Lieutenant Commander T’Ren’s fingers glided across the operations console, transferring another batch of reports that would likely never reach Starfleet Command. A month into the Blackout, and the routine had become painfully predictable. Log sensor readings. Monitor subspace frequencies that remained stubbornly silent. Update the status of their dwindling long-range sensor grid. And wait.

‘You know what I miss most, Commander?’ Lieutenant Esposito asked from the neighbouring station, breaking the quiet hum of Centauri Station’s operations centre.

T’Ren raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up. ‘I presume you are about to tell me, Lieutenant.’

‘Fresh oranges.’ Esposito spun his chair to face her. ‘The replicators never got them right. Too sweet, not enough tang. My grandmother has an orchard near Seville. I was planning to visit next month.’

‘Assuming the Blackout lifts,’ T’Ren noted.

‘Assuming that,’ Esposito agreed, turning back to his console. ‘Hell, I’d even settle for a subspace message from my family at this point.’

T’Ren understood the sentiment, though she wouldn’t express it. Alpha Centauri, once a solid beat of the heart of the Federation, now felt like an island adrift in space. Billions of people across the system’s habitable worlds, cut off from Earth less than five light-years away. The bulk of their defence fleet had been caught on maneuvers on the wrong side of whatever subspace anomaly had isolated them, leaving Centauri Station and a handful of patrol vessels as the system’s only significant Starfleet presence.

‘Admiral Zhao was wise to implement rationing protocols,’ T’Ren observed. ‘Our industrial replication capabilities must be preserved for essential components.’

Esposito snorted. ‘Tell that to my taste buds.’

‘Your taste buds are of minimal strategic importance, Lieutenant.’

‘You wound me, T’Ren.’

‘And the civilians of this system will benefit far more from the morale boost of local produce, including oranges, than Starfleet officers. We are trained to endure such hardship.’

‘It’s just an orange,’ Esposito whined. ‘How important to them can it be?’

‘To them? Impossible to say. To you? Apparently the answer to that is: unfathomably.’

Esposito said something, but T’Ren’s attention was drawn by a soft chime emanating from her console. She frowned, tapping the alert to expand it.

‘Commander?’ Esposito caught her expression.

‘I am detecting unusual subspace fluctuations at the edge of our sensor range.’ T’Ren’s fingers moved rapidly across the panel, recalibrating. ‘Different to what we have observed in the Blackout and considerably more localised.’

‘Should we alert the admiral?’

T’Ren paused. ‘Not yet. It could be a sensor echo, or -’

Her console erupted with alerts, followed immediately by similar alarms from stations across the operations centre. The main viewscreen flickered to life automatically.

‘Major subspace disruption detected!’ Esposito called out. ‘Localised and with an intense gravimetric distortion!’

T’Ren’s hands flew across the console. ‘It appears to be some sort of aperture… matching – impossible.’

‘T’Ren!’

‘Matching records of Underspace apertures.’

A fresh blat from the sensors, and Esposito swore before he fell very silent. ‘Ships,’ he whispered a moment later as new readings swarmed their display. ‘Commander, I’m detecting ships emerging – dozens…’

The operations centre froze as the tactical display filled with contact signatures spreading across the Alpha Centauri system like a swarm of insects.

‘Configuration unknown. Signatures are unlike anything in our database.’ T’Ren tapped her combadge. ‘Operations to Admiral Zhao. Red alert.’ This was not a sensor echo.

‘What the hell do they want?’ Esposito asked, voice barely audible.

T’Ren looked up as the viewscreen zoomed in on one of the vessels, angular and predatory, its hull adorned with a symbol none of them recognised.

‘Lieutenant, alert all stations. Incoming transmission on all frequencies.’

The viewscreen shifted to show a humanoid figure, a reptilian hue to his features accentuated by a ridged forehead and flaring ridges across his neck like a serpent’s hood. When it spoke, the universal translator struggled momentarily – then seemed to find a match.

‘Peoples of Alpha Centauri, hear the voice of the Vaadwaur Supremacy. Your isolation is by our design. Your defences are inadequate. Your worlds are claimed for the glory of the supremacy.’

The transmission cut abruptly as the first explosions lit up the sensor grid.

T’Ren met Esposito’s gaze across their consoles. The Blackout had merely been the beginning. The nightmare had arrived.