Star Trek RPG - Mission #7: "The War-Brotherhood of Irkhuit"

Nia freezes, staring at Mäkeläinen in stunned silence. Then her gaze shifts to the gray case now in her lap for several seconds until at last she re-emerges from shock. "A replacement? For Bilitrium?" She finds herself trembling as she tries to open the case somewhat clumsily. Assuming she gets the case open, she'll look at the kit or instruments inside.

"They said it wasn't possible," she whispers, feeling as awed as that Aelyrr priestess holding her holy Codex thing. "Starfleet Medical, I mean. Why--" Her heart's beating rapidly enough to make her a little breathless so she tries to calm down before she continues. "I guess it'll take awhile to kick in fully? Villa never told me they were working on something like this. Why didn't they let me know?"

Dr. M's words are beginning to register with her, and she realizes she's been blurting questions nonstop. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just... I know you said it's not a miracle but that's like telling Cochrane warp speed wasn't a big deal. It's so unexpected, I can't--" She laughs and tries to narrow everything to the most immediately important. "So I can go? Now?"

Kylah peers at Velir questioningly, then at Lt. Graham, before returning to stare at the blood. Elas is not in the Federation either, but they have been held to a higher standard than this.

The others have not moved and her outrage cannot solve anything now. Slowly she pulls her chair back and sits down, though remaining at the edge of her seat. Her shaky fingers twist anxiously at the buttons of her coat, opening it to have better access to her utility belt. Which is when the truth hits her. "I did nothing. I saw it and have a phaser* but I did nothing. I could have drawn and told him to stop."

Disgusted by her typical inability to act in a timely manner befitting someone with her training, Kylah turns away from the aftermath of the murder. "Can we not just ask for a ride now? There is no need to wait, is there? I want to leave."

She is embarrassed to have blurted those last words, knowing they sound like the pleading of a child. But she is not used to summary execution like this. She hopes she is never used to it.



* - Right? We weren't disarmed at any point right?

"Easy, Ensign," Graham rumbles--sympathetically, in fact. "Lots of places in this galaxy aren't...right...by any stretch of the imagination." He shakes his head. "It isn't right, but we can't fix them all, especially..." He has to pause and swallow, worried about Nia. "With...with people of...our own...at risk."

"Something...light and gentle, if you please," Graham replies to the server. "And--we'd buy the singer a drink when she has a break, if she'd be willing to join us then."

"I hadn't heard of it, either. It is apparently in clinical trials, but not specifically for this. You have Dr. Anikwata to thank for that idea.

"It is a substitute in the sense it fools certain receptors in your mitochondria," explains Dr. Mäkeläinen. "It contains no elemental Bilitrium and does not make up for its deficiency. It buys us time—" without it, chances are you would already be comatose, or, let's face it, dead, "and leaves you able to function, but there is no telling how rapidly you might build up a tolerance. As you are surely sick of hearing but it's the truth, no one in the initial study was Sidonian.

But, yes, you are clear to go. Medically restricted duty and all that rot. Fact is," he foregoes his usual reserve, "we need you."

Though of course Nia's optimism takes a hit--ridiculous, wildly desperate optimism, she realizes ruefully--she's still thrilled that her lifespan might not have to be measured in hours, much less minutes. Probably should be careful not to overdo things, to avoid whatever might cause her system to build up a tolerance to this medication, but... it's life. And surely they'll be able to grab a ship and fly to the Yorktown in 24 hours or so.

"Thank you," she says hoarsely to Mäkeläinen. "If not for the medication then for everything else you've done to help me. Including telling me I'm needed," she adds in an even quieter voice. The vulnerability she's felt since yesterday... actually over the past couple of weeks... has been more of a drain than she's been willing to acknowledge.

Reaching behind her to untie her gown, she starts to pull her arms through the sleeves but abruptly hesitates, remembering Double-T is right here. No real reason to be prudish--he's seen everything that'd be on display and then some--but there's no need to exhibit herself, either. She slips the hospital gown back in place and picks up the bundle of sturdy, weather-appropriate clothes, then looks from the doc to Rawlings. "Can I, um, have a couple moments to get dressed?"

Dr. Mäkeläinen waits outside the room with Ens. Rawlings. There is nothing really for him to say about the Lieutenant out loud, and, moreover, behind her back.

His thoughts wander to the Beowulf.. Finally he asks Rawlings, "Last time you were here on Ollos, did you have the impression Starfleet vessels routinely call here? Did you encounter any hostile attitudes, at least, more so than usual around here?"

Dr. Anikwata says she'll send the doctor a link, and does so.

Rawlings laughs a big, booming belly laugh. He says to Onn, "Here you are in the hospital, of all places, playing matchmaker! You are full of surprises, Lieutenant - but thank you for the tip."

In the hallway, he says to Dr. Mäkeläinen, "No, it's pretty rare for Starfleet ships to come here. It's not Federation space, obviously, and it's pretty far off the beaten track. I remember more curiosity from people than hostility when I was last here."

Kylah does still have a phaser-1, and her communicator.

The waiter brings Graham what tastes like a watery semi-beer. Rangin orders Romulan ale ("Can't get it on the Yorktown," he says with a shrug) and seems to enjoy it.

After another song, the Klingon singer, having been spoken to by the waiter, comes by. She grabs a nearby chair, pulls it up to your table and sits down. "Blood wine," she tells the waiter. "H'laka blood wine." She looks around the table before asking, almost accusingly, "Who are you, and what do you want?"

About to respond to Lt. Graham's remark with a pointed question, Kylah tables it for now. She will ask later, because the implications of allowing murder to take place in front of them are troubling, to put it mildly--and, she believes, such standards are inconsistently applied.

She orders nothing, her thirst diminished considerably by the sight of blood. And then the Klingon singer orders blood wine, because... well, of course she does. Kylah does not comment. She has tasted blood wine when her uncle hosted his Klingon 'friends' and she was required to be hospitable. They found her disgusted reactions amusing until she finally learned to pretend to drink heartily of the vile liquid--at least, the younger vintages, which are usually sweet, almost dessert-like.

The singer's tone drags Kylah back to those dinners and meetings. She has to bite her tongue not to respond in kind, as would be expected in normal circumstances. Sitting with two Starfleet officers, however, is not a normal circumstance in which to display her knowledge of Klingon customs. Unless warranted, Kylah is quite content to be seen as just another crew person.

Kylah silently takes a discreet close look at the singer's clothing, jewelry or any skin tattoos, to note if there are any symbols or signs of her House, or if she is--like those mercenaries who attacked the Aelyrr ship--someone gone rogue who has left Qo'noS behind. Otherwise, she defers to Lt. Graham, who must have his reasons for choosing to address the Klingon rather than any of the others in the club.

Graham wipes his lips clean of the beer-ish drink with the back of his hand.


He leans toward the Klingon woman. "We're not from around here." Then he leans back and shrugs. "Unless things in the galaxy have changed a lot lately, I thought it was a safe bet you're not from around here either."

He leans forward again, crossing his arms and dropping them with a small thud onto the table. "We're in the market for transit off world. If you know of any available options, we'd be grateful."


(the back of the hand appears to have some significance with Klingons - https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki..._and_tradition)

The pile of clothing consists of less than Nia expected--in fact, its bulk is primarily due to a coat, thick leather that feels soft and well-worn to her, lined with gray fur of some kind. Beneath she also finds a worryingly small... Is this a bodysuit? Really? Scowling, she lifts it up. Hardly looks big enough for a child, much less someone Nia's size. Who the hell picked this doll's outfit for her?

She puts on her Starfleet underwear, and is about to just don her uniform since the bodysuit is so absurd, but decides to take another look. And she's glad she did, because turns out the shiny green material is very stretchy, and Nia can slip it on over her scaled skin fairly easily. It's not outrageously warm, but it's better than her uniform dress, and combined with the coat it should hopefully do the job.

Once she's dressed down to her boots, she's a little tired out and sits down for a minute or two. The air she breathes is still thick and insufficient--Nia guesses it's taking probably three breaths to deliver to her lungs and bloodstream what one breath should. Okay. Calm down. It's not great but just remember you're not really drowning. Even if it kinda feels like it.

Keeping her movements efficient and careful, she takes another few sips of water before picking up the medication case. There's a small mirror that Nia kinda regrets looking at, because her skin still seems grayish and shining from the scales not willing to go all the way into hiding. On the plus side, her eyes look a brighter green than usual, probably because the bodysuit is almost a perfect match and seems to liven her appearance up. Her hair remains loose; Nia doesn't bother tying it up again.

At last she heads out, her slow tread moving toward the doctor and Rawlings.

Dr. Mäkeläinen is happy to see Nia on her feet and looking more or less functional. Things could so easily have gone the other way. He graces her with a warm look as they head down the corridor to see the administrative assistant in charge of billing. "Where to, then?"

The admin presumably has all Nia's info and is expecting them, but he verifies any details (came in at such-and-such a time last night, etc.) to the best of his knowledge should it be necessary.

The Klingon singer is in black leather and fur, clothing similar to cold-weather Klingon gear Kylah has seen before, although it doesn't look to be of Imperial manufacture. She has spiky earrings in each ear, although again, they don't appear to be of Klingon origin. She has no tattoos or house sigils showing that Kylah can see.

She sneers at Graham and says, "Where I am from is no concern of yours, Human." She drains her blood wine and waves for another. "And what do you think I am, a starship booking agent?"

Dr. Mäkeläinen, Onn and Rawlings speak to the hospital AA, who deducts 4500 monits from your account. Rawlings makes a face at the charge, but says only, "Meet up with Mr. Graham and the others?"

Swallowing her nerves, Kylah looks in the direction of the waiter, then back at the other woman. "Since you ask, Klingon, the truth is, we are divided on what we think you are. My companion thought, as you are a long way from home, you might know of a way off-world. To my eyes, you are someone stuck on a backwater planet entertaining humans and Tellarites--and other Alpha Quadrant jetsam. Few of your race would do so if there were another option."

She addresses Lt. Graham. "I doubt she has anywhere else to go--likely a fugitive or exile. Pay for the one drink you offered, but no more. We do not have endless monits to spend on someone who cannot help us, talented singer or not."

Nia nods. "You guys know where they are now? At the Port Authority still?" A thought strikes her and she quickly places a gentle hand on the Security Officer's formerly wounded arm. "Sorry, Double-T, I should've asked--how are you feeling? Those muscles and bones of yours as strong as ever?"

She smiles apologetically. "And if so, could you hold this case for me, please? Just until we find transport?" Nia lifts the sturdy medication case with some difficulty. "It's a bit much for me right now. Oh--unless you think you need all hands free for security purposes. Damn, I didn't even ask what the general mood is here among the, uh, populus. Friendlies? Unfriendlies? Neutrals?" Her concerned glance takes in both men as she asks the question.

Graham is impressed, surprised, and a fair bit proud that Kylah seamlessly and of her own accord slid quite well into the "bad cop" role, in the moment.

He leans back in his chair. "Well, I concede that's a fair point. Klara--I assume you're Klara, and the band are "the Threats"--I think you're a talented singer. But, it seems, not someone who might help us."

"I haven't pieced together the full picture yet," Mäkeläinen glances at Rawlings and back to Onn, "but Federation and Starfleet visitors are normally just an object of curiosity here, more foreigners to be fleeced. However, a few days ago a Starfleet frigate blew away a trader here. At least, that's what people are saying. I noticed some not-too-friendly looks when we arrived wearing Starfleet uniforms. Yet another reason to keep a low profile.

"Everybody else is probably still at that local... establishment trying to charter a ship. We can get a ride there." It is probably not that far, but I do not want her walking there in the cold.

Klara glares at Kylah. The waiter brings another bloodwine, and sets it down on the table. She reaches for it.

Rawlings tells Onn, "I'm okay. They patched me up fine." He takes the medicine case from her. "Sure, I can carry this. No problem."

Kylah eyes the drink as it is placed down and instantly calculates whether to grab at it. But the Klingon--Klara, if Lt. Graham is correct--is already showing hostility and the matter is not worth risking an outright gik'tal. Physically Kylah could not withstand even something as mild as B'aht Qul, much less a death battle.

So instead she just looks flatly at the other woman and says to the waiter, "Bill us for the first drink; this one is on her." Kylah turns to both of her crew mates. "If she offers more help, do as you see fit. In the meantime I will seek more fruitful pastures at other tables."

With her back to the Klingon, she sends a quick questioning gaze to Mr. Graham, wondering if he agrees that he will likely do better with Klara without her, if the woman actually has something of use. She also hopes he does not object to her asking some of the uniformed customers for help. To temper any objection he may have, Kylah adds quickly, "Perhaps Lt. Rangin might do the same."

Thanking Double-T with a warm look and smile, Nia agrees with Dr. M. "Right. You mentioned they're at a 'hangout' earlier. Sorry, my mind..." She makes a fluttering gesture with her hand. "You didn't sound too keen on it, if I recall. A dive, I take it? Well, if we're gonna find transport you'll need to lead the way. I barely remember entering this hospital, much less how to get around."

She asks them to keep a slow pace and keeps her hands stuffed in the warm, furry pockets of the coat. Then, belatedly, Nia reacts to Mäkeläinen's news. "Wait, one of our ships blew up a trading vessel?" Her mind races to think what the actual fuck that could've been about. "And we don't know why? Or even if that's true, sounds like." She shakes her head and mutters a quick "Seht'dar's Holy Balls" before adding, "Well. True or not, if that's what's being said, no wonder we're not getting a warm welcome out there. We need to find out the truth, because that's a serious matter. Priority number one--"

She stops short. Yeah, that's what should be their first priority. But instead, because of her own failing body, their main objective isn't doing their proper duty as Starfleet officers. It's scurrying back uselessly to the Yorktown.

Shit.

If she weren't sick, it'd absolutely be mandatory to find the truth about a violent incident between Starfleet and civilians. Sure, the crew might be able to do some research once on the journey onboard whatever ride they hitch onto--they'll have better access to comms up there. But it's also quite likely someone down here on Ollos knows who the traders were, and maybe what the Starfleet vessel was doing in this neighborhood in the first place. Frigates are usually guarding or accompanying other ships, not poncing about in random systems.

Most of all, she wants to know what the clash was about. If one can call any conflict between a civilian trading vessel and a presumably fully armed frigate a 'clash.' It's like describing a foot squashing a bug a battle royale. A frigate's not a Constitution class but it's not a mere shuttle either. A thought that saddens her, because the Tesla was an attempt to bridge the gap between a shuttle and frigate, or at least beef up shuttles' mission and fighting capabilities considerably.

"Guess we'll see what we'll see," she says, another barely muttered phrase. The shame of being a continual liability among the crew seems to be worsening every minute. "I suppose it's futile to ask if there were any survivors?"

"It's not that," Mäkeläinen says about disapproving of the Black Sun, "I enjoy the local colour. Though I wonder what kind of place it is that is full of off-duty spacers at midday. Chances are, though, at least if we are lucky, that it is a place where some real business gets done, ostensible inebriacy and roughness or not." Mäkeläinen likes to think of himself as worldly, and has, in fact, been around an eclectic mix of people, but does not know any Klingons, much less Romulans, or hard-core pirates, for example.

"I ken not of survivors," he says. "Did the Portmaster say anything about it?" he asks Rawlings. "Or authenticated comms records, visual records, telemetry? Sounds like all kinds of forensic investigation are called for, plus it's a major diplomatic incident."

He tries to hail a private crawler or other transport, or asks someone at the hospital reception to do so on their behalf, to take them to the Black Sun. He knows it is not far, but Nia definitely should not be walking around, and, anyway, none of them have been there or know precisely where it is.

Graham gives Kylah an as subtle-but-visible brief approving nod and inflection of his eyelid as he can. That was as well-played as any Security officer could come up with on the fly.

He reminds himself to tell her that later.

Klara utters some curse that Kylah doesn't know, drains her second tankard of bloodwine as quickly as her first, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and stalks away. She takes the stage again and the band is soon crashing into its next dissonant number.

Rangin says thoughtfully, "Yeah, let me see what I can find out. Back soon." He also leaves the table and disappears into the depths of the bar.

Rawlings says to Onn and the good doctor, "My impression is that there were no survivors. But folks down here seem to know what happened, or at least think they do." He shrugs. "Don't know anything about records or an investigation. Ollos doesn't seem too big on that kind of thing."

You trudge outside through the snow for only a few minutes before an aircar taxi pulls up alongside. It is in the traditional ancient yellow livery with black-and-white checkerboards, and looks even more battered than Maude's crawler. The driver, an elderly Vissian male with a prominent scar across his chin, sticks his head out of the window and asks, "Need a lift?"


https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Vissian

Disappointed both by Klara's storming off--and by Velir's even more rapid departure--Kylah finds herself left with Lt. Graham after all. Her cheeks burn a little. "I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to ruin a chance of conversing with her. I also thought... well, I intended to speak to the other customers accompanied by Vel--I mean Mr. Rangi--"

She stops, then continues with an exasperated sigh, "I mean Velir." Kylah purses her lips, realizing it is foolish to maintain the pretense of indifference in front of someone who knows her as well as Lt. Graham does. "Should we each try our luck separately, as he is? I played my hand poorly with the Klingon, I fear, so I will be glad to heed your advice."

Nia mulls over Double-T's words. Everything here seems like the lawless North badlands back home. No investigations, no curiosity, just deaths and likely bad feelings festering because no one gives enough of a damn to keep everyone accountable.

I don't care what Ollos knows or doesn't, she thinks. The Federation--well, at least Starfleet--is supposed to follow its own guidelines and rules for engaging vessels within populated systems. Especially ones with heavy civilian populations, and even more especially ones not hugely far from enemy territory.

Exactly how far they now are from Romulan-claimed space Nia was warned about is a mystery, her having lost track of their location completely. That's something she needs to find out, once they hook up with Booker and the others--and have access to the net.

Now in front of the crawler, Nia shudders in the wind. She's still cold even with her heavy, fur-lined coat. The driver's race is new to her, other than in images from xenosociology and xenobiology vids she's perused through over the years. "Yeah, thanks," she says through chattering teeth. "We're headed to--uh--"

Blanking, Nia looks expectantly at the men flanking her, since she doesn't know the name of this place the Doc mentioned.

Graham shakes his head. "You 'played your hand' as well as any Security officer ad-libbing in the moment, Mr. Kylah," Graham replies, sincerely.

"There's a phrase for it....'good cop, bad cop.'" He clears his throat. "Ah--Klara was a dead end, but that's not on you."

Graham's resigned that enforcing Federation law in this tavern would be a dead end too, if not a death sentence...but also that leaving Kylah on her own (or for that matter with Rangin) doesn't make him feel good at all.

"On the contrary, ensign...I'd, ah, appreciate your counsel if we work as a team. Very much."

"The Black Sun," Dr. Mäkeläinen fills in. "The nearby bar," he adds superfluously, but that way the driver will not run up the taximeter by circling halfway across town, not that he would.

Kylah smiles a little in relief and gratitude for Lt. Graham's compliment. Taking a minuscule step closer to him, she searches the crowded and chaotic room. "I was thinking, perhaps we might find some luck with some of the customers wearing uniforms? Anything that appears to be... well... a ship's crew uniform. There might be other types of people who dress alike, I suppose..."

She gives Lt. Graham an embarrassed glance before letting her gaze return to the crowd, wondering just how ignorant she sounds. Soldiers wear uniforms, and law enforcement officers, and even religious figures. But it does not seem likely that members from one of these categories are plentiful in the club. Janitorial staff? Factory workers?

"Well, regardless, it seemed a place to start." Although lifting a hand in the general direction of whichever uniformed customer seems least... intimidating... Kylah silently defers to Lt. Graham regarding whatever tactic he thinks best.

If there's no balking from the driver--Nia has no idea why there should be, but who knows what kind of reputation this place has--she'll thank Dr. Mäkeläinen for supplying the name and then carefully climb into the vehicle.

"Black Sun. Cool name," she says to mask her out-of-breathness from the brief exertion. Otherwise she's feeling not too bad, comparatively speaking. Her endurance, which she's always prided herself on when in peak form, is depressingly low, making her feel a decade older.

