Great to see this back. And now Slayd and company have a name. And it only took a few hours of mind-blowing Klingon opera. Oh, and then of course there was that risky plan to go after the Tzenkethi. I only hope Jellico and Bouvier won't get wind of it. Actaully strike that, let's hope she does. Whatever gets her feather ruffled is probably the right thing to do. Great story!
TLR, great to see you back. Gog has a nasty surprise waiting for him, and I am eagerly anticipating it.
I'm liking this story, though when you introduced Cyndi Kwan as being from LA, I was briefly confused as I thought LA was destroyed in that quake mentioned on Star Trek: Voyager.
No, Janeway says the strip of coast was buried in the quake, submerged to form a reef. As anyone who's had to drive across it knows, Venice-La Playa-Hermosa-Manhattan beaches form a sliver of the monstrosity known as Greater Los Angeles.
Great to see you back, Redshirt! The Tzenkethi have definitely raised some notes of concern back at SF Command...well, the Fed. is in a weakened state...looks like the cats want to play.
TLR is back! Yay!!!!! Klingon opera, cackling Ferengi, revenge plots ... can't wait to see what happens next. Thanks for returning!
I appreciate the comments - thanks for your kind words of encouragement! I'm hoping that I can write on a more regular basis now and get back to reading your stories as well. Chapter Seventeen Stardate 54366.8 (22 May 2377) USS Dragonfire In Standard Orbit – Vagabond VI Bridge Captain Slayd strode briskly onto the bridge from the turbo-lift, pleased to observe that everyone was at departure stations. "Yvessa, please take us out of orbit and away from this dreary planet . . . and don't spare the Deuterium!" he ordered. "Aye sir," replied the Deltan helm officer, her fingers nimbly playing over the steering and thrust controls. "Any particular heading in mind, or do I get to choose?" Slayd settled into his chair, displacing the ship's holo-cat who regarded the Captain with an affronted expression. "Make our course to Desola Station, Lieutenant. We're overdue a stop there and it is on the way, after all." The Deltan brought the Dragonfire's impulse engines on line with a bit more power than necessary to break orbit, causing several smaller vessels to maneuver evasively out of the way. The scattering of the motley assortment of ships elicited a small smile of satisfaction on her lips. They were the bane of her existence while orbiting this wretched planet. She spared a quick glance over her shoulder as she guided the cutter away from the planet and on a heading to the mining outpost. "On the way where, Skipper?" "Why to the Tzenkethi border, of course. Didn't I mention that before?" He leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile. Oracle nimbly hopped into his lap and Slayd idly stroked the gray feline. Yvessa turned her attention back to the helm/nav controls as the ship continued to pick up speed, her ebullient mood evaporating. "Shut up and drive, Yvessa," she muttered to herself, considering that Vagabond VI perhaps wasn't the worst place one could visit. The Tzenkethi border on the other hand . . . Yvessa shook her head slightly. Her intuition warned her that this would not end well. * * * Sickbay West looked over the pathology report and frowned. The glowing letters on the PADD did not change under his fretful gaze, however, so he tossed the PADD back onto the table and sighed. "I certainly hope you don't treat all the medical equipment in such a cavalier manner," came a familiar, haughty voice. Dr. West jumped slightly, startled by the sudden appearance of the EMH. He turned to face the holographic surgeon with a mixture of sheepishness and irritation. "Don't you ever knock?" groused the young CMO as he faced Dr. Zimmerman. The EMH was for once wearing a standard issue Starfleet jumpsuit rather than one of the eccentric costumes to which West had become accustomed. "Su casa es mi casa," replied the EMH, ignoring West's sour mood and picking up the discarded PADD. "Actually, my tennis partner canceled and I . . ." his voice trailed off as he perused the PADD, a deep burrow creasing his brow. He looked up at West with disbelief. "This can't be right!" "That's what I thought as well. I've run the tissue cultures three times with the same results." "But this makes no sense!" protested Zimmerman. West rubbed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. "No argument there. But the results speak for themselves." "But we screened the vaccine before we delivered it - I should know - I ran the tests! The results indicated that we had viable vaccine with no contaminants, no dilution, no degradation. The doses should have worked!" "Then how is it that eight of the twenty children that died of the Nibo flu show traces of the vaccine in their tissues?" West's tone wasn't accusatory, merely puzzled. "Why did those kids die if they were inoculated?" "Well, obviously they must have received the vaccine