As Nathan Blake was taken through the corridors of Arcturus, it was clear to him from the gold detailing and Federation blue accents that he was in trouble. He hadn’t been on a lot of Starfleet vessels in his day, but he was sure he’d been taken in by a flagship. From the outside, he could tell that it was big. Really big. The inside was built to impress or intimidate. This level of attention didn’t stack up with what he’d done.

“I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” Blake tried to protest as Lieutenant Commander Tornellis ushered him into a conference room. “I’m just some guy, you know?”

The view outside the windows was of the same asteroid field he’d been picked up in—he figured they were combing the wreck of his ship for information or maybe the cargo he’d picked up. Or maybe they knew to wait for his contact. None of it made sense to him, but it began to dawn on him that Starfleet was much better informed than they should be.

“Starfleet Intelligence knows exactly who you are, Mr. Blake,” Tornellis said as he took a seat in the center of the table on the side facing away from the windows. “Please,” he added, gesturing to the seat opposite him.

Blake exhaled slowly as he sat down, cognizant of the phasers on the belts of the two security guards behind him. He was sure the officer in front of him was armed as well, but he also gave off the aura that he wouldn’t need a weapon to take him down. Sizing him up, Blake couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Something amusing?” Tornellis asked.

“I’m really not trying to be rude, officer, but I’m just finding it a little ironic to be a human getting questioned over alleged space misconduct by an Orion,” Blake admitted with a nervous chuckle. “It’s kind of like waking up in a hospital to a Klingon nurse, you know?”

Tornellis gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Sure, I can appreciate the irony. From my side, I’m looking at someone from a post-scarcity society who’s accused of, at the very least, being a thief, so the irony is everywhere today,” he noted cooly.

Rolling his eyes, Blake leaned back in his chair slightly and crossed his arms. That was a line he’d more or less heard before. Why would a Federation citizen bother with smuggling? Before he could formulate a reply, the doors opened again.

A human man in a red uniform sat down next to Blake and opened a leather folio containing a large PADD, while a woman of South Asian descent in blue sat next to Tornellis.

“Mr. Blake, I advise you not to take that bait. I am Lieutenant Commander Dorian Holland, and I have been assigned as your advocate,” the man sitting next to Blake said in a precise, straight-to-business tone with hints of a received pronunciation accent. “And this is Counselor Kora Sharma.”

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Blake,” the counselor said.

“Oh, thank you for the warm welcome,” Blake replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Lemme guess: you’re good cop, he’s bad cop,” he said, pointing between Sharma and Tornellis before turning to Holland. “And he’s a cop in sheep’s clothing?”

“Mr. Blake, this is a Starfleet vessel, and you are entitled to my counsel. Whether you trust me or not is immaterial, but my role is to ensure that you understand your rights as you are questioned,” the lawyer said, not batting an eyelash. “If you have preferred counsel, we can get them on subspace.”

Blake sighed. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Can we get on with this?”

“As you wish,” Tornellis said before sliding a PADD over to him. “Like I said in the transporter room, you’ve been arrested on suspicions of smuggling and piracy. The exact counts are listed here.”

“Piracy?” Blake exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous. I—” he started.

“Mr. Blake, I advise you not to finish that sentence,” Holland interjected.

“All I wanted to say is that I have never once in my life stolen a starship,” Blake clarified.

“We’ll get to that. Let’s start at the beginning, though,” Tornellis said, seeming disinterested in his protest. The Orion tapped a control on the table to pull up Starfleet’s dossier on Blake as a holographic image. “Nathaniel Winchester Blake, born Stardate 2373.6 on Penthara IV, to Alexander Blake, then-governor, and Sarah Winchester, then-commissioner to the Federation Council. Top marks through secondary education, followed by a degree in literature with honors from the University of Penthara, then nothing for almost a decade.”

Blake crossed his arms more tightly and glared. He didn’t see what his history had to do with the interrogation he was going through. It’s not like Starfleet Intelligence would have to look hard to find that information, anyway.

“Around two years ago, transponder signatures matching the Oscar Wilde were recorded in a number of failed attempts by Starfleet vessels to conduct routine cargo inspections,” Tornellis continued. “And later to sensor records corresponding to the penetration of illegal goods into Federation space through various ports of entry and intermediaries.”

“That’s… circumstantial at best,” Blake blurted out.

“Indeed,” Tornellis agreed with a shrug. “Six days ago, however, you were definitively IDed boarding a Federation freighter to retrieve your current cargo. Boarding a vessel without permission is the definition of piracy.”

That revelation was accompanied by stills from internal sensors showing Blake aboard the freighter the Orions had sent him to, where he’d taken on the cargo Arcturus had caught him with. They’d assured him that the defense systems were totally disabled, and he was just there to pick up the scraps they couldn’t carry themselves. At most, he’d admit to being an accessory to piracy. Either Starfleet was lying, or the Orions had set him up.

“Recordings can be falsified,” Blake countered.

“They can be, Mr. Blake,” Counselor Sharma agreed. “We’re reasonably certain they were not, however. As your advocate can attest, though, a confession isn’t material in this type of proceeding if it can’t be substantiated by hard evidence. We’re not trying to trick you or frame you.”

“Even still, the less you say, the better,” Holland agreed.

The wheels in Blake’s mind began to turn as he tried to figure out why he was there, if not to examine his guilt or innocence. Starfleet clearly had all it needed to arrest him.

“Why send four ships just to end up destroying my cargo anyway?” Blake asked. “This is a.) not fair and b.) complete overkill. What do you want from me?”

Tornellis chuckled. “Orion pirates don’t leave evidence. We want to understand why an insignificant Human smuggler has been set up to take the fall for an Orion operation,” he explained. “Why jettison you now? What are we getting too close to?” he asked, paralleling Blake’s rhetorical questions.

Blake slumped back in his seat. The amount of latinum the Orions had offered for a relatively small load of technical equipment now made sense. He’d been running smuggled goods for them for months, always to meeting points in the middle of nowhere. While he thought he was building up a business relationship, he was just being cultivated as someone to toss to Starfleet when the right moment showed itself. Still, they hadn’t answered his question.

“The ships I usually run into are much smaller and older than any of the four I’ve seen today,” Blake reasoned, tapping his fingers idly on the table. “If you were close to anything significant, you wouldn’t waste them hunting me down. So, you must be so far in the weeds on this that you took the bait on something you knew was going to be a set-up at best or a trap at worst,” he continued. “Whether or not the Orions want to throw me away, I’m valuable to you, aren’t I?”

With a triumphant grin, Blake leaned closer, putting his elbows on the table. While he didn’t miss life in the Federation, he’d forgotten what it was to have the robust protection of civil rights wrapped around him that Federation citizenship guaranteed him. If Starfleet thought Blake was going to spill the beans immediately just to be sent to a rehabilitation facility, they had another thing coming.

“So, what’s your offer?” he asked.