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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No need to be rude.”

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

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

“What? Why?” Rosa asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?” Amber asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even after having seen him die once before.

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

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

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

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

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

“And the woman beside her?” Manfred asked.

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

“I think it might suspicious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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