after they were infected," sniffed Zimmerman. West shook his head. "No - look at the PADD again. It's clear that the vaccine was in their systems for at least two weeks, probably longer. That's more than enough time to have prevented them from being infected by the virus, which has an incubation period of no more than four days." "I'm fully aware of that!" snapped the EMH. West merely stood quietly, still holding out the PADD. Zimmerman closed his eyes momentarily and sighed. He took the PADD from West with an air of resignation. "What of the unused vaccine that was recovered? Have you tested it?" "I was about to. Care to help?" The EMH snorted. "Just try and stop me!" * * * Stardate 54366.9 (22 May 2377) USS Dragonfire Sector 88121, En route to Desola Station - Warp 7 Captain's Ready Room West stood quietly, his hands clasped behind his back as Captain Slayd read his report. The Captain's face grew progressively darker as he finished reading. "There's no mistake then?" he asked, handing the PADD back to West. "Someone deliberately tampered with the vaccine?" "Yes sir. And we never would have found it with our standard screening methods. Whoever did this knows how to manipulate the anti-bodies in the vaccine at the sub-atomic level - causing them to self-destruct the moment they come in contact with the virus - just the opposite of the intended effect." "Ingenious," Slayd muttered softly as he prodded the holo-graphic fire with a poker. "And we would be none the wiser except we were on hand when those poor children died." West frowned. "Sir . . . I don't understand. What's the point? Why would anyone bother to do such a thing?" Slayd smiled and shook his head sadly as he continued to stare into the fire. "Behold - a young man in whom is no guile," he murmured softly. "Sir?" "Never mind, Lad." He straightened and turned to face the young doctor. "As to your question, there are numerous dark explanations. The prime reason that comes to mind is to discredit the Federation, I would wager." "How is that, sir?" "Think of it, Brian - we come in promising to alleviate suffering and sickness - then word gets out that the vaccines we give out are worse than useless, that they actually make a person more susceptible to disease. How does that make us look?" West winced. "Bad, sir." "That's an understatement, lad! Likely the locals in these outland settlements would begin to shy away from the Federation. They would lose faith in us and would be open to whoever can provide them the aide they need." "But who would do that, Captain? For that matter, who has the technological know-how to alter these vaccines? It's beyond what we could do on the ship - most likely it would require advanced resources found at a major research facility or a large Starbase." Slayd pondered this. "Point well-taken, Doctor. But there are quite a number of players in the surrounding sectors that might be able to pull this off, perhaps engaging the services of someone with access to such facilities." "The Tzenkethi?" Slayd shook his head. "Doubtful, though it would certainly work to their interests. Still, the cats are not known for this degree of subterfuge. I could see the Ferengi pulling such a stunt, or perhaps elements of the Orion Syndicate, though I'm not sure I see how destabilizing frontier planets with limited resources and sparse populations makes it worthwhile. Perhaps the Maquis? . . ." His voice trailed off in thought. West spoke, "You know, if it weren't for Daimon Gog stealing back part of the vaccine shipment and killing Mr. Mueller, we would never have learned that someone had tampered with the vaccine." "Twisted irony, Doctor, but you are quite right. I must remember to express my gratitude to the Daimon whilst I carve his ears from his sodding head." * * * Stardate 54368.2 (24 May 2377) USS Dragonfire Sector 88122, Approaching Desola Station Bridge "On final approach to Desola Station," announced Ensign Hokana from the helm. "ETA is twenty two minutes." "Thank you, Ensign," replied Commander Nor Huren. "Maximum magnification on the viewscreen, please." The image on the viewscreen shimmered then re-focused on a pale yellow space station that floated languidly amongst the stars. Desola Station was a commercial outpost where ore-carriers refueled and rough-neck miners stopped by to spend their earnings on recreation and relaxation before returning to their dangerous jobs in the nearby asteroid fields. The station itself was utilitarian in design, similar to the old K-class stations used by Starfleet for more than a century. A central hub festooned with lights, sensors and comm antennae was surrounded by three habitat pods. Small craft flitted about the station like flies around a carcas. Lt. Commander Banton turned from his station at tactical and gazed at the station. