Part One
Federation Medical Facility, Fermis III Outpost
Present Day
Jirel stared at the man in the doorway as he sat up in bed.
He was significantly older, significantly larger around the waist, and now wore a grey-shouldered uniform topped off with admiral's pips. But Bryce Jenner was just as imposing as ever.
He was also the latest in a dizzying number of surprises that the Trill was having to deal with in a very short space of time.
The last thing he could definitely remember, he had given up completely.
He had been in the middle of a deserted warehouse, in a forgotten corner of the Mivara II spaceport, being systematically beaten by two burly thugs, after he had crossed the port's most infamous loan shark in an attempt to save his roommate from a similar fate.
Then, there had been an incoming transport. A flurry of phaser fire had felled the thugs. And he had been confronted by a mysterious figure in a hooded cloak. Then, he had woken up here, hundreds of light years away from Mivara II, on a friendly Federation outpost. Being tended to by an equally friendly Denobulan doctor.
And now, here he was. Lying in a hospital bed, staring at his estranged adoptive father. A man he hadn't seen, or even spoken to, for over a year. A man who, the last time he had seen him, had effectively told him to get the hell out of his starbase and never return. Having apparently finally lost his patience with his disappointment of a son.
With so much to try and get his head around, Jirel found that all he could do was stare.
For his part, Admiral Bryce Jenner looked a little uncomfortable. Usually the very picture of confident Starfleet authority, he stood in the doorway of the room and rocked on his heels slightly as he looked back at his recovering son.
Eventually, he elected to make the first move, and stepped fully into the room to allow the doors to close behind him. He looked around the antiseptic confines of the room as he began to talk.
"They tell me you'll make a full recovery. So long as you get plenty of rest."
The words shook Jirel from his own silent reverie, as he tried to understand how his father could act so circumspect about what had happened. As far as Jirel could see, there was only one way he could have ended up here.
"W—Why did you bring me here?"
Jenner's head shot over to his son, a little too quickly.
"I didn't," he replied, "But I received an urgent message telling me that you had been brought here as soon as they ran your details through the Federation database."
That all tallied with what the doctor had already told him, but it just served to make Jirel's head spin even more. So much was still not adding up.
"Well, then, who—?"
"I came as quickly as I could. Apparently I'm still your next of kin, at least."
Jirel set his confusion aside for a moment and mustered a smile.
"Guess I should update that," he muttered, mostly to himself.
His father didn't reply immediately. Instead, he dragged a chair from the corner of the room over to the side of the bed, before sitting down and leaning towards his son. It was a vain attempt to both instil some closeness between them, and to give him a few seconds to prepare himself for his next comment.
"Listen. I, ah, heard what happened. With…Maya Ortega."
Jirel's confusion now disappeared from view entirely, pushed instantly to the back of his jumbled thoughts as a fresh slew of painful feelings came rushing to the forefront of his mind as he heard her name again.
"And I'm sorry," his father continued, "I…know how much she meant to you—"
"Dad, stop," Jirel felt the need to cut in, for both of their sakes, "You don't need to do that. Cos you're kinda really bad at it."
For a moment, his father looked a little affronted. But he eventually offered a stiff nod back, in reluctant agreement with his son's evaluation. He may have been an excellent commander, but he was a lousy counsellor.
"Still," Jirel continued, as he uncomfortably shifted his weight in bed and felt a dozen healing injuries flare up with a reminder of what he had been through, "I guess that means Natasha's still sending her little updates to you."
The older man's back stiffened a little more.
Natasha Kinsen, the ex-Starfleet doctor back on the Bounty. The ship that Jirel had left behind nearly three months ago now, after Maya Ortega's death. The ex-Starfleet doctor who had been keeping Admiral Jenner unofficially updated on the Bounty's often chaotic misadventures as a personal favour. For reasons that Jenner had deliberately never been clear on.
Not with Natasha, and certainly not with Jirel.
And it was true that she had updated him on Jirel's recent plight, from the death of Maya to his sudden departure from the Bounty. After he had specifically contacted her to check. But it wasn't the whole truth as to why he knew so much about what had been happening to his son.
Still, for the time being, he opted to allow Jirel to believe it was the whole truth.
Jirel, even as his mind filled with memories of Maya, also found himself distracted by something else, now that Natasha and the Bounty had been mentioned.
"How is she—How are they doing? On the Bounty?"
He asked the question almost without realising, having suddenly been hit by a pang of concern for his old friends. And accompanying that pang was something else. A sense of longing. For a time before Maya's death, before Mivara II and the Cardassian loan shark and whatever else he'd gotten up to over the last three months.
Back when he had been happy.
"They're getting by," his father replied, "But I think they're…worried about you."
Jirel offered a shrug back, even as he suppressed another pained wince from his injuries..
"What are they worrying about? I'm fine. Clearly."
This time, his father managed a tight smile back. But he still found himself struggling to get the right words out, to express how worried he was about his son as well.
"So," Jirel continued in order to quickly break the silence, "How's life on Starbase 216?"
At this, Jenner straightened in his chair and tugged on his uniform top. Back to business.
"Actually, I was reassigned. A few months ago."
"Oh. Right. I had no idea—"
"I know."
Jirel stifled an unexpected feeling of guilt. He'd known about Natasha sending updates back to his father from the start. She'd been completely open about that. But he'd never thought to ask for an update on him in return.
