Chapter Text
Part One
The Dominion War had resulted in a number of unforeseen side effects across the galaxy. As wars so often did.
One of the most striking side effects had been the entirely unexpected brokering of peaceful relations between the Federation, their Klingon allies and the Romulan Star Empire.
Granted, it may not be destined to be a lasting peace. And it wasn’t as if the UFP flag was about to be raised over every settlement on Romulus. But after centuries of hostilities, the great powers of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants had finally put aside their differences the old fashioned way. By reluctantly teaming up to protect their respective interests from the threat of an even greater enemy.
But this current peace wasn’t the first time the three powers had attempted to foster some sort of common ground. And their last failed attempt remained visible to this day, festering in the depths of the Tau Dewa sector.
Nimbus III. The Planet of Galactic Peace.
To some, a great big interstellar punchline. To the members of the Federation in particular, their most painful humiliation. A blot on their copybook that was so shameful that the very name of the planet was almost taboo.
And Natasha Kinsen, the former Starfleet officer who now comprised the Bounty’s entire medical staff, felt deeply uncomfortable as she stood at the top of the ship’s rear loading ramp and surveyed the planet they had landed on. Even though she no longer had any real ties back to the Federation, having left all of that behind, she still felt a palpable pang of guilt inside of her. The same feeling any Starfleet officer got when they were confronted by this place.
In her time at the Academy, she had attended a presentation by a team of hip young anthropologists, who had conclusively ranked Nimbus III in second place on their all-time list of failed projects throughout recorded galactic history.
It had only been kept off top spot by a recent discovery on Doran IV, where an ancient ruler had spent his entire lifetime attempting to construct a tower tall enough to touch the faces of the gods in the sky. Which is how the ancient Doranians had viewed the stars. The full extent of the folly of King Kr’aakula’a became clear when you found out that the average Doranian lived for roughly 500 Earth years, and that frequent tremors around the site of his tower, caused by an active fault line, meant that archaeologists believed the structure itself had never exceeded a height of 150 feet.
Still, the anthropologists had concluded that it had been a very close run fight for top spot. Mainly because Nimbus III wasn’t just the Federation’s failure. Or the Klingons, or the Romulans. It was just about everyone’s failure.
Since the planet’s infrastructure had first collapsed in the latter part of the 23rd century, there had been countless attempts made to build it back up. Some by one or more of the original powers, others by various third parties, hardy investors or risk-taking speculators. After all, even if Nimbus III wasn’t the most hospitable, or resource-rich planet, it was still a habitable world in a strategically favourable position between three of the galaxy’s big players.
But, almost as if the planet itself was allergic to even the slightest modicum of success, every single one of those attempts had failed. And after every failure, whichever government, corporation or venture capitalist that had arrived with grand plans for Nimbus III had quickly and quietly moved on, leaving the planet and its permanent residents to rot all over again.
Each time, all that was left behind was a disparate smattering of colonists, bandits and anyone unfortunate enough not to be on the last shuttle out of Paradise City. And those that were left behind had no choice but to rebuild all over again however they could, with whatever was available.
Which was never very much. Because there really wasn’t that much on Nimbus III to begin with.
Not that any of that made Natasha feel any less guilty. Even though she wasn’t born when the colony was first established, and had never previously been within five sectors of the place, all of this still felt like partly her fault. That was Starfleet guilt for you.
“Let me give you a hand with that.”
The voice shocked her out of her reverie. She looked back down the ramp to see Zesh approaching her, smiling and gesturing to the crate at her feet.
After they had seen off the trio of armed goons that had turned up to harass the Ferengi, they had returned to the orbiting Bounty and brought the Ju’day-type raider down for a proper landing next to Goodlife Ranch. All the easier to unpack the supplies and spare parts that Zesh had requested when he had first contacted them some days ago.
“Thanks,” Natasha offered back, as she and Zesh stood either side of the crate and lifted it up.
She had found herself intrigued by Zesh as soon as Jirel had explained that he was a former crewmate from long before she had joined them. And having now met him, it hadn’t taken her long to see that, as seemed in keeping with the Bounty’s current crew, he was far from a typical example of his species.
He was still clearly motivated by latinum and business opportunities, but there was a friendliness, a kindness and even a generosity to his personality that seemed out of place. Best of all, it had now been several hours since they had first met, and unlike just about every other Ferengi she had run into on her travels, he still hadn’t made a single tedious comment about his preference for his women not to wear clothes. Which made him a-ok in her book.
“So,” he offered by way of conversation as they descended out of the shade of the Bounty’s hull and back into the energy-sapping heat, “How are you finding Prosperity County?”
