Warm orange light poured through the streets of Banksy City, reflecting off of glass facades and polished concrete, bathing the city in the last light of the day as late afternoon slowly morphed into evening. Federation Plaza was busy with a mass of people heading away from work, crossing this way and that as they conversed with colleagues, met friends or otherwise navigated the tumult to escape to anywhere but here.

Mac stopped as they stepped outside, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, luxuriating in the fresh air, the hint of salt, the warmth of the sun on his face. After hours inside a climate-controlled building without so much as a window, this was needed. Starfleet Tower, for all of its amenities, features and resources, felt like it could have easily been in space and there wouldn’t have been much of a way to tell the difference.

“It was goddess damn noon when we went in there,” Sidda complained as she and Mac stepped out of Federation Tower, irritation evident in her voice.

He couldn’t help but smile at that. It was smile, or agree with her, and then they’d both be miserable about losing what looked like had been a beautiful day. “At least they put on afternoon tea for us,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting freshly baked goods.”

“You mean Revin always having something in the Pynx for senior staff hasn’t spoiled you yet?” Sidda asked, irritation disappearing, or at least subsiding for now.

“Blake, no, Doctor Pisani, has suggested I watch my diet,” he replied. “But I think that’s just revenge for me chomping down all the chocolate macaroons, what, a week ago?”

“No, it’s because of me.” Sidda shrugged, then with a nod of her head in one direction, had both of them walking away from Starfleet Tower. “You know, when we have snacks at briefings, you’re always trying to keep up with me.”

“Am not,” he responded immediately. “Am I?”

“Maybe not consciously, but you’re always filling up your plate about the same time I am. But you’ve got that measly human metabolism going for you. And you’ve not been hitting the gym as much either.” She was leading them both away from the transporter stations around the plaza and away from the main avenue that cut through it, forming one of the backbones of the city.

“Someone has to do the paperwork,” he shot back. “Where we going?”

“Polo club,” she answered, refusing to elaborate further. “Just trust me, you’ll like it.”

Since day one his instincts had always screamed at him when Sidda Sadovu said ‘trust me’ to him, but every time it had worked out well enough. He’d learned her story, or most of it, at any rate. What he was allowed to learn and what she was willing to elaborate on, and it hadn’t helped those instincts at all. She said it in much the same way that his previous commanding officer would say it; with the confidence of someone bull-headed enough to charge through any difficulties that might arise, as if it was all part of the plan. His instincts likely screamed because some other part of his brain always added another phrase after those words.

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

Plenty, as he’d seen over his career.

But once again, it worked out. Once again, trust was given and rewarded as Sidda led him a couple of blocks away, then down between two buildings into an arcade crammed full of different eateries, curio shops and other frontages. There was a simple, unassuming red door between a restaurant and a flower shop she led them to, the former crammed full of people enjoying the evening, the later shut at this hour. No signage, no indication of what was behind the door, just a couple of potted plants on either side of it. A large man stood outside in an immaculately tailored suit, looked them both over, then shrugged, stepping aside without a word.

“Keep up the good work, James,” Sidda said to the man as she pushed the old manual door open. The man’s name got a response, but it was somewhere along the lines of ‘huh’ before Mac was himself through the doorway, the door swinging shut behind them.

A more perfect recreation of a speak-easy he hadn’t seen outside of a holodeck program. A short bar occupied one side of the small space, six stools in front of it. The opposite wall was taken up by a handful of booths, with only a couple of those occupied, a couple of patrons each. Otherwise the space was vacant save the barkeep, who was busy mixing a couple of drinks as Sidda led him in and straight to the bar, stopping to point to the neon sign above their heads momentarily.

The Polo Club

“What’s good?” he asked, conceding at least to himself that she’d steered them in a not-bad direction.

“Your best whiskey from Scotland, double, on the rocks, for the captain,” she said to the barkeep. “And dealer’s choice for me as long as it’s…purple. And the cheese platter, too.”

“Certainly, Captain Sidda,” the barkeep said with a smirk. “Or is it Commander these days?” The man rubbed at his collar, at imaginary pips.

“Just get us our drinks.” Sidda’s nod to a booth had them both sitting there in quick order, followed by her tapping at a device embedded into the table’s top. He hadn’t noticed the slight whir of fans, the humm of lights, but it had all gone silently instantly, absence now only bringing awareness. “Best drinks within walking distance and the cheese platter is pretty respectable.”

