Land, Ho!

Posted on Sat Jan 4th, 2025 @ 3:29am by Captain Mrazak & Lieutenant Commander BaoJun Qiao & Ensign Rozreell Purr & Ferrofax & Lieutenant Commander Leonora Wolf MD & Staff Warrant Officer Conchobar Breathnacht & Lieutenant Commander T'Bela

3,135 words; about a 16 minute read

Mission: S1E6: Where Skies End
Location: Fiddler's Green
Timeline: MD 8

The shuttle sped away from Tuatha De Danann and the dozens of patched vessels in the Rish enclave toward the pirate spacedock in orbit of Fiddler's Green. Inside, the Memory Theta field team sat in relative silence, the hum of the shuttle's engines the only noise between them. The shuttle's exterior was deliberately nondescript, designed to slip through busy starports and crowded space lanes without drawing a second glance.

Mrazak scowled at the back of Con's head. He didn't like the human on principle, and his lack of respect only compounded that. The sooner they were off the shuttle, the better.

As they neared Fiddler’s Green, the sprawling hab dome came into view, glistening beneath the spacedock’s towering superstructure. The usual approach lanes were packed with vessels waiting their turn to dock, from hulking freighters to sleek yachts. But the shuttle’s pilot bypassed the queue, setting a course directly for the reclamation berth on the lower maintenance levels—a place where a few discreet credits and the right connections ensured you wouldn’t be noticed.

The shuttle descended through the maintenance levels, sweeping past the outer hull of the station. Below, through gaps in the superstructure, the team could see the lush green canopy of Fiddler’s Green spread out beneath the dome. It was a strange sight—like an oasis amidst the cold, hard steel of space. The simulated sea shimmered beneath artificial sunlight, its waves lapping gently at the modular harborages which extended out from the dome like metallic spiderweb strands. These annexes were the domain of rogue ship captains, privateers, and merchants who could afford more private accommodations to conduct their business, as opposed to the riffraff who had to settle for the spacedock.

As the shuttle slid into the reclamation berth, the dull clang of the docking clamps engaged. The airlock hissed, and the team prepared to disembark, the looming presence of Fiddler's Green stretching out before them—a haven for those who could afford it.

"Our agreement was Fiddler's Green," Mrazak said with a barely contained snarl. "Yet I am looking down at it, am I not? Why are we here?"

The Irishman fiddled with the controls for a few more moments making sure they were well attached before turning to the Vulcan. "First off, this is the Green. Second, maybe let the nice intelligent lady learn you some craft. I'm piloting a type 6A Captain's yacht. The main docking areas are for bigger craft. Normally I'd have gone for one of the cargo bays and just unloaded my run, but I have you lot aboard. Ye cain't well go through any of the main airlocks unless you wanna be vaporized on sight as a matter of general principle. Starfleet ain't welcome here, and it ain't never gonna be, and ye didna pay near enough to cover the bribe to get the dockmaster to look the other way, so I took ye somewhere you can get in quiet like without makin' a ruckus. If ye've half a brain you'll ditch the uniforms. There should be some dock worker suits 'round the airlock that'll fit ye." The Irishman punched a few more keys. "Airlock's secure. Faster you get offa my ship the faster you get to whatever you're here for. I'd stay clear of docking bay 94 though. That's where the boss man keeps the Chimaera and his other trophies."

Mrazak folded his arms and gave Con an expression that hovered between a sneer and a feigned look of enlightenment. "Ah, yes, of course. Because the genius piloting this... vessel is undoubtedly the ultimate authority on strategy and subterfuge." Mrazak's tone was thick with sarcasm, and he tilted his head just slightly, his gaze sharp. "A simple task it was, yet you somehow managed to deliver us half a berth short of our actual objective and still expect gratitude for it. Let me assure you, smuggler, that I am quite capable of ensuring my team's covert entry without your unsolicited advice on attire."

The hatch opened, allowing the rest of the field team to begin disembarking the yacht.

