It was busy.

Hectically busy.

Nathan’s arrival at Deep Space 47 had gone from a comfortable arrival aboard the Sundiver to hitching a ride aboard the freighter Dropped in Transit at the last minute. It has either been that, or miss out entirely on his next ride as Sundiver pulled a one-eighty to go chasing back into the Badlands at the request of the Perseus.

The old Galaxy-class cruiser might have the firepower to knock a cell of New Maquis fighters about, but not the eyes. And he couldn’t fault Captains Garland and Escribano for wanting to bring the best sensor suites for light-years around to the hunt. Especially when it comes to hunting in the Badlands.

And so, instead of arriving on Deep Space 47 via a Starfleet dock, or beaming onto the station via any number of arrival transporters for Starfleet personnel, he was instead walking through the normal arrivals with the few passengers that had been aboard the freighters and a single passenger liner that had arrived from elsewhere at about the same time.

The hour was very late, or very early, depending on your perspective. Some people were moving with purpose, others looking bleary-eyed and dragging their own feet. Even a collection of children were running around, hooting and hollering as parents demanded they fall in line, or at least be quiet. But eventually he passed through the security screening and been allowed into the station proper.

Only to be confronted by the smell of liquid ambrosia.

It was rich and dark, hearty with a hint of sweet and bitterness. Coffee. Actual, honest to goodness coffee beans being roasted. Those same beans then being ground to make the life-giving infusion.

Casting his eyes around, he spotted the source of that wonderful smell. It was just a small hole-in-the-wall operation. Enough of a front counter to handle three customers at a time, a simple sign hanging above it with a double-handful of options to choose from and a warning at the bottom that read ‘No Raktajino!’ in bold. And then just above that, in large unmissable lettering that read ‘Beans’d It’.

The chuckle escaped his lips immediately at that. He couldn’t help it. It was such a delightful little play on words, and the lack of sleep he’d had aboard the merchantman had dulled his wits. Just as his brain had recognised the board only listed beverages, it also registered the stall right next to the coffee locale – ‘Food’. Customers more acquainted with Deep Space 47, be they locals or frequent transients, were rapidly going from one to the other, with either their handheld drinks and snacks, or with trays and bags for numerous people elsewhere.

A moment more, a decision made and Nathan found he got all of exactly three steps from where he’d been standing before the crowd parted for a woman in Starfleet red, a coffee in one hand, a white bag in the other that she was holding by just a corner. Professional scrutiny landed on the four pips on her collar, compared to his own three, and he did the best to straighten his tired back. The stern eyes and fierce expression she had relaxed just a touch as her lips curled in a smirk and she offered the drink and bag to him.

“Coffee, black with two sugars,” Captain Carmen Torres said, “and a cinnamon scroll.”

Momentary surprise was quickly forgotten as the scent of the coffee hit him and he nodded his thanks, accepting the offered cup and bag after a quick roll of his shoulder to double-check his bag was secure. “Thank you, Captain Torres,” he said. “How’d you know?” he then asked with a raise of his cup.

“You were practically shouting it from the moment you saw the coffee shop,” she answered dryly, hooking her head as a quiet order as she set off towards the doors that led to a gentle upwards ramp from arrivals and out onto the main concourse of DS47’s Galleria.

The hectic busy of arrivals and the security screening gave way to a much more subdued and lazy energy on the Galleria. A number of frontages were actually closed, others seemed only to be occupied by staff at this hour. Bright lights surrounded one establishment that proudly announced itself as ‘Cosmos Repairs’ but a bored young man behind a desk looked to be the only life there.

The darkened lights and what had to be polarisation on the Galleria’s windows dimming the local star’s light gave the ruse of nighttime. The barely operational state of the Galleria all but confirmed it. And the last nail in the coffin was the small service bot that was methodically working its way across the floor, a gentle swirling yellow light on top of its metre tall body advising caution in its presence.

“Practically shouting?” Nathan asked, breaking the silence between the two of them as they walked along the Galleria at a rather sedate pace.

Captain Carmen Torres merely turned her head to look him over, a raised eyebrow as she studied him, concluding with a shrug. “You’re over a decade older than your new commanding officer. You’ve grown a beard to hide your jawline, either to hide a double chin or because you want to give a rough-man vibe on first impressions. Black coffee fits the vibe.”

He blinked, biding time with a sip of his coffee. “Ouch.” It was all he could muster. “And the cinnamon roll?”

“To die for,” Torres answered, and he could just make out the smile in profile.

The good captain was happy to be a woman of few words, so he indulged in the cinnamon roll, quickly coming to the same conclusion that it was to die for. “Oh, wow. That is good.”

“That and cinnamon rolls go great with coffee no matter how you have it,” Torres added.

“About that. How did you really know what my drink order would be?” he asked.

“As I said, you were practically shouting it as you approached.”

He stared at her as they walked, trying to recall everything he could about her. “You’re the squadron’s resident El-Aurian, aren’t you?”

She huffed at that. “I don’t need special powers of listening and observation to guess a coffee order,” she said. “Besides, the galaxy is a small place, and no secret stays secret forever. Especially when one learns to just listen.”

“Oh?”

“Lieutenant Commander Brandon Plait,” Torres said as an explanation.

“You know Brandon?”

“Chief Science Officer. As we won’t be doing much over the next few days, I’m sure you and he can find time to catch up.”

Nathan chuckled as he shook his head. It was always good to catch up with those you’d previously served with, separated by new billings, career opportunities and the pursuits of new challenges. Finding out that the junior officer he’d mentored years ago was now a senior science officer was satisfying. A chance to catch up with a friend even more so.

“I appreciate that, Captain Torres.”

She merely nodded in response and continued to lead the way around the Galleria. Silence afforded him a chance to finish both coffee and scroll, refuse deposited with a service bot as it was going about preparing for the next day of station life. Walking all the way around to the other side of the station, Torres led him to the base of one of the large windows, looking down across the dorsal aspect of a docked ship.

USS Osiris was resplendent in her white and dark grey. Her own hull lights shined brightly, docking lights from the station casting more illumination and bring out the best features of the Reliant-class starship. A couple of suited crewmembers were bounding across the hull, a workbee nearby, as engineers were taking the opportunity to undertake some sort of work.

She was a superb example of Starfleet, cast perfectly out here on the frontier.

“Not allergic to cats, are you?” Torres asked after nearly a minute of watching her ship, breaking the silence that had settled between the two of them.

“No ma’am,” he answered. “Why?”

“A former captain was a Caitian,” she answered, once more ordering him along with a wave of her head. “Cat hair is like biological glitter. You are never, ever done with it.”