"Starfleet Command wanted me more mobile," the uniformed man continued, "The work I've been doing with the Tholians has been building momentum, but there's only so much diplomacy you can get done when you're stuck on a planet. So they've transferred me back to the Erebus. Actually, to the new Erebus. Ambassador-class."
"Huh," Jirel grunted, mustering a level of mild interest, "The Erebus-A?"
"You have to achieve a bit more than I have for that sort of privilege," Jenner replied with a slightly wistful smile, "But right now we've put in for maintenance. Which gave me a chance to get out here so fast."
"Lucky for me," Jirel replied, failing to remove all traces of sarcasm from his words.
Jenner allowed the sting of the comment to wash over him and stood back up. He still looked a little uneasy for reasons that the Trill couldn't fathom. Until he made his next statement.
"The doctors have said that, given what you've been through, you need more time to rest. And, ah, I suggested that it might be best if I…take you home. To recuperate."
Jirel was metaphorically floored by this. Of all the things he'd been expecting his estranged father to say, especially after their angry parting of ways a year ago, an invite back to Colorado had certainly not been one of them.
"You want to take me home?"
"By force, if necessary," Jenner nodded back, only partly in jest, "But I'd rather you take it as a genuine offer. Of help."
Jirel paused and considered his options. And it didn't take long for him to admit that he didn't really have any.
He still had no idea how he had made it to Fermis III in the first place, but he didn't especially want to stay here. Though equally, he didn't really want to be a party to whatever means of reconciliation his father appeared to be attempting. Especially from a man who would rather ask a woman he barely knew to keep him updated on his son's actions. Rather than just asking his son himself.
But then, he wasn't sure where else he would go.
He couldn't go back to Mivara II, he still couldn't bring himself to think about returning to the Bounty, and aside from just hopping on a passing transport and seeing where it took him, he couldn't think of any other potential destination.
For the first time since he had walked away from the Bounty, he had to admit to himself that he was lost. On a number of levels.
And so, with no other options presenting themselves, and the residual pain from his injuries still very much in his mind, he reluctantly nodded back at his father.
"Ok. Guess I can't turn down a free ride in a Federation starship, can I?"
Jenner's back stiffened imperceptibly again.
"Actually, as I said, the Erebus is in for maintenance. I took a runabout."
"A runabout?"
"Yeah," his father nodded again, "Gonna be a…cosy trip, I guess."
Jirel failed to prevent his face from sagging as this comment sank in, now realising the enormity of the journey he had just signed up for.
"Right. And…how long is the—?"
"Four days. At maximum warp."
The two men looked awkwardly at each other, as both of them briefly worked on finding an excuse to back out of what they had felt compelled to agree to. In the end, no suitable excuses were located by either side. And Jirel simply mustered the best smile he could manage.
"Great."
'*'*'
'*'*'
The stack of padds clattered down onto the tabletop with a discordant noise.
Seconds later, an equally discordant and definitively tired sigh followed in its wake, as the Orion in the baggy overalls collapsed into the last available seat at the table in front of her.
"Done," Denella, the Bounty's engineer and new de facto captain, offered to her audience around the rest of the table.
"Wow," Sunek, the ship's lanky and emotional Vulcan pilot, grinned back, "You were in there this whole time?"
The Orion patiently nodded back at him as he cheerily sucked the dregs of what was clearly not his first cocktail of the evening through a straw.
"Yep. Five customs forms, four taxation summaries, a complete breakdown of our route here with all border crossings in triplicate, and a full financial check on our banking records. Gotta love dealing with a Benzite administrator."
The Bounty's crew had just finished a delivery to a Benzite catering firm on a neutral spaceport in the Gazzard Sector. A profitable enough supply run, but one that, as ever when Benzites were involved, also comprised a lot of precise red tape for them to meticulously pick their way through.
"Well," Sunek offered to the tired Orion, "Looks like someone could use a drink."
"Definitely," Denella nodded back.
"Great," the Vulcan grinned, setting his empty glass down and gesturing behind her, "Bar's over there. And I'd love another Deltan Moonshine—"
"Sunek…" Natasha Kinsen, the Bounty's ex-Starfleet doctor, cut in with a sigh from the other side of the table.
"Can't blame a guy for trying. Fine, I'll go get a round."
With that, he stood up and headed off in the direction of the bar, whistling a jaunty tune. To everyone else's evident surprise, he even gathered up the empty glasses from the table and took them with him, in a staggering display of apparent generosity from the cheery pilot.
"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to that," Denella mused as she massaged her tired neck and watched the Vulcan disappear into the crowded bar.
Sunek had been uncharacteristically thoughtful for some time now. And the rest of the crew were all well aware of the reason why.
Ever since he had been introduced to a particular Betazoid drug on the Corvin III, an emotional suppressant designed to help him control his emotional state more easily, he had been an entirely different kind of Sunek, altogether.
Not the often angry, irritable person he had been in the aftermath of their fateful journey to Sector 374. One still affected by the residual fury left behind by a violent mind meld he had been forced to endure last year. Now he was a cheerier and altogether more pleasant Sunek.
Which was precisely what the Betazoid drug had promised to do. Help suppress and control unruly emotions. A miracle cure from a species that was as much experts in cultivating emotions as Vulcans usually were at suppressing them.
Still, given the usual unruly, unhelpful and unpredictable nature of their pilot, this sudden change in his demeanour was proving to be a big culture shift for the rest of the crew to accept.
"He is certainly…different," the final member of the group, the Bounty's surly Klingon weapons chief Klath, offered.
Natasha turned back to the others with a mild trace of concern and a tentative shrug.