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Commander - unless my eyes are deceiving me, those are torpedo launchers on the 'north' end of the hub." Nor Huren directed her gaze to where Banton had indicated, a small frown forming on her face. "Good catch, Marcus," she said without pleasure. "Looks like Lazka decided to take security matters into his own hands." Banton nodded but did not reply. Technically, it was a serious violation for a civilian station to be armed with military-grade weaponry, even utilizing nearly obsolete technology. But Banton understood that the isolated outpost was an attractive target for marauders and, with only one cutter available, he couldn't fault the station manager for wanting to protect his interests. Nor Huren apparently shared the same viewpoint. "We'll let the Captain deal with Mr. Pumjir if he wishes. Ensign Kwan, signal the station and request an approach vector. Helm, slow to one-quarter impulse and keep an eye open for any outbound ore-carriers. Those rock-jockeys don't care what's in their way when time and credits are on the line." The door to the ready room slid open and Captain Slayd stepped out. Oracle balanced gracefully on Slayd's shoulder as the Captain stepped down to take his seat. "Am I seeing Mark VI rotary launchers, Marcus?" queried Slayd. "Correct, sir." Slayd pursed his lips and nodded. "A prudent precaution, I should think." He turned his attention to Ensign Kwan. "Cyndi, I don't suppose your recent Academy education included training in deleting sensor logs?" Kwan's eyes widened in surprise. "Ah, no sir. I was under the impression that we aren't supposed to . . ." "Pity," interrupted Slayd, "though I suppose the ethical implications tend to bollocks up the practical aspects of such a skill. No matter - I'll have Xevok take care of that oversight in your education. In the mean-time, please open a channel to the station manager, Mr. Lazka Pumjir." Still bewildered by the Captain's strange request, Kwan complied and soon the image of Lazka Pumjir appeared on the main viewscreen. Pumjir had a broad, brown face and thick, jet-black hair. His dark eyes shone with good-natured intelligence and his smile was dazzling. Literally - for his teeth were covered with Latinum plating. Kwan blinked, momentarily speechless, astounded by his sparkling set of teeth. Slayd spoke up instead. "Ah, Lazka! Good to see you, old fellow. I trust you are well?" "Quite well, Captain Slayd. So nice of you to stop by - it's been a while." "Indeed, too long my friend. I hope you are still keeping that dusty brown bottle of Janx Spirits in your office?" Incredibly, Pumjir's smile broadened even further. Kwan found herself squinting. "You know me well, Artemus. I look forward to sharing it with you soon and with your lovely first officer!" Nor Huren raised a demure eyebrow. "Lazka, I hope we don't have a repeat of our last visit." Her voice was light but there was a hint of warning. Pumjir's entire body shook as he laughed with good humor. He raised his hands in supplication. "I promise to behave, Commander." "Lazka, I couldn't help but notice that you've added a few . . . accessories to the station." Slayd likewise kept his tone light, but the note of concern was evident. The station manager's smile faded and he became somber. To Kwan, it seemed like a cloud blocking the sun. "We have much to discuss, Captain, but I prefer we do so in person. Unfortunately, the topics of conversation will not be entirely pleasant. How soon can you beam over?" Slayd glanced at Nor Huren, who replied, "We should be in transporter range in ten minutes." "Then, if you are agreeable, I would ask that you beam to my office in eleven." Slayd nodded. "That is agreeable." "I will see you soon, my friends. Pumjir, out." The viewscreen shifted once more to the image of Desola Station, which was rapidly growing in appearance. "Normal magnification on the viewer," ordered Slayd. "Marcus, you have the bridge. Number One, you're with me." * * *
I doubt Slayd is going to enjoy this conversaton, but whoever forced the "accessories" to be utilised in the first place is going to like it even less once slayd gets wind of the situation...and I for one hope that the luckless Daimon is not ear-deep in excrement, there aren't many body parts Slayd can carve off.
Ho! Ho! Ho! Diplomacy, security issues and tact done Border Dog style! Love it! A sign that Slayd understands the practicalities of living on the frontier. It's a rough and tough living and requires a person to be rough and tough. But whoa bejeepus on the tampering of the vaccine. That is scary and horrifying. And very underhanded. Slayd has quite a lot on his plate as this continues. Continued brilliance.
Slayd’s still on the warpath, although I don’t know if too many of his crew suspect he may be considering some very unorthodox tactics. The mystery of the tainted inoculations grows as more light is shed on the unethical dealings taking place out here in the borderlands. I’m intrigued as to what information Pumjir might have for the captain. Terrific work, and I’m glad to see these folks back in action.
