[Flashback] DL | CIO | LCDR Stacker | "Dutch"

Posted on Fri May 18th, 2018 @ 3:31am by Commander James Stacker

Mission: Lacuna
Location: Viery, Federation Border World
Timeline: May, 2415.

Boots crunched into the dirt as he stepped off the boards, emerging off Paris Ave. and taking a left on Main. An engine growled down the street: when he looked it saw a heavy and slow-slung tracked beast coming his way. Its nose was painted bright red with golden laurels, all of it dirtied and chipped from months of heavy use. Seeing this prompted him to jog across the road, under full view of the broiling sun. It also caused every other person farther up the street to wisely edge back behind the nearest stout object that could he found on short notice.

It was common knowledge that the drivers for most of the supply transports were local contractors hired by Starfleet. This therefore made them the fourth most dangerous thing on the planet, on a very short list that included antipersonnel mines, rocket-propelled improvised warheads, and a native feline predator named for a scientist on the original founding expedition. Said scientist had been eaten within three days of disembarkation, incidentally becoming the fledgling colony’s first fatality. Someone had decided a good memorial was to name his killer after the dead scientist.

Welcome to Viery.

By the time he took cover between buildings the vehicle was almost on him, but thankfully it decided not to grace the end of the alley and two stout buildings with its presence. What he did have to contend with, though, was a cloud of dust raised by its passage. It blew between the buildings on what little breeze existed and settled onto his dark-green uniform BDUs. He waved his hand in a futile attempt to thin it from the air before giving up and settling for fishing a sweat-soaked cloth from his pants.

Viery was a tropical world in a terraformed five-planet system out on the rim of the Federation. Once called “the second Risa” by a reporter with nothing better to do than create inventive nicknames, it’d been known for leisure. There were bars. Gambling. Lagoons. A dozen cruise liners crowded the spaceports at any one time. Small one- or two-family habitats dotted the skies and there was a booming business in construction of beachfront condos built according to the latest fashions of the core worlds.

Then came the Coalition Against the Ecological Destruction of Viery. Which was a mouthful, so the same enterprising report had dubbed them the “Green Hippies.” Since people liked things simple, the first part of the name had stuck. That was around the time that the Greenies had gone from spray-painted slogans on alleyways to bombing nightclubs. After that the insurgency had become less of a betting topic in the bars, and the name took on a more sinister connotation.

He finished wiping the grit from his face - although in truth it was more smeared than gone - and pocketed the cloth. A quick check around the corner of the building confirmed no trucks were coming. With a sigh he threaded his way back out into the sunlight, tapping the corner of his sunshades to reactivate them and protect his eyes while he covered the last remaining distance to the canteen.

Most of the Starfleet personnel stationed on planet were accustomed to the heat, humidity, and grit, which was perhaps the only reason that a few looks were cast his way as he sat down at the table. “- grid again,” Harry Walker was saying. The heavyset and dark-skinned marine gunner from the Kenyan colony spoke with the drawl that persistently irritated James. There hadn’t been a cowboy on Earth in two centuries, but somehow a group from Texas with an affinity for all things western had wound up on the colony. The accent spread like wildfire.

“Ah’m tellin’ y’all, those fuckin’ Greenies took another shot at th’ place.” The breadcrust hit the tray so hard the silverware jumped and rattled.

“Is he still going on about the grid?” the newcomer asked his neighbor in a polite undertone. It was accompanied by a slight head-tilt towards the African Texan. The blonde Scandinavian - a newcomer, or at least he didn’t recall a prior meeting - grunted by way of response, eyeballing the dust that caked his uniform.

The look was mutual, and what James saw positively screamed (in a non-verbal way) that the man’s uniform was too clean in that fresh-off-the-transport kind of way. The creases were too spot-on, the uniform free of patch work and discolored fibers from the friction caused by combat vest straps.

“Yes. Is it really this hot here all the time?”

“You should try the highlands,” interjected their neighbor, a tanned female MACO, from across the table. “My squad just came back from a patrol up there. Triple-digit temperatures in the day, triple-digit humidity by day and night. Plenty of warm wind. Even the rain is all steamy.”

“Fuck that,” someone else griped. “We should just scorch this place and move out.”

“Don’t mind Deinert,” the woman said. “He’s always angry about the weather. Comes from having a stick -”

“I do not have a stick up my ass! Just pissed at the weather. Still,” the man muttered as he went back to the food on his tray.

“Gunther here is from a coastal town,” James interjected as the firm crust snapped in his hand. Its liberal use was about the only thing that made the cold soup appetizing. He continued even as he dabbed it into the thick broth. “Temperate climate. New Berlin system. Most of us are from similar environments.”

“You’d think they’d make the weather system a priority.”

“Welcome to Viery. The weather control grid’s been out for almost a month and we’re heading into the height of summer. But the water’s good to drink, so there’s that. And the local brew isn’t half-bad, either.”

The latter was received with a firm nod of approval, as the Scandinavian held out a broad, meaty hand. It easily enveloped his own, and the grip was firm. Whomever the newcomer was, they clearly were no slouch. A name was supplied a moment later, to match the face. “Dutch.”

“James.”

=/\=

Lieutenant Commander James Stacker
2XO/Chief Intelligence Officer
Cold Station Theta, SB-1170