"I've run that stuff he's taking through every medical scan I can manage with the Bounty's computer, and I've even had our surprisingly compliant pilot in for six complete brain scans. And while I can't tell you exactly how it works, beyond some very clever chemical bonding going on around receptors in his limbic system, I also can't detect any potential complications. Quite the opposite in fact. His heart rate is steadier, his reactions are faster and…"
She gestured into the crowd where the Vulcan had disappeared.
"He's…being nice."
"I'm definitely not complaining about that part," Denella noted, "But does that mean you're comfortable with this, medically-speaking?"
"Now that I know exactly what he's been through with this mind meld, I'd be more comfortable if he'd opted for a palliative option, like therapy or meditation. But I can't force him to choose one treatment over the other. And he wants to try this drug."
"This…experimental drug," Klath boomed back.
"It's not exactly experimental," Natasha pointed out, "Betazoids have been using it in various ways for centuries, and I've dug through decades of research studies looking into how it works with other species. Aside from high doses causing unsightly rashes in Bolian test subjects, no adverse reactions have ever been found."
"So," Denella proffered, "How come you'd never heard of it?"
Natasha stifled a slightly embarrassed look and leaned back in her chair.
"Despite all the research, it never really caught on outside of Betazed. Federation medical experts still tend to be a little…aloof when it comes to traditional medicine. Which, ultimately, is what this is. Even if they've distilled it into a hypospray shot, it's not that far removed from grinding up plant leaves in a bowl as a herbal remedy."
"And you?"
"The universe has definitely taught me to keep an open mind. I'll keep on monitoring him, but even if it turns out to be an elaborate placebo, the results are there to see. Right?"
On cue, Sunek returned from the bar with a groaning tray of drinks, handing them around the table one by one.
"Ok, one vintage bloodwine for our friendly local stereotype," he grinned as he passed a huge goblet to Klath, "One Risian mai tai for our medic. One chilled Bajoran springwine for our overworked Orion. One Deltan Moonshine for our dashingly handsome pilot. And one Andorian brandy for—"
He stopped himself as he held the unnecessary fifth drink over the table, his face constricting into a slightly embarrassed look as he realised the absence of a Trill waiting for the brandy.
"Huh," he managed, "Force of habit, I guess."
Before the atmosphere could get too awkward, he swiftly downed the brandy himself, before flopping down into his seat in front of his latest cocktail.
None of the others elected not to pursue the matter any further. It wasn't the first time that someone had slipped up like that, and it wouldn't be the last. But the fact was that Jirel Vincent was still awol. The Bounty's centre chair was still empty. And there was no need for an Andorian brandy.
"So…" Sunek continued, eager to quickly lift the cloud he had accidentally summoned over the table, "What's the plan now?"
Everyone else took that question as a chance to refocus, temporarily leaving any thoughts about their still-absent friend to one side.
"Me and Klath checked the job postings," Natasha offered, "It's pretty slim pickings around here right now. Best we could find was a return delivery to the next Benzite colony on—"
"Nope," Denella cut in, shuddering slightly, "My patience with Benzite bureaucracy only goes so far."
"Then I guess we might be here for a while. At least until some better offers get posted."
The four individuals around the table considered this, as Sunek loudly slurped his drink through the straw. After a second, he paused and rubbed his stomach, a little perturbed.
"I should get some snacks," he mused, before he stood back up and smiled, "Tell you what, I'll get snacks for the table. Few small plates. Something for everyone. Sound good?"
Before anyone could respond to this latest un-Sunekian moment of generosity, he had already walked off into the crowd again.
Denella couldn't help but glance over at Natasha.
"Any chance you could up the dosage?"
'*'*'
'*'*'
Sunek effortlessly swerved out of the way of a gruff Tellarite loaded down with two armfuls of foaming ales, as he merrily made a beeline towards the bar.
In his mind, he was already contemplating what snacks to get. Definitely something salty and easy to eat. And he knew he'd also need to get something Klingon for Klath, but not so Klingon that it put the rest of them off their own food.
As he walked, he found himself momentarily distracted by a particularly attractive Caitian who walked across his path, and for an instant he forgot all about food, focusing instead on trying to catch her eye with a trademark winning smile.
So distracted was he that he ended up walking straight into another figure in the bar.
"Oh, crap, sorry," he managed as he stepped back from the person he had collided with.
"Ah, no matter," the figure replied cheerily, "These things happen."
The inadvertent other half of the collision was an equally slender and lanky human in a long coat, with a thin face and a scruffy mop of white hair on top of his head. His friendly smile faltered slightly when he saw an equally happy reaction on the face of the Vulcan that had bumped into him.
"Huh," the man mused, peering a little closer at Sunek's inescapably pointed ears, "Well, aren't you an interesting fellow."
"I get that a lot," Sunek shrugged back with typical insouciance, "But right now, I'm a really hungry interesting fellow. So I've gotta get off to a date with something tasty and covered in salt."
He patted the human man on the arm with an even wider grin and resumed his journey to the bar, forgetting all about the Caitian he had seen in favour of focusing on his rumbling stomach.
As he walked off, the human watched him leave with a thoughtful look. After a moment, his own smile widened in satisfaction.
And he decided to keep a close eye on the smiling Vulcan.
'*'*'
'*'*'
The familiar form of the Danube-class runabout streaked through the endless starscape at warp.
Officially designated the USS Chomolungma, it was one of thousands of the small vessels that Starfleet increasingly relied on for long-distance transportation of small teams or individuals throughout their organisation.
