Somewhere three or four days of westward travel from the last border of federation controlled space, sat the hustling bustle of a deep space station. Long since abandoned or seized (nobody quite remembered) from its original builders/owners it was styled as ‘Outpost Tortuga’ or more commonly known as the lawless port. But that wasn’t something they put on the advertisement. A dank and dirty startion, half powered by and patched together with stolen ship hulls and parts. It appeared that, like its 17th century earth counterpart, the spacial tides seem to pull in all those who were lost or wandering in the region. The ramshackle station was a place with no governing body or alliance. As such a vast assortment of species and creeds could be found there. It was an inclusive sort of environment in that it welcomed everyone and everything. Dangerous, boisterous, drunken, and bawdy, Tortuga was pirate, smuggler, privateer, thief and general miscreant heaven.

Need some dilithium? Someone would be selling. Looking to find some illegal substances? There’s a shop somewhere near the habitat areas. No travel documents? Or happen to be AWOL from whatever alliance you belonged to? No one asked. Heck, looking for a non registered ship or transport anywhere? Take your pick, easily done.

It had been evening when he had arrived from the dank and puttering transport and he realised that immediately for the first time in roughly eight months of travel since leaving the Atlantis, he actually fit right in. The people were shifty and suspicious looking and he was sure that the one or two Vulcans he had seen would have sold their soul for nasal numbing agents before so much as setting foot in this region of space, let alone on the station itself. In fact, he mused as he walked, it had been a long time since Ryley himself could remember having a bath or sonic shower, at least two months or so he estimated. However, his hope of finding one here were not overly high. Supposing that he did, he didn’t trust the eyes that followed him through the corridors from the docking station enough to get naked in front of them.

He avoided eye contact as he walked, stepping around a consortium of Nausicaans who only paid him half a glance. His hair was long again, touching his shoulders and his beard shaggy looking. He had abandoned the starfleet uniform shortly after his leave had been cleared and adopted his preferred civilian clothing. Now clad in dirty jeans, a grey sweater that was patched and ripped at the neck and leather boots. Completing the ensemble was an open knee length leather trench coat that looked scared and slightly burnt at the hem. A red washed out looking bandana circled around his throat covering a half healed wound just under and around his right ear. Over one shoulder he held a duffle bag and a large water skin. On his other he had another strap leading to a grey backpack that had seen better days, a caduceus patch barely visible through the dirt. His cane abandoned somewhere, he walked leaning on the carved wooden staff that had been a gift from a former crew mate and her family.

Being evening Ryley had expected things to be settling down but it appeared that nighttime, when they turned off some of the elements of life support (like heat for example) was in fact party time around here. The main walkways were packed with more people than during the day all making their way to clubs and bars. In less than three hours Ryley had already been in two scuffles, one with a Gorn (who had taken his water skin) the second an argument over a spilled bottle of romulan ale with some romulans which had resulted in at least a cracked rib on his part and a nasty concussion on one of theirs before it was split up. He had also watched two deals go down on a consignment of bio-mimetic gel which interested him (enough to purchase a small 250 ml container) and Thallonian crystal which did not.

At the end of his bartering and sure he had lost more than he had gained that night an exhausted and travel worn Ryley had found an alcove with some half smashed crates on what he suspected had once been the main promenade and settled down on the floor. He pulled the leather of his trench coat tighter around him for warmth and tried to ignore the conversations of the equally shabby looking figures gathered nearby around an empty storage bin full of flames.

He shivered feeling his leg cramp from the cold and considered what he knew. He was far enough away from home that he was stranded. Pretty much all of his money was now gone. His taxi here had told him not to worry, because it was unlikely that anyone would want what was left of his money anyway, counterfeit currency was rife, causing strips of gold pressed latinum to be the only accepted currency besides things like livestock if the buyer was willing. Trades in kind seemed to be happening all over.

He shivered again and considered his next move. Come morning, assuming he wasn’t stabbed overnight, he would have to try his luck in a few establishments and see if he could hitch a ride or the ability to pay for one. The last piece of information that he had gained was simple “Faithful Bride tavern” was where all those who were lost sought a way home. He settled down for a few hours of fitful sleep on top of his bags and one hand around his staff.

