammie. “I’ll deal with him later. Stupid kid has seen way too many holovids.”

Before they could wile awhile more time just chatting, hopefully without Jason’s idiotic commentary, the bay doors opened up and a scene of chaos was coming their way. Gavalore and Shreln were both running their way, firing as they went at a mixed band of very angry pirates pursuing them.

Gavalore at least at the sense to look where they were going, at the two guards in the bay who were turning to look at the commotion, then going for their weapons. But he was aware they were there; he was armed and had dropped both of them with precision shots before they could even raise their weapons.

“Fuck! Get ready for takeoff,” she told Sammie, ignoring him as he dived back inside and started yelling at the rest of the crew to get ready. Her own weapon was soon in her hand and she was letting fire across the bay as Gavalore and Shreln made their way towards the ship.

“Out of the way!” Gavalore shouted at her as he neared, a dozen paces in front of Shreln.

She stepped inside and to the side, clearing a path for her fellow shipmates to escape to the safety of the Subi. But instead, Gavalore stopped right in the door, turned around and merely fired two shots right into T’Halla Shreln before slamming the door shut, the hull soon reverberating with the sound of successive personal energy weapons slamming into it.

“What the fuck is going on? Why’d you shoot her? Open the door, we have to save her!” she shouted at him. The world had just gone from making some sort of sense to complete nonsense.

But instead, he just turned to her, shaking his head. “No.”

“Fuck that! She’s our shipmate,” she shouted at Gavalore.

“Not any more Lieutenant,” he growled at her. The single most intimidating growl she’d ever heard from him.

“You won’t get away with this,” she threatened. “I’ll make sure Higgins hears about this.”

“No, I don’t think you will,” he said, then fired on her.

“Cousin,” Orelia said aloud, breaking Sidda’s reverie. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she answered.

“Then why are you in the EV suit bay?” Orelia asked, stepping into the room properly. “T’Ael saw you, you didn’t answer her so she called me.”

“What?” she asked, shaking the cobwebs free from her thoughts before a nod of her head to invite the other woman closer. “Just…caught in a bit of reflection.”

“You hate EV suits though, so why here?”

“Didn’t say it was a good reflection,” Sidda answered, eyes returning to the suit she’d been looking at. It didn’t matter which since the dozen EV suits aboard the Vondem Rose were mismatched suits from all over the galaxy. But they were safe, secure and functional. All that really mattered in the end.

“This about this Gavalore prick? Or the Andorian woman?” Orelia asked as she sat down on the bench next to Sidda.

“Both really,” she answered. “Just been thinking about things, recalling events. Guess I finally got to the point where I got my phobia of EV suits. Thought I’d come and stare at my demons.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“What’s to talk about? I threatened Gavalore, he stunned me, stuffed me in an EV suit and when I came to, he said his final goodbyes and then spaced me. Coward didn’t have it in him to kill me face to face.”

Orelia growled, actually honestly growled. Muscles tensed across her shoulders. “Prick,” was all she managed to say in response.

“Say that again,” Sidda found herself saying with a smile. “I still don’t know why he shot Shreln, or me. But he did.”

“So he just pushed you out of an airlock in deep space?” Orelia asked, seeking confirmation which came with a head nod. “How long were you out floating out there?”

“Long enough to hear the low oxygen warnings. Long enough to pass out.” She shivered at the thought. Full body shaking until Orelia wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeeze her tight.

“I’m going to kill him,” Orelia said after a few heartbeats of silence.

“No,” she said. “I have to. To satisfy T’Rev’s stupid demands and myself.”

“Then I’ll make sure it happens,” Orelia said.

“I know you will cousin.”

It was a few more heartbeats before Orelia let her go, then gave her a few pats on the back in reassurance. “You should call the matriarch before we go much further into this.”

“I’ll call my grandmother when I feel like it,” she said to Orelia. “You told her about my proposal to Revin?”

“Naturally,” Orelia answered. “She’s displeased of course. You’re wasting yourself on that girl when you could be making alliances back on Vondem.”

“I’m not some plaything for my grandmother.” She breathed in, then stood, mirrored by Orelia. “And she’s not the empress of the fifteenth great and power Orion Empire.”

“The great Sadovu line ends with you then, does it?” Orelia challenged.

“Never said that,” Sidda said. “But first, I’ve got to survive T’Rev’s little blackmail and death threat. So, if you want to keep the matriarch happy, go set a course for Ayer’s Rock and get us back under cloak and on our way. Don’t want any Starfleet border patrols causing us issues as we slip the border.”

To call Landing a city would have been a gross over-exaggeration. Calling it a town would have just been an exaggeration. Township felt right, but also felt tight. Like a shirt one size too small. It was threatening to grow again, another wave of expansion of the dusty, hard-scrabble community that would cause it to slip over into being a proper town.

Which was likely making more than just a few of the locals anxious. Either the township would grow, or there’d be another way of emigration as people would leave the ‘hustle and bustle of city life’ to go start a few more communities elsewhere. The history of Ayer’s Rock was littered with such events, but the general trend was for Landing to grow.

The main street was still a prominent feature of the township, punctuated not by a church like the holodramas conditioned visitors for, but by the town hall, featuring the only piece of modern technology that was out on display – the subspace transceiver tower that was the world’s only link to the rest of the galaxy. Even the Federation Outreach office had conceded to the local aesthetics and no obvious technology was on display from the outside.

All of this meant that the high-pitched whine and bright red swirling lights of a transporter were not missed by the locals, many of whom backed away from the coalescing figures, a few tensed and at least one went bolting away down the street as fast as they could. There wasn’t any screaming, just townsfolks preparing themselves. And then relief that the red transporters hadn’t turned out to be Klingon invaders, but a motley pack of humans, Orions and Romulans.

The spot they’d beamed down to had been chosen for two reasons – it was a nice large intersection of the main road and another that was competing with it for businesses and traffic and the single largest saloon on the planet was on one of the corners.

“Sheriff Jacobs won’t be long,” Sidda said to her landing party of four others – R’tin, Orelia, Deidrick and Trid. Then she indicated the saloon with a flick of her chin and proceeded to head on it. Drinks had, a table claimed, they didn’t make any effort of hiding. They also pointedly didn’t make any trouble, just like every visit beforehand to Ayer’s Rock.

But that still didn’t stop the local constabulary from showing up in response to their arrival in town. Sheriff Jacobs, the keeper of the peace for Landing, stepped into the saloon with a couple of his deputies, who put together might just come within spitting distance of his age. All of them were armed, from the sheriff and his trust rifle to the pistols on the deputies’ belts.  Silence fell over the sparsely populated saloon in the mid-afternoon and stayed that way as Jacobs crossed the intervening space from door to table with his lackeys in tow.

“Sidda,” Jacobs drawled as he neared, staying just far enough to keep his rifle a viable threat.

“Sheriff Jacobs,” Sidda answered, then kicked out the one empty chair at the table for him. “Not causing any trouble as always. Just here to visit a couple of friends.”

Her reassurances hadn’t eased the tension in the deputies’ one iota. The people of Ayer’s Rock lived this decidedly ancient lifestyle, emulating the Ancient Wild West of pre-industrial Earth because they wanted to. They didn’t want the trappings of modern technology. So, anyone who just beamed into the middle of their largest city was instantly and likely irrevocably branded a troublemaker.

That and members of her crew were decidedly non-human on this human-dominated backwater. They were human enough not to cause immediate problems, but green skin or pointed ears branded them as outsiders.

“You know the rules,” Sheriff Jacobs continued. “You land your ship well outside of town and you walk in. We don’t want to see any of your fancy technology.”

“Well, I would have done that, if I had a ship to land,” she said in defence of her actions, earning a slight chuckle from R’tin and whispered ‘kaboom’ between him and Trid.

“Miss that ship,” Trid whispered in response.

“You don’t use that transporter thing to land yourself in the middle of my town,” Jacobs said, the drawl fading as impatience slipped into his voice.

“I’ll add it to the list of rules,” Sidda conceded, then jostled the empty chair with her foot again. “I wouldn’t mind having a friendly chat with you Sheriff, if you don’t mind.”

Jacobs just stared at her, then shook his head. “I ain’t got time for this Sidda. You want to talk to me, you come down to my office and make an appointment like everyone else.”

“Brett Gavalore,” she blurted out as he was turning away, deputies still watching her and hers with unblinking stares. “I know you know that name.”

“God dammit,” the sheriff cursed, his shoulders betraying his exasperation physically. He took a moment, then handed his rifle over to one of the deputies and to the other said, “Get me a drink would yah?”

“Make it a round for the table,” Sidda spoke up. “On me.”

“Really?” Orelia protested, then shrugged as Jacobs took the empty seat. “You know we could make a decent amount running real booze here,” she continued, with no regard for the local who just sat himself down.

“I’m not a man for fancy things,” Jacobs said, looking to Orelia with one every so slightly raised eyebrow, “but I might just take you up on that offer if you can bring in a decent whiskey.” He leaned towards her and spoke even softer than normal. “The Rankins haven’t been able to distil a decent spirit in two decades.”

As drinks arrived, set before all, thanks passed on to the deputy who retreated to a nearby table with his companion, all waited for Jacobs to take a sip of his drink. Which he drew out, barely sipping at the dark amber liquid before setting the glass down. “What does Brett Gavalore have to do with you?”

“We have business,” Sidda answered.

“What kind of business?”

“The kind where only one of us is going to be walking away,” she answered.

“Thought so,” Jacobs said, then went for his drink again. “He always said someone would come for him one day.” And with that he drained his glass, slamming the glass down. “Before I say anything further, you just someone’s hired gun, or this personal?”

“He killed a friend in front of me, then left me stranded to die in a space suit,” Sidda answered, working to restrain the anger in her voice. “You’re damn right this is personal.”

“Doesn’t sound like the man I know, but then again, he came to Ayer’s Rock to get away from his past.” Jacob contemplated the depths of his empty glass, pushing it gently on the table with one hand. “Three days ride by horse west by south-west of here. Stick to the riverbed through the Maze Valley and you’ll eventually come across his homestead.”

“Much appreciated.” Sidda sat forward, catching Jacobs’ gaze. “I mean it, I do appreciate it.”

“If you kill him,” Jacobs’ eyes were hard, adding to the steel within his words, “you never set foot on this world again. Am I understood young lady?”