In the past, warp-capable shuttles had been used for such tasks, with the newer runabouts mainly limited to use as support craft for starbases and planetary colonies. But it hadn't taken long for the benefits of the runabouts to become apparent. They boasted significantly more creature comforts than the shuttles, with space for full sleeping accommodation and rest areas in the rear section.
Not to mention upgraded shielding and weapons, in case of any untoward encounters.
As such, runabouts had been allocated out to Federation starships to complement their existing fleet of shuttles. And dozens of the Danube-class ships were made available for officers of a certain rank to ferry them around the galaxy when their usual transport was indisposed.
In the case of the Chomolungma, it had been easy enough for Admiral Jenner to sign it out for his trip to Fermis III and back while the Erebus remained in the Sol system for maintenance.
But despite the extra comfort afforded by the larger vessel, it still seemed a little constricting for its two current occupants. And they had, either consciously or unconsciously, been keeping to opposite ends of the ship as much as possible so far.
For most of the journey, Jenner had spent his time in the cockpit, perusing his notes on his ongoing negotiations with the Tholians, along with a mountain of other paperwork. Meanwhile, Jirel had kept to the aft section, ostensibly still recuperating from his injuries, while also avoiding his father.
Instead, he slept, availed himself of the Starfleet-issue replicator at his disposal, and spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Thoughts about where he was and where he was going. And how he had even got there in the first place. Who had the cloaked figure on Mivara II been, if not his father?
Then, when Jenner needed to rest, he returned to the aft section and, after the briefest of small talk between the two, Jirel had hobbled up to the cockpit. Again, ostensibly to let his father rest, but also to continue to avoid him.
Once in the cockpit, he had switched from staring at the ceiling to staring at the streaking starscape ahead of them. Still equally lost in thought.
So their journey continued for the first three of the four days. Father and son keeping their distance from each other, in a manner that was almost comedic given the relative lack of space onboard. Both of them had to admit to themselves that it was a slow start to any sort of reconnection.
Eventually, with the Chomolungma a little over a day's travel from Earth, it was Jenner that blinked first.
As he entered the cockpit carrying a stack of padds, following a strict four-hour sleep in one of the runabout's bunks, Jirel instinctively stood from the co-pilot chair, ready to return to staring at the ceiling in the aft section.
And he was stopped when his father gestured back to the chair.
"Take a seat."
"Is that an order?"
Jenner sighed deeply at his son as he sat down in the pilot's seat.
"It's a request," he replied.
A significant part of Jirel wanted to simply fire off a quip and leave his father talking to an empty chair. But the firm glare that was being fired his way still had the same effect that it used to have when he was growing up in Colorado. He found himself reluctantly sitting back down.
"Thought you were busy," he offered as a weak excuse for his attempted sharp exit, gesturing at the stack of padds in his father's hands.
The admiral set the stack down on top of the controls and absently picked up the top padd, glancing over the details on the screen.
"It can all wait. New diplomatic briefings on the Tholians, a dozen or so crew reassignments for the Erebus, reports from Starfleet Security about another hit on a Federation transport…"
"Sounds like you're getting sloppy," Jirel couldn't help but respond.
Jenner gave him a sharp look, but conceded the point with a mirthless snort.
"We're still recovering from the war. Fleet's getting back near full strength, but with the Romulans strengthening their own military like all hell, Starfleet has prioritised deep space vessels and border ships. Means we're still short on a lot of the basics. And I guess there's plenty of groups out there eager to board an unprotected Federation transport and see what they can grab."
Jirel nodded along with the explanation, though his thoughts were still elsewhere.
"I thought you might've noticed how short staffed we were," Jenner continued, "Given the work I used to send your way."
That caused the Trill to focus his attention. For a period during and after the Dominion War, his father had sent him and his motley crew on the Bounty on the odd task here and there. Nothing official, as far as Starfleet was concerned, and certainly nothing important. But work all the same.
It was an occasional run of work that had culminated in a seemingly straightforward task to locate the black box of the USS Navajo. A task which had ultimately led to the unexpected rescue of the stranded Natasha Kinsen. And, apart from Natasha's infrequent messages, one which had also proved to be the last direct contact Jirel had experienced with his father until now.
Jirel's jumbled thoughts began to swirl again.
"That the only reason you used to give me those little jobs? Cos there was nobody else to do them?"
He couldn't help but ask the question with an edge to his words. One that his father immediately noted, his expression souring visibly.
"No. I gave them to you because they were jobs worth doing. I gave them to you because—"
"Ah," Jirel nodded pointedly, feeling his hackles rising further as another argument with his adoptive father approached, "Because you were testing me. Still trying to see if I was good enough? If I could live up to your standards?"
Jenner's defences were now raised as high as Jirel's. Ironically, for a man that had dedicated so much of his career to matters of diplomacy, he again found that commodity to be in desperately short supply with his son.
"And a hell of a job you did," he snapped, "Every time, I'd give you and your crew something easy to do. A supply run to an outer colony. A salvage job here and there. And every time you'd come back with a tall tale and sector-long repair list."
"Hey. Whatever happened, we always—"
"You always went looking for a fight. Or a goddamn shortcut. Just like you did with the Academy entrance exam."
"The—? You're bringing that up now? That was—!"
"That was a chance I worked damn hard for you to get! And you didn't even try!"
"I—!"
