They had averted the slaughter of Reman dissidents in the Velorum Sector. Turned the tide against the invasion of the Dominion Lost Fleet. Saved the very fabric of the galaxy from the volatility of Omega particles in the Tkon Crisis. So many deeds over such a short period, dragging the best and brightest of Starfleet, of the Fourth Fleet, across the quadrant. Across the galaxy. It made it rare for them to all come together in one place, even the command staff with their duties more logistical and bureaucratic than front-line. But here they were, the admiralty of the Fourth Fleet, in their own personal observation lounge at the advent of the Frontier Day festivities, all gathered together.

‘I hate this,’ Fleet Admiral Ramar breathed, pausing before the doors to the lounge.

‘It was your idea, sir,’ his yeoman protested with the gentle indignity of a junior officer who knew she was in danger of being blamed for something beyond her control. ‘You didn’t want to detract from Admiral Seagraves’s moment.’

‘Forget managing our fleet yards. Seagraves could come and deal with this.’ He jabbed a finger at the door.

Lieutenant Deliar adopted the expression of polite confusion that let her question a fleet admiral. It assumed all the childish naivety she needed to get away with questions which seemed ignorant on the surface, but Ramar knew were pointed. Normally, he liked this. Today was not normal. ‘Doesn’t this mean you can all enjoy the initial celebrations in a more relaxed way, sir? This evening will be all the formalities.’

‘Relaxed,’ Ramar echoed. ‘Let’s go see how relaxed it is in there.’

‘I’ll just -’

‘Oh, no, Lieutenant, you’re one of us today.’ If the venerable Teylas Ramar wasn’t going to escape this, twenty-four-year-old Samantha Deliar could at least bear witness to this torment. It was his ninetieth birthday next week. He’d like to make it that far. ‘Someone has to clean up the mess.’

Someone, somewhere, had thought it would be a nice idea for the Fourth Fleet brass to gather for their own Frontier Day celebration at Avalon. With half the fleet assembled for repairs and refits after Deneb, very few of their officers would make it to Earth. At some point, there had been the suggestion that if they couldn’t get from Avalon to Frontier Day, they’d bring Frontier Day to Avalon. Someone suggested that it would be uplifting, or at least appropriate, for the flag officers to be seen.

Ramar blamed Dahlgren. Perhaps it wasn’t his idea. But today wasn’t about fairness. It was about survival.

The Fourth Fleet’s Deputy Commander was half-filling the room the moment Ramar stepped into the observation lounge. It wasn’t just because he was tall, broad-shouldered, lantern-jawed, and spoke with a booming presence to command everyone’s attention. That last trait was not uncommon among the gathered, after all. He stood before the main windows, which stretched from floor to ceiling and gave a peerless view of the ships assembling for the parade and the launch ceremony before Brahms Station, and only half-filled the room because he was only half of the spectacle of a bicker with Vice Admiral Beckett.

‘The Battle of Tridentis wasn’t won because of a Dominion tactical gaffe.’ Dahlgren was laughing his disagreement over a battle a quarter-century old. His eyes were not. ‘We won because the Dominion had over-extended their supply lines, and if they held the battle, they’d lose the front. So they withdrew.’

Beckett – willowy, beady-eyed, not even pretending like this was a gentle banter or reminisce between comrades – returned a smile that looked more suited to a snake. ‘Over-extended? We hit them, you mean. Didn’t the Dauntless play a role in that?’

‘We hit their supply lines because they’d been stretched so thin…’

If either of them noticed Ramar’s arrival, they didn’t show it. But the other admirals were less inattentive, and one slid from the breakfast buffet to join him. ‘They’ve been at this,’ murmured Commodore Stafford, ‘for about twenty minutes.’

‘Dahlgren is impressive. I normally need at least two cups of coffee before I deal with Beckett,’ rumbled Ramar.

Stafford’s eyes flickered from the fleet commander to the bickering admirals. ‘Are you going to do something about it?’ he said, mildly desperate.

Ramar frowned thoughtfully. Then he turned to Stafford. ‘I’ll give you nine-to-one on Dahlgren.’

‘What do I even win?’

‘You can be fleet commander today.’

Stafford looked Ramar in the eye, then turned to the assembled and raised his voice. ‘Admiral on deck!’

Perhaps either Stafford’s call or the arrival of Ramar wouldn’t have broken up the argument, but the ten other flag officers, eager for the interruption, made enough of a gentle bustle as they turned in response – setting down clattering mugs, shifting chairs – that it did the trick.

Ramar gave Stafford a baleful look before he turned to them all. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, waving a curt hand. He technically meant they didn’t have to stand on ceremony, but it still made Beckett give Dahlgren a flash of a look of superiority, like he was the one who’d been told off. ‘We’re in here and not in the main auditorium for the ceremony because we’re guests of Seagraves and Kominek. They’re re-launching the Armstrong; let’s let this be their day. We get the evening parties.’

‘And nobody parties like the brass,’ came Vice Admiral Dowd’s self-effacing chuckle.

‘Anyone who’s anyone is at Sol,’ Ramar pointed out. ‘We get through the formal ceremony, then this is finally a chance for everyone to unwind after Deneb.’

Vice Admiral Marshal-Bennet said, smiling, ‘It’s gracious of you to let Seagraves and Kominek get the spotlight. It’s right for her to give the main speech from here on Brahms as the new Avalon commander and for him to launch the Armstrong from the bridge. I still think they’d appreciate you coming down to the auditorium and adding a couple of words, though.’

‘I think Seagraves would rather I came down and shot her in the head,’ Ramar said bluntly. ‘But absolutely not. We get this lounge. Front-row seats of the most impressive display of Fourth Fleet power in at least three weeks. Replicators and brunch buffet. Unwind, gentlemen. Enjoy Frontier Day. You deserve it.’

Beckett was already straightening. ‘I expect an important communication which might need me to step out during the ceremony -’

‘No way,’ Marshall-Bennet pressed, head snapping around. ‘There’ll be a live feed to us as well. The fleet has to see us. We’re in this together.’

‘I’m not sure my presence is -’

‘One of the heroes of Farpoint?’ Marshall-Bennet was definitely over-egging the pudding, and, perhaps knowing it, he looked at Dowd. ‘It’s good for optics we’re all in here, right?’

Dowd had been gravitating back towards the buffet table the moment Ramar had said, ‘unwind.’ Reluctantly, he hesitated. ‘Sure. Optics. Make Styre deal with it, Beckett.’

Ramar shook his head and turned from the knot of officers, all of them neurotic over-achievers who normally kept their territorial scrabbling to operational logistics and not figuring out how to co-exist during a party. His own approach to the breakfast buffet went via Lieutenant Deliar, who had just looked like she might lurk near the other young yeomen and aides.

She turned to him reluctantly. ‘Any orders, sir?’

‘When I give the signal,’ Ramar murmured, ‘blow out the viewport and space us all.’ Not even waiting for her response – awkward humour or gentle reproach – he kept heading for the buffet table. Beckett was in the room, after all, and he’d only had one cup of coffee.

It was going to be an unbearable day.