It took Ryley all of two hours the next morning to find the ‘Faithful Bride’, and all of three days for something to happen. Sitting by the bar he slowly traded away wat medical kit supplies he had left for enough food and Scotch to nurse. No one paid him any attention once it was clear he had nothing of value and they were content to leave him watching the regulars come and go and play, strangely, an old fashioned game of pool.

On the third night a Klingon, one of the main players companions, approached and gave him a grin. He was small for his species Ryley thought and raised his eyebrows. They stared at each other, deep brown eyes locked into icy blue ones. Finally the small Klingon spoke. “All right, my human friend, seen you before, you been here for a while.”

“Just watching.” Ryley replied and turned his attention back to the game. A hand gripped his jersey just below the bandana. It twisted in the fabric, pulling Ryley up slightly.

“This is not a spectator sport. Friend. There’s a charge to watch. You’ve been here for three nights, seems to me you owe me 300 strips.”

Pressing down on the nerve point in Klingon’s hand Ryley, much to the mind confusion, pulled his jersey out of the twisted grip. He frowned at him. “I’m not giving you anything.”

The Klingon laughed, his confusion forgotten and clapped Ryley hard on the back, adding some fresh bruising. “You are a brave man. I like that. But my friend here, he’s not so social as I am. If you won’t pay he will have to take the debt from you by force. So it’s either 300 strips or it’s your legs.” he grinned, all teeth and no humour, and indicated another non player who cracked his knuckles and his neck threateningly.

Despite the situation, the corners of the greying older human’s mouth turned up. “Hah…too late someone already beat you to that.”

As both Klingons made a move forwards the player intervened. “Tell you what human, you seem down on your luck.” They stopped and moved aside as he approached. He waved his hands grinning as the assembled spectators laughed along with him, apparently this was a shared joke. “ We are all down on our luck here that’s why Tortuga is the best place to be, it’s the land of…” again he spread his hands. “…opportunity.” He laughed and grabbing a drink held it in the air. “Tortuga!” He bellowed.

“TORTUGA!” The small crowd bellowed back and drank.

“Nice drinking game. Do they do double if you shout it twice?” Ryley asked gently twisting his staff.

The Klingon ignored him, slammed his cup down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Tell you what human, you want to wipe out the debt? You can play for it.” Another laugh “ let’s say 20 strips a ball.” he shrugged

Ryley shook his head “No thanks.” And started to turn away.

“Don’t do it.” Another voice warned. “That’s exactly how they got me. Just walk away” a young bajoran man said appearing at Ryley’s elbow. He held a drink tray, empty.

Ryley scowled at him “Look kid, I don’t need your input. I’m not an idiot. I’m not about to bet on some game i’ve never played in my entire life.” he pushed off of his seat and turned away.

The Klingon player and his friend grinned at each other. “What’s the matter, federation coward. Aren’t you man enough?”

Stopping in his tracks Ryley turned with a scowl “What did you say to me?”

Another laugh. “Seems to me that you are stalling…seems to me, coward you don’t want to play because you can’t play. Because you haven’t the blood for competition. Like all humans.”

Turning completely around Ryley scoffed, “yeah sure and what do they do? Sing songs about the great victories of you lot and the sticks that controlled the balls?”

“It takes great skill. I’m sure that if you had half a brain human you would learn.” The laughter caused Ryley’s face to burn. He limped to the table

“Great skill? You put the balls into the hole. How difficult can that be?”

The laugh was more subtle this time, as if everyone was now expecting a spectacle. Still grinning the Klingon player cracked his neck. “That’s right. All you have to do is put the balls in the hole. 20 strips a ball, I’ll tell you what. I’ll even let you break.”

In the sudden hush that followed this apparent declaration of chivalry Ryley stood facing his opponent slightly taller and much broader opponent. It wasn’t much of an intimidating square off. “Fine,” he said and handing his staff to the bartender dumped his bags onto the floor. “ Here hold my stuff and get me one of those hitting sticks.” He pointed at the cues

“Look…I don’t think that it’s a good idea for you to play oldman.” the Bajoran said in a wary tone. He got the cue however. Apparently despite his words, he wanted a show as much as the crowd.

