The windows of the briefing room stretched floor to ceiling, an open invitation for Alpha Centauri City’s skyline to dominate the view. Part of the Federation heartlands, its sight was normally inspirational, a reminder of what could be accomplished through the spirit of cooperation and peace. Today, though, thick clouds hung amidst the tallest towers, bringing humidity to the oppressive heat, and teasing, but not yet promising, rain to release them.

Captain Valance sat at the long, dark conference table beneath that glass wall, her PADD flat and still before her. She had not taken enough notes. Across from her, the squadron’s captains and senior officers took up their seats in a silent row, all composed, all alert. All tired.

At the head of the table, Commodore Rourke tapped through the final items of a morning already packed with the debrief. His voice was calm and clipped, but after years of their service together, she knew he, too, was worn down.

‘Relief operations on Vamora VI concluded last week,’ he reeled off his PADD. ‘Swiftsure’s engineering team oversaw final atmospheric control recalibrations – Commander Cortez, I understand the environment’s stabilising?’

Despite having what should have been a big win – restoring habitable conditions to a major colony in danger of ecological collapse – Cortez sat with her chin in her hand, two seats down from Valance, and just gave a nod. ‘Ozone levels were holding last report I got,’ she grunted. ‘Local authorities still need agricultural support, but we’ve confirmed sustainable livability.’

‘Good,’ said Rourke. ‘Get it written up for the press office. It’s a win; someone will want to crow over it. Onto the Mercury…’

Valance unwittingly let his words wash over her. Her eyes hadn’t left Cortez, who reached languidly for her PADD’s stylus. Fiddled with it. Dropped it. Looked about sheepishly in case someone had caught her.

Their eyes met for a beat. Just a beat. Then Cortez’s head was down, focusing back on her PADD, dark hair falling across her face like a veil between them.

‘Endeavour?’

Valance’s head snapped up as Rourke named her ship. His expression suggested this was, at least, the first time. She cleared her throat. ‘We finished the repairs of the Ionea system’s orbital platforms. Civilian convoys are back on schedule.’

‘And the convoy itself?’

‘Still running. Medical and resettlement services ongoing. Handover to the USS Celeritas was smooth.’

Rourke moved onto Captain Borodin and the Scylla without further interrogation. Across from Valance, Captain Tycho of the Tempest watched her with a smirk. When she caught his eye, he winked and returned to his PADD.

Someone had caught her not paying close attention, at least.

‘Onto ceremonial obligations,’ Rourke said at last. ‘Alpha Centauri’s liberation events will begin at the end of next week. Diplomatic staff have asked for representation from all squadron vessels at public and private engagements.’ A wave of tension – not surprise, but fatigue – passed through the room. ‘Officers who served with distinction during the liberation will be highlighted. Captains are expected to attend at minimum the flag-raising. Briefing packets are being disseminated.’ His eyes came up to sweep across the room, as tired as them but, at least, the conductor of this exhausted orchestra. ‘Dress uniform is mandatory. Fun isn’t.’

‘Can I wear,’ ventured Gus Tycho, extending a hand, ‘a really nice civilian suit. Purple, or something.’

Ignoring him, Rourke pressed on. ‘Once all ceremonial events are concluded, we will reconvene. Some of you might be unlucky enough to be pulled in by me over the next weeks for further meetings. The squadron’s next operational priorities and duties are still being determined by higher-ups, and sometimes those higher-ups are me. So have one eye on what comes next.’ He pushed his PADD to one side. ‘That’s it. Unless there’s anything pressingly urgent, get out of here, all of you.’

As they stood, shuffling to their feet, nobody wanting to seem too eager, Rourke extended a hand down the row. ‘Cortez, hold up a moment.’

Valance gave her one last glance and left. For a moment, she thought Tycho might try to catch up with her, and she kept her pace up as she strode down the marble corridors outside the briefing room. She had no desire to dissect the briefing that had dominated her morning, with or without his usual sardonic asides.

It meant she was first to the transporter room two levels down. Official business had brought her to the Starfleet Liaison Tower in Alpha Centauri City, so it was the best way to return to her assignment now the interminable meeting was done. The transporter operator was handed the data chit with her destination, and she slouched onto the pad like ascending a mountain.

‘Energise,’ came her unenthusiastic instruction. The world faded.

