Idleness had never suited Aubrey Seagraves. She’d started her career in the 2360s as a security officer and led a ground-side Starfleet Security garrison during both the Federation-Klingon and Dominion Wars of the 2370s. She was used to getting her hands dirty and staying active. Sixteen years in the center seat on tactical vessels had led to steadily more and more responsibility as a flag officer, culminating in her nearly two years as Director of Fourth Fleet Operations, where she managed the staffing and deployment of hundreds of starships on critical missions all around the galaxy.

In 2400, she thought she was done. On her sixtieth birthday, she felt that it was time to pass the baton to younger generations and retire. Those plans shifted into semi-retirement when she was assigned projects as a flag officer at Fourth Fleet Command. Committees. Admiralty Boards. Boards of Inquiry. It was work, but she still found herself not sure of what to do with her time. By 2401, she’d had enough of even “semi” retirement. Being away from the front lines of the Lost Fleet crisis was too much to bear—she needed a job to do.

Late March 2401

“I am not an engineer,” Seagraves had said flatly, sitting across from Fleet Admiral Ramar in his office on Starbase Bravo. “I know how you people get territorial over things like shipyards.”

“My people meaning Bolians or…?” Ramar deadpanned.

“Engineers, sir,” Seagraves replied. “I’d be jumping the line over several capable officers with actual experience in building starships, including Abena Tau.”

“Look, you’re the one who wants to get back into the action. Half a million people work at Avalon Fleet Yards. It’s this fleet’s most important shipyard, but it’s also a logistical nightmare. I need someone who understands people more than I need an engineer there,” Ramar said, staring her down. “Take the job and the fourth star, and let’s pretend for once I know what I’m talking about here.”

For once, Seagraves was left speechless, but just for a moment.

“You’re the boss,” she agreed.

“Good. We have more ships in drydock right now than we do out in the field, and with Frontier Day coming at us at warp nine, I need AFY to be fully operational immediately.” Ramar ordered. “Find a ship and get out there.”

Five Days Prior to Frontier Day

Aubrey Seagraves grew up on Mars in the vast plains of Utopia Planitia under the shadow of the once-mighty shipyards that had built so much of the Federation’s Starfleet. Three generations of her family had been shipwrights there, and Seagraves would have followed them into that profession had she not found her calling in Starfleet. She was also there when Utopia burned, destroyed by Synths in 2385. Her ship, the Yamato, had been spared destruction by being out on maneuvers at the time, and she returned to Red Planet to learn that her parents, wife, and children were all caught in the disaster.

Over fifteen years later, arriving at Avalon Fleet Yards brought her mixed emotions. She was happy to be back in a role where she could make a difference, but she had avoided thinking about Mars and Utopia Planitia for a long time. In the decades since the loss of the Federation’s most important shipyard, subsidiary facilities like Avalon had become much more important. Starfleet wouldn’t be caught putting its eggs in one basket again. Avalon itself was extremely impressive, and even a flag officer of significant experience like Seagraves found herself in momentary awe when she arrived after the long journey from Starbase Bravo at the massive Probert-class station surrounded by smaller facilities.

Also surrounding Brahms Station were hundreds of Fourth Fleet starships, some undergoing extensive repairs at the orbital drydocks thanks to damage suffered during the Lost Fleet Crisis, some just refueling from Avalon’s extensive deuterium reserves, but most of them there for the imminent Frontier Day celebrations. Seagraves’s tactical mind sounded alarms as she saw so many ships gathered in one place. On the one hand, what enemy could possibly touch that mighty fleet? But Seagraves knew the lessons of Pearl Harbor and Utopia Planitia all too well.

There was something going on, and Seagraves didn’t like it. The very top of Starfleet Command seemed to be indifferent of middle management pushing questionable initiatives, like Fleet Formation Mode, while also insisting on the ludicrous gatherings that Frontier Day would bring. She was grateful that the individual fleet admirals still had enough pull and sanity to resist the idea that all of Starfleet should gather in one place—an idea that no one seemed to be able to claim as their own directly. Despite that, Seagraves knew that she was liable to let her own past color her thoughts on the eve of not only a new and challenging assignment for her personally but a momentous day for the entire Fourth Fleet. There was no room for failure.

