It felt like the uncarpeted decks of the USS Venture were perfectly calibrated for the pacing footsteps of Velora Styre to reverberate at the exact frequency to distract and irritate. Back and forth she strode at the head of the conference table, prowling like a caged predator but trapped by nothing but the bars of her own desperate officiousness.

Nose deep in the holographic projections of briefing papers hovering above her PADD, Commander Lizzie Lockhart sat at the conference table and tried to ignore her. And yet, impossible as it was, every step made it feel like the projection flickered. Impossible as it was, she persevered to focus through the distraction.

‘They should be here by now,’ complained Captain Styre, Chief of Staff to the Director of Fourth Fleet Intelligence. ‘Has the captain -’

‘I’m sure we’ll be told.’ Despite herself, Lockhart’s gaze flicked to the tall windows. Nothing but the darkness of space stretched beyond.

The stars should have felt different this far out, she thought. Beyond the safe confines of the Alpha Quadrant, deep into the Delta Quadrant, far past the relatively stable environs of the Barzan Wormhole. But this was where the rendezvous had been arranged.

‘They’re late,’ said Styre in the most scoldingly aristocratic tone the haughty Betazoid could muster. It did not summon the other party. It did make Lockhart feel cringingly guilty.

The captain’s voice came over the comms twelve minutes later. ‘Bridge to Captain Styre. The Turei are here and beaming a party over. We’ll have them escorted to you.’

The stakes were already high enough that Lockhart shouldn’t have needed more reason for chest-opening relief to flood through her. The galaxy faced a possible calamity, and now they might have answers. And she didn’t have to be trapped in a room with an impatient Styre for much longer.

Lockhart was a well-trained officer, a veteran of the highest levels of Starfleet politics and privy, as a senior adviser to Admiral Beckett, a million secrets. It still took all of her professional nerve to not shudder at the sight of the Turei in the flesh when a trio were escorted in. Pale-skinned and completely hairless, their flesh looked to her like it had been smeared across the face, a child’s haphazard approximation of features rendered in white clay then stamped on a few times for good measure. Ghoulish and reclusive, they were, however, the foremost experts in the galaxy on the Underspace tunnels.

Or, at least, the only experts who would speak to them.

‘My name is Dorrik,’ said the lead Turei, standing at the foot of the table, black, beady eyes locked on Styre. Lockhart briefly wondered if he knew Starfleet rank insignia enough to recognise Styre had seniority, then realised even the slightest read of body language made it more than clear who was in charge here.

‘Captain Velora Styre, Fourth Fleet Intelligence.’ Styre clasped her hands behind her back. ‘We can do niceties or we can get to business.’

Dorrik’s brow raised. Lockhart wondered if that signalled incredulity in a Turei. ‘Business. Good. We had to traverse far out of our way to arrive safely.’

‘The tunnels,’ said Lockhart before she could stop herself. ‘You can’t travel them unobserved any more. Or, not so certainly.’

Dorrik turned to her. Then he inclined his head. ‘That is why you are here? The increased traffic in the Underspace?’ His eyes snapped back to Styre. ‘Our agreements with Starfleet utterly forbade you sharing any knowledge of the tunnels or accessing them to -’

‘Don’t posture,’ Styre said in a soft voice. ‘Not like that. If you’re experts on Underspace, as you claim, then you know full well that what’s happening has nothing to do with Starfleet. If you want to blame us, all you’re doing is showing we have no use for you.’

The thick lips of the Turei curled back. Lockhart saw a row of sharp teeth and thought of a predatory deep-water fish. ‘Do we need to be of use to you?’

Styre remained ramrod straight. ‘Underspace apertures have opened across the galaxy. Already, the peoples of the galaxy are stumbling across them, across the tunnels, and traversing them by accident or design. Your people’s entire economic, strategic, and political power stems from your mastery of Underspace. How long do you think this knowledge will remain precious? Work with Starfleet now, and be involved in the response to this disaster, and we go forward in partnership. You won’t get a better deal if things go south.’

‘Or,’ added Lockhart in a rush as Dorrik’s beady eyes narrowed, ‘we view this as an opportunity. As the captain says, your people’s entire economic, strategic, and political power is rooted in Underspace. What’s happening here has opened the whole galaxy to a new form of travel nobody could dream of before. Work with us in stopping this from being a calamity. Work with us to make it a gift.’

She hadn’t expected to be ‘good cop’ to Styre’s bad. The captain was notoriously bad-tempered and cold, traits which helped her get on with Admiral Beckett tremendously. Lockhart was an analyst, not a SAPINT officer; she thrived on data and interpretation, not face-to-face engagement. But that meant today, perhaps, she was the one who could see beyond fear and into opportunity.