“Perfectly,” she answered.

He held her eyes for a few more moments, then sighed as he slowly stood. “I’m getting too old for this gig anyway.” His gaze passed over those seated at the table. “Your fancy transporter won’t get you to his homestead. Something about those hills. You’ll want to see Sally Oakridge on the south side of town about hiring some horses. And some gear too.”

“Sally Oakridge, south of town,” Sidda echoed the salient points. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, just one other thing,” Jacobs drawled as he returned to his deputies, taking up his rifle once more. “Some other fella got here a few weeks ago, asking after Brett as well. Didn’t cause a fuss, left town a day later. Haven’t seen him since. Can confirm Brett is still ticking though.”

“Got a name?” Sidda asked and her crew were focused on the answer too.

“Aloysius Manfred,” Jacobs answered, then turned for the saloon doors. “Remember young lady, don’t cause any trouble in my town. And remember what I said about Brett. Don’t be surprised if he knows you’re coming either.”

“You going to tell him?” she asked.

“I don’t owe him anything anymore.” And with that the lawmen left, a few glares thrown by the deputies as they passed outside.

“So, Manfred is here,” R’tin finally said after a full minute’s silence. “Here, on Ayer’s Rock. Manfred the Killer. Manfred the Unstoppable. Manfred the Psychotic Paid Killer.”

“So?” Sidda asked without looking at R’tin, a hand waving to the bar for more drink.

“Oh, just stating the obvious,” R’tin continued. “Can I go back to the ship?”

“Nope,” Deidrick answered, speaking up for the first time since beaming down. “So boss,” he looked up at Sidda from his own drink. “What’s the plan?”

“Kill the monster, beat some answers out of the bad guy, go from there.”

“That’s a shit plan,” Orelia declared. “We need a new plan.”

As the door cracked open and a pale face stuck out to see who had been banging on the door, Trid and R’tin both offered slight waves in greeting. “Morning Pete,” Trid offered. “Got a few questions for you.”

Pete, the resident technologist on Ayer’s Rock, stared at her for a moment, then stuck his head out further to look around, checking both directions twice before settling back on Trid. “I don’t owe Sidda anything anymore.”

On a world so adverse to technology, Pete was an oddity. He enjoyed technology, but not the sophisticated mechanical pieces here and there across Ayer’s Rock, but modern technology. He was the caretaker for the world’s subspace transceiver. He did the maintenance on the shuttles the hospital maintained for emergencies. He would bribe and beg visiting starship engineers to help him with anything he couldn’t fix.

Which is how he had come to know the crew of the Vondem Thorn and subsequent Vondem Rose whenever they visited Ayer’s Rock for one reason or another. They would bring in equipment or parts that he needed and in return, he had come up with a form of trade – information. Spread across a not inconsiderable portion of Ayer’s Rock, hidden in remote places but all tied together, were smaller subspace transceivers. These were all tied together by Pete into an ad hoc subspace array capable of some not-inconsiderable feats of amateur spycraft.

Perfect for wanna-be pirates sneaking outside of Federation territory for a bit of cargo liberation.

The relationship wasn’t the best, but it had worked. Primarily due to Pete’s absolute fear of Sidda. Of any strong woman really. This was why R’tin and Trid had been sent to speak with him. Friendly faces and someone with some technical sense to offer a trade – information for a helping hand.

“True,” Trid replied. “But we’re here to trade. Just a small bit of information, a local event, and in return we’ll give you a helping hand till mid-afternoon.”

“Why would I trust you?” Pete asked, eyes squinting at her.

R’tin took the chance to enter the conversation, a hand pointing to the primary transceiver atop the town hall. “Your E-band aerial needs some tending to and don’t get me started on that B-band setup you’ve got up there.” He looked at Pete. “I mean, it’s impressive you’ve done all this by yourself and with everyone here being so averse to technology, but you really want to turn down an engineer for a day?”

Pete glared at him then stepped out of the back door to the town hall so he could look up at the transceiver tower himself, squinting in the full light of day and shielding his eyes with a hand. “Huh, never noticed that,” he muttered before a heavy sigh. “Fine, fine, just…don’t invite Sidda here. I don’t need that right now, okay?”

“Sure thing boss,” R’tin answered. “Still gonna call her and tell her what you tell us though.”

“After you help out,” Pete added.

“Well, we kinda need to know things now, but promise we’re not going to cut and run,” R’tin continued. “We want to know whatever you know about any ships that arrived here in the last few weeks, landed roughly southwest of here.”

“Manfred,” Pete said, with distaste, going so far as to spit on the dusty ground after uttering the name. “Well, might as well come inside then. Gonna take a moment to pull up what I recorded for you.”

“What you have found Tavol?” Gaeda asked as he stepped up behind the Vulcan at the Vondem Rose’s science console.

“The information from Trid and R’tin has helped in identifying Manfred’s landing location,” Tavol answered, bringing up a purely optical image of the world below them. It was well-lit, thanks to the time of day, and showed a plateau in what had to be the Maze Valley from Sidda’s update. There sat a small craft, plain as day from the air, or orbit, but anyone on the ground wouldn’t see it at all.

It was larger than a Danube-class runabout, but not by much. And from the look of it, more heavily armed as well. No match for the Rose in a straight fight, but enough to keep its operator safe for the most part and likely enough to convince those who could take it to rethink. It could easily carry a variety of ways to make the operator’s targets’ lives very interesting or to be a home for any long-term occupants.

“It is a Corrin-class luxury craft, heavily modified. Sufficient to keep a crew of six in moderately pleasant comfort for extended periods, as per the sales brochure I was able to pull up.” Tavol dutifully did so. “It matches the profile that was provided by Pete,” Tavol said, his distaste for using such a familiar form of address evident, but he had been told nothing more so far.

“And is situated right between Landing and Gavalore’s ranch. Only one person has a reason to be there and not at either end,” Gaeda concluded. “Guessing he selected the location for another reason as well, yes?”

“That would be correct. Magnesite deposits in the valley are preventing detailed scans. Sensors were able to determine a ship was in the area, but not where. I employed no less than fifteen crewmembers to look over optical images to locate this craft. We can’t resolve life signs in the area either, so I could not pinpoint Manfred, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Okay, so he’s about halfway between Sidda and Gavalore and we know we can’t beam them in on top of him since Gavalore chose those hills to stop such anyway. A shuttle is just going to get Manfred’s attention and likely shot down. They’re really going to have to go after Gavalore on horseback aren’t they?” Gaeda asked.

“It is looking that way,” Tavol answered.

“So, if the boss gets in trouble down there, what do we do? Not like we can provide fire support from orbit if we can’t get a target lock or see something under a cloud.” Gaeda looked to Tavol expectantly, waiting for a matter-of-fact answer that would resolve his conundrum, though his expression gave away he wasn’t expecting one.

“Ta’shen,” came Orelia’s voice from across the bridge.

“Ta’shen?” Gaeda asked as he stepped back to bring Orelia into his field of view. “What’s Ta’shen?”

“A risky ploy I developed to slip under an orbital defence grid,” Tavol answered. “And not something I would recommend in this situation at all.” He sighed, a truly Vulcan sigh at that, when Gaeda glared at him and Orelia crossed her arms in frustration. “Commander Ruiz, you may wish to sit down while I detail some of this ship’s core capabilities you might not have been made away of just yet, including close fire support for ground troops.”

“Pardon?” Gaeda asked as he spun an empty seat around to sit down. “As in not from orbit, but much closer?”

“Much, much closer,” Orelia confirmed with glee. “Go on Tavol, explain it to him.”

“You know he was flirting with you, right?” Trid asked of R’tin a few minutes after they had departed Pete’s cave of technological wonders. The only place on the entire planet that would have had more modern technology in it would have been the Federation Outreach office. She’d had to suffer R’tin’s glee and joy at ramshackle pieces of equipment and whatever hack Pete had used to keep it running, then followed by Pete wanting to show off his next jury-rigged piece of equipment.

The repairs hadn’t taken more than half an hour and after that, it had just been hours of two young men geeking out over equipment not suited for purpose being made to keep going. It wasn’t Trid’s field of interest, but she could respect the utter joy both R’tin and Pete got from their engineering passion and being able to indulge in it with another who got it.

A handful of very long, very boring hours for her.

“No he wasn’t,” R’tin said, brushing the statement off casually. “We were just having a good time.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied. “I’ve never seen Pete so vocal. A few months back when we swung by on a freight run, your sister was the one the boss sent to talk with Pete. We were done in an hour. Very business-like. You however got the full tour.”

“So? Sis is intimidating. Poor guy likely got spooked by her.”

“No,” Trid countered. “Sidda and Orelia intimidate him. T’Ael barely registered. I barely register. You on the other hand…” she trailed off with a shrug and tilt of her head.

“No,” R’tin responded. “No,” he repeated. “Was he?”

“You’re hopeless,” she answered him as they continued to walk south through the small town. “He’s hopeless. Perfect match.”

R’tin stopped, turning back to look towards the town hall before sprinting to catch up with her. “Really?”

“Really.”

“He is kinda cute. For a pasty human.”

“You’re a pasty Romulan,” she hit back at him. “You can ask him out when we get back.”

“I dunno Trid,” R’tin said. “You sure you aren’t going to get jealous?”

“If it stops you constantly trying to ask me out, I’m okay with you asking the local tech-wizard out,” she answered. “Just keep the details to yourself, okay?”

Sally Oakridge, the woman who had supplied the party with horses and equipment, had supplied long dusters for everyone to wear on their horseback adventure. And all but Sidda had readily agreed when they looked upon the arid landscape south of Landing. Sidda however had insisted on just her leather jacket and was, as the temperature was starting to drop a bit as the sun dropped low on the horizon, regretting her decision. But the image she had built up made demands of her and she’d decided to keep to it.

It had taken hours for R’tin and Trid to finish up with Pete and during that time Orelia had gone back up to the Vondem Rose, returning with some proper camping equipment and a promise that she’d come up with a better plan than what had been discussed in the saloon earlier in the day. Which had left horse trading to Trid and herself. And all the mental preparation for the task she’d undertaken had been for nought when Sally Oakridge had proven to not only be a reasonable woman but actually downright helpful.

