Collateral Oaths

Posted on 07 Aug 2025 @ 5:15am by Gareth Rhys
Edited on on 07 Aug 2025 @ 5:17am

2,223 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Assignment: Arawyn
Location: Port Vexillum on Stavros Prime
Timeline: 242508.06

Collateral Oaths

The Auction Block

The air in the Grand Bazaar of Port Vexillum tasted of ozone, desperation, and money. It was a place where fortunes were made on the misery of others, and tonight’s misery was on full display. The atmosphere, thick with the scent of spilled Rigellian wine and the metallic tang of desperation, hummed with the low murmur of wild beings feigning civility. From his position near a fluted obsidian column, Gareth Rhys watched the room, his face a mask of bored indifference he’d spent a decade perfecting.

“Vital signs are elevated,” a calm, feminine voice said, audible only to him. “The Nausicaan’s circulatory pressure suggests he wants a fight more than a bid. The Breen are running cold, but their thermal output indicates fully charged weapon systems. They’re here to acquire, not to bid.”

“And Malik?” Gareth subvocalized, his lips barely moving.

“Heart rate is a steady seventy-two,” TESSA replied. “He’s enjoying himself. His chrono-implant is synced to the station’s security network. He’s monitoring their response times.”

Gareth’s eyes flicked to Jordan Malik, his old Starfleet rival, holding court across the room. Malik wore his outlandish suit like a second skin and his arrogance like a crown; he was a predator who loved the pageantry of the hunt. A disgraced ex-Starfleet officer whom Gareth had exposed years ago, he was now the rebranded CEO of a mercenary outfit with deep ties to the Shadow Veil Syndicate. Malik caught Gareth’s eye and his smile widened.

On the auction block, a man in the tattered remains of a Starfleet uniform hung in a shimmering stasis field like a museum piece. Lieutenant Braxton Greaves. His eyes were locked in a silent scream. His capture was a disaster; his rescue was Gareth’s current, underfunded, and rapidly deteriorating mission.

“One million bars of gold-pressed latinum,” the Orion auctioneer boomed.

Disguised in the severe, high-collared jacket of an arms dealer, Gareth Rhys scanned the bidders. He had enough for the opening bid and maybe one more. This was a recovery, not a procurement. A worried Starfleet section chief, operating through three layers of deniability, had hired him to get his officer back.

The bidding began with a flurry of hand signals and nods. Gareth made his first and only planned bid, a token gesture to show he was there. Then Malik entered the fray.

“One-point-five million,” Malik called out, smooth and confident. He wasn't just bidding on the officer; he was bidding against Gareth.

The Nausicaan grunted and shook his head. The Breen were silent. The room was now a stage for two men.

“One-point-six,” Gareth countered, his voice flat. It was nearly his limit.

“Two million,” Malik said instantly, his eyes locked on Gareth’s. The message was clear: You can’t afford to play at this table.

Gareth remained impassive, but his mind raced, fed by TESSA’s silent data stream. His bankroll was a puddle against Malik’s ocean. A firefight, as the Breen clearly planned, would be chaos, with no guarantee of getting Greaves out alive.

That left the third option. The one he hated. The one that always worked.

“TESSA,” he subvocalized, “run a probability analysis. What’s the success percentage if I pivot to a reputation-based threat against all major bidders?”

“Calculating,” she replied. “Factoring known financial vulnerabilities, psychological profiles, and syndicate allegiances… Malik folding is sixty-eight percent probable. The Nausicaan challenging you to a duel is ninety-two percent probable. The Breen interpreting your move as open aggression is… undefined. They’re a chaotic variable.”

“Good enough,” Gareth decided as the auctioneer’s drone continued, “Going once… going twice…”

He pushed himself off the column, and the room quieted as he rose to his full height. He didn’t look at the auctioneer. He looked at the bidders, one by one.

“I have a counter-offer,” he said, his voice a low, quiet menace. He let his gaze fall on the Nausicaan. “Your weapons shipment, the one using falsified Federation transponders, passes through the Delphic Expanse tomorrow. An anonymous tip to local authorities would be… unfortunate.”

The Nausicaan’s jaw tightened.