Seagraves materialized in one of the transporter rooms in the administrative levels in the towers soaring above Brahms Station. There to greet her was the outgoing commander of Avalon, Admiral Felix Kominek. The two had collaborated in the past while Kominek was Deputy Chief of Starfleet Tactical, and she was heading up the Starfleet Advanced Tactical School. Beyond his brilliant mind, the main thing that Seagraves remembered about her fellow flag officer was that he was a hugger. She definitely was not one herself.

“Aubrey, welcome to Avalon,” Kominek said, embracing Seagraves briefly after she stepped down from the platform. He stepped back and gave her a soft smile. “Computer, transfer all command codes to Admiral Aubrey Seagraves, authorization Kominek Lambda-Zero-Alpha-Four,” he stated.

“Transfer complete. Brahms Station and Avalon Fleet Yards now under the command of Admiral Aubrey Seagraves,” the computer confirmed.

“Aren’t we both supposed to put on dress uniforms and make speeches?” Seagraves asked.

Kominek shrugged. “Frontier Day is in less than a week. There will be enough speeches to last anyone quite a while. I remember your penchant for cutting to the chase,” he added. He gestured towards the door. “Your new office is just down the hall.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Seagraves chuckled before following Kominek out of the transporter room and into the wide corridor. “I have to ask: are you eager to hand over the reins because there’s a dumpster fire waiting for me on that new desk or because you’re ready to hit the golf course?”

“I’ve enjoyed my time at Avalon very much. The Grazerites are fascinating to interact with, and it’s satisfying work. I’ve taken care of all of the ceremonial aspects of Frontier Day in advance, as well,” Kominek replied in a slow and deliberate tone. He stopped in his tracks for a moment and sized Seagraves up. “Avalon needs a fresh set of eyes, though. There has been a lot of generalized anxiety and staff turnover lately, and it needs someone like you to cut through the fog.”

Seagraves nodded. “Nerves over Frontier Day?” she wondered.

“Perhaps. And over the Jem’Hadar. I’ve noticed odd behavior. Factionalism. My chief of staff was re-assigned two months ago without explanation by the Bureau of Personnel. It felt like an attempt to drive me insane by pairing with me a Tellarite that must have been the captain of his high school debate team,” Kominek noted. “I found you someone better. Someone you can trust.”

Seagraves cocked her head. “I think I would have preferred to make that choice myself.”

“You have, once before,” Kominek replied, smiling again. “The Cerastes was destroyed in the Deneb Sector. Captain Bancroft and most of his crew escaped, and now he needs a purpose.”

Almost two years ago, in her last act as Director of Fourth Fleet Operations, Seagraves had made good on her promise to get her loyal chief of staff a command: the Manticore-class USS Cerastes. From all of the reports she’d heard, he had been doing well. Though adjusting from staff work to actual command had been tough, he was on track to be an excellent captain. It was a shame and a waste of resources not to have him on a bridge, but Seagraves perked up slightly to know she’d have at least one familiar face there.

“How is he?” Seagraves asked in a low voice as they continued walking.

“Stoic. Very English,” Kominek said. “It’ll do him good to have something meaningful to do with his time.”

“I can’t argue with that,” she replied; she knew what loss was like and how important it was to stay busy in the aftermath.

Moments later, Kominek and Seagraves turned a corner into the base of the administrative tower. There was a four-story atrium, with turbolifts to one side rising high into the tower itself, but the two admirals took a broad, curved staircase up to the mezzanine level. Signage frosted on either side of a glass archway welcomed them to Avalon Fleet Yard’s Office of the Commandant, and a technician was already at work removing Kominek’s name to add Seagraves’s. They passed through an outer reception area, past a communal bullpen for yeomen and other staff, and into the inner reception area. It was paneled in wood and luxurious even by Federation standards.

Captain Bancroft was waiting for them, seated with a stack of PADDs on his lap in one of the armchairs off to the side. He stood up immediately when the flag officers entered.

