“Brett Gavalore?” Ardot asked as he set the plates of steaming dumplings down in front of Sidda and Revin. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a very, very long time.”

Ardot’s Café was as per usual a pretty busy place for the time of day, helped by the clear blue skies and the warm breeze coming in off of the Dai Sea. It meant that people tended to opt for taking lunch out and about on the city and for those who knew of Ardot’s it was where you went if you could get in.

No matter how busy the place was, there was also a table for three kept free towards the back of the establishment, such that snooping eyes and ears from the street wouldn’t be able to tell anything other than who was seated there. And it was at that table that Sidda and Revin had been shown to, at which Ardot had served them himself and to which he was now sitting himself down at. The large Bolian then picked at two sauces on the table, considered them, and then set one each in front of his two guests.

It might have been a suggestion of which sauce to use on the dumplings, but if the chef insisted and you wanted to stay on his good side, you complied, as both Revin and Sidda did so, Revin rather enthusiastically splashing the dark red sauce she’d been provided over her dumplings as compared to Sidda’s rather moderate amount of a dark brown liquid.

“In fact, the last person who asked after Brett Gavalore would have been…” Ardot trailed off as he looked up at the ceiling, clearly working to recall details. “Jamil al-Jabar. Worked for and I believe is now The Last Pirate King, after a recent change in management.” Ardot leaned forward, grinning. “And a man on the run as well. Apparently, someone told Starfleet about Royal Station and they sent in a squadron of door kickers to have a word with him.”

Sidda nodded, a mouth full of dumpling that she made sure to swallow before speaking. She’d had manners beaten into her as a child, sculpted as a cadet and polished off by her fiancé. “Dammit to hell. That means they’ll have seized his horde of latnium. Could have used that.”

“I’m sure you could have,” Ardot grinned. “Nevermind that though. It was years and years ago he asked.”

“What was it you told him anyway?” Revin asked.

“Just where I thought he was hiding and causing trouble. I figured he’d annoyed the Pirate King some and a carefully worded response was being sent his way. Never heard anything at all about any follow-up or Gavalore turning up dead anywhere so figured nothing came of it.” Ardot then scrunched his eyes a little. “You’re not thinking of going after Gavalore now are you?”

“Maybe,” Sidda answered.

“Yes,” Revin answered. “T’Rev is blackmailing Sidda from beyond the grave and a condition is to track down this Brett Gavalore.” She then turned to Sidda, whose glare had been weaponised. “Ardot can’t help us if he doesn’t know what is going on.”

“It’s this insightfulness that makes you my favourite,” Ardot said with genuine affection in his voice. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve only told me just enough to give context.” He winked at Revin, then turned to Sidda. “You shouldn’t go after Gavalore. He’s done enough. Just let it be.”

“If I do, T’Rev ruins me.”

“Oh pish!” Ardot said, waving the concept away. “You’ll bounce back. Or reinvent. You’re a survivor Sidda and you don’t need anyone telling you otherwise.”

Silence sat at the table for a moment as Sidda considered her options. “I want to. It’s about time Gavalore ate crow. He’s killed too many and done too much to just be allowed to live.”

“All right then,” Ardot said, hands on the table to support his weight as he pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll put out some feelers, see what I can dig up for you. But promise me Sidda you aren’t going to make this some fool’s errand? If you’re going after Gavalore, take your crew with you.”

“I’m crazy Ardot, not stupid,” Sidda answered.

“Good. Just go about your business, I’ll call as soon as I have something. Now, enjoy those dumplings you two and may I suggest a walk along the eastern promenade afterwards? It’s a lovely day and a shame to miss it.”

“So?” asked Revin, her hand in the crook of Sidda’s arm as they walked along one of Banksy’s many promenades, this one looking out to the west across the Dai Sea. The sun was low, the sky cast in shades of orange to red, the lights of Banksy already signalling the start of the nightlife.

“So what?”

