We take care of our own

Posted on 29 Jan 2015 @ 2:26am by Petty Officer 2nd Class Ardon Zuwtt & Lieutenant Olsam Mott

1,667 words; about a 8 minute read

Mission: Episode 07 - Sojourn
Location: USS Galileo, Deck 3, Mott's Quarters
Timeline: MD26, 15:30 hours

ON:

It was a day like any other for Petty Officer Zuwtt. Report for duty, see what needs to be done, and go do it. He had spent the morning fixing a faulty sonic shower and a busted EPS conduit, and had just gotten a call about a faulty lighting system in a quarters Deck Three -- quarters 03-1305 JO to be precise. So, off he went, tool box in hand, whistling as he sauntered over to his next job.

He thought it curious that no one had answered his chime. The call had been placed quite recently. But it wasn't too out of the ordinary; perhaps the crewman who placed the call had simply left for the day. Noticing the door was unlocked, he took a step forward.

When the door opened, he immediately saw that the room was pitch black, apart from the light shining in from the hallway and a twinkle of starlight out the far window. The lighting problem was clearly worse than the caller had let on. So, doing his duty, Zuwtt pulled out a flashlight and entered, shining it around the room in search of the breaker panel.

As he took a few steps inside the room, the door closed behind him, leaving him in pitch black.

"Hello?" he called out again, thinking he heard something. But there was no reply.

Scanning the room, the beam of his flashlight fell on a strange device mounted on the wall. It looked like some sort of antique torture device, possibly used for hacking off limbs. Stranger still, he thought it looked vaguely familiar, as though he had seen it before somewhere.

"No-" he gasped, realizing what it was and who it belonged to.

A deep, dark, sinister laugh echoed from a corner, sounding very much disembodied. It seemed to fill the room, growing larger than life. "Did you think we had forgotten?"

Another voice sounded from the opposite side of the room; this time accompanied by the materialization of a vague Bolian shape. It seemed to be draped in all black, almost melding with the shadows in the room. It remained unclear how such a decidedly graceless race of heavy breathers could manage to blend in with the darkness. "Did you think we had forgiven?"

"Did you think we would overlook your..."

"...transgressions...."

"...misdeeds...."

"...infractions...."

"...your misrepresentations of the Bolian people?"

With every voice a new Bolian seemed to appear out of thin air. They were leaning up against walls, seated on furniture, perched atop desks and tables...ominously blocking the doorway.

"No... Nnn-no," uttered Zuwtt, frantically waving the flashlight around, as he tried to back out the way he came. But instead of an open door, he backed into two large Bolians, each one grabbing him by one arm and holding him in place. His flashlight and tool box clattered to the floor.

"I can explain; please, let me explain!" sobbed Zuwtt, realizing what was happening. His past was finally catching up with him.

A diminutive Mott appeared in the center of the room, leaning on her cane. From the rippling disturbance among the other Bolians, it was clear she was the ringleader of this gang. She edged forward toward Zuwtt, taking her time to close the relatively small distance between them. With each step, there seemed to be a growing heaviness in the room, like the oppressive weight of retributive justice on the eve of a sinner's judgment.

"Speak, Zuwtt."

"I... I... it was a long time ago! I didn't mean to hurt her," he blubbered between sobs. "I loved her, and she was mine. I was going through a lot of stress! Mama didn't raise me right! I was the only one of my kind in Finland. Do you realize how that feels? How stressful it is to be the only Bolian around? Do you realize how cold Finland is? And how bad their food is? Except fpr lutefisk. That stud is delicious. It's like this fish, which is..."

He trailed off, realizing he was babbling, and threw himself down onto his knees. "Please, forgive me," he sobbed, hanging his head before four dozen of his people standing in judgement of his crimes. "Give me another chance, please!"

"The time for excuses is over, Zuwtt. There can be no redemption. The Ministry of Culture has spoken," the ringleader said. She raised a hand and snapped her fingers, summoning forth another Bolian holding a PADD. He held it up, allowing the glow of its screen to fill the room. At the top of the pronouncement was a logo that looked like the planet Bolarus IX wreathed by crab legs, the official seal of the Ministry of Culture of the Bolian World Council. The document's heading was large and bold, indicating it was a 'writ of extraordinary censure.'