“Welcome to Avalon, Admiral,” Bancroft said.

“I’m going to hear that a lot today, I think,” Seagraves teased. “It’s good to see you, Marcus. I wish it were under better circumstances. Let’s get down to business,” she said, gesturing into her new office. “Computer, send message Seagraves Alpha-One to all personnel,” she added, prompting a dispatch to go out to the half-million Starfleet officers and crew across the system; Kominek had been right—she wasn’t going to waste any time, so she’d written her first message days in advance.

TO: ALL STAFF, AVALON FLEET YARDS & AVALON GROUP

FROM: COMMANDANT, AVALON FLEET YARDS

SUBJ: FRONTIER DAY

 

I don’t love giving speeches. I don’t talk just to hear my own voice. I also don’t craft missives like this for my own erudition. As I take command of Avalon, I do want to make a few things clear:

First, this is one of the largest and most capable facilities in the Federation. We will get the Fourth Fleet back to full strength thanks to your efforts. Every second counts.

 

Next, the discoveries being made here will change lives centuries down the road. Most of you sat out the conflict in the Deneb Sector to focus on those important projects. Many of you will continue to focus on those projects while we repair the fleet. Keep that up.

 

Finally, Frontier Day is a moment to pause and reflect. It’s also a moment to stay vigilant. We have been and will always be explorers, but we are also peacekeepers. The Lost Fleet has been dealt with, but do not be lulled into a false sense of security. Complacency is unacceptable.

 

-Seagraves

“Attention, passengers.” the voice of the pilot said startling the sleeping Anthony, causing him to jump up. “We are on approach to Brahms Station and will be in tractor range shortly.”

Getting up he blinked away his sleepiness and gazed out of the window of the transport that was ferrying him to Brahms Station, Anthony thought back to the events that led him here. The eight years he had at the Academy were exhausting, he felt as if they would never end.

The window that before was filled with the emptiness of space, was now filled with a magnificent view of Avalon II and Brahms Station. He saw the numerous vessels that were docking, departing, and being repaired. The work bees, and transports that were zipping between the planet, stations, and dry docks.

Anthony relaxed as he felt the tractor beam take hold to guide them into the docking bay. The shuttle thumped into its dock, causing Anthony to jump at the sudden movement.

“Attention, passengers, we have now landed safely at Brahms Station. In a short while the access bulkhead at the sides of the shuttle will open. Please follow the blue line to the Deck Officer who will provide further instructions.”

As soon as the pilot had finished speaking, the door on the side of the shuttle opened, granting Anthony and the other passengers that were on board their first look at Brahms Station. Placing his satchel across his body, Anthony made his way to the Deck Officer, eager to get to work.

The deck officer looked up as Anthony approached. “Checking in?”

Anthony nodded in acknowledgment and retrieved his PADD outlining his transfer orders. “Lieutenant Junior Grade Anthony Quinn, Engineering Officer.” he said to the deck officer.

The deck officer looked over the transfer order and tapped some commands into their own PADD. “That appears to be in order. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant. I have transmitted your assigned quarters to your PADD. Welcome to Brahms Station and have a wonderful Frontier Day!”

“Thank you.” Anthony said, smiling slightly at him.

Moving past the desk officer into the main part of the station, Anthony decided to drop his belongings in his quarters before making his way to Engineering.

Making his way to the nearest turbolift, he looked over the information provided by the deck officer. After what felt like no time at all, the turbolift doors slid open revealing wide corridors interspersed with offices and quarters. Consulting his PADD one more time, he scanned the numbers on each door as he passed.

Finally finding his assigned room, Anthony unlocked the door and walked inside. He looked around at what was now his home. He smiled softly to himself as he started setting up his belongings in his room, as he prepared himself for the next day.

The notorious and large Avalon Fleet Yards was buzzing with activity, especially with the current event of Frontier Day coming up. A shuttle had just entered the Avalon space area and reached Brahms Station. Passing by the many stations and dry docks as in the distance were refinery facilities visible with that blue glow of activity. Nakil leaned back in his chair, looking outside the window and enjoying the view.

