Travel Visa (Pt2)

Posted on Thu Mar 8th, 2018 @ 2:35am by Captain Remas McDonald & Lieutenant Commander Shadi Zatra

1,146 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: S0:1: What Is Past, Is Prologue
Location: Harlands World, Outside Federation Space
Timeline: 6 years before Project Long Jump.

Remas pulled the skewer from his mouth, gave another experimental chew, and then gave his nodding consent. The vendor grinned broadly and wrapped two more in foil to go. As Harland’s World street food went, the fact it hadn’t caused immediate blindness or hallucinations should have been a plus. Remas felt oddly cheated out of the experience.

He took the foil wrapped skewers of meat, and handed over a few strips of gold pressed latnum. Whilst the drive of the Federation had shifted away from the accumulation of wealth and power, the Federation still had to exist in a universe where the fiscal unit spoke louder than words. It was not the wise traveller who did not come bearing the coin of the realm.

Remas turned to walk down the street. It was lined with shops down one side, whilst the other butted against a river that was fit for nothing but weeping in. Thick curdled foam caked the banks, and the water flowed with an oily slickness that suggested there were more hydrocarbons than hydrogen in it. He walked across the street to lean against the railing that someone had put up to keep the unwary from tripping in. If only because fishing the bodies out was more dangerous than falling in.

How long ago had been the last time he’d been here? 10 years? More? Back when he been a full adar’Rishsal. With all his life laid out before him, a well-worn path made by his father, and his father’s father. All the way back to Captain Rackham of the colony ship Bella Terre that had placed its faith in a map made false by a cruel universe. Remas had seen it so clearly then. His father’s retirement, his ascension to Ship Master of the homesteader Voids Home and then take a wife and pop out the next generation. Just drift aimlessly from star to star, watching the worlds grow and expand, but staying apart from them.

No earthen Hell or green speckled Heaven for the adar’Rishal, the Wandering Rish: no world but save that trapped in their ships.

Funny how the Maker Of Ways can change the path if you look for the signs. Signs like the hum of an energy weapon powering up behind you, that’s a mighty pointed thing from that which makes paths for all through life.

“Pretty sure as mugging’s go its best not to alert your target?” Remas said without turning back, unwrapping the foil and pulling out one of the skewers. “Read it somewhere I think. Manual or some such.”

A puggish Ferengi in gauche robes lined with tactical plating presented himself between two associates armed with disruptors. None of them wore customary headdresses.

"Ferengi do not 'mug' people, Hu-mon," said the puggish Ferengi. "Had you read the Rules of Acquisition, you would know that."

"It's on my bedside table, keep meaning to get to it but ya can never find the time to read it properly," Remas sighed. He then slowly turned around, leaning back against the railing, his elbows resting on the metals as he kept his hands out to his sides. "Tell you what though, I'll promise right here and now to read it cover to cover, if you'll read a little Ayn Rand. We can both come out of this our minds expanded. Culture being the great equaliser that it is."

The Ferengi bared his teeth with a hiss. "Take him."

"Yes, DaiMon Nudd," said the one on the left as he holstered his disruptor in exchange for an energy whip. He slowly advanced on Remas like approaching a cornered animal.

"Oh come on now, we've only just met! Its customary to get to know one another first before anything unseemly happens," Remas said, his right hand reach across himself to grab for the hilt of his sword.

As the whip-wielding Ferengi began to circle Remas, DaiMon Nudd called out, "We can do this the easy way, hu-mon, or we can do it the messy way. It makes no difference to me."

A snap and a crackle later, the energy whip lurched through the air for Remas' sword arm.

He had enough time to get the sword out of its scabbard as the energy whips wash caught the blade and wrapped itself around it. There was shockingly little pain, just a sudden numbness in the arm as his finger spasmed open into a rictus-like claw. The sword clattered to the street's broken and cracked surface, the whips discharge making it skip and dance.

He hissed, and with his ribbon strapped arm cradled the now nerve deadened appendage.

"You got something about Rish wandering about?" Remas hissed, allowing a chuckle to echo in his words.

"Rish!" Nudd sneered with contempt. "As if Starfleet hu-mons weren't bad enough. The Black Nagus has a claim on the Bajoran relics. Consider this your one and only order to cease and desist attempts to acquire our merchandise." The remaining guard, standing at an angle from his comrade with the whip, charged his disruptor for a heavy blast. "You will not receive another warning."

"Hey," Remas said, raising his one good arm up as the still shocked one flagged behind it. "I'm just looking at'em for trade goods. The solar silk alone's gonna-"

The twitch of the disruptor told me to change tack fast.

"-woulda, I mean woulda been an equal trade on a nearly new warp core from the forges on New Bajor. Qualities crap but you can't beat the price," Remas smiled. "Tell ya what, measure of good faith all that: take me sword. That there is Andorian blue steel, never loses its edge. Just to mend what I gone broke?"

Nudd regarded with blade with derision. "Garbage," he concluded, though he affixed it to his belt. "Now get lost, wanderer."

As humiliating scenes went, that was about par for the course. And a numbed arm was just about a win. Losing the consignment though was a no go. So as Remas limped his wounded pride back through the sludge river ghettos and alleyways of the Harland World sprawl, his good hand reached up to gently stroke the ribbons tied there.

100 light years per, perhaps as much starlight travelled as a half dozen homesteaders combined. Most were just cloth, a few ragged strips of golden mylar. A few were flexible plastic cladding, and one of them was a metallic mesh. This one he singled out like a string of prayer beads, fingers massaging the smooth metallic threadwork.

He even spoke to it, in the shadow of an alley.

"McDonald to Agincourt," he said quietly, eyes looking up to the smog-shrouded sky as though he could see the starship sulking at the ragged edge of the stars heliopause. "We have a problem."

 

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