But she's upright and can move, and the world doesn't look like one big blur. She hated being barely conscious, requiring Booker's strength to lug her around. If she's gonna be in his arms she doesn't want it out of weakness or charity. Admittedly there's no other way she will be in those arms again. But that's too bad.

Maybe if they don't get out of here or the medication stops working and she ends up on death's door, ending her life in Booker Graham's arms would probably be the best way to go. For her. The sudden vision of a widower--is he a widower anymore, if he's remarried now? Nia's not sure how that works--having to hold and watch a dying woman is, frankly, horrifying. I won't let that happen.

Ugh, the morbid thoughts. Nia banishes them for now. The day's sunny, if frigid, and she's out in the air instead of lying hooked up to a machine. That's good. And they'll probably be off this rock in a matter of hours. Life is... life. It's everything. She won't waste more time on death until it's absolutely staring her in the face.

Graham cocks an eyebrow, intrigued and sincerely pleased Kylah is finding her voice.

He shrugs. "That's as good an idea as any...how do you want to play it?"

After a second, he adds, " If you're comfortable with it, you could be the potential 'buyer' of off-world transit and I'm the dumb muscle." He rubs his chin. "Doesn't have to be that way, but , ah, I think the fact is you're a better communicator than I am."

Though she nods, gratified, and starts to move off to the nearest, least-intimidating person who looks like they might belong on the deck of a starship--Kylah hesitates. She looks back at Lt. Graham.

"You communicate better than you know, sir. You've imparted a great deal to me over the past several months. Some good, some... less so. But on the whole you have taught me so very much about how to act, or react, or--or sometimes not to say anything at all. It has meant worlds to me, as someone whose emotions are not... not as well controlled as they should be. Leading to trouble, as you know. I think I am a little better at that now, sir--largely thanks to your influence."

She glances away for a second or two before her sincere gaze returns to him. "I only mean to say... I wish you would not be so ungenerous towards yourself." After saying the gentle words, she nods again and looks for a likely prospect to send them all home.

"The Black Sun, sure, I know it," the cabbie says cheerily. "It's not too far off. I can have you there in, say, ten minutes or so. Hop in!"

Kylah doesn't see any likely prospects close at hand, but she and Graham walk a bit further into the bar, through the noise, smoke and flickering lights. Most of the crowd is in mismatched, even threadbare starfarer clothes, as before, but you eventually find three Human males in mustard-yellow uniforms sitting around a table, banging frosty mugs together, drinking and laughing uproariously. Graham vaguely recognizes the uniforms, which have curiously ribbed sleeves and pantlegs, but can't place them; they are unknown to Kylah. The men are not unkempt, exactly, but neither are they remotely ready for, say, the Starfleet Academy parade ground.

Nervous, as she usually is in situations with many unknown factors, Kylah calms herself by remembering this is not a high-stakes negotiation. It is vital that they find a way off the planet, the sooner the better for Lt. Onn's sake, but the circumstances here and now are not some trip-mine waiting for her to blindly stumble into it.

She relaxes and steps close enough to be noticed without giving the impression she is intruding, and waits until there is a break in the laughter/conversation.

"Good ev--good morning," she says, correcting herself. It is hard to remember it is not yet night, with the club's atmosphere and the liberal amount of drinking going on. "I am sorry to bother you gentlemen--forgive me for interrupting." Trying to think of the best strategy, straight-to-business or casual, Kylah strongly suspects that, given their appearance and mood, she will have more success erring on the side of the latter.

Her smile aims her best attempt at charm to each of them. "You appear to be celebrating something. May we buy you the next serving of drinks? This is Lieu--Mist----Booker," she finally blurts, with an apologetic little glance at Lt. Graham for the presumption of using his first name. "And I am Kylah."

If Bizhi encounters any frozen, or fresh for that matter, corpses or bodies in front of the Black Sun, he knows it is futile but he scans them for signs of life anyway. That kind of sight certainly helps bring into focus his as yet nebulous impression of just what kind of place this bar, and Ollos itself for that matter, might be. Cold, laconic, hard-boiled men and women pragmatic to the point of callousness, that is more or less where he grew up, but there was always a code of conduct born out of, if not that everyone is in it together, at least the need for mutual survival in an unforgiving environment. People regularly getting shot in the face, or knifed in the back--- brawls are one thing, he might even imagine the rare duel, but a pile of bodies in front of the front door? That just does not sit right, and is inefficient.

The biggest of the three men, who has an enormous beard and seems a jolly sort, gestures to two available chairs and says, "Sure, have a seat. Hell, we're always glad to accept a free drink! Hello, Kylah, and hello, Lieumist Booker. I'm Bill Pell, this is Sam Grend and this other loser is Phil Calloway." They nod at you, not quite as friendly as Pell but not hostile either.

A groundcar zooms by Onn, Dr. Mäkeläinen and Rawlings, almost drenching you with icy slush. The cabbie looks at you expectantly. Do you get in?

Trying to word this whether we acknowledge that Nia's already in the crawler or not.

Nia slides closer to the vehicle's port side--well, left side, this isn't a ship--to make room for the others. She's glad to feel the warmth again, her face tingling as it readjusts to the change in temperature. Ten minutes in the crawler; how long would that have been to walk? The others probably could've done it, she guesses.

Pulling out her communicator, she debates whether to contact the trio who are already at the club. Nia's not certain whether the Doc gave Booker the low-down on her current condition. If not, it might be something of a shock (hopefully a pleasant one) to see her up and about.

In other circumstances she might take that route. Problem is, she knows it'll result in a swell of anticipation on her part--a pure fantasy, a childish fairytale reunion. One where Booker's face lights up with joy and relief upon seeing her standing in the doorway, then he rushes forward to sweep her into his arms, which is when he realizes...

She winces and can practically hear Ajay mocking her. Oh fuck me, Nia, that's pathetic. Right out of one of my parents' soaps, that.

Yeah. Childish and naive and not gonna happen, and Nia's not gonna set things up for an embarrassing disappointment... even if she's the only one who knows what this fantasy was.

There are other fantasies she can make come true, she tells herself, thumb absently brushing along the communicator's buttons. The one where she tells Book what's been preying on her mind ever since the wedding. Where she tells him the truth, concerns and all.

Now that she's got a little more life left in her, Nia vows to take advantage of it, however possible. She'll regret it otherwise. She won't live long to regret it, she thinks with a wan smile. But Booker might be the one who'll have regrets if he doesn't hear what she has to say before she goes.

That can be saved for later. So, instead of holding out for a heartfelt reunion or writing out her innermost feelings, she taps out a simple message to her second-in-command.

BOOK - Morning. FYI, we're meeting up with you. Anything to report?

Yes you read that right: we. Sorry, you can't inherit command from my dead claws just yet. At least not for a few hours, probably longer. Things are still dicey to be honest and I'm hardly battle ready.

But I'm still here. As long as I can. Don't you dare think you'll be rid of me so easily! -- NIA

Sending, she returns the device to her belt, rebuttons her coat snugly and leans back, letting the furry hood fall over the top of her head as if burying herself in a cocoon, or some animal's pouch.

After a moment she turns to Mäkeläinen. "This miracle med. Any symptoms I should look out for? I mean about building tolerance. You expect things to just quit all at once? Or will I get some warning time?" Then something scritches at her mind. "By the way. I can't tell if it's a glitch in the UT but you said something earlier, sounded like something I only know as a Terran name. What's 'ken' mean?"

Kylah looks down in embarrassment but recovers quickly. "Oh it is just 'Booker,'" she says while taking the offered seat. "I may have had a little too much to drink. My party has several men, it is easy to mix them up." Her hand waves away the error in what she hopes seems an airy, insouciant manner. She then holds it out to shake their hands. "I suppose now there are three more I must remember. Bill, Sam and Phil." With a warmer smile than she usually prefers to give strangers, she reassures the third man. "...Who does not seem like a loser to me."

Kylah turns to look for the bartender, and if he arrives she will ask him to refill the three men's drinks when they are ready. For herself she tries to find something palatable at such an early hour. "I have been drinking... Romulan ale," she improvises, taking her cue from Velir since she cannot remember what Lt. Graham ended up with. "But I should have something lighter. I hope to be traveling soon and do not wish to be too inebriated. May I have some Bolian tonic water, if you have it, please?"

(If there is any problem with this order, she will substitute a light white wine of the bartender's choice.)

While waiting for the drink she turns to Lt. Graham and pats the seat beside her (if there is one available), giving him a somewhat questioning look, wondering if he will choose to engage one of the three men. How much subterfuge need they use? It is true Starfleet is not popular, but must they continue to hide their affiliation with it?

Then she smiles back at Bill, the most ebullient of the three. "Are you all living here in Ollos? And what are we celebrating, if I may ask?"

Graham nods friendly acknowledgment of the Bill's introductions and each of the three men. He tries to recall where the hell he saw the uniforms...c'mon Booker, that could be useful, and we--Nia--need all the help we can get right now.

He takes a seat as Kylah indicates and assumes an interested look at how Bill might answer her question.

Nia is quite the guinea pig on this one (not the subject of an experiment, but Dr. Anikwata straight up told him that coveserol had not been tested as an agonist or bilitrium substitute or in any other way on Sidonians), but that is no answer. If he has data access to the clinical study Dr. A. mentioned, he will try to skim it rapidly for the drug's biological half-life, exposure-response curves, or other indications of whether tolerance might build up gradually or suddenly.

In the meantime, "Ken?" Surprised by her other question, he thinks for a moment what she might be talking about, then his good memory recalls the context. "I said I do not ken anything... know anything about survivors," he elucidates, suddenly self-conscious of his choice of words, and his accent. He always made an effort to speak Federation Standard fluently, even eruditely, despite the fact it was a rather artificially imposed standard, unless one was from Earth, or even just certain parts of Earth, or certain classes. But he quickly dismisses such thoughts from his head: this ailing woman obviously is not mocking him. Terra, Mars, Ganymede, Proxima Centauri, ... probably all the same to her, except perhaps abstractly. "Ken is not a person... well, it is a Terran name, but back home in Burroughs, if you ask who is Ken you'll give everyone a good laugh."

Nia's lips purse in amusement. "I can imagine. Well, that makes more sense. Sorry... it's been almost 15 years and I still run into language issues. The UT does a great job considering how complicated my native language is, but Fed Standard..." A chuckle turns to a wheezing cough, but she quickly recovers and moves on.

"Learning was a hell of a challenge, especially since at the time no one 'spoke' Sidonian." She emphasizes the word with finger quotes, adding, "'Speaking' isn't exactly right. We don't just vocalize. We use unique combos of pronunciation, intonation, gestures or even postures. Things are so specific, there are no misunderstandings. Well. Not through language."

She smiles ruefully. "I remember the first Comms. specialist trying to teach me got frustrated by how much he had to learn to get me to understand. He grumbled about how 'stupidly convoluted' Sidonian was. His exact phrase.

"He used it with a colleague and thought I didn't get it. Kind of an asshole," she says with another laugh. "The next one went much better. At least he understood my gestures and body language." The last words make her send an amused look at Rawlings. "Some say I'm good at that."

She takes a fleeting glance at her communicator to see if there's anything from Booker. Nope. Nia digs her hands more deeply into the soft fur-lined pockets, warming them further. Her voice is getting raspier and her lungs feel a little heavy, so she concludes quickly.

"Sorry for going on. Been a long time since I thought about this. Anyway, point is, the idea of the same word meaning two different concepts--without any of the extra info we include--would be totally beyond my people's comprehension. Or, uh... their 'ken'?" Nia tilts her head hopefully toward the doctor. "Right?"

Rawlings and Dr. Mäkeläinen join Onn in the aircar taxi. The cabbie closes his window and engages the controls, and the aircar jumps into the sky with a lurch. The motion dampers are working poorly, if there are any at all; Onn feels momentarily nauseous. As the aircar rises, the windows all turn black. "Sorry about that," the cabbie says, tsking. "Can't seem to keep it from doing that." As the aircar rises, you are aware that it is turning and then accelerating. "Have you there in a nanosec."

Graham still can't quite seem to place the men's uniforms. As he thinks, his communicator vibrates slightly with an incoming text.

Bill Pell takes a big swig from his mug, wipes the foam from his bushy mustache off on the back of his hand, and scoffs, "Hells no, we don't live on Ollos. We're from the independent tanker Wendigo. We've got a full load of liquefied gallicite and are on our way to Pentecost."

His shipmate Sam puts in, "We're not celebrating, honey, not really - this is just our first shore leave in 'way too long."

A waiter brings Kylah her pale blue Bolian tonic water.


https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Gallicite

Graham holds back a grimace as his communicator inconveniently vibrates--except that this could mean Nia is...worse...

But she's doomed if we can't get off this goddam rock...

He wracks his brain for where Pentecost is in relation to the Yorktown's location.

In the meantime, he nods appreciatively. "Galliicite....valuable cargo to be sure."

Dr. Mäkeläinen pays attention to Onn's body language. It is true that it is expressive and animated, or would be more so were she not obviously suffering from the cold and fatigue. "That's right," he says to her. "But the most expressive language on Mars, the clearest communication, is that which is not said at all."

The spontaneously darkening windows are an unexpected touch, but he is aware that they should, indeed, arrive in moments if not nanoseconds, and he knows how much the earlier ride through town cost them so he has some point of reference about the fare.

Kylah tries to look as if she knows what Gallicite is--some sort of mineral presumably, so if it is liquified perhaps it is fuel? "Is the Wendigo a large ship? I did not notice others with your uniforms when walking in, but there is a lot to distract the eye here." The blinking lights are irritating, but she supposes enough alcohol will dull any senses.

"I am unfamiliar with Pentecost. Will it be a long journey for you? On such trips shore leave is always to be celebrated," she adds with a smile at Sam. "Although... I am not sure I would find it particularly entertaining on this particular planet. Of course, it depends on the company one keeps." She broadens the smile to include the three men, acknowledging their obvious friendship. "Goodness I am being terribly ungrateful. I ought not to disparage Ollos--it saved our lives."

She takes a sip of the water, hoping the pause is timed well enough to engage their interest. "We were headed elsewhere, but our shuttle suddenly malfunctioned and lost power. There was little life support left and we had injured onboard, and things were desperate. But--here was Ollos. We barely managed a crash landing into an icy river. Our pilot did a remarkable job but is now in hospital. Truly it is a wonder we are alive at all. So I am grateful for the planet. I would rather be shipwrecked here than... the alternative."

Nia's startled by the takeoff, not to mention the dark windows. Perhaps she's mistaken but she thought the club was relatively close. Then again, she doesn't know a thing about the locale, or how crowded it is. Air travel might be more efficient to skip street traffic.

The doctor's words amuse her. "I don't think I knew you're from Mars. Or if I did, it probably vanished with my dying brain cells. '...That which is not said at all.' Sounds like Mars-speak for 'shut the hell up, Lieutenant.' So noted. Probably best to conserve my breath anyway," she adds more seriously.

The clunkiness of the craft catches her attention. Her instinct to offer some tech help is pretty strong, but she tamps it down without a word. First, she's in crappy health and shouldn't waste energy. And second--Nia's confidence in her skills--and in her luck, for that matter--is at an all-time low. If she so much as touches one of the aircar's control panels it'll probably explode.

She is curious, though. After a glance at Mäkeläinen and a whispered, "Just a few more words, then I'll behave, Doc," she raises her voice slightly to call up to the cabbie. "What's the purpose of the tinted window deal? Do you find passengers get vertigo or something?"

Graham's not sure why Kylah seems to be painting a picture of desperation for the team, but he's willing to let her lead, and at the end of the day, given how well she's done lately, assumes she has a plan.

He grunts. "Hm. Yes, always better to look on the bright side--and toward better days."

Graham has heard of Pentecost before. It's a long way in the direction of the Federation coreworlds, at least a month at high warp, and nowhere near Cavinre VII. His communicator vibrates again.

Pell replies to Graham, "Yeah, gallicite ain't dilithium, but it's expensive enough." He belches. "We're going to do pretty well from this shipment." His expression darkens as Kylah speaks, however, and he says, "Your shuttle crashed? Wait a minute... are you the Starfleet crew we heard about from last night?" The other two stare at you, instantly picking up on Pell's mood change.

The cabbie says over his shoulder, "Yeah, the darkened windows help some people with vertigo, but it's really more for privacy. There's some kind of glitch in the system, though. Whenever I switch to air mode, they darken. Go figure! Gotta get it fixed one of these days." He flies on.

Mäkeläinen did not mean to curtail the conversation completely, exactly, but in front of this strange cabbie does not seem like the best place for a heart-to-heart conversation or for discussing all their business. Whose cab is... Bizhi does not know in which direction they should be headed, but he knows the ride should be quick, even in an old aircar. It is not like they have to stop for traffic.

Mars is not an attractive paradise world (though its impressive geology will not disappoint those who are into such things) and has no native life of its own. What makes Mars is the people who choose to live there, even to settle. Maybe there is a shared mentality, and definitely the shared experiences help to cement them into people who are able to understand each other and even to say volumes without speaking a word. He looks at Nia critically and pictures what she must have gone through in the past as well as all he has seen with his own eyes. You'd fit in, at that, he thinks.

Kylah curses inwardly at having blundered. She hoped to make them feel like rescuers, not put them on the offensive. Well, it would be worse to deny it, or admit they were trying to hide this fact. She does suspect it would be damaging to acknowledge the incident with the cruiser.

"Why yes," she says guilelessly (or appearing so). "I did not think our misfortune was well known already. I could have spared boring you with it." Setting her bottle down, she bites her lower lip in consternation, staring at the three men. "Forgive me, you seem a little put off. Have I said something wrong?"

She sends her apologetic glance to Lt. Graham, who is the one who deserves it--and who, she hopes, will step in before she errs again, before returning to the men. "I am terribly sorry if I did, though I--I cannot think what might have bothered you."

Nia raises an eyebrow and takes another look at the windows. "Huh, I see," she says noncommittally. Her eyes shift to take in Rawlings's reaction, then Mäkeläinen's--who seems no fool. Probably the cabbie's trying to gouge them. Wouldn't be the first time a local tried to bump the fare up for naive tourists.

"It's really too bad. I'd love to see this city from above. No way you can turn that off, huh? Seems a waste of a view. How high up do you cruise, usually?" She pats the port-side hull beside her. "And what's this baby capable of, speedwise?" She covers her mouth as she coughs, then once she gets control raises her voice again. "Sorry, I don't mean to backseat drive. It's just I'm a pilot myself."

Again she looks guiltily at Dr. M. as if saying Yeah I'm still blabbing away, I know. But he probably suspects the same thing she does. She murmurs to him, "You know if this is a metered or a flat fare? Feeling a little tired so I may've missed that."

"Starfleet!" Pell spits on the floor. "Feddy killers, that's what. I knew some of the guys on the Jaunty, and you killed 'em. Killed 'em! Get out of here. Get out of my sight!" The other two glare, and one of them stands, his right hand deep in one pocket.

The cabbie says, "No, I told you, it's busted. The windows. Sorry. But don't worry, I'll have you there in no time. It's not far now."

Graham raises his left hand disarmingly (keeping his right loose and free to reach for his phaser or flip the table, if need be). Notwithstanding the standing guy's ominous behavior, he holds Pell's eyes, betting the others will follow his lead. "Mr. Pell--we are indeed Starfleet. We get it, the wounds are raw, and we'll leave you alone." He pauses for just a moment. "I know you've no reason to trust us, but I will tell you that what I've heard about the incident so far, something does not sit right with me," he says evenly. "So much so I gave my word as an officer to the Portmaster I'd try to get to the bottom of what happened." Now his eyes go from Bill to the other two men and back again. "And if that means some fellow Feddy's are held accountable for what turns out to be the unjust and unnecessary deaths of your friends, neither Kylah nor I will back down from making that so."

As soon as the men turn hostile, especially the one reaching for what is undoubtedly a weapon, Kylah's first, heart-stopping thought is: Here is where it happens. She knew avoiding injury on a mission was too much to expect.

She just sits there, frozen and mortified, while Lt. Graham talks in his low, authoritative but not aggressive voice. Kylah nods weakly to all he says. Her own hands are flat on the table, ready to push herself up to flee.

"Yes," she says when Lt. Graham makes his promise. "He is right. We know nothing other than the bare fact that the Starfleet ship shot another. The Jaunty," she emphasizes, afraid of giving the impression that she thinks their friends are just anonymous victims on some meaningless vessel.

