‘All hands, stand by. You know what to do. Today, we make history. Begin experiment 001.’

Six years, fourteen failed research proposals, and countless calibrations, and here he was at last. Doctor Marl Trojet could barely believe it as he stood on the bridge of his small science ship, the Sef, hand poised over the deflector controls. The glare of the nearby pulsar gently distorted the view through the cramped viewport, and otherwise, all he could see was space, stars, and opportunity.

His eyes fell on his timid assistant. ‘Full power to the deflector array.’

‘Yes, Doctor. Full power to the deflector array.’ Fillian’s voice only wavered a little.

Trojet ignored the apprehension. The young Trill’s role was simple enough. He’d been chosen for his expertise in tetryons, not his coolness under pressure, but with their theoretical work done Fillian could surely push a button and not screw that up. Trojet again reached for the comms. ‘Launch the target drone.’

‘Yes, Doctor. Launching.’ The voice from the bay was much more confident. Those were crewmen accustomed to simple scientific operations, handling probes and keeping the Sef out of the gravitational pull of stellar phenomena. They did not need to understand the magnitude of this experiment to do their jobs.

He watched the sensors, beady eyes narrowing as the small dot on the display of the drone rocketed away from the Sef. With a satisfied nod, he turned back to deflector controls. ‘Generating subspace tensor matrix.’

Fillian winced as the Sef began to rumble around them. ‘It’s working.’

‘I know it’s working,’ Trojet snapped. ‘But not enough. I need more power in the focal array.’

‘Doctor, you’ve got all power -’

‘If a system isn’t keeping us alive or keeping the ship in one piece, it needs to go to the deflector systems! Do it.’

Fillian cooperated, and Trojet relaxed an iota as his displays turned green. But soon the assistant’s reedy voice rang out as the deck of the Sef didn’t stop shuddering. ‘That’s all I can give you, Doctor. It can’t be for long or the deflector array will overload -’

‘The first thing we did was reinforce the components so it could take this power. Come on, Fillian, have some nerve. We’re going to make history here.’

Fillian’s eyes dragged around the bridge as the lights flickered. ‘Or be history,’ he muttered.

Trojet would have snapped at him for that, but through the viewport then soared the amber light of the subspace tensor matrix, the beam shimmering out across space in the direction of the target drone like a gleaming lance from the heavens. He gave a wordless bark of satisfaction. ‘The magneton pulse! Quickly!’

Dutifully, Fillian reached for the probe’s controls, and a heartbeat later multiple alert klaxons went off. ‘It’s – it’s working, it’s reacting!’

But there was fear in his voice. ‘We want this to happen,’ Trojet reminded. ‘The feedback loop?’

‘It’s – not yet. Doctor, if this goes wrong…’

‘It won’t.’

‘The damage to subspace…’

‘Fillian.’ Trojet realised he would have to take his panicking assistant in hand and snapped upright. ‘We are light-years from any inhabited system, far beyond Federation borders.’

‘And if we need saving nobody knows we’re out here – we told Farpoint we were on a survey mission out past Saxue.’

‘If you expect failure, that’s all you get. Hold.’ Trojet lifted a hand, eyes now fixed on the front viewport. ‘Hold.’

He’d spent years waiting for this moment. Sunk countless hours into even the smallest calculations, begged the indulgence and time of every scientific body of the Alpha Quadrant. They’d all turned him down, not because of the danger, but because his work, they said, had been tried before, and failed before. But it had not been tried by him. Him, Marl, and the half-dozen brilliant scientists who had lived through Trojet before him. And that had been almost thirty years ago.

Lifetimes and light-years had brought him to this. And as the searing amber ray of the subspace tensor matrix was drawn to the magneton pulse, the feedback loop began. In a burst of crimson and gold, the probe detonated, and the two Trill held their breath as all through the viewport faded to black.

After several thudding heartbeats, Fillian checked the sensors. ‘Subspace readings are -’

Then the gentle sable of the stars erupted into the swirling purple maelstrom of a wormhole.

Fillian was first to brighten, punching the air. ‘Yes! You’ve done it, Doctor -’

But now it was Trojet’s turn to be cautious. ‘Not yet. We knew this could be done. It has to be stable.’ His eyes turned back to the controls, and as several red lights flashed up, the bottom of his stomach dropped out. ‘The surge of neutrino emissions is already dropping…’

‘No, no, no…’ Fillian scrambled from the probe’s controls to the Sef’s sensors. ‘No, look, Doctor, the theta-band radiation is stable.’ Then he stopped. ‘And the quantum level fluctuations are… increasing?’

‘It’s no good,’ Trojet hissed. ‘It’s just like the old experiments, it’s collapsing…’

‘No, Doctor… something’s coming out.’

Trojet’s eyes snapped up to the viewport as proximity alerts went off. If he’d thought he was sick at the sight of the artificial wormhole collapsing almost the moment it had been created, then this latest sight was enough to cast his stomach into a bottomless pit. ‘What in the…’

It wasn’t a ship. It was dozens – hundreds. Soaring through the aperture in the mere seconds of its existence, spilling not just before the Sef but past it, encircling it. Trojet was no engineer, but any scholar of wormholes had inevitably seen at least footage of these warships. With their purplish hue, with the beetle-like build of the smaller vessels, there was no mistaking their design.

‘What the hell are Dominion ships doing here?’ Trojet snapped at Fillian. ‘And how did they come through this wormhole?’

‘I’m scanning them!’ Fillian’s voice was borderline hysterical, but he was acting, hands moving smoothly over the sensor control. Perhaps he had some nerve under pressure after all. ‘They’re at full battle stations, Doctor; weapons armed and shields raised!’

For his part, Trojet could only gape, even when the comm systems chirruped to life with an incoming hail. Rather than establish a full connection, Trojet fumbled so badly with the controls he only established a one-way audio link, and the bridge filled with a brusque, angry voice.

‘Unknown vessel, identify yourself!’

Rather than reply, Trojet gave Fillian a startled look. ‘We’re a Federation science ship, why are they acting like we’re a threat?’

‘Doctor…’ The assistant looked up. ‘Something’s very wrong here.’

‘I know that! The Dominion have stayed in their space for decades – did we just open a wormhole on top of one of their Gamma Quadrant fleets?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Filian worked his jaw, clearly unsure of his own words before he made an attempt. ‘I did a full scan to figure out their origins, and factored in disruptions to space and time. Doctor, judging by this reading of their quantum particles, these ships are from the year 2374.’

The colour drained from Trojet’s face. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Doctor?’

For a long moment, Trojet didn’t respond, staring at the viewport through which countless Dominion ships soared. ‘In 2374, the Dominion sent a fleet through the Bajoran wormhole to join the war effort in the Alpha Quadrant. It never reached its destination.’ At last, the final sputtering of the wormhole died, fading from sight on the viewport as all readings on their sensors dimmed. But the damage was done. His work had achieved dizzying heights beyond all of his wildest dreams – or, rather, his wildest nightmares.

