Cassidy didn’t rely on hope. Hope was much like promises, with both so often broken. Today, hope looked like a nearly constructed graviton catapult hovering in orbit of Midgard III next to Gateway Station, a towering spaceframe of projectors connected to a thrumming power core.

Today, hope looked both dangerous and incomplete.

‘It’s impressive, isn’t it?’ Commodore Matt Rourke turned from his ready room window, mistaking Cassidy’s stare of suspicion for one of awe. ‘Built in under four weeks. The SCE Team have out-done themselves.’

‘Sure. Impressive.’ Cassidy shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Is this the kind of meeting where you pretend we’re buds over a drink, sir, or is this the kind of meeting where we keep it formal over coffee?’

Something steeled in Rourke’s eyes, even though the smile remained intact. Weary, worn, feeling the claustrophobia of the last month of being penned into a smattering of stars. But an intact mask, nonetheless. ‘Angling for a sniff of my whisky selection, Commander?’

‘While it lasts. This could be the last Islay in the galaxy,’ Cassidy pointed out, and helped himself to a seat across from Rourke’s desk without being offered.

To his mild surprise, Rourke obliged him, going to the cabinet by the bulkhead to pull out a bottle and two cut glass whisky tumblers. ‘I’ve been saving it for big achievements or bad news.’

Cassidy took the glass, brow furrowing. ‘Which is this?’

Rourke didn’t answer at first, sinking into his chair. His sip of whisky was slow, thoughtful, as if its flavour could wash away the bitter, penned in taste of life under the Blackout. ‘I’m aware you and your crew have been more or less twiddling their thumbs the last few weeks.’

‘Hasn’t everyone? Blackout starts, Admiral Morgan shits himself and calls everyone back to Gateway. All so we can spend four weeks stuck between here, Scarix, and Lockney, doing absolutely nothing.’ Cassidy shrugged. ‘You can make Redemption run combat drills and set the Memphis to stare at the void all you like. We all know it’s been busywork for everyone since this started, just so we can pretend we’re not helpless, pretend we’ve not been trapped like cats in a sack to die here together.’

Rourke’s eyebrows went up a half-inch as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Alright, Commander. Speak your mind.’

‘That was it. Everyone’s been screwing around for weeks, acting like we’re a defence force or a salvation, achieving nothing.’ Cassidy inclined his head to the window, to the graviton catapult. ‘Unless you’re Cortez and her team.’

‘Unless you’re Cortez and her team,’ Rourke agreed. ‘Perhaps you’re right, but that’s not my point. How is your crew?’

‘Stressed, bored, restless. Like everyone.’

‘You’ve got some curious characters among them. I’m surprised you’ve kept John Rosewood as long as you have.’

Cassidy sniffed. ‘I’m sure you’d like him back in a red uniform on one of your advisory boards.’

‘I’d want John to be happy,’ said Rourke, a little defensively.

‘Oh. Well. I bet he’s happy…’

Lieutenant Emily Pierce was a communications officer on the Sirius, and John Rosewood had wondered if he’d pushed too far to ask about the use of her tongue in phonetics, syntax, and other areas when he’d met her in the ship’s main bar.

Considering he was now in her bed, he figured he’d pushed just far enough.

‘Shift leader on an Odyssey,’ he mused, sprawling on his back, tangled up in her cotton sheets, ‘and your rooms are still nicer than mine.’

‘That’s because you’re playing action-adventure-hero on a glorified shuttle,’ she drawled, reaching across him for the wine bottle and two drained glasses they’d abandoned on her bedside table.

Blonde hair spilled down across him as she leaned, and he closed his eyes, enjoying the dizzying sense of the moment, the scent and feel of her. The peerless dark between the stars beyond the windows, the endless night of the Blackout, didn’t have to exist in these snatched seconds.

‘It keeps me rugged and interesting,’ he said.

‘And, conveniently, always going back to my place?’

‘Do you want a sexy evening in my cupboard on a glorified shuttle?’

Her hand ran across his chest, light eyes teasing. ‘I could rough it for a bit.’

Colleagues he’d served with over the years, classmates from the Academy, would laugh themselves hoarse at the idea of John Rosewood, son of Alpha Centauri, scion of one of Starfleet’s most dedicated families, being anything resembling ‘rough.’ While they’d be right, they didn’t have the full picture.

‘Maybe next time,’ he evaded. ‘Pour me some more -’

The chirrup of his PADD, abandoned in the pile of his uniform on the floor, interrupted him. That would be the end of the evening. With a groan, Rosewood rolled to the foot of the bed to clumsily pluck it up and read the message on the screen.

‘I gotta go.’ He bounded to his feet.

Pierce rolled her eyes, settling back down on the luxurious pillows. ‘What could possibly be urgent right now?’

His eyes scanned the floor for his underwear. ‘It’s Cassidy.

‘There’s an emergency “talk in a gravelly voice about the fate of the galaxy” session?’

‘Something like that.’ Rosewood hopped as he pulled on his clothes. ‘I’ll see you later?’