The tampering w/the vaccine bodes ill for Fed efforts in this area. There's some kind of big player involved. I can't help but wonder if Slayd's ship is enough to deal with it. Looking forward to more.
I wouldn't have thought it possible but apparently even more sinister things are a foot here. But whoever is behind this all and whatever their true motives, targeting children to achieve them is still incredibly despicable and I truly hope that they will be punished appropriately. It is fun to see Slayd and Dragonfire continue to encounter new (but familiar) and colorful characters in their little corner of space. It reinforces the notion that these guys have been doing this for a while and made plenty of friends and enemies during their journeys.
As I work through a bit of a block with my current Bluefin tale, I thought I would revisit Captain Slayd and the Dragonfire . . . Chapter Eighteen Stardate 54368.3 (24 May 2377) USS Dragonfire Holding Station 78 km off Desola Station Dr. West entered transporter room one to find Captain Slayd and Commander Nor Huren waiting. The XO handed West a type 2 phaser. West took it with some apprehension. “Is this really necessary?” he asked. “Quite necessary, Doctor,” replied Slayd as he stepped up on the transporter platform. “Desola Station may be marginally more civilized than Vagabond VI, but it has its own share of dangers.” West reluctantly attached the phaser and joined the two senior officers on the dais. “But isn’t there a smaller version of the phaser we could carry?” “The ‘cricket?’” Nor Huren shook her head. “The type 1 is fine for diplomacy missions. Out here, we’re not diplomats. We’re the law . . . such as it is.” “Which means that a show of force is required whenever we enter potentially hostile situations,” continued the Captain. West frowned. “But I thought you said that Mr. Pumjir was a friend of yours.” Slayd smiled. “Oh yes, he is. But that’s not to say I trust him. He’s a semi-reformed arms dealer, Brian. I imagine he will be much better armed than are we when we meet.” He turned to the petty officer at the transporter controls. “Energize.” Brian’s vision blurred for a moment as the walls of the transporter room faded to be replaced by a spacious office decorated when expensive tapestries and an impressive assortment of furnishings and bric-a-brac. The strong aroma of incense elicited a cough from the young CMO. A large man stood from behind an intricately carved desk. Lazka Pumjir was, in a word, larger than life. His latinum covered teeth shone brightly as did the bejeweled rings on his fingers. He was tall by Human standards, easily approaching two meters in height. His girth was equally impressive, though partially hidden behind loosely flowing robes of cream colored linen. Hair black as ebony flowed over his shoulders; his skin the color of mocha. “Artemus! So good to see you my dear friend,” he exclaimed. He brought his hands together, fingers upward and he bowed his head in greeting. Slayd returned the gesture in kind. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us Lazka.” He turned and gestured to his two compatriots. “Of course you know my First Officer . . .” Pumjir stepped around his desk, stretching the very limits of his considerable smile. “The charming Commander Katari Nor Huren,” he finished in obvious delight. He gently kissed her hand. “Sel c’an datka tor ch’bel-se.” “Sh, dun m’krith c'an-su,” replied Nor Huren. “Your se’Rigelic is quite good, Mr. Pumjir.” The large Pakastani waved aside the complement. “Linguistics is a hobby of mine, Commander. I fear my knowledge of your planet’s primary dialect is still quite lacking.” He turned to Brian West. “And this young officer?” “Allow me to introduce, Dr. Brian West, our new Chief Medical Officer. I thought this visit would prove educational for him.” Pumjir steepled his hands and bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor.” West awkwardly imitated the gesture and mumbled his greetings. Lazka gestured to a low table surrounded by over-stuffed cushions. “Please, join me in some refreshments. Then we can talk business.” West tried to find a stable position on the large cushion, just managing not to roll off onto the brightly colored rugs. He noted that Pumjir, Slayd and Nor Huren employed a cross-legged method of perching on the undulating pillows. With some effort, he finally managed to secure a stable if not completely comfortable position. Pumjir produced a very large bottle inscribed with alien markings unfamiliar to West. The station manager poured generous amounts into sturdy, square tumblers. Brian lifted his and was alarmed to see tiny objects swimming in the brownish liquid. Small bubbles popped and fizzed menacingly and the glass was inexplicably warm. A sharp, chemical smell wafted out of the tumbler, causing his eyes to water. “Old Janx Spirit from the 32nd dynasty of the Thurillian Oligarchy,” said Lazka, as if in answer to West’s unspoken questions. He lifted his glass. “To your good health!” West thought the toast contradictory to the notion of actually drinking the evil looking beverage, but he noted that Slayd and Nor Huren tossed theirs back along with Pumjir. With an internal shrug, he did the same. When he came to several seconds later, West saw Slayd, Nor Huren and Pumjir all leaning over him with expressions of concern. West tried to speak, but all that came from his throat was a sickly wheeze. “Perhaps I should have served the tea instead,” murmured Pumjir. * * * Marcus Banton sat in the command chair as Dragonfire slowly orbited Desola Station. