Tempest slid out of warp and Dornak IV swelled on the viewscreen, a dun-coloured world whose surface bore the scars of industry, visible even from this distance. They were not alone in orbit. Freighters with mismatched hulls slid towards the surface, salvage haulers tugged chains of scavenged hulks. Shuttlecraft darted between orbital depots and the surface. A once-orderly network of the House of Pvarn’s defence satellites and docking buoys was gone or repurposed, their transponder codes replaced with a chaos of independent beacons.

‘Hell of a party,’ Hargreaves murmured at the helm.

Valois’s voice was measured but hard. ‘The House of Pvarn maintained rigid control of this sector for centuries. The old industrial infrastructure is either gone or stolen. Whoever runs Dornak IV can’t have any intention of upholding law and order.’

‘Breaker’s Quay,’ said Renard, and all eyes turned to her at Tactical. She shrugged. ‘We’ve been hailed. Local traffic control. That’s what they’re calling this place.’

‘Assure them we’re just here for trade and mean them no trouble,’ said Pentecost.

‘I already did.’

‘Oh. Good.’ Pentecost stood and straightened her uniform jacket. ‘Then let’s get to it. Commander Valois, the ship is yours. Keep us polite and boring. If anyone talks to you, smile like you mean it.’

‘Yes, Captain.’ He did not smile. ‘Recommend you keep an open channel. This region isn’t known for its charity.’

‘This region isn’t known for much of anything, and definitely no up-to-date rumours,’ she pointed out, and glanced at Renard. ‘Lieutenant -’

‘Away team equipment already prepped and ready,’ Renard said, crisp as a knife. ‘Standard sidearms.’

Tempest had never ventured into territory this potentially hostile before, Pentecost thought; not under her command. This was a different, sharper Renard. It was comforting. ‘Good! Good. Helm?’

Hargreaves swivelled round with a grin she tried and failed to suppress. ‘Caliban’s prepped, Captain. She even got a new lick of paint after all those storms.’

‘Let’s see how long that lasts,’ Pentecost said, and headed for the turbolift.

The distant surface of Breaker’s Quay filled the view through the shuttlebay. Hargreaves hadn’t been kidding about the new paint on the Caliban, which made Pentecost feel a little guilty about taking the Waverider somewhere so dusty. Inside, the cockpit hummed ready, and Pentecost dropped into the co-pilot’s seat and buckled in.

At the back, Renard checked the lockers one last time. ‘Confirming rules of engagement, Captain,’ she said without looking up. ‘We’re here to gather information and property. Not arbitrate local disputes, correct local governance, or antagonise armed parties.’

‘Some of my favourite hobbies,’ Pentecost said mildly, and wondered if this was actually Renard asking for confirmation, or giving a reminder. ‘But yes.’

Hargreaves sealed the hatch and eased the Caliban off the deck. ‘Traffic control just pinged us a course vector. At least, I think it’s traffic control. It might have been a takeaway restaurant thinking we’re their delivery pilot. Comms are a mess.’

‘Sounds like a healthy economy,’ Pentecost said. ‘Let’s go.’

The Caliban dropped through an atmosphere smeared with dust and haze. The main settlement, the place all the junk haulers had been landing, only drifted into view, sharper and sharper with every second of their descent. Soon enough, they could see landing pads ringed with splintered barricades a short distance from the old hulks of an industrial landscape – and, stretching between them, the drag of stalls and shacks rimmed with old shipping containers and shattered hull frames.

Hargreaves eased them between towers piping out smokestacks and amidst refineries turned into shanties onto a pad. Scorch marks on the plating had burnt out old sigils of the House of Pvarn. Through the cockpit, they could see locals glancing up, then away. Starfleet wasn’t much of a concern out here.

Pentecost had unbuckled herself before they’d landed, which meant she was waltzing past Renard towards the exit before her Chief of Security was out of her chair. The ramp slid down into a heat that smelled of metal and sweat, and dust was already settling onto her boots.

An old, weary Klingon stomped out from a shack by the pad with a PADD and an expression that spoke more of exhaustion than apprehension at the prospect of dealing with Starfleet.

‘You’re not the law here, so you gotta pay a port fee,’ he growled. ‘Hourly.’ He stuck the PADD out, expecting a digital transfer.

Pentecost gave a gentle scoff. ‘I try to not do law enforcement anywhere.’ She pulled out her own PADD, but squinted at his. ‘Is this what they call daylight robbery?’

‘Starfleet get bumped up rates.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since you ask annoying questions.’

Pentecost frowned. ‘That’s not very neighbourly of you.’

He looked wrong-footed by her levity, and took a more considered look. Over her shoulder, Renard shifted her feet, hand on her phaser pistol, while Hargreaves looked around like a tourist trying to be subtle.

‘Fine,’ he grunted. ‘Standard rate’s cheaper than trouble.’

