Nallera’s rap on the door was firm, but only because she’d spent a solid minute second-guessing. It came as little surprise the response wasn’t immediate, the door swishing open after a solid ten seconds of silence.

‘Hey, I’m just checking in…’ She spoke in a sing-song voice as she swung into Q’ira’s quarters. Once, they’d been Tiran’s. Perhaps it was dead man’s boots that meant the redecoration had been so extreme. More likely, Q’ira was just like that; the interior of her ship had been bright pink upholstery when they’d met, after all. These rooms were positively restrained in comparison: lush rugs, faux-fur, and prints across the wall, a stark contrast to the rest of the gloomy decks of the Blackbird.

Q’ira was sprawled on her back across the silken bedsheets. Even her bed wasn’t standard issue, built in a circle that made the statement that she intended to take up space. Vega fizz pop music ebbed from the speakers, a background hum rather than a drowning noise. When she lifted her head, it was laborious, disinterested. ‘Are we dead yet?’

‘Not yet. Coming up on A-C, though. So we might be dead soon.’ Nallera cocked her head. ‘Hey. It’s gonna be okay?’

Q’ira pushed herself up on her elbows. ‘We’re being catapulted by experimental technology into a warzone, blind, and hoping our stealth systems – which aren’t a cloaking device – will keep us hidden against an intergalactic invading force of a thousands-year-old empire. What part’s okay?’ Before Nallera could summon a good answer, she sat up. ‘And I’m a dancer!’

‘You’re – you’re an operative!’

‘I’m a thief with legit paperwork! What am I going to do? Charm and pickpocket an intergalactic dictator?’

‘Okay, I don’t want to sound like Mac, but they’re not intergalactic -’ A fluffy pillow was thrown at her face.

‘Fine, we’ll get slaughtered by local dictators, it’s sustainable or something.’ Q’ira pouted, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘You said we’re nearly there?’

‘Yeah. Might want to see the lay of the land from the bridge.’ Nallera wasn’t really sure if this was a sulk or something bigger, but this wasn’t the time to find out, and Q’ira hopped up without additional complaint.

‘This is crazy,’ she said as they walked the narrow corridors of the Blackbird, but sounded more normal, more curious than anxious. ‘If graviton catapults can get us across the Federation in hours…’

‘Expensive. Inefficient. One-way trip. What’re we going to do, build up a network of the damn things? Unless you’re going somewhere that’s got one, you can’t get back.’ Nallera glanced back at her. ‘You don’t actually want me to explain about the relative expenses of forms of FTL propulsion -’

‘I definitely don’t. Don’t go nerd on me, Nall. Stay a cool grease monkey.’

‘Grease monkeys know things…’

There was no reason for the bridge to be quiet; Klingon acid punk could be roaring from the speakers and it wouldn’t make them easier to pick up on sensors. Some of it was tension of what was to come, but whenever the Blackbird was on silent running, or about to be, the bridge crew always acted like they had to whisper.

‘Graviton catapult burn complete,’ Yang was reporting as they slunk in the back. ‘Returning to impulse power in three… two… one…’

‘Perfect timing,’ muttered Nallera.

The faint hum of the decks shifted, and the stars streaming past the canopy slowed as the subtle thrum of engines reasserted itself, settling for stillness. In the distance, still no bigger than Nallera’s thumb from here, the trinary stars of Alpha Centauri shone brighter than the pinprick dots of more distant suns.

The first voice, as everyone held their breath, was Jakorr at Tactical. ‘No contacts detected by short-range sensors.’

‘Confirming all systems nominal,’ added Falaris, clearly double-and-triple-checking the Blackbird’s running. ‘We are dark; no active emissions, shields at passive levels. Power levels stable.’

‘Commander.’ From the auxiliary console at the rear, Aryn twisted to face Cassidy in the centre chair. ‘Subspace harmonics within the system are not at normal levels.’ There was an audible, horrified groan before he pressed on, more agitated. ‘We can go to warp, we can operate long-range sensors. I don’t think we can reach more than warp factor three right now, and sensors are limited to… I don’t know what extent, yet.’

