Classical music played through the lounge speakers. Ethan and Trinity sat across from each other, wisps of steam rising from their coffees. Beyond them, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the Azure Nebula as starships flew toward Starbase 86, their warp nacelles glowing a soft blue at standby. Civilian freighters and transports streamed past, bound for destinations unknown.

“You shouldn’t have taken the fall for the entire family,” Ethan muttered. He placed his coffee on the table, stared through the window, and sighed.

This had been a family decision. Only one took the fall.

With a half sigh, half growl, Ethan yanked apart the magnetic snaps of his dress uniform, opening the jacket enough to breathe. One hand squeezed the cup while the other curled into a tight fist, his knuckles whitening under the strain.

Mom and Dad weren’t Starfleet. Hur’gha wasn’t Starfleet. Livvy was part of the Federation Diplomatic Corps. Their hands were tied when she called in a favor from Emperor Magus Stormtalon, so they added a note in her file and sent her back to Talaria.

That just left Trinity and him. Command needed blood, and they got it.

“No sense in both of us going down.”

Ethan scowled at his wife.

“Ethan,” Trinity said, reaching across the table and placing her hand on his. “I have the ranch. I have the kids.” She paused, one hand turning palm up in a helpless gesture. “And I was technically your supervisor.”

Ethan’s brows knitted tighter, and he let out a soft grunt. “And you used your mother to escape the consequences, and you didn’t even speak to me first. We were a team. We made the decision to act against Starfleet together, and then you make this one on your own.”

Trinity’s face hardened. “You never had an issue exploiting that resource when it benefits your ego.”

Ethan sighed and shook his head.

She was right.

Trinity shrugged and squeezed his hand, offering a bit of a ceasefire. It had been friendly fire to begin with, anyway.

“We have the ranch. They would have made an example out of both of us. Instead, I was court-martialed, you received a reprimand, and you’ll get a new handler.”

“I don’t want a new handler,” Ethan muttered.

“I know.”

Ethan stared into space, letting his vision blur. He took several deep breaths, letting them out slowly through his nose. As he lowered his gaze to the table, he cocked his head. Multiple brown rings marked the surface in front of him. How had he managed to make such a mess? Well, there was that second cup. He hadn’t been paying attention while refilling it, and coffee had sloshed over the side.

Yeah, that had to be it.

Trinity’s side of the table was as clean as it had been when they sat down. Not a single granule of sugar had spilled. Not a drop from her spoon stained the Formica after she stirred her coffee. The spoon rested neatly on a white napkin, coffee soaking into the fibers.

Of course it’s clean. That woman doesn’t do sloppy. Every movement. Every action. Precise as a samurai.

But she hadn’t taken a single sip.

He was pretty sure she’d mainline the stuff if she could. Instead, she just sat there staring into the light tan liquid. The perfectly manicured cobalt-blue nail of her index finger tapped against the side of the cup.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

“Neither of us ended up in a penal colony. Though knowing our mothers, one of them is probably the reason that didn’t happen.”

Ethan lifted his coffee to his lips, savoring the bitter black liquid. It was replicated, because of course it was. His stepmom was the only person he knew in Starfleet who would ever go to Colombia just to get the real thing.

Still…

It wasn’t bad.

“It was your mom.”

Trinity nodded. “Probably.”

Ethan squeezed her hand with a weak smile. Trinity returned it with a nod, their fingers threading together. There was no need for him to say thank you.

A strange expression crossed his wife’s face. Anger? Embarrassment? Maybe both.

She plucked the combadge from her dress uniform with a protesting electronic chirp. Holding it in her hand, she turned it between her fingers, a distant look in her eyes. Light glinted off the edges of the precious-metal housing, and Ethan caught her name and serial number etched into the back.

That was the latest in a long line of badges they had acquired in their careers. He knew Trinity had kept everyone from her first Academy badge onward in a cedar box stored like a dragon’s treasure on her vanity next to heirloom jewelry and her makeup.

He swallowed, throat dry as sand.

“Well, I guess I don’t need this anymore, huh?”

“Uh— yeah, well.”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to say. It is what it is, right?”

“No.” Ethan frowned, jaw clenching.

Trinity’s lips pressed into a thin line. She looked down at the combadge in her palm, turning it over once. Her thumb slid across the engraving on the back. Then she flicked it across the table like last week’s garbage. It clattered, bounced twice, and spun to a stop near the edge.

Ethan had nothing to say, nor did he want to. The chatter of off-duty crew and the soft hum of the environmental system filled the silence between them. All around them, Beethoven and Mozart had ceased to be music. They had become one more voice of judgment. This one from the eighteenth century.

He tugged at the collar of the underdickey. It felt like a pair of hands wrapped around his throat. The back of the jacket pulled across his shoulders. The sleeves pressed against his biceps. He looked forward to getting on the transport and changing into civilian clothes.

But what about Trinity?

She was always so spit-and-polished. Every piece was custom-fitted and hand-sewn by her sister, Angel, from the finest fabrics she could find. Trinity’s uniforms fit like a glove. Pips polished. Combadge polished. Boots so shiny he could see his face in the toes.

How was she still so composed?

