He woke with the taste of blood on his lips and an ache in his knuckles as if they were scuffed by blows. For long, thudding heartbeats, the gloom around him did not shroud the walls of his quarters aboard night-clad Gateway Station, or even a shadowy unknown. He knew this darkness as it seeped as much from his soul as hiding from the sun, knew what lay within, knew its secrets. That made it only harder to slow his breathing, steel himself, and croak, ‘Computer, lights.’

Illumination flooding his quarters banished the shadows, but not the seductive tang on his tongue, nor the satisfying throb in his hands, so deep the blows might have been fresh. It brought him to the here and now, to a cold, respectable present, away from the memories of blood and brutality. But no light could sear away the secret. The dreams ringing with the echoes of blood dilithium were not nightmares.

Adamant Rhade rose from his bed and staggered to the bathroom. The chill of the metal deck on his feet was grounding, as was the hiss of the faucet as he bent over the sink. When he soaked his hands in cold water, they were clean, untouched. The splash of water in his eyes pushed back the darkness, and he looked up at the mirror.

To see his reflected form wrapped and bound in chains dripping with emerald blood.

This time when he woke up, he was choking in bed, kicking against the covers, and there was no quiet seduction of ancient horrors to this awakening. For a moment as he sat up, wracked double by his retching, he thought he’d spat out blood. Lights flooding to life in his quarters were cooler, seemingly dimmer than in the dream of false awakening, and he was much heavier of gait when he staggered to the bathroom anew. This time, his reflection showed only his slumped form, exhausted and somehow shrunken by sleep. He would not go so far as to say that this time, it showed the truth.

Tap water washed the taste of blood but left him cold. It was with reluctance that he returned to his room and approached the wall panel, a tap of the display bringing it to life. He was on the comms controls, halfway to opening a line to Greg Carraway before he remembered the station’s counsellor was not aboard, was at Teros with Ambassador Hale and the Redemption. His staff remained, but the thought of hailing them in the middle of the night to talk about the old nightmare made his fingers curl away from the panel.

Rhade paused a moment, hand bracing on the bulkhead. It was a mere dream. He had techniques for this; breathing exercises, pacing out his rooms to ground himself in the present, even going to the gym facilities to push his body’s limits enough to bind him in his own flesh and blood rather than the recesses of his mind. And yet, he hesitated.

Later, he would say it was an irrational impulse that saw him move to a different section of the comms registry. A paranoia that lead to truth. Later, he would pretend to everyone, even himself, that he did not hear the rattle of chains a moment before he opened a new channel. ‘Rhade to Station Security. Has something happened?’

He knew he was right by the gruff, confused voice that took a beat before answering. ‘…just got the report in now, Commander,’ said a bemused Chief Kowalski. ‘You in the area?’

‘No,’ said Rhade, walking away from the display to slide open his wardrobe door, revealing all the hanging red-shouldered uniform jackets. The identical masks shrouding him in the respectability of his station, his rank, and blotting out the blood. ‘Send me the location, Chief. I’ll meet you there.’

At this late hour by station time, the involvement of Kowalski meant something was sorely amiss; the Chief of Arcade Security must have been roused and summoned. When Rhade arrived at the old storage spaces near the Arcade, disused since SB-27’s relocation to this frontier, and found Doctor Elvad in attendance, he realised the matter was serious.

‘The devil works fast,’ growled Kowalski at the sight of Rhade, ‘but Gateway’s rumour mill’s faster.’

These storage facilities were once for the cargo of incoming civilian ships, but Gateway had yet to reach the same dizzy heights of traffic in the Midgard Sector. Row after row of storage compartments stretched out before them, each section hidden behind a door. Security officers hummed about the area with a subdued energy, as if whatever had happened was sapping them of their will far more than any physical fatigue.

‘You have a terrible taste in when to be nosy, Commander,’ drawled Elvad. ‘This is a bloody mess.’

‘I can see that,’ said Rhade, looking down the row of compartments at the door smeared with dark emerald blood. ‘What have we got?’

This was not his area of responsibility. But he was still Senior Officer of the Watch, still a ranking figure aboard the station, and he and Kowalski went back a ways with the Hazard Team. Without further question, the security chief led him and Doctor Elvad down to the blood-stained door, and opened up the small storage compartment. ‘We don’t want to contaminate the scene, so we’ve got forensics coming down. But you can take a look. You know the protocol.’

This time, Rhade knew the taste of blood in the air was real. The young Romulan man was a slumped, small figure in the empty compartment, clad in the simple garb worn by most of the Teros refugees. Newly arrived after Ambassador Hale’s negotiations, they were a small commune on the station being processed and receiving help before their upcoming settlement on the surface of Alfheim below. Rhade had had little to do with them, with the politics of resettling a small group from Teros to Federation space, with the resistance of the Midgard colonists, or with the care and support they were receiving from Gateway’s crew on arrival. But there was no mistaking the provenance of this young Romulan. Nor was there any mistaking that he was dead.