Jirel forced himself to stop himself from saying any more of what he wanted to say. What he had never said to his father. Instead, with a scowl now firmly attached to his face, he stood back up from the seat that had been offered to him moments ago, and declined to continue the argument.
"I guess I'll stop distracting you from all this work, Admiral."
He made sure he invoked as much edge as he could into the sound of his father's rank, before stalking off towards the rear section of the Chomolungma.
Jenner briefly considered firing off another barbed comment in the direction of his retreating son, but stopped himself equally quickly. Instead, he turned back to the runabout's controls with a snarl, and angrily accessed the engine management systems.
Hoping to get a bit more speed out of the warp drive, and get the journey over with.
'*'*'
'*'*'
"Absolutely nothing."
Denella stared at the vast wall-sized display in front of her with her hands on her hips and sighed in frustration.
The job board at the Benzite port that the Bounty had found itself seemed to be as slow-moving as the rest of the wheels of Benzite bureaucracy.
It had been three days since they had arrived at the port, and two days since Denella had finally finalised the paperwork for their original delivery. Since then, despite the Bounty's crew checking the job board several times a day, nothing useful had caught their eye.
It didn't help that, thanks to the intricacies of Benzite society, each new job posting seemed to require as many administrative hoops to be jumped through as Denella had found were needed for their drop-off. Meaning that there wasn't exactly a high turnover of postings.
With a sigh, she glanced over at Sunek where he stood next to her, then motioned for him to follow her over to the administrator manning a small desk next to the wall itself. It wasn't the first time she'd spoken to someone at this particular desk, and she braced herself for the work she was going to have to put into the forthcoming conversation.
"Hi," she offered with her most patient of smiles, "Us again."
The Benzite administrator looked up at her with a slight cock of their head, as a steady plume of gas billowed out from the breathing apparatus at their mouth.
Even in their own ports, Benzites bowed to the majority decision over what constituted a breathable atmosphere, supplying a steady oxygen/nitrogen mix for other humanoid visitors, and forcing native Benzites to use such apparatus to supplement their air with a more liveable mixture of elements.
In sudden embarrassment, Denella realised that she had no idea if it was the same administrator she had spoken to before, or if it was a different Benzite from the same geostructure. She silently prayed that she hadn't just committed a terrible social faux pas on top of the administrative errors she was doubtless committing.
Fortunately, while the Benzite didn't seem to recognise her, they also didn't seem too upset.
"How may I help you?"
Denella kept her smile as polite as possible, even as Sunek's attention was momentarily diverted by a stray piece of dirt under one of his fingernails.
"I was just wondering," she asked, already knowing the answer, "If there are any new jobs—"
"All available jobs are displayed on the screens promptly as soon as the individual or company raising the job request has completed a DSC-slash-241C form and received signatory approval from the Benzite Port Authority."
Denella's patient smile wavered slightly under this latest onslaught of red tape.
"Right. I know. It's just, the screen hasn't updated since yesterday. Is there any chance we can get a look at any of the…pending jobs? Just to see if there's anything we can—"
"Do you have authorisation from a Port Authority Section Leader, or a countersigned RR1-slash-23R verification form from an equivalent galactic transit body?"
The smile took another direct hit, not helped by the distinctly amused chuckle emanating from the Vulcan standing alongside her.
"Um, no, I don't have—"
"Do you have the ten-digit submission code for the job posting you require?"
"No. I don't—I was just hoping that, as me and my crew have been waiting here for several days now, if there was any way to get a look at any more available work?"
The Benzite cocked their head again, a little confused by this seemingly circular query.
"All available jobs are displayed on the screens promptly as soon as the individual or company raising the job request has completed—"
"Right, good, thanks for your help," Denella snapped a little too quickly, as her patient smile drowned in a sea of sarcasm.
With that, she grabbed the chuckling Sunek by the arm and stalked away from the desk.
"You ever wonder why these guys never got their own empire?" the Vulcan snorted with mirth as she dragged him on down the wide expanse of the port's main promenade.
Denella found herself a little irritated with the Vulcan's new and even more easy-going attitude, and not for the first time. But she kept a lid on her frustrations as they arrived at a small cafe, where Klath and Natasha were waiting, drinking from steaming mugs of raktajino.
"Anything?" the Klingon grunted as they arrived.
"Don't ask," Denella replied quickly, sitting down in a huff as Sunek ambled off towards the cafe's counter.
"Nothing here either," Natasha sighed, "Me and Klath checked around all the docking bays, did four laps of the promenade, and I even endured the worst flirting I've ever heard from a Terellian working for a trading firm before I realised he was just a junior accountant with four very wandering arms."
"I hope Klath dealt with that."
"She handled the matter herself," Klath noted with a nod.
Natasha allowed herself a slight smile of satisfaction at the memory of the pained squeal the handsy junior accountant had made when she had firmly twisted one of his arms behind his back after it had made brief but evidently deliberate contact with her backside.
"Either way," she offered eventually after a sip of raktajino, "We're still unemployed."
Denella sighed again, even as the unnervingly helpful Sunek returned with two fresh raktajinos and placed one in front of the Orion engineer.
She had taken on the Benzite delivery, despite it being somewhat out of the way, on the assumption that they would be able to pick up a bonus job for the return journey at a busy spaceport to make it worth their while. But she had miscalculated how easy that would be. And instead they had spent the last four days here, eating into their latinum reserves with endless rounds of cocktails and raktajinos.
Deep down, she was starting to get tired of being the one in charge.
