Chapter Text
Prologue
Tyran Scrapyards Administration Office, Tyrus III, Sector 394
Stardate 47121.8
Bzzzz.
The shrill sound of the buzzer on the front desk was enough to rouse the snoozing form of Crax Traxanar from his impromptu mid-afternoon nap, almost startling him enough to cause him to topple out of his chair entirely.
The surly Reegrunion yawned loudly as he slowly got his bearings, blinking against the light from the huge bank of monitors in front of him.
The entire rear wall of his office on Tyrus III consisted of dozens of high-resolution screens, each one displaying a live feed from one of the bays of the vast complex of metal that made up the Tyran Scrapyards up in orbit. A gargantuan construct of tendril-like docking arms and enclosed bays connected to a single cylindrical central core that stretched out for several kilometres.
The whole structure was designed to house dozens of starships, transports and smaller vessels at any one time. There, they were methodically taken apart piece by piece, either using automated drones and robotic arms, or even via workers at the scrapyards painstakingly dismantling their hulls in EVA pressure suits, and whatever raw materials that could be salvaged were sold on.
If the vast noble shipyards of the galaxy were where great ships were born, this was where they came to die.
As the head administrator for the whole venture, Crax Traxanar was happy to monitor the goings on up in orbit from the surface of Tyrus III. Partly because the Reegrunion had never really had the legs for long stretches in space. And partly because he preferred to keep his distance from the other workers. He would be the first to admit that, whatever he was, he wasn’t a people person.
And during his refreshingly isolated days down here, he certainly wasn’t used to getting visitors.
Bzzzz.
With an irritated grunt, and stifling a second yawn, Crax Traxanar finally spun around in his chair to see who had decided to ruin his second favourite nap time of the day.
“Ok, ok,” he muttered, “Just who the hell is—?”
He stopped mid-sentence. Glimpsing the visitor for the first time, he found himself having to suddenly catch his lower jaw on an impromptu and unplanned journey to his knees.
Aside from the rear bank of monitors, and the groaning chair that served as Crax Traxanar’s favourite napping spot, the rest of the administration office consisted of little more than a wide metal desk, which neatly bisected the room in two.
And standing proudly on the other side of the deliberately unwelcoming desk was an elegantly tall and alluring human woman, wearing a dark blue jacket and trousers and with her dark crimson hair pulled back tightly in a bob. Her porcelain face was impeccably made up, and she carried herself with an almost regal air.
Crax Traxanar didn’t get to see much beauty in the administration office of an orbital scrapyard, but suddenly, out of nowhere, here it was. Apparently all alone.
“Ah,” she smiled politely, “So sorry to have woken you.”
She didn’t sound especially sincere.
The Reegrunion administrator stared at the entirely out of place woman for a few more seconds, before looking around the rest of the shabby office, trying to figure out if this was some sort of trick that someone was playing on him. Or even if all of this was a dream, and he was still actually mid-nap back in reality.
His continued silence elicited a mildly amused look from his visitor. “What’s the matter?” she chided, “Cat got your tongue?”
Crax Traxanar didn’t understand the reference, but the tone of the comment was enough to shake him back to business.
“What do you want?” he grunted, entirely adversarially.
The mysterious woman maintained her polite demeanour as she checked a small padd in her hand. “Now, now, is that any way to talk to a customer? I’m here to buy one of your ships.”
That was enough to cause the Reegrunion to snort in amusement, now entirely sure that someone somewhere was messing with him. “I don’t deal with customers,” he replied dismissively.
“Then why do you have the buzzer?” she countered with a raised eyebrow.
He conceded the point with a shrug, and followed it up by standing from his chair, stepping up to the front desk, reaching down and wrenching the small buzzer clean from the recessed housing in the surface of the dirty metal desk.
“Problem solved,” he offered back, as he threw the remains of the device onto the ground.
With that, he went to turn back to the comfort of his chair, but she called out.
“I’m serious. I’m here visiting a friend, and it turns out we’re both very interested in the ship you have in bay seven right now.”
Crax Traxanar reluctantly turned back to the persistent woman and stepped back up to the counter.
“Lady, let me explain something to you,” he hissed, jabbing a finger up in the direction of the orbiting complex, “The ships up there are not for sale. What we’re operating isn’t a shipyard, but a scrapyard. You can tell the difference if you look closely at the spelling.”
He spat out a derisive chuckle at his own joke, but her patient smile didn’t flicker one iota.
“We’re willing to pay scrap value. Plus twenty percent.”
This stopped him mid-chuckle, his interest now piqued. He looked her up and down again with a slightly lecherous leer, still trying to figure her out. One thing now seemed clear to the opportunist in Crax Traxanar. She was alone, she was defenceless, and she seemed to have money to spare.
