Series: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
Outside Agitators Part 7: "Loose Lips Vent Ships"
2323 Q2M2
Hveidra was a very pretty city. It was nestled between tall hills, almost mountains, where a fast flowing river left the valley it had carved and joined a wave-tossed inland sea. The core of the city clustered around the river's banks and spread out along the rocky shore, with residential districts stretching up the valley walls and an industrial district hidden behind a hill, sprawling out on a raised stretch of land that must have marked the sea level in some ancient time. The soil and rocks in the hills were a startlingly colorful red-orange, but lower down the action of the river and ocean had exposed a layer of stone in a more ordinary dark gray. Along the shore, following the river, and everywhere the topography would let water collect, a profusion of bluish-green trees and vegetation grew, fading into a much lighter covering of stunted, gray-green conifers at the tops of the hills. The air was just about the perfect temperature and a little on the dry side, though Gryer had read that in the early morning a fog rolled in off of the sea every day like clockwork. The sky was clear and blue, with just the faintest whisps of high-altitude clouds.
The city itself featured soaring architecture of marble or something that looked a lot like it. Lots of sweeping lines, simple and elegant shapes, pillars and columns on some of the larger buildings, domed roofs here and there, with smaller or poorer buildings lacking the more elaborate flourishes but still displaying a kind of understated elegance. Streets were wide and neatly laid out in straight lines or smooth curves wherever the topography would allow for it, and everywhere there seemed to be a public square, statue or park.
It was a shame, then, that the people were less than welcoming.
Everywhere he went, stares followed him. Somewhere simple stares of curiosity and confusion. He even caught a small child pointing at him and tugging on their mother's robe before being rapidly lead off. Some stares were tinged with disgust, or hatred, or occasionally even a little fear. Most, though, conveyed some bundle of emotions he had no single word for. They looked at him as if he was some large, half-tame animal that had escaped from a farm or zoo and wandered into their city. Something slow-witted, dirty and unpredictable that probably won't hurt anyone unless startled or provoked, but might very well blunder around breaking things or leave a mess on the ground for them to step in. Something less than a person that had no place on their streets.
It had been better in the military district where they had first beamed down. There, they were more or less ignored with only the occasional odd look. He even thought he'd caught someone mutter something about it being good to see the Federation actually doing something. The fact that it betrayed a near-complete misunderstanding of the situation was beside the point; it was nice to be appreciated.
Amid the lengthy list of things not to do they'd been given, there was a strong suggestion to stick to that district and perhaps a handful of the major parks, museums and they like if they had their hearts set on wandering off to play tourist. It wasn't quite an order, but was phrased to suggest it would go more smoothly for everyone involved and help avoid trouble. How much of that was a threat and how much was a warning wasn't entirely clear.
The consensus on the Kelsatha had been that it was an attempt to keep them contained where they could be watched more easily and couldn't do much damage. Needless to say, in the secret meeting of the crew that followed virtually everyone was of the opinion that they'd have to get out into the wider city to understand the actual conditions, see where the population was at politically and have any chance at all of making contact with local radical or revolutionary forces. They'd resolved to play along at first but find innocent-looking reasons to slip away and spread out a bit more alone or in small groups.
With the benefit of hindsight, Gryer wondered if the advice really was in part for their benefit. Keeping them contained away from the general population was certainly part of it, but it wasn't like the general population wanted all that much to do with them. The notion of it making them easier to watch was almost comical; they literally stood out head and shoulders above the crowd and were the only non-Romulans anywhere to be seen. That was still weird to Gryer, since he'd never left Yrillian space before this. Looming over everyone around him and sometimes having to duck for doorways made him feel like some kind of giant. Some of the others had told him that you get used to it eventually, but it really didn't help, and the Romulans weren't really cosmopolitan enough to be written off as just another weird alien from a ship passing through, unlike many of the ports they were more familiar with.
After essentially running out of obvious things to do and see in the military district, he'd wandered off in the direction of a natural history museum from the suggested list, walking rather than taking the vacuum trains that seemed to be the main means of public transit. The clean and well laid out streets and the fact that is was mostly downhill would have made for a pleasant walk, if not for the staring. As it was, it was one of the more unexpectedly awkward experiences of Gryer's life.
