The landing bay of New Barataria was huge. It had to be really. A handful of converted courier ships sat in the bay, all seemingly ready to go save for one, which was swarmed by a small army of people working on it. A couple of light freighters were parked next to each other, far away from everyone else. And shuttles of various makes and models took up whatever space wasn’t occupied by cargo pallets, work tools, equipment stations and the other infrastructure minutiae that a landing bay turned cargo port that offered repairs required.

All of which also meant the bay was a raucous den of noise assaulting the hearing of anyone present. That then made the relative silence of the immediate area around the recently landed runabout Laurentia all the more ominous.

Silver Team, decked out in their finest Space Rogue couture, as advised by people who actually knew what the modern terrorist was wearing, were squared off against the New Maquis welcoming committee. Two-to-one odds and the home team were armed and waiting for them. They did at least allow them to unload the pallet of delaq while waiting for The Boss, said in such a way that everyone could just sense the capitalisation.

“You could park a whole starship in here,” Rosa said quietly, eyes flitting around at what she could see. Her pacing had garnered some responses from the locals, giving them all an idea of what acceptable distance was with this lot.

“A small one perhaps,” Stirling Fightmaster answered. “Could probably get an Intrepid in here if it was empty.”

“Sideways and carefully,” Gavin Mitchell answered. “Would just need to steal one first.” A throwaway comment for anyone listening. “And Starfleet isn’t as lax as people think with their boneyards.”

Silence fell over all assembled once more while they waited, two groups just staring at each other as time passed. Five minutes stretched into ten before another group of New Maquis members crossed the bay, the middle-aged woman who had spoken to Mitchell over the comms leading the group of three. One of the men flanking her looked familial, while the other was a ragged, mauled mess of a man who likely bore no resemblance to any of his family any more.

The woman stepped through her fellows’ cordon and approached the delaq pallet, examining it for a moment before looking at Mitchell. “Well, you weren’t lying about the quantity, at least.”

“Nor the quality,” Mitchell answered.

The woman nodded a few times, then took a bottle in hand, uncorking it and running a finger along the rim before sampling the pink liquid. It took her a moment before she nodded in affirmation. The bottle was corked once more and then held out, the man who looked like her son stepping forth to collect it. “Alright, so, genuine delaq. You’ve got my attention.”

“Gav Mitchell.” Mitchell stepped forward and then indicated his team. “Rose, Am, Stir and Brek.” It wasn’t the most imaginative of name changes, but did the job for now. Close, but not spot on. “Darius said we could find you, and by you he meant the New Maquis, here. Always looking for new recruits, especially those with an axe to grind against the Cardassians.”

“And those who can clearly lift Starfleet surplus.” The woman indicated the Laurentia with a tilt of her chin. “Where’d you steal that from?”

“Didn’t.” Gav smirked as the woman’s eyes narrowed on him. “Legitimate procurement nearly five years ago.”

“So it’s legally registered and everything? That could be a problem.”

“Not necessarily.” It was Stirling who stepped forward with a faint, disarming smile. “Everyone needs supplies and errands need to be run. So far, our ship isn’t on anyone’s watch list.”

The woman waited a moment, then pointed at Stirling while talking to Mitchell. “I like him. He raises good points.” She then stepped forward and offered a handshake. “Lillian Hoyt. Welcome to New Barataria.”

“Mr Herbert.” The name was drawled out, each syllable stretched as far as it could handle before breaking. “I understand we have new visitors to our humble abode.”

The cantina furthest from the docks, deep in the bowels of New Barataria, had something the other establishments didn’t have – a view. A large, expansive open space had been carved into the rock many years ago and shaped by many idle handles to be a slice of home away from home. Holoprojectors lined the roof of the cavern, giving a near-perfect rendition of azure blue skies. The floor of the cavern was given over to fields, mostly for growing crops to sustain the insurgencies that had called this place home, but some set aside to provide that welcome green space so many people wanted.

Herbs, as the crooked sign over the wide door proclaimed the establishment to be, was raised above the cavern floor, giving patrons a view out across the green space. The other side was only a kilometre away, but more holotrickery extended the horizon, making distance out of nothing by distortion fields and artificial haze. And with a bit of careful decoration, the establishment felt like a frontier hitching post that would match the man who had just stepped in and was making his way to his claimed seat at the bar.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d hear about it till you got here, Manfred.” Herbert, a man in his early-ancients to late-methuselahs, was already pouring out the shot of a bright orange liquor he knew Manfred wanted. “Guess there’s no reason for you to stay longer than you have to tonight.”

Manfred, no other names to go with it, swept his black trench coat to one side as he settled himself down on the stool opposite Herbert, setting the hat he’d removed earlier down on the bar and offering the barkeep a warm smile. “Now now, Mr Herbert, that’s no way to treat a paying customer.” And with that a few slips of latnium, a wonderfully quadrant-wide accepted currency, were set on the bar top.

Herbert took a moment, considered the payment, then snatched it up before sliding the shot glass towards Manfred and setting the bottle back behind the bar. “What else do you want?” he asked.

“I heard there was an Orion woman amongst the newcomers,” Manfred said, taking his time with each word. “And I have yet to be graced with the name of our new friends. Would you perhaps be able to supply me with such information?”

Herbert huffed, then stalked away from Manfred, leaving him with his drink. A few minutes later, the first drink a distant memory, a few generous top-ups from the bottle and more slips on the counter as payment, Herbert returned. Another huff as he swept up the payment, moved the bottle to the back of the bar, then sat a rather tired-looking padd down in front of Manfred.

Scraps and knicks framed the screen of the device, clearly replaced a time or two. It spoke of decades of use and abuse, time as an impromptu weapon and likely more than a few years as a coaster before its current task of relaying a single photo.

“Well now,” Manfred commented as he looked over the crowd of figures on screen, taken without any of the subjects aware. Lillian Hoyt speaking with someone who looked in charge, another man who was doing a good job of looking bored but out played by the Vulcan at his side. And then there was the Orion woman, accompanied by another woman with purple hair, but seen by the rogue photographer from behind.

“Don’t suppose there is a more flattering photo perchance?” he asked.

Herbert snorted, then swiped at the display, this time with the two women facing the camera.

“And here I was thinking Sidda had misplayed herself.” He tapped at the screen, at the two women on it. “But this…this feels too coincidental for my liking.”

“What, the universe can’t have more than one Orion woman in it who hates you?”

It was Manfred’s turn to snort as he made to stand. “Alas, there is just the one as far as I know, but she hates with such a passion to make up for all the fairer sex of her people.” He collected his hat, nodded his head to Herbert, and turned for the door. “Same time tomorrow, Mr Herbert.”