“Afternoon Boss,” Gaeda Ruiz said as he vacated the command chair. “Just coming up on Meltek II now. Dropped cloak an hour ago so Sumesh’s people would see us coming, as they dictated last time.”

“Half a mind to put a torpedo up his backside,” Sidda muttered, just loud enough for it to carry to all on the bridge of the Vondem Rose. “But Magistrate Krin doesn’t need that mess.” She hadn’t settled down yet, just watching the green and purple marble on the viewscreen before her, the white banding around the landmasses hinting at mountain ranges and dominant wind patterns and just cresting the terminator was the baleful mass of a cyclonic storm. Thankfully far from the northern settlements.

Meltek II wasn’t the most populous of Romulan colony worlds, settled late in the Star Empire’s history thanks to better candidates near the shining jewel of Romulus or its proximity to the Neutral Zone. But pressures won out in the end and the world was settled just in time for the Star Empire to collapse, then collapse again just recently after an abortive attempt at reforming. The little world, with barely a few million people spread across two large landmasses in the northern hemisphere, suddenly found itself involuntarily independent.

Its placement between the so-called Free State and the Republic doomed it to remain so for now as the two powers circled each other, each waiting for the other to make the first mistake. And as such, it had fallen under the ‘protection’ of a band of Romulan Rebirth prats who were only too happy to tax any trade going in or out of the colony. Meltek II wasn’t known for much, but for a few discerning customers back on Kyban, some of the planet’s game had become quite the delicacy.

And if you desperately wanted to trade with a world that had found itself with such dubious protectors, who better to hire than an armed merchantman? One that was capable of convincing the local bullies to just let her pay the ‘taxes’ and do her business. It hadn’t been the smoothest of relationships, but in this line of work, you learned sometimes you had to deal with unsavoury types.

“No, he does not,” Gaeda replied with a slight chuckle.

“Any hails?” she asked as she finally sat down, crossing her left leg over her right, then idly tapped at one of the controls in her ‘salvaged’ chair’s control panel, the chair adjusting from Gaeda’s preferred settings to default she’d had R’tin program in for her.

“Not a peep,” Orelia answered from Ops. “But I am getting something odd in orbit. Indeterminate sensor readings. Duranium alloys, other metals, crystallised gasses…debris,” she finally declared, punching in a few controls and bringing her findings up on the main viewscreen.

A box appeared in orbit, expanding to fill a good portion of the screen, zooming in on a scattering of debris tumbling through the void. The dull green of Romulan construction couldn’t be missed as the trail of debris slowly passed out from the planet’s shadow and into the glaring light of the system’s primary. “Enough debris for three Romulan frigates spread across a large orbital arc. Signs of weapons fire. Assuming what’s on-screen was just one ship and how far it’s spread about in orbit, I’d say this took place nearly two weeks ago.”

“Closer inspection of the debris would help to narrow that estimation.” Tavol’s calm tones floated across the bridge. Sidda wasn’t sure how that man managed to sound so calm and quiet yet project his voice so well. Vulcans must have voice projection as a primary school subject, or else Tavol had a history in the theatre she desperately needed to know about.

“Or we can simply ask the locals,” Orelia challenged.

Mulling her options, she looked up at Gaeda, still just standing there beside her. His shrug was less than helpful and a glare in response just earned her a playful smile from him. “Your call boss, but Sumesh did warn us last time that if we call the magistrate before speaking with him it wouldn’t end well.”

“Yeah, and so have a lot of bigger prats in the last year or so and look where I am now.”

“All hail the pirate queen and my rescuer?” he asked.

“Pre-emptive nautical salvage merchant queen. And it’s all totally legitimate.”

“Oh yes, my bad,” he replied. “Orelia, hail the magistrate’s office, please. Let’s check in with the locals.”

It took nearly fifteen minutes before Magistrate Krin finally appeared on screen, by which time his lovely little town was just coming into a new day and the Vondem Rose was just entering orbit after nudging debris aside as it approached Meltek II. “Oh, Captain Sidda, what a pleasure,” he said, his grandfatherly tone not an act he put on, just how he was. “I was worried another band of Rebirthers had shown up.” Dawn’s light was just spilling through the window behind him and over the township. He’d clearly been woken, opting for a fluffy bright blue dressing gown which looked completely fitting on a man in his twilight years.

“Sorry for calling in on you so early Magistrate,” Sidda apologised. “Just with the debris in orbit, we thought to call and check all was well.” She made a mental note to have words with Krin’s handlers when she could. They could have just told her to call back in a few hours, not wake up an elderly man early to deal with her. But some down below were still Romulans of old, not wanting to delay warning their superiors for fear of getting in trouble, or inversely not wanting to disturb them. There was it seemed a very fine line between the two and unfortunately Krin’s minders hadn’t learned to walk it.