‘This is them,’ Trojet said hoarsely. ‘The Lost Fleet.’

The siren call of the sweet scent of coffee summoned her from the bedroom. ‘Fresh?’ Gabrielle Nwadike grunted, still buttoning up her shirt.

Her husband Ibrahim grinned his ice-white smile. Where she had staggered from bed to bathroom, showered in a zombie-like stupor, he was like he always was: bouncing to action, dressed and clean and sharp in the morning sun streaming through their apartment’s tall windows. Beyond, the shining towers of New Seattle were stirring to life, a bright morning greeted warmly on the Federation’s boldest frontier.

‘I wouldn’t dare give you anything less,’ Ibrahim rumbled, hefting the stainless steel coffee pot and pouring the steaming black ichor of life into the insulated mug. ‘And I assume you don’t have time for breakfast with us.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Now she could smell coffee, hold the steaming cup in her hands, her neurons were firing up, rendering her capable of thought – capable of stringing multiple words together. ‘You’re in the studio today?’

‘After the school run.’ Ibrahim’s gaze turned chiding. ‘Try to get something healthy to eat on your way in.’

Gabrielle knew there was a breakfast burrito from the greasy replimat by the orbital lift in her future. But she smiled her lying smile at her husband, kissed him on the cheek, and headed out, clutching her travel mug like the Holy Grail. She could compromise on breakfast. She would not compromise on caffeine, the beans shipped in to their favourite deli only last week from the farmlands on Arriana Prime.

New Seattle’s public transit system meant she could hop on a monorail after walking only a block from her apartment building. Upwards soared the carriage, lifting her and the other bleary-eyed commuters above the hustle and bustle of street-bound pedestrians and the buzzing of personal vehicles, hurrying in and between buildings like worker bees in a hive. The capital of Izar didn’t sleep, but it certainly had a shift pattern.

The orbital lift jutted out of the skyline like someone had driven a knife through the city’s heart and caught everything in its wake, buildings knotting around it as if they were tree roots making an intrusion part of the forest. Half the monorail passengers alighted with her, and Gabrielle joined the crowds shuffling to the pavements to begin their day.

On the corner, a street vendor she didn’t recognise under a brightly-patterned canopy of red and gold tried to hawk food, luring in the commuter on-the-go. They were small, simple fares, and she pondered a pot of yoghurts and berries, thinking of Ibrahim. She had promised she’d try something a little healthier.

‘One of those days, huh?’ her colleague Stroven chuckled when she eventually joined him at the queue for the orbital lift.

Gabrielle had to swallow a mouthful of breakfast burrito with extra cheese before she could answer. ‘If we’ve got to find that patrol boat, I’m gonna need good food.’

‘That’s not good food,’ the Tellarite insisted as they shuffled along with the crowd. ‘That’s short-term satisfaction.’

‘Then if we have to fight the survey team for processing time with the long-range telescope, I’m gonna need short-term satisfaction.’

Stroven grunted at that. ‘The patrol boat’s just had engine trouble or something.’

‘Maybe. But it’s another bright day at the Deneb Sector Border Monitoring Service. We’re here to keep the skies clear!’ Gabrielle had to shift her grip on burrito and coffee mug to give twin thumbs-up, her expression and voice both twisted into a chirpy mockery of their last professional standards training video.

She took the lift every day, and still made sure she got a window. If the view from the monorail of New Seattle was impressive, the sight from the orbital lift, rising higher and higher, was humbling. The city grew smaller beneath her, shrunk to a child’s model, and with a pang of guilt she remembered her daughter’s science experiment that Ibrahim was going to have to help with. But then they were higher, higher, and the city became nothing compared to the vast mountains and sprawling forests of the surface of Izar.

Then they entered ever-dimming, ever-fading clouds. Izar fell from sight, and her gaze landed on the stars.

As perhaps the largest Federation colony in the Deneb Sector and certainly the largest, Izar was more than one planet’s worth of infrastructure. People had started on the surface only to scramble outward, just like on Earth, chewing up the system with resort moons and gas mining facilities and asteroid flight centres. And there, amid the tight network of orbital platforms and stations hovering over Izar III itself, usually just called ‘Izar’, was the lone platform that was her destination.

The Border Monitoring Service sat at the heart of a network of whatever sensor arrays they could connect to or sensor reports official flights handed over and civilian vessels volunteered. Patrol boats and the main deep space array were their best eyes and ears, which was why their first job that morning was to try to hail Patrol 47-3-B, due to report in 24 hours ago and gone dark.

Gabrielle had settled into her station at the heart of the control hub for no more than an hour before the comms officer finally pushed away from his post and pulled off his headset with irritation. ‘Nothing, Boss. No response from them, nothing in any comms records I can find of anyone who’s gone anywhere near them.’

She cast a look at Stroven. ‘Engine trouble, huh?’

He grimaced and shrugged. ‘Could be power trouble too.’

‘Then even if it’s just an accident, that’s a patrol boat drifting in space. Is there anything on sensors?’

‘Secondary array is still pointed towards the Ciater Nebula on the recent Science Institute study,’ Stroven grumbled. ‘Main array is coreward-focused.’

‘So much for border monitoring,’ she sighed, rubbing her eyes. ‘Coreward focus is after the Kzinti trouble at Kanaan. We don’t have the security clearance to redirect that. Put in a request for the Science Institute to let us borrow the secondary array for this – use my priority code, someone’s in trouble.’ She looked to comms. ‘And ask TG514 if they’ll send someone to 47-3-B’s last known?’

‘Science Institute are likely to be an hour to get back, even if they say yes,’ pointed out Stroven.

‘Then we better ask soon.’

Long before the SI got back to them, TG514 made it clear their ships would have to go far out of their way on this errand of mercy.

‘So much for Starfleet help,’ Stroven complained.

‘They’re usually a bit more willing to lift a finger in their hectic schedule of nothing happening out here. Kzinti got them rattled?’ Gabrielle wondered.

‘Boss?’ She didn’t know Comms very well. They were a young graduate who clearly wanted to join Starfleet Auxiliary but, she suspected, his parents didn’t approve of him leaving Izar any time soon. This was his compromise, and while it made him eager, it also made him a little annoyingly officious. ‘I’m picking up something weird on communication channels.’

She gave him a flat look. ‘Weird? Tell people to be more precise.’

‘Not in messages to us. It’s…’ He gestured vaguely. ‘A whole load of communication links going dark. Real sudden.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s the thing. Rimward.’ Comms shifted his weight. ‘Same way as 47-3-B.’

‘There’s a lot of rim out there before we jump to conclusions,’ Stroven chastised. ‘If something’s out there…’

‘…and nobody’s in a position to report it in, and the main array’s focused elsewhere…’ Gabrielle got to her feet. ‘Put me on to Izar 1. Get me to someone with some authority.’