He bit his lower lip. But what about himself? He had to learn how to navigate Starfleet without her now. She had always been there. The compass at sea. The beacon at night.

God, that’s so self-centered.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ethan’s soul nearly left his body. His hand went to his hip where his phaser usually hung, but all he caught was a handful of uniform.

Órlaith stood there, her gaze somewhere far away. The scars had healed. The bruises were gone, wiped away by the miracle of modern medicine. The mind would be a different story.

“Please,” Trinity said with a warm smile. “You shouldn’t ask. You’re family.”

“Not really.” Órlaith shook her head and shot them a weak smile. “Bellitor is my family.”

“Bullshit,” Ethan hissed. “Bellitor may have created you, but we still share blood. That’s all that matters.”

“And don’t you forget that,” Trinity added.

Órlaith pulled out a chair and dropped into the seat beside Trinity. She shifted, tugged at the collar of her uniform, sighed, and folded her arms, her head hanging.

Ethan picked up the coffee pot, filled an empty cup, slid it to her, then refilled his own. “Trinity has cream and sugar if you want it.”

Leaning over the cup, Órlaith inhaled the earthy aroma and smiled. “Black’ll do.”

Chuckling, Ethan took a sip. “Yeah, you’re a Sandoval all right. Trinity hates coffee and just drinks coffee-flavored milk. Ow!”

He reached under the table and rubbed his calf where Trinity’s boot had caught him. She was deadly accurate with those little strikes of hers.

“Serves you right, Cowboy,” Órlaith teased, using Trinity’s own term of endearment for him. Trinity winked, and the two women bumped shoulders.

“So how are you?” Trinity asked before finally taking a sip of her coffee.

Órlaith sighed, staring into the steam curling from her cup. Her hands wrapped around it like it was a lifeline. After a long moment, she spoke. “I’m okay. Or I will be, all things considered.”

“You went through hell,” Ethan said.

“Yeah. Maybe it’s a good thing Aoife has the Sentinel now. I’m probably not fit for command.”

Trinity slipped an arm around Órlaith’s shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need a plan right now. You need to heal first.”

Órlaith shrugged. She lifted the cup with both hands and took a sip, then another. A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I prefer tea. But this is good.”

“That’s your Ryder side,” Trinity teased.

“Maybe,” Órlaith said. “I just wanted to than—”

“No need for that.” Ethan held up a hand. “You’re—”

“Family. Yes, I know. You don’t have to say it again.”

“And neither do you,” Trinity said. “There are no debts to clear.”

The trio sat in companionable silence. Ethan sipped his coffee as the USS Valhalla slipped past the lounge windows. A moment later, the glow of her four nacelles surged, and she jumped to warp.

Ethan smiled.

Jesus, it was insane going up against that ship in a Bird-of-Prey, he thought. But it worked.

“Command said there were no captain billets available. They offered me an XO slot on an Odyssey-class starship.” Órlaith absently traced a circle with her cup, sending the coffee into a slow whirlpool. “That feels like a demotion. Besides, who’s ever heard of a captain serving as XO? The crew will think I’m damaged. Or a bad officer.”

“Yeah. Not exactly a great way to earn confidence in your new crew. I get it.”

“You can stay with us until you figure things out,” Trinity offered. “I’m out, and Fourth Fleet is standing down.”

Órlaith looked up from her coffee with a smirk. “I had heard something about that. Shore Leave 2403 or something.”

“Not the most imaginative name,” Ethan added. “But it’s functional, and after everything we’ve been through, it’s needed.”

She sat back and drew in a long breath. Even under the lounge’s dim lighting, her hair shone like strands of gold. Those beautiful blue eyes stared at the ceiling. Then, after a moment, she gave Ethan and Trinity a grim smile.

“I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll go to Earth. Get my head right, then try to find a job at Command or the Academy. Give the kids the stability they deserve on a planet, not a starship.”

“That sounds like a good plan.” Trinity patted her sister-in-law on the arm.

“Just know you’re always welcome at the ranch,” Ethan added.

Ethan’s combadge chirped, followed by the station computer’s voice. “Now boarding the Nyberrite Wayfarer at Gate 29C, bound for Izar and Terra Alpha.”

“That’s us,” Ethan said, using the table to push himself to his feet.

Every joint cracked and popped in protest. Every time he’d been bucked off a bronc, and every sideways undercover mission had caught up with him. At forty-one, he’d lived an unconventional life, at least by the standards of the average Federation citizen. Between the Dominion War, ranch life, and his tenure with SFI, he was surprised he was still upright.

Well, I ain’t getting any younger.

He swept Trinity’s combadge into his hand from the edge of the table and slipped it into his pocket. The metal was cold against his skin, even through the thin fabric. Then he circled the table as the women stood. He wrapped his arms around Órlaith, and she patted him on the back in return. They separated and lingered in that awkward moment before departure, when no one quite knew what to do or say.

“I’ll see you around.”

“God willing and if the creeks don’t rise.” Órlaith grinned after invoking the folksy saying that was common on Terra Alpha. She was still teasing.

Good.

Trinity and Órlaith embraced. With one last goodbye, Trinity took Ethan’s hand, and the two walked out of the lounge side by side, leaving Órlaith standing alone, watching them walk toward Gate 29C.