A red rain fluttered across the open square as crisp leaves were lifted and tossed from the roofs of nearby buildings; the signs of a planet deep within its seasonal autumn as the meticulously tended plants of the courtyard found themselves swallowed by the tsunami of red and yellow. As a gentle wind rustled through the tall branches of the nearby trees Maine could have believed himself back home of Earth. Seated, book in hand, amongst the manicured shrubs of his mother’s beloved cottage garden in England, where he had lost too many hours watching the ballet of leaves fall through an air thick with the scent of Shepherd’s pie. The wind rustled again and as a group of leaves began their long tumble he spotted one lonely green leaf, once hidden beneath the cluster it was now wildly exposed to the wind and chill. He watched as the twisting branch was grasped the wind and raked back and forth, the lonely growth twisting and turning with a nimble flexibility, it refused to fall. The philosopher in Maine sighed, just like this little colony.

Ciman II had seen its fair share of vicious winds; first abandoned by the Federation, bullied by the Union, exploited by the Maqui and then all but forgotten during the Dominion War. Too far from anywhere to be anything but a dot on the map, they had suffered at the hands of profiteers and pirates eager to pick at corpses, using Ciman to hide their dirty work. Following the renewed interest in the region by both the Federation and the Union they had been freed the opportunists in favour of becoming a small voice in the new DMZ’s rough alliance of colonies, not a member of any great import but their large arable lands and temperate climate made them somewhat of a bread basket for the area. Ciman had never planned to have much in the way of defences and found trading crops for the protection from their neighbours had been enough. That trade that was now very much in danger, as were the colonies.

“Tranquil isn’t it?” A voice echoed across the small courtyard, a gentle tone carried on the breeze. “This time of year almost makes me feel like I’m back on Cardassia. The world turned a slight tinge of yellow and brown.”

“I was just reminiscing myself actually.” Maine said aloud, unsurprised by the voice.

“Oh really? May I enquire as to what?” The inquisitive visitor spoke louder, moving closer.

“Crisp evenings and Shepherds Pie.” Maine responded, picking up the few padds spread across the bench next to him.

“What is…”

“Shepherds’ pie? Earth dish, a minced meat mix in gravy topped with potatoes and cheese.” Maine answered, “Each family has a secret version. My mother added curried beans.” Turning, he found the disembodied voice’s owner, a tall Cardassian of statuesque features crossing the courtyard. Their slick black hair tied up into a small bun, pierced by a delicate metal pin, a few lengths fell forward framing a sculptural face. Motioning to the empty spot next to him they sat, pulling the edges of their deep orange jacket tighter against the chill.

“That sounds…” A raised eyebrow from Maine cut them short. “… like an experience.” The Cardassian said. “We have a similar thing made from Voles and Tiban root, my mother said her secret was Vole blood.” A second raised eyebrow from Maine elicited a wry smile. “How were today’s discussions?”

“The same as the last two day’s worth.” Maine had been on-planet for almost four days now, alongside teams from the U.S.S. David Lane, an old Miranda class deployed to the area with supplies and now diplomats. Under the guise of delivering trade and civilian aid they had been instructed to begin discussions regarding how the Federation and by extension Starfleet could help the colonies with the True Way’s roaming attacks. Whilst the diplomats discussed the bigger issues Maine and Nestus were to provide logistic support to the colony, improve tech where they could, shore up security. In the grand scheme of things Maine’s work could do a lot of good, they just had to get the Ciman’s leadership to agree, until then they waited, pouring over plans of what they could do if someone just let them. “How do you put up with it Zaya?” he sighed, rolling his eyes back towards the building behind them, where discussions continued.

“I didn’t. There is a reason I’m out here and I never stood for re-election.” Once an active member of the colony’s leadership Zaya had allowed their term and political career to finish in favour of pursuing other methods of serving the citizens of Cimin. ‘More practical things’ they had stated to Maine the days before when they had been greeted by Zaya on the transporter pad. “Politics wants to make lofty things and long lasting decisions, which means long lasting meetings and I get uncomfortable around hot air.”

“So instead you opt for being out here in the cold with me?” Maine retorted, it had only been a few days but Zaya had been a constant sparring partner and though their scientific knowledge was average, Zaya was well known in the community and in the halls of the administrative building, giving Maine access to information he would need to get a head start on their work. Possibly a bit more access than he should have, Zaya was heavily invested in the colony and it showed in how many people owed them favours.

Zaya picked up the top padd from Maine’s pile. “The Golden Ox.” They sighed. “A lot of people in this town had friends and family aboard.”

“They’re just out of contact at the moment. It could be any number of things.” Maine said, small comfort at the moment, it could be anything, comms failure, solar interferance, giant space hand. They both know what it was likely to be, True Way marauders, seeking to break the colonies.