That took another ten minutes before the border monitoring’s main viewscreen popped to life with the ops centre on the small, Vision-class station that provided Starfleet’s meagre presence at Izar. A young Bolian in a lieutenant’s pips and gold uniform peered back at her. ‘Monitoring Station 12.’

‘This is Gabrielle Nwadike, Senior Manager. I know you’re as beholden as we are to everyone else’s hijacking of the main sensor array, but you have better small eyes than us.’ She explained her comms officer’s findings. ‘Put our minds at ease and do a quick scan on your tertiary array? Before I cause a stir over nothing.’

The lieutenant looked dubious, but nodded. ‘We’ll run a scan.’

Gabrielle knew she was being fobbed off so she went away, but it gave her what she wanted. ‘Much obliged, Izar 1.’

‘We’ll send you the findings. Izar 1 out.’

Gabrielle sank onto her chair with a sigh. ‘Isn’t it great,’ she began, ‘that we have civilian bodies for this, Starfleet bodies for this, science bodies for this, and nobody wants to share toys?’

‘You could have joined Starfleet and made a difference, though,’ Stroven said with a mischievous look in his eye.

‘No thanks, I work for a living.’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘And for that, it’s your coffee run. I was good this morning, I want cream and -’

‘That greasy burrito is not “being good” -’

‘I meant with the coffee -’

‘Boss!’ Comms – Heiliger, his name was Heiliger – sounded panicked. ‘Boss, you better see this – Izar 1’s got back to us – they’ve gone to red alert, boss -’

Had it not been for Izar 1’s status, she would have been telling the young man to calm down, use his words, and been prepared for him to be jumping at shadows. This had her flying to his side, hand on the back of the chair, eyes locked on the screen with the sensor feed from the station. ‘What the -’

‘That’s a dozen warships,’ Heiliger babbled. ‘Not Starfleet, not Breen, not Kzinti -’

‘Dominion. What the hell?’

‘Minutes out, Boss.’ There was another bleep on the comms display, and Heiliger made a small, panicked sound. ‘They’ve hailed the station. Asking for an immediate surrender.’

Stroven had gone very still the moment Heiliger’s report had started. Now he said, in a strangled voice, ‘There are hundreds of millions of people in this system. They have to surrender.’

‘Why are the Dominion asking us to surrender at all?’ Heiliger nearly squealed. ‘Why are they out here? What’s going on?’

Their little platform was, of course, reliant on the system’s main and secondary sensor arrays for them to gather data on border movements for analysis. But it did have its own short-range sensors. They didn’t give them much beyond the Izar system itself, but that was sufficient to see the blips – one, four, ten, twelve – suddenly appearing just outside the star’s gravitational pull.

Gabrielle did not have much patience for the people in her line of work who thought themselves stalwart guardians on a dangerous frontier and played at being military. But she was sufficiently well-educated on the defences of Izar – of the Deneb Sector – to know what trouble looked like.

This was off the charts.

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ she said in a low voice as the bottom of her stomach dropped out. ‘But I know there’s no way a dozen – or more, there could be more – warships of this size sneak up on us if everyone’s doing their job. Even with all the vying for control of the arrays.’

Stroven looked at her, startled. ‘You think someone was asleep at the controls?’

‘I don’t know. But I know that we have to surrender if they tell us to. All of us.’

It was something of a lie. Surrender was certainly the thing to do, with TG514 nowhere near and a force of this magnitude on top of them. But she did know more than that, not just suspected it – knew, after all her years doing this job, knowing how the detection systems of Izar worked, how the detection systems of the Deneb Sector worked.

Someone had let this happen.

‘Analysis is very clear, sir.’ Commander Vorin looked almost apologetic as she turned from the sensor feed. ‘Those ships are Dominion. Jem’Hadar fighters matching all of our records.’

Captain Kehinde Hargreaves of the USS Caliburn folded his arms across his chest. His instinct was to push back, dismiss these findings as erroneous or misinterpreted. But he hadn’t been sent here to take the easy road. Fourth Fleet Command wanted answers. So he took pains to exorcise the doubt from his voice as he said, thoughtfully, ‘There remains the possibility that the Breen had Dominion materiel after the war. Or even ship-building facilities.’

His XO padded over from the science console to join him at the bridge’s three command chairs. ‘Possible, sir, but these ships match war-era specifications exactly. There is no sign of Breen technology; no sign that they have been modified or updated. It would be highly unlikely for the Confederacy to maintain these ships to that standard.’

‘I hear you,’ Hargreaves said to the wiry Andorian. ‘But something highly unlikely has happened.’ He looked to his Science Officer. ‘Are they still holding position on long-range sensors?’

‘Affirmative,’ said the young lieutenant. ‘There’s no sign they’ve noticed us, sir. Their sensors don’t seem to be able to pierce the nebula’s interference.’

‘Starfleet Research and Development win again,’ said Hargreaves with a tight, proud smile. ‘If these ships are a quarter-century old, we must make use of every technological advantage we have. Speaking of, Lieutenant: how close do we need to be for quantum-level analysis?’

‘Closer,’ came the apprehensive answer. ‘Plotting a course to get us as near as possible while still shrouded by the nebula.’

Commander Vorin took a step closer to Hargreaves and dropped her voice. ‘The sensor packages sent from Izar support the Lost Fleet theory, Captain.’

She was speaking quietly, he knew, because she didn’t want the others to think they were risking their lives unnecessarily. Hargreaves matched her tone as he turned to her. ‘Those scans were conducted by border cutters and pleasure liners. This is a Sagan-class starship, and we have the most sophisticated scanning hardware in the fleet aboard. We have to be sure.’

‘Course plotted,’ called Science, and Vorin simply nodded and stepped back.

Hargreaves’ eyes raked across the navigational data on the small display on his command seat’s armrest. He nodded. ‘Helm, take us in.’

The Caliburn’s deck hummed as they moved, the gentle interference of the nebula with the impulse engines giving a bumpier ride than their usual smooth-as-glass motion. It didn’t help ease the thudding of Hargreaves’s heart in his chest, and he had to fight the urge to pace. His crew did not need to see his nerves.

‘We’re in range,’ Science said after iron-shredding minutes. ‘Beginning scans -’

‘Contact!’ came the bark from the bridge’s aft, and Hargreaves’s head snapped around towards his Tactical Officer. ‘Ships approaching, bearing eighty-five mark one-five!’

‘They’ve come out of a cluster of chromium!’ Science said, young voice again showing a flicker of fear now. ‘They must have been powered down so they couldn’t detect us…’

They were waiting for us. Hargreaves swallowed hard. Whether the enemy had known they were coming or simply setting up a watch on a known blindspot like the Ciater Nebula was beside the point. They were here now.

