Smugglers' Waltz

Posted on Sat Apr 5th, 2025 @ 4:45pm by Lieutenant Commander Leonora Wolf MD & Captain Mrazak & Lieutenant Commander BaoJun Qiao & Ensign Rozreell Purr & Ferrofax & Commander Sayuri Onaga
Edited on on Sat Apr 5th, 2025 @ 4:47pm

5,021 words; about a 25 minute read

Mission: S1E6: Where Skies End
Location: Fiddler's Green
Timeline: MD 9

The descent onto Fiddler's Green was nothing short of breathtaking. The artificial sky of the great hab dome cast a twilight glow over the sprawling tropical landscape, the shimmering expanse of its synthetic sea stretching beneath it and reflecting outward into the lunar orbit beyond. Outside the dome, modular sections sprawled outward in a honeycomb across the moon's barren surface—each section a carefully controlled slice of industry, commerce, or privateering wealth.

Some were personal harborages, serving as combined private berths and warehouses owned by the rich and the dangerous—small fiefdoms within the greater criminal haven. Others hummed with the activity of light industry, fabricating everything from ship components to recreational substances of dubious legality. And then there were the commercial zones, where fortunes changed hands over the course of a single evening, and the only law was that He Who Has the Gold Makes the Rules.

On approach was the Cockayne convoy—thirty freighters, each packed with the kind of cargo Fiddler’s Green thrived on—was making for one such commercial port. It was one of the few semi-legitimate operations permitted within Max Dedeker's domain, a necessary evil that kept supply lines open without breaking the tenuous balance of power in the region.

The Cockayne system in itself had been a smugglers' haven long before it became a name brand. Nestled within the Tortuga Cluster near the edge of the Stygian Traverse, its trinary stars provided a natural defense against the lurking horrors of deep space Archons whose reach did not extend past the gravitational maelstrom of the region.

For decades, smugglers had used the system as a hiding spot, a place to shake off pursuit before jumping onward. Then, in 2385, the SS Cockayne had conveniently gone adrift and settled into a stable orbit around the trinary stars. In what could only be described as corporate piracy, the Celestial-Risa-Disney Entertainment Corporation had claimed squatter's rights to the system, rapidly expanding the "derelict" into a fully operational space station and luxury resort that was frequented by nobody respectable.

Now, Cockayne was a dream destination for thrill-seekers, criminals on shore leave, and anyone with credits to burn on vices they wouldn't dare indulge in polite company. Officially, the Federation distanced itself from the whole debacle, but since the corporations involved had more money than sense (and no small amount of political leverage), nobody had done much about it.

The station's dubious legality made its freighters one of the only truly neutral supply lines into Fiddler's Green. Max Dedeker tolerated their presence because the treaties backing their operations ensured trade stability. Even in a den of thieves, someone had to keep the alcohol flowing and the luxury imports stocked.

Which made them, as far as Sayuri Onaga was concerned, the perfect cover.

"—so, if we don’t want to get spaced again,” Sayuri concluded, leaning against the bulkhead of the shuttle with her arms crossed, "we lay low and sneak in with the supplies. No bioscans, no checkpoints, and nobody asking too many questions. We get in clean."

Leah nodded from where she stood as she got out of her bio suit. "Do you have any signal maskers on you?" She asked the Federation team. "I've got mine, did any of you bring one? If we get scanned we're in trouble, but if they scan us and only see what they need to see, we can get by."

"Nobody knows who we are," Mrazak said, his tone of voice pointed almost as if offended by the fact his ultra-high clearance bore no weight here. "Now that we're here, how do we get to the Chimaera? That's assuming you aren't about to renegotiate the plan again."

Sayuri held up a hand, silencing Mrazak before he could launch into another tirade. "Shut it, Vulcan. You keep that ego of yours front and center, and I promise you, someone's going to rip it clean off your face," she murmured, her tone low and firm. “We split up. If any of you have half the sense the Academy did its best to beat over you, then you’ll get out of the port area without drawing attention to yourselves. If you manage that, meet in the promenade that leads to the harborages." Her violet eyes scanned the group, making sure the message landed. "Someone will find you there. An ally of mine. They'll take you the rest of the way to the rendezvous point."

