‘I’ve read it, it’s incredible work.’ Elsa Lindgren’s face was exhausted on the small screen of Aryn’s PADD, but even on such a scale he could see the light of excitement in her eyes. ‘This could completely change the course of this campaign, Mac.’

‘I’m sure someone else would have come up with it,’ said Aryn with a hint of bashfulness as he tidied the desk in his quarters aboard Blackbird. ‘But I had a forty-eight hour head start, and no specific duties. I saw a way to be useful.’

‘You saw a way to save Alpha Centauri.’

He’d put the PADD down while he worked. The ship had been heavily rocked in battle, and he’d long ago given up stowing everything before engagements. There was something satisfying about finding things and putting them in their rightful place. His books. Errant styluses and the pots to hold them. PADDs and projectors. It made her voice sound more distant as he carefully made sure a jotter pad lined up with the edge of the desk.

‘That’s a little superlative. How’s Endeavour?’

Out of the corner of her eye, he saw her wince. ‘Not as badly hit as Liberty. Didn’t enjoy as much plain sailing as Redemption and her division. We took some losses, but nobody we can’t spare, and we took some damage, but nothing we can’t fix.’

‘I’d come over, but I assume I’d be underfoot.’

‘Unless you want to lend a hand rewiring nav systems?’

‘It’s a tempting date, but I shouldn’t leave Blackbird right now.’ He rummaged in his secure drawer for his selection of carefully curated and collected mugs. Then he popped his head up to look at the PADD. ‘You didn’t lose anyone close to you, did you?’

He should have thought of that sooner, asked that sooner.

‘I… no. Just people I know. We weren’t as badly hit as some. I wasn’t as badly hit as some.’

She sounded pained, he thought. Or tired. Perhaps she was more troubled, but didn’t feel she had the right to lay claim to trauma and grief when the husk of Liberty was right there. He had no idea how to unpack that, let alone at a distance.

Aryn’s lips twisted. ‘…your piloting in the slingshot was impressive. I’ve seen the recordings. And the sensor readings. If you’d fired the lateral thrusters even two percent more or point-five of a second later, you would likely not have arrived in time to save the Liberty –’

‘I know.’ Again, she sounded tired, but he saw her shake her head. ‘Sorry. Thank you. I know you’re being nice. I’m just… trying to not think about how it could have gone wrong. Trying to look at what comes next.’

He bit his lip. ‘I’m keeping you from your colleagues and department.’

‘I called you.’

‘Because you don’t have time for me to see you. Because you feel guilty.’ He picked up the PADD, looking her dead-on. ‘You don’t need to worry about me right now. Us. My best move as a supportive boyfriend is to tell you to ignore me until you have space for me.’

A beat. ‘Boyfriend, huh?’

Aryn’s eyes widened. ‘I reiterate, to ignore me until you have space for me –’

‘You sure?’ Her eyes danced. ‘You don’t want to discuss moving in together? Meeting my parents?’

‘I bid you good day and a fine shift, Lieutenant.’

She was laughing as he ended the call. It wasn’t what he’d intended. But it wasn’t that bad.

What was a problem was the disappearance of a headset he could have sworn he’d put in a drawer or locker to stay safe, but wasn’t showing up anywhere. After a grumbling search through every box and underneath the bed and desk, Aryn padded impatiently from his quarters towards the Rookery on the off-chance he’d left it there.

And found the devastation of Proxima IX playing in high definition.

He stopped in the doorway, staring at the projection: a carefully knitted-together montage of orbital and surface footage, largely from Sirius Squadron’s ships, of the burning of the habitat domes. From the initial bombardment, to later decompression, to slow collapse and the shattered aftermath. It was ostensibly a briefing package, thoughtful notes assembled by one of Harrian’s officers noting Vaadwaur choices in the targeting of civilians, and for a moment, Aryn thought Ranicus had accidentally left such a recording playing.

Then he saw Q’ira, bundled up on the oldest, most battered, and softest of the Rookery’s armchairs, swaddled underneath a blanket, eyes huge as she sat in the dark and watched the devastation.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked before he could stop himself.

She jolted up, her world narrowed to the recordings until he’d broken the shell of misery. ‘Oh – Mac. I was just – I was napping, I guess Ranicus left it on…’

‘Napping to this? Computer, sixty percent lights.’ He was tired, had been concentrating on the details of rearranging his space, and that made his voice come out more brusque than he meant. In the dim lighting, she looked more pale, drawn, and he realised how accusatory he sounded. ‘Are you alright?’

For a moment, she looked like she’d lie. Then something flashed in her eyes. ‘Are you? Is anyone? Look at this!’