She’d rented them horses for their trip and all the gear to go along with – saddles, bags, spare blankets for camping, feed for the horses. Everything an aspiring cowperson would need for a trek across semi-arid plains. Sally had even given them one of the few pieces of technology that everyone on Ayer’s Rock insisted on – an inertial mapper. “Keep going this way,” Sally had said while demonstrating the device, “and you’ll find the Maze Valley soon enough. Then when you’re ready to come back, just push this button and it’ll lead you back the way you came.”

And so with lunch behind them and a good portion of the afternoon as well, they’d set off, fully prepared to camp in the wilderness of Ayer’s Rock. Local dangers had been warned about, but one of the pieces of gear Orelia had returned from the ship with would help with that issue. And the ration packs she’d brought down too would keep them fed.

“These are actually good,” R’tin commented as he was digging into his dinner around the fire they’d built prior to sunset. It had gotten very dark very fast and with it cold too. While the fire granted warmth and light, it also worked to deepen the dark around them as their vision adapted to the orange-yellow flames.

“Certainly better than anything I’ve eaten in the field,” Deidrick agreed before he reached for the outer wrapper he’d discarded, giving it a quick read. “Well, there we go. These aren’t emergency rations at all. They’re quality camping meals.”

“So civilian emergency rations,” Trid added to the conversation. “Starfleet needs something they can load into an escape pod and forget about for years. Most mercenary groups too. These are good for what, a few months?”

“Says two years,” Deidrick answered as he handed over his wrapper for inspection. “But the packaging does say camping meals. Glamourous, over the top and decidedly agreeable. Thanks, boss.” He nodded once to Sidda in thanks.

“Product of Kyban,” Trid read aloud. “Made from purely local ingredients.”

“Which means,” a voice from the dark spoke up, loud enough to be heard from a distance but clearly approaching as it continued, “also inspired by local cuisine.” The voice was deep, gravelly and had an obvious drawl to it that lent a lazy air to the speaker. As they approached close enough to be more than just a silhouette in the dark, hands to either side and palms open for all to see, recognition dawned on all gathered.

A rustling commotion ensued as everyone save Sidda started to move. R’tin rolled backwards over the rock he’d made into a seat, throwing himself to the ground and the paltry cover the rock provided. Trid, Orelia and Deidrick all jumped to their feet, weapons drawn in quick succession and pointed straight at the surprisingly well-dressed figure of Aloysius Manfred, who merely nodded with a slight smirk at the greeting.

“Manfred,” Sidda said, after letting the stand-off stretch on for a few seconds. In truth, it was to finish what she was eating. Never, her grandmother’s tutors had beaten into her, talk with your mouth full. “Was wondering when you would show up.”

Manfred was, aside from his dress, decidedly bland. Average height, brown hair and eyes. Perhaps on the downward slope of middle-aged for humans. No real distinguishing marks about his person. If one was asked to describe a late middle-aged average human male of northern descent, Manfred would fit the bill pretty damn well.

Where he stood out at the moment was his dress which was decidedly locally inspired at present. A nice, but hard-wearing black suit, matching boots, duster and hat all capped off by the brown leather gun holster on his right side, though it wasn’t styled for one of the local pistols, but something else which was decidedly absent at present. It could have easily fit in amongst the people of Landing, especially with those who consider themselves better than their fellow settlers.

“Well I did have to make my way down from my camp after all,” he said, again playing up the drawl. An affectation he’d picked up between their last meeting years ago and likely relatively recent. To better blend in with the people of Ayer’s Rock, despite his only having been in Landing for a day according to Sheriff Jacobs. “Be mighty kind of you all to lower your weapons if you don’t mind.”

While his words sounded civil enough, maybe even fool the casual listener, those that looked at Manfred could see it was just an act. His eyes had no emotion to them, no feelings. Just a void where that spark of being could normally be seen. There was something truly unsettling about the way he just looked at people.

“Give me one good reason,” Orelia growled at the man.

“I am but a humble unarmed man,” Manfred answered, moving slowly to hold his duster and suit jacket away from his body and demonstrate he had no other weapons hidden on his person. “And parlay is a wonderful tradition is it not?”

“Fuck that,” Orelia spat back.

“Lower your weapons,” Sidda ordered. “But keep them ready.”

“Sidda -” Orelia started.

“Now,” Sidda said, cutting her cousin off. Then she looked up at Manfred and nodded her head to indicate he could come closer. “You’ve got your parlay, now speak your piece, Manfred.”

“I know you’re a woman of action Sidda, so I’ll get right to it,” Manfred said as he stepped closer, slipping one hand into a pocket, keeping his right free. “Our patron has tasked you with dealing with Mr Gavalore and at the same time hired me to stop you. And then clean everything up once his imposed time limit has passed. Best I can tell he was looking to solve two out of three outstanding problems by pitting us all against each other.”

“I say we kill him now and be done with it,” Orelia growled again.

“Best be keeping your hired hands from doing anything stupid Sidda,” Manfred warned, giving Orelia a brief look over and a nod. “What I’m doing here is a kindness.”

“A kindness?” Sidda asked as she slowly got to her feet after setting her own dinner down.

“Certainly,” Manfred answered. “You turn around and head back to town in the morning. You spend the next two weeks getting your affairs in order. Or running as far and as fast as you can. I’ll deal with Mr Gavalore and then I’ll come after you. Even promise to make it quick and clean.”

“Some kindness,” Deidrick spoke up, his tone cool and calm compared to Orelia’s obvious temper.

“I have a reputation to maintain young man. And Sidda’s flight for whatever bolthole she’s got set up will be good advertisement,” Manfred replied. “When I take a job, I see it through to the end, but there’s no reason I can’t be civil to those I have some respect for.” Manfred’s eyes however betrayed the lie in that. He held no respect for anyone. “I could just kill you all here and now after all but your boss still has two weeks on her deadline. She can use it to her benefit, or charge into my guns in the morning. Quick and clean in two weeks, or a bloody shoot out with no promises.”

Silence settled over the camp as Sidda nodded her head a few times in consideration. “Just wondering something Manfred,” she said before picking up a small stone off the ground and gently lobbing it at the man, who didn’t flinch or dodge, letting it hit his shoulder and drop to the ground. “Half expected a hologram. You really are here aren’t you?”

“In the flesh young lady,” he answered.

“What if I said I wanted to speak with Gavalore before I make up my mind?”

“I can’t be allowing that,” he answered. “You’re just as likely to kill him as talk to him. With some clever trick too that I just can’t be having.”

“Unarmed,” she added. “Promise to keep my distance too.”

“The answer is still no.”

“I give my word no harm will come to him,” she said after a moment’s thought.

“And I know you’re a creature of your word. Normally I’d accept that and let it happen, but not this time Sidda,” he replied, managing to actually sound a little sad at not accepting her word.

“Well that’s disappointing,” she said, a few more nods of her head. “I’ll give your offer some thought.”

“You do that,” Manfred said. He was halfway through turning around when he stopped and removed his hat, dusting the brim off before putting it back on. “It’s nice to see the rules of civil society still apply, even out here in the desert. Be seeing you around Sidda.”

“Manfred,” Sidda called out after he’d taken two steps. As he turned to face her, a questioning look on his face, she drew her disruptor in a single fluid action and fired from the hip with no warning. The bolt took him square in the chest, ravenous green energies crackling over and through him as it started to devour him.

“But…parlay…” he croaked out as he dropped to his knees, staring at her in utter disbelief before it changed to a faint smile. “Your reputation, a con?” he asked before falling to his left, his hat falling off and into the dirt, still looking at her as the disruptor’s energies consumed him.

“Just so I can do shit like this,” she answered the dying man.

“There’s hope for this gener -” he tried to say before the last vestiges of the vaporising energy cut him off. He was now just wafting away on the wind, a cloud of disassociated atoms.

“Did…did you just kill Manfred?” R’tin blurted out after a few heartbeats. “Like actually kill-kill?” He was scrambling to his feet, having not moved at all from where he’d hidden at the onset. “Great bird…”

“You broke your word,” Orelia added. No condemnation in her voice, just an observation.

“You don’t give your word to pirates, slavers and psychotic killers,” Deidrick said. “Boss just made the galaxy a better place.”

It was Trid who had recovered Manfred’s fallen hat, peering inside it before walking over and holding it up for everyone to look inside, her actions drawing the desired response. Inside was an envelope tucked into the band, the seal of the Vondem Rose on the outside of it.

Orelia had it opened in short order, glancing over it quickly before reading it aloud. “If you are reading this, then you’ve chosen to kill me. It isn’t that easy to kill me, Sidda. That you tried, I respect. You can have this round. Be seeing you around someday Sidda.”

“What’s that mean?” R’tin asked.

“It means,” Trid spoke up, “that Manfred is still a threat. Guess rumours of his miraculous survivals might have some merit to them.”

“Someday,” Sidda said, taking the hat off of Trid, inspecting it, turning it around, and then putting it on her head. It was too large for her, sitting low and flopping slightly to the left, offering a rakish look in contrast to Manfred’s gentlemanly villain look. “But that’s a future problem.”

“Interesting.”

Normally such a word wasn’t of such great concern, but when uttered by a Vulcan monitoring sensors it could range from ‘that’s odd’ to ‘this will be a noteworthy way of dying and I’m displeased I won’t get to read the scientific papers resulting from it’ and everything in between. So when Tavol said it, Gaeda was turning the centre in his direction pretty quickly.

“We’re sitting in orbit providing overwatch for our boss Tavol. Define interesting,” he said, exasperation evident in his own voice.

They’d seen Sidda’s gunning down of a man early the previous night. Even spoke with her to make sure all was okay. But as the sun had risen on her location and she’d proceeded into the Maze Valley, the Vondem Rose had parked itself directly overhead to watch and if need be provide ‘convincing arguments’. Those without accurate targeting scans those arguments would be generally addressed ‘to whom it may concern’.  And a good portion of their watching had come to settle on Manfred’s now unclaimed small craft. It would have to be dealt with eventually, but right now it was better to let it be and watch it like a hawk.

“I am detecting signs of phaser fire in Landing,” the Vulcan clarified promptly. “A considerable amount of phaser fire.”

“What?” Gaeda said as he launched himself to his feet to join Tavol and his station, a hand on the back of Tavol’s chair as he leaned over to examine the readings for himself, which Tavol kindly pointed out. “What the hell is going on down there?”

“I have insufficient information to make a hypothesis,” Tavol answered. “I suspect however that Ayer’s Rock residents’ predilection towards firearms will result in a resolution to the matter shortly.”