Rosewood, beside him, gave a thumbs-up to the command team. ‘Means the Vaadwaur probably can’t see us so easily, huh?’

Cassidy harrumphed and looked at Ranicus. ‘Still want us in the cometary debris field?’ As she nodded, he whirled his finger in a circle. ‘You got your orders, Yang. Slip us somewhere quiet, and we’ll see what we can see.’

‘Beginning with passive scans,’ said Falaris.

The Blackbird’s hull blended with the void as they glided towards their hiding place in the space between stars. Impulse engines burned low and quiet, thrusters firing in precise, whisper-soft bursts to adjust their approach. For a long time, nobody on the bridge spoke, the silence broken by the periodic chime of scanning updates and the occasional flicker of light from consoles.

As they advanced, the tactical display on the main viewscreen updated, its images of the Alpha Centauri system shifting from mysteriously empty patches to a stark, undeniable reality. Vaadwaur ships, perhaps two-score of them, locked in rigid formations within the binary star system of Toliman and Rigil Kentaurus. Massive battleships stood in geosynchronous orbit over Alpha Centauri III, squadrons of smaller escorts weaving patterns to monitor, suppress, control. Outposts and waystations once marked as Federation assets now gleamed with transponders their briefing material told them was of the Vaadwaur. Even without an active scan, the signs of occupation were obvious.

Then, the Proxima sub-system came into focus.

Another concentration of Vaadwaur forces loomed over the distant third star, smaller than the main force, detached from it, but no less entrenched. Tactical formations surrounded the worlds of Proxima, enforcing their grip with cold efficiency.

‘Looks like two sets of forces,’ Jakorr confirmed. ‘Then additional patrols along the route between the stars and the periphery. None in sight in the area we want to hide in.’

Aryn peered at his readings. ‘Patrol ships aren’t hitting higher than warp three,’ he confirmed. ‘They must be susceptible to the Blackout as well.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Ranicus. ‘They use Underspace to get by. Their warp isn’t magic.’

Rosewood turned to Aryn. ‘Warp three means it’ll take a couple days to get between the systems, right?’ He got a nod in return and looked at Cassidy. ‘Slow response rates. They won’t be able to assemble their forces in a rush.’

Cassidy grunted. ‘They’ll also see any fleet limping towards them like a geriatric Tellarite.’

‘Not,’ said Ranicus, ‘when Sirius Squadron first arrives out of nowhere.’

‘It’s early days for a plan. Let’s settle down. See the lay of the land for a bit.’

The debris field was not dense, the shattered remains of comets and space dust caught in the gravity pull of the trinary stars. But Ranicus had been right, Nallera thought as she looked at the tactical display; from the routes the Vaadwaur patrols were taking, their lack of familiarity with the field and, no doubt, the echoes of the Blackout were hampering their sensors.

‘I wonder if they can even see between the systems,’ she said as Blackbird slid into its hiding place.

‘Doubtless some,’ said Aryn. ‘It’s not that dense. But we can still make out the broad shape of every big ship – there might be some shuttles or smallcraft we’re missing in the binary system. They’re maybe only picking up power signatures?’

‘No wonder,’ said Jakorr, ‘they’re largely hunkering down and fortifying in their respective systems. Venture out too far, and you might stumble into something you’re not ready for, a long way from reinforcements.’

‘Our intelligence on Vaadwaur ships and forces – their technology, tactics, so forth – is still very limited,’ Ranicus reminded everyone. ‘Recommend we settle on the Proxima end of the field and monitor there.’

‘Commander?’ Falaris turned in her chair to the centre. ‘Communications are flowing without interference across the system. Seems likely they’ve hijacked the original Federation comms network.’

‘It boosted signals back when comms technology was less developed,’ mused Aryn. ‘I suppose it could boost the signals through this interference. That’s a much simpler process than maintaining a more powerful warp field or long-range scanning.’

Cassidy nodded, eyes on Falaris. ‘Anything we can listen in on?’

