An aging runabout dropped out of warp as it entered the system. Years of baking in the desert sun had left black streaks between the hull panels, the grey paint faded and ashy, dark, oily lubricants streaking from exhaust ports and landing strut bays. Too little grease wore parts prematurely. Too much was an eyesore, but it ensured the full working life of moving machinery.

Before its retirement from Starfleet and its long wait in the Mojave Desert for eventual parting out, it had carried the name USS Willamette. All Starfleet markings had been deliberately removed, the pennant stripped away and covered in fresh grey paint laid in contrasting gloss and darker tones. The name was changed, replaced by a flowing black script in a distinctly retro style, paired with a floating leaf. “Serenity” was painted on both sides of the Danube-class ship’s nose, large and impossible to miss.

Serenity was not neglected, just old.

Rebecca stretched her back as she walked into the cockpit, her hand pressing into the small of her back.  She had forgotten the sterile air with its hint of ozone. There were no foul manure scents, but it wasn’t natural. Fake. But a smile spread across her face as her gaze fell on the stars, a beautiful blue planet, and a growing space station. It wasn’t more beautiful than Terra Alpha, especially up in the mountains near Riley City, just different.

“There it is,” she said.

“There is what?” Milo asked from the helm station, his fingers moving over the panel as he adjusted course.

“That view. I miss it, Milo. I miss the black. Yeah, I know, I wouldn’t trade retirement or our life for it, but a girl can still miss her old one. Besides, it was make admiral or retire.”

Milo snorted. “You? An admiral? You thought you rubbed the brass the wrong way with four pips. You wouldn’t last a day with admiral’s bars.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” She knew he was right. She was terrible at politics and had no patience for games when things needed doing, especially when it came to keeping people safe. Pretending future problems wouldn’t rear their heads wasn’t peace. It was idiocy.

Not pushing for a promotion wasn’t one of her regrets.

With a sigh, she turned to the replicator. “Coffee, black.” The device hummed. She lifted the mug from the platform, USS Willamette, and a Dominion War-era combadge, embossed in black, along the stainless-steel sides.

Dropping into the co-pilot’s seat, she took a sip. Milo stared at her like she’d sprouted a second head. “What?” she asked.

“You are drinking replicated coffee?”

“Of course. Don’t be silly, my love. I drink it all the time.”

Milo laughed. “Could’ve fooled me. I’ve never seen you do it. And if I recall, you gave me shit for replicating a rak’tajino the other day.”

“There was a perfectly brewed pot of real coffee sitting right there on the counter,” Rebecca said with mock exasperation. “And a Klingon wouldn’t know good coffee if they fell into a vat of the best brew in the galaxy.”

“Runabout Serenity, Montana Control. Turn right heading zero one mark five eight and slow and maintain one half impulse. Traffic, three o’clock.”

Milo pressed the comm button. “Zero one mark five eight, one half impulse. Traffic in sight. Runabout Serenity.”

Rebecca sipped her coffee, letting the bitter liquid wash over her tongue as she settled into her station like a long-lost friend.  Her fingers danced over the controls like one riding a bike after many years. In many ways, she preferred the older physical stations to the fancy holographic ones, replacing them.  They looked cool, but there was something missing from the tactile sensation of pressing a button.

“Runabout Serenity, Montana Control, maintain heading and slow to one-eight impulse. Cleared to land Pad twenty-three.”

“Acknowledged Control. Maintain heading and slow to one-eight impulse. Cleared to land Pad twenty-three. Runabout Serenity,” Rebecca repeated back as the hum of the fusion-powered impulse engines spooled down. “Reverse thrusters activated. One-eight impulse.”

“We are linked with the station’s landing control system. Autopilot has the conn,” Milo said.

The runabout rolled to the right and nosed down as the docking bay doors slid open with the blinking of caution lights.  A set of blue tractor beams latched onto Serenity and helped guide the runabout through the doors before releasing the ship to land at the prescribed landing pad.

There was a soft clunk as the ship settled onto the deck of Montana Station. Milo was already powering down the ship as the docking port made a loud chunk against the hull. Rebecca sealed the connection and opened the airlock as the lights dimmed to stand-by.

“Well,” Milo started. “The Cardassian?”

“Yeah, I think so. This Harris is likely going to see us as a competitor.  I want a chance to learn more about her before we approach. But first, let’s take a look around and try to get the lay of the land.  I don’t expect trouble, but you never know. I want to get a feel for what we’re dealing with here.”

Milo chuckled as he stood. “Yer gettin’ paranoid in your old age.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, lifted his cowboy hat from the corner of the console, and plopped it on his head. “One of the many reasons I love you.”

“Love you too,” she said as she led Milo off the ship  and into the station’s docking terminal.