“Oh no, don’t worry about that my dear,” he said. “I was already up, tending to my granddaughter. She’s been unwell you see, so Mirel and I have been helping out.” He suddenly sat up straighter, a smile on his face. “Oh! Why don’t you come and have breakfast with the family? Bring that charming fiancé of yours and Mr Kevak as well. I have a recipe I want to share with him.”

“I…” She had started to say something, then stopped. They’d visited Meltek II exactly three times now, stayed a few days each time and gotten to know some of the locals but she just couldn’t figure out then and there how her chef had somehow made acquittance with the planetary leader.

“Go on,” Gaeda said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “We’ll keep watch, you find out what happened and score Kevak a new recipe.”

And like any kindly grandfather that Sidda had experienced, mostly via some form of media or another, Krin smiled and clapped his hands, having heard Gaeda through whatever deal with dark powers he had made that granted him exceptional hearing. “Excellent. Breakfast is in an hour. Beam down to the same place as last time and Mr Jellik will see you to us.” And then to make sure no further argument could be made or had, the line went dead.

“But it’s afternoon,” Sidda complained to the viewscreen, once more showing the planet. “This is going to ruin my dinner.”

“Oh boohoo,” Gaeda chided gently. “Now get going.”

“So let me get this straight,” Sidda started, the pleasantries of introductions long past and a recounting of recent events over the start of breakfast just gone by. “Two weeks ago a gaggle of Starfleet ships swoop in, smash up Sumesh’s ships, take him and his people off as prisoners and then just leave?”

“Efficient,” came Kevak’s growl around a sweet bread that Krin had introduced him to, challenging the Klingon chef to work out all the ingredients over breakfast. Not a roll, not a slice, not a torn-off piece of the loaf, but the whole thing was gripped in one hand while his other roamed from dish to dish on the table, sampling all that was on offer with breakfast. His enthusiasm was met by Krin’s broad smile, the elderly Romulan discarding the near-racial dislike for Klingons in favour of appreciation for someone who enjoyed his cooking.

“Fff ow!” Sidda had barely gotten the first sound past her lips before Riven had jabbed her hard in the side, then nodded her head down the length of the table where Krin’s visiting family were seated. His wife, daughter and son-in-law were entertaining three children, none of them older than ten and seemingly happy, if not just a little off colour for one of them. The sick grandkid he’d mentioned earlier.

“Language,” Riven muttered, staring at her. “I know what you were going to say.”

“Sorry,” Sidda sheepishly acknowledged, then turned back to Krin. “That’s very unlike Starfleet. Didn’t stick around for a day or two, lend out some engineers to clean out the gutters or polish the floors? Rescue cats from trees, build a school or six? A brand new aqueduct you didn’t need or want?”

“Nothing. They just hailed us to let us know that Sumesh was in custody and wouldn’t bother us again. I was going to ask for help with our long-range communications tower, what with Sumesh being gone, but never got the chance before they moved on to whatever you young people are doing these days.”

She just watched Krin for a moment, his attention down the table at his grandkids while having this conversation. “Usually they’d stick around at least for a bit. They just can’t help but be helpful. Or put you in contact with someone nearby who could help. That whole building communities schtick they used to do. But they just…let you know they’d taken out the riffraff and then left?”

“Calling Sumesh riffraff is an insult to riffraff,” Krin said. “He was a bully and an Imperial patriot. But he was at least good to his word about keeping Meltek safe.” The old man had finished his small breakfast awhile back and was now chasing it down with the local preferred hot drink, something red and sweet and just a little too thick for Sidda’s liking, but which Riven had developed a taste for.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Sidda said and to which Kevak grumbled his agreement, before jotting down something on a piece of paper he’d produced from a pocket after he’d started eating. She couldn’t read Klingon but was certain he was merely taking notes to discuss with Krin afterwards when they could discuss real business – recipes.

“It is about what my people have come to expect,” Krin replied.

“It’s not who Starfleet are supposed to be though. Supposed to be annoyingly helpful busybodies who can’t help but get into people’s business. Your maintenance people should be complaining about how there’s nothing to do because those uniform stuffers fixed everything before they left.” She looked down, noticing she’d been idly moving things around her plate with a fork while talking. “Your long-range comms tower still needs looking at?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose on you my dear,” Krin answered. That polite initial refusal that would give way after a few more offers and insistence it wouldn’t be a bother, they were staying a few days anyway. But then turn into a laundry list of other things her people could help out with.