“And a lot of spilled blood too,” Gaeda muttered. He thought for only a moment more before standing straight up again. “It’ll all be over before we can muster a team together and get down there. And it could be a distraction to pull us away from the captain.”

“I find that unlikely,” Tavol said. “But not impossible.”

“Keep monitoring the situation,” Gaeda ordered. “And send Pete a message. Tell him we’re able to render whatever assistance we can and the folks down there want.”

“Understand,” Tavol replied.

“According to the map we’re actually making great time,” Trid said as she consulted the tricorder she’d brought along. Its internal compass had already given up the ghost with the amount of magnesite in the hills around them, but she’d managed to configure it to scan the compass and take readings from it. That and the survey map she’d gotten were giving them the best idea of their current location.

“Good,” Orelia responded. “Sooner we deal with this Gavalore jerk, the sooner we get off this rock and somewhere decent.”

“Actually, I think I like it here,” R’tin chimed in. “Rugged landscape, plenty of open space. Dry climate. Feels like home.”

“Did you grow up on Romulus?” Trid asked.

“Yeah, near the Shalin Plains. Much like this, but we didn’t have creatures like these,” he said as he reached down and petted the neck of the tobiano horse he was riding on. “These horses are interesting, but they don’t seem very…local.”

“They’re from Earth,” Sidda spoke up, adjusting her newly acquired hat once more. “And some horses are fine, some are right demons. We got given very well-tempered beasts.” And much like R’tin, she reached down to give her mount a pet and a scratch, earning a happy huffing from the creature.

“Huh. Should have guessed seeing as this is a human world,” R’tin said before he went quiet.

The four riders continued in silence for some time before their fifth, Deidrick Osterman, rejoined them, bringing his horse back at a decent gallop along the path they were following, looping around and coming alongside them at the more sedate speed they were moving at.

“There’s spotters in the valley,” he said, pointing far up the valley’s sides. “I’ve seen heliographs three times already this morning and each further along than the last.”

“I’m not sure which I should be concerned more about, that Manfred brought others and they’re lying in wait, or Gavalore has done the same,” Sidda said as she scanned the ridge lines. “But we’re here now.”

“Could just be farmers,” Trid said. “Goats or such up in the hills perhaps?”

“What’s a goat?” R’tin asked.

It was a half-hour after Tavol’s first ‘Interesting’ had wafted across the Vondem Rose’s bridge that Gaeda was beaming down to the town of Landing at the behest of the sheriff and the mayor. The street outside the Federation Outreach Office was a nightmare scene of blood and a half-dozen bodies lying in the street. Sheets had been draped over a number of the bodies and a deputy stood near each of them armed with a shotgun.

“Jesus,” grumbled Bones as she stepped past Gaeda, already swinging her medkit around and fetching out a tricorder. Her attention wasn’t on the dead, but on the injured that were being assisted by the local medical professionals. One of the Rose’s many crewmembers was walking behind her with a crate of more supplies and setting them down as ordered by the doctor.

“Ruiz,” Sheriff Jacobs rumbled as he approached. “Your boss still on her fool’s journey?”

“That she is,” Gaeda answered. “What happened here?”

“I was going to ask you that.” Jacobs was armed like his deputies, like everyone on the street on a quick examination. With a flick of his head, he led Gaeda towards the Outreach Office and away from the bodies on the street. “Leave them to Bones, I want your opinion on this since you’re an off-worlder.”

“Sure thing,” he answered and within just a few moments was just as confused as Jacobs clearly was. Inside the office, a totally different decor to the rest of Ayer’s Rock, or even the outside of the building itself, one could almost believe they were anywhere else within the Federation. Slick consoles, comfortable tables and chairs for the workers to do their work and liaise with the locals. But the whole slick office scene was ruined by the five dead bodies spread around the room.

“Santa Maria,” Gaeda muttered as he followed Jacobs on a short loop of the room.

“Mixture of phasers set to kill and blunt force trauma,” Jacobs said, indicating one body covered by a sheet to highlight the latter. “Then those six out there stepped outside. The two with phasers kept firing while the other four assaulted passersby.”

“How many?” Gaeda asked.

“Two dead, six injured. Honestly, I’m glad you folks are here. Bones is going to be a big help.”

Gaeda looked around the room once more and the unfortunate souls who wouldn’t be leaving. Then with a nod followed Jacobs back outside, who led them to the closest of the covered bodies on the street. “Something ain’t right with them,” Jacobs grumbled and with more non-verbal communication the deputy overwatching stepped forward to pull the sheet back.

“Fuck me,” Gaeda grumbled. “Bones!”

“Just a moment,” she shouted back.

“Now!” he returned.

It still took a minute for her to join them as she was attending to one of the injured with the local doctor, leaving her medkit with the man before she stalked over, glaring at Gaeda with deadly intent. Then she looked down at the body and stopped. The glare left her face as her expression blanked, tricorder flicked open once more as she knelt to scan the body as well as conduct her own inspection.

“There are no nanoprobes present, but everything else indicates there should be,” she said shortly after starting. “No cybernetics at all.”

“What happened to them?” Jacobs asked.

“They’re Borg,” Bones announced, waving her tricorder over the street, focusing on the dead bodies. “They’re all Borg.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Gaeda asked. “Why are there Borg on Ayer’s Rock?”

“How are there Borg on Ayer’s Rock?” Jacobs asked. “And what’s a Borg?”

“God, you really are off the grid here aren’t you?” Bones asked in reply. “

“We don’t bother the galaxy, the galaxy don’t bother us,” Jacobs drawled. “But looks like that might have changed today. This something them Federation Outreach folk brought with them?”

“No…this is an attack of some kind,” Bones muttered. “Fucking Borg.”

“Sherrif!” came a shout from someone running down the street. “Sherrif!” it repeated as the young boy ran right up to Jacobs, Gaeda and Bones. “Pete and the Mayor say you need to come quick and bring the offworlders. The Federation President is sending out a distress call.”

The flickering lights along the valley walls had increased as the day went on, sporadic in the morning and rising to a peak by noon. They’d even managed to spot one of the spotters as they stepped up onto the actual ridge and silhouette themselves against the clear blue sky. While they hadn’t managed to notice much through the binoculars they had with them, they could easily make out the long rifle the individual was carrying and the scope on it.

“We’re well out of range,” Deidrick had confidently stated upon that revelation. “Likely a hunter, but that scope would be good for tracking us.”

“So we’re being hunted,” Trid concluded.

“I wouldn’t say that. More like scouted.” Deidrick turned with a faint smile. “If we were being hunted, they wouldn’t be letting us see those heliographs.”

“If we were being scouted properly,” Orelia weighed in, “they wouldn’t let us see them either.”

“They want us to know they’re there and watching,” Sidda added. “And they’ll be waiting for us when we get to Gavalore’s homestead.”

“Is this another one of your ‘it’s not a trap if you know it’s a trap’ moments, boss?” R’tin asked.

That had been around noon and they’d continued travelling throughout the afternoon with minimal conversation, stopping only a few times as needs required. Directions were followed, the map consulted and Sherriff Jacob’s three-day estimate was ruled a vast over-estimation. “If we keep going at this rate, we could be there before nightfall,” Trid concluded.

And so they had, the enthusiasm to get to their destination and resolve this particular problem clear. But as mid-afternoon arrived a beeping emitted from Orelia’s travel pack. A harsh, dissonant and rather insistent beeping designed to get the attention of anyone nearby. “They shouldn’t be calling us,” Orelia explained as she brought her horse to a halt and dismounted.

“What?” Sidda asked.

“Klingons have communication gear for situations like this,” the taller Orion explained as she fished a Klingon device from one of the travel packs. It was a reasonably large device, taking up most of one of the saddle bags. “It’s a laser comm that’ll talk with the Rose in orbit.”

“Magnesite messes with subspace and radio comms, but lasers…clever.” R’tin was off his horse as well and giving Orelia a hand in setting the device up which involved setting it flat on the ground and unfolding it so the transceiver head could scan the sky.

“But long-wavelength radio can kind of get through magnesite interference. Not great, but enough to basically say ‘hey stupid’ and get someone on the ground to open up their comms gear,” Orelia continued as she ultimately stepped back and let R’tin take over the process. “Figured we might need it, didn’t figure Gaeda would need to talk to us.”

The comms were audio only and relayed from Landing to them via the Rose in orbit, but good enough for Gaeda to update them on the situation in town and what was unfolding in the galaxy at large right now. No one spoke, dared to break the solemn silence that had settled over them upon hearing of a Borg attack in Landing, or across the Federation as a whole.

The youth of Starfleet weaponised against the Federation. Whole fleets laying siege to Earth, individual ships attacking shipping wherever they could, and the Federation President ordering everyone to save themselves. It was like a bad dream.

It couldn’t be real.

“I’m sending a shuttle to pick you up,” Gaeda said after finishing his update.

“No,” Sidda countermanded. “I’m finishing this. We’re only a few hours away now.”

“Boss,” Gaeda pleaded. “This isn’t the time.”

“We’re days away from anywhere important at warp,” Sidda said. “A few more hours to let me finish this isn’t going to change the larger picture.”

“It’ll change how many we could save.” Gaeda was appealing to Sidda’s better nature and it almost worked.

“I’ll call as soon as we’re done down here. Then you can send a shuttle to pick us up. Get the ship ready for best possible speed to Kyban.”

There was quiet on the other end before Gaeda conceded the point. “Aye ma’am. Ruiz out.”

“Ma’am,” Tavol, acting as the middle man aboard the Rose, cut into the channel as Gaeda closed his end. “I have Ms Riven here wanting a word with you.”

“You’re in trouble now,” R’tin joked before offering a weak apology at Orelia’s glare at him.

“Sidda,” Riven’s voice came through, much clearer than Gaeda’s had. “I’m worried.” She actually sounded it. Her casual confidence, her usually flirtatious and cheery attitude was gone.

“I know.” Sidda herself was worried. What were they to do in the face of a Starfleet attacking itself? Run and hide? Cross the border into the Republic or the Empire and hope for the best? Stand and fight until sanity prevailed?

“Come back to me,” Riven said. “Soon.”

“I will.”

“I love you,” Riven said after a brief moment.

