War had not reached the gardens of the Hillgrove Retirement Home.

Gravel pathways crunched softly underneath John Rosewood’s boots. The suns were high but gentle, filtered through the pergola overhead, flowers winding around the wood. The smell of their sweetness filled his nostrils, accompanied by the scent of the trimmed lawns and hedges. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled.

He passed a nurse in pale blue scrubs who seemed to recognise him, even though he was sure they’d never met. ‘He’s where he usually is, Commander.’

‘By the south orchard?’ John smiled his thanks and continued, tugging lightly at his collar. It was a while since he’d worn the duty uniform, rather than the field jacket.

He spotted his grandfather a few paces later, seated in a carved wooden chair beneath a vine-covered arch. Anthony Rosewood did not, at a glance, look his ninety-three years. John was always selfishly relieved to see that full head of hair, snow-white for as long as he could remember, and the old man sat straight-backed. But the woollen blanket over his knees was comfortable even in this warm sunlight, and John could see the quiver of his hand as he reached for the white porcelain teacup from the table beside him.

The old man didn’t look over at first. His eye was on a bee hovering in a flower in the hedge. But John hadn’t taken more than another step forward before Anthony turned, eyes narrowing slightly until they adjusted. He smiled.

‘Well,’ said Anthony. ‘Look what the war dragged back.’

John gave a soft snort and stepped forward, leaning down to clasp his grandfather’s hand. The grip was surprisingly firm.

‘Hey, Pop,’ he said. ‘You’re looking… retired.’

‘And you look like you haven’t slept since liberation,’ Anthony said, squeezing his hand once more before letting go. ‘Sit. You’ll make the nurses nervous, a war hero like you around.’

John sank onto the next chair over. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air filled with nothing but the scent of the flowers and the chirruping of birds. He had to strain to hear the distant sounds of the city, and so chose not to.

‘War hero is…’ He hesitated. ‘You’ve been watching too much FNN.’

Anthony tsked and shook his head. ‘I have friends from my time in Starfleet and government. They tell me enough. A mission into Underspace itself to bring down the Blackout.’

John’s lips twisted. ‘Would have thought your friends in both should be hanging out here, not reading official records.’

‘And proteges; don’t get cute, Kiddo,’ Anthony chided good naturedly. ‘And even here, the Vaadwaur couldn’t stop us seeing your transmission from Innes. I’ve known heroes across more wars than you’d remember. I know what I’m talking about.’

John let himself take a moment to watch the breeze ripple across the leaves of the hedges. The garden was quiet, meticulously cared for, marked by a kind of stillness he hadn’t felt in months. Or more. ‘Bet they sent a dozen soldiers to keep an eye on an old war-dog like you,’ he said, forcing levity into his voice.

The Vaadwaur occupying forces had been vast, but the territory and population of Alpha Centauri were more vast. They would have ruled most of it by controlling the flow of information and resources. It was very likely that not a single enemy had set foot in the gardens of Hillgrove. Life under their rule had likely been rather undisturbed.

‘They should have,’ Anthony chuckled, his laugh a rattling rumble of self-aware wryness. ‘No more determined insurrectionist than the great-grandfathers staring down the end of their first century.’

‘The resistance should have called you up.’

‘Alpha Centauri had a different Rosewood stepping up.’ Anthony’s bright blue eyes turned serious, but kindly as they locked back onto him. ‘You’re humble, John. You don’t have to be, not here. Not with me. I know what it costs. I know how hard it is. Your father would be proud, you know?’

His father. Anthony’s son. Commodore Carter Rosewood, who had officially been killed on Frontier Day, cut down by young assimilated officers. That was what the wider galaxy believed, what Anthony believed. The truth was known to those with appropriate clearance, known to John, to his siblings and mother: Carter had been replaced by a Changeling infiltrator during the sabotage of 2401. Nobody knew his ultimate fate. Nobody even knew when he’d been replaced.

Much as John didn’t want to think about his father, he wanted to worry his grandfather even less. He shifted his weight, let himself seem uncomfortable with praise rather than uncomfortable with the topic, and gave a stuff nod. ‘Thanks, Pop.’

‘You keep it up,’ Anthony continued. ‘Don’t let anyone tell you how you should be serving. If you should be doing more, chasing promotions, chasing that starship. If you’d followed that playbook… would you have been where you needed to be? For Alpha Centauri?’

‘Probably not.’

‘There.’ Anthony’s knuckles rapped the table for emphasis. A distant look entered his eyes. ‘How’s your mother?’

‘Busy.’ This uncomfortable shift was more sincere. ‘She doesn’t share your view on my playbook.’