"We did think it disturbing when we first heard. If--if you could tell us about what happened, what you might know? About the crew--your friends--or its destination... really, anything. We are so deeply sorry for your losses," Kylah finishes earnestly, concentrating on each man to see if any one of them is at least partially swayed by Lt. Graham's and her responses. If someone seems amenable to persuasion, she will focus on him. "And if we can help investigate what caused this tragedy, we will."

Her mind races back to yesterday morning, or her watches over the past few days. Did she read or hear anything in various communications messages or news briefs about this incident? She does not think so, but she searches her memory anyway.

"Gotcha, the're broken," Nia says, laugh-coughing as cheerfully as she can manage through her physical--and now mental--discomfort. "Well, I'm still curious about how far up we are. Your altimeter's not broken too, is it?"

Even as she speaks, seemingly care-free, her gaze darts around the inside of the passenger area, or anything she can see of the cabbie's dashboard. In particular she's looking for any ID, either of the pilot (such as his name or license) or the registry/serial number of the vehicle. There's certainly no obvious reason to be wary--after all, usually a broken shipboard light is just a broken shipboard light. But she doesn't like not getting easy answers to questions any pilot should know, especially one who deals with tourists.

Force of habit. If the cautious, savvy Doc M. isn't worried, and Double-T's security-focused mind doesn't seem concerned, she's probably overthinking this.

But she can't ignore the fact that time's not on her side. If this cabbie's a mercenary guy who plans to take the scenic route to drive up their fare, Nia doesn't care about the extra credits or whatever the local money is. The extra minutes, though? They matter. They matter a lot.

Dr. Mäkeläinen is paying close attention to whether the taxi begins descending or not. He hopes the driver has not decided to, well, take them for a ride, because if it comes to a dispute they have zero cards to play compared to a local. For that matter, he would just as soon pay a few extra monits, with or without a smit of pro forma argument, leaving the cabbie satisfied at having got one over on them, if it means avoiding more trouble.

Nia is not feeling well and he can tell she is starting to get irritated, he promised Lt. Graham to report back soonest, and time is of the essence. He tells the driver, "We know it's not far; it's just that some people are expecting us at the bar and we are already late." Hopefully the cabbie has enough of an imagination to admit the possibility they just might be connected to someone who matters. "If you can get us there quick," he deliberately glances at the taximeter, assuming such is visible, or at least attempts to look over the controls knowingly, "let us say an extra ten percent for a short trip?"

Pell seems somewhat mollified. He takes a long pull from his drink and grunts, not looking at you, "Talk is cheap. Just beat it, would you? And if you can get some justice for those poor bastards on the Jaunty, so much the better. Go on, git." Grend, the standing man, is watching Graham closely, but takes no further action.

Onn can see no identifiers within the taxi cabin, on the dashboard or elsewhere, either of the taxi itself or the cabbie. He says cheerily, "Yup, almost there!" as the taxi banks sharply and then descends. It comes to a stop with a slight bump. The cabbie puts the vehicle in park and the windows clear. You are now at the curb of the Black Sun, which is in a black, near-ruined but sizable thermocrete pile with its name in zig-zagging purple hololights over the doorway. On one side is a storefront for Wo & Shade, Importers, and on the other a temple-brothel of the Secret Sisterhood. The cabbie taps his chin and says, "That'll be, let's see, three of you... 120 monits, with the extra ten percent, uh, so that's 132 monits."

What appears to be a body lies partially buried in snow to the left side of the door of the bar. Another, smaller body, uncovered by snow, is beside it.

Graham nods and stands slowly, eyes on Grend, betting that Pell's not full of shit and likely to contradict his words and do anything rash.

He'll move away from the table assuming and once Kylah is ready to do so.

With a wary look at Grend, and a quick confirming glance toward Lt. Graham, Kylah eases herself off the stool. "I am very sorry to have disturbed your enjoyment," she says with sincere regret. About to turn, she hesitates.

"If you please, Mr. Pell--any of you--we truly know nothing about the Jaunty or your friends, or what could possibly have happened. Is there someone we ought to talk to? Someone who knew their business, their activities... anything that might help us understand how this tragedy might have occurred? You see..." She pauses for a second. "If we just rely on the Port Authority, or Starfleet's accounts... we will not get a full picture. I think we should get a balanced account from both sides, to the degree we can. Do you know who might be able to help us?"

If he refuses to respond or can offer no further help, Kylah will thank them and (gladly) return to Lt. Graham's side, to follow wherever he thinks they should go next. (Her gaze will also scan around the club to see if she can spot Velir.)

While the cabbie discusses the fare, he might as well be speaking.... one of the millions of languages Nia doesn't know, and that the UT doesn't translate for her. She assumes her crewmates know what the transaction should cost and the appropriate exchange rates, but that whole issue gets sucked into a black hole named Who the Fuck Cares when she lays her eyes on the two dead bodies right in front of us, what kind of dezorai acid-spit is the deal here?!

She lets Mäkeläinen deal with the money while she yanks her phaser from her belt, leaving it underneath her coat but keeping it handy. Without thinking she gets to her feet too quickly, her slowed circulation failing to make the adjustment fast enough. The resulting dizziness makes her sink back, practically on Rawlings's lap. Free hand clutching his arm, she murmurs an apology. "Sorry, T. Forgot my brain's running on fumes. I'm delegating this to you. You wanna do a spot check here?"

Turning to face the cabbie--more slowly to prevent another bout of lightheadedness--she interrupts any conversation the men are having to speak to the cabbie. "Mister--sorry, you don't have your name anywhere, which by the way, you should. There are two dead guys, or guys who look pretty damn dead, right there, and I can't help noticing you're not reacting. Is this..." Nia can hardly think of a sane way to finish the sentence. "Is this normal? What goes on in this place?"

Mäkeläinen pays off the cabbie with a knowing look. He can understand the man transparently looking after his own interests; the cabbie is unsurprisingly adept at quick mental arithmetic.

As a physician, and a Starfleet officer, he does not panic at the sight of dead bodies, but it was previously told what he thinks of the kind of place where they are carelessly abandoned outside a busy establishment. He has never yet personally dealt with people that (literally!) cutthroat, and he hopes their friends inside are coping successfully.

While Onn and Rawlings deal with security and talking to the cabbie, he goes ahead and scans the albeit very dead-looking corpses for life signs with a tricorder. If someone is not, in fact, completely dead he will naturally try to revive him or her.

Pell takes a long draw from his mug. He mutters, "Hell, the Portmaster'll know the score. If you don't get it from him, find anyone from the Zephyr. They know what happened for sure. Now beat it!"

Kylah thinks she may have spotted Rangin farther back in the bar, through the darkness and haze.

The cabbie glances at the bodies and shrugs. "To tell you the truth, ma'am, I hadn't noticed. But it's not too uncommon to have a stiff or three outside the Black Sun. It happens, y'know?" He still doesn't identify himself. "Good place to meet people, great place to find a ship, but not exactly a Telegraph Hill tea party."

Rawlings says quietly to Onn, "No problem, Lieutenant. You've got to take it easy. You're not all better yet." He helps her out of the cab and to her feet in the curbside slush and snow.

Dr. Mäkeläinen transfers the monits from his shared account to the cabbie, who confirms it, nods, and drives quickly away, still on the ground. A tricorder scan reveals that both of the bodies are dead - a Human male, already dead for several hours, and an Axanar male, dead apparently less than half an hour of apparent knife wounds.

After a hastily murmured "thank you" Kylah steps farther away from the men, keeping close to Lt. Graham. "I am sorry I made such a stupid blunder," she says, tiptoeing up to get closer to his ear. "I did not think of the fact that our crash would have made news. Do you think once we are back on the Yorktown we can investigate this Jaunty situation?"

She peers toward the back of the club. "I hope he is getting on better than I. Velir," she adds in explanation, realizing Lt. Graham cannot read her mind. "I will follow your lead--you are far better equipped to handle all this without stumbling."

Nia's about to ask what the hell a Telegraph Hill party is, but given the circumstances, she quashes her curiosity and lets it all roll off her back. Double-T's considerate assistance is just what she needs and, while the Doc checks the apparently very-dead bodies, she says a soft Thanks and squeezes Rawlings's hand gently before letting go. Hands shoved back in the fur-lined pockets, she shakes her head in disgust at the bodies, seemingly tossed out like refuse.

A sudden ripple of concern makes her shudder--a worse feeling than the shivering she's been dealing with for what feels like days--and she quickly checks her communicator. Nothing. Shit. Is something going on in there? Wondering if...no, hoping it's just her communicator having issues from being immersed in water for some time, she darts a look to Rawlings. "Try to contact the others, will you? I'm getting nothing back from Graham."

Nia turns back to Dr. Mäkeläinen and asks hoarsely, "That human. He's not..." She clears her throat. Of course it's not, but she has to ask. "He got an ID on him?"

Graham sighs. "You did fine. This is a hell of a situation, Mr. Kylah," he rumbles.

"Keep an eye out for Rangin--or anybody wanting to kill us. I've gotten notifications on my communicator I need to check."

Assuming he's not interrupted, he reads them...

Fuck.

And replies quickly to Lt. Onn if her can:

"We're in the Black Sun. Be advised Starfleet isn't popular."

Rawlings stays near Onn, ready to help and vigilant against any threats from others.

Dr. Mäkeläinen's tricorder scan does not indicate that either of the corpses have any items such as IDs on them. Does he wish to manually search either or both of the individuals' pockets?

Onn's communicator vibrates with an incoming text. She sees that it is from Graham.

Both Onn and Rawlings can surely see that the late individuals are beyond medical help. Dr. Mäkeläinen says, “I am loath to just leave them here, but I doubt we will find their caring friends and relatives inside. Since this seems to be a regular occurrence, surely someone will come by— judging by the ambience I would reckon organ harvesters for a black-market body bank, though if so they are pushing their luck in terms of freshness, despite the cold.” He makes little effort to mask his disgust. “They're dead, yet I would like to do something for them, but honestly do not know the protocol here.”

Unless he has some good ideas what form ID takes on Ollos— genetic database, surveillance-net, implants...— personal items might tell them something. He does not know whether it is respectful to go through their pockets (though probably unremarkable on Ollos; what would be remarkable is if someone has not beaten them to it), so he thinks, what if it were he lying here? He would want word to reach his family rather than just disappear into space for good. In his case, from the items he is carrying it would not take a forensic genius to identify him as a Starfleet officer. Therefore, he searches both men.

Lt. Graham's request for her to keep vigilance makes Kylah straighten--although her usual posture is, of course, already appropriate for a member of an Elasian royal house. She slips her hand into her coat to reach her phaser, then pulls it out surreptitiously. It might be more prudent to keep it hidden, but she does not have confidence in her ability to draw and aim a weapon efficiently, as someone like Lt. Graham would. Still, it is dark and crowded here, and Kylah doubts the weapon will be noticed if she keeps her hand by her side.

While looking around for Velir, she waits an appropriate moment before asking, "Is everything all right, sir? Is Lt. Onn still... What is her condition?"

Nia's hands are cold enough that it takes a second to realize her communicator is vibrating within her palm. She flips the device open and reads Booker's brief response. It's as if her lungs, having frozen, are melting and able to breathe again. To the degree they can breathe, anyway.

"They're inside," she says to herself, then speaks more loudly to forestall Rawlings's need to follow her order. "It's him. Graham. He's inside. Says Starfleet's not popular." Her mouth twists into a smile. "Is it ever? Sometimes feels like I can name on one hand the missions where we've been a sight for sore eyes." More sober, she bobs her head toward the club entrance. "You're always prepared, but I guess that's the official heads-up from your boss."

Nia watches Mäkeläinen searching. "We'll wait for you, once you've got an idea of who these poor guys are."

Kylah's question hits like a knife through the back of Graham's head.

Because she...because I didn't want to think about it, but she could have been gone.

He lets the moment of belayed grief and relief wash over him.

The last thing they need in this place, Ens. Kylah most of all, is a display of weakness.

Graham clears his throat. "She's giving orders, Mr. Kylah. On her way here." He swallows and forces a confident nod. "Let's not let her down."

The dead Human has what appears to be a communicator in his back left hip pocket, and three tightly-folded pages in his jacket's only chest pocket. The doctor does not know why his tricorder scan did not reveal the communicator. The Axanar male has no pockets and nothing on his person that Dr. Mäkeläinen can find.

The doors to the Black Sun open and a middle-aged Suliban woman merges, bundled up against the cold and blinking against the bright sunlight on the snow. She only glances at you and then starts to trudge down the street, weaving slightly as she goes.

Another groundcar passes, dark red and dented, crunching through the snow.

https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Suliban

Distracted by the Suliban woman's departure--Nia envies the various genetic enhancements made to their systems, especially the ability to tolerate multiple atmospheres, which doesn't seem a viable procedure for Sidonian biology--she quickly drags her concentration back where it belongs. "Find anything, Doc?"

She hugs herself and edges closer to the club door. She'd really like to get out of this frozen air, but Rawlings can't be split in two--there's enough bulk for two people, but that doesn't help--and Nia doesn't want to either enter this place on her own, or leave the doctor by himself out here in front of a pile of dead bodies. He might be arrested. Or, worse, he could be the newest addition to the heap.

"And how did they die, anyway? The same way? Same time? Is it consistent with a bar fight, or... well, whatever might've happened in there?"

The words are out of her mouth when she rolls her eyes at how slow her mind is working. Taking another look at her communicator, she types:

BOOK - Right by club. Doc's investigating but maybe you know what happened. What's with the corpse trash pile? We walking into an abattoir? Is it safe for me to enter on my own, leave Rawlings w/Doc?

Graham checks his communicator, staying mindful to maintain awareness of his surroundings.

"Toward the door," he grunts to Kylah as he sees Onn's message.

"Rough place but under control ATM. We're moving toward the door, we'll have your back" he texts back unless interrupted.

"A communicator and some papers." Is it a special type of communicator that he recognizes as associated with a specific group? Dr. Mäkeläinen holds them up so that Nia can see. The paper—if that is what it is—pages intrigue him: an uncommon material. The contents are potentially their best clue.

"They did not die at the same time," he explains. "This man, the Axanar, is barely cold. Stabbed several times with a sharp knife. Could have been a bar fight. The other one has been dead for several hours, at least.

"Beyond the bare facts, what happened is probably not too much of a mystery as it is safe to assume most everyone inside is lethally armed. We are," he points out, looking at Rawlings who looks ready for action with a phaser or otherwise. "I don't think anyone will simply kill us without warning or provocation, and most of the crowd should be hard-working officers and crew just trying to relax and pass the time, but I would lying if I said I ever walked into a bar where corpses are a regular part of the décor."

The Suliban woman continues down the street and passes out of sight. Rawlings remains alert, but keeps his phaser-1 in his pocket.

No one interrupts Graham and Kylah as they head back towards the front door. Rangin is apparently still somewhere farther inside the dark, smoky, cavernous bar.

Dr. Mäkeläinen doesn't recognize this type of communicator, but is certain it isn't Starfleet issue, and thinks it may not be of Federation manufacture at all.

Too cold to wait any longer, Nia nods her chin in the direction of the papers Dr. Mäkeläinen's holding. "Not that you need it, but you've both officially got permission to open those and read 'em. I'd also like to know a cause of death, if you have an inkling."

She takes a step closer to the door and pauses, adding: "We've got no jurisdiction here, especially if he's not even a Fed citizen, but let's gather the info and hopefully we'll find somebody to hand it to. Anyone resembling a law officer or crimestopper or whatever they call it here."

Nia glances back at Rawlings. "Stick with the Doc until he finishes with the exam. Hopefully those papers'll offer some clue as to who this guy is. Then get inside where it's warm. Graham says he's on his way to meet up."

Just as she takes a breath, a blast of icy wind blows her hair in her face and freezes her nostrils and lungs with frigid air. She sweeps her tight curls back and tries to catch her breath. Despite moving to the entry to abandon the outdoors, she draws her coat even closer to her. She'll pause to see if the Doctor has something urgent to say, but otherwise will happily escape inside whatever this gaudily lit circle of hell might be.

Kylah can sense Lt. Graham's urgency and does her best to scan the immediate area with her gaze to see if anyone is approaching in a suspicious manner. Her mind, meanwhile, also scans empathically, trying to be just as focused on the emotions of the clubgoers in order to catch any signs of open hostility.

She wishes very much that she could seek out Velir through all these chaotic surroundings, since--at least lately--he is a calming influence on her. But this far away, and because of all these distractions, she knows it is pointless to try. So she restrains the impulse and tries to do her job as Lt. Graham wishes.

Dr. Mäkeläinen tells Lt. Onn about any obvious cause of death he has already learned from his quick examination of the dead Human, like more stab wounds or a slit throat or burns from an energy weapon, or something that would have shown up on a routine tricorder scan, such as cellular disruption or lethal (rather than recreational) levels of drugs or toxins, or a mundane heart attack or stroke. Otherwise he says, "I have to take a closer look at him. Everything is well preserved by the cold, so unless he truly died from mysterious causes, we should be able to find something. It will take a few minutes, though. No point in you waiting outside."

About the papers found on the body, he says to Rawlings and to Onn if she is still outside listening, "Agreed we should look at the papers. I would prefer to do it someplace less... conspicuous. Then we can regroup inside the bar." He looks doubtfully at the shady importers and the brothel (though the latter probably has some private rooms, for their own purposes). Is there any place nearby that seems out of sight, even an alley as long as it is not adjacent to the Black Sun?

Rawlings says to Onn, "Yes, ma'am." He sees an alley just a little way down the street, nothing better, and he and Dr. Mäkeläinen go there.

Onn enters the bar and is looked over by the two hulking bouncers; they let her pass. She sees, hears and smells much of what the others earlier did upon their entry. After a few seconds, she also notices Graham and Kylah emerging from the gloom, making their way through the crowd towards her.

Kylah notices no one approaching in a suspicious manner. She does see Onn, however, outlined by the light of the closing main doors. The young Elasian woman's empathic senses, when she extends them, are immediately assaulted by a wave of psi impressions from those around her - most powerfully drunkenness, disorientation, lust, sneakiness, barely-suppressed rage, envy, wariness, fatigue, and too many others to count. She almost feels overwhelmed; it is hard to tell if any of it is directed at her or her shipmates.

The flooding emotions temporarily risk overwhelming the young woman. Kylah looks around in a vain attempt to focus on those that are most likely in need of attention, but the clamor in her mind cannot easily be dissected into individual sources. When she spots the new figure in the doorway, recognition disperses her concentration entirely, then coalesces it on one person.

Since she is a little weak from the empathic usage, she suspects her voice alone will not be sharp enough to pierce the chaotic noise and catch Lt. Graham's attention. Instead her fingers reach to curl gently around his wrist.

"Sir," she says to him. "The doorway." Eyeing his face, she suspects her announcement may have been unnecessary.

After the bright, frozen daylight, the club's darkness and warm atmosphere hit Nia like a wall. But that's nothing, not even a fraction, of the impact of seeing Booker Graham.

Until this instant, she didn't realize just how much she's vastly underestimated the miracle that she survived to see dawn. She didn't expect to see it, and naturally it was a sincere relief to do so, to see Double-T and Dr. Mäkeläinen. And sunlight. And snow.

But she hadn't said goodbye to any of them. She cares deeply for Double-T, of course, and despite only just meeting him the other day, she respects and likes Dr. M. Still, after seeing them for the last time last night, she hadn't had a thousand, a million regrets about having wasted precious time with the certain knowledge that she'd never get a chance to say all she wanted to. She hadn't cried over them. She hadn't dreamt of parting from them forever.

All she's missed in her life, the children she birthed and never saw, the battle in Sidonia for the right of self-determination from which she fled, and especially the shared vulnerability of love she's avoided acknowledging and never expressed--it's all made manifest in the man ahead of her. The one who stands out in sharp relief from everyone else around him, making them into inconsequential blurs.

Nia is both figuratively and literally breathless.

Disregarding the flashing lights, thumping music and inebriated crowd members blocking her way, Nia uses all her considerable determination to stumble forward to get to Booker.

Dr. Mäkeläinen watches Lt. Onn disappear into the bar.

