The Desert of Canamar

Posted on Sat Jul 24th, 2021 @ 7:45pm by Lieutenant Timmoz

Mission: The Place of Skulls
Location: Outside Canamar Prison
Timeline: Mission Day 15 at 2300

[Canamar Prison]
[Canamar Prime]
[2300 hours Local Time]

Canamar reminded Timmoz, instantly, of the one time he'd dared set foot on Nausicaa- and regretted it. But then Timmoz compared almost any desert bereft of life to Nausicaa: Canamar and the homeworld of those violent, clannish people may have had similarities, but it was Timmoz's dark mood that clouded the differences between the worlds. Timmoz loved the heat, but the humid heat of his home, not the dry beat down of a giant red sun that dominated the sky. It was as if the sky and its harsh life-giver were an overlord: any benevolence, any thin hope that life may dot this wasteland expanse, surely skulked and slunk in the shadow under its giant red ruler.

Timmoz adjusted the wrap of a HUD visor that banded his skull, meant to block out the harmful bombardment of UV light and filter him from the overwhelming red spectrum that Orions found unpleasant. Timmoz felt half-blind in what was the pink and coral highlights of sun-baked stone, in this eerie world of perpetual twilight. If the caravan ventured even a few dozen kilometers, that fiery red ball in the twilight perimeter would grow. And grow, like a plasma behemoth ready to swallow this tiny ball of rock. The heat would rise. Steadily. Then on a non-linear scale. Timmoz had seen the result in the skins of a few of the caravan workers- probably ex-cons: skin damage and weathering well beyond the rich, sun-drenched flesh of vacationers on Risa. It was flaky, dry, liver-spotted, and angry red.

Timmoz rolled his head back, closed his eyes, and at the last moment held back a groan. His lean, long body was not meant for this gravity- and this lumpy, bony beast he rode between his legs was hardly pleasant. But at the last minute, his Cluros snapped him back into line. He would not show his fatigue or his weakness. Not to these people. But it irked him- this could have easily been a one-way trip. Canamar baked many an ex-Syndicate member. How quickly would he have wilted if this was permanent?

Timmoz's usual reserves were well-used up: first in the drab, dark cold of a Starfleet Intelligence NI-class starship. Its endless corridors, off-limits to him. Everyone was so tight-lipped, so spartan. Their version of a Mess Hall looked more like a library- slotted for privacy. Sure, a few officers and crew joined one another in chatty corners. But Timmoz was not invited into them. His ears quickly learned that he was mistrusted: conversation ended with him nearby, and resumed when people thought him out of earshot.

Timmoz wasn't so much welcomed, as handled. He almost missed the decrepit, aging beiges and grays of the Adelphi. or the seedy grime and grunge of Qualor. Maybe when this was over, he'd crawl back to Qualor and locate some Meridor. The Zakdorn hadn't been that bad as masters... had they? Or he could return to the Sojourner. But part of him dreaded that. The Sojourner, from the hour's worth of time he'd spent aboard before he was swept away, was far different than the Adelphi. It was so new, it felt... soulless. Technology was not verve.

And there would be questions. So many questions. Why was he whisked away so suddenly?

And then there was Nico. Timmoz closed his eyes and, inevitably, imagined the Human in the nude- by default the most natural of ways to present oneself. He imagined the way his skin tasted. He imagined the way he snored when he slept. It had been a good few months. Timmoz had made the mistake of being a social pendulum: on Qualor and the Academy, he was a whore. His holes were available; his cock, likewise. Then he'd sworn he'd go monk or else be swallowed like so many Orions had allowed themselves to be swallowed, only to meet a diminutive Vegan and that damned alien allure- that Traduus Vand that was Kolari taboo and Vondemi glee.

Timmoz doubted he would see Nico again and that was a heaviness on his shoulders. If he returned to the Sojourner, they would both have a hard time adjusting. Traduus Vand was always an allegory on hubris- of why Orions simply did not, could not, or should not couple with aliens. Sooner or later, those alien outlooks would clash- and clash hard. Humans and Orions looked at lies and half-truths, at even omissions, in vastly different ways. Humans valued honesty- not so much in the brazen Betazoid way, but in their own idealism. Orions didn't think that way. If Timmoz had told Nico everything, the Human would have been swept into Timmoz's failures.

