Drifting In

Posted on Tue Jun 21st, 2016 @ 1:10am by

Mission: Mission 1 - Bridges
Location: Deep Space 7
814 words - 1.6 OF Standard Post Measure

Setting foot upon the decks of a Federation starbase gave Jefferson Mosley mixed feelings. While still intimately familiar even after being thirteen years removed from Starfleet, the sight of Federation décor didn’t fail to also bring a grimace to the half Betazoid’s distinguished features. He went through customs with a wary expression. He was half expecting to see gold shirted Starfleet officers waiting for him, but for a petty officer in a red turtleneck raising an eyebrow at his record, he simply asked Mosley’s reason for visiting Deep Space 7.

“Medical consultation with a patient,” Mosley lied easily. That was always a safe answer and one he could reply with doctor-patient confidentially if questioned upon. Whatever else happened to his Starfleet career, he would always have his medical doctorate. Besides, he was here for consultation of sorts. The answer appeased the petty officer and he went through the dull process of storing his belongings and applying for temporary quarters. Having to fill out the paperwork on the matter, it was depressing to know that approaching middle age and all his worldly possessions were capable of being stored in two small cargo containers and the duffel bag over his shoulder.

Upon arriving in the cramped guest quarters, Mosley immediately groaned. Sure enough they were still issuing those Starfleet issue potted ferns to every guest quarter even over a decade later. After nonchalantly tossing his duffel upon his head, the lanky half-Betazoid shed his clothes just as haphazardly and entered the sonic shower. After that and a new set of clothes, his time on that transport ship was being slowly forgotten. After being director of the a hospital on Farius Prime for over ten years, he had become accustomed to a rather comfortable and lavish lifestyle at odds with his roots in the fringe Federation colonies, Starfleet and the Maquis. But beyond that small pang of doing without, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t roughed it before in much less pleasant circumstances.

Mosley exited the guest quarters later on, making his way to the turbo lift see what the Promenade had to offer. His dark eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular and betrayed nothing but a weary expression at the world in general. He had been looking for some sort of stable situation for awhile now, and an old friend from the Maquis had recommended coming to Deep Space 7. An old relic of a starship had somehow ended up in private hands and they were looking for a crew. His friend didn’t go into details, but he never did. Circumspection always served well be it in the Maquis or in private life.

His friend had set up a meeting between Mosley and one of the starship’s senior crew. Mosley wasn’t at all convinced he wanted to staff a starship again, much less a relic of one. But his options were limited. He had no desire to return to life within the Federation. Starfleet was always cliquish in it’s ways and the Federation had proven time and again that it didn’t reside in the same universe as the rest of us. To say nothing of he didn’t trust Starfleet not to suddenly change it’s extradition status with Farius just to thwart him. Returning to Farius wasn’t an option, at least for the next few years until the statue of limitations on his subpoena retired. That left private work, or mercenary work it seemed. With a sigh, Mosley exited the turbo lift and stepped into the Promenade.

Mosley wasn’t particularly impressed. It wasn’t as if a business district in the Federation’s moneyless economy would have a diverse variety of businesses. He did spy an offensively brightly colored lounge though and entered. Approaching the bar, the doctor seated himself with a quiet sigh.

“Hello,” an Orion bartender said in a sultry voice, “What can I get you today?”

“Do you have any real alcohol?” Mosley inquired, his tone expecting otherwise.

“Well, you happen to be in luck, honey,” the Orion said with a knowing smile, her eyes lighting up, “The brass here happens to be fond of Saurian brandy.”

“That’ll do nicely, thank you.” Mosley replied politely with a hint of surprise. Soon enough a tumbler with the amber colored fluid was in front of him. It emptied and filled itself repeatedly that evening, almost as if by magic. The doctor knew it wasn’t good for him, he just didn’t much care. His meeting with the Mary Rose’s officer wasn’t until tomorrow. He’d either be somewhat gainfully employed the next day, or on his way again. Maybe to Casperia Prime. Tonight, he’d be drunk. It wasn’t the first night he’d spent in such a state and likely wouldn’t be the last.