‘Of course, Ambassador. I’m sure we can fit in such plans. Well. Discussions about such plans.’

Even by the standards of Admiral Beckett, his evening companions at Vandorin’s Bistro, the premier dining establishment of Starbase Bravo, were notable dignitaries. Three ambassadors, two admirals from another fleet, several representatives to the Federation Council. The Underspace network stretched across the galaxy, such was its glory, but no Federation body possessed more knowledge of its workings, of its navigation, of its opportunities than the Fourth Fleet.

So Beckett had been more than happy to take dealing with delegates off the table of the endlessly busy Fleet Admiral Ramar.

The Tellarite representative leaned across the table, eyes narrowing. ‘We hear of richer dilithium deposits out near a Delta Quadrant aperture than has been found in decades. You know our mining operations are fit to expand…’

‘And I’ve no doubt expansions will come,’ said Beckett, laughing airily, wine glass in hand. ‘But we can’t get ahead of ourselves. The region must be assessed and secured. Tapping such resources will come, but all in good time.’ And perhaps, he mused as he sipped his wine, only once several prospectors have had the chance to make their pitch. The Tellarite interest was noteworthy, for sure. But it was not the only interest.

‘We’re hearing of trouble on the Klingon border from this,’ said the admiral from the Second Fleet. ‘That Chancellor Toral thinks this makes it time to invade.’

‘Invade territories of the broken Star Empire,’ said Beckett, waving his glass. ‘A problem, for certain, but not only for us. Taking territory is one thing. Holding it is another. Holding it when they are reliant on being dominant in Underspace, when we will hold the keys to all knowledge of the network? I think that the Klingon Empire may find they have overplayed their hand. And it has reminded the Republic what good friends we can be…’

He could have gone on like this all night. Underspace was like the Midas touch, where every topic, no matter how thorny, could be turned into spun gold at his fingertips. He had just ordered a third bottle of the emerald, with Vandorin herself attending on them hand-and-foot that evening, when he heard the commotion from the front.

First, he tried to ignore it. It was not uncommon for some rabble from the promenade to think they had a right to dine at the finest establishment in two sectors. But the raised voice was impossible to ignore – not simply for the volume, but for who it was.

‘Admiral Beckett!’

Beckett’s lips thinned as he realised one of his key advisors was making a scene at the door. He set the wine glass down. Looked at his guests. And forced himself to be expressionless. ‘If you’ll excuse me, everyone. I do apologise. I made it very clear I was not to be disturbed tonight.’

Commander Lockhart was a meek and quiet officer, around him at least, and had his head been full of less wine and winning, he might have realised this meant something was wrong. Whatever she said as he approached, he didn’t hear it, grabbing her by the elbow and frog-marching her out into the promenade. ‘I said -’

Then she grabbed his arm, and his blood went cold at the sudden realisation he’d horribly miscalculated. Or, so he thought. Because when she gave her report, he suddenly found new ways for his veins to turn to ice.

‘Underspace is collapsing.’

Beckett’s throat caught. ‘What?’ The question came out as a strangled noise.

Lockhart’s eyes were wide, her hair wild, and she shoved a PADD in his hand. ‘The Caliburn was unsuccessful. The Sirius was unsuccessful. The Venture was unsuccessful. Several more. Some ships pulled it off, sir, and stopped them, but it’s not enough – the Cardassian platforms are activating, and they’re closing apertures, and they’re destabilising the tunnels.’

‘All of it?’ His voice had gone a whole new pitch. They weren’t talking loudly, but they were two senior officers in the middle of the Promenade in plain distress, and so several people cast them dubious, worried looks as they passed. He didn’t care. Information security was, for once, not his highest concern.

‘Certainly the new expanses – sir, we’ve got dozens of ships across the galaxy, and I don’t know if we can reverse this.’

Beckett stared at her for a moment. A part of him shrieked that he needed to go to Ramar, and this was true, but that would take seconds. Minutes. Making contact and explaining all over again. There were people out there, Federation citizens, Starfleet officers, who perhaps didn’t have minutes.

His eyes met Lockhart’s. ‘Call them back. Use my authority. All of them, call them back. Now.’ He all but pushed her away, and while he knew Ramar had to be next, he had still walked out on some of the most important dignitaries of the galaxy.

Admiral Beckett turned back to the entranceway of Vandorin’s Bistro, and caught the eye of the host. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said in a clipped voice, like Armageddon hadn’t just fallen on him. On the galaxy. ‘But I’m going to have to skip dessert.’