It was enough to bring Sidda to a pause. They’d confessed their love to each other numerous times. It was on public display all of the time. But they’d never said those exact words to each other with others present. There would be numerous people on the bridge of the Rose who heard that. And the away team with Sidda as well. Saying it out loud for others to hear was just something they hadn’t done.

“I love you too,” Sidda finally replied. “I’ll be home soon.”

There was quiet over the comm line for a moment, and then Riven spoke once more. “The hat is stupid,” she said. “I love it.” And with that there was a click as the channel was closed, the communications device confirming the ship was no longer transmitting.

“She insults my hat and then hangs up on me,” Sidda protested as she stepped away from the device to let R’tin go about packing it away. “Hangs up on me!”

“Oh good,” Deidrick scoffed. “I was concerned we would be going into this stand-off with our serious faces on. Now we’ll be complaining about how your fiancé insulted your ill-gotten hat and hung up on you.”

And for Deidrick’s well-being, it was good that Sidda hadn’t learned to kill with just a look.

Yet.

The sun was hanging high and oppressively overbearing in the sky as the team from the Vondem Rose finally made their way out of the Maze Valley and into the vast depression beyond. The bowl was nestled amongst gentle hills that eventually gave rise to a mountain range just visible from Landing, but from here truly dominated the skyline. Hardscrabble gave way to green and trees, eventually turning to white as the mountains pierced upwards into the sky.

As for the bowl itself, it was easy to see why it had been a contender for the site of Landing by the original colonists. It was either remarkably flat or gently rolling landscape for as far as the eye could see in most directions, the hills most evident towards the mountains. A river of glacial melt ran through the hills and into the depression, carving its way towards the Maze Valley and then out to the plains where Landing sat. It was cooler on average which lent it towards being greener as well and whoever was living here had opted to farming in this more moderate climate.

And it was here, amongst the wheat and barley fields, that they encountered their first live person since Sidda had gunned down Manfred a day and a half ago. Two men were standing on the trail that led between two large fields, wheat half as tall as they were on either side and from the rustling likely held a few more companions in hiding.

And just like Sidda, they two were wearing wide-brimmed hats against the sun, though theirs were larger sombreros, casting them in shadow against the high sun for now and hiding some of their features for now.

“Bet you all feel silly now,” Sidda muttered to her companions as she adjusted her recently acquired hat once again and urged her horse out in front of their little pack and towards the rifle-armed men on the road.

“They make their hats look good,” Orelia quipped. “Yours is just stupid.”

“Bitch,” Sidda snapped back to her cousin with a smile before turning towards the welcoming party. “Gentlemen, mind if we pass?” she asked, not trying to imitate the local drawl at all, but slowing the cadence of her speech at least.

“That we do actually,” the man on the right said, his own words a curious blend of accents that was distinctly not from Ayer’s Rock. “No one comes onto our lands without us knowing who and why.”

Sidda didn’t react when she heard a hissing sound from behind her, the sound of hoofs approaching behind her. She expected Deidrick, or maybe Trid, with Orelia hissing at them to get back. She wasn’t expecting R’tin to come up beside her, leaning forward on his horse to try and get a better look at the two before them. “Where are you from, friend?” the Romulan engineer asked, sitting up straight in his saddle and winking at Sidda.

“Here,” came the response.

“Before here,” R’tin countered. “Because the Melk’ril accent is a doozy to get rid of.” R’tin then turned to face Sidda. “He’s from Romulus,” he said, pointing at the one who had done all the speaking so far. “Or Tormel, which was settled mostly by people from the Melk’ril region.”

“That so?” Sidda asked with a smile. “Curious to meet a Romulan out here on Ayer’s Rock.”

“We’re the ones doing the asking,” the other man growled.

“Don’t look at me,” R’tin responded as Sidda turned to him. “Melk’ril was a day trip from home for me. I have no idea what accent he’s got.”

“Well, enlightening as this all is,” Sidda said, “I would like to continue on my way. So, I’m Sidda, this is R’tin, Orelia, Trid and Deidrick.” She pointed at each in turn. “And I’m here to see my old commander, Brett Gavalore. So, either get out of my way or take me to him.”

The two on the road turned to each other, whispering as they discussed something which threatened a few times to get heated. “We won’t stop you,” the first to speak said after a minute, “but if needs be, we will stop you from leaving.” Then he grabbed his partner’s arm and pulled him off the road. “Keep going down the road, you’ll get to the homestead in a few more hours.”

“Much obliged,” Sidda answered, before once more continuing their trek.

“For what it’s worth boss, I think the other guy was Romulan as well,” R’tin had informed her during the trip. “Just not sure where.”

And as they neared the homestead, R’tin’s suspicions likely were right as they started to pass a few people either on the road or working in the fields just off of it. While most were wearing hats as well against the sun, a few weren’t and the pointed ears of Vulcanoids could be seen as folks stopped to watch newcomers going past them. “An awfully lot Romulans for a backwater human colony,” Deidrick had remarked. “What’s that all about I wonder?”

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Orelia answered.

The homestead, as the guards had called it, was in fact a village. What Landing would have looked like in its very early days no doubt – a collection of houses and barns, pens for horses and oxen, farm equipment here and there. No formal roads like in Landing but natural pathways worn here and there where the groundcover had given up attempting to grow for now. Most of the smaller buildings looked like houses clustered around a single large structure that seemed, by how everything had grown around it, to be the prominent structure of the settlement.

And everyone present – man, woman and child – was Romulan.

“There’s a couple of hundred people here,” Trid said. “That’s a school,” she said while pointing at a building with a fenced-in area to the side and a gaggle of kids enjoying an afternoon in the sun under careful supervision.

“This just got complicated, didn’t it, cousin?” Orelia asked.

Sidda didn’t say a thing, but her jaw was clenched, her focus dead ahead. Tension was visible in the set of her shoulders, the rigidity of her back. Simple vengeance had been rendered complex right at the last few moments.

“Anyone else hear something odd?” Deidrick asked, casting his gaze upwards to the clear blue sky.

“Oh good, thought it was just me,” R’tin answered.

“Not now,” Sidda growled as she continued to lead, eyes locked on the large ranch house at the centre of this village. “Fucking bastard.”

It didn’t take long for them to close within shouting range of the house. But by then, before raised voices and harsh language had to be exchanged, a single individual had emerged from the house, across the porch and down the wide steps to the ground outside. He wasn’t the large and somewhat imposing Commander Brett Gavalore that Sidda remembered, or the vigilante turned pirate turned would-be murderer she last saw either.

This man had aged in the last thirteen years. Hair had started to grey, wrinkles started to make their presence known on his face. His skin had taken on a darker hue from years working outside in the elements, far from the soft comforts of Starfleet or the Federation. He’d gotten rounder as well, not as lean as he was in his heyday.

He stood there, feet shoulder-width apart, jeans and a flannel shirt with a towel thrown over one shoulder like he’d just emerged from the kitchen. Thumbs hooked in loops on his jeans as he studied the riders before him, scrutinising each of them in turn before his attention finally settled on Sidda. “Took your time,” he finally said, the edge of command in his voice long dulled from time. “Honestly, I expected to see you coming up that road years ago.”

“I didn’t care enough to track you down,” Sidda answered.

“And now?”

“The Last Pirate King is dead.” She urged her horse forward from her fellows. “He’s cleaning up loose ends.”

“Didn’t take you to be his bootlicker,” Gavalore said. “Then again, didn’t think my insult to him warranted being killed. But for a Vulcan, he was a bitter, vindictive bastard.”

By now villagers had started to arrive, some having flowed in behind Sidda and her people, others having emerged from nearby houses, barns and workshops to see what all the spectacle was all about. Trid’s estimate of numbers was about right.

“Bastard,” Sidda spat out.

“Yes,” Gavalore answered. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“For what? Spacing me, or shooting Shreln?”

“Spacing you,” he answered. “Should have just dumped you on some space station somewhere. Only real thing I regret in my life. As for T’Halla…well, she had it coming.”

Sidda’s draw was fast, the disruptor pulled from her holster and a shot fired into the ground right in front of Gavalore faster than most could register, let alone react. Then she slowly raised the weapon to point right at him. “This had better be good,” she hissed.

Gavalore didn’t even flinch at the small explosion of dirt at his feet, or the angry-looking Klingon disruptor now pointed at him. Just shrugged, looked up at the sky quizzically for a moment, then back to Sidda. “You got a ship nearby?”

“Fuck that! T’Halla Shreln. Why?” Sidda wasn’t steady, but her aim was.

“She was acquiring biomimetic gel behind the captain’s back. Lots of it too. And a dozen other medical items of ill intent.” He unhooked his thumbs and held out his hands, palms open as he tried to present himself as not a threat to the armed person before him. “She was wanting to find a way to hit at the Romulan authorities that let the disaster unfold as it did. People we never stood a chance at getting to. She was talking about bioweapons we could cure as soon as the targets had been killed, or designed to specifically hit a bloodline and leave everyone else alive.”

“She would never!” Sidda near-shouted at him. “She was a Starfleet officer! She was our friend!”

“She was angry,” Gavalore answered. “And something in her broke when Higgins started to pull his support after the supernova. She wanted to strike at the Romulan authorities who got themselves out of the line of fire and left billions to die.”

“Boss,” R’tin spoke up. “Seriously, something’s not right.”

Sidda spun on her engineer and saw all her people were looking up, a good number of the villagers too. She turned back to Gavalore to see he was as well once more but in a particular direction. As she followed his gaze she could see what was the source of the noise barrelling on them – a small craft heading in their direction at what could only be called suicidal speeds. It was plunging from high in the sky, straight at the village. It was fast enough that the sound reaching them indicated it was far behind what they could see.

“Well shit,” Gavalore uttered deadpan. “You aren’t the suicidal sort, so who’d you piss off?”

“Manfred,” she uttered barely above a whisper, but seemingly loud enough for Gavalore to hear, to utter a curse in response of his own. “Fucking Manfred.” Then she looked to her people and while most were looking at the small craft barrelling in on them, R’tin and Deidrick were both looking straight up instead, squinting against the bright sky.

And so her own gaze shifted upwards as well to the clear blue sky. Nothing was there, nothing she could see at least. And then the cloaking field above them started to pull back, the field’s complex bending of light flickering away to reveal the massive bulk of a Klingon battlecruiser hanging a few kilometres above their heads, a dark shape silhouetted against the sky that was already moving to interpose itself between the oncoming ship and people on the ground.