His XO was already stepping into the vaults of uncertainty. ‘We can analyse later; what are they, Lieutenant?’

‘More Jem’Hadar Fighters, sir. Three.’

‘Red alert! On screen!’ barked Hargreaves, but as the lights dimmed and the viewscreen flooded to life to show the approach trio of beetle-like ships, tiny pinpricks of purple light amid the swirling maelstrom of the nebula, he turned to Helm. ‘Get us out of here.’ He had no doubt the Caliburn could take on three old ships like this. But a force like this wouldn’t be alone – would surely soon be joined by the two fighters they’d been spying on. And countless others.

‘Aye, sir! Coming about and heading back into the nebula! We’ll lose them in the mists.’

‘They’re approaching fast,’ warned the tactical officer. ‘Weapons charged.’

‘We’ll lose them,’ Hargreaves said, a little more confident than he felt as he sank back onto his command chair, gripping the armrests tight. ‘But we might have to bloody them first.’

‘The Caliburn sustained significant damage from the Jem’Hadar fighters. But they managed to lose them in the Ciater Nebula and returned to Farpoint without any further encounters.’ Vice Admiral Beckett reached up to swipe the holographic projection away from the centre of the desk, clearing the view between the two men.

Fleet Admiral Ramar steepled his fingers as he frowned at the nothingness where the battle report had hovered moments ago. ‘And no Breen ships accompanying them? That’s a considerable amount of leftover equipment for the Confederacy to retain.’

‘If I may, sir.’ Beckett lifted a hand. Normally he would have jumped up and down at the opportunity to reveal more information, to show he still knew more than everyone else, especially the fleet commander. His sombreness spoke of the severity of this issue. ‘Captain Hargreaves’s science officer also managed to complete quantum scans before they escaped.’

The next projection sprang to life between them with the full report from the science department of the USS Hargreaves, supported by further analysis by Admiral Beckett’s own science team. Ramar’s frown deepened. ‘So it is true.’

‘These ships are from 2374,’ Beckett surmised bluntly. ‘Now we have the evidence to take this to Command, force them to recognise that this isn’t a glorified Breen raid with stolen Dominion equipment…’

‘No.’

Ramar’s voice was so soft that Beckett almost didn’t hear it. When he did, he rose to his feet, incensed. ‘Worlds are being conquered! Izar has fallen! This isn’t just Command failing to recognise who’s responsible, it’s Command failing to recognise the magnitude of this -’

‘I’ve had these arguments with Command.’ Ramar looked up at him impassively. ‘You know how that’s gone before. Are you so naive, Alexander, to think it’ll be any different this time?’ Being called ‘naive’ startled Beckett enough to make him fall silent. Later he would reflect that this was probably Ramar’s intention, as it gave the fleet admiral the chance to press on. ‘Starfleet Command would rather ignore trouble at the gates while we make ready for Frontier Day.’

Beckett couldn’t help but sneer at that. ‘Heaven forfend the exercise in waving the flag be disrupted.’

Ramar gave a low, humourless chuckle, but it didn’t last as he sobered. He reached out to the control panel on his desk to open a channel to his yeoman sat outside. ‘Get me Admiral Dahlgren,’ came the curt instruction. ‘And tell him we’re going to assemble the fleet.’

Beckett frowned as Ramar leaned back, chin tilting up a half-inch. ‘Sir? Starfleet Command has made it very clear they won’t send reinforcements to Task Group 514.’

Ramar gave a tight, satisfied smirk. ‘Then it’s just as well the Fourth Fleet has a mandate to go anywhere in the galaxy, as I see fit. And it just so happens I see fit for us to make for the Deneb Sector. Pack your bags, Alexander. You’re headed for Farpoint and we’re taking the fight to the Lost Fleet ourselves.’ Now he sobered. ‘I think you understand, better than anyone, why we have to be hands-on about this.’

There was a moment where Beckett worked his jaw, the surging elation and satisfaction fighting with his creeping apprehension. ‘Can we trust even our own captains to not be compromised?’

With a sigh, Ramar shook his head. ‘If we can’t trust the Fourth Fleet,’ he said at last, ‘who can we trust?’

First Dazat’ugal’s footsteps rang out, heavy and loud, and still the two Vorta stood in the command centre did not react as he arrived. The doors slid shut behind him but the arguing continued as if he was not there.

This suited him fine. His duty was not urgent, nor did he need their approval. He knew his place, his role to play.

‘…and now the Cardassians are rallying to the Federation.’ Rovuth’s voice was softer, but Dazat’ugal knew that meant he was only more agitated. ‘We were assured they would stand by us as allies upon our arrival.’

His counterpart shook her head, eyes flashing. ‘Need I remind you that times have changed? Our assurances are greatly out of date. That they lost sight of the Founders’ vision with them parted from the quadrant so long speaks of their weakness, but we knew that.’ Nemes was not like Rovuth; she was sharper, more fervent. Dazat’ugal did not need to have an opinion of either of the two ranking Vorta in the fleet, but he knew which he respected more.

‘But the Breen stand by us?’ Rovuth’s lip curled. ‘They are mercenaries and raiders. They have no grand plan and no loyalty. We are here, as you say, to serve the Founders’ vision. Not be wielded as a blunt implement to further local petty bickers.’

‘If they are to be believed, they remained at our side when none did,’ Nemes pointed out. ‘When the Cardassians would have let the Founders die -’

‘As you say, if they are to be believed.’

Bickering of the Vorta was not uncommon. It did not concern Dazat’ugal in itself; they, like he, would obey the Founders’ will when the time came. But they lacked his clarity, expected, as they were, to dabble in matters beyond warfare. At times, they benefited from a reminder of their place, so now he let his rifle slide down for the butt to crack against the deck of the flagship’s bridge.

‘Their words have been vouched for by the Founders. Do not forget that.’

The two Vorta snapped around as if stung, and Rovuth’s expression at once shifted for the supercilious gaze of one looking to back-pedal. ‘Of course, First,’ he hissed, hands clasping. ‘But it is on us to navigate this new century. Everything has changed in the blink of an eye.’

‘We have not arrived at the expected battlefield,’ Dazat’ugal rumbled in impassive agreement. ‘Instead, we find ourselves the vanguard of the Founders’ vengeance.’ Even as Rovuth looked like he might try to explain himself more, the Jem’Hadar hefted his rifle and stepped forward. ‘The Founder arrives. Remember yourself.’

Had the Founder been alone, he would have been happy to let Rovuth be caught mid-doubt and suffer the consequences. But Dazat’ugal advanced for the doors to slide open behind him, and through stepped not only the smooth-faced Founder – one the ones who had boarded the fleet in the Gamma Quadrant in 2374 – but the hulking, masked, rasping figure of a Breen Thot.

