Stirling Fightmaster was a stark comparison to his assigned work companion for the day. Simi Tupua stood, a man of Polynesian descent and claiming to hail from New Samoa, was a head taller, twice as wide and likely three times as Stirling’s own weight. He was also all smiles, seemingly knew everyone on New Barataria and was incapable of working without conversing.

“So, okay, I have to ask,” Simi said as they pushed the hover platform laden with supplies down a wide corridor into the depths of the station. “Your name is Stir? As in to stir something? Like soup?”

“Or to send someone stir-crazy,” Stirling offered. Simi’s snorting at the response drew a smile from Stirling. Simi, he had to admit, wasn’t a bad individual. Genuine, wore his heart on his sleeve, had even explained why he joined the New Maquis within about five minutes of the two of them starting work over six hours ago.

“But no,” Stirling continued, “it’s just a nickname. And a touch better than Stirling.”

“Stirling? Like the silver?” Simi didn’t laugh, just nodded in contemplation. “You should be proud of your name. It obviously meant something if your folks named you that. And dude, Stirling…that’s unique man. Around here, you need something to stand out.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Well, take ole Simi for example.” Simi straightened his spine, presenting a mountain of a man with chin held high. Simi cut the figure of a very large and very scary rugby player, a man able to anchor a scrum and never let it move. “Everyone knows Simi. Why?”

“Because you’re hard to miss?” Stirling joked.

“And loud!” Simi added. “I’ve got a unique name, and a personality big enough for ten other folks.” Then Simi smacked his own belly, which barely moved, hinting at the solid muscle and not fat the man sported. “Appetite of last two folks too.”

Stirling let the snort come naturally, not bothering to suppress it like it might normally have. “Alright then, what about some of the other folks around here then? Who should I know about before we meet them during rounds?” They’d been put together and tasked with making deliveries today, which served the dual purpose of checking up on a few folks and picking up packages for further delivery. And while most stops had been quick, there had been plenty of characters so far.

“Let’s see.” Simi started counting off on one hand as they walked. “Old Liz, Drullo, Mad Mads, Bill.” Bill, from what Stirling had been able to tell, was unique by virtue of just being named Bill. No character trait or personality really, just Bill, who minded his manners and offered friendly banter while Stirling had unloaded his delivery. “Oh yeah, we’re about to meet two of the most unique folks. Uh…mind your manners, yeah?”

“Yeah?” Stirling asked.

“Yeah,” Simi repeated. “Doc and her bodyguard, Manfred.”

“Did you say Manfred?” Stirling tried to keep the impatience from his voice. This was possibly the break the team was looking for. After all, how common could a name like Manfred really be, outside of holostories needing a villain the heroes wouldn’t feel bad about shooting?

“Oh yeah, Manfred. Real character.” Simi stopped, looked one way, then the other, then back again. The coast clear, he still leaned in, whispering. “Dude is stone-cold man. Something not right with him. But if you stay all polite and such, nothing will come of it.”

Simi waited, then stood up, smiling once more. “But hey, my man Stirling, he’s all manners, right?”

“Of course, Simi,” Stirling answered. “Of course.”

As they rounded the last corner to their next destination, Simi advised they stop talking, then continued to do so anyway. The corridor was notably empty of people or property. The lights all worked, casting the entire space into brilliance that banished all shadows and gave nowhere to hide or sneak up on the one door of significance.

It was significant because next to it was placed a chair and in that chair sat a man, dressed in black, the long coat touching the floor. His wide brim hat was pulled down slightly, covering his eyes and giving the impression he was sleeping, or not paying attention.

“Good afternoon, Mr Simi,” the man said immediately, dispelling the illusion.

“Afternoon, Mr Manfred sir,” Simi half-stuttered out, his tone quite different from his confident and jovial nature that had been on display throughout the day. “Uh, I have a new work friend who’s helping out today. Mr…uh…”

“Duncan. Stirling Duncan.” There was no attempt to step forward or offer a hand in greeting, just offering his name in place of Simi’s stumble, though he’d never asked for Stirling’s last name. “At your service.”

“At my service, huh?” Manfred asked, pushing the brim of his hat up, appraising Stirling before slowly rising to his feet. “Accent like that, Mr Duncan, I have to assume you’re from England, or from one of the worlds that takes its cultural heritage from the English.”

“Oxford, sir.”

Manfred snorted. “No one is from Oxford. You go to Oxford, you don’t come from there.”

“I’ll have to disappoint you there then, unfortunately.” Stirling kept his tone civil, much like Simi had warned, and much more like he normally would. Pretending was easy when you weren’t.

Manfred’s eyes squinted momentarily. “I saw your picture when you first arrived, but now I see you in person, I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

“We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting before now,” Stirling answered. “I would recall someone of such fine sartorial sense.”

Another snort, then the start of a smirk. “Alright, you must be from Oxford if you’re casually throwing words like sartorial around.” Then he stepped aside, triggering the sensor for the door next to him. “The Doc is waiting for her supplies. I would suggest, gentleman, you make it quick and keep it quiet.”

Simi didn’t need any further encouragement and Stirling didn’t need to be told twice to follow Simi’s actions. They slipped into the darkened lab, brought to full illumination by Manfred’s barked orders to the computer, and started unloading. Nothing else was said between any of them, but Manfred had stepped to block Simi and Stirling from going further into the lab.

But not enough to stop Stirling from catching sight of blue skin and white-going-grey hair. He didn’t see the figure’s face, but was confident of who it was – T’Halla Shreln.

“Stop,” Manfred ordered as the door to the lab closed once they were all back in the corridor. “I really do think I have seen you somewhere before, Mr Duncan.”

This got Stirling’s attention more than anything else. A nice easy exit had been his plan, not a follow-up interrogation. “Again, Mr Manfred, I must profess, we haven’t met until today.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you somewhere before.” The glare from Manfred was ominous. It was calculating and studious, taking in every measure of Stirling. “I’ll do you the honour of warning you, Mr Duncan. I shall be watching you.”

“Then I hope it brings you a level of comfort, sir.”

It would be nearly six hours later before Stirling was free of Simi, free of any responsibilities as a newcomer to New Barataria. He didn’t rush to report to Mitchell, or anyone else. He waited, socialised with a few other people, made idle conversation, then caught up with his team for drinks late in the station’s evening. “I know where Doctor Shreln is.”

“Fortuitous,” Brek responded. “Because the engineering teams are planning to start the inspection of our runabout tomorrow afternoon.”

“Right then,” Mitchell said. “So, we either need to find the transporter jammer, or a way to smuggle a person across this entire facility without getting caught.”

“Actually, I might have a way around that.” Amber reached out and set down two pendants on the table between all of them. “But you’re not going to like it, I suspect.”