He hopes nobody is paying attention to him and Rawlings. Once they are off the street and in the alley, he says, "I still think that, on the balance of probabilities, we are doing the right thing trying to find out who that poor chiel was, but, even so, this is no way to conduct a forensic investigation." He foresees a lot of explaining to do, no matter what happens. "Please, keep an eye out for a minute while I take a look."

Mäkeläinen carefully unfolds the pages they found and examines them.

Kylah's touch is unexpected but immediately welcome as it dials his attention in on...Nia.

She's alive. That's a flood of relief.

But she does not look...well at all. Least of all ready to navigate this hellhole safely.

Graham is sincerely uncomfortable with what he's heard about the Jaunty incident.

At the same time a phaser tuned to maximum output could blow the hell out of half this establishment, and if any means necessary become necessary...he starts processing the angles while he reacts.

He gives Kylah's arm a squeeze. "With me, Ensign."

And heads toward Nia, face expressing his state of mind.

Nearly swamped by the psi undertow before she refocuses on Onn, Kylah is unable to focus her senses well enough to determine who might most likely be in need of attention. She does not sense any immediate danger, however.

Rawlings says, "Understood, Doctor." Neither of you see anyone close by, however. Dr. Mäkeläinen unfolds the three tightly-folded pages. They are cheap and thin, and appear, in the bright winter sun, to be entirely blank, front and back.

In a few moments, Onn, Graham and Kylah are face to face near the entryway to the bar. One of the big Tellarite guards seems to notice the phaser-1 in Kylah's hand. He frowns but says nothing.

Nia stares at Booker as if she's seeing a ghost. But she's the ghost in this scenario. The Walking Not-Quite-Dead. She blinks a few times, feeling grit in her eyes as if tears, those incredibly rare tears, might actually fall as they did last night.

"Book," she says, her voice soft. Maybe too soft for the environment. Her hand lifts and reaches tenderly, disbelievingly, towards his cheek, but one instant of a touch is all she allows herself before drawing back. First, her fingers are freezing cold and it can't have been pleasant for him. Second, she's just noticed Kylah beside him and this abruptly reminds Nia that she's Booker's commanding officer.

But she's still weak and she does lean on his arm to maintain balance among the crowd jostling around them, just long enough to steady herself. What does she need to ask? She blinks again, feeling numb and stupid, before she remembers and blurts, "A ship. What's the status? Did you find one?" After a hesitation, she adds with a desperate edge, "Did you get us transport out of here?"

Though she refuses to put voice to the most pertinent question, Nia's intense eyes betray her trust and confidence in Booker Graham as they search his gaze and ask what is unspoken: You'll save me... won't you?

Wonderful, thinks Dr. Mäkeläinen. He was not expecting the man to have been carrying letters patent in his pocket, but was hoping for at least a name or two. Still holding the thin sheets [he is still wearing winter gloves, right? :) ] he subjects them to a close-range intense scan from his medical tricorder, just in case there are any traces of ink or other residue, and also to try to identify the composition of the pages themselves.

After he is finished scanning and saving the results, he folds the pages back the way he found them. "Thanks," he says to Rawlings. "I think that is all we are going to get out of these papers outside a lab. Let's go back and finish with the body, see if we can confirm the cause of death. Then I'll buy you a drink."

'Nia..."

Graham's tone - like hers - is hardly "crisp Starfleet professional."

He forces himself to hold her eyes, wanting to turn away because of his answer.


He can't help but grunt, then exhale a breath. "Negative so far. Two strikes."

He scowls then adds "Terran sports metaphor...but, in the game...you get three."

So we - she - has got one more chance.

"Hey..." he addresses the Tellarite bouncers. "You see everyone who comes in here, and I'd bet you overhear a lot too. We're looking for someone with a ship for hire. Any pointers? 50 monits in it."

Noticing the bouncer's grim eye at her phaser, Kylah lowers it slightly, though she mostly tries to barricade her mind from the powerful, painful emotions blasting at her from the two nearby colleagues--her colleagues, that is; the man and woman are still clearly more than that to one another, even if not romantically involved. Kylah nearly turns her head to look away, given the unspoken intimate bond they share. But something keeps her riveted.

Lt. Onn's face briefly slackens with evident despair when Lt. Graham gives her the unwelcome news, but her calm mask returns. It is not as successful as usual. While the Security Officer speaks to the bouncer, Kylah makes an attempt to engage Lt. Onn. "It is very good to see you looking so well, ma'am." When the older woman's eyebrow raises, Kylah hurries on. "I mean, comparatively, after last night. How are you feeling? The doctor told us there is a new medication that is helping you?"

The Lieutenant does not immediately answer, and Kylah touches her hand, much as she did Lt. Graham's. The chill shocks her, and at once she cringes inwardly. "Oh, you are freezing--I cannot think why I did not give you gloves along with the coat! Here," she blurts, pulling the mittens from her pocket and shaking her head in consternation. "These will help a little. I am so sorry."

She tries to listen to both the C.O. and the answer to Lt. Graham's question.

Dr. Mäkeläinen's tricorder scan shows that the paper is impregnated with some kind of unidentified dried organic substance.

Rawlings grunts, nods and leads the way back down the street to the front door of the Black Sun.

One of the Tellarite bouncers thinks for a moment and says to Graham, "Here? Maybe you'll want to talk to Mendu. She might be able to help you. Give me the monits, and I'll take you to her table."

Before they go in, Dr. Mäkeläinen makes a final attempt to identify what the human died of, and whether any of the organic substance is on his clothes or body. He is at the limit of what is plausibly in the scope of an emergency medical examination, but he hangs on to the rest of the evidence (the strange communicator and the blank pages) for now.

It's hard to keep from crumpling when Booker shares the news. Nia's not ten seconds from going comatose, but her hope and strength are fragile, and it won't take much more disappointment to break them. But after a few seconds she gathers her composure, or tries to. Book's doing his best. His intense regret and obvious concern make her heart turn over.

Now Kylah's making small talk, which she ignores at first. Suddenly the girl's yanking some fuzzy things out of her pocket and, practically grabbing Nia's hands, stuffs first her left, then the right (which was holding her medication case, but Nia managed to put it down in time), into a rather large but blissfully warm pair of fur-lined mittens. Nia stares down at Kylah, feeling strangely like a little child being dressed by a fussy parent, and simultaneously like a mother whose daughter's trying to playact that scenario.

A moment in time, months ago, pushes itself to her consciousness: another time she, Booker and Kylah were together in a desperate attempt to fix a bad situation. When the Elasian girl had a panic attack during a self-defense lesson. Back then it was Book and Nia who were the ones trying to help, and Kylah in distress. Nia remembers with a stab of longing how comfortable and content she felt with Booker, partnering that way. Parenting that way.

And she'd thought something similar might actually happen with them in the future. Pathetic.

"Thanks," she says hoarsely, curling her mittened hands together. The ensign seems pleased by the gratitude, and Nia feels a flash of guilt over the resentment she's felt towards her. It's not Kylah's fault she was foisted onto the Tesla by higher-ups, instead of another engineer who might've made up for Nia's incompetence in... doing whatever it is she did--or failed to do--that utterly fucked up the prized shuttle.

Looking at the bouncer, who's answering Booker now, she continues somewhat distractedly. "Um, yeah, they created this temporary substitute at the hospital." Wary of exacerbating her dizziness, she slowly bends to pick up the case and frowns at it. "I... actually don't know the name. Stupid of me. The thing's a miracle. Temporary, but a miracle," she adds with more confidence than she's feeling.

"How I am is, I'm better. Vertical is better than horizontal. Sometimes." Realizing the joke isn't quite Kylah's style, she hurries on. "And you have no reason to apologize. The coat's fantastic and the mittens... I really appreciate them. Um, not sure what the heck this... skin-tight green thing is you got me. Clingy enough to see my scales--"

Nia belatedly notices that Kylah's wearing a very similar outfit, in black, and only slightly thicker material. "Guess it's basically an overstretched version of what you've got on. I forgot your different, uh, culture." She ends with a smile, though, before whipping her head back to Booker and the bouncer.

"Thanks," she blurts to the latter, not knowing exactly what he said but having gleaned it's something positive. Shuddering, she pulls her coat more tightly around her. The club's much warmer but nothing seems to get to the rock-hard cold that's running through her very marrow. Nia waits for the men to lead the way.

Gratified that Lt. Onn found her clothing useful, Kylah pays attention to the other woman's emotions, which seem to be vacillating a great deal. Normally she would not be quite so intrusive, but the truth is, focusing on one person's mind makes it easier to turn the crowded roomful of chaotic feelings into emotional white noise.

She looks down at her outfit just as Lt. Onn comments wryly on it. To her a bodysuit like this is, well, covering her whole body. It is quite modest. But, as Lt. Onn says,they are from different cultures. And it is true, in retrospect, that Kylah was not able to find a similar ski insulating suit in anything other than her own size. Which would of course be far too small.

After the Lieutenant thanks the bouncer, Kylah does also. Then she scowls and glances up worriedly at the older woman. Why is she here alone? What has happened to the doctor and Mr. Rawlings? Oh, I knew we should not split up, she frets, still aware that she has no idea where Velir is, either.

Dr. Mäkeläinen's tricorder scan reveals that the corpse is that of a Human male, about 40, who seems to have frozen to death at least six or seven hours ago. There are very faint trace readings of the organic substance on his fingertips.

"So?" the bouncer says. "Do you want to meet Mendu, or not?"

Graham nods to the bouncer. "I'd be much obliged," he replies, giving the big Tellarite his promised monits.

Kylah does not know who Mendu is--she was not able to divide her attention as hoped--but if Lt. Graham is willing, she of course assumes this is the correct path to get them started back to the Yorktown.

She offers an encouraging nod to Lt. Onn, but hesitates. "The others, ma'am?" she adds, trying to remind her senior officers that half the party is absent. "Do you wish me to wait for them? Are they near?"

Nia's requires a longer reaction time than usual, but when Kylah's question reaches her, she looks carefully (to avoid vertigo) over her shoulder. "The others... they're right outside. Dealing with--oh shit, I forgot to ask--dealing with a couple of corpses out front. The Doc was gonna look at their ID, see what the cause of death was, that sorta thing. Gotta say I found it kinda shocking to see what the club tosses out with the trash," she adds dryly. "But now that I'm inside... not so surprised now. It looks like that sort of place."

She takes a step to follow Booker, then pauses. "If you can stay in one place and not budge from near here, yes. Tell Dr. M. and Rawlings to--hold on, just a second." Nia suddenly casts a quick gaze over the crowd. "Where's Rangin got to?"

Dr. Mäkeläinen finishes up and indicates to Ens. Rawlings that he is ready to go inside. He keeps the dead man's effects with him, out of sight.

The Tellarite bouncer accepts his payment and begins to lead Lt. JG Booker Graham farther back into the cavernous bar, heading more or less to the left.

Ens. Rawlings nods and goes back into the Black Sun with Dr. Mäkeläinen. Not far from the Tellarite bouncer just inside, you can see Lt. Onn and Ens. Kylah talking earnestly, and beyond them, Graham and another large Tellarite walking away from you.

There is no sign of Lt. JG Rangin.

"I do not know where he is, exactly," Kylah responds to Lt. Onn. "But he was looking for a prospective ship for us, just as we are. No doubt he is... somewhere in the back." She frowns, disappointed that she still cannot see Velir. She decides it is time to let him know the others have arrived, and pulls out her communicator. "I shall contact him."

But first she gets a glimpse of the late-arriving pair of crewmates, not surprisingly thanks to the significant height--and breadth--of Ens. Rawlings. The doctor is less obvious, but of course she sees him as well, and raises a hand to catch their attention. "Mr. Rawlings could toss the bouncer around," she comments lightly to Lt. Onn. "I wonder how they would deal with him if he tried to make trouble. Not that he would."

Even as she speaks, she rapidly taps out a note:

VELIR - The others have shown up, with Lt. Onn too. Have you found any prospects? We have had poor luck--there are very bad feelings about Starfleet so please be careful. I am sending a text rather than audio to be circumspect. Can you meet us? I do not believe it is safe to be separated for long. -- KYLAH

After sending the text, she keeps the device in her hand but ignores it, turning to see how Lt. Onn is doing. "The note has been sent. To L--Mr. Rangin," she says quietly, not wishing to announce any ranks that might identify them as Starfleet.

Nia flashes a grateful look at both of her arriving companions, if only because it means she doesn't have to worry about leaving Kylah to fend for herself, which... hasn't always worked out so well.

"Thanks," she says to the younger woman. "For contacting Rangin. And let me know if you hear anything. I'm gonna follow Booker. You guys come with us, but hang back just in case it's not a good idea to overwhelm this... mystery person. Whoever they are."

Nia navigates her way to follow Booker, glad for the warmth of the club and its crowd, but also feeling a little stifled too. She takes deep breaths, though it's more habitual, instinctive, than all that helpful. How often can I take this med? she wonders, trying to recall if Dr. M. gave her the timing of doses. Then she banishes all thought of time, because it's an enemy right now and no shields or phasers can defend against it.

Dr. Mäkeläinen approaches the two women. "Good to see all of you in one piece," he says to Kylah. "Any luck?" he asks quietly, indicating Lt. Graham, who appears to be heading off to conduct some business. He hangs back with the rest as Lt. Onn moves to follow him.

Kylah soon gets a text response: Yes, thanks, obvious Starfleet unpopular here. Three ships obviously unsuitable for us, I've learned. Checking on one or two others now. Stand by, please. RANGIN.

Graham is led by the bouncer, with Onn not far behind, to the left rear of the bar. Onn is struck by the noise, smells and crowdedness of the bar as she goes. Sitting in a corner booth, with a large Human bodyguard standing nearby, is the smallest, oldest Kressari female either of the Starfleet officers has ever seen. The wizened alien is wearing too much makeup, and is in an incongruous yellow dress with a very large, swooping collar. She gestures at two seats to her left. The Tellarite bouncer leaves you to it.

https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki/Kressari

The tightness in her chest--which Kylah did not even know was there--relaxes when she sees the text from Velir, despite his revealing that he, too, has not been able to fulfill their objective. She cannot help prioritizing his welfare, even while she fears for whatever might happen with Lt. Onn.

"Unfortunately we have been unable to find a ship yet," she says in answer to Dr. Mäkeläinen, closing the communicator, then looks back up at him. "That was Ensign--I mean, Lt. Rangin. It is a relatively new promotion," she explains a little shyly. "He has had no luck either. I originally thought we should separate to search for help, but things are somewhat more... fraught... than I realized. Any mention of our Starfleet status seems to close down discussion. I do not like having to hide or get aboard a ship under false pretenses, but--that might be necessary. Albeit dangerous if we should subsequently be found out mid-journey."

She looks from Dr. Mäkeläinen to Ens. Rawlings. "Please, you are more experienced than I. Whatever you think, I will follow your lead." Then she looks down at the doctor's medical tricorder. "Oh! I should have asked. Did you find anything about the men out there? One of them..." Kylah blinks, haunted by the awful memory. "The Axanar. He was killed right in front of us. And no one cared. No one did a thing."

With a sideways glance toward Booker, basically meant to impart What the ever-lovin' fuck is this setup supposed to be?, Nia hesitantly nods her thanks to the Kressari and takes a seat. She thinks she caught the name but isn't 100% sure--Merdu, Mendu, something like that.

Rather than risking insult she tries to go for tact. "Thank you for letting us to speak with you, ma'am." Her eyes flicker up toward the human bodyguard, wondering if he's supposed to be addressed as well. Usually not, but who knows with other cultures. Nia's never met anyone from the Kressari race and has no clue about them, other than identifying one.

So she just gives the silent human a tiny smile before shifting her gaze to Booker. He knows the lay of the land in this dive better than she does. Nia figures it best to let him do the talking unless he indicates otherwise.

“We are told an occasional body or two is not an uncommon sight in front of this place, ” says Mäkeläinen. “I'm afraid his attacker did for him. He was already dead by the time we arrived. The other man, the human... nothing conclusive. No sign of toxins or injuries. As far as I can tell, he froze to death. Just who he was, and how he came to be unconscious outside, well, something is queer about the whole thing. We must pass on our findings to a competent authority, or what passes for one in this city, ideally before someone makes off with the corpse.

“Does highlight that we should stick together. For our business here, there is no reason Starfleet needs to come into it. We're not in uniform. The monits are coming directly from us, not Starfleet. We keep it a simple, straightforward transaction, and there will be no need to lie about anything. The pilot will not need to hear our entire life stories.”

Mendu, the old Kressari female, nods slowly and says, in a small and scratchy voice and in poor Federation Standard, "Hear you need ship. Where going?"

Kylah nods her agreement. "Yes, we ought not to share any information of our...'affiliation' too quickly. Although..." She takes a quick glance around to make sure she's not speaking too loudly to be noticed; when she continues, her enthusiasm diminishes. "That may be difficult once we find a vessel and attempt to board. I would imagine even the most rudimentary security practices would require a scan for weapons or undesirable belongings. Our phasers, communicators, uniforms will give us away eventually. Do you not think so?"

The news of the poor unknown man, frozen and lying outside, disturbs her. "Did he have nothing with him? Identification, money, nothing? Did it seem as if he had been robbed? I do not doubt that your determination was correct, Doctor. I just meant, perhaps things were taken after he died. No doubt the authorities will attend to this, as you say. I just... to lie there without a name, like disposed cargo from a ship. It is so..." Kylah cannot think of word and shrugs helplessly.

Graham glances at Nia as she diplomatically greets Mendu, then returns the Kressari woman's nod.

With just the slightest, slow lean forward, he replies "Cavinre system."

Kylah voiced just what he was thinking. Lying there... perhaps the men outside, whatever their past sins, have someone who cares for them? Who will soon be wondering why they have not come home, what blind fate was theirs? Mäkeläinen says, "It is not pleasant to contemplate what these people must see on a regular basis to inure them to something like that. Perhaps, though, while hating Starfleet may be the popular sentiment du jour on the local media, people that hard-boiled are likely to be mercenary enough when it comes to a straightforward business mission. And they must know Starfleet officers are nothing like the true villains they deal with all the time. There is no bounty on our heads. I freely admit, however, I have no experience dealing with men who will literally stab someone in the back. We had better be vigilant, and perhaps we shall be safer going with a lone pilot than on a large freighter where we are outnumbered, if we have a choice."

Checking again that nobody is obviously listening in, he continues, "We did not find much outside. It is surprising the bodies themselves were still there. If they were robbed, the thieves weren't thorough. The human had a foreign communicator, and even stranger papers, impregnated with a chemical substance but not visible ink. Is that something you have heard of? Seems like enough to make a preliminary identification, if we only had the right knowledge. Not to mention, someone, or some computer, will probably recognize him, and also the man you saw killed. It seems foolish to brazenly ask about them in here, however."

The doctor's thoughts about the potential concerns of their Starfleet status being discovered are rational and reassuring. He reminds Kylah somewhat of Dr. T'Var, in some ways, although of course he is not a Vulcan and is not nearly as impenetrable as his colleague.

His mention of these substance-coated papers catches her off-guard--immediately triggering thoughts drawn from the combination of her communications training and the endless lessons from her Uncle about encryption and secrecy.

"I wonder if the paper contains information written in--well, I believe a common term would be 'invisible ink.'" Her voice, though still quiet, grows more animated as she delves into a subject that for once is entirely in her bailiwick. "In professional espionage, the most secure encryption method is to use one code or compound to create the message, paired with only one item--a unique one--to reveal it. The equivalent of an old-fashioned 'one-time pad' cipher. There is simply no way to solve or crack it without the single...key..."

Hesitating, she flushes and is glad the club is dark. This is, of course, precisely the method she uses with Uncle Aldaan. She frowns for a second before continuing.

"But... that presumes a great level of sophistication, and that might not be the case here. One can create rudimentary invisible messages quite easily. Why, even something as simple as lemon juice would work, and is common. Lemons contain carbon compounds that are essentially colorless, so one just needs to paint a message with it, and it would be invisible until one applies a low level of heat, which breaks down the--"

Suddenly aware that she is perhaps too engaged in the topic, she shakes her head and smiles in embarrassment at both Dr. Mäkeläinen and Ens. Rawlings. "Forgive me, this is likely dull. All I mean to say is, such a message will turn brown if warmed. A light bulb or candle. Or the lowest setting of a phaser, probably. Even one of your medical instruments." Kylah tilts her head in curiosity. "Could the substance simply be juice?"