There was a snapping sound that went with the appearance of that ship, a faint shimmer in the air around it for a mere moment before it flared into a green shell as battlecruiser and runabout collided in the sky above Gavalore’s homestead. The runabout didn’t even attempt to dodge before it slammed into the Vondem Rose’s shields, wasting all of its efforts on the ship’s shields, collapsing one side and pelting the hull with spent debris that did nothing more than bounce off the hull before raining down on the fields below and far from the village, all of its deadly kinetic energy wasted on shields meant to blunt the worst of the Empire’s enemies could muster.

There were collective gasps, panic even from some of the children at the sudden appearance of the Vondem Rose above their heads. More than a few people were seeking cover while others were pushing forward, bringing weapons to bear on Sidda and her people while Gavalore merely looked up, watching the ship as it lazily circled above before coming to a stop, no longer blotting out the sun, the purple of the hull now visible.

“You know, I’m getting sick of seeing my ship,” Sidda said calmly before shouting in the direction of the Rose, “inside an atmosphere! Space! Ship!”

And as if on queue, rigged up from the last time the Rose decided to descend from the heavens, the ship emitted a long, blaring bellow reminiscent of an old ship’s horn. No doubt someone up there was answering her yells, watching everything below. Confirmed when another horn blow followed after she gave the ship a one-fingered salute.

And then her attention turned back to Gavalore, glaring at him for a five-count before her gaze spun around the village centre, at the armed posse surrounding her people, at the frightened people beyond them. “They’re all refugees aren’t they?” she finally asked as she turned back to Gavalore.

“As many as I could get out of the Empire before it got too hard. Then as many as I could help before your reappearance convinced me I should seek a new career.” Gavalore shrugged, his own gaze going around the people present. “We failed the Romulan people, so I did what I could. And I was too much of a coward to face you, so I ran and hid. Turned all my loot into supplies and equipment and settled on this rock far, far from your operations at the time.”

“Fuck,” Sidda muttered, then holstered her disruptor. “Fuck you Gavalore.”

“I deserve that. Worse even really.”

“You deserve me shooting you here and now,” she spat back at him. “You fucking left me in the void to die you bastard!” She stopped, took in a deep breath, let it out. “Brett Gavalore is dead. You hear me? Dead.”

“Just plain ol’ Brett,” the man answered, laying on the Ayer’s Rock accent thickly. “No Gavalore here.”

“Don’t,” Sidda warned him. “Just don’t.” She shook her head and looked around once more. “You ever leave this rock, I’ll push you out an airlock myself. I will track you down and space you. I might even be kind enough to put you in a suit too.”

“Reasonable,” he answered. “As far as the galaxy is concerned, I’m not coming back. Got a life here now. Galivanting across the cosmos is a young person’s game.”

They stared at each other for a full minute before Sidda started to turn her horse away from him. “Fuck you Gavalore. Just…fuck you.”

“Again, I’m sorry Sidda,” he said to her back as she returned to her people, the crowd around them parting and flowing towards Gavalore, no doubt demanding their own answers from him. Answers he likely couldn’t give, but they would still ask for anyway.

They left the village, not the way they came but towards the Vondem Rose, a shuttle departing the ship for the ground as they approached.

“Don’t you have to kill him?” Orelia asked. “To protect some dark secret you refuse to tell us about, yeah?”

“I was sent to kill a man that died years ago,” she answered. “Fat, greying, tired bastard.”

“A few of those kids had somewhat rounded ears,” R’tin spoke up. “Unless there are some other humans around we didn’t see, he’s got his own kids.”

“Huh,” Sidda replied. “Well, that’s punishment enough then. And fuck T’Rev. He wants to expose my secrets, fuck him. I’ll do it myself. ” She reached into her jacket, fished around in an inner pocket for a moment and then flicked what she found towards Orelia.

The silver arrowhead caught the sun as it sailed towards the larger Orion woman, who caught it and turned it around properly to look at it. As recognition flashed across her face at the Starfleet delta in her hand, she held it up, the others all being able to see it properly.

“What the actual fuck!” Orelia barked as Sidda kept riding away.

Calling the old Thorn crew together in the conference room was Sidda’s first order upon returning to the Vondem Rose. The second order was given immediately, delaying the first by thirty minutes – she and everyone who had gone planetside needed a shower. And a decent meal if they could convince, cajole or con Kevak into giving them one.

Which would be made worse by having invited Kevak to the meeting as well. She could hear his complaints now – why should he make something for someone to eat when he has places to be? Never mind that he had two, no three, apprentice chefs. Of course, the third wouldn’t be available for helping anyone sneak in a meal before the meeting since she was presently busy.

“So, you’re going to tell everyone the truth?” Revin asked from the door to the en suite.

Klingon ships, particularly warships, weren’t renowned for their creature comforts or amenities, but press one into ‘civilian’ service with an Orion captain flush with funds from exciting adventures and it was surprising how much things could change. Better sound insulation, a training room becoming a holodeck, replicators for quick drinks and snacks (though curiously nowhere near the mess hall) and mostly importantly hot and cold running water for a vast majority of quarters.

“The truth they need to hear,” Sidda answered back from under the hot water. The water, the heat, the humidity – all were so different to the climes of Ayer’s Rock. It was a luxury she relished in, having stood in the near-torrent now for five minutes after the business of washing the dust and dirt off of herself. “And deserve,” she continued.

“Orelia looked pissed,” Revin said. “Near murderous even.”

“She has no love for Starfleet. Probably thinks that my grandmother and I have been lying to her.” With an effort of will she nearly failed at, Sidda brought herself to turning off the shower and reaching out for her towel and finding nothing. Eyes opened, she looked at where it was supposed to be, then to the door, finding Revin standing there, a grin on her lips and towel in hand. “Please?”

“I want to know what your plans are,” Revin stated. “This revelation is going to change everything.”

She stalked out of the shower, dripping water as she went, and closed on Revin, taking hold of the towel but finding the smaller woman unrelenting in her hold on it. A gentle tug had been resisted, a more assertive one turned into a slight struggle which she let Revin win as she let go. First with a sigh, then a drawing in of breath to centre herself, she explained herself. “I’m going back to Kyban and surrendering myself to Starfleet Operations. I’m going to explain everything Higgins wanted us to do in the Romulan border regions following Starfleet’s withdrawal from the evacuation efforts and his hanging us to dry. And then give them as much information as I can on the various pirate and black-market groups that I can just for kicks.”

“Why?” Revin asked, finally surrendering the towel, but not until after being very obvious about looking Sidda over, a smirk on her lips.

“T’Rev’s people are going to release what information they have, which is going to ruin me as a pirate -”

“Which you aren’t,” Revin interrupted.

“Which I am,” she countered, earning a raised eyebrow that said ‘uh huh’ in almost every culture she was aware of. “So if I’m fucked, might as well burn as many of the bastards as I can on the way out the door since I won’t get a chance to do it personally.” She finished with her hair, still a wet and heavy mess, and dried herself briefly before wrapping the towel around herself and closed on Revin, a kiss on her forehead as she pushed past into the bedroom and the wardrobe beyond. “And I want to burn Higgins for instigating everything in the first place. Fucking manipulative bastard.”

“So, faced with a potential career-ending revelation, your intent is to get in front of it and bring down as many people as possible with you.” Revin hadn’t moved from her spot save to turn on her heels to face her. “How very Old Romulan of you.”

“What can I say, misery loves company,” Sidda said, selecting a few items and making the motions of getting ready to face her people. “Worst comes to worst, I’m also going to take the entire blame for everything the Rose has done that Starfleet and the Federation are going to try and throw at me and put Gaeda and Orelia in charge. The crew are largely good people, they should be allowed to keep doing what they’re doing.”

“And you’ve set up a decent enough mechanism to let them keep doing what they’re doing,” Revin said. “What about me?”

“What about you?” Sidda asked as she turned on her fiancée.

“Where do I fit in all of this?” Revin continued. “You could be facing prison time at worst, a marred reputation and an impediment to your company at best. Where do I go? What do I do?”

Sidda stopped, half-dressed and just stared at Revin before taking the other woman’s hands in her own. “I’m not letting you go. I said I’d keep you safe. I’ve said I want to spend my life with you. We’ll figure something out. Just…just need to see what options I have in front of me after the dust settles.”

“Could open a cafe somewhere,” Revin said with a smile. “Get Ardot’s recipes, move far away from the Archanis Sector.”

“I don’t know,” Sidda said. “The quiet life? Me?”

“Think about it,” Revin said before planting a kiss on Sidda’s cheek. “Now get dressed or you’ll be late to your own meeting.”

In the end, she was late for her own meeting. Late enough that the old gang were all settled in their seats and conversation had died a sharp and sudden death upon her entry into the room with Revin at her side. Everyone looked at her, some expectant, others angry. Orelia didn’t wait for Sidda to start talking, to try and explain herself. She threw the old commbadge, Sidda’s old commbadge to be precise, onto the table. It landed just in front of Sidda’s spot, the point directly at her like an arrowhead.

“Answers,” Orelia growled. “Now.”

“I never lied to you,” Sidda said directly to Orelia. “I just…was economical with the full truth.”

There was no retort, just that glare.

“Perhaps boss, you should start from the beginning,” Gaeda said, his tone far softer than Orelia’s. In fact, it sounded downright pleasant. “Because it sounds like you’ve got one hell of a story to tell and more than a few rumours and myths to dispel.”

“Hey, not my fault people came up with ideas in the absence of information.” Sidda sat herself down finally, then purposefully made a show of pulling Revin down to sit across her lap. This wasn’t the bridge, this wasn’t any of the hordes of newer crew members. This was the old gang from the Rose, where privacy had been a premium and everyone knew she and Revin were a couple.

It ultimately took her a few times to start the story, to be fully honest about her origins and pathway to this current lifestyle. Her youth on Vondem in her father’s and then grandmother’s household as her mother gallivanted across the stars in Starfleet. Her admiration for that seeming freedom in the face of her grandmother’s machinations for political and cultural power. Sweet talking her way into the planetary guard, playing the role everyone expected at first to get her foot in the door before stunning everyone with competency and capability before playing that into a transfer into Starfleet.

