Red Roan Saloon

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following log takes place during our 6 hour time between games - after the events in “Abducted!” and before the 09.05.11 Sim…

****

 

Should she be setting off on her own to meet with an unknown contact? Not really.

 

Should she be traveling across the T’tooine flat lands via an exposed motorcycle? Not really.

 

Was there anyone ranking that could yell at her? Not really.

 

Dust and dirt swirled off the dry plans, and small bits of stone pelted her overcoat as she zoomed seventy miles an hour across the cracked ground. Goggles protected her eyes. A tactical shemagh wrapped about her head and neck deflected the elements.

 

Cale was going to get dirty as hell, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

There was that thrill of meeting the challenges of a new world head on, and the captain had never really lost that feeling in her years of service. The chance to ride again, checking out an outpost on the ass end of nowhere? Hell yes she took the opportunity. Every few years, some brass admiral concerned about the current safety policies would propose an idea that the ship commanders should stay ship side, out of harm’s way and instead sending the XO or Second Officer to lead away teams.

 

Calestorm was usually one of the loudest protesting captains – if she were hogtied by policy, how was she expected to lead?

 

Taking a nocturnal jaunt was one thing, dropping completely off the grid was another matter. She knew that ‘Ra’gaar’ and ‘Moa’ were on duty, monitoring her progress - and other deployed personnel, in total there were twenty five of the thirty man crew out and about - but she couldn’t tell how the two non coms felt about the captain going all lone wolf; that whole marine monotone ‘yes sir, you may do whatever you like’ thing.

 

The landscape was both pretty and rugged. Coppery red rock formations dotted the flats and it was easy to imagine nomadic dwellers moving across these plains, or cowboys herding cattle.

 

Crash gunned the motor, twisting the handlebar control grip in her gloved right hand. The metal monster belched out exhaust as the engine kicked into overdrive; the extra wide tires dug into the hard dirt as she zoomed across the plains.

 

Her headlights pierced through the darkness, illuminating a small pack of plains wolves, their dusky sand colored coats visible in the beams; Crash changed direction on the fly, going around the dire pack in a plume of dust. The feral canines yipped and barked, giving chase. One leapt at her from the side, causing her to jerk the cycle and almost lose control. She soon outdistanced the pack. The howls carried on the wind and faded eerily into the darkness as she recklessly cleared a rise and grabbed some air.

 

***

 

The destination came into view, and the inset GPS on the front of her dashboard pinged at the same moment she slapped eyes on the outpost. The frontier settlement had been dubbed ‘Fort Jaricha’ by the locals, and according to the local myths and legends, a jari’cha was a desert demon that sucked the water from the bodies of travelers, leaving them to die in the plains.

 

Calestorm pulled the cycle up, slowing as she closed on the entry way gate into the town. The engine shut off with a purr and she cocked the kickstand into position with a boot. She straddled the vehicle, not making any sudden moves.

 

Jaricha, like other frontier outposts, had a militia guard to patrol the town perimeter. One of them, a lanky man with a re-breather mask over the lower half of his face, spoke, “What’s your business here stranger?” The vocoder gave his voice a tinny quality. He carried a makeshift pipe gun, and though the weapon looked laughably homespun, Crash knew from experience that the rocks typically used for inexpensive ammo could cause hellfire damage to a body.

 

She was stiff from the ride and slowly extricated herself from the seat of the cycle. She consciously kept her hand from wandering to rest on her holster and removed her re-breather, letting it hang around her neck. Fine dust coated every inch of her. She coughed, the dryness from the plains pervasive in her throat and nose despite the protection.

 

She spoke to the two guards, projecting confidence but keeping her tone even as possible. “The name’s Lightwind. I’m meeting with Mr. Collins? Word has it that he cleared me with y’all…”

 

The second guard, a kid of fourteen or so spoke up. “Yeah Good Lookin’, your passage is clear. Pull your cycle over there into that third parking slot.”

 

Having no patience, she winged a look at the youngster. “Boy, don’t make me smack you.”

 

The older man started cracking up at Cale’s remark and waved the now annoyed second guard off back towards the guard post, a pre-fab shipment container converted for use by the militia.

 

“Don’t mind him. He’s part of our junior militia corps and they tend to get all excited with travelers.”

 

She smirked. “Yeah, well, he needs to watch his mouth. Anyway, I’m lookin’ for the Red Roan Saloon?”

 

Putting aside there were no indigenous red roans, or any other breed of Earth horse on T’tooine, but that was beside the point…

 

The militia guard pointed with his makeshift pipe gun in the general direction that she was to travel. “Head straight down the main street, then go left. Can’t miss it.”

 

“I need to pay a toll for entry?” There were some outposts who required travelers to contribute to the ‘Town Fund’, either in credits or trade.

 

The guard shook his head and she could hear the smile in his voice. “Nope. Already covered. Just be on your way Lightwind and we’ll call it even.”

 

****

 

The Red Roan Saloon was less drinking establishment and more diner complete with tables and booths; the late dinner crowd (or early morning crowd depending on your viewpoint) were a mix of species and ages, but a good few were Humanoid. It wasn’t overly crowded. Most patrons were eating or talking in groups, while one or two were interested in digi-slates linked into the planetary wireless ‘net. A few of the customers winged looks at her, but Calestorm didn’t get any bad vibes.