Mendu nods thoughtfully. "Hmm. Cavinre. Long way. Some options, though. Maybe ship for you; maybe more than one." She picks up and consults a datapad, then looks back at Graham, and then Onn. "How much you pay for such information?"

Kylah notices Rangin emerging from the dark at the back of the bar, coming towards you. He is not running, but is walking quickly. He has a bruise on one cheek and his collar is roughly torn. She has an immediate and strong psi impression from him: a mix of anger, fear and shame.

Nia tries not to frown but her attention shifts to Booker for a second, then looks back. "We can pay whatever you'd usually charge. But... sorry, I'm not too sharp today... do you mean payment for the information, or the trip?" Her heart's beating faster with impatience and she tries to calm down, since the more upset she gets the more energy she expends, and that'll cost her. "Ma'am, please, I don't mean to be disrespectful but we're in a hurry. I thought you were a captain yourself. How many intermediaries is this gonna take?"

Graham puts a steadying hand on Nia's arm. "What my colleague is getting at," he says in a low, slow, confident voice, "is that we have no problem meeting or beating going rates." He leans a little bit forward and raises an eyebrow. "But the payoff for us is bigger the faster we get there..." He leans back a little bit. "And we are willing to share the upside with anyone who helps make that happen." He releases Nia's arm and spreads his hands. "Present company included."

Mäkeläinen is still talking to Kylah when he sees the roughed-up-looking officer approaching. He is taken aback and is about to ask Rangin whether he is all right, but refrains because, one, he does not look so badly hurt that he needs medical attention, and two, it would be a rather stupid question.

Nia closes her eyes for a second to still her thoughts and movements, even though her real problem is that soon she'll be too damn still. Booker's hand on her arm is both a well-timed warning and a comfort. She's not sure which she needs more.

She glances at him--not gratefully or ungratefully; not really with much of anything except conflict. She knows she should delegate leadership to him now. He's already the brains and brawn of the mission. Well, Double-T's probably more the brawn. Why am I thinking about that?

That much, Nia can answer: Because what else can she do without screaming? This old fossil's taking her time and I don't have the same amount in the vault she has.

Look at her. How old even is she? Back home, Nia'd probably look like that if by some miracle she made it to 45. Irony: Her mother urged her to leave to spare her the typical early death of Sidonian women. Now it turns out her life expectency's shorter off-planet. Sweet mother of us all, Book made the right choice.

Inside the fuzzy mittens, Nia's hands ball into impossibly tight fists. It really is lucky he's beside her. She's ready to jump on the table and shout "Anyone with a ship here who'd like a couple thousand credits, and/or a real good time, to get me off this frozen rock?"

In fact, she's not entirely clear on why that'd be a bad idea. But it must be or it would've been tried long before the six teamed back up. Probably not the "real good time" part, because no way would Booker allow Kylah to trade anything so much as a hair from her head. But the money, he would've tried if the atmosphere was right.

But if things are dicey in this club--and given the apparently growing pile of bodies outside, they seem to be--Nia's shouting crazy offers like that is likely a very, very bad idea. She can risk herself but she absolutely will not do a thing to put anyone in harm's way. More than I already have.

Nia bites down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. She quickly stares down at the table, counts to five, and gets herself together so when she tilts her head back up she doesn't look like a desperate psycho strapped to a ticking bomb.

Except that's what she is. And each beat of her heart is a second closer to time's up.

Kylah's lips part as she stares in alarm at her injured colleague--friend. The lurch of her heart seems like it is choking her.

"Velir!" she whispers, then moves quickly toward him, pushing aside anyone she needs to--and is capable of pushing. Unlike Lt. Onn's behavior toward Lt. Graham--refusing to touch him--Kylah does not hesitate to reach out her hands, hoping he'll clasp them, or let her steady his arms. Anything she can do to help.

"Oh Velir," she says in distress, peering into his eyes, then his bruises and torn clothes. She longs to reach to touch his brow, to brush away his disheveled hair. But instinctively she refrains. She knows he is proud and not fond of being pitied. In private, perhaps. Not here. Hopefully he will at least let her comfort him. "What happened? Dr. Mäkeläinen is right back there, let me take you to him."

Mendu wheezes a dry laugh. "No captain, I. But I know them here, all of them. No other 'intermediaries,' no. I put you in touch, direct. Yes." She looks from Onn to Graham. "Let's say... 1000 monits for information, four possible ships. You hire any, another 1000 monits. Deal?"

Rangin looks, for just a moment, like he might fall into Kylah's arms, but Dr. Mäkeläinen's presence seems to bring him up short. He takes a deep breath and then tells you both, in a low voice which you can barely hear over the noise of the bar, "I was asking around for a ship off this rock. I had some leads... some good possibilities. Still do. But a roughneck from the Four Little Diamonds took a dislike to me. He said something, then he attacked me. We fought and... I killed him." He looks straight at Kylah with haunted eyes. "I killed him. I had no choice. It happened too quickly. It was him or me." Kylah can sense the torment pouring off him like the crashing of waves.

Mäkeläinen has never been a Federation zealot; there are plenty of things wrong with it and valid criticisms of it, but he cannot help but feel solidarity with his crewmate, presumably assaulted merely for being a Starfleet officer.

Then Lt. Rangin mentions killing someone in a fight.

Two things immediately occur to Bizhi. "Are his friends after you right now, looking for payback? Looking for the rest of us? We may need to get away from here, immediately." After a beat, he adds, "Are you sure he's dead? I must try to help him, if there is any chance." At his peril, if the crowd figures out who he is. Perhaps if he played up his Martian accent, as opposed to Federation Standard? But, on the off chance someone did recognize it, it would not be hard to put two and two together.

Kylah stares into Velir's eyes as he relates the story, gasping when he mentions the attack. Then, his emotions flooding toward her, she hears him reveal its horrifying conclusion. Of course the alternative--his being unable to stop the brute--would have been a far worse outcome, but... She exhales a barely audible No, oh no, and the club turns into a blur through her unshed tears.

Now she grasps his left hand in both of hers, not caring if the gesture risks her being overwhelmed by the contact*, and squeezes it to keep him grounded in now, where he is--standing before her, and with friends. She is about to speak when the Doctor wisely asks the pertinent questions.

She adds fervently to Velir, "It was self-defense, of course you had to, of course! Are you injured?" Kylah resists all she wishes to say and do--for now--and turns to Dr. Mäkeläinen. "Can you tell if he is hurt?"

Her eyes shift to Ens. Rawlings nearby, then back to Dr. Mäkeläinen. "If you check upstairs you must not go alone." Her anger rises and she blurts, "Indeed why must you go at all? Let them toss him outside with the rest!" She knows very well that the doctor has his duty towards the possibly wounded stranger--but she is too upset to care. Again she faces Velir and waits for his response while clutching his hand.



* - Of course if he's wearing gloves that would hopefully prevent the worst level of emotional impact... ;)

Graham glances at Nia, looking for her acceptance of Mendu's offer.

Except however sincere he is about respecting her as leader of the away team, he's also not going to waste one damned minute haggling over monits when her life is literally on the line.

"That seems to me like a fair offer," he replies. "If you are lieu-- my friend," he adds, addressing Nia.

Expecting Booker to speak first, Nia waits until her anxiety bubbles over before she looks at him--only to find he's staring right back at her, just as expectantly. Oh. Is this my move? She's about to ask if he thinks this is reasonable when, fortunately, he takes the decisive move. Ish.

"If I am your...?" She's confused for a second--well, longer than a second; her mind's really preoccupied and not functioning at top speed. With a tiny shake of her head she shrugs helplessly and looks at the Kressari. "I agree it's fair. It's fine. Please, Book, pay her?" Hopefully the money part of this transaction can be taken care of easily. "What ships," she says to the other female whose name she's still uncertain of, and she doesn't want to risk offense. "What are the captains' names, if you know them?"

Rangin says flatly, "He's dead. I'm sure of it. I threatened his shipmate if she followed me, and I think I scared her enough to keep her glued to his seat, at least for now." He rubs his bruised cheek. "The man grabbed me and hit me, but I'm all right." He laughs shakily and then shakes his head. "Better than him, anyway."

With his communicator, Graham transfers a thousand monits from his account to the tiny alien woman. Mendu nods and then, consulting her data pad, says, "Ships, captains, yes. Four that may be useful to you: Zephyr, clipper bark, Capt. Green, bound for Messina. Dierdre, free trader, Capt. Hvraty, bound for Altair IV. Four Little Diamonds, freighter, Capt. Billings, headed for Krasni. And... Astral Queen, transport, Capt. Daily, headed to Gruden Prime."

"You--you threatened..." Kylah echoes, peering into Velir's eyes in growing unease. It is hard to hear such words coming from someone who is so honorable and who can be, disregarding the most difficult times in their relationship, so calm and almost clinically polite.

But he was just in a frightening situation all alone, and the truth is, he is from a background where he has had to scrap and fight defensively in order to avoid... whatever dangers he has met. Kylah does not fully know. They have not spoken very much of his background. Or hers.

If she had been armed back in the horrid warehouse on Anubis months ago, she might have been able to prevent the brutal beating she received. She could have stunned the men instead of being left broken and bleeding--left for dead. That such a thing could have happened to Velir makes her ill.

"As long as you are sure you are all right--physically," she rushes on, searching him again for anything that looks like a serious wound but also to gauge his emotions. The doctor will check his status, but she needs to confirm it herself. In the meantime she asks, "What--how--how exactly did you--"

Kylah glances down at his belt to see if she can spot his phaser. Is that what he used? But no, that suspicion is unworthy of her. Shock must be wreaking havoc on her mind. Velir could not have used a phaser, since of course he would have just stunned the brute. It must have been a knife or some improvised weapon; indeed, perhaps the attacker's own.

She meets Velir's gaze again apologetically. "It does not matter. This was self-defense and I am sure witnesses will back you up." Without releasing Velir's hand, she swivels, desperate to see if she can find Lt. Graham, then suddenly looks back at Velir. "Witnesses! Was there only one other crew member? No one seems to have followed you so perhaps no one will seek revenge. I am sorry, I am rambling. Dr. Mäkeläinen? Ens. Rawlings? Do you--what should we do?"

Rangin's account leaves Bizhi at a demur. He cannot really argue with him now, especially while he is still in psychological shock. As for his antagonist, it could be that the man is certainly dead— a close-range, full-power phaser blast would leave little room for doubt, for instance, but they still do not know for sure exactly what happened.

He turns to Ens. Kylah. "I think you were right to be concerned, and this is clearly not the end of it. We need to get out of here before someone starts another fight. There is an alley just down the street. I suggest you accompany Mr. Rangin and wait there. Better not stand here in plain sight; even if the dead man's friends are not already looking for him specifically, if people think we were involved with the recent orbital incident and that a Starfleet officer just murdered one of their colleagues, it would be unwise for an identified Starfleet officer to linger here just now. I will go in with Mr. Rawlings and get the others."

"I still owe you that drink," he says to Ens. Rawlings, "but we seem to— I will not say we have worn out our welcome, because we never had one."

One reason for suggesting this plan is that, should his friends agree to it, on their way into the bowels of the bar he can coincidentally get a look at what is left of the man Rangin fought. Rangin may be a trained biologist and he has no reason to doubt he knows what a dead man looks like, but he had to clear out of there in a hurry, and probably does not have much practical experience in the ways even someone unconscious and bleeding out, or with a hole blasted through them, may be resuscitated.

Graham wracks his brain for anything he might know about which ships might be fastest and which destinations are closest to Cavinre.

"Thank you," he says to Mendu. "Any pointers to where these folks might be?"

Kylah tries to hold Velir's attention, hoping he can see that they do not blame him. At least, it does not sound as if the Doctor believes him guilty of anything but defending himself. Dr. Mäkeläinen appears to be cool and collected, though Kylah has not tried to gauge his emotions and has no thought to, first because she sees no need to breach his privacy, but second, she is consumed with doing the same to Velir's.

"Yes, the Doctor is right. But--but should we speak to Lt. Graham? And Lt. Onn," she adds hastily. Then, the thought of Velir's fairly justified concerns about Lt. Graham strikes her, and Kylah swiftly squeezes his hand before whispering, "He--they will understand, too. I promise."

She shifts to the security officer. "Do you agree, Mr. Rawlings? With the Doctor's plan? Do you need to report to Lt. Graham?"

Messina. Altair IV. Krasni. Gruden Prime. Once she hears the destinations of these four ships, Nia performs a quick calculation of whether she's heard of them and if she can estimate how far they are, what direction they're headed, and how long any of the journeys would take at top speed. Of course, it depends on each ship's capabilities--and, possibly, their captain's willingness to push their limits.

If she doesn't know any of the above, she'll check whatever technology she can. She needs a starmap to make any truly accurate estimate.

Rangin says hollowly, "Yes, he just had a single shipmate with him. I really don't think... well, I don't know. But I don't think we have to worry about her, at least immediately."

Rawlings says to Kylah, "This is a rough bar on a rough world. Life is cheap and it's possible nothing more will come of... what Mr. Rangin has done. But you never know for sure." To her later question he replies, "Yes, we could do that. It might be for the best that we lower our profile in here, or at least get Mr. Rangin out of the public eye. I don't have to report to Mr. Graham at any particular time."

To Dr. Mäkeläinen he says crisply, "I'll do whatever you say, Doc. Of the four of us right here, you're the ranking officer."

Mendu briefly describes the appearance of the officers or crew of the four ships, all of whom, she believes, are at this moment represented here in the bar.

Onn has heard of all the worlds Mendu mentioned. She knows that Messina and Krasni are more or less on the way to Cavinre. Altair IV is well beyond it, but Cavinre would not be a major diversion from a course to it. Gruden Prime is in the same general direction as Cavinre from Ollos, but would be a good bit more off the beaten track, perhaps more than a starship captain, especially one on a timetable, might want to go.

Ranking officer? Dr. Mäkeläinen had thought Rangin was a bit senior, though this is not the time to get into it. He realizes that, although Rangin is one of the first Yorktown shipmates he met, he still knows next to nothing about the man's past. And, instead of having a drink right now and swapping stories, here they are, their close and personal interactions with colorful locals not quite going the way he had envisioned.

He answers Ens. Rawlings dispassionately: "I'm loath to split us up. But I think it imprudent to parade Mr. Rangin in front of a gloak whose friend he just felled." No telling what she will do, even if the incident amounted to no more than light afternoon entertainment for everyone else around.

He looks at Kylah and Rangin inscrutably. Finally he says, "Stay together. Mr. Rawlings and I had a quick look around earlier. Neighbourhood looks rather shady, this place definitely included. No need to skulk around in the cold, maybe this bar has some semi-private parlours, or you might find something promising on an adjacent street--- I leave it up to you, just watch each other's backs and keep your communicators handy.

"I won't go alone, either. Mr. Rawlings, you're with me." We are hardly unobtrusive, but we just walked in; nobody should pay us much attention, yet. Bizhi will head where he remembers Lt. Graham and the Tellarite going. If they cannot trace the path all the way to the right private table, he will try to reach Graham via silent communicator message. Now, on the way, if he does notice the aftermath of Rangin's fracas, he will feign ignorance and disappointment at missing the fun, and try to casually observe whether Rangin's opponent looks as very dead as described.

Graham takes a deep breath. "Thank you, Mendu. I--we--won't forget this."

He turns toward Onn and gives her arm a gentle squeeze, looking deeply into--although fearful of--what he might see in her eyes.

He expects intelligence and strength but also fears...how long can she...be...

"Are you ready? Do you have any ideas where we should start first?"

"One sec." Nia, who's opened up her communicator to tap the ships, captain's names and destinations into a memo to herself, takes a moment to corral her racing thoughts. She distractedly remembers to thank Mendu -- Mendu, right, that's what I heard -- before turning to Booker.

The kind touch of her arm and the intense gaze he's aiming at her take her aback by their impact. She meets his eyes and tries to soak up his strength and confidence. What seems like confidence, anyway.

She tries to echo it in her own demeanor, though she suspects there's something pathetic in the attempt. Still, it's all she's got. "I need a starmap to be sure. But if my memory's solid, the Zephyr and Four Little Diamonds are the best options--Messina and Krassni are the most direct routes to Cavinre. If they're washouts, the Deirdre could work. Astral Queen, probably not. It's carrying passengers, I doubt they'll wanna divert. A very distant fourth, anyway, and it'd cost us big. Too bad, I like the name."

Girding herself, she slides off the stool. A touch of vertigo makes the club dip around her, but she maintains balance by briefly leaning against Booker. She covers and pretends it's just accidental. "Sorry," she mutters. Once she's feeling steady she looks back at him.

"Well, three main contenders and six of us. Should we split into groups of two?" She hesitates. "Except if we're talking to captains I think they'll be likelier to help a fellow pilot out. Or at least a high-ranked officer. Indie captains can be the biggest primadonnas in space." A weak but wry smile flickers on her lips before she turns serious again. "But... it's more efficient. You decide. They'd need to be circumspect as hell. No pushiness. Let us know if the prospects need any persuading."



Edited to fix Astral Queen's purpose - thanks EH!

Kylah cannot help but bristle a little at the security officer's words. She takes a worried glance at Velir, knowing the inadvertent slight probably does not matter at the moment, but as a proud man he does not need anyone taking away his earned status right now. Keeping her voice very quiet but firm, she says, "I meant whether you should report the incident to Lt. Graham, Ens. Rawlings. Also, I believe you mean Lieutenant Junior Grade Rangin." After another flashed look at the man whose hand clasped in hers feels limp, she does not think him in the best shape to make decisions. Dr. Mäkeläinen is the right person to come up with strategy, and his sounds reasonable. Although she is a little concerned at being the one to guard Velir.

But they are gone and she is left alone with him. "We had better move, if you are able. We can be less noticeable walking among the crowd than just standing here. We could go outside, or--what did the Doctor call them? Private parlors? I suppose for small parties. Let us see if there is such a thing."

Kylah tugs gently at his hand. "Please, Velir. We must go." Assuming she can get the shocked man walking, she sends her gaze darting around the strangers' faces, hoping to recognize the bouncer they saw earlier--or anyone else who appears to be staff. If she finds any likely candidates she will ask them, "Pardon me? My friend and I are looking for someplace private. Does this club offer anything where we can be alone?" After a quick thought she adds, "And where we will not be disturbed?"

Rawlings nods. "You're right. My apologies, Mr. Rangin." Rangin seems too distracted to notice, or care.

Dr. Mäkeläinen and Rawlings head back into the depths of the bar. They don't have to go too far to find Graham and Onn rising from a table where a wizened alien woman is sitting, a likely bodyguard close by. You do not see any signs of Rangin's deadly earlier confrontation along the way.

A Human waiter shows Kylah and Rangin to a private booth equipped with a shadowfield, operated by a tabletop control, to keep anyone else in the club from being able to see them. The couchlike seating is plush and very comfortable. The charge is 50 monits. "Anything to eat, drink or take, folks?" the waiter asks.

"Well...four of us," Graham follows up Nia's statement, seeing just Rawlings and the doctor approach. Once they are close enough he acknowledges them with a nod. After a glance at Nia he tells them "we have some leads on ships."

"Anything to... 'take'?" Kylah asks, feeling slow until the light dawns. "Oh. Oh, no, thank you. We would like..." She glances at Velir's benumbed face, then returns to the waiter. "Something soothing." Her mind rushes through the menu of drinks she knows.

"One hot buttered rum--Altairian rum, if possible, or whatever is best if not." She turns to Velir. "You will like this, it is very rich and calming." Kylah also knows the sugar will be good for his shock.

Returning to the staffer, she goes on. "And for me, a Vulcan mocha, made with heavy cream. No liqueur, just plain, please." She does not mind if Velir relaxes, but she had better stay alert.

She eyes the booth. It is very comfortable and she is impressed by the technology that keeps it so private. Beneath the table she rubs Velir's hand to warm him. "Do you wish anything to eat? You probably should have something to settle yourself. Soup." Kylah, not giving him time to answer or demur, faces the waiter. "One bowl of... whatever soup your customers most enjoy. And rolls, buttered rolls."

