The Crowbar stood just off Gateway’s Arcade, built out of old storage space not dissimilar to the disused sections several decks away where Voler’s body had been found. Instead of being left to ruin, one of the newly-arrived spacers who had done business in the Midgard Sector long before the Spacedock’s establishment had petitioned for permission to set up an establishment here. Off the beaten track and with limited refurbishment of its surroundings, the Crowbar was a favoured locale for non-Federation visitors, rough-and-ready with bare bulkheads and scavenged furniture. Perhaps in some years, as the denizens of the Midgard Sector worked and lived across the border and boundaries became murkier, it might be the heart of an underbelly. But Gateway Station barely had a belly to be under, yet. For now, it was just a dingy bar.

It was also where Rhade had been sent after a less-than-fulfilling encounter with the station’s science department. There had been theories, for certain. Or, rather, guesses. Guesses teeming with borderline armchair-psychological analysis of a killer they knew nothing about. All Rhade was left sure of throughout was how little Starfleet still knew about the Romulan people and their culture.

‘There’s someone you should speak to,’ Commander Dashell had said, intercepting him on his way out of the labs. ‘Who, if he helps you, might know something.’

‘This is Starfleet Science. Aren’t you supposed to know something?’ Rhade had been unable to not sound scathing, frustration now coiling in his gut alongside the nausea.

But Dashell was too seasoned and calm to be offended. ‘We’re new to this region. We’re here to learn. Let’s consider this an opportunity.’

‘A young man’s been brutally murdered. This isn’t an opportunity.’ On reflection, Rhade was surprised Dashell continued to help him. But a PADD was handed over, and a little follow-up investigation led Rhade to the most run-down bar on the station.

He’d changed out of uniform, at least, but the glances he received from the spacers and traders at the bar and tables suggested he wasn’t fooling anyone. When his eyes landed on his target, he headed for the individual seated at a corner table; the moment he was even a metre away, there was a low, cool drawl of, ‘Not today, Starfleet.’

The speaker was a Romulan man of indeterminate age, a messy shock of dark hair dangling into bright eyes that barely looked up from the PADD he was reading over a mug of brown ale. When Rhade paused at the dismissal, the Romulan returned to his reading, clearly hopeful this would be enough.

It was not. ‘Mister Draven?’

‘Great incognito work, Starfleet.’ Draven looked up with languid annoyance. ‘Why’d you even bother changing out of uniform if you’re going to Mister me? Also, it’s Doctor.’

‘I was told not to call you that.’ Uninvited, Rhade pulled up a chair.

‘It’s not a trap,’ said Draven. ‘I don’t like standing on ceremony. That doesn’t mean you jump to a different ceremony. Anyway, who the hell are you?’

‘Lieutenant Commander Adamant Rhade. But you are Draven, right? Scientific advisor to the Republic representatives here on the station?’

Draven rolled his eyes and had a gulp of ale. ‘I swear, if this is about a damned translation or something…’

‘It’s not. Dashell Antedy said you could help.’ It spoke of the reputation of the station’s Chief Science Officer, a seasoned scholar more than he was the starship adventurer of most Starfleet officers of his ilk, that dropping the name made Draven hesitate. ‘It’s about something somewhat delicate.’

Draven’s cool eyes dragged up and down over him. Then he turned towards the bar and clicked his fingers. ‘Another round! Starfleet’s paying.’ He leaned across the table and dropped his voice. ‘Did you fuck the wrong Romulan and -’

‘There’s been a murder,’ said Rhade, jaw setting as he tired of not cutting to the chase. ‘One of the Romulan refugees from Teros.’

‘That’s sad,’ said Draven cautiously. ‘But the Republic isn’t responsible for every wayward resident of -’

‘I’d be going to the Republic representatives if this was about that, wouldn’t I?’ Rhade slid his PADD across the table. ‘Take a look at this.’

Draven’s indifference faded the moment he saw the images. ‘What the Vor…’

‘We found him like this. The throat slitting was the cause of death. The impaling happened post-mortem. And aside from being horrifying, neither Starfleet Security nor our forensic researchers are equipped to understand the implications.’

Draven quirked an eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding me, right? This has baffled you?’

‘We know the horn is from a furjweit, imported; the chains are replicated -’

‘Vor, you people are ignorant! You come to Romulan space and don’t know the most basic…’ He threw a hand in the air. ‘What’s your background, Rhade? You’re a Betazoid, I’m guessing noble house by the accent – what are you in Starfleet, some pilot with aspirations of the captain’s chair…’

‘I was a security officer and Hazard Team leader – you know what all this means?’