The air in the flagship’s command centre had matched the quiet conniving of the Vorta before. Lights were dim, the consoles humming and fluttering with reports flooding in from their forces scattered across the Deneb Sector. It had been a place to lurk and scheme and watch, far behind the front lines, where the two intermediaries did not have to risk their hides.

Now as the pair stepped in, lights flooded to life underfoot, and Dazat’ugal straightened and stepped to one side, a silent herald as the Founder brought with them illumination. Clarity.

‘What is our condition?’ the Founder asked at once, eyes falling on the two Vorta. ‘I know the strike force at Leonis has engaged the enemy.’

Rovuth clasped his hands together as he bowed. Dazat’ugal thought he bowed even deeper than Nemes, so much more desperate to prove himself. ‘The local Starfleet task group’s efforts to retake Leonis have failed, Founder. They are weak and unprepared.’

Next to the Founder, the masked Breen blatted something in its own tongue.

The Founder watched the Thot, then inclined their head and returned their gaze to the Vorta. ‘Our comrade is correct. We should be concerned not about the local defences, but this new fleet arriving in the sector.’

‘The Fourth Fleet,’ Rovuth offered eagerly. ‘But merely a smattering of ships -’

‘Considerably more powerful than the local defences,’ Nemes interjected. ‘Some of Starfleet’s most advanced vessels. Scouts have been directed to conduct long-range scans so we can assess their tactical developments in these past twenty-five years.’ Her eyes landed on the Breen. ‘Unless, Thot, you have sophisticated analysis yourself of these modern Starfleet systems?’

Dazat’ugal straightened. It did not do to give a Vorta approval, but he respected Nemes’s reliance on and trust in the Dominion above all else. If the Founders vouched for the Breen’s military intelligence, he would use it, but he would be much more at ease if the information had been gathered and analysed by his own ships.

The Breen turned sharply to the Vorta, but it was the Founder who spoke. ‘Our brethren are gathering the information we need of these advances in Starfleet technology. They have been among the solids for decades, deep within their ranks. Scan for their movements and understand their units, but they will have no secrets from us.’

‘Of course.’ Nemes bowed again.

‘Founder – I trust the Founders of this century know that we would welcome them if they wished to stand at the vanguard of our ships,’ Rovuth pressed obsequiously. ‘Their experience, their knowledge, would be invaluable and inspiring to the troops…’

But one look from the Founder made the Vorta fall abruptly silent. ‘We have been welcomed and shepherded by our brethren of this century. But we are only one part of their vision. Do not presume that your needs go beyond their great plans.’

‘Of course,’ Rovuth sputtered. ‘I did not intend to suggest -’

‘Had we arrived when and where we intended, we could have stopped a great travesty from befalling our people,’ the Founder pressed, taking a step forward. ‘After this failure, our place now is to pressure the Federation. Make them bleed, drain their resources, so our brethren’s great work can bring them truly low.’

In the silence that followed, Dazat’ugal could not repress a hint of satisfaction at the fear he saw in Rovuth’s eyes, at the Vorta’s laboured breathing. It was almost disappointing that Nemes stepped up beside her counterpart, eyes locked on the deck by the Founder’s feet.

‘We live to serve,’ she insisted. ‘All I ask, Founder, is if we are to expect intelligence reports from the front – from the Founders who travelled with us, or the Founders we have discovered in this century.’

The Founder’s eyes landed on her, and after a moment, they inclined their head. ‘Yes,’ they said simply. ‘My brethren have left the command group and proceeded to the Deneb Sector. They will infiltrate the enemy, sabotage and send back vital intelligence. Doubtless they will share these duties with the great undertaking of our modern brethren already underway.’

‘Thank you,’ Nemes said softly. ‘With this knowledge, we shall enforce your will on this chaotic galaxy.’

‘Not only my will. Our orders are dated, ancient. We join the will of the Alpha Quadrant Link now. They have saved us from the atrocity the Federation unleashed upon our people. We live to bring unspeakable vengeance on them in return.’ The Founder turned, looking to the Thot, then back to the Vorta. ‘Starfleet have nevertheless sent more forces than anticipated, much quicker. Thot, I ask you to brief my advisors on the movements of your strike forces. We must be tightly-coordinated to not lose our advantage.’

Neither Vorta nor the Jem’Hadar would openly protest at the implication the Breen would be so heavily influencing the next stage of the Lost Fleet’s strategy. But the Founder stepped away after making the request, clearly here to surrender this detailed planning to their subordinates and allies.

Allies upon which, Dazat’ugal thought resentfully, they were so disproportionately reliant with the lost twenty-five years. He would have much preferred it if the Founders of this century, who had discovered them so quickly and explained how much had changed, how truly iniquitous the Federation were, had remained to assume command. But they had their own plans to execute, and if that made him and their operations in the Deneb Sector but one arrow in the quiver of the Alpha Quadrant Link, then so be it.

He would serve, however much he yearned to be the tip of the spear. And however much he yearned to not rely so much on the Breen.

‘Your will is ours to obey, Founder,’ Rovuth was calling as the Founder departed.

The moment the doors shut, the Breen began to blat in its accursed language, but at once Nemes straightened, hands clasped together, and cut him off. ‘Of course, Thot, your experience gathered from these border raids and skirmishes will be useful in assessing the new technologies and tactics of this new Starfleet. I welcome your input on our current strategies. After all, we have the bulk of the forces, and our strike forces are already committed across the sector. I have in mind already certain fronts where your reinforcements might be found useful?’

Deliberate words of a politician, Dazat’ugal thought, making the Lost Fleet’s dominance here plain. Now the Jem’Hadar stepped forward, standing beside Nemes and looking to the main strategic display in the middle of the command centre. ‘All I need, Thot,’ he rumbled, ‘is to know how many of my ships it will take to kill them now.’

A simple tactic. A simple strategy. The Founders, both those who had travelled to the twenty-fifth century with him and those of the Alpha Quadrant Link they had found in this new, darkened frontier, would concern themselves with subterfuge and sabotage, plan to bring this Federation down from the outside.

Here, in this room, he would remind them all – Vorta and Thot, Dominion and Breen – that in this plan they served one purpose, and one purpose only: to make the Federation bleed.

Nasera, successful. Janoor, successful. Now Leonis, the greatest success yet on many levels. But far too many engagements still hung in the balance: Sevury, Lungurn, Arriana, Izar…

The tide was turning. But Alexander Beckett was not about to presume it would do so in Starfleet’s favour. Not yet. The Fourth Fleet’s arrival had changed the odds, but only enough to put everything on a knife edge. One wrong outcome too many, and nothing would stop the Lost Fleet’s momentum.

‘The Mariner’s package forced a task group to withdraw,’ Captain Styre reminded him. His chief of staff stood near the door to his office on Farpoint Station, still as a statue. He hadn’t realised he had spoken aloud, but she knew better than to read his mind. That would be a court martial offence, after all.