The museum itself, a large stone building capped with a copper-plated dome, proved surprisingly interesting; it turned out that Khazara's prehistoric ecology featured a wide range of horrifying monsters that might not have been out of place on Vail. The exhibit on the local geology was a bit less engrossing, but no doubt there were people who could have spent hours there. For his part, he was just glad that the museum staff treated him more or less like a person, if only perhaps an ignorant and somewhat distasteful foreigner.
His justification for being there completed, he defaulted to wandering aimlessly, trying to get a feel for the mood of the population beyond "distrustful", "unfriendly" and the like. He visited a bustling public square, a mostly deserted statue garden, and a little cafe that grudgingly served him a skewer of large, oddly spiced meatballs and sent him on his way. He wandered through a series of twisty little streets heading towards the waterfront and found himself in a little beach-side park, where he tried to make conversation with an older man sitting on a bench and looking out to sea who seemed a bit less hostile than most. All he got for his trouble was an offended look. Not a very promising start.
Still, beyond all the ways everyone he came across made him feel unwelcome, he was starting to notice things. There was a definite air of tension and uncertainty hanging over the city, mixed with fear and a quiet desperation. On the surface, it was business as usual, but people were worried.
He recalled reading that Khazara orbital infrastructure had been raided, though apparently not very thoroughly given the four berths still sitting in orbit. That along with their relatively exposed position could go a long way towards accounting for it. Not knowing when a Breen fleet might show up in orbit might cast a bit of a shadow over someone's mood. Combine that with the unhealed scars of the war with the Klingons and it started to make sense, but he couldn't help but feel there was more to it, something he was missing.
He found himself following a walking path that paralleled the rocky shore in the direction of the mouth of the river. It was a pleasant day and nice to be off of the ship, so long as he ignored the people around him. When the pathway turned to follow the river, he turned with it. Soon he found himself back on a major street of the type he'd left behind earlier.
Noise from a street-side bar or restaurant or something of the type caught his attention. There was a screen playing what looked like a news broadcast. Intrigued, he stopped to see what it was about. Getting a better idea of the official line being fed to the Romulan-on-the-street should at least be of some use. The metal patio chair creaked ominously and made him feel a bit like an adult sitting at a child's school desk, but he made do.
A segment covering (up?) a minor political scandal was just finishing as he'd arrived. Hard to tell what exactly it had been about, but he got the distinct, somewhat uncharitable impression that the basic theme was "everything is fine, the system works, and any issues are localized and being dealt with appropriately". Next, a piece about the rescue of a stranded hiker, then some war propaganda, something touting the advanced capabilities of the Khellian-class without going into any real detail on what those capabilities might be. He was just finding out about some famous poet or other getting some kind of lifetime achievement award when an angry looking Romulan woman stormed over to demand he either order something or leave. He stumbled over himself trying to order something, but that was apparently the wrong answer.
"What are you even doing here?! This isn't a trade hub! This isn't some kind of pleasure planet!"
"I'm actually..."
She wasn't done. "We cozy up to the Federation, and when their own ship gets attacked by our common enemy, do they send us soldiers, a fleet, freighters full of supplies for the war? No! They send us over-sized tourists to wander through our streets like they own the place!"
"But I'm..."
"I don't care what you are! We get the news here! We know you people are Federation stooges, even if you claim to just be 'affiliates'. And we know you're as likely as not pirates too. Did you come here to raid our shipping and blame it on the Breen, or just to spy for Starfleet? Well?"
She seemed to be through for the moment, so he took the risk of trying to get a word in. "I'm here to fight the Breen."
That shut her up. "Oh."
"I'm on leave while the Kelsatha resupplies. Then it's back to patrolling the borders, I think."
Her demeanor had changed completely. "Say no more. 'Loose lips vent ships.' I... apologize." Looking like all the energy from before had completely left her, she turned and walked away, returning briefly soon after to set down a chilled glass of something strong but smooth, perhaps as some kind of apology. Not the legendary "Romulan Ale" that had lined the pockets of many a smuggler, but something else he wasn't familiar with.