“So, when are you going to brief the crew?”

“Can I do it in the morning?” Sidda asked, smiling as the answer she got was Revin giving her arm a squeeze before leaning into her. “Thanks.”

“One condition though,” Revin said, this time a near whisper.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the Romulan woman asked. “I want to see you in that uniform of yours.”

Sidda stopped, an expression on her face that could only be called neutral. “Revin, sweetie –“

“It’s that or you brief everyone as soon as we beam back. Either way, it’s going to be an uncomfortable evening tonight. But one of them has me ripping a uniform off of you.” And with that, Revin unhooked her hand from Revin’s arm and continued down the promenade. “Your choice.”

“Lieutenant Jenu, it’s been some time since your last check-in,” the old man who opened the door into the debriefing room said. He walked with a pronounced limp supported by a cane as he crossed the few steps from the closed door to the chair opposite her, sitting himself down. There was no table dividing them in this room, just little circular ones beside the two chairs, both seemingly part of the floor.

He didn’t wear a uniform, and looked to be the best part of ancient but otherwise kept himself clean, tidy, like a man who took pride in his appearance. The only way of identifying him as even part of Starfleet was the commbadge on the outside of his jacket.

“The Rose keeps an odd schedule,” Trid answered. “And we’ve been busy. The Cap is busy trying to build bridges along the Republic’s border and into some of the former Imperial territories.”

“The Cap?” the old man asked before waving it away as if not important. “How is your cover with Captain Sadovu?”

“She doesn’t like being called that,” Trid supplied. “She prefers to just be called Sidda. Sadovu is her mother.”

“How is your cover with Captain Sidda?” the old man repeated.

“She still thinks I’m a Starfleet dropout,” Trid lied, having heard Sidda’s suspicions, even pretty sure she was made but hadn’t been thrown over the side just yet.

“Good,” the old man said. “While I’m sure that Captain Holmstead would prefer we fully debrief you, I have it on good authority that the Vondem Rose is going to be departing tomorrow morning for Meltex II once more. So instead we’ll skip the formalities.” He’d gone from a kindly grandfather to a ruthless operator and in doing so had made Trid feel more comfortable. She at least could predict what he might say or do more so than before. “Has Captain Sidda done anything illegal inside Federation territory since your last report?”

“No.”

“Has she done anything illegal within claimed or policed territory of a Federation ally since your last report?”

“No,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

“Explain,” the old man said.

“Extortion at best, with no proof as the other party would never admit to anything happening,” she said. “Embarrassment at being pirated. And primarily because they themselves are pirates.”

“Hmm.” He looked at her, studying her for a moment. “Small-time activity not really worth our time. I feel your talents might be wasted, what with her seeming intent to build a legitimate business on the back of her former piracy. I do need you to deliver a message to Captain Sadovu for me,” he said, purposefully using Sidda’s last name.

Reaching into a pocket, fishing around, he produced a dark red datarod, clearly of Cardassian origin. He examined it for a moment, then offered it to her. “Ensure this gets to Captain Sadovu. I’m sure she’ll find the information contained within to be of great interest.”

For her own part, she merely accepted and pocketed the datarod straight away, not even looking at the thing. “And just how will I explain I got this?”

“Tell her you were accosted by two goons in black suits. They insisted you relay a message to your captain. Tell her it comes from Higgins. She’ll understand.”

“This may blow my cover,” she said.

“A possibility. But you’re resourceful. I’m sure you’ll find a way to escape and make your way back to us here at the Rookery.” He leaned on his cane as he pushed himself to his feet, clearly struggling. “If she asks before checking the datarod, tell her it contains the whereabouts of Doctor Shreln.”

As he finished rising to his feet, he looked at her and smiled, that grandfatherly masquerade once more at play. “Do yourself a favour young one, exercise regularly, take care of yourself and don’t live as long as I have. Even modern medicine has problems with arthritis at a hundred and twenty years old.”