‘That means nothing,’ Beckett scoffed. ‘The Vorta may have outranked the task group’s leadership, but will it be enough to convince the fleet? Or the Dominion have betrayed us, and the forces at Ciater withdrew to protect new arrivals with new orders. Don’t jump to conclusions, Styre. I taught you better than that.’

The cool-eyed Betazoid tilted her head. ‘You also taught me not to entrust duties this serious to a captain like Kobahl. The reports from Mariner are disastrous. Command will jump at the opportunity to discredit anything that comes from the mission. She was too green.’

But Beckett gave a serpent’s cold smile. ‘Was she? Or was she exactly disposable enough for this mission? I don’t need Kobahl to come out the other side. I needed her to deliver a package. Command would likely condemn anyone who did what she did. Best not to waste too precious an asset.’

That made Styre shift her feet. ‘You won’t intervene?’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Perhaps. If I have the capital to spend. She made more noise than I cared for.’

‘Speaking of noise.’ His chief of staff pulled a fresh PADD from under her arm. ‘More rumblings from Reyes.’

Beckett rolled his eyes. ‘That woman is a case study on why you don’t keep spooks in Intelligence their whole careers.’ He leaned forward and reached for the teapot on his desk to pour the amber liquid, now sufficiently brewed, into a cup of delicate china. ‘She thinks this is happening because Starfleet is cold and uncaring and bureaucratic, or weak and idealistic and soft, and only she knows what needs to be done.’ A mocking hint entered his voice. ‘She’s needed to believe that her whole career so she can function. To justify her existence. Now it’s blinded her to the truth.’ He sobered, jaw tightening as icy blue eyes stared into nothing, and the next words came in ashen tones. ‘Something is fundamentally wrong in Command.’

The truth that he also believed that only he knew what needed to be done did not enter the discussion. Perhaps that hypocritical notion began to creep up on Beckett as he shook his head and said, more clearly, ‘Constellation?’

‘Nothing,’ Styre sighed. ‘They might be dead.’

‘I shouldn’t have sent a scientist. But do you know how hard it is to find a scientist with killer instincts?’ Beckett sipped tea in impotent outrage. ‘I fear the truth won’t help us. Results will help us. Any word from the Pioneer?’

‘Not yet. Nor the engagements in the field. But if they prevail…’

‘They have to prevail. Too many of these battles have been lost. Pesak, Messif, Shangris – all unscathed. D-218-C still stands, and if they finish their work to incorporate Breen energy-dampening weapons into Dominion ships, this war may be over no matter what. And can someone,’ Beckett pressed on with a snarl, ‘get me a win that isn’t rotten through with JAG investigations or massive civilian losses?’

Styre looked a little startled at this. ‘Any investigations would take time…’

‘The last thing we need,’ he pressed on, jabbing a finger at her, ‘is for Command to paint the Fourth Fleet as violent renegades who turned what they’re calling a border skirmish into a rampage where regulations and ethics went to die.’

‘Surely serious legal repercussions require Command to acknowledge that this invasion has even happened?’ Styre ventured.

‘I think that once this is over,’ Beckett grumbled, ‘there’s a high chance they will. The story will change to say that Starfleet rode in on white horses. But if the Fourth Fleet is up to its eyeballs in accusations of misconduct, mutiny, and murder, we won’t be painted as saviours. We’ll be painted as the monsters who let it happen. Not to mention, for God’s sake, what do these people put a uniform on for if they’re acting like this? What do they think they’re protecting by spitting on our principles? What is the point of a Federation whose corners are dipped in blood? I would throttle Rourke with my bootlaces for his short-sighted, self-important sanctimony were he here.’

Styre looked like she was considering pointing out this wouldn’t help the Fourth Fleet’s legal circumstances, and normally he was fond of her dry, sardonic, cold manner – so long as it wasn’t turned on him. But she was saved from the need to restrain herself, and he was saved from the question of needing a new chief of staff by the comms blaring and Admiral Allard’s voice coming through.

‘Ops to Admiral Beckett. Long-range sensors have detected a Dominion strike force of significant numbers. They’re heading for Farpoint.’

Beckett’s jaw tightened as his eyes landed on Styre. ‘So it comes,’ he rumbled. ‘The inevitable.’ He stood, eyes rising to address thin air as he keyed the comms. ‘Understood, Allard. We knew this was likely. Mobilise our defences. I’ll board the Caliburn and join them. Beckett out.’

‘I’ll check in with Admiral Dahlgren,’ Styre said briskly.

‘Do that; this will be easier with the Anthony here,’ Beckett said, straightening his uniform. ‘And put out an alert to all Fourth Fleet ships within range. If we can’t hold Farpoint, we can’t hold Deneb.’

In Play:

• This is Part 1 of a finale for the Lost Fleet storyline. Dominion and Breen forces will engage Starfleet at Farpoint Station, with the resolution posted by the end of the FA on Sunday June 25th.
• Any ships ‘available’ and/or that have finished their storylines can respond to Beckett’s call to arms. There will be a battle of Fourth Fleet and TG514 ships against Dominion and Breen forces. You may write your ship joining such an engagement, choosing to participate in the pitched battle or any skirmishes nearby.
• Do not write the resolution of the main battle. The Intel Office will do so.
• Admiral Beckett is a prick. Do not take his opinions as anything but a reflection of that.

‘Attention all hands, this is Admiral Liam Dahlgren speaking to you on behalf of Fleet Admiral Ramar,’ Dahlgren said on the viewscreen, appearing from the dedicated flag bridge aboard the Susan B. Anthony. 

The Anthony was front and centre in their formation, serving as a symbol to inspire the gathered armada. Dahlgren could have given his speech from the bunker under Farpoint Station, but he’d chosen to remain in the thick of the action, his own strike group made up of Arcturus and Challenger along with their squadrons, the two massive Odyssey-class vessels standing shoulder-to-shoulder on either side of the Anthony.

‘It’s not often that this much of the Fourth Fleet gathers together in one place with a singular mission, but today our duty is clear: we must hold the line and keep the combined Dominon and Breen fleet from taking Farpoint Station. They have committed the bulk of their forces to this assault, so if we defeat them here, the conflict is over. We have one more battle. One more hill to take. This is a desperate assault on our enemy’s part, as we have superior numbers, better training and the heart to come out on the other side. We can and we must stem the tide here and now,’ the Admiral continued.

The admiral’s words rolled across the bridge of the Caliburn, and Captain Hargreaves watched as the younger of his bridge crew sat spellbound. It was not that he was unmoved, but Hargreaves had been a starship commander for over a decade now. He knew the power of inspiring words and had listened to Dahlgren not as an audience member caught up in the magic but as a craftsman appreciating a colleague’s work.

