Our heroes awake to the pleasant warmth of dappled sunlight on their faces, a whisper of a breeze brushing against their cheeks and the cool earth beneath their boots. Still in their Starfleet uniforms, Lee, Daes and Shaw all awake feeling rested and refreshed, the memories of their dreamlike encounters fading from their memories already. Beyond their small shelter, fields of strange plants extend towards the horizon, tamed by old fences that run alongside dirt roads to a junction not far off.

At the crossroads, a cart is being loaded by several figures whilst 3 women watch on, their muttering audible but indistinct over the short gap. To the south of the clearing, a small pitch of ramshackle tents surrounds a group of burly figures working around a small fire.

As Shaw takes a cautious step towards the very edge of the tree line, he notices the familiar cranial ridges of the group and decides to channel his inner Klingon with the group. As he approaches seemingly unnoticed, he takes the moment to survey the camp better. He expects to see the familiar regalia of warriors, but does not find any weapons or traditional Klingon hallmarks. It appears the group is working on some sort of drum, with one gangly boy holding the base whilst two others fight to stretch a skin over the open side.

“Qapla!” Shaw calls, but receives no response.

He approaches closer and calls again, but receives a dismissive wave of a hand, precariously lifted from the taut skin as another Klingon pulls a small hammer from a nearby worn leather bag, knocking a pile of small nails rolling into the thin grass.

“No performances today, thank you!” The old Klingon replies between jagged checkerboard teeth.

Sensing an opportunity, Shaw dives in and grabs the nails from the dirt, offering them in an open palm to the third man. With a thankful nod, the Klingon places several between his lips and begins hammering them into the rim of the ornately decorated drum. Scenes of combat and feasting line the dark red rim, and Shaw’s heart calms slightly at the familiar Klingon styling.

“What planet are we on? Shaw asks between hammer strikes.

“You speak awful weirdness. There’s only this one.” The older Klingon’s accent is thick and heavy with drawling vowels and thick rumbling consonants, a form Shaw hasn’t heard before but attempts to imitate as he realises they may be ‘amongst the natives’.

He hastily reels off a story underscored by the high-pitched impact of hammerhead against nail. A rough tale of journeying from the eastern reaches with his family to find a new and more fertile place to settle. He indicates the rest of the group at the treeline, where Lee is already moving towards the cart whilst Daes tends to a discombobulated Orlan. In the distance, twin suns hover in the blue sky, and Shaw’s attention finds itself torn between fabricating his story and attempting to pinpoint what few stars are visible in the early twilight.

“Well, it’s other people’s farms from here to the river, maybe a hundred miles.” As the hammering stops and the camp falls quiet again, the old Klingon allows his grip on the skin to release. “If you’re looking to settle, you’ll have to seek his lordship’s permission first anyway.”

“Is that where you’re heading?” Shaw asks, considering the away team’s options.

“It’s where we’re all going. Us,” He nods towards the cart and its workers with a barely concealed malice. “And them.”

Whilst Shaw has been investigating the Klingon group, Lee has moved towards the cart and its small audience of women. Her heart skips a beat as the two statuesque figures at the front of the cart come into view. Pale, sickly creatures clad in dark metallic pieces of exoskeleton, with large, unblinking eyes set in their bald heads. Two Borg drones stand with their hand on the cart’s handles, silent and ominous. At their waists, long leather wraps hook them up to the cart and reach over their shoulders. They seem wholly unbothered by their strange harness and wait patiently. She goes to reach for her tricorder but finds its holster empty, and looking round, she realises all their equipment is missing.

To the rear of the cart, two figures are loading dark boxes, and as she makes a wide circle, her stomach drops as the familiar purple-skinned form of a Jem’Hadar warrior comes into view, his crown of horns framing his face and leading down his chin towards a large metallic collar. He lifts the boxes onto the cart at the instruction of an officious-looking man with a wooden clipboard and a tattered-looking quill.

Her distracted steps send a rock racing, and the Jem’Hadar swings his face towards her. She expects aggression, but instead receives only a short bow. Lee notices the dark steel manacles at his wrists and ankles, clinking as he returns to his work.