At Booker's light correction, Nia turns to see the Doctor and Double-T. Annoyance percolates in her chest. "Seht'dar's holy balls, I literally told that girl to stay in one spot!" She can't help a frustrated glare at Rawlings. The Doc doesn't know Kylah's history well enough to understand what a trouble-magnet she is, but Double-T should've known to keep her under tight surveillance.

But she quickly softens her look and shakes her head in a mute apology. Morale's probably low and Nia doesn't want to sour anyone's memory of her, if the worst happens. Let's just hope she's not off causing some intersystem incident. She rubs her mittens together. It's hard to come across as intimidating while wearing these things.

"All right. If she's with Rangin he'll keep her out of trouble. Anyway, like Booker says, we just got four possible rides outta here--two good leads, one maybe, and one unlikely. Might as well start with the best options first." She glances down at her communicator. "First one's the Zephyr, captained by someone named Green. They're headed to Messina and taking us to Cavinre shouldn't cause a problem for them, if there's room."

Lifting her gaze to Mäkeläinen and Rawlings, she sighs. "You boys take that one. Booker, that sound reasonable? They can find out if the Zephyr's willing to take us on, and when they're departing. Offer extra if they can make it even sooner. You and me'll do the same with the others." She leans against the stool, a little tired, and runs one mittened hand over her face. "I'm sorry, Doc. Double-T. I didn't even ask. How'd you do? Got any good news for us?"

Dr. Mäkeläinen acknowledges the alien woman, presumably a local entrepreneuse whom it would be better not to slight, with a respectful, understated nod.

He exchanges a look with Rawlings and goes ahead and replies to Nia: "Some news, anyway. We may want to avoid the Four Little Diamonds. Mr. Rangin discovered they were not keen on our clientage, and quick to express their displeasure tangibly. One of them did not survive the resulting discussion. I told Mr. Kylah to take Rangin and lie low, just in case the remaining crewmember decides to do something impetuous."

Is this my brain fog? The hypobilitria? Am I even hearing weird things now? Nia just stares stupidly at Mäkeläinen, trying to parse his words. "Didn't survive a discussion? I don't--do you mean--"

She yanks the mitten off her right hand and massages her temples while looking at the Doc, then Double-T. The meaning sinks in and she drops her hand to grip the edge of the stool so she can remain upright. Multiple scenarios of what this might mean for Rangin--for the whole team--not to mention her own chances of fleeing this planet--flood Nia's brain. She can't even begin to formulate a rational response.

All she can do is turn to Booker. This is his territory.

"What?" Graham's eyes bulge. "What the f--Rangin...killed someone?"

He's mad, as much at himself as anyone else. I should have Rawlings sit on his ass and keep the fucker out of trouble...making trouble for us...

What runs through his mind runs from "protocol" through "homicidal," but he takes a moment to compose himself.

HIs voice tight, as measured as he can be. "Doctor--in your professional opinion, as things stand, would failing to rendezvous the ship as soon as possible pose a serious threat to Lt. Onn's life?"

The waiter takes Kylah's order and returns in a few minutes with a tray bearing hot buttered Altairian rum, a Vulcan mocha with heavy cream and no liqueur, and a big bowl of vegetable soup ("Carrots, potatoes, rice, celery and tomatoes; most people like it," he explains) with steam rising from it. There are no rolls available, buttered or not, unfortunately. The charge: 62.7 monits. Kylah pays from the crew account, and the waiter leaves, passing back out through the shadowfield.

After a pause, Rangin picks up his spoon and tucks into the soup. "Not bad," he says, and begins eating a little faster.

Rawlings replies to Onn, "Not much more to add to what the Doc said. I do think the sooner we're out of here, the better, though."

"We'd be gambling with her life," says Dr. Mäkeläinen. He feels a bit of déjà vu from Lt. Graham's question. It may be difficult to communicate all the details of Nia's condition and what she is enduring, but the medical conclusion is unequivocal. He looks at Nia. "This experimental treatment is not guaranteed to keep her metabolism stable for more than a few days, a week, tops. Medically speaking, arranging the rendezvous must take priority over our other orders. We simply cannot spend an extra week here, even if we do not get through everything on our list."

"There is also some news, by the way, about the anonymous stiff outside," he interjects, addressing Nia directly again, "but that can wait. Still don't know who he was, and we will probably have to hand everything off to the local authority."

As Velir eats, Kylah lifts her drink with both hands, warming them, and watches him with a combination of concern and affection. It is good that he is hungry. Likely he is famished after expending so much energy between the actual fight and the burst of adrenaline.

"Have some of your drink, too," she says before taking a long sip of her own. The sweet, creamy coffee drink is luxurious and she makes an unconscious little mmm sound of pleasure. (She is disappointed about the rolls. She could happily eat a diet of nothing but bread and chocolate.)

Then she sets the mug down, keeping her fingers curled against it. "I would let you eat and drink in peace, but I do not know how long we are allowed to stay in this section. It must be for business meetings. Or maybe criminal dealings..." She shrugs, her imagination not working very well this morning, and glances around to see if there is any evident technology that might indicate the usual use of the booth. "My point is, someone might have a reservation and we might be forced to--to leave."

Or, her real fear: some law officer or vengeance-seeking patron will burst in on them to arrest or otherwise haul Velir away. "Please, Velir... can you tell me what happened? Your side of things? Did it have to do with that Starfleet ship--the Beowulf? We encountered hostility ourselves, when a group discovered we too were Starfleet. My fault, of course," she adds abashedly. Then she shifts her hand to gently touch Velir's forearm. "I know this was not your fault. What made this person so angry?"

Nia is still pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead, as if trying to block the stress and concern from bursting out of her skull. Her eyes take in all three men as they talk, but also flick over their shoulders to scan the room to see if there's anyone heading in their direction.

The doctor's prognosis is both relieving and terrifying. "So, a few days? That oughtta be enough. More than enough. If we're not detained because of..." The latest fucking catastrophe. She tries to keep from hyperventilating, because while it's a natural impulse it won't be any use. And she also just realizes that if Mäkeläinen's right about the name of the ship the victim captained, the crew's just lost access to one of the two best options they had for getting out of here.

"Okay," she says hoarsely. "Where is he? And Kylah? Oh fuck me, was this fight over her?" Nia flicks a glance at Booker, who himself has gone after Rangin over the Elasian. More than once, in fact. So this wouldn't be the first time Kylah was at the center of a mess. "Forget it. Later. I'm sure it was self-defense."

Maybe. Nia's not sure of anything at this point--except that they need to get away from this table. If this old woman considers basic information about ship schedules worth selling for a few thousand, who knows what she could get for a frickin' murder conspiracy?

Pushing herself away from the stool she's been leaning on, Nia motions for the men to follow her through the crowd to find a place they can congregate without a spotlight. She speaks to Booker along the way.

"We need to get them and put a guard on Rangin. And a leash on Kylah to keep her in one place," she can't help but muttering. "Judging from the pile of bodies on the doorstep, am I right in guessing no one's in a hurry to investigate things like this? That'd be an advantage. Ugh, listen to me," she adds under her breath. A member of her crew has killed someone and she's looking for ways to flee their responsibility. So much for upholding the honor of Starfleet.

"Book." She clutches his arm like she's drowning. "Tell me. What do we do? Do we just forget about this club and get the hell out? Or make arrangements as fast as we can with the--the--other ship whatsername recommended?" Nia realizes she's already forgotten the clipper she originally assigned to Mäkeläinen and Rawlings. A lapse that's pretty damn unsettling for someone who's spent a lifetime remembering all kinds of details about ships.

Tamping down that latest worry, she address Mäkeläinen. "Just... where's Rangin and Kylah? And what's this news you have about the dead guy? The other dead guy. Gotta be specific in this place, apparently."

"Yes, there must be a third corpse out there by now. Judging by the lack of any bustle, no one seems particularly put off or interested...." While talking to Lt. Onn, Dr. Mäkeläinen sends a simple message over the Tesla crew's communicator channel:

Attn KYLAH — we are returning wi Lts. Graham and Onn. Where are you? — MÄKELÄINEN

He tells Nia about the earlier discoveries outside: "To summarize, it seems he froze to death, but there is no sign of any wounds or poisons, and it's not clear whether whatever happened to him happened outside, or inside, the bar or if someone dumped him there during the night, knowing an extra body would go unremarked. At some point he appears to have handled those pages I found (I am assuming he was alive and conscious at the time because they were later folded up in his pocket) which are blank to human vision, by the way, yet impregnated with an unknown organic substance. Whether it be an exotic toxin that does not register on a medical tricorder, some sort of 'invisible ink', a spill of one of the more unusual drinks they serve here, or any combination thereof— that needs a proper lab and a forensic investigation. So does analysis of his communicator, of the disposition of the body, reconstruction of the circumstances surrounding his death including tracing his identity... all that is beyond the scope of emergency response. And, though I admit I am intrigued, if our unknown friend was some kind of spy, or whatever goes on around here, we need to be all the more careful. After we hand this off, we can't afford to get detained here during the ensuing investigation."

Graham nods acknowledgment to the doctor, listens to Nia and the crosstalk, the grunts.

He mouths to Nia: "You're right."

He pulls out his communicator to make a recorded record.

"Mr. Rawlings, you will rendezvous with Mr. Rangin and Mr. Kylah. You will inform the former that as a Starfleet officer who has admitted the use of lethal force in a non-military setting he is subject to investigation. He will yield his phaser to you, and if he does not complyly with any and all of your instructions, you are authorized to use non-lethal force against him."

He pause for a moment and clears his throat.

"As senior Security officer present I am deferring further investigation of lethal use of force by a Starfleet officer until such time as it can be conducted without imminent danger or loss of life due to exigent medical circumstances." He states this as much for the communicator as his colleagues.

He stops the recording. "Nia, as mission commander you can override my decision." His voice softens to almost a whisper. "Please, don't."

"If no one objects, Doctor, you're with us. More specifically, Lt. Onn. The three of us are going to get a goddamned ship."

While watching her companion swallow his soup before answering her questions, Kylah gives a little start at the buzz against her abdomen. "Just a moment--I have a message," she explains to Velir, doing her best to keep the dread from her tone, then pulls out her communicator.

She sighs in relief. No outsiders appear to be involved... yet. "It is from the Doctor. He and Mr. Rawlings are with the others. I just need to tell them where we are." Her thumb pauses over her communicator typing pad, however. Kylah is not entirely certain where they are.

MÄKELÄINEN, DR. - We are in a private booth, but I am afraid there is a privacy shield that will prevent you from

Kylah pauses mid-sentence. Should she turn off the shield? She examines the tabletop controls to see if she can easily do so, but is concerned that revealing themselves will result in onlookers finding Velir.

"If I disengage the shield," she murmurs while searching, "we will have to sit in such a way that keeps your face hidden from the outside. Or at least be prepared to block you from being seen. I suppose if we sit close and I pretend to--"

Her words cut off when at last she realizes that this plush, private booth is likely not just for business meetings. Or at least, the business that gets done here is not what she was picturing.

Kylah's face is florid with a blush--mainly because the truth is, now she almost hopes a stranger walks by--and she just bends her head to finish the not-very-informative message to the Doctor.

MÄKELÄINEN, DR. - We are in a private booth, but I am afraid there is a privacy shield that will prevent you from seeing us. I will see if I can get better details of our location; if I cannot I will disengage the shield. More information to follow. -- KYLAH, ENS.

Kylah is not pleased to offer so little about their whereabouts, but she is loath to wait until she figures it out. If there is any delay, the others might be concerned that something has happened to them. So she sends the less-than-helpful message with a sigh of frustration. Next she stands and tries to see if there is any signage on the room--a room number, name, anything to differentiate this from any of the other similar booths.

(If she finds a booth designation to pass along to the Doctor, she will send it along. If not, she will try to contact the waiter using the small tabletop console, which probably has a way to alert the staff. If that does not work, she will just have to disengage the shield and ask Velir's permission to, well, sit very close to him indeed. A tough assignment but one must do whatever one can!)

First Nia expends her energy focusing on the Doctor's findings about Unknown Corpse #1. Almost against her will, her interest is briefly piqued by the possibility of some espionage activity. But both he and Booker are right, of course. This is a distraction and, thanks to whatever happened to Rangin to produce Unknown Corpse #2, they've got more urgent problems to deal with.

Thankfully, by the grace of Sid'Os's mercy, Booker then puts on his professional mantle of commanding security officer and proceeds to be just as efficient, comprehensive and assuring as one could want. Especially Nia. As he speaks she feels her own shoulders slumping, not in defeat but relief. She can't bear this burden much longer. If Book's able to help her carry it--probably to carry it himself, as he likely soon will--Nia is more than willing.

"Yes," she breathes, not sure if it's audible in the club, so she adds a nod and meets his gaze with a combination of gratitude, admiration and--still, even now--fear. She clears her throat and tries again. "Yes. Proceed as necessary. I trust you."

With their crew. With their mission. And with her life.

Mäkeläinen tells the rest, "They are still here, in one of the booths, but beyond a privacy screen so we can't see or hear them. Let's see..."

Rawlings acknowledges Graham's order: "Aye, sir."

Kylah sees that there is a small label on the control panel designating this as Booth 4. She passes the information along to Dr. Mäkeläinen.

Rangin finishes his soup and takes a long draw from his Altairian rum. He shudders just a little and says quietly, "I was asking around at different tables, trying to see what kind of options we had for a ship off this frozen rock. I'd ruled out several ships but found three decent options, but I hadn't been called by any of our crew to return, so I decided to see if I could find just one more possibility. Just one, you know?" He laughs shakily. "I was talking to these two crewmembers from the Four Little Diamonds. The bigger one, the man, recognized pretty quickly that I was in Starfleet, I don't know how. He had friends on the ship that the Beowulf destroyed. He was drunk, too, I think, at least a little. He pulled a knife and was waving it at me, jabbing it at me, really close at hand. I was kind of stuck between the bench and the table and couldn't get away. I tried to disarm him but he was stronger, and then things sort of changed, his mood, his expression, and I knew he was going to try to kill me. I was able to turn the knife against him, but he wouldn't let go, and I couldn't take it away, and... well." He looks even more downcast, and drinks more of his rum. "It was him or me. I had to do it. You believe me, don't you, Kylah?"

"They should be seated at Booth 4," Dr. Mäkeläinen explains, "wherever that is. Best to confirm it's the right one before barging in, as whoever is meeting behind a privacy shield may not appreciate being interrupted. Seems like it pays to bring your own if you want a full screen, incidentally: there is no way a subspace message should have made it through a proper cloak."

Mäkeläinen feels for Lt. Rangin. "Subject to investigation", certainly, but did Graham have to make that damning official recording?

He collects his thoughts. So Rawlings is off to--- mind Kylah and Rangin? That leaves them down at least one team. "Pardon... so we are looking for the Zephyr?"

Velir's tale is somehow both better and far worse than Kylah expected. She has sat back beside him, her arm resting against his, and listens intently. The struggle with the knife makes her gasp. "Oh my heart," she whispers, calling him by the Elasian endearment for the first time. "Of course I believe you. I did not realize he had such a weapon or that the fight was so--so--"

So visceral--and worse, so nearly lost. She does not know how large or strong the vicious stranger was, but Velir is fairly short and not especially muscular. But he must have learned to fight on Coridan. Possibly even the Academy. She knows he experienced prejudice there. With a stubborn shake of her head she refuses to consider what might have happened if he had been less physically capable.

"I did not realize it was a knife. For some reason, I thought a phaser... but of course, of course you would not shoot a man to kill. And you would not have had such a weapon unless it was this Captain's. This proves it was self-defense. No one could think otherwise." Now that they are alone, she brushes her fingertips through his mussed hair, neatening the soft locks and tenderly soothing his brow while avoiding any of the wounds.

Biting her lip, Kylah watches him in silence for a moment before broaching a possibly difficult subject. "And another thing on your side: your telepathy. I know it is still fairly new and you have not had much time to practice, but you have better instincts about what the man had in mind. You knew or at least had a glimpse into what he was thinking. And reacted accordingly to protect yourself."

She closes her eyes and rests her head against his shoulder. "I am so sorry. It must have been awful. A knife... it is not like a phaser." Kylah, who has used throwing knives before, is not thinking of them. Back in Sigma Iota, she had been stabbed. Fortunately she does not remember the pain--not without concentrating, and she does not wish to--but the fear, and the look in the assailant's eye so close to her...

"Were there any other witnesses? Did the other crewperson say anything? Was she angry too? I do not mean to ask you so many questions, but... it might be best while it is fresh." Again she lightly combs his hair and tucks it behind his ears. And with her own impulsive instinct, draws near and kisses the vulnerable spot on his temple where his muscle twitches. "I believe you, Velir," she whispers. "I believe in you. Never doubt that."

"The Zephyr, right, Doc," Nia says, grateful for his providing the name. "Captain Brown. Brown?" Scowling, she opens her communicator note section again. "No. Green." She glances at Rawlings. "Go find the others, Double-T. Stay with them where they are. Right?" she adds, turning to Booker for confirmation. "No sense in traipsing them around the club. Most people will be checking out the huge handsome man and the shapely girl in the leotard before noticing Rangin. But if anyone's specifically looking for him... Well, it's best to stay put. I think." Again Nia looks to Book for confirmation that she's making some semblance of professional sense.

She looks down at the floor--too dark to really see, and that's probably a good thing--in concentration, then lifts her head again. "Doc," she says as stoically as she can fake it. "I need a worst-case scenario. Even with this miracle substitute, what's the shortest I've got. Do we know? Not just for coma or even death, but for..." One mittened hand waves vaguely. "Sentience. Sound mind, if not sound body."

Graham nods his approval of Nia's comments and orders, then winces as she asks the doctor about...the end of the line, for her.

Dr. Mäkeläinen deduces that she must be feeling terrible, physically and mentally, to ask such a question.

“It doesn't work like that, like a clock,” he begins, “but you will need more rest than usual. Pushing yourself...” An intense look enters his eyes. “No one is coming to relieve us. You want a number to plan around. Dr. Anikwata estimated a week, give or take. A minimum, then, maintaining normal levels of activity or worse, could be half that as a safety factor. If we then assume a supervening rapid increase in tolerance, which is not guaranteed but you asked for a pessimistic scenario, so a geometric progression causing you to run through the remaining doses with increasing rapidity... ” Dr. Mäkeläinen runs through the calculation in his head rapidly, “...two more days, after which we may find additional doses won't help. But, no, we do not know.”

Rawlings goes looking for Booth 4.

Rangin leans into Kylah, too, and squeezes her hand. He looks like he's about to cry, but doesn't. He says, "It wasn't the captain of that ship... maybe not even an officer. I don't remember. The telepathy... yes, that could have given me some subconscious warning, some psi, uh, premonition of what he intended to do. I hadn't thought of that before, but you may be right." He thinks and fumbles for his drink again. "The other crewmember... she looked very upset, but I don't remember her saying anything. But she must have, right? It's all a blur. There were other witnesses, I guess, but, Kylah, dear, dear Kylah, you've seen this place. Life is cheap. No one cares." He shudders.

Nia's faced down many enemy starship captains. Bluffed through hundreds of profitable hands of poker. She handled the whiplash of going from sleeping in the arms of her boyfriend one day, to saving the life of his childhood sweetheart the next, and finally, mere days later, having to watch and smile at their wedding--losing the man Nia belatedly realized she loves.

She even, as an obscenely young girl, managed to have unwanted, contracted sex without vomiting.

So keeping her face a mask now, while Dr. Mäkeläinen responds to her questions with his professional but uncompromising truth, isn't difficult. Nia expected the worst anyway. Still, it takes a few heartbeats' worth of silence--not really silence, not in this hellish club--for Nia to respond. "Oh."

She doesn't dare look at Booker. Her gaze rests heavily on Mäkeläinen as she waits... until she wakes up to the fact that she doesn't know what she's waiting for. A chuckle that's half a cough escapes her. "Well, hell. That's what I get for asking. Thanks, Doctor. I appreciate the unvarnished truth. I genuinely do." Once again she studies the floor in thought.