Gareth’s eyes moved to the Breen. “And for our silent friends, I have the decryption key to the data stream you’re siphoning from the Tholian Assembly. I imagine the Tholians would pay handsomely. Or maybe I’ll give it to them for free.”

Finally, he looked at Jordan Malik. “And for you, Jordan,” he said, his voice dropping to a personal, almost intimate register, “there’s that little moon your family visits for the solstice. The one with the lovely beaches and the outdated planetary defense grid. It would be a shame if a pirate fleet stumbled upon it by… accident.”

The air crackled. This was no longer an auction; it was a shakedown. Gareth wasn't bidding with money; he was bidding with his reputation. Everyone knew he collected secrets and wasn't afraid to use them.

Malik’s smile vanished, replaced by cold fury. The auctioneer stood frozen, gavel raised.

After a long, charged silence, Malik gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to the Orion. He stepped back.

As Gareth moved to claim his prize, Malik intercepted him.

“Impressive, Rhys. You always were more terrorist than soldier,” he whispered venomously. “But this isn't over. I need something. My best crew was captured by a Tal Shiar patrol last week. They’re being held in a blacksite orbiting Yavin IV. You’re the only one I know with the skill set to get them out. Help me, and the officer is yours. No charge.”

Gareth studied him. A trap. It was always a trap with men like Malik. But it was also an opportunity.

A Tal Shiar prison break was suicide, but it was a direct goal. Part of him, the cynical, scarred part, knew Malik was a snake. But another part, the stubborn remnant of the officer who believed in codes and second chances, saw a path.

“The probability of betrayal is ninety-seven-point-three percent,” TESSA murmured in his mind.

I know, Gareth thought. But it’s the only move on the board.

“My team,” Gareth said aloud, his voice firm. “My plan. My rules.”

Malik’s predatory smile returned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Infiltration & Escalation
Tal Shiar Space Station orbing Yavin IV

The Tal Shiar blacksite on Yavin IV was a monument to Romulan paranoia: a jagged, obsidian starbase hanging in the void over a dead world. It was silent, efficient, lethal.

“Forged clearance codes are holding,” Vaela, Gareth’s right hand, reported from the bridge of The Long Haul. “But their internal security scans are… intrusive. They’ll detect a non-Romulan bio-signature in minutes.”

“I’m in,” TESSA announced over the team’s encrypted comm channel. On the main viewscreen, a perfect hologram of a high-ranking Tal Shiar colonel strode through the blacksite’s main docking bay. It was TESSA, her mobile emitter hidden. “Their internal security is arrogant. They rely too heavily on biometric verification, which is remarkably easy to spoof when you have their personnel files.”

Gareth stood beside Malik, both clad in the dark, angular armor of Romulan shock troopers. “Create a level-three security alert in detention block gamma,” Gareth ordered. “Draw their patrols away.”

“Already done, Captain,” TESSA replied. “I’ve also locked the armory and rerouted primary disruptor power to the mess hall’s replicators. Their meal is about to be very well done.”

The infiltration was controlled violence. With TESSA as a deus ex machina, opening doors, disabling sensors, feeding them enemy positions. Gareth’s team moved like phantoms. He and Vaela, his second-in-command, fought with the silent precision of their intelligence training, while Malik and his men fought with a desperate, brutal ferocity.

They reached the detention level, a maze of green-hued energy fields, and found a surprise. Another Starfleet officer was detained in one block, while Malik’s crew was in another.

“The optimal strategy is to secure the Starfleet officer and leave,” TESSA advised in his mind. “The probability of extracting both parties drop by sixty-two percent.”

Gareth ignored the logic. He saw Malik's fear and desperation, recognizing his own past mistake: believing even someone like Malik could be swayed by good faith.

“We get everyone,” Gareth commanded. “Vaela, with me. Malik, take your team. TESSA, keep the lights off.”

The firefight was intense, a battle against Romulans and sleek, insectoid defense drones skittering along the corridors. Gareth fought with cold focus, but he found himself watching Malik. The man was reckless, fighting with a savage desperation to save his people. Gareth felt his own misbelief flicker. He had built his life on the certainty that men like Malik were irredeemable, their loyalty a commodity. But seeing the look in Malik’s eyes, he allowed himself a sliver of hope. Maybe even devils could find decency when their own were at stake. It was a dangerous hope.