A silence fell on the square as they both sat in their mutually approved fantasy.

“It is chilly isn’t it? Have you thought of dinner plans?” Zaya said, cutting through the silent breeze that fluttered against the nearby tree.

Maine paused, he had become friendly with Zaya but the invitation took him back, he was meant to keep a professional distance whilst the diplomats did their work. ‘Don’t get too involved, begin too friendly might make promises you can’t keep’ an older Bolian professor has once warned him.

“No I haven’t. Something simple and more schematics no doubt.” He said, raising his small pile of padds as example.

“Why don’t you join me for a dinner this evening, I’ll make something fresh, local ingredients and not a replicator in sight. I promise.” Zaya offered, her face still fixed in a small smile. Beneath her dark brown eyes something flickered, her offer was not quite what it seemed. “I’m having some friends over.”

“I appreciate it but I really…” Maine began to mutter but he was cut off by Zaya.

“Perhaps we can trade some ‘family secrets’.” She said, as she stood and took a step forward, offering out the padd she had earlier taken from his pile. Looking down he saw the intel report regarding the Golden Ox had been replaced with the vessel’s cargo listing, including a variety of unreported additions, a full itinerary including several undisclosed additional stops and a full technical specification noting the vessel’s unregistered armament improvements.

Standing, Maine stepped alongside Zaya. “As long as we don’t need to eat Cardassian Voles.” he said, eyes tightening with acknowledgement.

“You have to hunt them before you can eat them. That’s no secret.” Zaya said as they led Maine out of the courtyard. Pulling his jacket closer against the renewed evening chill, Maine glanced back toward the building where diplomats and leaders still spoke. Sighing he turned to follow Zaya, leaving the last green sprig unwitnessed as it slowly began to turn a dark yellow.

The spices of a dozen different worlds still drifted through the corridors of Zaya’s spacious homestead; long after the sun had set over the verdant horizon and the cattle had been brought into barns, laughter and light still leaked from the oval windows of the home. Around a carved wooden table, whose sturdy base was stylised into a tree trunk that wound its way seamlessly into the wooden floor boards, Maine sat, emptying a small tumbler of black liquid. Savouring the liquorice taste of the viscous drink his attention returned to a discussion happening across the table.

“…that’s why you never see the Ferengi round here. There isn’t anything or anyone to take advantage off.” A tall, muscular human began to spread a smile across his weathered face. “Though there was that one who came through a few years ago selling a miracle plant fertilizer. What was his name?” He paused, running his large hands over the short patch of hair that looked to Maine like it had visibly receded even over the course of the evening.

“Agnog.” A woman offered from across the room, as she slipped her tan jacket over her slim shoulders.

“Agnog!” A Bolian man cried from the other side of the table. “Spent weeks trying to sell Yridian Yak manure for its ‘agricultural benefits’.” he said, rising his bright azure fingers into mock air quotes, a surprisingly human affectation Maine noticed.

“Didn’t stop you from buying 50 metric tonnes did it Gorm?” The human male interjected, his large hands turning into an accusatory point.

“Gave me the best marrows I’ve had in over a decade.” Gorm said, defensively. “You’re just jealous that your crop wasn’t as impressive that year.”

“We both know that wasn’t because of the Yak manure.” the human sniped, an awkward silence descended on the room. As with all the conversation that evening Maine had noticed the delicate veneer of joviality and comradery floated over a deep undercurrent of anger and frustration felt by all the colonists. They never spoke of the heart of the matter, not in his presence, but Maine suspected they rarely spoke to each other about it either.

Thankfully the woman, now clad in her worn duster jacket and canvas bag slung over her shoulder broke the silence. “Gorm would you walk with me? I’ve got those erm…” she stumbled over the words, looking for a good excuse. “…holonovels you wanted to borrow.” The Bolian’s already deep blue skin deepened to a sapphire, jumping up he made his excuses and rushed to the door, joining the white lie as they hurried out the door together.

The door had barely whispered shut as the human turned to Maine, a wide toothy grin spreading across his face. “They think they’re being so subtle and secretive about it, like anyone would bat an eyelid if they were shouting it form the rooftops. Holonovels, pah! I hear Gorm’s hardly in his own home enough to watch them.”

“Oh hush Reggar, it’s the adventure of young love.” Zaya admonished, smiling as they appeared from the small portal to the kitchen, wringing their hands on a towel as they crossed the room to open and well used liquor cabinet. “Don’t you remember the excitement of sneaking around after dark, holding hands in the shadows and stealing kisses in the moonlight.” She motioned to Maine with a delicate bottle of more liquor, he refused with a loose shake of the head. “I think it’s lovely. I haven’t seen Amina this happy since…” their voice tailed off.

Picking up on the silence Maine spoke. “Did she loose someone?”