So. A week--if she suddenly develops good luck--the only thing that's in as short supply as Bilitrium. But there's no sense thinking about the best-case scenario. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Given the past two weeks Nia's had, she knows where her odds lie.

So on the opposite end of the spectrum... she might only have two days. Normally, that should be more than enough. If she still had the Tesla and gunned her at full speed, they'd reach Cavinre in... Nia's not actually sure. Seven hours? She thinks they were about seven hours away when everything went pear-shaped. Trouble is, she can't recall how far off-course--if at all--they ended up.

"I need a starmap," she mutters. "Rangin should have access on this tricorder. I don't know exactly where we are, how long it'll take to reach the Yorktown. Can't recall how much we veered to end up here. If this system was just along the way, great. Seven or eight hours. Cakewalk. Bags of time."

But Nia's pretty sure Ollos wasn't on the way. She had the Tesla's original flight plan memorized, like any solid Helm officer. The Ollos System does not ring a bell. True, her memory could just be dimming along with the rest of her body. Who knows.

She shakes her head. "Don't think resting's in the cards for me yet, Doc. I can rest en route to the Yorktown." Then she does the laugh-cough combo again. "Assuming, that is, we find a ride. ...On a ship that's at least as fast as our fastest shuttle. ...With no stops along the way. ...And a captain willing to leave right now." Nia's smile twists before it fades. "Easy peasy."

At last she turns to Booker, trying to keep her humor, but his lovely, expressive eyes have their impact, and she wavers. Then, swallowing, she straightens again. "Better get our asses in gear, Lieutenant. To the Zephyr, right? You lead."

A whirling vortex of emotions seem to spin Kylah around in one direction, then the next, battered by her own feelings along with Velir's, though she is not trying to read him. She does not dare to do so, given his state of mind. All she can do is listen and try to make sense of everything.

Not the captain, why did I think it was the captain? It does not matter. The woman must have seen him. Will she care? Is she as callous as the rest of the people in this place? But... there are others. There will be others, not even just the victim's crewmates. The victim knew Velir was Starfleet, so likely the woman does as well. If word of the death spreads, coupled with the Beowulf incident...

Kylah shudders when she recalls the hostility of those men at the bar. They were drunk already and in poor control of their anger. How will they react? They will recognize us, me and Lt. Graham. They will know... Her own fears are spinning into a frenzy and she does her best to breathe deeply. She can be of no use to Velir if she too is distraught.

What draws her out of the storm is not her own strength. It is Velir's hand, clutching her own. His eyes, so needy and vulnerable. Above all it is his "Kylah, dear, dear Kylah."

He has never spoken to her like this before. Never so open, never so warm, never so close--physically, yes, they have been closer, but it is not the same. This is infinitely more precious. It is what she has longed for, all these months. That this horrific event should be the source of such a bittersweet reward... Guilt stirs in her breast and she tries to push it away, along with the inappropriate happiness. But the room blurs and she is near tears herself, from joy, from sorrow, from empathy, from fear.

She starts to lift her face to his, to kiss him as tenderly as he deserves. Until--

Her tears. She remembers her tears. She cannot, she must not let them touch Velir. He is vulnerable, he is telepathic. The effect of Elasian tears in such a situation... oh no, no! She does not want to receive Velir Rangin's love like that.

Body rigid with alarm, Kylah instinctively jerks away from him. She stares wildly at the table and is relieved to see the cocktail napkin beneath her drink. Grabbing at it spills the mocha, but that does not matter. Gratitude and relief calm her as she blots her eyes. Soon she is sure there is no more risk of crying.

"Velir," she says, absently blotting the spilled liquid until giving it up and turning back to him. "This will be solved. You have five crewmates to protect you. Six if you count Mr. Rawlings twice," she adds with a weak attempt at making him smile. "We are safe in this room. Perhaps the witnesses saw the truth--that is a good thing. As for this woman... maybe she disliked him. We do not like all of our crewmates. And he sounds like a terrible--"

She cuts off that train of thought. Speaking ill of the man does not feel right, and may not help Velir. Easily she changes direction. "None of that matters. The others will find a ship, we can sneak you out, and we will leave this wasteland behind us. And though you think it impossible now, you will recover from this trauma. It will recede. I promise. I promise."

It takes Graham a moment to reply, eyes transfixed on Nia. So strong in this moment...

He grunts and nods. "Understood, ma'am." He pauses. "Doc, you're behind Nia. You have her back. If anything goes wrong from a Security standpoint, and it just might, given what's happened so far in this shithole, you do not wait, you do not hesitate, you get her the fuck out of here or back to Rawlings..." There's a brief pause, because all he can think about is medical support and security protection for Nia at the moment. "Uh, and the others."

He rubs his chin. "Eyes open for the Zephyr captain, let's move out...ah, as casual as we can..."

If Onn and the doctor follow, Graham does so.

"Aye," says Mäkeläinen. Given recent experience, it is probably for the best that no one go off alone. With only three individuals, that means all must stay together, making it harder to look casual and not like a team making a sweep. He hangs back in proximity to Nia, just a couple of comrades (or perhaps flirting strangers) out for a good time, by no means anyone deserving of extra scrutiny, he hopes.

"What kind of ship is the Zephyr?" he asks, as they [presumably] slowly diffuse through the bar. It may be trivial to find some crew from a large ship, and different kinds of ships may have distinct styles of dress, even uniforms for some. "The most nonchalant move may be to accost anyone, say we are looking for the Zephyr, or for Captain Green, and would they be so kind as to point them out."

Rangin looks puzzled and then hurt at how Kylah jerked back from him. He seems not to have heard what she just said. He asks, "What's wrong, Kylah? Why did... why did you react like that?"

Graham knows that the Zephyr is a clipper bark, a kind of fast, sleek, relatively small civilian transport. He knows nothing about Capt. Green. The starship is bound for Messina, a Class-M world and Federation member; he vaguely remembers that most of its original settlers were of Italian and southern European origin. After a few minutes of looking, with Onn and the good doctor in tow, he sees a plain-looking young Human woman with a Zephyr crew patch on the shoulder of her dark orange coveralls, sitting in a booth with two Saurians, talking over drinks. The woman appears to be unarmed, but each Saurian has a small phaser rifle leaning against the table.

https://memory-alpha.fandom.com/wiki...nd_information

Kylah stares at Velir for a puzzled second or two until it dawns on her that he has misinterpreted her actions. Aghast, she clasps his hand with both of hers.

"Oh no--no, my own heart, that had nothing to do with you. I mean, it did, just not the way you think. I was afraid. Of me, not you. I am not saying this very well. It is just..." Her gaze slips away from his and focuses on their hands, together. "I feel the horror of what you have gone through, and seeing you this way hurts. I care so very much. I wanted you to know. And I was going to kiss you," she says, very softly. "Not on your cheek as before. A real kiss."

Though she is still looking down, she cannot hide her flushing face. "Before I could, I realized I was starting to cry. I could not risk..." Her fingertips touch her cheek. "My tears. The Elasian... you know. I did not want to expose you to them. If I were to kiss you while weeping, they would have touched you, and you would...react. To them, not to me.

"I wish you to care for me, the way you used to. I have wanted it for so long, Velir, you know I have. But I do not want to regain affection that way, through some--some physical and emotional reaction compelled through artifice. It must be a choice, your choice, or it means nothing. So that is why I pulled away. To stop crying. To prevent that."

She glances at the crumpled napkin on the table, then slowly, slowly, lifts her head to meet his gaze. "But Velir," she whispers, releasing his hand and gently cupping his cheek as she draws nearer, mere millimeters away. Her longing stare searches his hazel-brown eyes. "There are no tears now. May I...?"

If he shows willingness, Kylah will close the space between them with a tender, ardent kiss.

Graham shrugs and gives the doctor a nod. "Good advice but it looks like we got lucky for a change," he replies, tilting his head toward Green.

Then he exhales. Turning toward Onn and the doctor he mutters. "Rifles, for fuck's sake. Stay behind me." He pauses. "Not that it will matter if they slag half the building.

Assuming Onn or the doctor do not intervene, he proceeds to approach the table slowly. Hands held disarmingly up just below chest level, he clears his throat. "We're, ah, looking for Captain Green, of the Zephyr."

Rangin smiles crookedly, nods once and then draws Kylah in for a kiss which seems to last forever. It is quite possibly the best kiss she has ever had.

Then you hear a cough and realize Ens. Rawlings is standing right there by the booth. "I'm sorry," he says, looking embarrassed. "I knocked before I came through the privacy field, but no one answered. Uh... maybe you didn't hear me."

The Human woman says something quickly in an alien language to the Saurians, who turn and regard Graham with their characteristic blank stare. They don't reach for their weapons, however. "I'm Satchell, Third Mate of the Zephyr," she says in Federation Standard. "The Captain's not here at the moment. What can I do for you?"

Dr. Mäkeläinen stays sidled near Lt. Onn as before and does not interfere while Lt. Graham talks to them; he will come sit at the table only if invited.

He observes the trio curiously, and in a hopefully non-threatening manner. He is not fazed by the phaser rifles: as he himself observed earlier, it figures many or most of the patrons are packing phasers, disruptors, knives, stiletti, disintegrators, lasers, and other lethal weapons, and it is exceptions like the Third Mate, lounging about (apparently) unarmed, who thereby project confidence and mastery.

The position of being protected by two men is, for Nia, not a typical scenario. Normally she might bristle. But normally she has some natural ability to protect herself, defend herself. Right now despite feeling considerably better than yesterday, Nia's not ready to go toe-to-toe with anyone. Her eyesight's dim and her breathing is--

Her medical inventory stops short when Booker points out the Zepher crew. The Saurians almost cheer her up. Well well. Lizardy types unite. Maybe this is a good sign? She looks nothing like them, except perhaps her scales, but they're not hugely evident right now. Nia decides to concentrate on increasing her scale coverage. Keeping them withheld hasn't worked--not perfectly, anyway. Maybe letting nature take over will be easier.

While Booker takes lead on the parley, such as it is, Nia closes her eyes briefly and concentrates. And... nothing.

Sighing, she searches for something that might provide some motivation for the stubborn little scales to help her out. She settles on the weapons carried by the Zephyr crewmates. At this distance the three Yorktown teammates could be fried with one blast. Again she shuts her eyes, this time vividly imagining what might happen if the strangers also hold a grudge against Starfleet.

This time, the thrill of anxiety helps her defensive instincts do their job. Soon she can feel less of the air around her--blocked from her skin by her gleaming silver-green biological armor and thus no longer providing any of the room's pleasant heat. But now she might look more as if she shares some minuscule common ground with the Saurians.

It won't really do anything; Nia knows that. It's only infinitesimally likely that it might create some subconscious bonding with the strangers. But she wants to believe, and figures she's entitled to a little magical thinking. Maybe her scales will add a little good fortune. She's entitled to some of that, too. Maybe.

Graham nods and moves closer--slowly--then rests his hands on the table.

"I'm Graham...Booker Graham." He gestures with his head behind him. "My colleagues and I have a, ah, business proposition. We're looking for transit off-planet. A fast ship like the Zephyr --we'd be willing to make it worthwhile."

Automatically pulling away from Velir--but not very quickly--Kylah lets her eyes linger on him, both to make sure she is not hallucinating and to show him just how... extraordinary that was.

Her attention reluctantly shifts from him to Ens. Rawlings. Knowing that he witnessed their kiss--kisses--she cannot help the embarrassment sweeping over her and burning her face.

But it is not enough to make her smile disappear.

Her hand slides down Velir's arm, caressing the muscles beneath his clothes, and rests on the booth's cushion, where she clutches his hand under the table. "Mr. Rawlings," she begins, and as if watching herself from outside, marvels at how calm and confident she sounds. "No. We did not hear anything. I am sorry."

Excellent liar though she is, Kylah is unable to sound convincingly apologetic.

But as she lets the sight of Rawlings slowly drag her from this dream--this cloud of bliss--a dose of reality seeps in. "Why are you here? What is happening? Have you found a way off planet?"

The Human woman thinks for a moment, then nods and speaks again to the Saurians. They reply briefly in the same piping alien tongue, pick up their rifles and move to a vacant table not far away. They closely watch what happens next, and their phaser rifles, although not quite brandished or pointed at the Yorktown crewmates, are obviously at the ready.

Satchell gestures to the two seats now available. No others appear open nearby; someone will have to remain standing. The Zephyr officer sips from her glass - some smoky gray liquid that Graham doesn't recognize - looks a bit askance at him and asks, "What sort of business proposition do you have, Mr. Graham? Starfleet business, or something else?"

Rangin squeezes Kylah's hand back. She has a strong psi sense that he is more at ease now - still shaken by his earlier act, still under stress, certainly, but doing better to now be so close, even intimate, with her.

Rawlings is clearly ready to change the subject. However, he seems to find the new subject equally uncomfortable. "I was ordered to find you, ma'am. Both of you. Mr. Graham and the others are asking around, looking for a ship offworld, right now, here in the bar. No luck yet, and Mr. Onn's health status is... not ideal." He clears his throat and his brow furrows. "Uh, Mr. Rangin, I've been ordered to tell you that, as a Starfleet officer who has admitted the use of lethal force in a non-military setting, you are now subject to investigation. I hereby order you to yield your phaser to me, and comply with all of my instructions until we get back to the rest of the party." He holds out his hand.

Rangin stares at him in disbelief.

The Doctor is obviously not going to leave Onn standing there, and Graham is already talking, so he leaves the seats to them.

His attention is piqued by Satchell's casual reference to their Starfleet affiliation. The entire city and half the planet probably knows about the crash, and it stands to reason it might be easy enough for anyone who took an active interest to discover their identities, but why would an arbitrary third officer recognize them? Someone tipped her off. Or, at least as likely, it seems Starfleet officers simply are that recognizable, and anyone who has been around can pick them out in seconds no matter what they are wearing. Rangin discovered this the hard way. But Satchell, in line with Mäkeläinen's original hopes for this place, seems interested in nothing so much as an easy profit right now. It seems all Lt. Graham has to do is say the right words.

Nia's not going to play the martyr by not sitting when there's an invitation in the offing, so she gladly leans her hand on the table and takes the load off her feet.

She catches Satchell's remark and it's a second before she recognizes that their cover, such as it was, has been blown. How? I don't look Starfleet, neither do the boys. Even if they know Rangin's Starfleet, how did it get around that Book's also an officer? Maybe people saw them all together. Great.

As for Satchell's question, Nia gives a one-shoulder shrug, accompanied by a polite, weary smile. "Which answer'll get us the ride?"

The relative silence in the private booth allows the thumping music to compete with Kylah's heart, which she feels pulsing in her temples. Her hand takes tighter hold of Velir's. "Of course there must be an investigation," she says faintly. "But that will have to wait until we get home, surely? With Lt. Onn's condition and--and the danger here--"

A shock of alarm jolts her and she quickly checks to see if the privacy barrier is still in place. (If it is not, she will hit the controls to return its functionality.)

"Mr. Rawlings, please. I know you are doing your duty, under orders from... from a commanding officer. And this is no doubt standard procedure, perfectly understandable as a precaution; no judgment or suspicion is being placed upon him." The latter is said in hopes of reassuring Velir.

"However, these are unusual circumstances. Between this and the Beowolf incident, who knows what vicious brutes might seek him out? Velir needs to be able to defend himself. Not that I doubt your ability to guard him--protect him. But you know anything might happen." She turns from beseeching Mr. Rawlings to doing the same to Velir. "Is that how you feel?"

Satchell turns her gaze from Graham to Onn and says, "For a bunch of reasons, it would be much better if it weren't Starfleet business."

Rawlings looks unhappy, but he says evenly, "I have my orders, and now so do you, Mr. Rangin." He keeps his hand outstretched and Rangin, after a long pause, his face a mask, pulls out his phaser-1 and puts it in the Security officer's huge hand. Rawlings immediately tucks it away, and adds, in a lighter tone, "Now let's go see the others, all right?"

Graham takes a breath and leans forward just slightly. "Well, you're correct that we are Starfleet. But as to the "business"--what we're looking for is nothing more nor less than a ship that can get us where we're supposed to be, after an unintended detour left us stuck here."

He spread his hands. "Nothing more or less complicated than that."

Nia's stare has been fixed on the tabletop since Satchell responded, and now through Booker's proposal as well. She tries to hold her face as blank as possible, but can't help the tiniest wince when he flat-out admits to being Starfleet in his first sentence.

When he's finished, professionally concise and sharp as always, Nia finally blinks and tilts her head to catch his gaze. Her eyes send him affection, appreciation and regret. If the Universal Translator could work for wordless expressions, he'd be hearing: Oh Book. I hope that's enough, honey. I just don't know.

He's chosen a strategy--being upfront yet tightlipped--and maybe this woman will approve of his candor. If that's the case, Nia's not going to undermine it. So she leaves Booker's statement alone. He's put their cards on the table. Not all their cards; not--perhaps--their ace in the hole. But she won't play that unless this doesn't go as hoped.

Kylah does not watch the handover of Velir's phaser to Mr. Rawlings. It is a moment of embarrassment for him--undeserved embarrassment--and Velir Rangin is a proud man. He would not want her to witness this.

"Is it safe to join them?" she asks, voice tight as a violin string. "To loiter in a group where some of us are known to be Starfleet? Before we know there will be a quick way to escape?" Turning to Velir, she tries to engage his rational wisdom, such a big part of who he is. "What do you think would be best to do, Velir? I mean Lieutenant," she adds pointedly with a defiant little glance at Mr. Rawlings before looking back. "If you are not under arrest, sir, I do not see a reason why as ranking officer here, you should not play a part in deciding our next move."

The sudden thought comes too belatedly for her to amend her words: What if he is under arrest?

This Satchell really has us at a disadvantage, does she not? Frankly, Bizhi is not entirely sure he would go for it were he in her place. Sure, the dosh is good (and business is business), but how much would her personal share really come to, and would it be worth dealing with a group that increasingly looks like trouble and desperation? Moreover, can they trust her and her shipmates (insofar as it is possible to rely on anyone here) assuming they do accept this commission?

One thing to try to lower the urgency, or at least it cannot hurt. Well, it couid hurt, but probably not. "Where are my manners? Can I offer everybody another drink?"

Satchell rubs her chin and says, "That sounds do-able. Where do you want to go, exactly?" Before Graham or Onn answer, her gaze flickers to Dr. Mäkeläinen. "Sure, thanks. A Saurian brandy, please - and one for each of my friends over there, too, if you're feeling particularly generous."

Rawlings shrugs. "Seemed to me that Mr. Onn and Mr. Graham wanted the party gathered together, but they didn't specifically order that. I suppose we might cramp their style while they're looking for a ship."

Rangin nods. "Let's stay here for now, then. They can always ask us to come when they're ready."

Bizhi is conscious that it may not be ideal for him (or Graham or Onn) to be drinking, but, for the sake of camaraderie...

"Three Saurian brandies, then. And, since this isn't Starfleet business," he catches Booker's eye, "a fourth?" Nia definitely should not be imbibing any intoxicants and he knows it and she knows it. He signals her to trust him and orders her an Altairian--- no, Algolian--- tonic water with orange juice and real grenadine, should be impressive-looking enough not to seem out of place, and a shot of Old Janx Spirit, slice of lime for himself.

Graham nods to the doctor. "Hell yes. Good man." He hunkers down at the table, glances at Onn, and the focuses on Satchell. "Maybe we can clink our glasses, not as 'Starfleet' and 'not Starfleet' or whatever else, but as mariners all, doing some business that's good for everyone involved...and talk about our destination."

Satchell smiles and replies to Graham, "Why not?"

Dr. Mäkeläinen is able to get a waiter's attention, and soon the drinks are brought and served. He pays from the Tesla shipmates' monit account. The two Saurians raise their glasses in mute salute and each take a sip; they don't put away their rifles, however. Satchell drinks a toast with Graham and his shipmates, saying, "To our mutual success" as you all clink glasses. She then asks, waiting for your answers:

"So... where to?"
"How many of you need passage?"
"What sort of timetable are you on?"
"When will you be ready to leave?"
"What's your budget?"
"Any special needs or requests en route?"

Asked at all once to save time and move things along. Please answer, and ask any questions of your own, in the same way.

Bizhi raises his glass in a toast to the Saurians, whom he has been studying with curiosity.