“So what brings you to Avalon Fleet Yards? I had not the time to ask sir” the Pilot tried to make conversation while flying.

Nakil smiled. “My duty, I will be assigned to one of the dry docks as a team leader for Starfleet Colonial Operations in service of the Fourth Fleet. It is a test trial to see if it works” Nakil was not going to over-glorify it. It would be amazing to be able to help in these operations under the name of the Fourth Fleet, but he did miss the chance to start the colonial operations of Outpost Houtman. He wondered if they were still on the schedule of what was planned.

“Colonial Operations, not much heard of those guys?” The pilot swings the shuttle past some larger dry docks to make course towards Brahms Station.

“Colonial Operations is not well known, but still an essential gear in the greater machine. You never hear from them until you actually need them for something. Planning a colony is a step-by-step micromanagement process. If the ship doesn’t meet the requirements of the new planet suitable for colonization, we are facing problems early on. If the planet data is not progressing correctly or has not been probed properly, then the new colonist might face an issue. If the supply line to that colony is not sorted, then…”

“You face an issue…got it” The Pilot smirked. “Sounds quite interesting. Does the work field stay only in this quadrant?”

Nakil stared outside to see the many ships of the Fourth Fleet. The rumors of the Lost Fleet were debunked by the mere sight presented before him. “We are not tied to just Federation space. We can operate in Alpha, Beta, Gamma, or Delta Quadrant. But it depends on the parameters ships in the field send us. Plus, the availability of any ship able to do a colonization operation for us in the field. Fourth Fleet or well, any fleet primary missions are taking priority over ours” He looked at the pilot. “That is why new colonies take time to be approved and processed. We are careful, and Starfleet doesn’t always have a ship for us”

Giving a nod as the pilot sends the credentials to Brahms Station”Well, sir, we have arrived. I do wish the best to you in your duty to new colonies. It sounds quite fascinating”

“Thank you, but also to you thank you for the save travels to Brahms Station” Nakil smiled at him and looked at the large station that became larger. It was quite an impressive sight to behold. 

The sound of the shower woke him. Edmund Locke sat up only reluctantly in bed, trying to blink away mugginess without success. Bright light crept around the edges of the apartment’s blinds, but that meant little this time of year. He craned his neck to see the bedside display. 0730. The normal time to start the day.

By the time the shower stopped and the bathroom door slid open, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his face with his hands to see if that would wake him up. ‘You’re going up now? Today?’ he creaked.

His wife walked briskly across the bedroom. Even this fresh out of the shower she looked poised, elegant, and she barely spared him a look as she shed her thick, soft dressing gown and pulled a fresh uniform from the wardrobe. ‘You’re going to the Athenaeum. Aren’t you?’

It was impossible to miss the edge in her voice. His hands dropped. ‘Magnus said I need a project meeting at 1000 hours. I don’t know why. The message came in at about 0100. It wasn’t my idea.’

‘I saw.’ Now he understood. Jae wasn’t angry at him. She was angry at Magnus. ‘So I’ll head up to Brahms and get some paperwork done before the ceremony. And maybe we can take a different morning off work.’

‘The day after tomorrow?’ Locke ventured.

‘If something’s happened that’s got Magnus pulling you into the complex on Frontier Day, why are you assuming you’ll get a break this month?’ Jae drawled. She was zipping up her uniform jacket by now. ‘I’ve got to get ready; I’m not going to tell Kerien I’m doing him a favour by taking his shift and be late instead.’

‘Right. Be back by 1800? Dinner and fireworks?’ Neither of them were much for the pomp and circumstance of the day. But the light show across the bay over Sato City promised to be worth catching from their apartment balcony, high on the rise and looking over most of the town.

‘If you’re still at the Athenaeum when I get back because there was some research emergency or Magnus decided today was when he wanted team socialising, I’ll kill you both,’ she warned, but kissed him quickly before she returned to the bathroom to finish her morning routine.