Prosperity County, Natasha had quickly learned, was the region of the planet where Goodlife Ranch was located. What she hadn’t learned was what had brought Zesh here in the first place.
“Yeah, it’s great,” she managed with a smile topped with a ladle of sarcasm, “Thinking of getting my own place here actually. What are the real estate prices like?”
“You know,” Zesh replied with a glint in his eye, “You’d be surprised…”
He couldn’t help but let out an impromptu cackle of amusement as he saw her confused reaction to this latest enigmatic comment about the hidden value of this particular part of Nimbus III.
“Ah, you’re just like the rest of Jirel’s crew, I’m afraid. Never able to see the true value of something. That’s why I had to leave them in the end, you know.”
“It was?”
“Yes,” Zesh nodded, as he glanced across the ranch to where the others were standing, “Trust me, your life with that crew will be interesting, filled with all sorts of misfortunes and misadventures. But it will never be profitable.”
Natasha considered this for a moment. She had only been onboard the Bounty for a few months, since they had rescued her from her unintended exile following her escape from the crippled USS Navajo and she had resigned her Starfleet commission. But already she knew enough about her new colleagues to see the truth in Zesh’s words.
“Who says I need my life to be profitable?” she opted to counter with.
Zesh looked back at her from across the crate and cackled again. “Because, enlightened hew-mon or not, out here, that’s what we all need.”
Natasha went to counter this latest point, but she couldn’t find the words to. Though she did silently wonder whether she should be taking financial advice from the Ferengi that felt his own fortune lay in Goodlife Ranch.
* * * * *
“Just so we’re all on the same page, the guy’s gone nuts, right?”
Sunek, the Bounty’s curiously emotional Vulcan pilot, stood next to Jirel as the Trill checked over the crate that he had unloaded from the ship, fanning himself with his hat in an ineffectual attempt to deal with the oppressive heat.
“Cos,” Sunek added as he dropped the hat back onto his unkempt mop of hair, “And this is my considered, professional opinion: Does this place ever suck.”
Jirel stifled a smile. Because part of him strongly disagreed with his pilot on that point. In fact, he had jumped at the chance to drop what they had been doing and answer Zesh’s call for three very strong reasons.
One, Zesh was an old crewmate. And Jirel’s unofficial rule was that when a former crewmate needed help, they always answered the call.
Two, Zesh’s message had come with the promise of a big payday. And while Jirel didn’t like to admit it, given how much it leaned on the stereotype, he knew that Zesh had never steered them wrong before when it came to latinum.
And three, Jirel had heard plenty of stories about Nimbus III. Especially Prosperity County. And having been brought up by his adopted father, the now-Admiral Bryce Jenner of Starfleet, on a diet of Old West nostalgia, he’d always secretly wanted to visit and see it for himself.
It had turned out to be dry, dusty, miserably hot, and filled with plenty of grizzled gun-toting bandits on horseback. It was everything he’d dreamed it would be.
Though he wasn’t so wrapped up in himself to see that this wasn’t an opinion that the rest of the crew shared.
“I mean,” Sunek continued to grumble, “I grew up in the middle of Vulcan’s biggest desert, and even I’m struggling. Not as much as some of us, admittedly…”
He nodded over to the other side of Jirel, where two remarkably frizzy-haired individuals stood checking over their own crates. Neither Denella, the ship’s Orion engineer, nor Klath, the Bounty’s disgraced Klingon weapons chief, seemed to appreciate the sudden attention being drawn to the impact that the arid air of Nimbus III was having on their respective hairstyles.
“Shut up, Sunek,” Denella offered mirthlessly.
Klath backed her up with an unamused growl.
Jirel just shook his head in amusement. Nobody had been brave enough to bring that up so far, but trust the former V’tosh ka’tur member to go straight for it.
Before the Vulcan could tug on that thread any further, though, Natasha and Zesh reached the group and dropped their crate onto the dusty ground with a pair of tired grunts.
“Ugh, this heat,” Natasha managed, “I’ve had three sonic showers since we got here, and I still feel like I absolutely stink.”
Nobody had been brave enough to bring that up either.
Seeing through the uncomfortable silence that had descended, Natasha subtly leaned down and sniffed her armpit, before quietly taking an embarrassed step back away from the group.
“Seriously though, Zesh,” Jirel nodded at the Ferengi, “We don’t get it.”
He gestured around at the ranch and the surrounding desert, as Zesh glanced back over at Natasha with a knowing look. “What did I tell you? Never seeing the latinum in the situation.”