Anthony made a frustrated noise. ‘She should know better. Service isn’t about rank. It’s about being in the right place. It’s about… damn it…’ He’d reached for his tea anew, but his hand quivered and the drink spilled over the side.

‘Easy.’ John reached out to steady him, silently chiding himself. He should have been ready to help. ‘Let’s get you a fresh cup…’

He left some twenty minutes later, the air duly filled with the nothing chit-chat that defined his life outside of the team these days. For all of Anthony Rosewood’s life and experience, there were things John couldn’t share with the old man. Wouldn’t.

The lobby of Hillgrove was as polished as ever, with the comforting warmth of wood panelling and polished floors, a slow-moving ceiling fan, and a synthetic, floral scent creeping in from discreet dispensers. He passed a cluster of residents sat in plush chairs around a screen where a newscast played, just loud enough to carry.

‘…with civilian shipping nearly back to pre-war levels in just a matter of weeks, Alpha Centauri’s reconstruction continues to surpass Federation expectations. Mayor Benjamin Ryan, seen here meeting with regional planners this morning, has been praised by both civic and Starfleet liaisons as a steady hand in a time of change…’

John didn’t slow down, distracted from the news by the gleam of his reflection in the mirrors on the walls. On the surface, crisp and presentable. But his eyes were tired. Shoulders heavy.

He stepped outside, into the warmth of the late afternoon sun, and almost crashed into the man walking up the front path.

‘Woah – John?’

John blinked. ‘Daniel.’

He’d seen his younger brother plenty in the fortnight since the occupation had been lifted. Well – a few times. Daniel stood with a PADD folio tucked under one arm and a travel mug in the other hand, sharp and presentable in a civilian suit. The look of surprise on his face was not unhappy, but it wasn’t warm, either, and he’d straightened at the sight of him.

‘I didn’t know you were still on-planet,’ Daniel said. ‘You didn’t come by Mom’s the other night. I assumed.’

‘I had work. I did tell her.’ John shifted, trying to not sound defensive. ‘I’m not still here for the family. My unit’s still on advisory duties. Helping clear-up operations of anything the Vaadwaur left behind.’ Nobody knew the ins and outs of Vaadwaur occupation like the Rooks. They’d slid in and out of the security networks enough. Now was the time for local law enforcement and Starfleet to tidy up, but sometimes they’d find some software that didn’t make sense, or want to go in somewhere likely booby-trapped.

Then the Rooks came in.

Daniel nodded, slow. ‘Right. Important stuff. You said.’

Silence stretched for a beat too long. John swallowed. ‘How’re the kids?’

John remembered Daniel at fourteen, desperate to tag along to the Academy application interviews, wearing his hand-me down prep school sweater like it made him part of the adventure. ‘When I’m old enough,’ Daniel had said back then, ‘We’ll serve together.’ But Daniel had broken the Rosewood mold instead, going to university on Alpha Centauri and staying there, marrying young, taking a job in municipal planning while John was earning commendations in the Beta Quadrant. For years, family gatherings had been awkward with Daniel’s apologetic explanations about ‘finding his own path’ while John collected the proud glances and expectant questions about his next assignment.

Then had come their father’s death, and the change in John’s career. Now, Daniel was the one who stayed, who helped their mother and family. While John stayed gone for no reason anyone could understand.

‘Good,’ said Daniel, brighter but guarded. ‘School’s back in. They liked that for about two days.’

‘Then they wish for the halcyon days of the occupation?’

Daniel laughed at last. ‘Right.’ His eyes flickered up to the doors of Hillgrove. ‘How was Pop?’

‘You know. He’s still sharp.’

Another pause. It was Daniel’s turn to shift. ‘Should I tell Mom you’ll make it to Sunday dinner this time, or…’

‘Honestly, we could get pulled any moment. Hard to say what -’

‘Cassidy to Rosewood.’ The combadge chirruped. John saw exhaustion tug at Daniel’s expression.

‘Right on cue,’ Daniel drawled. ‘I gotta go. Someone’s gotta make sure they aren’t using the occupation as an excuse to shirk on Pop’s care plan. You go… save the day somewhere, I guess. Or whatever it is you do.’

‘Daniel…’

But then his brother was gone, and there was another indignant chirrup of the combadge. John Rosewood swallowed that acrid taste of guilt, then tapped the badge and tried to not grind his teeth.

‘Rosewood here. What’s up?’

‘We got a new situation. Meet me in the city. Pinging you a location now.’

He had to fish out his PADD and frowned at the signature on the map of a non-descript industrial street. ‘Booby-traps?’

A beat. ‘Bodies,’ came Cassidy’s voice. ‘Three of ‘em. But the Vaadwaur didn’t make them or leave them. These are way too fresh.’