This is not the place to hash out their precise orders and all of their private business. Getting off-world is officially their highest priority, but he knows they can look forward to probably meeting again with the Portmaster or Port security and also figuring out how to secure a shuttle currently resting at the bottom of a frozen lake. Diving? All that will eat up time, potentially even a couple of days. Dr. Mäkeläinen does not repeat or contradict the other officers' answers, but during the conversation he explains that, as far as he is concerned, the one inflexible requirement is that they need to be in Cavinre by the end of five days, that's Federation standard days. "We heard your ship was fast and small and that is what we are looking for. We are willing to pay for haste and for lack of complications. Frills are not an issue; speaking for myself, I am perfectly willing to share a cabin, bunk below decks, whatever it takes." Not sure about the budget--- IIRC we had ~20k monits but have been rapidly burning through them. But, before offering a substantial proportion of what is left and/or haggling, they need to start with their knowledge of how much private space travel costs. Dr. M. might suggest a reasonable-sounding (not suspiciously large) payment in monits up front with the offer of a bonus in Credits when they get there.

He inquires about the Zephyr's medical facilities.

Satchell nods thoughtfully, and replies:

"We're not going directly to Cavinre, but we'll pass relatively close by there."
"How many people did you say?"
"We could get you within a day's journey of Cavinre in just over three days' time."
"I expect we'll break orbit in," she glances at her at her wrist chrono, "four hours or so."
"Typical passenger fare is 10k monits a head. Pending approval of the Captain, of course."
"The Zephyr has a small but fully-equipped Sickbay. No doctor in the crew, but we've got a certified space medic. She's good."
"Anything else?"

duplicate post

Kylah is grateful to Mr. Rawlings for not being too... too Security. And of course she admires Velir's aplomb. His preternatural patience is getting a workout.

Aware of the awkward circumstances, she tries to make a better attempt at cleaning the table of her spilled drink. Her cheeks turn warm and likely the color of a tomato when her mind drifts back to Mr. Rawlings walking in on the pair of them. Even more blush-inducing is the fact that this time, this place, and these circumstances are how she and Velir chose to have a passionate kiss.

It is not how she would have wished them to return to the closeness they shared prior to everything that culminated in their rift on Anubis. It was difficult enough even before that, getting beyond her mistake with Jan on OCIII.

Why must violence and heartache mark every milestone in their relationship?

Kylah does not linger on the possibility that their kisses were out of his need for comfort after this dreadful incident. After her soaked cocktail napkin turns out to be not too successful with mopping up the mocha, she sighs and looks up to realize Mr. Rawlings is still standing. "I am sorry, please have a seat," she says, automatically starting to move to make room for him before acknowledging that it would practically put her in Velir's lap.

She tries to sound undistressed while putting the napkin on the table. "Well. I think I need another. I did not have very much before--I spilled it. What about you, Mr. Rawlings? May I order something for you?" She turns to the man beside her. "Another drink, Velir? Perhaps something to eat. I might get something myself." Kylah looks at him hopefully, though understanding he may not have much of an appetite.

After sipping her drink in an attempt to look nonchalant, Nia casts a grateful glance at the doctor. She had no idea what he'd got her, but of course it wasn't anything that'd harm her. The same can't be said of his own choice. She notices his drink and lifts an eyebrow. The man must have guts of steel.

She listens carefully to the questions and answers with steadily decreasing hope. Three days the best you can do? What if you use a pilot who.s actually competent at the helm?

Then again, her own shuttle's at the bottom of the sea, so she's not exactly in a position to judge. She keeps her gaze steadily on her drink, not wanting to show her frustration or disappointment.

Still, four days--including the one it'll take to get to Cavinre--is cutting things fine. Nia sets her glass down with the purposeful, deliberate care she'd use if it was a grenade. "There's six of us," she says quietly. One of the others'll have to say about the fare. I haven't had time to learn the exchange rate. But..." She lifts her chin so she can look at the other woman. "No way you can make the trip a little more... direct? For a price? We'd really like to shave a day off that ETA, if possible."

She pauses. Maybe one of their destinations has faster ships available. Glancing over to Booker, unsure of herself--if she's sounding desperate, if she's screwing up the negotiation such as it is--she clears her throat before continuing. "Where're you headed for? If it's somewhere with plenty of ships in orbit, we might spare you having to go near Cavinre at all."

"My friend [we are all friends here, not Starfleet officers] is right— time is of the essence. Getting that close to Cavinre is highly useful, but not if we end up stranded again. Unless there are guaranteed to be hourly ferries?"

Regarding the price, "That may seem fair, but it is still a lot of monits, considering we'd be sharing accommodations. But, supposing we agree, what would your captain say to our proposal of accepting the bulk of the fare in credits? Not only is that more useful to you, considering where you are headed, it will end up substantially more money. Economies of scale," Mäkeläinen explains spuriously but hopefully plausibly after a couple of Saurian brandies. He hopes he is not called upon to do any detailed figuring with his own spirits already starting to lovingly fry his synapses.

Graham listens attentively and nods--mostly appreciatively--as Satchell speaks.

After the back and forth between her, Onn, and the doctor, Graham takes a contemplative sip of his drink and leans forward again.

"As my colleagues have emphasized, getting where we need to be sooner rather than later is...of, ah significant value."

He rubs his chin. "Whether credits or monist, by hook or by crook we're willing to meet the standard...but, how about...a day faster's worth an extra 20 percent, and two days is worth 30?"

Rawlings considers the cushioned bench on which Rangin and Kylah are sitting, then sits down. He is a very large man, and it's a tight fit. "Nothing for me, thanks," he says pleasantly to Kylah.

"Nor I," Rangin says, more tersely. After a few seconds of awkward silence he jumps to his feet. "You know, I think we should go find the others, after all. Graham might make some idiotic deal for another ship, when one of my prospects would actually be better for us all. Let's go."

Satchell rubs her chin as she listens to Onn and Graham. "That could be appealing to the Captain," she says. "We're headed to Messina, and then Dremenn IV, but for the right amount of monits - or Federation credits - a diversion might be possible." In response to Dr. Mäkeläinen, she lets out a single harsh laugh. "Hourly ferries, to Cavinre? Pull the other one! Have you been to Cavinre? It's not exactly a place most people are eager to go to. Not a tourist hotspot, to say the least."

She speaks to the nearby Saurians in the alien language from before, smiling, and they both begin to make guttural noises, their shoulders shaking slightly.

Lt. Graham unilaterally haggling the sum upwards makes Bizhi think, Let's not come off as utterly desperate— even if we are!

The credits themselves mean nothing, though. They merely serve a purpose: that the Zephyr's operators end up mollified and drop them off at Cavinre, their purses heavier, with some relaxed sessions of story-swapping on the way and fond memories all around. Things can easily still take a turn for the much, much worse.

For now, everybody is laughing and smiling and he lets himself relax. He feels a bit awkward standing up by the table like this, or that could be the effects of the spirit on his proprioception. He moves to join the Saurians at their table, unless it looks like they will object.

Satchell's words help loosen the knot in her stomach, and she grips her glass with both hands as if giving it a hug. She watches Dr. M. walk toward the Saurians, wondering if he knows the language. Wouldn't surprise her. He seems pretty well-rounded.

She turns and gives Satchell a small smile. "He's a doctor, not an anthropologist. But actually I've seen 'tourists' who seem to revel in taking risks. Making a trip to see misery, danger and unrest, just for bragging rights."

Wasn't particularly fun to be on the other side of that, even though in Sidonia's case it was Starfleet scientists and they meant well, at least. "Anyway... I'll--we'll be grateful for anything you can do for any reasonable fee. For varying definitions of 'reasonable.'" Nia looks at Booker and tries a warmer smile before she adds, "And I guess your captain'll do most of the defining. Hope they'll figure one out quickly.

"Can we get in touch with Green now? Or is there more of a hierarchy thing and you'll take the proposal yourself? I don't mean to rush, but if you're departing in four, we should probably start the, uh, process, if you don't mind. We're gonna have to find alternatives in the meantime. Unless you have more questions," she continues, now to Booker.

Her gaze shifts slightly behind him, taking in the doctor and the Saurians again, this time more warily. The gun-toting partners don't seem the most friendly chaps. She tries to communicate a silent inquiry toward Booker, hoping he considers it's okay for Mäkeläinen to make himself comfy over by them. Despite sharing scales and coldbloodedness--the latter only in the biological sense, at least--Nia knows almost nothing about them.

"Can we chat privately for a sec', Book--er," she corrects quickly. Maybe it's weird to use the nickname now. Sucks having to question herself on how to address a friend. Then again it sucks even more that they're "friends" at all.

Surprised and a little worried, Kylah stares at Velir for a second or two before she replies somewhat awkwardly, "Oh--I am sorry, I did not realize you had other prospects before...everything. But certainly, if you think it best to go...."

But she is not very certain. She is now self-conscious over his brusque manner, especially in front of Mr. Rawlings, since she cannot ask Velir anything very personal. Not that she blames Velir for his being extremely tense right now.

While sliding/wiggling her way across the booth seat after him, she gives Mr. Rawlings an apologetic look for having gotten him to cram himself into the booth only for him to squeeze his way back out immediately after. Once standing, she gnaws her lower lip before asking the security officer, "How should we best prevent --that is--what is the safest way to go?"

Graham arches an eyebrow at Nia's request. "Of course," he responds, quickly. "If you'll excuse us," he says to Satchell amicably, throwing an acknowledging glance toward the Saurians as well.

If Satchell agrees, Nia will draw Booker aside to add some distance between them and the human Zephyr crewmate, but still close enough to see what's going on with the Saurians.

"Sorry," she says in an undertone. "Just wanted to know... we've got four hours, if this deal goes through. But should we look for backups in the meantime? Maybe some are leaving earlier, or flying faster or closer. Of course, Rangin killed our chances at the other good prospect." Nia tries to be humorous but there's a thread of bitterness stitched within the words. "But maybe one of the other two..."

She glances over to the Doc and the Saurians. Sounds like a band. "What do you know about Saurians? These guys look easy to displease. I don't want the crew put into any danger because we're too focused on me. We need to look up the Zephyr's rep. If it checks out as legit, great. But otherwise..."

Finally looking up at Booker, she hesitates just for a moment. "Okay. I'd like to think I'm objective enough to consider my crew first. I always try to make choices that are optimal for the crew, or whatever I'm at the helm of. But this situation... feels different. I worry that I'm too selfish to think straight. Ever since yesterday, I'm conscious of every breath I take, 'cause each one is poisoning me. it's as if I've lost control of my mag boots during an EVA, and now I'm floating outside with a leaking tank. The ship's left me far behind and I'm suffocating. And there's nowhere to go."

She stares, haunted, at something that she can't really see. "There's no shore to crawl to, no surface to swim to. I'm in the ocean of space and there's no escape." Her focus returns to Booker. "And I want to get the hell out of here so bad I might do anything, agree to anything."

Her breathing is ragged and she places a hand on her abdomen, hoping to reconnect with the present time and place. "Sorry. I shouldn't pour my emotions out on you--I'm not your problem anymore." Nia's awkward and unsure, but she has to get herself together, and does. "But. You're second-in-command. You're supposed to tell me even things I don't want to hear. And that means you have to be objective about our priorities. Maybe it's presumptuous of me to even suggest that. You're a professional. Takes a lotta hubris to think you'd have any difficulty just because we..."

Nia's gaze skitters away like a rodent seeking cover: to the floor, to the Saurians, then to the doctor. "Point is, if you start to doubt my decision making, seek him out." She lifts her chin in Mäkeläinen's direction. "He'll give you solid advice for sure. I mean, he wants the best outcome for his patient, but he's rational and smart as hell. I don't know him well enough yet to tell you more than that, but that's my take anyway.

"Double-T and I have a history, but you know it wasn't serious. I don't think he'd have any problem with objectivity. But in my experience, not sure about yours and you've worked with him... He's not an advisor or leader. Doesn't have the best overall view. Don't tell him I said it, I trust him as a solid officer and am really fond of him, but I'm being honest with you."

She tilts her head, almost amused at the thought that strikes her. "Frankly I'm sure you'd disagree, but to me, the most rational, strategic thinker on the crew's probably Rangin, but circumstances--and your history--make me think you wouldn't go to him. Kylah..." Nia cough-chuckles a little, now more the former than the latter. "Yeah, no. Well, you know her better than I am. She'll probably be a good comforter, if anyone needs it."

With a sigh, she faces the truth. "I'm giving you this rundown of my thoughts of the crew because... you'll probably be leading them. If I'm in some bad mental or physical state and I start to sound irrational... Will you be sure to think of the crew first, before me? Take the safest ship that's fast. Not just the fastest. I'm not saying you have to hold out until we get private cabins with gold saunas and velvet pillows. But your safety--I mean all the crew's safety--is of primary importance. Not mine. You know that, you've been in command. If there's anything sketchy or hinky that puts you on your guard... pick what's best for the others. I'm not an irreplaceable loss now that the Tesla's gone and we don't need a pilot or engineer." Nia shrugs. "Don't throw good money after bad, is what I'm saying.

"If I'm not listening or it seems like my perspective's outta whack, call me out on it. And please consult with Mäkeläinen. My mind's not 100% even now and I think he'll help you judge. Remember he has the power to relieve me of command. Listen to him."

Nia places her hand on his arm for a second. The fuzzy mitten can't transmit her touch, and her body temp's too low to transmit any warmth. But it's contact. "Will you promise me, Booker?"

Satchell casually waves Onn and Graham away for them to go talk privately. "Sure, go ahead. I'll call my Captain and see if we can't work something out." She pulls out a communicator.

Rawlings shrugs and extracts himself from the booth without breaking anything. "Follow me," he says. "No problem. I'll take you to them."

Rangin replies to Kylah, "Yeah, as I said, I have leads on three other possible ships to get us out of here. One of them could be the one we need."

See post 1347.

Kylah seems doomed to blush a lot today. She nods at Velir's response. "Forgive me, Velir, I was paying attention. But what you told me after was so overwhelming, and we were talking so much, and between all that and... everything..." Unconsciously she looks at the booth, then darts her attention back to Velir. "Well, I forgot. It is very good news. Only you would focus on that now, after what you have been through."

She tries to smile at him, then turns to Ensign Rawlings and lifts her arm toward the door. "I suppose you must lead, please, Mr. Rawlings."

Mäkeläinen regards Graham and Onn talking. There was also something he wanted to discuss with them in private, but that can wait. Not long, though, not if they are in fact going to be in orbit in a few hours. That would certainly be the optimal way forward from a medical perspective, with immediate access to a sickbay and an expensive, yet crucial diversion directly to their destination. Unless there is a faster, more direct ship they can hire? If they had had just a bit more time to spare, they could have posted an ad on the local comms network. The Zephyr is supposed to be pretty fast, though, and they have at least a couple more leads.

He smiles at his current companions and works on his drink. He tries to listen to what Satchell may be saying over her communicator.

Rawlings nods and leaves the booth, passing through the privacy shield, and then his broad bulk clearing a path through the crowded bar not unlike a seagoing vessel passing through an ice field. Kylah and Rangin follow in his wake. You soon see Graham and Onn talking to each other, standing near a booth in which is seated a Human woman in orange coveralls, a communicator in hand. Dr. Mäkeläinen is standing nearby, too, and Kylah notices that two armed Saurians are sitting alertly in a nearby booth.

The good doctor is just a little too far away, and the bar is quite a bit too noisy, for him to hear what Satchell is saying.

What Nia's saying is a lot to take in.

Graham blinks and takes a deep breath. "You were never, are not now, and never will be a 'problem,' please believe me..."

He pauses and takes another deep breath. "Whatever else has happened."

Graham places his hand on hers. "I promise. And--every contact here is a risk, but I'll do my best to suss out other options, hedge our bets."

He rubs his chin, taking stock all she's said. "Yeah, the doctor...I trust his uh, I trust his opinion on your..." The word is like wrenching a chunk out of his heart. "Prospects," he says, his mouth suddenly as dry as he imagines Nia's home world.

Taking in the tableau, Kylah is drawn to what looks like Lt. Onn and Lt. Graham in a serious conversation. Then she sees Dr. Mäkeläinen's welcome familiar face, and then of course the Saurians are hard to miss. Along with their weapons.

She is immediately alert. None of the group is close enough for her to attempt to sense emphatically what the mood here is--not with the distractions of the other patrons. But she has eyes, and she can see the tension in her senior officers' stances, and the relaxed state of the woman and the doctor. She cannot tell anything about the Saurians, but the fact that they have two weapons in plain view is concerning, to say the least.

Her hand reaches out to Mr. Rawlings's sleeve. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to stay here--both of you," she adds with a quick look at Velir. "Until Lt. Graham indicates that it is safe for Lt. Rangin to approach. I will go see Dr. Mäkeläinen. It is probably a good sign that Lt. Graham considers it safe to leave him sitting with armed... men?" Kylah frowns slightly, realizing she is unsure how to distinguish genders in the Saurians. Or if they have genders at all.

If Mr. Rawlings does not object, Kylah casts an optimistic glance at Velir, one that is warm and full of even more intense affection for him. Then she will head nonchalantly towards the trio of strangers and the Doctor. Kylah's approach is slow, and she is concentrating fiercely on the strangers' emotions.

She does not believe she will recognize anything from the Saurians--she knows so little about them, and does not remember if they are 'readable' via psi scrutiny. But she must try. She is more confident about the female, possibly human but humans' appearance is not unique; Kylah could be mistaken for one herself.

If all seems relatively safe, she will go to Dr. Mäkeläinen. And, having no idea yet if their identities should be obscured, she calls him Bizhi before asking carefully if he is... well.

Bizhi sees Kylah hesitating to approach, so we waves her over, indicating to the Zephyrites she is with him. "Yes, I am fine. Good news, in fact. Assuming their captain is receptive, for a suitably extravagant fee they seem willing to drop us off right at Cavinre. We would leave in a few hours."

He notices her look at the armed Saurians with trepidity and whispers, "They pegged us as Starfleet directly. It does not seem they intend to do anything unfortunate. At least, not here. They did let us know right away they knew what we were. Stay canny, but they may be just what they seem, which is we were looking for: regular jacks with a fast ship, who are headed in that direction anyway. Merely made it clear they cannot be involved in Starfleet business. We are a private group of passengers looking for transportation, as far as anyone is concerned."

Nia's reaction to Booker's reassurance about her 'problem' remark is a little shrug and almost invisible shake of her head. When he takes her hand and promises her that he won't let her endanger the crew more than she has--not his words, of course, but that was her meaning and he's agreed either way... she sighs a soft thank you, eyes closing in relief.

"Prospects," she echoes contemplatively. Nia appreciates his tact about her situation, coupled with what looks like as close to dread as she's seen on him since Novy Rostov. She gives him a soft smile. "I was born with no prospects. Whatever I've got now is extra."

Squeezing his hand, she tilts her head in the direction of the table. "'Kay. Let's see what this captain has to say about the cargo-bay's worth of credits you're tossing their way--"

Her words break off at the sight of Double-T's easily recognizable figure, and the much smaller one of a certain xenobiologist nearby. Nia emits a low, exasperated grunt. "Oh great." She glances back at Booker and shifts her eyes to indicate the source of her aggravation. "Do we want him around when we're trying to close this deal?"

"How wonderful to hear," Kylah says, grateful to have some good news. The sooner they get off the planet, the better for all of them--though of course, none so much as Velir and Lt. Onn. With a happier nod to the Saurians--she is desperately trying to recall any hint of their language that she might have picked up from home or the Academy--Kylah takes a seat, if one is available.

She does her best to avoid sneaking a peek at Velir, and searches her head for something safe to say. A hint of the scent of lime nudges her memory. "Oh! I forgot those things you found on--outside. The papers? Have you determined what that material was? Could it be lemon juice?" She takes a discreet look at the woman speaking on her communicator, curious but also making sure she is not listening. Then Kylah faces Dr. Mäkeläinen again. "It would just take warming it to see..."

Kylah pauses and frowns slightly, taking another look at the woman's uniform, particularly the shoulder patch. The name is familiar. She has heard it recently. Did Velir mention it? She again focuses on the doctor, now distracted but still curious about what he might have discovered.