‘Isn’t everything?’ Pentecost smirked and thumbed the transaction on her PADD. ‘We’re only shopping.’

He jerked his chin at the square. ‘Everyone is.’

They advanced towards the market’s shade. It was carved into and out of the old industrial hulks from when Pvarn ruled this sector and pumped it for profit, stalls spilling out under exposed metal beams and tethered canvas. A hundred traders selling a thousand pieces of junk on a dozen streets spiralled deeper and deeper into the belly of Breaker’s Quay, and nothing Pentecost could see looked at all valuable to anyone, let alone to her.

‘Captain, did you just intimidate that guy into charging us less?’ Hargreaves sounded impressed as her bright eyes soaked up what was, to Pentecost, just another frontier dustbowl.

‘I didn’t intimidate anyone,’ Pentecost said, half-defensive, half-distracted. ‘Renard did it for me.’

‘I looked at him,’ Renard said flatly.

‘Don’t act like you can’t make that a threat, Lieutenant.’

They caught glances for their field jackets, but travellers from countless worlds had descended on Breaker’s Quay, and she could see they were more oddity than threat. The scrutiny of the locals would, ironically, be less of an impediment here in Klingon territory than it might have been on a Federation frontier. Which meant she knew how to work here.

You had to be unhurried, curious but not hungry or pointed, open-handed and ready to talk. She bought a drink she didn’t want at a stall whose owner wanted to talk, and asked questions that made him feel clever when he answered. At another shop, she laughed at a joke with a bad punchline that led to answers with prices; she haggled them down by instead picking up some junk Hargreaves would consider a souvenir.

‘Federation scrap?’ Eventually, a thin alien with a shaved head and one good eye actually brightened at the prompt. ‘There’s always off-world parts. What do you even want?’

‘Something old,’ Pentecost said. ‘By my standards. Not imperial standards.’

‘Nothing’s old by imperial standards. They reuse everything until it falls apart. You Feds like to keep things fancy.’

‘I do try.’

He snorted despite himself. ‘Don’t waste your time at the stalls. You’ll want the yards. East side.’ His gaze flickered to Renard, took in the way she stood, the way her hand hung close to her holster, and looked like he’d swallowed another comment. ‘Ask for Dako. He’s got a lockup. Buys from the salvagers who come in.’

‘Dako,’ Pentecost repeated, as if tasting the name. ‘And what’s your name, so I know who to thank when Dako overcharges me?’

He gave a grin of broken teeth. ‘Ras. You can thank me by not telling Dako I sent you.’

‘Done,’ she said, and clapped Ras on the shoulder. ‘If your field regulator goes, find the woman at the stall with the yellow canopy and the dog with three ears. She looks like she’s got the sort of parts you need.’ Renard squinted at the mention of the dog.

‘There’s no such dog.’

‘I’m trying to start some fun rumours; work with me, here, Ras,’ said Pentecost, and moved on.

‘Is this just gonna be lead after lead after lead, Captain?’ Hargreaves asked. She had her junk tucked under one arm, but the charm of the dustbowl market looked like it had died over the last two hours of work.

‘This is progress. This is someone outside of the damned stalls and in the parts of town where they might actually store salvage of the size we need,’ said Pentecost. ‘And if Dako doesn’t have it, he might know someone. This stuff takes time.’ She glanced at Renard. ‘And could you be less scary?’

‘It’s still just my face, Captain.’

‘You’re spooking them. I don’t know if they’re about to be forthcoming or rude, but either way, you’re spooking them.’

‘I’ll endeavour to have a different face.’

‘I don’t want you to change who you are, Renard. I love you for your soul,’ Pentecost sighed. ‘Just scare the shit out of these scumbags about twenty percent less -’

‘Tempest to away team. Come in.’ Valois’s voice was measured but sharp, though Pentecost still sighed.

‘Why do they always say “come in,” as if I wasn’t going to reply right away?’ she grumbled.

‘You’re not replying right away,’ Renard pointed out.

‘…maybe I want you to change who you are a little.’ Pentecost hit her combadge. ‘Away team here. We’ve got a lead on a trader who -’

‘Klingon bird-of-prey just slid out of warp into orbit. They ignored our hails and have headed to land.’

Pentecost sucked her teeth. ‘Pvarn remnant? KDF? Pirates?’

‘House of Mokvarn, Captain. Neighbours. And they’re headed for the same district as you. Expect Klingon presence on the surface.’

‘Understood. We’ll keep clear. Let me know if you detect anything… bad. Away team out.’ Pentecost sighed and ran her hand through her hair. ‘Great.’

‘Plan, Captain?’ Hargreaves looked worried.

‘They probably don’t give a damn about us if they ignored the Tempest. So we proceed and give them a wide berth. Renard?’ Pentecost turned to her Chief of Security.

Renard straightened an inch. ‘Captain?’

‘Stay exactly as scary as you’ve been all along.’