Dorrik paused a beat. ‘The situation has changed,’ he acknowledged.

‘Tremendously,’ said Styre. ‘So far as we can tell, apertures have opened across the known galaxy. We’re still trying to ascertain if the apertures alone are what has changed – or if it’s Underspace.’

‘Whether,’ said Lockhart, ‘Underspace always stretched as far as the Beta Quadrant.’

Dorrik shook his head. ‘If it did, we never ventured that far. The tunnels of the Underspace are labyrinthine. Travel them without knowing the way, and it’s not simply that you might end up at an exit point far from your original destination. Some routes are more dangerous than others. You might be destroyed en route. Your ship might impact debris and be forced out of the tunnel, stranded thousands of light-years from anywhere you know with no way of re-entering the network.’

‘We know,’ said Styre. ‘Our ships are reporting these encounters constantly. Starfleet is beginning to understand the network in the Alpha Quadrant; our vessels have, wittingly and unwittingly, ventured into the tunnels. Begun to chart them. Begun to find routes, even if they are, for now, mere shortcuts saving journeys of weeks, not months or years.’

‘There are plans for more serious missions,’ Lockhart said. ‘Further exploration. Missions of commerce, of prospecting. Diplomacy.’

Dorrik’s shoulders slumped with a hint of defeat. ‘If you are already at this point, we cannot help you chart the tunnels of the Alpha Quadrant. Likely, you know more than we do.’

‘That’s not why I’m here.’ Styre planted her hands on the table. ‘You’re masters of the Underspace. Everything has changed. Before the rest of the galaxy falls into a new gold rush, upending the order of things – of borders, of commerce, of war – we need to understand. We need to understand why this has happened.’

Lockhart nodded. ‘Why has this changed?’

Dorrik looked back at the other two Turei, who had stood quietly so far. They did not say anything, but Lockhart caught the flickers of their gazes, the silent exchange. At length, Dorrik sighed and turned to the two officers. ‘This is something we have of course studied intently. As you say, nobody knows Underspace like us. That is, nobody you would speak to.’

Lockhart gave a small, encouraging smile. ‘Absolutely. We know if anyone has any understanding, it’s you -’

‘Great Fire,’ breathed Styre, cutting off the gentle reassurance. ‘You have absolutely no idea why this is happening, do you?’

Dorrik looked struck. Straightened. And then his shoulders slumped, as if helplessness were a weight dragging him down. ‘No,’ he admitted at last. ‘To the best of our knowledge, this has never happened before. And with the best of our knowledge… we do not know why Underspace has changed.’

‘We do know something,’ came the quiet words of one of the other Turei, and all eyes snapped to her. She bowed her head in apology to Dorrik. ‘I do not wish to overstep.’

‘Overstep,’ said Styre, extending a lordly hand before Dorrik could bring his person back in line.

The Turei hesitated. ‘I said “know.” Of course, nothing is certain, but, by our best calculations, by all of our studies…’

‘Yes?’

‘The initial manifestation of the apertures was sudden and chaotic. Within days, that has begun to settle. The new apertures match the pre-existing ones in, so far as we can tell, every way. This expanded network is just as stable as the one with which we were familiar.’

Dorrik’s sloping brow lowered, and he made a small, clicking noise Lockhart took for disapproval. ‘Yes. I should offer that theory.’

‘Which?’ Styre did not hide her frustration. ‘This is nothing our scientists haven’t observed.’

‘No. And it does not shine a light on why this has happened. But it gives our experts some indication of what.’ Dorrik straightened and looked between the two officers. ‘And by our best guess, this is not temporary. Underspace, or access to it, has expanded to reach across the whole galaxy. Forever.’

‘Of course, Ambassador. I’m sure we can fit in such plans. Well. Discussions about such plans.’

Even by the standards of Admiral Beckett, his evening companions at Vandorin’s Bistro, the premier dining establishment of Starbase Bravo, were notable dignitaries. Three ambassadors, two admirals from another fleet, several representatives to the Federation Council. The Underspace network stretched across the galaxy, such was its glory, but no Federation body possessed more knowledge of its workings, of its navigation, of its opportunities than the Fourth Fleet.

So Beckett had been more than happy to take dealing with delegates off the table of the endlessly busy Fleet Admiral Ramar.