‘Security officer, so you look for things that make sense. Except culture doesn’t make sense, people don’t make sense, and a broken people don’t make sense. This isn’t the Core Worlds; this isn’t Betazed, where everything’s cultivated and perfect…’

A muscle twitched in the corner of Rhade’s jaw. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘And I don’t really want to, but you don’t know anything about my people, and yet here you are, stood on the precipice, looking into the abyss – culturally, psychologically, geographically…’

‘A young Romulan man has been killed and I’m asking for help and you’re lecturing me on how little I know – yes, that’s why I’m asking –’

‘It’s Starfleet arrogance to think you can come in here and fix things.’ Draven shook his head. ‘You’re not ready for this place. You could have been, but you betrayed and abandoned it, and now you’re back, and it’s so much worse than you imagine. You can’t make civilisations toys you put down and pick up as it suits you.’ At Rhade’s level look, he pushed the PADD away and leaned back. ‘Do you know what a Ganmadan is, Rhade?’

‘It’s… something in Romulan culture, like an armageddon -’

‘That’s what “Ganmadan” is, not a Ganmadan. A mythological beast.’ Draven sighed. ‘My people have a story of the end of days. Something that has happened and will happen again. Bear that in mind. When demons are called forth to bring about the Thousand Days of Pain.’

‘Is that what a Ganmadan is? A demon?’

‘The demons are ch’khalagu. Yes, like your friends in the nebula. They took the name because they’re rejects from society.’ Draven drummed his fingers on the overturned PADD. ‘They’re demons broken from their shackles – their chains – when one of their own blows the horn of a pale Ganmadan. A creature with many different depictions across time. Is it a cervid? Bos? Depends on who you ask, where and when. But I do know one thing.’ He stabbed the table with his index finger for emphasis. ‘In ceremonies, in art, if my people have ever needed the horn of a pale Ganmadan as a ritual prop, they have used the horn of a furjweit.’

In the silence that followed, one of the bar staff placed two heavy mugs of dark ale before them. Draven did not wait, drinking deep, but Rhade fidgeted with the handle and spoke only when the barstaff was gone.

‘A Romulan has been bound in chains and impaled with the horn of what is perhaps supposed to be a pale Ganmadan,’ he said. ‘Is that how you’d stop a demon escaping?’

Draven shrugged. ‘That’s where my interpretation clashes with the interpretation of whoever did this. Hate to break it to you, Rhade, but you’ve got a weird ritual murder by someone who’s got a demonic apocalypse on their mind.’

‘You give me the impression,’ said Rhade in a low voice, ‘that this isn’t uncommon.’

Draven gave the gentlest of scoffs in response, gaze going distant. ‘They will cause the death of Seb-Natan, but beautiful Seb-Cheneb will survive. She will raise her Hell-horn to her lips and blow a single piercing note of grief. And this will bring Ganmadan, the Day of Grief, the last of days,’ he recited, emphasising his point with a swig of ale. ‘Can’t imagine why the Romulan people might have a bit of an apocalypse fixation.’

Rhade sighed and looked away. ‘I suppose that reinforces one thing: a Romulan did this.’

‘It reinforces something else, actually: it truly looks like a Romulan did this.’ Draven shoved the PADD back to him. ‘There you go. Consider this drink my consultancy fee.’

‘You spent half of this conversation discussing how Starfleet’s unprepared.’

‘You are.’

‘Then…’ Rhade frowned with confusion. ‘Help me.’

Draven peered over the rim of his mug. ‘Are you asking, Commander? You did it so politely.’

‘I’m not here to play games,’ said Rhade with a burst of frustration that felt new but not unpleasant. Normally, he swallowed such feelings. ‘Someone’s dead. One of your people. I’m asking you to help me get to the bottom of this.’

‘Why? So Starfleet Security can pick which Romulan refugee they want to blame and never look at themselves?’ At last, Draven pushed the mug of ale away and went to stand. ‘I’m sad the kid’s dead. There probably won’t be justice. There hasn’t been justice for a lot of dead kids. Not from Starfleet.’

Rhade’s hand shot out before he could stop himself, grabbing Draven just below the elbow. The Romulan stopped, tensing, but he was a wiry type and Rhade’s hold was powerful.

‘I don’t think this is just a random Romulan refugee,’ said Rhade. ‘Something’s going on here. Something powerful. And I’m not Starfleet Security.’ Slowly, he stood so they were level. ‘I’m Senior Officer of the Watch. I have the ear of the commodore, and he’s thrown me in the brig before for doing the right thing.’

Draven hesitated, eyes dragging over Rhade. ‘Strange brag,’ he mused, clearly buying time. ‘What makes you so certain? I could be wrong. This could just be petty suffering. No grand meaning at the bottom of it. There usually isn’t. All of that slashed skin and emerald seeping is, at the end of the day, just blood.’

‘The blood of your people. The most vulnerable of them. I cannot promise you justice, but I can promise you two things: it won’t be for lack of trying on my end, and without your help, there will certainly not be justice.’

Draven’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know something.’

‘Not… know.’ Rhade hesitated. ‘Feel. I’m a powerful telepath, Draven. I trust my instincts.’

The Romulan looked back at the ale he’d abandoned and slid slowly back into his chair. ‘Well,’ he said at length. ‘You didn’t even know what a Ganmadan is. I suppose you clearly do need my help.’