It was a phrase that struck fear into the hearts of Bolians across the galaxy.

"Ardon Zuwtt, you have been found guilty of deliberately misleading and deceiving the people of Bolarus and the United Federation of Planets," the small Mott began, reading the document from committed memory. "Your conduct has been deemed unacceptable for a citizen of Bolarus IX and shows a blatant disregard for cultural attitudes, traditions, and the laws of the land. We find that your behavior is not only unacceptable but also bears grave consequences, including loss of integrity, trust, and respect. You have brought shame and dishonor upon yourself and violated the trust of the Bolian people. Pursuant to Article 3, Section 7, Clause 29 of the Bolian Constitution, Ardon Zuwtt is hereby expelled as a citizen of the Bolian World Council and declared persona non grata. His assets are to be seized, and his name will be blotted out from the annals of Bolian history."

The press of Bolians in the room seemed to edge closer to him. The room was thick with open contempt. The grip of the two Bolians behind Zuwtt tightened, constricting the blood flowing through his veins, as one of them leaned in close to his ear and growled.

"That means you don't exist no more, boy. You think anybody's gonna miss ya?"

"I'll still have Starfleet!" he replied, attempting to be defiant. "You can't take that away from me!" But the wavering in his voice gave away his despair over the fact that with this writ of censure, his life as he knew it was over. He'd never be able to go back home. Even if he were to return, he'd be spat upon in the street or, even worse, given smaller than usual portions at seafood restaurants. He'd have to live out the rest of his meaningless life alone in the galaxy, cut off from his own kind.

"Oh?" the smallest Mott asked, waddling up to him until she was mere inches from his face. "And what makes you think we can't?"

The first blow seemed to defy physics - how could such an old Bolian manage such swift movement? The cane struck him in the temple and then set about him with savage intensity, raising angry welts all over his blue skin. It cracked across his wrist, drew blood above his eye, and swept his legs out from under him. Just as he was about to fall, the two Bolians behind him propped him back up so the beating could continue.

"You like to hit women, do you? How does it feel when they hit back?" she asked as the cane whistled through the air time and again, making contact with bare skin. The assault relented when the cane finally managed to break over his thick skull, though there was one strong final blow as if the Mott matriarch actually blamed him for the broken cane.

Despite the fact that his sobbing was undeniably inviting more beatings from the matriarch of the Motts, Zuwtt could only stop long enough to utter a few words. "What is going to happen to me?" said the bruised and bloodied Bolian.

"A lowly little sea urchin like yourself probably hasn't heard of him, but we have an acquaintance at Starfleet Command - an Admiral Mott, with the Office of Personnel Management. He's an old friend, a dear friend. Imagine his shock and surprise when we told him about a Bolian under his purview who is the recipient of a writ of extraordinary censure. We agreed it would be best for such a distinguished luminary as yourself to enjoy a change of scenery. I suggested the airlock on deck 687, but he felt the subspace relay station in Gamma-Gamma-Ceti Nine was more appropriate. It's been in need of a technician for several years now."

This seemed to draw a chuckle from many of the other Bolians in the room, as if they shared some private joke. On a star chart, the Gamma-Gamma-Ceti Nine subspace relay station was the furthest Starfleet installation from Bolarus IX, making it remote and far-distant from virtually all civilization. Arguably there was no greater definition of "the middle of nowhere."

"So here's what you're going to do. My boys are going to drop you off, and you're going to pack your things. There's a toxic waste tanker heading in that direction; we've arranged your lodgings with the Pakled captain, and you'll leave immediately. They'll drop you at your new post, and we'll never see you again. We won't see you here. We won't see you on Bolarus IX. We won't see you on Earth. We won't see you within 40 light years of Tuula. If you so much as send her a subspace message, we will come to Gamma-Gamma-Ceti Nine - all of us - and flay the flesh from your bones. Because, you see, Zuwtt, we are Mott," she said, stepping so close to his face that hot, sour breath fell on his cheeks, "and we take care of our own."

OFF:

PO2 "He who shall not be named"
Technician
Gamma-Gamma-Ceti-Nine Subspace Relay
[PNPC Tuula]

Motts #1-47
Bolarus IX
[NPCs - Mott]

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