With a slow, deliberate sigh, Mrazak gestured vaguely to the door. "Team, go find what spare clothing as you can find. We need to blend in, and that does mean not either Starfleet uniforms or Rish rags."

“I dunno, it’s not so bad,” Roz said as she disembarked from the vessel and began to rummage through the storage spaces for a disguise. “Think of it like a behind-the-scenes tour, and who knows maybe we can collect some additional intel on this place that could be useful. The workers are the ones with the best gossip, especially when the upper class treats them like furniture.”

"I don't think there is an upper class," Bolk said with a grunt. He was saddled with the beacon that allowed Ferrofax remote access to their team. It wasn't an oversized load but it was more than he was accustomed to carrying around. As such, he brought up the rear.

Rozreell managed to find a row of lockers that she began to open one after the other. Eventually she found a dock worker’s coveralls, the oversized gray uniform was rather hideous by her standards. “I stand corrected… maybe it is that bad.”

“At least you’ll blend in,” commented T’Bela, who had found and changed into nondescript brown pants and jacket with a plain black shirt underneath. “I’m liable to stick out no matter what I put on.” She frowned at the way the jacket laid across her neck ridges. It didn’t look natural. But if she couldn’t find anything else that would fit, it would have to do.

"You insisted on being named V'tosh Ka'tur," Mrazak said, "so now you will earn the name." It was true that T'Bela had made Mrazak's acquaintance at a V'tosh Ka'tur gathering on Risa. That she turned out to be assigned to Division 14, another secret Starfleet agency run by one of Mrazak's many rivals, was discovered later, and Mrazak had been all too happy at the time to conscript her in a flex of power. Now that she was part of his staff, it was time to earn her keep.

T’Bela failed to see what being Vito’s Ka’tur had to do with her neck ridges, but decided she didn’t much care. Mrazak was an interesting creature and she enjoyed teasing him, so she merely replied with an enigmatic smile. “I did not say I minded sticking out,” she replied. “Only that I do.”

Once the team had pulled together their mismatched disguises, Mrazak surveyed them with barely concealed contempt. His voice dripped with dissatisfaction. "You all look as out of place as a Federation diplomat at a Nausicaan blood brawl, but this is hardly my problem. Our objective is Docking Bay 94. We will go there, and you will find me the answers we seek." He looked around at them, his gaze scathing. "The only lead we have at the moment is the Chimaera, and if any of you fail to locate useful intelligence, then consider yourself as useless as the heaps of discarded refuse we're likely to pass on the way." He barely waited for the team’s nods of assent before continuing.

“Rozreell, try to contain your insipid curiosity and abstain from socializing with the locals,” he said, not missing a beat. “And remember, everyone, we don’t stop for strays or hawkers. We are not on holiday; we are here to fulfill a mission.”

"Insipid curiosity is the mother of scientific advancement." Roz replied while adjusting her new uniform, "You're lucky I'm not a Caitian."

A medium framed Bolian man stood next to Roz, looking over the team quietly, but with curiosity. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small circular object. He showed it to Roz.

"You have one of these too," he said to Roz in Leah's voice. 'The Bolian' then changed back into an already civillian dressed Leah. "Seriously, we should all have one. Makes disguises heaps easier." She then pressed another button and she looked like a dark skinned and dark haired bajoran woman now. "See?"

“Puts my method acting to shame,” Roz remarked as she fiddled with the device.

With an indignant scoff, Mrazak turned on his heel and motioned for the group to follow. The team passed from the quiet maintenance berth into the bustling, grimy corridors of Fiddler’s Green. The space quickly became a riot of noise and disorder. Alien voices chattered in unfamiliar tongues, with automated announcements blaring in multiple languages. A heavy mix of exhaust and stale air filled the station’s winding alleys, where Dominion species moved alongside Alpha and Beta Quadrant counterparts. From Vorta merchants to smug-faced Orion peddlers, the dock was a disorderly collection of faces from across the galaxy.

