Fools Gold
Posted on Wed Jan 7th, 2026 @ 8:39am by Captain Zedd Sykes & Senior Flight Officer Cormus
971 words; about a 5 minute read
Mission:
Acquisitions & Contracts
Location: The Golden Lobe, New Ferenginar
Timeline: Date 2380-01-02 at 2300
The Profit Plaza night market was still roaring at 2300 hours, neon signs blazing through the humid marsh fog that rolled in from New Ferenginar’s endless swamps. Street vendors hawked glowing skewers of tube grubs, bootleg bloodwine, and vials of “authentic” Kanar that was probably replicated on a cargo hauler last week. The air thrummed with haggling, laughter, and the occasional shout of a cheated customer.
Zedd had come planetside to clear his head—or drown it, depending on how the night went. The Dutchman sat quiet in orbit with one new crew member already meditating her way through star charts, but the rest of the stations remained empty. After a long day of sifting bad applications, he’d decided hard liquor was the only honest company left.
He leaned against the polished counter of The Golden Lobe, an open-air bar wedged between two towering holosuite arcades. The place was packed with off-duty merchants, privateers, and pilots blowing hazard pay. Zedd’s leather jacket was slung over the back of his stool, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of genuine Earth bourbon in his hand—real stuff, smuggled, expensive, and worth every strip.
He was three deep and working on four when a voice cut through the noise beside him.
“Mind if I squeeze in, Captain? Place is tighter than a Ferengi’s wallet.”
Zedd turned. A young human—early twenties, lean, dark hair tousled like he’d just climbed out of a cockpit—grinned at him. Hazel eyes sharp with confidence and just enough alcohol to loosen the edges. Flight jacket patched with New Ferenginar guild logos, boots scuffed from shuttlebay decks.
Zedd gestured to the empty stool with his glass. “It’s a free market. Grab it before someone tries to charge you rent.”
The kid laughed and slid in, signaling the bartender for the same bourbon. “Cormus Fletcher. Support craft pilot. Saw your posting up on the orbital boards—Dutchman, Berth 47-A, profit share, no fixed allegiance. Figured the captain might be planetside celebrating his new navigator.”
Zedd raised an eyebrow, swirling the amber liquid. “Word travels fast.”
“Cantina Row gossip travels faster than warp nine when latinum’s involved.” Cormus’s drink arrived; he lifted it in salute. “To new ventures.”
They clinked glasses. The bourbon burned clean.
Zedd studied him. “You any good, Fletcher, or just thirsty?”
“Both,” Cormus answered without missing a beat. “Two years Starfleet enlisted—shuttles and runabouts till I could fly them blind. Got out, ran privateer gigs in the Beta Quadrant, then came through the wormhole for the real credits. Been flying New Ferenginar local runs for nearly two years. Ferengi want it fast and cheap. I deliver fast and alive.”
Zedd nodded slowly, the bourbon warming his chest. “Dutchman carries six Type-11s, a Danube-class, four Workerbees I can arm if needed. You any good at hot drops? Nebula threading? Getting out when someone starts shooting?”
Cormus’s grin sharpened. “Hot drops are my love language. Last month I yanked a survey team off a failing moon in the Tautine belt—Dominion remnant patrol showed up for leftovers. Flew three shuttles through a debris storm while they lit up my shields. Everyone walked away. Client paid triple.”
Zedd took a slow sip. “No losses?”
“Minor hull scoring. Client called it ‘character.’”
Zedd chuckled, low and genuine. “I like you, kid. You’ve got the right kind of stupid.”
Cormus leaned an elbow on the bar. “So what’s the deal? Posting said profit share. I’m not here for a salary—I want equity. Skin in the game.”
The bourbon made numbers feel negotiable. Lindsy had locked in 3.8 %—she was the backbone. A pilot this sharp, this young, hungry…
“Two percent,” Zedd said. “Net proceeds, same clean ledgers as the rest of the crew. You keep the bay humming, get us in and out of places we shouldn’t be, and you earn it. Plus full run of the shuttles for whatever tweaks you dream up.”
Cormus tilted his head, considering through the pleasant haze. “Three.”
Zedd snorted. “You’re drunk.”
“You bought the round.”
“Touché.” Zedd drained his glass and signaled for two more. “Two-point-five.”
Cormus extended his hand, steady despite the liquor. “Two. But I get first pick of the Type-11s and your word I can tune the runabout’s impulse drivers without you hovering.”
Zedd looked at the outstretched hand, then broke into a wide, roguish grin. “Deal. Two percent. Welcome to the Dutchman, Fletcher.”
They shook—firm, warm from bourbon, a little sway in both of them.
Cormus exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months. “When do I report?”
“Tomorrow. 1800 hours orbital time. Berth 47-A. Bring your gear and a hangover remedy.” Zedd paused, glass halfway to his lips. “And if you fly half as good as you talk, we’re gonna make some beautiful trouble.”
Cormus raised his fresh bourbon. “To the Dutchman.”
“To the Dutchman,” Zedd echoed.
They drank deeply.
The night market noise swelled around them—vendors shouting closing deals, holosuites blaring victory fanfares, marsh fog curling under the neon. Somewhere above, the Dutchman waited in quiet orbit, slowly coming alive.
Zedd now had two crew: a disciplined Rigellian navigator who observed the universe like a river, and a brash young human pilot who flew like the river was a racetrack.
Opposites. Perfect balance.
He grinned into the amber liquid.
Across the bar, Cormus felt the same warm certainty settling in his gut—not just bourbon, but belonging. Autonomy, challenge, a captain who negotiated drunk and still didn’t budge too far.
Two percent wasn’t a fortune.
But it was a beginning.
And planetside on New Ferenginar, beginnings were bought and sold every night under neon lights.
Tonight, Cormus Fletcher had just bought himself the best one yet.
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