“We’re very busy here. I’ve no time for inane questions.” The fat officious man chides.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Then don’t. You’ve taken your time getting here; you might be the special troupe for Lord Kal, but I almost left you behind.” The man looks at her dismissively, his wide nose crinkling with a distasteful grimace. “You don’t look like any performance troupe I’ve ever seen.”

Lee’s mind races with a thousand questions, but given their lack of information and resources, she decides it is best to play along.

“It’s a new style.”

“Whatever, we’ll be setting off soon, so be ready to move.”

“Setting off?”

“Yes, towards Castle Pio-Neer.” He scrunches his eyebrows into a dark furrow, tilting his head to the northern horizon where a distant arching tower glints in the light. As the Jem’Hadar lifts the last box to the cart, he slides the clipboard and quill into the folds of his cloak. “Honestly, I hope you’re better at remembering your lines.”

“I’m sure the lord will be pleased… Mr?”

“Arbitor Kyel.” The man corrects, ignoring the light snort of derision from the Jem’Hadar man.

“Arbitor, thank you. We’ll be ready.”

Satisfied Orlan is not too drastically injured, Daes crossed to the group of women. A tall Andorian leans on a post whilst she gossips with a slender Vulcan and a rotund Denobulan. Their conversation stops as Daes approaches and offers a cautious greeting. The Andorian woman acknowledges her with a nod but resumes talking to her friends, unconcerned with the strange interloper.

“Sorry, where are we?”

“Hinkel’s farm, girl.” The Andorian shakes her head. “Aint nothing else out here but that old trout’s crops.”

She glances over Daes’s shoulder to see Orlan massaging his bumped head.

“Though I suppose it’s easily forgotten if you’re busy bumping your head with boys in the woods.”

“We got a bit turned around. Which way is the nearest city? Daes asks, ignoring the woman’s insinuation.

“There is a village down the road, maybe a day’s travel. The city is another few days beyond that.” The woman looks to her compatriots with concern. “You shouldn’t travel alone, though; it’s not safe on the roads beyond the farm.”

Daes looks back at her team, unarmed and unequipped. “Is there anyone going that way? A trader or travelling party, perhaps?”

“You could go with the Arbitor, I suppose, but you should be careful.”

Daes offers the trio a quizzical look.

“Well, he can’t keep control of his slaves all the time.” The Andorian hisses, casting an ugly and disapproving look at the cart where Daes can now clearly see the Borg Drones.

“If I could ask, where are you all from?” Daes asks, attempting to make sense of the inconsistent surroundings and these three alien women.

The Denobulan woman gives a small laugh, sending her hair tumbling from the loose clip at the top of her head.

“Oh, is it really that obvious? Tmira and Aslari are both from here.” She brushes a lock of dark black hair back over her shoulder. “I’m from across the river. I know, it’s my eyes that give it away.”

“Do you prefer it here?” Daes asks, noting the trio’s obliviousness to the strangeness of their situation and changing tack.

“Oh, much more! Yes, we have to give a tithe to the Lord, but he is the Lord, and I suppose he keeps the beasties at bay. You couldn’t grow these crops over the river.” She motions towards the nearby fields where tall geodic plants climb in neatly laid out rows of stalagmites from the soil. Even in the pale morning light, they shimmer with an odd pink iridescence. In the field across the transecting dirt road, similarly neat rows of tall stalked plants ending in bulbous colourful dandelion-like heads wave in the light breeze.

“But you said the roads are dangerous?” Daes muses.

“He can only do so much.” The woman shrugs.

From the edge of the forest, Lee and Shaw call, having rendezvoused with their own findings.

Daes bids the women good day and returns to the group.

The away team consider their options. Whilst travelling with the Arbitor is a distasteful option all around, they are concerned about the rumours of dangerous beasts on the road and opt for the lesser of two evils. As the fat man announces his departure, stepping up onto the wide bench at the front of the cart alongside his Jem’Hadar servant, the team gathers itself near the cart and takes position alongside the troupe of Klingon musicians. Daes and Shaw take the opportunity to gather some useful-looking branches the group can use as makeshift walking sticks and, if necessary, weapons.

As the twin suns continue to rise and the three women return to their work amongst the fields, the strange convoy sets out down the dirt road towards the gleaming tower in the distance, a familiarly strange blue glow at its tip calling them forward.