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a blocky freighter tied up to one of the habitat modules. “Ensign Kwan, what sort of energy readings are you picking up from the ship docked on module 2 . . . that ugly grey and yellow vessel there at three 'o clock?” Cyndi frowned slightly, surprised by the question, but she quickly checked her instruments. “Low level readings only, sir. It seems they are connected to the station’s power. There engines are off-line.” Banton grunted. “Let me know immediately if anything changes with that ship.” “Aye sir.” She hesitated, “Um, any particular reason?” The tactical officer nodded. “That’s a Kriosian freighter, Ensign. The Maquis acquired several such ships to attack convoys in the E’Mdifarr Belt. They appeared to be run-of-the mill freighters but the Maquis gave them teeth – phasers, Merculite missiles, upgraded shields . . . they damn near took out a starship and a cutter during that fracas.” Kwan’s eyes widened perceptibly. “Should I conduct a full scan, sir?” “No, I don’t want it to appear we’re suspicious. An active scan would tip them off. Chances are, they’re what they appear to be . . . just an ordinary freighter laying over for supplies and R&R.” “But better safe than sorry?” “Exactly Mr. Kwan. In the mean-time, check out that Nausican Kuthu over there. I’ve never come across a Nausican raider that was up to any good.” Banton’s hand absently rubbed his left shoulder and the artificial bone implants that had been a result of a particularly nasty dust-up with some Nausican pirates two years earlier. “Nasty goblins,” the Jamaican muttered under his breath. * * * West rallied quickly from the overpowering effects of the Janx Spirit, though his embarrassment over the episode lingered. Pumjir, ever the gracious host, apologized profusely and ordered a pot of Vulcan tea for the young physician. The taste of the tea brought to mind his recent misadventure with the Captain’s whiskey, causing his stomach to lurch. He sipped the hot green liquid without enthusiasm as the conversation turned to more serious matters. “Lazka,” began the Captain, “the rotary launchers are a new addition to the station, are they not?” The somber expression returned to the station manager’s face. “These raids against the Caitians . . . they’ve been getting bolder and bloodier, Artemus. Who can say whether or not they might try for a larger target . . . say, a trading outpost such as Desola? I thought it prudent to take adequate precautions.” “You do realize that those launchers constitute a violation of about a half-dozen Federation statutes prohibiting the possession and use of military grade weapons by civilians?” Slayd asked, evenly. The large man’s face was unreadable as he quietly regarded the Captain. “It would appear to those of us in the Outland Expanse that the Federation has already abandoned us.” “I haven’t abandoned you, Lazka.” “You are but one Captain with one ship. The Tzenkethi know this, Captain. They have seen the lack of response from the Federation. As the old saying goes, ‘the sly cat knows the length of the dog’s chain.’” Slayd took a sip of his drink. “Perhaps there’s one dog in the neighborhood that’s about to slip it’s lead.” A dark eyebrow slid up Pumjir’s considerable forehead. “Oh? Any particular dog I might know?” A ghost of a smile formed on Slayd’s face. “You might. But you said earlier that we have much to discuss. So far, you’ve said nothing I did not already know.” Pumjir refilled Slayd’s glass and his own. Katari held up her hand to indicate she was fine. He did not attempt to offer any more of the Janx Spirit to West. “In my position, I often hear things, Captain. Much, of course, is mere rumor – convoluted tales spread by drunken spacers and rock jockeys. But I can often pick up the tendrils of truth that are wrapped in the barroom gossip.” “Such as?” “Such as the ghost of a tale that would indicate that the Tzenkethi are not operating alone in their raids.” Slayd’s glass paused before reaching his lips. He placed the glass back on the table and regarded the Pakastani with sharp eyes. “You have my complete attention, Mr. Pumjir.” * * * While Slayd and Lazka Pumjir parlayed over high-octane