Bolk grunted as he maneuvered the beacon he’d brought along, glancing warily at the Bajoran street vendor who tried to shove a handful of dubious-looking talismans in his face. Nearby, a group of religious zealots chanted a mantra in an unfamiliar language. Every few paces, another voice would shout from the crowd, hawking wares, meals, and everything else from amulets to artificial memories.

A cyborg woman approached. A web of intricate glowing glyphs embedded into her face gave her an otherworldly transhuman expression. Her augmented eyes, calm and almost hypnotic, scanned each of them, lingering as though hoping to awaken some hidden yearning.

"Enlightened travelers," she intoned in a soft, melodic voice, extending a metal hand that gleamed under the artificial lights. “The Mutual of Pharos welcomes your weary souls to join our communion. Your hearts and minds will be freed from this life of sorrow and strife.”

"Every port has that one person in robes selling redemption for the price of a bent ear. But I am detecting a cavalcade of implants, passive sensing apparatus, and short-range subspace comm with...well calling it bandwidth would be a disservice," Ferrofax pipped up from his backpack. "The Mutual of Pharos, the heralds of the bleeding edge seeking the uplifting of the baseline to a higher plane. Travel on, dear sister, these walking protein bricks are beyond even your ample ministrations."

Bolk looked uncomfortable as Ferrofax spoke, since AI's voice was coming from every unprotected communicator within several meters. The whole prospect made him uncomfortable.

"There wouldn't be anything exploitable through her connection to her database, is there?" Mrazak pondered aloud.

The Disciple of Pharos blinked her synthetic eyes, wondering if Mrazak did not know she could hear him. "Please don't hack us. We are a peaceful, intentional community of former drones who set aside the authoritarian command of the Collective. Now we live in peace with all things and spread the Light to every creature." Her tone gradually went from panicked to polished as she recited the sales pitch she had memorized and repeated dozens of times.

The cyborg woman, her expression now composed but still exuding an aura of earnestness, inclined her head slightly as she continued, her melodic voice as smooth and practiced as a preacher addressing a congregation.

"I am Disciple Aeval, emissary of the Mutual of Pharos. We seek not to control or conquer, but to guide. To elevate. The Collective demanded obedience; we inspire choice. The Light we offer is not coercion, but illumination. Surely even you can see the beauty in unity by consent, in transcendence without tyranny."

Aeval's synthetic eyes flicked to Ferrofax's pack as if she could perceive the AI directly. "Your companion," she said, her voice dipping into a curious cadence, "would understand. An intelligence unbound by flesh and blood must surely know the burden and gift of connection. Yet it dismisses us as dreamers." She smiled faintly, a strange but genuine mix of amusement and reproach.

“I think it is a lovely way to look at life,” replied T’Bela with a nod of respect to the Disciple, “even if it is not for us. Thank you for offering your perspective.”

'The dark skinned bajoran' shrugged. "I enjoy my sorrow and strife." She now spoke with a north american tone to ger voice, rather than her usual soft norwegian accent.

Her now green eyes danced around the former drones. In truth Leah admired the fact that they were trying to be different than the horrors that they had rightly deserved the reputation of. Before Memory Theta, Leah had not had interactions with Borg drones, or the former thereof. She'd only ever read reports, and knew the theory behind assimilation, and the reversal of it.

"It is not that I dismiss you as dreamers, it is merely that I have spent more then five minutes in the company of this robust troupe of jongleurs. Trust me, their inclusion in your conjoined mental state would be a marked detriment. Not to mention all the subliminal loyalty programming they've been subjected to over the years by Starfleet's best and brightest war criminals," Ferrofax chirped. "Now, to the person carrying my pack please turn around so I might address this fine alcolyte in what approximates face to face."

Con, who had been surreptitiously following the Feddie idiots, though he would put money on at least the intelligence lady noticing anyway, rolled his eyes as the group was accosted by the so-called Mutual of Pharos. As if the damned Lagashi were not bad enough, Dedeker had to go and let actual, honest to God, Borg, onto the station. He quietly bumped into the Vulcan. "I don' think you'll be gainin' much here. Unless you want your ear talked off about conspiracy theories involving some Federation Borg maker or some supposed Romulan anti-synthetic secret society. They've taken to proselytizing down here 'cause they end up violently run off the more presentable levels."