Reggar sighed, receiving another drink from Zaya as they sat down at the empty seat next to Maine. “Her husband Lycal was handy with a wrench, was always fixing things here and there. During the war he had mighty ideas about helping the little folk so volunteered with the auxiliary as an engineer. He was on a freighter, Cold Caller when the Dominion decided to start throwing out all the rules. Saved 35 lives keeping the life support going until help arrived.” There was a heavy pause, Maine knew what was coming but it didn’t soften the pang of regret in his heart from the all-to-familiar phrase. “He didn’t make it out.”

The silence sat upon the room, thick as a fog, masking any route to take away from the subject and to clearer, fairer conversation.

“Did you serve during the war?” Reggar asked, his large blue eyes fixed on the commander’s neck, where three small pips nestled, barely visible beneath Maine’s open collar. “Earn them there did you?”

Maine’s back instantly tightened, he’d worked on these colony worlds several times and met plenty of people, civilian and service alike, who blamed Starfleet for the loss of thier loved one. He looked toward Zaya for rescue but their attention seemed lost in the swirling blue liquid in their glass.

“I did serve.” Maine uttered, he had to be careful. Many of his missions during the war were still considered classified and he had drunk enough of the liquorice liquid to ease his tongue a dangerous amount.

“And I bet you always followed your orders didn’t you? Go here, blow up that, claim that planet, destroy that target. Screw the little guys down below as long as Starfleet was winning!” Reggar’s ire was clearly rising and still Zaya seemed unaffected or unwilling to intervene. His voice was swelling with every word and Maine felt his heart begin to quicken in response.

“I followed the orders I thought were right.” Maine said, attempting to defuse Reggar’s anger. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt.” The last part wasn’t entirely true, more than once he had found himself struggling with a sense of perverse pleasure at the thought of his enemy suffering. Particularly following the deaths of several academy friends at Chin’toka.

It was at this half-truth that Zaya was awakened from their gaze into the middle distance.

“But the Federation doesn’t always know best. Starfleet isn’t always right.” They said, still swirling the blue liquid into a small storm within the glass. “Like at Talkin Station?”

Maine’s breath froze, how could Zaya know anything about that? His pulse was racing now, it had been the incident that almost cost him his career, had it not been so soon after the war, with Starfleet desperate for experienced agents, he would have been relegated to one of the Federations less enjoyable penal colonies.

“They wanted you to abandon those civilians and pursue the True Way. But you didn’t, did you Maine?”

His blood ran cold. Talkin Station had been a small Federation trading post near where Cardassian, Federation and Tzenkethi space met. Starfleet had wanted to use it as an operating post for their security agents and the station management had agreed, hoping that it would bring with it some Starfleet protection.

“Starfleet is a big organisation, with big priorities. Particularly during the war.” Maine responded steadily. “I followed my orders. Once the civilians were safe.”

His pulse continued to pound in his head as he remembered the Starfleet Admiral instructing him to ‘Forget the civilians and chase down the Cardassian asset’. A strike team had assaulted the station and managed to collect a significant amount of data regarding Starfleet’s current clandestine operations; targets, agents, plans for the next 3 months. As they fled they had blown apart the engineering section, inflicting massive damage to power and life support.

“You even convinced others to ignore the orders. No small feat for a lowly Lieutenant.” Zaya whispered, their eyes now lifting to meet Maine’s.

The Miranda class Earl of Wessex had been assigned to the base as support, Maine has managed to convince it’s captain to remain at the base and evacuate the survivors aboard the station rather than pursue the Cardassian rebels. By the time the last civilians were abord the Wessex all trace of the strike team was gone. His handlers at Starfleet Security had been furious, he was shelved for a long time whilst Starfleet’s strategic plans were redrawn and assets recalled. Maine had always feared that his choice to save those aboard the station would have inevitably cost some of his fellow agents their lives.

“It takes a certain type of person to do the right thing Maine. To see what’s really important.” Ruggar said, his anger seemingly vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“I need to know if I can trust you to do the right thing again my friend?” Zaya said softly.

A breeze shot through the house, now cramped with worry and tension. The soft scent of warming spices that earlier in the evening suffused the air along with laughter and light were banished as a chill wind whipped through the open front door. A tall figure emerged from the open doorway, features hard to distinguish beneath the large hood amongst the low light of lamps scattered through the house.

The simple cloak was drawn back as the figure stepped foward, reavealing a black shining uniform broken up with a scaled design. It peaked into the centre of the chest, exposing long ridged collarbones; the hood fell away to reveal the face of a tall Cardassian, his wide jaw and deep set eyes fixed in a stern expression.

“May I introduce Gul Monan, of the Prokeen” Zaya paused as they crossed to the newcomer, Reggar moved to flank them, cutting off Maine’s possible exit.

“He has an offer from the True Way.”