“Why not? it’s simple geometry.” Ryley replied as he set up the shot as he had seen them do and aimed the white ball. He struck it and watched it bounce off of the cushion at the other end of the table missing everything. Laughter again from the spectators. He spun to look at the Klingon, “Uhh…That was just a practice shot.”

All three Klingons laughed uproariously as the player approached the table and squeezed his cue. “Looks like it is my turn.”

The game was over before it really began. The crowd turned away as the second last ball vanished, no longer interested in the Doctor’s downfall. And the bartender holding Ryley’s stuff looked appalled for the poor guy. The player smirked as he potted the last ball and turning to Ryley said “Now you owe me 400 strips. It is called, I believe in your tongue, a hustle pops. Boom.”

The bartender shouldered his way over and handed Ryley his staff “Here old man… just pay him and go, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Ignoring him Ryley tested the weight of the cue and picked up another from the rack. “No, I think I’m getting a lot better, don’t you?”

“oh yeah…Much better.” the bartender replied sarcastically rolling his eyes for added effect.

“Good I’m glad you agree.” Ryley turned to the player “Let’s play another game. l want another chance.”

Still laughing the Player looked at him and seemed to size Ryley up. “l don’t know. My time is very valuable. l couldn’t possibly play another game without upping the ante.”

“How much?”

“ Let’s say, a nice, round figure like 100 strips a ball”

“100 a ball?” Ryley’s tone was faint, slightly disbelieving.

“ That’s right old man.”

“Okay. “ he swallowed nervously “100 a ball.”

The Klingon clapped him on the back “hahaha you are either very brave or very stupid but fine, You got yourself a game.”

Weighing up a third cue Ryley chalked it and approached the table as the player’s companions set up the balls. He seized the whiteball and blew on it before putting it down on the table, his eyes icy but determined.

“I’ll break” he said as the man waved his hand in a ‘go ahead it won’t help’ sort of gesture.

Lining the shot Ryley smirked and pulled back the cue gently, he kissed the ball with the chalked end and sent it sailing into the first ball. A perfect break.There was no laughter this time.

As the player watched getting more and more annoyed Ryley proceeded to clear the table. Talking as he went. “You want a smooth, controlled backswing with full follow-through. A steady, square impact carries more force than a lightning-fast shank. But Klingons, force is all you know. It’s not your fault your great big craniums are wired that way.”

The end of the game came quicker this time. Ryley the clear winner. He leaned on his cane and smirked.

The bartender looked astonished at him. “But you said…”

“I said I’m not an idiot. I said I’m not about to bet on some game i’ve never played in my entire life…and I didn’t.” he looked at the enraged Klingon player and his friends. “hustle kid ponglu’.” He stated in Klingon. That’s when the bar fight started.

About an hour later and with his pockets more lined than before, Ryley sat at the bar of the Faithful Bride. A scotch in one hand and an ice pack in the other which he held over a half closed black eye. It turned out that law and order in the lawless station was actually fairly quick to act. The owner of the tavern, another rather large Klingon, had waded into the scuffle and reasserted his control. True one Klingon had been stabbed and another hit with a table but somehow peace seemed to have been restored. They sat nursing their wounds at the other side of the floor space and throwing him dirty looks while he tried to reset his dislocated shoulder using the wall. The little one was concussed, he could tell that from here. Pity he wasn’t in the charitable vein, besides all he had left of his medical kit was a hypo of painkiller and his much loved, very battered and modified tricorder.

He pondered the hypo For himself while he listened to the bar owner tell him gruffly in Klingon that he would guarantee Ryley’s safety as long as he was a paying customer at the bar. But, not the second he set foot out of it. Ryley looked at the bottle of scotch he had purchased, he had a few hours at least. Leaving the hypo where it was in his pocket he poured another drink from the bottle and downed it in one tip.

Ryley
MD