spirits, several members of the Dragonfire wandered through Desola Station, ostensibly for a bit of shore leave. In fact, they were on a hunting expedition. Lt. T’Lin, Dragonfire’s Chief of Security, and CPO Anak moved against the flow of beings that crowded the station’s promenade deck. Unlike stations operated by Starfleet or the Border Service, Desola Station’s zone for trade, entertainment and refreshment was far more exotic and dangerous. Nearly everyone they passed by carried some sort of weapons, varying from hidden knives to military-grade assault weapons hoisted in full view. Two Rock Jockeys from the Corona Mining Consortium, a massive Brikar and a small, silver-furred Oolnt, watched the two Border Dogs pass by from their table at a local drinking establishment. “Wonder who they’re after?” rumbled the Brikar. “What makes you think they’re after anyone?” squeaked the Oolnt as she swigged down another sugar-laced expresso. The caffeine and sugar rush were just now giving her a mild buzz. The Brikar turned his head with glacial slowness to gaze at his diminutive friend. “The non-com . . . he’s Capellan. Capellans are always after someone.” The Oolnt emitted a thunderous belch, belying her small stature. “That’s no Capellan . . . his hair is too short.” “Is too.” “Is not.” “Is!” “Isn’t!” An avian Rigellian wearing the green and gold uniform of the Corona Consortium walked up and smacked the Brikar on the back of the head. It had about as much impact as a flea landing on Mount Everest, still the Brikar turned to face the first mate. “Let’s go. Captain wants us underway in thirty. Where’s Chumbuka?” The Oolnt pointed a tiny digit toward the holo-suites. “Last I saw, s/he was in there with about a dozen of the local hookers.” For a bird, the Rigellian had an expressive face. “Bless my tree mother,” he muttered in exasperation. “Was s/he sober?” “What do you think?” rumbled the Brikar. As if on cue, a sudden commotion erupted from the direction of the holo-suites. An orange-skinned octopoid roiled forth, gripping several semi-clad sex-workers representing four races and three genders. Chumuka was drunk, horny and mad – a volatile combination for an Oshubian. With a raucous roar, he made his way through the crowd back toward the bar, tossing people aside like a cyclone – apparently in search of another bottle or three. And he was heading straight toward Lt. T’Lin and Chief Anak. The Vulcan security officer refrained from sighing, though it took considerable effort and discipline on her part. “Chief.” Anak pulled a type-four hand phaser from his belt and pulled the trigger. A pulse of energy engulfed the enraged Oshubian and the accompanying ‘escorts.’ All fell to the deck, knocked cold by the heavy stun beam. The Oolnt threw back the remains of her expresso, missing her small mouth by several centimeters. “I love this place!” she squeaked with sucrose-induced enthusiasm. Unfortunately for T’Lin and Anak, the commotion brought unwanted attention to their presence. Two Nausicans and three Humans spotted the Border Dogs and easily slipped away in the crowd. * * *
TLR..Dude! THANK YOU so much for bringing back Slayd and the Dragonfire!! I visit this forum everyday and this is one of the threads I have long hoped to see updated! It's nice to see the crew still in action and getting into trouble...even when not meaning to...and laying the mysterious foundation for more adventures to come! And to see you haven't lost the "flavor" which makes these characters and situations so unique and fantastic! You are one of the best writers on any forum! This is an EXCELLENT Christmas present! Thank you!
Well there's a tag-line for the series if ever there was one. It has to be said too that there are so many great lines in this and each instalment of Dragon's Slayd. Great writing which creates a great vibe as one reads. The characters continue to feel very well formed and the settings they enter into feel like familiar places we've seen before. Now as to the politics and the what-nots of what is going on one really has to wonder who is working in cahoots with the Big Cats. They have gone to quite some lengths to discredit the Federation but they haven't counted on Slayd's unorthodox approach and attitude. From permitting the illegal armaments of the station to the clever lines: Oh ho! So many good things in this. West being introduced to Pumjir, the bar revelries, the scoping out potential trouble-makers docked to the station, and a whole lot of win for Chumbuka! Hee hee. Love it.
This is like an ongoing Mos Eisley Cantina scene in flavor, rough and ready all the way. Lot's of fun!
This is great. West's learning experience continues. This mission is going to make a man out of him yet. I like Banton. He's the exact opposite to the green-behind the ears CMO. He's been around the block a few times and knows exactly where to expect trouble from.