She explained her short and sweet career, interim though it may have been. That feeling of ‘doing the right thing’ during the height of the evacuation effort, then the sudden dash as the attack on Mars broke the Federation’s resolve to help their old enemy and leave them to their fate. That determination to keep going despite the cowardice of command before being brought to heel.

She was not pleased, while during her storytelling, to see Bones and Kevak exchanging actual hard currency as she relayed her past. But Revin’s close presence kept her calm and after a few exchanges Revin was even updating her on the total each time it happened. The momentary wonder of how her formerly blind lover was even keeping track answered with a wink, drawing attention to those subtly and magnificent prostheses.

And then she started on the downward spiral paved with good intentions. The desire to do right by the common Romulan people, the officers of the Surabaya who took Higgins’ offer and did his little retrieval jobs for support while running supplies and materials across the border, helping relocate people as and where they could. How the support started to be cut back, so deals were made with less than reputable parties to get what they needed. Captain Ortega’s death, Gavalore’s running their operation further and further into debt to parties with unsavoury intent.

And then Gavalore’s supposed murder of T’Halla Shreln and his near attempt on her own life. Being rescued by smugglers and her own self-imposed exile for having failed at things so badly. She didn’t want to go back to the palace life on Vondem, her grandmother’s intent to marry her off to some family or another to secure political ties for their lineage. She couldn’t go back to Starfleet. So she just fell into the smuggling and then pirate life. Eventually, she reached out, her father helping her secure a ship of her own (another exchange between Bones and Kevak) from people he knew. And the rest, from there, they all knew.

Years working together, straddling the law, breaking it from time to time, working it in the shadows. But with a clear and set code of their own. She still believed in those ideals and morals that had set her on the path towards Starfleet in the first place, but the Federation had failed them after Mars. So someone else had to take charge, right?

It took nearly an hour, fielding the odd question from here and there as she went as specifics and clarifications were sought. But it was mostly just her telling the story of her life, of explaining herself and dispelling the stories that had arisen in her silence about her own history. And when she finished, silence had settled over the conference room, everyone glancing around the table for a bit, waiting to see who would break the silence first.

Of course it would be Orelia.

She stood, glared at Sidda, and then huffed out a pent-up breath. “I’m not angry at you,” she said quietly, clearly a mask for raging emotions. “But your grandmother is a manipulative, lying, two-timing bitch. She could have given me some fucking warning.” And with that, she was marching towards the exit.

“No argument here,” Sidda said, causing Orelia to pause at the door. “And for what it’s worth cousin, I’m sorry.”

“I never asked,” came the response and then Orelia was gone. Someone, somewhere was about to have a bad day when she finally boiled over.

“I’ve got more questions,” Gaeda said, now the silence was broken. “But I’ll bring a bottle of whiskey and we’ll talk it out. Respect though boss.” He concluded with a single firm nod to her. He too had left the fleet over the decision to quit helping the Romulans in the wake of Mars. Turns out a lot of people had seemingly.

“What are you planning to do now?” Kevak asked, having sat himself down at the far end of the table, opposite Sidda. He had been there when she arrived and she doubted anyone, even Telin, had argued with the Klingon when he had sat himself there.

“We’re on our way to Kyban now. I’m going to have words with Na’roq about securing the future of the business and then I’m going to have a word with Starfleet Operations and see about torpedoing as many pirates and slavers as I can by giving Starfleet as much dirt and intel as I can.”

Kevak merely nodded a few times. “Not Starfleet Intelligence?”

“Not on Kyban. I want to drag Higgins down for the bullshit he pulled. Call it a personal slight I want righted. Going to Intel on Kyban will get nothing done. Operations is the way to go.” She looked to Trid, who at first gave her the ‘who me?’ look, then shrugged after a silent interrogation of a few seconds.

“Yeah, that’s the way to go. Operations and Intel have their pissing contest, so surrendering to Operations is the way to go. They’ll get the JAG involved and Higgins will find his life getting damn interesting.” Trid looked over the faces of everyone now staring at her. “Guess I should come clean too. Lieutenant Jenu, Starfleet Operations.”

“Fucking dammit,” Bones hissed as she fished out coins from a pocket and dropped them into Kevak’s outstretched hand. “You weren’t supposed to be the spy,” she said directly to Trid. “Was supposed to be the twins.” Both T’Ael and R’tin looked a little shocked at that. So did Trid to be fair.

Silence settled back over the room in an uneasy fashion. It grew awkward in quick succession.

“Pah!” Kevak roared as he stood. “It is your life and you’ve lived it so far with honour as far as I’ve seen.” He stomped down the length of the table and stared Sidda down as he did. “When they inevitably lock you away for doing the right thing, just tell us where. I shall lead the rescue myself.” His gaze then went to Orin and Telin, who both nodded in agreement. And then he was, complaining about needing to prepare something for dinner.

It was joined soon by echoing statements from all but Bones, who just looked up from her perpetual cup of coffee. “What? Someone has to stay behind and patch you all up afterwards.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sidda finally said. “We should hit Kyban orbit in six hours. Trid, get your door-kicking boots on.”

“Right you are boss,” Trid answered. “Cuffs or no cuffs?”

“Oh cuffs please,” Revin answered before Sidda could even think about it. “Bring them by as soon as you can.”

Trid’s stammering and blush were, to be fair, priceless.

“Let’s go with no cuffs.” Sidda’s attention then turned to the twins. “I need one of you to start removing the captain’s chair when he hit Kyban as well and pack it for shipping.”

“Oh come on now,” Gaeda complained. “I’m not going back to the horrible Klingon monstrosity.”

“Well have to free up space for the new custom chair I ordered last time we were here,” she answered, getting Gaeda’s full attention. “Same company that made all of these chairs.” She tapped the arm of her conference chair. “With all the functionality you can want and more.”

“Where we sending the Starfleet chair then?” R’tin asked.

“I don’t know just yet.” Sidda scrunched her face in thought for a moment. “I hear there’s a new Endeavour. Maybe they’ll want it for some shipboard museum or something.”

Either someone somewhere had screwed up, or careful meteorological forecasts had dictated that today of all days would be a rainy day in Banksy City on Kyban. Sidda wasn’t an expert on weather control systems, just an avid experiencer of their works, but she did know that occasionally it just had to rain. Whether that was because the weather systems needed to release pent-up fury before something truly horrendous happened, or because someone in city planning realised that rain was the easiest and most cost-effective way to water all the plants across the city, she would never know.

And frankly, didn’t care. If the weather report said it was going to be sunny, then it would be. And that was all she needed to know really. There was no guessing, no probability of rain or clouds or sun on any given day on a world like Kyban. Rain was scheduled. The perfect amount of cloud cover for sunbathing on the beaches was guaranteed.

Weather was a service.

So, the fact that it was raining as she, Jenu Trid and Revin marched across Federation Plaza, across the flagstones from hundreds of different worlds, meant that either it was scheduled, or someone had screwed up.

While she and Trid both looked the part, that of pirates turns vigilantes, Revin had opted for a far classier look with a nice dress and jacket and most importantly an umbrella that she wasn’t sharing with Trid, and not her fiancée.

“Hats,” Revin had said, eyeing Sidda’s most recent sartorial acquisition, “are just personal umbrellas.” And that had been the end of that conversation.

The concourse in front of Starfleet Tower was busier than any other around the plaza, exempt from the rain by virtue of a forefield some tens of meters above the ground, diverting rain into thicker curtains on either side and into water features. No one there gave any notice to the party as they crossed and entered the vast lobby.

“Security is higher than normal,” Trid remarked.

“Considering what happened just a few days ago,” Sidda said, “I’m not surprised.”

On their return from Ayer’s Rock they’d caught up on the goings on across the Federation. The attack on Earth during Frontier Day, the devastation caused by the Borg signal across the Federation. Starfleet’s losses, be it directly in ships and manpower, or indirectly in trauma that would manifest for decades to come. It was, to say the least, an utter mess.

“Last chance to turn around,” Trid spoke up as they crossed the Starfleet crest laid out in the atrium’s floor, ten meters across and gleaming in light coming from somewhere indistinct. “Head back to the ship, keep doing what you’re doing.”

“And you?” Revin asked.

“Report in, probably not come back. Just walking in with you probably has handlers worried I’m compromised.” Trid shrugged and smiled at that. “Honestly, stick with you much longer boss and I’ll probably go AWOL. You’ve been out there fighting the good fight. If…unorthodox and outside the regs.”

“Pretty sure killing pirates and slavers still counts as murder.” Sidda stared at the large semi-circular desk ahead of them, of the smiling and friendly-looking receptionists behind it, obviously waiting for people to approach before greeting them. “But nasty intel chiefs are just as bad, if not worse. Higgins left the Surabaya crew out to dry. Guess I have to keep doing Starfleet’s homework by pointing out the rot in the house.”

“Why certainly Captain Sidda,” the cheery receptionist answered after they had approached and asked to speak with someone from Operations, specifically Internal Affairs. They’d even gotten her preferred name right, which hinted at a few things, namely that someone was likely watching and had advised the receptionist on just how to greet her. “If you’d like to wait just over there,” they indicated a collection of couches and low tables, “someone will be with you shortly.”

Shortly turned out to be barely two minutes before six individuals, all looking capable of manhandling anyone in her little party by themselves, approached parting to allow a seventh less imposing figure to approach. The woman was between Sidda and Revin’s own height, matronly looking and while not physically imposing, looked like just a look from her would cause any of the walking slabs of muscle around her to wither and die. “Lieutenant Jenu, Captain Sadovu,” she greeted them rather harshly. “Madam th’Ven,” she said to Revin, with a degree of civility clearly practised with greeting foreign representatives. “If you’ll come with me, and promptly.”

A glance to Trid, an affirming nod of the head, and they were encircled and on their way to a turbolift bank. Doors opened, they poured inside and as they turned, the doors closing, across from them they could see another set of doors opening, an equal number of physically imposing figures and one elderly gentleman in front.

Higgins.

Sidda couldn’t help but wave at him as the doors closed, savouring the recognition on his face. He had been old when she last saw him fifteen years ago. Time had not been any kinder to him. Wrinkles lent themselves to his expression though and she couldn’t help but smile as realization gripped him as to what his possible futures could be.

“Don’t think for a moment Lieutenant Sadovu that we’re going to be gentler on you than Starfleet Intelligence would have been,” the woman who had collected them warned. “But we will at least be fairer. And ensure what you have to say will be listened to.”