Vodazee: "solvency." An Orion's debts are his or her own, unless they shifted that burden on another. Then it was shared- and that was an affront. That was weak cowardice. And then there was Xo-I: "security." Protect your loved ones. Protect the weak. Protect your Caj. Die for them at the appointed time. If Timmoz had told Nico everything, he would have put Nico in grave danger. And the source of that grave danger loomed on the horizon.

It was a surprisingly low, gray building- wholly functional and boxy. Timmoz squinted through his dehydrated, eye-strained headache to try and determine details of it. It was quite ugly- the rock looked like smoothed over slag. How perverse to build a building out of dark materials in such a climate. The Enolians had never struck Timmoz as particularly sadistic up until now. In fact, he'd mostly chalked them up to being unpleasant, overly rigid people, too puritan for even the V'Draysh. If an entire society was in need of the pressure valve release of a handjob, it was the Enolians.

But no, maybe their rigidity had a sadistic edge: Timmoz whiffed a touch of the black-bible tyranny of the Inquisition-minded as the beasts of burden the caravan rode began crossing into the shadow of the blocky megalith. And it did not fail him that Starfleet had sent a number of his kind here, rather than deal with them, themselves. Timmoz clucked his tongue at that. Well, all governments were hypocritical anyway. Including the V'Draysh. If anything it was a highlight of their weakness. Their desire to build a Utopia on their terms meant they had to blot out those that they simply could not handle or fix. In their vaunted halls of governance, they thought everyone wants to live in their blessed, clean, beige utopia. They were constantly proven mistaken.

And again it dawned on Timmoz that this could have been a one-way trip. Because no matter what, he was one man, and the V'draysh were powerful. Bland, idealistic, bordering on laughable in their ways. But they were powerful. He looked up, squinting into the hot reddish-leaning sky with only a few pinpricks of stars. It was a bleak place to end up and for a moment- a brief moment- he questioned if who he had come to see here, deserved it.

When the caravan crossed into the shadow, Timmoz could feel the temperature shift- possibly as much as ten degrees. The moment of respite was punctuated with a grisly scene- they were passing through a massive junkyard: Klingon, Federation, independent. Rigelian, Coridanite, Tellarite. All of the junk was being sorted by reddened, blistered prisoners in billowing white clothing. They all wore air masks, or perhaps they were filters? Timmoz was ignorant of why, and the gait of his ride made it hard to focus on any one individual.

But he could see they were, indeed, sorting. Scrap. Symbols, rank insignias? Then bigger scraps- pieces of things Timmoz could start to tell, what were. An old-style set of isolinear chips stood out to him: the black transparent aluminum of them weathered by use and the dust of Canamar. He'd seen similar things being extracted from old starships at Qualor.

He met eyes with a woman, the crest raising from her nose marked her as Farian, or maybe Kobliad. She scowled at him and flashed him a sign which he suspected was meant to be exceedingly rude. He was tempted to flash it back, but what did it matter? But it occurred to him why she had- his commbadge was pinned to his desert gear. She'd seen it. So did she hate him personally? Maybe not. Hate the V'draysh? Maybe kneejerk, or by cause. Hate the world? Probably. Without making eye contact, a gray-uniformed Enolian was strolling the pathway for the caravan going the opposite direction. He had some kind of a discipline stick which he tapped into his hand. Even as he brief passed, Timmoz could hear the shallow, sharp breathing of the Enolian into his mask.

Timmoz looked up again. The wind stank of sweating bodies of multiple biochemistries, but overwhelming it smelt of the metal-burning furnaces probably used to reduce all this scrap into something usable again. It tanged in the nostrils and tasted awful. This really was a form of Hell. Canamar's awfulness, confirmed. Timmoz sighted the monolithic nature of the prison which, this close, actually looked more complex. But it was not beautiful. It was freakishly smooth with odd, jutting ridges that fractaled outward into what looked like either comm antennae... or possibly some kind of field emitters. Timmoz couldn't tell.

"Halt!"

The voice echoed on the comms, bellowing clearly like a disembodied God proclaiming to its subjects. The caravan swayed to a stop. Timmoz couldn't see what was happening and he tried to stand in the stirrups of his mount, using his height for a better vantage. But he saw nothing over the glistening, heat-roiling cases of supplies in front of him. "Here's where we go on foot, Lieutenant." Some addressed him.

She was plainly pretty, sandy blond, tawny eyes too large and cat-like to be Human. Her face tapered to a rounded chin. Mikulak, Timmoz affirmed. He complied- clumsily trying to swing long legs in this strange gravity of the rear-hump of this thing. In the end, his pins and needles-numbed thighs failed him- Timmoz's lankiness toppled. He braced on his hands and forearms, the grave biting into his palms. He grunted and was hurriedly helped up.