A few days had passed, filled with unloading what they’d brought with them and then loading up on chilled produce. It kept a rotating number of the crew busy, the rest taking time on the surface when they could. There was only one fight she’d heard about and Telin hadn’t even started the bar brawl. He’d finished it at least. Him, Orin, Orelia and Kevak’s assistant chefs. Why anyone would pick a fight with three muscular Orions and two Klingons was beyond her, but no one was seriously injured at least.

The engineers had found themselves spread thin across Meltek II, supporting local engineers with critical infrastructure support. Power and communications primarily – enough to let the locals work and talk with each other better and then get on with everything else themselves. Most of it wasn’t arduous work, just work that had been slowed by a lack of spare parts – parts which Vondem Rose’s replicators had been able to assist with.

Parts that had her calling Na’roq and getting her to arrange a couple of industrial and medical replicators for eventual delivery to Meltek. Totally Legitimate Salvage Operators after all did have an outreach program and more than a few of the crew supported efforts to make them all look good and embarrass the do-gooders running around the local area.

Settling down in her office, an older Kolar Blight album blaring through the sound system just below a level that would cause hearing damage, Sidda had prepared herself for the unfortunate tasks of running a business – paperwork. It had to be done, demanded to be done least Na’roq or Gaeda chase after her. But she’d barely started when she’d been rescued by the chirping of her comm system, immediately muting her music.

“Sidda,” she announced as she pressed the blinking white button on the side of her low desk.

“Captain, there’s an Adjutant Velkir from the Vulcan Security Bureau wanting to talk to you.” Trid’s voice conveyed with it the confusion she now felt. Why would the VSB be calling the Vondem Rose at all?

“One moment.” She tapped at the padd in front of her, saving her current work, before switching to comms. “Put them through.”

The officious-looking man that popped up on her screen could have been any Vulcan she’d ever seen. Bland expression, boring clothing, same haircut. All perfectly ‘logical’ no doubt. “Captain Sidda Sadovu, I am Adjutant Velkir of the VSB.”

“Yes, I was informed,” she replied. “What can I do for the VSB? Business enquires do need to go through our corporate office on Kyban.”

“I am aware of that, but this is a personal matter,” he replied. As he spoke his face maintained that bland look. No lines or creases. He could have been anywhere between twenty and a hundred and twenty for all she knew. “T’Rev of P’Jem, son of Geltrin and Hilta, also known in less savoury circles as The Last Pirate King, has passed away.”

That took some of the wind out of her as she sat back. She’d kept him her prisoner for a while, trying to pry secrets from the man, before relenting and handing him over to Starfleet for the kudos. She could have done without the metaphorical pat on the end and the gold star next to her name, but if it made life easier for her and her business to be in the good books.

She’d kept the treasure for now though. Let the minor betazoid houses keep their centuries-old feud, she needed a desk ornament anyway.

“And I should care why?”

Velkir raised a single eyebrow at that, before continuing. “He had time enough to sort out a new will while he was in our rehabilitation program.” A program she knew he was never going to leave after the judge had passed sentence on him at his trial. But Vulcan’s didn’t have jails, just rehabilitation centres. Just jails with more group therapy and arts and crafts. “You are a named recipient of a package and a later.”

“What?”

“T’Rev has left you the contents of a deposit box from the Bank of Bolius and a letter to be delivered to you in the event of his passing. We have verified the box is not dangerous.”

“That’s not the same as safe,” she said.

“I fail to see the distinction.” Velkir waited just a moment more. “I was calling to inform you of this development as well as where you would like us to ship everything to. We are aware your ship does have a large theatre of operations and would like to expedite the receipt of your new belongings.”

“Send it to my corporate office and I’ll pick it up from there.”

“As you wish. I’ll make arrangements to have a courier vessel underway as soon as possible. Good day Captain.” The screen blanked, replaced with a maroon background and the symbol of the VSB for a good five seconds before it went completely blank.

She sat there for a few minutes, just staring into nothing before rising. T’Rev was dead. She hadn’t asked how or why, but it didn’t matter. The king was dead. Long live the queen. She’d orchestrated his downfall and ended him. His vizier had pulled off the deception for a while, but the open trial of T’Rev had ended that pantomime and Starfleet had cleaned up operations in and around the Paulson Nebula months ago.

She’d won.

So why did it feel like something was just on the horizon?

“Trid, call everyone back to the ship,” she ordered as she returned to the bridge, sparsely populated since they were just sitting in orbit. “I want to be underway in thirty minutes. We’re heading back to Kyban right away.”

“Uh, sure thing boss,” the Bajoran woman sputtered before she sent out the message. “Are we in a hurry or a hurry-hurry?”

“Once everyone is back, I want us underway as fast as you can and don’t bother with the cloak.”

“Geez, someone die?” Trid asked.

“T’Rev.”