“As long as that bastard gets his, I think I’ll be happy.”

She had planned for a couple of days of interrogations, uncomfortable questions and fierce grilling. She thought she had mentally prepared herself for it. But after five days it was starting to grate on her. She’d been kept here, ‘for your own safety’ they had insisted, while they questioned her. Reassured Revin was safe, and even allowed to talk to her briefly a few times. No harm, outside of bland company and repeated questions.

Pirate and smuggler locations across the entire Archanis sector, beyond even if she knew. Names, ships, what sort of business people were in. They knew she was keeping details to herself, not lying but omitting details. The Betazoid they brought to a few of their ‘debriefings’ as they insisted the interrogations were called had confirmed as such.

Some of the smugglers she’d met weren’t bad people, just ones who saw certain laws as stupid. Or did actual good work getting things where they actually needed to be. They didn’t need to suffer. But she knew all sorts of folks who did. Folks she hadn’t been able to round up herself and either end or hand over to Starfleet after the Century Storm. Those she detailed extensively.

And then came the questions about Higgins. She answered everything. Told them what he had set them up to do. How he’d never recalled them or formally ended things, just made it harder and harder, like he was setting them up to fail.

It was around lunch on the sixth day, food having been brought into the bland interrogation room, that she got to see Revin and Trid again. Trid looked emotionally and mentally exhausted like she’d been answering questions non-stop as she had. Revin, as always, looked a marvel of beauty and a picture of relaxation. Just seeing her gave Sidda some more energy and a smile on her face.

She couldn’t help it. Revin just did that to her.

But seeing those she had entered the building with was just a setup before another face entered the room. A single person this time, no team of interviewers. A Fleet Captain, if the pips and bar on her uniform meant the same thing that Sidda was familiar with. “Please, sit,” the woman stated, her tone calm and controlled, if not too precise.

“You here to tell me when I’m finally getting out of here?” Sidda asked, not sitting. “And that Higgins is under arrest perhaps?”

“Captain Higgins is currently being detained pending a full investigation of his activities,” the Fleet Captain answered as she took one of the empty seats the interviewers had used, setting down a small satchel bag with her beside her chair. It wasn’t a large bag – enough for a few padds, a water bottle, and maybe a few other items. “With the information you have provided and the assistance of his staff, his career prospects do not look promising.”

That tonal control, that lack of emotion in her voice, grated with Sidda. She was looking at a Vulcan. Or someone who aspired to be one. It was like talking with a computer.

“Who are you?” she asked the newcomer.

The woman indicated for Sidda to sit, refusing to speak more until she’d had her way. Standing off for nearly a minute, Sidda finally sat down, Revin reaching out and taking her hand, which she allowed, giving a slight squeeze as Revin locked fingers.

“Thank you,” the woman said with a nod. “I am Fleet Captain Alexandra Sudari-Kravchik,” she answered the question posed to her finally. “Deputy Director, Fourth Fleet Intelligence.” She paused long enough to let Sidda roll her eyes, sigh loudly and get reprimanded by Revin non-verbally. “I have read the statements you have provided to Internal Affairs and the Judge Advocate General’s office. I would like to hear what you have to say on the subject of Doctor T’Halla Shreln directly however.”

“Why?” Sidda asked.

“I prefer primary sources versus secondary and tertiary sources.” Sudari-Kravchik didn’t flinch, move, or any other social twitch that might give something away. She was in control of herself. But a few seconds from Sidda conveyed the non-verbal ‘And?’ well enough. “Your debriefing, mentioning Doctor Shreln as it did, set off a few alarms. Reviewing recent information, I have confirmed that Doctor Shreln was recently spotted travelling across the Cardassian border.” She produced a padd and handed it over. “I would prefer we bring Doctor Shreln in alive if possible, before she engages in some other act of terror.”

It took Sidda a few minutes to review what she’d been given, then hand the padd over to Trid to review when she was done. Then, and only then did she look to Revin, studying those eyes. Sure, they were prosthetics, but it was the person behind them she was seeing. She just stared into Revin’s eyes for a few moments, or an eternity, it didn’t really matter – it was long enough to decide her course of action.

“I have conditions,” she finally said.

“I am certain you do,” Sudari-Kravchik answered. “As do I.” She reached into the bag at her side once more, producing a second padd and a small black box. The latter set on the former, she handed it over to Sidda.

Box handed to Revin for a moment, she activated the padd and read it, mouth dropping as she read the short note on it, then turned to Revin, who was holding the box open, displaying the modern and entirely new commbadge within as well as the three silver pips directly underneath it.

“Fuck,” Trid whispered as she saw the boxes contents.

“Liberally interpreting your exploits since starting work for Captain Higgins as a Starfleet Intelligence operation, time in grade would have gotten you this far at least.” Sudari-Kravchik broke the silent tension that had settled as Trid, Revin and Sidda all stared at the commbadge and pips. “Shall we discuss our conditions?”

It had taken another few days to iron out an agreement with this so-called Deputy Director. But she’d been accorded comfier accommodations, even freedom of movement. She’d reached out to Na’roq, Gaeda and Orelia, informing them of her immediate plans. Someone had to bring in Shreln and they all agreed she’d do a better job of it than Starfleet. Familiarity, if separated by a decade and a half, did go some way. And the Sidda Charm couldn’t hurt either.

Na’roq already had business continuity plans in place, deals that just needed signing to adjust Totally Legitimate Salvage Operations management structure. Everyone had been a little shocked when the Ferengi woman hadn’t suggested she take over running things, not that she wasn’t already realistically, but her reasoning had been sound enough. A Ferengi CEO might set some people off, but a Ferengi CFO was just par for the course. And it was always better to be the power behind the throne, than on it.

She’d told Orelia to ignore her grandmother, to chart her own life, free of that bullshit. She wasn’t Sidda’s protector anymore, but her own person. Only time would tell if that advice had been accepted.

To Gaeda she simply told him good luck. And to keep her ship in one piece. There were light-hearted arguments over whose ship it was these days until Na’roq weighed in with the actual ownership numbers. He promised no trips to the Delta Quadrant or deals with shady Ferengi mining consortiums. The Rose had built up a name as a legitimate merchant vessel delivering cargo to dangerous locations safely and he’d keep to it. And the occasional bit of side business to keep things interesting.

Putting Gaeda and Orelia in co-command of the Rose was going to make for an interesting dynamic and frankly, she was glad she wouldn’t be there. A call from Kevak, short and sweet, where he’d promised to keep an eye on the kids and only crack skulls when needed. Revin had then taken up the majority of the call, asking for clarification on several recipes she’d gotten from the old Klingon to which he was more than willing to indulge. Never, she learned, interrupt a Romulan and a Klingon discussing pastry recipes. It does not end well.

But then deals were agreed upon, signed, and efforts behind the scenes were started. Machinations played out, and paperwork was more than likely forged and entered into records. It took a couple of weeks for things to finally settle down and for Sudari-Kravchik to give her orders. No doubt Operations and Intelligence were playing a careful tango with each other, favours traded here and there. She wasn’t under any doubt she was going to end up owing this Fleet Captain Sudari-Kravchik for years to come, if not the rest of her life.

Was it worth it, just to get back into uniform?

Was it worth it to chase a childhood dream?

She didn’t know. And that actually scared her.

She’d not followed up on the fallout of T’Rev’s people leaking information about her past. Maybe they had bought the story she’d fed to Ardot, about how she’d killed Gavalore and Manfred, despite leaving the former a broken man in exile on a ball of dirt. The latter was at least true. Maybe they had kept their word, honour amongst thieves and all that. Or maybe it just hadn’t reached her just yet.

But her old life, just by being here, just by wearing the red-shouldered uniform she wore now, was over.

“The collar is too tight,” Sidda muttered, once more adjusting the turtleneck collar, pulling at it with a hooked finger.

“No, it isn’t,” Revin chided, standing beside her on the small shuttlecraft flight deck. Revin wore a similar enough uniform to Sidda but with no rank insignia anywhere and coloured in silver to her red. Special Services she’d answered when Sidda asked about it the first time, a deal she’d made with Sudari-Kravchik herself. “I measured three times before I entered it into the replicator.”

“Then the replicator got it wrong,” she continued, then stopped when Revin turned on her, glaring. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop worrying at it.”

“It’s just nerves boss,” Jenu Trid commented from her seat next to the pilot. “Sorry, Commander.”

“You can call me boss if you want. Would be nice to have some familiarity.”

Trid turned around in her seat to look at Sidda, then nodded her head and smiled. “Right you are boss.”

One of the conditions she’d argued for was Trid getting a clean slate, no marks or blemishes on her record. The woman was a good sort, she didn’t deserve to have a stalled career or be handled cautiously for the rest of her days by Operations concerned she might go rogue on them. What Sidda hadn’t been prepared for was to meet Trid on the concourse of Brahms Station, back in uniform and on assignment, to be informed that she’d be escorting Sidda, Commander Sadovu now, to her assignment.

The woman had practically radiated ‘I know something you don’t know’ the whole walk through that bustling, post-Frontier Day station. It had been the single most infuriating thing Trid had done to date and if not for Revin, Sidda felt she’d have likely throttled the woman. Or yelled at her at least to tell her what was going on.

Sudari-Kravchik had been adamant she wasn’t going to be getting command of a ship. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, pull on those levers of power. She would get the XO billeting on a ship though, with a captain that Fourth Fleet Intelligence had some faith in. A man with experience, who plays by the book she’d been told. But what ship, who was the captain – those details hadn’t been relayed just yet.

“Shuttlecraft Syria you are cleared to approach Slip Nineteen,” a voice suddenly came over the comms, cool and collected. The nice and reassuring voice of a flight control officer somewhere.

“Roger that,” the pilot said, equally reassuring as he brought the shuttle into a lazy curve around a construction slip that housed a ship either in the later stages of construction, rebuilding or refitting. It wasn’t clear, but unlike so many ships here currently, it had no obvious signs of battle damage.

And then they lined up on a starship in its own slipway, the rear shuttlebay opened for traffic. There were no buzzing small craft or besuited workers crawling over it. It stood out for just out un-busy it was in the busy shipyard.

“Commander Sadovu,” Trid said, as the shuttle slipped through the atmospheric forcefield and settled gently on the bay’s floor. “Welcome to the USS Republic.”