As such a pragmatist, he was thus more impressed by the truth he could see than the song he could hear. That truth was spread across the tactical display shining on the viewscreen, with its countless blips of the arrayed defences of Starfleet. The weapons emplacements of and around Farpoint Station. The gathered forces of Task Group 514 rallied to protect their territory. And the assembled starships of the Fourth Fleet.

Their mandate took them across the galaxy to wherever there were strange new worlds – literal or metaphorical. Never before had Hargreaves seen so many formed up in one location. Never before had the might of the fleet come together like this. And if they failed, they would never do so again. For in the distance, far beyond the naked eye, at the edge even of the tactical map, came the combined forces of the Lost Fleet and their Breen allies.

‘More important than anything else, we have each other. We will hold the line together. All units have their orders. Squadron and Strike Group Commanders are authorized to engage at their discretion. Dahlgren out.’

Hargreaves squared his shoulders. ‘You heard the admiral,’ he said to his crew in a cool, collected voice. ‘Red alert. We -’

But the lights had barely dimmed to blood-red before the turbolift doors slid open and in stalked Vice Admiral Beckett. To the central command dais he stepped, giving Commander Vorin’s, ‘Admiral on deck!’ a dismissive wave of the hand.

‘As you were,’ Beckett snapped. ‘Focus on the bloody enemy.’ But he stopped beside Hargreaves and leaned in to drop his voice. ‘I’ve had reports from long-range telescopes and recon operations beyond the border. It looks like half of the Lost Fleet is standing down.’

Hargreaves stared at his mentor momentarily before returning to the viewscreen. His brow furrowed. ‘Not this half.’

‘Some have surrendered to local Starfleet forces. They say they’ve received new orders from the Founders, that they were misled. I dare say the recent missive from the Dominion has made them realise they’re twenty-five years too late for this war.’ But Beckett’s nostrils flared. ‘This is mostly among forces that have already tasted defeat, you understand.’

‘They’re a little less zealous when they’ve been kicked around,’ Hargreaves sighed. ‘That doesn’t do us any good unless this is a massive surrender.’

‘It’s not,’ Beckett said simply. ‘If the Lost Fleet has fractured, if some are swayed by the Dominion’s message, and some aren’t, this attack might be the result. Their forces have been decimated by defeat and now surrender. They’re facing annihilation if they try to hold Deneb. But… victory is life, after all.’ But his cold eyes met Hargreaves’, and the wiry admiral gave a tight smirk. ‘What I’m saying, Captain, is that if we win this, it’s over.’

It made sense. But Kehinde Hargreaves was, again, an eminently practical man. He extended a hand to invite Beckett to the tertiary command seat, and assumed the captain’s chair. His crew had watched as he consulted with the admiral, and for a moment, he considered giving them the news. But it was not his to share, and in this moment, it was just a distraction.

No, he thought as he watched the gathered forces of the Breen and the last vestiges of the Lost Fleet approaching on the tactical map. Regardless of Dahlgren’s rhetoric, he was not convinced they did have numerical or tactical superiority here at Farpoint. Anything else happening in Deneb might as well have been in another galaxy. The only thing that mattered was here and now.

‘Strike force is in formation, Admiral,’ he told Beckett coolly. ‘We have Pegasus, Endeavour, August, Farragut, and Excalibur formed up.’

Beckett nodded, his armrest already providing a holographic projection of his tactical map for the ships immediately under his command. As Dahlgren focused on the entire engagement and Beckett focused on this strike force, Hargreaves would focus on his ship.

‘We hold until the flagship’s signal,’ he called to his bridge crew, Caliburn’s officers coiled tight and ready to be unleashed in a heartbeat. ‘Then, we give them hell.’ 

In Play

• Members may indicate by whatever means they wish that their ship is present at the Battle of Farpoint. It may be mentioned in stories or ship wiki articles, but the Intelligence Office will not keep track.
• The battle may stretch across the system. There is room for smaller skirmishes at the edges, around moons or phenomena, as well as the main pitched battle.
• Stories must exclusively focus on the specific engagements of one ship/squadron. Victories are only the victories of those individual engagements – members’ starships or squadrons are not turning the tide of the battle.
• At the resolution of the FA, the Intel Office will write the battle’s conclusion. Reinforcements (as per USS: Atlantis: What Price for Peace – 20) will not arrive before this point. 

‘Hull breach! Reporting hull breaches on Decks 5 and 6!’ Commander Vorin’s voice pierced the veil of smoke and chaos enveloping the Caliburn’s bridge.

It was Beckett who spoke, not Hargreaves, though the admiral had the good grace to at least address the ship’s master. ‘Pull us back,’ came his crisp instruction. ‘I’m signalling Pegasus to cover us.’

Hargreaves’s fists clenched. ‘I don’t -’

‘Let Captain Matthews take the heat for a moment.’ While Hargreaves had captained this ship and its predecessor both for long, long years; knew the ins and outs of a Sagan-class’s capabilities better than perhaps anyone in the fleet, Beckett knew unit tactics. Had kept a weather eye on every ship in the strike group, rotating them in and out of heavy fire. Studied them like a master butcher assessing which blade was needed for the next cut, then applying perfect pressure.

It was not enough. All across the Deneb System, as the Dominion and Breen raged against Starfleet and the skies burnt, it was not enough. Hargreaves still knew better than to argue and looked across the shrouded bridge to the forward stations. ‘Helm, pull us back! Give Pegasus space to engage.’

The deck shuddered less as the Caliburn disengaged, her withdrawal covered by the mighty Galaxy-class. Feeling his breath slowing, Hargreaves turned to Beckett. ‘You said they’re surrendering,’ he hissed. ‘Across the sector, they’re following the Dominion’s orders and standing down, but not here. How many of them are standing down?’

If we lose here, is it still over?

But Beckett’s lips turned to a thin line on his craggy face. Normally he would posture and refuse to show even an inkling of weakness, but battle showed the depths of the soul. ‘Not enough.’

Hargreaves stared at him for a moment. Had the seasoned admiral been lying to inspire Starfleet at Deneb to keep fighting against the odds? Or had he, too, fallen foul of that most blinding of vices, shrouding unwelcome truths from cold, hard analysis: hope?

In the uncertainty and choking despair, he didn’t hear the bleep of long-range sensors picking up a new signal. Or the next. Or the next. But by the time the tactical console was a deluge of new, incoming contacts, Hargreaves had turned, heart in his throat, at the prospect of yet more Dominion ships pouring into the fires of Deneb.

It was his XO who explained, Commander Vorin tall and stern at the mission control console. But her eyes had lit up with more animation than he had ever seen. ‘Incoming ships at the rear of the Dominion forces, sir.’ She looked up, and the tightest of smiles reached her lips. ‘Starfleet. Klingon. Romulan. And… Tholian, sir.’