‘Mm.’ She sipped her wine, watching him dress. ‘I won’t hold my breath.’

That was what he liked about Pierce, Rosewood thought as he scrambled to get ready. She wasn’t under any illusions about the nature of their dalliance.

And she wasn’t surprised when he had to drop her in an instant to go do his job.

‘If John’s settling in with the team and the lifestyle,’ Rourke said carefully, ‘then I can’t complain. Some of your team’s been with you longer.’

‘Right,’ said Cassidy, still not sure where any of this was heading. Rourke had the records on his unit. ‘Nallera. Aryn.’

‘Oh yes, Chief Nallera. She was seconded to the SCE Team to build the catapult?’

Cassidy’s nose wrinkled. ‘I don’t know if she was asked for. Pretty sure she just… showed up.’

* *

Orbital construction often meant regular adjustments of artificial gravity, depending on what section of the spaceframe you were working on. But that could be time-consuming and fiddly, so Nallera had just strung up a line and was dangling upside-down inside the inner framework of the catapult’s support structure. It was a cavernous shaft of walkways and conduits, and sound echoed throughout of engineering teams putting the finishing touches on this crucial work.

She cut the power to the plasma welder and shoved her goggles onto her forehead before looking up – down – towards where gravity led, on the gantry where her colleague stood. ‘How about now?’

Chief Lann, a burly, weathered Bajoran engineer, consulted the display screen monitoring plasma flow. ‘Looking fine here!’ he called up. ‘You want to come down so I can stress-test?’

‘Nah,’ Nallera called back. ‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll be down real quick.’

Lann probably should have overruled her. He didn’t, and a few seconds later, the plasma conduit she’d tightened the regulator to gleamed and hummed as he amplified power flow through the section. Crucially, it did not explode and kill her.

‘Nice!’ Nallera called, before there was a chirrup from somewhere inside her jumpsuit. She sighed, latching her welder onto her belt, before fiddling around in her pockets, popping one open, and –

‘Damn! Look out below!’

Lann swore in Bajoran, side-stepping the heavy work PADD as it slammed on to the gantry where he’d been a moment ago. ‘And I thought this would be more dangerous for you!’

‘Sorry!’

‘Gonna kill me here!’ Lann shook his head as he picked up the PADD. ‘Oh, maybe not. You’re needed. Back on your rust bucket.’

‘Huh.’ Nallera craned her neck up to look down at him. ‘You gonna be okay without me?’

‘I reckon my skull and I will survive.’

‘It’s been all hands on deck,’ Rourke allowed. ‘Commander Cortez has been singing her praises.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ Cassidy didn’t care. ‘Are we -’

‘And Aryn.’ The cloud that fell over Rourke’s expression was one Cassidy couldn’t fully read. It was guarded, but not in the way senior officers usually looked when they talked about Lieutenant Macalor Aryn. ‘Bright chap.’

‘Yeah, he’s an annoying genius.’

‘Rumour has it he’s involved with Endeavour’s Lieutenant Lindgren.’

Lindgren had once been Rourke’s comms officer. Cassidy sighed as he realised the concern was more paternalistic than he really wanted to deal with. ‘I guess they exchanged letters while we were deployed. I’m sure it’s very sweet. Not really any of my business.’ Or yours.

‘No. Though it speaks well of his character if Lindgren’s giving him the time of day.’

‘I couldn’t tell you what they do.’

‘That’s the point; gravitational wave propulsion isn’t going to interface at all with the subspace harmonics the Blackout’s making oscillate -’

‘I’m not as concerned about the propulsion, but what about accompanying essential systems? Like navigational sensors?’

‘Well… once a ship launches, it can’t exactly change its trajectory. It can just decelerate.’

‘Which means that navigational calculations have to be done at launch, which means that the risk of in-flight catastrophe increases exponentially over distance, not only for changes over time, but because right now we’re relying on readings a month out of date…’

‘Speaking of dates,’ piped up Elsa Lindgren, interrupting the exchange with a peevish air, ‘We’re on one. Sir.’

She sat in the Round Table, the USS Endeavour’s officers’ mess and what passed for one of the few privileged, exclusive places within the entirety of Sirius Squadron’s known space. At the start of the evening, she’d been sat across from the bright-eyed figure of Macalor Aryn, enjoying a quiet drink.

Then Chief Science Officer Commander Airex had shown up, and a polite greeting had quickly degenerated into the two men comparing notes and debates on the relative benefits of the graviton catapult, a project that was too far into development for either of them to meaningfully affect anyway. Airex had even nudged her over in the booth so he could sit across from Aryn to discuss.

Now, Commander Airex looked abashed. ‘I… sorry, Lieutenant.’ He slid down the bench towards the edge. ‘It was just a satisfying discussion with Lieutenant Aryn. I’ll leave you to your evening.’

Aryn’s cheeks were flushed as the tall Trill officer left them alone. He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. I got distracted.’

‘I could tell,’ Lindgren said with light indulgence, and rested her chin on her elbow. ‘I’m not interesting?’

