Lykal pressed his fingers to his temples, desperate to dismiss the growing headache by the force of his calloused fingers alone. The rolling miasma of cloudy incense only served to aggravate the swelling pain as if it filled his nostrils with clusters of heady wood smoke.

“Do we really need quite so much incense?” He muttered as he made slow circles on his forehead.

“Yes,” The short hooded figure hissed from the forward console. “We are undertaking a holy mission; we should be suitably cleansed.”

“I think I might be sufficiently cleansed,” Lykal scoffed, choking back a cough as he inadvertently pulled in more of the thick incense.

“I do not agree,” the tiny zealot replied.

Lykal’s eyes rolled so far back in his head that he could almost see the aft bulkhead where Kyoma stood, her attention fixed on a small circular panel where unfamiliar glyphs were pulsing ominously. She could be playing kadis-kot for all he knew, or assembling some particularly nefarious security spike; each was as likely as the other. Despite knowing her for nigh on a decade, she was as much a mystery as she had been in those early days, and if their unsuccessful marriage proved anything, she was more so.

“Kyoma, do you think I’m suitably cleansed?” Lykal joked, swinging his chair towards her.

“I don’t think I’m the one you should ask. I know when you last showered.” She allowed a small smile to stretch the corners of her mouth, drawing her dark green skin back into sharp peaks.

“No, you don’t,” Lykal bit back.

She paused in her work and looked him over with her dark eyes, chocolate pools of icy water taking in his full measure.

“Well, the sonic showers on the Maven still aren’t fixed from my last visit.” Kyoma raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow into a curving arch. “Do you want me to start counting stardates?”

“Maybe I’ve been using one at a starbase?” Lykal snapped defensively, his previous confidence shrivelling under her gaze. She was always so quick-witted, so much smarter than he, and it was frustratingly attractive. A counsellor once idly remarked that he has a thing for strong-willed partners, though in truth, perhaps the man simply liked being put in his place.

“Unlikely,” Kyoma smirked again, a glint of perfectly kept teeth glistening behind dark lips.

“Rainstorm on Vulcan?”

“More likely.” She took a single long stride across the small command compartment, coming to a stop a respectful distance from the hooded Yomaji at the helm. “But he makes a good point, the incense is starting to become a bit of a… distraction. And we wouldn’t want to be distracted at crunch time.”

The diminutive figure twitched in frustration as their fingers came to a stop above the console, hovering over an unfinished command string for the helm.

“Very well,” they sighed reluctantly. With a stubby finger, they reached out and depressed a small control in the corner of the panel. The thick miasma eased slightly, though the foggy air of the small bridge still bore a strong resemblance to a highland moor.

“We appreciate it,” Kyoma began before a sharp chirrup invaded the room.

“Djosan Maru, come in.”

“We’re here Tal.” Lykal announced, tapping a control without looking and summoning the wide face of a Klingon man to the boxy viewscreen. “How are things over there?”

“Golden Akrim is prepared, as is the Lost Siren. I have left Ozrack in charge,” a smug smile wiggled across the Klingon’s face, revealing a pair of sharp canines.

“I thought T’mel was taking on Siren. You really think your son is ready for that responsibility?” Lykal’s eyes narrowed. The boy was young and headstrong, neither of which would be useful for what came next.

“You question his capability? Need I remind you it was he who extracted you on Tyson Prime?”

“That was you?!” Kyoma cried in surprise at the reclining form of Lykal. “You almost took out a whole city block.”

The Bajoran waved his hand towards her dismissively. Now was not the time to rake up old jobs, especially not in front of the current customer.

“This isn’t just any job, Tal, this is a hit on a Starfleet ship,” Lykal warned.

“An old one.”

“But still capable. Lykal’s right Tal, are you sure this is the best time for Ozrack’s first command?” Kyoma interrupted from the rear of the bridge as she stepped into the viewscreen’s field of vision.

The burly Klingon shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, with almost perceptible doubt. The father/son duo had flown with Lykal for almost a year, and Tal had earned his Latinum. His son, on the other hand, was still untested.

“Are you sure?” Lykal repeated.

“I will ensure he is,” Tal answered with unconfident finality before closing the comm channel.

On the forward viewscreen, the bulky form of Ascencion replaced the grumbling Klingon. Her large nacelles filled the frame from this obtuse angle on the ship’s aft quadrant, great round balloon-like additions perched atop comparatively slender pylons. She seemed top-heavy and ungainly from this viewpoint, threatening to tumble at any moment. At almost seven decades old, the casual viewer could be forgiven for assuming the ship was an archaic artefact, but Lykal knew better. Even a brief service on such a vessel had demonstrated to him the surprising capability of these old ships, built for an era where the unexpected must be prepared for.

“Fond memories?” Kyoma whispered as she slipped an arm around his shoulders.

“Always, when you’re around,” Lykal smirked, diverting the question with a desperate attempt at charm.

Kyoma rolled her eyes in a large loop.

“There’s still time to back out, if you’re having second thoughts. Starfleet is a big target.”

“They are, but we’re not the ones making the hit,” Lykal nodded to the pile of dark cloth at the front of the bridge that concealed their Yomaji employer. “We’re just paid to fly some ships.”

“And the breaking into a Starfleet ship, kidnapping a teen prophet and stealing her away to a secret moon base?”

“Are all our employers sub-objectives of our main task…”

“…Of flying the ship.” Kyoma allowed a slight smile to inch its way across her face; the man’s completely blind confidence was a frustratingly endearing trait.

A flickering signal light twitched on the nearby console.

“T’Mel, Sisen’ra and Isaac report they are also ready,” Kyoma announced as she glanced at the screen’s update.

Lykal took to his feet, brushing imaginary crumbs and dust from his shirt onto the dark deck. Idly, he wandered over to the tall centre chair, leaning on its slender back with crossed arms and letting out a sharp sniffle of his nose.

“Well then, light up the incense and message the other ships, it’s time to go pick up a prophet.”