It wasn't even as if she could do what she usually did during an unplanned stopover, and tear into the battered Bounty's repair list. Because the Ju'day-type raider they called home was in the middle of an unprecedented run of good fortune. There were no running repairs to do, and any of the more extensive improvements on her list were beyond their current financial means.
"See, this used to be easy," Sunek piped up, as he emptied a fourth sugar packet into his mug, "Whenever we got stuck like this, we'd just send Jirel out to walk around for a bit. Never too long for someone to recognise him, punch him in the face, then offer us a dodgy job or two."
The Vulcan's new medication was working so well that he didn't even care about the sense of discomfort that spread around the table when he mentioned their former colleague's name. Instead, he decided to treat himself to a fifth packet of sugar.
"Well," Denella replied eventually, "He's not here. And we're not gonna find any work by just waiting around for someone to get punched in the—"
The sound of someone getting punched in the face got everyone's attention. Not only around their table, but in the cafe in general.
The quartet of Bounty crew members looked over to see a human man reeling from the impact of the blow, as a trio of significantly taller and burlier marauders from a species none of them recognised, stood close by him. The odd altercation in a port like this wasn't unprecedented. Especially when it was an unfair fight.
"Hey, fellas, come on," the dazed human offered, as he staggered backwards, "I told you, I don't want any trouble."
"Then you shouldn't have tried to cheat me," the leader of the marauders, a stocky alien whose face was covered in amber-tinged scales, hissed back.
The trio of aggressors advanced on the human, as the various onlookers around them on the promenade backed away fearfully.
But Denella instinctively found herself wanting to act. Partly because the fight was so clearly unfairly stacked against the human, and she wanted to do the right thing. And partly because the Bounty's current predicament had left her with a lot of frustration to work off.
"Klath?" she offered as she stood from her seat, "Wanna even up the odds over there?"
The Klingon didn't need a second invitation. The two of them marched over to the altercation, even as Sunek sipped his drink, which was now more sugar than coffee, and grinned at Natasha.
"Can't take those two anywhere, can we?"
On the other side of the promenade, the three scaly-faced marauders closed in on the human, who had his hands raised in a futile attempt at appeasement.
"Come on, guys. It was a fair transaction. It's not my fault that it wasn't real latinum!"
The marauders ignored his pleas and continued to close in. But they were suddenly stopped by a shrill whistle from behind them. They turned, a tad perplexed, to find themselves confronted by the incongruous form of an Orion woman in a pair of oversized overalls, and what appeared to be a Klingon warrior.
"Ok," Denella offered causally, "Three on three. That's a bit fairer, hmm?"
The marauders sized up their new adversaries, seemingly considering the invitation.
But then, to several audible gasps from the wary crowd, Klath drew his glinting bat'leth from the sheath behind his back and wielded it in the direction of the scaly aliens with clear intent.
After a brief and wordless consultation, the three burly marauders reluctantly backed away from the confrontation with frustrated looks. All around, the relieved crowd began to disperse.
Denella smiled in satisfaction, before nodding at a visibly frustrated Klath.
"I've told you before. If you want to have more actual fights, you need to start leaving the bat'leth at home."
As the sulking Klingon reluctantly returned his weapon to its sheath, the human man tentatively approached them.
"Thanks," he managed with a sheepish smile, "I definitely owe you one."
He held out his hand in a show of friendship, and Denella tentatively accepted it. The man stood a little shorter than her and Klath, with a slightly messy mass of black hair on his head. He looked to be in his thirties, with a slightly boyish glint in his eyes. Aside from the lack of spots, Denella couldn't help but see a surface-level similarity to their missing crewmate.
"Never like to see an unfair fight," the Orion responded, "I'm Denella, this is Klath."
"I'm Lester," the stranger replied, "Doctor Lester Brooks. Scientific researcher."
He instantly clocked the slightly surprised reactions on the faces of his rescuers.
"I know," he smiled, "I get that a lot. And I'll admit that I'm a long way from the white coat and the laboratory. But sometimes my research can take me to some interesting places."
"Not sure I ever thought I'd hear a Benzite spaceport described as an interesting place," Denella smiled back.
"Depends who you talk to," Brooks countered, nodding his head back in the direction of the retreating marauders.
"What did they want?" Klath grunted, an edge of suspicion barely perceptible in his tone.
"Ah, silly misunderstanding. I got them to source me some Yridian alloy for a piece of research I'm trying to get off the ground. In return, I gave them what I thought was a vial of pure latinum."
"And what was it really?" Denella asked.
"Honestly? Not really sure. For some reason, they didn't accept my offer of a full chemical analysis."
He chuckled warmly again, in a disarmingly friendly manner. Denella couldn't help but feel herself relax, even if Klath remained a tad more rigid.
"Well," the Orion said eventually, "We should be getting back to our friends. Glad to help you out, Doctor Brooks."
"Um, actually," Brooks proffered, "If it's not too forward, I might be able to repay you. With real latinum this time, I promise. You kind folks got a ship?"
Denella nodded back. Brooks smiled wider.
"Then…how about a lift?"
And just like that, the Bounty's crew once again found some work thanks to someone getting punched in the face.
'*'*'
'*'*'
Despite his mixed feelings towards his adoptive father, Jirel couldn't help but feel a pang of warmth as he laid eyes on his old family home.
The Jenner homestead had barely changed at all, nestled away in a quiet valley in the middle of Mineral County. The looming three-storey brick house was surrounded by vast fields of fenced-off land, where contented horses grazed and frolicked.