 

Crash spoke softly into the comm device inset into her ear. “I’m on my way in.” Her heart jumped in excitement, and she knew the bridge tracker monitors would pick up the fluctuation.

 

Based on the photo that Craig Tigard* had forwarded to her, Cale let her gaze rove over the diner crowd. The man’s photo was dated twenty years ago, but it was what she had to work with and she made due. He’d retired from the Starfleet Marine Corps a few years back, and eventually opened the diner here on T’tooine. The orders from Tigard had been clear: the captain herself was to approach and question Collins.

 

She spotted her contact, working the counter at the far end. He’d of course noted her entrance, and had an expectant look on his face.

 

Crash easily strode across the main floor of the diner, mindful not to let her trail coat brush against anyone. She reached the counter area, and hopped onto a stool. They both made eye contact, and he nodded in greeting. He gave a tic of the head to a couple other patrons sitting nearby, and they got up to move further down the counter.

 

Dark skinned, Major Abraham ‘Tom’ Collins, SFMC ret., was older then Cale, say 70 or 75 standard years. He still looked pretty fit, though the years had taken toll on his features. Weather on T’tooine didn’t help.

 

“You Lightwind?” His voice held a slight command ring to it that Crash automatically responded to as if she were still a raw cadet.

 

“Yes Sir, Mister Collins.”

 

“Uh huh. You wanna grab something to eat? Don’t let this place fool you, nobody’s died from the food. Yet. At least that I know of.”

 

The humor was lost on the captain, though she had the feeling that she were to speak to Collins in the way she’d done to the kid at the entrance gate, she’d be the one getting smacked around. Her stomach roiled at the mention of food, but she politely waved the offer off as she wasn’t in the mood for ‘Rattlesnake burger’ or whatever creature was the local variety. She’d eat once she got back to the Imperious.

 

“I’ll just take a small glass of juice and a mug of coffee, thanks.”

 

Collins busied himself pouring the requested drinks, and then poured a cup of java for himself. “I have one question: you going after the Kris?”

 

“That’s the plan. Specifically movin’ in on Litasha.”

 

He nodded. “We’ve all heard she got real bold these last months. Keeps popping over the borders into Feddy held space to cause mischief…”

 

Calestorm downed the juice – some sort of orange fruity flavor – and washed away the worst of the dryness in her throat. She sipped at her coffee while Collins gave her the information that she’d come for.

 

“…I lost a cousin to the Black Kris fifteen years ago. She was delivering cargo and supplies, and Kris agents boarded her ship. That was when Romo was in charge. People haven’t disappeared as much, lately, not since his wife Mareena took over. But now, that young,” he paused, “cur daughter of theirs. You gotta watch her, she’s more dangerous than the parents ever were. They were old school, different stripe...”

 

‘Cur’ wasn’t the worst name one could be called, but as it meant a mixed breed dog, Crash kinda figured he was calling Litasha the nicer version of ‘bitch’.

 

Collins continued. “I’d just retired from the Fleet Marines. Started asking around, heard stories and rumors about where captives end up. I went after her…traveled to Nova AC, a colony world on the other side of the sector from this dust bowl.”

 

“I infiltrated the ‘Kris complex on Nova, started snooping around. Then it all went to hell and I got myself shot up real good.” He indicated his scarred face and then took a slow sip of coffee. “I took quite a few of ‘em Kris bastards out though. But it was all for nothing as you’ve probably guessed…she was already dead. She was at the site for too long, and if you wanna have any chance at survival, you gotta get outta the Nova AC Maze early on...”

 

“I’m sorry for your loss Mr. Collins.“

 

He made an obvious attempt to change the subject, his tone gruff. “You got a digital slate with you?”

 

“My comm device’ll do fine.” Crash reached a hand into an interior coat pocket and extracted her iComanche; she handed it over to him. The older man produced a USB chit and inserted it into the access port. The USB chirped, indicating that a download was complete.

 

“The maps are dated, but I’d imagine having a basic layout of the site grid’ll help you out somewhat.” He paused, and gave her a knowing look. “You aren’t Starfleet Marine bred are ya?”

 

A big grin split Calestorm’s features. “Mr. Collins, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I have an aunt that’s a true Devil Dog and I trained at Parris for just under two months when I enlisted at eighteen. Then, the senior DI told me to get the hell off his base and recommended me for the Starfleet Navy.”

 

His shrewd, dour face lightened, and he barked with laughter. “Just call me Tom.”

 

“Crash.”

 

He smiled. “Figures.”

 

She gave him a small smile in return. “I don’t mean to be rude Tom, but I gotta get going. My teams and I need to keep moving so’s the Kris don’t grab our scent...or at least more of a scent.” The longer she and the crew operated in sector, the chance of detection ramped up. You just couldn’t stop time.

 

“I know. Good hunting Crash. Tell that slacker Craig I said hello.” He lifted his now empty coffee mug in a silent salute.

 

----

*Colonel, Starfleet SPECOPS Command Central (Aquiri Station)