"Are you alright, Lieutenant?" Those large oval eyes blinked at him. Timmoz nodded.

"I'm fine." He lied. Timmoz was anything but fine. No Nico. Here to topple what shred of his Orion connections remained. Dehydrated. Hungry. His back was killing him. He grunted and stood up. He smiled his Cluros smile, that sly easiness bending at his wide mouth and his double canines. "It's nice to be off that thing... though." He squinted up at the shadow of the massive blocky wall towering over them. "What's next?"

"Well," the Mikulak winced. Her commbadge sat on her chest, too. "They bring us in and..." She hesitated, "You'll have to submit to a cavity search."

Timmoz's eyes inadvertently rolled while he scoffed. "Do they greet everyone this way?"

The Mikulak hesitated again. "Until you pass their full background checks... yes."

Timmoz sighed heavily, audibly, staring at this large-eyed, tapered-faced woman with a degree of insolence. "There'd better be some Meridor on the other end of this..." He muttered.

The Mikulak smirked, "There's no alcohol on Canamar. Anywhere."

"This really is Hell then," Timmoz counted. He took the reins of his beast and gradually walked by Enolians with cold eyes and studious stares. each one had the same bland gray uniform. Why did every authoritarian state- V'draysh, Romulan, Cardassian- like such bland colors? Timmoz, just once, wanted to see some miserable despot use something like Balosnee Turquoise. At least the Thakolarivaj knew how to dress... he conceded of the long-dead oppressor-partners of his planet.

Gradually they moved further in- but the pace was laboriously slow. Timmoz found himself finally ushered into a small room and was told to undress. He eyed the smooth walls and very much doubted they were all so private. He smirked and spoke to a wall- no real clue if it was false or not- "Enjoy the show..." he growled. He undressed and sat. he tied back the sweat-weighed poof of his hair into a knob at the back of his head. And he waited. His eyes closed and his head tilted back to rest against the wall. He heard the steady whoop-whoop-whoop of a massive ventilation fan in the ceiling. It sprinkled sparkling dust downward, spiraling and swimming in a vortex.

With a beep and an unlatching sound, the heavy blast doors opened and a man in, unsurprisingly, a gray unfirom stepped inside. "Anything to declare?" He asked. Timmoz rose in his nakedness.

"Nothing."

The Enolian checked something on his PADD.

"Have you suffered from fever, skin rash, or stomach upset in the last two weeks?" The Enolian droned. Timmoz studied his glass-gray eyes. The ugly bony swirls that disturbed the lines of cheek and eye socket were unsightly to the Orion.

"None," Timmoz replied.

"Step forward." The Enolian said. Something beeped. The Enolian held some kind of thimble-shaped scanner on his fingertip. He passed it over Timmoz's brow. Temperature check... Timmoz said.

"Any undisclosed cybernetic or bionic augmentations?" The Enolian uttered tersely.

"Just the dataport." Timmoz said with a head shake. He turned his head to show the small, plugged dark metal port near the bottom of his hairline. The Enolian moved his thimble scanner over it several times.

"Any unauthorized use of a dataport under this jurisdiction will result in mandatory removal of the cybernetic, and you will be subject to prosecution under Enolian penal codes. Are you on any form of mind-altering or neurochemical stimulants, depressants, including but not limited to Kriam, Spyce, Nolcoke, Skai, etc.?"

"No," Timmoz replied. He fought a smirk. The Enolian sensed it and his features schooled even more coldly.

"Turn and face that wall. You will see a light. Star at it." Timmoz sighed. If it hadn't been a long journey from Canamar Anchorage to the prison, if it hadn't been a long journey on a cold, lonely NI-class, if it hadn't been for his ship going across the border into Klingon space, Timmoz would have had more reserves for this. With a pursue of his lips, he hesitated. "You have five seconds to comply." Timmoz stared coldly at the investigator.

He turned. Timmoz stared into the bright red light- of course, it would be red. And he felt the achy pain of a laser going into his eyeball. He was momentarily blind and then he had auras. He was fairly sure his retina had just been scanned. He heard the scuff of something. Gloved hands with cold, rubbery pads fell onto his shoulders, felt along and then gripped his neck. They lifted his arms, scanned down them. Dropped them. Then down his sides, over his back. He was being deep scanned. Timmoz could feel the unnerving vibration viscerally pass through him. It, coupled with hunger and dehydration, made him vaguely nauseous.