She gave no further explanation, no reassurances, no other clues that could be used to track her down if any of them squealed when caught. Just a sharp nod before she turned on her heel and melted into the crowd. Mrazak's mouth twisted in frustration, clearly ready to protest, but by the time he inhaled to speak, Sayuri was gone.

The Vulcan scowled, straightening his uniform as if that would restore his lost authority. Then, as if the last few seconds had been his idea all along, he exhaled sharply and crossed his arms. "Very well," he announced to the others. "We split up. If you get caught, you will be stuck here, because I am certainly not coming after you." There was a brief pause, and then, with a smirk that could only be described as infuriating, he added, "However, as I am paramount to the success of this mission, you should make every effort to locate me should I be captured. I'm sure I've made myself clear."

Leah sighed and shook her head affirmatively. She pressed the little circular device to the side of her neck that was most covered by hair and departed the little huddle. A signal masker should keep her out of trouble, she'd just have to make sure she didn't run into a telepath. Easy to avoid if they were Betazoids, due to their eyes, but Betazoids weren't the only telepaths out there.

So, Wolf took a deep breath and went with the old addage, 'act casual'. If she looked like she belonged there, where essentially everyone was avoiding each other, she should be fine. One final nod to the team, and she slipped out into the crowds.

Mrazak inhaled deeply, straightened his stance, and set his jaw in a way that could only be described as aggressively Romulan. His naturally scowling expression hardened into something even more disdainful—an imperious sneer that could curdle milk at a hundred paces. He let his gaze rake over the bustling commercial port, his lip just barely curling, exuding an air of barely contained loathing for the place and its people. For all appearances, he was another Romulan exile slumming it with the dregs of the galaxy. The arrogance just came naturally.

Blending in wasn't difficult, most denizens of Fiddler's Green were too self-interested to pay attention to a single figure moving through the crowd. Still, he had barely made it twenty meters before something—or rather, someone—stopped him in his tracks.

A figure loomed just past the next row of loading cranes, a pale silhouette against the neon-lit din of the port. Reman. And not just any Reman—Mrazak distinctly recognized the bastard from the orbital spacedock, one of the thugs who had practically robbed the Mutual cyborgs blind. What was he doing here? Why now? Was it a trap?

Mrazak stiffened and turned sharply, feigning sudden interest in a nearby shipping manifest station as he tapped his concealed combadge. "Captain Nobody to No One," he murmured just loud enough for transmission. "Be advised, Reman operatives spotted in the port. Possible setup. Proceed with caution. Nobody out."

Without missing a beat, he continued walking as if nothing had happened, his Romulan façade never faltering. Whatever was happening here, he would not be the fool caught unprepared.

Bao had shrugged. There was not much he could do about how badly he would stick on if scanned, but he could at least make himself less visually apparent. It would be annoying, but with a brief thought, he shut his entopics off to keep the glow out of his eyes. Fortunately, his other implants were either internal or visible in places only Sergeant Kos had seen in recent memory. With that in mind, he decided to go poke around the market area. Maybe he could find something approaching a tea shop or some other place he could at least pretend to belong.

While the rest of the team hunched and hid themselves in order to blend in, Roz stood up straight and moved through the crowds with an effortless grace. The traders and vendors of Fiddler’s Green didn’t care who you were as long as you were willing to spend money, so she did little to disguise herself, she merely began to explore the area with her usual gusto.

Rozreell’s eye caught a gaudy Ferengi casino on the edge of the market, next to the bars. It was the perfect place to find braggarts high on winning or desperate losers at an all time low, both of which would be willing to talk with the right type of persuasion.

Once everyone had made their way out of the commercial dock and into the promenade, they found the pedestrian area of the port was a chaotic sprawl of neon signs, vendor stalls, and the constant murmur of voices speaking a dozen different languages. Holographic billboards advertised everything from weapons modifications to cybernetic enhancements, while the occasional burst of raucous laughter or the distant thrum of docking engines underscored the restless energy of Fiddler’s Green.