The Trill took a look around Goodlife Ranch again as Zesh patted his damp brow with a small pocket square he produced with a flourish.
“I definitely don’t see much latinum in this situation,” he shrugged, “I see a lot of sand?”
The Ferengi cackled good-naturedly as Denella gave up on her latest attempt to tie back her runaway hair situation with a frustrated sigh. “Come on, Zesh,” she grimaced, “What’s the deal? Why did you call us all the way out here?”
“Yeah,” Sunek chimed in, “You got some big magic machine lying around here somewhere that turns gigantic piles of garbage into priceless jewels? Cos if that’s a real thing, you’re gonna be the richest guy in the four quadrants.”
“Perhaps it’s time for the full tour,” Zesh smiled as he returned the pocket square to his trousers and began to gesture around with the time-honoured manner of a showman, “Everything you can see here, the ranch, the horses, the land, all of it is mine. Thanks to a particularly fine performance that won me the annual Tongo tournament at the Ferengi outpost on Carrian II.”
“Huh,” Natasha mused as she tried to ignore the fresh all-over body sweat that was setting in, “What was second prize? Two ranches?”
Jirel snorted. Zesh offered another good-natured cackle.
“If only. Because this place has fetched me a princely sum of latinum indeed. Or at least it will, in a few days, when my buyer gets here. A Markalian by the name of Choth. And there’ll be a very generous cut for all of you as well.”
“Provided we keep the natives off your back?” Denella offered.
Zesh looked slightly less happy for being reminded about the unwelcome trio of strangers that the Bounty’s crew had already helped him with, one of the reasons he had been so desperate for their help. “Yes, well, there have been a few…issues with the locals. They work for a man called Toxis. His gang took over the nearest town shortly before I arrived, and he seems to have had his sights set on this place ever since.”
“Outlaws,” Jirel muttered with a slightly dopey grin, “Cool.”
“That’s not how I’d describe them.”
“We have already dealt with those individuals,” Klath grunted as he finished tying back his own nightmare hairdo.
“They’ll be back,” Zesh replied unhappily, “You can be sure of that.”
Jirel stepped forwards and gently patted his old colleague on the shoulder, electing to eschew his usual practised space adventurer pose in favour of one more suited to a space cowboy. “And that’s why you called in the finest gunslingers in the quadrant, right?”
“‘Gunslingers’?” Klath muttered in confusion.
“Ugh, don’t get him started again,” Natasha sighed, the only one of the group who was reluctantly picking up on the Trill’s many references, “Besides, that doesn’t explain why this place is so valuable.”
The twinkle returned to Zesh’s eyes as he gestured towards a particularly unassuming wooden hut nearby. “Follow me…”
The Ferengi trotted over to the hut with surprising haste given the stifling heat, and the Bounty’s crew gamely followed.
“Seriously,” Sunek offered as they walked, “If it’s a magic jewel-making machine, I called that five minutes ago. You all heard me, right?”
“Not quite,” Zesh replied, as he led them into the dingy hut, “But perhaps something even more valuable than that. For the people of Nimbus III, at least.”
Inside the dimly lit interior of the hut, the confused crew of the Bounty could make out a squat rectangular object in the middle of the room, covered by a dusty sheet.
“Behold,” Zesh cackled at the unassuming sight as he grabbed the corner of the sheet, “The true value of Goodlife Ranch!”
He pulled off the covering with a flourish, revealing a large metal box, with piping running out of one side, into the ground, and a shattered and darkened control panel on the other side.
“Wow,” Sunek said with a sarcastic sigh, “There’s disappointment on my disappointment.”
“What is it?” Klath added, on behalf of the entire group.
Zesh leaned over and lifted up a panel on the side of the box, revealing something that was more easy to identify. And one that, for Natasha at least, suddenly revealed the true value of Goodlife Ranch.
A tap.
“Holy crap,” she blurted out, “You’re saying this thing’s a—”
“It will be when it’s repaired,” Zesh chipped in with a glance at Denella, “Thanks to some handiwork from the greatest engineer in the galaxy.”
“Yeah, yeah, butter me up later,” the Orion woman griped, “What exactly am I fixing?”
“It’s a well,” Natasha whispered.
“It’s a-well what—?”
“Shut up, Sunek.”
Zesh chuckled greedily and patted the top of the broken unit. “What you see here, my friends,” he confirmed for anyone still not on the same page, “Is the only stable source of fresh water in all of Prosperity County. Maybe even on the whole planet.”
His audience took this in for a moment. It seemed as though Sunek had called it right. Zesh did have a magic machine that was going to make them rich, after all.