They succeeded, but just barely. They retreated to the hangar bay, alarms screaming, dragging the wounded and the liberated.

“Go! Get to the ship!” Gareth yelled, laying down covering fire as Malik’s crew and the other Starfleet officer scrambled up the ramp of The Long Haul. The hangar entrance was a storm of green disruptor bolts.

Malik was the last one up the ramp. He paused at the bottom, turning to face Gareth, his face a mask of cold resolve.

“Thanks for the help, Rhys,” he said, his voice sharp over the din. “But I always pay my debts.”

He raised a compact disruptor pistol and aimed it at Gareth’s chest. The hope Gareth had foolishly felt curdled into cold certainty.

Of course.

But Gareth didn’t flinch or raise his weapon. His eyes flicked past Malik toward the ship, where Grak, his Tellarite engineer, watched from the cover of the ramp.

“Grak,” Gareth said calmly. “Now.”

Grak, a pragmatist, had anticipated this. Instead of the fire suppression system planned for a lesser double-cross, he raised a compact disruptor-carbine. The weapon hissed, a sharp pulse unlike the roar of the Tal Shiar rifles.

Malik’s body jerked once, a violent spasm. A web of bright blue light crackled across his torso, and he collapsed, paralyzed but alive, his face a mask of furious betrayal.

Gareth stepped forward, the battle raging behind him. He knelt beside his rival and retrieved a data core from a hidden pocket in Malik’s jacket. He had heard Malik whispering into a hidden comm during the firefight and knew something was wrong.

Gareth held the core up for Malik to see. “You were always a good liar, Jordan,” Gareth said, his voice holding only weary finality. “But you never learned when to shut up.”

He turned and walked up the ramp, leaving Malik to the mercy of the approaching Romulans.

Aboard the Long Haul towards Starbase 369

The quiet of hyperspace was a welcome balm as The Long Haul journeyed to Starbase 369 to hand over the rescued officers. Braxton Greaves was confined to the medical bay in a neural stasis field. Dr. Vess, his Denobulan medical officer, reported he would make a full, if slow, recovery. Malik’s crew, whom Gareth had rescued as promised, were confined to guest quarters, their future a matter for Starfleet.

Gareth sat with the second rescued officer, Lt. Commander Leah Callahan of Starfleet Intelligence, in the ship’s small briefing room. He bet his client had counted Callahan as a lost asset.

“My client will be pleased,” Gareth said. “But Malik didn’t just want you and poor Lieutenant Greaves. He wanted what you were carrying.” He placed the data core on the table.

“TESSA,” he said, “what have you found?”

TESSA’s form materialized at the head of the table. “The core contains encrypted Tal Shiar communications, Lieutenant Commander,” she said gently. “They detail a campaign to destabilize the Spinward March. The disturbing part is the list of shell corporations and back-channel accounts funding the operation. Several have direct financial ties to known Federation assets.”

Callahan paled. “That’s what I was investigating. It’s not just pirates. Someone inside the Federation is helping them.”

Gareth stared out the viewport, his jaw tight. This wasn’t just another job. It was a familiar, deep rot.

Later, alone on the bridge, a single, insistent ping broke the silence. It wasn't a standard comm request.

TESSA materialized beside his chair. “Captain,” she said, her tone holding something like concern, “I’m detecting an incoming signal. It’s using an obsolete Starfleet command-level encryption protocol, decommissioned over a decade ago. It’s… personal. It’s routed through ghost servers, but the origin signature is unmistakable.”

Gareth felt a familiar coldness. He knew the protocol. Only one person still used it to reach him, a key she had never relinquished.

He nodded slowly. “Put it through, TESSA.”

The speakers crackled, and then a voice, crisp, commanding, and heavy with years of duty filled the bridge. “Gareth… it’s time. Vice Admiral MacLaren is waiting. Come alone.”

He leaned back, his face unreadable. The auction, the firefight, the betrayal… it was all a prelude. The real mission, the one he could never escape, was about to begin.

“Of course she is,” he said to the empty bridge.

End Log.

 

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