‘It’s an atrocity -’

‘No, I mean look at it!’ That hysterical edge which had hung about her since Innes or even sooner was bursting out now, and she stood, thick-weave blanket falling to the floor. ‘Not at the figures, at the analysis of just how powerful the polaron weapons were, at the statistics of the casualty report! They came here and they took over and when they were losing they – they killed all those people, and why?’

Aryn stared, the demand to turn away from the data wrong-footing him. He worked his jaw for a moment, thinking of the after action reports and analysis that had come in so far. ‘To divert our resources from planning the next stage of invasion, so we instead focus on a humanitarian crisis -’

‘No,’ said Q’ira, voice more firm. ‘They could have just damaged the habitats if they wanted that. Killing as many people as they did spared us resources. They did this because we defied them, because we hurt them. So they wanted to make sure they seemed stronger, they wanted to cow and scare us, to deflect weakness with pain and suffering.’

Aryn swallowed. ‘I know you’ve never dealt with anything like this before,’ he began.

‘I have dealt with things like this before! All the time! Every random mob boss and gang leader, even Torrad-Var – every guy who thought he owned the Spire, or owned a girl. Hurt people to appear strong to them, to punish them, but also so they seem strong to themselves…’ She turned back to the display and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I just never saw that with the power of an empire behind it before. Don’t think you have, either.’

Blinking bought him time. Time to banish the memories of a thousand world burning and dying before the Borg. Time to make sense of her perspective. When he stepped towards her, his gait felt ungainly, clumsy. They had not talked much since she formally joined the Rooks; not like this.

‘The difference,’ Aryn said carefully, ‘is that we can actually fight back. Actually stop them.’

She turned to the display, still scrolling with all its horrors, and gave a low scoff. ‘We’ve dealt with nothing more than lone individuals and small bands before this. We’re five people with a scout ship. This is bigger than us.’

‘It is,’ he allowed. ‘But nobody’s asking the Rooks to fix this single-handed. We’re part of something bigger.’

‘What? Twelve ships -’

‘Even a year ago, the Federation faced annihilation from the Borg. And not for the first time. Look…’ He stumbled up beside her, and reached into the holographic display to bring the feed to a halt. ‘Computer, bring up the Daystrom Institute’s 2397 documentary on the Wolf 359 and Sector 001 incursions.’ The image shifted away from the grainy, raw footage of the burning of Proxima to show a glossier starting slide.

Q’ira made a face. ‘This is supposed to make me feel better? Some propaganda vid -’

‘It’s very accurate.’ He hesitated. ‘I worked on it.’

That made her bristle less. ‘Okay, so… what’s this supposed to prove?’

Aryn sighed, thoughtful and tired rather than irritated. He looked around to the comfortable chairs and sank onto the beanbag next to the seat she’d claimed. ‘The thing about this unit is that anyone who says we operate alone is wrong. Even if we’re on a solo operation, without even the Blackbird behind us. You’re thinking of us as like a… a gang within the Syndicate. Resourced by other parts of the network, even sometimes acting in their interests, but ultimately out for ourselves.’

It was, he thought but didn’t say, a perspective Cassidy had not sought to rectify. Arguably, it was a perspective Cassidy had reinforced.

She looked dubious. ‘We’re not?’

‘That provisional commission doesn’t just make you a Rook. It makes you Starfleet.’

She scoffed. ‘Yeah, the ex-dancer and thief, the exact kind of Starfleet officer -’

‘I’m not pretending we’re not at the fringes. We have a hard time being taken seriously, we’re different, we don’t fit the starship mould. That’s all true. That doesn’t mean we’re not part of something… bigger. Something which means something. Something which I really – truly – believe can save Alpha Centauri.’

Q’ira looked like she might scoff again, then hesitated. ‘Why? I mean, why do you believe?’

He nudged the chair with his elbow. ‘Sit down and watch and you’ll see.’

‘Fine. But I’m getting snacks if I’m gonna be ideologically reprogrammed to save puppies up trees.’

‘Get me some of those mini-pretzels,’ he called as she headed to the replicator.

‘You’re so predictable. Is this what date nights are like with Lieutenant Blondey? The same snacks every time while you sit down together to watch a thoughtful documentary?’

‘I…’ One night, during the Blackout, he’d suggested they watch a series about Earth’s early space aviation because Lindgren had made references talking about her work he’d not picked up on. He’d probably had these exact snacks. ‘…maybe.’

‘Wow, Aryn.’ Q’ira flopped back onto the chair and handed him a bag of mini-pretzels. She had a soda cup as big as a bucket and a bowl overflowing with sugary treats. ‘You know how to treat a girl.’

‘Just – just watch. Computer, dim lights and play.’ Cheeks flushed, he settled down, and together they watched records and tales of how insurmountable odds had been overcome before.