Despite the clamor, the approach of the orphans was silent. One by one, each individual member of the field team came face to face with ragged little figures who seemed to materialize from the shadows. The children were young, no older than ten, their clothes threadbare but their eyes sharp. Bajoran, judging by the ridges on their noses and the emaciated frames that spoke of lives spent scraping by on the fringes. None of them spoke at first, just held up small tokens in their palms—simple loops of twisted wire and worn thread, unmistakable as D'ja pagh.

The tokens weren't new, nor were they particularly valuable in any tangible sense. But to anyone familiar with Bajoran culture, they carried significance. A symbol of faith. Of resistance. Of unseen connections.

One of the orphans, a girl with matted dark hair and a steady gaze, pressed a D'ja pagh into Leah's hand. "Present it to the Ranjen," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

A boy with dirt-smudged cheeks handed another to Mrazak, eyes wary as he studied the imposing Vulcan-pretending-to-be-Romulan. "Don’t lose it," he warned before slipping back into the crowd without another word.

Bao, who had been absently scanning the market stalls, looked down as a much younger child—barely more than five or six—held out his token with both hands, as if presenting something sacred. Bao took it carefully, giving the child a nod of acknowledgment, but before he could ask a single question, the boy was gone.

“DABO!” Roz exclaimed as the wheel stopped turning and she won the meager pile of credits that had been wagered. Not really caring about the amount of her winnings, she was mainly excited that luck had favored her. As she collected the credits as small boy tugged on her sleeve, as the Trill looked down he pressed a D'ja pagh into her hand. "Present it to the Ranjen,” The child said before they disappeared.

The orphans vanished as quickly as they had appeared, their mission complete, leaving the team to stand among the bustling port with nothing but the tokens in their hands and the cryptic instruction lingering in their ears.

Mrazak turned the D'ja pagh over in his fingers, his expression unreadable. "Fantastic," he muttered dryly. "Now we're running errands for street urchins."

Leah had remained in her semi crouched position for a moment, after the young girl had spoken. The Ranjen. She had heard of that title before. Not just as a religious title in the Bajoran faith of the Prophets, but also in the intelligence world. The Ranjen was a broker of sorts, purveyor of information, services, people, you name it. Rumours had it he, or she, Intel never managed to pin it down, without question helped Bajorans, and only then others who had need they deemed a worthy cause.

Rumours also had it that whoever pissed the Ranjen off found themselves on the wrong side of the 'wormhole' as it were. Which was why whenever Intel had to deal with them, they made sure they had covered all of their bases before taking that risk.

So for The Ranjen to be here in the Gamma Quadrant was important. Did they owe Onaga a favor? Were they friends? Did Onaga owe them something? Leah had many questions.

Leah reached into her sleeve and activated a comm link, "if you got approached by a Bajoran urchin," she said, ducking her head down a little and stepping out of the way of an incoming group of people, "that's our contact's scout. Do what they said." Without waiting, Leah cut the commline, and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as she could as she meandered further into the Market.

How does one find an elusive figure when you didn't know what they looked like?

---

Well, that was rather unexpected. At least for Bao. He'd obviously recognized the earring, but the little urchin hadn't actually told him to do anything. He supposed logic suggested the nature of the item would suggest he needed to find a Bajoran, but where would he find a Bajoran, and, assuming he did find one how the hell was he supposed to know if it was the right one? He pondered for a moment as he thought about what he knew of Bajorans. The earrings held religious significance to them if he recalled, and were both highly personal and in the past had reflected their caste. Perhaps, even though the concept had been abandoned, it might still be used to give a hint. He slipped into a darker corner and reactivated his visual implants to analyze more closely.

“Well that’s… something.” Rozreell commented to herself as the roulette wheel on the dabo table spun again. Looking over at a Bajoran dabo girl, Roz offered her a few of her newly one credits in exchange for information about the Ranjen and where to find him.

The field team moved through the commercial port, each taking separate paths yet unknowingly guided by the same unseen hand. At first, it seemed coincidental—an occasional tug at a sleeve, a whisper from a passing figure, the subtle guidance of small, dirt-smudged hands leading them down unfamiliar alleys. But the pattern became unmistakable. Through one encounter after another, they were ushered away from the bustling market district and toward the outskirts of the docks, where neon lights gave way to dimly lit corridors and weathered structures.

