Ambrose watched the sunset from the balcony of the Ember Lounge, a glass of Orion whiskey in hand, the bitter liquid burning its way down his throat. The neon skyline of Freecloud glittered beneath him. Freecloud was a sprawling, neon urban jungle that never truly slept. Shuttlecrafts zipped by on the translucent highways as the hum of commerce, both legitimate and illicit, filled the air. This was his city, his world. It was a blend of chaos and opportunity where he had carved out a shadowy empire. No one looked up at him, no one noticed the tall man leaning against the railing of his rooftop bar. That was exactly how Ambrose wanted it.

The Ember Lounge was quiet at this hour, her regulars still engaged in whatever early evening dealings or pleasures they pursued across the city. Ambrose had designed the lounge to be just that; a harmless, upscale establishment where those with questionable intentions could drink away their sins or seal a deal over a discreet conversation. On the surface, she was simply another Freecloud tavern catering to the diverse crowd the planet attracted. But beneath the polished front of expensive liquors and velvet-lined booths was the heart of his growing criminal enterprise.

Commander Ambrose Nichols, once a proud Starfleet officer, was now known only as “The Broker” within his own organization. He had turned his back on the Federation’s lofty ideals years ago. He had grown disillusioned with their rigid morality and inability to adapt to the darker realities of the galaxy. Now, he played by his own rules, manipulating those ideals to his advantage while staying in the shadows. The Phoenix Consortium had grown under his leadership; a small network dealing in weapons smuggling, trafficking, and high-stakes sabotage. His operations stretched across multiple systems, but here on Freecloud, behind the facade of the Ember Lounge, was where it all began.

Ambrose swirled his drink, his thoughts momentarily drifting to the past. Starfleet was a different life when he believed in something greater than himself. He had worn the uniform, stood at attention, and saluted the flag, but all that felt like a distant dream now. Reality had a way of shattering such illusions, and he had learned that survival came to those willing to get their hands dirty. There was no place in the galaxy for idealists, especially so on Freecloud.

A soft chime interrupted his thoughts as Ambrose turned to see the bar’s entrance slide open. A thin man, dressed in a long coat and clearly out of place among the polished patrons who frequented his lounge, entered the room. His name was Kalom, one of Ambrose’s long-standing contacts, a low-level merchant with ties to the Orion Syndicate. Ambrose’s eyes narrowed as Kalom approached. The man rarely visited unless there was trouble or money to be made.

“Ambrose,” Kalom said, his voice a whisper. He glanced around nervously, confirming no one was nearby before continuing. “We need to talk.”

Ambrose took a slow sip of his whiskey, “So talk.”

Kalom shifted uneasily on his feet. “It’s about the shipment. The Romulan one.”

Ambrose’s eyes flicked to the door, ensuring no one else had followed Kalom. His organization was built on the idea of secrecy. Romulan shipments were always delicate business, especially with the fractured state of the former Romulan Empire. He had connections with rogue Romulans and was more than happy to provide services for the right price.

“The shipment was supposed to be in place by now,” Ambrose said calmly, “What happened?” He showed no concern.

Kalom winced, knowing there was no hiding bad news from Ambrose. “There’s… been a delay. The Klingons caught wind of the transaction. We had to divert the shipment through the neighboring sector to avoid confrontation.”

The Klingons. Always a wild card in this part of the galaxy. They had their splinter factions, groups that had no allegiance to the Empire and operated on their own terms. Ambrose had dealt with them before. They were brutal but predictable. Still, a delay in the shipment meant lost revenue and potentially lost clients. That was unacceptable.

“Diverting is fine,” Ambrose said, setting his glass down and straightening up. “But I need that shipment here by tomorrow night. Rempeck doesn’t like waiting, and I’m not interested in making him think I can’t deliver. Understand?”

Kalom swallowed hard and nodded quickly. “Of course. I’ll make sure it happens.”

Ambrose turned away from him, looking back out over the city. “Good. But make sure the Federation doesn’t get involved this time. I’m tired of seeing reports about the Edison.  That Tindal likes to push his way my business. And we both know how messy that can get.” Ambrose waved his hand, dismissing the man.

Kalom looked visibly relieved to be dismissed, turning on his heel and leaving the way he came. Ambrose didn’t need to watch him go. His mind was already thinking five steps ahead, analyzing how to mitigate the delay and prevent any further complications. The Consortium was successful because of his ability to stay ahead of the game. He had competitors, but none had his patience or skill at playing the long game.

Behind him, the door opened again, this time revealing the lithe figure of Caelan, one of Ambrose’s lieutenants. She wore a sleek leather jacket over a tactical vest, her jet-black hair tied back in a tight knot. Caelan was one of the few people Ambrose trusted implicitly, a former intelligence officer who had defected after a botched mission in Romulan space. She had found her way to Freecloud and, eventually, into the ranks of the Consortium.

“Kalom looked worried,” Caelan smiled, joining Ambrose on the balcony. She didn’t ask if something was wrong, she knew Ambrose wouldn’t appreciate the question.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Ambrose replied, though his mind was still working through the issue. “We may need to expedite a few things. Rempeck will want the shipment here tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to make arrangements?” Caelan asked, her sharp eyes watching his face for any sign of what he needed.

Ambrose shook his head. “No, not yet. I’ll deal with it. I might need you for something else, though.”

She nodded, waiting. Caelan never pressed for information, content to wait for Ambrose to dish out orders as he saw fit. That was why she was useful to him: silent, efficient, and ruthless when needed.

He took a deep breath and stared out at the lights of Freecloud, his thoughts lingering on the delicate balance he maintained. His empire was small but growing. He was branching out into other sectors, increasing his web of alliances and rivalries. He had connections to Klingon dissidents, Romulans, and even the Orion Syndicate. Each one eager to deal with a man who knew how to stay one step ahead of the authorities.

Ambrose, of course, never got his hands dirty. That’s what people like Kalom and Caelan were for. He was the mind behind the operation, the orchestrator, and the broker of deals no one else had the stomach to make. 

“You’re quiet tonight,” Caelan noted, a rare hint of curiosity in her voice.

Ambrose shrugged. “Just thinking. This city… it’s changing.” He sipped his drink, “And I intend to be at the center of it when it does.”

Caelan raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t ask further. She knew Ambrose had plans, and if he wanted her to know them, he’d tell her in due time.

As evening stretched on, the Ember Lounge began to fill up with patrons as Ambrose left the balcony. The Consortium would continue its work in the shadows, as Freecloud had always been a place of opportunity for those willing to seize it, and Ambrose was nothing if not willing. The Broker had his hands in everything now.