The Tellarite representative leaned across the table, eyes narrowing. ‘We hear of richer dilithium deposits out near a Delta Quadrant aperture than has been found in decades. You know our mining operations are fit to expand…’

‘And I’ve no doubt expansions will come,’ said Beckett, laughing airily, wine glass in hand. ‘But we can’t get ahead of ourselves. The region must be assessed and secured. Tapping such resources will come, but all in good time.’ And perhaps, he mused as he sipped his wine, only once several prospectors have had the chance to make their pitch. The Tellarite interest was noteworthy, for sure. But it was not the only interest.

‘We’re hearing of trouble on the Klingon border from this,’ said the admiral from the Second Fleet. ‘That Chancellor Toral thinks this makes it time to invade.’

‘Invade territories of the broken Star Empire,’ said Beckett, waving his glass. ‘A problem, for certain, but not only for us. Taking territory is one thing. Holding it is another. Holding it when they are reliant on being dominant in Underspace, when we will hold the keys to all knowledge of the network? I think that the Klingon Empire may find they have overplayed their hand. And it has reminded the Republic what good friends we can be…’

He could have gone on like this all night. Underspace was like the Midas touch, where every topic, no matter how thorny, could be turned into spun gold at his fingertips. He had just ordered a third bottle of the emerald, with Vandorin herself attending on them hand-and-foot that evening, when he heard the commotion from the front.

First, he tried to ignore it. It was not uncommon for some rabble from the promenade to think they had a right to dine at the finest establishment in two sectors. But the raised voice was impossible to ignore – not simply for the volume, but for who it was.

‘Admiral Beckett!’

Beckett’s lips thinned as he realised one of his key advisors was making a scene at the door. He set the wine glass down. Looked at his guests. And forced himself to be expressionless. ‘If you’ll excuse me, everyone. I do apologise. I made it very clear I was not to be disturbed tonight.’

Commander Lockhart was a meek and quiet officer, around him at least, and had his head been full of less wine and winning, he might have realised this meant something was wrong. Whatever she said as he approached, he didn’t hear it, grabbing her by the elbow and frog-marching her out into the promenade. ‘I said -’

Then she grabbed his arm, and his blood went cold at the sudden realisation he’d horribly miscalculated. Or, so he thought. Because when she gave her report, he suddenly found new ways for his veins to turn to ice.

‘Underspace is collapsing.’

Beckett’s throat caught. ‘What?’ The question came out as a strangled noise.

Lockhart’s eyes were wide, her hair wild, and she shoved a PADD in his hand. ‘The Caliburn was unsuccessful. The Sirius was unsuccessful. The Venture was unsuccessful. Several more. Some ships pulled it off, sir, and stopped them, but it’s not enough – the Cardassian platforms are activating, and they’re closing apertures, and they’re destabilising the tunnels.’

‘All of it?’ His voice had gone a whole new pitch. They weren’t talking loudly, but they were two senior officers in the middle of the Promenade in plain distress, and so several people cast them dubious, worried looks as they passed. He didn’t care. Information security was, for once, not his highest concern.

‘Certainly the new expanses – sir, we’ve got dozens of ships across the galaxy, and I don’t know if we can reverse this.’

Beckett stared at her for a moment. A part of him shrieked that he needed to go to Ramar, and this was true, but that would take seconds. Minutes. Making contact and explaining all over again. There were people out there, Federation citizens, Starfleet officers, who perhaps didn’t have minutes.

His eyes met Lockhart’s. ‘Call them back. Use my authority. All of them, call them back. Now.’ He all but pushed her away, and while he knew Ramar had to be next, he had still walked out on some of the most important dignitaries of the galaxy.

Admiral Beckett turned back to the entranceway of Vandorin’s Bistro, and caught the eye of the host. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said in a clipped voice, like Armageddon hadn’t just fallen on him. On the galaxy. ‘But I’m going to have to skip dessert.’

‘That’s correct.’

The admission echoed through the small, dim office on Markonian Station, quiet as it emanated from the console and yet loud enough to deafen. Captain Styre was not in the habit of being stunned speechless, but now she had to sit at the desk and stare at the holographic projection of the Turei in front of her.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your reports are accurate. We did indeed pass technology on to the Cardassian Union, or mechanisms by which they could recreate the necessary scanning equipment.’

Styre worked her jaw. She was glad Commander Lockhart had returned to the Alpha Quadrant, and not stayed on to monitor the Underspace situation here with the Delta Exploration Initiative. It would not have done for her to be so obviously wrong-footed in front of the analyst. Staying in Admiral Beckett’s favour was a rat-race of a hierarchy where visible weakness was someone else’s weapon.