Eventually, they found themselves standing before a Bajoran shrine, its modest façade nestled between a pair of towering cargo silos. The structure had clearly seen better days. The prayer candles flickered weakly, their wax pooling onto aged stone, and the scent of incense barely masked the stale air of the surrounding industrial sprawl. Despite its outward state of disrepair, those who attended the shrine were curiously well-fed and clothed—an odd contrast to the image of a struggling religious enclave.

Each member of the team was directed, one by one, not to the main shrine, but around the back, where a charity feed line had formed. The destitute and forgotten of Fiddler's Green, a rare breed of damned soul in a rogue base that required a small fortune merely to enter, came here to receive meals, served by robed attendants who spoke in hushed tones. But unlike the rest of the line, the field team wasn't offered food. Instead, a soft-spoken monk murmured a quiet instruction and gestured toward a narrow hallway leading into the temple's depths.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and candle smoke. Each team member was guided separately, their paths converging in a quiet prayer room. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries depicting the Celestial Temple, and the room was empty save for a single, unmarked wooden door. It slid open soundlessly, revealing a descending passageway.

One by one, they stepped through.

The hidden chamber below was a stark contrast to the humble exterior above. The air here was carefully controlled, the faint hum of environmental systems barely noticeable beneath the crackling of countless candles. Stasis fields preserved their light, making the flames appear frozen in time, casting long, unmoving shadows across the chamber's walls. At its center sat a lone figure, his presence both commanding and serene.

The Ranjen.

He was older, silver-haired, his face lined with the marks of time and wisdom. But there was nothing frail about him. His sharp, knowing eyes regarded them with something between amusement and calculation. He did not rise, nor did he need to. His presence alone filled the space, as though he had already anticipated their arrival long before they stepped foot inside his temple.

"Welcome," the Ranjen said smoothly, his voice as rich as Bajoran springwine. "I see you have found your way here, just as it was intended." His gaze flicked over them, lingering just long enough on each individual to ensure they understood—he already knew who they were. Perhaps even what they were. "I imagine you have questions," he continued, spreading his hands as if in invitation. "And in time, you shall have answers. But first, let us discuss why you have come... and what it is you seek."

Mrazak spoke first. "I am..."

"Captain Nobody of the USS Neverwas, yes, yes, your reputation precedes you." The Ranjen let out a simple chuckle as one would expect of a mild-mannered grandfather. His keen eagle-eyed expression betrayed the calculating intellect behind his kindly demeanor.

Following the Ranjen's line of sight, Mrazak saw a certain violet-eyed Lagashi standing in the corner. Sayuri had beaten them there by a longshot. "You told him who we are."

When Mrazak's brow furrowed at her, Sayuri's permanent scowl twisted into a smirk. "Took you long enough." Her remark was both an answer and a taunt.

"You could've just led us here!" Mrazak protested.

"Yeah, you and Max's thugs," Sayuri said. "You must have seen them crawling around like insects." Nodding toward the elder Bajoran, she added, "Our benefactor here operates under discretion. Secrets and favors are his currency, and his presence here is the biggest secret of all. The risk was too great."

The Ranjen simply smiled as if they were discussing the weather report. It seemed as though he was waiting for something and had all the time and patience in the world.

Leah stepped closer to Mrazak, "boss, this is The Ranjen. The ones who are caught in-between the great powers, and sometimes the great powers themselves, go to this man. He's helped countless Bajorans during the Occupation, as well as some elements of Starfleet as well, not to mention anyone else who was in need and tied to corrupt power. Overarching consent is, we want to keep on his good side, not piss him off. More important figures than us have disappeared for crossing this guy." She said quietly. "For him to be here means this is important."

Mrazak tilted his head slightly, regarding the Ranjen with a biting blend of calculation and cynicism. He folded his arms and gave a thin smile, the kind that masked far more than it revealed. Save for contempt. That was overt.

"As much as I admire candlelit mystique and cloaked introductions," he said dryly, "I'm less interested in ceremony and more interested in motives. Onaga wants Max Dedeker out of the picture and wants it bad. You're harboring her and now giving us refuge. I know her angle. What does a spymaster priest get out of all this?"