He’d been up late reading, expecting to have a leisurely day and not the best in the mornings anyway. Jae was out the door by the time he was out of bed, and Locke showered and dressed without much enthusiasm. He was just necking a mug of coffee when the comm panel on the apartment wall lit up with an inbound call, and he mumbled a command through a mouthful.

‘Hey, Eddie, what’s going on?’ Corias Ashek, head of the project’s oral history team, sounded awake and bouncy already. Locke could hear the distant hiss in the background; he’d taken the boat over to the Athenaeum that morning. He was probably driving it himself. ‘Where’s the fire?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Ash,’ Locke admitted, ditching his coffee in the replicator. ‘Sorry if you had plans.’

‘Not if we get this done by lunchtime. I want to see the Armstrong go, buddy.’

‘Take it up with Blackwood. How far out are you?’

‘Closer than you, by how awake you sound. I’ll recon, and warn you if this shocking emergency in historical research needs an armed response. Over and out.’

Locke closed his eyes as the comm line went dead. ‘This better be worth it,’ he groaned, and just about remembered to run a comb through his hair again before he headed out the door.

The bright morning sunshine of Sato City was something of a boost. On a holiday like Frontier Day, most people hitting the streets at this time looked like they had preparations for the celebrations to get to, not the mundanities of their usual everyday. Some officers looked stressed, but most people seemed bright and happy, eager for a break or enthusiastic for the revelries to come.

But the rising of his heart did not last. Not once he entered the transporter station, requested his destination, and eventually stepped on the pad to be winked across a vast distance in the blink of an eye. It was not the work nor uncertainty that dampened his mood, however. The dampness of the Athenaeum did that for him.

It was a foreboding structure jutting out of the mists at the top of a cliff. The island itself had a designation, not a name; far from Sato City, much further north and into a gloomier, colder, wetter climate, its sole purpose was to house the Institute for the History of Starfleet Warfare and its headquarters. They just called it The Island.

The transporter station stood in a small annex at the foot of the towering Athenaeum, and as always, Locke wished he’d grabbed his uniform overcoat as he stepped out into the drizzle and wind to crunch down the gravel path from towards the shine of golden lights in the morning gloom. A towering structure several storeys high, the Athenaeum loomed as a modern gothic monument to historical research, a cenotaph for the study of all the wars and all the losses the institute scrutinised.

It was the brain-child of Magnus Blackwood, who could never leave behind the austere halls of knowledge of Earth’s ancient universities, and to Edmund Locke, it was deeply garish.

It was also very quiet this morning. Most staff had not transported across the world or from orbit on Frontier Day, and so Locke’s footsteps echoed on the marble floor of the lobby, bathed in the golden light of electric sconces sending rippling rays that could still not reach the foyer’s most shadowed corners. Normally he liked it if it was quiet; it meant his studies could be conducted in peace, that the main library would have less rush, but today it was unsettling.

More unsettling were the figures waiting for him. Corias had indeed beaten him there, but the burly Bajoran stood at the door to the main turbolift with a face like thunder. Though his red hair was slick with rain and his overcoat dripped, Locke knew it was not the weather that had dampened his old friend’s normally boundless good mood. That was the only clue he had, because next to him stood Lieutenant Commander T’Falith, and the Vulcan’s visage was as inscrutable as ever.

‘Blackwood’s gone too damn far this time,’ Corias snapped as Locke approached. ‘You gotta tell him, Eddie.’

Locke reached up to wipe rainwater from his face and fringe. ‘What’s he done? What’s this about?’ With Corias’s expression stony, he looked to the third officer. ‘T’Falith?’

‘We have a new member of the project command team,’ she said, and he was no more enlightened if she was delighted, indifferent, or incandescent. ‘Secured through a diplomatic agreement settled by Commodore Blackwood.’

‘New member…’ But Locke’s baffled expression fell as he caught up with the rest of her sentence, with Corias’s face. ‘Oh, no.’

‘He didn’t tell you?’ Corias clenched a fist.

‘Surely, Mister Corias, Commander Locke would have informed us had he known.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Locke, not sure he felt it. If he’d known, he might have stayed in bed. ‘Where are they?’