None of it made sense to Hargreaves, but a man was capable of only so much shock at once, so the word he echoed, expression twisting in bafflement, was, ‘Tholian?’

When he looked at Beckett, the admiral was smiling like he’d intended on this all along. ‘It’s the Atlantis.’ He stood and strode to Vorin’s console, leaning across. ‘Signal Captain Theodoras with these attack orders. If they focus on these units, the Fourth Fleet will join in a pincer movement. We’ll collapse their flank.’

Hargreaves bit his lip until the admiral had returned to the tertiary command chair. ‘You knew reinforcements were coming?’ he hissed.

‘I didn’t know how many,’ Beckett admitted. ‘I had promises; mere words when I needed weapons. As it turns out…’ The thin smile returned. ‘This is enough.’ 

The Lost Fleet had deployed on starships a quarter-century old alongside Breen warships. The vessel that drifted beyond Federation space, deep into the unknown regions of the Deneb Sector, was neither; newer, faster, less well-armed, and thoroughly less remarkable to the casual observer.

A determined observer, had they stood aboard its cramped bridge, might have reached a different conclusion. One of the two figures – tall, seemingly human, in a plain jumpsuit – also looked wholly unremarkable, but the other’s smooth, exaggerated features could not be mistaken as anything other than the deliberately assumed humanoid form of a Founder.

‘The lines at Farpoint have broken.’ Even a Founder could not fight the swell of emotion in the face of a devastating military defeat. ‘You said a concerted push would destroy the Fourth Fleet.’

‘It would have,’ the human said, her voice light and collected. ‘Had it not been for Starfleet reawakening the old alliances. That was unforeseen. Nowhere before Leonis and Farpoint had Klingons or Romulans, especially not Tholians, involved themselves.’

‘You convinced us to commit the heart of the remainder of our forces. With the Fourth Fleet broken at Farpoint, we could have consolidated what we had already taken, but now…’ The Founder’s body language had not matched the agitated tones, still and controlled even as they raised their voice. But now, the Founder had to clench its facades of fists to express its burning rage and loss. ‘You convinced me – you convinced so many of us – to ignore the orders from the Gamma Quadrant. Called it a sign the Great Link had fallen to the Federation’s threats.’

‘It is so,’ the human said coolly. ‘It was weakness that so many of your fleet accepted the Vortas. Had their faith in you been stronger, Farpoint would only be a setback.’

‘If your military intelligence about Farpoint had been correct, the departing forces would have been only a setback. Now with this defeat, so many more are accepting the summons to return to the Gamma Quadrant.’ The Founder jabbed a finger at the human. ‘Which we would have done from the start were it not for you.’

The human tilted her head, equally expressionless. ‘I told you what the Federation did to our people. That the Dominion you know is gone, rendered broken and weak by the Federation’s biological warfare and blackmail. The Great Link cannot move against them ever again lest they unleash another atrocity upon us. So it falls to me and my kindred to destroy them.’ She advanced and rested a hand on the shoulder of the Founder. ‘Losing the Lost Fleet to weakness and battle is a blow. But worry not. We have prepared for this.’

The Founder’s facsimile of a brow furrowed. ‘Prepared? This was the great war to bring the Federation to its knees.’

At last, the human gave an expression that someone, somewhere, might describe as a smile. ‘Do not flatter yourself, Founder. This was merely one part of the puzzle. An opportunity that fell into the lap of me and my kindred, exploited for all it was worth. Did you think we would risk everything on your relics lost in time? No. Victory in Deneb would have been… victory. But defeat in Deneb?’ The smile widened. ‘Merely a different path to success.’

The Founder pulled back sharply. ‘You used us. This is why you would not Link with us -’

‘I did not Link with you to save you,’ said the other Changeling with a human’s face, sounding fervent and sincere for the first time. ‘You would not have thanked me for the gifts that come with my truth.’

‘You cast me and my soldiers into battle as worthless playthings.’

‘It is the duty of the Jem’Hadar to fight and die for the Founders, is it not?’

‘For the Founders! For the Great Link! Not for your pretenders!’

‘Pretenders?’ The Changeling with a human’s face gave a pretence of a sigh and extended a hand to gesture for the door. ‘I had hoped you would see beyond old allegiances to the shattered husk that the Great Link now is. But you do not understand this dark future.’

The doors slid open for four hulking figures, masked and armoured, to march in, rifles tight in their grip. The Founder turned to regard them impassively. ‘I will stop you from leading what remains of our people into your machinations,’ it told them, eyes sweeping across the gathered. ‘I will bring you before the Great Link for judgement.’

The Changeling with a human face shook its head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Or? You cannot hold me with threats of violence. No Founder harms another.’

‘That was then.’ The Changeling lifted a hand to the armoured figure on its right. In one smooth motion, they lifted their rifle and fired at the Founder. At a power setting this high, it took only one shot before this ancient entity, lost through space and time and cast from war to war regardless, was nothing but dust. There had not been the chance to so much as gasp.

The Changeling with the human’s face shrugged. ‘This is now.’ They turned to their four armoured companions. ‘The Deneb gambit is lost. We proceed to Plan B. The Fourth Fleet has been gathered like never before and will need time to repair and recover.’

The armoured Changeling who had shot the Founder blatted something in the language this form’s vocal cords found easiest.

‘If Vadic pulls through,’ the lead Changeling said. ‘And if not? If it falls to us, and not Vadic’s allies, to seize the day and bring ruin to the Federation? Then we have just decimated one of its crown jewels and forced their hand for what comes next.’ It straightened, and now when it smiled, it wore all the sincere mirth of a solid whose heart beat true and strong, such was its satisfaction with the prospect before it.

‘I would have settled for the destruction of the Fourth Fleet,’ it continued. ‘But if not? They will be exactly where we want them come Frontier Day.’

In Play:

• The Battle of Farpoint looked likely to end in Starfleet’s defeat until the timely arrival of the USS Atlantis and the forces of Klingon, Romulan, and Tholian ships – allies who, until the Atlantis’s negotiations, had remained wholly uninvolved in the Deneb campaign, and thus the Lost Fleet was not ready for them.
• With the arrival of reinforcements, the allied forces at Farpoint defeat this final push of the Lost Fleet.
• Word from the Dominion in the Gamma Quadrant had already begun to splinter the Lost Fleet as commanders loyal to the Great Link abandoned their war on Deneb. The defeat at Farpoint means those who remain also surrender. The Fourth Fleet accepts their surrender, on condition of letting them – under escort – return to the Gamma Quadrant.
• The Breen, with their allies abandoning them, slink back to their space to lick their wounds.
• The Deneb Sector is shattered by war. It will take some time for them to recover.
• Starfleet Command has yet to acknowledge the truth of the invasion. The cover story blaming the Breen holds. Reports are silenced. Everywhere, all eyes are fixed on the upcoming festivities of April 12th, 2401: Frontier Day.