“And the booths have privacy screens,” he added. “You know, we could have returned to the ship.”

“Do you have purple alcohol hiding somewhere?” she countered. “Or Scottish whiskey?”

“No, but you do.”

“Not since last week. Brought the last of it out when we had that formal dinner with the Betazoid merchants.”

He shook his head, wanting to forget that entire escapade. There was no need to repeat it at all. Drinks eventually came, delivered by the barkeep pulling double duty on a night like tonight. Then again, a Monday night wasn’t likely to be the busiest. A small sip of the whiskey and the sigh was totally involuntary. It burned just right, leaving a delightful warm afterglow, totally unlike Blake’s hooch that could and did serve as a cleaning agent from what he’d heard.

“So, The Last Pirate King, not as dead as you thought, huh?” he finally asked. And with just those words Sidda’s irritation was back, evident on her face, the squint of her eyes, the sudden inward curl of her shoulders.

“He bloody well should be,” she sulked. “Both of them.”

“T’Rev of P’Jem, who died in prison and his chief lieutenant, Jamal al-Jabar, who Starfleet Intelligence told us not three hours ago had died in infighting as T’Rev’s little organisation imploded after your kidnapping of him.” He sighed as the look she gave him told him that wasn’t the truth of the matter. “Where’s al-Jabar?”

“Last I saw him, I was beaming out with a cup of tea in one hand, a disruptor in the other and an armed photon torpedo sitting next to him on a five second timer.” She sipped at her drink, then another larger sip. “I fucking didn’t see the body, just trusted that a torpedo would do the trick. Trusted the explosion vaporised the bastard.”

A photon torpedo for one man was a bit overkill. But how she’d just blithely said it made it unreal to him. Like it was just something you did. No attempt at taking al-Jabar prisoner, handing him over to authorities like she had T’Rev. No, she’d just launched a torpedo at him and walked away.

“A torpedo?” he asked.

“He traded in slaves, murder for hire, violent extortion and piracy of the worst sort. When I go before the goddesses one day, I know I’m going with more good deeds than bad behind me. And I saved the Federation the trouble of a trial and then finding some deep, dark miserable hole to bury his ass in.”

“You were a pirate, too,” he challenged.

“Oh barely. Sure, I took from the haves to give to the have-nots occasionally, but otherwise I tended to only pirate, well, pirates.” She finished her drink in one large gulp, then waved to the barkeep for another before diving into the cheeses before them, stacking slices on crackers with abandon. “I never hurt anyone. Well, I never killed anyone. Plenty of bruises, broken arms. Maybe a leg or two. But I never killed anyone who didn’t need killing first. But now someone is out there claiming to be The Last Pirate King. And all this warning about black market deals and dangerous tech we got doesn’t take a genius to put together.”

“Intelligence is worried that if someone is pretending to be The Last Pirate King, then perhaps they have something of worth to back up their claims on an empty pirate throne?” He didn’t like that idea. “You think a title like that is going to be enough to rally T’Rev’s disbanded organisation back into existence?”

“Maybe,” Sidda replied. “He wasn’t a fan of the Orion Syndicate and tended to collect those with similar viewpoints. Someone using the title might be able to rally a few folks back to the banner. Maybe even make a play on some of this technology the Syndicate wants their hands on as well. And I don’t think I like that one bit.”

“Why?”

“T’Rev kept the more dangerous aspects of his people in check. Usually with brutally efficient punishments for disobeying his commands. But everyone under him was a bloody psychopath waiting to be let off the chain. Like, just the worst type of people. I wouldn’t want them so much as having a coffee mug from Daystrom, let alone anything else more interesting. Mainly because they’re the sick sorts who would use such things against innocent people ‘just for fun’,” she said, air quotes and all.

“Well then, looks like we need to find the newest Last Pirate King and make the title stick this time,” he said to Sidda, earning a nod of agreement from her. “So, where do we start, then?”

“Ardot Kresh,” she answered. “In the morning. You need some sleep and I believe I have the evening shift, yes?”

“After another drink.” He downed his own and waved at the barkeep, flicking a finger between the two empty glasses to signal another. “Captain’s prerogative. Besides, I’m sure the kids can keep things from exploding for just a bit more.”