Part of SS Vondem Rose: Talkin’ ‘bout a Revolution and Bravo Fleet: Sundered Wings

Talkin’ ’bout a Revolution – 4

Lamec Spa, City of T'ma'ru, Ta'shen
May 2400
0 likes 1066 views

“Well shit.”

R’tin couldn’t help but smile at his boss’ unhappiness, but the simple unhappy statement was a perfect summary of what lay before them. All four of them had arrived at the pool around the same time after splitting up, gathering together to make sure what they were each seeing was what they all were seeing.

Floating, face down, in the largest freshwater pool of the Lamec Spa, the water tinged green, was the single largest romulan he’d ever seen. The flamboyant clothes, the jewellery on his hands, the mop of grey hair – there was no mistaking this as anyone other than Andik Hotet from the description and images they’d studied..

Shot in the back no doubt in the same massacre that must have swept the Lamec Spa not even an hour ago.

He could see Sidda rubbing the bridge of her nose, the other resting on the pommel of the sword at her hip, clearly exasperated by the situation at hand. Had to admit to himself that the rakish pirate look was working for her, the added extra of looking like someone had tried to blow her up was certainly not hurting the entire image. A few pictures wouldn’t hurt her reputation, to truly show people she was pretty resilient to the concept of death, but he didn’t feel like dying in the asking.

Just a few minutes ago he had found himself stepping out to the seaside facing terraces of the Lamec Spa and was greeted immediately with more of the same he’d found inside. Dead bodies were all over the place, the entire place tossed and turned in a bloody frenzy. The place had clearly been a battle zone and it seemed that the aristocratic asses and their guards were no match for the vastly larger numbers of staffers who had been running the place.

That wasn’t to say they hadn’t given as well as they got, but the majority of bodies he’d found so far hadn’t been wearing the spa’s uniform. The lack of anyone still here was interesting but less disturbing than the lack of weapons. Whoever had fled had taken the weapons of fallen guards with them. Used them even already after no doubt taking them from the first few kills. The slaughter would have then picked up the pace.

His own personal wager was the bomb or bombs, at the spaceport had been the go signal for an uprising no doubt in the making for years, decades, or entire lifetimes for the underclass here on Ta’shen. A chance to strike out and kill the ‘betters’ who oppressed the people of this world for their own enjoyment. And from the looks of it, here at the spa at least, that had even gone so far as romulan on romulan violence.

Remans rising up he could understand. Nothing against them, he could understand their anger at those in charge. His own lower castes as well marginally treated better, but not by much, in his experience. But he hadn’t expected it to be so bloody, so unrestrained in its violence. Guess that’s what happens when pent up anger finally explodes.

It had gone from shock to disgust to a point where he just had to accept it was happening, mentally note it down and keep going. Drink the problem away later with Bones and whatever that vile concoction she made was called that she swore was medicinal.

But here, right here, floating face down, was the one and only reason they had come to this world just in time for whatever was going on to kick off.

“Say that again boss,” Trid finally spoke after a half-minute of silence.

“So, if Hotet’s dead,” he started to speak, “what next?”

Five minutes later and they’d relocated to the spa’s onsite medical facility, which was really just an overly flash but well equipped first aid station. Enough to settle minor ills of visitors, or help them with certain medical conditions that might limit their enjoyment while residing here, going by the not entirely necessary medicines on shelves for all to see. They still had no plan but were able to make good some of their injuries at least. Nothing for bruised bones or Trid’s possibly fractured arm, but a dermal regenerator at least would heal up flesh wounds and prevent either more blood loss or possible infection.

And from Trid’s faint smile, he thought he was doing quite well for an engineer. She hadn’t lashed out at him at least. “There we go, not quite as new, but at least you’re a lot more tidied up than before.” He deactivated the regenerator and pocketed the device, its use likely to come in handy sooner rather than later. “I’d recommend the sauna and a relaxing massage, as soon as facilities reopen.”

That killed Trid’s smile and turned into a frown in quick order. “Not funny,” she said just loud enough for him to hear. “Seriously not funny.”

“Why?”

“People have died here R’tin. Fuck, lots of people have. More will. This isn’t funny.”

He got it, he understood what she was saying, but dark humour he knew was a defence mechanism of his. He shrugged his shoulders. “Neither is being stuck on a world that’s gone mad, but if I don’t laugh, I’ll probably scream.”

“Scream later,” Sidda said as she hopped off the table she’d been sitting on nearby, tending to a couple of communicators they had found. All of them had produced the same repeating broadcast about the might and glory of the eternal Romulan Star Empire on every communications channel there was. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Plan boss?” he asked.

“Communications jamming is likely coming from the palace,” she said as she walked over to a window with a view of the place. “We get inside, disable the comm jammer, anything else that’s in our way and get Orelia to swing by and beam us out. Then we get the fuck out of the system and find out what the fuck is going on.”

The palace was an edifice of Romulan statehood – large, imposing, built up high to look down on everyone else. It was built on a large rocky outcropping that would make an assault at ground level difficult, fortified in its own right and big enough to likely house its own generators, shield systems and enough housing for a sizable number of aristocrats and garrison forces. 

“Sounds like a suicide run Cap,” Trid added. “Jammer can’t be that extensive, we could try and get out of the city and call the ship.”

“Eh,” he found himself responding with a shrug of shoulders. “Good jammer is likely good for a few thousand kilometres, if they’re using say…naval surplus? Or an old Tal’Shiar jammer to prevent any comms. And besides, we saw those orbital platforms on the way in. Plasma disruptors, torpedo launchers, and pretty decent shielding I’d say too. No way the Rose is getting close enough to beam us out without taking an absolute pounding, and that’s before they drop the shields.”

Sidda’s sigh, then a kick to the wall was the answer he needed. She wanted a solution, not more problems.

“But…” he continued, “maybe some scouting might tell us something. And I’m confident the rest of the crew will figure something out. After all, T’Ael is still up there, and Orelia isn’t going to leave us behind…right?”

The affirmative head nods from Revin and Trid helped, but there was no response from Sidda’s back for nearly a minute. Then she turned around with that smile on her face he’d seen a few times, like just before a shuttle raid on a pirate base, or before blowing a D’Ghor base out of the sky.

“Patrol incoming,” she said and soon enough all of them were at the window looking where she pointed them at. Coming up the road towards the spa, on foot and moving at a decent pace, were four romulan soldiers, all dressed in that just off uniform they’d seen at the spaceport. He reckoned it had to be a new garrison duty jacket or some such, to distinguish ground forces from the navy. Same cut, same style, slightly different colours and ornamentation.

He didn’t see Sidda’s face, but he could hear the predatory smile as she spoke next. “Let’s introduce ourselves and get some answers, yah?”