The news finally arrived at a report on the war. It was all talk of glorious victories, the Breen in retreat, heroism from the Romulan navy and plans already underway for an invasion of the Breen homeworld by the end of the year. In short, it bore almost no resemblance to the updates the Kelsatha had been getting. He watched in stunned silence. A grim suspicion started to form about the lengthy and strict instructions they'd been given on not talking in specifics about the war or military matters. 'Loose lips vent ships', indeed. This, combined with the "where's the Federation when we need them?" angle, was probably his missing piece in making sense of the tension hanging over the city.
Gryer sipped his drink and went back to watching what passed for news here. It was a lot to think about.
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Some of the last few hours of his time on Khazara were spent wandering the streets again. There was no doubt more to see, and maybe he'd manage to blunder into a political conversation after all. Despite his somewhat lifted spirits and newfound understanding of the situation, it didn't really go any better at first. Things began to change for the better when a kindly-looking old woman who reminded him of his grandmother unexpectedly asked if he was "one of those Federation volunteers I saw on the news".
He'd responded in the affirmative; if the government didn't want to admit they were desperate enough to hire mercenaries, he wasn't going to say anything.
That conversation had gone fairly well until he'd tried to turn it towards political topics. At that, her mood darkened, and she'd bluntly told him to take his talk of worker's democracy back to the Federation, before the Tal Shiar took it to somewhere less pleasant. He'd pushed a bit harder than he probably should have at that, but it worked out in his favor this time: he walked away with a lead on "that dreadful little tea house where all the rabble-rousers go".
Tracking it down was the work of most of the afternoon, and eventually lead him to a slightly run-down area not far from the university that seemed to be full of cheap student apartments, artists studios, and less than prosperous shops.
The place wasn't much to look at, but something about it reminded him of home.
It was in a grand old stone building of the sort he'd seen throughout the central district, but one that had apparently fallen on hard times. Whatever it was before, it now held a few little shops carved out of the ground floor, and what might be apartments or offices above. The inscription above the door was visibly chipped, and a stained patch with a little moss starting to grow on one wall marked a significant leak in a gutter. A colorful, hand-painted sign pointed down an ally between it and an equally shabby building next door. The ally lead to a little courtyard with a half-wild garden plot, a couple sculptures of a more abstract and experimental style quite unlike those he'd seen elsewhere in Hveidra and some mismatched outdoor tables and chairs that had clearly seen better days. What was once some kind of service door, now painted the same red-orange as the hills and marked only with a sketch of a cup of tea, opened into a dingy little tea house.
The inside was warmly lit and full of comfortable-looking second-hand furniture, moderately pretentious artwork, and little splashes of color wherever possible. A wooden bar took up one wall, with a bored-looking youngish Romulan man standing behind it engaged in some elaborate brewing process involving multiple steepings. A few shelves along a wall held a handful of what appeared to be actual, printed books, while a narrow table near the door had a few stacks of documents to take: printed fliers, sheets of semi-disposable smart paper, and some little booklets of poetry. More fliers taped to the wall mostly advertised what looked like they might be art, music or theater events, though it was hard to tell without the ability to read them. A few customers sat around in ones, twos and threes, mostly young, often a bit shabby or unconventionally dressed, and almost universally looking a little pretentious. Artists, students, hipsters, and the odd slumming child of the upper class, unless he missed his guess.
This sort of place wasn't exactly Gryer's scene back home, but it felt recognizable. There was a vibrancy here that he hadn't really felt anywhere else in the city. This was a place that grew organically from the input and initiative of everyone involved, not something designed all at once. It felt a bit like something he could find on a Yrillian world. Not a place he'd go, of course, but even so.
As he ducked through the doorway, one of the first things he noticed were the stares. They weren't gone, but they were lessened. More curiosity than disdain this time, along with caution and uneasiness. A few people made a show of not reacting beyond a quick glance in his direction and perhaps a nod, maybe trying to pretend they were too cosmopolitan to be at all surprised by a Yrillian wandering into the room. Granted, there were also some of the same looks he'd been getting all throughout the city, but they weren't the majority.
Gryer walked up to the bar, patiently waited his turn and attempted to order a cup of tea. The Romulan behind the bar gave him a superior look and began listing off a bewildering number of plants, cultivars, growing regions and processing and preparation styles, gesturing towards a printed menu. Rather than trying to make sense of the choices with the aid of his tablet's written translation function, he settled for a quick "whatever you recommend."