In his peripheral vision, he sensed the Enolian step back and stare at his PADD. He wasn't arrested so he must have passed. "I am required to do a cavity search. Prepare yourself. Place your hands in the raised circles above your head." The Enolian said. Timmoz held his breath and stepped wider than his shoulders. He looked up and put his hands on the circles. He waited.

There was a beep. And then a strange squelch sound. Then he felt it. He winced: he was entered. It was cold, slimy, and unpleasant. But the warbling pulse was the worst part. Then it was out. Another beep. Timmoz looked back over his shoulder. "You may redress. Proceed through that door when you have finished." The Enolian tucked their PADD under their arm. He gestured at the far wall which sudden snapped. A holographic wall disappeared, masking an identical wall but with a door. When Timmoz looked back, the Enolian was proceeding out of the door he'd come through. The blast door latched.

"Some welcome..." He muttered, fishing for his underwear. Long, unsteady legs stumbled through their holes and he pulled the garment up toward his body. Then his undershirt, then pants. He'd had enough of his desert gear. He plucked his badge off of it, stuck it to his chest, and then balled up the billowy cloth. He carried it out with him, through the door.

Suddenly it was far cooler, when the door latched securely behind him. Enolians at various control bays did not look up at him. They studied their screens and monitoring cams in their strange white and gray version of LCARS. It was blocky and unimaginative, and based on a circle in red. But Timmoz could not read Enolian so he had no idea what he was looking at.

"This way, Lieutenant," Timmoz blearily looked up and set eyes on the Mikulak again. "I promise it doesn't get any more unpleasant than that." Timmoz mirthlessly lifted his brow. "I'll take you to the Federation Zone. You can get something to eat and sleep. You're scheduled for deposition at 0700 hours."

"I want to see her," Timmoz countered. The Mikulak had begun to walk-lead the Orion and stopped when he didn't immediately follow.

"I'm not sure I can arrange that. But I will try." She said.

Timmoz raised a brow, "If they want my cooperation, I will see her."

The Mikulak was stuck between opposing forces- Timmoz could see it on her face. "I'll see what can be done. Please, come with me. We're still in the Ultramax Security Zone."

Timmoz put his hands behind his back and swayed into motion. Dehydration swam his vision, like it was delayed milliseconds, but he shook it off. The labyrinth that followed was dark and gray, shaped like half an octagon. Timmoz quickly realized they were heading in a gentle descent. he swore they double back once until they came to a bank of floor to ceiling, reinforced windows.

Timmoz gaped, his eyes widened. He stopped and stared. What had looked like a low, block gray building where he came in was... immense. From this vantage, the building stayed low above them- he guessed they'd gone down two decks- but then to ringed outward around half a crater. But what briefly hit him with vertigo was just how far down the hole before him plunged. It had to be like staring down a deep embankment of at least a kilometer in depth. It was block and terraced, made of gray stones with occasional streaks of red or white. It was coated in the desert dust from above. But Timmoz realized they'd come in on the cliff edge of a massive quarry.

The worst thing was the signs of movement- perhaps thousands. Timmoz could make out no one individual- it was like watching ants warm over an amphitheater of stone. At the farthest point below, something was ebbing a glow of blue and white. It pulsed in a way that sort of reminded Timmoz of a massive, sunken warp core- or at least half of life.

"What is that?" Timmoz felt himself ask. he tried to get a grip on his Cluros-coolness.

"That's the tectonic stabilizer. You're sitting on a very large dilthium mine." The Mikulak officer said, returning to her charge. She seemed impatient, but trying to be more diplomatic.

"That doesn't look like any kind of dilithium mine I've ever seen," Timmoz said with an eyebrow raise.

"You're looking at the Zenite quarry." The Mikulak corrected.

Timmoz shot her a glance, "That's a toxic process."

The Mikulak, somberly, raised her own brow and nodded. "Yes. I know," she quickly shifted to try and block the view, "We need to go. Please, Lieutenant. Follow me and stay close. Canamar isn't a place where you linger or get found out of bounds."

Timmoz swallowed. "Understood." He schooled himself with what little resources he had left and quietly followed her lead.

A Post By:

Lieutenant Timmoz
Protected Personnel on Leave
Starfleet Office of the Judge Advocate General