At last she said, ‘We spoke at length about the Underspace expansion.’

‘We did.’

‘You said you didn’t know why it happened.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Then…’ Styre paused so she didn’t flap. ‘Why?’

‘Starfleet made it abundantly clear you intended to harness the Underspace. Chart it. That, soon, the galaxy would be racing through its tunnels.’ The Turei shook his head. ‘That is a danger we could not tolerate. The Cardassian Union proved that they understood the dangers. That we could come to an accord.’

‘You said none of this to us – shared none of your concerns -’

‘I have done enough business with Starfleet these past years to know better. There is nothing the Alliance could have said that would have stopped you. Not when you smell an opportunity such as this.’

It was true. Styre took another moment to gather herself, knowing she could not defend against such an accusation. But pausing did not bring peace; instead, a fresh anger coiled in her, and she let it solidify and freeze to become a shard of ice. She tilted her jaw up an inch. ‘I don’t think you feared the Underspace’s dangers. I think you feared losing control of it.’

‘We –’

‘For decades, centuries, you have enjoyed uncontested mastery of the network. But its expansion made it part of the fabric of the whole galaxy. Owned by none. Commanded by none. And that would have reduced you to a useless rabble of refugees with no prestige. No cards to play on the international diplomatic stage.’

A pause. Then, ‘Perhaps so. But save your righteous anger, Captain. After all, you still need us. You still need the Delta Quadrant tunnels.’

‘Those remain intact?’ Styre bit her lip to not lash out. He was right about that, too.

‘Only the recent expansions – or the apertures to them – have fallen. Everything is as it once was. Which means that you may either rant and rave and yet do nothing… or bid farewell to seriously exploring more of the Delta Quadrant than these few sectors.’

Styre’s jaw was tight. ‘This isn’t my decision. I will be making my reports and recommendations to my superiors.’

‘Of course. In good time, at least. I know you have a while to think about it, Captain. After all…’ The Turei’s nightmarish features split into what she knew was an apeing of a mammalian smile in either diplomacy or mockery. ‘Now you must enjoy your wait for the Barzan wormhole to reopen.’

Admiral Beckett was in such a bad mood he didn’t think twice about clapping Captain Hargreaves solidly on the shoulder when he set foot on the bridge of the Caliburn. ‘Kehinde, it’s good to see you and your ship in one piece.’

Hargreaves had clearly been through enough that he didn’t think twice about such an open display of affection. The two men had known each other for years. Beckett was not in the habit of expressing anything so close to an actual kinship with a subordinate, but the notion that he might have lost one of his best captains had stung in a way he wasn’t used to.

‘More or less,’ said Hargreaves through gritted teeth, then ushered Beckett to the central dais. Through the viewscreen, the deep space of the Thalos Sector loomed, black and foreboding and, above all, empty. The Underspace aperture that had first captured the Caliburn, banishing her to the far side of the galaxy, was gone.

‘You made it back before everything went to hell and you got stranded in the armpit of the Beta Quadrant. I’ll take that,’ Beckett said. He nodded at the viewscreen. ‘This was one of the last showing any activity.’

‘And about an hour ago, that activity ceased,’ sighed Hargreaves. ‘We stood here and watched as the aperture flickered, faded, and then… closed. There’s some subspace compression, but that’s apparently easing out by the moment.’

‘Starfleet Science thinks that in as soon as a month, it’ll be like this never happened.’ Beckett blew out his cheeks. ‘All of that. Gone in the blink of an eye.’

Hargreaves ground his teeth together. ‘I can’t believe the Cardassians did this.’

‘I can. Underspace would have turned the status quo upside-down. Borders would change, some would collapse. We’re strong enough to weather the opportunities. You ever met a Cardassian who liked change?’

‘I understand the why,’ said Hargreaves carefully. ‘But it’s audacious as hell.’

‘That is the President’s opinion. And thus the opinion of our embassy to Cardassia Prime. We’ve been making it clear, in no uncertain terms, how much we object to Cardassia taking unilateral action like this.’

‘What’d they say?’

Beckett grimaced, pulling out a PADD. ‘After our very long and carefully-worded statement criticising the Union, Chairman Rekal released a one-word statement. It reads: “The Federation does not have the right to determine the fate of the whole galaxy.”’

Hargreaves’s nostrils flared. ‘Do they?’

‘The message speaks for itself.’ Beckett’s eyes locked on the black emptiness of space where the aperture had once squatted, danger and temptation all in one roiling knot. ‘After all. They just did.’