‘Main CW office.’ Corias jerked his thumb at the lift. ‘Peliax is up there. Pouring him tea.’

‘It does not do to be discourteous to a new member of the team,’ T’Falith said evenly.

‘If he lasts.’

Locke lifted a hand at Corias’s growl. ‘I’ll go introduce myself, then. And we can find out what Blackwood’s thinking.’ About going over my head, let alone… this. He stepped into the turbolift and hit the button to head up to the wing of offices, archives, and labs reserved for his project’s exclusive use, and braced himself for what he was about to see.

He did not wonder what it was. Because when the lift doors slid open and admitted him to the main office, with its comfortable wood-panelled walls and mahogany furniture and leather-backed chairs, its cosy atmosphere of old-world academia, he knew what he was going to see.

Because who else but this tall Cardassian man, sat in a comfortable seat with his Denobulan head of public history, would be sent as the liaison to the Cardassian Wars Project?

Lieutenant Commander Peliax stood as he arrived. She was not one for pointless joviality, and he had always found her to be measured in her social graces, careful and targeted. The precision with which she spoke meant something as she extended a hand towards him and said, ‘Good morning, Commander Locke. Might I introduce -’

‘Gul Kaled of the Third Order.’ The Cardassian man was tall and broad-shouldered and moved with military precision as he stood and advanced to meet him. There was a flicker of hesitation before he extended a hand, and Locke was quick of wit enough to brace for the crushing shake that passed for a courtesy. ‘You must be Commander Edmund Locke. You liaised with colleagues of mine at Starbase 112.’

‘I – I did at that,’ Locke stammered. A part of him had waited for some particulars – which Cardassian officers he’d worked with that Kaled knew, perhaps some recommendation of him they’d given – but there was nothing but a statement so brusque it might make T’Falith blush. ‘You’re our new liaison officer?’

‘Commodore Blackwood reached to my superiors,’ Kaled said, and worked his strong jaw a moment as if chewing on something distasteful. ‘It was agreed that worthy insights about our past antagonism might be found from current cooperation. I was dispatched.’

‘I see!’ Locke did not. He glanced at Peliax with desperation, hoping she might weigh in; over Kaled’s shoulder, the Denobulan just gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘And, ah, what’s your area of historiographic expertise, Mister Kaled?’

‘Gul,’ Kaled emphasised bluntly. ‘I am a soldier of the Union, not a scientist.’

‘I simply meant…’ Locke flapped for a moment, and couldn’t think of a polite way to ask, Why were you sent here?

‘I am a soldier of the Union,’ Kaled repeated, but his tone shifted as if he was explaining something to a very simple child, ‘and as such I am an educated man, Commander.’

‘Right.’ Locke still didn’t know what to say to that, and wilted under the tall Cardassian’s imposing, unwavering, expectant stare.

At length, Peliax said, ‘Perhaps we can offer Gul Kaled an orientation?’ and then she quickly added, ‘Though I am expected on Brahms Station in an hour.’

Traitor, Locke thought. Then he remembered some of the perks of rank. ‘An orientation would be – that would be good. Our head of archival research, Lieutenant Commander T’Falith, would be excellent at showing you what we do here. Why don’t you have a seat in her office, right over there, and I’ll call her up?’

They waited until the tall Cardassian, who gave only a brusque nod in reply, marched off to the gestured door. Then Peliax let out a whistle of a breath. ‘I think the Cardassians sent us their rudest.’

‘He’s not going to be a hit at parties, that’s for sure.’ Locke scrubbed his face. ‘Alright. We feed T’Falith to this one. Can you get her up and prep her? I need to make sure Ash doesn’t hit the roof.’

Peliax opened and closed her mouth. ‘That… alright, you’re getting the worse end of the bargain this time. Commodore Blackwood really didn’t warn you?’

‘Why would he? It’s not like it’s my project or anything.’ Locke sighed and scrubbed his face again. ‘Alright. Get them up. It’s going to be a long day.’