The... bartender?... barista?... tea-rista?... gave him a little smirk. "Fvullhas leaf, grown on the foothills of the Waehhis mountains on Virinat. First harvest, full leaf, partially oxidized. Very good this season. Prepared in the seven steep dekhamet style. Look for a smooth body, floral aroma, notes of spice-wood and y'gora blossom and a hint of citrus in the finish." He paused for a moment. "I don't know what they serve wherever it is you're from, but this will change the way you think about tea."
Gryer nodded his assent. "Okay, one of those, then." The tea-rista began an elaborate procedure similar to but subtly distinct from the previous one, bored expression now tinted with a bit of smugness.
Gryer looked around the room again, not entirely sure what he was looking for. Maybe for someone to try to start a conversation, unlikely though that might be. No one obliged him. Shrugging, he picked out an unoccupied table with a chair that looked larger and more structurally sound than most. On his way, he took a moment to get a closer look at the table of free handouts near the door, holding his tablet up and letting it translate for him.
Most were more or less what he'd thought they were. One of the piles of smart-paper, though, immediately caught his attention.
The Hveidra Reformer
Universal Veteran's Benefits Now!
While our soldiers are busy defending our worlds, it is time that we ask ourselves what exactly they will come home to. Many will return to careers left behind, or step into honored places in our society on the strength of their service. But what of those who will not? What of the enlisted with no skills or connections to any house of note? What of those unfortunate few who come back permanently disabled? Charity and the occasional award out of discretionary funding is not enough. We demand universal veteran's benefits, funded by a line item in the Imperial budget. We should look after those who put their lives on the line keeping us safe.
Read more?
New Constitution Implementation Date Extended Again
Due to the ongoing war, the new constitution remains unimplemented. We have heard and understand the arguments that now is not the time. This is reasonable. Still, the question remains: when will be the time? We are told that our warships will orbit the Breen homeworld in a matter of months. How many victories will we need before we are ready to finally take this great step forward into the future?
Read more?
Free the Khaehhadra Four!
It has now been over a month since the antimatter detonations that were visible in our night sky were officially confirmed to be part of a failed Breen raid, and not a training exercise as initially reported. Yet still the Khaehhadra Four languish in prison for the crime of spreading the acknowledged truth. All right-thinking people acknowledge the need to avoid spreading false rumors or letting slip information that could be harmful in enemy hands. The Khaehhadra Four did neither. This is a case of overreach, plain and simple.
Read more?
University Admissions: How the Patronage System Holds Back the Disadvantaged, and What Should be Done
It is almost a truism that the best way to get into a well-regarded university program is a recommendation from the right person. Despite most forward-thinking universities have discontinued or curtailed the explicit sponsorship system of years past, letters of recommendation continue to guarantee that admissions are strongly tied to one's house connections, while promising but less well connected students are often ignored.
Read more?
...
It continued much like that, so far as he could tell. This was promising. Reformist, but promising.
The Sydraxians were going to be insufferable. Their particular tendency within their party had a bizarre obsession with actual, printed newspapers of all things as an all-purpose tool for revolutionary agitation, propaganda and organizing. They'd been trying to make the case from the start that some of the more political news and opinion aggregator sites on the interplanetary datanet served a similar role during the revolution, especially those put out by particular parties and collectives. Some of the revolutionary studies types actually seemed convinced. Lately, they'd been parading around two obscure old pamphlets from Earth that they'd found,
"Where to Start" and
"What Should We Do?" or something like that, in an attempt to prove that the utility of newspapers was universal. The fact that the pamphlets in question pre-dated planetary data networks by almost 100 years didn't seem to trouble them very much.
Grabbing a copy, Gryer went to retrieve his now-finished tea. There wasn't very much of it, at least by Yrillian standards, but he figured it was worth a try. It wasn't bad, but he didn't really understand what the fuss was about. He was about to settle in to see what exactly the "Hveidra Reformer" had to say, but he thought better of it. Instead, he rolled up the newsletter and pocketed it to go over back on the ship. There had to be someone in here willing to talk politics.
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Gryer ran into Sublieutenant Riuuren only moments after stepping out of the transporter room. She seemed usually personable today.
"Hello Gryer. Welcome back. Did you have a good time at the cafe?"
