The Stowaway
Posted on Wed Jul 29th, 2015 @ 1:12pm by Micheletto Corella
Mission:
By Dawn's Early Light
Location: Piombino Trading Vessel
Timeline: Early 2391
The rattle of a crate ill-placed on a rack woke the stowaway from his sleep gently. The lights in the small cargo hold were dimmed, allowing him to make out only the outline of the door with its emergency lighting and the looming giant of the racks which dwarfed him by quite some way. He pushed himself up so that he was sitting, back against the far wall and stretched his arm across his chest.
He checked the small PADD he carried. This was day seven of his journey, concealed within the hold. It helped that the ship on which he had hidden had no scheduled stops until it reached more inhabited Federation space but it still left him with around a week of hiding in the hold, making do with scraps of produce unsold from a previous trade run.
He heard some noise in the corridor but was sure that no-one would come in. However, he took the precaution of rolling up his makeshift bed, formed from his overcoat, a scarlet duster giving an indication of the status of his office. His shirt, sweat-stained from the unbearable heat of the night, formed a pillow.
He stuffed it all into a small barrel and began stretching. The cramped conditions meant that he was forced to contort his body into some ridiculous positions in order to reach his full height. He winced with the agonising pain in his arm and leg.
They had come in the afternoon, walking through the town unmolested and straight up to his office. Knowing he was in trouble, he had prepared for that by ensuring the doors were sealed. No-one would get inside. The balcony from which he had often observed the farming activities of Piombino.
Standing above his would-be assailants he could barely make out their faces but he knew all too well the voice of the grizzled Romulan.
Their association had begun on Celli V when the man they called the Governor, the one they called Gaio Ingenito had been known by a different name, the Herbalist.
His skills with 'herbs' were bringing in a pretty penny to the Vinarian Syndicate, something which had upset their Brjota rivals. It was decided that the 'farm' on Celli V was to be seized and the Herbalist brought before the regional head of the Brjota.
The Romulan, ill-prepared for the climate of Celli V had arrived in his knee-length fur coat and a vibrant hat which seemed to gleam in the temperate sun. The Herbalist would have laughed if everyone around him hadn't been dead.
Cowering in one of the underground runs like a rat, the Herbalist had watched as the Brjota who seemed to have no interest in hiding, choosing to wear their associated insignia, made sure the Vinarian workers and footsoldiers were dead.
It was a massacre.
It spoke somewhat to the Vinarian Syndicate's sense of honour that The Herbalist was thrown into the 'smugglers run', a tight tunnel which was masked from scanners. He had never been down in one; they had installed it just in case the Marshals showed up and started asking questions. He could hear the shooting and the screaming of men and women who had just been trying to earn a little latinum, regardless of legality.
He thought he was safe when the shooting stopped but the comm disruptors and transport inhibitors that the pompous Romulan left to cover his tracks had stranded him.
Those were the memories he carried on the balcony. Stranded by a Romulan looking to send a message to his paymasters. If they'd been smart they would have paid him off to work for them but he was blind to it- too concerned with how his own reputation looked. It was the same on the balcony.
The Governor knew that the Romulan was here for his blood. Once and for all. He also knew he had a penchant for explosives.
He crouched down when he heard footsteps outside the cargo bay and nursed the burn on his wrist. They dissipated quickly and his mind drifted back to the balcony.
He had chuckled as the Romulan and his cronies had fired a couple of tentative warning shots. He barely heard what he said- he barely cared.
The suns of Piombino were warm and bathing the town in a gentle, appealing light. They never seemed too bright but always warming and he knew that now the Romulan had found them, this would be the last time he saw them. His men had gone, laying explosives no doubt.
Then it came. The searing heat of the explosion seemed to envelope him, barely giving him enough time to press the button, the button he'd kept by his side every waking moment since arriving on the planet.
The blue hue receded, leaving him in the forest, just half a mile from the tramp freighter landing site. .
He looked down at his arm which still seemed to smoulder from the heat of the explosion he had escaped seven long days ago. The skin was twisted, molten, hideous from the wrist up to the elbow and the pain was excruciating.
The Governor had learned to manage his pain long ago and he was lucky since the pain in his arm was inconsequential compared to his leg. He was sure a piece of shrapnel was lodged in his thigh but the little medical kit from his go-bag, buried near his transport site, had not the means to extricate it from his body.
He couldn't risk telling the small crew of the Piombino ship. They were young, too young to carry the secret of his living. He had to remain completely concealed until they reached the relay station. It would be easier said than done.
Gaio Ingenito
Former Governor of Piombino