He was right, he knew, to cast the professional politics aside for the moment. He had his team to worry about, his friend to worry about. The institute’s director would doubtless be up on Brahms Station for the coming festivities. That suited Locke fine, at least. With a curt Cardassian and all his chaos to bring with, the last thing he wanted to reflect on was the role Commodore Blackwood had played in this new issue.

The role his father had played.

“I want to say something and you can’t be mad at me,” Jeovanni said.  

He stopped pacing only long enough to express himself.  As soon as he spat those words out in a mumbled rush, he resumed his impromptu patrol.  In his dress uniform, with his arms cross over his chest, Jeovanni stalked the narrow aisle between the row of toilet stalls and the long countertop of sinks in the restroom.  Once he reached the wall, he spun on his heel, and walked the same length back.  Practically since the day of his birth, in Suraya Bay on Risa, Jeovanni had never been one to sit still.

Annikafiore had pulled the exit door’s control panel off the wall and she was prodding at the workings within.  She looked back over her shoulder and Jeovanni was able to catch her gaze.

“Three of our teammates were spontaneously assimilated into Borg.  In the bathroom.  And they locked us in here,” Annikafiore said.  

She narrowed her eyes at Jeovanni when she said, “It’s not about you today.  I won’t be mad at you.“

Suitably chided for disassociating into his own internal world, Jeovanni perched himself on the edge of the countertop.  His posture shrank in on himself, diffidently.  He angled his chin in Annikafiore’s direction and then he winced.

“Can you still hear it?” he asked quietly.  “The screaming in the auditorium?”

“No,” she answered.  Even in her reply, Annikafiore kept her gaze inside the open control panel.  She tugged out an ODN cable and plugged it into another port.

“Have you ever heard of slow-acting nanoprobes?” Jeovanni asked.  The words came out slowly and tentatively.  He didn’t really want to know the answer, even when he asked the question.

“No,” Annikafiore answered.

“Then what happened?” Jeovanni asked in exasperation.  “How were they assimilated into Borg drones by washing their hands?  Nanoprobes in the water?!?”

“I don’t know,” Annikafiore answered flatly, offering him little attention.  She plugged another cable into another port, causing sparks to lash out at her from the open panel.  Annikafiore jumped back, landing on her knees.  The Elaysian grunted and grasped her thighs, right over the exo-support frame, sewn into her dress uniform, which was aiding her mobility.  Despite the panel’s overreaction, the doors leading out of the restroom remained sealed.  Without getting up, Annikafiore tilted her head back.  Staring at the overhead, she sighed.

“…Why am I going to be mad?” Annikafiore asked.

Jeovanni smiled sheepishly at her even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“Because near-death experiences inspire me?” Jeovanni admitted.  “This is our new angle on the project.  This.  The team we have revisiting our modes of assessment, we need to clear their schedules.  They need to reach for a new understanding of: Does Starfleet deserve the Borg?  If you think about it, the Borg, what?  They destroyed a few dozen starships?  And then Starfleet wiped out their public transit system and unleashed a paralysing pandemic across their entire civilisation.  Does that sound like a proportional response to you?”

Jeovanni shrugged.  “Maybe we deserve this,” he said softly.  He swept a hand at the fused door.  “…Whatever this is.“

Shaking her head at him, Annikafiore said, “What about our research into the value of the prime directive?  We’re too close to–“

“Forget the prime directive.  That debate is tired,” Jeovanni said.  “If the Borg are assimilating Avalon, this is a live issue.  I designed the We Are Starfleet project to philosophically critique if Starfleet is serving its purpose.  What greater critique is there than Borg retribution?  With the right hook, we could sweet-talk an admiral into giving us a practical philosophy institute!”

“If,” Annikafiore said ominously.  “If there’s still a Starfleet.  If Starfleet is still who we are.”

Neither of them said anything right away.  The last thing their assimilated team-mates had said to them before locking them in the restroom had been: ‘We are Borg.  Starfleet is Borg.’

Jeovanni cleared his throat finally.

“Want a hand with the door?” he asked.

“Only one?” she taunted back.

Raising an eyebrow, Jeovanni promised that phrase he’d been taught since birth, “All that is ours is yours.”