The two men walked up the path towards the front door, both feeling the heat of the afternoon sun overhead on their backs.
Jenner was still dressed impeccably in his Starfleet uniform, though his solid black boots were now coated in a thin layer of dust from the terrain underfoot. Alongside him, Jirel gamely kept up with the surprisingly limber older man. He couldn't help but recall some previous exertions of his, from dodging danger in the oppressive heat of Nimbus III's outback, to slaving away on a Class-L planet in Sector 374.
He quickly shut off that memory, before an image of Maya Ortega was able to form in his mind, and turned his attention back to the present.
"You're still parking this far away?" he sighed, a little breathlessly.
"The engines spook the horses," Jenner replied casually, barely appearing out of breath despite the twenty minute hike from where he had set the Chomolungma down next to a nearby township, where a peppy ensign had been waiting to take it back to orbit, "Besides, the walk'll do you good."
"I'm supposed to be recovering," the Trill reminded him, wincing slightly from the pain of one of his residual injuries.
"You've done nothing but lie down all the way here," Jenner countered, "Recuperation involves exercise as well as sleep."
Jirel shook his head and sighed patiently as they walked on. The mood between them had thawed slightly since their blazing row onboard the runabout. But it was still barely registering as anything approaching cordial.
They continued up the path in silence, approaching the stout wooden front door. When they reached it, it opened without either of them lifting a finger.
"Well, if you think you're walking all that dust in here, you've got another thing coming. Shoes off now, both of you!"
In the doorway stood Hesk, the Bolian housekeeper who had worked on the Jenner homestead ever since Jirel had first arrived as a young orphan, happily looking after the place while his father was away with the fleet.
She had aged since he had last seen her, visible lines and wrinkles now creasing across her bright blue face and a slight stoop to her gait. But she was no less imposing a presence as she pointed defiantly down at the dust and dirt-covered footwear of the two men.
"Yes ma'am," Jenner replied, playing along with the scene as he pulled his boots off before stepping into his own home.
Jirel awkwardly followed suit, under the stern gaze of the Bolian. It was only when he stepped across the threshold of the house, now boot-less as ordered, that Hesk's expression melted into one of kindly warmth, and she wrapped him in a delighted hug.
"My dear, it's been too long."
"Hey Hesk," Jirel managed to squeeze out from his compressed position inside the hug, "We'd have been here sooner, but we went the long way round."
"I know," the Bolian replied, "He says it spooks the horses—"
"It does spook the horses," Jenner cut in defensively, "There's a reason we settled out here, away from everywhere. Those animals deserve peace and quiet, not getting buzzed by every joyriding shuttle pilot in the system."
Hesk finally broke the hug and offered Jirel a knowing look before gesturing him further into the house. He walked on and took in the eerily familiar surroundings of his old home.
He entered the huge main living space, an open-plan room that dominated most of the ground floor, with the kitchen, dining and living areas partially delineated with stout support columns that held up the rest of the house. Aside from a few new pieces of furniture and upgrades to various screens and controls around the place, it barely seemed to have changed from when he used to live here.
With his mother.
"You know," Hesk muttered from his side, as if she was reading his mind, "It only feels like yesterday that you were a tiny slip of a thing, playing down here with all those toy starships of yours…"
Despite his mood, Jirel mustered a nostalgic smile. But he also couldn't help but shoot his father a look from where he had walked over to the kitchen area.
"I remember. All Starfleet ships, though. I was a Jenner, after all."
If his father caught the edge to his comment, this time he didn't react. Instead, he collected a coffee from the replicator and started for his office, holding the bag full of paperwork he had carried from the runabout.
"I have work to do. Hesk, please make sure Jirel gets settled."
"Of course. And how long will you be staying?"
"Another week, I think," Jenner nodded, "After that, I'll need to return to the Erebus to oversee the final maintenance checks."
The Bolian woman nodded and turned back to Jirel.
"And what about you? How long should I—?"
"Not long," Jirel replied quickly, "Just until I've recovered, I guess."
"This is still your home," his father called back, "You're welcome to stay as long as you want."
Jirel considered this offer, then focused a pointed look back to the Bolian housekeeper.
"Not long."
Hesk glanced from son to father and back again, not needing powers of telepathy to read between the lines.
"Well," she managed, with a hint of sadness, "Perhaps we can discuss the details later. Over dinner."
With that, she walked off to the kitchen. As she left the two men uncomfortably alone again, Jirel caught his father's eye with a slightly cheeky edge, nodding in the direction of the departing Bolian.
"So. Anything happening between you two?"
Jenner mustered a slow roll of his eyes, as he turned back towards his office, and fired off another familiar comment from the Trill's childhood.
"Jirel, go to your room."
'*'*'
'*'*'
"The Verillian system?"
Denella looked up from her engineering console at the source of the question, as Sunek spun around in his pilot's seat to face her across the Bounty's cockpit.
"That's not gonna be much of a change of scene," the Vulcan continued, gesturing to the padd in his hands, "Less out of the frying pan, into the fire. More out of the extremely boring spaceport, into the even more extremely boring spaceport."
The Orion engineer glared patiently back at the flippant pilot.
He had a point. Verillian space wasn't any more in the thriving heart of the Alpha Quadrant as their current location was. But as ever, he hadn't bothered to take in the full details of their trip.
"Keep reading," she sighed, "The Verillian system is just a stop-off. Doctor Brooks needs to pick up some supplies from a moonbase over there. Then we take him to his final destination."