Then came back in sunlight and salt air, too bright and too loud.

The transporter pad in Port Faran sat just off the main street of the Seaview District. Three thousand kilometres away in Alpha Centauri City, she’d been surrounded by concrete and marble. Here, she materialised beneath a canopy of hanging lanterns and swaying banners. Music drifted from live performers further down the road, brassy and fast and piping over the laughter and chatter of a dozen accents, brought to her by a warm sea wind along with the scent of citrus and distant grills.

Valance blinked as her eyes adjusted to the brightness, before stepping down and out. Her boots crunched on stone tiles dating back to the city’s twenty-second-century founding, and she passed buildings here with low roofs, white walls, and shutters faded from sun and sea-spray. Even though she’d not stood out at the Liaison Tower, crisp in her uniform, her four pips had afforded her polite nods, junior officers clearing the way.

In Port Faran, she was just another Starfleet officer on shore leave, and nobody gave her a second look. She had to sidestep to not be hit by a trio of young officers zipping past on rental scooters, half in uniform, half not, towels and beach apparel trailing from packs, sunglasses propped on foreheads. She squared her shoulders, a reprimand gathering on the tip of her tongue –

– then let it go, and carried on.

The bar wasn’t far. Seawall sat where the streets of Port Faran tumbled down and met the sea, separated by the ocean itself by no more than one road and the quay. Its wide facade was shaded by climbing vines, and the curved script of the signage etched into sandstone had been worn into almost invisibility by sea-salt and centuries.

Valance paused in the doorway, letting the soft beat of a bass rhythm and the sound of voices drift over her; laughter, low murmurs of conversation, glasses clinking. While the bar had been here for centuries, Port Faran – this part of Port Faran – was one of Alpha Centauri III’s premier tourist destinations, and a favourite of Starfleet officers returning for a spell in the heartlands. The clientele always changed.

Further down the waterfront would be the arcades and the beaches, wide and sprawling enough to accommodate quiet sunbathing, exuberant games in the sand, water sports across azure seas. Back the way she’d come were the wide avenues and twisting side-streets of old Port Faran, a beacon of Federation colonial history and culture. Here, officers from a dozen ships stopped for a drink, a breather, to take in the world.

The space had no walls to speak of, just tall archways that let the sea breeze in. Tables were crowded but not crammed. A bar of polished wood curved along one wall, busy but not frantic. On an elevated step, a few locals had assembled what looked like an ad hoc but mellow jazz quartet.

She spotted Kharth out on the terrace, secure in the shade beneath a dappled fern. Her XO was in loose civvies, boots up on the rung of an empty chair, sleeves rolled up, drink in hand, PADD balanced on her knee she was clearly not reading. It left Kharth alert enough to look up, spot her, and toss a two-fingered salute as she put her feet down.

‘How’d it go?’

Valance pulled up the chair and couldn’t help but sit stiffly. ‘Ceremonies begin at the end of next week. There’ll likely be some preparatory duties. We’ll be given schedules.’

‘Stunning.’ Kharth nudged her sunglasses to keep them propped up on her forehead. ‘Who’s drawing the short straw there?’

‘All captains. Anyone who’s been sufficiently distinguished in their duty.’

‘That’s not me. I make a habit of avoiding that.’ Kharth looked up and wrinkled her nose. ‘Something’s wrong.’

Valance hesitated, unaware she was so transparent. ‘Rourke said the squadron’s operational priorities would be considered over the next few weeks,’ she began, not really wanting to talk about Cortez with Kharth. She didn’t much want to talk about her with anyone, but Cortez and Kharth were friends.

‘That’s not it,’ Kharth said, and Valance’s heart sank until she turned in her chair and clicked her fingers at the bar. ‘Someone get my captain a beer; don’t you know she’s a war hero? She just survived a dangerous briefing.’

A spirited cheer ran through the bar, and to Valance’s surprise, an officer she vaguely recognised from the Swiftsure set a cold bottle of beer on the table within a minute.

‘That’s better,’ said Kharth, picking up her own beer. ‘So. Ceremonial bullshit. Waving the flag. And the future’s murky. The future’s always murky.’

‘More or less.’

‘Seems clear enough to me. There’s nothing for it, Valance. No escape.’ She tilted her bottle towards her. ‘We’re just gonna have to try some relaxing shore leave.’