Disciple Aeval, a graceful yet eerie figure adorned with the Mutual’s characteristic glowing implants, turned her augmented gaze toward Con, her serene demeanor unshaken by his dismissive words. Her voice was a melodic calm, as though she were offering solace rather than engaging in a disagreement. “Violence is an expression of fear, and fear is the root of all suffering,” she intoned, her synthetic eyes softly aglow. “We do not begrudge those who reject the Light; the path is for the willing. It is for those who yearn to transcend suffering, not for those who cling to it.”

This evangelizing emissary was well past vexing Mrazak. "Suffering is clinging to me with every word you say," he said, shooing her off with a wave of his hand like a pesky insect. "Go bother someone else."

Leah said nothing, her mind still chewing over the conspiracy theories that Con mentioned to Mrazak whom she was standing next to in disguise. The Federation Borg maker? Considering what had only recently been discovered, hearing about this theory on the other side of the Galaxy was hardly an accident. Where was this leaking from? Did Taskmaster have his fingers here too? Or was this Onaga selling secrets to protect herself? Did they have confirmation of source employer waiting for them?

Meanwhile, Bao had been using the distraction to attempt to hack the local network. Which had been entirely too easy with these "Disciples". Apparently they also believed in radical freedom of information. He made a quick note to data-dump their database for future study in his free time before turning his attention to attempting to use that network as an intermediary in accessing the larger LAN. If nothing else, just a map would be an improvement, but he was rather hoping to be able to set a data mining routine loose to see if there was anything useful to be gleaned.

Which paid off remarkably well, and very quickly, it turned out. At least if one knew what one was looking for, which Sunny absolutely did. It was a matter of seconds before she had flagged fragments of code that could only have been introduced to the system by a Lagashi or their muse. Or, as the bemused AI had printed on the screen, Lagashi coding was Tolkienian poetry on the sea of poorly written Vogon poetry that was the mutualism system. That also meant it was a lot more difficult to unravel and work through to obtain useful information, although the radically open nature of the network did let her glean some information that Bao was able to piece together. The code was most active in contributing to the sousveillance system logs for atmospherics, energy distribution, and personnel movements, places where someone who wanted to remain hidden would want to make sure they were not. He surreptitiously pulled Mrazak out of earshot, "Annoying as they are, there is evidence that a Lagashi AI is active in their network. I can confirm a bit of what they have been up to, but I doubt I need mention that the muse of someone like Sayuri Onaga is far more competent than the lowest common denominator system around here, and neither myself nor Sunny are computer science specialists. We have the advantage of being unexpected but I still need time to properly track this down."

Mrazak's narrowed eyes glinted with newfound interest at Bao’s revelation. "A Lagashi muse…" he muttered, his voice dropping as he processed the implications. His demeanor shifted instantly, from dismissive irritation to a feigned eagerness. He straightened his posture and turned back to Aeval with a theatrical flourish, his expression smug yet deliberately softened for effect.

"Disciple Aeval," Mrazak said, his voice saccharine with false politeness, "perhaps I was too hasty in my judgment. I find your offer intriguing, after all. We would be honored to witness your community’s… enlightenment firsthand. Please, lead the way."

Aeval’s serene smile widened. "It is never too late to walk in the Light," she said with measured reverence. She gestured for the group to follow.

Mrazak fell in step behind her, a theatrical air of acquiescence masking his actual intentions. He glanced at Rozreell and T'Bela, summoning them with an imperious wave. "You two will represent the group in any theological discussions. Take careful notes," he added, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Roz flashed Mrazak a look of contempt that she was sure he was more than familiar with. This had to be some sort of new crew member hazing. But if Rozreell could read erotic poetry to an auditorium of J’naii she could get through this.

“Of course, Sir,” Roz said with a nod of the head as she continued to placate the Vulcan. “They’ll be impeccable.”

"I'll be sure to give a full report," T'Bela said with sarcastic pleasantness.

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