‘Encoded transmissions so far,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep monitoring. And see what I can crack.’

‘Well, this is depressing,’ muttered Q’ira to Nallera after another five minutes of work.

‘Is it? We’re here, we’re not dead, we’ve got a good vantage point.’

‘To watch from the bridge.’ The Orion turned away. ‘Wake me when you find a lock to pick.’

Nallera blew out her cheeks as Q’ira left, settling back to wait. Every minute meant further population of their scans of the system, Aryn, Falaris, and Jakorr beavering away to paint in between the lines where once there had been void. It was like someone had shattered their maps of the system, but now they were putting them back together, they were stained and marred.

Hardly any Federation ship movement. Little to no sign of Starfleet ships. Vaadwaur transponders emanating from Centauri Station. Warships in the skies. And that was only what was going on in space.

She slid over to Rosewood and leaned against the bulkhead beside him. ‘You okay?’

For a moment, he looked like he was going to say something dismissive. Then he grimaced. ‘Doesn’t feel real, does it?’

‘This is just the start.’

‘You’re right.’ He shook his head. ‘It can get so much worse.’

It got worse about two hours later. Falaris first sat up with excitement, her voice hitting a higher pitch as she said, ‘I’m picking up an open transmission! From Proxima II, from Innes itself, I think!’

Nallera looked at Rosewood. ‘Innes?’

‘Biggest city in Proxima.’ His frown hadn’t faded.

Cassidy nodded at Falaris. ‘Patch it through.’

‘I’ve got visual, too…’ The viewscreen flickered to life.

The image was dark, lit only by the stark floodlights of Vaadwaur troop carriers hanging low over the city. The streets of Innes were filled with people – hundreds, maybe more – forced into tight clusters under the watchful gaze of armoured soldiers. Some stood rigid, defiant. Others clung to loved ones, huddling as if it would help. Beyond them, low blocks of buildings, housings, homes of a residential district of Innes stretched out.

On the bridge, Rosewood swore.

In the foreground of the transmission, standing apart from the masses of civilians or his soldiers, was a single Vaadwaur. He stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, his uniform well-worn, before he looked at the camera.

‘This is Commander Drehm, Overseer of Proxima. The people of this world have been given every opportunity to comply with the Supremacy.’ His voice carried not just through the transmission, but bore an echo; there, on the ground, he was amplified by unseen speakers to the huddled masses. His tones were measured, patient. ‘Yet even after the fall of your defences, even after our authority has been made clear, there are those among you who persist in defiance. Who still believe that this world, this star, belongs to them.’

Drehm stepped forward, the sound of rubble and broken glass crunching under his boots. He gestured up, and the camera panned to show heavy Vaadwaur ships hovering in the skies above the residential district, lit up against the night by the floodlights. They were ugly things, Nallera thought, bulbous and alien.

‘This district,’ Drehm continued, ‘is guilty of harbouring insurgents. Today, I am merciful. Today, I will spare your lives. But I will not spare your homes. An example must be made.’

‘Oh, shit,’ Nallera swore before she could stop herself.

For a second, she thought the bombardment would hit the gathered civilians. Then it hit the buildings. The first beam of a searing light struck a residential block half a kilometre away, turning steel and concrete into a blossoming inferno. The camera shuddered at the impact, and civilians screamed. Likely not in shock, she thought; there’d be a heat wave, too.

Drehm did not react.

A second strike hit. Then a third. The fire spread, devouring the homes and streets of a district that had stood for centuries. Soon, not a single one of the gathered civilians stood defiant as the survivors watched their homes burn, and the sound of hellfire was joined by wailing.

It took long after the echoes had died before Drehm turned back to the camera. ‘Today, these people live to remember this lesson. Today, all of you listening will take this lesson to your families, to your homes. Remember it if you want to keep them.’

The image held for a few more agonising seconds as the skies of Innes burnt behind him. Then the screen went dark.

On the bridge of the Blackbird, nobody said a word, and nobody, Nallera thought, dared look towards John Rosewood.