“You know,” he drawled, “Tyrus III is a very risky sort of place for someone like you to be standing here looking like that, claiming to have that sort of latinum…”
Before he got any further with his thinly-veiled threat, she took a calm step back from the desk and deftly straightened her left arm, allowing something to slide down the length of her jacket’s sleeve and into her waiting hand.
Out of nowhere, Crax Traxanar found himself staring at a tiny old-school type-1 Starfleet-issue phaser.
“And what if I stand here looking like this?” she asked off-handedly.
He looked at the antique weapon, still trying to process what had just happened. She noted his confusion and smiled in satisfaction.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it? 23rd century vintage. Picked it up from a Rigellian trader. Never leave home without it. Now, about this ship…”
The Reegrunion considered his predicament for a moment. One that even he could see would only be resolved by dealing with this particular customer. “Fine. You can have it. Scrap value, plus twenty percent—”
“Ah, hang on,” she countered, “That was my initial offer, granted. But that was before you threatened me like that. Which, I think we can both agree, wasn’t very nice.”
He didn’t respond, but his glare darkened by a few more notches.
“So,” she continued, “Now I’m thinking something more like…scrap value, minus fifty percent.”
“I’m not going to sell for—!”
His protestations were silenced by a subtle prod of the tiny phaser in his direction, backed up by a firm look that underlined the fact that she was willing to use it. “So,” she smiled thinly, “Do we have a deal?”
Crax Traxanar looked from her face, to the phaser, and back again. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so determined to work alone in the administration office, he might have had some hope of assistance if he had called out or tried to raise an alarm. But then, he had never been a people person.
So, with no other option that he could see, he reluctantly nodded across the front desk.
“There, that was easy, wasn’t it,” she smiled in quiet satisfaction, “We’re very happy to do business with you.”
“And who is ‘we’, exactly?” Crax Traxanar found himself compelled to ask.
At this, a sliver of irritation crossed her face and she tutted slightly. “Hmm, yes, it seems that my business partner in this little venture is running late. Story of his life, I suppose—”
Just then, the shimmer of a transporter effect appeared in the far corner of the office, and a figure that was familiar to both parties already present in the office coalesced. The woman with the phaser didn’t take her eyes off the Reegrunion, but she did allow herself a patient smile.
“You certainly know how to time your entrances, darling.”
For his part, Crax Traxanar stared at the newcomer in mild disbelief. “You?” he grunted, “Don’t you work for me? Up in bay twelve?”
Jirel Vincent stepped towards the impromptu standoff, seemingly unabashed by the scene he had beamed into.
“Used to,” he replied with a grin, “You fired me.”
“I don’t remember doing that.”
“Oh,” Jirel added, his grin faltering slightly, “My bad. In which case, I quit.”
The woman with the phaser afforded him a sideways glance. “You didn’t get yourself fired?”
“What can I say? I’m a model employee.”
He gestured to the weapon in her hand with a knowing look as he reached her side.
“And you couldn’t get through this transaction without that thing?”
“This thing just got us a bargain,” she chided him, lifting up the padd in her other hand, tapping the screen with a finger and passing it to the Reegrunion, “Speaking of which, check and confirm the latinum transfer, and we’ll be on our way.”
Crax Traxanar reluctantly took the padd and checked it over. To his surprise, given how the two visitors to the administration office could easily have taken the ship for free at this point, he found that the transfer was exactly as promised. Scrap value, minus fifty percent.
“You know,” he offered as he accepted the transfer, “You’re still getting a bad deal here. Even at this price. There’s a reason these ships end up in scrapyards, you know?”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” the woman countered, “And it was bay seven we wanted, right?”
Jirel grinned wider and stared at the wall of high resolution monitors on the wall.
The sight of the Tyran Scrapyards wasn’t necessarily a happy one for him to see. His months spent working here had been long and hard, and thanks to his own cockiness when he had first shown up looking for work, filled with insults and bullying and unwelcome nicknames.
But today, Spotty was leaving town.
“Oh yeah,” he nodded enthusiastically, as he spied the view on one specific monitor, “Bay seven. She’s absolutely perfect.”
Crax Traxanar regarded the Trill with confusion, wondering whether there was something wrong with the Trill’s eyesight. There were several recorded examples of scrapyard workers suffering from optic nerve damage from poorly-installed eye shields while operating laser cutters on a ship’s hull.
But there was nothing wrong with Jirel’s eyesight. He turned and smiled at the elegant woman with the phaser, then looked again at the monitor displaying the new arrival in bay seven.
He was starting to lose count of the number of ways he was in love.
Displayed on the monitor, third along on the second row on the wall, was the unmistakable form of a Ju’Day-type raider.