‘Great Fire.’ The words slithered from his throat like a choke. ‘When was he found?’

The lone security officer who’d been keeping watch inside the compartment, a petty officer in his thirties that Rhade didn’t recognise, turned from his vigil over the corpse. ‘I was doing my patrol down here, sir. Found him.’

Kowalski waved a hand at the security officer. ‘This is Petty Officer Amaru; it’s his beat. We haven’t reinstated much of the systems down here, because the area’s not in use. Until we do, we keep watch with the occasional boot-leather.’

Rhade did not look at Amaru, taking one step forward. Any more, and his boots would become slick with the emerald blood staining the deck. That flow belied how the young Romulan had died, his throat slit from ear to ear. This would have been plain to see but for what drew the eye more: the pale, ivory horn as long as Rhade’s forearm that had impaled the youth in the chest, and the slick metal chains that bound his wrists and ankles. ‘He was stabbed after he died.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Elvad in a low, level voice. ‘I’ve only run my scans from here. I’m waiting for forensics so they don’t shout at me for disturbing anything.’ The Cardassian surgeon’s expression was steeled, but a muscle worked in the corner of his jaw. ‘Someone decided the first murder of Gateway must be stylish.’

Amaru gave a low scoff. He was a square-faced man, salt in his dark hair, sallow of expression. At their glances, he winced. ‘Sorry, sir. Just to say – no coincidence, is it, that you bring in the Romulans and then trouble follows.’

Elvad’s gaze was cool. ‘You’ve been in the Midgard system a while, haven’t you, Petty Officer?’

‘I have, sir. I know the area.’

‘Hm.’

Rhade looked at Kowalski, ignoring the exchange. ‘Do we know who he is?’

Kowalski nodded. ‘Name of Voler. Best as we know, he’s got no family, dependants, which seems likely why he left Teros for Midgard. But he must have travelled with some. I’m headed to the commune next to try to probe ‘em on who knew him, who knew what about him, without letting slip yet that he’s been brutally murdered in a fuckin’ storage room when trying to get away from hardships.’

Rhade ran a thumb over his wrists as if he felt the weight of metal back upon them. ‘This took organisation. Preparation, equipment, knowledge –’

‘I know, Commander. I’m on it.’ Against logic, Kowalski brightened an iota as something occurred to him. ‘You can tell Rourke. The station commander needs to know when there’s been a messed up murder with props on aboard.’

Rhade nodded. ‘You should contain information, though. People only kill like this for a few reasons. Like wanting to spread fear.’

‘Or,’ said Amaru, ‘because they really, really hate each other. They’ve brought their grudges with them.’ He shrugged at their looks. ‘This boy had no reason to come in here; he was lured. There’s no sign of a fight. He knew the person who did it.’

‘Or people,’ said Rhade.

‘Why,’ pressed Elvad, ‘would refugees on Teros on the verge of getting what they’ve wanted for fifteen years – settlement on a Federation world with appropriate support – decide to wait until they’re on Gateway Station before ritualistically killing each other?’

‘This is the Federation,’ said Amaru doggedly. ‘People don’t do that here.’

‘They clearly did.’

‘Federation citizens don’t do that.’

The smell of blood was almost overwhelming by now but it was not, Rhade thought, sickening. Black and emerald like oil, even by sight it felt like it seeped into every part of him. His knuckles throbbed anew, like they had in his dreams, like they had when the song of blood dilithium had drowned out all sense and he’d beaten the helpless young Devore officer to death. Deep in skin and bone, the throb was not painful as it hummed through him, stirring his veins. His nostrils flared as he swallowed. ‘I’ll inform Commodore Rourke. Keep me posted, Chief. He’ll want to be updated, but you’ve got work to do. I’ll liaise.’

‘Very good, Commander,’ said Kowalski, with obvious relief that he wouldn’t have to handle the station’s command staff on top of this murder.

Rhade paused at the doors, open but not flush against the bulkhead, and turned to look at Elvad. ‘Is this the victim’s?’ he said, gesturing to the bloodstains.

Elvad glanced over, disinterested. ‘Is what the victim’s?’

When he blinked, the stains were gone. The door was clean, identical to that of every other storage room. Again, Rhade swallowed, euphoria shifting at last for nausea. ‘I mean – did he bring any of this. The chains. The horn. Are they replicated? We need to know all of this.’

‘I’ll get you the report,’ said Kowalski firmly, ‘once we know anything more.’

Rhade nodded, focus flowing back into his vision. ‘Keep me posted, Chief. We need to understand what’s happened here.’ And he left, with the throbbing of his knuckles and the echo of metal weights trailing across his skin, and felt in his blood he understood what had happened far more than even he knew.