The Ranjen's eyes twinkled with amused indulgence. "Captain Nobody, every person who walks into this shrine asks the same question eventually. What does the Ranjen want?" He lifted his hands in a modest shrug, as though the answer was as plain as day. "Only what every humble servant of the Prophets seeks—balance. Harmony. The greater good."

Mrazak's brow rose in a skeptical challenge. "And regime change brings you harmony?"

"That is a secret best kept between very good friends," the Ranjen countered, his voice smooth and genial, "and we are yet barely acquainted. But let us say this instead: your presence here is... politically sensitive. Starfleet personnel are not particularly welcome in Fiddler's Green, as you may have noticed. Your being here... it makes waves. I am, let's say, delaying a reaction on your behalf."

"And you're doing this out of religious benevolence?" Mrazak asked, tone tight.

The Ranjen chuckled, warm as ever. "Not charity, Captain. Favor. If you are indeed friends of my friend and remain so..." His gaze shifted to Sayuri for the briefest moment before returning to Mrazak. "... then of course it is reasonable that I take some risk in sheltering you."

"But if we're not?" Mrazak pressed.

The Ranjen's smile never faltered, but the glint behind his eyes sharpened. "Then perhaps I would reconsider the nature of our... acquaintance. Perhaps even inform our mutual friend, Max, that some unexpected guests have arrived."

Mrazak's posture straightened, his voice clipped. "That sounds like a threat."

"Perish the thought," the Ranjen said as though scandalized. "No, Captain. That would be terribly... unfriendly... of me."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy and humming with unspoken understandings.

Then the Ranjen continued, hands clasped gently before him. "If Sayuri is right, and you are capable of doing what must be done, then we are not strangers... but friends. And I do help my friends. In all manner of ways."

Mrazak said nothing. His demeanor bristled while his mind already racing through probabilities and contingencies. The Ranjen clearly played a long game. And for now, they were on his board.

Leah who had stepped back, her arms crossed observed the interaction. "I think we're in the clear as to Max Dekdeker needs to be off the board. If we get him off the board there is going to be a definite political and power shift any way you put it. Which means..." she looked between Sayuri and The Ranjen, "you have the successor in mind. I doubt it'll be one of Max's underlings, you wouldn't have had the means nor the time to flip one, so you reached outward. Enter a broker." Her eyes stayed on Sayuri, "you want to take over and you need a base and resources to work from, that's your quid pro quo. But why? Why here of all places? Even if we manage to pull this off, you still paint a target on your back. What's the end game?"

"The Prophets work in mysterious ways," the Ranjen said. "I hold no interest in power. Such is the way of evil men. I am merely trading one favor for another. That is the service of good men." Despite his words, the cryptic tone made the explanation more confusing than charitable.

Leah raised an eyebrow, then looked over at Sayuri, waiting for her answer.

"The key to Max's regime is controlling those damned Archons," Sayuri said. "I believe I could use the sections of the Chimaera to triangulate the location of the control center."

"Accessing it is another story," the Ranjen cut in, his tone more solemn than before. It seemed to be time to get straight to business. "Despite my best efforts among my many friends, I am unable to raise the probability of success above 40% and that does not inspire confidence." He smiled, again adopting the demeanor of a pious old man. "Were I a gambler, I might feel differently about those odds. Yet as a man of the cloth, I require more assurance that this is indeed the will of the Prophets."

Mrazak exhaled sharply, his patience threadbare. "Enough of this theological innuendo. I came to Fiddler's Green to retrieve Mazikeen from Max Dedeker. The price was assistance with Sayuri's play, and so here I am. We've tiptoed around this enough. If there's some mysterious control center that’s the key to unseating Max and getting I came for, then I want us to speak plainly about how in Fusion we're going to get in there and I want us to start now."

Sayuri's violet eyes narrowed. "You mean besides my considerable infiltration capabilities?" Her voice was dry as a desert and just as cutting. “Glad you’re finally taking this seriously.”

"I'm taking it literally," Mrazak shot back. "There’s a difference."