‘I – of course you’re very interesting – but I’d been running those calculations for weeks and they were nothing but a mental exercise, and there aren’t many people who showed much interest before the commander…’ Aryn flapped, but he seemed to quickly realise she was teasing. With a sheepish smile, he leaned forwards. ‘Tell me something interesting, then. Captivate me a little.’

‘Oh. Captivate you? I have to fight for your attention now?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Aryn, which was when his PADD went off with the summons.

‘I know my team,’ said Cassidy. ‘I don’t need you reminding me of them, sir.’

‘I’m trying to sound you out about them, Commander,’ said Rourke, brow furrowing. ‘They’re not the usual assembly of operatives. Different backgrounds, skills, training.’

‘If you need pure shit-kickers, then yes, sir, you should go somewhere else. I thought the expeditionary squadron was meant to be about something… loftier?’

Rourke’s eyes remained suspicious at the faintly mocking tone of Cassidy’s voice. ‘And then there’s the last member of the team. Zherul.’

‘Who – oh, Q’ira. Yeah.’

‘Acting ensign. Former Syndicate member -’

‘Former. Saved our bacon against them enough. Commodore, we’re a dozen starships trapped around three star-systems while the rest of the galaxy might have evaporated for all we know, trying to punch our way out before everyone starves to death, while Admiral Morgan throws a tantrum every five seconds – is now the time to waffle if a former Syndicate member, who couldn’t meaningfully betray us now if she wanted to because she couldn’t contact anyone, is on the level?’

Rourke stared at Cassidy for a moment. ‘She’s an oddity, Commander. I was wondering how she’s adapting to Starfleet life. It’s quite a culture shock.’

The administrative offices’ lounge on Gateway Station was comfortable, and the plush chair in the centre easily the most opulent seat of all. Q’ira reclined lazily across it, one leg draped over the armrest, a cup of steaming tea balanced in her hand. Around her, the half-circle of young aides, yeomen, and assistants chattered in low, conspiratorial tones.

‘Oh, Lieutenant Aldwin was furious,’ Ensign Hargreaves said, eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. ‘He went on for a whole ten minutes about how Admiral Morgan’s schedule was being sabotaged. Imagine – blaming the poor scheduling algorithm.’

‘Please,’ Q’ira drawled, swirling her tea. ‘If Aldwin spent more time managing the admiral’s schedule and less time managing his wardrobe, he’d realise the problem isn’t sabotage – it’s that he plans the admiral’s routine so badly he’s leaving him open to get ambushed by every officer with a petty complaint.’

Petty Officer Nestari sniffed. ‘Poor Aldwin. Thinking being a flag lieutenant matters if you can’t play it right.’

‘Though he could,’ Q’ira carried on, eyebrow raised, ‘spend his time managing his uniform better.’

Titters ran through the crowd, mostly women, mostly young, all of them spending their days sat at the desks, receptions, and right hands of the most important officers in the squadron.

Hargreaves turned back to Q’ira, gaze still excited and curious. ‘I can’t imagine you’ve got those kinds of problems managing Commander Cassidy’s schedule,’ said the young Endeavour yeoman. ‘What is it: 0500, wake up for two-hundred press-ups?’

‘That’s classified,’ Q’ira said teasingly, nose tilting in the air before she added, ‘Two-fifty. I could be court-martialled for telling you that.’

More laughter. It was easier, she thought, for them to think she was one of them. If they knew she was part of the Blackbird’s team, they’d have more questions. Stop underestimating her. It was much, much easier this way.

And much easier to get crucial gossip. At least, until her comms went off with the summons.

‘She holds her own,’ Cassidy grunted. ‘Look, we’re a small unit, I’ve got Ranicus helping me with the Blackbird, but right now there’s nothing to damn well do, sir. You asking every captain over to go through their crew one by one?’

‘That’d take a while with some of them,’ Rourke pointed out, more wry and, Cassidy thought, more impatient at the impatience he was being met with. ‘I’ve not handled your unit directly before, Commander. Orders have come down through me, requesting your team be sent somewhere. This is the first time I’ve got to really take stock of the Blackbird and your Rooks. I need to make sure they’re fit for purpose.’

Cassidy’s eyes narrowed. ‘What purpose? We’re still a week away from the graviton catapult being ready, at which point you punt Endeavour… I don’t know, somewhere…’

‘That was the plan four hours ago.’ Rourke stood and reached for the projector on his desk, clicking a button to bring it to life. ‘Then things changed. We got a message.’

‘A message…’ Communication from anywhere beyond these eight light-years was impossible.

‘Right,’ said Rourke, reading his incredulity. The commodore’s expression was stony. ‘Hold onto your drink, Commander. Everything’s about to change. And I’m going to need your team at the front of it.’

The projector burst to life, playing back a recorded message with a face Cassidy did not expect to see out here: Admiral Alexander Beckett, Fourth Fleet Intelligence.

‘Matt. Hoping you’re still alive. I’m recording this one for you personally.’ The weathered admiral drew a tense, furious breath.

‘I’ll start with the bad news. The Blackout was only the beginning…’