Sunek glanced down at the rest of the information on the padd and shrugged.
"The Vandor sector. Never heard of it. Sounds extremely boring."
"And it probably is," Denella conceded, "But he's paid up front. In full. And it can't be any more boring than another three days here, right?"
The Vulcan conceded this point with a nod, absently tapping the padd on the armrest of his chair.
"So, we're doing this?"
"We're doing this," she nodded back, "Prepare for departure."
"Aye aye, Captain Denella, sir!" he grinned all of a sudden, throwing a mock salute her way to boot before swivelling back to his controls.
Denella mustered a tight smile at this. She still didn't think of herself as the Bounty's captain, even if she had been in effective command for nearly three months. But, with no word from Jirel on where he was, or if he was coming back, she felt duty bound to the role. And she was getting used to it.
She didn't exactly want to be in charge. Certainly not in the way that it had been thrust on her, in the aftermath of a broken Jirel leaving without even a goodbye.
But someone did have to be in charge. And she felt that she was growing into the role. Despite the slight sense of guilt she felt whenever she glanced at the Bounty's empty centre chair.
Her musings were interrupted by heavy footsteps coming up the rear steps of the cockpit, as Klath walked in and took his usual seat behind the ship's weapons controls, noting the updated course information that Sunek was keying in on the sensor readouts.
"The Verillian system," he grunted, with a distinct lack of anticipation.
"Hey," the Vulcan called back with a healthy layer of sarcasm, "If you think that's good, wait until she tells you about the Vandor sector."
Denella rolled her eyes and sighed again.
"Ok. I get it. But we're going. I'm not spending another minute scouring job boards and filling in forms for Benzite administrators. It's a job, it's simple, and we're doing it."
Klath looked back at her, a little surprised at the forcefulness of her comments, having not been privy to the earlier defence of her plan to Sunek. But he ultimately nodded back.
Just as Denella settled back down to her work, Natasha walked into the cockpit and sat down at her own bank of sensor readouts.
"Huh. The Verillian system?"
Denella sighed even deeper. She hadn't expected the weight of command to be quite this irritating.
'*'*'
'*'*'
On the promenade of the port, Doctor Lester Brooks idly walked through the crowds with a heavy rucksack on his back, sipping from a disposable raktajino cup. He was meandering towards the landing bay where the Bounty was parked up, ready to get going on his fully paid journey.
Despite his run-in with the marauders earlier, he was confident that there was no risk being out in the open like this. He was sure that they were long gone.
As he ambled through the dizzying mix of species that crowded around the shops and stores of the promenade, he didn't bother to react as he heard a set of footsteps rushing up behind him, before falling into step alongside him.
"So? What did I tell you? Are they perfect, or what?"
Brooks glanced over to his side, looking at the excited features of the tall and slender white-haired human in the long coat.
"They are, aren't they," his new companion continued gleefully, "As soon as I bumped into that funny smiling Vulcan in that bar and saw the others around that table, I had a feeling they were just what we were looking for. Ha! Perfect!"
Brooks patiently sipped his coffee and shook his head gently.
"Perfection is an overrated concept, my friend," he replied, with a sudden and slightly haughty edge to his voice, "Have you ever seen Sunset Over Calat?"
"No," his companion replied, "But I do love a good story."
"It's a piece from a Cardassian artist. An idealist called Glenk, from Cardassia's post-interpretive phase. A huge, wall-sized canvas depicting a scene of starving children in the Calat Province, that Glenk himself saw first-hand, some 300 years ago. Even in as subjective a field as art, it is universally considered to be as close to perfection as possible. The juxtaposition of visceral suffering and the vibrant colours of the sunset give it an unquantifiably mythical air."
He paused to take a sip of coffee, his colleague still hanging on his every word.
"Some historians cite it as the direct reason for Cardassia's resurgence as a galactic power. So powerful was the depiction that it served to galvanise the population behind the military. Rumour has it that, several years ago, Klingon Chancellor K'mpec viewed the painting during a diplomatic visit to Cardassia Prime, and the great warrior was moved to tears. But…do you know something?"
"I'm all ears," the taller human smiled back.
"Glenk hated it. He thought it was one of the worst paintings he'd ever produced. That the perspective was all off, the brushstrokes were too thick. If he'd have had his way, the most perfect piece of art in the galaxy would've been burned before it even had its first viewing."
He stopped next to a promenade recycling point and idly dematerialised his empty raktajino cup in the slot provided, before turning back to his colleague.
"So, you see, perfection is a deeply, deeply overrated concept."
His colleague grinned and wagged a finger at him with an affected good nature.
"You know, that's what I like about you. I feel like I've been educated and patronised, all at the same time."
"It's a gift," Brooks immodestly conceded with a nod.
"But, informative pedantry and Cardassian artistic critiques aside, are they—?"
"Yes. They'll do just fine. A willingly naive crew, a small ship. With any luck, nobody will even know where they went."
The taller human's expression soured slightly at this.
"But they'll be ok, right? They won't be—"
"They won't be," Brooks affirmed, a little too quickly "Now, I'll make sure we pick up everything else we need to get started. And I'll see you at the rendezvous. Just make sure you're…on time."
With that, he turned and walked off, leaving the tall white-haired human alone. His previous concerns melted away into a wry grin.
"I love it when he does that," he muttered, to nobody in particular.
Brooks kept on walking. On his way to the landing pad, and the Bounty. And the Verillian system.
And as he walked, he allowed himself a dark smile of satisfaction.