The Ranjen chuckled gently, as though watching two precocious children bicker. "Sayuri is quite capable. More capable than most I've ever known. But even she must yield to the limitations of the system. And this system..." he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if referencing the entire moon, "was built upon the bones of Federation design—salvaged, yes, and corrupted, certainly. But not rewritten. Not entirely." He steepled his fingers. "As I understand it, Memory Theta retains possession of a certain override protocol. A master access code to all Federation security systems. A—what is the term? If I recall, it's your 'Skeleton Key'."

Mrazak stiffened slightly. He knew exactly what the Ranjen was referring to. It was his administrative root-code packet that would allow him to access whatever he wanted, although not without informing every section chief in SFI within a few parsecs.

"You recall correctly," Mrazak said, jaw tightening.

The Ranjen continued, "Whatever failsafes Max has added to his security apparatus, it is unlikely he knew about this backdoor. Fewer still would know to look for it, let alone how countermand it. With Sayuri in place and the override in your hands, the margin of success rises... significantly.”

"To what?" Mrazak asked.

The Ranjen tilted his head. "Eighty percent, by my last estimation."

"Bajoran math," Mrazak muttered. Then, after a beat, "And Mazikeen? What assurance do I have that it will be surrendered to me once this is all said and done?"

Sayuri’s jaw visibly tensed, but it was the Ranjen who replied.

"Oh, Captain," he said, his expression momentarily one of mock hurt. "Friends always honor their promises. I would be quite grieved should Sayuri disappoint me in that regard. After all..." He smiled, the shadows dancing just so across his face. "...the loss of a friend is the only wound I consider unforgivable."

The weight of that sentence hung in the air like the scent of wax and smoke in the candlelit chamber. Not quite a threat—but close enough for everyone to feel the chill.

Sayuri crossed her arms, her scowl returning in full. "He'll get it," she said through gritted teeth. "When this is done."

The Ranjen gave a warm, approving smile. "Then it's settled. I predict there will be a distraction outside Sayuri's former harborage where the Alpha section is being held, probably as bait." He paused, then added with quiet gravity, "But be warned. Once this begins, there is no stepping back. Accessing the harborage will require immediately executing the plan to locate the Archon control center and seizing it in the ensuing chaos. When the control systems are breached, when the Archons break beyond Max’s leash... the entire system will be put on alert and all bets will be off. Time will be, even more than now, of the essence."

Leah nodded. This was it. Last chance to back out before walking into the jaws of whatever death awaited them. Her thoughts fleeted over, for the briefest moment, over to Teejay, hoping he was okay with the ship. She said her silent goodbye and checked her weapon. "Alright, let's do this."

Bao had stayed silent, observing and weighing information, as well as running probability simulations while the others talked. The conclusions he was drawing were not pretty. The narrative they had was that the Dedeker in charge had commissioned Onaga to steal the Dominion's project. In isolation, nor unbelievable. However, the Dominion attached enough importance to it to threaten open war with the Federation, but did not attempt to recover it themselves. That was more odd, and that level of antagonism towards a superpower state was not in keeping with the acts of a man of Dedeker's position. And then, apparently, Onaga had not given whatever she stole to Dedeker, but was still drawing breath, and was claiming to be able to deliver it to them instead. The probabilities of all those things being true were infinitesimal.

He slid as close as he dared to Leah waiting for a moment when he could speak to her quietly without attracting undue attention.

"Commander," he whispered quickly. "I see no other options, especially not without revealing we are in a position of profound ignorance here, but we are plainly being used in a game, and every other player on this board knows more than us. We should be careful, and, I suspect, prepare for the possibility that Miss Onaga does not actually possess Mazikeen. It is the most probable explanation for why she is still alive and Dedeker is still in power."

Leah nodded slowly, "agreed." She spoke under breath, "I'm certain she doesn't, but he doesn't know. He thinks she still has it and that's her leverage." She turned her head slightly towards Bao. "We have to let this play out and react in the moment, once we know more." Thank good someone was using their head on thinking rather than bristled offence of ego.

The Lagashi shrugged. "Let us just hope we learn the key to unravel the labyrinth before the door is closed."

While they talked, Mrazak was already following Sayuri out of the Ranjen's sanctuary. "Let's go, Memory Theta."

 

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